#clark kent drabble

[sunsburns]

imagine trying to keep up with clark 🤯 (18+)

clark kent is an undeniably gentle lover—clumsy at times, almost bashful, his movements hesitant in a way that’s endearing. sometimes, he looks to you for reassurance, those soft blue eyes pleading, asking if he’s making you feel good.

and he always does.

he knows your body so well it’s almost frustrating. his hands, his mouth, the way his voice drops just slightly when he whispers your name—it’s enough to leave you trembling every time.

he always tells you that you do. “perfect,” he murmurs against your skin, his breath warm and uneven as he buries his face in the crook of your neck. his voice is wrecked, raw in a way that makes you believe him—for a moment.

but there are things you’ve started to notice.

like the way he lingers for just a second too long, his lips brushing your temple as if hesitating to pull away or draw you closer. or how his hands tremble slightly when they release you, the strength behind them still careful, too careful. then, there are the moments he waits for you to fall asleep—the soft creak of the mattress, the shuffle of his feet as he slips out of bed, barely disturbing the air.

it’s always the same. the quiet click of the bathroom door, the faint rush of water as he turns on the shower.

you know what he’s doing in there.

and it eats at you, imagining him under the stream of hot water, head tilted back, his chest heaving as he works through the need that still claws at him. need that you weren’t able to fully satisfy.

once, you caught him. half-asleep and bleary-eyed, you stirred when the bed dipped, his weight returning as if nothing had happened. his skin was still damp, his hair darker and curling against his forehead.

but you want to be the one to help him blow off that steam.

“just blowing off some extra steam,” he said softly, leaning down to kiss your forehead.

no, you need to be the one.

you want him completely undone—panting, his chest heaving, red staining his cheeks while he’s too wrecked to say anything but your name. you want him shaking with pleasure, the same way he leaves you, winded and unable to think of anything else.

you want him gasping, moaning louder, his voice breaking apart as he tries to keep himself together. you want to see spit pooling at the corners of his lips, his body shuddering uncontrollably. you want him to blow load after load—on you, with you, inside you—until neither of you can take any more.

you just have to make sure you don’t turn the tables on yourself.

“you got another one for me, hun?” clark pleads, his voice soft but ragged.

his curls stick to his forehead, damp with sweat, and his face is flushed deeper than you’ve ever seen. his big hands hold your hips gently, fingers twitching as if he’s trying to resist gripping you tighter.

you’re blubbering, incoherent, your eyes unfocused as your nails scrape at his shoulders. it’s ridiculous trying to leave marks on steel skin, but the feeling of him, the weight of him, makes it impossible to stay still.

you’ve finally managed to corner him. after weeks, nearly a month of easing him into the idea that you could keep up with him, he let you try. and now he’s showing you a side of himself you’ve never seen before.

his body trembles against yours, his movements are frantic, urgent, a stark contrast to the measured pace he usually sets. your legs ache as you struggle to keep up, your body pliant and exhausted, while he bucks up against you, doing most of the work after you had given up on riding him.

he moves you easily, up and down his cock, his strength apparent even in his restraint. his head falls back against the headboard, blue eyes locked on yours, his glasses long discarded.

in all honesty, you don’t know if you have another one in you. you’d lost count three orgasms ago. you must’ve been delusional thinking you could keep up with clark kent, a man who is finally breaking a sweat, his broken moans and soft whimpers starting to turn into ones you’ve never heard from him before. even after cumming countless times, making a mess of your sheets, he still wants more, asks for it, begs for it—he needs more, he can take more, wants to give you more.

the slow drag of his cock, sliding in and out of you, has you mewling, tears staining your cheeks as the pleasure mounts again. his grip is firm but careful, guiding you, ensuring you can take everything he’s giving.

he makes you feel so good. your body trembling in his hands, every nerve alight and melting under his touch. you’ve become putty for him to mould.

it’s a little embarrassing, honestly—that he’s got you like this. you were supposed to be the one pleasing him, breaking him down, undoing him. not the other way around.

but he seems perfectly satisfied with the way things are right now.

you’re fully collapsed onto him now, your strength all but gone. his hips jerk upwards, his movements frantic and desperate, breath puffing hot air against your ear.

“can you… can you look at me?” he pleads, his voice cracking as his hands shift from your hips to cradle your face, tilting your head so you’re staring into his glassy, almost desperate eyes. “look at me while you come—it’ll make me come, too. please.”

you mean to whine, his touch burning against your skin, but the sound catches in your throat when you see him.

he looks utterly wrecked.

his eyes are clouded, unfocused, his lips slick and parted, his brow furrowed with something between pain and pure desire. you imagine you look much the same—spit glistening on your chin, cheeks flushed and tear-streaked, wetness trailing down your thighs.

he holds your gaze for a moment, his thumb brushing your lower lip before slipping into your mouth.

then, both of you move at once—you surge forward to kiss him, capturing those perfect, pink lips, your movements slow and languid while he remains restless. he adjusts to your pace, pulling you impossibly closer.

his blue eyes roll back as he thrusts into you again. one hand traces lines up your spine while his lips devour yours, leaving you trembling and teetering on the edge within minutes.

his kisses turn softer, trailing to your cheek, his teeth catching on your skin as he nips gently. “i’m not hurting you, am i?” he murmurs, his voice trembling. “i know it’s sensitive, baby. tell me if it’s too much, okay? i can stop if—”

“no, please,” you whimper, terrified he might actually stop. “it’s so good.”

you’re drunk with desire, clenching tightly around him.

“you feel so good, baby. so fucking good. you’re taking me so well.” his next thrust is sharp, deep, dragging a cry from your lips as he stills, buried to the hilt. “you’re gonna make me come again,” he groans, his voice breaking.

“fuck, please—”

“i want you to come for me again,” he interrupts, his desperation bleeding through. “you’re so tight and hot when you do. i need it again—please, baby, one more for me. can you give me one more?”

“i—yeah,” you nod, trembling, your body already vibrating on the verge of release.

he hardly gives you a moment to recover before he’s crooning, “one more, just one more, please, please, please—”

clark kent is completely undone.

[luveline]

hiii can we have clark and his shy girlfriend who’s never had a boyfriend before, so she thinks she has to be ‘sexy’ for him and how he reacts? love

cw: mildly suggestive, fem “Can I come in?” 

“I’m peeing!” 

You’re inspecting a little bump on your leg, actually, that could be a zit but doesn’t really look like one. 

“Yeah, honey, I just need to grab my laundry. I won’t look!”

You roll your shoulders. You’ve been getting used to this with Clark very slowly —how easygoing his love actually is. Doesn’t care if you’re peeing, if you’re naked and unready, if you forgot to shave. Doesn’t mind the way your stomach gurgles at night laying under his arm, or the smell of your hair in the mornings; that not-quite-sweat dampness, he loves it, burying his nose in your neck every time without fail.

And now. You could have your panties around your ankles with a soft tummy roll and he doesn’t care. It’s perturbing. 

“Can’t wait two seconds?” you ask lightly, unlocking the door. 

He’s vaguely apologetic. “Sorry, baby. Didn’t mean to rush you off the pot,” he says, moving you aside with a nice hand to your shoulder. 

“Oh, what?” you ask, wrinkling your nose at his weirdest phrase to date. 

“If you need to go–”

“Clark, stop. Stop, please.”

“Well, don’t be shy about it!” He pulls your slouchy sweatpants back up your hip and kisses your temple. Quick, chaste, and soft. “Got any laundry for me? I’m doing lights.” 

Later that night, after you’ve showered and he’s washed up, his neck still the tiniest bit red from shaving, he sits at the headboard in his boxers with his legs crossed. He’s reading a paperback against his thigh, the pages bent back in one hand. 

It makes your stomach warm. Zinging excitement all over your skin at the idea of being where his paperback is, under that same thoughtful stare. 

You check your reflection in the full length mirror. 

It is terrifying to want him like this, but you won’t be a fool. Clark can hardly be expected to match your mood if you crawl into his lap like a worm begging for a nice touch. No, you have to try to persuade him into amorousness. You check that your shift is falling nicely and move for the bed. 

Clark looks up when you kneel, his face quickly taken by a smirk. It looks funny on him, missing any of the smugness you might see when he’s Superman against one of his boggling villains. He seems boyishly pleased before you’ve so much as opened your mouth. 

“Are you busy?” you murmur softly. 

“Oh, never too busy for you,” he says, rolling it around in his mouth as he places his book upside down on the nightstand. 

“No? I don’t have to persuade you to put things down?” you ask. 

He really couldn’t look happier. Like, he’s ecstatic rather than lustful, though this is often how it starts with him. 

“Nothing in there could be as interesting as you are,” Clark says. He pats the bed in front of him. “Come here? There’s more than enough room for you.” 

You cannot crawl sexily, won’t kid yourself into thinking so, instead walking carefully on your knees until you’re in touching distance, settling quietly, carefully. 

“You’re such a treasure,” he says, more to himself than you as his fingers brush your knee. “Have you always worn stuff like this?” 

“The shifts?” you ask, pinching the fabric between your fingers. “No, not really.” 

“No?” 

“No. I bought a couple when we first started dating…” You flush at the idea of telling him something like this and then tell him anyhow, because you might be the shyest thing he’s ever seen, but you’re also undoubtedly in love with him, and craving to have him in confidence is a constant. “It was exciting, when you asked me to be your girl,” —that exact phrase— “I went online that night to look at babydolls and, uh, new panties and things, I never had to before. I liked thinking about it.” 

His fingers work further down your thigh. “Never had to?” 

“No. You’re my first boyfriend. You know that already.” 

Clark soothes away your puzzled tone with a big hand spread out over your thigh. Shaved again. He rubs at you searchingly, his brow slightly crinkled. “I’d have you in a sack, if you wanted that.”

You laugh. 

He smiles. “I would. You could wear full briefs to bed.”

“Yeah, cos that’d be sexy. Me in my jammies, you’d love that.”

Clark smarts, indignant. “I would.”

You laugh again, wrapping your fingers around his thick wrist. “Sure.”

“Honey, I would. I’d love to see you in your pajamas. I didn’t realise you had pajamas, I– stupidly, I thought this was what you’d usually wear to bed.” 

“I’m supposed to be sexy.” 

You hadn’t meant to say it quite so abruptly. Clark wasn’t expecting it either, his lips parted enough to catch a slip of his tongue. Just as abruptly, his teeth snap and his mouth closes, both hands finding yours. “You are,” he says, his mouth such a serious line that your heart feels like it’s constricting in your chest for a moment. “Without trying, you are. With effort too, don’t get me wrong, I– I don’t think I’ve ever had so much blood in one place–”

“Clark,” you whine, unbidden. 

“–some nights, your dresses, those lacy skirts and stuff, that’s all beautiful. You’re beautiful. But don’t think you have to dress up every night for my benefit, huh?” Your face goes so hot you can feel it in your ears, ‘cos his voice is like satin, talking to you like you need it gentle. “I’d just as happily have you in one of my old t-shirts. Or your jammies.” 

“Why are you asking me about this?” you deflect. 

He closes his hands around your wrists with a light squeeze. “You won’t let me in the bathroom when you’re in there most the time, but every night you stand in the door in one of these lovely things and I was just… wondering, I guess. I can be really awkward. I wanted to know if I was overstepping with the bathroom thing, but. Anyways. I have my answer.”

“What? What answer?” 

“You have a complex. I’ve given you a complex,” he says decidedly. 

“You did not.”

“I did. Clearly, I haven’t made it obvious how much I want you at all hours, in anything, and you assume you have to dress up to earn my affection.” Clark dips his head forward, a sweet, dark curl kissing his forehead. “Tell me you like the lingerie, at least.” 

“I do.” You realise you can tell him more, and decide to trust him with a little more truthfulness. “I don’t love shaving my legs every night.”

“No?” His eyebrows rise. “Then don’t.”

“Yeah? You won’t care?”

“Of course I won’t.” 

You hold your arms toward him and he does the same, taking your hips into his hands as you begin the melding ascent into his lap. Clark folds you into him nicely. “And you really don't care if I stop wearing the lacy panties?”

“Honestly? I assumed you were spoiling me. I had no idea you thought I’d care about them otherwise. Wear anything. Wear nothing.”

You press your nose to his neck, withholding a sound too close to a moan at his smell and general solidness beneath you. His arms are a vice around you that you’d rather die than lose. Especially now he’s letting you say goodbye to headrush-showers and the two hour delicates wash on cold. “Promise?” you murmur.

“I promise.” 

Clark proves it with a gift just a day later: a five pack of granny panties and pair of pajamas two sizes too big, for your ultimate comfort. He still finds a way to get you out of them, though, citing an intrinsic sexiness about you that you’re more than happy to oblige him with. 

[blushhbambi]

clark kent/superman and cutie news anchor gf 😭😭

LITTLE THINGS ABOUT CLARK + NEWSANCHOR!READERᝰ.ᐟ

domestic fluff, kisses n cuddles, established relationship, clark being a dork... . ༉‧₊˚.

౨ৎ⊹ ࣪ ˖﹒rushed mornings of both of you getting ready for work, fixing his tie and straightening his glasses while he zips up your dress, trying to sneak in a few last kisses before you're both off.

sometimes he'll keep the news on at work just to see you presenting or interviewing, he's not even focused on what you're talking about let alone his own work. only thinking about getting to go home to you later and whether he should cook you a warm dinner or treat you to a movie night (spoiler he'll do both) .

one time you presented one of his articles on tv and he was beyond giddy. getting teased by his colleagues as his ears flush hot red and he swivelled in his chair all flustered and proud.

"yeah that's my girl..", he'll smile with pride while sheepishly scratching the back of his neck.

and my god do his parents love you, like girl get ready be ON those daily calls. his mama's accent will be honey thick as she tells you stories from when he was younger and, somehow, clumsier, or she's got you rushing to note down a classic southern recipe. or his daddy's rambling on about how he saw you on the morning news, giving you a silly dad joke about how you should come down to report on the local country bustle.

clark is a country boy through and through, don't you dare think he'll be any less of a gentleman just because you're dating. he's still soft and well mannered as ever, never forgetting a please or thank you, pulling out your chair at dinner first, making sure you walk on the inside of the pavement while his hand stays on the small of your back.

your little apartment's filled to the brim with books and scribbled notes, you always have to make sure to replace his chewed pens, and when he finds a new book he'll read a few pages to you before bed while you curl into his side. late night dinners will be sweet and quiet, he cooks and you clean that's just how it always is.

sometimes you're both still in work mode. this means a couple hours of sleep and surviving off of coffee while he's hunched over his desk trying to finish an article before his deadline and you're muttering your morning presentation to yourself, pacing behind him.

on the occasion you're too exhausted from work, clark will buy your favourite take out and let you lay ontop of him lazily while you rabble about how long the day was having to report on this new superman guy. he'll hide his wince and distract you with long kisses while his big hands trail down your skin or brush through your hair as he whispers sweet compliments into your ears. . ༉‧₊˚.

© written by blushhbambi— do not steal or claim as ur own ᝰ.ᐟ

[tojigasm]

Losing it over Clark taking care of his hyperindependent!Girlfriend

Clark's got a problem –more than well aware of how you have him wrapped around your finger and the worst part of all is that you have absoultley no clue.

You're completly clueless to the way he bends the world for you and would tear mountatins down just to build them back up if you'd asked. You're not completely ignornant to his adoration for you; his love is evident in the way that he makes you breakfast in the early hours of the morning long before you've woken up and he'd left for work. Or the way that he lets you decorate the apartment to your little hearts content, swiping his card without a word just to see the way your face lights up at the thought of your new floral curtains going up in the living room space. And the way he finds some part of you to gently stroke while youre lying beside him on the couch. He keeps himself propped up on one elbow so he can watch you while youre completely engrossed in your favorite tv series, stroking his hand up and down the skin of your arm and humming whenever you point something out about something happening on screen. He doesnt even care about the show that much but he's sure to turn it on every monday night when it aires just to watch how deeply engaged you are.

You're fascinating to him. So sweet and soft and so undeniably precious. Sometimes he has a hard time believing youre real. Especially at times when he comes home early with a bag of your favorite sweets from the candy store down the street.

He cant help but smile when he sees you're already dressed in your lavender silky pyjamas – the pair that Clark has a twin set to where your initials are embroidered into the breast pocket.

when you turn from the batch of cookie dough youve been mixing to see him you squeal as you jump into his arms -- and he catches you easily because of course he does, with your legs wrapped around his waist and arms thrown around his neck, you press kisses all over his face while he giggles, walking over to lift you onto the counter.

"Whatcha' makin, pretty girl?" he teases, pressing kisses to your jaw and the soft of your neck, smiling agaisnt your skin when you breakout in a fit of giggles.

"Clarkyyy" You whine, barely trying to push him away, "Stop, it tickles!"

Clark hums against your skin, pressing more kisses to your skin, now covered in goosebumps, "Oh does it? What about... here?" He presses a kiss to the other side of your neck, "or... here? Maybe... here?" He giggles along with your squeals.

You're shivering beneath him, reaching for him in all the right places and your voice is so sweet and soft.

Clark loves moments like these –where you just completely relax under his guide, where you let him lead the way.

It hasn't always been like this. It used to be a fight to get you to just relinquish some ounce of control, to let him take care of it.

And so when you finally did let him take control it transformed into something much more impenitent with time. It only makes sense that you fall into the role so easily – becoming pliant and so comfortably in tune with a domestic intimacy, your relationship turning soft and all the more gentle as you both became more comfortable in your respective roles.

Clark loves taking care of you. He loves the way that you trust him and the way that you give yourself up so vulnerably to him. He takes it in the most upwards regard to know your love and trust for him runs that deep.

With it, comes new territory, uncharted by either of you. In the bedroom, you seek him out, letting and trusting him to guide you.

Which is how you end up splayed out beneath him on your pretty floral comforter – one of your legs is thrown over Clark's shoulder while he holds the other at his hip.

His cock stretches you out deliciously as he gently rolls his hips into yours, letting the girth of him stroke your soft walls.

Clark keeps a hand on the ankle on his shoulder, pressing gentle kisses to your skin next to your silver anklet he bought you. A 'C' pendant jingles as he thrusts into you.

You pout underneath him, whining softly and reaching for any piece of himself he might give you. Clark drops his hand from your thigh at his hip to weave your fingers together. He watches your big pretty eyes tear up and coos at you.

"Does that feel good, honey?"

You're nearly delirious but still, you nod with a weak smile, a hitched moan falling past your swollen lips.

"Feels s'good, haa, oh.–"

Clark angles his hips juuuust right to hit that spongy spot inside you that makes your eyes roll back and a chill run down your spine.

Clark hums, "Oh, yeah?" He presses into you so that your thigh pushes into your chest. You whine at the stretch and Clark shushes you softly, pushing your hair back.

"Oh, look at you," he continues to pump into you, "Theres my pretty girl," a rough hand cups your jaw to squeeze your soft cheeks together.

You're so fucked out its almost ridiculous. The vulgarity of it makes you keen. His balls press up against your folds and the 'pap, pap, pap' sound of your hips meeting just makes your mouth water.

Clark holds your jaw steady with one hand while his other moves to circle your clit so perfectly that your thighs tremble and you grasp onto whatever part of him that you can.

"C'mere, gimmie a kiss." He leans down for you, meeting your swollen lips sloppily. He moans into the kiss, stroking his tongue over your teeth and up the roof of your mouth.

He's so big and all consuming above you. Your every thought is of him as he fills you. The universe gifting him the power to ruin and yet he takes you apart so gently. Its overflowing within you.

"Clark, M'gonna cum," you shiver with bated breath, tensing up beneath the weight of him.

And the way he hums so sweetly and presses a hand to your forehead, grounding you in the moment, you nearly sob at it.

"I know, can feel you tightenin' up on me." He moves to press both your thighs to your chest, deepening his thrusts as you unravel with a watery cry. "Just let go, sweetheart, m'right here."

And he guides you as always, weaving your shaky hands with his steady ones and pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead as you fall apart at intimate ruin of him.

Forever his and forever yours.

[tangledinlove]

lovestruck and looking out the window

part one | PART TWO

pairing: clark kent x fem reader 6.2k

summary: you survive the metropolis museum and just really miss clark. its a shame you have to settle for a disappointed superman instead

content: a lecture from superman, clark kent is silly, everyone's in love!!

As it turns out, the building toppling into the museum was kind of Superman-bait.

You figure this out on your hospital bed, the gash on your arm freshly wrapped in bandages and gauze. You're embarrassingly winded after all those lung tests, and are still seeing spots from when you had a light shone into your eyes. Though her work is done, the nurse who did it is hovering over your side, her eyes fixed to the TV. 

“There’s a major development in our story involving the Metropolis Museum of Art,” one of the newscasters begins, her tone rehearsed in that way all people on TV speak. “We have just received word that the collapse of its neighboring building, an empty but newly built office complex, was caused by an explosive placed on its fourth floor. 

“Officials believe that this device was planted to distract emergency services from the bank robbery in the Central Business District. While it is still unclear how much money was stolen, early estimates suggest losses upwards of seventy-thousand dollars. Bill Rossi is on location with the details. Over to you, Bill.”

The screen cuts to a man in his mid-forties, his mustache thick and his lips pressed thin. There’s a few awkward seconds where he stares into the camera before smiling. “Thank you, Linda. Eyewitnesses believe that this may have been the work of some metahumans, with some reporting seeing ‘a blue figure with a laser gun’ blowing a hole in the side of the building…”

Your focus wanes as the camera pans over to the bank, blue goo dripping down where a wall used to be. First responders rush across the screen, walking through the wreckage of it all.

You wonder again why you chose to live in Metropolis over Central City.

You’ve never been so excited to see the steps out of the metro. 

Your arm aches like crazy and you really just wish you could call Clark, but your phone fell out of your purse sometime when you were being rushed to safety. 

It’s hard not to believe that this isn’t another example of the universe punishing you. You wanted a Clark-free day, and it’s what you’re getting.

Instead, you’re forced to settle for his freaky doppelganger, because Superman is leaning against a streetlight a few feet away from your metro exit. 

The sentence sounds insane to even think about, but it’s a fact. He waves and grins at the few people who pass by, who beam smiles back at him. You get the urge to prod at his dimples, which are made even more pronounced by the upturn of his lips. 

You weren’t lying when you told Clark that you thought Superman was great. As you walk past him, a kid wraps herself around one of his legs, and he crouches down to talk to her. The girl’s dad trails behind her, looking just as starstruck as he speaks with the hero about the thunderstorm that hit Metropolis last night.

Superman seems so genuinely happy about getting the chance to talk to everyone, and you find it surreal that he’d saved you just a few hours ago. You can’t wait to tell Clark about your first meeting with his not-friend.

Superman’s gaze lands on you, and you feel your heart break free from your ribcage. 

He’s just as striking up close, the sweetness of his face offset by the intensity of his eyes. A frown flips his features, and he kindly excuses himself from the conversation he’s having before he… 

Huh. That’s funny.

Superman starts walking somewhat in your direction.

You turn your eyes forward and keep walking. His gaze is so intense, you almost feel bad for anyone who’s ever been on the receiving end of it.

The rich timbre of his voice drags your thoughts away from your walk. Distantly, you hear, “Excuse me, I need to speak with you.”

Your steps falter ever so slightly, but you continue walking. You resist the urge to be nosy and look to see who Superman is flagging down, instead looking in your purse to make sure Clark’s dumb paperweight is still inside. You hadn’t checked if it’d cracked in the commotion, and you feel a little sick at the thought. You’d almost died for this thing, after all.

“Ma’am?” Superman says again. This time, he’s right beside you.

For the first time since you’ve gotten discharged from the hospital, you stop moving. 

You hadn’t had much time to really look at Superman earlier. He’d flown you out of the museum and said something a little rushed and frantic — maybe a ‘get to safety!’ — before he was hurrying back inside to save more lives. 

As you stare up at him now, you have a little more time to really look at him. He sounds beyond upset, but he’s just as gorgeous as he is on TV — a fact that you’ll be sure to leave out when you recount this to Clark.

You turn around to see if someone is standing around you, and frown when you come up empty. The only person on this half of the street is you.

“Oh. Hello, Superman. Sorry, I didn’t realize you were talking to me.”

“I understand. I’m sorry to bother you, but I’ve been meaning to speak with you,” he says, his hands falling to his hips. His eyebrows are knit together in what looks like… disappointment. You can’t help but feel like you’re in trouble.

“Okay,” you say, drawing out the last syllable. You can’t quite tell if the hospital was thorough enough in their concussion screening. “Do you mind if we do this while we walk? I really need to get back to my apartment.”

“Of course.” His voice is so agreeable you find yourself getting a little distracted. He redirects you by kindly gesturing ahead, and you find yourself leading Superman back to your home. 

“Would you like me to fly you there?” he offers. “I’m sure it’d be a lot faster.”

“No, thanks. It made me a little sick last time.” 

It’s not that big of a deal to you, but Superman’s frown seems to worsen. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know it could make people feel like that.”

“Don’t be. It was either that or getting crushed by a falling building, right?” 

Your joke seems to fuel Superman’s bad mood even more. You walk a little faster, letting him lengthen his strides.

“That’s actually what I wanted to speak with you about.”

“The museum?”

He nods, and when he turns to look down at you, the edge of his cape brushes your arm. The fabric is impossibly soft. 

“When I found you, it seemed like you were walking further into the building. Is that correct?”

You wrack your brain to the moments before you were taken out of the building. Had it really only been three hours ago? It feels like it’s been a week since then. 

“Well, kind of. I wasn’t trying to, like, run into the flames or anything, but I was picking up something I’d dropped. And it just happened to be further away from the door.”

The vein on his forehead seems to twitch. “Do you understand how dangerous that was?”

Your head throbs similarly. “Sorry, what?”

You aren’t sure you’re hearing him right. Is Superman… trying to lecture you? 

“I feel the need to ask you what you were thinking,” he says, completely serious. “You were putting your life at risk.”

“I was hardly in danger.” You only half believe that, but can’t find it in you to agree with him. He’s somewhat hijacked your walk home, after all. “It was only an extra few seconds that I was inside the building. And, did it really matter? You were there to save me, anyway.”

“And I’m glad I was.” Superman says, his eyebrows bunching together. “Who knows what could’ve happened if I wasn’t there? Those seconds could’ve been the difference between life and death.”

You frown, but don’t respond. He’s stopped trailing slightly behind you and is now walking alongside you, absorbed in his rant.

“What could’ve possibly been so important that you were willing to risk your life for it?”

Someone gives you an odd look as you pass by. You can only imagine how weird this looks: Superman arguing with a civilian in the middle of the street. It definitely isn't something you see everyday.

Or any day, actually. You've never heard about Superman lecturing someone on proper emergency response before.

“It was a paperweight.” The admittance kind of hurts. It sounds ridiculous when you say it out loud. “A Superman paperweight from the museum.”

He blinks, his eyes widening a fraction. He stutters out something, and you tilt your head, confused. 

“I need you to understand that what you did was incredibly stupid. You can not and should not be putting yourself in danger for— for a thirty dollar piece of glass!”

You’re impressed at how accurate his price guess was, but irritation still flares up in your chest, souring your mood. “No offense, but you can save the lecture for someone who needs it. I’m not an eight year old.”

He holds up a finger to correct you. “Clearly, you do need it—”

“You’re not my friend or my boss,” you say, just like an eight year old, “so I appreciate the concern, babe, but I think I’m fine.”

Superman’s steps falter. His eyes glance upward. Then, they shift somewhere to the left of you. Your eyes widen as the apples of his cheeks pinken with blush. 

The shiftiness, the glancing away and then around before back at you… you’ve seen it all before.

Superman has the exact same reaction to the nickname as Clark.

His doppelganger, the same man who looks just like the superhero when his glasses are off. But that couldn’t possibly mean…

No.

There’s no way.

Are you seriously considering the idea that Clark is Superman? Just because they get embarrassed the same way? 

You’re being ridiculous. Superman’s name is Kal-El, and he’s some guy from Krypton. You’ve read Clark’s articles about him, the ones he’s written after interviewing him. 

Interviews only Clark seems to be able to get.

You must be concussed. You're definitely just confused.

Superman continues to rattle off words at you, almost pouting with how frustrated he is. The words enter in one ear and out the other as you take him in. 

From a distance, he and Clark look similar enough. They’re around the same height and have the same hair color, and the strands free of gel even seem to curl the same way. They share perfect dimples, and even though Clark hides in those baggy suits of his, you’ve seen him in those nice t-shirts he has. There’s no hiding that frankly, he’s built. Just like the man speaking with you now.  

But Superman shows his face. All the time. He’s not like Batman or The Flash with their masks and hidden identities. Superman is a real man from Krypton, who probably goes home to his massive superhero lair under the city. Not your little apartment complex by the park.

But… there was the blushing. The way Superman knew exactly how much the paperweight was — the same paperweight Clark complained was too expensive. The way he knew just what metro stop you’d be getting off at, and his odd interest in your safety. 

Your head is reeling.

“—I don’t have to be your friend or your boss to be worried about you,” Superman says when you tune back in. You stare blankly at the outline of his back. Could this really be Clark? “It’s up to all of us to look out for each other. The job doesn’t just fall to the people we know.”

Superman walks alongside you a little too naturally, like he’s done it a million times before. He even interrupts his rambling to remind you to watch your step when you pass by the sidewalk with the broken slab of concrete. The way he leads the charge back to your apartment is like second nature.

“So, I’m sorry, if you didn’t want to hear this, but it was very important to me that I spoke with you about this,” Superman says, gesturing very seriously. 

At the end of the street, you let your steps slow, gaze fixed on the man as he continues to speak.

He’s frowning when he says, “I’m sure that you have plenty of people at home that care about you and worry about your wellbeing. So, when you act recklessly like this, you’re not only—”

Without a spoken direction from you, or with you gesturing in any way, Superman turns on his heel and leads you around the corner. Right in the direction of your shared apartment.

You grab the back of his flowing cape and tug.

Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t do much. He staggers back a step, but you think it’s more to do with the shock of you pulling him back, rather than any show of your strength. Superman whirls on you, startled. You step forward until your chests are nearly an inch apart, staring directly into his eyes.

“What—”

“Clark Kent,” you hiss under your breath. “You must be very proud of yourself.”

His features blow wide with shock. He blinks owlishly, surprise swimming in his blue eyes. “W-I’m not… What?”

“Oh, come on, farmboy.” You lean back to cross your arms, frowning. “I can’t believe all it took was one conversation with you in your costume to figure it all out. You couldn’t have at least pretended not to know where our apartment was?”

Superman — Clark — pulls you closer by your shoulders, holding your injured arm very gently. He throws a few glances around the empty street, like he’s checking to see if there really is no one around. It's only when he’s certain the area is clear that he coughs and lets you go.

“That’s a pretty big assumption,” ‘Superman’ says, his voice taking on an even more authoritative tone. “And one that’s untrue.”

“Superman.” Your voice softens as you say it. He stands up straighter, like he’s trying to make himself even larger than life. “You can hide under that cape all you want, but Clark Kent is going to bleed through no matter what.”

He opens his mouth, about to protest, but you continue.

“You still blush when I call you ‘babe,’” you say, watching his face light up with embarrassment. “And you still nudge me twice to switch spots so you can walk closer to the street.”

“I—That’s… you can’t…” His lips flatten into a line, frustrated, while he wrestles with what to say. When he grimaces, it looks all too familiar.

It does nothing but make you more sure. 

The man in front of you is your best friend. There’s no doubt about it.

A second later, the urge to argue leaves him. 

He drops his voice to a whisper, and you finally hear it for the first time today.

There’s no Superman-tone-of-voice when he speaks, no puffing out of his shoulders, or a dazzling smile meant to put scared people at ease.

He’s just your Clark when he asks, “Can we talk about this at home?” 

(For the second time in one day, Clark takes you flying. This time, he makes sure to go a lot slower.)

“Krypto,” you echo, slumping back against his couch cushions. “You named your dog Krypto.” 

Clark looks the picture of innocence in front of you, your knees knocking together where he sits in front of you on the ottoman. He’s since changed out of the Superman suit at your request — the sight of the symbol on his chest was making for a very distracting conversation. 

As you look at Clark now, in a pair of jeans and one of his old Hanes t-shirts, you have a hard time believing the words he’s saying. He looks like any old person you’d find on the streets of Metropolis while he explains the powers and the flying to you.

Maybe you should’ve made him leave the suit on.

“He’s not even mine. I was just… dogsitting.”

“No wonder you refused to tell me what his name was.”

Clark smothers down a smile. “A bit on the nose, isn’t it?”

“Hmm. Just a bit.”

You take another sip from the glass of water he gave you. He’d told you that you were only allowed to ask questions if you’d finished the cup, but you know he’d answer no matter what. 

“The whole thing with the yellow sun is pretty crazy,” you add thoughtfully. “If you photosynthesize, does that mean you’re kind of like a plant?”

“Well, I don’t photosynthesize, so, not really.”

You make a noise that’s between a scoff and a laugh. “You said, and I quote, ‘the Earth’s yellow sun is the source of my powers.’ That sounds a lot like photosynthesis to me.”

It’s kind of endearing how seriously he takes your half joke. He perks up at the chance to explain something. “Plants don’t have powers, the last time I checked, but I understand where you’re coming from. They’re converting light energy to chemical energy, but—”

Clark trails off when he looks over at you, and you don’t bother with hiding the smile on your face.

“...You’re trying to distract me, aren’t you? So you don’t have to hear the rest of my lecture about your safety?”

“There’s more?” You try not to sound shocked when you say it, but you do. “And it’s not my fault you’re so easily distracted, Superman. All I did was ask you if you’ve been faking being asleep all this time. You were the one who wanted to go into the specifics of if it’s really necessary for Kryptonians to eat food or take naps.”

He mumbles something like, “It was a really good question, actually,” before he replaces the empty glass you’re holding with his own hand. He tugs you up from the couch and you trail behind him dutifully. 

You swipe over his calloused palm and squeeze until he has to let go.

He moves to the fridge and you watch him intently from your new seat atop his counter. You really like Clark. You find yourself charmed by most things he does, whether he’s hunched over his laptop working or filling up your cup.

He presses his side against your left thigh when he hands it back to you. “Here you go.”

You feel warm. “Thanks, superstar.”

Clark’s eyes shine. “That’s going to be right up on the list of nicknames with farmboy, isn’t it?”

“Oh, you bet. I’m trying to decide which one I like better.”

“I’m partial to both, I think.”

“That’s good. I like Big Blue, too.”

“I’m sure Green Lantern will be stoked to hear that.”

You lean heavily on his shoulder, and he curls an arm around you, taking care not to disturb the bandages around your bicep. Usually, you’d find the silence in the room discomforting. But there’s something so natural about being in Clark’s apartment, letting him bring you glasses of water and teasing him about whether or not he’d classify as a plant. 

He squeezes your side and you let out a pleased sigh. 

“Hey,” he teases. “You wanna explain why you were at the museum and not halfway to Civic City earlier?”

Right. You’d almost forgotten that you’d lied to him about that. Your chest pangs with regret.

“I was buying you a gift.” You gesture back in the direction of his front door, where you left the piece of glass by his key dish. “Remember? The ridiculously expensive paperweight?”

“Yeah, I remember.” His voice is light, but you recognize this sidehug for what it really is. 

Clark is softening you up to get you to confess. And the worst part is — you think it’s going to work.

“What was the occasion, though?” he adds, very nonchalantly.

“No occasion,” you answer quickly. You squeeze your eyes shut and try not to lean too close to him. “It was just because.”

“Oh, yeah? That’s real sweet of you.”

“Well, you’re a sweet friend.” You press your lips together firmly to try and resist the urge to spill your guts to him. “You don’t believe I’d buy you a gift just because?”

Clark laughs. “I believe you. But I also know that’s not the case right now. I notice a lot more than you think.”

“Yeah? And what are your supersenses telling you, Superman?”

He seems amused. “Well, I can hear the sound of your heart beating a little faster.” He brushes your hair away from your face to look at you better. “You blink more often when you lie, and you try not to look at me as much. But you also don't like eye contact when you're embarrassed, so sometimes it's hard to tell. I usually can though."

His words have pulled the rug out from under you, and he can tell. 

You’ve never felt so… seen before. You notice all of Clark’s weird quirks because you really like him, and honestly have for a while. You never once expected that he’d been doing the same for you — taking note of your tells and habits.

The little smile on his face grows. “You’re not the only one who knows the other person so well.”

You can’t help it. You poke at one of his dimples, and his warm laughter curls up inside your chest. 

“Whatever, detective.”

“Are you going to tell me, then?”

“Maybe.”

“I’ll pay for your coffee next week,” he bribes. 

“You do that anyway,” you point out. “I’ll tell you for free. As long as there’s no dinner pancakes for the next two weeks.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Deathly.”

He crosses his arms in front of his chest while he mulls it over. The idea is very serious to him, apparently.

After a few seconds, he says, “Alright, fine. No pancakes. Now get talking, superstar.”

Your lips press together while you look at him, and his eyes remain on your face even when you glance away. 

The feeling of his gaze feels like little pinpricks on your skin. You wonder how much of that is Superman, and how much of that is Clark.

This entire situation is just so embarrassing. 

“I was avoiding you,” you admit, dropping your voice to a whisper. 

The words sound harsh, but he seems to take them head on. His head tilts. “Why?”

You whack his shoulder. “Did you forget the part where I joked about wanting to be in Superman’s harem? And then immediately told you that you were the spitting image of him?”

Clark’s lips turn up into a closed-mouth grin. 

“You freaked out, and then I freaked out, so I assumed—”

“Hey, hey, hey,” he says, cutting off your rambling with a hand on your thigh, “I wasn’t freaked out by what you’d said. I was worried you’d put it together. About me being Superman. You’d never seen me without my glasses on before.”

You frown. “My first thought when I realized that you looked the same wasn’t that you were Superman. I was more annoyed that you looked cute with or without your glasses on.”

Clark flushes red. You preen.

“My glasses,” he says, like he’s just remembered something. He pats around his collar until he finds the frames, the temples tucked into the neckline of his shirt. “I forgot to tell you. They’re Hypno-Glasses. They kind of mess with your head. Trick you into thinking I look a lot different than I actually do.”

He slips them on, and your lips part. 

It’s just like it was last night. The difference on his face is there, you just can’t pinpoint where, or how.

You urge Clark closer until he’s standing between your legs, your gaze transfixed on his face. His eyes go a little crosseyed with how close you are, the remnants of his blush still lingering on his cheeks.

You hold onto the frames and push them up slightly, until they no longer obscure his features. 

It’s so weird. It feels like your eyes are straining, but when you blink, the tension is gone, and Clark’s face changes.

“Woah.” It’s all you can manage to say.

He looks a little shy under your attention, which is funny when you consider the fact that he moonlights as a public figure. “How different do I look?”

You hum, letting the glasses slip back down his nose bridge. Your touch lingers on his shoulders. “Not too different. It’s kind of like… like when Catherine upstairs got her haircut. Your face is the same, but it’s also managed to change everything.”

His eyes dance over your face, and you find yourself a little self-conscious. You wonder just how well he can read you with his enhanced senses. Your hands feel clammy. 

“Sorry, it’s hard to explain. You already know you still look cute, if that’s what you’re worried about,” you add.

He smiles to himself, his eyes cast downwards. “I’ll sleep a lot better tonight, thanks.”

“You’re always welcome, Clark.”

His line of sight trails down to something by your side, and he stiffens. “Your arm.”

You glance down and see what he’s so worried about. The cut on your bicep has bled through the bandages slightly, a small blot of red blooming there. 

When you look back up at Clark, he’s already digging through the cabinets over the sink.

“What’re you looking for?” you ask, raising your voice over the sound of various cleaning supplies being knocked over.

His head pops back out, a white box in his hands. “This.”

It’s a first aid kit, which he drops down next to you on the counter. A thin layer of dust flies up, and he waves it away with the back of his hand. Clark cracks open the container and begins to take stock of what’s inside, his face screwed up in thought.

“Hey, Superman,” you say, leaning over on the counter to look through it with him. It’s full of all the medical supplies you could ever possibly imagine. “What hospital did you rob for this?”

He raises an eyebrow at you, reaching for something towards the bottom. “I bought this myself, actually.”

“I thought the big yellow Sun helps you heal.”

“It does.” He answers you absentmindedly, squinting at a small packet of… something.

You pick up a yellow tube on the top of the pile. “Then who’s the Neosporin for?”

“You.”

Clark gives you about five seconds to let the words sink in before he says, “Ha! Here it is.”

It’s a roll of bandages. He gestures for you to stick out your arm, which you do without a word. You feel dizzy.

“Sorry—this is for me?” 

“Yep.” He’s winding another thin layer of the material around your arm again, looking very concentrated. He frowns, rewraps a section, then continues again when he’s satisfied. “Do you remember that time you almost cut your finger off chopping onions?”

“That’s an exaggeration. The cut was hardly that deep.”

He laughs. “Well, it made me realize that you’re… a lot more fragile than I am. So I got this in case you ever really did hurt yourself.”

Clark had gotten all of this for you. He’d bought all of these things that he’d never use himself, just in case you’d ever need it.

It feels like you left your heart in the sky while soaring a thousand feet over Metropolis. You fight down the lovesick look threatening to take over your face.

“The man said at the hospital that a little bleeding is normal,” he explains. “I’ll just have to add another layer of bandages and then apply pressure, and then the bleeding should stop. We’ll have to go back if it’s still bleeding after half an hour, though.”

“The man at the hospital,” you repeat. “You were at the hospital?”

Clark freezes where he’s applying firm pressure to your cut. “Superman may have passed by today.”

“While I was there?”

“Maybe. You might have been. It’s a big hospital.”

You think you’re on your way to falling really in love with Clark Kent.

You pass him a piece of medical tape, which he uses to seal the bandage neatly. He takes care to press it down flat, making sure there aren’t any creases. He’s awfully committed to the task, glancing over the wrap, testing your circulation and seeing if it’s too loose.

“I was really worried, you know,” he says, after checking the bandage for the fiftieth time. It’s obvious that it’s secure, but he seems to need something to do. “I didn’t recognize it was you until after I got you out of the museum. And I almost didn’t believe it.”

“Oh, Clark, I’m sorry for lying about where I was. I was embarrassed by what I’d said, but I also just needed…” 

Things you can’t admit to him.

“…I guess I wanted to be alone today.”

He seems to wilt.

“The paperweight was an apology gift,” you admit, a little ashamed. “I felt so bad not talking to you. I was going to go down to the park and eat lunch, but I was really just thinking of you the entire time.”

Clark’s smile doesn’t meet his eyes. “I know that I worry, and I’m not going to apologize for that. I worry because I care about you. But I am sorry if I… make you feel coddled. I don’t mean to, I just want you to be okay. So if you—you ever want space, or a day to yourself, I understand—”

“No, Clark, that’s not it at all,” you answer unthinkingly. 

“It’s not?” He looks beyond confused. “What is it then?”

You hadn’t thought this far into the conversation when you responded to him a second ago. 

How do you even begin to explain this to him? Sure, you avoided him because you were embarrassed, but you also avoided him because you were scared. Scared of your feelings, scared of wanting to be more than friends, scared of what that’d do to your friendship. 

But this is Clark. You refuse to let him think he’s done something wrong for even a second. You have to tell him the truth, even if it means humiliating yourself all over again.

“Well…” you begin, unsure. You resist the urge to bury your face in your hands, unable to take the look on his face. He’s so earnest. “You’re my best friend, if you couldn’t tell already.”

“Uh oh,” he jokes, tapping your side. “This can’t be good.”

“I don’t want space from you. That's kind of my problem.”

“Why would that be a problem?” It’s such a genuine question that it makes your heart ache. “I love spending time with you, too.”

“It’s ‘cause I really like you, Clark. I like you so much I got scared and told you I was leaving the state. I like you so much I thought a day away from you would make my feelings more normal. I—I like you so much I spent thirty dollars on a stupid paperweight for you!”

He looks winded. You watch his eyes widen with each word, and your stomach churns anxiously.

“Honestly, now that I think about it, you could’ve gotten that paperweight for free, right?” you ramble on. He’s staring at you, his mouth parted in surprise. “I mean, you could've just flown in dressed as Superman and probably asked for one.”

“It’s not the same, though.” The soft lilt in Clark’s voice makes your head spin. You’re momentarily distracted by him caressing the skin of your thigh, but he makes sure you’re looking at him when he says, “It means more because it’s from you. Someone who I also like. A lot.”

Oh, you think to yourself.

“Oh,” you say out loud. 

Clark’s amused. “Do you really think I let just anyone drool on all my sleep shirts?”

“Wow.” You dig a finger into his chest, your face heating up. “Who knew Superman was such a dick?”

“I thought I’d have to watch a horror movie all by myself tonight,” he says, a teasing smile on his face. 

You thread a hand through his hair, and he leans into your touch. You’re shaking a little. “Maybe you’d actually be able to finish one without me there.”

He beams at you, practically shining. “But then who’d be there to grip onto my shirt and make me turn on all the lights?”

“Hmm. Dunno. She sounds very reasonable, though.”

”Very.”

“The night isn’t over yet, Clark,” you remind, hand sliding down his chest. “We can still watch that horror movie.”

His eyes light up, his gaze flickering over your face. “I actually had something in mind.”

“Clark, fuck—oh my god.”

He smiles, pressing a tender kiss to your jaw.

“Holy shit,” you gasp out. “You’re actually fucking crazy.”

His arms tighten around your sides, and you think you’re clutching onto him so tightly it’ll draw blood.

“When you said you had ‘something in mind,’ I didn’t think you meant something like this!”

Clark tilts his head. He looks down.

All the way down.

From the top of one of the tallest buildings in Metropolis. 

You wouldn’t be surprised if you walked right into a flying bird at this height. The concrete ledge he's lowered you down onto feels halfway to crumbling.

“Hey, you’re okay,” he says, aiming to soothe. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

You give him the most incredulous look you can muster. “Clark, you know I trust you with my life. But what are we doing up here? Besides raising my blood pressure, that is.”

He laughs again, the slight breeze biting his cheeks. “If you’d unlatch yourself from my neck, you’d be able to see.”

“I’d also be able to fall one hundred stories to my death.”

Clark exerts no effort when he turns you in his grasp, despite your death grip on him. He spins you around in the direction of the city, and you hold your breath, afraid to breathe wrong so high up.

In front of you, is the most gorgeous sunset you’ve ever seen. The horizon is lit up in a smattering of gorgeous purples and pinks and oranges, and you gasp.

“Oh,” you say, relaxing in his hold. “I thought you were doing this to mess with me.”

Clark smiles into the crown of your head. “As if I’d ever do such a thing.”

You really like Clark. You can’t believe you ever thought you’d be able to wish away your feelings for him. 

“I’m returning that paperweight if you drop me, by the way.”

“Oh, honey, please, anything but that.”

You kiss Clark Kent in front of the Metropolis sun until your knees buckle and you nearly slip off the building ledge.

Thankfully, he makes sure to pick up where you left off when your feet are on solid ground again.

Ivyyy @supermans_wife OH MY GOD OH YMG FOD OH YMG FODKD roe @gothamsurvivor ↳ replying to @supermans_wife oomf are you okay Ivyyy @supermans_wife ↳ replying to @gothamsurvivor IM AT MY FRIENDS HOUSE AND JUST LOOKED OUTSIDE OF THE FUCKING WINDOW AND I SAW SUPERMAN MAKING OUT WITH SOME GIRL ON SOME ROOF WHAT THE HELLLLLL not carly @c4rlycane ↳ replying to @supermans_wife that was me sorry ❤️we’re asking you to please respect our privacy at this time JustinIT @justinit04 ↳ replying to @supermans_wife Holy shit are you serious lmfao Ivyyy @supermans_wife ↳ replying to @justinit04 I AM NOT KIDDING. attachment: [supermanhasagfthisisnotadrill.jpg] 🍒 @iluvtheflash ↳ replying to @supermans_wife His tongue is definitely down her throat… DELETE THIS NOW PLEASEEEE [CLOSED] SUPERMAN IS CUFFED 😭😭 @ sup3rman ↳ replying to @supermans_wife Excuse me ma'am, not to be disrespectful or rude but could you please take post down. That is my sister who was killed by a metra train. And it this post is very disrespectful. Idk who you are or if you even know her but I need you to take this down please. D4RKNESS @FILLTHEV0ID ↳ replying to @supermans_wife #Supershit getting a girl before me 🥀 star | 8 days until s2!! @ robintruther ↳ replying to @supermans_wife Thank you ivy I actually can not wait to list your account and this photo as my thirteenth reason

BONUS:

Clark pokes your side, voice rough with sleep. “What are you doing?”

You look up at him through the glasses you stole from him. They really do absolutely nothing — they’re just a magical pair of blue light glasses.

Clark’s pretty as a picture laying on your bed, the rising sun painting his back golden.  You press a kiss to his arm, the closest part of him you can reach.

You smile. “Nothing. Just catching up on some Superman hate posts.”

notes: clark the people's prince thank you for bringing back the concept of #RealMen. let me know if u had a blast i know i did!!!

tags: @yondiii @drunkinthemiddleoftheday @anuncalledbridge @okayiamkassandra @gabrielle-tia @mantumuncher223 @or-was-it-just-a-dream @angelayse @k-tblog @lunascerebro @as1yasss @chenellearose @reblcaptain @ogjacksonsimp @warmdragonfly @claudiwithachanceof @weepingwolfdaze @stereading @dahling-dahlia @softestqueeen @deadbird14 @eepyfaerie @iyskgd @a-taken-url @roastyyytoastyyy @trendknd @accoochtrement @luvvly-lydia

[softvalentines]

clark hears it—he does. that sharp, elastic snap that cuts clean through the haze of heat and slick skin. he hears it the way he hears everything. crystal-clear, too in tune with the world around him for his own good. he knows what it means, too—knows exactly what just happened, what that sound was.

but still, he doesn’t stop. doesn’t even flinch. because clark kent is so insanely needy

instead, he shifts just slightly, dragging you further down the bed, arms bracketing your head as he drives himself back into your soaked, clenching cunt with a sound you’ve never heard from him before—something sticky-throated and low, a groan cut with the telltale rasp of desperation. “fuck—baby,” he gasps, and you don’t even realize what just happened, too full, too caught up in the burn of his cock dragging against your walls and the way your own arousal’s soaked all over your thighs and his pelvis. “g-god, you’re—so fucking wet. it’s��s’too much…” his voice shakes. he’s drooling, literally, a thin thread slipping down from the corner of his lips onto the pillow beside your cheek as he leans closer—his brows all drawn together, those sweet blue eyes foggy with effort.

he’s still going. like the condom didn’t just give out halfway through. like you’re not both sticky with the combination of your slick and his precum now steadily pulsing against your overstretched insides. you moan, back arching instinctively, and his hips stutter “feels s’good—feels too good—baby, i can’t—” you’re whining now, the words slipping from your mouth on instinct, barely even thinking. “clark—clark, f-fuck, it’s—i feel everything. you’re too—” you can’t even finish the sentence. he shudders above you, and you feel his cock twitch deep inside, sticky and hot and bare, so bare it’s sinful—like nothing between you two at all. he’s grinding now. not thrusting, not fucking—grinding, hips rolling deeper and deeper, trying to find that perfect spot that has your walls fluttering, that makes your toes curl and your mouth fall open in a gasp of his name. you whimper when his mouth lands on yours. he’s sloppy with it, tongue pushing between your lips in a kiss that tastes like sweat and sex and need. his hips keep moving, slower now, but firmer—more intentional.

he swallows again. there’s more drool trailing down his chin now, eyes glassy, pupils blown wide. he looks like a man half-drunk on your cunt and his own need. and when he cums inside you—bare, heavy, and endless—it’s with a strangled cry of your name, head buried in your neck, and his whole body trembling from restraint gone completely to hell.

you don’t even realize you’re crying until he’s kissing the tears off your cheeks, cock still deep inside, twitching with aftershocks. you’re both panting. slick. ruined. and full.

he doesn’t pull out. not yet.

instead, he just hums—low, almost reverent—like he’s proud. like he just made something sacred. “you’re gonna take all of it, right?” he asks, his voice breathy and so, sooo soft. “gonna keep it in for me, baby?”

[st4rfckerz]

clark kent is the kind of guy to plan out his entire future with you while he’s balls deep and absolutely pussy drunk. his body is pressed against yours with his head buried in the crook of your neck, breathing heavily while making scarcely comprehensible promises in your ear. the fantasies swirl in his mind, becoming more vivid as he gets closer and closer.

“ ‘m gonna marry you, a-and we can have a farm of our own, ah- and a big house with kids, fuck…jus’ want it all with you please.” and then in true clark fashion he gets a tad embarrassed about what he said after he’s done, but you both know he really means it.

[accoochtrement]

AGHHHH THE VULNERABILITY AND ANGST

I'm eating it upppppp

baby, it's you!! ( clark kent )

you're the one i love! you're the one i need! you're the only one i see! clark kent finally works up the courage to ask you to dinner; only to run behind on work with lois and completely stand you up. it's fine, you're three glasses of wine in and ready to rant at your friend lois' door, only to find the cause of tonight's rage sitting there on her sofa. now, clark has to find a way to tell you the truth; that this is all a misunderstanding and it's only ever been you. it will always be you.

pairing: clark kent x journalist fem reader (no use of yn)

themes: angst, fluff, implied cheating (more so accusation)

masterlist.

the voicemails started off polite, poised and then four missed calls later you were bordering into unhinged, murderous woman who had been stood up on her first date territory. which you were- so that take is completely true.

you've known clark kent for a few months since you joined the daily planet as a journalist for their women's health section. separated by the plastic wheels squeaking as his bumps his chair into yours and the sweet cups of coffee he starts your mornings with, it wasn't long between your smiles at him became softer. you let yourself look at him a little longer, hanging on to whatever slivers of himself he'd let sneak past his usual charming and boyish front.

he returned those feelings pretty quickly too, through the holding of hands under the desks, him learning a little over your shoulder purposefully to read over your work, the intensity of his closeness throwing you off- how when he'd speak it was as if he had reserved a separate tone just for you- one that felt a little more breathless, thoughtful, pooling heat in your stomach instantaneously and laced with a feeling a lot like love.

it took him weeks to work himself up to ask you on a date. your first date, you mused. clark kent was clearly a man who did things by the book and you had hoped that after tonight, he'd finally meet you in the middle of this strange dance you're stuck in and kiss you silly already.

you'd imagined it in your head a million times; so often that you had once unintentionally started typing out the scene like a true novella; how he'd wine and dine you at the little italian place a few blocks over, dance with you in the dark on the walk home and kiss the remenants of sweet dessert off your lips on your doorstep- instead of filling the column with your recent musings on the importance of gut health in retaining a balanceful mood. you had never smashed the backspace so hard in your life- the angry crushing of keys and the rosy pink flushing the tips of your ears and neck drawing attention to your best friend, lois who stared at you amused.

"he's obsessed with you," she assured with you once, the very first time he looked your way and sent you spiralling. it was the same day he asked you out, a casual question for dinner and maybe it was your fault for overthinking this. he gave you one look and you went running straight into his heart, demanding entrance and free rent.

"hey this is clark! leave your message and i'll try and get back to you-" and you can imagine his obnoxiously gorgeous face, slight chirp in his voice and suddenly the alcohol buzzing war in your veins is giving you the confidence.

"you know clark, if you wanted to just embarrass me you didn't have to take me out to dinner to do that," you grit between your teeth, "oh wait, you didn't even take me out to dinner! call me NEVER." the breath of anger is hot on your phone, steaming the screen. the phone hangs on by a thin thread of misplaced hope and largely embarrassment as it sits between your collarbone and ear.

it's a contrast to the chill air of the apartment stairwell that bites at your bare skin. the off white slip you paired with a soft knit cardigan that was a sweet butter yellow seemed incredible in the moment but right now, only the breeze- bordering wind territory is getting a treat of it tonight. your kitten heels clatter on the stairs up because your friend's stupid elevators are out of service. like mystery man, lois lane had also not returned your calls tonight. you figured she was going through her usual work phases, her perfectionism and hyperfixated need for the chase of a story stealing most of her time. you let her do her thing, its what she loved and you loved supporting her.

when you first moved to the daily planet she was the first to show you around and became the sister you never had; an instantaneous friendship that made the world spin a little slower for you to keep up.

and that's why tonight: three sweaty flights of stairs and two more voicemails that ended with the escape of sniffles has you knocking on your friend's door- in need of an ear to lift this heavy burden of embarrassment of your shoulder.

"lois!" you don't even knock, just throw the entirety of your body weight at her door. your figure is slumped against it when she opens it just by the smallest of inches and maybe if you were intoxicated less, that could've been the first sign.

"he stood me up," the tears stream and before you know it you're sobbing in her hallway- loud wails that widen her eyes comically in fear you're going to wake up the whole neighbourhood.

"i waited," you throw your arms around miserably, like a toddler having a tantrum, "and he never showed."

something instantly freezes in her and what looks like guilt flashes over the sympathetic smile she sends your way before she crushes you into a bone-bending hug. "oh honey," she soothes into your skin and you let the tears soak up her tank top and then you pull back.

"can i come in now?" your voice quiet and lois decided she'd rather the earth swallow her whole.

"i'm a little busy," she winces, trying to close the door a little bit more behind her but you peer through nonetheless anyways, blood freezing cold at the sight of soft black curls you know from the memorisation of how they've felt under your fingers.

"clark," you breathe. its not exactly a question, more so a snot fuelled statement of betrayal as your eyes flicker between him and your friend. you don't know which one to settle on, shift all your focus and blame on because you're so tired and the alcohol is making you drowsier as the minutes tick by.

"honey," he gets up from his spot on the sofa and tries to meet you at the door but the wrinkle in your brow and fury laced in your frown tells him to stop exactly where he is.

"don't you dare come near me," shame rises in your throat and you feel flushed as hell. the heats on the back of your neck, tinging your cheeks in a rosy fire of embarrassment. "god, how could i have been so fucking wrong?" your voice stretches out with a strain and you take a step back in defeat, "i knew i was in over my head," and then you decide no. this is not a pity party for one, you will not take the blame. you were stood up!

"yeah!" you shout with a growl and the two of them look between themselves in concern, unsure of how to approach you.

"honey, wait," a warm and heavy wrist reaches out to grab your arm as you make a sharp turn on your heel- ready to end this night of drunken shame and theatrics.

"oh i did!" you fight the empty laugh with a scoff, "for a whole hour, no texts no calls, nothing," your voice gets quieter, thudding in clark's chest like warning signals blaring disasterously. this is all on him, he thinks. he's fucked up majorly.

you shrug yourself out of his hold, throwing your small purse in the direction of the two of them and hobble away in a huff. the stiletto heels swelling at your ankles as you shift the weight. the air is heavy as you leave it and face the chill of the outside air swimming around you.

the walk back to your apartment isn't far- you live pretty close to lois and when you reach your door, you sigh heavily. leaning your head onto the wooden frame, and as the tears start to well up all over again you bite them back down. in your fit, throwing your purse at the two traitors you forgot that you left your phone and your keys in there. however, sober you is smarter and you use your excellently hidden spare key to unlock the door and crash inside.

it's safer in your home- no one can reach you here, you think. the kitten heels are abandoned at the entryway, and your body collapses straight onto the sofa, not even making it to your bed before sleep chases you and claims to you a life that was kinder to you, where you ate donuts for breakfast and didn't gain a pound, wrote about things that interested you instead of the latest shopping trends and where you could fall asleep in the arms of someone who let you in all the way and just liked you back enough to choose you first.

...

he softly places your purse on your desk infront of you, shifting his weight back and forth, rocking gently on his feet as he waits behind your chair. at 6'4, his height looms over your area, like a cool of shade on a warm summer day, you normally welcome his presence instantly. usually you notice him in a second, with a soft sweet smile in which your nose scrunches a "good morning" and clark kent knows the day is going to be a good one.

instead, he's met with silence.

pure, heavy, lonely silence.

you were thirty four minutes late this morning- he was absolutely counting as he watched the door open and close, hoping it'd be who'd pass in. and when you did you were quieter than usual, hair tied in a messy knot at the back of your head, glasses perched on the bridge of your nose and the same damn yellow cardigan wraps around your frame. only today it sits on top of a black satin slip that sways in the breeze as you take the furthest seat from him. he's instantly tortured with the memories of last night, how undeserving he was to see you in such a fragile but gorgeous state and he blew it completely.

your eyes narrow in on the purse to the side of your computer.

he watches carefully as you poke your tongue in your cheek in thought and prays like hell that you'll just say anything. instead what he soaks up is your snail- like movements who takes all the time in the world to open your purse, not bother checking whether all your things are still there but unlocking your phone.

"i charged it," he has to clear his throat but the earnest rumble still peeks through. you nod slowly, switching it off within a moment and letting it clutter on your desk with a gentle thud- a careless offhanded movement and he winces.

he still waits, hoping you'll throw another crumb his way. he tries not to let the fact that you've not touched the cup of coffee he left steaming at your desk this morning sting his chest like you've poured gasoline over his heart and are just waiting to set it alight.

"not hungry?" he asks, fighting back a stutter. you look over to the muffin he left by the side of your mug and then back at him, a bored expression on your face and clark wishes he could make this whole thing right again. it was a misunderstanding- hard to explain to someone who's drunk- not that he'd ever blame you. it was his fault for getting caught up in his interview with lois he didn't realise the time. he planned this date, he knew about it, scheduled it weeks in advance and he had let it all go to shit because there was someone out there who knew him. and that changed everything, scared him more than anything.

but seeing you so detached, god that's got to top the list for sure.

"no thanks," you deliver flatly, turning your attention back to the screen. your fingers hover lazily over the keyboard and in the reflection of your glasses, clark can still see his reflection fading to the background.

"listen, about last night-" he starts the story he's practises over and over again with great precision but the nerves in his stomach threaten to rip him open still.

"i said no thanks," you repeat more firmly, "look i get it, you're not interested and it's my fault for dragging this on but for the love of god, please don't make this any more awkward for me i will actually die," you don't take your eyes off the screen once but your fingers are frozen. no words typed out but everything said in the open.

"that's so far from the truth-" he begins and you cut him off with a glare sent with pure edge. he stands firm and watches the ice melt with a softened stare. he thinks he has you for a moment and then all the light fades from his eyes when you give him a reassuring nod.

"clark, it's okay. please just go now," and just like that, your focus is taken back to your computer screen and clark is frozen behind you. he stands for a couple more seconds before jimmy places two hands at his broad shoulders and diverts him away.

"i don't know what you did kent, but it's best to wait this out maybe?" he suggests but clark's mind screams the opposite. he has to fix this and quick or the best thing to happen to his life is going to disappear- and he would've just let it all happen.

...

lois gives him a nod across the room and he delivers one exactly the same. at his side, jimmy crosses his fingers and says a prayer which clark thanks him quietly before getting up and walking with such stealth a few feet behind you.

it's lunch time- later than you usually take it but you've grabbed your work bag and have it slunched over your shoulder and make way to the elevator. clark keeps his steps purposefully measured- slower than yours but quick enough to keep up with your momentum. he stops at your side and presses the button to call for the elevator and feels you still beside him.

it's comical how statue-eque you've transformed that clark has to look extra closely to check the rise and fall of your chest to make sure you're breathing.

"hey, do you wanna grab a bite fro-" he can hardly get the question out before you've darted in the direction of the stairwell, taking off at such an incredible speed that clark has to beg for a few huffs of breaths to keep going.

"honey!" he calls out and growls lowly when you do not pause for a single second, jumping down the flights of stairs like each step is burnt straight from hell. clark uses the last of his strength and ounce of caffeine to pull through getting slighter ahead of you and knocks you against the wall.

his hand shoots out in a razor sharp reflex, cushioning your head from where it was moments from meeting the wall as the other pushes itself gently into your abdomen, holding you still.

"stop running from me please," his voice is dangerously low, a plead heavy in the subtle vibrations

"oh," you whisper stupidly at the hand placement, heating pooling in your stomach at the sudden proximity. you hate yourself for how easy it is for him to break your stony resolve. you planned to give him a whole day's worth of the silent treatment but had already broken your pact by charging your stupid phone like a nice human being. ugh.

he stumbles out an apology and pulls back gently, enough to give you some more room to breathe. his hand covering your stomach travels to the side of your hip instead and squeezes it gently in comfort.

"i'm sorry," he whispers, hanging his head low. "lois and i got paired for a new article and we just ran over time. it was my fault, i thought i'd make it to you on time but as we got deeper in the work i forgot to even call or text and," he breathes out slower, "i'm worried i've blown this all because i'm fucking stupid."

his breaths are heavy, slicing the air as it settles thicker with emotions and regrets of last night.

"so you and lois are not?" you can't get the words out and he shakes his head immediately.

"no," he firmly puts, "god, no," theres more emphasis this time, "she's amazing but she's not you. there's only ever been you- there will only ever be you and it fucking kills me that you thought i wasn't interested anymore. honey you hang the stars in my sky and rotate the damn earth, it could never not be you," he whispers again and you nod, staring straight into those gentle eyes.

"i got all pretty for you," your voice cracks, the shards worming its way and seeping through clark's heart. he watches how your eyes glass with a fresh batch of tears and he reaches out to catch the strays intimately, fingers cupping your jaw and he presses his forehead against yours.

"i know baby, and god i'll be sorry till i die,"

"bit dramatic," you ease to break the tension and he huffs out a laugh, "but i appreciate it nonetheless."

"let me make it up to you?" he asks hopeful and you bite your lip, the insecurity and fear of being left behind still making its way into your bones. he can feel that you're inside your own head and curses himself for making you feel this way.

"i don't know clark," you get out honestly, "i felt real stupid sitting there, you also owe me fifty bucks for all that wine," you face the floor, unable to keep eye contact.

he uses a finger to hook under your chin and lift your eyes to him, "i broke your trust," he speaks gently, as if being any louder might scare you away, "i'm so sorry for making you feel forgotten and alone last night, you are important to me more than anything and i'll show it to you. i'll prove it to you, i'm here," he pleads and you sigh, resting your head into his chest and he melts under your touch.

"one chance," your voice heats at his heart. "as long as you promise to delete all those voicemails- i went a little bit overboard," and you flush with sniffle of embarrassment once more. he promises with a chuckle and soft kiss to your temple, holding you in the stairwell for moments that stretch into an eternity.

you don't know that clark cried so hard to each voicemail, he threw his phone in anger, almost breaking it. that he followed you home last night from a distance to make sure you made it back home safe even though he was probably the last person you'd have wanted to see. you don't know that now as you stand in his arms, every bit of honour he has to fight and hang on to desperately when he wants nothing more than to lean down and kiss you stupidly.

he wants forever with you.

and he'll spend the rest of his life working towards it- one dinner, three glasses of wine and eight raging voicemails at a time.

note: i think im just a hardcore david corenswet girl im ngl the press run hes been on lawddddd - 2k on this is crazy!!!!!!! tysm i love u & have posted some clark fluff to celebrate that- but also make up for the angst, i love u!!!! 💘💘

[francixoxoxo]

okay now I’m just having baby fever with Clark Kent ! !

tw; mentions of childbirth duh, clark is a diiilllffff

You aren’t sure why Clark is as terrified as he is to hold your son. He’s so gentle in every aspect that it seemed impossible for any harm to come to the tiny, lighter-than-air baby. But Clark’s dark brows are raised from under his glasses, his lips parted just so as he stares down at the little thing in his hands.

He’s changed back into the other clothes he flew (literally, and about as conspicuously as a flying 6’4, 240 pound man could be) you to the hospital in, left behind the scrubs they gave him in the delivery room for a crisp button-up rolled to his elbows and a pair of jeans. God, he looked handsome. And holding a baby? Even more so. You were fawning over your own husband from where you sat up in the hospital bed, a little worn out from delivering a half-kryptonian baby. Clark had cooed praise and apologies throughout the labor, pushing your hair back from your forehead. At first you thought it was sweet he was apologizing, even though it wasn’t necessarily his fault. When things got painful, though, you began to think, yeah, it is his fault, he should be sorry!

Now, you were right back to being in love with your dork of a man. Who was murmuring, voice gentle as if he might break the baby by raising it, “He’s so.. Little.”

You hum sweetly in the affirmative. Clark cradles Jonathan— named after his pa who was driving up from Smallville with his ma as you speak— carefully, by the back of his head and small back, tentative as if he was scared he’d drop him. It’s almost laughable, how hesitant this strong, huge man looks holding this tiny, hardly-nine-pound newborn so delicately. “He’s.. maybe two hours old, y’know,” you remind, as an explanation.

“Two and forty-five minutes,” Clark corrects, glancing up at you with a sweet smile that flashes his dimples. You huff in disbelief. He steps closer to your bed, rocking Jon as you reach out to curl your fingers around his wrist. His words are breathed in awe, “I can hear his little heartbeat.”

“Yeah?” Clark nods, blue eyes landing on you again. You must’ve looked like a terrible mess, but he stared like you were a supermodel. Another one of those golden smiles makes your knees weak, and you aren’t even standing on them. You let out a soft laugh when he just silently holds your eye, “What’re you thinking about?”

“It’s just.. amazing to me. You made him.” Clark averts his eye almost shyly, back to his son. A dark breath of hair covers the top of his head, the same jet black as his, but it’s your eyes staring up at him. Silent, and if Clark didn’t know any better, maybe judging. Sizing his dad up. Well, if that’s really what Jon was doing, then he would easily be able to tell he was in for it. Your man had absolutely every intention to raise a good man, kind, and considerate, and so ultimately caring that it would dwarf even himself. When he muttered that whole speech to you, late in the night when you were wrapped in his arms, about as close as you could be with a baby bump between you, you almost giggled before you saw the serious expression on Clark’s face. Then, you knew, you picked the right man to have a baby with. He didn’t just want a wife and a kid; he wanted to be a husband, and a father.

Clark, with an almost comically nervous expression, shifts the baby to the crook of his arm to that he can hold your hand grasping below his wristwatch. “Doesn’t that just amaze you?” He lifts his brows and a smile of your own creases your eyes. What a dork. What a dilf, you amend in your brain.

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess it does.” You mutter, your free hand reaching up to lay over your baby’s forehead. A soft, quiet grunt of a breath comes from Jon’s nostrils and Clark looks down at him like he’s just started to cry diamonds. It’s a long time that you stand that way, each of you holding onto the other, basking in the nearing life on the horizon. Clark would be a good dad, you knew, and he constantly insisted you’d be a good mom. But, well. Neither of you know what to expect with a half-superhuman baby. You’re in for a long ride.

[decayingearf]

extremely horny clark who humps the bed as a plea for you to let him jerk off to you. — you were beyond tired. work had been kicking your ass and clark had been having a thing. he’d complain that you weren’t in the mood for sex since all the other shifts you’ve picked up—which is true.

“hmph ple-please..just let me touch it, please.” he’d beg grinding against the mattress and whimpering, “it’s aching” he whines shedding a tear.

you sighed feeling just a bit bad for not letting him touch himself. it is the least you could do. without any word, you slipped off your panties and handed them to the sexually deprived man. “thank you” before sniffing the underwear and pumping his throbbing cock into his hand.

“i really needed this,” clark grunts “can i finish on your feet?” he only asked because he’s scared of upsetting you. he thinks you’ll make him stop.

you nod as he pumps faster whimpering your name with each stroke, “[𝜗𝜚] let me come, please” still sniffing your underwear like a pervert.

“clark stop touching yourself” you instructed and he listened. although he was literally busting everywhere, he listened. “ngh—im sorry, i thought i could hold it” with that puppy dog expression and twitching cock.

“it’s okay baby, you did a good job” you pet his head watching as he shoots out more.

[thora-jane]

this fic got me pregnant.

Farmboy Fuck Session -C.K

Synopsis: Clark’s back in Smallville helping Ma on the farm. You visit him midday, and he’s shirtless, sweaty, and pissed you wore that little sundress. He bends you over the tractor and fucks you until your knees give out. “You wore this tiny thing on my family’s land? Oh, you’re getting bred.”

cw: Explicit smut. Unprotected sex. Semi-public sex (in barn). Breeding kink. Dom!Clark Kent. Rough sex. Possessive behavior. Spanking. Light degradation. Dirty talk. Creampie. Manhandling. Reader wears a short sundress with no bra/panties. Rustic setting (tractor sex). Mild dumbification.

The sun was high and brutal over the Kent farm, and Clark was glistening—shirtless, forearms flexed, hay sticking to his skin, and sweat dripping down the line of his spine as he hoisted another heavy crate off the back of the truck.

You were not supposed to be staring. But there you were, leaning against the fence post in a tiny yellow sundress with absolutely no business being that short, pretending you didn’t wear it on purpose.

“You lost?” Clark called across the field, teasing, squinting against the sun. “This ain’t the city, sweetheart.”

You grinned and waved. “Thought I’d stop by. See how the world's strongest farmhand was holding up.”

“Strongest?” he laughed, brushing hay off his shoulder. “You’re lucky Ma’s not here. She’d put you to work just for saying that.”

“Please.” You pushed off the post and started walking toward him. “Like she’d put this in a field.” You twirled once, the hem of your dress fluttering dangerously high.

Clark’s smile faltered. “You wore that here?”

“Mmhmm.” You batted your lashes. “Too much?”

“On my family’s land?” he snapped, dropping the crate with a heavy thud. “What, you trying to kill me?”

You blinked innocently. “You don’t like it?”

“I love it,” he growled. “That’s the goddamn problem.” The next thing you knew, Clark was on you—backing you into the barn, lips already claiming yours, hands grabbing at your waist. your dress was already hiked up around your thighs.

“C-Clark—someone might see—”

“Let ‘em,” he said, voice rough. “You walk around like this, you clearly want the attention.” You squeaked as he spun you around, shoving you against the side of the rusted tractor with a grunt.

“I wore it for you, dumbass.”

“And now you’re gonna pay for it.”

You let out a gasped laugh. “What, you gonna plow me like a field, farmboy?”

He froze. Looked at you. “Did you just make a tractor pun?” 

“I—maybe.”

Clark let out a shocked laugh that quickly turned into a groan. “You are so lucky I’m in love with you.”

“You haven’t fucked me yet,” you teased, wiggling your ass against his jeans. “Might change your mind.” In one smooth motion, he yanked your panties down to your knees and pushed your dress higher. You braced yourself on the warm metal of the tractor hood, breath catching as you heard him unzip his fly.

“You wore this slutty little thing just to rile me up,” he muttered, dragging the head of his cock through your folds. “Didn’t even wear a bra, baby?”

“Too hot,” you panted. “Too lazy. Also… yeah, I wanted to rile you up.”

He groaned as his cock slipped between your dripping folds before thrusting into you hard. You cried out, clutching the tractor for dear life, already overwhelmed by the stretch of him, the sound of his hips smacking into your ass.

Clark was not gentle. Not today. He fucked you with full intent—deep, brutal, claiming every inch like the gentleman part of him had clocked out. All you could hear was the rustling of hay, the squeak of metal, and Clark’s filthy growl in your ear.

“Out here looking like a wet dream,” he muttered. “On my turf. You’re lucky I don’t tie you to this thing and fuck you ‘til you pass out.”

“Why don’t you?” you whined. “Scared I can’t take it?”

Clark yanked you up by the back of your dress, holding you flush to his chest now while he kept fucking up into you from behind.

“You’re gonna take every fucking drop, baby.” You were a mess—sweaty, moaning, drooling against his forearm as he stuffed you full. You felt him everywhere. His cock bullying your walls, his voice low and possessive in your ear, his hands gripping your hips like handles.

“I can feel you clenching,” he grunted. “You wanna cum, don’t you?”

“Please—”

“You gonna make a mess on this tractor? On my family’s goddamn John Deere?”

“Fuck—yes—” Your orgasm hit like a hay bale to the chest—sudden, breath-stealing, legs trembling as you cried out his name. Clark didn’t stop. Not until he chased his own release, fucking you straight through the aftershocks until he groaned into your neck and emptied himself deep inside you, hips twitching, breath ragged.

You both stayed there for a moment, panting, sweat-slicked, draped over the side of the tractor like two horny teenagers who just defiled a family heirloom.

“Well,” you mumbled finally. “I guess that’s one way to fertilize the field.”

Clark groaned. “I swear to god—”

“What?” You giggled. “You bred me, I’m just honoring the theme.”

He pulled out with a hiss and slapped your ass. “You’re not allowed to make puns after sex. That’s the rule.”

“You never said that!”

“I didn’t think I had to.”

You turned, gave him a smirk, and cupped his face, peppering kisses along his jaw. “Love you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, cheeks pink. “Love you too.”He smirked. “You’re lucky Ma’s at the farmer’s market.”

“Why?” you asked sweetly. “Would she be mad you turned me into a scarecrow decoration?”

Clark grinned wickedly and swatted your ass again, harder this time. “Keep flapping your mouth, baby. See what happens.”

“Maybe I want another round.”

He stilled. “Here?”

“Mmhm.” You grinned up at him. “I want it on the hay bale this time. Like a proper barn whore.”

His eyes practically rolled back in his head. “You’re gonna fucking kill me.” But you were already hopping up, dress still rucked up around your hips, not bothering to put your panties back on. You flounced over to the stacked hay like you hadn’t just gotten absolutely railed within an inch of your life.

Clark followed like a man possessed—shirt still off, cock hardening again, cheeks flushed and curls wild. “You’re insatiable,” he muttered.

“And you love it,” you said, sprawled back on the hay like some kind of slutty southern pin-up. “Come on, farmboy. Gimme another round. Don’t you wanna knock me up in every corner of this barn?”

Clark groaned—full-bodied and helpless. “I’m gonna marry you.”

“Yeah?” You spread your legs and beckoned him forward. “Gotta make an honest woman outta me after this filthy display?”

“Oh, there’s nothing honest about you,” he growled, climbing on top of you. “But you’re mine.” And when he took you again, it was with the reckless need of a man drunk on sunshine and sin—fucking you open on the hay until you were hoarse from screaming his name. Turns out farm boys got stamina. 

a/n: he’s so boyfriend husband daddy

[luveline]

𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧

Clark is so completely oblivious to your flirting that you start to wonder if he even understands what flirting is. (He does, and he can prove it.) fem, 3k

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

“Hey, Kent.”

Clark’s answering smile is enthusiastic, but little else. “Hey. How are you, how’s your morning going?”

“Better now that you’re here.”

He takes this more seriously than you’d expect. Or, exactly as you’d expect apparently, because this is Clark you’re talking to. “No one’s made you a cup of coffee?” 

“Well, Jimmy offered, but, alas. Nobody has hands as skilled as yours.”

He nods like this is a given. “I can make you one. Decaf?” Clark laughs loudly at your crestfallen expression. “I’m kidding. Be right back.” 

With caffeine and Clark Kent, your morning promises to improve. It was destiny, fate, and one kind boss that put you in the desk to the right of Clark’s. He’s made good out of a bum deal sandwiched between his desk and a pillar, having turned the pillar into a home for his corkboard and sticky notes. You study him often, his hair kissing the wall each time he leans back to watch the office television. 

You just need to say the right thing to him. To get him to notice you. If he rejected you, you’d stop, of course you’d stop, but Clark hasn’t so far acknowledged your flirting, and even that would be enough to put you off the whole thing if Jimmy hadn’t fanned your flames a few weeks ago. 

He definitely doesn’t know you’re flirting, Jimmy’d said, mouth half full of popcorn, the other half milk duds, that’s what happens to boys when they come from a home on the range, my friend. No game. 

You’d laughed at his grand bravado and kept that information stored away. Clark does seem a little… inexperienced, when it comes to adult life. He’s perfectly normal as things go, but he’s hopeless when it comes to dating. A few weeks ago, a woman at the bar closest to work had asked him if he’d buy her a drink and Clark, all manner of sympathy in his eyes, had asked if she lost her wallet.

So you assume him unknowing and carry on valiantly. “Kent,” you say now, resting your hand on his shoulder, “can we have lunch together?” 

“When, now?” 

“Whenever’s best for you, babe.”

He quirks a smile. “I’m always hungry.”

“I know. I brought you something.”

“You did?” 

“Mm-hm. Put your monitor on standby and come find me.” 

He doesn’t let you get far, his hand pressing lightly to the small of your back as you break for the office kitchenette. “What sort of something?”

“Sorry?”

“What did you bring me?”

“A special treat for a special boy,” you murmur, mostly joking, ever so slightly salacious, and far too much for the setting. 

“You’re leaving me in anticipation here.”

“Is there any other way to leave you, Clark?”

He gives a well-meaning shrug. “Sure, you usually like to leave me hanging.” 

“Don’t be mean. I’ll keep your treat for myself. You know I will.”

Clark chuckles. The sound never fails to light you up from the inside out, has you rushing to the fridge to get your two Tupperware boxes for sharing. You hand one to Clark, the other housing your boring dinner. He slides his arm under yours before the fridge door can close and effectively boxes you in as he grabs his own lunchbox. Your faces are close enough to kiss. 

You take the proximity gratefully, cataloguing the gentle lines of his face. His eyes are beautiful, and light, a warm blue that refuse to dip down to your lips as yours fall to his. You give them a longing stare. Clark collects his lunch and backs away from you. 

He leads you to a table together while shaking the box you’ve given him. 

“What is it?” he asks. 

“It’s not like it’s see through, or anything.”

He grins, eyes averted. “I’m going to guess what it is by sound.” Clark turns the box on its side. “Too soft a noise for cookies. If it were fairy cakes again, I’d hear the paper. And we’ve sworn off of caramel after you almost lost your incisor.” 

“So?”

He sniffs. “Brownies.”

“Cheater.” 

“I’m not cheating,” 

“You are! You’re smelling them, I know you are, they’re chocolatey enough. Just the way you like them, if you even care.”

“Of course I care,” he says, finally letting himself look down at the Tupperware, eyes lit with joy. “Oh, these look beautiful.”

“Well, I tried my best.”

“You didn’t have to go to all the trouble,” he says, even as he pops off the lid and lets out a pleased, decadent sigh, like a king looking over a vast sea of riches rather than four dark squares of fudgey brownies. 

“I don’t mind, Clark. I like doing things for you.”

He eats his brownies. He eats his lunch. You press your ankle to his under the table and smile when he doesn’t pull away, again when he washes your plastics and returns them to you towel-dried for your bag. He says, “Thank you for my treat,” with a small pat to your shoulder. 

Hours pass slowly, but then it’s your long awaited home time and you’re not interested in being alone just yet. 

“Could I ask you something?” 

Clark eases the loop of your tote bag back onto your shoulder. “Always.”

“Would you walk me home?”

“Today?” He holds your arm. “Everything okay?” 

“Would you believe me if I said I’d just really like your company?” 

He rolls his eyes. “Come on. We can beat the rush on the tramline if we hurry.”

You don’t beat the rush hour traffic on the tramline; the tram stations are all lined with people two-thick, so you take the slightly longer way on foot from the office to the quieter residential area where you live. The sky is moody, though the sun stays eager, following the backs of your necks past Metropark and Mr. Caleb’s corner store. 

“Wanna get shaved ice?” Clark asks. 

It may be warm, but it’s getting dark already and the idea of eating shaved ice in the dark is unpleasant. Still, he’s so charming, you end up shaking your head while you weave your arm through his. “Lucky you’re pretty,” you murmur. 

“We don’t have to. We could get coffee.” 

“You want to?” 

“I want you to be less sad,” he says. 

“I’m not sad.”

“No? You seem… I don’t know. You seem sort of defeated. Did something happen at work today? You aren’t acting like you would.”

“How do I usually act?” you ask curiously. 

He wrinkles his nose at you. It’s a fond gesture. “Like you. You’re so yourself. I don’t like seeing you down.”

“I’m not down, Clark. But I don’t know, maybe I’ll ask you something.” 

“Sure. Anything, I’m an open book.” 

You size him up. 6’ ridiculous (or 6’4 if he’s to be believed) and brazenly kind, even the look of him, a nose that’s pleasing to see, would be better to kiss, the lines in his cheeks from his smiling and his crow’s feet crinkle right at the corners of his eyes. His dark grey suit and the skinny red tie you occasionally tug between two fingers. Clark isn’t an open book. He is notoriously hard to get a read on, and he should know this. He drives you crazy. 

“Ugh,” you mumble, rubbing the space between your eyebrows. 

“It’s okay, honey.”

You narrow your eyes at him around your hand. “Clark, are you hard of hearing?”

“What?” 

“I’m genuinely asking. I know it’s a very rude thing to presume about someone out of the blue, or, to ask about, but I figured maybe you have an audio processing issue or something?” 

He doesn’t recoil as some might, or get offended at the question, as personal as it was. “I’m not hard of hearing. Why are you asking me that? Do I miss it, when you’re talking to me?”

“It’s like you aren’t hearing me, yeah.”

“I always hear you.”

“But… I say so many things, and your answers are so– neutral?” You frown at the deep confusion etched between his brows and catch a different thread. “When I said I wanted your company, earlier, you rolled your eyes. Why?” 

“You were joking.”

“Was I?” You untangle your arm from his to get a better view of his expression. “Why would I joke about that? Why else would I want you to come with me?”

“I don’t– I don’t know, you joke so often.”

“When?”

“Like, in the mornings. I ask how you are and you always say you’re better now you saw me.”

“That is quite genuinely true, Clark.”

“But it’s, like. You’re kidding. It’s like play-fighting, only…”

You wish you and Clark could’ve had this conversation sitting down. It would’ve been nicer somewhere quieter, but there’s comfort to be found in the quiet hustle and bustle of the tramlines whirring in the backgrounds, the single train track further from the main city, even the bump and beeping of Metropolis traffic. And there are people everywhere, chatting, walking, occasional laughter filtering through bursts of sound. You smile at Clark as someone out of sight lets out a roaring burst of giggles, enamoured with his own twitching smile, like even the hint of someone else’s joy is enough to bring colour to his day. 

“I could never put my hands on you, handsome. You’re too precious,” you say, almost shy. “Not play-fighting, by the way. I’m flirting with you, Kent. I have been.” 

He raises a hand to his neck, scratches. Lets it flop back down, his lips parting in surprise. “You are?” 

You hold your hands behind your back. “It’s not a joke, Clark. Honey. I’m sorry if I never made that clear for you. I definitely wasn't trying to make a joke out of things. Don’t get me wrong, I love teasing you, and sometimes I’m being hyperbolic, but I mean everything I’ve said. I hope you… hope you don’t mind.” 

You watch in real time as Clark goes a rosy shade of pink. Spreading across his nose, glancing up his cheekbones, a heated stain to evidence his embarrassment even as his lips stretch into a smile that’s unfailingly, untouchably pleased. His eyes go soft, his fingers tickling the back of your hand as he finds it, turns it, and grabs your fingers. Too impatient to thread them together. 

“Oh,” he says, giving your joined hands a sway. You watch him mouth it again. Oh.  

“Clark?”

“When we went to dinner, after Perry’s party, I should’ve paid,” he says. 

“What?”

“And– and there are so many doors I could’ve held for you.” 

“I don’t think that’s true.” 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he says, sounding, for a second, genuinely agitated. It’s a stark contrast to the way he treasures your hand in his, rolling your fingers nicely. 

“Clark, I’ve been trying. For weeks. If anyone’s going to be annoyed right now, it’s me.”

He glares at you. That glare quickly softens, turning to more of a stickied, almost playful smile you fail to place on him. 

“What?” you ask. 

He takes a step into your space. “What?” he asks back. 

“I asked you first.”

Clark takes you in as you shift your weight from one foot to the other,  an uncomfortable warmth spreading over the back of your neck.  

“What?” you whisper. 

“Just looking at you.” 

You flare with embarrassment. “Do not,” you warn. The bite you’d tried for is more of a whine. 

“Don’t what? Look at you? How could I not?” 

“Clark, you can’t be serious.”

“Oh, I’m dead serious.” 

“Dead ridiculous,” you murmur, tail end of your words a breathy, harsh exhale as Clark leans into your space and presses his lips to your skin. 

Anticipation tightens every joint. Your brain catches up slowly, finds his mouth on your cheek, your cheekbone, and the corner of your eye, three soft kisses that threaten to bowl you over in the middle of the sidewalk, despite his hand clasped over yours and the other guiding your face toward his kissing. He presses a final kiss to your temple, takes a breath of you, and lets you fall away. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t notice, before,” he says, rubbing the back of your hand sympathetically, “but I know now.” 

You do your best not to stutter. “Sure. It’s okay.” 

“Yeah, it will be. Where do you want to go for dinner?” 

—

Clark has to confess to bone deep elation. Bordering childish, wildly grown up, he cannot contain or restrain the force of his affection. 

In less pretentious terms, Clark Kent is falling in love. You might’ve had the head start when it came to the whole courting side of things, but Clark would argue he’s pined harder, and for far longer, to the point of delusion: every flirtation was thought to be a joke. Some days he’d believe you, and others he’d go home thinking about a flirty, lovely girl who just likes to make her coworker smile. 

He can’t say he’d believe this, now. Picture you here, sure, achy mornings scrolling his phone in frustration, before tossing it aside to clutch a pillow to his chest, his nose in the case, trying to find your smell. What is it you always smell like? Your perfume. He’s awful at this stuff, knows so many smells but can’t make it out. 

Clark —lucky Clark, in there and now, elated— slips his arm over your chest and pulls you easily into his front. You’re practically weightless to him. 

“Mm…” you mumble. 

He shushes you mindlessly. 

Unfortunately, the sound only serves to wake you more. You doze weakly in his arms, a touch unsettled, all his fault for being selfish, so Clark rubs your back delicately and tries to repent. Wordlessly, he adjusts his arm under yours to hold your stomach in his palm, inching you backward, waiting for a sign. 

You let out a long, low sigh and fall mostly asleep again. 

Clark rests his nose in your hair. This is hard-worked but perhaps unearned, considering all your heavy lifting, but Clark will be damned if he hasn’t tried to make things up to you. The best, worst thing about you is that you find it all endlessly funny; Clark brings you flowers and you tickle him under the chin with their petals; he takes you out for dinner and you sneak off (unsuccessfully) to pay the bill during dessert; he tries to flirt, voice low and warm and pleading, and you ask him if he’d like to play fight. It’s your favourite joke. That’s if you aren’t blatantly pretending that Clark isn’t flirting. 

And you’re here now because… well. You haven’t fucked. Clark has —offered you things. Never wanting to take too soon, but needing you to have. And you’ve let him spin you around some, but tonight was because you just didn’t want to leave. Who was Clark to let you? You should have everything you want, including him, and including this. He’ll lay here stretching an ache out of your back all day if it’s your wish.

He tries to dial back the philosophical. Presses his nose further into your head and closes his eyes again. He’s tireder than usual, but that could be down to the late nights with you. He likes calling you, knowing you’ll answer. He likes listening to you talk, and he loves the casual flirtation you throw at him. Better now, because you know your crush is reciprocated. 

You smell incredible. Clark could fall to pieces about it. 

You wake up, then, Clark’s not sure why, holding his arm off of you to spin beneath it to face him, before forcing yourself under the curve of his chin to hold him. 

Clark doesn’t say anything in case you’re trying to get back to sleep again. He just waits, letting his fingers tumble the length of your back as it rises and falls. 

You don’t fall asleep again. 

“Hey,” you murmur. 

“Hi.”

“Good morning.”

“Better,” Clark says, tipping your head back by the nape of you, something right about it as you follow his hand back to show him your sleep-rumpled face, “now that you’re here.”

You turn your face into his arm. Clark can feel the heat of your skin, and thanks whoever there is to thank for the way that shyness and heat go hand in hand. You’re warm as a hearth against his skin, like a stripe of sun laid down and resting. 

“Steal all my best ones,” you mumble. 

“Best what?” 

“My pick-up lines.”

“Honey, I’m not flirting with you. Is that what you thought?”

He says it in a mumble. Presses it right into your mouth. 

Your first kiss had been somewhat of an oddity. No flirting before or afterwards, no pretenses, only a kiss. You’d been shy the day after your impromptu dinner and Clark hadn’t loved it. ‘Cos you’re adorable, but it had bordered too harshly on unsurety. Like you were waiting for Clark to take things back. 

His hands under your face to hold you. A wading of a kiss turned biting turned pleading, two shades of desperate and third pathetic. Clark had put everything he could into it. Translated months of longing, and the permanent ache that had come with your teasing.

This kiss is nothing like that. It’s melding your mouth against his with ease, meeting you halfway there as his hand carries you inward. Chest to chest, your little smile a lance against his own. 

“M’not flirting,” he murmurs. 

“Why not?”

“‘Cos you have me, baby.” 

You grumble weakly against his lips and take another kiss. “I like the flirting,” you say. 

“That’s too bad, huh?” He presses your shoulder to the bed, watches your eyes widen and then fall shut. “Maybe I can be persuaded.” 

“Flirt with me.”

“Nicer.” 

Your attempt to hide a triumphant smile fails. Clark doesn’t mind. 

“Please?” you murmur. 

He mouthed beautiful into the side of your neck. There’ll be time for the rest. Not that you’ll enjoy waiting —and not that he’ll mind giving in. 

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

Thank you bec for proof reading!!!!♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️

[blushandfics]

Clark Kent request!! Idk I went to a dessert place and saw a couple and the guy I saw with his wife was so Clark Kent coded with glasses and his work fit + with his baby daughter strapped to his chest🥺 I’m picturing like reader finally healed after birth and asking Clark if they can go to this cute little dessert place down the street? He promises her he can go after work after he comes home, and takes the two of them? He has his little baby strapped to his chest the wholeeee time from going there, to eating, to leaving, yet is still so attentive to whatever reader is rambling abt while being attentive if his daughter wakes up? Like Clark giving reader a cute little date after birth!!

you’d been talking about the place all week. a little corner shop down the street, bright tiles and old booths, the glass case always fogged with sweet things you could never quite decide between. you’d walked past it a hundred times since coming home, hand resting instinctively on the stroller handle, gaze lingering a second too long on the neon sign in the window.

so when you finally ask — voice still shy around wanting things again, after months of only wanting rest and quiet and space to breathe — clark barely lets you finish the sentence.

“after work,” he promises, eyes warm behind his glasses, tie a little crooked from where you tugged him down to kiss goodbye. “we’ll go tonight.”

and he keeps his word, of course he does. he comes home later than either of you meant, his tie looser now, hair a little mussed. but he drops his bag at the door, kisses you once, twice, and holds out his hands for your daughter with that look that still softens your whole chest.

it takes barely a minute before she’s tucked close against him, strapped around and to his chest in that carrier you picked out together, her tiny face smushed sleepily against his shirt. one of her little fists curls under his tie, like she’s claiming him. clark’s palm comes up to steady her without thinking.

and then you’re out the door. together. not rushing. not worrying. just you, him, and her.

the place smells like sugar and warm butter, small enough that the three of you feel like you fill it. clark holds the door for you, careful of the stroller even though you left it folded outside, and you can feel him watching — not hovering, just making sure. always making sure.

you pick a booth by the window. him sliding in across from you, baby still nestled to his chest, and the sight of him there — work shirt rolled to his elbows, glasses slightly askew, wedding ring catching the soft overhead light — its all enough to make your breath catch.

you talk, rambling about the new flavors on the menu, a silly video you saw earlier, how your neighbor finally fixed his porch light. clark listens like there’s nothing else in the world. his eyes loving, mouth tilted into that small, private smile he only ever wears for you.

when your daughter stirs, he’s already on it: palm smoothing gently over her back, voice dropping even softer — “hey, sweetheart. it’s okay. daddy’s here.” he assures, the words so easy, so tender it makes your throat tighten.

and then back to you, without missing a beat.

“sorry, what were you saying sweetheart? the strawberry one? you should get it. i know you’ve been craving it.”

you end up sharing, fork passed back and forth, his big hands careful not to jostle the baby too much. powdered sugar dusts your fingertips and he brushes it away, thumb lingering on your knuckles.

he listens to everything: your half finished sentences, your worries about going back to work, the story you’re telling even though you keep forgetting where you left off. and the whole time, the baby’s tucked right there against his chest, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

when it’s time to leave, he stands first, adjusting the strap gently so she stays snug and comfortable. even carrying her, he still holds the door open for you, his free hand reaching for yours, certain.

outside, under the soft streetlight glow, he leans down, forehead brushing yours. “was that good?” he asks, voice a little hoarse from the day. you just nod, your eyes wet without meaning to. “yeah,” you breathe. “it was perfect.”

and it is — him, you, her. its sweet on your tongue, warm in your chest, and safe in ways you couldn’t quite put into words… ♡

[touchlinewhore]

Unmasked

Pairing: Clark Kent x Reader

Content/Warnings: Dubcon energy (consensual but overwhelming), obsessive behavior, rough dominance, breeding kink, jealousy, hair-pulling, glasses kink, tie kink, mirror use, overstimulation, size kink/power imbalance, reader on knees, hand-over-mouth, emotional possessiveness, secret identity reveal, no scene breaks, emotionally intense ending

Ko-fi (support the writer): https://ko-fi.com/touchline

You shouldn’t have stayed late. The office was quiet, lights low, papers rustling in the stillness as you sat hunched over your desk, flipping through stories with half-dead eyes. You hadn’t even noticed Clark was still there, seated across the bullpen like always, tapping at his keyboard in that patient, soft way of his. His glasses slipped down his nose the way they always did when he concentrated. Except now, for some reason, he wasn’t typing anymore. He was watching you.

You looked up and caught his gaze. His jaw was tight.

“Everything okay?” you asked lightly.

He nodded, but didn’t speak. You stared at him. Then something shifted. The silence changed. His eyes, darker than usual, hotter, didn’t leave yours.

“Clark?”

He stood, slow and quiet, like he was making a decision that had taken him years. Then he walked toward you. You opened your mouth to speak, but he spoke first.

“I need to tell you something.”

“What?”

His eyes searched yours. “It’s me,” he said softly. “I’m him.”

And when he pulled his glasses off, it hit you like a train. His entire body straightened, uncoiled, no longer hunched, no longer mild-mannered. His voice, still gentle, held a tremor underneath. Power, restraint, something aching.

“Superman.”

Your heart dropped. You stood too fast, backed into your desk. “You’re joking.”

He shook his head. “I’ve never lied to you. Not really. I couldn’t.”

“Clark,” you said, and stopped. Your chest was heaving.

He stepped closer. “I didn’t mean for it to happen like this. But you deserve to know.”

His voice cracked. Not from guilt. From something else. Want.

You swallowed. “You’ve been hiding this from me.”

“I was trying to protect you.”

You looked at him. Really looked. And for the first time, it wasn’t Clark Kent standing in front of you. It was everything beneath him. His body was taut, his expression wrecked. And suddenly, you understood something else. He hadn’t just been hiding who he was. He’d been hiding how he felt.

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t. Because suddenly, he was stepping between your knees, crowding you against the desk, hands not touching you but so close they burned.

“I’ve wanted you for so long,” he said, voice low, wrecked. “But I couldn’t let it out. If I did,” he swallowed hard, “I’d ruin everything. I can’t lose control with you.”

You felt your skin burn at the words. “Then don’t.”

He inhaled sharply. “Say that again.”

You blinked up at him. “I want you to lose control.”

The look that broke across his face was almost painful. His hands finally touched you. Not tentative. Not soft. But with heat, purpose. One grabbed your hip and pulled you forward against him, and the other curled around the side of your neck, thumb at your jaw.

“You don’t know what you’re asking me for,” he breathed.

But you did. You’d known for weeks. Maybe longer.

“I do,” you whispered.

He kissed you like something inside him had snapped. Hot and full and deep, dragging a whimper from your throat, and he didn’t stop. His hand slid into your hair and gripped, pulling your head back so his mouth could trail down your jaw, your throat, teeth grazing skin. The sound you made earned a low groan from him, and you felt his body stiffen, trying to hold back.

“I’ve thought about this so many times,” he muttered. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”

“Then show me,” you said, breathless.

He pulled back just enough to look down at you. The heat in his eyes made your legs tremble. Then he reached for his tie.

He didn’t take it off. He used it. Used it to pull your wrists together and pin your hands behind your back with one firm movement. You gasped, and he smiled, soft and broken.

“You’re shaking,” he whispered.

“You’re terrifying.”

“You’re beautiful,” he said. “And you’re mine.”

Then he was kissing you again with purpose, with restraint starting to crack. You felt his hips press into you, hard, demanding, the threat of his strength curling around you like heat. When he spoke, it was directly against your mouth.

“I’m not going to stop unless you tell me to.”

You didn’t answer.

“I mean it,” he said, lower. “If you want me to let you go, say it now.”

You met his eyes. You nodded.

“Don’t stop.”

The next moment was a blur. He lifted you onto the desk like you weighed nothing, mouth hungry, hands everywhere, his body slotting between your legs and pinning you open. You could feel how tightly wound he was, every breath he took was shaky, like he was on the edge of snapping. You realized with a dizzy rush that he was still holding back. Even now. He was giving you the barest fraction of what he wanted.

“You’ve been watching me this whole time,” he said into your skin. “Looking at me like I don’t see it. Acting like you don’t want me.”

“I didn’t think I could,” you whispered.

“You can,” he growled. “You’re mine.”

Your tied hands clenched behind you. His glasses were still on, and the sight of them while he wrecked you from the inside out was something that burned into your memory. You couldn’t stop gasping his name. And the more you said it, the less gentle he became.

He tugged you off the desk and onto your knees. You barely had time to catch your breath before his hand tangled in your hair. Not cruelly. Just enough to hold you still while he looked down at you, jaw tense.

“Look at you,” he muttered. “Right where you belong.”

He pressed his thumb to your lip, his other hand curled at the back of your head, tilting you up to face him. Your mouth parted for him like it was instinct.

“Beg,” he said. “Just once. Let me hear it.”

“Please,” you whispered.

He let go of a sound he’d been holding in for years. It was somewhere between a growl and a prayer.

He didn’t let go of your hair. Not once. He guided you the way he needed, watching every movement, every sound you made. It was messy, filthy, overwhelming. When you looked up at him with your eyes wet and mouth slack, he groaned something low and sinful and dragged you up to your feet like he couldn’t take it anymore.

He bent you in front of the mirror in his bedroom. You hadn’t even noticed him carry you across the city. But now you were here, legs shaking, arms still bound, and his reflection looked untouchable. Perfect. Except his hands were on your hips, and his mouth was at your shoulder, and his voice was breaking apart in real time.

“Look at yourself,” he said roughly. “Look how good you take me.”

You did. You couldn’t look away. And when you turned your head and saw his glasses still on, the crack in your chest split wide open.

“I need you,” he said. “I need you so much I can’t breathe.”

You said his name and told him you needed him too.

And that was the last thread of control he had.

His hand clamped over your mouth to stifle your scream as he pushed you past your limit. Again. And again. He kissed your shoulder between every stroke. He whispered how good you were. How much he loved you. How he wasn’t going to last.

“I’m going to make you mine,” he growled into your neck. “Completely.”

You whimpered. He wrapped his arms tighter.

“I’m going to fill you up. You want that?”

You nodded, frantic.

“Say it.”

“I want you to,” you gasped. “I want you to make me yours.”

He groaned so loudly you thought the mirror might shatter. He held your tied wrists in one hand and used the other to tip your chin so you had to look at your reflection.

“You’re mine now,” he whispered. “You always were.”

And when he finally let go, when he gave you everything, the tension that had lived in him for years shattered. He didn’t stop kissing your skin. He didn’t untie your hands yet. He just held you, trembling, whispering your name like a man who’d nearly broken himself holding back.

You lay in the sheets after, dazed. Breathless. He was quiet beside you, eyes red, heart still racing. You turned to him, touched his face.

“I knew there was something about you.”

He smiled, weakly.

“There’s everything about you.”

You didn’t need the cape. You didn’t need the suit. You had the realest part of him.

And he had you.

[accoochtrement]

I think I'm in love with this man, and your writing ❤️

lovestruck and looking out the window

pairing: clark kent x fem reader 4.6k

summary: you see your friend clark without his glasses for the first time. he looks… oddly familiar

content: clark kent invents what it's like to be a gentleman time and time again. reader finds herself in trouble quite a bit lol. title from superman by tswift of course. divider from hyuneskkami ♡

Addy19 @Addison_Malii Anyone else in Arkham District hear the evacuation sirens turn on and off? Was that a test or should I be running for my life lol Mark 💸 @markusup ↳ replying to @Addison_Malii That’s what you get for living in “Arkham District” bro 💀💀💀 cait (old acc got hacked…) @batmanslawyer ↳ replying to @markusup don’t speak on arkham district with metropolis in ur bio lmfao. i hope ur insurance covers ur house the next time superman drops a building on ur ass Mari ♡ @mightycrabjoysluvr ↳ replying to @batmanslawyer superman haters can not be real. like damn do you guys hate joy happiness fun and rainbows too cait (old acc got hacked…) @batmanslawyer ↳ replying to @mightycrabjoysluvr are we forgetting the fact that he’s an ALIEN from KRYPTON? i don’t care how hot he is i will take batman over him any day Mari ♡ @mightycrabjoysluvr ↳ replying to @batmanslawyer a vigilante defender in my replies shitting on superman… i have really seen it all. bookmarking this tweet for when the police finally catch batmans ass btw

“—you want some?”

“Hm?” 

Clark sinks into the couch next to you, his weight tipping you closer in his direction. The edge of the bowl in his hand prods your side.

“You really shouldn’t hold your phone so close to your face. You’re going to wreck your vision.”

You finally look up at him, unimpressed. “Didn’t know you believed in old wives’ tales.”

“It’s not a myth!” He insists. “Put your phone down. We’re putting the movie on, and I know you’re going to complain when you don’t understand what’s happening—”

“I don’t complain, you liar.”

“—but you do, and then you’re gonna beg me to rewind. But then you’re gonna fall asleep and ask me to rewind it again, but I won’t want to because I’ve rewatched the same part five times—”

“That’s never happened before,” you lie blatantly. It happened last week and he won’t stop bringing it up. You toss your phone somewhere onto his couch and ignore the look he’s giving you when you take the bowl from his hands. “You made popcorn? Why didn’t you say anything?”

Clark laughs, the sound full and warm. He drapes a throw blanket over your laps — one of yours that he stole from your apartment — and hands you the remote. “I did. You were too busy scrolling.”

“Sorry.” You make yourself comfortable on his couch, pressing yourself into his side and stretching your legs out onto the ottoman. “I was busy doing some very important things.”

“Such as?” he asks, watching you flick through his TV subscriptions. “Oh, come on. We aren’t watching that one again.”

You frown as you click past one of your favorite movies. “I was just looking at it.”

“I’m sure.”

You kick at his ankles and watch the dimples crease on his face. It’s hard not to stare too long at the way he looks in the golden lighting from the TV. The brown of his eyes seems warmer.

“Whatever,” you grumble. “You can pick. As long as it’s not that trashy zombie show you like.”

He takes the remote from you, leveling a look at you from under the frames of his glasses. “It’s not trashy.”

“We can agree to disagree, babe.”

You fight the urge to laugh. You aren’t sure Clark realizes it, but he has the same reaction to that nickname every time — he looks up at the ceiling, and then away from you as the blush creeps up his neck. It’s even easier to see when his face is lit up like this, his sweet face tinged pink.

The two of you scroll through the movie and show selections in relative silence after. You’re sitting close enough that you can nudge him in the side when you want him to skip something, and he does so with only some complaints. You make it all the way down to the romcom section before he breaks the silence. 

He coughs. Then asks, “So, what were you doing on your phone? Texting someone?”

You hum absentmindedly, inspecting the movie thumbnails. “I was reading through some Superman hate posts, actually.”

It’s not the most accurate description of what you were doing, but you say it just to get a rise out of him. Clark would never admit it, but you’re almost one hundred percent sure that he’s a secret Superman megafan. 

There’s a look that he gets in his eyes whenever he reads something about him. It’s hard to place, but it kind of looks like he’s a little kid again, his entire face lit up with emotion.

But if he really is as big of a fan as you think he is, you have no idea how he’s so blasé about all those interviews he gets with him. Clark Kent really is one of the most interesting people you’ve ever met.

He looks at you sideways, glancing away from the TV. “You were,” he says, less of a question and more of a statement.

“Kidding. Kinda. You know what people are like. Your friend’s famous, you know. People are going to scrutinize him no matter what he does.”

Clark clears his throat and his eyes dance back to the screen, but you know he’s only half paying attention to it now. “And you… do you agree with them? With what people say about him?

Something in his voice is odd. You sit up against the couch to look at him properly, though all you can see is his side profile. 

On the screen in front of you, he clicks past the titles the second they load, uncaring of what he’s scrolling past.

“I think Superman’s great,” you say honestly. You speak slowly, trying to gauge his reaction. The only change in expression you get is the slight twitch of his mouth. “Don’t know why people complain so much about someone who saves lives. Like, who cares if he’s from Kirpton?”

“Krypton,” he corrects.

You smile. “Right, sorry.”

The slight tension in his shoulders release. “You really think he’s great?”

“Yeah.” You slip the remote out of his hands and click play on the first movie you recognize. Surprisingly, Clark doesn’t complain. “He’s gorgeous, too. You think you could introduce us? I hear his harem has quite the waiting list.”

He laughs, tossing the blanket back over your leg where it’s exposed. “He’s not my friend, and there’s no harem. And hopefully, you won’t be meeting Superman anytime soon.”

“Why not? Don’t want to mix your friend groups?”

He nudges your side, relaxing into his cushions again. His arms cross over his chest, and you try not to focus on the way his biceps pull against the sleeves of his shirt. “No. If you ever run into Superman, it probably means you’re somewhere you shouldn’t be.”

The two of you sit quietly with the weight of his words. Sure, he’s right, but you’re sure a totally normal Superman interaction isn’t out of the realm of possibility. 

You wonder if the superhero has a favorite coffee shop. And how he would even order from it if he did. Would he wait in line? Maybe he’d have a priority lane specifically for him on the roof.

“Wait, what?” Clark’s voice cuts into the silence. His features have scrunched up in confusion. “When did we agree on watching this?”

“It’s Saw.”

“I can see that.”

“I chose it when you were too busy talking.” 

“You sure you want to watch this one? You remember what happened when we watched The Exorcist, right?”

“The lights went out, Clark. What was I supposed to do, not scream?”

“I was sitting right next to you. Nothing was going to happen. If anything, we’d get possessed together.”

“That’s so not funny. As long as nothing supernatural happens, I’ll be good with this one, I swear.”

He blinks at you.

“I swear.”

You wake up drooling on Clark’s t-shirt. 

Thirty minutes into Saw you were holding onto his arm so tightly that he put you out of your misery and put on National Treasure instead. The last thing you can remember is Nicolas Cage asking for lemon juice before the comfort of Clark’s shoulder became too much to resist drifting off.

You untangle your legs from his to sit up properly, a different movie playing in the background. Much like you a few seconds ago, your friend is fast asleep, his head leaning against the armrest in a way that can’t be comfortable.

His glasses are askew now, resting politely on his chest. You worry about the chances of them getting squished and leave them on the side table for him to find.

It’s only then, when you’re staring at the black frames on the wood, that you realize something silly. 

You’ve never seen Clark without his glasses on. 

He often talks about how his bad eyesight is why he’s so adamant about wearing them. You’ve asked him once before about wearing contacts, and he’d said something about how he has sensitive eyes and didn’t like them much.

You don’t mind at all. He looks very gorgeous with them on, and you find it very cute how they fog up when he gets flustered enough. 

You’re grateful for the light of the TV, because it means you can still somewhat see Clark’s face. You rub the sleep from your eyes to look at him, and—

Huh. 

You wonder if it’s normal to look this different without your glasses on. Sure, they can sometimes change the size of a person’s eyes, and losing a significant feature on anyone’s face is bound to make them look a little different, but… 

Clark looks different. Still familiar, but undoubtedly different.

It’s weird. The changes are so subtle you wonder if you’re hallucinating. The differences are written clear as day on his face, but it feels impossible to put them into words. 

Is it the shape of his jaw? You don’t remember it always looking so carved, and you would know, with how often you look at him. Maybe it’s the shape of his mouth.

Something in the back of your mind twitches, like a memory begging to come to the surface. It’s a slight tension against your skull, a pressing feeling trying to nudge you in the direction of something.

You have no idea why you do it, but your hand moves without thinking. Your fingers thread through his hair, the same way you do when you tease him for looking like he’s just rolled out of bed in the morning. As you do it, the features of his face shift just so, and…

Woah. 

Clark doesn’t just look familiar. 

He looks exactly like fucking Superman.

You pull your hand away so quickly the joints in your arm protests. Clark shifts underneath you, his eyes twitching as he rouses from sleep. He pats the fabric of the couch before he feels you under his hand, and he squeezes your thigh when he does.

“You alright?” he mumbles, voice rough with sleep. “What’re you doin’?”

“Nothing. I just woke up.” 

The sentence is true in more ways than one. It feels like you’re seeing Clark’s face for the first time. How had you not noticed just how much he looks like the same man that saves the city for a living? 

He blinks himself awake, and it’s like your heart flips. Staring at his devastatingly long eyelashes, it’s like everything becomes ten times clearer. 

You weren’t hallucinating — he looks just like Superman. It’s uncanny.

He pats you as he sits up, still clearly in the last dregs of sleep. His words slur together when he asks you, “What time is it?”

“Uh,” your eyes search the couch for where you’d ditched your phone earlier, and you find it on the floor next to the ottoman. It’s covered in spilled popcorn from the bowl that must’ve fallen off Clark’s lap during the night. “It’s two.”

The reminder is enough to make you yawn, and you rub your eyes to clear your vision. He leans over to the side table to get the lamp, and the room is filled again with warm light.

“Geez,” Clark says. “My neck hurts like crazy. Is your back okay?”

You turn back to face him, and with the lights on you can see him a lot better. His glasses are back on, and he…

Looks absolutely nothing like Superman anymore.

You must look a little surprised, because he stops massaging the back of his neck to scan you with his eyes. “Is everything okay?”

“Has anyone ever told you that you look just like Superman without your glasses on?”

The words land awkwardly. 

Clark laughs, but it’s not real. He scrubs his hand over his jaw. “What?” 

“You…” It feels like you’ve said something you really shouldn’t have. “You just look a lot like him.”

“Oh,” he says. His hand rises to adjust where his glasses sit on his face. “That’s funny.”

If he really thinks so, you aren’t hearing much laughter from him.

You aren’t sure why he’s so unsettled at the thought. Based on the limited information you have about him, Superman kind of seems like the perfect guy. He’s kind, selfless, great with kids, and…

Oh no.

It’d been such a brief stint in your conversation — there’s no way he remembers it. It’d been a joke, albeit one wrapped in underlying truth. 

“He’s gorgeous, too. You think you could introduce us?”

Clark is one of the most rational people you know. It’s no question that he knows you were kidding about that — hell, he’d laughed — but your technical confession is enough to make embarrassment rush through your entire body.

He seems completely upended by your comparison between the two of them. You stand abruptly, suddenly wishing you were anywhere but here. 

“It’s late. I should go back to my apartment.”

It’s not far. Few people in the world live closer to Clark actually, with your apartment being directly below his. When that dog he’s fostering is running around too much, you can hear his footsteps scurry above your head.

(Oddly enough, you’ve never actually seen the dog in person, and Clark refuses to tell you what his name is, but you’re pretty sure he’s real.)

The furrow Clark gets between his brows is so deep you wonder if it hurts. “You don’t want to take the bed?”

You slip your phone in your pocket and start looking for where you’d kicked off your shoes. “No, it’s okay. Your neck deserves a break from the couch,” you say, busy checking underneath the kitchen table. 

There’s nothing there. You wonder if it’d be weird to leave without them.

Clark places one of his broad hands on your lower back before he passes your shoes to you. He is so irritatingly perfect it borders on unfortunate for you.

“Thanks,” you say, quickly. You’re even faster to slip them on, uncaring of the way the heels fold uncomfortably inward. 

“Hey. Hey.” His hand encircles your wrist when you turn away from him. He’s frowning, eyes darting over your face like he’s looking for something. “Are you okay? You know I don’t mind taking the couch.”

The smile that softens your expression is real. “So selfless, Clark Kent. I just want to sleep in my own bed tonight. Thank you, though.”

He tries one last time. Glances furtively at the door, like he’s hesitant to let you go. “It’s late.”

You feel evil. It can’t be ethical to turn down Clark when he looks like this, sleep mussed and soft and a little worried about you.

“You can watch me walk to the elevator if you’d like.”

“I’ll walk you downstairs,” he offers instead, opening his door for you and stepping out. “It’ll help me sleep better.”

Looking at him waiting for you in his pajama pants and his wrinkled shirt, you wonder how you haven’t proposed. 

But when he leans against the doorway of your apartment downstairs, smiling at you with sleep in his eyes and telling you to get some rest, you come very close to it.

Your friendship with Clark Kent kind of started the same way — with him taking you home.

The Daily Planet is a block away from your office building, a much smaller structure with just enough windows that you can watch the next world-ending threat from anywhere inside. Once, you got to watch Superman save an entire floor of people in the building across from you before some creature gutted half the skyrise.

You’ve witnessed enough extraterrestrial villains to not be too surprised when you see them on the news, or catch a glimpse of them in real life.

The one thing you didn’t expect, though, was to run into one from this planet.

It’s late when you’re walking to the metro after work. You’re barely half awake, exhausted after dealing with some data issue that had you and a few other people on cleanup duty late into the night.

You’re digging around in your purse, searching frantically for your phone. To make a bad night even worse, you come up empty.

“Shit,” you say under your breath, stopping to press your fist to your forehead. You remember it vividly, now. You’d left it on the counter when you’d cleaned up the cup of coffee you spilled when you were dead on your feet.

You let out a few more curses under your breath as you continue walking, hoping that you didn’t throw out that old alarm clock you found in your closet.

It happens a few minutes later, and it’s nothing like in the movies. There’s no anticipatory music, or a suspicious sound that makes you turn your head, or the hair on the back of your neck standing up. You’ve walked down this street countless times before, one well-lit by the street lights and store signs, and felt safe every time.

The universe gives you no warning. It only lets you make it three blocks before someone seizes your arm and tugs you into a damp, dark, Metropolis alley.

You don’t have time to scream. A hand, grimy with sweat and something else clamps hard over your mouth, muffling any sound you could’ve let out.

Your back presses into the rough brick of the alley. You recognize where you are immediately — a small deli that you and your coworker frequent. You don’t know how you’re going to tell her that you’re never coming back here ever again.

“I’m going to take my hand off your mouth. And you’re not going to scream, or lie to me, because I will stab you.” The man’s voice is thick and gravelly, almost as sharp as the blade he presses into the give of your stomach. “Nod if you understand me.”

You jolt when he presses hard enough to nick your skin. The nod comes immediately after.

“You’re going to give me all the money in that purse of yours, and your phone. I need your phone.” 

You glance over to your purse where it sits on the pavement. It must’ve fallen when he’d pulled you into this alley.

“Take it,” you say quickly, voice wavering with stress. You aren’t going to fight with this man over chump change and your lip balm. “You can have all of it.”

He ducks down immediately to reach for the purse, and sniffs out the money quickly. He shoves the few pathetic crumpled bills into the pockets of his worn out jeans, before turning his attention back to the inside of the bag.

You swallow, glancing towards the entrance of the alley. He wouldn’t chase you if you made a run for it, would he? 

There’s a sickening crack as your stuff hits the floor, and your daydream is crushed. The man is shaking his head, pressing his hand to his forehead, mumbling to himself in hushed tones. 

You press yourself further against the wall, like the extra inch of space between you will save you.

“Your phone. I need your phone.”

Your tongue feels heavy in your mouth. You know he won’t believe you. You’ve never been more scared to speak.

“Did you hear me?” His voice shakes uncontrollably, his eyes narrowed to near slits. “Your phone. I need… You have to give me your phone.”

“I don’t have it with me,” you choke out. Your hands curl protectively in front of you. “I forgot it at work.”

He turns the knife back at you, though his hand wavers. Spit flies from his mouth and onto the ground in front of you. “You’re a liar.”

“I’m not lying, I swear. I swear. Please, you can take whatever I have—”

Another voice pierces the silent street, one firm and so authoritative that both of you turn to look.

The man doesn’t waste another second. He turns and flees down the dark alley, taking the few things of worth in your purse with him. You don’t feel strong enough to move until he’s completely gone from your sight.

The adrenaline crash doesn’t take long to set in. Your head feels light, like it’s filled with helium. You think that’s why you don’t notice yourself walking directly into the other person there with you.

The universe had been the reason why you’d gotten mugged, but the universe also brought Clark Kent into your life.

You had caught glimpses of him at your shared apartment all the time, your similar schedules meaning you often left for work and came back around the same time. He’d held the door open for you a few times, and you’d seen him help some of your neighbors with their groceries before. You’d always known he was nice, but you had no idea stopping crime was on his list of talents as well.

After he’d saved you from that man in the alley that night, he’d walked you back to your apartment.

He did the same the next night. And almost all of the nights after that, too.

It didn’t take long for the two of you to become close friends, and for your lives to start merging together. You’d invited him over for dinner as a thank you, and it slowly turned into a regular thing. You soon found yourself splitting your time between your apartment and his. 

You really like Clark, and can barely remember life in Metropolis without him. 

That’s probably why it feels so terrible to ignore him.

[4:29] farmboy kent: I’ll be running a little late today

[4:29] farmboy kent: White sent us out to Park Ridge and the train back is delayed. I’ll be by your building around 5:20

[4:33] you: No problem!! also no need to swing by today. my cousin invited me over to hers so i’ll be in civic city until late

The message is marked as read a few seconds after you send it, making the next few minutes agonizingly long. 

Around 4:35, Clark finally starts typing, only to delete his message. A minute later, he continues again.

[4:38] farmboy kent: Ok. Be safe

[4:39] farmboy kent: I’ll pick you up at the station later

[4:39] you: Are you okay with that? i’m not sure when i’ll get back

[4:40] farmboy kent: Of course. Text me when you know what time your train will get in

You feel like a dick pressing the thumbs up reaction on his last message. What kind of person lies to Clark Kent?

You aren’t even sure why you do it. It’s probably the lingering embarrassment from last night — it was the closest you’ve ever come to telling him how you feel about him.

So… maybe a Clark-free day is what you need. 

You can’t remember the last day you’ve spent without seeing him at least once. On your days off from work he’d come by after his shifts, and even on days that one of you were busy, you would still show up at his place to say hello.

No wonder he makes you crazy. You haven’t had a Clark Kent detox since the day you met him.

Surely all good friendships need time apart, right? You’ll just spend a day by yourself and when you see him again tomorrow, you’ll be back to normal. There won’t be any more slips where you compare him to one of the most gorgeous people you’ve ever seen, or where you tell him he’d be a great husband, or something friendship-ending like that.

It’ll be good for you. Tomorrow will be a great, much needed, neighbor-free day.

You’re buying a paperweight for Clark when a building falls on top of the Metropolis Museum of Art.

The remorse from your little white lie followed you through every second of your Clark Kent boycott, effectively ruining it. Your plan was to head down to the park and enjoy the weather, but you found yourself making a quick detour to the souvenir store inside the museum. 

You’d come here with him a few months ago, and he’d seen the paperweight and loved it. It was a little glass sphere depicting Superman flying over Metropolis, and he’d almost bought it before reading the price tag. The guilt following you around now was enough to choke a horse, and you decided that it’d make for a great apology gift. 

(Not that he was aware you were apologizing for anything.)

The crash of the building sends plumes of dust into the room, coating everything in a haze of white. The emergency sirens start their crying almost immediately, joining in what sounds like the actual crying of children on an after-school field trip. 

You cough to clear your throat and find that even the air is saturated in thick dust, the cloud becoming even worse as more debris drops from the ceiling.

The roof of the museum is clearly trying its best, but it seems like the entire structure groans in protest. One of the overhead lights hangs precariously above your head, and you take a few healthy steps back from it.

Distantly, you can see the blinking red light that marks the exit. The cashier you were talking to a second ago makes a mad dash for it, ducking under a fallen beam while she does. Hordes of people crowd by the door as everyone rushes out, eager to flee.

The sun shines through the gaping hole in the museum made by the other building, and through the light it offers, you see it on the floor— the gift you’d gotten Clark.

The little paperweight sits sadly on the tile about five feet away from you. 

If you weren’t afraid of inhaling too much dust, you would’ve groaned. There’s no way you’re abandoning the thing after all this trouble you’ve gone through to get it. 

Against your better judgement, you move further from the exit to go and pick it up.

In the end, though, it doesn’t matter. 

There’s a strong gust of wind and a bright flash of light, and you’re outside again. 

When your feet hit the pavement, you resist the urge to vomit. It feels like your stomach has been flipped inside out and then put back again. The dizziness makes you double over, but you’re braced by a pair of firm hands around your forearms.

You’re halfway through a mumbled thank you when you look up. 

You blink a few times to clear your vision. When nothing changes, you’re forced to wonder if you hit your head somewhere in the museum.

Standing in front of you, with his perfect hair disheveled and windswept, is Superman.

notes: theyre both losers LOL. thank u for tuning into my fic lmk if u enjoyed! :) i do have a part 2 planned bc i think clark kent deserves to be kissed

[softvalentines]

pairing: clark kent x reader cw: smut, afab reader, oral sex (f receiving), overstimulation, possessive/obsessive behavior, panty stealing + masturbation with stolen clothing, cum play, mild dacryphilia (crying), implied somnophilia, power imbalance themes (due to clark's strength), fixation/infatuation kink elements, praise kink

clark kent is a good boy.

that much isn’t up for debate, near feels factual in a way that’s more bone-deep than a simple observation. there’s something about the way he listens to you like your voice is gravity itself, like the earth would stop spinning if you told it to, and he’d simply follow suit. like it physically pains him not to obey. nods his head like a schoolboy, cheeks going warm, glasses slipping down his nose, the dark blue of his eyes going glassy the second you so much as suggest something he could do for you. wide, earnest blue eyes, so soft they almost ache to look at when he glances up from between your thighs. the way his brows pinch when you sigh his name, like it physically hurts him to not be inside you.

he’s careful too — always careful, which seems ridiculous when you think about it. when you’ve got a man with hands big enough to crush coal to diamond and he’s kneeling between your thighs like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. he eats pussy like it’s an art, like it’s a duty, like it’s his reward for walking around so soft-spoken and sweet all day. you swear the first time you let him taste you, he damn near cried.

clark always starts slow. a long, deliberate stripe from your hole to your clit, tongue broad and hot, so heavy it makes you twitch. every single time, he bucks into the bed beneath him, rutting down against the mattress with a strangled noise in his throat, like he can’t help it. mutters something soft under his breath that you can never quite catch — something in that old kansas drawl, reverent and filthy at the same time.

“god… you taste so fuckin’ good, sweetheart.”

and then it’s like something unravels in him. he pulls away for just a second, dragging the flat of his tongue over his lower lip, eyes glassy, lips shiny. his glasses always fog up — every goddamn time — slipping a little down the bridge of his nose as he stares at your cunt like it’s some ancient relic he’s been lucky enough to find.

he experiments too. brings a thick, testing finger to your soaked entrance, the pad of it teasing around your hole before he sinks it in to the knuckle. he whines. literally fucking whines at the way you clench around him. his breath hitches, his hips stutter against the bed, and he curls his finger just so, pressing against that spot that makes you jerk.

“oh, baby… yeah, that’s it. so good for me. so fuckin’ pretty when you do that.”

and you don’t stand a chance after that. because clark eats pussy because it makes him feel good. it isn’t for show. it’s because the taste of you is the closest thing to heaven he figures he’ll ever be allowed to have. he drinks you down like a man starved, nosing at your clit, humming low in his throat until your thighs tremble. his biceps flex when you try to squirm away — huge and warm and unyielding as they wrap around your hips, pinning you down to the bed like you weigh nothing.

he doesn’t stop when you cum. no, he groans like it’s his own release and keeps his mouth on you, tongue dragging relentless circles over your overstimulated clit, fingers still curling inside you until your voice goes hoarse and your legs spasm.

“c’mon, baby… gimme one more. you can do that for me, right? so good, baby… so good.”

in the end, he pulls back with your arousal glistening on his chin, cheeks, and nose, his hair a mess, eyes glassy, lips swollen. his glasses askew, barely hanging on, like the poor things had given up the fight half an hour ago. he looks wrecked. like a man who’s spent too long drinking from a cup he knows he’s not supposed to touch, but can’t stop himself from going back for more.

but see — with good always comes bad, whatever bad means for a man like clark kent. and for him, it comes in the form of a terrible, aching, ruinous panty-stealing problem.

it started as a one-time thing. you’d been asleep, room smelling like sweat and sex, and your discarded lace panties lay at the edge of the bed. he hadn’t meant to. really. but then his hand brushed the fabric, and it was damp with you, and something in his gut twisted up sharp. he brought them to his face before he could stop himself, nosing against the crotch, dragging his tongue over the soaked patch. pink turning dark where his tongue drags over the crotch. 

he came in his fucking pants. just from that.

and it only got worse from there. now it’s a habit, a desperate indulgence he tells himself he’ll quit and never does. pink, expensive lace wrapped around his cock, sticky with pre-cum as he thrusts into it in the dark of his bedroom, biting down hard on the pillow to muffle his groans. panting, cheeks flushed deep, hair clinging to his forehead as he fucks himself stupid with your scent in his lungs.

“fuck… fuck, baby… oh god—”

and when he cums, it’s messy. thick, hot ropes of it, clinging to the fabric, dripping over his knuckles as his hips jerk. his whole body tightens up, a long, broken moan of your name falling from his lips like a prayer.

but clark can’t steal. not from you. no matter how low he sinks, it scratches something raw in him to keep them. so he always gives them back. sometimes it’s hours later, sometimes days — but he does. he’ll slide them back into your drawer when you aren’t looking, or tug them up your thighs when he’s got you in his lap, the fabric still sticky and heavy with the obscene amount he spilled into it. mouth moving in a desperate, pleading whisper. “don’t be mad, please don’t be mad… just needed you so bad, baby, couldn’t help it, couldn’t stop thinkin’ about you…”

and you’ll forgive him. because he’s good.

good boy. but not that good.