Hiii 💀 I saw that you saw Superman! I absolutely love it and I am excited if and when you write something! I was wondering if I could leave a request in which Superman and the reader get into a fight. They don't live in the same apartment and go their separate ways for the night. Even though they are both upset they can't sleep without each other and Clark goes to her apartment and have makeup sex 💀 I'm in an angsty mood apologies
“I’m just saying that maybe you’re doing too much! We don’t have to see each other every second of every day!”
“Then fine! I won’t come to see you at all if that’s what you want!”
Clark Kent is a good boyfriend. He buys you flowers, he opens doors, he values your opinions. That’s the kind of man he is. Respectable. Mild mannered. Admirable.
But the last thing he said to you before storming out haunts him. It echoes in his head, the booming quality to his voice, how you looked around to check if your place really shook with it or if you imagined it. He acted like you did, staring forward at your face, not giving anything away.
Regret spiked in his entirety watching the hurt cross your features for a moment. Because why on Earth would Clark ever say such a damnable thing? Not to you, never to you.
Never. Until now.
Clark has a habit of frequently visiting your apartment. He’s a great guy—sweet with the energy of a golden retriever—but sometimes it can be a bit… much. It’s not that you don’t want to spend time with him, but you’re not always prepared or in the right mindset.
In an attempt to bring this up and communicate your conflicted feelings, it quickly escalated into an argument. You and Clark don’t argue, not like that. You disagree, sure, but neither of you get to a point of raising your voices at each other with such harmful content.
And you don’t know this, but he appreciates the time he has with you because of his occupation. He told you before about how his job drains him, how time spent with you is enjoyable, how it helps him decompress from the responsibilities and demands he faces. However, you don’t know what he actually means. His other important job he still hasn’t revealed to you. It’s more exhausting. Taxing. Draining. He loves it, but that love doesn’t mean some days won’t be hard.
He had one of those today. He got the absolute shit kicked out of him and all he wanted was to see you. Assuage the ache, pacify the pain, reassure his strengths. So yes, he lost his patience. He let frustration get the better of him. He left to his apartment despite knowing it wasn’t the right thing to do and that it wasn’t the way to leave things.
In his lonely bedroom, he stares up at the ceiling, counting five hundred sheep, tempted to see through the floors above to view the night sky for answers to his dilemma. The stars must know how to navigate this better than he does. Or maybe they can help lull him to sleep since he feels restless and uncharacteristically small. But there’s something missing in every method he tries, someone crucial.
He eventually gives up after an hour and goes out for a walk. His ears perk, even if he is exhausted, for perhaps something he can help with to distract himself, but it seems to be a rarely quiet night in Metropolis. That is, until he miraculously (expectedly) winds up in front of your building. He pauses, tilts his chin up, debates if he should do this or not. It’s unethical, technically. His mother wouldn’t be happy with him for spying on his girlfriend and you wouldn’t be either for the lack of permission. But damn it, he needs to check on you. While he would like to think that you’re fine, he saw the final look on your face before he left—the expression of disbelief and the visible sting of damage.
His ears tune in like a radio, bowing his head as he navigates through the frequencies of snoring, neighbors chatting, whispers from kids pretending to sleep, and then… sniffling. Shaky, trembling breathing. Muffled sobs, a familiar trill.
Clark ascends the stairs without a second thought, his body operating on auto pilot. He enters the building after inputting the code you’ve given him and then he’s off to hustling up flights of stairs. Only, as he gets closer and your distress becomes louder due to him being honed in on it, his feet lift off solid matter and he hovers quickly past the steps to get to you. Luckily, no one’s up to see him quite literally taking flight up the flights. He doesn’t know if he would’ve been able to stop if someone did.
He revisits the floor once he confronts your door and gently raps his knuckles against it. From here, he listens to the sharp intake of breath in surprise, your crying ceasing for a moment. An eerie silence creates static in his ears as he tries to hear for you, where you might be, if you’ve moved at all.
“Baby,” he says, realizing now that he lacks any kind of game plan from how distorted his head feels.
“Baby, it’s me. Clark. Can you open the door…? Please? I… I need to talk to you. I know you’re up.”
There’s another beat of silence. It feels heavy despite the absence it contextually is. He’s unsure if he prefers this or you scolding him. Both have the power to render him powerless.
But he detects the creak of your bed as you slowly get up and the haphazard steps across the floor. He hears a knob twisting, your bedroom door, presumably since trying to look in would be another violation of privacy he doesn’t want to add onto his list of already committed sins, swinging open, and then the sniffling you do to pull yourself together. It culminates up to the point of where you’re standing in front of the door he’s staring at. He’s tempted again to peer through it, but he resists as he waits for you to do something, say something.
“Thought you weren’t going to come see me anymore.”
Your voice harbors a hint of gravel, an indication of your crying. Maybe if he was normal, or anyone else because he still knows you better than most, he wouldn’t have caught it. But he does know you were crying and so he understands that strain is more so from trying to keep it steady and not give away how much you were balling in your perceived lonesome.
He deserves your bitter comment and much more than that. Any punishment you think.
“… is that what you want?”
Regardless of the blistering tension between you and him, the issue at hand was not necessarily the fight, or not the main focal point. It’s how often he goes to you. How he shouldered his way into your life and continues to do so. He feels ashamed for his reliance on you and for the way he acted and for making you cry.
His eyebrows upturn in the middle, his lips downturned, awaiting for what your verdict will be. He wouldn’t fault you if you turn him away, especially for what he’s done, no matter how much that would hurt.
“… no.”
It’s such a small sound. He barely heard it himself. And it’s so relieving.
Clark places a hand onto the door, almost like he can reach you through it. Hope sparks in his chest, in a different manner than usual.
“Open the door,” he says softly. It may be a statement, but Clark’s not commanding you to do anything. It’s more of a plea, and he’d actually say please again if it weren’t for the fear of sounding too much like a bumbling idiot.
There’s hesitation. He reads it in the lack of movement.
Then there’s the unlatching of your locks. It’s gradual, like you’re debating this, like you might change your mind. Fortunately for Clark, you don’t, and you appear shortly after bringing the door ajar. The hall light is dim, but it illuminates your face enough for him to see your eyes.
Puffy. Swollen. Red. Lashes still wet.
“Oh, honey…”
Clark steps past the threshold, intending to cup your face with his large hands. Only, as he gets closer, you turn your face away just when he’s about to make contact. It stings, but he drops his hands mournfully, watches as you walk further into your apartment. He notices the shirt of choice, one of his, swallowing you up all the way to your hips. He follows after you and locks the door behind him, unsure of where to even begin as you cross your arms and face your body towards him in your living room.
Your eyes still don’t meet his, locked on the floor.
“Why are you here, Clark?” You ask, tone quiet.
“To apologize,” he states. He maintains the space you’ve placed between you two.
When you don’t readily answer and stay staring at the floor, he clears his throat. Clark inhales and exhales deep breaths, preparing himself like he would a fight. Not like the creatures he gets into it with. This is harder. Loaded. His world at risk.
“I’m so, so, so incredibly sorry,” he says with as much firmness as he can muster, your name punctuating his sentence.
“I shouldn’t have said what I did. I was tired and I wasn’t thinking straight and I know it’s not an excuse for saying something so… stupid. I didn’t mean it. All I want to do is be around you, if that much wasn’t obvious.”
Although you don’t say anything at first, your shoulders lower from a release of tension. Curiously and hesitantly, you flicker your eyes up to him. He catches the redness again even with the sole lamp you’ve turned on sitting on your side table near the sofa. It’s a sign of his mistake, regret festering, snarling in his stomach.
“I just never thought you’d speak to me like that.”
Not Clark. He’s bumbling most of the time, but sweet and understanding. What came out of him surprised you.
To hear you say that wars conflicting thoughts in his head. He’s glad you have high expectations of him and how you perceive him, but he feels like more of an idiot knowing he skewed those expectations and perhaps altered your image of him. Especially with that tiny voice you have right now that’s usually so confident and self-assured.
“I shouldn’t have. I know I shouldn’t have. I can’t take it back, but I’m sorry. I… I-I should’ve listened and given you the space you were asking for instead of blowing up like that.” He takes a single step forward to test the waters again. He doesn’t want you to pull away, but it’s not who he is to just stand idle, never has been.
“I could’ve approached it better. I didn’t… I didn’t mean to make it sound like you were overbearing.”
He shakes his head, taking another two steps this time, finding relief when you don’t back from him and stay put.
“But I know I’ve been relying on you too much. My work and what it does to me isn’t your responsibility.”
“Don’t, Clark.”
He instantly freezes where he is. His mind races with what you might mean, if he’s misread.
Your arms unfurl from your chest. Much like him, you inhale a breath for courage, and you step closer. He remains cemented to his spot as you close the gap, gaze transfixed on his.
“You can come to me for anything. How could you think I don’t want to hear about your worries and your stresses? It’s not my responsibility, but I want to be there for you when I can.”
The air is easier to breathe with your admission. He realizes the broadness of his own shoulders begins to deflate.
“But… I thought you wanted space…?”
“You’re not the only one who let frustration get the better of you.”
You lift a hand to tentatively cup his cheek. Clark’s hand rests atop of it to deliberately put it into place on his skin. In that, your thumb brushes an appearing dimple that coexists with his surfacing grin of assurance.
“I love being with you… and sometimes it scares me how much.”
“I’m not suffocating you?”
“No. I had a rough day and I honestly wanted to lock myself away until I felt better. I didn’t expect you to show up at my door.”
The both of you respond differently to anxiety. For Clark, he wanted to come straight to you after a hard day. You wanted to distance from the world and so your opposing coping mechanisms clashed.
“Maybe I should’ve called first,” he mumbles timorously. Slowly, his arms snake around your waist. Zero resistance meets him as your body aligns with his.
“I don’t know if I would’ve told you to stay away,” you state honestly as your cheek rests on his chest.
Boundaries are important and necessary to establish. However, you don’t think you would’ve had it in you to tell Clark you needed space to clear your thoughts. You don’t know if you would’ve answered him at all. That would’ve made him worry. If you had it your way, you could’ve endured your bullshit on your own in secret.
You feel awful for being so selfish. Clark will reiterate a thousand times how it’s okay to be that, but you can’t envision Clark ever closing himself off to you. It’s a dichotomy in you: needing time to work out overwhelming emotions by yourself and feeling guilty for it.
As if reading your thoughts, his chest resonates with the bass of his voice.
“Do you need time now? I… I couldn’t sleep… not with how things were,” he says softly. You tilt your chin up to meet his alleviated eyes through the lenses of his glasses.
“But I can go home if you’d like.”
Now that things are resolved, and the communication’s clear, you find Clark’s offer to be considerate. It’s one of those scenarios where you know you both should discuss how much you see each other in a more in-depth fashion and how you shouldn’t allow arguments to hang in the air above your heads for too long should they arise in the future, but you’re tired. Clark’s tired. It’s late and your initial need to push him away has been replaced by your contemporary need to be enveloped by him.
It scared the fuck out of you to think about Clark not coming back. You couldn’t sleep yourself.
“Can you hold me?” you ask quietly. There’s still the slight fear he’ll reject it.
But that’s not who Clark is. And he cares about you too much.
His thumb skims your cheek, strokes to your jaw, memorizes how soft, how fleeting if he’s not careful.
“All night,” he promises.
Through the crevice of your curtains, moonlight tints your room azure, soft and hauntingly gloomy, cascading your rumpled sheets barely concealing you and Clark underneath them. His chin rests on your shoulder, his arms engulf your waist, his hips remain flush to yours. Somewhere discarded haphazardly on the floor is his shirt, but not the one still on your body. You’re surrounded by Clark and his scent, by his muscle, by his loose, abundant fabric, by his ghosting hands over your abdomen.
“Still can’t sleep?” he asks gently, but you’re so close to him that you feel his words vibrate against your spine.
“Not really. You?”
He doesn’t readily respond. The room is fairly quiet, the occasional rustle of wheels on gravel bypassing the window, but there’s not much to listen for besides Clark’s breathing. It hovers over your shoulder for a split second before he replaces it with his lips, kissing over his shirt, the warmth radiating into your skin. It’s a domino effect, triggering gooseflesh on your arms, down your back, enlivening something within. Something Clark yearns for.
“I shouldn’t have left.”
It’s very much like Clark to dwell on what he could’ve prevented. To you, it’s unnecessary. You know he’s sorry and you know his character well enough to not judge him off one slip, especially when you have your own sins to atone for.
To Clark, he can’t get your crying face out of his mind’s eye. It’s not better, not yet. And he can’t sleep knowing there’s still much to make up for.
Knowing your boyfriend’s guilt, you turn your head just enough to brush your nose against his. The action is normally decisive and diving, but you both hesitate as your mouths approach one another, you both pause and share breaths in the short space. Someone has to make the first move, someone has to let the other know it’s okay, and you know Clark won’t out of respect.
So you lean in, you lean in until your lips touch, until the surprise settles, and then Clark sags against your body and moves his mouth with more purpose, your silent permission opening floodgates. He kisses you with relief, with reunion, and it feels like plane ride home.
You don’t have the right words to completely remedy this, and neither does Clark, but your bodies understand what it takes, a language they speak on their own accord. It’s all for the sorries he can’t reiterate, you won’t let him, for the ones that won’t dare to come off your tongue since Clark would only reject them to shoulder the blame, like he shoulders the world.
If only you knew.
As your kissing grows ravenous, his enjoyment tells on him. His obvious arousal prods your thigh, pulsates, pleads, but it holds still where Clark is draped over your back. It brings you to those first dates, when Clark would ignore it, act as if you didn’t affect him despite his body’s betrayal from a lingering hand or a devotedly searching kiss.
He gasps, his lips open, as you slide your hips back, as your ass trails the underside of him through his boxers, your flesh experiencing almost his full heat from the vulnerability of your thin panties. Taking advantage of his abrupt shock, your tongue invades his mouth, challenges his, licks its way to a shared rhythm, a shared dance. His engorged cock rests on the crevice of your cheeks, swelling, and then rowing back and forth with your encouragement. Emboldened, Clark’s hand lowers past your abdomen, pauses, and then definitively sinks until his fingers acknowledge and then bypass the border between fabric and skin. His digits slip beneath the waistband, inhaling thickly through his nose as he comes into contact with your clit. He softly caresses the button, swallows your whine, and transitions his focus southward.
It’s your turn for your mouth to fall agape as Clark draws lines through your slit, your folds blossoming under his trained touch, unfurling with nectar, his beautiful fucking rose he thanks the universe for every time he’s sunken and immersed within it.
“Clark,” you stammer, sub-textually asking. Your hips grind with more desperation as if to expand on and cite your multiplying need.
“You sure?” He whispers. Truthfully, he’s fine with fingering you until you find your deserved climax, but he’s well aware that’s not specifically what you want.
And it’s solidified as you whimper, “Want your cock.”
He groans, nodding into your neck, simultaneously withdrawing his other hand from your stomach so he can yank his boxers down his thighs. In the meantime, he stops touching you, silences your protest (needy girl, do you want him to use his fingers or his dick?) with a comforting, yet starving kiss. He plucks your panties to the side, grateful for how you unconsciously lift your thigh for him like a good girl, and then he swipes his swollen tip through your folds, coating his length first before he attempts to push in.
“Oh, fuck,” you suddenly blurt, head falling forward.
“Mhm,” he strains.
“Should’ve prepped—”
“No, s’okay,” you reassure with a shrill tone, instantly reaching back to grasp his hip when you think he’ll pull away, “Please keep going.”
“O-Okay… but tell me if it’s too much.”
Clark only relents because he actually doesn’t think he can jut his hips backward feeling your silken walls grip his tip with spell binding, mind melding pressure and compelling, pyretic heat. He, instead, complies and slowly feeds another girthy inch, resisting the primal urge instinctually advising him to push all the way in in-one-go. The moisture pools around him, the slide easy, but from how you’re trying to dig your nails into the impenetrable skin of his hip and biting your bottom lip to the point of where he fears your teeth with cut it clean off, he parses your struggle to adjust. Heck, he feels it, the fluttering, clutching, conflicting dual sensations of rejection and suction at once.
“Relax, honey. Let me in,” he coos into your ear.
“Trying… so much,” you mewl mindlessly.
A solution springs into his head; he lifts his fingers and laves at them, closes his mouth around them to properly coat them with his saliva. Then he lowers them and locates his destination, gently massaging your clit with oscillations. Your body convulses in his arms, your hips stutter, and you cry out as it incidentally slips more of his cock inside of you. Not expecting such a sudden shift, Clark moans your name, maintaining his slow, gentle circles on your clit with twitching fingers as he sucks in a breath.
“Yes, baby, there you go. Taking me so well, almost there,” he heaves.
The stimulation on your clit has its desired effect. Your body naturally lubricates your tight entryway further, Clark able to decisively push his hips all the way forward until they meet your pert ass. He holds himself there, his fingers unstopping in their paintings, his nose tucking into your neck.
You’re full, so full, and he’s everywhere. Behind you, against you, inside you. It’s his presence. You’re immersed in it.
“You can move,” you murmur, shaking from bliss. And you’ve only just started.
“Oh, thank you,” he gushes, confirms how he’s wrestling with holding back.
Clark slides slightly back and then all the way in, steadily rocking so your walls can accept him. The more that they do, the more he slides out of you, the rhythm building by the passing seconds. You both moan from how good it feels, how it’s only starting, how you’re squeezing him so perfectly, how his digits haven’t once stopped on your clit this entire time. Every connection softly thuds his balls against your pussy, the experience rapturous, mending the loose stitching you both frayed through your petty argument. His thrusts aim to suture his cock to your body, whittle you to his size, score you to fit him until neither of you are able to remember why the fuck you fought in the first place.
But the practiced patience in Clark chips away as his thrusting turns to pounding, less and less afraid of treading cautiously, reclaiming and reinstating. You whine as he wraps his arm around your torso, one hand on your breast groping the tender flesh, his fingers fumbling over your clothed nipple through his shirt as he fucks you towards nirvana. He’s everywhere, somehow more than before, and you’re in a cave of Clark. A cloak of him.
“I’m sorry,” he grunts against your neck.
“I’m so, s-so sorry, baby. Hnngh, I’m sorry. Oh my… you feel like heaven. Can’t lose you, I can’t.”
You want to tell him you forgive him. You want to tell him he doesn’t need to apologize. You want to tell him and reassure him that your relationship is stronger than this and it will get past this obstacle in the road.
But you can’t form a coherent sentence with him fucking you like this. You respond with garbles of his name, sharp cries of ecstasy, your own sorries and keep goings. You tighten around him, quivering in his arms as you shatter, as you form a white ring around the base of his cock, as you let go with his adulation and his reverence and his manhandling.
He fucks you through it, through the overstimulation and the squeaky howls of pleasure. Because he’s so sorry… and he can’t cum until you have two more times.