Summary: Clark is so in love with you that he entertains your bullshit, despite his growing desire to fly himself into the sun. Fic-ception. Smutty towards the end.
Tags: 18+, MDNI, Meta About Fanfiction, Pet Names, Desk Menace, Water Break, Other Pairings Mentioned Briefly (SuperBat, Clex, Clark x Superman?!)
wc 4.3k
had to repost! Tumblr glitching out!
Thanks, anon, for the request! This is all in good fun! All the work referenced in this fic was pulled from my drafts. Pls don't be mad at me😭
Mrs. Kent Diaries
.
You were under the covers, curled up with your phone like it was a lifeline, tears streaming down your cheeks. You were folding into yourself, willing to quell the ache you felt deep in your stomach.
It was supposed to be educational. Harmless. A quick peek.
Fatal mistake.
Fifteen minutes later, you sat cross-legged in bed, scrolling through what could only be described as a cultural phenomenon of unhinged creativity.
That morning, during your shift at the hospital, the night crew had been huddled around the reception desk, whispering and giggling like teenagers. You hadn’t been paying attention at first—too busy charting vitals, confirming medications—until the young receptionist fanned herself dramatically and said, “I swear to God, if Superman ever flew through those sliding doors, I’d die on the spot.”
Your charge nurse chimed in, “Die? Girl, you’d climb him like the world’s last redwood.”
There had been laughter. Loud, chaotic laughter. A girl from the transportation department pulled out her phone and said, “No, no, listen—someone wrote this fic where Superman saves this journalist and she, like, thanks him in the supply closet. It’s art.”
You had pretended to ignore them, cheeks hot, but curiosity had already burrowed its way into your brain. Fanfiction, you’d thought. People actually wrote about him? About Superman? Your husband?
No one knew that last part, of course. To the world, you were married to Clark Kent—soft-spoken, impossible-shouldered reporter. Only a circle the size of a nickel knew Clark and Superman were the same man. The public saw a myth and a byline. You saw the laundry basket full of socks he swore he’d fold and the man who, without fail, kissed your lips on his way to save the world.
By the time you got home that night, you’d convinced yourself it was just academic. A social study. “I just want to know how people perceive him,” you muttered to yourself while brushing your teeth. “You know, cultural mythology. Hero archetypes.”
Then, of course, you typed Superman fanfiction into a search bar.
The toothbrush went cold in the sink. And you never recovered.
“Oh my god,” you wheezed frantically, tears breaking out of you in helpless waves. “Oh my—Baby! Clark! Clark!”
A gust of air puffed the curtains before you even heard the footsteps.
“Sweetheart? What—what happened?” Clark rushed out, appearing next to the side of the bed with the subtlety of an oncoming train. Pajama pants slung low on his hips, soft grey T-shirt hanging off his broad shoulders, black curls mussed and eyes wild. His hands were still damp—post nighttime facewash suds clinging to his wrists. “Are you hurt? What’s wrong?”
He dropped to his knees, wet palms cradling your cheeks, scanning your face the way only he could—cataloging, assessing, protecting. “Talk to me. Did someone call? Is it work? Your parents? Are you—”
You hiccupped. “I—” You pressed a hand to your mouth, tried to breathe, failed spectacularly. “I can’t even—wait—”
He squinted. “Are you… laughing?” Then, incredulous: “And crying?”
“Fangirling.” you admitted, wiping tears from your eyes. “Okay, I have a question.”
“That,” Clark straightened, suspicious, concern for your safety forgotten, “sounds ominous.”
“Clark Kent,” you swallowed and cleared your throat, trying very hard to sound casual, “My husband. The love of my life. My partner in all things truth and love.” You took a deep breath. “Did you know there’s Superman fanfiction?”
The pause was deafening, thick as lead.
“Fan… fiction?” He said it as if it were a new element on the periodic table—dangerous, reactive, unadvised. Sure, he’d read American literature, Greek classics, government policies, poems in languages barely taught in universities. This was not that.
“Mhm.” You nodded solemnly, waving your phone “Fan. Fiction.”
He frowned, stepping closer. “What do you mean, like—stories? About—Superman?”
You straightened up, giggling now, and let your phone fall into your lap with a little bounce, as though presenting evidence in a court case.
“Oh yes. Hundreds. Thousands. Possibly millions.” You nodded solemnity. “There are blogs, discussion boards, volunteer-run archives. There’s even a site called The House of El Lust Club. People swap stories, post photos of you in flight, annotate like it’s a sacred text.”
Clark blinked. Twice. Slowly. “I’m sorry—the what?”
“The House. Of. El. Lust. Club,” you enunciated carefully, You gasped, hand over your mouth as you scrolled. “Oh, that can’t be real—oh my God, it is. They have merch!”
You flailed the phone dramatically, “I’m your damn wife, why am I not on here? A moderator?!”
“Where did you find out about this?” Clark looked like he’d just been told his heat vision personally caused climate change.
“Oh, you know me,” you said, leaning on your elbow, letting your hair cascade over your pillow. “Curiosity. Research. I might’ve… stumbled upon it. Accidentally.
“Accidentally,” he repeated, unblinking.
“Mostly accidentally.”
He scrubbed a hand over his face—drying palm dragging across his jaw—and exhaled like a man bracing for reentry. “And what—what do they write about, sweetheart?”
You smiled in a way that made him visibly nervous. Patting his side of the bed, eyes mock-pitiful. “Oh, baby. I think you need to sit down for this. It’s a lot.”
He stayed standing, hopeful. “Like… heroics? Saving people? Inspirational—”
“Sex,” you said plainly.
He choke so hard it started him. “WHAT?”
You nodded gravely. “Apparently, the world has a lot of fantasies about what Superman’s like in bed. Very vivid, thorough fantasies.”
“People—what—write that? About—me?” his face went a deeper shade of scarlet, voice cracking like a kid caught in a lie.
“Oh, this is just the tip. Of the iceberg, I mean!” You turned your screen toward him, struggling not to cackle. “There are stories where you keep the suit on. And stories where you don’t.”
“The—suit?!” His voice jumped an octave. He started to pace—three long strides to the dresser, pivot, three back—bare feet whispering across hardwood. “That has been everywhere. Why would—how would—”
“Because they think it’s sexy, Clark!” you grinned unashamed. “There’s a headcanon submission that thinks your cape is a ‘symbolic comfort blanket of virility.’”
He gaped at you, scandalized. “What does that even mean?!”
“I don’t know, but I think I’m going to embroider it on a pillow. The stories don’t end there. There’s a whole string of…uh, drabbles? I’m still trying to get used to their vocabulary.”
He stopped pacing to pinch the bridge of his nose, then tipped his head back to stare at the ceiling “Darling, please stop reading. I am begging you.”
You brightened, wicked. “Funny you should say darling. They love that. Self-inserts everywhere—‘I’ POVs, thinly veiled ‘you’s—where Superman is very into pet names.” You flicked your thumb and read with theatrical gravitas:
“Sweetheart, he murmured, voice warm as summer, come here.” Another swipe.
“Darling, he said like a promise, I’ve got you.”
And, with unholy glee, one more: “Pretty girl, he breathed, reverent, tell me what you need.”
Clark made a noise like a kettle about to blow, hands dropping to his sides. “I—no—that is—people publish that?”
You grinned devilishly. “Oh, I’m just getting started. There are genres. Romantic epics. Angst fests. Explicit ones.” You paused, grinning. “Somewhere between Hamlet and Fifty Shades of Krypton. Classics.”
You cleared your throat and, with a flourish, lifted the phone like a folio and recited in your best faux-Shakespeare:
‘Lo, the Last Son of Krypton unbuttons his destiny. His cape unfurls like a banner of temptation, and she whispers—oh, she whispers—fly for me, my god of dawn.’
Clark’s hands dropped to his sides. He blinked. “No, they didn’t.”
“Oh, they did.” You scrolled, then delivered another line, goose-pimpled with drama:
‘He moves with the gravity of planets and the tenderness of starlight, every thrust into my womanhood a collision between the mortal and divine.’”
“Thrust—excuse me?” He resumed pacing, faster now. He scrubbed the back of his neck. He stopped, turned, crossed his arms, uncrossed them. “I need a minute. I can’t—”
“There’s an entire thread dedicated to your… um… dimensions.”
He grimaced. “What. Dimensions?”
You checked the screen, valiantly serious. “Curvature. Girth..” A beat. “Also, apparently so large it can bruise cervixes—”
“My what bruising—excuse me?!” he croaked. Clark’s eyes were as wide as a startled owl. “Okay, definitely stop reading!”
You raised your voice over his protests, “—so basically, many fantasies about your dick being larger than average! Which I can personally confirm. I mean, there was that one time Dr. Vaner counseled us to take a break.”
Clark choked on a laugh—or was it a groan? A beautiful flush crossed his cheekbones as he turned away, hands on hips, shoulders rising and falling. He paced to the window, stared out at the night like the skyline might offer counsel, then looked up at the ceiling, whispering something to no one like, why me, why this.
You pressed on, hugging a spare pillow. “And it gets very specific. Your favorite positions, preparatory finger counts—”
He wagged a finger at you without looking. “Please do not say finger counts to me, dar— just don’t.”
“—and alleged preferences.” You scrolled further, thumb flicking like a metronome. “There’s a very popular series titled ‘Positions & Protocols: A Comprehensive Guide to Kryptonian Courtship.’ Subheading: Techniques. Endurance.”
He made a strangled sound. “Positions?! Techniques?! Endurance?”
“Missionary’s a common trope I’m seeing,” you said casually. “But ‘hovering against a wall’ has an alarming number of submissions during their kink-week last month. They also write about you being all passion and power. Others write that you’re just careful and gentle. The kind who asks before every move.”
You then bit your lip. “And then there’s the total filth section that claims you could go for hours. Some even say… days.”
He whipped his head around, mortified and bizarrely curious. “Days?”
You put on your best academic voice. “Allow me to cite: ‘Solar-Powered Marathon (E-rated, 120k, complete).’ Summary: ‘He doesn’t tire; he glows. She negotiates water breaks.’ Additional entry: ‘The Long Night Over Metropolis (Canon-Divergent, E-rated, 85k).’ Summary: ‘If the sun is his battery, what happens after a week in the tropics?’”
Clark stared at the ceiling, shellshocked. “A week?”
You lowered your voice like reading from sacred text. “Excerpt, Chapter 17: ‘He returns charged with summer, all heat and apology, and time turns syrup-slow. She laughs into his shoulder. He asks, always asks, and then the night forgets how to end.’”
He closed his eyes and, very firmly. “No one wrote that.”
“They did. And then they wrote a sequel.” You scrolled again. “‘Tags: #endurance, #consent kings, #water break, #did anyone remember to eat?’”
He dragged his hands down his face, voice muffled. “They tagged water break?”
“There are so many comments,” you said, very serious. “Look—Top kudos on this chapter: ‘I had to put my phone in the freezer.” You coughed, faux-professorial.
He looked at you then—half-embarrassed, half-flattered. “And which side do you believe, my menacing wife?”
“Oh, I can confirm both hold merit,” you teased. “But you actually have an affinity to having me on your desk, and you actually can last for days.”
He sputtered. “I— that was— we were— That mission was two weeks long! I missed you, and we were waiting for the new bedframe to come in and—Good Gosh.” Your poor husband looked as if he was trying not to launch through the roof. “That’s not… everyday…. They tagged water breaks! There can’t possibly be anything as low as that.”
“Oh, Clark.” You scrolled again. “You really need to sit down for this one. There’s shipping, too.
Clark froze. “They what? Ship me where?”
“Not where. With who.” You showed him another top-ranked story: ‘World’s Finest: Forbidden Nights. Tagline: ‘Beneath the cowl, a heart; beneath the cape, a vow.’ Apparently people think Superman and Batman has a dark, brooding enemies-to-lovers arc.”
His jaw dropped. “Bruce is going to kill me.”
“Who’s to say he doesn’t already know!” you said cheerfully. “Then there’s Lex Luthor—don’t even get me started—”
“LEX?!” Clark’s voice cracked. He had one hand in his hair, the other making helpless shapes. “No. No, absolutely not. That is—no.”
“Oh, it’s wild. Full-blown hate-romance, enemies to lovers. Billionaire brain vs. alien heart. They’ve got you two arguing over quantum ethics and then—well—taking it out on each other.”
“Taking it out— Dear God.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, then dropped back next to the edge of the bed next to you, leaned over, head in his hands. “Do they… is there…are there summaries?”
You squinted at the screen. “Uh, here’s one: ‘In the halls of power and the hush of late-night labs, a rivalry detours into revelation.’ Tags include: #archnemesis tension, #boardroom stare-down.”
"Did people forget that HE TRIED TO KILL ME!?"
You sucked in a breath with a mock wince, but still utterly delighted. “Okay, okay, we can move on! Hear my personal favorite. Ready?"
"No."
"Superman and—wait for it—Clark Kent.”
He peered at you between his fingers, mouth open in horror. “No, no, no! Do people know—That’s not even—how does that—”
“Apparently, people are curious about ‘Superman and Clark Kent's’ close relationship,’” you said, quoting dramatically, “Exclusive interviews with uh…creative content.”
He made a strangled sound. “I—what—how—”
“I told you that giving only yourself exclusive interviews was a bad idea!” You fell against his back laughing, unable to breathe. “You look like you’re about to short-circuit.”
“I am,” he said, and then he flopped back across the mattress, all impossible weight and warmth draped over your lap. The laugh rumbled through him and into your thighs. He turned his head just enough to meet your eyes, bright with helpless disbelief. “I save people from disasters, invasions, tyranny—and this is what humanity does to show their appreciation?!”
You threaded your fingers through his curls and patted his sternum. “Sorry, sweetheart. The internet saw the cape and chose chaos.”
He gave you a look so tragically resigned you nearly laughed again.
“For the record,” you added, softer, “my favorite ship is Clark-and-me.”
That finally cracked him. The corners of his mouth tugged up despite himself, the tension in his shoulders loosening under your hand. “Okay,” he muttered, affectionate and doomed. “That one I can live with.”
You slid your hand to his collar and tugged gently. He propped up on his elbows, then pushed to his knees and crawled closer, the mattress dipping under his weight until his hips aligned with yours. You could feel the heat of him, the familiar ease that always made your chest go light.
“Come here,” he murmured, voice low enough to vibrate in your bones. He leaned in, and you met him halfway; your lips brushed the edge of his ear.
“So…” you whispered, smiling against his skin, “can I contribute my own stories? I could confirm you keep the suit on when I ask, or—”
“SLEEP. NOW!” he blurted, commanding voice in the least heroic context.
The room was quickly enveloped in darkness, lamplight turned off. You dissolved, laughing, and he tried to smother the evidence by tucking you against his chest, blanket and all, like a contraband bundle. He muttered about “humanity” and “the dangers of Wi-Fi,” but his heartbeat had already betrayed him—steady, strong, a drum calling you closer.
“Aw, Clark,” you whined, chin tipped up, grin shameless. “I was just going to see if the way they write Superman’s tongue strength being remotely close to the real thing.”
He froze. Considered the ceiling. Considered the window. Considered, very seriously, launching himself into the sun.
“Absolutely not,” he finally said, and then betrayed himself by kissing you—just a slow press, sweet turning intent. His palm found your waist; his other hand cupped your jaw as he eased you back into the pillows. He settled beside you, half over you, the kind of closeness that made the rest of the room go quiet.
Then—
“We could… you know… act out a few plotlines.”
He flushed—then, very softly, into the dark, “Sweetheart.”
“Actually, ‘pretty girl,’” you quoted mercilessly, “seems to be common.”
He huffed a laugh that sounded suspiciously like surrender.
“Clark, there’s plenty of creative material of us,” you tried to play as innocent as a prayer. Your finger traced a slow circle over his sternum. “Just…like a play. You like those.”
He made a helpless sound, but pressed closer anyway.
You brushed your nose along his neck, lips ghosting warm at the hinge of his jaw. “We could start with the classics. Supply-closet rescue—strictly PG until the power comes back on. Very ‘thank you, Superman’ with conveniently dim lighting.”
He tilted his head, torn between exasperation and fascination. “We don’t even have a supply closet.”
“We have a linen closet,” you countered. “And a very dramatic hallway.”
He exhaled a laugh he tried to swallow.
“Or,” you said, as if you were reasonable, “The balcony. You land at midnight, cape still on, city lights, the whole romantic shot. The fic says we kiss without touching the ground.”
He glanced at the door, then back at you, eyes darkening despite himself. “Next.”
You let your voice drop, conspiratorial. “Kind of an oldie, but a goodie. Desk scene.”
His ears went pink. “No.”
“Clark,” you said sweetly, “I can make ‘Desk Menace.’ a thing. It’ll be the truth.”
“You are enjoying this way too much,” he murmured, smiling.
“Or—” your fingers toyed with the hem of his shirt, barely-there—“we recreate the exclusive interview arc.” You tapped his chest with two fingers, slow. “I’m an up-and-coming journalist. I have the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to ask Superman all the hard questions. Questions Clark Kent couldn’t.” A beat. “Pulitzer material.”
He made the quietest sound in his throat and looked away, like the ceiling might sermonize him back to decency. It did not.
“Slow-burn neighbors-to-lovers?” you offered, merciful and cruel all at once. “You show up at my door after a long night—still in half the suit because time is of the essence, hair a mess, hands gentle.” You kissed his cheek.. “We talk first. We always talk first.”
He closed his eyes like the image landed too cleanly. “You are trying to kill me.”
“Absolutely not,” you said, smiling into his skin. “I’m trying to write us a very happy…what did they call it? One-shot?”
His arms tightened around yo. You felt the change—how his breath slowed and deepened, how restraint softened into heat. You could have stopped; you did not.
“There’s also the ‘after rescue’ tag,” you whispered, mouth just shy of his ear. “You get back late, still buzzing with the city in your bones. I run you a bath. You let me do the saving.”
He looked at you then, really looked, the laughter still in his eyes but something tender crowding it out. “You are truly a menace. The most stubborn villain to haunt me.”
“That may be so, but you married me.” You grinned, sliding your palm beneath shirt, mapping the warm planes of his torso before gliding lower. You raced the edge of his waistband, then pressed your palm over the heat growing there, feeling him answer you. “We could try one,” you said, thumb stroking idly. “Just one. Pick your trope.”
He stared at your mouth. Then at the ceiling. Then at your mouth again. “This is entrapment.”
“Say consensual entrapment.”
He huffed, defeated, unbearably fond. “Consensual entrapment.”
You brushed your thumb along his bottom lip. “Cape on?”
He considered. “Cape… optional.”
“Balcony?”
He flicked a glance toward the window and shook his head, smiling. “Rain tomorrow.”
“Desk menace?”
He groaned—long, theatrical. “You are never living that nickname down.”
“Exclusive interview?”
That one landed like a key in a lock. His pulse kicked against your palm. The reporter in him woke up in his eyes—curious, focused, hungry. He tried for dignity and managed only honesty. “Ask me something.”
You leaned in until your lips grazed his. “Superman,” you breathed, “what do you want?”
The air between you trembled. The heroic restraint he wore like a second cape slid, inch by inch, off his shoulders.
“I want—” He stopped, swallowed, let the admission soften his whole face. “You.”
He kissed you like an answer, like a closed case and an opened door, hands careful until they weren’t—exactly as the fanfics guessed and exactly not like them at all. When you broke for breath, you laughed, breathless, helpless.
“Babe, I want you to read this, okay?”
“Later,” he murmured against your jaw, but his eyes—traitorous and blue—cut to the screen just to humor you.
He scanned the saved excerpt, smile growing slow and sinful, then lowered the phone to the bedside table without looking away from you. He came over you, bracing a knee on the mattress, the bed dipping as his body caged yours in warmth. His mouth traced a patient path—your cheek, the corner of your mouth, the shallow at your throat—each kiss a comma, never a period.
His fingers found the hem of your top. He paused—always asking without words—then eased the fabric up, the backs of his knuckles skimming the side of your breasts in a careful glide. You lifted your arms; the shirt cleared your head and fell somewhere you didn’t care about. He looked at you like he was seeing a plot twist he’d never stop rereading.
“Continue,” you breathed.
“Follow-up questions,” he countered, smiling into the next kiss.
He took his time, palms spreading at your waist as if to memorize, mouth mapping a line down the center of you in soft, deliberate presses. When he reached your stomach, you felt the laugh he tried to swallow, the warmth of it against your skin, as he whispered, “For the record… I’m a fan of canon compliance.”
He trailed one last kiss to your navel, then lifted his head and met your eyes, checking, always checking, before his hands and lips found the waistband of your shorts. You answered with a lift of your hips and your smile, and—
"Superman—Ohmygosh—please—" You whimpered, one hand tugging his black curls tightly as he repeatedly sucked on your clit, the other gripping the sheet. His strong hands squeezed your thighs open, pulling back to press a sloppy kiss over your slit. "Ohhh— I don’t, please—don’t—"
"Beautiful, I missed you so much, I’ve been so busy saving the world," He moaned into you, tearing his mouth away, chin already glistening with your slick. He looked up at your glossed-over eyes, your tear-stained cheeks, and ran his nose along your inner thigh, peppering kisses.
You felt him place a hand over yours, the one gripping the sheets, rubbing his thumb along your wrist. "Do you… Do you really want me to stop, darling?"
"N-no, Superman,” you protested with a pout. You angled your hips further up, presenting your swollen and throbbing cunt, an invitation, a sign that no, you didn’t want him to stop
Without hesitation, he latched his mouth on your clit, already salivating on contact as he sucked slowly, maintaining eye contact as you squirmed beneath his gentle but firm grip.
You cried out, pulling the hand that tugged his hair up to your lips, biting your index finger. His tongue flicked over you in slow, deep circles, shoving his face deeper into you, moaning against your taste. He couldn’t help buck against the mattress, chasing the friction furiously.
"How is your jaw not sore?" You panted, bucking into his face.
“Never sore when it comes to you, my pretty girl,” he pulled back just slightly before dipping his tongue out, tugging your thighs closer, lapping at your slit feverishly while you choked down the sobs of pleasure that threatened to escape with each sweep of his tongue.
Slowly, he shifted against your bed, a sharp exhale escaping him when his straining cock rubbed on the mattress once more. He squeezed one of your thighs before pulling it away to slowly sink two—no, three—thick, delicious fingers into you, three knuckles deep.
He moved to lean over you completely, bracing a forearm above your head as his cape fanned around like a canopy. He pumped into you relentlessly, watching your face as you fell apart underneath him. The frantic moans and cries that spilled from your lips for the strongest metahuman were utterly sinful, sending tingles down to his cock.
Your hands grasped his face, locking eyes with him, and begged, “Fuck, Superman. Please-please—I want all of you—I’ll be a good girl, please–I just– want your–”
You could feel it. The tremble in your thighs, the repeated hitch of your breath, frantic and shrill, your walls clenching tightly around long, thick fingers. You were getting close again, and you were sure your favorite hero knew it, too.
"C'mon, darling, give me one more, then I’ll give you everything," he cooed, pressing a tender kiss along the side of your neck just as his fingers curled.
Out of breath, you could only manage a nod and a ragged whimper. He bent his head down to kiss you, and you tasted yourself on his tongue. Your hands pawed at his strong bicep, his solid pecs, and down to his erect, thick cock. He bucked instinctively into your petite hand when you massaged the leaking velvety head with your thumb. You wrapped your hand around the length, pumping in sync.
You heard him hiss from the friction above your moans. "You’re so close, my pretty girl, cum for me. I need you ready, " he gently commanded into your ear, nipping it.
“Y-yes, Superman!” Sudden white-hot pleasure ripped through you as your hips bucked up off the bed, your orgasm gushing out all over his fingers, between your thighs, onto the sheets.
"Oh God, I think I’m seeing stars,” you moaned under your breath as Superman pulled his fingers out and into his mouth to lick them clean.
You barely caught your breath when his large hands gripped your hips. He rocked against your core, teasing your soaked folds with his cock, dragging it slowly and deliberately along your slit until you gasped, your legs wrapping around his waist.
With a kiss, Superman started to prod into you —thick and stretching and perfect—
(TA-DA! you and clark have sex for a week, mic drop, fade to black)
bru i almost busted a fat one when i saw this on pinterest like i NEED to be all up in that like pls let me be the one to blow them clothes off PLEASE🙏🙏🙏
