Notes: woooooo finally!! i’ve been promising a full length alpha!clark fic for a while and here it is finally :D turned out a bit angsty-er than i originally anticipated but folks this is a two parter!! enjoy !!!!!!!
This might be the most embarrassing moment of your life.
It’s a high bar to clear. There was that period of your life where you openly read old school erotica paperbacks at the lunch table, half-naked alphas on the cover and all. There was your Hamilton phase. The countless times you’ve tripped and fallen in public. But this – being huddled into the nearest supply closet in your workplace, on the cusp of heat – somehow takes the cake.
Your heats have always been consistent, on the dot, every three months, which is why you paid it no mind when the symptoms started to appear early. In hindsight, you should’ve known when Lois left her cardigan at your place after a movie night and you refused to return it, instead adding the piece of clothing to the pile of comforting items on your bed and whining when you had to leave that pile every morning, to get ready for work. But you ignored the glaring signs of pre-heat until it started to hit you, full-force, in the middle of your day in the office. Warmth crept up under your collar until you began to sweat, and then the cramping started, and only then did you cancel your meetings for the day and lock yourself in the supply closet.
And really, barricading yourself in wasn’t the brightest idea you’ve ever had. It felt like a great idea in the moment, compared to walking all the way home on the crowded streets of Metropolis, alone, stinking of pre-heat (horrible). Now you’ll just have to wait till all your colleagues head home for the day, and then take an overpriced taxi home, after dark (slightly less horrible).
Then someone knocks on the door.
“Anybody in there?”
This is the worst-case scenario. You’d know that deep, comforting voice anywhere: your coworker, Clark Kent.
Despite your mutual friendship with one Lois Lane, you don’t cross paths often. Clark prefers to collaborate with Jimmy on his articles, and you’ve never taken that to heart. Honestly, you don’t envy how often Jimmy ends up running around town anyway, getting photos of Superman’s latest heroic exploits to go with Clark’s interviews. Clark never joins the Daily Planet happy hours at the bar across the street. The most you’ve heard him speak is at the monthly staff meetings.
None of that has stopped you from developing a crush on him. It’s no wonder, considering how considerate he is, how tall and broad he is, how smart he is, how he still brings you coffee in the morning despite the fact that you barely know each other. Quite frankly, you wouldn’t be surprised if half the office was in love with him.
“... Clark?” You called out, even though you know it’s him, he always smells so good.
“Yeah, it’s me,” He replies, his tone gentle, like he’s trying to soothe the distress he knows you’re feeling. “Are you alright?”
And now you know for sure that he’s aware of why you’re locked in this supply closet. Humiliation creeps up your throat and your eyes start to sting with tears and shit, you hate the state that pre-heat puts you in, constantly on the verge of crying.
“Did you… smell me?” You ask, your voice quieter than you’d like it to be, but he manages to hear you even through the door.
He pauses for what seems like forever.
“Yes, I-I did.” You groan in response. You’d picked the closet that’s farthest away from any cubicles, hoping the distance and the concrete walls of the Daily Planet building would work in your favor, but of course it wouldn’t. “It’s okay, I’m the only one who can. I-I mean, I think”
“I’m sorry,” You tell him, putting all your effort into holding back your tears, because of course you would end up scandalizing the only man you’ve had a crush on in years.
“Don’t be,” He’s comforting you, because any decent alpha would. “Would it be okay if you let me in?”
You know your judgement is clouded. It must be, if you thought this whole supply closet business was a good idea, but Clark is always so kind. You can tell he wants to be respectful, that he’s just concerned about his colleague.
So you shuffle towards the door and open it just wide enough for him to slide through, in some last-ditch effort to prevent any more coworkers from scenting you in this state.
He looks you up and down, taking in the sweat starting to bead at your forehead and the flush that seems to spread down your chest, and immediately, instinctively, crouches down to your level, reaching a hand out to caress your cheek. “It’s not safe for you to come to work like this.”
“I didn’t know,” You insist, though his tone isn’t accusatory. “It’s early. Weeks early. I panicked when I realized-”
“-And hid in a supply closet?”
“I can’t walk home alone like this!” You practically whine, and Clark hums in agreement, his thumb brushing your cheek soothingly. You lean into his touch while he contemplates the dilemma you’ve gotten yourself into, and you’re suddenly grateful that he’s here out of everyone in the world, because now that you’re close to him you can make out the specific notes of his scent. It’s fiery and comforting and strong, like a fireplace, and you could just lean right into him to get more of it-
“What if- I could scent you?” He says suddenly, uncertain, because he knows you’re prone to his persuasion in this state. “If I cover you with my scent enough, you should- I can get you home. If it’s okay with you?”
“You don’t have to-”
“I want to.” He’s already taking off his jacket, and you’re already nodding, dizzy at the thought of being drenched in him.
His jacket is massive on you, but it’s soft, lined with silk on the inside, and it smells like him, and you want more. When you look back at him, his pupils are already blown wide at the sight of you draped in his clothing, his scent already starting to cover yours.
He leans closer, trailing the hand on your cheek down to your neck, his thumb coming up to stroke your skin, right where your scent gland is.
“Are you sure this is okay?” He asks again, his voice gravelly, restrained.
You nod eagerly, shuffling closer, knee-to-knee on the ground with him. Finally, his head ducks down, and you feel his nose gently nudge your scent gland, and your hand flies to grip his shoulder, already overwhelmed by having him so close to you.
He’s incredibly careful with you, frustratingly so, because your base instincts want him to hold you as tight as possible, if he asked nicely you honestly think you’d let him take you right there on the floor, but you beat back those instincts, trying to remember that he is your coworker and is just doing you a favour. Just being nice, like he always is.
So you try not to get too dizzy when Clark rubs his cheek on your scent gland, try to quell your whimpers when you feel his tongue on your neck, his scent beginning to completely dominate yours, marking you as his for just a few hours.
He brings one of your hands up to his neck, guiding you to rub your wrist against his gland, making sure every inch of you is covered in him. Leaving no room for leering alphas to mistake you for being unclaimed.
He takes a few deep breaths once his work is done, double-checking that your scent is undetectable under his, before helping you stand on your shaky legs and adjusting his jacket on you.
He cups your face in his hands again, forcing your dazed gaze back onto him. “Deep breaths, honey. Are you alright?”
You nod, but he shakes his head.
“Gonna need you to say it for me.”
“Yes,” You breathe out. “‘M okay, w-we can go.”
Clark guides you all the way home, never more than a few inches away, his hand resting gently on the small of your back. You keep stealing glances up at him, but his eyes are always elsewhere, observing everyone around you, daring them to look your way. It’s the most intimidating you’ve ever seen him look, and honestly, you know if you look too long, you’ll start leaking slick long before you make it home, so you determine it’s best to keep your eyes low. But you stick close, his warmth shielding you from the blistering windchill in the air.
He walks you into your building, all the way to your door, and really, there’s no reason for him to come inside, but you invite him up to your apartment anyway, offering hot cocoa to warm him up. Really, you just want to bask in his warmth a bit longer, hoping the smell of him rubs off on one of your pillows or something, so you can shove your face into it as soon as he leaves.
He takes his shoes off at the door before you even ask him to, careful not to spread dirt on the floor. He looks hesitant to even sit on your couch, not wanting to disturb your carefully curated apartment. It’s sweet, the way he looks around your living room, taking in all your decorations, the way your scent covers every inch of the space.
You disappear into the kitchen, finding yourself suddenly fretful over the process of making a Swiss Miss hot chocolate, pouring the nervous energy from having the most attractive man you’ve ever seen in your living room while on the cusp of your heat into measuring out the packet of cocoa sugar. You pray to whatever deity might be up there that he’s not picky over recipes, because you know he won’t complain – hell, you’ve seen him apologise to other people for ramming into him with the mail cart – but you want to make it perfect for him. You balance two mugs of hot chocolate carefully on a wooden tray, laden with random snacks you keep around for whenever a craving might hit you.
You find Clark still perched on your couch, facing the kitchen doorway like all he’d done while you were gone was wait for you to come back, and he smiles fondly when he sees the little set-up you prepared.
He stands, taking the tray from you and setting it down gently on your coffee table.
“Sit with me for a second, sweetheart,” He says, patting the spot next to him on the couch, where you happily perch for him, sitting on your calves.
“Thank you for making sure I got home safe,” You tell him, smiling shyly.
“‘S no problem, honey, I wasn’t gonna leave you like that.” He keeps that tone with you, deep and soothing, and it only makes you want him more. Just him calling you honey has you dripping into your panties again, and you hear him grunt as the scent hits his nose. “D-do you have somebody you want me to call? To help you?”
You shake your head, a bit embarrassed at the admission of your non-existent love life.
“Do you have-” For once, he’s the one blushing. “Do you have… supplies? To get you through your heat?”
Your head tilts, confused. “I have, um, water, and groceries, and plenty of blankets, if that’s what you mean.”
“You don’t have… toys?”
Your mouth parts with a silent “oh”, realising what he means — there are plenty of them out there, special-made dildos with knots at the bottom to help an omega through their heat. You’ve always thought that if you were going to get one, you’d want one of the fancier models, the ones that have a button to inflate the knot on command, or the ones with a thrusting function, or maybe one where you can customize the size. Every time you searched online, you ended up overwhelmed by the options, not to mention the prices, and ended up closing out the tabs before you could make a decision, half-heartedly thinking that you’ll save up enough to buy it one day.
“No, I- I usually just deal with it, um, on my own.” You curl your fingers around the hem of your skirt, tugging on it nervously, feeling yourself dampen further with just the thought of touching yourself.
He glances down at the motion, his eyes fluttering shut for just a moment, dizzy as he takes in your flushed cheeks and heady scent.
“You’re close,” He mutters, almost to himself. ”Sweetheart, if you want… I can- I can stay. I can help you, but if you don’t want me to, I’ll leave now, bring you anything you need, promise, it doesn’t have to b-“
You shake your head vehemently, cutting off his rambling, scooting closer to him.
“Want it to be you, I-” You feel blood rush to your cheeks, your mind becoming a bit hazy at how close his face is getting to yours. “I like you.”
Your confession makes him smile.
“Yeah?” He nudges his nose against yours, playfully affectionate. “I like you, too, baby.”
Then his lips are on yours, deep and wanting, a groan escaping him as soon as he gets a taste of you. He lets you climb into his lap while you slip your tongue past his lips, desperate for him, his hands falling to your hips to encourage you to grind into him for a bit of relief from the burning, feverish desire you feel.
You used to dream about this. On quiet nights after a long day, you’d slip your hand under your pajamas and allow yourself to believee that Clark stole glances at you like you did to him, that some day you’d be stuck together for an assignment, or the last two left after a happy hour with the rest of the Planet crew – you switched up the scenario to keep it interesting, but the result is always the same – he’d reveal his overwhelming attraction to you, take you back to his cozy apartment, and fuck you ‘till your legs felt like jelly and his spend was dripping down your legs, all the while whispering in your ear about how you were the sweetest omega he’d ever touched.
The supply closet was not your idea of a fantasy, but this, being lifted by your thighs when Clark stands and carries to your bedroom, felt eerily similar to what you’d pictured on all those nights, down to his lips never leaving yours, the mass of muscle under your hands as you held onto his biceps, the heated edge to his scent as his arousal became evident.
He lays you on your bed, and even through the haze of desire, you feel a tinge of embarrassment at the state of your bedroom, the collection of soft objects carefully arranged in subconscious preparation for your heat, your cloying scent coating every inch of the room. If Clark minds, he doesn’t show it, exceedingly careful not to disturb your nest when he sets you down. He finally pulls away from spit-slicked lips to press open-mouthed kisses down your jaw, your neck, while he moves to lift your shirt off.
“If at any point, you need me to stop-” He looks back up at you, pressing a kiss just below your navel. “Just tell me, baby, and I’ll stop.”
“‘M not gonna want you to stop,”
He takes his time removing your blouse and simple bra, his eyes fixated on the flush of your skin that goes all the way down your bare chest, long enough to make you squirm under his gaze before he gets his mouth on your nipples, kissing, sucking, kneading your sensitive flesh till you feel slick soak down your thighs. He relieves the discomfort of wet fabric on your skin before you can even voice it, removing your skirt and panties in one tug, soothing your slick, burning skin with his touch.
Then your legs are over his shoulders, kisses trailed up your thighs as he sets his hungry gaze on your sex, a low, rumbling purr forming in his chest at the sight of you bare for him.
“Can’t believe you’re gonna let me taste this sweet cunt,” He mumbles against your skin, not bothering to hide the deep breaths he’s taking, drinking in the smell of you. “You’re gonna send me into a rut, sweetheart, just the taste of you-”
“No, please, alpha,” You beg, tangling your fingers through his curls and trying to tug him up from between your legs. “I need you-”
“Need me inside, baby, hm? I know,” He coos. “Know it hurts, but I have to get you ready for my knot first, need to make sure I don’t hurt you.”
He answers your distressed whines by opening his mouth over your pussy, lapping at you languidly like he’s doing it for himself, not to hear your desperate mewls, just the taste of you making him groan.
You’re sensitive, and completely at his mercy, letting out pleasured whimpers every time he touches you. He has no trouble bringing you to multiple climaxes, closing his lips around your clit and sucking until you’re rocking your hips against his face, knuckles cramping from the strength of your hold on his curls. His strong hands holding you in place are the only thing that stops you from squirming away when it all gets too much, his tongue unrelenting against your clit, his thick fingers slipping inside you easily after two orgasms, stretching you and curling inside you till you’re incapable of forming sentences, only able to cry out his name over and over again. Still, the burning in the pit of your stomach won’t subside, only getting more intense with each high, you can feel yourself getting delirious with your need for him.
And just when you think Clark is done prepping you, torturing you by bringing you to orgasm after orgasm without him deep inside you, he finally lets you see him. You can’t stop yourself from staring once he finally removes his briefs, his fully hard cock so heavy it can’t even stay upright, thick and flushed red and so pretty. Your eyes swim with tears of joy when he settles over you, his shaft resting so perfectly between your folds, parting them, as he smears his still-wet lips against yours and begins to rut against you. His cock slips between your lips, covering it in your slick, the tip nudging against your clit deliciously but never catching against your entrance, never giving you what you need.
You’re practically sobbing for it. “A-alpha, please, please-“
“Be good f’r me, omega,” Clark slurs, drunk on the feeling of your soft skin against his, the smell of your slick in the air, the taste of it on his lips. He can feel it, the creeping fever on the back of his neck, the need to fill you overtaking every instinct he has. He just wants to draw it out a bit longer, make sure you’re really ready to take his size without hurting, just wants to make you feel good over and over again before he stuffs you with his load.
Your orgasm comes suddenly and leaves you breathless, twitching, digging your nails into his back when you finally feel the head of his cock at your entrance. Your legs wrap around his waist, trying to get him to push in just a little bit, but it’s no use — his strength far outweighs yours. His hand comes up to cup your jaw, forcing your eyes open and on him.
His gaze is intense, and forcing you into clarity for a moment, focusing on meeting his eyes as he presses into you, inch by inch, pausing when your breath catches. He waits, every time your brow pinches with the force of the stretch, pausing until you nod for him to keep going.
When he bottoms out, his pelvis flush against yours, he stays there, pressing sweet kisses to your lips despite you rocking your hips up into him. The hand on your jaw moves down in favour of gripping your thigh, hoisting it further up on his waist, forcing you open for him and halting your movements.
“Gotta give me a second, omega, or ‘m gonna- fuck- gonna pop my knot before I’ve even felt you cum around me.” He warns, his jaw clenched tight.
You watch him as you wait, his eyes screwed shut, his glasses slightly fogged, cheeks bright red. You can’t believe you get to see him like this. Fully rooted in you, not an inch of space between you. All pent up, just from getting his mouth on you, giving you exactly what you need, what you’ve wanted for so long, and then-
He’s rocking his hips into you shallowly, just letting you feel his cock drag against your walls, grinding up into that spot that makes you see white while he whispers praise, trying desperately to contain his strength so he doesn’t bruise your thighs. You cum just from that, from feeling so full and raw and satisfied, finally, that your lungs constrict and you feel the gush of slick between you, soaking both of you, but he doesn’t stop for a minute, just mumbles how good you are for him, “Yeah, yeah, that’s it, baby, cum for me, just like that-“
He starts to fuck you in earnest, the hard thrust of his hips knocking moans from both of you, sloppy and slick and unrestrained.
All you can do is cling to him, clenching and whining sweetly for him, the hot clutch of your cunt drawing him in over and over again till you can feel the swell of his knot nudging at your entrance, and then you start to beg again. Pleading for him to fill you, to make you his, telling him yesyesyes when he laps at the curve of your neck, smothering you in his rich scent again.
You can feel him thickening inside you, beginning to lose himself to the feel of you as his hips lose their controlled swing, reduced to groans tight in his throat like he can’t bear to form words anymore. Then his teeth, the sharp ridge of his incisors, scraping at your scent gland, the hint of a claim tips you over the edge again, making a mess of the sheets under you and reducing your limbs and mind to mush. It’s here, in this state, that he can finally push his pulsing, massive knot into you, locking you with him as he spills his seed.
And he cums so much. Filling every inch of you, till you have nothing to want for, finally sated for the time being. Your head is fuzzy with his scent, the hot swell of his knot inside you, the feeling of his lips on yours again, soothing and grounding.
“Omega,” He mumbles, pulling away, a string of spit between your lips and his still connecting you. “How do you feel?”
A pleased chirp leaves your mouth, and you wiggle your hips under him just to feel the tug of his knot inside you, making him grunt in surprise, a fond smile forming on his face.
“‘M so happy,” You tell him, pressing a kiss to his jawline. “So full, alpha, thank you.”
You stay like that for a while, letting him fawn over you, peppering praising kisses anywhere he can reach, asking if you’re hungry or thirsty repeatedly, despite your insistence that all you want is him.
When his knot deflates just enough to slip out, he grabs you water anyways, coaxing you into downing at least two glasses and half a granola bar with several pecks in between sips and bites. Only then does he settle back into bed with you, purring comfortingly as he wraps an arm around you from behind.
For a few minutes, you lay with him, soothed despite the fact that when your heat clears, you’ll go back to being coworkers, this fulfillment of your desires only lasting so long before this favor is done and you return to coffees in the morning and a few words exchanged during meetings.
Then your mind clouds again and you’re reaching for him, moaning sweetly when he lifts your thigh and fills you from behind, promising to spear you on his knot as many times as you need.
You get worse before you get better. Clark takes you more times then you can even make sense of in your delirium, even makes you cum on his knot a few times, grinding into you and swirling his thumb over your clit just to tire you out and soothe your feverish pleas.
And he kisses you. All over, but especially your lips, can’t seem to go long without the taste of your mouth on his, and when he’s not kissing you, he’s telling you how good you are for him, how good you feel, how much he loves filling you. Spends every lucid moment you get making sure you’re both energised, even sweet-talking you into getting a few hours of sleep when he can.
You give yourself over to him. For those few days, you let yourself forget that it’s a fantasy at all.
summary: nobody expects the frat boy and the chubby, nerdy girl to ever look in each others’ direction. but who cares what people expect?
word count: 3.5k
contains: fluff & smut. frat clark the wonderful gorgeous sassy little gentleman, reader is a weird literary nerd, lois lane being kickass propaganda. college kids being pretentious to turn each other on, my fav. some talk of drinking/being drunk, fraternity parties. clark and reader uhaul lesbian tf outta each other, first kiss/boyfriend trope. *piv, protected sex, light and bubbly and sweet because ughhhh… *no use of y/n
a/n: well yes, @intwoweeks ! i love frat clark, if you guys want more i will definitely do more with him– fics, blurbs, whatevs. hope you like ;)
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If we asked anyone to explain how you and Clark Kent went well together, they would be at a loss for words. From the outside, it just… didn’t make sense. But then again, neither of you really made sense as individuals. That is, you didn’t fit into boxes in the way college kids like to.
Clark was a brother in Alpha Gamma Rho. He was a backwards-hat, cut-off tank kind of guy. The legend of AGR keggers because he never seemed to get drunk. The very same legend who held doors for everyone, even if it made him late. You could see Clark mowing down brothers on the frat lawn in a game of tackle football, or studying with a pair of crooked, taped glasses in the library. Sometimes he was pulling senior pranks, parking cars on roofs or wrapping an office in Christmas paper. Other times he was exercising his secret duty of negotiating with campus police when a party was coming up, bringing them donuts and promising no problems, if they’ll only let it run its course. Needless to say, the farmboy wore many hats– but he had a core that was simple. Warm, thoughtful, passionate love. Intentional care. Remarkable intelligence. Those were just a few things that you loved about Clark.
And you– well, who could ever figure you out? The girl with no solid shtick. President of the literature club, occasional peer tutor through the university library, who could often be found committing drunken karaoke offenses at the off-campus bar with your friend and roommate Lois. Nobody would be shocked to see you in fishnets and lacy black everything one day, and mary janes and a denim skirt the next. You walked with your head down and iPod blasting on school sidewalks, but you managed robust debates in class. You even put on the bulldog mascot suit and rushed the field during your sophomore-year homecoming game, because your public speaking professor (assistant coach of the MetU team, coincidentally) offered anyone a pass on the final presentation if they had the guts. When your peers would walk by and see you either hiding in a novel or handing out bookmarks for your club, no one batted an eye – because you were just that girl who did anything. Knowing everyone, yet knowing no one.
It seemed every expectation of you both was subverted by another facet. Multi-dimensional in a one-note world. College isn’t always the place for fully-formed people like that, but perhaps it can be good for finding each other… can’t it?
You and Clark worked from the beginning.
He liked you when he found you standing in the corner of one of his frat parties, cradling a vodka cranberry (heavy on the vodka) with glazed eyes, staring over the sea of bodies like someone had personally offended you. He thought your dopey frown was sweet. You both remembered that night like it was yesterday.
—͙͘͡★—
“What’s the matter?” Clark had cooed, sauntering over with an empty beer bottle and a torturous little smirk on his face. His eyes were green and bright like the light across from Gatsby’s dock. You loved Gatbsy. Your drunken self thought of Gatsby religiously. Something about drinking and prohibition, and then the thought train just…
“My one friend dragged me here, and I think she’s gettin’ her face chewed over there,” you slurred, pouting, as a black-polished nail pointed across the party to another corner near the kitchen. Your good friend Lois, the only friend you had, really, had a guy in a jersey shoved up against the wall like she wore the pants in that makeout.
Clark snickered and rested his elbow on your shoulder, laughing softer when you tried to wrestle out from under it. “You’re friends with Lane? That can’t be right. Lois is wild– and she’s here all the time. I’ve never seen you before.”
You lifted your buzzing head and rolled your eyes, sipping your drink– nearly missing the straw, and chasing it with your tongue. “Yeah, well, she needed a resume booster and I needed to get out of the house.”
Clark grinned at your soft mushing words, and he jutted his chin out with a curiously furrowed brow. “How many of those have you had, shortie?”
With a disgruntled scoff, you deflected: “M’not short!”
“Right, you’re just tall among hobbits,” Clark said, and he sat against the windowsill beside you.
He took a second to look you over that night. You had on quite the mix: a dainty little silver necklace that would nod to self-discipline, but it was bracketed by a denim jacket filthy with button pins screaming of new wave and half-niches. A little square neck tank that revealed a freckle by your collarbone. Army green cargos that rose low enough to squeeze the chub of your hips and tummy. Your boots had to have a platform at the very least one inch tall, he deduced, because they were serious and you were still short. And to top it off, there was a plum rim around your lips but a soft, neutral center, which meant you had lipstick on at some point, and had drank it all off.
All of your small contradictions mixed with your very suspicious glances at him made his heart thump, and he knew then and there that he could see you sitting across from him at diners and nuzzling into his neck at theaters. He saw you kissing his cheek, he saw you crying over a test, he saw you waking up with tank top straps slipping from your rounded shoulders and yawning like a cat. He saw you with him, the little romantic…
“Y’know, you don’t look like a frat party kind of girl.”
“I do what I want,” you scrunched your nose, “Nothing means anything anyway.”
“Oh, do I detect a little nihilism, shortie?” Clark teased.
You swatted his shoulder and whined, “I am not short! And do you even know what that word means?”
“What, you think I’m an idiot?”
“Who coined nihilism?” you sneered, leaning down a bit to study his eyes, to see if they shifted.
Clark tipped his head back and craned up, giving you a knowing grin. “Nietzsche. But that one guy Jacobi was the first guy to bring it up, Nietzsche just made it big. There was that other guy who wrote about it in Fathers and Sons…”
“Turgenev,” you suddenly smiled, the drunken judgement slipping away. “You know your depressing Germans!”
“And Russians,” he hummed, smiling wider. Your eyes were big as the moon, and his heart felt like it could seize at any moment. He had to find a way to keep you. “What’s your name, smartypants?”
By the way you smiled, it was clear you preferred that nickname.
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It was unusual, following that fateful encounter. Usually in college you get the couple who dances around each other for years, or you get the two horndogs who can’t even wait until the first date. For you and Clark, it just started… shapeless.
You were too drunk to walk home that night, and so was Lois, so instead of letting you crash with all the other drunkies on the ground floor of the AGR fraternity, Clark personally put you both up in his room. He slept in his buddy Oliver’s room next door, in case he heard any creepers try to catch you or Lois offguard… or if he heard any puking. Then, when he expected to find you embarrassed the following morning, you were simply precious. A perfect, whiny little picture of a hangover– asking him shamelessly for McDonald’s and hogging his mattress until the fog cleared. When he asked Lois if you’re usually so fond of quick friendships, she just raised an eyebrow and said, “Don’t be stupid.”
And you liked him from the start, too. Let’s get that straight.
You didn’t really want to, because the reputations of frat guys seemed to lean towards accuracy in most cases– but you couldn’t deny that they could be brutally attractive. When he stalked over with a Sharks cap on backwards, pretty little curls of chocolate peeking out at the nape of his neck, flexing those annoyingly toned arms under an AGR short-sleeve, you felt heat creep up the back of your neck. If you weren’t drunk, you might have been a bit more stuttery. But it was when he gazed up at you like a puppy whilst dropping all kinds of specialized knowledge on philosophy, the soft timbre of his tone cutting through the egregious EDM shaking the house, you felt the butterflies making your toes curl in your boots. He was sweet, non-threatening, and he smiled like a wolf. Something in your gut told you that Clark Kent was hiding a whole lot of beautiful behind that brotherhood insignia on his chest.
It took you two all but a week to fall disgustingly in love, because Clark fell first, and he was a self-starter.
He found you at the library the day after your drunken romp at his house and brought you a coffee (his brothers felt the urge to adopt you as their pet, by the way, when they found you rummaging like a racoon through the fridge and Clark sitting on the counter behind you, staring with hearts in his eyes… and Lois asleep at his side.) The day after that, he bribed Lois with five bucks to tell him you would be leaving the literature club at four. He walked you to your tutoring shift. The next, he almost breached the creepy line when he used the student directory at the tutoring center to find your dorm number… but you didn’t mind when he showed up with Chinese food and that God-given grin.
Then the week was up again, and there was another AGR party. You were formally invited that time; he snuck you up to the roof through a series of window-hoppings, and he kissed you when you were in the middle of a rant about women writing under male pseudonyms…
—͙͘͡★—
“And did you know that they didn’t even let George Eliot get buried in Westminster? All that judgement for being a female writer, and then the thing with her husband dying and finding a new lover, and the Church said no, so now she’s buried in Highgate and she’s never been moved! Such bullshit, because she literally redefined–”
Clark couldn’t take it. Your eyes did this special thing when you got angry over book stuff, this little flash– like someone was starting up a lighter, over and over again– and it made his knees weak. He lurched forward as if he had no control over the urge, and he pressed his lips to yours in a manner that didn’t match the preceding; gentle, like he might hurt you if he wasn’t careful. His big palms, a bit rough around the curves, cradled your cheeks, and he smiled when he felt the way you sucked in a little breath, like he made you lose your place in thought.
You didn’t even pull away, you only let your lips brush his as you asked, "What are you doing?”
“I think I’m in love with you,” he said, like an absolute idiot. But he wasn’t one. If any girl would take that kind of truth bomb well, it would be you. He knew that for sure.
You nearly knocked him on his back with how excitedly you kissed back, lips slotting against his eagerly and unorganized, head tilting from left to right, trying to find the right way, the right pace, the best feeling. He knew within a second of your sloppy mouth that you had probably never kissed anyone before and were dying to figure it out.
“Easy, easy!” he chuckled, passing his fingers through the strands of hair around your face. “Jeez, Einstein–”
“Shut up,” you giggled, pulling back. Your eyes were on fire in a whole new way. “You love me?”
“Probably,” he hummed. Definitely.
“I love you,” you countered.
“Yeah?”
“It’s probably too soon,” you reasoned, eyes drifting to his lips like they were a magnet.
“Yeah,” he breathed.
“Maybe we’re moving really fast,”
“Maybe.”
“What would I be?”
“My girlfriend.”
“And you’d be my boyfriend,”
“Hopefully.”
“And you want that?”
“Sure I do.”
“You don’t think I'm fat?”
“What?” Clark mumbled against your skin, because he couldn’t take it anymore. He could volley your questions with his lips on your neck. “Stupid question… I like how much you weigh, and if you lose a pound I’ll be pissed.”
“I’ve never had a– mmf– a boyfriend before,”
“That’s fine,” a kiss.
“I might get needy,”
“Mm, please do…” a nip.
Your eyes fluttered when his hands slipped into your back pockets, squeezing happily. “I have a lot of h… homework, all the time,”
“So do I.”
“I vote in every election,”
“Mhm, so do I,” a squeeze.
“I want to write books for a living, even if it means I’m poor,”
“I have a family farm back home… won’t ever have to worry…”
“I- I want to have kids… three kids and two dogs,”
“Farm’s definitely big enough… they better have your eyes, cutie.”
“Mmf–” It got hard to think when his teeth scraped behind your ear. “Are you even listening? You’re talking crazy,”
“Three kids, two dogs, active citizen of democracy, I’ll keep you fed and pretty and– mm, is this new perfume? – n’ you love me?”
“Oh, god… yes.”
“Good. Then we’re both crazy.”
—͙͘͡★—
So, it worked. Nothing you said turned him off or away. He practically knew what you were thinking before you said it. Clark didn’t have to learn to anticipate your every move, he just did. And you seemed to read his mind, although that wasn’t so innate as it was easy– it was all over his gorgeous, gorgeous face.
It was one of those things where you seemed to just fit like interlocking fingers. Every strength, every weakness, they melded into a trade of wills. Where he couldn’t, you could, and you shared life like a milkshake. One straw and a lot of kissing between sips.
Your first time was in your shared dorm room with Lois, when you remembered to lock the door but forgot to deadbolt it, and so she had the misfortune of opening it up and finding the two of your startled into fits of laughter, hiding from her grumblings about ‘boys’ and ‘privacy’:
—͙͘͡★—
You really had never felt anything like it before, and whatever bad porn you watched or had seen in artsy movies did not do it justice. Or, maybe it was just Clark.
Clark had you pressed into the mattress under two hundred and twenty pounds of soft, twisting muscle, his hands wrapped around your back and digging into your sides. You weren’t sure you’d ever be small enough to hold, but maybe you just needed a bigger guy all this time. Everything in proportion, right?
And god, he was a whiner. Clark rutted into you in what should’ve been little motions, but he was so genuinely large that any thrust made your legs shake. It was quite a struggle getting the condom on, actually, because he was so anxious to be sweet with you that his hands shook. You had to roll it on for him, and you couldn’t help but laugh at his blushing cheeks.
“Oh, god, baby,” he whimpered, nibbling at the joint of your neck and shoulder as the plush heat of your walls throbbed around him. “Oh my god, oh my god…”
You were a hot mess, burning up and completely eager. Every grind was met with a buck of your hips, your knees hitched high and your fingernails– purple this time– digging into the meat of his back. For a first timer, you had no reservations. You moaned into the dampening hair behind his ear, “Ho-oly shit, Clark…”
His hands rushed to touch every inch of your back and sides as he lifted himself up a bit and gazed down at you. His chain dangled against your lips and he watched as you took it in your mouth, passing it between tongue and teeth, batting those sinful lashes up at him. He scrunched his face up with a weak desire and tucked a hand under your knee, opening you up that last bit before driving into you with a force that managed to compromise speed and safety. Just as his hands kneaded your tummy, just as your hands twisted the sheets up, just as the two of you were begging and pleading and whining like little vocal twin flames, Lois unlocked the door and froze in the doorway.
You startled immediately and Clark flopped on top of you, his first concern to cover you from whoever it was. But a poor moment of judgement caused him to keep going, even when Lois burst into a flurry of curses.
“Jesus Christ, you guys– oh my god, somebody should’ve just told me, I wouldn’t have come home, couldn’t even put a fucking sock on the door like civilized people– oh my god, are you still going? Fuck, guys, ew! Privacy! Privacy in my own dorm room, that's all I ask! Boys in the room, there’ll never be boys in the room she said– oh, Christ, someone text me when it’s over!”
You devolved into helpless, shocked laughter as she babbled herself out and locked the door again, and Clark smiled into your chest as he made you punctuate every giggle with a moan. He couldn’t get enough of the way you sounded– it was breathy, like a whisper, until it hit harder and your pleasure reached a low register, whiny and hungry. He wanted to chase it out of you until you had no sound left. And he did– until your back arched, until the condom simply couldn’t take any more, until your eyes fluttered shut and wouldn’t open again, until your body twitched and slumped and every other word either sounded like “Clarkie” or “Love you.”
—͙͘͡★—
No matter what first came to pass, or whatever college threw at you, Clark didn’t budge. He knew it when he sought you out at that party. He knew you were the stroke of good luck he’d never find again. So, he kept you. Good choice, because he got a free tutor out of it- not that he needed it. The perks were really just making out in the library.
He met your parents after a couple months, and they gushed over him. The homegrown farmboy had the good sense to bring flowers, and your parents kept them on the sill for weeks until they wilted to nothing. You showed him your childhood room, and he nearly cried at a little list of birthday wishes you had pasted next to your vanity, to which you laughed and accused, “You sap.”
Then it was his turn; he took you home on break to the farm, and his parents nearly gave Martha’s ring over on the spot. You received five pie recipes free of charge. Jonathan Kent gave you a rigorous tour of the farm, and he even let you brush the horses– one of which sneezed on your nice blouse. Clark took you into town for a new one and you got to see all the places he grew up in, and then you nearly cried, and all he could do was kiss you and tell you just how pretty you looked with grass in your hair.
Clark bought you exactly one second-hand novel a week, and you wrote him little poems on scraps of paper and tucked them in every place possible, so that when he went through life, he’d find it unexpectedly, and remember that wherever he was, you were, too.
He went to the slam poetry night your club hosted. You were crowned kegger queen to his kegger king at a particularly rowdy party. His brothers threw you a birthday party and got you delightfully drunk, so you could enjoy a childhood birthday wish of stargazing at midnight next to a cute boy. Said cute boy had to usher his friends to bed just so he could consummate the day you were brought into the world properly (and it was better than the first, somehow.) When you woke up the next morning, hungover in his bed, you smiled to yourself. Your tank top strap slid down your arm. He pushed it up.
It didn’t matter on your shy or outgoing days, or when you felt dark or light. It didn’t matter when he had to put on the ‘brother’ face and do the stupid shit fraternities do. What mattered was that he protected your heart in a little box, and just when it felt like maybe you two wouldn't meet on some small level, you did. It was synchrony. It was easy.
And you know what? It didn’t have to make sense. You two were the odd couple. Soulmates exist like flames in the eyes of girls who float in the wind. He was yours, backwards hat and all, and there was nothing easier than that.
hi hi! more p-links, to access them you must be logged into twitter and be able to view sensitive content. 18+ but im not your mom. (if any of the captions make you uncomfortable, im so sorry, i just typed in “nsfwtwt” and used the least weird vids i could find.)
Summary: What happens when Superman responds to your 3AM thirst tweets
Warnings: sexting, flirting hehe, cybersex/phone sex, masturbation, descriptions of cunnilingus
a/n: I lowkey have midterms in a few weeks so i'm trying to post the few drafts that I have and get ready to kinktober lol. also I have a new series i'm working on but I gotta finish Super! first even tho I don't know how to end it lmaoo
Part 2
It’s well past midnight when you realize your cheek has gone numb from pressing the phone to your ear for so long.
“…I’m just saying,” your best friend slurs on the other end, half asleep and completely unserious. “He has to know what he’s doing, wearing that suit.”
You grin, rolling back onto your bed. The only light in your room is the soft glow of your laptop and fairy lights strung across the ceiling. There’s zoomed in, paused footage from Superman’s last public appearance on your computer screen. He’s hovering over the smoking ruins of a half collapsed bridge, cape whipping behind him in the wind.
“I knew you were going to bring up the suit,” you giggle, picking at a stray thread on your comforter to keep your hands busy. “It does look… different”
“Tighter,” she sighs dramatically. “Like maybe his PR people or whoever fixed it up after that last big fight. Like, ‘Hey, while we’re reinforcing the heat resistance, let’s really accentuate the assets’.”
You press your lips together, trying not to laugh. “You think superman has a marketing department?”
“Babe, if I looked like that, id have a marketing department too.”
That breaks you both into quiet laughter. The kind thats muffled, but delirious gigging that only happens at ungodly hours. Hunched over and clutching your stomach when you’re too tired to be reasonable.
The two of you die down, then she yawns so loudly you flinch.
“God, okay, it’s like three. I need to sleep. We can thirst over supershit more tomorrow.”
“Yeah, okay. Night,” you whisper, fending off your own yawn.
“Night, nerd.”
The line clicks, and the screen flashes with her profile picture. A photo you took when you both saw superman in public. Her eyes are wide as her hand is clasped over her mouth, while superman stands a couple feet behind her talking to a news reporter. It blinks a few times before fading black.
You lie there for a moment, staring at the slow swirl of your ceiling fan. Then, with a groan, you reach for your phone.
Your favorite social media app glows up at you. the familiar blue bird of twitter. Your notifications are flooded as usual. People tagging you in new fan art, retweeting your latest deep dive thread about kryptonian biology, arguing in your replied about whether superman is a good kisser. He would, obviously.
You scroll for a while, half zoned out, until an image of earlier pops back into your head. His broad chest, clearly outlined, that skintight blue fabric clinging to his carved muscles like it’s painted on.
And before you could stop and think about it, your thumbs are flying across the keys.
Do y’all think superman’s proportions are consistent?
asking for science
You hit post.
And then stare at in mild horror. Heart hammering as the likes begin to roll in
“God” you groan loudly, tossing the phone onto your pillow. “I need sleep.”
But you don’t.
You close your eyes and roll over, counting down in your head to at least try and fall asleep.
But a few minutes later, your phone buzzes with a new notification, sounding different this time.
You roll over and squint at the screen through the darkness.
And freeze.
@ Superman
Proportionate in all the ways that matter.
What the fuck?
You nearly flatline.
There’s barely a half second of pure silence in your head before the noise hits. Your brain screams at you, and your blood starts rushing. Your soul is attempting to leave your body.
Your hands fly to the sides of your phone, swiping up and panicking as Face ID struggles to work in the dark.
“FUCKING LOAD” you shout at the phone.
Then, just as quickly as it appeared, its gone.
Deleted.
Vanished like it was never there.
You blink, mouth open. Then, pure instinct, you start clicking every button and screenshot the notification
Your cat, who’s been asleep at the foot of the bed the whole time, lifts his head and looks over at you. Get a grip, loser.
You gasp and your throat goes dry and your hands start shaking. Your notifications are exploding as people notice something happened. A few of your follows are replying things like, “did anyone else see that??” And “did superman just reply to her??”
You clutch your phone to your chest and whisper, “there’s no fucking way. There’s no fucking way.”
And then it vibrated again.
And you squeal, tossing the phone away like it’s on fire.
It lands on the floor with a loud bang, screen lighting up at you.
@ Superman has sent you a message.
You sit up so fast your blankets tangle around your legs. You toss yourself off the side of the bed, crawling to your phone. Then your DMs are open, hands clammy, and your face burning.
Superman:
Sorry about that. I meant to reply privately
I probably shouldn’t be allowed near technology at 3AM
You stare at the screen. And blink. And blink again. Theres a tiny verification checkmark at the corner of his name, burning straight in your soul, like it knows you’re losing your mind.
You:
This isn’t real
Like ur pranking me rn right?
The typing bubble appears almost instantly.
Superman:
I promise its actually me
Do you want proof?
You’re already typing “YES” when a voice note pops up.
You gasp loudly and shakily press play. There’s a low hum of wind in the background, like he’s somewhere high up. Then his voice, warm and low in your speaker.
“Hi. This is… probably the weirdest way I’ve introduced myself to someone, but yes, it’s me. And yes, I really do read your posts.”
You let out a wheeze and fall back against your carpet, phone bouncing off your face and you just accept it as some sort of divine punishment.
You:
Oh my fucking god
Okay
Im screaming into my pillow rn
Superman:
Please don’t suffocate on my account.
Ive had way too many near death rescues this week
You bury your face in the carpet, feet kicking in the blanket still tangled around them as the full body waves of second hand embarrassment roll through you.
You:
You read my posts??????
Like
The serious ones orrr
Superman:
All of them.
The threads are impressive
The other ones are…
Flattering
You nearly short circuit, letting out a loud mix of a groan and laugh. The embarrassment is too much honestly.
Superman:
Im curious, actually
How did you get into all this?
You seem to know more about me than some of my coworkers
You:
I have a great wifi connection
And trauma
And a hyper fixation rn
He sends a laughing emoji, and that finally makes you laugh. Really laugh. Of course he uses emojis.
But there’s no way this is actually happening right now, right? The whole thing feels surreal, like you’re dreaming right now, but an ultra realistic lucid dream.
There’s no way one of the most famous men on earth is in your DMs right now
You:
This is not real
If 16 year old me knew superman wold be in my dms some day she’d die
Superman:
Well im glad I waited until now
And by the way
You still haven’t answered my question about my “proportions”
Oh this man is teasing you.
You stare at the screen before moving back onto your bed. “Holy shit I need to lock in.”
Your hands are slowly steadying, but your hearts still hammering.
You:
oh, that
You ever heard of scientific curiosity
For research purposes only I swear
He keeps responding almost instantly.
Superman:
Soo… “proportions”
Thats the word youre going with?
You:
It sounded more professional than “Is he big everywhere”
You toss your phone away, covering your face with a pillow and let out a strangled scream. Your cat meows in response.
“I know! I know! I am calm, gosh” you wiggle your toes at him and he swats at you, jumping off the bed and walking out of your room. you let out a small “Nooo…”, before your phone interrupts with a string of vibrations and you snatch it back.
Superman:
Careful…
Someone might think you’ve been imagining me.
Your mouth drops open and you blink hard, heart kicking into overdrive. Hes still teasing, but there something different now. Is it getting hotter in here?
You:
Maybe I have
Maybe thats part of my job description
Im am a professional superman enthusiast after all
You let out a squeal, kicking your feet slightly as you feel giddy. He doesn’t reply for a moment and your stomach tightens, but then the message comes.
Superman:
Im somewhere quiet tonight.
Just on standby
No alarms right now, just me and the wind.
And now apparently you.
Something in your chest skips. His words are simple, but you can practically hear his voice in your ear as you read them. Low and Husky, close enough to cause your hair to stand.
You:
You shouldn’t say stuff like that
Ill get the wrong idea
Superman:
Who says it would be the wrong one?
The world seemed to narrow down to the pale glow of your phone screen and the buzzing of your heart.
His next message quickly followed, though. Like he’s chasing something too.
Superman:
Ive been wondering…
What kind of person could make me blush just from words
Now I think I know
Your breath catches as a smile breaks across your face. The words hang in the air around you. You let your thumb hover over the buttons, then type:
You:
Maybe you’re just easy to fluster
Superman:
Not usually.
You might be an exception.
You let out a shallow laugh, the silence between each message you two sent getting thinner and tighter.
But you began to hesitate, heart hammering in your chest, before taking a small, reckless leap.
You:
If you think this I bad
You shouldn’t see my drafts
Superman:
Oh?
Is that a challenge
A laugh sputters out of you. It feels like youre standing at the edge of a cliff. High up, dizzying but exhilarating.
Before you could talk yourself out of it, you send more
You:
This feels like something I shouldn’t be doing on my fan account
It’s too public, you know?
Superman:
Then give me somewhere else to find you
Your throat tightens, red creeping up your chest and neck.
You:
My personal instagrams safer
@ yn.unfiltered
You quickly add:
You:
If this isn’t actually you pls dont catfish me
He accepts your follow almost instantly, his coming right after. The page that loads is surprisingly simple. Less than a hundred followers, and private. It has only a few pictures, mostly the sky or buildings in Metropolis, with one candid picture of him in what looks like a connivence store dressed in jeans and a gray hoodie, his face half turned to the camera with a faint smile.
Before you could check his followers, your screen lit up:
Incoming call - @supe.in.motion
You freeze as your finger hovers, nerves shooting up into your stomach as the phone vibrates.
He’s actually calling you.
Your heartbeats in your throat, but before you could let yourself chicken out you swipe to answer and bring the phone to your ear.
There’s a quiet rush of air in the speaker first, then his voice:
“Hi.”
You swallow hard. “Hi.”
For a second, neither of you say anything. You just listen to the faint ruffle of wind around him, like he’s somewhere open, on top of a building like he mentioned before. And then you pull the phone away and stifle a laugh.
“Sorry, sorry”
He laughs in response. “I wasn’t sure you’d pick up.”
“I wasn’t sure you were real,” you smile so hard your cheeks begin to hurt, you try to keep your voice steady and light, although it comes out quieter than expected.
He lets out a low chuckle under his breath, and it runs through your veins as you hold the phone closer.
“Im real,” he says, “though I can’t lie, this feels… surreal. Talking to someone who’s been making me blush just from words.”
You blink, stunned and silent. “Blush?” You echo faintly
“Mhm.” His tone shifted slightly, slower than before, dipping below his normal tone. “Its been a while since anyones managed that.”
You start to feel fuzzy as your stomach tightens.
“Thats not fair,” you let out a soft huff. “You can’t just say things like that.”
“Why not?”
The quietness between you grows sharper, the air thinning. You hear yourself laugh softly, a bit nervous, but there’s no backing down now.
“Maybe you’re just easy to fluster.”
“Im really not,” he says simply. “I think you’re just an exception”
Your breath catches as you fight back a smile.
But you decide to test the water, careful and tentative, words draped with tease
“Do you always talk like this with people who tweet about your… proportions?”
A faint smile is heard in his voice. “Only the ones who make me wonder what else they think about”
Something sparks low in your belly, and your voice dips before you have the chance to stop it. “And what do you think I think about?”
There’s a pause at the end of the line. The wind softly rushing through the speaker, then, “I think,” his voices slow and deliberate, “that If I were there, you wouldn’t be thinking about much at all”
Your body floods with heat. A tingly sensation crawling up from down south as you smile so hard your cheeks hurt. You press your lips together to stop it, your pulse gone wild. “Thats a dangerous thing to say,” you whisper.
“Only if you want it to be.”
You’re the first one to break, soft voice flowing, “this… probably isn’t something I should be doing on speaker. God, if my neighbors hear.”
“Then dont.” His tone is pure velvet now. “I want it to be just for me.”
You switch to the app, your thumb trembling as it hovers. “You are impossible right now”
“I can’t stop picturing you,” he admits. Hes quiet, but certain. “It’s driving me mad.”
You hear soft rustling, the sound of feet against gravel before a short huff and what sounds like him lying down now.
Then something inside you finally gives. Before you can overthink, you switch apps, flicking to your camera and take a quick shot. Just of your legs curled up on the bed, your smooth skin and a glimpse of the hem of your sleep shirt riding high. Just barely suggestive.
You send it.
For a moment there’s only silence. Then his voice returns, rougher than before.
“God... youre beautiful.” A slow exhale. “I want my hands there. Sliding higher. Feeling how warm you are.”
Your breath hitches.
The next sound is a soft rustle, fabric shifting on his end.
“here, something for you.” He murmurs.
A photo appears.
Dark gray sweatpants outlined by the dark gravel he’s sitting on, the waistbands slung dangerously low on his hips, and a faint trail of dark hair disappearing even lower. His skin practically gleams. You can see the cut of muscle along his abdomen that looks like it’s carved in marble.
Your mouth goes dry.
“You’re unreal,” you whisper.
“I promise I’m not,” he starts, “I want you to know exactly how real I am.”
You end up going quiet.
Taking a moment to feel what’s happening, what’s unraveling.
It’s a heavy kind of quiet, thick with heat and possibility. Your breaths are shallow, and the phones warm against your cheek. You can hear him breathing slow and uneven now, holding himself in check by thinning patience.
Your hand drifts lower without thinking.
Fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your thin sleep shorts. Brushing the damp spot on your panties. You sigh softly, a shivering sound you didn’t mean to let slip.
His voice drops in your ear, “are you touching yourself?”
“Not yet,” you murmur.
“should I let you imagine it?” He’s just teasing you now, “or tell you what id do?”
Your eyes flutter shut. “Tell me.”
There’s a pause, as if he’s shifting his weight, grounding himself in this moment.
“Id start slow,” he purrs in your ear. “Lay you out on your back… spread your legs for me. Just look at you for a moment. Take my time.”
Your fingertips slip under the band, grazing your slick heat. You bite your lip.
“Id kiss your thighs,” he goes on, “over and over. So soft you’d start to squirm”
You let out a small, trembling sound.
“I wouldn’t let you close them,” he adds, gentle voice flowing through the line. “Ill hold your hips still and breath you in. All warm and wet and trembling for me. And then…”
He exhales, and it catches a little.
“Id put my mouth on you. Slow, deep, sticking my tongue inside and drinking you in. Over and over until you can’t stay quiet. Until you can’t even think.”
Your hips lift against your own fingers, breath catching as you stifle a moan.
“Id suck on your clit, like i’ve been starving for you.” He whispers, “id make a mess of you, wouldn’t stop til you’re shaking”
A faint rustle comes through the line, clothes shifting. His breath hitches, a soft groan breaking through, then steadies.
“Youre… so fucking wet, aren’t you,” he speaks softly
“Yes,” your voice comes out unsteady, “God, yes.”
There’s silence once more, but it’s not empty. You hear his voice catch again, hitching in his chest as another low groan curls through the speaker and into your ear, like he’s trying to hold it back.
“Are you…” heat floods to your cheeks, voice faltering. “Are you touching yourself too?”
A pause. Then, low and rough he breaks, “yeah.”
Sparks flood through your tummy.
“Im thinking ‘bout your mouth,” you mumble, “how you’d feel.”
Another rustle, sharper this time. And a shaky exhale, his composure fraying.
“I want you to keep touching yourself,” he says, voice tighter, “while I make you come just from my voice.”
Your fingers move in slow, aching circles. Picking up your slick as you swipe low, catching on the hood of your clit, and making your hips jerk with your own movements. The only sound is your uneven breathing and his, ragged, slipping through the speaker in cracks.
You squeeze your eyes shut, clutching the phone tighter as you imagine him: high up on some building, shirt hiked up beneath his chin as he grips the phone to his ear. Sweatpants yanked down haphazardly, and his hand moving in slow strokes as he jerks himself off to your voice.
“Good girl,” he murmurs. His voice is deep and molten, flowing through your veins. “Just like that. Keep going… let me hear you”
You whimper, soft, helpless, and the sound draws a hiss from him, like you’ve punched the air from his lungs.
“God,” he mutters under his breath. You hear fabric shifting again, quicker this time, and the faint rhythmic drag of skin on skin beneath it. He’s not being careful anymore.
“Tell me,” you gasp, “what you’d do”
He pauses before speaking, lower now, rougher.
“Id get between your legs and pin your hips down.” He says. “Make you hold still while I eat you like I’ve been craving it. Tongue fucking you, tasting everything”
Your hips jerk up. Your fingers slide deeper, moaning softly against your palm.
“Suck on your clit,” he goes on, voice breaking on the word. “Slow, practically torturing you… Fuck. Id hold you open with my thumbs while you grind on my tongue. Until your thighs shake around my head.”
A choke sound slips out of you, your back arching off the mattress. You swear you hear him growl, followed by the quick, rough sound of his hand moving faster.
“Fuck—“ a groan tears through him “you’re so wet just thinking about it, aren’t you?”
“Yes—“ your voice cracks. “Id come so fast”
“I know you would,” a strained breath. “But I wouldn’t let you. Not yet.”
You bite back a cry.
“Id make you beg, make you say my name while she’s dripping all over my mouth. You’d be trembling for me.”
Your hand moves faster, wet sounds slick through the speaker. You hear his rhythm stutter, breath catching hard.
“Touch your clit for me” he rasps, “Do it now.”
You obey instantly, circling it with your fingers, breaths coming out fast and broken as your stomach starts to knot.
“God… there you go,” he moans. “Just like that, come for me”
Your thighs are trembling, every muscle tensing. you gasp as your head tips back against your pillow.
His breath shatters in your ear. “Sweetheart…” its barely a sound, just a rough exhale. “Fuck— come for me”
You break with a cry, pleasure ripping through you with a jolt, hips jerking against your hand. Your sounds drag a guttural groan from him, coming in his hand at the end of the line.
You hear him unravel, breath hitching in sharp gasps, turning deep and ragged until it draws into silence. Just his rough breathing and yours, tangled across the crackling air between the lines.
You’re smiling, dazed and still panting. Fingers wrapped around the phone pressed to your ear still. He laughs under his breath, like he can’t believe what just happened either.
“Wow,” he mumbled softly. “You’re gonna be the death of me”
You let out a small laugh, letting your chest rise and fall unevenly as you catch your breath. The phones still pressed against your cheek, burning hot. Your other hands limp, damp and pruning as you let it fall to your side.
“…you okay?” His voices low and warm now, still a little ragged. But softer with the hint of a smile through it.
“Yeah,” you whisper, breath finally catching up to you. “Better than okay.”
He chuckles, quietly, the kind of laugh that feels real in your chest. “Good. Because if you weren’t, id be flying straight over.”
You roll onto your side, tucking the phone closer. “So you do make house calls?”
He exhales through his nose sharply, then is straight back to teasing, “for you? Apparently”
You laugh, burying your face into your pillow all giddy. The air feels lighter now, not less intimate, but different. Just softer.
There’s a rustle on his end, like he’s shifting, settling back. You imagine him stretched out somewhere high up still. Clothes back in place, hair messed up, phone in one hand while the other rests on his chest. You shouldn’t be able to picture it so vividly, but you can now. And it makes you smile.
“You’re trouble, you know that?” He whispers
“Me?” You tease, “I wasn’t the one sexting from… where even are you right now?”
He hesitates, then admits with a laugh, “Rooftop. Empty one. Thought it’d be quiet enough.”
“Oh my god.” You bury your face again, half laughing, half horrified. “Superman, you had phone sex with me on a random roof?”
“Better than in the middle of Main Street,” he deadpans
That makes you snort, and he laughs with you. Both of you caught in the absurdity of the situation.
There’s a comfortable silence after you die down, broken only by his sigh. Gentle, but reluctant.
“I should… probably head home before someone realizes I’m not where I’m supposed to be.”
Your heart sinks a little, though you knew this was coming.
“Will I…” he stops, clearing his throat like the words aren’t easy. “Will I get to talk to you again sometime?
You grin, because the answer feels obvious. “Well, if I need to catch your attention…”
He lets out an amused hum. “Yeah?”
“I’ll just tweet about you again.”
That earns you a real laugh, slipping through the line just for you.
“Sweetheart, you’d get me in trouble,” he says, still laughing. “But I’ll be watching for it.”
clark kent is such a lover boy in and out of the bedroom, and he would 1000% talk you through it. argue with the wall
masterlist and taglist!
clark kent, the lover
clark kent, who has the world's biggest praise kink. who loves to tell you how beautiful you look on top of him, or how perfectly made for him you are. he loves to feel you clench around his cock each time he calls you his good girl. who can't help but talk you through your orgasms as you cum again and again, praising you for how well you're taking him and how gorgeous you look all fucked out.
clark kent, who talks you through it. who encourages you when you see just how thick he is for the first time, telling you that you can take it. who just won't shut up about how good you feel around him, how tight you are on his cock.
clark kent, who loves to see his bulge in your stomach. who presses down on it as he ruts into you, smirking as he anticipates the whine that falls from your lips. it gives him an ego boost -- to see you so full of him. who loves to tease you before he even touches your entrance, lining himself up on your skin and showing off just how deep he'll be inside of you. just how much he's going to fill you.
clark kent, who loves to be inside of you, no matter the situation. who loves to give you all his attention and energy, fucking you for hours on end like it's his sole purpose in life. but, clark also loves to be inside of you when his attention is elsewhere, feeling you warm and snug around him as he does his work. who loves when you cockwarm him as he edits, a book in your hands as you wrap your arms and legs around his torso, head on his shoulder like a koala. you tried to fight him on it the first few times, trying anything to move and get some sort of friction. needless to say, you lost the fight.
clark kent, who has an insatiable taste for you. who has begged on his knees to eat you out, damn near in tears over the need to taste how sweet you are on his tongue. who could spend hours between your soft thighs, lapping up your juices and whimpering into your cunt as he ruts against the mattress. your moans only encourage him, music to his ears as he eats you out until you squirt all over his face, only to dive back in and clean up the mess he made.
clark kent, who just loves you. who loves to make love to you, and cherish you with every touch. who loves to make you his sole focus in the bedroom, making sure his boxers aren't even off before you've cum at least once. who swears he lives and breathes to hear the way you moan his name when he first enters you, a vice he holds close to his chest.
