★ summary: can’t stop thinking about this tweet. so here’s this!
★ pairing: clark kent x reader
★ warnings: 18+ mdni, smut, no plot just porn, p in v, praise kink, rough sex, squirting, breeding, overstimulation, inappropriate use of x-ray vision
★ word count: 1.2k
You knew Clark was Superman from the start of your relationship, with his metahuman strength and his heart of gold. He was always so tender with you throughout everything, so when you both tiptoed around intimacy, he was ever the gentle giant you’d imagine he’d be. Always making sure you were okay, soft lingering touches, making sweet love to you. He made you feel on top of the world.
In no way were you not enjoying yourself, but sometimes you wanted nothing more than for him to push you into the bed and fuck you senseless. You wanted him to have you drooling in the bed, fucked out of your mind. A few times during sex, you’d ask him to go harder, to pull your hair, and he always obliged. Just too gentle for your liking. He’d move heaven and earth for you, but he was so scared of hurting you. He didn’t know his own strength, and he’d never forgive himself if he was too rough. The one time you asked him to smack your ass, he acted as if you had asked him to throw you through multiple concrete walls.
It was another night of making love, Clark’s head nestled into your neck, your hands gripping his shoulders as he whispered sweet nothings into your ear. It felt amazing as usual, but you had an ache; you needed him to itch.
“Hey, Clark.” You whimpered, pulling his head up to look at him. His thrusts slowed down, making sure you were okay.
“Yeah, honey?” He hummed, his signature dimpled smile beaming at you.
“I need you to fuck me like you hate me.”
As soon as the words left your mouth, his hips stilled inside you, his cock twitching inside of you. Betraying the concerned look lacing his features. “But I don’t hate you?”
“Yeah, honey. Obviously.” A laugh escaped your mouth, running your hands up and down his back. “I just want you to fuck me. I love making love. I love it. But I want it fast. Hard. I can feel you holding back, you won’t break me.”
“I don’t wanna hurt you.”
You pressed a kiss to his cheek, “You’re not gonna hurt me. I trust you with my life.”
“I don’t think you know what you’re asking.” His eyes turned dark, staring down at you with a newfound desire swirling in them.
“I wanna feel you for days. Need you to fuck me silly, please, Clark.” You whined, clenching down on his cock. He was silent, reaching down to grip your thighs, wrapping them around his hips. He braced his hands on the headboard, gripping the wood. Without warning, he thrust up into you so hard all the air escaped from your lungs. It felt like he was in your throat, reaching places he’s never even been before. His hips are pistoning into yours so fast you couldn’t even process it.
“F-fuck Clark, I can’t-” A wanton moan escaped your chest, digging your nails into his skin of steel so hard it hurt your hands.
“Oh, come on. This is what you wanted, right, baby?” He grunted, making you nod, drunk off the feeling. Nothing but the sounds of the bed creaking and the slick sounds of you creaming around his cock. The creaking sounds got louder, and suddenly there was a loud crash. The bedframe splintering underneath Clark’s hands, the bed slowly falling apart around both of you. He shielded you from the debris, never once letting up his pace.
“The bed- fuck-”
“You feel so good, honey. Letting me use you like this.” His eyes were dark, pressing hard kisses against your neck as the bed slowly slumped to the floor. He was so lost inside you, he barely noticed the splintered wood beneath his hands. And he was fucking you too good for you to care about it. Moving to grip your hips harshly, fucking up into your body as if you were nothing but a toy for him.
There was no way you were able to speak with how fast he was going, the only thing alluding to you cumming was your loud whimpers and your cunt squeezing his cock.
“I’m right here, baby,” Clark promised, moving your legs up, determined to fuck into your guts, “Being so good for me, huh? Look at you coming on my cock.”
His eyes didn’t move away from where you both met, a white ring of release forming at the base of his cock. As soon as you were able to get some air into your lungs, you moaned his name over and over.
“C-Clark, I can’t-” Your legs were trembling under his hold, every part of your body was on fire. So overstimulated in the best way. Clark shushed you, letting one of his hands travel down to thumb at your puffy clit.
“Yes, you can,” He cooed, admiring the way you fluttered and shook around him. All you could do was take it, your body greedily sucking him in still. Your second orgasm coming fast, feeling different from before. He tried not to use his x-ray vision on you, but he couldn’t help it. He could see your release growing, pushing against your walls, just begging to be let out.
“W-wait-” You stuttered out, moving your hands to try and slow him down. “I feel like I’m g-gonna-”
He had a mischievous glint in his eye, continuing to hit the spot inside you that had you screaming. Your eyes rolling into the back of your head let him know he achieved his goal, your cunt spurted around him. A deep pleasure rolling through your body, a new sensation that had you cursing, not asking him to do this sooner. The warmth of your release had Clark’s hips stuttering, chasing his own high not far after yours.
He tried to keep his pace, stuttering over your trembling frame. Never once stopping his praises.“Isn’t that good, baby? Knew you could do it.”
“I love you. Love you so much.” You slurred, practically seeing stars.
“O-oh.” He whimpered, his cock twitching inside you. He was mumbling ‘I love yous’ as he watched his cum seep inside your womb, filling you up so much he could feel it leaking on the bed, mixing with where you soaked the sheets. Soon, he was gently flopping his body on top of yours, pressing small kisses to your sweat-lined skin. Both of you are catching your breaths, holding each other in the post orgasmic haze.
Clark felt it before he knew what was happening, his head rattling on your chest. When he looked up, he saw you stifling your giggles. Contagious, Clark was unable to stifle his own laughter, and soon both of you lost it in hysterics.
“Our bed is broken.” You wheezed, looking around to where the bed was now sitting on the floor in a pile of snapped wood. “So fucking worth it though.”
At this, Clark looked up at you, your skin glowing and your face blushing. “I’ll buy you whatever bed you want. I’ll fly to Paris and get you one of those expensive ones. Or I’ll build you one with my own bare hands-” Cutting his romantic rambling off, you smiled down at him. “Maybe after round two? I mean the bed’s already broken..”
things my chronically offline bf does — Clark Kent
summary: clark kent thinks tiktok means the passing of time, you're a (wannabe) influencer. what could possibly happen? answer includes but isn't limited to thirst traps, using your hot bsf to go viral, online anonymous confessions, and one really old cat named bean.
word count: 15k (insane, ik)
content warning: heavy rom-com vibes, heavy on the comedy and ridiculous. heteroerotic friendship, domestic clark & reader (they see each other naked and sleep together & so much more, they're literally disgusting), size difference, reader is a (non famous) influencer but she goes viral thanks to clark not knowing what slay means, clark and reader have no notion of privacy or boundaries around each other, they're also so stupid. heavy fluff, everything is sweet and nothing hurts. an embarrassing amount of slang and memes and tiktok mention (i apologize). this is seriously just crack. oh ALSO protective clark oh em gee i swooned writing that part. lois and jimmy act like creepy twins /aff
notes: this got out of hands, guys. ty for 1k<3 i hope you enjoy! apologies for the slightly rushed ending, i was growing tired with this behemoth of a fic
It’s common knowledge that Clark Kent and technology do not mesh well. He writes all of his drafts on paper. He takes notes on his legal pad with a pencil that he keeps losing, and he uses a cassette recorder for interviews, and he uses an actual camera for pictures. He has a phone, he has a laptop, he just— doesn’t really use them. He doesn’t know how to and doesn’t need to know more than is absolutely necessary (as in how to send emails, how to use Google and how to type his final drafts for proofing).
So anything beyond that, and he’s completely out of his depth. Put him in a complete alien civilization light years away from Earth and he would still be more at ease than if you’d asked him to make a TikTok video and, God forbid, post it.
So really, it only made sense that his best friend was an influencer. You weren’t exactly popular, and you didn’t do it for fame, you just enjoyed sharing your life with the people who stick around. You were a wizard with your phone and could turn any moment into something cinematic.
The two of you were polar opposites. He was the moon, pulled into orbit around you, and it made sense he felt so good whenever he was with you. You were the sun.
He was happy to tag along with you to any of your adventures. Trying out a new restaurant, a new club, vlogging a last-minute trip, trying out PR packages you get.
You’d always been the life of the friendship, and Clark was never afraid of being in your shadow. In fact, he reveled in it. He liked being invisible to others around you, as long as he was seen by you. It was more than finding a distraction so people didn’t look at him for too long and start getting suspicious; it definitely helped, for sure, but it was never what made him want you as his best friend. He couldn’t help it. After all, he was a sunflower. And you were the sun.
Sometimes his colleagues at The Daily Planet didn’t believe him when he talked about you to them, and gave them your username. It didn’t help that he didn’t have any social media so he couldn’t show them that you followed him back. Clark didn’t really care whether they believed him or not.
“It’s not because she has less than a thousand followers doesn’t mean your lie would be more convincing,” Jimmy said with the sageness of a monk. “She’s too pretty for you.” Then, as an afterthought, he added: “No offence, Clark.”
Clark shrugged. “None taken. I know she’s pretty.”
Lois hit Jimmy on the shoulder. “Eve is too pretty for you too but you don’t see me insulting you.”
Clark frowned. “Guys, she’s my best friend, not my girlfriend.”
Jimmy looked at him with pity in his eyes. “Lying about having a best friend is so sad… I didn’t know you were so lonely, Clark. I’ve been failing as a friend.”
Clark just rolled his eyes but didn’t try to convince him, since he didn’t seem like he wanted to be convinced.
“She would love to meet you one day,” Clark added before forgetting. He kept forgetting to. Or maybe, he just wanted to have you all to himself. He’ll never tell.
Jimmy looked at him suspiciously. “Is she just going to be a printed picture of her Instagram feed on a doll?”
Lois and Clark both ignored him.
“If she’s your best friend, she must be a really good person, then. I would love to meet her,” Lois said, before pressing on the follow button. Ding! “Oh. She followed me back already.”
“She knows about you,” Clark said. “She must have recognized you.”
“That was quick,” Lois noticed.
“Yeah,” Clark replied. “She says she’s terminally sick online or something. I never understand her when she says those Internet words.”
Jimmy’s jaw dropped. “He wasn’t lying…” he whispered to himself, mind blown. Which, honestly, he should have seen it coming. Clark was the most honest person he’d ever met. He was incapable of lying to save a life. Jimmy pressed the follow button on his phone too, as if some part of him still wasn’t convinced, and watched with quiet horror as a follow back notification popped. And he couldn’t justify it as you just following back everyone, because you only followed cat and food accounts.
Clark just thought Jimmy was being his weird self again and didn’t pay it too much attention. Honestly, he just took it as a compliment to you, which made him happy. He always felt proud and happy whenever people complimented you, as if he was an extension of you.
“Great, I will call you for the details. She’s gonna love preparing something for the four of us. She’s such a good event planner.”
Of course Clark didn’t text. Not that he didn’t want to, it was just that even the biggest phone he could get was still too tiny for his hands and it made typing a pain in the butt.
“Cool, can’t wait,” Lois said. Jimmy was just staring in the horizon.
Clark smiled. He was happy all of his favorite people were going to meet.
You were waiting for Clark at the Daily Planet’s lobby. You were taking pictures of the regular cat that became an honorary reporter at the office, more exactly.
“Hi Clark,” you brightened when you saw him.
“Hey you,” Clark replied, fondness dripping from his voice until it was sticky and sweet. “How was your day?”
“It was okay, I found this new spot we absolutely have to try together,” you replied, getting on your tiptoes despite your heels to press your lips to the edge of his mouth. Clark smiled instantly, like a switch was flipped.
Some people would say you were too obsessed with image and social media, but Clark knew you better than anyone else. Even if you weren’t an influencer, even if social media and the internet didn’t exist, you would still be the same. You would still take pictures of your day, share your meals with Clark in a spot you really liked, and you would still take video diaries.
“I can’t wait,” Clark replied. “Oh by the way, Jimmy and Lois said yes.”
With his superhearing, he heard Jimmy gasp from somewhere behind. “She’s really real. Wait, I thought he said she was his best friend? Why are they kissing?” Then the unmistakable sound of Lois slapping his shoulder.
He tuned it all out. He would get over his weird crisis later.
You grabbed his hand and dragged him away.
“Oh, yeah, I saw they followed me both. I figured you talked to them.”
Clark squeezed your smaller hand in his.
“What did they think?” you asked curiously.
“Lois said you must be a good person if you’re my best friend. Jimmy… well, I think he really liked you. He said you were way too pretty for me, whatever that means,” Clark replied earnestly.
“He’s an idiot,” you replied. “I’m not too anything for you. I’m just right for you.”
Clark nodded. “Exactly. Perfect for me.”
Clark often offered to learn about internet and what you do, but you just replied, “no it’s fine, don’t worry about it <3” (you made the heart with your hands).
You appreciated his offer, but you knew how all of this made his head turn and how hopeless he was with everything that was even remotely tech-related (don’t even get her started on microwaves and Clark). And quite frankly, you found him cute just the way he was. Like an overgrown, oversized, oblivious but eager puppy.
“You’re sleeping over tonight, right?”
You were asking as if it was a planned event, when in fact Clark wasn’t aware of this until right then and there. But Clark was nothing if not adaptable (he did get adapted to an entirely new and foreign planet when he was just a baby), and nothing if not used to you, so he took it in stride and nodded.
“Mhm,” he replied. “I’ll even make dinner if you want.”
“Deal.”
Walking to your place hand in hand had become routine early on in your friendship and one of the few things Clark would never bring himself to sacrifice. It was home away from home.
“I’m going to the gym tomorrow, you’re coming with me.”
“Okay.”
“Great.”
Clark, being who he is, didn’t need a gym, or at least not one fit for humans, but you asked, so he obeyed.
“What time?”
“Six am.”
That meant you were trying again to renew yourself and to adopt better habits and hobbies. It was something you routinely went through almost every six months. First when it’s the new year, second when it’s June, when you realized you’d been slacking off and not following your new year resolutions, and Clark became your accountability partner.
That title sounded big and full of responsibilities, but Clark didn’t really do anything, really — except show up wherever you went and gently reminded you of your commitments. When it was something really important, like taking your meds, he pressed but other than that, he let you flit through life like the butterfly you were meant to be.
Clark was awake before you, unsurprised to find you pressed against his body, sleeping deeply while holding him like you were scared he was going to flee. Well, considering he was Superman, he guessed you weren’t far off the mark.
With his free hand, he grabbed your phone to check the time since the arm he wears his watch on was currently being repurposed as a body pillow and his heart felt heavy at the thought of disturbing your sleep.
5.15AM. He woke up early, but not too early. Just in time to wake you up so you could enjoy your ‘free time with Clark. That’s what you called cuddling up with him and talking about your dreams before you both had to leave the bed.
“Psst,” he whispered against the crown of your head. “Morning, sleepyhead.”
“No,” you grumbled.
He chuckled softly. “What about your free time with me?”
“Mhmhmhmmm…” you mumbled before shifting position until you were actually cuddling him. “‘m awake,” you said.
He didn’t doubt you. He just thinks that you’re also asleep at the same time.
The both of you stayed like this for half an hour, Clark rubbing his thumb mindlessly on your arm, a quiet and gentle smile on his face while he listened to you ramble about your dream.
“You dreamt I was Batman?” he asked incredulously, swallowing back the laughter that overcame him. “Sweetheart, I’m literally already my own superhero, why would you dream of me as someone else?”
“I don’t know, Clark,” you replied and he didn’t need to look at your face to know you were rolling your eyes. “I didn’t do anything. I was quite literally just a spectator. Don’t shoot the messenger and all that.”
“You’re right. How could I forget you were literally incapable of wrong doing?”
“Mhm,” you hummed. “Better not forget next time.”
You fell back to sleep at six am on the dot. Clark tried to wake you up and remind you of your plans but you declined all attempts with the smooth dexterity of a politician deflecting questions.
“Sleeping with you is its own workout anyway,” he muttered to himself.
Clark quickly left you when he heard someone call for Superman but he came back before you woke up, which didn’t actually say anything about how long he took, since your sleep schedule was as predictable as a string of letters typed by a thousand monkeys on a typewriter.
He was under the shower when you finally woke up and barged in through the bathroom without a care in the world.
“I’m sleepy,” you tell him while peeing.
“Hi sleepy, I’m Clark,” Clark replied while showering.
You chucked the entire roll of TP at him and Clark didn’t even try to avoid it, even though he definitely could have. (You loved Clark dearly, but his dad jokes when you just woke up were unforgivable.)
Morning you was the best kind of you, and it was nice to know that your grumpiness didn’t do anything to erase your lack of privacy, because invasive you was also the best kind of you.
It’s not like there’s anything you didn’t already see.
(To be fair though, you didn’t just start barging in on him when he was naked without a care for his consent, it just… happened.
First it started with you walking in on him changing boxers, dick and everything out. Then it was him accidentally walking on you under the shower (honestly, how he didn’t realize you were under there with all of his gazillion superpowers was beyond the two of you). And then again, you walk in on him because you keep forgetting that Clark’s at your place more often than not, and then after that Clark accidentally used his super vision on you because he thought you were injured.
So you sat him down one day and asked if he minded whenever either of you accidentally sees the other naked and he replied ‘no’, so you asked, ‘would you mind if it wasn’t accidental? Not exactly on purpose but just… not caring at all?’ and he said ‘no’, and you said ‘okay, by the way you have a big shlong’ and that’s basically how it started (after teaching Clark what shlong meant.
Clark only regrets his decision when it’s early in the morning and his hormones are raging and you’re changing in front of him like no one’s watching.)
He was out of the shower by the time you were brushing your teeth.
“You’re not vlogging this morning?” he asked, feeling that same rush of pride he felt whenever he used one of the words you taught him, towel wrapped around his middle. His hair was wet and curled and doing all kinds of swoopy woopy things. His chest was glistening and dripping with water.
“I wanted to but I also didn’t want you to steal my thunder with your naked cameo,” you replied with a floss string between your two front teeth. “Although you would have definitely made me go viral.”
“Ah, my bad,” he replied humorously. “I’ll try to be less… hot under the shower next time.”
You threw the used floss in the bin. “I don’t think that’s possible, unfortunately.”
Clark blushed and the redness followed him right to his neck and collarbones.
You grinned toothily at him so he could inspect your teeth. He grabbed your chin between his index and thumb, and used his thumb to push your lower lip lower. “Mhm…” he hums thoughtfully. “Perfectly flossed. You get a star. Doctors from around the world want you as their client.”
“Yay! Thanks, Clark!”
His lips broke into a happy grin. “You’re welcome. You know, it’s not too late to go to the gym now.”
“I was hoping you wouldn’t say that,” you said. “My past self was crazy. I don’t associate with the likes of her anymore.”
“I see, your past self is being cancelled. Right?”
You burst out laughing before petting the top of his head. “God, I love you Clark. Never change.”
You ended up going to the gym anyway, dressed in your “cuntiest” outfits to “serve” (to serve what? Clark thought you quit being a server a year ago), but all you did was point at things and ask Clark if he could max them all out. Of course he could, and you knew he could, but you asked for a demonstration anyway.
Then, because seeing him succeed flawlessly at every machine (and after attracting every “gym bro” in the vicinity who started asking Clark about powders and training regimen and whatnot, and lowkey looked impressed when Clark replied earnestly to the question of how he became so strong with “By being kind and respectful to everyone”), you decided he now had to do pushups with you sitting crisscross applesauce on top of him.
“But why?”
“I’ve always wanted to know what it felt like to be a barbell,” you replied.
“I think you mean plate, sweetheart.”
“Same difference,” you replied. And of course, Clark was totally convinced.
“Do you mind if I take pictures?” you asked him once you were sitting on him and he was laying on the floor, shirt off.
“You know I don’t,” he replied. He didn’t need to remind you not to post his face anywhere because he trusted you implicitly.
And then he started the pushups with complete ease, because there was no better way for him to spend his day-offs than to go to the gym with your best friend and use her as additional weight.
You took plenty of pictures; some you called aesthetically pleasing and “would do well in tumblr”, others you said were just silly and for fun.
You showed him the pictures while still on his back, your arms on each side of his neck as you scrolled through the pictures for him while he stayed in an isotonic contraction (his muscles didn’t even flail, and it took you almost fifteen minutes to show him everything because you annotated each one.)
“I really like this one,” Clark said, lifting a hand from the floor to point at a picture, still lifting your weight with only one arm.
The picture he picked was one where he looked at the mirror in front of you, and he was obviously looking at you, while you were making a silly face that wasn’t really silly, because it made you look devastatingly pretty. You were also flexing your left arm, winking and tugging your tongue at the camera.
“Solid choice,” you replied, tapping something on the screen. “Definitely one of my favorites too.”
He smiled happily, and then remembered they were in public and he shouldn’t be showing off his strength so much, as much as he wanted to impress you.
So, he pretended to have his muscles locking and asked you to get off, in case anyone was watching. You were always up for a bit of acting with him. You said it made you feel like the sidekick of a hot spy in a film noir.
Clark hung in the side while you took a video of yourself rambling to the camera — he was tall enough that he didn’t worry about his face being caught on camera, but the camera could still pick up your interlaced hands from the angle you held the camera. People would only be able to see his arm swinging and the beginning of his legs.
You were talking about going to the gym and how you earned a big meal after it (though if you asked Clark, he would say you should never feel like you have to earn a meal, and that you could eat anything anytime you wanted if it made you happy).
You set up the phone against the wall so it could take a video of you and the table. Clark was sat across from you, and again, wasn’t visible at all. Not even your face fully showed. Just the bottom half of your face. Your hands did most of the talking as you animated your stories with a floating burger.
The camera captured Clark’s hand across the table, wiping the side of your mouth with a thumb, and your pleased, bashful smile after.
It captured you stealing fries from Clark’s plate, and then Clark sharing half of his fries with you.
It captured your laughter, and then your lips as they moved to form the words: I love you, Clark.
(When you finally uploaded the video to YouTube a while later, people commented:
‘am I the only one who felt like a third wheel throughout the video? I loved it though. Always wanted to be the third to a hot couple’
‘God I see the things you do for others’
‘Guys ik she said he was just her best friend but I’m seriously having doubts rn. Maybe she meant it as in best boyfriend?’
‘You’re so pretty!!!!!! And your bf looks so hot too. Definitely my fav power couple of youtube’
Which then pushed your videos to more people.
You read all of the comments to Clark while he was writing down notes for his next article. His thoughts? “I think they really liked the video. I’m happy for you, sweetheart.”)
You picked a nice coffee shop downtown for your first meeting with Lois and Jimmy. Jimmy couldn’t look you in the eyes in shame.
“I’m so sorry I doubted Clark’s ability to have pretty friends,” he said, before getting elbowed by Lois in the ribs.
“Excuse my friend. He’s a dumbass.”
You took it in stride. You loved them and they loved you. Jimmy helped you take the perfect pictures for your picture dump, Lois and you talked about fashion, and Clark was happy to just step back and watch as three of his five favorite people get along so well.
“How did you guys meet?” Lois asked curiously. She’d been eyeing the way you were both sitting so close to each other it bordered on lap sitting.
“He mistook me for a scarecrow,” you replied.
“We were childhood friends.”
“Clark I love you, but for a journalist you’re really bad at hooking people in,” Lois said. “As for your best friend, she was clearly made to hook people in.”
Clark was too happy to even feel offended, and just let you tell the story. The insult flew right over his head.
It wasn’t anything grand. Clark was in the fields with his parents when he noticed a figure almost his height in the distance, and ran towards it. It was you, standing still with your arms outstretched.
He ran back to his parents and asked if they put a new scarecrow in the fields that looked like a little girl.
Jo and Ma looked at each other concerned before setting off to find this little scarecrow girl.
And the rest was history.
“I still don’t know what you were doing,” Clark confessed at the end of your story. “You won’t tell me.”
You shrugged. “Because I am aloof and mysterious.”
“This raised more questions than it answered,” Jimmy said with a faraway look on his face.
“Good,” you and Clark said at the same time.
“Your friends are really nice. Maybe I should become a journalist too and then become your colleague. That would be so much fun,” you told him after quitting Jimmy and Lois. “What do you think?” You took a sip of your Oreo milkshake you got for take-out.
Clark smiled. “I think you just can’t get enough of me,” he said.
You squeezed his hand. “Yeah, you’re right. I won’t even try to lie.”
He laughed.
He had never realized how his friendship with you could be seen as strange until you were both in college and everyone on campus the two of you were dating. It was common knowledge around all of the campus that you and Clark were the it couple. Even in high school, you’d been both voted prom queen and king, even though you both didn’t even know you were participating. Clark didn’t regret it though, because he got to wear a crown alongside with you and dance. It was one of his fondest memories with you.
“Friends don’t act like that,” people would say. No one would ever be able to understand the bond you two have, so he doesn’t bother replying or trying to explain. Besides, what you have between the two of you was special, and he wanted to keep it that way.
But Clark supposed there was some part of truth to that. Lois and Jimmy were his best friends too, but he would never cuddle in a bed with them, as much as he loved them. He also wouldn’t even dream of letting them peck him on the lips, or, God forbid, walk in on him under the shower.
If this friendship was considered weird, then he was happy to be weird with you. Besides, nothing he could ever do would be weirder than being an actual alien pretending to be human. Or stumbling through your window into your apartment, jaw dislocated and nose bleeding.
“Clark? Is that you?” you called out from the kitchen.
He closed his eyes. Coming here was a bad idea, because he hated the thought of worrying you, but there was also nowhere else in the world he would rather be. “Yeah,” he replied, voice distorted because of his jaw. He heard you close the lid on a sauce pan and wipe your hands on a kitchen towel before hearing the soft pads of your feet walking into the living room.
“Hey, what did I say about tracking blood and mud in my apartment?”
Your words sounded mad but your voice betrayed your worry. You dropped the kitchen towel and reached him in quick strides. He was sitting on the floor against the wall, and you fell on your knees, hands hovering over his jaw, unsure whether you could touch him in this state.
“Sorry,” Clark replied. “Will remember for next time.”
“There won’t be a next time because you’re going to stop letting bad guys hit you, okay?”
He laughed, even if it hurt to. Of course you said it as if it was that easy. It wasn’t, but Clark would make it so.
“Stop laughing at me,” you chided, even as you inspected his nose. “It doesn’t look broken, so that’s good.”
“It healed on the way here. Perks of being Superman.”
“Stop acting like nothing’s wrong or I’ll break your nose myself, and I’ll make sure your healing factor is too busy to handle your nose first.”
“Wow,” he said. “Such violence coming from such a tiny little human.”
You grabbed his jaw without a warning and snapped it back into place.
“Golly, woman! Warn a guy first, will you?” he yelped indignifyingly, rubbing his smarting jaw, before moving it left and right to make sure it was still working. He didn’t need to worry because you were a professional by now, ever since you were both fourteen and you started playing nurse for a Clark who was discovering his powers and trying each day a new way to test his abilities.
“If I warned you, you would never be ready,” you replied, and Clark smiled sheepishly at that. You were right. Despite him being the strongest human on Earth, his pain tolerance was subpar, and he always chickened out before anything like that. Usually, you would at least fake a countdown. “And besides, that’s what you get for making fun of me.”
He pouted. “I’m sorry baby,” he said, batting his eyelashes at you.
“Ugh! This is so unfair,” you groaned, before bending at his height and pressing your lips against his pout in a quick peck. “I hate you.”
“I love you too,” Clark replied, not in the least bit remorseful for guilt-tripping you, basking in the bliss of the feeling of your lips against his, as fleeting as it was.
You pinched his bruised nose and stood back up.
“Ow, ow, ow!”
“Don’t even try to talk to me for the next five minutes. I’ll be too busy hating you.”
He was behind you before the five minutes even were up, wrapping his arms around your waist, still pouting. “Why are you so mean to me?” he asked, cheek pressed against the top of your head. He was still in his dirty Superman suit; he hadn’t even taken off his boots yet.
You were trying really hard to ignore him. It was funny, and Clark couldn’t keep up the wounded act any longer. His shoulders were shaking with barely suppressed mirth.
“Message received, baby. I’ll let you be for five minutes. In fact, I’ll let you be for thirty minutes.”
He used that time to clean up the mess he’d left behind (superheroing wasn’t a clean job) and finally take a shower. He tried not to notice how you kept pretending you forgot something in the bathroom while he was showering. First, it was your glasses, which you hadn’t even found, then you had to check a pimple on your face, and then it was your makeup, which you needed to retouch.
“You know,” he said, voice barely heard over the sound of the stream of water. “I’m starting to think you’re just finding any excuses to come check on me.”
You shot him a dark look. “You said you weren’t going to bother me for thirty minutes.”
“I’m not bothering you, but you are bothering me.”
He realized his mistake before the words even finished leaving his mouth. You gasped.
“See if I ever bother you again,” you said, turning on your heels.
Clark groaned, before shutting the water off and grabbing a towel to wrap around his hips and chased after you, dripping water everywhere but unable to care because he just wanted to catch before you locked yourself in your room (and coincidentally blocking him from getting his clothes) and started listening to heartbreak songs at full volume.
“Nooo,” he whined, “you know I love it when you bother me! Please don’t ever stop!”
“Nuh uh,” you replied, escaping his hand narrowly.
“Oh come on, are you really going to sulk at me for that? And why were you so mean to me anyway? Ever since I got here, you were being grumpy, which, don’t get me wrong, I love it, but I don’t understand why, did I do something wrong?”
“Oh I don’t know, maybe it’s the fact that you were injured again as Superman, you don’t take it seriously when I’m worried, you make fun of me when I tell you to be more careful, and you tracked blood everywhere! You know I hate blood! Stupid blood! And your blood isn’t even normal, it’s alien blood!”
You still didn’t stop walking but now the two of you were walking in circles until you were the one chasing him now. It was a ridiculous sight, but it wasn’t an unusual occurrence at your household.
“Wait, what do you mean by alien blood?”
“Your blood doesn’t come off easily, you know that! Remember when I was trying to scrub your blood out of the rug and I kept mixing any chemicals I could find and accidentally made chloroform?”
Clark felt silly for entertaining for even one second the terrifying thought that you thought of him differently, and his shoulders dropped. He stopped walking. And he did remember that time. Of course he did. He’d been sick with worry his muscles had locked in place for a few seconds before he finally spurred into action and got you to a safe place with fresh air and threw away everything else before it did more damage.
He’d made you sleep over at his place for a week to make sure the smell had completely left the apartment.
“Baby, I’m sorry, I know you hate blood, but I really wasn’t thinking straight, and I just wanted to see you, and it made everything else disappear. It’s not an excuse however, and I apologize for it. And I’m also sorry for not taking you seriously when you’re worried about me, it’s just… I’m not laughing at you, it’s just… it’s really sweet how you’re always so worried about me, and you always get so endearing when you lecture me, I just can’t help myself.”
You sniffed. “Okay, fine. I forgive you. And I’m sorry for being so mean to you today. It’s not really because of you. I’m just so irritated these days and lashing out makes me feel better, even though I shouldn’t.”
Clark’s heart instantly broke at your small voice, and gathered you in his arms. “No need to apologize, sweetheart. I gave you a good reason to get annoyed at me, it was my fault.”
“It’s always your fault,” you mumbled, voice muffled by his chest.
He snorted through his nose, unable to help himself. “Yes, baby. It’s always my fault, and I’m sorry.”
“Mhm, and you’re taking me out tonight.”
“Okay, baby. Anything you want.”
There was a comfortable silence before you said, “I think your towel just fell.”
Clark couldn’t look at you for the rest of the day without going as red as his cape in the face and you laughing at him every single time.
“It was time it happened, you know? It’s just the natural course of events.”
You pretended it was fine, but Clark could tell you were embarrassed a little too and that knowledge comforted him a little.
You were laughing at him again. Because he just took out his pocket notebook from his backpocket so he could make a note out of something he wanted to look up later. And he had a tiny pencil that came with it.
“You’re so—” you shook your head.
“An old soul?” Clark offered helpfully as he closed his notebook and slid it back in his pocket.
“Chronically offline, I was going to say, and it’s crazy how even your words reflect how chronically offline you are.”
Clark smiled. He liked it when you teased him, because it meant you liked him, even if he had ten billion other proofs that you liked him.
“I’m going to say words and you’re going to say the first thing that comes to mind, okay?”
“Let’s do it.”
He moved his upper body so that he could fully face you, giving you all of his attention.
“Serve.”
“Tennis.”
“Eat.”
“Food.”
“Slay.”
“Dragons.”
“Flop.”
“Flip flop.”
“Tik Tok.”
“Clock.”
Your face got progressively red as you tried not to burst out laughing.
“Do you know what rizz means?”
“Uh… not really, but I remember Lois telling Jimmy she didn’t understand how he got so much rizz. Is it… freckles? He has a lot of freckles.”
You broke into laughter. “Oh you’re so cute, Clark. I just want to eat you up. In a soup. Like wonton soup but it’s Clark soup.”
“Thank… you?”
“You’re welcome, babe.”
Clark Kent was a mild-mannered, soft-spoken, respectful young man. It’s a truth universally acknowledged. Despite his stature and his size, no one had ever seen him use it in a way to cause harm rather than help. Sure, they’d seen him climb on top of a tree to save a kitten, help lift things from one floor to another, but they’d never seen him use that strength against someone else.
And no one ever will. Not even you. Clark takes great mesures to make sure that it stays that way. He’ll do anything to protect you from anything that could upset you and if it’s truly important, he won’t tell you about it. Why would he ruin your day when he was perfectly capable of handling everything? He was happy to handle everything else while you were busy enjoying yourself, like now.
You weren’t even drunk — you hated alcohol and besides, Clark couldn’t get drunk either so it wouldn’t be fun for him to be the only one sober — but you were feeling the music, and talking to someone, looking gorgeous and in your element in your dress. You looked stunning. Not just because your dress was pretty — though it was — but because you were radiating with joy. You loved going out and having fun and dancing to a music that reverberated deep in your ribcage.
“Hi Clark!” you screamed over the music, even if he could have easily heard you mumble it ten feet away in the middle of fireworks. “You having fun?”
“I am,” he called back.
You grabbed him by his hands and tugged him against you. “Come on, let’s dance.”
“Oh, no, you know I don’t do any of that.”
You snorted. “If it’s just because you’re embarrassed of your dance moves, I won’t judge, I promise. I’ve already seen them all anyway.”
“It’s not that…” he countered weakly. It was exactly that. His gracefulness as Superman unfortunately did not translate to when he was Clark Kent, and coupled with his height and size, he was an actual public hazard. He didn’t want to accidentally bump into someone or, God forbid, step on your feet. He knew you wouldn’t care, but he did, and it made him feel bad.
You huffed. “Fine. I’m gonna go dance with that hot guy over there, then. He’s been trying to talk to me for like an hour but since I thought you were going to dance with me… anyway, it’s his lucky day, bye Clarkie,” you said, before sauntering over to the guy who, Clark had to admit, was attractive.
He watched you talk with him with an unnamed feeling in the pit of his stomach, and he forced himself to take a sip of his water. Maybe he should have gone with you.
But then you were back already, not even ten minutes later. You said you just didn’t “vibe” with him, but Clark suspected it was because you missed him.
“Let’s go home,” he whispered against the crown of your head. “I was getting tired anyway.”
“Bollocks,” you replied in a fake posh accent. “You never get tired.”
He hummed. “True. I just wanted to go home with you.”
“Then let’s go home.”
The streets of Metropolis were half-lit. It was a Friday night in the summer so everyone was still out, despite the late hour. He had your hand in his and you were skipping on the pavement, heels clicking, arm swinging.
He loved you best when you were like this. Happy and blissful and totally unaware of the rest of the world, because you trusted him to have your back, even if you weren’t entirely aware of the many ways he’s had your back.
“I hate the subway,” you muttered, scanning your metro card against the reader.
“Well, you refuse to fly you home, and also walk home so,” Clark replied patiently.
“Should have taken a taxi.”
“And complain about how it’s expensive all the way home?”
“You know, Clark, I don’t think I appreciate how much you know me. Maybe it’s time we start putting some distance between the two of us.”
Clark didn’t need to reply, he merely looked down at the way you were literally pressed against him until there was not a single inch of space left between the two of you.
“Shut up,” you grumbled.
The subway was full despite the late hour so the both of you had to keep standing. Well, Clark had to, but you leaned against him, putting most of your weight against him. He loved it.
It happened when there were only five stops left.
You were rambling to Clark about something even you wasn’t sure about it, when Clark noticed the man behind you who had been trying to get closer for the past five minutes.
His reaction was swift but controlled. Making sure your attention was elsewhere, namely fixating on the bright lights announcing the stations left, he grabbed the man’s wrist in a tight enough grip that it was uncomfortable, but not tight enough to break anything — yet.
“Hey, baby, can you explain to me what Instagram again?” he asked you, voice soft and sweet.
“Again?! You do realize it’s been—“
He tuned you out, not out of malice, just so he could focus his energy into the man who thought sticking his phone underneath your skirt was a good idea.
The man’s eyes looked up in unwarranted anger, ready to yell at whoever dared touch him, but it quickly switched into fear once he saw the stony expression on Clark’s face — and the height and muscle he had on him.
Clark knew he shouldn’t, but he squeezed his grip tighter until his super hearing could pick up the sound of his joints creasing against each other.
“Are you even listening to me, Clark? This is your problem, because you say you want to understand but then you always zone out even before I even start.”
“Sorry darling, there’s just a… bug that’s been bothering me.”
“Silly, just swat it away, and then give me your full attention.”
Clark grinned, and twisted the man’s wrist until it sprained. Just enough to make him second guess himself next time he tried to pull this stunt again — to you or any other unsuspecting girl who may not have Superman by their side. The phone dropped and Clark ‘accidentally’ stepped on it.
“Perfect idea, my smart girl.”
The rest of the ride home went without any other problem, but Clark still couldn’t for the life of him understand what Instagram was.
You passed out in bed before Clark even took off his pants.
He sighed at the sight, but without any real annoyance. He supposed your clothes were comfortable enough to sleep in, but he gathered your makeup wipes from the bathroom.
You mumbled something intelligible when the mattress dipped underneath his weight as he crossed a leg on the bed and sat down, and he smiled. Even unconscious, you were endearing.
He poured some product in the cotton before he wiped your face with it gently. He did the same with another cotton wipe and focused on your eyes this time, removing the mascara and eyeliner he loved so much that made your eyes look even bigger and shinier.
He threw everything away and then got into bed behind you. Sleep had never felt sweeter than when he slept with you in his arms.
Things my chronically offline bsf does
“What’s this?” Clark asked, blinking at the screen you just shoved in his face as if you were afraid he was going to somehow miss the glowing bright box. He was drinking his glass of milk when you walked in the kitchen in a flurry of excitement.
“It’s an idea for a TikTok,” you explained. It probably explained it for most people, but it only left Clark even more puzzled. He knows you explained it to him, multiple times, but he keeps forgetting.
“What’s bee-ess-eff?”
“Best friend. It’s you. You’re my chronically offline best friend. I think the world needs to know about this.”
“Uh… sure?” He wasn’t sure why the world needed to know the things he did, but he wasn’t one to not show you support whenever he can, so he went along with it. “What sort of things do I do?”
“Take notes on an actual notepad.”
“That’s normal, why would they care?”
“You use physical maps.”
“They’re fabricated for a reason!”
You ignored him again. “You print recipes instead of following them on your laptop. Wait, let me correct that. You ask me to print you the recipes because you still haven’t figured it out.”
He blushed at that. “But it’s just so much easier that way! I like having everything I need right in front of me. I don’t want to have to scroll or zoom in or whatever else it is.”
“Mhm,” you replied, unconvinced. “I still think it makes for a really funny TikTok video, so. I’m posting it.”
“Well… okay. Sure. Maybe someone in the comment section will explain to me why it’s so funny.”
You snorted. “I love you, Clark.”
He brightened up, confusion leaving his face. This, he knew. This, he was used to. “I love you, sweetheart. Let me know when you upload it. I want to read comments with you.”
The TikTok was forgotten for a bit. Life got in the way, you got distracted by other shinier, newer, better things, and it was deadline season for Clark, and crime seemed to have multiplied overnight.
So, it wasn’t long before he and you finally got to reading the comments.
“Clark, you’re a famous man,” you preamble.
He paused mid-slurp of his chicken noodles. “Huh?”
“The video blew up.”
Clark instantly looked concerned. “What? Are you okay?”
“Yes, silly. It means the video went viral.”
“It went where?”
“Ugh! Whatever. You’re famous. I got like 35k comments.”
Clark knew what going viral meant. He was just being a little jerk, and you were so used to him being actually that obtuse that the joke flew right over your head.
But the number made him pause. “That many? Where do these people come from?”
“All around the world. Do you want me to read the comments for you or not?”
Clark placed his chopsticks down and stapled his fingers, as if he was getting ready for an important meeting. “Let’s hear it.”
You cleared your throat, readying yourself to start reading some sort of royal decree. “Him having the actual notepad from old iPhone noteapp is taking me out.”
Clark was frowning, not upset, just trying to understand. “Okay, but where is my notepad taking them out?”
“Do you actually want to know or do you prefer living in bliss?”
“Uh… is it bad?”
“No, I just don’t know if you want to preserve your ignorance.”
“Oh. Explain this one. I’m intrigued.”
You did, and he cracked a smile when he finally got it. You kept reading him some comments, explaining them when needed.
“Someone said, this is the only person who would probably survive a nuclear fallout.”
You snorted at that one, knowing that the commenter couldn’t possibly realize just how close to the truth they were.
“How did they know?”
“It’s a figure of speech, honey.”
“Oh. Okay, next one.”
“I am lowkey jealous of him. I bet he is happy and healthy and has clear skin.”
“Could you reply to them?”
“Yeah. What do you want to say?”
“Tell them that if they have questions about how I live, they can ask me. Or I guess, direct message you.”
“If I do that, everyone will flood my DMs but fine. The things I do for you… okay, done. Next. Bet he pays all his bills by check too with a crying emoji.”
Clark frowned. “Why are they sad? Did I make them sad?”
“A crying emoji is basically laughter, don’t worry.”
“Weird. Next.”
“This guy’s got the world’s cleanest internet footprint. Even rainbolt wouldn’t be able to find him.”
“Who’s rainbolt?”
“A dude who’s really good at finding locations in the world with the tiniest picture.”
“Oh.”
Sometime between the first comment and the last one, you’d ended up on his lap, and he’d leaned back against his chair to give you more space.
“What is this one?”
“I hope he knows he’s iconic,” you read out loud.
“Oh. That’s really sweet. I am iconic, thank you. But so are you.”
You smiled, pleased before bursting into laughter. “Oh you’re gonna hate this.”
“Uh oh. Lay it on me.”
“Chronically offline but chronically FINE,” you said, barely able to read it with a straight face. “I should have known people were going to lose their mind over you.”
“I’m fine? As in, nice to look at?”
“Yes, honey. They’re saying you’re hot.”
“Oh. How many of them?”
“That comment alone got fifty thousand likes.”
“Gosh. The Internet is a scary place.”
You kept reading comments, giggling to yourself.
He can write me a letter any time.
I would learn how to use a rotary phone for him.
I’m getting a pigeon just so he can start sending me letters.
“Unlucky for them, you’re all mine.”
Clark smiled, pleased and smug. That’s right. He was yours.
You started including him more in your TikToks, partly because people demanded more of him, but mostly because you enjoyed doing things with him.
You posted another one:
things my bsf does for me because he’s just built like that
Ever since they met, Clark had just felt more inclined to do things for you. He was raised that way, yeah, but it was more than that.
Clark didn’t think there was any door he’d let you open when he was around. Paying for you had always been second nature to him, just like kissing your forehead whenever he was happy. Holding your hands started out because you wanted to hold his hand, but he kept the habit. Now he couldn’t go anywhere with you without holding your hand.
If anyone asked why, he wasn’t sure he would be able to explain why. He just felt like it. Just like walking on the side of the road, or gently guiding you with a hand to the small of your back.
He didn’t see anything out of the ordinary in the things you picked, but somehow the internet had a lot of things to say about it. Surprisingly, they were all nice.
May this kind of friendship kidnap me (What?!)
Is someone going to tell them? (Tell them what?)
I don’t think they’re aware they’re dating. (Clark would like to believe that he would know whether he was dating someone or not.)
THEY SLEEP TOGETHER?!? (Yeah? How else would they cuddle then?)
I feel so bad for their partners. (Clark and you haven’t dated anyone ever, so the worry was appreciated but unwarranted.)
I’m struggling to find a good bf because girls like her are hoarding the good men (What?)
Girl you’re living the life. Where can I find me a man like that? (In corn fields.)
THAT SHOULD BE ME… holding your hand (Oh! Clark recognizes that song.)
Clark didn’t say anything as you wedged your head between his arm and forearm, using it as a sort of prop, only watched in confusion as you took a picture of it using the reflection on the train’s windows.
“It’s for my collection,” you helpfully added.
Your collection of pictures of the two of you. Picture of your hand against his, another one of you flexing your arm next to his relaxed biceps, his hand wrapped around your waist. He never really understood why, but he didn’t need to understand it to feel a sort of understated satisfaction and pride at the sight of the two of you together, your difference in size so pronounced. When asked about it, you merely said ‘Tumblr’s gonna go crazy’ as if it explained everything.
Clark didn’t know who Tumblr was, but he felt bad for them.
But like anything else that you did or said, Clark didn’t need to understand it to support it.
During lunch break, Clark was swamped by Lois and Jimmy who stood over his desk like two very nosy sentinels.
“Did you see your best friend’s new post?”
Clark clicked out of a tab before peering up at his two other best friends through his thick glasses. “Uh… she didn’t show me anything, so I wasn’t aware she uploaded something new. Why? Did she?”
“Oh no,” Lois said, way too normally. “We, uh, we were just wondering if she was going to post something soon.”
“Yeah, we became huge fans. We can’t get enough of her posts,” Jimmy supplied.
Clark beamed. “Oh, that’s really sweet. She’s going to be so happy hearing that. I’ll definitely let you guys know if she ever wants to post something new on the TikTok.”
“Cool, cool,” Jimmy said in his usual shifty way.
“Wanna go out for lunch with us?” Lois asked.
“Uh… sure,” Clark replied with a nod. You were busy that day, so it wasn’t like he had anything planned with you.
Clark wasn’t much of a talker. Around his loved ones, he preferred listening. He couldn’t get enough of it.
Jimmy was talking about his latest date with Eve, a really sweet girl who kind of reminded Clark of you, because she was an influencer too.
Lois talked about her latest investigation against Luthorcorp. You could take her out of the office but you couldn’t take the journalism out of Lois. It’s how Lois and him had become friends when Clark first joined the Daily Planet.
“How are things with her?” she asked once the conversation trailed off and Clark smiled, always happy to talk about you.
“Good, we’re actually going to the movies tonight. I can’t wait.”
Lois slurped loudly on her Oreo milkshake.
“The new horror movie?” Jimmy asked. “Eve and I went to see it last week. It was really good but I think Eve forgot she had her own seat.” He rolled his eyes.
“Eve deserves so much better,” Lois sighed longingly.
“Hey! You said you weren’t gonna say stuff like that to me!”
Lois shrugged. “I lied.”
Clark watched them bicker happily. Weirdly enough, it reminded him of his own parents bickering together.
Clark raised a brow at your look. “Lazy night tonight?”
You were dressed in Clark’s old hoodie that still hung loosely on you and a pair of sweatpants (not his, unfortunately), and your hair was tied haphazardly into a bun. “Mhm,” you grunted. “I looked at my closet and it looked back at me and then I stared back and I realized I was way too lazy tonight to dress up properly. So, you get this.”
“Well, not that you asked, but I still think you’re gorgeous like this. Actually, I think I like you better like this, wearing my shirt.”
“Possessive much, huh?”
Clark rubbed the back of his hand with a sheepish smile. “Ah, well…”
Clark liked going to the cinema with you. He liked buying you overpriced snacks just because you loved them, and he loved it when you inevitably get tired mid-showing and lay your head against his shoulder. Or when you grow bored with the movie and start playing with his hand instead, sending shivers down his spine when you caress the back of his hand with a feather-light touch.
“This movie is so lame,” you grumbled, hand digging into Clark’s popcorn.
Most of all, he just loved you. Even when you were being a harsh critic.
Clark’s eyes crinkled as he laughed. “It’s a children’s movie, sweetheart. What did you expect?” he whispered back.
“Even kids deserve quality! They need to watch good movies at the earliest so that they learn to appreciate good cinema.”
Clark snorted. He usually tried not to be so noisy in the cinema but the room was filled with approximately twenty children who were all screaming or crying or making some sort of noise. His snort flew under the radar.
“Have you always been this passionate about children movie?”
“I was a child once too, Clark. This is very important to me.”
Clark barely resisted the urge to grab your hand, buttery and salty, and press a kiss to it.
Clark cannot exist without you, but Clark thinks that you could exist without him, you just choose not to.
“Clark,” you said one day, phone in one hand and Clark’s arm in the other. “My favorite bubble tea shop is offering free drinks for couples on Valentine’s day. We have to go.”
Clark knew that bubble tea was your favorite, so it was easy to agree. “I’m not sure they count best friends as couples, though.”
“Oh Clark, you dummy. We’re going to go there as a couple. I got us matching outfits. We’re going to be the cutest couple ever.”
Clark heard matching outfits and his heart hammered inside his chest. He was no stranger to matching outfits. It was you, after all, who introduced them to him.
It had started out small: friendship bracelets, then necklaces, then clay rings they made together.
Then one day you’d come across matching beanies and bought them on an impulse, because they made you think of him. Clark had really loved the beanie. His was red and blue, because of course it was. Yours had been pink and black.
From then on, there were no more limits to what you would consider matching. You’d even made him exchange sim cards holders so that yours became black and his pink.
A full matching outfit had always been the next natural course of action.
“Wouldn’t that be… lying?” he said, smiling sheepishly. As much as he loved the idea of wearing matching outfits with you and helping you get free boba, he wasn’t so sure he wanted to help you commit fraud.
“Clark, think about it. We regularly go on date together. Your toothbrush is next to mine in my bathroom. We celebrate anniversaries. We sleep in the same bed. These are all things couples do.”
“Yeah? But we’re not a couple.”
“They don’t have to know that! We’ll just let the facts speak for themselves.”
“Well…”
Clark Kent was about to commit fraud in the name of love friendship.
You got your free drinks because nothing could stand in the way between you and your favorite drinks with pearl shaped tapioca inside.
“Hey, Kat,” you said, greeting the cashier by name as if you guys were long lost friends. “Can you help me out?”
Kat had a confused smile, but she also looked intrigued. “Sure?”
You hook a thumb towards Clark. “He’s been sleeping in my bed for close to a year now, and he makes me breakfast every day, but he refuses to believe we’re dating.”
Clark’s entire face went beet red with sheer embarrassment. “H-Hey!”
Your grin could put to shame the Cheshire cat’s smile.
Kat snickered. “Oh boy, he’s got it bad, isn’t he?”
You showed her your matching clay rings. “Look at this. We made them together ten years ago. And now because he refuses to admit we’re together, I won’t be able to get my free drink.”
Kat’s eyes went big, before looking at Clark like he was really dumb. “Is he blind?” she asked you while looking at him.
“Well, they do say that love makes you blind.”
Oh you were good, and you were such a menace, and Clark wasn’t sure his face was ever going to be able to go back to a normal shade after this.
“Was this really necessary?”
“No, not really,” you admitted, taking a large sip from your straw. Your drink was pink, because of course it was. It’s Valentine’s day, after all. “But it was fun. And I technically didn’t say lie.”
“You’re going to be the death of me,” he whimpered.
“You love me.”
“I do. Unfortunately for me.”
“What was that?”
“Nothing, sweetheart. Enjoy your drinks. They’re tainted with the taste of my mortification.”
“Yummy. Extra delicious.”
Contrary to popular belief, Clark Kent was a menace too. He just hid it really well, and only let it show around you.
It was stupid, really. He came across a joke store and he went inside for some reason. He thought he would find something silly or cute for you. Maybe matching disguises.
But then he found a disturbingly realistic cockroach and before he knew it, he was out of the store with a bag and three dollars missing from his wallet.
He already felt so guilty, but also very excited.
Clark was pretty humans all over the globe, metahuman or not, had been able to hear your scream when you noticed the cockroach right next to your eyes.
“Clark!”
Your first scream was one of fear.
Another thing about Clark Kent was that he had a terrible poker face. It’s why you loved playing poker against him.
But it also meant that he was the worst at playing pranks, because guilt always showed on his face. Ergo, you knew instantly.
“Clark!”
Your second one was of anger and Clark smiled, ducking his head to the side. “Good morning?”
“Oh Clark, I hate you.”
But Clark didn’t need his enhanced vision to see the way your lips quirked up as you struggled to not smile.
“Are you free Friday night?” you asked him, peeking your head inside the bathroom where Clark was showering. Thankfully he was only showering and not doing anything else.
“Uh, sweetheart, you know I’m always free Friday nights,” he said, wiping a hand over his face to see you better.
You snorted. “Oh yeah. Forgot you were such a nerd. Oh well, consider yourself not free anymore. You know, you look really cute with your hair pushed back.”
He flushed.
“You blush down there too. Interesting.”
You closed the door behind you and he let his forehead bump against the wall with a dull thud. Oh, he was in so much trouble.
If Clark Kent stopped being dishonest with himself, he would finally let himself admit that he liked you more than normal friends, and more than their own brand of friendship.
His feelings for you ran as deep as the ocean, as old as the birth of his civilization. From the day he thought you were a scarecrow, to his first kiss. His first kiss was with you, of course. It was your first too. You said you wanted to know what the fuss was all about.
Fireworks had erupted the moment your lips touched his, and never stopped once whenever he saw you.
Clark Kent was really in love. With his first kiss, his first friend, his first love, you.
And it wasn’t as scary as people made it out to be, honestly. Nothing was scary when you were there.
When he first started getting his powers, it was scary but you were there. You made it not scary.
When Pa Kent had a health scare, it was really scary, but you were there. You made it not so scary.
Point was, Clark wasn’t afraid of the depth of his feelings for you, because he had blind trust in you. (And something told him that you felt the same.)
Even if you dragged him to random parties on a random Friday after work. It felt weird to spend eight hours cooped up behind his laptop and then find himself in a nightclub that same night, wearing clothes that were way too fitted.
“I need you to wear something good,” you told him before dragging him into an impromptu shopping spree. It was planned for you, but it was a surprise for him. Really, who was he to tell you no?
Your whistling and happiness were worth wearing something out of his zone of comfort.
“You never leave your drink unattended, okay?” you warned him seriously.
Clark only nodded sagely, even though he was fighting the stupid grin that was threatening to break on his face. It was cute how you worried for him, even though drugs literally had no effect on him.
“No drinks left unattended, got it. And I don’t talk to strangers. Unless they’re cute.”
“Don’t sass me, young man. I’m doing this for you.”
His smile turned softer. “I know. Thank you, sweetheart.”
It was a regular nightclub, like any other. You wanted to taste their drinks, take pictures, have fun. Clark was used to these nights. You were there for the fun, he was there for you.
He didn’t usually dance but there was something different about tonight. He remembered the way he felt when you went to dance with someone else, and he didn’t want to make the same mistake twice.
He waited until you finished your drink to ask, “Can I have this dance?”
You looked at him with eyes wide like saucers. “Oh em gee!” you shrieked. “I thought you would never ask!”
If he’d known how happy it would make you, he wouldn’t have kept refusing you.
He wasn’t really used to dancing, and the only thing that came to mind when he thought of dancing was slow dancing. So that’s what he had in mind when he asked you. But then you finished his glass in one go and pressed yourself to him until there was no more space left, and the rest of the world disappeared.
He could feel everything. The press of the swell of your breasts against his chest, your hands gliding along his waist, the intoxicating smell of your lavender perfume.
Oh yes. This was a nightclub. This was how people danced. He swallowed thickly. Maybe he chose the wrong time to ask for a dance.
Your hands are now caressing your neck, up to your hair, your head turned to the side. You were one with the song, and Clark was frozen in place, hands hovering in the air, suddenly unsure whether he was allowed to touch you.
“Aw, Clarkie, getting shy on me now?” you teased him when you noticed him unmoving. You grabbed his hands and placed them on each side of your waist. “Just follow the music. Sway from one side to the other.”
He tried, but God did he feel stiff and watching you in your element didn’t help. The friction of your dancing body against him was doing something to his nerves.
“Look at how the man are dancing with the girls,” you whispered. “Try doing the same.”
He looked, and immediately averted his eyes. “I can’t do that,” he whispered in panic. “It’s… borderline graphic!”
You laughed. “Oh Clark. You’re adorable. I’m gonna grind on you,” you said with that same look on your face that said you were up to no good, and that Clark couldn’t even dream of surviving you.
“Please don’t,” he whimpered in a tiny voice. “At least not here, where everyone can see.”
You paused at that, your teasing smile frozen in place, and Clark watched with barely muted satisfaction at how he’d so easily rendered you speechless.
But then your eyes turned mischievous, and Clark realized his mistake. “I like the sound of that.”
He groaned, throwing his head back. You used that moment of weakness to press your lips along the lines of his neck. Not a kiss, not a bite. Just the soft press of your lips against his neck.
And then you screamed when your favorite song came on, and it was like that moment never even happened.
“This is my song!” you squealed excitedly.
You were so drunk.
Clark Kent didn’t mind taking care of you when drunk. He would like to say it was because he always wants to take care of you, but the truth was a little more selfish than that.
Sure, drunk you was a menace, but when you got tired and sleepy and drunk, you were always so sweet. So clingy, so desperately needy and Clark absolutely loved to take care of you in that state. You were already clingy on a normal day, but drunk and sleepy was a whole other level. If he didn’t have his Superman strength, he would never be able to extricate you from his body. You turned into an oversized, drunk, needy koala. Clark leaving for just one minute to bring you water was enough to send you into an inconsolable state, so he learned to improvise. Again, he was thankful for his superstrength allowing him to lift you with one arm while he took care of things.
Tonight was no different. By the time you both reached your apartment, you were already dozing off to sleep but fighting it, your entire chest wrapped around Clark’s arm.
“Clark, you’re staying the night, right?” you asked, voice muffled and words slurred.
“Yes,” he replied, fighting hard a smile, turning his own copy of your keys in the lock.
“And you’re staying with me, right?”
“Yes,” he replied. This time he couldn’t help the smile. He helped you walk inside.
Your bottom lip quivered, tears already forming in your eyes. You let go of him. “You hate me!”
Clark’s eyes went wide. “What? Where the heck did that come from? I just said I was staying with you.”
“Yes, but you sounded like you hated me when you said it,” you replied, voice already watery.
“Gosh no, what? I could never love you. I love you. Always have, always will.”
“So why did you stop calling me petnames? You hate me!”
You broke into tears in the middle of your living room and for the first time since ever, Clark felt utterly helpless. He hadn’t even noticed that he’d stopped.
“Oh baby, is this what it’s about?” he cooed, and his heart broke when you nodded pitifully. “Come here sweetheart.”
He opened his arms and you launched yourself into them. He closed his hold around you, his arms wide enough so he could hide all of you, and protect you. Your shoulders shook with the strength of your sob, and once again he found himself wondering how such a tiny little thing could have so much feelings inside of her.
“I love you baby, I could never hate you. Forgive me?”
“Okay,” you said, sniffing. A second later, he felt you wipe your snotty nose against the really nice shirt you got him earlier. He suppressed a small laugh. “I love you too. Even if you’re mean sometimes.” A pause. “Okay, you’re never mean. But still.”
“Thank you sweetheart.”
He kissed the crown of your head and you didn’t move for so long he thought you’d fallen asleep, but your heartbeat was still strong and rapid.
“Let’s get ready for bed, okay?”
“Okay.” But you still didn’t move.
No matter, Clark thought. He had superstrength for a reason. He easily lifted you with one arm, and his heart swelled inside his chest at your giggle. You were such a strange girl.
“Open up,” he said with a tap of his finger on your chin after he placed you on top of the bathroom counter, standing between your open legs, and pouring toothpaste on your toothbrush.
“Aaaah.”
“Good girl,” he praised, and started brushing your front teeth in gentle circular motions.
You had your right index finger hooked inside his pants. You always needed to feel him around, even when he was literally brushing your teeth.
Your mascara had run across your cheeks — unable to support a drunken night of dancing and singing and crying; your eyes were slightly red and your undereyes were swollen, and yet you were still the prettiest sight he’d ever laid eyes upon. Your lipstick was smeared across your lips, and Clark wanted to run his thumb across so badly, just to smear it even more.
You were patient while he meticulously brushed your teeth because you’d gotten used to him brushing them for two minutes exactly as prescribed by dentists. He was thorough in his cleaning, making sure you were properly clean before he makes you gargle and then spit in the sink. He didn’t give you water to rinse it off because he’d seen that you shouldn’t do that.
Then, with movements honed with years of practice, he grabbed your cotton pads and miscellar water from your skin care product self.
“Can you close your eyes for me, sweetheart?”
The effect was instant. You pouted. “But I wanna see you.”
“I’ll be quick, I promise.”
“Okay.”
You closed your eyes and he started with them, gently wiping your makeup with the cotton pad. “Almost done,” he whispered. Your fingers tugged at his pants.
Then, it was your lips’ turn, and Clark imagined it was his thumb wiping them.
“Yucky. Doesn’t taste so good,” you mumbled.
He laughed. “Oh baby, you shouldn’t taste it.”
You pouted again.
He used a fourth pad for your entire face, just to remove dirt and threw everything in the bin.
You grinned at him, all sleepy and mellowed out and looking like the angel you were. You were still in your outside clothes — Clark hadn’t gotten to that — and the juxtaposition of your sweet and innocent smile and your clothing was endearing. You could do both so well, and he loved them both a lot, but he always preferred the side of you that felt more like his, the one with no pretenses, no walls put up. Just you and your unfiltered love.
“All cleaned up, baby. Now we just need to get you into some comfortable clothes and we can go to sleep.”
You looked proud of yourself, even if all you’d done was lean sleepily against his chest and made his job a lot harder than it should.
Neither of you blushed when he helped you take off your clothes. You were drunk and sleepy, and Clark would never take advantage of you in this state. His eyes didn’t look anywhere he wasn’t supposed to, and his movements were clinical. His hands didn’t linger, didn’t stray.
He loved you and that meant he would never hurt you.
Then, finally, when you were both dressed and in bed, he gathered you in his arms and listened to your heartbeat until it slowed down. It never took too long, when he held you and you were drunk. You were always out like a light when he cuddled you close to his chest.
Clark got the idea the next day, when you were under the showers and he saw your phone light up with a notification while he was still in bed. It was a notification from TikTok — he recognized that logo.
He grabbed his own phone and downloaded the app himself, and struggled for close to thirty minutes just to create an account. Most of that time was spent figuring out a username (in the end he kept the default one TikTok gave every user).
Then you came out of the shower and Clark forgot about it.
“Wanna go grab brunch?” you asked him, still dripping on the floor, towel around you.
“Sure. Bubby’s?”
“God yes.”
Bubby’s was your go-to restaurant whenever you were hangover — or just particularly hungry.
Clark didn’t waste a second and stood up from his bed, his phone completely forgotten.
It was only a month later, when he received a notification from the app (that confused him for a good ten seconds until he remembered how he’d downloaded the app) inviting him to join a random person’s LIVE, that he remembered the really stupid idea he had.
He spent one hour learning how to use TikTok and another one trying to make a video. He kept accidentally deleting everything with his stupidly big thumbs and he tried five times before he finally finished.
It was nothing big — it wasn’t even a video. Just a static picture and some text, but he did it himself. He even managed to change the color of the words and add a gif (because he thought that was really cute and like something you would love).
He felt silly for how proud of himself he felt. He just hoped he didn’t do anything wrong, and then pressed on the post button.
He wasn’t quite sure what hashtags were or even if they were needed, but he added one just in case — the first one that popped up.
And then he deleted the app, promptly forgetting about it and going back to his usual life. It was either the stupidest idea he’d ever had, or the greatest one. In any case, he was already onto the next thing. Namely, taking you out to dinner in a near future.
───────── ౨ৎ ─────────
You woke up to your phone absolutely blowing up. Clark was at work and had been for a few hours already.
It was strange, you thought as you looked at the hundreds of notifications showing up on your lockscreen. You hadn’t posted anything on there in so long, and definitely nothing about Clark (apparently your videos about him always did crazy well).
Oh no, you thought to yourself. Were you getting cancelled?
Half of your notifications were mentions to a random video from an account with no name and no picture, and only one post.
IS THIS THE BSF?!?!
I KNEW IT!!!!
omg i ship them so bad
Is this @pinkbubbles’s bsf?!?! The girl in the picture looks so much like her
@pinkbubbles GIRL LOOK
LMAO i literally just saw the other pov of this, tiktok knows what its doing
You clicked on the video. It was silent. It was just a picture, one that you recognized. It was you. A few years ago, when you’d traveled to the beach with Clark and he invited you to diner that night. He’d taken a picture of you, and he wanted to be subtle so your entire face didn’t show. Just your smile and your arms.
The caption read: she doesn’t know i am so in love with her.
This had to be Clark. The username and picture matched, and only him had access to that picture.
You burst out laughing when your read the caption and it was just ‘i hope she loves me back #charlidamelio’. But your heart was still hammering inside your ribcage like a crazed horse who wanted to break free.
Clark was in love with you. And he confessed through TikTok. Of all the places. It was so him and so unlike him at the same time, that you didn’t know whether you should laugh or cry or burst inside his office.
Honestly, the crazier thing was that you had posted something exactly like it a few months ago. It was just a video of Clark, not showing his face, and the caption ‘he doesn’t know i am in love with him’. The only difference was that you’d used an actual song, and you didn’t use any hashtags. It wasn’t meant to go viral. It was just… a letter inside a bottle thrown to the sea. A way not to explode while holding onto what felt like your biggest secret.
And Clark had the same idea, it seemed. A few months later, but still. You wondered when was it—what had pushed him to publish something like that. More importantly, how he’d even been able to do this, when Instagram as a concept itself broke him.
Oh God. He was in love with you, and his confession had gone viral. It was such a strange thing to say. Clark, going viral. Clark who only had an iPhone so that he could use iMessage with you and match lockscreens and sim card holders. Clark who thought TikTok was a song and not an app.
You think you’re going crazy. Clark Kent was going to be the death of you.
He was acting like nothing was wrong when you met up with him after work. He had that dopey smile on his face, the one that meant that nothing was wrong and that the world was a beautiful and perfect place to be. He usually had a terrible poker face — just that one time he bought a fake cockroach to scare you and the guilt was written all over his face like face paint for children. One look at him and you realized that the monstrosity you woke up next to was fake, and none other than Clark’s latest childish stunt.
Now
So how did the man who couldn’t even keep a surprise secret without blubbering and stuttering over his words look so serene? As if he didn’t just break the Internet and turn upside down your heart in the same night.
“Hey, baby,” he said, head tilted to the side like a confused little puppy who doesn’t understand why his owner wasn’t acting like normal? “How was your day?”
“Uh… um… it was okay. Thanks! How are yours?”
He raised an eyebrow with a teasing tilt of his lips. “How are mine? Mine what?”
You’d meant to ask how his day was, but at the same time how he was, and your tongue twisted. Oh God. He was usually the awkward one out of the two of you. Not you. Never you. You didn’t even feel that awkward when you’d hugged him once and he felt your stupidly perk and hard nipples. Admittedly, that was because Clark had done something worse just the day before and by comparison nothing you could ever do could ever be worse.
“I hate you,” you grumbled, slamming a weak fist against his chest.
Why did it have to be you who found out? What even were you supposed to be doing with information like this? Kiss him? Offer him a ring?
Clark didn’t look particularly offended by that. His hand merely found its place on top of yours and squeezed. “Come on, let’s go. Where are you taking me tonight?”
Your mind blanked. “Uh. Home?”
“Then let’s go,” he replied, his hand finding its natural position at the back of your neck, warm and present and guiding without being oppressive. He’d done that particular gesture a thousand times and you’d never particularly reacted. But tonight, it was different. Tonight, you were being held by the neck with the knowledge that he loved you. That he was in love with you as well, and that maybe had always been.
Well, if you were being honest with yourself, you would realize that this wasn’t supposed to be surprising. Clark was Clark and you were you, and the pair of you had always been like this — and your weird heteroerotic friendship had always been this way probably because you were both desperately and pathetically in love with each other.
But panicking about required love was more dramatic.
“Clark.”
“That’s my name, yes.”
“Smartass.”
He smiled in reply.
He was being so weirdly normal. As if he hadn’t posted his confession for possibly millions to see last night.
What if that wasn’t even him? What if someone hacked his phone and got his pictures of her? Poor Clark was definitely the kind of person who would fall for a phishing scam. There was a 33% chance of him actually being hacked. This was serious. You had to talk to him about it.
But… not now.
Now, you were going home with your best friend of almost thirty years and you were going to make him make dinner and you’re going to light candles and then you’re going to make him take pictures of you.
It was a regular night for the two of you. Except for the glaringly obvious and impossibly unavoidable fact that made every moment, every look, every touch a thousand times more… charged. More intimate. More…
You were running out of adjectives.
“This pasta is wonderful,” you told him and appreciated the way his ears still turned pink every time you praised his cooking.
“Ah, well, thank you, sweetheart. I wanted to make them from scratch but I didn’t have time.”
“Another time,” you replied. His homemade pasta was to die for, and he always made the best shapes ever. (One time you stole dough from him and made a penis shaped pasta. He couldn’t look you in the eyes without bursting into laughter for the rest of the evening.)
“Another time,” he confirmed.
Silence fell. The flames were still flickering, unbothered and swaying to the dancing of the air. It cast a particularly romantic light to the whole scene. Which was fitting, considering the two of you were apparently in love with each other, and probably have been for the past two decades.
Oh no. Have you guys wasted two decades for nothing when you could have been happily dating and in love? Perhaps you’d have even been married by now. Yeah, definitely married by now.
“Clark.”
His fork stilled mid-twirl and looked up to you, his entire attention riveted on you.
“Could you pass me the salt?”
His sauce was perfectly seasoned but it wasn’t your fault you chickened out right at the last minute.
“Sure thing,” he replied, standing without a complaint and getting it from the kitchen.
You were going to talk about the marriage thing another date. Well, you figured you should talk about the confession thing first.
You can do this.
You should also do something about those really nosy followers of yours who demanded an update quite literally every hour.
You really missed life back when you only had one follower — Clark’s account before he forgot the password and gave up on having an online presence.
You couldn’t post a single story of a cute cat you saw without getting swarmed with messages and comments, and not one of them was about the cute feline.
“Hey Clark, look at this cute cat I saw earlier.”
When in doubt (read: lacking attention), always turn to Clark.
“Oh look at that little fella,” he replied, genuinely excited to see him. You could always trust him to say the right thing. “Was he on your way to work?”
“Uh-huh,” you replied. “He was sooo cute. Almost adopted him.”
“Why didn’t you?”
Oh, yeah. He was perfect.
“Well we hadn’t talked beforehand about bringing a child into this life so I didn’t want to presume.”
“Next time, then.”
“Next time,” you confirmed.
As easy as that. He’d agreed to adopt a child, so the marriage talk would be easier than anticipated.
Naturally, you found yourselves at a rescue center, trying to find the perfect fit for them. Clark wanted a dog, you wanted a cat, so you compromised and got a really old cat who’d been waiting for a forever home for fifteen years.
Her name was Bean (you let Clark pick) and she was both the loveliest and saddest creature you both had ever seen. Her favorite spot to sleep was between the two of you, and she got sad whenever Clark wasn’t staying over the night, so Clark officially moved in. For Bean, of course.
Clark was, much to your dismay, her favorite, but you understood her. Clark was your favorite as well.
“You know,” Clark said one day while Bean was busy purring up a storm on top of his large chest (oh how you were jealous), “she really reminds me of you. She always meows outside the bathroom door whenever I take a shower, and she recently learnt how to open the door. Just to stare at me.”
You snorted. “That does sound like something I would do.”
Clark scratched behind Bean’s ears subconsciously. “It’s not just that. It’s… well, she’s quite clingy.”
“I am not clingy,” you refuted automatically, but it was more of a knee-jerk reaction than anything.
Bean meowed in displeasure too.
“Sweetheart, you’re currently using my arm as a body pillow.”
“Doesn’t mean anything.” Bean meowed. “See? She agrees. We aren’t clingy.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He scratched the top of your head, and you think he meant to scratch Bean’s head, not yours, but you found that you absolutely didn’t mind.
“Meow,” you said, just to really sell it in case he suspected something.
───────── ౨ৎ ─────────
Clark was pleasantly surprised when Lois told him that she wanted to see you again. Jimmy, of course, heard it and was promptly standing guard at Clark’s desk.
“I want to see her too,” he said. As always, he was expertly (read: awkwardly) avoiding the looks a coworker had been giving him for the past three days.
“Uh…” he pushed his glasses up his nose. “Sure. She would love that. And I would love that too.”
“It’s weird, we thought you would be more ecstatic than this,” Jimmy said.
“You guys talk about me behind my back?”
“Duh,” Lois replied. “What else are we supposed to do when you randomly and suspiciously disappear at random intervals during a work day?”
He blushed. “Fair enough. But why did you think I would be happier than this?”
Lois and Jimmy shared a look. “How can he be so big yet so dense?” Lois asked.
“Hey!”
“Honestly, I just want to know what went through his brain at that moment,” Jimmy said, like he was discussing the weather. “Was he held at gun point? Did his phone become conscious on its own? How did he even know how to use the app?”
“I couldn’t have asked better questions myself,” Lois said, nodding wisely as she took a sip from her monstrous drink. “Clark, would you be up for an interview later?”
Clark frowned. “What… what is going on?”
They shared a look.
“I don’t think he knows that we know.”
“Or that the entire Internet knows,” Lois added.
“Or that she knows,” Jimmy appended.
“He thinks he’s sleek with it,” Lois commented.
“Stop talking like creepy twins!” he shrieked. His dignity was never left intact around those two. “What is going on? No, I don’t wanna know. I need to take a break.”
“Should we tell him?”
“Yes. I mean, they adopted a cat together. I don’t think he knows the implications of it.”
“What does Bean have anything to do with any of this?”
“Bean is your child. You’re the father, your best friend is the mother. You guys have moved in together, you co-parent a child, and you’re both in love.”
He finally blushed. “No we’re not.”
“Yes, you are. You confessed to her and she confessed to you.”
“Wait… when did she confess?”
“Oh great heavens.”
Taking an impromptu coffee break, they dragged Clark to the break room where they sat him down (he was going to need it) and showed him his video on Jimmy’s phone and her video on Lois’ phone.
“Who are you and what have you done with our Clark Kent?”
“The Clark I know would have never confessed like this. Granted, it’s cute, but it’s not something Clark would do.”
“He can barely use the selfie mode on his phone!”
Clark Kent really felt like a hostage being interrogated, with the two of them looming over him like menacing journalists who wanted to get to the bottom of this. The only thing missing was the table and a threatening lamp projected right in his face, blinding him. He could very well see Lois with a foot up on her chair, elbow on her knee as she stared him down so menacingly he had half a mind to confess to things he didn’t even do, just to make her stop.
His face was impossibly red, and the only thing he was thinking about wasn’t about how millions of people saw his video, but that you must have seen it, because everyone was tagging you in the comments, and this was definitely not the way he expected to confess to you.
Beneath it all though, his chest was rumbling with pleasure at the confirmation — finally — that you felt the same. Knowing it was different from being clearly told.
“Stop grinning like an idiot, this is making me wanna puke.”
“Gross. Maybe we shouldn’t have shown him this. His face is making a very disturbing and off putting expression.”
“I’m just happy and mortified! Can’t I be happy and mortified in peace?” Clark whined.
“No,” came their reply in unison.
“Guys, something came up. I have to go. Tell Perry I’ll work from home.”
He doesn’t wait a second for their answer. Quite frankly, he didn’t care much at the moment. He had a girl waiting for him at home to kiss her senseless.
This movie was incredible, I love this little freak (I grew up watching Krypto the Superdog cartoon obviously I was gonna see this film), and shout out to Hawkgirl for 💀ing dollar store Netanyahu 🩵 Free Palestine 🇵🇸
synopsis: you could assume simply by observation that your boyfriend clark kent was big down there— and yet in your faultless underestimation, you physically cannot take him
warnings: smut ahead (they do the deed) - size kink for sure.. sweet!clark is the definition of “big d stand for big demeanour” iykyk. also take a shot every time it says big help
a/n: here u go! I KNOW THEY WANT DAMIAN BUT BLAME DAVID CORENSWET I CANT STOP THINKING ABOUT CLARK KENT
you knew clark kent was big.
it showed— with the way his dress shirt buttons were always at their last whim, threatening to pop at every little movement; with his shoe and coat size (you had playfully tried on his blazer once— it could’ve doubled as a dress); with the way he towered over you when he’d bend down to hear you; with the way you’d sink into his broad chest and disappear behind his arms when he’d hug you (if you got crushed by his enormous biceps you’d pass out happy); with the way his palm was twice the size of yours, and how his hands would engulf your face when he’d cradle it to kiss you— not because you were ‘petite’ or ‘tiny’, but because he was simply huge.
of course, standing at a great height of 6’4 and weighing 240 pounds (that’s over a HUNDRED KILOGRAMS just by the way), clark’s size was guaranteed. justifiable. obviously made sense.
it was hard to bar the thoughts that often followed that train of thought. lying on top of him on the bed of your apartment with his large palm over your stomach, covering almost the entirety of its surface, and the other at your plush thigh— it was hard not to think about other parts of his body. hard not to think about the faint underline of something long and large in between his legs, sometimes guilty for poking against your butt during cuddle sessions.
it was hard not to feel the size of it. and every time the very thought made your throat dry. made you clench around air.
sometimes you’d wonder (like a freak, but you can’t be blamed, just look at your man) about how it would feel to take him: when you’d reach that eventual stage of your relationship, if it would even fit. would it be possible? you had had exes— you were sure none of them were even half clark’s size.
but you revelled in the thought. the thought of having your sweet, farm-boy, gentle giant of a boyfriend force himself into you, stretching you out so bad you wouldn’t remember anything but his name. it’s a little disrespectful to feminism, the things you’d let this man do to you— simply because you know he’d be the biggest gentleman doing them.
but those were all fantasies. clark kent can’t be that big— right?
and so after a long day of work two months into your relationship with clark, the two of you return to your apartment, both exhausted and truthfully needing to blow off some steam. you’re the first to initiate wandering into new territory, leading clark into your bedroom with hands all over his neck and shoulders, puny against their broadness.
on the contrary, his hands are large yet gentle, framing out your entire waist and back with one swipe along your body. he holds you like you’re priceless, effortlessly lifting you onto the bed. you grab his wrist, dragging it down, and so he— getting the message— meticulously moves his fingers to unbutton your pants, mouth still attached to yours, mindlessly making out.
he carefully pushes down your pants with one hand, trying to start slow and cautious, but you impatiently reach down yourself to kick off your underwear. clark lets out a velvety groan against your ear, peppering kisses down your neck, palm hovering over your mound and then in between your legs. you shamelessly part your legs for your boyfriend whose smile you feel against your burning skin.
“enthusiastic?” he whispers, voice deep and mushy against your ear, and you melt. you nod unabashedly, turning your head to chase his face to kiss his pretty dimple. he buries his face in your neck, smile widening.
clark is diligent as his thick fingers slide up and down your soaking slit. he’s tentative at first, hyper-vigilant on your reactions to make sure he’s doing a good job. you whimper, closing your legs around his hand. he presses a kiss to your jaw as his fingers rub circles on your puffy clit, sliding down. “tell me if anything doesn’t feel right,” he whispers, caring as always.
a long, hefty finger tenderly sinks into your cunt. your lips part to release a shaky whine, pulling him close, quivering as you breathe. clark nuzzles his nose against your jaw. “you sound so gosh darn beautiful.”
one finger quickly turns into two, crude sounds of his fingers pumping in and out of your sopping hole polluting your room. and then there were three, your slot clamping in protest, curses clark would never approve of if not in this circumstance flying out from in between your lips.
“i know,” he whispers, unintentionally slightly patronising, but his intention is to be kind. his other hand is holding your thighs apart, thumb caressing the fluffy skin on the inside. “i’m sorry. you’ll need this,” his voice is apologetic and soft.
need this?
in your daze, you don’t process his words at all. instead, you’re a begging mess. “clark, i need you,” you breathe out, gasping in pleasure when his fingers curl deep inside you, hitting just right. “please—”
clark kisses your mouth shut. he continues to pump his chunky digits in and out of your clenching hole for a few moments until you’re fully leaking onto the sheets and pathetically stretched— only then does he pull away as his other hand moves to his pants.
you make the grave mistake of not looking, too busy savouring the way clark’s fingers feel plunging inside you, rocking your hips against his hand as he’s preparing you, remaining blissfully unaware.
only when clark tugs down his pants and boxers in one go and aligns his leaking tip with you do you realise what ‘you’ll need this’ meant. that his fingers weren’t teasing. they were doing you a service.
a gasp rips through your throat. you full on choke when you feel how thick he is against your entrance. you fumble to grip the sheets, using them as anchors to slightly elevate yourself to look down at him.
your jaw drops. your eyes are wide in a mix of alarm and a strange sense of arousal, moving up to the face of a guilty clark.
“clark,” your voice cracks with how dry it’s become, eyes locked on his impossibly girthy, fat, large dick. you shake your head slightly, voice comedically breathless and meek. “clark that’s not going to fit.”
clark’s cheeks heat up. “you took three fingers,” he whispers weakly to comfort you, fingers still gently stimulating your clit by toying with it. his lips are pursed defeatedly, unsure of how to go about this, dimples sinking into his cheeks with embarrassment.
you’re still bewildered. you hesitantly lay back down, contemplating the pros to cons ratio of your hunk of a boyfriend. you hook your arms around his neck: possessive, nervous, and immensely turned on.
clark reaches up with his other hand, cradling your cheek. “i’ll be gentle,” he leans down, pressing a kiss to your ear. “promise,” his voice is a reassuring whisper. of course you trust him, but he’s just so—
when he pushes in just a bit, your mouth drops in a sharp gasp, eyelashes fluttering as your eyes roll back into your head, closing.
“clark—” you can barely breathe let alone hold it together, arms tightening around his neck, keeping him close for support at the big stretch.
“clark, i can’t—” you whine, wheezing for air, your body suddenly too hot, chest too tight, cunt way too strained around the bare tip of clark’s length. it’s just past the leaky red head, and you can feel every damn vein on his length with how thin you’ve been stretched out.
guilt floods your boyfriend’s chest, his eyebrows creasing, bottom lip jutting out in a frown. he pulls out enough so only his red mushroom tip is buried at your opening, which is still torture for your poor hole.
“sweetheart,” he breathes, hand on your cheek, tapping his index finger twice against your burning skin to bring you back from your dazed state.
you blink, eyes barely opening as you meet clark’s. you clench around his tip, cunt paradoxically desperate to be filled. “too big,” you whine.
your complaint isn’t flattery or dirty talk— it’s genuine. clark’s downright unreal, pornographic combination of width and length seems physically impossible to take.
clark instantly feels worse.
his hand moves down, gently prying your legs apart at a comfortable angle to caress your inner thigh.
“sorry,” he breathes, deep voice low and barely constrained, apologising as if it’s his fault. “i’m— i’m sorry. we don’t have to do this,” he exhales as if it hurts, about to pull himself out when you clutch his bicep, shaking your head rapidly, eyebrows crinkled.
“just— just need a minute.” your chest heaves up and down with every deep breath. gosh you really really want him, and need him, and you’re aching, but—
your back arches off the bed, sucking in a deep breath. you close your eyes, hands sticky with sweat, greedily tracing the muscles of his back.
“okay,” you heave out. “i’m ready.”
clark looks even remorseful, a faint crimson painting the tip of his ears. “angel, we don’t—”
your hand firmly clutches his bicep, nails digging into the hard muscle. “clark i want it,” you whisper instead, cutting him off. your hazy eyes open to look at his pretty baby blue ones, and they relax slightly at the sight of your desperate, wretched look. his hand moves up to caress your cheek, thumb rubbing up and down the soft skin— the moment is intimate.
“my sweet girl,” he muses. “i’d never let you get hurt,” he whispers, this time leaning down, pressing a peck to the edge of your mouth.
he slowly, painfully so, pushes more of his length inside. your breath hitches, and the initial stretch from the curve of his tip in comparison to the girth of his length is straight torture. you feel tension build up in your stomach, and you’re concerned you’ll cum just by his head. your lips fall open in a shaky moan.
clark supports his weight with one hand beside your head, nursing your face with kisses while his other hand moves down to angle his length carefully so he pushes in just right, driving another inch inside.
your head pushes back into the pillow, eyes squeezing shut. “fuck,” you curse, your grip on his arm bruising. “fuck clark, i need more—”
clark’s mouth finds yours, kiss sweet and delicate. “language,” he simpers against your lips, aware of how annoying that probably sounded. “i’ll give you what you need, angel. i always do.”
his voice is straight up sensual— deep, low, and articulate, butterflies erupting in your stomach.
you’re making a mess on the sheets already, the ring of your opening stretched around clark’s bulky dick. you can feel each vein when he pushes in halfway, your hole choking his length. he lets out a low grunt. “you feel so perfect,” he whispers.
you can’t take it anymore. “fuck it,” you cry out, arms back around clark’s neck, holding on tight for support. “i mean it, clark. just ruin me—”
who’s clark to deny you when you whine so sweetly?
you cry out in pleasure when clark drives the rest of his length inside you. he isn’t rough or quick, but does it in one smooth careful continuous movement. the feeling is brutally filling, a string of curses and moans leaving your pink lips. you feel numb inside, gummy walls taut against the veiny skin of his dick.
clark groans at the feeling, anchoring himself by placing a hand on your tummy. his eyes widen when he feels the outlined shape of him inside you, over your skin at your abdomen, and his cheeks flush.
“oh gosh,” his voice is breathless. “you were made for me, weren’t you? just perfect.”
you’re too fucked out to argue with that— though no human was made for a size as big as clark’s. it’s one of the rare things that are completely alien about him. good thing you’re great at adapting.
clark lets you adjust with his monster dick inside you, pushed till his neatly trimmed base, thighs against your pelvis. his shaft is curved just a little, fitting perfectly inside you, abusing all the right places. when you squirm and whine for him to stop being so slow and careful, he smiles instead, cheeks dimpling.
“so inconsiderate. what about me?” he whispers, leaning down. “i’m inside you for the first time too, and it feels heavenly.”
you could cum just by the vibrations clark’s hot, sweet, rough voice send through your bones.
with those heat inducing words clark pulls half of himself out, slowly thrusting back inside. his tip hits perfectly against you, and he almost goes feral when he hears the disgruntled moan you let out. chasing those sounds, he begins to form the perfect rhythm and pattern of thrusts, obscene sounds of skin slapping and pathetic whining filling your room. his super-strength is foul for the stamina it gives him, and how focused he is on pleasuring you, pushing inside just right, is enough to make you collapse.
as he speeds up and finds a good, consistent pace of plunges, clark’s gasps become more dark and intense, his shaft twitching and pulsing inside you. he has to grip your hip to ground himself, thick fingers digging into your skin, his exhales sharp at your ear. he’s fairly vocal, but it’s mostly grunts, gasps, groans, your name, mixed with the sweetest praises.
“mm—yes,” his mouth falls open to let out a low, guttural sound at your ear. “you’re taking me so perfectly,” his hips slam against yours. “flawless,” he kisses your cheek, lips parted as he breathes hot air directly against your skin. “gorgeous.”
by the end with the two of you nearing your releases, clark’s thrusts are harder and lazier, the bed creaking in protest and so are you, his thick head pressing repeatedly at the same perfect spot that makes your stomach tighten, bruising it, leaking all over your walls that helplessly clench around his length.
you cum first, because of course— clark’s stamina is inhuman. you tremble, one hand tight on clark’s forearms, nails scratching his skin, the other gripping the sheets so hard they almost rip— your orgasm tears through you, your pussy desperately, uncontrollably tightening so hard around clark’s length he mewls.
you’re dripping from the edges each time clark pulls out to thrust again, thick hot liquid leaking down your thighs. “just a little more,” clark begs, holding your limp body to comfort you. “just— just gonna finish,” he uses your fucked out hole until you clench just right at his tip, gasping as he spurts out right inside you, filling your gummy walls. he pulls out as he does so some filthy white liquid decorates your pink, puffy, tired hole and clit— clark stares for a good minute, mesmerised by how enticing you look, pulsing around nothing, all swollen.
clark needs a minute to regain his own self first, and he’s kissing you more because he needs it, your lips barely puckering in response, exhausted. you’re on the verge of passing out when clark makes himself decent, rushing to the bathroom and drawing you a warm bath. he helps wash and clean you, and you’re almost limp in his arms the entire time, his super strength coming in handy. he dresses you in one big t-shirt of his, laying you down on your bed.
he fixes himself up next before excitedly crawling into bed with you, immediately wrapping his arms around you.
he squeezes you like a kid with a teddy bear, pulling your back flush to his chest. “mmm,” he hums in satisfaction, kissing your cheek from behind with a large grin. “that was perfect. you’re perfect.”
you smile, just a bit, because good for fucking him. you’re warm and clean thanks to him (still aching and sore), but downright annoyed at how perfect your boyfriend is. you groan as you turn around to face him to taunt, but seeing clark’s bright smile, adorable dimples, and scrunched nose makes your heart race.
you want to kiss him, but you’re honestly too tired to even move that much. luckily clark gets the hint, or is desperate himself, moving down and pressing more than three sweet kisses to your lips in succession.
“thank you,” he breathes against your mouth mid-kisses, voice suddenly much quieter. more intimate. “you were so good for me,” he praises, arm rubbing up and down your back. “i really appreciated that. how well you took me.”
your cheeks heat up and you stare at your boyfriend in awe because there’s no way he’s real. there’s no way he’s thanking you when he’s the one who made you see stars living out your sick fantasy.
you bury your crimson face in his chest, grumbling. “god, you can’t be real.”
clark grins wider, hand coming up to gently pat the back of your head. you bask in his scent, cozy and content despite the burn in between your legs. there’s a price to pay for such extensive pleasure.
“i miscalculated bad though,” you mumble against his shirt. “you were way bigger than i thought. and i thought big.”
summary: what was supposed to be a gentle evening exposes Clark’s deepest fear: that someone else could give you the life he can’t
warnings: 18+ smut, graphic depictions of sex, f oral receiving, p in v, porn with plot, needy! clark, clark is sad and just wants to make you feel good :(, insecurities, anxiety?
It wasn’t often that Clark made it home before you.
Most nights, you beat him there by hours, the space already warm. Your shoes by the door, the soft light from the kitchen, the sound of you moving around in clothes far more comfortable than those you’d worn to work.
He knew the routine by heart. You’d change the second you got in, slipping out of your work things and into something soft—fluffy socks, an old robe if it was cold, or, his personal weakness, one of his shirts that you found in the back of your wardrobe.
If he was being honest with himself, he’d started leaving them behind on purpose, just for the chance of coming home and finding you wrapped up in something that still smelled faintly like him.
Worth it, he could always buy more shirts.
Worth it every single time.
It wasn’t that he didn’t want to get home sooner. God, he did. Most days he was already thinking about you before he’d even finished his first coffee at the Planet. Wondering if you were thinking the same thing. Wondering what you were doing, if you’d eaten, if you’d remembered to take your coat when it got cold.
But articles ran long, deadlines moved, and sometimes the sound of something breaking three streets away would reach him through the windows before he even realised he was listening for it.
He hated that the world always seemed to need him most when you were waiting so patiently for him. Hated it even more because you never made him feel bad about it.
But the moment he finally walked through the door always made it worth it.
The hum of your voice from the kitchen, something soft playing through your speakers.
You said you liked to cook for him.
He’d offered a hundred times to pick something up on the way, to make up for his punctuality. To make it easier, faster, less work after your own long day, but you always waved him off like the suggestion was ridiculous.
You said it relaxed you. Said you liked knowing he was eating something you made.
Said it like it was the most normal thing in the world to take care of him like that.
He never quite knew what to do with all your kindness. The small things still caught him off guard, made the warmth creep up the back of his neck before he could stop it.
He wasn’t sure he’d ever stop feeling that way.
He wasn’t sure he wanted to.
Tonight, though, the flat was quiet when he opened the door.
Clark let himself in with the spare key you’d pressed into his hand months ago. The lock clicked softly behind him, and he closed the door gently.
It felt strange, walking into the empty space first. Everything looked the same.
Your books stacked unevenly on the shelf, the plants you swore you remembered to water—even the ones he secretly helped along when you forgot. Your mug from that morning in the sink.
All the usual things. All the proof that this was your place.
And still, without you in it, the space felt incomplete.
If this was how it felt when he got home first, he suddenly wished he’d made it home sooner a lot more often.
He shrugged off his suit jacket and folded it neatly over the back of the chair. You’d texted him a few hours earlier, telling him you were running late, promising you’d make it up to him when you got home.
He’d smiled at the message when he read it. You really didn’t have to make anything up to him. You never did. Just coming home was enough.
If anything, this just meant he had time to do something for you for a change.
Clark made his way over to the fridge, pulling the door open and leaning down slightly as he looked through the shelves, taking stock the way he’d seen you do a hundred times before.
He was careful about it; he didn’t want to use the wrong thing, didn’t want to mess up whatever plan you might’ve had for the week.
He reached for the container of leftovers first, then paused, putting it back exactly where he found it.
Absolutely not.
You’d probably pack that for lunch tomorrow, and he liked the idea of you walking in to the smell of something cooking a lot more than the sound of a microwave.
He shifted things around instead, scanning the drawers until he spotted what he was looking for—a few stray cloves of garlic tucked down at the back of the vegetable drawer, half a bunch of basil wrapped in a paper towel, a lone chilli pepper rolling slightly when he moved the onions.
That would work. That would work just fine.
You always said the simple ones were your favourite anyway.
He straightened up, already thinking it through. There’d be tomatoes in the cupboard. Pasta too, somewhere on the second shelf, the one you kept meaning to organise but never quite got around to.
Perfect. Simple.
Something warm for you to come home to.
And he knew he could make a darn good pasta.
It was one of the first things his ma had ever taught him, standing beside her in the kitchen back home, listening to her explain that good food didn’t have to be complicated, just made with care. He could still hear her voice sometimes when he cooked, telling him to taste as he went, to trust himself, and to always make enough for everyone at the table.
He liked to think she’d smile if she could see him now, standing in a kitchen that wasn’t hers, cooking for someone who had somehow become just as much home. He was pretty sure she’d tell him he’d done well for himself. Say she was proud he had someone at his table worth making dinner for.
He liked to think she’d say he picked right.
That he’d found someone good.
Someone she’d love too.
He set the garlic down on the counter and reached for the chopping board, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows without thinking. His eyes flicked to the clock on the wall to his left.
Plenty of time.
He let himself smile a little, picking up the knife. Might as well give you something good to come home to.
You always did the same for him.
Clark was stirring the sauce when he heard the front door open. The tomatoes had burst and cooked down just right, the garlic mellow, the basil already starting to sweeten the air. Another five minutes, maybe less, and it would be perfect.
“Clark?” You call out, tired. Soft, but still tired. “You in here?”
Right on time.
“In the kitchen!” he called back, setting the spoon down and stepping away from the stove. He wiped his hands on the dish towel slung over his shoulder, already turning toward the doorway before you even appeared.
He could hear you coming closer, the shuffle of your steps, the soft thud of your bag hitting the chair in the other room.
Your head peeked around the doorframe, and the second he saw the look on your face—apologetic, tired, a little sheepish, a small smile you wore when you thought you’d disappointed him—his chest tightened.
“Sorry I’m late,” you said, stepping into the kitchen.
He shook his head immediately, already moving toward you without thinking about it; the distance between you needed fixing as fast as possible.
“Hey, no—don’t do that,” he said with a soft smile. One hand coming up automatically to rest on your arms when you got close enough.
You don’t have to apologise to him. Not for anything out of your control.
You gave him that look again, like you still weren’t convinced.
“I said I’d be back earlier,” you murmured.
He let out a breath through his nose, shaking his head as he looked down at you, his thumb brushing absent-mindedly against your sleeve.
“Hey,” he said again, waiting until you actually looked up at him. “It’s okay. Really. You’re here now. That’s all I wanted.”
You nodded, then glanced past him toward the stove, nose twitching slightly as the smell hit you, and your eyes widened just a little.
“…Did you cook?”
He felt the back of his neck warm instantly, that bashful heat creeping up before he could stop it. He rubbed the side of his jaw with his thumb.
“Well… yeah,” he admitted. “You said you were gonna be late. Figured I could manage dinner for once.”
It’s the least he could do.
You stepped past him toward the stove before he could say anything else, leaning over the pot with a small sigh, breathing in the scent like it was the best thing you’d smelled all day.
“That smells amazing,” you groaned, glancing back at him over your shoulder with a grin.
He huffed out a quiet laugh.
“It’s pasta,” he shrugged humbly. “Kinda hard to mess up.”
You turned, still smiling, and before he could stop himself, he was already moving closer, drawn in by your grateful expression. The domesticity of the moment.
He needed to cook more often.
He closed the distance in two easy steps, one hand finding your waist on instinct, the other brushing down your arm as he leaned in and pressed his lips to yours in a familiar kiss.
You let out a sigh against his mouth, warm and tired and relieved, and it went straight through him.
It was ridiculous, the way one small sound from you could undo him like that.
Gosh, he missed you today.
He smiled against your mouth, one arm tightening around your waist as he lifted you, setting you up on the counter beside the stove as he’d done it a hundred times before.
“Careful,” he murmured, still smiling against your lips, one hand lingering a bit longer than it needed to, just to make sure you were steady.
Not that you ever weren’t. He just liked the excuse.
You let out a small giggle, bumping your knee lightly against his side.
“You’re in a good mood.”
How couldn’t he be?
He shrugged, glancing back at the pot before turning the heat down another notch.
“Got home early,” he said with a shrug. “Felt like my turn to do something for you.”
You gazed at him, smiling at his words.
“So you made dinner for me?”
He rubbed the back of his neck, proud but slightly embarrassed at the acknowledgement of his hard work.
He’d had strangers thank him before, whole crowds even, but nothing ever made him feel this awkwardly pleased the way you did when you looked at him like that.
“Well… yeah. Didn’t seem fair you always do it.”
“You’re trying to spoil me.”
He snorted softly under his breath.
“Pretty sure that’s my job.”
His favourite job.
You laughed at that, and he ducked his head again, turning and stirring the sauce just to give himself something to focus on.
“So,” he added, “What about you, huh? What’d you get up to today?”
You swung your feet lightly against the cabinet, completely relaxed.
Good.
“Nothing exciting,” you said. “Work, mostly. Had lunch with one of the new guys though.”
Clark’s hand paused for just a second.
“Yeah?” he said, keeping his voice easy. “New guy?”
You nodded.
“Yeah, Daniel. He started a few weeks ago. We ended up grabbing lunch together after a meeting.”
Daniel.
The name settling somewhere in the back of his mind, whether he wanted it to or not.
“…Daniel?” he repeated, voice slightly higher. He glanced over his shoulder at you, trying very hard to sound like he was just making conversation.
You tilted your head, thinking.
“I think I mentioned him before? Maybe?”
Your brows pulled together as you tried to remember, then you shrugged.
“We’re the only ones around the same age in the department,” you said with a small chuckle. “Kind of felt natural we got paired up. We’ve been grabbing lunch together the last few days.”
The spoon dragged a little slower through the sauce.
Last few days.
Did you mention that before?
“Oh yeah?” he said, keeping his tone light.
“Yeah,” you went on, still talking easily. “You’d like him, actually. He’s kind of similar to you.”
He glanced back at you.
“…Similar how?”
You smiled, completely genuine.
“He’s just… nice. You know? Always the one who remembers people’s birthdays, makes sure everyone’s got what they need. Stayed late the other night to help one of the interns finish something.”
Clark looked back at the pot, the corner of his mouth twitching faintly, though it didn’t quite make it into a smile.
“Sounds like a real hero,” he said quietly.
You laughed, missing the way his shoulders had gone just a little stiff.
“No, he’s just… thoughtful,” you said. “He actually hung around after work the other night too, when you got held up. I didn’t even realise how late it was until we were the only ones left in the office.”
The other night.
The night he’d been halfway across the city instead of walking through the door with you.
He swallowed, eyes fixed on dinner, which now felt slightly inadequate as the guilt began to gnaw at him.
“…That so,” he said, voice steady, even if his chest felt a little tighter.
You nodded, still oblivious.
“Yeah, he was waiting on some notes from his boss, I was finishing up my draft, so we just… talked for a bit. He’s easy to talk to.”
Easy to talk to.
Clark let out a quiet hum, forcing himself to place the spoon down before he bent the handle clean in half.
Of course he was.
Normal hours. Normal life.
No disappearing mid-sentence because someone somewhere needed saving.
“Sounds like you two are getting along.”
“Yeah,” you said, smiling. “He’s been having a bit of a rough time, though.”
He glanced back at you again.
“What happened?”
You frowned slightly.
“His girlfriend broke up with him a couple weeks ago. Knocked his confidence a bit, I think.”
His expression softened automatically. He couldn’t help it.
“Poor guy,” he murmured.
“I know,” you agreed. “I don’t know all the details, but he seemed really upset about it. We ended up talking about it for ages the other day. He just needed someone to listen, I think.”
Clark nodded slowly. Of course you listened, and that was the thing.
You made people feel better just by being there.
Made him feel better just by being there.
He reached across to turn the stove on the lowest setting before facing you once more, slotting himself between your knees. His free hand reached out without him thinking, settling lightly against your thigh where you sat on the counter, thumb brushing once.
“That’s good, honey,” he smiles down at you. “I’m glad you’re not stuck over there on your own.”
Without him.
The words came out quieter than he meant. His tone was small and honest, slipping out before he could stop it.
You didn’t seem to notice anything in his voice, just shuffled a little.
“Yeah. He’s easy to be around,” you said. “And he’s opposite me, you know? Same mornings. We end up hanging out without really planning to.”
He nodded slowly.
Same routine. Same life.
Didn’t have to disappear halfway through dinner. Didn’t have to text apologies from five blocks away. Didn’t have to leave you sitting alone at a table because someone somewhere needed him.
You kept talking.
“He stayed late the other night too. When you got held up? We were the last ones in the office. He didn’t want me walking back to the station on my own.”
It shouldn’t have bothered him.
Honestly, he was glad someone stayed with you. It was a kind gesture by a coworker that stopped you from being alone that late.
He was grateful, but there was something else there too.
His mind immediately pictured you sitting in that office after hours, laughing at something some other guy said, walking out together side by side…
“Clark?” you said, tilting your head a little.
Your voice gently shook him back into the room, blue eyes catching yours as they focused. He didn’t answer right away. Just stood there for a moment, hands resting on your legs, like he was trying to settle his stomach that wouldn’t quite sit still.
He knew it was stupid.
You hadn’t done anything wrong. You were just talking about your day. But all he could think about was how easy it sounded. How much of your time happened in places he couldn’t always be.
He swallowed, glancing down at the counter while his mind kept circling the same thought.
He couldn’t always be there when you stayed late. Couldn’t always walk you home, couldn’t always make dinner, couldn’t always give you the kind of normal time other people seemed to have without even trying.
His thoughts drifted for a moment.
Dinner suddenly felt almost juvenile compared to what he really wanted to do for you. Sweet, sure—but not enough. Not when you looked this tired.
There had to be something more. Something only he could give you.
He ran through the list in his head without thinking; every little thing he knew made you smile, until one idea settled in and stayed.
Oh.
Oh.
Yeah. That.
That he knew how to do.
He knew how to make you come undone after a long day without you even realising that was what you needed.
Knew the exact places to touch that made the tension leave your shoulders, the way your breath caught when his hands moved across your bare skin, the way you melted into him like your body already trusted him to take care of the rest.
He knew the sounds you made when he took his time.
Knew how your fingers curled into the sheets when he got it right.
Knew how to make you forget about work, about long days, about anyone else who’d had your attention before you walked through the door.
It’s not much, but it would work for now.
“You know,” he said quietly, voice low, a little rougher than before,
“I figure I owe you a better evening than just pasta.”
You blinked at him, caught off guard by the look on his face more than the words. He could hear your pulse quicken at his insinuation.
“Clark, we don’t have to—”
He was already moving before you finished the sentence.
He reached past you without breaking eye contact, turning the stove fully off, the soft click of the burner cutting through the quiet kitchen. He stepped in close again, coming to stand between your knees where you sat on the counter, his hands settling lightly on either side of you, not touching yet.
His blue eyes lifted to yours, soft and searching, asking without saying a word.
You looked tired.
He could see it now that he was close enough. The faint tension in your brow, the way your shoulders hadn’t fully relaxed since you walked in.
That he could fix.
His hand came up slowly, giving you plenty of time to pull away if you wanted to, his fingers brushing along your cheek, thumb tracing just under your eye like he could smooth the tiredness away if he was careful enough.
You let out a breathy sound at the touch, the sound soft and surprised, and the corner of his mouth lifted, the tension in his chest loosening just from hearing it.
There you were.
He leaned in then, slow, giving you time to meet him halfway, his lips finding yours in a soft kiss.
You melted into him almost immediately, arms coming up around his shoulders, and that was all it took for his hand to slide to your waist, pulling you a little closer on the counter without thinking about it.
He deepened the kiss carefully, listening more than leading; he felt your breath change, your fingers tightening slightly at the back of his shirt. He let his mouth drift from your lips to your cheek, then lower, pressing slow kisses along the side of your jaw, down to your neck, unhurried, patient, like he had nowhere else to be for once.
Your breath hitched under his mouth, just barely.
Gotcha.
His eyes closed for a second, forehead brushing your temple as he let out a sigh, one hand sliding around your back, his thumb moving in slow circles like he was trying to work the tension out of you one touch at a time.
“C’mon, sweetheart…” he murmured softly against your skin, almost pleading. “Dinner’s done… missed you all day…”
His lips brushed your neck again, slower this time, listening for every little change in your breathing.
“Can’t I make you feel good for a while?”
Please.
He pulled back to look at you, hands still warm at your sides, waiting.
Your cheeks were flushed now, eyes a little softer at the edges, heartbeat spiking slightly.
He didn’t move. Didn’t touch you again. Just waited until you gave him the permission he was almost desperate for.
“Yes,” you sighed with a nod, arms sliding around his shoulders again as you leaned into him. “Please…” you murmured against his lips.
Finally.
His whole face softened and he let out a sigh that almost sounded like a laugh before his arms wrapped around you properly.
“Okay,” he whispered, more to himself than to you.
He lifted you easily from the counter, holding you close against his chest, arms under your legs, careful even now.
Strong arms stayed steady beneath your thighs as he carried you down the short hallway, your legs tightening around his waist as you went, drawing him closer.
The bedroom door was already half-open; he nudged it wider with his shoulder and didn’t bother with the light switch. The city glow filtering through the curtains was enough—soft gold and silver across your skin.
The way he liked you best.
He lay you down in the middle of the bed like you were something delicate, straightening just long enough to pull his own shirt over his head in one smooth motion.
The fabric hit the floor. His eyes never left yours. You looked up at him with soft, half-lidded gaze, and that was all it took to undo him.
Gosh, how did he get so lucky?
He crawled over you slowly, caging you in with his forearms. One large hand brushed your hair back from your forehead tenderly.
“You gonna let me take care of you?” he murmured, voice low. Asking once again for your consent.
You nodded eagerly, already pawing at his bare shoulders to have his lips meet your own again. He obliged immediately, kissing you slow and deep, revelling in the way you gave yourself to him without hesitation.
When he pulled back, his thumb traced along your bottom lip.
“So pretty,” he whispered, the words impossibly softer than the touch.
You huffed out, slightly flustered by the praise. Your fingers tightened against his wrist as you looked up at him, eyes heavy.
“Please.” You asked from under him, doe eyes almost pleading for him to touch you more.
Oh, sweetheart.
Who was he not oblige such a sweet request?
His fingers were careful as they moved to your shirt, unfastening each button one at a time, slow enough that you could feel the warmth of his hands long before the fabric gave way. Goosebumps followed every small movement, your skin reacting to the light brush of his knuckles as much as the cool air hit your exposed flesh.
You were always so receptive to him, always so open. Taking everything he offered you and more. It made his mind dizzy.
Not that he thought he deserved it.
He shoved the thought to the back of his mind as he continued undressing you, not allowing your pleasure to be sidetracked by his own insecurities.
Tonight, he wanted you to forget everything else.
He pushed the shirt from your shoulders with such softness. One hand slid behind your back, fingers finding your bra clasp without looking. His hands moved lower next, sliding the rest of your clothes away until nothing was left but warm skin under his palms.
He leaned in again, lips brushing over the newly bared areas, kissing along your collarbone, your shoulder, the centre of your chest, taking his time with each touch like he was memorising you all over again.
“Beautiful.” He breathed against your neck as your face heated.
It really was the only way to describe you—soft and pliant, bare and so needy for him already.
He was going to give you everything tonight. Take his time until the only thing left in that sweet head of yours was him.
It felt like he owed you more than that anyway.
His hands settled on your thighs, spreading them gently.
“Need to taste you first, honey,” though it sounds more like a plea. “Just lie back for me, can you do that?”
Let him make you feel good.
Let him make it up to you.
You nodded eagerly, cheeks already warm, no convincing needed.
He lowered himself between your legs, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your thigh.
“Missed taking care of you like this,” he said, mainly to himself, fingers already spreading you open before any words could escape you.
He dipped his head down, mouth closing over your clit, tongue lapping in the rhythm he knew drove you wild.
A small whine pulled from your chest and he hummed in approval, the sound vibrating against your skin. One broad hand stayed splayed across your lower stomach, holding you down so you couldn’t chase his mouth even if you tried.
He needed you just like this, exactly where he could take care of you properly.
As he kept going, a gentle cry burst out of your mouth, your hands coming down to tangle in his hair, pulling him without thinking. He could only groan as he felt you tug him closer.
“Easy, sweetheart,” he soothed, pressing his lips against your thigh. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He truly wasn’t.
He was in heaven between your thighs. Your warmth, the softness of your skin as he pulled more sounds from you. The way you tensed, squeezing his head as he sucked harder.
He was taking his time, savouring you, stroking his tongue across every fold, every nerve ending, until he was sure you’d be seeing stars.
He owed you that.
Your moans got longer, the feeling of your body unwinding around him, letting him know that he was still good at this. Letting him know that it was only him who would make you come undone like this.
He pressed two fingers inside of you, humming in appreciation as you cried out.
“Ah, Clark—“
He curled his fingers, feeling your walls begin to tighten, throbbing as your sounds grew more desperate, more beautiful.
He swore his name had never sounded so sweet.
“That’s it, angel, almost there.”
Your back arched; he pressed you back down with that hand on your stomach, keeping you right where he wanted you.
Let go for him.
When you came, it was with a sound that made his entire body tingle. He stayed between your legs the whole time, licking you through every aftershock until you were whimpering beneath him.
Always the prettiest sight he could ask for.
When your shaking subsided, he kissed his way back up your body, careful not to overwhelm you just yet. He pressed his forehead to yours while you caught your breath.
He saw the blissed-out look in your eyes, the hazy smile, the sheepish look as you giggled at him, like he had just given you the world, and he couldn’t help but smile too.
Your hands shifted to the top of his slacks, giving them a small playful tug as you met his blue eyes again.
“Not fair,” you pouted. “Wanna see you too.”
He let out a small chuckle, but he was elated that you wanted more. Wanted more of him.
Always so eager.
“Yeah?” He asks as his nose nudges against your cheek, lips brushing your flushed skin. He smiles when he sees you nod, your face almost desperate.
He leans back to unbuckle his belt, trousers following quickly after as he pulls them down his hips. He can feel your eyes on him as he undresses, his muscles twisting in the dim light under your gaze.
He watches the way your eyes glaze over, your breath getting stuck in the back of your throat, the way your thighs rub together at the sight of him bare before you.
“You’re so handsome, Clark.”
The words stop him in his tracks.
Spilling from your mouth without thought. Like it was the simplest truth. It stuttered his movements as he could feel the heat bloom across his face.
The fact that you still say these things after all this time never fails to make the world tilt ever so slightly. It nearly knocks him off balance.
Focus.
He needs to make you feel good tonight, needs to make you feel good every night.
If making you come over and over was what it took to keep that soft look in your eyes, to keep you reaching for him instead of anyone else, he’d do it as many times as it took.
Gladly.
Every single night.
“Baby…” he breathes, pushing his hair back off his forehead. “You keep talking like that, I’m not gonna last five seconds.”
You glance up at him, a teasing glint in your eye.
“Then I guess I’d better keep talking, huh?”
You’ll be the death of him.
“Sweetheart…” he groans softly. “I’m hanging on by a thread here.”
You take mercy on him and bite your lip as he drops the last of his clothes aside and begins to crawl back over you, allowing his warm, solid body to wrap around you once more.
He breathes in deeply against the side of your neck, his breath tickling as he leaves soft, open-mouth kisses against your jaw.
The way he is positioned over you, caging you in, not allowing friction in the one place where you really want him.
“Please—“ you wrap your legs around his hips, trying so hard to get him closer. “Clark—fuck—I need more.”
“Language, baby,” he coos, pressing his lips once again on your flushed skin. “I got you, alright? Need you to relax for me.”
You nod, giving him a gentle peck as your hands slide up his bare back. His muscles flex under your palms, shivering like it’s the first time.
He was already hard—aching, really—his cock heavy and flushed against your thigh. He’d barely been paying attention to himself tonight.
No—tonight was about you.
Reaching down between you, he guides himself to your entrance slowly, watching your reaction. The blunt head of him nudges against your slick folds.
So wet, so ready for him.
He pauses there, eyes locked on yours.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” he whispers against your lips. “I’ll stop, alright? just say the word.”
Just say, and he’ll stop.
“I need you, Clark,” you plead, “Please, I need you so bad.”
Every ounce of self-control he had went into holding himself together at the sound of your voice, his sweet girl begging him to make her feel good.
He feels you fluttering around his tip, walls trying to suck him in. His chest rumbles as he slowly pushes forward, rolling his hips gently so he fits with little resistance.
“God—“ you whine as your head hits the pillow behind you, nails digging into his shoulders.
“I know, baby—“ he soothes, almost fully inside you. “I know—”
He groans into your collarbone as he bottoms out, allowing himself to look between your bodies. Your arousal is coating the bottom of his shaft. It makes him nearly burst right then.
“So good for me, angel, so good—“
His praise has you clenching as he thrusts into you once more, mewling gently under him.
It begins lazily, savouring every twitch of your body. Long, deep strokes that drag against every sensitive spot inside you, his hips rolling again and again as his breaths get heavier.
Every breath that caught, every time your hands tightened around his shoulders, pulled his focus right back to you, even when his mind kept trying to wander somewhere it shouldn’t.
Gosh, he’d almost forgotten how you looked falling apart like this.
Soft under him, lips parted, trusting him completely.
How long had it been since he pleasured you like this? A week? Two?
Far too long.
His jaw tightened slightly as his hips faltered for half a second before he forced himself back.
“Feel good, honey?” he murmured against your temple, “Tell me I’m doing it right.”
He had to be.
He had to make this good for you.
He shifted his angle just slightly, the way he knew made your breath stutter, pressing his lips to your temple as he heard your sweet voice.
“So good—“ you breathe out. “Always feel so good.”
He really hopes so.
Superman could keep the whole city safe, sure. That was the easy part.
But this? This was the part that really mattered.
It was up to Clark to take care of you. Up to him to make sure you felt wanted, felt seen, felt good.
“Don’t get enough of you,” he admits, voice cracking slightly. “Not nearly enough—gosh—“
You moaned under him again, letting him know he was hitting your sweet spot when you arched up into him, chest brushing against his own.
Yes, just like that.
He needed to see this, to know that he could still do this for you.
“You’re mine, aren’t you?” he whimpers as he can feel you getting closer. “Say it—please angel—gotta hear you say it.”
Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, both of pleasure and pure determination. The kind that made his vision blur just enough that he had to blink them away to focus.
He couldn’t be done with you yet.
He kept moving, steady and deep, listening to every single sound you made. When your nails scraped lightly down his back, he slowed even more, letting you feel every thick inch.
It was then that you looked up at him, concerned eyes completely filled with love.
“Clark… I love you.” You say slowly as you cup his face. “You don’t even have to ask.”
He lets out a choked sound as his movements still, breath catching in his throat.
His forehead drops against yours, eyes squeezing shut. One of his hands comes up to cover yours where it rests on his cheek, pressing into your palm.
“Say it again,” he asks softly. Needing to hear it once more.
There is no hesitation in your reply.
“I love you, Clark,” you say as you squeeze his hand gently. “I’m always yours.”
A soft moan escapes his throat as your words wash over him, the sweetness of your tone spurring him on.
He pulls back ever so slightly, searching your face for any sign of dishonesty. He finds none.
“I love you too,” he says, though his voice sounds sadder than he means. “Just… don’t stop saying that, please?”
He doesn’t give you time to question his statement before his lips are back on yours, hips rolling once again in steady movements, reassured somewhat by your gentle words.
The sweetness starts to fray at the edges as the pleasure builds. His thrusts stay deep but grow a fraction harder, a little more urgent, like the need to prove himself is winding tighter in his chest.
His dark curls begin to drift onto his forehead. His kisses are messier now, almost desperate, tongue sliding against yours as his hips snap forward with a little more force.
He could feel you getting close again, the way you tightened around him, the way your thighs started to tremble. He didn’t speed up. He just kept that same devastating rhythm, grinding deep on every stroke, one hand sliding between your bodies to circle your clit with two fingers.
“Come on, baby,” he coaxed, voice soft and pleading. “Let go for me, I got you—please—.”
“Clark—” It came out broken, desperate, and he felt it like a punch to the chest.
He groaned, hips stuttering for the first time, but he caught himself immediately, forcing the pace back to that slow, worshipful roll.
“Again,” he begs through gritted teeth.
Say his name again.
Tell him it’s only him.
“Clark… oh god, Clark—”
Your orgasm hit you like a wave—long and rolling and endless. He felt every pulse, every flutter, and he kept moving through it, fucking you gently through every aftershock, drawing it out until you were gasping and shaking beneath him.
Only then did he let himself chase his own release, but even that was careful. He buried his face in your neck, lips pressed to your pulse point, and came with a quiet, shattered groan of your name, hips pressing deep and still as he filled you.
For a long moment, the only sound in the room was your shared breathing, slow and heavy. Clark stayed buried inside you, arms lifting slightly as he held himself up so he wouldn’t crush you.
His chest rose and fell against yours, warm skin caught the faint city light filtering through the curtains. Dark curls messy, and when he finally lifted his head, his blue eyes were soft and a little glassy, still hazy with pleasure and something deeper.
You looked completely spent beneath him, hair a mess against the pillow, lips still parted from catching your breath.
He gently eased out of you, mindful of how sensitive you were. Then he shifted his weight, rolling to the side and lifting himself off you completely so you could breathe easier.
Immediately, he leaned back in, peppering the softest kisses all over your face—your forehead, your closed eyelids, the tip of your nose, each cheek, and finally your lips.
“You okay?” he murmured, voice still rough. “Did I—” he hesitated. “Did I do alright?”
You let out a tired laugh, reaching up to push his hair back.
“Clark, you know you did.”
His smile didn’t quite settle.
“Yeah?” he asked quietly, like he needed to hear it again. “You sure?”
You nodded, thumb brushing along his cheek.
“I promise.”
He held your gaze for a second longer, searching your face, checking for any cracks. When he didn’t find any, he leaned down to kiss you once more, softer this time.
“I’m gonna grab a towel,” he murmured against your lips, already starting to shift off the bed.
You let him move for half a second before your hand caught his wrist. fingers wrapping around it gently but firmly.
“Hey,” you said softly.
He paused immediately, turning back to you.
His kind eyes wide and vulnerable as they met yours, his lips slightly swollen from kissing you, and there was a faint pink still high on his cheeks.
“Yes?” he asked, voice attentive. Always ready to give you whatever you needed.
You sat up a little, the sheet shifting, and reached for him again, fingers brushing along his jaw.
“Clark…” you say as you hold his gaze. “Something’s on your mind, isn’t it?”
Darn it. He should have hidden it better.
“Huh?” he says quickly, like he’s been caught off guard. “Nah—no, nothing’s wrong, baby. Honest.”
He tries to smile, tries to make it sound easy, but he can already see the way your brow pulls together, the way you tilt your head just slightly.
“You sure?” you press gently. “I mean… you seemed… I don’t know. Different?”
Different.
He lets out a small huff, rubbing the back of his neck as he looks away.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mutters, voice a little strained despite himself. “Was it… was it not good for you?”
He couldn’t stop himself from asking.
He could go again, if you needed him to. Could try harder, slower, whatever you wanted.
Do it better this time.
If you asked him to stay between your legs all night, making you forget, he would. Gladly.
“It was,” you say softly, before glancing down. “I just… I don’t know.”
He swallows, jaw tightening for a second.
He didn’t want this to turn into that kind of night.
Didn’t want you worrying about him or feeling like you had to fix something. He just wanted to give you a good evening. He wanted tonight to be special.
Or at least… as special as he could manage on short notice.
“I just missed you,” he says finally, forcing a small smile as he leans in and presses a gentle kiss to your cheek.
He bends to grab his clothes from the floor, shaking them out before pulling his briefs back on, then his shirt, movements a little quicker than usual, keeping that little bit busy to ignore any further questions.
“Besides, it’s getting late,” he adds with a shrug, dragging the shirt over his head, voice casual. “Figured I should probably—”
“You’re leaving?”
Your voice is quiet.
Oh, sweetheart, no.
It makes him freeze instantly, one arm still half through the sleeve. He turns around so fast he nearly trips over his own foot.
“No—I—” he blurts, eyes wide. “I’m not. I’m not leaving.”
He wouldn’t do that to you immediately after something like this. He didn’t think he could bear it.
You give him a small smile, already reaching over to the bedside drawer, pulling out one of his oversized t-shirts and slipping it over your head.
“It’s okay if you are,” you say gently, like you don’t want him to feel bad about it. “If you heard something or…”
The only thing he can hear is the tone of your voice. That tiny bit of disappointment you’re trying to hide. It hits him right in the chest.
“No, hey—no,” he says quickly, stepping closer, hands half-raised, not knowing whether to touch you or not. “That’s not what I meant. I wasn’t saying I had to go. I just—”
He stops and exhales hard, running a hand through his hair, cursing the words that don’t come out right.
“I meant it’s late,” he says, softer now. “Like… I should probably serve dinner. Or something. I mean, we haven’t eaten yet, so…”
You blink at him.
“Oh.”
He gives a sheepish shrug, suddenly feeling very big and very unsure, standing there before he sits down on the bed.
“I mean, it’s the least I can do.”
As the words leave him, your expression softens, understanding gracing your features. Everything suddenly clicked into place, understanding before he even said anything.
You stay silent as you look at him, vulnerable atop the mattress. He knows what that silence means, that you want him to say more. That you’re waiting for him to find the right words and talk to you, rather than pushing his own feelings down when they’re inconvenient.
You always make him talk more than he planned to.
He looks down at the floor, then back at you, then away again.
“I just—” he starts, then stops, shaking his head.
“It’s alright, we can—”
“No, it’s just—,” he tries again, a little too quickly. “I just… I don’t know.”
You don’t say anything.
For someone who writes for a living, he sure does struggle with finding the right words when you’re around.
You sit there, watching him, patient as ever, hands folded in your lap, waiting for him to get the rest out.
He lets out a quiet breath through his nose.
There’s no getting out of this.
“…Feels like I haven’t been around much,” he admits finally.
Your face softens even more.
“Clark—”
“I know, I know,” he says, holding up a hand, already rambling. “I know you don’t mind. You always say you don’t mind. You always tell me it’s fine, and I believe you, I do, I just—”
He rubs the back of his neck again, sighing.
“I just keep thinking one day you’re gonna…” he breathes in, not wanting to say the next words. “Maybe you’re gonna get tired of that,” he mutters.
You blink.
“What?”
He stills, not meeting your eyes.
“Waiting. Eating dinner by yourself. Me showing up late, or not at all. Falling asleep before I get back.” He lets out a humourless laugh. “Feels like that’s not exactly… boyfriend of the year material.”
You stare at him, completely melted already, but he keeps going, words spilling out faster now that he’s started.
“I mean, you could have somebody who’s actually around,” he continues. “Anybody, really. Somebody who doesn’t disappear in the middle of the night because the police scanner goes off.”
He finally looks at you, and his expression must be worse than he thought. The way your lips turn slightly downward, face looking that little bit sadder.
He never should have started.
This is exactly what he didn’t want.
“I just… I don’t know. Feels like I’m not doing enough for you lately,” he admits. “And I hate that. I hate feeling like you deserve more.”
Deserve more than him.
He hears the rustle of the sheets as you sit up on your knees. You go to wrap your arms around him, but he beats you to it, gathering you up on his lap on instinct. Holding you close to him, allowing him to hear your heartbeat soothes him slightly, but he still struggles to look at you after his admission.
“Clark,” you say softly, drawing him back.
He looks down at you, eyes still a little uncertain.
“You think I don’t know who I’m with?”
He goes to speak, but you beat him to it, silencing whatever argument he had formulated in his head.
“You think I’d trade you for someone who just… makes it home on time?”
“Yeah, but that’s not—“
“You’re the most attentive, patient, ridiculous man I’ve ever met,” you go on, thumb brushing over his cheek. “You take care of me better than anyone ever has.”
He still doesn’t seem convinced. It makes sense on paper—yes—but surely you’re just saying that to spare his feelings. Someone as special as you deserves far more than that, not stolen kisses before he has to take off through the open window.
He shakes his head faintly.
Surely that’s not true.
“I’m not always here to do that.”
“Yes, you are.”
He lets out a quiet scoff, looking away.
“Yeah, right.”
You tug his face again until he looks back at you.
“When you’re out there,” you say softly, “saving the world every day… you’re taking care of me.”
He goes still, trying to understand what you’re getting at.
“You make it safer for me to live here,” you continue, voice warm, smile returning. “For me to walk home. For me to sleep. For me to sit here and wait for you without being scared.”
“You think that doesn’t count?” you whisper.
He swallows hard, not quite knowing what to say, your words settling somewhere in his chest where all the doubts usually lived. He’s waiting for a sign that you’re being dishonest, or being just the right amount of honest to spare his feelings. But there isn’t any.
You just keep looking at him the same way you always do—like none of this is really that complicated at all. Like loving him is the most obvious thing in the world to you.
“…You really mean that?” though it’s more statement than question.
You smile, thumb still brushing along his cheek.
“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t.”
He huffs out an almost a laugh, shaking his head as his eyes drop for a second.
“Honey…” he mutters, now embarrassed. “You always know the right thing to say, don’t you?”
Always know how to keep him steady.
You grin.
“Well, someone’s gotta look after the city’s Superman.”
He snorts softly at that, finally looking back at you, and there it is—that stupid, boyish smile he always gets when you call him that.
“I just…,” he says, rambling now, words coming easier now that he’s started. “Feels like I should be doing more.”
You shake your head immediately.
“I don’t want somebody else,” you say simply. “You’re the one I want. Even when you show up through the window instead of the door.”
That makes him laugh, a real one this time, head tipping forward as he presses his forehead against yours.
“Hey, that only happened twice.”
“Three,” you correct.
“…Okay, three.”
He sighs, eyes closing. He opens them, about to say something else when—
Your stomach growls.
He feels your heart beat speed up as you groan, immediately hiding your face in his shoulder.
“Oh my god.”
Clark stares at you, then lets out the softest, most offended little gasp.
“Well we can’t have that,” he says, like this is suddenly the most serious problem in the world.
You laugh into his chest.
“I’m fine.”
“Nope. Not happening.” He shakes his head firmly, already sliding one arm under your knees. “Absolutely not. I just gave you a whole speech about taking care of you, I can’t let you starve five minutes later.”
Before you can protest, he lifts you clean off the bed, settling you against his chest.
You let out a surprised laugh, grabbing his shoulders.
“Hey!”
“What?” he says, grinning, already heading toward the door. “Doctor’s orders. You need food.”
“I’m not a patient!”
“You are when you don’t eat.”
You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling, arms sliding around his neck as he carries you out of the bedroom.
Halfway down the hall you tilt your head at him.
“…Do I have time for a shower before dinner?”
He stops instantly.
“Of course you do,” he says. “You just say the word, I got all night.”
You raise an eyebrow.
“All night, huh?”
He grins, a little crooked, a little bashful.
You snort, and he laughs under his breath as he pushes the bathroom door open. He sets you down gently on your feet, hands lingering at your waist.
“You alright?” he asks softly.
You nod.
He leans in automatically, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek. Then another to your jaw. Then one to the corner of your mouth.
“Clark,” you laugh, pushing at his chest. “Go. I need to shower.”
“Right, right,” he says, but he’s still smiling.
He backs toward the door, hands up in surrender.
You point at him.
“Out.”
“Yes ma’am.”
He slips out into the hall, closing the door behind him, staring at the wood like an idiot.
You really love him.
I mean, he knew that, but the reassurance had eradicated any doubt he held in his chest. He rubs a hand over his face, shaking his head to himself as he walks back toward the kitchen.
He flicked the stove back on, checking the sauce he made earlier, giving it a slow stir.
Still good.
He smiles to himself, leaning one hip against the counter as the warmth fills the room again.
From down the hall, he can hear the shower start. A second later, soft humming.
He turns the tap on, filling a pot with water for the pasta, setting it on the stove, still listening to that faint little tune drifting down the hall.
Tonight was good. Better than good.
And as the water starts to heat, he finds himself smiling at absolutely nothing, already thinking about what else he can do.
Maybe garlic bread. You like the garlic bread. Maybe dessert if he can find something sweet in the cupboard.
He shakes his head, chuckling quietly to himself.
He needs to slow down. Step one: feed his girl.
He glances toward the hallway again when your humming gets a little louder, warmth settling right behind his ribs.
Yeah.
He thinks he can do that.
a/n: first clark fic wooo!
but no, i know im late but i immediately knew i had to write for him after seeing the movie. please let me know what you think, i havent written in months so i still feel im suuuper rusty
there will most certainly be more where this came from if people want so lmk ! <3
