doigettokeepyou

[doigettokeepyou]

𝐓𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐋𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐦 𝐋𝐚𝐩

Clark stays the night for the first time. fem, 3k. [explicit] 

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

“Are you bringing the briefcase?” 

“What’s your obsession with the case?” Clark asks. 

You shrug, tipping your head back to give him a better view of your eyes, widened in a mock-doe ogling, like he’s the biggest, brightest thing in your universe. It’s not that far from the truth. 

“I like the case,” you confide, bedroom eyes and a fresh coat of lipgloss waiting to be kissed off, ‘cos you know he’s too much of a gentleman to do anything about it. And because it’s nice, so nice, to see the way his face splits into a smile. He’s like sunshine bearing down on you. 

“Then it’s coming with me. Go get your coat, Peitho.” 

“Who’s that one?” you ask. 

“The goddess of persuasion…” —he leans down to breathe your air, just for a bit— “…and seduction,” he finishes, kissing your nose quickly. “Get your coat. Let’s go.” 

You collect your things into your bag and put on your coat. Clark presses a hand to the line of muscle between your shoulders, leading you out of the Daily Planet and toward the tram. You take it down to the station on your block, and Clark convinces you to double back for the greengrocers. Or, he grabs your hand and pulls you along, citing a deep need to find some snow mountain garlic. You make a boy risotto once and he thinks he calls the shots. 

Your love story with Clark isn’t exactly convoluted. He made you coffee and brought you out in the sun to watch ducks in Centennial Park. You’d teased him with delicate outfits and long stretches, had occasionally brought him dinner. And it isn’t a long story, either. It’s been, what, three weeks? Nearly four? Too long to be this nervous, and yet. Clark squeezes your hand as your heart trips for the third time in as many minutes, caught on the sharp cut of his jaw and his messy curls. He doesn’t say anything as you weave between tight aisles looking for the specialty foods, but you get the sense that he knows you’re nervous. 

“I can’t believe you remembered where I got the garlic,” you say conversationally. 

“It’s rare, right? From the Himalayas.” 

“Did I tell you that, too?” 

“Your article, honey,” Clark says, his eyes tracking the jars of preserves and a row of open-basket offerings. “Single clove, golden… ah-ha!” He lets your hand fall to grab a paper bag and the tongs buried within. This basket has a plastic covering over the top that clicks and folds upward, releasing a heavy scent. 

“Careful, Clark, it’s like, a billion dollars per pound.” 

He shakes his head, unworried. “How much do you need for the risotto? Tell me when. And don’t short it.” 

You decide not to short it —you’ll pay. But when you and Clark get to the counter, baggie of garlic, fresh oregano, ginger stems and tangerines dumped unceremoniously onto the counter by the cash register, he bats your hand away with the most aggression he’s ever shown you and offers the clerk his card.  

“I don’t like mean Clark,” you murmur, squinting in the sun as Clark shepherds you back outside. 

“No? You should get used to him.” 

“Didn’t peg you for a bully, Kent.” 

“I’m not.” He swings an arm over your shoulder, careful not to hit you with the groceries (what a loser!). “I could never bully you, you’re too nice. And who will make my dinner, if you’re upset?” 

“So funny.” 

“I know,” he says against your cheek. Your skin warms under a prim kiss. His lips part and the wet of his tongue doesn’t touch you, but you can feel it regardless, the humidity of his breath rolling over your skin. 

“Off!” you demand. 

He grins and takes back his arm. “Off,” he says, looking very much like he’d like to kiss you again. It’s awful how palpable the need is on his face. You ignore it as best as you can, too worried he’ll get you home and kiss you against the door, fumbling blindly for a bed he’s never seen. 

He’s less desperate than you’re making out. In fact, if Clark wants to seduce you is anyone’s guess. He holds your hand down the street to your apartment building, laughs lightly when you tug him behind the staircase toward the back, and holds your handbag while you rummage for your keys without protest. 

He places his case, your bag, and his shoes at the side table on the way in. You try to see your trimmings through his eyes, hand on his arm to balance as you pull off each of your shoes. You like the process of it, your fingers in his muscle, his eyes on your knee as you bring your foot up behind you, and your fingers as you slide them into the back of your shoe to tug it off. You like the sound they make as they topple to the floor, and the way you slip across the floor as Clark gathers you up for a hug right there in the door. His hair makes a sound as it falls around his face, Clark burying his nose in the side of your head. You hold his back. Feel for ridges. Find thick layers of fabric in the way. 

“Wanted to do this all day,” he says. 

If it weren’t so endearing to be wanted, you’d laugh. Clark doesn’t make you guess about his affections. He’s unlike anyone you’ve ever met, if only for his honesty. His earnestness. 

You duck your head into the curve of his neck. “Smell nice,” you mumble. 

“Are you tired?” 

“No… You’re… putting the moves on me.” 

“Is that what I’m doing?” His laugh vibrates at your temple. 

“Can you make me dinner?” 

He pulls away from you to hold your face. “Yeah, I can make you dinner.” 

The plan had been Clark would come over and you’d make dinner, considering your expertise. A chef’s column for the biggest news outlet in Metropolis doesn’t come easy. You’re good at what you do. And that risotto had been half the reason Clark fell in love with you, if he’s to be believed. (Though he doesn’t say love.) (The other half a thin, pale skirt.) 

Clark is a quick study. Your cooking lessons have helped him some. It’s nice to see him in your kitchen, waving a wooden spoon at you as he talks, stripping out of his suit jacket and rolling up his perfect white sleeves.

He gets broth up his arms and on his tie. You stand in front of him with the heat of the stove kissing your side and carefully work the knot from his neck. 

“Kiss?” he asks. 

You use his tie to guide him down. 

—

Clark brought his pajamas in the briefcase. 

He made you garlic butter and pesto by hand, plated up your risotto with a kiss. He hoisted your legs into his lap when you’d started to falter during the movie and he’s rubbed them until you’d dozed, and now he’s in the shower, having taken his pajamas and his shower things with him. His shampoo had been macadamia and argan oil. 

And his pyjama pants are blue. 

He rolls into your room with wet hair slicked to his neck and roughly towel dried at the front, blocking the TV with his height, a pair of socks still held in his hands. “I put my clothes in the laundry. Is that okay?” 

You’re hoping you hadn’t left your delicates at the top of the bin. “Yeah, of course it is. I’ll wash them before bed, they’ll be dry again before morning.” 

He shrugs. “I brought slacks for tomorrow.”

“How much fits in that briefcase?” 

“You’d be surprised. Move over?” 

You shuffle to one side of the bed so Clark can sit down beside you. He seems large against your headboard. You trace the curve of his neck to a relaxed jaw. There’s no stubble there when you run over his skin with your fingers, but there’s a teeny-tiny spot of blood under his chin. You wipe at it until it comes off. “I’d kiss it, but I’m worried it’ll get infected.” 

“Kiss me anyway,” he says, lifting his chin. His collar is tacky with water. 

You lift yours in turn to reach, lips pressing with the utmost care to his chin as he wraps an arm behind you. You can’t see the cut, but you worry you’ll hurt him if you aren’t careful, and he feels your hesitation under his hand. 

“It’s okay. You can’t hurt me,” he says, like this is normal to say, like it doesn’t have your heart cradling itself in the heat of your stomach. 

You kiss him again, then his neck, the column of it solid beneath your lips. You wait there with your nose tip digging in, but he doesn’t say anything. 

A small gasp floods from you as he grabs you by the waist and pulls you into his arms, on top of his legs, long and lithe and dipping the mattress underneath him. Your face falls flat against his collar, warm to damp, startled but far from unhappy by his sudden show of strength. He closes his arms around you and hugs you. In a moment, his nose rubs itself against your cheek in a nuzzle. It’s animalistic only in the sense that it’s without thought, his nose rubbing into the same spot over and over again. 

He doesn’t moan, but nearly. The sound he lets out is one of relief. Like you’d evaded him all day, and this is a victory. 

“Is this the part where we start telling each other secrets?” he asks.

“Are you okay?” you ask softly. 

“I didn’t know how badly I needed this.” 

You needle your arms behind his back to hold him, too.

“Do you…” 

“What?” he asks. 

“It will sound like I’m flirting, and I am a little, but it’s a genuine question, okay?” 

“Alright,” he says. You can tell he’s not about to laugh at you, which is nice. 

“Do you work out?” 

He smiles against your cheek. “Some. In the morning, when I can. I lift weights.” 

“I know that– I realise it’s a silly question. I don’t think people tend to look like you naturally.” 

“Is this still part of the genuine question?”

“No, this is the flirting.” 

“Oh, gotcha.” He knocks under your chin lightly. 

You look up to let him kiss you. 

He makes another wretched sound, like the beginning of a groan half-smothered by your mouth. Clark parts his lips, turning his head to the side, the taste of him pressed into your tongue as he breathes you in. It is incredibly foreign to be breathed in while you’re kissing, but Clark pulls at your back like he’s worried you’ll move away, feeling and breathing, sudden fingertips tumbling down your back. 

“Where are you going?” he whines. 

“You’re tickling me.”

“On accident. You really are Peitho, you know. She’s cunning and cruel when she wants to be.” 

“Don’t pressure me.” 

“Now that’s not funny, is it?” he asks, grinning as you lean down slowly. 

“Let me feel your heart.”

You press your fingers to his pulse. He lets you count the beats, says, “That’s sixty seconds,” like he’d known you would struggle to time it with your fingers. 

“I think you’re dead at a hundred.” 

“What’s that mean, doc?” he murmurs. 

You stroke his jaw with the flat of your nail. Not teasing —thinking. 

“I think I need to shower, too,” you say. He knows why. His eyes go lax behind his glasses with fondness. “Okay?” you ask, tapping his glasses with your nail gently. “You can clean the smudges off of your glasses while I’m gone. How’d they get this dirty, that’s crazy.” 

He rubs the small of your back with pressure. “I think it might’ve happened when I tried to get my face in your neck. And your ear. And, you know, your head.” 

He sounds delightfully bashful. It begets another kiss. 

You lose time in his lap. Really, you’d stay. But you need a minute in the shower to breathe through your nerves, and Clark is remarkably in touch with feelings, so he kisses you and sits up to encourage you away. “Go on. I’ll be here.” 

“Don’t look through my stuff. Promise?” 

“Sure,” he says, like a liar. 

You come back some twenty minutes later in your nicest pointelle pyjamas, skin slicked with a tiny bit of body oil and lotion atop it that smells of figs, ‘cos it’s the only one Clark’s ever mentioned liking aloud. He doesn’t skimp on compliments and loves to tell you that you smell good, but the fig one, the first time he smelled it, stopped him cold side by side on a couch in the coffee shop by his apartment. “What is that?” he’d asked. 

Your smug smile drops. “Clark,” you breathe. 

He pulls your teddy bear by the back and makes him wave. “Hi, honey.” 

“You found Charlie.” 

“You were hiding him.” 

“He was tastefully placed on my desk.” Where you’d hoped he wouldn’t be seen.

Clark pets Charlie’s downy head. “How could you hide him? He’s lovely. He told me–”

“Charlie didn’t tell you anything, he’s my teddy.” 

“Since you were young?” he asks. 

Charlie’s all worn around the armpits, the fur kissed anxiously from his cheeks. “I’ve always had him, yeah.” 

“I think I’d be remiss not to tell you that you look beautiful,” he says, “and Charlie says the same.” 

“Don’t talk through my teddy.” 

He presses Charlie to his chest like he’s a baby.

“He loves you.”

It turns your heart. You’d been ready to lay back in his lap and have him kiss you dizzy, tucking curls behind his ear to whisper saccharinely into the shell of it, but you’re thinking now that you want to curl up with him and find that box of chocolates he’d given you last week (for looking oh so morose for all of five seconds, apparently) to share. Have him rub your arms as you pretend to watch a movie. 

“Okay. Okay, come and hug me,” you say, leaning against your desk expectantly. 

Clark is up in three seconds flat. 

—

You wake with a start. 

There’s a shape beside you in bed, turned toward you, so close to you that you struggle to see him beyond the dark curls of his hair against your flowered pillow case. 

He has freckles on his shoulders. You hadn’t seen them last night in the dark, or even in the lamplight Clark begged for, just to see you, of course I want to see you, you’re beautiful like this, and they surprise you. There’s a handful of them across the hills of his shoulders. Barely any at all, but enough to kiss. 

He feels your mouth and wakes up quicker than you’d wanted. 

“Shit,” he says, grappling backwards for his glasses on the nightstand. 

“Clark?”

“Sorry.” When he turns back to you, he’s wearing his glasses again. You frown.

“What’s wrong?” 

Your stomach hurts. Like, hurts, the explanation loaded in one fell swoop. He slept with you and he didn’t mean to stay because he hadn’t ever meant to stay–

“No, sorry, nothing is wrong.” Clark clears his throat. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I wake up badly, sometimes.”

“Was it me?” 

“No.” He smiles like you’re the sun, blinking sleep away lazily. His eyelids and mouth are both puffy with it. “No, of course it wasn’t you, come here. I slept well.” 

You’re aware, then, of his missing shirt, the way your thigh slides between his as he pulls you tight to his chest. 

Just like that. 

You press your face to his shoulder, rather than let him see your expression. The night before comes back to you in a heated rush, every soft touch and softer kiss. You shudder under his tracing patterns.

“Can see you better like this,” Clark says, bringing his hand to your cheek to angle you in the sunshine.

You’re too tired to move, but you want to be kissed. Fortunately, your boyfriend is as generous as he is kind, and he promises to do all the hard work. “You can make yourself comfortable, honey,” he murmurs, turning you onto your back with an easy strength.

You cover your mouth with your hand. 

Clark can see your smile regardless. “So pretty,” he says quietly, kissing your chest, glasses slipping down his nose as he cranes his neck further.  “God, you’re perfect like this.” 

“You didn’t kiss me good morning,” you murmur, mostly to tease him. 

“I will.” His hand finds the pulp behind your knee. “I will. I promise.” 

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

thank you for reading!! this was two requests (here and here) put together thank you both<3 

[doigettokeepyou]

Been thinking about how the new Superman movie did a really good job of giving Clark interests beyond “Truth, Justice, and a Better Tomorrow.” He likes pop punk rock. His favorite meal is breakfast for dinner. Clark does a little dance when he gets the front cover byline. He likes to doom-scroll. Unclear if he’s a dog guy. His girlfriend makes him hot cocoa when he’s sad. So often Superman in film has zero personality beyond tortured alien that must guide humanity. Giving him these small details made the character feel so much more real. He really is just a guy doing his best.

[doigettokeepyou]

Just spent 20 minutes making this cus it came to my mind and made me laugh and I need someone to see it

[doigettokeepyou]

ೃ࿔:･ trying to give clark a hickey

you shift closer in the dim glow of the lamp, your lips grazing the edge of his jaw, then lower in that slow and teasing way. you let your tongue drag across his skin until you find the spot just under his collarbone. the one you know would make anyone else melt. you kiss it. suck, just a little. just enough. then, you smooth over the spot with your tongue once again.

and…nothing. you pull back, squinting. with the tilt of your head, you try again—harder this time. you’re focused like a girl with a mission. clark watches, amusement dancing around his eyes. but still, no mark and no color. not even the faintest blush blooming under the skin. it’s like trying to bruise marble. you sit back, scratching your head and blinking at him. “okay. weird question.”

clark, propped up on one elbow, looks up at you with that soft, dopey smile like he’s already charmed and doesn’t know what for. “yeah?”

“do you…not bruise?”

he winces, sheepish. “oh. right. yeah, that’s—that’s a thing.”

you just stare at him. “you let me go at you like a vampire and didn’t think to mention that first?”

he shrugs, cheeks a little pink. “i didn’t wanna ruin your moment. you looked really focused.”

you groan and flop forward, burying your face in his chest. “clark.”

“in my defense,” he says, trying not to laugh, “this is the first time anyone’s been disappointed that they can’t injure me.” you hit him in the ribs—it does nothing. he peeks down at you. your brows are furrowed, lips pursed forward in pure thought. suddenly, your bare feet are padding on the wooden floors. you make a sharp turn into the bathroom and shuffle through your makeup bag. finally, you pull out the shiny tube.

he hears the click of the cap before he sees you again. you’re strutting back, hips swaying and smirking. your lips are twisted in triumph, the lipstick already slick across your mouth. clark’s still propped up against the pillows, watching you with that boyish, utterly doomed look on his face. “uh oh.”

you crawl onto the bed with the kind of slow, lethal grace that should be illegal. “stay still, superman.”

his eyes dart down to your mouth, then back up. “should i be scared?”

“yes,” you say sweetly, straddling his hips. he’s warm under you and still shirtless, still glowing faintly like he swallowed the sun. you grab his chin with two fingers, tilting his face, and then press your mouth to his neck. firmly, purposefully, slowly. you pull back to admire your work. a perfect crimson kiss blooms right beneath his jawline. “there,” you declare, victorious. “perfect.”

clark touches it, awestruck. “you vandalized me.”

you grin. “i claimed you.”

he sits up a little straighter, brows high. “this is your version of a kryptonian bonding ritual?”

“pretty much. and don’t wipe it off.”

“never.” he promises, all starry-eyes and solemn.

the next morning, he stumbles into the bathroom half-asleep, hair a riot of soft curls, rubbing at his eyes. he flicks on the light—bright, unforgiving—and freezes. his reflection blinks back at him, bleary and shirtless. his neck, his collarbone, and the swell of his shoulder are completely covered. your lipstick blooms across his skin. your smudged kisses in scarlet and rose, one dusted over his clavicle, another tucked just beneath his ear like a secret.

he exhales a laugh. quiet and disbelieving. his fingers skim over one of the stains, careful not to smudge it further. “yeah,” he murmurs to the empty room, lips twitching. “definitely claimed.”

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[doigettokeepyou]

NEVER KILL YOURSELF SUPERMAN IS GOOFY AGAIN HE’S NICE TO CHILDREN HE’S CORNY AND HOPEFUL AND GOOD WE ARE SO BACK

[doigettokeepyou]

It's so important to me that Jonathan is so soft in the Superman movie. Jonathan is there asking Lois with worried eyes if their boy is going to be okay. Jonathan is there tearily telling Clark he's proud of him. Jonathan is there recognizing how upset Clark is and coaxing him to talk about it. Jonathan loudly loves his son. There is no guessing game, no question, no room for uncertainty.

And Clark reflects that every day as Superman.

[doigettokeepyou]

The way Superman depicted complicit civilians is gonna stick with me.

Because usually when you have your villain, usually the civilians working for them are gonna be largely faceless or cowed. And then when the hero crashes the scene, only the armed goons are taken out while said civilians flee to remove any questions.

In here though, you can tell they all enjoy working for Luthor. The technicians in his hq have fun plugging in directions to Ultraman. And those in the base camp wear tropical shirts while listening to music and playing games on their downtime. Nobody is working with rigid confirmity nor are there moral reservations (the only objection shown was when his obsession almost got them killed).

So when Mr. Terrific arrived on the scene, it is actually fitting that he wiped out the workers alongside the armed goons.

Also the way Superman's fellow prisoners not only attempted to snitch on him but actually tried to out snitch each other deserves a whole other analysis.

[doigettokeepyou]

Bestest man goes through worstest day.

[doigettokeepyou]

#I don't know how many more "He gets it" I have left in me

[doigettokeepyou]

I'm sorry. David Corenswet brought his dog to set in her own Superman costume?

[doigettokeepyou]

Mood post Superman

[doigettokeepyou]

Only one person died. Only one singular person. In a superhero movie! The type that love to throw around casualty counts like it’s all a big game, waving off 70 people being killed in a handful of days like it’s no big deal, yet only ONE PERSON died.

And he was mourned. Superman cried for him—this stranger who gave him free falafel and, while facing death, told him that he still believed in him. Metamorpho, this cold-seeming man who is being actively blackmailed to do this, breaking down and taking the risk to believe in Superman, too, because seeing someone murdered right in front of him is devastating enough to take the risk. The newspapers run a front page article talking about how they’re going to memorialize him.

The stakes didn’t have to involve real actual loss of life. The threat of it was enough to convey the severity of the situation. Because human life is that important. All life is that important, at least to Superman who goes out of his way to save dogs and squirrels.

(Hawkgirl does kill SHEIN Netanyahu but genocidal dictators don’t count as human beings lol.)

[doigettokeepyou]

Superman (2025) + Text posts

[doigettokeepyou]

This Superman is such a sweetie. He’s kind to the robots. He makes his girlfriend breakfast for dinner. He pretends he doesn’t care what social media thinks of him but gets genuinely upset over juvenile name calling. He tortured a despot with a cactus but the spines “weren’t that big.” He tries to capture the giant monster alive. He loves people and does his best to help them and he’s not an idiot he knows people are complicated, but he’s genuinely heartbroken when they turn on him. The idea of him having a harem is utterly ridiculous. He loses it over a pain-in-the-ass dog. He makes fun of the despot for pissing his pants. He wept at seeing an innocent man murdered. His open devastation over Mali’s murder is part of what brings Metamorpho to take the risk of helping him. He saves that weird baby. He saves a squirrel. He not only would not fuck his clone, he killed him. He makes that shithead Lex cry. His flirting with Lois is so swagless and unsubtle that her boss immediately clocks that they’re together. He loves his parents. He’s good all the way down, not because he was born that way but because he chooses to be.

[doigettokeepyou]

Superman losing his composure only when people shrug off the lives of others. Doesn’t matter how well he knows them. Doesn’t matter if they’re even human.

He gets upset at the Justice Gang for brutally killing a rampaging Kaiju and not even attempting to find a way to move it or at least euthanize it more humanely.

The only time he raises his voice during Lois’ interview is when she digs into his interference in geopolitics, because people would have died if he hadn’t acted. The only time he yells at Luthor is when Luthor abducts Krypto. The only time he cries is when Luthor murders someone he barely even knew.

He saves a fucking squirrel for god’s sake. We’re so back.

[doigettokeepyou]

excuse me for stating the obvious but like. james gunn outright calling superman an immigrant and doubling down on it when he got backlash (because he IS an immigrant, that's the point of superman) + the in-movie dialogue of "aren't you going to read me my rights?" "you're an extraterrestrial, son. you haven't got any rights to read." + the violence of his arrest and how they torture and mistreat him unapologetically, all under the guise of "protecting america", in a film releasing during the onslaught of violent ICE kidnappings and abuse... yeah it's really no wonder right-wing knobheads are crying about this being woke. they're being forced to look directly at the reasons one of the most well-known and beloved heroes of all time would not be on their side. and that's only ONE of the reasons this movie covers

[doigettokeepyou]

Thought I’d also post my Dimension20onaBus edit here