summary// you ended up realizing that making clark your lab rat would simultaneously be the best and worst decision of your relationship.
content warning// conditioning, mating press, doggy style, nasty filthy sex, creampie, clark is feral, clark has an alien dick, clark swears, improper use of x-ray vision, kryptonian breeding kink, squirting, clark is pathetic
2k words whew
with clark kent fucking you like that, you don’t think you’re making it out alive.
well, your fault for trying to experiment on a poor, farm-grown kryptonian.
.
on monday, on the evening, you decided that you could begin your sick little experiment of conditioning on clark. after reading an article about it online, you wanted your alien boyfriend to be your lab-rat for it, and saw no apparent downsides to the experiment, so you went on with it.
starting with the trigger, you decided for it to be a duck emoji. weird enough for clark to be confused, not too weird for it to have him worrying like the sweetheart he is. ten minutes before you arrived home after work, you had sent him a singular duck emoji with no context or follow-up to it, which, as expected, had your poor clarkie as confused as ever. you smiled when he immediately texted back with ‘???’—success. as soon as you arrived home, you barely let him finish his questioning before pouncing on him, interrupting his sentence with a kiss he welcomed with open arms.
that night, you rode the man to the moon and back—gave him such mind-numbing pleasure that he couldn’t even bother to remember his previous confusion about the duck emoji.
and so, with the first day being a success, you repeated the process.
every day following that one, you would do the same thing—no texts or news all day, a duck emoji ten minutes before coming home, mind-blowing sex.
after a few days of repeating the process, you began to space out these encounters, opting to send the duck emoji every two to three days—a great way to keep the man on his toes, anticipating, waiting for the next time you'd send him that emoji.
then came the most awaited experiment—your greatest mistake.
it was on a friday night that you had decided tonight was the night. you had sent clark the usual duck emoji, smirking as he had immediately seen the text. however, when you arrived home, it wasn't like usual. usually, upon sending the emoji, you'd pounce on him and drag him to the bedroom. tonight, however? radio silence. well, not quite, but that's it felt to clark. you didn't give him those bedroom eyes you usually did on nights you were feeling particularly needy, you insisted on taking a shower all by yourself (he almost crumbled at that) and after dinner, you lounged on the couch to watch a tv show without even asking him to follow you! you just did!
the thing about clark kent is, he's a gentleman through and through. his ma had raised him to be one, and for christ's sake, he was superman! how could he not be a gentleman? but, he sympathizes with himself, you can't spell gentlemna without man, and clark was a man before he was anything else. a very aroused and hopelssly in love man, at that.
he stands awkwardly in the doorway of the living room, staring at you. you noticed, of course, but this wasn't unusual. clark has always had sort of weird quirks—you had always found them endearing. "is something the matter, honey?" your sirupy voice cut through his stream of thought, and suddenly his eyes focus again, gaze meeting yours.
clark has his phone in hand, and he brings it up to look back at the duck emoji you had sent. duck meant sex. you wanted this. he can indulge. you want this.
he knows you do. you sent the text, and he feels like he can almost smell your arousal and it's driving him fucking insane because he just wants to dive in it and taste it and fuck you everywhere so the entire place smells like you and-
in the blink of an eye, his phone is abandonned and he's on you, lips smashed against yours. you barely have the time to react but you do, arms now hanging around his thick neck. his hand latches itself onto your cheeks, fingers pressing into both of them, urging you to open your mouth. as soon as you do, his tongue, which was inhumanely long, snaked into your cavern, exploring its depths. he moaned at the taste of your saliva, almost melting into you as if the flavor of you was his ultimate salvation.
noticing the lack of air filling your lungs, he pulled away, his eyes softening at the sight of you catching your breath. "c-clark... what's... whta's gotten into you?" you licked your lips, face flushed. he looks at you like a puppy begging for its treat. "the emoji... you sent the emoji but you didn't... i thought..." his mind is a rush, moving at a thousand miles per hour as his entire body is begging him to rip your clothes off and take you.
he gives up, his head falling into the crook of your neck. "i just... i really need to fuck you, sweetheart." and as he's confessing this, his hand is gliding towards the waistband of your bottoms, sliding swiftly underneath it.
you think you could ascend.
you bite your lip, rendered mute at the sheer tension of the moment. "i know you want it, baby..." he scoffs, eyes closed. "can smell it."
curse him for being such a dangerously hot and multi-abled alien.
his hand makes its way underneath your panties, finger running through your slit, collecting the slick you've been trying to keep to yourself for the past hour. "ah..." you let out a low sound, almost imperceptible but clark was so hyper-focused on you that the little moan made him shudder.
he uses his forearm to push himself upwards, his hand escaping your bottoms to rush up to his mouth, and when you look at him, you gasp, feeling your walls clench.
because clark has never looked this feral.
his eyes were half-lidded and impossibly dark, his adam's apple bobbing as he swallows your juices, eyes nearly rolling back at the taste. he moans, his cock twitching and growing inside his sweatpants.
"you're gonna give it t'me, right sweetie?" he asks in that low, sultry voice that he only allows himself to use when he'd rather die than not touch you.
the eager nod you gave him marked the moment you knew you were done for.
.
how long has it been? you don't know. you don't know anything, actually. your brain is fogged with how clark was pounding you into the fuzzy carpet, your eyes crossing when the buds running along his dick grazed against the ridges of your walls, the added sensation making you spasm. "f-ffuck-! clark- oh my god, ohmygod—" you can barely form a sentence, let alone link two words together when he knocks at your cervix, your tits bouncing in rhythm with every thrust.
and clark isn't even listening to you, his eyes laser-focused on the sight of his cock splitting you open repeatedly, a vein bulging on his forehead at his intense use of his x-ray vision. "look at that, b-baby... look..." and you don't even bother, too lost in the ecstasy. he sees it all though, the strings of your arousal clinging to his tip every time he pulls away, the ridged of your pussy hooking onto his buds, the contractions of your muscles.
he finally manages to pull his eyes away from the sight, only to be met with the even prettier, albeit messier sight of your fucked out face. tears and drool glossed your skin, your eyes rolled back nearly to the back of your skull, throwing your head back when clark's hips stutter against yours, a white-hot wave washing over him over the sight.
he stilled when his buds hardened and hooked onto your walls, pulling him impossibly deep as he shoots buckets worth of cum deep into your womb. "a-ah! holy sh- hmm, fffuck, baby- i- fuck!" he sobs, jerking down towards you and you moan at the feeling of him filling you up once more, droplets of his sweat dripping onto your buzzing skin.
despite his orgasm, he doesn't stop, "n-need m-moree- needa fill you up-! ah, fuck!" his voice jumps up an octave when his buds finally relax again, allowing him to keep pistoning into you. "d-don't stop, clark! please dont- oh-!" he suddenly grabs your thighs, throwing them over his shoulders before beeending down, succesfully folding you in half. his face is now slotted right in front of yours, and the eye contact is so intense you almost feel shy under his gaze.
a mating press. clark kent had you in a fucking mating press.
you get lost in his ocean blue eyes, barely able to keep the eye conatct when he fucks you almost like he hated you, digging in your pussy. "you're... you're so beautiful, honey... so fucking pretty- all f'me, yeah? all f'me?" you nod, hands pressing against the back of his head to bring him impossiby closer to you, "all for you, clarkie," you confirmed being hastily pressing his against you, imprisoning him in a feverish kiss. clark moans into your mouth, eyes closing. you jolt slightly when you feel a tear drip down on your cheek, peeling your eyes open to see clark crying.
he pulls away, gasping for air as his throat restricts. "i l-love you, love you s'much— need you so, ngh, so bad... wanna breed ya'..." he sobs, whimpering for you. seeing clark become such a slave to his love for you had an inescapable effect on you, and your orgasm was almost immediate. you came with a gasp, the pleasure being so heavy that your eyes had given up on their function, unfocusing and leaving you with the blurry image of clark's flushed expression. your back arched as cream dribbled out of your hole, creating a white ring around clark's base.
in the midst of your orgasm, he pulls out, making you whine for the few seconds your face isn't smushed against the carpet because in a matter of moments, your world tilted before you found yourself face down ass up for your boyfriend. he pressed a hand on your back, urging a deeper arch. "m'sorry baby, m'so sorry..." he apologizes for the his unceremonial behavior but his apologies fall on deaf ears as you couldn't be happier.
your hands clutch the fluff of the carpet when he slams back into you, kneading the flesh of your ass. "just... just need this. s'your fault for making me wait... so long.. to have you- ngh, gosh..." he's hypnotized by the rippling of your ass, and the way your back bends impossibly for a second each time he rams back inside you, pressing you further into the carpet.
with clark kent fucking you like that, you really don’t think you’re making it out alive.
well, your fault for trying to experiment on a poor, farm-grown kryptonian.
your moans are rhythmic, matching the pace of his hips. leaning in, he wraps an arm around you to squeeze your tits, massaging them and rubbing your hardened nipples. "so obedient..." his comment makes your walls flutter around his fat cock. he begins to roll his hips, not quite thrusting. he presses against you, making you drool. "nghhh... fffuuuck... love you... so much.. c-clark-!" you slurred, going crazy at the sensation of his buds hardening slowly again, hooking onto your insides.
"w-want your cum-! want you to b-breed me!" you egged him on, "yeah? y'want it, baby? oh gosh, i'm cumming, m'cummingm'cumming-" he gritted, spilling into you once more. "oh my god! oh god, sweetheart!" he whined, your name escaping him as his hips bucked again, releasing rope upon rope inside you. his orgasm triggered yours, drops of your release trickled down onto the carpet before his hand snaked down to your clit, rubbing furiously and suddenly an intense stream released itself onto the now soaked carpet, the intensity of both of your orgasms making the two of you collaspe in a heap.
he layed on top of you, both of you catching your breaths. "i feel so... sticky." he remarked, "shit... i ruined the carpet." you groaned, knitting your eyebrows together.
a silence settled in, before you broke it. "i'm glad my experiment worked." a beat passes before he reacts, "experiment?"
"i tried conditioning you into associating sex with the duck emoji. it worked."
clarks hums, choosing not to react any further.
a few days later, minutes after the end of your shift, you receive a text from clark.
Description: When Clark gets poisoned with sex pollen, he tries everything in his power to stay away from you. Until he ends up crashing into your living room, and you have a god on his knees, with your name in his mouth and your body at his will.
Tags/warnings: smut, established relationship, clark is sorry, he gets freaky with his powers, consent kink, breaks you and worships you at the same time, begging, praising, hovering (yes hovering👀), so much dirty talk (he’s feral but sweet), overstimulation.
Note: Guess who watched superman today and got a new man to obsess about🙂↕️ honestly I don’t even know what took over me when I wrote this but all I can say is go ahead, live your best life and enjoy the sweet filth 🫶🏼
archive / masterlist
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You wake up with a loud crash coming from your living room. You jolt upright from your bed as you hear glass shatter, sprinting toward the noise. You curse as your body, only covered by Clark’s giant shirt, gets hit with the crisp midnight air as wind gushed through your apartment like a hurricane just passed by.
A figure stood where your glass door used to be, leaning weakly on what was left of the frame. You turned on the lamp next to you, illuminating your boyfriend’s stumbling body.
“Clark?” you gasp, confused by his abrupt arrival.
He doesn’t look up, just stands there against the frame, chest heaving and fists clenched. His usually perfect wavy hair is now flat, messy, sticking to his sweaty forehead.
Worry washes your features, something must be really wrong if he looks like he’s barely holding himself together. You start making way over to him, but as soon as you take a step forward he lifts a shaking hand in front of him.
“Stop! Don’t move,” his deep voice comes out strangled, raw as if he’s been screaming for hours. “Don’t come closer…please. Just–just stay there.”
He keeps his hand up to stop you, panting heavily as he swallows to try to soothe his dry throat. He slowly looks up, and groans when he meets your eyes. His pupils are blown wide, as he breaths raggedly through chapped lips.
“I didn’t want to come here,” he whines. “I–I didn’t want you to see me like this.”
“What happened to you?” You ask from your spot, fighting the urge to run to his aid.
“I’ve been infected,” he chokes out, and your brows furrow more. “Some kind of…alien pollen. It hit me out there. I flew straight into it and fuck...It’s messing with my head, my body, I…”
He turns away, pacing in small frantic circles on your balcony trying to shake something off. His hands tremble as he fights to not make eye contact.
“What do you need? D-do you have the antidote?” You ask, scared as hell. He never acts like this.
He just shakes his head first with a bitter laugh, only to nod frantically afterwards.
God, if only you knew.
“I tried to wait it out,” he groans, fists now messing his hair. “I swear I did, my love, I locked myself away for hours…tried to fly as far as I could but I kept turning back because I could smell you.”
He finally turns again, but just the sight of you hurts.
“I can smell you, sweetheart. Even from across the country…I can hear you breathing…your heartbeat. I didn’t want to hurt you but right now I have you in front of me and I can see–dammit…I’m sorry–”
He stumbles backwards, ashamed of himself, feeling undeserving of even looking at you.
“You know I can’t turn it off,” he whispers. “I never mean to look, I swear, but I can see you now. Everything.”
Of course you know what he means. You know he can see right past his giant shirt covering your body. And the guilt on his face is gutting. You’ve never seen him wanting to claw his own powers out of his skin.
“Clark… it’s okay. You don’t have to explain.” You step forward slowly. “It’s not like we haven’t–”
“No–you don’t get it!” He snaps, his voice booming through your walls so loud you are sure everyone on the building heard him. He instantly feels worse with the way you flinched to his volume. “S-sorry love… you just don’t get it…you have no idea what it’s like to smell you and know how soft you are, how warm. My instincts are going crazy. I just need to be inside you…I need to touch you, mark you, fill you up until I can’t think straight,” he just rambles, eyes raking through your body.
You take a deep breath, his words making you clench your thighs together and he noticed. Of course you’ve had sex before. You know what he sounds like when he’s needy. But this? This is feral. You’ve never seen him like this.
But you’re willing to do anything to help him.
Always.
“Clark…you don’t even have to ask,” you speak softly, your own eyes darkening with desire.
He shakes his head. You don’t even understand the amount of restraint he’s having right now.
“I do…I always do. Especially now. Because I’m not going to touch you like I should. I’m not going to make it about you. I’m going to use you. Because you’re the only one who can fix me…you are the antidote and I hate it. I hate that I can’t even think straight unless I’m inside you…I need you so bad, darling, I’m shaking–” He cries, actual tears come out of his desperate eyes.
You’re watching a god fall apart in front of you.
Because of you.
You finally cross the space left, and he doesn’t stop you this time. You grab his face between your hands, and kiss him without hesitation. His arms immediately cling to your frame, cold hands slipping under your shirt to roam every inch of your warm skin.
You moan into his lips, when you taste the salty tears on his face. His hands land on your ass, and he squeezes hard, bruising, making you squeal. He immediately pulls back, apologizing. Like he still can’t let himself go.
“I’m sorry–” He blurts out immediately, hands soothing the skin he pinched as he fought the urge to do it again, harder. “God I love you…and I would never hurt you. Never. I swore I’d never touch you like this–unless you asked me to. Unless you wanted me to. So please…tell me you want this too. Say yes, or I’ll leave. I swear I will.”
He nods frantically, trying to convince himself more than he’s trying to convince you.
“I’ll leave if you tell me to,” he insists. “I’ll fly through a mountain. I’ll bury myself in the ocean. Just don’t say yes unless you want this. I’m barely holding on–if you say it, I won’t be able to stop.”
You want him. God you always want him.
The way he keeps asking makes you want him even more. Even if he’s not your Clark now. Even if he won’t take care of you like he always does. Even if you can’t breathe or move after.
“I want it,” you whisper against his lips, nodding. “I want you. You need me? Use me. Take all you want…I can take it.”
It’s over.
The moment you say yes there’s no going back. He lunges forward, tightening his grip on you as he lifts you off the ground to fly you towards the wall, knocking the lamp when your back hit the wall, leaving you both in complete darkness. Only the moonlight left to shine over his hungry eyes.
His massive hand cradles the back of your head to protect it from the hit, while the other tears off your shirt, needing to see your skin or he’ll die. Your panties don’t even last two seconds before they he rips them away too.
His lips crash yours. Tongues are desperate, hands everywhere, so large, so shaky, everywhere at once. He groans into your mouth like a man dying of thirst finally tasting water.
“Thank you,” he gasps between kisses. “Thank you sweetheart…I’m so sorry I can’t help you first…but I need you…I need to feel you inside, please just let me…”
He knows it hurts you when he doesn’t prepare you properly, when he doesn’t make you cum at least twice on his fingers before he fucks you…but he can’t right now. Not when he can smell how soaked you are already, not when he swears it’s dripping on the carpet.
“Do it,” you pant, hungry for him. “Clark just do it… please.”
He doubts only for a second, and then without thinking he rips the suit. Literally tears it at the waist, tugging it to get rid of it completely. He’ll give a damn about that later.
Right now he is just muscle in front of you.
His painful cock springs up, and he presses himself to you with a wet slap, your back hitting the wall again. Your pussy throbs at how impossibly huge he is over your stomach.
You’ve had him before. You’ve barely made it.
You still want him to rearrange your guts. Over and over.
“Feel that?” he groans. “That’s what you do to me, that’s what’s been driving me insane all day, darling.”
He’s not even pretending anymore, his cock is throbbing, massive, already leaking. He aligns himself between your soaked folds, rutting the tip against your pussy a few times. You moan at the friction. Every nerve ending screaming. You know he’s gonna wreck you. You weren’t ready. But at the same time you’ve never been more ready.
He grabs your thigh and lifts it against the wall, before whispering against your lips. “I’m sorry…”
He pushes his hips forward, and when he finally slides home with a snap…raw, hard, you let out a strangled moan.
One long, broken sound, high pitched and helpless, because he stretches you brutally, all at once, bottoming out with a growl. An actual growl. Finally feeling some sort of relief since he got hit with the pollen.
You fight back a cry, lunging forward to bite his shoulder.
He starts fucking you into the wall as he whispers ‘I love you’ ‘Thank you’ ‘Sorry’ like some sort of chant. A prayer. The only thing keeping him rooted to the version of him that is still careful with you when you make love.
Right now it’s just sex. Dirty, rough, unfiltered sex.
Your breath leaves you in gasps, your bare back against the cold plaster, one leg around his waist, the other held up by him. Your arms clinging to his biceps for dear life. All you can do is moan as you get adjusted to his unfairly thick cock slamming in and out of you.
“Just like that…you’re taking me so well,” he pants. “You can do it, sweetheart…you’re doing so good… fuck, you were made for this…made for me.”
His hands grip your thighs. He fucks you like he’s possessed, no rhythm, no thought into it, just deep, hard thrusts that hit something devastating every time, shaking the wall with every slam of his hips.
And the whole time, he keeps whimpering into your neck.
“I love you…I’m sorry…I love you…I’m gonna ruin you …I need it…”
You think you’re about to white out when the room starts moving, but you quickly realize what’s happening. He’s lifting your bodies off the ground.
Still fucking you.
Going up as much as your ceiling allowed him too. He pins you high on the wall when his head touches the roof. Gravity doesn’t apply anymore. It never does anyway, not to you, not to him.
So now you’re fucking hovering. Literally. Unable to do anything but take it.
And you feel him like never before. A complete moaning mess. Nails dragging down his back, mouth open in shock as you look down to the floor. Your whole body is a live wire, and he’s fucking you like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.
It literally is.
His cock twitches inside you. He’s already close. Has been since he walked through that window. But he’s holding it, fighting it, because he needs to stay inside.
Needs to keep taking. You can’t keep giving all night.
“Fuck Clark…I’m gonna–“
“Yes? Do it. Darling please, you’re doing so well. I’ve got you…cum all over my cock, I got you.”
Your body breaks before you can even breathe. Your first climax of the night hits hard, walls clenching around him, as you pant into his chest. Your whole body goes limp and he feels it.
He fucks you through it. Rough thrusts with his hand stroking your back and the other wrapped under your thighs. He keeps thanking you as his cock splits you open over and over.
“I wanna give you everything,” he groans, voice cracking. “Fill you up, stuff you full of me…can I? Please? Let me finish inside you….let me have you–“
“Yes, yes, fill me up,” you blurt out, still seeing stars.
He slams in once more and chokes, hips locked, whole body shuddering as he comes with a moan so broken that came from his soul. He shakes as he fills you, mouth pressing wet kisses to your neck.
He doesn’t pull out yet. He holds you there, trembling, pressed against the wall because he knows you’ll fall if he loosens his grip.
Even after the first wave passes, after the groans, the shaking, the desperate I love you’s, he holds you like the only thing anchoring him to this planet.
“…Are you okay?”
You just nod, breathless, a blissed out smile in your face. He smiles too. And then, slowly, he lowers you back down to the floor.
But he’s not soft for long. He doesn’t even give you a minute to recover. He can’t. The second round starts before the first one even finishes sinking in.
You’re still trembling in his arms, leaking down your thighs, whimpering his name into the crook of his neck. And he’s still inside you. Still painfully hard.
Still needing you.
“One more, please. Just–just one more,” he begs. “Let me have you again. Please, darling I need it.”
“Take it Clark, take all you need,” you nod, absolutely wrecked.
But what’s a few more rounds with your unearthly strong boyfriend?
He melts.
You usually go multiple rounds, but he’s softer, he gives you downtime, even brings you water in between orgasms. But right now he can’t believe the way he fucked you and you still let him have more. But he needs more. The pollen is fogging his brain.
He finally pulls out, just to set you down on the floor. The second your back hits the rug, he’s on top of you again. And god he’s heavy. Solid. He doesn’t even hold his weight like he usually does because all he’s thinking about is fucking you senseless.
He buries himself deep again, groaning, cursing under his breath. You close your eyes, nails digging the carpet, back arching when you feel him deeper from this angle. You pant small whines from the feeling.
“Shhh…don’t–“ he coos, he wants to be slow, but he can’t. His hips snap hard without even thinking. “You’re doing so good, sweetheart…so good for me… just need one more.”
You know it’s not just one more. And he fucking knows that too.
None of you cares.
“You’re so wet…so perfect” he groans, the filthy sound gushing loudly every time he thrusted. “I didn’t even give you time to come down…didn’t even let you breathe and you still take me so well”
He praises. Worships. He looks down to where your bodies meet, and he sees right through your skin. He can see his huge cock filling you with every thrust. He can see your walls clenching around him. And he loses it.
You’re suddenly running out of air when he presses his chest to yours, pining you tighter to the floor with his body as he pushes harder. And you feel all of him. The broadness of his chest against your ribs. The strain of his thighs bracketing yours. His cock still buried deep, rock hard.
You hit his bicep with your hand first, but he’s not paying attention, he’s too caught up on the way your pussy takes him to notice.
It’s not smooth. Not rhythmic. Just sharp, ragged thrusts that hit you so hard your body jerks on impact, tits bouncing, nails clawing at his back as he crushes you into the floor with every rut of his hips.
Your head starts spinning.
“Clark,” you choke out, hitting his bicep again. “I can’t–can’t breathe…”
His head finally snaps at you, eyes going wide. He lifts up a bit, but he doesn’t pull out, he just … can’t.
You finally gasp for air as he shushes you softly, tucking away the hair sticking to your sweaty forehead.
“I’m sorry…I can’t…can’t stop. I tried, I swear I tried,” his forehead presses to yours, without crushing you alive this time.
His hips don’t stop moving. You pant between moans. You’re close again, you can feel it.
“It’s okay, you’re just…you’re so big…so heavy.”
“I know,” he breathes. “I know. I just…I don’t want to let you go–”
“Don’t,” you whisper. “Don’t let me go.”
His expression breaks. Because he knows. And you know. He’s not really letting you go. Not all the way. He’s still pressing his weight into you, even as he tries not to. Because he needs to.
He doesn’t know what takes over him, he grabs your hands and pins them above your head. Watching you sob, moan, eyes rolling back, skin already bruising in multiple places by his grip. He’s not like this. He should be apologizing. Begging. But you just feel so damn good.
And you like it, god you love it.
“I–I love it when you fuck me like this,” you confess, voice barely above a whisper, dumb smile on your face as he hits that spot repeatedly. “I just–I can’t…”
“I know darling, I know…just a little more,” he groans. “One more please. You can take it…you’re doing so good.” He coos, but he can’t slow down, not when you’re clenching him like that.
He picks up the pace.
“C-Clark…please, I’m gonna-“
“I’ve got you, love…I’ve got you, let yourself go for me.”
You see white this time. You’re not even moaning anymore. Just gasping. Twitching. Letting him take what he needs because you want to. Because this is Clark, your Clark, and you’d give him your whole body a thousand times if he needed it.
And he does.
He fucks you like you’re his last breath.
Even after you’re wrecked, limp, twitching…he keeps going.
You don’t even remember the next time he finishes. Or the time after that. Or where it happened. Your body is a mess, trembling and raw and wet and full. Marked all over.
Praised.
All while he keeps saying, “Just one more…just let me stay inside you a little longer…please sweetheart, I’m still hard I know you can take it…this is the last time I promise…”
Again and again. You’ve never heard him lie so much before.
Yet still, with your hair splayed, legs shaking, literal tears leaking from the corners of your eyes from the pleasure, the pain, the strain, the goddamn pollen he pumps into your body every time he comes…
You are having the time of your life being drunk on his cock.
“Fuck me harder.”
You beg, even when you can’t feel it that much anymore. Maybe that’s why you need it harder…deeper. And because you knew that once he came back to normal he wouldn’t fuck you like this again.
“I’m sorry. I just need you so fucking much…I love you I love you I love you–”
You just nod, because it hurts embarrassingly good.
You lose count of how many times he comes in total. How many times you come. You only know time’s passed when the sky starts to lighten outside your broken window, and Clark is rocking into you so slowly it’s more like he’s just holding you in place, his mouth pressed to your shoulder, whispering thank you with every lazy thrust.
By the time he finally slows down, finally wears the substance out of his body after dumping it all inside you…you can’t move. You’re limp in his arms, boneless and dripping and his.
Your bed feels incredibly soft in contrast to all the spots he fucked you on last night.
You’re draped across his chest, tracing the muscles under his bare skin. His fingers are in your hair. Barely moving, just tracing small patterns. Soothing all the strain he caused in your body.
You’re still trembling a little. Just from…after. Your body’s still echoing with everything he gave you. Everything he took.
Worth it.
Clark kisses your temple. He hasn’t stopped kissing you every few minutes, trying to apologize without saying it. Trying to prove that he’s still the man you love, the man who flinches when he bumps your head by accident, who picks you flowers and gets flustered when you kiss him in public. The one who always put you first in bed.
Not the one who just broke the sound barrier flying to your apartment because his cock told him to.
“…I broke your window,” he says, finally breaking the silence.
“Clark…you broke a lot more than my window.”
You both start giggling…somehow glowing. Your throat hurts, you’re sore, probably can’t even walk today or the whole week, and somehow, it feels like the safest place on Earth.
“I love you,” he whispers. “So much.”
“I know,” you whisper back. “You said it like 87 times while destroying me.”
⋆⋅ ♡ ⋅⋆
I created a blog dedicated to Superman, where I’ll be posting my writing for him from now on 🫶🏼 so if you wanna check it out, go to -> @404superman
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clark meets another super, who he can fuck the way he really wants to.
cw: 18+, smut, villain!reader, enemies to lovers, hate fucking, unprotected p-in-v, mentions of blood & violence, clark has a massive cock (ofc), sexual tension, tummy bulge, multiple orgasms, dub con, clark fucks HARD in this (2.4k wc)
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PART ONE | PART TWO | PART THREE | PART FOUR | PART FIVE
clark kent had only ever dreamt of days where he'd meet his match.
he'd accepted that he was physiologically different that the humans that he kept company with. and that meant compromising. which was a multitude of things. he could only every use one percent of his actual strength in his daily tasks for starters — taking a boatload of mental fortitude to contain himself.
that applied to his sex life. an act he indulged in often.
maybe it was written in his DNA, or maybe having a significantly larger body to muscle mass meant your sex drive left you unbelievably insatiable. he couldn't tell. there wasn't much of a reference point he could compare to.
even then, it was…unfulfilling.
the women he fucked weren't to blame for it. truly. he'd learned after a couple of partners that his cock was disconcertingly massive in 'human' standards. to quote the most recent, he had a 'monster cock.' something he took literal offence to initially, but later learned that was a generic term for far exceeding 9 inches. and that meant only ever being able to fuck barely halfway in before most of them tapped out.
it was okay. he was okay with it. being superman had perks, doing good, keeping people safe. being sexually fulfilled wasn't on the forefront of his mind at all. but that didn't mean he couldn't dream of meeting someone who could keep up with him.
and that was why, clark kent was obsessed with you from the second you threw the first punch to his jaw.
"are you — … are you freakin' smiling?"
you had your knee pinned to his pulse point, knuckles flexed with clark's dried blood. other hand squishing his jaw when his smile tenses against your thumb. bloodied pearly whites peeking through. that wasn't the expression you expected from a man who was panting, bruised, and bleeding from cuts on his lips and nose.
"it hurts," he manages through a laughter of amusement, "like, actually hurts." your brows raise quizzically. it was a no shit sort of moment, because well, you'd swung at his face. repeatedly. but the crooked smile he was giving you, made your cunt clench.
"okay. i do not have time to figure out what bullshit you're on. stay out of my goddamn way, superman."
he doesn't chase you when you'd gotten up, free-falling off the museum's building, thumb drive in hand.
after that, getting rid of him was near impossible. he was everywhere you were, disrupting your plans. and for some absurd reason — taking hit after hit, as if testing how much you could deal, and how much he could endure.
the next time you see him, he's skulking in your apartment, rotating a relic that didn't seem like it was from this earth.
"do you have a death wish?"
clark doesn't turn when he hears you approach him, tossing the armored headpiece up and down in his palms. "you're hera," he muses, eyes glinting when your footsteps cease where you stop short of him. the mention of your past alter-ego, sends a dreadful chill down your spine. his gaze drags over your civilian state, formal, a lanyard around your neck, pencil skirt, and a thin black rectangular framed glasses.
you snatch the item from him. dusting it off before putting it back in its' place. "i don't go by that anymore."
clark stumbles backward when you shoulder past him. you don't wait before you swipe him clean off his legs, the cement floors crackling beneath his fall. "i'm giving you about twenty seconds to get out before i fuck you up, supershit."
clark reacts to that nickname instantaneously, pointing at you accusatory. "do not —" he grumbles. shaking his head before pulling himself up to his feet. you weren't paying attention to him, wrist twisted to look at the second hand tick on your watch.
"look. miss hera, i'm here to talk —"
"times up."
the force that sends him crashing into your bookshelf cracks the walls of your converted loft. you sigh, unwinding your wrist from hitting that brick wall-like chest. he doesn't want to attack you, and you see it in the way he's standing up, not getting into a defensive stance.
clark raises his palms to surrender. "please, i'm really not here to turn you in." you listen to him for a second, but you wind up to throw another. this time, he catches your fists, a crackle heard before he twists you around, pressing your fist to your back. "would you listen?"
you swallow thickly, his voice blooming a warmth in you.
he grunts at you headbutting him, and you take the moment to loop your arm around his, throwing him in the direction of your television console.
you briefly hear him mutter a quick 'oh geez that one hurt' in a tired boyish tone. clark looks up to the figure already charging at him. he catches you by your hips when you pounce on him, legs locked around his chest. "ow, ow, ow — i'm serious! just let me talk!"
you huff, holding him in a tight headlock where you were straddled. in the split second you hesitate, he blindly grabs around your back, holding you by the scruff of your neck before slamming you down like he was getting a feral cat off of him.
"that does it." gritting through your teeth, your heels meet the base of his jaw, and it cracks beneath the weight behind the kick. clark whines out loudly, stumbling back. his senses are attuned now, your head whips to the side when he strikes you for real, the glasses you had on flying right off.
"i really don't want to hurt you. " he pants, wiping the blood off his lips with the back of his hand. you attempt to knee him, but he catches you, the whiplash of him grabbing you by your throat has your hand grasping around his wrists.
his cape flutters when clark catapults onto the other side. you let out a yelp when your back slams into the paintings behind you.
he's close now, your chest heaving hard enough to graze his.
you spit out the blood that collects in your mouth, sizing him with a deadly look, "as if you can."
clark looks at you intently, gaze flicking to the smear of scarlet on your lips. his jaw tightens, trying to figure out how he could get you to listen to him.
and then — he licks a stripe over your sliced bottom lip.
your whimper ghosts his jaw, and clark holds you still in place by the neck. large hands spanning your entire throat. your eyes dart to his, flitting left and right. his thumbs shift, just slightly, your pulse slowing beneath.
"you done?" he's close enough that you can feel the hum in his voice. your eye twitches at the smug tone.
"the nerve you've got…" you mutter, your own tongue catching your lower lips. he tenses at the sight of you licking over the glossiness he left.
the thrum in your chest is palpable. he feels it, and doesn't let go. the adrenaline of both the pain and closeness turning into something much more twisted.
"you're strong." clark leans close and you tip your head to the side to avoid him. he takes the opportunity to drag his nose down your neck. "as strong as i am." your breath stutters, thighs thrashing helplessly next to his hips.
"so?" you feel him sigh into your collar bone, his forehead rested on the shifted painting behind you.
"so…you can take it. take…me."
your brows furrow at that, but the answer comes in the form of the monstrosity pressed up against your abdomen, that was twitching. "is…is that what this is about? you needed a super-powered criminal fuck buddy?" the deliriousness in your tone is evident, and it seems to embarrasses him.
"this isn't ideal," he snaps in a hushed whisper. pulling back enough to turn your jaw to face him. "i know you want it too. i can…i can feel your heart rate picking up." he points out.
his face is laughably apologetic considering the span of events so far. "well, it's a given with you humping me."
clark's jaw flexes, "gosh you — the mouth on you." he sputters, the grip around your neck tightening a fraction. "you're so damn crass. this is ridiculous. what am i doing?"
you laugh in his face, and he perks up, staring blankly at just how pretty you looked when you smiled. "are you joking? you have your dick pressed onto me and you're questioning my language?"
clark winces, hips bucking into you when you point out the irony in the situation. "don't…talk like that," he's trying not to acknowledge the fact that he was quickly hardening, but your entire presence was a catalyst. "talk like what?"
he's almost certain you're being obtuse on purpose, but in the off-chance you weren't, "saying stuff like dick, and…humping so brazenly."
a smile curls at the corner of your lips, and your hand drops, two of your fingers spreading apart to trace over the outline of his bulge.
"o-oh geez," he gasps, followed by a breathless "give-me-a-goddamn-warning."
the hold on your throat loosens. so you grab around his cock firmly, thumbing where his tip would be. "you're here to fuck me, right? so act like it."
clark looks to you, brows pressed into a knit. his arm snakes around your hip, "…very well, then."
you gasp at the shift in positions, where he now had you pinned on your unmade bed.
his hand curls around your wrist, slipping them underneath his suit bottom. clark jumps when your softer hands grip his bare length, it surprises you "oh."
"i-it's…not exactly small," he grits, panting into the side of your head when you stroke him with his guidance.
"no kidding. you're hung, big blue."
clark grunts at that, breaths turning heavier the more you're dry rubbing his cock.
"like that. yeah... that's good."
you hum, lifting your hips to accommodate his bigger frame while he tugs his suit off. the impressive size of him comes to your view, and you let out a stuttered breath. your pussy clench almost as a pre-warning.
he drags your skirt up, bunching it at your hips. "g..osh.." he mutters, looking up to see that you've unbuttoned yourself enough to reveal the curvature of your tits beneath a lacy blue bra.
"like that we're matching?"
clark huffs out a strained laughter, head dropping lower. "that's not funny."
the smirk on you turns to a gasp when he drags his thumb over your panties, wetness slowly blooming where your slit would be. your hips tilt to his touch, and he hooks his thumb around the edge of the fabric, letting his finger dip into you just enough.
you moan brokenly, looking down at the erotic sight before you.
his body was definitely as formidable as his cock, biceps visibly flexing at your ministrations. "the point…of this is so you can do what you want. right? just stick it in then."
the tremble in your voice gives away your nervousness.
clark rolls his shoulder, pushing a finger into your cunt, sounding unintentionally smug, "to fuck you…without tearing you. i need you to take at least four fingers."
you clench, on instinct, when he says that. it seems to draw a cocky smile from him.
you aren't sure how long had passed.
somewhere between your second and third orgasm, you lost track of time. clark had his mouth latched around your breast, plunging his fingers deep into you, relentlessly pulling whimpers out of you.
"enough — fuck." you claw at his back, slick with sweat sticking to your cheeks. "just do it already." clark's still diligently stretching you out, marvelling at how your pussy accommodates his digits.
"okay, okay…"
you feel the loss of him all at once and with a flutter, his thighs pushes yours further apart where they were hoisted beneath your thighs. clark angles his thick tip at your entrance.
"take a deep breath for me" he whispers, easing himself into you while thumbing at your clit. the reaction was immediate, you squeeze around him, hips already attempting to squirm away.
clark holds you down, feeding you his cock inch by inch and all you can do is brace yourself. "you feel — so.." he groans out, lips pressed at the corner of your parted ones. you're letting out choked, heavy breaths into his mouth, rendered mute, "so soft, a-and wet."
you're teary, blinking through the blur that prickle the corner of your eyes. he feels your it wet his cheek, and he pulls back, like he'd been burnt.
"sorry, i'm sorry." his hip still. and somehow, the sting grows even more painful when he isn't moving. "are you okay? should i stop?"
your nails dig into clark's arms, dragging them down his bicep, leaving angry red marks behind. he doesn't expect it, when you grab around his neck, flipping him beneath you. you steady yourself on his chest and fully sheath yourself. the two of you groaning out in unison.
"fuck. oh fuck." clark gasps when your hips lift, and snap back down. he grabs around your thighs, stabilising you as you bounce on his cock.
"god, oh my god, it's like, you're in my…throat.." you're whimpering into his mouth, body falling limp after your brave showing of just having him fully in you.
clark holds you up your jaw, drowning your moans in his mouth. his other hand slides down your ass, parting them with a finger, hold firmly around the fat. he takes takes charge to thrust up into you, deep.
"mm—ff..i-i know. it's a lot." he's blabbering in your lips, securing his hold, feeling your tight hole clenching when fingers spanning enough to graze past it, the tip of his finger rubbing where his cock meets your pussy.
it's too much, and clark knows. "y..ou're doing so g-good."
your breath stutters in his mouth, drooling into him helplessly. fuelled by the praise he gives. "so goddamn good." your cheeks presses onto his, panting when the white hot flashes take you to what's now your fourth orgasm.
it comes with no warning. he jolts once, heaving, thick spurts of his cum shooting deep into you. never-ending, seemingly. clark turns you over in a fluid motion, cock still pulsing into you with deep spurts. he presses his hand flat onto your abdomen, where the outline of him pokes at your belly.
he's in awe, fully in the depths of a newfound pleasure. a heavy palm swiping the sweaty strands of your cheeks.
clark readjusts his hold on you, a finger tearing your blouse fully apart. you jolt when the buttons clatter to the ground. you gasp out when he presses deeper into you. his palm cradling your jaw.
"wait...what are you…—" he tuts, pressing a kiss on your parted lips.
Summary: Clark Kent has a girlfriend, but no one at the Daily Planet believes she’s real. Until he finally introduces you.
Word count: 3.4k+
Warnings: flufff
A/N:
Hey guys!!! I’m back with another Clark Kent fic!! The hiatus I took really helped me feel better, and I want to thank you all for your support and kindness. It means the world to me. I wrote something short and sweet to help get the writing flowing. Please tell me what you think! Hope you’ll like it!
English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.
Happy reading xxx
I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.
Clark had never meant for it to turn into this.
In fact, if someone had told him that one small slip of honesty would detonate like a gossip grenade in the middle of the Daily Planet bullpen, he would’ve laughed—gently, politely—and then absolutely done anything else with his mouth.
But it was a Tuesday.
A perfectly normal, quiet Tuesday—the kind where the newsroom was burning like fire with tension and deadlines. The air smelled like burnt office coffee, old printer ink, and the faint stress-sweat of people who hadn’t slept since Sunday. Keyboards clacked. Phones rang. Someone was swearing at the copy machine again.
Clark was packing up for the day, gathering the last of his neatly typed notes and tucking his pen into the pocket of his shirt. He was humming under his breath—a habit he didn’t realize he had when he was thinking about you.
Warm. Content. Happy.
And, unfortunately for him, noticeable.
“You heading out early, Kent?” Lois asked, not even looking up. Her eyes were glued to her laptop, fingers flying like she was trying to out-type the devil.
He should’ve lied.
He absolutely should have lied.
Told her he was going to the dentist. That he was finally replacing the broken lightbulb in his kitchen. That he was volunteering at the community center. That he was doing laundry. That he was doing anything that did not involve another human being who could be grilled for information.
But Clark was honest. Painfully so. Reflexively so.
And the truth slipped out as naturally as a breath.
“I have dinner plans,” he said.
Lois didn’t react at first. She just typed faster.
Then Clark made the worst mistake of the week.
“With my girlfriend.”
Silence.
A sudden, violent, newsroom-wide silence—like someone had pulled the plug on reality.
A ripple ran through the bullpen. Heads turned. Chairs squeaked. Papers rustled.
Lois' head popped up so fast Clark swore he heard her neck crack.
“Girlfriend?” she repeated, eyes narrowing like she had just smelled a scandal. “Since when?”
Before Clark could formulate a sentence, Jimmy—who had been leaning back in his desk chair scrolling through photos—jerked so hard he flailed. His chair wobbled, his elbow slammed into his desk, and his camera flew out of his hands and hit the floor with a very expensive-sounding clack.
“Dude—what?” Jimmy blurted.
And like a bomb had gone off at her desk, Cat swirled around dramatically in her chair from across the room, her blonde hair bouncing with enough force to backhand someone.
“I’m sorry,” she said, voice pitched high with disbelief, “did Farmer Boy just say girlfriend?”
Clark immediately regretted being alive.
He cleared his throat, aware that half the bullpen was now listening.
“Yes,” he said, dragging a hand down his face. “Girlfriend. It’s not… new new, but—”
Lois pointed her pen at him like she was cross-examining a criminal.
“What’s her name?”
Clark blinked. “Lois—”
“Her. Name.”
“I’m not giving you her name.”
Lois smirked in triumph, slamming her laptop shut. “Oh. Ohhh. How convenient.”
“It’s not convenient,” Clark insisted, trying to keep his voice even. “It’s private.”
Cat scoffed. Loudly. “Kent, darling. Sweetheart. Sunshine. You work in a newspaper. Privacy is a myth created to sell home security systems.”
Jimmy crossed his arms. “Look, no offense, man, but I’ve known you for years. Years. And you have never—never—mentioned a girlfriend.”
“I’ve mentioned her!” Clark argued, even though he knew it was futile.
Jimmy raised his eyebrows. “Once. Right now. In this exact conversation.”
Lois stood up, hands on her hips, expression a lethal mix of curiosity and incredulity.
“Okay. Let me make sure I understand.” She took a step closer, circling him like a shark. “You, Clark Kent—whose idea of flirting is apologizing when someone bumps into you—have a girlfriend you have never brought up, never shown us, never introduced us to, never posted about, and yet now suddenly you’re leaving work early for her?”
Clark opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
He closed it.
Opened it again.
Still nothing.
This was becoming an unfortunate trend.
“She just… likes her privacy,” he tried lamely.
“Oh my god,” Lois whispered, horror washing over her face. “She’s Canadian, isn’t she.”
“What? No! She’s not Canadian!”
“Right,” Jimmy said solemnly. “And I totally have a British supermodel waiting for me at home.”
Cat raised her hand like they were in a boardroom. “For the record, I vote imaginary.”
“Seconded,” Lois said immediately.
“Thirded,” Jimmy added, already typing something into his phone, probably starting a betting pool.
Clark stared at them, mouth hanging open, heart pounding—not with fear, but with sheer, bone-deep exasperation.
And from that point on, they decided—collectively, aggressively—that you did not exist.
One week later, Clark was walking home through the early-evening Metropolis glow, the sky soft lavender over the skyline. His tie was loosened, askew from where he’d tugged at it repeatedly during the day. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows. His messenger bag hung off one shoulder, heavy with notes he knew he wouldn’t touch tonight.
He was tired—but in that good way. The way that came from knowing he was heading home to you.
To your voice. Your laugh. Your warmth.
To the way you always kissed him hello like you meant it.
He’d been thinking about you all afternoon—your hands in his hair, your smile when he walked through the door, the way you sometimes wore his shirts around the apartment, the sound you made when he kissed your neck—
He sighed, cheeks pinking even in the cool evening air.
He just wanted to be home.
That was the moment his phone buzzed in his pocket.
Jimmy Olsen.
Clark stared at the screen.
He considered letting it ring—he really, truly did.
But ignoring a friend felt wrong, and Clark Kent was, unfortunately, helplessly decent, even when it was inconvenient.
He answered.
“Hey, Jimmy.”
“Clark.” Jimmy’s voice was suspiciously upbeat. Too upbeat. “How’s it going, man?”
Clark narrowed his eyes at no one. “Good. Heading home.”
“Mmmhmm,” Jimmy said in the tone of someone who was absolutely not believing him but pretending to. “Big night with the lady, huh?”
Clark stopped at a crosswalk, pressing the button even though he didn’t need to.
Why did he tell them you existed? Why?
Jimmy continued, “So, how’s your girlfriend doing?”
Clark frowned. “She’s good. We’re cooking tonight.”
“Cooking,” Jimmy repeated slowly. “Right. Got it. Sounds legit.”
“It is legit.” Clark’s voice came out sharper than he intended.
Jimmy burst out laughing—loud, delighted, unhelpful. Clark had to pull the phone away from his ear.
“Dude, I’m messing with you!” Jimmy managed between wheezes. “Relax! I’m just saying—Lois has a bet going.”
Clark froze in the middle of the sidewalk.
“A bet?”
“Oh, yeah,” Jimmy said—and Clark could hear the grin in his voice. “We’ve all got money on the table.”
Clark resumed walking, slower now. “…What do you mean?”
“Well,” Jimmy said proudly, “Cat says your girlfriend is one hundred percent imaginary. Lois says she’s imaginary and you made her up to avoid after-hours staff mixers because you’re a giant nerd. And I said maybe—maybe—you’re seeing someone but she’s, like… a chatbot.”
Clark blinked. “A… a what?”
“You know,” Jimmy said cheerfully, “like those AI girlfriends you can text at 3 a.m. and they send you motivational quotes and call you handsome.”
Clark gripped the phone harder. “Jimmy.”
“I’m just saying!” Jimmy said. “If she’s real, let us meet her.”
“I will,” Clark said automatically, even though his stomach swooped uncomfortably. “I just haven’t—”
“Haven’t made her up yet?” Jimmy supplied helpfully.
Clark shut his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Jimmy. She’s real. We’ve been dating for months.”
“Okaaay,” Jimmy said in a tone that very clearly meant I do not believe you at all, Clark Kent, but I am willing to humor your delusion.
“Then prove it.”
Clark stopped dead.
“Prove it?”
“Yeah!” Jimmy said, as if it were obvious. “Invite us over! Let us meet her! Lois will bring a lie detector. Cat will bring tequila.”
“No,” Clark said automatically. “Absolutely not.”
“Unless, of course,” Jimmy added innocently, “she’s. Not. Real.”
Clark inhaled.
Exhaled.
Counted to five.
Considered super-speeding to the moon.
But then he remembered your voice this morning—soft, teasing, your fingers in his hair as you kissed him goodbye.
Do my kisses feel real to you, honey?
And in that moment, Clark knew you’d just smile at him, kiss his cheek, and say yes.
Clark clenched his jaw.
“Fine.”
“Fine?” Jimmy repeated, shocked.
“Dinner,” Clark said, rubbing his forehead. “My apartment, next Saturday, 6 pm. All of you.”
There was a moment of stunned silence—and then Jimmy whooped so loudly Clark startled.
“YES!! Lois owes me twenty bucks either way!”
Clark sighed. “Goodbye, Jimmy.”
“Bye, man! Tell your imaginary girlfriend I said hi!”
Clark hung up.
Stared at his home screen.
And muttered to himself, “I’m in hell.”
And that was how Clark ended up standing in the hallway of his apartment, staring into the mirror like it was a hostile witness. He pushed his glasses up his nose. Twice. Then he smoothed his hair. Then he fussed with his shirt collar before fussing with it again, as if neatness alone could protect him from Lois Lane’s investigative instincts.
He leaned in closer, whispering to his own reflection like someone practicing for trial.
“They’re going to like her. They’re definitely going to like her. Right? They like… nice people. She's nice. She's nice—”
His voice cracked a little.
“…they have to like her.”
From the kitchen, you stuck your head out, hair pulled back loosely, your sleeves rolled as you stirred whatever delicious thing was simmering on the stove. You watched him with an amused, fond little smile—the one that always made his heart go soft and silly.
“Clark,” you said gently, “sweetheart, you need to relax. It’s just your friends.”
He turned, wide-eyed. “They’re my only friends.”
You gave him a sympathetic look.
“And,” he added, as if this was crucial, “they’re reporters. They treat fact-checking like a competitive sport. Lois once fact-checked a birthday card I sent her.”
You blinked. “…She what?”
Clark nodded solemnly. “She thought the rhyme sounded suspiciously familiar and wanted to make sure I hadn’t plagiarized it.”
You laughed—warm and bright and soft in a way that melted the tension right out of him like sunlight on snow. He loved that sound. He loved you. He didn’t know how to express it without kissing you breathless.
So instead, you walked over and stood in front of him, reaching up to fix his crooked collar. “Let them inspect,” you murmured, smoothing the fabric with your hands. “Let them interrogate. Let them poke and prod. I’m real, aren’t I?”
Clark breathed out slowly, his shoulders loosening. Something in him untangled—something that always did when you were close.
He dipped his head and kissed you. Soft at first, then deeper, long enough that time blurred. Long enough that the simmering anxiety boiling in his chest cooled instantly. Long enough that if you’d asked him his own name in that moment, he might’ve forgotten it.
A sharp knock at the door shattered the moment like whipping a rug out from beneath him.
Clark jerked back, eyes wide. “They’re early.”
You grinned. “Perfect.”
“No,” Clark whispered, “not perfect—”
“Perfect,” you insisted, squeezing his forearm. “Let’s blow their minds.”
He stayed frozen in place, somewhere between dread and awe, as you padded lightly toward the door, your steps quiet on the hardwood floor. He swallowed hard, actually tugging on his shirt as if bracing himself for a hurricane.
You pulled the door open.
Three jaws hit the floor.
The room stilled, like even the air was holding its breath.
Lois blinked. Once. Twice. Her eyes went from you—standing gorgeous and real and impossibly confident—to Clark, who was ten feet behind you, looking like a deer caught in fluorescent headlights.
“Holy—Clark?” Lois said finally, sounding personally betrayed. “Kent. Kent. You?”
Jimmy was slack-jawed, clutching his imaginary pearls like it had betrayed him. “Dude. No way.”
Cat put a manicured hand dramatically to her chest. “Kent. Kent. Explain yourself immediately.”
Clark made a noise reminiscent of a squeak.
You smiled pleasantly, leaning against the doorframe like you were hosting a magazine photoshoot instead of a confrontation between your boyfriend and three deeply suspicious coworkers. You’d thrown on Clark’s soft plaid shirt, the one you stole more than he wore. It hung just right—oversized, sleeves rolled, a few buttons undone so the slightest hint of skin peeked through.
Lois caught that detail. Her eyes widened.
Jimmy swallowed audibly.
Cat muttered something like, “This boy needs to be studied.”
“Hi,” you said warmly. “You must be Clark’s friends. Welcome, come on in.”
Lois walked in first, suspiciously slow, eyes darting back and forth between you and Clark like she was searching for the trapdoor. Like maybe you were a paid actress. Or a hologram. Or a fever dream.
“So,” Lois said carefully, “you’re real.”
You deadpanned, “Last time I checked,” and Lois actually snorted.
Jimmy finally entered, lifting his camera instinctively before catching himself. “I mean—Clark, man, why would you hide her?”
“I wasn’t hiding—!” Clark sputtered, voice squeaking a little.
Cat swept inside like a fashion hurricane, pointing dramatically toward you. “Clark Joseph Kent.” (He winced; she always added the middle name when she wanted to bully him.) “This is not a ‘casual mention’ girlfriend. This is a parade her around, rub it in everyone’s face girlfriend.”
You laughed—bright, musical, genuine.
Clark’s heart squeezed, something tender and helpless blooming under his ribs. God, he loved you.
“Clark didn’t hide me,” you said, stepping closer to him. “We were just… keeping things ours for a little while.”
As you said it, you glanced up at him—the soft, affectionate kind of look that made his breath catch. He stepped forward without thinking, sliding an arm around your waist in a claiming-but-gentle way, his body relaxing the moment you leaned into him. His touch wasn’t possessive. It was relieved. Grounded. Home.
“Exactly,” he murmured, cheeks pink but eyes proud.
Lois narrowed her eyes at him, but a faint grin tugged at her lips. “Fine,” she said. “I’ll allow it. But only because she’s too good for you.”
“Hey,” Clark protested, flustered and red-eared.
You patted his chest, smirking up at him. “She’s kind of right.”
He ducked his head with a shy, crooked smile he only ever gave you.
Soon everyone was crowded into the living room—Lois on the armchair with her legs draped over the side like she owned the place, Jimmy cross‑legged on the floor fiddling with his camera lens even though it definitely didn’t need fixing, and Cat perched elegantly on the edge of the couch like she was preparing to interview royalty.
You’d laid out snacks—actual snacks, not Clark’s version of snacks (meaning: whatever was in the fridge and also possibly oatmeal). The room smelled like warm garlic bread, honey butter, and that candle Clark always said reminded him of you.
The atmosphere turned bright, warm, easy—almost shockingly easy, considering Clark had spent all week imagining worst‑case scenarios. You laughing. Them interrogating. Him fainting.
Lois sipped her drink, then leaned forward, elbows on knees. “So,” she said, “what do you do for a living? And is it something that explains why you haven’t run screaming from Kent’s sweater collection?”
You grinned. “I’m a psychologist.” You told her, while Clark watched the tension drain from Lois' posture. She nodded, impressed despite herself.
“Okay,” Lois said. “So you’re smart. Great. Hate that for me—I really wanted ‘imaginary’ to win the bet.”
Jimmy jumped in, eyes bright. “Do you like movies? Because Clark pretends he’s cultured but he fell asleep during Citizen Kane.”
Clark groaned. “It was one time—”
“You snored,” Jimmy added.
Cat, meanwhile, leaned toward you conspiratorially. “Where’d you get your shirt? It’s adorable.”
Clark choked on his drink.
You patted his knee. “Oh, this?” you said sweetly. “It’s vintage.”
Clark silently thanked every Kryptonian god you didn’t clarify whose closet it was “vintage” from.
But every now and then—when Lois was mid‑rant, when Jimmy was telling a story with his whole body, when Cat was giving you unsolicited fashion advice—Clark found himself glancing at you.
Just a flicker, a check‑in, an instinct.
And every time, without fail, he saw it.
That soft awe in his own eyes reflected back.
That gentle, stunned I can’t believe she’s real. I can’t believe she’s mine.
He had to look away before someone noticed, because the last thing he wanted was for his friends to see him looking like a man who’d stumbled into heaven.
Unfortunately, Lois Lane noticed everything.
She leaned over to him during a lull in the conversation and muttered—loudly enough that everyone probably heard—“Kent… you’re punching so far above your weight I’m getting altitude sickness.”
Clark sighed. “Thank you, Lois.”
“It’s not a compliment, it’s an investigation,” she shot back, but she was smiling—genuine, warm. Not a single hint of skepticism left.
Jimmy raised his glass toward the two of you. “To Clark’s very real, very beautiful, very patient girlfriend.”
You laughed. “Patient is right.”
Clark groaned. “You’re all impossible.”
But when he looked at you again, you were already looking at him—eyes soft, amused, full of something warm that made his pulse skip. And suddenly the teasing, the nerves, the entire week of dread felt stupidly small.
Later, after the door closed behind the last guest and the apartment finally settled into silence, you and Clark practically fell onto the couch.
The shared blanket was crooked from earlier but neither of you bothered fixing it—you just dragged it over yourselves, legs tangling instinctively, like magnets that had spent the whole evening politely staying apart for company.
The coffee table was a disaster zone: empty glasses, snack bowls, napkins Lois kept forgetting she dropped mid‑rant, and Cat’s lip gloss, which she’d left beside a half‑finished glass of wine like she meant to claim your vanity next.
Clark let out a soft, disbelieving laugh against your shoulder—warm breath fanning your skin, his whole body relaxing like someone had unplugged a month’s worth of tension.
You gently threaded your fingers through his hair, slow and soothing. “What?” you asked, amused already because he was clearly trying not to fully laugh.
“They really didn’t believe you existed,” he murmured, voice muffled, half‑laughing, half‑mortified. “Jimmy kept staring at you like you were CGI.”
You gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to your chest. “Until I opened the door and blinded them with my beauty?”
Clark snorted—actually snorted—before quickly burying his face in your neck like he could hide the sound. “I mean…” He peeked up at you, cheeks rosy, glasses askew. “That did happen.”
You smirked, tapping his nose lightly. “You know, you could’ve just shown my picture or something.”
Clark froze at that—not offended, not flustered, but something warm and intense blooming behind his eyes. He lifted his head fully, looking at you like you were the one who invented starlight.
His hands slid up to your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks with the kind of tenderness that made your pulse flutter.
“I know, but I think I just wasn't ready to share you with anyone,” he said softly, firmly—like it was a vow he’d been waiting to make out loud. “ This is the first time where I feel at ease in a relationship, you’re… where I belong.”
The words melted right into the center of you—sunlight, warmth, something steady and grounding. You felt it in your ribs. Felt it in your heartbeat.
Your voice was gentler when you spoke. “Come here.”
You cupped his cheeks, mirroring the way he held you—soft palms, soft eyes—and pulled him in. “And you’re where I belong,” you whispered. “Always.”
Clark kissed you then—slow, deep, reverent—as if the whole week of stress had been building to this moment. As if every joke, every doubt, every “imaginary girlfriend” comment finally dissolved under the reality of you in his arms.
You could feel him smiling into the kiss, could feel the relief radiating off him like warmth. Could feel the way he melted when you threaded your fingers into his hair and pulled just a little.
Clark tugged the blanket higher over both of you and pulled you into his chest, the weight of him warm and grounding and entirely yours.
“Thank you,” he murmured into your hair.
“For what?” you asked.
“For being real,” he said with a soft laugh. “And for proving it so dramatically.”
You laughed too, snuggling into him. “Anytime, sweetheart.”
He tightened his arm around your waist, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple.
Not imaginary.
Not unbelievable.
Not a joke or a rumor or a bet.
⤷ warnings; f!reader, smut, praise, pinv, reader is in a headlock, size kink, unprotected sex
⤷ word count; 350~
inspired by this blurb
plap plap plap
the sound of wet skin echoes throughout the room, your moans shamelessly muffled by the fat of his bicep as he continues to fuck you.
you hadn’t even made it to the bed, instead, your back is pressed against his wide chest, his left arm wrapped loosely around your neck where your slobber dribbles on the meat of his bicep.
you're barely touching the ground, toes just barely grazing the cool floor as he carries your weight like it’s nothing. his mouth pressed to the crown of your head, switching between praises and kissing your scalp.
“my good girl” “taking me so well” “that feel good angel?” “doing such a good job f’me m’so proud of you” he whispers in your ear, voice cracking and horse as he chases his own pleasure.
his breath tickles your hair before his right hand moves from pressing on your lower belly to your folds, parting them before rubbing tight circles into your clit. “i know you’re close baby just a little longer, can you do that for me?” he whimpers, circles only growing tighter and harder as he realizes he’s closer than be thought.
your jaw tightens on his arm as the heat in your stomach grows closer. your spit coats his arm and your chin and you can’t control it. you love how big he is, every part of him.
you love that his frame swallows yours, you love how strong he is and how his bicep is as big as your head, you love the thickness of his thighs, his fingers, his chest, his… everywhere. he was perfect and what better way to show appreciation for that then literally drool all over him.
“yeah? yeah, baby” he mumbles, thrusting into you for the last time before your both cumming. your thighs shake and his finger continues to move as his thrusts stop.
his kissing your neck and your shoulders when he gently puts you down and despite the shake in your legs you’re still somehow standing. “my perfect girl” he grabs your chin to kiss you before laying you down on the bed and crawling on top of you.
Clark Kent who’s so enamoured with the idea of making you squirt that he fills you up with water throughout the day, making sure your water bottle is always filled to the brim and reminding you to hydrate as he focuses his laser vision on your quickly filling bladder. He makes sure your bladder is nice and full before carrying your giggling form to your shared bed where he makes a quick work of your clothes and gently sinks two fingers into your already dripping cunt, the soft squelching of his fingers pushing through your slick filling the room alongside your needy pants and moans. The rough pad of his thumb circles your swollen clit and he debates making you squirt right then and there, but he decides he wants you to drench his cock. So when he figures he’s worked you open enough on his fingers, he gently bullies his thick cock into your clenching cunt, flushed red tip already painting your walls with precum at what he knows he’s gonna make you feel. He uses his laser vision to make sure his cock is drilling against the right spot—that spot has your back arching off the bed, eyes crossing as your mouth hangs open in pure ecstasy. He pushes down on your tummy right over your bladder and—fuck Clark has given you many, many, orgasms but you’ve never felt like this before. It’s all too much and you feel like you’re gonna—
“S-stop! Fuck—Clark, stop! You’re gonna make me-ah-gonna make me pee-”
But he doesn’t stop. In fact, he picks up the pace, his eyes focused on where he can see his fat tip abusing that spongey spot inside of you, his hand pushing down harder. “It’s okay, baby. Let it all out f’me. C’mon, be a good girl and soak my cock…” he pants between thrusts. Your muscles contract at the soft purr in his voice, your cunt clenching around as you feel your rapidly approaching orgasm, and with just a few more thrusts your poor abused pussy is spasming and squirting, drenching his lower abdomen as he continues drilling into you at an unfathomable pace, his thrusts becoming frantic and sloppier as he bottoms out at the sight of your squirt coating him.
pairing: clark kent x reader
summary: everyone at the daily planet knows about your hopeless crush on superman. what nobody expected was for him to save your life, agree to an interview, and maybe even flirt back. least of all clark, who’s had a crush on you for years.
tags: coworkers to lovers, clark has definitely been in love with you the whole time and you didn’t notice, you’re thirsty for superman but nobody blames you
warning(s): gender neutral reader, you get saved from a collapsing train station and think you’re gonna die for a sec, suggestive content (no smut just a lil spicy)
word count: 9k
note: this one lowkey took me so long to write because i struggled with the interview portion so i hope that section is okay 🥹🩵
masterlist
The screen in the bullpen replayed the footage for the fourth time, and you were no closer to pretending you weren’t staring at Superman’s biceps than you had been the first three times.
“That’s precision work,” Lois said from her desk, eyes narrowing as the feed froze on Superman bracing a slab of highway above his head. “See the angle? He shifted just enough weight to keep the pressure from collapsing the other side.”
“Or,” you said, leaning forward on your elbows and squinting at the screen, “he knew exactly what he was doing to my central nervous system.”
Lois’s sigh was audible, Cat gave a delicate snort, and Jimmy didn’t even look up from his notes. They were all used to you by now.
The shot resumed, Superman lowering the cracked concrete as if it were cardboard. His cape flicked in the smoke-heavy wind, the kind of unbothered hero shot film directors would kill to get. Your brain unhelpfully whispered, Imagine those arms around your waist. You blinked it away before the thought could fully settle.
“It’s the third collapse in two weeks,” Jimmy muttered, tapping his pencil against his notepad. “First the bridge, then the construction site for that new government building, now this highway. Someone’s orchestrating it. I just have to—” He cut himself off to scrawl another note. The poor guy hadn’t slept, probably.
“Do you think he smells like smoke after something like that, or is he more of a,” you tapped your chin, “cologne that costs more than my rent kind of guy?”
Lois pinched the bridge of her nose. From the corner of your eye, you caught Clark. He’d just taken a sip of coffee, and now he was very determinedly staring at his computer screen. The tips of his ears were pink.
“Oh, come on, Clark,” you said, sing-song, swivelling slightly in your chair to face him. “Don’t tell me this is weird for you because he’s your bestie.”
His head jerked up, glasses catching the light. “What? No, I—” He stammered, then tried again. “It doesn’t weird me out. And we’re not best friends.”
“Uh-huh,” you said, smug. “You definitely don’t look uncomfortable every time I mention his jawline.”
“That’s not—” Clark rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks now matching his ears. “I just don’t think the, uh, newsroom is the place for…” He trailed off, apparently unable to finish the sentence without combusting.
You grinned. Clark made this too easy. “For what, Clark? For me appreciating a local hero in the way God clearly intended?”
Lois barked a laugh without looking up from her screen. “Careful, Clark. We’ll never hear the end of this.”
“Don’t remind me,” Clark muttered, but his lips twitched like he was fighting a smile. For a split second, his eyes flicked to yours, warm and amused, before he ducked his head again. You caught the moment and dismissed it, chalking it up to friendly teasing.
Cat finally chimed in, reclining back in her chair. “If you ask me, the man could use a fan club. It’d do wonders for his image. You’re just ahead of the curve.”
“See?” you said, pointing at her in triumph. “Visionary thinking.”
Clark ducked his head further, but you caught the edge of his grin, hidden half behind his mug. Something about it—shy, crooked, almost like it was meant just for you—did a strange thing to your stomach. But you brushed it off, too caught up in the replay of Superman on screen.
You leaned back in your chair and let your gaze drift back to the paused screen. Superman, larger than life, standing amidst wreckage. It was ridiculous, really, how one man could manage to look both divine and approachable at the same time. Like he’d save your life and then ask if you’d eaten lunch.
Your heart did its now-familiar lurch, the one you’d been trying to write off as mere professional admiration for months. Totally normal to want to interview Superman. Totally normal to wonder what his laugh sounded like up close. Totally normal to imagine how those lips would feel brushing your—
Okay, no, dangerous territory. You shook your head, blinking hard. Because the problem wasn’t just his lips. It was how easily your imagination filled in the rest: his hands spanning your hips, your back pressed against some convenient wall, that cape falling heavy around both of you like a curtain. You swallowed, realising your coffee had gone cold in your hand.
Focus. Colleagues. Professional environment. Stop picturing the man of steel doing decidedly un-heroic things to you on top of your desk.
“Okay,” Jimmy said, still scribbling furiously, “if we trace the supply chain for the explosives used in the bridge collapse, we might—”
“Jimmy,” you cut in, “I support your heroic quest, but I do need to ask: how many hours of sleep have you had this week?”
“Uh…” He blinked. “Enough?”
“Four,” Lois corrected without looking up.
You chuckled, but your gaze wandered back to Clark. He was pretending to read his notes, but his pen hadn’t moved in several minutes. When your eyes caught his, he looked away quickly, but you could swear the flush crept a little further down his neck.
And for one moment, you wondered why Clark Kent of all people looked like he had something to hide. When he shifted in his chair and you saw the way his broad shoulders strained against his shirt, your brain did the traitorous thing again: Superman would look like that under a button-down.
You pressed your lips together, willing the thought away, but it was no use. The images kept tumbling in. Superman loosened his tie after a long day, tugging it down with those big hands. Superman leaning over your desk to point at your notes, the heat of him close enough to make you forget how pens worked.
You caught yourself and dug your nails into your palm. Focus. Work. Journalism. Not turning your colleague’s blush and your favourite hero’s shoulders into one disastrous fantasy cocktail.
Lois’s voice cut through your spiral, brisk and sharp. “I don’t care how he does it—I need to call a source and find out where those explosives came from. If someone’s targeting infrastructure, we need a lead before the next one goes down.”
Jimmy perked up, already rifling through his notes. “If you’re calling sources, I’ll start pulling records on construction contracts. Somebody has to be benefiting from these collapses.”
Lois shot him a quick nod. Clark just looked down at his desk, hiding behind his glasses like the world’s most suspicious Boy Scout.
You took another long sip of your cold coffee, trying not to think about how your crush on Superman was starting to feel a little less hypothetical than it should.
The train station was always quieter at night. A few tired commuters in suits, a cluster of teenagers sharing earbuds, a woman in scrubs leaning against a pillar with her eyes half-shut. You had your usual spot, halfway down the platform, where the overhead lights didn’t flicker so badly.
You tugged your coat tighter around you and glanced at the clock. The train was due in two minutes. Just enough time to scroll aimlessly through your phone and pretend you weren’t waiting for a metal box to ferry you back to your little apartment.
Then the floor shuddered.
At first, you thought it was just too much caffeine, not enough sleep—until the tremor rattled the railings and a hollow boom echoed from below, drawing startled murmurs from the crowd.
Your stomach dropped. The lights overhead flickered. One of the teenagers yelped. A crack zigzagged across the tiled wall behind you, spiderwebbing out with a groan of stone under strain. The entire platform trembled.
Someone shouted. A woman clutched her child. You backed away instinctively, heart hammering so hard you thought you might be sick.
The train headlights tore through the tunnel, but instead of the usual rhythmic glide, it burst forward at a terrifying tilt. Wheels screamed against metal. Sparks shot out in jagged bursts. The whole structure groaned, a sickening chorus of strained steel and cracking concrete.
You didn’t have time to process before the world blurred red and blue. Superman shot into view, cape billowing, eyes set on the train. The first car teetered dangerously on its rails, but he braced himself in the centre of the tracks, caught the nose of the train with both hands, and pushed.
The train screamed against the tunnel walls, sparks spitting. Superman slowed it until, impossibly, he lifted the first car clear and set the whole train down on solid ground like a misplaced toy.
And then the platform gave way. The slab beneath your feet buckled with a roar, pitching you off balance as chunks of stone sheared away into the tracks below.
“Go, go, go!” you shouted, snapping into motion before your brain could catch up. You gently pushed the teenager nearest you toward the staircase. “This way! Keep moving!”
People surged toward the exits, panicked but moving. You caught the eye of the woman with the child and gestured sharply. She nodded, clutching her kid and running. Cracks raced faster along the ceiling. The platform lurched, a violent tilt that knocked you off balance.
The floor started splitting beneath your feet. You were going to die. The thought carved itself into your mind in cold, perfect clarity. You gasped, shutting your eyes and bracing for the fall.
Except, suddenly you weren’t falling.
Strong arms locked tight around your waist, solid as steel, lifting you as easily as if you were weightless. The air shifted in a rush as you were carried effortlessly through the haze of dust and chaos. Debris rained down behind you, but all you could register was the fact that there was no ground beneath your feet and you weren’t dying.
Superman caught you mid-collapse, scooped you up as if it were the most natural thing in the world. His grip was secure, unyielding, like nothing on Earth could pry you from him. You clutched at the fabric at his shoulder—instinct, panic, maybe something else—and your fingers found the smooth fabric of his suit.
Superman carried you down in a controlled dive and set you gently on solid ground beside the others. Your knees wobbled, but his grip lingered for a beat, steadying you until you could breathe again. The station you were standing on moments ago had crumbled, but first responders were already on the scene.
All you could focus on was the man in front of you, his eyes sharp and intent, the smell of smoke clinging faintly to him. Your pulse hadn’t caught up yet, and neither had your brain. One minute, you’d been waiting for the train like always. The next, you were pressed against the chest of the man you’d been daydreaming about for weeks, only this time he wasn’t on a screen.
The station was a mess of coughing commuters and scattered debris, but Superman’s voice carried through it with calm authority. “Is anyone hurt?” he called, scanning the crowd.
Around you, people coughed and steadied each other, shaken but safe.
Superman’s shoulders eased. His cape, still settling from the landing, brushed lightly against the ground as he turned back to you. “Are you alright?”
You opened your mouth. Nothing came out.
Superman stepped closer, lowering himself slightly so his gaze met yours directly. His eyes were the clearest blue you’d ever seen, bright even through the haze of dust. “You need to breathe,” he said gently. “Deep breaths. In through your nose, out through your mouth.”
You obeyed. Inhale. Exhale. Your pulse steadied, if only because Superman was watching you so intently, like you were the only person in the station. His voice was low but commanding, the kind of voice that made you want to obey before you even registered the words.
“That’s it,” he said, encouraging, his mouth curving into a small smile. And just like that, the apocalypse backdrop melted into irrelevance. His smile wasn’t dazzling in the flashy, toothpaste-commercial way. It was worse, soft and entirely real.
The sight of it pressed heat down your spine. He smelled faintly of scorched air and something clean, like fresh rain on concrete. Your fingers itched where they hovered near your sides; half a breath away from reaching out, from brushing against the impossible fabric stretched across his chest. God, the suit. The material clung like a second skin, sculpting every inch of broad muscle, and your treacherous brain immediately imagined peeling it back.
What would he feel like under your palms? What would his mouth taste like if you tilted forward just a little?
Internally, your brain was sprinting laps. Superman was right there. Superman was holding you steady. He was looking at you like you weren’t just another face in the crowd. Your body hummed, a giddy mix of adrenaline and something far less noble.
Externally, you cleared your throat and managed, “I’m fine. Thank you.” Your voice was steadier than you expected.
Superman nodded, but didn’t step back. His gaze lingered, checking for any flicker of pain you might be hiding. His proximity made it hard to think straight. Warmth radiated off him in waves, like he carried the sun under his skin. Your heartbeat went wild, thundering in your chest, and you knew he could hear it. Luckily, you could always blame it on what just happened.
When he was finally satisfied, he let out a small breath of relief. Which, of course, made you blurt out the dumbest possible thing.
“I’m a reporter for The Daily Planet?” Smooth. Very casual. Worded like a statement but lilting up at the end like a question.
Superman smiled, raising his brows. “Are you?”
“Yes.” You straightened, trying desperately to salvage dignity. “And, if you ever had the time, I’d love to sit down with you for something in-depth. Not about today specifically, but… more of a profile. Who you are, not just what you do.”
His smile tilted, amused, and Superman was even more devastating up close. A smile like that should come with a warning label. Your knees hummed with the urge to buckle. His jaw was sharper than it had any right to be, shadowed just enough that you wanted to feel it scrape down your neck.
You scrambled to fill the silence, trying for a playful tone. “Unless you already have some kind of exclusive deal with Clark, in which case I completely understand.”
Superman blinked, then laughed. It was a quiet, genuine sound that made your chest flutter. “No,” he said, shaking his head, curl shifting faintly at his forehead. “No exclusive deal with Clark.”
“Good,” you said, aiming for a professional tone. It came out a little too quick, a little too breathless.
Oh my God, he laughed. He has dimples. He has actual dimples. You needed to lie down on the floor immediately. Or kiss him. Or both. Preferably both.
“I’d be delighted,” Superman added, and something in the warmth of the word nearly unmoored you.
“Great,” you exclaimed. “Wonderful. You could, uh, come by the Planet whenever it fits your schedule.”
Superman nodded, thoughtful. “How about a week from today? Next Thursday night?”
Your brain short-circuited. Eventually, you managed a brisk nod, like this was perfectly ordinary business. “Next Thursday night works.”
“Good,” he said, with the kind of certainty that could stop tectonic plates from shifting. Superman’s gaze held yours a beat longer, steady and knowing, like maybe he could tell what was running through your mind.
Which was unfair. Kryptonian x-ray vision was one thing, but thirst-detection was cruel.
You finally tore your gaze away, blinking as if that would shake the image of his smile branded onto the inside of your eyelids. Around you, the chaos of the station hummed back into awareness—sirens in the distance, EMTs rushing down the street, civilians muttering shakily about what had just happened.
But Superman didn’t move. His presence, his eyes, and his impossible steadiness all lingered, anchoring you in place.
For one dizzying moment, you weren’t just the reporter who made too many jokes about his biceps in the office bullpen. You were the person he couldn’t tear his eyes away from.
The newsroom was buzzing the next morning, every desk alive with the sound of clattering keyboards and the smell of burnt coffee. You slipped through the doors with your bag slung over your shoulder, hair still faintly carrying the scent of smoke from last night’s disaster.
“Holy shit,” Lois shot up from her chair the second she saw you. Her pen clattered against her desk. “You’re alive.”
“Barely,” Jimmy added, already halfway across the bullpen. His camera bounced against his chest as he looked you over like you’d been through war. “The police report had you listed as one of the last witnesses on the platform! Do you have any idea how freaked out we were?”
You blinked as Lois and Jimmy converged on you like an overprotective tag team. “Uh… sorry?” you offered weakly. “I meant to text but my phone sort of didn’t survive the whole crumbling-infrastructure thing.”
“You think we care about your phone?” Lois demanded, gripping your shoulders. “We care about you. You could’ve been crushed, you idiot.”
“Love you too, Lois,” you deadpanned, though your chest warmed at the concern.
Jimmy shook his head, relief etched in every line of his face. “So what actually happened? The article said Superman caught the train, stabilised the structure, but—”
“—but left out that he pulled me off a collapsing platform at the last second.” You shrugged, casual, like you weren’t replaying it every three minutes in your head. “It was very dramatic. Definitely gave me a couple new grey hairs. Oh, and…” You cleared your throat, trying not to sound too smug. “I might’ve gotten an exclusive Superman interview out of it.”
That got their attention. Both jaws dropped in unison.
“You what?” Lois demanded.
“He’s coming by next Thursday night,” you said, as nonchalantly as if you were announcing a dentist appointment. “So everyone better clear out by then.”
Lois groaned. “Of course you get a Superman exclusive. I nearly got trampled during an alien invasion last month, and all I got was a sprained ankle.”
Jimmy pressed a hand to his heart. “You’re out here living the dream.”
Before you could respond, Cat breezed by, heels clicking against the tile. She didn’t even pause to lower her voice. “Well, well, look who finally gets to meet their celebrity crush in person.”
Heat shot to your face. “That is not—” You cut yourself off, then laughed, shaking your head. “Fine. Maybe a little bit.”
Everyone laughed, the tension lifting, and eventually the newsroom settled back into its usual rhythm.
Clark appeared at your desk with a fresh cup of coffee. He set it down in front of you carefully. “Thought you could use this,” he said softly.
You glanced up, and your chest squeezed instantly. Clark’s tie was a little crooked, his hair rumpled like he’d rushed into work, and those glasses were sliding down his nose. One curl had slipped loose at his temple, dangerously close to endearing. It shouldn’t have been a look, but somehow it was devastating.
Your pulse tripped over itself. The cup was warm in your palms, but not half as warm as the flush creeping up your neck. “Thanks,” you murmured. “You didn’t have to.”
Clark gave a small smile. “I wanted to. You really scared us when we saw your name on the witness list.” His voice dropped, quiet enough that only you could hear. “I’ve… seen a lot of situations where Superman had to step in. It’s not easy, being right there when it happens.”
Your throat tightened. The way he said it, almost protectively, made your chest ache. “Yeah,” you admitted. “It was a lot. I was the last one on the platform. For a second, I really thought that was it for me.”
Clark’s expression shifted, softening further. His brows drew together in concern, and you had to look away before you got lost in it. “I’m glad you’re still here,” he said, voice low but steady.
Something fluttered low in your stomach. You tried to play it off with humour. “Me too. I’d hate to miss this coffee.”
His mouth twitched, but his gaze stayed steady on yours, searching. “You’re really okay? Not just saying that?”
You took a sip of coffee to buy time. “I’m okay,” you said finally, quieter than you meant to. “A little shaken, maybe. I’m just really grateful Superman was there.”
Clark was standing so close you could see the faint shadow of stubble on his jaw, the way the morning light caught in his hair, almost too ink-black to be real. You were noticing things you shouldn’t—like how broad his shoulders looked even under the modest cut of his suit jacket, or how his fingers brushed lightly against the rim of your desk.
Your pulse wouldn’t settle. Every time Clark’s voice dipped low, something in you seemed to respond instinctively, a shiver at the base of your spine, the kind you’d blame on adrenaline if you were being honest.
“Well, if you ever need a near-death buddy to swap stories with…” You said, aiming for lightness, though your voice was a little thinner than usual.
Clark chuckled, low and soft, and the sound wrapped around you like a blanket. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
As he pushed off your desk, he gave your hand a gentle tap with his finger. It was barely a touch, just enough to make you jolt with awareness. Then Clark smiled again, that shy, crooked thing that somehow undid you just as much as Superman’s blinding perfection.
It turned out that seven days could stretch into eternity if you were waiting for Superman. All week, the newsroom had been merciless.
“Big date Thursday,” Cat crooned whenever she passed your desk.
“It’s an interview,” you corrected, every time.
“Uh-huh,” she said, nodding sagely as though she knew exactly how hard you were trying to keep from grinning.
Lois was subtler, though only barely. “You’ve got one shot,” she told you, smirking over the rim of her coffee mug. “Don’t blow it by asking about his workout routine.”
“I wasn’t going to!” you protested.
“Sure,” she said. “Because the first words out of your mouth when Superman sits across from you are definitely going to be Pulitzer material.”
You were counting down the days. You were rehearsing imaginary questions on your walk home, in the shower, brushing your teeth. You caught yourself doodling little Superman logos in the margins of your notes like you were twelve again, which Lois spotted once and nearly choked on her gum.
But the strangest shift had been Clark.
Since the train incident, you’d had found yourself more at ease with him. He wasn’t different, exactly. Still the same polite, slightly awkward Midwestern farm boy. But you felt different around him.
It was like something in your body had quietly decided you could lean closer, joke softer, trust deeper. Clark lingered at your desk more, offering to help with sources or swapping stories about Perry’s legendary rants.
By the time the day actually arrived, your nerves were a live wire.
The newsroom emptied out slowly, staff peeling away with warm pats on the shoulder or smothered grins. Cat called, “Good luck, darling,” on her way out.
Lois added, “Remember. Profile, not thirst essay,” like she hadn’t already marked up your interview questions in red ink and told you how great they were.
When Perry finally gathered his coat, he paused at your desk. “You’ll do fine, kid,” he said, his gravelly voice gentler than usual. “Just don’t let him charm you into forgetting to take notes.”
Then it was just you.
The bullpen seemed unnaturally large once empty. You’d dressed deliberately in the outfit you felt most confident in, using flattering colours that made you look your best. It was sharp enough to be professional, but fitted enough that you still felt good.
You perched on the edge of your desk, back straight, hands folded over your notebook. For a moment, all you could hear was the thud of your heartbeat in your ears. You reminded yourself that this was work. You were a professional. You had a list of thoughtful questions.
You were absolutely not going to melt into a puddle at the sight of Superman, no matter how gorgeous he was.
A soft rush, like the flap of something vast against the wind. Papers fluttered on the corner of a desk. You turned your head, and there was Superman. He stepped forward from the open window, cape settling around him, posture relaxed.
He was smiling, not the world-saving, photo-op grin you’d seen splashed across front pages, but something smaller, crooked at the corner. A sweet smile, soft-edged, as if he’d just helped a neighbour carry groceries inside.
“Hope I’m not late,” Superman said, voice warm, easy. “Got caught up with a little kid who lost his dog. Turns out he didn’t actually have one yet, he just thought I might help him find a dog who needed him.”
A laugh escaped you, nervous and bright. “No worries. Did you end up finding one for him?”
“Found his parents first, then gave them the address to a nearby shelter.” His grin widened, as if you’d just won him over by expressing your curiosity.
Your heart thumped painfully against your ribs. Up close, Superman was too much to catalogue at once. The sharp line of his jaw dusted, the impossible shade of blue in his eyes, the breadth of his shoulders that made even the high ceiling of the bullpen feel suddenly close.
“Thank you for coming,” you managed, gesturing to the chair across from your desk. “Please, have a seat. Do you mind if I record this?”
“Not at all,” Superman replied, his voice as rich and warm as velvet. He moved toward the chair opposite yours.
You clicked your recorder on, notebook open, pen ready. “Let’s start with some broad questions,” you said, clearing your throat. “What drives you to keep doing this? Day after day, when it would be easier and safer not to.”
Superman leaned back slightly, considering. You noticed the way his eyes flicked briefly upward, as though he was searching the sky beyond you for answers.
“Because I can,” he said finally. “Because I was given abilities most people don’t have. And if I can stop someone from suffering, even for a moment, how could I choose not to?”
The way he said it wasn’t self-righteous. It was gentle, like he believed it was the easiest truth in the world. You scribbled down details about his tone and cadence, even though you knew you’d never forget it.
“That sounds… lonely,” you mused before you could stop yourself.
A flicker of surprise crossed Superman’s features, then something quieter. “It can be. But loneliness isn’t an excuse to do nothing.”
You tapped the pen against your notebook. “If you could teach a stranger one lesson, what would it be?”
“That strength isn’t about what you can do,” he said without hesitation. “It’s about what you choose to do even when things feel impossible.”
“You sound like a philosopher,” you teased, hoping humour would loosen things up a little.
Superman laughed, low and warm and so thoroughly human. “I’m not sure anyone’s ready to put me in that category. I just… spend a lot of time thinking, I suppose.”
“Flying above the city gives you plenty of time to ponder?”
He gave a half-shrug. “There’s a lot of silence up there. A lot of space to reflect.”
You nodded, scribbling notes, though your handwriting was starting to slope dangerously toward the edge of the page. Superman’s voice was steady, but every so often, his gaze lingered on you just a second longer than necessary.
It was silly, but you couldn’t help feeling like he was studying you, too.
“Do you ever wish you could do something else?” you asked.
He tilted his head, considering. “No. But sometimes I wish I could be better at ordinary things. Doing crafts, for instance.”
The idea of Superman trying to knit or crochet made you laugh out loud before you could stop it. His grin widened at the sound, the corners of his mouth tugging higher with pride.
“I can stop a runaway train,” he added wryly, “but ask me to make anything creative and the best I can give you is a stick-figure drawing.”
“Tragic,” you deadpanned, trying to scribble something discreet in your notebook so he wouldn’t notice your smile. “The city may never recover from this revelation.”
You hesitated because the next question felt personal. “Do you ever wish you didn’t have to be Superman?”
Silence stretched long enough that you wondered if you’d crossed a line. But then he said, “No. I wish I could balance it better sometimes. But wishing I wasn’t Superman would be wishing I wasn’t me.”
You weren’t supposed to notice how tense his forearms looked resting on his knees. Or the faint, distracting warmth of him leaning slightly forward. You nodded, throat tight. Yeah, totally calm.
“You’re good at this,” Superman said suddenly, a glint of humour sparking in his eyes.
“At my job?”
He shook his head slightly, a small smile tugging at his lips. “At making someone feel like they can be honest.”
Your stomach flipped. You tried to smile, keep it light. “I’ll take that as a professional compliment.”
“Of course,” Superman said, and his gaze lingered just enough to make your heart speed, a quiet heat settling low in your chest.
You tapped your pen against the notebook again, grinning like a fool. “Alright,” you said, leaning back slightly. “Time for rapid-fire. Quick answers, gut instinct, no overthinking. Deal?”
Superman’s brow quirked, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Deal,” he said, and the word carried a weight that made your chest skip anyway.
“Favourite pizza topping?”
“Pepperoni,” he said instantly.
“Desert island snack?”
“Apples.”
You laughed. “Really?”
“They’re versatile,” Superman said, chuckling lightly. “And nutritious. Hard to get sick of.”
“Alright. What does Superman do on his day off?”
“I watch baseball, read if I can, maybe just walk the city. Sometimes old movies,” Superman grinned, “the really sappy ones.”
You smiled back. “What’s a movie that always makes you cry?”
“Anything with Gene Kelly,” he confessed.
You nodded, trying not to laugh at how sweet the mental image was. “What’s your guilty pleasure?”
Superman hesitated just a fraction, and you caught it. That brief flicker of vulnerability made your chest squeeze. “I… bake pies. Really obsessively, sometimes.”
You blinked, pen hovering mid-air. He smiled faintly, but there was a softness to it, the kind that made you want to lean closer, to hear more.
“My mother’s pies are the greatest thing in the world. Truly, I was getting spoiled every day growing up. I miss them a lot.” Superman reached out just slightly, brushing an eyelash from your cheek with the pad of his thumb without thinking. Your pulse jumped. “So when I moved out, I had to learn to make them myself.”
His eyes flicked to yours, warm and unguarded. The eye contact was unwavering, intense, and you felt a jolt each time your eyes met.
“That’s kind of amazing,” you said, smiling widely. “I never pictured Superman in an apron.”
He chuckled, low and easy. “Neither did I, initially. But it’s comforting. Makes me feel connected to her and my hometown.” Superman shifted slightly, brushing his knee against yours casually, as if unaware, but you weren’t about to move.
“I like baking too,” you admitted. “But I’ve never made a pie. I usually stick to chocolate cake. I make a mean dark chocolate ganache.”
His eyes lit up. “That sounds perfect,” Superman said quietly. The way his gaze held yours, steady but gentle, made your stomach flutter. He shifted again, almost mirroring you, hands resting just a fraction closer on the chair arms, shoulders angled toward yours.
The conversation slipped easily, naturally, like a door had opened that neither of you realised existed. “So, pies,” you prompted, leaning forward. “What’s your favourite? Apple? Cherry? Something more adventurous?”
“Apple. Classic, reminds me of my apple trees back home,” Superman declared happily. “But I experiment sometimes, even when it’s beyond my skill set. I love pecan pie in the fall. The kitchen gets messy.” His laughter was soft, but the movement behind it made you acutely aware of the curve of his shoulders, the gentle tension in his forearms.
You bit your lip, imagining him in his kitchen. Rolling dough, flour dusting his hair, his sleeves rolled up. Your thoughts skidded forward unbidden, picturing other domestic scenarios that were far less innocent. You shook your head, trying to focus.
“I like things a little messy,” you teased.
Both of your eyes widened at your unintentional innuendo.
Superman blushed. He actually blushed. “That’s good to know,” he said, and without thinking, his hand brushed your forearm. “Do you bake other things too?”
“Occasionally. Strawberry shortcake, sometimes brownies. But never pies, anything beyond cookie dough is too intimidating.” You laughed lightly.
He smiled, and it reached his eyes, softening them. “Maybe I could teach you. Not just the pie, but… how to enjoy the process. Even the mess.”
You felt your pulse jump. The casual offer—the closeness, and the easy intimacy of it—was impossible to ignore. “I’d really like that,” you admitted.
Superman’s eyes lingered, and you caught a subtle tilt of his head, the barest exhale that brushed the air between you. You found yourself leaning slightly closer, almost imperceptibly, drawn by the warmth and steady intensity of his gaze. It made you wonder, suddenly, what he was like when he wasn’t saving the world.
“Do you get homesick a lot?” you asked instead of acknowledging the growing tension between you, recalling how he mentioned his hometown earlier.
“Yes. Every day,” he said quietly, voice carrying a hint of wistfulness. “My parents kept me grounded. They’re amazing; taught me right from wrong, made me… human, I guess. And where I grew up is a huge part of that. Having a community like that made me realise how important it is to nurture relationships.”
Superman reached out, lightly resting a hand near yours on the notebook edge, then pulled back almost immediately, as if startled by his own actions.
“I get that,” you murmured. “I mean, no matter how long you live in the city, nothing ever quite compares to that feeling of being home. It’s not just a comfort, it’s a familiarity that you can’t ever replace.”
For a few minutes, you just talked about childhood memories and the comfort of home. Your forearms brushed as you both leaned forward in sync; he adjusted slightly, shoulders angling toward you, while your eyes held his without wavering.
Each accidental touch was electric. Superman’s gaze lingered just a fraction too long on your mouth, your eyes, your fingers as they flipped pages of your notebook.
By the time you looked up, the Daily Planet interview had completely dissolved. Notes were scribbled, pens tapped idly, and all that remained was the quiet intimacy of shared confessions, laughter, and mutual understanding. Both of you had unconsciously leaned closer, shoulders nearly touching, hands lingering a heartbeat too long near each other.
You lowered your pen, letting your hands rest on the notebook. The words you had written about pies and home felt personal in a way that made your chest tight.
“I don’t have to print all that, about the pie and your parents and hometown,” you said, keeping your voice steady, despite the cartwheels inside your stomach.
Superman’s blue eyes softened, unwavering. “You should leave it in,” he said quietly, leaning slightly toward you, shoulders angled in a subtle invitation. “As long as you’re not too specific. I don’t want anyone figuring out who or where my family is.”
You nodded, pulse jumping. You felt a faint itch in your fingers, a desire to reach for Superman, to touch the solid strength of him even once.
“You know,” he added, lips just curving, “not a lot of reporters would offer to do that. Most would just run the story.”
You tilted your head, feeling heat coil low in your ribs. “I like to think that what we just did was not just a reporter talking to Superman,” you said, your voice catching a little. “It was two people talking. And it’s not fun for me if I share anything too personal with the rest of the world.”
He blinked, then smiled widely, dimples on display. “I think you’re right,” Superman agreed. You felt the faint brush of his fingers against yours, and the contact made something swoop in your belly.
“I promise I’ll be careful with it,” you said, leaning forward slightly. “Not just your words, but your intentions.”
“I know you will,” he murmured, voice calm and warm. His eyes never left yours.
You let your gaze drift to his mouth for a moment too long. The curve of his lips was soft and compelling. Your fingers itched to brush against his jaw, to feel the strong shape beneath your touch.
“I…” you said, and then the words faltered. Your chest rose and fell in quick, uneven bursts, the air warm in your lungs and tight in your ribs.
“You what?” Superman asked patiently.
“I don’t think I’ve ever connected like this with anyone before,” you admitted, exhaling shakily.
You’d spent years admiring Superman from afar, and now, inches apart, this connection felt immediate and tangible. You were suddenly aware of every detail in his body. The breadth of his shoulders, the soft line of his collarbone, the slope of his nose, and the faint exhale he didn’t realise he was holding.
For a few seconds, you just sat watching each other. Superman’s hand moved imperceptibly closer to yours, and you could feel the heat of his breath against your cheek. Neither of you moved away. Every glance, every tilt of the head, every subtle shift of a shoulder felt like a conversation on its own.
Superman shifted slightly, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Just double-checking that I’m supposed to ask if something can be off the record before I say it?” he asked, eyes holding yours with an intensity that made your chest thrum.
You swallowed, breath catching. “That’s right,” you said, voice breathless.
He tilted his head, gaze flicking down at your lips and back to your eyes, the movement smooth and deliberate. “Good,” he murmured. “Because I’d really like to kiss you. Preferably off the record.”
Your chest jumped, and a laugh burst from you before you could stop it. “I think it’s better that way,” you agreed.
That was all he needed. Slowly, deliberately, Superman closed the distance. Your breath hitched as his hands found your waist, pulling you closer, and your arms came up around his shoulders almost instinctively. You felt the warmth of him, the broad strength in his chest, and the way he moved with careful precision, as if making sure nothing about you felt unsafe.
Your lips met his, soft and tentative at first, a sweet, careful press. Your pulse was frantic, every nerve firing. He leaned into you a fraction, and the small sigh you let slip mirrored the quickening of his own breath.
Then the kiss deepened, becoming hungry, insistent. Your hands threaded through Superman’s hair, tangling in the soft curls, and you felt the press of his body against yours. His lips parted yours, tongue teasing, and your knees nearly buckled at the sensation. You gasped, and he hummed into the kiss, a low vibration that made your stomach tighten and your chest ache in a delicious, unbearable way.
He pulled back just slightly, lips brushing yours, eyes searching yours. “I want to be careful,” Superman murmured against your mouth. “Don’t want to hurt you.”
Then he gently lifted you. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, and your hands fisted lightly in his cape as he set you on your desk. The movement was careful, precise, but you felt the thrill of it, your heart racing in your ears.
You giggled breathlessly.
Superman smiled, leaning in closer, forehead brushing yours. “Why are you giggling?” he asked, a teasing glint in his eyes.
“I’ve had this fantasy before,” you confessed, feeling heat rise in your cheeks. “For a long time.”
He raised an eyebrow, lips curving. “Oh yeah?”
You nodded, heart hammering. “Yeah.”
That was all it took. Superman kissed you again, letting you melt against him.
His hands roamed under your shirt, pulling you by your lower back to adjust your position, and yours explored the firm planes of his shoulders, the curve of his chest, the solid warmth of his muscled abdomen.
Every gasp, every low moan, every teasing bite of Superman’s lips sent heat coiling through you. Your fingers grazed his jaw, tangled in his hair, and you could feel the barely restrained strength beneath his touch. He sighed softly into the kiss, lips and tongue moving with urgent tenderness, each motion deliberate.
You pressed your body closer, rocking lightly, feeling his hands anchor you to him. The desk beneath you shifted slightly, your notebook sliding to the floor with the movement, but neither of you cared. You bit gently at Superman’s bottom lip, eliciting a deep, drawn-out groan from him that sent a shiver straight through your spine.
When Superman finally pulled back, just enough to catch his breath, your foreheads rested together, breaths mingling. His hands lingered on your thighs, holding you firmly but with care.
You kissed him harder, frantic now, teeth grazing his bottom lip. Your body arched instinctively, searching, needing, until you could feel the solid, unyielding heat of him pressed against you.
The desk beneath you creaked and shifted, pens clattering to the floor. Superman’s breath hitched, his head falling to the side as you kissed along his pulse, leaving a mark behind his ear.
The sharp smell of ink from the spilt pens, tangled with the faint, clean scent of him, offered you a moment of sudden clarity. The desk. The scattered papers and pens. The silence of the empty newsroom echoed around you.
You stilled first, breath ragged, and felt Superman freeze too, lips lingering against your skin before he lifted his head. His chest heaved as he looked at you, a trace of the earlier fire still smouldering in his gaze alongside something gentler. His hands loosened their grip on your thighs, slipping back to rest at your waist instead.
Your pulse thundered, but a shaky laugh escaped you. “Wow,” you managed, half-breathless, half-disbelieving.
Superman smiled faintly, brushing his forehead against yours. “Yeah,” he agreed softly, like it was all he could say without unravelling again.
You could see it in him. The quick rise and fall of his chest, the way his breath stuttered as if the air between you was too thick. But what you couldn’t see was what it felt like from the inside. Clark could get addicted to it; the taste of your lips, the press of your body against him. He’d kissed you—or, rather, Superman had kissed you—and it had been everything he’d dreamed of for so many years.
But now reality pressed in. The office. The interview. The not-so-small matter of you not knowing that Superman and Clark Kent were the same person. He wanted to tell you, but the words wouldn’t come.
Superman swallowed hard, forcing his voice steady. “I… should apologise,” he said, though the thought of it made his chest ache. “This isn’t exactly what you signed up for when you asked for an interview.”
Your lips curved, and you shook your head. “Don’t you dare apologise. This was better than I hoped for.”
Clark’s heart lurched. Your smile could knock the air from his lungs faster than any blow. He wanted more of it; all of it. So he let as much of the truth slip out as he could.
“I’d really like to see you again,” Superman said, voice low, tentative, but sincere. “Not as Superman in an interview. Just the person you’ve been talking to tonight. Could I maybe walk you home?”
A grin spread across your face, brighter than anything Clark had ever seen before. “I’d love that,” you agreed, voice warm and sure.
The next morning, you tried to walk into the Daily Planet like it was any other day. Coffee in hand, bag slung over your shoulder, head high. Completely normal. Totally casual. Absolutely not the person who spent the previous evening melting against Superman’s chest in your office chair.
It might’ve worked if Cat hadn’t immediately pounced on you.
“There you are,” Cat sing-songed, swivelling dramatically in her chair. “Our very own Clark 2.0. Tell me everything. What did he smell like? Don’t say soap and sunshine unless you want me to scream.”
You nearly choked on your coffee. “Good morning to you too, Cat.”
“Don’t deflect,” she warned, heels clicking against the floor as she crossed the room and leaned against your desk. “There are already whispers on Twitter that he walked you home and stood outside your building for an extra twenty minutes afterwards. Staring at the windows. Probably your windows. So,” she leaned in conspiratorially, “Did he maintain eye contact the whole time? Did he lean in close? Did he keep reaching out to touch you?”
You blinked. “What are you talking about?”
“Body language,” Cat exclaimed with gravitas, as though you’d just admitted to not knowing what gravity was. “It’s what men do when they’re attracted to you. He did it, didn’t he?”
You opened your mouth to deny it, but Superman had done all the things Cat mentioned. He’d kept eye contact like he couldn’t bear to look away, brushed his fingertips across your wrist when you dropped your pen, the way he’d leaned a little too close when he smiled, his gaze lingering on your mouth before—oh God.
Cat smirked. “That’s what I thought.”
Before you could dig yourself out, Lois dropped her bag onto her desk with a thud and said, in the most pointedly disinterested voice imaginable, “If you two are done pretending this is Page Six and not the Planet, maybe we could talk about the actual work part?”
You shot her a look. “You’re not fooling anyone.”
Her lips twitched. Just the tiniest crack in the façade. “Fine. I’m curious. Did he actually give you anything new for the interview, or was it the usual save-the-day PR stuff?”
Grateful for the lifeline, you fished the printed stack of recorder transcripts out of your bag and handed them to Lois. “See for yourself. I printed this last night but haven’t edited it yet.”
Lois took it, flipping through like she was barely interested. She didn’t even skim the first pages; she went straight to the end. And then she snorted loudly.
You frowned. “What?”
She turned the transcript around so you could see: a string of gibberish letters, a line of nonsense that could only have been your recorder desperately trying to process the sounds of Superman kissing you like you were the last person on earth.
Lois raised an eyebrow. “So, when exactly in the interview did it become… off the record?”
Cat let out an unholy shriek of laughter, clutching at her chest like Christmas had come early. “Oh my God, you didn’t!”
You buried your face in your hands. “I hate both of you.”
“Liar,” Lois said smoothly, flipping the transcript back over and skimming with a little smile tugging at her lips. “You love us. Just maybe not as much as you love Superman’s lips.”
For the rest of the morning, you did an excellent job pretending to be normal. Coffee in one hand, your transcript and notes stacked in front of you, and a serious expression plastered on your face as you typed furiously at your keyboard.
Just a totally professional reporter who definitely did not make out with Superman on their desk last night.
Clark walked in an hour after you got there, late as usual. Which meant no one looked twice. He shuffled to his desk with that lopsided gait, muttered a sheepish “mornin’” to Perry, and collapsed into his chair like the commute had been uphill both ways. Classic Clark.
Except then he bumped his knee under the desk and groaned.
Your hands froze on the keyboard.
Not just any groan. The groan. Specifically, the low, rough sound that had escaped Superman’s throat last night when you’d bit his lower lip and he’d pressed you back against your desk like he was starving for you.
Your stomach dropped clean through the floor. You told yourself you were imagining it, because otherwise—well. Otherwise, you’d have to face the fact that your mild-mannered colleague-slash-office buddy was also the man who’d kissed you like the world might end if he stopped.
When Clark leaned down to rub his knee, you saw a smudge of red, half-hidden by a curl behind his ear. A bruise, small but absolutely unmistakable. The kind of bruise one might get if, say, someone had gotten carried away kissing their way across his neck last night.
Your breath caught so loudly that Cat looked up from across the room, eyebrows climbing. You flapped a hand vaguely like you’d forgotten to pay your rent and snapped your attention back to your computer. Except, you couldn’t type a single word because your brain was busy shrieking nope nope nope nope.
But it wasn’t “nope,” exactly, but a horrifically thrilling “yes.”
Clark Kent was Superman. Superman was Clark Kent. You’d made out with Superman, who was also Clark, and left physical evidence behind.
You stood up so quickly your chair squeaked. Before Clark could blink, you were at his desk, yanking him up by the sleeve of his jacket. “Break room, now.”
“Wh—?” His glasses slid down his nose as he looked at you, bewildered.
“No questions,” you hissed, dragging him across the newsroom. Jimmy didn’t even glance up. Cat’s mouth fell open in delighted scandal. Lois, the traitor, smirked into her coffee mug like she’d been waiting for this day her whole life.
You didn’t stop until you’d shoved Clark into the break room, slammed the door shut, and planted him firmly against it with both hands pressed to his chest.
You stared up at him, chest heaving, eyes flicking from his startled expression to the very obvious hickey by his ear. There was no talking yourself out of this anymore.
“Clark,” you breathed, voice caught somewhere between disbelief and awe. “Oh my God.”
He blinked down at you, all wide eyes behind crooked glasses. “Uh. Morning?”
“Don’t you ‘morning’ me.” You jabbed a finger at the hickey by his ear. “What is that?”
He flinched like you’d accused him of grand larceny, reaching up to cover it with a hand. “Oh, uh, must’ve—ran into a door—”
“Ran into a door?” you whisper-yelled. “Clark, that’s not a door bruise! That’s a hickey!”
Clark’s ears went pink. His mouth opened, shut, opened again. “Maybe it’s just—”
“Don’t even finish that sentence. I know what a hickey looks like, Clark. Especially one that I made!” You clutched your own hair, pacing a two-foot circle. “Oh my God, it’s you. Superman kissed me, except Superman is you. You’re him. You’re—” You threw your hands in the air, searching for the right word. “Clark Kent, but with, like, a cape!”
He winced. “I meant to tell you, I just—”
“You meant to tell me?!” Your voice cracked, whisper hitting a glass-shattering pitch. “Clark, we’ve known each other for years. I copy-edit your work when you’re behind on your deadline. You steal my fries every time we order take out, and you owe me twenty dollars from that time you lost a bet and didn’t have any cash on you. And you forgot to mention you’re also Superman?”
“I didn’t exactly forget—”
“Oh my God.” You dropped your hands from your hair and grabbed the front of his shirt, glaring up at him. “Say it. Out loud. I want to hear you say it.”
Clark swallowed hard, Adam’s apple bobbing. Then, quietly: “I’m Superman.”
Your knees went weak. Sensing this, Clark reached out and grasped your hips carefully, preventing you from sliding straight onto the floor.
“You kissed me last night,” you whispered. “A lot. There was heavy petting involved, it got kind of obscene towards the end—”
Blushing bright red, Clark cut you off: “I did.” His voice was soft now, steady with a vulnerability you’d never heard before. “Look, I understand if you’re disappointed—”
“Disappointed?!” you whisper-screeched. “Clark, are you kidding me?! The guy I’ve been gushing over for years was in front of me the entire time? He’s one of my closest friends? My celebrity crush just turned out to be the guy who brings me doughnuts on Fridays?!”
Clark’s brows furrowed. “So… that’s a yes? Or a no? I’m sorry, the yelling is kind of confusing me.”
Instead of answering, you surged up on your toes, grabbed him by the collar, and kissed him. The second his hands steadied you, warm and firm at your waist, and he kissed you back with that same starved intensity as last night, you forgot about everything else.
When you finally pulled back, breathless, you both stared at each other for a long, stunned beat.
Then you blurted, “Wow. I’ve waxed poetic about your biceps right in front of you for years without knowing it.”
Clark’s startled laugh rumbled against your chest, and before you could spiral, he bent down and kissed you again.
"y-you're gonna kill me, sweetie... freakin' kill me..." clark groaned above you, his hips ramming into you like never before as your legs bounced on his shoulders.
clark kent was a possessive man and he knew it. it was in his kryptonian genes, he swears! he can't control the moan that slips out when he successfully marks you with his scent, or the hand that sneaks into the crook of your back in public settings. he tries to, but he can't.
and you know it. you know it so well that you wanted to mess around with it.
and it was only natural for clark to fuck your brains out when he saw the "C" anklet you had on when you came home today.
it got to him, truly. it got to him because he marked you, because you're his and you're showing it off. because now the entire world knows that you, his beloved, belong to him.
he kisses your anklet, his eyes narrowed and uncharacteristically dark. "you're too cute... way too cute f'me, hmm..." and he pecs and pecs, his soft lips contrasting with the force of his thrusts, fucking into you like it's the only way for him to breath. and it might aswell be.
"c-clark, i– ah—! ohh... shit, fuck.." you couldn't even form proper sentences, your lips wobbling at the sensation of him knocking at your cervix. he so desperately wanted to claim you, fully and inside out, and the cute jewelry you had on your ankle was definitely helping.
his heavy balls tightened everytime it reflected the light, shining like the most precious of diamonds. "mine.. all mine..." he mumbled before he nibbled at the "C", his eyebrows bending in pleasure as he neared his end. his pace quickened while one of his hands migrated to your clit, rubbing tight circles to get you off.
you mewled, back arching when you felt the heat of his digits on your bud. the sight of him, blushing and drooling, utterly drunk on his possession—drunk on you—had you quickly approaching your climax, but it's when the first rope of his cum slipped its way into your womb that you finally let go.
you both cried out in your orgasms, his cock twitching with every pulse of your cunt, hips sporadically fucking his seed into you.
"mine, mine... mineminemine—" he chanted, as if repeating it would make it any more true than it already was.
