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captainjaspenor · 21 hours ago

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My heart is so full 🥹

krypto, take me home

summary: when Clark can’t make it to the fortress, Krypto brings him to you

pairing: clark kent x female reader

word count: 2.2k

warnings: typical injury/kinda recovery warnings, blood, broken bones, etc. not much else. reader is mentioned have hair once. no other descriptions

a/n: sigh another fic the next day, that’s when you know i’m obsessed. here’s a lil idea i had as soon as i saw the opening scene. if you're new here cause i'm pretty much known for bucky barnes fics, I love angst so that's kinda my lil niche. hope that's okie!

oh and I loved @sharknutz idea of Clark calling the reader sunshine so yeaaa I had to try that out <3

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You were never a very light sleeper, per se. It wasn’t like you were waking up with each creak of the floorboards or gust of wind. But you never were one to sleep fully through the night without waking up just once. Clark had this little joke; he could always count on an extra cuddle sometime around 2 am. What could you say? You always slept better with him by your side.

Tonight, sleep proved to be a challenge. Clark had been gone for hours, off handling what you think you heard as some underground group of metahumans terrorizing the capital of Wales? After a while, you couldn’t find it in yourself to watch the news. Sue you, but the constant sight of your boyfriend smashing into concrete and brick buildings wasn’t how you wanted to spend the evening. It never was easy, knowing every time he left in that cape, there was the slightest chance he wouldn’t return. The habit of flicking on the television, just to become distraught and overwhelmed, and turning it off only to cave and flick it on again, consumed your evenings.

The bed was cold, feeling larger than normal without Clark’s large frame claiming more than half the bed and hogging the blankets. Your feet fluttered under the duvet, trying to shake the nerves and unease that engulfed your body. He should’ve been back by now, slipping through the door with a smirk and some half-funny quip about his injuries; it never was all that funny to you. You knew he needed to stop by the fortress first if he was hurt, recharge and heal, and maybe check on Krypto before flying back. Still, it was 4 am, and the news declared the situation to be handled by 1 am.

The thoughts swirling in your brain halted when a crash and the sound of shattering glass echoed through the living room. You jolted upright in bed, stumbling quietly out from the sheets and reaching for the steel pipe you had stashed under the bedframe. Clark always thought it was ridiculous, offering to get you a bat or something, but the pipe was found with your first apartment, and you’d had no issues in all your years since in Metropolis, maybe it was a good luck charm.

You slowly inched to the door as you heard grunts mixed with the sounds of stumbling feet and soft pounding. Any bit of drowsiness you had managed to build up while lying in bed was gone. If you needed to escape, the front door was in the kitchen, which was right next to the bedroom. Shouldn’t be too hard, right? Unless they weren’t human.

Before you could continue to spiral and plan your first mode of attack, the familiar sound of a bark bounced up the other side of the door.

“Krypto?” you asked hesitantly as you lowered the pipe. The grading sound of that familiar yelp continued, confirming your suspicions.

You placed the pipe on the bed before slowly pulling the door open. You couldn’t even greet the superdog before he latched onto the hem of your shorts and tugged you out of the room.

“Hey, buddy, slow down,” you said as you stumbled behind him, trying not to fall. Something was wrong; the high-strung and chaotic pup you had come to know well was never this focused. He dragged you to the living room before letting go of your shorts with a bark. The white dog rushed over to the window- that’s when you saw.

The large bay window was shattered, exposing the crisp air of the early morning. Glass was strewn across the hardwoods. Lying face down in the middle was Clark. He looked wrecked, bruises covered the sharp angles of his cheekbones, and blood dripped from his lips and soaked parts of his hair. His arm twitched slightly, letting you know there was something damaged beneath the suit. He looked awful. The haunting rattling from his chest was the worst, filling the silent room and pounding in your ears.

“Clark!” you said, rushing to his side. As carefully as possible, you slipped to your knees, being sure to avoid the bits of glass that surrounded the scene. Your hands began to shake as you reached for him, scared to do any further damage. You rarely saw him like this, and if so, it tended to be through news footage.

“Honey, hey,” gently, you tried to turn him off his face and onto his back. He cried out at the movement, but his voice quickly turned to a whimper. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

He didn’t respond, just fluttered his eyes open and glanced up at you. Through the blood on his lips, he still flashed you a smile. Your heart stuttered.

“Hi baby,” he said, through bloody teeth.

“Clark, honey, what are you doing here?” Your voice was frantic as your hands hovered over him, afraid to touch anywhere.

“…needed to heal,” he said, trying to lean up into your touch, but the movement just brought more pain.

Delicately, your hands moved to cup his face, softly brushing a bit of glass from the sable curls that framed his face. As your fingers grazed the dark bruises by his eyes, you couldn’t help but notice how he relaxed under your hands.

Krypto leapt up onto the couch beside you, crawling up to the front and watching as you tried to figure out what to do next.

“Why…why didn’t you go to the f-fortress?” You asked. He hated how he could hear the tremors in your voice, hated how visibly distressed you were. He hated that he was the one to cause it.

He tried once again to lean upright into a sitting position. This time, you grabbed him and quickly propped him against the couch. At this angle, it seemed the airflow in his lungs was strengthened.

“I…too far,” he said, his bright blue eyes fully opening and meeting yours. “I couldn’t…make it. I got as far as outside the city but...”

Your hands moved slowly down from his neck to his chest. Through the thick blue fabric, you could feel the cracked bones of his clavicle and sternum. Your breath caught in your throat as you tried to relax.

“Then why …? Clark, why did Krypto bring you here? I can’t—I can’t fix this,” you said, your words spilled out in an almost incoherent ramble. Your panic stilled for just a moment as you felt Clark’s hand softly reach up for yours, guiding it to his chest where your palm felt the steady thumping of his heart.

“I told him to take me home,” he said as if it was the simplest thing in the world.

A soft sigh left your chest; you couldn’t place what it was, perhaps it was a mix of surprise or relief or even resignation. Those words were everything you wanted to hear. You wanted nothing more than to be his safety, his place to go and feel protected. If he wasn’t battered on your living room floor, those words would have driven you to kiss him silly.

Your hands came to rest on his neck, tenderly keeping his weary head up as you focused.

“Okay… okay, love,” you said, nodding to yourself as your thumbs brushed softly along the dips of his cheeks. Your eyes darted around the room, trying to remember where you placed the first aid kit. You began to rise from your spot beside him, hoping to find some hydrogen peroxide and gauze to clean out the gash by his hairline. A strong hand on your wrist held you back.

“Don’t… please stay,” he said, his brows curling up as he pleaded his case.

“Clark, I need to get stuff to clean you up…we need to fix you,” you said, brushing back some curls to get a look at the wound.

“The sun will be up soon… I’ll be fine,” he said. “Please, just stay, sunshine.” Your hands moved to cup his face once again, gently leaning in to place a soft kiss to his temple.

“Please, I can’t see you like this. Just let me make you better?” you asked.

Clark always knew his biggest weakness was kryptonite, but somewhere along the way, that changed. Somehow, it became you. He never could deny you, say no, or dare to not put your needs or wants before his own. It didn’t matter if it was inconvenient or difficult or even impossible; if it was for you, he’d make it happen. He could see the fear and devotion in your eyes; he knew the sight of himself was crushing you. You needed comfort, you needed to feel useful, as if somehow you could make it all okay for him. He knew he’d be fine with a few hours, but if you needed to patch him up, then so be it. Who was he to say no when you asked?

“Yeah… of course, baby,” he said, his hand gingerly squeezing yours before letting you go. With a relieved sigh, you rushed to the kitchen. You didn’t miss the needy sigh that left his lips at your absence.

Krypto dashed from the couch, following you through the apartment as you checked your cabinets. You carded through the bathroom until you gathered everything you’d need. Rushing back to Clark’s side, you could feel the pounding of your heart begin to slow. Words ran through your mind, repeating like a mantra as you tried to compose yourself. He’s okay, he’s alive, he’s here.

You spilled your medical stash along the rug as you returned to his side. You gently began to wash out the first cut you saw. You stretched over him as you worked, kneeling but no longer resting on your legs as you found the best angle to wash out the wound. Your hands worked quickly, stopping the bleeding before applying butterfly plasters to close it.

Somewhere lost in your mission, you noticed the weight of the superbeing below you melting into your chest. Clark’s head rested safely against your chest. His good arm wrapped around your thighs, keeping you as close as he could with the strength he had. The sound of his breathing still left you shaky, but his sighs of content helped.

By the time you had finished, the sun began to creep its way over the sky-high buildings of Metropolis. Warm light filtered in through your apartment, casting deep shadows before banishing them with a brighter day. Your hands gently shook Clark.

“Love, sun’s up,” you said. His strength was returning, but he still had injuries only the yellow sun could fix. He slung his arm around you and helped you pull him up as you moved him over to the window.

You did your best to hold him still and steady as the bright glow of the sun coated his body. You were never around when he took his time to heal; you never saw the way he thrashed and cried out at the pain. As much as it killed you to hear his whimpers, you held him firmly, using what little strength you had as a human to keep the god-like man in your arms upright.

With one last cry, Clark sagged back into your arms. You struggled to keep him rooted, but he soon caught himself. You watched as he drew in deep, long breaths, air finally filling his lungs without the eerie rattle you’d never get out of your head. His hands gripped your arm and hip. His arm was straightened out, firm and taut once again. With one last breath, he stretched back up.

“Are-are you okay?” you asked, your hands once again moving around in search of any surprise injuries you may have missed. With a soft laugh, Clark took your hands and pressed a kiss to your palms. He pulled you in closer, cupping the back of your head and slipping his fingers through your hair.

“I’m fine, sunshine. I said I would be,” he said, pulling you close and resting his forehead to yours. “You took care of me.”

You nodded at his words, falling into his chest as your arms wrapped tightly around him. Calloused hands stroked your hair and held you to him as he placed kisses on the top of your head. You peeked around Clark’s large frame to see Krypto stretched over the couch, his tail thumping at the faded leather as he watched you both.

“I’m glad Krypto brought you to me,” you said, resting your head back over Clark’s heart. The steady beat filled your ear and soothed any anxieties that settled in your bones.

Clark rested his chin atop your head, sighing softly as he squeezed you gently, “He brought me home.”

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I hope you liked it! kinda quick and eh but thx for reading <3

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captainjaspenor · 3 days ago

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Are you single?

do these look like the posting habits of someone experiencing romance

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captainjaspenor · 3 days ago

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I've come to terms with the fact that I need to write relationship headcanons BEFORE writing any sort of fic or drabble about a character, otherwise I am suddenly physically incapable of writing.

Dr. Henry Loomis Relationship Headcanons!

By me (Lagooneah)

So uh... Jurassic Universe hyperfixation goes crazy- Saw Rebirth like LAST NIGHT (at the time of writing this, #procrastination) and now I can't stop thinking about dinosaurs... (and him)

I imagine him to be a pretty attentive partner, like SO attentive that it almost feels unreal.

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Very much a "Ass or boobs?" - "Personality." kind of dude. (In concept, not specific for the female sex!)

Though he probably couldn't pick a "favorite body part" of any kind of partner, so that's another reason.

He isn't the type to care for the "perfect" body unrealistic standard. He's aware that it's unrealistic, and he doesn't blink in any wrong direction if you've got any kind of "negative" body traits.

Stretch Marks? It's natural for a human, hell, any organisms body to grow and stretch the skin, so why would he mind? He'll worship them if you need it, anything to reassure you you're beautiful/handsome.

"Small" in ANY way? Who cares? You're you, and you are who he's devoted to. Therefore, you are perfect for him and he will NEVER complain or be upset over a trait you were born with because that's a futile use of his mind.

Got a thicker body type? Some chub here and there or everywhere? He will LOVE squeezing and loving on those parts, don't you worry.

Moles? Blemishes? ANY imperfection you can find on yourself won't be an imperfection by the end of the day. He will WORSHIP you, head to toe, mind to matter.

That's another thing, he absolutely loves to listen to you.

He likes keeping a mental journal of all of your likes and dislikes, little quirks you've got, etc etc.

I bet he also likes a bit of humor in his partner, he likes a silly partner, even if he can only shoot back an awkward response.

He also is the type to kinda like if his partner is a little mean/dominant.

Like not genuinely mean, but very opinionated, bossy, the type to grab his arm and drag him somewhere or to grab his chin and move his head to wherever you need him to look.

In that same vein of listening, he LOVES when you'll listen to him ramble on and on about dinosaurs and other prehistoric beings.

One of his "love languages" is actually him showing you what he loves doing, the ins and outs of his career and what he knows.

He takes you around the museum, shows you all the DNA presentations that he learned from AND created, and he especially loves pointing out how a lot of creatures don't look necessarily correct and he sketch's out what they'd actually theoretically look like.

To circle back, he returns your listening skills tenfold. He KNOWS you, he gets all the tea from your workplace, he gets all the random interest knowledge (video games, movies, tv shows, hobbies in general!)

He knows how to gift like a motherfucker I just know it.

He will get you more generic gifts, either from your interests or for how you want to present, and then he'll get you at least ONE incredibly specific and niche "made for you and only you" item, event, experience etc.

And he'll do this with every single special occasion, and THEN some with a random gift here and there.

He'd get you more, but with his line of work there can be times when money is inconsistent, and he'd much rather save up and get you something GOOD than constantly getting you okay-ish things.

Flowers, candy, clothes, small things just to surprise you? are exceptions lol, those are basic expectations that he holds for himself and will always (and constantly) meet.

He's the type to just blurt out random facts that he happens to know, and this gets triggered by literally everything.

You point out a cute dog you saw? After you've asked the owner to meet it and take a photo, Henry gives you a cute little tid-bit on that specific breed.

It likely makes you laugh, but he doesn't mind you laughing or calling him a nerd, he ultimately gets to put a smile on your face so he wins in his mind.

I know he's accidentally cuddly.

Like, he acts like he won't cling, especially in public, but when doors are closed? He gets SO close to you, you'd think he was in your skin.

He might try to get in one day.

His limbs always find themselves tangled with yours even if you fall asleep apart, he instinctively grabs your hand if something sudden happens, etc etc.

He loves being close to you, it's a habit.

Another habit is him saying your name or calling you in the late hours.

Like, he's falling asleep at his desk, somewhat in the middle of an experiment, calling your name to "turn the lights up a bit, please."

One time, one of his coworkers was also in the office at a late hour, and he put a hand on his shoulder to try and tell him to head home.

He did, but THE Dr. Henry Loomis mumbled a, "Ok [insert pet name]..." to his coworker before leaving him in confusion, because yes, he thought that hand was yours.

Loomis was super awkward when you first met him, it's a fact I fear.

He knows how to handle DNA samples, complex machines, and analyze just about ANYTHING- but if he has to ask someone out on a date then it's over.

He was a little (a lot) jittery when he first approached you at the local coffee shop in NYC.

He probably spoke a little fast, causing you to raise an eyebrow and ask "Sorry?" when he attempted to ask you out. Which made him malfunction, ask again in a disorganized manner, making you giggle and say yes because HELLO- he was super cute the whole time in this interaction despite him personally feeling like he totally screwed himself over.

After he really gets to know you and gets used to your presence, in pure introverted fashion, he becomes a YAPPER that loves being around you. (as previously explored)

He totally would take on more work for the chance of earning more money so that he can provide for you, give you a comfortable life with everything you want and need- regardless of your career status.

He wants to treat you because he loves you, duh.

With that? Love Languages are totally Physical Touch, Gift Giving, and Words of Affirmation. (Or just him listening to you and you listening to him)

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A/N: So... Little Relationship Headcanon while I write a fic drabble of this wonderful science man. The Jurassic Universe finally threw the nerd lovers a bone and gave us all a nice, smart man who respects others and acknowledges that a woman can do things better than him (Unlike Owen's dumbass) so yeah!! I hope you all liked it, and I hope to write more on him soon!! Love ya, bye!

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captainjaspenor · 4 days ago

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who keeps breaking into my freezer and replacing the trays full of little water with ice cubes

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captainjaspenor · 4 days ago

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I wish I had a Jake Seresin to cook for 😭😍

Lunchbox Confidential

pairing; jake seresin x fem!reader

summary; The Daggers suspects Jake has a girlfriend when he starts taking homemade food to base every day.

word count; 3.7k

warnings; another secret girlfriend trope because i wasn't lying when i said i had a hundred concepts planned for this. FLUFF FEST

a/n; i just thought this was a funny concept!!! also i have to admit i thought about it after watching one of those tiktok videos of girls packing their boyfriends lunch hahaah

masterlist

It started with the lunchbox.

At first, no one said anything — it was Jake Seresin, after all, and he had a habit of doing things just for the attention. But when he showed up on base three days in a row with the same sage green Stanley lunchbox tucked casually under his arm — with a matching thermos, no less — it didn’t go unnoticed.

Especially not during lunch.

They always ate together. Spread out across one of the long tables in the hangar break room or under the shade of the awning if the weather allowed. Paper bags, energy drinks, and fast food wrappers littered the table like confetti most days. But not Jake’s spot. Not anymore.

His lunch was neat. Glass containers with perfectly portioned meals, color-coded and stacked. Shiny utensils instead of plastic. Napkins — actual cloth napkins. And he wiped his hands with them. His coffee came from the thermos now — not the break room sludge or the vending machine down the hall — and it smelled faintly of cinnamon and something warm and sweet none of them could place.

The rest of the Daggers tried to ignore it at first. They really did.

But when Jake pulled out a kale salad with pomegranate seeds and some suspiciously perfect grilled chicken on a Tuesday — after years of watching him inhale gas station taquitos and drink Red Bull like water — something snapped.

They began watching.

Not staring, per se — just... observing. Like scientists. Anthropologists. Phoenix was the first to spot the change in behavior: Jake no longer bought food on base. No quick donuts. No protein bars with expiration dates rubbed off. He came prepared. Bob noted the tiny container of homemade salad dressing and the lemon wedge tucked beside it. Fanboy spotted fresh herbs — fresh herbs — scattered over roasted vegetables one day. And Rooster, ever the skeptic, saw the glass container of couscous and nearly fell out of his chair.

Couscous.

That Thursday, they were all eating lunch together as usual. Burgers and fries, burrito bowls, leftover pizza — the usual chaos. Except for Jake, who opened his lunchbox to reveal grilled salmon, jasmine rice, and something that looked an awful lot like sautéed spinach with garlic.

Not a word was said at first. But the silence was loud.

Jake, as always, ate like it was nothing. Cool and composed. Not a hint of embarrassment. If anything, he looked proud of his meal. Maybe even smug.

The others exchanged glances over greasy paper bags and foil wrappers. Something was happening. Something had changed.

Jake wasn’t just eating better. He was glowing.

His hair looked shinier. His skin? Suspiciously clear. He wasn’t snapping at anyone. He wasn’t even being a smug jackass as often as he usually was. He still smirked — but it was softer. More amused than arrogant. And then there was the humming. Jake had been humming under his breath lately. Actual tunes.

The realization came slowly, then all at once:

Someone was making him lunch.

Not just anyone. Someone who cared.

The neat handwriting on the masking tape labels. The balanced meals. The lemon wedge. The cinnamon coffee. The fresh herbs. All from scratch.

That wasn’t meal prep. That was love.

And that’s when it hit them — they were dealing with a full-blown mystery girlfriend situation.

No one had seen her. No one had heard about her. But she existed. And she cooked. And she packed his lunch in a Stanley box like a 1950s housewife crossed with a nutritionist.

The Dagger Squad didn’t say anything that day. But they all knew one thing:

They were going to get to the bottom of it.

Even if it killed them.

The confrontation came on a Friday, and it was far from subtle.

They were all seated around the usual table outside the hangar — Phoenix, Rooster, Fanboy, Bob, Coyote, and Jake. The air smelled like jet fuel, sunblock, and desperation. Lunch had just begun, and once again, Jake pulled out his Stanley lunchbox with the same casual nonchalance of a man not being stalked by his coworkers.

Except he was.

Fanboy was the first to break.

“That’s it,” he said, slapping a napkin down like he was laying a court summons. “Who is she?”

Jake didn’t even glance up as he unscrewed his thermos. “Excuse me?”

Phoenix leaned in, pointing at his perfectly packed tupperware like it had personally offended her. “You used to eat vending machine peanuts for lunch, Seresin. Dry ones. With Coke Zero. Now you’re out here with your anti-inflammatory salmon and chia seed pudding.”

Coyote nodded solemnly. “You brought fruit yesterday, man. In a ceramic bowl. Who the hell owns ceramic bowls?”

Jake raised an eyebrow. “People who don’t eat like raccoons?”

Rooster squinted at the fork in Jake’s hand. “Is that... bamboo?”

“Reusable,” Jake said, chewing slowly. “It’s called being environmentally conscious.”

Bob looked genuinely impressed. “The presentation is really nice. There’s, like, a color theme every day.”

Jake shot him a warning glance. “Et tu, Floyd?”

Fanboy ignored him. “So? Who’s the domestic goddess making your lunches?”

Jake leaned back, slow and smug. “Y’all are acting like I can’t boil rice.”

Phoenix crossed her arms. “Jake, last year you set off the smoke alarm reheating soup.”

“One time,” he said. “One time.”

Rooster leaned forward, face dead serious. “Is your mom visiting or something? Be honest. She’s staying with you, right? That’s why you’ve been showing up with fucking lemon vinaigrette.”

Jake snorted. “My mother hasn’t flown in since Christmas, and if she were making my lunch, you’d all be dead from butter overload.”

Coyote grinned. “So it’s not your mom.”

Jake finally looked up, leveling them all with a cool glance. “Why are you people so obsessed with what I eat?”

“Because it’s suspicious!” Phoenix threw her hands up. “You have a thermos now. And that coffee smells like snickerdoodles. Your mood’s suspiciously stable. Your skin looks... hydrated.”

Rooster nodded. “I said that last week, didn’t I?”

“Yeah,” Bob added. “And his hair’s been extra fluffy.”

Jake rubbed his temple. “Jesus Christ.”

Fanboy leaned forward like he was about to interrogate a suspect. “You’ve got a girl, don’t you?”

Jake’s jaw ticked. “Not that it’s any of your business—”

“He has a girl!” Rooster exploded, pointing dramatically. “He’s so in love, it’s disgusting!”

Phoenix gasped, shoving Jake’s shoulder. “Oh my God, you’re domestic now. Who is she? Does she do your laundry? Does she iron your flight suits? Is she a ghost?”

“She’s not a ghost,” Jake muttered.

“Wait,” Coyote said, eyes narrowing. “Have we met her?”

Jake took another bite of his grilled chicken like he had all the time in the world. “No.”

“Why not?!” the table chorused in complete offense.

Jake shrugged. “Because she’s smarter than all of you, and I wanted her to like me before she met the clowns I work with.”

Rooster clutched his chest like he’d been shot. “He’s ashamed of us.”

Jake sighed dramatically. “You’re like toddlers. Nosy, loud toddlers.”

“I bet she bakes,” Phoenix said. “She definitely bakes.”

“She pickles,” Bob whispered in awe.

“You’re in love,” Coyote said, grinning. “Look at him. Look at that dumb smirk.”

Jake wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin and raised his brow. “If you’re done analyzing my lunch like a bunch of food critics on meth, I’d like to eat in peace.”

But none of them were done. Not even close.

Because Jake Seresin — call sign Hangman, cockiest bastard alive — had a girlfriend.

And she packed him snack-size containers.

This was war.

When Jake walked through the front door, the scent of garlic and lemon greeted him first. Then came the faint hum of jazz from the kitchen speaker, and the soft shuffle of slippered feet across tile.

He closed the door behind him, shrugging off his flight jacket, and tossed his keys into the ceramic bowl by the entryway — the one you made yourself at that pottery class you dragged him to two months ago. The bowl was hideous, all warped and crooked and smudged with a thumbprint in the glaze.

He wouldn’t trade it for the world.

“Incoming,” he called, his voice echoing down the hallway.

“In here!” you answered gently, just barely loud enough to carry. It was a voice that never quite matched the chaos of the world he came from. Soft, warm, comforting — like fleece and firelight and freshly baked bread. Everything he didn’t know he needed until he had you.

Jake stepped into the kitchen, eyes landing on your small figure standing at the stove, stirring a pan of sautéed vegetables like it was the most important job in the universe. You wore an oversized sweatshirt that hung halfway to your knees and fuzzy socks with little peaches on them. Your hair was clipped up messily, a pencil tucked through it. Your cheeks were pink from the heat, your eyes bright as you turned to smile at him.

His day melted off his shoulders the second you looked at him like that.

“Hey, darlin’,” he said, walking up behind you and pressing a kiss to your temple, then your cheek. “Dinner smells amazing. What is it?”

“Grilled salmon,” you said, reaching for the oven mitts. “Roasted sweet potato, asparagus, and quinoa with lemon zest. And I tried that raspberry vinaigrette you mentioned.”

Jake made a low sound in his throat, like a man witnessing divinity. “God, I love you.”

You giggled quietly. “You say that every time I feed you.”

“Yeah, well, it’s always true.”

He leaned over and snagged a slice of sweet potato from the baking tray. You batted his hand lightly with the spatula.

“No snacking,” you said, then softer, “You’ll ruin your appetite.”

Jake grinned, clearly unbothered. He slid onto one of the counter stools, still in his flight suit. “You would not believe the interrogation I was subjected to today.”

You turned off the burner and looked over, blinking. “Interrogation?”

“Oh yeah.” He pulled out his thermos, waved it for emphasis. “This. Your lunches. Apparently I’ve been exhibiting ‘suspiciously stable mood patterns,’” he added with exaggerated air quotes. “Rooster almost staged an intervention. Fanboy asked if my mother was visiting.”

Your eyes widened in concern. “Oh no, did I—did I cause a scene?”

Jake smirked, all teeth. “Babe, the scene was already there. You’re just the reason it’s gourmet now.”

You ducked your head, cheeks coloring. “They were really talking about my food?”

“Nonstop,” he said, voice softer now. “Bob noticed the color coordination. And I may have accidentally confirmed that yes, I’m off the market and eating like a real adult because of a certain little nutritionist I’m in love with.”

Your eyes flicked up to his, shy but glowing.

“Oh.”

Jake’s smile softened. He reached over the counter to brush a crumb from your chin. “Yeah. Oh.”

You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, nerves making your fingers twitch slightly. “Well... maybe they should just come over. For dinner. You know. If you want.”

Jake blinked. “Wait, you wanna meet them?”

You bit your lip, then nodded. “I mean... they’re important to you. And you’re important to me. I don’t want to be a secret.”

Jake stood, rounded the counter, and cupped your face with both hands, tilting your chin up gently. “You are not a secret. You’re my best-kept treasure. But if you want to meet the zoo I work with, I’ll happily unleash them on our home.”

You giggled nervously. “They’re not that bad, are they?”

Jake gave you a look. “One of them thought I was being poisoned because my skin started clearing up.”

You laughed out loud then, the sound like windchimes in spring. “Okay, maybe we’ll ease them in with dessert.”

“I’ll text them,” he said, already pulling out his phone. “Tomorrow night?”

You nodded, then hesitated. “Should I make the gluten-free pasta for Phoenix? I think you said she’s cutting back on wheat.”

Jake blinked. “You’re terrifying.”

“I’m thoughtful,” you corrected, nose wrinkling.

He kissed that exact wrinkle and pulled you close, pressing his forehead to yours. “You’re perfect.”

And as he watched you pull out your little recipe notebook with color-coded tabs, already muttering about prep time and ingredients, Jake realized something:

His squad wasn’t ready for you.

But he was.

Jake had told them to arrive at 7:00 PM sharp.

Which, to be fair, was a bold assumption considering this group couldn’t even synchronize takeoff times most days — and yet, somehow, the entire Dagger Squad showed up early.

At 6:46 PM.

Jake opened the front door still wearing his "casual hosting" T-shirt — grey, a little snug on the arms — and a face full of horror as he looked past the group to his watch.

“You guys can’t read numbers?”

Phoenix blew past him like she owned the place, carrying a bottle of wine in one hand and a box of pastries in the other. “Relax, Hostess Seresin. We brought offerings.”

Javy followed right behind her, grinning. “We were hungry.”

“Some of us were excited to meet the mystery woman,” Bob added gently, clutching his own six-pack of sparkling water like it was a housewarming gift.

Jake pinched the bridge of his nose. “You couldn’t have just waited in the driveway like normal people?”

“Normal people don’t talk about you bringing Tupperware and homemade lemon water for two weeks straight,” Rooster said, stepping inside and looking around the open-plan living room and kitchen. “This is like… a holy pilgrimage.”

“Make yourselves at home,” Jake muttered dryly, closing the door as Payback and Fanboy filtered in, already bickering about who called shotgun on the ride over.

“Wow,” Phoenix said, setting her wine on the counter and surveying the kitchen. “This place is nice. Did you clean just for us?”

“No, he lives like this now,” Fanboy replied, eyeing the perfectly folded throw on the couch. “Ever since he started bringing soup in a thermos. It’s freaky.”

Jake opened his mouth to snap back, but was immediately distracted by the sound of a cabinet opening and the soft pad of your footsteps.

“Jake, can you—oh.” You stopped in the doorway to the kitchen, your eyes landing on the cluster of aviators now standing in the middle of your living room like excited kids on a school field trip.

You were wearing a soft blue sweater, an apron still tied around your waist, your hands lightly dusted in flour. Your hair was clipped back, your expression shy but warm, and for a second, nobody said anything.

Then:

“Oh my God, you’re real,” Rooster said, like he couldn’t help himself.

“You made the lemon lavender loaf?!” Bob added, awe in his voice.

You blinked, cheeks warming. “Um… yes?”

“Hi,” Jake said quickly, stepping forward to loop an arm around your waist. “Everyone—this is my girlfriend.”

The room erupted in a chorus of greetings.

You gave a tiny, polite wave and a nervous smile. “Hi. Welcome. I hope you’re hungry.”

“Starving,” Javy said, practically vibrating with joy.

You stepped aside, motioning toward the dining room. “Dinner’s almost ready. Please, sit, make yourselves comfortable. There are drinks on the sideboard, and appetizers if you’re hungry now.”

“Oh my God, there are appetizers,” Rooster whispered reverently.

The dining table was a vision: long and wooden with soft linen runners, candles, and mismatched vintage plates. On the sideboard sat homemade lemonade, cucumber water, fresh juice, and two pitchers of iced tea — one sweet, one unsweetened. Next to that, a tray of cheese-stuffed mini bell peppers, tiny crostinis with whipped feta and honey, and skewered watermelon cubes with mint and balsamic glaze.

You stood back, hands twisted in your apron, as the Daggers descended.

“This is witchcraft,” Phoenix murmured around a crostini.

“What’s in this?” Fanboy asked, mouth full.

“Ricotta, lemon zest, and love,” Jake said flatly, earning a soft elbow from you.

Bob carefully poured himself some cucumber water, looking like he was about to cry from joy.

“Okay,” Payback said after his second skewer, “so let’s talk about how you’re real. Jake Seresin told us nothing except that you packed his lunch and made ‘homemade marinara from scratch.’”

You flushed. “Well, I’m a nutritionist, so… food is kind of my thing.”

“Oh my God, he wasn’t lying,” Rooster said dramatically.

Jake smirked. “Told you.”

Dinner proper was a feast.

You brought everything out in waves, starting with fresh-baked dinner rolls still warm from the oven, followed by a creamy butternut squash soup served in delicate ceramic bowls you’d thrifted with Jake one weekend.

“This is…?” Natasha asked, spoon midair.

“Roasted butternut squash, a little coconut milk, ginger, and nutmeg.”

“I’m ascending,” Fanboy said seriously.

Jake leaned toward Bob, who had already finished half his bowl. “You should see brunch.”

Next came the main course: a honey-glazed salmon, lemon herb roasted chicken, garlic mashed potatoes, roasted rainbow carrots, a spinach salad with strawberries and candied pecans, and a quinoa pilaf with grilled veggies.

“Oh my God, this is what Jake eats every day?” Fanboy asked, already scooping seconds. “We thought he joined a cult.”

“I made a peanut butter and jelly today,” Payback said. “A peanut butter and jelly.”

“Meanwhile, I’ve been eating gas station sushi,” Rooster mumbled.

Jake just leaned back in his chair, arm resting on the back of yours, smug as hell. “Yeah, well. You know. She likes me.”

Natasha snorted. “You’re just lucky she doesn’t realize she can do better.”

You gave a soft laugh, tucking your face into Jake’s shoulder. “I think I’m right where I want to be.”

Jake pressed a kiss to your temple.

Around the table, groans of fake gagging.

Then came dessert.

Which, of course, you also made from scratch.

Mini lava cakes. Fresh whipped cream. Vanilla bean custard. A tray of chocolate-dipped strawberries. And, because Jake had casually mentioned it in passing last week, a tiny banana cream pie — just for him.

There was silence as everyone took the first bite of lava cake.

Then, from Bob: “Do you… do you give cooking lessons?”

Jake snorted. “Bob, don’t fall in love with my girlfriend.”

“Too late.”

Eventually, the night wound down. Everyone was stuffed, glowing, and a little in awe. Jake sat back with his arm around you, and the rest of the Daggers sprawled like satisfied house cats in every available seat.

Phoenix raised her glass of lemonade. “To the chef. And to the woman who somehow managed to civilize Hangman.”

You smiled bashfully as everyone echoed the toast.

As they filtered out with hugs and leftovers and more compliments than you knew what to do with, Fanboy paused at the door and turned back to Jake.

“Hey man,” he said, nodding at you. “You’re punching so far above your weight.”

Jake just grinned, watching you finish wiping down the table, a dreamy look in his eyes.

“Yeah,” he said. “I know.”

The house was finally quiet.

The last of the dishes were drying in the rack, the dining room table wiped clean, and the candles had long since flickered out. Outside, the crickets hummed a steady rhythm beneath the open kitchen window, and inside, the only light came from the under-cabinet glow washing everything in soft, honeyed warmth.

You leaned against the counter, still in your apron, still a little flustered from all the compliments. Your cheeks hurt from smiling, and your voice was hoarse from answering so many questions, but Jake? Jake looked at you like he could stay in this moment forever.

“Did you have fun?” you asked, brushing your fingers along the edge of the countertop, not quite meeting his gaze.

Jake didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stepped in front of you, gently untied your apron and set it aside on the counter. Then he leaned in, cupping your jaw with one hand, thumb brushing softly beneath your eye where the day’s effort still lingered.

“You are… incredible,” he said quietly.

You rolled your eyes, trying not to melt. “They were just hungry.”

“They were obsessed with you,” he corrected. “And for the record, so am I.”

You laughed, just a little. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m lucky,” he said, kissing your cheek. “That’s what I am.”

You hummed, looping your arms around his waist as he tugged you closer. The tips of your noses brushed. Your smile curled slow and sleepy as his lips found yours — slow, soft, a kiss made of everything unspoken. Thank you. I love you. Please don’t ever leave.

Jake pulled away just far enough to whisper, “You know I’d marry you for those lava cakes alone, right?”

You smacked his chest. “Go to bed, Hangman.”

He grinned. “I’m serious. That pie sealed it.”

You leaned up to kiss him one more time, quick and warm. “Brush your teeth first.”

“Bossy,” he said, but he was already walking away, barefoot and happy.

The next morning, at Naval Base North Island, the squad was gathered around the usual lunch table — same routine, same noisy chatter — when Jake strolled up like he didn’t have a care in the world, coffee thermos in one hand, and a pastel-colored bakery box in the other.

“Morning, sunshine,” Rooster called. “You recover from that feast?”

Jake smirked and plopped the box on the table. “Barely. But she sent me with these.”

Natasha blinked. “Wait… what’s that?”

Jake popped the lid. Inside: delicate rows of homemade pastries. Mini scones with lemon glaze. Tiny berry tarts. Swirls of buttery palmiers and flaky raspberry pinwheels. Each one placed with the care of someone who loved to feed the people her person loved.

“She made these?” Bob asked, already leaning in like he was in a dream.

“Packed them herself,” Jake said, lifting out a tiny wax-paper note that read, “For the squad. Don’t let Jake eat them all. Love, Me.”

“Oh my God, she likes us,” Fanboy gasped.

“She likes me more,” Jake said smugly, popping a tart into his mouth.

Natasha was already holding a scone delicately between her fingers. “This is the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”

“You didn’t tell us she bakes,” Payback said through a mouthful.

Jake wiped his mouth with a napkin and leaned back in his seat like he’d just conquered the world.

“I told you guys. She’s perfect.”

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captainjaspenor · 4 days ago

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Hit the hay so hard last night that i found the needle

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captainjaspenor · 4 days ago

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oh no i just want to play my stupid games no stupid prizes for me thanks

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captainjaspenor · 4 days ago

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if you dont check your bank account you can pretend nothing is happening

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captainjaspenor · 4 days ago

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LEAKED MORNING ROUTINE:

-i need to be held

-i’m fine

-i’m beyond saving

-we’re back

-it’s over

-swag city

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captainjaspenor · 4 days ago

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engaging in a high risk behavior (lying back down after my alarm already went off)

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captainjaspenor · 4 days ago

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Obsessed. I’m obsessed.

i’m seated. the author is scared and asking me to leave because they ‘haven’t even started writing yet’ but i’m simply too seated.

Under the Influence (Pt. 1)

Summary: While investigating a suspicious pharmaceutical company, you and Clark find yourselves exposed to an interesting new drug. Pairing: Clark Kent x F!Reader Word Count: 4.9K Warning: 18+ only, explicit sexual content. Dubious consent (reader and Clark are exposed to sex pollen), unprotected PIV, size kink, humor, and other untagged themes. A/N: This takes place before the events of the movie. There are no spoilers. Thank you @ryebecca @clairewritesandrambles and @a-reader-and-a-writer for your help with this.

Masterlist ♡ David Corenswet Characters Masterlist

It’s late, and the glittering skyline of Metropolis stretches out beyond the windows of the Daily Planet’s top-floor conference room. The usual hum of activity is absent tonight – it’s just you, Clark, and an intimidating stack of boxes that seem to multiply with every passing minute. A decent number of your Clark-related daydreams have started just like this. Though in those versions, there was usually a lot less paperwork...and a lot more kissing.

You stifle a yawn, reaching for your coffee, only to nearly choke when you realize it’s gone cold. Grimacing, you set the offending mug aside and try to wash away the stale taste with water. The sound catches Clark’s attention and pulls him from his work. He looks at you over his thick-rimmed glasses, the corner of his mouth lifting into a wiry smile. Even under fluorescent office lighting, he still looks devastatingly handsome. It was unfair.

“I’ll put on a fresh pot,” he offers, stretching as he stands.

Despite shedding his oversized suit jacket earlier and with his tie hanging a little crooked, he somehow still looks annoyingly fresh. Like he was immune to exhaustion or just politely pretending not to feel it. You, on the other hand, look exactly like someone who’s had a twenty-hour work day: crumpled, wilted, and one coffee away from a breakdown.

Leaning back, you pass him your mug, your stiff muscles protesting. They ache from hours of sitting and sorting. He gives you a sympathetic smile as one of his large hands comes to rest on your shoulder in a brief, consoling pat. You can feel the warmth of his touch through your dress and sigh.

“Back in a jiffy,” he promises, disappearing down the hall.

By now, the two of you have been hunched over documents for nearly ten hours. Half of them are so technical they might as well be gibberish, but you’ve found a few leads in the financial papers. Unfortunately, your current stack of documents is so aggressively redacted that they’re practically useless. You groan in frustration and face-plant onto your arms, silently questioning whether a byline is really worth this much torture.

You remain like that until Clark returns, carrying the rich, intoxicating scent of freshly brewed coffee.

“I take back all the mean things I was just thinking. You’re officially my savior,” you declare.

You accept the mug eagerly, only to quickly set it on the table when the warmth that seeps through the ceramic nearly burns your fingers. Not for the first time, you wonder how Clark managed to get the ancient coffee machine to percolate so quickly. For everyone else, it typically spewed out lukewarm sludge.

“Regretting volunteering for this assignment?” Clark asks.

“Not for a moment,” you reply honestly. “You’re still sharing that byline with me, right?” You question, squinting up at him.

“I always keep my promises,” he says with such earnestness that you’re reminded once again why Perry liked to call him a Boy Scout.

“I’ll hold you to it because this story’s turned into a beast.”

Clark sighs, one hand on his hip as he surveys the cluttered table covered in file boxes and scattered papers. With the other, he lifts a mug to his mouth and takes a deep sip of hot chocolate, the homemade mix something his mom sends all the way from Kansas.

“It really has,” he says quietly.

When Perry asked for a volunteer from the junior editor pool to assist on an exposé about Salvation Pharmaceuticals, you jumped at the chance. And not just because Clark Kent was the reporter assigned to it. Most of your days were spent copyediting crime reports and waging a quiet war over AP versus Chicago style. You were desperate for some real, hands-on investigative work, although neither of you expected an investigation into government kickbacks and dubious congressional dealings to rapidly evolve into something far more unsettling.

Salvation Pharmaceuticals’ R&D department was embroiled in deeply questionable research, from a gas capable of erasing memories to a potent drug they called a truth serum. All of their projects had frankly terrifying side effects, particularly the latter, which worked by lowering inhibitions but also triggered something they called sexual psychosis.

Clark’s freedom of information request resulted in your current predicament. Clearly, someone at the company thought they could drown you both in paperwork before you could find anything useful. Unfortunately for them, Clark Kent was one of the most determined reporters you’d ever met, and you were just desperate enough to get out of the editing pool to help him.

“Well…once more unto the breach,” you quote, holding up a fresh box of files.

As you lift the lid, Clark offers you a small smile, his cheeks dimpling. For a moment, you’re too distracted by him to notice the cloud of yellow dust rising from the box. It quickly expands, swirling into a thick mist that engulfs you both. Immediately, your lungs begin to burn, and you gasp for air. You push your chair back and struggle to stand as your vision blurs.

A strong arm around your middle hauls you back, dragging you across the carpet. Somewhere along the way, your heels slip off. Clark doesn’t stop until you reach the edge of the room, and you lean into him, trying to clear your lungs. Behind you, he grunts, his fingers spasming against your hip. It takes several moments for the air to clear, but when it does, you watch in horror as the yellow dust seems to melt into your skin.

“What was that?” You ask, voice hoarse.

Clark is silent and looks grim when you turn to face him. “I think that was the truth serum. The reports described it as yellow dust.”

You blink, baffled. “Why would they keep it in those files?”

“I don’t know,” he says with a grimace. “But I can guess.”

You rub your chest and take a hesitant step back. “I don’t feel any different. Do you?”

“No.” He presses his lips together, a muscle in his jaw twitching with tension. “Are you sure you don’t feel anything?”

You exhale slowly, taking stock of your body. “Maybe?” Your response is more of a question than a definitive answer. You feel oddly warm, but it could just be the adrenaline from the situation. You also feel a little nauseous, but that might be from the cold coffee you tried to poison yourself with earlier.

“You’re sweating,” he observes, pressing the back of his hand to your forehead. The warmth of his touch makes you shudder, and you can’t help but notice how good he smells. “Your body temperature is elevated.”

“Huh?” You look up at him, momentarily lost in his gaze. “You’re hot, too,” you blurt out, mortified when the words leave your mouth.

“I feel fine,” Clark replies, either misunderstanding what you meant or choosing not to acknowledge the slip. Bless that midwestern politeness.

You step away from him, body buzzing. Sweat dots your brow, and you’re halfway out of your thin cardigan before you can stop yourself. As you pace the room, you realize Clark might be right. The powder could be affecting you, and much faster than documents suggested. You try to shake off the disorienting feeling that lingers, while Clark tracks your progress with sharp blue eyes.

“Should we call someone? Isn’t there, like, a protocol for mysterious powders? Hazmat? Ghostbusters?” It’s hard to think straight when your entire body feels like it’s trying to cook itself from the inside out. “Clark?” you ask.

His nostrils flare, but otherwise, he doesn’t respond until you say his name again. “Yeah. There’s uh, an anthrax protocol. Perry’s got it in his office.”

Time gets weird after he leaves, moving in fits and starts. At one point, you find yourself rubbing your chest, and you have to forcibly yank your hand away. You’re not sure how long Clark is gone, each minute dragging as the heat within intensifies and your thoughts become increasingly muddled. There’s a growing pressure in your stomach, too, something that radiates down. It’s not exactly painful, but it’s persistently irritating, a prickling feeling that needs to be soothed.

“I made the call,” Clark announces, reappearing. “They said it’ll be 30 minutes until they get here with everything they need. We just have to sit tight.”

“Thirty minutes?” you repeat, voice edging on panic. “What are they doing, walking from Gotham?”

Clark doesn’t respond, and you quickly turn away, not trusting yourself to say anything else.

If it really was the truth serum, and you’re starting to believe Clark might be right, there’s no telling what might come out of your mouth next. Even now, as you pace back and forth, you feel a pressure under your tongue, as though the words are lurking just beneath the surface, eager to spring out. The absolute last thing you need right now is to blurt out your dumb, awkward crush on him. Or tell him how nice he smells.

“God, it’s hot,” you groan, staring at the window. You press your palms to the glass. It’s cool to the touch, and you lay your forehead against it, almost moaning in relief. If you could peel off your dress and melt straight into the glass, you would. Happily. No questions asked.

“Here.” Clark’s voice comes from closer than expected, and you flinch at the sudden touch of his hand on your lower back.

He turns you around to face him and presses a glass of water to your lips. You grasp his thick wrist as he urges you to drink it all, your gaze never leaving his. The moment you finish, your mouth feels dry and your throat itches.

“You have the bluest eyes,” you whisper. “You shouldn’t hide them behind your glasses.” You reach for them because apparently, your self-control has left the building. Clark stops you gently, his hand covering yours.

You freeze. Oh god. Did you just say that last part out loud?

Yes. Yes, you did. Fantastic.

You slap your hands over your face, wishing the floor would open up and swallow you whole. Or that you could merge with the building and become a ghost who only haunts Perry’s office because this was definitely his fault. Somehow.

“This is no one’s fault but Salvation Pharmaceuticals,” Clark says quietly.

Your hands slide down just enough to peek at him through your fingers. “I said that part out loud, too, didn’t I?”

He nods, eyes sympathetic.

“Cool. Cool, cool, cool. I don’t know what’s happening.”

“It’s the drug,” he says sympathetically, pulling your hands down from your face. “It lowers inhibitions. Heightens emotional impulses.”

“Well, it’s doing an excellent job,” you reply, trying not to get distracted by how absurdly big his hands are compared to yours. Or how warm they feel. It takes serious effort to meet his eyes again.

“Why aren’t you affected?” you ask. “You should be blurting out embarrassing things, too.”

“My biology is different from yours,” he says, almost absently, and then immediately freezes, like the words slipped out before he could catch them. He presses his lips together and clenches his jaw. For the first time since you met him, Clark looks genuinely unsettled.

“The reports said it affected women quicker,” he adds before stepping back.

“What a time to be a woman,” you mutter, hands falling limply at your side.

Clark tugs at his already loosened tie, stretching his neck with an audible crack that makes you wince. A flush creeps up his neck and stains his cheeks, and okay, apparently you’re now hallucinating too, because the skin around his eyes looks like it’s faintly glowing. He turns away and lets out a harsh breath through his nose.

“Maybe I should wait in the other room,” he says tightly, voice strained.

“Yeah,” you say quickly. It was probably for the best that he wasn’t around for the next wave of weird, unfiltered thoughts that were no doubt waiting in the wings.

Clark barely makes it to the door before a sharp, unexpected wave of searing pain rips through your stomach, sending you crashing to your knees. The impact jolts your entire body, but that discomfort is overshadowed by a deep gnawing ache between your legs. You pitch forward onto all fours, struggling as your cunt flutters around nothing.

“Oh,” you whimper, voice small and panicked, as your brain chooses now to recall the adverse event report in perfect, horrifying detail.

Following an increase in basal body temperature, patients exposed to the drug exhibit symptoms of full-blown sexual psychosis. This condition necessitates achieving climax to alleviate symptoms. Patients who are unable to reach climax experience a marked increase in heart rate and blood pressure, which in some cases progresses to cardiac arrest and death.

Every muscle in your body tenses, as a fierce, relentless pressure builds. Then, like the tide, it recedes, leaving you curled into a ball on the floor. Through half-closed eyes, you meet Clark’s gaze. You whimper his name.

“I know,” he says quietly, kneeling in front of you. His hands hover at your shoulders for a moment before finally settling firmly on your body and turning you on your back.

You blink up at him, feeling like you might come out of your skin.

“Help me, please,” you whisper, the words escaping between clenched teeth.

You’re too hysterical to feel ashamed about what you’re asking him to do. Details from the report keep replaying in your mind. Clark looms over you, a sheen of sweat on his brow. You stare up at him, your breath coming in short, ragged gasps as the need in your core pulses and builds. The ache in your body is all-consuming, overriding everything else. Worse is the feeling of emptiness that you know he could fill.

“Please.”

Your voice fizzles out as a strong wave of pain slams into you. It leaves you reeling and disoriented. You claw at his arms, fingernails digging into his skin. Somewhere deep inside, the part of you that’s still sane and not a sex-starved maniac convinced you’ll die if Clark doesn’t fuck you, knows what you’re asking is utterly insane. But you can’t stop yourself.

“I can help you.” He says to your relief, his gaze lingering on you as he runs his tongue along his bottom lip. “If-if you want me to,” he adds, and a hysterical laugh bubbles up inside you.

Of course you do, you’ve dreamed of him since the day you met him in the breakroom. You just never imagined it would unfold like this.

Another cramp rips through you, leaving you panting. You grit out a desperate, “Yes. God, yes.”

His large hand encircles your calf, the touch light as he pulls your legs apart so he can kneel between them. The cool air makes you groan, and you try to curl in on yourself again, but Clark stops you. With shaky hands, he drags your dress up, eyes fixed on your face, expression searching. When he finally exposes your simple black underwear, the sight seems to transfix him, and you watch his chest rise and fall with quick, shallow breaths that mimic your own as he stares.

“I have to ah, I have to…” He closes his eyes, inhaling deeply. When he shakes his head, his glasses slide down his nose. “I need to get you ready.”

“I don’t care,” you pant. “Fuck me, please.”

You’re mortified by how desperate you sound. You’ve never spoken to anyone like this in your entire life, but once it starts, you can’t seem to stop. Even though the embarrassment is there, it can’t compete with the overwhelming need surging through your body. You keep begging, voice wobbly and insistent, your dignity long gone. You sound like a cat in heat, you think deliriously.

“It’s okay,” Clark soothes, the calm tenor of his voice betrayed by the way his hand trembles against your thigh.

He tears off your underwear with an ease that would give you pause if you were in your right mind. You watch him stuff the tattered fabric into his pocket, too focused on making sure he fucks you to linger on that fact.

Shame is a thing of the past as you spread your legs even further, allowing his hungry gaze to drink its fill. He parts your folds and draws two fingers through the wetness gathered there, starting with light, teasing strokes that quickly build to more. When his thumb finds your bundle of nerves, he rubs slow, soothing circles until the pain in your stomach eases a fraction.

“You’re doing good,” he encourages, sounding breathless. “Doing so good for me, honey.”

You moan his name and he shifts closer, bent forward to watch himself work. Soon, one kind of pressure recedes and another begins. You gasp as Clark continues his slow assault, building in its intensity. When your legs thrash, his other hand settles on your hip, holding you still as he works a thick finger inside. Your cunt clenches in response to the intrusion. Above you, he groans, and his thumb moves faster.

“More, oh god, I need more,” you beg, keening when Clark pushes a second finger inside.

The stretch of them both burns, but that’s eclipsed by the pleasure you feel. You rock forward, trying to take more of him, but he doesn’t let you, controlling the pace. You can hear yourself babbling, nonsensical words streaming from your mouth as he draws you closer and closer to your orgasm until, all at once, it overwhelms you completely. It’s almost painful, and your hands curl into fists, your body contorting in response. The room blurs around you, and every fiber of your being is consumed by the relief you feel.

When it passes, you’re left trembling on the floor, avoiding Clark’s gaze. He hovers over you, his arousal hard to miss with the way it tents the front of his gray slacks.

You touch his chest, inhaling when his dark blue eyes snap up to meet yours. “Do you…”

He shakes his head, withdrawing his fingers. You wince, rubbing your thighs together.

“No, I-” he starts, but whatever he is about to say is abruptly cut off as he grunts and hunches forward, a visible shudder running through him.

Hesitantly, you reach out and touch his face. When your fingers brush over the curve of his cheek, he moans and surges forward, capturing your lips in a searing kiss that steals your breath. He forces his tongue inside, and the heat of him is almost unbearable. You curl your arms over his shoulder, drawing him closer. His hands travel up and down your sides, and you feel that familiar pressure return to your core. It builds slowly, like the spark of an ember that will soon flare into a blazing fire.

You shift under Clark, drawing your legs up as he swallows down your needy whine. By the time he pulls away, you’re feeling dizzy.

“We need to,” you begin, squeezing your eyes shut as your body trembles.

“I know,” Clark replies.

He fumbles with his pants, and you stare up at the ceiling as he pulls himself free. It feels like a violation to look, but you find your gaze drifting down. Your mouth goes dry at the sight of his cock, just as big and thick as the rest of him. Your cunt aches, and god, you want him. Need him.

Clark plants a hand near your head while he lines himself up. He pushes inside slowly. It hurts, but you need more of him, and you need it now. Wrapping his tie around your hand, you pull hard, urging him closer. He snaps his hip forward with enough force to jar your bones, and you wail in response. For one blissful moment, everything is quiet. Your buzzing mind and aching body are finally filled in a way they’ve been craving.

“Fuck.” The curse that falls from Clark’s lips is jarring and brings you back to the moment. You’ve never even heard him use language like that; he always expresses himself in oddly charming, old-fashioned phrases.

“You feel so good. You feel…” he trails off, his words bleeding into one long, low moan that has you clenching around him.

His handsome face contorts, his lips pressed tightly together. Tension lines the muscles of his jaw, and his dark brows furrow in an expression that teeters between ecstasy and pain. Pleasure skitters along your nerves as he drives into you over and over again to reach some unknown place hidden deep inside. Your second orgasm rises to the surface just as swiftly as your first and Clark is relentless as he fucks you through it.

There isn’t even time to catch your breath before his hands encircle your hips, and he leans back, drawing you with him. The backs of your thighs drag over the fabric of his slack as he moves your body to meet his thrusts. As one orgasm fades you feel another spring to life, hastened by the feel of his calloused thumb on your clit. The need inside you burns even brighter, and a litany of pleas spills from your lips.

“You feel,” he pants, “just like I imagined.”

When you gasp his name, he curls his body over yours, the new angle allowing him to move even deeper. You hold onto his biceps and listen to the desperate little noises that escape his chest with each thrust. His lips find the soft skin of your throat as his fingers dig into the neckline of your dress. He pulls hard and buttons scatter, giving him access to your shoulder. Teeth scrape over tender flesh, and your back arches as another orgasm blooms in your stomach.

Waves of pleasure ebb through your body, and your fingers tangle in the thick hair at the nape of his neck. Clark doesn’t falter even when you fall still beneath him. Your muscles ache, and your body feels tense and exhausted, but that frenzied need that’s driven you since the dust melted into your system slakes away until you’re left feeling everything.

Clark groans, and you realize he’s still in the throes of the drug's effects. The ceaseless rhythm of his hips continues, and he hitches your leg over his waist to push himself deeper. You let him use you, all too aware of the primal, intense need flooding his body.

He shudders, gasping, “like that, just like that.”

Then he finally stills, and you feel a rush of intense warmth flood you. Your breath comes in short little pants, your heart fluttering in your chest. After a few moments, Clark stiffens, and you know he’s come back to himself. He shifts, and you can’t stifle your whimper. His gaze jumps to your face.

For a moment, all you can do is stare at each other silently. He looks absolutely wrecked above you, dark, sweat-soaked hair sticking to his forehead, and his pink lips swollen and red from your attention.

The hand gripping your hip loosens, then lifts to hover near your cheek without touching. He swallows and seems to struggle with his words for a moment.

“Are you…”

“I’m okay,” you whisper, suddenly very aware of the fact that he’s still inside you.

He seems to realize the same thing, his face flushing scarlet. He slips out of you with a quiet exhale and passes a trembling hand over his mouth. You look away as he tucks himself back into his pants. A moment later, he tugs your dress down, and you press your thighs together, your skin sticky and wet.

Clark says your name, and you realize he’s standing in front of you, hand outstretched. After a beat of hesitation, you take it, and he pulls you up. When he drapes his jacket over your shoulders, you feel a rush of gratitude for his Midwestern manners. You let him guide you carefully to a chair, and you wince as you settle in.

He clears his throat and tells you, “The response team is downstairs.”

“Okay,” you say, too out of it to ask how he knows that.

Clark rubs the back of his neck, seeming to search for something today. Honestly, what could either of you say right now? This wasn’t exactly covered in the employee handbook. If it was, you definitely missed the chapter titled, “How to Apologize After Having Sex at Work While Drugged Out of Your Mind by a Pharmaceutical Company You’re Investigating.”

“I’m…I’m so sorry,” he whispers.

“It’s okay,” you say automatically. Clark’s brow furrows, and the silence that follows makes you realize just how unhinged that must’ve sounded. You scramble to clarify. “I mean, you didn’t dose us with truth serum. It was an accident.” You manage a watery grin that feels more like a grimace.

“This wasn’t some accident,” Clark says, the uncertainty from moments ago gone, replaced by something steadier. Anger flickers behind his eyes. “Someone deliberately planted that dust in the files. It wasn’t just meant to scare us off; it was meant to compromise us. Discredit the story. Discredit us.”

He takes a breath, fists clenched at his sides. “We’re going to find out who did this. We’re going to expose them.”

You wish you could summon some of that righteous, cornfed fury Clark’s channeling right now, but you're a little preoccupied with the uncomfortable, mortifying sensation of his cum slowly sliding out of you, and the embarrassing realization that your coworkers were almost definitely going to find out what went down here tonight. Reporters were the worst kind of gossips.

“That’s…great,” you reply lamely.

Clark looks like he wants to say something more; his lips part slightly, but nothing comes out. Instead, silence settles between you, heavy and strange. He stands half a step in front of you, his tall frame blocking most of your view. You find yourself staring at the curve of his shoulder, the way his shirt clings to his back in wrinkled lines, half-tucked in. His hair is still a mess from your fingers.

When the team in hazmat suits finally arrives, he’s the one who greets them. You only catch snippets of conversation as his eyes flick toward you more than once. You wonder if they can all read what happened just by looking at the two of you.

After introductions, you and Clark are promptly herded through separate decontamination processes that involve surrendering your clothes and scrubbing away what feels like the top six layers of your skin. You mourn the loss of your favorite dress when you're informed it’s headed straight to incineration, especially after you’re handed scratchy paper scrubs. Next, you’re escorted into a plastic tent that smells vaguely of bleach. Inside, a nurse with a clipboard asks you a series of deeply personal questions in a tone that suggests this is just another Tuesday for her.

“Did you use protection?”

You nearly choke on your own breath. The nurse doesn’t blink.

You swallow down the first response that jumps to your tongue, something sarcastic and vaguely unhinged, like ‘Oh yeah, we absolutely took a moment mid-drug-fueled breakdown to practice safe sex.’ Instead, you clear your throat and mutter, “I’m on the pill.”

The questions continue, and you want to crawl out of your own skin. Somehow, you force yourself to endure the invasive interview and the not-so-gentle pricks of needles, nodding along as they talk about test results.

“We’ll follow up in a few days,” the nurse says briskly, pulling off her gloves. “In the meantime, we strongly advise you to quarantine at home. Avoid contact with anyone else.”

Before you can ask what “quarantine” entails, a man in a standard-issue government black suit appears at your side. He doesn’t say much, just gestures toward the exit like this is all normal.

You stop once you reach the hallway, the first soft rays of dawn filtering through the tall windows. Golden light spills across desks and papers, and outside, you can hear the birds. The city is waking up, bustling to life as usual, while you feel disoriented and off-kilter. With little choice but to follow your new friend, you head towards the elevator, drawing up short when you see Clark there.

A few feet behind him stands his own government escort, a man who, despite the black suit and stiff posture, looks comically small next to Clark. The four of you stare at each other until the elevator dings and the doors begin to close. Clark halts their progress with one hand.

“Thank you,” you say automatically as you step in beside him.

You sound borderline insane, thanking him for holding open the elevator when just a few hours ago he was inside you, saying all kinds of not-mild-mannered things that you didn’t expect from Clark Kent of all people.

Clark gives you a small nod, jaw tense, like he’s not sure what expression to wear. You glance at the guys in the black suits and wonder what they must be thinking. Maybe this was just another day for them or more likely, your story was now officially part of their crazy catalog of weird shit they’ve seen. You can already hear it being told over beers on a Friday night, somewhere in a dive bar with terrible onion rings and sticky floors.

Fantastic.

The four of you file out of the elevator as it opens into the quiet bullpen. Without a word, you and Clark are steered toward separate black cars waiting at the curb. He pauses, glancing back at you over the open door. His hand lifts hesitantly, offering you an awkward wave.

You return it, just as uncertain, before the door swings shut between you with a soft, final click.

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#clark kent x reader #clark kent #superman x reader #smut #nsfw

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