#clark kent reader

[johannasdeviant]

ꜱᴛᴀʀᴍᴀɴ ᯓ★ part 1

ᴄʟᴀʀᴋ ᴋᴇɴᴛ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ / 4.5ᴋ

.✦── ᴡʜᴀᴛ’ꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀꜱᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ʜᴀᴘᴘᴇɴ ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀꜱᴋ ʏᴏᴜʀ ɴᴇᴡʟʏ ꜱɪɴɢʟᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀᴛᴛʀᴀᴄᴛɪᴠᴇ ᴄᴏ-ᴡᴏʀᴋᴇʀ ᴛᴏ ᴘʀᴏᴏꜰʀᴇᴀᴅ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴀʀᴛɪᴄʟᴇ? ── .✦

𝙩𝙖𝙜𝙨/ 𝙨𝙡𝙤𝙬𝙗𝙪𝙧𝙣, 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧 𝙝𝙖𝙨 𝙣𝙤 𝙥𝙝𝙮𝙨𝙞𝙘𝙖𝙡 𝙙𝙚𝙨𝙘𝙧𝙞𝙥𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣, 𝙡𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩 𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙨𝙩, 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙠 𝙥𝙡𝙖𝙘𝙚 𝙘𝙧𝙪𝙨𝙝, 𝙥𝙖𝙨𝙩 𝙘𝙡𝙤𝙞𝙨, 𝙨𝙢𝙪𝙩 𝙞𝙣 𝙥𝙖𝙧𝙩 𝙞𝙞, 𝙛𝙡𝙪𝙛𝙛, 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙗𝙤𝙩𝙝 𝙨𝙤𝙧𝙩 𝙤𝙛 𝙡𝙤𝙨𝙚𝙧-𝙞𝙨𝙝, 𝗮𝘄𝗸𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗱 𝗳𝗶𝗿𝘀𝘁 𝗱𝗮𝘁𝗲𝘀, 𝗿𝗼𝗺-𝗰𝗼𝗺 𝘃𝗶𝗯𝗲𝘀??, 𝗰𝗹𝗮𝗿𝗸 𝗸𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝗶𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗽𝗹𝗲𝘁𝗲𝗹𝘆 𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗿 𝗹𝗼𝗶𝘀, 𝗱𝗲𝘀𝗽𝗲𝗿𝗮𝘁𝗲! 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿

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You really shouldn’t be so smug about Lois and Clark’s breakup, especially considering how brief their relationship was. You shouldn’t… but here you are, thinking of ways to start a conversation with your freshly single and undeniably fit co-worker.

Yes, he was a bit clumsy and awkward, traits you’d normally label as weaponised incompetence and steer well clear of. But with a face like his? You’d let him get away with far worse.

Clark Kent, in his usual blissful oblivion, probably wouldn’t even notice. Still, you spritzed on your most expensive perfume the one you reserve for dates where you’re almost certain you’ll end up in someone’s bed. You followed a “no makeup makeup” tutorial you found on TikTok, hoping to hide your very obvious desperation behind something that looked effortless. And you wore a skirt just a touch shorter than usual, short enough to be noticed, but not short enough to land you in HR’s inbox.

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You were a good journalist—damn good, actually and an even better writer. So, asking Clark for help on your article about the rise of anti-intellectualism was, admittedly, not the most convincing lie. But it was just believable enough for Clark, who would never even consider a colleague lying to him. One of his very few flaws, really. The man was far too trusting for his own good.

“I’m very happy to help,” Clark said, offering a shy smile. “But what exactly do you need my help with?” He looked genuinely confused probably because you hadn’t actually explained why you needed him, specifically.

He was sitting across from you, slouched slightly in the chair, all long limbs and broad shoulders trying to fold themselves into something smaller. God, he was so big, and yet always tried to make himself less. His fingers fidgeted with a pen he’d grabbed mid-sentence, a nervous habit you hadn’t noticed before but immediately stored in your mental archive of things that made you fall deeper in love with Clark Kent.

“I just needed someone to read over it—get a second opinion,” you replied, cringing inwardly at the transparent lie, hoping to God he wouldn’t catch on that you were really just looking for an excuse to talk to him.

“Oh, um, of course sure. Give it to me, I’ll look over it on my lunch break,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Never mind that his lunch break was unpaid, or that he could probably spend it doing something far more useful than proofreading an article that had already been edited to death.

Goddamn this man. He couldn’t be serious.

You should’ve felt bad. You did feel bad. You were a terrible, selfish person interrupting this man’s one pocket of peace in the day.All for your own ridiculous crush. Especially since the article had already been proofread seven times and was, objectively, ready to go. Not that you’d ever hand over anything short of perfection to your potential future lover. Your ego wouldn’t allow it. Then again, apparently your ego also wasn’t too big to stop you from lying straight to his sweet, trusting face.

“Oh, Clark, you really don’t need to do this,” you said, guilt creeping into your voice. “You should take your break. Read it whenever you’ve got time—it’s honestly no rush. I’ve got two other pieces ready to go before this one anyway.”

You smiled, guilty and sheepish. He smiled back, clueless as ever.

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You usually didn’t bother going out for lunch. A Red Bull and a cigarette were enough to suppress your appetite most days…maybe a granola bar if you were really starving. But you also had a nasty habit of stress eating in stressful situations, and today? Your guilt was practically biting at your insides.

You thought of Lois. Would she have done something like this? Probably not. But then again, she and Clark didn’t exactly work out, so maybe her judgement wasn’t the gold standard you should be following.

So, in a moment of weakness you found yourself at that bagel place everyone in the office had been talking about for months. The one creating abhorrent shit like ‘Labubu Dubai Chocolate Banana Bagel’. Consumerism it seemed, truly had no boundaries.

As you stood in front of the aggressively whimsical menu board, squinting at names that felt more like jokes than food descriptions, you spotted him.

Clark.

Of course.

Luck finally was on your side.

You felt like a teenager again, catching sight of your crush walking the school corridors. It was ridiculous, honestly. You were so down bad. ‘Get it together,’ you told yourself, playing with your hair in an attempt to casually fix it without looking like you were trying.

Then his eyes met yours.

Oh no.

He definitely saw you. He probably thought you were stalking him. Ridiculous. You hadn’t even known he came here. How could you? You two barely even spoke outside of awkward work conversations.

And yet here he was, standing just metres away. And here you were, silently begging the universe not to make this any more embarrassing than it already was.

As you saw him walking towards you,far too quickly for comfort, thanks to his ridiculous height and those long legs you scrambled to think of anything to say. Anything that didn’t make you sound intellectually inept. Just… anything.

“Hey Clark, what are you doing here?”

What are you doing here? Seriously? Your ability to make yourself cringe was becoming truly impressive.

“Oh, um, you know… people at the office have been talking about this place, and it sounded cool, so I came to try one of their bagels. And I don’t have your impressively long article to proofread, so I thought,why not now?” he said with a chuckle, oddly relaxed for once. Not a trace of his usual awkwardness. In fact, he was making you look like the socially inept one.

“Yeah?” you replied, eyes drifting to the dimple in his cheek. God, he really did look like some kind of Greek god. It made you want him to have his way with you right there in the middle of the bagel shop.

No. You couldn’t be thinking like some primal, lust driven creature. Pull it together.

Because it wasn’t just lust, not really. You noticed the small things. Like how he walked slowly and carefully around pigeons so he wouldn’t scare them. How he always watered Jimmy’s plants when Jimmy forgot, every damn time. How he never once came back from his lunch break without bringing you coffee, knowing full well you never went out to eat. And he always got your ridiculously long order right: Big iced brown sugar shaken espresso with almond milk, sugar-free vanilla syrup, and light ice.

You didn’t even notice yourself zoning out.

“Hey, are you okay?” Clark asked, concern softening his features.

“Yes sorry, I, um I was lost in my thoughts. Work thoughts. You know me, a true workaholic,” you said, trying to play it off with a smile.

“Don’t worry,” he replied, grinning. “I really don’t know what to order…are these words even real or just made up.”

He laughed. The kind of sound you wanted to hear for the rest of your life.

“So,” he continued with a playful smirk, “what’s the usual order our top journalist’s getting?”

What has gotten into Clark? This sudden confidence was completely unexpected, but you weren’t about to complain. Someone had to keep the conversation going.

“Do you really take me for someone who’s a regular at a place that sells ‘Labubu Dubai Chocolate Whatever’ bagels?” you asked, raising your eyebrows and returning his smirk. Thank God, your wit was finally catching up after that tragic characterisation of you.

“I’m getting a regular bagel. Extra cream cheese. Everything seasoning.”

“Oh, you’re no fun,” Clark pouted.

You stepped up to the cashier and began to order.

“The same,” Clark said casually from behind you.

“Oh? Didn’t you want to have some fun?” you shot back, the petty tone in your voice unmistakable though it somehow came out sounding flirtier than you intended.

Clark just rolled his eyes with a smile he clearly didn’t want you to see. Then, just as you were about to tap your card, he swiped his first in a flash so fast your eyes barely registered it.

You blinked. “You’re paying? So this is basically a date now?”

The words slipped out before your filter could catch them, your insecurity briefly overpowered by your increasingly desperate desire to end up in his bed. You really were going all in.

Clark went red almost immediately, his ridiculously perfect face flushing with something between panic and delight.

“Um” he started, but you were already beginning to regret being so bold.

Then he gathered himself. “Would you… want it to be a date?”

Oh.

Oh, this was good. He wasn’t backing away, he was just shy. Your heart thudded in your chest.

“What if I said yes?” you asked, your voice smaller now, as your fingers moved anxiously to pick at your cuticles.

You were being a mess. But if not for Clark Kent, then for whom? Who else could ever deserve this kind of desperation?

He gently took your hand in his, stilling your fingers before they could turn your nerves into a bloody mess.

“I’d say you deserve a proper date,” he said softly. “Maybe tomorrow night?”

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You were losing your mind, standing in your apartment, trying on your fourth outfit of the evening.

Everything looked so much better in your head. Nothing was working. You didn’t even know what exactly you were going for. Cute, someone he could actually picture dating? Or maybe sexy, something to ensure the night ended successfully? Or should you go with cool girl—whatever that even meant. You immediately cringed, remembering the “cool girl” monologue from Gone Girl. Yeah, maybe not that.

You wondered if Clark was freaking out about what to wear right now too. Probably not. That man practically lived in his polite, boring grey suit.

After trying on three outfits and hating them all, you ended up going with the first one you’d tried on. A very short navy-and-brown checkered pencil skirt, black tights with grey leg warmers, your vintage brown knee-high boots, a simple navy blue shirt, and your oversized brown leather jacket. Makeup slightly heavier than your usual office face. Brown Stella McCartney bag slung over your shoulder.

You actually looked… pretty good.

Clark, ever the gentleman, was picking you up. He’d been waiting outside for at least fifteen minutes now without sending a single passive aggressive text or a “ready yet?” . Of course not. That wasn’t his style.

Still, you rushed down to avoid keeping him waiting any longer.

And when you finally spotted him outside, standing next to his car you were pleasantly shocked.

No grey suit in sight.

Instead, he wore navy trousers and a white button-up perfectly fitted. Not tight enough to seem like he was trying too hard, but just cling enough to make it impossible to ignore his frame. You’d seen Clark in dozens of shirts. Somehow, this one managed to be… devastating.

“I’m sorry for taking so long,” you said with an awkward, downturned smile, completely unaware of how cute he found it.

He didn’t answer immediately. He was just looking at you.

“You look absolutely stunning… wow,” he finally said, his voice genuinely breathless.

That made you smile wider than you meant to. “You don’t look too bad yourself, Kent,” you replied, and that was enough to make him blush.

He opened the car door for you.

Of course he did.

His car was spotless,clean and polished, like everything else about him. One of your favourite David Bowie songs played softly through the speakers, low enough that you could still talk easily. God, was this man considerate.

“So,” you said, shifting slightly to get comfortable without slouching, “where exactly are we going?”

“That’s a surprise,” he replied, a playful glint in his eye.

And all you could do was sit there and quietly stare at the way his arms looked flexed as he gripped the wheel.

Even just driving, this man looked absurdly sexy.

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Clark was trying his best to hide how nervous he was.

You probably expected a nice restaurant. Candlelight, maybe. Something fancy. It wasn’t too late, he could still reroute, pick a place uptown, order wine, pretend he wasn’t completely out of his depth.

He wasn’t cheap. Sure, working at the Daily Planet didn’t exactly make him rich, but he earned enough to take someone like you out for a nice dinner.

But he kept thinking about Smallville. About how much he used to love picnics. Simple, peaceful, heartfelt. Maybe you would too. He’d even called his momma earlier that afternoon to ask for her recipes. Her famous iced tea, the crispy fried chicken he loved and her key lime pie that tastes like heaven.

This mattered to him. He wanted it to feel personal.

He could also hear the way your heart rate had started ticking up the moment you sat in his car. Getting faster, minute by minute. And as much as he tried not to focus on it, he couldn’t help but feel a little relieved.

You were just as nervous as he was.

Though he didn’t quite understand why. To him, you were way out of his league. You were sharp, witty, intimidating in the best way and gorgeous. He’d always wondered why someone like you didn’t already have a boyfriend. Surely he couldn’t be the only man on Earth with both eyes and a brain.

And yet here you were.

You’d always been kind to him, even when others overlooked him. He remembered how you used to cover for him when he disappeared mid-shift off saving the world, though you had no idea. You never asked questions, just quietly helped him.

You making the first move? That had been a blessing. Because he wasn’t sure he’d have had the courage, not after everything that happened with Lois.

“I should probably tell you,” you said without making any eye contact, “that I’m not very fond of surprises. For next time.”

Next time.

Clark latched onto the words instantly. You hated surprises he’d definitely remember that. But more importantly, you were already thinking about a next time. That was… very good.

He turned to tell you he’d taken note, but before he could even open his mouth, your voice came through, stern and sharp.

“Eyes on the road, Kent.”

Then, almost under your breath, you added, “I expected better from you.”

Clark laughed, caught completely off guard. His eyes flicked straight back to the street as he grinned to himself.

“I read your article, by the way,” he said after a moment, letting the warmth return to his voice. “Let me tell you—you don’t need my help, sweetheart. Next time, I’m coming to you for proofreading.”

Your whole face lit up at that, an automatic, touched “Aww, thank you, ” escaping your lips followed by an unconscious scrunch of your nose that very nearly killed him.

You were truly the sweetest thing he’d ever seen.

Eventually, he pulled the car into a quiet area on the outskirts of Metropolis one he hoped would stay relatively unknown, tucked away. The park was lush and green, filled with wild, blooming flowers and shaded by trees tall enough to drown out the skyline. There was even a tucked-away path that led to a smaller clearing, with a marble fountain at its centre where birds often gathered to chirp and bathe.

It looked like something out of a postcard. He really, really hoped you’d like it.

Clark got out of the car, circled around, and opened the door for you. Then, without a word, he reached into the back seat and lifted out the picnic basket one he’d spent his entire Saturday preparing.

The moment your eyes landed on the scene, your expression softened completely. That look alone made all the effort worth it.

“I hope you’re not allergic to pollen—” he began.

“I love it,” you cut in, already smiling. “It’s Perfect! Really.”

Clark continued setting up the picnic, carefully laying out the checkered blanket, arranging the containers of food. But then a flicker of memory passed through his mind—picnic dates with Lois. He blinked it away.

No. He wasn’t going to be that guy. The kind of man who used one woman to forget another. That wasn’t him. He wasn’t built like that.

Maybe he should’ve waited a little longer before asking you out. Given things more time. He didn’t want to mess this up—not just because you were a kind woman who deserved honesty, but also because you worked together. If this ended badly, he’d be sitting between two women he’d disappointed. That thought alone made his stomach twist.

But more than anything… Clark Kent really liked you. And he wanted this to go right.

You both sat down on the blanket, and he noticed you shifting awkwardly, subtly adjusting your posture in a way that made him realise—ah. You were wearing a skirt. Maybe he should’ve told you this was a picnic. He filed that away under things to do better next time.

“Did you make all this yourself?” you asked, clearly impressed.

Clark smiled, though he didn’t think it was anything too grand. “Yeah, all my mum’s recipes too—especially the fried chicken. I mean, it’s nowhere near as good as hers, but I gave it my best shot.”

You nodded, but the look on your face was… complicated. There was something just a little too bright about your smile. A little too practiced. And then came the tiniest piece of chicken he’d ever seen pinched between your fingers, followed by an even smaller bite.

“It’s so good,” you said quickly. “I love it.”

Clark tilted his head slightly. Your pulse had just spiked, he didn’t need his powers to know that was a lie. Your face said it all anyway. You were a terrible liar.

He bit back a smile.

Rather than call you out on it, he let it slide and shifted the conversation instead.

“So,” he began, “what does our top journalist get up to when she’s not making me proofread her articles during my break?”

He followed it up with a dramatic little sigh and a mock “poor me,” which made you roll your eyes.

“Don’t be so dramatic! You offered and I also declined”

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You couldn’t believe yourself. Really—this was where you drew the line? Years of strong, principled living thrown out the window… for a man with kind eyes and annoyingly perfect smile. You were genuinely about to risk gastrointestinal ruin just to spare Clark Kent’s feelings.

He had probably spent hours on that chicken. He didn’t know—how would he? You never ate at work, and the topic of your ten-year vegetarianism had simply never come up.

The logical part of your brain was telling you: Just thank him and tell him the truth, tell him you don’t eat meat. But then there was the other part of you, the part with no backbone and with overactive people pleasing tendencies —that won. And now you’d eaten something your body would probably reject later tonight.

Lying was starting to become a concerning habit.

Clark, unaware of the moral and gastrointestinal crisis unfolding beside him, turned to you with an easy smile. “So, tell me about yourself,” he said.

This… might’ve been the right moment to mention the whole vegetarian thing. But no. You feared it would only make you look even more unhinged. Like a liar and a lunatic.

You were an interesting person or at least you liked to think so. But whenever someone asked you that question, your brain seemed to go blank.

“Um… I like to read,” you started, trying not to wince at your own underwhelming answer.

“Classics and comics, mostly classics,” you added quickly, searching for something that sounded less dead behind the eyes. “I used to figure skate when I was younger like, seriously. Competitions and everything. Don’t really have time for it anymore except maybe around Christmas.”

You paused, then remembered the one thing that actually mattered to you. “And I volunteer at a homeless shelter most weekends. Saturdays, sometimes Sundays too. Work eats most of my time, but that’s kind of my constant.”

Clark turned to you with real interest. “You work at a homeless shelter? I had no idea.”

“Yeah,” you said, feeling a bit shy now under his gaze. “I’ve been doing it for a few years. It feels good to feel useful, contribute to something good, however little it may seem.You know,journalism’s great, but there’s a certain kind of helplessness that comes with constantly hearing about the worst of humanity.”

“So what about you ?” you quickly asked. “I don’t think you’re nearly as ordinary as people like to think.”

He gave you a soft smile, shaking his head. “You might be wrong there. I’m honestly not all that interesting. I write, even in my free time. Go to the occasional baseball game.Do some gardening. Watch a lot of sci-fi.”

You tilted your head, unconvinced. “Oh, come on. Don’t sell yourself short. You don’t have to be Superman to be interesting.”

Clark then laughed, an actual, proper laugh. Not a chuckle or a shy smile, but a deep laugh that made your stomach flutter . You’d never heard that sound from him before, and now that you had, you already wanted to hear it again. His voice was deep and rich, but never intimidating. More like the vocal equivalent of a warm blanket.

He looked at you, then said softly, “Can I tell you something?”

You blinked, suddenly feeling a little caught off guard. “Yeah, of course.”

“I had no idea you, um… had any interest in me,” he admitted, eyes a little wide.

You looked at him then, really looked. The strong line of his jaw, his warm, impossibly blue eyes, the slight wave in his hair, the curve of his mouth. His broad chest under that crisp white shirt, the sleeves just rolled up enough to make your stomach feel weird. His hands, large and gentle. Everything about him made your thoughts dangerously hazy.

It was still genuinely baffling to you—how could someone like Clark Kent, with that face and that heart, ever doubt that he was wanted?

“Why wouldn’t I be interested, Clark?” you said, your voice quiet but steady, eyes meeting his and holding.

His expression shifted, and you swore you saw his entire chest rise and fall just a bit more heavily.

He wasn’t ordinary. Not even close.

“I don’t know…” he then whispered, eyes drifting downward, a flicker of sadness clouding blue eyes behind his glasses.

And just like that, things turned cold. You hadn’t expected things to take such a turn, so quickly, everything had been going so well. Predictable, maybe, but good. Comfortable. Sweet. Now it felt as though you’d hit a nerve you hadn’t even known was there.

Lois. Was it about Lois?

Was that it? Had your compliment unknowingly pulled at an old scar reminded him of why that ended? Of who she was, and who you weren’t?

The silence made your guilt begin to rise up in your chest.

“I lied,”

Clark’s brow furrowed. “What? Lied about what?”

You exhaled, eyes stinging. The words came out, too fast to stop. “I only said I needed help with your proofreading because I wanted to talk to you. I didn’t know how else to start a conversation and it was stupid and dishonest and I’m sorry. I—I really like you, and I panicked. And then tonight—I ate chicken even though I’ve been vegetarian for ten years just to not hurt your feelings, and now I’m just spiralling and embarrassing myself and honestly you’re probably thinking I’m some unstable, unhinged, lying lunatic and—fuck, if I were you, I’d walk out right now—”

You felt a tear slide down your cheek.

But Clark reached over and gently stopped your rambling, his hand warm and steady as he wiped the tear away.

“Hey,” he said softly, coaxing your gaze back to his. “Shhh. Don’t cry. I would never walk out on a date. And… believe me, I’ve had worse.”

He was trying to make light of the moment, maybe hoping to draw out a laugh from you, but all you could do was stare at him, heart still racing.

“I won’t lie,” he continued, brushing another tear off your cheek, “I don’t love being lied to. But… I’m also incredibly flattered. You’re sweet and smart and you could’ve walked up to me and talked about the weather, and I’d have stood there listening for as long as you wanted. Probably would’ve followed you around the office after.”

That did make you feel a bit better.

Maybe it was the way his fingers lingered on your skin, feather-light and comforting. Maybe it was his voice, calm and kind, grounding you. Or maybe it was just the overwhelming emotions, but before you could think twice, you leaned forward and kissed him.

It was soft at first. Hesitant. Unsure.

Clark didn’t move. For a second, he was still surprised, maybe. Uncertain. You pulled back, the regret rising again, your breath catching.

But then his hands were on your waist, pulling you toward him, and suddenly you were in his lap. His lips found yours in a kiss that was messy and searching.His hand cradled the back of your head like he was scared you might vanish. It wasn’t perfect, your mouths didn’t move in harmony just yet, not like people who’d kissed a hundred times. But it was intimate. Raw. Charged.

Another tear slid down your cheek, and this time Clark pressed a kiss there, slow and gentle.

“Don’t cry, sweetheart,” he whispered against your skin. “It’s okay. I’m not mad. I promise.”

After what felt like just a few seconds gone as quickly as it had come you pulled away, breathless, cheeks flushed. You slid back onto the blanket beside him, fixing your skirt and brushing down your tights with shaky hands. Your fingers instinctively reached up to wipe beneath your eyes, just in case you had any mascara under your eyes.

Clark, still slightly dazed, blinked a few times as if trying to ground himself.

“You ate the chicken… after being vegetarian for ten years?”

Watched Superman a few days ago and realised that Clark Kent is the only man ever! .𖥔 ݁ ˖💌

[bellasweetwriting]

dancing in the moonlight { redkryptonite!clark kent x f. reader } (+18)

masterlist

plot: a shot of red kryptonite makes normally good boy clark kent take you out for a hot night of dancing

warnings: really close dancing , cursing , fingering , reader is lana’s cousin , orgasm , redkryptonite!clark , MDNI (+18)

a/n: this is based on that dance scene in footloose (2011) for reference

You leaned over trying to grab a mug from behind the counter, letting everyone inside the Talon to take a glimpse of your ass in those tight dark blue denim straight jeans that hugged your legs.

Your cousin, Lana, called your name so high it made you turn around abruptly, making you almost drop that mug you were searching for. She had her arms crossed in front of her chest, approaching you angrily.

“Is there reasoning behind showing the strap of your thong to the world?” She questioned you, placing an apron around you that covered your exposed belly skin that your tank top didn’t cover. Lana looked up at your chest, giving up entirely. “If you don’t want to follow dress code, at least try not to flaunt it.”

“You’re just pissed because I’m bringing in clients,” you mocked her, serving a cappuccino in the mug you had been looking for. Your long wavy hair almost reached the start of your jeans, also something that pissed off Lana, since she was afraid a client would find a foot long hair inside an espresso. “You should let loose a bit. I’m going dancing tonight, and you should come.”

“I’m studying with Clark tonight,” Lana told you, awkwardly, which made you look at her. “Stop it.”

“I’m not the one spending the afternoon with my ex,” you mocked, resting your arms on the corner and leaning forward in her direction, staring at her with your siren eyes, your soft long waves spreading over your shoulders, covering a part of your face as you smiled mockingly. “Oh, Clark,” you moaned, biting your lower lip. Lana opened her eyes widely, waving her hands and trying to stop you. What you did instead was close your eyes. “Clark, you’re so hot! But we can’t be together. But you can still fuck me—”

“Really?”

That deep voice took you and your cousin by surprise. You opened your eyes widely, seeing through those strands of hair that covered part of your eye the figure of tall Clark Kent standing behind your cousin, staring at you with a smirk. You pushed your hair behind your ears, placing your hands inside your back pockets as if you were trying to hide.

He was looking at you, definitely having fun around the whole situation. He walked past Lana, placing his hands on the counter. You looked down, staring at his toned biceps and the veins thar recovered his arms. You could imagined those firm abs underneath that white tshirt, making you gulp.

“Can you repeat that?” He asked, softly, placing his index finger behind his ear. “Slower this time, please.”

“Very funny, Kent,” you said twirling your hair before walking away from the counter, keeping your eyes on him.

There was something different, a spark you hadn’t seen before. You liked it. You always searched for spark in guys, and you imagined Clark was too goodie-two-shoes for something like a spark.

“I’ll be ready in a minute,” Lana let him know as she began taking off her apron, as to which Clark stopped her abruptly, surprising you.

The farm boy smiled, showing his pearl white teeth to his ex-girlfriend with a grin you’d never seen before. You could even say he was daring. Taking in consideration his option of clothes that didn’t include his regular use of primary colors, or plaid, you could tell there was something different about him. Something that caught your eye.

“I don’t feel like studying today, Lana. It’s a Friday night. We should do something fun. Like we used to do, remember?”

“I think our fun ran out a while ago, Clark,” Lana said, and you noticed confusion in her tone. “What’s going on with you?”

That’s when Clark turned his blue eyes in your direction, smirking.

“And what are you doing tonight?”

You tried to hide your nervous smile, trying to not let Lana notice how attracted you were to his proposal. You looked at your cousin, noticing how she was staring at you, trying to appeal to your loyalty. And it was working. You could never go out with your cousin’s ex boyfriend. It would be wrong.

So you cleared your throat, you looked at Clark and smiled. “Why do you care?”

“Curiosity. I know you always have something fun to do. Pit of the two, you’re the cousin that likes to let loose.”

You scoffed, while Lana stared at Clark, noticing believing what she was hearing. “She’s going dancing,” Lana finally said, taking you by surprise. “Why don’t you go with her and have that fun you say you don’t get with me?” And with that, Lana turned around and left, leaving you and Clark alone.

Clark took a step forward in your direction, cutting the distance between the two of you. His blue eyes looking at yours before taking a look down at the revealed skin of your chest that you weren’t trying to hide, and he wasn’t trying to keep secret he was checking out.

“I’ll drive,” he said so close to your lips you felt the warmth of his breath. Then, with an inhumane strength, he grabbed you hand and pulled you out of the talon, smirking all the way as he walked.

You quickly took off the black apron and tossed it to one of the chairs, grabbing your coat that hung by the door as Clark dragged you out towards his bike.

❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀

As you walked inside the bar, you felt Clark’s hand placed on your lower back, just about to touch the string of your underwear yet not quite, as if he was keeping himself from it. You guided him inside, making your way towards the counter, where you both sat, face to face.

The lights of the bar barely lit anything, but the greenish blue neon lights that hung from the shelves of the bar were enough to highlight the color in Clark’s eyes, the ones you kept staring at. You were afraid they would turn back to normal, that they would lose whatever spark they had, and Clark would go back to ignoring you.

It wasn’t like you and Clark hated each other, you barely knew one another. When you got to Smallville, he was kind, he offered to show you around, he tried to keep peace with the fact that you were his ex-girlfriend’s cousin, and to you, that’s all he was. To you, he was the reason Lana got messed up, although now you realized you weren’t sure which of the two was hurting the other more.

There was something about the usual good hearted Clark Kent you weren’t seeing right now, and you weren’t sure you liked it or not. You liked boldness, and being direct, the things Clark Kent wasn’t usually known for, as to why this behavior seemed strange to you.

As strange as it was… it also caught your attention enough for you to ditch everything and come to a crowded bar with your cousin’s ex.

“I’ve just realized,” Clark said, turning your stool in his direction, enough for your legs to get intertwined with one another. You kept your lips around the straw of your drink, looking at how the pupil of his eyes grew and darkened when he looked at you. “You and I have never properly talked. I always took you as Lana’s cousin, never noticed you. Well, that’s a lie. I forced myself not to notice you.”

“Because I’m Lana’s cousin and you’re Lana’s ex.”

“And you made it so hard,” he muttered between his teeth, looking down at your chest again. He had lost all control of himself, caressing your arm’s skin with the back of his fingers. “With those tight jeans, always bending down to pick up stuff at the Talon. And those shirts.”

“Look, Clark, I don’t know how long you dated my cousin, I have no idea how serious you guys were. But what I do know is that I’ve been in Smallville for two months and you guys still have something there, even if you guys broke up like a billion years ago. And I don’t want to get in the middle of anything. I’m here for a long time, apparently. It’s not wise for me to get involved in any drama.”

“I like the way you scrunch your nose when you are serious,” he flirted, getting closer to you. He clearly was not listening to anything you were saying. Great, just like any of your other boyfriends. “Look, I came here to see you dance. That’s all I’ve been thinking about during the ride here. Do you want to dance, or not?”

You rolled your eyes, standing up from the barstool and landing right in front of Clark Kent, the start of your neck so close to his nose you felt his exhalations hitting your warm skin, and his eyes simply staring at the exposed skin of your breast, visibly through your corset style tank top. His lips parted in a way that let you know the desire behind his eyes, and you could tell he was imagining your skin entirely exposed to him.

He actually seemed as if he was seeing it rather than imagining it.

“I’ll give you a dance, Kent,” you finally said, watching him as he stood up, towering you over with his incredibly height, and his firm muscles. “If you promise you’re not doing this in some psycho way to piss off my cousin. I’ll only give you a dance if you promise that I’m actually the one you want to see dancing… and not someone else.”

He took a quick glance at you, his side smirk growing before looking at your eyes after checking you out.

“I can actually promise you… I really want to see you dance,” he whispered the last part against your ear, you melting to the sound of his dark, deep voice. “And after that, I’d really like for you to repeat what you said at the Talon.” His fingers stole your skin, leaving you goosebumps as his skin passed yours. “How you want me to fuck you. I really can’t stop thinking about that.”

“I was mocking Lana,” you admitted, your eyes catching his. “What do you have to say about that?”

“That I still liked hearing you moan my name like that,” he admitted you, catching you off guard.

He left a tiny peck on the skin of your neck, catching your head as you moved it to the side to give him space. His fingers got lost in your hair as he opened place for his mouth to touch your skin. You smelled fresh, sweet enough to tempt him. He could smell the wetness of your pants that grew as he got closer, the way your heartbeat raised at his touch, your breathing got uneven, hurried, as you progressively got more… and more… and more turned on.

You wanted him. You weren’t good at hiding it. He could bet that even without superpowers he could be able to tell from the way you let him get closer, from the way your hips betrayed you, and pulled you towards his throbbing cock that grew at the sight of your warm tinted skin that glowed under the bar lights.

You were quick to find the dance floor. The music the band was playing was in an entirely different rhythm to the one you and Clark were dancing. Your leg in between his, his leg pressing down so dangerously close to your center that one wrong movement from his part and you could become undone, and he knew. He pressed his hands against your hips, moving them side to side as his forehead was pressed against yours. The way he breathed made you tremble. You knew he was turned on, you could feel him.

He moved you side to side, his face going down, his nose softly stroking the skin of your breast before continuing his way down, until he was face to face with your pants, your lower belly, the ones he was controlling himself not to unbutton in front of the whole crowd. You ran your fingers through his dark hair as he went back up. Your hand found his white t shirt, pulling him closer to you, his nose touching yours, his lips barely gracing your lips, trying to pull back, but practically impossible to do.

“Clark,” you mumbled, you moaned, but he was quicker.

How? No clue. But magically, at the speed of light, Clark Kent had you going from the dance floor to the bathroom, your back impacting the brick wall of that country bar restroom. He grabbed your thighs, pulling himself closer to you and crashing his lips against yours.

“I love you how you move,” he whispered against your lips, a smile forming to the memory of your hips against his on the dance floor. “Please,” he begged, saying your name as a plead of mercy, so close to your ear you thought that was enough to make you cum, just that. “Can I touch you?”

“Yes,” you tried to make it sound casual, but it sounded more like you were begging for it as well. As if you needed it.

Those flare jeans were unbuttoned so fast you couldn’t even believe it. His hand pressed down your stomach before going down, the soft skin of his fingertips rubbing your clit slowly, that need for touch being fulfilled, your eyes practically rolling backwards as you felt him.

“Do you like that?” He said, moving his two fingers in circles, rubbing your clit so nicely you felt you were about to pass out any minute. “God, you’re so wet.”

Those fingers moved like magic. You tried to control yourself, tried to keep your cool, but you could barely keep yourself straight. You were falling down, sliding from Clark’s grip as you got swamped on the pleasure. He noticed, his fingers briefly leaving your wetness so he could take off his shirt, placing it on the sink counter. He then lifted you up, placing you on top of the fabric that kept you from freezing.

“What a gentleman,” you said with a mocking smile that was quickly erased when his fingers went back inside your pink underwear, and back to where he left off.

You bit your lower lip, your head resting on the wall mirror as Clark’s finger went inside. One first, with ease. Noticing how well you took it, he put another finger inside of you, grabbing the back of your neck with his free hand, and placing kisses all over your skin, going right down to your breasts, and leaving a peck on the top of them.

“You’re not wearing a bra,” he said, groaning. “Are you trying to make me go insane?” He took his fingers out and began rubbing your clit again, hurrying movement, making your eyes roll back as your legs involuntarily trembled in response. “Taunting me. You definitely got me, baby.”

“Clark,” you moaned his name against his ear, catching a deep breath. “Please— keep going. I’m so close.” You closed your eyes, unable to keep up with the speed he rubbed you. Oh, you were in his arms, he got you so opened, so ready, so wet.

His big arms were your doom. The way the veins of his arms were so toned and incredibly visible to your eyes, the way his bicep was so big, and you could see that glorious body he’s always hiding behind layers of clothes. His toned waist, the v-muscle that was so defined it turned you on, his abs that you couldn’t help but to touch.

“You’re so close, baby,” he said to your ear, his free hand sliding inside your shirt, and his index finger touching and rubbing the tip of your nipple, making you lie your back on the mirror once again.

His lips found yours once again, kissing you with such passion, such messiness, that you couldn’t focus in one thing at a time. He was touching you in every spot that made you crazy. Rubbing your clit, grabbing your breasts, kissing your lips, making you his in any way possible.

The orgasm came so strong it made you question reality. You’d never made yourself cum this way, letting yourself melt in his arms, on his body. It wasn’t enough. He wanted you whole, everything you had to give to him, he wanted it. He wanted to taste you, to please you, to make you cum like that over and over again.

You looked so pretty when undone. Your long hair to your sides, traces of your lipstick all over his skin. Your eyes rolled back, trying to close yet being unable to. Your panties all wet.

Clark Kent looked at you, ready to take you whole, when the spark you fell for slowly started dissolving, as the red liquid finally began losing effect.

[drewstarkeytruelove]

my current obsession?

…

i actually need him so bad yall have NO idea

[fawnindawn]

he's all that.

clark kent x reader. (3.2k)

summary: as a reporter of the daily planet, you haven’t been shy of your dislike for superman. clark is desperate to prove to you how superman, and by extension, him, is not as bad as you think.

content: flufff, clark kent being an adorable loser, still a loser as superman, interview banter, superman as the wingman for clark (cheeky ik), silly coworkers having a crush on each other but having no idea its reciprocated, office romance

author’s note: seeing clark’s frustration in the interview and article scene in superman 2025 got my head spinning 😏

“Okay, but why do you dislike him?”

Clark is on his interrogation case again. You don’t blink an eye as he settles across your desk, squeezing into the office chair with one elbow leaning on the armrest as he waits expectantly, almost desperately for your answer.

Every time you publish a new article with your detailed opinions on Superman’s recent actions, to provide an alternate perspective against the other rose-coloured articles of Metropolis’s favourite metahuman, Clark is always the first in line to question you.

“I don’t particularly dislike him.” Typing away at your computer to polish up one of your drafts, you rehearse the same line you tell everyone. “How could I dislike someone I’ve never met?”

“Then why the title?” He huffs. “I mean, come on. 'Superman’s Ulterior Motives In Recent Metropolis Fire Controversy'? You make him sound like a criminal."

“Come on, Clark.” You give him a pointed look. “You know how article headlines work. If I wrote something like “a critical approach to Superman’s latest actions regarding the fuel explosion”, who would read that?”

“I would.” His response is immediate, and it forces you to crane your neck, away from your latest article that’s been giving you writer’s block, to cast your attention to him.

“I appreciate the sentiment, but one reader wouldn’t exactly meet my paycheck’s expectations.”

“Well, I’m sure there are others who would appreciate a less cash-grabby title.” He retorts.

He realises the error in his words the moment he's on the receiving end of your icy glare.

“I have work to do, Clark.” Placing a metal sign that states "DO NOT DISTURB" on your desk, he doesn't need a hint to get that you're telling him to leave. "Even if you don’t appreciate my efforts, you could at least go distract someone else with your critiques.”

Clark knows he’s made a huge mistake. He doesn’t actually think your work is cash-grabby, he just wished you could see him- well, his alter identity in a more positive light. He loves your work, even if it makes him cringe when you point out his flaws with your cutting tongue, getting under his skin better than anyone else could.

You’re brilliant, and he’s just.. him. As Clark Kent, he doesn’t hold a candle to you. You’re fierce, bold and you leave a mark with your words and your presence. He can’t even begin to describe how much he admires you, but you barely even glance his way.

Maybe that’s why he’s in the office, eight on the dot every morning with a coffee in hand for you, asking you about your articles, your thought process, anything to get a few minutes with you.

Now, he’s officially screwed it up. Whatever tolerance you held for him previously, it’s all gone now thanks to his stupidity.

He sighs, shutting down his computer. He can’t even focus, and his eyes were starting to strain over staring at the blank document. Glancing over at you, you’re still typing away, with that same furrow in your brow that he’s memorised in his mind. How could he make it up to you? How could he change your mind?

Shifting his weight, his chair squeaks as he ponders.

“What are you looking at?” Clark jumps, suddenly registering Jimmy’s voice. Its rare for him to not hear footsteps nearing him, and it's only more proof of how much of a distraction you were. “Oh, her. Your office crush.”

“I do not have a crush.” Clark interjects, feeling oddly defensive. Having a crush on you, it makes his neck hot from the mere thought of it. “I just made her angry, and I’m thinking of how to make amends.”

Jimmy laughs. “Unless you somehow snag an interview with Superman for her, I think you’re going to have to wait awhile for her to cool down.”

“What did you just say?”

“That you’ll have to wait awhile?”

“No, the other thing.”

“Oh, an interview?” Jimmy scratches at his head. “I overheard her talking to Lois about how she’s stuck on her most recent article, and that she wished she could have a one-on-one with Superman to hear his perspective.”

That’s it. He may have screwed it up with you as Clark Kent, but Superman may be able to salvage this. Clark practically leaps off his chair, giving Jimmy a grateful squeeze. “Thank you, man. Seriously, I owe you.”

“Woah, dude. You’re heavy.” Jimmy huffs. “You’re welcome? But how are you going to get Superman to agree? It’s not like you have his contact or anything, do you?”

Clark doesn’t bother to reply, determination coursing through his blood as he walks out the office. Nearly out of ear-shot, he still hears Jimmy’s ‘Wait, Clark! Do you?’ repeating as an echo through the walls.

By the time you've managed to break a paragraph into your latest article, you feel that incoming headache and back-pain on its way to torment you for your incompetence. There's this block in your mind that refuses to be drained, and your tension with Clark earlier this morning certainly didn't aid you in your focus. You look up, noticing that the office is practically empty, and that most of the lights are off except for a few desk lamps from other co-workers who haven't left either.

You eye Clark's desk discretely, only to feel a pang of disappointment that he's already left. You rarely fought with him, as much as he was an insistent Big Blue fan. He was the sweetheart of the office, and on some days, you'd like to think he extended his sweetness a little more to you than everyone else. After today's conversation, you probably soured his impression on you after bashing his favourite metahuman in your headlines.

There's some part of you that worries you won't see him at your desk tomorrow with your coffee and another debate ready on his lips. He had left so early, which is incredibly unlike him. He couldn't possibly still be upset that you told him to bugger off, did he? He didn't seem like the type to hold a grudge, but maybe today was a step too far?

You shook your head, trying to shake off all your thoughts about your strange co-worker with his oddly charming demeanour and a size too large for his clumsy antics. Maybe you should pack up and go for a walk to clear your head. Sitting around here wasn't doing you much good other than increasing the hours of your back and eye strain.

Metropolis was nice at night. The city, which was always packed with crowds and honking cars, had quiet down at this hour. You watched as the lights went out in the tall buildings around you, signaling people leaving their work stations or going to sleep for the day.

If only you could get your hands on an interview opportunity with Superman. Funnily enough, despite having lived in Metropolis your whole life, you've never seen the hero who was so beloved in people's hearts. Other than social media spottings and the morning news, you have never seen the actual man who captivated Metropolis.

Kicking a crushed soda can on the sidewalk, you wonder if your bad luck in sighting him has to do with your articles being the singular negative perspective in the Daily Planet.

"Should I consider that as littering?"

Your head snaps up, and you.. can't believe it.

"Superman." You gasp, and realise this is probably the first time you've addressed him to his face rather than through an article.

He smiles, and you're surprised by how human it is. He bends down, picking up the soda can you kicked and tossed it into the nearest trash can- which was nearly ten feet away.

"You shouldn't be out alone this late." He comments. "The city's crime rate is higher at night."

"Isn't that what you're here for?" You ask. "To keep the city safe?"

His dimple deepens, and he lowers his head in a nod. "I do my best, but I can't be around every area no matter how fast I try to fly."

"Right." Through your daze, only one thought comes through with sharp clarity. You can't lose this opportunity to interview him. "Um, actually. I'm a news reporter from the Daily Planet. I was wondering if we could have a-"

"An interview?" His voice is filled with mirth. "Of course."

That was easy. Easier than expected. The daunting task and envy of Clark being able to secure interviews with Superman so easily seems less intimidating now, but you find yourself at a loss of what to ask as you prepared your recorder.

"What is your line of thought regarding the recent Metropolis fire?" You decided to start there, the topic most fresh in your mind from having just published the article this morning.

"I saw people that needed saving, so I did just that." He answers.

"However, when you saved the culprits who intentionally started the fire and insisted they be brought to the hospital and taken care for, you received a lot of criticism for not considering the victims who had to watch you care for the culprits."

"In life or death situations, I don't place people in boxes based on their roles. I do think the culprits need to face the consequences of their actions, but they were also injured. A life is still a life."

"You have very strong morals." You responded. "However, people are concerned on whether your judgement can be misplaced one day, and that you'll let the wrong people walk off free because you only cater to your own morals. What do you have to say to that?"

"If I had to consider what everyone wanted before I made a decision, I would have lost a lot of lives. In my situation, I will always be prone to making mistakes, so I try to make the ones I'll least regret."

"That is true." You answered, not expecting him to be so honest and open to your intrusive questions. "You are one of the only few metahumans in Metropolis. Have you ever felt out-casted by living on Earth?"

"Not really." He shrugs. "I always saw myself as human. I was raised by human parents with a normal human life. I am a Metropolitan as much as everyone else here."

"Just with ridiculous strength and the ability to fly." You point out.

He laughs. "And that too."

He walks alongside you as you add on more questions, your excitement palpable over the chance to finally have a real debate with the man himself. He's charming- irritatingly so, and sometimes, you have to force yourself to focus on what he's saying and not the way his eyes glimmer under the street lights, or how his height makes you crane your neck to look at him in the eye.

“So do you swoon all reporters this way to keep your pristine reputation?” You tease.

“Nope.” That damn dimple of his. “You’re the first person I’ve ever done this with.”

“Interviews? You sure give plenty to Clark.”

“Clark?" His expression freezes for a moment before relaxing. "Ah, that Daily Planet reporter? He’s a nice guy who happens to be around whenever I.. save people.”

“Yeah, tell me about it.” You huff. “He might be your biggest fan.”

He takes note of your tone, the near sigh at the end of it. “Do you not.. like him?”

“No, I never said that! It’s just that..” How could you tell Superman of all people that you had a disagreement with Clark just this morning about him? “I was a little harsh with him this morning.”

“How so?”

“Well, before I met you.” Evading your gaze, your force yourself to admit the truth. “My impression was different to his, and it was quite obvious from my articles. He commented that my works were cash-grabby.”

“That’s a rude thing to say.” He responds.

“Really?” You implore. “I mean, I wasn’t exactly kind when twisting my words to fit the narrative of what sells. I didn’t consider how you also have feelings, and that you’ll probably feel horrible if you read what I wrote. Maybe I felt defensive about what he said because I was scared he’d be right.”

“Well, he isn’t right.” His gaze is determined, so sure his words are the truth. “Your articles are amazing, and he’s a fool to comment on them so carelessly.”

You blink. “You read my articles?”

He realises his accidental confession, his lips stuttering to come up with a response. “Occasionally.” He coughs, being the one to avert his gaze this time. “I am a Metropolitan, and you make good headlines for the news covers. Even I can be curious about what the Daily Planet writes about me.”

”My, if Superman is keeping an eye on my writing, I’ll have to be careful on what I say.”

“No, I like your honesty.” There he goes again with that smile. You understand what people mean when they say it blinds you. “It’s refreshing. And it’s good journalism.”

You snort at his words. “If Clark heard you say that, he’ll never dare critique my articles again.”

“You sure do mention Clark a lot.” He murmurs. “Is he a close colleague or..”

“Oh, not really.”

For some reason, his expression dampens at your words.

“He’s, how do I put it?” You mutter. “He’s like this ball of sunshine. He’s always got something nice to say to everyone, and a real big heart. He'll help out when the photocopier is down, when someone could use an extra coffee, when someone needs a proofreader. He’s the complete opposite of me. It's like he came into this world to help others.”

“Is that a bad thing?” He asks.

“No, actually I-” You bite your lip, wondering if you should tell him. I mean, it’s not like him and Clark are tied to the hip or anything, it’s practically the same as telling a stranger. “I kind of do- like him.”

Superman is silent. Deathly silent. It’s like he’s going through cardiac arrest, and you hurry to speak to clear the air. “You can’t tell him. I swear, not even my closest friends know about this.”

He seems to be recovering from your words, with a small grin raising the left corner of his lips. “I can keep a secret.”

“No, seriously. No one except you and my cat knows about this.” You sigh, feeling the flurry of emotions overwhelm you. “He drives me crazy.”

He looks like he’s trying to contain his laugh, making you feel even more silly. “How so?”

“He never gives me a break to recover from well, him. It's like he's always ready as soon as I reach the office with my favourite coffee, having already read through my entire article even if I published it minutes before. He’s always hogging my desk and asking me questions during my break too, and I do my best to not feel special because he treats everyone nicely.”

“From the way you put it, I think he likes you too.”

“Seriously?” You ask, trying hard not to be swayed by his confidence. He's looking at you so earnestly as he says it, it's almost like he knows he's right.

“Why don’t we do a little test?” He offers. “Does he wait to give coffee to other people in the morning?”

“No..”

“Does he ask other people about their articles?”

“Not that I know of?”

“Does he spend time with others during break or is it always just with you?”

You’re silent, feeling the racing of your heart. Superman smiles again, as if he already knows the answer you refuse to accept.

“I think you should have a talk with him.”

The moments you had with Clark flash through your mind. All the times he was so considerate with you, so passionate, and.. how you ended things today with him during your conversation. You didn't want to lose him, not when you had a chance to turn things around. “You know, Superman? Maybe you're right.”

The next day, after Superman graciously dropped you off at your apartment per your directions, you feel your anxiety clogged up in your throat as you wait for the office elevator. Your foot taps anxiously, wondering if you should truly take the advice given to you and confess to Clark.

Worse case scenario, you get rejected and have to face a lack of free morning coffees and interrogations for the rest of your career. That realisation does pummel your spirits down a little. You do like his interrogations, even if you had to be held at gunpoint to admit it.

You reach your floor, and step out with a chaotic choir shrieking in your chest, instinctively looking to your desk where Clark would usually be waiting with your coffee. Your heart seizes when you find no one there. Right, maybe this is a sign that your plan is bogus and you should come back to Earth, instead of listening to some metahuman’s love advice-

A call of your name interrupts your train wreck of thoughts. You turn around, and Clark is standing there with your coffee.. and a bouquet in hand.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to be late.” He stammers. “Your favourite coffee spot was crowded today, and the florist was on the opposite side of town, and I wasn’t sure what flowers you liked.”

“Also, I’m really truly sorry about the other day.” It’s like he’s on a marathon but with words, spilling sentences out like he’s rehearsed them beforehand. “I didn’t mean to call your articles ‘cash-grabby’. You’re an amazing writer, probably the best I’ve ever met, and I don’t want you to feel insulted by my stupid comments-”

You step closer, ignoring his rant and place a kiss on his cheek, stopping him in his tracks. His lips are still parted midway through his sentence, only now, there’s no sound coming out from him.

“Thank you, Clark.” You replied, ignoring the shakiness of your hands. “And lilies are my favourite, so good guess.”

He swallows dryly, blinking like a morse code pattern as he tries to find something, anything to respond to you. “Well- Right. That’s good. Flowers are good.”

You laugh, taking the coffee from his hand to take a sip, mostly to ease your nerves from your impulsive action. The faint scent of coffee and peanut butter was still lingering in your mind from having been so close to him. “I have a new article on Superman." You brought up, trying to seem casual as you toy with the back of your chair. "I thought you would like to have a read.”

That seems to kick him back into his senses, his response arriving as soon as you stopped yours. “I would love to.”

You move the monitor to make the article visible to him. “I’ve come up with a few pointers, but I need help with the title. Do you want to.. work over it while getting lunch together?”

“Yes!” He exclaims, a grin so wide on his face it nearly splits it in two. “I mean, yeah." He shrugs, a light red coating his ears. "I would be glad to help out.”

You can’t help the grin that slips out when you see his, which is as infectious or even more so than Superman’s. Maybe Clark was right about Superman being more than the words you wrote about him in the past. Yet, it was the man in front of you now.. that held your heart.

a/n: I love him so much. The movie was so good, I was geeking the entire time. I have so many more fics I want to write for Clark, I can’t wait!

[thebestandworstdayofjune]

you can hear it in the silence

summary: you have had an insane crush on Clark since he moved to metropolis, but thank god he has no idea about the way he makes your heart skip a bear every time he smiles (honey, you've got a big storm comin') wc:  1k+  a/n:  Please feel free to send any requests my way!  warnings: general fluff, reader owns a bookstore, reader has no idea about clark's powers, as always the title is from a Taylor Swift song- sue me

“It’s not a big deal, Clark.” you insist, phone squished between your ear and your shoulder. 

“It’s a big deal to me.” he insists, an unusual heaviness to his voice. 

“It will take a while, but I'll manage, I mostly just called to complain.” You surveyed the boxes stacked up in front of the storefront, hands on your hips and a frown playing at the corner of your lips. When your grandmother had left you her quaint bookstore in downtown Metropolis, you had half a mind to sell it off to the first interested buyer. You’d gone as far as contacting a realtor, but cancelled the first showing at the last minute. 

Too much of your childhood was nestled in between the children’s books and the non fiction shelves, too many memories of your grandmother hosting story time and holding copies of the new releases you’ve been dying for to be able to part with it. 

You’d given everyone the day off, a few employees were headed to a festival in the park, someone was on a family vacation and overall, it was meant to be a slow day at the shop. And it was, until the delivery man left you with 30 hulking boxes of new release hard covers. Worse yet, it looked like it was going to rain. 

“I’m on my break, I’ll head over.” 

It was pointless, to argue, once Clark had an idea in his head, he was stubborn. But you were a bit of a slow learner. “By the time you get here your break is going to be awful. I’m sure that traffic is terrible because of the festival.” 

“You have such little faith in me!” you turned to find Clark a ways down the block, arms stretched out, his suit just a big too big on his frame. His hair was windswept, glasses slightly crooked perched on his nose. He jogged towards you, a goofy smile on his face. 

“How do you keep doing this?” If you didn’t know better, you would swear that Clark was psychic. He was somehow always exactly where you needed him to be. 

Clark slung an arm around your shoulders, pulling you tight against his side for a moment. “Just gifted I guess.” He gave you another squeeze before releasing you and stepping back to assess the situation. “You sure you ordered enough?” 

You playfully shoved him, but he didn’t even wobble. Clark had been your rock ever since he moved into the city. You’d been close falling off a ladder, stretching to dust the top of a shelf when the ladder had begun to tilt. He’d tripped over a stack of books on the way, but he managed to prop the ladder back upright, you along with it. “We have that signing in a couple weeks, didn’t want to run out.” 

All he did was nod, shrugging off his suit jacket that somehow was just a bit too big for his frame and rolled up the sleeves of his white button down. “We’ll take care of it,” he said, voice sure. And with the way he managed to lift three of the boxes as if they were full of pillows, you were inclined to believe him. 

It had taken the two of you all of five minutes to get everything inside, not that Clark had allowed you to move more than the first box. “You make a way better doorman anyways.” He joked without malice. You were leaning up against the counter, your shoulder bumping into his arm. 

“Don’t say I never do anything for you, Clark.” 

“I never would.” Your gaze was fixed firmly on the floor, but you could feel the intensity in his gaze burning into the side of your head, regardless. You settle for leaning a bit of your weight against him, taking comfort in his arm wrapping around your shoulders, pulling you close. 

“Wait,” you turned, nearly crawling across the counter to wake up the computer sitting on the other side of the counter. “You’re going to be late!” 

“When have I ever been late?” you could hear the laughter in his voice, but you ignored it in favor of grabbing his bag and slinging it over his shoulder. You grabbed his shoulders, and mercifully he let you guide him to the door. You knew from past experience if he didn’t want to go, there was no way to move him. 

“Last week, I was stranded at the Thai place down the street!” 

He stopped dead in his tracks, leaning against the doorway and pushing the curls resting on his forehead away with the back of his hand. He grinned, his eyes crinkling at the sides. “For how long?” 

“That’s not the point, you presented the information as an objective truth!” you resisted the urge to stomp your foot, he was already looking pointedly at your crossed arms and making the face he does when he’s trying not to laugh in your face. 

“I asked a question, I think the trouble lies in your interpretation.” He was leaning down to meet your eyes, and you were thankful there was no way he could hear the way your heart was pounding. "And it was only five minutes."

You shoved him gently, ignoring the fact that he didn’t so much as wobble. “You’re going to be late, go!” You both paused, the moment heavy between you. All you could focus on was the rise and fall of his chest under your hands for a few moments. One of his hands rested over both of yours, squeezing briefly before stepping back and letting your hands drop. 

“Be careful on the ladder this time.” 

“Go!” 

He lingered for a few moments longer, giving you a final once over before nodding to himself and spinning on his heel. After a few steps, he turned around to face you, his head sticking up above the crowd of people on the sidewalk. “We still on for dinner?” 

“Late!” you laughed, waving him off. He raised his eyebrows, unphased by the people forced to part around him. “Yes! Now go!” 

You stood in the doorway, watching him duck and dodge the other pedestrians for longer than you would admit, thankful that he hadn’t turned and caught you. 

Unfortunately for you, even in a crowd of people with his back turned, he couldn’t help but be aware of you. You just didn’t know it yet.

[hanasnx]

ᯓ★ “ NEED A FRIEND YOU CAN FUCK, I CAN BE THAT ” — clark kent.

MINORS DNI 18+ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ ✉️ | dc comics. NOTES: i haven’t seen this movie yet so unfortunately i don’t know much about his characterization other than the trailer content. WARNINGS: fem reader ノ established relationship ノ explicit sexual content ノ size difference ノ david!clark has huge dick syndrome ノ mentions of reader having hair ノ trying out the mating press position ノ talking you through it ノ allusions to pussy eating ノ p in v ノ unprotected sex ノ emphasis on eye contact.

“Clark… I don’t know about this…” you hedge, twisting the tip of your nail between the narrow space in your biting teeth. As your confidence wanes, a large and soothing hand smooths down from your shoulder to your arm. The calluses scratch you in a most pleasant way, and it relaxes some of the tense in your shoulders. You peer up at him uneasily, searching for reassurance as he adjusts to stand on his knees, rearranging your body when he tugs you down by your hips until you’re settled deep into the pillows of the bed. You sit pretty for him, the little nighty you had on having ridden up to show him what’s underneath. At the sight of it again, his tongue rolls between his lips.

“Just… keep your eyes on me.” he calms you, his fist coming to rest next to you on the mattress, and it dips with his weight as he fixes to hover over you. He’s so close to you now, blanketing you under his large body and the urge to capture his lips in a kiss from muscle memory is conveyed by the jut of your neck, reaching for him. Coolly, he lifts his chin to dodge it, making sure he knows you’re focusing. “Remember what we talked about?” It’s an instruction to relay it, and your feet curl to fiddle with your toes in your socks, your fingers mirroring them in a nervous habit. You glance down, biting onto your lower lip, only to meet his gaze and be pacified by the kindness in his eyes. You tilt your head to your shoulder, staring at him lovingly.

“Mhm.” you respond and nod obediently, your hair tickling your skin. “‘Stay still.’” you parrot, and when his face breaks out in a grin, you mimic it.

“No, no, that was before.” he chuckles, inclining over to peck you on your hair for such a cute mistake. Instead, his eyes darken from the recollection as he holds your gaze, and you feel warm in your chest. You had been squirming too much when his mouth was on you earlier, layering open kisses on your wet heat to help you loosen up. Even when he locked his arms around your thighs, you couldn’t help but try to fight him, he didn’t even budge. Instructing you was necessary to remind you to be good for him, otherwise you’d still be trying to run from your own orgasm. He reiterates the other conversation, “Gotta try to stay relaxed. Deep breaths. Can you do that for me?” You make a show of thinking for a second, but end it with another nod all the same. At your permission, he begins to enact the position you’d be talking about before—the one you’ve never gotten to do with him. “It’ll be like last time, okay?” he talks you through it as he kneels to maneuver you again, and the loss of his body heat makes you shiver. “We’re gonna let you get used to it first.” One leg is raised to hook your ankle on his shoulder. “Let’s start with one.”

In a burst of confidence, you cry, “Both!” and Clark looks at you crooked, wearing questioning brows and a little smirk that affirms your decision. “Do both.” you repeat, lifting your other leg with a point of your toes to reach his shoulder. His palm catches it, and takes it the rest of the way, settling both of your feet on either side of his neck. His hips push out, and your eyes flicker to his hard abdomen feeding into his v-line, that trail of pubic hair leading to the bulge in his pants.

Carefully, he stretches you out, folding you in half as he crawls back on top of you until your knees have hooked properly onto his shoulders. You squeak at the sensation of the bands in your thighs now taut, “Feeling okay, duchess? Need to start with something different?” he asks, you can hear the concern in his whisper, and feel his breath fan your cheek.

“No, I’m okay, I’m okay.” you insist, your eyes falling closed until he peppers kisses onto your jawline. Your lashes flutter open when you remember what he said. Keep your eyes on me… “I want you, Clark. I really do.”

“I’m not even in yet and I can already hear your little heartbeat. Are you sure?” he speaks through latching his mouth onto your neck, tasting your pulse on his tongue. He ends the suck with a wet pop, and you wiggle your hips with need at his frustrating stalling. “We can go back to what we were doing before. I don’t mind.” He certainly eats your pussy like he doesn’t mind, but right now you need something a little harder.

“Mhm. Please. Please?” Your brows skew into something pathetic, the way he’s talking to you has you twitching around nothing, and you feel his grin against your neck.

He rears to meet your eyes, a gentle hand coming to brush a lock of hair behind your ear. “Yeah,” he says quietly, “yeah, let’s try it. Just keep talking to me, okay? Don’t try to be brave.” Something about eye contact and the sound of undoing his pants makes you flood, watching him with your hazy bedroom gaze as he grips the base to feed into you. His tip brushes your clit and you suck in through your teeth with a hiss. Clumsily, it searches for the give, and your hips chase it even though your tailbone is suspended in air right now. As he sinks the head in, you both inhale, and you witness the twitch in his eye as his pupils darken, buttering your insides with pre as he gently ruts into you with just an inch.

You reach for him, fingers tangle in his hair, and you clutch onto him as you ride out the sting of being stretched. “More,” you tell him breathlessly, “more, Clark…” The way you’re looking at him, the way his name pours from your parted lips like sex, his jaw slacks as he starts shoving in for his sake more than yours. You just feel so good. Warm and soft, he can’t help but beg for your heat to be wrapped around more of him. You moan in anguish, your back arching off the bed as just half of him hurts. He scolds himself for acting like a dog, pulling out enough for you to notice. “No!” you whine, desperation clear on your tongue, your grip releases him to grab onto the loose waistband of his pants hanging off his hips. You use the fabric as handlebars, yanking him toward you. You’ve got no hope of overpowering him, but it’s enough to show him what you want. “Please, Clarkie, please—“

Your feet bob in suspense as he forces more of himself in, sinking an inch away from the hilt as the last of your resolve melts, as if he’s battering you open with each stroke. Keeping your eyes on him is too much when your eyes can’t focus, lazing into the back of your head as he hits that spongy spot inside you perfectly at this angle. “It’s… so deep. It’s so deep, you’re so deep…” you babble, your chest jumping as he sheathes all the way in over and over again. Sweetly, he lands on his elbows, freeing his hands to cradle your head. Noises fill the room, skin smacks skin, grunts escaping his nose, your pretty lofty moans. It’s a symphony. A love letter from body to body. You ache and drool around his cock lodged so deep up your guts you can feel him in your throat.

“You look so beautiful like this…” Clark manages to say through his efforts, and he feels tremors build in your legs. “What’d you call this position again?”

“M-“ you stutter, “mating press.”

“That’s right. A mating press.”

@HANASNX 2025 | do not copy, plagiarize, or steal.

[sceletaflores]

─ ✮⋆˙ 𝑯𝑰𝑻 𝑴𝑬 𝑯𝑨𝑹𝑫 𝑨𝑵𝑫 𝑺𝑶𝑭𝑻 || 𝑪𝑳𝑨𝑹𝑲 𝑲𝑬𝑵𝑻

MINI NAT’S NOTE: i haven’t stopping thinking about this loser kansas failure man since friday. i literally got out of bed to write this because i can’t sleep. hope y’all love it, mwah!

CW: 18+ SMUT MDNI, fem!reader, rough sex, service top clark, he whimpers cause i said so, sexy uses of x-ray vision, clark kent can FUCK, super stamina yes god, hyperspermia, superman’s super huge dick, belly bulging, porn w.o plot, no use of y/n.

"Clark, please—"

Your voice breaks on his name, swallowed by the sound of the headboard slamming into the way again and again and again.

Your thighs are shaking, pinned wide open by Clark’s hands, his grip near desperate as he ruts into you with a punishing force. It’s not as hard as he could go, you know that he must be biting through his lip trying to control himself. You wish he could go harder, that he could really give it to you. 

He deserves it. He works so hard, he deserves a nice warm hole to pound into after saving the world for the hundredth time—or after turning in another perfect front page piece to Perry.

You’ve brought it up a few times, when Clark was too drunk off the feeling of your lips against his own and the taste of your tongue on his to shy away from the conversation.

You could take it, you’d take anything he gives you with open arms and spread legs and a smile on your face.

Clark’s far too sweet to ever pin you down and just take. He’s a gentleman through and through, he was taught to treat ladies with respect. Superman isn’t an exception to those good farm boy manners of course, no matter how many times you’ve daydreamed about him flying through your window and tossing you on the mattress and using you.

God, you really do love him like this though.

“Sorry,” he pants, forehead pressed to yours, dark curls mussed. “I’m sorry, I can’t—I can’t stop. You feel too good, baby, you’re so good.”

Clark’s voice breaks on the last word like he’s begging you to understand, but the thrust of his hips says otherwise. There's nothing apologetic about the way he’s fucking you—like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. Like his survival depends on it. The bed’s screaming under the weight of his body, your body, his strength.

Your spine arches off the bed as his hips slap against yours hard enough to sting, wet and relentless. “Clark,” you gasp, nails raking down his back uselessly. “Don’t stop. Please—don’t stop.”

His cock splits you open again and again, thick and flushed and incessant, pistoning deep and hard and needy. It’s too much. It always is. Too thick, too long, the fat head of him kissing up against something so deep inside you it shouldn’t be physically possible.

The room smells like sex. Sweat and musk and Clark—rain, ozone, sunlight. The sound of your bodies coming together bounces off the walls, the wet slap of skin on skin. The filthy, slick noises of your pussy sucking his cock deeper makes your ears burn.

You’ve lost count of how many times you’ve come. Clark hasn’t. Of course he hasn’t.

“Five,” he groans, burying his face in the sweaty expanse of your neck. “You’re so sensitive now, baby, I know—I can hear it, your heartbeat skips every time I do this—” he pulls out, just halfway, then slams forward and stays there, his cock so deep your stomach distends a little. “Gosh, look at that.”

You’re soaked, ruined, you know it. You’ve been trembling under him for five rounds, but you love it. Every ragged thrust, every strangled apology he can’t stop moaning, every load he pumps into you like his body has to. You wrap your legs tighter around his waist, drag him even deeper, and Clark whines.

“I’m—fuck—I’m gonna come again—please, baby, let me—please—”

He’s come three times already. You can feel the wet, hot mess he’s made of you, dripping down your thighs, soaking the sheets. You’re already so full. You feel full.

The last time he came inside you he barely gave you a minute before he was hard again, aching and apologizing even as he buried himself back in your cunt. His come is still dripping out of you in thick, creamy ropes, and he still hasn’t stopped chasing it. He can’t.

"Yes." Your legs wrap tighter around his waist. You want it. You need it. “Give it to me, Clark.”

That's all it takes for him to lose it again.

His body locks up—hips jerking, mouth falling open with a loud, broken moan.

You cry out as you feel him twitch deep inside you, and then it happens again—hot, endless, thick spurts of come painting your insides, filling you up so full it hurts. Clark’s gasping, his mouth falling open against your shoulder, his whole body trembling. 

His cock doesn’t go soft, it never does. Not when he’s buried in you like this. Not when you keep fluttering around him, squeezing down like you want to milk every last drop from his body.

“Shit, I didn’t mean—‘m sorry—I keep—” His hips stutter and then roll again, like he’s addicted to how you feel around him, like stopping would kill him. “It’s too much—I know, baby—I just—you make me so messy—”

There’s even more come leaking down your thighs in thin streams of white, soaking the sheets, slicking his cock every time he pulls out just to slam back in. You can feel how slippery everything is now, how swollen you are, how stretched. And still—he doesn’t stop.

“You—shit, you take it so good,” he moans. “My good girl—my pretty girl—look at you, look at how much I gave you.”

Clark looks down, a soft groan rips out from somewhere deep in his chest at the sight of his cock punching up inside of you. His eyes go, glassy and unfocused for a moment. That’s the only warning you get before he tilts his hips ever so slightly, and you’re crying out when he hits that spot up inside you perfectly on the next thrust.

That’s a definite perk of dating a metahuman, x-ray vision. You know that even without any special powers he could take you apart until you were a crying, shaking mess. That being said, the MRI eyes help.

Clark has spent hours learning each and every part of your body, inside and out. He’s made a home between your legs and watched your nervous system light up more times than you can count. 

He’s watched the way your dopamine levels spike when he mouths at your clit just right, the way your pulse lights up when his fingers slide deep and curl at just the right angle. He’s studied you like scripture, like a blueprint.

You cry out, screwing your eyes shut as your hands slide down his back. You revel in the feel of him on top of you, the muscles of his back rolling and working under your greedy touch. You’re going to come again, you know you are. The spring inside of you starts coiling tighter and tighter with each thrust.

“Please,” Clark gasps, nearly sobbing it. “Let me—one more time, I promise—please—I know you’re full, baby, I know—just one more.”

“You’re gonna break the bed again,” you gasp, too dumb and lost for words to say anything else.

Clark doesn’t respond—maybe he can’t. Maybe he’s already too far gone to hear anything but the desperate squelch of his own come leaking out of your ruined pussy and down the hard length of his cock.

“I love you—I love you so much," he mutters incoherently, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles over the meat of your hips as his cock carves a place for itself inside you. "You feel too good—god, you were made for me.”

The mattress jerks violently beneath you with every thrust—you can feel the wood frame groaning, splintering. Not the first time. Probably won’t be the last.

It’ll be worth it.

MINI NAT'S NOTE: anyway this movie changed my life. i started rewatching 70s superman the second i got home. james gunn thank you for making superhero movies with love and whimsy again.

thank you so much for reading, love you!

[scribes-of-valar]

𝐴𝑙𝑙 𝐴𝑚𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑐𝑎𝑛 𝐵𝑜𝑦

▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||| ᴄʟᴀʀᴋ ᴋᴇɴᴛ x fem! reader

A/N: I watched maybe two seasons of this show last year and kind of moved past it. I randomly got a Clark Kent fic on my feed last night and suddenly I have a demon in my brain telling me to write. Anyway, there is a horrendous lack of full fledged, non-smut fics for this man, so, here you go.

Summary: Your friend has been distant for months, all of a sudden he's a brand new man. He's practically a puppy dog following after you and you're not sure how to feel. What's a girl to do when she suddenly finds herself looking at not one, but two Clark Kent's?

“Have any plans?” You pull your English book from your locker, fingers stilling as you wait for Clark to respond. Silence stretches between you, long enough to make your brows furrow in confusion. Peering around the edge of your locker door with narrowed eyes, you let out a sigh. 

You should have seen this coming. As always, Clark is staring at Lana from across the hall, looking like he walked straight out of a sappy romance movie. 

She’s close, so close, but entirely out of his reach. She laughs, tucking a perfect, shiny strand of hair behind her ear, completely unaware of the way Clark pines for her. Always pining. Always looking at her like she’s the only girl in the world. 

You could gag. 

Slamming your locker shut, perhaps harder than necessary, you break Clark out of his trance as he flinches away from the noise. His head snaps toward you, blue eyes narrowed on the irritated scrunch of your face. You smile, forcing the snark out of your expression. 

“Did you say something?” His voice is kind, expression open, as though he’s finally ready to listen. But the bell rings, cutting into the moment. You only have a minute to sprint to the other side of school. 

“No,” you sigh, forcing the stilted smile to stay on your face, “I gotta go.”

“I’ll walk with you,” he offers, falling into step beside you. “That way you can tell me what you actually said,” he teases, giving you that familiar boyish grin that never fails to make you unravel. 

You bite your tongue for a moment, mind unraveling as you struggle with telling him the truth or not. This is stupid. He’s Clark, your best friend. Your stupid, oblivious, beautiful best friend. But the way he looks at you, soft and warm as he slows his stride so he can walk together a little longer. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to ask. 

No. It will definitely still hurt. 

“Would you want to do something this weekend?” You rush it all out at once and immediately look away from him, terrified by what you might see on his face. 

There’s a beat of silence. Then Clark laughs, light and easy. Your stomach twists and your head shoots up, a disbelieving glare on your face. You’d known it would be unlikely that he’d return your feelings, but laughing seems below him. 

“Why’re you being so weird?” He shakes his head, still grinning. “We’ll just do a movie night like always.” He squeezes your shoulder, casual, friendly, a wholly innocent gesture. Nothing more and nothing different. It’s completely platonic to him, as it always is. It takes you a moment to realize that he took what you were saying the wrong way. Or, maybe this is just the gentlest way he knows how to let you down. 

“Right,” you struggle to keep your voice even but it doesn’t matter, the dejection slips through your tone. His smile falters slightly and he looks like he wants to say something when the shrill ring of the bell interrupts you both.

“I’ll see you later,” he offers but he sounds uncertain. Most of your plans have fallen through lately. Either because he was busy with Lana or off disappearing somewhere. You’re not sure, but you know the divide is growing larger between you both and you’re getting scared you’re going to lose him. 

“Sure,” you give him a flat smile and he hovers beside you for a moment, like he wants to fix this but doesn’t know how. 

“You’re going to be late,” you startle slightly and glance over your shoulder. Blake, a boy you share your English class with offers you a shy smile as he hovers by the door, holding it open for you to walk through.  

“Thanks,” you walk past them both and into class, not wanting to look at Clark any longer. You miss the sharp look Blake shoots Clark and the way your friend lingers by the door for a minute before rushing off to his own class. 

You slide into your seat, lucky to have gotten in before Mrs. Brown, lord knows she would love to make a spectacle of anyone being tardy. Blake follows not far behind you, slipping into the seat beside you as always. He’s nice enough, quiet, unassuming. You’ve never said more than a few words to each other, but right now all of his attention seems to be on you. 

He whispers your name and you give him a brief glance and smile, mind still wrapped up in Clark. “Um, I was going to ask,” he stutters over his words for a moment, swallowing thickly before finally meeting your eye. “Are you doing anything this weekend?”

“Yeah,” you answer absentmindedly. “I have plans with Clark,” you tell him shortly as Mrs. Brown walks in. You don’t have time to explain that you’ll probably just end up waiting around your house all weekend. Just to get a brief and incomprehensible explanation of why you were all alone on Monday. 

He sinks back in his seat with a sigh just as the teacher begins writing the assignment on the board. You shoot him a slightly concerned look before brushing the interaction off as nothing.

Standing in the line at The Talon has become almost a hobby for you. Not just because Clark drags you here constantly, but because he distracts Lana from actually taking any orders. The wait time seems to triple every time he walks into the shop. You hear people grumbling behind you and finally move toward Clark, breaking the unspoken rule of leaving him and Lana alone. 

“There’s a line, Clark,” you sing-song, warning him. The both of them flush, breaking their hushed conversation and shooting you a sheepish look. 

“I’m sorry,” Lana apologizes and you wave her off. “Do you want anything?” 

You’d been considering getting a muffin, but when you look over and see the lovesick smile Clark is giving her, you find your appetite has disappeared. “Uh, no, I’m good.”

Clark turns toward you with a soft frown and he nearly makes you forget just how much you resent him for dragging you along to see this. “I thought you were hungry.”

You glance back at Lana and find her eyes already on him. God, what’s the point of a breakup if you’re still obsessed with each other? “No, it’s alright.”

You move away from the counter to step outside, expecting him to stay there and continue flirting despite the angry customers behind them. You’re surprised when you hear his voice immediately beside you. 

“Hey,” he moves away from the door, a grin on his face. Face wrinkling in confusion, you nod your head in greeting even though you’d just seen him. Your eyes narrow in on the leather of his jacket and your head tilts in confusion. You swear he was wearing a zip up a moment ago. “What’re you doing?” He asks, tone light as he stands beside you closer than he normally would. 

“Uh,” you’re tempted to glance over your shoulder and make sure he isn’t still standing in The Talon. “Did you hit your head?” He flushes slightly and you laugh. “Just our usual friday endeavors, you moon over Lana and I hold back the mob of angry customers who just want a coffee.” Laughing to ease some of your own tension, it trails off when you see the smile drop from his face. 

His eyes narrow and he glances toward the shop, “Idiot,” he mutters. You shoot him an affronted look and he blanches, quickly correcting himself. “Me, not you.” You want to question him further but he slings an arm over your shoulder and redirects you away from the shop. Mind a blank slate, you feel your brain break slightly at the simple touch. 

When you were younger, before Lana, before either of you even knew what crushes were, something like this would mean nothing to you. As it is, though, your friendship seems to have dwindled to nothing but compulsory hangouts and the occasional conversation in the hallway. Something as simple as his arm around you has turned into everything for you. 

“So, what are we doing tonight?” 

“Movies at your place, like usual,” you remind him. He must have slipped and hit his head on the way out of The Talon.  Either that, or he already forgot the plans you made just this morning. Neither would surprise you. 

His face screws up and he shakes his head, “God, that’s lame.” You scoff, shooting him an odd look, not bothering to remind him that it was his idea. “I mean what’s he-” 

Clark cuts himself off, glancing down at you before letting out a short laugh. “How ‘bout the fair?”

You reach up and press the back of your hand to his forehead. He gives you a bewildered laugh, taking your hand in his and grinning. “What are you doing?”

You lean back slightly, breathless at the awestruck way he’s looking at you. You’ve only ever seen him look at…

Lana, you’ve only ever seen a look like this directed at Lana. But now, those deep blue eyes are pulling you in and you feel helpless to fight them. You swallow hard, blinking while you try to remember what you were even going to say. 

“Uh,” licking your lips you don’t miss the way his eyes track the movement. “I was seeing if you had a fever. Since when do you want to go out?” 

He laces your fingers together and tugs you forward, “Since now.” 

Usually, you’re not so quick to look a gift horse in the mouth. Months, you’ve been praying he treats you with even a semblance of care he throws toward Lana. Now, you finally get it and you can’t help the sick tightening feeling in your stomach telling you this is all wrong.

The fair is less crowded than you had expected. Though, it is nearly the last day it’s in town, you suppose everyone’s already had their fill of it. You have been trying to get Clark to come with you for nearly a week, maybe this is why he had waited so long to join you. Some of the rides you actually got all to yourself. 

“You know these things are rigged,” you tease, watching as he tries and fails at the bottle toss for the third time. The bored teenage girl behind the booth briefly glances up from her book to glare at you both. You shoot her a sardonic smile and she turns to Clark. 

“You can just buy the stuffed animal, ya know?” She drawls. 

“That’s cheating-”

“Where’s the fun in that-”

You and Clark share a grin as you speak over each other. The girl pales at your joined voices and returns quickly to her book, muttering something about annoying couples. 

Your stomach flutters at the idea of you and Clark as a couple but you push it down. “Alright,” Clark chuckles and holds his arm out for you, “let’s get out of here.”

You slip your arm through his easily, smiling up at him. You’ve long since stopped questioning just how touchy he is. Clearly, he’s in a generous mood tonight and you feel like taking advantage of that as much as possible.

“Where to next?” He asks and your eyes crawl across the fairground, struggling to find something you haven’t already done. 

You toss what must be your third lemonade in the closest bin and shoot him a sheepish smile. “I think I’ll need to go to the bathroom before we do any more rides.”

He’s slow to let you go, hand drifting down to hold yours as he steps back. “I’ll wait by the ferris wheel,” he tells you lowly. 

Your cheeks flush, eyes widening slightly as you slip away from him. The ferris wheel is notorious among Smallville students as the place to make a move. Everyone knows it’s just couples that ride up in those rickety old cars. Still, Clark is slightly oblivious to stuff like that. You don’t want to get your hopes up just for it to ultimately be nothing more than a friendly outing. 

Rushing toward the sad group of Port-a-potties you let out an annoyed sigh when you see the long line awaiting you. Your foot bounces against the dirt impatiently as you peer around the girl in front of you just to see there has to be, at least, ten people before you. 

There’s a vibration in your pocket before you hear the shrill ringing of your Nokia. Digging it out of your jeans you answer without checking the contact. “Hello?” The girl in front of you shoots you a dirty look and you take a step back from her. 

“Hey, where’re you?” You frown at the sound of Clark’s voice, glancing around like you might be able to spot him in the crowd. You’d told him where you were going, why would he be calling?

“You know where I am,” you tell him, chuckling. 

There’s a slight huff on the other end and you frown, he almost sounds disappointed. “What are you talking about? We were supposed to watch movies tonight.”

“Okay, Clark, I’m officially concerned. You’ve been acting weird all day. We’re at the fair,” you say slowly, over-enunciating your words like he’s slow. “You said movies were going to be lame.”

There’s a long pause and he utters your name in a concerningly serious tone. “The person you’re with-”

“Alright, do you mind?” The girl in front of you whips around and snaps at you. Blanching, you lower the phone from your ear and she shoots you an incredibly dirty look. 

“Clark, I’ll see you in a few minutes,” you whisper into the phone. 

“Wait-” 

You cut him off, hanging up and shoving your phone in your back pocket. She turns back around and rolls her eyes. It doesn’t take long for your Nokia to start ringing again but you figure you’ll just meet Clark by the ferris wheel like he said. 

Low groaning drifts through the noises of the crowd and makes you pause. Tilting your head around the corner of a trailer, the sounds only grow louder. Everything inside you says not to investigate, but the person sounds like they’re genuinely in pain. You can’t just walk away. 

“Hey,” you call out softly. “Are you okay?”

There’s no response and you take a hesitant step closer. A scuffed white converse slips from behind the back of the trailer and it looks worryingly similar to Clark’s. “Clark?” You call out, creeping a little further into the dark. 

It’s like a cocoon of silence back here, as though the shadows swallow the voices and loud cheering sounds of the games beyond you. “No,” the small voice croaks out. You see a hand in the dirt and they begin dragging themselves forward. You jump back a step, heart picking up as you watch them get to their feet. 

This was a stupid idea, walking toward a stranger in the dark. Even in Smallville you couldn’t trust everyone. They finally turn and you let out a relieved sigh. “Oh, Blake, hey.”

He gives you a weak grimace, clutching his stomach like he’s in pain. “Hi.”

“Are you okay?” You ask, taking a step closer to him, trying to get a better look. 

“Fine, fine,” he stutters out, shifting just enough to keep his face half-hidden in the shadows.  Even knowing the person lurking within the shadows, you still feel slightly on edge. Something about the way he moves unsettles you. It’s not as though you know him well, he’s just a classmate. Someone quiet and harmless. Or, you hope he’s harmless, right now there’s something about him that feels wrong.

“Alright, um, if you’re sure,” you take a careful step backward. Your foot’s barely back on the ground when he lunges forward. His hands stretch toward you like he’s about to snatch you into the shadows with him. You’re stuck deciding whether you’re going to scream or bite him when he jerks back like a puppet being yanked on a string.  

“Sorry, sorry,” he blurts out, breathless. “Clark walked by. He- he told me to tell you he was leaving.”

Your stomach twists with panic. Right now you care more about not getting your throat slit in a dark alley than you do about Clark ditching you. Without a second thought, you turn on your heel and run out from between the trailers. You swear you hear footsteps, quick and light, following your path to the cars. 

Sliding into your car, you lock your doors and peel out of the lot. You leave the fair, and whatever just happened, behind, not looking back. The phone in your pocket vibrates again but you ignore it, too freaked out by what just happened to bother answering.  

Someone calls your name and you peer around the edge of your locker door, grimacing when you see Blake walking toward you. His brown hair is a mess, like he’s been fussing with it all morning, and his thick glasses, normally perched precariously on his nose, are nowhere to be seen. His normal polished clothes look like they’re three sizes too big and you frown.  

“Hey,” you drag the word out, trying to sound polite even if his outburst last night left you feeling incredibly unsettled. “Feeling any better?” You hesitate to meet his eyes, and when you do, your annoyance only deepens. 

He’s watching you expectantly, like he’s waiting for something. 

“Did you need anything?” You ask, voice trailing off as you close your locker and take two deliberate steps back. 

Blake’s brows furrow and he almost looks hurt before his expression smooths over into something startling unreadable. “Um, no, I’m sorry,” his gaze drifts past you. The color drains from his face and you barely have a second to process the oddity of this conversation before he turns on his heel and goes barrelling down the hall.

“Hey,” Clark’s familiar voice cuts through your confusion, and you turn to see him striding toward you. Gone is the easy, playful grin he wore last night. He looks more serious than you’ve ever seen him, intent on something. “We need to talk,” he tells you, tone grave. 

“I know,” you snipe, not bothering to hide your irritation at just leaving you alone at the fair last night. You aren’t surprised, he’s been doing that for weeks now. What stings is that, for a little while, you had felt like you were actually friends again, only for him to ruin it. 

His brow furrows and he glances around the empty hallway with a frown. “Look, we can’t talk here, but-”

The warning bell rings, cutting him off. “Shit,” you mutter, shoving your books into your bag and turning away from Clark. He calls your name but you wave him off. “Later, Clark, I can’t be late again.” He watches you go with a frown, running a hand through his hair before turning toward his own class. 

Not even ten minutes later you spot him walking past Mrs. Brown’s room. Though, you swear he was wearing a red shirt not a green one. You could be wrong, it’s not as if you had long to take in his outfit.

You figure he’s just passing by and go back to taking your notes. There’s a light hiss from the door and you frown, looking up to see him hovering in the doorway and waving you forward. You glare toward Mrs. Brown’s back and shake your head. No way, you mouth. 

Clark gives you a pleading look, frowning and motioning you forward again. You know that look, you’ve been on the receiving end of it for years now. He’s clearly not going to let go of whatever  he was badgering you about this morning. 

“Can I go to the bathroom?” You call out, not bothering raising your hand. The old bat’s half-blind, you doubt she’d see it anyway. 

She answers without even bothering to turn around and face you. “If you need to use the restroom, you do so before my class,” her shaky voice calls out with a huff. 

You roll your eyes and grab your bag, stuffing your books in it as she turns back to the board. There’s no point in arguing with her, she’s never going to give in. You wait until she drops her eraser. The second she bends over to grab it, you’re bolting toward the door. Clark grabs your arm, dragging you behind him.

He makes a break for the end of the hall, blowing past the geometry class he’s meant to be in. He busts through the school doors and leads you quickly through the courtyard. “Clark,” you hiss, trying to hold back a laugh at the stupid grin on his face. “What the hell is going on with you today?”

He glances over his shoulder at you, eyes alight with mischief, “Come on, you can’t tell me you actually want to listen to her rambling on about Shakespeare for an hour.”

You can’t argue with that, but he hasn’t done a jail bust for you in a while. Especially not during one of the few classes he shares with Lana. “No, I didn’t,” you pause as you realize he’s leading you to your car and not his truck. “Am I driving?”

“Truck didn’t start this morning,” he tells you shortly, not bothering with any further explanation. You swear you saw him drive in this morning but you could be wrong. It’s not like he’s the only kid driving his dad’s old busted truck in this town. “I’ll drive, though, you won’t know where we’re going.”

“Ominous,” you snark as he takes your hand in his, directing you toward the passenger door. Gentle hands push you up against the side of the car and he ducks down, leaning into your space. You crane your neck up, flushing slightly at the proximity. Any closer and you could kiss him. 

“Well?” He questions softly, lips curling up in a half-smile that makes you want to melt. You blink, forgetting what you were doing before you notice his outstretched, open, palm. Swallowing thickly you take your keys out of your bag and place them in his hand. “Thanks,” he ducks down, soft lips pressed against your cheek before rounding the front of the car. 

Your hand drifts toward your cheek, a bewildered smile on your face as you try and regulate your breathing. “What the hell?” You mutter, shaking your head slightly. Turning around, you open the car door and slip into the passenger seat. 

Clark greets you with a grin, scooping your hand up in his as he pulls out of the school parking lot. You don’t want to think about the trouble you’re going to be in tomorrow, all you can focus on is how good Clark’s hand feels in yours. 

“I’m really starting to feel like I’m getting kidnapped,” you joke, head tilting to look out the window. The golden fields stretch endlessly, rolling past in waves as the car gets further from town. Houses become scarce, replaced by sprawling farmland and grazing cattle. The further you go, the more isolated you feel. 

Clark chuckles, but there’s something off about the sound, a slight wheeze, a strain where there wasn’t before. His face crumples and he turns away from you, his knuckles turn white around the steering wheel from his tight grip. 

“Are you okay?” You reach instinctively toward him but he jerks his hand back. You gasp, jumping back when you catch a glimpse of his face. It ripples, the skin shifting unnaturally, as if something beneath it is struggling to break free. 

“Oh no,” Clark groans, voice strained. His entire body spasms and his hands slip from the wheel. The car lurches violently to the side, tires screeching against the pavement. Panic surges through you, hands bracing against the door as you shout his name. 

He curls into himself, muscles seizing, leaving the car veering out of control. The telephone pole ahead rushes toward you, growing larger by the second. You throw yourself forward, grasping at the wheel, desperately trying to steer, but Clark’s foot slams against the gas instead of the brake. 

Everything happens too fast. A blur flashes in front of the windshield. Then, a sudden stop. Your body flies forward, arms bracing against the dashboard as your head whips forward and back, pain rattling through your spine. 

You whine in discomfort, slowly sitting up and trying to take in your surroundings. The passenger door is ripped open. You flinch, recoiling instinctively and sending a shock of pain down your body. Your breath stutters as someone ducks their head inside, a startling familiar pair of blue eyes find yours.  

“Clark?” You whisper, gaze flicking to the seat beside you where Clark still sits, doubled over, his breathing ragged. 

The Clark outside the car reaches in and gently pulls you out. Warm, calloused hands skate carefully over your arms and shoulders. He cups the back of your neck, tilting your head up, thumbs gently smoothing over your jaw as he looks you over. 

“Are you okay? Are you hurt anywhere?” His voice is soft, thick with concern. His eyes briefly leave yours to double check you for any injuries he might have missed. 

Your heart pounds. This isn’t possible. You must be concussed. You blink rapidly still struggling to wrap your head around the whole two Clark’s thing when the second one stumbles out of the car. 

He steps are uneven as he rounds the fender, his entire body shaking. Your rescuer moves swiftly, placing himself between you and the other Clark. He shields you, broad shoulders tense, protective to a fault. Must be the real one. Right? You rub your aching head and frown. 

“What were you going to do with her?” The one in front of you barks the question out, his voice sharp and edged with something dangerous.

“I just,” the other one keels over, cutting himself off with a pained groan and shaking his head. “Wanted to get away,” he grits out through clenched teeth, forcing himself straight again. 

“And you had to take her with you?”

“What’s going on?” You jut in, stepping back from both of them. Facing them, you see the same wounded expression reflected on both faces. Whichever is the fake, he’s certainly mastered the puppy dog look. 

Your rescuer tries to take a step forward but you throw your hand up, keeping them both at bay until you know what’s going on. He sighs and glances over at his shoulder at the other one.  “How long have you been able to do this?” 

It's like they start a conversation in the middle and you’re completely lost.  “Last year, I never saw a use for it and it was too much of a pain. But then I realized,” he looks at you, face contorting. “You would never go for a guy like me. You couldn’t. You were too wrapped up in him,” he spits the word out with venom, nodding toward the Clark you know has to be the real one. 

“You love him and that stupid all-American smile.” He chuckles, but it breaks off into a groan as he doubles over in pain, clutching his stomach. He drops to his knees and moans through clenched teeth, clutching at his face as he folds over. The longer black hair shrinks to a dull brown, broad shoulders slimming as the clothes he wears hang loose on him.

The illusion shatters, “Oh, God, Blake?” You gasp out, taking one step toward him. He shakes his head and you stop as Clark grabs your elbow. You glance up at him but he just shoots you a soft look that has you rooted to the spot. 

“I’ve been in love with you since freshman year,” Blake chuckles, still sounding like every word hurts. “If only I figured it out earlier, it’s always going to be him. I never had a chance, did I?” His gaze flickers toward Clark before he collapses to the pavement. 

You both go running toward Blake. Pressing your trembling fingers to his neck, you let out a sigh of relief when you feel his faint heartbeat. 

“We need to get him to a hospital, fast.” You lean back from Blake, looking around for Clark’s truck, confused when you don’t see it. “Dammit, Clark, where's the truck?”

He flushes, shaking his head, “I didn’t bring it.”

You frown, “What’re you talking about?” 

He glances toward Blake, the rise and fall of his chest steadily slowing. When he looks back at you his expression is unreadable, an intensity to it that you’ve never seen before. “I need you to trust me.”

“Always,” you tell him without missing a beat. He gives you a small smile but it lacks the usual warmth. 

“Close your eyes.”

“What?” You glare at him but he just shakes his head. 

“Please,” he looks close to begging and the pulse under your grip is getting weaker. Swallowing down your confusion you close your eyes. “Thank you,” he whispers, “I’ll be back.”

You frown, feeling a rough breeze blow back your hair as your eyes shoot open. But the spot in front of you is empty and the body under your hand has disappeared. Getting to your feet, you spin in one slow circle. There’s nothing out here except golden fields, your totaled car, and you. All alone. 

Clark eventually came back for you. His truck rolling into view after being on your own for half an hour. You hadn’t talked to him the whole ride back to town, too shocked by everything that had happened. 

He carried the conversation for the both of you, offering a brief explanation that only confused you more. Blake had apparently been one of the meteor freaks, somehow being exposed to it when it had left a crater in your town. 

But Clark didn’t tell you how he made it across the highway and to the hospital in under five minutes with no car. He didn’t tell you anything that actually mattered. So, you told him to drop you off at home and you haven’t seen him in a week. 

Chloe had called you once during your self-induced isolation, just to tell you that she’d driven by Blake’s house. Apparently the entire place looked like it had been cleaned out. No sign of him or his parents anywhere. You wish you could say you care, but you don’t. You’re almost grateful he’s gone. Not only did he reveal your long held secret infatuation to Clark, he’d clearly had ill intentions as he tried to take you out of town. 

Your Nokia nearly buzzes itself off your nightstand as you set your book to the side and look at the all-too familiar contact.

Clarkie

The stupid nickname you’d given him in middle school lights up the small screen and you let out a rough sigh, watching as it rings and rings before finally quieting. The screen goes dark before lighting up once more as his ringtone fills the silence of your room. He doesn’t give up easily, you have to give him that. 

You’re not entirely sure you’re ready to face him. Not now that he knows about your feelings for him. There’s no hiding what Blake so plainly laid out for him. You sink into the comforts of the pillows on your bed and wonder if you could just live here forever. 

Something knocks against your window and you ignore it as nothing more than a branch from the tree. It’s not much longer before it happens again and you rip your hands off your face and are forced to sit up. Your phone rings once more and there’s a sinking feeling in your gut that you know exactly who waits outside your window. 

“You can’t hide forever,” comes an annoying cheerful voice from outside. You force yourself off your bed and slink toward your window. Sure enough, Clark waits below it, a boyish grin poised on his face as he looks up at you. As much as you’re avoiding him, it’s plain cruel to just leave him outside. 

Reluctantly, you open your window and he’s quick to climb your tree. You back up as he slots his broad frame through and into your room. He lets out a short huff of breath and straightens up, giving you a sheepish smile. 

Taking a seat on your bed, you find it a tad difficult to look at him. Clark sucks in a deep breath and grabs your desk chair. He straddles it, resting on the back of it and staring at you until you feel like he’s going to burn holes into the side of your face. 

“I haven’t seen you in a while.”

You hum and shrug, tucking a loose wave behind your ear. “I’ve been sick,” you lie, briefly looking up. The intense way he’s looking at you leaves you breathless and you have to take in a slow breath so your heart doesn’t kick up too much.  

“I want to tell you something.” Your head shoots up, concern lacing through you at the grave tone of his words. He looks away from you, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. “Well, actually, I want to ask you something first. Is, uh,” he chuckles a little and licks his lips, a nervous tick he’s never been able to kick. “Is all that stuff that Blake said true?”

Your stomach drops, burying your face in your hands, you let out a low groan. “Oh, god,” you suck in a sharp breath, unable to look at him as heat flushes through you. 

Lying is always an option. It’s a poor option, but it’s there. Maybe, if you just lied straight through your teeth he would drop it and leave you alone. But you’ve been hiding this for so long, tucked so tightly to your chest, it would be a relief to finally be unburdened of the truth. 

“Yes,” you whisper. You don’t want to look at him, don’t want to face the truth of his rejection. Clark has been your best friend since you could walk, losing him over this stupid crush would destroy you. 

The silence drags on for too long and you feel the anxiety calling its way around you. Warmth envelops your hands and calloused palms draw them away from your face. 

You peek one eye open to find Clark kneeling before you, a soft smile on his face. “You better not be laughing at me, Kent.”

A small chuckle slips through his lips and you slap at his shoulder. He catches your hand in his, lacing his fingers through yours. “I’m not, I promise. I wish you’d told me.”

“Why? So I could ruin our friendship faster?” You snark. 

“No, so I could do this,” he darts forward, soft lips capturing yours. You freeze up, eyes wide as his hand cups the back of your neck and pulls you closer. 

There’s a brief moment of shock where you’re completely frozen. But then you feel the way his thumb rubs soothing circles on the back of your hand. And you find yourself melting into the feeling of his embrace, eyes closing as you slowly open up to him. Your arms find their way around his neck, fingers burying themselves in the soft waves of his hair. 

The kiss itself is gentle, chaste almost. But it warms you from the inside out, makes you feel like you’re going to be nothing but a puddle of goo the longer he holds you. When he pulls back, he drags it out, lips lingering as long as they can. 

You’re slow to recover, eyes glazed over as you stare at him. He seems just as shocked, like he hadn’t expected to do that. Of course, you say the first thing that comes to mind instead of just shutting up and enjoying the moment. “What about Lana?” You blurt out, wincing the second it leaves your mouth. 

He frowns at you and shrugs, “What about her?”

“You’ve been blowing me off for months for her. We go to her shop every day just so you can stare at her. Don’t tell me you’ve suddenly discovered feelings for me. I won’t be your backup, Clark.”

He shakes his head vehemently, looking almost offended by the idea. “What? No. Of course you’re not,” he snaps, narrowing his eyes at you before sinking back on his heels with a huff. “Look, I wasn’t ditching you for her, I can explain all that,” he pauses and then quickly adds, “later.”

Your eyes narrow in suspicion and he reaches up, taking your hands in his. “There’s a lot I have to tell you. But the most important thing is that I am completely over Lana.”

“Really?” You question, tone harsh but bordering almost on teasing. “You look at all your friends like that?”

He shakes his head, “No,” he pauses, “just you,” he adds with a cheeky smirk. You roll your eyes and shake your head, looking away from him. “Whatever you thought you saw between us, it was only on her end. I swear, it’s been you for a long time.”  

You look away, but he’s not accepting that, tilting your chin to face him once more. “It’s always been you,” he murmurs, voice steady, certain.

Your breath hitches, heart stuttering in your chest. Maybe this is real. Maybe it’s been you that’s been the oblivious idiot. 

You take a deep breath, meeting his gaze head-on. “Then prove it.”

His smile is slow, confident, and this time when he leans in you don’t hesitate to meet him halfway.

end. — I do not own the characters or the TV Show Smallville, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © scribes-of-valar 2025. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

[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]

𝐂𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐊𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐤𝐢𝐫𝐭

You like to rush things. Clark takes things slow until he can’t anymore. (Or, you attempt to seduce your coworker in a series of little skirts, and while Clark falls in love with all of you, the skirts don’t hurt.) 4k words, fem.

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

It’s mildly manipulative, what you’re doing to him. Subtle seductions stretched far and wide between weeks of work, your eyes alighting a moment too long on his lips and his neck and his arms. 

You don’t flirt. That’s important. You don’t tell him how handsome he looks when the cold has rosed his cheeks. Won’t mention the poor fit of his gray suit, how it’d look far better on a bedroom floor, or draped across a bathroom stall. Nothing severe. You’re… teasing him. 

For no reason, really. It might be frustration, but wow, wouldn’t that be introspective? You know you could never land a guy like Clark, so you pretend. Blah blah blah, it’s all very boring and your skirt is very short. 

Alright, it’s not that short. It’s the illusion of the thing. The idea that he could get a glance at something, even though the skirt has an inner lining. 

You’re not, you know, obvious about it. Clark might not be looking. But you place your hand on the counter as you reach up with the other for a mug, and you know there’s a stretch of thigh on show if nothing else, heat of a real or imaginary eye on the backs of them as you sigh softly. You genuinely can’t reach. 

You settle back on your heels and turn to find Clark not too far away. “Hey, would you help, please? If you can reach it.” 

You can’t glean any overt interest from his expression, but he says, “Sure,” with warmth on his lips, like he’d gone to say something else and let it fizzle out. 

Clark opens the cabinet door wider and reaches in for a pink mug. It has ‘sweetheart’ written on the side in white, textured font, though the script is elegant. 

“Here, sweetheart,” he says. 

You laugh, mostly to see his satisfied smile. “Thank you.” 

“Can I make it for you?” he asks. 

Clark could hang you upside down and shake you for spare change if he wanted. “You know how I like it.” 

Teasing aside, you spend the afternoon sipping at your coffee with Clark a desk away, Lois adjacent, listening to the click of tens of keyboards and the scritch of shuffled paper on the edges of desks. You work on your small cooking column in relative silence. Three recipes a week, minimum. If you do especially well, Perry lets you slide a conversational piece across his desk for reviewing. You’ve had a couple on the third page. Clark has taken the front page again this week —an exclusive interview with Superman about the Jelly-Mecha that attempted to swallow the WGBS building. 

You’re leaning back with a leg over your knee, your eyes dedicated to the little clock in the corner of your monitor, when somebody hooks the empty chair in the desk beside yours and wheels it over. Clark is sitting next to you before you can protest, a dark-sugared donut in his hands. 

“Okay?” he asks. 

“Are you sharing?”  

“Obviously.” He grins, pulling the donut in his hands apart. Sugar crumbles down into his lap, and the smell of it erupts between you. Apple-cinnamon, miraculously warm when he presses it to your fingers. 

“Thank you.”

Your quiet doesn’t perturb him. He matches your tone, “Yeah, don’t mention it.” 

“Where’s this from?” you ask, taking your first bite.

He takes his own, covering his mouth with his hand as he answers. “Beanies.” 

“That explains why it’s still warm.” 

He shrugs. You don’t get what it means but you don’t care to argue, savouring each mouthful of dough and sugar. You lick the crumbs from your fingers and the corners of your mouth. Clark ate his own half fast, ‘cos he’s a giant with an appetite you envy and revile; in your most humble opinion, it is both impressive and audacious to watch Clark house a BLT in half a minute. 

“Was that good?” he asks quietly, his eyes on your shining fingertips. 

You wipe them on the edge of his napkin. An achy heat eats at your stomach. “You’re spoiling my appetite.”

“Do you have big dinner plans?” 

“Huge! I’m testing something new tonight. Snow mountain garlic and pea risotto, for health week. It’s not particularly healthy,” you confess. “But snow mountain garlic has all these supposed special properties. Doesn’t matter if it’s true, though.” 

“Why not?” 

You like his tone. “It has more allicin. That’s what makes it taste good.” 

“Allicin is antibacterial,” he says. 

“Brilliant. Antibacterial risotto.” 

He holds your eyes for a moment, his own big and especially blue behind his straight frames. “I hope it goes well,” he says. 

It’s a measured sentence, like he’s crafted each word carefully as he said it. 

“I’ll bring you some if it does.” 

“I’d like that.” 

You hide how warming it is to be spoken to like that, carrying the feeling home with you to unravel against the stovetop. If you try harder than usual to make a good meal, it is nobody’s business but your own, and Clark’s, who sits waiting and ready at his desk the following morning. 

“Clark Kent on time?” you tease, letting the handles of your handbag fall into your elbow. “Who would’a thought we’d ever see the day?” 

“I can be punctual,” he promises. 

“Can you? Aren’t you on probation?”

“That wasn’t for tardiness, it was for sick days, and no. I’m no longer on probation.” He smiles with white, shy teeth, a peek of them from between his lips. “I’m on the straight and narrow.”

You imagine the hardness of them against your own lips as you lean in for a kiss, for a split second. The clack you’d inevitably make as your teeth knocked into his, as you hooked your arm behind his neck and dragged him down to you for some light force. 

“‘Cos you’re a good boy,” you murmur, mumble, more to yourself than him (though he is definitely meant to hear you). 

Clark’s face is still. His hands less so, a fist curling against his thigh. His smile is remarkably genuine. “Coffee?” 

Calling Clark a good boy might be flirting. Or not! What’s important is the way it softens him for the working day. How quietly awed he sounds as you unveil a Tupperware container full of risotto for him. He tells you it’s good between big bites. You want to nibble on him, taken by the curve of his bicep each time he brings up his fork, and the tip of his tongue darting out to catch a grain of rice. He’s killing you. You’re dying at the Daily Planet. 

Dramatics aside, he compliments your risotto egregiously, returning the Tupperware with a pristine shine. You don’t play short-skirt with him for days. 

When you do, the skirt is a delicate thing that isn’t as short as you’d expect considering the name of the game, but it’s nearly sheer. Standing in the right light, your hip smushed to the pillarway near his desk while Jimmy tells you about a new kind of giant slug they found living in West Africa, you assume you’re displaying what you’d seen in the mirror that morning. Given enough sunlight, the lavender fabric of your skirt goes translucent. Anyone in looking distance can make out the barest hint of your legs, their shape, a shadow of your thighs and the neat little underwear you have on beneath. You aren’t trying to harass him, but, this is Metropolis. It’s not the most conservative place when it comes to fashion. It isn’t much different to wearing a pair of daisy dukes. 

They’re cuter than denim shorts, though. Velveteen paisley overlaying plain panties. 

It’s not entirely a sex thing. It’s to feel sexy, sure, as an arm to feeling beautiful, desired. You want to know that Clark (handsome, kind, beautiful Clark) sees it, that he wants it, even if it’s a fleeting flash of lust and nothing else. 

And Clark —he doesn’t notice. Doesn’t say a word about it, doesn’t clench his fist or take in a sharp breath. 

You decide you like that just as much and return to your desk, happily ashamed. 

—

The pasta you made yesterday is far better today. The mushroom sauce has soaked into the fusilli. With a scratching of fresh cheese, you lay it over a fresh bowl of rocket and watercress, coat the entire thing in lemon juice, balsamic vinegar, olive oil, and flaky salt, and eat it enthusiastically behind your computer. 

“That smells amazing.” 

You lighten at his dulcet tone. “It’s pretty good. D’you want some?” 

“I’m trying to keep you fed, sweetheart,” Clark says, placing down your ‘sweetheart’ mug and a small plate, “not the other way around. Thank you.” 

His thank you is diligently gentle. He must work at it, to sound so docile. It has to be practised. 

The small plate homes two cupcakes. One has golden cake with a great dollop of fresh cream and cut raspberries atop it, and the other looks like a darker flavour. Ginger? The buttercream is thick and caramelised, with cookie crumbs between its peaks. 

“What have I done to deserve all this?” you ask. 

“You don’t have to do anything at all. It’s your afters. Your dessert.” 

“I haven’t done anything?” you ask. 

He shakes his head kindly. “It’s inherently deserved.” 

If he’s charming or teasing, you can’t tell. 

His eyes fall from your face. You get distracted by his details, the clean hills of his cheeks, his dark brows, sweet mouth and a sweeter nose broad enough to take a kiss or two, and you almost miss the stroke of his gaze lingering on your collar. His fingers twitch. “Can I?” he asks. 

You follow his finger. One of your straps has fallen down, leaving the simple pale elastic of your bra alone. You couldn’t have faked it better. “Sure,” you say under your breath. 

Clark hears it regardless, slipping a fingertip up your arm, a backwards tumble that threatens to send tattle-tale goosebumps over your skin. He hooks the strap under his fingers and brings it over your shoulder, pulling at it enough to make your eyes widen. Then his touch is gone, leaving a strange sensation in its place. 

“You’re dressed really pretty, today,” he says. 

You smile at the joke before you’ve said it. “As opposed to every other day,” you say. 

“This is beautiful. You look beautiful.” 

You duck your head. Sincerity in the face of your sarcasm inspires an amazingly dizzy feeling in the stem of your neck. You have to force back a smile. 

“Thank you, Clark. I’m… glad you think so,” you say eventually. There’s emphasis there for him to take or leave. 

You can see his hesitation, then, a palpable pause while he makes a decision. 

“It’s a nice skirt,” he says quietly. 

There’s nothing imposing in his tone, but there doesn’t need to be. He isn’t tall, dark, and handsome, he’s incredibly, scarily brilliant. He’s smiling at you like you’ve given him a compliment. 

“It’s a little brave,” you say. 

“Bravery suits you. Anyways,” —he touches your arm briefly— “don’t let me keep you. Eat your lunch. Hopefully your coffee won’t be too cold to enjoy when you’re finished.” 

You wish he’d press you up against a wall. He did notice the skirt. He has the self control to leave it alone, or at least to wait for you to bring it. And… yeah, that’s working for you, actually. Really working. You stood in the sunshine to give him an explicit view of your legs and he brought you cupcakes to say thank you. 

—

Apparently, there are limits to Clark Kent’s self control. 

You’re sitting beside him in Centennial Park under a gorgeous sun. It’s barely seventy two degrees, a tame heat for July in Metropolis, and yet the sun is hitting you just right, kissing at your skin, leaving you sated and heavy under its weight. Clark has rolled up his sleeves (a contributing factor, perhaps, to the contentness you’re carrying) and loosened his tie, sitting where you’re laying down, a sweet hand held to your knee. Today’s skirt is a bias-cut midi dress made of a dark sage green. There are bell-sleeves like petals and a neckline you aren’t worried about, not when he’s guarding you like this. You shift on your back to better feel the sun on your face, and he pulls the skirt along the inside of your thigh. Keeping it in place to protect your modesty, setting every nerve-ending you have aflame with pleasure. 

“Tell me if you feel too warm,” he says. 

“I’m not worried about the sun.” 

“What are you worried about?” 

“Oh, the usual. That some weird space creature is gonna break the atmosphere and kill us,” you croon. 

He delights in your tone, his thumb sweeping a line into your leg. “I won’t let anything kill you.” 

You’d kissed his cheek in the elevator because the line of his nose had looked rather unkissed, and his cheek had been the politer option. You hadn’t expected the quick turn of his head, or the complete lack of nonchalance about him as he’d smiled and laughed and pressed that same cheek to your temple as he’d hugged you with one arm. 

So now you’re here in the park because you hadn’t wanted him to stop touching you. The summer dress wasn’t part of your seductions but it seems to be working all the same. You’re hoping you’ll get a kiss of your own to settle the score before the sun goes down. With where his hands are resting, you aren’t sure where you want one most. One hand on your thigh, one on your knee, his body turned to you like it’s the natural thing to do. He could be generous and give you a kiss beneath both palms. You think you’d quite like that. 

“Do you worry about that a lot?” 

“Hm?” 

“The aliens… The space creatures, do you worry you’ll get hurt?” 

“Not really. We have a great protection detail, don’t we?” you ask. 

He’s quiet for a bit. “What do you think about him?”

You don’t ask, Superman? Of course he’s talking about him. “He’s extremely handsome.”

Clark laughs boisterously and shakes you by the leg. “Alright. Knock it off.” 

“Or what?” 

“Or nothing. Just knock it off.” 

He makes everything sound so satiny. 

“I wouldn’t let anything happen to you,” he adds. 

“Promise?” 

Half a joke. Clark pushes his glasses up onto his nose and finally leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your elbow where your arms are crossed over your chest. “Yeah. I promise.” 

You let him walk you home. That night, one of the star-shaped superaliens appears in the air near your apartment and then there’s a breathless Clark on the line asking if you need some company. You tell him no, ask if you can see him tomorrow when the dust settles, and he promises you that his Saturday was all yours. He actually says it, says, “I think you could ask me for anything after today and I’d try to do it for you.” He’s laughing to diffuse the weight of it, but you take it to heart. 

A Saturday turns to Sunday. A week turns to two. You and Clark trade careful kisses anywhere but the mouth and he doesn’t mention your little skirts. You keep wearing them, especially the velveteen lavender one too sheer for summer, layered over a short silk underskirt to protect your own wits. You’ve seduced him (have you?) but now you’d really like to keep him. 

It’s a Tuesday morning with little to give. The air is already warm, the tram platforms are full. You commute to the Daily Planet for another day of dedicated journalism. 

Jimmy begins the morning with praise. “I made your honeycomb macarons. I actually made them.” 

“And?” 

“And? They were amazing! You’re such a goddamn genius,” he says. 

He gives you a macaron from a tin shaped like Yoda. The cookie is sweet with that perfect, delicate crunch, and the honeycomb ganache is better than your own. You take another one from his tin, giving him a congratulatory pat on the elbow. “They’re amazing!” you say, shells and honeycomb pieces thick in your mouth. 

“What’s amazing?” 

You remember where you are urgently. 

“I made macarons,” Jimmy says. 

Clark doesn’t make fun of his pride. “Really? That’s awesome, man. Can I try one?” 

You swallow the lump in your mouth, washing it down with a quick swig of coffee. 

“Morning,” Clark says. 

“Hi. Good morning.” 

“Hi,” he says, fond. “How has your day been so far?” 

You lick your lips without thinking, sweetness lingering in the stick of your lipgloss. “It was good, yeah. The tram was hot.” 

“You look good.” 

Jimmy wrinkles his nose. “Guys, we talked about this.” 

“‘Bout what?” Clark asks, fimishing his macaron in one bite. 

Jimmy is kind enough to roll his eyes and leave it alone, wandering off with his tin clutched to his chest. Clark rolls his eyes too, a secret gesture that has you laughing through your nose. 

“You do look good,” he says again. 

You look down in mild bewilderment. “It’s laundry day.” 

You’re in a pair of black slacks that threaten to slip off your hips at any moment and a button up that should be tight to the waist but unfortunately isn’t. You’d saved the outfit with a necklace and a handful of jewelled rings, but it’s nothing like the stuff you’ve been wearing as of late. Of course he’d notice. 

“This…” He raises a hand to your hip but doesn’t touch.

“What?” 

His thumb presses to a slip of skin so small you hadn’t noticed it was visible. His brow creases like he’s been burned, yet his hand remains where it is. After a heavy second, he squeezes, and he says something too quiet to hear to himself. 

“Clark?” you ask tentatively. “You okay?”

“You have no clue… no clue what you do to me.” 

His eyes are all on you. Deep, indigo-blue. 

Heat leeches up your neck. Your heart capers suddenly. “What do I do to you?” you ask, your tentativeness turned to silk.  

“Don’t.” 

“What do I do, honey?” you ask, nearly whispering now. “I don’t have a clue, right? So tell me, then, what I do to you?”

“What am I supposed to do?” His fingers adjust against your hip. “Why would you do this here?” Clark’s voice breaks with a put-upon heartache. He’s still smiling. “What am I supposed to do, here?” 

“Take me somewhere else.” 

His hand falls away from your hip. You can feel where his fingers had shaped your skin for minutes afterward, following him with a poorly faked casualness to the elevator. 

He hits the button for the basement as you step in. 

“I think they’re still printing,” you say. The mock-up copies get made in the basement, and it’s an all day affair. “It’ll be as busy there as it is–”

No sooner has the elevator started moving than Clark is hitting the emergency stop. 

“Clark!” you say. 

“Can I kiss you?” 

He doesn’t laugh. You lean away from him to take in his long body, his grey suit and red tie and the wetted run of his bottom lip. He has honeycomb in the very corner of his mouth. 

You raise your hand to wipe it away. 

“Yeah, okay,” you say, tilting your chin up slowly. 

Clark grabs two great, heaping, greedy handfuls of your back, long fingers spread out and guiding you in for a kiss you aren’t expecting. There’s genuine hunger there, your teeth clicking as you’d always imagined, a voracious sort of meeting that quickly gentles. He lets out a sigh against your lips and melts against you like a stick of butter over a flame, lax, a hand traversing upward and over and– and his mouth, his kisses are these open, warm mouthings you meet with a stammering heart. This isn’t the slip of control you’d imagined it to be. 

Clark’s kissing you without an ending in mind. You can feel it in the tenderness of his open palm, seemingly laid to sleep at the small of your back. 

“How long does that work?” you ask in a murmur, your lips happily stung. 

“I don’t know. I’ve never done that before.” 

“Really?” 

“When would I have had reason to try?” Clark asks, cupping your cheek in his hand. “You’re so pretty.” He steals another quick kiss. “Do you know that?” 

“I can’t believe this is what got you to crack,” you laugh. 

His eyebrows pinch. “What?” 

“This,” you gesture to your clothes. “Of all the things I’ve worn.” 

“I don’t understand.” Though it’s dawning on his face quickly. “Oh. You– The… Oh.” 

His neck goes all shades of rose. 

“Sorry,” you whisper. 

He tips your head back nicely. “For what? I would’ve cracked anyway. You could’ve worn anything, but… The little purple skirt, that was for me?” 

You press your flushed face to his chest, arms crossing lazily behind a strong neck. “Clark…” you mumble. 

He digs his face into your neck to kiss the softness beneath your ear. You’re surprised he doesn’t whine your name back to you, what with the mood he’s in, but Clark’s got a propensity for sweetness that won’t quit. 

“On purpose,” he whispers, vindicated. “I knew it.” 

The elevator chugs back to life. 

—

You are delightfully, blissfully human. There comes a time when you need saving, and it just so happens that Metropolis brags its very own (and very only) Krypton superbeing. One minute you’re being squeezed in the fist of a raspberry-furred mega fox thing, and the next you’ve been freed and grabbed and propelled through the air in arms that feel oddly familiar. 

“Miss, are you okay? Miss? Miss, are you alright?” 

You look down at the ants of your city and nearly puke up your dinner. “Oh my fuck,” you squeeze out. 

“I’m sorry! I’m taking you back down. There’s a girl, breathe in for me. Deep breaths.” 

You can hardly breathe at all, but your shallow breaths earn you a thank you and a proud pat on the back. Your legs are shaking so hard at touchdown that Superman has to physically arrange your legs beneath you, his arm glued to the small of your back when you list unsteadily. 

“You’re okay,” Superman assures you. 

His little curl is ever so darling. “Like Clark’s,” you say unthinkingly, wrapping the short strands of hair around your finger. 

“Are you alright?” he asks, generously ignoring your

 moment of delusion. 

“I thought I was gonna die.” You blanche, glancing back over your shoulder for signs of the megafox. “Fuck.” 

“Everything’s fine, now. I promise you.” 

You take a deep breath. Superman holds you by both shoulders, forcing you to copy a second, deeper breath, then a third. 

“Good girl,” he murmurs. 

Too much like Clark. “My boyfriend–”

“Everyone’s safe.” 

You let out a shaky breath. The last of your panic ebbs from your shoulders. “Okay.” 

“Okay?” 

“Yeah, thank you. For saving me. Thank you so much.” 

“You don’t have to thank me for anything,” he says. His voice goes bendy and weak. 

“I really do. If I died in this skirt, my boyfriend would never forgive me.” 

Superman gives you an appraisal, up and down. Heat flares in your stomach and refuses to cool as he smiles. “Wouldn’t wanna ruin a skirt like that,” he says knowingly. 

You shake your head, not without fondness.

All boys are the same. 

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

thank you for reading!! I hope you enjoyed <3 and thank you Bec for reading it twice at different times

[pommeauromarin]

Enemies to lovers, but only one of them thinks they're enemies. The other has been entirely obsessed since the beginning.

Only acceptable way for me to read this trope

[groovyangelkisses]

clark with a ditzy, crybaby!coworker who he is secretly in love with is so special to me ♡

cw: hyperfem!reader, not proofread… just a little hc to daydream about clark to

going into work at the daily planet with teary eyes, and a sad little frown as you shuffle towards clark’s desk in your heels

you hold your wrist up toward him. “clarkie, look… my bracelet’s stuck.” :(

and clark doesn’t say a word. just kneels down in front of you on one knee and unhooks the tiny golden charm bracelet caught on your zipper.

and jimmy is sat there in hysterics over how whipped clark is… like literally holding his stomach at the speed with which clark put down his files and coffee cup to help you

and when you squeal and jump up to hug him with a loud “thank you, thank you, thank you!” and throw your arms around his neck

clark is RED and completely hunched down to your height but soooooo happy to see your pout go away

smilin’ at you with a sweet, proud nod as you go sit down at your desk with your jingling little bracelet now free of your tight cardigan

“jimmy! jimmy, look! clark fixed my bracelet, isn’t he a doll?!” “oh yeah he’s a real peach, honey”

blowin’ him a kiss before you fix up your mascara that was running earlier from the sheer stress of stuck jewelry

clark catches it with a blush, sliding into the front pocket of his suit for safe keeping <3

anything to make you smile <3

[bellasweetwriting]

call it what you want { clark kent x f. reader }

masterlist

part one. part two.

plot: an incident forces clark kent to see you in a different light

request: Clark Kent x popular mean girl reader? Would love to see how they would react in school and others pov of them especially Lana maybe - anonymous

tags: mean girl!reader x goldenretriever!clark / just so much fluff you can melt / i love witty characters so a lot of witty dialogue, back and forth between clark and reader, sarcasm and just bad humor

a/n: i love receiving requests to write so keep them coming. also this one is kind of long because i love to write characters beginnings rather than already established relationships, so, enjoy !!

You were definitely not keeping your eyes on the road. You would never admit that though.

But when you crash your car, you beautiful, far from new, restored car you got with your own money, against the back of that red old ugly pick up truck, you can’t help but to get as angry as possible.

Naturally, you get out of the car tossing that red lipstick as it is nowhere to be seen, not letting the guy you just hit be able to tell it was your fault. Okay, what was the plan? You definitely had to remain firm on a posture. What posture could that be? It wasn’t your fault. He was the one backing up! That didn’t make any sense. Uhm… think think think.

You hear the door of the truck closing, your eyes opening widely.

“Did you just rear end me?” Clark Kent, from your class, you definitely sit behind him in biology. You’ve seen that amount of hair before, and yeah, his height matches the one of the guy that never let you see the whiteboard.

“No, you caused it!” You defended yourself, crossing your arms in front of your chest. “You should be more careful, you know? Stopping like that in the middle of the road. You didn’t give me enough time to react.”

“There’s a stop sign.” You looked at the red sign, smacking your lips together. “And your lipstick, by the way, is smudged. Probably because you crashed my car while applying it.”

“Well… Your car is fine, alright?” Clark raised his eyebrows. “Fine, you want me to pay for your little dent that you probably won’t fix? Alright. Just so, I probably fixed that other dent over there, you know? You should change that truck. It’s old and… dented. And the color… it’s not… it’s not it, you know? I didn’t see it while driving.”

“Didn’t you, huh?”

“No, I didn’t. It’s the same color as all the corn that is around us! I probably thought your truck was a pile of corn on the road. Yeah…” You bit your lower lip, knowing you were definitely not making any sense.

Clark stared at you before turning around, walking back to his truck.

“I’ll send you the bill,” he said.

You looked back at the dent of your car, noticing something that was even more terrifying than having to pay Clark Kent for a dent in his truck.

The crash had slashed the front tire and you needed to change it.

“Kent, wait!” You said, gaining the tall guy’s attention once again. Clark Kent turned back, staring at you with his icy blue eyes, clearly annoyed by you. Most people looked at you that way. “Could you help me out?” He raised his eyebrows. “I don’t know how to change a tire.”

And then he dared to laugh. He laughed! In your face. When he approached you, you hit him on the arm, that was as harsh as steel, and you held how it backfired for you, as it hurt like hell.

“Would you stop?” You asked him, watching him as he kept laughing. He approached the trunk of your car, opening it and getting first seat view to your mess. As his laughter seized, he looked at you in amazement. “It’s my second closet.”

“I’m afraid a rat is going to jump at me.”

“Only if rats fancy burnt Nirvana CDs,” you pointed out as he lifted the floor of the truck, and took out the spare tire and the replacements. “So you live around here? In the middle of nowhere?”

“Yeah, at the Kent farm,” he said, shutting the trunk closed before approaching the slashed tire. “What are you doing here? Don’t you live near the sheriff’s department?”

You frowned, crossing your arms. “How do you where I live?”

“I’ve been there before, y/n,” he said as he took off his jacket, placing it on top of the hood of the car. “School project? Eighth grade? You dropped lemonade on my pants and said I peed myself.”

“Ha! Classic,” you said, too loud, looking down at Clark with a smile. “I’m sorry. I was a mean kid.”

“Was?” He said, smiling.

You watched him as he changed your tire. He was wearing a white t shirt, his forearms and biceps visible to your eyes. They were the size of your head, practically. You looked down, noticing how the light of the sun helped you see through the fabric, the framed abs of Clark Kent visible to your eyes. Maybe you never noticed before, but Clark Kent grew up to be much more than a regular man. He was fairly attractive, even more so: hot.

“You should drive to a mechanic so you can get a new tire. Don’t you dare drive on this tire for a long time. You can get hurt. They are just for short distances,” he started explaining you. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“Which was?”

“What is this year’s Miss Sweet Corn doing in the middle of, well… a corn field?” He asked, looking up in your direction.

You smiled, lifting up your sunglasses and placing them on top of your head. “Well, if you must know,” you began, walking towards the center of the road you guys were in and pointing to the direction you were going to. “You see that windmill over there?”

He stood up, standing by your side, narrowing his eyes in order to see where you were pointing at.

“I see it.”

“Have you ever climbed it?” You asked, looking back at him with a smile.

He looked at you. “Have you?”

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Getting Clark Kent to climb that windmill had been a harder challenge than you had ever expected. You laughed when you saw that six-foot-four guy trying to keep himself from looking down and shitting himself. You laughed, helping him up by pulling his arm as soon as he reached the last step of the ladder, both of you falling on the platform.

You laughed, harder than ever, at the sight of that gigantic man falling down on his back, scared for his life.

“You’re insane!” He yelled, laughing even louder than you. “What on Earth are we even doing?”

You sat down, patting him on the side, making him sat down as well.

“See that?” You asked, even if you already knew the answer. “That’s the Metropolis skyline, Clark Kent. I come here when I try to remind myself that life is far more than waking up in the morning and going back to sleep at the end of the day. It’s about working for what’s to come, for tomorrow. That’s my tomorrow!” You point at the buildings you could see of the big city. “I’m going to play every bar, every club, every stage there is on the city. Everyone that’s anyone is going to hear me sing. I’m going to make a name of myself, some that doesn’t start with Mrs. nor comes with a crown and a satchel. That’s what I’m working for. I’m making my future.”

You turned, looking at Clark Kent staring at you at what you could only call fascination, and inquiry. You smiled, blushing by the way he kept looking at you, kept staring, as if you were something he was trying to decode, something he was trying to read but was in a different language. Your cheeks flushed red as you looked away, your eyes focused on the view that normally brings you peace, but not even that could keep your heart from racing.

“What?” You finally asked.

“I would’ve never guessed you had that in you,” he admitted. “I find it incredibly you’re so driven. I don’t know what I’m going to do in a week from now, let alone in the years to come. It’s admirable how you know exactly what you want.”

You looked at him, giving him a tiny smile. “Thank you, Clark Kent.”

He turned his eyes towards the skyline. “Why did you decide to share this with me?”

“Well, you change my tire… I change your world,” you joked, making him laugh.

“You’re funny.”

“You’re surprised,” you pointed out as well. “Am I that despicable?”

“I would say… unapproachable,” he described it, staring back at you. “My friends believe a Queen Bee like yourself has troubles coming down from the top of the hive to check on the rest of us mortals.”

“What did I ever do to give such impression?”

“Well, you can be…” He stopped himself, and you saw the search for a word in his eyes. “Direct.”

“Mean?”

“Honest,” he continued, smiling. “When honesty is best avoided to maintain good manners and good relationships.”

“So rude?”

“You’re putting words in my mouth.”

“You’re lacking the courage of putting them yourself.”

He clicked his tongue. “See, that’s what I mean. Direct.”

“Maybe more people should be like that.”

“Maybe,” he said. “Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”

You snorted, surprised by the invitation. “Where did that come from? I thought you hated me. Or at least the idea of me.”

“Yet, you keep me on my toes,” he said, softly. “Let’s do this: let me buy you a cup of coffee and I’ll forgive you for rear-ending my truck.”

“It’s that what it is, huh?”

“It is what it is,” he joked, making you laugh. He was funny, and charming, and handsome. You needed someone funny, charming and handsome in your life.

“That easy, huh? I get a coffee and free of charge. I think that’s a win for me.”

“You’re right, you’re right,” he murmured, placing a strand of your hair behind your ear. It came natural to him, as if he had done it a million times before, even if it was the first time he had ever touched you, the first time he was ever this close. Everything just seemed natural, easy. “What I want in exchange… it’s you telling me more about that future of yours.” You smiled. “And, goes without saying, letting me hear you sing.”

“Is that what you want?” He nodded. “Okay…”

“Okay?”

You smiled. “Okay.”

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“I don’t know about this, Kent,” you said as he parked his truck in front of the school entrance.

Whatever it was that was going on between you and Clark had being going on in secret for more than two weeks. A couple of stolen kisses, several cups of coffee, and the promise of a sweet serenade still being held over your head, and you guys had come in quick pace from acquaintances to friends to definitely more than friends. And now, he wanted to make whatever was going between the two of you public.

“What? I want to tell people I’m dating Miss Sweet Corn,” he mocked your irrelevant title, turning off the engine of his truck. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

“My popularity crashes so far down the Earth it reaches its nucleus and dies?” You joked, making him raise his eyebrows. “Your friends hate me and I cry?”

“They won’t hate you… a lot.” You rolled your eyes at his bad joke, trying to hold back a smile. “Come on. I’ll be there, I’ll defend you. I’ll show them you’re a lot more than a mean face and a skirt.”

“You’re saying I have a mean face?”

“Yeah, let me kiss it,” he said, planting his kisses all over your cheeks and face, as loud as he could, tickling you and making you laugh.

Inside the school, Chloe Sullivan was putting down his books when Lana Lang interrupted the solitude she was in. Lana was nervous, jumpy, unable to stay still, and she knew Chloe could help her.

“What’s up?” Chloe asked her best friend, holding back her laughter. “You seem… tense.”

“I haven’t seen Clark much these past few weeks, have you?”

“I see him at the Torch and in class, not more than usual, but not less,” she pointed out. “Are you okay?”

“He hasn’t been at the Talon as well. I think he’s hiding something,” she said, placing her hair behind her ears. “I know things haven’t been great between us ever since we decided to be nothing more than friends, but he has never pulled a disappearing act before. Has he said anything to you?”

“Nothing strange enough to alarm concern. In fact, I think he’s happier than usual.” Chloe looked behind Lana, her smile turning upside down. “I think I now know why.”

Lana turned around, noticing it as well.

Clark Kent walked in holding hands with you. You looked incredibly beautiful, maybe because it was the first time anyone had ever seen you with a true smile on your face. Your hair was straight, shiny, longer than common. Your eye makeup highlighted your eyes, making them bigger and sweeter. And your signature red lipstick not only was on your lips, but had left a trace on the neck of Smallville High’s most elegible bachelor.

“Looks like farm boy found himself a cheerleader,” Chloe scoffed behind Lana, which only made the brunette even more jealous than she already was.

“Hey guys,” Clark finally said as you reached them, placing his arm over your shoulders. “You know y/n?”

“We’re familiar,” Chloe said, extending her hand in your direction. “Hi, I’m Chloe, you egged my house on Halloween.”

You smiled, shaking her hand. “Hi Chloe. I’m sorry about that. I was not the most well-behaved kid.”

“Last Halloween,” she highlighted, making you look at Clark, who was holding back a laugh.

“Sorry again,” you whispered.

“Hi Y/N,” Lana said, a sound of disgust coming from her mouth. You stared at her, handing her a tiny smile. “How’s the cheerleading squad?”

“Good, we’re going to regionals. We really miss you on the team, Lana,” you said, handing her a tiny smile. You’ve never felt as uncomfortable as you felt now.

Clark clicked his tongue. “That’s awesome, right? Guys?”

Chloe nodded. “So awesome. I’m a big fan of deadly turns up in the air. So, not to force the elephant in the room to talk but how long have this been going on and why didn’t we know anything about it?” Lana turned to look at Chloe. “Seems like a valid question.”

You and Clark immediately looked at one another, sharing a small laugh when you did.

“Uhm… Two weeks ago? Yeah?” Clark said, looking back at Chloe. “She rear-ended my truck.”

“He stopped abruptly.”

“There was a stop sign.”

“It was his fault.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“Typical Y/n, always blaming someone else for her mistakes,” Lana interrupted, surprising everyone.

You stared at the girl, letting out an awkward chuckle just to release the tension that had built up.

“You know what? I have to go, I have Mr. Turner, and you guys know how he is about tardiness,” you excused yourself, turning to look at Clark with a smile. “I’ll see you later?” You whispered to him, telling him with your eyes how much you wanted to leave.

He nodded, understanding. “Okay,” he whispered just to you, kissing your lips quickly, just a tiny peck, as if you had done it a million times before and it was usual between the two of you. “Save me a seat at lunch.”

You nodded before walking away.

Clark turned to look at Lana and Chloe, giving both girls a smile that shared more distaste than happiness.

“Well, she’s very pretty, lad. You got yourself a charming new gal,” Chloe mocked in a southern accent, trying to ease the tension.

“Good thing my gals were so nice,” he said, alternating his eyes from one to the other. “I really like her. Really. And since I tend to not ask things from you, I’d really like if you guys to do me this favor and be nice to her.”

“Like she’s been nice to us?” Lana argued, raising her eyebrows. “She’s a menace. A pompom girl. Pirouettes in the air, high kicks on your face, or whatever you want to call it. I thought you hated girls like that.”

“Weren’t you a cheerleader?” Chloe asked Lana, making the girl look at her. “Not helping. Sorry.”

“She’s more than that,” Clark said. “And if happened to get to know her, you’d agree with me.”

“I know her fine, thanks,” Lana said.

“Not like I know her,” Clark argued.

Chloe scoffed. “I don’t want to know her that well, thank you!” Clark raised his eyebrows. “Just saying.”

“Just… Give her a chance?” Chloe nodded, giving up. Yet Lana remained still. “I’ll see you guys around.”

And with that, Clark walked away, leaving the two girls alone once more. Lana turned to look at Chloe, her eyebrows raised.

“Are we going to let Miss Sweet Corn swoop into our lives that easily? I believe there’s something weird going on. Wall of weird weird.”

“I don’t know,” Chloe said. “I know Wall of Weird, trust me. But I also know Clark.” The blonde grabbed her books, holding them against her chest. “I think he really likes her.”

[iamvengeance-iamtheshadows]

‼️NOT THAT BIG OF A SPOILER FOR THE NEW SUPERMAN MOVIE BUT STILL‼️

The funniest thing about the new Superman movie was that the civilians of Metropolis fled to Gotham out of all places to not be in danger 😭

[yawnzshit]

glasses are the sluttiest thing a man could wear.

[melaninforkings]

feels so good to know that superman fics are gonna surge especially now that we have the hottest superman ever