he's told you this many times now, but you often brush off the firelord's ask as fleeting desire. perhaps a new fetish - the thought of seeing you knocked up and so evidently claimed by him that any time you'd leave his chambers, people would see you as his, pregnant and swollen with his child.
you didn't take him seriously at all, until he dragged you away from his council room where you'd been seated next to him the whole time, giving him such sweet, pure little looks and rubbing his thigh dangerously close to his cock, all while murmuring praises whenever he proposed a strong idea. such words could've also been used in bed, as you'd been saying things like;
"so good, zuko."
"well done, my prince."
among other words in that sultry voice of yours.
now he has you folded up in his huge bed, pushing your legs wide open as far as they'll go as he pounds his achingly swollen cock into your chubby pussy with the sole goal of pumping you full of his babies.
you cry out and dig your nails into his strong shoulders, wondering what's come into your loving husband. how he's gone from lovemaking to fucking you raw into the mattress, aiming the thick head of his cock straight for your womb and kissing your cervix each time he bottoms out.
"didn't fuck- take me seriously at all." he grunts, watching juices spill out of you as he keeps aiming his long, curved cock straight for your womb, dragging his engorged shaft along your softened sweet spots each time. it makes your toes curl and your nails cut into his flesh as pleasure overwhelms you. "i told you i wanted to get you fuckin' pregnant, and you thought i was joking. what makes you think i'd ever joke about something like that?"
"zuko!" you call his name between garbled moans, your head tipping back into the pillow when he pushes his cock flat into your cervix yet again, slowing his thrusts just enough to hit it gently, not to hurt, but to deliver a fucking message. he tuts at your whining and lets out a soft hiss as you rake your nails down his skin. the pain does not deter him at all, only encouraging to pound your puffy cunt harder.
he grabs handfuls of your tits, squeezing and rubbing his skilled fingers along your budding nipples until they're hard and stout, his tongue licking over his lips hungrily as he imagines how they'll dribble with milk once you're thoroughly bred. he leans down and pushes your breasts together so he can suck both nipples into his mouth at once, tasting the sweetness of your skin and sweat for now and fixating on how much sweeter you'll taste with milk pouring into his mouth.
he plans to fuck your cunt as long as he can while you're pregnant, too.
the new angle has his cock spearing into you impossibly deeper, and as a reaction, your pussy flutters around him, milking his cock greedily and trying to wring the cum straight out of him. one more squeeze of your velvety walls around his dick has his cock swelling up, and with a loud groan into your tits, he spills a hot, thick, heavy load right into your womb, fucking you through it in hopes that this round of cum will surely get you pregnant.
Tags: nsfw, smut, creampie, established relationship, being flustered, getting embaressed, Aang being cute and hot at the same time
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A/N: Well... here we are again. It's been a while since I've written headcanons but I watched the Aang movie so... my hands move on their own. First of all, Katara is so damn lucky omg. Second, I've always headcanoned that Korra's eyes glow when she's with Asami so... for me this makes sense too.
Of all things to embarrass him Aang never thought it would be his tattoos
He was proud of showing them off to you when you first started dating, a part of his culture, his heritage, part of him
The first time they glowed while you were having sex he didn't even notice it at first, he was too focused on how tight your pussy felt around him to pay attention to anything else
Figured it out after when you, while trying to suppress your laughter, asked him if the sex was so good it sent him into the Avatar state
Since then he'd been extra conscious of his tattoos glowing while he was around you
But it wasn't like he could help it, he couldn't focus on the pleasure and trying to suppress his powers at the same time, at least not in this case because it wasn't something he consciously did unlike his bending
Would put his hand over your eyes the first few times so you wouldn't tease him about it, even though you were clear that you thought it was more hot than anything else
You joked how it's like his whole body is signaling to you he's about to give you a creampie, it's not just his cock twitching and pulsing inside of you, it's all of him
Aang hated to admit it but you did have a point
Eventually he didn't even have to announce he was going to finish, if his tattoos started glowing when he was having sex with you, brighter and brighter with every desperate thrust, you knew he was close
That worked out great for you because it meant you could kiss him a whole lot more
sigh… since no one else is doing it . I will. Beware holy mischaracterised
SUB ZUKO HEADCANNONS (based on new movie clips , no spoilers n shi tho dw)
—-
- Idc he’s a sub in my eyes, you both dabbled in it at first till he was okay with you taking the lead, listen work can be stressful and who is he to say no to being taken care of?
- Fav kinks: Wax play , temperature play, yes this be stereotyping cause he’s fire leave me alone. I do think he dabbles in overstimulation and humiliation w a side of praise,
- “Such a good slut for me aren’t you…” Zuko lets out a noise in between a groan and a whisper. “Yes, all for you- ahh fuck” You grip his cock tightly with an air of entitlement around you making it hard for him to argue back, “Who do you belong to Zuko?”
He turns away flushing a bright red, “You.” He murmured quietly before grunting as you squeezed his cock tighter, basically cutting off blood flow, “I’m sorry who?”
“You, Love.” Zuko takes a breath of relief as you slowly release your harsh grip and stroke him again, making him practically push himself in your hands. “You are mine, good boy. And you are never forgetting that.”
- Will eat you out. even if he tops, he likes seeing you squirm in satisfaction , lets him know he’s doing something right , any form of worshipping you is a joy he’s an expert in.
- If he’s overtimed I like to think he would shed a few angry tears, begging you to stop but doesn’t use his safe word. Just grunting, whining and struggling around in the bed while you make him come for the 3rd to 5th time.
- he has a high sex drive that is driven by sheer love to you I ZONR CAREEE , he can be ready to pass out and still offer to fuck you into ya’lls mattress like deadahh, your pleasure is his pleasure,
- Aftercare is having to beg this man to let you clean him and yourself up and grab you things to eat. He’s way too tired to properly argue but he definetly tries struggling up to his feet on wobbling legs as he grabs a cloth to wipe you down clean. Eventually it’s a shared activity
- Ya’ll have a mirror on top of your chambers bed. 😃 .. He was humiliated asking for it , but this was a punishment for being too self depreciating. Now he’s forced to watch you ruin him from a whole different angle
- Hates sensory deprivation , he can handle being tied up, prefers not to be. But he hates not seeing you, or else it feels like you just left him high or dry :( be nice let him look at you.
hiii... hey... guess who's back... sorry for disappearing for 10 whole months.... i began college, failed college, started a new job, and just put in my two weeks for my old one. its been wild.
nsfw warning!
when you first asked mark, "can i use my toys on you?" he nearly fell off his chair, spilled hot coffee all over himself, and bit his tongue off.
it's not like this was unsurprising, you've asked him little farvors like these ones whenever the both of you were in the mood. however, this one was surprising as you were quietly, shyly almost, asking him while pink dusted your ears.
he can't see the face you're making, but it was probably as embarrassed as your tone was. it was really cute, so cute that all he could do was breathe out a shaky "yes" that made you smile so sweetly at him, it was his ears' turn to become pink.
and with that, you found yourself back into your apartment. (well, it might as well be his too with how he sleeps here every other night.)
you hadn't expected mark to say yes. you sprung the question so out of the blue you saw him nearly choke on his hot coffee. theb he said yes, double the shyness that you were feeling at that moment.
so naturally, the both of you sat across from each other, taking turns blinking. he was slowly beginning to breathe heavily as the anticipation and anxiety racked through his frame.
you slowly flipped the lid open and gently spread the cold lube upon his dick. he jumped slightly at the temperature but begun to calm down as the lube matched the intense heat he radiated.
he groaned softly as he watched you turn the little pink egg on and slowly, gently pressed it on his pink tip. a high pitched gasp escaped his lips as he felt the vibrations down to his balls.
he's squirming a bit as you somehow firmly tied the cute little egg onto his tip before you quickly grabbed a smaller, petite dildo. it was the least intimidating one, in length and girth.
you gently tapped on his thigh, prompting him to shift his focus from the vibrator to the unassuming dildo in your hand. his eyes widened a bit, perhaps in shock and a bit of panic before he shut them tightly and gave you a confident nod. then a quick "yes, that's okay." to reassure you.
you scooped up the lube and precum leaking from him, enough to coat a finger, mark is trembling slightly from the anxious anticipation as you circled around his rim. then as delicately as you, you pushed in.
mark made a sound somewhere in between a moan and a whimper, his toes curled as he tried to relax from the new sensations he was feeling.
the loud squelching noise every time it pushed was so lewd and loud, it overtook any thoughts forming in your head. you felt hypnotized as the silicone disappeared and appeared from the hot, wet rim.
you could tell that for mark, it was embarrassing, but also difficult to stop the whining, the moaning, and groaning. you stop moving immediately whenever you notice every time he tried to muffle himself.
it wasn't very long till mark was cumming, the white come was thicker than you imagined, and as you licked the sensitive head — earning an almost pained whimper from mark — it was saltier, too.
you mercifully gave mark some time to recover before you brought out anymore toys. while you will be patient, you were also so much more excited and hornier thinking about the scrunched up face, glazed eyes and leaking drool on mark's face.
he opened one eye (you just noticed how diluted his pupils are, brown eyes almost black) as if asking silently if there was more.
and damn if that didn't make your dick impossibly harder.
firstly, it had been on your mind for a while but you decidedly slid a cock ring down his cock, the pointed end rubbing onto his perineum whenever he moved.
you reached beside you once more. from the box that held your little hobby, you pulled out a fleshlight. it was rubbery, and had a skincolor similar to yours. mark must've had thought the same as his blush spread down from the back of his neck to his chest.
you covered the inside of the toy generously with lube and swiftly inserted it on mark's cock, earning you a high-pitched whine.
"w-wait, wait," he stuttered out. he evens his breathing out, the same way he does after training. while you wait, you pulled out another toy, this time your anal beads.
the toy was a sort of bright green, each bead getting bigger as it goes down. "okay?" you asked and mark was silent for a few seconds before he stuttered out "yes."
while his ass was still full of lube from earlier, you still carefully applied some on the beads to prevent hurting him (while that was a delicious idea, you shelved it for now to avoid him getting mad, or worse, wanting this to end.) and slowly slid the smallest one while simultaneously beginning to stroke his dick with the fleshlight.
mark was a moaning mess, tears and drool mixed together on the bottom of his chin by the time you got to the 4th bead, which was the size of a golf ball. you'd pop it in and out while gripping onto his cock tightly.
"g-god! please, please! i want to c-come. let me! please!" he pleaded, his legs were squirming around you as the pleasure was too much, too intense. as much as you wanted to edge him, for now you swiftly paused to remove the fleshlight, then the cock ring.
however, you pushed the next bead into him (about the size of a large egg), "you're a good boy, right?" mark frantically shook his head, his hips stuttered into an uneven rhythm of grinding down on the toy. "then can you come with just this?" he lets out a whiny breath.
he began grinding more intentionally. taking that as your answer, you angled the toy (as much as you can) to accurately abuse his prostate.
mark was sobbing by the time he came, feeling the pleasure and overstimulation deep into his bones.
"ughh, no more..." he somehow groaned out as he finally came down from the high of his second, more powerful orgasm.
though, as if he snapped out of his hazy trance, he reached for you, more specifically, your crotch. "what about you?" he tilted his head at you.
you gently pry away his hand. "i'm okay, this was about you."
"doesn't feel like it." he jokingly pouted.
letting out a laugh, you stand up to quickly take care of your business in the bathroom, having mark from earlier as your material. as you fixed yourself up, you also dampened a towel with warm water to wash mark with.
having the cleaning done and taken care of, you lay inbetween mark's strong arms, who was now quietly snoring on you.
it feels so nice to have a boyfriend so willing to do things for you. with that thought, you joined mark to sleep.
⊹★﹕a/n: again can be read as standalone but same reader from previous househusband!clark works :3 ima make a collection atp
wc: 800+
★✩﹒﹒﹒﹒﹒﹒﹒ ★✩﹒﹒﹒﹒﹒﹒﹒ ★✩﹒﹒﹒﹒﹒﹒﹒ ★✩﹒﹒﹒﹒﹒﹒﹒ ★✩﹒﹒﹒﹒﹒﹒﹒
You’re laying back comfortably on your taft swivel chair, trying not to laugh at the pathetic sight in front of you. Clark’s huge frame leans against your mahogany desk for support as your six-inch heel rubs his hard-on. His slacks on the floor, briefs still on as you poke and prod his fat bulge. His white button-up is undone and his tie is barelyhanging on.
He’s sweating bullets trying so hard not to bust, although there’s pre-cum stains already. His hair is a fluffy, curly mess as it’s been run through several times while you mercilessly toyed with him.
You sneer at his lip biting and attempts to stifle his moans out of fear your employees will hear, knowing one could come knocking at any moment. You didn’t care, hell, it gave you a high like no other. Risk having your secretary see you make your husband a whimpering mess? What’s not to like?
It’s only been two minutes—you’ve been checking your silver rolex—and his knuckles are white from the restraint. “Please, hon, I’ll be good I swear—uugh!” his voice cracks and a moan slips from his mouth.
“Uh-uh, you gotta hold it, baby. I don’t reward promises.” you sternly remind him, eyes dark as you admire his huge erection taut against the confines of his tightie whities.
The office phone suddenly goes off. Clark whines from the loss of friction when you slowly bring your leg down. Your fingers hover over the machine for a second before a new idea dawns on you.
His breath hitches when you palm him. With the other hand you bring the office phone closer and scoot towards him.
“If you stay quiet while mommy’s on call, I’ll let you come after,” you whisper. His eyes light all the way and his dick twitches at the thought of your lips around him. “Think you can do that for me, sweetie? Hmm?”
“Y-yes yes, of course!” he pleads, nodding up and down, so needy and desperate for your actual touch.
You push the answering button and exchange all kinds of pleasantries with the president of your sister company. With your manicured hands, you pull his briefs down, springing his cock free. God, was he big. The sheer size of it never failed to amaze you.
He clasps a hand over his mouth when your fingers wrap around it, nearly exploding right then and there. You jerk his throbbing length deliberately slow at first and never break eye contact. He utters a soft groan, already breaking his promise.
Clark’s eyes completely shut and his mouth falls agape when you rub his slit. Good grief, why must you torture him like this. He’s really hoping, your secretary or anybody for that matter doesn’t walk in. On the other hand, he’s hoping they do. Goodness, the humiliating thought paired with you rubbing his cock at this pace makes him hazy. He feels hot everywhere, cheeks absolutely flushed.
“Oh, Clark? He’s amazing! Yeah, no, couldn’t ask for a better husband. He’s so good to me. How’s your wife, John?” You smirk at him throwing his head back at the praise.
His pants and huffs start to get louder when you rub his slit and cup his balls at the same damn time. You’re still talking about how your weekend went while caressing his heavy sack. You give them a light squeeze as a warning, but he’s too lost in feeling. Too overwhelmed. He looks at you with the cutest, tearful eyes.
He swears he’s seeing stars when you stroke him faster, he can’t hold off any longer. “Good golly!” he cries out. He’s bucking into your grip and he’s a moaning mess, babbling all kinds of nonsense.
“Ughh, mommy, please!” he sobs and you can’t help but feel a little bad. He just looks so cute like this, in shambles because of you. Ultimately, you decide to show some mercy.
“Come for me.”
Like a string snapping, his vision goes black and his white cum shoots out when you utter those three words. You completely forget you’re on the phone, busy milking your man dry.
“Let it out, baby,” you coo.
“Fuck..” he exhales as you proceed to stroke. His uncharacteristic cursing made you snicker. He truly is a cutie, especially with that tear-stained face.
His cum squirts all over your clean blazer and exposed cleavage. But you don’t mind. You jerk him until his chest heaving slows and he’s back on Earth.
“Wanna be a good boy and clean up the mess you made?”
“Gosh, yes!” he groans then drops to his knees before you. Even when kneeling, his head is in perfect alignment with your breasts.
Like a thirsty dog, he licks and licks in between your tits, wiping you clean. The line abruptly disconnects and you remember you were on call with John.
Clark w nipple piercings does smth to me… Imagine he gets piercings just cause Jimmie dared him to and he ended up on the wrong side of the internet 4 a minute? Lord he would bust the biggest nut oml oml. Tbh clark busts a bit at anything but imagine chains connected to it which you can yank to bring him over?.. Yeah wrap it up
eccentric black girl reader x lois x clark kent except they both feel bad and wanna give up their feelings for mc cause they notice the other wants em but boom they all end up together. Did i listen to olivia dean while typing this? Yes. I need sad yuri w happy ending and apparently unrequited love w clark kent w happy ending. I think it would be complicated cause they like eachother and mc and they feel sort of guilty for it, so easy fix is polyamory- I DONT WANT PEOPLE TO GET RID OF LOIS.
clark + a s3x worker where he’s desperate af and trying not to fall in love with her cause he knows to her it’s just business but she rides his dick so good and makes him cum so hard that whenever he’s not with her he’s jerking off thinking about her and trying to take his mind off her 24/7….
like he tries with all his brain power not to let his dick do all the thinking but it’s impossible when she treats him so good. and he knows she’s supposed to be good at it, it’s her job for fucks sake, but he gets delusional every time they meet and he pays for hours and hours of her time and even spends some of the time he paid for just cuddling her and playing with her hair after fucking her throat sloppy style. and he’ll ask silly questions like ‘does anyone else take care of you as good as me’ and holds his breath when he waits for her answer
she’ll break her rules for clark and kiss him even though she normally doesn’t like it. he’ll go out of his way to eat her out for half his time slot and just get pussy drunk and so stupid, tipping her over 1k just cause he missed her so much and he got a raise at his job anyway. he’ll kiss her neck and open every door for her and hold her so close and so tight that he might as well be thee number one customer-boyfriend that wants to earn her love and trust
. . .
if anyone wants more of this idea oh my god I’m ready to give more
You confess your affections to an unsuspecting Superman, but your best friend Clark can’t know about your crush, okay? You’d die of embarrassment. (Or, Clark falls in love while Superman does most of the wooing.) fem, 8k
˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚
You never thought you’d get to talk to Superman. You've never been in that kind of danger, and you never hoped to be. You hadn’t wanted to talk to Superman because you know this is weird. You can’t have a crush on someone you don’t know. It’s idol worship, a celebrity fixation, and Superman is the perfect target. You’re not alone in loving everything about him —it’s easy. You aren’t ever confronted with the bad in his good.
And then he’s standing in front of you with his hands braced on your shoulders, and there’s blood running down your face from your temple and you’re crying, because it hurts, because you’re in the panic of your life and not sure what to do next.
He frowns at you with an unwavering gentleness.
“I’m sorry,” he says, “take a deep breath, ma’am. Deep breath.”
“It’s bl– bleeding.”
“I know.”
You shudder through tears as Superman brings his cape up and rips. It startles you, sending fat tears plinking down your cheek. You hold your breath as he brings his scrap to your face, dabbing the wetness from your cheeks before turning the fabric and holding it to your temple firmly.
You gasp painfully under his touch, desperate for air.
“It’s okay, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice a new shade, “it’s alright, you’re going to be fine, I promise. I’m gonna press this to your head, and we’ll see if we can get this bleeding stopped. As soon as it does, I’ll take you down and we can get you some real help.”
You nod, skittish as a scared deer, eyes as wide as they’ll go to follow his movements. It doesn’t hurt any more than the injury itself as he presses down on your head wound. He sighs in sympathy anyway. A broad hand spreads behind your back, familiar in a way, or maybe it’s the way he’s talking to you now. Like he knows you as you know him.
The photos of him online don’t do him justice.
“It’s not bad. I know it hurts, but,” —his hand finds your shoulder, squeezes lightly— “it’s because it’s so high up, alright? They always bleed more. It doesn’t mean this is anything to worry about beyond fixing you up and getting you some pain relief.”
“You– you’re real help.”
He holds your gaze. “Yeah?”
You wonder if he can feel the heat of your blush. It’s all over. He’s lucky your head wound doesn’t start spurting. “Yeah– yeah, I– Superman.”
His smile is everything. “What?” he asks patiently.
“I’m a big fan of– of yours.”
“You are?”
“You’re so brave,” you breathe out in a rush, though it hurts your head. “So brave. And– and…”
“Sorry,” he murmurs, putting a little more pressure on your temple. “Thank you for being a fan. All I want is to keep everyone safe.”
“You’re so gentle with everyone, even the aliens, and– you’re pretty…”
“Pretty?” he asks, pure surprise in his voice, his hand falling off of your arm.
You wince. “Yeah. Yes. Handsome. Sorry, you must get told that so much.”
“It’s okay. I won’t hold you to anything you say. You’re injured, after all.”
His teasing tone pretty much flies over your head. “No, I’m not lying. I mean it. You’re really lovely, and what you do, it makes you lovelier, it does–” You nearly choke on your enthusiasm. He has to know.
“Don’t get wound up, I’m sorry. I believe you. Let’s try to stay calm.”
Your head is aching in a new way, now. Less the sting of a wide cut, more beating, like a whirl in your own brain twisting and shaking, dizziness alive behind your eyes and threatening to knock you over. You clutch at Superman’s arm and he knows what you need, slipping his free arm behind your back before you can collapse.
“I don’t usually get crushes on people,” you inform him. “But it was hard not to get one with you. You’re even nicer than I thought you’d be.”
“It’s easy to be nice to you. Easy as breathing.”
Superman hugs you. You swear he does. But when the concussion begins to clear up and your confusion wanes in a hospital bed outside of the battle zone, you realise that he was holding you upright. Superman doesn’t know you, he never will, and you’re okay with it in the grand scheme of things. If you had to meet him, you’re glad it was while he was keeping you safe. He really is a good guy.
—
A week later, Clark Kent is waiting for you at the doors to the Daily Planet.
“Are you sure you don’t need more rest?” he asks, forcibly removing your handbag from your shoulder to carry himself.
“I’m sure.”
“It’s okay if you need more time to recover. You’re still wearing a dressing.”
“It’s a bandaid, Clark, and it’s to hide the scar for now, it’s–”
“It’s still a wound.”
“It’s fine! You saw it, you know it’s fine.”
Your overbearing best friend had surprise-visited you the day after your injury despite a text to tell him to stay home. You’re fine. It was a cut and the mildest concussion you could’ve had. You didn’t throw up, or collapse, you’d simply gotten confused and bled all over Metropolis’ finest super hero until his hands were more red than white.
“It looked awful, it still does.”
“It looks fine. Even the nurse said it was a small cut, in an unfortunate place.”
“Very unfortunate.”
You follow him to the elevator bank with a frown. “Clark, you don’t have to sulk.”
“I’m not sulking! I just don’t see what’s wrong with staying in bed for now.”
“I have stuff to do, babe. I have to work. I have to move forward, it barely hurts anymore.”
He likes being called babe, simpering accordingly. “Well, you’re sitting down all day. Doctor’s orders.”
“Show me your oath and I’ll consider it.”
“Please?”
He looks like he could cry. Not that he will, but like he could if you keep saying no to him. And despite all your grievances with being treated like you’re fragile now, you decide to take it easy, if only to give Clark the peace of mind. “Okay, sure. You can wait on me all day.”
“Yes. Thank you.”
Clark’s your best friend because —no matter how much it might confuse you— he seems to really love you, maybe from the moment he met you. You started at the Daily Planet and he took to you like a duck takes to water. Everything you said made him laugh, every recipe you wrote was one he had to try. And you figured it was something boys tend to do, right? Pretend you‘re interesting until they get what they want from you, but Clark’s never asked for anything else, loving you wholly and expecting nothing in return.
You let him swing an arm around your shoulders, a mirror of himself those few nights ago where he’d come shaky and sorry to see you. He apologised for not being there when you got hurt, as if he could’ve stopped it.
“I’m sick of working already,” you say.
“Then let’s go home.”
“Clark. I’m being conversational.”
“Don’t tease me,” he pleads, sounding all sudden and whiney. You squirm out of his arms to poke his side. Gets more solid by the day. Idiot boy.
“Have you been working out?”
“Can you stop?”
“Can I stop? You’re a nightmare.”
Clark threatens to superglue you to your deskchair, but he titters around you hopelessly all day.
—
You’re laying on the gravel roof of your apartment on top of a sun lounger, trying to decide if getting some sun is worth all the noise. Beeping, birds, cars, doors, the wind, this high up and occasionally curving through buildings to kiss your skin —noise, noise, noise. Your phone is ringing while you ignore it, desperate to get through the last chapter of your book without interruption. You have thus far been foiled, and figured nobody’d be able to find you up here.
The quick, awful zip of a high impact sounds somewhere close. You nearly topple from your lounger, a hand pressed to your chest, your heart racing near painfully at the surprise. You whip your head to the horizon looking for smoke, but there’s nothing. For a few minutes, you can’t hear anything at all.
The shape of him descends before your mind can catch up. Then, he’s there in one piece. A touchable dream, Carol Ann Duffy at work and torturing you in passing. You’ve seen a ton of photos of him, hundreds, videos of girls recording to ask him sweet questions, and you’ve never seen him smile so shyly. You shiver violently down your arms, but Superman isn’t here to hurt you.
“I’ve been looking for you.”
“You were?” you ask.
“I wanted to make sure you were doing okay.”
You sit up properly. The book in your lap makes a crunching noise that you happily ignore. “I’m fine. I’m fine, did you– You’re here to see if I’m okay?”
His smile strengthens. “Is that okay?”
You stammer, “Of course it’s okay!” A flush rises from your chest to your cheeks as he stays there. He’s not leaving until you answer. Holy fuck. “I’m great, Superman. All healed up.”
“Are you sure? You still have–” He gestures to your bandaid.
“It’s to keep it clean in the daytime. I take it off before bed.”
“Does it hurt?”
“No, of course not.”
“Why of course not?”
Your heart makes a funny pulse. Handsome isn’t the right word for him. There’s something special about it, otherworldly, literally, the cut of his jaw somehow sharp and soft at once, his pert nose, his eyes gone light in the sunshine and framed by dark lashes that beg to be touched. You imagine running a fingertip along them, gently brushing them up for no reason at all, and he narrows his gaze at you in your silence. The shorts you’re wearing have you worrying you’re underdressed in his eyes. They’re pajamas, pink with black polka dots and edgings. You’d had the forethought to wear a short-sleeve rather than a vest lest one of your neighbours find themselves up here with the same quiet idea. Superman’s fully clothed in comparison.
His boots look formidable next to your puppy dog socks.
“It doesn’t hurt,” you promise, half-lying and uncaring. Superman saved you. He’s perfect, so your head doesn’t hurt.
“You seem a little flustered, is all.”
“Oh. Oh, well, it’s hot out, and I’m not like, super used to being in your company. Or any company, um, like yours.”
“You’ve never met a metahuman?”
“No, never.”
“We’re just like everybody else.”
You laugh.
“No, really,” he says, idling toward you, red boots treading the gravel down flat. “I’m just like you, you don’t have to be nervous.”
“Sorry.”
“Now what do you have to be sorry for?”
You laugh again, a giggle you’d never admit to. He’s strangely intimidating; a presence, but not an imposing one.
“What are you reading?” he asks, nodding to your lap.
“Oh, uh. Uh, it’s called The Ocean?” You straighten up the book to show him the cover. “It’s good, uh, the main character is a young boy who wants to find his father, I think it’s supposed to be a take on The Odyssey,”
“Why is he looking for his father?”
“He’s missing after a terrible war. It’s one of those ones that hurts the entire time but the ending has wrapped it up so nicely, it was worth it.”
“Maybe I’ll read it, too. You look like someone who has great taste.”
“You can borrow my copy.”
Superman’s gaze narrows again. “You’re finished?”
“Yeah, I finished it before you got here.”
He waits in the quiet. You’re sure he’s going to call you out for your lie. It's not as though a Kryptonian truth-radar would be outside of the realm of possibility.
Superman finally smiles. “I promise to bring it back,” he says simply.
“Sure. Well, take your time.”
—
How long can it possibly take a superhero to read one book?
You shouldn't be thinking about it again. Poor Clark is sitting in the corner of the couch with your feet stuck under his thighs, telling you about the grocery store widow who asks him for help to take her groceries out to her car whenever she sees him. She’d spotted him at the produce section today and dibsed him, and Clark doesn’t mind (though she leaves her car at the back of the parking lot no matter the weather). In fact, Clark doesn’t bring it up to complain. He’s sympathising with her, how lonely she must be.
You try to shake Superman from your head while Clark is talking, but the thoughts of him won’t budge.
You’d made a fool of yourself on the roof. Superman had taken your book to be polite. He probably won’t come back.
“Hey.”
You lift your head.
Clark’s looking at you. Big blue eyes in a classic face, the line of his glasses dark and heavy against his brow. They trace your expression, searching for the misery you’ve failed to hide, until he finds it in the creases of your eyes.
“What’s wrong?” he asks. His voice is weak with worry.
“Nothing.”
“It’s something.”
“It’s really not.”
“It definitely is. You can tell me about anything, you know. Or you don’t have to tell me, but I’ll be here for you no matter what. Some food for thought.”
“Food for thought. Eat this, Kent,” you say, jabbing him at the top of the thigh with your heel.
Clark grabs your foot. “Come on. I know something’s wrong, and I don’t understand why you wouldn’t tell me, but…” He lets your foot smack down into the top of his thigh to grab his tea instead.
“Isn’t that cold?” you ask.
“It’s tepid,” he allows after a sip.
You laugh, so he laughs. It’s a lovely sound.
“Again. Again, you don’t have to tell me what’s wrong, but I’d listen if you wanted me to.”
“Don’t try and make out like you’re not keeping secrets.”
Clark goes slack-jawed. “Sorry?”
“You don’t tell me everything. I know exactly where you disappear to all the time.”
“You do?”
You climb up on your knees and settle in front of him. You’re wearing those pink polka dot shorts like you were on the roof with Superman, in hopes they’ll summon him to you like a talisman. Clark presses his lips together, watching you closely as you take his face into your hands.
“You’re dating Lois Lane,” you say.
His fingers dust your elbow. “What?”
“You’re sweet on her, aren’t you? Plus, you’re busy all the time. You’ve cancelled movie night three times this month, did you know?”
“I’m sorry–”
“I’m not. I’m happy for you.”
Clark shakes his head. “But Lois and I… I mean, not for months. We were almost something, I think, but no. Not for a while.”
You let your hands fall off of his cheeks. “Oh. Sorry, Clark.”
“Don’t be. I should’ve told you, but it was new and then it was over.”
“You should’ve told me,” you agree, “but I sort of get why you didn’t. I’m your girl best friend. That’s a thing.”
“You’re my best friend,” he promises, no ‘girl’ prefix necessary. “That’s not why it ended, Lois isn’t like that. It was… we disagreed on so many things. Looking back, I think she was right about most of it.”
“Well, she’s a girl.”
“That she is. You’re all the same, aren’t you? All dazzling.”
He says it with an earnestness that reminds you of the other half of your friendship-equation. Clark’s your best friend because he loves your work and your jokes and your company, and you’re his best friend because he’s good as gold, inside out, just awfully lovable.
“You’re ’dazzling’ too,” you say. “You are.”
Clark offers you his mug of tea. You take a sip for something to do.
“Not that cold,” you murmur.
“I never realised you were such a liar.”
“I don’t really lie to you, Clark.”
He leans up to kiss your head, chaste against your purpling scar. “I know.”
—
“So, this book–”
You jump hard enough to send your groceries five different ways, oranges and kiwis for Clark flying up in the air. They never hit the ground —Superman catches them in two hands.
Your loaf of bread lays cradled in his arm like a baby.
“Fuck,” you complain.
“I’m sorry.” Superman laughs at you. Laughs. “Sorry. But this book, is there a sequel?”
“What?” you ask. Superman tips your groceries into your waiting paper bag.
“I think I need a sequel.” He pulls The Ocean from a pocket and squeezes it unkindly. “I think it ruined my life.”
“There’s no sequel. But–” don’t spoil the ending for me, you almost say. “Did you enjoy it at all?”
“It was good. Do you read a lot, or are you down to the real heart-achers?”
“Uh, I guess. Well, no, I used to read more, but I didn’t have time for a while ‘n now I’m usually too stirred up to settle down.”
“You cook.”
You blink. “You googled me?”
“No, how could I? But I did see you on the third page of the Daily Planet. You have a little author’s window. You made pumpkin pie.”
“For Thanksgiving weekend, yeah. They only ever put me near the front or on the main page of the website if it’s the holidays.”
“Is that true?”
You shake your head. Not to say no, to say, let’s not talk about it. Silly insecurities are unnecessary conversation. At least, they are with him.
Someone gasps from behind you. With one comes a few. The people near the crosswalk are starting to notice Superman’s tall figure standing in the sun, and though you’d wish he’d managed to hide in the shadows, you admit to yourself that there’s nowhere else he could ever be. He looks right in the sun.
“Do you want to come with me?” he asks.
Do you want to go with him? What the fuck does he think? said in your head ecstatically, not a lick of derision against him. Your excitement nearly blinds you.
“Yeah,” you say, practically mumbling, wanting to come off nonchalant and instead sounding painfully shy, even to your own ears.
“Yeah?” He offers an arm. “Come here.”
Your charmed little laugh makes him grin. “Alright?” he asks, locking an arm around you vice-tight.
“Where are we–”
The air leaves your lungs in one fell swoop. There and gone, breathless and weightless in tandem.
The sky is more than blue when you’re in it.
There’s nothing you can say about it. You’re terrified Superman is going to drop you, you can hardly breathe from the sudden speed at which you’d been taken up with him, but beyond that, there’s nothing to say. Wordless, endless sky. Blue, blue—
“It’s not as scary as you think, right?” he asks, his head angled down to yours.
“I expected you to have to shout. I don’t know why.”
“It’s windier in the air, but we’re close. I don’t need to yell.”
“You’re lucky I didn’t get many groceries.”
“You aren’t heavy.”
You’re delighted. “This is a paper bag, you realise! I’m surprised it didn’t explode the second you got me up here!”
“I’ll be careful. You’re precious cargo, and you deserve a better experience now than the one you got when you first came up here with me.”
“I don’t remember much of it.”
“That’s okay. I do.”
You should feel ridiculous, but strong arms hold you steady. Blue eyes like someone familiar pour over your face, as though they need to see you clearly, with all this perfect light. Your few groceries are squeezed between your chests as you squeeze him by the neck, desperate for the extra security, that he won’t simply let you go, and have you fall.
“This is amazing,” you breathe, your eyes sweeping down to take in beautiful Metropolis beating away beneath you. The cars look like ants. The buildings cast shadows you’d never noticed from the ground.
“Yeah,” he says. “It’s something.”
You glance up to find him still staring at you.
The girls on SuperClub would never, ever believe you if you tried to tell them what passes between you, then. (Not that you frequent SuperClub. Often. You see it while scrolling, and you tend to scroll past it with a fond eye roll.) They wouldn’t believe that Superman brings his hand to your head to touch your temple, as though your small scar is a personal affront to him. They wouldn’t believe the way that he pauses when you shudder. Wouldn’t believe how he lets his fingertip tumble down your cheek, or the soft incline of his head. The slightest kiss of his eyelashes meeting in the very corners of his eyes as they almost close.
“Don’t feel guilty, please,” you say.
“What?” He sounds as though he’s woken up from a nap.
“About what happened. It wasn’t your fault that I got hurt. I wanted you to know that. You saved me.”
Superman lets the distance between your two faces grow. “I…”
“If this is what that is, if you feel like you owe me something, well. You don’t… I don’t know you, Superman, but sometimes I think I do. It’s like… someone I've met before? I can see your bleeding heart.” You offer a brash smile. “But I’m just fine. You promised me that I would be, and I am.”
“You’re not making this any easier for me.”
You shift in his grasp, his hair tickling you and the little hairs on your arms.
“I’m not a very easy person,” you say.
Superman presses his nose to your cheek.
“I think you’re giving me tachycardia,” you whisper.
He hears it. Doesn’t answer for a while, and when he does, it’s to neither of the things you said before.
“Let me take you somewhere new,” he says.
—
A day later, Clark asks if he can bring you dinner. Like and unlike himself, to care enough to ask but to forgo his usual boisterous lack of respect when it comes to taking care of you. Clark recognises that you like to be cared for aggressively. That you want someone to care so much that they won’t stop at the first hurdle. You want someone to take it at a sprint, and Clark’s a show off loser-dork who likes taking care of you.
He meets you at the door, where you show him your small picnic basket kitted with two plates, knives, forks, and a hidden dessert. “Too hot in my apartment,” you say.
“What’s wrong with the AC?”
“It’s leaking.”
“I’ll take a look at it. What happened to that fan I got you?” he asks, his fingers at your wrist trying to steal the basket.
“Oh, Clark, can’t you just leave me alone?” you plead.
He laughs like a kid. “I love when you do that.”
“What?”
“I don’t know, is it sarcasm? I don’t think that’s apt. Whatever it is, when you act like that? You’re really convincing. It’s funny.”
“I can be funny.”
“I know, that’s what I’m saying. You’re really funny. Can you do it some more?”
“Now it’s not natural, though.”
“Please?”
“Leave it alone, Clark. You’re such a beg.”
He laughs again. It peters off to a quiet you’d like to live in. His takeout bag rustles, your picnic basket rattles, his fingers brushing the back of your arm as he follows you down the street to the wooded path.
There’s a small park not far from your apartment that’s been divided into two halves. The playground for the neighbourhood kids, and the picnic tables made of strangely shaped wood. They’re all rounded. One table is shaped like an ‘S’. Another like a filled in ‘8’.
You sit at the one furthest from the playground, coincidentally shaped like a ‘C’. “For Clark,” you say, pleased.
“Adorable.”
You set up your plates, dividing up the food squarely. Clark had the wherewithal to bring two cans of soda and a big bottle of water. He asks which one you want, cracking it open accordingly. “Gonna pour it into my mouth, too?” you tease.
“Do you not want me to be nice to you?”
And the night slips away. You eat your takeout at the picnic table and linger until your legs are numb. The grass around the park is damp, but you sit, and you shoot the breeze until the sun starts to go down. It must be hours out there together.
Clark takes his jacket off and spreads it over your shoulders. “This is your only bad trait,” he says happily. “You never tell me when you’re cold.”
“I’m not that cold.”
“Sure you’re not. Look, come here,” —he pulls you bodily into his side, his voice turning silky as angora— “you act like you’re such a plague, like– I don’t know, like I wouldn’t wanna know that you’re cold.”
“I don’t act like that.”
“You do. You could rely on me for more, you know? I want you to lean on me.”
You lean on him.
Clark presses his nose to your temple, his glasses digging into your skin.
And you think, I know you.
But you don’t know why.
—
Clark can't believe this is happening again.
He woke up this morning with a scary yet firm plan: he’s going to get himself together, pluck up what he has in the way of courage, and be honest with you about Superman. If only so he can stop lying to you. He should’ve told you months ago that he was Superman. Hell, he might’ve told you from the moment he met you, that’s how sure he was that he’d love you. As a friend —his best friend, half of his life. There’s this ease, like he’s known you for far longer than he truly has, like he could know you for the rest of his life.
And lately.
Oh, lately. Clark can’t get a handle on things. He hadn’t realised he was falling in love with you, isn’t even sure that’s the way to describe it; far from a sharp plummet downward into love, this has felt like a slow and steady ascent, but now suddenly he’s at the mountain top and the air is thin, and he’s looking for you, aching for relief, and you’re sitting in the snow with your book and your shy smile, cross-legged, just waiting for him to get there and open his cowardly mouth.
Or that’s what he’d like to think.
Fact of the matter is, Clark would like to kiss you. Hold your hand, have your head rest on his shoulder. He’d like to pull you into his lap and squeeze. Clark could die happy if he got just one shot at it, no matter the outcome.
He knows he won’t lose you, but he’s worried you don’t want what he wants. He’s gotten so close to having you, he’s not sure he can take being any further apart than this.
Clark takes the tramline to the rich part of the city with the best florist. There are buckets and buckets of flowers; orange tiger lilies and white orchids turned green in the sun; roses as big as his fist, unfurling; sweet peas kissing pinkest camellias all tangled up with baby’s breath. He chooses the sweet peas. They really are sweet, their hemmed edge petals curling in and nearly blue. They’re beautiful. He can see them in a glass on your nightstand by tonight if he’s lucky.
It’s on the walk to your apartment (tramline too busy to risk, lest your flowers get hurt) that the trouble begins.
The light goes out.
It doesn’t make logical sense. He’s outdoors. It’s the early morning, the sun should be shining for hours to come.
He looks up and finds a singular dark rectangle over Earth.
It blots out everything, disapears the clouds, turns the blue sweetpeas in his hand a tired shade of grey.
Clark wonders if he should’ve told you how he felt when he had the chance. Then, he leaves his glasses, his jacket, and his sweetpeas in the hedgerow at the park with alphabet picnic tables and throws himself upwards into the sky.
—
What emerges from the spaceship (and it is a spaceship, made of an element humans aren’t want to touch) are creatures shaped like spinning asterisks, wisps of their angel-white bodies bending the shadows they’ve cast down onto Metropolis. It’s like smoke.
The dark makes it hard to breathe.
You sit huddled in your bedroom looking out through the window, despite a desperate urge to hide somewhere further inward. Sirens echo throughout otherwise quiet streets, discordant wailing that wavers for long, sharp minutes. There had been screaming and crying and the splintering sounds of glass. It’s not —not unseeable, out there, but anyone with poor vision will find themselves stranded.
You open your phone. Your theory is that the aliens have been able to dampen sound as well as sun, leaving the battlefield dangerously quiet. Clark’s not answering your texts because he never has his phone, but you’re sure he’s out there somewhere. He told you he was coming. The last message he sent this morning blinks at you from the bottom of your screen: Coming by soon if you’re not busy, do you want me to bring breakfast?
You’d said, just some eggs please if you want eggs
You’d said, hey, are you safe? What’s with the dark?
You’d said, clark please text me back right now, I’m freaking out, do you need me to come get you?
He won’t answer the phone. Outside, up in the sky where it’s darker still and the white shadows have begun to ripple, the occasional red beam of heat slices into whiteness, turning it to shadows again. There are two sets of red if you watch carefully. Green light flickers at the ground.
And Clark Kent is out there all alone.
You crawl to your shoes under the bed and put them on, pajamas and all. Clark’s blue hoodie lays on the back of your deskchair. You shrug it on.
He’s gonna lose his entire mind if you do find him out there. Can friends ground you? Because Clark’s going to ground you. But you’d rather be grounded than all alone.
—
Superman groans into the floor, his tongue coated in dust.
He has far better vision than a person feasibly needs. He wore a pair of glasses once that are supposed to approximate what it’s like to have legal blindness, and he’d felt suddenly, achingly sorry for the human race. But then he’d found the glasses stand beside it with all their different prescriptions and shrugged it off. Humans are brilliant. He’s in awe of their persistence, their resilience, and their strength. He knows he can find it in himself to go on because they can, too.
He has better vision, and still he finds himself batted away from the entities like a bothersome fruit fly.
“Krypto?” he asks into the smog.
His borrowed dog flies at him with impressive speed, pressing his snout straight into a bruise.
“Ow!”
Krypto snuffles and hits at his arms with both paws.
“Krypto, stop! Jeez, stop. You’re such a pai– Ow! Get off.”
Krypto nibbles his shoulder.
Clark forces himself to sit up. At least he hasn’t killed the dog. Kara would probably eviscerate the planet country by country if something happened to her dog, not mentioning the aliens that started this whole thing. And he is good at bringing the suit when Clark needs it.
He rubs at his eyes and drags himself to his feet, back aching, eyes like sand. Nothing is healing because he can’t feel the sun, but he’s not too hurt. He can take a bad landing. He can take twenty of them.
“Krypto, stay.”
Krypto tilts his white blurry head.
“You’re not helping.”
Arf! Clark rolls his shoulders and shoots back into the air.
Krypto stays down, for now.
Clark takes a lap through the air, searching for signs of life with his ears. The eery quiet is beginning to fill with catastrophe.
“Clark?”
He stops dead in the sky.
“Clark?” you call, ten miles below him, shouting all clipped and scared. “Clark Kent! Are you out here? If you can hear me, call back to me!”
He says your name.
“Clark? I’m here!”
Clark looks up into melted-sugar shadows as they begin to curdle and makes a choice. Damn the aliens, they can have the sky, so long as Clark gets to keep you safe.
He has to keep you safe.
—
You’re watching a shadow plummet toward you when the sky opens up into shards of Technicolor. Concentrated around a single point of red and blue and moving so fast it turns puce.
—
There’s a scene in The Ocean where the main character realises his father has been dead before the beginning of the book. Dead for years. He goes searching for him because he’s scared to be alone, brave enough to realise it, and young enough to misunderstand the danger of the world. He treks sandbanks, ferries favour, turns in promises and follows the footsteps of a man long dead across the world. Clark told you once, privately, quietly, in a moment that immediately panicked him, that his parents had adopted him, and that his birth parents had left him with a letter after they both died.
What did it say? you’d asked.
To be good.
You find your copy of The Ocean cradled in familiar hands. You recognise its secondhand cover, the bends in the front where a previous owner had tented it for a long period of time. The spine is loose and lax with age. The pages are yellow with time.
Clark is sleeping quietly in the plastic-wrapped chair beside your bed. He doesn’t have a bruise or cut. He doesn’t look anything like Superman had as he’d flung himself at you, two seconds too late, his body a shield against an explosion that lit your body with fire and colour alike. The whole world had been red, and then yellow, and suitably blue. There was pain.
Not a darkness as people often say. Just hurting and now this.
You take a scary breath. Hitching and pained, you search for comfort and find none of it. There’s a needle in the back of your hand secured with a teddy bear wrapping. The sheets have been drawn to your chin and choke you as you try to sit.
After a moment of struggling, you sink back and try for another breath. Deep, aching breaths. You do it until your lungs burn, these awful, stringing breaths, eyes to the ceiling and fighting the spots of nothingness that cloud your vision.
“Hey,” a soft voice says, softer hand pressed to the curve of your neck. “Oh, hey, sweet girl, hey… it’s okay. The pain won’t last, they gave you a little more morphine a few minutes ago, it’ll kick in.”
“Uh–”
Clark makes a sound. “Oh.”
You let your eyes slide to him. He’s checking his wrist where it’s resting on you.
“I was sleeping for a long time, I… Honey, I’ll get a nurse.”
“No,” you breathe.
“Yeah, honey, I’ll get a nurse,” he repeats, stroking your neck with his thumb. His eyes are their usual calm blue, bearing down into your own with an emotion that’s somehow palpable and implacable. “It’s no good, you being in pain like this. I’ll come right back.”
“Clark, don’t go,” you whine.
It’s like the world has been placed heavy on your head.
Clark offers you relief. “I won’t go if you don’t want me to. Tell me what’s hurting, and I’ll fix it.”
You shake your head at him. Fuck, nothing hurts. It’s not pain you’re being smothered in.
“Okay,” he murmurs.
For a while, you don’t talk. Clark stays stooped over you, too tall and careful anyhow to stay out of your light. He holds your cheek, rubbing at skin with his thumb until it’s tickled into numbness, your body begging you to move away from his touch and your brain knowing you can’t. You’ll never duck away from his fingertips ever again.
Where he’d been unhurt, he isn’t unharried. His hair is in a complete disarray, curls in places pulled straight and greasy behind his ears. His face is pale. His eyes flicker obsessively between you and your monitor, as though he can decipher the information it displays. He must see something there that he trusts, sitting down again in the chair dragged quick and easy to the side of your bed. His hand stays at your face. He’s long. It’s simple work.
“You read The Ocean,” you whisper.
“I read all your annotations, too,” he tells you, turning his hand to run it down your cheek, his fingernails especially silky against the line of your jaw.
You turn your face toward his touch. Your eyes flutter closed as he indulges your deepest fantasy.
“I didn’t–” Oh, you can’t say it. You hadn’t meant to want him like this. You hadn’t known he was Superman, and isn’t that awful? Something cruel. Your best friend kept a worst secret.
He doesn’t rush you.
You’re ready to try again a few minutes later. His fingertips have started to draw a flower into your neck.
“I’m embarrassed that Clark knows what I said to Superman,” you say plainly.
“Superman didn’t tell Clark anything,” Clark says. His voice is light in contrast to your hesitancy.
“But you know it all.”
“I know you,” he agrees.
“I’m really… sorry. I’m sorry, I–” You search for his touch and he immediately cups your cheek again. “Clark, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come out looking for you. I didn’t realise you could look after yourself and I made things worse.”
“Do you even remember?” he asks.
Mildly. You’d woken once before and found a less fixed Clark covered in blood above you. A part of you had understood that it was Clark, even without his glasses, and a different part knew it was Superman. Then things had blurred, half-replaced by a memory of his hand behind your back in the middle of a meadow halfway across the world, that beautiful quiet valley where the water had been ice and the grass emerald velveteen under your legs.
In the dream, Superman (and this had been real until it wasn’t), turned to you, and said, with Clark’s dorky intonation, “That’s seriously beautiful, huh?”
“You have nothing to be sorry for.”
“But–”
“You don’t. I won’t argue about it with you. You have no apologies to make, you did everything right and nothing wrong, and I lied to you, and I got you hurt, and…” He has the gall to pink in the cheeks, like you’ve taken the skin between your knuckles and pinched. “I wasn’t honest with you about my feelings. I almost kissed you as Superman, and that wasn’t fair.”
“You really are… him?” you ask weakly.
“Yeah, I am.”
Clark sits up as a doctor opens your room’s door.
“Everything okay?” she asks. When she sees you awake, she smiles broadly. “Hey, you’re up! Can we get you some dinner now?”
“You skipped breakfast,” Clark tells you.
“I was awake for breakfast?”
“Barely. We had you on some pretty gnarly painkillers,” the doctor says. She adjusts her white coat. “I just wanted to check in with your nurses and your lovely partner here that you hadn’t thrown up again.”
You flush. “I’m fine.”
Clark simply rubs your chest like a wave of his hand against your heart.
“I’m worried you haven’t gotten enough sustenance this past day, but we try not to hook you up with too many things,” the doctor explains, “much better for you to settle and then eat. And to drink some water!”
“I don’t feel very hungry.”
“The painkillers you’re on can make some people feel quite sick. But try your best, okay? I’ll come back after dinner to see what we can do about those broken fingers.”
You follow your arm down to your hand. Your pinky and ring finger on the non-dominant hand have been splinted but not casted.
“Oh.”
The doctor takes her leave, abandoning Clark to your questions.
“What’s wrong with me?” you ask.
“You got concussed again. It made you sick, and your hand is very nearly broken, but they think it’s just your fingers from the look of your x-rays. And you have a long cut.” He puts his hand on your stomach gently. “Here. Almost as long as your arm, but it’s a surface cut. You landed on debris. I’m sorry, my– honey. Sorry.”
You can’t fight the chills or your bewilderment. “What for?”
“I didn’t get to you fast enough.”
“Clark.” Your mouth is dry. He’s pretty. Your head goes round and round and aching and then with a dash of clarity, the world snaps back into place. Your hospital room is empty and bright, with a vase filled to bursting with sweetpeas in pride of place on your nightstand. There are voices drifting in from the hallway, and Clark is handsome even as he tears himself apart. The silver lining his bottom lashes doesn’t go unnoticed. “I’m okay, babe.”
He laughs wetly.
“I’m fine,” you promise, quieter now. “How couldn’t I be? You’re so gentle.”
Clark finds your hand, pulling it to his forehead, his body bending forward like a marionette on loosening strings. He shakes his head vehemently, his grip on your wrist tight but far from cruel.
“You’re gentle,” you promise under your breath, “I told you that before, didn’t I? You’re kind, and brave, and– it’s not your fault I went looking for you.”
“I should be comforting you. I should be helping you,” he whispers.
“You won’t catch me crying on your shoulder twice, Superman.”
His head flinches up, like he’s realising for the first time that you know who he is.
Whatever he sees in your face helps him to settle down. He curls long, thick fingers around your hand. You can’t help noting how adversely tender they feel while he holds your hand.
“What did you think of the book?” you ask finally.
“I didn’t know you liked to read,” he says.
You shrug. Let your head fall back into a thin pillow, wondering how you might go about getting a better one, and beginning to feel the effects of the painkillers they’d been talking about. “It’s not like it’s the most alarming secret, between us.”
He lets out a wounded whine. “Why do you hate me?” he asks.
“You’re due some hazing.”
“Can’t you take pity on me?” he asks.
You curl your fingers around his where they’d otherwise been limp. “I’m not really half as cool as I’m trying to act, Clark.”
He sulks beautifully. “I think you’re lying to make me feel better.”
Only a little.
—
Being cool around Clark Kent lasts about as long as the morphine does. The reality is this: Clark Kent —best friend extraordinaire, sweetheart farm boy who’s vetted all your worst ideas, held your hair back in the smallest toilet in Metropolis bar history after a too-happy happy hour, knows all your holey socks and questionable medical queries— is Superman.
And Superman?
He’d been courting you.
The word is antiquated and accurate. Superman had been cautiously courting you with his sparse visits, shy and brave at once, brash but remarkably put together. It is after you know the truth that you realise Clark had been not so secretly courting you simultaneously.
“Is that why you were bringing me dinner and stuff?” you ask, lured into the conversation by accident, now deeply curious.
“No. I did that stuff before I wanted you. It was hard to sort the feelings into boxes, like– platonically, I’ve loved you since you came into the office with your miserable laptop and– and romantically, I don’t know. I guess I didn’t realise until I tried to kiss you and you wouldn’t let me.”
“Sorry?”
“I tried to kiss you, and you thought it was a pity kiss.”
You hold him by the shoulder. “That was real?”
“Do you dream about it?” he asks knowingly.
“It was really going to be a kiss?”
He softens. Clark, big on your smaller couch, in his pajamas with his hair finally washed again and your hand in his lap, rests his shoulder into yours with a long-suffering sigh. “Best kiss of your life,” he promises.
“Prove it.”
“What?”
It’s been four days since the hospital and Clark is horrifically chaste. “Do you not want to kiss me?”
“You know I do.”
“So kiss me.”
He pinches your chin. “If you wanted a kiss, you could’ve just taken one,” he tells you, looking you straight in the eyes.
“From Superman?” you ask with a little scoff.
He moves his head from left to right. “From me,” he says.
There has been so much to tell him. So little space to hide from him. Lines of books you’d underlined for him, lines for Superman, for both of them. The guilty way you’d watched Clark Kent take off his shirt at the public pool in summer heat and the loop of Superman under your thumb as you’d fallen asleep scrolling SuperClub. You’ve been more honest with him than you’ve dared to be previously.
Clark has repaid you in kind.
Did you know, he’d confessed, when you were still grody from the hospital and he’d demanded you let him stay, that night, that everything I’m good at is because of the sun? I can function without it. I can store up the energy in my cells and I don’t need much to stretch it far, but without the yellow sun, I’m just like you?
How could I know that? you’d thought. Why are you telling me this? you’d asked instead.
I want you to know.
Clark loves the sun, you realise now. He turns his face up to it often, soaking it in silently. He gets this look whenever he stops to take it in. Perfect contentment. Trust, that it will make him feel better.
Clark tilts his chin against yours, nudging your face gently inward, giving you the shortest glimpse of that content stretched across a smile as it presses into yours.
You hyperventilate your way into an open-mouthed, gasping sort of thing, and find Clark a fiercer kisser than you could’ve imagined. All those daydreams about Superman saving you from another day copyediting your own messes, you’d never thought to picture the boy sitting at the desk across from you, how his hand might slide behind your neck like water. How he’d take the breath from your lips and offer his own in a shaky, wanting gasp.
Superman, breathless under your touch. No one would ever believe you.
“Did you want me to tell you how it ends?”
You break away from him, panting, vaguely confused. “Sorry?”
“The Ocean? You never finished it.”
“Oh. Maybe you can read it to me. You know, afterwards.”
Clark grins. “After,” he promises, leaning down for another kiss.
˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚
thank u Bec for proofreading ur brains are irreplaceable <3 and thank u everyone else for reading!
public shame x clark kent x water sports. I’m making this man pee in the wild , nature hikes are getting freaky idc. Imagine making him hulk out walking up the hill plugged up on both ends and embarassing him while he takes a piss idc idc be a FREAK
ya’ll think kent does self restraint training in preperation of sessions? Imagine jimmy getting him to sign up for a dom to fuck him cause he needs to unwind and right off the bat this son of a bitch is concerned at this bright eyed buff man sitting down and minding his step and being extremely respectful
not kinky in the slightest
Dom : “Well tell me what to punish you for hm?”
Clark : “Um. I guess I wasn’t able to help walk my neighbours dog this week…” *visibly upset* “I hope he’s not mad about it..”
Dom : “Wait you usually walk his dog?”
Clark : “Yeah but I couldn’t cause um… perry! Perry put me on this article assignment …”
Dom : I- That’s so nice? Nvm what else have you done to be naughty..
Clark : I haven’t washed the dish I used for breakfast this morning.. Haven’t soaked it either.
Dom : You know what?.. Good enough!
Getting him to be more vulenerabke would be a struggle but when it happens? Sweet mother of pearl you guys can’t stop meeting .. in and out of business hours , he comes with flowers each time before you make him cum bent over. I defos have to write more for this
sorry i died guys anyway i genuinely think that public humiliation clark is a dark dark fantasy i have cause this man would be a flaming tomato and i would LIVE FOR IT! that being said i also feel like i struggle with the idea due to the idea of him being seen by others… come on. j want him to myself?
Pee schedules with Barry and Clark in themselves would be a whole event. BARRY HAS A FAST METABOLISM! That man ain’t holding shit.
Like Imagine sounding them and keeping them in cock cages (you know the works), like in the mornings clean cocks blah blah rough towel , hurts they start leaking plug em up. Barry AND Clark both know if they remove this? They are DEAD.
Barry at work would have to force himself to be so so patient that it’s unusual to folk around him. Especially when he quickly runs away to do the little dance he can’t in public. He watches the clock like a hawk not because he’s at work and wants to leave … it’s so he can feel comfort knowing when he gets to pee next for smaller.
Clark is a challenge. He’s superhuman he would be fine, so how do you get under his skin? Make it ages. Spread them out 6 hours , 8 hours even 10 you have to make him feel it. The funny thing is he would try and preform like nothings really different around the office but he’s sweating and moaning the second everyone looks away. Lois would catch on immediately and tell Jimmy making them both laugh while Clark grits his teeth and forces himself to keep typing.
Clark’s times would be home time and Barry’s would be throughout the day, but knowing Barry he would need to go then too. So you make them play stupid games, rock paper scissors, monopoly, uno, just very long games and whoever wins gets to go. Of course you’re involved and if you lose you get to punish the winner anyway.
