Sticky.Notes @sticky-notes-writes - Tumblr Blog

earth boys are so serious.

pairing: clark kent x fem alien!reader

summary: out of all the planets you've ever visited, you have to admit – earth is your favorite. and it's not because of the scenery, or the food, or anything else... it's because of your best friend's ridiculously attractive, impossibly charming cousin who lives there.

wc: 10.6k (wow! this was supposed to be a silly little smut...)

genre/tags: fluff/smut, acquaintances(?) to lovers, flirty!reader (she wants that cock so bad), reader comes from a planet other than krypton, p w plot (i accidentally got attached to reader oops), unprotected sex (rubber up y'all), dry humping/grinding, fingering, p in v sex, clark has a huge dick ofc, slight praise kink, dom! clark, ft. kara (platonic).

notes from auddie: sorry for the long wait! tumblr deleted like 20% of this draft before i put it in google docs for safekeeping so i had to rewrite a whole bunch. genuinely loved writing this fic and i def want to explore more w alien!readers LOL. pls enjoy! <3

earth is... loud. and sticky. and kind of ugly in the daylight. at least compared to the other planets you've ventured out. but gods, is it fun.

humans truly have no idea how fragile they are. they have no idea who short their lives are compared to other species you've met among various cosmic civilizations. but maybe that's why they dance like they've got fire in their veins and fuck like the world might end tomorrow.

hell, apparently there's countless songs about fucking without the knowledge of tomorrow.

it's charming. almost addicting.

you're supposed to be here for a little while, crashing on a makeshift couch inside the fortress of solitude while she figures things out (aka where your next destination will be.)

in its own fascinating way, earth reels you in. it's the music, the night lights, the cocktails, the rawness of human emotion.

and then there's her cousin.

clark.

tall, buttoned-up, frustratingly noble clark kent. had kara never told you he was her blood relative, you'd round him up with the other earthlings. he's truly nothing like your best friend.

the morning light in metropolis is softer than on most planets you've been to. everything here feels muted, slower in a way.

you're not used to that. you're not used to staying still, or staying anywhere for more than a night or two. but kara asked. she said she missed you, said you could come crash at her place and promised krypto wouldn't launch into you head first as soon as you flew in. liar.

but honestly? it never takes much convincing for you to visit the planet for weeks at a time. not as long as the six-foot four, broad shouldered, sweet-as-pie cousin of hers makes an appearance during your visit.

you pad into the familiar kitchen, yawning as the oversized shirt you wear slides off one of your shoulders. you scratch at your head, attempting to flatten down any flyaways.

it's quiet, the kind of quiet you never get in the fortress. there isn't the humming of kryptonian technology and no wind against the icy crystal walls. there's only the distant sounds of the city starting its day.

clark's back is to you, tall and solid where he stands at the stove. his hair is tousled from sleep, plain gray t-shirt stretched across his shoulders, plaid pajama pants hanging low on his hips.

he looks delectable.

he glances over his shoulder when he hears your footsteps, and his eyes catch for a mere second on your bare thigh.

"morning," he says gruffly, turning back to the pan. you notice the faint flush on the back of his neck. "you like eggs?" he asks.

"i don't mind 'em," you answer back, leaning your hip against the counter, watching him work.

"how do you like your eggs?" he asks.

"fertilized." you beam.

he freezes.

it's just for a second, but you catch the way his hand stalls with the spatula mid-scramble, the subtle twitch in his jaw like he's trying very hard not to react. then he turns slowly, peering over his shoulder at you.

"seriously?" he deadpans.

you shrug playfully, crossing your arms over your chest. "what? earth humor. i'm assimilating."

"i'm sure," he mutters, shaking his head as he turns back to the stove. but you don't miss the way his ears turn pink.

you grin, unabashed.

it's too easy to fluster him.

you learned that about him the first day of the first time you visited the planet. the first time he saw you float in the midair to grab a glass from the top shelf, his eyes nearly bugged out of his head. you'd just looked at him and asked if he wanted one, too, like the angle of you wasn't giving an obscene view of your too short skirt and the contents beneath it. he'd sputtered something about "gravity not just being an option" and bumped into a doorframe on his way out of the kitchen.

you'd been hooked ever since.

"you didn't have to make me breakfast," you purr softly, voice slightly thick with sleep.

clark doesn't look at you this time. "you got in at three in the morning. figured you'd be hungry."

you smirk. "you keeping tabs on me now, kent?"

you hear him exhale through his nose, steady as ever. unbothered. (liar.)

"i just heard you come in, that's all."

"uh-huh," you hum, amused, plucking a grape from the fruit bowl atop the counter and popping it into your mouth. "right. super hearing."

he plates the eggs with precision, the way he does everything, you've learned. he turns to set them down on the counter in front of you with deliberate care.

"you always listen that closely when i stumble in drunk?" you press, teasing interweaved in between your words.

"i listen closely because you stumble in drunk. someone's gotta maker sure you don't try to fly through the wrong apartment's balcony again."

you'd learned the hard way that earth alcohol severely impairs your flight control. on your third night, you attempted to fly back to the fortress after a few too many tequila shots, only to end up crash-landing in a cornfield somewhere in nebraska, mumbling about ice crystals and asking a very startled farmer if he'd seen your "best friend's smoking hot cousin."

you blink, a scowl appearing on your face. "...that happened once."

"twice."

"okay, twice."

he lifts a brow. "last time you clipped the fire escape."

"that fire escape had it coming."

his mouth quirks despite himself, eyes glinting as he slides a fork toward you. "sit. eat. try not to give me a heart attack for one morning."

you oblige, hopping up onto the stool and dragging the plate toward you. "you worry about me, clark. kinda sweet."

he gives you a look, one that falls somewhere between fond and exasperated. "i worry about everyone."

"sure you do." you take a bite, chewing thoughtfully. "but I’m the only one who gets eggs and scolded first thing in the morning."

he turns back to the stove, hoping to hide the smirk that pulls up the corner of his lips. you catch it anyway.

"so," you say after a mouthful of eggs, lifting your fork with exaggerated curiosity. "what's on the superman to-do list today? world peace? saving a cat out of a tree?"

the kitchen is lazily golden with early morning sunlight creeping through the blinds as you sit atop one of clark's barstools, legs swinging slightly as you eye him over your plate.

clark wordlessly pours you a glass of orange juice, not needing to ask your preference. he does it in an automatic way as if he's done it every morning. like you're just here, part of his routine. it's infuriatingly domestic.

he sets the glass in front of you with a casual shrug. "not sure. i usually wait for an apparent threat on the news or a call from friends."

"oh, right. justice gang," you say, wrinkling your nose. "still a stupid name, by the way."

a subtle twitch plays at the corner of his mouth, and you watch as he chews the inside of his cheek, like he's biting back a smile.

smile at me, coward.

"right," he says, tone even.

it's exasperating, the way he always manages to keep a straight face when you’re trying to crack him. it's almost as if there’s a silent challenge in it. you wonder sometimes if he even knows he’s doing it – weaponizing that steady calm of his like it’s not the most compelling thing in the world.

you shift in your seat, squinting at him like the mere suggestion of an early morning is physically painful. "so, if theres no superman agenda, why on this planet are you up so early?"

clark doesn't miss a beat. "some of us work. you know, make money to pay for existing." clark deadpans, bringing his mug up to his mouth to sip his coffee. he eyes you over the mug, almost pointed, like it's a fact you can't relate to.

"hey, i work!" you protest, immediately defensive.

clark gives you a pointed look. he lifts his brows in that maddening, amused way, leaning against the counter after putting his coffee mug back down onto the hard surface. he crosses his arms and his biceps flex just enough to make you lose your train of thought for half a second. you shamelessly stare, brows lifted at the taut muscle of his arms.

if he notices (lets, be real, he does), he chooses not to comment on it.

"i don't know if intergalactic trade counts as work," he muses.

"it sure as hell pays the bills."

and it does – handsomely.

you've never claimed to be a hero. not everyone is cut out for truth, justice and the whatever-the-hell clark stands for. but you are resourceful. you always have been. always had to be. whether it was skimming atmospheres above a war-ridden moon or stripping through the wreckage of ships, you've made a living out of surviving. scavenging. taking what others overlooked and turning it into something worthwhile.

over the years, you build a decent trade network. you'd collect useful elements, off-world trinkets, experimental gear, honestly, whatever could be repurposed, repaired or resold, and then pass them along to interested buyers scattered across space.

there's a whole underground network of buyers who'd pay top credit for a whisper of alien innovation. and you? well, you're practically fluent in the art of acquiring what they want, no questions asked.

it's not glamorous, not always legal and it's definitely not safe – but it's yours. and it keeps the lights on in whatever hotel-equivalent you're at on other planets.

clark, of course, has opinions about this. you remember the first time kara revealed to him what it was that you did and the way he looked at you – some strange mixture of disbelief and moral distress, like you'd just confessed to selling baby penguins (those are the cute animals, right? you can't keep track of earth life) on the black market.

"she steals things?" he had asked, incredulous, turning to kara like she was the one who needed to answer on behalf of your choices.

"i don't steal, hot stuff," you had countered, your voice piping in an innocent manner. "i salvage," you drawled for extra emphasis, "there's a difference."

"there's really not," he'd muttered to himself, choosing to ignore what you'd called him.

you'd explained that nothing you took every had an owner. abandoned ships. junk moons littered with obsolete tech and precious minerals. all free game, in your book at least. you just happened to be smart enough to see the value in things other people left to rot.

besides, it wasn't like you were smuggling nuclear war weapons for the highest bidder. you dealt in harmless stuff, the kinds of things that actually helped people, even if they might've come with a morally ambiguous origin.

clark hadn't quite agreed. still doesn't, probably. but he doesn't mention it. not out loud, anyway.

"you're off to the monthly moon then?" you ask, your fork clattering against the empty plate.

clark's brows furrow for a moment before softening in realization. "daily planet. yes," he answers.

"i think monthly moon sounds better," you mumble to yourself.

you swing your legs, chin resting in your hand as you watch him move around the kitchen with the kind of quiet ease you don't think you'll ever be able to replicate. everything about clark is measured. controlled. it's like he's always just a little too aware of his own strength and the space he takes up in a room.

"you're really going to go play reporter after all this?" you asked, gesturing to the breakfast scene between you. "all this domestic flirting?" you pout exaggeratedly.

"that was not flirting," clark deadpans, without missing a beat.

"ouch. words hurt," you place a hand on your chest in feigned offense.

he shakes his head but you catch the hint of a smile this time. "you're exhausting."

"you secretly love it."

he doesn't confirm nor deny. instead, he dries his hand on a towel and tosses it over the back of a chair, gaze flickering to the clock on the wall. "i've got twenty minutes before i need to head out."

you raise a brow, lips quirking. "i know what you can do – or who – within twenty minutes."

clark's hand freezes mid-lift of his coffee, fingers curled tightly around the handle but not yet bringing it to his lips.

you see the exact moment your words land; the subtle shift in his shoulders, the faint tightening of his jaw, the way he suddenly won't look at you. not directly.

you grin.

you stretch your arms your head with a languid hum, knowing full what it does to the already slipping shirt draped over your body. his eyes don't flicker, not even once, but you feel the heat in the room spike just a little.

you wonder if he does, too.

"twenty minutes," you murmur softly, tilting your side in a way that almost seems innocent, but you know – he knows, too – that it's anything but. "that's enough time for a lot of things, clark."

clark exhales slowly though his nose and straightens up, visibly resetting his posture. when he finally turns to look at you, his expression is painfully neutral. almost too neutral.

the silence stretches, thick with something unspoken and buzzing.

and then he breaks it, stepping back just slightly and placing his mug down on the counter with a clink.

"i think," he murmurs finally, with a measured calmness that makes your pulse spike. "i need to get ready for work," he says.

coward.

you grin anyway, watching him retreat in the direction of his room. "i'll be here," you call after him, smug. "still very charming. still barely dressed."

clark disappears into the hallway without answering.

but you catch it. the tiny glimpse over his shoulder. the way his eyes dragged, just barely, down your bare legs before quickly looking back.

you hum to yourself, victorious.

by the time he returns, he's fully in his dorky clark kent get-up, charming in it's own right – white button up, gray suit jacket, matching slacks and maroon tie – but the cherry on top is the glasses he adjusts on his face.

"do those really work?" you ask, now having moved to his sofa, sprawled on one side, like you own it. you continue to eye the thick frames. apparently it's some form of hypno-tech for humans – at least, that's what you've heard from kara. it must be, because there's no way a pair of lenses is enough to make the world to see clark kent instead of superman.

"thought you'd be gone by now," he huffs, slinging his knapsack over his shoulder.

you smile, a mischievous glint in your eye. "wanted to see you off before work, sweetie."

clark rolls his eyes, then crosses the room, grabbing his keys and sliding them into his pocket, clearly trying very hard not to engage.

"i don't need a send-off," he says, walking past where you're sprawled on his couch, mock-innocent with a throw pillow half-slid off your lap.

you lean your head back over the armrest to watch him upside-down, hair spilling over the edge. "so no goodbye kiss?" you ask, pouting your lips.

"absolutely not." he says it without even looking at you. but you can see the way his ears turn red.

"what a shame. i'm off to... what's it called again? place with the sparkly tower and long bread?"

clark stops at the door, turning slowly and brows furrowed. "france?"

you snap your fingers. "that's the one. kara wants to go clubbing. apparently, there's some underground spot that plays synth-wave and it looks like an asteroid belt exploded on the inside. she can't get drunk, but she loves the music. i, however..." you give him a slow grin. "...intend to drink very irresponsibly."

clark exhales through his nose again, like it actually pains him to imagine you going through a parisian nightclub, half-lit and laughing, grinding on who knows who, all powered by a cocktail and zero impulse control.

he hesitates in the doorway, a quiet moment stretching between you. his fingers tighten around the knob like he's weighing something.

"you'll be careful?" he asks, voice gentler now, lower. the question's not really a question. but you've come to find out that it's very clark of him to check in like that.

"you earth boys are so serious," you tease.

"y/n."

your grin softens, just a little. you nod, still-upside down on his couch, and a flicker of sincerity creeps into your voice. "always."

clark watches you for another heartbeat and then he sighs, shaking his head to himself. "try not to get kicked out of france," he murmurs before shutting the door behind him.

the door clicks behind him and you let your head fall sideways, a slow smile curving your lips.

the return to the fortress of solitude is sobering in every sense – figuratively and literally.

you land with a soft crunch onto the icy platform just outside its entrance, breath curling in the cold air like lazy smoke. the crystalline towers that shimmer under the arctic sky, casting reflections off the aurora above.

inside, the chill doesn't bite the same way it used to. the fortress hums faintly, always alive but never loud. kara's already there, of course, perched cross-legged on the edge of one of the raised platforms. krypto's curled up beside her, head resting on her thigh, tail thumping softly in greeting as you approach.

"hey," she called. "you took your time."

she looks irritatingly well-rested, already changed into something appropriate for the club: leather pants, iridescent top, hair in it's natural waves.

"you sober now?" she asks.

"unfortunately."

"good," she claps her hands once, sharp and loud in the stillness. "we leave in thirty. we get to the club, get you a drink – or five – and i people watch while you do something regrettable. sound good?"

you grin despite yourself, stretching your arms over your head. "nothing i do is regrettable."

"right," she rolls her eyes, as if that should've reminded her. her eyes cast down to your attire. she lifts a brow. "you're wearing kal-el's shirt."

you look down. clark's tee hanging loosely on your frame, slightly rumpled, smelling faintly of his detergent and something deeply him. you pull at the hem absently, then glance back up with mock innocence.

"he wasn't using it."

kara just rolls her eyes and makes a face that lands somewhere between amusement and disapproval. "you know he's like... kal-el, right?"

you grin. "exactly."

kara huffs a breath through her nose, mumbling something like, 'of all men, kal-el?' but she doesn't press on it. she never does, not really when it comes to him. you figure she knows better than anyone that you're a little hopeless when it comes to her cousin, even when you're main priority is sleeping with him.

you make your way toward your things – a pile of glittery clothing and scavenged tech currently occupying one corner of the fortress – and start sorting for something club appropriate. something earthlings would find charming. or terrifying, whichever. both.

"so, what'd you do last night?" she asks.

you pull out a glittering silver top that may rival any stardust you've ever seen. "not much. got home late. went to clark's."

she pauses. "wait... you actually spent the night at kal's?"

"i always spend the night at his," you counter with a shrug. "you're the one who said i shouldn't risk flying drunk. your cousin has a couch."

"and boundaries," she says, deadpan.

you give her a mournful look. "anyone with forearms like that shouldn't... he made me breakfast this morning.”

kara pauses in her step. she's not surprised but she asks anyway, “…did he?”

“eggs.” you nod solemnly. “scrambled. perfectly cooked. he even gave me orange juice. and none of that stringy stuff in it.”

“that’s oddly specific.”

“right?” you crack one eye open. “he likes me.”

kara gives you a flat look. “you think everyone likes you.”

you hum thoughtfully. “most people do. but clark…” you trail off, a lazy smile tugging at your lips. “he tries so hard not to.”

kara snorts, shaking her head. she watches you for a moment, like she's debating whether to scold you or laugh. she decides to laugh, running a hand down her face.

"you know he's not like us," she says finally. "kal-el doesn't do casual. he doesn't even understand casual."

you pause, holding the top midair, then glance over your shoulder with a slow smirk. "who said i'm trying to be casual?"

kara groans. "you are so going to break my cousin."

you pull off clark's shirt, tossing it into your pile of clothes and begin to shimmy into the tiny silver top. "he'll be fine. he's indestructible, isn't he?"

kara raises a brow. "emotionally? not so much."

you hum nonchalantly. but the comment sticks.

she's not wrong. clark is steady, earnest in a way you don't often encounter – especially in your line of work. he's the kind of man who believes in doing good, in the power of kindness, in something as absurdly fragile as hope.

and somehow, despite everything you've seen in this galaxy, that's what gets you the most.

not the cape, not the strength. not even his hot face and hotter body.

no, it's the terrifying softness he holds in a world that seems to constantly try to turn people hard.

it's... annoying.

but oh, it make you want to fuck him so bad.

you shake your head, reaching for your boots. "come on, zor-el. it's time to be irresponsible."

kara grins. "finally."

you and kara slip out into the chilly morning air, the fortress fading behind you as you both take to the sky. the wind bites at your skin, sharper here than in metropolis, but the rush of flight never gets old. kara’s laughter echoes beside you, bright and light.

the journey to france is a blur of clouds and sunlight, the city of paris unfolding beneath you like a glittering jewel. the skyline is crowned by the sparkly building – the eiffel tower, kara tells you – the iron piercing the pale blue sky.

you land deftly on the rooftop terrace of the club kara had mentioned – an old warehouse with a basement transformed into something otherworldly. neon lights pulse through the foggy night air, casting shifting colors over the crowd gathering below. the hum of synth-wave music vibrates through the walls, deep bass rolling in like waves.

the club is everything kara promised and more: dark yet shimmering with glittering stars strung across the ceiling, walls adorned with holographic murals, and dancers moving as if weightless under the strobe lights.

kara leads you through the crowd, her eyes bright with anticipation as she scans for the perfect vantage point. you slip into the chaos, letting the music pulse through you, the beat a steady thrum against your ribcage.

the drinks come fast. you laugh louder than usual, carefree and loose, the kind of abandon that only comes when the usual weight on your shoulders has slipped away. it's dizzying and dangerous in its own way because your guard is down.

kara watches you, amused and indulgent. “you’re making quite the impression.”

you smirk, "if only the rest of earth felt this homely."

you can only think of one other place on this planet that feels this homely.

before you can dwell on it, a guy from the crowd slides up to you. he flashes you a crooked smile, eyes gleaming under the neon glow as he leans in just enough to catch your attention over the music.

"hey gorgeous, you here alone?" he asks, voice smooth, practiced.

you turn, flashing him a grin that's equal parts amused and deadpan. "depends on who's asking."

the man chuckles, clearly pleased with himself. "name's jake. and you are?" he reeks of vodka.

you tilt your head, eyes sparkling with mischief. you prop your foot ni front of you, leaning back on the other for support and tap your chin in thought. "can i call you clark?"

the man blinks, caught off guard. "clark? why? he your ex or something?"

you smile, the bluntness catching him off guard. "i wish. if he were my ex, that would mean i've already fucked him."

jake laughs, nervously this time, and steps back, suddenly unsure if he's playing the right game. you pat him on the shoulder with mock sympathy as he steps away from you. "better luck next time, jake."

you turn back to the pulsing crowd, the music swallowing the tension, and somewhere in the back your mind, clark's mind lingers, sharp and impossible to shake.

that must mean you need another drink.

you don't remember how many drinks you have, only that kara struggles to carry you out – one of your shoulders looped around her neck – of the neon lit warehouse.

"there's no way i'll be able to fly both of us home," she grunts beneath your weight, dragging you along the streets of france.

"you're supposed to be the stronger one," you tease, head lolling forward, attempting to look at her expectantly.

"i don't exactly charge under the yellow sun on a daily basis so i'm not exactly at peak strength," she mumbles. "and you're deadweight when you're drunk. you flail and scream the second we get off the ground so i'd much rather not deal with that. i'm now realizing why we tend to go out in cities near metropolis."

"call mister hottie cousin of yours then," you slur, eyes fluttered closed as you smile lazily.

kara grunts again, voice low with effort. "you think he's just gonna drop everything and fly halfway across the world to pick up his cousin's drunk best friend at three in the morning?"

you giggle, face pressed against her shoulder. "he's superman. he can do whatever he wants."

she rolls her eyes but doesn't argue with you. she adjusts her grip to haul you more securely.

you mumble something about him being the kind of person who'd go out of his way for other – even you – which makes kara shake her head, half amused and have exasperated, but you can already tell she's dialing.

a few rings later, clark's voice comes through the speaker – calm, steady, just like always.

"kal, i need some help bringing–"

"clark!" you voice rings out, effectively cutting off kara. "i need a rescue," you drawl, voice thick with the haze of too many drinks. "can you come get to us?"

there's a pause, just long enough for you to wonder if you pushed it too far, then a, "on my way."

you can almost see him getting up from bed, swinging his legs over the side. you wonder if he'll come in civilian attire or as his peace-keeping counterpart.

the thought makes a lazy smile curve your lips upward.

minutes stretch as you wait in the chill night, the hum of distant traffic blending with the pulsing music still ringing in your ears.

finally, a shadow drops from the rooftop. it's a figure unmistakably tall, broad-shouldered and decidedly clark. you're too drunk to wonder how he found your exact location.

he doesn't wast time with words, just scoops you effortlessly into his arms, steady and sure as always, despite your wobbliness. kara straightens her back, sighing an exhale of relief.

"are you good to fly?" you hear clark as kara.

"absolutely," she answers.

you lazily blink through your drunken haze in attempt to get a glance of the man carrying you. a smile lifts your cheeks when his chin dips down, casting his gaze on you.

"hey, hot stuff," you slur in greeting, your tone laced with tequila and mischief.

clark exhales through his nose, the corners of his mouth twitching like he's trying very, very hard not to smile. "hi," he says quietly.

"came all the way to paris for little ol' me?" you ask, your words slurred but your grin unmistakably pleased.

he adjusts his grip on you, cradling you close to his chest like you're weightless (which, to be fair, you are to him). "you said you needed a rescue?"

“let's be real, i always need a rescue,” you mumble, fingers toying with the collar of his shirt. “just usually not from france.”

“you’re lucky kara called,” he says, but his voice is warm, not scolding. “think she was about ten seconds from leaving you on the sidewalk.”

“i’d never,” kara says behind him, deadpan. “i would've at least gotten her to a gas station.”

“and you're supposed to be my best friend,” you call over clark’s shoulder.

“good luck,” kara mutters to him, already lifting off into the air, wind kicking up around her. “i’m going to bed.”

clark watches her go, and when he turns back to you, his brow lifts slightly. “you good?”

you grin into the fabric of his shirt. no superman get-up. "yeah, just missed you."

that gets him.

you feel his arms tighten a fraction, and his stride falters for half a step.

"i saw you this morning," he murmurs, tone quiet now. almost too careful.

you hum in acknowledgment. "still missed you."

he huffs out a soft laugh, shaking his head. then, with a subtle shift in his stance, the world falls away beneath you both. the wind cuts around you as he lifts into the air, the lights of paris falling away beneath you. the world goes quiet up here, just wind and breath brushing against your ears.

the air is cold and biting against your skin, but clark’s warmth cuts through it, a steady comfort in the rush of wind. you press your cheek against his shoulder, lashes fluttering closed.

"can i go to your place?" you ask, voice muffled against the fabric of his clothing.

he looks down at you, the press of your cheek against his chest, as he flies above the cloud. "of course."

his words are simple, but they settle deep. heavy in your chest, warm in a way that has nothing to do with his heat against your skin.

he doesn't say anything after that, just flies.

maybe it's safer that way.

maybe if he speaks, he'll say something he can't take back.

or worse – something he means.

you tilt your head back to lazily look up at him, the wind blowing your hair back. his jaw is tight. his eyes fixed at the cloud ahead.

still, you catch the bob of his throat when he swallows.

your voice breaks the silence among the wind. "you'll always come when i call?"

a pause.

then a low, "yeah."

no hesitation. no joke. just... yeah.

you blink up at him, throat tightening for a reason you can't name. the sky around you is ink-dark, the stars scattered in the sky like salt. you stare at his profile. this ridiculous man with his ridiculous heart.

here's clark kent, the man who showed up at three a.m. not because he had to, but because you asked.

even with all your sharpness, all your teasing, and every inappropriate thing you've said in the last twelve hours... he still came.

gods, you think, your mind still muddled with drunkenness. i'm in so much trouble.

you exhale slowly, nuzzling back into his shoulder with a soft mutter. "you're gonna ruin me."

he doesn't answer, but you feel the way his hand flexes around your thigh, just once.

when you wake up hours later, mouth dry and head pounding, you're back in clark's apartment. but this time, you're not on the coucb.

you're in his bed. his bed.

alone.

but there's a glass of water on the nightstand. and advil. and a folded note.

your name is written across the top in that annoyingly neat script of his – as if you're not the only one who'd be in his apartment, let alone his bed.

you reach for the note with bleary eyes and open it with slow fingers.

i'll be back after work. please don't break anything. – Clark (p.s. you snore in your sleep)

you stare at the note, hungover yet still smug.

"i do not snore," you mutter to yourself.

you actually don't know whether you do or not, but that isn't the point. the point is: clark put you in his bed, left you water, and a painkiller for your inevitable hangover.

you look down at yourself. your brow quirks up in curiosity at the shirt draping your figure. a sly smirk curls up your cheeks before you tug at the collar, peering down into it. your smirk falls when you realize clark had simply put on one of his shirts over your night-out top.

he's too respectful, you huff to yourself.

you pad to the kitchen, his note still in hand, scanning the abode of neatness that is clark's apartment. it's nearly absurd how contradicting he is to you.

you do not belong here.

and yet here you are. clutching a stupid handwritten note like it's the first thing anyone's ever left you that felt like care.

his shirt hangs loose off your frame, just long enough to cover your ass in your tiny shorts, but still short enough to be a problem.

you rifle through his fridge (fully stocked with bread, eggs, greens and poultry), attempt to work his dishwasher, and even poke your head into his closet just to see if he organizes his clothing by color.

you take a shower, using his shampoo and conditioner, but you don't mind the way his scent clings to your skin after. in fact, you embrace it. it's warm and woodsy, with a hint of something clean and familiar. you're unsure if that's the soap or just him.

the water helps clear your head, but you still move slowly, your limbs heavy with leftover fatigue. when you dry off with a towel, you skip putting your silver top back on, opting instead for the oversized shirt he'd thrown over you the night before. it's soft and smells like him, too, and without the layer beneath it, the fabric drapes even more loosely over your frame. your underwear are the only thing you keep on, you decide as you look at the tiny shorts you wore prior.

by the time you settle on the couch, legs tucked under you, the sun has fully crested the skyline and your hangover is a gentle throb as opposed to a wave of nausea.

he gets home around six.

clark stops in the doorway, eyebrows raising like he half-expected you to be gone by now.

"you're still here," he says.

you lift and eyebrow and shrug. "i read your note. i figured that was a stay as long as you want invitation."

he hear him huff as he shrugs out of his blazer. he loosens his tie. rolls up the sleeves of his white button-up. "that's a stretch."

"is it?" you ponder aloud, tapping your chin.

silence stretches between you, though he fills the silence by kicking his shoes off near the door and placing his knapsack on a nearby stool.

you decide not to pry and instead, change the subject. "thank you for carrying me back."

clark nods, approaching the sofa. he doesn't sit. not yet. just stands in front of you, hands on his hips like he's trying to decide something.

"you totally could've," you counter quickly. "but thanks for not," you add with a genuine smile.

he smiles back – soft and almost sheepish – but there's something else behind his eyes. a weight. a choice he hasn't explained yet.

you tilt your head. "figured you'd take me to the fortress."

"i was going to," he admits, nodding. "but then you asked me to bring you back here."

your brows raise at that. "i did?"

he exhales through his nose, as if amused by your lack of memory. "you did. made sense. you've been crashing here every night this week."

"and you did," you say slowly, each word holding an extra emphasis.

"and i did," he confirms with a nod. he stands a ways away from you, unbuttoning the cuffs of his dress shirt to roll them up.

"you let me have your bed, too," you add.

"that, i also did," he nods again but this time you see the bobble his adam's apple does.

"how come?"

he looks away for a beat, then back at you – eyes softer than before.

"because," he says slowly, "you should be sleeping on a bed, not a couch."

you raise an eyebrow, skeptical.

he shrugs, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "you're too restless for the couch. too much of a night owl, too many thoughts racing. the couch doesn't give you room to breathe."

you study him, the way his gaze lingers a little longer than usual. the way he's not just talking about furniture, but about you. you don't know how he so easily sees through you and seems to know you so well, and you can't decide whether you like it or not.

you stretch languidly on the sofa, making sure his shirt rises enough to hint at the bare skin of your thighs. "you could've joined me, you know. bed's big enough."

you see him open his mouth to respond before he shuts it as if remembering to process your words first before choosing to respond. he looks down at the hardwood floors for a moment before lifting his head and not meeting your gaze.

"actually, i can't," he murmurs, shaking his head to himself.

you blink. "can't what?"

"i mean– i shouldn't." he runs a hand through his hair, flustered. "you're... unpredictable. and chaotic. and reckless."

you tilt your head, grinning. "i am."

he stares at you like you've personally ruined his life. maybe you have.

you watch him, the way he fights something internal. his jaw tightens like he's holding back a thousand words, maybe a thousand urges. you can feel the tension rolling off him like heat.

"you really don't remember much from last night, do you?" he asks.

your brows raise. "define much."

"you called me hot stuff again," he says.

you grin. "not new information. and i do that sober."

"you also tried to get me to kiss you once we landed back at the apartment."

that gives you pause. okay, that... that you don't remember.

"...did i?" you ask, lips twitching.

he nods, arms now crossed over his chest. "said the air was romantic. said i'd regret not kissing you under the stars." a beat passes. "also said i looked like safety and sex."

you can't help but snort, well aware it is something you'd say. "gotta love tequila."

he laughs. laughs. it's soft, low, not mocking, but fond.

finally.

"you also said you missed me."

your breath halts for a moment, eyes trained on your lap. you slowly peek up at him through your lashes, wary now. "that part... was probably true."

clark's still standing here, looking at you like he's trying to see through all your layers of bravado. and truthfully, maybe he does.

he runs a hand through his hair again, cheeks a little pink. "do you really?"

you blink. "do i... miss you?"

he shrugs one shoulder, but his voice is quieter now. "like, when you're off-world. have you ever once thought about coming back, not just for kara?"

it's a simple question. not a demand. not a plea. just a quiet hope.

you sit up, legs tucked under you, throw pillow in your lap. you stare up at him. "no, not once," you say.

his brows knit, faintly disappointed.

"i think about it all the time."

clark's jaw flexes. and then he finally moves, sitting down on the couch beside you. not touching. not yet. but he's close. close enough.

"i think about you, too," he admits, and it you feel a rush of victory spread across each of your nerves. his ears are pink again, but for once, he doesn't seem to shy away or hide from it.

"yeah?" you ask, lips quirking upward.

he nods.

another beat of silence.

you look down at the note still crumpled in your fingers. you'd been absentmindedly fiddling with it throughout the day. you smooth it over your thigh absently. "you always do the right thing," you murmur. "it's annoying."

clark huffs a soft laugh. "i try."

"you didn't have to come get me."

"i always will."

you look at him again, and this time, the mischief is one from your eyes.

he's so close now.

"you're the most dangerous thing on this planet," you whisper. realizing the statement is true on its own, you add, "for me."

clark's voice is steady. "why?"

you swallow. "because you make me want to stay, clark."

that does it.

the air changes between you. tenses. warms. still.

the air between you was almost something different, teetering on the edge of something so incredibly catastrophic or so devastatingly beautiful.

you can see the way his gaze drops – first to your mouth, then lower. you see his hand twitch, like he wants to touch you but something is holding him back. or, like he's holding himself back.

so you reach first.

you lift a hand and press your fingers gently against his jaw. "i'm sober now, clark."

"i'm aware."

"and i still want to kiss you."

his throat bobs. he exhales and it's sharp and soft at the same time.

"i've been trying really, really hard to do the right thing," he says, voice low and steady, like it's costing him to admit out loud. "to keep my distance. not let it... get messy."

you blink, barely breathing. "and?"

his lips twitch. you don't dare to move. the air between you is so charged it might crack open.

"i don't know what this is," he says, still not touching you. "but if i kiss you, it's not going to be casual. it's not going to be a joke or some in-the-moment mistake."

your breath hitches.

"i don't want to be one of your stops on the way to the next planet," he says, softer now. "so if you're not serious – if you're really just bored and looking for a thrill – please tell me now."

you stare at him. the blues of his eyes stare back into your own irises as his words register.

it's true that during your first visit, your flirting was just that – flirting. harmless, easy, something to pass the time while you awaited your next adventure on another planet.

you liked the way he got flustered. the way he stumbled over his words in the beginning or avoided your gaze like you were something dangerous.

but now...

now, with the weight of his voice still hanging between you, it doesn't feel like just flirting to you anymore.

your throat works around the knot forming there.

very quietly, you ask, "what if i am serious?"

the muscle in his jaw jumps. his eyes search yours for any sign of sarcasm, any game. but all he finds is honestly.

you rush to fill the silence. "i mean, i know i joke a lot. i know i push buttons and say things just to get a rise out of you, but this isn't that. i'm not bored or restless or trying to see how far i can push you before you finally push back. and maybe it's stupid, because you're you and i'm – well, me – but it doesn't feel like a game to me. not anymore. and i don't want you to think i'm not taking this seriously, because i am. more serious than i've taken anything, probably, but i can't seem to–"

your words cut off with a startled sound when he surges forward, catching your mouth with his before you can keep unraveling.

the kiss is firm, steady, and a silencing press that tells you he heard every word you said and he doesn't need more.

and it's not hesitant. it's hungry.

every ounce of restraint he's held for the last however many visits of yours, every sarcastic jab, every midnight glance he thought you didn't catch – it all collapses into this kiss.

clark exhales sharply when your fingers slip into his hair, tugging at it enough to pull a low sound from his throat. his hands find your waist, hesitant at first, like he's still holding back, then firmer, archoring you to him as he kisses you deeper.

you shift onto your knees, straddling his lap without breaking the kiss. you hear his breath catch as you settle over him and you can feel the heat of him through both your layers of clothing. still, he doesn't rush it. his hands stay steady at your hips, his thumbs brushing circles just under the hem of your shirt – his shirt – on your skin.

he pulls away just long enough to rasp against your lips. "still unpredictable."

you grin breathlessly. "still a coward for waiting this long."

he growls and kisses you again, deeper this time, if that's even possible. "so insufferable."

"you like it."

"i really do."

you lean in, your lips grazing his jaw and then lower. "then let me show you just how unpredictable i can be."

clark's hands slide under the shirt fully now, palms warm against your skin. he groans to himself, as if noting the fact that you're no longer wearing the silver top from the night before. "you're not making it easier for me to be a gentleman."

"you've been a gentleman long enough."

your shirt hits the floor first and his eyes rake over you, hungry but reverent, like he's memorizing every inch of you he can see. when his hands find your thighs, he drags them up slowly, thumbs tracing the edge of your underwear.

you reach down and pull his glasses off, setting them carefully on the side table.

"i've wanted to do that for so long," you whisper, fingers tracing his temple gently.

he swallows hard. "yeah?"

you nod, fingers moving to the buttons lining the center of his shirt. "wanted to know what you looked like up close like this. see how blue your eyes really are."

he closes his eyes like he's trying to keep it together. "christ, y/n."

you hum in acknowledgment, pulling either side of his shirt apart, exposing his midsection.

he's unreal, of course he is. warm skin, hard muscle and a faint trail of hair disappearing under the waistband of his slacks. you run your hand over his chest, just to feel him, and his breath stutters.

when you grind down on him, slow yet with purpose, he groans, head falling forward to rest against your shoulder. "you're not playing fair."

"you know i never do."

he huffs a laugh against your collarbone, equal parts aroused and exasperated, his breath hot and shaky on your skin. "i'm starting to get that." one of his hands splay across your lower back, the other gripping your thigh like he needs something to hold onto.

"you're going to ruin me," he murmurs, low like it's a confession.

you lean back just enough to meet his eyes again, fingers still drifting over the hard planes of his chest. "good," you say, not teasing this time.

that seems to snap something in him. he kisses you again, harder now, like he's decided there's no going back. like he's done pretending there's nothing brewing between you.

the kiss turns messy, urgent. his hands are everywhere now – your hips, your ribs, your back. when his mouth trails down to your neck, sucking gently at the skin just below the line of your jaw, your head falls back with a soft moan.

"tell me," he says between kisses, voice low and hoarse. "tell me you want this." his tone is laced with a sense of urgency. a need. he needs to hear it from you. he needs to know this isn't some fling.

"i want this," you breathe. "clark, i want you."

he exhales a breath you weren't aware he was holding. his mouth finds yours again and it's desperate as you press your body flush against him, fingers curled in the thick curls at the back of his neck, the tension that's been coiling between you since the moment you stepped into his life snaps as your hips roll, grinding down deliberately against the bulge straining beneath his slacks.

clark groans, low and raged, hands tightening on your thighs as you rock over him again, slower this time. testing. teasing.

"i need–" he starts, but cuts himself off with a sharp inhale as you roll your hips just right.

you reach down between your bodies and palm him through the fabric of his pants, a wicked little smile curling at your lips. "yeah?"

clark's jaw clenches. his hands are still on your body, but the heat in his eye shifts into something deeper now. like he's no longer bound by hesitation. his hands drift from your ribs to cup the valleys of your chest, groaning at the feeling of your breasts against his palms.

you rock down against him, still in your underwear, but it's not enough. not for him. not anymore.

clark growls – actually, growls – and grabs your wrist, forcing you to sit up straighter. you can feel the hardened bulge of his cock beneath his slacks pressing between your legs.

"you love playing games," he says, eyes dark and breath hot against your cheek. "but you don't get to be in control tonight."

your brow quirks upward. "no?"

he shakes his head once. "you're gonna stay right here," he says, guiding your hips down and along the bulge in his lap, grinding you exactly how he wants you. "but you take what i give you."

a soft, involuntary moan slips out of you.

his grip on your hip tightens. "that clear?"

you nod, dazed. "yeah. yes."

he grins in a way that's more than a usual clark grin. there's more heat behind it. "good."

then, he lets go over your hips, only to trail his hand down and tug your underwear to the side and slide two thick fingers through your slick folds. you gasp, clenching around nothing and you hear him hiss at the feeling of you.

"so wet already," he mutters. "you like when i take charge," he observed aloud, like the thought hadn't ever occurred to him.

you moan as he presses in, slow and deliberate, finger curling inside your velvet walls just right. "fuck, clark–"

"that's it," he murmurs, watching your expression melt all from his fingers.

as he works you open on his fingers, you grind helplessly in his lap, the control shifting entirely into his hands. and you let it. you've been craving it.

you've been craving him. the weight of him, the strength, the heat. the way he takes over without making you feel small in the slightest. the way he knows exactly what you want without even asking.

his fingers keep working inside you, deliberate and deep, curling just right, just enough the halt your breath and make your thighs shake. his free hand slides up your spine, steadying you when your hips start to stutter against him.

"look at you," he says, voice low and near a rasp. "falling apart just from my fingers."

you whimper, back arching slightly as your hands clutch at his shoulders.

the way his fingers move inside you – patient, precise, devastating – has you unraveling far too quickly. embarrassingly too quickly. each curl of his knuckles brushes against your clit, making you jolt with every slow, intentional thrust.

your head falls forward, forehead pressed to his. "clark–"

"i know," he says, voice thick with restraint. "'ve got you."

he kisses you then – deep and slow, not matching the pace of his fingers inside you. his mouth is gentle. his hands are not.

when he adds a third finger, you choke on a moan, hips twitching forward, despite yourslef. it's much too much and not enough all at once, the stretch making your walls flutter and thighs tremble around his lap.

"you're gonna cum on my fingers," he murmurs, like a promise, like a command. "right here. just like this."

you cling to his shoulders, whimpering now with every thrust. he curls his fingers again, slower this time, dragging them against your sweet spot until your vision whites out at the edges.

this wasn't how it was supposed to be. you expected you'd be in control – riding him at your own pace, drawing out every sound he could make. most of your fantasies started with you in charge, maybe giving him the best head of his life right there on that sofa, smug about how easily you could unravel him.

but no. of course clark kent had to flip the script, catching you off guard with just how much strength, how much intention he had under all that restraint. every deliberate curl of his fingers left no room for you to take back the reins, no space to even pretend you were the one setting the pace. he was relentless but measured, like he'd been holding back for too long and finally decided you were the one person he could let himself break for.

"clark–!" your voice breaks, high and desperate.

"i know, sweetheart. let go."

you do.

it hits like lightening, the heat coiling in your gut before snapping, rushing through your veins like fire as you cry out into his shoulder, thighs shaking, body clenching tight around his fingers. he holds you through it, fucking you slowly through the aftershocks until you're boneless in your lap.

you're still panting when he finally pulls his fingers free, bringing them to his mouth without hesitation. he moans low around them, like he's starving.

"clark," you breath, almost pleading, shifting in his lap. it's as if that's the only word left in your vernacular. his cock is hard and heavy beneath you, straining against his slacks, and you can't stop the way your hips roll down, searching for more friction.

his hands find your waist instantly, steadying you, holding you still even when you try to move again. "slow down," he warms, voice rough. "'ve been so patient with you, think it's only right that i set the pace."

you nod quickly, desperate, but he doesn't move right away. instead, he takes his time, undoing his belt and pushing his pants down just enough to free himself. your breath catches at the sight of him, flushed and thick, resting heavy against his stomach.

"go on," he orders softly, the command striking your spine with a warmth. your hands obey before your mind can even catch up, wrapping around him, guiding him through your folds until he's slick with your arousal.

his grip tightens on your hips as he positions you over him. "that's it. sink down on me."

he's thick – too thick, you think at first, the blunt head nudging against you in a way that makes your breath stutter in your chest. your fingers falter around him, because there's no ignoring just how much of him there is to take.

the sheer girth alone has your thighs quaking before you've even started to lower yourself, the stretch burning deliciously slow as your body yield to him. he's overwhelming, every inch of him demanding, and the thought of fitting all of him inside you leaves your head spinning with a mix of awe and desire.

this is exactly what you've been waiting for.

your thighs tremble as you continue, inch by inch, stretching around him until you're full, seated completely in his lap. you feel full, owned, as if he’s been molded to fit inside you and nowhere else.

the breath he exhales against your throat is ragged, and he lifts his head to press his forehead to yours.

"good girl," he murmurs and before you can even think to move, his hands tighten, dragging you down into his rhythm – rolling his hips up into you, forcing you to ride him just the way he wants.

the praise makes your walls flutter around him, and his answering groan rumbles low in his chest.

his rhythm is merciless, hips surging up into you while his grip keeps you exactly where he watns you, hands gripping the flesh of your waist tightly. every drag of his is deep, filing you so completely it border on unbearable. your fingers scramble to clutch his work button-up – still haphazardly pulled open from your doing earlier – for balance, nails digging into the fabric as broken sounds spill from your lips.

his name shatters in your throat, half-plea, half-worship.

what has he reduced me to?

"ride me," he growls against your ear, and you try, you really do, lifting your hips only to sink back down on his.

you ride him like you’ve got something to prove, your pace increasing, thighs trembling as you bounce against his hips. every thrust drags another whimper from your throat, and every sound you make seems to undo him further. he meets your rhythm easily, hips thrusting up to meet you, so deep you see stars.

he meets your gaze, watching you as you bounce above him. his pupils are blown wide, jaw tight, sweat beading at his temple as he watches every flash of expression cross your features. "atta girl," he rasps, voice breaking on a groan. 'taking all of me. you're perfect."

he dips his head down and his mouth finds your breast, tongue tracing a circle around your nipple before sucking it into his mouth, and the pleasure spikes so hard you cry out. your nails dig into his shoulders, no doubt leaving marks across the skin through his white shirt.

and still, his eyes stay locked on yours through it all. tit in mouth.

who knew he could be so obscene?

but it's like he wants to memorize every expression. every twitch. every sound he pulls from you.

you lean forward, both hands cradling his face now pulling him away so you can press your forehead to his. “you feel so good, clark.”

“so do you,” he groans, low and rough.

your rhythm falters just enough to make him hiss, and suddenly his hands are under your thighs, lifting you, fucking up into you with more force, more power than ever before, if that's even possible.

it’s staggering, this man who could shatter anything that steps in his way yet doesn't because of the golden heart behind his ribcage. the man who's looking at you with such a deep reverence, you wonder how on this planet you earned it.

"you're almost there," he mutters between gritted teeth, his movements never faltering as he picks you up and slams you back down along his thick shaft, throbbing with need. "'can feel it."

you whine, your gummy walls, fluttering and pulsing around his cock, speaking for you.

"let go, sweetheart," he rasps, the undercurrent of his tone so fond.

"you, too," you manage, eyes shutting from the sheer pleasure. "want you to."

"i know, i know," he murmur, voice low and reverent. "after."

you firmly shake your head, getting some semblance of your stubborn senses back to you. "no, now."

"sweetheart–"

"inside."

you hear his breath hitch in his throat and see his his eyes darken, pupils blown wide. for a second, his thrusts falter, like he's debating whether to fight you on it. but then your walls squeeze down around him, and the choice is made for him.

"god," he growls, the sound breaking between restraint and surrender. his grip tightens buisingly on your thighs as he slams you down harder, chasing the edge with reckless abandon now. "you're suer?"

"yes," you cry out, nails digging into his shoulder and your head falling forward until your lips brush his ear. "want it. all of you."

his control finally shatters. he drives up into you with a relentless force, the couch creaking under the weight of his power. all you can feel is him splitting you open, the lewd slap of skin on skin and the guttural sounds from his throat as he buries himself deep inside.

your orgasm hits first, white-hot, overwhelming and tearing through your shaking in his grasp, vision blurring as you clamp down on him.

"shoot–" he grits out, hips jerking in short, desperate thrusts. with a groan that rumbles through his chest and right to yours, he finally gives in, spilling deep inside you, heat flooding your core as he buries himself to the hilt.

he holds you there, panting, forehead pressed to your shoulder as he rides out every last pulse. every last wave of it.

you collapse against him, bodies slick and tangled, chests heaving with the aftershock of what just happened. his arms wrap around you instantly, holding you closely.

for a long moment, neither of you move. you're both wrecked, sweaty, gasping as you catch you breaths.

you don't say anything at first.

you just listen to the sound of his heart. it's still thudding fast beneath your cheek.

then, softly, you murmur, “i like earth. loud. messy. but it’s nice.”

he huffs a quiet laugh, the kind that's more exhale than sound and he presses a kiss to the crown of your head.

"you used to complain nonstop," he murmurs, voice lazy and rough with the afterglow. his hand finds your spine, tracing slow, reverent lines. "said the gravity made you clumsy. that the food is too bland. that humans don't know how to drive."

you grin into his chest. "all still true."

another beat passes.

"but it's different now," you add, softer. "it's warm, too. soft."

he chuckles again, but there’s an edge of disbelief to it, as if he still can’t quite believe you’re here. that this is real.

you tilt your head just enough to look at him. his eyes are already on you.

“i think,” you say, voice barely audible but so careful, “i might want to stay.”

he stills for only for a second, but you notice anyway. there's a breath caught in his lungs. you can practically see the hope swelling inside him, too fragile to speak aloud.

“you don’t have to say that,” he says, gently. “not because of this.”

“i’m not,” you say, quickly. “i’m saying it because of you.”

and there it is. that look from him. like you hung the stars and he’s only just realized it. like you’re not some wild, reckless orbit passing through. like maybe you’ve always been heading toward him.

clark's hand cradles your jaw. he kisses you again, softer this time.

“i want you to stay,” he breathes against your lips. “god, I want you to stay.”

you smile, eyes fluttering closed as you press closer, letting his warmth sink into your bones. you choose to ignore the logistics of being an alien and residing on a planet that isn't yours, unsure how citizenship would even work. then again, you'd been off planet for so long, jumping from moon to planet that the idea of citizenship feels almost laughable.

you're a wanderer. a drifter. no borders. not roots. no ties.

but here, wrapped in clark's arms, breathing in the scent of his skin and listening to the steady rhythm of his heart, something definitely shifts within you.

“then I guess I’m home.”

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