When you find an x reader fic with your favorite characters but "Reader" is biologically related to a canon white character,has pink folds and pink nipples,has blonde hair and green eyes halfway into the story and is actually named Olivia or Jessica this whole time.
Pairing - future stalker!Clark Kent x fem!Reader, stalker!Ultraman x fem!Reader
Warnings - 18+, soft dark Clark Kent, stalking, unhealthy obsession, oblivious reader, traumatized reader, mentions of distant family death, anxious!reader, no smut yet, co-dependance, mentions of anxiety meds, hints of panic attack, almost a/b/o dynamics but not quite, no research/editing done, it's rough living in Metropolis, there will be a part two and total three parts
Summary -Ultraman and Superman have more in common than either of them thought. Hint - it's you.
Word Count - 2.6k
On bad days, living two hours outside of Metropolis didn’t seem far enough. The news station was on your TV so often that an imprint of the host seemed to waver in your field of vision, even when you lifted a hand to scrub at your eyes.
The footage of the creature replayed several more times as the host made comments about the speed and strength of Superman, and how fortunate everyone was that the Justice Gang had been on hand to assist. Whilst you understood the necessity of all the players, you still couldn’t help but cringe at the damage done and all the people that would be without a bed to sleep on for the night.
When your great-aunt had passed three years ago, it had seemed like a no brainer to move out into her house. Secluded, quiet, peaceful and, most importantly, away from the bullshit that was Metropolis. Who wanted to live in a place where you could be awoken at any moment by some jackass bad guy blasting through your window? And after a giant slug blocking the subway had made you late for work not once, but twice, you had been more than fed up.
The house was simple, all one floor, and most of the décor was still your aunts. You hadn’t had the funds to move all your larger belongings from your tiny one-bedroom apartment and it had been almost cathartic to leave all of it behind.
Sometimes you worried that you were becoming a tad bit anti-social. Especially after you had found the online job. The work was mindless but just interesting enough that you felt no urge to look elsewhere for employment. Not when it allowed you to spend almost all your time in the comfort of your safe haven.
You weren’t the only one who was like that though. You had several neighbours scattered throughout the woods, the closest one being around a mile away. Friendly but happy to keep to themselves, like you. You’d only met your great-aunt once, as a young teenager, but you wished you had known her more. It seemed like you would have had a lot in common.
Once again, your eyes drifted to the television. There had been a lot of property damage, but no-one had been hurt. Not badly, anyway. Physical injuries weren’t always the worst though. The people involved were no doubt traumatised.
You heaved yourself up from the couch and padded over to your small kitchen, pouring the rest of your cold tea down the drain. Soup was still cooling on the stove and you began to root through the cupboard under the sink for a container to store it in.
You often tried to keep yourself busy, working hard, cooking interesting recipes and picking up as many hobbies as was feasibly possible. Even with your hands occupied, your mind could not help but delve into the past.
Honestly? What had happened hadn’t been that bad. Not compared to what others had been through. Coming face to face with death, though, had stolen the breath from your lungs and you were still fighting to get it back.
It had been six months before you moved to your great-aunts. Midday, on a sunny afternoon, you had stood up to rearrange the curtains to let more sunlight in. Dust particles danced on the air as you tucked in the fabric around the window sill; you almost hadn’t noticed him at first.
There was no prolonged eye contact or anything like that. You hadn’t known his name then – still hadn’t worked up the courage to research him now – but you knew enough to recognise him as a regular tormentor of the city and an enemy of Superman. His eyes had passed over you on the fourth floor, paying no mind to you or anyone else staring up at him in horror. He wasn’t there for you, he was there for Superman and if levelling the building with you in it was what got his attention, then so be it.
Luckily, he never got the chance. Superman saved the day, as usual, but the fact that it didn’t happen couldn’t make you forget the fact that it almost did. Dead, just like that.
Six months later, you found out that your great-aunt had left her house and belongings to you, her only living relative. You hadn’t been able to get out of Metropolis fast enough.
Ultraman’s life goal was. . .well, whatever Lex Luthor told him it was. At the moment, that was mostly destroying Superman. He had been doing a pretty good job at that, even he had to admit, and when he did well, Luthor tended to let his guard slip a little.
Not too much, just a tiny bit. Just enough for Ultraman to have several hours a day where he could do whatever he pleased.
And you were pretty fucking pleasing.
It was risky, leaving the lab in the night, but when it was darker he could get closer than usual to your home. The curtains may as well not have been there for all the good they did, but he appreciated the fact that no-one else but him could see through.
Ultraman tilted his head as you ducked out of sight, fiddling with something under the sink. He wanted to know everything about you and he was getting very close to that goal. It was strange to want something for himself, to want something that no-one had told him he should want and yet.
Ultraman had begun to suspect that Lex Luthor did not matter. What mattered was this, you, your soft skin and gentle smile, the tip-tapping of your fingers on your keyboard and the wrinkle between your brows when you were frustrated. What mattered was the feeling that clawed its way through his chest every time he thought about you because Ultraman wasn’t sure he had ever felt anything before.
His brain was still figuring things out, making connections and establishing a sense of self. There had been no desire to figure things out until he saw you. Then he wanted to know things, like how your skin would smell up close, how you would smile up at him, how your voice would sound when you talked to him all soft in the evenings.
He really, really wanted to know these things.
A gentle breeze shifted his hair and blew it from his face. He could smell blood, his own, from where he had clawed out the tracker than had been implanted by Luther Corps. It was stored safely in his breast pocket, where it would stay until he decided other wise, because Ultraman was deciding things now. It was best that no-one knew this, though, so he would keep it on him until the right moment came. He would heal quickly and no-one would suspect him of his rebellion or the urges that had begun the moment he had set eyes on you four months ago.
The true luck lay in the fact that he had met you at all. He had seen you on what he now knew was a rare visit to the city. He had watched you with your friends and, for the first time, wanted something. That was desire, he later found out. Following you home had not been a conscious decision. He had never been so far without a handler before and he found that he liked the time alone but he preferred being with you.
Raising a hand, he traced the outline of the tracker in his pocket. He could throw it out now, take you and just. . .go. Never think about Lex Luthor or Superman again. It wouldn’t be hard; you were already taking up so much of his mind that it was hard to breathe without you.
There were still things to think about though. Plans to make. He shivered hard, enjoying the feeling of his mind racing, thoughts filled with potential. When he was around you, he felt normal – happy, even.
His lips twitched in a poor attempt at a smile. After an existence borne from the desires of others, it felt euphoric to choose something for himself.
It wasn’t until hours later that you decided to peel yourself from the couch and go to bed. You threw your book down with a thud and raised your hands above your head in a stretch, mouth yawning wide.
The latest news flashed onto your TV. These days there was rarely a moment of reprieve but you felt too nervous to miss a moment. Anxiety pills were useless when there were real things to be anxious about. It’s grip on you had lessened since you moved from the city but there were days when it was hard to work around your impending sense of doom.
“Ultraman has been apprehended in an incredible combined effort of the Justice Gang and our hero, Superman –“
“Huh,” you raised your brows. “Nice.”
There were bad days and there were good days. Today had turned into one of the latter.
It had been strange looking into a face identical to his own. Despite all the damage and destruction caused by Ultraman, Clark Kent couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for him. He looked rather pitiful now that he was out of his suit and locked up. Clark recognised the miserable look on his face and wondered what it was about Ultraman that seemed different.
“You sure these will hold him?” Guy asked, brow arched. He studied Clark’s clone with undisguised disgust, ring finger tapping on his bicep.
“Mmm,” Clark replied absently, “he isn’t as strong as I am. Not sure what you want to do next, though. I’m sure he won’t talk.”
“We’re just waiting for Luthor to make a move, more or less,” Mr. Terrific spoke up, “prove that he’s involved in this. Then we can come down on his ass like a pound of bricks. Until then, we can only look at the information we already have.”
“What do we have?”
“We have his tracker. Luthor seemed to trust him enough to have him carry it on his person, although it’s the type that’s usually inserted under the skin. I’ve highlighted a bunch of locations we can check out,” Mr. Terrific tapped the screen. “See this one? He’s here a lot. Maps say there’s nothing out there but a bunch of houses. Could be a secret base or something.”
"What about. . .him? His DNA?" Clark asked, shifting uneasily.
"That's pretty much all you," Mr. Terrific shrugged, "but we knew that already."
"He's not as strong as I am, though. There could be other things that are different too. Exactly how similar are we?"
Another shrug. "I'm sure we'll find out."
Ultraman shifted; the sound almost imperceptible. Clark glanced over at him. His eyes were downcast, loose curls crowding his face, but Clark could detect a hint of panic and something that seemed angry. The slight difference in his features was enough to make Clark suspicious. Ultraman had not always been so emotive; usually his face was a blank slate with Lex Luthor all over it. To others there was probably no difference, but Clark could recognize the slight changes and felt his own curiosity being piqued.
“I’ll go,” Clark suddenly said. He stepped close to the screen, memorising the location.
He left before anyone could say anything, shooting off into the sky in a blue blur. If Lex Luthor was up to something, he had to find out what.
Another charmingly sunny day. You finished your breakfast and dumped the dishes in the sink to be dealt with later. You could no longer put off the gardening – if what you did could be called gardening at all.
Your aunt had beautiful flowers planted all around the property. Despite living here for three years, you still didn’t know the name of most of them. What you did know what that they liked water, sunlight, and occasionally required special dirt. Oh, and weeds looked shitty amongst them so it was best to get rid of those.
The temperature was cool enough that you had on a loose jacket and skipped putting on a hat. Once your thickest gardening gloves were on, you were ready to work. First call of duty – weeds.
You threw your water bottle down and knelt beside it in the soft grass. You glanced around, relishing the peace and quiet. There had been a time that you thought the isolation might scare you. You couldn’t have been more wrong.
You loved nothing more than the scent of the outdoors. It felt fresh and clean. Sometimes when it was windy you could smell the scent of your neighbour’s washing on the line, almost a mile away. Living here was slow and casual. Every inhale helped you wash away memories of the grimy city you once lived in.
As the sun began to rise, sweat began to bead along your hairline. You tore weeds out by the root, discarding them in your bucket as you went along. The flowers seemed especially fragrant, almost as if they were thanking you for your hard work. Your great-aunt leaving you this property had been a god-send; keeping up her garden felt like least you could do.
A sudden wind had goosebumps rising along your arms. You paused, wiping your dirty gloves on your sweat pants as you tilted your head up, trying to enjoy the warmth of the sun.
“Ma’am?”
You inhaled sharply, shooting to your feet with your trowel in hand, held out as a weapon. You quickly realised it would not do much good.
Not against Superman.
“I’m so sorry to disturb you,” he said slowly, eyes darting over your face, “but – “
Whatever he said next, you didn’t hear. You could only blink dumbly at the sight of Metropolis’ hero standing in your front fucking yard as though he’d been there a million times.
Superman’s eyebrows came together in concern as he watched you freak out. It made him look surprisingly boyish, you thought. It wasn’t until he raised a hand and stepped forward that you remembered that this was real, he was here, and you wanted to make him go away as quickly as possible so you could immediately try to forget this had ever happened.
“I- I’m sorry,” you stepped back and swallowed, “can I help you?”
You looked anxiously around, half expecting the sky to cave in at any moment. Superman only appeared when bad shit happened – or was about to happen. You gripped the trowel in your hand like a lifeline and willed yourself to stop shaking.
You couldn’t work out the expression on his face. You put it down to your own mind spinning out of control. Blue. His eyes were blue and they were staring at you like you were the alien, not him. He tilted his head a little and his nostrils flared as the wind blew once more.
“No,” he finally said. “There’s been a mistake. I’m – I’m sorry.”
“Ok,” you nodded. “Fly, um, safely.”
It was probably rude to turn your back on a hero but you did it anyway. You tried not to walk too quickly, all too aware of the fact that he was still standing there, watching you.
You gently shut the door behind you and slid the lock into place as if it would do anything. Double bolted for good measure. He’s still there, you thought, I can feel him. As calmly as you could, you kicked off your shoes and beelined to the bathroom. You climbed into the tub as you would during a hurricane, because that’s what this fucking felt like, and waited.
Five, ten minutes went by before the air outside seemed to shift. Either you were insane or he was actually gone. But why had he been here at all?
You tucked your head between your knees, covered your ears and let out a muffled scream. Two hours from Metropolis apparently didn’t mean shit.
Note - there will be a part two if anyone is interested. Please let me know by reblog/commenting! This is my first superman fic and it has not been edited but I’ve been dying to write about him since I first saw the movie.
If you liked the fic, please comment/reblog!! It means the world ♥️
cw: 18+, smut, dub-con, doppelgängers, infidelity that isn't intended but the reader is compliant at the end, deception, titplay, p-in-v, Ultraman yearns for the reader
From the second he saw you, he had a purpose.
It wasn't fate. It was a biological, chemical attraction. Standing in the wreckage of an explosion, mic clipped to your collar. You'd been caught in it, yet, you had a smile, assuring people through the camera that it was all over.
Then he sees…himself. A brighter, calmer version. A version of himself that got to have you.
It'd begun with curiosity, turning quickly to studying and obsession.
He learned how Clark walked, smiled and even how how softened his voice when he spoke to you. Slowly, he'd turned himself into a replica of Clark Kent.
All that was left was his test, the search for your touch on his skin. He had his doppelgänger distracted far ways from Metropolis.
It felt wrong on his body — the suit he'd swiped from Clark's closet. Much too tight in some very uncomfortable places, but also far too honest for his creation.
"Clark. You're back!"
You're quick to throw yourself around him when he steps into the living room, giving him a warmth he wasn't sure he deserved.
"…I. Yes."
It comes out tight, trying to present his voice as he'd heard on the television for hours.
"T-The news — you were being…" You cup his face, tracing your fingers over every inch of his face.
He looked completely fine, even after the countless blows he'd been taking from an intruder at the city centre.
"You're fine. God, you're fine."
He lets you kiss him, pull him backwards down the halls. His hand remains carefully hovering over your hips. Uncertain if he could even touch you.
"Are you sure you're okay?" You whisper against his lips, thumbing at the indents of his cheeks.
"You're being…really quiet."
Ultraman had come too far to mess this up before he even got to touch you properly.
He smiles, the same way that your boyfriend comforted you every single time. His arms curl around your lips to lift you, locking your legs around his hips.
"I'm just…happy to be here." He manages. Your back hits the mattress in a blur of air. Tracing the lines of your face with his knuckles.
"With you."
Something felt different about his gaze. A desperation and longing that felt rather pained. You tilt your head as he leans forward to bury his face in the crook of your neck.
Fingers hooked around your sweats to drag them off your hips. The sudden coldness has your thighs squirming for heat as you rub up the sides.
"You're beautiful."
He rasps, thumbing at the hem of your top, yanking them up to your collarbone. You gasp sharply, gaze snapping down to the indecent recoil and back up at Clark in the wake of his uncharacteristic roughness.
"C-Clark?!"
A rougher pair of hand squeezes at your tits, kneading the softness in its palms. You feel a flicker of doubt course through you.
It could be your paranoia speaking. But the man before you — he had your boyfriend's face. Same blue eyes, but the warmth didn't feel the same.
The thought quickly muddled at the wet suction latching around your nipples. You whine loudly in surprise, it encourages him further, swirling his tongue around the sensitive nub.
You feel him grind into your hot core, rubbing and grinding himself by instinct at what made him feel good. There was an uncoordinated movement in his movements. Messy and desperate just to stimulate his quickly hardening bulge.
"Mmph — haahh..aren't you gonna?…"
He lifts his head up, looking at you dazed, a string of wetness dragging itself off your nipples.
"Babe?…" Your palms trace over his erection, and he huffs out a whine.
His fists clench beside you as you free him from his suit, letting you lazily pump at him as best as you could. His shoulders tense at every jerk, mouthing Valley of your breasts. His mind was now an overload of your heady scent — scent of your skin, and what seemed to be remnants of your sweet body wash. All that he spent months just observing.
You whine wantonly for him, angling his girthier than normal cock into your folds. He clumsily forces himself all the way in without warning with a pained grunt.
"Oh fuck — fuck! Clark!"
He looks up at you in remorse. Panty and shaky. Not stopping even at your mewls, "I-I'm sorry. I can't s…stop. I can't stop."
You nod through tears. Wrapping your arms around his neck.
"I-it's okay — hhrk!"
The bed frames give out somewhere between his fifth and eighth thrusts as he fucks you into the mattress about abandon. It was a feeling he wasn't accustomed to, but all that he knew was that every drag of his cock out of your hot, tight walls was making his balls tighten with a foreboding release.
"I-It's okay, it's okay." You assure, cupping his face, soothing his twisted expression. He nods hastily, snapping deeper into you. The sounds that filled your bedroom had grown obscenely loud, wet thwacks slapping into your cunt.
His palms wrap beneath the fat of your thighs, pushing them flush to your chest. You choke when he's somehow even deeper than before as he'd gotten on his haunches to drive his cock into you.
You weakly hold over your thighs, focused on the spongy spot he's repeatedly hitting, making you pulse and squirm around him. Drowning your mewls into his mouth, with nothing but hasty whines mirroring them.
He wasn't letting go of you anytime soon, that much was evident.
—
It's barely dawn when you rouse from having passed out entirely — a buzz from your phone has woken you up. Lazily, you bring the receiver to your ears.
"…mmn…hello?"
"Morning, babe. I'm sorry I didn't make it home last night. I should be back in a couple of days, okay?"
"Mmhn…oka— wait. What?"
You pause. Shooting upright. The sting from below was still there, you turned to see the same broad back breathing deeply next to you, still asleep.
"You're…you're not home right now." It's more of a statement than a question, really.
"? No. I've been at fortress. Ow — Krypto! Ugh. Sorry, I have to go first. Take care, I love you."
"Y…Yeah…I love you too."
Whoever this person was, next to you. You weren't quite sure anymore. But it hadn't stopped you from letting him pull you back down next to him, letting him rest his morning wood against your still sore cunt.
• He’s basically a blank slate when it comes to human intimacy, so the first things he latches onto becomes obsession. If your boobs were the first thing that made him feel… something, then congrats: they’re his lifelong fixation.
• He doesn’t understand shame. If he wants to touch you, he just does it. In public, in the middle of a conversation, absentmindedly resting his hand under your shirt because it comforts him.
• His super-hearing means he memorizes the exact way your heart speeds up when he palms your tits. He lives for it. Sometimes he squeezes just a little too hard just to hear the flutter in your chest.
• Clone-brain doesn’t get subtlety. When you ask what he’s staring at, he just bluntly answers: “your breasts.” Dead serious, no embarrassment.
• He’s a groaner, not a moaner. Every time his mouth is on your chest, he’s humming and rumbling like he’s feeding on something divine.
• If you deny him access, he sulks. Actual sulks. Arms crossed, pout, glaring at you until you finally sigh and let him bury his face in your cleavage again.
• He falls asleep like that too — mouth half-open, drooling against your tits like they’re his pillow.
• When he’s fucking you, it’s impossible for him not to have at least one nipple in his mouth or between his fingers. Your breasts are basically part of his rhythm, part of the way he learns to feel
“Ultraman?”
You turn around and see him standing there, less imposing than you remember him, holding out flowers.
Or, well, what was supposed to be flowers.
He must've flown fast, as most of the petals are gone, handing you mostly a bouquet of stems.
“Oh, uh,” you say, blinking at the “flower arrangement”.
You can’t see his face from behind the mask, but you just know he’s looking at you expectantly.
Broad shoulders curled in a little, head tilted down, leaning in like he’s waiting for some kind of verdict.
“I love them! This is really sweet. I can’t remember the last time someone gave me flowers.”
He straightens instantly, like your approval flicked a switch in him.
Or
Ultraman finds you, quite literally, glowing, in a wreck and saves you. From that day on, he can't get you, his ray of sunshine, out of his head and starts visiting you.
Tags/Warnings: Fluff, Angst, Metahuman!Reader that can control Sunlight, Ultraman Being Cute, Grumpy x Sunshine, Feelings are Confusing, Lex Luthor Being Mean, Some Light Stalking, Domestic Fluff
WC: 7.1k
A/N: First fic on my new account, was previously @blank-potato, and my first Ultraman fic! Title from My Girl by The Temptations. Hope you enjoy 😄 *Also there won't be a part 2 for this, at least not any time soon, I've tried and failed 😭
***
He wasn’t supposed to save you.
That wasn’t the objective, the order.
But the moment he saw you, he knew he couldn’t walk away.
***
Living in Metropolis, you were used to random fuckshit happening on the daily.
Your car had just been crushed by an alien-kaiju-creature of sorts, leaving a giant footprint where your sunroof used to be.
So what if your car insurance didn't cover that?
So what if the claims agent hung up the moment you said “giant lizard foot”?
It’s alright, you didn’t mind taking the tram.
If only you knew, this would be the worst possible day to rely on public transit.
You're flipping through songs, trying to find the right one. It’s a quiet tram car, very few other commuters scattered in their seats, all wrapped in their own early-morning misery.
You’re half focused on the music, half focused on the fact that you’re definitely about to be late for work.
It's a slow crawl through your playlist, as you tap your screen—skip, skip, skip...
Unbeknownst to you, the tracks beneath the tram were beginning to tremble, a groaning sound rolling up from the ground like something waking up angry.
The few other people next to you started to take notice, but you're just skipping away, grimacing at each song that doesn’t quite hit, nothing quite matching the vibe.
A scream cuts through the music, causing your head to snap up.
By the time you lift your headphones off, the front end of the tram is lifting into the air.
The rippling shock of motion burst through the cabin, as bodies ran away from the tilting floor and shattering windows.
Screams burst like static, as you're tossed around the car, spinning with bags and seats and loose debris.
Then everything goes dark.
***
Ultraman lands, the asphalt cracking beneath the impact, shockwaves rippling through shattered glass and overturned cars. Lex sent him to get to the creature and bring back samples, nothing more, nothing less. No delays. No detours. No “distractions,” as Lex liked to call them.
Samples tucked away, he’s about to leave when he hears something.
“Please, anyone!”
He freezes.
There’s… a light.
A faint, flickering glow beaming from underneath the rubble like a beacon. It pulses weakly at first, then brighter, like it’s trying to call out.
“Hey! F-fuck—”
Your voice cracks, strained, trembling.
He can hear your heartbeat, fast and frantic, climbing like it’s about to break through your ribs. Short, desperate huffs slipping out between cries of pain.
“There's—there’s someone under here! Please…”
Against his nature, against his orders, against every drilled command that told him to stay cold and leave… he steps toward the light.
Something about your voice struck a chord in him.
A pull.
A weakness, Lex would sneer.
But he wants to help.
Venturing inside, he finds you there, glowing, your skin washed in a soft light like sunshine, half-buried under twisted steel and broken concrete. Your leg’s jammed underneath a collapsed beam, pinned so tightly you can barely move your toes.
Dust clings to your hair. Blood smudges your forehead. But your eyes, blinking up at him through the haze, are wide and terrified.
And for a moment, Ultraman forgets what he was sent here to do.
“Please help me, please, I…”
The words tumble out of your mouth like a spill you can’t stop. It was… raw, terrified, almost unbearably human.
He slowly moves closer, like he’s trying not to startle you, hands sliding under the twisted metal beam that was trapping your leg.
You let out a hiss as the pressure shifts, pain flashing across your face.
He pulls it off in one fell swoop, metal screeching as it’s tossed aside like scrap.
You let out a whimper, scrunching up your face.
It does something to him.
Seeing you in pain, the light from your body flickering as you wince. He was… concerned. That was new.
“Are you… okay?”
The words feel unnatural leaving his mouth, like they weren’t meant for him to say.
You look up at him, swallowing hard.
“I’ll survive, but I… I don’t think I can walk.”
He looks over your form, eyes narrowing as his x-ray vision sweeps through muscle and bone. He can see the fracture, and your leg swelling around it. You definitely can’t walk on your own.
Pulling you to him, he lifts you with careful strength, one arm behind your back, the other beneath your knees, keeping weight off your injured leg.
“T-thank you,” you stutter, holding onto his suit. It’s almost too much, having you this close is overwhelming his senses. It’s… confusing.
Also new.
He steps through the debris, shielding you from falling dust and loose rubble as the ground trembles beneath the distant monster’s retreat.
For the first time in a long time… he’s not following orders. He’s focused on carrying you to safety, because he wants to.
He helps you through the smoke, careful not to cause you any more pain and puts you down on the pavement.
“Thank you… again.”
You’re distracting. A big giant sign that goes against everything he’s known to be true, like looking into your eyes, grateful and kind, makes him ask what could be.
But instead of sticking around to find out, he wordlessly takes off into the sky, leaving you astonished.
But one question remained on his mind: who are you?
***
He’s never felt this way.
His entire existence is predicated on hate. Lex’s hate for Superman, for metahumans, for anything that didn’t fit neatly into his vision.
That's all Ultraman knows, all he's ever known.
But then there’s you.
For the first time, you made him feel different, something beyond all the hate and self-loathing.
He’s standing in the shadows now, hidden just beyond the glow of your office window, watching you work. Tapping away on your computer with that quiet focus he’s grown used to.
Smiling when the printer finally cooperates, or when you solve some tiny problem no one else noticed. Asking the old security guard how his weekend was, actually listening to the answer.
Zeroing in on the contented sigh you make when you get your hands on your morning coffee.
He’s never had an interest in the human experience, the smallness of it, the ordinariness of it, the softness. Though he's never really been allowed to.
He wasn’t built for it.
But watching you, how you move through the world, something shifts in him. Something unfamiliar. Something he longs to put a name to.
He doesn't stop at one time.
Next thing he knows, he's watching you walking to work, or rather limping. Your pride not allowing you to accept a ride from a friend, and your wallet not letting you get a taxi every day.
Since the tram incident, you practically swore off public transport for the time being and opted for hobbling to work, more determined than ever, like you had to prove.
Days passed, and he found himself sneaking away to watch you when Lex hadn't deployed him for missions.
Watching TV “with you” or more accurately watching from across the street as you yell at the screen, watching Jeopardy in your pyjamas, falling asleep on your couch by the third ad break.
Somehow, your existence had become a little safe haven for him. A break from all the bad that Lex makes him do. Watching you go about your day, keeping a smile on your face despite it all, trying your best to look on the bright side. It spoke to him, made him feel almost hopeful.
Though as he sees you day after day, night after night, he notices how lonely you are. It felt like the two of you were kindred spirits, like you were lonely just like him.
He's watching you one night, having a sort of routine now. He’s settled comfortably, waiting for you when you step out onto your rooftop. You look comfy like usual, though the toll of the day doesn’t go unnoticed.
It’s in your eyes, the way your shoulders slouch a little, the deep breath you let out when you feel the cool air on your skin.
He wishes he knew what was in your head. He wanted nothing more than to understand you.
“Is someone there?” you call out into the air, eyes still set out on the horizon.
He freezes.
Were you talking to him?
“I’ve noticed you,” you continue, half wondering if you were actually talking to no one. “Caught glimpses of you nearby since the day you saved me.”
You dig your nails into your sleeves as your stomach flips. Whatever you’re about to say, he can hear how nervous you are, every sense giving you away.
“I’d like to talk and properly thank you for the other day. If that’s… like… cool.”
He hesitates, weighing all the possibilities, it all comes down to instinct against something new. But the hold you have on him wins out. It’s curiosity, he knows that for sure, but also something that feels dangerously close to wanting.
There’s a soft thud as he lands behind you, the air shifting with the force of it.
You spin, breath catching, as you see his tall stature.
He stands in the shadows for a beat, then steps forward, just enough for you to see him clearly.
“Who are you?” you ask, almost in disbelief that he showed up.
He looks to the left, then to the right before pointing to himself silently.
You narrow your eyes, brows pinching.
“Yes, you. There’s no one else here.”
For a heartbeat, he just stares at you, weighing his words carefully. To answer or not to answer. After a moment too long, his posture shifts, like he’s steeling his nerves.
“…Ultraman,” he finally says, voice low, rough around the edges, like it doesn’t get used for conversations very often.
“Ultraman?” you say. You toss the name around in your head like a pizza, testing it out. With a hum, you step closer, close enough to startle him.
“You've been watching me, Ultraman. Why?”
That question was a little harder to answer. Again, he debates just standing in silence, but from the way you’re looking at him, eyes wide with curiosity and determination, he doubts you’d give up easily.
“You…interest me,” he answers.
To his surprise, you crack a smile, the corner of your lip pulled upward like you were trying to stop it. He’s confused, not able to decipher what it meant.
“Well, you interest me too. You save a girl, then jet off into the sky without a word, then start stalking me. Talk about a 180.”
Ultraman hesitates, jaw tightening beneath the mask. “…I’m not stalking you,” he says finally, voice lower, almost careful. “I was… making sure you were safe.”
You huff a quiet laugh. “That’s what all the creeps say.”
He grumbles to himself; he hadn’t talked to anyone but Lex and the scientists responsible for creating him. Basic tests, call and response to ensure he was “working correctly”. But you weren’t like that, messing around with him like he was just the guy across the street.
“I’m not a creep.”
You walk around him, slow and deliberate, studying him from a different angle. “…I know,” you say lightly, “just fucking with you a little. Not every day I get rescued by a flying man who then pretends he wasn’t checking up on me.”
He stiffens as you circle him, instincts bracing for fear, for flight.
But you don’t flinch, or back away or run away screaming.
He looks you over instead. You’re relaxed, shoulders loose, heartbeat steady. So you’re clearly not panicked, not calculating an escape. He doesn’t really know why, but that thought soothes him.
“…You’re not scared,” he says, more observation than question.
You glance back at him, eyebrow raised. “Should I be?”
For a moment, he doesn’t know how to answer that. So he opts to leave.
“I should go.”
He hears your heart drop. You’re…disappointed?
“Already?”
“I have things to do…”
He did not have things to do.
“Of course,” you say, nodding as you believe him. “I bet you’re a busy guy. Well, uh…” Your voice trails off as you turn away, crossing the rooftop to the small garden tucked along the ledge. You kneel, careful, then pluck a single flower before hobbling back to him and holding it out.
“A thank you for the other day. You’re the reason my leg isn’t more fucked right now. I know it’s not much, but…”
He hesitates, then reaches out and takes it, holding it between his fingers. So fragile and light, its pink petals warm from the sun. He knows, with unsettling clarity, that he could destroy this flower in fifty different ways without even trying.
He’s never received a gift before.
For a moment, he just stares at it, something tight and unfamiliar settling in his chest. With a stiff nod, he manages a quiet, “Thank you.”
Then, before you can say another word, he lifts off, the rush of air stealing the moment away as he disappears into the sky, still holding the flower.
***
He disappears for the next few days, and you miss his presence. You had come to like having a little shadow following you around. Looking across the street to see him not so inconspicuously hiding behind a street lamp.
You’re tending to your rooftop garden, your beams of sun shining from your hands onto the flowers. You’re halfway done when you hear feet touch down on the roof.
“Ultraman?”
You turn around and see him standing there, less imposing than you remember him, holding out flowers.
Or, well, what was supposed to be flowers.
He must've flown fast, as most of the petals are gone, handing you mostly a bouquet of stems.
“Oh, uh,” you say, blinking at the “arrangement”.
You can’t see his face from behind the mask, but you just know he’s looking at you expectantly.
Broad shoulders curled in a little, head tilted down, leaning in like he’s waiting for some kind of verdict.
“I love them! This is really sweet. I can’t remember the last time someone gave me flowers.”
He straightens instantly, like your approval flicked a switch in him.
He shifts his weight, hands twitching at his sides, unsure what to do now that the flowers have been… delivered.
The faintest hum of energy pulses around him. Maybe nervousness? Anticipation? You’re not quite sure.
“You know,” you say, turning the bouquet slowly in your hands, “after our last encounter, I was worried you weren’t coming back.”
You hope you’re not coming across as weird or desperate. Had you been on the rooftop every night since he first visited? Had you called out for him, half-convinced he was hovering somewhere just out of sight, only to hear nothing back but the indignant meow of the neighbourhood cat?
…Maybe.
“Got tied up,” he says.
“Work?”
“…Yes.”
From the sounds of it and what you could glean from his body language, work was hell.
“Well,” you shrug lightly, like it’s no big deal even though your heart says otherwise, “you can come in if you want. My apartment’s a lot warmer than this rooftop. You can take a load off, maybe rant about whatever your job is…”
You trail off, giving him an out, pretending this is casual.
He looks past you toward the open door, then back at you. The hum around him quiets, just a little. “…I don’t usually do this.”
“It’s fun to try new things, right?”
He doesn’t respond, so you take his hand. “Come on, I’ve been dying to have someone to watch TV with.”
***
You step inside, flicking on the lights, and it hits you how surreal it is to casually invite Ultraman into your one-bedroom like he’s a neighbour dropping by.
He follows after you, sudden and silent on the stairs, like a muscle-bound guard dog who doesn’t understand he’s too big for the space.
“Excuse the clutter,” you mumble, kicking aside shoes and yesterday’s mail. “I got home from work and immediately tossed my stuff everywhere.”
You clear space on your couch, sweeping a hoodie and some notebooks onto the coffee table. Glancing over your shoulder at him, you call out, “Make yourself at home!”
You’re not sure what you expect, maybe for him to awkwardly sit, or hover near the door like he’s unsure if he’s allowed.
Instead, he stands ominously in the corner like a stone statue, arms crossed, muscles tense, scanning the entire apartment like he’s analysing every corner for threats that very much don’t exist.
“You don’t want to sit?” you ask gently.
He flicks his gaze to the couch, then back to you.
"It's not a trap, plus you must be tired from standing."
"I don’t get tired," he replies almost immediately.
“Ever?” you ask, to a resounding silence. You have a feeling that’s going to be a theme between the two of you.
"Well, you must be hungry, right? I mean, you do get hungry, I assume," You continue, hoping you could convince him to eat with you at least. He breathes out, and from the little shift in his stance, you can tell he’s hesitant to answer.
"I ate… earlier,” he utters.
“Oh.”
You twiddle your fingers nervously, fighting to find some sort of common ground.
“That's cool. Well, if you get hungry, I have both leftover pizza and Thai. Aren’t you lucky?”
You turn on the TV, limping to the couch and sitting down with a satisfied sigh. Your heart skips when he eventually joins you. Sure, his perfect posture is slightly terrifying, but baby steps.
You can’t remember the last time you had someone in your space like this. You’ve been living a go-to-work, come-home, sleep, repeat kind of routine for so long that it’s started to blur together. This feels… refreshing. Comforting, even. You smile before you can overthink it, before you can start regretting your decisions.
“You can take off the mask, you know.”
He freezes, still as a predator in tall grass.
You flip through channels, oblivious to the way his jaw clenches beneath the mask, unaware of the storm brewing inside him.
His hand twitches where it rests on his knee. When he finally speaks, his voice is lower, stripped of its armour. “I’m… not sure you’d like what’s underneath.”
He keeps his gaze fixed straight ahead, like looking at you might burn him to a crisp.
Who the fuck made him think that? You’d kill them if you ever found out.
“I’m sure I would,” you say gently. “But I won’t force you. Whatever makes you comfortable.”
He considers your words for a moment before saying, resolutely, “I’ll keep it on.”
“That’s okay,” you say, smiling at him, and he believes you. “Since you’re my guest…” You pause, landing on a channel with dramatic music and applause. “Jeopardy or Family Feud?”
He exhales, just a little, shoulders lowering as the tension bleeds out of him. “…Jeopardy,” he says, after a beat.
You grin. “I knew you were a Jeopardy guy.”
***
You’ve been sitting together for over an hour now, mostly in silence, the TV murmuring to itself in the background. It’s the kind of quiet that doesn’t press in on you, that doesn’t demand to be filled.
He never thought he’d be this close to you like this, in your own space. Sitting on the couch where he’s seen you so many times before from a distance, from rooftops and shadows, always watching, never touching the edges of your life.
There’s still a gap between the two of you, one that's deliberate on his part. Like he's terrified of scaring you off.
He’s barely been paying attention to the TV. All of his focus is on you, your small reactions, the way you beam when you get an answer right, the quiet little huff you make when they miss something obvious. It makes something warm unfurl in his chest.
Soft, almost. He doesn’t know if he likes it. It feels… illegal somehow, like the moment he lets himself lean into it, it’ll be taken away.
“…You know,” you say suddenly, breaking the quiet, “you don’t have to look so tense. I’m not going to bite.”
“…I know,” he answers, a fraction too stiff.
“And I know you're not going to bite either,” you glance at him, studying his posture, then smile, “I happen to think you’re sweet.”
“…Sweet?”
Ultraman has never heard that word used for him. Not once.
“I’m…” He struggles, fingers curling against his thigh. He’s not sure what he wants to say. His instincts scream to deny it, to shut it down before it can become something dangerous. “…I don’t think that’s true.”
You just shrug and stand, padding across the room. “I still have the flowers you gave me, you know. Well—what was left of them. They’re growing back.” You lift your hands, sunlight catching between your fingers as you wiggle them. “Thanks to a little love and—” you grin, hands glowing for a moment,“—magic, so to speak.”
You nearly trip over a loose sock on the way back, catching yourself with a laugh before setting the vase in his hands.
“See?” you say softly. “Getting me flowers was a sweet thing to do.”
He looks down at the flowers, alive and growing, just like his feelings for you. The warmth in his chest spreads.
Is this a virus? Is he sick? Is he malfunctioning?
“Sweet,” he repeats back to you.
“Exactly,” you say, placing the vase back on the table and crashing down next to him. The gap between the two of you is smaller, and neither of you tries to widen it.
***
He starts dropping by your place more often, like it’s a habit. Slowly but surely, you were getting past the 10-foot-tall wall he had up.
You think you even caught him chuckling at the movie you were watching last night, though that might have been a hallucination on your part, a desperate mirage of connection.
You didn’t know what was going on in his head.
Unknown to you, you were what was going on in his head. 24/7. Living there, uninvited. Distracting him and, worse, making him question the lines Lex had drawn for him.
You were confusing him, just like the first time he met you. So soft and bright, full of energy.
Always moving, always speaking, like sunlight spilling into a room he’d thought was sealed shut forever.
But most confusing of all, you were kind to him. Never sneering, or mocking, or calling him stupid.
Offering to help, wanting him to be comfortable, almost as if he were human like you.
Just like usual, Ultraman’s in your apartment again, spending more and more time there as of late. Floating up to the corner of your room to try and catch a spider for you.
He had found you armed with a rolled-up magazine and a frying pan, trying to coax it into the pan and far away from your home.
He picks it up, careful, almost reverent as it crawls around his hand, finding its bearings. The creature is so small.
So fragile and alive, right in the palm of his hands, and yet there’s no order from Lex to destroy or pulverise or kill.
He flies over to the open window and lets it out into the night.
“You’re my saviour!” You laugh, rushing over to hug him as soon as he lands on the floor.
That gets him.
You had learnt to observe all his little tells. The way he carries himself, the faint hesitation before he relaxes, reading what his mask-covered face couldn’t tell.
Then, softly, “You’re…weird,” he says, arms hovering over your back.
A little debate starts in his head, should he hug you back or shouldn't he?
He wondered how it might feel to hold you, but something was holding him back. So his arms hang at his sides, longing to wrap themselves around your frame.
The warmth of your body, the smell of your shampoo, for once, he feels safe, as if he could just stay, just stop being on guard, just exist without waiting for the next command.
“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”
“I don’t know,” he admits, looking straight ahead again. You lean back, looking up at him.
“Well, if I'm not too weird and you're not sick of me yet, then can I lean on you and we can watch a romcom?”
He tilts his head adorably.
“Rom…com?”
“You have so much to learn.”
***
The romcom did some damage.
Never in your life did you think you’d have a sleepover with a flying, near-indestructible man in your apartment. At the time, it had felt like a small thing, just one movie. A little romantic considering you fell asleep on his shoulder, sure, but completely harmless.
Apparently not.
You wake to the faint smell of burning, which is obviously a cause for concern.
Your sheets fall from your body as you traipse out of your bedroom and towards your kitchen. Your tired brain, questioning if Ultraman carried you to bed and if he was the one responsible for filling your home with the smell of fire. If so, you have to admit he's multifaceted.
The smell of burning is getting stronger as little puffs of smoke make themselves clear.
“Ultraman?” you mumble, peaking your head around the corner and into the kitchen.
The sight is something else entirely. Ultraman still in his suit with one of your aprons, clearly far too small for him and stretched awkwardly across his chest, saying “Kiss the Cook” on the front.
“You’re… awake,” he grumbles.
The way he says it makes you frown. There’s something like disappointment there, like he's annoyed at himself.
You shuffle out of the living room, rubbing sleep from your eyes. “Whatcha up to?” you ask, voice still sleepy as you enter the kitchen.
“Pancakes,” he says.
He’s standing far too stiffly by the stove, spatula held like it might attack him at any moment. The pan is smoking. One pancake is charred beyond recognition, another is somehow still liquid, and there’s batter on the counter, the floor, and, somehow, the fridge.
His voice drops, quiet and utterly defeated.
“Breakfast in bed… like the…” he pauses, clearly, embarrassed, “romcom.”
The word sounds unfamiliar, like most do when he says them, careful and uncertain. You can almost imagine his face beneath the mask, shy and bashful.
To his surprise, you start glowing, gold emanating from your skin. Your heart was alive with something that had been lost for so long.
“Thank you. I love it. No one has ever done anything like this for me.”
In all your relationships, you were the one doing the most. Planning dates, remembering anniversaries, making compromises, giving more than you ever received.
For him to do this, to try without being asked, means everything. Someone who notices. Someone that appreciates the small things just like you do.
“But I failed.”
He gestures to the mess again, prepared for your emotions to turn on a dime, instead your light just shines brighter.
So bright, he has to squint a little as you step closer, your light reflecting off his mask.
“It’s the effort that counts.”
His borrowed heart racing in ways that he’s never known was possible.
He can feel it again, that pull, as he takes all of you in. From the remnants of your perfume from yesterday to the eyelash caught on your cheek to your heartbeat beating in time with his, just as fast.
“I… I need to go.”
He steps back and he can breathe again, steadying himself. Is he supposed to feel light and weightless when he’s around you? Is that normal?
Although you had grown used to his sudden disappearances, it didn't make you ache any less each time he left.
You reach out for his gloved hand, still warm and glowing faintly.
“Will you be back tonight?”
“Yes,” he replies in earnest.
You lean up and kiss his mask where his cheek would be, soft and unthinking, and smile.
“Thank you for the pancakes.”
He nods wordlessly and escapes as quickly as he can in Ultraman fashion.
As he glides over the city back to LexCorp, he keeps his hand pressed to the spot where you kissed him, as if grounding himself, as if afraid the feeling might fade if he lets go… not at all aware that he’s still wearing your apron, fluttering helplessly in the wind behind him.
***
Turns out Ultraman is a romantic at heart.
Sure, the pancakes were burnt as hell and the kitchen had smelled like smoke for hours, but he was good at other things.
He would bring you flowers stolen from LexCorp’s private gardens, hover just close enough to share your space without crowding you, and even gave you a quiet, earnest compliment that stayed with you for days.
“I can cook you dinner,” he offers one night.
You hesitate, but then you think back to the charred remains of pancakes you were scraping off all your surfaces.
“I can show you how.”
“I’d… like that.”
His hands settle over yours, too careful, too soft. It's enough to make your heart flutter and your body turn into a glow stick. Light emanates off your skin, the soft light like a beacon to him.
“Are you okay?” He questions, as he looks at your glowing skin.
“Yeah, sorry, you just…” You trail off, as soon as you look up at him, your words get caught in your throat. You might just have a thing for masks. “…flustered me.”
Instead of backing up or shying away like you were used to he moves forward, his chest against yours.
“Do you like it when I… fluster you?”
Since when could he do that, melt your brain with just a few words? You guys need to stop watching romcoms, he's getting far too good at this shit.
You just nod, face warm, trying to play it off. “I—uh, let’s just cook, okay?”
There’s no way you’re doing a good job of hiding just how much, considering you’re shining as bright as a lighthouse, but he pretends not to notice.
The two of you continue, moving around each other easily, a meal starting to take form until he accidentally knocks the pan too hard, sending vegetables skittering and sauce splattering across the stove.
You jump into action ready to help clean up when you notice how he curls in on himself a little, shoulders drawing inward as if waiting for you to be angry or disappointed.
“Can’t do anything right,” he mutters to himself, jaw tight with shame and frustration. First the pancakes, and now you had to watch him mess up again.
“That's not true. It hurts to hear you talk about yourself like that."
Without hesitation, you wrap your arms around him.
He freezes at first, wondering how he's supposed to react, if he's being tested or tricked. But then slowly relaxes, it's you, after all. He knows that he's safe, knows you won’t laugh or recoil or turn him into something monstrous.
As you pull back, he says, “I want you to see me.”
“You—Really?”
You had become used to the mask, but you would be lying if you said you weren't curious. Thinking about what he might look like, different faces swapping themselves in and out, in your mind.
“I trust you.”
You watch as his hands come up to his mask. No matter what he looked like, you liked the man you had come to know and nothing's going to change that.
When he finally removes it, you nearly faint.
“Holy Superman.”
Your jaw drops as you're looking at what you'd describe as Superman's twin. His hair is longer and untamed, and he's probably less likely for a candid photo of him smiling to be on the cover of a magazine, but that's definitely Superman's face.
“Lex Luthor is batshit,” you mutter, in pure shock and awe. He really did go copy-paste.
“You… you don’t like it,” he concludes.
His expression hardens the way it always does when he expects rejection but you’re quick to reassure him.
“No, that’s not— I like it. I like you. You’re pretty hard not to like.”
You start to glow, gold light blooming softly beneath your skin.
“You’re…” he starts, looking at you, mesmerised, yet again, at the way you shine.
You enter his space, and he lets you, relaxing as he feels your body close to his.
“You know it happens when I feel strong emotions.”
He holds your face carefully, like you might break, your cheeks warm in his hands.
“For… me?”
“For you and only you.”
He hesitates, and before you even realize it you’re being pulled in, lips melting together in the middle of the kitchen.
His hands hover over your waist, uncertain, before pulling you to him firmly, like he’s finally decided this is something he’s allowed to want.
“Just like in the movies, huh?”
“Just like in the movies,” he says back to you, smiling softly, wonder written all over him.
You’ve never seen him look so beautiful.
***
The next few days, you’re floating through life, as if nothing quite touches the ground anymore, shining every time you think of him, which is often.
The glow lingers longer now, like it's your default setting.
You’re sitting by the window one evening, waiting for him to show up. He’s late, which is unusual, and unease curls in your chest before you can stop it.
Then he staggers through your door, holding his stomach, holding his side as he breathes heavily.
“Holy shit! Are you okay?” you ask, racing your way over to help support him.
He doesn’t answer immediately, just braces a hand against the wall, shoulders heaving.
“Where does it hurt?” you prompt further, the worry building in your voice.
“I will heal,” he grits out.
He always does. It’s part of what he was made for. To go out there, to be broken, and to stitch himself back together again without complaint.
He doesn’t understand why you care so much.
He wasn’t human.
Wasn’t even an alien, technically.
Just… a clone, an experiment, a thing.
He watches you, tearing through your apartment, trying to sing something to help.
You’re fumbling with the first aid kit, hands trembling, tears stinging your eyes and making everything blur.
“Fuck, I’m sorry, I—” You choke on your words as you finally tear the kit open, your fingers darting over the different bandages, ointments, gauze like you don’t know where to start. Like you don’t know how to help someone who isn’t supposed to need help.
You’re shaking so hard you almost drop the box as you rush back over to where he's sitting on the couch.
“Fuck, fuck, I—” you stammer, struggling to catch your breath.
He doesn’t understand why you’re crying for him. You should never cry for him.
He lifts a hand, and swipes his thumb gently beneath your eyes, catching the tear before it can fall.
“Don’t cry…” He pleads, “Not… for me.”
He was a mistake, an abomination. That’s what Lex has always told him.
“Why shouldn't I cry for you? I care about you, okay? I…” you pause, the tightness in your throat and your face cloy with tears, making it hard to talk. “I really care about you.”
Your heart longs to say something else. You know that you feel it. You feel it so strongly, sometimes it hurts but one ‘I love you’ and you might lose him forever.
“So—so don't tell me not to cry for you. You are worth crying for.”
The words shock him, almost like he can't believe it. He wants to protest, to keep fighting you on it, to make you believe what everyone else seems to.
But, he can't.
You already seem heartbroken enough over seeing him like this.
His eyes are wrought with pain but he tries to hide it to no avail.
“Please, look at me,” you plead.
The moment you make eye contact, you glow, your heart overwhelmed with fear and relief and something dangerously close to anger on his behalf. When you look into his eyes, all you want to do is take that pain away.
“Your light…”
Your hand glows instinctively, the warmth spilling over as the glow spreads, licking along the edge of his jaw, softening the bruises almost immediately.
“Come closer.”
You sit in front of him, glowing brighter and brighter, healing him, acting as his own personal sun. His broken ribs and deep cuts are now a thing of the past as bone knits, skin seals, pain unravels, fusing together beneath your touch.
“Are you okay now?” you ask softly.
He gives you a small smile, though it’s one of the biggest ones you’ve gotten from him.
“I’ll survive.”
You chuckle, exhausted but relieved.
“I thought that was my line.”
***
It was only a matter of time.
For the two or so months he had been going to and fro from your apartment, becoming more hesitant during missions, more bogged down by his emotions.
He's surprised it took this long, but knowing Lex, he always knew.
“You’ve been going on little detours, getting distracted… haven’t you?”
Lex’s voice slices through the silence as he circles Ultraman like a shark, hands folded behind his back, pretending at patience.
Poking a hard finger into Ultraman’s chest, he sneers,“That’s not your directive. That’s not what I built you for.”
His eyes narrow, calculation turning to cruelty, as if often did.
“Do I have to recalibrate you? Or are you just completely broken already? All this because of a stupid girl—?”
Ultraman’s jaw tightens, just barely, but it’s enough for Lex to catch.
A slow smile creeps over his face.
“Oh. I see. It’s worse than I thought. You're thinking for yourself, or at least, trying to. And feeling something for someone, I'd find it funny if it wasn't so inconvenient for me.”
Ultraman doesn’t move or speak. But his anger is thrumming just beneath his skin. Insults towards you wouldn't be taken lightly. You were anything but stupid to him. Rather, you were everything.
Lex steps closer, fearlessly, and taps Ultraman’s cheek mockingly.
“If you want to keep your little friend alive,” he says with a cold hum, “then you’ll stay in line.”
He leans up, lips barely a foot from Ultraman’s ear.
“Otherwise,” Lex whispers, “no one will ever see them again, let alone you.”
The words hang heavy, poisonous.
He knew he'd never see the sun, his sun, again.
***
You’re cutting up vegetables when you hear the sound of boots landing on your balcony, and your heart skips a beat.
“He’s here,” you whisper to yourself, all giddy, like a kid waiting for Santa Claus.
The door opens slowly, and when he steps inside he takes off his mask, only to freeze when he sees you. As beautiful as ever, his safe haven.
He walks forward into the kitchen where you've clearly been cooking up a storm, sleeves rolled up and music playing softly in the background.
If only this could be his forever.
“Fuck, you’re uh early. I was just in the middle of making dinner but it’s fine. You can taste test for me, be my sous chef.”
He says your name, almost mournful, dragging out the syllables in his low tone.
“What's up?” you question. He's never said your name like that.
You walk over, smiling softly, the aroma of the kitchen wrapping around you. Reaching up, you caress his cheek, thumb brushing along the edge of his jaw.
“You look tired,” you say, voice gentle, concerned. “Have you been sleeping okay?”
He chuckles lightly but it's void of any real humour. Of course, even at a time like this you were caring for him.
“I’ve… never met anyone like you. So bright, so strong, so beautiful… like the sun.”
Your chest tightens at the words, warmth pooling in your stomach. All you can wonder is why this feels like the end of something.
“Your sunshine,” you murmur, reaching out to take his hand. Though your hand misses his, fingertips brushing as he pulls away.
“What's—Why won't you let me…?”
“I…can’t come back here…” he interrupts, low and strained, like it hurts to say.
“What—what do you mean?” you gulp, all the colour and life drained from your face.
“I'm not allowed to see you.”
“Not allowed? Lex found out?”
He hears your heart drop, making him feel that much worse. The last thing he wanted was to make you sad, to be the reason why you can't shine.
“Then don’t leave,” you blurt, stepping closer, voice trembling. “You can stay here with me. You don’t need to go back to him—”
A soft pair of lips presses briefly to your forehead, and your words stop short. The gesture is quiet and fleeting, but it speaks just as loud as his words.
He gives you a sad smile, as beautiful as it is rare.
“I need… I only need you safe,” he murmurs, voice catching. “He won't hurt you if I stay away.”
Your chest tightens. Every instinct screams at you to argue, to grab him, to tell him he doesn’t get to make that choice alone.
“I don’t want to say goodbye,” you whisper, barely audible. “He doesn't own you, okay? Lex may have made you but he doesn't know you. You have so much love and—and feelings and so much to offer!”
Your voice trembles towards the end as you start to break down. You don't want to go back to life without him, he made everything fuller, so much brighter. Like your apartment finally felt like a home.
He panics as you start to cry, words tumbling out between sobs, apologies and fears you didn’t know how to name. He wipes them away, gentle and steady, thumbs warm against your cheeks.
“It’s my turn to say thank you.”
He leans down and kisses you and you kiss back with fervour. Everything you want to say poured into it.
It’s bittersweet, soft and lingering, and as your hand presses against his chest you can feel how fast his heart is racing.
Kissing you is all he wanted to do—to wake up every morning and try and make your breakfast, to walk with you to work and watch TV in your apartment until you fall asleep beside him. Maybe even go on an actual date, have dinner at a restaurant like they did in the movies he watched.
All he wants is to stay and be human with you.
Although it may be your last kiss, it doesn’t make it any less beautiful. Your lips separate and he leans his down to press his forehead against yours.
He memorises you for what must be the millionth time, the smell of your shampoo, your perfume, the flutter of your eyelashes and pounding of your heart.
He misses you even as he holds you in his arms.
“Thank you for making me feel human.”
And with that, he disappears, soaring from your apartment, not knowing if he'll ever see you again.
Summary: Your husband wants a baby, and so do you. It's only the matter of how which complicates things.
Word count: 4.3k
Contains: smut. Earth-2 Clark Luthor!AU. Reader is dubious/somewhat psychopathic, and Clark is fairly sociopathic. Morbid descriptions of scientific conception methods. Competitive behavior, lying. Clark & reader have no regard for bodily autonomy, view having a baby as a game/prize for their own benefit. Truly freak4freak, they are so wrong and disturbed… It's hot. *fingering, piv (no foreplay just straight to business), bunny girl, breeding kink, dumbification/degradation, rough, heavy dom/sub.
A/N: this one is weird asf i hope you guys aren’t scared of me after… blame the requesters… also i barely proofed this so apologies for any typos LMFAOO. part of me loves this and hates this but we must be freaks and free
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Clark had been sending messages your way recently– a bouquet of white roses, a new dress, champagne carts up to the penthouse, that sort of thing. Being raised into a family of doers-not-thinkers, you knew he was trying to get what he wanted without words. It could be arranged, you thought, but it would be on your terms. You weren’t some mindless trophy wife.
No, you were Ultraman’s wife, and that came with a lot of responsibility and demanded respect. You made a name for yourself within the family empire, securing a seat on the board of LuthorCorp and butting your way into Clark’s business of killing all day long. It was exhausting sometimes, being so secretive. Who wanted to skulk around as if it was a prison to be married to the most powerful man on Earth? You liked the privilege. It felt good after all those years spent working yourself to the bone in the shadows.
Clark liked what it did to you, too. He was crazy about your wild side. He found you took quite well to the culture– the Luthor way, that is.
You frequently tried slipping things into Lionel’s coffee– called it your midday business venture. You broke vases and threw silverware in the office when Clark picked fights. You took petty cash from Lex’s safe to buy yourself nice shoes. You bugged your own apartment to listen in on Clark, since you didn’t trust that Tess. You even kept a charm of gold kryptonite around your neck for when he got a little too rough with you in bed. That stone was meant to be a secret between you and him, but there was one night when afterwards he threatened to find another girl who didn’t complain so much about a soreness she begged for; you used the rock in your nightstand to scratch your initials into his ribcage while he slept. He had never seen anything more attractive in his life. You won him forever that night.
You learned many a trick after meeting the love of your life. Your background had something to do with it; being a LuthorCorp scientist who was recruited by Lionel to find new technological advances to kill Clark years back should have been an indication of your future motives. It’s not like no one knew where your loyalties lied– in yourself, of course, but with Clark too, more and more every day. You were a perfect match– he screamed, you screamed, he kissed, you kissed. Every day was bliss.
That was, until Clark planted the idea of a baby in your head with all those gifts. That was what they meant, right? What else would they be for?
Really, it wouldn’t be hard. You had manufactured a hormone treatment years ago by Lionel’s request when he was in that perverted cloning phase which, when injected into a female vessel, could strengthen their DNA and make it safe to carry a Kryptonian child to term. Before that, the subjects all died either before or during birth. The trick was getting it to appear invisible in the bloodstream– no sight, smell, taste, or sound could be detectable if it were to work. When Clark had participated in the experiment then, he didn’t need to be tricked. He knew that the aim was children. But if it was going to be your little secret, you had to keep it from him. His freakish biology could detect anything if you weren't clever about it.
It took months of testing, but you eventually were able to distill an inoculation serum. The proper mixture of green and red kryptonite crystals could be distilled into a solution that was colorless, odorless, and invisible to the Kryptonian eye. When injected by needle, it dissolved into the bloodstream and fortified a female’s cells, but it needed five rounds of inoculation before her DNA could alter and replicate for safe childbearing. The symptoms of the injections were similar to that of a period, and the waiting game took about four weeks between each– and so you used that as your excuse for any side effects of nausea, cramping, and irritability. With the increase in hormones, you could already be a terror, but the medicine made you worse. Clark didn’t mind one bit, though. He was adamant on liking your monthly tenacity. When you chucked things and got bitey, he was most infatuated.
Every gift made your eyes glitter, because it thrilled you to know Clark didn’t even realize he would get what he wanted, and soon. There had been many conversations about it while he was seated deep inside you at night; he would pin you down and promise one day there would be a worthwhile way to make a child, a beautiful thing with his powers and your everything else. He dreamed of it. Ever since Lionel shut down the cloning project, adamant that a lab-born heir would wreak havoc, Clark’s twisted heart realized just how badly he wanted a child of his own; someone to raise and teach his talents and pass on the Ultraman label someday– or Ultrawoman, he wasn’t a heathen. More than that, he wanted to give you something concrete. A testimony of his devotion, and a promise that his adulterous days were behind him. He knew how you worried so about his cheating– he’d stopped when he gave you a ring, honest. Girls had begun to annoy him anyways. Only you fascinated him anymore, and half of it was because you were a bit too unstable for him to continue predicting. You were perfectly unboring, and he hated to admit it, but he was growing up– he liked having one love. It was less complicated.
You already felt the difference. You had stopped bruising, for one. Clark was very concerned about this, because marking you was his greatest passion. Over the last few months, he would tear into your thighs and tummy, and in the morning would wake to find the purple prints gone, melting back into the flesh. You had no explanation other than a makeshift, “Maybe you’re just not that strong anymore.” That always resulted in him throwing you up against something and trying to make the marks stick, which you never minded. It didn’t hurt like it used to. You could handle him much better now. You almost never had to use the golden rock to remind him of pain anymore, either. But more than that, you were thicker. Both Lionel and Lex had many words on the matter, but Clark simply couldn't contain himself. You weren’t thin to begin with, but the linings of your body needed to be prepared to insulate an indestructible creature; you were plump as can be, and nothing made Clark happier. You wondered if maybe you’d just put on a few more pounds at the start, he would have been a good boy a long time ago.
You didn’t tell Clark about the serum because he was quite clear when he proposed. “Our marriage is our business. LuthorCorp won’t touch it, understood?” he said. By this, he of course meant to not let his father or brother use you against him, through money or other nefarious means. The Luthors enacted familial sabotage quite often, almost like sport, so it was a fair request. But he never expressly stated you could not use your own work, and so you took advantage of the loophole. Now you were a brand new woman, and you were dying to get Clark into bed and have that baby. A little Ultrakid would be the cutest toy.
You were not the only smart one in the marriage, unfortunately. Clark was just a different kind of smart. He had to be– he wasn't human. Plus, humans were so easy to figure out anyway.
The fact that you were on birth hormones was clear as day to the Kryptonian. You were the mother of the medicine, it was not like he didn’t expect it; especially on the days when you would come home and he could smell the fumes on your clothes, fumes that made him distinctly nauseous. Only one thing could do that. And you were a cunning thing, always quick to trick, even him. But he let you play your game, because he had a much better one in mind.
What Clark wanted was a baby, yes– but he wanted a human baby. Or, human at the start. He knew you could do it. In fact, he knew anybody could do it, because he was the one who had to change his DNA. If he used blue kryptonite, he could weaken himself long enough to give you a normal child, and that child would receive powers upon their first contact with the yellow sun. This way you could stay as you were, and you wouldn’t have to mess with all those chemicals. Taking supplements or treatments from LuthorCorp labs was not only an offense they could hang you out to dry for, but it also put you at risk for being tampered with. Lex or Lionel– or even Tess– could get a hold on your serum any time, and they could use it to hurt you and him. He learned everything from them, which meant he trusted them the least. He was not prepared to jeopardize you for something he could easily do alone.
So, he swapped your serums.
It was simple, really. The kryptonite birth hormones looked clear like saline, and because they didn’t have a scent, there was no way to tell. Every month when you started to lash out far worse than he was used to, he would follow you. Tail you to the labs where he’d watch through the wall as you prepared the serum. When you left it in the tumbler for distillment, he would swap it behind your back with a vial of saline, and when you injected yourself, you did so with a big fat needle of nothing. Every symptom you felt was a placebo response. The bruising? Clark wasn’t manhandling you, that was all. Not to mention, he had one of the scientists put shavings of blue kryptonite in your lipstick so he would have a good reason to be gentle.
Part of him felt a bit guilty for lying. Marriage was supposed to be when bad people got their shit together. But you were so cute when you were determined. You truly thought you were going behind his back and managing something extraordinary. You were going to trap him with an all-powerful baby, you knew it! It was precious, what dangerous lengths you would pursue to make him happy. He didn't know whether to praise you or call you an idiot.
But it didn’t matter much now, because your ‘trial’ was up, and you felt ready to conceive. So did he. So, he got to work.
˚₊‧꒰ა❤︎໒꒱ ‧₊
You were on the dot. It was twelve days before your next anticipated period, you were hungry and horny and particularly homicidal (you had tried to hit Lex with your car two days prior), so all signs pointed to ovulation. When Clark came home that night to find you in the black slip he’d bought, posed cheekily on the bed, he knew he made the right choice. Nobody was a better choice than you in every sense of the word.
His suit came off in torn pieces, the fine shreds of violet silk and black wool fluttering to the floor. His tie threads pulled apart as he yanked it free. The man was on you within seconds, tasting the champagne on your lips and feeling ready to maul you, body buzzing with the thin weakness of blue kryptonite in his mouth.
“Ah,” you clicked your tongue, hooking your ankle around his. “How do you feel about no protection tonight?”
Clark smirked, heart flipping with anticipation. “Feeling careless, are we?”
“I just want you,” you purred, slipping fingers into his hair. “Want everything.”
A soft grunt escaped him before he shoved you down into the mattress and tore the slip clean off, destroying the shiny finish.
You yelped and flushed: “Hey! That was new!”
“Shut up,” he crooned, crawling over you to run his palms across your hips. “I bought it.”
“Baby,” you pouted, and the sight made his skin burn.
“I hate that name,” he growled, yanking your leg beneath the knee and flattening you on your back.
“Don’t be mean,” you sneered.
“You like it when I’m mean.”
Clark’s mouth attached to your neck as he cut to the chase. Sex with the adopted Luthor was never a careful affair, although it could last for many rounds. Nobody ever said he gave up easily. But Clark felt there was no use in foreplay, and you didn’t seem to mind. As long as you were stuffed one way or another, you were a happy woman. Clark made the usual move to plunge his fingers deep between the walls of your pulsing cunt, feeling out just how long you’ve been waiting for him to come home.
“Fuck,” you whined, hips instinctively bucking into his hand. “Clark!”
“What was that?” He simpered, leaving a teasing nip on your earlobe before spreading his fingers in a wide scissor, feeling you stretch to accommodate. “What’s my real name?”
“Clarkie,” you wheezed, lashes fluttering shut. A rosy pink dusted your cheeks, and he could tell that the blessing of a little alien was dancing behind those eyelids.
“That’s right, bunny. Big breath, oh, keep moving, honey, just like that… you want to make me a daddy, don’t you? S’that why you don’t want protection, bunny?” Clark grunted, pistoning his fingers inside you. “Stupid idea. Stupid girl.”
“Just wan’ your baby,” you gulped, face twisting as pleasure made your legs twitch.
“Yeah? Say it again,” he ordered, tongue tracing shapes along your collarbone. “Tell me what you want. Say it right or you won’t get a thing.”
“Want you to give me a baby, Clarkie,” you whimpered, trying to hook yourself on his hand and control the pace. He bit at the dip of your neck before forcing your hips down and knocking his knuckle against your clit as reprimand.
“Look at you. So pathetic,” he praised. “You’d look so pretty with a baby, bunny. Gonna give me a little litter, huh? Gonna be a good girl and give me what I want?”
Your head spun with the simplicity of the plan. It was working. Clark always got this way, all hungry for it and willing to provide. His dark eyes hung low as they peered up at you, and the belligerent thrusting between your legs was proof that he was worked up by your desire. The hormones were coursing through your veins, and you knew tonight was the night. Finally, all that hard work would pay off.
“Yeah,” you swore, breath hitching. “I will, I’ll be a good mama, I’ll make you a daddy, Clarkie!”
It was hard to say no. You were just so cute when you begged, and it barely took any work. It made him laugh, actually, because you could be such a fucking hardass about everything else. But two fingers did the trick, didn’t they? God, it was too easy.
Clark had no patience. With your lipstick prints sending ripples of weakness through his torso from the mouth down, he didn’t have the energy to muster any. He could literally feel the effects of the crystals on his cells. Clark used the strength he had– which was considerable, being well-crafted as he was– and pressed himself against you, the vee of his hips settling between your thighs. Your soft mouth parted as he dragged his cock through the slick of your cunt, smearing a mess he made within moments, before slotting himself inside like clockwork. It was a familiar feeling, but it never ceased to steal your wind.
Your back bowed on the mattress, eyes squeezing shut from the stretch. Those hormones were working overtime, because you felt like exploding on the spot. Something was new, something fresh about you– it was as if your body wanted this most. You could smell and taste everything. His sweat as it beaded on his forehead and chin– Clark never sweated. It was salty where it dripped on your tongue, where you lapped it up like a kitten. The low rumble of his grunts as he kept your knees pressed wide and drilled into you like a machine, in and out, lashes fluttering with your every clench. He was so vocal tonight, snarling and digging his fingers in, swearing you’d never felt so good.
“Christ, baby… God, what’s gotten into you, huh? Acting so crazy all the time, it’s driving me up a wall… you’re such a slut when you’re like this,” he rasped, hitching your hips closer with an arm beneath your tailbone, trying to graze the right angle. “Ah– fuck, there she is, let me hear you!”
You lurched at the brutal press of his tip somewhere deep inside, finding that little bundle of tissue that sent pins and needles down to your toes. He always found it, and it was slightly infuriating, because you could never reach it yourself. Fingers were too short, you always complained. Only Clark knew enough about your body to make it writhe, and he exploited that knowledge now, rubbing cruel circles into the rosy, swollen nub cresting your folds as he battered the sweet spot over, and over, and over…
“Tell me you love me,” he purred.
“Clarkie– mmf– love you!”
“You want a baby, honey? I can give you one– ngh– just say the word. Can fill you up right here, fill you ‘til you burst, make it hard to breathe,” Clark promised, pressing a greedy palm to the tub of your tummy, imagining the warmth to come. “Can feel how bad you need me, bunny. Such a slut, just begging for cum, aren’t you?”
You slipped your own palm down and he seized it, spanning it over the flesh and pushing down until you could feel the faint shadow of his cock pumping under all that skin. With unfocused eyes you twitched and fluttered, trembling with anticipation. That serum better fucking work, you thought, I need to keep him.
Clark smirked down at you as the sharp curves of his hips rocked against yours, practically reading your mind. The way you bucked and whimpered was not only adorable, but eager. You were anticipating it, waiting for his spend, praying it would take.
“Bad girl,” he tutted, sliding his free hand up to encircle your throat and squeeze. “You’d look so pretty, bunny, all round and soft. Such a pretty mama. You’ll make a perfect little baby for me, won’t you? Say it.”
Your shifting, blurring eyes could see the sparkle in his own. He wanted it, you knew he did. The pressure of his palm on your windpipe brought the stars down to you. “Yes!”
Clark’s stomach clenched at your breathless promise, and the way you clawed at his chest was growing impossible to ignore. You just felt so fucking good, so tight and warm, so ready in a way you hadn’t before. Maybe you were taking hormones. Maybe it’s possible, all that pseudoscience about the female body changing when it really wanted to be impregnated. Even worse, maybe he was changing. Getting softer, needier, weaker, and without the blue Kryptonite's help. Fuck, maybe you were doing this to him. Is this what love did? Made him lose his edge?
You couldn’t hold back the grin as Clark’s face began to twist up, a flood of exclamations falling from his lips as he pounded deeper, deep enough to make your body jolt. Oh, it was working, alright. Clark had never fucked you like this in his life– like he had something riding on it. Like it was more important than times before.
“Fuck, I’m close,” he panted, palm flexing on your throat. “Fuckin’ – mm– take it… Want me to fill you up, baby? Huh? S’that what you want?”
“Need it, Clarkie, please,” you croaked, aching with stimulation. “Gimme a baby! I’m ready!”
Clark shuddered, feeling the burning tide rushing inside his gut. He snapped as the pleasure wrenched his bones, plowing into you with renewed force as he spilled into the nest of your womb, moaning like it pained him to stop. You clung to his shoulders and milked it out of him, delirious with need, shuddering with every hot spurt settling inside.
Clark collapsed on top of you, the welcome weight of his body quite crushing. As you lay there, sweating and heaving, your cunt pulsed around his, thanking him for being so generous. Clark growled at the stimulation and bucked a few extra times, returning the favor. His heart was racing and his body was weak, and from the looks of it, you seemed like you could keep right on. He chuckled hoarsely, knowing you were on cloud nine. With his nose nestled in your skin, he caught a whiff of a certain sweetness that made his body tense.
“It worked,” he said.
Your stomach fluttered. “How do you know?”
Clark lifted his face from your chest and dealt a grin, one which only he was capable of creating, with all his snark and pride combined. His lips brushed yours. “I can smell it. You. You smell different already.”
Your eyes widened, and suddenly, you started gushing like a triumphant idiot. “I have a secret to tell you, Clarkie, but you’re gonna be mad!”
Clark tilted his knowing head. “Yeah? Spit it out, then, bunny.”
You giggled and clawed at his shoulders, wriggling a bit. He grunted from the feeling, still inside and showing no initiative to pull out. Your nails left pretty crescents in his shoulders. “I’ve been taking hormones,” you crooned, “so we could have a baby. For real.”
Clark stared down at you, and when his face didn’t melt into horror or anger, your brow furrowed in confusion. He then said, “No you haven’t.”
You pouted. “Yes I have!”
“No, you haven’t,” Clark murmured, burying his face back into your neck. God, he could get high on that smell. “I swapped the vials out. You’ve been extraordinarily hydrated, baby, but that’s it. Thought you felt it, didn’t you? Felt your body changing? None of it was real.”
You flushed firetruck red as the words reached your ears. Remnants of him sloshed inside you, and your body had no defense. You could die. You probably would die. Did he want you to die? “Clark–”
“Feeling pretty dumb, aren’t you, sweetheart? Tried to pull one over on me, my own wife– now that’s a ballsy move. And you thought I was going to let you get away with it.”
“I could’ve sworn… it… I… but– but what about– it’s dangerous–”
Clark snickered and nipped your jaw. “Don’t be stupid. I laced your lipstick.”
You blinked. “What?”
“Blue rock,” Clark chuckled, rubbing at his cheek and smearing a stain. “in the lipstick. Weakens me enough. That’s one human baby you’re growing, honey. You think I’d kill you over a baby?”
A grand rush of emotion overwhelmed you. First, you had thought you were smart enough to do something under his nose. You felt like a fool. Then, you grew angry, because how did he manage to figure you out and hide it for so long? The remorse came next, because suddenly every time he slept with you was a lie both ways, and that was no fit for a marriage– even a Luthor one. Clark tracked each emotion as they passed your face, and when he tried to get your attention with a snapping finger, you didn’t respond. He grabbed your hips and dragged his length between your walls again, thrusting back in, waiting for the pleasure to snap you out of it.
“You won’t ever outsmart me,” he whispered, listening greedily to the squelch of his spend spittling with every motion. “But I commend you for trying.”
Your head spun so fast you couldn’t even be irritated. “I– can’t–”
“Trying to trap me, hm? Trick me? You’re lucky I love you.”
“Clarkie…”
“Oh, shh, shh,” he patronized, stringing you out with slow thrusts and massaging the ache in your trembling thighs. “Don’t speak, bunny. Just take it. This is what you get for wanting my baby, bunny, and being stupid enough to lie about it.”
You squeaked when he shoved hard, and knew that he was only getting started. You blinked your hazy eyes open and swallowed thickly, smiling like an idiot. “What are we gonna name it?”
Clark’s fingers dug into your cheeks as he held your head in place, smiling with threatening teeth. “Don’t take the fun out of it just yet, honey. I’m not done fucking an apology out of you.”
“But you lied too!”
Clark hummed without remorse. “Yeah, but you like that, don’t you? You like losing to me.”
As he slipped a thumb into your mouth, hooking deep for purchase in the swell of an oncoming round, you nodded softly, heart pounding. Yes, you did. You loved losing. The only person in the world you would ever give in to was him and he knew it.
Clark leaned down to kiss your stuffed mouth, and in a soft breath, he whispered, “My smart, smart little idiot. Nice try, baby. Now open up and get ready to say sorry, yeah?”
You grinned and wrapped your legs around his hips, prepared to repent. A wandering finger traced the initials over his rib, which branded him in a way he had just branded back.
So, your plan didn’t work. So what? There was still the gender, the name, the birthday… you had ideas. And now that you knew Clark had a stake in the game, it would be twice as fun. What’s a competition if only you get to have any fun?
Kenji Sato, legendary baseball star, Ultimate hero of Japan as The Ultraman, and....currently tearing up while clinging to your waist.
"Keeennnn!!"
You huffed, waddling with the extra weight on you to the bedroom you both shared.
"Baaabbyyyy!!!"
He whined back in the same tone, face rubbing into your warmth as if he wants to merge with you.
He's been babbling on about his team, his work, Emi, his dad, crying for your attention for the last thirty minutes since he got home reeking of beer.
All while you attempted to get him to the bathroom.
You've tried coaxing him, sweet-talking him with honeyed words and promises of cuddles, of breakfast in bed and as many kisses and attention he wants but....to no avail.
"Stoop pushin- me- awaayy- "
The man himself whimpers, nuzzling into your side, teary eyes squinting as his face scrunched and his ridiculously plump lips pouted in a way that tugs at your heart.
"You hate me!"
His brows knits, weight falling completely onto you as he topples you onto the ground.
"Kenji,"
You deadpanned, rolling onto your back, arms folded across your face.
One, two, his wet sniffles.
You glance down in defeat as he crawls up the length of your body, whimpering something under his breath, and buries his face into your neck.
His warm tears wet your neck and you rub his back, sighing.
"We need to get your cleaned up, ken,"
"I missed you baby- hic- so much- so mu-cchhh-"
Your fingers scratched at his scalp, running through his hair.
"Its just so- hic-hard- I missed you- I miss-hic-"
His muffled wails vibrates against your neck, lips sloppily kissing up to your jaw.
You let him whine for abit before tugging gently at his hair.
"I know, Ken baby, I know. But let's get you a warm shower and bed hmm?"
You craned your neck to peck at his hairline.
"I'll give you all the cuddles you way, 'kay?"
He lifts his head groggily, lidded eyes brimming with tears as he swallow hard.
There's a long pause as he tried to deduce your sincerity, before he purses his lips and drags himself off you like a petulant child.
"....mmkay,"
You sat up, offering him a gentle smile as you ruffle his hair.
Breeding Program: Ultraman/Lex Luthor l C.K. & L.L.
w.c.: 9.6k
T.w.: Dark-ish fic, Smut, PinV, dub/non-con, Sex drug/a/b/o like arousal, Voyeurism, Threesome (Lex, Ultraman, Reader), Breeding Kink, slight Lactation kink/Pregnancy kink, LuthorCorp Secretary!Reader, Lex Luthor x Superman/Ultraman (one-sided and psychotic), Cum play/eating, Sex pollen, Reader has glasses, Reader loses her autonomy, Possessive Ultraman, Possessive Lex, Possessive Clark, Reader is pregnant throughout this part and next
a/n: Please read all warnings before interacting with my works. 18+ Only! Oof… long awaited part two, will I make part three, I sure hope so. Thank you all who have waited for this and have given me motivation to continue this plot. Kiss kiss
Summary: There are some lasting effects from Lex’s aphrodisiac fumes. Even after all these months, your body and Superman’s have become attuned to each other. Coincidentally, your body attuned for another Kryptonian with his DNA.
Breeding Program Masterlist
“Good morning,” you greet curtly, your words clipped from carrying in several bags of groceries though the front door.
Lex had Ultraman stay in the LuthorCorp building. He had his own apartment right at the very top of the skyscraper. He even gave the man a semblance of privacy. He wasn’t watched in his room like a lab rat in a cage. Not like he was everywhere else.
You were one of the many caretakers that would visit the clone, take him for training, to medical exams, testing. The important stuff Lex couldn’t trust many others to see. Most of his employees knew the clone as Ultraman.
Lex thinks it would be too shocking for them to understand. Some part of him wants to keep Ultraman's true origins a secret. To see the face of his enemy all for himself. For now, they all think he was a mutilated, scarred soul. Perhaps from the advancements Luthor had tested on him just like he did with the Engineer.
He was ranked amongst some of the most powerful metahumans in the world. Right next to, what was predicted by his team, Superman. The strongest based on observations alone.
Luthor's scientists and technicians would never see how inquisitive Ultraman’s eyes really were. How opinionated he could be. Lex saw him as nothing less than a mindless henchman.
You didn’t.
Ultraman lifts the spoon from the bowl you placed in front of him. He eats the porridge slowly as you restock his cabinets.
He had a kitchen in his suite, he doesn’t use the high end oven or stoves. He doesn’t cook by himself. He did enjoy a home cooked meal, but he only waited for you to visit to pull out ingredients. You had the cupboards stocked with microwavable food and gallons of water for the times you couldn’t be there to cook for him.
“How is it?”
His eyes were bright. Alert. Especially when you were in the room with him. He nods. You nod back with a pursed smile.
He was kind of weird. Lex didn’t teach him how to take care of himself, claiming he was too dull to remember anything anyway.
You pick up his bowl when he’s done. Washing it as he lounges in nothing but sweatpants and watches the television on his bed. He sits by the edge, waiting for you, not bothering to dry his wet hair from the shower he took before you had come in.
He liked the news. He liked National Geographic. He liked documentaries. He was a thoughtful guy. At least that’s what you liked to think.
Lex thought he was too dumb to even earn a name.
He would hand you the remote and let you put on the shows you liked. He was very polite.
You were currently binge watching a telenovela on ViX. It was about a farm girl falling in love with two men.
The protagonist had to choose between the rich man who shows her clear devotion or the poor man she falls in and out of love with since they were in high school.
The sound of violins and other strings filled the room as the protagonist on the screen inched her lips closer to her lover’s. The farm boy, Ulises, pulls her in close by the waist, she looks pained. Sure, she knew he loved her, but he made horrible choices, he was unstable, he got into too much trouble.
He was the bad boy.
The rich man, Sebastian, provides for her. He was good and kind. Stable and loved by everyone at the hacienda. His love never wavered for her because of other’s opinions, or commands.
Ultraman sighs as the kiss was cut short, one of the farm boys' exes storms in and demands he take care of her and their baby. You gasp at the revelation, he grumbles.
It breaks the protagonist's heart, not knowing that the other woman was lying and manipulating Ulises into a loveless marriage.
Your hand had paused on his head at the dramatic scene.
He tilts his head back to press against your hand to urge you to continue braiding his hair. The weight of his back presses against you as you sit behind him on his bed.
Your fingers brush against his face as you take strands to intertwine together. His hair was lighter than Superman’s, almost as if it were bleached or toned.
It was also incredibly soft because of the lack of sun exposure and frequent hair conditioning products you sneaked in from a shopping spree on Lex’s card.
He was warm and smelled good. Clean. You fight the urge to ogle further. His chest was bare. His sculpted, almost soft looking mounds of muscle were out on display after his shower. You let out a breath, your hand sweeping past his toned shoulders briefly to feel his soft skin.
The heat pooling in your lower belly from his proximity and weight as he leans against you, his bare body almost on display, was hard to ignore. But you do it. You ignore the heat rising to your cheeks, making your cheekbones ache in prickles.
He glances at you, as you use a hair tie to keep his two braids in place. You were smaller than him, soft. He wanted to put his mouth on you constantly.
He didn’t know how, or in what way. He sees it on the tv. Telenovelas you put on when you were supposed to watch him for the night after he had to heal after a battle.
They kissed passionately, dramatically. He wonders what it would be like to kiss you like that. Would you respond back the same? He would like that.
You pat his shoulders when you’re done and he moves to the side to let you scoot off the bed. He almost wishes you could stay. You did that sometimes. When he was in bad shape after a quarrel with Superman.
It made you feel bad. Almost to the point of wanting to find Superman and scold him for being too rough.
You’d sometimes sleep in the bed with him, it was spacious enough and he made sure you had a lot of room as you dozed off from exhaustion, the tv still playing softly in the background.
He grabs your bag from the edge of the bed and hands it to you as you stand. You smile down at him from where he’s sat on the bed.
It makes his chest warm. He likes what he feels when you smile at him.
You walk out the door with a quiet goodbye.
…
Three months later:
You’ve been ignoring Lex as best you could for the past two months, after the reveal of his latest scheme and after you had found out you were pregnant with Superman’s baby.
Despite this, you were still working with him, still his personal assistant. The threat of a legal battle looming over your head like a grey sky.
He looks down from his computer monitor, standing in a room full of screens with his team and watching as Ultraman once again attempts to defeat Superman.
He’s already thinking of what the news would say about this one. Superman was getting hit more and more frequently, people have started to notice that the hero of three years has been faltering.
He eyes the way you were standing. You were starting to wear looser clothes, shorter heels. You take frequent breaks to go to the bathroom. Most likely to puke your guts out. Or maybe you just didn’t want to be around him much.
He couldn’t help but feel something stirring in him whenever he saw you.
You refused to speak with him privately, you didn’t even bother to take your stuff out of his penthouse. Instead, wordlessly moving back to your apartment. But you did everything he demanded of you.
Keep the pregnancy. Go to the appointments. Change your diet. Take your supplements.
It was all for the child. Never for your wellbeing. Through heavy introspection, he felt what could be described as bad for his moral discrepancy. He was using your body like a vessel. As if he didn’t miss having someone to hold at night. He refuses to believe any negative emotion came from missing your company, your laugh, or your wit.
He felt bad that he cared more for the offspring, and Superman in turn, than he did you. He felt bad for the discomfort that was pushed onto him whenever you were near. Your disdain was palpating, making his ears ring and his spine crawl.
He stands up straight and glances in your direction. You were wearing a sweater, one of his favorites. A long skirt and those mary janes he’d gotten you when you were briefly together for a couple of weeks. It was one of your usual outfits, always looking for comfort, damn the professional uniform he mandated the rest to follow. You glance at him from your peripheral, knowing he was going to command something of you.
“Call-“
You were out of the office before he could finish, his phone rings on his desk from a transferred call in less than a minute and he sighs as he picks it up. You did what was asked, you did it well. So well he barely saw you anymore.
It was late in the afternoon when Superman had defeated the ‘villain’ and Ultraman had retreated from the hero.
You were in his apartment, having cooked him chicken cutlets and pasta as doctors patched him up and he bathed. You let out a shaky breath as his pained face flashes in your mind. He had clung onto you after he shed himself from his costume, his face melding into the side of your neck as he groaned.
The sudden contact had shocked you, enough to knock you over to the floor. He quickly gathered you up on his lap, hands fisting your sweater. You reciprocated instinctively, the feel of his body engulfing over yours sending your heart racing.
Lex had pulled him away from you. As you separated, it felt like you had gotten shot with adrenaline. Lex noticed. He noticed how you took a step toward Ultraman as he was pulled to his feet by medical, as if you were aching to be near him again.
He had left a faint trail of sweat on your neck, a hint of blood from a split lip on your cheek. Bodily fluids clearly have lasting effects on you.
You swallowed thickly as you attempted to regain your composure, Lex having put a hand on your stomach protectively as Ultraman was led away.
“Are you alright?”
You nodded slowly, pushing his roaming hand away, adjusting your sweater over your belly. You kept staring at the door from which his tall form left. With narrowed eyes, Lex nudged you forward, mumbling under his breath about licking wounds and babysitting overtime.
The lighting in the apartment was warm. You hoped the soft hues of orange and yellow soothed him, anything other than hospital bright white at least. You feel your body cringe and tense as Ultraman walks out of his bedroom. The battle was all over the news, every social media feed discussing it as if there wasn’t a new one every other week. Your focus was clouded ever since you were toppled over by the quiet giant. You think your brain went southbound, right between your legs.
You avoided logging onto instagram or twitter. Any semblance of Superman made you nauseous. It made your stomach curl.
You felt a mix of shame and anxiety fester in your chest whenever you thought about him and his perfect dimples and the way Lex antagonizes him every chance he has.
Lex made a call with a news channel earlier in the day. He wanted to put his two cents in on the latest battle, which he procured. He stated that Superman was not as efficient as he used to be. The news was running the interview call he had given them now.
You tune out the words and cringe when they display images of Superman to go with the audio of Lex’s lecture increasing in ferocity.
You turn away from the small screen set up in the kitchen with your plates only to find Ultraman bare, boxers and sweatpants in hand. There was a brief moment where your eyes connected, your breath catching in your throat. He had a slight bruised swell around his cheek.
You feel your heart thrum quickly. His dick was soft. And yet it reminded you of Superman’s. But unlike him, Ultraman didn’t trim, he didn’t know how to, nobody did it for him. It wasn’t necessary.
Superman was well groomed, trimmed. Dark hairs that curled ever so slightly when you had made a mess of his pelvis with your arousal.
You look away with a shaky sigh. You had excused yourself from every opportunity to tend to Ultraman after your coupling with Superman for this very reason. You knew you'd be comparing. You’d look at the similarities and be reminded of how good Superman made you feel.
You wonder if the superhero thought of you too.
You stare holes into the floor as he approaches. He needed help putting his clothes on, his body too sore to bend down and do it himself. His hair was wet, slicked back and darkened by the moisture.
He looked so much like Superman. Your brain tells you for a brief second that you saw him in the room with you. It made goosebumps crawl all over your skin. The hairs on your arms lifted.
You kneeled down to lift his boxers up his thighs, then his sweats, avoiding looking at his crotch. He sits down on the kitchen island’s stool as you stand and he starts to eat from his plate. He noticed the way you reacted to him nowadays. Your body would flush with heat, your breath would stutter. He liked it.
He briefly recalls what he has seen on television. The tv shows where the girls have a crush on someone and start acting how you were now, shy and bashful.
He decides to let you have your time to process your new feelings for him. He watches as you struggle to maintain your composure as you eat your meal. You ate slowly, as if you were seconds away from puking. He thought it was because of the baby you were carrying. He could see it, he thought you had a tumor when your belly had started to become rounder, so he checked only to find a fetus floating inside your womb.
He knew more than he let on. No one ever asks him so why would he tell them he was starting to read books on medicine, culture, and so much more. At first jealousy rose within him, but he quickly found out the baby was Superman’s. Lex’s team liked to gossip, most of them already knowing your situation because their boss had tasked them with watching you.
The revelation, in a strange way, calmed him.
He knew they were practically the same. So his children were his. The baby was his.
You look bothered most of the time, full of discomfort that would make you squirm. The more you spent in his room, the more uncomfortable you seemed.
You swipe your forehead lightly and feel droplets of sweat wet the back of your sleeve. It was so hot in the room. You glance at the thermometer near his open bedroom door. It was set at 70 degrees.
He eats quickly, as if he needs to be ready at a moment's notice. You don’t even think he savors the food. The water he drinks spills over the corners of his lips. Almost sensual in the way they drip down his neck and drag against the lines of his collarbones.
He stands suddenly.
He makes his way over to his bed, opening the bedside drawer to reveal the hair ties you kept there. He sits at the edge expectantly, his hand already holding the tv remote in hand.
With a sigh you make your way over.
Your stomach clenches as you braid his hair, his weight was heavy on you, eyes closed as your fingers lightly massaged his scalp. It must be a hot flash or whatever pregnant people deal with.
Your eyes wander. You didn’t see him like this when he had the full suit on. He was pure muscle, some softness to him but otherwise built like a machine. His biceps were the size of your head, his thighs equalling yours and maybe being even thicker.
You lean closer to the side of his head. He leans into you, you feel yourself shiver against his back as his head rests against your shoulder and his nose nudges your jaw.
You imagine Superman's shoulders, how broad they were when he pounded into you. The way you grasped them and held on for dear life. You let out a breathy low moan. The sound catches in your throat the second you let out the soft hum.
You pull away quickly.
He notices, you knew he noticed by the rising hard on he sported, bulging through his sweatpants obscenely. He could smell your arousal.
You wanted it bad. Your hand presses to your mouth to stop yourself from moaning at the mere sight of his arousal. What was wrong with you? You had more control than this?
You tie his hair in a misshapen braid and push away from him quickly. You felt like your body was on fire. Just from being near Ultraman. He doesn’t stop you, he just stares hungrily, eyes narrowed as if urging you to come closer.
You make your way out of his apartment, not saying goodbye and shifting in your seat on the way home by how wet your panties had gotten.
…
You make your way out and into the balcony. You sigh out as the breeze passes through your body. Like a refreshing rush of water cleansing you. Lex’s been clinging to you like an octopus. His arm wound tight around your waist, long fingers caressing the slight swell of your belly teasingly.
You felt like a trophy wife. Paraded around the charity event, one you’re sure he didn’t even care about. That was your task for the evening, a work event. Like those times he’s attempted to convince you that going to dinner with him after your ‘breakup’ was work-related and not because he wanted you close.
You’d excused yourself to the bathroom and he had pressed a tight lipped kiss to the crown of your head, prompting those around him to look between themselves. He wanted them to assume a connection between you both, with the baby and bump that was barely showing.
All speculation for the moment.
Lex didn't like leaving you alone, you briefly wondered if he thought you would escape. If you were planning on leaving with the very thing he wanted growing in your womb.
He knew better than to underestimate you. Sometimes he hated the anxious feeling you gave him. He didn’t like not knowing.
You would be upset at work, you walked the halls of his office building with your head held high. Like you had something over him. And you did. He hated it.
You hadn’t come back from the ‘bathroom’, instead opting to find a way to get some fresh air. Ultraman walks out behind you and he could see the way the swoosh of the door made your shoulders tense.
He closes the door softly, the sounds of chatter inside mute and dissolve into unintelligible murmurs. The soft lighting of the lamps on either end of the handrails illuminated your cheeks as you turned from where you were sitting on a marble bench.
He almost wishes he could caress your soft skin. He bet it would feel like a peach. Would your mouth taste just as sweet?
He doesn’t really like peaches, he thinks as he inches closer. He thinks he’d just like the taste of you. Your mouth. The tears gathering and dripping down your cheeks, that musky place between your legs.
You turn and eye him suspiciously. You scoff. You hated Lex and everything that represented him. The man standing in front of you was covered head to toe in black. Lex’s branding and logo showcased on his shoulder pads as if he were an F1 racer. You wonder when Lex would take the initiative to charge companies for ads.
Your eyes trail over his form. Still and silent. You remember when you first met, without the suit or mask. It was jarring. Lex was beaming, hands wandering over his defined pectorals and shoulders as if he were a cherished lover.
He had stared at you, brows furrowed as if he thought you were just like his creator.
Lex indulges himself in the clone. It was his first seemingly successful creation. You thought he was mentally deranged. Vulgar with the way he treated him. Unfortunately, Ultraman was close to perfect. He was born with a fully formed brain. Blank. He needed to have developed as an infant, a child, a teenager. He skipped steps to be fully functioning.
But you knew he could learn, and he did. It just takes longer. It doesn’t stick as well. He can barely speak. Or maybe he chooses not to. Your hands were cradling your belly on your lap. You quickly move them away. Lex would get what he wanted. A perfect copy of Superman, able to be manipulated, learn, and grow. It made your blood boil.
Your dark blue chiffon scarf slides down your shoulders. He tips his head ever so slightly as your collarbone becomes exposed. His hands twitch, fingers flexing as if he wanted to reach out and adjust your gown for you. Your lips purse. He had big hands, you’re sure he could cover your face with his palm. Maybe even cup your breasts completely and squeeze- You shiver and you look away quickly.
He wasn’t Superman. You felt pity for him. For yourself.
He reminded you of Tarzan. You didn’t think you would like to be his Jane. You’ve known about his crush. Lex noticed it first. Ultraman seemed intrigued, no- enamored. You treated him like a person, and not like an ignorant child or machine. It clicked in your head after a while. When Lex had been testing that damn drug on him.
Your eyes make a path from one thick shoulder to the other. You take a shaky breath in. Superman's shoulders were so broad. He was so large. You think you’ve started to develop a crush on him. In turn, Ultraman as well. You were getting turned on by him, inadvertently so. He reminded you of Superman's dimples and thick voice and the way he held you close to him and asked politely if you wanted to ‘escape’, wrapped up in his cloak and taken to who knew where.
You stand and face him. Your eyes carry forced aggression against him. The memory of that night passing through you in embarrassment.You felt like a child that needed to be escorted back to their father.
He follows close behind as you walk past him and back into the event. You think Lex had you come for publicity.
Girlfriend? Friend? Who is this woman by his side? You knew it was because he wanted Superman to see you too. It made you anxious, as if you had been keeping a secret. You looked bloated at certain angles, Lex’s hand firmly on your hip, as if to highlight the slight swell of your stomach.
E! News had commented on how his new girl should hit the gym more often. It was all over the tabloids, the Daily Planet gossip column, TMZ, and even some news station who had nothing better to report on. Lex wanted to stir conversation. He wanted Superman’s attention, badly. You almost felt like a third wheel at this point.
You feel Lex’s gaze from the corner of the room. Your eyes connect with his and without breaking it he excuses himself and makes his way over to you, surely to remind you about your contract and how you were meant to follow his orders. Stay by my side tonight.
You scoot past guests as he inches closer, losing him quickly as you make your way to a crowd looking over a priceless vase from ancient Rome. Ultraman was hard to ditch due to his advanced senses but you found that he was easily overwhelmed by crowds.
You take a deep breath in and adjust your scarf over yourself, hiding your stomach. You hear your name being spoken throughout the crowd, guests gladly giving directions to your location or where they had last seen you walk past. You curse under your breath and make an attempt to hide behind tall figures.
You press a hand to your chest as your heart starts to pump so fast you fear it’s going to jump out of your throat. It was making your body heat in subtle thrums as you entered an empty hallway. Your breath comes out unsteadily. The feeling only gets stronger. You place a hand over your chest, panic rising at the thought of a sudden heart attack.
A trail of warmth leads from your mouth and slides down your throat to your lower stomach like thick honey. As if you had just drank in sweet rum. Your muscles were buzzing underneath your skin.
Someone grips your wrist, dropping it quickly as a shock runs through your spine and you turn sharply with a yelp. The man was clearly out of place, an old, too big tweed suit sitting upon his shoulders haphazardly. He was slightly hunched over and his cheeks were glowing pink. He adjusts his glasses and lifts his press badge.
You should have turned away, ignored him to oblivion but something told you to stay still. His touch sated your heart slightly, but your stomach curls in beats. Your eyes lock with his, you take a step forward, you swear you've seen him before. His face was so familiar. Your lips part and you felt an urge to reach up and touch his face-
A thick body slides itself in front of you. Ultraman's foot in front of you as the reporter attempted a step closer. He takes a sheepish step back, glancing at Ultraman's goggled mask. Your curiosity doesn’t waver. You place your hand on Ultraman’s forearm and his shoulders soften at the touch. He keeps himself between you both. His breathing came in and out in deep breaths, making his chest rise and fall deeply.
Your eyes lock with the reporter’s.
“Clark Kent, Daily Planet.”
He swallows thickly and his throat bobs. Your eyes narrow. You recognize the name. The Superman guy. Writes about him so much and so eloquently that his writing could be reenacted by him gargling on Superman’s balls.
His eyes narrow back at you, almost judgementally. You’ve been ignoring the hell out of him. His emails, pleading you to at least give him a comment back. You feel a tinge of shame. You didn’t think he would be so cute.
You take a step closer, Ultraman shifts. Clark says your last name curtly after a stiff miss.
“I’ve been attempting to contact you in regards to the kidnapping that occurred three months prior.”
Your heart pumps rapidly in your chest. His voice was so deep. So hot. He was attempting to be professional but his words came out unnatural in verbiage.
His eyes dart to your cleavage from your sudden heady breaths, his jaw ticking before looking away quickly. He takes a deep breath in and he clears his throat. You felt your mouth water. Your eyes were darting all over his frame. He had nice shoulders, even if he slumped them. His jaw was strong, his hands large.
You swallow thickly and shift. His eyes follow the line of your throat as it bobs. He remembers kissing a path down to your breasts. The way you arched your back as he held you up against him. The broken sounds you made when he curled his fingers in your cunt and suckled at your nipples. He remembers the taste of your milk, sweet, slightly musky. He salivates at the memory.
“I was-” he starts after your silence.
Admittedly he was so upset at you. He was ready to rip you a new one. You ignored him. While he was just trying to ensure you were safe. Given, you didn’t know [email protected] was Superman himself.
His eyes roamed over your figure.
Gosh, you were so beautiful. The fabric of your dress laid over your body perfectly, accentuating your best features in a way only he could compare with your bare skin. But he was upset!
He couldn’t stop thinking about you for the past three months. The taste of your cunt, your breasts. It would be too much sometimes whenever he saw you with him on the television or in a tabloid. It made him want to tear his hair out. Sometimes he almost did when he would see a picture of Lex giving you a kiss on the cheek. He remembers kissing you in much more intimate places.
He’d taken care of himself in the Daily Planet’s bathroom stalls far too many times because of that very train of thought.
You watch as he adjusts the collar of his suit, his face flushes. He looks as if he had just gotten out of a sauna. Your eyes zone in on his adam's apple. Your tongue peeks between your lips and your fingers twitch.
“I just wanted to write about how these attacks have…” he swallows thickly. You repress the urge to bite your lip. You almost lean into Ultraman, your head inching closer to his bicep to rest there. Your body rises in goosebumps, Clark’s voice was deep. He was so tall. As tall as Ultraman, no Superman.
You weren’t wearing a bra. Your nipples hardened and pointed out to him, teasing him. Your scarf couldn’t hide that.
“Affected victims,” he finishes. He could smell your arousal. Ultraman could too.
“If you’re available, that is.”
Your head straightens and tips.
“If I’m available?” you ask. You weren’t paying attention to a word he said since you’ve noticed his bright eyes. You’ve never felt such need for a stranger before.
He steps closer, his voice lowers. “Are you available?” he asks with a hint of confidence. His voice only slightly unsure. Was he flirting with you? Even he couldn’t believe it. Your lips part into a lazy smile, you start to nod.
Ultraman grips your waist and lifts you enough to have you floating off the ground by a centimeter, placing you directly behind him. His chest puffs as he faces Clark Kent. You press against his back as you attempt to get a glimpse of the reporter again.
You're forced to turn the other direction.
You’re led away with a strong arm on your bicep. Ultraman drags you away, towards a shiny bald head all the way on the other side of the venue. You turn your head and watch as the reporter stands alone flustered.
“I am- available!” you choke out.
…
Ultraman wraps a hand around your bicep with a fierce grip as he drags you across the hallways and to his living quarters. He had taken off his mask in the elevator, right after Lex had placed a wet kiss on your cheek and patted your ass to send you off and tuck Ultraman in for the night.
You think it was a punishment of some kind. Forced to work late hours with what Lex thought was an airheaded nuisance.
Ultraman’s jaw was flexing, his brows furrowed in frustration. You think it was because of the reporter. He can be so rough, he wasn't good at controlling his emotions. His jealousy especially.
He got jealous when Lex spoke about Superman’s stats, how much stronger he seemed to be than Ultraman at times. He gets jealous whenever a seasonal intern speaks to you and follows you around for a couple of days.
He hates knowing other people have your attention. He hates the way that reporter was looking down at you, and the way you were looking up at him. As if you wanted to rip his clothes off.
He gruffs past you to his bathroom, coming out after a couple of minutes as you wait on his bed. You had placed your scarf on the back of the lounging chair in his bedroom. You were looking intently at your phone, eyes flickering all over the screen in great interest.
He thought you looked so pretty, head pressed against his pillows as if you were made to sleep next to him. Your dress flowed around your body, curling near your hip and accentuating the shape of your belly and waist.
He dreams of things like this.
He dreams of living in an hacienda, tending to horses, picking up haybells and coming home to you. You’d be head down and overwhelmed with paperwork. Like he sees you in his living room coffee table sometimes when you have to stay and watch over him during weekdays.
Then there’d be pitter patters of little sock clad feet. Running up to him as he came in through the door. You’d give him a look, soft and sweet. Like you had missed him.
Then he would wake up and realize that he wasn’t living the life of the man in the tv drama.
You stare at the man on your phone screen. You mimicked the same dopey smile from his dream. Clark Kent’s profile at the Daily Planet website looked like it was taken last minute. His tie was wrinkled and awkwardly bent to the left as if he had just put it on in a rush.
Ultraman makes a sound from the back of his throat. You slam the phone face down on the bedside table as if to hide the autobiography you were reading. He bet you didn’t even hear the bathroom door open.
He doesn’t know what comes over him. He thinks it was instinct. It just felt right to him.
His hair was slicked back, you noticed right before he dived in to kiss you on the lips. His hand maneuvers itself to the back of your head, the other makes the mattress dip as he crawls on top of you. A sound of surprise escapes you, lips parting slightly and allowing his tongue to peek between them to roam over your teeth.
His lips were soft and gradually as he continued, you melted into it, your hands running up his forearm and to his shoulders. He flexes them under your touch. You feel him harden into the crease of your thigh and a chill goes down your spine.
His hand meets the small of your back and presses you up against his chest. Your breath stutters as he pulls away to lead kisses down your jaw. He grips you tightly, lifting you up so that you would wrap your legs around him.
You were moving too fast, his hands were precise as they lifted the soft fabric of your dress up your waist, the strap falling down your shoulder and revealing your breasts. Your body pulses as his hand caresses your bare flesh, a sharp ache imbedding itself down your spine and to your cunt.
One hand cups your breast, calloused palm rubbing against your sensitive nipple. The other guides your hip over his lap, clothed cunt plopping right over his bare cock.
You grind against his hard on, mouth falling open as you move your hips against him. His precum moistens your underwear as you shift your hips erratically. His fingers trail along the waistband of your panties, sliding them down.
He’s watched porn. Lex had shown him some films for the sake of research. Could the clone feel arousal? How big did Superman’s dick get when he was hard? All questions Lex may or may not have been upfront with his colleagues about. He thought of you in place of those men and women, sinking his cock into your tight wet hole, pressing you into his bed as he split you open.
He wanted to feel pleasure, he wanted to pleasure. He bites down onto your neck softly, feeling your heart pulse quicken. He’s never touched anyone other than himself before, his hand shakes as his fingers part your lower lips. He sinks his fingers into you, making your back arch at the unexpected intrusion. You whine, face creasing as if you were mid-cry.
The feeling of his thick finger stretching you open made your stomach tense. His face was tight, brows furrowed in deep concentration as he tested out your give. He pushes in deep, your hand grips his shoulder tightly as he presses experimentally against your cervix. He squeezes your chest, pressing his head against your collarbone. You were so wet, dripping down his fingers.
He pumps you too fast, so fast that your pleasure starts to dissipate. He didn’t know how to finger, apparent by the stiff pointed fingers moving frantically against your inner walls which felt numb after thirty seconds.
He takes directions so well. Your grip on his shoulders tightens. You curl your fingers and his curl with yours. Your head falls to his neck, you mewl as he rubs against the spongy part inside you. His cock twitches on the swell of your belly as he imagines what the squeeze of your cunt on his fingers would feel on his cock.
He continues, your fingers finding their way to your clit, rubbing as you ground your lips against the ridges of his cock. You shriek as his mouth finds your nipple, sucking at it harshly, the sudden action making you rut against him as you reach your peak.
Your body shakes, legs flexing on their own as he presses you as close as possible. He doesn’t let you go and even as his cock throbs he refuses to move an inch to not risk you moving away. Your body is crushed against his body as he moves to lay on top of you, his head curling against your chest, hands gripping your dress hard enough to make the seams pop.
Any attempt of moving away is met with a deep groan, his lips finding their way to your breast and sucking harsh enough to paralyze you. You stay there, body shaking, his hand coming up to caress the curve of your belly in worship, until you feel yourself drift from exertion.
You wake up on your side, pillows and blankets shifted to cocoon you. You were in a pillow fort.
For a moment you forget where you were but as you shift you feel the unpleasant wetness of your arousal and someone else's on your thigh, leaking down to the sheets in its thickened state.
You sit up groggily. Someone will come in soon. To change the sheets. Ultraman goes to train in the morning- Your heart stops for a moment as you realize he wasn’t there. Someone had come in to retrieve him.
The phone clatters against the bedside table as you fumble for it, your fingers shaking as you check for any messages or calls from Lex as you’re sure his employees would snitch about the state you were in if they saw you.
You find nothing. You take a deep breath. You’re sure Ultraman got dressed on his own and left you to sleep. You’re sure whoever retrieved him this morning didn’t come into the apartment and just waited for him at the door.
Judging by the way you were covered when you had woken up, he hid you as best he could. You bite your lip as you resist a smile. It was sweet…
…
You wear one of his spare shirts and sweatpants as you make your way out of the building. It would have made you feel less like a walk of shame. But judging by the heels you still wore, it might have made things look worse. You swipe through your emails again as you take a cab home.
Hello,
It was a pleasure meeting you at the event. I didn’t catch what you said before you had left. Do you have availability in your schedule to meet and talk? Just wanted to ask a few questions…
You skip the paragraph, instead your eyes bulge at the final question. Your heart hammers and your lips quirk into a smile. Oh.
Do you want to discuss it over dinner?
Best Regards,
Clark Kent
Despite yourself, you still feel that ache in your lower belly. Slowly building up again. You bite your cheek, exhaling slowly as you shift in the backseat of the taxi. Clark Kent seemed like he would be into pregnant women… at least you hope he will be.
Your fingers type faster than your brain could process.
…
Lex watches you smile at your phone, your shoulders hunched over as you type quickly and place the screen down onto your desk with a slam of giddiness. Discomfort develops in his chest. He feels awkward amidst your happiness. What was causing it? Clearly not him. Why were you giggling to yourself? You never did that with him. Maybe when you were dating… for a month.
His foot taps the floor impatiently as he hears your sharp snort. So much so that it starts to cramp. He hates not knowing. He stands from his desk and makes his way out the door to his office. It was kept open for a while, he always had an eye out for you.
Your head was barely visible from your desk, he leaned against the counter. Your smile falls, you slide your phone away into your pant pocket and look up with dead eyes. It almost made his eyes twitch.
“We’re going to dinner tonight.”
Your eyes narrow.
“Can’t,” you respond dully.
His head tips to the side. Wondering where you got the confidence to be dismissive of him.
“I’m meeting with a reporter.”
He stands up straighter. His brows furrow intensely, so much so they almost connect in the center of his face.
“You’re not allowed to speak to the media as a LuthorCorp employee, you know this.”
You shrug.
“It has nothing to do with my employment. It’s about my kidnapping, which I recall being after work hours. 5 pm sharp.”
Your eyes resisted rolling and trails to your monitor screen. You close up, picking up your coat and shrugging it on. It was starting to get cold, you twist your scarf over your neck and tuck it.
You start to walk away from him, having clocked out of work on your phone. He follows close behind, long legs catching up to your pace.
“With who?”
You barely turn your head to respond, you purse your lips anxiously. You’re sure his office will be trashed when you come in tomorrow morning. Your steps quicken to the elevator. You press the first floor button as he stands in anger and frustration, his hands at his hips.
“Clark Kent.”
You barely see the hints of splotchy red adorning his face as the doors close shut.
…
It was cold out, but you could feel the warmth building from your lower belly spread to the rest of your body. Clark had offered to walk you back home but there was a magnetic pull you felt towards him, making you want to rip him out of his clothes, to stay in his presence longer than you would with someone you barely met.
You think he felt the same. In fact, you knew he did by the way he gripped your upper arm to drag you to an empty dark alley. His hands were resting on your hips, yours on his suit jacket as both of your breaths quickened to pants.
Clark leans down, his exhale stuttering as you take a step between his feet, your chest meeting his. You were so wet, your cunt throbbing as slick runs down your inner thighs. You could see his massive boner poke through his trousers, pressing into your lower belly.
You whine at the sight of his frames almost falling from the bridge of his nose, yours fogging up from his warm puffs. You think Clark Kent was sick. He found out you were pregnant during dinner, with his friend's child no less and yet he's still here, the bridge of his nose nudging against your jaw.
His lips trace over your neck, he feels your pulse, the shake of your knees. He presses you against the side of the building, hand lifting your skirt to grab at your thighs.
Your fingers tighten over the lapels of his jacket as his fingers gather your slick, pressing it to his lips in a starved groan. He’s dreamt of your taste. To the point where he would catch a hint of it in the air sometimes, tasting it on his tongue and yearning for more.
It was like you were his favorite candy. A rich musky honey that he could never find anywhere else but in his own perverted mind. He gathers more of it, quickly flicking his tongue out to catch your arousal on his fingertips before dipping back in.
He would get down on his knees but he wants to taste your mouth, lick the sweat off your skin from attempting to take both of his thick fingers. Your noses smoosh together as his tongue explores your mouth, his scent surrounds you, he smothers you as he lifts you against the wall and steps between your thighs.
You pull away to take a breath and his mouth follows, only allowing you a heartbeat to inhale before he pulls you back into him.
Your phone vibrates as he starts to unbuckle his belt, the sound of the metal clacking making your spine straighten in arousal. He moans when he feels more of your slick drop down his fingers and collect over his knuckles.
“Clark..”
You attempt to shift away, your phone starts to vibrate again. The bag on your shoulder pressing the phone inside against your ribs. You push against his chest. It could be important. Given by the amount of call backs, it must be.
Even despite the heat and how good he makes you feel, your mind was clearer than his. He starts to tug your panties down, pressing the bulge of his boxers against the seam of your cunt.
“Clark-”
You push his shoulder hard, he instinctively grips your hand. The strength of it makes your breath hitch. He pulls away from your neck slowly, the cool air sending a chilling breeze as it meets your saliva slickened skin.
You stare at each other, he leans back to get a better look at you. Your eyes were hooded over and glossy. Lips swollen from his kisses. He hears the vibration, cutting through the tension. As he lets you down, his grip loosens, so much more delicate than before as his knuckles pass over your cheek.
The intimacy widens your eyes, but you let him continue, ignoring the urgency in your purse. He lifts your frames up to the crown of your head and your vision blurs slightly. His figure morphs into fuzz, and for a second your heart stops.
He looks down at you with tenderness, a serious look of determination you couldn’t understand yet. You resist the urge to pet his head. The dark hair, tall and broad frame. It reminded you of him.
You clear your throat as you bend to pull your underwear up from where they fell to your parted knees. He adjusts himself quickly as you make yourself presentable again.
“I have to go.”
He nods.
“I’ll find you.”
His words make you shiver. His confidence almost sounded like a threat.
You fish your phone out of your purse as it rings again, turning away and shakily walking into the street. You curse under your breath and hail a taxi when you glance at the contact.
…
You quicken your steps when you hear more of his sounds of pain. Lex had alerted you of Ultraman’s injuries, claiming he was requesting you by name. It rang alarm bells in your head, he didn't speak, not unless he was mimicking what someone had told him to say.
But as you approach the medical lab, you hear it clear as day. Ultraman says it whispily, voice hoarse either from disuse or fatigue.
He was strapped to the table, no other person around him except for Lex. He was writhing, kryptonite crystals lined along the straps. The room was hot, musky. It smelled like sex and sweat. He was shirtless, only in his boxers.
What really made your stomach curl was his dick print, it was visibly pulsing, most of the front of his underwear darkened by pre and cum. You swallow a moan as Ultraman's stomach clenches, more cum staining his boxers, some escaping past the fabric to make a mess on the medical chair. Lex stands over him, now facing you with narrowed eyes, as if waiting for you to react.
He almost looks smug at how your chest starts to rise and fall quickly because of your surroundings. His bulge was obscene, Ultraman's body pulled like a corded wire. His neck was strained towards you. Your mouth parts and you swallow thickly.
Lex and his stupid experiments.
You feel anger rise within you, a hint of confusion in your voice as you step closer, dropping your bag and going to him as he calls your name weakly.
“Why aren’t you helping him?”
Lex watches closely, jaw ticked in irritation as you instinctively place a hand over Ultraman’s cheek, caressing lightly with your thumb. Your hands quickly move to take away the restraints as he moans weakly.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he says boredly. You ignore him. Ultraman whines as your fingers graze over his skin. As the restraints fall to the side of the table he grips your wrists tightly, sitting up with minimal effort and pulling you up against him. You’re concerned by the way he shudders, panting into your ear as he tries to peel off your sweater.
You don’t really fight it. His wandering lips and hands over your bare skin make you shake. As if a deep part of you was satisfied. You already knew what Lex did to him. He was always cruel. You fight through the need to submit to the rough pull of clothing. Your glare is directed at Lex as Ultraman starts to rut against your side.
Your stomach clenches as his tongue slides over your throat. Your knees start to shake.
“You’re a sick fuck, Lex,” you say breathily. He rolls his eyes. He’d thought you would be more grateful, honestly. He’s sure you didn’t know that he had cameras installed inside Ultraman’s room. To better monitor you of course.
He felt a sense of envy and malice seeing you cuddle up with his creation, his brute. Then coincidentally, you had dinner with Clark Kent. Superman’s favorite reporter, most likely confidant and friend.
“I haven’t yet been able to see the side effects. Which- I’m sure- you’ve felt already.”
You frown. Lex always likes it when you pout. Your eyes flutter as your skirt is pulled down, panties along with it. Luthor walks around you both, shifting his belt to adjust himself.
“You want Superman so bad, take him,” he says hatefully, his words sounding more like a hiss.
Your eyes widen. Lex presses against your back, your back arches as his fingers reach the apex of your thighs. His fingers plunge into you, finding no resistance. Your knees give out but he holds you up against Ultraman’s chest, sandwiching you between them.
“Want someone to take the edge off, whore?”
His words were whispered in your ear, your body unable to move between the two broad walls of chests. Lex pulls away, leaving you to grip onto Ultraman to still yourself. You watch as Ultraman’s lips open obediently, Lex pushing past his tongue to gag him with arousal coated fingers.
His fingers pinch Ultraman’s chin harshly.
“Play with your toy.”
…
“Oh c’mon-”
Lex stands from his chair suddenly. He’s been watching him pound into you for an hour. Your body was draped over the bed, shaking with your knees pushed all the way to your shoulders. You were boneless, Ultraman kissing you sloppily on your parted lips.
Your glasses have fallen off, the sight of him on top of you bringing you pangs of arousal with every glance. It felt like you were on a perpetual high, brain turning to mush with his every grunt, every load.
You were covered in it, your thighs slippery and lower belly filthy in translucent white. You were on the edge of ecstasy, unlike your experience with Superman who had shown that he was as compassionate as everyone he had encountered made him seem.
Your face was hot, skin itchy from the lack of proper release.
Lex snaps you out of your haze for a moment, pulling Ultraman back by the root of his hair and pulling his hands away from the backs of your thighs. He stops mid thrust, your legs shaking as they fall on either side of his hips.
You feel Lex start to rub your cunt, thumb tracing over your lower lips as he whispers in Ultraman’s ears. You were too numb to fully understand his murmurs, but you catch Ultraman nodding. Your hips jump as he pinches your clit, showing where the clone should touch. He lets go of his hair and allows his fingers to replace his own.
“Don’t be greedy, understand?”
Ultraman nods stiffly, still in a daze of pleasure as his own fingers start to explore, circling over the hood slowly before pushing it away to place the lightest pressure on your exposed clit. Lex stays put, eyes roaming over your figure, covered in the clones cum. He couldn’t help himself, he bends down to lick at your neck, slowly making a path downward to where all of Ultraman’s spend had stained your skin.
Your breath hitches at the attention, his lips close around your nipple, now even more sensitive than before, and sucks harshly. You feel a letdown, a combination of milk and other discharge surging out of your nipple and to his mouth. It leaks as he lets go with a pop, the stimulation he began making you leak further. Your back arches almost painfully, the throbbing of your breast dying down but still present as he cups your belly.
He eyes you from where he leans his head against the swell, eyes sharp and focused on your reaction. You have the urge to slap him but your body was too weak to move on your own, Ultraman having changed his rhythm of thrusts from shallow to deep. Lex knew exactly what you liked, he just never did it for you. The prick.
He tongues at your lower belly, right where the baby bump starts, he kisses it lightly, almost hesitantly. His saliva acted as a balm, although Ultraman’s cum had a better effect on your body.
His head meets the edges of your cunt, he watches as Ultraman’s dick stretches you open obscenely, the delicate skin of your hole pulsing and sticking to his shaft like latex. Ultraman continues to pump himself into you, one hand moving to your breast, the other nudging at your clit.
Luthor kisses where you both connect, your sensitive hole and his throbbing member. The sensation of his tongue makes your eyes roll back, back arching impossibly to grind against his face. Ultraman throbs against his lips from the feeling of his tongue cleaning the combination of your arousals off his cock.
You feel yourself release, stomach cramping, head aching and cunt pulsing pleasure enough to make you scream.
And inevitably black out.
…
You haven’t been outside in a couple of weeks. All of your apartment’s belongings have been moved to the top floor of the LuthoCorp building. The walls were lined in lead and sound proofed. Clark had mentioned how Superman could hear almost anything at all times spanning the entire world. Clearly, Lex knew that too, as the second you were left alone you screamed Superman at the top of your lungs and no one appeared to save you.
You place a hand on your back, another cupping your belly, now bigger and heavier. Your feet slide into the slippers Lex had gotten you. You pull your shirt down, sighing as the fabric slid up again.
Lex refused to give you larger sizes. Judging by the bulges in his pants whenever he came “home”, you think he enjoyed seeing the progress of his “child”.
Your face morphs into silent contemplation, lips thinning out into a mute frown as you step out of the hallway leading to the bedrooms. You stare at the black velvet box on the kitchen counter. Several vases full of flowers adorning the living room and kitchen.
The note next to it wasn’t worth reading. Opening the box, you felt nothing, even if the ring was as beautiful as those you had pinned in your Pinterest boards. You put it down, placing your hands on the table and taking deep breaths in.
You shift the vases away as you prepare yourself breakfast, your chest festers with anxiety.
You think you’ll just say the ring didn’t fit. Your fingers were swelling.
He’d believe it.
------------------
Part three is mostly from Clark’s perspective, which will fill in some of the scenes… Lowk I don't know about this lol.
