Pairing - wc: David!Clark Kent x Gf!Reader - 2.4k
Summary: Clark tells you "it's fine" when you cancel on him again for work. Liar, Liar...
Tags: 18+, mdni, masturbation (m), detailed fantasy sequence (69, f + m receiving oral, p in v), Clark cums thinking about you, pussy pronouns, breeding kink, brief mention of pregnancy (no you are not) Established relationship, use of petnames (baby, hon, sweetheart), just stupid, unedited brainrot
I'll need to start tagging submissions as "finger lickin' good." gif by @ahrigifs
main masterlist | Mrs. Kent Diaries
Maybe he was in a rut.
Clark couldn't be certain, but the timing sure felt cruel. Silly. Damning. Devastating.
Like getting your period the morning of a long-planned seaside romantic getaway.
Three nights in a row, you’d called him honey-sweet and apologetic, exhaustion clearly dragging every syllable.
"It'll be another late night and early morning at work. All week, honestly." A tired yawn crackled through the receiver. "I think I’m going to crash at my place rest of the week, and see you this weekend. I’m so sorry, baby. I miss you, believe me."
Clark vehemently insisted there was nothing to apologize for, never mind the fever prickling beneath his skin, and that his cock jumped at the simple sound of your voice.
"How many times have I called you at ungodly hours for the same reasons? Deadline or disaster? Have you ever held it against me?" Was his counter, and before you replied with a deadpanned, "Actually, Clark, now that you bring it up..." He hurried on before you could finish.
He was A Man. A grown man who could survive five nights without making sweet, sweet passionate love to you.You needed to focus and rest, and he'd wait centuries to have your undivided attention if that was what loving you required. Fortunately, it was only until the weekend.
"I miss you, but most of all, I love you, sweetheart. It's fine!" All of this was said with his free hand locked around his knee, blunt nails pressing hard enough to leave pale crescents in the skin while he tried to force himself into believing it too.
But everyone knew the unspoken rule: anyone who said "it's fine!" that cheerful were liars.
.
The tension finally boiled over the second Clark stepped through his front door the following evening. He carelessly tossed his glasses and phone on his bedside table, pressed a fist to his mouth, and released a sigh heavy enough to empty his lungs.
Was it pathetic to be half-hard and aching just from missing you this badly? Or was that devotion? Yearning? Or, as Steve would undoubtedly tease with that little smirk, "whipped?"
Speaking of – Clark tugged his belt loose in a sharp tug. Dress shirt buttons followed. Zipper. Slacks shoved down his thighs, until he's whipping his cock from the confines of his slacks with a shaky, relieved sigh. The cool apartment air did nothing to help soothe the heat coursing through him.
If anything, fredom made the weight of his need more worse. The heavy pulse, the glossy bead already gathering at the slit, the way his length kicked against his stomach as though reaching for a body that wasn’t there.
He tried the cold shower first. Sensible, right? Stood under the icy spray, willing the rut to settle, willing his body to behave like the grown man he kept insisting he was. He rifled through unsexy thoughts: taxes, Perry's editorial calendar, the tamales Ma and Pa raved about when he last spoke to them.
Ninety seconds later, water was streaming over his closed eyes while every drop slipping down his chest became your fingers. Your palms spreading over his stomach. Your nails scratching lightly through the dark trail beneath his navel. Your warm mouth chasing the water lower, lower, until your knees struck tile and that pretty, wicked smile curved against the base of his cock.
He nearly broke the shower handle off with a frustrated growl, cock still brutally stiff between his legs, skin flushed crimson despite the chill.
In his haze, Clark climbed into the empty bed nude, triggering another cruel wave of reminders. Cold sheets welcomed him instead of your legs. Silence settled where your sleepy chatter should have been. No warm body curled beneath his arm. No soft complaint when he crowded too close. No hand wandering beneath waistbands because neither of you had ever been particularly convincing when pretending you only wanted to cuddle.
He stretched out across the sheets until his face buried into your pillow, inhaling the lingering scent of your shampoo, your shower gel, your favorite perfume dabbed behind your ear, you, you, you.
The scents went straight to his cock, and the urge hit like a meteor. With a pained whimper, Clark rolled onto his stomach and pressed his stiff, leaking member against the expensive sheets you bought when you first started spending the night.
Eight-hundred thread count, you’d told him proudly.
He wondered whether they were supposed to survive a sexually frustrated Kryptonian. Probably not.
.
The grinding began slowly, desperately, and experimental. Pleasure washed over him. Again, harder. Soon, wet smears marked every thrust, the motion creating a delicious friction against his sensitive tip, sharp enough to make his breath hitch.
Soon, slow wasn’t nearly enough to scratch that impossible itch.
His hips moved harder, faster, each desperate thrust leaving another damp streak across the fabric. His fists twisted into the sheets on either side of his head until the tendons rose along his wrists and the linen began to fray between his fingers. His tongue rested wetly against his bottom lip as he panted into your pillow, groaning each time his hips pressed down and the fabric dragged tightly along the underside of his cock.
The sounds spilling from him were embarrassingly primitive.
Low grunts. Broken breaths. A needy whine he would deny even under Kryptonite.
Eventually, they all melted into the only coherent thing he could say: your name.
Your name, muffled, over and over while your Clark humped the mattress in a poor attempt to fuck the fantasy of you out of his system. Bless his heart, it wasn't working.
If anything, it sharpened his hazy imagination into vivid, filthy focus. Your weight settling over him, knees planted wide on either side of his head, as you leaned forward in that sixty-nine position you’d joked about one too many times to make him suspect something.
You'd take his cock in hand with a slow stroke, press a kiss at the tip, stretching and hollowing your mouth around him until your nose brushed the heavy weight of his balls when you forced yourself deeper.
From underneath, he’d have the perfect view.
The generous curve of your plump ass hovered over his face. The delicate slope of your back arched deeper. The soft underside of your thighs framing his face while you lowered your core onto his mouth, already wet enough to leave a shining streak across his lips. His thumbs would dig into the soft flesh to keep you from clamping shut around his head while he buried his face between your legs. He would lick you messy, broad stripes through your puffy folds, sucking your clit until your hips bucked against his smothering mouth, then push his tongue into your dripping hole while the tip of his cock bruised the back of your throat.
You’d happily choke around his cock a little. The tight spasm of your throat wound squeeze the head.
Let your saliva spill down his shaft in warm, messy trails until it gathered along his happy trail, and he’d moan directly into your pussy,
"She's beautiful from this angle."
"She tastes so sweet."
"Shd clenched perfectly around my tongue just now. Please, sweetheart, please have Her do it again?"
Golly, Clark’s hips jerked hard enough to shove the mattress and frame several inches across the floor.
Continuing his fantasy, he would then coo about filling Her up so full, until She was overflowing with his come, until you were marked as his inside and out. At the same time, your mouth worked his cock with wet, sloppy determination, swallowing until your throat refused and pulling back with strings of spit still connecting your lips to the swollen tip.
He’d imagine you pulling off long enough to look over your shoulder, glassy-eyed and breathless, begging in a raspy voice to breed you, baby, put every drop where it belongs with his cum already on your tongue before he’d realize even giving it to you.
That scenario had Clark rutting faster, the bed creaking, squeaking, shifting under his barely-contained strength. His eyes suddenly flared hot with unrestrained heat vision, twin red beams scorching pinpoints through the mattress and most likely the floorboards before squeezing them shut.
Precum soaked a dark, sticky patch into the sheets beneath his cock, and his lower abdomen made every grind slick. A dark lock of hair clung to his forehead. His drool made the pillow damp against his cheek, and still.
Still, he couldn’t stop whining your name, couldn’t stop chasing the phantom sensation of your body molded along on his torso, and your slick coating his chin and dripping down his neck
Take him deeper. Sit down harder. Use his mouth.
Somehow, the fantasy deepened.
He’d pull you from his face and roll you beneath him before you finished. Your legs would be spread around his hips, knees pressed to your breasts while he lined himself up and pushed inside. He could almost feel you wet and hot around him. So, so tight after days apart that the first stroke would make both of you shake.
His mouth would cover yours while he fucked you open, tasting himself on your tongue and you on his lips. Every thrust would drive your body higher against the bed. Every needy sound you made would disappear into his mouth while the headboard struck the wall in a rhythm the neighbors could never mistake for anything else.
Mine. The word slid into the fantasy with frightening ease. My sweetheart. My girl. My perfect, exhausted Love
Spread beneath him and finally too ruined to think about anything else. Clark pictured his hand closing around your jaw, thumb slipping between your lips as he told you exactly what he intended to do.
Fill you, and keep filling you. Have my fingers gather my spend from your thighs and push it back deep before it tried to leak out again.
No matter how many times he admired the image of white from your swollen pussy, he groaned so loudly the windows trembled.
Gosh, how he wanted to breed you properly. To pin your hips down and fill you before the first load had stopped leaking.
Wanted your thighs sticky, your belly wet, the sheets beneath you soaked with both of you.
Wanted your voice exhausted because of him instead of work.
Until it stuck...or didn't.
The thought should have slowed him. Instead, it made his balls draw tight.
Did he want to watch your body change because of him? Did you? Or was this simply the rut talking? Some ugly, instinctive Kryptonian corner of him desperate to erase five lonely nights by marking you so thoroughly that even distance couldn’t make him doubt where he belonged—
With a mix of relief and disappointment, Clark came hard with a harsh cry of your name, hips jerking in short, punishing bursts as thick ropes of his spend spilled out onto the warm linen. More followed with each weakening thrust, hot come smearing along his cock and stomach as he continued to grind through the oversensitive aftershocks.
The orgasm left him shaking, heaving, and glazed in a cold sweat, drool still slick on his lips. His lips started to tingle from the real possibility of having you exactly like this on the weekend, letting him ruin you the same way he ruined these damn nice sheets, just more.
His spent cock give a weak, hopeful twitch.
.
The phone rang and Clark startled violently, eyes flying open as your name and that soft, smiling contact photo he’d taken one sleepy Sunday morning lit up the screen.
"Ahh, shoot!"
He fumbled for it, one frantic reach nearly sending the phone skidding off the table. He caught it on the second attempt and pressed it to his ear, swallowing against a throat gone dry, and breathing remained uneven.
Your suspicion came through the line immediately after his greeting."You sound funny. Everything okay?"
"Yeah—no, I’m fine." His voice cracked around the age-old lie. Clark cleared his throat, forcing something painfully casual into it. "Everything’s fine. Just… Superman duties, you know how it is. Tell me about your day."
You hummed, unconvinced, but too exhausted to press him. Instead, you continued talking, your voice low and worn-soft through the receiver, each affectionate little pause slipping beneath his skin. You told him about work, about a coworker who had nearly driven you insane, about the lunch you had forgotten to eat until far too late.
Clark listened, asked the right questions, and made the appropriate sympathetic noises between pauses. Guilt tightened his chest when you asked about his day, speaking to him in that drowsy voice you usually reserved for the minutes before falling asleep against his chest.
Unfortunately, another part of him remained painfully aware that you were lying in bed somewhere else. Perhaps wearing one of his old shirts you now claimed as yours. Perhaps curled on your side with bare thighs brushing together beneath the hem, touching the place where his body usually pressed against yours and missing him badly enough to ache too.
Clark knew better than to let his thoughts wander again, but then you called him baby once more.
His cock twitched against the cooling, sticky mess, then again. The spent length began to stiffen beneath his stomach, dragging slowly through his own come as blood rushed back into it.
Clark squeezed his eyes shut.
Your tired voice kept flowing through the phone, sweet and trusting, while he buried his face deeper into your pillow and inhaled what remained of your scent.
His hips shifted restlessly, chasing relief he had barely finished giving himself. Shame should have stopped him.
Instead, the idea that you were talking so innocently while he lay covered in his own release, getting hard again because you had called him baby of all things, made fresh need tighten low in his stomach.
Every filthy thought returned twice as vivid.
Your mouth. Your pussy. Your hoarse little plea to fill you.
How silly of him to think one damning orgasm would be enough.
How do you think Clark feels about anal on reader and how would he feel if she were to rim him 
clark would definitely wanna prep her for forever before even starting penetration if she expressed that she wanted to try it, he’d pour so much lube on her ass even after going down on her ass and tonguing her so she’s wet and her muscles are relaxed. he’d take twenty minutes with just the tip sitting inside he’s so serious, checking if she’s okay, if it hurts, if there’s blood or if the stretch is too sudden and painful.
it takes her to start fucking her ass back on him to take more of his length and he’s going cross eyed. starry eyed. dumb while he feels how tight and different her asshole feels. could feel it around his tongue while he rimmed her how tight she was, but it was a whole other thing to have it strained around the girth of his cock. he rubs her clit and hyperventilates while he finally gets the courage to pick up the pace after squirting another little pool of lube on his dick so its smooth and a little noisy as he ruts in. soon he’s pulling her legs up on his shoulders and holding back less and less, still rubbing her clit and occasionally fingering her pussy so she feels so nice and full. knows when she’s extra weak from a certain angle of a thrust when her muscles constrict and gets fresh wetness to spill all over his fingers that were sliding inside her pussy
aaaaand when she experimentally rims him during a heated blowjob, he’s so clean and whimpery when her tongue goes to his balls, sucks on them, tugs on them, then goes down lower. and lower. and lower. and clark can’t help but curse, spread himself wider, whines and pinches his eyebrows in while quietly begging for more with his body language. she switches off between licking up the underside of his veiny cock before slicking her tongue right back down, teasing him and kissing his rim and wiggling her tongue back and forth and he had no idea that could feel so good. it was the cherry on top.
after a bit of her kitten licks and hallowed cheeks driving him so crazy he shoos her tongue away from his hole and asks her to focus on the head of his dick again, almost crying while he takes his own finger and with the help of all her spit lathered on his hole he slips his own finger in, watches her suckle and drool on his cock head, shooting his cum down her throat with a long drawn out whimper.
she swallows all that she can, drips of his cum falling down the corners of her mouth while she licks her lips to gather it all. rubs her lips together. clark carefully pulls his own finger out of himself with a gasp and closes his eyes. after a beat all’s he can muster saying is -
pairing: clark kent x f!reader
summary: clark kent and you have been best friends since childhood. friendships shift and grow overtime and love sneaks in.
based on these prompts
words: 6.5k
content: fluff. clark kent loves yearning! suggestive-ish scenes (kissing). mentions of alcohol. reader knows clark’s secret(s). childhood friends to mysterious third thing to lovers. mentions of a break-up. blood mention. no use of y/n.
notes: this is kind of a mish mash of smallville kent and superman 2025. u can probably tell what actor im imagining in each scene lol
It started in Kansas. As everything with Clark Kent did.
i. a taunt with an eyebrow raised
“You’re taking Chloe to prom?” Your eyebrows were raised, pencil stalling against the homework in your binder. “As friends or as…” You trailed off. A smile tugged on your lips, eyebrows raising in question. They might have wiggled up and down. “I mean, I love you and all Clark, but–”
Clark inhales a breath, shaking his head. “I already know what you’re gonna say.” And because his mom had instilled a level of manners within him, “And I love you too.”
“Okay, good. Because you know I hate repeating myself.”
A roll of his eyes. His pencil is still scratching away at his own Chemistry worksheet. “Listen, my mom has already given me the same talk you give me,” His eyes glance up to yours, “you know, the one you give me every day. But my mom at least says it nicer.” He watches your features twist into a laugh. “That door is closed with Lana. And how will I know with Chloe if I don’t try?”
It had always been this way. Clark and you. Life began when you met Clark and not in some corny way either. Your first real memories were on the Smallville farm. Scraped knees, popsicles, and mud pies then the throes of puberty and teenage angst. Sure, there were times when you had found a new friend group or didn’t hang around Clark as much as you should have, but it didn’t matter because you were a permanent fixture in his life. You were invited to Thanksgivings, birthday parties, and vow renewals. Your picture hung on at least three walls in that farm house. One you knew for sure, a picture from Halloween where Clark and you had dressed up as two peas in a pod for the 5th grade costume contest. Martha had made the costumes. You were as close to family as it got. His mom had taught you how to make pie crust. His father had shown you how to drive a tractor. And Clark had told you everything there was to know and he never second guessed it.
And so it was normal to tell your best friend that you loved them. It was a text message, it was a goodbye, it was said in laughter and in strife. It was never a question. Clark isn’t sure when it began to mean something else. Because falling in love with you was easy.
For Clark, it was trying to pinpoint exactly when it happened. Falling in love with your best friend wasn’t always an obvious thing. Falling in love was coming back to a stream ten years later to see how much it had changed or the tree you carved your names into as teenagers somehow sprouting new branches years later. It was like the changing of seasons and you never quite saw the first signs of Spring until it was in full bloom. These things would sneak up on a person or maybe they were there all along and Clark had never been privy to it before.
ii. on a sunny tuesday afternoon, the late sunlight glowing in your hair
Clark remembers the first time he noticed how beautiful you were. That you weren’t just some snotty nosed kid anymore. Or an awkward tween who was growing into her skin, unsure of the new weight gain and haircut, unsure of if you applied lipstick the right way.
It was outside the barn, a Tuesday afternoon. The sun was setting behind the trees and you were sitting on the tractor with tears in your eyes. The Kansas sun caught in your hair just right and the red around your eyes did nothing to distract him from the fact that you were beautiful. And Clark said something to make you laugh, that wide smile on your face. He had wished he had a camera to capture the moment, breath getting caught in his chest. And maybe it was all for selfish reasons but he also wanted you to see exactly how he saw you. Beautiful and worth more than whatever guy had broken your heart in the tenth grade. A name you couldn’t recall years down the line.
“He said he just doesn’t like me anymore.” You hiccuped, the laughter that Clark had pulled out of you fading away.
Clark’s concern was always genuine. His eyebrows knitted together, a frown to accompany it. He’d rip his chest open just so you could see how his heart broke along with yours. “Well, that’s stupid.” And it was so Clark, so sincere and matter of fact that it put another smile on your face. “And I love you and I’ve put up with you this long and that’s never gonna change.” His hand hovers over your knee. Touch was different as teenagers, fewer and farther between than it used to be. But it didn’t stop, it just didn’t look the same as it used to. His thumb rubs circles into your knee, that supportive look on his face.
“Well, thanks.” You roll your eyes, shoving his hand away as your face grows a degree hotter. From the tears? “Come on. Fly me somewhere, that’ll really cheer me up.” You grin, trying to see if he’d finally break. You had been begging him for ages.
“Nice try.”
iii. as a hello
Clark wasn’t typically full of himself. When he started growing into his body as a teenager, people would tell him all the time that he was handsome, that he had good looks. It wasn’t something that he had really given all that much thought to. But preparing for prom was shaking loose a weird insecurity he didn’t even know he had. Did he fill out the suit nicely? Was it too big? Too small? Should he have gotten a haircut before tomorrow? Were the sleeves the right length? And when one insecurity sprouted, several more followed in their wake. He was standing in front of the mirror, poking and prodding at his face. The suit was still clad on his body.
“I love you, but what the hell are you doing?” Your voice suddenly comes from behind him.
Clark jumps, turning around to pierce you with a stare. A clear annoyance filling his eyes. He was not startled by much. And really, he should’ve been used to you popping up behind him or appearing behind the screen door of the kitchen. He wouldn’t be surprised if Martha and Jonathan had made you a spare key. Showing up to the farm unannounced might as well have been your love language. “I don’t have to answer that.” He frowns, smoothing down the front of his suit jacket.
“Nervous?” It was only mildly infuriating when you could read his mind. You're plopping down on his bed as you stare up at him. His bed was made meticulously, plaid comforter tucked into the sides. A bowl of chips in your lap as you wrinkled the blanket, did you help yourself to that or did his mom send you up here with a snack?
Clark shrugs, his body taking up the spot beside you. Your thighs press against each other on the twin bed as he’s reaching across to steal a handful of chips. Usually, you tease him, move it out of his grasp, but this time you’re offering it up to him. “I guess.”
“I hate to say it, Clark, but they might be right.” You swallow down a mouthful of chips, eyes sliding down his body. It’s almost a physical thing, your stare. He feels it on his skin. Typically he shies away from the attention, not this time. “You look… handsome.” You grimace, the words foreign coming out of your mouth. “But don’t tell anyone I told you so.”
Clark laughs and your presence alone has his nerves soothing, your words doing the rest of the job. There was no one more honest in the world to him. His parents could occasionally sugar coat things or wore rose colored glasses when it came to him. But you knew every part of Clark Kent, even the ones he didn’t want anyone to see.
iv. with a hoarse voice, under the blankets
It was all phases of life, too. It was always Clark Kent by your side in one way or another. Senior year of Metropolis University. A shared two bedroom apartment. It only lasted one lease period– you realized too late that a roommate with super-hearing wasn’t your cup of tea when you wanted to finally explore the dating scene in the big city. Well that and it brought a new phase of your friendship with Clark. One that neither of you could really understand or stand too long in. It was no longer the safety of Smallville. It was as close to real life as the two of you had tasted.
“Get up. Please.” Clark is fighting a losing battle. He can see your form underneath the blankets on your bed, shifting around in annoyance. Your entire body is covered by the comforter. No limbs peak out. He moves closer to the edge of your bed. You were hungover and Clark wasn’t going to let you live it down. He never let you live anything down. “Come on. I made you pancakes. They even have the worst smiley face ever in the middle and you can make fun of it and–”
Your arm reaches out from underneath your blankets to grab his arm, tugging him. This is the man who cannot be moved. And you knew this. “Come on, let me have this.” A typical phrase. He hears it when you want to win a play fight, when you want him to pretend a shove from you actually does anything. Clark will always cradle his arm in mock hurt, wincing till a knowing smile is shared between the both of you. He always relents. You pull him into the bed with you, the covers coming up to wrap around the both of you. “Clark Kent,” Your hands come up to your face, rubbing at your temples, “You’re giving me a headache.”
“Oh, me? I’m giving you a headache?” A small amount of sunlight filters through the blanket. Your hair is unruly. You’re in one of his t-shirts, threadbare and stretched out, but it’s ridden up your thighs, twisted around your belly. He does not stare. He does not ogle and especially not at his best friend. Clark Kent has always prided himself on that even as his eyes make their way up the rest of your body. “It has nothing to do with last night? Oh and by the way, you’re welcome for picking you up last night. You always get so touchy when you’re drunk and–”
You shove him. “One last warning, Clark. I’m serious.” You grumble, feet moving to push at his body too as if that will do anything your arms couldn’t. “Get out of my fortress.” His fingers dance at your ankles. “And bring me my pancakes.”
“As you wish, ma'am." He’s sliding out of your bed, his fingers tickling their way down your ankles, your toes, a giggle eliciting from underneath the blanket.
If he didn’t have super hearing maybe he wouldn’t have picked up on it so well. “Love you.” You grumble begrudgingly, twisting the blanket back around your body.
Clark smiles and his heart flips in his chest. But it’s the one that happens sometimes with you. When he’s so grateful to have you in his life and of course hearing your best friend say they love you would do that to anyone.
v. when we kissed for the first time
It all started to warp around this time, deep in his belly and twist up into something he couldn’t quite name.
And it wasn’t a weird request. It wasn’t, you had reassured yourself. Maybe you had too much to drink during game night, but Clark was always the person you could go to. Nothing was awkward with him. I mean he had probably glimpsed you naked before and overheard you after a date and you shared a bathroom and a space and you grew up together and it wasn’t weird. It wasn’t. And now you two sit alone in your apartment, the moonlight leaking through the curtains.
“Please?” Your pupils are blown. You swallow some of the spit that had gathered in your mouth. You’re starting to regret asking, but his fingers are still sliding over your calves, soothing. Your legs in his lap as you sit across from him on the small couch. He’s got that look on his face, deep in thought. Clark Kent has to weigh every outcome. He’s had to do it ever since he started realizing the magnitude of his abilities, what came with them. He found people's emotions to be the same way, that they weren’t something to take lightly.
“You’re drunk. I love you and you’re drunk.” He decides, hands going still on your legs. He watches your face for a reaction. God, how he wishes one of his abilities was to understand what was going on in your brain. All this time and he still didn’t have it down to a science.
Your lip is drawn between your teeth as you move to sit on your knees, fingers coming out to rest lightly on his chest, his shirt underneath your fingertips. “Clark.” Your eyes shine with emotion. He’s not sure if it’s him that hurt you or if it’s the reason you’re asking for such an absurd thing. “Two guys have told me that I kiss weird. Two. Not just one. And you’ve always been honest with me. I mean remember when I tried to switch up my style and no one told me for weeks that I looked–” You sigh, eyes falling to stare at your hands on his chest. “That’s besides the point, but I mean, what if it’s true? And what if I never fix it and you, Clark Kent, had the chance to tell me? Or should I go through my life never knowing?” The dramatics were not lost on you. Had you been sober, it would have been a funny conversation. One that Clark could easily talk you out of. He would have reassured you that guys your age were simply trying to get under your skin, trying to create a sense of self-doubt. But that wasn’t the point. Not now. The point was his best friend is on her knees across from him, begging for something as simple as a kiss.
Clark hates seeing you so upset. “Listen–”
You drop back against the couch, whining, fingers rising to hide your face. Clark only used that tone of voice to soothe your anxieties, when he knew you were embarrassed. “I shouldn’t have asked. M’sorry.”
Your words fall on deaf ears as Clark is leaning over the space between you. His large hands gather up your face before he has his common sense come back to him. Your eyes meet for the briefest moment. Your breath hitches as he finally closes the gap, lips moving against your own. It’s the sort of thing you probably should have prepared for. Maybe set some ground rules, but there’s no rule book and wow, you’ve never kissed your best friend's plush lips before. There's suddenly no space between you as he’s crowding you against the arm of the couch. Lips move against each other, drowning in the new feeling. It’s open-mouthed and desperate. He’s pulling you closer, tongue swiping across your bottom lip, wanting to know exactly how you react to that. Your chest pushes closer to his own, craving to close the last bit of space between your bodies. A whine from you then a groan from him, both swallowed by the kiss.
Realization only dawns when you’re struggling to breathe. You pull away to catch your breath. Clark’s lips chase yours. “Well. You don’t kiss weird.” You decide before the real thoughts and emotions try to catch up with you. Clark didn’t need to breathe, he probably could’ve done that forever and been happy.
“I don’t think that was the test.” Clark is clearing his throat, red splotches appearing underneath his collar, rising to his face. “You, uh, you don’t kiss weird. Either.” He has to get out of here immediately. Preferably off planet, but he’d settle for his room.
He doesn’t have to make that decision though because you’re standing up, smoothing down your clothes like it was something clinical and it was just what you expected to happen and not earth shattering. He almost feels sad, nervous, ansty. He didn’t think that was something to just move on from. And it’s all catching up to him now. No preparation before the world ends would do that to a person.
You’re trying to save face. “I’m tired, Clarkie. I’m gonna head to bed.”
You’re almost to your room when he speaks up. “They were just trying to get under your skin, you know?”
You smile, “I know, Clark.”
vi. on a post-it note & in a way i can’t return
love u. wont be home tonight get dinner without me xx
The post-it was stuck to his bedroom door when he got home from class. He snatches it off his door as he pushes it open, grumbling as he does. Clark Kent wouldn’t describe himself as a grumpy person, but it seemed to be more of a common occurrence lately than any other emotion.
It was towards the end of your lease together that you started seeing someone consistently. It didn’t bother Clark, of course not. I mean sure, it was your weekly dinner night together and college had been so busy that he felt like he hadn’t been seeing you as much. You spent less and less time at the apartment and more at your boyfriends, but that’s all it was. That sinking feeling in his chest. It was normal. It was normal to get jealous that your friend blew you off for a date.
Life had resumed rather normally after you kissed for the first time. Because what else was there? (Denial was a pretty powerful emotion). You had been best friends since forever and a single kiss wasn’t going to change that. It was a blip in the grand scheme of everything else you guys had lived. But feelings simmered below the surface and this feeling, whatever it was, was a way to shake them loose.
He had typed out a long message and then subsequently erased it about a thousand times. He decided it was better to just talk to you when you finally got home. Except he doesn’t hear the front door open until the following night.
“You’re home.” Clark’s voice has an air of relief in it, but his annoyance tinged it. “Finally.”
Your eyebrows raise as you reach inside the fridge to grab a drink before you’re turning around to look at him from the kitchen. “What, are you my mother now?” You have no idea what you’re in trouble for, but your tone conveys the sentiment: how dare he police you?
“Oh, come on.” He rolls his eyes, standing up from his place on the couch. “You totally blew me off yesterday!” Clark doesn’t mean to raise his voice right now. It’s not in his nature, but neither is the jealousy low in his belly. He’s itching for a fight with you. Because there’s no one easier to pick a fight with than someone you know like the back of your hand. “You totally blew me off and then left me this little sticky note like it makes up for it.” The pink post-it is clutched in his fist, his eyebrows down turned. A near pout on his lips.
You scoff. “You can’t be serious.” You take a few steps from the kitchen to close the distance, staring him down. “You used to do this shit all the time.”
Clark’s mouth flaps like a fish before he shuts it completely. Thinking, rolling his reply around his head. “Not like this.”
“You don’t get to take the moral high ground here. You used to stand me up all the time to gawk at Lana!”
“That was high school. This is different.” The man of steel who refuses to break. Who refuses to acknowledge that it really isn’t all that different because his feelings are hurt and you don’t just get to get away with that.
“Please, Clark.” You scoff. “That was only a few years ago. I’m not doing this with you.” You’re retreating to your bedroom because the only thing that worked with Clark Kent was to let him simmer off, let the anger or whatever he was feeling evaporate till he would knock on your door later, puppy dogs eyes and all to beg for forgiveness.
He can’t help himself as he watches you leave, “I love you.” And there’s nothing else accompanying it. Plain as day, his feelings. They hang in the air around him. The words sound different coming out of his mouth. Maybe because he feels different, has nothing changed for you? He doesn’t want you to go to your room and wallow and he doesn’t want to do the same. Clark doesn’t want to go to bed mad and work through it by himself. But his voice sounds pleading and his heart is on his sleeve and he doesn’t want to ruin this, ruin you or your happiness. How do the words he’s said a thousand times feel different coming out? He tries again. “You drive me crazy and I love you.” Was that better? Was that normal?
“Living together is turning us into a married couple, Clark.” You joke, sparing a single glance back to him before you’re closing your bedroom door on him.
vii. before you fall asleep
“Can you come walk me home?” You sniffle on the other side of the phone.
Clark had picked up immediately. It didn’t matter that it was 2AM and his final project presentation was tomorrow. When you rang, he answered. Clark was nothing if not a man of principle. Sturdy and consistent.
Clark is appearing in front of you before you even had the chance to start crying again. You had calmed yourself down, but the feeling of getting broken up with sort of just ebbed and flowed. One minute it’s a blessing in disguise and then next you’re not sure how to go on, how life resumes after your heart is broken. “Hi.” A smile sneaks its way onto your face, a sort of self-pitying one as your best friend looks down at you. You're thankful he’s the type to refrain from saying ‘I told you so.’ “Well. It’s over.”
Clark is nodding, arms immediately moving to wrap around your frame. “That’s alright. You’ll be alright.” His hands are smoothing down your hair. His cheek is pressed against the crown of your head then his lips. A reassuring kiss for his own selfish needs. He doesn’t move to pull away, not even when your breathing evens out and your body is slacking against his own. He knows you’d pull away when you’re ready.
Grateful for his sturdy body as your weight leans against his, you pull your head back to look up at him. Your arms are wrapped around him, no space between you. You seek comfort in his eyes. “Am I an idiot?” Your lips flatten. “Don’t answer that.”
His hand is against your cheek now. Your broken heart can only remember your lover doing that. Clark is only reminded of the last time he cupped your face in his hands. How it changed the way he looked at the world. At you. “Come on, let’s get you home.” His thumb is gathering the little bit of wetness underneath your eyes, wiping it away. And he can’t help but think you look just as beautiful as the first time he noticed. The streetlights glinting in your eyes. A slight breeze makes your hair dance. Your lips always seemed fuller after you cried. You lick your lips, wanting to say something and all it does is make his resolve break. He has to tear his eyes away. Because it isn’t the time.
Clark pulls away, hand instead finding your own as he moves to begin walking you down the street.
It’s easier to let everything out when Clark is by your side and the streets of Metropolis are under your feet. The relationship was probably doomed to fail, you told Clark. The ex-boyfriend was constantly jealous of your close relationship with Clark, but in the end had been projecting his own secrets onto you.
All Clark could do was listen and refrain from commenting because he only got angry thinking about how you deserved to be treated better. That no one really deserved you. And really, it wasn’t hard to be good to you. You made it easy. You were kind and funny. Sometimes you’d even do the dishes and cook instead of him doing both every time. You gave thoughtful gifts and always listened with an open heart. Sure, you had trouble backing down from a fight, probably cussed too much, and could get caught up in the small details. You could be on edge when you felt insecure. But Clark had always softened you. Your sharp edges have eroded over time and how dare someone try and take advantage of that?
There’s comfortable silence on the walk home after you get the rest of your feelings in the open air.
“Do you ever get annoyed having to walk? You know at a human pace?” He can tell you’re feeling better, but it’s a genuine question too.
Clark shakes his head, grip tightening on your hand. “No. Especially not with you.” A pause to pass you one of his smiles. He takes care with the question. Clark had struggled with identity for so long growing up and even now. What it meant to be human, how much of him even was? “I mean, I’ve always had to practice ‘normal.’ And my parents never pressured me to hide at home, but I sort of like doing things… normally. Walking, having to hold back my strength. Practicing being gentle even though my powers are the exact opposite.” His eyes flit over to your own. “This wasn’t just another attempt at getting me to fly you home, was it?”
“Now that you mention it…”
“Still not happening.”
When you’re finally home, Clark is bringing the covers up over your frame, fingers gently prodding the blanket into your sides. You let him dote on you because Clark is nothing if he doesn’t feel needed. He’s always needed to take care of others. Plus, you knew his mom had taught him how to perfectly tuck a person into bed and there was nothing better than Martha’s advice to cure a break up. You’re sure he’s already called her while you were getting ready for bed. Tomorrow would be movies and ice cream with a signature Kent recipe sent to Clark’s email.
“Okay?” Clark’s hands smooth down the blanket, concerned eyes rarely leaving you.
You want to laugh only because he’s so serious about the process. “Yes, Clark.”
“You don’t need anything else?” He doesn’t want to leave your bedroom. He probably should’ve suggested that he tuck you into his bed instead. It was bigger, he had the softer blankets, and he could easily grab you whatever you needed throughout the night. Because it was that serious to him. It wasn’t because he couldn’t remember the last time you shared a bed or that he would give anything to ease the ache in your chest. Or that he wanted you to curl into his side, hands holding onto him to ground yourself through the feelings. But that was selfish. And he wasn’t. Not this time.
Your eyes catch his before he can make it away from your bed. “Do I say it enough?”
“Say what enough?”
“That I love you. That I appreciate you. That I couldn’t do any of this without you.” And it’s probably a silly image, your head poking out of the covers, the blankets wrapped tightly around you as you pour your heart out to your best friend. Because it was so easy to be open with him. Because he would always do it right back.
“Took the words right out of my mouth, honey.” A kiss pressed to your forehead and a goodnight. He doesn’t linger.
viii. as we huddle together, a storm raging
Even after your lease ends, Clark and you see each other weekly. Daily when you finally secure a position alongside him at the Daily Planet.
Work is over and it’s pouring rain outside the building's doors as you’re about to step out onto the street.
“Oh, come on! The one morning I didn't check the weather app.” You grumble, tugging Clark’s arm back inside as he tries to brave the storm anyway, but it doesn’t stop him. “Clark! I am not walking home in this.” But he’s not listening as he moves out into the rain. You watch his glasses become foggy, his hair sticking to his forehead seconds after walking out.
“I have an idea. Come with me.” A hand held out to you. Unfortunately, your best friend never needs to convince you much.
You're standing in the alley by the Daily Planet. Clark’s arms wrapped around you as he shields you from the rain with his body. “What sort of idea is this?” You grumble, afraid you’d grow cold from the rain, but Clark luckily has always had enough body heat for the both of you.
“I love you. Don’t be mad.”
“Why would I be –” But you can’t get the rest of your thought out because Clark is launching you into the air at what feels like break neck speeds (to you, an inexperienced flyer, to Clark, it’s nothing). His hand is holding the back of your head, his other pressed to your lower back. “Clark- Clark.” You’re gasping for breath, fingers clutching onto his clothes, afraid to look around you. Your face is half buried into his chest. How many times had you begged him for this exact thing and now he finally relented? During a rain storm? But by some miracle, the rain clouds are subsiding and the sun begins to peak out the same time you do.
“What do you think?” Clark’s got a stupid grin on his face. You would hit him if you weren’t so afraid to let go.
“Ever since you became Superman, you’ve been kind of an ass.” His confidence had shot up ever since he started proving himself to the world. (We aren’t in Kansas anymore, he had said to you one day) (You totally stole that, you had responded). You want to stick your tongue out at him, but it’s hard to even fake mad when you can see the city from this angle.
Your body weight is completely suspended by Clark, body pressed against his in a way he can’t recall ever happening. Maybe he should’ve done this before. The awe in your eyes is enough to convince him of that. Especially when you’re turning your face back towards his and he should kiss you. You aren’t living together anymore and you’re not teenagers and you’re not heartbroken, but he can’t bring himself to do it because how perfect are you like this?
ix. broken, as you beg me not to leave
It’s a quiet night in your apartment when a muffled bang comes from your fire escape. Then a gentle rap of knuckles against your window.
“Clark?” You’re already questioning as you pull the window open. On the fire escape stands Superman. “What happened, are you okay?” You’ve never seen him like this as you help him through the window. Part of his weight is leaning against your side as you lead him to the couch. It’s always been him supporting you. Bile wants to rise up in your throat at the thought of having to be the strong one. “Clark, talk to me.” You plead, kneeling between his legs. Hands and eyes search over his suit to find the problem. The area around his eyes is red like a rash, his shoulders slumped. There’s a large gash to his stomach and blood is staining the blue fabric.
“M’okay.” Is all he can manage.
“Clark, you do not look fucking okay.” Your heart rate is rising as you rustle for something to press to his wound. A forgotten t-shirt and your hands press into his stomach. Clark grunts from the pressure, hands coming to rest over your own. His hands, your hands, stained red. “Please, tell me what to do.” Your eyes are starting to fill with tears, not used to these feelings when it comes to Clark. Clark Kent was the structure in your life, the steadiness of your heart, your rock. “I love you. Please don’t die.” It might have sounded funny in any other scenario, but not when your supposed to be indestructible best friend is bleeding out on your couch.
“Just need a minute, sunshine.” His voice already sounds stronger, but his eyes are screwed shut from whatever pain he’s feeling. You can’t imagine what it took to get him this way and your stomach sinks. “Just–just don’t leave.” His hands are still holding onto your own, but one moves to intertwine with yours. Blood is already drying between your interlocking fingers.
“A minute?!” You had hoped your voice would come out level, but it betrays you. “You’re not going back out there, are you?”
“H-have to.” Clark manages to meet your eyes, wanting to crumble right back into your couch at the concern in your eyes.
“No. No, you do not ‘have to’.” Your hand pulls away from his own as you begin to pace in front of him. You stop, your stare piercing him to the couch. “Clark, you do not have to do any of this.”
He frowns, wanting to smooth out the crease between your eyebrows. Clark hates causing you strife. “You know I do.” Clark had come to terms with it a long time ago. That he did not just belong to himself. That his abilities did not just belong to himself.
Your voice breaks. “Please, don’t go back out there. I can’t- I can’t lose you.” Words fall on deaf ears as Clark struggles to bring himself up from the couch, body stumbling back to the window. “Clark, please. I love you. Don’t do this.” You don’t care if you’re begging. You don’t care about the tears falling from your eyes. You just want him to be safe. Your body moves in front of him, but you don’t stop him. You just move to support his weight as you help him onto the window sill. His body is still pointed in your apartment, but you can tell he’s finding the rest of his strength to return to the fight.
“I love you. I promise. I’m okay.” He moves his hand from the gash. His skin is already weaving back together. The dried blood is the only reminder.
Your hands press into his cheeks, tilting his head up to look at you from his seat on the window sill. Clark’s eyes shine, blue eyes pouring into your own everything that was unsaid. The skin held beneath your fingers tingled, when have you ever looked at him like this? “Clark.” The rest of the words you want to say are lodged in your throat. Because expressing what you really need to say to him was impossible so for once, you settle with a kiss. His face between your hands, your body between his legs as you lean down and press your lips to his. Clark’s hands slide against the back of your legs, holding the back of your thighs as he cranes his neck to meet your kiss.
The kiss is not desperate this time; it is a vow. It means everything the second time around. That everything will fall into place around it. The entirety of your lives seemed to tilt inward to this moment. You know it won’t make him stay. You don’t want him to stay. You knew Clark, knew where his heart lies and that a piece of it now belonged to you, how it always did.
x. with no space left between us
You’ve grown shy underneath his gaze. Your eyes landing anywhere but his face.
Clark had come by later in the night to find you still awake. A bedside lamp was left on to call him home. You had followed the rest of the night in front of your television. He had peeled off his bloody suit for a pair of his pajamas that you had kept in your drawer. The bruises on his body had turned from black to a light yellow in a matter of hours. And despite everything he had dealt with in the last few hours, the only thing that remained on his mind was the feeling of your lips.
“Come on.” Clark offers his hand, that black strand of hair tickling his forehead after his shower. Your room is covered in a soft glow as he pulls you towards the bed. “What changed?” He comments on your demeanor.
“I–” You start to say before closing your mouth. It’s impossible to articulate. It’s like waking up after a deep sleep or plunging into cold water, but with this familiarity you’ve known your whole life. It’s like finding out a secret that your intuition knew all along. “Nothing.” You decide. Or everything, you might add if his hands weren’t distracting you.
“Exactly.” Clark’s fingers dance against your bare thighs as your skin prickles in their wake. There is something between you that wants to break. A live wire that only Superman could touch with his bare hands. “I love you.” The same words you’ve heard a thousand times, but this time, they immediately bring a warmth to your face. You want to shy away, but you lean in instead, fingers sliding over Clark’s.
“I love you too.” You clear your throat, bringing his hand up to press against your chest. Over your heart. Clark can feel it underneath his hand. The steady beat of your heart against your ribs. He knows what you’re conveying: that he has a piece of you too and always did. You don’t have to say anything else as you’re closing the distance between the two of you for the second time that night. But you both had hours to sit with the feelings, about what it meant and where it went from here.
Your chests are pressed together, bodies clinging to each other, both whispering, ‘I love you’ between the kiss and letting it settle there. Right where it was always meant to be, with no space between you.
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clark kent who so desperately wants you to laugh with him! scrolling and collecting little videos to share with you. so break time comes and clark absentmindedly hands you the phone to continue swiping. its all corny videos of cats or deeply unfunny memes, until youre looking back at yourself. its just you at the desk, maybe it was an accident? but you continue swiping, uncovering pictures of yourself showering, in bed, cooking. thankfully he had caught on before you explored more, explicit photo albums.
clark who so desperately tries to explain himself but youre not listening to him, you runaway to the bathroom but he still gets to hear everything, how jimmy tries to comfort you. it seems a little weird to everyone right now but clark can get them back on his side.
clark is desperate for forgiveness, probably to save himself a misconduct complaint. he's coming to youre apartment, hearing your steps approaching and how the sound of the peep-hole sliding up feels like a dagger digging deep within his chest. now youre upsetting him:( he just wants to talk and youre turning him into something he's not.
clark who is desperately trying to calm you down, its cold in the fortress of solitude but he can warm you up! you just need to let him help you, to let him finish explaining his himself and you are going to listen to him.
Flo! if you feel so inclined i’d love to see something where clark is the one getting all flustered and he just isn’t convinced that reader would like him as much as they do 💗💗
ooo yes please!
Clark Kent x reader ✩ 746 words
Clark is in trouble.
He usually is when it comes to you, can hardly focus when you look his way. He can feel your eyes on him where you peer over the top of your monitor, eyes burning into his skin. He hopes the glasses cover up the warmth in his cheeks, the tint of pink there, at least a little. He can't go giving away all his secrets now.
The issue is that you seemingly suck all the composure Clark has right out of him. You make him nervous. More than anyone he’s ever met, it's weird. You’re lovely, of course, but you like to flirt and tease and he's never sure if you're serious. He hopes you are.
“Psst.” You call for his attention, sitting up straighter in your chair to get a clearer line of sight to lovely, handsome, Clark. “Hey.”
Clark finds himself straightening up pretty quickly, leaning further forward with a smile on his face at your call. He’s easy. Your brows are pulled together with a frown on your lips. It does nothing to mar your sweet face, he thinks, but he prefers the teasing tilt that usually sits on your lips.
“What's up?”
“Can you take a look at these?” you ask, batting your eyelashes at him as if to entice him. The performance is entirely unnecessary. There probably isn’t a universe where Clark Kent says no to you. Call him a masochist. He likes being teased by you, he’ll take any opportunity. “I can’t tell if they look a little funky or I've just been looking at them too long.”
“Yeah, of course.”
He’s out of his seat and rounding his desk to lean over yours, quickly. He plants a hand on the desk near your mouse and tries his best to fight the rising heat again, clearing his throat as you shift in your seat closer to him.
What he finds on your screen is a portfolio of well-shot and edited photographs that are definitely ready for submission, no doubt in his mind.
“They’re great!” he assures, pointing at one in particular. An older man cheering in a crowd with a giant smile on his face, he can tell from the other series of photographs that the crowd were looking at Superman, him really, and you chose to focus on the people. It's brilliant. “This is my favourite.”
“Thanks, Clark.” As he turns his head he catches the teasing smile on your lips he’s become well familiar with. He knows he’s fallen into a trap you’ve set and he's not in a rush to get out.
“If only I could just take pictures of you,” You sigh. “It’d make my job easier. You're too handsome for a bad picture.”
“Stop,” Clark groans half heartedly, looking away from you, focusing on the grain of your desk.
“No!” you giggle, “You know you’re super pretty, don’t start pretending on me.”
Your words prompt an unstoppable smile to grow on Clark's face and he’s almost certain there are stars in his eyes now. He decides to test his mettle. See if he can give even a little of your own teasing back.
“Like you know you’re beautiful?”
Your grin only widens.
“Exactly, honey!” you exclaim. “You’ve got the right idea.”
Clark shakes his head with a smile, standing himself up straight so he’s not quite so close to you to give him a better chance of fighting off how flustered he’s starting to feel. It's maybe his smartest decision of the day so far.
“You just like to tease me.”
His words seem to make your expression sober. The smile stays, but it softens around the edges, making you look unexpectedly earnest.
“No, I’m just telling you the truth, Clark.” You say, “And flirting a little. But instead of how handsome you are, I can compliment your personality if you're more likely to believe that. I have plenty of material either way.”
Clark's brain stops working with the slight confirmation that you’re not just teasing him for the fun of it. He’s standing there, all tall and broad, without a real thought in his head. His mouth opens and closes as he searches for the right words. Or any words.
“I, uh, well–” He stutters.
You watch him fondly as he rights himself.
“I think…” He clears his throat, gesturing over his shoulder. “I’m gonna take a lap.”
Your laugh follows him before he’s even turned around.
Clark Kent didn't liked being called an alien, he's as human as everyone else on Earth and he surely wasn't the dictator his kryptonian parents wanted him to be. So why does the Luthor's family hates him? Well, not all of them.
There you were, the Luthor girl who loved Clark Kent and Superman and the Kryptonian Kal-el. You loved the “alien” your brother was trying to kill. You loved the hero he was. You loved his silly human side. Of course your relationship was kind of a secret. Because of course Clark had to keep interviewing himself, so he was in Lex's sights to try and blackmail Superman, blah, blah...
But even if your relationship was a secret to everyone else, it wasn't for Clark's neighbors because both of you made a lot of noise. A lot.
Sure you both tried to keep it down, but how could you when he hits at an inhuman speed that spot inside of you that makes you see stars and how could he be silent when you squeeze him so thight his dick might fall right off?
Every night could start as a normal date at his department, both of you cooking together and watching Metropolis from the big panoramic view he had or snuggled up watching movies. But literally anything escalated with kisses and then with some touching, until finally both of your clothes were on the floor and he was on top of you, chest pressed to your back and both of his big biceps cagging you in. There was literally no way to escape him. you didn't want to either.
“Clark! oh, shit—” you'll gasp pushing your head into the soft pillows, it feels so good that he's turning your brain into mush with every thrust. “are you okay, sweetheart?” Clark whispers, his voice as sweet as honey as if he wasn't destroying your insides. You could only let out a tiny ‘uh-huh’ as another orgasm was forming in your lower belly.
Clark's such a nice boy, letting you cum again and again all over him as he tries his best not to fill you up.
But more than an hour edging himself? Clark needs to let his load go inside of you. Obviously he ask first, his voice barely coming out as he says “b- oh god— baby, inside.. please, can I?”
And of course you say yes, you want him all over you and you didn't care if you end up pregnant, because you only want him and he only wants you.
Well... Months later you regret saying yes and being careless. But, who knew having a super baby would be so tiring? Oh and let's not get started with the scold Lex gave you for getting pregnant.
And for Clark? well, he asked you to marry him when you told him you're having a baby and he refuses to take off his ring, therefore the newspaper was filled with, «who is Superman's wife?».
Such a dorky guy in love was Clark Kent.
And you were no different.
TOMORROW IS A YEAR OF SUPERMAN I CAN'T BELIEVE IT 😭
