everything in the Kent's farmhouse makes noise. horny and down right desperate at this point, you and clark find a way to work around that.
worth a shot | smut, 4.4k
prequel to just shut up: getting intimate on the farm with clark was surprisingly really hard, but you don't stop trying, even when things go wrong.
little refuge | smut, 2.4k
clark can't stop thinking about you even though he's supposed to be working. when his thoughts take a more scandalous route, he takes refuge in the daily planet's secluded supply closet.
for my fic recs, look under the #clark Kent ff tag on my blog :)
You can be jealous
warnings:Smutttt, Oral ( m receiving) somewhat dominant reader?? and somewhat subby clark?
"It's okay, Clark, you can be jealous," you purred into his ear, voice dipping into the sultry tone that pushes all Clark's buttons. Not moving your head from the soft spot on his neck just below his ear, you reached for Clark's hands and placed them on your waist. He's always been so scared to touch you, like if he did, he'd ruin and taint you.
The feeling of you straddling him basically sent Clark into orbit as he pawed at your skin. A small groan escaped his lips as you tried to form a hickey on his neck. You could feel how tense Clark was under you; he'd been tense ever since you were assigned to show the new intern around the Daily Planet.
You used it to your advantage to tease Clark, keeping a calculated gaze on Clark as you lightly tapped the intern's arm. But yet when you both arrived home, the pent-up jealousy was practically oozing from Clark. He had never let himself get jealous; he trusts you, and he knows that all your affection goes to him, but seeing that intern smile at you like he was the one who received it made Clark feel feral.
Keeping up your shrewd rhythm of grinding your hips against his, you clawed your fingers through his soft curls, letting your teeth nip at his neck playfully. "I-I trust you," he exhaled in a strained tone.
You brought your head up to meet his eyes, the blue of his iris sparkling. "I know you do, baby," you praised, running your hands down to his chest, fiddling with the buttons on his dress shirt. "But you can't trust that intern," you added innocently, looking at him with wide eyes before kissing his collarbone. To you, it felt like you could hear his heart thundering through his body from your actions.
Smiling against the warmth of his chest as you felt the bulge grow harder against your inner thigh. Clark's grip on your waist grew stronger as you kept nipping at his skin. He was at a loss for words as you put those thoughts into his mind, the ideas of someone trying to take what's his.
You succumbed to your craving of Clark first as you surged your head back up to kiss his lips. He began rocking his hips against you, making you gasp with a wide smile on your face. "I know I'm yours, but that intern thinks he has a chance to take me," you purred once more, lips brushing his own as you spoke.
"I won't let him," Clark finally responded back, his voice surprisingly rough, making his lips meet yours again as he revelled in the taste of you. Like his nerves were actually singing, he moaned into your mouth upon feeling your hand reach down to palm him through his slacks.
It was pathetic that Clark could feel the pre-cum already leaking down his tip. "And how will you do that, Kent?" you asked in a low whisper, pecking his lips as he continued to chase your touch—hips bucking to meet your hand. "Because he likes me a lot, I can tell," you added teasingly, letting the sound of his small whines fill the room once more.
"I'll leave marks on you," he suggested quietly, trying to hide how his voice cracked. You nodded once in reply, letting your fingers fumble with the fly on his pants. "I won't leave your side to scare him off." Clark added breathlessly, his chest heaving with anticipation.
"That's my boy," you venerated from both hearing Clark's 'plan' to keep you his and seeing his cock spring free from his slacks. Kindly, you kissed his lips once more before getting off his lap to kneel before him on the couch.
"What will you do at my side?" you questioned, the cunning grin on your face showing no signs of leaving as your lips kissed the underside of his dick. The gears in Clark's brain were trying to form a coherent thought, but he could only focus on your soft lips planting kisses on his skin.
Fuck, he was close, and you hadn't even taken him in your mouth yet.
"I-I", he stuttered, the words dissolving on his tongue like cotton candy as you began running your tongue along his tip, savouring the taste of the premium dribbling down onto your tongue.
You paused, waiting for his answer, your hands falling idle on his strong thighs. "I don't know, but baby, please," he begged you like he would die without you, his hands reaching to cup your face. You couldn't help but lean into his palms. "He won't be scared of me," Clark tried to bargain, his mind hazy, the only clear thought being how bad he wants you.
"He doesn't have to be scared of you; just scare him off in general," you rebutted, trying to spur him on by kissing his flushed tip. You could feel his hands tangle in your hair, not forcing you down, just there. Clark would never force you down; he hated the idea of that.
His whines and whimpers only grew louder as you ran your fingers up and down his shaft. Feeling restless yourself, only then did you slide his cock past your lips, hollowing out your cheeks as you took your time—Clark wouldn't rush you; plus he wasn't in the state to rush you.
You could hear Clark trying to babble words of praise in between his gasping. Your hands moved to pump his cock in rhythm with your mouth. "I'll do anything for you," he said, words unwavering in devotion to you, sweat sheening on his forehead.
Staying true to his pathetic ways, Clark came into your mouth with no warning—not like you needed it anyway. It oozed into your throat, thick and warm. You only released him from your mouth after you swallowed it all, lapping up the excess cum that ran down his dick.
"Geez, I'm sorry," he tried to apologise, but you ignored the words. Holding yourself up on his thighs, you brought yourself to his lips, letting your body melt against his.
He could taste himself on your tongue, and somehow he enjoyed it; only you could make him better in every way. "Show your jealousy, and I'll make you cum even faster." Your sultry tone was more than enough to make Clark ready for a 2nd round of your antics.
"I will, I promise," he panted, tugging you onto his lap once more, finally beginning to take charge. His lips glossy from your spit and his combined.
Your pupils widened with euphoria as you found yourself on your back as Clark loomed above you, already biting a mark right on the column of your throat, enjoying the feeling of finally making you squirm beneath him.
Maybe just maybe he needs to hide his jealousy just every once in a while if it brings this side of you out to play.
Pairing David!Clark Kent x Female!Reader
Summary You went to a vineyard for the wine. Turns out, Clark was the most intoxicating thing there. (silly drunk + I want you so bad it hurts)
Tags Fluff, Implied sex, Exasperated!Clark, married idiots in love, alcohol use, DownBadNoFilter!Reader (truly, my self-insert)
WC 2.7k
almost sent this back to my wip graveyard
Galentine's #8 by @/wildflowersandvibranium & @/pinksplace | Mrs. Kent Diaries
You didn’t mean to get drunk.
Well, that wasn’t entirely true.
You meant to sip everything. To savor the blush of rosé and the brush of Clark's knuckles when he passed you the next pour. To swirl your glass like the sommelier showed you. To wear something soft and flirty, a little French countryside, inspired by a fantasy you’d built in your head just for him. Something that might make him look at you the way he did when he first fell in love. As if you’d made the sun blush.
The whole thing had been Cat’s idea: Metropolis Wine Week. Local vineyard collab. Adorable date vibes. She’d sent a promo code with three heart emojis. You’d booked immediately.
Clark, as always, came with that quiet smile that said: anywhere, so long as it’s with you.
He couldn’t get drunk, of course. Not under the yellow sun. Not with the way his Kryptonian metabolism handled alcohol like tap water. But that never stopped him from indulging you.
He never once looked bored. Not when you nudged him mid-sip to whisper which red wine tasted like cough syrup. Not when you stole another triangle of brie from the tasting board with a wink. Not even when you made him pose awkwardly beside a barrel labeled Full Bodied, Aged to Perfection, kissed his cheek loud enough to draw cheers from a bachelorette party, and announced, “He’s mine, ladies. I married the tasting notes!”
He just grinned and let you tug him around the vineyard like a balloon on a string. Let you fill his glass even when he barely touched it.
“I like how you look when you’re happy,” he murmured once, nose brushing your temple as you reached for the cherry-infused blend. “I’d sit through twelve sommeliers just to watch you smile.”
So you did just that.
A little flushed already. A lot in love. A teeny, tiny bit drunk.
He’d known the moment you toasted, “To the bestest best husband ever—my personal vineyard,” and sloshed sweet red wine across his hand. You’d gasped. He’d only laughed, wiping it away with a napkin like it was the best thing that had happened to him all day.
He’d known again when you tried to take a selfie and whispered, “Lean down so I can kiss you like a farmer’s wife in a historical drama.”
And he definitely knew now, watching you feed him like a Roman emperor while slurring compliments against his cheek.
The breeze had softened, the sky melting gold and lilac. The picnic table was surrounded by cheese rinds, linen napkins, and the remnants of the last glass. The charcuterie board between you looked like a still-life painting someone had given up on because the models were too busy making eyes at each other.
You sat side by side, the side of your foot brushing his ankle with increasingly deliberate pressure. All the while, Clark, your poor, sweet, doomed husband, was trying to keep a straight face.
“Open,” you ordered, voice sticky-sweet, holding up a dried apricot.
He leaned in with a raised brow. Obeyed.
Just as he bit down, his mouth brushed your fingertips, and your heart stuttered in your chest like a lovesick drumroll.
“You smell so good,” you mumbled, leaning on his bicep as he chewed, words muffled against muscle. “Like—like a forest. Or the inside of a bread oven. Or something hot. Something delicious. Ma's apple pie?”
“That’s specific," he managed after swallowing.
“I am specific,” you declared, leaning back enough to look at him with wine-glossed eyes and a wagging brow. "Specifically horny, baby!"
Pressing a knuckle to his mouth, he thought his might physically contain the laugh threatening to break through.
“Sweetheart—”
“No, no! Let me finish.” You clumsily plucked a grape this time. Perfectly round, glistening in the late afternoon sun, and held it up like a jewel. “This is important because I’ve been holding this in all day!"
He watched you with an expression somewhere between adoration and desperation.
“You—” you started, jabbing the grape at his dimple, “—are so stupidly hot. It’s obscene, Clark. Like—I can’t even look at you sometimes. Like-like if Michelangelo designed a Midwestern farm boy as a treat for overstimulated wives with intimacy issues and rosé in their bloodstream. Here, eat—”
“T-thank you?” he managed to get out just before you pressed the grape between his lips. He pinned you with that look he got when he was about to either fall over laughing or pull you into his lap and kiss you stupid.
You nodded, dead serious. Then held up a finger. “Ah-ah! Wait! I’m not done!"
“There’s more?”
“There’s always more when it comes to you,” you said solemnly.
You stood up dramatically, a little too fast, enough to send the blood rushing to your ears and the whole vineyard spinning just slightly off its axis.
One hand braced the edge of the picnic table. Clark moved instinctively, intending to catch you, but you straightened with renewed, theatrical purpose and reached for him instead.
Arms looped loosely around his neck, you tipped forward until his face was nestled between your breasts, your chin resting atop his head, swaying gently in place like some drunken vine draped over a tree trunk.
“Ohhh, Clark,” you sighed, voice reverent and slurred. “You oak-barreled beefcake. You lighthouse of temptation. My six-foot-four and two hundred and forty pounds of USDA-certified erotic tension—”
He made a small, strangled sound into your sternum.
“—It hurts,” you whispered dramatically, cradling the back of his head, “hurts to hold back around you. I want you so bad, like, all the time. I want you like bread wants butter. Like the vines want sun. Like my thighs want your huge—”
“I think!” he interrupted urgently, voice muffled and hoarse between the curve of your breasts, “we might want to get some water in you. That sound alright?”
Giggling and snorting as you tried to speak, you bent slightly at the waist to whisper straight into his ear. "I think — I think we should get some—some you in me instead!"
That finally did him in.
He groaned, and then buried his face tighter into your cleavage like that might save him.
“I knew you were gonna say that,” he muttered, almost defeated.
Your arms wrapped tighter around him as you resumed swaying, hands petting over the soft cotton on his back like you could fold yourself into him by will alone. One of his arms came around you instinctively, anchoring you in place, palm warm against your spine, steadying the tilt of your world with just that.
You pressed your lips to the crown of his head again and again, whispering breathless little thank-yous into his hair. For the day. For the weather. For the fact that he existed. For the way he let you be like this around him—silly, soft, uninhibited.
That he let you love him like this.
“Claaaaark?” you murmured, still holding him like you were trying to memorize every ridge of his skull.
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“And I want you. And I’m gonna keep telling you. When we’re brushing teeth. When you fold the towels in thirds instead of halves. When you make that little sigh over the coffee grinder, like the fate of the free world depends on the roast being just right.”
He chuckled into your chest helplessly, patting the small of your back.
“I’m gonna keep telling you,” you whispered, “until we get to that overpriced inn with the blackout curtains and that little throw pillow shaped like a heart and we fuck until tomorrow morning.”
Clark tilted his head back then, chin against your sternum, smiling up at you with glazed adoration.
“I love you too,” he said, soft and breathless. “But that’s it. That’s enough wine.”
You kissed his forehead with a loud smooch, then suddenly and dramatically peeled yourself out of his arms, walking away, stumbling through the grass, full of purpose and unearned grace.
“But not enough Clark,” you called sweetly over your shoulder.
He stayed seated for half a second longer, just long enough to watch the sway of your hips and let the moment destroy him.
Then stood to follow you, because: anywhere, so long as it’s with you.
.
The vineyard’s on-site inn was half a mile uphill.
There was a single rustic suite tucked against the crest of the valley, framed by blush-toned grapes and slats of golden light curling like ribbon over the hills. You’d splurged, just for tonight. You told yourself it was for the sunset views and the clawfoot tub, but it had always been for this.
For the fantasy of watching Clark carry you through French double doors. For soft sheets. For a quiet kiss. For the sweet, indulgent joy of calling him mine that wasn't in the four walls of your home.
And now the sun was sinking pink and heavy over the fields, and he had you carried up the path in his arms like it was the most natural thing in the world. Bridal-style. Forearm flexing beneath your knees, heartbeat strong and unhurried beneath your ear.
“I could’ve walked,” you argued lightly, nose brushing his collarbone.
“I know.”
“But you’re carrying me. You like carrying me, don’t ya?”
He smiled. “I do.”
You grinned. “I bet everyone’s so, so jealous,” you said, a little softer now, words slurring into a sigh. “That I get to go home with you. That I get to see you naked.”
Clark choked a little laugh. “Sweetheart.”
“I’m not wrong," you insisted, pressing a kiss to the scratch of stubble at his jaw.
“I wouldn’t know, honestly,” he admitted.
That made your heart twist.
Not because he was playing coy. Not because he wanted to be humble. But because he genuinely didn't see it. Didn’t see the way people stared. How they whispered. How women tilted their heads and leaned in when he passed, how men squared their shoulders subconsciously when he laughed too loud.
He didn’t see the way the sunlight loved him, chose its favorite child.
He didn’t see what he was.
Didn’t see what you had.
All he saw was you.
And you loved him for it. So, so much.
By the time he opened the room door with a soft click, your body had gone totally boneless in his arms. But even drunk, even dazed and heavy-limbed, you couldn’t stop kissing him. Little pressings of your mouth to his neck, the slope of his jaw, the shell of his ear. Every kiss soft and grateful, like thank you in a dozen dialects of desire.
“Clark,” you whispered, voice sugar-sweet with wine as he set you gently on the bed. “Take off your shirt.”
He didn’t look surprised. But he did hesitate. “Hon, what about that water—”
“Nope,” you said, sitting up just enough to tug at the buttons with the determined grace of a kitten pawing at a sunbeam. “Shirt first. Water second. You made me drink so much.”
“Mmhmm.” He deadpanned. “No, I really didn’t.”
“You stood there with your broad shoulders and your cute smile and your politeness,” you huffed. “That’s intoxicating. You’re intoxicating. You’re lucky I didn’t jump you onto the charcuterie board.”
The mattress dipped under your weight as you immediately flopped backward like a tipsy starfish, arms wide, dress riding scandalously up your thighs, giggles bubbling from your mouth.
“Take off your shirt,” you repeated, sing-songy and grinning. “And then I’ll drink water.”
Clark gave you the you’re gonna be the end of me shake of the head, but his mouth twitched with affection. That fondness he only wore for you, his favorite brand of chaos.
“Deal." And to your delight, in one smooth motion, he tugged the linen shirt over his head and tossed it aside.
You made a sound. Loud and high and scandalized. Something between a gasp and a moan, as if you’d just been handed a plot twist in a soap opera and a sex dream at the same time.
“God, Clark!” Your hand flew to your chest like you were about to faint. "Y—you absolute whore! You slutty little angel. Wth your slutty little glasses! You filthy farm-bred filet mignon. How dare you look like that and also be the love of my life?!"
That got a real laugh. Full-body, shoulder-shaking, eyes-crinkling laugh.
“Jesus,” He wheezed, his cheeks burning.
“No,” you said, dreamy and proud. “Just Clark. My slutty, polite husband.”
Still grinning, he crossed to the suite’s kitchenette and poured a glass of water. “Alright, sweetheart,” he called over his shoulder, “pay up.”
You groaned dramatically but accepted the glass with both hands when he returned, cradling it to your chest.
“Fine. Hydration,” you muttered, then took a long, slightly wobbly sip. “You’re ruining my thirst with your actual concern for my well-being.”
"Good," he plucked your half-full glass, set it on the nightstand, then kneeled in front of you to and unbuckle your wedges, one by one. “You’ve had, what, six tastings?”
“Exactly the right amount,” you declared as you kept oogling him.
Suddenly, you patted his shoulder like a queen knighting her knight. “God, imagine being that Kryptonian doctor delivering baby-you and realizing this kid’s gonna be someone’s dream husband.”
Your legs kept swinging. He pressed gently against your knee. “Hon. Hold still.”
But you didn’t. Couldn’t.
Because he was still crouched between your legs, warm hands sliding down your ankles, face tilted up toward yours like he liked being the one looking up for once. And your heart was full of all the things he was. Things no one else ever really saw when they looked at the real him.
You reached down, hands in his hair now, thumbs brushing the curls at his temples.
“You’re always taking care of me, huh.” you whispered, words thick with too much wine and too much love. “You always take care of everyone.”
He stilled.
“I mean it” you said again. “Even when you can’t feel what I feel—even when you don’t get drunk or dizzy or flushed—you’re so good, Clark. You’ve been so patient all day. You never once made me feel silly or too much or dramatic or clingy or me. You just let me be.”
He was looking at you like you were sunlight.
“I don’t let you be anything,” he countered. “You just are. My best friend. My wife. Of course I'll take care of you. I love—”
You kissed him before he could say another word.
It started soft. Open-mouthed. Slow. Like kissing for the first time again. Like you didn’t care he could taste your lip gloss tinged with wine and cherries and the remnants of that one smoked cheese you didn’t like.
Because you whimpered, and he made a low groan in return, things changed. One large hand slid beneath your thigh, dragging you closer, slotting you against the bedspread like he couldn’t bear even a second of distance. Your hands fumbled for his skin. His mouth traced over yours again and again, basking in the shape of your pleasure.
Even then, even half-draped over you, even with his lips damp and his hands braced beside your hips, Clark paused.
“Are you sure about this?” he asked, voice hoarse, searching your eyes. “I don’t want you to wake up tomorrow and wish I’d stopped you.”
“Of course I’m sure,” you whispered, threading your fingers into his hair, body burning. “I might be drunk, Clark, but I’m not confused. I want you. I wanted you before the wine. I’m gonna want you in the morning.”
A breathless huff of laughter escaped him. “You always want me in the morning.”
“With a headache. And coffee. And probably crumbs in the bed. Even without wine,” you grinned. “The wine just makes me terrible at pretending I’m normal about you.”
You kissed him again, slower this time. Letting him feel the certainty in your decision. Letting him feel the way your hands stayed on his face, steady and deliberate, not grasping or sloppy.
“Okay,” he whispered.
That was it. Because you asked him to, because he always listened, because you gave him your yes, because you were still the most intoxicating thing he’d ever tasted—he let go.
Clark kissed you like he needed to drink you in to survive. Like the faint taste of cab franc on your tongue didn’t matter, because you were the thing he craved. He kissed you like your moans were vintage, like your skin was sun-warmed soil, like your body was a vineyard he’d harvested his whole life but was still learning from, every single time he touched you.
He kissed you like he didn’t care that the whole valley probably heard the sound you made when he pressed into you.
You whispered nonsense into his skin, words too soft to carry, too slurred to repeat. Praise and pet names and babbled declarations. Hiccups between giggles.
Mine. My husband. My favorite taste. Love you so much it hurts.
You ran your fingers down his back like you were painting in the dark. You cried out against his shoulder. You cried out against his shoulder, lips spilling open as the pleasure built. You told him he was everything.
Thank you, you whispered into the crook of his neck. Thank you for loving me like this. For letting me love you back.
And he gave you everything.
Because while he couldn’t get drunk, he could get drunk on you.
.
Thank you for reading! Please don't forget to leave reblog or comment! Any of these are forever appreciated, and keep fics like this alive and writers motivated!
Tags: NSFW (18+), oral (m receiving), boob sucking lol, unprotected p in v, mating press?? kind of??, creampie, married couple banter, light-hearted sex, floor sex, praise, Clark is a loverboy, creaky ass bed lol
Word Count: 1.9k
Summary: You and Clark have sex in his childhood bed...Kind of.
Taglist: @corens0ups @kryptidfiles @paperheartsdissolve @hotelslutsylvania @marvel-hiddles-stark (Let me know if you'd like to be added!)
A/N: Hi, friends!! Happy 2026! This is what you all voted for my first oneshot of the year to be, so I am here to (finally) deliver. Thank you so much for all of the love on my previous oneshot (which you can find here if you have yet to read it!) As always, my requests are OPEN, and I'd love to chat about our David Corenswet boys if anyone wants to chat. Enjoy!
Crickets chirp and twitter outside the window of Clark’s bedroom. The bright yellow moon is high in the sky on this cool Kansas night in mid-June. What a beautiful handful of days it has been.
Between cold glasses of sweet lemonade and bowls of buttery popcorn, you and Clark, Ma, and Pa have spent the days on the farm outside on the back porch or down at the nearby lake. Things are peaceful here in Kansas — right and good and calm — and days like that are few and far between.
Especially when you’re married to Superman himself.
But, Clark promised you four days; four quiet, dreamy, uninterrupted days in which he’d tune out any and all commotion happening around the world and focus on the people most important to him: his family.
It’s the third night now. You’re leaving the Kent farm tomorrow bright and early, giving you and Clark plenty of time to drive all the way back to Metropolis where you’ll settle back into regular living and the stop and go of it all. Part of you is looking forward to being home, but the other part of you is happy to be lost in the slow rhythm of summer and lemonade and the lake.
Clark is beneath you, his breathing slow and steady. You’ve got your ear pressed against his broad chest, and you listen to his heartbeat as you open your eyes. He isn’t asleep. His eyes are closed and his breaths are soft, and if someone didn’t know him as well as you do, they’d think he was out cold. But you can just tell that this isn’t him sleeping; it’s him trying to pretend that he can rest without doing what both of you have been craving first.
You touch his cheek.
“Baby.”
Clark hums. You knew it. He’s a total faker. You smile, feeling reaffirmed in your belief that he wasn’t asleep at all. You run your fingers through his hair, then touch his bottom lip. He opens his eyes at that, and you smile down at him.
“Hi.”
Clark chuckles.
“Hey there,” he says as he lifts his head and tucks his right hand behind it. “It’s late, Mrs. Kent.”
“I can’t sleep.”
“No?”
You shake your head.
“Mm mm. I’m too hungry.”
Clark’s brows raise, and he reaches over to wipe the sleepy dust from your eyes.
“There are leftovers in the fridge,” Clark tells you. “Just don’t eat the last of the mashed potatoes. Those’re Pa’s favorite.”
“I don’t want mashed potatoes,” you tell him. The corner of Clark’s mouth turns up in a knowing smile. He’s got you all figured out, but he’s going to pretend that he doesn’t. You know how this goes. You know him.
“What do you want?” Clark asks softly. Your smile widens.
“I’m so glad you asked,” you say. Carefully, you scoot down his body and Clark’s breath catches as you do. The bed creaks with the movement. You rest your chin on his abdomen when you get down far enough, and Clark touches the side of your face. Wordlessly, you tilt your head down to nose at his half-hard clothed cock. Clark inhales sharply.
“That’s what you want, hm?” He asks as he stares at you. You nod, eyes meeting his.
“Mhm. Are you gonna be quiet?” You ask him as you tug at the waistband of his pajama bottoms. Clark is still smiling when he nods and spreads his legs slightly to give you more room. You squeeze his thighs, then let his erection spring free from its confines. Clark hums as you collect some of his leaking arousal on your fingertip and stick it in your mouth.
“You’re so pretty,” he breathes as you lick his cock from base to tip. You meet his eyes again, then smile while sucking at his tip. You hum around him purposely, and Clark grips the sheets as his heart begins to beat faster.
“Atta girl,” he sighs, pushing hair out of your face. “Good…S-So good…”
You push yourself down on him as far as you can go without gagging, and Clark bites his lip as his head falls back against the pillows.
“Oh my gosh,” he moans softly. “Yes, yes…H-Honey–”
You pull off of him then, and dot a few kisses along the underside of his cock. He’s really leaking now, pre-cum beading at the tip of his member, and you stroke him suddenly, making him gasp. You hold back a laugh.
“Be quiet or I’ll have to stop,” you warn playfully. Clark gives you a look.
“You’re being m-mean…” he manages as you stroke him. A soft schlick schlick schlick sound is audible as you pump him, and Clark’s hips buck at the feeling of your hand on him. Your movements slow suddenly, and Clark whines.
“Mr. Kent,” you say, “I didn’t take you for the whiny type…”
Clark grunts, then covers his mouth with his hand. Jumbled words that sound a lot like good gosh come from him. You suck just his tip into your mouth, then hold it there for just a moment before pulling away altogether. You move back onto your knees, and Clark sits up to touch you as you tug your pajama shirt up over your head. The bed creaks.
“I feel like we have this problem everytime we stay here,” you whisper, referring to the old, loud bed. Clark takes your breasts into his large hands the moment they’re revealed. He gives them a gentle squeeze.
“I know.”
“Why don’t we just buy a new bedframe?” you suggest while pushing down your shorts and underwear. “One that doesn’t creak every time one of us breathes?”
Clark chuckles, then pulls you on top of him. More creaking. You lean down over him with your hands on the headboard and your breasts in his face.
“An entire bedframe for a bed that we only sleep in a few times a year?”
“Mhm. We could even upgrade it to a double…Two people in a twin bed like this is impossible…”
“Mmm,” Clark hums as he licks at your breasts and sucks your right nipple into his mouth. His eyes flutter and you run your fingers through his hair. “I’ll think about it…”
“I’ve known you long enough to know what that means,” you breathe. “I’ll – mm – I’ll let Ma and Pa know to expect a delivery…”
“You want a double and not a queen, huh?”
“A queen wouldn’t fit in here, baby,” you say, rocking your bare core down against Clark’s erection. He flicks his tongue over your hardened nipple, and you hum, holding the back of his head and pulling your chest back.
“I’m gonna ride you,” you tell him. His hands find your hips.
“If the bed starts screaming, you have to stop, though,” Clark says. “I think I’d die if Ma and Pa heard us–”
“It’s not like they don’t already know,” you say, lining his tip up with your entrance. “You were totally staring at me in my bathing suit earlier. And also, we’ve been married for how many years?”
“Still. They don’t need to know,” he says, pushing his hips up as he holds onto you. You gasp at the feeling of him slipping in, and you sink down on him.
Creeeaaak!
You pause.
“For fucksake,” you mutter.
“I don’t know about this–”
“Oh my god, Clark.” You pull off of him, and he jolts at the sudden loss of contact. You get off the bed, then lie down on the small rug at the side of the bed. Clark stares at you, then sighs.
“I hate doing that to you,” he says as he gets up, too. You hum, spreading your legs as he kneels down between them. “This is so not romantic.”
“Not every fuck is gonna be romantic,” you say, touching his shoulders. Your hands wander up to cup his cheeks, and you pull him down for a kiss. “Plus, you look really fucking good on top of me.”
Clark hums, the corner of his mouth tugging up.
“I think you’re just sweet talkin' me now,” he says. He lowers himself down to kiss you again, then pushes himself back up. You bite your lip, running your hands over his biceps.
“Mm. You’re so strong and sexy, Clark…”
“Okay, yeah, you’re definitely sweet talkin' me.”
Clark guides his tip to your entrance anyway, still smiling as he does, and you hum when he presses in.
“S’that okay?” he asks. You nod.
“It always is,” you breathe.
“You know I like to check,” Clark says as he presses the rest of the way in. You hum, your grip on his biceps tightening.
“Fuck, baby,” you breathe. “You can move.”
Clark nods, then begins to rock his hips. You gasp at the feeling of his cock rubbing up against your g-spot over and over, and your lips part in pleasure. Clark grunts softly as he fucks you faster and faster. Your breasts bounce and soft, barely-there moans leave you.
“Oh, god, yes,” you sigh. Clark runs his hand along your thigh, then bends your left leg up so it can hook over his side. He moves your other leg too, then, and you groan and cover your mouth.
“Shh,” he shushes as he plows into you. “S’that good, honey?”
You nod.
“Oh my god, yes, Clark, mmm…Right there! Right there, yes!”
Your sounds bring Clark hurdling towards his climax, and you gasp when you reach down to rub your clit in tight, quick circles. Clark holds onto your thighs as he pounds into you. The wooden floor of his bedroom is hard and uncomfortable beneath you, but you pay it no mind. How could you when your husband is moving like this above you?
“I’m close,” Clark sighs. You nod, tugging on his curls and bringing his head down so that you can kiss him firmly.
“Fuck, me too,” you whisper against his lips. “Mmm, b-baby…Yes…Y-Yes, oh my god…”
Clark lets out a shaky chuckle.
“W-Why are you laughing at me, Kent?” you breathe. He shakes his head.
“I’m just…S-So – mm – so in-love with you…” Clark tells you. You give his hair another tug, and he grunts.
“I love you too,” you breathe. “A-And I love your f-fucking cock, oh my god…”
Clark kisses you, his orgasm rising, rising, rising…
You gasp. The two of you reach your climaxes at almost the exact same time, and you rub your clit and take yourself through it as Clark spills his massive load deep inside of you. He’s sighing and breathing heavily, and his thrusts get sloppy until they slow to a stop.
The sound of you two catching your breath fills the room, and Clark presses his forehead against yours. You smile and wrap your arms around the back of his neck.
“I meant it,” you breathe. “About the bedframe.”
Clark laughs, then kisses you before pulling out and lifting you up to set you back on the bed. You relax against the comforter as he grabs a few tissues to clean you both up.
“I know you did,” Clark says. “I’ll look into it. I promise.”
“I can’t just not have sex with you every time we’re in Kansas,” you tell him as he hands you some tissue. You reach down to clean yourself up.
“I know.”
“And you hate fucking me on the floor, so you ought to do something about it.”
“I will.”
“And hey,” you say, catching his wrist and yanking him towards you. You sit up and cup the back of his head. “I love you so, so much, Mr. Kent.”
Clark grins, then kisses you softly with a hand on your cheek.
pairing: (sub/switch-ish) clark kent x dom gf reader
tags: 18+ smut mdni, big bear bulked up boy clark, nipple sucking, bicep biting, sub clark mostly, oral (m), protected p in v backshots uhhhh idk sex, 2.6k words
a/n: AYY IM BACK finally got some motivation to pump something out b4 other people steal my ideas .... ahem if ur gonna steal my ideas at least follow me back …. basically the continuation of this and this and anon response to this . this is also prob the most dom ill ever write someone if at all. as always , pls like and reblog and send me reqs/talk to me!! NICE & CONSTRUCTIVE feedback is always appreciated uhhhh also not proofread bc i #nevacared thank yew
clark is a big guy. six foot four, 240 pounds of pure muscle. patrick bateman, however, said it best: you can always be better. clark let himself go down an internet gym-rat rabbit hole, and now here he was. he was scarfing down every carb in sight, spending every last second in the gym, trying to meet his weight goal.
besides, it was getting cold outside and his precious girlfriend’s—you—space heater wasn’t the best. the extra muscle would heat you up at night, and that justified all the hard work.
you couldn’t say that you didn’t like his new look, either way. he looked like a total bear; his beard was grown out, his biceps were bigger than the size of your head, his pecs had gotten so big you’d debated on buying him a bra. he looked good, primal, even. it awoke something in you, seeing him so rugged and strong, but not in a weird toxic masculinity way.
he just looked good, and he was totally oblivious to how it affected you. he just thought all this newfound affection naturally came from having a healthy relationship—which you did have, regardless. however, parts of his brain grew loud, the parts that told him he just looked like a total lump of lard and anything but attractive.
“baby, i’m busy,” clark absentmindedly murmured as he stood in your shared kitchen, prepping his next overwhelmingly caloric meal of the day. meanwhile, you were having the time of your life. stood behind him, chest to his back, with your arms wrapped around him and your hands pawing at his pecs over his shirt.
you squeezed, tugged, jiggled—just enjoying the heavy weight of them in your palms with a smile on your face. “what? i’m not doing anything to stop you, i’m just playing with my stress balls. it’s unfair, they’re almost bigger than mine,” you chuckled against his back, lifting a hand to smack one of his pecs over his shirt, watching how it jiggled underneath the tight fabric, eliciting a hiss from clark.
“so squishy,” you murmured, making obnoxious honking noises as you squeezed his chest, but he made no motion to stop you. he liked the attention, the little whore he was. “you look so good when you’re big like this, y’know?”
“really?” clark questioned with the slightest, barely even noticeable, hint of insecurity in his deep, baritone voice.
“oh, absolutely, are you kidding me? look at yourself!” you gush.
a silence followed, a rosy tint creeping up onto his face. “what? what’re you thinking about?”
“nothing,” clark pouted.
“clark joseph kent. don’t you think you look sexy like this?”
another beat.
“i-i dunno…”
that was a problem. a big problem. he was the hottest he’d ever looked, and he didn’t believe it. in an instant, your hands met his hips and you began to drag him out of the kitchen, and he let you. “w-wha… babe, come on, i’m hungry,” clark chuckled, his voice booming in the apartment, his dimples deepening in his cheeks.
“mm-mm, mister, i’m gonna show you. keep your eyes on the mirror,” you rebut, dragging clark into your bedroom and stopping right before the full-body mirror hanging on the door. you maneuver clark before it, making him face it. “show me what?” he asked, eyes glued to your hands in the reflection as you stood behind him, palms trailing down his now fuller stomach down to the waistband of his sweats.
“i’m gonna show you how sexy you are—”
“babe, come on—”
“no! you’re putting in all this effort with bulking, just to be insecure? it hurts me. you’re a beast, babe, a total sexy beast. come on, let me?” you pleaded to which he hesitated, but ultimately agreed. with that, his pants and boxers were tugged down to his knees, revealing his hairy thick thighs and his heavy, swole cock.
“would you look at that,” you hum, reaching around simply to hold his cock, which definitely felt heavier than the last time you had sex. “is it possible for weight gain to affect your dick? this definitely feels bigger than before, even soft,” you chuckle, wrapping your fingers around the hairy base to slowly pump him hard.
clark grunted at that, his eyes instinctively closing, earning him a pinch to the back as warning. “eyes open or i stop, on your reflection. i want you to see yourself, just as i see you,” you coo. clark reaches behind himself, his fingers curling into your thigh to anchor himself as you slowly jerked him off.
“g-gosh, this is embarrassing,” clark shakily exhaled, adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed thickly and gazed at himself. his cheeks burned with shame, but he forced himself to keep his eyes on the mirror, to be obedient. regardless, he was getting hard faster than expected, his heavy cock now standing at full attention.
“there you go! look at you, you look so handsome like this… come on, say it.”
“mm-mm.”
“don’t be a child, clark, come on.”
a whimper. “c-can’t.”
“sure you can! come on, don’t tell me you’re capable of taking down omnipotent level extraterrestrial threats… but incapable of saying two words? i know you can,” you spur, slowly twisting your wrist. you drag your enclosed fist up and down his cock, squeezing at the head, then encircling your wrist back down to the base, your thumb dragging against a prominent, pulsing vein.
“i-i’m… i’m handsome,” clark exhaled, his teeth grinding. his eyes roamed over his reflection: the newfound fullness of his arms, the tiniest pudge of his tummy, the way his thick thighs strained with every movement of your hand. “gonna cum, baby,” he murmured, briefly looking over his shoulder down at you.
“so quickly? not yet, babe,” you hum, removing your hand from him, earning an annoyed whine. your hands went to his shirt, tugging it off and tossing it aside before spinning to be in front of him. “eyes on the mirror, big boy,” you giggle, before sinking to your knees in front of him. your fingers find their place wrapped around the base of his cock once again, before leaning in and kissing the area around it.
“you should grow your hair out more often. beats the clean shaven look,” you murmur as you kiss his lower stomach down to his cock, slowly pumping him.
“uh-huh, whatever you want, babe,” clark murmured, eyes glued to the back of your head in the mirror. with that, you took the head of his cock into your mouth. despite whatever science said, clark’s cock had definitely gotten bigger since he began bulking, the head barely fitting between your lips.
but you made do, tongue poking out over your teeth to drag along the underside of his cock, tracing the veins that ran there. clark shuddered at that. his hands flew up to your head, just to hold but not to control. you used your fist to stroke what couldn’t fit—which was most of it—and your other to roll his heavy balls between your fingers. that earned a moan, a loud moan, that came from deep in clark’s gut, his thick thighs holding a slight tremor to them.
you picked up some speed with that, working down to take him about halfway, his tip kissing the back of your throat with each movement of your head. your eyes never left his face, taking note of what he did and didn’t like, what he responded to.
he liked tongue tricks, he liked spit, he liked squeezing. he let out soft puffs of breath in correspondence to you. after a bit, you popped off his cock, a string of saliva following you as you ducked down to capture his heavy balls into your mouth. clark nearly keeled over at that, letting out a sharp hiss as you spit on them before sucking them.
one hand came up to rest on his stomach, holding him up, while the other slowly stroked the head of his cock. his abs flexed beneath your palm, your nails digging into the skin. “don’t tease me, come on,” clark whined, his eyes meeting yours, your nose nudging against his cock with each movement.
he looked so sexy from that angle. his hairy and heavy pecs were heaving with each breath, his abs flexed in correspondence with said breaths, his big arms bulged and strained with effort to hold back.
your hand on his abs trailed around his back to his ass, your nails digging into the cheek. his ass was just another plus that came with the bulk, and you definitely had your fun smacking and groping it every time clark bent over for even a second.
“baby, i’m gonna cum. can i? please?” clark gasped out, his brows knitting together and his eyes slightly crossing. he got so stupid when he got close, it was always adorable to witness.
“you think you deserve it?” you whisper against his flesh, pulling back to spit on his balls before running your tongue over and in between then, making clark cry out.
“uh-huh, please, baby,” clark cried. your hand stroking the head of his cock moved faster, wet shlicks filling the room as he pre lubricated your fist.
“cum for me, baby, give it to me,” you whisper, sticking out your tongue against the tip of his cock as you used both of your hands now to jerk him off. you squeezed the base of his cock up to the head, pushing all of it out. clark came with a near-scream.
he was a shooter, his load landing on your tongue and straight to the back of your throat. his grip on your head relaxed at that, his breath coming in rapid puffs and his vision swimming as he regained himself.
“i’m not done with you, yet,” you whisper mischievously as you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, swallowing down his load as you rise to your feet.
your hands land on his pecs, pushing him backwards until he is flat on his back.
“i think i learned my lesson by now, i'm a total stud,” clark weakly chuckled, allowing you to manhandle him and straddle his lap. he made no motion to stop your advances, reveling in the attention. his hands rest upon your hips, his large palms enclosing them entirely.
“a body like this shouldn’t be neglected,” you murmur, leaning down and kissing down his chest. your hands find his stomach, palms planted against his abs as your lips went further south. clark attentively watched, quirking a brow as your breath ghosted over his nipple.
your tongue darted out, swiping over the pebbled flesh, making clark let out a shocked moan. “we learn something new everyday,” you murmur with a chuckle, your hand coming up to play with his other nipples as you begin to suck the first. clark whimpered at that, his hand coming up to your shoulder.
“golly, baby… i guess this body is full of surprises,” he whimpers out, fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt. you popped off his nipple, clark shivering at the cool contact with air, before you leaned down and started on the other one. you went back and forth until clark was hard again, which didn’t take long.
“i need you, baby, come on,” clark whined, fingers flexing against you. who were you to deny him when he sounded so sweet?
you leaned up to meet his lips. his arm wrapped around your back, using the leverage to flip you two over. your lips never disconnected, not until clark began to efficiently undress you, getting you bare in record time.
clark reached into the bedside drawer, fishing for a condom, meanwhile you rolled over under him, arching your back and pressing your hips up. clark let out an appreciative whistle at the sight before finding a condom and rolling it on—which turned out to not be such an easy feat given his swollen size, but he made do.
his hand braced beside your shoulder, the other guiding his cock to your already soaking pussy, which eliminated the need for prep despite his size. he slowly pushed in, the both of you letting out harmonious groans at the feeling. he shifted slightly, bracing himself on his elbows, which rested on either side of your head as he began moving.
his head tipped down, curls grazing the space between your shoulder blades as he gyrated his hips, slowly working in every inch. it felt too good for either of you to speak. the room was filled with the soft noises of your collective pants and gasps.
clark was borderline animalistic at this point. he grunted, groaned, huffed. his hips slammed against your ass with confidence, his hot breath puffing against your skin and making goosebumps arise. you could barely contain yourself, moaning and whimpering all the same at the feeling of his thick and heavy cock sinfully sliding in and out of you.
your hands scrambled for some anchor, eventually finding purchase on his beefy biceps. your cheek shifted, pressing into the sheets, with your head facing one of his arms. as clark huffed and grunted behind you, you couldn’t help but he transfixed by the muscular limb—how it flexed, its size, its veins. he looked good enough to eat—
chomp.
clark’s hips stuttered, a surprised gasp being forced out of his chest as your teeth sunk into his skin. your eyes fluttered shut, leaning in closer to his arm. “b-baby,” clark grunted, lifting his head up to look at where your teeth joined his flesh, but he never fully stopped thrusting.
“shut up, keep going,” you choke out against his bicep, digging your teeth even further into the firm muscle. that seemed to ignite something in clark. he moved faster, harder, rougher. he was finding out all sorts of things about himself today, things that wouldn't have been possible to figure out if he hadn’t fallen down that one cursed internet rabbit hole.
the hand of his free arm snaked down in between your body and the sheets. his clever fingers expertly found your clit, rubbing it with three fingers in time with his movements. “c-clark—” you moan out around his bicep, finally letting go and admiring the beautiful bite mark left.
“i know, i know, me too,” he grunted, his eyes screwing shut and his teeth grinding as he finally stilled, filling the condom up at the same time as your own orgasm washed over you. clark collapsed against you. his back pressed you deeper into the mattress meanwhile his cock remained deeply nestled in you.
you both took a few moments to catch your breath, before clark finally pulled out and tugged the condom off, tossing it into the trash can next to the bed before rolling over and laying down beside you. he propped himself up on his elbow as he lay on his side. you shifted to lay your cheek against his bicep, smiling up at him with a dazed look in your eyes.
“who would’ve anticipated that i’m into nipple play and biting? am i a pervert?” clark chuckled, leaning down to press his lips against your temple before reaching past you to hand you a bottle of water. you eagerly gulped some down, before handing it back to clark, and he drank the rest.
your hand came up to his chest, tracing the veins under his skin before pawing at his pecs. “totally not a pervert. just unique,” you chuckle, eyes meeting his bright blue ones.
“i guess i should take this as a sign not to cut any time soon?”
“oh, definitely. i need way more time with you and this build.”
“duly noted, ma’am.”
a beat.
“you up for round two?”
please don't redistribute my works anywhere - wtredprch
summary: clark teaches you how to give head
based on this request
cw: smut (mdni, 18+), oral (m rec), reader’s first time giving head, soft dom!clark and his sweet but filthy mouth
wc: 1.6k
a/n: hope everyone had a nice christmas (if you celebrate). mine was kind of meh and a little exhausting, but that’s the holidays. but I don’t want to be ungrateful, I got a new ipad hihihi, and I’m very thankful. anyway, enough yapping, let’s go for some smut. not proofread, we die like jesus christ. am I allowed to say this so soon after his birthday?
now playing: No Plan – Hozier
“Easy, baby,” Clark whispers as his hands caress your hair. He’s hard and aching, his cock twitching in front of your closed lips, the blush at the tip spreading down to his base. You follow the flow of his blood with nervous but giddy anticipation.
He twitches as your fingers ghost over the prominent veins, the thick one, slightly off-center, catching your attention.
“Jeez,” he gasps, tongue darting out to moisten his lower lip.
You’ve never seen him like this before—the glimmer in his eyes, the tremble in his chin—it settles right between your thighs as you watch him.
You’re a little wary. Clark’s cock matches the rest of him, all big and thick and almost too much, and you’ve never done this before. You’re sat between his legs, one of your palms resting on his upper thigh while the other curiously explores. It’s rare that you do most of the work, and even now, Clark is apprehensive about letting you lift your fingers too much.
His hand finds yours, warm and largely engulfing, as he keeps you from driving him too crazy.
“Let me—,” he mutters, then adds, “Please?”
You nod, the butterflies in your belly fluttering around at high speed.
Clark takes your hand and slowly strokes himself to full mast, his eyes falling closed and lips open, quick breaths dispelling in seconds. You watch with fascination, feeling the velvety skin under your fingers, then the sticky precum that begins to coat your palm. He’s hard as a rock and still soft at the same time—it’s a strange but mesmerizing feeling.
“Gosh,” he mumbles, then stops abruptly, “Okay, okay. That’s—wow—I mean, you’re…”
His lack for words calms your nerves a bit. He’s as worked up about this as you are, with a mix of pride and eagerness reflecting in his expression.
“Your hands are really soft,” he settles on, a bit of bashfulness flickering across his face.
Your chuckle echoes through the space and makes him break out into a matching smile until he grows more serious again.
“You know you don’t have to do this,” he states, concern knitting his eyebrows together. He takes your hand away from his cock and presses a kiss to your knuckles, dismissing his own sticky liquid completely. His eyes stay glued to your own, the divot between his brows deepening. He can’t help but worry at all times, even when you’re burning from the inside out to finally get your mouth on him.
“I want to,” you insist, “Please, Clark, I wanna- I wanna learn. I want to make you feel good.”
Clark’s eyes close involuntarily, the corners of his lips twitching.
“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, but that’s all he manages to say.
Keeping your eyes on him, you learn forward until your mouth touches the tip of his cock. He groans instantly, his hand flying up to your cheek as if he’s not sure whether to stop you or pull you closer. It settles there, right on top of your jawbone, his grip tight but gentle.
You’re shy at first, a few wet kisses peppered nervously, but you gain courage as Clark’s barely contained mewls fill your ears. He’s quiet at first, just soft moans and breathless whispers that you barely make out next to the blood coursing through your ears, until he grows a little louder. A deep growl builds in his chest as you part your lips and let your tongue dart out through his slit. A pulse of precum beads at his tip and is quickly slurped up by you. The salty flavor blooms across your taste buds, heady and deeply masculine, just like the rest of Clark.
Your bravery reaches its peak once you fully open your mouth and allow the head of his cock to pop in, your eyes growing wide. Once he’s inside, he feels even bigger, heavy against your tongue and teeth. You’re not scared because you don’t trust him, but because you’re worried you might hurt him—scrape him with your teeth, or do something he doesn’t like.
But that’s clearly not the case, not according to the gasps and words that flow from Clark.
“Oh gosh, darling—that’s- that’s… wow, oh—”
His hips thrust unintentionally, inching him a little deeper into your mouth, but you take him gladly.
“Are you- are you okay?” he asks instantly, already tempted to pull out, but you only hollow your cheeks, sucking him in further.
It’s a lot—it’s so much. You’re not sure where Clark ends and where you begin, but god, it feels so right. He’s everywhere in your mouth, his taste, his scent, the weight of his cock. Drops of pleasure mix with your saliva and roll down your throat, making you wish he’d fill you even more.
Clark’s free hand takes your own and wraps it around the base of his cock. Then, he leans back but keeps his other hand on your jaw, massaging and stroking gently. You squeeze what you can’t fit in your mouth, and there’ still a lot of inches to be covered, but Clark makes you take your time.
He allows you to get used to the intrusion, then whispers, “Take a breath, baby, yeah? Through your nose.”
His voice trembles more and more, breaking at the end of the sentence with pleasure as you let your tongue swirl around him.
You inhale based on his instructions, finding a rhythm, then work him deeper in your mouth.
“That’s… that’s it.”
Clark whimpers. He whimpers right as you swallow, bobbing your head closer to the neatly trimmed hair on his tummy. A lot of distance remains to be bridged, but you’re getting there.
Your hand remains resting on Clark’s thigh—you feel the muscles tense and twitch below your palm, his skin slickening as he continues to hold back. The reminder of the strength that slumbers beneath his layers of restraint sends the heat pooling in your lower tummy right to your core. Creamy webs of arousal coat the gusset of your panties, but your focus lingers on Clark as he pulses in your mouth.
“Sweetheart,” he gasps, “Is it alright if I… if I…”
The words he won’t speak aren’t lost on you. You feel every minimal, subconscious thrust that originates from his hips, the way he’s aching for more—and so are you.
You nod as best as you can and work your way further down his cock, swallowing and sucking, letting your tongue dance around him as he slides to the back of your throat. His tip meets some resistance, and for a second, you can’t tell where up and down is, your vision swimming from lack of oxygen, until Clark grounds you.
His fingers caress your cheek, his eyes, still darkened with pleasure, meet yours.
“Breathe, baby. Please,” he reminds you, and you do.
Sweat trickles down your temples, drenching the fine hairs framing your face, but he’s right where you want him, and euphoria crashes through you. Clark’s cock is as deep down your throat as you can manage, a sense of pride filling you, making you even more determined.
“Yeah, baby… good girl—” The praise shoots lightning bolts into every corner of your body, and you let yourself fall into the warmth and safety of Clark’s hands. His fingers thread through your hair, the gentle pressure on your scalp keeping you afloat.
Clark won’t close his eyes now, not when he’s so close. His eyes are half-lidded, but his pupils are trained on you, most of the blue iris swallowed by his arousal.
He pulls out of your throat for a bit, then slides himself right back, making both of you moan. The vibrations of your pleasured sounds travel up through the length of his cock, and once again, you feel him twitch. He’s not holding himself back anymore.
Clark’s hand on your head guides you—it doesn’t force. He thrusts into your throat, and you swallow around him gladly, watching with amazement as his mouth parts further and further, his lower lip trembling. His hips have found their own rhythm, entranced by the tightness of your warm, wet mouth. The stifled gasps that build in his chest come out broken and desperate, a whine here, a whimper there, but even at the edge of his release, he mumbles sweet nothings to you.
“So good, baby.”
“That’s my girl.”
“Feels so great, oh my.”
“Oh gosh, oh- oh- darlin’—“
He taps your cheek gently despite the raging fire of pleasure in him as a warning before the salty tang of his cum coats your tongue and throat as he empties himself in your mouth. You’re swallowing for what feels like hours, trying to catch every drop. Clark cums like he fucks—sweet, and gentle, and still so overpowering.
Once the last drop of his iridescent arousal goes down your throat, he eases out of your mouth with such tenderness that your heart aches with an outpour of adoration for the panting man opposite you.
A goofy, satisfied smile sits at the center of his face as he meets your eyes.
“You’re amazing,” he murmurs, reaching out to wipe away the last bit of his remnants from the corner of your mouth.
“Are you okay?” he adds just as quickly.
Oh, you’re more than okay.
You nod instantly.
“That was… that was incredible,” you rasp, the wear on your throat audible.
He can’t help the sheepish smirk that steals its way onto his face.
“You’re incredible, sweetheart.”
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clark kent would never lay a finger on his girlfriend. unless, of course, she asked him to do it.
"i don't know, babe…" clark's voice was low and laced with uncertainty from behind you, all because he hated saying 'no' to his lovely girl.
he'd never ever touch any woman with too much force, ma and pa kent raised him right, and you'd always respect them for that—but you were asking him to do it, so what could possibly be the big deal?
"clark, come ooonnn—i just wanna know how it'll feel!" you insisted still, finding his eyes from over your shoulder, batting those pretty eyelashes at him in that way he just couldn't resist.
but unfortunately, clark seemed determined tonight.
"i just don't wanna hurt you, sweetheart—i hate saying no to you, but this? actually…" clark just gestured vaguely to your ass—in the air, just waiting for him to give up like he always did when it came to you.
the poor guy couldn't even get the words "slap your ass" out, which was just as adorable as it was infuriating.
"i know you're strong, baby. trust me, if there's anyone in this world who knows how rough you can be to me—it's why i want us to try!"
you huffed, complained, almost whined to convince him, then lowered your torso on the mattress, stomach flat against the sheets as you made a petulant, defeated sound. "do i gotta beg to get what i want now?"
your spoiled, bratty tone made clark stiffen from his position behind you, his large hands stilled where they were tracing patterns on the small of your back. "beg?! no, sweetheart, i'd never—i'd never make you beg…"
he paused then, shifting until his arms were braced beside your head, his breath fanning the back of your neck as he spoke again "but i do love how pretty you sound when you do."
there it was—you thought you had played all your cards to get what you wanted, but just when you were about to give up, he gave the game right back to you.
with a mock sigh, you turned only to find him already looking at you, your noses almost touching when you began: "please, baby… please, i just need one—"
it was almost pathetic how you didn't even need to finish the sentence to get your boyfriend to finally do it.
without any more protests, clark was set again with his front pressed flushed against your backside, one hand securing your hips so you couldn't squirm away when he landed a sharp smack on your ass cheek.
you bit back a whimper at the sudden contact, but you could tell he was still holding back, and because you couldn't resist pushing him just a little bit further: "more, baby—i can take it!"
"my gosh, sweetheart—you really want this, right? you'd tell me if i hurt you?" clark sounded so exasperated, the hand that just slapped your ass hovering awkwardly over it like he was aching to do it again, but didn't know if he could.
"yeah. yeah, clark, just one more—"
he didn't need to be told twice after that.
the slap that followed echoed through the whole apartment, so loud it almost muffled the strangled sound you let out. a gasp? a moan? whatever it was, it was music to your boyfriend's ears, because it could only mean one thing: he could do it again and again.
clark's hands clutched on your hips then as if he'd die if he let go of your skin for only one second, lining himself up with your entrance only to bury himself to the hilt with one sharp move.
you buried your face in the mattress at the sudden intrusion, body shuddering around him as you took in the feeling of being filled like that.
maybe you had corrupted him for good now with that talk.
"hnng—clark!"
clark's name was all that lasted on your tongue as he began to punish you wish sharp thrusts, pulling out all the way out, leaving just the tip in to slam back into you with full force, and even then, it felt perfect.
his hands didn't stop either, showering your ass cheeks with the same attention each, switching between light, almost playful smacks and ones sharp enough to jolt your body forward, only for him to yank you back on his cock.
"you like that, baby? like having my handprint marked on your ass?"
you babbled out a weak "yeah" in response, already fucked out of your mind with the switch you had flipped on your boyfriend. clark never talked like that. ever.
"golly, baby—you were right, this does feel good—" he punctuates his words with more spanks, and you could feel his thrusts get more erratic, more desperate as he searched for both his release and yours.
only you—you and the sight of your ass marked by his hands—could possibly turn superman himself into a panting, messy sex machine.
one of his hands were planted on your hip, bringing your body back to meet his thrusts, while the other circled your body to manage tight circles on your clit.
"needa cum, baby—" his breath was ragged from behind you and you could just tell how crazy you'd been driving your boyfriend tonight "need it, but i gotta feel you first, yeah? can you cum around me, sweetheart?"
the combination of clark's rough thrusts, with his ministrations on your clit were enough to have your eyes rolling back into your skull as pleasure broke through you and you came all over his cock, "oh my god—ah, baby—!"
your moans, along with feeling of your walls clamping down on his achingly hard length buried insided you were just enough to drive clark over the edge and get him spilling hot, endless ropes of cum inside you.
he promised he didn't want to do that ever, because "it could be too much"—but then again? you'd convinced him the last time just like you did tonight.
the aftermath was like every other: your legs still tangled together, his fingers combing through you hair and your head safely tucked on his chest, listening to his frantic heartbeat.
except for one detail that differed this aftercare from the usual—the lingering, tingling feeling of his handprint on your ass even then.
"i was thinking, baby…" you started once you got your breathing back, circling mindless patterns across the expanse of his chest.
clark's chuckle reverberated under your fingertips before he responded "when are you not?"
"right. but i was thinking about next time."
"next time?"
you lifted your head from its safe spot on his shoulder to meet his gaze "yeah, clark. our next time."
he blinked a few times, considering what you meant, "…oh—right." a sheepish smile tinged clark's lips at it "what about it, sweetheart?"
"maybe… pull my hair next?"
"yeah," a pause, you catch clark staring at the ceiling as if it could tell him how to deal with you and your ideas "yeah, we'll talk about that, okay?"
you rested on his again, satisfied, because you knew he always gave in eventually—like he always did when it came to you, "okay."
a/n: out of the writer's block cage to write this RAAAHH
Your not-so-tiny two-year crush on Clark Kent is an open secret in the office, hopefully one that he still isn't privy to. However, the holidays have a way of bringing feelings to the surface, regardless of whether you’re ready or not.
▸ PAIRING: Clark Kent x F!Reader
▸ WARNINGS: NSFW 18+, hurt/comfort, fluff, slight miscommunication, holiday party alcohol, eating out against wall, penetration (with condom hurrah!), canonically big d*ck
▸ WORD COUNT: 15.8K
▸ A/N: how i've missed you clark. one of my fave storylines from the movie but with a much happier, sexier ending. special shoutout to @pinksplace clark's irl gf. if you enjoy this, please like / reblog / comment, i truly appreciate every single one! each one makes my entire day <3
↤ holiday collection masterlist | main masterlist
The holiday season comes with its joys and woes. There is magic in the air as you walk down the crowded streets, jazzy Christmas tunes crooning in your ears, the delighted giggles of children chasing after each other in the winter wonderland, and the sheer number of tourists gleefully traipsing down the sidewalks with the kind of enthusiasm that you don’t see from actual Metropolis residents.
While you are swayed by the decor and the uplifting atmosphere, you are also inevitably reminded of the fact that you are incredibly, indubitably, irrevocably single.
It’s not for a lack of trying. You’ve been on the apps, swiping left and right until the system embarrassingly tells you that it’s time to call it a day. You’ve been to singles parties when you have time, meeting more weirdos than not and making a beeline for the exit ten minutes into the event. You’ve even had many of your friends set you up with their friends, but it all ends the same.
At some point, perhaps you have to admit that the problem lies with you.
“It is with you. The problem, I mean,” Lois grumbles under her breath.
You frown at her, displeased that you have to take accountability for your current predicament. The two of you are trudging side by side, you trying to scooch past aggressive fast-walkers and Lois elbowing anyone who gets in her way.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means the reason why you can’t seem to be interested in any of these men you are seeing is because you keep comparing everyone to Clark.”
Oh dear. Embarrassed is an understatement for how you feel every time yet another new person outs you for your crush. While Lois is long-time in-the-know, catching wind of it the moment you turned your googly-eyes on him over two years ago, many others have been quick to point out your obsession with the journalist.
It’s getting to the point where you’re convinced the entire office knows.
“The entire office definitely knows,” Lois deadpans again. Are you saying all these things out loud? “Yes, you are. You wear your heart — and clearly your thoughts — on your sleeve, it’s a wonder you’ve been able to keep this from Clark for so long.”
Pressing your lips together, you shoulder your way through the rotating doors of The Daily Planet and grunt when it doesn’t budge as fast. Lois gives it a good shove on the other side of the glass door so that you can stumble your way through.
“It’s not my fault,” you pout, “also, it can’t be the entire office that knows.”
Cue your conversation with Perry as he summons you straight into his office the moment you walk through the doors after a very nice lunch break. You give a little uh-oh to Lois who only shrugs, nudging you in that direction.
Perry rotates the Rubik’s Cube on his desk. It seems like he hasn’t made much progress since you were last in here. He only toys around with it when he has a critical topic to discuss. You wonder if your benefits run to the end of the year if he fires you right before the holidays; maybe you can finally dub him the real-life Grinch.
“You’re not firing me, are you?” You blurt out. “Because I don’t think I can handle being unemployed over Christmas. I still have to buy gifts for my little cousins, then I also have a couple of nieces and nephews. Gosh, not to mention my mom wants a new toaster oven for—”
“You’re not getting fired,” Perry interrupts with a resigned huff. He presses his fingertips against the pulsing vein on his forehead and you clamp your lips shut. “I have two questions for you. Well, the first one comes with plenty of follow-ups.”
“Shoot.”
Your name rolls off his tongue like a desperate plea. “How long is it that you’ve been working here?”
You do the mental math, counting backwards from this very day, this very minute. “Two years, five months… six days… and, I don’t know, like three hours? We started my first day pretty late because of the fire alarm, so it’s kind of hard to say—”
Perry’s hand in the air silences you. Your lips seal closed again. “And how long have you been in love with Clark Kent, one of our very own?”
A squeak escapes you as you count the hours again in your head. “Um, two years, five months, six days, and an hour and thirty minutes.”
“Thought so,” Perry says with yet another deep sigh. You swear he’s sprouted more white hair since you last saw him yesterday. The rate at which he is aging appears to correlate with the number of conversations he has with you.
“Do you think everybody knows?”
“Yes.” No hesitation. The answer is quick.
“Do you think Clark knows?”
This one he pauses for, but he still responds, “Yes.”
“Well,” you begin again with a sigh. “This is quite troubling then, isn’t it?” Perry only looks at you exasperated. “Why are we discussing my love life — or lack thereof for that matter?”
“Because I need you to get a grip on it. Because I need both you and Kent to work on the senator’s stripper scandal. Draft by tonight. He has most of the research, but I trust you to be more delicate about the situation in the piece.”
You only manage to nod. Working with Clark. Working on a very important, very heavy piece for the Planet. Working until very late. Working just the two of you. You can do this. Sure, it’s not as if you haven’t worked with him before. It’s not as if you want to blurt out how much you love his crooked glasses or his curly hair or his big, beefy chest every time you see him. You just have to remind yourself to shut the hell up whenever that urge arises.
“Are you still breathing?” Perry prompts warily.
“Barely,” you wheeze.
“Well, you better start figuring that out soon. Better yet, invite that man out for a drink, he looks like he never lets loose. Since he’s the exclusive rep for Superman, he has been working nonstop. While you’re at it, you might as well tell him that you want to marry him and have lots of babies with him.”
Your jaw drops as you admonish Perry with heat crawling up your neck. “This has got to be an HR violation on so many levels, I’m going to have a talk with Mel about your nosiness.”
“Yeah, then we can talk about that year-end bonus.”
That promptly shuts you up. Another HR violation! You should keep a notebook on everything Perry’s doing against your career at this point.
“Don’t even think about doing whatever the hell you’re concocting up in that head of yours.”
“How do you know I want lots of babies?”
“You don’t want a lot of babies. You want a lot of babies with him.”
All this time, have you laid all of your cards out on the table? Open for the world to see. It seems everyone has been reading you like a book today. You feel like a novel stripped bare of its cover, down to the spine.
He’s not wrong per se. It’s not like you have a particular fondness towards children; heaven knows you have enough nieces and nephews to drain your savings every year. But thinking about Clark and how soft he is and how gentle, how he could be so, so good with children, has you thinking about all sorts of circumstances in which you and he could raise a whole pen of children.
But first, you must create the child. In order to create the child, you must perform coitus. To perform coitus, your feelings must be reciprocated. Now, this is where it gets challenging — if you want your feelings reciprocated, you need to at least let him know of your feelings.
And that’s something — after two years, five months, six days, and an hour and thirty-five minutes — you cannot even begin to imagine doing.
Luckily, before you can spiral into your bottomless pit of despair, Perry waves you out the door as he returns his attention to the article he’s redlining. “Let Clark know. I want that on my desk by tonight.”
“Tonight? I thought you were joking,” you gasp, “that’s so—”
“Tomorrow is the holiday party, which means nobody will be productive in the office. I want that piece out in two days. Ergo, I need the first draft in my inbox by tonight. It doesn’t matter what time.”
“Can you like just go to sleep, please?”
Perry gives you another pointed look, reminding you that he is in fact a demon that does not need a wink of sleep. He flicks his fingers towards the door like he’s tired of your presence at this point. You have no other choice but to skulk back to your desk with a deep, deep sigh.
Apparently, it’s a deep enough sigh that Clark perks up from his desk and rolls out on his chair towards you. Clark doing this also attracts Lois and Jimmy’s attention. Great, now you have a full party.
While the latter two are only being nosy, wondering what on earth Perry wanted with you, Clark offers a look of genuine concern. The cute puckering of his brows, his ocean blue eyes tinged with a melancholy meant to sympathize with you, and a pout of his lips that makes you want to kiss him silly.
He is in his grey suit today, the one that’s a little oversized even for him. You wonder if it’s a hand-me-down from his dad, because Clark would be the type to have a suit from his dad, even if he is adopted. He pushes his glasses up on his face as he looks at you in earnest.
When he stares at you like that, how are you supposed to not fall in love with him? How is it even possible to resist how adorable he looks when he’s so sweet and—
“So what did Perry want?” Lois’ voice drags you straight out of your dreamy haze, her eyes dancing with an obvious sort of mirth that indicates she knows exactly what you had been thinking about.
“Uhm,” you begin, eyes flicking to Clark, “we need a draft to Perry on the senate strippers by tonight.”
“It was multiple strippers?” Jimmy asks.
“No, it was one senator and two strippers, I think,” Lois corrects, stroking her chin.
“You’re both wrong, it was a senator at the strip club with two and a half strippers,” Clark piles on. “But tonight? Really? We have three hours of daylight left.”
You groan, dropping your head onto the desk with a loud thud, almost missing Jimmy’s question of what the hell is half a stripper. Clark had moved fast in your periphery but not fast enough because you feel the sting of that petulant act on your temple. When you pick up your head again, he’s leaning closer now, having risen to his feet in concern.
His hands move around awkwardly, like he wants to reach out and check on you, but also refuses to cross any lines that could make you uncomfortable. It’s endearing and you can’t help but smile. You can hear Jimmy and Lois’ disgusted groans behind you, but it’s not the first time you’ve ignored them.
“We should be fine. We’ll be fine,” Clark tries to reassure you, a soft smile on his face as he offers up a look of confidence. “It’ll take some time because we need to properly build out the timeline and piece together the interviews, but we should be able to get it done tonight.” He winces, shooting you an apologetic look, “We may need to stay a bit late to sort it all out, so I hope you don’t have any plans tonight?”
You’re about to respond that your calendar is free and open for the taking when it comes to him, the embarrassing words nearly spilling from your lips when Lois thankfully interrupts you. Though, jury is still out whether you should be grateful when she asks, “No hot date tonight?”
Her sharp eyes glimmer as she singsongs the question, each syllable laced with humor that only Jimmy seems to understand. She knows exactly what she’s doing. She knows you have no hot date tonight, nor have you had a hot date in a very long time, because your love life — currently missing, it’s been hiding from you since college — is in shambles. How can you have a hot date when the only hot date you want isn’t even aware that he is the only man that you want to hot date?
Your own gaze flicks over to Clark briefly. A look crosses his keen blue eyes, one that slips in and out too quickly for you to catch. “No, no hot date,” you say almost pitifully. Clark’s face melts just a little bit; the only reason you see it is because you have a tendency to notice everything when it comes to him. Just like you, he tends to wear his heart on his sleeve.
“And you better hope Superman isn’t needed tonight,” Lois notes as she pins Clark with a pointed look.
They share words without saying a thing. A conversation happening right before your eyes without a peep. You’ve always been a little jealous of their bond. They started this job before you did, locking in a couple of years of friendship under their belt before you even knew Clark Kent existed. Rumors say that they even gave the romance thing a go for a bit. It makes you envious that Lois has probably seen and experienced parts of Clark that aren’t even present anymore, parts you wish you had been there to witness firsthand.
Clark pushes his glasses up again, clearing his throat. “I’m sure there are other heroes who can handle any emergencies that come up.”
This time, it’s you who chimes in. “He has been quite busy, hasn’t he? Which means you have also been chasing him all around town. I don’t know how you manage to always catch him. Does Superman have a phone? If he doesn’t, maybe a Nokia, something indestructible.”
A snort escapes his lips. “That’s good advice. I’ll be sure to let him know next time I see him.”
Afterwards, the two of you hunker down at your desks for a while. You work off Clark’s for a bit as you build the timeline together and frame the storyline before you even begin to chip away at the article. He’s patient and gentle as you wring your fingers through your hair in frustration every time a piece doesn’t immediately fall into place. He coaxes you through the stress, kindly offers up solutions without mansplaining anything. The temptation to drop down to one knee and propose to him is extremely strong today.
By the time the giant clock announces that it’s officially seven, the office is deserted. Nobody here gets paid overtime, which means nobody is sticking around past five this close to the holidays. It’s only suckers like you and Clark who get roped into writing ground-breaking, media-stopping pieces a week before Christmas. When you look up from your screen, eyes a little blurry from staring too long at the screen, there is not a single soul left aside from you and Clark.
“This is brutal,” you mutter under your breath. “I’m sorry you got stuck with me on this.”
With a shake of his head, he offers a comforting smile. “Don’t be sorry. Plus, I’m happy that it’s you here with me.”
If you hear that loud thud, that’s the sound of your heart slipping past your insides to your feet. Now that simply isn’t fair. How is it possible that he could say something so sweet so casually? How can he say such sweet nothings with a curl flopping down on his face, his glasses slipping on the bridge of his nose again, and his cheeks flushed a pretty shade of pink?
Even worse, then he smiles and his dimples carve themselves into his cheeks and into your aching, bleeding heart on the ground.
“You’re a sweetheart,” you sigh dreamily.
Clark blushes an even deeper red and turns away to look at his computer, feigning business to avoid looking directly into your eyes. “Are you hungry? Should we grab some food before we continue?”
The two of you end up trekking to a burger joint down the street. A couple of greasy sandwiches, some well-seasoned fries, and the extra dose of caffeine and sugar from your sodas, and you’re both back in business. You’re a lot more peppy now that you have some food in you as you skip all the way back to the office. Clark trails behind you at a safe distance.
Metropolis a week away from Christmas is an absolute dream. Lights have been woven between the leaves and the branches, twinkling like stars within your reach. Storefronts are made festive with splashes of reds and greens with sprinklings of glitter and gold. Winter kisses your skin as you look up at the skyscrapers sparkling above you; the forlorn office workers stuck at their desks, the homebodies cozied up in bed, and all of those in between joined in the camaraderie of an evening days away from the greatest time of year.
These are the times that make you appreciate the city you live in. Barring the surprisingly frequent alien invasions and the occasional billionaire’s attempt to infiltrate foreign powers, the city is a wonderful place to be. It comes alive with its people, with everyone in high spirits, creating a community grounded in the spreading of holiday cheer.
Clark’s long legs allow him to catch up to the cloud you’re drifting on. “You seem much more chipper now,” he murmurs, unexpectedly close enough to your ear.
The proximity catches you off guard, your feet tripping over each other on the very flat sidewalk. Thankfully, Clark is there to save the day when his hand wraps around your bicep, swiftly steadying you. It’s almost dizzying how easy that was for him. How strong he is. You try to ignore the tingling between your legs at that new bit of information.
When you look up to thank him, you realize how close his face is. He seems to register this too and immediately stumbles backwards a little bit to give you some space. His eyes are blown wide in surprise, showcasing more of those green flecks in his blue irises. With his cheeks reddened — partly from the cold and partly from you, he whispers a quick apology.
“You saved me, why are you apologizing?” You poke his arm to show him how unserious you really are, despite the fact that your heartbeat has skyrocketed to astronomical levels. Your doctor’s going to want to have a serious conversation with you on your next annual about your blood pressure.
“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” he says sweetly.
Just when you think you’re done falling more in love with him, he manages to prove you wrong. “You could never make me uncomfortable,” you honestly respond and he seems encouraged by that. “And to answer what you were saying earlier about my mood. I was just thinking, what a time to be alive. We may be miserable right now while Perry is probably at home with his family drinking hot cocoa, while we’re chugging root beer to stay alive, but at least we are getting things done. In a city like this, where we want to believe the good in people, we can be the change we want to see. People put a lot of trust in journalism to bring justice to those who need it. So, in spite of our current suffering, we’re at least doing something good. Something worthwhile. These are nights where I question whether this is really what I want to do with the rest of my life, but times like these also remind me why this job is part of the reason why I get out of bed every morning.”
You look up at him again when he doesn’t say anything for several beats and you find that he’s already looking at you, except his eyes have thawed into puddles of blue. Like a still lake amidst the chaos. Clark has always been beautiful, there’s no doubt about it, but something about the look of awe on his face has your heart stuttering against your ribcage.
“You have a lot of faith in the world, in people,” he says quietly. It’s a statement that presents itself as a question. Why do you have a lot of faith in the world?
“We have a lot of cynics around us, it’s nice to have some blissful ignorance around,” you smirk.
“Not ignorance, just… hopeful,” Clark corrects. “The world is in a tough place enough as it is, so it’s nice that you still hold onto some of that positivity.”
“Well, some of us have to,” you grin, nudging him with your shoulder.
The next two hours are spent pulling all the puzzle pieces together, working side by side, elbows bumping when you draw a little too close, sharing shy glances before you keep moving. Once you glue all the parts together, it’s practically a perfect picture ready to be delivered to Perry. The last period you type has you finally slumping back in your chair, sighing at this document and that blasted blinking line.
When you finally hit that send button, it feels like Christmas is officially back on. You’ve been released from the shackles of capitalism and justice — at least for the remainder of the night.
“Alright, I don’t want to spend another minute in this place. I think I’m starting to hear voices and it’s Perry’s, which is not a voice I want to be hearing at ten.” The echo of your boss’ words in your ear has you shuddering.
“It’s quite late. How are you getting home?” Clark frowns at the clock then at you as he slips the strap of his bag over his shoulder.
“I’m not too far. A fifteen-minute walk from here so I’ll just do that. That burger really did a number on me so some fresh air will do me some good.” Groaning, you give your stomach a little apologetic pat. The indigestion is already kicking in; grease is never a good combination with a whole lot of sitting down.
Clark’s forehead creases and you resist the urge to smooth it down with the pad of your thumb. “That’s not very safe. I can walk you back.”
That has you shaking your head aggressively. “No, no. Don’t even worry about it. The city is safe—” he raises an eyebrow, “—well, safer from your day-to-day crime. I can’t predict extraterrestrial attacks but statistically speaking, they hit more often in the afternoon, which is the perfect time for us to be sent home for safety by the way. Then you don’t have to worry about whether you should be coming back to the office. Whereas morning attacks are the worst! The least they can do is launch an invasion when I’m still at home, that way I can stay in bed.”
Clark blinks at you and that is when it sinks in how crazy you sound. Humiliation sprawls fast through your entire being, like a disease that swallows you whole. Instead of addressing whatever nonsense you just spewed, you tuck your work bag to your side.
Clearing your throat, you continue, “Anyways, it’s a short walk. I do it all the time, even at night, so I’ll be perfectly fine. Pinky promise.”
He looks far from convinced but he doesn’t say a word so you assume he relents. The two of you step out into the brisk outdoors, the wind whipping you straight in the face as you wave at him one last time and begin heading out in your direction.
It becomes apparent that Clark is not letting the matter go when he starts walking alongside you. Not behind you, not even trying to hide in plain sight. No, he is walking right next to you.
You stop on the side of the sidewalk and purse your lips. “Clark Kent.”
That was a mistake because then Clark lets your full name roll off his tongue in the same tone, except his voice is deeper, sexier, and he has a ridiculously handsome smile on his face that you just want to smooch.
Your cheeks feel warm despite the cold. “Please. I promise I’ll be fine. I’ll even message you when I’m back.”
“You’re not too far from where I live so we’re headed in the same direction.”
Narrowing your eyes at him, you shake your head. “First of all, you’re a horrible liar. Never try to lie again. Better yet, I’m never telling you my secrets because you’d give them away in an instant. Second of all, how would you know where I live, stalker?” You tease, giving him a firm jab to his chest.
His very firm chest. His very firm chest that doesn’t budge a bit even with the force of power you press into it.
You almost squeak out an oh no out loud, because you are in very big trouble with this new piece of evidence logged away into the Clark file in your head.
Clark steps forward, your finger turning into your palm flattening on his chest. Another oh no sits on the tip of your tongue when he smiles softly at you. His hand wraps around yours, the heat engulfing your cool skin.
“Let me do this for you,” he says and his voice is gentle, “it’s the least I could do.”
You hate to be an inconvenience but Clark isn’t looking at you like one, isn’t treating you like one. It’s incredibly sweet of him. It’s an incredibly Clark thing to do.
So you cave. Clark Kent isn’t someone you say no to. “Only if it’s not too much trouble then.”
“I don’t think it could ever be troublesome to keep you safe,” he says right back, doe eyes and cheeks flushed. You wonder how he can say such sweet things with a straight face, but you suppose it comes naturally to him. As easy as breathing.
He’s always the most helpful one around the office. Even when Steve is being a pain in the butt, he still helps him write his articles. Even when the mail room girls are only batting their eyelashes at Jimmy, he still helps them reach the highest shelves. Even when Lois is giving him — pardon your French — shit, he always takes it in stride.
The golden ray of sunshine in this otherwise very gloomy, very dreary office.
As you begin walking again, you try to keep him entertained, chattering away about all the nothing going on in your life. Clark doesn’t seem to mind; in fact, he seems intrigued. He asks you detailed questions, laughs at your poor attempts at humor, and validates you before you even ask whether he wants to hear all this.
When a comfortable silence settles in between you, Clark clears his throat, which piques your interest.
“So, uhm, are you still… dating?” He starts, the weight of awkwardness sitting on every word.
Your mouth dries. That was unexpected. Out of all the things you expect him to ask, your dating life certainly isn’t top of the list. You’re not entirely sure how you could even begin to formulate a response. On one hand, it’s worth stating that you are still dating to show some interest in him, hinting at the possibility if that is the direction he wants to take it in. On the other hand, the number of dates you have been on and failed to convert into a relationship is almost too embarrassing to say.
While you’re stuck in your mind on a simple yes or no question, Clark takes this as you being offended, so he quickly retracts. “Sorry, I don’t mean to pry. I know this is the sort of thing you probably talk about with Lois. You don’t have to answer. I don’t know—”
“Yes,” you blurt out, “I mean no. Yes, I am still dating. No, you’re not prying.”
“Oh.”
“It’s just— it’s complicated.”
Clark stares at you curiously. “Your relationship status is complicated?”
“No, no. I am very much single.” Well, put your foot in your mouth, why don’t you? What a sorry thing to say in that very moment. It’s not that you’re embarrassed that you’re single, it just sounds like you’re throwing yourself a little pity party that Clark never signed up to attend. “I mean, I am… not seeing anyone seriously at the moment. But I am… looking, I suppose. It just hasn’t been working out so well.”
“Why do you say that?”
Because of you. Because every single person I date cannot even begin to compare to you. Because when I go on dates, I sometimes see you in the background, at the same place, like you’re reminding me that I’m still in love with you, and I’m wasting my time with all these other people. Because you make me think that I have a chance with you.
“I suppose I’m a believer in love at first sight. Cheesy, I know. So when that doesn’t happen or it doesn’t work out, it can be discouraging.”
Clark’s lips form a circle in surprise. “Have you ever fallen in love at first sight?”
Your lips twitch into a ghost of a smile. “Yes, once.”
“How did that go?”
“I haven’t quite worked it out yet,” you respond vaguely, then quickly add, “and right now, I just haven’t found anyone else my type.”
Clark looks even more engaged now, pressing closer. “What’s your type?”
You, you almost say. “Haven’t found my type either,” you smoothly say.
“Oh,” he deflates, “well, I hope you find someone you like soon.”
You want to grab him and scream that you already have found him, and it is him. Instead, you say, “I don’t even know how to start with that.”
“Well, maybe you don’t have to look too far. Sometimes, what you’re looking for can be right in front of you.”
There is a ringing in your ears and you can’t tell if it’s in your mind anymore. His words swirl in your head, words rearranging themselves as if you’re trying to interpret another meaning from the combination of letters. It almost sounds like he’s— but it can’t be, because how could it be— there’s no way, right? Right? You must be hearing things.
By the time you reach your tiny townhouse, your brain has fizzled out into ashes. The adrenaline from the day has worn off and this conversation has exerted the last bit of your energy. Clearly, you need to get your body, ears, and head checked if you’re starting to think Clark Kent could even be remotely interested in you.
“Well, this is me,” you say weakly. “I hope your travel back home isn’t too far. I really hope I didn’t inconvenience you too much.”
“Not an inconvenience, trust me. I liked walking you home,” Clark simply says, a small smile playing on his lips. “We don’t get to chat as much like this in the office. Just the two of us, I mean.”
Drat, there’s that silly little thing again — hope. So you play it off with a smile. “That’s because our colleagues are incredibly nosy and Perry would have our butts if he sees us slacking off for too long, probably threaten our year-end bonus,” you sigh with a shake of your head.
“And we barely make enough,” Clark huffs a laugh.
“Tell me about it. Capitalism wins again,” you smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Clark. Thanks again for walking me home.”
“Thank you for the company. See you tomorrow.”
–
The great, big unfortunate thing about your teensy (read: massive) crush on Clark is that everyone knows. Everyone in the office is aware that you have heart eyes for the journalist across the room from you. It is apparent in the way the two of you always eat lunch together with everyone else. It is obvious in the way you choose to sit on his desk when you’re idling around and making conversation with everyone else.
Keeping that in mind, this crush of yours should be plain as day to the man of the hour himself. It can be debated, of course; perhaps Clark wouldn’t be as immodest as to consider that one of his colleagues is absolutely head over heels for him. However, assuming that Clark is aware — as previously stated by your dear old boss — and given the fact that he has not indicated in any way whatsoever that he is interested in pursuing something with you, there can only be one conclusion.
He’s just not that into you.
And that’s fine. Your heart can break into millions of shards, but it’s fine. Rejection is a part of life and you just have to suck it up and move on.
If your attraction is not something that Clark plans to reciprocate, you simply have to deal with it. He is free to like whoever he likes, even if it’s not you. He is free to be nice to whoever he wants to be nice to, which is apparently everyone. You’re not exactly remarkable for getting special treatment for Clark; if everyone gets special treatment, then is it really still special?
But that’s the thing about hope. Even if you don’t feed it, even if you don’t nurture it or turn to it, the slightest bit of light is all it takes to keep it going.
Like yesterday, for example. Clark’s words cling to your sleep-addled brain in the morning as you drift listlessly around your kitchen to prepare your first dose of caffeine. They stick with you even as you do your short journey into the office, passersby ramming into you in your befuddled state and you don’t even have it in you to care.
By the time you reach the office, you’ve fully convinced yourself that you were concocting the implication of his words. He was just being nice. He has never otherwise shown any interest in you, so why would he now?
The office is teeming with life. There’s a giddy buzzing in the air, like bees in a massive field of flowers. Even Lois is smiling — smiling! What a time to be alive. There are staff members beginning to put up decor on the walls, strips of garlands hanging from the ceilings, lights strung in patterns high above. While many newcomers were skeptical about hosting a holiday party where they work, more than a handful of you have seen the masterful craft of the event planners. They are experts in turning this dreary space into a holiday hurrah.
By the time it hits four, Perry is well aware that nobody is working anymore. Everyone’s already fussing about what to wear, when to get here, whether to pregame (they shouldn’t, it’s an open bar). You and Lois have agreed to go back to yours first to get ready, much to her vexation. She isn’t interested in dressing up but you convinced her that it’s the one time she gets to actually dress up and have fun. When else in her life would she be able to have a nice, drunk, adult prom?
You tell her the same schtick every year. It works every year. It really is the open bar that does it for her. Also, the opportunity to see her colleagues do the most embarrassing things that she can then bring up year-round until the next party, where she will replace those stories with new material.
You wind your scarf around your neck as Lois leans towards your desk, asking if you’re ready to go. Jimmy is twiddling his thumbs, trying to avoid making direct eye contact with the mailroom girls who keep giggling at him. Clark perks up when he sees the two of you stand.
“Are you leaving already?”
“We’re going to go get ready at mine,” you grin, “I’m going to put Lois in a dress.”
“You will not,” she huffs. “I let her think she is so she’ll drop it.”
You harrumph. “Bold of you to think you can resist my feminine wiles. I will get you in that dress.”
Clark chuckles softly at the two of you before shifting his gaze to you. “What will you be wearing?”
As you open your mouth, Lois wraps her arms around one of your own, which promptly shuts you up. “That will be a surprise. But I will say that I have seen the dress and I know she will look ravishing.”
The compliment has you looking sheepishly away. “I should be flattered that you have that much faith in me, but honestly, I’m too embarrassed to even look at you right now.”
“Oh, come on, don’t be shy. Clark, tell her.”
You see Clark jolt from the corner of your eye, his bright eyes shining in surprise. You can see more of the blue when his eyes open up like that. His lips fumble over the words as he tries to respond. “Right. Yes. Of course. I’m sure you will. Look ravishing that is.”
Lois is the worst. How are you supposed to act normal when Clark calls you ravishing? Or at least expects you to look it. Now the pressure is on.
“Alright, let’s get going before you pop a blood vessel,” Lois smirks. “We’ll see you both later!”
Thankfully, Lois manages to drag your frozen self out of there. You feel rude for not responding to Clark, but at the same time, how can you even begin to form words with your mouth when your tongue feels like lead inside it? Lois pokes fun at you the entire fifteen-minute walk home, which reminds you that you also last did this walk in this direction with Clark the previous night.
“Clark walked you home?”
You wince, “Yes. I insisted he didn’t have to but he was really thoughtful.”
“Yep, that’s Clark for you. Thoughtful. Completely selfless. Not a single bone in his body is doing things just because he really wants to do it for his own personal gain.”
“What are you on about?”
“Nothing. Shall we?”
Because Lois absolutely hates your classic Top 40 pop songs, you put that exact playlist on loop on full blast the entire time you’re primping yourself. This is the one time every year you allow yourself to put in a bit more time on yourself. Work is work, and it’s hard to care about your appearance when you’re about to overdose on caffeine, jump over walls, chase down bad guys, all for the sake of a story. You opt for some professionalism but ultimately comfort.
Tonight? Tonight, you choose pain because beauty is pain.
The swipe of your red lipstick, the dusting of your eyeshadow with some glimmer, the sharp strike of your eyeliner, the thickening and curling of your lashes. You even do your hair, which usually sits in a nest all year. When you look at the clock, you realize that you’ve perhaps spent a little too much time getting yourself ready.
“Shit, Lois—”
“Don’t worry, you know most people arrive fashionably late. Steve, less on the fashionable, more on the drunk.”
You groan as you eye your dress on the hanger. “Okay, let me just slip into this and we can get going.”
As you’re struggling to twist your arms at odd angles to figure out how to zip up your dress, Lois swoops in to save the day. Her fingers brush yours off as she drags the metal up until it reaches your lower back.
It’s a bold dress. One you never thought you would wear but one that had you falling in love the moment you set your eyes on it. So maybe you lied to Clark — you’ve fallen in love at first sight twice.
“If Clark doesn’t sweep you off your feet tonight, I can think of a dozen other people ready to do so,” Lois smiles, giving you the surge of confidence you need.
By the time you shove Lois into her own dress and spritz on your favorite perfume, the two of you are sufficiently an hour past the starting time. You hope Perry hasn’t done his annual speech yet; he may really fire you if you miss out on it. The taxi pulls up outside The Daily Planet and the two of you slip and squeeze past the throngs of people to get to the front door.
The venue is a wonder the second you step in. The ceilings twinkle with a smattering of lights and silvery strands that shimmer under the lights. A disco ball hangs up high, speckling the dance floor with shifting spotlights. The DJ has the crowd going with upbeat melodies, throwbacks to a better time. The bar is expectedly where most people are concentrated still waiting on their drinks.
Your eyes immediately land on Clark who also finds you when you step through the doors. Your heart jumps to your throat at the sight of him. He looks devastatingly handsome with an actually fitted navy suit that brings out the blue in his eyes. Even from this distance, you can see those sapphire irises shine. His broad shoulders stretch out the velvet fabric and his fingers are delicate as he fixes his cuff links.
You thought the black suit last year was bad enough. You actually whimper with this one.
“Alright, before you turn into a pumpkin looking at Clark all night, let’s drop off our coats and go in.” Lois tugs you in the direction of coat check.
When the thick fabric slides off your shoulders, the cool air immediately engulfs your body. You give a little shiver as the air conditioning slides a breeze over your bare shoulders. Lois pulls you back towards the front and Clark’s eyes land on you again.
Only this time, you can see the smile wipe off his face, his mouth opening, and the heat of his gaze traveling over you.
You look like you’ve been poured into this stunning red dress. A ruby number that hugs your curves in all the right places. The sweetheart neckline emphasizes a delicious, yet still work-appropriate, amount of cleavage. While the dress falls all the way to your feet, nearly hiding your matching blood-red stilletos, you can feel the air kissing your spine where the dress is held together by thin strings going criss-cross over your exposed back.
Your heart is hammering against your chest as the two of you slip through the crowd to find Clark and Jimmy. When they’re in sight, you realize that Clark’s been staring at the two of you this entire time. His expression of pure shock has not moved; instead, it only deepens when you approach.
However, as you come near them, Cat steps in and wrangles the two of you into a hug. “Oh my god, you ladies look amazing. Lois, you in a dress. Stellar as always. You — my god — look at this dress.” She even twirls you around which makes you giggle.
You swear you hear someone inhale sharply behind you and, when you finally go full circle and see Clark again, he looks like he’s been struck by lightning.
As Cat slinks back into the crowd, Lois elbows you gently, smirking.
Clark opens his mouth but, before he can utter a word, Jimmy is clamping his hands around Lois’ arm. “Fuck, that girl — Jenny, Jessie — keeps following me around. Lois, come on. We need to escape to the dance floor before she comes back.”
“You’re going to make me dance to this song of all things?” Lois gapes.
“Look, this is his new song. He’s doing his best. In terms of modern rock legends Jake—” Jimmy’s voice blends into the background as he drags Lois off.
Leaving you and Clark alone.
You laugh softly, gaze following after them. While Lois begins to dance, Jimmy is still throwing fearful looks over his shoulder. “You know, for a man who’s been chased down by ladies all his life, he’s still surprisingly inept at dealing with them,” you huff with a shake of your head.
Unfortunately, you don’t hear a peep from Clark so you turn back to look at him. His pupils are blown wide, shrinking the blues in his eyes to a thin ring. He only hums when you turn to face him, lifting his eyes to meet yours. “Hm, yeah.”
“You okay? You seem a little out of it.”
“I was just thinking about how Lois is always right.”
You cock an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
“You do look ravishing.”
Your mouth suddenly feels like sandpaper. Your breath catches in your throat, constricting your lungs, as he appraises you gently; however, the heat in his eyes is anything but. You can’t seem to find the words to respond to him. While Clark has always been kind, never has he ever complimented you so blatantly. Ravishing.
“I—” you stop, finding yourself at a loss for words, which is embarrassing for a writer, by the way. “Thank you?”
Clark laughs, shoulders shaking as his dimples appear again. It feels like a threat against your life now. “You’re very welcome.” Then he glances at the bar and at Jimmy and Lois again. “Did you want a drink?”
“Um, I think I’m good for now.” You’re already loose-lipped enough as it is, alcohol would not be beneficial when you’re both tongue-tied and rambling at Clark Kent. Who knows what you might say next? I love you, marry me, let’s have babies?
“Dance then?”
His hand appears in your line of sight before you can formulate a response. When you tilt your face up at him, he looks at you with hope brimming in his eyes. He doesn’t have to ask twice as you slide your hand into his, feeling his fingers wrap around yours. “Let’s.”
Once your initial tension melts away and your heart rate returns to normal, you’re able to enjoy yourself a little bit more in the crowd. Perry does his speech, slurring his words only slightly as he announces how proud he is of this team; gasps ripple around the room because Perry can be proud of us? Perhaps your job is secure as long as your boss gets his fix of wine. Jimmy continues to evade Jenny or Jessie — or both — by swooping in to dance with you and Lois and other people he deems to be safe from his supposed magnetic charm. Lois even begins enjoying herself when she has a few flutes of champagne, and a shot the bartender snuck her.
You and Clark — well, the two of you dance together in the beginning and it was a very nice dance. Clark has some old-school moves that he pulls out, ones that have you giggling. He smiles when he sees that. However, it doesn’t take long before you’re getting scooped away by one of your other drunken colleagues. Clark looks panicked at first but you reassure him with a wink.
The hours begin to blur together. Wines and champagne float across the floor, the music gets increasingly louder as the overhead lights are dimmed to bring in the neon flashes across the floor. You’re only a couple of glasses in, finding yourself sandwiched between Lois, who is now screaming about the patriarchy at Jimmy, and Steve who is talking your ear off about the NFL playoff predictions. You wince when he starts getting a little too excited about his favorite team and spit lands on your lap.
“Steve,” Clark’s voice cuts through the noise and you look up to find him looking down at Steve with a polite smile. You note the tightness around his eyes. “Perry wants to see you, said something about the front page for the Sunday edition.”
Steve is on his feet in a blink of an eye, launching himself in the big boss’ direction. While he’s distracted, Clark takes that opportunity to extend his hand. With a grateful smile, you take it and let him whisk you away to the dance floor again.
Just in time for a slow song to start.
He seems as taken aback as you to hear the song selection. While there are still a few people who rock side to side leisurely, you’re not sure if you are in the stage of friendship with Clark to be platonically dancing to one of the most romantic songs ever written.
Surprisingly, Clark scratches his cheek and clears his throat. “Well, if you don’t mind…” He once again offers up his hand, and you once again are in no place to deny him.
One of his hands takes yours and the other settles comfortably on your hip. You let yours be swallowed up in his and the other rests on his broad shoulder. The music delicately guides your movements slow and steady across the floor. A soft, invisible force caressing and pushing you close together.
Clark smells of old books, where the pages are worn but well-loved. You catch a hint of spice and pine, a woodsy combination that gives you a sense of peace. You don’t realize you’re actively sniffing him until you look up at him to say something and he’s already staring at you in amusement.
Crap. How embarrassing. “You… smell nice.” Real smooth. You’re a real Michael Jackson.
His laugh is genuine and deep. The corners of his eyes crinkle in such an endearing way that you can’t help the way your lips stretch into a wide grin. Then he does something that nearly gives you whiplash. Clark ducks his head. Low. Low enough that his nose grazes the back of your ear, brushing past the loose tendrils of your hair.
You nearly choke with how quickly you gasp. Clark inhales deep, so close that you can feel his lips practically on your collarbones. Your mind spins from the proximity, from the whiff you get of his cologne, from the ghost of his breath on your skin. It’s dizzying how much this man has an effect on you. A predicament and a cure all at once.
Then he pulls back but the remnants of the spell linger. Your mind is barely conscious when he shoots you with those dimples. “You do too. That scent’s my favorite on you.”
“It is?” You squeak.
This time, at least it’s his turn to be appalled by what he just confessed. He blinks rapidly and clears his throat, shifting his glance to the wall. “Uhm, yes. I mean, you always smell good. You have different perfumes. But this one — it’s, uhm, very nice.”
“Right, thank you,” is all you manage to choke out.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I realize it’s—”
“No,” you quickly interject, “no, you didn’t. I was just surprised that you noticed.”
“Why?”
You lick your lips, drawing his eyes to them, as you tilt your head. “Why am I surprised that you noticed?” He gives a short nod, eyes curious. “I guess, I just— I don’t know. It’s not something I expected you to pay attention to.”
Clark seems to mull this over for a moment, quiet as he looks away to think. Then his gaze are back on you and it’s melted like molten lava. Warm and gooey. “I think I notice too much when it comes to you. More than you might think.”
Your heart nearly slips past your ribs at his words. You don’t want to get your hopes up, but at the same time, how could you possibly hear it in any other way? If this is your delusional mind playing tricks, then maybe you’ll give in just this time. One night to let yourself believe that maybe Clark Kent could feel the same way you do. One night to let yourself believe that maybe Clark Kent could be yours.
“Did you want to stay?” Clark’s voice is barely above a whisper.
There’s a glimmer of hope in his eyes, or what you believe it to be, when he asks the question. Your heart skips a beat or two. You might’ve entirely gone into cardiac arrest but you’re still standing on your two feet, so that can’t be.
“No, did you?”
He shakes his head. “Can I walk you home?”
You smile and nod.
“I’ll get your coat and we can get going. I’ll let you say goodbye to the others if you want.”
What a gentleman. You practically swoon at his words as you hand over your coat check ticket. He flashes you one last charming smile before disappearing into the crowd.
You’re bidding your farewells to everyone who all groan and call you a party pooper for leaving so early and missing the after party. Only Lois seems to clock what you’re trying to say and she’s immediately wiggling her eyebrows at you. “She has her own after party to attend. Be smart! Be responsible! Be… you, basically!” She shouts out, wine sloshing precariously in her glass.
With one final shake of your head, you throw them a smile and head towards the entrance. Clark is still nowhere in sight so you twiddle your thumbs for a little bit in the silence. The music inside is muffled the moment the doors closed, which is a bit of a relief. You didn’t realize how exhausted you were until you stepped away, your feet tingling in protest.
Footsteps approaching have you looking up, a smile on your face thinking it’s Clark. It dims quickly when you see that it is in fact not. His name is… Danny, you think. He’s part of Steve’s team, which means you don’t interact much because sports isn’t typically breaking news. Until someone breaks something.
He greets you warmly, cheeks flushed from the drinks and the heat inside. “You enjoying yourself?”
Ah, and the small talk begins. This is not a conversation you will particularly enjoy. It’s stilted, mainly because you don’t know him that well. On top of that, he keeps inching closer and closer, oscillating from side to side. You hate the idea of making things awkward so you don’t back away and press on a smile that makes your cheeks ache.
“Hey, listen, I know we don’t get to talk much in the office, but you took my breath away tonight. I mean—” his hand waves to gesture the length of you, and you have to resist a wince at the blatant objectification, “—do you want to go on a date with me sometime?”
Crap. Crap. Crap, crap, crap. This time, you really can’t escape your flinch. It’s one thing to know your colleague is interested and ask you out (example: your crush on Clark and it would be very clear that you would say yes if Clark were to propose a long marriage to you); it’s another to shoot your shot and end up with an airball (you assume he would get this reference). However, this is a sensitive situation because you don’t want to make it tricky in the office as well, so you can’t just say absolutely not. So instead you say—
“Actually, I’ve recently decided that I’m not really interested in dating anyone right now. With work so busy and life being… life, I figured it’s safer that way. Thank you though, I’m really flattered,” you force out the last part with a sympathetic smile. You never know how men will deal with rejection, so you may as well soften the blow.
Also, this guy is another tally on the list of why you don’t think your adoration for Clark is that obvious, because why would he ask you out otherwise?
“Ah, that’s a damn shame,” he whistles low. “Missed my slot, huh?”
Yes, that’s definitely why. Not the fact that you barely remember his name and that you’ve been pining over the six-foot-four cute journalist for over two years.
“Well, have a good night.” With that, he wanders back into the party, leaving you once again in the quiet.
“Ready?”
You nearly curse when you jump, the voice creeping up behind you. Clark is standing right there, your coat open in his hands. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t see you there.”
“No worries, sorry for the wait. There was a line to get the coats. It seems everyone thought about leaving at the same time.”
“Thank you for getting my coat,” you say as you slip your arms through and he drapes it over your shoulders. When you turn to face him, a look flickers across his eyes. One too fast for you to catch. “Are you okay?”
He blinks away the impassive look in his eyes and smiles warmly at you. “Yes, let’s go.”
The walk home is silent. Quiet in a way that’s comfortable, a weight that settles in nicely between close friends. Your fingers are entwined in gloves behind your back as you marvel at the city lights at this hour. There’s tension woven into the air, like things left unsaid that manifest in incoherent whispers in the wind. Clark appears deep in thought when you look at him, a slight pinch between his brows, a tightness on the corners of his lips.
He doesn’t say a word though. His thoughts receded into himself.
When you arrive at your door, you turn to look at him with a nervous smile. It’s not like you’re expecting anything. Clark is a gentleman, you’re sure, but you’re also hoping that he’s the type to pin you up against the wall and make you forget your own name. Perhaps it’s the weaning effects of the alcohol in your veins, but you’re feeling a little bold when Clark hasn’t said anything.
He’s rocking on the balls of his feet, seeming as antsy as you are. You? Well, you just want to spend a little more time with him. Get him to stay longer — whatever the reason may be.
So you bite the bullet, licking your lips one last time to stop your voice from breaking. “Would you like to come in—” you pause, trying to come up with some reasonable reason as to why he would stay, “—for wine?”
Clark only looks mildly taken aback. For a moment, his lips part and you can see his tongue press against his teeth on the brink of a yes. Unfortunately, something in his brain seems to click because then he visibly deflates, his eyes flatten and you think that perhaps you’ve mistaken his response. Maybe what he meant to say was— “No, I don’t actually drink.”
Oh, well, so that’s not a full no, right? “Oh, uhm, I have tea as well. Or soda. Or… water,” you grimace at the last one. Why would you offer him that? He has that at home. What a silly thing to bring up.
His throat moves as he swallows, eyes shifting to the ground. “Perhaps not tonight.”
Your heart falls hard and fast, splattering across the ground. That last little bit of hope evaporating into the wind. Stupid, stupid! Now, you’ve gone ahead and mucked things up, haven’t you? Clark was just being a perfectly nice man who did a perfectly nice thing, and you completely warped it in your mind into a different situation.
He was probably only looking for an out from the party and you were a good excuse. The walk home was a bonus for you.
Clark — the sweetheart that he is — must’ve seen something on your face because he quickly adds, “I’ll see you Monday at work though?”
“Right, work,” you cough and force out a smile. “I’ll see you then. Thanks for walking me home.”
For a brief second, something in his eyes makes you think he may change his mind. Or maybe it’s the way his feet stay rooted to the concrete. But then he seems to shake himself out of it and he throws you one last smile before turning on his heel and disappearing into the night.
Happy holidays, huh?
–
Throughout the entirety of your career, you have admittedly never experienced the Sunday scaries. It isn’t as if you were particularly excited about going to work, but you weren’t exactly worried about going through the motions of generating income either. The Daily Planet has incredible people and you’ve made a good number of friends who make the days a little less painful. Stories keep you busy, there is always something to chase.
So Monday should be like any other day. Well, it should have been. If it weren’t for the fact that you opened your big mouth and absolutely humiliated yourself in front of the love of your life.
When your eyes open bright and early that very first weekday, fear of all things sits in the pit of your stomach. It festers and grows even as you go through the motions of getting ready for the day. Brushing your teeth, picking out what to wear, packing your bag, and making that walk.
The dread sinks in hard and fast as you go through the rotating doors. Stanley, the security guard, greets you warmly, tells you good morning, and you almost ask him what’s so good about it. The worries plagued you all weekend and it shows in the shadows under your eyes, no matter how much you tried to conceal it.
Lois takes one look at you and concern takes over her expression. “You—” she stops herself, “did you get enough sleep?”
Maybe you’re a little crabby, but you only shoot her a look. It eventually does melt to an apologetic one but for now you can only shake your head. “Not really,” you say as you drop your bag on your desk, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Feel a migraine coming.”
“You should just take the day off.”
“No, I have to finish up that fluff piece on holiday decorations.”
“That’s hardly breaking news. Cat could take over for that.”
With a deep sigh, you once again shake your head. “No, I think I need work to distract me today. I don’t want to be sitting alone at home with my own thoughts.”
Lois’ lips press together into a thin line. “Did something happen? I thought, on Friday, you know with…”
“Don’t ask,” you blanch, “I embarrassed myself enough as is. I don’t think I can look him in the eye.”
“What do you—”
Her words get cut off when Clark strolls in and she promptly clamps her mouth shut. Even if your crush is allegedly very obvious to everyone in the office, Lois still respects your privacy and your need to pretend like it isn’t. You appreciate it more now than ever, especially when Clark smiles warmly at Lois and the look on his face falters when he sees you.\
Way to go, pat yourself on the back for ruining what little chance you already had.
“Morning,” he murmurs to both of you before going to his desk.
You’re about to fling yourself out the window.
Luckily, Perry does keep you busy when he stacks another assignment on your desk. Before you can even work on your piece due tonight, he tasks you to help Cat with a piece of breaking news in the entertainment sector. This means you have to turn down Lois’ offer to grab lunch together with Jimmy and Clark as you usually do.
You don’t look at Clark when you respond to Lois. “Sorry, I should get this done. I’ll just eat lunch at my desk.”
“Okay, I’ll grab you something then?” Lois offers kindly and you nod at her gratefully.
When you do need a mental break from working (in other words, you need to just chat about nothing for a bit), you resist the urge to plop yourself down on Clark’s desk as you usually do. Instead, you swerve and head straight for Lois. She doesn’t seem to mind, but her gaze does dart between you and Clark even as she’s talking.
You avoid looking at Clark the entire day. If you see that sympathetic expression on his face again, one that pities your unfortunate unrequited crush on him, that may be your last straw before you burst into tears. The last thing you want is to make things unnecessarily tense in the office. It’s not his fault that he doesn’t reciprocate your feelings. It’s not his fault that you made him uncomfortable by inviting him in for a drink.
You really need to get it together.
At the end of the day, after everyone else has left, it’s surprisingly only you and Clark again in the office. Your mind runs through all the upcoming deadlines and you didn’t think he had anything that had him working late today, perhaps he’s beginning his next one proactively.
“Are you working late?”
His voice has you jolting back, chair rolling and banging against the corner of your desk. The impact on your back is immediate and you wince.
“Gosh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” he drops to his knees, hands flailing in the air like he’s looking for something to help with. His beautiful blue eyes are wide, shaped into concern when your face morphs in pain again. “Sorry, sorry. Are you okay?”
“Yep,” you laugh, “just being silly. You didn’t do anything wrong, don’t worry.” Clark doesn’t seem convinced and stares at you again, searching your face. You have to smile reassuringly at him before he even softens just a tad. “I’m fine, promise. And, to answer your question, I have to wrap this up and get it out to Perry so it can go out at midnight.”
“The holiday decor one?”
You’re a little surprised he knows, but you nod anyway.
“The piece with Cat turned out okay? You seem to have a lot on your plate.”
“Oh, yeah. It’s no big deal. Cat’s thing needed to go out today, so I didn’t mind helping out. Everyone has been super busy.”
Clark’s lips pinch, jaw clenching. “Yes, but Perry’s been giving you a lot of the heavy stuff. He should ease up.”
“Clark, I’m fine. I promise. You know I can tough it out against Perry,” you smirk.
Having a normal conversation like this is nice. Perhaps there is some hope for you yet; not hope for romance because that one’s buried six feet under now. But at least hope that you can salvage this friendship and your working relationship.
“I can stay, wait for you to wrap up so I can walk you home.”
Your protest is immediate. “No, no, please. You don’t have to. I won’t be much longer and it’s really not that late.” Again, he doesn’t look swayed by your words. “I promise I won’t leave too late. If I get scared, I’ll give you or someone else who lives nearby a call. Or I’ll call a cab. Don’t worry.”
“Call me,” he says quickly. “If you need someone to walk you home, call me. I’ll be here.”
It’s incredibly unfair that, even after he so clearly rejects you, he’s still being so kind. But that’s just who he is, isn’t it? He can’t help himself. Always wanting to take care of people. Your heart aches at the thought and you can only give him a grateful smile. “Thanks, Clark.”
Clark pauses one last time, checking your face for any sign that you might change your mind. When he doesn’t find it, he rises to his feet. “I’ll see you tomorrow then?”
“See you tomorrow, Kent,” you grin, doing your best to convince him.
“Have a good night.”
When his footsteps finally subside and you’re left in the quiet again, you finally let out a long exhale. You lean back in your chair, the joints creaking, and press the balls of your palm against your eyes.
Don’t cry. It’s always been a far-fetched crush anyway. Clark is kind to everyone and you took that kindness and twisted it into a hope for something more. You couldn’t help yourself from falling for the gentle giant, but it’s not on him to manage your feelings.
So you swallow back the tears and toughen up your heart. After all, you still have work to do.
Once you finish up your final words of the arguments of tinsels versus garlands and click the send button, you release a sigh of relief. What a Monday. You’re ready to get the heck out of here. You quickly pack up your bag and head towards the exit.
Only, you nearly trip over your feet when you see the lone figure by the door.
“You’re still here.” The words are out of your mouth before you can think them through.
Clark’s head jerks up immediately, eyes finding you. A smile slowly stretches across his lips. It’s been at least thirty minutes since you last spoke to him. “Hey. I wanted to make sure you got home okay.”
“You’ve just been standing here? Why didn’t you wait inside?”
His mouth twitches. “You would’ve spent the entire time trying to get me to go home if I stayed inside.”
You would’ve. It would’ve been ridiculous for him to wait for you. Especially since…
“Did you wrap up?”
“Yeah, it’s in Perry’s hands now.”
“Best place to be.” He smiles, tugging his bag higher on his shoulder. “Shall we?”
Similar to the previous night, the walk home is quiet. Side by side. Two separate souls. The walk feels a little lonelier today. The distance is palpable, a chasm you can’t seem to ignore. Gone is the easiness that rests between you when your entire body is stiff as a board. The walk feels like it lasts forever and takes no time at all.
Reaching your front door alleviates some of the tension in your shoulders. For the first time, you’re actually thankful that you’re home. You don’t think you can take much more of interacting with Clark, not when everything still feels so taut between you.
“Thank you again for walking me,” you murmur. After that spiel inside your head, you can’t even bring yourself to look at him fully. Your eyes brush over him, then fly to your door. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”
Clark clears his throat, you don’t look at him. You can’t. You don’t think you can handle it. What you have to do is disappear behind your door and wallow in self-pity. Maybe in that tub of double fudge caramel ice cream you picked up over the weekend.
“Uhm, right. See you tomorrow.”
You throw him one last smile, barely sparing him a glance, and move towards your door and close it behind you.
Crud. What a day. As heartbreaking as this whole ordeal is, you’re grateful that Clark is at least trying to show some semblance of normalcy after your big mishap. It’s not the outcome you wanted but you can finally put a close to this chapter of your love life.
Now, onto your ice cream. And maybe a few more tears.
Right as you’re shrugging off your coat, the doorbell rings. A frown settles on your face as you float towards it, swinging the door open and surprised to find Clark on your stoop. Before your mouth can even open to say anything, Clark blurts out, “Did I do something wrong?”
You blink, surprised. “I— what do you mean?”
“You didn’t sit at my desk today. You sat on Lois’.” You’re gobsmacked but Clark continues, “And we always eat lunch together — granted with everyone else — but you ate alone today.”
“Well, I— uhm, I had that piece to finish.”
“And you’ve barely looked me in the eye today. It’s just—” he runs his fingers through his curls, looking devastatingly handsome even when he’s flustered. “I’m not sure what I did. If I did something, I want to know so I can fix it. Fix this.”
The words spill from your mouth without much thought. “No, Clark. Oh gosh no. You didn’t do anything wrong. Not at all.”
He steps towards you and you take a step back out of instinct. Aware of your reaction, he winces and takes a step back, putting a safe distance between the two of you. “Sorry, sorry. I don’t know how to do this. I’m— I’m not used to you being… distant from me. I thought we were fine. I thought we were friends.”
Friends. Yes, that’s what you are. That’s exactly why you needed to put a bit of breathing room between the two of you. You don’t want to do anything to ruin this friendship. “No, it’s not you. I promise. I thought you were uncomfortable with me, so I—”
“Uncomfortable?” He interrupts, eyebrows furrowing again.
Your nervously pick at your fingernails as your face contorts into an expression you don’t want to name. “I thought the entire office knew. Then after yesterday, I just assumed— I don’t know. I didn’t want you to be awkward around me because of what I did.”
“Know what? What did you even do?”
“Well, I invited you in here and you clearly weren’t interested and I thought you knew that I’ve been in love with you for forever,” you finally confess, face feeling like it’s in flames with the embarrassment that carves itself deep into your core. You can’t look at him, can’t bear to see his face when he realizes that you’re truly messing up this friendship. “This is so humiliating,” you mutter, “and I—”
Suddenly, you feel cool hands on your warm face and his lips on you. The cool winter air is nothing compared to the sudden wave of heat that floods your body as Clark’s mouth devours you. It’s gentle for a heartbeat before his movements grow frantic, desperate, like he can’t get enough of you. He steals the air from your lungs, breathes it into his own.
And it feels so good. Oh so good. So good that your brain has short-circuited, wires fizzling out into disarray. It’s better than you could’ve ever imagined because Clark tastes a little like espresso, a little mint, and a little something that is just him.
Your back hits the wall and Clark only presses in deeper, swallowing your moans like they have always belonged to him. His hand is on your cheek, the other on your waist. His fingers sink into your flesh to keep you there against him.
It is only when Clark begins to shift his lips, his warm, soft lips, along your jaw and down your neck that you’re able to see clearer, the prints on your wall becoming coherent. That is when your palm lands on his chest to slowly push him back, but at the same time, maintaining a close enough distance that you could easily twist your fingers into his shirt to pull him back towards you.
Clark reluctantly draws away from you, lips swollen, glasses slightly askew. His breathing is a far cry from yours, where your chest rises with stuttered breaths, his is surprisingly even. You’re not sure how you do it, but you do find your voice eventually. “Uhm, what just happened? What’s happening?”
His throat moves as he swallows, staring at you with such earnest, sweet eyes. “I thought it was obvious that I’ve been in love with you. Lois gives me crap all the time for it.”
You nearly break your neck with how fast you jerk up to look at him. “You what?”
“I thought you knew!”
“How would I know that?” You gasp, “Last night, you didn’t— I mean, I asked you twice to stay. I thought I messed this — our friendship — up. Thought you were trying to be nice today to let me down gently.”
Clark groans. It’s a pained one, but you can’t help the way the sound shoots straight between your legs. “I overheard you talking to Danny last night, you told him that you recently decided that you don’t really want to date anyone right now. So when you asked me to stay, I thought all you wanted was…” he tapers off, eyes flicking away for a second, “you know. And I would’ve obviously still loved to take care of you — and I’ve thought about it in great detail plenty of times — but I don’t think I could’ve walked away from that. From you. I can’t just do one night.”
You feel so stupid. You thought you were letting Danny off easy, but you hadn’t even realized Clark had been listening. Your teeth catch your bottom lip as you huff a tired laugh. “It’s because I’m not interested in dating anyone but you.”
“So this is real? Us? This is happening?” Clark brightens, the growing source of light in this otherwise desolate winter evening. “I mean, we can really be together?”
A giggle escapes your lips. “Yes, Clark. This means we can be together.”
He closes his eyes, relief crashing over him in waves. When he opens them, his blue eyes have darkened. Pupils dilating as he rakes his eyes over you. “Good, that means I can properly take care of you now.”
“Now?” You squeak.
Clark’s eyes fall to your mouth, shamelessly taking in the way your lips part in surprise. “Only if you want to. I’d love to take you out to dinner or do any other activities. I’ll be sure to do that too, but, if I’m being honest, I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately and I really want you.”
The man has always been honest. Honey-soaked truths dripping from his lips. But not like this. Never like this.
“I just—” you pause, heat crawling up your neck, “I haven’t even gotten ready. I’m not wearing cute underwear—”
“No need for cute underwear if I’m going to take them off you.”
Oh goodness. Well, he doesn’t have to say more than that. And he doesn’t because then he’s pushing up your pencil skirt to your hips as he drops to his knees before you, leaving you in your sheer black stockings. Clark groans, kissing his way up your inner thigh when he reaches the space between your legs. A rough exhale leaves his lips. “I could smell how wet you are, you know. Every time you’re near me. I never realized this was for me. Now, I get it all to myself.”
“Clark,” you whimper pathetically.
“How attached are you to these stockings?”
You blink through the haze. “Not very—”
The rip echoes down the hall as Clark uses minimal brute strength to tear through the thin fabric, the stretchy material scrunching up as you’re exposed down there. You always thought Clark was handsome — cute, even — but you’ve never seen him like this. Eyes glazed over with wanton need, lips parting with heavy pants, and — your eyes dip to his pants — so, so hard.
“Cute,” Clark chuckles low when he spots the teddy bear prints on your panties.
Can this be any more embarrassing? Your instinct is to clamp your legs, hands flying to cover up your childish underwear. You really didn’t think you were going to end up with the head of the love of your life between your legs, so your underwear choice really wasn’t top of mind this morning.
Clark’s very large hands pry yours away as he looks up at you. His glasses are slightly crooked, dipping just below his eyes. Instead of his usual awkward self, he looks tantalizing. Inquisitive, hungry eyes peering over at you. “Don’t hide from me, honey,” he coos, “you’re so beautiful. It feels like I’ve been waiting for this my entire life.”
His breath his hot where it kisses your skin. First your thighs then to your clothed pussy. You can feel yourself leaking through the fabric, desire pooling in an embarrassing puddle soaking up the cotton. His lips brush over your core, light and teasing. Your hips jerk up involuntarily and you let out a small whine over how desperate you seem. Clark lets out a delicious moan when he hears it.
“I thought about doing this yesterday. When I saw inside your house, all I wanted to do was press you up against this wall and taste you.” His words stoke a fire inside you. His finger hooks around the gusset of your panties and drags them to the side. Clark leans close, a whisper of warmth against your sensitive, wet skin. “You always smell so sweet.”
“Clark, please,” you whisper as your fingers twist through the silky strands of his midnight hair.
He flattens his tongue against your core, dragging it up painstakingly slow until it presses against your clit. His tongue swirls around the nub, flicking it eagerly until you’re tugging on his head with a gasp. Your head falls back against the wall with a thud, eyes sliding shut as Clark licks and nips you like a starved man. You’re not entirely sure how he does it but you see stars in the back of your eyes, dancing like they’re taunting you with how heavenly his mouth feels on you.
When you finally look down at him, he’s looking up at you through fogged up glasses. His eyes are no less sharp as they watch your every move. The way you respond to how he strokes along your pussy lips, how his tongue pushes deep inside you, how his fingers dig into your thigh. Your body falters with the intensity of his gaze and you nearly slip but Clark is faster, holding you up easily against the wall as he continues to devour you.
Every movement feels intentional, like he’s rehearsed this and thought through every single thing that would make you tick. Your mind goes into a frenzy, body hot with how desperately he’s mouthing you. You look down further to find his other hand has drifted down to his cock, palming himself through the fabric of his slacks. His moans against your cunt reverberate straight through you, your toes curling in delight at the evidence of how much he’s enjoying himself.
You’re getting a little too close when he flicks his tongue inside you again and you have to yank his head back by his hair. The bottom half of his face glistens with your slick and his tongue darts out to lick his lips.
“Clark, I can’t— I’m going to cum like this.”
“Good,” he says, ready to dive back in when you pull him back again. Another needy sound leaves his lips as he does so and you burrow your fingers deeper into his hair.
“I want you to get off too. I want you to finish with me.”
“I can finish like this, honey. I promise.”
“But I want you. I want you inside.”
“You’re going to be the death of me.” He releases an unsteady breath. Without warning, he rises to his feet and picks you up, earning a surprised squeal from your lips as your legs wrap around him in panic. Clark props you up easily against him, your hands landing on his broad shoulders. “Where’s your bedroom?”
You weakly point in the general direction and Clark carries you all the way there before unceremoniously tossing you onto the bed. He climbs over you in a heartbeat, mouth latching onto your neck to litter pretty blossoms across your skin. He marks you up with constellations, all named after him to show everyone that he belongs to you and you to him.
“So pretty like this,” he mumbles as he begins to unbutton your blouse, kissing his way down your breasts and down to your stomach. He pays particular attention to the insides of your thighs when he feels you squirm again. “You’re so sensitive, it’s so cute.”
“Don’t tease,” you chide playfully, swatting his shoulder.
“Not teasing, I like it. I like how responsive you are. Love hearing your moans,” he hums as he makes his way back up to you. “Do you know how many times I’ve pictured spreading your legs open in the office? Every time you sit on my desk, all I can think about is getting on my knees and burying my face in between them.”
The visual only adds fuel to the fire already burning bright inside you. You can imagine what it would be like to have Clark eating you out on his desk after everyone’s gone, his tongue eager and hungry. He would lap you up, so desperate to make you feel good. All he wants is for you to feel good.
“Maybe next time we work late,” you smile teasingly at him.
“I’ll do it, you know,” Clark beams right back as he begins to unbutton his shirt. You drag your finger down from his collarbone, south to his chest and to the smattering of hair leading down to his pants. “Keep teasing me like that, keep wearing that tight skirt you love so much, and I’ll do it in front of everyone.”
Your neck flares with warmth. “You wouldn’t.”
“I would,” he says, such resolution in his voice that you know he means it.
“Okay, well, good thing we’re at home then,” you say with a huff, but even he can see how frail your voice is.
“You like the idea of it,” he correctly guesses.
“I—” The denial sits on the tip of your tongue, but you relent at the last second. “I do.”
Clark licks his lips and leans down to press them against yours. He smiles against you. “I can make it happen.”
“Clark,” you flush again.
“For now, darling girl, I’m going to focus on making you feel good right here. I’m going to go slow, okay? Don’t want to hurt you.”
You’re about to tell him that he couldn’t hurt you but then you see the bulge in his pants and how it’s straining against the fabric, demanding to be released. You can see the not-so-faint outline that has your mouth watering. One day, you’re going to put your mouth on him. One day, you’re going to be on your knees between his legs. Maybe in the office.
“Okay,” you concede quietly.
“Mm, good girl,” he murmurs and those words send blood straight down.
Clark grabs a condom from his wallet and you raise an eyebrow at him. “Never pegged you as the type to carry around condoms.”
“I wasn’t,” he pauses, “until two years ago.”
“Two years—” the words stop short on your tongue. “You’ve been in love with me for two years?”
“Well, more like two years, five months, ten days, si—”
“Six hours,” you finish. “Oh wow.”
Clark smiles softly down at you. “It’s been a while for us, hasn’t it?”
“A little too long if you ask me.”
Without missing a beat, Clark kicks off his pants, followed by his boxers. At the same time, you’re stripping off everything except your underwear, which Clark finds himself grinning at. As for you, you can’t bring yourself to smile when you see the size of him.
“What do you eat to get it that big?” You let slip. It’s an embarrassing but relevant question.
Clark blinks, looking humored. “Your pussy.”
“Clark!”
He chuckles low before rolling the condom on himself, XXL no doubt. Must cost him a fortune to look for specialized latex that’ll fit him. “I’ll go easy,” he mumbles, more so to himself.
You can feel him nudge at your entrance, the thick head of his cock pushing into you slowly. The stretch stings, tears prick your eyes at the feeling.
“Sorry, sorry,” he mutters, wincing. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be, it’s okay. I’m fine,” you try to reassure him.
Clark is definitely doing his best to try and make it easy for you. Even with how wet you are, Clark is still very… well-endowed. He swallows thickly when he finally manages to notch his tip into you, the head stretching out your poor little pussy. “Do you have lube? I can use it, make it easier for you.”
“Bedside table,” you rasp, gesturing to the nightstand.
Clark pulls out of you slowly again to grab the bottle and drizzle a generous amount on himself. It’s cute seeing him so laser-focused, so intent on making this as pleasurable for you as possible. You’ve had other men, of course, even in the two years you’ve been in love with him. But none of them have ever been as attentive, as careful with you.
You almost wonder what it would be like for that restraint to snap, for him to just take you the way he wants.
“I can take it, Clark. I promise.”
He nods slowly before repositioning himself back between your legs. The slide in is slightly easier this time, his head making it past your tight muscles despite your resistance. He moves slow, deliberate. The veins on his neck protrude as he tries his best to control himself with how you’re squeezing around him.
“You’re so tight, honey,” Clark musters out, “so tight for me. You feel so good. I can’t wait to fill you up all the way.”
“I-I’m not sure I can take you all the way,” you admit, feeling the burn intensify. Clark pushes himself in gently, in and out an inch at a time, until you’re used to his girth. Each slide in goes deeper and deeper until you feel him hit your womb. “So deep, Clark,” you groan, “feels so full. So good.”
“You can take it. You can take me. I know you can,” Clark encourages as he begins to thrust into you gently. The drag of his cock, thick and hot, inside you is enough to have you squirming underneath him. Not necessarily your body’s instinct to get away from the pain, but your pussy’s need for more.
Clark’s muttering reassuring praises at you, telling you that you’re doing such a good job taking him. How beautiful you look like this underneath him.
“I’ve been thinking about you for so long, what you would feel like wrapped around me. My imagination couldn’t do this any justice,” he breathes, burying his face in your neck as he plunges into you.
As you get accustomed to his size, Clark begins to move more confidently, more freely. His cock splits you open but you feel that burning pleasure more now than ever. One of his hands is on your headboard, the other on your hips as he presses into you. The bed creaks a complaint underneath him, your headboard rattles against the wall.
Burning need coils tight inside of you, twisting all of that delicious feeling until you can’t see anything but him. The world blurs before you as Clark pants every time he rams into you. He’s buried to the hilt, you didn’t think it was possible, but your legs curl around him to pull him in even closer.
“H-honey, don’t do that. I’m going to cum too fast,” he whines. And he sounds so good doing so.
“I want you to feel good,” you sweetly say, arms sliding around his neck to pull him closer. His lips find yours and you lick into his mouth to get a taste of you and him, that intoxicating combination that has you grinding up to meet his pace.
“Feels so good, feels too good,” he croaks, voice fraying at the edges as he continues to drive into you. His cock feels like otherwordly, like something no mortal man should ever have.
You moan and dig your head into your pillow as your entire body bounces with every thrust, even as he tries to keep you steady. Clark looks down to see the way your breasts move as he slides into you.
“Tits so pretty,” he mumbles, “so pretty. I can’t wait to taste them after this. Just want you to cum once first. One time then I’ll give you more, honey. I promise. I’ll make you feel good all night.”
His name comes out of your lips in another whine. “We have work tomorrow, c-can’t go at this all night.”
“We’ll call in sick, you deserve it. You’ve been working so hard,” he huffs, muscles on his abs rippling as he continues, biceps flexing above you. You wish you had a camera on you, capture every second of this moment. The one you’ve been waiting for for far too long.
“I—” you hiccup when Clark shoves in particularly deep, “I didn’t know you had it in you to be so naughty.”
“Only if it keeps you here with me.”
His little praises, his sweet promises, his broken mewls. All of them combined have you climbing and climbing faster. The pleasure that has evaded you for so long finally chasing after you, pace faster than you can avoid.
“C-Clark, I’m g-gonna cum, please, please,” you plead, nails scraping down his back as you arch your body into him.
Clark moans at the feeling and begins to hammer in faster and deeper. Your bed is loudly protesting how hard he’s going but you aren’t, instead begging with your mouth as you reach up to kiss his neck, your tongue laving at his skin.
That seems to be the last straw because then Clark is coming apart before you, splintered gasps falling from his lips as you find your own climax, your pussy pulsing around his length. The air is knocked out of your lungs as you find it, your body convulsing with satisfaction but also a need for more.
His forehead presses against yours, equally warm. “S-sorry. I shouldn’t have— you should’ve cum first, I didn’t mean to—”
You giggle and lean up to kiss him. “I didn’t mind. I like that you were so wrecked that you couldn’t even hold it back.”
“Still shouldn’t have happened,” he frowns at himself. “Let me make it up to you, yeah? Let me take care of you again.”
“Clark, we just finished. Aren’t you tired?”
He stares you like you have three heads. “Why would I be tired?”
You have no answer to that, but you smile up at him anyway.
“Now, I have two years of making up to do. What shall we do next?”
“They're beautiful.”
“Well, they match their new owner.”
Was Clark Kent… flirting with you?
“They're—” you start, words tripping over themselves. “Camellias… my favourite. How did you…?”
“I remember you recommending them when I was debating what to send my Ma on her birthday,” he says softly, smiling in that shy-but-warm way that makes your chest fizz. “Said that they ‘can light up any room without even trying.’”
“Do you remember everything I say?” you ask, feeling your heartbeat jump straight into your throat.
“I try,” he admits, voice low. “You say a lot of beautiful things.”
The Cupid tingles were here, and they were going crazy.
Or
No matter what you do, love doesn't seem to agree with you, despite your matchmaking powers. The same goes for your best friend, Clark, who you may or may not be in love with. When you get a taste of your own medicine, your Cupid powers start getting out of hand.
Tags/Warnings: Fluff, Photographer!Reader, Metahuman!Reader with Cupid/Matchmaking Powers, Mutual Pining, Workplace Crushes, Office Romance, Friends to Lovers, Secret Identity Shenanigans, Love Confessions, Reader has a grumpy cat named Cato (I had just watched Hunger Games, but better), Baking with Superman
WC: 11.0k
A/N: Posting stuff that's been in my drafts for a while. I've been dying to post this for ages since I haven't written a long Clark fic since Office Gossip. Hope you enjoy!
***
Irony is a cruel mistress.
Downright evil, in fact. Because how and in what world would you be so unlucky in love?
Every relationship you have bursts into flames. One time, literally, a fellow metahuman you dated caught fire and threw themselves out a window when you said “I love you” for the first time.
But that's not where the irony kicks in. It's the fact that you are the closest thing this earth has to Cupid.
Everywhere you go, you leave a trail of heart eyes in your wake.
Meet-cutes happen right in front of you with a snap of your fingers.
Whether it was the exhausted accountant and the barista at your coffee shop or the dog-walker and the grumpy author downstairs, you'd shoot a little love-powered finger gun, and they'd ride off into the sunset together.
Trudging your way into the Daily Planet, the world’s most chaotic newsroom, you were not in the mood for any bullshit, especially not superpowered bullshit. The Big Belly Burger near your house just got blinked out of existence. You mean it, there’s literally a crater where it used to be, your rent’s due tomorrow, and a supervillain just stole your cat this morning for funsies.
Not to mention, you and your stupid powers just set up the really cute florist you’ve been plotting on for months with your neighbour.
He was the perfect guy for you.
Sweet, funny, smelled like jasmine and sunlight, and your powers weren’t giving you any reason not to go full steam ahead.
But of course, the second your neighbour entered his flower shop, and they made eye contact, BAM, you made a match.
At this point, it would be merciful if someone finally struck you down with lightning. But knowing you, you’d survive, but all your hair would fall off instead.
You reach your desk, slumping down in it like the saddest little puddle of melted ice cream.
“You look like you’ve been through hell,” Lois comments, eyeing the scorch marks on your sleeve and the suspicious dusting of concrete in your hair. “You okay?”
“Toyman stole my cat.”
You replay the moment in your head. There was a large crash shattering through your window, glass everywhere, and before you knew it, your cat had leapt into his arms. Traitor.
“Sure, Cato’s really grumpy and tears my kitchen apart on a daily basis and has run away from home three times in the past month,” you sigh, rubbing your temples, “but he always comes home, and I miss him. He’s my grumpy little disaster.”
Lois blinks. “Toyman. The Toyman. Stole your cat.”
“Yup. Didn’t even monologue. Just grabbed Cato, said ‘shitty apartment’, and jetpacked out the window. Who even does that?”
You lean back in your chair, far enough that it creaks in warning. “Save me, Lois Lane,” you groan dramatically, flinging an arm over your face like a silent movie star in distress.
“Not my jurisdiction,” she says with a playful shake of the head and a comforting pat on the shoulder.
You’re about to retort when the elevator dings across the bullpen.
A deep voice filters through the chatter. “Sorry, Perry!”
Then comes the soft shuffle of papers, a muffled thud of a bag, and the unmistakable steady rhythm of footsteps, ones you’ve heard a hundred times before.
Your favourite mild-mannered reporter and serial bringer of pastries steps into the newsroom, brushing a stray lock of hair out of his eyes as he makes his way to his desk just across from yours.
“Hey, Cla—”
You lean back a little too far, mid-greeting, and gravity decides to betray you. The chair tips, and you tumble backwards in a spectacular display of dignity loss, hitting the floor with a thud that echoes across the bullpen.
As you’re groaning in pain and contemplating whether your day could get any worse, a shadow falls over you. You blink up, squinting against the overhead lights, and find yourself staring at a very concerned Clark Kent.
His hair is an adorable mess, a sure sign he’s been running around trying not to be late and failing miserably. His tie’s crooked, glasses slightly askew, and of course, he still looks like a lead in a rom-com.
You may or may not have an itsy bitsy crush on him. It absolutely does not consume most of your waking moments.
But you can't help but think of him when things are rough.
Just a smile could warm even the coldest of days, thaw ice with a single chuckle.
If you could put your powers to use for anyone, you'd do it for him, but who to set him up with? Your Cupid senses were not tingling.
Which was odd. They always tingled. Constantly. Especially when Jimmy’s around.
You’d stumbled through multiple love matches a day thanks to him. There was Jimmy and the new interns, Jimmy and the girl from layout, Jimmy and the pizza delivery driver who once gave him an extra pizza he didn't order “because he looked like he needed it.”
But with Clark? Zilch. Nada.
Maybe he was unlucky in love just like you.
“Are you upside down, or is that just me?” you mumble, wincing as you try to sit up.
Clark laughs softly, that warm, gentle sound that makes your stomach do weird somersaults. He reaches down and, with one effortless motion, lifts you upright as if you weigh nothing more than a stack of newspapers.
“You okay?” he asks, still holding your arm a second longer than necessary.
You stare at him, heart doing that annoying thing, and sigh. “Define okay.”
“What happened?”
“Toyman stole her cat,” Lois answers from her desk.
Clark blinks. “Toyman stole your cat?”
“And insulted my apartment,” you huff, crossing your arms and glaring at the floor like it personally offended you. “What does he know about interior design anyway? The man literally lives in a dollhouse.”
Lois snorts. “Technically, a lair.”
“Whatever. It's ugly as hell,” you reply.
Clark’s lips twitch like he’s trying not to laugh. “I’m sure Cato’s okay. Toyman wouldn’t hurt—”
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” you cut in, sighing. “But still. He kidnapped my cat and roasted my décor. That’s a new low, even for me.”
“I know you’ll get your cat back.”
“Thanks.”
Lois’s kind smile makes you feel better, but you’re not sure she knows just how unlucky you are in every aspect of your life.
You may never see your precious cat again, hear his grumpy meows, or wake up to him sitting on your chest and pawing at your face at 3 am.
Clark is still beside you, mind working at lightning speed to cheer you up.
“How about we go to Amoré for lunch in a few hours? Get some of those Belgian waffles you love so much. My treat.”
Your heart soars at the offer, the excitement on your face as plain as day.
“You always know how to make me happy.”
***
On your way into downtown Metropolis, you’re snapping every photo you can get your hands on. From street corners, skyscrapers, pigeons doing that weird little hop thing, anything that catches your eye.
From the tram, you can see the city stretch endlessly below.
“Pretty, right?” You say, leaning towards Clark, showing him the faintly blurred picture of a couple having lunch under the sunlit arches in Centennial Park.
One of your favourite sights in town, you had to say. Especially this time of the year, the cherry blossoms were in bloom, painting the city in a light blush.
It was a sight to behold and completely and utterly romantic.
You couldn’t be the second coming of Cupid if you weren’t a hopeless romantic. Even if it wasn’t happening for you, you were happy it was happening for someone else.
The feeling of him right next to you, the faint but intoxicating smell of his cologne as he leans closer, has you swooning.
Then he spoke, and it’s like he’s trying to put you in an early grave.
“I love seeing Metropolis from your eyes…”
You were so gone.
You love the way he made you feel. Even the smallest things make you feel like you’re flying.
“Well, it’s a special city,” you shrug. “Lots to shoot, lots to be inspired by.”
You play it off well enough. Just long enough for your heart rate to return to something less concerning. You didn’t need to be having a heart attack before you got your hands on free Belgian waffles courtesy of Clark.
He seems to accept your response, not pushing any further, but the little twinkle in his eyes tells you he knows more than he’s letting on.
“I know,” he says softly.
You smile to yourself, a quiet kind of peace rolling over you before lifting the camera back up to keep shooting. Your world, framed in your lens once again.
You don’t use cameras just for work; they're tools that help you focus, a way to keep your powers in check.
Finger guns can be… unpredictable. One time, there was a little misfire, and suddenly, you made a guy hopelessly in love with his own reflection. You can only hope it wore off before lunchtime.
But with the camera, you have control. Two consecutive photos of the same people with the same camera and, BAM, the match is made.
It’s the perfect tool for unsuspecting singles everywhere.
It'll push them both in the right direction, make them bolder, and give them the confidence to make that first move.
Sure, it’s a little bit of an occupational hazard, but you've gotten better at controlling it… mostly.
“It’s our stop,” Clark says, waking you from your daydream. You feel the tram car judder to a stop and step off. But not without stumbling a little, though your big, strong guardian reaches and steadies you.
Letting out a deep breath of relief, you didn’t become a pancake. You beam up at him.
“I swear, I would’ve become a splat on the pavement a long time ago if it weren’t for you.”
“I have to look out for a fellow klutz,” Clark responds, still holding you upright.
It should be funny, really, that somehow you’re just as, if not more, clumsy than he is, but he makes it look endearing instead of disastrous.
Clearing your throat, you try to pull yourself together before you get lost in that beautiful oasis called his eyes.
“Well, fellow klutz, let’s get food.”
You reach out, half considering taking his hand before opting to tug gently at his sleeve instead.
Turning into a side street, you drink in the familiar sight in front of you. You couldn’t count how many times you’d found yourself walking through this part of New Troy, a hidden-away jewel, tucked quietly behind the hustle and bustle just a few feet away.
You snap a picture here and there, of the sun-worn brick walls lined with ivy, your favourite food cart with burritos you swore by, the smell of grilled peppers and warm tortillas bringing you back to the day you and Clark tried them for the first time.
An old jewellery store catches your eye, the one with the slightly crooked sign and the velvet-lined display. You smile at the memory of you and Clark stopping in to pick something out for his mother’s birthday, the store clerk wrongfully (but very enthusiastically) trying to sell you engagement rings. You don’t think you’ve ever seen Clark turn that red.
Before you finally arrive at the doors of Amoré, the cafe of your dreams. It’s like someone took a look inside your brain and planted it in reality.
The little jingle as you both enter is nostalgic as you’re yet again brought back to a memory with Clark.
Unlike today, it had been absolutely horrid, winds threatening to sweep you off your feet, and it was as if heaven itself had opened up and decided to rain down without mercy.
Clark was soaked from head to toe, and it was partly your fault.
In your defence, it hadn’t been raining when you left the office, and it wasn't even forecasted, but your chronic unluckiness decided to make an appearance anyway.
Before you could get completely drenched, though, the rain stopped, or at least, it did for you.
Above you, Clark had shielded you from the downpour, holding his suit jacket over your head like a makeshift umbrella.
“But you’ll get cold,” you protested, trying to tug the jacket back toward him.
“I’ll be fine.”
“No, you won’t be. You’ll get cold and then get sick and then—”
He chuckled at your concern, adjusting the jacket so it covered you completely, water dripping from his hair as he met your eyes.
“I’ll be okay,” he said softly, “as long as you’re okay.”
You felt like Cupid had shot you with an arrow that day.
Clark’s hair, wet and curly, clung to his forehead, droplets beading on the frames of his glasses. His white shirt was soaked through, clinging to the lines of his torso. That was also the magical day you realised Clark Kent has abs.
He was a vision. A romantic vision, the kind you’d scribbled about in the margins of notebooks and never expected to meet in person.
The whole time he was smiling. All pretty and gentle as he shepherded you into Amoré, shaking the rain from his sleeves and insisting you go ahead while he wrung out his tie.
He treated you to the best hot chocolate you’d ever had: thick, sweet and plenty of marshmallows.
“Give me your hands,” you demanded, and started rubbing them together rapidly, palms pressing against his as if your friction could send some warmth straight into his bones.
“What are you doing?” he asked, eyebrows quirked up.
“Getting you warm and making sure you don’t get a cold,” you said, dead serious. You knew very well your efforts were dumb and mostly theatrical, but you couldn’t be blamed for trying. “If you get sick because of me… I’ll end up feeling terrible, and I'll make you so much soup that it'll be falling out your ears.”
He laughed, the sound low and fond. “Is that the threat?” he teased. “Homemade soup?”
“Yes,” you said, because you meant it. He squeezed your hands once, warm and sure, then leaned in and brushed his forehead to yours, just for a second, before leaning back as if reconsidering his actions. You missed his touch as soon as it was gone.
“After you,” Clark says, opening the door to Amoré wide, and you step in immediately, hit with the smell of cinnamon and sugar.
A stolen cat and a trip down memory lane could really make someone hungry.
***
You had eaten your weight in food, the owner, Dana, giving you a free cinnamon roll on the house for your cat-related troubles.
“It’s the least I can do since you spend half your paycheck here every month,” she joked.
Now, you’re walking down the street, the city humming quietly around you, on your way back to work.
You glance at Clark’s empty hand as he walks in step with you, his palm facing slightly upward, open as if he’s waiting.
You wish you could reach out and take it.
Be one of those effortlessly affectionate couples, the kind you see on park benches or on travel posters, sickeningly cute in a way that makes strangers roll their eyes but secretly smile. The kind you’d find on the cover of a magazine titled Love in the City.
You find yourself smiling at the idea. Clark would look good on the cover of something like that.
You’re about to head to the tram stop when something catches your eye. It’s the way the afternoon light hits a shop window, scattering across the glass and bouncing off a row of flowers in buckets by the door. You rush to get one of your cameras out before adjusting the focus with muscle memory, taking shot after shot as the light shifts and flickers.
You can feel Clark’s eyes on you, probably curious and fond, but you’re too deep in the zone to meet his gaze. You’ll probably freak out about it later, when your brain catches up with you and remembers how close he’d been, how soft his look had turned.
A couple enters one of your shots, looking like they’ve stepped straight out of an old, vintage postcard.
“Those are going to turn out beautifully,” he comments.
“Well, in another world, I’d be a wedding photographer,” you say, lowering the camera.
Clark chuckles, “Another world, huh? You’d make a great one.”
“I would. But fortunately for you, Mr Kansas, we’re in this world, and we get to work together.”
“Mr Kansas? That’s new,” he says, clearly amused.
“I gotta keep you on your toes,” you joke before continuing to take pictures.
Taking shots of things you love. A street musician playing to the clouds, the way sunlight hits a puddle after rain, a dog barking at a squirrel in a tree. Life’s precious little moments that you’d normally overlook.
You walk over to the couple, camera still in hand, and offer them a print.
“I got you in one of my shots,” you say, smiling softly. “You can have this if you want it.”
Their eyes widen, and they take it with a “thank you”. It’s a candid moment of love, something so pure and effortless, yet somehow, just out of your reach. But seeing how it lights them up, how it makes them laugh and lean into each other, might just be enough for you.
You rush back over to Clark, cheeks flushed from the little burst of excitement still buzzing in your chest.
“Did they like the picture?” he asks, eyes lighting up, just at the sight of your happy face.
“They loved it,” you say, grinning, your heart all warm and gooey, like a freshly baked cookie right out of the oven. “Maybe love isn’t meant for me, but I love it regardless. I don’t know, being able to capture it for someone else makes my world a little brighter.”
You catch something flickering in Clark’s eyes, a look you can’t quite place. Knowing him, he’s probably fighting the urge to gently call you out on the self-deprecation, to tell you you’re wrong about love not being meant for you. But before he can say anything, something else catches your eye, inspiration burning inside of you like a fire.
“Can you hold this for a sec?” you ask, holding out one of your cameras to him.
“Of course,” he says, taking it carefully, as though it’s something precious.
You’re already moving, half jogging, half skipping, the sun spilling across your face as your eyes dart around, scanning the street for that perfect shot.
Clark watches with that quiet, unshakable fondness of his, his heart pitter-pattering with every step you take, every moment you stop to frame a picture. And unknown to you, there’s a soft click, the snap of the shutter, as he lifts the camera and takes a candid photo of you.
He thinks you look beautiful.
Like something out of a postcard.
***
After a long day at the Daily Planet, editing and colour-correcting your photos for print until your eyes felt like sandpaper, the only thing you wanted to do was sleep for the next decade.
So naturally, there’s a knock at your door.
You groan, rolling out of bed and immediately regretting every life choice that led you here when your knee slams into the floor.
“Fucking—” You bite down on the rest of the word, hissing through your teeth.
You grab the baseball bat you normally use to shoo away the pigeons that loved to shit on your balcony, hobbling toward the door and wondering who would dare interrupt your beauty sleep at this hour.
“Listen, whatever you’re selling—”
Meow.
You freeze. Your eyes widen when you see your cat being held in the arms of someone standing in your doorway. Cato looks perfectly content, purring like the little traitor he is, tail flicking lazily as if he hadn’t been abducted by a supervillain less than twenty-four hours ago.
You blink, lowering the bat slightly. “Cato?”
He meows again, utterly unbothered.
“My sweet baby. Never run away again!”
You pet him lightly, and he leans into your touch, purring contentedly… before suddenly hissing at you.
“That’s my boy,” you coo.
As you straighten, your eyes travel up the body that’s holding your cat. That’s when it hits you: a very distinct colour scheme, blue, red, and yellow. And that unmistakable symbol on his chest that Cato had been pawing at… where did you know that from?
Lo and behold, Superman, in all his heroic super-ness, is standing in your doorway, holding your cat. The curl of Cato’s tail drapes over the Man of Steel’s arm, his little claws kneading gently at the emblem as Superman smiles down at you, that warm, world-saving smile that somehow makes even an over-caffeinated yet sleep-deprived photographer’s knees weak.
“Superman,” you start, trying to sound calm and not like you’re about to melt into a puddle of nerves. “Why are you holding my cat?” You can’t help the deer-in-headlights look on your face.
He shifts Cato gently in his arms, the cat looking way too pleased with himself for someone who just survived a supervillain kidnapping.
“I rescued him from Toyman’s old hideout,” Superman explains, “There was a small explosion, a lot of smoke, and I found this little guy sitting on a busted control panel like he owned the place.”
You blink, trying to picture your cat perched amid sparks and wreckage. That tracks.
Superman smiles, holding Cato out to you. “His collar had your address on it. Figured he’d want to come home.”
You take Cato, your fingers brushing briefly against Superman’s gloved hand, a spark running through your body. “Yeah, well,” you murmur, cradling your cat, “he’s grounded. Forever. No more villain playdates.”
Your mind is grasping to keep this conversation going when a certain someone comes to mind.
“Oh! We uh, have a mutual friend,” you start, shifting Cato in your arms like it gives you some excuse for talking to Superman. “Clark Kent? Or, well, I guess I don’t actually know if you guys are friends. But you do give him an awful amount of interviews.”
Superman tilts his head, that signature half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Clark keeps me busy,” he admits, voice calm but amused.
“I’ll bet,” you say, raising an eyebrow. “So what’s a girl gotta do to get a moment with you? I take great pictures.”
He chuckles softly. “Persistence goes a long way.”
“Oh, I’m persistent,” you counter with a grin. “If you ever want a proper photo shoot, call me first. I’ll make you look just as handsome as you are in real life.”
Your eyes wander before you can stop them, over the sharp line of his jaw, up to the curl of hair that refuses to obey gravity. You swallow hard, heart thudding traitorously against your ribs.
“Which is,” you murmur before your filter can kick in, “really, really handsome.” A beat passes. “Wow, you’re perfect.”
Superman blinks, then smiles. That small, devastating smile that could probably power Metropolis for a week. “I’m… far from perfect,” he says gently, though the faint pink dusting his cheeks suggests he’s not entirely immune to the compliment.
“Liar.” You let out a shaky laugh.
“I should let you get back to saving Metropolis, or sleeping…” you pause, tilting your head, “Do you even sleep?”
“Yes,” he says, that soft smile still in place. “I sleep.”
“Good to know.” You laugh under your breath, rubbing the back of your neck. “Well, I uh…” You trail off, words slipping away as you look at him. The warmth in his eyes, his voice like a balm for your brain, smoothing out the edges of your chaotic day until everything feels… easy.
“Thank you so much,” you say quietly. “I can’t thank you enough.”
“It’s okay,” he replies, his tone gentle, reassuring. “I’m just glad I got him home to you. Seems like he missed you, too.”
You glance down to see Cato nuzzling against your arm, purring like a motorboat, his earlier hissiness forgotten now that he’s safely home. “Yeah,” you whisper, smiling softly. “He’s a menace, but he’s my menace.”
When you look up again, Superman is already stepping back into the hallway.
“Goodnight, Superman,” you say, voice a little softer than you meant it to be.
He smiles back, “Goodnight.”
And with a rush of wind and a flutter of red, he’s gone, leaving you standing in the doorway, clutching your cat and wondering if maybe your Cupid powers had finally started working on you.
***
You’re going mad.
But you can’t stop thinking about him.
No matter how many times you flip your pillow or change positions, sleep refuses to come. You toss and turn, your mind replaying every single moment on a loop, the way he laughed, the way his eyes softened when he said “I’m glad he’s home,” like he actually cared. The way his smile made the world tilt just slightly on its axis.
But on the other hand, he was Superman.
He probably dated someone equally as… super. Why wouldn’t he? It made sense. Someone who could fly beside him, and not have to worry about things like rent or camera batteries. He probably had a super hot alien girlfriend somewhere who could light up the sky with a wink.
Still… your Cupid senses were pinging around like a broken radio, so it was definitely alive. At least, on your part.
You’ve had crushes before. You’ve even fallen in love once or twice. But this was different. It wasn’t the soft, dreamy kind of love that crept up quietly. It was electric and loud.
Like your heart was dancing in your chest, and not a slow dance either, it was like the tango or samba. So full of life, like it might just grow wings and fly.
Kind of like that day in the rain with Clark…
Fuck, love was confusing.
You arrive at the Daily Planet the next morning with renewed energy. A spring in your step that even a double shot of espresso couldn’t usually inspire, you practically glide past the reception desk.
Jimmy, perched on the edge of a chair with a camera slung around his neck, grins and raises an eyebrow. “You look… chipper.”
“Chipper?” you repeat, smirking. “Jimmy, Superman saved my cat. Not just saved him, but brought him to my door.”
Jimmy whistles, leaning back like he’s suddenly seen the headline of the century. “Wait, what? Your cat? And Superman personally delivered him?”
“Yep,” you say, popping the ‘p’ obnoxiously as you wipe your nails on your shirt. You were loving his stunned expression, eating it up, in fact. “We like talked or whatever. It's not even a big deal.”
You gush him to Jimmy for a couple minutes…or 15, give or take, until he shoos you away from his desk. With a sigh, your eyes sweep the office, looking for someone else to brag to when you see Clark.
Walking over and sitting on the edge of his desk, you smile at him a little too long.
“Is… everything okay?” he asks.
“Everything is more than okay. Clark, your boy, Superman, dropped by my apartment yesterday. Did you tell him about Cato?”
He blinks at you, maybe at the fact that you called him and Superman “boys”.
“I—”
Before he can even confirm or deny it, you throw your arms around him. “Thank you.”
You sink into his embrace, and no matter how many times it happens, you’re always a little stunned by how right it feels, like slipping into a warm bath after a long day.
His arms wrap around you easily, steady and warm, and for a fleeting second, you think this must be what home feels like. Your own little safe haven.
And his strong, solid biceps? Yeah, you could definitely make a home right there if he’d let you.
Reluctantly, you pull back before you end up attaching yourself to him like a koala on a eucalyptus tree, though you’re very tempted.
“Plus, I swear, Cato has been so well-behaved since he got back. I woke up, and my apartment was still intact because he kept meowing at my Superman poster.”
“You have a Superman poster?”
You laugh, that same shaky, breathy laugh from last night, and wave a hand dismissively. “That’s irrelevant.”
You lean closer as if to imply whatever you're about to say has to stay hush-hush.
“But, uh, don't run off and tell Superman. I'll never live it down.”
“Your secret is safe with me,” he says, holding out his pinkie, which you immediately wrap around his.
While he has you close, he says, “Well, I was actually going to ask if you're free for lunch later?”
“I'm always free for you.”
***
At lunch, two of you head back to Amoré that afternoon, ready to melt into the seats over a cup of coffee and a croissant…or 5.
“Couple discount,” Dana intises, as she approaches the two of you in your usual chairs.
“You know very well that we're not dating,” you whine, probably sounding a little too sad that you aren’t.
“But you should be. In all my years of working here, I've never seen friends with chemistry like this. Truly, tell me…why not?”
The two of you don’t have an answer for that.
You just let the question wash over you as you noticeably avoid each other’s eyes.
“Because…we’re friends,” you reiterate. She remains unconvinced by your weak attempt at deflection.
“Well, the couple discount will be here until next week, so I would hurry up if I were you.”
“Thanks, Dana,” Clark replies politely as she walks off, grumbling to herself, something about “idiots in love”.
She was a character, but you can’t help wondering what if.
What if she was right?
To distract yourself, you reach for your camera as you always do.
The light is just right, painting the room in a warm, honeyed glow. Not quite sunny, not quite dim. The kind of scene you could set music to.
And then there’s Clark.
You lift the camera and look at him through the lens, and somehow, impossibly, he’s perfect as always.
He's always so dynamic, so interesting. Wherever he's laughing at a joke Jimmy told, or he's hard at work on an article, there's so much to see, so much to love.
By now, he’s used to being the subject of your photos every now and then. He barely reacts when the shutter clicks, just glances up, raises a brow, gives you that familiar half-smile before going about his business.
You can’t help it. He’s just so fun to take candid photos of. Capturing his beauty that's usually in motion in still moments.
Snapshots of Clark that feel honest. Real. The way his eyes soften when he smiles, the way he simply exists in a space.
You take the picture and practically die at the result.
He’s looking at you.
Not posing or performing. Just looking, curious in that way he often is, like he’s quietly wondering what’s going on inside your head. Like he’s trying to read you without asking the question out loud.
It’s funny how a single picture of him can weigh so heavily on you.
It’s the dimples, first of all.
The way they show when he smiles at you, all soft and patient, like he’s waiting for your reaction. For your attention. For something.
That's real.
You smile at the photo without even thinking about it.
“Good picture?” he asks.
“More than good.”
You tilt the camera toward him, letting him see.
“See?” you say softly. “Perfect.”
***
You wake up in the morning, and everything feels lighter. It’s like the clouds in the sky were made of candy floss, and the sun is quite literally smiling down at you. It’s that warm and gooey again.
You try to shake it off to no avail, blinking against the morning light, and begin getting ready for work, brushing your teeth and throwing on your clothes with a little extra spring in your step.
When you get to the office, Clark is already at your desk, leaning casually against the corner with that half-smile that drives your brain into a mild panic.
“Hey, Clark,” you say, drawing out the greeting and fluttering your eyes a little more than usual.
You catch yourself before it goes too far, snapping out of it and sitting up straight. What the heck was that?
“Hey yourself.”
“I got you, your morning coffee,” he says casually, “And this bouquet of flowers.”
Before turning around and pulling the flowers out of seemingly thin air. It's a beautiful bouquet, full of life and colour.
“They're beautiful.”
“Well, they match their new owner.”
Was Clark Kent… flirting with you?
“They're—” you start, words tripping over themselves. “Camellias… my favourite. How did you…?”
“I remember you recommending them when I was debating what to send my Ma on her birthday,” he says softly, smiling in that shy-but-warm way that makes your chest fizz. “Said that they ‘can light up any room without even trying.’”
“Do you remember everything I say?” you ask, feeling your heartbeat jump straight into your throat.
“I try,” he admits, voice low. “You say a lot of beautiful things.”
The Cupid tingles were here, and they were going crazy.
“Well, you say a lot of beautiful things too, Mr Kansas.”
You step closer into his space, almost chest to chest, love is in the air, and you can’t seem to stop yourself.
Were you flirting with Clark?!
The realisation knocks you out of the clouds as that sudden burst of confidence wears off.
“I need to… feed the printer some, uh, paper,” you blurt, already stumbling backwards, walking directly into a filing cabinet and half tripping over your own feet before escaping to the supply closet like it’s a lifeboat on a sinking ship.
You didn’t know what was going on with you… more importantly, you didn’t know what was going on with Clark.
Behind you, you think you hear him exhale, and then quietly say to himself, “…Nice going, Kent.”
The rest of the day, it’s like the whole world had come to life, everything that bit brighter, more vibrant. And you can’t keep Clark off your mind, and you mean more than usual. Whenever you thought of him, he'd appear, just a few seconds later.
And sure, maybe you could chalk that up to the fact that you work together, but that doesn’t explain him randomly walking up onto the rooftop where you were and having no reason as to why. Or him finding you in the broom closet, when he had no reason to be in there.
It has something to do with the warm, gooey feeling from this morning.
Even as you walk back from lunch with Clark, you notice that flowers that are out of season are in full bloom. Though little did you know, the worst was yet to come. As you’re walking, he stops over to help an old lady across the street.
“I’ll just be a second,” he says, rushing off. You watch him greet her and help her across the street, the way her face lights up as they talk, it makes you soft.
Ping.
So it’s no surprise that a random halo appears over your head.
You only realise it's there when you feel a pair of eyes looking above you, rather than at you. You wave it away, the halo disappearing in a puff of smoke, thankfully before Clark makes back over to you.
“Ready to head back?”
“Yeah, totally.”
***
Working was impossible at this point. It felt like you just stepped into a movie with how perfect everything felt. And for the girl with exceptionally bad luck, that could only mean one thing. Everything was about to go to shit.
It’s not even anything major.
You were chilling by your desk, fiddling with your pencil, finalising some edit when he came over to your desk. He simply says your name and then, “I’ve been thinking about you…”’
You don’t even hear the rest of the sentence. That was enough for you to want to go feral on this man.
“Shit—”
You let go of the pencil, instead of falling, instead of bouncing onto the floor as physics intended, the pencil hangs suspended in midair, floating in front of you like you’ve stepped into a zero-gravity simulator.
A beat passes. Then the coffee cup next to you lifts off the table too, tilting slightly, liquid sloshing dangerously but somehow not spilling. Papers flutter upward like startled birds. Pens twirl. Lois’s stress ball drifts majestically past your ear.
And then a far more alarming realisation hits you like a bus.
Why are my feet off the ground?
That should not be a question anyone asks during a normal weekday. That’s a question reserved for roller-coaster fanatics or trapeze artists, not you.
You swish your legs experimentally, and instead of falling back down, you glide slightly sideways, drifting up like a helium balloon.
If this weren’t happening in front of the entire newsroom, you’d feel like Peter Pan, all whimsical without the whole kidnapping children thing.
“You’re floating,” Cat gasps from across the bullpen, mouth hanging open as she drops her phone, which, of course, stops mid-air and starts floating too.
What was happening?
Was this… you?
Were you causing this?
Had your powers just evolved?
Or had flirting with Clark Kent somehow launched you into spontaneous levitation like a lovesick rocket?
You spin slowly in mid-air, hair drifting around your face like you’re underwater, and all you can think is, Why can’t I ever just be normal for one second?
All he did was bring you a pretzel, and your powers decided to have a complete meltdown about it.
Clark opens his mouth to say something, probably to reassure you, because of course he would, but you beat him to it.
“No, no, don’t worry, everything’s under control,” you blurt, voice cracking like a rusty hinge.
It is absolutely not under control.
You’re now fully horizontal, hovering like a board in a magic show, the only thing keeping you from drifting straight up toward the massive ceiling is the death grip you have on the edge of your desk.
Your knuckles are white, your heart is tap-dancing in your chest, and you’re pretty sure your dignity has already packed its bags and left the building.
The Daily Planet has stupidly high ceilings. If you let go, there is a non-zero chance you may never come back down. And you absolutely do not want to become the human party balloon of the office.
But of course, because this is your life, your grip slips.
Your hand slides, scrambling against piles of paper and glossy magazines that flutter upward like startled birds, slipping through your fingers one by one.
“No, no, no—!”
And then you let go.
You start to drift upward, slowly at first, then faster, and before you can cry out, a hand closes around yours.
“I’ve got you.”
As if you couldn't feel more weightless.
Despite all the chaos, the floating furniture, the gasps echoing through the bullpen, it’s like the world narrows down to just his face.
Everything else blurs out: the newsroom noise, the fluorescent lights, the fact that you are currently defying gravity in front of your coworkers.
It's like nothing else in the entire universe exists.
You’re weightless in more ways than one, and suddenly you understand why. It's exactly how he makes you feel.
His hands wrap around yours, warm and sure, and your fingers curl instinctively around his, clinging like he’s gravity itself.
“Just keep your eyes on me,” he says. He's steady, not freaking out in the slightest, and he has every right to be.
It's not every day your coworker starts floating away.
You nod at him, and slowly, he tugs you close. You fight the zero gravity and drift into his inviting arms.
And before you knew it, you were back on the floor. Everything was floating, crashing down shortly after.
“What the hell is going on?” Perry yells.
***
You hoped the incident would be forgotten by tomorrow. You doubted it, but you sure can hope.
You have been in love before, but never in a way that had your powers this out of whack.
He had you floating, and you didn't know you could do that!
But words couldn't fully explain the way it felt. Like your heart was climbing with you as you left the ground.
You were comfy now and firmly obeying the laws of physics. Wrapped up in your blanket, watching reruns as you try to fall asleep.
Though it was impossible, the events of the day were still spinning through your head like a washing machine.
You’d all but exposed the fact that you’re a metahuman to your colleagues.
It’s not like you were ashamed of it or hated who you were; it was just…private.
Not even Clark knew.
And you liked it that way, the control, the separation between your strange and your normal.
But now?
Maybe there was still a chance you could blame everything on a freak accident. Or that you’d been accidentally blasted by an evil cosmic ray on your way to work. That sounded like something that happened in Metropolis at least twice a week.
Fuck.
The thought of the end of your social life disappears from your mind when you see a certain someone on the news. The thought of Superman, the image of his smile on the screen, lulls you to sleep, easier than you thought was possible.
You awaken to the soft knocking on the window to your balcony. You and massaging out the crick in your neck from falling asleep half off the couch.
Assuming it’s just a pigeon pecking at the glass, you grab your trusty baseball bat, ready to shoo it away. You open the balcony door cautiously to find not a pigeon but a whole ass man.
Your gaze travels from his shoes up to a handsome face staring back at you, calm and impossibly composed.
“Superman,” you wheeze, heart racing, “What are you doing on my balcony?”
“I wanted to check on your cat,” he says, calm as ever.
“Oh.”
“And you.”
“Oh?”
“You’ve made quite the impression on me.”
You made an impression on Superman?!
You may not be screaming out loud, but on the inside, you've got a megaphone that you're yelling at the top of your lungs into.
“I tend to have that effect on people.”
You aim to lean against your doorway but miss, stumbling a little. He catches you because, of course, he does.
So much for being suave.
The way he holds your arm, gently but securely, has you thinking about Clark. It's you've been hit with a wave of deja vu.
You shake away the thought and look back up at him. Probably shouldn't be thinking about two guys at the same time, but you couldn't help it.
“You look like you've seen a ghost.”
“It's not that, it's just… there's something so familiar about you.”
As you look at him, it's like your brain is straining to put together a puzzle with a missing piece.
Like you couldn’t find the right words. He had your brain all fried; he had put a spell on you, that’s for sure.
Before you can find that missing puzzle piece, your cat bounds up to him. Meowing at Superman's boots and pawing at his legs.
“Sorry about that. You've made quite the impression on him.”
Bending down, he lifts Cato into his arms and pets him softly, “I've missed you too, buddy.”
Right then and there, you decide it should be illegal to look that fine while holding a cat.
He looks up at you with light concern.
“What are you doing awake? It's 2 am.”
“Can't sleep. My brain is being stubborn. What about you? Shouldn't you be sleeping instead of throwing bricks from your glass house?”
“You got me there.”
“Seriously, though. You should sleep. I just saw you on TV lifting a building. You don't need to check on me.”
The guilt you would feel if he were tired the next day and potentially getting hurt fighting some villain, because of you, would be immeasurable.
Sure, you didn't know what he did during the day when he wasn't Superman-ing around, but you wanted him to be well rested.
“I'll survive.”
From his tone of voice, you knew he was resolute in this.
“If you insist. So…” you tap your foot, trying to think what you would do with a superhero in your living room.
“Wanna bake with me? By the time we're done, I'm sure we'll be tired.” You suggest. Doing something with your hands always helps tucker you out. “...Unless you think it's dumb. I know you're a busy guy—”
“It would be an honour.”
***
Superman was nice.
Not just nice but nice to be around. Like the kind of guy you'd bring home to meet the parents.
Boyfriend material.
Just who is this guy? Superhero and rom-com lead? You're starting to wonder if he was made in a lab.
“My Ma makes the best pies,” he says, voice reminiscent, kneading the dough with his hands in practised movements.
Those words bring you back to the first week of knowing Clark. It was around Thanksgiving when you started, and he fawned over his mother's pumpkin pie.
“My Ma makes the best pies,” he had said, probably verbatim, followed by, “Wish you could try it sometime.”
He had said it quieter, almost like he didn't mean for it to slip out. The thought of him bringing you home to meet his parents for Thanksgiving makes you feel a little lightheaded. What you wouldn't give to be that important to him.
You laugh softly, chuckling at the memory. You just couldn't stop yourself from thinking about him, could you?
“What?” he asks, brow furrowing slightly.
“No, it’s just… You remind me of someone,” you say, smiling, shaking your head. “A good someone. Someone I really like.”
He glances down at himself, a hint of concern crossing his face. You mistake that concern for concern about the mess the two of you were making.
At this point, there was a light dusting of flour in his hair, and some on your cheek.
“Are you sure you can get, like, flour and stuff on your suit?”
“It’s okay,” he says casually, shrugging.
“Of course,” you tease, grinning. “The Man of Steel can handle a little flour.”
He smirks, brushing a playful dusting of flour from his shoulder, and you can’t help but notice how domestic and endearing he looks in the kitchen.
“Oh, wait, I know!”
You scuttle around your kitchen, slippers sliding on the floor, and grab an apron to present it to him in a most dramatic fashion.
“Kiss the cook?” he says, questioning as he reads the block writing printed on the front, along with a gratuitous number of love hearts.
“Gag gift from a Secret Santa a few years back,” you explain away. “Now bend down so I can put this on you…”
Without arguing, he bends down, allowing you to slip it over his head.
“How does it look?”
You love the sight of Metropolis’ protector in an apron, goofy smile and all.
“Perfect, Superman. Absolutely perfect.”
***
One thing’s for sure, Superman knows how to bake a pie.
It was still dark, the room illuminated by your vintage bedside lamp, its warm amber glow spilling softly across the table. You’d found it years ago at a little thrift shop downtown, a place that smelled faintly of old books and cinnamon buns, for some reason.
Outside, the sun would soon begin to rise, birds chirping to life as the night slowly loosened its grip on the world.
As the two of you dig in, wrapped in the quiet stillness of morning, the only sound is the clink of forks against porcelain.
He chuckles as you let out contented hum after contented hum with each spoonful.
“What?” you pout, “I can’t be excited about pie?”
“It’s not that,” he says, smiling. “You just have a little…”
Before you can ask, he reaches out, wiping the crumbs from the side of your mouth.
You can’t stop your heart from racing as his thumb brushes away the last trace, lingering just a second too long, right next to your lips.
Ping.
A halo appears above your head.
The universe seems to be confusing Cupid with an angel.
“You, uh, also have a little…” he trails off, eyes set just above your head.
You tap above your head, hands finding the solid halo above you.
“Don't pay it too much attention,” you grumble, dropping your hands in defeat.
“Is that because of me?” He asks, definitely still paying it attention.
“...perhaps.”
What use was there in lying? Your heartbeat was already giving you away anyway.
He leans a little closer, and you have to remind yourself how to breathe as you look into his impossibly blue eyes.
“Well,” he says softly, “it’s an honour to give you halos.”
Shit.
You hadn’t felt this flustered in a long time. Not since—well. Not since this afternoon with Clark. Why were handsome men flirting with you all of a sudden? Had you somehow won the love lottery after years of bad relationships after bad relationships?
“Can I take a picture of you?” you blurt out. “While I have you captive in my apartment. And, don't worry, I won't go selling anything to tabloids or anything. This is just for me.”
“Go right ahead,” he says easily, continuing to eat like he knows you want him exactly as he is.
You reach across with a grunt, yanking your camera from the counter it was resting on.
You turn it on and focus on him immediately; you wouldn't let this opportunity go to waste.
A curl has fallen loose, resting against his forehead, stubborn and soft. You take a picture, then another. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even look up at first. You figure he must be used to cameras.
“Do you use gel?” you ask, lowering the phone slightly, “or is that all you?”
He smiles as he finally looks up at you. “All me.”
You take one more picture.
“Can I see?”
You move closer and show him the screen. “You’re perfect,” you say before you can stop yourself. “Those dimples are to die for.”
Your smile falters just a little because dimples suddenly make you think of Clark. Why were all roads leading back to him?
He notices, but doesn't say anything.
“I think,” he says gently, eyes flicking from the photo back to you, “I only look so ‘perfect’ because you’re the one taking the picture. Everything looks great from your point of view.”
***
By the time you wake up, it's 1 p.m.
Thank fuck it's a Saturday and you have nothing to do except sleep and stew everything that's happened in such a short space of time.
Going through the pictures on your personal camera, you hadn't used in a few days… because hotties love to scrapbook.
Seeing a flash of your face.
You didn't remember that picture.
You flip to the next one over, and it's the picture you took of Clark.
You flip back to you, then to the picture of Clark, then to you, then to Clark. The smile on your face suddenly drops.
If A + B = C… one picture of him plus one picture of you equals… accidental love match?
“Fuck…” you say, dropping your camera into your lap before letting out a noticeably louder, “Fuck!”
It practically shook the building. You spring up and start freaking out.
After getting your steps in by pacing and down so fast it was making Cato dizzy, you make the harrowing decision to call Clark.
He needed to know.
It explained a whole lot: the flowers, the flirting, the floating.
How did you not see this earlier?
Your press on his contract, it rings once, then—
“Hello?”
“Clark?” you say, your voice is shakier than usual. You didn't quite know how to act.
How could you explain that you kinda made him fall in love with you?
“Is everything okay?” He asks, as if he could read your mind from miles away.
“I know it’s late, and this is so stupid, but…can you come over?”
“I'll be there as fast as I can.”
A few minutes later, he arrives at your door. You don't even question how he got here so quickly when he lived halfway across the city from you, dragging him inside with urgency.
“What's wrong?” he says, frowning at your distressed expression.
“I fucked up. Like majorly, and when you find out…”
You pause, looking up at him and his kind eyes, marred with worry.
“Just try not to hate me.”You start sniffling, “I couldn't bear it if you hated me, but I'd understand if you did. I mean, this is just so fucked up and—”
He pulls you into his arms, making you feel secure. “Whatever it is, it won't change how I feel about you.”
You didn't have the time or energy to dissect his words, instead leaning your head against his chest.
Who knows? It may be the last time you're able to.
You try to speak, but it's too hard. It's like you're being choked, the words too big to get out.
Seeing your distress, he gently guides you toward your couch, his hand warm on your back, and you don’t object. Your brain is too scrambled to even consider resisting.
“How about we relax?” he murmurs. “Just so you can collect your thoughts, and then you can tell me whatever you need to.”
You let out a long, shaky sigh before nodding.
“Come here,” he says softly, opening his arm for you, and you practically crash into his side, like gravity shifts just to pull you against him.
He wraps an arm around your shoulders, steady and protective, and your forehead finds the curve of his chest without thinking.
His heartbeat is calm.
Yours… less so.
At some point, somewhere between his fingers brushing your arm and the warmth of his side against you, your eyes grow heavy.
Little snores escaping you before you can help it.
Clark’s breath hitches in the smallest laugh, fond and quiet. He adjusts his hold so you don’t slump over, fearful of waking you.
He knows how hard you work, running in empty and getting in your head about not doing enough. When you do more than enough, you are more than enough.
And when he’s sure you’re completely asleep, he shifts carefully, lifting you into his arms with an ease that makes you wonder how you ever doubted if he'd be there for you or not.
He carries you to bed, smiling as you mumble in your sleep before laying you down gently.
Taking extra care to tuck the blanket around you.
“Goodnight,” he whispers, making his way out of the room.
***
You wake up with a start. It's not a slow recollection of events; it's like you've been shot.
Jolting out of bed, you trip all over your room before finally making it out.
Though before you can make any rash decisions, you freeze the moment you walk into your living room.
Clark is on your couch.
Cato sprawled out on top of him like he pays rent, tiny paws kneading at Clark’s hair.
He sleeps peacefully, mouth soft, glasses still on. The light from your half-open blinds highlights every perfect inch of his face.
You stand there staring like an idiot, because this is not just your coworker, not just your friend, he’s the guy you're head over heels for.
And you might just lose him forever. All because you're the idiot who accidentally made him fall in love with you.
You swallow hard.
“Clark…?”
He stirs instantly, eyes fluttering open. His hand automatically goes to steady Cato so the cat doesn’t fall off. It’s stupidly endearing.
“Oh—hey,” he says softly. “Did I fall asleep? Sorry.”
“You—” You gesture helplessly at the entire scene. “You could’ve gone home. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
He sits up carefully, Cato sliding into his lap like a sleepy loaf.
“You were pretty distraught when I got here.”
You nod, shifting your weight from one foot to the other.
“Do you want to talk about it now? Whatever you had to tell me?”
“Yeah, I think that's best.”
Steeling your nerves, you sit down next to him and press your hands to your face. “Clark, listen. These past few days, you may have been experiencing something odd. Like heart palpitations, and all sorts of romantic notions when it comes to me.”
You clear your throat, “It's all my fault. I uh…I'm basically like Cupid.”
Perhaps you should've thought about your words, prepared a speech. There's nothing like free styling, telling your best friend you're a metahuman.
“Cupid?” He questions, not in a judgmental way. Mostly just confused.
“I can matchmake people, and sometimes when I take pictures, they're like my ‘arrows’.”
Another nod.
“So when you took a photo of me the other day…” You cringe. “And I took a photo of you…”
Understanding flickers in his expression. Don't panic. Just quiet, steady recognition.
“Right,” he says. “So, you were worried because you thought you made me fall in love with you against my will?”
Bullseye.
“Well, yes. Or… no. No, they can’t create something that’s not already there or impossible. They just… amplify. Highlight. Push things along. Even though it was an accident it was still shitty—”
You’re babbling, faster than you can think, and he puts his hand on your shoulder.
“So,” he says softly, “you're saying there's something here.”
You go perfectly still. In all your panic, you hadn't really considered the fact that this meant that he liked you too.
That it wasn't just a misplaced finger gun or a passing infatuation.
He liked you.
He shuffles closer on the couch, stopping close enough that you can feel his warmth, see the way his glasses have slid slightly down his nose a little.
“Between you and me.”
He looks at you like he’s already known the answer, like he’s been waiting for you to catch up.
“Yeah, I…I guess there is.”
If he keeps looking at you like this, like you’re the only person in the world… you might honestly end up floating straight up to your ceiling again.
“Aren’t you mad?” you whisper. “I manipulated your feelings, I—”
Clark shakes his head before you can spiral.
“It wasn’t anyone’s fault,” he says gently. “It was an accident. And… honestly?”
His voice softens even more.
“It was the little push I needed. To finally tell you how I feel.”
“That you…?” you prompt, barely audible.
“That I’ve loved you since the moment we met. Showing me all the pictures you took, and talking to me like we've known each other for years. You really know how to make a guy feel at home.”
He gives a small, embarrassed smile.
“I can't get you out of my mind; it's always been like that, even before the whole matchmaking fiasco. Memories of you run through my head on the daily. From the night you dragged me out to karaoke after I said I've never been, to the rainy day we stopped by Amoré for the first time and you tried to heat up my hands.”
Your heart lurches.
He remembers all of it.
Your fingers reach out, and he meets yours halfway.
“I love you and all that you are.”
Your hands intertwine, fitting together like they’ve been waiting to.
“You have no idea,” you breathe, “how long I’ve been wanting to hear that.”
Clark’s response is not verbal.
He leans in, and your lips connect like they were never meant to be apart.
The kiss is deep, warm, hungry without being rushed, like he’s been waiting for this but wants to savour it.
When you finally pull away, your forehead rests against his, hearts beating in sync.
It was perfect.
The most perfect kiss.
The kind of kiss you’re pretty sure qualifies as the world’s greatest.
You think you might never recover from it.
Though a thought rings out in the back of your head.
A certain Superhero, you may or may not have flirted with.
You don't notice, but Clark is going through a dilemma too.
“I have something to—”
“I need to tell you—”
You both start talking at the same time.
A beat.
Then Clark gives a tiny nod. “You first.”
You swallow, “I… I baked with Superman.”
Clark blinks. “Hm?”
“I know, I know, don’t look at me like that—it just happened! I didn’t plan it, he was checking on me, and my cat, and we both couldn't sleep, and flour was everywhere and—” You put your hands in your hair. “Holy shit, am I going to have to reject Superman? No, no, that’s ridiculous, we only met twice, there's no way he likes me, it’s fine—”
“I’m Superman,” Clark says quietly.
You stare at him.
Then you let out a big, incredulous laugh. You might have even slapped your knee.
“And I'm Batman. The fuck are you talking about?”
He hesitates. You can practically see him realising he maybe should’ve eased into that better.
“I… I’m Superm—”
“You can’t just repeat it!” you cut in, throwing your hands up. “Obviously, I don’t believe you. I sit across from you every day, Mr Kansas. You like fresh pancakes and Sunday morning walks, not to mention you’re the clumsiest person I know, bar me. There’s no way—”
He takes off his glasses.
You blink twice before letting out a scream.
Is it one of horror? Excitement? Both?
You may never know.
But the next thing out of your mouth, on repeat and in varying volumes, is “what the fuck?”
You leap up from the couch, speed walking around in an attempt to burn off all this nervous energy. Your poor downstairs neighbours.
“Clark, what in the ever living—? How is this even possible?” you question, vaulting yourself back over your couch to face him.
“Hypno glasses.”
“Hypno— of course, of course,” you chuckle in mild panic as you throw your hands up.
The similarities you were getting when you were around Superman were making a whole lot of sense.
“The dimples… Oh! And the fucking pumpkin pies, I should've known!” you grumble.
The whole time you thought you were leading Superman and Clark on, he was the same guy? At least you're consistent.
“Are you angry with me?”
You shake your head immediately. “I’m not angry in the slightest.”
Your voice softens. “You’re Superman, Clark. A secret identity is… kinda necessary.”
Relief flickers over his face, but you keep going, because your brain is finally catching up.
“I mean, honestly, a lot of things are adding up now.”
You let out a breathy laugh, half disbelieving, half relieved.
“The disappearances, the fact that you’re always late… the way you’d show up with a new excuse every time I tried to confront you about it.”
You shrug helplessly.
“I just thought you had… I don’t know. A second job? A weird hobby? Some kind of… side hustle?”
You gesture vaguely.
“But not this. Definitely not ‘hey, by the way, I’m Superman.’”
Clark’s cheeks flush faintly (adorably).
He reaches for your hand without thinking, thumb brushing your knuckles.
“I wanted to tell you,” he murmurs. “I’ve wanted to for a long time.”
You squeeze his hand back.
“Now you have,” you say softly.
“And I'm not going anywhere.”
***
“Catooo…” you whine for the fourth time.
He’s managed to perch himself on the very top of your shelf, tail flicking smugly, with absolutely no way of getting down.
Clark sighs, amused. “I swear he does this on purpose.”
Before you can argue, Clark lifts himself into the air, hovering up toward your stubborn little menace.
“Come here, buddy.”
Cato doesn’t need to be told twice. The moment Clark’s close enough, the cat launches himself straight into Clark’s arms with a loving meow like he’s been rescued from a burning building.
“That's my Cato,” Clark coos at him, getting nothing but adoring purrs in response.
He drifts back down, landing softly with Cato snuggled against his chest.
You fold your arms. “Traitor.”
But the moment Clark steps close enough to hand Cato over, it happens—
Ping.
A shimmering ‘love halo’, faint at first, then solidifying the instant he touches your hand.
You groan. “Is this ever going to wear off?”
Clark just smiles, wholly unbothered. “I quite like it.”
And he leans in, kissing the tip of your nose like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
You’re about to complain again when something tugs at your back, a sudden weight and a strange tickle, enough to make you sit up straight.
You twist around, confused.
There’s a… movement under your shirt. A flutter.
You freeze.
Slowly, cautiously, you lift the hem, and lo and behold… two tiny Cupid wings are sprouting out of your back, fluffy and soft.
“…Oh my,” you breathe.
You turn back to Clark, eyes wide, wings still twitching behind you like confused baby birds.
“This,” you say, pointing at him in outrage,
“It's your fault.”
“It is?” he replies, finding it all entirely too amusing.
“You made me fall so hard, I grew wings!”
“Your wings are adorable,” he chuckles before he wraps his arms around you, kissing all over your face.
“Clark!” you whine, but he doesn’t let up, determined to show you how much he loves you. “Be careful, I might grow a tail next.”
Summary | Instead of your usual love letters, you decide to send Clark something a little more risque.
Warnings & Notes | 18+, fem!reader, smut, established relationship, panty sniffing, very mild dirty talk & biting, big dick clark (sorta suggested size kink), fingering, unprotected p in v, clark's the kinda guy that cums when you do
Author's Note | After posting part one of this lil series, I was hit with the perfect follow-up! Hopefully I got Clark right - it was a treat to write him horny, so I hope it's a treat to read him horny, too~
WC | 6.8k
[read pt. one here]
!!! MINORS DNI !!!
If you thought sending love letters was ridiculous, then this new idea of yours was something else entirely. You weren’t even sure where you got it from, but for days now, you simply couldn’t shake the thought of it.
Really, it all started with you wanting to do something fun for Clark. You’d been seeing each other for a few months now, and with the holiday season approaching, you had begun to stress over what kind of gifts were appropriate for a fresh relationship. What was the expectation for this sort of thing? It had been long enough that you were no longer entirely sure.
Then an idea hit you one evening when you were… well, horny, to put it quite plainly. You were horny and thinking about Clark and touching yourself; enjoying the feel of your own flesh, of your warmth as you tucked your hand into your cotton panties.
You could so clearly imagine that self-satisfied grin that would be on Clark’s face if he knew that you masturbated to the thought of him. Yes, the two of you may have been taking this slow, but that didn’t mean you weren’t intimate. Clark was incredibly physically affectionate, and it still made you nervous even after all this time.
Evidently, your love language in comparison was gift giving, because even after your little notes ended, you were always thinking of things to give Clark. One day, he compared you to a crow, which wouldn’t have sounded so sweet if it were from anyone other than him - you were always offering little trinkets that you felt drawn to.
Following the love letters, you would give him copies of old poetry collections, bookmarks, silly cards you found. When Clark pointed it out, you initially felt embarrassed, but he quickly corrected himself before you could become upset - those little surprises were often the highlight of his day.
But you wanted to do something more, given the upcoming holidays - not something extravagant or over the top, but something unique. And, thus, as you pleasured yourself that night while thinking about Clark, the idea came at the same time that you did.
You tried to write it off as insane, tried to stop thinking about it and come up with a safer gift idea. But you just couldn’t rid your head of the thought - it made you flustered, made your cheeks warm, made you grin wildly at how out of character it would be for you.
That’s what really made it stick out - you’d never have done something like this before, and that thrilled you in ways you weren’t expecting. You wanted to flirt with Clark in a way he wasn’t expecting, to grab his attention as if you were still vying for it.
Of course, you both knew you didn’t need to even try to get Clark’s attention anymore - that man was the kind of sweet, perceptive, and doting boyfriend that people often dreamed of. He paid such acute attention to you that sometimes it was startling. You’d lost track of how many times you caught him staring and got flustered, which would trigger him to laugh with delight before giving you a reassuring kiss on the temple.No, you didn’t have to flirt, not in the slightest, but you wanted to. At least once, you wanted to fluster Clark in the same way he always did you.
So, down in the mail room, you put together the pretty little box that you got especially for this, wrapping it with a blue ribbon. Your whole body felt hot with nerves, but you were also giddy enough that you were determined to follow through.
Getting your mail cart in order, you started your morning routine with a secretive little grin on your lips.
Seeing a box resting in his mail tray, Clark smiled to himself, charmed as ever by your penchant for little surprises.
Since the start of your romance, he’d been smitten with you - your nervous little gestures, your affection through gifts, the way you’d been opening up the more you two had gotten to know one another. Clark knew he was a big softie, but the way you could make him melt without even trying was something else.
Within a few short weeks of seeing each other, Clark had already decided that he adored you. And every time he saw something new in his mail that was clearly a gift from you, he would wash with warmth, feeling almost giddy as he opened whatever the surprise was.
You and Clark weren’t keeping your relationship secret by any means, but the two of you were certainly private about things. That didn’t stop Jimmy or Lois from endlessly teasing him about his goofy smile when he saw you or the puppy-like anticipation of the next poem or trinket you’d deliver to his desk.
So, knowing he had something new waiting for him, Clark tried not to grin too big. First, he grabbed his morning coffee, then took his time getting settled in, saving the gift as if the waiting made it somehow better.
When finally he grabbed the small box, Clark looked over his shoulder briefly - Jimmy had a habit of snooping on your surprises. Though, Clark always showed him eventually, anyway, he enjoyed at least a minute alone with a gift before someone undoubtedly got nosy. Content to see that he had a bit of privacy, Clark unwrapped the delicate ribbon and removed the box lid.
Of course, the first thing he saw was one of your hand written notes, Clark’s personal favorite thing. He loved your penmanship and the quotes you felt drawn to; he especially loved when you were bold enough to write something of your own, though those moments were few and far between.
“Oh drink me up
That I may be
Within your cup
Like a mystery,
Like wine that is still
In ecstasy.”
Clark smiled contently to himself, reading the quote once more before adding it atop the pile of notes that had slowly been collecting on his desk. He probably needed to consider a better storage system at this point.
Smirk still drawn across his lips, Clark looked back to the gift to see what was resting beneath your note. But his brow quickly furrowed, and as he grabbed at the lacy material within the box, he just about gasped when he realized…
It was your panties.
A pretty little pair of blue lace and silk panties. The pair that he remembered admiring one night as you stepped out of your skirt, the thin material hugging your rear, the floral and swirling design in the fabric teasing him with what they covered.
Clark gently rolled them between his finger and thumb as the memory of that night was like a crystal clear vision, his mouth hanging open as if enticed by the imaginary-you in his head. He felt a pulse of desire in his core, his tongue prodding at his lower lip ever so slightly; shoot, you had him all kinds of distracted now.
The lace was pleasant against the pads of Clark’s fingers as he vividly remembered the demure little look on your face as you stripped that night, the way you gazed at him through your lashes. The way you bit your lip, standing there in that matching blue lingerie set, twiddling your thumbs as if nervous to be watched so closely by him. The way you relaxed once you were straddled over one of Clark’s thick thighs, his touch causing you to shiver.
Clarked cough awkwardly while blinking away the memory, dropping your panties back into the box and quickly fumbling to put the lid back on. It really wouldn’t look good for him to be caught with them here at work - that was just asking for HR to be called. He straightened his shoulders while clearing his throat again, the silky gift ribbon soft as he rolled it in his hand, some part of him imagining it was your panties instead. Again, he felt a surge of heat as the memory of you lingered.
He almost couldn’t believe that you sent this. You, so sweet and shy - Clark was surprised, yet undeniably stirred by this unexpected gift. Grinning to himself, he had to wonder what had gotten into you. Though, if he thought about it even a moment too long, desire would wash over him again, make him heated and distractible and--
At the same moment that Clark felt himself stir, someone spoke his name, causing him to startle and bump his knee up into the desk. Groaning, he clumsily yanked open a drawer and shoved the gift box inside; he was about to spin around entirely, but decided that wasn’t the best idea, settling on just turning in his seat instead.
Attempting to feign innocence, Clark met Jimmy’s quizzical stare; his best friend looked him up and down with scrutiny, seeing clearly that something was off. Clark gave a closed mouth smile, foot bouncing lightly with nerves.
Jimmy looked from Clark’s face to the desk drawer, nodding his chin towards it, “What’s that about?”
“Nothing.” Clark answered far too quickly, which only made Jimmy more suspicious.
“Something from your girl?” Jimmy grinned conspiratorily; clearly, Clark’s edginess made the mystery gift all the more intriguing, “Must be something good if you’re not sharing.”
“Yup.” Clark gave a curt nod, “I’d rather keep that one between the two of us.”
“Ooh…” Jimmy drew out the curious sound tauntingly, eyes glinting with mischief, “So, it’s that kind of gift. Didn’t think she had it in her.”
Clark looked back with his best stern expression, his tone a warning, “Jimmy.”
Now, his best friend grinned from ear-to-ear, raising his hands in surrender. Not that he was even remotely intimidated by Clark’s tone, but he knew not to push his luck, either.
“Fine, fine, I won’t ask.” Jimmy turned slowly on his heels towards his desk. When he sat down, he spun to face Clark again with a roguish look, “At least give me a hint?”
“Jimmy!”
It was almost impossible not to think about Clark as the day wore on - you’d been jittery and excitable since the moment you left the gift on his desk, nervously anticipating how he’d react to it.
Considering that you two weren’t able to grab lunch together - something you were already prepared for, since Clark mentioned he’d be out on an assignment - you were all the more antsy and eager to hear from him. You weren’t quite bold enough to text Clark on the subject, so instead you simply had to wait, growing more and more edgy as the day wore on.
That pesky yet familiar anxiety of yours caused you to start doubting the gift, wondering if perhaps it was too vulgar or risky. Did Clark find it too inappropriate for the workplace, did he find it strange or even immature? Though you knew Clark well enough by now to be rational about this, those doubts of yours were practically impossible to escape.
Shortly before the end of your work day, you considered calling Clark, unable to remain in the dark any longer. You thought you might burst if you went much longer not knowing what he was thinking. The worst part of you considered for the briefest of moments that your little gift had the opposite effect on Clark, turning him off rather than on. That particular thought was one you tried to shake away quickly, knowing it to be irrational.
The mail room was truly your domain. Yes, there were other staff that helped with sorting and deliveries - because you sure as hell couldn’t handle a 50-story skyscraper all on your own - but everyone down here knew you were the person that kept it running. You still shuddered at the memory of how disorderly things got during that week you were out sick a couple of years ago.
As such, you were always the last mail person to leave at the end of the night, prepping for all the work you’d be doing the next day. You usually found it relaxing, having at least half an hour all to yourself. On any normal day, it would help you unwind; but today, it was evidently having the opposite effect.
So, as you were getting the mail carts tidied, you were surprised to hear the door open across the room; you were certain that you were alone here, after all. The mail room was at the back of the first floor, well away from the skyscraper’s lobbies and elevators and public access areas. It wasn’t easy to find unless one was looking for it, so unexpected visitors were all but unheard of. Sure, it could be maintenance or custodial, but usually they didn’t stop in until well after regular business hours.
All the shelves made this place something of a maze, so you had to weave around a couple of corners before you could even see the door. And when you did, you froze with a faint gasp - it was Clark.
Hands tucked in his pockets, he grinned impishly at your surprised expression. His obvious amusement caused all your anxieties to melt away as if they hadn’t even existed in the first place, though they were now replaced with anticipation. You bit your lip with a faint smirk as Clark slowly crossed towards you, his eyes toying.
“You know…” He started, his tone rich with teasing. His long legs carried him to you in no time, and soon he was standing over you with an amorous gleam in his eyes that caused a shiver to crawl down your spine, “That gift was very… distracting all day.”
You couldn’t help the way your smile grew large, looking Clark up and down excitably before craning your neck to meet his eyes again. His stare was darker than usual, shadowed by the terrible lighting and the tilt of his head; yet, it was also darkened by something else, something burning. A nervous giggle sounded between your lips, and you had to look away to compose yourself.
“Distracting?” You tried to sound provoking rather than mousy, though with the way Clark looked at you, all you felt were nerves. You glanced up at him through your lashes, enjoying his hooded eyed look, the curve of his mouth, the way he seemed so tall right now.
Seeing right through your coyness, Clark faintly laughed, drinking you in tenderly, “It wasn’t exactly easy conducting an interview when all I could think about was how pretty you looked in nothing but these panties…”
Your body thrilled as Clark pulled the dainty lingerie from one of his pockets, his tone suggestive as he looked between your eyes. Already, you felt like electricity was coursing through you as you nibbled your lip again.
Aiming for flirtatiousness, your words came out quieter than you intended, “So… I take it that you liked it?”
Clark rolled his eyes with utter fondness, a grin spreading wider across his face. He looked at you with such desire that it left no room for doubt, “‘Liked it?’”
So quickly that it nearly made your head spin, Clark scooped you up as if you weighed nothing, a surprised squeak leaving your throat as you were lifted off your feet. His arms were strong beneath your rear as your hands steadied atop his shoulders, gaze dumbfounded and large as they searched Clark’s roused face.
Now, eye level with one another, Clark leaned forward, nose nearly brushing yours as he whispered, “You have no idea…”
You took a deep breath at the thirst in his tone, fingers flexing into the fabric of his suit jacket, growing hot with want. Just as swiftly as he lifted you, Clark backed you towards the nearest desk and propped you on the edge. He groped your thighs, pushing at your skirt so you could spread your legs, letting him wedge comfortably between them; you were buzzing at his touch, at the feel of his body against yours.
Clark’s hands began to wander, gliding over your legs and the curve of your ass, up your waist and back. The heat of his touch made you shiver, body arching into his, your fingers gripping either side of his neck. His immodest stare caused another pulse of desire in your center, and you pressed ever so slightly closer.
Clark’s lips hovered just out of reach as he continued to drink you in, hands flexing into the meat of your thighs, wrinkling your skirt while hiking it up even higher. Against the inside of your thigh, you felt him twitch, to which you took in a sharp, shameless breath.
Something that had admittedly surprised you about Clark was his lustfulness. He seemed so sweet while you were getting to know one another, that when you two had decided to make things serious, you were taken aback by just how sensual he was. Even still - with you up on a desk, with your skirt dangerously high, with his hands grasping needily - you were left nearly breathless by his desire.
You were a sensual person in your own right, yet you felt like it couldn’t even compare to Clark’s impassioned appetite. Nonetheless, you were still eager to match where he was at, the way he seemed so comfortable clinging to you, how easily he spoke words of desire and kissed you with pining.
Feeling emboldened by the energy radiating from Clark, you pressed flush against him, arms snaking around his neck, breathing each other’s air like it was all you needed. You were silently grateful to your past-self for having this idea - she had her moments of genius, you must admit.
Plucking up your courage, you whispered against Clark’s lips, your cheeks growing hot with your words, “You know… before wrapping them, I was wearing those panties this morning…”
Clark’s chest swelled with a deep inhale, fingers digging into your skin. You’d practically forgotten that said panties were still in his hand, the little straps wound around his fingers, the silk a thin layer against skin.
Lustfully, he pulled his hand from you, slowly drawing it towards himself, your eyes following like your panties were a beacon. With the fabric brushing against his nose, Clark breathed in your sweet scent, his lashes fluttering as his eyes rolled back. Your mouth fell open as you clenched tight around nothing, the arousal in his face turning you on far too easily. You practically whined in your throat as he hummed, contently sniffing your panties once more before meeting your gaze.
Clark’s voice was husky as he dropped the lacey fabric onto the desk beside you, “So, if I were to check right now…”
His hand trailed from your knee up the inside of your thigh, creeping closer and closer to your hot center. He hesitated just long enough to tease you, gauging the look of want on your face, before cupping your bare pussy in his large hand, your toes curling as you held back a moan. The corner of Clark’s mouth tugged up in a foxy grin, pressing the heel of his palm firmly against your clit with a self-satisfied rumble in his chest.
“Just for me?” He teased while rubbing you gently, which finally drew a faint whimper from your mouth. He was growing hard against your thigh, the brush of his head intoxicating even through the layers of his clothes; your eyes fluttered briefly, as if this simple touch alone could get you off.
Clark dipped his head down, nose grazing along your jaw; you leaned back, exposing your neck while he took a deep breath of you. His lips were ghost-like against your skin, trailing gingerly down the length of your jugular, as if he wasn’t ready to kiss you quite yet. His warm hand still pressed and rubbed tauntingly at your pussy, making you wet with almost no effort.
You bit your lip in anticipation, wanting nothing more than for Clark to take full advantage of the position you were in. Yet he refrained, lips hovering along your skin and palm applying just enough pressure to your clit to make you antsy.
Unintentionally, you whined impatiently in your throat, to which Clark chuckled lowly, his mouth stalling just below your jawline so he could whisper:
“Tell me what you want, darlin’.”
You became taut with desire, his sultry tone sinful against your skin. For emphasis, he planted a firm, wet kiss just beneath your ear, but otherwise stayed perfectly still. Save for the way he twitched in his trousers as he felt you shiver against him.
Sometimes, it seemed as if Clark got off to making you use your words. You were so much better with the written word than the spoken, yet he insisted on prying your wants and needs straight from your mouth. It made your skin fiery hot when you’d ask him to kiss you or touch you, and yet to do so was also a thrill. And Clark took far too much pleasure from the way it made you squirm.
Biting your lip, you tried to compose yourself, Clark’s breath hot on your throat as he waited with teasing patience. You pressed against his hand wantonly, knowing exactly what you wanted but still plucking up the courage to say it. To emphasize his point, Clark hummed as if in question, a long, deep sound in his chest.
You delicately curled your hand into the hair at the back of his head, tugging ever so carefully; you heard the faint hitch of his breath, “I want you to touch me.”
“And?” He prompted, unmoving until you gave him clearer instruction. The thump of your heart was one part excited and another part nervous as you licked your lips. Clark’s nose brushed along your jaw again as he moved to meet your eyes; his expression was dark with ardor, his teasing smile barely there.
“I…” You couldn’t even get anything out as you shivered with anticipation, which only made Clark look all the more amused. Your gaze trailed down to his lips, looking far too pretty and kissable and enticing. Your words quickly spilled from your mouth before you could stop yourself, “Show me what you thought about doing to me all day.”
Clark’s eyes lit up, grin widening as if bewitched. Clearly, that was just the right thing to say to him, because quickly his free hand grabbed your thigh, manhandling you until your foot was propped atop the table, legs spread wide for him. You had to leverage your own hands on the lip of the desk as you gasped faintly, but Clark kept you in place easily, his palm nice and warm over your pussy.
In the very next breath, his lips crashed against yours with fervor, sloppy and wet as you moaned unabashedly. The two of you moved together in lustful frenzy, Clark’s hands wandering your body as you arched into him, nails digging into the desk. You hooked one leg around the back of his thigh, trying to draw him even closer.
Clark groped at your leg braced on the desk, fingertips dragging from your ankle to your knee up your thigh, squeezing possessively at your soft skin. His hand was just rough enough to leave you gasping, and you considered that his touch may leave a bruise; that thought on its own was enough to make you clench, yearning for more of him.
He continued the scorching trail, reaching up to cup your jaw, large fingers splaying wide across your cheek. You leaned into the touch with a tender sigh, pressing your heel greedily against his ass as his opposite hand returned comfortably between your legs.
When finally Clark grazed his fingertips along your warm slit, you gasped into his mouth, to which he smirked in response. He stroked through your folds slowly at first, delighting in the way you writhed as if his touch was static electricity.
“Clark,” You managed to murmur between kisses. He drew his lips back just enough for the two of you to catch your breath, foreheads resting against one another’s. His fingers continued to gently toy with you, teasing along your pussy in a way that was damn near distracting.
Something salacious had crossed your mind, and you were nervous all over again while requesting in an airy tone, “Talk me through me?”
Once again, you felt Clark’s cock twitch against you, making you very aware of just how thick and hard he was, how he was surely straining in his pants. Your leg around him squeezed affirmingly.
You weren’t sure what had compelled you to ask this of him, but it was mouth-watering to flip the script against him, to insist that he use his words instead of the other way around. Clark leaned his head back just enough to look you in the eye, his grin dazzling and warm as he considered you for a brief moment.
His tongue prodded along his teeth predatorily, which sent a thrill right through you. Slowly, he pressed his mouth to the shell of your ear, smelling your shampoo before sighing contently.
“Talk you through it, huh?” He whispered, his tone causing you to tighten.
Knowing the effect he had on you, Clark dipped his index finger inside you, but paused only at the first knuckle, barely there and yet immediately driving you wild. You keened as your hips stuttered towards his touch, but Clark refrained from moving just yet.
“You know what I was thinking about all day…” He started, voice gravelly in his throat. It was agonizing the way that his finger lingered at your entrance, just enough to tease; you clenched around him desirously, “I was thinking about how dirty you are, sending me your panties wrapped up in a pretty little box.”
Clark finally sunk his long finger all the way inside you, the gasp on your lips like music to his ears. Your hands were tight around the edge of the desk, tense as you waited for his next move, your eyes fluttering shut.
Unhurriedly, Clark withdrew from your pussy, pausing just before you were empty of him, “All day, I was picturing you just like this; spread wide and eager for me.”
This time, he dipped all the way back inside you more insistently; you flexed again with another sound of pleasure. Settling into a leisurely rhythm, Clark began to pump his finger in and out, lips grazing your ear as he continued.
“It was so distracting, I barely got any work done. All I could think about was you.”
You moaned with another clench, hips moving with the thrust of Clark’s thick finger. His opposite hand groped at your ass, your waist, your breast, squeezing as if to claim you, breathing heavily in your ear.
You blindly tried to reach between the two of you, petting at Clark’s erection through his trousers, humming smally at the feel of him. But with a deep grunt, he grasped your hand tight and pulled it away from him; he found your eyes again, stare intense and commanding.
“Oh no, that’s not what I had in mind.”
You realized that his finger inside you had stopped, but you were so captured by Clark’s stare that you refrained from moving. He grinned hungrily at your attentiveness before leaning in, mouth brushing against yours.
“I want you to get off just like this.” He kissed you fiercely.
You whimpered into Clark’s searing lips, clenching around his single finger as a shiver dashed intensely up your spine. He met your eyes expectantly.
“Like the sound of that, darlin’?”
You nodded, breathing out a hurried, “Yes.”
“That’s my girl.”
With that, Clark slid a second finger inside you, the greedy sound in your throat nearly embarrassing as he plunged deep. Through hooded eyes, he watched you intensely, the parting of your lips and flutter of your eyes; the intent in his stare was enough to make you mewl, bracing your hands tight to the desk.
Against your leg, Clark’s erection rubbed in slow, languid ruts, moving in time with his fingers burying inside you. His breath was hot on your skin, lips grazing your throat as your head fell back.
God, everything about Clark was big; the thrusts of his fingers filled you too well, your body tingling each time he pushed inside, so full yet desperate for more. The sinful sounds spilling from your lips seemed to make him ravenous, kissing your skin sloppily, humping your thigh while his fingers grew faster.
You began to roll your hips with him, riding the push of his fingers wantonly, pussy clenching with each hit. Sometimes it was like Clark knew your body too well, knew exactly where to kiss and touch, how best to get you higher and higher. It was downright unfair the way he understood what made you tick.
Making his way down your neck, Clark’s breath was heavy on your skin, creating the faintest of moisture at your collarbone. His fingers continued their cruel rhythm, the rut of his hips making your leg tighten around him, wanting to be filled up. As salacious moans escaped you, he grasped tenderly at your jaw with his free hand, guiding you to meet his eyes again.
“You feel good, darlin’?” His voice was gruff and intoxicating; you nodded eagerly, biting your lip as his fingers pushed just a little deeper, “Want some more?”
Clenching around him, you hummed in affirmation. Grinning hungrily, Clark thumbed at your clit, pressing your sensitive bud and swirling it with his thrusts. The touch drew a whine from your throat, but his hold on your chin kept you from throwing your head back, instead keeping your eyes locked with his. The two of you moved in sync as you rode his fingers, as he teased your clit, your body jolting like static.
Sweet yet insistent, Clark kissed you again deeply, mouth hungry on yours as he groaned. His fingers were slick between your folds, buried deep inside as you twitched against the pressure of his thumb. As his tongue pushed past your lips, your toes curled, hands gripping tight to the desk, hips bucking more urgently into his touch.
Clark, too, began to hump your leg with a similar urgency, the friction between your thigh and his cock enough to make your eyes roll back. You whined into one another’s mouths, tongues twining, perspiration forming at your brow, Clark’s hair falling from its well-groomed style to brush along your forehead. You felt yourself winding tighter and tighter, like a spring getting ready to burst, and abruptly you broke away from Clark’s lips.
Attempting to catch your breath, you mewled at the feel of his fingers before managing to squeak out, “Clark, please--”
His forehead rested against your cheek, pace unrelenting, “‘Please,’ what?”
You clenched around him, struggling to find your words, “I need--need you inside me--”
Clark took a sharp breath, fingers stuttering; after a quick beat, he rolled his thumb over your clit again, making you whimper before he suddenly pulled out of you.
You barely had a chance to think as his hands worked quickly, yanking your rear closer to the edge of the desk before fumbling with his belt and zipper. You grabbed hold of Clark’s shoulders to keep steady as his buckle came undone, his button unfastened. His pants brushed against your inner thigh as he freed himself, thick cock bumping against your stomach and pelvis, a needy sound in your throat as you tried to shimmy your hips closer.
Clark’s clamoring made you even more hungry for him, one hand weaving into his hair as you sloppily kissed one another. His knuckles brushed against your stomach as he grabbed his dick, guiding it to prod at your entrance; the sound of desire in your throat was downright shameful.
Clark pressed his forehead to yours again, gaze cast down as he breathed deep, “Move your skirt; I want to see you.”
Your pussy clenched at the instruction, chest aching with utter desire. You reached between your hot bodies, fingers twisting in the fabric of your skirt, pulling it up and to the side, baring yourself for Clark to see. He exhaled with a shudder, as if simply the sight of you was making it hard to breathe; his tip slid over your folds as you bit down on your lip, waiting for that familiar push into you.
When Clark lined himself up and slowly began to sink his cock inside your waiting pussy, an unrestrained moan drew from between your lips. He was so big - so thick and long and intimidating - stretching you out to the point that it nearly hurt. He took his time with you, letting you adjust to his size as he inched in until finally he bottomed out.
He paused there, your body tense around his dick, strained breathes spilling from your mouth. Your fingers twisted tight in his hair, heel pressing against his ass as your head fell back; god, you may never get used to the feel of him.
Clark pressed wet kisses up the expanse of your throat, so very patient with you; his cock twitched inside you, to which you gasped and held him a little tighter. After a long moment, he tentatively began to pull out, more whines and moans escaping you as he moved; once he was nearly unsheathed, he sunk back into your warm pussy with a satisfied grunt.
Bracing his hands either side of you, Clark began to pump in and out of your slick folds, forehead resting upon your shoulder. He breathed you in deeply, as if drunk on your scent, hips finding a steady rhythm that made you keen, uninhibited and vulgar, as you clenched around him.
It felt as if he barely fit inside you, hitting up against your uterus, stretching your walls with his staggering size. He continued to move slowly as if fearful that he’d break you, and his gentleness stoked a fire at your center; you still wanted more.
You leaned your cheek against Clark’s hair, breathing into his ear, “Faster, baby--”
Clark’s hips bucked a little, both surprised and greedy, “You sure?”
It was a conversation you’d already had half a dozen times already, and the answer was the same each and every time.
“Yes.”
With a yearning moan in his chest, Clark thrust up into you harder and faster, fingers digging into your hips to keep you in place. The surprised yelp that leapt from you was practically pornographic as you clung tight to him, head lulling back as his cock pumped inside you.
You were so utterly wet with desire, the pressure of his dick against your walls dizzying, his hot breath moist on your neck. You wrapped your legs tight around his waist, feeling his heat through the clothes, the flex of his muscles against your calves and thighs.
Your nails raked along his shoulders and into his hair, scratching against his scalp while you continued to gasp wildly. The desk legs scraped against the floor with each strong jerk of Clark’s hips, with each deep plunge of his cock.
Sinking particularly deep inside you, Clark fumbled to grasp your chin again, cupping it firmly as he found your gaze; he drank in your expression of ecstasy through hood eyes before planting a fierce, sloppy kiss to your lips. His thrusts grew hasty as he kissed you feverishly, mouth swallowing your mewls, tongue greedy against yours.
God, it was ridiculous how close you already were, how your pussy clenched around Clark’s thrusts, how you thrummed with mounting desire. He hit all the right spots, the pressure of his dick burying into you intoxicating, pelvis pressing against your clit each time he bottomed out. You tried in vain to grind your hips in time with him, but his impossibly strong hands held you steady, fingertips gripping hard into the fat of your hips.
Clark’s mouth broke from yours, a string of spit connecting you as his nose nudged your jaw, urging your head back again. He kissed and nipped along the length of your neck, moaning into your skin as his cock continued to pound up into you, unrelenting and delectable. The sound of the desk scrapping beneath you echoed about the room, mingling with your combined moans that grew less restrained by the minute.
When Clark’s teeth bit your skin with more pressure than you were expecting, you yelped as your nails scratched hard against his head and neck. He didn’t even flinch at his own pain, though his hips faltered.
“Sorry.” He grumbled against your neck, pressing a faint kiss to your skin; you tightened your thighs around his middle, rolling your hips insistently.
“Don’t be.” You managed to barely breath out, your movement causing the perfect friction on your clit that made your eyes cross. A shameless cry of pleasure fell from your parted lips, a command escaping you before you could even think about it, “Do it again.”
Clark’s hair brushed along your jawline; you could picture his expression without seeing it, one of question and confirmation, “What?”
You dropped your chin to find that captivating stare of his, continuing to grind against his pelvis; his eyes fluttered with a groan, cock twitching as you answered, “Bite me?”
The look on Clark’s face rapidly went from surprise to obscene desire, and so you exposed your neck again for him. His fingers flexed hungrily against your waist as he picked up his steady and deep thrusts once more, leaning into the crook of your neck and taking in the scent of you. Greedily, you pushed forward with a whine, feeling taut once Clark’s teeth grazed along your skin again.
He didn’t bite hard - he was far too gentle a lover for that - but the pressure was just enough to make your head spin. Your body coiled with lust, hot at your center while your pussy tightened around him, fingers woven into his pretty locks. With each nip, Clark slid his tongue along your fiery skin, causing your toes to curl and eyes to disappear into the back of your head.
The slap of Clark’s skin against yours was mind numbing, the stretch of your walls driving you into a frenzy. His thick cock stroked at every sensitive spot within you, head prodding so deep that it made your knees quiver. Your legs around him grew tighter as he bit your neck again, body arching into him as you began to practically see stars. Twisting your hand tight in his hair, you felt shaky with urgency, a slew of titillating moans leaving you each time Clark sank back into you.
“Oh, fu--!” Your thighs clamped tight, pussy throbbing as Clark held you and nipped your neck; you were so far gone, vision blurring and body on the verge.
Knowing your needs like the back of his hand, Clark held your hips tight and jerked roughly into you, his dick burying as far as he could, where he began to grind with aching desire. You cried out again while tugging his hair, tensing around him as you bent back, eyes up towards the heavens, “Clark--!”
And then you came toppling down, trembling as your orgasm washed over you, vision black and clinging to Clark for dear life as you mewled.
Still in the midst of your high, you felt him hold you even tighter as a nearly pathetic moan escaped him; he rolled his hips roughly with yours once more before he tensed, too. Inside you, he twitched, filling you with his desire, the both of you keening at your shared release.
You and Clark clung to one another, catching your breath as your head still spun, as his cock continued to spill inside you. Everything felt like jelly, legs falling either side of his, limp and tired; Clark’s steady hands gliding up your back were the only things keeping you from falling back onto the desk. His lips tickled against your neck, chest heaving deeply as he pressed his damp forehead against your cheek. He twitched again unconsciously, causing the both of you to whine.
Still panting, Clark lifted his head, looking between your eyes tenderly, the corner of his mouth tugging back into that sweet grin that drove you wild. He pulled you into a long, adoring kiss, a faint moan escaping you at the way your bodies shifted against one another. When your lips broke apart, he rested his forehead to yours; and in the next breath, you giggled.
Clark smiled, laughing faintly with you as your noses brushed, “What?”
You bit your lip, trying to make sense of your post-sex giddiness, “I just… we’re at work.”
He chuckled again, lips grazing yours with each whispered word, “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” You huff, grinning as Clark nuzzled to your neck, “I don’t know… maybe we should do this more often.”You clenched unexpectedly, Clark still half-hard inside you, causing the both of you to groan. He was right - maybe you should do this more often.
.
.
Addt. Author's Note | Once again, for those curious: the title is from E.E. Cummings, and the quote is from D.H. Lawrence.
Summary | Too nervous to talk to Clark directly, you start writing him love notes instead.
Warnings & Notes | 18+, fem!reader, fluff, shy/nervous reader, dare i say cheesy?, lit references, r described as having long nails
Author's Note | Adapted from this blurb. The idea came to me abruptly and I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Hope I did Clark justice, it’s my first time writing him <3
WC | 6.9k
[read pt. two here]
!!! MINORS DNI !!!
“Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
I cannot, now I see them, say
I missed one terribly all day.”
Before you could second guess this ridiculous decision, you set the stack of incoming mail and memos in the tray on Clark’s desk, your note folded inconspicuously on top. You looked around the office, worried that someone might see you, but you seemed to be in the clear, and so you continued pushing your cart down the rows of desks, delivering stacks accordingly.
In a place as busy as the Daily Planet, it shouldn’t come as a surprise that no one took notice of the mail person. Oftentimes, that worked in your favor, as you were able to slide under the radar when you walked the press floor or slipped into an office when delivering stacks of letters. You much preferred to go unnoticed; and given that you serviced this entire skyscraper and not just the Daily Planet, it was an incredibly easy thing to disappear amongst the throngs of people.
That’s why you’d even plucked up the courage to leave something for Clark to begin with. You’d worked here for years, yet so few people recognized you; you doubted that Clark even knew your name. Hell, just recently you’d had more than one person throughout the building ask if you were a new hire. That was the beauty of working in one of the busiest buildings in the busiest cities on the east coast - total anonymity.
You met Clark Kent on his first day of work, in which he stumbled straight into your mail cart while rushing to make it in on time. In his clumsiness, he sent your perfectly organized assembly of letters and packages and folders into a disarray. Honestly, you were so upset that your face got fiery hot and you refrained from even speaking a word to him as you dropped to the floor to collect everything. You’d spent your entire morning getting that cart in order, and you effectively had to start all over.
Flustered and tripping over his words, Clark knelt down with you, scooping up the scattered papers and envelopes. He hurriedly apologized over and over again, his tone so sincere and concerned that it took you aback - you weren’t used to anyone in this building, let alone in Metropolis, being so kind and willing to help.
When you finally willed yourself to meet Clark’s gaze, you were struck by the gentleness of his eyes, the utterly sweet look on his face as he tried to gauge your attitude. He carefully handed you a haphazard stack of files, once again apologizing for his blunder. Your fingertips brushed over his as you grabbed the papers, your cheeks still hot, though for a different reason now. You accepted his apology meekly before returning your attention to the mess of mail around you.
It was impossible to stay frustrated with Clark after that - yes, he threw off your morning and it was annoying, but he was far too sweet for you to hold onto that.
You didn’t learn who he was or which company he worked for until he eventually had mail arrive for him. Clark Kent, the Daily Planet. You hadn’t intended to remember him - after all, why would you - yet he’d already permeated into your memory following your initial meeting. And whether you liked it or not, your crush began to develop from there.
On the more obvious front, Clark’s looks drew attention - his height made everyone appear small, his shoulders were broad and legs long. Yes, he was physically attractive beneath his somewhat awkward personality, his eyes bright and beautiful, his curls always in a charming disarray. You’d caught yourself staring a little too often whenever you entered the Daily Planet’s offices.
But it was Clark’s kindness that made your heart really flutter. Even if he didn’t know who you were, he always smiled at you in the hall, he always said hello and made small talk in elevators or the cafeteria. It flustered you, his deep voice and attentive eyes, even if he only acknowledged you for mere moments; you weren’t used to being noticed.
You could barely look Clark in the eye for longer than second, twiddling your thumbs nervously whenever he’d ask about your day. When you eventually began to flip through issues of the newspaper in search of his name on the bylines, you knew you were in too deep. You felt like a silly school girl fantasizing about her crush.
You weren’t sure what compelled you to leave Clark a little note. It was as if you needed to do something to get your feelings out without admitting them right to his face.
Sure, you journaled, but that habit felt childish whenever you’d start writing about Clark specifically, the romantic ramblings of some younger version of you. And being an adult in a busy big city like Metropolis made it difficult to keep friends, so you didn’t have many opportunities to discuss this little crush with anyone over coffee or brunch.
So, during a lunch break while you were flipping through a W.H. Auden collection, you noticed that particular stanza in a poem and felt compelled for whatever reason to scribble it down. Though you were an avid reader, you were far from a writer, and so you admired the abilities of poets to create depth and meaning so beautifully.
Those lines in particular made you think of Clark; though, of course, the entire poem was one of unrequited love, which you could relate to far too easily. For the remainder of the day you thought about it, and by the time you returned home in the evening, you had come to the decision that you’d leave the quote for Clark to find - it was totally harmless, and maybe he’d find it endearing.
Of course, now that you’d done it, all you could feel were nerves. You tried to carry on casually, delivering everyone’s mail the same way you would any other day, trying not to look back towards Clark’s desk with even an ounce of longing. You were beginning to wonder if what you did was totally, pathetically foolish.
When you spotted Clark walking onto the Daily Planet’s office floor, your heart skipped anxiously, and you were immediately tempted to duck out to avoid your inevitable embarrassment. But unfortunately, you had a job to do, your cart still stacked high with mail to be delivered. So, whether you liked it or not, you sucked in a deep breath and tried to carry on as if you were completely calm.
As you pushed your cart along, you stole glances in Clark’s direction, admiring as he greeted everyone while crossing the room, delighting in his sweet smile and the way he laughed with Jimmy. Your cart bumped the corner of a luckily unoccupied desk, which drew a brief glance from someone nearby; you tried to shake yourself back to focus with a sigh.
Clark continued on to the coffee bar, and you nervously bit the inside of your lip as you watched him pour a mug before returning to his desk; he hadn’t noticed the note yet. As he sat down, your knuckles tightened on the cart handle, but he was still too preoccupied with his drink and hadn’t even spared a glance at his mail.
You really needed to focus. Clearing your throat, you continued on your route, dropping everyone’s mail into their respective baskets, all the while the thought of your note lingered around you like a pesky bug. Anxiously, you glanced back--
Oh god, he was holding it.
Even in profile, you could see the curious furrow in Clark’s brow as he read the quote. You froze, watching as he mulled the words over, delicately running his thumb along the paper's ripped edge, flipping it around between his fingers.
He read it again, his mouth finally curving into a charmed smile that caused your belly to stir, growing far too flustered. God, why was he smiling? Was that a good thing?
Clark set the note down next to his keyboard and took a sip of coffee before turning his attention to the computer, thoughtfulness in his expression as he began typing.
You rushed through the rest of your deliveries for the Daily Planet, getting out of there as quickly as you could to avoid any further nervousness. You were starting to think that maybe what you did was stupid - maybe Clark thought the quote was nothing, that it was left behind by accident. Or, maybe worse, he thought it strange that someone would leave it for him. Oh, you really hoped that wasn’t it, you couldn’t stand the thought.
You hadn’t planned on writing a second, third, or even fourth letter. After how embarrassed you got over the first one, you didn’t think you’d have the guts to try that ever again. As best you could, you tried not to think about Clark, though that effort only managed to put him on your mind even more than before.
As you’d do your daily round of mail dropoffs, you were grateful that you always got there before Clark did, or else you’d probably get all flustered. If you were lucky, you’d be done before he even arrived, though there was one day when he held the door for you with a charming little ‘good morning’ that left you giddy the rest of the day.
You noticed one of those mornings that your quote had been tucked underneath Clark’s keyboard, half sticking out - he probably already forgot all about it and didn’t realize it was still there. But the more hopeful side of you fantasized that he decided to hold onto it because he enjoyed it. Either way, you wouldn’t know - it’s not as if you could simply walk up and ask about it.
No, you wouldn’t write Clark anything else.
Except you did.
Perhaps you were feeling a little bold. After all, it had been a week since your original note, and it appeared as if Clark didn’t suspect a thing. So, much like that first time, you scribbled down a lovely little phrase you found and delivered it to Clark’s basket before his arrival:
“Do not seek the because - in love there is no because, no reason, no explanation, no solutions.”
If anything, this note made you both a little more nervous and yet a little more at ease - it was certainly easier to leave something the second time after how smoothly it went before.
And when you returned to the Daily Planet the following day, your heart swelled at the sight of your second note pinned on Clark’s corkboard. Maybe he didn’t think it weird, maybe your first note wasn’t shoved away totally forgotten; maybe he did find these charming. You lingered for a short beat, simply staring at your letter in mild disbelief before smiling to yourself and continuing on with your work day.
And almost like clockwork, about another week went by and you began to feel the impulse to write Clark again. This time, you were specifically seeking out quotes for him, flipping through books of poetry with a childlike giddiness. Now that you were growing comfortable with your secret little notes, it made you eager to see how Clark might react to them.
Though, of course, there was that anxious part of you that worried he may start trying to figure out who was leaving them - you weren’t sure if you liked that or not. What if he reacted poorly if he figured out it was you? Maybe he already assumed it was someone else, maybe he was even hoping they were from a particular person. That thought made your stomach clench with preemptive disappointment.
You held onto your third note for longer than you planned - you couldn’t quite bring yourself to leave it on Clark’s desk thanks to those pesky anxious thoughts of yours.
But, you tried to reason with yourself, Clark hadn’t a clue who wrote these and you hadn’t given yourself away. It was like some private conversation between you, something for just the two of you; what if, on the opposite end of the spectrum, Clark was awaiting the next letter?
So, you dropped off your third note, feeling confident enough to smile brightly at Clark as you walked past one another in the hall.
“I Loved thee, though I told thee not,
Right earlily and long,
Thou wert my joy in every spot,
My theme in every song.”
Another couple days later, you noticed that this note had been pinned over the last one, smiling to yourself as you breezed past Clark’s desk. Surely you couldn’t make this a weekly thing, that seemed like a little too much considering each letter was sent in secret - how long could you really keep that up? And how long before Clark got tired of them, or figured out it was you?
No, you couldn’t do this forever. But at the very least, you could keep doing it for now.
In your pursuit of quotes for Clark, you decided at some point that you wanted to reread Cyrano de Bergerac. The play was an assigned reading all the way back in high school, and you remembered being moved by the film adaptation, though you couldn’t remember it much now.
You’d written Clark maybe a handful more of notes, feeling a little braver each and every time you noticed them being added to his little collection on the corkboard. That very first letter that started this whole introverted flirtation was still tucked beneath his keyboard - you wondered at what that could mean.
So, with Cyrano in mind, you picked up a thrifted copy and began reading on breaks or before bed. And that’s when the quote jumped out at you, hitting you in the face like a ton of bricks:
“My heart always timidly hides itself behind my mind. I set out to bring down stars from the sky, then, for fear of ridicule, I stop and pick little flowers of eloquence.”
You found a part of yourself there in the words, the conflict of desire and insecurity. You felt like a woman possessed as you grabbed for your notebook, jotting the quote down in hurried letters. Even as you transcribed it, you considered if this was perhaps too revealing, if sharing it with Clark would feel like bearing too much of yourself.
And yet, you thought about the titular Cyrano and his own embarrassment, the way he hid himself from Roxane. Were you projecting way too hard right now? That little voice in your head certainly thought so as you went back and forth on the ridiculousness of wanting to leave a man little love notes in the first place.
But you did it in spite of your fears. You entered the Daily Planet and began your usual routine, note safely tucked into your pocket until you could deliver it. Up and down the rows of desks you went, your whole body like static with anticipation, thinking up every possible scenario revolving around how Clark might react to this note.
You were so preoccupied with said thoughts that you hadn’t noticed when the man himself walked in the door. It wasn’t until you heard that laugh of his from the coffee bar that you realized he was here, the pleasant sound making your back go rigid. No, he couldn’t be here right now - why was he early? He was never early. Should you hold onto the note until tomorrow?
Your head was practically ringing with anxiety as you tried to come to a decision - try to discreetly deliver it, or wait?
You allowed your gaze to wander over to Clark with trepidation, looking him up and down as he leaned against the bar while sipping from his mug, nodding at whatever conversation he was having with a group of his fellow journalists. He seemed preoccupied enough - maybe you could try for it.
You started to push along faster, a little less careful with everyone else’s mail stacks so you could get to Clark’s desk as soon as possible. All the while, your eyes kept tracking him; the way he hunched over Lois’s chair to glance at a draft she pulled up; when he crossed towards the receptionist desk, then towards Perry’s office. You really thought you just might luck out, given how preoccupied he seemed to be.
Finally at Clark’s desk, you hesitated for just a moment, gaze jumping about for any sign of him. All that he received today was an envelope that was most likely trying to sell him on something, so your note would be far more obvious. You quickly pulled it from your pocket, smoothing a crease from it before setting it down and quickly moving on.
You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding, smiling faintly to yourself - you could finally freaking relax.
Or so you thought. As you breezed past Jimmy Olsen’s desk, he exclaimed as if remembering something, waving his hand to grab your attention. But you hadn’t realized it was for you, so you kept walking, somewhat distracted by your relief.
“Hey, uuuh…!” His voice trailed off for a long beat, “Uh, mail girl!”
You froze, eyes widening some. God, you hoped he hadn’t noticed the letter. Stiffly, you turned to face Jimmy, nails digging into your palms nervously.
Jimmy simply looked back at you with a friendly little grin, though there was a brief flash of confusion in his eyes. He tilted his head to one side as he looked you over as if to make an assessment of you - his stare did nothing to calm your quickly beating heart.
“Sorry about that, I’m terrible with names. We’ve met before, right?” He started.
“Kind of.” You answered in what you hoped was a calm tone, chewing at the inside of your lip. Just as you were about to add more, a tall frame breezed past you while saying your name, surprising you enough that you jumped.
Clark. Clark said your name. He remembered your name. Did you ever actually give it to him? Oh no, oh no, oh no--
“What, can’t even bother to remember the name of the woman who brings you mail everyday?” Clark teased Jimmy. His smile was just as dazzling as ever as he glanced at you as if the two of you were in on a joke. You thought your chest may burst from how hard your heart was hammering inside it. Clark remembered your name, acting as if it was ridiculous for anyone to forget it. The wires in your brain dared to cross and tangle and knot.
“I already said I was sorry!” Jimmy held up his hands in surrender, looking between you two with a grin. You glanced nervously at Clark from the corner of your eye, the three of you creating a semicircle; catching the look, he smiled warmly.
“How are things in the mail room?” He asked politely, though at the moment you so wished he wouldn’t. This would be a whole lot easier for you right now if he wasn’t so kind, because you desperately wanted to retreat back to your work.
You swallowed your nerves, looking up at him with the best fake smile you could muster, hoping that you seemed convincingly calm and unbothered. The way Clark stared back attentively was already too much for you - it was a trait of his that was otherwise swoonworthy, but right now was just amping up your stress again.
“Same old mail room that it was yesterday. And the day before that.” You tried, your effort rewarded by an amused smirk from both Clark and Jimmy. Clark nodded, looking between your eyes and taking in your features; you shivered under his eyes, but prayed he didn’t notice.
“Well, look,” Jimmy chimed back in. “Again, sorry about being rude,” he shot a look at Clark for emphasis, “I just wanted to ask about getting some mailing supplies up here - I’ve got some shots to send out soon, but I can’t find the right envelope size.”
You nodded, trying to listen attentively to Jimmy’s request, trying your best not to glance towards Clark even for a second. In your periphery, you noticed him watching you for a moment longer before he turned to his desk; you chewed on your cheek, anxious about the note that you’d left behind for him.
Jimmy continued explaining what supplies he’d need, and you chimed in with hums of acknowledgement or follow-up questions. All the while, Clark sunk into his chair, still facing the two of you as he settled in and spread his knees far wider than he had any right to; he sipped from his coffee, watching as if he needed to be part of this discussion. Setting his bag down, he lazily spun in the chair to log into his computer; he still didn’t glance at the mail stack. You silently begged for Jimmy to wrap this up soon.
Clark absentmindedly spun in his chair slowly; god, you could feel his eyes burning into you. Why was he still watching you so closely, why was he staring like that? His attention eventually diverted, a pencil twirling between his fingers.
You interrupted something Jimmy was saying when you realized you weren’t paying enough attention, nudging your head in the direction of your cart, “You know what, let me write this down or else I’ll forget all about it.”
You snatched a scrap piece of paper from the bottom shelf as Jimmy offered you a pen. You leaned over his desk, only briefly considering whether or not this stance was attractive before you began to scribble out the envelope sizes he was hoping for, as well as varying packaging materials; off the top of your head, you figured you’d have most of this down in the mail room.
As you clicked the pen and handed it back, you spared another furtive glance at Clark--
Who was reading your note.
No, no, no, why did he have to notice it now?
You froze with dread, staring at Clark as his eyes dashed across the quote over and over again, his head cocked a little in consideration. Oh, you desperately wanted to get the hell out of here right now before you passed out from anxiety.
His brow furrowed much like it did the first time before he set the note down next to his keyboard once again; his fingertips tugged the other note out, seemingly comparing them. So, he did keep it intentionally. Knowing that made you even more nervous, and you snapped your eyes back towards Jimmy in a measly effort to calm down.
“So, um, I can bring these tomorrow, if I have them.” You explained, managing to sound mostly at ease even as you felt anything but.
Jimmy sighed with relief, “Oh, you’re a lifesaver.”
You bit your lip, feeling like your head was swimming, even as you managed to reply, “Wouldn’t celebrate too early. If I can’t find these, it can take a few days to order them.”
Whatever Jimmy said next fell on deaf ears, as you looked back in Clark’s direction only to realize he was looking right back at you.
Flustered, you straightened your shoulders and dropped your gaze, trying to grab your newly written list from atop Jimmy’s desk, but the surface was so smooth and your nails were just long enough that you couldn’t scoop it up easily. You fussed with it a moment, getting your nails under the corner; but before you could get a good grip, it slipped from your hand and fluttered to the floor.
Your heart panged loudly in your chest as it slid in Clark’s direction before halting. Like the gentleman that he so annoyingly was, he stood and grabbed it before you even had the chance to move. Crossing the short distance towards you, he held it out, none the wiser to the utter panic attack you were about to have.
Looking up at Clark trepidatiously, you realized he wasn’t looking at you. Rather, his eyes were studiously staring at the supply list, that cute furrow between his brow again.
He knew. You were certain of it.
Quickly, you snatched the paper from his outstretched hand, fingers brushing over his as you did so.
“Thanks!” You exclaimed with far too much chipperness, trying to compensate for the fear in your chest. You looked between Jimmy and Clark, attempting to smile innocently while nodding towards your cart again, “I should really get going, lots of mail to deliver.”
You spun on your heel and began pushing the cart before either of them could barely get a goodbye past their lips. From behind you, you realized Clark had called “have a nice day” after you, but at that point you’d felt embarrassed enough that you simply kept your head down and walked faster.
Clark watched you for a long minute as you kept your back strictly to him, continuing your morning deliveries with such hurried steps that it was nearly amusing. Jimmy was speaking while turning to his computer, but Clark wasn’t listening as he considered you with a curious, inquisitive knot in his brow.
Filling dropping his gaze, Clark looked back at the two little notes on his desk, then glanced at the little collection forming on his board. In that brief moment that he held your supply list in his hand, he was struck by your distinctly familiar handwriting, the slant of your letters, the way you crossed your Ts. And the way you all but ripped the paper from his hand and ran off only added to his suspicions.
Picking up the note that had been left for him today, Clark read the quote again thoughtfully before typing it into the search bar to pull up its source. Cyrano de Bergerac was a title he was familiar with, but he’d personally never read the play.
Over his shoulder, Clark glanced around the Daily Planet for you. Could it have been you who left these notes? He supposed it made sense considering that they were in his mail tray before he arrived, but anyone could have done that to remain anonymous.
But your handwriting…
Clark remembered his first day of work as clearly as you did, though following that he wasn’t quite sure who you were for a long time. Given your job, he didn’t see a lot of you around the office or the entire building; and there were so many people that worked here, it was easy for them to start blurring together.
His second notable memory of you was seeing you in the cafeteria with a large book spread out in front of you at a table; it stuck out to him because everyone else around here always seemed too busy and caught up in their ambitions to read, even skipping lunches so they could keep working. It’s something Clark himself was guilty of on occasion.
And although at first he didn’t remember that you were the same person whose cart he sent into disarray, he found himself staring for a long beat. He had eyes, after all, he recognized that you were cute from a mile away. But you were also antisocial, never one for extended conversation, never staying long whenever someone in the Planet stopped you to talk. Clark came to enjoy that there was something mysterious about you - he couldn’t quite tell whether your standoffish tendencies were because of nervousness or a general disdain for people.
He figured it was the former, because whenever he’d strike up conversation with you, you never seemed opposed to it. You were an attentive listener, with eager eyes and an expressive face - if you didn’t want to be spoken to, he assumed you wouldn’t be quite so approachable.
But the notes… Clark could only assume they were something akin to love letters, which then could only mean one thing. You liked him.
It made Clark smile to himself, this romantic notion that he had a secret admirer, and that it could only be you. Yes, Clark had dated, he’d flirted, he had his fair share of experience; this little approach of yours was, arguably, the most charmed he’d ever been, though.
Clark glanced around one last time, catching a glimpse of you heading towards the doors. You chewed your lower lip, expression still a little flustered. As he watched you warmly, his smile grew a little larger, taking you in more closely than he had before - the way you walked, how your outfit flattered your frame, the texture of your hair.
Clark’s gaze flicked back to the notes, nodding to himself while looking between them thoughtfully. His cheeks grew flushed ever so slightly, feeling a little silly to be so enthralled by your secretive flirting, yet it evidently worked better than you’d thought.
With a decided look on his face, Clark began typing at his computer when an idea struck him.
Clark was already sitting at his desk; you sighed deeply, because of course he was already here. All week you’d been avoiding him, unable to even think about him without feeling all-out embarrassment. This felt like a cruel joke, as if he were waiting there specifically for you.
But you could just walk on by, act like he wasn’t even then. He didn’t have anything for him this morning, so there was absolutely no reason to stop at his desk. You could do this, you told yourself over and over like a mantra, holding your chin high as you began your laps around the Daily Planet.
Even from across the room, you could tell he was preoccupied, bent over something on his desk. Probably an article to publish soon, if the concentration in his face was anything to go on. Good, that made it that much easier to breeze by without drawing any attention. You tried to keep from looking in his direction, though you couldn’t help stealing a glance or two; he was a little too handsome for you to simply ignore, after all. Only once were you almost caught, though you quickly diverted your gaze before Clark could meet your eyes.
Yeah, this would be easy. As you got closer and closer to his desk, you tried to ignore the beating of your heart, to pretend as if he didn’t make your head swim with distraction. All you had to do was walk on by, that was it. So long as he didn’t look at you or say anything, you’d be totally in the clear; and then you’d have the entire weekend to get over your stupid hiccup this week, to pretend it never happened at all.
As your cart rattled along atop the floor in his direction, Clark glanced up again; you noticed the flicker of a smile before you abruptly dropped your gaze, pretending to be looking at something on the cart. This would work, you were being totally cool, he wouldn’t think anything weird of it--
“Good morning.”
Well, so much for your plan.
Your jaw flexed as you took a calming breath, flicking your eyes up towards Clark. That smile of his was as bright and friendly as ever, it was like he freaking radiated light. You gave your best smile in return, feeling your cheeks already getting warm.
“Morning.” You answered gently, unable to look away from his pretty eyes for a long moment. As if he knew what effect he had on you, Clark looked you up and down quickly, his grin somehow even more charming than it had been just a second ago.
He met your eyes again perceptively, “How are you?”
God, you almost made it out of the week without any more embarrassment. You were this close to escaping whatever awkwardness was surely to happen. Was he trying to give you a panic attack or something?
You couldn’t help the way your eyes widened slightly, but you corrected the expression quickly while clearing your throat, “I, uh, I’m good. Busy, but at least it’s Friday, right?”
Oh, you felt stupid. Even more so at the way Clark was smiling like you were even remotely interesting; surely he was just being polite, there was nothing all that interesting about you.
Clark sat up in his seat, leaning one elbow atop his desk. Your gaze followed the motion, eyes trailing up the length of his arm, over his long fingers; in your periphery, you noticed something sitting in his mail basket, and felt momentary alarm. But you certainly hadn’t brought any more notes, so you breathed easy - must be something outgoing.
“Long week, I get it. I’ll probably end up taking work home with me again, got a deadline to meet.” Your eyes trailed over the scattered paperwork on Clark’s desk; you unconsciously tilted your head to try getting a better look. Roused by your curiosity, he waved you over eagerly, “Here, I can show you.”
You bit the inside of your cheek, hesitant to move closer; but it would be impolite, considering that you were clearly already snooping. So, trying to stay cool, you stepped closer, Clark rolling his chair to one side to make room for you at the desk. When you tried to maintain a respectable distance, he reached out as if to touch you, but stopped, rethinking and instead waving his hand again.
“No, come on, don’t be shy - you can look.”
You nodded smally, moving closer until you braced your hands on the edge of the desk, hunching over it as you tried to keep the panic from showing on your face. Clark wheeled in a little closer, his knee faintly brushing your leg, “Still a work in progress, obviously. What do you think?”
“Oh,” you quickly waved your hand in the negative, glancing down at his curious face, though you quickly looked back towards his paperwork, “I’m no writer, I don’t really know anything about this stuff.”
There was something rascally about Clark’s expression as he leaned back in his chair, grinning as he scrutinized you, “That can’t be true. You read, right? I always see you reading in the cafeteria.”
Your mouth felt dry as you continued staring blankly at his work; did he really pay that much attention to you? After a moment, you nodded stiffly, “I mean, yeah, I guess I read a lot.”
Clark looked at you eagerly, motioning to his papers, “So, what do you think? I’m not looking for any expert opinion here; I just want to hear your thoughts.”
You focused on the draft set out on the desk, trying your damnedest to process the words, to make them make sense, though your head was heavy with nerves again. Clark wanted your opinion; he noticed how much you read. Having his undivided attention on you like this was making your stomach do flips.
You scanned the first paragraph, then read it again, but simply shook your head with a sigh, knowing it was a waste to even try.
“Sorry, I just… I can’t focus right now. I’m sure it's great, though.” You glanced at Clark with a cringe of apology; he looked entirely undeterred as he smiled at you.
“Good point, I shouldn’t spring that on you at 8 in the morning.” He shuffled the papers, putting them into a neat stack, “Maybe after a cup of coffee.”
You laughed slightly, wetting your dry lips, “Yeah, that would probably help.”
Clark looked up at you then, eyes going between yours thoughtfully. You didn’t like the look on his face - it was too sweet, too alert, too earnest. You stepped back from his desk, nearly tripping over his foot, though you managed to steady yourself before you took a spill; you only noticed after a moment of catching your breath that Clark had raised his hands, fully prepared to catch you if you fell.
How freaking embarrassing.
“Do you want to grab a coffee?”
Your heart skipped, mouth slightly ajar as your ears rang. You were certain you hadn’t heard him right, certain that now you were simply being delusional. Staring at Clark for a long moment, you were taken aback by the kindness in his eyes.
Before you could stop yourself, you blurted out, “With you?”
Your abruptness caused Clark to laugh, full-chested and delighted as he looked back at you with utter surprise. He sat up straight in his chair again, coughing down his laughter, “Yes, with me. The least I could do is get you a cappuccino instead of the motor oil we make here.”
You couldn’t move, couldn’t quite think straight. Clark was offering to buy you a coffee? Not in a date way, right? Surely he didn’t mean anything by it, he was just being nice or making a joke…
At your hesitation, Clark’s expression faltered slightly. His eyes jumped away from you and then back, back and forth a couple of times before he righted himself, trying to smooth things over, “Unless you can’t. We can always go another time.”
“I…” Your brow furrowed with uncertainty, blinking nervously as you tried not to make things any worse than they already were, “I mean, not that I don’t want to, it’s not that. I just, um… I’ve got a lot I need to catch up on.”
Clark smiled with a little less confidence, as if your nerves had been transferred to him. He worked his jaw briefly, glancing back down towards his desk, “Yeah, I guess I should’ve thought about that.”
You let out a small, anxious laugh of disbelief as Clark looked between your eyes again. You felt hot all over, nervous and embarrassed and self-loathing, because why couldn’t you just say yes, why did you have to get in your own damn way when Clark clearly showed interest in spending time with you, why--
“Well, we’ll try for another day.” He assured with a kind smile, doing a damn good job of acting as if he was totally unphased by your semi-rejection. He leaned over his desk, grabbing the small envelope from his basket and holding it out to you, “Here.”
Assuming it was meant to be mailed out, you nodded and took it gingerly, returning to your cart and setting it atop one of your stacks. Feeling totally sheepish, as if you blundered your one chance at a meaningful conversation with Clark, you continued on your path down the rows of Daily Planet desks, determined to put as much distance between the two of you as possible.
“See you next week, Clark; good luck with your article.” You called back hurriedly, feigning an easygoing tone as you walked quickly. As you returned to your mail drop-offs, they were rushed and hasty with panic.
But then Clark called your name, clearly wanting for your attention one last time. You sighed anxiously, pulling a nervous face before slowly turning back around to face him. He made a spinning motion with his pointer finger, indicating a rotation of some kind, but you weren’t understanding. When your expression twisted, he rolled his eyes ever so slightly with a devastatingly handsome smile.
“The letter: turn it around.”
Though your face was still scrunched with confusion, you did as you were told, reaching for the letter and slowly flipping it to the other side, where your name was scrawled.
You faltered, gaping at the envelope in your hand, eyes slowly trailing back towards Clark, who appeared so amused by the look on your face that it made your ears warm. His brows rose in anticipation, clearly expecting you to open up the note right here and now.
You couldn’t quite wrap your head around it - Clark obviously figured out that you left him those notes, but now he wrote one for you, and that felt unreal. Your eyes slid towards the little collection of them pinned to his board, considering that maybe all your hopes were actually coming true - he did enjoy them, was charmed by them, in fact, and now he was doing the last thing you expected by trying the same tactic on you.
Luckily, your hands weren’t shaking despite your nerves, so at least you didn’t look totally pathetic while popping the envelope’s sticky seal. You couldn’t quite bring yourself to look at Clark again, though, as you slid the paper out from inside, carefully unfolding it while swallowing timidly.
“‘Darling, the composer has stepped into fire.’
-- Am I doing this right?”
You had to read the note again, and then once more, a giddy smile breaking out across your lips. Clark freaking Kent was flirting with you, mirroring the ridiculous, cheesy technique that you thought would make you look ridiculous. And it worked. It worked to get his attention, and it was certainly working to win your favor, too.
Finally feeling brave after all these weeks of carefully putting yourself out there, you looked back up at Clark, whose self-satisfied grin was just as charming and handsome as the rest of him. For a long beat, you simply stared at one another, your mind still trying to catch up with itself, his little note like an echo in your head.
With a deep breath, you looked about briefly as if to compose yourself, because it felt as if you could burst at any moment. You blinked back into focus, trying not to smile too goofily as you abandoned your mail cart and crossed the room back to Clark,
Maybe you could go for that coffee after all.
.
.
Addt. Author's Note | I make no promises, but I already have an idea for a little follow-up to this fic. For those interested, the quotes, in order, are from works by W.H. Auden, Anais Nin, John Clare, Edmond Rostand, & Anne Sexton.
summary: clark shows his love for your friendship in many ways. fetching your lunch, carrying your things for you, always being there when you need him- but who could have imagined it would include kissing you on the lips? every casual peck makes your head spin, your heart stammer; until one night, one lingering kiss finally answers all your questions… and then some.
clark kent x best friend ! reader
themes: soo much fluff. clark is hopelessly devoted to you, but you have no idea. you're a cutie who loves fashion. he is adorable, friends to lovers, funny, domestic clark always! barely proofread, but enjoy xx
You’re running late. Again.
For the fourth time this week, and it’s only a Wednesday.
It’s not your fault. Really, it’s not- nothing was going right to begin with, and the outfit you’d initially planned on wearing ended up hanging off your body like loose rags. You had to change three separate times, and still, you aren’t too pleased with how you look today.
The day is miserable- all rain and clouds and grey skies. There isn’t an ounce of sunshine to be seen, not even in you, because your typically upbeat personality has been taken and held hostage by the city around you.
“Perry’s gonna kill you.” Clark greets you, umbrella clutched in his free hand that he immediately holds over you as you join him. He slings your bag smoothly off your shoulder, hooking it over his own instead.
Together, you walk in unison; quick, and sharp, your shoulder bumping into his arm due to the height difference.
“Then we better hurry up, Kent.” you say back, earning a chuckle from him.
You walk through the rain, and you don’t notice the way he ducks his head outside of the umbrella completely. How you don’t veer off the jagged path ahead even though it usually pains you to walk in a straight line, because his hand is hovering on your lower back, careful, steady.
You don’t even question why, when you finally get through those double doors, Clark’s curls are almost soaked and you’re bone-dry.
The elevator ride to the top is comfortable, like it always is with Clark.
“How was your evening?”
“I ate ice cream for dinner,” you tell him absentmindedly, “And I rewatched The Devil Wears Prada.”
His eyebrow quirks up, “Must have missed my invite.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Were you not in a different city last night fighting an intergalactic threat?”
“How’d you know that?”
“I watch the news.”
Clark smirks slightly. Never arrogant or cocky, just knowing. “I still would have come.”
You don’t say anything, busy straightening your shirt and wrapping your coat even tighter around you. When the elevator finally reaches the top of the skyscraper, you’re the first to step out, Clark directly in tow.
Your heels clack against the linoleum floor with a precision that can only come from someone with something to prove; in this case, the fact that you’re late for a good (nobody has to know the truth) reason. Lois looks up for a split second, nodding at you in acknowledgement.
Beside her, Jimmy grins. “What time do you call this?” he jokes.
“Got held up,” Clark lies. You smile inwardly, knowing he was perfectly on time; it was you who couldn’t decide on what to wear this morning, on what rings to pair with what necklaces.
You’d told Clark to go on; I’ll be like, thirty more minutes. I’ll just see you there! You’d said, but of course he refused to listen.
Someone barks your surname. They also bark Clark’s. You don’t even have to turn around to know who it is.
“Sorry, Perry.” You and Clark say in unison, his cheeks flushed crimson, yours still cold from the wind. Thankfully, Perry White seems to be in a good mood today; he just shakes his head in exasperation, a small mutter akin to tweedle-dee and tweedle-dum leaving his lips as he places another cigarette between them and turns around.
Clark pulls your chair out for you, waiting for you to sit before he does the same.
“Close call.” he mumbles, and you stifle a laugh.
It’s a busy day; one that stretches for far too long. You type until your eyes blur and you drink coffee until you can’t even taste the bitter burn of it anymore, but you’re focused.
You’re a great journalist, and you’ve chalked that down to be the very reason why Perry gives you so much grace. Why being late is a bump in the road instead of a fireable offense like it is for most people.
It’s Clark you have to thank for that; being his best friend certainly has it’s perks. He knows better than anyone how to charm the Planet’s infamous grump. Over time, you’ve learnt how to mimic him; be bashful when confronted about tardiness, especially by someone like Perry White, and you’re good to go.
After a couple hours of head-down, zipped lipped quiet, he finally breaks the silence.
“How you holding up?” Clark asks you, head hidden behind his own screen. You can’t see him, but you can envision his lips parting as he speaks, eyes trained on whatever word document he currently has open.
“Surviving. You?” you mumble, fingers wrapped around a yellow highlighter that has yet to land on the page. He lets out a chuckle.
“Counting down the seconds until lunch.”
“Are we going out today?” you pop your head around your monitor then, and Clark doesn’t skip a beat before doing the same.
The sight of him- especially after a long 121 minutes without it- makes something flutter dangerously in your stomach. His curls are unruly, piercing blue eyes only the slightest bit red as he looks at you.
You blink the feeling away, willing it to disappear and not come back for at least a little while.
“You want to? Or I could just grab us those bagels you like from around the place ‘round the corner?”
“I can come with you,” you offer, but Clark shakes his head, the corners of his mouth upturned.
“No need. I’ve got you.”
You nod, a thankful smile spreading across your lips as you turn back to your desk. Of course, Clark does the same, and under the table you feel the tip of his shoes nudging against your foot.
Your smile only widens, though you try to hide it with a purse of your lips and a clench in your jaw.
It’s not that you have a crush on your best friend- absolutely not. Crushes, you’ve always believed, are for high schoolers; teenagers in faux love who believe that big, ugly bouquets mean romance, and cheesy, outlandish prom-posals equate to a lifetime of happiness.
No, you’re a little more pessimistic than that. And you’re a lot deeper in than that, because unfortunately for you, Clark Kent continues to be a shining example of the world’s most perfect boyfriend.
Minus the kissing. And the holding hands. Also the freakier stuff like sharing a bed, and hugging each other regularly- who ever said being in love was rational?
He’s kind. He’s patient. He waits hours for you to get ready and doesn’t even scold you for wasting his time, just smiles and stares at you like you’ve already done him the biggest favour of simply existing.
He knows your coffee order off by heart, grabs you a couple of sugars every time even though it’s sweet enough- just in case, he always says. He knows you like your bagels from Leon’s on Tuesdays but every other day, it’s Liberty’s or nothing.
Clark remembers. He cares. So deeply.
He is also in love with someone else.
“Just waiting for her to realise, I guess.” he’d told you once, when you asked him why he hadn’t dated anyone since Lois- all while holding a box of Christmas baubles you were picking from.
And he'd told you that he didn't need to date, not unless it was the person he wanted to be with forever. Clark Kent didn't do casual. To him, time was precious, and he simply had no interest in 'playing the field'.
Though even you had to admit; no matter how big the field, it would be very difficult for anyone on Clark’s future roster to compete with the brilliant Lois Lane.
“What if she never does?” you asked, gesturing for him to pass you another bauble to add to the tree.
It was mid-November, and a random chill in the air had you fixated on getting your decorations up ASAP. Naturally, Clark agreed, even playing pack-mule with you in the store as you collected everything caked in artificial frost and tinsel- even a brand-new tree that he held tucked under one arm as you ran up and down the aisles.
Clark simply smiled, eyes holding a shine as he watched you examine a fragile looking ornament, fingers twirling it in the light.
“She'll figure it out. She always does,” he’d said confidently, “One day.”
“What if she takes forever?”
Clark remained unfazed, “Then I’ll wait.” you just raised an eyebrow, dropping the topic immediately and trying to forget how deliciously romantic he sounded right then and there.
That, was six months ago.
And Clark has yet to introduce you to this mystery girl, has yet to even give you her name; you don’t even know what she looks like.
You supposed it was for the best. For now, you were happy living in blissful ignorance. Just until you got over this silly little love-crush of yours. Or, until you pushed yourself to finally start dating again and could finally forget about this whole thing.
You continue typing, the words blurring together incoherently. By the time 12:30pm comes around, your stomach is grumbling and it’s only the noise of everyone packing up for lunch that breaks your concentration.
Clark is already standing up from his desk, stretching those muscles of his that never go stiff, yet he does it anyway because it’s what everyone else does.
You lock eyes with him as he makes his way around the edges of the table.
“The usual?” he asks. You nod with a grateful smile.
“Please. Take my card-“ you’re already fumbling for your wallet, but Clark shakes his head firmly.
“No need. I’ll be back in ten.” He tells you, and before either of you can register what happens next, he leans down. Smoothly.
And gives you a peck on the lips.
It’s quick. It’s over within a split second. But it still happens; and when Clark pulls back without so much of a stunned look or an apology on his face, you swear you can still feel the plush skin of his lips on yours.
“Text me if you think of anything else you want.” he says coolly, as if he didn’t just short-circuit your entire being.
And he’s gone.
Just like that; he turns on his heel, nods goodbye to a gobsmacked Jimmy Olsen, and heads for the elevator. Leaving you; stunned, shocked, baffled, detonating in your seat.
You don’t move. For a long while, Jimmy mimicks you, eyes wide as his gaze darts between the elevator where Clark was and your desk, where you currently still are. And probably will be for days to come.
Eventually, he wheels his seat over to you.
“What was-“
“I don’t know.”
“Why did he-“
“I don’t know,” you swallow, and with a disbelieving shake of your head, you turn back to your desk, palms flat out on the table as a way of anchoring yourself to it. For a long while, Jimmy doesn’t speak, silently begging you to.
But you can’t. You physically can’t. Because it may have been an accident- it’s not unusual for Clark to give you a kiss on the forehead, an occasional one on the cheek if he’s feeling extra gratuitous. But on the lips?
Maybe he missed. Maybe, you turned your head without even realising it- and maybe, right now, he’s on his way to Liberty’s trying to come up with ways to end your friendship because he definitely knows now, if he didn’t before.
He knows, and he’s disgusted, and you wouldn’t be surprised if he came back with your bagel in a bag and a stern talking to about how you shouldn’t move your head when people lean in for cheek-kisses.
You decide you will never eat another bagel ever again in your entire life. You will be bagel-less and Clark Kent-less and best friend-less for the rest of time and it’s all because you couldn’t control yourself.
But you know you’re being stupid, because Clark is many things. Superman being the most important one of them- he catches rolling pencils before they can fall to the floor, nudges you gently out of the way when rain falls off outer stall canopies so you won’t get wet. He has reflexes that the normal man doesn’t. If you were to turn your head, he’d know, and he’d stop.
So why didn’t he stop?
You’re still frozen by the time he gets back. He has your bagels in their usual printed takeaway bag and he’s flushed from the cold, tie slightly crooked, glasses foggy and slipping down his nose.
He forgets to steady them, the grin on his face pointed so directly towards you that it distracts him completely.
Your eyes widen, hand shooting up instinctively just as they’re on the cusp of clattering to the floor. You push them up for him, the tip of your middle finger barely brushing against the bridge of his nose.
He smiles, crooked. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see Jimmy’s jaw on the floor.
“Thanks,” Clark says softly, and because your heart is going a million miles per minute, you just nod a reply back.
He sets the bagels on your desk, pulls his chair around to sit next to you.
“So,” he starts, getting the food out like he always does. You, first; he unwraps your bagel, sets your sauces out, and drapes a tissue across your lap. “What ice cream did you have last night?”
You tell him, carefully at first, reluctantly, like it wasn’t just vanilla and caramel. But Clark doesn’t catch on.
He just nods, attentive as always. He laughs when you make a joke, tells you in a hushed tone about his new friend in Gotham, Bruce Wayne. He’s an alright guy, bit serious though. And he wipes the corner of your mouth when you get a bit of ketchup on it. But he doesn’t bring up the kiss.
So, neither do you.
Clark keeps kissing you.
And you, well- all you can do is keep pretending you’re not actively malfunctioning every single time it happens.
At first you assume it’s a one-off. A strange, meteorological anomaly- like those fish that sometimes fall from the sky. Weird, very rare, and inexplicable.
But then he does it again the next day.
It’s the same routine: lunch break, Clark grabbing the food, you offering to pay, him refusing like always. Except now there’s a new beat to the choreography; one that involves him leaning in, cupping the side of your elbow like you’re made of spun glass, and giving you a very deliberate, very real peck on the lips before leaving. It’s gotten deeper since the first, you realise.
And every single time, you just sit there like someone unplugged you from the wall.
Jimmy has stopped pretending he isn’t watching. He mostly just gasps now. Out loud. Very dramatically.
Thursday, Clark arrives with two macchiatos and a cinnamon walnut pastry you mentioned liking once. You’re about to thank him when he dips forward and presses- there it is again- a warm, soft peck to your lips.
“Be right back,” he murmurs, like that is the casual part of this exchange.
This time, your confusion is so loud it actually echoes. Beside you, Jimmy drops his pen, and it rolls for three desks.
By Friday, you try to mentally prepare. You puff your cheeks out, slap them lightly, tell yourself that if he does it again, you will absolutely ask him what on earth is going on.
But of course, you don’t. You don’t ask your best friend anything.
Because the second he leans down and those soft lips brush yours in that infuriatingly tender, maddeningly gentle Clark-Kent way, your brain promptly ejects itself out the window.
He walks off, humming, as you slowly rotate in your chair like a malfunctioning Roomba.
Your head is foggy, filled with so many unanswered questions that somehow, feel so far from being said out loud.
Nothing’s changed, oddly enough. Clark still walks you home. Still hovers over your desk, helping you with rewrites and amendments. He still brings you lunch and spends Wednesday evenings watching re-runs with you in your apartment.
He just… kisses you, now. Pecks you, more like, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
And before you know it, days pass. Days turn into weeks, and naturally- predictably- it gets worse.
Or better. Or whatever this is.
Because now- now, Clark starts doing it not just before lunch. He no longer limits himself, and you still say nothing.
He kisses you goodbye when he heads home for the night.
Kisses you hello when you meet at the elevator in the morning.
He kisses you when he hands you a report you asked for.
And, he even kisses you when you complain about the printer.
Tiny, sweet, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it pecks. Like he’s testing you. Like he’s waiting; for what, you don’t know, but what you do know is that you are very close to the brink of explosion.
By the time a whole month passes, your confusion has reached clinically concerning levels. Your Google search history is comical, an amalgamation of confusion and shock before you swiftly swapped to incognito;
do best friends kiss on lips??
signs of short term memory loss
am I hallucinating long-term?
long term hallucination symptoms
group long term hallucination
do kryptonian people greet each other with kiss
You search with a slight hunch, your entire body covering your phone screen in both fear and shame of someone seeing. You’re desperate; completely at your wits’ end, and Clark seems to be none the wiser.
But then, comes the moment everything changes.
It’s late. Everyone else has gone home, and the newsroom is buzzing only with low lights and the distant hum of the city outside.
It’s just you and Clark, finishing up an article he’s been helping you with.
You’re buried in revisions, your brains working in sync as you push through the exhaustion of the last few weeks. You and Clark had gotten better about leaving on time, but with deadlines closing in, staying late wasn’t really optional tonight.
You’re tired, very much so- to the point where pretending like you’re not bothered is a feat in itself. Clark is focused, glasses sliding down his nose as he leans over your shoulder to point at something on the screen.
And then- like it’s the easiest thing in the world- he tilts your chin gently with two fingers and gives you a slow, lingering kiss on the lips.
Not a peck this time. Not a blink.
A kiss.
A real, life-altering, friendship-make-or-breaking kiss that injects electricity in your veins and brings all your dead senses back to life. It’s wonderful. It’s passionate. And above all, it is scary.
You freeze. But instead of pulling back like he usually does, Clark stays there, lips pressed softly to yours, patient as ever. Waiting. Wanting in silence, for you to respond.
So, you do.
Your body moves before your brain can protest, before any part of you testifies against the very notion of giving in- your hand curls into the front of his shirt, you tilt upward, and suddenly you’re kissing him back.
Your lips are slow as they move together; at first, awkward. Then, the awkwardness melts into something familiar, something warm.
And finally, it turns absolutely, heart-stoppingly illegal.
Just waiting for her to realise, his words play over and over- incessant, like a broken record- in your mind.
One day.
You fit together perfectly, you and Clark. Your lips do all the work while your minds fight to catch up. He makes a tiny noise- a surprised, happy sound- and you swear you can feel his smile against your mouth.
You pull back first, breath uneven, eyes wide and stunned in a way you can’t even hide. Your hands are still fisted in the front of his shirt like you forgot to let go.
Your grip doesn't loosen on the fabric, too afraid to disrupt the moment you’re both suspended in.
Clark doesn’t move. He just watches you, chest rising slowly, hope written all over him. You can't speak, so you don't.
But something in your face- the shock, the realisation trying to break through and finally shake some sense into you- makes him smile.
It softens as he looks at you, folding into something heartbreakingly tender.
“I told you…” Clark murmurs softly, brushing a strand of hair from your face with the gentlest touch. His eyes graze your lips again, already hungry for more, “that you’d figure it out.”
i have a problem with overexplaining things and i really tried not to w this fic - tried something different!! hope you liked <33
riding clark with your hand wrapped around his throat?? squeezing just enough that he goes a little dizzy and can’t help but get drunk on you faster than he usually does. his eyes rolling back slightly while his big chest heaves with ragged breaths from holding himself back and being good for you, being used by you. when you catch him with his eyes closed? you’re not having it, grabbing just under his chin and forcing him to look at you before you continue to use his big cock as your own personal toy. the fun really begins when he’s close. when you tell him he’s not allowed to come. when you keep filling yourself with his cock over and over again despite his pleas and cries. when you pull almost entirely off his cock and finally tell him he can come if he can do it with just the tip inside you. he tells you he can’t and hot tears slip down his cheeks from how worked up he is. you take mercy and talk him through it, clenching around his sensitive tip as much as you can, telling him how good he is for you, how good he makes you feel, how pretty he looks right now.
✦Clark Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on a03!✦
✦pairing: Clark Kent x female!reader✦
✦Author's Note: should be illegal to for men to Be Like This. I need him carnally.✦
You have never been ruined the way Clark ruins you.
But you’ve never been loved and touched by anyone like him, either.
Probably because there isn’t anyone like him. He’s Clark. A massive, sweet, muscled puppy-dog of a man, who isn’t even a man at all. Who never gets tired.
Who loves to give, almost as much as he loves you.
And he loves you. Clark loves you so much that it’s all but immeasurable. He loves you in the coffee he makes you in the morning, and the kisses he plants on your cheek. He loves you in flowers on random days, and nights in when you’re too tired to do anything else. Random gifts, because he saw something and thought of you. Immediate responses to your texts, and cookies he can’t really bake, but tries to anyway.
And the sex.
Clark really loves you in the sex.
The worship. His strong, warm body turning into only an instrument to bring you pleasure. His hands map your body, his lips brand every inch of skin, his hips drive into your heat until you unravel below him. Your breath stolen and replaced with only weak gasps of his name. Your eyes glazed with drunken lust and relief, because Clark never withholds. He couldn’t.
Not from you.
And that’s how it always begins.
You start it. You always start it. Clark is a sweet man, who will kiss you deeply—until you’re dizzy and aching for him—then walk away like he didn’t just ruin you with so little effort. And then you chase after him, because he can’t just abandon you like that. Not after offering you such sweet, easy temptation.
All it takes is batting your eyelashes and whining his name. Grabbing his big hand, and pressing your chin to his chest.
“Please?” You murmur, playing with the collar of his shirt.
He sighs. “Baby, we went this morning-“
“Yeah, but I want you again.”
“I’m not sure it’s good for- You know. Your sexual health, to have such little rest?” He’s blushing, like he’s not the reason you’re already walking sideways. “How about just until tomorrow? Can you wait until- Tonight?” He drops tomorrow fast, from the pout on your face. “Or- Two hours? Just until your legs feel better, I- I don’t want to break you.”
You blink at him slowly. He’s adorable. Touching your face gently, like you’re some sweet, delicate thing that he—Clark, gentle and kind and lets turn around because I saw a pigeon limping and we should get it to the vet, Clark—is going to ruin you.
For a second, you consider agreeing to wait. Just to spare him the worry.
Then you tilt your head at him, running your hand up his thick arm, and you can feel it.
He’s hard again.
And you’re pretty sure he’ll get over the worry.
“Okay.” You shrug, and Clark blinks slowly.
“Okay?”
“Yeah. Okay.” You take a step back, smiling wickedly up at him. “I can take care of myself.”
His eyes flash. Darken, as his chest heaves.
And Clark folds.
Clark always folds.
And you end up bent over the couch, or pinned to the wall, or writhing on the bed. Clark gives. He gives and gives and gives. Offers you kisses that turn open-mouthed and sloppy, then his grip turns possessive, and his cock drives into you until your toes curl, and you see stars.
You cum with a broken call of his name. Your arms wrap tight around his neck, and your whole body shakes until it goes limp with release.
But Clark doesn’t stop.
He’s a giver.
And he has so much to give.
You’re already completely consumed by him, when the first orgasm hits. His thick cock, dragging along your walls and pounding into your most sensitive spots. His mouth has left searing marks all over your neck, and his hands will almost certainly be printed on your hips and ass when this is done.
He clings to you, when he fucks you. Trying to get you as close as possible. And it only adds to the intensity of it all, because you can’t even gasp for air without it smelling of Clark. His sweat, and faded, spicy cologne, and the deeper thing. The smell that’s just Clark. Pure fucking Clark. It fills the hot air around you, lingers on your tongue as you call his name.
Because it’s intoxicating. It might make you more sensitive. Your fingers dig into his scalp, because after that first orgasm, the smell of him becomes like a drug, and you can’t figure out how to come back down.
“Clark-“ You whine as he slams back into you, mouth attaching to a soft spot on your neck. “Clark-“
He groans against your skin, the cries only driving him on. His hips start to snap, the hot, wet sound filling the room as your eyes roll back in your head.
“Clark, Clark-“
You’re starting to chant it, as another orgasm builds tight in your gut. Clark’s thrusts become short and sharp, the pace punishing and perfect.
This time, you see white, your legs wrapping tight around his waist to try and either pull him closer, or push him away. You’re not really sure, in the haze of your release.
Clark still doesn’t stop. He works himself up, when he gets like this. His cock keeps slamming into you, his kisses growing rough and frantic. It’s still loving, though. The way he touches you. You’re clawing at his back and almost sobbing with overwhelming pleasure. Your mouth is open in a permanent moan, and your own arousal is running down your ass.
You press your face into his broad shoulder, just to have something to ground yourself in. Clark grabs one of your hands gently, tangling it in his own. He squeezes lightly, asking a silent question.
You squeeze back, three times, then hold on so tight you’re worried you’ll break your own fingers.
Clark groans against your skin, and the tight leash he keeps on himself snaps.
Nobody has, or ever will, fuck you like this. Like you’re just a ragdoll, and yet simultaneously the most precious thing on earth. Clark slams himself into you so deep you can feel it in your throat, all while his lips wander your skin, murmuring low praise.
“Take it.” He mutters in your ear, breath sending shivers up your spine. “Yeah, yeah, that’s so good, baby, so warm and tight, look so-“ He moans, pressing his face into the crook of your neck. “So pretty, you’re so tight and pretty-“
He moans again, and his deep voice rolls pleasure through your whole body. Another, tiny orgasm hits you, making your head spin and legs fall open, having lost all strength to hold on. Clark hauls them back up, and angles them carefully so he’s hitting deeper.
It’s not about chasing his own pleasure. It’s never about that. If anything, it’s a testament to his will, that he can stay buried so deep inside of you for so long. Can feel you clench and writhe below him, taste you whenever he swallows your cries of his name, and still not empty himself into your poor, soaked and abused cunt.
He almost loses it, though, when he rises over you. Keeps one hand wrapped over yours, and lets the other one wander your beautiful, limp body. You’re a vision. Eyes hooded and lips swollen, your tits bouncing as he rails you stupid and mouth open in a long, broken call of his name. You shake and swear breathily below him, the type of things that would normally make him stutter and blush, if he wasn’t so wholly focused on fucking you until you forgot your own name.
And you’re already there. You’re almost floating out of your body, by the time Clark’s thumb finds your clit. His tiny, deliberate rubs send an electric shock through your body, and it seems to set off every nerve in your body.
You don’t fully come down from this one. You just float through it, saying Clark over and over like a hymn. Distantly, you’re aware of him groaning your name and rutting into your fluttering pussy.
Heat floods through you, as he collapses over your body. You feel him mixing with you, smearing over your thighs and the curve of your ass. Clark drags himself through a few, last strokes.
And you come down, as he slides slowly out.
Taps your clit with the head of his cock, just to watch you spasm.
“Fuck-“ You roll into his chest with a whimper, and he chuckles.
“Sorry, baby.” He kisses your brow, wrapping massive, muscled arms around your body. “You just look so pretty.”
You hum, not really able to form full words. Clark rubs his hand up and down your spine, then pauses.
“Feel good? You-“
“I liked it.” You breathe out against his pecs. “Oh- Oh my god, it was so good. But next time, just- Tell me no.”
He laughs again, rising up. Probably to draw you a bath, because he’s perfect.
“I’ll try.” He says, tracing his hand lightly over your side. “But you can be pretty demanding, sweetheart. I just rise to the occasion, I guess.”
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✿. summary: clark and your cat have beef, because clark tells you that you’re precious baby hates him. but it slipped his mind when you mentioned that you needed a pet sitter.
✿. pairing: boyfriend!clark x catmom!fem!reader
✿. word count: 1.0k
✿. content warning: very fluffy, kinda self indulgent, the cat is very aware and conscious. mentions of kids once, clark is head over heels in love with you, theodore seville mentioned bc i love him like a son, an angry cat (scratches, hissing, biting), one use of daddy but in the cutest innocent way ever, clark has big beef with your cat and krypto mentioned. slightly proofread (lmk if i missed any)
✿. a/n: i had an idea and wrote it in a 40 minute. this may be ass but i lowk think its the cutest thing ever. so forgive my mistakes but i love catmom!reader, you’ll probably see her again if i have more ideas! enjoy this rare piece of wholesome fanfiction <333
MORE UNDER THE CUT - MINORS DNI </3
You have a cat. You love your cat—no…you adore your cat. Clark would think his name was “baby” since that’s all you call him. “Aww my poor baby, did you get yourself in a mess?” or “Clark, he’s just a baby. He'd never do anything like that!”, but he wasn’t a baby. You’ve had that cat long before you met Clark. But the thing is, Clark hates your cat, and your cat hates Clark—that’s what he tells you anyway, but your sweet precious baby doesn’t have a hateful bone in his body as far as you're concerned. His name was Theodore—on your first date, you told him that he was named after your favorite chipmunk, Theodore Seville
Since the day you brought Clark to your pet-friendly apartment, Clark was excited to meet the cat you’ve been harping on and on about. Each date, you’d find a way to bring him up, but Clark didn’t mind. He loved animals, growing up on a farm came with the territory, and Clark loves you, so if you love your cat, he loves your cat.
The tabby seemed kind from the stories you’d tell him, but when Clark squatted down to give him a gentle pet on the head, he scratched him and hisses. As he snatches his hand away in shock, you gasp, and pull Theodore away to give him a light scolding. “Baby—don’t do that! Clark, I'm so sorry, he literally never does this!”
And Clark fully believes you, he believes everything that comes out of your pretty mouth. And he also believes that little Theo personally hates him. At first, he brushed it off. Sometimes animals get spooked when meeting new people, it’s a natural response. Then, it kept happening. Hissing, biting, scratching, loud and obnoxious meowing directly towards him. Theodore’s uncalled for outbursts usually occurred when you’d step away for a moment. So when you weren’t looking, he was giving Clark absolute hell and when you came back, he was a sweet baby angel. And Clark swears like Theo gave him a mean look while he was cuddling up into your chest
“Baby…I’m telling you, he hates me.” Clark groaned, watching you write down a list of strict rules he needed to follow while you were away, all pertaining to Theodore. “Don’t be crazy, Clark. He loves you like I love you.” you smile, completely oblivious to the pettiness that your cat held towards your boyfriend. Regretting his decision, Clark somehow offered to pet sit while you were away visiting your sister in Evergreen. He shouldn’t have, but there wasn’t much he wouldn’t do to make you smile. When you squealed “Really!? Oh, Clark, this is so sweet. I love you.” he almost forgot what he signed off on.
Placing the piece of paper in his hand, you stand on the tips of your toes and place a kiss on his lips. “Besides, this will be a great bonding experience. I trust that you and Theodore will work out any problem you have while I’m gone.” He sighed and reluctantly nodded his head. He wished that you weren’t so cute when it came to Theodore, he wondered how blissful you’d get when it came to a baby—or even a better cat.
“Everything you need to know is in this list. Where everything is, what to feed him at what times of the day, his vet’s number just in case, where to buy new food if he needs more but that wouldn’t be necessary because I'm stocked up on everything but—“
“Shhhh. I got it, sweetheart.” he shushed, knowing you’d have to catch another flight if you kept rambling about Theo's wellbeing. “I basically live here, remember? I see how you take care of him.”
“You’re right. I’m just a bit nervous. I haven’t left him in over a year.”
“I won’t let anything happen, I swear. You can trust me.”
You smile, feeling a new sense of assurance that Clark always knew how’d to give you. He tucked the paper in his pocket and leaned down to cradle your face in his big hands to pull you into a slow, gentle goodbye kiss. Even though you’d only be good for 2 days max, he was going to miss you dearly, and he was going to miss his sense of peace that Theodore would take away as soon as you left. You smile against his lips and pull away, muttering something about you almost being late for your flight.
“Theodore, baby! Come here!” you called, tapping your nails on the floor to signal your cat to come over to you, and there he was, with that smug little face. “I’m gonna be gone for a couple of days but Daddy’s gonna take care of you while I'm away.” you say gently, and Clark knows Theo understands your every word, just by the way he blinks when you refer to Clark as his ‘father’. “So be nice, okay? I’ll miss you.” You place a kiss on the top of his head, say your last goodbye to Clark and drag your suitcase along with you outside your front door, possibly taking his sanity with you.
As soon as the door shuts, Clark has a few things to say to your “innocent” cat. “Listen here, buddy. I’ve dealt with complicated animals before, so you're a walk in a park compared to a dog I know.” he says sternly, bending down to meet Theodore’s level, wagging his finger as he sets some things straight. But he sat there, inert, unamused and unmoved.
“We can play this game all weekend, but I'm here to stay. You heard her. Be nice to “daddy”. That’s me. That means I’m permanent. Got it?” That must’ve stuck a nerve because it earned him a hiss and a swift scratch to his finger, but thanks to his super skin, he was unaffected. “Look at that, Theodore. There’s nothing here. It’s because I can’t feel it. I'm a super-hero. So keep trying, it’ll get you nowhere.”
this blog is 18+, do not copy my work for anything without my permission ꔫ / most dividers by @chrisssiren & @cursed-carmine
Clark twists the smaller, compact clear tube between his palms. Microscopic particles of iridescent green swirled in the plastic, mixing around in a quaint concoction of shea butter and vanilla. Even through the bottle, his skin prickles in the vicinity of Kryptonite, even in its faintest form.
So just why would he willingly be allowing himself to be vulnerable and in pain with what was by far the stupidest idea he's had to date?
The answer is as simple, it was all for you.
Being Superman granted Clark Kent tons of abilities — and his most useful? His super-healing. Immunity against threats almost always secured him an upper hand in things.
Admittedly, it was a rather bizarre chain of events that had let to the discovery and inconvenience of said ability.
In your short and quick courtship with Clark, this had to be one of the most frustrating recurring experiences.
For the better half of fifteen minutes, where you were perched on your boyfriend's lap, you'd been meticulously leaving love bites on his pulse point, down to his collarbone.
But what were once beautiful, dark hickeys that bloomed right beneath his skin, faded in the matter of minutes.
You'd pulled back with a frown, thumbing over the faded dotted purple.
"…Everything alright?"
Clark blinks at you, puzzled, when you grab at his jaw, tilting it to the other side to survey.
"No," you mumble after an annoyed huff. "Healed. It's all completely healed."
"What is?" He manages through a daze, thumbing idly at the fat of your thighs. It was hard to pay attention to what you were saying when your ass was sandwiching his neglected hard-on.
"The hickeys!" You pout exaggeratedly, hands falling to an angry bump to his pecs.
Clark hums a slow 'ah…' before he readjusts you to sit higher on his abdomen, in an attempt to relieve himself from his newfound torturous routine. But this time, he had a solution in hand.
You were in the midst of your usual rant, something about his healing and quote on quote 'being cock-blocked by Superman' when Clark curls an arm around your hips — holding you in place as he retrieves a little tube.
The confusion dies in your throat when he plops you back in place, twisting the cap of the tube off.
Clark's palm cases your jaw to hold you in place, and lean in regardless, "what are you … — mmn?!" It catches you off guard when the cold, gel-like balm is introduced without warning.
You let him smear it gently over your plush lips. Whatever he was doing, it felt good, but you were still confused about why he was suddenly putting lip balm on you.
"You could've just told me my lips were dry." There's a tinge of embarrassment in your words as you smack your lips to smear it around properly.
Clark shakes his head, wiping off the rest of the balm that was already stinging the pad of his thumb.
"You're perfect, baby." He leans in to press a reassuring peck onto your lips. Eyes twitching at the potency of Kryptonite. "I called in a favour from a friend, and he came up with this," Clark lifts up the tube for you, letting you curiously twist it around.
"You called in a favour for a lip balm?"
"…M—mm, not just any lip balm. Laced with Kryptonite."
You frown, "I'm not following. Doesn't that stuff hurt you?"
"It does…" Clark slumps back with an exhale as he drags his palm down his jaw, "but in small doses, it slows my abilities in general. Thought you might've liked that."
The realisation settles after a few seconds, and you coo loudly, "Clark! You'd do that for me?" You curl your arms around his neck with a downturned smile, nose crinkled in both glee and awe.
"Mhm. Don't wanna hear you complain about how much I love you." He chides, stroking the small of your back.
"Shall I take it for a test drive?" You say through a grin.
Clark groans reluctantly, tipping his head to give you some room as you'd leaned in. The feeling prickled at first, where your lips dragged. You could feel his body tense beneath you, and especially so when you sucked and bit at his ears.
"Feeling okay?" You mutter, tracing your fingers down his features, easing the tension lines on his face.
"Mhm. Jus' stings a little."
Which, really, was an understatement. His ears were turning red, prickling like needles where the meteor rock dust lingered.
"Okay. Tell me if it's too painful."
You don't wait for a confirmation when you press kisses down to his jaw and neck. Lips wrapping over the span of his pulse. "Mmh — o…w…urgh…" His occasional whines don't stop you from appreciating the blooms beneath.
"It's not fading…" You whisper, tracing your fingers down his chest, over the darkened markings. Instinctively, you rock your hips over the softness of his belly, eyes glinting with a level of excitement he hasn't seen from you in a long time.
"Geez…" he mutters low when he notices the trail of shine collecting at the coarse hair littered beneath his navel, "this is what you like? Really?"
You shoot him a look that silences him in seconds. He supposes it's a fair game, considering every time you'd made love, the soreness would paralyse you for days.
"Keep your mouth shut. I've been waiting a real long time for this."
And god, you had.
In barely twenty minutes, you'd effectively left marks all over Clark — his biceps, forearms, neck, shoulders, even around his nipples littered with angry, purpled blooms. All while you were grinding and chasing the friction of your abdomen to ease the dull ache in your cunt, no less.
"Babyyy…"
You lift your head up at his soft whine, meeting his softened, watery eyes, "killin' me here…"
The alarm stirrs in your heart instantly, but it's the shift back onto his lap that had you realising just why this poor guy was whining.
He was hard as fucking rock.
"So much for it being painful, huh?" You tease.
"Don't start. You've been licking me all over and rubbing yourself on me, baby. I'm definitely not immune to that."
You let out a sharp giggle at the particularly hard tug he gives, "lemme make you feel better." The motion causes you to slump your forearms onto him.
Clark lets out a playful growl into your neck as he clumsily tugs his shorts down. Mouthing down your neck and shoulders as his hard cock, already leaking with pre, bobs up against his abdomen.
"Had your fill yet?" He grits, lifting you up a fraction to properly line your cunt onto his length. Clark's already guiding you up and down his length to coat him with your slick impatiently, sending further spikes down your spine.
With a soft kiss to his nose, you shake your head, "think I might like seein' you cry for real this time."
Clark shuddered at the look of want in your gaze, your own fingers parting his lips, still laced with the remnants of the kryptonite balm.
You smear it to the edge of his lips, then press his jaw open, the pads of your thumb pressing flat onto his tongue. Then, you pull out the string of saliva that follows, tracing it over your folds.
"Is my mouth …the only place you can put it?"
Clark's cock twitches, and he tugs at your wrist, urging you to slide higher up his torso.
