Jae can read

main: kryptidfiles🌙 29 | 18+ | MDNI

[kentsglasses]

Hi everyone, just a reminder this is a side blog. Follow @kryptidfiles for my fics

[st4rfckerz]

GIVE IN TO ME

𑣲. you told yourself to never answer the phone when he called

word count: 5.5k (idk what happened)

cw: mdni, reader is a bit of an avoidant, switch!clark and perv!clark if you squint, dubcon, dry humping, oral sex (f receiving), fingering, clark’s a humper idk, unprotected sex, tummy bulge, creampie, aftercare

“Look, I'm just saying, there could be plenty of guys there who are actually worth your time,” your friend’s voice crackles through the phone speaker, entirely too optimistic for a Friday evening.

You sigh, shifting the phone to your other ear as you pace across your living room floor. You glance around your quiet apartment, the space feeling a bit too empty, but comfortable. Safe.

“I understand what you’re saying but the answer is no,” you reply with a soft but firm tone in your voice as you try to shut down the matchmaking attempt. “I just don’t think I’m ready to give myself to somebody again,”

There’s a defeated groan on the other end of the line, “I know, I know. I just hate seeing you shut yourself away in that apartment,”

“I’m not shutting myself away,” you counter with a little more bite, leaning against the kitchen counter.

Your friend lets out a long, dramatic sigh on the other end, but the defeat in her tone is clear. “Fine, I'll drop it. For now. But you're still coming out with us this next weekend, no excuses.”

“Deal,” you chuckle, the relief evident in your voice. “I’ll see you then, love you.”

The line clicks dead, and the sudden silence of the apartment settles heavily around you. You lower the phone, setting it face down on the kitchen counter. Leaning forward, you prop your elbow on the cool surface and drop your chin into your hand, letting out a long, weary sigh into the empty room.

It wasn’t that you meant to completely isolate yourself from the world; it had just happened gradually. Ever since the messy and abrupt breakup with your ex, Clark Kent, the energy to put yourself out there had completely vanished.

Now, you just didn’t feel like doing anything anymore — no dating, no small talk, no trying to explain your life story to someone new. It was easier to just stay inside, where nobody could ask anything else of you.

You push away from the counter and head straight to the bathroom for an extra long hot shower, letting the water completely wash away the lingering tension you’ve had built up throughout the day.

After putting on your pajamas, you finally crawl into bed and pull your laptop onto your lap. You scroll through your emails you’d been avoiding and sort through the digital clutter of the day, when a sudden sound breaks the quiet of the room.

The room is completely quiet until your phone suddenly lights up on the nightstand, vibrating heavily against the wood as it begins to ring.

You glance over and see the name flashing across the screen makes your chest instantly tighten.

‘Clark (do not answer.)’

For a few heavy seconds, you just stare at it, your brain trying to remind you not to care about what he could possibly be calling you for. But despite the reminder in his contact name, you answer it right before it goes to voicemail.

“Hello?” you squeak.

“Hi,” his voice comes through the receiver, low and familiar enough to send a sharp jolt through you.

An uncomfortable silence falls between you as you anticipate his reasoning for the sudden call.

You swallow hard, gripping the phone a little tighter against your ear. “Can I help you?”

“Well y’know I was just in the neighborhood—” Clark says, his tone carrying a trace of that old, familiar playfulness. You could tell he was smiling on the other end of the line and it made your stomach churn.

“Clark,” you cut him off, your voice dropping into an annoyed, warning flatline.

He sighs, his tone turns quiet and serious, “Right, sorry, I uh, I just wanted to know if you’d be okay with going somewhere and talking for a bit,” His voice tilts up slightly at the end, hesitant and almost nervous as he waits for your answer.

You let out a quiet sigh, biting the inside of your cheek as you stare at the wall, weighing the risk of letting him back in.

“Please?” he adds softly.

God.

The word almost cracks your resolve, a familiar pull tugging at you to just give in. You try to suppress the instinct, before a desperate bit of self-preservation takes over.

“I’m not even home,” you lie, the excuse slipping out at the last second.

“Oh, well your lamp is still on,” he says almost too casually.

“What?” You look over at the nightstand, your heart taking a sudden dive. The lamp is in fact on and casting a warm glow across your bedroom. “How do you even know that?”

“Because I’m outside your window.” He speaks like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

You drop the laptop onto the mattress, scramble across the blankets, and quickly yank open the curtains. Down on the sidewalk, standing right under the glow of the streetlamp, is Clark. He looks up, locks eyes with you through the glass, and offers a little wave, that familiar dimply smile cutting through the dark.

“Oh, there you are,” his voice crackles through the phone. He doesn’t even care that you just lied about not being home.

All you can do is stare down at him for a moment in disbelief.

Instead of heading down to meet him, you let out a sharp breath into the receiver. “Just come up.”

It doesn’t take long until that familiar, heavy-handed knock sounds against the wood of your front door. You scurry over, your pulse quickening, but you don’t unlock it all the way.

The door jolts to a sudden stop after a few inches, held fast by the taut metal link. Clark is standing under the dim hallway light, looking a little tired but searching your face through the narrow vertical gap. The chain hangs rigidly between you, a stark, physical boundary slicing the space between your two faces.

“Yes?” you ask, your tone flat.

“So?” Clark replies, tilting his head slightly, waiting for an answer.

“So.….what?”

“I asked if we could talk, maybe walk around for a bit,” he reiterates softly, his voice trailing off towards the end .

You analyze him, head to toe, through the slender gap of the door, taking a second to really think about it. He stands there anxiously waiting, looking like an expectant, hopeful stray, dressed in a layered brown sweater, jeans, and a matching brown leather belt. His hair is slightly disheveled due to walking in the evening wind. His glasses serve as a familiar disguise that feels almost absurdly endearing given what you know about his true identity.

You find yourself wishing he didn’t look the way he did, possessing that effortless, frustrating pull. Huffing out a breath in defeat, you squint your eyes at him.

“Hold on.”

You shut the door on his face, the latch clicking back into place. Leaning your back against the solid wood, you press a palm over your face and close your eyes.

Pushing yourself off your door, you travel around the bedroom, grabbing a light jacket to throw over your pajamas and sliding your feet into a pair of shoes.

You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror but don’t bother lingering for too long. It would be entirely redundant to try and fix your hair or throw on a bit of makeup considering he’s seen you in every way. All of you, in every way.

When you walk back to the door and reach for the doorknob, you pause, deliberately forcing yourself to wait so you don’t seem too eager to let him in.

After a few added seconds, you swing the door open quickly.

The sudden movement makes Clark snap his head up from where he had been staring at the floor. The second he locks eyes with you, that dumb, endearing smile instantly spreads across his face.

Stop.

“Where are we going?” you ask, pulling your jacket a little tighter around yourself.

“Just a walk around the block, if that’s okay?” His voice is soft, leaving the decision entirely up to you.

You give a brief, silent nod and step out into the hallway, pulling the apartment door shut behind you.

The walk down to the elevator is quiet, and once the aged, metal doors slide shut, the small space suddenly feels incredibly tight. You keep your eyes glued straight ahead, staring intently at the illuminated floor numbers so you don’t make any eye contact whatsoever.

But without even looking, you can still feel the heavy weight of his attention. In your peripheral, you notice him awkwardly shifting, his eyes drifting over to look down at you at least twice, testing the quiet between you.

When the doors finally slide open, you step out into the lobby. Walking side by side, you make your way across the floor and push through the heavy front doors of the building, stepping out into the cool, quiet night air.

What starts out as a hesitant lap around the block slowly stretches out, your quiet footsteps naturally guiding them into the grass-lined paths of the nearby park.

You tried your absolute hardest to stay closed off, keeping your arms crossed and your answers short, but you forgot how hard that can be when you’re around him. He just has an innate warmth to him that makes it impossible to stay guarded for long; it doesn’t take anyone long to feel comfortable around him.

As you keep walking, the conversation naturally drifts into the heavier stuff.

It starts with a few hesitant, awkward apologies, where both of you trip over your words as you try to find the right things to say.

You even find yourselves talking about the lingering regrets you’ve both been carrying around internally. It’s clunky and a little uncomfortable at first, but airing out the past brings a strange, quiet relief to the space between you.

Soon you reach your apartment building again. You push through the heavy doors and step into the elevator, the quiet of the lobby following you inside. Of course, you’re not surprised when you realize that Clark is staying with you until he sees you enter your apartment. It’s always been a habit of his so he knows you’re safe.

The ride up is a bit different this time. Instead of purposefully ignoring Clark’s gaze, you both keep glancing over at each other. Right as the elevator passes the halfway point, you both look up at the exact same time. Your eyes lock, and the sudden, intense eye contact sends a jolt through the quiet space.

You both quickly break away, snapping your focus down to the ground. The easy energy from the park instantly disappears and is replaced by a sudden wave of awkwardness as you both start shifting your weight and adjusting your jackets, completely unsure of what to do with your hands.

The elevator chimes, and the doors slide open, releasing you both from the small, confined box. You walk down the carpeted hallway until you’re standing right outside your door, it was a spot you two were very familiar with.

“Thank you for the talk,” you say softly, the honesty in your voice surprising even yourself. “It was definitely needed.”

Clark shrugs his shoulders and that quiet warmth returns to his eyes. “It was no problem,” he says, his voice low and sincere. “Really.”

You exchange your final ‘goodbye’s’ and Clark turns on his heels and heads toward the elevator. You slip inside your apartment, lock the door, and let out a long breath, leaning your forehead against the wood.

Standing in the quiet entryway, you feel it — that fuzzy sensation pulling right in the center of your chest. You absolutely hate that it's still lingering, even after everything that happened between you. You close your eyes, shaking your head aggressively as if you could physically knock the feeling out of your system.

Before you can even take a step towards the bedroom, a violent rumble of thunder rattles the walls and a massive downpour starts absolutely slamming against the glass.

You rush over to the window, parting the curtains and looking straight down at the sidewalk.

Right under the streetlamp — the same spot he was in previously — Clark is caught in the rain. He is completely drenched, his hair flat and sopping on his head, and his brown sweater has grown heavier (not that he noticed). He just accepts it and just hunches his shoulders, looking entirely miserable as he starts a slow trudge down the sidewalk.

You watch him for a few seconds, completely defeated.

He is so ridiculous, you think. You know he could easily outrun the clouds, but Clark Kent has to walk in the rain.

You yank the window open, the cool, wet wind blowing against your face.

“Clark!” you shout down into the street, throwing your voice over the sound of the storm.

He snaps his head up, squinting through the downpour as he looks up at your floor.

“Come back!” you yell, gesturing aggressively towards the building. He nods quickly, turning on his heel to sprint back inside.

You mentally go over the timeline of him crossing the lobby, waiting on the elevator and riding it back up to your floor.

By the time the distant ding! of the elevator echoes down the hallway, you can't even pretend to be casual anymore. You unlock the door and swing it wide open before he can even make it halfway down the corridor.

Clark quickly steps past you, slipping inside the warm apartment to get out of the open hallway. The heavy door clicks shut behind him, and only then do you turn to really look at him.

He looks pitiful. His dark hair is plastered to his forehead, his glasses are so fogged up and covered in droplets that it’s a miracle he can even see, and that heavy brown sweater is already dripping small puddles onto the entryway floor.

The second he clears the water from his eyes and looks at you, his face lights up, and that same hopeful, dumb smile cuts right through the rain dripping down his cheeks.

“Hey,” he says, his voice a little breathless as he stays firmly planted by the mat, hyperaware of the soggy mess he’s making.

“Don’t ‘hey’ me,” your eyes catch the dripping knit fabric. “You’re getting my carpet all wet,” you chuckle.

“Right, yeah,” he quickly kicks off his soaked shoes and nudges them onto the mat.

You gesture toward the bathroom door. “Just hand me the wet stuff and I’ll get you something dry.”

You stand outside the bathroom door, waiting in the quiet hallway as the sound of wet fabric rustling echoes from inside.

A moment later, the door cracks open, and Clark reaches out to hand you a heavy, waterlogged bundle of his soaked sweater and jeans.

When the door swings open just a few inches, you see it — the clear sliver of his bare torso through the gap. Your eyes drift instantly across the solid line of his broad shoulders and down the damp curve of his chest. The sheer frame of him fills the doorway, and your gaze linger for a beat too long before your mouth goes completely dry, forcing you to snap your focus back up to his face.

Clearing your throat, you take the dripping pile with one hand and quickly extend the dry bundle you pulled from your dresser — his old white t-shirt and dark sweatpants that was left behind months ago back when staying over was a regular thing.

Clark takes the clothes through the crack in the door, his fingers brushing against the worn, familiar fabric. There’s a heavy beat of total silence from inside the bathroom as he recognizes what you just handed him.

“I was wondering where these went,” his voice is quiet as if he’s talking to himself.

Once he’s dressed, Clark steps back into the living room, cleaning his glasses with the bottom of his shirt that was now lifted just enough to give you a perfect view of his happy trail.

Stop staring.

He slows his steps when he sees the couch. You’ve set up a pillow and folded a few heavy blankets across the cushions for him.

Outside the window, the storm continues into the pitch-black night. With the weather tearing through the streets at this hour, it would be ridiculous for him to even attempt walking home — superpowers or not. So letting him sleep on the couch is the only sensible option left.

“I’d feel super guilty letting you walk home in that,” you say, gesturing toward the heavy rain hammering against the living room window.

Clark rubs the back of his neck, giving you a small, humble smile. “Oh, I’d be fine really,” he says, his voice quiet. ‘I’ve walked in worse,”

His words say one thing, but his body language says another. He makes absolutely zero move toward the front door.

He isn’t reaching for his wet jacket, he isn’t checking his watch, and he certainly isn’t looking for his shoes. For someone claiming he’d be fine walking out into a torrential downpour, he seems remarkably content standing right where he is.

“Okay, well,” you say, clearing your throat. “You know where everything is.”

You pull off a quick shrug, trying your best to seem casual and completely unaffected — as if having your ex-boyfriend standing in your living room at night were the most routine thing in the world

The awkward silence in the apartment lets every buried thought and quiet memory rush to the forefront of your brain.

Panic creeps up your chest. Wanting nothing more than to put a solid wall between yourself and the constant reminder of his presence, you pivot toward your bedroom.

You start at a normal walk, but within two steps, your feet pick up a frantic pace. You practically power-walk down the short hallway, desperately hoping Clark’s sharp eyes don’t catch the absurd speed at which you’re retreating into your room.

You leave the door pulled shut, but leave it cracked open just a tiny sliver. As you crawl into bed and pull the blankets all the way up to your chin, you squeeze your eyes shut with absolute determination. You try to focus on the steady pattern of your breathing, desperately trying to drown out the noise in your head.

Through the narrow gap in the door, the subtle sounds of Clark settling in drift through the dark space. The quiet creak of the sofa cushions as his heavy frame sinks into them. The soft rustle of the blanket being pulled over his shoulders. A long, weary exhale that cuts through the quiet room.

At least forty five whole minutes stretch on, each one feeling longer than the last. You toss, turn, and stare at the thin strip of pale light cutting across your ceiling, but sleep remains completely out of reach.

Coincidentally, Clark is actually having the same problem.

He’s lying flat on his back, staring up at your living room ceiling with his hands tucked behind his head, his chest rising and falling in slow, heavy rhythm. The old white t-shirt smells faintly like your detergent, and every time he inhales, it pulls him right back to every night he spent under this roof.

His mind drifts back to the nights you used to share. He could never forget how pretty you’d look when you were all flushed and unraveled in his arms.

He also remembers how soft and sweet you are. If he told you that he had been with another woman since you’d split, he’d be lying.

Just the thought of it makes him sick.

And of course tonight you looked perfect — your cheeks blushing a subtle hint of pink when he caught you off guard, the small line between your brows when you furrowed your brows at him. Even with all the walls you’ve put up between you, you still manage to drive him crazy.

The constant chatter in his brain pulls a heavy breath from his chest, making the space between you feel thin.

Oh no.

He squeezes his eyes shut tight and groans in frustration quietly as that familiar warmth flows straight through his veins and pools low in his stomach.

He yanks one of the pillows from behind his head and buries it firmly over his lap, pressing it down against his growing erection as if physical force alone could force his body to stop.

It backfires completely. The added friction and weight only makes it worse, sending a sharp jolt straight to his core. Overwhelmed by the sensation, his hips instinctively push up against the soft pillow, seeking even a fraction of relief for the ache building inside him.

He freezes the second he hears the couch springs shift beneath him, holding his breath as he listens intently toward your cracked bedroom door, praying you didn’t hear him lose a fight to himself.

Of course, you would hear him if you weren’t getting all hot and bothered yourself.

You’re completely rigid under the covers, a pillow wedged firmly between your legs as you clutch the edge of the mattress. You fight the overwhelming urge to slide your hand down and touch herself the way you wish he could.

You shut your eyes and bite down hard on your lower lip to keep your breathing steady. You know that if you gave in, or let your breathing hitch, he would instantly hear every single second of it.

For a few agonizing minutes, Clark stays on the couch, silently rocking his hips up against the pillow in a desperate attempt to work off the unbearable friction burning through his flannel pajama pants.

He sighs in defeat and runs a clammy hand down his face.

Fuck it.

A spark of courage settles in his chest and he quietly pads across the dark living room and towards your bedroom.

He stands in the doorway, watching you in the dim light for a few quiet seconds before sneaking inside. You hear him quietly call out your name, causing you to immediately close your eyes and pretend to be sound asleep.

He walks farther into your room, his sock clad feet making no sound against the floor as he walks closer to the side of the bed, pausing right beside you to silently observe your face in the dim light.

His eyes drift across your sleeping figure in the dark, unable to look away from how soft and pretty you look in the low light.

You try your best not to tense your muscles as he runs his fingers gently down your bare shoulder, the warm tips tracing the curve of your skin.

His breathing turns shallow as the touch sends another wave of heat straight to his gut. Keeping his eyes fixed on your quiet face, he reaches down with his other hand, carefully palming himself through the fabric of his boxers, slowly relieving the throbbing pressure.

As his fingertips travel lower, tracing down your bare skin and towards your hips, you carefully crack your eyes open.

“I know what you’re doing, Clark,” you blurt out into the dark.

The words instantly cut through the quiet room, but he doesn’t stop. Instead, his breath hitches, and his fingers keep moving against your soft skin, unable to draw away.

“M’ sorry,” he whispers, his lips now brushing your arm. “I missed you so much,”

His palm slides slowly along your side, his pulse hammering against your skin as he leans down, his mouth just inches from your ear.

“Tell me to stop,” he breathes. “Just tell me to stop, and I will.”

You turn around on the mattress, your eyes locking onto his in the dim light for a beat.

He opens his mouth to speak again but before he can say another word, you reach up to grab the front of his shirt, pulling him down into a kiss.

Clark’s knees almost buckle beneath him, his legs going weak as his lips meet yours. He completely melts into you as you pull him upward, easily guiding his weight until he’s positioned right on top of you.

He presses his broad palm flat against your chest, his fingers spreading over your sternum as his lips drag deeply against yours. The rapid pulse of your heart thuds into his hand, matching the wild pace of his own.

“Your heart is beating so fast,” he murmurs against your mouth, his voice breathy before he leans back in to capture your lips again.

“So is yours,” you whisper back, allowing your tongues to tangle together in a deep, intoxicating rhythm.

Clark ruts his hard cock firmly up against your cunt. The tip catches directly against your clit, sending a sharp wave of pleasure straight through you that draws out an involuntary whine.

“Do you want me?” he asks, his breath hot against your neck as he grinds into you again.

You were too far gone to realize that you were letting Clark back in almost too easily, but with the way he was pressed so perfectly against you, he’s the only thing you need right now.

“Yes,” you gasp out, clutching his shoulders. “Right now.”

Clark groans at your words, sliding his hand up under your shirt to cup your breast, massaging it firmly. His big, warm hand pulls a loud moan from your throat, your hips bucking up against his.

He moves his lips down your body until he reaches your cunt. He quickly works off your shorts and buries his face against your center, taking in a deep, unsteady breath of your scent.

He lets out a soft whine, leaning down to press slow, warm kisses directly against the fabric of your panties. His hands move to the elastic, gently sliding the fabric down your legs until they’re discarded somewhere in the dark.

His finger trails down your slick heat, tracing your wetness in an agonizingly slow stroke. He looks down at your folds, his voice barely a breath as he whispers, “Hi, pretty girl,” unabashedly to your cunt.

You feel his lips press a slow, wet kiss directly against your pussy, letting his warm breath linger for a second before his tongue swirls out to flick right against your clit.

He dives in, fully eating you out with pure need. His hands grip the undersides of your thighs, planting his thumbs firmly into your skin to hold you locked in place so there's no chance of escape.

Your fingers weave their way to his dark hair, gripping tight as he licks and laps into you without missing a single beat.

Two thick fingers slide deep inside of you, instantly hooking right where you need them. He presses his weight into the bed, completely shameless as he begin to hump the mattress, the thick swell of his cock grinding against the sheets right beside your thigh.

“Clark, I’m gonna- ‘M cumming,” you gasp out, your fingers tightening in his dark hair as the rubber band in your belly finally snaps.

“Mhm, mhm,” he murmurs against your skin, not slowing down for a single second. He holds you steady, helping you ride out every last ripple of your high.

After littering your inner thighs with a few more kisses, he starts to push himself up, but your hands immediately catch him to halt his movement.

“Still need you,” you whine as your hand drifts straight down between his legs to wrap firmly around his cock.

He smiles, a breathy chuckle slips past his lips. “Oh, baby,”

He leans back up, pressing a sweet kiss right against the corner of your mouth before kicking off his pajama pants and boxers to free himself.

He slowly drags the length of his cock up and down along your folds to collect your wetness.

“Are you sure? Use words pretty,” he asks as he taps his tip against your clit a few times. You can tell by the dimples peeking for the upteenth time tonight that he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“C’mon Clark,” The impatient tone in your voice leaves no room for debate.

A quiet chuckle rumbles in his chest. “Sorry,” he murmurs, taking a breath before lining himself back up and steadily sinking all the way inside.

“Biiiig stretch, there you go honey,” A sharp, synchronized moan breaks through the quiet room as he fills you up completely.

He rests his forehead pressed against your shoulder as you both take a few seconds to really feel each other.

“Clark, please move,” you whisper into his shoulder, the soft plea breaking through the quiet room.

“Hold on...just give me a second,” he mutters, his voice a little strained and gritty.

His whole body is rigid over yours as he shuts his eyes, concentrating with everything he’s got just to keep from busting right then and there. His hands grip the sheets beside your head, knuckles turning white as he takes a few slow, steadying breaths into your skin, trying to catch his control.

He mumbles a quiet ‘okay’ to himself before slowly rocking his hips into yours. His cock deliciously drags along your walls in a way that you had craved for far too long.

The slow, cautious pace vanishes as he suddenly picks up speed, driving into you with a desperate rhythm that has both of your hips snapping together in quick, breathless bursts.

His lips find yours again, capturing them in an urgent kiss. Every deep thrust pulls needy whines straight from both of your throats, muffled against each other's mouths.

Your hand drifts back down between your bodies, fingers finding where you both connect, feeling every inch of his length working in and out of you.

Clark shifts, leaning back just enough to look down at your stomach, his eyes locking onto that familiar, distinct bulge beneath your skin.

“Look,” he whispers as he reaches down with his hand. “Forgot about that,”

He presses his palm down firm against the swell, and the sudden, intense pressure sends a helpless, high-pitched mewl straight out of your throat, your hips instinctively arching up into his touch.

The headboard thumps loud and hard against the wall with every single stroke, a heavy, rhythmic banging that’s definitely going to bring in some noise complaints from the neighbors.

It doesn't even matter. You’re way too far gone to care, legs wrapped tight around his wide waist as he jackhammers into you, completely lost in the static fuzz that filled your brain.

“I missed you,” he pants against your ear, the pace not slowing for a second. “I know you did too, I can feel it,”

Clark’s words pour out into a mindless, frantic babble, the words tumbling out raw and unstructured between hard thrusts. “I should've done better, fuck, I know I should’ve. I’ll do better for you, I promise, if you’ll let me, please,”

You can’t even assemble a proper sentence. Your brain is completely fried from feeling his cock punching into that spongy spot inside of you over and over again. All you can manage is a series of nonsensical nods, letting out weak, incoherent noises.

You both hit the edge at the same time, and Clark can feel your walls starting to clench tight around him with every shuddering breath.

He reaches further down between your legs and tweaks your clit.

The sharp, intense bolt of electricity makes you clench around him even harder, almost locking him in place. Clark lets out a harsh, guttural groan, his jaw tight as he tries to hold back for two more seconds.

“Where do you want it, hurry,” he grunts, his voice completely wrecked.

“Inside,” you gasp out, barely able to force the word past your lips.

The second the word leaves your mouth, he buries himself as deep as he can go and spills inside of you.

“It’s all yours, m’all yours,” he slurs against your skin, filling you up as your whole body shatters in a synchronized, overwhelming climax that leaves you both shattered.

You both lay there in the quiet room, chests heaving as you breathe heavily against each other.

Clark slowly pulls out, shifting over to the nightstand to pluck a few tissues from the box. You lie entirely limp and exhausted as he gently cleans you both up.

He reaches over the edge of the bed and scoops your panties from the floor along with his own boxers. He slips your underwear back onto your hips before pulling his on. He then finds your shirt, holding it in front of you.

“Arms.”

Without even having to process the thought, you sit up and automatically raise your arms so he can slide the fabric back over your head and shoulders. It all comes so naturally, a familiar routine your body has known a thousand times before.

He settles back down at your side, wrapping his arms around you to pull you flush against his chest, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your temple as your breathing finally begins to slow.

A quiet voice in the back of your mind tells you that you definitely shouldn’t be letting this happen, but your body is far too heavy and fatigued to care. You close your eyes and nuzzle your face into his chest, deciding that whatever mess this is can just be dealt with in the morning.

[drcaspiancrow]

Cooking For Clark

Pairing: Clark Kent x Reader Summary: Clark has been working overtime this weekend, finishing an important article. He's tired, overworked, and stressed out. You decide he needs a reward for all his hard work, so you took it upon yourself to make one of his favorite foods: Beef Bourguignon (and some ketchup on the side.) Warnings: PG, Established Relationship, No use of y/n, Reader knows Clark is Superman, Reader has hair, Reader is shorter than Clark, Reader doesn't cook often, kissing/hugging, food/eating, cuddling, pet names (baby, babe, love, hon), Clark is an absolute dork and sappy in this one Word count: 1,577

Humming to your favorite album playing on the turntable, you stand over the stove as you mix the pot of mashed potatoes to the perfect consistency. On the counter sits a large pot, wrapped tightly in foil, waiting to be heated to perfection.

Clark has been working over the weekend on a story that has taken all of his time. He's even had to call the Justice Gang to cover Metropolis because Perry's been breathing down his neck so much he couldn't escape if he tried. Clark's told you over a quick call during his lunch hour that he's hit a breakthrough on the article, and should have it done by the deadline. That deadline is today.

To celebrate all his hard work, and to give him a little pick-me-up, you've decided to put in the work and make one of his favorite foods of all time: Beef Bourguignon. It's a grueling recipe taking days to prepare, and you also aren't usually the one to cook of the two of you, but for Clark's beaming smile, it's worth it.

It's been hard work making nearly everything from scratch (so what if you got some boxed mashed potatoes out of the cabinet), but after an embarrassing amount of calls to the Head Chef Herself, Ma Kent, you managed to pull through. What's been equally as hard, though, is making sure Clark doesn't find out. The excess amount of groceries could be excused, but having the full pot of stew sitting in the kitchen would be hard to explain away. Or, so you thought. Despite his super sense of smell, poor Clark was so beat after work yesterday that he just got some random fruit from the fridge to eat, then flopped into bed and promptly passed out. He seemed too busy or sleep deprived in the morning to notice it either, body on auto-pilot as he put in a piece of toast and gulped down a cup of coffee before leaving your shared apartment.

Clear of his wickedly good nose, you safely continued your master plan. The sun had set over the skyline already, and Clark had called to let you know he was on the way home, finally. The gruffness in his voice betrayed how fried he really was, despite the palpable release of tension with every one of his exhales.

Mashed potatoes nearly done, you lift the pot of stew over on the stove to heat up thoroughly, taking a small spoon and dipping it in the broth to taste test it once more. The last chorus of the song plays through as you finalize everything, sufficiently heating the food to the perfect warmth.

Just as you set the stove top to simmer, the front door to your apartment clicks open. You step out to see Clark, shucking off his work shoes and hanging his keys up on the rack. His shoulders are slumped, hair even more tousled then usual as he cards his hands through his curls for the thousandth time today while sighing.

"Hey, hon I'm—" His words cut off mid-sentence as his eyes widen to a stark degree, eyebrows shooting up to disappear into his bangs. "You didn't!"

You simply lean onto the doorframe of the kitchen, smug and proud of your accomplishment, "Did what? I don't know what you're talking about."

He steps forwards, grabbing onto your shoulder and peeking behind you, seeing the pots on the stove. Now, his dimples make their full appearance, smile overtaking his features, "You did! You so did!"

"Maybe…I did," You sing, unable to hide the smile on your face at Clark's ecstatic energy.

He starts to make his way to kitchen, nose guiding his feet, before he catches himself, pecking your lips before rambling, "Hi honey, lovely to see you, hope you've had a good day today."

"Hi, love, I had a great day today, thank you for asking," you speak slower than you ecstatic boyfriend. "Hope you're hungry for some dinner," you gesture backwards to the food as you break his hold and head towards the stove.

He bounces on his feet following you like an excited puppy, "If I wasn't before, I definitely am now!" Clark stands behind you, arm wrapping around your waist as he peers over and watches you quickly stir the food to make sure it doesn't burn. "I can't believe you made this, baby. Beef bourguignon is a lot of work!" He squeezes your waist quickly, "How long have you been making this?"

"Well, you've been working so hard at the Planet, I thought you deserved a little reward after you finished your big article. I've been working on it all weekend trying to make it perfect for you. Here, try it," you lift a spoon to his mouth and shove it in before he gets a chance to respond, too anxious to see his reaction to wait any longer. He wraps his lips around it, eagerly taking a chunk of meat and stock. His eyes flutter shut as he groans while chewing the food.

"Good?" You ask, heart in your throat. You'd need two more hands to count the amount of times you've nervously taste tested the stew, seasoning it obsessively until it was exactly like you remember it from the restaurant in Smallville.

"It's—" he starts, mouth still full, before he reaches a hand to cover his mouth, "It's perfect honey."

"Yeah?" You look up to him, eyes glittering.

He nods enthusiastically as he swallows the bite you gave him. He wipes his lips of the excess liquid before kissing you firmly on the forehead, "I don't deserve you." Clark wraps his large arms around you, engulfing you into a tight hug, cheek pressed against the top of your head as his glasses shift off his eyes from the firmness of his press, "You're the best thing that's ever happened to me."

You chuckle, "All this over some stew?" Your voice is muffled as your face is pressed into his chest.

He simply hums and starts swinging you back and forth in his hold for a minute, before you press against him, Clark loosening his hold on you begrudgingly. "You know I love your hugs, but I've been anxious all weekend about this dang stew coming out okay, so we need to eat this before I can't stomach the sight of it anymore."

Clark beams down at you, nodding, "Sounds like a plan, Stan!" as he makes his way to the cabinet where the dishes are located.

You made sure the recipe had enough for Clark's large appetite, and sure enough, Clark gets the biggest bowl you have, taking the ladle and filling the bowl up to the brim, grabbing the ketchup from the fridge on his way out of the kitchen. He's giddy as he sits down at the dining table, clapping his hands lightly. "Ooh, I'm so excited honey, it smells so good!"

You serve yourself up some (a significantly smaller portion), and sit down right next to him. "Smells good? Does it not taste good?" You say with a smirk.

He shovels a spoonful in his mouth, "Both can be true!" He groans again as he chews, "Oh, baby that is delicious! You did amazing."

You giggle through your own mouthful, savoring the taste of the dish you worked so hard on. You can't blame Clark for loving it, it really is that good. You hum, satisfied, the meat falling apart in your mouth; the onions, carrots, and mushrooms browned to perfection; with the lovely rich red wine permeating through it all.

You talk over dinner, Clark telling the harrowing tale of his work, unloading the stress of the weekend through food and quality time with you. You tell the story of making the dinner in front of you both, the amount of times you had to call his Ma for help (he brightens at the mention of her name) the journey of trying to find pearl onions in the grocery store, and the struggle (or lack there-of) of trying to hide it all from Clark. Half-way through the conversation, Clark realized that in his enthusiasm to eat one of his favorite foods made by his favorite person, he forgot to serve himself the mashed potatoes you made.

"Eh, that's okay, I was gonna go for seconds soon anyways," he says as he takes his licked-clean bowl, refills it, then grabs another bowl of mashed potatoes to chow down on, continuing your conversation shortly thereafter. At some point he takes his glasses off, the delicious smell of Beef Bourguignon having side-tracked his usual routine of removing them when coming home, citing that they were 'getting in the way' of his eating and he 'couldn't see through all this steam.'

The rest of the night was peaceful, the Gang having already agreed to cover the day for him. You both stayed in, watching Clark's favorite movie (Star Wars, of course) and catching up on the new episodes of the TV shows you both have been watching together. You both fall asleep cuddling on the couch, the TV softly playing in the background as the only light in the room; the both of you breathing deeply in the blankets you've tangled yourselves in, tightly wrapped around each other as Clark didn't want to spare a single second after having spent the weekend away. You smile softly in your dreams, satisfied.

Clark Kent successfully cheered up.

[orobaxis]

In Sickness and In Health

Summary: Sometimes, when you feel down for no obvious reason at all, your family comes to the rescue.

warnings: talks of mental health, depression, burn out, hurt/comfort, cute clark and babies

thank you to all who sent their well-wishes! i have read all the messages and they made me smile and my heart is full knowing that everyone has been kind and thought of me! please...if you are feeling down, reach out and have a conversation with me. thank you for your patience and love!

Dad Clark Kent x Fem!Reader

more kent family adventures here!

even more kent family adventures here! (pt 2 of the masterlist)

It happened so quietly that you almost didn't notice it yourself. You thought you were simply tired.

Work had been busier than usual. Maybe it had been deadlines, or some peer reviews that had been needlessly cruel, tearing your integrity apart and making you feel stupid. The workload followed you home, and your mind continued solving problems long after you had shut your laptop. Even on weekends, you caught yourself thinking about emails you still had to answer or tasks waiting for Monday morning.

So when you slept in an extra half hour one Saturday, you blamed the long week you had.

Then the half hour became an hour.

Then, one morning, you stared at the ceiling for nearly forty-five minutes before convincing yourself to get out of bed.

The house was already awake below you.

You heard laughter. Pots clinking. Little feet running across hardwood floors.

Normally, that sound would've had you smiling before your feet even touched the floor.

Today...you just felt tired. Heavy.

-

Clark noticed it immediately.

When you wandered downstairs, still wearing one of his old T-shirts and looking more exhausted than someone who had slept ten hours should, breakfast was already waiting.

"Morning," he greeted gently.

You smiled weakly. "Morning."

He leaned over and kissed your forehead.

A habit. One he'd never once forgotten.

"You feeling okay, honey?"

You shrugged. "I'm just tired."

He nodded. "Okay."

-

Leia noticed two days later.

Six-year-olds were observant in ways adults often forgot. Especially your six-year-old.

You had always been the first one outside with her after dinner.

You'd kick a soccer ball around the yard or help her practice riding her bike or simply sit on the porch while she chased butterflies.

That evening, you stayed on the couch instead.

"I'm gonna stay inside today, sweetheart."

Leia tilted her head. "But... outside is your favorite."

You gave her an apologetic smile. "It usually is."

She accepted the answer without question. But you caught her looking back at you through the window every few minutes while she played with Clark.

-

Jon toddled into your office one afternoon carrying his favorite stuffed dinosaur.

He held it up proudly. "Mommy."

You smiled. "What is it, buddy?"

He pushed the dinosaur into your hands. "For you."

"...For me?"

He nodded enthusiastically. "Dino make Jon happy. So…"

You blinked.

He carefully tucked the dinosaur under your arm.

"Dino make Mommy happy!"

Your eyes stung unexpectedly. You scooped him into your lap.

"Oh, sweetheart..."

He patted your cheek with his tiny hand."Mommy sad?"

You hesitated. "...A little."

He scrunched his nose, processing what you said.

Then he leaned in to kiss your nose.

"Better?"

-

You weren't better. Not really. You tried.

You forced yourself to fold laundry. Halfway through, you couldn't find the energy to finish.

You started washing dishes. Eventually Clark quietly finished them after you wandered away without realizing.

You hated the thought of showering, of the water or shower curtain hitting your skin.

The house wasn't falling apart. Clark was on top of things. 

Somehow made you feel worse.

-

"I feel like I'm disappearing."

The words slipped out one evening as you sat on the edge of the bed.

Clark looked up immediately from where he'd been putting away freshly folded towels.

"What do you mean?"

You stared down at your hands. "I don't know."

He sat beside you.

"I just..." You searched desperately for words. "I don't feel like myself anymore."

Clark stayed quiet.

"I know I love you." You looked up at him. "I know I love the kids. I know I love my job."

Your voice became smaller, sniffling. "So why do I feel like this?"

He reached over slowly, taking your hand. "I don't know."

You nodded. "I wish I did."

"So do I."

Another long silence.

Then quietly, you whispered, "I'm scared."

Clark's thumb rubbed gently across your knuckles.

"What if I stay like this?"

He turned fully toward you.

"Then we'll get through it."

"What if I–"

"We." He corrected you, voice steady, "Not you. We.”

-

A few mornings later, you stayed in bed long after everyone else had gotten up.

You weren't asleep. You were just... lying there.

The curtains fluttered softly in the breeze. Birds chirped outside. You heard distant laughter downstairs. Then several sets of footsteps.

The bedroom door creaked open.

Clark peeked inside first. "There she is."

Behind him stood Leia. Behind Leia stood Jon.

Leia climbed onto the bed first. "I brought Bun-Bun." She carefully tucked her beloved stuffed bunny beside you, the same one she'd slept with every night since she was a baby.

"When I'm sad," she explained earnestly, "I hug Bun-Bun."

She smiled hopefully. "So maybe Bun-Bun can help."

Your heart melted. "Thank you, sweetheart."

Jon climbed up next. He proudly presented his dinosaur. "My favowite. For Mama."

"So he'll make me happy too?"

Jon nodded so enthusiastically he nearly tipped over. "Yep!"

Then he crawled directly into your lap, Leia following after.

Soon both children were snuggled against you beneath the blankets.

Clark smiled quietly beside you. “Treatment plan by Drs. Leia and Jon Kent.”

You laughed softly, perhaps for the first time in days.

Leia gasped. "You laughed!"

"I did."

She looked immensely pleased with herself.

-

Clark disappeared downstairs.

A few minutes later, he returned carrying a tray of tea, toast, some fruit, and one of your favorite muffins from the bakery downtown.

"I thought breakfast in bed sounded better today."

"You didn't have to."

"I wanted to."

He set the tray beside you before sitting on the edge of the bed.

"The laundry's done."

You frowned. "You did it?"

He nodded. "Dishes too."

"I was going to–"

"I know."

You looked down. "I feel bad."

Clark gently tilted your chin upward. "Why, baby?"

"Because you're doing everything."

He smiled softly. "I'm your husband."

"I know."

"This..." He glanced around the room. "...is part of the job description."

You huffed a tiny laugh. "I don't remember that in the vows."

"It was implied. When we renew our vows, I promise to be more specific."

-

By afternoon, Clark had another idea.

"No pressure," he said. "But..."

He held out your sneakers. "It's nice outside."

You looked toward the window. Sunlight poured across the yard.

"If all we do is sit on the porch..." He shrugged. "...that's enough."

You agreed.

The four of you walked just around the nearby trails.

Jon rode on Clark's shoulders for half of it, while Leia collected interesting rocks.

You walked slowly beside Clark, your fingers laced together.

The sunshine felt warm. The breeze was cool.

For the first time in what felt like forever, your chest felt just a little lighter.

Leia skipped back toward you suddenly.

"Mommy?"

"Yeah?"

She looked up curiously. "Why are you sad?"

You glanced at Clark.

He gave your hand a gentle squeeze.

You knelt beside her.

"You know how sometimes..." you began carefully, "...you wake up grumpy?"

Leia nodded.

"Even when nothing happened?"

"Uh-huh."

"It's kind of like that."

"But bigger?" Her little face scrunched in concentration.

“Yeah,” you nodded.

"So..." she searched carefully for understanding. "Nothing made you sad?"

You shook your head. "Sometimes our brains get tired."

Leia looked thoughtful. "Like legs?"

You smiled. "A little."

Leia seemed to understand this, "When I run lots, my legs need rest."

"Exactly."

She nodded decisively. "So your brain needs rest?"

"It does."

Leia thought about that for another moment. Then she reached over and took your hand. "Okay."

"...Okay?"

"I hold Mommy’s hand." She smiled brightly. "So you and your brain are not lonely while you rest."

Your eyes immediately filled.

Clark looked away briefly, smiling to himself.

"You know," he said quietly, "I think that's an excellent idea, little star."

Leia looked very proud.

That evening, after the kids had fallen asleep, you and Clark sat together on the porch swing beneath a sky full of stars.

"I still feel guilty," you admitted.

"For what?"

"You've been carrying everything."

Clark was quiet for a long moment. Then he wrapped an arm around your shoulders. "Do you remember after Jon was born?"

You nodded.

"You felt guilty then too."

"I did."

"What did I tell you?"

You smiled faintly. “That you can carry this family until I am ready to help you carry it again.”

Clark nodded. "And I meant it."

You leaned your head against his shoulder. "I just don't feel like I’m enough lately."

He kissed your hair. "I know."

"I feel like..." You sighed shakily, “...like I don't have much love to give."

Clark was quiet for a few seconds. Then he turned just enough to look at you. "Then I'll love us all enough for both of us."

You blinked. "What?"

His blue eyes never left yours. "You've spent years loving me through my hardest days. So please, let me love you through yours."

The weight in your chest didn't disappear overnight. Healing rarely worked that way.

You didn't have to climb out of the darkness by yourself.

The people who loved you had already climbed in beside you.

And together, they would walk with you until you found the sunlight again.

-

taglist

@vql3rie @celestialend @diannelucille @minienix @evermoresivy

@nixandtonic @bl00dstained @vestafir @sweettbepbo @icybarness

@skzvibes-blog @sweetheartdiariess @blackwidownat2814 @zandra-42 @ysuftmikey

@soupiemeowmeow @bookishbabyyyy @DreamingofTomorrow @1-800-peakyblinders @kissesofstars

@qtmoonies @Casiopea2 @buckystwilight_ @buckystwilight @princess76179

@kaiparkerwife @vinecstasy @averyhotchner @angelicp0etry @multifandom-loser

@ladamari68 @httpstoyosi @jakesphere @alina02 @kaorisakamotofan

@randomfangirlof @unabashedlyswimmingtimemachine @animegamerfox @thychuvaluswife @clarkclit

@tayhobart @obsessedwthdilfs @kneelarhmstrung @helalokithor @loveelylani

@kissmxcheek @toplinehyunjin @jvanilly @angelbunny222 @sheslikecherrypie

@drewswife @artsymaddie @laniec03 @chaoticevilbakugo @spencellelvrr

[farmgirlfromkansas]

ALIEN SUPERSTAR

pairing: butch!clark kent x reader

summary: clark comes into contact with red kryptonite and spends the next week making your life a living hell.

word count: 3.0k

tag list: @punksnotdeadbutiam, @unabashedlyinlovewithyou,@whotfisthatsblog,@wildernessmuse, @starwarsbian, @lilacsandlavenderhaze, @florayli, @gingerfemme22, @peachyvillehorror, @cerezzzita, @kryptidfiles, @garrettgr4h4m, @rynwritesstuff, & @bellathebookdevouer | wanna be added?

content warning: 18+ only!!! clark’s temporary personality alteration by red kryptonite (obviously), angst, emotional manipulation, hurt/comfort. ROUGH SEX. she gets real mean in this one, okay?? degradation, use of a vibrator, oral sex (r!receiving) and tribbing <333 this is a happy ending, i promise. i did not mean to make the beginning so sad. like always not proofread!! we die like men.

a/n: heyyyy guys. was craving for some mean clark a few days ago and forgot i had this in my drafts. I KNOW, I KNOW, another beyoncé song fic. i’ve been listening to her a lot lately. i was also supposed to let clark use her powers on the reader in this but i kinda forgot. I’M SORRY!! hope you guys like this 💕💕. comments and reblogs are always appreciated.

LISTEN TO THE SONG FOR THE FULL EXPERIENCE

You stood on your tiptoes, almost buzzing against Clark’s desk as the warm paper cup in your hand warmed your fingers. It was her favorite order.

Two sugars and a splash of cream. Sickeningly sweet, just like her. Sure, she was running late, but waiting for her always came naturally to you.

Once you spotted her stepping through the elevator doors minutes later, your easy smile softened. Your eyebrows knitted together, inspecting her carefully.

Her posture was the same—broad shoulders beneath her typical Monday navy button-down, dark curls, glasses resting perfectly on her nose, and a copy of The Daily Planet tucked against her chest.

But something within you felt uneasy.

She just looked so…

Wrong.

Still, you didn’t let it show as she approached her desk, weaving through the sea of coworkers. When Clark finally towered over you and you offered the cup to her, you caught a glimpse of her eyes.

“There you are, baby.”

The same ocean-blue eyes you’d spent countless mornings getting lost in before she had to go save the world again.

They were still blue, but you could have sworn you noticed the faintest of red in them, like shattered ruby beneath glass.

She stared at you, almost as though she were looking right through you. Still, you persisted, nudging the cup against her hand.

“Thought I’d rescue you… I missed you last night.”

Nothing.

Not even the familiar blush that usually crept up the back of her neck.

Trying not to seem desperate already, you bit your lip as you continued, your voice dropping a little. “It was so cold in bed without you… Just me lying there in that stupid itchy lingerie.”

Usually, Clark would choke before looking around to make sure Lois and Jimmy hadn’t overheard, then lean close enough to mumble, “Don’t say things like that at work.”

Instead, she took the coffee. Her usually warm fingers, the ones that always sent shivers down your spine, were now completely cold and rigid, eerily similar to her current demeanor.

She brushed past you, nudging you aside to get to her chair.

“Seems like you survived.”

You blinked, still staring at her as she slipped behind her desk.

Normally, when you heard those words from Clark, it was in the comfort of your apartment, usually when she was feeling mischievous or flirty.

Today was neither.

She wasn’t even looking at you—your usually adoring girlfriend, who had earned a reputation around the office for never being able to stop gazing at you, even before you started dating.

Her computer wasn’t even on.

She just sat there, refusing to look at you.

Around you, conversations continued uninterrupted. Someone laughed across the room. Jimmy argued with the copier.

The world kept moving while yours paused.

Her flat voice pulled you out of the spiral.

“Are you just gonna stand there with your head up your ass, or actually do something?”

Your jaw slackened, like the wind had been knocked out of you as your heart folded inward.

A painful silence followed while you were too stunned to speak.

“Um… Right. Sorry, sweetie.”

Nothing.

Quietly, you walked back to your desk.

Towards the end of the week, the biggest question around the office was: who was this person, and what had she done to Clark Kent?

The woman who was kind enough to apologize to the copy machine after kicking it had become insufferable.

When she wasn’t brooding at her desk, she was answering people’s questions with clipped sentences or correcting them without softening the blow. She dismissed meetings halfway through after claiming they weren’t worth her time.

Even when Jimmy joked about why she didn’t bring coffee for anybody anymore—

Clark replied flatly with, “Because you’re all capable adults. Figure it out yourselves.”

Lois didn’t even playfully argue with her, too afraid that she was going to get her head bitten off. Instead, she asked you, “What crawled up Kent’s ass and died?”

You stopped talking to her, bringing her coffee, or waiting for lunch after the fourth message went unanswered.

At first, you wrote it off as her having a few bad days, because how long can someone keep their sanity while carrying the weight of the world without cracking? You wouldn’t blame her.

But this was different.

She barely acknowledged you, pretending you were nothing but another coworker, glaring at you with those strangely bright eyes.

And when she did mutter anything to you, it was either “Go away.” or “You’re in the way.”

It always left you in a state of shock. You never answered with a comeback—you simply wandered off, looking back at her over your shoulder with wide eyes, as if you’d just crossed paths with a wild animal.

Her temper had gotten so bad that it even affected her work.

You and Lois would stand in front of the break room television, watching Superwoman argue live on the news, even bickering with Mr. Terrific and baiting the poor man.

Lois stood with crossed arms and raised eyebrows, leaning over to you.

“I think there’s something wrong with your girlfriend.”

Later, when Clark filed her latest Superwoman story, Perry rejected it outright, saying it was unacceptable and that she’d gotten cocky with her writing.

On the tenth day, you began looking up if Kryptonians could get possessed by demons.

You both always joked that her apartment was haunted, with how old and creaky it was. Whereas yours was just now haunted without her scattered ties, forgotten books, and the constant warmth of her presence.

So obviously, that had to be it.

Your girlfriend was just possessed.

But that didn’t explain the red in her eyes.

Maybe it was just a different kind of demon.

To cope with a miserable week, and the terrifying thought that you might never get the old Clark back, you ordered dumplings.

So when the knock finally came, you didn’t bother checking the peephole, swinging the door open with your tip in hand.

Your polite expression for the delivery person fell away as the woman who’d been avoiding you all week stood there instead.

Her hair was wind-tossed, coat unbuttoned, with a paper bag dangling from one hand.

You pouted.

“You aren’t my dumpling delivery.”

Her eyes narrowed as she lifted the bag.

“You mean this?”

You blinked before snatching it from her hand and retreating into your apartment, having a nagging feeling she was going to follow you in.

“What happened? Scare off the delivery guy?”

Clark didn’t answer immediately, watching you place the bag on the counter.

“No. I passed him in the lobby, smelled the dumplings, and figured I’d save him the trip.”

You groaned.

“I had a twenty-dollar tip for him, Clark. You know I like to tip them extra.”

She shrugged out of her coat, dropping it onto your couch, earning a scoff from you.

“Make yourself at home, why don’t you.”

“Thank you,” she replied, mirroring your sarcastic tone.

You glared.

“…Seriously?”

Clark looked at you over the rim of her glasses.

“What?”

“What do you mean, ‘what?’”

You let out a disbelieving laugh.

“You’ve spent the last week acting like an absolute asshole. You ignored me, my texts, everything. You don’t get to…”

You gestured wildly around your apartment.

“Come here, uninvited mind you, throw your coat on my couch like a stray dog, and act like everything is fine. Fuck you!”

Clark’s expression never wavered, simply watching you let it all out.

It made your stomach twist.

That was the part that confused you most.

Not the coldness, or the sharp tongue, hell not even the strange crimson that’s been flickering beneath her eyes all week.

It was how casual she was.

“You don’t get to pretend nothing happened,” you said, voice thick with crying.

“I know.”

“You don’t get to just show up and—”

She was moving before you finished—three long strides.

Your back met the edge of the counter.

“Clark—”

“Shut up.”

Your breath caught.

“I am trying to be mad at you.”

“Oh, yeah? You’re doing a terrible job.”

“Clark—”

She cut you off, kissing you in the most unexpected, possessive way possible.

By the time your brain caught up, her hands had already found your waist.

The counter dug lightly into the backs of your thighs before the pressure disappeared altogether.

And with effortless strength, Clark lifted you onto the countertop, never breaking the kiss.

“Let me make it up to you, honey.”

Although you were still incredibly angry at her, you figured you could finish arguing with her after she fucked your brains out. You were only human; who had a rough week after all?

Clark has you pinned on your bed, tugging at your nightshirt, exposing your bare breasts.

“Have my girls missed me, sweetheart?”

Ignoring the shiver that ran all over your body, you decided to be bold.

“No… I was fine without you… Capable of taking care of myself.”

Clark harshly pinches your nipple as punishment.

“Please, you know you can’t cum without me.”

Your voice shakes, “I can.”

“Oh, yeah? With what then? Your hands? Or that cheap little toy of yours?”

The sheer terror in your eyes must have been obvious since she chuckles.

“You think I don’t know about that? Have to listen to you play with yourself while I’m across the city?”

You attempt to choke something out, but she interrupts, leaning over to your nightstand, fingers grazing the drawer where it’s hidden.

“Where is it, pretty girl? In here?”

Seconds later, Clark pulls out your vibrator and you see a dark glint flash across her eyes.

“Clar—”

She shakes her head, clicking the vibrator on the lowest setting, placing it onto your mound.

“Did you really think this cheap plastic could replace me?”

Still feeling slightly defiant, you spit, “I only used it because you’ve been a dick.”

Clark glares, the vibrator closer to your clit. The bite of the vibrator compels your hips to jerk. Even on the lowest level, it was still so intense.

“Very mouthy for somebody who is this soaked.”

Your body completely twitches and she anchors a firm grip on your thighs, growling.

“Nuh-uh, sweetheart. You don’t get to move.”

The vibrator runs up and down your slit, causing more wetness to seep through the fabric of your panties.

“Clark… stop teasing me.”

“Oh honey, I still haven’t properly apologized to you yet… that’s what you wanted, isn’t it? For me to say sorry?”

She quickly tosses it aside, making you whine at the sudden loss of friction, “I thought you were going to—”

Clark has an almost evil smirk spread across her face as she grabs your legs, settling down in between your thighs.

“Oh, I was. But you decided to be a brat… gotta fix that first.”

You gaze down at her, watching her rip your panties off you before she moves back up momentarily to guide them into your mouth.

You’re instantly met with the taste of your arousal, muffled whimpers escaping.

She pats your flushed cheek, “There. That ought to keep you from talking back.”

Going back to part your legs, her breath fans over your glistening slit as her hands claw their way onto your ass.

“Oh, look at you. So fucking wet...”

Instead of devouring you like a woman starved as you hoped, she began delivering kitten licks up your slit, marveling at your taste.

“Shit, baby… Forgot how addictive you are.”

The air left your lungs in a sharp wheeze when she ate you out, tongue wrapping around your clit.

Your shrieks are barely heard, your panties serving their purpose, gagging you as you try to slip your hand into her curls.

Clark groans into your core, the aftershocks of the vibration rocking your body. She soon oscillated between slow and deep to faster, relentless strokes against your cunt, nose grinding against your clit.

Every muscle in your body stiffens, squeezing the sides of her head with your thighs as you scream. Just as your orgasm washes over you, tears run down your cheeks.

When Clark pulls away after letting you ride through it, through the blur of your tears, you can see that her chin’s shiny.

And her plump lips were swollen, slick with her own drool and your wetness.

“Good girl.”

She quickly discards her jeans and boxers, tossing them blindly. Clark leans down to yank the underwear out of your mouth so she can kiss you.

Your legs get pushed up to your shoulders as she aligns both of your cunts seamlessly. “Sorry, honey… I need this…”

Clark’s rhythm is unforgiving, rutting into you heavily. Every single contact pushes you closer to your breaking point.

You haven’t even recovered from your first orgasm, scrambling to hold onto anything, seeking some anchor.

“Clark, I-I can’t…. It’s too much.”

She silences you into a searing kiss, driving her hips steadily forward, trapping you beneath her weight—yet your hips instinctively tilt upward to meet every single demanding downward surge.

“Fuck, this feels so good… missed this pussy.”

You endure the pressure build up once more, allowing your body to surrender, poised to make you go unconscious.

“Oh, right there… right there, Clarkie…”

She grins at how you slur, letting out a gravelly groan against your lips. Her muscles lock, shattering her restraint entirely.

The rough pace of her movements keeps you nodding as you fuck each other in perfect harmony.

“I know… I know… come with me, okay? Can you do that for me?”

Your overstimulated walls begin to spasm around nothing, sweat blooming across your forehead as you obey her, release rippling through you.

Her cum spills onto your cunt as you both crash over the edge together, breathless and entirely undone.

Clark collapses onto you, grinding her pelvis forward, even long after you both finish, acting like an untamed animal.

You have to heave her off you, using all of your mortal strength, panting through parted lips.

“Clark… get off me.”

She keeps her face buried into the soft skin of your neck, refusing to move, whining for a while—which surprises you—while feebly humping your thigh.

The movement against your thigh does slow to a halt, but Clark doesn't lift her head, tightening her thick arms around your waist.

Her uneven breathing slowly synchronizes with the steady rise and fall of your chest.

She softly mutters, “Missed you.”

When you woke up in the morning, the first thing you noticed wasn’t the golden sun spilling through the windows.

It was the familiar, empty side of your bed—the rumpled sheets and silence.

Your heart still sank, even if it wasn’t all that surprising anymore.

She’d spent over a week pushing you away before barging into your apartment and turning your world upside down.

Now she was gone.

The thought settled like lead in your stomach, kicking yourself for wishing you’d stood your ground instead of giving in to her.

You sat up, threw on your robe, and went to make a cup of coffee when you faintly heard the clatter of dishes coming from the kitchen.

Completely terrified, you stared at the bedroom door, freezing when footsteps stopped right outside.

Carefully, Clark stepped inside, balancing a wooden tray against one broad forearm. She smiled at you.

“Oh, good! You’re awake.”

Your eyes instantly dropped to the tray.

On it sat pancakes, fresh fruit, freshly brewed coffee in your favorite mug, and a tiny vase holding a single daisy that definitely hadn’t been in your apartment yesterday.

She looked…

Normal.

Her blue eyes were just blue again, none of that strange crimson lurking beneath them. No biting sharpness or dry sarcasm.

Just warm, familiar blue.

Still, you didn’t trust it.

What if she was trying to manipulate you?

Or worse… what if she wasn’t?

Her cheerful expression instantly fell at your uneasy stare, tilting her head like a confused puppy before placing the tray on the nightstand.

“What’s wrong, sweetie?”

“You…” Your voice caught.

“You look…”

She sat beside you on the edge of the bed, her eyes scanning your face.

“Are you okay…?”

You blinked, watching in confusion as Clark pressed the back of her hand to your forehead.

“Did I… go a little too rough last night?”

The question was so painfully, unmistakably Clark that your brain stopped working.

“You don’t look sore, but I pulled out the heating pad just in case. There’s pain medicine in the kitchen if you need it.”

After a moment, Clark paused, looking back at you.

“Honey, I love you… but you’re freaking me out here.”

You reached forward cautiously, your fingertips brushing her cheek.

She leaned into your hand without thinking.

The gesture was so instinctive that something inside you finally unraveled.

A quiet laugh escaped you.

“Where’s the asshole who almost fucked me unconscious last night?”

Clark winced, rubbing the back of her neck.

“Uh… she’s… gone. I hope.”

She reached for your hand, bringing your knuckles to her lips. The touch was so gentle compared to the woman she’d been the night before.

“I’m so sorry, honey. I, um… well, the Justice Gang and I were dealing with Red Kryptonite. We contained it, and I was exposed before any of us realized it. Kara tried to stop me, but I was being stubborn and thought I was going to be fine like last time.”

You raise your eyebrows, “Last time?”

Clark sighed.

“Oh, yeah… I came into contact with some of it in high school. Smaller doses, apparently, compared to what I was exposed to this time.”

You hesitated before asking.

“Do you remember everything from the past week?”

She grimaced.

“Everything, unfortunately…”

Her eyes dropped to your hand in hers.

“I, uh… have a lot of apologies to make.”

You snorted, gently nipping at her nose. “Yeah… you do. Your one from last night was pretty terrible.”

She blushed instantly, groaning into your arm as she hid her face.

“I'll be apologizing to you until I die for that.”

You laughed, tugging her back onto the mattress beside you.

“God, you’re so dramatic sometimes.”

Clark looked longingly at the breakfast tray.

"Babe... what about your food? I worked really hard on it."

You managed to pull her onto the mattress beside you, peppering her face with kisses.

"It can wait."

[sc3ptre]

Hello! I’ve just reread Miss Honey and there’s something I’ve been curious about: how was their first time. I know the fic was pure fluff (and some angst), but I’d love to read a piece about them finally allowing themselves to have that intimacy

In the nick of time

Pairing: corenswet!clark kent x fem!reader

⟡ Main Index | ⟡ Archive for Earth-181938

a/n: This fic takes place during Chapter 6 of 'The secret life of Miss Honey', before they leave Smallville, so it naturally contains spoilers for the entire series.

Classification and content warnings: Smut +18 | Fairly graphic descriptions of penetrative (barn) sex, nipple play, clitoral stimulation, unprotected sex/creampie, risk of discovery, mild exhibitionism and the presence of a young child in the surrounding narrative (not involved in any sexual content)

Word count: 5.3k

Divider by me ;)

In the whirlwind of emotions that had swept through the morning since you'd woken up, your feet carried you toward the familiar barn where Clark had slipped away shortly after breakfast. 

In Smallville, he fell right back into being the perfect son, always finding another chore to tackle before anyone else could think to ask, hauling impossibly heavy loads, repairing old beams and replacing worn-out boards, so if he wasn't in the house, you always knew where to find him. 

The barn doors stood wide open, sunlight spilling across the dusty floor and before you even crossed the threshold, you spotted him effortlessly lifting thick timber into place, steadying each beam with one hand while the other drove screws into weathered wood that decades had carved and softened. 

"Car's packed," you called with a smile as you walked over, arriving just in time to watch him press a stubborn nail flush with the wood using nothing but his thumb. "But our kid's gone." 

"Gone?" he echoed, finally looking up, brow lifting enough to betray the question. The only reason he wasn't already spiraling into panic was because you weren't. 

You nodded, absentmindedly reaching into the open toolbox beside him, fingers brushing over tools you'd never actually seen him use. "Your parents wanted to take her for a walk but then it somehow turned into taking her into town and she was so excited..." A laugh escaped you at the memory. "She was practically bouncing in place, promising she'd be good and your parents swore they wouldn't give her any sugar so we wouldn't have a nightmare of a drive back." You shrugged, unable to hide the fond smile lingering on your face. "I didn't have the heart to tell them no, so...I guess we'll be hitting the road a little later than we planned." 

Clark's expression softened. He could picture it perfectly, his parents soaking up every second they could with Ellie, clinging to a chance to feel like parents again, even if only for a few short hours. It made warmth spread in his chest, strengthening the promise he'd made to himself that he'd give Ellie the same childhood Jonathan and Martha had given him. "Did you tell them we'll be coming back?" he asked, dusting the wood shavings from his hands. "I meant to say it during breakfast but there was too much crying already–" He caught himself with a sheepish smile. "Sorry, pretending not to cry. I didn't want to interrupt everyone's...focus."

You let out a soft chuckle and nodded, already making your way toward the stairs. "Doubt they heard me over their excitement about officially becoming grandparents..." Your boots creaked against the old wooden steps until you reached the loft, the familiar space where the two of you had once spent countless afternoons tucked away from the rest of the world. It hadn't changed much, it had the same weathered beams, the same dusty scent of old wood and hay and the same warm sunlight filtering through the gaps in the walls. You could feel Clark's eyes following you, though he stayed where he was for another moment. "Can you blame them? Last time you came home, you were a single man. Now you've shown up with me...and a kid." 

Your fingers found a framed photograph resting on the desk, lifting it carefully. The two of you looked impossibly young, smiling at the camera in the backyard behind the Kent house. Time seemed frozen in that picture, you could walk out there right now, stand in that exact same spot and recreate it perfectly, only now, there'd be another little face squeezed between yours. 

Clark laughed softly as he brushed the sawdust from his jeans and climbed the steps two at a time until he reached you. "I was always bringing you home," he teased, slipping his arms around your waist and settling his chin against your shoulder. "Ellie's just a nice addition." His smile lingered as his gaze drifted to the photograph in your hands. "She makes it even more perfect," he murmured. 

You had no real idea what the next several months would look like. There would be lawyers, paperwork, meetings and endless conversations. There would be parent-teacher conferences where Ellie wouldn't quite know what to call you and the first few times she would confidently blurt out "Mommy" in front of a classroom full of people, your heart would probably stop before bursting with more happiness than it knew what to do with. 

You doubted you'd ever grow used to how naturally that love came or how completely she'd settled into your heart. She'd been your daughter long before you unfolded that letter. "Did you think about what you'll do for Father's Day?" you asked, throwing a similar question to the one he'd asked you only a few hours earlier as you placed the picture frame back on the desk. 

"Well..." Clark sighed, his eyes wandering through the open window toward the endless Kansas sky as he gave the question some genuine thought. "Since I can't fly her anywhere–"

You turned in his arms until you were facing him, your hands settling around his biceps. "And don't let her sway you, either. I can't understand what it's like having a superhero parent but I don't think it's irrational to say it's a tad too early to start that kind of tradition." 

Clark nodded, thoughtful, his hands tightening around your waist to pull you closer. He knew he had to stand his ground but whenever Ellie looked up at him with those impossibly big, pleading eyes, every ounce of resolve became negotiable. "What about next year?" he offered. 

"Clark–" 

He lifted both hands in surrender, shaking his head with a crooked smile. "I thought so. I was just thinking out loud..." His eyes met yours, warm and unapologetic. "I'm a patient man," he assured you. 

You smiled, your thoughts drifting back to the morning, to the unexpected discovery you'd made while helping Ellie get dressed. "I'm aware," you murmured. 

You focused on slowing your breathing, trying to relieve the flutter building in your chest but it didn't escape him. His expression changed as his attention narrowed, his eyes flicked to your face, then briefly lower, while his ears picked up the uneven rhythm of your heartbeat, a confession your body was making before your lips could. 

"Is there something you want to tell me?" he asked gently. He'd already ruled out the obvious, you weren't frightened or anxious and ever since you'd met him out in the fields that morning to open the letter together, he'd had the certainty that you'd stumbled across something he'd kept hidden for a very long time, something that had always belonged to you anyway. 

You shook your head, forcing yourself to look away because it was the only way your heartbeat would even begin to slow. Your gaze wandered across the loft instead, just like the Kent house below, it was a time capsule. 

The old furniture hadn't moved, the beams still carried the same nicks and scratches and the scent of aged wood and summer dust lingered exactly as you remembered it. "First time being up here as a…couple," you observed softly as you slipped from his embrace. His hands lingered before reluctantly letting you go, eyes following every step you took. 

You wandered to the open window, letting the warm breeze brush against your face as you looked out over the fields stretching endlessly beyond the farm. Then you crossed to the worn leather couch where the two of you had spent countless afternoons playing cards, finishing homework or simply existing in comfortable silence beside each other. 

"Not much has changed." Clark said with an easy shrug. "Loved you here first," A small smile tugged at his lips. "...and I still do." 

Your eyes lifted to meet his.

"But then again," he added, a fond smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, "I never really thought that would change." He closed the distance between you in a few unhurried steps until he was standing right in front of you. 

You narrowed your eyes, tilting your head as the scattered pieces in your mind slowly began fitting together. "You know..." you said, studying him with growing suspicion, "I'm realizing your parents know more about us than I do." 

"Oh, yeah?" he laughed softly. "What makes you think that?" His arms found your waist once more, drawing you against his chest as though there was nowhere else either of you belonged. 

"I have my suspicions..." you replied, letting the words hang for a beat. 

"Word of the year," he muttered under his breath, earning a soft laugh from both of you.

You smiled, shaking your head before continuing. "But for now, let's just say I think they kidnapped our daughter on purpose so you and I could..." 

A grin spread across his face before you could even finish, he couldn't help it. Every time you said ‘our daughter’, it filled a place inside him he hadn't realized had been waiting, the words feeling so instinctively right that he never wanted to stop hearing them.

"It was hardly a kidnapping if you were there and agreed to it," he pointed out, amusement dancing in his eyes. 

You let out an exaggerated gasp, pressing a hand dramatically against your chest. "...You orchestrated it." 

Clark's smile only widened. "I merely suggested they spend some time getting to know her," he said with an innocent shrug. "And maybe show her the place she'll be spending her summers so we could...figure things out…talk." 

"What kind of things do we need to figure out?" you asked, your voice carrying sufficient skepticism to make him falter. 

"Well...I..." He rubbed the back of his neck, the picture of awkwardness despite everything he was capable of. "I didn't really think that far ahead."

"Mhm..." A knowing smile curved your lips as your hands drifted to the hem of his shirt, your fingers brushing against the fabric before you slowly lifted it over his head which he allowed. It caught briefly on his shoulders before you pulled it free, revealing the broad planes of his chest beneath the light filtering through the loft. Your eyes lingered on him before returning to his face. "I think you did," you murmured, "...and I'll let myself be swayed." Your smile softened, warm and teasing. "Just this one time."

You let his shirt slip from your fingers, leaving it wherever it landed on the loft floor. Clark's gaze never left yours as his hands found the bow at the front of your blouse, carefully loosening the knot. 

"Talking can wait," he murmured, a smile tugging at his lips. "Gives me time to think about what I'll say." 

You shook your head, your fingers already working at the buckle of his belt with an amused huff. "I think you should focus on something else first. Don't make your parents turn around before they even reach the driveway." Your smile widened. "Need I remind you we have a home to get back to?" 

A soft laugh escaped him. "I have great time management," he assured you, easing the blouse from your shoulders with slow, gentle movements before letting it join his shirt on the floor, leaving you in nothing but your bra.

"That," you teased, "you'll have to prove." 

"Lucky me," he replied, the grin lingering as he leaned in to steal another kiss. His lips met yours softly, lingering to draw another smile from you before the kiss deepened. 

One arm slid securely around your waist while the other landed beneath your thigh, lifting you against him with ease. Your fingers slipped into his hair as you laughed quietly into the kiss and without ever breaking it, he lowered the two of you onto the worn leather couch with the same care he'd always shown you.

His hand slid between the cushion and your back, fingers finding the clasp with unhurried precision. Your spine arched to meet him, giving him the space he needed until the fabric loosened and slipped free. He eased the straps from your shoulders himself, letting the bra drift to the floor without looking away. The warm loft air touched your bare skin a moment before his mouth did with soft, open kisses along the side of your neck, the curve of your shoulder and the hollow just above your collarbone.

His fingers worked the button of your pants while you kicked off your boots, they landed with a muted thud against the old floorboards. He rose shortly to draw the denim down your legs, taking your underwear with it in one smooth motion, the sudden coolness against the damp heat between your thighs made you shiver. You fought the instinct to close your legs, yet still rubbed your thighs together once, restless under the weight of his gaze.

Clark stood at the edge of the couch and toed off his own boots, then pushed his jeans and boxers down in a single motion. His cock sprang free, already half-hard, thick and curved slightly upward, the head flushed and glistening with a slow bead of pre-cum. Veins stood out along the shaft as he looked at you. His chest rose and fell, the hard lines of muscle tapering into the V of his pelvis, every inch of him lit by the dusty light pouring through the loft window.

You parted your thighs for him as he knelt between them, bracing his hands on either side of your torso and lowered his mouth to your sternum. Open kisses trailed lower until his lips closed around one nipple, tongue circling the tightening peak while his free hand cupped and gently massaged the other breast. A quiet gasp left you while your hands slid up the broad plane of his back, fingers spreading, urging him closer until more of his weight settled over you carefully.

He released one nipple only to take the other into his mouth, suckling with the same unhurried attention. His hand moved to your hip then, palm spanning the soft skin there, holding you steady when you squirmed beneath him.

"I always thought it'd happen here," you breathed, the confession slipping out before you had the chance to catch it.

Even if the years had kept you as nothing more than friends, some part of you had always believed this barn would eventually become the place where everything changed. You could picture it so clearly it almost felt like a memory instead of a possibility, a late-night study session dragging well past midnight, the decision not to go home, falling asleep shoulder to shoulder beneath the old rafters, then waking with the realization that the pull between you had never really been friendship alone. It would've happened here, sooner or later. 

This loft had held too many almosts, too many lingering glances and conversations that stretched until sunrise. It had watched the two of you grow up together which is why you always knew it would witness the moment you finally found your way to each other, too.

"I always knew it’d be with you," he whispered, eyes locked on yours. 

He rested his forehead against yours and closed his eyes for a moment, listening past the rush of blood in his ears for the distant sound of tires on gravel. Time felt borrowed anew. "I wish we had more time, I’d make it worth every second. It wouldn’t be on this old couch…I’d–" His breath caught. He opened his eyes again. "I’d do everything…I’d do it all."

Your hand rose to his cheek, thumb brushing the soft skin just beneath his eye. "We will," you promised quietly. "And I want you to…but I’m impatient enough to want this now, to want you."

His eyes searched yours, the corners crinkling with a smile so small it nearly disappeared as quickly as it came. He leaned into your touch, tilted his head and kissed you, broad hand sliding down the outside of your thigh, guiding your leg higher against his waist until the blunt, slick head of his cock rested against your opening. He held there for a heartbeat, then pressed forward until the thick tip breached you, stretching you open with a careful push, eliciting a soft gasp that melted into his mouth. 

A low, helpless sound escaped him as he moved to bury his face against your neck. Chest to chest, you breathed together, the full weight of wanting finally catching up to both of you.

He pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder before lifting his head to meet your eyes again. "You have to tell me if I hurt you," he said, voice rough. "I’m…overwhelmed right now, and I–" A shy, embarrassed chuckle slipped out.

"Just love me," you answered softly with trusting eyes and a reassuring nod. "I’m okay."

"Yeah?" His lips pecked yours briefly as he gave the first tentative thrust, sinking a little deeper. "That," he murmured against your lips, "I know how to do."

He sank deeper with the next careful thrust, the thick length of him stretching you open inch by inch until his hips finally met yours. The fullness was overwhelming, hot, heavy and entirely perfect, pressing against every sensitive place inside you at once. Your breath left you in a soft, broken sound that he swallowed with another kiss, his mouth open and hungry against yours.

Clark stayed buried for a long moment, letting you feel the complete shape of him, the slow pulse of his cock as he adjusted to the tight, wet heat surrounding him. Then he drew back, almost all the way out, the drag of his thick shaft against your walls pulling a longer, shakier gasp from your throat and when he pushed in again it was deeper, smoother, the head of him kissing that soft, aching spot that made your thighs tremble around his waist.

His arms slid beneath you, gathering you up so that your chests pressed flush, skin to skin. The warm, solid weight of him settled over you completely and you could feel every breath he took, every subtle shift of muscle as he began to move in a steady rhythm. Each thrust was measured, the wet sound of him sliding into you filling the quiet loft along with the soft creak of the old leather couch.

Your hands roamed the broad expanse of his back, fingers pressing into the hard planes of muscle that flexed with every roll of his hips. He kissed you through it with slow, open-mouthed kisses that turned deeper whenever a particularly full stroke made you moan against his tongue. 

When he broke away it was only to trail his mouth down the side of your neck, lips and teeth grazing the sensitive skin there before he found the place just below your ear and sucked gently, then harder, leaving a faint mark.

One of his hands slipped between your bodies, palm cupping your breast, thumb brushing over the tightened peak of your nipple in slow circles. The dual sensation from his cock stroking deep inside you while his fingers teased that sensitive point, drew a higher, more desperate sound from you. He answered it with a low, rough exhale against your throat, hips rolling a little harder, a little deeper, grinding against you at the end of each thrust so that the base of him pressed firmly against your puffy clit.

He shifted slightly, angling his next strokes so that every inward push dragged more intentionally along the front wall of you. The pressure was exquisite, building in slow waves that made your breath catch and break into soft, rhythmic moans as your legs tightened around him, heels pressing into the backs of his thighs, urging him closer even though there was nowhere closer to go.

His mouth found your other breast, lips closing around the nipple and sucking with the same careful intensity he used when he thrust. Teeth scraped lightly, then his tongue soothed the faint sting and the combination pulled another longer moan from deep in your chest. He kept suckling while his hips continued their steady, relentless pace, the wet glide of his cock in and out of you growing slicker, the friction perfect and unhurried.

You could feel how tightly he was holding himself back, the controlled power in every movement, the way his muscles trembled faintly beneath your hands whenever you clenched around him. Each time you did, a quiet, pained sound escaped him, muffled against your breast and his next thrust came a fraction harder, burying him to the hilt with a soft, heavy slap of skin.

He released your nipple only to kiss his way back up your chest, across your collarbone, along the line of your jaw until his mouth claimed yours again. The kiss was deeper now, messier, his tongue sliding against yours in time with the slow, deep thrusts of his dick. One arm stayed locked around your back, holding you tightly against him while the other hand slipped down to grip the underside of your thigh, spreading you wider so he could sink even deeper on the next stroke.

The loft air was warm around you but the places where your bodies met were hotter still. Sweat began to gather between your chests, making the slide of skin against skin smoother. Every time he drew back you felt the cool air briefly against your soaked entrance before he filled you again, the contrast sharp and dizzying. Your gasps had turned into a continuous, soft stream of sound, broken little moans that rose and fell with the rhythm of his hips, each one swallowed by his mouth or breathed against his neck when he pressed his face to yours.

Your fingers dug into his shoulders, then slid up into his hair, holding him close as he continued to fuck you with that same careful, overwhelming intensity, giving you the full, heavy length of him again and again while he kissed, bit and touched every part of you he could reach.

The rhythm of his hips deepened further, making the coffee table beside the couch begin to rattle softly against the floorboards, wood against wood, a quiet, insistent percussion that matched the pace of his body into yours. The sound grew louder as his movements became a fraction harder, more urgent, the table legs trembling in small, rapid jumps across the dusty loft floor.

Your mouth stayed open as soft, continuous sounds spilled out with every inward thrust. You turned your head to glance at the trembling table, the motion of it nearly hypnotic in the warm sunlight, before the next deep thrust pulled a sharper gasp from you and dragged your attention back to him.

He adjusted, nuzzling into the side of your neck with open, hungry kisses. His tongue traced the sensitive skin there in wet strokes before his lips closed and sucked gently, then harder, the faint scrape of teeth sending fresh sparks down your spine. The moment your eyes fluttered shut under the warm, insistent pressure of his mouth, his arm slid fully around your back in a firm, encompassing bear hug, locking you tightly against the solid heat of his chest. The other hand slipped between your bodies without hesitation, fingers finding the swollen, slick bud of your clit and circling it in precise strokes timed perfectly to the deep push of his cock.

Your legs tightened around his waist of their own accord, heels digging into the backs of his thighs as the dual sensation sent the first sharp waves of pleasure racing through every nerve that would allow it. The rattling of the table grew louder still as your moans broke higher and longer, each one spilling freely from your open mouth as the pressure inside you coiled tighter and tighter, a slow, relentless build that made your thighs tremble and your fingers dig into the hard muscle of his shoulders.

He maintained the same relentless pace, grinding the thick base of himself against you at the end of every thrust while his fingers worked your clit in small, perfect circles that never once faltered. You could feel the way your walls fluttered around him, then pulsed harder with each pass of his dick, the friction exquisite and entirely too much, forcing out broken, rhythmic moans you could no longer hold back.

Your walls fluttered wildly, then clenched hard around the full length of him as the orgasm finally crashed through you, long, body-shaking waves that started deep in your core and radiated outward until your thighs trembled violently and your back arched hard against the strong arm holding you. You squeezed around his cock in uncontrollable pulses, the intensity of it dragging broken, shuddering sounds from your throat that rose higher with every surge. The pleasure kept rolling, wave after wave, each one tighter and more consuming than the last, making your entire body shudder beneath him as you clenched and released around the thick, throbbing girth of him.

The tight grip of you around him was too much. His rhythm faltered, hips stuttering as he fought to hold on, every muscle in his back and shoulders going rigid under your hands.

"I can’t–Where…baby, where do you want me?"

You pulled him closer, arms locking tight around his shoulders, face pressed into the curve of his neck as the last strong waves still trembled through you. Your voice shook with the aftershocks.

"You’re it for me, Clark." The words came out soft and broken, threaded with whimpers that still caught in your throat. "This is it."

A low, helpless sound tore from his chest. He thrust once more, deep and hard, burying himself to the hilt, where he came. Cock throbbing heavily inside you, pulsing in long, strong surges as he emptied himself in thick, hot pulses that you could feel against your still-fluttering walls. You turned his face to yours and kissed him deeply, mouths open and searching, swallowing every rough breath and quiet, broken groan while his body shuddered through the last of it, still buried completely, throbbing hard and deep inside you as the final pulses faded and the coffee table finally fell quiet beside the couch.

The aftermath was the most peaceful you'd ever felt. It was like lying beneath the afternoon sun itself, its warmth spilling through the open loft window and soaking into the worn leather couch beneath you. Clark lay on his side against the backrest, one arm draped lazily over you as his fingertips traced slow, absentminded paths over your sunlit bare skin, gliding over the curve of your hip, the rise of your stomach and the sensitive underside of your breast, leaving faint trails of warmth wherever they passed.

You rested on your back with your eyes closed, your breathing unhurried, a contented smile refusing to leave your lips, every muscle loose and heavy with satisfaction. 

Outside, the gentle rustle of the trees and the distant hum of the farm drifted through the open window before Clark's voice finally broke the silence. It was quiet, careful, as though he didn't want to disturb the peace that had settled over the two of you.

"I think a babysitter would be the way to go," He wasn't even finished speaking before your lips curled into another smile. "Or..." he continued, clearly giving the matter serious thought, "...better insulation. Soundproofing our bedroom doesn't seem too far-fetched."

A laugh escaped you as you adjusted slightly beside him, your eyes remaining closed. "I can be quiet."

"You won't hear me asking that of you." His fingers continued their lazy path over your skin. "I was thinking ‘adaptation’ instead of ‘prevention’... so you could focus on other things, like–"

"You?" you finished, one brow lifting.

"Ideally, yeah." He nodded, unable to suppress the grin tugging at his mouth. "But we can plan and regroup later...soon, preferably soon. I don't know if you've heard but I'm a father now, so..."

You burst into laughter at the unmistakable pride in his voice. You could already picture him telling the mailman, the butcher, the cashier at the grocery store, any poor soul who happened to ask how his day was going.

"What's so funny?" he asked, retaliating by tickling your side until you squirmed against the couch. "What's got you laughing with your eyes closed? Seen too much of me already?"

You laughed harder, twisting away from his hand. "It's your tone, baby. It's just so–"

The tickling suddenly stopped. Your words caught in your throat as your eyes opened, they found him already staring off into the distance, his head tilted ever so slightly, the easy smile gone from his face. "What's wrong?"

"They're here." Clark was off the couch before the words had left his mouth, carefully stepping over you as he made his way to the window. Soft afternoon light spilled across his bare skin as he moved, still completely naked, soft cock hanging freely between his thighs while he peered out.

"It's too darn quiet around here," Jonathan muttered as he climbed out of the truck.

"You think they went for a walk?" Martha wondered, Ellie's small hand tucked securely in hers as the little girl bounced excitedly beside her, her stuffed bunny dangling from her other hand.

"Does that mean I get to stay until forever and ever?" Ellie asked hopefully. "Maybe I can have chocolate for dinner."

Jonathan laughed. "I can see how you'd get to that conclusion."

You couldn't help but giggle at Clark's complete lack of subtlety as he hovered beside the window, trying to peek outside without being seen. Amid your laughter came the unmistakable sound of truck doors shutting somewhere on the property. You hurriedly pushed yourself upright.

"Do not look out that window. Clark, do not–"

"Hey, hey!" he called anyway, leaning just enough for his face to appear around the side of the window frame. "Uh...how was town?"

Down by the driveway, all three of them looked toward the loft, raising their hands to shield their eyes from the afternoon sun.

"Daddy! It’s me!" Ellie squealed, letting go of Martha's hand before taking off across the yard toward the barn as fast as her little legs would carry her. Her bunny bounced wildly against her side with every step. "I was really good! Maybe we could have chocolate for dinner! With ice cream too! I was super good!" she shouted at the top of her lungs as she ran.

"I'm so proud of you!" Clark called back with a grin, his eyes following Ellie as she hurried toward the barn. Then he turned to you with the unmistakable expression of a proud father and only then did the reality of the situation hit him. "Uh...slow down, sweetheart! You're gonna fall!"

The warning had barely left his mouth before he abandoned the window and hurried toward the pile of clothes by the couch. You were already moving, scrambling to get dressed yourself.

"How long do we have?" you asked, glancing around until you spotted your underwear and quickly stepped into it.

Clark risked another look out the window as he slipped on his boxers, followed by his jeans. "Uh...about five minutes. She probably felt a lot more motivated before she realized how far away the barn actually is." He couldn't help smiling.

You nodded, fastening your bra before slipping your blouse back over your shoulders. "Just to be clear, there will be no chocolate for dinner..." you said as you reached for your jeans next. "...or ice cream."

Clark sighed dramatically as he pulled his shirt over his head, shoulders already slumping in anticipation. "I'm mentally preparing myself to deliver the news."

Outside, Jonathan and Martha exchanged a knowing glance, their attention drifting from Ellie, who had slowed from a run to an eager little march across the yard.

"Only took 'em decades to get the hint," Martha said, shaking her head with an affectionate smile.

Jonathan slipped an arm around her shoulders, his gaze lingering on the barn. "All in due time, sweetheart," he said softly. "All in due time."

A/N: If you enjoyed this story, feel free to explore the archive for more! Liking and reblogging helps others discover my writing and comments always make my day, they’re a huge encouragement for me to keep creating. Thank you so much for reading!

[blondwhxrewrites]

Superman

Synopsis: You find him in an alleyway. That's it.

Pairing: Clark Kent (Superman) x reader

TW: description of injuries and blood.

A/N: This is not beta read. I am posting this on a whim. I hope you enjoy, and I'm sorry if it sucks.

It's not like you hated Superman; in fact you found his commitment to humanity to be honorable.

It's just your cat didn't like him, and you trusted your cat's judgment. It was also your boss, Lex Luthor, who hated Superman, so liking him couldn't exactly be possible unless you wanted to be fired.

Your friend Clark, however, loved the superhero. You were pretty sure they were friends, although that was supposed to be a secret, you think. He also hated your boss; well, in his words it was more of a dislike, but everyone knew that was a lie.

Your other friend Lois had mixed reviews. She always said he was flawed as a superhero, that he made mistakes and needed to be held accountable for them, which you agreed with.

All in all, the people in your life had many different opinions on the man, but what you never expected was to meet him.

You found him in an alleyway, beaten up, bloody, and bruised. It was the afternoon, and you were pretty sure there was some sort of world-ending issue happening on the other side of the city. If the light show happening in the distance didn't already clue you in.

"Are you okay?" stupid question, but you still felt as though you should ask, just to be polite.

He groaned, coughing up blood, which was an obvious concern. "I'm fine." He tried to speak, but it only came out as a painful sort of groan. "Yep, totally fine." Blood coated his teeth, and you physically winced at the sight of his blood.

Oh no, this was serious. What do you do? Call for help? But that would mean revealing his and your location, and you had no idea if whatever, or whoever, caused those injuries was looking for him. So you guessed it was just you and him.

"I really don't think you are, sir." You hurried toward him, your hands already sifting through your tote bag to grab the small first aid kit you ordered off Amazon just in case an alien attack happened and you needed medical supplies, because yes, that was a very real possibility.

"You don't have to call me 'sir'; it makes me feel old," he groaned, and you knelt down, leaning forward as you opened the first aid kit, and set it down beside him.

He was lying on his side, curled up protectively in a ball like he was trying to hide away from the world, which you couldn't really blame him for wanting. His suit was all cut up, and the infamous symbol on his chest was now stained with specks of his blood. "I'm going to help you, but I need you to sit up so I can have a better look at your injuries."

"Okay, yeah, that sounds great."

You reached out, and he groaned in pain as you managed to take most of his weight and help him up. He practically collapsed against the wall, his head lolling back and resting against the concrete.

Oh, the poor thing. Whatever happened to him must've been bad to cause this much damage.

"Wow, that, uh, looks bad."

"Thank you for the compliment. You look great."

Clark was right; he really was charming, but now wasn't the time. You reached for your first aid kit, but his hand wrapped around your wrist, stopping you.

"I'll be okay." You looked down and then back up. You highly doubted that with the way he looked.

"You're quite literally bleeding out."

"The sun," he said, nodding toward the flaming star in the sky. "It heals me."

He was right. The cut on his forehead was already closing up. You would be amazed, but to be honest, you had seen much cooler things. It was still impressive, though. You would give him that.

"So what, I'm just supposed to leave you here and let you heal?"

"Preferably, yes."

"I'm sorry if that doesn't exactly fill me with confidence," you blankly stated, quite frankly unimpressed. How were you supposed to just walk away while knowing he was in this alleyway, waiting while he painfully heals?

He chuckled, although it sounded more like a wheeze if anything. "Yeah, I should have expected that. Clark told me you were stubborn."

"I knew it; you guys are friends!"

"You could say that," he shrugged, and he raised a brow as you collapsed next to him, sitting down crisscross-applesauce beside him.

"Soooo." You glanced around the alleyway, taking things in, doing anything to avoid the superhero's gaze burning into your skin. "Clark talks about me?"

Superman smiled, noticeably without the blood this time, and nodded. "All the time."

"Do you like Star Wars?"

"Of course, who doesn't like star wars?" Nevermind. You take back everything you once said about him. Superman was amazing and obviously the superior hero.

"Favorite character, go." Look, you just had to know. I mean, who wouldn't want to know Superman's favorite Star Wars character?

His brows pinched together as he thought over his answer. "Oh, dang, um, I'll have to go with the OG Luke Skywalker." A good choice. Classic.

"I think you two would get along," you stated.

"You really think so?"

"I don't know. It's just the vibes you give off, like sunshine and rainbows."

"Sunshine and rainbows?" He echoed the words like he couldn't believe them, which was weird because he definitely gave off the sunshine and rainbow vibes, and everyone knew it.

"Can I ask what did this to you?"

"I'm going to be honest here; I have no idea. It's all a blur."

Well, that was concerning. "And you're sure the sun will fix all—" You gestured to him and his still half-beaten-up body. "Of that."

"Yep." He popped the 'p' like it was nothing.

"Your poor suit…"

He shrugged. "It'll get fixed. Always does."

"You are being way too chill about this. It's kind of concerning. Are you sure you're okay?"

That earned you a laugh, a real bright laugh that could light up a room. See? Sunshine and rainbows.

"I appreciate the concern, but yes, I am fine er, well, at least I will be in a couple of minutes." He winced as he adjusted his body into a more comfortable position. From what you could see he was indeed healing. The bleeding had clearly stopped, and all of his cuts and bruises were gone. Whatever was left to heal must've been internal.

"And you're gonna go back?"

He really shouldn't, in your opinion, but you knew either way he would. It was just in his nature to help. Even when it got him hurt.

"I have too," he answered, and you watched as he finally managed to stand up.

"Well, I'll be here if you need anything."

He chuckled, amusement flashing across his face. "Thank you," his voice softened, emotions flooding through him.

"You would do the same for me," you shrugged as if it were nothing.

It was everything.

You watched in silent awe as he floated off the ground, and he gave one final wave before shooting up into the sky.

Huh.

Maybe Superman wasn't so bad.

[honeysucklewatr]

the night is filled with distant glances and longing sighs as bruce wayne mingles with people he would much rather ignore for his beautiful wife.

he finds your eyes from across the room, silently pleading like he wanted to leave his own event even while he held conversation with some ceo. you’d return a pitiful glance, halfhearted pouts that he’d accept with a slow blink. though while he listened to a new proposal, one that didn’t make any sense to him, bruce struggled to look in their eyes when he knew you were so near yet out of reach.

everyone knows about bruce wayne’s wife. the party is aware of how he melts around you and shows teeth rather than a scornful look when he’s annoyed. his poker face is a lot better too. but when he truly feels like he’s suffocating, as though someone was restricting his ability to be unapologetically himself, bruce can’t hide it. at least not from you.

your husband is overworked and most definitely overpaid. though there isn’t a man in the world more deserving of such freedoms you’re sure. humanity his compass and the broken system of justice which dictates his own. faith driven by pure blind vengeance that has softened in the years you’d come to love him so deeply. compassion and outward appearances of affection you’d cherished. his shoulders relaxing around you.

tonight, he sent the driver home early. he’d let him take one of the cars in his garage and paid him anyway with a tired smile he always gave you when he’d get home late. loosening his tie with one hand, he watches as you play with the stereo. he’d usually just drive in silence, now he’d become accustomed to your taste.

but you knew he still needed the silence sometimes.

the drive home tonight is epically quiet. his voice a sound you wished you could hear but know you won’t because he needs a moment. peers using him as means to their own ends, seeing dollar signs where human emotion should be considered. bruce internalizes it. he pushes it all down until he snaps and it all falls on himself or his sons. you remind him of the fact when he scratches his chin too hard and the red mark remains. when you see the bags begin to form or the line between his brows. he lets you smooth it out with a gentle smile that melts your heart like ice.

now his hands find their way to you anyway, sitting warm as he grips your thigh. fingers idle on the bare skin, still as if in waiting. he catches your eye at the red light, watching as it illuminates your skin amid the dark gotham night. like a sterling path of light through his dark thoughts. you pretend not to notice him staring at the side of your face when you stare at the side mirror.

bruce doesn’t like to be disturbed when he’s deep in thought. he doesn’t enjoy company that is uninvited. but with his wife, his beautiful loving wife, bruce has immense patience.

no one else can gauge his moods in the way you can. no one else sees how anger is truly concern or how his indifference is really acceptance.

he’s a man who has put all his faith into a broken system that has beat down his loved ones time and time again. bruce has to believe that it’s all for something. that he did this for a reason behind superficial tangibility. he admits to you in the quiet moments that it’s for you. for his family. for the child he hopes you’ll let him give you. admits that you ground him and keep him sane from the thoughts that whirl him into the dark.

for now, he keeps his palm on your knee, sliding up and down to your thigh like he’s soothing. though you know it’s more for him than for you. then he’s bringing your hand on your thigh up to his lips. he reminds you that even without words that he loves you bad, until it makes him devoid of anything else. delicate presses of his supple skin to the back of your hand before he nuzzles his nose against it. watching him completely turned now, you smile to yourself and graze his cheek with your freehand before he turns to kiss the palm of that one too.

existence was simply sufficient for him. your presence all he needed even when words failed to find him. though you’d also learned to love the silence and how his embrace was enough to warm your soul.

[kisspotion]

𝐢𝐜𝐞𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐫 | 𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐤𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐱 𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐞!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 [3.8k]

summary: you've just moved to metropolis, and today's the day your roommate moves in. what starts as an awkward introduction and a casual coffee run quickly goes sideways when you both get locked out. now you and clark have to figure out how to survive the night—and, somehow, enjoy it too.

warnings: gn!reader, clark's awkward as per usual, a very secret mutual pining and soft yearning, just fluff, slowburn roommates to lovers!!! this is the first of many roomie clark fics, please enjoy!!

roommate!clark headcanons

You weren't sure what you expected your new roommate to look like, but it definitely wasn’t this. 

The man standing in your doorway had to duck his head slightly to even fit under the frame. His dark hair was tousled by the wind. His glasses were a little crooked, like maybe he’d been pushing them up on the train all morning. And his smile—shy, warm, almost apologetic for even existing—made something in your chest do a very stupid flutter. Which was amplified when you noticed the deep dimples on either side of his cheeks. 

“Hi,” he said softly. “Um, I’m Clark. Clark Kent. I… think I’m supposed to move in today?”

He said it like he wasn’t sure he had the right address. Like he was ready to apologize if he’d somehow found himself at the doorstep of the wrong apartment. Metropolis could be confusing, after all. There was even a new hero in the city, someone called Superman. Having someone keeping the streets safe was definitely a perk—albeit a rare one—when moving to a city like this. Honestly, the more appearances this super guy made, the more you found yourself rooting for him.

You stepped aside quickly, “Right, yeah! Yeah, come on in.”

Clark carried his suitcase inside like he was afraid to bump into anything. From the way he carefully moved, cautious of his sheer size, you could already tell he was painfully considerate. 

“Sorry I’m late,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “The train got delayed, then my cab got stuck behind someone who didn’t know where they were going, and then I—” he paused, realizing that this was so unnecessary. It caused a blush to creep up his neck. “Sorry. That was a lot of words. I talk too much when I’m nervous.”

“You’re nervous?” you asked, surprised. 

He blinked at you, and then laughed a quiet and embarrassed laugh. “Well… yeah. New place. New roommate. I’m trying to not make a weird first impression. Which I think I’m failing at.”

“You’re doing fine so far,” you couldn’t help but giggle. It was incredibly ironic that a huge, at least over six-foot, man was so unsure of himself. If you had that height and size, you’d probably walk around like you owned the place. But there’s something admirable in his commitment to gentleness despite his size. 

“Oh, that’s a relief. I think if my parents heard I made an embarrassment of myself during my elevator pitch to my roommate, they wouldn’t even be surprised,” he blurts out, forgetting to breathe. Halfway through his moment of air, he realizes he never even asked your name. 

Fortunately, you meet him with patience and he realizes he can actually let himself relax a little. After introducing yourself, you showed him to his room, trying very hard to not stare at how he has to walk through the doorframe slightly sideways just to fit. He looked around the bare room like the place was something precious, even though the walls were slightly mismatched, and one corner still had painter’s tape stuck to it.

“It’s perfect,” Clark said with a beaming smile that made you believe the cheapest apartment in Metropolis actually wasn’t so bad. 

You learn against the doorframe, arms crossed loosely. “Glad you like it. This place isn’t exactly the crown jewel of the city.” 

“No,” he says, turning to you with an earnest certainty he seems to carry so naturally, it’s nice. Really.”

You smile back, and for a second you forget you’re supposed to be giving him the new-roommate tour. Mostly because you’re still getting used to the idea that you live here now, too. 

Metropolis wasn’t exactly a part of the plan. You came on a whim—well, maybe not a whim, but definitely a moment of finally doing something instead of just thinking about it. Life in the small town was too stagnant for you. So you’d spent years dreaming of leaving your tiny hometown, telling yourself you’d move somewhere loud and bright and overwhelming, just to see if you’d keep up with it. So, you did. Did you think much about the logistics, no… but you were here now, and you don’t think you'll be going back anytime soon. 

Half of you friends said you were brave and that they wish they could do that. The other half said you were a little insane. It was probably a mix of both. 

You hadn’t been in Metropolis long, but you were already sure that the city would swallow you whole if you let it—endless noise, people brushing past you, skyscrapers so tall you couldn’t see the tops on foggy days. You weren’t in Kansas anymore, you thought to yourself as a joke. Despite it all, something about it called to you. Maybe it was the possibility of becoming someone braver than the version of you who stayed home too long. 

So now here you are. New city, new apartment with mismatched walls, and a new roommate who somehow makes the place feel less terrifying just by existing. 

“I grew up in a farmhouse with doors that didn’t close all the way and a roof that whistled whenever it rained,” he gushed. “This is a luxury.”

You smiled, then realized his eyes were drifting—not in a rude way, just observing. Taking you in the same way he took in the room. Better than how you took him in, giving Clark the classic up down as your face grew warmer. Subtly, of course. His look was curious, warm in a way that made you suddenly aware that you barely knew him. 

“So,” Clark broke the brief silence. “What brought you to Metropolis? You mentioned you moved here pretty recently.”

Right. 

“Staying in a small town wasn’t doing anything for me. So, I moved here to find work.” Wow, that’s kind of embarrassing to admit out loud. You offered him a very casual smile, like it wasn’t something stressing you out every waking second. Moving here with no plan and admitting to your roommate that you were unemployed. Way to throw up some major red flags after he’s only been here for less than an hour.  “New city, new beginnings.”

Except, Clark nodded like that was the most understandable thing in the world. “That’s very brave,” he said simply. 

Brave. 

Not reckless, or naive. Brave. 

You hadn’t expected that word, and for a moment you were stuck staring at him. This too tall, too kind stranger who meant it sincerely, no teasing or pity. Just the truth. 

His smile deepened. And you cleared your throat. “What about you? What made you pick the city?” “Well… I’m starting at the Daily Planet. Junior reporter.” He scratched his cheek, sheepish. “I’m, uh… hoping I don’t get fired in the first week.”

“You won’t,” you said automatically, way too fast. And he blinked at you. 

“I won’t?”

“No. You’re…” charming as hell, disastrously handsome, and clearly the most earnest man alive, “you’re just the type of person who succeeds at things.”

Smooth enough recovery, right? His cheeks went pink. “I don’t know about that. I have a tendency to always be late.”

“I do,” you said, surprising even yourself with how certain you sounded. “There’s some kind of hope radiating off of you.”

Clark looked at you for a long, quiet moment. Like he wasn’t used to people believing in him so quickly. Or, like he’s analyzing how to get out of this situation. 

“Well, thank you.” 

You smiled, feeling the humming curiosity in the air between you two grow. Steady… but rising nonetheless.

“So,” Clark said, tapping his thumb against his bag strap that was tossed over his shoulder. “Should we… maybe grab coffee? Like, um, roommate bonding? I hear that’s a thing."

You giggle, because how can you not. “Like an icebreaker?”

A sheepish nod, dark curls shifting with his movement. “Yeah, exactly. Only if you want to. No pressure at all. Like—zero pressure. Less than zero. Negative pressure.”

“Clark,” you said, grinning, “coffee sounds great.”

And somehow, that “quick coffee” turned into walking four blocks, sharing stories about the stranger subway encounters you’ve experienced so far, the sketchy landlords you both had to call trying to find a place, and listening to Clark ramble about growing up in Kansas with a kind of nostalgia that made your heart ache. 

He laughs easily. Smiles often. And keeps glancing at you like he’s making sure you were having a good time. 

And you are. More than you expected, and far more than made sense for someone you’d just met an hour ago. 

By the time you climbed the apartment steps again, you were genuinely, stupidly, comfortable around him. And he was too. 

You reached for the door first, patting your pockets for your keys. 

Then again.

Then… again.

Clark stopped beside you. “Everything okay?” “I… think I forgot my key.”

He frowned sympathetically. “That’s alright! I have—”

He patted his pockets. 

Check.

Check.

…check?

You both froze. 

“Clark,” you said slowly, “please tell me you did not also forget your key.”

He blinked at you, horrified. “I thought you had yours.”

You stared at each other. Your stomach dropped. Clark’s hand rubbing the back of his neck. 

“...oh no,” he whispered, utterly defeated. 

And that was how on your first day as roommates, you ended up locked out together—with nothing but the city evening, a questionable amount of mutual embarrassment, and the terrifying sense that maybe, just maybe, you already liked Clark a little too much.

You both just… stood there. 

The hallway light above you flickered. Clark’s eyes darted between you and the locked door like maybe it would magically open if he looked at it nice enough. 

“So,” you said finally, trying not to laugh. “Do we, uh… sleep out here?” “No!” Clark blurted, then winced at his accidental loudness. “I am—no, we don’t. I think the building manager leaves at ten. Which was… an hour ago.”

You smiled, and he relaxed about half an inch.

“Well,” you shrugged, “we could wander until morning and then call maintenance?”

“I… guess we could.” His voice was unsure, but his eyes were bright. So hopeful in a way he couldn’t hide. 

So the two of you headed out into the city. 

Metropolis after midnight was a different world—quieter, softer, washed in neon. 

You ended up in a tiny corner store that smelt like coffee grounds and fried foods. Clark hovered beside you in front of the snack aisle, hands in his pockets, shoulders big enough to shield you from the invasive fluorescent lighting. Thank god for that. You were already tired enough as it was, you don’t need the added headache. 

“Okay,” you said, “if we’re going to be homeless for the night, we need to equip ourselves with essential equipment.”

Clark huffed a laugh. “Homeless is a strong word.”

“Roofless, then.” He gave you a shy grin that made something warm bloom in your chest. You grabbed chips. Clark grabbed two bottles of water and a pack of peanut butter cookies like it was a totally normal thing to do at midnight with someone you met six hours ago. 

After Clark paid, saying he was the one to ask you for coffee when you tried to pay for yourself, you walked for blocks. It strangely felt like the world had just shrunk to the two of you, the rhythm of your footsteps, the quiet conversations. 

You talked about everything people usually try to hide on a first meeting, stuff you don't tell new roommates, and definitely not strangers. 

You told him why you came to Metropolis. He told you what his small town in Kansas—Smallville, you learned—felt like on warm summer mornings. You told him how scared you are to start over. He told you how scared he was to not mess up this new chapter of his life. 

Again, you’d never do this with anyone else. But it was okay, because deep down, you both felt that, already, there was an unmistakable sense that the other was becoming impossibly important. 

Around 1:30am, it got cold. You tried to hide your shiver, but Clark noticed it instantly. He slowly unbuttoned his flannel without a word, shrugging it off and extending his arm as he held it out for you to take. It left him in a plain white t-shirt, which looked like it was fighting for its life trying to not tear apart the broadness of his chest… not to mention his softly-firm and massive biceps threatening the fabric too. 

You blinked. “Clark, you’ll freeze.”

“I don’t get cold easily,” he said. An outrageous lie. To which, you stared at him until he caved.

“...Okay, I get a little cold. But you’re freezing,” he murmurs. He doesn’t make the exchange awkward, just drapes it over you with a delicateness that makes your breath stutter. 

“But now you’re cold,” you try to protest. Except you already know it’s useless.

He laughs. “I’m okay. I run… warm.”

(Understatement of the century, but you don’t know that yet.)

You walk like that for a while—his flannel draped over you, his hands studded in his pockets, shoulders brushing every few steps as the night gets quieter around you. You continue to talk about nothing, and everything. Eventually, a splash of bright neon catches your eye.

A gaudy, little all-night tourist shop. The kind that sells magnets and keychains and cheap water bottles… and a wall of hoodies. 

“Oh my god,” you mutter, stopping dead in your tracks. “Clark… they have hoodies.”

In the blink of an eye, you’ve dashed towards the store. Too carelessly for Clark’s liking… you didn’t even look both ways before you j-walked across the street. Who does that?!

“What? Where are you going—” and then he saw it, through his panic soaked vision that you induced. 

The same tourist store. With a massive Superman logo in the window. Are they even allowed to do that..? He wondered, but it doesn’t matter when you’ve slipped away from him and through the store’s doors.

In the blink of an eye, he catches up to you. “We don’t need hoodies,” he says quickly.

You raise a brow. “Got something against being warm, or something against Superman?”

Clark both tensed, and stifled a giggle at, what sounded like, the protective tone you put on. Like you were going to go to war for Superman. You urge him to speak with a waving hand.

“I–that’s not–” he fumbles, letting out a frustrated sigh before trying again. “I just don’t need that hoodie.”

You pull the hoodie off the rack, holding up the biggest size you could find against Clark’s chest. Your eyebrows furrowed as you looked at him, then the logo on the sweater, then back at him. His heart stopped. He would’ve much rather been caught with his pants down, than have you piece his alter ego together after only hours of knowing each other. Then, your eyes squinted… taking a slower look at him… and the symbol against his chest. 

“Weird…” you think, but actually say out loud. Clark was actually going to break through the store window and run back to Smallville in the blink of an eye—

“The colours don’t suit you.” Oh, he thinks. “Like… at all.”

You tilt your head, studying him and the logo one last time. “Yeah… no. Too bright. You’re more of a … forest green? Dark blue? Something broody.”

“I am not broody,” Clark protests instantly, which would’ve been a lot more convincing if he didn’t sound offended, flustered, and deeply relieved all at once.

You shrug. “Fine. To each their own.”

He has no idea what to do with that, so he just stands there, ears blushed pink, while you put the hoodie back like you’ve saved him from the most horrible fashion mistake. You wander to the next rack and point at another option. “This one suits you better.”

He follows your finger, and sees a hoodie that is aggressively ridiculous. A heather grey hoodie with bold black lettering and a huge cartoonish red heart. I love Metropolis, he pieces together. It’s exactly the kind of tacky, over-enthusiastic tourist merch that shouts its own existence. Cheesy, and absolutely impossible to wear subtly… but Clark has already accepted his defeat. 

You nudge the hanger toward him. “Try it on.”

Clark looks like you’ve asked him to lift a tractor with one hand. Which, very ironically, would’ve been much easier for him.

“Right now? Don’t you think we should buy it first?” he asks.

You look behind your shoulder, the sleepless employee nose deep in their phone. You shrug, giving Clark a ‘who cares’ kind of look. “We’re bonding anyway. New roommates buy dumb clothes together, right?” 

He laughs under his breath, soft and shy, but he obeys. He pulls the hoodie over his head, messing up his hair in a way that makes your stomach turn warm. The fabric settles over him and… he looks, cute. Painfully cute. 

You step back, crossing your arms as you study him with exaggerated seriousness. 

“Okay,” you decide. “That’s actually unfair. You were supposed to look stupid.”

Clark blushes immediately, as if he hasn’t been since the moment he met you. “I–I don’t really think it fits right,” he says, tugging at the hem like he's trying to disappear into it.

“Oh my god,” you groan, incredibly dramatically, turning toward the register. “We’re buying it. You’re wearing it home.”

“I don’t think that’s necess–”

“Too late,” you sing, waving a hand behind you, “That’s the price of forgetting your keys!”

“You forgot yours too…” but it’s too late, you’re already buying both of the sweaters. Clark sighs, but he’s smiling. The kind of smile that softens his whole face and makes him look like he's finally letting himself enjoy something. 

Which only gets worse when he sees you tug your Superman sweater over your head. Clark’s breath catches, painfully. Because seeing you in that sweater does something to him. This warm, aching bloom in his chest he can’t name. Because you’re tugging on the symbol he carries every day, smiling like it already means something to you. His symbol. His promise. You chose him without realizing it, like you already believe in him. And he has to look away for a second, just to breathe. Thankfully, the soft thud of his flannel getting tossed into his chest also aids in bringing him back to a more level mindset. 

You walk back out into the city, colder than before you went into the store. You shiver, and let out a little sound of relief now that you’re cozied in a warm sweater. The sound punches Clark right in the ribs, harder than any he’s tanked from other galactic beings. 

“Okay,” you say while admiring the new collection for your closet. “Worth it.”

“It looks good on you,” Clark says before he can stop himself. His voice dripped with admiration. 

“Thanks,” you murmur, cheeks warming even though the cold night air keeps your skin cold. “You too. The heart is very… Clark.”

Clark makes a noise like someone hit him with a pillow, as if wearing his heart on his sleeve—or you guess, his chest—wasn’t one of the most powerful lesson his Pa taught him. You just laugh, and start walking. He follows automatically. 

At some point, you sit on the steps of some random building. You’ve done enough walking now where if you spent the next five days in bed, it’d be completely justified. Your shoulders fall against each other naturally. Your eyes drift half-closed, and Clark’s head tips back against the brick wall. All things considered, this wasn’t so bad. 

“This is nice,” you admit, sleep dragging at your voice.

“Yeah,” Clark whispers. “It is. I think I’d recommend locking yourself and your new roomie out of the apartment to any strangers who move in together.”

You snort, tugging the hood of your Superman sweater closer to your cheeks. “It’s a solid life tip. Make sure to add it to the handbook.”

Clark huffs a laugh, weighed down by exhaustion. “It can go right between ‘stay hydrated’ and ‘don’t piss off your landlord.’”

You grin, “Look at you. Already so wise.”

“It’s the delirium,” he corrects, rubbing a hand over his face. “Pretty sure I’m going to collapse the second we get inside.”

You lift your arm and point vaguely forward. “Onwards. Final stretch.”

You both rise… very slowly. It’s not really a walk to the building, but more of a drift, like two ghosts haunting the streets of Metropolis. Or zombies. The city’s barely awake, but the faint light of dawn is starting to creep across buildings, in that very soft way mornings sometimes are. 

“Did we really stay out aaaall night?” you ask.

“Mmmhm,” Clark hums, you’re not sure he even opened his mouth to answer you. ”Not on purpose, though.”

“No,” you agree, yawning so hard your eyes water. “And we will never, ever make that mistake again.”

Clark gives a little laugh at that, but he’s swaying slightly, and you nudge him back upright with your shoulder. “We can do it again, just with some keys, and a brain too.”

You shuffle the last half block like that, barely talking, almost sleepwalking, and shoulders brushing because neither of you have the willpower or coordination to walk in a straight line. Eventually, the apartment building comes into view, like a lifeboat saving two exhausted souls stranded in the middle of the ocean. 

“Oh my god,” you whisper, “Clark, are you seeing this?” “We made it. Shocking,” he responds, dead serious.

He fumbles the keys you received from the building manager only once—which, considering his state, was actually pretty impressive—and the door clicks. Clark pushes the door open, and warm apartment air greets you. 

You step inside, dragging your feet like your body has forgotten how to move properly. Clark follows close behind, shoulders brushing against yours as if having you directly by his side was instinct now. 

“We will never make that mistake again,” Clark says, tired but teasing, eyes half-lidded. A small smile tugs at his lips. You both stand there for a moment, just breathing. There’s a silent understanding that bed calls for both of you, but in there… there's a lingering feeling that’s heavy with something neither of you can quite name. 

“Get to bed,” Clark suggests. And you’re not going to be the one who stalls any longer. Your feet drag its final steps before you pause at your bedroom door. 

“Goodnight,” you murmur, already feeling the impending, maybe permanent, shut of your eyes.

Clark's smile softens into something shy, and sincere. “Goodnight,” he whispers back. “Thank you… for tonight.”

You tilt your head, his words warming you up on the inside. “You too, Clark.”

And then, finally, you close your door.

On the other side, you hear him take a slow breath, like he’s trying to hold onto the night a little longer. You smile into the brightening glow of your room, the sunrise completely ignorant to your sleepiness.

The first day of knowing him is over, and somehow… It already feels like the best beginning. 

[endlessstorms]

Why Not You?

scott miller x shy!sweetheart!fem!reader

summary: after worrying that scott has hated you for the past year, an overheard conversation confirms your fears... or does it? based on this ask

warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, unspecified age gap (reader is mentioned to be younger than javi and referred to as 'kid'/'kiddo' by him, but in a familial way), power imbalance briefly mentioned, reader is insecure and can't communicate, scott is a dumbass and can't communicate, idiots in love?, almost exclusively dialogue oops (sorry if i missed any!)

word count: 6.9k

a/n: i'm so sorry this took so long!! turns out writing a sweetheart reader is much harder for me than i thought lmao but i had a lot of fun with this! she gets a little sassy, but she's just overwhelmed!!

divider credits to @saradika-graphics

You’re not one to dwell on the negatives of anything. 

Normally, you can keep your head held high, focus on the positives, and get through life with a wide smile on your face.

But Scott Miller has been testing your patience for the past year.

You know why he doesn’t like you. You know he thinks your position on the team is simply a product of nepotism given you’re Javi’s cousin–and you’re the first to admit that he’s kind of right. 

But you also know that, family or not, you wouldn’t be here if you weren’t good at what you do.

Which is why, usually, you can ignore his quips and the way he introduces you to every new person you meet as the ‘nepo baby’ of the team.

It doesn’t hurt that he’s ridiculously gorgeous, but that is not the point.

This morning, as usual, you’re first in the parking lot–radar and satellite images already pulled up on your tablet.

And, again, as usual, Scott is the second person out of his room.

“Morning!” You greet with a wide smile as he approaches, typical aviator sunglasses and baseball cap on.

He grunts in response, same as every morning. 

And, like every day before today, you bite your tongue and wait for the others to join you. 

…And maybe take the time to admire his jawline that you’re a little convinced he only chews gum so frequently to show off. So, really, it would be rude not to appreciate it.

At the sound of more motel doors closing, you snap your eyes back to your tablet, rocking back and forth on the heels of your shoes. As you drag around the radar imagery to appear busy and not like you were just practically drooling over your boss, a heavy arm wraps around your shoulders, pulling you into a side hug. 

“Morning, kiddo,” Javi greets, patting your shoulder twice before releasing you as more of the team starts to gather around.

You hum, angling your tablet toward him. “There are some good cells out west, like we called. As long as we leave in the next 20 minutes, we should be right on time.”

“You heard her, folks!” Javi announces, clapping his hands together once. 

“Uh, hold on,” Scott interjects, effectively halting everyone’s movements and sending your stomach straight to your ass. He pulls up the radar on his tablet, dragging his finger across the screen before turning it towards the group. “What about this cell to the south? It looks just as good–if not better–than the ones to the west. Since when do we go based on one person’s assessment and not a discussion?” He tilts his head, tone laced with a condescending edge.

You freeze, feeling heat spread through your body like wildfire.

No matter how many times Scott challenges your calls, it never gets any less mortifying. 

You open and close your mouth a couple times before Javi spares you any further embarrassment by cutting in smoothly.

“I looked at the south cell right before coming out.” He shrugs casually, not at all fazed by Scott’s confidence or patronizing tone. “It does seem strong, but it doesn’t look better to me. I was gonna suggest going west either way.” He steps closer to Scott, peering down at the tablet still in the taller man’s hands. “If you think it does, though, we can talk about it! We have time.”

You watch as Scott’s jaw works, like he’s making his response more palatable. He stares at the screen for another long moment. “No.” He clears his throat. “West is fine.”

“Sick,” Javi says with a grin, clapping him on the shoulder before shooing everyone. “I wanna be on the road in 15, so get to it!”

You turn on your heel immediately, making your way to Wizard to help make sure all of the equipment is functioning properly. 

“That seemed more tense than usual,” Kate murmurs as she helps you get to work turning on the large monitors in the back of the van.

“Yup,” you say as evenly as possible, shrugging one shoulder. “Maybe he’s just stressed. We have had a few failed chases recently.”

Peter snorts quietly from where he’s booting up the rest of the equipment next to you before quickly clearing his throat, pretending not to be listening to your conversation.

“You always try to find an excuse when he’s being an ass,” Kate sighs.

“He has his reasons.”

“Does he?” She asks, popping a hip and resting a hand on it, looking at you.

“Most people aren’t assholes for no reason.”

“Key word, most.”

“It’s fine, Kate, really,” you say, turning to face her after turning on the last screen. “I know he doesn’t like me, and I’m sure that, to him, his reasons are completely justified. I can’t make him like me.”

Kate frowns. 

“That’s incredibly mature of you.”

You shrug, shooting her a toothy grin. “Thank you. Do you need help getting Lion ready?”

She shakes her head with a soft smile, but there’s a knowing look in her eyes. “You are too nice for your own good, you know that?”

“So I’ve been told.”

- - - -

“Are you getting anything?” Javi asks as you follow the rest of the team into the packed bar, celebrating a very successful chase. “I’ll just order for both of us, you can go grab a table.”

“Oh– thanks! Um…” You glance around to search for an open table, eyes locking onto one before leaning closer to Javi so he can hear you over the thumping music. “A vodka cran, please!”

He gives you a thumbs up and starts to weave through the crowd towards the bar behind the rest of your teammates while you split off to make a beeline for the free table, managing to snag it just before another group appears. 

“Oh!” You wince before shooting them an apologetic smile. “Sorry–”

The guy closest to you just scoffs and rolls his eyes before stalking off with his friends trailing behind him. Your smile falters as they walk away, eyebrows drawing close together. 

Was that rude of you?

You’re not the only group searching for a table, obviously. And it’s not like you were specifically trying to take it from them…

No, you remind yourself. They were probably just annoyed that they didn’t get here first. It wasn’t personal.

You slide into a tall chair at the end of the table, fingers tapping restlessly against the sticky wood while you wait for the others to come back once they have their drinks. The few minutes it takes feel like forever, and you let out a relieved breath you didn’t know you were holding when Javi sits down next to you with a loud sigh.

He slides you your drink, and you lean forward to take a long sip, avoiding his narrowed eyes that are raking over your face.

“What happened?”

“Hm?” You sit up straighter, meeting his gaze. “Nothing.”

“You look upset.”

You wave him off. “No, some guy was just upset that I got to the table first. It was nothing.”

Javi hums, clearly unconvinced. “Did he say something?”

You shake your head quickly. “No, he just walked away. Really, it was nothing, I just wasn’t sure if I was rude or something.”

His brows furrow. “You don’t have a rude bone in your body.”

Scott plops down in the seat across from you then, quickly followed by the others claiming their own seats and finding spots to stand at the table. 

“It’s almost annoying,” Scott comments dryly, taking a swig of his beer. 

You frown, which Javi catches immediately. “He’s kidding,” he says, shooting Scott a look. 

Scott just shrugs one shoulder before angling himself to speak to Andy, who’s standing behind him.

It takes a few more sips of your drink for the tension in your shoulders to start to drain, but soon enough you’re back to your usual smiley self, listening intently to the conversations around you.

When Javi gets up to use the bathroom, Kate swoops in almost immediately to take his spot. You get engrossed in talking with her, barely noticing when Javi comes back and simply stands behind the chair she stole to continue his conversation with Peter. 

During a lapse in the conversation, you let your eyes roam over the other patrons–only allowing your gaze to linger on Scott’s side profile for a couple seconds before continuing your sweep. 

When you spot the Wranglers at a table across the bar, you elbow Kate’s side gently. “Tyler’s here.”

She snaps her head to follow your gaze, the movement making you turn toward her with your eyebrows raised. Her cheeks are flushed now, and you grin. 

“I knew it!” You whisper.

She smacks your arm. “Shut up!”

“You are so painfully obvious,” you chuckle, earning yourself another smack, which just makes you laugh harder. “Wanna go say hi?”

She hesitates for a second before schooling her expression and rolling her shoulders back. “Sure,” she says casually with a shrug.

You roll your eyes playfully as you both stand, quickly finishing the last couple sips of your drink.

“Where are you guys going?” Javi asks.

“The Wranglers are here.” You point them out. “Just gonna go say hi.”

“Oh, good,” Scott mutters sarcastically. “Can’t do anything without them showing up.”

You frown again. “You didn’t even know they were here. They’re not bothering you.”

“They’re everywhere. Whatever, go say hi to your boyfriends,” he says, waving you off.

You just stare at him for a moment, but decide pretty quickly that you have nothing nice to say to that. Thankfully, Kate’s grabbing your hand and gently pulling you behind her toward the Wranglers’ table before you have to figure out how to walk away without making it more awkward. 

You’re both greeted warmly by Tyler and his team, and you feel more at ease almost instantly. Despite having limited interactions with them, they’ve always been nice.

It’s a nice change of pace. 

The conversation flows easily, and you’re genuinely surprised–but not at all upset–when Dani and Lily are creating a group chat with you and Kate.

This job can be more lonely than people think, and while you’re eternally grateful to have Kate, it’s always nice to have more friends. 

When you both return to your team, you’re feeling significantly better–accepting Scott’s comments as his usual irritation with Tyler and his crew versus irritation with you or Kate.

But the wide smile on your face falters ever so slightly and you stop hearing what Kate’s saying when you notice a girl leaning in too closely to Scott, giggling excessively–

No. That’s mean. She’s pretty, and he’s clearly interested as well, and that’s okay. 

You turn back to Kate, blinking once. “Sorry, what?”

She studies you for a beat, eyes flicking briefly to Scott before repeating herself.

You spend the next 20 minutes forcing yourself to engage in the rapidly changing topics of conversation with some of your teammates, but your focus gets pulled entirely when Scott’s chair scrapes as he stands. You watch as he walks toward the door, the girl pressed against his side, and feel your stomach drop when they leave together. 

This is fine.

You’re fine.

It’s not like you’re in love with him or anything–you just find him attractive and it’s natural to be a little disappointed when someone you find attractive shows interest in someone else.

That’s all this is. 

That’s what you tell yourself while you lie in bed later that night, repeating it until sleep finally pulls you under.

- - - -

When you exit your room in the morning, your steps falter for a second when you spot Javi and Scott already in the parking lot, backs turned to you as they lean against Lion’s bed.

Weird.

You keep your steps quiet as you head over to get Wizard ready–not wanting to disturb their conversation. 

But you regret that almost immediately when you catch snippets of Scott’s ranting. 

“...annoying. It’s like she’s trying to win me over–change my mind, or something.”

You freeze halfway to the van, your stomach twisting in knots.

He called your kindness annoying just last night.

…Is he talking about you?

Is that what he thinks you’ve been doing? Trying to win him over?

Is that what you’ve been doing?

“...tell her that.”

Javi’s voice is so casual that you feel a small sense of betrayal. 

Surely he doesn’t think that’s what you’ve been doing too, right?

No.

No, you can’t keep listening. It’s rude.

So you slide open the side door to the van with a bit more force than necessary, making sure it’s loud enough for them to hear.

At the whoosh, both of their heads snap toward you.

Javi immediately pushes off the truck and approaches you with a smile. “Hey, kid! Didn’t hear you come out.”

You shoot him a tight smile before turning back to the monitors. Your fingers fumble with the button on the first one, and you have to try again to successfully turn it on.

He watches you move through the cargo space with a frown on his face.

“You okay?”

“Yes.” You close your eyes briefly. “Yup,” you correct more cheerfully, though it sounds flat even to you.

“...You sure?”

“I just didn’t sleep well.” You shrug, moving stiffly to the next screen.

It’s not technically a lie.

“I’ve literally known you your entire life–you can’t lie to me.”

“Javi.” Your voice comes out smaller than you mean it to when you still, squeezing your eyes shut again, staying turned away from him. “Please.”

The silence after stretches. Long enough that you almost force yourself to look at him–make sure he’s still there.

“Okay,” he nearly whispers. “Sorry.”

You keep your eyes shut tightly, swallowing hard. 

“Thank you.”

He leaves after that, and you finally feel like you can breathe.

- - - -

Three days.

That’s how long you manage to fool everyone–even Kate and Javi–before you’re cornered.

It happens after a chase. 

One where nobody could get their positioning right because the tornado kept shifting, leading to an entire day wasted.

So it’s safe to say you’re all a little on edge.

You don’t go up to your room right away–feeling too restless. So you decide to sit at the small table set up in the back of the van to work on the report that the rest of the team has decided to put off until tomorrow.

“Your measurements are off,” a familiar gruff voice says lowly, startling you.

“Jesus christ,” you whip around with a hand on your chest to see Scott leaning against the door you’d left open for airflow. “You scared me.”

He just stares at you. Waiting.

You blink. 

“Your measurements are off,” he repeats, climbing in beside you.

You scoot over awkwardly, trying to make space for the giant of a man.

“Where are they off?”

He rolls his eyes.

As if your lack of argument is annoying to him.

A small, slightly evil part of you thinks good.

He points a finger at the value you’d typed out for the distance between Scarecrow and the tornado. “That’s not how far I was.”

You huff a little, deleting the number. “That was a typo,” you mutter, correcting it.

“Sure it was.”

“Anything else I can help you with?” You ask, spinning to face him. Your hands are clasped tightly in your lap as you stare at him expectantly.

His eyes narrow briefly before his lips slowly curl into a small smirk.

“Someone’s grumpy.”

“I’m not grumpy.”

“You’re absolutely grumpy.”

“Maybe I’m just done trying to win you over.” The words slip out before you can stop them. Your eyes widen, and you slap a hand over your mouth.

His smirk fades, replaced by genuine confusion.

“I’m sorry,” you rush out. “I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, I just heard you and Javi–”

“Wait–you heard me and Javi?”

You nod. “Out by the truck. After the bar. I didn’t– that’s not what I’ve been trying–”

His eyebrows press even closer together. “Hold on,” he interrupts. He stares at you for a moment, like he’s replaying the past three days in his head. Understanding washes over his face. “That wasn’t about you.”

All you can do is blink at him.

“That… what?” 

Now you’re confused.

“I was talking about Amy.” “Who the fuck is Amy?” 

Scott snorts–thoroughly amused by the swear you let slip.

“The girl from the bar,” he explains with a small chuckle.

“What could you have possibly been talking about?” 

He sighs. “I told her I didn’t want anything serious, she agreed, then suddenly she was trying to, like, ask me on a date.”

Ouch. Ignoring that punch to the gut for a bit.

“Wait.” He sits up straighter. “What did you think I meant?”

“I thought you were talking about me!” You exclaim, gesturing with your hands.

“Why would I be talking about you?”

“I don’t know!” You put your head in your hands, closing your eyes. “I thought you were annoyed because you thought I was just being nice to try to win you over, or something.”

“I mean, I think you’re annoying, but not because you’re trying to win me over,” he says dryly.

You whip your head up, eyes wide. “Scott!”

He laughs–a real laugh. “I’m kidding.” He takes a second to let his laughter die down, then shifts uncomfortably. “...Why did it bother you so much?”

And there’s the question you were hoping to avoid.

You look down at your hands in your lap, feeling your cheeks warm. 

Because you can’t come up with an answer that doesn’t sound like a poorly hidden version of ‘I’ve had a crush on you since the day I met you, and your validation means more than I let myself admit.’

He watches you carefully, the teasing gone from his face. “Would it really have upset you that much if I were talking about you?”

“Well–” you cut yourself off, debating for a second just how honest to be. “I mean… yeah, a little.”

“Why?”

You’re taken aback by the genuine bafflement in his expression.

“What do you mean, why?”

“Why do you care so much what I think?”

You look at him like he’s grown a second head. “Because it sucks thinking that someone you’ve worked with for a year doesn’t like you.”

“But I never said I didn’t like you–well, her, in this case.”

“No, you just said that my entire personality is annoying.”

“I didn’t say that, though.” “But I thought you did.”

“Right…” He nods once, lips rolled in. “Well… for what it’s worth, I don’t not like you.”

“But you don’t like me,” you supply.

“I didn’t say that, either.”

That makes you pause.

“...You’ve been pretty obvious with how you act,” you say quietly, stomach twisting as you finally say what’s been secretly, sneakily eating you alive for the past year.

“What do you mean, how I act?” There’s a hint of defensiveness creeping into his tone that makes you bristle.

“I just mean the constant correcting in front of the entire team, introducing me as the ‘nepo baby,’ ignoring my greetings.” “I do that with everybody,” he tacks your name onto the end, and you almost choke.

He almost never uses your name, and certainly not in the tone he just did.

Because this wasn’t angry. 

It wasn’t commanding.

It was almost… soft?

“You don’t call everybody the ‘nepo baby,’” you deadpan once your lungs figure out how to work again.

“Well, that’s because you’re the only nepotism hire.”

“Scott,” you sigh, exasperated. 

“You are!” “Okay.” You stand, brushing off imaginary dirt from your jeans. “I’m glad we cleared that up, but I don’t think this is going anywhere anymore.”

He stands quickly, almost slamming his head into the roof of the van, ducking at the last second. “Wait– what?”

“Jesus,” you breathe out, taking a step back from his slightly hunched form. “I’m trying to tell you why I was upset, and you’re arguing semantics.”

He huffs. “I’m not arguing semantics–”

“That is, quite literally, exactly what you’re doing. Like, right now.”

“I–” He cuts himself off, brows furrowed as he mentally replays the conversation. “Okay… yeah, maybe a little.”

“Thank you,” you sigh. “Look, if you do think my kindness is annoying, or whatever, that’s fine. But I would prefer knowing that right now instead of walking away from this conversation thinking we’re like… fine with each other.”

He opens and closes his mouth a couple times, thinking intently before finally speaking. “I don’t think your kindness is annoying. I did–when you first started. Mostly because, yeah, I didn’t think you’d actually bring anything to the team.” At your frown, he rolls his eyes. “Javi brought in his younger cousin without an interview. What did you expect me to think?”

“...Fair enough.” You gesture for him to continue.

“But, unfortunately, you’ve proven that you know what you’re doing.”

“Unfortunately?” You repeat incredulously.

“I’m kidding. Jesus, lighten up.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “That doesn’t explain why you’ve continued to treat me like that. I thought you hated me.”

He shrugs. “I wasn’t intentionally being an ass.”

You look at him, unimpressed.

“That’s just how I am!” He throws his arms up in exasperation.

You point at him. “Except that’s not true. Because you treat Kate just fine now, and I heard you started out with pretty much the same assumptions about her.”

“Can we do this outside?” He brings a hand up to the back of his neck, wincing. “This stupid ass van is too short.”

“Oh– yes, yeah.” You scramble out of the van, waiting for him to follow.

“I still challenge her decisions if I disagree with them,” he argues as he stretches his back outside. 

“But you challenge her in a way that feels professional. You challenge me in a way that feels personal. That’s the difference.”

“I think you’re the only person that thinks that.”

You cross your arms over your chest. “Kate herself agrees with me.”

He pauses, frowning. “...She said that?”

You nod. “More than once, actually.”

“Oh…” He exhales. “What did she say?”

You shrug, looking down at your feet as you scuff the toe of your boot against the pavement. “That your problem with me feels deeper than it ever did with her.”

He hums.

And for what feels like an hour, you both stand in silence, save for the sound of the crickets and birds as the sun gets lower.

“Well… I didn’t mean to make you think I hated you.”

You sigh, looking up at the sky.

“But that doesn’t change the fact that I’ve felt out of place the entire time I’ve been here.”

You’re not even trying to argue.

You’re just tired. 

When you look back at him, his face is doing something complicated. 

He looks a little guilty, a lot confused.

“Well, I’m… sorry… that I did that.” 

He winces as he fumbles his way through the apology, and it’s, unfortunately, a little endearing.

Because now you know he didn’t have any malicious intent–not that you thought he wanted to hurt your feelings this whole time.

But it certainly makes you feel better knowing that most of this has been a miscommunication. 

“Thank you.” You give him a small smile. “I appreciate that.”

He looks shocked that you accepted his, honestly, pretty bad apology. But he gives what appears to be his best attempt at a genuine smile of his own. 

“So are we, like… good now?”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no real irritation behind it. “I’ve tried to be good for the past year.”

He grimaces. “My bad.”

You nod once, sharply. “Yes. Your bad.”

The corner of his mouth quirks up, and he raises his eyebrows. “Oh, you think you’re funny.”

“Oh, I know I’m funny. You’d have known that earlier, if you were–”

He sighs loudly, interrupting you. “Weren’t a dick, yeah, I got it,” he finishes with a chuckle. 

You stand in a surprisingly comfortable silence for a moment before you realize you should probably get ready for bed.

“Goodnight, Scott,” you say lightly with a nod, turning around, trying to bite back your smile.

“‘Night,” he calls after you, shaking his head with his own suppressed grin.

- - - -

You wake up feeling lighter than you have in days.

Which is immediately noticed by Javi and Kate.

“You look happy,” Kate comments, and she and Javi sit in the seats across from you at the diner where you’re waiting for everyone else.

You nod, sipping your coffee. “Talked through things with Scott.”

She tilts her head. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, there was just a misunderstanding,” you explain as you set down your cup, glancing down at the menu. “But we cleared it up!”

“What kind of misunderstanding?” Javi asks.

You explain what happened–overhearing their conversation about Amy, assuming it was about you, trying not to let it bother you–while still scanning through the menu. 

When neither of them say anything for a long moment after you’re done, you look up.

Kate looks confused. 

Javi looks almost devastated. 

“You thought I’d let Scott bitch about you to me? And respond like that?”

Your eyes widen, and you drop the menu, shaking your head. 

“No! No– that’s why I was so upset! Because I knew you wouldn’t do that.”

“You didn’t think to ask?”

You frown. “...No.”

“So you just suffered?” Kate asks, an incredulous edge to her tone.

“I didn’t suffer.”

“You walked around like a kicked puppy for three days,” she points out, raising her eyebrows expectantly.

“...Okay, maybe I suffered a little. But I didn’t want to make it worse!”

Javi sighs deeply. “You’re the dumbest smart person I’ve ever met.”

“Hey!”

Kate points an accusing finger at you. “Don’t ‘hey’ him, he’s right.”

You pout. 

“What’s Javi right about?” Scott asks, sliding into the seat next to you as Peter takes the seat next to Kate. 

Your heart rate picks up, which you pointedly ignore.

“Nothing.”

“She’s terrible with her emotions,” Javi supplies. 

“I am not!”

“Oh, no, you are,” Scott agrees with a nod.

“And you’re any better?” You shoot back with a playful tilt of your head.

“Ooh, she’s feisty this morning,” Scott teases.

You cross your arms over your chest with a frown. “I’m not feisty.”

He pinches his thumb and pointer finger together, keeping them just a small distance apart, holding his hand up. “Little bit,” he muses in a slightly higher-pitched voice than usual.

You huff and glare at him, but it’s weak. He just responds with a wide, smug grin before addressing everyone now that the rest of the team’s arrived–immediately launching into logistics for today’s chase.

And, for once, you just take it in.

Because this is finally starting to feel right.

- - - -

The shift in your relationship with Scott doesn’t register right away.

Mostly because it doesn’t happen right away.

It starts with the teasing. 

Then, over the next couple of weeks, it turns into him asking for your opinion on chase routes and data interpretation.

A week later, he’s offering to let you ride in Scarecrow with him and Andy for a chase. 

Then he’s sending Andy to take your place in Wizard for the day and offering you the passenger seat with just him.

It’s not hard to read into it a little bit. You’re not completely devoid of emotions–of course your very attractive boss who’s finally trusting your professional judgement and talking to you normally is going to make you giggle and kick your feet a bit.

But you’re also not insane enough to think he might feel anything for you past professional appreciation. 

…Kate apparently is, though.

“You know he likes you, right?” She asks as you both settle into your beds the night after the chase where it was just you and Scott in Scarecrow.

You shrug, turning off the lamp next to your bed, plunging the room into darkness.

“I mean, I know he trusts me now, yeah.”

“Not what I’m saying.”

You roll onto your side, facing her. “Then what are you saying?”

Even in the low streetlamp lighting streaming through the curtains, you can make out her unimpressed expression.

“You know what I’m saying.”

You blink.

Then snort.

“Yeah, okay.”

She sits up in one sharp movement. “I’m serious! And I know you like him!”

“I do not like him.”

“You absolutely like him.”

“I mean, I think he’s attractive–”

“Bitch.”

“Woah!”

“He kicked Andy out of Scarecrow.”

“He– he did not kick him out. He just gave me a chance to get closer to the action. I’m sure he’s offered the same to Peter.”

Kate shakes her head. 

“How would you know?” You ask, propping yourself up on an elbow.

“Because I was just talking about it with Javi.”

“Talking about what?”

“Scott! And how he’s…” She trails off, gesturing at you as a whole. 

“I don’t like the implication of that.” You narrow your eyes at her.

“Well, I don’t like how oblivious you’re being,” she shoots back. 

“I am not being oblivious, I’m being realistic. He tolerates me, he’s not in love with me.”

But even as you say it, you can feel the way your heart rate picks up.

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

You roll onto your other side, tucking the blanket tightly under your chin. “Goodnight, Kate.”

“I’m just saying!” “Goodnight, Kate.”

- - - -

Unfortunately, Kate’s words have gotten in your head.

Even more unfortunately, Scott keeps doing things that make it very hard to keep denying that she may be right. 

Including offering to let you ride in Scarecrow for the rest of the week–glaring at Andy when he opened his mouth to question being in Wizard for even longer.

You wince guiltily at that.

But it’s admittedly very nice having four days in a row of one-on-one conversation with Scott that doesn’t end with you making excuses for his behavior.

On day five, though, something feels different.

Not necessarily wrong.

But different.

He’s quieter. 

Not in the way you’d grown used to at the start–the one that feels full of awkward tension where you’re just waiting for him to tell you what you’ve done wrong.

This feels like he’s holding something back in a way that makes you nervous for entirely different reasons.

So you wait until you’re on your way to the new motel after the chase–both soaked to the bone from the rain and your hair a tangled mess, but your limbs vibrating with adrenaline.

“Are you okay?”

He freezes, eyebrows drawing close together as he continues staring out at the road. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

You shrug, studying the side of his face. “You’re quiet today.”

He hums, the muscles in his jaw flexing a few times. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

“Amy.”

Oh.

You swallow down the sick feeling climbing up your throat, tilting your head curiously.

“What about her?”

He shrugs one shoulder lazily. “Why I didn’t want anything serious with her.”

You stay silent, waiting for him to elaborate. Because you’re honestly not sure how to respond to that.

“I should’ve,” he continues, almost like he’s talking to himself. “She was my type, we had a good time. I want a relationship–I think. She was the logical choice.”

The more he talks, the more your stomach turns. But you push anyway.

“...Then why didn’t you?”

“Because she wasn’t you.”

He says it so casually you’re certain you misheard him.

“I– sorry, what?”

“Because. She wasn’t you,” he repeats more firmly, finally glancing at you for a second before returning his gaze to the road.

And all you can do is laugh. 

That gets you a longer, more incredulous look.

“Why are you laughing?”

“Because I thought you just said you rejected Amy because she wasn’t me.” You laugh even harder at that, nearly to the point of tears.

“That is what I said.” His voice rises slightly in pitch, the incredulous expression morphing into something like concern.

Your laughter dies down slowly as the words sink in.

Because she wasn’t you.

The combination of the revelation, adrenaline, and exhaustion makes you react… poorly.

“You what?” You almost snap.

His eyes widen.

“Or not?” He tries sheepishly.

“No! I– what? For how long?” 

“I don’t know!” He rushes out, a twinge of panic in his tone.

“Please elaborate on that!” You practically beg. 

“I–” He cuts himself off to take a deep breath, taking one hand off the wheel to set his hat in his lap and run a hand through his hair. “I thought you were attractive day one. But I think I started to actually have, like, feelings right before the Amy thing?”

You throw your arms out. “Scott!” The panic has taken over both of your tones now.

“I know!” 

You groan loudly, dropping your head back against the seat.

“I’m getting the feeling that this was not the right thing to say,” he says. “It’s fine if you don’t feel the same way–I wouldn’t blame you. But can you just, like… say that? Instead of yelling at me?”

“I do feel the same way!” You blurt, looking at him like it should be obvious.

“Then what the hell is the problem?”

The glare you shoot him is deadly, by your standards.

“The problem is that I spent the first year thinking you hated my guts, then had to adjust after learning you didn’t anymore, and now I’m finding out you have feelings for me–feelings so big, apparently, that you rejected a woman who you should’ve liked instead! That’s a lot to take in, Scott!”

The silence returns after that–broken only by your ragged breathing after practically exploding.

He stares at you like you’ve grown a second head. 

Then, slowly, his eyebrows draw closer together, and the corners of his lips turn down slightly.

“You actually thought I hated you?”

The softness in his voice makes you pause–only for a second.

“Yes! I told you that!”

“I thought you were being dramatic!”

You groan, scrubbing your face with both hands.

“Why would I exaggerate that?”

“I don’t know!” The panicked edge is back.

“Okay.” You take a deep, steadying breath. “Okay. We need to talk about this.”

“I’m trying–”

“Ah–” you cut him off, pointer finger in the air. “No. No more defensiveness. From either of us. We both need to shut up and listen.”

“I–”

“No!” 

His frown deepens, but more playfully this time. “You’re bossy.”

“Scott,” you sigh, exasperated.

He fails to hide the growing smirk on his face as he smoothly changes lanes to the right, keeping his blinker on for the upcoming exit.

“We’re still, like, 20 minutes from the motel,” you point out, the end of the sentence pitching up slightly in confusion. 

“This is not a conversation I want to have without being able to look at your face.” He takes the exit for a small town you’ve never driven through before. “And I don’t feel like waiting 20 minutes to do that.”

Your cheeks burn at his words. You open and close your mouth a couple times, but can’t formulate a response that doesn’t sound lackluster compared to the significance of what he said, so you stay silent.

It doesn’t take long for him to pull into the empty parking lot of a small park he rerouted the GPS to, and, unfortunately for you, your brain still hasn’t quite caught up to what’s happening. 

Because when he unbuckles, turns to you, and very plainly says, “You are the person I want to try a relationship with,” you start laughing again.

“Oh, come on,” he sighs, but there’s amusement in his eyes. “Stop doing that.”

“I can’t help it!”

You keep giggling–all attempts to stop failing–until suddenly both of his hands are on your face, cupping your cheeks.

Your mouth snaps shut, and it feels like every system in your body has stopped working.

“This was all I had to do to shut you up?” He teases quietly.

“I barely talked to you for months,” you mumble, the words slurred a little by the pressure on your cheeks.

“I’m aware,” he murmurs, thumbs absentmindedly stroking the apples of your cheeks as he holds eye contact.

“If you want to have a conversation, I need you to stop holding my face.”

“Why?”

“Because I can’t think.”

He looks far too pleased with himself–stopping the motion with his thumbs, but not loosening his grip.

“I make you speechless?”

“You also make me nauseous,” you shoot back weakly. 

His mouth twists as he finally releases your face. “Ouch.”

“Well, it’s true.” You take a deep breath, regaining your composure, sitting up straighter. “All right, you start.”

“Why do I start?”

“Because you’re the one who made my brain short-circuit when you said you rejected practically the perfect woman for you because she wasn’t me.”

“Calling her the perfect woman for me is a stretch–”

“Scott. Semantics.”

“Right.” He at least has the decency to look sheepish. “Sorry.”

“I just… why me?”

It’s not hesitant or shy like it has been in your head since his revelation.

Because, while you can make an entire list of reasons you’re insecure, right now you just need to know the logic behind his choice.

He, apparently, hears the insecurity anyway and frowns.

“Why not you?”

He says it so…

Simply.

Like he hasn’t questioned it once since realizing. 

You blink. 

“I… you make it sound so simple,” you breathe out with an attempt at a chuckle.

“It is simple.” It sounds a lot like duh.

“Okay, well, not for me.”

He nods slowly, then scrunches his eyebrows together like he’s trying to figure out the best way to explain it for you.

“I mean, it was kind of weird, at first. Because once you proved that you deserved your spot on the team, I felt very… neutral towards you, I guess.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Crazy, considering I thought you hated me.”

“Yeah, I’m realizing there was a very big difference in how we interpreted that,” he chuckles. 

You nod, like no kidding, then motion for him to continue. 

“But then I started noticing you more. Not just, like, how you looked, or whatever–though that, too. But the little things. Like how you crack your knuckles one-by-one to give your hands something to do when you’re standing in place for too long. Or how you clear your throat when talking in front of the entire team to give yourself an extra second to calm down first.

“Or–the biggest one–how your kindness is so fucking genuine it’s almost sickening. Because I saw how you’d make excuses for any and everyone–including me–even when you absolutely should’ve gotten mad.”

The more he speaks, the tighter your throat feels.

You feel raw–more exposed than you ever have–and it’s terrifying.

But something about it is so beautiful.

“You noticed all of that?” You manage to choke out.

He shrugs once. “You’re very easy to read.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.” He nods once, sharply. “You’re very… expressive.” When you frown, he rushes to elaborate. “Not in a bad way!”

“Sometimes I think I’m too expressive.”

“Not possible,” he reassures, hands slowly coming back up to your face–slow enough that you could pull away if you wanted to.

You don’t.

“You should be more expressive,” you tell him, leaning into his touch almost involuntarily. “Would’ve saved me a lot of confusion.”

“Why do you think I’m spilling my fucking guts right now? ‘M trying to take after you.”

You swallow thickly, letting yourself finally admire his face after only allowing yourself brief glances for the past year.

The freckles that dust the bridge of his nose.

The curls plastered to his forehead from the rain.

The sharpness of his blue eyes that you don’t get to see nearly enough thanks to his insistence on wearing sunglasses.

“Javi might lose his mind,” you whisper finally.

He snorts–because of course your focus is on Javi’s reaction right now.

“I think Javi will be okay,” he says, matching your volume as he leans closer over the center console.

Your breath hitches, and your eyes flick to his lips before quickly returning to meet his.

“Hopefully,” you squeak out.

He huffs out a laugh, grip tightening on your face just enough to ground you.

“...Can I kiss you?” He asks after a moment, not at all shy about his own focus on your lips.

You don’t trust yourself to attempt any words, so all you can do is nod dumbly, forcing yourself to take a shaky breath as he draws closer.

Your eyes flutter shut just before his lips meet yours.

He’s firm, but not rough–sitting still while your brain struggles to catch up.

But when your mouth moves tentatively against his, he returns the movement immediately.

It only lasts a few seconds, but when you pull apart, you’re both breathless.

Not from lack of air.

From overwhelming emotion and pure relief.

His forehead rests against yours as you work to steady yourselves–eyes closed, just feeling for once.

“So…” he starts, not moving. “Do you wanna try a relationship with me, too?”

You can’t help the small chuckle that escapes at his nervous tone.

“Was me kissing you back not enough of an answer?”

“Just wanna make sure,” he mutters, tilting his head so his lips brush against yours as he speaks.

Instead of speaking, you close the distance again.

And this time, the kiss feels like an answer.

A resolution.

[twentytomidnight]

this super-hangover needs a superman

Clark Kent/Reader, 862 words

a/n: a request that is also long overdue, enjoy :)

cw: mentions of previous drinking, established relationship, Clark is an angel, reader is a goof, gn!reader

masterlist ao3 requests

PREVIEW:

Clark always comes to the rescue in your time of need. Clark Kent/Reader

“Clark,” you moan weakly, a shade pathetically from the edge of the couch, “I think—I think I’m not long for this world.” 

Clark only offers you a gentle smile as he continues to work at the task most insistently demanding his attention: making breakfast.

Damn him for looking so perfectly unruffled, with hair tousled, ruddy smile that sits with faint flush on the apple of his cheeks so well. Damn him for being so angelic as the smell of sunny-side up eggs and toast and bacon sizzles all in separate pans. 

“It’s just a hangover, honey,” Clark says in tender fashion; there is no shade of reprimand or judgment for how hard you went in the paint last night. All there is, is a degree of love that he always bears for you, that he carries in the breadth of those cornflower baby blues. 

“Why did I agree to drink with Kara?” You groan. The act of lifting your hand to cover your face in dramatic fashion saps the marrow from your bone, the willpower from your body. You consider writing your last will and testament to your husband. 

“She’s really persuasive when she wants to be,” Clark tries to smother his smile on your behalf, but it still bleeds through. You’re too busy in the throes of post-alcoholic despair to truly trouble yourself with the lilting tease. 

“What was I thinking?” You ask to nobody in particular save the grim reaper looming over your body, ready to shuffle you off this mortal coil. 

“You were thinking,” Clark’s voice draws in proximity to you—a glass of orange juice with mouthwatering condensation floats into view, “That you could go toe-to-toe with a superhuman that isn’t near red kryptonite.” 

Clark is the picture-perfect husband; he’s delicate as he nudges you up onto his lap, as he persuades you to take a few healthy sips of OJ.

In the comfortable atmosphere where you languish to die, the smell of food wafts over to you; rather than curdle your stomach, it smells like the manna of heaven just out of reach. 

“Clark?” You ask weakly as you finish rehydrating the shriveled body that once was named you. He looks down at you, smile growing, thumb stroking up and down the slope of your cheek. 

“Yeah, honey?” He asks in soft, suffused tempo. You can only lean your head helplessly into the solace of his palm, admiring the heat that is salve to the pain resounding through your temples. 

“Is Kara…” You wet your lips with what little moisture you can spare, managing a croak. “Is Kara as fucked up as I am right now?” 

“Do you want the truth,” Clark says as he settles down the cup on the coffee table, “Or do you want me to lie?” 

“Lie, please,” You return back in hoarse diction; your husband performs valiant deed by keeping a neutral face. 

“She’s miserable,” Clark lies without missing a beat; if you didn’t know better, you would consider him telling the truth. “I’ve never seen her so hungover.” 

“Good,” You let your eyes draw closed, “Good.” 

“I have to get up to finish cooking,” Clark murmurs back, his knuckle taking careful knead of your temple: you make gusty, relieved sigh. How is this man so damn perfect? “Are you gonna be okay if I do that?” 

“I think so,” You whimper back—you accept the press of Clark’s lips against yours, firm and buoying and yours. You desperately miss the physical afterimage as he pulls away, as he guides you back down to lie of your own volition on the couch. 

“I’ll be back,” He promises. The sound of him walking back to the stove is both inspiring and heartbreaking.

The two of you reside in the ambience of food still marinating in butter, the smell of grease that will hearten you back to life. You do your best to complete your first impressive feat of the day, and manage another swallow of OJ without spilling a drop. 

“What did I do to deserve this?” You ask quietly—you hear the clink of silverware as Clark nears with two plates belching welcome steam, carried aloft in the flex of those perfect biceps.

You get ample view of them as he settles them down on the coffee table, resumes the position of nursing you back to health. 

“Nothing, baby,” He reassures you, “You’ll be fine again by later today.” 

“You promise?” You ask blearily, with the demeanor of the martyred saints. Again, he performs spectacular feat by resisting a laugh; he only nods as he worries his hand up your cheek. 

“I promise,” He says. “You want me to feed you?” 

You nod, benevolent even at your lowest. “What did I ever do to deserve you?” 

Clark proffers a fork, buttery hashbrowns speared on the end. “I ask myself the same thing every time I look at your pretty face.” 

“I owe you my life, Kent.” You say, and then open your mouth.

“I love you too,” He chuckles; the kiss he presses to your forehead is the first of many, as he takes care to resuscitate you back to life. 

divider and banner made by me :)

request:

i'm going to fucking yell. i think i deleted it when i was trying to take the screenshot of it. it was about what dc men would be best for a reader with headaches/migraines. im so sorry you can throw bricks. but hey at least this is in a pretty font right guys right? ok ill see myself out

taglist: @colonelfish @just-peachy-babe @thescrawler @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @bestmannequin2018 @cassiecasluciluce @mortisetspei @lettucel0ver @paankhaleyaaar @lala131lsjsl @infinictus @iloveyou3000morgan @jokerloverparis @bozosprout @bubbletae7 @inkievoid @moonchxrm @pinkstonerslut @timetothirst @luvmailing @newangelle @iridescentlightshow @ella-rowen @ladamari68 @alyenna @pixie2k5 @leonieies

join the taglist here!

[tteotlma]

Always Later

Clark Kent x Reader

synop: clark seems insatiable after your first night together.

wc: 3.5k

cw: smut! 18+ MDNI!, pwp (heavy on no plot), afab!reader, borderline gn!reader, p in v, dry humping, condom use (bc we practice safety here), teasing, orgasm, squirting, embarrassment

a/n: y’all it’s been a YEAR since i’ve written ANYTHING. excuse me if im rusty, the gears haven’t guzz in a while. i read thru the first half a couple times then started overthinking so i just spewed. anywayyy as always pls reblog to support <:3

To say the morning after your first night together was anything but ridiculously picturesque would be a down right lie no matter how embarrassingly true it was.

Nothing could have prepared you for the view that graciously blessed your eyes so early in the morning.

It was that early morning sun spreading throughout the room that first came to your senses, eyes fluttering slightly at the sunlight peaking past the window. It was then you realized this wasn’t your usual sunshine through a dingy subletted window, it was better, you could practically feel the sun rays touching your skin.

Getting a better grip on your senses, something or rather— someone shifted beside you causing the mattress to dip you further into warmth. Instead of turning flat on your back though, your shoulder blade makes contact with a fist.

Quickly adjusting yourself you come face to face with Clark Kent lying dormant beside you in such a grotesquely endearing manner.

Lying on his side he faces you, with impossibly large shoulders hunched in on himself as his head rested on the downy plush pillow. One hand, turned fist, was tucked gently beneath his chin, while his other hand was open and wedged between his face and cushion. His palm pressed against his cheek, causing that side of his mouth to purse as soft puffs of air leave his lips. The hair that isn’t matted flat against the pillow sticks out in all directions and it takes everything in you to not reach out and rake your fingers through.

The sunlight rising through the window gives him a softer edge, as your eyes trace his unguarded face. Peach fuzz decorates the side of his face as you follow his jawline, down his neck and around his shoulders, his body slowly rising up and down in steady beats, soft snoring leaves his lips.

As your eyes take note of his shirtless torso, ribs and muscles contracting with each breath it’s then you realize the thin sheet draped across his bare hip that spreads over your own form and flashes of last night’s events have the room suddenly feeling hotter.

For some reason shyness gets the best of you, and you’re suddenly all too aware that aside from the blanket there’s nothing truly covering you. You tug the blanket in your hands and tuck them to your chin, covering your face slightly to hide the small grin spreading on your lips.

Looking over again, your heart nearly sharts out of your ass as blue eyes bore into yours.

“Hi.” You whisper, eyes wide, wondering if he even heard it. You fidget underneath the sheet.

“Cold?” He asks, voice rough with sleep. Without looking away he grabs the material from his hips, lifting his arm out, opening a space between him and the mattress— a silent invitation.

“No,” You shake your head, but your body betrays your words as you scoot over into his side. His arm immediately drops around your frame, chin resting on your head as you nuzzle into his chest — a thousand percent sure he can feel your heart thumping in your chest.

Leave it to Clark to be the most gentleman of gentlemen and completely ignore the fact that you’re both still as bare as the day you were born.

As if reading your thoughts he speaks up.

“Don’t be shy.” He says, a glint of a smirk on his lips.

Again, your mind flashes back to the night before, your hand guiding his fingers beneath your top. Those exact same words leave your lips as you encourage him to undress you.

You smack your teeth and give his chest a little shove. He lets out a deep breathy laugh as he pulls you in closer to him. You both lay like that for a second, the sunlight now starting to paint the room in a golden hue. You’re sure Clark’s fallen asleep again as you stare at the freckles coating his chest, but again he breaks the silence.

“Did you sleep okay?” His fingers are lightly tracing your back. Goosebumps follow each caress, and heat crawls up your neck.

“Yessir.” You mumble, trying not to break whatever it is that’s between you two at the moment.

“Knew you would.” He mutters into your hair, his hands finding your lower back pulling you further towards him. You don’t miss the hint of smugness in his tone.

“Yep, must’ve been the fancy outer city atmosphere, or the cushy mattress in this luxury apartment within the fancy outer city atmosphere.” You tease him, blaming your exhaustion on the atmosphere and definitely not anything you maybe have gotten up to last night, nudging his knee with yours you place a hand against his chest.

“‘s that all?” He asks. Looking up at him, his eyes are closed again but his hand continues to ghost your skin.

“Yeah, too much wine.” you tease.

He stops. His hands are splayed across the plane of your back as he taps his thumb against your skin, pensive. Thinking you may have struck a nerve, you’re about to pull back when he just lets out a sigh caressing the back of your arm.

His hand slips between the warmth of your arm pressed against the side of your chest, frigid fingers brushing against sensitive skin making you take a quick breath which he ignores as he maneuvers your arm, throwing it over his shoulder, your hand finding purchase on the back of his neck. Subconsciously your fingers rake through the short hair feathered at his nape, nails grazing lightly.

“That’s too bad.” He lets out a shaky sigh of contentment at your fingers momentarily before he’s pulling you face to face, his finger hooking beneath your chin forcing you to look at him. Heat rises to your cheeks as you examine his face, a deep blush paints his face and hooded eyes zero in on your lips.

“Yeah?” Unthinkingly, your tongue darts across your skin.

It’s then that his eyes meet yours and dizziness flutters your mind. His eyes are filled with the same desire you saw last night right before he practically devoured you whole. And it’s clear he’s hell bent on doing it again.

Before you can answer his question he grabs your face in his hand, putting pressure on your cheeks, pursing your lips slightly, which he takes as an invitation. Leaning closer, Clark plants his lips against yours, once, twice, and then a small hum leaves his lips after the third time as he pulls back to look at you, fingers still gripping your face.

“Guess I gotta remind you then.” His voice is dripping with arousal as he pulls you in for a breath searing kiss.

Almost immediately Clark's lips part, tongue prying your mouth open. All the air that leaves your lips is devoured by your boyfriend as he tosses the flimsy sheet off to the side. The chilly air nips at your skin, but only for what seems like a second as Clark quickly grabs the meat of your thigh, hooking your leg around his hip, flipping you onto your back.

He kisses at your cheek and down your neck, as he guides your bodies so he’s slotted between your legs as his elbows cage you in. It’s then that you feel just how worked up he’s gotten himself as he holds himself above your body. Your hands roam his rippled back, and your thighs spread wider in anticipation, nudging him with your heel.

“Well, good morning to you.”

He pulls back long enough to give you a lazy grin as he slants his hips against yours, his cock teasing your slit. Hearing your breath hitch he takes it as a sign to completely suffocate you with his frame. The weight and heat of his body has a huff leave your lips which Clark happily swallows as he kisses you again. Your nails dragging up the side of his torso make him shudder, but he refuses to let you go, sucking and nipping at your lips.

He grabs at your waist, pulling your chest against his as he presses down onto you while your arms wrap around his neck, hands caressing his hair. You feel his hips jerk lightly, his dick twitching against your skin, a low purr leaves your lips but Clark quicly swallows your sounds. He’s lapping at your mouth like a dog, breaths intertwining, thickening, suffocating your lungs, as the faint smell of his cologne lingering on his skin from last night invades your nostrils and drowns the last of your senses in Clark, heat shooting up your spine.

You’re suddenly acutely aware of everything Clark is as he overloads your senses with practically every fiber of his being, his body smothering yours in his yearning.

Lightheaded, you try to wrack your brain for some sort of purchase, tugging on the long curls that wrap around your fingers. Clarks gives a low whine in return causing a wave of arousal to hit you so hard a slight panic builds. The only thought that invades your mind is ‘Clark, Clark, Clark’ as you give a hard yank to his hair, lungs burning. He pulls back with a wet pop, a string of saliva following as he pulls backs.

“Breathe, baby. Breathe.” He coaxes, thumb swiping at your lower lip, before slowly sitting up. Kneeling between your thighs his fingers slide down your form, squeezing at your waist before moving down your body and grabbing at your thighs. He brings them flush to the top of his, hooking your knees over his forearms. This new position has him laying hot and heavy against your hip.

Your stomach shudders as he rubs his length along the coarse hair littered across your skin. He lets out a breath shaking moan, pushing himself harder against you, shifting your body up the bed.

“Ffuh—” Clark mutters under his breath. Your cheeks burn at the sight of Clark. His eyes are shut, his head thrown back, heavy breaths escape his swollen lips. His chest heaving with a light sheen while his grip moves to your thigh as he shifts his hips, angling his hips.

“Oh…” Leaves someone's lips when his dick finally sits heavy against your folds. The room stills for what seems like a minute. Neither one of you moves, save for the pleasant buzz that prickles your skin. Again, you look at Clark, but he looks down. Your mouth goes dry as you realize how swollen Clark is. Sure you felt him and the heat but — poor thing, it looked like it hurt.

But the look in his eyes as he stared at where he laid was pure filth. With flushed cheeks, and parted lips he watched as precum leaked from the tip of his shaft onto the soft skin of your stomach. Another wave of desire washed over you and out your core spilling down your folds and onto his dick. His hips stuttered as his dick twitched, tapping against your stomach.

Gosh, the sounds that he made were no help to the situation either. With his hands gripping at your thighs and the shallow thrust of his hips smearing mixed slick against your soaked cunt, a soft whine would leave his lips. The more he rocked his hips, the further back he went until the tip of his cock grazed your clit.

Oh, fuck. You don’t think you’ll last.

As if reading your thoughts Clark slows his movements, spreading his knees so your as is flush against his thighs, while your legs are thrown over hips. His chest is heaving as he grabs the base of his cock slapping it against your cunt, a soft mewl leaves your mouth. He looks at you with hazy eyes, skin glistening in the sunlight.

Feeling impossibly shy, you squirm under his gaze, fingers nipping at taut muscle causing him to let out a lazy chuckle as he grabs his cock again, pumping his fist a few times, knuckles grazing sensitive skin. His other hand rests right below your chest, thumb kneading the soft underside of your breast. He swivels his hips gyrating, involuntarily, in slow sloppy circles before using both hands to lift your back side off the bed, arching your back.

You become completely pliant in his arms, another quiet moan leaving your lips as his fingers press into your back, there's an obscene sound of his balls slapping against your backside, the tip of his cock catching your clit.

“Can I put it in?” He asks breathless, almost mesmerized, letting go of your hip, and leaning forward to envelop your body again. He nudges his nose against the side of your neck.

“Do you even have to ask,” You’re smothered, throwing your head back as the heat turns to a boil in your stomach, Clark grabs at your jaw once more, finger prodding at your lip.

“I like hearing you want it.” He whispers into your ear, nipping at your skin. His confession catches you off guard, causing your ears to ring and your vision to blur, your throat pressing against his palm as you swallow. You hold his wrist in your hand.

“S’can I?” He kisses down your neck, humping your hip faster, goal clearly in mind. You nod but all he does is turn your chin towards him, stalling his hips, as he forces you to stare at him. He stares expectantly. Your stomach flips at the loss of friction, and your hips twitch involuntarily, humping his thigh.

“Clark.” You huff out, kneading at his chest. You gaze at him in bliss. The wine from last night must’ve cleared your inhibitions well enough to make you forget just how tantalizing he was. “P-please…” leaves your lips, you’re not sure it’s enough so you try again, hands spreading your thighs open hoping to alleviate the burning between them.

“Put it inside me…” you’ve never sounded so desperate in your life it was practically pathetic, but at this point you couldn’t care less. You’d do anything to make the ache go away. And with Clark offering himself up to you on the silver platter that he is, you’d scream naked from the rooftop if it meant you could have him.

A deep shuddered laugh leaves Clark's lips as he runs his hands down the inside of your thighs over yours, spreading open delicate skin.

“Well since you’ve asked so nicely.” He murmurs, completely entranced at the way your slick coats your lips, his thumbs teasing the sides of your clit. You cry out in aching joy, hips jerking against his.

“Do you think it’ll fit?” He straightens up once again, trailing your fingers up his body, spreading your palm flat across his chest. Once he’s sure you can feel his heart beat, he wastes no time using his other hand to smear the pooling wetness between your legs up and down your hole. He pauses, feeling you twitch against him.

“Clark…” For some reason, you’re on the verge of tears. Why is he taking so long?!

He watches you writhe beneath him, your back lifting off the mattress as he presses three fingers slowly against your sopping entrance, sliding in with no strain.

A deep breath leaves Clark’s lips, a sinister smirk spreads across his face.

“Gosh Baby,” He breathes, “You’re so swollen.”

Blood rushes to your head in embarrassment, hitting your fist against his chest.

Clark just snickers in response. He grabs your hand, throwing it over his shoulder as he leans down to pepper kisses across your face.

“Sorry, sorry,” He says between pecks, before catching your lips in a kiss. One hand comes up to cradle your ear, while the other shifts to the side. Without missing a beat he brings his fingers to his lips, the sound of crinkling can be heard as he tears at plastic. Before you can even comprehend what’s going on, he slips plastic between your teeth pinching at something inside. You watch as he closes in again, grabbing the wrapper with his teeth and tongue blowing it to the side while sliding his hand between your hips.

His natural ability to protect while still maintaining the sheer magnetism that he does is another wonder you’ll have to think about some other time because at the moment all you can think about is the way Clark uses his thumb to spread you open, using your juices to coat his condom clad cock. He aligns your hips to his before guiding the tip to your entrance, tilting his hips slowly.

A shaky whimper chatters your lips, arms clutching Clark by the skull, as your eyes flutter shut. With your head thrown back against the pillows Clark teases himself further, the burn slowly turning to a simmering boil as he stretches you out.

You’re clawing at his back, while he’s mouthing at your shoulder practically drooling at the way your walls clench against his dick. He’s moaning with every breath he takes.

“Ah…” He whines, his hips stuttering as he tries to take his time. Your heels are digging into the back of his thigh as he slides in another inch.

“Clark…clark…” you whimper, grasping onto his shoulders, the ache in your loins reaching a crescendo you’ve only touched twice in your life— last night and right now.

He’s shushing you, lips pressed against your ear as he attempts to bottom out.

Ecstasy blurs your vision hot white as your lungs burn, sharp cries claw at your throat. Your eyes are screwed shut while dots dance across nothingness. Your head pushes further into the pillows as the tip of Clark’s cock buries deep against your core.

“Fuckfuckfuck,” moaning between curses, you hiss as your walls relish in the overwhelming sensation.

“I know Baby, it’s okay.” He’s giving you open mouth kisses, his hips pulling back before driving his hips forward again.

“Fuck!” You’re sure at this point there are scratches all along Clark’s back but you couldn’t care less at the moment, pleasure yo-yoing up your spine and down to your core.

“Shhh~ Gotta make sure you can take it, sweetheart.”

Pure Filth, he was.

“I can take it.” You breathe out, chest brushing against his with each intake of air. Clark leans back to see the want—the need—etched in your eyes and he lets out a small sigh.

“I guess I’ll just have to take my time with you later.” And before you can really know what he meant he places a kiss to your forehead, and grabs your hips pulling you away from him while he draws his hips back.

He quickly thrusts in, a small grunt leaving his lips setting an almost brutal pace–unbeknownst to you this was considered light work. Your voice falls into some harmonious echo alongside his as he rocks his hips, each thrust inching you further and further up hitting that same sweet spot over and over again. In the midst of your delirium, you’re suddenly aware of the sensations pooling in your womb.

“Clark,” You call out, “Clark, wait—” you fail to get his attention, the sound of your voice drowned out against his own moans. He’s also reaching his tipping point, his hips faltering every few thrusts. Seemingly hellbent on chasing the high he grazes his teeth against your neck as he wraps his arms around your body, hooking his hands on the swell of your ass. With the new grip he has he angles your hips, hitting deeper than he had at this point, your head thumps against the headboard with each slap of skin against skin, the ache scorching your insides.

“Fuh–uh–” He moans in your ear, thrusting into you in rhythm with each sound that leaves his mouth.

“No…” you sob quietly, at the same time Clark cries out hips giving out as you both reach that euphoria you’ve been chasing.

You’re whimpering beneath him as he stutters, heat pooling in your cheeks. Hips immediately faltering, he sits up when he hears you.

“What’s wrong?” He asks, automatically scooping your hands in his face to look at you. You grab at his wrists, your eyes glisten in embarrassment.

“I-I–” You’re shy as you glance down to where you and Clark are still connected. He follows your gaze down to the dark patch of cotton that now sits beneath you. For a second he doesn’t say anything, just staring at where you two touch until you feel him pulse inside you.

“Clark!” You exclaim, hands flying to your face in embarrassment.

“I’m sorry I—” He trails off, watching himself slide out of you.

A soft mewl leaves your lips at the feeling of being emptied out, wetness dribbling out of your hole, chasing his cock as Clark pulls out completely.

“Gosh, Baby.” Is all he says as he looks at you in awe. All you can do is stare at him, bewildered as he comes down to kiss your cheek, nuzzling his face in the crook of your neck.

“Thank the Gods, it’s the weekend.”

an: y’alllllllll what a wild freakin ride. i could write abt clark forever i had to force myself stop. also lots of overthinking went into this lol pls leave comments good or bad! if u have any words u feel i need to use more lmk lol .. dk if u could tell i avoid certain things sometimes. plus it’s been a year sue me lol.

pls reblog or like to support!

[faepoetry]

clark kent bringing home a litter of kittens tw: mentions of kittens being abandoned, other than that just fluff. pairings: husband!clark kent x female reader. author's note: this was a request!

You barely got the front door to your apartment opened when you suddenly herd noise coming from the living room. A choir of high pitched mews and the soft rustling of cardboard.

"Clark?" You called out as you shut the front door and locked it, kicking your shoes off and hanging your coat up. "What's all that noise?"

"Oh, hey honey!" A sheepish voice called out from the living room. "Uhm.. just don't be mad, okay?"

You dropped your keys in the entryway bowl and put your purse down before making your way toward the living room. "Clark? What did you-"

You stopped dead in your tracks, taking in the scene in front of you.

Sitting right in the middle of the living room on the rug was your husband, the man of steel, the symbol of hope, the man capable of moving mountains, looking down at the little ball of fur in his hands with hearts in his eyes.

He was still in his full Superman uniform, sitting cross-legged on the floor. There was a cardboard box nearby and minus the little kitten in his hands, there was four tiny little kittens swarming him.

One calico kitten was frantically trying to scale up his arm, digging it's tiny claws into his suit with little to no success. There was a fluffy little black cat who was fast asleep in Clark's lap, curled up happily and purring. A tiny ginger kitten was currently playing with his cape behind him. There was also a little tortoiseshell kitten who was more interested in playing with a scrap piece of paper on the floor than trying to scale the man of steel.

He was holding a tiny ragdoll kitten, carefully cupping it in his hands and bringing it up to his face. The kitten mewed softly and tapped it's pink little nose against his as it sniffled him, causing Clark to smile.

You cleared your throat since he momentarily forgot that you came home. He froze before slowly turning his head in your direction, looking like a giant golden retriever who got caught red handed with a stolen shoe.

"Well? Care to explain why our apartment is now a petting zoo?" You asked but you were trying hard to hold back the smile that was threatening to break free. You really couldn't be mad at him when he was holding all those cute fur babies.

"They were in a cardboard box in an alley way and I found them during one of my patrols," Clark offered quickly, his voice softening so he wouldn't spook the kittens. "Someone just left them there. They were all alone and it's supposed to storm tonight and all the shelters are closed. I couldn't leave them there."

You crossed your arms, trying to keep you expression stern but failing, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips. "Clark, you brought an entire litter of stray kittens home."

"Yeah but I brought them to you. You know more about cats than I do, and you love cats. You know how to take care of them properly. And we don't have to keep them, we can drop them off at a shelter tomorrow morning, I promise! I just don't want them to end up on the streets again." He looked up at you pleadingly.

The ragdoll kitten in his hands let out a small mew and rubbed it's little face up against Clark's nose. You giggled softly as you watched them. "I'm not going to throw them out on the streets, Clark. I'm not a monster."

You sat down on the floor with him, picking up the small ginger kitty. "Tomorrow morning we can go shopping for cat stuff, make sure we have all the essentials and then we'll have to make a vet appointment." You said distractedly as you kissed the kitten's head.

He looked at you hopefully. "Wait, really? We can keep them? All of them?"

You shrugged your shoulders. "Like you said, I love cats. So do you clearly so, why not? I think it could make our lives a little fuller to keep these little fur babies around."

He gave you a massive smile before leaning in to kiss you softly. The kittens in your hands mewed, causing you to pull away, a soft chuckle escaping past your lips.

"You're so incredible." He murmured softly.

"Me? You're the one that saved the kittens." You laughed. "You're the incredible one." You set the ginger kitty down, watching it pounce playfully on one of the other kittens. "Although since you brought them home, I'm leaving you in charge of picking up the essentials tonight like food and a little box."

"Fair enough. Although, can you help me out? I'm pretty sure the calico kitten got lost under my cape." He laughed.

You chuckled as you shook your head. Your lives were about to become very interesting.

©faepoetry please do not steal, copy, repost, reuse, or translate my work.

❀ end note: he's so cute omg 😭

❀ clark kent masterlist | main masterlist

❀ if you liked this fic then i would really appreciate it if you liked, or commented, or reblog it! thanks for reading! ❀

[cheriecelestial]

When Did You Get Hot? | [1/5]

pairing *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ Clark Kent x fem!reader

disclaimer *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ crack. fluff. tiniest bit of angst. mentions of canon typical violence. not proofread.

a/n *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ Okay so this is the first part of the mini series. The second I heard this song i immediately thought of of clark for some reason lol. Anyways Comment, Reblog and Like

Comment to be added to taglist.

[2/5] | [3/5] | [4/5] | [5/5]

The low, persistent hum of the Daily Planet’s newsroom was a sound Clark Kent had long ago learned to tune out. It was the white noise of productivity—the clatter of keyboards, the murmur of phone calls, the distant whir of the printing presses several floors below. It was a symphony he conducted with the steady rhythm of his own typing, his focus so absolute on the glowing screen before him that the rest of the world softened into a gentle blur.

He was polishing the final paragraph of his piece on the city’s new infrastructure bill, a complex subject he was determined to make digestible for the average Metropolis citizen. Every word mattered. He was so deeply engrossed in the flow of his prose that the sudden, metallic squeak of casters rolling across linoleum barely registered.

A moment later, a shadow fell over his desk, accompanied by the familiar scent of fresh ink and cheap coffee. Jimmy Olsen had propelled his office chair across the aisle, coming to a halt perilously close to Clark’s cubicle wall.

“Hey, Clark. You hear the news?” Jimmy’s voice was a stage whisper, brimming with an energy that was fundamentally at odds with Clark’s focused silence.

Clark’s fingers didn’t still on the keyboard. “Hmm?” he hummed, the sound half-attentive and distant. His eyes scanned the sentence he’d just written for the third time, searching for a more potent verb.

Undeterred, Jimmy leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “Apparently, Perry just sealed the deal. We’ve got a new photographer joining the team. Like, permanently.”

This finally pulled a sliver of Clark’s attention away from his article. He swiveled his chair a few degrees, his brow furrowed not in curiosity, but in the lingering fog of journalistic concentration. “Oh. That’s great, Jimmy. Really.”

Jimmy’s face, which had been alight with the thrill of fresh gossip, fell into a familiar expression of exasperation. He squinted, a playful yet pointed gesture. “Come on, man. Can’t you muster a little genuine enthusiasm for me? Just for one second? This is a monumental day!”

A small, weary smile touched Clark’s lips. He finally saved his document and leaned back, the old leather of his chair creaking in protest. “I’m sorry, Jim. I just... I never had a problem with Jordan. He was competent. His shots were always in focus, always on time.” It was a diplomatic, almost clinical assessment.

“Competent?” Jimmy parroted, his voice rising an octave. “The guy had the personality of a wet newspaper and the charm of a toothbrush. You call being ‘competent’ a good enough reason to make everyone’s life miserable?”

Clark sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. This was an old argument, one they’d had many times in the breakroom. Jimmy’s grievances against the departed Jordan were a well-documented catalogue of perceived slights.

“He was just... direct,” Clark offered, a weak defense he didn’t fully believe in but felt obligated to provide in the name of fairness.

“Direct? Clark, he was curt. Downright abrasive!” Jimmy countered, his hands flying up for emphasis. “Remember when he told Lois her questions were ‘obtuse’ during the LuthorCorp press conference? Or when he ‘directly’ told me my composition suggestions were, and I quote, ‘the reason art schools have failure rates’?”

Jimmy shook his head, a shudder of remembered indignation running through him. “It wasn’t just me. He created a... a hostile work environment. There’s a reason nobody threw him a goodbye party. Gazette can have him for all I care, it’s fit for people like him.”

Clark couldn’t argue with the facts. Jordan had been a brilliant but difficult man, his talent often overshadowed by his acerbic nature. Where Clark saw a man who kept to himself, Jimmy had felt the sharp sting of his dismissiveness daily. For Jimmy, who thrived on the collaborative, often chaotic camaraderie of the newsroom, Jordan’s presence had been a constant drain. His departure wasn’t just the loss of a colleague, it was the removal of a dark cloud.

“Alright, alright,” Clark conceded, holding up a hand in surrender. “Point taken. So, a fresh start, then. Any word on who the new photographer is?”

Jimmy’s grin returned, wider and more mischievous than before. “That’s the best part. Perry’s being tight-lipped about it. Says it’s a ‘surprise.’ All I know is they’re starting Monday.”

He gave Clark’s desk a triumphant slap with his palm before pushing off, rolling back to his own station. “A new era for the Daily Planet, Clark! You’ll see.”

As Jimmy retreated, Clark turned back to his screen, the blinking cursor now seeming less important. He allowed himself a small, genuine smile. Jimmy’s excitement was infectious, a pure and simple joy that was sometimes hard to come by in their line of work. Maybe a new face was exactly what they needed. 

The brief exchange with Jimmy about the new hire had been a fleeting moment, a small bubble of office gossip that had quickly popped and dissipated amidst the relentless tide of deadlines and breaking news. By the time Clark had filed his article and moved on to researching the city’s latest issues, the matter had entirely slipped from his mind.

It wasn’t until the following Monday, when Perry White’s gruff baritone cut through the morning newsroom cacophony with a “Listen up, people! Gather ‘round!” that the memory resurfaced. Clark looked up from his computer to see their editor-in-chief standing by the central copy desk, his imposing frame and no-nonsense expression commanding immediate attention.

Pushing his chair back, Clark wove through the maze of cubicles. He spotted Lois Lane already there, having secured a prime vantage point by leaning casually against a nearby desk. She was scrolling through her phone with one hand, a steaming mug of coffee in the other, the picture of composed nonchalance amidst the gathering murmur of colleagues. Nearby, Jimmy Olsen was animatedly whispering with Cat Grant and Steve Lombard, his gestures wide and excited, no doubt disseminating what little information he had managed to glean.

Clark sidled up to Lois, the scent of her perfume and coffee cutting through the air. “Morning, Lois,” he said, his voice low. “Any idea what warrants this royal summons? Perry looks like he’s about to announce a war, not the weekly assignments.”

Lois glanced up from her screen, a knowing, slightly amused smile playing on her lips. She took a deliberate sip of her coffee before answering. “Relax, Smallville. It’s the ceremonial unveiling. The new photographer starts today. Perry wants to make a show of it.”

“Ah,” Clark murmured, the memory of Jimmy’s excitement now fully returning. “Right. Still, that’s quite a crowd he’s pulled together.” He gestured with his chin towards the assembled reporters, assistants and junior editors, a rare full assembly for a personnel announcement.

Lois followed his gaze and gave a nonchalant shrug, though her eyes held a spark of something Clark couldn’t quite place—anticipation, perhaps, or the quiet satisfaction of being in the know. “Well, let’s just say she’s a bit of a celebrity in certain circles. Had quite a few nominations for that photojournalism series on the Metropolis underground art scene a couple years back. And even photographed for some magazines and commercials. Caused quite a stir.”

Clark’s eyebrows rose in genuine surprise. “You know her?”

“We crossed paths in college,” Lois confirmed, her smile widening a fraction. “Don’t worry. You’ll love her. Everyone just seem to does.”

“Huh,” Clark muttered, the single syllable laden with a fresh wave of curiosity. So it’s a her. The description painted a picture that was both impressive and slightly intimidating. His mind briefly conjured an image of someone akin to Cat Grant, all sharp edges and sharper ambition.

With what could be half-considered a flourish—at least for a man whose usual gestures ranged from a pointed finger to an exasperated wave of his cigar—Perry stepped aside. And she walked forward.

She moved with an easy, innate confidence that immediately commanded the space, a small, professional smile gracing her lips as she began to address the crowd. Her voice was a melodic, assured sound, but Clark heard none of the words. It was as if someone had simply muted the entire universe.

A roaring, white-noise silence filled his head, punctuated only by the frantic, hammering rhythm of his own heart—a superhuman heart now beating wild, panicked against his ribs. His jaw had gone slack, his mouth slightly agape behind the shield of his glasses.

He was cataloging her, feature by feature, with a desperate, disbelieving intensity. Her hair, no longer windswept and carefree mane of his memory, was now impeccably styled, falling in soft, sophisticated waves that framed her face. But the face itself—that was the anchor, the undeniable truth that sent his mind reeling. It was the same elegant shape, the same arch of her brows, the same distinct, lovely slope of her nose. His eyes, capable of perceiving the microscopic, dropped to the base of her neck, to the small, perfect mole he’d stared indefinitely. It was all the same, yet refined, polished by time into a version that was both intimately familiar and startlingly new. He kept staring, his mind refusing to reconcile the ghost from his past with the living, breathing woman standing before him. Was it really her? Or was this some cruel, hyper-realistic trick his mind was playing?

A sharp, playful jab in his ribs shattered the fragile glass of his trance. “Hey, farm boy. Shut your mouth unless you’re trying to catch a fly in it,” Lois whispered, her voice laced with amusement. The physical sensation, so mundane and human, grounded him, pulling him violently back into the present.

“Y/N,” he breathed out, the name a fragile, one-syllable ghost on his lips. It was a sound he hadn’t uttered aloud in years, a name that belonged to a different lifetime, yet it felt as natural as breathing.

“Yup, she just said her name. Y/N L/N,” Lois confirmed. She was watching him with a keen, analytical glint in her eyes, clearly enjoying his uncharacteristic display. To Lois, the math was simple: Y/N L/N was undeniably, strikingly attractive—a fact evident in the subtle shift of attention throughout the room. A stunned, dumbstruck reaction from any other man would be predictable. But from Clark? From her gentle, perpetually composed colleague who usually regarded beautiful women with a kind of polite, distant appreciation? This was fascinating.

“No, Lois, you don’t get it,” Clark mumbled, the words so low they were almost inaudible, lost beneath the sound of Y/N continuing her introduction. He dragged his gaze away from the front of the room, turning to face Lois fully, his expression one of genuine, profound shock.

The thing no one in this sleek, metropolitan office knew, the secret buried deep in the Kansas soil, was that he might not know Y/N L/N, the celebrated photographer, but he knew Y/N. They had shared a hometown, a school bus and the entire awkward, formative journey from crayons in elementary school to calculus in high school. He had seen her last on a sweltering graduation day, a cap on her head and the whole world in her eyes and he hadn’t seen or heard from her since. A decade had passed and now, here she was, standing in the heart of his present, a living, breathing piece of his past he had never, ever expected to encounter again. At least not this way. 

Y/N’s introduction concluded with applause followed by Perry’s announcement with the gruff, practical dismissal only he could muster. “Alright, the show’s over! Lombard, I want that follow-up on the baseball scandal by three! Lane, my office, now!” The spell was broken. The crowd, which had moments before been a captivated audience, dissolved back into its component parts—reporters, editors, interns—scurrying back to their desks like ants returning to a disturbed hill.

The rest of the day proceeded with the appearance of normalcy. Phones rang, keyboards clattered and the great machine of the Daily Planet churned on. Yet, beneath the familiar surface, a new current of energy pulsed through the newsroom. It was as if Y/N hadn’t just taken a job but had blown a fresh, invigorating wind through the stale office air, stirring up dust and possibilities in equal measure.

However for Clark Kent, the day was anything but normal. He tried to anchor himself in the comforting ritual of his work, to lose himself in the dry intricacies of a city budget report. But his focus, usually as steady and precise as a laser, was shattered. His eyes, against his will, developed a mind of their own, constantly drifting from his screen to trace the path of her movement as she was shown her desk, as she met her colleagues, as she laughed at something Jimmy Olsen said. It was a gravitational pull he found himself physically fighting.

Worse was his hearing. With a conscious effort, he usually kept his superhuman senses dialed down to a human level, a constant, practiced discipline. Today, it was a battle. His hearing would involuntarily sharpen, latching onto the sound of her voice from across the room as she asked about the server passwords or the best place to get a quick lunch. The sound was a key turning in a lock he’d sealed long ago. He would catch himself, a hot flush of shame washing over him and forcibly dial the volume of the world back up, letting the cacophony of the entire newsroom drown out the singular, captivating frequency of her existence. Ma raised you better than to be a Peeping Tom, he chastised himself, the memory of his mother’s firm, kind voice being a necessary moral compass.

He’d been staring at the same sentence for ten minutes. ”The municipal allocation for infrastructural revitalization necessitates a bipartisan fiscal reevaluation...” The words were just black marks on a screen, devoid of meaning. His traitorous senses provided a far more compelling narrative.

She had changed her perfume. The thought intruded, unwelcome and specific. In high school, it had been something light and vaguely floral, a generic scent from the drugstore. Now, it was more complex— notes of amber and sandalwood, a warmer, more sophisticated fragrance that still, somehow, echoed the ghost of the scent she had worn. It felt like a more expensive version of her old one. And beneath it, a foundational note he would recognize anywhere: the soft, sweet scent of strawberries from her bodywash. It was a scent woven into memories of shared classes and passing each other in the hallways. It had not changed at all.

Stop it, Clark. Just stop.

This wasn’t idle observation; it was a blatant, profound invasion of privacy. He was using gifts meant for safeguarding the world to catalogue the intimate, mundane details of a woman who had no idea he was doing so. He felt a wave of self-disgust. This was a violation of everything he stood for, a betrayal of the trust implicit in his powers.

That’s enough.

The thought was a command. He shoved his chair back, the legs scraping against the linoleum with a sound that was jarringly loud to his own ears. He needed a circuit breaker, something to physically sever the connection his senses were so desperately trying to maintain. “Getting coffee,” he muttered to no one in particular, his voice rough. Or maybe just some fresh air. The brisk, impersonal air of Metropolis, scented with exhaust and city grime, was what he needed. It would be a cleansing antidote to the intoxicating, and entirely unwelcome, scent of memory.

But as it so often seemed in a city of millions, relief was a fleeting commodity, perpetually eluding him in the very moments he sought it most. The breakroom, usually a sanctuary of bitter coffee and quiet respite, was about to become the stage for a confrontation he was psychologically unprepared to face. Just as the machine finished its gurgling cycle, filling his ”World’s Best Journalist” mug that Lois gifted him, now felt like an ironic prop, he felt a subtle shift in the air behind him. A presence. The fine hairs on the back of his neck prickled, a super-sensitive warning system that had nothing to do with danger and everything to do with a deeply personal disruption.

He didn’t need to turn around to know it was her. He could feel her gaze on his back, a gentle but unmistakable pressure. The soft sound of her footsteps, the rustle of her clothes, all painted her approach in his mind with excruciating clarity. He kept his body rigidly facing the machine, feigning intense interest in the dripping dark liquid, as if his life depended on the perfect brew.

“Hi,” her voice cut through the quiet hum of the refrigerator. It was friendly, open, a professional greeting for a new colleague. Clark’s breath hitched in his throat, a tiny, trapped sound he hoped she didn’t hear. He remained frozen as she selected a cup from the rack and placed it under the neighboring machine, her movements fluid and self-assured. The space between them, once a comfortable few feet, now felt charged and intimate.

“I’m Y/N,” she said and this time, the social imperative was too strong to ignore. He had to turn. There was no avoiding it.

Slowly, as if moving through syrup, Clark pivoted to face her. He arranged his features into what he hoped was a neutral, polite expression. “Nice to meet you. I’m Clark,” he managed, the words feeling foreign and clumsy on his tongue. He offered a tight, closed-lipped smile, the only one he could muster without fear of it trembling.

Up close, the assault on his senses was even more profound. Her voice was fundamentally the same instrument—the same timbre, the same cadence that had once read aloud from a history textbook next to him in class. But time had tuned it. It was a little richer, a little heavier, the soft, melodic drawl of Kansas sanded away and replaced by the polished, crisp consonants of a city accent. It was the voice of someone who had left home and reinvented themselves, a story he knew all too well.

His eyes, helplessly, met hers. This was the moment. He searched their depths, those eyes he remembered being bright with laughter during a school play or narrowed in concentration during a final exam. He looked for a flicker, a spark of remembrance, a dawning recognition that the awkward chubby farm boy from Smallville was now this tall, broad-shouldered man standing before her in glasses and a tie. A part of him, the boy who had secretly held a torch for her for years, ached for that recognition, for the validation that he had been memorable, too.

But simultaneously, a wave of pure, unadulterated panic surged within him. What if she did remember? What would she say? “Clark Kent? Oh my god, I barely recognized you!” followed by the inevitable, awkward questions and the potential for humiliation, for having to explain the chasm between the person he was and the person he appeared to be. He wasn’t sure his carefully constructed facade could withstand the weight of that shared history.

Y/N just smiled back, a warm, sweet and utterly generic smile. Her eyes were friendly, engaging, but they held no spark of the past. They saw only a reporter and a colleague. A stranger.

The pang of hurt was sharp and immediate, a childish sting he immediately reprimanded himself for. He would be lying if he said it didn’t wound a part of him, he thought had long since calloused over. But as the initial sting subsided, a grim logic settled in. Perhaps it was for the best. Why would she remember him? He hadn’t been a part of her life, not truly. He had been a background character, a satellite in her vibrant orbit. The sum total of their interactions throughout all of high school likely wouldn’t have filled a single page. She had been the sun and he, a quiet planet, forever fixed at a respectful, admiring distance. Her forgetfulness wasn’t a personal slight; it was simply the natural order of things, a truth he now had to swallow along with the bitter, suddenly tasteless coffee.

The silence between them stretched, thick and heavy, punctuated only by the frantic thrumming of Clark’s own heart in his ears. He was lost in the vertigo of the moment, his gaze trapped in the friendly but unfamiliar landscape of her face. The past and present were colliding violently inside him and he was utterly paralyzed by the impact.

“Clark?”

His name on her lips, a name she hadn’t uttered in over a decade, acted like a physical jolt. It snapped him out of his trance with the sharpness of a thunderclap. He blinked, the spell broken and a hot wave of humiliation crashed over him as he realized how he must have appeared: staring, silent, and utterly socially inept. He wasn’t just Clark Kent, mild-mannered reporter; in that moment, he felt like the tongue-tied farm boy from Smallville, all over again. The urge to simply launch himself through the ceiling and flee to the desolate, silent ice of the South Pole was so powerful it was a physical ache.

“Yeah?” The word escaped him as a strained, half-choked croak, betraying a nervousness that made him want to cringe.

A small, concerned frown touched Y/N’s lips as she gestured not at him, but at the counter. “Your coffee,” she said gently. “It’s overflowing.”

His gaze snapped down to his mug. He had been so completely disconnected from his surroundings that he’d failed to notice the machine had finished brewing. A dark, bitter pool had cascaded over the rim of his “World’s Best Journalist” mug, streaming down its sides and forming a small, expanding puddle on the scuffed floor. It was a perfect, pathetic metaphor for his current state: a contained vessel suddenly spilling its contents everywhere in an uncontrolled mess.

“Oh! Gosh, I’m so—sorry,” he stammered, his movements suddenly frantic and uncoordinated. He lunged for the mug, switching off the machine with a hasty click that sounded unnaturally loud, then grabbed a clumsy fistful of paper towels from the dispenser. His mind, usually capable of processing information at the speed of light, was reduced to a single, screaming loop: Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.

He dropped to a knee, mopping at the spill with more force than necessary, his cheeks burning. To his further mortification, he saw Y/N crouch down beside him, her own handful of tissues dabbing at the edges of the puddle.

“You don’t have to—” he began but she just offered a small, reassuring smile.

“Don’t worry about it. Happens to the best of us.”

As they both reached for the same spot, the back of his hand brushed against hers.

The contact was brief, infinitesimal—a mere whisper of skin against skin. But to Clark’s hyper-aware senses, it was like being shocked by Livewire a hundred times over. A jolt, sharp and startling, shot up his arm, a static charge of pure, undiluted memory that momentarily shut down his higher brain functions. He flinched back almost imperceptibly, his head swimming.

The cleanup was completed in a rushed, awkward silence. Clark scrambled to his feet, the sopping wet tissues clutched in one hand, his half-empty, dripping mug in the other.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, unable to meet her eyes. “I, uh... deadline.”

And with that, he all but fled the breakroom, his long legs carrying him back to the perceived safety of his cubicle with a speed that bordered on the superhuman. He slumped into his chair, his heart still hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He stared, unseeing, at his computer screen, the warm, bitter scent of spilled coffee clinging to him like a shroud of shame. The desire for the earth to simply open up and swallow him whole had never felt more fervent or more justified.

Way to go, Clark, he thought, the words a dull, internal groan. A truly stellar first impression. 

The blur of movement was so sudden and out of place that it snagged Jimmy Olsen’s attention immediately. Clark Kent, a man whose default state was a sort of deliberate, grounded calm, practically erupted from the breakroom. He moved with a hastened, almost frantic gait, his head down, his shoulders slightly hunched as if against a strong wind. He blew right past Jimmy’s desk, his gaze fixed on some distant, desperate point, completely failing to register Jimmy’s raised hand in a wave.

Jimmy’s head swiveled, tracking Clark’s retreating back until he disappeared into his cubicle. He then turned, his curiosity piqued and rolled his chair with a shimmy into the space beside Lois Lane’s desk. She was dissecting a political statement with the surgical precision she was famous for, her brow furrowed in concentration.

“Hey, Lois?” Jimmy stage-whispered, leaning in conspiratorially.

Lois didn’t look up, her pen circling a particularly egregious piece of political doublespeak. “Yeah?” she replied, her tone distracted.

“Is it just me,” Jimmy began, his voice dropping even lower, “or does Clark look like he just witnessed a four-alarm fire that only he can see? Like, if you gave him a blanket and a dark room, he’d immediately go sit in the corner, curl into the fetal position and start rocking back and forth?”

That got her attention. Lois’s pen stilled. She lifted her gaze from her work, her dark eyes sharp and analytical as they scanned the newsroom. They quickly found Clark, who had just slumped into his chair at his desk. He wasn’t typing. He wasn’t reading. He was simply staring blankly at his monitor, a look of profound, soul-deep distress etched onto his features. It was a level of visible turmoil she rarely saw on her unflappable partner.

Her gaze then drifted, following the invisible thread of cause and effect, to the breakroom door. A moment later, Y/N L/N emerged, looking perfectly composed, a fresh cup of coffee in hand. There was no distress on her face, only a calm, professional ease. A slow, knowing smile touched Lois’s lips. Interesting, she thought. The pieces of the puzzle were beginning to form a very compelling picture.

“Jimmy,” Lois said, her voice now laced with a reporter’s instinct for a budding story. “Pull the archives of your memory. When was the last time you saw our Mr. Kent get so visibly hot and bothered by a woman?”

“Who, Clark?” Jimmy’s eyebrows knitted together in genuine, deep thought. Clark Kent was practically the poster boy for Midwestern chivalry. He was universally kind, treating secretaries, interns and Pulitzer-winning editors with the same unwavering, polite respect. His occasional awkwardness was part of his charm, but it was a general social awkwardness, never specifically tied to the presence of an attractive person. This… this was different. This was a targeted, full-system meltdown. “Probably never,” Jimmy concluded, shaking his head. “I mean, I’ve seen him get flustered when you tease him, but that’s… you. This was a whole other level of existential crisis.”

He glanced over at Y/N, who was now discussing something softly at something wit Cat Grant. “I can’t exactly blame him, though,” Jimmy admitted, a note of awe in his voice. “I won’t lie, Lois, Y/N is… she’s so pretty it’s almost scary. It’s not just your regular pretty. It’s like… ‘staring-at-a-major-motion-picture’ pretty,” he sighed, a little dramatically, “she’s severely out of everyone’s league in this entire building. Present company excluded, of course,” he added hastily with a deferential nod to Lois.

Lois didn’t acknowledge the compliment, her focus still locked on the intriguing puzzle. She filed the observation away, a new headline almost beginning to form in her mind. And Lois Lane had never been able to resist a good mystery.

After a tactful fifteen minutes, allowing the initial buzz to settle, Lois caught Jimmy’s eye and gave a subtle nod towards Y/N’s new workspace. It was time for a little reconnaissance disguised as a welcoming committee. They made their way over, Lois adopting her most casually charming demeanour—the one she used to get sources to confess everything without realizing they were being interviewed.

“So, Y/N,” Lois began, leaning comfortably against the partition of the cubicle, “I’ve got to ask. Why the move from the sun-drenched boulevards of LA to our… grittier Metropolis skyline? You loved it out there, as I recall. All that perpetual sunshine and access to real, non-food-truck avocado toast.”

Y/N smiled, a genuine, easy expression. “LA is fantastic, don’t get me wrong. But you can only have so many perfect, 75-degree days before you start to miss the changing of the seasons, or even just a good, dramatic thunderstorm. I’d spent a solid decade there for school and work and I just felt… ready for a change of pace. A new rhythm.” She gestured with her hand towards the window, where the iconic skyline of Metropolis stood tall. “And when I came for the art scene thing couple years back and the interview last month, I just… really liked the city’s energy. It feels like a place where things are always happening, you know? It has a pulse.”

“Wait?” Jimmy interjected, his eyes widening. “You’re from LA?” The way he said it made it sound like she’d claimed to be from the moon.

Y/N’s smile turned a touch wistful, a subtle shift that Lois noted with interest. “Actually, yes and no,” she clarified, her gaze drifting for a fraction of a second as if looking into the past. “I moved to LA with my mom and my stepdad right after high school graduation. So, I did all my college, my internships, my first big breaks… all there. I built my adult life there. But before that…” She trailed off, leaving the space intentionally open.

Lois seized the opening with the precision of a seasoned prosecutor. She brought a thoughtful finger to her chin, her brow furrowing in a convincing display of digging through old memories. “That’s right… you mentioned something about that during that intercollegiate journalism summit at back in college. Your dad’s still back in… Kansas, was it?” She made the question sound like an afterthought, a mere effort of memory recall, while her entire being was focused on the answer. She was no longer just making conversation; she was laying a trap, waiting to see if the geographical breadcrumb would lead her back to a certain farm boy from Smallville.

“Yes, actually,” Y/N said, her tone softening with a touch of genuine fondness. “He owns a modest cattle ranch there. It’s in a quiet little town—so small you’d miss it if you blinked. It’s called Smallville.”

The reaction between her two colleagues was a study in contrasts. Jimmy Olsen’s jaw went momentarily slack, his eyes widening into twin saucers of pure, unadulterated revelation. It was as if someone had just illuminated the final clue in a mystery he hadn’t even known he was trying to solve. His head instinctively began to turn towards Clark’s distant desk, a motion he barely caught and suppressed.

Lois, on the other hand, didn’t so much as flinch. Her expression remained one of polite, engaged interest but a slow, triumphant smile began to curve the corners of her lips, subtle and knowing. It was the smile of a shark that had just tasted blood in the water. Bingo.

“So, wait,” Jimmy pressed, unable to contain his bubbling curiosity, “does that mean you went to school there? In Smallville?”

Y/N nodded, her gaze turning slightly distant, clouded with the pleasant haze of memory. “From my very first day of elementary school right up until my last day of high school,” she confirmed, a warm, reminiscent tone colouring her voice. “Graduated from Smallville High, class of... well, let’s just say it was a few years ago.” She let out a soft, self-deprecating laugh. “Go, Crows.”

Lois, Jimmy and Y/N continued their conversation for a few more minutes, the discussion shifting to the quirks of small-town life versus the bustle of the city. But for Lois and Jimmy, the entire exchange was now happening against a backdrop of earth-shattering discovery. They were merely going through the motions, their minds racing a mile a minute. The pleasantries were a facade, the real investigation had just begun.

The impromptu interrogation was finally broken up by the gruff arrival of Perry White, who materialized behind them like a storm cloud. “Olsen! Lane! Don’t you two have deadlines that are closer than my last nerve? Stop lollygagging and go earn your paychecks!” he barked, though there was no real heat behind it.

As they dispersed, a single, electrifying glance passed between Lois and Jimmy. They had struck gold. Not just a nugget but a veritable motherlode.

The facts were now laid out with stunning clarity: Y/N L/N and Clark Kent had not only both hailed from the same obscure town in Kansas but they had attended the exact same high school, during the exact same years, walking the same halls and likely sharing the same classes. The statistical improbability of it was staggering.

But the most delicious, the most compelling piece of the puzzle was Clark’s own bizarre behavior. His reaction wasn’t that of someone vaguely recognizing a former classmate. It was the visceral, panicked response of a man who had seen someone from a very specific and apparently very impactful, past. And the captivating, tantalizing contradiction was that Y/N, for all her warmth and friendliness, had looked at Clark Kent and seen only a stranger.

So, what was this about? Was it a case of unrequited teenage infatuation so profound it still had the power to short-circuit the man? Was there some long-buried secret, a forgotten incident from their youth? The story was no longer just about Clark’s amusing reactions.

And when a mystery presented itself with such tantalizing clarity, it was astonishing just how quickly Lois Lane and Jimmy Olsen could transform from star reporters into a pair of relentless, albeit unofficial, detectives that rivalled the likes of Batman. The newsroom, with its endless streams of information and contacts, became their hunting ground and the personal history of two colleagues their front-page-worthy case.

Within the hour, while Clark remained sequestered at his desk in a state of visible introspection and Y/N was occupied with HR paperwork, Jimmy let out a soft, triumphant hiss from his computer terminal. “Got it,” he whispered, beckoning Lois over with a frantic wave.

Lois glided over, her movements sleek and silent. She leaned over his shoulder, peering at the screen. “What did you find? And more importantly, how?” she asked, her voice a low murmur.

Jimmy’s grin was a flash of pure, unadulterated triumph, the kind usually reserved for snapping a front-page-worthy photo. “The beauty of the digital age,” he declared, his fingers dancing across the keyboard as he clicked open a scanned PDF. The file loaded, revealing the stylized cover of a yearbook, its fonts and graphics matching one of the early 2000’s. “Someone from their class—a nostalgic alum, probably on the reunion planning committee—uploaded a full, high-resolution soft copy of the Smallville High yearbook from their graduation year. It’s hosted on the portal for the ten-year reunion.”

He looked up at Lois, his eyes gleaming. “And thank every tech-savvy, overachieving angel in heaven that they did.”

The mention of the reunion sent a specific, poignant jolt through Lois’s memory. This was the same ten-year reunion Clark had been invited to just a year prior. She remembered him getting the embossed invitation in the mail, turning it over in his hands with a strange, unreadable expression before tossing it into the recycling bin with a dismissive, almost weary sigh. When she’d asked about it, he’d mumbled something vague about it being “silly” and “not his scene,” citing a general embarrassment about his awkward teenage self. He’d tried to play it off as simple social anxiety.

But Lois and Jimmy knew better. They had the crucial, missing context, provided unwittingly by the kindest source imaginable: Martha Kent. During a warm, laughter-filled weekend visit to the farm in Smallville, Martha had spoken of Clark’s younger years with a mother’s loving, yet painfully honest, heart. Over slices of her famous apple pie, she’d mentioned, her voice softening with a hint of old sorrow, that Clark’s high school years were not a time of football games and proms, but a period marred by relentless, cruel bullying.

She’d spoken of him being targeted for his quiet nature, his old-fashioned manners, his large, clumsy frame that hadn’t yet grown into its strength. It was this period, she’d implied, that had profoundly shaped the gentle, sometimes overly reserved man he was today, sanding down his edges and making him wary of the spotlight. The idea of a reunion, of facing those same people who had made him feel so small, wasn’t just silly to Clark; it was genuinely, deeply unbearable.

The document was a time capsule, filled with the awkward smiles and hopeful eyes of a graduating class from a decade past. The colours were slightly faded, the hairstyles a charming testament to the era. Jimmy began scrolling, his cursor flying past pages of club photos, academic honours and dramatic society portraits. But they were searching for something in particular. 

“Slow down,” Lois commanded, her sharp eyes scanning the faces. “There. Go back.” She pointed a perfectly manicured finger at the screen.

Jimmy navigated back to a vibrant, action-filled page labelled “Fall Sports.” It was a candid shot from a practice session, the air thick with dust and golden-hour sunlight. In the centre of the frame was the cheerleading squad, caught mid-motion. And there, unmistakably, was Y/N. She was a few years younger, her face beaming with a vibrant, unselfconscious energy, one leg extended high in a perfect arabesque. She was the focal point, the centre of the formation, radiating a confidence and popularity that leaped off the pixelated page.

“Huh. Cheerleader,” Jimmy shrugged, as if the piece of the puzzle fit a little too perfectly. “Well, that tracks. She’s kind of person you just look at in a yearbook, you know? The small-town royalty.”

But Lois wasn’t just looking at Y/N. Her journalistic instincts, honed by years of finding the crucial detail in a sea of information, refused to let her linger on the obvious. While Jimmy was captivated by the sun, Lois was searching for the shadow it cast. Her gaze, sharp and analytical, darted around the periphery of the photograph, scanning the blurred backgrounds, the anonymous faces on the sidelines, the groups of students who existed outside the golden circle of the cheerleading squad. She was looking for the other half of the equation. Well, it sure is thickening the plot.

“Wait,” Lois murmured, her voice dropping to a hushed, intense whisper. She tapped a single, decisive finger on a blurred figure in the upper corner of the shot. “Don’t just look at the star. Look who’s in the background, watching from the bleachers.”

Jimmy squinted, zooming in. The image pixelated, becoming a mosaic of coloured squares. The figure was obscure, partially obscured by the shadow of the bleachers and the low resolution of the scan. But they had both seen the photographs displayed with pride in the Kent family farmhouse during their visit last Thanksgiving. They recognized the slope of those shoulders, the distinctive, slightly unruly curl of dark hair, even in its younger, less-tamed state.

There he was. Clark. But not the Clark they knew. This version was taller than many of his peers but carried a soft, youthful chubbiness in his cheeks. He was dressed in simple, practical clothes—a plaid shirt and worn jeans—a stark contrast to the vibrant, coordinated uniforms of the athletes and cheerleaders. A heavy-looking black backpack was slung over both shoulders, as if he’d come straight from the library or a chore on the farm. And his gaze… it was fixed, with an intensity that transcended the grainy quality of the photo, directly on Y/N. It wasn’t a casual glance; it was a look of pure, unadulterated awe, the kind of look a mortal reserves for a distant, unattainable goddess.

Without a word, Jimmy began scrolling further, the initial find feeling their hunt. They navigated past more candid shots and class photos until they landed on a section that was, in any American high school, the unofficial social registry: the prom. The pages were a glossy explosion of taffeta, tuxedos and forced smiles.

They scanned the groups, the couples, the dance floor shots. They could not find Clark in a single one. He was entirely absent from this chapter of the high school story. Y/N, however, was everywhere. There she was, in a series of photos, resplendent in a gorgeous, shimmering dress that seemed to catch all the light in the room, a sparkling tiara perched in her hair. On her arm was a handsome, broad-shouldered young man who he had previously seen wearing the letterman jacket of the star quarterback. The caption beneath one photo said it all: “Prom King & Queen, Whitney Fordman & Y/N L/N.” Of course she was the queen. Why wouldn’t she be? She was the centre of that small universe, the embodiment of every high school fantasy. And Clark Kent, it was now devastatingly clear, had been nothing more than a spectator in the stands of his own past, forever looking in from the outside.

Jimmy leaned back from the screen as if physically pushed by the weight of their discovery. He ran a hand through his hair, his usual jovial expression replaced by one of sobering realization. The digital yearbook was no longer a fun puzzle; it was a poignant social autopsy.

“So, let me get this straight,” Jimmy muttered, his voice a low, complex mix of pity for the boy in the pictures and disbelief at the stark narrative forming before them. “The narrative we’re piecing together here is the ultimate high school cliché? Our Clark—the kindest, most solid guy we know—was the... the loner, the invisible kid, secretly in love with the untouchable cheerleader-prom-queen? I mean, c’mon. Could the universe script anything more painfully stereotypical? It’s like a bad teen movie.” Jimmy gestured helplessly at the screen, at the radiant Y/N and the blurred, awe-struck figure of a young Clark. He wasn’t mocking him; he was lamenting the brutal, unoriginal cruelty of adolescent social structures.

Lois was about to respond, her mind already was connecting the dots between the past and the present, about to articulate her theory when a voice, gentle and familiar, piped up directly behind them, slicing through their conspiratorial bubble like a knife.

“What are you guys looking at so intently?”

The effect was instantaneous. They jolted apart as if electrocuted. With a frantic, panicked swipe of his mouse, Jimmy slammed his finger on the trackpad, minimizing the browser window in a blur of motion that left nothing but the bland, corporate desktop background staring back at them. They spun their chairs around to find Clark himself standing there, his expression a familiar blend of open curiosity and mild concern, a manila folder in his hand.

The silence stretched for a beat too long, thick with guilt. Jimmy’s brain, short-circuited by panic and the need for an immediate, plausible excuse, defaulted to the most juvenile, instinctive lie in the male lexicon.

“Porn,” Jimmy blurted out, the single syllable hanging in the air, stark and ridiculous.

Clark’s eyes widened just a fraction behind his glasses. His gaze darted between Jimmy’s flushed, guilty face and Lois’s carefully constructed mask of neutral composure, which was already beginning to crack at the edges. A slow, deep blush began to creep up Clark’s neck. He looked genuinely, adorably concerned for their moral well-being. “Oh,” he said, the word laden with a world of awkwardness. “Well. Perry told me to give you this,” he stammered, thrusting the file into Lois’s hands as if it were red-hot. He glanced back at the incriminating black monitor, looking utterly lost for how to proceed. “I’ll, uh... I’ll leave you to it then, I suppose.” With a look of profound discomfort, he beat a hasty retreat, nearly tripping over a wastebasket in his haste to escape the awkwardness.

The second his tall form was safely out of earshot, Lois didn’t hesitate. She rolled up the very file Clark had just delivered and began whacking Jimmy repeatedly about the head and shoulders with it.

“Thwack! What is wrong with you?!” Thwack! “Porn?!” Thwack! ”You couldn’t think of ‘budget reports’? ‘Archival footage’? ‘A fascinating article on municipal zoning laws’?!” Thwack!

“Ow! Ow! Sorry!” Jimmy yelped, raising his arms to shield himself. “It was an instinctive response! My brain just short-circuited! When you get caught doing something shady, you say you’re looking at porn! It’s, like, a universal law! It explains the whispering, the guilty jumps, everything!”

Lois finally lowered her improvised weapon, glaring at him with utter exasperation. “Now he thinks we’re a pair of degenerates browsing illicit websites in the middle of the newsroom.”

“Better that,” Jimmy groaned, rubbing his head, “than him knowing we were digging into his deeply painful, cliché-ridden high school trauma.”

Lois found she had no immediate response to Jimmy’s bleak summary. Her mind was already racing down a darker, more troubling corridor. They had to consider all the variables. Clark’s high school torment was a confirmed fact. The yearbook provided the setting and the characters, but not the specific plot. Was it possible that Y/N, even indirectly, was involved in that pain? Perhaps she was the unattainable ideal whose mere existence highlighted his isolation, or worse, perhaps her friends—the quarterback, the popular clique—were his primary tormentors.

Yet her instincts rebelled against that notion. She sensed no flicker of animosity, no old resentment in Clark’s reaction to Y/N. His response had been one of pure, unadulterated shock, tinged with a vulnerability that spoke of old longing, not old wounds. And observing Y/N, she projected an aura of genuine, grounded warmth, not the brittle cruelty of a former queen bee. The bullying, Lois suspected, perhaps came from the periphery of Y/N’s orbit—the jealous friends, the aggressive jocks—using his affection for her as just another weapon in their arsenal.

Her intricate train of thought was derailed by Jimmy slamming a triumphant fist into his palm, his eyes alight with a completely different kind of fire. “I’ve got it!” he declared, his voice dropping to an excited whisper. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

Lois arched a skeptical eyebrow, pulled from her speculations. “Probably not. But go ahead. Enlighten me.”

“We,” Jimmy announced, puffing out his chest with the gravity of a general unveiling a master battle plan, “need to help Clark and Y/N get together!”

Lois blinked, waiting for the punchline. None came. Jimmy’s expression was one of pure, unironic conviction.

“Think about it!” he pressed, undeterred by her silence. “It’s the perfect full-circle story! The overlooked, brilliant writer and the celebrated, visionary photographer! They’re both kind, they’re both ridiculously good at what they do, and they’re both from the same dorky little town. They’d get each other on a level nobody else here could! They’d be… perfect together. It’s like one of those romantic comedies you secretly love, but better, because it’s real!”

He looked at her, his face a mixture of hope and daring. And for once, against all her journalistic cynicism and her ingrained aversion to meddling in other people’s personal lives, Lois Lane did not immediately disagree. A slow, calculating smile began to replace her look of skepticism. The idea was absurd, presumptuous, and fraught with potential for disaster. But it was also… profoundly appealing. It wasn’t just about fixing the past; it was about rewriting it. It was about giving the kindest man she knew the happy ending his younger self could never have dreamed of.

“It’s possibly the worst idea you’ve ever had, Olsen,” Lois said finally, her voice dry. But the spark in her eyes betrayed her. “And it just might be brilliant.”

a/n: Our boy is going through it y'all. Please pray for him.

╰┈➤ Masterlist

Tags: @joekitsu (thank you for helping me with the header) @in-can-des-cent @springdolly00 @marvel-hiddles-stark

©️ cheriecelestial - arabelle | 2025

[aparalleliwouldlaymylifeon]

— if i may just take your breath away

a slow, soft waking in clark's arms before the rest of the world rises and a hint of worshipping the man that deserves everything ❤︎⁠ [clark kent x f!reader, wc: 2.2k]

warnings: 18+. blowjob. slight face-fucking.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

There is a sense of serenity in waking before the rest of the world does. When everything feels silent and suspended in time, the air just beginning to warm slowly, gently—turning golden as the sun crests higher among the clouds.

It's euphoric in a way that only deepens when your eyes flutter open to cool sheets slipping over your body and a warm arm luring you closer to the broad chest curving itself against your back. Kisses raining petal soft upon your shoulder.

Your smile is a light and unhurried thing, shamelessly content, when those same lips drag up your neck. When the hot fan of his breath falls over your ear before he cheekily grazes the lobe between his teeth and makes you jerk. Laughing even whilst you squirm in his arms, ticklish to a degree that he finds utterly adorable.

And hee's so beautiful when you finally manage to face him that you can't even pretend to be mad, not when the sight steals the breath from your lungs just as it always has.

Just as it undoubtedly always will, because Clark Kent is a startlingly kind of gorgeous.

It's like those few hours where you are torturously parted from him in sleep slip a haze over the vibrance of him in your memory, a flimzy covering that when ripped away as your conciousness floods in leaves you stunned and your pulse stuttering every time without fail.

Every time it happens it feels like you're truly seeing him for the first time—the man he is without the crushing weight of responsibility and its merciless nature slowly burning its way through the shine of him.

The man who is good and honest, ineffably kind, and is every inch as wonderful inside as he is out. Who simply wants a home in this world and to love and care for the people in it and is so fiercely loved by his family and his friends, by you, in return.

It feels like a privilege to see him this way, like it is something sacred.

The ruffled softness of his hair, the easy curve of his smile and the unguarded affection in his eyes makes your heart swell, your fingers reaching to trace the beginnings of stubble that shadows his jaw as you open your mouth only to find you're incapable of offering up more than a single word. 

"Hi." You murmur a little dazedly, butterflies erupting wild in your belly when Clark grins, wide and delighted. His large hand slipping over your waist to smooth down your back and press you infinitely closer like you aren't almost permanently welded to him already.

"Hey, sweetheart."  His voice is soft and fond, laced with a sleepy type of heat, and the rasp of it causes a mirroring warmth to bloom within you as he nudges your nose before dropping his mouth to yours in an achingly warm kiss. 

You tangle together like vines after that, your fingers finding home in the mess of his curls and the thought of further conversation dissolving from your thoughts the moment his tongue teases past your lips to curl against yours.

There's no hurry in either of you. No rush to leave and start the day, to fan the heat between you to flame with clumsy desperation when you can take your time and feel the tension gather to an electrifying crescendo with every gentle touch. 

And there is a livewire already buzzing under your skin as Clark lures you to drape over him, your body waking and coming alive beneath the proud brush of his fingers over sensitive marks he left the night before.  The way he flushes a little at the feel of them and grins against your lips when you shiver.

He's already hard for you—a thick, heavy press between your thighs as he moans low and rocks his hips in time with the unhurried tilt of yours. It makes that soft flush of warmth in your belly become a molten thing. An impulsive need that you let guide your hand until you take him,pulsing hot, in your grip.

The noise he makes in response is exquisite.

A cracked, ruinious sound pulled from deep within his throat, the dark fan of his lashes fluttering when his eyes widen before growing hooded.

"Can I taste you?" You all but beg in a rush of breath, your thighs clenching whilst he shudders against the slide of your hand and snatches at your jaw to kiss you like he is trying to slake an unforgiving hunger.

"You never need to ask. You can have whatever you want from me, I'm yours." He murmurs, enamoured, offering himself wholeheartedly to your mercy just like he has from the very moment he first lay eyes on you.

You melt against him at his words, the glow of them unspooling all of that brewing desperation into something sweeter as his thumbs sweep tenderly over your cheeks. He kisses you soft as dream, once, twice, and catches at your hand to press another there at the heart of your palm before you extract yourself with a lovesick laugh from his hold to slip down, down , down.

Clark lets you go this time without further attempt at distraction but the way he watches you makes you dizzy.

His eyes dark, gaze undeniably focused on every little move from the flex of your muscles to the soft heave of your chest, the quiver of your stomach when he smiles slow and just that little bit devilish, because he can hear the way your heart picks up at the sight of him.

God, it makes you want to worship him—all these parts that you have collected with patient and careful hands over time. The precious pieces of him that he has allowed you to gather close when he lets the perfect version that the world knows slip. His passion and his silliness, his fury and his softness all unravelling beneath your tongue. 

You reverently map every plane and ridge of his chest to his torso by taste, sucking marks that begin in the sensitive hollows of his hips before leading to his thighs that go taut beneath them and the relentlessness of your wandering hands.

He groans, low and quiet, when you lick slowly up the length of his cock—lips parting on a stuttering inhale when his blown out stare catches your own already watching. Relishing his reaction.

And then you do it again.

A slow faint trace of wet muscle along the throbbing vein before you take the tip of him into the heat of your mouth and swirl your tongue with just enough pressure to make his head spin.  

"Oh, god—"

That whimper almost makes you lose your concentration and grin around him. Pride flaring in your chest when his head falls back against the pillows, cheeks flushed a pretty pink, the sharp cut of his jaw made starker by the way his muscles strain whilst his hands flex and wind tight into the already dishevelled sheets.

It's enough to make you finally dip your head and take him completely, your mouth suctioning tight as it slides wet along his cock, if only to hear the wrecked tremor in his voice again as you swallow him deeper. Then deeper still. To feel the way all that strenth coils tight beneath his skin as he fights to be good and shudders with the restrain—a trembling statue of a man made of nothing but iron-will and a delirious, sweltering want.

And then his hips cant up on their own accord, a helpless fracture in his typically flawless control that has him almost choking on air as the soft walls of your throat constrict tight around him.

He didn't mean to do it—there is already an apology gathering on his tongue, waiting only on his ability to remember how to breathe so he can speak it.

He raises his head to blink down at you, concern warring against the fog of need in his eyes because you haven't broken your rhythm but there's tears glittering at your lashline and his hand is lifting from the sheets too of its own volition, maybe to wipe them away, to touch your cheek in a silent 'are you okay?', to stop you entirely because if he's hurt you he'll die, he'll never forgive himself—

But then you're encouraging him to do it again.

Your hand catches at his own, fingers gentle but firm as you lead him to the back of your head so he can rid himself of the discipline he feels he must exhibit at all times and fuck himself into the welcoming give of your mouth if it pleases him. 

And Clark is speechless, dazed. All blown-black pupils and scarlet ears peaking from the dark mess of his hair.

"Are you sure?" He whispers. Hesitant. Awed.

You smooth your hands over his thighs, his hips, the shallow rise of his stomach and allow your mouth to part slowly from his spit-slick skin. Pulling back just enough to tell him, "I want this Clark, I want you to let go, please don't make me stop."

He huffs a soft laugh at that, bewildered and yet a little cheeky in that way you adore. "Wouldn't dream of it, pretty girl."

He lets his hand fall to touch your face, to sweep his touch lovingly over your cheek and press it to the plush of your lower lip, grinning wide and utterly gone for you when you lay a gentle kiss to his fingers.

And then he's stroking your hair back before gathering it in hand. Baring your gorgeous face to him so he can drop his chin against his chest and witness every breathless second of you retaking him in your mouth, lips wrapping around the thick of him, praise pouring from his tongue like ragged silk as he thrusts slow and devastatingly deep, over and over.

Never once forcing the kind of pace that you were expecting but merely guiding a better one that makes you both burn.

"Look at you–so beautiful, taking me so well." He breathes. "God, you're perfect." 

His praise hits you like it always does, bright and smoldering—a sudden lightening strike crackling through every aspect of your being as his thighs tense and quake beneath your hands. The sharp clench of his stomach when your nails burrow deep into his flesh and leave him bearing pretty little marks to match his ones on you.

There is the faint bloom of salt as he throbs that lets you know he's close, the weight of him thickening against your tongue, filling your mouth further whilst his thrusts grow jagged and sloppy. So you drag your palm across the solid expanse of thigh and between his legs to cup him there, squeezing, rolling, until his eyes go sightless and he's moaning beautifully, desperate and unrestrained.

“Baby–just like that–please, please don't stop–” 

Clarks voice is shot now, his hips stuttering as you suck hard enough that his breath threatens to stop altogether. Cheeks hollowing before you drop your mouth right down to the very base of him—your nose pressed against his skin and everything is warm and wet and he is spiralling rapidly beyond the point of no return.

You make a sound, somewhere between a hum of encouragement and a soft moan, and that is what breaks him. The needy way you latch at his thighs to pull him closer as the wrecked groan of your name tears through his throat whilst he pulses and writhes, pleasure in his veins like a burning star. Flaring hot and so devastatingly bright until it slowly fizzles out and leaves him panting.

Obliterated.

Barely lucid.

It is a deeply satisfying thing to witness.

A divine event, watching the most beautiful man you've ever known fall apart in pleasure and turn boneless beneath you, his large frame dissolving to liquid against the rumpled sheets as he blinks at you with sweet eyes and a dazed, lopsided smile. Strong arms opening sluggishly in a bid for you to return to him and fuse yourself upon his chest.

"Good morning." You murmur, the words a doting and gentle tease against his lips as you beam into the lazy surge of his kiss. 

The room is slowly becoming humid now as the morning sun climbs high and strong. The bed collects the heat of it upon what it has already trapped from you both, sweat beginning to grow slick between you from where you lie pressed together but there is no move to pull away, to escape to somewhere cooler, when instead Clark is intent on pulling you closer.

A tender, determined hand sweeping up your back to cradle the nape of your neck whilst his other ghosts over the slope of your shoulder and the curve of your waist. Down further past your hip and over to the space between your legs where he finds you wet and aching and presses his fingers just enough to make you gasp into his greedy mouth.

"It's a great morning." He rasps, eyes bright as jewels and gleaming with joy, devotion. A little mischief as he watches yours flutter closed when his fingers slip inside you and curl deep. "But if you give me a little longer, I think I have a few ideas to make it even better."

[honeysucklewatr]

jason todd can never fuck you without seeing your face.

he works himself up just to lean himself all the way over, breaking his neck just to kiss you. ignoring how his bones ached in protest and his hips bucked.

at first you think he’s just being sweet, not letting you suck him off because he wants you closer, or making you lay on your back instead of your stomach. his eyes watching yours and trailing across your face as though it was all he needed.

even when you closed your eyes, basked in the feeling of him and tried to get used to the stretch. jason didn’t even need words when they failed you, instead he read your face. felt how you tensed and your hands grabbed at his back. he cooed a response out of you.

“that feel good ma?” rasping with difficulty as you gasped softly. then you nodded and he cupped your cheek, voice soft as feathers as he spoke to you. “can you tell me how it feels?”

a shudder runs through you as he shifts his hips just barely. “good. it feels really, really good.”

then he smiles and rolls onto his back, pulling you into his lap as he did it. you sink back onto him so easily this time, sighing in unison as he seated himself fully inside. his hands fell to your ass, taking cupfuls as you fluttered your lashes at him when he began moving you. slowly at first but quickly his movements grew more frantic as the sounds rumbled from his chest and echoed through your skin, penetrating your thoughts in the same way he did your body.

jason loves to watch you lost yourself in it, seeing the hunger grow from your shyness and fucks you til you’re begging him for more. because you are as insatiable as he is and even more is never enough.

after he coaxes you through an orgasm and stares through half lidded eyes, you try changing the position yourself. though you fail, collapsing onto his chest and begging for more with that hoarse tone in your voice that told him you were exhausted.

jason could never deny his sweet girlfriend from his touch could he?

pulling off his lap, he moved to situate himself over you once again. pulling out just for a moment while you flop onto your stomach, sighing into the pillow dreamily. he blinks as he hovers over you, hand grazing your side as he says your name. swallowing thickly as the sight of you arching for him, stomach flat on the mattress as you pulled your arms under the pillow, burying your face into it and got more comfortable.

jason breathes heavier as he rasps. “i wanna see your face too princess, come on.”

though you only hum and murmur something that sounded like ‘mm too tired’. jason snakes his arm under your chest and pulls you up by your throat, not enough to hurt, but just enough to coax. your hand slides behind you, guiding his throbbing length through your puffy folds before sinking back onto him. sucking him in and moaning as you arch your back further. jason nearly chokes on his spit and pulls your face towards him, craning his neck just to kiss you even as you start to fold in on yourself when he picks up the pace.

the sound of his skin on yours is obscene, the pace he keeps is relentless. his eyes watch your shut ones as pushed you into another orgasm and reach your peak with a whimper. jason swallows the sweet sound from between your lips and lets your hands weakly tug at his hair at the crown of his neck more harshly than you’d intended.

the pain doesn’t bother him then. if anything, the sting reminds him you’re still there.

when you’re limp against him, shuddering from the feeling, he lets you gently onto the sheets. jason manhandles you onto your back again, fucking you right as you’re blissed out on him, humming with his name on your tender lips from how hard he’d been kissing you from behind. he’s rougher with you now that he can see your face fully again. that was exactly what he needed to tip over the edge. he moans your name out broken, dark hair sticking to his forehead as his perfect heterochromic eyes bore into your glazed ones.

“you’re so perfect ma,” he whimpers gorgeously. “god, you’re so beautiful.”

though the fucked out grin you gave him made him sputter and groan. hips stuttering as he gave powerful thrusts into you and let go, painting your walls a milky white you could practically taste. even then his eyes are open, arms braced by your head so he didn’t crush you with his weight and also to continue to see your face as your mouth gaped open in a silent moan. tongue touching the tip of your top teeth before you giggled at him weakly. grazing your fingernails up his back as he shudders again and continues to thrust into you like he couldn’t resist, not when he’s got you under him like this.

you have to pull him to lay all the way down so he is laying over you, his weight like a heavy blanket that could lull you to sleep. dick so good it sends you into full rem quickly.

though when you wake up in the morning, jason’s laying on his side, his hand draped over your waist as your leg hung over his. and his eyes were set right on yours, lips ready to say your name like it had taken permanent residence on his tongue.

not proofread! im fighting demons so mb for not updating regularly lmao :p

[devotedlyandrogynousyouth]

DICK GRAYSON is obsessed with bending you in half.

It's no secret that he grew up to be extremely flexible doing backbends and walkovers like nothing every patrol. But when he caught you stretching in tour bedroom, your body bent just the right way for him to get a glimpse of his favorite parts of you?

He lost it.

Your legs end up on his shoulders more often than not, feet crossing behind his neck and bouncing slightly with the force of his thrusts. The stretch burns a little and you're pretty sure your hip will cramp sooner or later, but it's worth it to see Dick so pleased.

"Look at you," he coos softly, reaching up to remove your legs from his shoulders and instead hold them above your head.

You genuinely did not know your legs and hips (or pussy) could handle doing that with his cock sliding in and out of you so sweetly.

Dick's face is so flushed that, in any other context, you might've mistaken it for a slight sunburn. "You can keep going, right, pretty baby?"

Muscles in your hips and thighs protest as he presses them just a little further, but how could you deny him when he asks so nicely?

Main Masterlist

A/N: day 4!! Yippee!!