the birds & the bees -- Superman x Fem!Reader (Kinktober 2025)
I don't care that it's November now it's still Kinktober to me!!! (this is what I get for trying to do a million things during one month but we carry on)
Summary: Clark Kent leaves work abruptly to cover a breaking Superman story, but he practically goes missing right after. You, being the caring friend and coworker that you are, decide to go to his apartment to see if he's okay. And he is, he's just...a little under the weather, and he really needs your help.
Warnings: 18+ only mdni!!!, baby's first sex pollen fic (i think?), needy + sort of subby!clark, blink n you miss it handjob, he gets a lil rough, pussy pronouns, unprotected sex, oral/facefucking (f + m rec), voyeurism if u squint, lots of manhandling, size kink ofc, clark cums...a lot, dirty dirty talk, pollen lowkey affects reader too, lots of petnames ('honey' 'sweetheart' 'baby'), he begs a lot whoops, improper use of his x-ray vision (naughty clark!!), he's still just a giant sweetie even w the pollen <33
WC: 7.7k (this ran the fuck away from me ok)
It’s Saturday, and you’re standing in front of the door to your coworker’s apartment. Uninvited, you might add.
This has to be a new low for you.
The truth is something a little more like this: It’s Saturday, and you’re standing outside your best-friend-slash-coworker-who-has-a-(mutual)-crush-on-you-slash-the-most-handsome-man-in-Metropolis’s door because you haven’t heard from him since Thursday night.
You’ve called, you’ve texted, you’ve sent emails, you’ve left who knows how many voicemails. Nothing. Radio silence.
Jimmy has tried, Lois has tried, Cat has tried -- hell, even Perry tried, because when Clark didn’t show up for work by lunch time yesterday, Perry was even getting worried. It’s normal for Clark to be a little late from time to time. You think his problem is that he’s just too nice and he’ll talk to anyone, and he gets caught up with anything. You’ve witnessed it in real time.
But not showing at all? That’s unheard of. He hardly ever has sick days, now that you think about it, so if he is sick, it must be lethal, and you have to at least make sure he’s okay.
At least, that’s what you’re telling yourself to justify the fact that you’re showing up, uninvited, and debating letting yourself inside with the spare key under the plant in the corner (Clark is so predictable).
You try knocking again. “Clark?” you call out. “Are you in there?”
It’s just so unlike him, to not show at all, especially after such a big day for Superman on Thursday afternoon. Clark rushed out of the office to go see the action and to get his front-page interview like he always does, and you all were certain it would be plastered on Friday’s paper. But it wasn’t.
Instead, it was some piece Jimmy was working on -- congrats, Jimmy, really, but still -- and Superman saving the city from a creature no one has ever seen before was tucked away inside, and barely a full column. It was a quick write up, the quickest you’ve ever seen Lois do, and it works, but it’s not what everyone was expecting. Steve ended up fielding phone calls about why Clark Kent didn’t interview Superman and why he didn’t get an exclusive like always.
Needless to say, yesterday was hectic at the Daily Planet, and you worried yourself sick over Clark’s whereabouts, so much so that you’re now staring down his front door before noon on a Saturday.
God. You shake your head at yourself. He’s probably-- Maybe there was a family emergency? Your heart clenches at the idea of anything happening to Ma or Pa Kent, but…it’s a real possibility. Maybe he just hasn’t been able to look at his phone because of it.
It’s one of the worst case scenarios, but it feels like that’s all you’re working with considering you haven’t seen or heard from him in almost forty-eight hours.
Your foot taps impatiently on the floor. The tote bag full of cold remedies and just general things to cheer up a sad Clark Kent weighs heavily on your shoulder. You had thought you’d find him here, maybe sick with an awful flu, or--
You hear movement. Your foot immediately stops its tapping, your breathing halts, you think your heart might even stop beating. You lean a little closer to the door.
Definitely movement. Someone is inside.
“Clark?” you call out again. “It’s me,” you try instead. “I haven’t heard from you, I-I got worried.” You pause, listening for the same shuffling. “I wanted to see if you were okay.”
The only response you get is a low groan. Groaning that you aren’t even sure is Clark, but it’s something, and it doesn’t sound good.
“Can I come in?” you ask. You’ll think later on how to apologize for coming over unannounced and for presumptively looking for the spare key and for letting yourself in. Right now you just need to see if he’s okay.
You hear more groaning, followed by the sound of something crashing -- you have no idea what -- and you decide that’s it.
You tip the plant and swipe the key, inserting it and twisting the knob all in one swoop. “I’m really sorry,” you say as you push the door open. “I’m so sorry, but it sounded like-- I just had to check--”
All words promptly die on your lips when you see the state of Clark’s apartment.
You’ve been here once. Only once. You were caught in a bad storm after drinks with Clark, Jimmy, and Lois, and Clark’s apartment was closer, so he offered you dry clothes and a warm shower while the storm waned. That night, every lamp was on, he had hot cocoa ready for you as soon as you got out of the shower, and the two of you talked and laughed while the rain beat the windows.
Today, the sun is out, but it looks stormy in Clark’s apartment. Not a single light is on, the couch is askew, the coffee table overturned.
And Clark.
His back is pressed to the far window, hands splayed like he’s pinning himself to the glass with all his strength. He’s in a t-shirt and boxers that are tented, and that would normally be enough for you to avert your eyes, except he looks ill. He’s practically ashen, and he’s sweating so much that his shirt is sticking to his skin, to every muscle. His hair is curled to hell, bordering on messy in a way that is worrisome, like he’s been gripping and tugging at it and trying to rip it out.
“Clark?” you ask, shutting the door behind you. You place the spare key down on the little table by the door. “Are you… What’s going on?”
His chest is rising and falling rapidly, and he won’t look at you. He mumbles something, but you can’t hear him.
“Clark, please…” you pause, swallowing. You set your bag down by the door, walking closer to him, approaching him like he’s a skittish animal that might run away from you at any second. “Talk to me.”
“Stop,” he bites out. “Please.”
You stop moving, holding your hands up in surrender. What the hell is going on? His legs are shaking, he looks like he hasn’t eaten since Thursday’s lunch, and he still won’t lift his head.
“You should--” he pauses, sucks in a harsh, sharp breath. “You should leave.”
You scoff, not unkindly, just, confused and stressed and what has gotten into him? “Clark, I’m not leaving. We need to get you to a doct--”
“No!” he shouts, immediately shaking his head. “No, no, I’m…fine, I don’t need a doctor.”
“You are not fine,” you argue gently. “You look like you can barely hold yourself up. Are you sick with something?”
“No,” he whines, then adds, “yes, kind of.” One hand leaves the glass to press to his temple with a grimace.
“Is it a migraine?” you ask, wondering if maybe that’s why it’s so dark in here. But that doesn’t explain the fact that it looks like a tornado took off in here, too. “Don’t you get those if you don’t wear your glasses?” He’s not wearing them right now, which you’ve only just now noticed. “Where are they?”
You look around and spot them on the kitchen counter, as if they were ripped off and thrown down. Your eyebrows furrow.
“Clark,” you turn back to him. “Please tell me what’s going on. I want to help. You’ve had everyone worried sick, and we damn near called a wellness check for you, but I figured, let me just come knock on his door first-- But I can’t help if you won’t even let me near you.”
He whimpers this time, high in his throat, almost like he’s going to cry. “Please.”
“Please, what?” you cry. “What can I do? Let me help.” You take tentative steps toward him, hoping he doesn’t notice.
“I-I can’t,” he shudders. “I don’t want to hurt you--”
“Hurt me?” You keep walking slowly. “Why would you hurt me?” Your mind is running wild with all kinds of possibilities right now, one namely being, is Clark on drugs or something?
“It-it’s not something I can control,” he says.
“What is?” you ask, taking more steps. You’re just past the coffee table now. You’ll be able to reach out to him any second.
“It’s--” he cuts himself off with another wince. “Please, you need to stay back, I--”
“I’m sorry, but I’m not going to just stand over there and watch you like this,” you say sternly, taking more intentional steps now. You reach him quickly, pressing the back of your hand to his forehead. “You’re burning up!”
He sighs when you touch him, knees buckling. “I-I know. H-Hurts.”
“Clark,” you whisper, placing your hands on his shoulders. “What happened to you? Did you get hurt when you went to interview Superman? Did you get caught in the fight or something?”
He chuckles, but it’s not his usual sound. “Or something,” he murmurs sheepishly, finally tipping his head back to look up at you and--
Your eyes go wide. The world sways. Suddenly you feel like you’re the one who is sick.
“C-Clark?” you stutter in disbelief. “Superman?”
He groans again, head lolling forward. “This is not how I wanted to tell you.”
You come back to yourself and remember he’s violently ill and you shake your head. Now is not the time to be starstruck. “Hey, no, no, it’s okay, it’s fine! So you’re Superman? It’s okay!” You know you sound ridiculous. “Do you-- Don’t you have healing-- Doesn’t the sun help you or something? Why are you still like this?”
“The sun can’t help this, it’s-- This is different. The Superman robots tried to help, but--”
You nod along, noting things to ask him about later, like Superman robots because what does that even mean? Who are they?
“Okay,” you say, like you’ve got it all figured out after what he’s told you. Like you have a plan. “Okay.” You don’t know what to do. “So we-- Did they-- Do the…robots know what it is that’s making you feel like this?”
He nods slowly, tipping his head back again to look at you, his blue eyes not at all tired like you expect them to be. They’re practically molten. “They have an idea.”
“Okay,” you lick your lips. You should not be thinking about how attractive he is up close like this when he’s practically on his death bed. “What is it?”
He opens his mouth like he’s going to spill it all out right then, but he snaps his jaw closed. “No, I-- I can’t tell you.”
You nearly scream out of sheer frustration. “What do you mean?” you try to have a gentle tone, but you’re not sure you succeed.
“It’s--” he hisses in pain again (you think?), hanging his head. “It’s complicated.”
“I don’t think anything can be more complicated than the fact that I just found out you’re Superman when you’re like this.”
He chuckles again, the sound growing warmer this time. “It’s-- Can you promise me something first?”
“Yeah, Clark,” your face softens. “Anything.”
He groans at that. “No…no, I mean it, I mean, if I tell you what this is, and you’re scared, or you-- You just don’t want to be around me, you have to tell me.”
Your eyes widen. “Clark--”
“I mean it, please,” he begs. “Because if you say you don’t want this, I promise, I will-- I’ll go and bury myself in the ice and I’ll wait it out and I won’t hurt you.”
“Clark, you’re not gonna hurt me.”
“I might,” he chokes out. “I could. I’ve-- It’s been two days of this, I don’t know my own strength, I might--”
“Clark, stop, stop,” you cut him off, both your hands cupping his face, forcing him to look at you. “Please, just tell me what’s going on so I can help.”
“I’m-- I think the creature on Thursday was released by Lex Luthor as a distraction.”
He stops, so you press gently, holding his face as you whisper, “Distraction for what?”
“When I was flying home after it -- back to the Fortress -- as I was leaving Metropolis I flew through a cloud but it wasn’t a cloud, it was-- I think Lex manufactured it because he knew I’d fly through it and he knew it would do this to me.”
You still don’t know what this is, other than the fact that he looks three steps from the grave.
“It’s…my body is--” He pauses again. “This is embarrassing.”
“Clark…” you sigh, pulling him into your arms despite everything. He’s much taller than you, yet right now he feels so small. His face finds your neck and he inhales deeply, holding his breath. “You can tell me.”
“It was a pollen cloud,” he murmurs into your skin, nosing your carotid artery. “And the pollen sets my hormones on fire.”
You rub circles onto his back. “So you’re…?”
“So turned on that I might die,” he whines, still mortified from having to admit this out loud. His hips move on their own accord, and you feel him grinding against your leg before he promptly stops himself. “S-Sorry.”
Your brain is spinning circles in your skull as you try to figure out exactly what he means. What this means.
“Will you actually die?” you ask instead of the other thousands of thoughts running through your head. You scratch his scalp gently, hoping this is somewhat helping, having your arms around him and his around your waist.
His breaths are shallower now, like he’s either afraid to inhale too much of you, or like he can’t get enough. “I don’t know. Probably not. I think I just have to wait it out.”
“But,” you lift your head and he does the same, “is there anything that will help?”
“I can’t ask that of you,” he says immediately, his throat working around a swallow. “I-It’s why I haven’t answered your calls-- I’m sorry that I haven’t, I just-- I flew all the way to the Fortress of Solitude and when the robots told me I needed to-- told me what would help, I flew to Ma and Pa’s, and then didn’t even go in and see them, I just came straight back here because you were--” He pauses, shutting his eyes, twisting them shut, his head thudding as it hits the window. “You were too far, I couldn’t hear you from there and I… I needed to hear you.”
“Hear me?” you gasp. “Clark, I don’t even live close to you, I--”
“I know!” he cries. “I know, but I swear I could hear you, or-- or maybe I really couldn’t, but I couldn’t stand being so far away from you, I had to be in the same city. And then I heard you when you got inside the building, and your heart was so loud outside my door, and gosh, you-- You smell like Heaven, sweetheart.”
Your heart flutters wildly in your chest, banging around against your ribcage. Sweetheart.
“Clark,” you begin, waiting for him to open his eyes, but he doesn’t. For the second time today, you decide, fuck it. You cup his jaw with one hand, not forceful, but not entirely gentle either. You know he’s embarrassed, but enough is enough. “Look at me.”
Clark’s eyes open instantly, glassy and red and full of fire. “Yes ma’am?”
“If what I’m gathering from this is correct, then…I want to help.”
“You do?”
You nod, thumb stroking his cheek. “Do you want me to?”
“Of course I want you to,” he whines, head threatening to tip back again. His smile is lazy, crooked, and so Clark. “I just-- I wanted to ask you out on a date first.”
You chuckle quietly. So your suspicions about your crush being requited weren’t all in your head, it seems. “We can go on a date once you feel better, okay?”
He nods. “Okay,” he murmurs, swallowing again, like his mouth is making far too much saliva. “Okay. Can we-- Can we go to that place on--”
You don’t know what else to do, so you kiss him. He’s embarrassed, he’s rambling, and he’s gotten so worked up in his head that he’s fighting it -- keeping you from helping him.
It’s a syrupy-sweet first kiss. You try to put every ounce of your nearly year-long crush into it, hoping he can feel all of it. You’d do anything for him, you’ve always felt that way, and you’ve shown it before too. Just in more normal, friendly ways than this. Than agreeing to have sex with Clark so he will feel better.
It sounds absurd, even just in your head, and if you think too much about it, you won’t be able to do anything because of how hard your mind will be reeling. Just this morning, just two hours ago, you thought Clark was sick with maybe the flu or had a family emergency or something else normal, and now. Now you know he’s Superman, now you’ve agreed to help him through whatever pollen-induced horny sickness this is, now you’re finally kissing Clark Kent.
He whimpers into your mouth, fingers wrapping around your wrist to tug your hand down to where he needs you.
“S-Sorry,” he cries, grinding into your palm.
You shush him, applying the pressure he needs. “That better?”
He nods furiously, lips mashing against yours as he chases the feeling of your hand on him, and you haven’t even really touched him. When you finally snake your hand under his waistband, his head falls into your neck, shoulders slumping.
His skin feels hot all over, but somehow even hotter here when you wrap your fingers around him, gently stroking. He kisses your neck, then licks, your eyes rolling from the feeling of him clinging to you, completely at your mercy.
Soon he’s rocking his hips into your hand, then wrapping his arms around you, pulling your body to his like he wants to meld you together. You thumb over his slit once, twice, and without warning, he’s shaking in your hold, spilling into his boxers.
He goes still against you, chest rising and falling rapidly against yours. Your free hand strokes his curls where he has his head buried in your neck, wondering if that was enough, or if it was too much.
“Clark?” you whisper. His skin doesn’t feel any cooler, but maybe it takes time.
The only warning you get -- though you don’t realize it’s a warning at all -- is a low groan, deep in his chest before he’s spun you around, pressing your back into the glass.
When he kisses you this time, the sweetness from earlier is gone, replaced with a desperate, ravenous hunger. He’s still as hard as he was before when he fits his body against yours, hips grinding into you.
“Clark--” you try to get out in between kisses, but he’s ravenous now. Gone is the hesitant, shaking Clark from before. “Mmph-- Clark. Clark.”
He finally pulls back, a string of saliva connecting your lips that he licks away. “Sorry,” he whispers, but he doesn’t sound sorry at all, and doesn’t look it either, the way he’s not looking at your eyes at all but instead at your lips. “What did you--” He pauses again, out of breath. “What were you saying?”
It makes you giggle, seeing him like this, but there’s heat pooling in your lower belly, too. “No, I just-- That was a change.”
“Oh,” he grins, and it’s a bit wolfish, making your thighs clench. “I told you, I’m a little--”
“I know.”
“Is that okay?”
“Yeah,” you reply, breathless, pushing your hips out to grind into him. “Yeah, it’s great.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” he groans, hands squeezing your hips as he dives for another kiss, tongue immediately coaxing your mouth open. “Thank you. Thank you for letting me have you.”
“You have me,” you whisper. “Do whatever you need to-- Ah!”
His hands immediately split the seam of your shirt, exposing your breasts. He finds the clip to your bra and suddenly he’s thumbing over your nipples, massaging them, pinching them lightly, watching you squirm.
You grip his shirt, knowing you won’t be able to rip it, but after a few tugs, he gets the idea and does it for you, letting you shove it off his arms and to the floor with yours. His boxers go next, his previous release still sticky inside them, and then he’s dragging your pants down your legs, kneeling as he goes.
You’ve never been so grateful for him to have an apartment on one of the top floors as you are now, when he has you bare and pressed to the window.
“Look at how pretty…” he muses, kissing your inner thigh as he spreads your legs to accommodate his wide frame. He shoulders between them, then lifts one of your legs to rest over his body. “Already so wet for me,” he whispers, like he’s talking to your pussy, not you. “Gotta get her ready for me, though.” He looks up at you, so sweet despite the filth he’s speaking and how close he is to your clit. “Don’t wanna hurt you.”
You pet his head, smiling as you stroke his curls. “You won’t hurt me, Clark.” Even though he’s not in his right mind, you don’t think he’d ever be able to hurt you.
He leans his cheek against your thigh, just gazing so lovingly at your core. “I won’t,” he promises with a little sigh. “S’too pretty.”
You think you might have to physically guide him to where you need him, but then he’s finally leaning forward, pressing a tender kiss to your clit that makes you jump.
He grins again, wide and hungry. “Sensitive?”
“A little,” you admit. Because you won’t stop teasing me.
“I’ll be gentle,” he swears, and then proceeds to be anything but.
He wraps his lips around your clit, tonguing the hood back ever so slightly to focus directly on your most sensitive spot. Your hips buck involuntarily into his mouth and he moves closer, setting in.
His tongue darts lower, separating your folds, teasing your hole. You don’t think you’ve ever cum from someone eating you out without using their fingers too, but Clark just might get you there. And he seems determined too.
With his nose providing friction to your clit, his tongue presses into you, and he hums. A deep, guttural noise before he somehow moves closer, like he doesn’t even want to breathe while he’s going down on you.
You’re gripping his curls like your life depends on it, because it sort of does, and you try to warn him before you cum, but he doesn’t slow down or make any indication that he hears you. He just dives deeper, licks faster, and starts mumbling nonsense into your pussy.
“I know you’re close,” he almost whines, like he’s desperate to feel it, to taste it. “Please, baby, please let me have it.”
Your head hits the window with a dull, quiet thud, your chest heaving. “Clark,” you gasp, and somehow he knows what you mean, what you’re trying to say in that one word because then he goes back to sucking on your clit, tongue flicking rapidly.
“Come on,” he says, somehow speaking while still fucking you.
“Clark,” your head lolls against the window, the pleasure making it impossible to hold any part of your body upright.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, adjusting his grip to stabilize you. “I’m right here, sweetheart.”
You finally tip over the edge and climax with a cry, body sinking down the window until it’s only Clark’s strength holding you up. He lets you ride his face through it, one hand in his curls, pushing and pulling exactly where you need him most until you’re trembling with the aftershocks.
He crawls up your body, littering kisses as he goes, pausing to focus on your nipples again, swirling his tongue around them. Your brain is in a haze as you drag his face back to you so you can kiss him, not caring -- and frankly, finding it a little hot -- that you can taste yourself on his tongue.
Clark gives no warning before picking you up and wrapping your legs around his waist, carrying you like you’re nothing back to his bedroom. He practically tosses you onto the bed, covering his body with yours, caging you underneath him.
“You’re so beautiful,” he says, almost like he can’t believe it as he covers your face in kisses. “Taste so good, every piece of you.”
While he speaks, his hips start to have a mind of their own, steadily rocking into yours, grinding his erection into your stomach. You felt him before, wrapping your hand around him, but feeling him like this, right there, is different.
It makes you gasp into his mouth when the head of his cock catches on your clit. He smirks, nipping at your bottom lip, doing it again just to see your reaction.
“That feel good?” he asks, just as out of breath as you are. You just nod pathetically as he does it over and over. “I’ve gotta stretch you, honey,” he says, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Feel how big I am?”
You nod again, feeling, from the outside, how deep he’ll be and God, you have no idea how he’ll fit, but you want it to. You want it so bad you might start crying.
One hand snakes its way downward while you continue kissing Clark. It’s hot and messy and there’s spit all over both of your chins, but you can’t bring yourself to care, especially not when he’s pushing a finger inside you and one already feels so big.
The whine you let out just tells him exactly how you feel, and he soothes you by putting pressure on your clit with the heel of his hand.
“It’ll feel better in a second, honey,” he promises, already teasing another finger before pushing in, shushing you as you squirm and writhe against him. “Too much?”
You shake your head. “Feels good,” you groan.
“That’s my sweet girl.”
“Feels good but I want you.”
“You’ll get me, honey, don’t worry,” he whispers, kissing you gingerly. “Need you to cum again for me first. Can you do that?”
You don’t know, but then he spreads his fingers, pressing right into your G-spot, and that lights your body on fire.
“Knew I’d find it,” he says, mostly to himself. “Gonna add another, okay, baby?”
You nod frantically and you hear him chuckle, but he’s not laughing at you. He’s just mystified by how gorgeous you are like this. By how much you need him, like you might need him as much as he needs you.
The Superman robots didn’t mention anything about the pollen being contagious, but then again, they weren’t even entirely certain of what it is, so it could be possible. You’ve swapped enough spit with Clark by now that he wouldn’t be surprised if some of it has transferred.
The thought of it just makes him feel even more needy for you. But he won’t hurt you.
He inserts a third finger, gently prodding your G-spot until you’re clenching then relaxing around him. He thrusts slow at first, warming you up to all three before he gradually spreads them, working you open.
Your hips grind against his palm with vigor, chasing your high while simultaneously rubbing against his cock. He ruts against your hipbone, giving you what you need and letting himself have just a little friction too.
He feels it when you start clenching around him erratically, hears it when the little whines you let out start stringing together. “Gonna cum, baby?” he coos. “Gonna let go for me again?”
You’re helpless against him as you nod, pulling his face toward yours to devour his mouth.
When you cum this time, his fingers slip in even deeper, and that’s how he knows you’re ready. You’re sucking them in and not letting go, and the noises you’re making are music to his ears. He spills against your stomach, but only a little, because he wants nothing more than to finish inside you.
“I’ve gotta be in you, honey, I-I can’t wait anymore,” he groans, dragging his fingers out of you and lining himself up, his head easily slipping in from how wet you are.
“Please,” you cling to him, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Oh Clark, please, need to feel you--”
“I’m right here, my sweet girl,” he soothes, pressing in slowly. “Just let me in.”
Your legs widen in response and he sinks impossibly deep on the first thrust, his head nestled right against your cervix, just barely kissing it. The pain of it quickly blurs into pleasure with every movement until you’re rocking against him, your body somehow trying to take him deeper, even though that isn’t biologically possible.
“Oh, honey,” he groans, head falling forward and he mouths at your neck, nips at your sensitive spots there. “You’re so warm.”
You try to say something back, but it just comes out complete nonsense, except Clark catches some of the words.
“I’m so big, I know, honey, I know,” he coos, kissing your forehead. “But you’re taking me so well, sweet girl. Feel how deep I am?”
You nod against him, wailing when he lightly presses his palm down over the slight bulge in your lower stomach, right where he knows he’s nestled without even needing to use his X-ray vision. But after having that thought, he does use it, just for a moment, just to see.
The only problem is that seeing himself so deep inside you causes his orgasm to come barrelling toward him at a terrifying speed. He’s barely thrusting, more grinding deeper into you, once, twice, and then he’s falling over the edge, shuddering as he spills inside of you.
You gasp at the feeling, eyes going wide with how much there is. You guess it makes sense, given that he’s not exactly human, so things will be different. Like this.
And, you guess, like the fact that despite now cumming two times, he’s still just as hard as he was when you first got here. It doesn’t seem like his orgasms have given him any relief.
If anything, this last one has only spurred him on even more.
“Golly,” he hisses, leaning back onto his knees, hoisting your hips up onto his thighs without slipping out of you. “Are you okay? Still feeling good?”
“Yeah,” you breathe, circling your hips against his. “Keep going.”
He grins, wide and wild. “That’s my girl,” he says, and then he pulls out, working himself inside again, seemingly in awe at how easily he slides inside. “You’re so wet, baby,” he sounds like he’s praying. “Some of that’s me, though, yeah?”
You nod, not even caring what he’s talking about because he’s so deep and hard inside of you that you don’t know what you’re going to do without him inside you.
“Wanna feel you again,” he mumbles, thumbing over your clit. “Can you give me another?”
You don’t even need to nod; he feels you immediately clench around him.
“Love that I get to have you like this,” he whispers. “All for me, yeah? All mine.”
“All yours,” you gasp, writhing again. “Fuck, Clark.”
“Yeah?” he says, moving again, thrusting inside you and pulling all the way out before slipping back in, because he loves the way you clench and the little whine you let out when he does it. “Feels good, doesn’t it? You don’t need to say anything, sweet girl, I know it does. Show me how good it feels.”
You were already on the edge, but hearing him speak to you like this, when all you’ve known before is quiet, sweet, bumbling Clark in the office sends you right over. The stark contrast is doing something wild to your brain, short circuiting everything until you’re spasming around him uncontrollably.
“There we go, that’s my sweet girl,” he soothes you, letting you ride it out against him. “Can I move you, baby? Wan-Wanna try something else. Promise it’ll feel so good f’you.”
You nod and he slowly pulls out, shushing your whines at the feeling of emptiness. He gently turns you over, places a pillow underneath your hips. He palms at your ass, unable to help himself really, before moving you where he needs you with his hands on your waist.
And he just keeps talking to himself. “There we go, so pretty,” he says, one hand leaving your waist to caress your spine. “Laid out for me so pretty, so I can just-- O-Oh, honey.”
Just the head slips inside and you squirm immediately, feeling a tiny spurt of cum enter you, and then he’s slamming forward in one devastating thrust, holding himself there. You can feel him shaking, feel him holding himself back.
“You feel too good, baby, I-I can’t,” he breaks off into another moan, hips pressing forward again, and a strangled cry leaves his lips before he’s cumming again, filling you up and spilling out around where he’s entered you. “N-No,” he whispers, sniffles. “Wanted to-- Wanted to last longer.”
But he’s still not going soft, so his early orgasm only seems to deter him for a brief moment. He catches his breath, leaning over you to kiss the back of your neck, blanketing your body with his.
And then he’s moving again, barely pulling out at all before pushing back inside, carving a space deep inside you just for him, as if he needs to, as if that space wasn’t already there.
The little noises you make are his only indication that you haven’t passed out beneath him, and he takes them as his cue to continue moving, to keep slamming right into your G-spot.
“Wanna cum together this time,” he says, and it sounds like a plea. “Can you do that for me, honey? Please, for me?”
You’ve never had this many orgasms with a partner, let alone in one night in such quick succession, but somehow it isn’t a question when Clark asks if you can give him another. It’s as if your body is perfectly attuned to him now, and if he wants you to give him another orgasm, then well, you will. Easily.
He keeps working your body perfectly, hitting all of the right spots, until he’s close and holding himself back just until he feels you right on the edge.
“Let go, honey,” he cries. “Let go with me, please, please, please.”
And you do, as if on command, your body lets go right as you feel his hips begin to stutter until he’s spilling another load in you, this one you can feel practically all of it leaking out of you and sticking to your inner thighs, and him.
Clark uses his X-ray vision almost by accident this time, just wanting to see if he can tell how full you are, and oh, he can. He tips his head back, holding onto your waist as he groans.
And then he hears you, and you’re asking for him.
“What is it, honey?” he asks, leaning over you to kiss your cheek. “Doing okay?”
You nod, a dopey smile on your face. “Can I--” you swallow, eyes hazy as you look at him. “Can I taste you?”
His hips involuntarily buck into you before he kisses your lips as best he can when you’re in this position. “You wanna taste me?”
You nod frantically. “Please?”
“Okay, honey,” he murmurs. “Okay. Yeah, anything-- Anything you want.”
He pulls out slow, careful not to hurt or shock you as he does.
You bounce back remarkably fast, already sitting up and sliding off the bed to sink down to your knees, hands reaching out for him. He moves willingly, stumbling around to you, cock bobbing as he goes, still impossibly hard. He wonders how long the pollen will affect him, because although he feels his mind clearing slightly, he’s definitely not feeling any less turned on. And you don’t seem to be, either.
You lick him eagerly, cleaning him off first. He hisses as you do, the sensitivity starting to reach him, but it isn’t so bad that he wants you to stop. He needs you to keep going.
You grab one of his hands and move it to your head, and he asks, “Are you sure?”
You nod. “Wanna feel you in my throat, Clark.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs, smiling so fondly down at you. “You tap me if it’s too much, yeah?”
You nod, but you’re not looking up at him, you’re too focused on getting your lips wrapped around his cock. And he decides to stop teasing and let you.
You surge forward, taking the head into your mouth, swirling your tongue around it before hollowing your cheeks and taking him deeper.
He lets you have your way with him first, and if anything, his grip on the back of your head is so he doesn’t lose control and thrust into your mouth too harshly, though it seems that’s what you want him to do. Still, he doesn’t want to hurt you, and he’s not entirely sure how much of this is you and how much of this is the possible added effects of the pollen.
His train of thought is promptly interrupted by you taking him into your throat with zero warning, pressing your nose to the neat little hairs that gather at his base.
“O-Oh my gosh, honey, give a guy some warning,” he chokes out, hands cradling your head.
You pull off of him with a cheeky grin. “Sorry.”
His thumbs stroke your cheeks, shaking his head fondly at you. “Enjoying yourself?”
You nod frantically. “Are you?”
“I am, honey, I am.”
“Are you feeling better?”
He nods. “I am, thank you. Still,” he pauses, rolls his shoulders. “Still turned on, less like I’m about to die.”
You hum. “That’s good.” Your hands explore idly while the two of you speak, ghosting over his inner thighs, close to his still-hard cock, but not actually touching him. “But you’re not done?”
You ask it so softly, like you don’t want to be done, either, and it almost breaks his heart. “No,” he says, petting your head a little. “We can keep going.”
“Good,” you mumble, starting to kiss him again, all along his length. “Because I’m not finished with you yet.”
His knees nearly buckle because you, once again, give him no warning before you’re taking him in your throat. And then you put both his hands on your head, and place your palms over his thighs, giving him full control.
He’s so glad his brain feels a little clearer now because if this had been earlier, he really might’ve hurt you. Now he can give you what you want without the guilt and worry.
You hum around him, causing his hips to buck on their own accord. He pulls himself back to then try an experimental thrust, his head slipping right into the back of your throat with ease. And instead of moving away, you press your head forward, taking him just a little more.
“Honey,” he gasps. “You’re being so good for me.”
Whatever you try to respond with comes out garbled nonsense around his cock, but he doesn’t mind. He holds your head gently, moving you back and forth just the way he needs, and you let him.
“You feel so good,” he groans, holding you down for just a moment before letting go, letting you breathe. “Don’t wanna-- Where do you-- Oh golly-- Where do you want me to--”
You answer by wrapping your arms around his legs, moving closer on your knees, practically trapping him against you.
He whines, high in his throat. “O-Okay, okay, just for you, just this one, next one goes inside your pussy, though, yeah? Please?” You nod against him and he nearly cums right then, feeling the head of his cock moving in your throat. “Baby, I-I’m not going to last much longer like this--”
That only makes you move with more fervour, like you need to feel him cumming down your throat.
He can barely gasp out a warning before he’s spilling so deep into your throat that you barely taste it, and you don’t even move, you just swallow him down, humming happily to yourself.
Clark pulls you off of him after a moment, hauling you up to your feet so he can kiss you. He can feel himself softening now, just a little, but you--
The look in your eyes is wild.
“Shoot,” he hisses, hands cradling your face. “Sweetheart, look at me.” Your heart is racing, and maybe it has been this whole time, he’s only just now noticing because he’s finally starting to feel like himself again. “How are you feeling?”
“Hot,” you whine, arms looping around his neck. “Empty.”
“Okay,” he says, turning and laying you down. “Honey, I think…I think some of the pollen might be in your system now.”
You just blink up at him through bleary eyes, none of his words registering in your brain. But you’re still alert, for the most part, and able to move your body just fine because the next thing he knows, you’ve got your ankles locked around him.
“Okay, honey, okay,” he tries to soothe your disgruntled whines. “Hurts bad, doesn’t it?”
He can’t imagine how you’re feeling considering he felt bad and it was designed to affect him. You’re human.
What if it kills you?
Clark stops that train of thought before it even starts, letting your hand move down to stroke him until he’s fully hard again. He can make it better. He just needs to keep fucking you, and it’ll keep working through your system until (hopefully) it’s out of it, and everything will be okay. It’ll be okay.
“Clark,” you whine, lining him up with your entrance. “Feels empty.”
“I know, sweetheart, I know,” he shushes you, kissing all over your face. “I’ll make it better, okay? Just let me make it better. Let me do all the work, okay?”
You nod, your hand leaving his cock to instead thread your fingers through his curls. “So handsome.”
He beams, slipping inside you just an inch, and it's so easy after the many rounds you've endured. “Thank you, darlin’.”
Your body is pliant beneath him, just barely holding onto consciousness as he slowly rocks into you. He keeps a steady pace, and listens intently to your heart rate and breathing, just in case. Nothing seems out of the ordinary, so he continues on -- as if you’d let him stop.
“Inside me this time?” you ask, but your voice is quiet, like you’re afraid he’s going to tell you no, but Clark could never. Not right now, not ever.
“Yeah, honey,” he promises, kissing your nose, then your forehead. “Is that what you need?”
Your head nods erratically against the pillow. “Need more. Not full enough.”
“Jesus,” Clark swears, hips stuttering at how desperate and certain you sound. He holds onto your waist, thumbs pressing over your stomach. “I’ll make it better, sweetheart, you just lay here for me, yeah? I’ll fill you up as much as you need. That sound good?”
You reach for his face and pull him down into a kiss, immediately licking into his mouth. You are ravenous, and he’s not sure how he’s going to satisfy you. He just hopes he can, because he doesn’t know what this pollen is doing to your body.
Worst case scenario, he guesses, he can fly you to the Fortress and see if the Superman robots can check you over. He might do that anyway, just to be safe.
Clark keeps the same steady pace, hitting your spot over and over and over, fussing over your every whimper and whine. Tears slip from your cheeks but you aren’t in any pain, just clinging to him and telling him to keep going.
You finally quiet when he spills inside you, sniffling into his neck as he holds you.
“Honey?” he asks, but he doesn’t move, just stays inside you, pressing just a little of his weight into you. “You okay?”
You nod against him but you don’t speak.
Clark can feel himself going soft inside you but he doesn’t dare move, not sure what you need right now and if moving might set you off.
But he doesn’t want to crush you beneath him, either.
“I’m gonna move over, okay?”
You immediately cling to him even tighter, even clenching around him, worried he’s going to pull out.
“Just so we can lay down,” he rushes to explain, pressing a kiss to your temple.
He rolls the two of you easily, putting him on his back with you on his chest, holding onto him like a little koala. It’s endearing, really, though it worries him. You’re just so quiet.
Clark fumbles for a blanket and spreads it over your back, his arms caging you against him. He feels your entire body relax, a content sigh leaving your lips as you snuggle even closer.
Your heart is finally slowing down, too, so he takes that as a good sign. You must just be worn out -- who wouldn’t be, after all of that?
He hears your breathing even out and he smiles, trying to crane his neck to get a look at your face, but it’s hard when you have it buried in his neck.
“Are you asleep?” he whispers, though he knows the answer. He rubs slow circles on your back and you shiver just a little, inching closer to him, as if you can get any closer. “Just sleep, honey. I’m right here.”
When you wake up, he’ll have to make sure you rehydrate and eat something. He’ll probably run you a bath, too, just so you can relax your muscles even more.
And then, the two of you can talk. Because he has things he needs to confess, things he really should’ve said to you a long time ago. Then he can plan your first date -- actually plan it out because you deserve the best, especially after today.
He hugs you close, nuzzling his cheek against your head, three words already on the tip of his tongue, but he holds them in. He wants you to be awake when he finally tells you.
inspired off of @worstwolverinesbf 's post: https://www.tumblr.com/worstwolverinesbf/792170958132822016/has-anybody-drawn-corensupes-sitting-down-and?source=share
💌: obsessed with the idea of clark cumming on your pussy and using his dick to smear it all over your folds and clit
cw: established relationship, cum play, teasing, dirty talk, allusions to prior sex and pussy slapping
wc: 0.4k
"gosh... i can't tease you anymore, baby. look at you." his voice had gone rough, that gentle politeness cracking under the weight of how wrecked you were. he stroked himself once, twice, thick fingers squeezing the base of his dick as he lined up the swollen, flushed head right against your dripping slit.
the first hot stripe of his cum hit you with a wet splatter — thick, heavy, and pulsing across your swollen folds in rhythmic spurts. you gasped at the sudden heat of it, the way it painted your pussy in messy, obscene ropes. clark groaned deep in his chest, jaw tight, eyes locked on the sight of his spend coating your pretty cunt.
"that's it," he rasped, voice hoarse with satisfaction. another thick pulse landed directly on your clit, making your hips jerk sharply. the wet sound of it was filthy, almost louder than the earlier slaps — sticky and warm, dripping down over your entrance in slow, pearly trails.
he didn't pull away. instead, he pressed the broad, still leaking head of his cock against your cum slick folds and started to smear it. slow, deliberate circles. the fat tip dragged through the mess he'd made, spreading his release over every inch of your swollen pussy, gliding slick and heavy over your clit, then down to nudge against your twitching entrance, only to pull back and paint it all over again.
"listen to that," he murmured, almost reverent, as the lewd, squelching sound filled the room with every lazy stroke. his cum mixed with your own slick, turning everything glossy and obscene. he tapped the head against your clit once, twice, watching the way the pearly fluid clung and stretched in thin strings before breaking. "so messy for me. my pretty girl dripping with my cum."
you whimpered, back arching, fingers twisting in the sheets as he kept working the sensitive head in unhurried figure eights over your folds. every pass nudged your swollen clit, sending sparks through your overstimulated bundle of nerves. the heat of his release, the smooth glide of his cockhead, the way he watched it all with dark, hungry eyes — it was too much and not enough all at once.
clark leaned down, breath hot against your ear, voice low and a bit smug again. "you feel that? how slippery you are now? that's all me, honey. gonna rub it in nice and deep so you remember who exactly you belong to."
he dragged the tip up one last time, pressing it firmly against your clit and giving one final, slow grind, spreading the last of his cum in a slick, filthy sheen that left you throbbing and whimpering beneath him. his grin returned, soft and dangerous.
"perfect," he whispered, pressing one last kiss to your trembling thigh. "i can do this all night, baby."
hi! if you've read this far 🫣 likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated as usual!!! come say hiii!!!
pairing: clark kent x reader
summary: when you move from smallville to metropolis, clark thinks he finally has his chance to confess. instead, he ends up with a front row seat to you gushing about jimmy olsen every day. what he doesn’t realise is that you’re trying to set jimmy up with your neighbour, and you’re starting to see clark as more than a friend.
tags: smallville!reader, photographer!reader, best friends to lovers, childhood friends to lovers, mutual pining, comedy of errors type miscommunication (nothing serious or overly frustrating i promise)
warning(s): suggestive content (no smut just a lil spicy), gender neutral reader
word count: 9.2k
note: did i get the inspiration to write this while rewatching smallville for the first time in years? why yes i did 😌
masterlist
You stepped out of the taxi, your new camera bag slung over your shoulder, nerves swirling in your stomach. The Daily Planet’s globe gleamed above you, obscenely big and just as intimidating. Standing by the entrance was Clark Kent, already waiting for you.
An absurdly large grin was on his lips as he stood there, adjusting his glasses nervously. His tall, broad-shouldered frame was familiar, even under his office suit, but his face wasn’t quite how you remembered it. You knew that behind his black frames, a pair of startling blue eyes shone with excitement.
“Hey,” Clark greeted you when you closed the taxi door behind you. “You made it!”
You broke into a smile, jogging up to him and throwing your arms around his shoulders. Clark laughed, catching you easily and hugging you so tightly your feet left the ground for a moment. “Of course I made it. I couldn’t miss my first day.”
When Clark released you, you took a step back to take him in properly. He held onto the strap of your camera bag like you might run back to Smallville if he didn’t physically keep you in Metropolis.
Then, theatrically, you squinted up at him. “I’m sorry, who are you again?”
Clark rolled his eyes fondly. “Ha-ha. Very funny.”
You chuckled. “Clark Kent doesn’t wear glasses. You don’t look like you.”
His mouth tilted into the shy smile you remembered. “I told you, they make my face look different so people don’t recognise me,” he said quietly.
“Yeah, but I’ve known your face my whole life,” you teased, leaning closer. “I’ve known it since your Ma gave you a botched haircut in first grade. I’d recognise you in a police line-up in two seconds flat. These,” you reached up to push his glasses up his nose, “Just make you look like a knock-off Clark Kent.”
“A knock-off? Really?” Clark said. The grin on his face made his mock-scolding expression unconvincing.
You nodded, expression solemn. “Discount Clark. Buy-one-get-one-free Clark.”
He ducked his head, but the tips of his ears went pink. You hadn’t seen that look in over a year, and it warmed you from the inside out. “I missed you,” Clark confessed quietly, with a smile. “A lot.”
You beamed. “I missed you too,” you promised. “Who knew having thousands of miles between us would make me finally decide to leave Kansas.”
After graduating from high school, you and Clark went your separate ways. You stayed in Smallville to help your family, attending community college for photography. Clark went all the way to Delaware to study journalism at Metropolis University. You’d been long-distance best friends for years, and landing a job at The Daily Planet was the perfect excuse to move to the same city as him.
Little did you know, Clark had been in love with you back in high school.
He would have told you, too, if you hadn’t chosen futures that scattered you across the country. At first he told himself the distance was a blessing. Maybe it would give his heart enough space to cool off, until whatever he felt for you dulled into nothing. But he’d been wrong. No matter how many miles stretched between you, no matter how many times he tried to convince himself it was just a silly crush, he never stopped loving you.
Clark looked at you like he always did—steady, unwavering, as if you were the only thing in the world worth focusing on.
Oblivious, you adjusted your bag and nodded to the doors. “So, are you gonna show me around? Or do I have to storm the newsroom on my own?
“Pretty sure storming the newsroom gets you fired on your first day,” Clark mused.
“Then it’d be a record,” you joked. “Imagine the headline: ‘Shortest tenure ever held by a Daily Planet photographer.’”
“Writen by Clark Kent,” he added.
“Rude,” you muttered, without any real bite. Clark led you inside, making sure to stay close enough that your shoulder brushed his arm with every step. You glanced up at him, speaking in a sing-song tone, “You’re doing it again.”
He looked back, puzzled. “Doing what?”
“The thing where you hover like a worried dad every time I have something important going on,” you supplied. “Your Ma and I call you Helicopter Clark behind your back. She thinks you get it from your Pa.”
Clark laughed softly, a little sheepish. “Maybe I just like having you around.”
You nudged his arm. “Cute. You’ve always been sappy.”
He gave a small laugh, but his chest tightened. If only you knew how right you were. “Yeah, guess I am.”
“I can’t believe I’m actually here,” you squealed as you entered the elevator. “This place is legendary. You’ve been walking into this building every morning like it’s normal, and now I get to join you. It’s crazy!”
Clark watched your excitement with something softer in his eyes. “Yeah. Crazy.”
When the elevator doors slid open onto the bullpen floor, you let out a gasp. It was almost like a cathedral, ceilings impossibly high and crowned with coffered squares edged in gold. The building was a heavy marble and stone, making it feel historic, though it was filled with modern sounds—phones ringing, keyboards clattering.
After introducing you to the receptionist, who snapped your picture and handed over a still-warm badge, Clark guided you forward with a hand lightly pressed to your back. That same quiet protectiveness he’d always had in Smallville hadn’t dulled with distance.
You clutched your new badge, eyes darting around. “So,” you said, glancing up at him with a grin, “are you going to introduce me to your friends, or do I just start shaking hands like I’m running for office?”
Clark laughed, the sound soft but fond. “Alright, alright. Let’s start with Lois—”
“Standing right here,” came a crisp voice behind you.
You turned. A woman with sleek dark hair approached, folder tucked under one arm, coffee in the other. Her eyes narrowed slightly as they swept over you, then softened with the faintest flicker of amusement. She looked like the kind of woman who could save your life and then write your obituary if you annoyed her.
Clark fumbled, already flustered. He knew exactly why she was giving you that look. If there was one thing everyone at the office teased him about, it was the fact that he spoke about you too much. Lois and Cat were convinced Clark was in love with you, and he was having a hard time trying to convince them otherwise.
“Lois, this is—”
“The famous best friend from Kansas,” she cut in, sticking out her hand before he could finish.
Your brows shot up. “He’s been talking about me, huh?”
“All the time,” Lois said flatly. “Honestly, I thought you might be imaginary.”
That got a laugh out of you, nerves dissolving instantly. “Wouldn’t be the first time Clark invented a friend to make himself seem popular,” you joked, shaking Lois’s hand.
Clark gave you a look, half mock-offended, half helpless affection. Lois chuckled, sipping her coffee like she was watching a very entertaining sitcom.
“You’ll fit right in,” she said, and patted Clark’s arm before she swept off toward her desk.
The moment she was out of earshot, you turned to him. “She seems cool.”
Clark grinned, though his shoulders still carried tension. “Don’t tell her that. She’ll only use it against you later.”
You laughed and followed him deeper into the chaos.
That’s when you saw him: boyish grin, camera strap slung across his shoulder like it belonged there. Jimmy Olsen. Average height, wiry, chestnut hair that refused to stay put, posture like he’d never once taken gym seriously but always got the last word. He had that indefinable something. Not movie-star handsome, not intimidating, just magnetic. Approachable. Like he could charm a parking ticket out of a meter maid.
Jimmy leaned against a filing cabinet mid-story, making a whole crowd laugh. Then he looked up, saw you, and lit up like you’d just walked in carrying a Pulitzer.
“No way!” he bounded over, hand outstretched, grin wide. “It’s so nice to finally meet Clark’s other best friend. I’m Jimmy.”
His energy was so warm you laughed before you even touched his hand. “‘Other best friend’? Try the original.”
“Clark talks about you all the time,” Jimmy said, deadly serious. “I figured you were either a childhood friend or his nemesis.”
“Both,” you said. “Depends on the day.”
Jimmy laughed warmly. The next thing you knew, you were giggling through his wild gestures as he explained how he’d almost been locked in the darkroom overnight. He was ridiculous, magnetic in that paradoxical way of being sweet but charming.
Clark stood a step back, watching. He shouldn’t have been surprised. You were both his best friends, after all. But the way you were already leaning into Jimmy’s orbit, laughing with your whole face, made something in his chest twist.
You doubled over at the end of Jimmy’s story, tears threatening. “Clark totally undersold you, you’re hilarious!”
Jimmy raised his brows and eyed Clark. “Undersold me? Clark, how could you?”
You turned, expecting Clark to leap to his own defence, but instead of his usual grin, you caught a strained smile, his shoulders drawn tight. Before you could puzzle it out, Jimmy launched into a rundown on the other photographers, earning your rapt attention.
Lois strolled past, a smirk curling on her lips. She nudged Clark’s elbow. “Looks like Jimmy turned on the usual charm for your Smallville bestie,” she commented. “How does he do it?”
She’d said the words casually, but Clark froze, throat bobbing.
You leaned toward Jimmy. “So,” you asked eagerly, “what’s your favourite lens? Do you stick with prime or—”
Jimmy lit up and dove into an enthusiastic explanation, hands flying as he talked about his 35mm. You nodded along, grinning like you’d just found a kindred spirit. Behind you, Clark’s smile faltered another fraction. He shoved his hands into his pockets, stomach twisting.
“Okay,” Clark broke in at last, voice just slightly brisk. “You’ve got orientation in five. Don’t wanna be late.”
You straightened, still grinning, and gave Jimmy a cheerful wave. “Catch you later!”
Jimmy shot back a two-fingered salute, grin dazzling. You turned happily to follow Clark, not noticing the tightness in his jaw as he guided you toward the conference room.
“I can see why you like him so much,” you said, breathless with laughter. “He seems great. I can’t wait to work with him.”
Clark said nothing. Because Lois’s voice still echoed through his head, over and over again, about how Jimmy had turned the charm on for you.
For dinner, Clark picked out a diner that looked unchanged since 1954: red vinyl booths, neon buzzing faintly above the counter, waitresses who called you “hon.” He swore up and down they had the best burger in Metropolis, and you believed him—because when had Clark Kent ever lied about food?
You sank into the booth across from him, shrugging off your jacket, cheeks still warm from the day. “Okay,” you said, stabbing the straw into your soda with a decisive jab. “Jimmy Olsen.”
Clark’s brows lifted. “What about him?”
You leaned forward, grinning. “He’s adorable. I totally get why you talk about him so much. He’s so funny, Clark, and he’s actually good. Like, really good. We were talking about lenses earlier and we have the same favourites, can you believe that? And he knows all my favourite photographers. And today, on my first day, Perry actually liked my pitch on the immigration photo essay! Guess who helped me polish it before the meeting?”
Clark’s smile stayed on his lips, but it dimmed a little in his eyes. “Jimmy.”
“Jimmy,” you repeated with a laugh, holding up your glass in a mock toast. “My desk is right next to his, and I think we’re going to get along well. He’s got that… that thing, you know?” Clark knew exactly what you meant. Jimmy might as well have been the most charming man in Metropolis. “It’s magnetic.”
You didn’t notice the way Clark’s shoulders drooped, or how he fussed with the paper wrapper on his straw until it was shredded into tiny curls.
“Well,” he said after a beat, voice pitched a little too cheerful, “sounds like you’ve had a pretty swell first day.”
You beamed. “The best. Honestly, I was so nervous this morning. But between you, Lois, and Jimmy, I think I’ll be alright.”
Clark swallowed, nodded, smiled. All those things at once. It looked effortless if you didn’t know him. Unfortunately for him, you knew him better than anyone.
You tilted your head. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he said quickly, gaze darting to the laminated menu. Clark had never been good at lying to you, but avoiding eye contact might give him a chance. “I’m just glad you’re settling in. Really glad.”
You hesitated, straw between your teeth, suddenly aware of how much you’d been talking. “I’ve been rambling, haven’t I?”
Clark chuckled warmly, shaking his head. “I don’t mind.”
You grinned sheepishly. “Well, for the record, my apartment’s great. A little bare still, but nice. And I get to walk to work now, which feels very grown-up and metropolitan.” You said the last word with mock grandeur, and Clark’s mouth curved at the edges.
“Didn’t you take a taxi today?” he teased.
“That was practicality,” you argued. “You try hauling a backpack and a camera bag full of photography gear on the subway.”
Clark smiled, and for a moment, the tension in his shoulders eased. “I’m glad you like your place. My first place in Metropolis was a dorm, so anything should be a step up from that.”
You laughed. “True. My neighbour seems really nice, too. I think we’ll be friends. But honestly?” You paused, softer now, because you wanted him to hear this part clearly. “The best part of today was getting to see you, and knowing I’ll see you every day now.”
You meant it. The way you said it, so plain and true, made something flicker across Clark’s face. Something you couldn’t name before it vanished behind another of his earnest smiles. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. You just looked at each other across the booth, soda sweating between your hands, the neon light turning his glasses a soft red at the edges.
“This feels a little like home, doesn’t it?” you said finally, nodding at the jukebox in the corner “Like that diner where I had all my birthday parties growing up.”
Clark’s mouth curved, almost shy. “With the paper hats.”
You grinned. “And the strawberry milkshakes.”
“I remember.” He tipped his head, studying you like he was turning back the clock. “You always wished for the same thing every year.” Then he chuckled, “Three more wishes.”
“Yeah.” Your voice softened as you leaned back. “Last year, I wished for this. For sitting across from you again. Getting to see you every day.”
Clark’s smile faltered, just slightly, like your words pressed against something tender inside him.
You ducked your gaze, tracing the menu with your finger. “I can’t wait to hang out at yours or mine soon. So I can see your face properly again, without the hypno-glasses.” You said it with a little laugh, but the truth slipped out in the quiet. “I just… miss seeing you. Not Superman, not the glasses. You.”
His throat worked around a swallow, glasses slipping a little down his nose. For a heartbeat, you thought he might actually reach across the table for your hand. Instead, Clark gave you one of those soft, heart-aching smiles that belonged only to you. “I’d like that.”
When you’d told him you were moving to Metropolis, Clark had been elated. You were the first person he’d ever trusted with the truth back in high school—his heritage, his powers, the fear, the whole mess of being different. Having you here felt like a gift, as if he could finally stop feeling so alone.
“Speaking of gifts,” you said suddenly, rummaging in your bag. “I almost forgot, your parents sent me with this.”
You pulled out a small pot with a leafy sprig of green, wrapped in brown paper and twine. Clark blinked at it, recognition dawning. “Is that—?”
“Native milkweed,” you declared proudly. “Your Ma said it’s good for butterflies. She wanted you to have a piece of home on your windowsill. She told me to tell you, and I quote, ‘Tell Clark to water it, because Lord knows he won’t remember without supervision.’”
Clark chuckled fondly, the sound easing out of him in a breath. “That sounds like Ma.” He reached out, fingers brushing yours as he took the plant, and you felt the warmth linger longer than it should have.
“She also packed me a pie for the trip,” you added slyly. “I already ate it.”
His mouth fell open in mock horror. “You ate a whole pie by yourself?”
“Don’t look so shocked, farm boy,” you scolded. “You’ve seen me at Thanksgiving. Besides, it was a four hour plane ride! I got hungry.”
That made Clark properly laugh, his head tipped back, clutching his stomach. The sight made your chest tighten unexpectedly. It was like catching the memory of summer sunlight on your skin.
The two of you fell easily into swapping stories after that. Your first terrifying photography professor, his late nights at the college paper, how you used to sneak into the Kent barn loft with a thermos of hot chocolate and talk about the future like you had any clue what it would look like.
“Do you remember,” you said between bites of fries, “when I told you I was going to be the next Annie Leibovitz and you said you’d write all my captions?”
Clark grinned, fork hovering in the air. “Still will, if you’ll let me.”
You rolled your eyes, though the fondness in your eyes was painfully obvious. “Such a nerd.”
His smile softened. If there was no red thread binding you together, he would grab a string and tie it himself. Clark Kent had been yours since the moment you’d leaned over the lunch table in middle school and whispered, Don’t worry, I think you’re normal even if you don’t.
You caught him staring and raised a brow. “What?”
“Nothing,” Clark said, though it came out tender, almost adoring.
And you thought, God, what a nerd. My best friend is such a nerd. You refrained from saying it with barely controlled affection, hiding the way your stomach had gone hot under his gaze.
You found your rhythm in Metropolis faster than you thought you would.
The first week at The Daily Planet had been an exercise in clinging to Clark’s elbow like a human lifeline, smiling a little too hard at every person who passed, and trying desperately to memorise names and desk locations before someone caught you looking lost. But by the second week, you’d figured out how to blend in with the controlled chaos of the bullpen.
You were still “the new kid.” The one who double-checked the coffee machine instructions before daring to press a button, the one who made Jimmy sign off on all your captions even though he kept insisting you were fine. But you were speaking up more in meetings.
You’d made Cat laugh once, actually laugh, a sharp bark followed by an appraising look that made you feel like you’d just earned a medal. Lois was harder to crack, but there were moments when she’d pass you a file without comment or murmur a quick, “Good work,” and your stomach would flutter like you’d been given a blessing.
And then there was Jimmy. Going out on assignment with him was like being caught in a whirlwind. He walked too fast, talked too fast, gestured so wildly you half-expected him to topple into traffic. But he was brilliant with a camera. He’d see a shot before you’d even raised your lens, point it out with the kind of enthusiasm that made you laugh even when you were gasping to keep up.
The first time Perry ran one of your photos on the front page, Jimmy dragged you into the middle of the bullpen and announced it like a town crier.
The second time was even better. You’d somehow managed to snap a clean, perfectly framed shot of Superman mid-flight, cape fluttering against the light, looking every bit the hero of Metropolis. Perry slapped the proof down on the table and growled, “Front page.” You nearly fell over.
That night, you showed Clark, holding up the paper like a trophy. He nearly spat out his tea.
“You’re kidding me!” He was laughing so hard he almost fell off your sofa. “You—you got the Superman shot? After all the times Jimmy’s tried—golly.”
“Golly?” you teased, nudging him with your elbow. “What are you, a cartoon dad?”
“Don’t care,” Clark said, still grinning. “You’re incredible. I’m so proud of you.”
If you thought about that too long, you got a little lightheaded, so you mostly didn’t.
Metropolis itself was trickier. You’d been before to visit Clar, but living here was different. You’d grown up in Smallville, where everyone knew your name, your parents, and exactly what your dreams and goals were.
Here, you could be surrounded by hundreds of people and still feel invisible. The noise was constant: horns, chatter, music being blasted at ungodly hours. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d stood still without someone brushing past with an annoyed “watch it!”
The small-town friendliness didn’t exist here. No one waved when you crossed the street. No one offered to help carry your shopping up the stairs. People were in a rush, and you were in their way. But it wasn’t all bad.
It was exhilarating sometimes. You could wander two blocks and find ramen at midnight, or tacos from a cart parked beside a glittering theatre. You’d gone to a Metropolis Meteors baseball game with Cat and Lois last weekend, sat in the nosebleeds with a hot dog, and felt more alive than you had in months.
And you weren’t entirely alone. Your neighbour, Poppy, a Metropolis local your age, had practically adopted you. She showed you the best bodega for late-night snacks, where to avoid taking the subway after dark, and which coffee shops didn’t overcharge for lattes. She was sharp and kind and exactly the sort of friend you needed in a new city.
You caught yourself smiling one evening as you told her, “I might have the perfect guy for you.” You hadn’t said Jimmy’s name yet. You wanted to do your homework first, find out if he was single, or at least willing to be set up. But the idea stuck. Poppy’s easygoing nature and Jimmy’s goofy brightness would balance each other out perfectly.
Besides, wasn’t that what starting fresh was supposed to be about? Building connections, finding your place. Creating a home for yourself in the middle of all the noise. And maybe, just maybe, realising that the best part of your day was still the same as it had always been: sitting across from Clark, laughing until your sides hurt, wondering how you’d ever gone so long without seeing him every day.
It started casually.
You were leaning on Clark’s desk one afternoon, sipping lukewarm coffee and pretending not to panic about your deadline, when the words came out: “So… Is Jimmy seeing anyone?”
Clark almost gave himself whiplash from how quickly he turned to look at you. His eyes were wide behind his frames, his mouth slightly agape like he couldn’t believe what you’d said. “Uh—what?”
You tilted your head. “I just wondered. He’s cute. And funny. And I thought maybe—”
“He’s dating a model,” Clark blurted, too quickly. “Pretty sure. Yeah. Definitely dating a model.”
Across the bullpen, Lois didn’t even look up from her monitor. “He hasn’t had a girlfriend in months, Smallville.”
Clark blinked, red blooming in his cheeks, while you filed that information away with a pleased little hum.
A few days later, you sidled up to Lois at the coffee machine. “Does Jimmy like Italian food?”
She gave you a sharp look. “Are you asking because you’re planning a date?”
“No,” you said, too fast. “I’m just curious.”
“Jimmy likes any food. If it’s edible, he’ll eat it.” Lois stirred copious amounts of sugar into her mug, smirking. “If it’s not edible, he’ll probably still eat it. Man has no culinary standards.”
When you glanced at Clark’s desk, he was staring fixedly at his computer.
Later that week, you caught Clark in the elevator. “What’s Jimmy’s type?” you asked casually, as if you were inquiring about the weather.
Clark’s glasses nearly slid off his nose. “What?”
“Women,” you clarified. “What kind of women does he usually go for?”
Clark fumbled. “Uh—uh—tall? Or maybe short. Definitely one of those. And, um, brunette? Or blonde. Or—”
Lois, who’d slipped in just before the doors closed, rolled her eyes. “What isn’t his type?” she said dryly, and you laughed all the way up to the newsroom floor.
It became a running theme.
“Do you think Jimmy likes jazz?” you asked Lois one morning.
Clark dropped his coffee stirrer.
“Does Jimmy prefer dogs or cats?” you asked Clark the next afternoon.
He stammered something about fish before fleeing to refill his mug.
“Would Jimmy ever date someone who wasn’t in journalism?” you asked Lois the following week.
She sighed. “Kid, Jimmy would date someone who breathed near him too enthusiastically.”
By then, Lois had decided you were developing a crush on Jimmy. She gave you amused little glances whenever you brought him up, while Clark looked like he was one misplaced question away from combusting. And you, completely oblivious, just kept making notes in your mental file.
Jimmy Olsen: Not currently seeing anyone. Likes all food. (Easy win.) Has no real type, possibly open to anything. Jazz: inconclusive. Dogs vs cats: also inconclusive.
Perfect. Operation: Matchmaker was right on track.
Meanwhile, Clark Kent was wilting in slow motion at his desk, trying very hard not to imagine you and Jimmy in a romantic-comedy-style date montage. The thought of the two of you sharing a milkshake with two straws made him nauseous.
Friday nights had always been for movies. Back in Smallville, the tradition had been sacred. Every week, no matter what farm chores Clark had been stuck with or how swamped you were with homework, you ended up curled together on the worn sofa at the Kent farmhouse. Bowls of popcorn, one light left on in the kitchen, a stack of DVDs you rotated through endlessly.
Now, in Metropolis, the ritual lived on. Your new apartment wasn’t much, a little nest of mismatched furniture and thrifted lamps. On your third Friday in the city, Clark showed up at your door with takeaway and a grin. The moment you pulled him inside and saw him plop the food onto your coffee table like it was the most natural thing in the world, you felt the old rhythm sliding right back into place.
Tonight, you’d chosen The Princess Bride. Nostalgia wrapped around you like a blanket as the familiar dialogue filled your little living room. You half-watched, half-stole glances at Clark, because it was different now.
Clark looked domestic, comfortable in a way that made your chest ache. He’d taken his glasses off the second he walked in, setting them on your bookshelf like he always did when it was just you. His hair, usually in messy curls for the office, had softened through the day, a little wave falling into his forehead. He was in a simple white button-up, sleeves pushed to his elbows, and it hit you in a way it hadn’t in high school.
Clark Kent was handsome. Stupidly, unfairly handsome.
You remembered girls whispering about the “Kent charm” back then, how his smile made them blush. You’d never noticed. He’d been Clark, your Clark, the boy who stayed up with you until dawn studying, who carried your tripod when it was too heavy, who showed up at your window when you were sad. He’d been so close that romance never even crossed your mind.
Now you saw the way his shoulders filled out his shirt. The warmth in his cobalt eyes when he laughed at a joke you made. The gentleness of his hands when he handed you a napkin before you even realised you needed one.
You could picture him in a domestic life so clearly. Carrying groceries up your stairs, pressing a kiss to your temple as he passed, leaving his slippers by your door. The thought startled you, but it didn’t leave.
And then there was Superman. You’d grown up knowing Clark was different, but you hadn’t realised what that difference meant until years later. Since moving to Metropolis, you’d seen it all up close: the rescues, the headlines, the world depending on him. He was extraordinary, and yet here he was on your sofa, eating dumplings out of a carton and laughing at Cary Elwes’ line delivery.
You found yourself wanting to memorise him. The lines of his jaw softened by the lamplight. The way his eyes crinkled when he smiled. The dimples in his cheeks when you reminded him of that one time he tripped chasing you through the cornfield when you were kids.
He was beautiful, and he was yours; not in any official way, but in the way that mattered. He was your best friend.
Across the sofa, Clark was having his own crisis.
He’d thought, once, that sending you postcards from Delaware and calling you every Sunday would be enough. That maybe the distance would dull the sharp twinge of wanting you, that maybe one day he’d wake up and feel free of it. He’d been wrong.
Now you were here, right next to him, laughing at the same movie you’d watched a hundred times, and he was so in love he thought it might undo him. He’d always admired you; your eye for photographs, your fire, the way you cared for people so fiercely. But seeing you here had floored him.
And yet, every time you mentioned Jimmy, his chest tightened. Lois’s teasing echoed in his head. He wanted to tell you everything: that he’d been in love with you since high school, that nobody could ever measure up in college, so he’d stopped trying altogether. But then you’d smile and gush about how funny Jimmy was, and Clark felt his courage crumble.
Still, as you leaned closer to him now, curled up with your knees tucked under you, Clark thought there was no way he could ever love you more than he did in this moment. You were his first thought in the morning, his last thought at night. And watching you glow in the soft lamplight of your new apartment, he realised something terrifying and wonderful all at once.
He could spend his whole life like this. Just being near you.
“You’re not even watching,” Clark teased, voice low so as not to disturb the cadence of the movie.
You flicked your eyes back to the screen, caught Buttercup mid-swoon, and shrugged. “Sure I am. True love, sword fights, Rodents of Unusual Size.”
Clark chuckled, but when you glanced at him again, you caught him looking at you instead of the TV. Heat crept up your neck. You reached for the popcorn bowl as a distraction, only to find it empty.
“You ate all of it,” you accused.
His brows shot up. “Me? You were shovelling it like you hadn’t eaten in a week.”
You smirked. “Well, at least I don’t hide behind hypno-glasses to trick everyone into thinking I’m some ‘well-mannered farm boy.”
Clark groaned, pressing a hand to his forehead. “You know that’s not why I wear them.” Then he smiled, almost shyly. “Are you saying you like me better without glasses?”
“Of course,” you said, not catching the way his chest tightened at your answer. “I missed your face.”
Something fond flickered across his expression. He reached for the remote, muting the TV, and you didn’t even notice until silence fell. You were too caught in the moment, too wrapped up in the ease of talking with him.
“You know,” you said, leaning back into the sofa cushions, “this kind of feels like we’re sixteen again. Friday night, bad lighting, too much sugar.”
Clark’s lips quirked. “Except you’re not falling asleep halfway through the film this time.”
You gasped. “That was one time.”
“Three times,” he corrected gently. “And you drooled on my shoulder once.”
You laughed, tossing a cushion at him. “Traitor. I trusted you to never bring that up again.”
Clark caught the cushion easily, hands big and sure, and hugged it to his chest with mock innocence. “Your secrets are safe with me. It’s part of my Kent charm,” he said, all faux swagger.
You snorted. “‘Kent charm.’ God, you really are a nerd.”
The words came out playfully, but there was something behind them you weren’t quite ready to name. Because, yes, he was a nerd, sitting here quoting his own reputation like it was a joke. But he was also, God help you, gorgeous. His hair falling into his eyes, his shirt stretched across broad shoulders, every inch of him radiating warmth and steadiness.
Clark shifted closer on the sofa, the air between you charged with something softer than electricity. “Do you ever think about it?” he asked quietly.
“About what?”
He hesitated, then shook his head, offering another smile instead. “Nothing. Just how lucky I am you’re here. Metropolis feels more like home now.”
You reached for his hand before you could think better of it, letting your fingers brush his knuckles. “I get it. Living in a new city with you feels more like home than living in Smallville without you.”
Clark stilled. You didn’t notice, too busy tracing the shape of his hand absentmindedly, like you’d done a thousand times back in high school without thinking twice.
“You really mean that?” he asked, voice rough.
You looked up at him, startled by the weight in his tone. “Of course I do. You know I wished for this; that I’d get to live in the same city as you again.”
Clark’s heart thudded in his ears. He wanted to say that he’d wished too, every night, for years. Instead, he swallowed and squeezed your hand lightly.
“You’re—” He paused, trying again, “You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever met.”
You blinked at him. “Clark—”
“I mean it,” he said quickly, earnest eyes shining. “I’m really glad I get to do everything by your side from now on.”
“Yeah,” you agreed, cracking a smile. “Me too.”
“Good,” he murmured, voice so low you almost didn’t catch it.
The silence stretched, not uncomfortable but a little heavy. You found yourself studying Clark, the way his lashes cast shadows on his cheeks, the way his chest rose and fell.
Before you could stop yourself, you whispered into the quiet, “I think you’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever met, too.”
Clark’s breath caught. He ducked his head, cheeks flushed. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
You smirked, leaning in just a little. “Don’t get used to it. I’ll go back to calling you a nerd tomorrow.”
He looked at you then, really looked, and thought, I could spend forever like this. And you, ignorant of the full weight of his gaze, thought, God, I think I’m in trouble.
Jimmy bounded into the bullpen like he’d just won the lottery, camera bag slung over his shoulder, grin wide enough to blind someone.
“Guess what?” he announced, leaning on the edge of Lois’s desk, practically glowing. “I’ve got a date tonight.” Jimmy’s grin stretched ear to ear.
Clark looked up from his notepad, a smile already forming. “Oh, hey. That’s great, Jimmy! I’m happy for you.”
Lois didn’t even glance up from her screen. “With a human or another one of your cameras?”
Jimmy clutched his chest. “Wow, Lois. For your information, yes, with a human.”
Lois raised an eyebrow, dry as desert air. “Let me guess. Five-foot-ten, legs up to here, and absolutely no idea you existed until five minutes ago?”
Jimmy smirked, playfully kicking Lois’s desk chair. “Not giving away any spoilers. But let’s just say, I’m pretty excited.”
Then, he glanced across the room, caught your eye, and gave you a wink. It was playful, teasing, nothing more than the kind of exaggerated gesture Jimmy made a dozen times a day.
You rolled your eyes good-naturedly, already used to his theatrics, but Clark froze mid-keystroke. The cursor blinked accusingly at his half-finished sentence.
A wink. Jimmy had winked at you.
Clark’s stomach dropped straight through the floor. He tried to swallow the lump in his throat, but it lodged there stubbornly. He bent closer to his computer, pretending to type, though the words blurred into nonsense.
Lois didn’t miss a thing. Her gaze slid from Jimmy to Clark, and then slowly, knowingly, to you. She sipped her coffee like she was watching her suspicions confirmed in real time. “Well, well,” she murmured.
Clark forced a smile. “What?”
Lois tilted her head. “Guess we were right about Jimmy having a thing for your other best friend.”
His pulse kicked in his ears. “Oh—uh, well. Good for them, right? They’d—they’d make a great couple.” It came out so flat it could have been mistaken for sarcasm.
Lifting a brow and leaning back in her chair, Lois drawled, “Sure. If you say so, Smallville.”
Clark tried again, fumbling for enthusiasm. “I mean, Jimmy’s a good guy. You couldn’t ask for anyone more dependable.”
Lois hummed around the rim of her coffee cup, unimpressed but mercifully silent.
Clark turned back to his screen, jaw tight. The words on the page stubbornly refused to fuse together into sentences. Every time he glanced up, he saw Jimmy’s grin, your smile, and that wink. It was like a spark caught in his chest.
He should be happy for you. If that’s what you wanted, he should be supportive. He was supportive. But the thought of Jimmy leaning across a table tonight, making you laugh the way Clark always did, maybe walking you home—Clark pressed his palms against the desk until the wood creaked in protest.
Superman could stop trains, but Clark Kent couldn’t stop his own jealousy from eating him alive.
By the time Clark was back in his apartment that night, he’d tried his best to convince himself that you and Jimmy dating was a great idea.
Jimmy was kind, funny, and loyal. He’d never dream of hurting you. He was the type of guy Clark would trust with his life. But the thought of trusting him with you left something bitter and restless clawing in his chest.
He dropped his keys on the counter and sat heavily on the couch, elbows on his knees.
If only he’d just told you how he felt in high school. That thought circled him like a hawk, again and again. He’d been eighteen, hopelessly in love, and terrified of what that love might do to the best friendship of his life. You were already looking toward photography programs, weighing colleges and scholarships, and he’d known even then that Metropolis was calling him.
Different cities. Different dreams. He’d told himself it wasn’t fair to ask you to tie yourself to him. So he’d swallowed the confession. He’d chosen friendship because it was safer, and because it meant never losing you. For years, he’d told himself he didn’t regret it. He’d repeated it until he believed it.
But tonight, sitting alone in his apartment while you were out with Jimmy, regret slipped its way in. What if Clark had said something back then? What if you’d smiled that radiant, disbelieving smile and told him you’d always felt the same?
Maybe you would have tried the distance. Maybe it would’ve worked. Maybe you’d be here now, living together, ordering takeout on the couch, falling asleep during a movie. Maybe he wouldn’t be sitting here with an empty living room and a chest full of longing.
The fantasy was so vivid it almost felt real. The brush of your knee against his, your laugh spilling through the room, the easy certainty of a life where he hadn’t hesitated.
And then, as quickly as it came, the other side of the coin flipped. Maybe if he’d confessed, you would’ve said no. Maybe you would’ve told him gently that you didn’t see him that way. Maybe it would’ve shattered everything, left him without a best friend and without you. The risk had been too high then. It was still too high now.
Clark pressed his palms against his eyes, trying to will the images of a domestic life with you away. His heart was pounding too loudly, beating against the silence of his apartment.
Then, the faint metallic click of a key sliding into his lock sounded through his apartment. The knob turned. The door opened.
Clark’s head snapped up, throat dry.
You stepped inside like it was the most natural thing in the world, balancing two pizza boxes in your arms, hair a little windswept from the cold night air.
“Hope you’re hungry,” you called, nudging the door shut behind you with your hip. “They gave us extra cheesy bread.”
For one impossible second, Clark thought maybe he’d fallen asleep and the fantasy had followed him into a dream. But you were real. You were here.
Clark stayed frozen on the couch, still hunched forward, but his whole body was taut now, like a bowstring drawn too tight. You breezed in, the smell of garlic and melted cheese following you, chattering like you always did when you were excited.
“So, I placed a pickup order at Mario’s and somebody else must’ve grabbed it by mistake because when I got there, it was gone,” you explained, setting the pizza boxes on the kitchen counter and hanging up your coat. “Totally vanished. But they felt bad, so they remade the whole order with extra cheesy bread.” You grinned, holding up the little box for emphasis. “Free cheesy bread, Clark! If that’s not divine intervention telling us it’s a Ratatouille night, I don’t know what is.”
You were grabbing plates from his cupboard when you finally glanced back, words slowing. “Wait, what’s wrong? Why are you sitting like you just gambled away your life savings?”
Clark blinked. He hadn’t realised how pathetic he must look, folded in on himself, hands dangling between his knees.
His heart surged at the sight of you standing there in the doorway, but the words that came out weren’t the ones he wanted. “What about your date?”
You stopped in your tracks. “My what?” Then, your eyes lit up. “Oh, speaking of dates! How do you think Jimmy’s is going?”
Clark frowned, confusion doubling back on him. “I mean… Not very well if you’re here instead of there?”
You tilted your head, blinking slowly, like he’d just started speaking in Kryptonian. “What?”
Clark’s brain stuttered. “Wait—what?”
You stared at each other across the room for a long, disbelieving beat, until your expression shifted from confusion to dawning realisation.
You set the plates down on the counter, hands braced on either side. “Hold on. Did you think Jimmy was going on a date with me tonight?”
Heat crept up Clark’s neck, and he could feel his ears burning. “Well—I—he winked at you in the bullpen, and then Lois said—”
“Oh my god.” You dragged a hand down your face, groaning. “No, no, no, Clark. No. Jimmy’s on a date with my neighbour, Poppy. I’ve been trying to set them up for weeks.”
Clark just stared. His brain scrambled for purchase, trying to rearrange the facts into this new, blessed reality. “Poppy,” he echoed, words coming out slow and low. “Your… neighbour.”
“Yes. Poppy,” you confirmed. “She just got out of a long-term relationship when I moved to Metropolis, so she was hesitant at first. But I kept talking him up, and I showed her a couple pictures he took, and finally she agreed. Tonight’s their blind date.”
Relief surged through Clark so quickly that it made him dizzy. His hands twitched uselessly on his knees. He wanted to do something, say something, but all he could think was Thank God.
You didn’t notice the way his shoulders uncoiled, the way his chest expanded with a breath that felt like it reached his bones. You were still talking, animated now, explaining how you’d been stealthily gathering intel on Jimmy—his favourite food, his type, what kind of date he’d enjoy.
But Clark couldn’t hear half of it.
All he could hear was the rush of his own pulse. All he could feel was the giddy, impossible joy of knowing the future he’d been mourning just minutes ago wasn’t lost after all.
“Anyway, why—” You trailed off mid-sentence, really looking at him.
Clark wasn’t just listening. He was bracing, shoulders hunched like he’d been carrying the world on them and only now set it down. His breath came out ragged, too loud for the quiet of his apartment, and his eyes were fixed on you like you’d just saved him.
“Clark,” you said slowly, narrowing your eyes. “You okay?”
He swallowed, trying for casualness and failing spectacularly. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Just… relieved, I guess.”
“Relieved,” you repeated, folding your arms. You couldn’t stop your mouth from twitching into a grin. “What, did you really think I was sneaking around on a secret date with Jimmy Olsen? That I’d just, what, show up tomorrow morning and be like ‘oh hey Clark, by the way, I’m dating your best friend now, pass the sugar?’”
He gave a strangled little laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. You caught the flush spreading across his skin, the way his broad chest rose and fell too fast. Not embarrassment exactly, but something warmer.
Your grin softened. “You were panicking. Weren’t you?”
Clark shook his head, eyes darting anywhere but yours. “No, I just—I didn’t—”
“Uh-huh.”
You leaned on the counter, resting your chin in your hand, studying him. He was sitting forward on the couch like he might spring out of it at any second, like if he relaxed, something dangerous would slip loose. His big hands were clenched on his knees, the tendons in his forearms flexing as though he was holding something back.
And for the first time in your life, you realised maybe he was.
The thought made your pulse jump, heat curling in your stomach. Because now that you were looking, really looking, you saw how beautiful he was in that soft, undone way only you ever got to see.
“Clark,” you said again, softer now. “Why were you so panicked?”
He lifted his gaze then, finally meeting your eyes. And the look in them nearly knocked the breath out of you. Relief, yes, but threaded with something hotter, deeper.
You stayed by the counter, watching him. And then Clark stood—too fast, like he startled himself with the decision—and rubbed his palms down the front of his slacks.
“I—Golly, I don’t know how to…” His voice was low, rough. His eyes skittered away, then dragged back to yours like they couldn’t help it. “I’ve been trying to figure out how to say this for years. I wanted to tell you when you first got here. But then Jimmy and—and then Lois, she joked, and I thought…”
“Thought what?” you asked, breath catching.
Clark hesitated, fists clenching like he was physically holding back words. Then, quieter: “That maybe I’d already lost you.”
You blinked. “Clark—”
“No, let me—just let me say this.” His hands came up helplessly, almost reaching for you before they fell back to his sides. “I’ve been in love with you since we started high school.”
The words hit you like a struck match. Excitement coiled tight in your stomach, dizzying, almost unbearable. You wanted to laugh and cry and throw yourself into his arms all at once, but all you could do was stare at him, wide-eyed.
“I wanted to tell you before graduation,” Clark confessed. “But you were staying in Smallville, and I was moving across the country, and it felt like I’d ruin the best thing in my life by saying it out loud. I told myself distance would fix it. That maybe I’d get over you.” He laughed shyly, shaking his head. “But I never did.”
“Clark…” Your voice cracked, and you had to take a step forward.
He mirrored you without thinking, until there was barely a foot of air left between you. His chest was warm even at this distance, heat rolling off him like a furnace.
Clark took a shuddering breath. “You remember the milkweed my folks sent with you? The one Ma insisted you bring to the city?”
You managed a nod.
His mouth quirked, but his eyes were still raw, desperate. “She told me once, if you care for it right, the monarch butterflies will come. Doesn’t matter where you plant it—in Kansas, in Metropolis—it’ll bring them back. And I thought… that’s us. I thought, if I just kept caring for what we had, even if it wasn’t what I wanted, I’d get to keep you in my life. And that would be enough.”
He swallowed hard, adding, “But it’s not, and I can’t pretend it is anymore.”
You reached out without thinking, your fingers brushing the back of his hand. Even that ghost of contact felt like a jolt of lightning. He froze, his breath stuttering, before his fingers twitched like he was fighting the urge to entwine them with yours.
“Clark,” you whispered, heart hammering. “In high school, I never… I never thought about you like that. Everyone used to talk about your dad’s ‘Kent charm’ like it was this thing you inherited, and maybe they saw it, but I didn’t. Not then. You were just Clark, my best friend.”
Something flickered in his eyes—hurt, but gentled by the way he looked at you, as if he’d take even this.
You let out a shaky laugh. “But then you left. And you were still the one I called when I had a bad day, or when something amazing happened, or when I just wanted to hear a voice that reminded me I wasn’t alone. And then I came here, and I get to see you every day, and Clark,” your voice wavered, but you pushed through, “I’m falling in love with you. The reporter, the farm boy, the man who saves the world, the one who waters milkweed because he hopes butterflies will come home.”
Clark’s composure broke on a ragged breath. He surged closer, finally tangling his fingers with yours, gripping tight like he’d drown without it.
“You can’t just say that to me,” he rasped, forehead dropping to yours, his breath hot on your lips. “You can’t say that and expect me not to—”
Your laugh hitched out on a sob. “You don’t need to hold back anymore.”
And he didn’t.
His mouth found yours with years of pent-up longing, searing, desperate, and impossibly sweet. You clutched at his shirt, pulling him closer, and he gathered you into his arms like he’d been waiting his whole life for permission. Every brush of his hands over your back, every slide of his lips against yours, burned like fire meeting gasoline.
When you broke apart, breathless and clinging, he pressed his face into your hair and whispered, hoarse and unsteady, “You’re it for me. Always have been.”
For a heartbeat, you just stood there, staring at him. Some invisible red string between you snapped taut, pulling you forward before you’d even decided to move.
Clark’s hands came up, hovering like he was terrified of scaring you off, and that hesitation alone undid you. You closed the distance. It was years of unsaid things pouring out at once, your fingers clutching at the broad line of his shoulders, his hands finally claiming your waist like he’d been dying to all along.
He kissed you like he already knew every contour of your mouth, and in a way, he did. He knew you, every laugh, every secret, every sharp retort and soft glance, and now he was learning you like this, too.
You tilted your head, and Clark followed, perfectly in step, as though you’d rehearsed this in another life. Heat flared where his palm slid up your side, leaving you breathless, but when he slowed—just enough to press the gentlest kiss to your bottom lip—you felt the tenderness layered inside the urgency.
When you finally tore back just enough to breathe, your foreheads touched, his breath ragged against your skin.
His thumb traced your cheekbone, a shaky little caress that steadied itself as he whispered, “Been wanting to do that for half my life.”
Your laugh came out uneven, breaking against the swell of emotion in your throat. “Took you long enough.”
Clark smiled against your mouth, and then you were pulling him down to you again, hungry this time, eager.
Your hands tangled in his hair, tugging him closer like you couldn’t get enough of him. His mouth moved against yours with a confidence that made your knees weak, but there was still that softness beneath the hunger.
His fingers trailed down your back, sliding under your shirt, and you shivered against him. Every brush of skin was electric, and you found yourself gasping and moaning into his mouth, both of you laughing breathlessly when the heat of it was too much to contain.
Clark’s hands roamed freely now, memorising the curves of your body as if he were trying to burn them into memory. Your own hands were relentless, exploring the strong lines of his chest, the sweep of his shoulders, the way his hair fell into his eyes when he tilted his head.
You were discovering each other in a way you’d never imagined; familiar yet entirely new, and it made every touch searing.
The sofa became your anchor. Clark guided you down, careful but insistent, until you were sprawled together, limbs tangled, breaths mingling in the small space.
Clark’s lips left yours only briefly, just enough to whisper against your temple, “You have no idea how many times I’ve dreamed of this.”
You smiled and whispered back, “I’m always happy to be in the business of making your dreams come true.”
His hands were everywhere, sliding under your back, across your hips. When you shifted slightly, sliding against him, Clark groaned low in his throat, a sound that sent shivers racing up your spine.
You couldn’t help yourself. You leaned into him, biting gently at his lower lip, and he caught your face in his hands, thumbs stroking your cheeks as he kissed you with desperate hunger.
You both collapsed together fully, tangled and warm on the sofa, breathing hard, hearts hammering. Clark’s arm wrapped around you, holding you impossibly close, and your hand found his chest, fingers splayed against him, feeling the steady beat beneath his shirt.
“Finally,” you whispered, breathless, against his collarbone.
Clark chuckled low, a deep, vibrating sound that made your stomach flutter. “Finally,” he agreed, resting his chin on top of your head.
summary: in which you're ready to end things with clark, but he doesn't let you. how were you supposed to know kryptonian saliva is an aphrodisiac?
CWs: 18+ MDNI! DUBCON AT THE VERY LEAST! READ AT YOUR OWN DISCRETION!, explicit sexual content (oral - f!receiving, some brief nipple play), fem!reader x clark kent, super manipulative & icky clark bc he needed some dark!representation and im here to provide for that gap, very VERY messy kisses, spitplay? i guess that's a term for it? idk man he spits in your mouth, HE SPITS IN YOUR MOUTH!!!!
wc: juuuust under 4k!
author's note: alright. listen. LISTEN. this is a labor of love for me. it took me a very long time and i am very proud of it. however, i will not be writing dark!clarkie in a long time, because he is exhausting. i hope you all enjoy him. let's be depraved together <3
this is dedicated to my beloved @thceseus and @tw1sters !! thank you two for being the best depraved perverts who Also want to be manipulated by clark kent. i love you more than words can express.
Clark Kent is a good man. That’s why he never kisses you.
It’s something he saves for certain occasions. Anniversaries. When you have a really hard day at work. Nights when you’re struggling to sleep.
Fights.
Especially the fights where a particularly rough grit in your voice is present, telling him when he’ll have to break his own rather shaky moral code. It always comes after a night spent yelling at each other, of going back and forth about some issue in your relationship that he’d rather avoid.
A night like the one you’re both being strangled by right now.
You’ve been screaming back and forth at each other for over 20 minutes; nothing but barbarous insults hurled at each other that neither of you will be able to forget but will refuse to discuss when your tempers have regulated. Not to mention that he heard that tell-tale grit in your voice from the very first second that you opened your mouth. Hell, it almost weighed heavier on him than the horrible things you were telling him.
Now, though, you’re both silent. Everything that needed to be said was said.
Eyes wide and unflinchingly locked together, unwavering connection stemming from the vicious battle you just went through in this bedroom. The one that was never going to produce a victor, because neither of you can take back what you told each other. You’re still red in the face. You’ve still got veins popping out of your neck. Hot, angry tears are silently pouring down your cheeks—no doubt from the high emotions, the unbearable pain.
Or maybe from the realization you’re arriving at for the millionth time this month: This relationship isn’t working. Hasn’t been working for weeks, and he knows you’ve been in that state of mind for a while.
Clark, though? Not so much. He’s given you so much of himself, so much of his time, so much of his life and love…how could he ever let you go?
So when you finally break that eye contact, when you look down at the floor separating the two of you, he knows what he has to do. Does he want to do it? No, because Clark is a good man.
But he’ll do anything to keep you with him.
It starts when you let out one of those wistful little sighs—the exact type of sigh that precedes the line he knows you’ll forget you even said to him in a few minutes:
“I think we need to take a break.”
Your voice is much softer now. Broken, in a way. Broken from how hard you were yelling. Broken from how upset you are. Broken from your own suggestion, because Clark knows that, deep down in your heart, you never mean that. You’ve never gone through with it, so how could you possibly mean it? You don’t want that.
He knows what you want.
Clark clears his throat. Takes a few slow, long strides across your bedroom until he reaches you. You’re so tired from the fight that you don’t even move away from him. Not like you’d want to, anyway. Clark knew you wouldn’t. He knows this fight—and the way you react to it—better than anything else.
You might have said you can’t stand him, that you want to take a break, that you’re tired of it all…but your body doesn’t agree. Your body leans into him. Your body presses your hands against his chest and lets your forehead fall on his shoulder. Your body rests on his so that you don’t have to carry the weight of your shared dysfunction on your own anymore.
“C’mon, baby. Don’t say that.” he whispers. “You don’t mean that.”
“Clark, don’t—”
That tiny beginner’s protest doesn’t really ring true while you’re sliding your arms around his shoulders and pulling yourself into his chest, so he cuts you off.
“No. No, we don’t need a break. We can work through this. We always work through it, don’t we?” he purrs at you. Tilts your head up with one hand while his other arm stays wrapped around your waist. Glues you to him and doesn’t give you any space to unstick yourself from him. His fingers curl around your jaw and a quick scan of your face in the pale blue moonlight streaming into your room gives him what he was hoping to see.
You have a certain habit that he uses to his advantage when you fight with him. You gnaw at your bottom lip when you’re trying to keep certain insults in. Sometimes, it’s so harsh of a bite that you cut the skin. Make yourself bleed.
Give him an opening to change your mind.
“Goodness, honey. You gotta stop doing this,” he sweetly coos. Runs his thumb over your bottom lip to make it seem like he’s only concerned about the cut. To be fair, he is concerned about how it’s probably hurting you—but that’s not taking precedence right now.
“Gonna hurt yourself. I know this doesn’t feel good.”
He pushes out a sigh through his nose. He has to look frustrated and sympathetic if he wants to act like he doesn’t know what he’s doing.
“You gonna let me clean you up?”
You whine and lean into his touch; a confirmation without the words to accompany it. He knows you can’t resist him. He puts on his sweetest smile and mumbles, “Good. Gotta take care of my girl,” while he gives you a soft squeeze.
Getting you this close is just step one.
Step two, though, is where the last remaining dregs of his own guilt start to creep in. He hesitates for a moment when he pulls his thumb off of your lip and brings it up to his own mouth. He could pull away from you and get a wet rag to clean it instead. He could be the good man Ma raised him to be.
Then you lean into him a little more. Get so close to him that he can smell the shampoo in your hair, the perfume on your skin, the adrenaline pumping through your blood. Your bottom lip is still subtly trembling. A shockwave from your crying that just refuses to leave you, much like how you can’t leave his arms right now.
How could you blame him for what he’s about to do? Your body is begging him to do it. Begging him for some release from this pain. Craving relief that only he can provide you.
Isn’t the whole point of his being here on Earth protecting and caring for its inhabitants, anyway?
So he ditches the guilt. Swallows it down and acts like he’s just trying to clean you up when he licks his thumb to wet it and swipes it over the gently oozing blood on your lip. Drags it back and forth over the still-open cut once, twice, three times. Soft and sweet, like Ma would do when he had a stain on his cheek from playing outside when he was a kid. As though there’s no ulterior motive here.
And to you, there probably isn’t. To you, he probably seems like he’s just caring for you. Trying to make you feel better.
Clark knows that’s not the case.
He keeps his thumb pressed against your lip. Keeps it over that cut. Keeps pressing his saliva into the little wound. Rubbing it back and forth. Licking his thumb again. Repeating the whole process when some more blood wells from your self-inflicted bite. Feeding more and more of himself to you.
Part of him wishes Kara never told him about this little trick.
“All I know is that it’s like…a fuckin’ love potion, or something. If you kiss a human, they’ll go crazy for you. I think it’s in our spit. I know it sounds crazy, Kal, but trust me. That shit works.”
He thought she was lying. Didn’t believe her at first, because how outrageous would that be? Sure, his parents wanted him to repopulate Earth, but isn’t aphrodisiac-laced spit a little far fetched?
Two years later, he knows she wasn’t lying. Especially right now, as he’s watching you fall into the effects of it. He’s watching your pupils dilate with every gentle brush of his thumb over your lip, watching your breathing quicken in your still-heaving chest.
This trick’s worked on you every time. And every time he does it, he feels bad about it, but he’s sure not stopping any time soon. Not when he gets to see you like this.
Your eyes keep locking onto his mouth. You keep squirming in his grasp, body warm, skin dampening, and much more pliable than you were only a few seconds earlier. When your fingers dig into his shirt, he finds that they’re trembling. Whether it’s from the rage of your fight or the lack of his attention toward the mess you’re already making between your thighs, he doesn’t know. Maybe it’s both.
“Clark,” you whine. Pitchy, breathy, irresistible. He ticks his jaw, annoyed with himself for being so turned on by this. By being able to control you this easily. He’s supposed to be a good man. He’s not supposed to get hard when you’re upset with him.
“I’m here. I’ve got you, baby.”
Your lidded eyes trace every single word that leaves his mouth. You moan at the pet name. His fingers, still curled around your jaw while his others grasp at your waist, pick up on the heat radiating from you.
“Don’t like it when we fight.”
“I don’t like it either, honey.”
Your knees buckle at the saccharine nickname he knows is your favorite—a slight jolt that makes him tighten his hold on you—and you start panting, start gripping him a little harder.
Are your hips rolling against his? He pays no mind to it. Forces himself to take his thumb away from your lip, because you’re good and moldable for him already. Three rounds of feeding himself to you through an open wound’ll do it. He doesn’t need to take this any further.
That doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to, though.
“I love you,” you whisper to him. The inky blackness of your pupils eats up your irises. You’re soaking through your panties, making such a big mess that he can smell it. He should be excited—and part of him is—but his heart aches instead. When was the last time he had you this wet, this compliant, this soft and needy for him, without using his saliva to get you there? Must have been before everything started going downhill a few months ago.
Oh well. At least you’re there now, right?
So he smiles at you. Sweet and crooked, the smile you’ve told him you love a thousand times before. Makes you whimper and has you bucking your hips up against his. You’re so hot that your skin is burning. Warm to the touch and a little bit damp. Just how he likes you. His trick worked like a charm.
“There’s my sweet girl. Was starting to think I’d never see you again, baby. I love you so much.”
When his lower-octave purr hits your ears, you almost collapse. He felt it all. The way your knees gave out, the way you grabbed onto him a little harder, the way your heart started slamming so roughly behind your ribcage that it almost burst out of your chest.
“Can I have a kiss?” you mercilessly, pathetically beg. Voice so soft and needy and whiney that he couldn’t possibly dream of resisting you. “I know—I know you don’t like to do it, but…I need one. Please?”
“Is a kiss gonna make you feel better?”
You hum and nod so hard that your head looks like it’s about to fall off. He finds himself laughing. Not mean, not teasing, just…laughing. Because he’s in awe. How has this trick worked for this long? How haven’t you built up an immunity by now?
Thank God you haven’t built up an immunity by now.
“My needy girl always gets what she wants.”
He licks his lips—getting them wet so he can keep you pliant—and leans down to press them against yours. His tongue gently glides against your bottom lip, making sure to take a little extra time on that cut there and causing you to suck in a brief wince. He pushes his way into your mouth without even a hint of resistance from you. Does its work. Keeps you easy.
20 minutes ago, you’d have had his head on a pike if he kissed you when you were that mad. If he had so much as suggested a kiss 20 minutes ago, you would have walked out of that door and never came back.
You break away not even 10 seconds later. Clearly woozy from the kiss, like he knew you’d be. Everything is so heightened for you that he’s surprised you even lasted that long. You press your forehead against his jaw.
“Better?” Clark asks. Your answer is some sort of jumbled little confirmation.
Your sticky, warm skin clings to his when you catch your breath, pull back, and try to reconnect the kiss. He lets you. You’re the one parting his lips to press your tongue against his, you’re the one licking into his mouth so you can get as close to him as possible, you’re the one tangling your hands in his hair and yanking on it so you can part for air after a pathetic 10 more seconds. And yet, after you gulp in a few deep breaths, you kiss him again. Surprise engulfs him when, this time, you suck on his tongue.
Couldn’t hold the moan that burst from his chest back if he tried.
It’s the first time in a couple weeks that you’ve paid any sort of positive attention to him at all, and he loves it. He loves you. If his girl wants a kiss—or two, or three—she’ll get one. Matter of fact, he’d let you do anything if it meant he got to keep you forever. He just might be able to do that if you keep sticking your tongue down his throat and sucking on his like you just did.
He pulls away when he senses that you’re losing yourself in him. That realization comes through your landing a particularly rough bite on his bottom lip before you start kissing his chin, his jaw, and his neck, leaving a trail of tiny wet patches in your wake.
Clark cradles your face in his hands to stop you from diving in for another kiss. Gives you a chance to breathe and gives him a moment to drink you in when you’re not mad at him. Your precious, soft, absolutely lovedrunk face. His poor baby. So far gone—eyes half-lidded, lips kiss-swollen and glistening from your messy litany of kisses, skin hot to the touch and chest heaving as you claw at his shirt and stumble over your own two feet while you drag him backwards toward your bed.
You’re more than pliable enough, now.
Clark swipes his thumb over your bottom lip, thumb dampening from the filthy kisses you’ve shared with him, a mix of your saliva and his. You chase after the contact and tilt your head into his palm when he slips his thumb down toward your jaw.
He puts on his best soft, deep voice and asks, “Gonna let me take care of you, now, baby? Let me apologize?” before you can yank him down onto your bed.
He gets a soft hum from you. A nod. Of course he does. You’d never say no to him when you’ve got this much of his “love potion”—as Kara would call it— coursing its way through your veins. So he takes your confirmation that he knew he’d get, lifts you up, and lets you indulge in your forced desires.
Clark’s form of an apology isn’t an actual apology. He doesn’t say sorry to you anymore. When has it ever soothed your anger, anyway?
Instead, he apologizes by burying his face between your legs. He never has to give you much after you’ve kissed. A gentle circling of his tongue around your clit for a handful of seconds is enough to get you to come undone for the first time. The next is a little harder to work for, but if being between your legs and humping the mattress to get his own relief could be a full time job, he’d apply for it immediately.
“Clark!” you groan while arching off the bed. While you’re being thrown off the proverbial cliff, falling into your third climax in an obscenely short time frame.
Your body is a gorgeous symphony to him when you’re like this. Everything you do is music to his ears when you’re in this bed. The roughness of your breathing, the sheets rubbing against your heated, sticky skin, the lewd squelch of your wetness as he drives two fingers in and out of you, the moans you sing out when he curls those fingers up to hit the soft, spongy spot that he loves to abuse until you’re boneless beneath him.
“Coming! Fuck, I’m coming! Don’t—ah! Don’t stop!” you babble. There’s a string of curse words attached to the end of that jumbled declaration. Clark just hums and continues eating. Slips his fingers out of you to replace them with his tongue. The rough push of his nose against your clit forces a full-body jolt out of you.
You keep screaming for him to continue, to go deeper, to not stop, and he gives it all to you until you’re falling apart. It’s not like it was his intention to stop. Wouldn’t dream of stopping now. Wouldn’t deprive himself of the pleasure of being glued to your pretty pussy like this.
He’s not sure when he became so selfish. Maybe it was the first time he kissed you to manipulate you. Well, it’s not manipulation. Not if you were the one who asked for a kiss. That’s what he tells himself, at least.
“Shit!” you hiss while you collapse back down on the bed with a heavy thump. Your body’s starting to give out. Mind’s been gone for a while, now; there’s no way you remember what that fight earlier was about. Perfect. Just where he wants you. Should be enough to buy him at least a couple days of peace. A couple days of not having to worry about you wanting to break up with him and him losing all his motivation to live.
Clark smiles. Pulls back just enough to speak to you. When he pushes his thumbs against each of your folds and spreads you open, your whimpered response is telling him you’ve got tears in your eyes. You cant your hips up, bucking and squirming for him to give you more.
How are you still begging for more when you’ve had so much already? Maybe he’s not the only selfish one here.
“Look at the mess you made. Love it when she’s cryin’ for me like this, baby. Can’t believe I get to call this perfect little pussy all mine. How’d I get so lucky?”
He pushes his filthy words into your thighs between kisses as though he’s praying to you. He is, in a way. Praying that you won’t leave him. Praying that he’ll get to keep you if he’s good enough at worshipping the altar of your body.
Those kisses slowly trail up your hips, your waist, your stomach. Each time he makes contact with you, he feels the goosebumps on your skin. Feels the way you shiver, the way you’re still weak for him even though he hasn’t kissed you in what feels like an eternity.
He wants to kiss you. Wants to push you a little further. Wants you to go completely dumb so that you don’t have to think about how mad you are at him. So that, if he’s lucky, you’ll forget about everything altogether and just love him the way he loves you. Without hesitation. Without regret.
For now, he refrains. Kisses up to your chest and sucks one peaked, sensitive nipple into his mouth while his thumb teases the other. A gentle back and forth swipe, one that he drew on your bottom lip just a little while earlier.
He stops his kisses when he reaches your jaw. Tilts his head away from you when you try to kiss him. Nearly dies from the tiny, sad noise you push out when he doesn’t give you what you want. Clears his throat and gently spreads your legs with one knee. Somewhere along the way, he slipped his hand down to your overstimulated clit, and he earns a cute little moan from you when he starts tracing soft circles on it.
“Gonna let me use her one more time, honey?”
“Last time,” you confirm while spreading your legs wider for him. You nod. “One last time.”
Clark stills. Lifts his head so he can actually meet your eyes for the first time since this has all started. It’s a miracle that they’re still open. What’s not a miracle, though, is how your irises have started to return.
His blood chills. Threatens to freeze in his veins and render him useless. How long has it been since that aphrodisiac wore off?
“Last time? You don’t mean that,” he mutters. The way his voice went up an octave is embarrassing. How could five words make him panic so quickly?
“I told you I wanted to take a break,” you counter. Your arms wrap around his shoulders and your fingers play with the curls at the nape of his neck. Clark’s face starts to burn. Whether it’s from embarrassment, panic, or anger, he doesn’t exactly know.
“You didn’t mean it when you said that, either.”
He sighs. He knows what he has to do. He didn’t think it’d ever get this far, but if it means keeping you, it’s getting done.
He steels himself and sends you a fake smile. You probably clocked it. He’s never been good at faking them with you. He brushes some of your hair off of your forehead and lowers his face towards yours. His voice is a whisper when he finds it again.
“We’ll talk about it later.”
You huff at him. Press your lips into a thin line but turn toward his palm when it slides down your cheek. Soon enough, his thumb is gliding over your lip again. He always seems to find it. This time, though, he’s got a reason.
He swipes it back and forth. Gentle. Unassuming. Considers it a win when you tilt your chin up for him to continue the tiny, comforting movement. He regains some confidence in his voice now that he’s accepted his fate and knows what he has to do here.
“Be a good girl and open up for me, baby,” he commands while he drags his thumb down your chin. For someone who wants a break so badly, you comply immediately. The smile he sends you is genuine, this time.
“That’s it. Just like that, sweetheart.”
As soon as you’ve got your mouth open, chin tilted up, he does it. He stares into your eyes as he lets a single, heavy dribble of his saliva fall onto your tongue. Just enough of it to bump up the concentration of the aphrodisiac without knocking you out completely.
“Swallow,” he coos when he closes your mouth for you. Smiles when you do as he says without skipping a beat.
“Atta girl.”
When he finally tears his focus away from your mouth to look at your entire face, he sees everything he wants:
You’ll be in the office, talking to him about this article or that, and the entire time he's just remembering the way you felt under him last night, how your eyes rolled back, how your nails scratched his shoulder blades raw.
His eyes move to your lips, and he can almost hear how you'd moaned his name, the way your labored breath had fanned right into his ear, and the way you’d gasped as he angled his hips so his cock pressed against your g-spot.
Your voice becomes background noise as he remembers how good you'd felt around him. Your warm, tight walls wet as they squeezed his cock, sucking him in, trying to keep him deep in you. And the sounds of it. The wet, obscene squelching combined with the rhythmic slapping of his hips meeting yours...
He's hard before he knows it.
“Clark, are you listening to me?”
Your voice snaps him back to the present moment, back to the bullpen, back to you with your arms crossed and a frown between your eyebrows.
He turns red when he realizes he'd zoned out. “Uh,” he says stupidly, blinking at you. “Sorry. Just...”
“You’re not paying attention,” you accuse, pouting.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, cheeks turning pink. “I just…it’s —” hard. No, let’s not use that word. “— it’s difficult for me to pay attention sometimes. My mind just sort of…goes away.”
“Away where?” you ask, the furrow between your eyebrows deepening.
Clark exhales thickly and glances around to make sure no one is close enough to hear what he’s about to say. “I just can’t stop thinking about…last night.”
He hears the tiny hitch in your breath. “You - you’re really thinking about us having sex right now? I’m talking about something extremely important to my career and you’re just ignoring me, thinking about —?”
Clark gently grabs your upper arms and pulls you a little closer to calm you. “Baby, baby. I’m not ignoring you. It’s not that I’m ignoring you. You just look so beautiful when you’re inspired and determined, and it’s…well, I am just a man.”
You huff, arms still tightly crossed over your chest. “You’re not just a man,” you mumble.
“I am just a man with needs and desires,” he insists. “I’m just Clark Kent in love with you. And everything about you…And, yes, that includes your perfect body.”
That earns him a little reluctant smile from you that you try to hide. “Clark.” Your voice is quiet and firm, an obvious warning, but he can tell he’s getting to you.
“It’s not my fault you’re gorgeous,” he says lowly, leaning a little closer, the warm desire in his lower abdomen starting to build. “Not my fault you have such a beautiful face, and a perfect shape, and the sweetest pussy,” he whispers into your ear.
He feels you shiver and God, now he has to drag you into the office bathroom to fuck you if he wants to be able to focus for the rest of the day.
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Clark Kent masterlist
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𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝 - if you wanna be added to my Clark Kent taglist, lmk <3
ᥫ᭡ thinking about superman clark revealing his identity to you for the first time ever. he nervously fidgeted with his hands, gauging your reaction to the news. there were parts of you that doubted his confession, but everything made sense. everything added up. you’d never seen him without his stupid glasses, he’d be unavailable at the most random times— he was telling the truth.
ᥫ᭡ over time, you’d learned to live with it. the dangers, but also the good. he saved lives for christ’s sake. you couldn’t exactly complain.
ᥫ᭡ but then you learned more about him, his powers, his capabilities.
ᥫ᭡ clark had always been a big man no doubt, but now that you knew the man you saw on tv countless of times was yours, you saw him in a different light. you were dating superman. let that damn sink in!
ᥫ᭡ you picked up on how his hands got clammy when you would watch movies with him, extra beads falling from his forehead when he looked at you more intently. almost like he could see through you.
ᥫ᭡ when he would fuck you, hands on your hips as he rutted his against you, his moans would pick up significantly occasionally when he made no difference to the pace or angle. you were blissfully unaware he was using his x-ray vision to see what he was doing to you. his cock moving in and out of you repeatedly at different paces all throughout the night. “gosh,” he breathed out, closing his eyes. he felt like a pervert. he was looking inside your body without you even knowing but god, what he couldn’t see outside..he saw every detail inside and it drove him over the edge.
ᥫ᭡ or when he let himself completely go, fucking you until you opened your eyes, finding yourself in the air. the first time you were startled, but over time, you realized he could barely help himself. he still apologizes to this day when it happens. “‘m so sorry,” “gosh, i just can’t stop..i’m sorry..”
ᥫ᭡ or when he’d slip your panties off, he’d noticed how your hips jerked involuntarily when the cold air hit your clit. he smiled at that, remembering that he didn’t have to keep your sex completely vanilla. (as if the floating and x-ray vision was normal). with a bit of practice, he’d managed to blow his freeze breath on your clit, giving you immense pleasure that ice cubes back when you were experimenting with yourself couldn’t. he’d have to hold your hips down, blowing between your folds for as long as you begged him before finally eating you out, propping your legs on his shoulders, your hands gripping his curls like there was no tomorrow. “jesus, clark..”
ᥫ᭡ you never thought of leaving clark, even when he revealed the truth to you. he saw the best in everyone and trusted you with that secret, and you kept it. plus, the powers he had? oh, that made the sex so much better.
