“Superman’s suit should be Kryptonian” “Ma Kent should make Superman’s suit at home” or how about the third fun option where the suit is the Kryptonian skinsuit BUT it gets damaged by Kryptonite and Ma Kent has to figure out how to sew/mend Kryptonian cloth that seems to have a mind of its own and won’t stop SQUIRMING.
Thousands of years of Kryptonian technology vs one Midwestern mom with her favorite show on? I’m putting my money on Ma.
summary :: you'd had a major crush on your crazy hot neighbor since the day he you'd first laid your eyes on him 3 years ago, unfortunately you've never had the balls to actually ask him on a date. hang out? oh yeah all the time, but a real date? too big a risk on such a great relationship. until one faithful evening, your neighbor comes in through your window all bruised and sexy, only... he's wearing a superman costume?.... holy shit your crazy hot neighbor is superman!
tags:: MDNI ,fluff, smut with plot, no use of y/n, second hand embarrassment, awkward clark kent, just a lot of awkward actually, unprotected p in v, use of baby, dumbification a litttttlee degrading, friends to lovers, calls you princess (kind of in a mocking way),overstimulation-ish, mating press :)
cici's note:: like if you enjoy... and maybe even if you didnt enjoy it ;)
oh and no proof read as always... ignore the mistakes!! sorrrryyyyy.
Apartment 2b, straight across from apartment 3b.
For the better part of 3 years, you and Clark Kent have lived in these apartments. It took 3 months for you to first interact, 4 more to invite him over for coffee.
You couldn't have just said, " hey Clark, wanna come over for coffee?
Nuh uh, this is you that we were talking about, so obviously it had to have been in a ridiculously, word vomit-y way.
You were both returning from work at the same time, something that had happened every day this week, and every week before that. Turns out you have the same hours as the daily planet reporter across the hall.
You’d meant to ask him in for coffee last week, but overthought the concept too much.
Who wants coffee after work? hellloooo caffeine wakes you up and he is obviously trying to go to sleep after work, not get more energy? sigh, just forget it.
But that one evening, the one where returning to your dull, cramped apartment alone for what must've been the thousandth something time, was too tiring and depressing to endure again. There was also that little hope in your head that maybe he was tired of it too. So you decided to spew out whatever word vomit was pending in your mind, before you had time to think about it.
“Hey Clark wait up,”
A light buzz of excitement shook in the pit of your heels, when you realized that you were really doing this. Watching him turn around at your words, maybe just a little too quickly, like he was waiting for you?
“Y- yeah whats up?” he continued after clearing his throat, his initial attempt at a response coming out far too high pitched for a grown man.
“I uhm, did you…”
I want to come inside! Say it. Come on say uh, say did you want to come inside Clark, do you want coffee? For the love of god say something and stop staring at him.
He looked at you expectantly, but not like he just wanted you to hurry up and spit it out, more like he would wait another hour for you to speak without a complaint.
The first thing you noticed about him, he was always well mannered. Not even on purpose, it was more like a reflex.
“Do you want the, uhm apartment tour?”
…Seriously? I mean I know I said say anything but come on! It's a metropolis apartment, the layouts are basically the same in every one for the next 10 blocks you idiot!
“Or, not that because that doesn't make sense, we have the same apartment. I meant coffee, do you want boffee-"
A sigh of disappointment left your lips and your head dropped at your speech impediment that seems to have resurfaced from 1st grade, and set up shop right in between you and the man across from you.
To your surprise, when you lift your head back up, Clark hasn't gone into his apartment and shut the door, with a mental note to avoid his embarrassingly awkward neighbor for the rest of his life. He is instead, leaning against his locked door, with his hands shoved awkwardly in his pockets, and an amused little smile on his face, one that shows the cutest dimples you've ever seen in your life.
“Do you wanna start over?” he draws, tone laced with just as much amusement as his face
A tang of shame and something else you can't quite put your finger on, causes the corners of your mouth to curve up in a small smile, as your eyes meet his.
“ Would you like to come inside for coffee, Clark?” you manage, finally.
“Yea, yea I would”
---------
After that, the two of you were classified as normal friends for a while, but became more the first time you drunk-puked all over his shiny black work shoes. Situations like that are really always the make or break point in any kind of relationship, lucky for you it worked out in your favor.
Well lucky isn't exactly the word you would've used to describe it at the moment. It would be something more along the lines of horrific or treacherous, but looking back now... no that was uh, still pretty bad.
But it turned out great! Because now, 2 years and a few months later, Clark Kent is pattering around in your kitchen –he's the only one that's ever really used it– making you lunch. The same way he had for… you can't even remember how long now.
You watch uselessly from the couch while he cooks a random meal that you'd sent him off Instagram reels, you offered to help, but even he isn't polite enough to pretend you'd know what you were doing.
He pretends to not want to make it, claiming that social media is causing your generation to lose the good quality meals passed down from your elders. But every time you send him a new video, with the message “ can u make this 4 me??”, he’s over by yours the next day.
Holding bags of groceries, because “the only groceries you ever buy are instant noodles and frozen fries”, ready to make whatever it is that you want.
He was like that in every way, with you at least, always there in a flash when you needed him.
Whether it was a crazy bad date that you needed to escape from. Like that one last week that was so bad you still couldn't even tell him. And he didn't need you to, he just stood outside the ridiculously expensive restaurant your date had insisted on, then just so happened to conveniently forget his wallet, only after ordering the both of you two of the most expensive entrees on the menu.
Carefully studying the tall building, shifting his body weight on either foot while waiting outside for you. All the while silently wondering if these are the only kind of guys you're into, the expensive restaurant, designer wearing, horrible credit kind.
Eventually you did come outside, moving too quickly for heels that were as high as yours, glancing back to the glass front wall of the restaurant, wondering if your dad had seen you take the turn to the exit, instead of the bathroom.
After hearing you say once that you didn’t wanna talk about it, he filled the silent walk with ramblings of the hookup stories Jimmy would run his ear off about when he was trying to work.
Shoulders –more like your shoulder and his upper arm, due to your height difference- just barely bumping together as you made the trek back to your place in the chilly, busy, Metropolis streets.
When he noticed your teeth slightly clatter and your shoulders shake a little from the breeze, he didn't say anything about how your date should've offered you his jacket the moment he saw you in that beautiful but slightly skimpy dress, like he wanted too.
Instead, he shrugged off his own, wordlessly draping in over your shoulders. He couldn't just tell you why he couldn't get cold, despite how much he wanted to.
So instead he continued the flow of the conversation so you did not have the option to reject the sentiment, in fear of him being cold.
Wrapping his jacket around yourself tighter, you wondered what it would be like to be more than friends with a guy like Clark. Even though you knew you didn't really want “ a guy like Clark”, you really just wanted him.
“What are you day dreaming about over there?” he remarked from across the kitchen/living room, quickly noticing the lack of keyboard clacking from where you were sitting.
“Just about how I'm ready to tell you about my nightmare of a date from last week” you stated in a sorta cocky tone, only because you know how much he hates not knowing things. Not looking up from your laptop, you quickly type in the last sentence of your paragraph.
You listened from your cozy position on the couch as the tried to feign nonchalance at your statement, accidentally knocking something over in the process.
He was always so predictably, himself, yet another thing you loved about Clark Kent.
“Yea?- Crap… Ill ah, ill clean that up dont worry”
“Didnt doubt it Kent” the words leaving your mouth in a vaguely mischievous tone, a plan forming in your mind. As you leisurely strolled over to the kitchen island, dropping yourself down on a creaky stool, and scooping a handful of shredded cheese in your mouth, taking advantage of his distraction. By the time he noticed, you already raised your hand up to your mouth.
“Hey dont! Ah you little…” he drew sarcastically from your kitchen floor, where he was looking up at you from his hands and knees, wiping up the spilled mixture before it could seep into your sketchy flooring, making a suspiciously attractive tsking noise.
You never noticed, but he always knew when you were going to take something, and what you were going to take. So he’d secretly grate more cheese, or cut a few more strawberries, in anticipation for your stolen handful. Pretending he didn't know, because he knew you liked it.
Clark was just the kind of guy that remembered all those little things about you.
Like how you “didn’t believe in umbrellas” because it was “just a little rain”. But you always found an umbrella in that little space between your wall and front door, where the paint is cracked along the seam.
Or how you never packed any food for yourself because you claimed you never got hungry at work.
You did, wouldn't admit it, but you did. Clark knew that about you, which is why you'd always find an apple, crackers, and a juice box in a little box at the bottom of your laptop bag. With a little note in Clarks scribbly hand writing that says “eat me, im good for you!”
You didn't verbally thank him because you knew he didn't want you to.
So instead you did little things for him too, brought new flowers for his apartment without mentioning it, always picking up two laundry detergents at the store because he never remembered it.
You weren't the kind of girl that remembered all the little things about people, you were barley able to remember your own shit, let alone somebody else's.
But for Clark? for him you did, every time.
Friends just do stuff like that, you told yourself. Don't be full of yourself, he doesn't like you, you're just close friends, your subconscious insists whenever your heart gets the notion that it could be for a different reason.
“Thought you had a story for me? Jeez, where are you today princess?”
His words dragging you back down to earth, you met his slightly concerned gaze. he was using the nickname he’d given you a while back, after you first asked him to make one of your “reels meals” as he so cleverly called them.
(It wasn't that clever but you didn't have the heart to tell him, because he looked so proud of himself.)
“Didn't realize you were so eager to know about my love life, kansas” you replied, with a nickname of your own, one you’ve also been calling him for a while.
“Yeah, yeah, you caught me, now spill”
You couldn't help but giggle at his inability to hide his flaming curiosity when it came to you.
“Okay well, it was going great until he showed up 40 minutes late with no text…”
You watch as his jaw dropped, before you swear you literally saw the thought shoot up to his head, his face morphed into that of someone who was trying to stifle a laugh.
“Wait, what do you mean it was going great until he was late? That was how he started the night!”
He replied after he was sure he wouldn't burst out laughing in your face, although you still weren't too sure of his ability to compose himself.
“Yeah it was great when I was at home!”
Now he did laugh in your face, and you couldn't help but join him. It didn't matter what he was laughing at, between his dimples, and the tone of his laugh, you were always laughing with him.
“Aw princess…”
He said, gazing at you with a remorseful look on his face. Not that remorseful, considering he still had that big dopey grin of his across his face, but still remorse nevertheless.
“Thats it Kent, you're not getting any more story time, you’ve lost your privileges!” you exclaim dramatically feigning sadness at his reaction.
“I just, you deserve better. You know that right?” he says, his laugh drying up, looking you straight in your eyes, completely serious when he says the last part of his sentence.
“Yeah, i uh i know that it's just…” you look down to where your fingers are fiddling with a bottle cap you hadn't even realised you’d picked up, while you try to figure out how to word what you want to say.
“I'm tired of not having someone, you know? For all that romantic jazz” you trail off, trying to make your feelings sound less serious than they are, because you don't like serious feelings.
Clark however, doesn't mind talking about your feelings at all.
“Is that why you went out with that…” he takes a second, choosing his words carefully as he tries to remember that he was raised as a well mannered farm boy who usually has no trouble refraining from profanity.
nother thing that was different with you, he felt so strongly about well, everything concerning you. Like it was all heightened or something.
“Jackass?, jerkoff? dickhe- ” you fill in after noticing his lack of words.
“I was trying to avoid profanity, but yeah.” he cuts you off, exaggerating the word “avoid” to remind you to not “be so crass”.
“I guess, these days it feels like, having someone is better than nothing, y’know?”
“Yeah i get it”
This is it, ask him on a date!! You're both lonely, Do it!
“Hey listen Clark, would you uhm want to… uh-”
Your ability to speak is short circuited by his direct gaze into your eyes.
You’ve studied Clark Kent’s face countless times, and every time, it steals away your ability to speak.
The subtle crinkle in between his perfectly shaped eyebrows, the one that tells you, you have his complete undivided attention.
The stubble that he rarely let grow, but when he did, it extended your ovulation by 4 days, each time. And his blue eyes that held so much emotion when he looked at you, like you were the only girl he’d ever seen.
A sudden ding, that you quickly recognized as your oven timer, cut through the tension and made you jump a little.
“And that would be our lunch, let's see how it turned out” Clark said, trying not to sound excited at his newest creation.
“Yeah lets see if I'm gonna keep you around” you joked
To which Clark snorted in response as he kneeled down to pull the tray out of your old cranky oven.
“Like you could find someone else to do crap like this” he says under his breath, knowing he'd hate if you went out and got yourself a boyfriend to do this stuff for you, he definitely knew you could.
“Mmm yeah i guess you're right…” you replied, letting him know you heard him anyway, extremely enticed by the smell wafting out the oven. If you could, you'd be floating out of your seat in the air to the smell of the food, like those cartoons you watched as a kid.
Clark got to work plating the food, placing in front of you, a plate, knife and fork. Before turning around to grab you a coke from your fridge.
Pouring it into a glass instead of just giving you the can like you insisted,
“Hey, the can is fine!” your groan, reaching for his arm across
“No, that's so… just no” you watched the 6 '4 man shudder at the idea of drinking soda straight out the can, quite the ridiculous sight.
“Fine but you're just giving me unnecessary dishes to wash.”
Scoffing in response “ like you ever wash dishes, please! Its dishwasher or dirty over here”
“And besides, I cooked, ill wash the dishes”
“Thats not how it works”
“Its how it works with me, now eat your food” he says while placing down the glass beside your plate.
Giving up on arguing with the incredibly stubborn giant in front of you, you instead dig your fork into your food and bring it up to your mouth.
“Clark, this is great! holy sh-” you grumble out loudly , bringing your hand up to cover your mouth, since your mouth is still full.
“Hey, you can thank me by refraining from your course language, missy” he cuts you off before you finish your sentence.
“Yeah alright, dad” you remark under your breath, quiet enough so that there was no way he'd be able to hear it.
“What was that? He says without missing a beat, spinning around with a plate and glass of his own before setting it down across from you.
“Wha- how’d you hear that?” you replied, shocked.
“You- y’said it so loud what do you mean?” he said too quickly, like he was covering something up. Averting your eyes while he spoke in a tone that was too high for him to be telling the truth.
Normally, he is great at lying, seeing he’s been doing it for more than 2 decades now. It's just that thing about it being you, that's causing his ability to dwindle.
“Oh” you spoke again, you knew you didn't say it audibly, you barely heard it yourself. Over the years, being friends with Clark Kent means you’d have to pretend you didn't notice something.
There weren't any huge slip ups from him that would lead you to question if he wasn’t human or anything. Just little things, here and there.
Like when he would take a pan out of the oven and use an oven mitt, only those oven mitts were way too thin for him to be holding the pan for longer than 5 seconds. You’d gotten them for 30 cents at a garage sale, you’re pretty sure they’re older than you.
So without even noticing you were doing it, you’d make up excuses for him along the way.
The oven mitts aren't that thin then, I must just have really sensitive hands or something.
Oh anybody could've accidentally snapped that door handle off, it was loose.
Little things prevent you from believing the impossible that everyone did, whether they noticed it or not. Which was probably a big part of the reason Clark had managed to keep it undercover for as long as he did.
“ Do y’have any more horrible dates planned for tonight, or are you staying in?” his voice cut through the momentary silence.
You scoffed before replying, “ill have you know that the date I have planned for tonight is rather promising” in a know-it-all tone.
“Mhm” Clark says skeptically.
“Whats his name?” he asks and you mentally kiss your teeth. You were hoping he didn't ask that.
“Its…” you take a second before continuing, brain scrambling to decide if you’d rather make up a fake name then tell him, as you move food around with your fork.
Sighing, you reluctantly continue, "It's Bartholemew… But he goes by Bart!” you're quick to add the latter when you see his lips beginning to curve in a cocky smirk.
“Well I hope it goes well.”
“So do I Clark... so do I” you said hopelessly.
It took a while for Clark to be comfortable enough with you to joke around with you a little. When you first became friends, he was all gentleman-y.
Don’t get me wrong he still is, he's just able to joke around with you now, he’s comfortable. That was what you weren't willing to risk by dating him. Him having someone comfortable to him was such a big factor in your lack of courage.
—-------
Turns out Clark was right, your date sucked. After getting all dolled up, makeup, hair, the perfect dress, your date wasn’t just late.
He was hours late, as in your date started at 6 and he showed up empty handed at 8.. He’d texted you “5 minutes babe” , at 7 o clock and even your standards weren't low enough to deal with that.
So here you are, alone in your bed at 9:30, face rid of makeup all snuggled up in your bed, rewatching glee. Instead of being wined, dined, and brought back to bed like how you intended this night to go.
You’d been wallowing in self pity for hours and decided to make it worse by ordering junk food around 30 minutes ago. Which is what you thought that the loud bang you heard was.
Woah, the driver must be in a hurry, you thought.
Only that noise didn’t come from the side of your wall that the door is on, no that came from across the apartment, from where your window is?
Dragging yourself out of bed, you go to investigate the noise, freezing suddenly when you hear your window latch open.
Holy shit okay, okay this is happening. Fuck my phones dead, that's, that's fine i can do this.
You talk yourself up, grabbing the closest thing you can find to defend yourself, the umbrella.
Quietly, you creep around the corner, steps silent as adrenaline and nervousness buzz through your entire body. Hands shaking so bad you're worried the intruder can hear the latches on the umbrella clicking together.
Taking one last deep breath, you veer your head around the coroner, only to find the last thing you would expect.
“Clark?” The words leave your mouth at the same time your death grip around the umbrella loosens, clashing to the floor as you rush over to kneel beside the bleeding, large, groaning man on your floor.
Your shock and adrenaline illuminates throughout your body even faster as you take in his appearance.
His hair disheveled in a way you've never seen it before, his soft curls aren't combed back, they now sit all over his head, tangled with between the strands. His face is littered with little cuts,
your eyes zoom in on a particular gash under his eye. Watching it a little further, it almost looks like its… healing itself?
You watch in amazement as the skin under his eye begins to pull itself together. Forcing yourself to look away, you trail your eyes down the rest of his body.
The familiar emblem is what you notice first, then your brain starts to register the deep blue covering his broad muscular shoulders, the dirtied red cape that surrounds his body.
Clark Kent is Superman.
The thought races in your head as your mind draws you back to all the things you excused or turned a blind eye to all of these years, how could you have not noticed this?
“M’sorry, t-thought you weren’t home” his deep, damaged voice cuts through the sound of your heart beating erratically in your eardrums.
“Clark you’re…” you say, unable to continue.
“Superman? Yeah i notic-” he fills in for you, trying to joke away the terribly concerned look in your eyes.
“Hurt” you cut him off “You’re really hurt” you say, eyes trained on the cuts littering his face, like you think it'll go away if you blink, like you think he will go away.
Shock drapes over his pained features, like he can't believe that you'd care about anything other than the stamp across his chest.
“Yeah I was, mmfph, yeah I'm hurt” he concludes after trying, and failing, to sit up and talk to you.
Your thoughts momentarily short circuit, trying to figure out what to do, before realizing that you couldn't possibly know how to help him because he is an alien.
Bringing your hand to either side of his face, forcing him to look at you when his eyes began to flutter closed and his head began to loll to the side.
“How do I help Clark?" you decide to just ask him, concern washing through your body at a rate that disables your critical thinking skills.
“I'm really sorry about– ahh jeez –this, I thought you wouldn't be here ill-” he drones on, literally apologizing for bleeding into your carpet.
Squeezing his face lightly, you interrupt him again, “Clark”
You watch him look at you, like he's trying to look straight through your eyes and into your mind to figure out what the hell you're thinking right now.
“Yeah?” tone softer than before.
“How do I help?” You say slowly, hoping that he'd stop feeling guilty and just tell you what to do.
“Can you uh, help me up? I'll be fine, I heal fast, I just need to sleep it off.
Immediately, you shift your body to help him up, a low deep groan leaving his lips when you begin to help him off the floor.
He begins to walk over to the front door of your apartment but you quickly drag him deeper into yours.
“I can go.. Ill be fine i promise” he begins
Holding your ground, “No, no way Clark im not leaving you like this come on” you say as you lead him towards your bed.
He drops heavy onto your mountain of blankets, eyes closed in pain. You find yourself worrying about who's been taking care of him while he takes care of everyone else.
You bring yourself to lay beside him, wrapping your hands around his head, wishing there was more you could do.
“Again i'm sorry about this, about all of it i-”
“Stop apologizing Kent, trust me if I didn't want you here you wouldn't be here” you joke, trying to make him feel less guilty.
You watch a small smile grace his face, wincing at the same time he does when the movement stretches a cut on his eyebrow.
“How long?” you ask
“How long what?” he replies, craning his head to see you
“How long does it take for you to heal?”
“Oh this? This isnt bad ill be all good and out of your hair in a few hours” he downplays.
“I guess I'll see what happens on the news tonight huh?
A low chuckle leaves him, filling the quiet room “Yeah I guess you will.”
—----
You both keep the conversation going, as an attempt to distract yourselves from how close you are to each other.
It doesn't work, every time your leg brushes against his thigh, or he shifts to get comfortable, you notice it. You both really notice it, and it's driving you crazy. At some point during your conversation,Clark was able to turn on his side to face you.
So now it wasn't just the moderate physical touch that was driving you mad, it was the way he looked at you too. He looked at you like you were the best thing he’d ever seen, and somewhere under that all that adoration, there was something darker that mustered as well.
Soon, you realized you both hadn't said anything for a whale, you were just looking. Just for a second, something you could have easily missed, his gaze dropped down to your lips.
That second was all it looked for you to bring your face just that little bit closer, and finally close the gap between you two. Clark stilled for a moment, before beginning to move his lips on yours. He didn't kiss like you thought, in truth you’d never been kissed like this before.
He moved his lips on yours like he craved you for years, and maybe, he had?
His hands grazed the curve of your waist, seemingly asking for permission. You granted in by moving even closer to him, causing his back to lay flat on the mattress, you brought your thighs on either side of him.
Hovering your center over his, not because you didn't want them to connect– in this moment, you actually wanted nothing more, but because that would make it real.
Breaking the kiss would also make it real, it would mean you would have to look him in the eyes and give him the chance to take it back.
Eventually, did you have to pull away to breathe, and meet his gaze. When you did pull away, his lips were all pinked and swollen, pupils dilated and he studied you with the same intensity you studied him with. Searching your eyes for any sign of doubt, anything that told him you didn't want to cross this line.
Because you both knew that once you did, there wouldn't be any going back.
“Are you sure? I need you to be sure” his gruff voice cut through the blissful silence.
Deciding quickly in your head, you lowered yourself onto him, connecting your heat to his. The action earned you a deep growl that you were sure you would never forget.
Studying his expression again, you noticed the crinkle in between his eyebrows again, and felt a shock of worry course through you.
“Shit did I hurt you?” You ask, voice sharp and concerned
“Not the word I’d use to describe it princess” he replied, a subtle smile on his face.
“I need to hear you say it, please.” he spoke again, in a tone sounding like he was in pain.
You brought your face as close as you could without kissing him, and whispered the words he’d dreamt about hearing for far too long.
“I want this clark, I want you” you told him, rolling your hips into his so you could watch him writhe underneath you.
Hearing those words seemed to flick a switch in Clark's mind, gripping your waist, he flipped the both of you in one swift motion. The action surprised you, causing a yelp to leave your lips.
“Making noise for me already?” He speaks slowly against your neck, trailing sloppy kissing along your sweet spots, as he begins undressing you.
This new version of the sweet, thoughtful, gentle man you've known for years, has a pool of wetness collecting in your underwear.
All you can do is moan helplessly while he works his way around your body, seemingly knowing every one of your buttons to press. The sounds you make bounce off the thin walls of your apartment, drawing Clark's attention.
He murmurs from his position just below your waist , “Cant be too loud okay baby, walls are thin”
As he pulls your thin sleep shorts and underwear down your thighs.
“You- you’re… wow” he stutters out.
“Clark!” you whine, struggling to keep your composure since he is taking so long.
“Sorry, sorry baby” he says, dragging the suit from its low position on his hips, all the way down to his ankles, before kinking it off.
Leaving him in his boxers, you examine his length through them, sitting up on your elbows to watch him.
Dragging your eyes away from his underwear and back up to his gaze when he catches you staring. A lopsided smile sits on his face as he watches you. You’re in nothing but your red lacy bra now, you’d still had it on from your previous night plans. Desperately whining for him to bury his cock deep inside you.
You watch him peel his underwear off, as soon as his cock is released from its confines, all nine inches of him spring out against his stomach. Tip glistening in precum, you don't even notice your tongue come out to wet your lips.
A smug chuckle leaves Clark's lips as he brings himself back down on top of you, his arms on either side of your head.
“Condom?” your eyes watch as his mouth contours to form the word, wanting nothing more than for him to have his mouth on you.
Your gaze is still trained on his lips while the words leave your mouth,
“I-im on the pill” you stutter out. The realization that this is finally happening hitting you all at once.
“Okay, are you sure you wanna…?” Clark speaks again, still wanting to make sure everything was right for you.
“Yea, yes just, kiss me? Please” you say while bringing your hand up to either side of his head, dragging his lips down to yours. You feel his tongue swipe across your bottom lip and the action has you opening your mouth even wider for his access.
Pulling apart from you, Clark lazily strokes himself in preparation. You look down at the motion to find yourself entranced by the sight.
“Gonna make my girl feel good” he mutters the words more to himself than to you.
You feel the tip of his cock graze your entrance and gasp, causing his head to look away from where you're both connecting, and back at you.
“Tell me if I need to stop, okay?” he says, light concern floating evident on his expression.
“Oh hold on” you say, contouring to try and remove your bra, before you feel a large hand on your stomach stop you.
“Wait can you uh, can you leave it on” he says, eyes gauging your reaction.
Swallowing, you nod and lay back down, gesturing for him to continue.
“You say the word and I stop okay? No hard feelings”
“Clark…”
“Yeah”
“Fuck me please” you dont even recognize your own voice, desperation so evident in your tone.
Your words are all it takes for Clark to move himself into you, a synchronized moan leaving the both of you. Your hands shoot to grip either side of his arms, to brace yourself.
“Hpmh- you feel, shit baby can I move?” he strangles out, using all his control to not thrust further up into you.
You nod eagerly, the feeling of him inside you with nothing in between the both of you unlike anything you’d ever felt before, you'd had raw sex before but it wasn't like this.
Clark drags himself out of you, before aggressively thrusting back into your throbbing pussy, that had been sucking him in with so much force, it took effort to move.
He continues his motions, causing moans so harsh to leave you, you weren't sure if you were moaning or screaming.
“Clar- Clark, feels so, i can’t…fuck” you sputter out, brain rendered useless when he was fucking you this well.
“What's that princess? Where's all your attitude now baby?”
His words cause you to squeeze him in even further, his cock throbbing with need inside you is all you can think about.
Clark brings his motions to a stop, causing a look of confusion to cover your features. He brings his hands to the backs of both your knees beside you, and your ankles over his shoulders.
In this new position, he somehow feels even deeper than before. He continues his pace, fucking you like youve been waiting for.
“G’na, fuuckk, Clark” you scream, feeling the tight coil in your stomach radiate through you, unable to control yourself.
You’ve never come so hard in your life, toes curling, vision blurry, all the while he is still pumping in and out of you, searching for his own release.
You feel a large palm clamp over your mouth muffling your loud cries as Clark buries his face on your shoulder, releasing his load, deep into you.
All you can do is lay there and listen to his moans of pleasure as you let him use you.
You both sit there for a minute, breathing heavily against each other, coming down from your highs.
After a moment, Clark drags himself out of you and drapes a blanket over your naked, sore and shaking body. Your eyes flutter shut as you hear the shower begin to turn on, and Clark returns, still naked, holding a towel.
“Come on let me get you cleaned up”
After watching you groan and roll deeper into the mattress, Clark lets out a sigh of amusement before lifting you in his arms and carrying you towards the bathroom.
Adding to the overflowing list of things you loved about Clark Kent.
thank you for reading! since this look forever please like and or reblog. also i love comments so feel free to let me know how you felt about it!
If there's anyone who wants the idea or quest for young Nolan or mark grayson ( specific Viltrumite Mark or any marks you see fit) I have one for you. 🤭 you can change or do what you want with this request, especially the ending. ( but I low-key like the thought of her taking him to her universe so you can use that.) ( also, I just added this but y'all can make this yandere too?
Stronger! Kryptonian! Reader x young! nolan grayson
Stronger! Kryptonian! Reader x mark grayson
I want reader who from another dimension (the DC universe) ends up in Invincible verse. While she starts searching for a way home, She starts off as enemies at first with the Viltrumites, seeing them as just blood thirsty brutes that are in her way of getting home since they have a special material that she needs in order to create a device so she can send herself home.
while they view her as a threat / a worthy conquest so many of them approach her to fight to prove themselves. Despite repeated fights, she easily defeats those she meet but spares their lives usually, unintentionally earning their respect in a weird way and a reputation for her strength and other abilities.
Enter young! Nolan / mark and Other Viltrumite, who are eventually sent to defeat / recruit her but is quickly overpowered. Humiliated yet intrigued, he returns for multiple rematches while still trying to recruit her, and she sees it as some kind of light training for herself. over time their rivalry softens into a strange bond. As they grow closer, Nolan / Mark begins to fall for her and awkwardly tries to ( Viltrumite Style ) court her by prove his strength to her.
( she's oblivious because she doesn't know much about Viltrumite culture) When he learns what she been looking for, Nolan / Mark ultimately retrieves it for her as a sort of a weird courting gift but is reluctant to give it to her after finding out what she needs it for since he doesn't want her to leave him. At least just yet anyway.
Every time your thoughts started to form, they spiraled— fast, sharp, and unforgiving— straight into you are not in your world anymore and you gave yourself Superman powers like an absolute idiot.
So, you didn’t think. You just breathed, slow and steady, like that might somehow anchor you in place.
“This is fine,” you said out loud, because apparently saying it made it more believable. “People wake up in alternate realities all the time. Totally normal. Happens every—“
Your reflection moved.
You froze mid-sentence, your body going rigid as your eyes slowly drifted toward the wardrobe mirror across the room. There you were— standing exactly where you should be with that ‘deer-in-headlights’ look— but something about it felt… off.
“… that’s not right…”
You took a cautious step closer, as if the mirror might betray you if you moved too quickly.
It didn’t, just like the floor didn’t crack when you moved. Still, better safe than sorry.
The mirror just stood there, reflecting you back with quiet, unwavering honesty.
Except… it wasn’t quite you.
You were taller. Not dramatically so, but enough that it threw everything off. Your eye level sat higher than it should be, your proportions just slightly stretched in a way that made you feel like you’d been shifted half an inch out of alignment.
Your shoulders were broader, too. Your posture naturally straighter, like your body had decided slouching was no longer something it tolerated.
Which was something you dreaded if you were to pull off the whole ‘Clark Kent’ persona thing—
You looked stronger.
Not bulky, or exaggerated— just built.
Like every part of you had been refined into something sturdier, something denser. Something that could take a hit and keep standing.
For the second time in an only a few minutes, your stomach dropped straight out of your ass.
“Oh my god, I got buff.”
Your hands came up immediately, patting at your arms, your sides, your waist, like you were checking to make sure everything was still attached properly.
Spoiler alert: you were not pulled apart and put back together again like some sort of Frankenstein experiment. Your nose shape was still the same, your lips still had the same pull as before, shit— even your hip dips remained!
Still, it was unnerving to see all these familiar features on an unfamiliar body.
Everything felt solid (R.I.P to the soft pudge on your stomach, you will be missed). Real. Warm beneath your touch.
“…Okay,” you said faintly, trying to keep your voice steady. “Okay, that’s— fine. That’s fine, I can work with this. I can—“
Something brushed against your brow.
You stilled.
And finally, your gaze rested on the one small thing that really drove the ‘oh-my-god-I’m-fucking-Superman’ idea home.
A single curl of hair, resting perfectly, deliberately, across your forehead.
You stared at it.
You pushed it back. It fell forward again.
You blinked, then pushed it back again, harder this time. It bounced right back into place like it had something to prove.
“No,” you said firmly, like this was the one thing you could not stand with. “Absolutely not. I refuse. I reject this. I did not sign up for branding.”
The curl, evidently, disagreed.
It stayed exactly where it was, like it paid rent.
After a stunted pause where you had to heavily resist the urge to march into the kitchen to grab a pair of scissors and snip this damn thing off—
You leaned closer to the mirror, narrowing your eyes at your own reflection. “…Okay, but—“ you tilted your head slightly, studying yourself from a different angle. “—why does it kind of work?”
You straightened a little, almost unconsciously. Your shoulders squared, your posture shifted, and something about the way you held yourself changed in an instant. You plastered on a brilliantly bright smile, and— oh my god, are those dimples?!
“Hold on—“
You turned slightly, then the other way, taking yourself in from different angles. There was something undeniably different about your presence now.
Something that made even standing still feel intentional— like you occupied space in a way you never had before.
“…I mean,” you said slowly, “if I’m going to be stuck like this…”
Your gaze drifted downward as you shifted to see yourself from a side angle. A smug grin pulls at your lips once you see the buff increase also applied to your ass.
“… it could be worse.”
The moment lingered for just a second too long before your expression flattened entirely.
“Focus,” you told yourself sharply. “This is not the time to be hot and mysterious! This is the time to panic correctly.”
With that, you tore yourself away from the mirror (not without sending one last look at your behind— holy shit, even your back is ripped!) and started pacing the room. Every step was careful— you didn’t trust your own strength not to betray you if you got careless.
“Okay, so,” you muttered, ticking points off on your fingers. “New body. Super strength. Super senses. Probably the rest of the package too. That’s— great. Love that. Big fan.”
Your gaze swept the room— and then stopped.
There, sitting on a small desk near the wall, was a phone. Plugged into a charger. Completely normal. Completely out of place.
Your breath caught.
You rushed toward it, then forced yourself to slow down halfway there, visibly reining yourself in. “Careful,” you whispered under your breath. “Gentle. You are no longer allowed to run.”
A bit strict, yeah, but you can’t run (ha) the risk of accidentally slamming through the wall and giving the neighbors a fright.
You pick up the phone like it might explode.
It didn’t.
(Maybe you should stop being such a pussy and realize that not everything is going to crack under you— maybe. Hopefully.)
The screen lit up instantly. No lock screen. Not even a password.
“…Suspicious,” you muttered, eyeing the thing like Cecil-fucking-Stedman might pop out and ask threaten you to join his team. That obviously doesn’t happen so you allow yourself to relax— only slightly though, because that old man is more slick than a greased up eel—
Your thumb hovered for a moment before tapping the screen. The display flickered to life, showing the time, the battery— and then the date.
You nearly gagged at the sudden information presented before you.
February 26th, 2021.
One month before the events of Invincible start to take place. One month before Mark Grayson gets his powers. One month before Nolan Grayson murders the Guardians of the Globe and breaks the trust of everyone around him.
You’re gonna be sick.
You lean closer, as if the proximity might somehow change what you’re seeing.
It didn’t.
The date remained exactly the same. One month before everything.
Your thoughts came too fast now, tumbling over each other.
Cities reduced to rubble.
Blood stained concrete.
That train—
You squeezed your eyes shut, shaking your head like you could dislodge the images.
“Nope! Nope, we’re not thinking about that.”
But you already were.
Because you already knew how bad it would get. You knew who was coming, what was coming— and now you were here, with powers that practically screamed Viltrumite-Level-Threat! Might as well write it across your forehead in bright red marker.
Worst of all, you have no idea how to use your fucking powers! You’ve been dropped in this absolute hellscape with no control, no training, and absolutely no clue on what you’re supposed to do.
Your breathing quickened.
“I can’t— I can’t do this,” you muttered, your voice unsteady. “I’m not a hero, I watched this from a couch. With snacks. I didn’t sign up to—“
A sharp ping cuts through your thoughts.
You suppress the urge to send your head through the nearest wall.
The air at your right side shimmered.
“Come the fuck on—“
Light fractured across empty space, assembling itself piece by piece until the now-familiar screen snapped into existence.
But this time—
It looked different.
Not just a floating message— a full interface.
Clean lines. Structured panels. Soft glowing borders that felt less like something divine and more like something ripped straight out of a video game HUD.
Text scrolled in smoothly, accompanied by a quiet chime.
[SYSTEM ONLINE]
USER SYNCHRONIZATION: Complete
POWER SET INTEGRATION: Stable
Welcome, PLAYER
You stared at the word.
“…Player?” you echoed faintly. “Oh, that’s not— no. I don’t like that. That implies mechanics. I don’t want mechanics.”
The interface did not care.
A new panel slid open to the side with a soft, satisfying click.
[PRIMARY DIRECTIVE INITIALIZED]
The text beneath it appeared one line at a time.
Objective: Establish Hero Identity
Time Limit: 30 Days
Requirements:
Gain Public Trust
Gain Recognition from Active Heroes
Achieve Positive Standing with Global Defense Agency
Your pulse spiked.
“…Excuse me?!”
Another line appeared.
Failure Condition:
Classification as Unregistered Threat.
Silence filled the room.
Your mouth opened slightly.
Closed.
Opened again.
“Oh, so you’re not even pretending this is optional.”
A soft ding responded as another panel slid into place.
[DAILY QUEST: HEROIC ENGAGEMENT]
Description: A hero is defined by action. Passive observation will result in failure.
Objectives:
Intervene in 1 Civilian Incident (0/1)
Prevent Property Damage or Injury (0/1)
Maintain Controlled Use of Power (0/1)
Optional Bonus:
Positive Civilian Reaction Recorded (0/1)
Rewards:
+1 Reputation (Local)
+1 Control
System Guidance Unlocked
Failure Penalty:
Negative Reputation Modifier
Increased Surveillance Risk
You blinked at the screen.
“…You want me to go outside?”
[CONFIRMED]
“…And do hero work.”
[CONFIRMED]
You let out a short, breathless laugh, dragging a hand down your face. “In the Invincible universe. The one where people get obliterated. That’s the one you picked.”
The interface remained perfectly still.
Unbothered.
Unmoved by your plight.
Your hand slices through the air, the screen only flickering briefly in response. Your lips curl up in a snarl as you continuously try to swipe the screen away, the words remaining unchanged.
Your other hand came up, swiping harder, more frantic. Again. Again. Again.
“Go away—!”
Your voice broke completely now, rising with panic as you tried to shove it aside, to push it out of your space, your life.
“Stop it— just— stop!”
Your hands cut uselessly through light.
The interface didn’t move.
Didn’t even react.
[QUEST TRACKING ACTIVE]
“STOP!”
The shout tore itself free from your throat, raw and desperate, echoing off of the walls.
Silence.
Your arms dropped.
The fight drained out of your body like someone had pulled a plug.
You stood there for a second longer, shaking, your breath coming in short, uneven bursts. Your vision blurred, the room warping at the edges as tears spilled over before you could stop them.
“I’m not— I’m not supposed to be here…”
That was the worst part.
Not the powers.
Not the System.
Not even the month.
The quiet, suffocating realization that everything familiar was gone.
Your home.
Your life.
Your mom.
Even the person in the mirror didn’t feel like you anymore.
“I don’t even—,” your breath stuttered, shoulders starting to shake as you pressed a hand to your face, trying and failing to hold it together. “This isn’t my body…”
The words came out in a broken whisper.
“I don’t— this isn’t mine.”
Your knees gave out before you really registered it.
You sank to the floor hard, catching yourself just enough not to crack the tile beneath you, curling in on yourself like you could somehow make all of this smaller.
Manageable.
It didn’t work.
Tears slipped freely now, hot and relentless. Your breathing uneven as panic bled into every inhale you took.
Fear.
You were scared.
“I don’t want to do this,” you whimpered, the words barely audible even to your sensitive ears. “Why me?”
The question hung in the air.
Your fingers curled weakly against the floor, your body still trembling as everything finally set in all at once— the reality, the responsibility, the impossible expectation sitting just inches from your face in the form of that damned screen.
It didn’t care.
Of course it didn’t.
It just hovered there.
Patient.
Waiting.
[OBJECTIVE REMAINS ACTIVE]
“…Yeah,” you whispered hoarsely, tears still slipping down your face. You make no move to wipe them away, your hollow gaze fixed on the glowing screen. “Of course it does.”
You let your head fall forward to rest against your arm, eyes squeezing shut like that might block it all out.
It didn’t…
Nothing did.
After a while— seconds, minutes, you didn’t know— your breathing started to slow. Not steady, your throat still caught every so often.
Just… less jagged.
You didn’t get back up.
Didn’t argue again.
Didn’t try to swipe the screen away.
You just laid there on the floor, feeling small in a body that felt too strong for you, staring at nothing as the weight of everything settled in.
You didn’t bother denying it anymore— this was real, and no amount of screaming or crying was going to change that.
═══════
The System had the decency to let you wallow in self pity for another half hour. You stayed slumped on the floor, your tears having dried out a while ago. A petulant pout stuck itself to your face as your body trembled just enough to remind you that you were still alive.
You let yourself breathe, small, shaky breaths, trying to convince yourself that the world hadn’t completely collapsed— just your personal world, your body, your future.
A sharp ding cut through the quiet.
You raised your head, fully prepared to cuss the System out for interrupting your little pity party.
The HUD glimmered again, impossibly bright in the dim room.
[SIDE QUEST ASSIGNED]
Your stomach lurched.
Objective: Prepare for Your First Day at the Daily Planet
Description: You are to integrate into your designated occupation to establish a cover identity.
Requirements:
Don professional attire suitable for office duties.
Arrive at workplace before 9:00AM
Maintain composure during first interactions with colleagues
Rewards:
+Reputation (Local)
+Public Recognition
+ [DAILY PLANET] Fondness
Your jaw dropped.
The world snapped into sharp focus. Your pity party evaporated instantly, mind racing as adrenaline floods your veins.
“No, no, no, no, no!” you shouted, scrambling to your feet. The room seemed impossibly small all of a sudden, furniture threatening to block your path as you made a mad dash towards the wardrobe.
Your hands gripped the glass knobs of the doors and flung them open, eyes darting across hangers and drawers.
Clothes. You needed clothes. Work clothes.
Your fingers flew over shirts, jackets, skirts, slacks, your mind moving faster than your body as you tried to find something professional. Fuck, you worked as a god damn librarian in your past life where the only dress code was to be dressed! You had no idea what shirt went with what skirt, or if heels are the only acceptable footwear.
You needed to find something professional, something you could survive wearing. Something that wouldn’t scream alien monstrosity disguised as human.
You yanked out a crisp white button-up and froze, staring at it. “…I… can I wear this? Is this even— does this even fit this stupid body?!”
Of course it fit.
Your new body was built differently, and the shirt clung in all the wrong—and right— places, but there was no time to freak out over it. You shoved it on, fumbling with the buttons, muttering curses under your breath the whole time.
You grabbed a blazer next, a pair of slacks, shoes— black flats that looked fairly comfortable— and tried to assemble an outfit that wouldn’t stick out too much.
All the while, the System’s screen stayed stubbornly by your side. It displayed a clock that was slowly ticking down to 9:00AM.
One hand mussed up your hair as the other adjusted the collar of the shirt for the third time in thirty seconds.
You carefully played with the strands to hide the pronounced curl that still fucking refused to blend in with the rest of it—
“Oh!”
A pair of light red glasses stared up at you innocently, like they weren’t the one thing that pulled this whole thing off. You paid no mind to how perfectly they were placed or how they fit the curve of your face— you were just happy that this whole thing might not go up in flames yet.
The System made sure to have you grab a lanyard and a briefcase, both tucked neatly by the front door.
The door slammed shut behind you as you rushed out into the hallway, almost crushing some poor guy against the wall.
“Sorry,” you called out over your shoulder, already speed-walking down the hall. “In a rush!”
The man grumbled some curses after you but you couldn’t make them out properly over the racing of your own heart.
Danny wasn’t technically a member of the Batfamily. But considering he had been crashing at one of their safehouses for the past couple of weeks and running night patrols with Robin, he was basically an honorary stray at this point. Which is how he ended up at the Watchtower when the Justice League was holding a debriefing.
Danny didn’t expect much to happen—until Superman walked in, took one look at him, and froze.
His eyes narrowed as he turned to Batman. “Bruce,” he said, voice laced with suspicion, “where did you find this one?”
Danny blinked. “Oh, cool, I get to be a ‘this one.’ That’s not ominous or anything.”
Superman ignored him, gaze locked onto Batman. “You know his heartbeat is wrong, right?”
That made Danny pause. He put a hand over his chest, mildly offended. “Uh, rude?”
“It’s not human,” Superman said firmly. “It’s close—but there’s something off about it. Bruce, tell me you did not just bring home an unknown meta without vetting him first.”
Batman, to his credit, didn’t even look up from his data pad. “I know what he is.”
Superman frowned. “And?”
Batman didn’t elaborate.
Danny grinned. “See, this is why I love working with Bats. So good at keeping a secret.”
Superman wasn’t amused. “What are you?”
Danny tilted his head. “A guy who really likes pancakes.”
“Not what I meant.”
“Wow, rude again.”
Superman’s frown deepened. Danny could practically feel the suspicion rolling off him.
The kid’s heartbeat wasn’t human. That was odd enough. But something about it nagged at him—because it wasn’t just different. It was familiar. He couldn't place it exactly, but it reminded him of something.
Kryptonian?
No, that was impossible.
…Right?
Superman listened closer, trying to pick apart what exactly was off about it, but the more he focused, the more the suspicion dug in. His mind whirred, running through possibilities. Half-Kryptonian? A clone? A hybrid of some kind? The lack of information was driving him insane.
By the time they left the Watchtower, Superman was still staring at Danny like a puzzle he couldn’t quite solve.
Then Danny, ever the dramatic little menace, casually floated up into the air like it was nothing.
Superman stared.
Danny caught his expression, grinned, and gave him a mock salute. “Later, Big Blue.” And then, strategically leaving before Superman could press for more details, he shot into the sky, disappearing into the vastness of space like it was just another Tuesday.
Superman turned to Batman, expression unreadable. “Bruce.”
Batman didn’t look up. “Clark.”
Superman pointed at where Danny had disappeared. “He flew.”
“Yes.”
“Without a jetpack. Or wings.”
“Yes.”
Superman folded his arms. “You cannot tell me that didn’t look Kryptonian to you.”
Batman smirked, finally glancing his way. “I collect strays, Clark. That doesn’t mean I always explain them.”
Superman huffed.
Danny Phantom was definitely Kryptonian.
And he was going to prove it.
Meanwhile, Danny grinned the whole way back to Gotham, thoroughly pleased with himself.
Superman was definitely convinced now.
And Danny? Danny was going to milk this for all it was worth.
Danny vs. Superman (on Behalf of Kon)
A couple of weeks later, Danny met Young Justice. And by met, he meant he immediately took interest in Kon-El—aka Superboy, aka Superman’s clone—because, well. Having a clone of yourself was a whole mess of weird, and Danny had some very strong opinions about it.
At first, this whole thing had just been funny. Messing with Superman? Hilarious. Letting him think he was Kryptonian? Comedy gold.
But now? Now it was personal.
Because the more he learned about Kon, the more pissed off he got.
Superman didn’t even acknowledge him? Treated him like he wasn’t worth his time? Oh, hell no. Danny knew what that was like—the existential crisis, the what even am I spiral, the feeling of being ignored by someone who should have given a damn. But Danny had figured it out. And Ellie—his own clone, his little sister—was one of the best things to ever happen to him.
Superman didn’t get to just pretend Kon didn’t exist.
So yeah. Maybe Danny had started this whole thing as a joke.
But now?
Now he was going to teach Kon Kryptonian. And they definitely weren’t telling Superman.
Superman Walks In at the Worst Time
It wasn’t until a month later that Superman found out. He had come to Mount Justice for an unrelated reason—probably to ignore Kon some more—when he overheard something that stopped him in his tracks.
Kryptonian.
Someone was speaking fluent Kryptonian. And it wasn’t just one person—it was two.
Superman immediately followed the voices and found—
Danny.
Danny and Kon, sitting on the floor, going through Kryptonian writing exercises like it was a casual after-school tutoring session.
Superman stared.
Danny looked up, met his gaze, and winced. “Oh. Uh. Hey, Supes.”
Superman’s eyes went wide. “You—” He turned to Kon. “You both—” Then back to Danny. “You know Kryptonian?”
Danny sighed, setting his notebook down. “Yeah, that’s apparently a thing I do.”
Superman’s expression shifted, shock turning into something else—something hopeful.
“You are Kryptonian,” he breathed. “I knew it—”
“Nope,” Danny interrupted, standing up. “Still not. Sorry, buddy.”
Superman’s face fell. “…But then how—?”
“I already told you,” Danny said, folding his arms. “I pick up dead languages. Krypton? Kind of super dead. The ghosts knew the language, so now I do too.”
Superman opened and closed his mouth. “That’s… that’s not how languages work.”
Danny grinned. “For you maybe.”
Superman took a slow breath, forcing himself to process that particular mess later. “Alright. Fine. You’re not Kryptonian. But then why—?”
His gaze drifted back to Kon, and it clicked. Danny crossed his arms. “Oh, now you care?” Superman stiffened. “That’s not—”
Danny scoffed. “Look, I don’t care what you think about me, but let’s get one thing straight—you had a literal clone of yourself and decided the best course of action was ignoring him? Seriously? That’s your play?”
Superman faltered. “I… I didn’t—”
“You did,” Danny said flatly. “And I wasn’t about to let him go through the same ‘what even am I’ crisis that I had to deal with alone. So yeah. I taught him Kryptonian. Because you wouldn’t.”
Superman clenched his jaw. “Danny, it’s not that simple. You don’t know what it’s like to have your DNA stolen, to have someone make a copy of you without your consent—”
Danny laughed—actually laughed—and it wasn’t a pleasant sound. “Oh, buddy. You have no idea who you’re talking to.”
Superman hesitated. “…What?”
Danny stepped closer, eyes glowing faintly in the dim light. “I do know what it’s like. I was fifteen when someone took my DNA and mixed it with their own to make a clone of me. I was a kid when I had to deal with the existential crisis of ‘what does this mean, am I even real, what does this say about me?’ And you know what I did?”
Superman didn’t answer.
Danny’s voice softened, but his glare didn’t. “I became her big brother. Yeah, it was violating, and yeah, I was freaked out. But none of that was her fault. So instead of treating her like some horrible mistake, I looked after her. I protected her. Because that’s what family does.”
Superman swallowed.
Danny’s glare sharpened. “But you? You’re a grown man. You had the time, the resources, the support to deal with it in a way that didn’t involve pushing Kon away like he was some thing you didn’t want to deal with. You didn’t even try. And that’s what pisses me off the most.”
Silence.
Superman looked at Kon. Kon looked away.
Danny exhaled sharply. “You wanna be mad at me for stepping in? Fine. But I’d be real careful about what you say next, Supes.”
Superman exhaled slowly. “I… I need to think.”
Danny rolled his eyes. “Yeah. You do.”
Back at the Batcave
Superman stalked into the Batcave, exasperated. “Bruce. We need to talk. About Phantom.”
Batman barely looked up. “No, we don’t.”
Superman groaned. “Bruce.”
Batman smirked. “Clark, I think it’s time you accepted something.”
Superman frowned. “What?”
Batman turned back to the Batcomputer.
“I collect strays.”
So I churned this out and have no idea where it came from, or if I'll be able to do anything with it, if someone wants to continue or use it for their own works please just tag me ❤️
Suh Ankripton: The New Kryptonian Language from Superman
The latest from Jessie and me is Suh Ankripton: the new Kryptonian language from Superman (2025). It shows up in a key (but minor) way in the new film, though you'll hear it again in future (and a lot more of it). It's head-initial: SVO and inflectional, with verbs that are meatier than we expected... Eventually I'll put the dialogue from the movie up on my AO3, but I want to wait until people have had a chance to see it, as the dialogue plays a key role in the film. Look for that in the coming weeks!
summary: your history with clark is complicated, and your relationship even more so– but if anybody can make it work, it's you two freaks.
word count: 6.6k
contains: moderately toxic angst & smut. FREAK4FREAK CLARK AND READER!!! weirdpervert!clark & reader, fighting, unhealthy jealousy. childhood friends to lovers, dubious kryptonian urges, clark is kind of unstable. pet names, obsession, begging, apologies. *rough piv, biting, prone bone, quickie apology cunnilingus lol. *no use of y/n
a/n: this one was so fun i love psychological freaks. this is pretty mild considering what i was thinking of doing… might revisit with something way weirder. darker clark is really fun… might play with him more... enjoy anons mwahaha
—————————— ˚₊‧꒰ა❤︎໒꒱ ‧₊——————————
Your relationship with Clark Kent was tumultuous, but it wasn’t always that way. In fact, you did everything in your power to avoid that outcome at the beginning. It was all because of him and his monstrous, infuriating, idiotic, blinding ego. And it all started when you were fourteen.
Coming into freshman year on a nervous note, you had very few friends. Middle school had afforded you two and a half of them through the student government. Chloe Sullivan was planning to revive the dying office of the Torch paper, and Pete Ross was going to help her with hearts in his eyes. You pledged to join up to make your best friends happy, despite being a terrible writer, photographer, interviewer and otherwise; it didn’t really matter, because no one was going to read the thing anyway, and it was a way to spend time with them. It would’ve been good for you and Clark, too, who was more friendly with Chloe and Pete than you, but was nice enough.
You always wished you had a greater excuse to bridge the gap, because Clark was brutally cute, even though he had been lanky and tall and unusual since grade school. None of it mattered to you. He wasn’t popular, which befuddled you based on his everything, so that made him more accessible, but he seemed… closed off. You couldn’t recall a time over the years, be it in conversation with Chloe or in simple passing, that he said more than a few words to you. Or looked your way, even. You had your insecurities like every other teenage girl, what with your weight and each other scrutinizable thing, but you had hoped there was something about you that seemed worth looking at. Clark never gave you the privilege. Alas, you still liked him against your better judgement.
It was hard not to– he was everywhere. He delivered his parents’ groceries to your home; he spent time in the coffee house with your friends; he never joined any clubs at school, but he was always around to pick up Pete and Chloe after, and so he was partially orbiting in the outer sphere of your life. But for every chance you and Clark had to make small talk, he shied away like a shrinking violet. You weren’t sure if it was you or him anymore, but Chloe assured you it was him. On that fateful first day, as you helped her jiggle the lock on the door to the defunct Torch, you had asked if Clark would join with you around, and she scoffed as if you were being ridiculous.
“Sure he will,” she said. “He likes you.”
“I don’t think he does,” you countered, flushing a bit. “He doesn’t talk to me. He barely looks at me. I feel like he avoids me on purpose, like I freak him out or something."
Chloe had turned to tilt her head and cross her arms, gloating that classic look of I-know-something-you-don’t. She rolled her eyes and promised, “He likes you.”
When Clark came to check out the office, he found you alone and under the cover of hue headphones. Blue, metallic plastic ones that covered your ears and blocked out any sound. You were pinning Chloe’s photographs on the wall; oddities and random shots she’d been collecting over the years in support of her personal passion for uncovering the unexplained phenomena in the town. The late afternoon sunlight spilled through the windows as he leaned in the doorway and watched for a second, seeing your soft fingers mushing blue tack and your hips swaying to whatever you were listening to.
Clark had been avoiding you. Deliberately. And Chloe was right: he did like you. He liked you a lot. In fact, he thought of little else, to the point where it was mortifying to even come near you.
For years he had struggled with his own identity. Questions of his strength, worth, and purpose plagued him day in and day out. A detachment from his human side made everything feel so much more consequential. But when he first met you, all the way back in grade school, he saw how in touch with yourself you were, even then. Small and chubby, with cherubian cheeks and a missing front tooth, you offered him half of your cookie at lunch with the most endearing little grin, and his heart thumped hard. Being so little, he had no idea what he would become, but he knew he liked you. When the other shoe dropped, his tether to you only grew tighter. Being an alien was terrifying, and it drove him to care about preserving what human parts of him were left. You reminded him of a beating heart and a near-uncontrollable hormonal drive just by walking down the hall, and his weakness was letting that passion grow into something… maladjusted.
It made him feel dirty. Perverted, freakish, all the time. He dreamed about you in every imaginable way– driving you home, shoving you against a wall, being your prom date, having soft talks in the barn, attaching his mouth to your hips. Every possible scenario one person could have with another had crossed his mind in sleep, while awake, and at the wrong moments. He was ashamed of how he fantasized about you, and how deeply connected he felt to a girl he barely spoke to. It felt obsessive and wrong.
Clark would linger outside Chloe’s meetings just to get a glimpse of you, watching you laugh with your classmates and feeling a violent flame of jealousy burning hot in his throat. He wanted to make you laugh. He wanted to kiss you. He wanted you. But he wasn’t human, and how he felt about you was not what a human should feel– he was terrified that it might be some extraterrestrial urge, some breeding gene, some primordial sludge inside his gut that made him drool over a perfectly innocent and kind girl for so long. So he stayed away. You didn’t seem particularly taken with him, so it would be easy– he would just steer clear and protect himself from a dangerous moment in which you might smell the lie on him, and find out what a degenerate he was when it came to you.
With Chloe picking up the newspaper, he was running out of options. She wanted him on the team. He was in high school now, and he had to get involved. He had to find ways to live in the world while navigating his powers; they popped up fresh every week, something new and volatile, and everything felt so out of his grasp. And then there was you, humming to yourself in the office like nothing could hurt you. You were completely unaware of the guy watching you, staring at your body, listening to your lilting, craving you and aching and wondering what his problem was. He could kill you just as easily as he could save your life. The rushing wave of possibility was so crushing that it froze him in his place, and he just watched, struck with the weight of who he was and what you meant to him in the most parasocial, confusing, twisted way.
When you turned around to see Clark Kent standing there, fourteen but tall and broad, warm eyes pleading and face flushed, you startled and yelped, yanking your headphones off.
“Woah! Jesus, Clark– you scared me!”
Clark was faced with his first real chance, then and there, to prove to you he could do this. He could talk to you. He wasn’t a freak, it was normal to like a girl, and you wouldn’t find him out. The words didn't come, though. He just stood there and floundered, mouth opening and closing. Your voice was so soft.
“Did you need something?” you asked, turning pink as you placed your headphones on a nearby desk.
All he could choke out was, “Chloe.”
You nodded softly, face falling a bit, but you mustered a sweet smile within a second. “Oh. She’ll be back in a bit, she ran to get coffees. She has me setting up. Do you… want to help?”
Clark’s heart was in his throat, but by some miracle, he nodded. You didn’t make him talk. You didn’t press. You just handed him some tack and tape, and you let him collage the wall with you quietly. Every time you two would brush arms, you made a joke about it being a game. Some challenge to see who could get the wall up faster. He eventually found the strength to say something meaningless about his score, which sparked a first conversation, and the first day of your friendship.
You never knew the extent of Clark’s feelings– well, his jealousies– until your junior year, when you got asked to the dance. Granted, the whole thing turned out to be a joke, but his reaction was real. It was the first time you had seen what he was hiding.
Some band of jocks had caught wind that you were on the prom committee that year. With your carefully crafted reputation at Smallville High of being a co-editor for the Torch, a student government representative, a library intern, and a transfer guide, you were somewhat known as the nerdy catch-all for people to use. You never lost your baby fat, you still wore glasses, and you worked for the school. Talk about being a target.
These jocks got it in their head that it would be funny to pitch a fake promposal to you and rescind it in front of a pep rally crowd. The promposer in question would be the one athlete you talked to now and again in your chemistry class; Jake seemed nice enough on his own, without all the dogs barking in his ears. They knew you’d be covering the game for the following week’s Torch edition, and so they set it all up– a sign, confetti poppers and everything. You were completely shocked when you were trapped on the sidelines by the football team, holding your notepad and staring at Jake in shock as he asked you to prom.
“Are you serious?” You asked. Not yes, not no.
Jake felt bad. He wasn’t supposed to. He was supposed to wait until you said yes, and then tear the rug. But he couldn’t do it. You were just… too nice. He gave in and dropped the sign. “No.”
You furrowed your brow, glancing around at the big to-do and feeling overwhelmed. “Oh.”
“Listen, it was a stupid prank. The guys thought it would be funny. I’m sorry–”
You felt humiliated. It wasn’t that you had been asked, but that you had been the butt of a joke. You walked off the field as the crowd roared in a mixture of cheers and boos, and Clark intercepted you by the field gate.
Clark, your best friend, was fuming. Clark was more than Chloe and Pete, closer to you, gentler. You trusted him with everything. You slept at his house all the time, you tutored him in math (something he lied about needing), and you were desperately in love with him. But at that moment, the universe has not yet had its way with you.
Clark was red in the face as he grabbed your arms. “What the hell was that?”
You jumped at his force, and a quick anger rushed to match his. “What do you mean? I’m the one who just got made a fool of in front of the entire school! You think I asked for that?”
“You never told me you were into Jake!”
“I’m not! Oh my God, you are not trying to fight with me right now– Clark, I’m humiliated, and you’re choosing now to get territorial?”
“I’m not territorial,” he snapped. Clark felt his anger flying off the handle. After three years– the best three of his life, full of you– he was not going to be hurt this way. “You should have told me.”
“First off, I don’t have to do anything. What I tell you is my choice. And second, I'm not into Jake! Jake just pulled a fucking prank on me to embarass me publically– I can’t believe you’re acting like I wanted this! Who do you think I am? Is this a game to you?”
Mine, Clark thought, you’re mine. My prize, my girl, mine to win and keep. “Of course it isn’t–”
“I can’t even begin to understand what kind of– of– selfish and egotistical person you would have to be to think that of me! You know how I feel about myself!”
“Oh, I’m selfish?! I’m not the one talking to other guys!”
“Get off me, Clark! Don’t talk to me, don’t follow me! Fix your fucking attitude!”
You stormed off that night, and it took a whole week filled with apologetic flowers and notes to even catch your attention. He was burning inside, itching and scratching at his skin to get you back. He finally had you after so long of needing you. You made him feel like a person. All of these freakish feelings and desires were deafening without you at his side. How was he supposed to live without you?
Clark showed up at your window in the middle of the night after all his spoils had softened you, and he acted recklessly.
“I’m sorry,” he crooned, perched in your open window. You remember how the curtains floated over his shoulders, like a hero swooping in for a night visit.
You were in a nightdress, and the wind raised the hairs on your arms and legs as you leaned against the wall, gazing up at him. Your eyes glistened with tears. “I needed someone to be there for me, and you made it worse.”
“I know… God, I’m so sorry, bunny,” he hopped down into your room, feet light on the floor. Your stomach leaped as he cupped your face. “It just made me so crazy to think about you with someone else.”
“But we're not together, Clarkie,” you croaked, feeling your skin temperature rising as breath came shorter. His hands were so warm and big…
“We could be,” he whispered, brushing his nose against yours like a baby deer nudging a companion. “I don’t want anyone else to touch you. Look at you. I don’t want them thinking they can have you.”
“You mean it?”
Clark ghosted his lips across your mouth as he spoke, not yet kissing. He breathed shakily as he traveled them across your cheeks, feeling the soft peach fuzz, wondering if he could just take a chunk out of the fruit, if you would let him. He groaned softly and sank his teeth into the meat of the cheek– not hard, not to hurt you– and pressed his tongue to the hot flesh. “Yes.”
“Clark,” you begged, “I only want you…”
His hands smoothed your dress down and yanked you closer, pressing you against the hard planes of his body. “Forgive me, baby, please,” he panted, nipping little loving bites down your shoulder. “I was an idiot, I was an asshole. You make me insane. Forgive me.”
“I forgive you,” you whimpered, buzzing with need. Your hands shoved up his shirt to touch the skin.
It was so unlike you both to be so forward and careless, but that was why you worked together. Somehow, you brought out the darker side of yourselves, the more truthful sides, and gave them a chance to exist in a space where only constraint and care were allowed for so long. And you relished in it, because this was Clark. Clark who you always loved, and who you had finally gotten through to. This was the Clark whose faults you looked past, all the secrecy and fear, because you trusted him. You unlocked his complexes just as he unlocked yours. This would be your eventual first lesson in jealousy.
Over the next few years, until you were both graduated and hired at the Planet, it happened again and again. Most people would have told you it was toxic, the way Clark got jealous over every little thing– a man glancing your way on the street, a reporter sweet-talking his way into your scoop in the elevator, whatever it might be. People had reasons to believe that protectiveness at a certain level was controlling. You didn’t discount them for being concerned. But by your senior year, you found out what made Clark tick in that slightly offputting way that drew you to him in the first place: his powers.
You stumbled across his journal one night in the barn, glancing down at the foreign symbols and languages. Clark uncovered you when he came back with a pizza, and he tossed the box on the table and snatched you up, making you drop the book.
“What are you doing?”
“I was just looking– I don’t know what any of it said!”
“I told you not to go through my stuff,” he growled, seizing you and pressing you to the wall.
You were shocked at the show of hostility. Clark was so careful with you, even when you felt the radiating heat of his worry around others. As he glared down at you, a glint of fear flickered in his eyes like a lighting candle. Your heart sank, and you ordered gently, “Let me go.”
Clark dropped your wrists immediately when he felt how hard he was holding you, and tears pricked in his eyes as he inspected your skin for any bruises. “I’m so sorry, honey…”
“Just tell me the truth. Why are you so scared of me seeing that journal?”
Ever since that night, Clark seemed to cool off. Even after the truth came out, Clark never shirked that intense, unnerving quality; but the immense weight of holding his true identity back from you was what made him lash out over the years, you knew that now. It wasn’t healthy, and you certainly didn’t want to excuse it, but you could at least justify it now– and you couldn’t expect him to lose his anxiety overnight. You were never one to make the most wise decisions anyway. Part of you didn’t even care how imbalanced his behavior was. He developed issues from hiding all that time– inferiority and superiority mashed into a dangerous blob, and so did his heroic and selfish tendencies. His claims on people as his own bled into his search for his heritage and what his use on Earth was for, molding him into a moderately irrational and emotionally unpredictable powerhouse.
It was all so out of your world, how could you judge him or hold it against him? Any sane person would have issues. Any sane person would probably have killed himself if they had to live like Clark did, in constant fear and hiding, struggling with an addictive power running through him at all times, and feeling like a monster among men for experiencing emotions and thoughts on a completely different plane. You could only interpret his behavior based on a purely human level of comprehension, and with how deeply you adored him, you were often inclined to give him slack, since he wasn’t human.
So, yes, maybe it was toxic, but you didn’t care. It wasn’t toxic enough that you couldn’t call it love. And he hadn’t been jealous in a long time, not in the way you knew him to be. No, now his jealousy was coming from a place of pure affection. It was a game, like you always joked. It was a test.
You were adults now, writing for the Planet and saving people in the interim– you manned the Watchtower with Chloe and slept in his bed every night. There was no you without him and vice versa. His secret only brought you closer, and over that new time, Clark discovered that you actually quite liked his disturbing manner. When you confided that his quiet demeanor, his nervous, shifty eyes, and his lurking were all cute back in the day, Clark had released a tight breath of guilt, never to hold it again. He never forgot what it felt like to look at you when he was younger and scare himself with his own mind. He never forgot the sick and hungry pit in his gut when you laughed or smiled at other people. He just pushed it down once he got you. But now, he had an opportunity to feed that part of him. You soaked up his praise and affection like it was sunshine, and now you gave him permission to act on those impulses, however primal or alien or outright weird they were. It was heaven for two people who acted against the usual code of relationship conduct.
Clark would snap and snarl at men who came near you because he saw how you loved it, and it satisfied his urges. Sometimes you purposely smiled at strangers just to rile him up. This new development had you knocked to your knees or shoved against walls more times than you could count, and you had never been happier. Maybe you were both a bit maladjusted, but at least you did it together. It worked for a long time; you tended to the Blur, kept him fed, and you ate up his devotion. It even grew more radical, the game; sometimes you would intentionally flirt with men at the coffee cart, or wear something unfit for work, just to see what Clark would do. All the fuss usually ended up in him pushing you onto the nearest surface, being gentle in the most intimate way, leaving you babbling for more. It was a secret challenge of cat and mouse that you mutually jonesed for. Finally you felt completely adored for every chubby and outcasted inch of yourself, and finally you were not judged. It was just you and your man, without explanation, giving into the desires that brought you together.
Until tonight, when you made a grave mistake. You completely overshot Clark’s threshold for the chase. It felt harmless when you did it. You didn’t know anything would go so awry, but then again, you hadn’t entirely thought it through.
Clark was running late after a meeting with Perry, but he was your trip home. He had been particularly pent up all day and you barely got to talk to him. You were burning for attention. So, when your shift ended, you headed down to the ground floor of the Planet to chat with the guy at the front desk. Andy, his nametag said. You saw him every morning and night, and many a time did you flash him a grin to get Clark going, but you wanted more this time. You could feel Clark’s tension tightening during the shift, and so you thought a big jab at his possessive streak might help him snap it.
You had simply gone down to talk with Andy for a while, maybe lean on the desk and laugh. But Andy had eyes for you that you didn’t notice. Andy got up from behind the desk and walked around to you, smiling like a wolf. Andy touched your hair, and you flushed with embarrassment– you led him on too far. Andy didn’t catch on when you stepped back, and he followed you, cornering you against the desk. And when Clark came downstairs from a stressful and grating meeting, after a stressful and grating day, to see the love of his life trapped by another man…
“Hands off,” he barked, yanking Andy by the collar of his shirt and tugging your arm.
You flushed deep red and stumbled into Clark, and Andy backed away like a kicked dog. You mumbled as he led you towards the revolving doors, “Clarkie, I was only playing, I didn’t think he’d get so close–”
“That wasn’t playing.”
“I didn’t mean anything by it, I swear!”
The dewy nighttime wind swatted your dress as Clark dragged you onto the street, and his face scrunched up in anger. He shoved the hem down on you and grabbed your face, fingers digging into your cheeks. “Too far, bunny.”
You winced a bit, which made him loosen his grip. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know he would come onto me like that, they usually don’t–”
“Go home.”
“What?”
“I need to think. Go home.”
“Without you?” You frowned, eyes glazing with tears.
Clark stormed off in the other direction, wrenching the strap of his bag. “I said go!”
You stood on the street, growing cold and feeling incredibly guilty. It wasn’t your fault that Andy got the wrong idea. Well, maybe it was, but you didn’t ask him to back you into a corner or touch you. Clark was behaving as if you’d begged the guy to help you cheat.
In a burst of panicked anger, you called after him, “You’re being an asshole!” Clark turned on his feet, and you locked eyes with him. “An asshole and a hypocrite! You like it one second and the next you don’t? Everything is my fault if it doesn’t go how you planned it in your head? I thought you got over that shit!”
All Clark did was turn again, stranding you in the street. The yelling was for nothing. You sniffled and began the trek up the block toward your shared apartment with Clark, gnawing on your nail and wondering how long this would last. The sun was barely setting. He could be gone all night, you thought, angry and alone. You were more worried about that than you were miffed about his ego.
It was nearly one in the morning when the front door of the apartment opened. You were wide awake, anxiety raging as you watched reruns on the television. You nearly fell in your race to climb off the couch, and you stopped at the end of the foyer. There he was, still in his work clothes, looking tired and frustrated.
“Clark,” you swallowed, “I called you so many times.”
Clark raised his phone from his pocket, and you saw the little screen flashing with notifications of missed calls. “I know.”
You walked closer with caution, but he didn’t make any sudden moves. After gently taking his messenger bag from him and hanging it on the coat rack, you reached out to tuck a finger into his belt loop. “I’m really sorry, baby. It was only a joke. I was trying to work you up.”
“Bed,” was all he said. A man of many words.
“Huh?”
Clark looked down at your wide eyes and repeated himself coldly. “Bed. Now, please.”
You swallowed thickly. At least he said please. Your Clarkie was still in there, but he was angry. That misguided part of him still blamed you, you figured, but he came home. He loved you. So you walked down the hall meekly, slipping into the bedroom and climbing onto the mattress, laying down flat. Clark stalked in behind you, and as he kicked off his shoes, he ordered, “Take your clothes off.”
A nervous tug twisted your stomach. You two got at it pretty frequently, but he was never rough or mean. You didn’t trust he would keep that momentum with the way he was watching you undress. You felt a growing urge to beg, to grovel for forgiveness. “Clarkie, I–”
“Quiet. Lay on your stomach.”
You flushed in apprehension and turned over. An aching swell began to rumble in your hips, and you sickened yourself with how much his cruelness turned you on. Maybe it was the daunting feeling of incoming punishment that did it, or the guilt. Maybe it was the consequences of a risky gamble. But there was no denying how wet you were. You could feel the air conditioning caressing the skin between your legs as you rolled over.
The bed dipped behind you and you felt the weight of Clark’s body against your back. He still had his shirt on, and you felt the chill of his metal belt buckle at the base of your spine. He was fully clothed. You were in trouble, weren’t you?
“So I’m an asshole. And a hypocrite. Is that all?” Clark’s palm slid up your side, between your breasts, and over the bend of your neck until it could cup your jaw. He held you up, craning you, and he whispered in your ear, “I don’t blame you, but I am very upset. I am very upset with that man, and I want you to remember what it is you come home to. I don’t want you to enjoy teasing me like that. I don’t want you to try bigger stunts. You know you’re mine, don’t you?”
“Yes,” you breathed, feeling increasingly weak in his arms. His cheek pressed to yours, and you felt him shift around, metal clinking. His knuckles brushed the curve of your ass.
“I need to get all this anger out, bunny, so I’m going to use you. Okay?”
You nodded eagerly, burning red hot and trembling with need.
“Look at you,” Clark clicked his tongue, tone condescending as anything. “Shaking like a leaf. You think I’d hurt you, honey?”
“No,” you confirmed, knowing it in your gut, no matter how this creepier, slower-speaking version of your lover seemed to shake you.
“Good girl. No, I won't,” he purred, and your eyes fluttered shut as you felt the familiar warm prodding of his length between your thighs. After a small groan, Clark rasped, “I won’t hurt you, but you don’t get your turn until I say so. You’re gonna make this up to me.”
Your stomach flipped with desire, and you dared to ask, “How?”
Clark let go of his grip on your chin and shoved you into the bed. Your searing cheek hit the covers and you whined as his strong palms laced with yours and pinned you down, his broad chest keeping you in place. He dipped his face into your neck and breathed you in before growling, “You’re gonna lay there and take what I give you, and you’re not going to cum until I believe you’re sorry.”
A hot pang of debased panic flooded you, and you wriggled a bit. Clark grunted as your thighs clenched around his hardening cock. “Do you understand?”
“But I am sorry–”
“I said, do you understand, bunny girl?”
You moaned in conflict and nodded, “Yes.”
“Good. Now don’t move.”
Clark sunk his teeth into the meat of your shoulder, giving you a stinging distraction before he hooked an arm around your belly and hitched you up. There was no foreplay, no time spent making you wide and ready, no– he was too frustrated for all that tonight. This was about payback. Clark shoved the thick head of his cock between your folds, feeling the coiled tension fighting him as he pushed past the ring of muscle.
You cried out in a sudden rush of forceful pleasure, burying your face in the sheets as he bullied into you, keeping you trapped. The stretch was so intense, and you were so unprepared– even after years, sometimes he would spend an hour kissing you, working your clit, getting you loose for him. Your vision blacked out as he pounded into you, hips rutting into the soft cushion of your ass.
Clark groaned as your body took him in surprise, your legs twitching and your fingers digging into the blankets. Your every whimper and squeak made his cock twitch inside you as he slammed in and out, over and over again, kneading the plush of your stomach and panting into your ear. “Tell me you’re sorry,” he commanded.
A moan hiccuped your reply. “I’m s-agh– sorry!”
“For what?”
The cogs in your brain were turning at breakneck speed to churn out words. If you took too long, he’d fuck you harder, and part of you wanted that. But you had a feeling that you’d get that no matter the answer. “For– mmf– flirting with that guy!”
Clark let go of his entangled grips on your body and smushed you down with a palm between your shoulder blades, effectively restricting you from moving at all. He spread your thighs and rocked into you even harder, sweat beading at his hairline. He moaned hungrily as he saw the stringy residue of your arousal connecting his skin to yours after every thrust. “You like this, don't you? You like getting punished, bunny girl?”
A helpless sob escaped you as pleasure coursed through your body. You couldn’t move, could barely breathe, and you were sure that he had never forced himself so deep as he was now. It felt like he never left your spongy spot, only knocking into it deeper. You drooled on the sheets as his motions jolted your body, and you reached back to claw at his hips. “M–mmf–mhm!”
“What was that? Can’t talk, honey?” Clark sneered, yanking your hair by the base of your scalp. He watched your chin glisten with spit and he bent down to lick it up, rocking his hips against yours with fervor. “See what happens when you shut your mouth? You get what you were looking for.”
“Please, Clarkie!” You whined.
“Please what?”
Your eyes rolled back as he tossed your face back down, and you fell limp. Your cunt clenched around his swelling length as you begged, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”
Clark grinned in cruel satisfaction, and he lightened his grip for just a moment to watch how hard you babbled. Your hair was strewn across your face in a sticky pattern, your lips were bitten raw and red, and your soft body laid there like a prize, promising him that you weren’t going anywhere. He remembered the fear that accompanied speaking to you once upon a time. How he worried even a look would be enough to scare you off, and that all these rough urges he felt would be too animalistic for you, too inhumane. But here you were, moaning and writhing beneath him like something out of a dream, and swearing with your body that nothing was too much.
“You’re sorry?”
“I– I’m so sorry… fuck, Clarkie– please!”
Clark bent down again, cloaking your back with his heaving and hot chest, and he thrusted harder, feeling the familiar heat pooling low in his stomach. “Tell me you’ll never do it again.”
“I’ll never d–do it again!”
Clarked moaned, nudging one knee wider and drilling into you. “Tell me– mmf– that you’re all mine!”
You bobbed and lolled as he made mince of you, body shaking with the effort it took to hold back your orgasm. He said he’d give you the go ahead, and you were dying to please him. You slurred, “M’all yours– fuck!”
Clark couldn’t take it anymore. You felt too good, you listened so well, and he was two seconds away from bursting. He encircled your wrists with his hands and held you down as the tip of his cock battered your cervix, pushing you over the edge. “Come, baby.”
The permission was as welcome as rain in a desert, and soon enough you were a crying, moaning mess, creaming embarrassingly quick as Clark pistoned into you, chasing his own release. You felt the natural warmth stuffing you after another moment, and the broken whine of your boyfriend as he collapsed on top of you, immobilizing you. You just lied there and reveled in it– the attention you wanted.
The man was quick to roll off and flip you over onto your back gently. The anger and frustration drained out of him through the recent means, and now all he had was that obsessive love to look over you with. Clark began painting patterns with his lips as you slumped there, twitching with overwhelm. He mumbled into your sweet, sweating skin, “Too rough? Anything hurt?”
You shook your heavy head, eyes closed. Your hands found his hair as he trailed down your body with intention. “Mm… no…”
Clark settled between your hips and spread them wide, studying the swollen pink flesh of your cunt. It glistened like velveteen curtains with remnants of him, and he kissed the sensitive skin, just to make you jerk. “Let me make it up to you,” he purred.
“Clarkie…”
“Shh… m’not mad anymore. I’ll be good for you.”
You didn’t protest when you felt the soft, slick heat of his mouth sealing over your cunt, slurping happily into the well from which he drew his water. You writhed and bucked aimlessly, pinned by his hands on your hips while his tongue circled your sweet bud and caressed the innards of your walls, promising wordlessly to take it easier on you the next time you fuck up. Your hearing fuzzed out, your heart raced, and you came on his tongue like your body was working on a timer– shocked and rapid, unable to help yourself. Clark lapped you up like ice cream, tongue flat and happy, and it seemed he was finally relieved.
You deflated like a balloon by the time he retreated, and Clark printed stamps of your cum on your round tummy before crawling over you and cornering you into a wet, hungry kiss. You groaned and let him have what he wanted, flushing and melting into the affection that he withheld until now.
Against your lips, Clark whispered, “I’m sorry I was so mean. I get so jealous.”
You grinned drunkenly. “S’part of the game…”
Clark’s heart swelled. Anyone else would have fought him off, told him he was crazy and overbearing and violent. Toxic, like the people at work had said to you. But you yearned for it. You drew pleasure from his inherent need to claim you and keep you. He still wasn’t sure if it was his Kyprontian side or just the human half of him that was fucked in the head, but it didn’t matter now, because you did not force him to compromise. You were the willing receiver of his undivided attention, beautiful and spent. He kissed you again and murmured into your mouth, “Never flirt with that guy again.”
You squeaked and nipped his lip. “Promise, Clarkie.”
“Mm… that’s my girl.”
As you laid there with him, watching him recoup before the fire would eventually return and he’d want you all over again, you let the slowing beat of your heart remind you of what it felt like to be without him all those years.
Back when you were younger, you would have never imagined growing into this woman who navigated a relationship so out of the ordinary. Clark could be so unpredictable and so alien at times, but you loved that part of him. You wouldn’t change it for the world. Maybe it was weird to people; maybe no one would ever truly understand what it meant to give Clark what he wanted out of your own desire to do so. Maybe you were brainwashed, or Stockholmed– whatever. You didn’t feel it. All you ever felt was the spark. The challenge, the rush, the comfort, the protection, the devotion. All you ever felt was right with Clark. And that made all of it worth it– the fights, the makeups, and the inbetween.
Plus, angry sex clearly was not a setback in the deal. In fact, you were considering ways to piss him off this very second, just to see what it would take to get a couple bruises on your hips and wrists. Probably not a smart idea, but what were you and Clark if not ever-evolving, and always changing the rules of the game?
