[ratgirlreads]

a fanfic archive.

writer, reader. 20s. she/her.

im also at

@butterperfume (main, likes+following from here!)

@joelmillerfanficarchive (for pedro pascal character fic recs)

@iluvvtae (for kpop fic recs)

⋆ ۪ ׂ🍨. ݁ ⊹ ⋆ ۪ ׂ🍨. ݁ ⊹ ⋆ ۪ ׂ🍨. ݁ ⊹ ⋆ ۪ ׂ🍨. ݁ ⊹ ⋆ ۪ ׂ🍨. ݁ ⊹ ⋆ ۪

[godmadeaterribleerror]

It's Magnetic

✦Clark Masterlist - Read on aO3! - Main Masterlist✦ ✦pairing: Clark Kent x fem!reader✦ ✦summary: There are very few people in the world that Clark truly, deeply, does not like. And you get on his nerves more than anyone else. But hate and love are very close emotions, aren't they?✦ ✦warnings/tags: enemies to lovers, secret identity shenanigans, emotional angst, fluff, shenanigans, hella smut, lots of porn in this plot (emotional sex, dumbification, dirty talk, inexperinced/sensitive reader, finger sucking, clark gets nasty, body worship, overstimulation, fingering, oral f!recieving, begging, praise kink, squirting, big dick clark, he fucks like a machine, breeding kink), no use of y/n, no descrption of reader✦ ✦wc: 13.7k✦ ✦author's note: rewatched Bridgerton season 2 and had to enemies to lovers about it. Enjoy! Request from bestie @lilithxlm✦

Clark doesn’t judge people. Not really.

He was raised better than that. He knows better than that. There are all kinds of things that can affect why someone is grumpy, angry, or acting poorly.

And maybe he judges actions sometimes, but good people do bad things, and annoying things, and dumb things. Kara does dumb things all, and Clark still loves her. She’s still a good person. Even Luthor has something in him, that Clark finds redeemable. He’s very proud of being bald, and he has a passion for his work. That’s two, whole things.

Clark’s never met someone he couldn’t find anything good in. Sometimes it is… Work. To find the thing. But it’s always there, and that just means the work was worth it.

Then he met you.

You must have something. Everyone has something. But it is impossible to find that something, when you’re always launching LuthorCorp missiles at him and threatening him with lab grown kryptonite. Clark didn’t even know that stuff could be grown in a lab, until he landed down in your labs for some run-of-the-mill standoff, and found himself face to face with your pretty eyes, and a gun, loaded with kryptonite bullets.

Not that you’re pretty. You’ve got objectively nice features, and Clark is far from blind, but beauty does not speak to character.

Not that you’re beautiful, either. And even if you are, it’s rotted away by whatever is on the inside. Whatever runs so deep, he can’t find that tiny blossom of good, no matter how hard he tries.

“You don’t want to do this.” He’d told you, that day in the lab.

When you’d smiled, it had reminded Clark of the wolves that used to hunt Ma and Pa’s sheep. The ones that hadn’t been afraid of him, and had gnashed and snarled until he dropped them miles away from the farm.

“You don’t know anything,” you’d drawled. “About what I want to do.”

That had seemed fair. He really didn’t. “There would be a death on your conscious-“

“This wouldn’t kill you, you fucking pussy.” You’d rolled your eyes, and Clark had blinked.

“That language doesn’t seem necessary-“

“Oh, I’m sorry, boy scout.” You’d smirked. “It wouldn’t kill you, you flying, caped, monkey-squirrel, sweet baby of justice.”

“I-“ That had been strangely hurtful. “I’m just here to turn off Luthor’s reactor, okay-“

“It’s not Luthor’s reactor.” You’d snapped. “It’s mine.”

“I hate to break it to you, but it kind of says Luthor on the side-“

“I’m well aware of what it says.” Your lip had curled, and Clark had tilted his head.

“You know, this thing is probably going to blow and take out the whole city.”

You’d scoffed. “No, it won’t.”

“I have friends who are professionals in this kind of thing, they say it will.”

“Your friends are wrong.”

Clark had shrugged. “Maybe you’re wrong.”

“I’m never wrong.” You’d raised your chin, and his lips had twitched slightly. He towered over you—he towered over everyone—but watching you trying to be taller was like some puffed up, feral cat. He’d pick you up with one hand and not even blink.

Not that he’d try to pick you up. You were a lady, and a human.

Although lady was by the loosest definition.

“Everyone is wrong sometimes,” he’d said gently, and you shrugged.

“I’m not everyone.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being like other people-“

“I know.” You’d smirked. “But I’m not.”

This had been deeply frustrating. “Okay, just- Look, I really need to turn off your reactor-“

“And I’m really going to shoot you if you do that.”

Clark had rubbed a hand over his face. “I mean- I’m really asking you not to-“

“That’s not how shooting someone works. This,” you’d waved your gun. “Isn’t a mutually consenting act.”

“It’s- You’re going to kill thousands of people! Let me-“

“No.” You’d hissed when he took a step forward. “It’s perfectly safe, and you’re not touching it.”

“If it was perfectly safe, would Lex Luthor have funded it?” Clark had challenged, hoping he didn’t sound as desperate as he felt. “Would he have really taken a chance on something that’s actually going to help people besides himself?”

Your eyes had narrowed, and for a brief second, Clark had thought he’d gotten through to you. It had been a glorious second. He’d decided that you really were pretty, and beautiful, and all the other adjectives to describe someone who had a face like the moon.

Then you’d shot him. Point blank in the chest.

Clark had been shot a lot before. He’d been exposed to kryptonite a lot before, as well.

That had maybe been the first time he’d thought he was dying. When he’d woken up, Gary told him he’d been groaning a woman’s name in his sleep.

Your name.

Clark had decided he didn’t like you. Maybe you weren’t a bad person—he was clinging to the idea that deep, deep, deep down you’d shot him because you were being blackmailed, or were deep undercover, or Lex had you under some kind of mind control—but Clark didn’t like you. It wasn’t even the shooting thing. It was something deeply you, that wiggled into him like a worm in an apple, and made his blood pressure rise at the sound of your name.

And you’d been right. The reactor hadn’t blown up. But that was luck from a very thin draw.

Next time, Clark would stop you. Then he’d tie you to a chair and have a very long, in-depth conversation where he figured out something to like about you, then everyone could move on.

Lois has a new informant. She won’t say who it is, no matter how much Clark causally pokes.

“Confidentiality, Kent, you know I can’t tell you.”

“Yeah, but- It’s me. You know me, Lois, I’m not going to tell anyone-“

“It doesn’t matter that it’s you.” Lois sighes, giving him a pointed look. “I promised her I’d keep it between us, and that doesn’t mean turning right around and telling anyone. I worked really hard to get her to trust me. I’m not blowing that for anyone.”

Clark raises his brows. “So it’s a woman?”

“I- Yes. But that,” she points a finger sternly, giving Clark a firm glare. “Is all you get.”

“Well, do you at least really trust her?” He braces his hands on his hips. “If she’s informing you on Lex Luthor, that means she’s close, and- You know I think anyone can change, but you should always be careful with Luthor’s people.”

You.

Clark is thinking, very specifically, of you.

Because nobody moved on, and Clark has not stopped you.

If anything, he’s found more and more reasons to dislike you. And Lois insists her new informant is reliable, but now Clark is also worried that you’re going to find this mystery woman, and do something to her. You’re everywhere like that. He thinks you might be more dangerous than Luthor.

And you were always hovering somewhere behind Lex now, pretty and sharp-tongued and annoying. Clark couldn’t fight Lex when you were always just there watching. It felt like you were judging him, which he didn’t care about, but he still didn’t like.

Every time he slipped up in a fight, he could see you in the corner of his eyes, tilting your head like you were about to dissect him. If he was trading remarks during a fight and you were there, it was always impossible to find something smoother and more confident than whatever slipped like music from your lips. When it was your invention he was on, he’d started bringing back up in case you tried to shoot him again, but instead—in a much more inconvenient fashion—you’d decided to find a new way to evade him, every single time.

“You’re five minutes late.” You’d drawled a few months ago, not looking up from your desk as Clark and Guy landed in your lab.

Usually, by now, Clark had put a villain through at least three lab rebuilds. He liked seeing what they did with the new place, how they’d improved on it from the old one that he’d either wrecked in a fight, or gotten them kicked out of for committing a multitude of crimes.

You’ve had the same lab, the whole time. He was getting sick of its soft colored walls and clean floors, of all the strange clutter you kept between parts on the desk. It was mocking him.

“I didn’t know we were on a timer,” he said your name, and you hummed.

“You don’t know a lot of things, Superman. And I doubt Guy Gardener is going to help you fill in the gaps.”

Next to him, Guy had scowled. “How the hell did you know-“

“I have security, you know.” You’d spun in your chair, giving them a flat look. “And you’re the only one he hasn’t tried to use yet.”

You’d smiled, and it had been all full-lipped and sweet. Your hair had fallen a little over your face. You never smiled at Clark like that.

He’d felt kind of sick. You smiling just seemed to have that effect on him.

“I think you know why I’m here-“

“Of course I know why you’re here.” You’d cut Clark off with an insulted glare. “And you know what I’m going to say, and we both know how this is going to end. We can catch up first, if you want. I’ve been getting really into baking, since we last caught up.” You’d spun in your chair, and now you were smiling at Clark, but it was colder. Mocking. “My friend is having a baby, so I’m making cookies.”

Guy had frowned. “For… A newborn baby?”

“For her, dumbass.”

He’d blinked. “Wow, you’re- Mean.” Guy had grinned, and Clark remembered why he’d decided to bring him last. “I like it. Question, what are your superpowers again, and do they come out in any weird sex ways.”

You’d snorted. “No.”

“No, no superpowers, or no sex stuff-“

“Yes.”

Guy had frowned, looking down at his outfit like that was why he might be getting rejected. Clark had cleared his throat, saying your name in the way he always forced himself to. Gentle. Like he was talking to a rabid animal.

“We’re going to take the code to the beacon, now-“

“Supes.” You’d sighed, kicking your feet lazily. “You don’t need to do the whole thing anymore. It’s just me.” You’d smiled. “Come fight, and lose.”

Clark’s jaw had ticked. You said it so goddamn confidently, and once again, you were right.

He and Guy had given it their all, but you’d been ready. You were always ready, and always smiling, and always right, and it made Clark want to beat his own head against a wall.

“Bye!” You’d waved cheerfully when he’d retreated, beaming all bright and pretty. “You’ll get me next time, big guy!”

There had been a fever like feeling in his body, when he’d flown away. You hadn’t even shot him this time.

“What’s that girl’s deal.” Guy had grumbled while they patched up, scowling at the air. He’d gotten the worst of it.

“I don’t know. She just… Showed up one day.”

And like a weed, he hasn’t been able to get rid of you since.

It was driving him out of his mind.

Clark was running out of people to back him up. He was getting more and more distracted by your presence, and he was starting to recognize your smell. There was this cinnamon-apple candle you lit to stem off the chemical lab smell, and you used a similar kind of perfume, and every time he smelled it that fever returned. It got to the point that he’d smell the air for you like a dog, the second he touched down in a fight.

He’s worried it’s turning into an obsession. He even asked Luthor about you. About where you came from, why he hired you, anything to help him understand exactly what made you so… you.

“Why, Superman?” Luthor had smirked. “You like something you’re seeing? Because let me tell you, she’s more than worth the purchase, if you’ve got the money. Or you could just pick her up and carry her off, like the ogre brute that you are-“

Clark had knocked him out. He wasn’t going to entertain that.

But he still started watching closer, the way you and Luthor interacted. It was more than boss and employee. You smiled at him. He’d defend you in a fight, which was never a good sign.

Clark didn’t think he’d ever felt sicker, than when he pictured you and Luthor.

Together.

You smiling at him. Quipping at him without any venom or mockery in your voice. Tossing your air and batting your eyelashes, and-

He actually had no idea how you’d flirt. Clark pictured it something similar to a predator corning prey, but there was no bigger apex in this ecosystem than Luthor himself.

That was what Jimmy called a power couple.

Clark didn’t like it.

He didn’t like that, like that weed, no matter how he tried to pick away his thoughts of you they always grew back. You were stuck to him like a plaque, like a moss, like a parasite. You took his attention, his energy, a lot of his pride, every time you knocked him down without lifting one finger, your hair never even getting messed up in the fight.

Clark doesn’t like you.

He thinks he might hate you. He’s never really hated someone before, and he doesn’t like that either.

But he’s trying, so hard, to find something for you. And there’s nothing.

And he hates you even more, for that. For shaking him, and everything he knows. For getting such an iron hold on him without trying, digging your fingers in and leaving marks so deep, they don’t even fade when he doesn’t see you for months.

He hates that he still looks for you in those months. That it’s not relief when you’re gone, but something cool and light in his chest when you’re back. He tries to ignore it, just like he tries to ignore the fever. They’re not useful feelings, in dealing with the everything about you. He thinks they’re just byproducts of the hate, because he never feels them with anyone else.

Clark’s a grown man. He thought he’d felt most things.

And now you’re here.

And he’s really never hated anyone more.

“Kent.” Lois taps his desk, her voice a hushed whisper. “I need a favor.”

Clark looks up from his desk with a frown. Lois doesn’t ask for favors a lot. Lois doesn’t ask for anything a lot. ”What’s wrong?”

“Remember that informant I’ve been working with? The one who helped me break the piece about LuthorCorp and the animal experimentation?”

Clark nods. He remembers that clearly. Just as clearly as he remembers your lab, and all the super-powered bears that attacked him in your defense.

“Well, she told me she thinks Luthor is onto her. And I know he’s onto me.” Lois sighs, glancing over her shoulder. “I’ve had someone following me all week. My phone isn’t bugged, but I never let it leave my pocket, and- I checked my laptop. Someone installed a malware, it’s been downloading my emails to an off-bank server.”

Clark’s hands curl on his keyboard. “You think they’ve gotten to your woman-“

“No. She’s smart.” Lois frowns. “She’s been using some kind of extra-burner email? I don’t know. She explained it, I didn’t really follow. You’ll see.”

“Okay, that’s good.” Clark pauses. “I’ll see?”

“Yeah. That’s the favor.” Lois pats his shoulder. “You’re taking over for me.”

“Lois, I-“

“Look, she’s got a lot of information. I can’t tell you anything specific, but this is the best source I’ve gotten, maybe ever. I’m not losing her.”

“Well, you and I- We’re different.” Clark leans back in his chair with a pleading expression. It’s not that he doesn’t want to help. He’s just worked with Lois’ informants before, and they’re all very disappointed he’s not Lois. “Did you ask her, if she’d be fine with me taking over-“

“Oh, I told her everything. And don’t worry.” Lois smiles. “She’ll go easy on you.”

“Easy?” Clark laughs nervously, adjusting his glasses. “I mean, It’s just a meeting, right?”

“Sure, buddy. Just a meeting.”

Lois is good at a lot of things. She isn’t good at being reassuring. 

But Clark can’t say no. Not to her. Not when it’s something that’s going to help people.

He’ll meet the informant. Maybe she’ll be able to help him take down Luthor for good.

And, a tiny, bitter little voice crows from the back of his head, maybe she’ll be able to help him take you down.

Clark needs to stop predicting things. He’s bad at it.

He walks into the library at noon on a Wednesday, just like Lois told him to. He sits in the romance section, his posture straight, his expression perfectly approachable as he scans politely over the titles on the shelf. His One Desire. Her Sin. The Roses In Lace. Lost at Sea. Found at Sea. Lost in Him. Found in Him. There seems to be a pattern, and he wonders about the overlap between stories. The informant is running late. Maybe she decided she didn’t want to work with him. Clark’s never loved these romances, but there must be some appeal to them if they’re so popular. Reading is always good for you, and—as he takes one of the books off the shelf—he decides there isn’t really a better way to kill the time.

It’s a bit of a drudge. The prose is lacking, and the two characters seem to have less chemistry than the cows back home. Clark re-reads a few sentences over and over—the word cock is used quite a lot, and it’s starting to sound fake in his head—and the positions they’re getting into can’t be physically sound. Maybe he’s imagining them wrong.

“You’re amazing.” She whispers, her lips tinkering over the soft, meaty flesh of his ear.

This man must have big ears. And Clark pauses, because there’s a faint smell of vanilla and apple, and it makes him look up with a frown.

He must be imagining things. Or maybe his brain just associates you with meaty ears. Brains are strange like that. And you are haunting every facet of his life.

“I want you.” He growled. “You are the sexiest thing I’ve ever fucking seen. My whore.”

Clark’s frown deepens. He doesn’t think this book is for him.

“That one is bad.”

Clark looks up from the book, and his jaw drops.

You’re standing across the table from him, your head tilted slightly, eyes locked onto his.

“The sequel is better.” You hum, pulling out a chair. Sitting down. “I think the author really took the criticism of this one into consideration. She stopped using the word meaty so much.”

Clark blinks like an idiot. He doesn’t think he’s ever actually been this close to you before. You’re wearing normal-people clothing, instead of a lab coat with the LuthorCorp brand logo. You’ve got sunglasses on the top of your head, and your face is open and relaxed, but that might just be your inherent smugness.

Whatever perfume you use is suffocating him. Clogging his thoughts, smoking out everything but the ringing song of your name.

“Are you the bird?” You ask him, still tilting your head, and it’s kind of like how you look at him during fights.

You know. A loud alarm blares in his head. You know he’s Superman.

Clark laughs weakly, adjusting his glass. “I- Uh- I’m a human man.”

Why the fuck would he say it like that. He never says it like that. He’s been lying about his identity his whole life, and he’s never been such a fool to call himself a ‘human man’-

“Congratulations?” You look like you’re trying not to laugh, and Clark feels his face heat.

There’s the fever again. Your attention is searing, and it’s winding his muscles so tight his hand has to curl into a fist on his knee. Maybe it’s your perfume. Maybe it’s some kind of secret pheromone.

“Are you, um-“ He looks around the empty shelves. “Are you looking for something?”

You tilt your head again. Clark swallows.

“I, uh- I can help you find it.”

“No.” You lean forward, and Clark is frozen in his seat. “I think I found it myself.”

Oh.

No.

The bird. Lois told him her informant would ask for the bird, and he’d have to say he was still growing wings. He remembers the conversation clearly. He even told Lois he thought that was a little convoluted, and she’d laughed.

But now you’re in front of him. And you always make his—incredibly controlled—thoughts all scrambled and messy.

He adjusts his glasses again, clearing his throat. “I’m not a bird.” He says slowly. “I’m still growing wings?”

You smile.

And that’s not the smile he’s seen on you in the lab, or the saccharine, almost siren-like one you gave Guy.

It’s real. It’s a real smile, that makes your eyes shine like stars. The light pours out over you, and you look even more beautiful than before, and Clark didn’t think that was possible.

He didn’t think he’d find himself leaning forward, instead of away. His body drawing itself forward like a boulder being dragged out to sea. He’s not a movable man. He’s trained himself to think and restrain his every movement, every craven or hungry desire, for the safety of everyone around him.

But you smile.

And he can’t do anything but move.

“I’m Clark Kent.” He sticks out a hand, and you glance down with an unreadable glint in your eyes.

“Clark Kent.” You echo, and he nods.

“Sorry I’m not Lois.”

You smile again, at that. It sends a rush through Clark like a drug.

“I’m not.”

You take Clark’s hand. He’d always thought your skin would be cold and scaly, like a crocodile.

It’s warm. Soft and warm, your fingers brushing over his wrist. His head spins, and he swallows on his own, bubbling, confusing thoughts. They’re more bursts of emotion. Sparks you’re making fly through his body, and a sticky feeling over his heart that oozes like honey.

You say your name, and Clark bites down an I know.

I know you. You’re the bane of my existence, and I think you might’ve put Lois under a spell. You’re putting me under one now. Let me go, because I know what you are.

He’s so sure, that he knows what you are.

But you settle into the seat, and smile again, and Clark doesn’t think he knows anything at all.

The first interview goes well, if not a little awkward. Clark stumbles over his words, and finds himself staring at you a little longer than normal. Worse, you don’t seem fazed by it, just smiling right back and batting your eyelashes like some kind of doe he knows is made of teeth.

That’s the truly confusing part. Clark knows you. He thinks he knows you. He was pretty sure, that he knew you.

And the woman sitting across from him at the table is not you.  

“How’d you meet Lois?” He asks casually, as you’re wrapping up. It’s a reasonable question. Naturally curious for anyone, not just Clark, who might have a pit growing in his stomach, that can only be fed by knowing more about you. “I mean- I’ve seen you on the news. You’re close with Luthor. She said she had an informant-“

“Didn’t think it would be me?” You smile again, and he coughs.

“Didn’t think it would be anyone close to him.”

“Well.” You shrug, sliding your sunglass back over your brow. “Close is a very strong word.”

You don’t offer him more than that. He doesn’t get a chance to ask.

When you leave, he stands in the romance section for about three minutes, trying to figure out what just happened. Trying to make sense of a world that’s flipped, and constant in his life being changed.

He hates you. It’s been about a year and a half since you showed up, and Clark has become very certain in the fact that he doesn’t hate anyone, expect for you. Lois would call that an exception that proves the rule.

And suddenly, you’re splitting the rule clean down the middle, with a single smile.

When he gets back to the Daily Planet, he relays almost everything that happened to Lois. He leaves out how he’d stared, and how pretty your eyelashes were, and how when you laugh for real it’s a musical sound. Like a bird, ringing through the air and calling everything else in response. Clark swore he felt a dizzying cloud form in his chest, when he heard your real laugh.

But that’s not something Lois needs to know, so he doesn’t tell her. He doesn’t tell anyone.

He just thinks about it. Over, and over, and over again. He put your next meeting on the calendar. He stares at the date, and finds that pit in his stomach trying to gnaw at time. To get you closer again.

When the day comes, he goes early with an extra coffee in hand. He decides he’s trying to test how much you really trust him. Most villains never accept food or drink from anyone. They’re too paranoid.

The first part of his plan goes wrong when you’re there first. Waiting at the same table as before, reading one of the romance books off the shelf. You don’t look up, when Clark sits across from you.

His foot bumps yours, under the table. He forces himself to ignore how the small touch shakes him like lightning.

“You’re early.” You say, and he smiles.

“We’re here at the same time.”

“I know.” You glare at him over your book. “And I’m early. But I’m always early.”

“You were late last time.”

“I was testing you last time.” You shrug. “I wanted to see if you’d give up, and leave.”

Clark blinks. He’d suspected that. It had been another part of his plan, to try and make you admit that everything you do is calculated and crude in some way.

He really hadn’t expected you to just… admit it.

“Did I pass the test?” He asks, a little stupidly. You finally set the book down, and smile.

 “I don’t know yet.”

“Oh.” He swallows. “Can I ask what my grade is right now? If I’m still being tested?”

Your smile widens. It’s an enchanting sigh. “I’m still here, aren’t I?”

“Yeah. You are.”

Clark wishes he knew what that meant.

He wishes his own plan was better, too. He offers you the coffee, and you take it, but maybe you just like free coffee. He did get it from the fairly expensive place down the street.

Your fingers brush, when you take the cup from his hands. It’s worse than the foot. He’s almost stunned for a second, his eyes locked onto you like you’re a magnet.

He learns nothing. You’re just as restrained and open as the first time, when he finally remembers he’s supposed to be interviewing you. He asks about Luthor’s plans down at the harbor, and you tell him about the deep-sea mining and threat to the environment. He asks if Luthor knows about the risks. You laugh, and it’s a little dry, but still one of the most beautiful sounds he’s ever heard.

“You think he cares?”

Clark knows he doesn’t. He’s just surprised you know, too.

“Well,” he clicks the recorder off, and you raise your brows. “You do work for him. You know him better than I do.”

“Hm.” You take a long sip of your coffee. “I don’t think that’s true.”

“It has to be, doesn’t it?”

“Maybe. But I don’t think it is.”

It’s good to know that, even when you’re being nice, you’re still infuriating. “You’re the closest member of his inner circle.” Clark argues. “You have to at least know a little about him. I only interview him.”

“You interview me. And Superman. Do you not know us?”

Clark swallows. “I know Superman. But- We work closer on things.”

“Things?”

“Yeah. I can’t say anything else.” He sits up a little. “Superhero business.”

You just give him another strange look. “Does he ever talk about me?”

Clark blinks. He thought you just forgot he existed, every time he flew away. “Uh- No?” He’s worried if he talks about you once, he’s never going to shut up. “Why? Do you- What do you think of him?”

“Of Superman?”

Clark nods, and he has to drag himself back from leaning over the table. He doesn’t know why he’d let himself ask that. But it’s too late to take it back.

“I work for Lex Luthor.” You shrug, turning your coffee in your hands. “Opinion is a luxury I’m not afforded.”

He frowns. “Everyone gets an opinion. You can have it privately, but you still must have one.” You must think of me too.

“Maybe I do.”

“So you do.”

“Maybe.”

“You can tell me, if you agree with Luthor that he’s a- a plague sent to destroy humanity-“

“I don’t think that.” Your voice is suddenly harsh, and Clark blinks.

“Then what do you think?”

You tilt your head at him, pulling your lower lip between your teeth. Clark snaps a pencil between his fingers.

Your gaze drops down to the fractured pieces, and you smile again. Clark realizes his breathing is shallow, because—for reasons he’d rather not thing about—this matters. You matter.

“I think he’s good man.” You say slowly. “And I think he’s a hopeful fool, and- Dangerous. To me.”

Clark swallows. He can’t think of anything to say, so he just nods, and goes back to his pre-planned questions.

He thinks about your answer, for the rest of the week. It plays over and over in his mind, and he writes it on scraps of paper at his desk. It should make more sense. He should be able to let it go.

But it’s a part of you. And Clark’s never been good at letting you go at all.

Clark’s dependent on the pheromone theory now. Because if you’re just like this—if you just consume his thoughts and follow him into his dreams, all on your own—he thinks he might be screwed.

He’s screwed.

Clark counts down the days until you meet, and tries to talk to you as much as he possibly can when you’re there. He wants to understand, how you can be the impossibly enchanting woman across from him at the table, and the crude shell of a person who hovers behind Luthor at every press event and meeting.

The woman you are here is good. Amazing. Still made of some barbed wire, but Clark’s getting better at weaving through it. And it’s not even that he’s uncovering that rot he’d always thought you to be made of. You’re just… Not made of it. Not here.

Here, you’re made of flowers and honey and soft, summer fire. Here, Clark can picture you laughing with wind in your hair, teasing him without any venom all the time. He likes everything he learns about you here.

He doesn’t understand how you’re the same person.

“Do you like these books?” He asks, nodding to the shelves of romance, and you shrug.

“So what if I do?”

“Nothing. Everyone- They can like whatever they want. I just… Didn’t peg you to enjoy The Summer of Sin.”

Your face relaxes slightly. “Why not? Do I not look like a romantic?”

Clark swallows. He thinks you look like everything. He barely knows better than to say it. “I’ve imagined you’re more of a nonfiction enjoyer.” He settles on smoothly.

There’s a glint in your eyes. He knows immediately he’s made a mistake.

“You’ve imagined me?”

All the time. Most of his thoughts circle around you, and it’s even worse than before. Clark’s found himself memorizing every detail about you he can scrape, weaving them together like a gorgeous, puzzled tapestry of a woman he knows he’s obsessed with. There’s no use fighting it anymore, when he wakes up and wonders what you’re doing. When he wanders through the day seeing you in every ray of sunlight through the windows and longer shadow on the floor.

He’s hoped, at some point, that he’d find the string of you that unravels the whole thing. That tells him he was right the first time, and you’re no work of art. Just so shiny he’d been blinded, and everything he’d thought the first time had been right.

But that string isn’t coming. And the more Clark learns about you, the more every color he’d painted you with become inverted.

You’re not shiny up close. You’re just… Glorious. Like water catching on the ocean, exposing the glittering rocks and life below.

“I- I don’t- Not in- I think about you, yes, but-“

“What do you think about me?”

Clark’s face must be burning red. He really wishes you’d stop looking at him. “A lot of things.”

That unreadable look flashes over your features. “Are they good?”

There’s something oddly heavy, in your voice. Clark can almost feel it in his hands, fluttering and delicate.

“Mostly. Yes.” He tries to offer you a smile. “But you are strange.”

You scowl. “I am not strange-“

“You like romance books-“

“Which is very normal.” You raise your chin, and Clark grins. It gets cuter every time. “They’re fun, Clark. Sometimes, you just need fun.”

“What’s fun about them?” He really wants to know. He wants to understand you.

“I- I don’t know.” You glare down at your hands. “It’s escapism. You get to imagine that you’re a princess or something, instead of- Just another fucking person.”

Clark frowns. “I don’t think you’re just another person.”

You snort. “Yeah. I know.”

“I’m serious, you- You’re a genius-“

“I’m tired.” You say firmly, and Clark realizes that you are.

There are bags under your eyes, almost perfectly covered by concealer. Your lips aren’t chapped, but there’s a little puff on the lower one from chewing, and your shoulders slumps. He doesn’t know how he never noticed before.

Maybe you just never showed him. Never let him see.

“I know,” you speak slowly, not looking him fully in the eyes. “That these books are stupid. But I like them. They- They help.”

“Help? With-“

“Everything.”

“Oh.” He swallows. “I could help. If you ever- Needed it. With anything.”

And he means it. He really would.

You smile at him, and he wants to ask if you think about him too. Not Superman—a hopeful fool, dangerous to me—but just Clark.

Instead, he just smiles back, and reveals in the way he sees your gaze relax.  

He likes you like this. You’re really not that different, when he thinks about it, and he doesn’t understand how he was ever so wrong.

Clark is beginning to give up on understanding.

He just wants to know you.

He’s back in your lab, for the first time since he took over for Lois. It’s about the docks, and the deep-sea mining, and the pump that you told him—told Clark, at least—was going to be put in the water. Jimmy found out that the pump was going to be filling the bay with a toxic chemical that’s been compared to a truth serum.

Clark can’t understand why you’d tell him, if it was your design.

And he doesn’t understand why you’re just lying on the floor of your lab, scrolling on your phone when he arrives.

He clears his throat, and you sigh, craning your neck to frown at him.

“You’re here.”

“You and Luthor are going to pump the water with chemicals that will alter the free will of the people in Metropolis.” He’d been rehearsing, on the flight over. He’s trying to sound more heroic, and not dwelling on why. “Hand over the pump, and we can do this the easy way.”

Your lips twitch. “You mean the way where I kick your ass, and then walk away untouched.”

“I don’t know if you kick my-“

“Yes, I would.”

Yes, you would. “Just- Tell me where the pump is, please.”

“Oh, there’s no pump.”

Clark blinks. “What.”

“I don’t have a pump. I made that up.”

“Wha- Why would you do that-“

“I was testing something.” You shrug, patting the floor next to you. “Sit down.”

Clark squints at the floor next to you. There’s nothing under it. When he looks at the ceiling, there’s nothing there either. You’re just… Asking him to sit down.

He pulls his cape behind him, and sits with his legs crossed at your side. You flop back down, your knees pulling up and your arms around your stomach. Clark doesn’t expect the silence to last so long. He’s not sure what to do with his hands, especially as they start to itch. Something about you is magnetic. There’s a wrinkle in your brow he wants to soothe with his thumb, but that might end with him getting shot again-

Your eyes suddenly lock onto his, and Clark swallows. In the low light, they glow like gemstones. He thinks he could get lost in them, if he was allowed to. Even if he wasn’t really sure what he’d been diving into, he’s come to find that you don’t exactly fall into predictably.

He likes trying.

Clark thinks he might want to learn everything about you, until he’s the only person in the world who understands.

“Hi.” You whisper, your eyes still locked onto his.

Your voice is softer than he’s ever heard it before. It’s unsettling, like silence before a storm.

“Are you alright?” He asks kindly, and your eyes narrow.

“Should I not be?”

“I don’t know. That’s kind of why I’m asking.”

He tries to smile at you, welcoming and warm. Your lips twitch. That’s better than nothing.

Even if you sigh, and look back up to the ceiling. Leaving Clark leaning a little forward, wondering if it’s wrong to lean closer, and try to drag your attention back.

“Is there something you need help with?” He offers, and you let out a soft, huffing laugh.

“No. Not that you can help with.”

He frowns. “I don’t know. I- I’m actually pretty good.” He clears his throat. “At helping with things. It’s my job, in case you didn’t know.”

You laugh, and this time it’s a little louder. “You know what, I think I’ve heard.”

“You think?”

“I watch the news.”

“Ah.” Clark tries to read further into your expression. He doesn’t think he’s very good at it. “And what do you think, when you’re watching the news?”

“Of you?” You’re looking at him again. He sits up. He doesn’t want you to look away.

Clark nods. “I, um- I know they do a lot of pieces on me.” He clears his throat. “I read the Daily Planet.”

“Oh, you read it?”

“I’m not a big TV person.” He shrugs lamely, and you laugh again.

“Sure.”

The silence lingers, but it’s not uncomfortable. Just… Odd. Clark doesn’t think he’d ever been in your lab this long without suffering an injury. It’s kind of nice. When he looks up at the ceiling, he realizes there are stars painted all over the tiles. That must be new. He would’ve seen it before, if it wasn’t-

“I had a bit of an… episode.” You murmur, and he thinks you might be reading his mind. “Last night. I started doing that, and couldn’t stop, and now…”

You trail off, and Clark takes a deep breath through his nose. He can only smell you, and that intoxicating perfume. “You air out the paint already?”

“I used a spray.”

“That you… invented?”

You smile. “That I bought from Costco.”

“Oh.” He’s making himself an idiot again. “I didn’t know you could paint.”

“I don’t anymore.” You’re silent for another moment, and Clark tracks your every breath. “You know, you’re from there.”

You point at the ceiling, and Clark cranes his neck to see the sky. You’re pointing to a cluster of stars a few tiles over, and it takes him a second to understand what you mean. You didn’t just paint the sky.

You mapped it. The constellations, accurate to the clear nights in Kansas he remembers so well.

And it feels like you mapped a part of him.

Clark looks down at you, and finds you watching him silently. He lays down slowly, just so your shoulders are brushing. When he offers you another smile, you return it.

He looks back to the sky, and lets himself exhale.

You’re not going to attack him, and he’s not going to ask why.

He’s just going to lie here, and watch the unmoving stars.

“I wanted to be an alien when I was a kid.”

Your words are sudden. As far as Clark had known, you’d been talking about LuthorCorp coverups. “Huh?”

“When I was like, five.” You cross your arms, leaning back in your chair. “I wanted to be an alien.”

“Oh.” Clark blinks. “Why?”

“Because I wanted to be something.”

“You are something.”

“Well, I wanted to be more.”

“What, an evil scientist?”

You go silent, and Clark wants to kick himself. That was rude, he’s never rude like that, you just- You do something to him. You make his brain fuzzy and his manners fade, clinging with sunken claws for control of his tongue and hands. He’s been thinking about touching you a lot. About grazing his hand over the small of your back when you walked by, or hugging you before you leave, to see how you’d fit in his arms.

He thinks you’d fit well. That whatever is making you tired and sad, he’d be able to wrap over you and fend it away. He’d keep you afloat like a lifejacket.

If you dragged him down with you, he might let you do that too.

He doesn’t think you would. Right now, you’re staring at your hand, lips pressed in a tight line, and Clark feels like a jerk.

“I- I didn’t mean-“

“It’s okay.”

“No, I’m sorry-“

“It’s fine.” You snap, and Clark swallows. “I’m fine.”

“You, um- You kind of don’t sound fine.”

“Well, I am.”

Clark doesn’t know how to push against you. He has all the strength in the world, but you’re the most immovable things he’s ever seen. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

You’re silent again, and Clark adjusts his glasses. Lois is going to kill him, if he just ruined this. And he won’t even fight back. He’d deserve it, for making you look so sad.

“I’m not evil.” You mutter, and Clark sits up.

“I know-“

“But I’m not-“ You shake your head, still looking at your hands. “I’m not you.”

Clark frowns. He doesn’t understand what that means. “I mean… Yeah. You’re not Lois either. Or Luthor.”

You laugh, but it’s not full. It’s that hollow laugh you use, when Clark doesn’t understand something. “No. I mean- Yes, but that’s not what I meant.”

“What did you mean?” He asks quickly.

You stare at him. For a long, long moment, you’re looking right at Clark, and he’d swear the world stopped spinning if he didn’t feel the ground slipping from under his feet as his body tries to crash, face-first, into yours.

“I don’t know.” You say softly. “But- I wanted to be an alien.”

The words are supposed to mean something to him. He can hear it, ringing in your tone.

But either he’s not smart enough to understand, or you’re too smart, and you’ve dumbed it down for him so much it means nothing anymore.

“I didn’t want to be an alien.” He says carefully, trying to test the waters. “But- I wanted to be a farmer. Like my parents.”

You tilt your head at him, and Clark clears his throat.

“I think you’d be a good farmer. You’d like the sky. The quiet. You- You’d like it.”

He doesn’t think you’d like the bugs or the mud, but he doesn’t say that. That’s not important.

All that matters is your small smile, and the way you relax again.

And Clark thinks this really might be something big. Bigger than just an obsession.

He feels his whole world ease, when you smile. And he thinks it might be love.

He goes to your lab, for no good reason. There’s nothing for him to fight you about, no false plans to investigate. He just wants to see you, and he thinks he might be welcome.

He still hovers outside the window for five minutes, just to talk himself into it. Last time might have been a fluke, and he’s about to get shot again.

Clark decides that it’s worth the risk.

“Why were you outside for so long?” You’re lying on the floor again, and Clark sighs.

“Cameras?”

“Mhm.”

He smiles to himself, sitting at your side. “I was trying to figure out if you’d try to kill me again, if I came inside.”

You scoff. “I have never tried to kill you.”

“I have injuries that say different-“

“If I wanted to kill you, you’d be dead.” You look right at Clark as you say it, and he balls his hand into a fist.

He wants to trace the line of your teasing smile. He wants to memorize it.

It’s one of the last things he has to memorize about you. The most forbidden thing.

And he wants it more than anything.

“I believe that.” He says, and your smile widens.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Clark lies down, and you turn your head to hold his gaze.

Your breath is warm, fanning over his face. Your hands are crossed over your stomach, and there are tiny little divets in your face that Clark is only able to really notice this close. Your eyes are a little uneven, and your teeth a little crooked, and it’s all perfect.

“Can I ask you something?” You breathe, and he nods without thinking.

“Anything.”

You hum, fidgeting with your fingers as you look back up to the ceiling. “What do you think of me?”

It’s not what Clark expects, but you have such a habit of stunning him, he’s learned to recover fast. Clark clears his throat, watching your profile like if he stares enough, he’ll close his eyes and see you clearer than he does in his dreams.

“You don’t have to answer-“

“I think you’re a good person.” Clark murmurs, and you look back to him with wide eyes. “And I think you’re angry, and you should be, but- I think you’re a threat.”

“A threat?” Your brow furrows, and Clark shakes his head.

“To you.”

“You think I’m a threat to myself-“

“And to me.”

“I- But not anyone else?”

Clark shakes his head. “No. Not to anyone else.”

You laugh that hollow sound, and look back to the ceiling. “Someone once told me I was evil.”

Clark cringes. “He was an idiot-“

“He was right.”

You look to him, and there’s something so sad and heavy in your eyes, Clark is sure the only way to get rid of it is to burn it away. 

But all he can do is shake his head. “No. He wasn’t.”

“I’m a threat to you.”

“I know.”

“You’re Superman.”

“I’m aware.”

That gets a tiny smile. “Historically, threats to Superman are evil.”

Clark pretends to consider your words for a second, even though he already knows his answer.

“There are different ways to be a threat. There’s offensive, and defensive, and- Distractions.”

“Is that what I am? A distraction?”

Clark lets himself smile at that. You have no idea.

“I’m here, aren’t I.”

You laugh softly, your eyes still not leaving his.

“I read a romance book last week,” he adds, trying to get you to understand without spooking you away.

“Did you like it.”

“It was enlightening.”

“What,” you snort. “About sex?”

“No.” He snorts. “I’m- I know about that.”

“You’re a boy scout, Supes, it’s not insane-“

“I have everything humans do.” He gives you an amused look, and suddenly, you’re silent, your eyes shining in the dark.

“Yeah?” Your voice is barely a breath, and Clark shrugs.

“Yep. There were just some things in that book I don’t think anyone can do. Or- I guess, but it would take a lot of work. And most human men don’t have that stamina.”

He’s expecting a little, smart remark of and what, you do? But you’re just silent. Gaping at him, your face softly flushed. Clark isn’t sure what he did.

But he likes how relaxed you look. If it’s because of his conversation, he’s more than happy to offer more.

“I might read another, if you have any recommendations.”

“Really?”

He nods. “I didn’t like it a whole lot, it was very… explicit. But I’d read another.”

He doesn’t say for you.

But with the way your eyes widen slightly, he thinks you understand just fine.

“I’ll bring you some on Wednesday.” You whisper, and Clark grins. Gifts. That’s progress.

It’s only hours later, when he’s alone in his apartment, that he realizes what he said.

How, just like always, you scrambled him. You blurred lines.

Superman doesn’t know about the romance books. Clark does. But he just slipped into you like always.

Clark doesn’t swear, expect under two circumstances.

Sex, and when he’s really fucked up.

And when he realizes he’s all but told you he’s superman, there’s only one thing he can think.

Shit.

You’re not there, the next day.

Clark goes to the usual section, and you’re not there waiting for him. He waits until the librarians start to look at him weird, then he sends you a short, worried email, and leaves.

You don’t respond. He’s checking every five minutes, and the hours creep slowly as he refreshes, over and over and over, hoping this time he’ll just get a sign that you’re alive.

He doesn’t think you’d turn him over to Luthor. You’ve been working against Luthor for a while, with Lois, and even if you wanted to—which you wouldn’t—you’d have to admit that you’d been meeting him as Clark, and letting him into your lab.

Or you could just lie. You’re quite a good liar.

No.

You wouldn’t tell Luthor.

Clark still feels like his skin his trying to crawl off his body, the longer he waits. He considers asking Lois if you ever stood her up, but he already knows the answer.

You know. You know.

And now, you’re gone.

Clark drags his feet home. He’d flown to your lab after leaving the Daily Planet, and you weren’t in your lab, or any of the LuthorCorp building. Some part of him should be glad, if you just picked up and ran. Maybe you can find a farm, far away from Luthor, and live a nice, quiet life.

But most of him just misses you. And is worried, and wants you to come back. It would be creepy, to scour the whole planet to try and find you. And it would probably take a few days, if he’s really looking. But he could do it.

He’s trying to remember how much PTO he has banked, when he climbs the stairs to his apartment. You can’t have gone that far, unless you used a portal. Then you could be anywhere. If you’re on another planet, that’s going to take weeks, and if you’re in another galaxy that might be months-

You’re on the couch.

Clark opens his door, and finds you on his couch.

You smile at him, like you didn’t just break into his apartment. “Hi.”

“I- What are you-“

“I didn’t want to show up at the Daily Planet. Would have been asking for open fire.”

“Asking for- What the heck are you talking about-“

You pull up your oddly dirty shirt, and Clark feels his bones get heavy and cold. There’s a pattern of deep, purpling bruises all over your stomach.

You’re hurt. He’d been so stupefied by your presence, he somehow hadn’t noticed you were hurt.

His bag slips from his hand, as he rushes to your side. You wince, hissing through your teeth when his fingers graze one of the marks, and Clark swallows down his blurred anger and panic.

“You- Who-“

“Luthor.” You mutter. “Turns out he also has cameras.”

Clark’s gaze shoots up, and he finds you already watching him. “And he did this.”

“He got angry I wouldn’t tell him who Superman is.” You say flatly. “When we were clearly so cozy.”

His hands fist. If he went now, he’d be back within ten minutes, and Luthor would be chained to the top of the Eiffel tower, his bald head freezing off.

But you’re in front of him now. And that’s what needs to matter.

“Okay. We- We need to get you in a bath. I have a bath.”

“Wow, aren’t we fancy.”

He gives you a flat look. “Don’t sass me. I can leave you on the couch, you know.”

You tilt your head at him, and smile. “No, you won’t.”

Clark stands up, braces his hands on his hips, and glares at you. You glare right back, and he doesn’t know why he thought he’d ever possibly win this.

He groans, ducks down, and picks you up. You smile at him, and he sighs.

“I know. Don’t- You don’t have to say it.”

Your smile just widens, and Clark thinks he can lose a lot of fights, if they make you smile.

While you take the bath, he waits in his kitchen. You’re going to need to ice that, but he doesn’t actually have ice packs. He’s never needed them.

He flies up a little north to get them. You’ll be fine on your own for five minutes, and he doesn’t want to accidentally get you ice that melts too fast, or isn’t cold enough, or anything less acceptable than you deserve.

It’s a welcome distraction, too. From thoughts of you, in his bathtub. Naked and breathing slowly, your thighs pressed together underwater, or spread wide, baring you up to be seen-

Clark sticks his face in the snow. This is the last bit of control he’s managed to keep, the last leash he’s still on. He won’t let it slip now.

You’re wrapped in a towel on the couch, when he gets back. Clark frowns, and opens his mouth.

“I’m not made of glass.” You snap before he can speak, and he sighs.

“I know, but you are injured. It’s not good to put extra strain, when your body is already trying to recover-“

“Are you a doctor now, too?”

Clark stares at your scowl, and it slides off in a second. You look back to your hands, your voice turning into that smaller one he doesn’t think you use with anyone else.

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay, you’ve had a long day-“

“No. I- I was- I’m sorry.” You glare at him again, like you’re challenging him to try and refuse the apology again.

He wouldn’t dare.

“Okay.” He approaches you slowly, holding up his makeshift ice. “I- I got this for you.”

You frown at him. “A wet hand?”

Clark follows your gaze, and groans. He’d spent too long staring at you, and forgotten to wrap it in cloth. The ice melted.

“Alright, I’ll just go get more-“

“Don’t you have frost breath.”

Oh. He does.

But he wishes he protested more about that being a bad idea. It means he has to kneel down in front of you, very carefully open up your towel, and pretend he can’t see the underside of your breast as he blows on your stomach. Your whole body twitches under his hands, pinning you gently to the couch.

He’s still in control.

“How’d you know where I live?” He asks between breaths, and you grunt.

“I looked it up the day after we met.”

Clark looks up at you in surprise. “What? Did you do that with Lois-“

“No. Lois isn’t Superman.”

His fingers curl on your sides, and you blink at him with an oddly soft shine in your eyes.

The day you met. The day.

“You’ve-“

“Yeah.”

“But- I was wearing the glasses-“

“I know.” You smirk. “How ever did I figure it out.”

Clark rubs a hand over his face. “No, you don’t understand, they have this- It’s like a magic trick, that’s literally supposed to be impossible.”

“Shit.” You laugh weakly, your body curving from the pain. “I think you should ask for a refund.”

Clark chuckles, pinning you a little tight to the couch. He doesn’t want you to be able to move too much. You might get more hurt.

“Was it something I said?” He asks, and you shake your head.

“I- I just knew, okay? That’s it. It doesn’t have to be a big thing.”

Clark thinks it does have to be a big thing. It should be a huge thing, that you’ve known the whole time, and just… said nothing.

But you’re still injured. And Luthor might be looking for you.

So he just sighs again and blows on your stomach. Your back arches into him, this time. If he couldn’t see the flutter of your eyes and ripple of your body under his hands—clearly trying to react as little as possible—he’d think you were torturing him on purpose.

“You should stay here.” He mutters. “Until it’s safe.”

You scoff. “No. I’m not doing that.”

Clark frowns. “Luthor isn’t going to let up until he finds you-“

“I can disappear-“

“Not right now. Not like this.” He grazes his thumb over your bare skin, and a noise awfully close to a moan escapes your lips.

“Clark, fuck-“ Your head tips back, your hand shooting into his hair, and that was a really bad idea.

Your moan might be the most addictive sound he’s ever heard. That’s a selfish thing for his focus to be, right now.

“You’re staying here.” He says firmly, then pauses. “Or- Lois can take you. If that would be more comfortable.”

He doesn’t want it to be. He wants you here, where he can keep you safe himself, and talk to you all the time. But it’s not about him. 

“No.” You snap. “I’ll go in the morning-“

“I’m not letting you do that.”

“Oh, you’re not letting me-“

“I’m not just- Just going to sit here and let you walk out, only to find out that Luthor grabbed you and now I have to go save you!” Clark’s voice is rising, but you don’t balk. You just roll your eyes, and lean your head back on the sofa.

“Please. You- You don’t have to do that.”

“Do what? Stop you from getting yourself hurt?! You work with Luthor, you know what he’s capable of-“

“You know what I’m capable of.” You hiss, and Clark shakes his head.

“And I know you’re a better person than he is, you won’t go to the same- The same insane extremes-“

“Won’t I? You said it, you said I’m an evil scientist-“

“You know I didn’t mean that-“

“Don’t I?”

“Yes, you do-“

“Do I-“

“Stop doing that!” Clark shouts, and your mouth snaps shut.

He doesn’t know when, but he’d risen up on his knees. Your faces are only inches apart, your eyes wide and lips parted, and for once Clark’s got you completely quiet. He grabs your knee lightly. He doesn’t want you to go away. 

“You are infuriating.” He mutters, holding your gaze. “And confusing, and I- I don’t understand howsomeone so… So-“ He shakes his head. “So you ended up with someone like Luthor. But I know that you’re not evil. And I know that Lex- He doesn’t forgive grievances. He won’t just let you go, and I’m not letting you get hurt.”

You stare at him for another handful of minutes. When you speak again, your voice is small. “Why?”

“Why?”

“Why would you care.” You whisper. “I- I know what I’ve done-“

“It was never really you-“

“Then what I helped do, and I- I was just young, and stupid, and I didn’t have a lot of choices and he listened but- I still-“ You reach up, grabbing the collar of his shirt. Like he’s the last thing you have to hold onto in the world. “You stopped. You stopped asking me to stop, and you- I thought you gave up.”

Clark’s lips twitch despite himself. In way, he had given up.

He’d stop trying to convince himself there was anything about you that needed to be fixed.

“You’re not exactly a moveable person,” he mutters your name, leaning a little closer. “And I- I guess I just decided I didn’t care.”

“You didn’t care-“

“What you were doing. Or- Why. I trusted you.” Clark swallows. Your noses are bumping, and your skin is warm under his hands. “And I want to help. Let me help.”

You stare at him, and for a second, he thinks you’re going to try and pull away. So he says the only thing he’s been able to think of you, letting it fall from his lips with ease.

“I love you.” Clark strokes his thumb over that furrow in your brow, and your breath hitches. “Please. Let me help.”

Silence lingers again. It’s the loudest he’s ever heard.

And this time, you don’t break it.

You just nod.

Your eyes fall to Clark’s lips, then dart back up. Your breathing is coming shallow, and your skin is getting warmer. Clark’s drowning in you, in being this close, and then he smells it.

Need.

You need him, and he wants to give. To show you that something can be soft, that you’re worthy of every bit of care he has to offer. He leans in, just enough to brush his lips over yours.

You open for him in a second, a moan falling from your lips.

And Clark lets everything in him snap.

He surges up. Grabs your jaw to keep you steady, and kisses you with everything he’s let wind up inside him for months. His lips move against yours in a smooth rhythm, his tongue tracing over the line of your teeth before pressing down your throat. He can’t find himself to have enough of you, doesn’t think there can be enough. You taste a little salty, and your moans are soft and loud, and it’s just as addictive as the rest of you.

Clark presses over you, careful that his weight doesn’t crush you. You tip your head even further back, until your eyes are fluttering whenever he pulls away to catch the shortest breath. The kisses are sloppy, like neither of you can bear to pull apart for a second. His hand on your thigh wanders up, tracing over soft, hidden skin under your towel, and you shiver. For a second he’s ready to pull back, check that he’s not hurting you more, but you’re kissing him with the same desperate fervor as before. You let out a sweet little gasp when Clark squeezes your thigh, and his lips twitch.

You like.

You like this plenty.

Clark tips your head a little to the side, dragging his lips down your throat, letting his hand knead against your skin. You’re reactive, every light touch making your whole body shake. Clark has to bite down a groan, as the smell of your arousal starts to flood his senses. He nips under your neck, and a breathy whine leaves your lips, one hand shooting into his hair.

“Clark- Oh- Oh my god-“

“I know.” He mutters, sucking on the small hurt. “You got no idea, how long I wanted this. Thought I was going crazy, sweetheart, you have no idea-“

You make a mumbled sound, pulling on his hair, and Clark glances up to find you staring at him with shining, doe-like eyes. It knocks the air out of him, and that’s not supposed to be possible.

But you defy a lot of things, for him. What’s just one more?

“You,” he drops his brow against yours, and your hands press flat on his chest. “You are beautiful.”

Your lower lip wobbles, and Clark kisses you slowly. Lazily. He’s got you, pliable and wanting below him. If he’s taking anything he’s offered, he’s doing it for you, not to you.

And it pays off immediately, when you start to work yourself up. Your kisses turn frenzied, your hips rolling up into his hand, and Clark’s fingers brush against wetness, dribbling down your thighs. He groans against your lips, and is rewarded with another high, breathless plea.

“Want you.” He mutters, keeping his hand firmly planted down, closer to your knee. “I’ll be gentle, swear it, just- Want you-“

You nod, your mouth slack, and Clark pulls up with a small frown.

His hand on your head drags down to cup your jaw, his thumb tracing over your swollen lips. They hang open, and he has a feeling if he pressed his thumb forwards, you’d take it with shiny eyes and a moan.

But you’re just staring at him. All your bravado is gone, and you’re just blinking at Clark with a glazed, lustful expression.

“Can you say you want this?” He rasps, pressing his brow lightly over yours. “Tell me, baby. I can give you anything, but- You gotta tell me.”

You nod again, and Clark gently taps your lips.

“Words.”

“Yes.” You whisper, your fingers digging against his skin. “Clark, please, yes. I- I want you, want you so bad, please-“

Clark kisses you again, a little worried if he lets you keep going, you’re not going to be able to stop. You moan happily against his lips, and whine when he pulls away again.

He presses his brow back against yours, and lets his gaze drag slowly down your body. The towel has fully fallen away, exposing you to the room, and he thinks he’d be drooling, if he had a little less self-control.

“Holy…” He drags one hand slowly down your bare side, feeling the blood rush into his cock. “Fuck, baby, you’re- You’re amazing.”

Clark expects a teasing response, about the swearing. Instead he only gets silence, and when he glances back up, you’re staring at him with the widest, most flustered expression he’s ever seen. He squeezes your waist, and your hand flies up to cup his cheek. Clark smiles, and kisses the inside of your wrist, watching your breath catch from such a small touch.

Just to test, he moves his hand from your thigh to just under your breast, cupping your ribs and letting his thumb graze over your nipple. The reaction is immediate. You shudder, eyes batting and a long, musical whine filling the room.

Clark raises his brows, and your flush deepens, your eyes darting away. He can’t have that.

He mutters your name gently, and you shake your head, still avoiding his gaze.

“I- I’m fine-“

“You don’t look it.” He says, rising fully up so no matter where you try to look, you’re going to see him. “Sweetheart, I need you all into this-“

“I am all- You know-“

“I don’t. And you’re not looking at me.”

You sigh, dragging your face back, but keeping your eyes squeezed shut. Clark frowns, worried that your injuries are worse than he thought, and you’re trying to push through it for his sake when he should be taking care of you and letting you rest-

“I’m not…” You take a heavy breath, your nose scrunched in the most adorable way he’s ever seen.

Clark says your name, and you shake your head, your arms wrapping around your stomach.

“I don’t do this.” You blurt, body curling into the cushion. “I don’t- I- Sex isn’t- I have a job.”

He blinks at you. “I… Also have a job-“

“You have a life.” You cut him off with a mumble. “I- I work. And I go home. And I look at the internet, then I work again, and I- I don’t- This.” You gesture between your bodies. “I don’t do this.”

Clark stares at you for a second. Your flustered, embarrassed expression, your heartbeat pounding in his ears. “Do you… Want to-“

“Yes.” Your eyes shoot open, pleading on his. “But- I just-“

You shake your head, looking back to some random spot on his shoulder.

“I’m not- I’m not good at it.” Your voice is small. “And you’re- You’re-“

Just to test something, Clark squeezes under your ribs again. A loud moan falls from your lips, your eyes wide on his as your whole body grinds up in response to the touch.

“Clark…” You whine, and he grins, ducking down to kiss you, slow and soft.

You melt right into him, another pretty sound escaping when he moves his full hand to palm at your breast.

“Oh- Oh my-“

“I’ve got you.” He kisses away your flustered pleas. “I can take care of it, baby, you don’t need to do anything.”

Your nose scrunches again, and Clark thinks you’d protest if you weren’t already so dazed from light touches.

He needs to work you up as much as he’s allowed. Needs to see what you’re like when you’re nothing but putty in his hands, because he loves your smart mouth, but he also loves the softness that only he gets to see.

This part of you, molten and writhing as the kisses grow more intense, is all Clark’s.

He drops one hand, keeping the other firmly planted on your breast, and starts to tease over your soaked folds. You arch into him, and he presses back down gently, giving you a stern look.

“I’ve got it.”

“Clark-“

He kisses your neck and you moan, your fingers tangling in his hair.

“Let me, baby.” He mutters against your skin, his thumb dragging over your clit. “Please.”

You nod, your body already going limp under his hands, and he grins.

Clark starts to kiss down your body, letting his hand against your core slowly work you up.

“You’re soaked.” He open-mouth kisses your neglected breast, petting your pussy with two fingers, letting them dip into your fluttering entrance with every touch. “You like me this much, sweetheart. ‘Cause I know how much I like you.”

He slaps your cunt lightly, and grins at the loud whine of delight that tears from your lips.

“There you go.” He slides two fingers slowly inside you, biting back a groan at how easy they go in, your walls fluttering around him. “That’s it.” He licks your nipple, scissoring his fingers slowly, stretching you open. “That’s a good girl, takin’ it so good for me.”

Oh, you like that. Your clench tight around him, dripping down his fingers, and Clark groans against your skin. Just the smell of your need is intoxicating, he needs to taste you or he thinks he might go mad.

“Lookin’ so pretty for me, sweet girl.” He kisses down your stomach, careful of your injuries. “Shit, your pussy is tight, bet it’s gonna feel so good ‘round my cock-“

You moan loudly, and Clark grins, tongue tracing over your hip bone as his fingers drag over your walls, looking for that gummy spot that’s going to give him what he wants. He finds it fast, and marvels in the way your whole body trembles, your fingers pulling weakly at his hair like you’re not sure what to do with the pleasure he’s giving you.

He watching your mouth hang open, as he crooks his fingers and starts to rub inside of you. Another lewd sound falls from your lips, and it’s the best thing Clark’s ever heard. He kisses the inside of your thigh, then the opposite thigh, then right over your clit. He keeps himself feather light and teasing, watching your body quiver with anticipation. He presses hard inside you, hovering his lips right over the little button, and grins.

“Relax for me, baby.” He orders, and you whine, but try. Clark can see how much you’re trying, but he’s already wound you up too much.

“I need- Clark-“

“I know. I’ve got you.” He uses his free hand to pull your pussy lips over from your clit, exposing the swollen nerves fully.

He blows on it once, starting to rub his fingers furiously inside you, and that’s all it takes.

The sight of you coming might be the best thing he’s ever seen. You’re gorgeous, shaking and writhing above him, the sound leaving you sounding like a siren call, his name the only word possible to make out between your moans. He needs more. He needs all of it.

Clark starts to lick your clit, light and fast, and your orgasm drags on. You won’t stop spasming around his fingers, still working you open, and your eyes get impossibly wide as you realize what he’s doing.

“Clark- Fuck- Oh-“ Your head throws back, your thighs wrapping tight around his head. “Oh- Oh- Oh my god-“

He doesn’t need to come up for air. He doesn’t need air anymore, not when he has this. He shoves his face fully into your pussy, starting to pump his fingers in time with the work of his tongue, and in no time your thighs are trembling, your body limp from the second orgasm he drags out. You’re gushing all over his face, your pussy so oversensitive that when he pulls out and just traces his fingers over your hole, your body arches like he’s fucking you into the couch.

You’re more than ready for him, but he still takes his time. He was right. You taste better than you smell, and he thinks he could get drunk on it. Clark drags his tongue down to your entrance, letting himself lap up your release with a loud moan. He’s so hard it hurts, and you’re so perfect, he might be about to blow it in his pants.

It’s an effort, but he pushes himself back up over you. You’re blinking at him all doe-eyed again, and he smiles. When he leans down to kiss you, you’re somehow more desperate than before.

“That good?” He asks softly, and you nod.

“So good.” You moan. “So- Oh my god-“

Clark’s fumbling with his belt buckle as you scratch at his chest, and you whimper against his lips as he drags the head of his cock against your puffy pussy. He marvels at the way you’re already trying to relax, your hips angling up to invite him in.

“You that desperate for some cock, baby?” He teases gently, and you nod like a bobblehead. “You want me to fill this pussy up, fuck you ‘till you can’t walk?”

“Fuck,” you breathe out, your head tipping back like you don’t even have the strength to keep it up. “Clark- I- I-“

He kisses you deeply, muttering against your lips. “Say it. Say you want me, sweetheart, beg for me-“

“Clark-“

“You can do it,” he taps the head of him against your clit, and you squeak. “You’re so smart, you know how to say please-“

“Please.” You breathe, your eyes glossy, voice barely a breath.. “Please, please, fuck- please, I love you, I need you so bad-“

Clark slams over you, his head getting clouded as it absorbs your words. You love him. You love him.

He’d give you the world.

“Good girl.” He grunts, just to see you get all pretty and flustered about it, even as his dick grinds against your drenched cunt. “That’s my good girl, love you so much- You- Fuck- You have no idea-“

And he feels a swell of pride, at how well you’re reacting just to his words. You’re restless below him, not taking anything but just silently begging, and he’s going to give you it all.

“Lie down,” he kisses you lightly, guiding you onto your back in the cushions, hiking one leg up over his shoulder and pressing the other back into your chest. You pussy is on full display, letting his rub it gently as you settle into the folded position. He looks up to find you gaping at his cock, and he grins.

“You- You’re-“

“I know.” He clears his throat. He tries not to think about it. It’s far from the most important thing about him. “I’m gonna be gentle-“

“I- I don’t know- I don’t think I can take it-“

“Yeah, you can.” He leans down, kissing you sweetly. “You will.”

You whine doubtfully, but Clark knows what he’s doing. He keeps his lips working against yours, his thumb rubbing your clit slowly as he starts to slowly push himself inside. Your mouth falls into a pretty little O, and he chuckles, kissing the corner of your mouth.

“I know.” He coos, rubbing a little firmer. “You’re doin’ so good for me, sweet girl, taking me-“ He bites back a groan as you wrap around him, warm and gummy and perfect. “You’re takin’ me so well, you’ve got it, almost there.”

You moan beneath him, and the sound vibrates around Clark’s dick. He has to bite his tongue, to stop himself from coming right there. He’s really not sure how long he’s going to last, but nobody can blame him.

Not with you, cockdrunk and gaping under him. He lets you adjust, when he bottoms out, and your breathing is shallow and breathy in his ear. He coos the best praise he can, while also trying to drag himself back under control.

When he rises up, dragging his hips slowly back, your arms wrap around his neck, and he groans.

“You feel so good.” He groans. “So fuckin’ good, I- Jesus.”

He pushes forward again, and you look up at him like he’s more than a god. More than the hero.

You look at him like he’s the sun itself, and he’s shining just for you.

He thinks he is.

So again, he lets himself snap.

Clark starts his pace slow and lazy, making sure he’s angled to drag over your g-spot with every thrust. He keeps his voice low, kissing all over your face, helping you through it.

“That’s it.” He mutters. “That’s a good girl, all pretty and dumb for me, you’re letting it feel good, aren’t you sweetheart?” He taps your cheek, pressing forward a little harder, and grins at your whimper. “Come on, you’re so good at telling me what you’re thinking-“

“More.” You breathe out, and Clark swallows. “More, Clark, more-“

“Yes, ma’am.” He grunts, slamming his lips over yours, and maybe another time he’ll be able to find it in him to tease you.

Today, he just needs to give.

He picks up pace without any further warning, and finds his own words slipping away fast. You squeeze around him, every time he bullies that soft spot inside of you, and the sound of your breathless gasps mixed with his cock slamming in and out of your cunt is almost too much for him to bear. He busies himself with kissing you everywhere he can reach, letting his hands wander to memorize every spot that makes you arch further into him, making the angle deeper, until he’s pressing against your cervix.

“Shit,” he groans, pressing his face deep into your neck. “Gonna cum, baby, need- Where do you-“

You don’t answer with words. You lock your arms around him tighter, rolling your hips up and keeping him thrusting, shallow and rough, against you. He’d laugh if his head wasn’t fogged with your touch, your body moving so well against his.

Clark pushes his hand between your bodies, rubbing your clit back and forth as fast as he can. You shriek, overwhelmed by the sensation, and try to crawl away, but Clark pulls you tight into his chest.

“Can’t- Can’t take another-“

“Yes, you can.” He grunts, kissing your open mouth. “You can do it, baby, do it for me, come on-“

You cum with a scream of his name, and Clark feels something hot and wet flooding over his dick, as you contract tight around him. You’re squirting, gushing over his cock, and it drives him right over the edge. He feels himself snap, his balls slapping against your ass as he fucks into your through his release, your name falling from his lips like a prayer.

When he’s done, you’re trembling beneath him, your lips brushing over his jaw like you’re trying to kiss him, but don’t have enough strength. Clark takes over for you, turning his lips to capture yours in a lazy, loving kiss.

He grabs his shirt off the floor, along with a blanket tossed onto the coffee table, and uses them to cover you while he gets a cloth to clean you up with. You’re limp on the couch, staring at the ceiling with a dazed smile, and Clark feels that pride blooming back in his chest, knowing he made you feel so good. You don’t fight it, when he dabs away your mixed releases, then pulls you into his arms. Brings you to the bathroom, waiting patiently while you pee before carrying you to bed.

If you need, he’ll sleep on the couch. But you’re getting the bed.

You sit in his lap, face pressed into his neck, and he drags his hand up and down your spine. You’re so soft, and his.

Like this, you get to just be his.

“You really love me?” You breathe against his ear, and he nods.

“Yeah. A whole lot, actually.” He pauses, then mutters, “And you-“

“Really.” You tilt your head, giving him a tiny smile. “So much.”

He chuckles, kissing you gently again. He’s never going to get tired of it. Never going to get tired of you.

“Stay here.” He mutters against your lips. “With me. If- If you want to, of course-“

“I do.” You breathe. “I want to.”

Clark leans back, cradling your face in his hand. “Really.”

You nod nervously, and he grins.

You smile back, tentative but real, and Clark presses back down into a kiss.

He doesn’t think there’s anything that’s quite as good as this.

As good as you, content and happy in his arms.

✦End note: i'm a little obsessed with them now. thank you for reading!✦ ✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦ ✦Buy me a coffee! (and get early access!)☕️✦ ✦Taglist (Fill out this form to be added!)✦

[marwrite]

good guy

summary: clark has always prided himself in being one of the good guys. and he is, for the most part- until you come along. suddenly, his hands are in places they shouldn't be while his mind plagues him with visions of you being oh-so-sweet beneath him.

clark kent x fem ! reader

themes: 18+ so mdni, yearning and a whole lot of it, jealousy, clark just can't help himself. kinda feral!perv!clark trying to be as respectful as possible but lowkey failing. filthy in the best way. enjoy! x

Clark is a good guy.

Always has been, and Ma would certainly like to think that he always will be. At school, he never got so much as a stern look and pointed gaze- after all, he was a sweet little kid that smiled a bit too much and tried to take up the least amount of room possible. His teachers loved him, the envy of all his peers.

During High School, Clark kept his head down. Did his work in a flurry of soft smiles and polite nods, offering help when needed, kindly rejecting any flirtatious advances under the bleachers that would result in him getting into trouble.

"You're somethin' else, Kent." Lana rolled her eyes at him once, flicking the spectacles on his face just a little of their axis.

College followed suit. While his friends joined fraternities and disrespected sorority sisters, Clark diverted all his attention to perfecting his degree. Sure, he had a couple pecks here and there, a few misunderstandings with a handful of very drunk and slightly deprived college girls- but hey, at least he didn't take it any further.

All in all, Clark Kent grew up with the belief that he wasn't like that. He was kind. Respectful. Ma would tell him so, and Pa would go to the ends of the earth to enforce it; listen 'ere, Clark, a lady should be left alone unless prompted otherwise. You hear?

He'd nod. Pa's shoulders would relax, and Ma would place a dear old hand on her heart at the relief of her son turning out just the way she'd hoped.

But then one day, during an intense intern briefing amidst the bustling bullpen of the Daily Planet, Clark Kent met you.

And he soon realised that he might not be such a 'good guy' after all.

Because it wasn't enough that your skirt was always far too short, or that the lip gloss you wore blinded him no matter the lightning in the room. It wasn’t even the way you laughed, bright and careless, like you had no idea what it did to the people around you- what it did to him and every fibre of his superhuman being.

It was everything else.

Your perfume would linger in the newsroom ten minutes after you’d left, sweet enough that Clark could still catch it when he bent over his desk. Every time he did, his chest tightened with something ugly; vanilla sugar and lemon, wrapped in a pretty gold ribbon of guilt and shame.

He hated it, but he also couldn't get enough of it.

Your voice would carry on over everyone else’s, no matter how crowded the bullpen got. It was like his hearing had singled you out on purpose. Your heartbeat, your exhales, the slight pucker of your lips when an article brought on confusion.

Every other sound in Metropolis dulled itself accordingly, just so he could hear you ask Jimmy if he wanted coffee, or laugh at something Lois said, or mention your boyfriend in that absentminded little way that made Clark’s jaw lock so hard it ached.

And god, your boyfriend.

Your dumb fucking boyfriend.

Clark never usually swore (it didn't come to him as naturally as the likes of golly and gosh). But fuck, Superman on Red Kryptonite himself wouldn't have the mirage of different profanities that Clark did for the man you called yours.

Funnily enough, he had never even met the guy.

Didn’t need to. He hated him anyway.

He hated the way your phone lit up and brightened your face when you glanced at it. Despised the little smile that curled at your mouth when you typed back. Loathed the thought that someone else got to touch what Clark could barely stand to look at for too long.

However hard Clark made you laugh, however red your face flared after every shh little compliment thrown your way- it was never enough.

Someone else got to walk you home, kiss that gloss right off your lips, hear you laugh when no one else was around. Someone else got to climb over you at night, cover your gorgeous frame with theirs, fuck you gently into the bed until the early hours of the morning.

The thought would come to Clark late at night, when the city was finally at rest and he had only his thoughts to keep him awake. He'd envision you writhing beneath him, soft voice dripping like honey in his ears, moaning his name like a prayer and begging, pleading, for his touch.

His release would come quick. But on the nights the guilt settled in too deep, it wouldn’t come at all- and he’d spend the next few hours lying awake in silence, trying to atone for every impure thought he’d ever had about you.

It made something mean curl low in his stomach, something he’d spent his whole life pretending wasn’t there.

Because Clark was supposed to be good. He was supposed to smile and hold doors open and politely excuse himself when you leaned over his desk to point something out, cleavage threatening to spill, exposed neck so inviting he felt like a rabid animal; your mere existence flooding his senses so completely that for one humiliating second, he forgot his own name.

Lately, being around you felt less like admiration, and a hell of a lot more like drowning.

You’d walk into a room and he’d know it before he looked up. His whole body knew. The tiny hitch in his breathing, the way his shoulders went rigid, the awful, immediate awareness of where you were- crossing your legs at your desk, tugging your coat off your shoulders, leaning your cheek into your palm while you read over some notes.

Clark noticed all of it. Against his will. Against every decent thing Ma and Pa had ever taught him.

Eventually, he did the only thing he could think to do.

He booked some time off.

He told Perry he needed a break from the city, his eyes never quite leaving the floor. "Ma and Pa..." he scratched the back of his neck nervously, the lie coming out in one smooth sweep, "They've been asking for me. Some fence panels fell, Pa's heart... just wanna be there in any way I can."

It wasn’t a lie, exactly. The Kent farm always had something that needed looking after, even if it wasn't an immediate fence post. There were always animals to feed, fields to tend. Plenty to keep a man occupied.

"Take the time off, Kent. You deserve it."

After that, the situation became a civil war in his mind; one that had him at a loss no matter the outcome.

He convinced himself day after day that the dirt under his nails, the sweat on his back and the ache in his muscles would drown out the ache you’d left somewhere far deeper. He busied his hands, giving them something to do other than grip the base of his cock at night, eyes squeezed shut, pretending it was your skin beneath his legs and your mouth wrapped around his tip.

He needed Kansas air in his lungs instead of your perfume in his office, your laugh in the elevator, your voice drifting over cubicle walls and undoing him with every syllable.

He thought distance would help. What with Ma’s cooking and Pa’s quiet talks on the porch, there was simply no way the trip home wouldn't knock some sense back into him; remind him who he was, who he was supposed to be.

Even in Smallville however, you followed him.

And by the time Clark came back to Metropolis, he was exhausted in a way no amount of sleep could fix.

But you weren’t there.

Your desk sat empty.

Chair tucked in. Computer dark and oddly enough, collecting a light blanket of dust.

At first, Clark thought you were just running late. You were always stuck in traffic, and coffee lines always seemed to double in size whenever you walked into a café. He tried not to look at your desk every five minutes as he ran out of excuses to make on your behalf.

By noon, he was making mistakes. The backspace was hit more than a coherent sentence was formed; typos littered his edge of the column. Missed calls had Lois smacking him on the shoulder with a rolled-up newspaper. For someone so in tune with the written word, Clark even found himself reading the same paragraph three times over without taking in a single word.

Finally, he looked up from his monitor and asked Jimmy as casually as he could manage. Though the other man barely glanced up from his camera, Clark got the only answer he needed.

“Oh, she took some time off. Started a few days after you left, I think.”

He swallowed, nodding slowly, and that should’ve been the end of it.

But Jimmy kept talking.

“Guess her and her boyfriend broke up. Saw her crying in the break room last week. Lois said she’s staying with family for a bit.”

Clark didn’t hear the rest.

The words lodged themselves somewhere deep and awful, echoing through his skull all day. He hated how quickly his pulse kicked up.

Broke up.

You and your god-awful fucking boyfriend that made Clark swear (albeit in his own mind) had broken up.

And you were single.

A hot, selfish feeling unfurled in his chest before he could stop it.

You had been hurting. You had been crying. Yet the first thought that crossed his mind- before concern, before decency, before anything good that he was taught all his life- was that there was no boyfriend anymore. No one standing between you and him, the line between reality and fantasy dissolving into a thin blur in the week he spent throwing hay bales and flying circles around the equator.

That night, Clark lay in bed staring at the ceiling of his apartment, the city humming beyond his windows. For the first time in weeks, he found his restraint collapsing completely.

He let his mind wander, hands itching to free the stiffness in his boxers. He stroked long and deliberately, steady, the way he'd always imagined your first time with him would be.

He wasn't like that ex-boyfriend of yours. Wasn't selfish or needy or desperate. No, Clark would kiss the ground you walked on. He'd fuck you nice and slow, praise you like you were the God, make you come so hard the other guy would feel like fiction. He's not just Clark Kent after all- he's Superman, and even Superman has a few fun tricks up his supersuit sleeve.

You were a rocket. He'd overheard your conversations with Cat in the break room in the past, each one lewd and inappropriate but addictive all the same. Your ex could only last so long, only cared for a few unimpressive positions- but Clark, Clark could last forever and a day if you wanted. You burned hot and filthy and Clark knew he could match you without breaking a single sweat.

You'll come back to work soon- tired, maybe, eyes a little puffy from crying, soft from the heartache. You'll lean against his desk again, this time with no mention of another man. No absent little smiles at your phone. No reason for Clark to pretend he doesn't need you like oxygen.

He'll be there for you. Whether it's a shoulder to cry on, someone to vent to or an outlet in general, there's no other place he'd rather be.

And if, somewhere between the late nights at the office and grateful smiles meant only for him, you start needing him a little too much… you can't expect him to refrain from giving you what you want, surely?

Clark Kent is a good man. A nice man.

But if leaning into the bad is exactly what it takes to finally have you under him instead of just in his head...

Well, he can make peace with that, too.

[sceletaflores]

MAKES PAINTINGS WITH HIS TONGUE!

|| dc masterlist || update blog || inbox || taglist || ao3 ||

─ ✮⋆˙PAIR: Clark Kent x fem!reader

─ ✮⋆˙WC: 5.2k

─ ✮⋆˙@polkadottprincess SAYS: on the clark kent agenda as well!!!! maybe a size kink?! or dare i say edging.

─ ✮⋆˙CONTAINS: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, reader is a journalist, established relationship, so much banter, clark kent is a FLIRT and a SLUT, a risqué interview, roleplaying…kind of, sub clark leaning, dirty talk, handjob, size kink YES, edging hehehe, superman’s super huge dick, hyperspermia, porn w/o plot, no use of y/n.

─ ✮⋆˙NAT’S NOTE: guys i genuinely don’t know how to describe the plot of this in a way that makes sense. okay so basically clark can’t get you a interview with superman, but he can get you the next best thing. himself. that’s it. i don’t think that makes sense but hear me out! it’s good i promise! i had so much fun writing my last clark fic that i needed to write another one. maybe i’ll write even more who knows… that’s code for i have three wips sitting pretty literally as we speak…anyway bye bye now hope y’all love it, mwah!

dividers by lovely @saradika-graphics!

you and clark have a conversation about superman…

There are certainly worse places to work than the Daily Planet office.

Sure, it's a little chaotic and the coffee machine spits out something vaguely offensive most mornings. Sure, it's a little loud and you tend to get migraines when you're stuck in the thick of it too long.

There are positives too, and they're pretty good ones. You get a beautiful view of Metropolis from your desk. You get the thrill of real, gritty stories right under your fingers. And most days, the company isn't half bad.

That is, except when Clark Kent gets yet another exclusive with Superman.

The bullpen is buzzing with the usual chaos that comes with mid-Monday mornings.

Phones ringing. Keyboards clacking. The sporadic clicks from dozens of mouses. The sharp sounds of high heels and fancy loafers against the marble floors.

You’re elbow deep in a piece on the harmful carbon emissions caused by LexCorp, a chai latte from the cafe across the street slowly melting beside your keyboard as you type.

You're on your third paragraph—halfway through describing a particularly egregious cover up involving offshore dumping—when Jimmy’s voice slices through the room, too loud and chipper for a Monday.

“Front page again, man.” Jimmy excitedly slaps a new paper on Clark’s desk, leaning his hip against the edge. He shoves Clark’s shoulder lightly, grinning. “You have Superman on speed dial or what?”

You glance up from your screen, fingers pausing over the keys. 

Clark—sweet, modest Clark—smiles sheepishly, adjusting his glasses with the back of his knuckle. They weren’t even slipping down his nose. “Thanks, Jimmy. I was just in the right place at the right time.”

Right place at the right time.

Bullshit.

That’s the third time he’s used that particular line in the last four months. 

You roll your eyes so hard it’s a miracle they stay in your head, and lean back in your chair, attention shifting. “Man of Steel must have a type, huh?” You’re loud enough for Clark and Jimmy to hear you across the walkway. “He only ever talks to Clark.”

Clark catches your eye, the edges of his smile a little smugger than before when he tilts his head to the right just so. “Jealous, loud mouth?”

You scoff, eyes narrowing. “Of course I’m jealous. I’ve been trying to get an interview with Superman for weeks and he hands them out to you like candy. It’s blatant favoritism.”

Lois finally speaks up from her desk next to yours, not looking up from her screen. “And you’re Clark’s favorite. It balances out.”

“Whoa, hold on a second,” Jimmy cuts in before you can speak, holding his hands up in front of him. “I’m clearly Clark’s favorite. I thought everyone picked up on that?”

You suck your teeth, ignoring Jimmy. “If I was really Clark’s favorite he’d quit hogging Superman and put in an extremely gushing, ass-kissing word for me. Wouldn’t you, Clarkie?”

That earns a chuckle from Jimmy, and a slightly sharper one from Clark himself—but he still doesn’t rise to your bait. He just gives you that polite little Clark Kent smile, all warm and wholesome and harmless. The one that makes people underestimate him.

“I’ll find a way to work in the ass-kissing,” he nods, overly serious. You can see right through it. “Promise.”

You hum noncommittally, plucking a loose pencil off your desk. “Someone jot that down. I want it in writing.”

“Kiss my ass all you want while you’re at it, Clark.” Lois pipes up again, her bored tone underscored by the way her fingers fly over her keyboard. Click click click. “I’d throw myself off the top of the building if it got me an interview with Superman.”

“I’d kill for ten minutes with Superman,” you add, idly twirling the pencil in your hand as you sway side to side in your chair. 

Jimmy snorts, shamelessly flipping through Clark’s notepad. “Who wouldn’t these days.”

Clark ignores him much like you did. He glances at you over the frame of his glasses, his mouth twitching with amusement. “Is that a professional request?”

“Very professional,” you say coolly, arching a brow. “Strictly for journalistic purposes.”

He nods solemnly. “Of course.”

“Extremely professional.” You repeat, tone dipping into something a little warmer.

Clark catches on, because of course he does. His eyes flash with something new that you can see even from where you’re sitting. He cuts his gaze to the way your thumb glides along the shiny edge of your pencil. Up and down. Up and down.

You watch his throat work around a thick swallow. The slouch he’s had all morning straightens out for a single breath, showing off just how broad those shoulders really are under that boxy suit.

The others don’t notice the sudden tension. Lois is too busy typing, fueled by the third sugar filled coffee cluttered around her, and Jimmy tends to be more oblivious when it’s this early.

“Well,” Clark says mildly, back to slouching in his chair. “I’ll be sure to let him know you’re interested. Next time I see him.”

You arch a brow, pretending not to notice the curl of heat that slides low in your stomach when he says it. 

“Next time I see him.” Like they’re neighbors. Buddies.

Almost like they share a mirror.

You let yourself smile, the barest hint of one. Clark still beams right back at you like the slight raise of your lips is the best thing he’s seen all morning. “You do that, Clark. I’ll be sure to wear my shiniest pair of readers, to make him feel more comfortable.”

Clark doesn’t answer. He just shakes his head and turns back to his screen, but you can still see the dopey grin on his face clear as day.

You bite your lip, stifling your own matching smile, and get back to work.

Your apartment is dim, quiet. It’s lit in that soft, late evening kind of way—warm lamplight pooling in corners. The faint hum of the city bleeds in through your half open window, the bustle of people walking the streets mixing with the low rumble of traffic three stories down.

You’re sitting on your couch, legs folded under you as your laptop rests on your knees. The loose sleep shorts you changed into as soon as you got home are riding up your thighs. An old, faded Smallville Crows sweatshirt hangs off your shoulder as you try to work.

Try being the word of the night so far.

LexCorp isn’t going anywhere anytime soon, unfortunately, and offshore dumping doesn’t expose itself. So, the same article you were working on at the office stares back at your tired eyes, and it’s slowly starting to feel like it’s mocking you. 

The cursor blinks steadily on the too bright screen, daring you to try and finish the pathetic excuse of a paragraph you’ve been stuck on for nearly twenty minutes. You chew the inside of your cheek, your nails drumming over the touchpad so you don’t start ripping the keys off in frustration.

You’re just about to call it and toss your laptop aside when there’s a knock on your door.

You don’t get up, you hardly even blink at the three quiet raps against the wood. You already know who it is.

The sound of a key, your spare key, sliding into your lock is loud in the quiet enveloping you. The door creaks open and Clark’s voice follows as soon as it’s closed.

“You forgot lunch today,” he calls from the doorway, toeing his shoes off. “I didn’t want you forgetting dinner too.”

You hum as the soft sound of socked feet make their way closer, not looking up from your laptop. “Isn’t that sweet of you.”

A bag is dropped next to you on the couch, heavy and warm against your bare thigh. “Falafel from the spot you like,” he says from somewhere behind you, bright and almost giddy—like he’s been waiting to tell you all day. “And a cream soda for the best reporter in Metropolis.”

“You’re such a suck up, Kent.” You tsk softly, shaking your head. “Cream soda? That must’ve cost a pretty penny.”

Strong arms close around your shoulders, and Clark’s scent washes over you. The metallic tang of ozone, of fresh cut grass and sunny warmth. “Mhm, it was worth it.”

Clark kisses the top of your head, burying his nose in your hair and inhaling. He presses another kiss to your temple. Sharp teeth nip at the shell of your ear teasingly, the warmth of his breath sends goosebumps pebbling up your arms. “You were really giving it to me back at the office, you should do that more often.” 

It's unmistakably husky, his tone. Husky and low and hushed next to your ear, letting you really hear the heat behind it.

Clark’s arms tighten around you, pressing himself into your back as much as he can with the couch still separating you both. Another kiss to the edge of your jaw. “You’re so sexy when you’re ticked off at me.”

You bite back a smile, tilting your head to give Clark more room to press kisses along your skin. “Me telling you off in front of Jimmy gets you hot?” 

Clark chuckles against your skin, trailing wet kisses down your neck. “Jimmy doesn’t have anything on you. He’d look terrible in a pencil skirt.”

You huff, closing your laptop. “Don’t tell him that. You’ll break his heart.”

You finally turn your head, peering up at Clark hunched over you. He’s already looking back, eyes bright. You only get a glimpse of that perfect smile before his lips are on yours.

The kiss is anything but chaste. It’s the first kiss you’ve had since he left your apartment late last night. 

Clark tastes like sugar and salt—like the honeyed fizz of cream soda and the briny note of wind that clings to his skin no matter what time of day it is. He kisses like he does everything else, devastatingly earnest and impossibly sweet. Like he’s trying to commit the shape of your mouth to his memory. Like he’s trying to leave your taste on his lips for days.

Clark kisses like he means it—every swipe of his tongue, every soft sound into your mouth, every gentle pull of your lower lip between his teeth.

His glasses bump your forehead with every move. He still has them on, even here with you where he doesn’t need them. You feel the press of them anyway, clunky and in the way, but it’s almost charming—so unmistakably Clark it makes your chest squeeze.

When his fingers curl into the worn down fabric of your sweatshirt, tugging gently as he deepens the kiss, you're the one who has to pull back for breath.

“You're not allowed to distract me,” you whisper, voice light, lips brushing his. “I’m supposed to be working.”

Clark just hums, eyes still slipped closed. “I missed you.” Another kiss. “Been thinking about this all day.” Another kiss. “About you.”

He kisses the smile right off your lips, his other hand sliding down your back slowly—mapping out the notches of your spine. He toys with the hem of your sweatshirt, sliding his touch under the cotton to find the curve of your waist. It’s not entirely innocent, the way his thumb slips under the waistband of your shorts. 

Your lips are already swollen, you can almost feel the blood rushing to them. You pull back again, blinking like you’ve been spun in circles. “You saw me six hours ago, Kansas.”

Clark grins, cheeks flushed. “That’s six hours too long.”

You smile, your hand coming up to brush your fingers through his messy curls. “Well, I’m here now.” Your fingers trail lightly along the side of his face. Clark leans into your touch, kissing your palm before you’re squishing his cheeks together. “And you brought me falafel, so you can stay.”

“Don’t forget the cream soda,” he says, voice wobbly from the pressure of your hand smushing his lips together. “What do I get for that?”

You shake his head back and forth fondly, still smiling. “We’ll have to wait and see, won’t we?”

You plant one last, exaggerated kiss on his pouty lips and drop your hand. Clark smiles, squeezing your hip once before he’s straightening up and making his way around the couch.

“I’m on the edge of my seat.” He sits next to you, plucking your feet off the couch long enough to settle into the cushions before draping them over his lap. “Let’s get some food in you first.”

You sigh, but you’re reaching for the bag anyway. You didn’t realize how hungry you were until amazing smelling street food was brought into your apartment. “Spoil sport.”

You sit together like that for who knows how long, sharing bites of falafel and sips of soda.

The conversation is easy, just like it always is. You talk about the mess at LexCorp, Clark listens intently. Humming and nodding in agreement as he rubs your feet. He brings up some dull city council ordinance he’s been pretending to care about all week just to get quotes for Perry.

You let him ramble, just enjoying the sound of his voice and the press of his thumb against your ankle as he absentmindedly rubs circles into the bone. 

It's nice. Soft, domestic. The kind of evening you’d always imagined when things between you and Clark stopped hovering in the “is this flirting or am I insane?” phase and finally landed squarely in “he brings you dinner and has a toothbrush in your bathroom” territory.

It’s only when the lull sets in—comfortable and slow, your belly full and his fingers tracing the bare skin of your calf lazily—that you really let yourself look at him.

Clark is so handsome like this. Taking up space in your apartment like it’s second nature, squeezing into a space far too small for him just to be close to you, illuminated by the soft orange glow of your ancient thrift store lamp. 

Handsome in that painfully earnest, infuriatingly humble, Midwestern farm boy way. 

You feel a sort of possessive victory in it, getting to see Clark like this—in a way that very few people do. Here, with you, he can be himself. He doesn't need to constantly watch what he says, to reel it in in fear of compromising himself. He doesn’t need to put up a front.

He can just be Clark. 

Not Superman. Not Clark Kent, bumbling reporter.

Just Clark. Your Clark.

It drives you absolutely crazy, it always has. 

It makes you want to stretch him between your fingers like taffy, to crunch down on him between your teeth like hard candy. It makes you want to ruin him.

Then, somewhere between the food and the comfortable silence, Clark’s tone shifts.

“So,” he says, dragging the word out. “About what you said at the office this morning.”

You blink at him, raising your brow. “I said a lot of things at the office this morning. You’ll have to be more specific.”

 “About wanting an interview. With Superman.” Clark’s eyes gleam behind his glasses. “You said you’d kill for ten minutes with him.”

You roll your eyes, but it’s mostly for show. “That was professional desperation.”

“Strictly journalistic?” he deadpans, echoing your words from earlier.

“Very serious. Pulitzer level serious, even.”

Clark grins, and you know then—he’s winding you up. Slowly. Deliberately. That warm Kansas boy charm tightening around your ribs like a silk ribbon.

“Well, bad news,” he says, forlorn. “Superman’s calendar is booked solid.”

“Oh, is that so?”

“Yup,” he says with a pop of his lips, still rubbing slow circles over your ankle. “Big world. Lots of people to save.”

You sigh dramatically. “Shame. I had such good questions lined up.”

Clark shrugs one shoulder, smile sly. “He’s hard to reach, you know that. But I figured…if I can’t get you Superman, I could get you the next best thing.”

Your brows knit together, confused. “And what’s that?”

He leans in a little, his voice dropping, playful but unmistakably suggestive. “Clark Kent.”

You tilt your head, slow and wary. “Clark Kent?”

“Clark Kent,” he nods, eyes gleaming. “Superman’s number one source. His—let’s say—closest personal contact.”

You snort, but you’re already caught up in it. Already invested in the game. “You’re full of shit.”

He sits back, sprawling onto the armrest with theatrical ease, like he owns the place—and really, at this point, he kind of does. “Try me.”

You blink, narrowing your eyes. “You’re serious?”

“I’ve never been more serious in my life,” he stresses, adjusting his glasses like some parody of a news anchor. “You can ask me anything about Superman. His habits, his routines, his, uh…” he trails off with a twitch of a smile, “...personal tastes.”

Your lips part, breath catching just slightly.

He lifts his eyebrows. “You still want that interview, don’t you?”

The moment hangs. Warm, fizzy, a little dangerous. Clark and you both know a little danger is never enough to scare you away.

“Alright,” you murmur, still suspicious as you sit up a little straighter, swiping your notepad off the coffee table. “Just remember, you asked for this.”

Clark nods slowly, putting a hand over his heart. “Do your worst.”

You narrow your eyes at him, searching for some kind of catch. Clark just looks back, smiling.

“Okay.” You shrug, flipping your notepad open. You grab the pencil tucked behind your ear, raising it in front of Clark’s lips like a microphone. “Please state your name for the record.”

Clark clears his throat, dipping his head to speak into the eraser. “Clark Joseph Kent.”

You nod, jotting it down. “First question.” You tap your pencil on the paper, dragging out the suspense. “The suit—how in the world does it stay up if it doesn’t have a belt?”

Clark snorts, but his expression remains composed, playing his part. “Kryptonian tech. The fabric conforms to his body. No wardrobe malfunctions.”

You raise a brow. “And what about underneath?”

A pause. Then, calm as can be: “Nothing underneath.”

Your pulse skips a beat. “Huh.”

He watches you, tilting his head. “Next question?”

You try to keep your tone light, playful. “Let’s do an easy one. What’s he like…off the record?”

Clark hums, rolling his head on his shoulders like he’s really thinking. “He’s quiet. Keeps to himself. Reads more than you’d expect.”

“Mhm. Nerd,” you tease.

“Bit of one, yeah,” he agrees.

You hum, writing. “Sounds familiar.”

Clark smiles but he doesn’t answer.

“Okay next…” You chew your pencil, thinking it over. “Is he single?”

Clark blinks behind his glasses, then laughs. “You’re seriously asking that?”

You nod, overly serious. “It’s a relevant question, Kent. The people want to know.”

Clark’s cheeks pink slightly, and his voice is quiet. “He’s…seeing someone. Secretly.”

“Oh?” You perk up, nudging his thigh with your foot. “Do tell. Is she beautiful?”

Clark’s voice softens, barely more than a murmur. “Yes.”

You pause. That one lands. Hits something low and warm deep inside you. “Anyone I know?”

“Oh, absolutely,” he says softly, like a confession. “She drives him insane.”

You squirm where you sit, phantom flames lapping at your skin. “Does she?”

“She does.” Clark hums, nodding his head. His eyes never leave yours.

You aren’t even writing in your notepad anymore, too caught up in a game that’s starting to feel less and less like a game with each passing second. “How.”

He leans in just a little, his voice going husky. “The way she talks. Her brain. Her mouth. Her smart little attitude.” His hand trails along the couch behind you. “The way she looks at him like she knows he’s not invincible.”

“Sounds like she’s really into him.” You will your voice not to shake, but it doesn’t work. You’re too wound up. The tension between you and Clark growing thicker and thicker.

“Oh, she is,” Clark murmurs. “Says things sometimes that make him feel like he’s gonna burn through his skin.”

You lean in, tongue coming out to swipe along your bottom lip. “Like what?”

“She tells him she wants to get fucked by Superman,” Clark says softly, cheeks more pink. “Tells him she thinks about it when she’s alone. Thinks about how big he is. How he’d feel. If he’d wreck her.”

Your thighs squeeze together involuntarily. “That’s what she says?”

He nods, eyes dark. You watch as his pupils grow, black stretching across blue like an oil slick over a lake.

“And what does Superman do?” you ask.

“Whatever she wants.” Clark breathes.

Your heart trips over itself three times over in your chest, breath caught in your throat. The fun of it—this game—it's suddenly edged with something even more molten than before, something dense and slow. You feel the buzz in your limbs, in the way Clark’s gaze sticks to your mouth now instead of your eyes.

You chew the inside of your cheek, wetness blooming between your legs to soak the thin cotton of your panties. “What turns him on?”

Clark blinks again, meeting your eyes. This time he’s a little less composed. “That’s not exactly a journalistic question.”

“I’m going for a different kind of profile,” you murmur. “Besides, I think we already blew through any journalistic professionalism.”

Clark lets out a breath. His voice is lower when he speaks next. “Well…he likes being in control. But he likes being teased, too. Likes when someone isn’t afraid of him. Likes being told what you want. What you fantasize about.”

You shift in your seat. “Do you think he’d like it if someone told him they touch themselves thinking about him?”

Clark’s jaw tenses.

You lean in, slow, until your lips are nearly brushing his ear. Your notepad and pencil are long forgotten, tossed somewhere beside you. “You think he’d like it if I told him I think about him bending me over my desk at work? Or flying me up to my roof and fucking me against the edge of the building?”

Clark turns his head to look at you. His pupils blown so wide all you see is black.

“I think he’d like that a lot,” he says, voice low and ragged. “I know he would.”

The moment breaks like glass.

You kiss him—hard. Hungry. Like you’re trying to tear him open and crawl inside.

And Clark lets you.

His hand flies up to cup your jaw, moaning into your mouth. The kiss is all tongue and filthy—hot and desperate and messy.

There’s nothing slow about it. Clark’s touch is firm, everywhere, his mouth wet and open against yours. He groans low in his throat when your hand slides down his chest, tracing the hard ridges of his stomach through his shirt.

Your hand drifts even lower, between his legs, where he’s hard as steel in his slacks.

“Oh, fuck,” he groans against your lips, hips twitching into your palm. “You—you’re playing dirty.”

You press firmer, mapping out the familiar length of his thick cock with greedy fingers. “You started it.”

“You’re not seriously—”

“—taking your exclusive,” you whisper, working open his fly. “Since you’re offering.”

Clark makes a strangled sound—half-laugh, half-moan—as you pull down his zipper, your fingers grazing over the impossible heat straining behind it. 

“You—you don’t have to—” he gasps, even as his hips rise from the couch, silently begging you to continue.

“Clark.” You look up at him, hand already stroking slowly over the thick outline of his cock through the drenched fabric of his boxers. “Be quiet.”

His breath hitches. He nods, biting his bottom lip hard enough to leave a dent. But the way he’s trembling beneath your touch, the way his thighs tense—you know he won’t last long.

You slip your hand into his boxers, and that’s when you really feel him—bare skin to skin. Hot, thick, and heavy. Way too heavy. You nearly gasp as you pull him free, the head flushed a violent red, already leaking. The sheer size of him always takes you by surprise. 

Big doesn’t even begin to cut it.

He’s not just long—he’s thick. The kind of thick that makes your hand look small in comparison. The kind that has no business fitting anywhere, and yet you ache to make him fit.

Clark groans when the cool air hits him, and louder when you wrap a hand around him, stroking up the length of his cock with a tight grip. You twist your wrist around the head, thumbing over the slit to spread the shiny mess of pre-come.

"You're so big,” you breathe, pumping him faster. “It’s not fair.”

He whines through gritted teeth, hips twitching, dark curls falling over his forehead. “Fuck, baby, please—go slow, I’m not—if you keep—”

“I barely touched you,” you murmur, transfixed by the way his cock twitches in your grip. It’s flushed dark, an angry red at the tip. You trace the thick vein along the underside with your thumb, feeling his pulse beat fast and hard just beneath the skin.

Clark whines, dropping his head on the back of the couch. His hands dig into the cushions, you can hear the seams straining under his grip.

“Oh, you’re gonna come like this? Already?” you tease, dragging your hand down slowly—so slowly—until you’re just barely grazing his balls. “From just my hand?”

“Mmph—fuck,” Clark whimpers, cheeks flushed, eyes fluttering shut. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“You’ll survive.” You kiss the edge of his jaw. “You’re Superman.”

He groans again at that, like it hurts to hear the word coming from your mouth, like it unlocks something primal in him. You stroke him again, firmer now, twisting your wrist on the upstroke. Clark shudders.

“You gonna come for me, hero?” you ask, licking your lips. “Gonna soak my hand with that big load you’ve been holding in all day?”

Clark groans, his hands flying to your thighs—gripping, grounding. “Gosh—don’t say it like that. I can’t—”

You slow down. Stop, almost.

And Clark makes the prettiest little noise. Desperate. Just this ruined, strangled sound deep in his throat that shoots straight through you like lightning.

“You can’t what?” you coo, barely pumping him. “Can’t hold it?”

Clark shakes his head fast, eyes blown, body twitching like he’s fighting every instinct in his arsenal not to thrust up into your fist like an animal.

“Please,” he whispers.

“Please what, Clark?”

“Please—fuck—please let me come.”

You pretend to consider it. Drag your thumb under the slit of his cock again and marvel at the mess he’s made. Pre-come is coating your palm, sticky and hot and so much. He’s leaking like he hasn’t touched himself in weeks. It makes the slide of your fist that much easier.

You know it’s a side effect of his biology—Kryptonian virility turned all the way up.

Clark fills your mouth, drenches your stomach, floods your pussy every time you’re together like it’s the first time he’s come in years. And he always gets so sensitive, so feral about it. Like he hates how much he needs it and loves how much he needs you.

“You’re so full, baby,” you murmur, dragging your hand slow along his cock again. “You need to come that bad?”

Clark nods without shame, hips twitching. “Need it so bad. Fuck, I’ve been thinking about you all day. Thinking about your voice. About your thighs. About your mouth—fuck, I’m gonna come, please—please let me—”

“Not yet,” you whisper.

Clark whines.

It’s so soft, so honest, it almost makes you pity him.

Almost.

You kiss his throat, biting lightly at where his pulse jackhammers. “You’re not gonna come until I say so, Clark. You’re gonna hold it. You’re gonna sit there and take it and be good for me.”

Clark’s hips buck at that—he tries to be still, tries to keep his eyes on you, but the pleasure is just too much. He nods like his life depends on it, gripping your thighs hard enough that you’re sure you’ll have bruises blooming tomorrow.

Clark will feel guilty about it. You won’t.

“Good boy,” you purr, picking up the pace again—stroking him with both hands now, twisting, squeezing, making sure every stroke is just rough enough to keep him teetering on the edge.

Clark’s entire body is trembling. His lips are swollen and slick, pink blooming up his throat. His glasses have fogged up, and his brows are knit like he’s in pain—like this is the most torturous kind of pleasure he’s ever felt.

You jerk him faster, watching the way his body tightens, how his cock swells heavy in your hands. His stomach contracts like it’s about to cramp, his moans dissolving into open mouthed gasps as he bucks up into your palm like he’s chasing it.

He’s so close.

“Baby—please,” Clark gasps, gripping your wrist now, his huge hand covering yours where you stroke him. “Please let me come, I—I’ll be good, I promise, I’ll do anything.”

“Oh, I know you will,” you whisper, biting your lip. “But not yet.”

“Please,” he begs, voice cracking. “I can’t—can’t hold it—”

You stop again.

Clark sobs.

A real, wrecked, broken sound from deep in his chest.

His hands squeeze your thighs and he curls in on himself slightly, eyes flying open in disbelief. “No,” he gasps, hips twitching uselessly. “No, no, please—”

You kiss the corner of his mouth, his cheekbone, his fluttering eyelids. “You’re doing so good for me, Clark. Just a little longer.”

He groans, miserable, but he still nods. So obedient. So eager to please—to give you what you want.

You don’t give him any warnings before your fists are speeding up, flying over his cock as fast as you can manage.

Clark cries out, his body jerking violently—like he doesn’t know whether to run from your touch or lean into it. “Christ, wait—ah! Wait, I can’t—”

You don’t let up—stroking him faster, tighter, rougher. The slick, obscene sounds of it echo in the quiet apartment. “You’re gonna come now,” you murmur, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “And then you’re gonna take me into the bedroom and fuck me so hard we get a noise complaint.”

Clark nods frantically—barely a word past his lips before it hits him.

His whole body locks, like steel cables yanking taut. His head falls back, mouth open in a silent cry, and his cock explodes in your hand—thick, hot spurts of come spilling over your fingers, the couch, his stomach, everything. He comes so much it makes you moan at the sight of it, the smell of it, the obscene volume flooding your fist.

When it finally stops, Clark collapses back into the cushions, limp and trembling. His cheeks are flaming. Eyes glazed. Shirt soaked in streaks of his own come. His cock’s still hard, twitching gently against his belly, still leaking.

“Well,” you say, more casual than you feel. Your pussy aches between your legs, begging for a turn. “That’s definitely going in the article.”

Clark doesn't answer. He just drags you into his lap and stands before you can even grab hold of his shoulders. He doesn’t super speed the two of you to the bedroom, but it’s close.

You laugh the whole way down the hall.

Later, after the sheets are damp and the room smells like sex, Clark kisses your shoulder and whispers, “So…when’s that article coming out?”

You smile sleepily, curling into him. His chest rises and falls under you with breath he doesn’t need, his hands draw shapes along your sweaty back.

A circle. A star. A heart. A figure eight. A heart. A heart.

“I think I’ll keep it off the record.”

MINI NAT’S NOTE: thank you again for sending in this ask! i have the superman brain rot baaad and this is NOT helping it’s def making it worse but that’s okay that’s what i want! i need people to enable me! i was writing this fic in my head before the ask came in and i was like YES DONE and i wrote it and now we’re here. i hope you like it @polkadottprincess!

thank you so much for reading, love you!

[innorality]

Imagine Clark and ovulation like... Can he sense it... Smell it... Is he affected by the pheromones

yes, yes and fucking yes.

ovulating had never really, truly affected you that much. sure, it did have a few effects on you and yeah, maybe you were hornier than usual, but truthfully, if it weren't for your cycle tracking app, you wouldn't even know you were ovulating.

that was until you got with clark kent.

he was just so desirable, so attractive. tall, strong, kind, and cute... the basically perfect boyfriend! in addition to the wonderful sex you two had.

and you knew you were insatiable when you ovulated around him. you knew he had enough stamina to quench your thirst, to meet and satisfy your every need.

what you didn't know, however, is that he shared those needs.

clark kent often damned his superhuman abilities, but when you were ovulating? he thanked the lord he had them.

he was as affected by your ovulation as you were, if not more. he could see it, smell it. the otherwise imperceptible scent of your pheromones affected him in greater ways than it could affect any human, and the constant layer of sweat that covered your slightly warmer skin added to those effects.

and he's so shy and respectful that, even when he knows you're ovulating, he doesn't pounce on you. he waits for you to start speaking to him with that low, sultry voice, to start touching him with those soft, warm hands, to kiss him with those plush lips and to press those tender breasts against him.

and he's so dizzy because, god, the pheromones emanating from your sweat are driving him insane and all he wants to do is to grab you and fuck you senseless, filling you up with his seed to fertilize the egg that has been patiently waiting for him.

[coquettepascal]

your roommate clark [series]

summary: a routine fire alarm inspection leads you to finding out your polite roommate, clark kent, has more than just a big heart.

gen tags: 18+, smut, roommate!clark, f!reader, clark is older but the age gap is not specified, mentions of clois past, sub!clark, bottom!clark, big dick!clark, big boobs!clark, typical fwb tension, reader doesn't know clark is superman, porn with plot, but there's a lot of porn (specific tags are at the top of each chapter!!)

a/n: if ur a freak you'll love this. if ur not a freak ur about to become one.

i. suckable a routine fire alarm inspection leads into you proving to clark that he does have a suckable dick (kinda.)

ii. fuckable you and clark break the "don't fuck your roommate" rule.

iii. stuffable friendsgiving is a tradition between clark and his friends. your initial worry is how you’ll fit in with them, your final worry is where you stand with him.

iv. loveable clark has a lot of explaining to do. he only does a little.

[suprsnupi]

SOFT AND ONLY YOU

pairing. clark kent x fem reader

your childhood best friend is synonymous with ‘the guy you call when something (inevitably) goes sour.’ clark is dependable, steady, safe. and maybe—well, more than maybe—the grass is greener in his bed. or: two times your love life needs a little clark kent tlc. third time’s gotta be the charm, you swear.

wc. 18k+

tags. 18+ explicit nsfw, unprotected piv/mating press, size kink, slightly (?) jealous sex, first time cunnilingus, fingering n squirting, multiple orgasms, edging, creampie, light hair tugging, pathetic clark who whimpers, anecdotes and yearning, talk of past toxic relationships, hurt/comfort if u squint (!!!)

— basically what ciderclark could have been if they werent pussies LMAO. title from the cure's just like heaven aka the most romantic song forever ^u^

Clark lives through every day like the ice cream store’s about to close. 

In other words, he’s an avid believer in carpe diem, and he is never too busy. 

It’s admirable, really. How he’s always bustling in tandem with Metropolis, zipping in and out of the Daily Planet with a Jitters Coffee in hand and two suits on his shoulders. Flying up and down town to open doors for grandmas, kick lost balls back over the fence, zoom past Stryker’s Island to let Lex Luthor get a real good look before he starts another day in prison. 

‘Superman doesn’t have time for selfies’ is bullshit. 

He always makes time for one more thing. One last squeeze in his itinerary, whether it be volunteering to take pictures for someone else’s article or being the one in the picture himself—posing straight and strong, beaming that friendly grin before he takes off to seize the day! 

Which is why he's the first one you text when you finally dump the guy you've been seeing. 

It started with that dream. The one that's been recurring for about a week, enough that you remember the details down to where the specks of dust will end up as they float through the air. 

The one where you find him sitting at the front of the school bus, saving a seat with that beat-up backpack decorated with Mighty Crabjoys pins and patches. Sun already high up, and it’s balmy inside, the smell of old vinyl upholstery and seat cleaner already soaking your clothes while the driver skips to the next song on his Johnny Cash CD. 

Clark is wearing a bright, dorky grin on his face. Says something over the loud rumble of the engine like: ‘Gosh, we have a test—I know, why on Monday—but you will knock it outta the water. Here comes the sun!’ 

Or, if you’re going by last night: ‘Seize the day!’ 

And last Friday: ‘Strike while the iron’s hot,’ which might’ve come from one of those Shakespeare playbooks on his shelf. Probably the one with the deepest stress lines on the spine, because that’s just how he is. 

Not like you know, though. Shakespeare has always been Clark’s specialty. 

Your heart flutters. 

You laugh and ruffle your hands in his downy black hair, and he doesn't do anything to fix it (even when you aren't looking) and you get off a stop before school so he can break his lunch sandwich in half. 

Then, you spend the last twenty-odd minutes scuffing sneakers against the dusty sidewalks, sun warming your backs, talking about the latest music and baseball games, the who likes who and the I like— 

The bed creaks when you prop yourself up on your elbows. 

Your head spins, still stirring and cottony with the last of deep sleep, and your phone alarm is trilling incessantly on your nightstand. 

It’s weird how these things have been happening more frequently. Especially considering you’re fresh out of a breakup, if being ghosted and then dumping the guy a week later over voicemail could be considered one. 

You thought of it as more of a casual fling, really. A talking stage, as some would call it—a date here and there, just getting to know each other. 

Been seeing might be a misleading way to put it. That implies a certain threshold of intimacy, one you hadn’t passed. 

He’d fallen silent once you started talking about Smallville. About your best friend, who’s six-four and raised on Kansan corn, a gentle giant you followed to the city and kind of planned to keep in your life. 

(He ghosted you the next day. But just to one-up him, you think you might’ve started thinking about canceling the next date when he asked just how important Clark was over anybody else.) 

Eyes dry and bleary, your lips are chapped because you somehow started drooling at midnight. Air conditioning’s still on—you always forget despite the nightly reminder text Clark sends you—and you’re shivering under your blankets, hair a mess and plastered to your forehead. 

Your Queensland Park apartment is dark and blue with the morning haze, save for the tiny sliver of light shining through your bedroom door. It’s from the lamp you leave on in the sitting room. Ma Kent lent it to you—something to have from home, as if you didn't take her overgrown son with you. 

The shade is stained glass, like those ones you find at an old library. Simple and cerulean and rimmed with tarnished brass, and the slightly greenish tinge from the glass color superimposing on the warm lightbulb greets you every day without fail. 

So does Clark, with his good morning motivational texts—exactly at seven-thirty, even on weekends. 

It’s clockwork. Expected. The same exact time those bus doors would open and wash you in a wave of exhaust and vinyl. 

Once, it was ‘Sun’s up, guns out!’ with a photo attachment. 

It was him on the front page, framed in a way you know for a fact that Jimmy Olsen got the photo credit in the byline. 

He was in his suit, all blue like your lampshade and red like the color of the flannels he left in his wardrobe drawers in Smallville, and he was holding a semi-truck over his head. Biceps straining against the seams of his costume, dark hair windswept in the way his Internet fangirls go crazy over. 

You snorted at it. Alright, you...giggled, and maybe you had a pep in your usual morning slouch, but that’s all there was to it. Seriously. 

It’s just so endearing that in the lifetime you’ve spent with him, Clark has never run out of cheesy things to say. 

You reach across your tangled blankets and wrinkled pillows, grasping clumsily for your phone on the nightstand. You swipe up on the screen, shut off your alarm, and immediately pull into the last message he sent you. 

Two minutes ago: ‘Hit a home run like Clark.’  

He’s added that stupid bobblehead of Chicago's eponymous cub mascot you got him as a gag gift one Christmas, way back in grade school. The one with the left ear chipped off and a poorly painted Meteors logo over the red and blue C.  

A small, fond grin blooms on your face, uncontrollable. 

You weren’t aware that he kept it. Hell, you didn’t even know that he brought it to Metropolis. 

But that’s just how Clark is. Thoughtful at his core. Kind and sentimental. Actions speak louder than words and the whole works. 

He’s tucked himself neatly into your breast pocket. The edges of you line up like the stars, and you house every little thing he’s done in the space between your heart and lungs. 

And it’s the steadiness of that which grounds you here. 

When things inevitably go wrong, you call him first. CLARK KENT, branded in big letters on your phone screen. 

He’s down for anything. Picking you up after a bad day at work, killing (sorry, escorting out) the cockroach that mysteriously found itself in your apartment, helping fold your fitted sheets because you can never do it quite like he and his Ma do. 

That’s the kind of man your childhood best friend is, in all his messy-curl, soft-sighed glory. Crooked glasses that he didn’t start wearing until high school, suits by the day and flannel pajamas by night. Blushes if you stare at him for too long, earnest in everything he does. 

Consistent. Cerulean sea glass patiently shaped by the test of time. 

You like his message and swing your legs onto the floor. The hardwood is cold beneath your feet, and you pad over to the thermostat, turning down the AC and wandering into the bathroom while you think up some witty response. 

A pun is too cringy to send. You could just prattle off the date of the next Cubs v. Meteors series, but Clark probably already has a season ticket, so there’s no point. 

Your phone buzzes, twice. 

Daily Planet newsletter | Friday, April 27 

REMINDER: 4th date, Matthew 

You grimace at the second pop-up banner. 

You still haven’t cleared your calendar of pre-planned dates. 

In your sleep-smudged state, you had forgotten. You were lucky enough to score a job that lets you leave early on Fridays, so you just set the afternoon as your go-to day for completing your miscellaneous tasks before the weekend. 

Chores, laundry, dates. 

You worry the inside of your cheek between your molars. 

You decide to blame it on the dream, and the fact that you were immediately greeted by Clark’s text. 

Over-optimistic, typed out in that cheery voice you know he intended to send it with even though you can’t possibly hear it. You can hear it in your head though—how it squeaks slightly, pitches up in the way it does when he’s excited. 

You really haven’t spent much time with Clark recently, you realize. Seeing him doesn't count, because technically, everyone in Metropolis sees him, even if it’s a red blur rocketing around the stone corner of an Art Deco high-rise. 

You’ve just...been busy. With work, and your broken electric kettle (right, you have to fix that before you do something rash at work), and your unlucky streak in relationship business. 

He’s definitely busy with balancing Superman and his articles too, but... 

That’s a silly thing to worry about, isn’t it? 

Making time is practically enshrined in his philosophy, his raison d'être. And if not today, then tomorrow, or some other day. You know Clark Kent well and long enough to understand that he’s superb at making up for things.  

Maybe you should take a page out of his book. 

TO: clark kent  u busy tonight?  we should bring back friday dinner for good lol  but at ur place, mines messy 

Delivered with a whoosh. 

You put your phone face down onto the bathroom counter and wrench the sink on, cupping your hands beneath the rapid stream. Frigid water splashes onto your face. 

Pressing your wet fingers against your eyelids, stars bloom in your vision. Two breaths, in-out. Long inhale, short exhale. 

Like this is just an exercise. Like your heart didn’t stammer for several beats after you punched the send button. 

He’s probably on his way to work right now. Gets up early like he’s still in the heartland. Like he has cows and crops to tend to instead of interviews and articles. 

All things considered though, Mr. Kent wouldn’t be happy if his son was always tardy or MIA to farm work like he is in the city. 

A quiet laugh bubbles in your stomach. You wonder how he even gets in and out of the Planet in that ridiculously bright suit. 

You swipe your hands on the soft fibers of a hand towel and pick your phone up again. 

He’s in the middle of formulating a message, three dots dancing after each other in the text bubble. 

You press the first letter of what you want to say on the keyboard. There’s no going back now. 

TO: clark kent  my boyfriend said so btw 

Nice to let him know, right?  

(You hope he remembers the joke.) 

Clark’s dots disappear for a moment. You imagine him pondering in the way you know so well: cheek sucked in and caught between his teeth, eyes wandering to zone out at the ceiling. 

Then they start again, bopping along in consecutive order. 

Three buzzes, muted against the cradle of your palms. 

FROM: clark kent  Haha, ok.  I’m not flying tho  and I don't have melon pops. 

A snort finds its way out of your nose. You feel warm despite the cold water still beading on your face. 

He remembers. 

Which is sweet on its own, referencing those two times he’s come to your rescue in times of love-life crisis. 

Which goes back to how making time (be there in a jiffy) and giving thoughtful gifts (thought you might like these flowers) and comforting you when you need it most (oh, sunshine, if you wanted someone to dote on you, you could’ve just asked me) practically runs in his blood. 

And he’s right. It’s pretty doting—and dare you suggest—boyfriend-like already. 

…Oh. You freeze. 

It dawns on you then that a sappy, sickly smile that’s strikingly close to a lovesick one has been creeping onto your face. 

Oh, no. 

—

Your first heartbreak comes during your eighteenth summer in Smallville. 

Well, it’s less heartbreak and more embarrassment. 

Turned to face the popcorned wall of the general store, you wait for the line to connect. The retro payphone handset is cold in your hand, just like how it’s cool in here, the barest respite from the hell on earth outside. 

Of all days to fall for something stupid, you chose Senior Ditch morning. You should have just lazed around at the Kents’ like Clark asked you to. 

The fan in the far corner rattles in the way it has since before you were even born, paper streamers dancing on the metal grate. The dial tone finally starts droning—ouurrrrr. 

You worry your bottom lip between your teeth, index finger tangled in the cord. Please don’t be mad. 

He picks up on the first ring—click! Waits in silence for another second before finally addressing the elephant in the cornfield with his usual cheery voice, “So. Nate's a jerk, isn’t he?” 

Sighing, you rub your thumb over your eyelid, press the speaker closer against the shell of your ear. “Yeah. Sorry.” 

“’S fine.” You can see him in your mind, flattening his mouth into that weirdly reassuring upside-down smile. “We all learn some way, right?” 

“Mhm,” you swallow and do a quick check of your surroundings. 

Eddie the clerk is wiping down the counter—milkshakes sold out today—and Mr. Stone is getting ready to set up today’s round of rummy in the back. 

No sign of that asshole Nate. 

No sign of anyone, really. Kind of stupid now that you think about it, setting a ditch day during the peak of a heat wave. 

“Just say it.” You lean your shoulder against the wall and look out the windows. The white backside of the painted GENERAL STORE letters glare back at you. You pitch your voice down, “Told you so, sunshine.” 

Clicking his tongue, “I don’t sound like that.” 

“Your Ma would disagree.” 

“Well, I didn’t tell you so, sunshine,” he sighs. You can hear the small smile bleeding into his voice. “I just said that the grass isn’t always greener on the other side.” 

“Right.” You draw out the word, honey-slow on the ‘i’.  

“Right?” Clark laughs, a windchime sound. Your tone has completely passed over his head. “I only meant you might enjoy your day off more if we were polishing off a pint of Neapolitan and binging Star Wars instead of going on a date.” 

You stay silent for a heartbeat. Wheels spin in your head—why the hell are you calling him anyways? 

Clark should be mad. That you brushed off his advice, that you woke up early to walk to town instead of his house. That you ditched him for some boy who couldn’t even care for you like he does. 

But he isn’t. He’s so water-under-the-bridge forgiving and sweet and— 

Fuck, if you aren’t sorry for being stupid. It might be the embarrassment or the sting of slapping yourself mentally or even the heat, but you’re half-desperate when you say: 

“Please pick me up.” You blurt it so fast that you think the words muddled into one. Silence. Static over the line. “Clark? Hey, you know I’m sorry for—” 

You hear a faint jingle over the staticky line, then a far-off yell, “Pa! I’m going out!” 

“Drive safe!” Another beat. “Darn boy left the phone hangin’ again. That you, sunny?” 

You bring your hand up to your mouth and stifle an amused exhale against the back of it. “Yeah, it’s me, Mr. Kent.” 

He clicks his tongue, a mannerism that’s almost identical to the way Clark does it. “Mm, way he was lookin' all concentrated, I knew it had to be you. What’re you doin’ out in this heat anyway?” 

You set your mouth into a flat line. “...Things.” 

The bell to the store rings, and Eddie choruses a ‘hey, Mr. Morris’ without even looking up from the counter. 

Mr. Morris nods to Eddie, waves to you and then tilts his head with a frown. He’s been coming here long enough to know where you take your usual perch with Clark, so it must be strange to see you without the Kents’ awkwardly big son. 

You point to the phone, and his frown relaxes with an oh. 

“Things, you say,” rumbles Mr. Kent. You could probably see his greying beard fluffing up if you squint hard enough. “Does this have something to do with Clark bein’ all mopey this mornin’?” 

“Um,” you stammer, swallowing. You wince. “Maybe. I...well, a guy asked me to meet him.” 

“Oh. See, I’d say if a boy doesn’t show up to take you himself, he in’t worth chasing, but I think you heard enough of that from Clark,” Mr. Kent drawls. Your nose furrows, deepening your grimace. “Well, I hope that works out for you someday. If you need to find me—prob’ly in twenty minutes if my boy is abiding the speed limit—I'll be in the barn.” 

He lets out a hearty laugh. You echo him, albeit weaker and half-awkward. 

“Yeah, Mr. Kent, I—I'll see you ‘round.” 

You hang your head and hook the handset back onto the payphone. 

Main Street is distorted by heat waves. The cracked asphalt wobbles along with the fading white paint dividing the lanes, and you think about Clark. 

Tearing down the roads at a speed of exactly 30 mph, hands tapping at nine and three on the sunwarmed wheel.  Skipping to the next Rascal Flatts song on the CD that never leaves the truck, like it’s just another day. 

Mr. Kent said that Clark was looking all concentrated on the phone. You know that look like the back of your hand: lashes resting against his cheeks, eyes trained down and glasses sliding to the tip of his nose. Tongue caught in the pocket of his cheek, dimple pressing in as he mulls over whatever is playing out in his head. 

And then you wonder when was the last time he cut his hair—it's gotten quite long, enough that when he tugs a cap on, his curls stick out of the back—and if he managed to get the magnitude of his laser vision right this morning because last week, he burned himself shaving. 

You lean your head against the pane, graciously cold on your cheek. 

The heat must be playing tricks, you think, with a superimposition of Clark swimming on the glass. 

(Or it might just be that you kind of, maybe, really miss him and whatever weird thing he’d randomly blurt out if he was here.) 

Smallville Giants cap snug over his head, downy hair curling out of the snapback in the way you imagined it to be. The brim is low over his forehead, shadow making the blue of his eyes shine out in that somewhat off-putting way they do in the dark.  

He grins in that lopsided, downturned way that reminds you of the Kents’ border collie, Shelby, thumping her tail against the ground. A laugh escapes you in a small exhale through your nose, and you brush your fingertips against the window. 

And then he taps the glass. 

Real. Solid. Smile widening to show teeth with a double-exposure in the reflection. 

Your heart leaps into your throat as you spin around. It really is him, arms firmly crossed over a white-shirted chest and charming dimples shining at full force. 

“What—Clark!”  

You must look like a fool right now, limbs all frozen up in surprise and eyes wider than the fine china saucers Mrs. Kent likes to display in her dining room. Eddie laughs from behind you, slapping a rag onto the metal counter. 

“Hi!” Your best friend’s broad hand is a blur as he waves, voice muted by the glass. “I think you ordered a chauffeur?” 

You quickly stride over to the door, pushing it open. The bell rings with a clear, windchime sound; a blast of searing, humid hellfire presses down on you. Sweat begins to bead at your neck. 

“Very funny.” Still, you’re helpless to the fond smile that tugs at your face. Clark strides over, freckled cheeks slightly pinkened, thumb pressing into the palm of his other hand. 

The left side of his mouth quirks up at the same time he shrugs his shoulders. “I came, you called.” 

Letting the door shut, you step out into the Kansan summer and stand under the shade of your abnormally tall friend. You’re earnest, from the bottom of your heart, when you say, “Thank you, Clark.” 

A nervous scoff skips out of his mouth, and he palms the back of his neck. “It’s nothing. Come on.” 

He urges you to a nearby alley—strange. 

You don’t remember hearing the truck, and there’s no sign of it on the street either. Getting from the farm to town in the time between Mr. Kent picking up the phone and you hanging up would be impossible unless he was breaking the sound barrier. 

You let him walk ahead of you, lengthening the gap between your and his strides. 

“Wait,” you start, steps stalling, “how did you...?” 

Clark freezes and slowly pivots to face you, mouth twisted in a way that screams guilty. “Okay, don’t be mad.” 

“Dude—” 

“—I flew here because I didn’t want you getting heatstroke—” 

“—I’ve been waiting for you to fly me since forever.” 

He pauses, mouth mid-word and his index finger in the air, like this is a debate rebuttal and not a page out of your wildest dreams. 

Clark didn’t take the truck. He’s going to fly you back home. 

Like they do in the fucking Titanic, but in the air. Where the birds fly. Where you can look down and see the rippling fields and the cows that look like brown and white clouds in the grass. 

Pinching his lips till they turn white, he wipes his hands on his blue-jean thighs and stares at you in that absent, froggish way. “Sure, I guess that works out.” 

You bound over to him, stomach bubbling with a schoolgirl-giddiness you only remember feeling when he does something so thoughtful and sweet. Which is every day. 

So maybe that’s not normal. You should probably seek medical attention. 

You circle around him and reach to grip his shoulders—they're firm beneath your hands, conditioned by years of helping out on the farm (and also a little bit of alien genetics). 

Clark obliges, almost mindless, bending his knees by a fraction to let you jump onto his back. 

He smells like hay and sunshine and a long day at the lake. Fresh, clean linen, a faint tang of salt next to a braid of sweet corn silk. 

Like the same citrus soap he's used since forever, and the old books at the library. Like a thread of oak wood—same as the tree in his backyard and the walls of his bedroom. 

It’s more comforting than any cologne or Mrs. Kent’s stew. 

You know it now. Clark Kent will always be someone you can run home to. 

You dig your chin into the crook of his neck and shoulder, sighing. “Have I ever told you how much I love you?” 

Clark cranes his head back, trying to get a glimpse because of course he does. He’s always a stickler for eye contact when talking—it's inscribed into his heartland manners. 

The tips of your noses brush, two compasses crossing. 

“Hmm,” he hums, weak, “I don’t know. Maybe last week, when I let you copy my physics homework.” 

“Helped me, you mean.” 

“Yeah…” 

You flick the tip of his ear, already red and warm like someone tried to tear it off. 

“You’re mean.” 

“I love you too, by the way,” he quips, pushing off the floor gently. 

Then he starts floating, legs unfurling as he drifts up. Your laugh is light as you tighten your arms around his neck, him holding you close to his warm back. 

That shouldn’t make you feel the way it does. Like he believes in it, a hundred percent. Like he isn’t just saying it because he loves you like he loves everyone else. 

“C’mon.” You tap his collarbone. He hooks his acquiescing arms under your knees. Squeezes your calves once with his broad palm, reassuring. 

You push down the odd feeling swelling in your chest as the wind starts to comb its fingers through your clothes. 

It’s okay like this. 

Comfortable, steady. Held by your best friend. Soaring above the little town that Clark makes feel like the whole world has been singled to this hundred-thousand-acre plot. 

“Just this once, okay?” Clark says, though the way he says it with a wobbly face makes you think that he wouldn’t mind a round two. “Because we’re already skipping school.” 

“Right,” you nod, grin widening, “and we should totally be back in time to finish up Porter’s final essay.” 

He pinches his mouth. “What do you mean you haven’t finished?” 

“Okay, I only need my thesis.” You press your ear to his shoulder and look down at the quickly shrinking Smallville. “...And everything else after that.” 

The wind, mercifully cooler, whistles around you. Oh, there’s the windmill, and the winding road, and the golden, rippling fields for as far as the eye can see. A soft sigh leaves you. 

You’re going to miss the cornfields and the lightning bugs. The way the air smells slightly heavy when a storm’s approaching. How everyone is so well-knit with each other, how things are easy and unthinking. 

Automatic, the most natural thing in the world. 

“Sunshine, you—” he sputters, breaking you from your spiral. You’ve stopped just beneath the clouds, moisture wetting his curls till they’re pitch dark and plastered to his forehead. 

He cranes his head down to rest his chin on your forearm. Sighs, resigned. 

“That’s barely the introduction.” 

—

By some stroke of luck, you bitterly break up with your first long-term boyfriend at the same time Clark gets his first apartment. 

It’s small in here, still bare and honest. Ceiling popcorned and a little warmer than eggshell white like a small-town general store. The carpet is light brown, and you’re sure there’s a strange stain in some dark corner. 

And if you had to be honest, you think Clark chose this place specifically because it was ugly. He always puts his highest hopes in even the smallest and most shriveled of things. Even in Lex Luthor, that miserable eggshell of a CEO. 

(But it’s all in typical Downtown fashion. At least he isn’t settling in the snazzy, gentrified Upper East Side. 

This is temporary, he said, ‘till I can find a place in Midtown. But that’s for when the rent there miraculously dips, which is likely never unless metahumans start shooting lasers out of their eyes in front of the Daily Planet. 

Wait...) 

The temperature doesn’t work, either. 

Well, it does. Kind of.  

But it’s confined to just a small unit attached to the wall, so you can’t even feel it if you’re more than five feet away. 

His bedframe sits in the corner disassembled, futon rolled out over a full-sized mattress that’s been plopped in the middle of the room. He could’ve fixed that, given his super speed and strength and whatever else he has. Even could’ve done his entire studio in a day, but he didn’t. 

Because he was ‘waiting for you’. For two weeks. To come over to help him set up and have a little housewarming party after, just like the movies. Junk food and sodas and all. 

You think back to how you got here. 

Soaked to the bone. Shivering. Clothes vacuum sealed to your body and umbrella inverted in your clenched hand. 

What a day for your boyfriend to be an asshole and give you an ultimatum: break up, or cut your last root from Smallville. 

Ergo, you did what any best friend would do. 

You chose Clark, because it has always been that way. 

Clark doesn’t give ultimatums. Doesn’t get insanely, obsessively overbearing when you talk to other guys and absolve himself of any wrongdoing if you catch him staring at a girl. 

He’s forgiving. Concerned, yeah, but not authoritative. 

For god’s sake, he exclaimed ‘what in tarnation’ when he cracked open the weathered door and saw you dripping all over the hallway. 

“My boyfriend sent me here,” you told him, gaze downturned in guilt, and his face softened from surprise to wordless understanding. 

That’s how things have always been between you. Wordless. A language of eyes and gestures you’ve been fluent in since your formative years. 

You squelched inside like your feet had cephalopod suction cups on the bottom of them. Clark helped with shucking off your heavy jacket while you mumbled through the long story (not so) short. 

The ultimatum. 

How you realized in the moment that your now-ex was trying to isolate you from your friends.  

How that jerk—you refrained from asshole or motherfucking egotistical dickwad because a certain someone would cough—was so gung-ho about being the guy for you. 

The first one you had to call.  

As in, expected you to overhaul your pre-established laundry list of speed dials. Like he wanted to be the one you called at midnight to hide a body (Lana and Pete) or the one you relied on if you were, god forbid, stranded in Blüdhaven (Clark). 

As if, when you did call him, he actually came to your rescue instead of smacking his lips and saying, ‘Um, sorry babe, I’m a little busy.’ 

And maybe as you kept going on, it started to dawn that you weren’t really bitter about breaking up. 

You were more bitter about being stupid enough to stay with him for so long. For just pushing the little icks to the side, all ‘cause he might’ve been a little pretty and he made you feel okay every three or four days. 

Clark had been sifting through a box while you explained. Rain still pattered outside, racing down the window, but it was lighter than the absolute storm that had slammed into you on the way here. 

He paused, turned a little pink at the ears, and handed over a haphazardly folded towel like he was consciously controlling his actions. 

Which was weird. Because he’s always meticulous about his laundry. 

“Wait, sunshine,” he stuttered before you disappeared into the bathroom. “The plumbing’s opposite. Cold is hot and hot is cold.” 

“Thanks, Clark.” 

And then you unfolded the towel, and there lay a neatly creased pair of your underwear. Clean. Clothesline scented. 

You remembered this one. 

Late night, big calculus test the next morning. Cramming in his dorm, and you brought an extra change of clothes that you ended up using. You probably dumped your stuff into his hamper by mistake. 

You laughed, a little too loud. Clark heard you, and you heard him plead don’t say anything in a low, defeated tone through the thin wall. 

You didn’t push. Didn’t pry. Because Clark’s just like that. 

Sentimental. Plan A to Z. Keeps your stuff in case you need it ten years down the line. 

And besides, you’re here now. That’s better than spiraling into a self-beatdown or throwing darts at a picture of your ex’s face. 

You stop at the doorway of the bathroom with your eyes still itching and red-rimmed, a towel wrapped around your body. 

The apartment is eerily still, frozen in a moment. 

Everything in this 400 square foot place is raw. 

Exposed. Naked. White painted brick on the windowed side, stucco boxing the rest in. 

Like all of Clark’s life has been dwindled down to a couple boxes and furniture bought off Craigslist. A couple white-painted nails sticking out of the wall and a broken outlet, as if that’s fine. 

It is, for a fresh graduate who’s paying rent off savings and an entry-level salary from the Daily Planet. 

(Thank god for that full-ride scholarship he managed to snag four years ago.) 

Plus, you trust that Clark has his priorities straight, because according to the to-do list endearingly taped to the mirror, the fridge is installed and working, and he’s already deep cleaned every surface. 

Dust specks float past you, and there’s a breeze—slightly clammy from the aftermath of a storm—circulating from an open window. 

Widening patches of sky peek out from the clearing clouds. The air smells wet, in that good, after the rain way. A tad salty from the bay, too, with a hint of chill. 

The rays of a New Troy golden hour paint the room in faint, honeyed gold, and the ceiling fan in the main room is spinning in languid circles, droning on with a rusted noise that’s starting to grate on your nerves. 

You can hear the metro rattle by below, the foundation of the complex shivering slightly as it rumbles on the tracks. There’s a tune playing from another door down, jazzy and vague. 

You take two steps out of the bathroom, bare feet padding from old tile to worn carpet fibers. You peek around like some cartoon character, searching for a telltale sign of Clark. 

Empty. His gingham beige-brown curtains, same as the ones from Smallville, flutter with a gentle breeze. 

But laid on top of his futon-mattress combo is one of his old shirts—you stifle a laugh, it’s the Crabjoys one that shrunk in the dryer—and the pair of shorts you left with your underwear. 

Small miracles. 

You pull the shirt over your head. Smells like Clark, all citrus shampoo and line-dried cotton. Comforting, in the way he’s so familiar that he feels like home. 

The tide of self-deprecation in you subsides. 

You dig into the freezer next—because ice cream makes everything better, obviously—kitchen tiles warm against your soles as a geyser of cold air billows up. Not frigid. Just cold, like it’s barely working. 

There’s a pint of Neapolitan, which has maybe a single, pathetic, half-scoop left in it. 

You move on. 

The frozen custard that you vividly remember him buying and sending you a picture of two days ago is in the same state as the pint. And—even worse—there's a frustratingly empty box of ice cream sandwiches. 

Prodding further, pushing aside frozen food and ready-to-microwaves... 

Oh, a box of honeydew cream popsicles! 

And there’s one left. It’s semi-melted in your hand, barely holding onto its shape. 

You get that he’s all corn-fed and trying to bulk, but how much sugar does Clark need to consume in a day? 

A flutter of movement catches your eye just as you’re ripping and crumbling the cold, plastic wrapping into your fist. 

Right. Old building like this—there's a fire escape. 

You find Clark slumped against the raw brick on the rusted landing, bones loose under the tangerine sky and curls ruffled by the evening breeze. Well, less slumped and more crumpled. 

Legs pretzeled at an awkward angle to fit on the escape landing. Shoulders hunched so he can fit. New glasses folded up and tucked into the collar of his pajama shirt—Crabjoys again, this time the right size. 

(You don’t want to know how many of those shirts he has.) 

An open book is flattened against his stomach, browning page corners dog-eared and well loved. 

Tom Sawyer. Of course. 

An old bedtime story turned favorite book. Vaguely, you remember that Mrs. Johnson in third grade chastised him for writing multiple book reports on it, even if they were completely different and lent a new perspective each time. 

(She eventually gave up. Clark Kent continued to write his weekly reports on The Adventures of Tom Sawyer until his Pa caught on and introduced him to Huckleberry Finn.)  

Chipped paint rasps at your bare shins, and your shorts hitch up as you duck out the open window. The grate is hard beneath you when you drop next to him with the iced treat in hand; it's already half-slush, coating your fingers with sticky, melon-flavored cream. 

"Didn't get one for me?" he croaks, rolling his head to face you. The shadow of a passing flock of geese dances over his face; a shift in the wind, and his eyes are clear and soaked in golden hour light. 

"Last one in the freezer, cowboy," you tell him, offering the popsicle. He presses the flat of his tongue against the syrup rivulets on the back of your hand—you wrinkle your nose. "You're gross." 

"And you're the one who's stealing my last melon pop.” 

He sinks his teeth into the soft cream, and you bite after him.  

“How’d you dry the rain off the grate?” you ask, fingers curling around a rough bar. It’s weirdly warm against your skin. 

Doesn’t feel gritty like the fire escape in your apartment does. Your hand comes away without a smudge. 

Wow. He really meant it when he crossed off deep clean on that to-do list. 

“Heat breath.” 

Perks of being superpowered. “Huh.” 

You take turns like this, switching bites until only the wooden stick remains. You leave it between your teeth, leeching the last of the cold into your mouth and letting your sticky hand dry in the wind. 

Below is a street you don’t remember the name of, jam packed with the post-workday rush. Taxis, trucks, and bikes splash through shallow puddles.  

A cat yowls across the street, and the middle-aged guy busking beneath the awning on the corner is ripping a riff on his trumpet. 

The traffic song wraps around you, rhythmed in a syncopated hymn that drowns out the rush of blood that comes to your ears. 

"I've been reading up on the area," Clark starts. "There's this bodega, right down the block. Oh, and the bakery on 38th and Scott, we could try their brownies if we line up at six." 

"Big city plans for a small-town guy," you say, droll, chewing absently on the wooden stick. The back of your head lazes against the auburn rough of the bricks, and a gentle breeze sifts between the buildings. 

Clark scoots closer, shoulder to shoulder with you. He's a furnace like always, skin pinkened and glowing in the way it does when he’s in the sun. 

He puts his chin on your shoulder, looks at you real closely—eyelids at half-mast, mouth pressed into the shape of mischief. You give him a sidelong stare, holding the blue of his pupils. 

In them—cloud swirls, the shadow pattern of the birds above soaring by with a breeze that trails its fingers down your spine. 

You feel a little warm under his stare, blood rushing to your head. "What?" 

"We're gonna have so much fun here," he finally says, smile breaking out on his face. "Smallville One and Two, reporting for duty!" 

You let out a wheezing laugh, looking up at the clouds. There's one shaped like a flying man, puffy marshmallow limbs stretched in a starfish. "And let me guess, you're One, and I'm Two." 

"Fine, Smallville Half and Half." 

"But which Half comes first?" 

"Doesn't matter," Clark grins. Knocks his knee against yours, reassuring in that way you know so well. "They come in pairs. Do not separate." 

You shove his shoulder—doesn’t budge. His deltoid is hot beneath your hand, though you aren’t sure if it’s really him or you that’s warmer.  

“Cheeseball,” you mutter. Eyes rolling, even with the grin tugging incessantly at your mouth. 

He laughs with the odd, boyish charm he’s never really grown out of. It tickles something in your brain, how he starts off with a quick scoff that devolves into full-bodied hiccups. 

You want to hear it forever. 

You want to stay here forever with your legs cramped together side by side on the hard fire escape. Skyscrapers and stone for as far as the eye can see, cut by the grid of streets that beat with the heart of Metropolis. 

“Oh!” Clark straightens like he’s been struck. Reaches into his pocket, draws out his phone. He taps around the screen and then shows you a video. “Look, Pa sent me this.” 

It’s home in the Kents’ backyard. Rippling gold fields and heavy panicles of grain, a soft static that used to lull you right to sleep. Old, metal-wood fences and the cry of cicadas. 

You squint at the screen. 

Cows graze like little brown and white clouds in the sea of green. It might be Linus yonder by the leftmost fence, and Franklin flicking his tail next to Patty. Or is that Shermy and Lucy? 

You can’t tell them apart like Clark can. 

There’s an irregular shape shadowed by Franklin’s back leg. He zooms in for you without asking and oh—it’s a calf. 

Fluttering ears. Big, softhearted eyes. Fluffy brown coat. Reminds you of Clark, in a way. All earnest and new to everything. 

The bottom barrier of their fence is still broken, you notice. It’s just a small tear, probably from the time his powers started developing. 

He had torpedoed—yes, like a missile—out of the back door and banged his head into the base of the fence before the screen door could rattle back into place. 

Guess that crack there serves as a reminder: no flying on the farm.  

“Cute,” you say. “We should go back sometime soon.” 

He smiles in agreement and reaches back to place his phone on the windowsill. His arm flexes in front of your eyes—hard lines and veins rising beneath tan skin—and you suddenly get why the freezer is so empty. 

You clench your jaw and duck your head. 

“Anyways” —he cuts himself off, tucking his lips between his teeth as he thinks. “Uh, I got my suit in the mail, too. Been hiding it in the closet, ‘cause I haven’t set up my bedframe yet.” 

You keep your eyes trained on your knees but let a smile pull at the corners of your mouth. He was waiting for you. “Can I be the first to see?” 

He scoffs in amusement, dimples sinking in easily. It never fails to amaze you, how they’re so ready to just appear even when he’s only talking. 

“Don’t be silly, I know you were peeking when Ma was making it.” 

“Thank you for the astute observation,” you mumble. Unneeded heat gathers in your cheeks. 

“A-S-T-U-T-E.” Clark is unfazed as you stare at him blankly. He shrugs, corners of his mouth pulling down like it’s no big deal. “It was in the crossword this morning.” 

Eyes flicking up, you plant your palm on the side of his face and hold him away. “Okay, third place winner of Smallville Middle’s spelling bee.” 

“Well—! Most sixth graders would stutter on perspicacious too,” he stammers, words smushed by your hand to his cheek. 

You mumble, “Apparently not Loretta and Marcie.” 

“I’ll have you know that I could spell the first-place word.” Swatting your hand off with a flippant wave, Clark plucks Tom Sawyer off his chest and sits up properly, letting it flop onto the grate. “Bouillon: B-O-U-I-double L-O-N. Because Ma always uses it in her stew.” 

You know. You were there, waiting for him by the steps with a rented movie you don’t remember anymore and chips in case he was hungry. So sure he would win. 

And if you still call Marcie ‘Marcie-Farcie’ in your head? Well, Clark doesn’t have to know that.  

Reaching around him (and ignoring how solid and furnace-hot his chest is in your arms), you lean into him with a fake-coy smile. “Hey, could you spell loquacious for me right now?” 

“Lo...?” Clark’s brows furrow with that faint wrinkle between them. You kind of want to smooth it out with your thumb. “Oh, don’t be mean. And—hey is for horses.” 

You blow a short raspberry. “You’re no fun.” 

“I’m very fun,” he stammers, voice pitched high. “I wear trunks on the outside. I—I like Neapolitan ‘cause I get to eat all of my favorite flavors.” 

“Right,” you say, nodding politely. You press your mouth tight, trying not to laugh as Clark returns the hug and holds you tight. “Right.” 

“And I can fit a hundred lollipops in my cape, isn’t that great? Oh—and I can recite all of Romeo and Juliet.” 

He clears his throat. Steadies himself, posture straightening. Slips into that tone he's been practicing, dubbed the Superman Voice. “Two households, both alike in dignity. In fair Verona—” 

A short laugh leaves you, uncontrollable. Joy sloshes around in your chest. “Alright, alright, you’re fun.” 

“I knew it,” Clark says, giving you a pointed look. Eyebrows raised and clear blue eyes shining with something you can’t name. 

The breath in your lungs unravels to the quick.  

You still haven’t pulled away, arms tight around his chest. He’s warm, alive, grounding. 

Safe, in the way he’s always been. 

And on a more bitter note, in the way your ex hated. With a capital H. 

In that what’s so great about him way. In that maybe you should stop seeing him way. 

It never made any sense. 

Clark’s nothing but honest. Soft. A sweet, heartland, golden retriever to the core who names his parents’ cows after Peanuts characters. 

The thought of liking someone while they were in a relationship wouldn’t cross his mind. Hell, the thought of even liking you, single or not, wouldn’t either. 

…Would it? 

Clark coughs, untangling himself with a long inhale. “We—should start. Um, on my furniture. Like I said, we’re gonna have so much fun once we settle in.” 

“Dude, you make it sound like we’re gonna live together.” You ignore how that idea makes your chest feel odd. 

Like your heart’s about to leap out and crack your sternum. Like waking up to the sight of your sleep-soft best friend making breakfast is a perfectly fine thing to think of. 

“I mean…” He shrugs, lips pinching and angling downward as if he’s truly considering it. “You honestly slept at my parents’ house more than your own.” 

Your throat runs dry, caught. “Your—well, your bed’s just comfier.” 

“Yeah, it’s ‘cause Shelby farted on it.” 

“Ew.” 

—

The thing about lightbulbs is: they aren’t the same as before. 

Older lightbulbs take some time to light up. Flip the switch, open the circuit. Gentle buzz, and the filaments catch with a current, every second stretching into the next before the brightness flickers and then peaks. 

Those were the bulbs in Smallville and Clark’s old apartment. 

Newer lightbulbs are instantaneous. Snap of the finger—flick and light, like a Zippo. And that’s you right now, standing in the shadow of a pent-up tsunami of realizations that’s about to hit you full force. 

This is familiar. 

Standing in front of the door to Clark’s apartment, bag heavy on your shoulder and shifting on your feet as you wait for him to answer your knocks. 3-D glares back at you on the golden plate, bright against the dark, polished wood. 

Familiar, but not the same. 

For one, his old apartment was chipped white paint and Downtown charm. This one’s Midtown class, all dark marble and crisp navy blue. 

And for another, you’re nervous beyond reason, and you’re seriously considering just finding a hole to wither in. 

Your heart is stuttering. Knocking around between your lungs, tapping at the underside of your sternum in a way Clark’s super-hearing is sure to pick up on. 

Long inhale, short exhale. This is just dinner, just like the million others you’ve had. 

Except, you’re kind of dolled up—as in, a smidge more makeup than you’d usually wear around him (which is close to none, because he’s seen you in middle school with acne and that terrible haircut). As in, you fixed your sweater for glaring wrinkles in the elevator and made sure your jeans didn’t have lint on them. 

Except, over the course of the very short workday you spent mulling over your bad decisions, it started to wash over you that blaming everything on that dream would technically be blaming your own subconscious. 

“One sec,” you hear, muffled by the door. The latch clicks, and there’s Clark, warm smile on his face, dimples like gentle craters in his cheeks. “Hi.” 

Your stomach somersaults and lands with a pathetic hop. 

Which is bad. You think you need an icepack, or medical attention, or frankly, anything to peel your mind off the sight of Clark in his white button-up, undershirt visible beneath the fabric. First two buttons undone, sleeves rolled up to reveal the veins nestled in the crook of his elbow, glasses half-buried in his combed-down curls and slacks sinfully tailored to his thighs. 

The smell of bagel crumbs floats around him, weirdly. Toasted, fresh, with a hint of…vanilla bean, which isn’t his usual vanilla. Not that you mind; you briefly consider just pulling him in by the lapels of his shirt and—no. 

You think of him agonizing over two bottles—extract or bean syrup—in the grocery store before your mind scrubs itself blanks. Whiteboard clean. Nothing rattling around if you shook your head. 

Like when the tide pulls all the way back from the beach. Like when you’re staring down at the plain of barren, sandy dunes below your feet, look up, and stare into the face of a hundred-foot-wave question of oh, when did he suddenly become attractive to you? 

Sure, you might have realized that what you’ve been missing in other guys has been lurking in your golden retriever of a best friend for eternity. That no other guy would treat you so sweetly like he did. 

But that’s different.  

That’s pining and idealistic stuff.  

This is insane. Mentally. Physically. Hormonally. Gripping the table’s edge-y. 

It’s one thing to want someone emotionally, but physicality is a completely different thing. And now, two seconds deep into a miles-long stare, you’re suddenly aware of just how badly you'd want Clark if he wasn’t your best friend. 

In the same way he was in that picture of him lifting a semi-truck like a fucking paperweight. Damn Jimmy Olsen for always getting Superman’s best angle, so much that you’ve developed a peeve for when the random people in your feed start gushing paragraphs about taking off their pants or whatever. 

(Of course, if someone caught wind of that, they didn’t hear it from you…) 

Or the same way he was in the aftermath of that first real heartbreak of yours. When you dripped all over his welcome mat looking like a sad paper-maché of a freshly broken-up and bitter barely-graduate, and then helped him move into his apartment and totally didn’t stare when he did all the grunt work for the heavy furniture. 

Or—you dread to think—Smallville. 

When he was still sort of skinny and awkward and a fish out of water. Still being fed corn from sunrise to sundown, winning the runner-up to half his contests, and accidentally melting a hole through a lab table in chemistry and giving you that sheepish, smile-wince look of endearing guilty apology. 

Oh. 

The wave crashes over you. Burning cold. Startling. Dreadful. Heart entering freefall. 

You maybe. Might. Probably. Definitely. Have harbored a secret, heavily denied and-or repressed crush on Clark Kent. 

Corn-fed and six foot four Clark Kent. Academic whiz and full-ride merit scholarship recipient Clark Kent. Who unironically finds it beautiful to say things like ‘what the hay’ and ‘oh, sakes alive.’ 

The Clark Kent who waited two weeks for you to help him move in when he could’ve done it himself in two minutes. The same guy who dropped everything to pick you up after you were stupidly pranked. 

Your childhood best friend. Whose name is synonymous with ‘no.1 most dependable and would die for you.’ Whose toddler pictures you’ve had a guest-starring role in. 

You barely register Clark tilting his head, brows furrowing in mild confusion. “Sunshine?” 

“Hi,” you blurt, a little flat. “Clark.” 

You’re sure your mouth is at an awkward, slightly sour angle, because he studies you before slowly stepping back to let you in. You’re half-ready to run to his bathroom and bang your head against the mirror. 

He just. Looks at you. Lips set in that slight pout of consideration and his right-hand dimple shifting. 

You avoid his eyes, feigning interest in his doorframe. Dark wood, solid, and ridiculously small when Clark is filling out the space inside. 

“Are you okay?” 

“Yeah,” you breathe, shifting on your feet. “Never better.” 

“Okay,” he says. Simple, short. Like he’s not going to think deeper into it—at least you hope he won’t. He flashes a small smile, “I’m making bagels.” 

You shove down the urge to snort at how in character that is for him. 

Here you are, freaking out over the newfound discovery that you were none the wiser to secretly yearning for Clark since high school. And he’s unconcerned, shifting his mouth to and fro in the expressive way you know so well and making fucking bagels for dinner. 

“Seriously?” 

“Yeah.” Clark lets an easy grin rise on his face, and he reaches to grab the strap of your bag, reeling you into his apartment. You echo him, a light laugh escaping as you kick off your shoes and let him take your things. 

He nudges the door shut with his heel and peers into your bag, surprise etching into the line of his brow. 

“Woah.” Reaches in, pulls out a bottle of wine by the neck. It’s ridiculous how your stomach starts simmering with want when you see how big his hand is compared to the glass. “So, I’m guessing you bought this to make up for my lack of ice cream?” 

You blink, twice. Takes a moment for you to eke out a squeaky, “Uh, sure.” 

Too casual to be innocent, you dig your hands into your pockets and stroll into the kitchen with uptight leisure. You exchange stiff pleasantries while you avoid his eyes—how’s work and you won’t believe what the media’s saying about you right now. 

Orange-yellow light spills out from inside the oven. Clark’s bagels, slightly more malformed than the ones you’d find at a coffee shop, have just started baking, still pale and lumpy. 

His apartment has changed slightly since the last time you saw it; the sitting room is still straight ahead, tall glass and blinking city lights; hallway to the right, the faint outline of doorways visible despite the lights being off. 

But there’s frames on the wall now, glass panes glared by the amber light coming from the lamp next to the TV. The couch is different—more sunken in, like it’s seen its fair share of nights crashing onto the cushions in exhaustion. 

And there’s stuff pinned to the fridge door. Mismatched magnets from Jitters Coffee and some touristy store in Gotham (though you didn’t know they even existed), and random sticky notes taped to the metal. 

CALL MA and Crabjoys reunion ticketing: Apr20 are the ones that really get you. Remind you that some things never change. 

You zero in on a photo strip painstakingly centered in a magnetic frame, long sandalwood beams squared around four snapshots of you and Clark. 

Together. Pinching each other’s cheeks with one of those dumb filters from the photobooth in Metropolis Uni’s gift shop. You remember this one. 

Spring semester of junior year, wide smiles full with the relief of surviving midterms week. The booth had been so small that you had to sit in his lap. He was warm when he wrapped his arms around your waist to keep you steady. 

Your core stirs. Unintentionally, of course. But still enough to send a violent wave of rapid-firing neurons into a massive short-circuit. 

It doesn't help that Clark is radiating that same heat when he comes up behind you. Sidles up next to your arm, setting his hand on the blue cabinet above and kneading his cheek between his teeth. 

“Uh,” he starts, quiet like the subtle hum of the oven’s fan, “are you hungry?” 

It’s barely five. You’re still lingering on the photo strip, studying the way Clark’s watching you in that long-ago moment. Eyes soft, smile angled downward in a manner you’d call adoring. Like he’s in love. 

Not that love you usually practice. The one where you kid with each other and battle in footsie under the dinner table. The one you’ve been swimming in since childhood, when he slept with a Meteors poster under his pillow to manifest their next win. When you made eyes at other boys and he had to remind you to pay attention in class. 

But one where he looks like he wants to take you by the collar of your shirt too. Lean into you, full tilt and without hesitation, like he’s yearning to become one under your skin and carve his name into the underside of your ribs. Like he’s got a spark of desire flickering in his chest. 

Or not. You could be delusional. 

You remind yourself to inhale. “No, I—I’m good.” 

“Okay,” he says, voice rumbling low. Your knee twitches—the barest, involuntary spasm of a muscle in reaction to the sparks setting off behind your ribs. “Because I think we need to talk.” 

You go ramrod-stiff so quickly that you swear one of your joints cracks. A thrill runs through your heart—fuck, he definitely caught on. If there’s one thing about his policy of making time, it’s that establishing clear communication is included. 

Pitched in a somewhat sheepish tone, “What?” 

“I mean,” he ducks his head down, shoulders tight as he gestures between the two of you with a finger. Looks back up at you with earnest eyes, blue so clear you can see yourself in the glassy reflection. “You’re acting weird. Did I do something?” 

You shake your head, immediate. Relief courses through you, but it’s quickly replaced with a wave of guilty heartache. Here is a man who only wants to be sweet and care about you, and you’re thinking you might want more. Want him to kiss and touch and say, I’m in— 

“No, it’s not you—I’m just…” you fish for an excuse “…a little stressed.” 

“Well.” Clark does a short, dorky side-to-side, shoulders more relaxed. “Talk to me.” 

Your throat feels full when you swallow. Pulse thundering, you tap the picture with your finger. “You kept it.” 

He looks a little stunned, head listing to the side owlishly. “Why not?” 

You shrug. Stupidly, “Dunno.” 

A smile breaks on his face, tender as a rising sun. Certain, too, like he needs to remind you that duh, “It’s my favorite picture.” 

Oh. 

You didn’t know that. He keeps the most romantic (arguably) picture of you and him on his fridge, where it’s impossible to not pass by on the daily. That’s fine. 

Your stomach clenches in a way that makes you feel stricken and stupidly, ridiculously heartsick. 

“You’re kidding.” 

“Not,” he huffs, shifting to lean against the fridge. He’s almost the same width—god—and you’re a little too distracted with the solid shape of his bicep tightening under his sleeve and the barest dip of muscle before his elbow. “You still haven’t answered the question.” 

Frowning, “What question?” 

“What you’re so stressed about,” Clark says. 

Pinching his mouth to the side, his dimple winks as he studies you. He’s been doing that a lot—new nervous habit, you suppose. “Does it have something to do with your text this morning?” 

Your jaw clenches, caught. “Maybe...” 

He knows you too well. 

Clark does that thing again—tilts his head, going from one side to another. Like he’s trying to gauge you from every angle. You fiddle with a loose string in your sleeve. 

He blurts, “I didn’t like Matthew, by the way.” 

Which—okay. Valid. Clark is honest as always, and he’s entitled to his own opinions, which you agree with, because looking back, Matthew was pretty unlikeable. 

He insisted on splitting the bill—not that you’re salty about needing to pay, for god’s sake, you have a job and a fair amount of disposable income, but because he was just cheap. Like he needed someone to pick up his slack and excused it with, ‘well, everyone’s all about equality these days, right?’ 

And he only wore a faint, sneerish smile as if he was embarrassed to appear more than nonchalant. Chewed cinnamon gum like it was his second job, rolled his eyes at the slightest thing. 

Never laughed, unless it was in derision when a kid tripped over their own feet, or something. And he was addicted to wired headphones. And pretended to be an avid reader—you know he was acting, because he couldn’t tell you who narrated The Great Gatsby despite it being opened to the last chapter in front of him. 

You might’ve overlooked a lot of things about Matthew because he was cute. Baritone and solemn dimples and curly black hair and eyes that curved into crescents at the slightest twitch of his mouth. 

And, alright. Just for the sake of adding it to the pile of late revelations that have dawned upon you during this hour: 

You probably swiped right on him because he resembled Clark. 

Not a little. A lot. In an almost eerie way. 

Like he was his evil twin from Park Ridge or something, but skinnier and vampirish, and lacking freckles and that eclectic, heartland music taste. 

But enough about that. You never told Clark you were shooting your nth shot with another guy and hoping he’d be the one. He shouldn’t know who Matthew is. 

There are probably a hundred thousand Matthews in Delaware, but only one Matthew the Clark Clone. 

(How long has he been listening in on you?) 

You blink at Clark for a few seconds. His ears start flushing pink the longer you stare, you notice. 

“Yeah, I didn’t either,” you mumble through the words, pausing between syllables like it needs some effort to force out. 

“I know it’s not my place to say,” he sighs, looking down at the cool tile beneath your socked feet. “But...maybe you haven’t gone the best way around finding love.” 

“Why, you jealous?” You mean it as a joke. A flippant, throwaway line to tease. 

But Clark looks at you hard. Plucks his glasses off his head and sets them down on the counter, serious.

Faint frown lines surface on his face, eyes suddenly sharp. Then he blinks, and he’s back to normal, pretending the wall is so interesting. “…No.” 

You poke his cheek. It’s warm; a current of sparks runs up your arm and into your heart. “Admit it. You already know you could do better than half the guys I’ve cried to you about.” 

His eyes flick to the ceiling momentarily before meeting yours again. Stammers over his own breath and squeaks as he asks, “Just half?” 

Oh, he’s jealous. 

You can see it, clear as day. Clearer than Clark’s pretty eyes. That maybe you aren’t alone in this. That just like always, you’re on the same page as your best friend. 

“Okay,” you say, leaning closer to him in challenge. “So, what’s your advice, Mr. Kent?” 

He allows himself an inhale—one he doesn’t really need, being superpowered and all—and purses his lips. 

He’s blushing in the way you know so well, the way he does when you look at him for too long. Like some shy bastard. Like he isn’t aware of what’s starting to brew between you. 

The thing about Clark is that he wears his heart on his sleeve. Sometimes literally, like when a kid slapped a heart sticker onto his supersuit. 

But he’s so open about his desires that it’s sometimes hard for him to hide them. Like now—standing with his shoulders bunched up and tense, practically holding his breath as his pretty ocean eyes drift around and eventually land on your lips. 

His lashes flutter. Exhales stutters a little, let out slowly. 

Says under his breath, “Well, sunshine, I think more organic relationships have better benefits in the long run.” 

“Uh-huh.” You’re helpless to the slow, amused grin bubbling onto your face. “Elaborate.” 

Clark keeps on rambling, eyebrows shooting up as he explains, “Like, you hardly know anyone on a dating app, right?” 

“Right.” 

“And—you know, romantic feelings can develop elsewhere.” 

“Really?” 

“Yes!” he exclaims, gesturing wild nonsense with his hands. “For example, Cat’s really into this whole friends to lovers thing, and honestly, I think she’s got a point.” 

You fold your lips inward, holding them between your teeth as you try not to laugh. 

“See, she says that people benefit from already knowing their partner,” Clark says, gaze trailing down without a thought. “That ultimately, friends sometimes feel the most fulfilling love. And it’s easy for them, to communicate their desires” —he finally catches himself, eyes wide and blinking quickly— “and stuff.” 

You open your mouth, running dry from nerves. Quiet and sheepish, still unsure despite seeing all the signs, “Wanna put that to the test?” 

The way his inhale quivers should be illegal. “I—don’t know what you mean.” 

“I mean,” you say slowly, surprising yourself with how steady you feel despite the uproar rioting in your chest, “maybe—you know, Cat’s theory. Maybe I do need someone who knows me.” 

Clark’s eyelids flicker, and then finally squeeze shut. His voice is tight when he murmurs, “Yeah, yeah.” 

You say his name. Soft. Quiet. Like a Friday night in Smallville at the Kents’. Like the aftermath of a dinner get-together, when you used to sit on his bed and cover your face with a comic instead of talking with the neighbors in the living room. 

He makes a small noise of response, a gentle hymn that comes with the smallest up-tilt of his head. A couple curls fall loose over his forehead and without thinking, you brush them to the side with a trembling finger. 

Some things between you don’t need words. Like when you’re hungry and find an orange already peeled. Or when you glance at each other during a movie and find that the other is also trying not to laugh. 

But this needs words. Need the confirmation that yes, Clark Kent can make time, but he can also make a different space in his already big heart for you, too. 

“Sunshine?” His whisper is vulnerable, cracked wide in the middle. “I can hear your heartbeat, y’know? It’s the one where you’re planning something.” 

Fuck. You can’t take it anymore. 

“I like you.” It spills out without a second thought, but you steamroll on, fingers dragging from his hairline and down to cup his cheek. 

You sound like a damn teenager professing her undying love when you say it again. “I like you. Since Nate, when your Pa said you dropped everything to get me. And I just— 

I realized nobody loved me like you,” you choke out. And it feels so free to say that, as if some vice you didn’t know was clenched around your heart has released itself. “And I took that for granted when I should’ve—” 

“Sunshine,” Clark cuts in, breaking your laundry list of guilt. Says it with that heartland twang you’ve been missing from his voice because he changes it slightly to fit in with Metropolis. 

He doesn’t say more. Just leans in. Places a peck to the corner of your mouth. 

And you stare at each other for seconds. Eyes wide. Something you can’t name shooting through your heart and oh. 

Oh, it feels like you’re finally on the right side of heaven to wrinkle his stiff workshirt in your fists and pull him in for a real, dizzying kiss. 

One you know you can’t turn back from. One that makes your body feel so viscerally alive, like livewire has been activated under your skin. 

You’re going to feel this for days, you think. 

Clark moves his lips over yours like he has all the time in the world. Like he’s really going to savor the seven-odd years you spent oblivious to your own feelings. 

Your chest is vibrating with anticipation, core growing warmer and warmer until you realize that there’s a hot wetness growing between your legs. And of course Clark decides that now is the perfect fucking time to wrap his arms around you and lift. 

You think he was made for this. To hold you like you’re made of foam. To be so strong and tender at the same time, cradling you closer like he’s trying to fuse into your skin.  

Wouldn’t mind, a thought smears by in your mind. 

He sets you down on the counter, which is cold and hard beneath you. Breaks away for a split-second to angle his head differently, catching you with your mouth still parted. Sweeps his tongue leisurely along your bottom lip, nips and sucks as he plants a large, burning palm on your knee and shifts it to the side with a light but firm push. 

You swear a star sparks in your skull and starts bouncing around the cavity of your chest. 

He kisses you deeper. Hungrier, like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever held. Corralling you between the wall and himself, hands coming up to graze from your waist around to your back, thumbs caressing in circles over the bare sliver of skin beneath your sweater, which you didn’t know until now had ridden up. 

“Should’ve” —a soft sigh unfurls in you as he peels himself off, only to attach himself to your jaw, taking his time as he blazes a shallow line of kisses to your ear— “done this sooner.” 

“Well,” his voice is rough, mouth forming a simper against the underside of your jaw’s hinge—kisses there, and then closer and closer to your throat. You bare your neck to him, easy and unthinking; the ceiling spins above you. “Better late—” sucks at the sensitive, tender spot just beneath your chin, fuck “—than never.” 

You register that he’s sliding his hand under the back of your sweater, pressing hot skin along your back. Fingers skating over the divots in your spine, he drags himself back up and waits there with his nose beside yours like he’s asking for permission. 

His eyes are closed, the corners of his mouth barely lifted up, a smile about to unfurl. You plant a chaste kiss on his lips, and as you pull away, he lurches forward, as if he’s trying to chase another hit. 

“Wait,” he mumbles, some dreamy look surfacing on his relaxed face—brows floating up slightly, seam of his pink and swollen lips parting. “Come back.” 

“I’m gonna pass out if you keep kissing me like that,” you say, tone whispered.

Even then, you might be understating yourself. You feel like you’re teetering on the knife’s edge of sanity. 

You run your hand down his chest and pinch the fabric just above his belt, untucking it absently and looking down at him through your lashes. You don’t even know why you lament honestly, “And then I can’t take this off. And then we can’t fuck.” 

Clark frowns, opening his eyes to look at you in that upturned, tragically kicked-puppy way that makes you ache. In your chest, at the crux of your thighs. 

Too fast? You avert your eyes in shame. 

“I prefer the term making love.” His lashes flit in a way that would make some of the women at your workplace envious, and he’s holding your eyes in his pretty blue ones. Reminds you of the sky in the countryside, just after the last raincloud has cleared up, the scent of petrichor still heavy in the air. 

You nudge yourself forward and brush your mouth over his upper lip. Salt and sugar blooms on your tongue. “Oh, I forgot that you talk like a geriatric. We should stop before your knees crack.” 

“Ah, we can’t have that,” he hums, genuine concern blooming on his face, just beneath that stupid, bright tipsy-flush on his cheeks that make you feel something weird. 

Slips his hand out from under your shirt, gently takes your chin in his grip and rubs his thumb over your spit-slick bottom lip, all while brushing his mouth over his ministrations. Pouts like he’s the one being subject to the hormonal mutiny that’s making you feel so violently alive.  

You want, want, want. 

Tugging at his shirt, abandoning your restraint to push your hips forward and against his solid stomach and fuck, a sound escapes you that sound suspiciously like please? and he breaks into a breath-stealing smile like a coy cat that just got the cream. 

It’s no surprise that you barely blink before you find yourself lying supine and sinking into his mattress. Smells like that damn vanilla, and sandalwood, and the wind of Smallville. As if he flies back just to dry his laundry on the porch clothesline. 

The blankets are peeled back neatly. Fitted sheet soft to the touch—you curl your fingers in the cotton for something to ground yourself with, because apparently Clark isn’t enough. 

Pillows plush and considerately placed beneath your head, the mattress dips for the weight of Clark settling on his knees between your legs.  

He sort of hangs there for a second as you catch your breath and reel in the uncountable minutes of insanity that have just passed. Scrutinizes you with gentle, earnest eyes, cupping the back of your clothed knees with broad, kind hands. 

He presses his thumb into the outside of your knee, right in the faint divot where the cap sits over bone, tendon, and muscle. You swallow, watching him as he traces his eyes up and down your body—collected, steady. 

Safe in the way he has always been. Clark squeezes the top of your calf once before letting his hands slide up—a line of flinty sparks follows him—to cup your hips.  

“Sunshine,” he rumbles, soft eyes meeting yours. Tilts his head, loose waves of inky hair falling over his forehead. Adam’s apple bobbing, he lets go of your hips and holds your hands instead, all earnest and somewhat guilty. “Do you mean it?” 

You blink up at him, confused. “Huh?” 

“That you like me.” He turns over your hands so he can press his thumbs into your palms. “That you want this.” 

A small, almost disbelieving laugh scuffs out of your mouth. Of course he’s double and triple checking. 

“Silly,” you say, curling your right-hand fingers around his thumb. “I can’t lie to you.” 

“Can you say it again? Just to be sure.” 

“Clark.” You lift his hand toward your face. Kiss the back of it softly, and smile at how comforting the feel of his skin is. You’re all innocuous and doe-eyed when you say, “I want you to fuck me. I want you to fuck me and make me feel it for days.” 

His breath stammers in a way that makes you flush. All barely-held restraint and trembling like you’re doing something to make him weak. 

He gives you a tight, downturned smile once he settles himself, the same one that would flash across his face to reassure you. 

Except, it’s a little different now. Except, there’s something terrifyingly raw swimming in his—you've just noticed—unnaturally dilated pupils, and you’d be wrong not to call him lovesick or fond. 

Maybe he’s always looked at you like that, all benign and wanting, and you didn’t realize until now. The thought of beating yourself up over wasting so, so much time when Clark was right in front of you flickers through your head, but it’s quickly wiped away when he gently lets go of your hands and starts undoing his button-up. 

You’re fixated on the way his fingers work the buttons—nimble, with just the right application of pressure to pop it open. You follow them all the way down to the last, where the hem you untucked earlier hangs over the tent rising in his slacks. 

He’s big, the crotch of his pants tight. The outline of his cock is visible through the dark fabric. Holy shit. 

Your chest tightens for a breath.  

Unconsciously, your thighs squeeze tighter in search of friction. 

Futile. Clark nudges his knees wider to stop you as he shrugs away his shirt and then strips off his undershirt. 

You hope your eyes aren’t bugging out. 

He’s sculpted like a goddamn Greek statue—solid muscle, defined pecs and shoulders—yet soft at the same time. A thin layer of fat hugs his abdomen in true farmer fashion, mellows out his broad frame and you suddenly want to wrap your arms and legs around him and maybe just let him fuck you animalistically like that. 

“C’mere,” he says, syllables muddled together with his eyes all fluttering and mouth loose like that, like he’s drunk off desire. Like he’s also noting how heavy the air has gotten, hazy with lust. Takes your fingers in his again, draws it toward the center of his bare chest. 

His skin is blistering under your palm. A furnace almost; your neck prickles with heat as another wave of arousal tides over you. 

And then you feel it. Pounding hard enough to pulse like it’s right under the first layer of impenetrable skin and not buried beneath layers of fat, muscle, and bone. A strange, not-quite-human thrum that kisses your fingertips. 

Clark takes a steadying breath, pitches himself down to kiss you all while holding your touch firmly over his heart. 

His lips slide over yours—longing, like the short minute that’s passed since he last kissed you was an eternity. 

And his heartbeat jumps. 

Actually. Speeds up to thunder at what seems like a hundred miles an hour, strong and loud and trying to leap into your palm. Stays like that for the honey-slow seconds that your mouths lazily dance, and for another ten after he ducks his flushed face into the right side of your neck. 

He smells like an underlayer of woodsy cologne and flour. Like the faint, diluted scent of corn ripening in the wind. Like home. 

“You make me so nervous,” Clark finally says, voice lilting into borderline self-amusement. “God, sweetheart, you have no idea.” 

His lips press over your jugular, feeling the pulse there. Eyelashes flutter on your skin as he nips your skin, not hard enough to hurt but enough to know that your blood will darken the surface later. 

Somehow, in the smudged haze of craving and teeth, he finds his way to the button of your jeans. Pauses there, forefinger picking at the overlap of denim. 

Your breath freezes in the same moment as his. 

“Please?” he asks so sweetly. You cant your hips up in response. 

His exhale hisses out all at once, almost a gasp. Cheek searing where it lays on your neck, deft touch working the button out of its nest and zipper rasping as he opens it. 

The sound of it is so loud in his otherwise still bedroom. 

Your breath shudders when he slips your jeans down, over the curve of your ass and down your legs. Cold air hits your clothed cunt, cooling the wetness that’s gathered in your panties. 

Your jeans get stuck around your left ankle, to which he giggles boyishly to himself between breaths, and oh, your heart swells so much that you feel too small for the mush of endearing-lovey-sweet churning in your chest. 

You tug at your sweater, pulling your arms out of the sleeves and wrestling the lump of fabric over your head. Takes a minute, because you’re a little shaky and practically bursting at the seams with anticipation. 

Then you’re laying there and letting Clark take you in, all vulnerable with your undergarments mismatched (gosh, maybe you really should have picked underwear that matched your bra) and clothes discarded out of sight. 

And it’s stupid, really. How your inhale hitches. A little stall, if you will, at the dawn of an aching expression on his face, looking at you. Really looking at you. 

Like he wouldn’t have this any other way. Like he’s trying to find the best way to get under your skin, just like how he inspects a chessboard to make his next move. Like he already knows what’s going to make you twitch, or clench, or come so hard that you see the pearly gates. 

Fast and unprepared and in his own bed, fitted sheet already wrinkled while you try not to squirm because you’re a little embarrassed that your bra is black and your panties are white with navy polka dots. 

“Don’t stare,” you whisper, though it comes out as more of a mortified squeak. 

“Why not?” Clark just smiles. Easy. The most natural thing in the world, when he grazes his fingertips over the waistband of your panties. “I'm just admiring the most beautiful woman.” 

You scoff, crossing your arms over your bare stomach. “Yeah. My eyes’re up here, you know.” 

“Really,” he protests. Dips his fingers beneath the elastic of your panties. “Or as Ma would say, I’m happy as a clam.” 

Draws the smallest tension and lets the band snap back against your hip, because he just has to be cheeky and tease. 

“Oh,” he gasps in revelation, heartland twang starting to bleed back into his low, baritone words, “or that’s a sight.” 

Your skin burns, feverish from your soaked cunt to your head. 

Then Clark shifts himself down to nuzzle the damp gusset, applying the barest feather of pressure over your clothed clit. He shudders. Wraps his arms around your thighs so he can hold you closer as he starts laving over the thin fabric. 

A soft sigh spills out of your mouth, helpless. Nakedly sweet and honest in a way you didn’t expect yourself to be. 

Uncontrollable, your fingers thread into his downy hair and tug lightly. 

He groans quietly but doesn’t listen, mouth instead moving back up to your stomach. 

Clark buries his nose just under your navel. Breathes you in, solid biceps tightening slightly around your thighs. Exhales with a muffled, broken sound that echoes your own and your heart flips. 

“Baby, you’re so soft,” he mumbles, head angling down to start blazing a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses back down your stomach, up the delicate inside of your right thigh. Presses himself close to your skin, licks over where your pulse thrums between your legs and sucks. 

You inhale sharply, shifting your hips, now aware of just how empty you are. 

He hums in response, teasing the same spot on the other side of your cunt. You wriggle a little more, trying to get his mouth where you want it. 

Impatience burns behind your ribs. You want it, you want it so fucking bad that the need cuts you open and raw, like barbed wire drawn taut over your sternum. 

“Please,” you breathe. Can’t even recognize your own voice now, all breathy and desperate. Looking down at him through your lashes, you dart your tongue over your bottom lip. Tastes like salt, and him. “Clark, please.” 

Eyes flicking up to yours, he hums in low question. Tilts his head, so his curls tickle your inner thigh. “Patience is a virtue, y’know.” 

You swallow, going still for a fractured moment. You come up blank, like a reel left out so long that all the fish of your thoughts know it’s bait. “I...” 

A gentle smile rises to his face. “’S alright,” he says, all saccharine and forgivingly merciful. Water under the bridge, you think to yourself. “I’ll remind you.” 

Slips his fingers under the elastic of your waistband again, pulls down your panties as a flare of sudden, sharp need rips through you. Curves his smile a little sharper when the gusset sticks to your cunt for a moment, tacky with your arousal. 

The flimsy little piece of fabric lands somewhere out of sight, too, and Clark lets a nearly disbelieving sigh puff out from his mouth as he stares at your naked sex.  

You watch, mesmerized and head floating in a near-dream state, as he lowers himself flat onto the mattress—you don’t miss the subtle way he grinds his hips down—and lays his head against your thigh. 

“Should—should I tell you now that I’ve never done this before?” 

Curse your stupid, big mouth. 

Clark stiffens. Stares at you with eyes unblinking and wide. “What?” 

Your stomach drops in panicked freefall. “No—fuck. Not like that.” 

“I’m gonna need some clarification,” he says, propping himself up on his elbows. 

“I’m not a virgin,” you blurt. “If that’s what you think. I just...” 

He blinks at you, finally. Questions in that earnest, pleading voice, “No, that’s—sunshine, are we going too fast? We can stop right now.” 

A wave of heavy embarrassment crashes down on you. 

Your palms slap onto your face, eyes squeezing shut at the mortifying, humiliating fact that— “I’ve never had a guy go down on me!” 

“And” —you have to fight yourself to be honest about this— “half the time, I don’t come anyway.” 

Clark just sort of twists his mouth, looking at you with those melancholic eyes, dimples shifting as he processes. 

Just zones out a bit. As if he isn’t laying stomach-down on the bed, extremely eager to eat you out two seconds ago. Okay, maybe he is still a little eager, just toned down. 

But you can see it. In the way he blinks, up at your eyes and down to your navel. In the way his hand is still resting on your thigh, ready. 

He wets his bottom lip. Says, in a hoarse, choked voice like he really can’t believe it, “But you’re okay?” 

“Yeah,” you breathe, peeling your fingers off your face, “more than okay. So you better ruin it for everyone else.” 

He smiles, dorky and charming, face all ruddy. You lament—oh, you feel like a fucking travesty with the way his dimples make your heart somersault like that. 

“So,” he starts, pitching his head down to study your sex. Trailing his fingers from your thigh to your folds, he wets himself with the slick arousal already there. “What even happens after you have sex with other guys? When you aren’t satisfied?” 

You try not to worm around as Clark gently strokes the tip of his middle finger up your seam. You shiver, though, when he pauses just below your clit and drags back down. 

“Just…I take care of myself after. Obviously,” you mumble, restraining the urge to lift your hips just so and let his thick fingers fill your aching cunt. But patience is a virtue, and you’ll be damned if you don’t find out what Clark’s whole reminder is about. “Lots of sore wrists and stuff.” 

An easy grin blooms on his face again. Start pumping the tip of his finger into you, slowly working you open. 

“Like this?” he asks, once the second knuckle of his finger has been swallowed by your cunt. Thicker than you thought it would be. Which makes you wonder about and crave the stretch of two. 

“Yeah,” you try to keep your voice from squeaking, but it does anyway. You cover your mouth with the back of your left hand and card the right into his silken, messy waves. “I just—god, you’re thick.” 

“Easy, honey,” he shushes. Kisses the top of your mound, to which you respond with a soft, open sound. Takes his mouth lower, minuscule centimeter by minuscule centimeter, until he’s pulling out his one finger and stretching you out with two, just as he latches his scorching mouth around your clit and sucks.  

You moan. Loud, embarrassing, pitched up at the end. 

The feeling of being so full aches in you. Feels like he’s penetrating your entire body. Like he’s going to live in the cavity of your chest forever, and right now you’re more than willing to keep him warm. 

He laps at you all while rocking his fingers, getting your parted folds all sticky and slick with saliva and arousal. Detached himself with a tacky string of viscous liquid, eyes rolling up before they shut, forehead nuzzling into your stomach. 

“Did you do it like this?” He crooks his fingers, thick and hot in your cunt, presses into a spongy spot that makes you tug at his hair for more. You whine a little. “Or that?” 

Slides impossibly deeper into you, bypassing that first spot and nudging his fingers into a place that shoots white-hot pleasure ripping up your spine, and his tongue swipes searing over your clit and you think you fucking gush a little down to his wrist. 

“God,” you choke out, and Clark just keeps teasing that spot, moaning softly into your cunt and stroking and rocking his touch until your stomach starts to tighten, all raw and urging. “There, there, shit.” 

It’s like a switch has flipped in you. 

You’re fucking ruined for life. Hips rutting up to chase the next thrust of his fingers, the next flick or swipe of his tongue as your neurons go into overdrive. Sobbing: “Oh, Clark—baby, fuck, that’s—good, so good, Clark, please—” 

He rolls his tongue hard over your sensitive clit, upping the intensity at which his digits are fucking into you—a filthy push-pull that you can hear, lewd noises of your cunt spasming in as he bullies that bundle of nerves inside you. 

“C’mon,” he groans, a desperate sound vibrating into you. Kisses your clit again, and you feel another surge of wetness coat your inner thighs when he shoves his fingers in deep to keep stimulating your g-spot. Sounds all wrecked and wanton when he rumbles, open-mouthed over you, “That’s it, honey. Keep doing that. Make you feel better than all those jerks, yeah?” 

You keen, high-pitched. Hips rutting up into his face, unabashed, muscles gradually tightening until you’re all wound up. 

It’s getting to be too much, like you’re being filled to the brim and then some. Like you’re about to spill out of your own skin, all ‘cause of your best friend’s ministrations. His tongue. The way he stuffs a shallow, wanting moan into the crook of your inner thigh and cunt. How he’s shifting his hips into the mattress, how the bedframe is creaking slightly from the movement. 

Your pulse is pounding. Like you’re trying to mimic the way his heart was when he let you feel it, and your head is spinning with it, too. 

And then Clark dips the tip of his tongue low, tasting you from the top of the opening of your sex—fucking gasps with a sound that almost cries and drags the flat of his tongue hot up to your clit. Wraps his plush, sweltering lips around it and starts laving with abandon, grinding his fingertips into your g-spot. 

It’s not the way he’s lapping at you that makes you break. It’s not even his thick, full fingers stretching you out in a way that burns so sweetly in you. 

It’s just Clark. 

He reaches for the hand you have buried in his hair. 

Wraps his warm, gentle palm around your wrist. Squeezes you once, firm enough to ground you by a thread-thin tether. Kneads his thumb over your pulse point and looks up at you through his lashes, eyes out of focus and so honest. 

Starbursts pop in your vision. 

You swear you black out for a second as you come, moans shaky against the back of your hand. 

Your orgasm hits you hard and soft at the same time. Crests and crashes with a tidal wave of wetness that dribbles out of your cunt, soothes over your head as bliss fills your body. Your ears are ringing, hearing smudged and cottony like you’ve been dunked in the pool and someone’s trying to talk to you from above the surface.  

You quiver, helpless as you chase the aftershocks against Clark’s eager mouth. 

There’s a trembling sincerity when he slowly pulls his fingers from you, like he’s reluctant. He’s still guiding you down from the last ripples of ecstasy, tongue undulating over the still-twitching seam of your cunt, whispering pleasant nothings between each lick like he’s found an altar between your thighs. 

But he doesn’t bring you down. Doesn’t let you stray far from that high-up edge, nose now pressed into your clit as he wraps his thick, solid arms under your legs, then over your stomach to lock you in place. 

“Clark,” you sigh, squirming from the stimulation. You can hardly recognize your voice, all tender and soft and pitched. “Clark.” 

His lips make a wet, lewd sound when he reluctantly draws himself away from your cunt. Leaves a web-thin, almost star-spun string of slick connecting you to him, panting so feverishly that he pushes your legs closer to your chest. 

He hums, looking a little dazed. Eyes unfocused, tongue darting out to taste that string of fluid, which breaks and dribbles down his chin in a way that makes your stomach riot with butterflies. 

"Going somewhere?” he rasps, and god, if that doesn’t make your heart leap for the chance to give him another and then some. 

“No,” you mumble, heat prickling under your skin. 

Clark blinks at you, cheek squished to your inner thigh. Lets his eyes roll closed when you stroke your fingers through his hair, exhale balmy on your bare skin. 

“Okay,” he says, quiet. 

This time, he’s slow with it. Takes his time, languid and sensual flicks and laves meant to wriggle between your seams and pick you apart from the inside.  

Tides you through your refractory period, sighs when you start to tighten your thighs around his head again. Lights that spark in you once more, using his drenched, arousal-shiny fingers only to play with your clit while his tongue slips into your throbbing cunt instead. 

You don’t know how much time has passed. You only know this: back arching and hips twitching as Clark guides you toward another orgasm, skillfully fucking you with his tongue like this is his last meal and he needs to savor it. 

You feel a telltale tingle in your core again. Coils up tighter, raw, wrings you dry until you’re rocking your hips and pushing at his head to go deeper, faster, harder. 

Faintly, you register his bedframe creaking. Clark moans—loud, honest, fervent, broken in a way you’ve never heard—right into your folds and— 

Your inhale catches. Stammers as your high starts to crest, and you whine, pliant and helpless, fuck— 

Clark stops. Retracts himself, tongue sweeping over his swollen bottom lip to gather your wetness. Swallows, and your eyes follow the motion of his Adam’s apple. 

He looks more wrecked than you feel. Looks like he’s the one dangling on the precipice of coming, like he’s the one who’s been licked within an inch of his life. 

He sits up, kneeling between your legs and shit, he’s blushing all the way down to his chest. Pink from head to pec, hair plastered to his forehead from what you assume is the humidity between your thighs. 

“Gosh,” he pants. Long inhale, short exhale. He closes his eyes like he’s tasting the last of you lingering on his tongue. “Gosh, I’m so sorry, sunshine.” 

You prop yourself up on your elbows, panic spiking in your chest. “What’s wrong?” 

He groans. Folds himself back down by the waist and buries his burning face into your sternum. Kisses the skin there, and drags his fingers up your spine to dawdle on the clasp of your bra. 

“Not you,” comes his muffled murmur, still pressing sincere, reverent kisses on your chest. “Just—you taste too good.” 

You pause. Process the fact that Clark had to take a second because he was enjoying himself too much. And a laugh spills out of your mouth. 

You comb your hands through his hair, making him shiver when your nails scrape on his scalp. “I was about to come again, you know.” 

He groans, mortified, and presses his forehead harder against your sternum. 

“Gosh,” he stutters, and you’re pretty sure that’s his word of the day, “I’m sorry, I couldn’t take it.” 

“Take what?” You cup your hand to his warm, flushed cheek, tilt his head up to look at him. 

He stares back at you, mouth glistening and parted, eyes flicking down to your lips. He swallows. 

“I think—well, I almost,” he squeezes his eyes shut, “I didn’t want to come yet. And uh, I don’t have a condom.” 

You guess he’s your best friend for a reason. 

Here you are, looking each other up and down and realizing that you’ve both unwittingly edged yourselves. Get a load of this fucking comedy. 

You huff, amused. Squeeze his cheeks in your palms, and your heart flutters when he smiles, bashful. “You’re funny.” 

“Sure, sunshine. I'll make that up to you,” he says, shifting his fingers on your back and undoing your bra. “So just to be sure—” 

“Yes, Clark,” you grumble, tangling your fingers in his curls and tugging. Hard. You swear his eyes roll into his skull a little. “We can fuck without a condom.” 

“You’re so crass,” he chides, and cool air hits your breasts. 

Your bra lands somewhere soft, cushioned, and when you look, you find that he’s thrown it and the rest of your clothes—with terrifying accuracy—into his hamper. 

That cracks something wide open in you. It blooms in your chest, unfurls like the first thaw of spring. 

He’s so sweet. There isn’t another word for how he makes you feel. It’s just a something, somehow, stitched together with a lifetime of bandaids and inside jokes. 

And you mourn. Even though the space between your bodies is so tight that your skin is sticky with humidity, even though his belt is clicking and he’s asking again, because he’s got that devastating habit of being a quintuple-checker: 

“Will you let me have you?” 

Not can I. Will you. 

You snap out of your daze, heart still sighing dreamily as you practically leap to help tear his belt out of the loops. 

“Is that a yes?” he wonders out loud, laying his forehead on yours. He squeezes his eyes tight when you unzip his fly and relieve a little more pressure from his hard cock. Chokes out, “For the record—oh, god—I’m a yes. Please.” 

Clark kisses you with undisguised desire when you palm him over his underwear. He’s scorching in your palm, weighty when you try to grind the heel of your hand on it. 

He whimpers. Honest to god whimpers, a ruined sound that whistles in the miniscule space between your open mouths, and your arm jerks, startled by how sudden and unexpected and hot that is. 

Clark does it again, louder this time. Your core throbs.  

“Baby,” he groans, furrowing his brows in concentration, “as much as I like that—” 

“Yeah,” you breathe, steadier than you expected yourself to be, with your throat running dry and heart pounding in your throat. “Yeah, I want—” 

“I know,” he says. Gently nudges your hand off his clothed erection, crowds you up against the headboard. Then he takes you by the knee, hand blistering up your thigh, and delicately guides you to lay on your back. 

Your head lolls to the side, nose pressing into one of his pillows. Smells like home in a way you can’t really explain beyond the faint scent of sleep and lemon detergent. Smells like him, in the purest sense possible; all wool-soft and mellow, like the kindest comfort during a winter storm in Smallville. 

He shimmies out of his pants. His cock bobs up, all eight inches and girth standing at attention, the head deeply flushed and pearled with pre. It slaps lightly against his navel, leaving behind a thread of slick that breaks quickly, and you burn white-hot and raw with lust.

Clark slides a plush pillow under your hips. Gazes down at you through his lashes, eyes shining with a light that makes your chest ache. Whispers, almost to himself, “You’re so pretty. My pretty girl.” 

You don’t remember how you respond to that. 

Because Clark is taking his cock in his hand, and that has the audacity to make his size look normal, and he strokes himself slowly as he guides himself toward your soaked cunt. You think you lose your breath. 

He breaches you with a single, slow thrust, with an open-mouthed stammer of breath, and there’s so much of him sliding forward that you don’t even try arching your back to let him go deeper. And he just waits there, to the hilt, girthy and heavy and pulsing in time with your dripping, stretched cunt, and you’re so fucking full of him that you think you won’t be able to get up tomorrow. 

Good thing it’s Friday, is the last thing that runs through your mind before he bends over and takes you with him, folding your legs against your chest like you’re one of those fucking origami cranes he makes in his free time.  

(Yes, you’ve seen the box under his bed. No, not the one with his suit. 

The one with a thousand colorful, paper cranes he folds at his desk when anonymous tips are slow and takes the time between work and alien invaders to painstakingly link them all up onto a thread of fishing line. The one he brings to a thrift shop every time he finishes a string, just so a lucky someone passing by could have a little goodness in their day.) 

And Clark fucks like this means more than the world to him. Slow, sensual, with purpose. Grinds the searing head of his cock into the spot that made you see starbursts on his tongue earlier, cloistering his chest against your shins like he needs—not wants, but needs, desperately, more than air or sun—to live in your skin. 

He moans in time with you, breathes out in a voice that sets you ablaze, “God, you’re so tight—sunshine, you’re perfect.” 

He’s everywhere. Whimpering with his mouth over yours. Slipping his thumb expertly over your twitching clit over and over until you’re trying to arch into him, but you can’t, because he’s fucking you with his entire weight behind each world-stopping thrust and oh— 

You get why he says ‘making love’ like an old-fashioned loverboy. 

Because he is. Because he’s pushing and pulling into your cunt like he’s promising, like he’s revering. Heavy and softhearted and caressing the outside of your hip with a warm, soothing hand, and you understand. 

“I love you,” you gasp. Just feels like the right thing to say, head spinning and mouth wet with his and your spit. Tastes like salt, and yourself. “Clark, please.” 

“I can hear you,” he chokes out in the middle of an aborted whine. Ducks his nose behind your ear, breathes in the scent of your skin, all flushed with heat and thinly veiled with sweat. “Your heartbeat, it’s—so fast.” 

He jerks up into your walls with a calamitous, devastating grind. Makes that same gush of wetness drool out of your spasming cunt, and when he plunges in you again, his pelvis slaps into the fat of your ass with a sound so tacky your ears burn, all shameful and alive. 

“You liked that,” Clark gasps, taking your bottom lip in his mouth and sucking. Lets go after a moment when he’s satisfied with how swollen and pliant you are and rolls that bundle of sparking nerves between your thighs. You clench around him, uncontrollable, legs bucking up to no avail. “Holy—I love you, too. Gosh, I love you so much for so long, you’ve no idea—” 

You can’t recall when your orgasm started cresting. It had just built slowly like one of those soda bottles that used to explode in Clark’s face randomly, creeping up on you like all this. 

The realization that you are deeply, raptly in love with your best friend. That you want with him what all the people in the movies have—being late for your train because you get coffee together in the mornings; finding sweet, handwritten notes on his fridge, right next to your photobooth strip; passing each other in the hallway like two familiar ships, exchanging an earnest kiss before he runs off to fold the laundry and you to take inventory of the groceries. 

And you want him forever. Yours to kiss. Yours to curl up to when the night gets too cold for even his thick, pillowy duvet, for him to hold you close and mumble his thoughts against your cheek. 

A ruined whine rips through your lungs. You’re so close, teetering on the edge of the precipice. 

He starts the hand holding your hip, dragging it up your side, over your ribcage. Traces the space between your bones, splays his hand wide for a moment between your breasts. Pushes down slightly, and you can feel your own heart leaping to try and touch him. 

Oh. This is proving to be too much for you. 

And then he reaches up to take one of your hands still tugging at his hair, threads his fingers between yours. Holds on tight, grounding. 

Clark kisses your cheek. Chaste and sweet compared to the downright filthy way his cock is sparking the live wire under your skin. 

Locks your eyes with his unfocused ones, and all you see in your smudged, pleasure-sick vision is the way he’s looking at you with something between disbelieving awe and endearment. 

You come with his name already in your mouth and sugar-salt on your tongue. 

He works you through the aftermath, rolling his hips with a gentle, powerful grace as you shiver and sigh brokenly against him. Makes love with a trembling, earnest sincerity, until you’re melting and he’s approaching his orgasm. 

Clark doesn’t slow when he lowers your legs. Your thighs are a little sore, and you’re still rushing with your own high when he holds you tight in his solid, secure arms until your breasts are flattening against his chest. 

It isn’t long until his rhythm is stammering like your poor heart, until he’s following you close over the edge, stuffing a low, warm, quivering moan close to your ear and spilling hot ropes deep into you like this has been his life’s mission all along. 

—

You wake with the moon kissing your back and the AC kicking on. 

Mouth dry, because it somehow found itself open, and there’s a spot of drool crusting on your cheek. You’re hungry, and it’s late by the analog display blinking from the top of the nightstand. 

The clock sits just under a lamp. Familiar, like a second home. Blue-glass shade, tarnished brass. 

And then you remember that this isn’t your apartment. You’re waking up in Clark’s bed, soft sheets pooling around your hips, and he’s done the favor of cleaning you up and putting out an old, threadbare shirt and a pair of shorts at the foot of the bed. 

Crabjoys and college shorts. Of course. 

The door creaks, letting a rectangle of golden-warm light stretch across the floor. 

He’s standing there, in pajamas patterned with little brown cows and glasses hanging off the collar of the worn-thin shirt tight on his biceps and chest, and he’s balancing a little plate with a sliced bagel and condiments you can’t see well. 

His curls are egregiously messed up. The back of his hair sticks up at an odd angle, presumably from your incessant tugging in the throes of pleasure (your stomach warms at the reminder), and his ears are bright red in the dim light. 

Your heart swells for a sigh. There he is. Your best friend. 

“Hi,” he breathes, shuffling into the room. He’s wearing tattered bunny slippers that squeak a little. “Good thing I set a timer on the oven. Could’ve burned our breakfast for dinner.” 

“You spoil me,” you say, sitting up to reach for the shirt. You pull it over your head and he’s there before you when you emerge from the worn cotton, pressing a grateful kiss to your temple. 

“That’s because you're the best thing in the world,” Clark rolls his eyes, smoothing his thumbs over your cheeks. 

He’s so gentle. Intimately familiar. 

You’ve already loved him for a lifetime. 

You wouldn’t mind one more. 

— kisses to the lovely wonderful betas dee @kentbot and nini @dancing-inasnowglobe for prereading this crazy fic for me! please let me know if u enjoyed, reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated <33

[scoopstroopog]

"mike was the first person to treat el with kindness and like a human being"

put some respect on his fucking name please

[urhoneycombwitch]

kissing coach!Steve through the chain link fence 🫶 just a quick one while there’s a break 🫶 and then he’s back on the job fixing his hat a little blushier than before 🫶

[ghost-proofbaby]

twenty four hours (modern!eddie munson x fem!reader)

→ in which eddie munson and you absolutely hate each other's guts. what happens when your friends make a bet that you can't spend more than twenty four hours consecutively together?

→ tropes: enemies to lovers, forced proximity, slow burn

→ warnings: strong language, eventual smut, minors dni

→ pairings: modern!college!eddie x college!fem!reader

chapters with smut marked with *

spotify playlist.

ao3

masterlist:

PROLOGUE: A BET

HOUR ONE

HOUR TWO

HOUR THREE

HOUR FOUR

HOUR FIVE

HOUR SIX

HOUR SEVEN

HOUR EIGHT

HOUR NINE

HOUR TEN

HOUR ELEVEN*

HOUR TWELVE

HOUR THIRTEEN*

HOUR FOURTEEN

HOUR FIFTEEN

HOUR SIXTEEN

HOUR SEVENTEEN

HOUR EIGHTEEN

HOUR NINETEEN*

HOUR TWENTY

HOUR TWENTY-ONE*

HOUR TWENTY-TWO

HOUR TWENTY-THREE

HOUR TWENTY-FOUR

EPILOGUE: A BET*

"BEYOND THE HOURS" - extra content posted outside of canon 24 hours. (i.e. eddie povs, groupchat conversations that were cut, scenes mentioned in passing, etc.)

[djo]

Hey, about some of the stuff I said earlier, I just… It’s fine, it’s okay. No, just… It’s not okay. Eddie… He saved your life. Our lives. And I know what he meant to you. I can’t even imagine how hard it’s been. But instead of just being there for you, I just… Well, I got angry about it. I guess I got angry because things were different. 

STRANGER THINGS 5.07: The Bridge

[bluecheerybird]

- you… kept it?

- yeah! I wear it as pajamas all the time!

[luveline]

𝗜 𝗞𝗻𝗼𝘄, 𝗜 𝗞𝗻𝗼𝘄, 𝗜 𝗞𝗻𝗼𝘄

You confess your affections to an unsuspecting Superman, but your best friend Clark can’t know about your crush, okay? You’d die of embarrassment. (Or, Clark falls in love while Superman does most of the wooing.) fem, 8k

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

You never thought you’d get to talk to Superman. You've never been in that kind of danger, and you never hoped to be. You hadn’t wanted to talk to Superman because you know this is weird. You can’t have a crush on someone you don’t know. It’s idol worship, a celebrity fixation, and Superman is the perfect target. You’re not alone in loving everything about him —it’s easy. You aren’t ever confronted with the bad in his good. 

And then he’s standing in front of you with his hands braced on your shoulders, and there’s blood running down your face from your temple and you’re crying, because it hurts, because you’re in the panic of your life and not sure what to do next. 

He frowns at you with an unwavering gentleness. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, “take a deep breath, ma’am. Deep breath.” 

“It’s bl– bleeding.”

“I know.” 

You shudder through tears as Superman brings his cape up and rips. It startles you, sending fat tears plinking down your cheek. You hold your breath as he brings his scrap to your face, dabbing the wetness from your cheeks before turning the fabric and holding it to your temple firmly.

You gasp painfully under his touch, desperate for air.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice a new shade, “it’s alright, you’re going to be fine, I promise. I’m gonna press this to your head, and we’ll see if we can get this bleeding stopped. As soon as it does, I’ll take you down and we can get you some real help.” 

You nod, skittish as a scared deer, eyes as wide as they’ll go to follow his movements. It doesn’t hurt any more than the injury itself as he presses down on your head wound. He sighs in sympathy anyway. A broad hand spreads behind your back, familiar in a way, or maybe it’s the way he’s talking to you now. Like he knows you as you know him. 

The photos of him online don’t do him justice. 

“It’s not bad. I know it hurts, but,” —his hand finds your shoulder, squeezes lightly— “it’s because it’s so high up, alright? They always bleed more. It doesn’t mean this is anything to worry about beyond fixing you up and getting you some pain relief.” 

“You– you’re real help.” 

He holds your gaze. “Yeah?” 

You wonder if he can feel the heat of your blush. It’s all over. He’s lucky your head wound doesn’t start spurting. “Yeah– yeah, I– Superman.” 

His smile is everything. “What?” he asks patiently. 

“I’m a big fan of– of yours.” 

“You are?” 

“You’re so brave,” you breathe out in a rush, though it hurts your head. “So brave. And– and…” 

“Sorry,” he murmurs, putting a little more pressure on your temple. “Thank you for being a fan. All I want is to keep everyone safe.” 

“You’re so gentle with everyone, even the aliens, and– you’re pretty…” 

“Pretty?” he asks, pure surprise in his voice, his hand falling off of your arm. 

You wince. “Yeah. Yes. Handsome. Sorry, you must get told that so much.” 

“It’s okay. I won’t hold you to anything you say. You’re injured, after all.” 

His teasing tone pretty much flies over your head. “No, I’m not lying. I mean it. You’re really lovely, and what you do, it makes you lovelier, it does–” You nearly choke on your enthusiasm. He has to know.

“Don’t get wound up, I’m sorry. I believe you. Let’s try to stay calm.” 

Your head is aching in a new way, now. Less the sting of a wide cut, more beating, like a whirl in your own brain twisting and shaking, dizziness alive behind your eyes and threatening to knock you over. You clutch at Superman’s arm and he knows what you need, slipping his free arm behind your back before you can collapse. 

“I don’t usually get crushes on people,” you inform him. “But it was hard not to get one with you. You’re even nicer than I thought you’d be.” 

“It’s easy to be nice to you. Easy as breathing.” 

Superman hugs you. You swear he does. But when the concussion begins to clear up and your confusion wanes in a hospital bed outside of the battle zone, you realise that he was holding you upright. Superman doesn’t know you, he never will, and you’re okay with it in the grand scheme of things. If you had to meet him, you’re glad it was while he was keeping you safe. He really is a good guy. 

—

A week later, Clark Kent is waiting for you at the doors to the Daily Planet. 

“Are you sure you don’t need more rest?” he asks, forcibly removing your handbag from your shoulder to carry himself.

“I’m sure.”

“It’s okay if you need more time to recover. You’re still wearing a dressing.” 

“It’s a bandaid, Clark, and it’s to hide the scar for now, it’s–”

“It’s still a wound.” 

“It’s fine! You saw it, you know it’s fine.” 

Your overbearing best friend had surprise-visited you the day after your injury despite a text to tell him to stay home. You’re fine. It was a cut and the mildest concussion you could’ve had. You didn’t throw up, or collapse, you’d simply gotten confused and bled all over Metropolis’ finest super hero until his hands were more red than white.

“It looked awful, it still does.” 

“It looks fine. Even the nurse said it was a small cut, in an unfortunate place.”

“Very unfortunate.” 

You follow him to the elevator bank with a frown. “Clark, you don’t have to sulk.” 

“I’m not sulking! I just don’t see what’s wrong with staying in bed for now.” 

“I have stuff to do, babe. I have to work. I have to move forward, it barely hurts anymore.” 

He likes being called babe, simpering accordingly. “Well, you’re sitting down all day. Doctor’s orders.” 

“Show me your oath and I’ll consider it.” 

“Please?” 

He looks like he could cry. Not that he will, but like he could if you keep saying no to him. And despite all your grievances with being treated like you’re fragile now, you decide to take it easy, if only to give Clark the peace of mind. “Okay, sure. You can wait on me all day.” 

“Yes. Thank you.” 

Clark’s your best friend because —no matter how much it might confuse you— he seems to really love you, maybe from the moment he met you. You started at the Daily Planet and he took to you like a duck takes to water. Everything you said made him laugh, every recipe you wrote was one he had to try. And you figured it was something boys tend to do, right? Pretend you‘re interesting until they get what they want from you, but Clark’s never asked for anything else, loving you wholly and expecting nothing in return. 

You let him swing an arm around your shoulders, a mirror of himself those few nights ago where he’d come shaky and sorry to see you. He apologised for not being there when you got hurt, as if he could’ve stopped it. 

“I’m sick of working already,” you say. 

“Then let’s go home.” 

“Clark. I’m being conversational.” 

“Don’t tease me,” he pleads, sounding all sudden and whiney. You squirm out of his arms to poke his side. Gets more solid by the day. Idiot boy. 

“Have you been working out?” 

“Can you stop?” 

“Can I stop? You’re a nightmare.”

Clark threatens to superglue you to your deskchair, but he titters around you hopelessly all day. 

— 

You’re laying on the gravel roof of your apartment on top of a sun lounger, trying to decide if getting some sun is worth all the noise. Beeping, birds, cars, doors, the wind, this high up and occasionally curving through buildings to kiss your skin —noise, noise, noise. Your phone is ringing while you ignore it, desperate to get through the last chapter of your book without interruption. You have thus far been foiled, and figured nobody’d be able to find you up here. 

The quick, awful zip of a high impact sounds somewhere close. You nearly topple from your lounger, a hand pressed to your chest, your heart racing near painfully at the surprise. You whip your head to the horizon looking for smoke, but there’s nothing. For a few minutes, you can’t hear anything at all. 

The shape of him descends before your mind can catch up. Then, he’s there in one piece. A touchable dream, Carol Ann Duffy at work and torturing you in passing. You’ve seen a ton of photos of him, hundreds, videos of girls recording to ask him sweet questions, and you’ve never seen him smile so shyly. You shiver violently down your arms, but Superman isn’t here to hurt you. 

“I’ve been looking for you.” 

“You were?” you ask.

“I wanted to make sure you were doing okay.” 

You sit up properly. The book in your lap makes a crunching noise that you happily ignore. “I’m fine. I’m fine, did you– You’re here to see if I’m okay?” 

His smile strengthens. “Is that okay?” 

You stammer, “Of course it’s okay!” A flush rises from your chest to your cheeks as he stays there. He’s not leaving until you answer. Holy fuck. “I’m great, Superman. All healed up.” 

“Are you sure? You still have–” He gestures to your bandaid. 

“It’s to keep it clean in the daytime. I take it off before bed.” 

“Does it hurt?” 

“No, of course not.” 

“Why of course not?” 

Your heart makes a funny pulse. Handsome isn’t the right word for him. There’s something special about it, otherworldly, literally, the cut of his jaw somehow sharp and soft at once, his pert nose, his eyes gone light in the sunshine and framed by dark lashes that beg to be touched. You imagine running a fingertip along them, gently brushing them up for no reason at all, and he narrows his gaze at you in your silence. The shorts you’re wearing have you worrying you’re underdressed in his eyes. They’re pajamas, pink with black polka dots and edgings. You’d had the forethought to wear a short-sleeve rather than a vest lest one of your neighbours find themselves up here with the same quiet idea. Superman’s fully clothed in comparison. 

His boots look formidable next to your puppy dog socks. 

“It doesn’t hurt,” you promise, half-lying and uncaring. Superman saved you. He’s perfect, so your head doesn’t hurt. 

“You seem a little flustered, is all.” 

“Oh. Oh, well, it’s hot out, and I’m not like, super used to being in your company. Or any company, um, like yours.” 

“You’ve never met a metahuman?” 

“No, never.” 

“We’re just like everybody else.” 

You laugh. 

“No, really,” he says, idling toward you, red boots treading the gravel down flat. “I’m just like you, you don’t have to be nervous.” 

“Sorry.” 

“Now what do you have to be sorry for?” 

You laugh again, a giggle you’d never admit to. He’s strangely intimidating; a presence, but not an imposing one.

“What are you reading?” he asks, nodding to your lap. 

“Oh, uh. Uh, it’s called The Ocean?” You straighten up the book to show him the cover. “It’s good, uh, the main character is a young boy who wants to find his father, I think it’s supposed to be a take on The Odyssey,” 

“Why is he looking for his father?” 

“He’s missing after a terrible war. It’s one of those ones that hurts the entire time but the ending has wrapped it up so nicely, it was worth it.”

“Maybe I’ll read it, too. You look like someone who has great taste.” 

“You can borrow my copy.” 

Superman’s gaze narrows again. “You’re finished?” 

“Yeah, I finished it before you got here.” 

He waits in the quiet. You’re sure he’s going to call you out for your lie. It's not as though a Kryptonian truth-radar would be outside of the realm of possibility. 

Superman finally smiles. “I promise to bring it back,” he says simply. 

“Sure. Well, take your time.” 

—

How long can it possibly take a superhero to read one book?

You shouldn't be thinking about it again. Poor Clark is sitting in the corner of the couch with your feet stuck under his thighs, telling you about the grocery store widow who asks him for help to take her groceries out to her car whenever she sees him. She’d spotted him at the produce section today and dibsed him, and Clark doesn’t mind (though she leaves her car at the back of the parking lot no matter the weather). In fact, Clark doesn’t bring it up to complain. He’s sympathising with her, how lonely she must be. 

You try to shake Superman from your head while Clark is talking, but the thoughts of him won’t budge. 

You’d made a fool of yourself on the roof. Superman had taken your book to be polite. He probably won’t come back. 

“Hey.” 

You lift your head. 

Clark’s looking at you. Big blue eyes in a classic face, the line of his glasses dark and heavy against his brow. They trace your expression, searching for the misery you’ve failed to hide, until he finds it in the creases of your eyes. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks. His voice is weak with worry. 

“Nothing.”

“It’s something.”

“It’s really not.” 

“It definitely is. You can tell me about anything, you know. Or you don’t have to tell me, but I’ll be here for you no matter what. Some food for thought.” 

“Food for thought. Eat this, Kent,” you say, jabbing him at the top of the thigh with your heel. 

Clark grabs your foot. “Come on. I know something’s wrong, and I don’t understand why you wouldn’t tell me, but…” He lets your foot smack down into the top of his thigh to grab his tea instead.

“Isn’t that cold?” you ask. 

“It’s tepid,” he allows after a sip.

You laugh, so he laughs. It’s a lovely sound.

“Again. Again, you don’t have to tell me what’s wrong, but I’d listen if you wanted me to.”

“Don’t try and make out like you’re not keeping secrets.” 

Clark goes slack-jawed. “Sorry?” 

“You don’t tell me everything. I know exactly where you disappear to all the time.” 

“You do?” 

You climb up on your knees and settle in front of him. You’re wearing those pink polka dot shorts like you were on the roof with Superman, in hopes they’ll summon him to you like a talisman. Clark presses his lips together, watching you closely as you take his face into your hands. 

“You’re dating Lois Lane,” you say. 

His fingers dust your elbow. “What?” 

“You’re sweet on her, aren’t you? Plus, you’re busy all the time. You’ve cancelled movie night three times this month, did you know?” 

“I’m sorry–”

“I’m not. I’m happy for you.” 

Clark shakes his head. “But Lois and I… I mean, not for months. We were almost something, I think, but no. Not for a while.” 

You let your hands fall off of his cheeks. “Oh. Sorry, Clark.” 

“Don’t be. I should’ve told you, but it was new and then it was over.” 

“You should’ve told me,” you agree, “but I sort of get why you didn’t. I’m your girl best friend. That’s a thing.”

“You’re my best friend,” he promises, no ‘girl’ prefix necessary. “That’s not why it ended, Lois isn’t like that. It was… we disagreed on so many things. Looking back, I think she was right about most of it.”

“Well, she’s a girl.”

“That she is. You’re all the same, aren’t you? All dazzling.” 

He says it with an earnestness that reminds you of the other half of your friendship-equation. Clark’s your best friend because he loves your work and your jokes and your company, and you’re his best friend because he’s good as gold, inside out, just awfully lovable.

“You’re ’dazzling’ too,” you say. “You are.”

Clark offers you his mug of tea. You take a sip for something to do. 

“Not that cold,” you murmur. 

“I never realised you were such a liar.” 

“I don’t really lie to you, Clark.” 

He leans up to kiss your head, chaste against your purpling scar. “I know.”

—

“So, this book–”

You jump hard enough to send your groceries five different ways, oranges and kiwis for Clark flying up in the air. They never hit the ground —Superman catches them in two hands. 

Your loaf of bread lays cradled in his arm like a baby. 

“Fuck,” you complain. 

“I’m sorry.” Superman laughs at you. Laughs. “Sorry. But this book, is there a sequel?” 

“What?” you ask. Superman tips your groceries into your waiting paper bag. 

“I think I need a sequel.” He pulls The Ocean from a pocket and squeezes it unkindly. “I think it ruined my life.” 

“There’s no sequel. But–” don’t spoil the ending for me, you almost say. “Did you enjoy it at all?” 

“It was good. Do you read a lot, or are you down to the real heart-achers?” 

“Uh, I guess. Well, no, I used to read more, but I didn’t have time for a while ‘n now I’m usually too stirred up to settle down.” 

“You cook.” 

You blink. “You googled me?” 

“No, how could I? But I did see you on the third page of the Daily Planet. You have a little author’s window. You made pumpkin pie.”

“For Thanksgiving weekend, yeah. They only ever put me near the front or on the main page of the website if it’s the holidays.” 

“Is that true?” 

You shake your head. Not to say no, to say, let’s not talk about it. Silly insecurities are unnecessary conversation. At least, they are with him. 

Someone gasps from behind you. With one comes a few. The people near the crosswalk are starting to notice Superman’s tall figure standing in the sun, and though you’d wish he’d managed to hide in the shadows, you admit to yourself that there’s nowhere else he could ever be. He looks right in the sun. 

“Do you want to come with me?” he asks. 

Do you want to go with him? What the fuck does he think? said in your head ecstatically, not a lick of derision against him. Your excitement nearly blinds you. 

“Yeah,” you say, practically mumbling, wanting to come off nonchalant and instead sounding painfully shy, even to your own ears. 

“Yeah?” He offers an arm. “Come here.”

Your charmed little laugh makes him grin. “Alright?” he asks, locking an arm around you vice-tight. 

“Where are we–”

The air leaves your lungs in one fell swoop. There and gone, breathless and weightless in tandem.

The sky is more than blue when you’re in it. 

There’s nothing you can say about it. You’re terrified Superman is going to drop you, you can hardly breathe from the sudden speed at which you’d been taken up with him, but beyond that, there’s nothing to say. Wordless, endless sky. Blue, blue—

“It’s not as scary as you think, right?” he asks, his head angled down to yours. 

“I expected you to have to shout. I don’t know why.” 

“It’s windier in the air, but we’re close. I don’t need to yell.” 

“You’re lucky I didn’t get many groceries.” 

“You aren’t heavy.” 

You’re delighted. “This is a paper bag, you realise! I’m surprised it didn’t explode the second you got me up here!” 

“I’ll be careful. You’re precious cargo, and you deserve a better experience now than the one you got when you first came up here with me.”

“I don’t remember much of it.” 

“That’s okay. I do.” 

You should feel ridiculous, but strong arms hold you steady. Blue eyes like someone familiar pour over your face, as though they need to see you clearly, with all this perfect light. Your few groceries are squeezed between your chests as you squeeze him by the neck, desperate for the extra security, that he won’t simply let you go, and have you fall. 

“This is amazing,” you breathe, your eyes sweeping down to take in beautiful Metropolis beating away beneath you. The cars look like ants. The buildings cast shadows you’d never noticed from the ground. 

“Yeah,” he says. “It’s something.” 

You glance up to find him still staring at you. 

The girls on SuperClub would never, ever believe you if you tried to tell them what passes between you, then. (Not that you frequent SuperClub. Often. You see it while scrolling, and you tend to scroll past it with a fond eye roll.) They wouldn’t believe that Superman brings his hand to your head to touch your temple, as though your small scar is a personal affront to him. They wouldn’t believe the way that he pauses when you shudder. Wouldn’t believe how he lets his fingertip tumble down your cheek, or the soft incline of his head. The slightest kiss of his eyelashes meeting in the very corners of his eyes as they almost close. 

“Don’t feel guilty, please,” you say. 

“What?” He sounds as though he’s woken up from a nap. 

“About what happened. It wasn’t your fault that I got hurt. I wanted you to know that. You saved me.” 

Superman lets the distance between your two faces grow. “I…”

“If this is what that is, if you feel like you owe me something, well. You don’t… I don’t know you, Superman, but sometimes I think I do. It’s like… someone I've met before? I can see your bleeding heart.” You offer a brash smile. “But I’m just fine. You promised me that I would be, and I am.” 

“You’re not making this any easier for me.” 

You shift in his grasp, his hair tickling you and the little hairs on your arms. 

“I’m not a very easy person,” you say. 

Superman presses his nose to your cheek. 

“I think you’re giving me tachycardia,” you whisper.

He hears it. Doesn’t answer for a while, and when he does, it’s to neither of the things you said before.

“Let me take you somewhere new,” he says.

—

A day later, Clark asks if he can bring you dinner. Like and unlike himself, to care enough to ask but to forgo his usual boisterous lack of respect when it comes to taking care of you. Clark recognises that you like to be cared for aggressively. That you want someone to care so much that they won’t stop at the first hurdle. You want someone to take it at a sprint, and Clark’s a show off loser-dork who likes taking care of you. 

He meets you at the door, where you show him your small picnic basket kitted with two plates, knives, forks, and a hidden dessert. “Too hot in my apartment,” you say. 

“What’s wrong with the AC?” 

“It’s leaking.” 

“I’ll take a look at it. What happened to that fan I got you?” he asks, his fingers at your wrist trying to steal the basket. 

“Oh, Clark, can’t you just leave me alone?” you plead. 

He laughs like a kid. “I love when you do that.”

“What?” 

“I don’t know, is it sarcasm? I don’t think that’s apt. Whatever it is, when you act like that? You’re really convincing. It’s funny.”

“I can be funny.”

“I know, that’s what I’m saying. You’re really funny. Can you do it some more?”

“Now it’s not natural, though.” 

“Please?”

“Leave it alone, Clark. You’re such a beg.” 

He laughs again. It peters off to a quiet you’d like to live in. His takeout bag rustles, your picnic basket rattles, his fingers brushing the back of your arm as he follows you down the street to the wooded path. 

There’s a small park not far from your apartment that’s been divided into two halves. The playground for the neighbourhood kids, and the picnic tables made of strangely shaped wood. They’re all rounded. One table is shaped like an ‘S’. Another like a filled in ‘8’. 

You sit at the one furthest from the playground, coincidentally shaped like a ‘C’. “For Clark,” you say, pleased. 

“Adorable.” 

You set up your plates, dividing up the food squarely. Clark had the wherewithal to bring two cans of soda and a big bottle of water. He asks which one you want, cracking it open accordingly. “Gonna pour it into my mouth, too?” you tease. 

“Do you not want me to be nice to you?” 

And the night slips away. You eat your takeout at the picnic table and linger until your legs are numb. The grass around the park is damp, but you sit, and you shoot the breeze until the sun starts to go down. It must be hours out there together. 

Clark takes his jacket off and spreads it over your shoulders. “This is your only bad trait,” he says happily. “You never tell me when you’re cold.”

“I’m not that cold.”

“Sure you’re not. Look, come here,” —he pulls you bodily into his side, his voice turning silky as angora— “you act like you’re such a plague, like– I don’t know, like I wouldn’t wanna know that you’re cold.”

“I don’t act like that.” 

“You do. You could rely on me for more, you know? I want you to lean on me.” 

You lean on him.

Clark presses his nose to your temple, his glasses digging into your skin.

And you think, I know you. 

But you don’t know why. 

—

Clark can't believe this is happening again. 

He woke up this morning with a scary yet firm plan: he’s going to get himself together, pluck up what he has in the way of courage, and be honest with you about Superman. If only so he can stop lying to you. He should’ve told you months ago that he was Superman. Hell, he might’ve told you from the moment he met you, that’s how sure he was that he’d love you. As a friend —his best friend, half of his life. There’s this ease, like he’s known you for far longer than he truly has, like he could know you for the rest of his life. 

And lately. 

Oh, lately. Clark can’t get a handle on things. He hadn’t realised he was falling in love with you, isn’t even sure that’s the way to describe it; far from a sharp plummet downward into love, this has felt like a slow and steady ascent, but now suddenly he’s at the mountain top and the air is thin, and he’s looking for you, aching for relief, and you’re sitting in the snow with your book and your shy smile, cross-legged, just waiting for him to get there and open his cowardly mouth. 

Or that’s what he’d like to think. 

Fact of the matter is, Clark would like to kiss you. Hold your hand, have your head rest on his shoulder. He’d like to pull you into his lap and squeeze. Clark could die happy if he got just one shot at it, no matter the outcome. 

He knows he won’t lose you, but he’s worried you don’t want what he wants. He’s gotten so close to having you, he’s not sure he can take being any further apart than this. 

Clark takes the tramline to the rich part of the city with the best florist. There are buckets and buckets of flowers; orange tiger lilies and white orchids turned green in the sun; roses as big as his fist, unfurling; sweet peas kissing pinkest camellias all tangled up with baby’s breath. He chooses the sweet peas. They really are sweet, their hemmed edge petals curling in and nearly blue. They’re beautiful. He can see them in a glass on your nightstand by tonight if he’s lucky.

It’s on the walk to your apartment (tramline too busy to risk, lest your flowers get hurt) that the trouble begins. 

The light goes out. 

It doesn’t make logical sense. He’s outdoors. It’s the early morning, the sun should be shining for hours to come. 

He looks up and finds a singular dark rectangle over Earth. 

It blots out everything, disapears the clouds, turns the blue sweetpeas in his hand a tired shade of grey. 

Clark wonders if he should’ve told you how he felt when he had the chance. Then, he leaves his glasses, his jacket, and his sweetpeas in the hedgerow at the park with alphabet picnic tables and throws himself upwards into the sky.

—

What emerges from the spaceship (and it is a spaceship, made of an element humans aren’t want to touch) are creatures shaped like spinning asterisks, wisps of their angel-white bodies bending the shadows they’ve cast down onto Metropolis. It’s like smoke. 

The dark makes it hard to breathe. 

You sit huddled in your bedroom looking out through the window, despite a desperate urge to hide somewhere further inward. Sirens echo throughout otherwise quiet streets, discordant wailing that wavers for long, sharp minutes. There had been screaming and crying and the splintering sounds of glass. It’s not —not unseeable, out there, but anyone with poor vision will find themselves stranded.

You open your phone. Your theory is that the aliens have been able to dampen sound as well as sun, leaving the battlefield dangerously quiet. Clark’s not answering your texts because he never has his phone, but you’re sure he’s out there somewhere. He told you he was coming. The last message he sent this morning blinks at you from the bottom of your screen: Coming by soon if you’re not busy, do you want me to bring breakfast? 

You’d said, just some eggs please if you want eggs 

You’d said, hey, are you safe? What’s with the dark? 

You’d said, clark please text me back right now, I’m freaking out, do you need me to come get you? 

He won’t answer the phone. Outside, up in the sky where it’s darker still and the white shadows have begun to ripple, the occasional red beam of heat slices into whiteness, turning it to shadows again. There are two sets of red if you watch carefully. Green light flickers at the ground. 

And Clark Kent is out there all alone. 

You crawl to your shoes under the bed and put them on, pajamas and all. Clark’s blue hoodie lays on the back of your deskchair. You shrug it on. 

He’s gonna lose his entire mind if you do find him out there. Can friends ground you? Because Clark’s going to ground you. But you’d rather be grounded than all alone. 

—

Superman groans into the floor, his tongue coated in dust. 

He has far better vision than a person feasibly needs. He wore a pair of glasses once that are supposed to approximate what it’s like to have legal blindness, and he’d felt suddenly, achingly sorry for the human race. But then he’d found the glasses stand beside it with all their different prescriptions and shrugged it off. Humans are brilliant. He’s in awe of their persistence, their resilience, and their strength. He knows he can find it in himself to go on because they can, too. 

He has better vision, and still he finds himself batted away from the entities like a bothersome fruit fly. 

“Krypto?” he asks into the smog. 

His borrowed dog flies at him with impressive speed, pressing his snout straight into a bruise. 

“Ow!” 

Krypto snuffles and hits at his arms with both paws. 

“Krypto, stop! Jeez, stop. You’re such a pai– Ow! Get off.” 

Krypto nibbles his shoulder. 

Clark forces himself to sit up. At least he hasn’t killed the dog. Kara would probably eviscerate the planet country by country if something happened to her dog, not mentioning the aliens that started this whole thing. And he is good at bringing the suit when Clark needs it. 

He rubs at his eyes and drags himself to his feet, back aching, eyes like sand. Nothing is healing because he can’t feel the sun, but he’s not too hurt. He can take a bad landing. He can take twenty of them. 

“Krypto, stay.” 

Krypto tilts his white blurry head. 

“You’re not helping.” 

Arf! Clark rolls his shoulders and shoots back into the air. 

Krypto stays down, for now. 

Clark takes a lap through the air, searching for signs of life with his ears. The eery quiet is beginning to fill with catastrophe.

“Clark?” 

He stops dead in the sky. 

“Clark?” you call, ten miles below him, shouting all clipped and scared. “Clark Kent! Are you out here? If you can hear me, call back to me!”

He says your name.

“Clark? I’m here!” 

Clark looks up into melted-sugar shadows as they begin to curdle and makes a choice. Damn the aliens, they can have the sky, so long as Clark gets to keep you safe. 

He has to keep you safe. 

—

You’re watching a shadow plummet toward you when the sky opens up into shards of Technicolor. Concentrated around a single point of red and blue and moving so fast it turns puce.

—

There’s a scene in The Ocean where the main character realises his father has been dead before the beginning of the book. Dead for years. He goes searching for him because he’s scared to be alone, brave enough to realise it, and young enough to misunderstand the danger of the world. He treks sandbanks, ferries favour, turns in promises and follows the footsteps of a man long dead across the world. Clark told you once, privately, quietly, in a moment that immediately panicked him, that his parents had adopted him, and that his birth parents had left him with a letter after they both died.

What did it say? you’d asked. 

To be good. 

You find your copy of The Ocean cradled in familiar hands. You recognise its secondhand cover, the bends in the front where a previous owner had tented it for a long period of time. The spine is loose and lax with age. The pages are yellow with time. 

Clark is sleeping quietly in the plastic-wrapped chair beside your bed. He doesn’t have a bruise or cut. He doesn’t look anything like Superman had as he’d flung himself at you, two seconds too late, his body a shield against an explosion that lit your body with fire and colour alike. The whole world had been red, and then yellow, and suitably blue. There was pain. 

Not a darkness as people often say. Just hurting and now this. 

You take a scary breath. Hitching and pained, you search for comfort and find none of it. There’s a needle in the back of your hand secured with a teddy bear wrapping. The sheets have been drawn to your chin and choke you as you try to sit. 

After a moment of struggling, you sink back and try for another breath. Deep, aching breaths. You do it until your lungs burn, these awful, stringing breaths, eyes to the ceiling and fighting the spots of nothingness that cloud your vision. 

“Hey,” a soft voice says, softer hand pressed to the curve of your neck. “Oh, hey, sweet girl, hey… it’s okay. The pain won’t last, they gave you a little more morphine a few minutes ago, it’ll kick in.” 

“Uh–”

Clark makes a sound. “Oh.” 

You let your eyes slide to him. He’s checking his wrist where it’s resting on you. 

“I was sleeping for a long time, I… Honey, I’ll get a nurse.” 

“No,” you breathe. 

“Yeah, honey, I’ll get a nurse,” he repeats, stroking your neck with his thumb. His eyes are their usual calm blue, bearing down into your own with an emotion that’s somehow palpable and implacable. “It’s no good, you being in pain like this. I’ll come right back.” 

“Clark, don’t go,” you whine. 

It’s like the world has been placed heavy on your head. 

Clark offers you relief. “I won’t go if you don’t want me to. Tell me what’s hurting, and I’ll fix it.” 

You shake your head at him. Fuck, nothing hurts. It’s not pain you’re being smothered in. 

“Okay,” he murmurs.

For a while, you don’t talk. Clark stays stooped over you, too tall and careful anyhow to stay out of your light. He holds your cheek, rubbing at skin with his thumb until it’s tickled into numbness, your body begging you to move away from his touch and your brain knowing you can’t. You’ll never duck away from his fingertips ever again. 

Where he’d been unhurt, he isn’t unharried. His hair is in a complete disarray, curls in places pulled straight and greasy behind his ears. His face is pale. His eyes flicker obsessively between you and your monitor, as though he can decipher the information it displays. He must see something there that he trusts, sitting down again in the chair dragged quick and easy to the side of your bed. His hand stays at your face. He’s long. It’s simple work. 

“You read The Ocean,” you whisper. 

“I read all your annotations, too,” he tells you, turning his hand to run it down your cheek, his fingernails especially silky against the line of your jaw. 

You turn your face toward his touch. Your eyes flutter closed as he indulges your deepest fantasy. 

“I didn’t–” Oh, you can’t say it. You hadn’t meant to want him like this. You hadn’t known he was Superman, and isn’t that awful? Something cruel. Your best friend kept a worst secret. 

He doesn’t rush you. 

You’re ready to try again a few minutes later. His fingertips have started to draw a flower into your neck. 

“I’m embarrassed that Clark knows what I said to Superman,” you say plainly. 

“Superman didn’t tell Clark anything,” Clark says. His voice is light in contrast to your hesitancy. 

“But you know it all.” 

“I know you,” he agrees. 

“I’m really… sorry. I’m sorry, I–” You search for his touch and he immediately cups your cheek again. “Clark, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come out looking for you. I didn’t realise you could look after yourself and I made things worse.” 

“Do you even remember?” he asks. 

Mildly. You’d woken once before and found a less fixed Clark covered in blood above you. A part of you had understood that it was Clark, even without his glasses, and a different part knew it was Superman. Then things had blurred, half-replaced by a memory of his hand behind your back in the middle of a meadow halfway across the world, that beautiful quiet valley where the water had been ice and the grass emerald velveteen under your legs. 

In the dream, Superman (and this had been real until it wasn’t), turned to you, and said, with Clark’s dorky intonation, “That’s seriously beautiful, huh?”  

“You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“But–”

“You don’t. I won’t argue about it with you. You have no apologies to make, you did everything right and nothing wrong, and I lied to you, and I got you hurt, and…” He has the gall to pink in the cheeks, like you’ve taken the skin between your knuckles and pinched. “I wasn’t honest with you about my feelings. I almost kissed you as Superman, and that wasn’t fair.” 

“You really are… him?” you ask weakly. 

“Yeah, I am.” 

Clark sits up as a doctor opens your room’s door. 

“Everything okay?” she asks. When she sees you awake, she smiles broadly. “Hey, you’re up! Can we get you some dinner now?” 

“You skipped breakfast,” Clark tells you. 

“I was awake for breakfast?” 

“Barely. We had you on some pretty gnarly painkillers,” the doctor says. She adjusts her white coat. “I just wanted to check in with your nurses and your lovely partner here that you hadn’t thrown up again.” 

You flush. “I’m fine.” 

Clark simply rubs your chest like a wave of his hand against your heart. 

“I’m worried you haven’t gotten enough sustenance this past day, but we try not to hook you up with too many things,” the doctor explains, “much better for you to settle and then eat. And to drink some water!” 

“I don’t feel very hungry.” 

“The painkillers you’re on can make some people feel quite sick. But try your best, okay? I’ll come back after dinner to see what we can do about those broken fingers.” 

You follow your arm down to your hand. Your pinky and ring finger on the non-dominant hand have been splinted but not casted. 

“Oh.” 

The doctor takes her leave, abandoning Clark to your questions. 

“What’s wrong with me?” you ask. 

“You got concussed again. It made you sick, and your hand is very nearly broken, but they think it’s just your fingers from the look of your x-rays. And you have a long cut.” He puts his hand on your stomach gently. “Here. Almost as long as your arm, but it’s a surface cut. You landed on debris. I’m sorry, my– honey. Sorry.” 

You can’t fight the chills or your bewilderment. “What for?”

“I didn’t get to you fast enough.” 

“Clark.” Your mouth is dry. He’s pretty. Your head goes round and round and aching and then with a dash of clarity, the world snaps back into place. Your hospital room is empty and bright, with a vase filled to bursting with sweetpeas in pride of place on your nightstand. There are voices drifting in from the hallway, and Clark is handsome even as he tears himself apart. The silver lining his bottom lashes doesn’t go unnoticed. “I’m okay, babe.” 

He laughs wetly. 

“I’m fine,” you promise, quieter now. “How couldn’t I be? You’re so gentle.” 

Clark finds your hand, pulling it to his forehead, his body bending forward like a marionette on loosening strings. He shakes his head vehemently, his grip on your wrist tight but far from cruel. 

“You’re gentle,” you promise under your breath, “I told you that before, didn’t I? You’re kind, and brave, and– it’s not your fault I went looking for you.” 

“I should be comforting you. I should be helping you,” he whispers. 

“You won’t catch me crying on your shoulder twice, Superman.” 

His head flinches up, like he’s realising for the first time that you know who he is. 

Whatever he sees in your face helps him to settle down. He curls long, thick fingers around your hand. You can’t help noting how adversely tender they feel while he holds your hand. 

“What did you think of the book?” you ask finally. 

“I didn’t know you liked to read,” he says. 

You shrug. Let your head fall back into a thin pillow, wondering how you might go about getting a better one, and beginning to feel the effects of the painkillers they’d been talking about. “It’s not like it’s the most alarming secret, between us.” 

He lets out a wounded whine. “Why do you hate me?” he asks. 

“You’re due some hazing.” 

“Can’t you take pity on me?” he asks. 

You curl your fingers around his where they’d otherwise been limp. “I’m not really half as cool as I’m trying to act, Clark.” 

He sulks beautifully. “I think you’re lying to make me feel better.” 

Only a little. 

—

Being cool around Clark Kent lasts about as long as the morphine does. The reality is this: Clark Kent —best friend extraordinaire, sweetheart farm boy who’s vetted all your worst ideas, held your hair back in the smallest toilet in Metropolis bar history after a too-happy happy hour, knows all your holey socks and questionable medical queries— is Superman. 

And Superman? 

He’d been courting you. 

The word is antiquated and accurate. Superman had been cautiously courting you with his sparse visits, shy and brave at once, brash but remarkably put together. It is after you know the truth that you realise Clark had been not so secretly courting you simultaneously. 

“Is that why you were bringing me dinner and stuff?” you ask, lured into the conversation by accident, now deeply curious. 

“No. I did that stuff before I wanted you. It was hard to sort the feelings into boxes, like– platonically, I’ve loved you since you came into the office with your miserable laptop and– and romantically, I don’t know. I guess I didn’t realise until I tried to kiss you and you wouldn’t let me.” 

“Sorry?” 

“I tried to kiss you, and you thought it was a pity kiss.” 

You hold him by the shoulder. “That was real?” 

“Do you dream about it?” he asks knowingly. 

“It was really going to be a kiss?” 

He softens. Clark, big on your smaller couch, in his pajamas with his hair finally washed again and your hand in his lap, rests his shoulder into yours with a long-suffering sigh. “Best kiss of your life,” he promises. 

“Prove it.” 

“What?” 

It’s been four days since the hospital and Clark is horrifically chaste. “Do you not want to kiss me?” 

“You know I do.” 

“So kiss me.” 

He pinches your chin. “If you wanted a kiss, you could’ve just taken one,” he tells you, looking you straight in the eyes. 

“From Superman?” you ask with a little scoff. 

He moves his head from left to right. “From me,” he says. 

There has been so much to tell him. So little space to hide from him. Lines of books you’d underlined for him, lines for Superman, for both of them. The guilty way you’d watched Clark Kent take off his shirt at the public pool in summer heat and the loop of Superman under your thumb as you’d fallen asleep scrolling SuperClub. You’ve been more honest with him than you’ve dared to be previously. 

Clark has repaid you in kind. 

Did you know, he’d confessed, when you were still grody from the hospital and he’d demanded you let him stay, that night, that everything I’m good at is because of the sun? I can function without it. I can store up the energy in my cells and I don’t need much to stretch it far, but without the yellow sun, I’m just like you? 

How could I know that? you’d thought. Why are you telling me this? you’d asked instead.

I want you to know. 

Clark loves the sun, you realise now. He turns his face up to it often, soaking it in silently. He gets this look whenever he stops to take it in. Perfect contentment. Trust, that it will make him feel better. 

Clark tilts his chin against yours, nudging your face gently inward, giving you the shortest glimpse of that content stretched across a smile as it presses into yours.

You hyperventilate your way into an open-mouthed, gasping sort of thing, and find Clark a fiercer kisser than you could’ve imagined. All those daydreams about Superman saving you from another day copyediting your own messes, you’d never thought to picture the boy sitting at the desk across from you, how his hand might slide behind your neck like water. How he’d take the breath from your lips and offer his own in a shaky, wanting gasp. 

Superman, breathless under your touch. No one would ever believe you. 

“Did you want me to tell you how it ends?” 

You break away from him, panting, vaguely confused. “Sorry?” 

“The Ocean? You never finished it.”

“Oh. Maybe you can read it to me. You know, afterwards.” 

Clark grins. “After,” he promises, leaning down for another kiss. 

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

thank u Bec for proofreading ur brains are irreplaceable <3 and thank u everyone else for reading! 

[lovebugism]

PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE !

summary: when steve struggles to tell you about his feelings, rockin' robin helps him do it through song. (3.2k)

pairing: steve harrington / f!reader

contents: shy!fem!reader, radio host!stevie, friends to lovers, idiots in love, fluff, so so much yearning, canon divergence, so no real st5 spoilers, shameless movie reference (you'll know when you see it *wink wink*), i also attached an audio down below to correspond with the song so be sure to listen to that with headphones pls and ty :D

Early mornings at the WSQK smell of fresh coffee and Steve’s cologne.

You sway side to side in Robin’s swivel chair with one foot curled beneath you and the other pressed to the plush navy carpet below. You tuck your palms into the sleeves of your oversized sweatshirt and wring your anxious fingers into knots over the thighs of your jeans. You watch, from beneath your lashes, as Steve Harrington preps for the morning show.

His golden hand curls around a red mug, still steaming when he brings it to his mouth. He sips gingerly at the rim while his chocolate-colored eyes scan the track list left on the clipboard by his desk. The hem of his grey sweater rises up his toned torso as he plucks each record from their assorted shelves and stacks them neatly with a practiced hand — Billy Joel, Psychedelic Furs, David Bowie, and…

“Is that The Smiths?” you wonder with a shy smile audible in your voice.

“Hm?” Steve hums into his coffee cup, eyes wide when he turns to face you. He swallows prematurely and grimaces when the warm liquid burns going down. He clears his throat and nods. “Oh. Yeah. Yeah, it is— Charming Man.”

He flashes you the purple-white vinyl cover, and smiles at your smiling — as timid and quiet as he’s come to know you as. The words to say more rise in your throat, but get stuck there when you meet his eyes. There’s always a strange sort of tenderness in his gaze whenever he looks at you, all squishy around the edges with a softness you don’t know if you deserve.

You’re only able to speak again once he’s turned away. This time, he reaches for Tears for Fears.

“I— I love The Smiths,” you say, though in your sheepish state, it comes out more of a whisper than you intended it to.

Steve looks at you over his shoulder, bushy brows raised to his hairline until his forehead wrinkles. “Huh?”

You fluster, eyes wide. “Hm?”

“Oh, I— I just asked you what you said,” he chuckles.

“I didn’t— I didn’t say anything,” you say with an awkward laugh and a curt shake of your head. “I just… I said I love The Smiths. That’s all.”

“Oh. Yeah,” Steve scoffs. “Me, too.”

“Really?”

“Totally— Are you joking? I love ‘em.”

(He does not entirely know who The Smiths are.)

(You don’t have to know that, though.)

“Then why don’t you guys ever play ‘em, then?” you wonder with a shy smile and a teasing gleam in your eye.

“Because Rockin’ Robin likes to hog all the music,” he grouses and reaches for The Cure. “Everything she plays is basically just code for her and Vickie to flirt with each other—”

“That’s sweet…” you lilt.

“—It’s disgusting,” Steve blurts over you, then falters immediately at your contrasting reaction. His dark eyes go wide as he stumbles over himself to add, “Well, I mean— It’s so sweet, it’s disgusting, you know? That’s… That’s what I meant.”

You purse your lips to the side in a feeble attempt to hide the vividity of your smile, which threatens to pull at both sides of your mouth now. “Right…” you hum with a slow, sarcastic nod.

The beat of silence that follows is tense and strangely awkward, as both of you struggle to find the words to fill it. Steve takes another short sip from his mug and winces when it singes his tongue before setting it off to the side again. You stand slowly from the squeaking swivel chair and sling the strap of your tote bag over your shoulder with a heavy exhale.

After a shared inhale, the two of you begin to speak at the same time. Like the floundering idiots you are.

“Do you wanna hang around and listen to some records—”

“I should probably head out now—”

“Oh. Shit. Sorry,” Steve laughs. His pretty pink smile doesn’t match the lingering anxiety in his eyes as he scratches awkwardly at the back of his neck. “You— You go first.”

“No, I interrupted you,” you tell him. “You go ahead.”

“You can’t interrupt me, are you kidding?” the boy scoffs, plush lips thinning into a crooked grin. “I’ll listen to anything you have to say, you know that.”

You open your mouth to say something, but nothing comes out right away.

It is, perhaps, more of a declaration of affection than you were expecting from him — one that pierces physically in that chest; one that wraps its fingers around your neck and strangles you. You’re only able to breathe again when Robin walks suddenly into the room, with a bagel in her mouth and a crate of fresh records propped on her left hip.

Her blue eyes go wide as she takes the pastry in her free hand, chewing through the wad of it in her cheek. A few crumbs fall and cling to the dark fabric of her ‘Beam me up, this place sucks!’ sweatshirt.

“Well… What is going on in here?” she says, half-muffled, but with a knowing lilt that pairs with the mischievous glint in her gaze.

“Nothing,” you and Steve answer simultaneously, with similar unconvincing wavers in your voice.

“Here I was, terrified that I was gonna walk in on the two of you screwing on the console,” Robin chuckles to herself as she saunters into the room, setting the crate of vinyls on the floor beside her chair. “But, weirdly, something about this feels a lot more intimate—”

“Seriously, Robin?” Steve deadpans, with his golden hands on his lean hips and a scolding look in his dark eyes.

“I— I was just leaving, actually,” you blurt with a trembling smile. “If I’m not down at The Hawk in the next ten minutes, Keith might actually fire me, so…”

Steve flounders, very visibly so, with wide eyes and a parted mouth. He wants so badly to tell you to stay, but the only thing that comes out is a stammered, “Oh— Oh. Okay.”

“But I’ll, uh… I’ll see you guys later, I guess…”

You leave the room with a quiet grin and with your head down, a feeble attempt to hide your burning cheeks. Steve exhales a chest-deflating sigh, while Robin’s round eyes dart wildly between your disappearing figure and the boy’s sudden frown.

“Okay… Why do you look like a sad puppy right now?”

Steve blinks hard when he turns to her. His scruffy face screws in a look of annoyance this time. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I don’t know…” Robin singsongs and takes another too-big bite of her bagel, gesturing with it while she talks through her chewing. “She comes by every morning, and every time she leaves, you look like the two of you just broke up. And it’s extra weird because you’re not even dating—”

“Robin!” Steve hisses through his teeth. His sneakers practically trip over each other as he rushes to peer through the doorway, making sure you had sufficiently disappeared down the hall and hadn’t heard the girl’s loud oversharing.

“Oh, c’mon!” Robin says with a gritty laugh. “You couldn’t be more obvious if you tried. She obviously knows you’re in love with her!”

“I’m not that obvious…” Steve scoffs, then falters a second later at the look she gives him. “…Am I?”

“Sometimes when you look at her for too long, I’m genuinely worried that you might actually start drooling,” Robin monotones.

His scruffy features crumple as he huffs in response. “Shit…”

“What’s the long face for, Stevie?” Robin laughs when the boy turns away. She shoves the remaining piece of bagel in her mouth and wipes her palms together. “She obviously likes you back.”

Steve scoffs cynically as he reaches for The Talking Heads. “Is it obvious?”

“She barely ever speaks, and when she does, it’s mostly to you!” Robin argues. “Which is totally unfair because I’m the one who introduced her to you, but… whatever.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that she’s comfortable with you, Steve— Jeez, do I have to spell everything out for you?”

Robin flops into her swivel chair with a dramatic huff. Steve sighs and shakes his head.

“Yeah, I don’t know about all that, Rob…”

“Okay, then just play her a song or something,” she shrugs, half-exasperated at a topic she stirred up. “It’s always worked for me and Vickie. It is literally the most tried-and-tested way of saying something without having to actually say anything, you know?”

Steve goes silent in thought. His brows raise as he glances over his shoulder at the wall of records stacked just behind him. Each cubby is organized by year and band title — his gaze migrates instinctively towards 1984, S-T. The records there are numbered according to their corresponding track list. His eyes flit back and forth as he reads: “Back to the Old House,” “Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now,” and “Please, Please, Please, Let Me Get What I Want.”

A surge of courage rages like a wildfire in his chest that he swallows down almost instantly.

“I don’t know Rob…” he sighs.

“Well, you have t-minus two minutes to decide,” she lilts in a low and gritty voice, tapping at her watch with her pointer finger before turning away. She slides her bulky headphones over her ears and queues up the Rockin’ Robin theme on the record beside her.

Steve loses about thirty seconds of those two minutes as he stews in thought, unsure of whether or not he should follow her advice — of whether or not it would even work. He wastes another thirty scrambling for the shelves, searching for the vinyl sleeve with anxious fingers. He stumbles over his feet when he rushes the record back to Robin, who turns to face him with a pair of wide eyes at his sudden appearance at her side.

Her gaze flickers to the vinyl in his hands, and then back up to him again. There’s a newfound glimmer in her stare as her chapped lips curl into a mischievous grin.

“Nice choice, Stevie…” she hums and spins in her squeaking chair to place it in the adjacent turntable to prepare it for play. “I don’t usually like to start the morning off so slow, but… I think this just might work.”

Steve turns away with a roll of his eyes in a feeble attempt to hide how shy he’s gone — filled with a mixture of hope and panic that turns his hands all clammy. “Twenty seconds…” he huffs and returns to his station.

“And don’t forget the applause effect like you did last time, dingus!”

“Already on it,” he grumbles, reaching for the cassette (succinctly labeled ‘applause’) and shoving it into the tape deck on his desk. He watches the clock on the wall and begins to count down: “Five, four, three, two—”

“Good morning, Hawkins!” Robin croons into the microphone with a wide smile on her face as the theme song plays just behind her. “This is the WSQK, The Squawk, and I am your host, Rockin’ Robin. It’s looking to be a pretty gloomy start to the morning so far, folks. Cloudy skies, fifty-five degrees, sixty percent chance of rain. But don’t let that get ya down. There are still things to be excited about, and not just because this is my hundredth broadcast so far—”

Steve hits the tape deck. Applause fills the room. Robin throws him a thumbs-up over her shoulder that makes him roll his eyes.

“—No, today is exciting because it’s barely even started! Which means there are still a thousand possibilities in front of you,” Robin says in a whimsical lilt. “You wanna take off work and have breakfast in bed, knock yourself out! You wanna give your boss what for because he overlooked you for another promotion, go right ahead! You wanna skip school because… Well, never mind, stay in school, kids—”

Steve presses another button. A chorus of boos plays behind her.

“Do you wanna ask that pretty girl on a date because she’s been giving you the eyes ever since you met her?” Robin continues, glancing over her shoulder at Steve and bouncing her brows suggestively. “Well, there’s no time like the present, my friends! But whatever it is you’re looking for, dear listener, whatever it is you want… I really hope you get it—”

Visit Original Link

She reaches for the player beside her. The needle spins on the vinyl. The Smiths begin to play as she signs off. “Good times, for a change… See, the luck I’ve had, can make a good man turn bad…”

Robin slouches in her seat when she’s off air.

Steve nods in distant approval. “That was some pretty good bullshitting there, Buckley.”

“Well, they don’t call me the Master Bullshitter for nothin’, Stevie.”

“Nobody calls you that,” he laughs and sits down in the swivel chair next to hers. He rests his elbows on the knees of his jeans and leans forward with an expectant look in his chocolate eyes. “So… What do we do now?”

Robin spins in her chair with her arms folded across her stomach. “Now, we wait…”

“For what?”

“Um…” She plants her worn Converse on the ground, going quickly dizzy at the abrupt stop. Her eyes narrow when she turns to look at him. “I’m not sure exactly…”

“What do you mean, you’re not sure?”

“Well, the first time I played something for Vickie, she called me right after she got off work and—”

“So you’re telling me I have to wait eight whole hours?!” Steve shouts.

“You’ve already waited a year and a half, dingus,” Robin squints. “I think you can wait a couple of hours.”

He only had to wait two minutes, turns out.

‘Cause you’re halfway down Main Street, about to pull into the employee parking lot of The Hawk when the familiar song crackles through the speakers of the car radio. Something about it feels like a sign. Something about Robin’s subliminal messaging feels like it’s for you — and, up until now, you don’t think anything’s ever been just for you. Maybe because you never let anything be yours; maybe because every opportunity that’s come your way has slipped like sand from your fists.

A flicker of courage flashes across your chest as the chorus plays.

“So please, please, please… Let me, let me, let me… Get what I want this time—”

You adjust your clammy grip on the worn steering wheel with a pensive twist to your features. You wonder what Keith will say if you show up late; then you think fuck Keith and his stupid haircut; and then you make a harsh U-Turn, tires squealing on the worn pavement as you speed back the way you came.

You’re back at The Squawk in record time.

Steve can hear the rumbling engine from inside, along with the gravel crackling hard against old tires. He perks almost instantly, flashing Robin a wide-eyed look of newfound hope.

“You think it’s her?” he wonders on bated breath.

“I know it’s her,” she grins. “So, I’ll hold onto all my ‘I told you so’s’ for after you get the girl, Steve Harrington—”

He rushes out to meet you. The chill of the early morning takes his breath as he leaves the warmth of the radio station. He finds you already standing outside — driver’s side door swung open, windshield wipers squeaking to clear the fine mist from the glass, music playing softly from the car radio.

“—So for once in my life, let me get what I want,” the melancholic voice croons. “Lord knows, it would be the first time…”

You meet each other halfway in the gravel lot. The scent of leftover coffee clings to his shirt, mixing with his musky cologne and the lighter scent of your perfume. You have to crane your neck to keep his gaze when he towers over you. You share a pair of wide, glittering looks — a lingering eye contact that would’ve made you cower before now.

You swallow hard, smiling despite the worry etched on your face, as you struggle to find the words to say. “I…I don’t know if I’m totally embarrassing myself here, or if—”

“That song is for you?” Steve finishes with his own lopsided grin. Rogue tendrils of chestnut hair drape over his forehead as he nods. “Yeah. It is.”

Sunshine bursts from the pit of your chest. It makes you feel like you’re burning from the inside out and leaves your mouth in golden rays as you beam, probably wider than you realize. “O-Okay,” is all you can manage out through a giddy laugh.

Steve laughs, too, cheeks flaring red. “Yeah…”

A beat of silence passes, filled only by the song fading on the radio. The two of you speak over each other once more:

“Would you maybe wanna—”

“Would it be okay if I—” Steve blurts, then cuts himself off with an awkward chuckle. “Shit. Sorry. You go first.”

“Would you wanna go to the movies with me tonight? When you get off?” you offer, half-strangled, as you prepare yourself for rejection. Because you’re always preparing yourself for rejection. Your clenched fists tremble with it, too. “I get private screenings all the time, you know, since I work there and everything, so… I thought we could watch something together or—”

“Yeah,” Steve interjects your anxious rambling with a rapid nod and a bright pink smile. “Yeah, I’d— I’d love that. Yeah.”

“Okay,” you echo, made slightly dizzy from your girlish excitement. “Good.”

“Great,” Steve nods.

“So, uh, what— What were you gonna say?” you stammer, half-breathless.

“Oh. Nothing. It was… It was stupid,” Steve laughs, floundering. He crosses his arms over his chest, and his biceps strain against the fabric of his sweater. “I was just gonna ask if I could, uh— If I could kiss you, but I don’t wanna, like, overstep or anything—”

“Yes,” you blurt. “Please.”

The sudden affirmation threatens to steal his breath. His honey-colored eyes widen and his pink mouth parts softly with the shock of it. You blink, and he’s ducking down to kiss you a second later.

He reaches for your jaw to cradle you with softly calloused palms, urging your chin slightly upward to press his lips against yours. They slot together in an effortless kiss that tastes like cigarettes, coffee, and chapstick. Your trembling hands ball into the fabric of his sweater when your knees threaten to buckle at the taste of him — both nostalgic and foreign all at once.

Your lips click audibly when Steve pulls away a few, long moments later. His lips are slightly rosier and slick with a fine layer of your spit. His eyes are slightly lidded as they dart back and forth between your sparkling ones.

“Wait— Don’t you need to get to work?” he murmurs. “I don’t wanna, like, make you late or anything—”

“Work can wait,” you tell him, before rising on the tips of your toes to press your lips against his once more. You kiss him harder, deeper, like stamping hot wax to his mouth. You kiss him like you want it to bruise, like you want to have something in the end to remember this by.

Work can wait, you think. And the rest of the world can, too.

[munsonstorm]

Missionary (so we can keep arguing)

pairing: eddie munson x fem!reader

warnings: mdni! 18+ only, porn without plot, it's literally just smut, eddie is toxic, arguing about anything and everything, spitting, unprotected sex, no foreplay, aggressive dirty talk, dom!reader and dom!eddie at the same time(?), no aftercare. 1.1k words

Eddie’s the type of boyfriend who would try to grab at you when you’re still pissed at him. You had been livid for hours and each minute that passed, his mere presence infuriated you further.

You are standing in the kitchen, waving your hands and fussing about the millions of things he was supposed to do today and didn’t.

You are just fucking raging at this point. And all he’s doing pulling you towards him, hands working around the hem of your clothes. You are trying to push him away, begging him to just listen.

But Eddie has always had a one track mind.

The moment his exploratory fingers grace the slight raise of your nipples, you slap his arm.

There’s a way to get pent up aggression out, and that’s what Eddie’s trying to hint at. you can resolve the issue later since there’s no real rationalizing with you when you’re this heated.

You push your hands over your forehead, “Jesus, Eddie, you’re so fucking frustrating!”

He grabs your belt loops, pulling you closer. You practically trip into him. His voice is deep and teasing, “You wanna fuck about it, I know you do.”

You shake your head, pushing him off of you and storming to the bedroom. You wait in the room, arms crossed, waiting for him to bust in there like he usually did when you walk away from an argument.

It's always like he was right. You do want to fuck about it.

But on your terms.

He stops dead in his tracks when he sees you pouting, hip jutted, arms pushing up your boobs in your tank top.

“Take your fucking pants off,” you demand, voice stern and unwavering.

He smirks, knowing there’s no way you’re directing him around, “Mhm, as long as I get a good look at you-”

“I cannot stand you,” You yank your pants down in unison with him, matching his haphazard stripping method. Pants and underwear first, shirt next and swiftly, “you're such an asshole.”

He has no time to lick his wounds. Your words do hurt, but they fuel another fire within him.

He grabs onto your arms, trying to direct you to bend over the bed. Face down.

“Yeah? What else?”

You lock your legs before you can fall into the unmade bed. You flutter your lashes incredulously. How dare he think he is running the show here? You’re still fucking mad.

“Nope, I’m facing you.” you press yourself against his nude chest, “not getting on my stomach.”

Eddie tenses, his anger flaring a bit because you just won't listen. “Why?”

“Cause I'm not done arguing with you.”

You drop onto the ruffled top sheet, all splayed out for him. You widen your legs, not leaving anything to the imagination. You scrunch your eyebrows as Eddie pumps himself a couple times before submitting and drops his knee on the bed between your knees.

“You gonna take this cock? hm?” He shifts his hips over you, draping himself over your curves. He drags his cock between your already slick folds.

You may be pissed at him, but it doesn't take much time of looking at Eddie's nude body for you to get absolutely soaked.

“Just do something, for fucks sake-" You look between your legs as Eddie tilts his cock down and presses his hips forward, "Eddie oh my god.”

He fucking smirks as he snaps his hips again, the slapping of skin adding fuel to your fire, “Yeah, sweetheart, all bark, no bite.”

He's above you, hair falling over his shoulders like a curtain. The fire you felt before only tangles up into the desire for him, “Fuck you. can’t fucking stand you. just shut up-“

He thrusts forward harder, halting abruptly just to cut you off, “Or what?”

You gape at him, appalled by his boldness. You latch onto the thought of grabbing his face, so you do. You move quickly to pull his cheeks together with your thumb and other fingers. His mouth forms into a small 'o' as you pull him closer to your face. His hips don't stop moving the entire time, his cock dragging deeper and deeper into you.

When his spit makes contact with your lips, you curl your fingers into the flesh of his cheeks, “Did you just fucking spit on me?”

You release him, practically pushing him off you. But his hands are locked onto your hips, his fingers latched onto your skin. Cock still dragging inside you.

“You wanted missionary, baby.”

He sits back on his knees, fucking into you harder. You cannot help but whimper your jibe, “So you can look at the disdain on my face.”

That smirk returns. The pleasure in your tummy starts to build up as his pelvis shifts against you. “Looks like pleasure to me, darling.”

“Faster,” You look down at when your bodies connect. You need him to pick up the pace if you're going to cum. You needed that release if he was going to put you through this. You move your hand down to swipe at your sensitive clit, “Now.”

“How about harder? You want me to-“

You slap his shoulder with your free hand before your nails dig into him, “Shut up an fuckin’ do it!”

He just chuckles darkly, "You really do wanna fight, huh?"

The glisten from your own wetness coats Eddie's cock and it's painfully delicious to look at. You almost want to push him off you and suck it off. But that's almost too much of a reward for him. And he didn't deserve that.

Now that you think about it, him finishing inside you is something he didn't deserve.

You add two more fingers over your sensitive clit, rubbing tight circles so you could squeeze the shit out of him and soak his pelvis as you finish.

"Yeah, that's it, baby. Play with yourself while I fuck this cunt of yours," Eddie interjects through clenched teeth.

The white hot pleasure comes in no time at all after his filthy mouth eggs you on. Before Eddie can throw his head back and revel in the feeling, you leverage your foot onto his chest and push him completely out of you.

Your body falls limp as he completely loses sensation around his cock and he cums at the same time his back slams into the dresser across from the bed. The ropes of white stain the dirty clothes pile he left at the center of the room. All his work clothes.

You cannot help but laugh, watching his face contort in confusion and irritation.

"What the fuck babe-"

"Looks like you really need to do some laundry now, huh?"

When he looks down at the mountain of clothes he tripped over, his jaw ticks. "I hate it when you play dirty."

"I hate when you don't do what I ask," You remind him, standing up in all your lustrous glory. You slip out of bed, grabbing your folded robe nearby. You wrap it around your body while he stands there, still flabbergasted, "Washer is open, go ahead and throw those in."

[be-the-glenn-to-my-maggie]

Not enough people are talking about how masterfully Gaten Matarazzo is like, mimicking Joseph Quinn in his acting choices. He's slumping into chairs, he's swaggering into scenes, he's wearing a bunch of chunky rings and acting cool calm and collected all covering up a kid whose seen too much and is barely hanging on. I saw someone say that this version of Dustin is so heartbreaking because he was the last of the kids to really have that childhood innocence still. Seeing our always positive, always determined, always consistent Dustin in such a concerning place is really sad, and Gaten is killing it.

[rebelfell]

rip eddie munson, you would have loved my tits.