#setting out engineer kent

[bmbsurveyltd]

Accurate Land Planning Starts With the Right Survey

Topographic land survey indicates the shape of the size and feature of a piece of land. It incorporates vegetation, structures, roadways, gradients, and whatever there is on land or under it. This data is applied by builders, architects, and engineers who need to make suitable arrangements prior to the initiation of a project. Mistakes can be avoided and save money and time on construction because of a good topographic land survey.

Visit Us: https://writeupcafe.com/accurate-land-planning-starts-with-the-right-survey

[kryptoclark]

better late than never.

pairing: clark kent x fem!reader

summary: you decide to spend your summer between jobs back in your hometown, smallville. it comes to a surprise to both you and your childhood best friend, clark kent, that you're both visiting at the same time. there's nothing quite like the summertime air to help old memories resurface – and maybe stir some old feelings back to life.

wc: 7.1k

genre/tags: fluff, smut (they fuck in his childhood bedroom), childhood friends to lovers, a little inspired by the show smallville, p in v sex, fingering, oral (fem. receiving), size kink, slight praise kink, p w plot, protected sex (reader on bc), creampie.

smallville smells like childhood.

the kind of sticky warmth that clings to your skin and hums with the buzz of cicadas. you'd almost forgotten the sound – how different it was from the constant beeping of hospital monitors or the rush of sirens outside your apartment window.

here, everything is slower. simpler.

you shield your eyes against the sun as you step off the porch, a basket of wet laundry tucked against your hip. martha had insisted you didn't have to help and that you were a guest, but sitting around all day felt like a punishment. after three years in the er, even your burnout had a work ethic.

your sneakers crunch against the gavel path as you head to the clothesline held together by two wooden posts. the kent farm hasn't changed since high school. same creaky porch swing, the same barn, the same fresh-smelling grass. you half-expect to see clark come around the corner, tossing a football in the air, eyes too kind for his own good.

instead, it's the front door that creaks open behind you.

you don't turn around right away. the sound barely registers to you, not until martha calls out from the doorway, warm and surprised.

"clark, honey! we didn't expect you 'til lunch!"

you freeze.

clark kent.

you haven't heard his name out loud in... gosh, years. not since graduation. you've kept tabs of course. who hadn't? he's kind of famous now – a reporter for one of metropolis' biggest papers. the same one that always seems to get the exclusive with superman.

when you turn around, basket still perched on your hip, there he is.

and his eyes catch yours.

something in your chest does a funny thing.

he's broader now. older obviously, but it's more than that. he moves with quiet deliberate ease as he walks up the driveway, like he's always measuring his steps. he's wearing a long sleeved shirt, the sleeves rolled to the elbow, exposing strong forearms,.

he pauses when he sees you. and for a second neither of you say a word.

"y/n?" he says finally, voice warm but uncertain.

martha's voice breaks out before you have a chance to respond. "clark, didn't i tell you we had some help with the farm this summer?"

clark slowly nods, remembering a vague phone call or two when martha gushed about the extra pair of hands helping out around the house. then an amused smile lifts his cheeks for a reason you don't quite understand.

"you never mentioned a name, ma," clark answers when he reaches her, voice low like the rumble of a car engine but still so sweet like honey. you watch him bend to give her a hug and kiss her cheek.

"oh, no? hm, must've slipped my mind," she muses, clearly pleased with herself as she pats his chest lovingly. you've spent enough time with martha to know when she was up to something.

you clear your throat, shifting the basket on your hip, and finally step forward, closer to the porch.

"hi, clark," you say, steady despite the flutter in your chest. "it's been a while."

his eyes soften, and for a moment, the years melt away. it's like you're both still those awkward teenagers from years ago.

clark sets his bag down on the porch, still glancing back at you like he's trying to make sense of something. you wonder if he's just surprised or if he also feels the shift in the air that you feel.

"i'll get lunch started," martha chirps, clearly thrilled. "clark, sweetie, help y/n hang that laundry before it wrinkles."

he huffs a soft laugh. "alright, ma."

you glance at him as he approaches, stepping down from the porch and feet crushes the grass beneath his feet. you hold out a clothespin. he takes it, pinching the wood between his fingers, but not before engulfing you in a warm hug. despite not having hugged him since you both graduated, it feels achingly familiar. his arms wrap around you with an ease that makes your breath catch, the scent of fresh soap and sun clinging to him.

"you got taller," you murmur against his chest.

he chuckles, low and warm, the sound vibrating against your ear. "you got shorter."

you pull back with a mock glare. "that's not how that works."

he grins, eyes crinkling at the corners and deep dimples showing. "still fits though."

you try not to read into it – the way he says it, the way his hands linger at your arms before he lets go.

"my ma got you roped into doing chores around here?" he asks, amusement in his tone as he pulls his arms away and takes a step back to start helping you.

"your mom didn't want me lifting a finger as soon as she saw me walking up the drive. i had to practically beg her to do work," you answer kindly, smile on your face.

"i'm surprised she let you," he hums to himself, sunlight hitting his dark curls.

"she's stubborn," you agree. "just like someone else i know."

that gets a quiet laugh out of him, low and familiar. the kind that used to echo across the bleachers during football games or between rows of corn on late summer nights.

for a while, neither of you say anything. you just fold laundry from a prior load you did while clark helps clip the rest to the line, working in sync like its muscle memory. at some point, he starts handing you clothespins without being asked.

"so," he says after a beat, "er nurse, huh?"

you nod, but don't question how he knows that. "yeah. burnt out enough that i ran away to the countryside for the summer. i needed it, especially considering i'll be in metropolis in september."

his demeanor shifts at that, shoulders straightening at your words. "metropolis, huh?"

"yeah," you reply, sliding a pillowcase onto the line. "got a position at the hospital downtown. figured i could use the summer to recharge before diving back in."

clark nods to himself, the corner of his mouth ticking up in a small smile. "that's... great. didn't know you were thinking of moving. you seemed pretty set on central city when you left."

you shrug, eyes flicking to his. "wasn't planning on it until a few months ago. it just felt like the right time. change of pace, y'know?"

he hums in acknowledgment, nodding again.

"you'll like metropolis," he says. "it's fast, sure, but there's something kind of special about it. the skyline. the way the city never sleeps." you watch the way he talks about it. you notice the way his eyes flicker, like he's picturing it already.

"i always thought you belonged in a big city," he continues softly, almost like he doesn't realize he's saying it out loud. "you were always bright. restless."

you blink, heart tugging in your chest slightly. "you used to say i was bossy," you point out.

"that, too," he says with a sheepish grin. "but in a good way."

you roll your eyes, but your smile stays planted on your face. you fall into a steady silence, the summer wind bristling against you as you continue hanging bedding up until the basket is empty.

the rest of the day passes in a rhythm that feels both productive and strangely peaceful. you and clark move from chore to chore (sweeping out the barn, scrubbing the porch chairs, picking tomatoes from the garden) while trading light conversations and shared glances as the hours pass you by. it's easy, falling back into step with him as if seven years hadn't gone by.

later that evening, martha's voice floats across the yard: "dinner's ready!"

inside, on the table, there are platters of roast chicken, mashed potatoes and fresh veggies from the garden that makes your stomach rumble.

you take your old spot across from clark – the same one you used to fill during sleepovers and sunday night dinners. jonathan is in his usual chair, nodding at you both with a smile.

during dinner, jonathan launches into stories clark’s probably heard a thousand times but you’re genuinely laughing and clark finds himself watching you instead of eating.

he catches your gaze once from across the table when martha asks him how work's been. his knee bumps yours from under the table and neither of you move away nor say a word about it.

after dinner, the sky turns a dull blue and martha announces that she and jonathan are heading to the neighbors' for a card game.

"we'll probably be back late," she adds casually, as if she hasn't orchestrated the perfect opportunity for the two of you to be alone.

and once they're gone, the house settles into a new quiet.

you lean against the kitchen counter, finishing your glass of fresh lemonade while clark rinses dishes, fingers slick with soap.

"i can dry," you offer.

with a toothless smile, clark tosses you a dish towel without looking. "you're only saying that because you hate washing."

"always have," you confirm simply, catching it.

he chuckles and for a moment, it really does feel like no time has passed. you think of the countless times you'd argued over which chores to do when you stayed over as teens.

after the last plate is stacked and the light over the sink is flicked off, leaving the kitchen in a soft glow from the outdoor lamp shining through the screen door, there's a beat of hesitation between you.

you're not quite ready to call it a night – and apparently, neither is he.

"you wanna..." clark scratches the back of his neck. "go up to my room? catch up?"

you nod.

he leads the way, up the same creaky stairs you've walked hundred times before. but it feels different now. his figure ahead of you is broader. his steps are heavier. you're not kids anymore.

on the contrary, his room still looks like it belongs to a teenage boy: high school trophies lined up on the dresser, old comics books stacked beside a nightstand, band posters lined up on the wall. everything is preserved like it's a time capsule.

you sit cross-legged on the floor, the smooth hardwood cool beneath your legs as clark pulls down an old dusty box from his closet. he flips it open with a small grunt, and inside are relics from his childhood.

you look into the box, smiling softly as flashes of memories happen behind your eyes. a faded baseball glove, a polaroid of him and pete at the county fair, and a bunch of old high school notebooks of his; one has ALGEBRA 2 scrawled in his handwriting on the front marble cover.

"can't believe you kept all of this," you muse softly.

"ma said she couldn't bear to throw it out." he shrugs. "i haven't seen this stuff since i left."

"really?" you ask, somewhat surprised at the thought. you can see the layer of dust along the surfaces of his dresser and desk, evidence that it'd been left untouched for a while, but you didn't expect he hadn't been home at all.

"yeah," he murmurs, trailing a finger over a dusty trophy as if reading your mind. he rubs the dust particles between his fingers before flicking it off. "just... went straight to college and then the internship at the planet and then... before i knew it i was just settled in metropolis."

"my mom would've killed me had i not visited," you chuckle to yourself.

"well, you know my ma," he says softly, a fond smile tugging at his lips. "she said as long as i called every sunday, she'd let it slide."

you glance up at him, the warm overhead light catching on the edge of his jaw, the slope of his nose. he's older, now, clearly, but in the soft light like this, his hair tousled and in an old flannel that no doubt had to be his father's, it's easy to remember the boy he used to be.

"how come you never came back?" you ask, head tilting aside.

his smile fades a little, not all the way, but enough for you to notice. he moves to sink down on the edge of his bed. he doesn't answer right away. he just sits there for a beat, fingers laced loosely between his knees.

"life's been..." he trails off, looking at a bulletin board above his desk – faded snapshots pinned beside old movie ticket stubs and postcards, tiny remnants of a simpler time. his eyes linger on a photo of the two of you from years ago, blurry from motion but unmistakably happy. he exhales slowly, like the weight of everything is pressing down on his shoulders.

you wait.

"complicated," he finishes softly, hands clasped over his knees as he leans forward, elbows resting there.

you hum noncommittally, taking another glance around his bedroom before standing from the floor and settling down beside him, the springs of his twin bed creaking under your weight.

"because you're superman," you muse softly, nodding to yourself. your tone is so casual, it's as if you're mumbling about something as demure as the weather.

"yeah," clark trails off with faraway look in his eyes before it's as if the words register and he whips his head aside to face you. "wait–"

you only meet his gaze with a small smile, a calm knowing gleam in your eyes.

"how long have you–" he starts, voice low.

"known?" you tip your head, pretending to think. "mm... years. i suspected something off about you in high school but couldn't name it. and then when i saw clark kent was the sole interviewer for the new superhero in metropolis, i put two and two together. that, and you've never worn glasses 'til you left smallville."

his brows knit together like he's thinking hard, then his expression softens. "you never said anything."

you shrug. "figured if you wanted me to know, you'd tell me. didn't seem like my secret to name."

clark exhales a quiet laugh, something incredulous and fond all at once. "you're kind of amazing, you know that?"

you smile softly, a soft flush painting your cheeks. "you're literally a superhero and you're calling me amazing?"

"well..." he tilts his his, eyes lingering on you in that way that always made you chest feel too full, even when you were teenagers. "you saw through me. and never said a word. that's... rare."

you glance down at your hands, suddenly aware of how close you're sitting. his bed isn't that bed, and the two of you, perched side by side with knees almost touching. it feels heavier now. warmer.

"wasn't hard to figure out," you murmur. "you always ran off when danger came around. and it was always toward the danger."

he winces, a sheepish smile pulling at his lips. "i wasn't exactly subtle, was i?"

you huff a laugh, leaning back on your palms as you gaze up at the ceiling. "not really. but i didn't care. i figured there had to be a good reason. and there was."

he watches you for a beat. there's something different in his eyes now. it's something soft. something quiet.

"i should've told you," he says softly.

you shrug again, playing it cool even though your heart is hammering against your ribs.

a pause.

"was it lonely?" you ask, voice quiet.

"in the beginning, yeah." he nods solemnly. his voice is low, like he's afraid to say it too loud. "i was figuring it all out in real time – what i could do, what i should do. and it felt like if i let anyone in... it'd all fall apart."

you turn your head, eyes finding his.

"i would've kept your secret," you say, steady and sure.

"i know," he replies, like he's known it for years. like it's the one thing he's always been sure of. "but you didn't deserve the sort of danger it'd put you in."

"you didn't give me a chance to decide if it was a risk i wanted to take."

"i thought keeping you out of it was the way to protect you," he says after a moment.

you understand his way of thinking, truly. clark is nothing but selfless – always carrying the weight of the world like it's second nature. like it's his burden alone to bear.

but beneath, that strength, there's always been a vulnerability you've glimpsed only in rare moments. a question lingering just beneath the surface.

"does it scare you?" he asks, voice low. "knowing what i am?"

your gaze flickers to him and you don't hesitate.

"you could never scare me, clark," you murmur softly, your voice steady. "you've always been just... you. maybe with broader shoulders and a ridiculous jawline now, but you're still the same guy who used to sneak out at night to watch the stars with me on my roof."

clark lets out a breath, barely audible but you feel it more than you hear it. the kind of exhale someone release when they're holding too much in.

despite having his own telescope in the barn, he was always adamant on watching the stars on your rooftop.

"i liked the view better from there," he says, a little shy, a little teasing.

you smile, eyes looking up at the ceiling. "the stars?"

"you," he admits, and it’s barely more than a whisper. "it's why i kissed you the last night before i left for metropolis u."

your breath catches in your throat. it would be so easy to laugh it off, to make a joke, to deflect like you always used to. but you don’t. you turn your head slowly instead, and you find him already looking at you.

his eyes are so blue. painfully blue. they always were. but there’s something raw in them now. older. deeper.

"i thought maybe you forgot about that," you say softly.

"i think about it all the time."

the memory slips between you like smoke: the two of you sat side by side on the slabs of your roof, your knees pulled up and a blanket slung lazily over your shoulders. the stars were faint that night but clark stayed anyway, quiet and still, like he was trying to memorize everything. you'd been talking about school, about packing, about how weird it felt to leave.

and then, when the silence stretched long and uncertain, he stood to climb down the way he'd come, but he hesitated. you didn't have a chance to question what was wrong until he climbed back up, leaned in and kissed you. it was gentle and trembling and far too short, like it hurt him not to do it but it hurt more not to.

you hadn't talked about it after. neither of you knew what to say. you were leaving for different schools, different cities, different lives. it felt like the kind of kiss meant to stay tucked away in a quiet corner of the past.

but now he's here. and you're here. and that kiss doesn't feel like an ending anymore.

your voice is barely a whisper. "i tried not to read into it. figured it was just a goodbye thing."

"it wasn't," he says, so firmly it makes your chest ache. "not for me."

you sit up slowly, and he mirrors you, knees now brushing.

"clark," you say, almost like a question.

"i never stopped thinking about you," he answers. "even when we lost touch. even when i tried not to."

your heart beats like a drum in your chest, blood rushing in your ears. "i never stopped, either," you whisper.

he leans in like gravity’s pulling him. slow enough to stop. slow enough to make sure. but you don't stop him. you tilt forward, and when his lips touch yours, it feels like memory and future all at once.

it’s soft at first. tentative. like you’re both relearning the shape of each other, grown-up versions of the people who used to share secrets.

but then his hand comes up to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing the hinge of it gently, and the kiss deepens. you shift closer, thighs pressing against his, and the heat that simmers between you spikes.

he groans low in his throat when your hands fist in the front of his flannel. he’s so solid beneath it — broad chest, firm shoulders, heat radiating off of him in waves.

clark kisses with fervor, like he's starved for this – for you. his mouth hovers yours with a kind of ardor, but there's something hungry beneath it, too. like something years in the making.

his hands find your hips, thumbs pressing into the dip of your waist as he pulls you into his lap. you gasp a little at the feel of him beneath you, hard already and straining against his jeans, and it makes something warm pool low in your belly.

you pull back just barely, lips swollen and breath shallow. "we’re really about to do this in your childhood bedroom?"

his grin is boyish, a flush rising to his cheeks. "i mean… unless you have a better idea."

you laugh breathlessly and tug him back into another kiss.

"you sure?" he asks, open-mouthed kisses trailing downward against your throat, voice hoarse, before his lips brush just under your ear.

"so sure," you whisper, rocking against him. "been sure since i was sixteen."

his groan is ragged as he flips you gently onto your back, slotting himself between your thighs with a reverence that makes your head spin. he shrugs off the red flannel, tossing it behind him and leaving him in a white t-shirt.

"then let me make up for lost time." his hands slide up your sides, fingers tracing delicate paths beneath your ribs. the room is quiet except for the soft, uneven breaths you both share.

your hands find the hem of his shirt, fingers trembling as you tug it upward before he gets the hint and finishes yanking it off, throwing it somewhere behind him. your palms pressed to the hard planes of his chest and abs. his skin is warm under touch, as if a fire wakes following every trail of your fingers.

clark's lips find your neck, slow and devoted, leaving a trail of soft kisses that make your pulse flutter. you tilt your head back, exposing more, shivering at the contact.

his hands travel lower, slipping beneath your shirt to feel the smooth skin of your waist. your shirt is already halfway off when he lifts it the rest of the way, tugging it over your head with a breathless laugh. you giggle as it gets momentarily caught on your elbow, but he helps, pulling it off and tossing it aside.

then his gaze drops.

you're in your bra, the soft cotton modest, but the way his eyes darken makes your skin prickle. the look in his eye could suggest you're wearing something far sexier than a polka dot bra.

his voice is low when he asks, "can i?"

you nod, humming in confirmation because your throat can't find the words. "mhm."

clark leans in, kissing down the slope of your shoulder before trailing slowly to the swell of your breast. his big hands come up to cup you through the fabric first, thumbs brushing lightly until your back arches. with unhurried fingers, he unclasps your bra and lets it slides down your arms.

"wow," he murmurs, looking at you with utter admiration. "you're... you're perfect."

you flush under the praise and you smile shyly, but it doesn't stop the way your body reacts when he touches you again.

his hands are everywhere; they're gentle on your ribs, firm on your hips, grounding you as he kisses down your chest, reverent kisses trailing around the slope of your breasts. he kisses you like he's been waiting years to do this, a pent up passion restrained behind his actions.

his mouth wraps around your nipple, hot and wet, and you gasp at the feeling. your fingers thread through his curls, tugging just a little when his teeth scrape lightly before he soothes the ache with his tongue.

"clark," you whisper, body arching against him and thighs already shifting restlessly beneath him.

he lifts his head, lips slick and pupils blown. "yeah?"

you meet his eyes, your breath shivering out of you. "need more," you manage, hips bucking upward for emphasis.

something tenses in him at your words. a quiet, almost disbelieving sound leaves his throat, like he still can't believe this is real. it's like he's spent years imagining this exact moment.

"okay," he murmurs, nodding to himself. "yeah, 've got you."

his hands trail down to the denim of your shorts, fingers brushing against the brass metal button. his eyes flit to yours, searching for any hesitance in your eyes but you only meet his gaze with a steady stare and a nod of your head.

he swallows, his adam's apple bobbing in his throat. with deft fingers, he unhooks the button from your shorts and pulls down the zipper. you swear his breath hitches at the sliver of the sight of what you would call your most mundane pair of panties – baby blue cotton with simple white lace hemmed across each edge.

you lift your hips when, with trembling hands, he pulls down the denim of your shorts, sliding them down your thighs as you lift your hips up to help. once they're down to your ankles, he throws them aside.

his hands are reverent as they glide up the skin of your legs, starting from your calves before meeting the flesh of your thighs. his hands settle there, gently nudging them open.

you shift instinctively, legs parting for him but the flush settled over your cheeks tells him how vulnerable your feel. he leans down, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your knee first, and then your thigh, being slow and steady. by the time he reaches the soft fabric of your underwear, you're practically shaking.

he presses his mouth over the damp spot, inhaling softly before groaning into your heat.

you whimper, hips twitching. the sound you make is soft and needy, and clark eats it up like it's the only thing he'd ever wanted to hear. his thumbs brush along the creases of your thighs as he settles between them.

his voice is low and ragged when he murmurs, "you're so wet, sweetheart."

your whole body flushes at the pet name and you feel the ache of need build in your gut. he presses a kiss just over the fabric, then another, and then another. you're gasping and it's not from the pressure. you're gasping from how slow he's going, how reverent he's being.

his fingers hook into the sides of your panties, tugging gently. "can i take these off?"

"please," you whisper.

clark doesn't make you beg again. his hands curl under your thighs and he hooks your panties down slow, watching every inch of you being revealed with a heavy-lidded gaze. when the fabric peels away, he lets out a shaky exhale.

"gosh," he mutters, almost to himself. his hands spread along your thighs as he looks down at your pussy, glistening, soft and aching for him. "you're... wow."

you blush but your thighs fall open for him anyway shamelessly.

he dips down, but instead of diving in, he places one soft kiss to your inner thigh. he presses another kiss, a little closer. and then he presses another, right beside your folds. it's close enough to feel his breath fan your core but it's not enough.

your hips lift off the mattress, springs creaking beneath your form.

"clark," you pant, almost scolding. "don't tease."

he laughs, but there's a tension in it now. his restraint is evidently thinning. "'m sorry," he says, but he doesn't sound sorry at all. "just... been thinking about this for years. i wanna take my time."

clark leans in finally, pressing a soft, wet kiss to your folds. the first sweep of his tongue is slow, almost experimental, like he's savoring the taste of you. like he's imprinting the taste into his memory.

you gasp, fingers shooting down to thread through his hair, hips twitching helplessly under him.

he groans against you when he feels your reactions, the sound sending a buzz within you. his hands flex on your thighs to keep you spread open as he licks a broad, slow stripe form your entrance to your clit. you feel everything. you feel the heat of his mouth, the plush of his lips, the movement of his tongue, it all makes you see stars.

"god," you breathe, tugging on his hair instinctively. "clark."

"mmhmm," he hums against you, and the vibration go straight through you again. he's easing in now, more confident as he figures out exactly what makes you moan and sigh. his tongue circles your clit gently with a particular precision before pressing flat against it, applying just enough pressure to make your thighs tense around his head.

you're already dizzy when you feel the first touch of his fingers. they're big and warm, trailing up your thigh before they ghost along your slick entrance.

"you're so wet," he murmurs again, lifting his head for just a second to look up at you. his mouth is glistening, eyes dark with desire.

his fingers trail down until the pads are gliding through your slick folds. his ministrations are careful, almost curious, but you know damn well clark isn't naive. this is about intention. this is him wanting to feel every inch of you, to truly learn what your body responds to.

his thumb brushes up, just barely circling your clit. you shiver, hips trembling.

and then one finger begins to press inside your velvet walls.

he's careful. so careful. and thank god he is, because even one of his fingers stretches you more than any man ever has before. your walls flutter helplessly around the intrusion, slick and wanting. your breath hitches and he sinks it in slowly, letting you adjust to the stretch.

"you're already gripping me so tight, sweetheart," he murmurs softly, "y'have to relax for me."

you nod with a shaky breath, attempting to relax your tense walls.

clark helps, too. his mouth returns to your clit, tongue moving slowly and circling your center with intent. the combination of his tongue and finger has your head falling back against the pillow.

"there you go," he coos softly against your skin. "let me in."

you gasp when his finger crooks inside you, rubbing against your gummy walls. you moan softly, hands curling into the sheets as your hips rolls up instinctively against his touch. your walls flutter around him, wet and hot, clenching down as he starts a slow rhythm.

his finger is so thick. your body pulse around it, already stretched in a way that makes you whimper with anticipation.

"i want more," you whisper.

clark's brows lift slightly, concern flickering across his face even through the haze of arousal. "you sure?"

you nod eagerly. "mhm, wanna get used to you."

he understands what you mean. you want to get used to his fingers so that inevitably you could take the throbbing length straining against his jeans. he groans softly, slowly nodding his head.

his free hand slides up your thigh again, holding you open as he slowly adds a second finger. it's a stretch – a delicious, burning ache that has your thighs twitching – but he keeps his mouth on your clit the whole time, tongue soothing and lips gentle.

you do your best to relax. you try to breathe through it, focusing on the way his mouth works in tandem with his fingers, now curling and scissoring inside you to aid opening you up. your walls flutter around him, wet a needy, dripping onto his hand with every stroke.

you feel full. so full.

and he's not even inside you yet.

"fuck, clark... feels so good," you gasp, hips grinding down against his fingers.

"you're doing great, sweetheart," he praises, kissing your inner thigh. "you're taking my fingers so well."

you whimper, head thrown back, sweat prickling along your skin. your fingers find his hair again and they tighten around the locks, making him groan into your heat. it's as if he loves the way you react to him, like every moan and sigh a reward in of itself.

his two fingers continue to thrust deeper, dragging along your walls in a rhythm that has your legs shaking.

"clark," you murmur, need thick in your voice. "please."

he groans softly, gently withdrawing his fingers. you whine at the lose, but the sound dies in your throat when you watch him lean back on his knees and reach for the button of his jeans.

"want you so bad," you murmur softly.

his gaze is heavy when it meets yours, blue eyes dark and pupils blown out. "yeah?"

you nod, biting your bottom lip.

he unbuttons his jeans slowly, like he's still making sure you have time to change your mind. but you don't. you won't. not when he pulls them down along with his boxers and his cock springs free, flushed and thick and massive.

his cock stands proud and heavy in front of you, a hot pulse throbbing at the tip, flushed pink beneath the dim light of his childhood room. you swallow hard, eyes tracing every inch of him, breath hitching at the sheer intensity of the moment you're sharing.

clark reaches for you, hands warm as they glide up your thighs, steadying you as he positions himself at your entrance. his gaze flickers to yours, seeking permission.

you nod, breathless but sure. so sure.

he presses the head of his cock, already slick from pre-cum, between your folds, mixing your essence with his as he rubs himself up and down your slit to gather more slick.

you shudder when he presses against your entrance, slowly pushing inside you. the stretch is delicious, the head of his cock squeezing between the velvet walls of your pussy.

he doesn't rush. instead, he waits, holding still and giving you a moment to adjust. your fingers clutch at the sheets.

then, he nudges in, barely another inch, ensuring to be careful. you shiver at the stretch, the fullness you already feel, and the overwhelming heat pooling in your lower belly.

clark's breath is ragged and his voice strained as he looks into your eyes. "you okay?" he asks.

you nod, voice shaky. "yeah, y'can keep going."

with an agonizing slowness, he sinks deeper, inch by inch, each movement measured so intently. your walls stretch and open around him, tightening and relaxing as they try to accommodate his size.

he's big – you figured he was big from his massive frame but this... this is far bigger than you expected.

he pauses again when he's halfway in, savoring the moment as his hips still. "almost there," he breathes, his tone needy and full of awe.

you reach for him, fingers tangling in his curls to bring him closer, silently urging him on. he follows you, taking his hands from your thighs and placing them on either side of your head, head now just above yours, meeting your eyes. the eye contact is electric – raw and intense. your breaths mingle, shallow and fast and it's as if the world around you shrinks and it's just you two.

he groans, low and guttural, the sound vibrating through you as he eases in deeper. "you're so tight," he grits out. "been thinking about this forever."

your fingers dig into the muscles of his back as he inches further, your legs wrapping tightly around his waist, trying to pull his closer even as your body adjusts to his size. he still hasn't bottomed, and yet he feels impossibly deep already.

"clark," you whimper, your voice wrecked. "you're not even all the way–"

"i know, sweetheart," he murmurs against your mouth, voice rough, "i know."

he withdraws a little, then rocks forward again. he's gentle, patient, coaxing you open with shallow rolls of his hips. each motion sinks him just a bit more. your walls flutter around him, trying to take more as your body clenches with every subtle thrust.

by the time his hips finally meet yours, you're trembling beneath him – panting, sweat-slick, overwhelmed and so full you don't know where he ends and you begin. he stills inside you, burying his face in your neck as you both gasp for breath.

"hah," he huffs against you. "you feel... gosh, you feel like heaven."

your fingers tighten in his curls, pulling him up to your lips for a desperate kiss that tastes like relief.

slowly, he begins to move – gentle, deliberate thrusts that build from tender to urgent. you gasp as his hands move back down to grip your hips, anchoring himself as he sets a steady rhythm.

the heat between you grows immensely and you arch up into him, meeting ever push of his hips against you, your walls fluttering around him as if they were made to fit only him.

and in this moment, you think they were.

"clark," you breathe, your voice a breathy moan.

he hums lowly in response, eyes dark and glazed over, completely and utter lost in you.

time blurs. you don't know if it's been hours or minutes. all you feel is him inside you, your bodies moving in perfect sync and the weight of everything unsaid over the course of the past seven years that's not being spoken in gasps and touches.

your dig your nails into his shoulders as his thrusts grow more insistent and you feel the pressure build deep inside you.

clark's breath hitches, ragged and uneven against your throat. his hands squeeze your hips like he never wants to let go, grounding himself as he drives in deeper, harder. the sound of skin meeting skin fills the quiet room, with exception to your mingling pants and groans.

"you're incredible," he groans, voice thick with need and his lips brushing your ear. "so beautiful... so perfect."

you shiver under the praise, the heat pooling low and rising fast as your body responds to him. your legs wrap tighter around his waist, pulling him impossibly closer.

he kisses down you neck again, teeth grazing your earlobe lightly as he whisper, "you feel so good... god, i missed you."

your heart stutters in your chest. "i missed you, too. more than i ever admitted to myself."

his hips stutter and then pick up, thrusting with growing urgency. your vision gets hazy as the pleasure coil tight in your belly. you lose yourself to the way he moves, the way your bodies fit together like they were made for it.

his voice breaks as he nears his own release, the tension building between you to an unbearable peak.

"cum for me," he rasps, eyes burning into yours.

you cry out, voice trembling with the force of your own climax, muscles clenching around him in waves. you feel him begin to pull away but that makes your legs tighten around his waist.

"sweetheart, i'm about to–" he stammers, brows pinching in restraint.

"i know... want it inside," you murmur, eyes boring into his.

that makes his eyes widen to saucers but you can't deny the heat brimming behind his eyes.

"i'm on birth control," you say, barely above a whisper.

"are you sure?" he asks, hid voice low and already breathless. "because i'm trying really hard to hold back right now.

you don't hesitate. "i don't want you to."

that's all it takes.

clark starts thrusting again – deeper, more urgent now, the rhythm stuttering as he chases his high. it's only a matter of moments before his pace falters. he lets out a strangled groan, burying himself to the hilt one final time and you gasp at the feeling.

his cock twitches as he spills inside you, thick ropes of white filling you up until you swear you can feel it dripping out around the base of him. you croon at the sensation, you arms wrapped tight around his back, holding him close through it.

clark groans into your neck again, like he's falling apart in the safety of your arms. you feel him press kisses into your skin, humming softly against you.

"you don't know how long i've wanted that," he murmurs, voice slightly ragged.

you're still catching your breath, but you manage a soft laugh, your voice thick with affection. "worth the wait?"

he lifts his head just long enough to look at you, his eyes slightly crinkled as he smiles down at you. "more than you'll ever know."

you smile, your hand brushing damp curls from his forehead. he's so close like this – still inside you, panting softly against your skin. the air is thick with the scent of sex, sweat and something sweeter.

you tilt your head, lips brushing against his jaw. "we really just had sex in your childhood bedroom," you whisper, teasing but breathless.

he chuckles, low and rough, his nose brushing yours. "yes, we did."

"guess it's convenient i've been relocated to metropolis then," you murmur softly, fingers digging into his scalp, gently scratching his skin.

he hums in response – to your words or ministrations, you can't tell – and adds, "'m pretty lucky then." he presses a kiss to your cheek. "when you get all settled in, can i take you out?"

your brow lifts and you pause your scratching. "well, i'd sure hope so since you just came inside me."

he chuckles through his nose, blinking at you. "fair point," he says, his smile crooked. "i guess we kind of skipped a few steps, huh?"

you grin, dragging your nails lightly along the hair at the back of his neck. "just a few. like... coffee. or dinner."

he lifts his head just enough to meet your gaze, eyes soft and sincere. "seriously, i want to do this right. all of it. you and me."

something in your chest tightens at that, a bloom of warmth filling you. "good," you whisper. "because i want that, too."

he kisses you again, slower now. he kisses you like he has all the time in the world. he rolls onto his side, pulling you with him and keeping you closer, his arms still wrapped around your waist and cock slowly softening inside you. you sigh softly, settling into the warmth of him, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your cheek. outside, the sounds of nature hum quietly, but here, in this small room full of memories of your past, everything feels right.

ʚĭɞ reblogs and interaction always appreciated! ʚĭɞ

[mcu-binge]

Red Sun Phenomenon || Clark Kent x reader ||

Paring : Clark Kent x reader Word count : ~1540

Summary : In a tiny desert town where a red sun messes with his powers, Clark finally feels like a normal guy. Drunk from his first real beer, he’s all over you clingy, soft, ridiculously sweet and can’t stop telling you how much he loves you.

Tags/warnings : Sweet!Clark, boyfriend, drinking.

A/N: this is just sweet fluff.

=================================

“You’re sending us where?” I blink, halfway between laughing and glaring across Perry’s desk.

“Middle of nowhere, Nevada,” he says, not looking up from the files scattered across his desk. “Town’s called Braxton. Power grid’s been acting up. Electromagnetic interference, weird static storms hell, satellites can’t even get a clean image right now.”

I glance at Clark beside me. His jaw’s tight.

“And we’re covering this instead of the mayor’s embezzlement trial because…?”

“Because the mayor’s story will still be here next week. This?” Perry finally meets my eyes. “This might not be.”

Clark clears his throat. “It’s the red sun event, isn’t it?”

Perry raises a brow. “That’s what the eggheads are calling it. Solar phenomenon, sky’s bleeding, and every bird-watching grandma from here to Death Valley says their clocks stopped working when it hit.”

“Sounds supernatural,” I mutter, crossing my arms.

��Sounds like front-page material,” Perry corrects. “You two fly out tonight. Already got rooms set up at the Rosewood Motel. Pack sunscreen. And a taser. Just in case.”

We step out of the office and I immediately notice Clark’s shoulders are still tense.

“You okay?” I ask as we head back toward our desks.

He hesitates. “Yeah. Just… red sun is rare and honestly going to the where it’s at its peak makes me nervous.”

“You’ve seen this before?” I tilt my head.

“No,” he says quickly. “Not like this.”

I stop walking. “Clark.”

He sighs, then leans in slightly, lowering his voice so the bullpen noise drowns us out. “Solar radiation from Earth’s yellow sun fuels me. Strength. Speed. Flight. The red sun weakens Kryptonians.”

That gets my attention. “Wait. So, if we’re going where it’s at peak…”

He nods once. “I’ll still be… me. Just slower. Weaker. Less bulletproof.”

I blink at him. “How much less bulletproof?”

“Enough that I’ll probably have my first real hangover if we drink too much,” he says, trying to hide his smile.

“That’s what you’re worried about?”

He shrugs. “I’ve never had a hangover. Or a buzz. Or a headache. Or sunburn.”

I study him, the nervous edge behind his words. “So… for the first time since I met you, you’ll be...”

His eyes soften. “A real human with weaknesses.”

There’s something intimate in the air between us now. A quiet hum that feels heavier than the usual flirt-and-dodge rhythm we’ve built.

I step closer, teasing to lighten it. “Then I guess I’ll have to keep you safe.”

He chuckles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You always do.”

The rental car grinds through gravel as we roll into Braxton.

It looks like the last place a cosmic phenomenon should pick for a grand entrance. A single main road, a half-dead diner, a gas station with one flickering sign, and a wind-beaten banner over the sheriff’s office that reads: “Braxton Days Festival Postponed”. Everything is sun-bleached and heat-warped, like God left it in the back of his pickup.

Clark squints at the horizon. The sky’s not just red. It’s… wrong. It doesn’t glow. It broods.

“I can’t hear the power lines,” he mutters.

“You usually do?”

He nods slowly, then taps his temple. “It’s like background noise. Electricity, heartbeats, engines, conversations across town. All… muted.”

“How do you feel?” I ask as we slow to a stop in front of the motel.

He shifts in the seat. “Heavy. Like gravity got clingy.”

There’s something almost shy in the way he says it. This version of him is unpowered, grounded; it's not the Clark I know. But it’s not a stranger either. He looks flushed, very real, and for once, I can’t help but wonder if this is what it’s like to be on even footing.

The motel is run by a woman named Dee who smells like menthols and hairspray. She tells us the generator cuts out after dark and offers us one flashlight and two dusty room keys.

We check in, drop bags, and then head out to start talking to locals.

Two hours later we were in a bar.

“Local legend says the last time the sky went red, all the clocks in town stopped,” the bartender says, popping the cap off a warm root beer and handing it to Clark. “That was ‘74. Town got flooded two days later. Whole cemetery floated downstream.”

“Jesus,” I mutter, scribbling notes. “Any current damage?”

“Power’s unpredictable. Livestock went nuts yesterday. And two of the Army science boys packed up and left without a word.”

I glance at Clark. He’s been quiet for most of this.

“You okay?” I whisper, brushing my knee against his under the bar.

“I can’t see through anything,” he murmurs back. “No X-ray. No enhanced hearing. Just… me.”

There’s something both nervous and freeing in his voice. Like he’s slowly realizing the world won’t break if he lets go.

He orders a beer. The first sip nearly knocks him over.

“Oh my god,” he coughs, blinking in surprise. “That tastes like so much.”

I laugh. “Welcome to the beautiful hell of carbonation and with real regret.”

He orders another. And another.

By the time we finish questioning the last of the locals and step back out into the night, Clark’s eyes are warm, flushed, and a little dazed.

“This is my first buzz,” he says proudly.

“You’re adorable.”

“You’re blurry,” he grins, swaying slightly toward me.

The red sky stretches above us like a velvet ceiling, thick and endless.

There’s no flying away tonight. No excuses. No distractions. Just Clark, very mortal and very close, staring at me like the night itself is holding its breath.

Clark stumbles a little as we reach the motel door, his broad shoulders brushing mine with every uneven step.

“Wait, wait—” he laughs as I steady him with a hand to his arm. “I’m fine. You’re just… really gravity right now.”

“Clark, you’re drunk.”

“I know!” he beams at me like I just solved a riddle. “Isn’t it amazing? I’ve never been drunk before. Everything is warm and you smell like heaven and I wanna kiss your knees for some reason.”

I choke on a laugh as I fumble with the motel key. “You are soooooo getting water and crackers the second we walk in.”

The door creaks open and he stumbles in behind me, shedding his jacket somewhere by the foot of the bed. I turn to close the door and by the time I spin around again, he’s sitting on the mattress with that lovesick golden retriever smile, arms open, shirt half-untucked.

“You’re my favorite person,” he says, slurring just a little, eyes locked on mine like I’m the only thing that exists in this entire heat-slowed town. “I mean it.”

“I believe you.”

“No, like.” He stands, swaying. “I mean—I’ve loved you when I could lift trains. But this? Loving you when I can’t do anything but feel you?”

He steps closer, hands cupping my face gently, reverently. “It’s like the universe finally shut up and let me hear how much I want you.”

I blink, stunned. “Clark…”

“And your nose is so cute,” he says seriously, pressing a soft kiss to the tip of it. “Like… unfairly cute.”

I can’t help but laugh. “Sit down before you pass out.”

“No.” He pulls me into his chest, arms wrapping tightly around me. “I wanna hold you standing up. You feel different when I’m like this. Warmer. Realer.”

I bury my face in his shoulder, smiling into the soft fabric of his dress shirt. His heartbeat is steady no longer that impossible thrum I can barely catch when he’s at full strength, but a slow, human beat. Strong. Alive.

“I wanna tell you things,” he says into my hair. “So many things I think about when I’m flying over oceans or stopping meteors or doing all the Superman things. But I don’t. ‘Cause I don’t wanna scare you.”

I pull back just enough to look into his eyes. “Nothing you say could scare me.”

“I think about forever,” he says, voice barely a whisper. “Not just in the alien way. In the you way. Like… I could do laundry with you forever. Or fight about whose turn it is to buy toilet paper forever. Or gosh, kiss your ankle while you brush your teeth and make you laugh forever.”

I’m grinning and crying at the same time.

He tilts his head. “You’re so pretty when you get teary.”

“You’re so drunk.”

“I’m so drunk,” he agrees. “And I want to lie down and cuddle you for eleven years.”

We collapse onto the bed, and Clark immediately latches onto me. His arms are locked around my waist, his legs tangled with mine, and he keeps pressing little kisses to the back of my neck, my shoulder, the curve of my jaw.

“You smell like safety,” he mumbles.

“And you smell like beer.”

“That’s romance, baby.”

I burst out laughing.

He kisses my temple. “You make me feel more like myself than I ever did with all my powers.”

And with that, Clark Kent, the strongest man in the world, now more human under the red sun, buries his face in my chest and drifts off, mumbling something about marrying me in his family’s farm someday.

[vitoriadior]

HOT GIRL LIKES HOT NERD

Clark Kent x Model!Reader

(Synopsis) Where now that you know Superman's civil identity, you're crazy in love about this version of him: Clark Kent the hot nerd with slutty glasses for you

Request <3. Model!Reader series here. Requests open

Ever since Superman revealed his identity to you, things had gotten just the way Clark wanted them to: Serious. Official. So yeah, now the media knew you weren't single. Of course, you hadn't mentioned that the lucky guy was Superman—that was your information, and yours only.

So now that you know that in addition to having a superhero boyfriend, you have a boyfriend who apparently works at a newspaper—you reel delighted. And to say delighted is short.

"So you wear these?" You hold Clark's glasses in your hands, looking at them as if they were some kind of high-tech gadget. Clark just let out a distracted "Yeah," too busy concentrating on how your body felt against his as you cuddled up on the couch in your penthouse.

You put the glasses on Clark's face with a smile—you thought he must look super cute, maybe even grandpa-like, with those almost ordinary glasses.

You were wrong. So from that day on, you're completely obsessed with how hot your man looks in those damn glasses. "Put those glasses on," you sometimes say out of the blue. He always smiles when he hears you. "You look so handsome in them."

"You sound like my mom," Clark fakes a grimace as he puts his glasses on without protest. Those damn slutty glasses.

And of course it's not just that—when you only knew him as Superman, he limited himself to talking about things that wouldn't reveal much about his civil identity. Now? There's no stopping him.

How come listening to your boyfriend babble about Star Wars isn't every girl's favorite pastime? It definitely was your favorite pastime. "You're just kidding." Clark's smile is contagious; he sees you as if you're unreal: Have you seriously never seen a single Star Wars movie? "That's impossible! You're literally the celebrity crush of half the film industry!"

"And how do you know I'm the celebrity crush of half the film industry?" Clark blushes instantly, and you can't stop laughing. Maybe your boyfriend, in his free time, almost automatically types your name into his laptop's search engine. He likes watching old videos of your fashion runways on YouTube, so what?

It could be a Friday night, your feet in your boyfriend's lap while he's painting your toenails, constantly chattering away about all his nerdy tastes. The Mighty Crab Joys? Legos? Star Wars? "You like Legos?" You whispered, too relaxed.

"I have some sets of them. Like, my mom gave me one of the Star Wars ships for Christmas. Along with a sweater I never wear." Clark finishes with your toenails, purposefully tickling you.

On your three-month anniversary with him, you gave him the Lego Millennium Falcon. Yes. The 7,500-parts one. You even have a video of him putting it together—sitting at the kitchen table, his brow furrowed in concentration.

He'd say it's the best gift of his life, but that would be a lie. That's you.

Taglist: @starincarnated @angelicp0etry @yeonalie @lator-gators @starssfall @moomumu @chamorunsmiles @urlittleangelbaby @americanboz0 @mysticdinosaurpirate @spiidergwenn @sugarbutterbailey @pestoluvr8 @ilovemangoes444 @kaiparkerwife @qardasngan @animegamerfox @helloimamistake @rinapomu @chaoticroaddreamerpasta

[nouearth]

small things like these.

pairing. clark kent x male reader.

word count. 12.2k.

summary. a moment like having a cup of overly-sweet, sugary coffee spill all over you was one of the reasons why you'd been charmed by a clumsy man named clark kent.

content warning. fluff, eventual smut, corenswet!clark, top!clark, bottom!reader, strangers to lovers, brief lois lane mention, yearning!friends, clark has a sweet tooth, kissing, rimming, blowjobs, praising, sweet verbal, size difference, body worship, breeding, sweet and passionate love-making!

a/n. i recommend listening to the normal people soundtrack while reading!

I: MAY.

It all started with a crash.

The smell of gasoline was poisoning. Cars were lined up like dominos, passing gas from one engine to another, and the scent was festering in Clark’s nostrils, its rotting smell seemingly quadrupled by the summer heat. That was the charm of the city. The smell, and the constant scream of car horns as traffic began piling up. In the eyes of his folks, Clark can see his Ma and Pa doubting his sanity had they ever witnessed Metropolis. His Ma would shake her head in disapproval at the size of his apartment, and his Pa would be overstimulated into disbelief as the trio held hands and swam their way through the swarm of people who were simultaneously being chased in pursuit by one reminder: 

FASTER! YOU’RE RUNNING LATE!

“Oh, crap—“ Hugging the coffee cup to his chest after switching arms, Clark rolled his sleeve up to check his watch. Quarter to nine. “Crap, crap, crap, crap!” Panic finally set in, charging Clark forward into the sunny abyss of office-workers.

This would be the last time he would grab coffee right before work. He’d paid for the consequences already by nearly missing his morning meeting multiple times. Heavy emphasis on nearly as his shoes would audibly skid from turning from one corner to another upon the race he had against the clock, as the slippery leather of his shoes would nearly make him take a tumble if he hadn’t corrected his footing once he began sprinting to his cubicle, and as he sat down in the uncomfortable seat of his chair, only to rise back up once Mr. White made his entrance, nearly missing roll-call. Out of relief, Clark would take a sip of his Frappuccino. The whipped cream deflated from the race, though its vanilla flavor was unaffected as the foam happily danced on his tongue, mixing deliciously with the sweetened coffee. he would feel himself replenished with energy the more sips he took. “Damn you…” He would gulp, licking the vanilla foam off his lips, repentant in his mutter, “Why do you taste so good? Right when I’m supposed to let you go, you reel me back in…”

Clark was a certified Metropolitan.

“Sorry—I’m sorry—‘Scuse me! Passing through—“ 

Nearly there. The man was a mountain of muscle, sturdy and well-knit upon first glance, but Clark used his muscles for good, to protect others in situations where they needed him for leverage, not to harm. Upon instinct, he turned a shoulder for a woman to pass through, sparing little contact, then another when a father chased after his kid. It was hectic, his cup of coffee almost losing his grasp in midst of the scuffle, but Clark managed to find a silver lining in the crowd in midst of the clock ticking: the revolving door to the Daily Planet, an entrance Clark has become irrevocably beholden to. 

“S-sorry!” 

A man yelled out, “Watch it, asshole!” In midst of bumping shoulders.Few met his height. Many would either desire to have his height, or to be in the arms of the man who towered over 6’4. Though, in the morning of Metropolis, most if not all deemed it a nuisance.

Breaking out of the herd of people, Clark felt liberated. His legs moved in larger steps, and his elbows spanned from his sides like how they normally should as he ran into the revolving door and pushed against the partition to turn. He checked his watch again. Three minutes left. “Come on, come on—“ One hand squeezed his cup of coffee, and the other clasped his ID badge. His fingers felt slippery from the condensation of his drink, so he squeezed harder, pacing forward to the elevator, then faster when the elevator opened with only a single patron, you, occupying the space.

Faster. 

Clark’s thighs were on fire. 

His watch, two minutes.

Faster. Almost there. 

Clark let out one last breath as he was nearing, holding it out in preparation to stop the elevator door from closing. A relief of a smile came to spread across his face when it opened to accommodate his charging entrance from a few feet away. Usually, he was met by an expression of irritation by anybody who was occupying the elevator, but you looked bewildered, your eyes opening wide milliseconds later upon realization. 

Fear, as your mouth opened to shout, “W-wait! S-slow down!”

It was all in slow motion, watching your face contort to a various of expressions, and then nothing, as Clark clenched the cup of his drink with the force akin to batter hitting a home-run, popping the lid off the cup in process, and spilling the Frappuccino onto the frightened man, with extra vanilla whipped cream and all. All you needed as a cherry on top of your head, and you were ready to be sold as a Monday lunch special.

Maybe his beginner’s luck was running out of flame.

II: MAY.

Luckily, not many people seemed to use the bathroom in the morning. They must’ve gotten it all out of their system before coming to work. You were bent over the sink, wiping your face with god-knows how many paper towels.

“Just my luck…” You grumbled, squinting at your reflection in the mirror as you wiped the corners of your eyes, then your forehead, and then your ears. No matter how many times you’d lave your face with water, you felt sticky, gross, and worst of all, you looked like a mess. You still had your hair and clothes to clean, the smell of vanilla syrup sickening to your nose. The latter was definitely going to require an insane amount of bleach and arm grease to get the coffee stain off.

The door swung open not too long after, and in came the culprit who’d painted your clothes in brown and white, wide-eyed and panicked like he was searching for a lost puppy, then apologetic and defenseless as if he was the puppy that ran away.

“Shoot, I’m so, so, so sorry—“ He brought his hands to his head, pulling at the messy dark curls of his hair. You side-eyed him, responding with nothing but silence, and then a crinkle of the paper towel as you squeezed out the water. 

“Save it.” Your tone was pointed, though you didn’t necessarily mean for it to come across as aggressive as it did. It was already a bad start to your day. Your milk expired, you ran out of frozen breakfast food, and the bakery you liked to visit in the mornings temporarily closed for renovations. All forewarnings to this very moment, where you had been cleaning whipped cream out of your hair. You held out another damp paper towel towards the man, and then waved it when he simply stared, or rather embarrassingly gawked at the mess he had created. “Get my neck.”

“Y-yeah… Of course.”

Silence. You weren’t sure how long you two have been at it, but you’ve managed to fill the trash can half-way with the paper towels. In complete, utterly awkward silence. His touch was delicate, the paper towel gently cascading over your neck in small swipes, even though you’d shown him that you were more than capable to pierce through him with your glare alone. Laser beams would ricochet off your reflection, bounce off the tiled walls of the bathroom, and somehow strike him through the heart and tear that oversized vest right off of his large frame.

The anger only settled when the man repeated his nth apology, moving onto wipe your hair clean. You closed your eyes to calm yourself, breathing out a deep sigh, because it was a mistake. You were having a bad start to your day, and… so was he? Wouldn’t be a surprise. Mondays were notorious in fucking up the week.

“It’s… fine. Not like you meant to do that.” You looked at him through the reflection, his brows scrunched from hyper-fixating on every lock of hair that was blessed with his whipped cream. Was he always this handsome? And why is he towering over you? Why is he so close? 

“Who gets a Frappe in the morning though?”

“I—Black coffee doesn’t really help me stay awake.” A nervous laughter now that you were making conversation with him. It was the complete opposite of how he physically looked. A sheep in wolf’s clothing. “Nor does it taste that good.” He muttered, cleaning the last lock of your hair.

“I would tell you to watch your sugar, but I’m guessing… you got that down?” You didn’t mean to make a comment on his broad body, but the difference in stature was laughable. “(M/N). You?”

“I-Uh, Clark. Clark Kent.” He washed his hands in the sink next to you, lips opening to what you could presume to be another apology. You’ve only met him for fifteen minutes, but you were beginning to catch his habits.

“Okay, Clark.” You stepped forward, crossing your arms, and you could feel the rattle of his gaze as he glanced at you from the reflection. “I work downstairs, at the gift shop. You can apologize by bringing me lunch for a month straight.”

“Wait—A month?! T-that’s kind of expensive, don’t you think—“

“Hey, you can make it yourself. Get it from the supermarket. Scraps from a restaurant’s garage bin nearby. I don’t really care.” You leaned against the counter, stifling a smile as Clark looked rather charming flustered like this. “If you were really sorry, you’d be committed to making up for it nonetheless.”

“That’s a little extreme for someone you don’t know…?”

You shrugged, then turned on your heel. “Spilling a drink on someone isn’t exactly an ideal way to introduce yourself, you know.” Dusting your fingers of water droplets, you began your exit. “Also, I need a new shirt.”

“W-wait—“

“See ya, Mark!”

“It’s Clark!”

Maybe his luck was just beginning.

III: JULY.

“So…? Ready to guess?” The smile on Clark’s face was filled with anticipation. He watched you chew the contents in your mouth in an obnoxiously poised manner, an inside joke between the two of you as you two had been binging on cooking competition shows. You tilted your head in thought like the pretentious judge on one of those shows, pausing mid-chew like something strange had collided with your tastebuds, then continued as if it had faded away. “Come on, I’m dying here.”

You swallowed, taking a sip of water to wash down the bread. “Hey, I need more than a bite to figure the ingredients out!”

“(M/N), you’ve practically eaten half of the sandwich already.” Clark took his half of the sandwich and sank his teeth into the pillowy bread. 

“Look who’s talking.” You rolled a piece of white bread in between your thumb and index finger until it formed a ball, and playfully threw it at Clark’s shoulder. “I didn’t get to eat dinner last night.”

It was a strange feeling in Clark when you said that. His chest swelled a little, as if his heart kicked it from within. “Why’s that?” He slowed his chewing to clear his ears, putting aside his tastebuds for his attention.

“Well, they’re expanding the gift shop, so they’re asking me to work longer hours to help out. No one else said yes, and I need the money, so there was no question about it, you know?” He watched you dust off your fingers on a napkin. He knew of your habits now. Take a sip of your water, which you did, then fully settle your arms onto the table, unabashedly gazing into his eyes to give your tastebuds a break. His eyes altered to the tip of your tongue, peeking out to lick a crumb off your lip, and Clark mirrored onto himself.

It was a secret vaulted in the deep abyss of Clark’s stomach - well, not so much considering Jimmy liked to run his mouth - but your eyes were his favorite parts about you. Even when they were seemingly set aflame on the day he’d met you, your orbs have since had a way to reel him in like bait and never seemed to have let go. He would find himself free-falling into what soon felt closer to home with every second that would pass by.

“Doesn’t mean you have to skip dinner, though.” 

There was a breeze. Gentle and swaying like the jazz music playing in the balcony of the café. It sifted through your hair like sugar would through fine mesh. One got caught on a few strands—wind— and it blew back to recognize your features with the sun, beaming on features that Clark would someday have the courage to say he adored.

“Why? You thinking about bringing me dinner too?” He doesn’t like that you tease him so effortlessly. Clark also doesn’t like how easily flustered he gets, which prompts the cycle of teasing to begin with. 

With hesitation, he tried it himself once, saying something about how you looked good enough to eat or something when you styled your hair back for a change. Though, what came out was something along the lines of: “You look like you eat good enough,” and Clark would rather forget that interaction even happening.

“Haven’t stopped bringing you lunch, if you think about it.” The memory of his first meeting with you brought a smile to his lips, and yours as well, because you two tend to sync thoughts. 

“Yeah, two months now… When’s that going to stop?”

“It’s a routine now. I don’t think I can find it in me to suddenly stop feeding you.”

“Hm, you’d make a good boyfriend, Clark.”

“Yeah…”

IV: AUGUST.

“Nervous?” 

The powdery top note of your hairspray tickled your senses. You counted in your head, holding back a layer of Clark’s hair in your palm. One, two, three, four… Once you reached thirty, you released, sealing the pushed back fringe in place with another layer of the grooming product. 

“How can you tell? Do I look nervous?!” He’d been chewing on his lip, playing with his fingers, moving in his seat. It was like a toddler, but unlike a toddler, Clark was an adult. An adult who had enough awareness to refrain from making any sudden movements while someone had a scalding hot styling iron in their hand.

“Clark, you haven’t stopped shaking your leg since you sat down—“ You delicately pulled a curly strand to the front of his forehead, and it was another reminder how easily Clark could pursue a career in Hollywood. If only journalism hadn’t been such a strong passion for him. Though, with the way his nerves had been electrifying his body—maybe he made the right call in the end.

“Oh—Sorry… I’m just—I don’t know. What if I mess up? I say the wrong thing to Lois, and then she hates me forever? Then what? She tells the entire office about what a terrible—”

“Whoa, I think you’re thinking way too far ahead here. What happened to you being Mister Optimistic all the time?” You ushered him to get up from the seat, and then handed Clark his dress shirt and tie. “Besides, I don’t think Lois would do that. If you like her, that must mean she has some type of soul.”

“I guess so.” Clark muttered, changing into his shirt. Perfectly tailored to his body contrary to the oversized button-downs he was used to wearing. “You wanna hang out after?”

“Uh… you sure you’re going to be free? And not… you know,” Your brows raised, giving Clark a knowing look, and it was that flush of skin that you secretly adored coming in hot, boiling on the apples of his cheeks as Clark quickly deciphered what you meant.

“I don’t sleep with people on the first date, (M/N).” It was priceless. The horror on Clark’s face upon the accusation, his orbs retracting like he’d seen a spaceship landing on earth for the first time. You couldn’t help but laugh out loud at his confession while tidying up his living room. 

“I know a lot of people do! I just had to make sure.” You waited on the couch as Clark changed, replying to missed messages, scrolling through updates on multiple social media accounts, until you heard Clark approach from behind.

“Ahem,” He cleared his throat, announcing his presence, and you turned upon the sound. “Looks okay?”

It was Clark.

It was Clark, but a more refined version of him. Not that he was sloppy in the first place, but simply… you could see him clearer, his own confidence radiating like it had finally discovered an escape to its freedom. His eyes, clear blues that sparkled even when the approaching night began casting shadows through his blinds and onto his glasses. It helped that you styled his hair back too, framing his face for the whole world to admire, and most importantly, for his date to as well. You reminded him to stand tall, and he took that into consideration through his posture straightening, and his chin raising.

“Y-yeah, you look… great.” It was infectious. His smile while he admired himself through his mirror. His dimples smiled back at him, and you felt your own lips curling on their own, like you’ve eaten a candy that was too sweet for its own good. “Lois is going to love it.”

Cavity-inducing.

“Yeah? Oh—I have to pick her up soon. So, you’ll be here, right?! I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep if it goes well—“ Clark let out one last breath, then a shake of his arms, and he found his nerves rattling up again despite as he approached the door.

Ten steps closer than before to Lois.

“It’ll go well, I promise!” It was his moment. Clark’s moment. Yet, you felt weird about it. You wanted to look at him for longer, a sudden greed to keep him in his apartment for longer.

“All right… wish me luck.” He turned to look back at you, appreciative in his smile, but his eyes looked guilty, meaningfully longing akin to the way he had looked when he spilled his drink on you.

That’s right.

“Good luck.” Apologetic, you remembered when he finally exited the room, and closed it shut.

Clark gave you cavities.

And like all cavities, you needed to get rid of them.

You needed to get rid of Clark.

V: DECEMBER.

It was partially his fault, wasn’t it?

There was no doubt in mind that you and Clark have been spending less time together. Clark was never a big texter, but he found himself messaging you a lot more often to make up for the fact that he had rarely seen you the past few weeks. Lunch was spent with Lois, dinner was with Lois, drinks were with Lois, binge-watching TV… with Lois.

“You’re always talking about Lois…”

It was why he preferred meeting up, because you never answered your phone, especially these days. If he was lucky, you’d spare him more than four messages a day before saying goodnight.

You never liked saying goodnight, and neither did Clark. By preference, Clark liked to fall asleep on the phone with you where he would catch your snores, and the embarrassment of it all would keep you awake for a little longer, at least until it was Clark’s turn to retiring for the night. It felt safe, knowing that he wasn’t - to some extent - alone in his bed. That he could mumble your name in his sleep, and you’d toss in bed, his voice ricocheting off into your own dreams.

It felt intimate.

“Hey, give me a call whenever you get back. Lois and I found this really cool aquarium you’d really like! I got a turtle keychain for you too.”

“(M/N)? Hey, I totally forgot about dinner last night! Work’s gotten so busy, and then Lois wanted to go out, and my parents were calling, so—Let me make it up to you? We can go to that diner you’ve been talking about.”

“Hey, (M/N)! Didn’t see you at the shop today… Doing okay? Not sure if you got the sandwich I left for you on the counter. Or maybe someone had stolen it. But text me? Let me know?”

“It’s Clark. Why am I telling you—I saw you the other day, but… you seemed like you were in a rush? I’m guessing renovation is taking a toll on you? Give me a call…”

“Hey, uh… Listen, If I did something… Will you let me know, please? I-I don’t know. I don’t know what’s happening here, between us, but… I just. I miss—”

Clark didn’t want to seem obsessive. Absolutely not. 

But this was getting out-of-hand. He was panicking. He’d been panicking for the past few weeks since this whole charade had started. It was only right for him to worry like this, about his best friend. To go from aligning his lunch breaks with yours to sitting stone-faced at his cubicle with a half-eaten sandwich in his Tupperware was a huge disruption to his routine. It was like the world had turned against him in solidarity. Knowing his own mind, Clark deserved it.

There had been a farrago of missteps, too many of them to count, for Clark to simply shrug it off and see the silver lining through them for the next day, for the next week, or for the next month. It wasn’t like before he’d met you, where he would simply get caught in a long line of office workers waiting for their coffee, and then received a free pastry because they had messed up his order twice. Or how he would sleep through his alarms, where his body clock fortunately alerted him awake before traffic would begin to dominate the streets. 

No, this was different.

He’d earned a raise since then, for his great work on profiling the Superman, but it was all he did now. When it wasn’t Superman, it was being Superman, and Clark wished there was someone to talk to. To celebrate with, now that he can splurge a bit more on himself. To vent towards, about how it was obvious that he’d been holding Lois back since their relationship started. To shout with while he watched a movie because the killer had been in the main character’s house all along. To lament towards, because Lois had called it quits, yet in spite of that, it wasn’t as painful as the way you had been treating him. To scream out the month’s omen with, because maintaining this double-life of his was wearing him down.

Moments of happiness, catapulting his memories of you with laughter and warmth, had felt like a wound. A piece of him was broken. He felt hollowed out - a pineapple without its core - more so than ever, losing you as quickly as he had became friends with you, as quickly as he had fallen for you. Spineless, if he just watched you slip out his fingers and float away.

He needed to bring you back. He needed to tie you around his wrist like a balloon, like how his Ma and Pa would when they took him to the fair as a kid. At least if you float away again, he’d chase after you like he should’ve the first time.

If luck was on his side, you’d let him hold your hand and cruise the winter sky together. And if a miracle was in the palms of Clark Kent, he’d reckon voyaging the four seasons as one would turn over a new leaf.

VI: DECEMBER.

The air was frigid. The glass pane of your window shivered against the cold, frost webbing your reflection from corner to corner as you peered out into the city. Noses red and cheeks flushed, symptoms of the freezing cold as they endured the walk home. Careful steps across the sidewalk, into the street, as flakes of white fell to the earth. 

For an alien, it would summon silence. Those sparkling crests that would melt upon contact—an invasion they would yell in terror as the flakes seeped into their skin like acid. But for humans, people like you, it brought laughter. Giggles pierced the air, couples holding each other close to gather heat, but to also keep each other from slipping, and the world had only felt warmer despite the snow’s best efforts.

Your smile reflected off the joy radiating off of multiple passersby. Kids with their guardians. Dogs with their owners. Parents with their own parents. The holiday was nearing, spirits ramping in midst. As the streets emptied, leaving you in nothing but the cruel howl of the wind, you couldn’t bring yourself to caring about your favorite celebration. There was little need for your participation if you didn’t have anyone to spend it with.

To be completely honest, it was your fault.

Clark was happy. He was happy to have someone who shared the same interest in him. He was happy that Lois could bring the best out of him, either out of his work or out of his personal ambitions. Lois would make Clark the man his parents would be proud to see after silently agonizing over months on whether the city would be good for him. He was happy to share this new chapter in his life with you, and you had little patience to see him blossom.

You couldn’t bear it, knowing that it could’ve been you.

God, you were being childish. This felt like high school all over again, except… not really considering you weren’t out in high school. You’ve watched enough coming-of-age films to know that the audience would’ve deemed you immature. Worst of all, you would’ve vented to Clark about how foolish the main character was being.

Your romantic experience had been limited to silently crushing on guys in your classes to hooking up with strangers through an app. Maybe that explained why you were acting out. Why you preferred isolating yourself from the root of your happiness instead of surrounding yourself with it. When was the last time you were ever in love? With the family dog? With her puppies? No, actually in love… with a person, with a man.

“Fuck.” The ice cream in your mouth suddenly stung the back of your jaw the longer the spoon sat in your mouth. You’ve been looping Clark’s voice messages, debating on whether it was too late to reconcile, whether he was too upset at you to even want to have you step a foot inside of his apartment. 

“I miss you. I really miss you.”

You winced, groaning in discomfort, tensing your jaw as the voice message looped like some kind of hypnotic spell. “I miss you. I really miss you. Miss you. Miss. You. (M/N). I miss you.”

The sweetness bulldozed your molars. It was unbearable. You tended to your cheek, holding onto it as you hastily slipped on your coat and beanie.

Throbbing. Your gums.

Your hand yanked the door open, and you marched outside, into the blanket of snow.

Beating. Your heart. 

The cavity was returning, and you needed Clark’s help.

VII: DECEMBER.

Clark had mixed feelings seeing you at his doorstep.

This was not how it was supposed to go. He was the one that was supposed to be drenched from the snow. Shivering like an unkempt toy, with severed electrical currents making him twitch at the modest breeze, at the welcoming warmth. He peered down at you, where you met his gaze. Clark registered a broken and a contrite heart, and he could only respond in complete silence. Frozen in place because the visit was unexpected, but also because you made his heart swell to the point of nearing combustion, and it took all his might to control himself from pulling you into a hug.

“Hi.” You sniffed, wiping your runny nose. There was a stark contrast between your body temperature and Clark’s, he could feel the frost biting his own skin.

“Hi…” Clark took a step closer, but he couldn’t cross the distance between you and him, halting as if there was an ice barrier. No, control yourself, Clark. “I—Come in.”

A wet layer of skin; narrow hills from your eye bags, past the apple of your cheeks, and down to your chin. Crystals would form along your tears if you hadn’t insistent on wiping them clean. You never liked being vulnerable with him. With anyone, for that matter.

Clark stepped aside to welcome you in. You passed one glance at him, hesitant and apprehensive, but the warmth reeled you in, one shoe at a time. He was so close to you. Your arm nearly brushed against his, close enough as if it had almost nudged his elbow.

“You’re freezing—I-I’ll make some coffee.” He headed towards his kitchen, then paused to glance back at you, resembling the skittish reporter you first met as his indecisiveness staggered his following steps. “No, Tea? Hot water? I don’t know—“

“Clark, that can wait… Uh, how about we talk… first?” Clark could see it. He could see how you felt like a stranger in his apartment, a place he’d nearly asked you to move in as his roommate considering you spent so much time here. 

You carefully took off your coat, and Clark immediately went to your aide to gather it into his arms and put it on the coat rock. Though, not before letting the smell of your cologne linger in his nose, because god, he missed this. 

“Yeah, yeah. Let’s… talk.” He gestured towards his couch, tidying up the sweater that was beginning to feel constricting on his body.

Other than a tiny Christmas tree hiding in the corner of his living room, not much had changed. Everything was right where you’d last seen it, including a polaroid Clark took of you and taped to his ‘Wall of Memories.’

Out of instinct, you sat at your side of the couch, and Clark sat to the left, right beside you. Your palms ran over the cotton upholstery, then paused when your finger dipped into a ripped hole you had accidentally created when you two were watching a horror film.

“So… how are you?” Clark was staring. He didn’t mean to, but seeing you beside him felt… unreal. Maybe he was dreaming. The space next to your hand looked inviting, so his own hand naturally found its place, laying it there with his pinky finger barely grazing yours. You’re real. His pinky twitched when your finger brushed against the tip, and you pulled away. No, no. Come back.

“I’m good, well—long story, but…” You sighed, and Clark was patient as you took a moment to gather your thoughts. It was unlike you. Not that it was bad, but it was extremely attractive how outspoken you could be, especially regarding subjects you were passionate about. It was like you rode the ocean waves, swam with large strokes because you had a goal in mind, to convince Clark that mint chocolate chip was the best flavor of ice cream and whatnot.

“Before we catch up, I’m sorry… I don’t really know what I was doing, but it was my fault. I’m childish, I know that. I pushed you away because I was jealous… of Lois. And—please don’t hate me, but I hated how you looked at her. And how she looked at you.“ You breathed, your eyes casted downward like you were ashamed of being capable of human emotions. Then they clenched, because you heard how incredibly thoughtless you were being, yet that didn’t stop the tears from forming.

“And I was supposed to be happy for you, Clark. I mean, I knew I didn’t have a chance to be with you, but I somehow convinced myself that one day, you’d look at me with the same amount of affection you’d look at Lois. I would wait, and wait, and it was getting… painful. I mean, who am I kidding? I should’ve let you adjust first before growing impatient, but it felt like I was being replaced, and I was afraid of the inevitable, Clark—“

Now, you were floating. And out of fear, Clark felt his hand come alive, and spider close to your hand again. Tie him before it’s too late. It was up to Clark to change the trajectory of your descent. The pinkie that had lain next to your own crossed over and locked over yours. The barrier of ice that had been building between the two of you shattered into a million shard and he was frozen. A million of them pierced into Clark’s skin when he took your hand into his, and the clasp of your hand into his had bonded.

“Clark, what—“ Your eyes widened, letting in fragments of Christmas lights to highlight the glossy sheen of the tears welling in your sight. 

Without questioning it, Clark pulled you into his chest and felt the crumbled wetness stain his sweater. One by one, his fingers loosened to let go of your hand to support your body with his arms. Strong, thick arms wrapped around your body, fitted snug against you like a vest. There wasn't any resistance from your end, so he held you longer, then tighter in case you’d let go of him. 

It had never felt so good holding someone’s weight.

Two hearts pulsed against one another, and then as one as Clark buried his head into your neck in silence, while you rested your cheek against his shoulder. You clutched yearningly at his back, and Clark ran his palm over yours. Completely different motions, yet they told the same story, the same ending.

“I missed you.” In harmony, Clark’s voice mixed with yours. Clark often marveled at it, how often he came into sync with you as a pair. Another, when you mustered up the remaining energy to blindly breathe out a sweet laugh against his neck, and he followed, his soft lips inking your skin with a grin.

He didn’t want the hug to end, but it had to sooner or later. Clark needed to see you, as much as he needed to touch you. Releasing you from his hold, he settled for the middle. Large hands found their way back to the vacancy of your own pair and he leaned his forehead against yours, watching your eyes come back into focus as you gazed upwards, officially sharing his yearning.

“What are we doing, Clark?” It was dangerous. There was a heat to his cheeks that needed to connect with the one festering on your own. A dryness to your lips that needed a fresh paint of balm. Clark silently leaned closer, yet your gaze steadied, like you were silently anticipating something. “Lois…”

“We’re not together anymore.” He revealed once to his parents, and that was that. It was a strange feeling bringing up his relationship with Lois again, considering they’d both healed from it and moved on as friends. It was better that way, felt better too. 

Your lips parted for another question, but Clark was quick to answer. “November...”

“I’m sorry—“ Undeniably, Clark’s patience had run its course. He didn’t spare a single second for you to catch your breath. Instead, letting gravity pull the weight of his head until his nose pressed against yours. Multiple forewarning bumps to your septum that made you crease your nostrils, a charming expression he’d later marvel over. 

Clark allowed himself to sink further into you, applying all of his weight to push you back into the cushions of his couch to then finally capture your lips for one yearning kiss. It was cathartic. He’d wanted this for months. His mouth on yours, his hand into yours, and now that it was finally occurring, Clark wanted to savor the moment. Your body was reacting prosperously, opening your legs to close the distance between Clark’s body and yours. You wrapped them around his hips, condensing him groin to groin. Gentle tremors rattled down Clark’s spine as he pressed into you, mouth and hip, stirring wondrous feelings that ignited from the bonded bodies. First with the utmost uncertainty, then with a starry vehemence upon catching your delightful little sounds in his lips, in his mouth, on his tongue. He swallowed, releasing your hands to tuck his left beneath your head. A cushion, or a reminder to him, as his thumb carefully caressed your cheek, that this was real, that this was happening. You gasped, occupying your free hands around his neck because you felt yourself slipping. Whether it was off the couch, or from your original state of delusion, Clark was going to catch you no matter what.

“I love you.” Scratch that, he was never going to let you go. Not this time. You had no doubts about that as he repeated those three words into your mouth like you needed convincing, then kissed you again to lock his stubborn pleas in place. His glasses bumped against your face, but the feeling of his mouth on yours felt too good for you to complain.

A breather, you pulled away soon because Clark was stealing your oxygen, and you needed to tell him before you would embarrassingly faint from overdosing on the simplicity of his kisses. You took one look at him, gently pushing his head back before your hands had taken his cheeks hostage and cupped them, analyzing what made you fall for him in the first place. Thick dark curls that fell gently over his forehead. Clark’s eyes fluttered shut when your fingers ran through them, the pressure of his scalp gratifying like a long stretch in the morning. Wide frames that were too big for Clark’s face, but had he gone any smaller, they would’ve completely hid the beautiful blues of his eyes. You straightened the crook of his glasses, grinning because the bewildered look on his face resembled a puppy’s. His physical appearance made your heart skip more than a couple of beats, yes, but it wasn’t the main attribution to your attraction.

Your hand trailed from his neck, to his chest, then to his heart. Boiling, his heart was pulsating rapidly like yours, and you sighed.

Because it was here. This was why you fell in love with him.

“I love you.”

His heart was making popcorn, and the scorching heat was rising to Clark’s cheeks. “Thank, god.”

Clark pressed one kiss to each of your palm before leaning back into you, and continuing where he left off. Your laughter was eaten up by his mouth. Suddenly ticklish as Clark catapulted your lips with an uncontrollable laughter of his own. His body shook with yours, heart pounding at one’s chest to bond with the other as he held you close once again.

Nothing was funny. Just simply relieving.

Now tighter, drawing you into his arms when the collective laughter was enough for the couch to move a nudge and roll your intertwined bodies onto his floor. Clark could laugh all night long with you, something that could pull a world record if there was someone to verify the interaction, but something began aching inside of him when he was reminded of your hips against his, groins rubbing in simultaneous pleasure. He maintained his position on top of you, in between your legs, and seized the opportunity to press against you. When your laughter was interrupted with a stifled whimper, without a doubt, Clark was a goner.

“Can… I?” He leaned up, his curious palms on your inner thighs kept you spread on the floor. You watched inquisitively, anticipating, hardly masking it with a low-effort grin.

“Can you… what? Not sure what you’re asking, Clark.” Your elbows supported your body, leaning onto them as Clark bit his lips at your obvious teasing. You wiggled your hips while his hands did their best to avoid touching you there, anywhere but there, until you gave him permission. Chewing, because he was trying his best to control himself upon seeing your crotch twitch with agony.

“Come on…” His palms roamed the back of your thighs, then towards the front again, because he needed to occupy the anticipation of his sweaty hands. “Don’t make me say it.”

“I’m not a reporter like you, Clark. Unfortunately, I was never good at deciphering clues or hints. You pulled him down by the collar of his vest, wrapping your legs back around his hips because you loved making him flustered. “Give it to me straight.”

“I—“ Clark surrendered at the touch of your lips on his. Gentle and sweeping, you kissed him like fall of snow, and he melted, whispering into your mouth, “I… want to make love to you.”

His voice registered sweet, in both mind and body. Your tastebuds bloomed when he kissed you again and slipped a tongue in without much warning. Your pants felt tighter as Clark began his antics again and ground himself against you, eagerly rubbing his larger bulge over your own. Clark was a growing cavity, festering right down to the root, but it was no longer painful.

It was indisputably pleasure.

“I’m all yours.”

There was something hidden in Clark’s gaze, something that his glasses had been unfairly shielding from you. You reached up to put aside his glasses and felt your breath hike when the quick glimpse of his gaze matched the avidity of his mark to your neck.

He refused to part from you. Even with the eagerness of stripping you, he needed to be in close proximity. Knit vests off, Clark returned to mark at your neck. Sweaters tossed, he quickly studied your figure and where you were most sensitive with his tongue and palms Wet and warm, you whimpered. Pants kicked, he helped you out of them while he clumsily stumbled out of his. Slow down, you’d laugh with him, and Clark would find his balance with a hug from you before he could embarrassingly take a tumble. A trail of clothing led to his bedroom, where you laid on the bed while Clark sat on his knees, decorating your entire body with the tiniest, yet wettest kisses. He palmed himself to this, squeezing his erection to the restricted pulsation of your own. Every time he ran a marathon of licks up your leg, your briefs twitched. Clark neared closer to your thighs, then inner thighs, every lap, and the twitching doubled.

“Clark…” It accidentally came out as a whine, and you were grateful that it did because you’d been keeping an eye on his clothed erection, watching it unfurl from a stuffy mass to an intimidating thick shaft where it began outgrowing his original side tuck and throb against his left thigh. It would be more than a handful, two if you were being pessimistic.

“Baby, be patient… I missed you.” The pet name came out of nowhere. They didn’t have nicknames for each other, but Clark felt good calling you that, and seeing how your cock began pulsating rapidly at the sound of his voice, he’d reckon it felt just as good hearing it for the first time.

After teasing you with multiple sequences of nearly kissing your bulge, Clark finally caved in and pressed his mouth to where the tip of your erection was hidden. Its location marked with a tantalizing wet spot that made him moan when he could taste your salty leakage through your briefs. Mouthing it, licking it, you watched Clark with an open-mouth, finding yourself mimicking his licks to the open air as you imagined his own erection was in your mouth. You played with your nipples, and it was heaven. You could get off to this. Clark could too, as he began rutting into the mattress, laving the center of your briefs with his wet tongue.

“I wish you could see yourself right now. You look so sexy, so…” Clark never finished his slurry of a sentence, clearly high off of his desire to ruin you. Your lids felt heavy, pinching and twirling your nipples to his languid mouthing like it was your lullaby. His voice came to a complete halt, a beat of silence that you’d come to query, until your eyes immediately widened at the warmth of his mouth surrounding your cock, finding your unspoken question answered.

“O-oh, Clark.. .That’s—mmf!” One hand was fondling your balls, while Clark’s other was stroking himself through his briefs after tossing your underwear to the carpet. His mouth was full. Warm and breached with your stiff shaft. His cheeks hollowed, and your body arced toward the ceiling as a result of holding your moans back. 

On the contrary, your body was trembling. Cold tremors electrified every bone in you as Clark explored your cock with his thick tongue, building your excitement to a rattle. He’d secure you in his mouth, sucking and refusing to let you go even when your fingers laced and pulled at his hair, a lazy attempt to push him off, but it only encouraged him to suck harder, lick at the underside of your cock, at your veins, swirling over the glossy tip, tasting the salt you’d produce solely for him, because of him. “S-stop, I’m going to come if you keep—“ 

“Sorry, you just taste so good…” Reluctantly, Clark pulled you out with a subtle pop, wiping his remaining saliva on the back of his hand. Your cock was twitching in a shiny coat of spit as you and him both watched his masterpiece of a tongue have its remaining effect on you.

“My turn…” It was a declaration. You crawled forward onto all fours while Clark watched in anticipation. He sat up on his knees upon you reaching for the waistband of his briefs. With a slow pull, his large erection sprang free with a heavy bounce, and your pupils dilated. “Jesus, Clark…” You removed his briefs, tossing it to join the floor, and he sat back on his knees while you marveled over his girth. Its size submitted you into silence. A tint of envy, but mainly of wonder as you couldn’t possibly imagine fitting him inside of you.

“Hey, you don’t have to…” Clark could see the fear in your eyes. The intimidation. Though, he would never admit that he was extremely turned on from watching your expression morph into utter astonishment. His cock, however, couldn’t care less. Thick and mighty veins blasted from the base of his raging hard-on to the very plump tip of the bulbous head. It was as equally as inviting as it was intimidating.

“I want to. I’m just… kind of jealous, that’s all.” You laughed to yourself, wrapping a firm grip around Clark’s shaft and watching in awe at how you couldn’t close your fingers around him, even when you had adjusted your hand. Clark’s cheeks were scalding. Was there an adjective to describe someone who was embarrassed, but extremely aroused right now? He’d have to look it up, but he was that. He watched how your mouth practically salivated for him, working him in slow strokes because you were careful not to anger this phenomenon of a creature.

“You’re perfect, wouldn’t change a single thing about you. Where would be the fun in all of this if we all looked the same?” You hummed at the comforting words, somewhat feeling guilty over your cock hardening over such a sweet consolation. 

Nonetheless, it wasn’t something you were going to dwell on. You knew Clark loved your body, he would’ve inhaled you whole if he could. As a token of appreciation, you nuzzled over the underside of his cock, lining gentle kisses over the veins that made you the hungry, desperate man you were displaying for him. “I love you.”

Clark would burn this image of you, drooling over the sight of his cock, over the tense of his muscles as you licked his abdomen, sucked at a birthmark on his hip, then hollowed your mouth out to accommodate his erection. “I love you.” He exhaled from his gut, nearly seeing the whites of his eyes as you didn’t spare a second in warming him up to your throat. 

“Baby, slow down… You’re going to choke—“

“Mmfggh—“ Sweet sounds. Delicious noises that made his spine tingle, that made his muscular chest puff up as it swelled with so much selfish pleasure. You looked up at him with such pureness, a determination that Clark was afraid to shatter if he made you stop, so he simply watched. Petting your head, brushing strands of your hair that threatened to obscure the parts he’d loved most about you. Your eyes sparked with glee as the salt of his cock watered your tastebuds. You let your hands roam free on his body. One palm admiring the toned muscles on his stomach, the other stroking the inches of flesh that haven’t been in your mouth yet.

Then, your eyes filled with tears, as you became overzealous from your mouth blooming with arousal and heat as you took more of Clark. Past the tip now, your tongue flattened at the underside of his veiny cock to make room for his large shaft. Your cheeks hollowed while you sucked, and you could taste Clark leaking on your tongue again. Thick and salty pre-cum dancing over the bed of sprouts.

“Baby, careful…” Despite his warning, Clark couldn’t help but thrust every now and then into you.

It was difficult stuffing Clark inside of your mouth, but you proceeded. Further and further, you sank your head. Clark carefully held you while his gaze marveled at the warmth of your mouth. You’d splutter into a gag when you lodged him into the back of your throat, cramped and gratifying despite the tears in your eyes. Clark was quick to pull you back in case you choked on your own spit, and he knew you. He knew you were the type to take on a challenge. Before you could complain about him pulling you away, he brought you up for a kiss, meeting you half way as he bent forward. His hand was on your nape, tenderly massaging in case you pulled a muscle, and he smiled at your fluster when he pulled away. A thin line of spit connected the pair of lips, a display of devotion for one another. “You did so well.”

While Clark laid you on the bed once again and reached for lube out of his bedside drawer, you were kissing at the underside of his jaw. He’d left a mark on your neck, so it was only fair that you made your presence known as well. Your teeth nibbled on the stretch of skin as your lips wandered off to suck on a patch of skin on his neck. The smell of his body wash was strong in your nose when you buried your face into him, suckling until Clark’s neck had skipped the initial stage of turning pink, and instead, an ardent red. “Don’t finger me too much. I want to feel you.” Your cock throbbed in anticipation.

“No way, (M/N). I’m going to hurt you if I don’t.” He sealed off any potential retorts from you with a smooch to your lips, and then affectionately bumped his forehead to yours, sparing you a teasing smile. “And I promise you, you’d still feel me even if I spent an hour warming you up.”

Your heartbeat spiked.

You brought your knees up after he placed a pillow beneath your lower back. Clark took his sweet time lubing his fingers and erection. There was an obvious motive behind the gaze he’d spare you. A smugness in the curl of his calming smile. He made sure you were watching as he bucked his hips up when he slimed his cock with a glorious amount of lube. The remaining lubricant was used to lather your rim, and then the surface of your lips as he brought his hand up-close.

“It’s cake-flavored. Haven’t used it yet.“ Clark said with a laugh, pressing his lubed thumb to the center of your mouth.

“Of course it is. What’s with you and sweets?” Your lips parted to let your tongue peek out and take a swipe at the wet layer of his skin. Artificially sweet at first, but it wasn’t unpleasant enough to detract you away from it. After taking multiple samples of the lubricant, you closed your mouth around Clark’s thumb, and that was when the base notes hit your tongue. The scent of vanilla tingled your sinuses, as well as the artificial flavor of the sweet commodity spreading pleasantly on your tongue the more you sucked. It tasted more like marshmallows than a cake, but you weren’t complaining. You pushed his thumb out with your tongue and nodded in approval. “Tastes nice. Why do you need it to taste like cake though—“

“Because I like cake.” With a push of your thighs, Clark was back on his knees again. He haunched over to face your exposed entrance once you locked your arms around your legs, holding your knees to your chest. Then, he flattened his tongue over the smooth surface of your crack. One stripe to sample the quality of the flavor. Another to discover the depth of vanilla blossoming on his tongue. And then another few laps, because your bare flesh tasted infinitely better than whatever was mixed in that bottle of lube.

“Clark…” You wished you could properly watch him. For now, you had to settle on blindly watching the top of his head from the opening of your legs, dark curls bouncing as he eagerly devoured and lapped up the layer of lube that slicked up your opening. His tongue swirled over the rim of your hole, teasing at first, to sample you again, then he pressed his mouth to your entrance. The movement of his languid mouth nipping and mouthing made you pucker. It was an automatic reaction, you clenched, then opened, and Clark seized the opportunity and slipped his tongue inside of you, officially tasting you. “C-Clark! That’s—Mmf!”

Clark was under hypnosis. Everything that was said to him, that was plead towards him while he ate you out was drowned out by the sound of his slobbering. Two palms on your asscheeks stretched you out while Clark thrusted his tongue inside of you like daggers. When you clenched around his tongue, Clark pulled back to carefully push a lubed finger inside of you, spreading you back open. “I wish you could see this right now, (M/N). Your hole’s so pretty.” He looked up at you, lips beaten red and his fringe tousled, while he pumped two fingers inside of you now, smiling at the way your body had a mind of its own, floundering within your own hold, completely stripped of insanity and instead, disheveled over the smallest touch. “You look so pretty.” Your cock twitched in solidarity. 

For someone who made it seem like he absolutely got no action, Clark was a natural talent in pleasing you. His fingers were thick and deep inside of you, curling at various spots you hadn’t even brushed once in your lifetime. You bit your lip, writhing in suppressed arousal, and Clark would watch in awe as he simultaneously licked around your rim and thrusted his fingers inside of you. Three now, spreading, twisting, and churning in and out of you smoothly with the help of a fresh paint of lubricant. His thick pecs bounced with every draw of his fingers, sweat beginning to form over his neck and shoulders as the heat between you and him only escalated. He broke out into cold sweats, watching you unravel your sanity before his very eyes, and Clark was eager to be the cause of your destruction, for you to equally ruin him.

You’d let your legs collapse onto the bed a while ago, but it was fine, because once you were properly warmed up, Clark took matters into his own hands and balanced your feet over his shoulders, pulling out and orienting his hips before you. He slicked his cock in another layer of lubricant, the smell of vanilla mixing pleasantly with his arousal, and he leaned for a sweet, but confirming, pushing your knees towards your chest in the process.

“I love you.” He softly whispered into your mouth, forehead to forehead. Words of affection that you couldn’t possibly imagine growing tired of. Your stomach was in knots, your heart tugging one way, and then another, as you two shared a gaze. A silent one, but surely meaningful because you felt close to tearing, looking into his sweet, adoring eyes. It nearly ripped when he repeated those three words again in your ear, gentle like the kisses he was adorning the shell of your ear, ticklish like the way he had been tracing your rim with the tip of his cock.

“I love you…” It came out as a purr, and you gave his shoulders a loving squeeze. I’m all set.

Upon the completion of your breath, Clark pushed his hips forth. Slowly, you felt your hole opening. Wider, as it took in Clark’s hot pulse. Gasping, as it was a struggle to fit the head of his cock inside of you. Your body naturally reacted in pushing back the intrusion out of your body, swelling around the plump glans and clenching to prevent him from moving any further. “C-Clark—“

“M-mm, relax—“ He grunted in the depth of your mouth, distracting you with another open-mouthed kiss. But Clark was persistent. He was nearly there. One more push, and he was in. He used the back of your thighs as leverage, pushed your legs further back, and pushed with careful might. Not enough to hurt you, but enough to break through the barrier that refused to let you two bond. Clark was pushing. You were pushing back. It was a battle for territory, a toll on your body as you broke into cold sweats. You inhaled at the increasing soreness, but nonetheless endured because you’d endured worse. 

You’d lived through the loneliness that was your life without Clark, and that was absolutely unbearable compared to this. The thought of spending eternity with him reconciled you with near pleasure. You two would go on to do everything together. Holding hands with him in public would be a no-brainer as you helped him shop for a new suit. You’d celebrate his promotion over dinner, either homemade or a fancy restaurant, because Clark deserved the luxury of life. And if all things go well, he’d reward you for staying by his side and supporting him with a ring. Nothing too grand or magnificent, because you were never too keen for the lifestyle of the wealth. And knowing Clark, he’d ramble about how he could buy another engagement ring if you weren’t happy with it, completely forgetting to ask you about the inevitable: Will you marry me?

Exhaling once more, you brought a hand to his nape and gently pushed his forehead to yours. Then his nose squished with yours when you felt your body arched off the bed in response to Clark finally breaching inside of you with one tantalizing thrust, goosebumps fluttering over your skin and amplifying the soreness by tenfold. “H-hh! Clark!” You choked out, straining your neck as your body felt like it was burning. Scalding with pleasure and pain all at once.

“I got you. I got you, baby…” Clark slipped an arm beneath you, cushioning your body when gravity pushed you back onto the bed. He began lathering your neck in pacifying kisses, stilling his hips while doing so. “Doing so well, doing so good. You feel so good, you know that? You make me feel so good.” Clark was drunk on the grasp you had around his cock. So tight, you felt so tight, and he anticipated what you’d feel like beyond the first few inches of him.

“You’re okay?” For moments now, he’d been kissing you to divert your attention from the pain. Wiping beads of sweat off your face with the back of his hand. Massaging your chest and playing with your nipples. Anything to get your body to relax. Though, the most effective remedy was when he gazed into your eyes and rambled. Clark knew that. He felt your muscles loosen when he’d make a silly joke, or when he’d bring up a memory about losing his shoe at work. Touching was the easiest effort and you loved the weight of his palms on you, but you were most sentimental about Clark finding other ways to temporarily shift your mind to a sanctuary. All in all, the power of his humility was a force to be reckoned with.

“I’m okay… Just been a while.” Your lips slurred against his, kissing Clark again, extremely appreciative of his patience. “Think I’m all good now. You can move.” You confirmed with a gentle pat to his cheek.

“I’ll make you feel good.” It was a promise.

Clark kissed at your ear. “I’ll make you feel like you won’t want to stop when we’re about to end.” A symptom.

His lips moved to your neck. You shivered at the ghosting of his mouth, of his tongue, before he’d rightfully claim another spot on your neck as his own. 

Clark reeled his hips back until only the tip was left inside of you. You whimpered at the emerging heat, but it was beginning to become bearable.

“I’ll make you feel like you were made for me.” You felt yourself split into two when Clark brought himself forward. A gasp slipped when you felt your hole stretch. And then continued to push itself to its limits as he worked himself inside of you with gentle and subtle thrusts, until Clark was an inch deeper. The grasp you had on his shoulders was extreme, egg-shell white as the sweat in your palms threatened to loosen your grip. The husk in his voice trembled while you swelled around him. Rapid pulsations embraced the thick veins of his cock, seemingly massaging him out of appreciation, a token of your gratitude because pleasure had finally materialized in the loss of your agony.

The toned muscles of Clark’s thighs slapped into the back of your sweaty thighs with every thrust. A salacious sound that wouldn’t cease. Louder. Harder, when Clark was comfortable enough to properly move inside of you. “Because you are.”

Properly stir your insides. Your face said it all. Your sight blasted as you watched Clark with dilated pupils, mouth agape like you had better counter to the flattery of the man’s words. Instead, you found yourself choking back on them. Words. They would’ve been affectionate words. They came out as stifled moans because it was embarrassing for Clark to see you like this. Grunts when Clark lodged himself deeper inside of you. He was just as motivated by a challenge as you were. The challenge of making all sorts of delightful noises fall from your mouth out of your own will.

Sweat dripped off of him like he’d just returned from a blacksmith.  A sweltering fire would heat him up. Not to burn him, but to make him pliable enough for the blacksmith to shape the perfect man out of Clark’s flesh and bone. A chisel to carve out the deep dips in his upper traps, where your palms loved occupying. Another at his waist, where you’d hold Clark to help him dig you deeper. Then a hammer, used to forge the sturdy muscles on his athletic body. Deep hills and valley, crafted over his pecs and abdomen to let his sweat drain onto your body.

“You’re made for me, as much as I’m made for you.” Clark murmured.

A vow.

With that, Clark mounted you, both of his palms grounded to the space by your shoulders to stabilize his catapulted position. He pushed his full weight on top of you. Your legs folded towards your chest, alongside the sink of his body, until your knees signaled the end of their mobility. A kiss to your left calf to keep you alert, a bite to the other to warn, and Clark propelled his hips forward without the intention to stop. Further and further, your mouth and eyes widening as he tunneled through your contraction, until his cock was deeply-rooted fully inside of your hole. Clark settled himself inside of you with a yearning groan, and you retaliated with staggered cry.

“C-Clark, I feel so… full. Honey, fuck—” Your skin prickled with goosebumps knowing that Clark had fully breached your hole. There was no doubt about that, yet your hand snuck down to blindly confirm the achievement, to see if you could slot your hand between his pelvis and your ass. But Clark was pressed flushed against you. No gaps. Only the thick hairs of his pubic region came into contact with your fingers, and your cock twitched.

You were completely and utterly full to overflowing.

“You’re squeezing me so tight, baby. You feel so good. So warm. So… tight.” Clark huffed out a few breaths and slid his cock nearly out before slamming it back into you. 

“U-uh-huh.” You panted at the sight of his arousal. How gratifying it was to Clark, being inside of you, to the point where his eyes would roll back, and then feel the need to slow his deep thrusts, because he was close. You could tell. You could feel his cock throbbing harder. Veins hotfooting a nearing high as you stimulated his aching muscle, and you were stroking your leaking dick to the feeling.

“I love this… I love you. I love making love to you.” His cock hammered your insides, the thick head of it raking past your sweet spot. It made your cock tremble, your glans crying out with thick, teary pre-cum. When your moans hiccuped a pitch, Clark realized he had mined gold.

“C-Clark, I love you—“ Your firm cock slid through your closed fist every time he moved, the creaking of bed springs following every motion of his thrust. It wouldn’t be long before you made a complete mess on your body. “Oh, god—“ Clark clasped his mouth around your tongue, greedy to feel your moans ricochet off the walls of his cheeks, and into the depth of his throat. Veins charged his arms as he pinned your hips to the bed. You were floating, higher and higher. The roam of your hands, over his sweaty pecs, his shoulders, his neck, his abdominal muscles, his arms—you were stimulating Clark’s body so he doesn’t stop. Motivating him to blind you with his devotion, starry skies and all.

“P-Please, Clark. God, that’s so good. You feel so—“ Forehead to forehead now, Clark was watching you passionately through heavy lids, alternating his gaze from the silent plea in your eyes, to the beaten and swollen muscle of cock in your jerking fist. All while he throbbed inside of you, overwhelming you with the pulsating of his thick cock veins, making love to your hole with the refusal to stretch his approaching climax.

So close, you were so close. You held Clark by his neck with one hand, and refused to let him pull away.

Faster and faster, his cock consistently drilled into your prostate, drumming against it with a deep swivel of his hips and more, until you couldn’t hold back your cries. Your pulse raced as your cock twitched with your heartbeat, speeding the flicks of your wrist to outpace Clark’s thrusts. 

It was a tense battle to see who’d erupt first. Harder. Harder. Faster. You were a mess, and so was he. You made him a mess. A drunk intoxicated by carnal desire. Sweat clung onto his fringe, yet he had never looked so attractive, powering into you like a madman, impaling you with his love, with his devotion, with all of his might, brute force, through gritted teeth. You gripped him hard by his biceps, unsure of whether your cries of pleasure were heard between the thunderous sound of his thighs connecting to your asscheeks and the creaking of bed springs. You took a chance to cry out again, to warn him that you were close. 

“C-Clark, I’m going to come…” The bubbling feeling had been too irresistible to delay any longer. Clark locked eyes with you upon your alert, and groaned. His tongue came out to skim the bottom of your lip, and you strained forward to cover his mouth with yours, sealing the pair of lips in a slow kiss, contrary to the rapid rhythm that had overtaken the rest of your body, and it stole your breath and made you all dizzy. Your cock only needed three more pumps.

Clark panted a few quick breaths, bracing his body in anticipation by clutching onto your hips until his fingers had turned white. “Want to see you come from my cock…” What you heard in his murmur was beyond want. 

It was need.

Two. 

You reminded Clark that you were going to come.

One. 

His forehead pressed hard against yours, and he switched his gaze to your jerking fist.

“Clark—“

“Let it out. Show me how much you love me.”

You yanked your hand a millisecond before the inevitable, and Clark watched in pure bliss, maintaining his thrusts as your cock erupted with white. Thick shots of cum catapulted across your body with the aid of Clark’s thrusts drilling semen out of you. Layers of creamy ropes messily inked your body from abdomen to chest, and that was all it took for Clark to spill his load inside of you. 

His hand like claws on your waist, he pummeled your insides for a few more seconds, delivering your ass with powerful thrusts, and you sobbed out in between breaths, clutching a bundle of his hair in both fists. Finally, Clark grunted, unloading himself inside of you with a scalding bite to your lips. You felt his cock pump, his balls jolting as it drained itself inside of your cavity, filling you up with an unspoken affirmation that you were his. He pushed his cum deep into your hole, powering through the cold tremors overhauling his body, and resumed thrusting inside of you. 

Shallow and slow, but enough to spread himself all over your walls. Enough to remind you of the memory when you had been claimed as his, in case you’d ever forget.

You shuddered, dropping your legs to wrap them around his waist, because you could never forget. Couldn’t if you had tried. Not when he was milking his orgasm into you, dumping his warm seed into your hypersensitive hole until he filled you to the brim. Not when you prevented him from pulling out, because you pressed the heel of your feet into his lower back, and countered his thrusts with swivels of your pelvis, gluing him shut to you. 

Until you were bonded to him.

“I love you…” Lethargy in his voice, his eyes closed. Clark worked so hard, and you immediately rewarded him with a slow kiss, embracing him close to you after.

“I love you.” He tucked his head into the crook of your neck, evidently gratified by your response as you felt the corners of his lips tug into a smile. You murmured sweet praises in his ear, petting the back of his head to calm the electrical currents stimulating his body.

“We… have a lot of catching up to do, by the way.” Clark suddenly spoke, and your eyes weakly opened, inquisitive over the strange tone in his voice.

It was also funny. How absolutely massive the man was, yet in your arms, he was cuddling up to you as if he wasn’t aware of his own weight plastering you.

“Yeah? Something on your mind, or you wanna save that for tomorrow?” You idly twirled a piece of his hair around your finger, windmilling it out of affection.

“I mean, I guess so? It’s been on my mind since we’ve met. And it’s been killing me on the inside.” The stubble on his chin tickled you when he lifted his head to look at you. The expression on his face suddenly made his warning seem all the more significant.

Concerning, as you propped yourself on your elbows and frowned. Despite your risen position, he was insistent on continuing to rest his weight atop of you, not that you had minded. “You’re kind of scaring me, Clark. What is it? Did you get fired or something?”

“No, no. Nothing like that. I—It’s just…” He stammered, then heavily exhaled. Thoughts of regrets plagued his mind at first, but he trusted you. You could see it in the light of his eyes. “Okay, here it goes. You know... how I’ve written multiple articles about Superman?”

“…Yeah? Got you on Perry’s radar, didn’t it? He seems to only like talking to you, which is impressive. Not surprising though—”

“Yeah, well… It’s just—there’s a reason why… he only sees me.”

“Why? Is it because he saved you or—”

“Clark, what are you doing with your eyes?—“

“Wait, holy crap—“ 

nouearth. please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works. and if you like this story, please reblog and leave a like!

[lailalalesisblog]

Royalties

Clark kent x reader

In which your boyfriend finds out how you're able to afford designer on a secretary's salary.

You came through the door with a gait Clark had learned to identify from fifty yards out: too casual, too smooth, the kind of walk that said, I spent too much money and I’m going to lie about it creatively.

Your arms were loaded with shopping bags—designer names, indie brands, and one that was shaped like a cat for some reason. You sipped a lavender iced coffee like you were the poster child for innocent retail therapy.

Clark, still in joggers from his morning run, leaned against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed and the quiet patience of a man who already knew the answer to the question he was about to ask.

“Hey, love?” he called, watching you start to unbag a pair of boots that looked suspiciously not on sale. “Can I ask you something?”

You glanced up, your expression caught somewhere between casual and please don’t ask about the receipt. “Sure?”

He nodded toward the growing pile of loot on the counter. “How exactly do you afford all this? Because I know what the Daily Planet pays, and you’re not out here writing Pulitzer-winning exposés in your spare time.”

You took a long, slow sip of your drink. Too long. “Okay. So. Do you remember when I told you I used to work for Bruce Wayne?”

Clark’s brows shot up. “You mean that one time I woke up and every tabloid on the East Coast was screaming about ‘Bruce Wayne’s mysterious new flame’? Because someone snapped a blurry photo of you two hugging on a rooftop?”

You smiled, unbothered. “That was just lunch.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, unimpressed. “Meanwhile, Lois was texting me articles titled Who Is She? and Bruce Wayne’s Secret Girlfriend: What We Know So Far. I got sympathy coffee from Jimmy. People thought I was the other guy. Then you casually dropped that you graduated MIT at fifteen and were a lead engineer at Wayne Enterprises. Like it was some summer internship to explain to me that no you weren't cheating you were just hanging out with your ex billionaire playboy boss turned bestie.”

“It wasn’t a big deal,” you said, waving a hand.

“Not a big—” He ran a hand through his hair. “You invented compact energy storage systems for WayneTech.”

You held up a finger. “Technically, I co-invented—”

He cut you off. “You have a patent that Batman uses.”

You shrugged. “Well, he doesn’t pay royalties.”

Clark stared at you. “How am I just now realizing you have secret Bruce Wayne money?”

“I don’t,” you said quickly. “But we’re close. He helped me out a lot. Especially after the accident.”

He blinked. “The lab incident?”

You nodded. “Yeah. When the first surge happened. Bruce paid my hospital bills and helped me build the first version of the bracelet.”

Clark glanced at your wrist. “The light-absorbing one.”

“Right. It keeps the excess starlight I generate from… bursting out of me like an emotional supernova.”

There was a pause. Clark narrowed his eyes. “Wait. Wait, wait—feelings power the bracelet?”

You hesitated. “That’s... sort of the idea.”

“Define sort of.”

You scratched the back of your neck. “Well… when I’m emotional—happy, excited, overwhelmed—the bracelet stores that energy instead of letting it leak into the atmosphere.”

Clark tilted his head. “Okay. Makes sense.”

“And,” you continued, “sometimes when we’re… you know… together—intimately—the energy spikes.”

He blinked. “Spikes how?”

You cleared your throat. “Let’s just say... you’re very effective.”

Clark went very still. “Hold on. Are you telling me Bruce Wayne is buying energy... generated from our…”

You shrugged helplessly. “It’s not just that. It’s ambient, okay? It comes from all kinds of emotional states. Excitement. Joy. Surprise.”

“But the bracelet spikes during—”

“Yeah.”

He slowly set his coffee down. “Oh my god. We’re... we’re a power couple. Literally.”

You tried not to laugh. “Renewable. Sustainable. And grid-friendly.”

Clark pointed at your bracelet like it had betrayed him personally. “So Bruce is powering part of Gotham off our love life?”

You raised your hands. “It’s clean energy! And technically just my orgasms”

He walked around the counter toward you, still processing. “I gave a whole speech to the mayor about investing in solar panels. Meanwhile, my girlfriend’s bracelet is moonlighting as a nuclear reactor because we make out too enthusiastically.”

“It’s not my fault the bracelet stores radiant emotion!”

He looked down at you, voice rising in disbelief. “Radiant emotion?”

“That’s what Bruce calls it!” you said defensively. “He says it sounds scientific!”

Clark covered his face. “He also calls himself a billionaire philanthropist"

“But you’re not mad, right?” you said carefully.

He dropped his hands and met your eyes. “No. But next time Bruce invites us to dinner, I’m billing him for emotional labor.”

You snorted. “Fair.”

He leaned in, lips brushing your forehead. “Just... tell me this isn’t why half of Gotham lost power that one night. You remember? Massive blackout. East side out for, like, an hour?”

You froze.

Clark’s eyes narrowed. “No.”

You tried for casual. “Well…”

“No,” he repeated. “Tell me that wasn’t us.”

You bit your lip.

“You told me not to wear it remember?, you said you liked when i glowed,” you justified.

“Oh my god. That was the night you weren’t wearing the bracelet—”

He was staring at you, horrified and impressed. “And then the next day, Bruce invited us to that rooftop lunch and spent the entire meal giving me death stares. I thought he figured out I was Superman!”

“Nope. He was mad because your... performance caused a grid overload in Gotham’s tech district. Took out three data centers. Rerouted power from his private servers.”

Clark sat down on a stool like the weight of his sins had just hit him. “I gave Gotham a blackout and a power surge. Bruce glared at me over risotto because we fried a transformer.”

“He calls it a ‘glowquake’ now, and he was mostly upset he didn’t get to harness the energy. Said it was a ‘missed opportunity for collection.’”

Clark groaned. “I save the world weekly and now I have to track how energetically we—”

“Make love?” you offered sweetly.

He covered his face again. “I hate everything.”

“You’re still gonna keep doing it though,” you said.

He peeked through his fingers. “Oh yeah. Absolutely.”

You leaned in and kissed him, slow and warm and just enough to make the bracelet give a faint, friendly flicker. Clark pulled back slightly, watching the glow fade with an expression of pure resignation.

“Weeknights,” he muttered. “Bracelet stays on during the week. If we’re gonna cause another event, I want Bruce to know it’s coming.”

“Yes, SuperResponsibleMan.”

He kissed you again, laughing against your mouth. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“I am the power source,” you whispered.

Clark groaned. “God help me.”

●♡●♡●♡●♡●♡●♡●♡●♡●♡●♡●♡●♡●♡

You watched Clark close the freezer like he was trying to reset his brain with cold air and willpower. He stayed there for a second, palms on the counter, head slightly bowed.

You took a slow sip of your lavender coffee, leaning against the island beside him.

“I’m honestly kind of shocked it took you this long to ask.”

He glanced over at you, still processing everything. “Ask what?”

You gave him a look. “How I afford all of it.”

He blinked. “Right. Yeah. No. I just… I thought you had a shopping problem.”

You choked. “What?”

“Like, a little one,” he added quickly. “A cute one. You weren’t out buying yachts. Just… occasionally acting like you lived in Sex and the city with Mr big's wallet.”

You squinted. “Clark.”

He raised his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay! I didn’t say anything because I figured it made you happy, and you’re always careful with stuff that matters. I thought maybe you just… stress-shopped.”

“I do not stress-shop,” you said, offended.

He pointed at the cat-shaped bag.

“…Not always,” you amended.

Clark leaned on his elbows, watching you. “And sometimes, I felt bad. I assumed you were using your own savings, so when I noticed your wallet looked light, I’d slide in a couple twenties. Quietly. No big deal.”

Your mouth dropped open. “You were slipping me money?”

“Emergency coffee fund,” he said solemnly. “And if you happened to spend it on a weirdly expensive pair of boots, well... at least your ankles would be warm.”

You stared at him, touched and scandalized in equal measure. “I thought my wallet was haunted. I was genuinely confused about the money situation.”

“I was trying to be subtle.”

“You were slipping me cash like some kind of undercover sugar daddy.”

He looked pleased with himself. “The least threatening kind.”

You laughed, full and open now. “Clark Kent. You’ve been secretly funding my snack runs and retail chaos?”

He smiled sheepishly. “I didn’t want you to feel like you had to hold back. If swiping your card gave you joy, I figured… why not help?”

You walked over to him, arms wrapping loosely around his waist. “That is the most aggressively sweet thing I’ve ever heard.”

He rested his chin on your head. “Aggressively sweet is kind of my brand.”

You sighed into his chest. “I mean, I’m literally generating clean energy from how much I love you. Bruce is monetizing it. I feel like you should at least get a cut.”

Clark pulled back just enough to look at you. “That’s what I’m saying. I should get residuals. Or a gift basket.”

You smirked. “You want me to give you a portion of your own glowquake?”

“I’d settle for a hand-knit sweater that says ‘Grid Daddy’ on it.”

You tilted your head. “I hate how much I don’t hate that.”

“I’ll wear it during interviews.”

“Clark,” you warned.

He grinned. “As superman.”

----

@animegamerfox

[annlyticalarchive]

CHAPTER ELEVEN: When the Light is Running Low

”You will be different, sometimes you’ll feel like an outcast, but you’ll never be alone”

Mark Grayson X Kryptonian/Clark Kent! Reader

Prologue|Chapter 10|Chapter 11 (Here)| Chapter 12

w/c: 6.3k

You always prided yourself on being smart.

Even before you could talk, you’d help Ma and Pa fix things around the farm. Holding flashlights, handing over tools, quietly watching and learning. As you got older, as your powers developed, it got easier. Being able to literally see what was wrong inside a piece of machinery saved your family hundreds on repair bills. Something rattled? You knew where. Something sparked? You saw it happen.

You’d rebuilt engines before. Welded a broken plow. Repaired old wiring from a solar inverter.

But this printer was your mortal enemy.

It had jammed, flashed three different error messages, and somehow managed to chew up paper like it had a personal vendetta against everyone in the Daily Planet. You were convinced if anyone else had tried to fix it, they’d have sliced their hand open on the exposed internals at least five times by now.

You sat on your knees in front of it, sleeves rolled up, jaw clenched tight. You were trying, truly trying, not to snap the entire housing in half. One good squeeze and you’d be free of this misery forever.

You were elbow-deep in the open side panel when a soft knock came at the office door, followed immediately by it opening.

“Hello? I was told this was where I’d find…” a woman said your name.

You startled upright, banging your shoulder on the inside of the machine as you turned to face her, and then froze.

Because standing in the doorway was her.

Atom Eve.

Undeniably. Absolutely. Atom Eve.

Even in casual clothes, she looked the exact same as she did in costume. Her hair was styled the same way. Same impossible confidence with perfect posture. Nothing was different.

You stared.

So did she.

And now you finally understood why Mark had always insisted you should wear a mask.

Eve blinked first. “Oh. Uh…”

You scrambled to stand up straighter. “Hi. Sorry. Printer problems.”

“I’m Samantha. Samantha Wilkins,” she said, stepping forward while you awkwardly stayed still.

“Uh— I would, Miss Wilkins, but…” You held your hands up, palms outward. Ink smeared across your fingers and wrists, the result of an exploded cartridge, one of many reasons this printer was a nightmare.

She smiled, unbothered, and reached for your hand anyway. A soft buzz filled the air as her fingertips glowed pink, and suddenly, the ink vanished.

“Call me Eve,” she said, shaking your now-clean hand. Her voice dropped just slightly as she added, “He couldn’t keep a secret to save his life. Didn’t help that we’d already met.”

She didn’t say his name, but she didn’t have to.

“Oh, trust me, I know,” you said with a dry laugh. “Well, it’s nice to properly meet you. But, uh… what brings you here? For me-me, I mean?”

Eve gave you a quick look, something between amusement and curiosity, before continuing, “I’ve actually been following your articles since you covered that playground sinkhole collapse.”

“Oh yeah,” you nodded, a bit surprised. “That one was tough. I’m just glad no one was seriously injured. I wrote a follow-up a few days later, everyone was set to recover nicely.”

Eve nodded slightly, her demeanor noticeably more reserved now than when she first walked in.

“Thats good, but not the reason I wanted to talk.”

“I figured.” You pushed your glasses up and gestured toward the door. “I’m scheduled for my break anyway. Mind if we talk more at the café a block down?”

She nodded and followed you out of the Daily Planet building. She didn’t fully relax until you reached the café, and only seemed to settle once you handed her a coffee alongside your own.

You took a sip, then glanced at her. “So… what did you want to talk about?”

“I’ve been following your work. You’ve been writing a lot about reconstruction efforts lately, right?”

“Mhm.” You nodded again, more firmly this time. “With how often state and local property gets destroyed, the infrastructure support just isn’t keeping up. The systems in place are overwhelmed, and honestly? Neglected.”

Eve tapped her fingernail lightly against her coffee cup. “I want to help,” she said bluntly. “But every time I try... it never ends well.”

“I can get you in contact with some nonprofits and charity orgs,” you quickly offered, already digging into your bag. You tore out a page from your notebook and quickly jotted down names and contact info you remembered from recent interviews. “They’re always looking for extra hands. Powered or not.”

Eve took the list, staring at the page with something unreadable flickering in her expression.

“Last time I helped...” she said, more quietly this time. “I thought I was doing the right thing, but it was the opposite.”

“Last time, you ran in blind,” you corrected bluntly but tried to be gentle about it. “These folks? They’ll point you in the right direction with a proper plan. They want help, they just need it to be organized. And if these don’t work out, I’ll find more. There’s always a way to make a difference. One way or another.”

Eve looked at you for a long moment before letting out a breath, like something had finally eased in her shoulders. A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

She extended her hand. “Thanks. Really.”

You shook it, offering a small smile of your own. “Anytime, and hey, you’re always free to stop by.”

Eve gave you a soft smile, and the two of you parted ways with a quiet goodbye, maybe not friends, not yet, but something close enough to make you feel like it was the start of a good week.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

Oh, wrong you were. Laughably so.

If you had to put a finger on why you felt so awful, you’d have an entire list.

It had been rainy and gloomy for nearly five days straight, and while you’d always been hit with weather and seasonal depression quicker and harder than most, it didn’t help that you couldn’t sleep either.

There was this ringing.

Just loud enough to be annoying.

Pulsing enough that you couldn’t get used to it.

Just enough to keep you up for days, and give you a headache.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

The first day had been mostly normal.

You woke up with your alarm, hit snooze, panicked when you heard the plastic crack beneath your hand, lay in bed for a while with your palms pressed over your ears as you adjusted to the pounding of rain against the windows, and finally forced yourself to get up.

It wasn’t until after your shower, when the apartment settled into a semi-quiet hum, that you noticed it.

A ringing, high-pitched and pulsing.

You chalked it up to the alarm or maybe the rain. Sometimes loud sounds near your ears left a residual tone behind. Your hearing was sensitive.

It’d stop soon.

“Let’s go, Kansas!” Jimmy called from his spot by the door.

You slung your bag over your shoulder, grabbed the umbrella you two kept by the door, and headed out with him into the rain.

“Okay, what do you think is going to happen today?” Jimmy asked as you two walked into the café, just like always, picking up the order of coffees and pastries one of the other reporters had preordered.

“What do you mean?” You frowned as you stacked all the boxes of pastries, plus one drink carrier, into your arms.

“There’s always something. Aliens, freaky technology, or magic.” Jimmy shook his head as he held the door open for you, then repeated, “So, what do you think is going to happen today?”

“I don’t want anything like that to happen today,” you answered, offering a quick “thank you” as he opened the Planet’s doors for you.

“Well, no one wants it,” he said, “but it always does. So, which is it?”

You sighed. “…Technology.”

Jimmy frowned as you set the boxes and drink carrier down on the break room table, letting the other workers grab their coffees and donuts.

“Boring,” he declared, placing his hands on his hips. “I bet it’ll be aliens.”

You tried to roll your eyes at him, but the motion tugged at the throbbing in your skull. That ringing, still there. Still constant. Not growing louder, but not fading either.

“You alright?” Jimmy asked, noticing the wince you didn’t mean to let show.

“Yeah. Just… didn’t sleep great,” you muttered, grabbing your own coffee and taking a sip that burned your tongue.

Jimmy hummed skeptically but let it go. He was already halfway across the bullpen, camera slung over his shoulder, trading jabs with Steve Lombard by the copier.

You moved slower than usual. Everything felt slightly off. Conversations blurred together. Phones rang too sharply. Every click of a keyboard grated at your ears.

You rubbed your temples and sat down at your desk, pulling up the files you needed to review before the afternoon meeting.

Interns were rotated between departments each month to get experience writing about a variety of events.

You just really hoped you didn’t get paired with Cat or Steve.

You didn’t think you could handle Cat’s laughter or Steve’s jabs today, and as mean as that felt, it was true.

You didn’t realize everyone had started gathering until Lois patted your shoulder on her way out of the tiny office you two shared.

Perry was already rattling off names by the time you and Lois reached the main bullpen. Jimmy was sulking next to Cat Grant, who was patting his head like he was some sad puppy.

You were confused as to why he looked more distraught than usual, until you remembered the gala coming up.

He’d probably be dragged by the ear to take photos of Cat posing with celebrities for hours on end.

And you’d never felt more sympathetic.

“Lane and Troupe, you're covering the trade summit at the Embassy,” Perry barked.

“Kent, you're with Lombard,” he added, and you blinked.

Steve let out a triumphant whoop and threw an arm around your shoulders, giving you a jostling shake.

“About time we got paired together, Little League!”

“Please don’t call me that—”

“Perfect timing, too. We’re covering the Major League! Tell me, Kansas, who you rooting for?”

“Well, I’ve always liked the Smallville Gia—”

“Ah, course you did. Lemme guess, your old man told you they were good? Shame they lost the first series.”

You honestly couldn’t tell if he was being genuine or just trashing your team for fun. “Yeah, shame. Good thing the Metropolis Meteors are still in.”

“So you do have taste!” He clapped you hard on the shoulder.

At least now you knew for sure he was being passive-aggressive.

You were about to give him a pointed look when Lois leaned over and muttered, “Remember, he peaks early in the day. He’ll crash by lunchtime.”

“Like a toddler,” you murmured back.

Lombard glanced between the two of you. “What was that?”

“Nothin’.”you said quickly, smiling in that practiced innocence. You needed it, especially if you were working with Steve.

“Good. 'Cause you're gonna need all your energy to keep up. We’ve got player interviews, press box access, pre-game walkthroughs, and if we’re lucky, free hot dogs.”

He grinned like he’d just described paradise.

You blinked. “Wait, we’re actually going to the game? Tonight? That game? It isn’t canceled due to the weather?”

“Don’t sound so surprised, the stadium got an upgrade when it had to be reconstructed. They added retractable roofs. Plus, Perry finally realized I’m the only one around here who knows a pop fly from a foul tip. And you,” he pointed, “get to learn from the best.”

Lois raised a brow with a scoff as she passes the two of you with Troupe by her side. “Oh, please. You’re mentoring now?”

Lombard waggled his eyebrows as he pats your shoulder. “The kids are our future, Lane.”

“I’m nineteen.”

“Exactly. Practically in diapers.”

You sighed and rubbed the bridge of your nose under your glasses. This was going to be a long day.

From across the bullpen, Jimmy shot you a pitying look as Cat fluffed her hair in a compact mirror while Steve took your wrist and dragged you away.

Mark texted you halfway through the afternoon as Steve was going through a pre-game walkthrough with the head coach.

My Marker: gonna be out of reach for a while. dont worry, ill update you once i get back

You: Be safe, Invinci-Boy.

My Marker: youll regret that when i get back

You: Can’t wait to see you try. But seriously, be safe.

My Marker: yes maam

You rolled your eyes, unable to stop the smile that pulled at your lips despite your increasingly growing headache.

Slipping your phone back into your pocket, you take a breath, and get ready to continue to follow and deal with Steve for the rest of your day.

By the time you made it to the stadium proper, the sun was low and casting a gold haze over everything. You didn’t have time to appreciate it, though Steve was already halfway up the tunnel.

A security guard stopped the two of you briefly at the media entrance.

“Press credentials?” the guard asked, skeptical.

Steve confidently whipped his out of his coat pocket and held it up with a grin. “Lombard. Daily Planet. This here’s my intern.”

You handed yours over clumsily, a beat too late. The guard gave you a once-over, then nodded you through.

Instead, you followed him, eyes scanning the stadium, not out of journalistic curiosity this time, but habit. You always looked for exits. Always looking for potential dangers.

But for now, everything was calm. As calm as the rapidly filling stands could be.

No collapsing beams. No explosions. No sounds of gunfire that had gotten way to common.

Just Steve Lombard yelling over his shoulder, “You taking notes or sightseeing?”

You caught up to him, notebook in hand and headache pulsing behind your eyes like a low drumbeat.

“Both,” you said. “I multitask.”

By the time you made it to where Steve was leading you, your feet ached and the fluorescent lighting overhead was starting to feel more like a personal attack.

Steve, however, was thriving.

“This,” he announced grandly, spreading his arms as you stepped into field, “is where the magic happens. The adrenaline, the atmosphere, the smell of the grass, it’s electric!”

“It’s AstroTurf,” you deadpanned.

He either didn’t hear you or chose to ignore it. “C’mon, Little League, we’ve got a few interviews lined up. The catcher’s a rookie: cute, polite, probably terrified of cameras. Should be easy.”

You followed him to the dugout, scribbling notes in your pocket-sized notepad more to keep your hands busy than anything else.

The first interview went smoothly enough. The rookie was nervous, as expected, and Steve was surprisingly professional when the recorder was on. You didn’t quite know what to make of that.

But as the sun dipped lower and the pre-game music started blaring through the stadium speakers, a flicker of something strange caught your attention.

The jumbotron glitched.

Just for a second. Barely long enough to register. A flicker of static, a brief distortion in the logo display, and then, normal again.

You frowned, brows pulling together behind your glasses.

“Problem?” Steve asked, glancing up.

You shook your head. “No… Just thought I saw something.”

“Probably heat shimmer. Happens all the time.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

It was your headache. You didn’t get them often, if at all. That’s all that was.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

The second day was worse.

You’d gotten no sleep, thanks to the unyielding headache and that ever-present ringing you just couldn’t tune out.

The rain still persisted, maybe even harder than the day before.

At least you had the day off. You should’ve been curled up in the dark, headphones on, trying to soothe the hurt.

But it seemed like everyone who didn’t need help yesterday suddenly needed help today.

You were running purely on the most caffeinated drinks you could find at the corner store, downing them in quick succession in the hopes of pushing past your annoyingly strong resistance to, well, anything.

Since morning, you’d been zipping across the city in the rain, helping out where you could. Lending a hand here. Lifting something heavy there.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

“Momma! Momma!”

That’s what your ears picked up just as you were finishing your second energy drink in five minutes.

You didn’t hesitate. Suit on in an instant, you abandoned the half-full can on the corner store counter and flew toward the voice.

It was a little boy, standing on the corner of a busy street in the pouring rain. Swallowed in a bright green frog rain jacket.

“Hello,” you greeted softly as you landed and knelt down on the wet pavement, smiling despite the chill. You held out your hand. “I’m Superwoman.”

“Ryan,” the boy sniffled, shaking your hand before clinging to it. “I can’t find my momma.”

“I think I know where she is,” you told him gently, tuning your hearing outward, just in time to catch the panicked cries of a woman calling for her son. “C’mon. Let’s go find her.”

With your back slightly bent so you could keep hold of his tiny hand, the two of you walked slowly through the rain. Down the street. A few blocks over.

Until a woman spotted you.

She broke into a run, calling Ryan’s name before scooping him into her arms. He held her tightly, frog hood slipping back, his face pressed into her neck.

The mother looked at you through tears, mouthing a breathless, "Thank you," before hugging him close and turning to join someone who was waiting at the corner, arms open wide for both of them.

You gave a small wave, your smile faltering just slightly as the pounding in your skull resumed its rhythm, louder now. Agitated. Almost like it was angry that you’d dared to focus on something else.

You used the moment to just breathe. The air was cool thanks to the rain, and you tried to let it anchor you, tried to decompress.

Until you heard gunshots.

Followed by screaming.

Your body reacted before your brain finished registering. Adrenaline pushed the tiredness back. Muscles coiled tight. You launched off the pavement and into the air, heading toward the chaos.

You flew past police cruisers stuck in traffic, sirens wailing uselessly in the gridlock. No one would get there in time but you.

The sound was coming from a tech store, sleek and unassuming, all glass walls for display and chrome signage. Or what had been glass walls. One was now shattered completely, jagged edges glinting in the rain as you landed softly, boots crunching on the broken shards.

The inside was a mess of toppled displays and terrified civilians pressed against walls. And four men, armed and armored, stood in the center, guns raised.

They turned toward you the second your shadow fell through the opening.

No warning. No shout. Just open fire.

Bullets tore through the air, lighting up the dim space like strobes. You didn’t flinch as they hit, sharp cracks against your suit, slamming into your chest and shoulders with enough force to pierce most things.

You didn’t fall. You didn’t even sway.

Because you were bulletproof.

And more importantly, everyone else wasn’t.

You stood your ground, letting the gunfire ricochet off your body as you stared the men down.

“Guns down,” you said, voice calm but unyielding. “You’re not walking out of here with that.”

One of them swore under his breath, reloading with shaky hands. Another—, the one closest to the counter, grabbed something small and sleek from a display case and shoved it into a duffel.

You narrowed your eyes.

It wasn’t just phones or computers. This place had tech that was too high-end for a street robbery. Had to be something worth all of this. One of the labels on the counter was still visible, the letters glowing faintly under the emergency lighting:

NEW! LexTek Interface Module.

You let out a sigh, cause of course it was LexTek.

In the blur of motion that followed, you disarmed the first two before they even registered you’d crossed the space. You crushed the guns in your hands like soda cans, metal groaning under your grip. The third tried to swing a duffel bag like a weapon, but you caught it mid-air and yanked it from his grasp, setting it gently on the ground.

The last man was already bolting for the back exit.

You hesitated, just long enough to turn to the terrified employees and say, “Stay here. You’re safe now. First responders are on their way.”

Then you took off after him.

You zipped around the corner into the alley he’d ducked into and he vanished in a flash of light.

You let out an annoyed sigh, dragging both hands down your face. If it had been any other day, you would’ve caught him. You knew that. But you were tired. Sluggish. Sloppy.

Two out of three meant one was still free to hurt someone else.

You turned skyward and pushed off the pavement, slower than usual. Slower than you liked.

Flying used to feel like weightlessness. Like pure lo freedom.

Right now, it felt like dragging yourself through thick syrup.

You just wanted to go home. Take a hot shower. Put an ice pack on your forehead. Sleep for twelve hours and maybe reassess your entire life.

But the city didn’t care.

A deep, low rumble shook the air. It started in your chest, even while airborne. Then came the sound of earth cracking, jarring, like pavement snapping under pressure.

You groaned softly.

“Of course.”

Turning toward the sound, you zipped off in that direction, crossing city after city. The setting sun bled orange and purple across the horizon as you flew, smearing light across your vision like bruises.

It led you to New York.

And then you saw him.

A man on Liberty Island. Screams echoed from the crowds below, tourists scattering, ferries grinding to reverse as chunks of concrete crumbled away from the main body of the island. Machinery on his wrists sparked with energy, drowning out even his own shouting.

You landed hard enough to crack the ground beneath you.

“Doctor Seismic,” you muttered under your breath.

You frowned, hands planted firmly on your hips.

“I’ve got to give it to you, Lady Liberty is definitely a choice. I mean, I understood the sentiment behind your other attacks, not that I agree,” you added quickly, “but Lady Liberty? Really?”

Doctor Seismic turned toward you, face contorting with both rage and glee. The gauntlets built into his lab coat whirred louder.

“You dare mock the symbol of our nation’s collapse?” he bellowed.

“Buddy, she’s literally a symbol of hope.”

“And yet she stands on the ruins of stolen land and false promises!”

He pointed a fist down, the gauntlet fired, and the pedestal cracked, a fracture crawling up the base of the statue like a lightning bolt. A tremor hit hard enough that you staggered a step before bracing.

Normally, this would be when you snapped back with a quip. Flew at him with confidence. Neutralized the threat in under a minute.

But your head pulsed like it was being split open from the inside.

You shot forward, grabbing one of his arms just as he charged a blast and twisted it upward. The shockwave arced harmlessly into the sky.

“Can we not destroy national landmarks today?” you snapped, ducking a wild swing of his other fist.

“You don’t understand! The earth remembers! The lies we build on top of it must be broken down!”

“Okay, I’m taking these off.”

You hovered in front of him, reaching to grab hold of the gauntlets, intent on crushing and ripping them off.

But you hesitated. Just for a second. You’re not even sure why.

And in that second, he raised his arms.

The gauntlets whirred, and a shockwave of air hit you square in the chest.

It launched you backward like a missile, and suddenly, you were crashing into the harbor.

Water swallowed you whole.

Instead of air reflexively after the air was knocked out of you, you sucked in brine and filth and the cold sting of salt.

You thrashed. Reflexes warred with reason. Your body wanted to cough, your lungs wanted to breathe, and the rest of you just wanted this day to be over.

Panic surged as your limbs moved sluggishly, kicking upward in desperate bursts. Kicking hard, you broke the surface with a loud gasp, sputtering and coughing as you moved to hover just above the waves.

The waves churned around you, chaotic from the aftershock of Seismic’s blast.

You hovered just above the waterline, dripping, shivering.

Soaked hair clung to your face. The pounding in your skull now matched the thudding of your heart.

You took another breath. Forced yourself to steady it.

You’d survived worse.

Didn’t mean this didn’t suck.

A tremor rippled through the air again, vibrating up from the island and echoing through your bones.

You grit your teeth.

Okay. Enough, you’re too tired to deal with all of this for this long.

As you flew, the salt spraying off you as you soared back into the storm-colored sky. You spotted Seismic still on the pedestal, fists raised in a dramatic, utterly ridiculous pose.

You didn’t announce yourself this time.

Just grabbing his arm to pull him off his feet and push him elsewhere, away from Lady Liberty.

He staggered, grunted, and nearly lost his footing. One gauntlet sparked under the force of your grip on him.

“I tried being polite,” you growled, grabbing one of his gauntlets and twisting hard. “But I’m done letting you play demolition derby with American landmarks.”

He tried to raise the other arm, but you grabbed it too crushing it in your grip before he could fire again.

And then you ripped the first one clean off.

He screamed, more in fury than pain, you tried to make sure your frustration didn’t cloud how much force you were using.

“You can yell about historical injustice all you want,” you panted, your voice hoarse from coughing, “but hurting people doesn’t make your point stronger. It just makes you the villain and the loser.”

With one shove into his chest, you knocked him backward, sending him skidding across the cracked platform until he hit the base of the statue with a thud.

Sirens echoed faintly in the distance.

You stood there, soaked, exhausted, and still gasping between each word.

You hovered in place over Doctor Seismic’s crumpled form until you saw the Coast Guard land on the island and rush toward him.

Once you were sure they had him, you shot through the air one more time.

Even your flight home took longer than it should’ve.

A cat in a tree here. A kid running into traffic there.

You couldn’t ignore them. Not even now.

By the time you finally made it back to the city, your still gloomy, rain-soaked city, it was late. The streetlights cast long reflections in puddles. The windows of your building were mostly dark.

Jimmy had to be asleep by now.

You slipped in through the window of your apartment, dripping onto the hardwood floor, and moved on autopilot. You changed quickly, no energy left for a shower, and collapsed onto your bed still damp, the ache in your muscles finally catching up to you.

Tomorrow would be better.

The headache would go away.

The ringing would stop.

And everything would go back to normal.

You told yourself that as you curled in on your side, the room quiet except for the soft hum of the rain against the glass.

No suit. No cape. Just a tired girl in a hoodie, curled up in the dark.

The pillow was cold against your cheek, and for once, you were too tired to feel how tense your body had been all day. Even your breathing slowed, each exhale quiet, measured.

Somewhere down the hall, the apartment heater kicked on with a familiar groan.

Normal.

You closed your eyes.

Sleep didn’t come right away, but you didn’t move. You couldn’t.

You were done for the night.

And tomorrow you’d be okay.

You had to be.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

You shouldn’t have jinxed yourself.

Second night in a row you couldn’t sleep.

You managed short bursts of ten, maybe twenty minutes at a time, before the ringing returned. And around two in the morning, your chest started to feel… off.

It felt like what happens when you overextend a limb. Sore, but in a way you weren’t familiar with. Dizzy too, like you’d gone one too many rounds on the Scrambler at the fair. And short of breath, which, if you were being honest, kind of worried you.

But you chalked it up to paranoia from too little sleep. You couldn’t get hurt. Why would it happen now?

You kept your eyes closed throughout the night, pleading for sleep to take you. You only gave up when Jimmy knocked on your door to let you know he was leaving for work in the morning.

Finally, you trudged out of your bedroom, glared at the gray, rainy city through the living room window, and went to take a shower.

Lights off. Earplugs in. The pounding in your head was too much to deal with the sound of rain and the water at once.

You got dressed sleepily, half-certain you were going to stay home unless an emergency called you out. Everything felt like it was running on autopilot now.

You shuffled into the kitchen and opened the fridge, hoping for an energy drink you vaguely remembered buying yesterday. You grabbed one and turned on your heel to head back into the dark comfort of your room, until you spotted a face in the window.

Tapping.

You nearly dropped the can.

“Oh— goodness, Mark!” you hissed, the shock waking you quickly, rushing across the room to open the window. “Get in here before someone sees you!”

He slipped inside quickly, rainwater dripping from his hair. He gave it a rough shake before running a hand through it to push it back into place.

“Hey, baby,” he greeted with a grin, arms outstretched as he moved in for a hug, soaked to the bone.

“Hello, Mark.” You held out an arm to stop him. “Let’s get you a towel before that.”

“You didn’t miss me?” he pouted, following you, reaching toward you again, like he wanted to get you soaked too.

“Of course I missed you. But you scared the living daylights out of me, and you’re dripping.” You tossed a towel at him after pulling one from the hallway closet.

“You okay?” he asked as he ruffled the towel through his hair. “You look pale.”

“It’s been raining for, like, a week straight. Everyone’s paler,” you said, waving off the concern as you walked into your bedroom.

You grabbed a set of old, comfortable clothes, an old oversized Smallville High tee and sweats, and brought them back for him.

Mark frowned at you, but took the clothes and changed in the bathroom without a word.

While he did that, you scavenged through the cupboards, eventually sliding a toaster pastry into the toaster. And you heard him before you felt him, Mark had never been particularly subtle. Or quiet.

His arms wrapped around your waist as you stared at the toaster. His face pressed into the side of your neck, nose cold from the rain. You could feel the soft movement of his lips against your skin as he murmured, “I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” you said softly, tilting your head to rest it against his. “Everything go well?”

He didn’t respond right away. From what you could feel, and glimpse in the corner of your eye, he just tilted his head a little.

“Mhm…” he hummed, seemingly absentminded. “Empty ship in Mercury’s orbit. Cecil sent me to clear it and bring it back.”

You frowned slightly. “That sounds… ominous.”

“Wasn’t,” he said, voice muffled into your shoulder. “Just empty. Nothing to report.” He shifted slightly and added with a quieter, gentler voice.

You snorted, brushing your fingers lightly along his forearm where it wrapped around you.

The toaster popped.

You didn’t move to grab it right away.

Instead, you stayed there in the silence of your kitchen. The soft hum of the fridge. The rain tapping steadily at the windows. Mark’s breathing warming your shoulder.

For the first time in hours, maybe days, you weren’t working or chasing after disasters.

You just stood still.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asked again, barely above a whisper now.

You thought about lying.

You considered the usual I’m fine or Just tired.

But it was Mark.

And your whole body still ached like your bones were made of lead.

“I’ve had a headache for two days straight,” you said finally, your voice quiet. “I can’t sleep, so I’m dead tired. My chest hurts. And… I just feel off.”

Mark straightened behind you, his hands tightening slightly.

“Did you get hurt?”

You shook your head. “Can’t get hurt, remember? It’s probably just the no-sleep thing.”

You reached out and plucked the pastry from the toaster, forcing yourself to take a bite, even though it suddenly felt too dry, too heavy in your mouth. You struggled to swallow it down.

“Insomnia?” Mark asked gently, his thumb rubbing slow circles into your side through your shirt.

“No,” you muttered, shaking your head as you reached down to cover his hands with yours. “I’ve been hearing this— huh…”

You paused.

Because as soon as you tried to explain it, you noticed.

“What?” Mark asked, concern creeping into his voice.

“I don’t hear it anymore. It was like a ringing. That’s what kept me up. But now it’s just… gone.”

“That’s good, right?” He rested his chin lightly on your shoulder, as he starts swaying the two of you side to side.

“Very.” You smiled a little, reaching up to cup his face and pull him close, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. You whispered, “Now, as much as I’d love to catch up, I’m ready to knock out for, like, forty-six hours.”

“But I just got back,” Mark groaned, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you in until there was barely an inch of space left between you. “I just got here.”

“I know,” you murmured as he nuzzled his cold nose into your neck again. “But I really need to sleep off this monstrous headache while I can.”

He hummed dramatically against your skin. “What if I make it better by being here?”

“That’s not how migraines work,” you said dryly, but you didn’t pull away.

He grinned and kissed your neck once, then again, slower this time. His hands slipped beneath your shirt, cool fingers brushing over the skin at your waist before sliding higher.

You let out a breathy laugh. “Seriously?”

“Missed you,” he murmured, voice low and sweet. “And you’re warm. Let me have this.”

His hands traveled up your sides, fingertips trailing lightly over your ribs. You leaned into the touch at first, just grateful for the closeness, the quiet comfort of having him home.

Then, as he gave you a gentle squeeze—

You flinched.

A sharp intake of breath. Your whole body recoiled before you could stop it.

Mark froze instantly.

“Hey, wait— did I hurt you?” His hands dropped back as his face shifted from teasing to alarm. “I didn’t mean to— I didn’t know you could—“

“No, no, I’m fine,” you said quickly, forcing a short laugh. “Your hands are ice cubes. Go warm up on the couch. I’ll be over in a minute.”

He hesitated, eyes still on you.

You bumped your shoulder lightly into his. “Go.”

Only then did Mark huff and step back, reluctantly heading toward the living room.

You turned away, walking quietly into your bedroom and shutting the door behind you. The lock clicked louder than expected in the silence.

Crossing the room, you flipped on the light and stepped in front of the mirror hanging on the back of your closet door.

You slowly lifted your shirt.

And froze.

“Oh… shoot,” you whispered.

Your eyes went wide.

Spreading across your ribs and stomach, almost your entire torso, was a deep, mottled discoloration. Faint purple shading at the edges, yellow-greenish in the center. A bruise.

A massive one.

You reached out, almost without thinking, and pressed your fingertips gently to the edge of the bruise.

You flinched again.

You felt it.

Not just the pressure, but the ache. A hot, throbbing tenderness beneath the skin. The kind of pain you’d only ever read or heard about. The kind that meant something inside you was wrong.

You dropped your shirt quickly, heart pounding in your ears.

What the hell was happening to you?

You stared at your reflection, trying to calm your breathing. Slow inhales, long exhales. But everything inside you felt scrambled.

You’d been hit harder than that before. Blown through buildings. Crushed under falling debris. You’d walked away from it all without a scratch.

But the gunfire from yesterday… Doc Seismic’s blast…

You hadn’t even thought twice about it. Not really. You’d gotten up. Kept fighting. And now—

Now your body felt like it should belong to someone else.

You moved toward the bed and sat down slowly on the edge, elbows on your knees, hands trembling in your lap.

It wasn’t just the headache. Or the ringing. Or the dizziness.

You were hurt.

And for the first time in your life… you didn’t know what that meant.

From the other room, you heard the rustling of fabric. Mark’s voice, muffled, talking to himself as he turned on the TV.

You thought about calling him in.

You thought about telling him.

But instead, you sat there in silence, staring down at your hands.

You needed a minute.

Just one.

TAG LIST: @mightymeick , @dandelion-delusion

[ladymrf]

kinda a wip? who knows.

how Conner Kent became Conner Luthor Kent

Kon realizes one afternoon when he, Tim, Bart and the girls are relaxing at a resort that is too expensive for any of them (except Cissie) to afford that, damn it, he can't go out with Timothy Drake if he's a nobody.

Tim is a prodigy, smart, rich and handsome and Conner could be the trophy husband, he would be so happy with that, but YJ's life plan is to get Tim out of Gotham and keep him from killing himself working as a civilian and in the nightlife.

Conner would never take Tim from his comfortable life, ruled by luxury and money, in Gotham to stick him in a student apartment in a corner of Metropolis, no, that wasn't right, if he wanted to date Tim Drake he should be someone important, someone who can afford the life of luxury that his dear Robin was born into.

People tend to think of Conner as a good country soul, he is, but half of him comes from a hateful little man who conquered Metropolis and made his entire empire.

Kon is intelligent, he has a lot of knowledge dormant in his mind, above all, people underestimate him because of the exterior he shows, so it's very easy.

He shows up at Luthor Corp (formerly Lex Corp, renamed after, well, Lex Luthor screwed up and got arrested, he did a lot for Kon to remember). Lex's sister is officially in charge, but the board of directors runs the company, so Kon schedules a meeting with Lena Luthor, arrives in his civilian clothes, tells her he'd like to know what's going on with the company now that Lex is in jail. Lena explains that the company is only in one piece thanks to the board's herculean effort to prevent bankruptcy (a lot of people would lose their jobs and benefits because of that), Lex was the entire mind behind that company, no one could understand the notes he left or decode what his plans for the future of the company were about.

Kon looks at the sheets of notes from the notebooks Lex left and translates: You should sell the branches of the department stores in Australia, despite the profit, something will happen in the market that will make them bankrupt, it's better to sell at the peak of profit.

The board of directors looks at him like he's Jesus come back.

So it starts, he sits in on meetings translating and decoding the crap Luthor left behind and a few weeks later he has an office, months later he's using the man's old office and by the end of that year he's managed to get Lena to sign the company over to him with the full support of everyone important who worked there.

And boy, is that a lot of money, Kon manages to set up a college fund for Jon, buys new tractors for the farm and rebuilds the barn into something decent, he donates new computers to the Daily Planet (Lois almost cried over that), he also helped Kara finance an apartment in Metropolis for when she needed it.

The best part is that Kon loves his job and everyone else in the company loves him. All the money that Luthor Corp makes is practically given back to the community. In the space of a year, Conner Luthor (whose family relationship with Lex is unknown) built homes for the unfortunate, paid off student loans, created thousands of jobs, helped schools, donated to queer causes, and even planted hundreds of trees in the city. It was great. Kon was able to help out both inside and outside of the uniform.

So what if he used the money to sponsor Cissie's projects? Give Greta a comfortable life? Put Anita's parents in a good boarding school so that her friend could study without worries? So what if he paid for her and Greta's college? Who cares if he put Bart to work in the company's engineering department? (Like, the world thinks the Luthor Corp engineer is a genius, thank goodness they've never seen Bart work, or they'd think he's crazy) So what if Cassie Sandsmark gets hired as a lawyer for one of the biggest companies in the world right out of college?

So Kon finally has a name, he confesses his love to Tim, they date for months, Tim doesn't even notice his days in Kon's apartment getting longer, his clothes ending up in his boyfriend's wardrobe, he doesn't realize that by the end of their first year of dating, he's practically living in Kon's penthouse.

(It takes almost two years of hard work from all of them, Tim moves out of Gotham, finds himself working alongside Bart, before he realizes it he's already heading up the engineering department with his friend, he works reasonable hours, takes photography courses, helps the police as the only vigilante in Metropolis, the whole YJ moves into their neighborhood, it's perfect.)

(Clark was so happy, with YJ in town he could shorten his time as Superman and finally have some peace, of course he miscalculated this, in fact the need for Superman decreased with more heroes in town, but Rao knows that Clark's headaches only increased with the children running around town, he stopped trying to talk sense into them after seeing Red Robin hang Impulse upside down from a rooftop after the speedster ate his slice of cake, at least Jon was in the care of the best babysitters in town whether as a hero or civilian.)

Kon discovered himself, he was good at doing business, a shark like Lex was disguised by the Kents' easy charm, he smiled at each older executive already thinking "how am I going to use this one for my purposes?" He could come up with Lex's most crazy ideas to run the company, without violating any human rights in the process of making more money.

(Lex couldn't even get angry, because now the Luthor name was associated with Conner not him, the company was something to be remembered for the good things the boy was doing, not for the crazy things he did. His legacy would live on, his creation would guide Metropolis when he was gone.)

[creator1mpersonator]

Dear Maria, Count Me In!

clark kent x gn! reader, yan! lex luthor x gn! reader, spoilers!

01. What Ever Happened?

“Oh, dear, is it really all true?//Did they offend us and they want it to sound new?”

“I mean, I already knew the guy had serious issues, but this is…” Jimmy trailed off, he and Lois staring at the nth floral arrangement left on your desk with the Luthorcorp logo printed on the little card.

“Psychotic? Deranged? Monomaniacal?” Lois rattled off.

“Yeah, all of that.” Jimmy snickered, “dunno who’s gonna take it worse, ___ or Clark.”

At the end of Jimmy’s statement came you and Clark, rushing in before Perry noticed the two of you were late. Again.

“Hi, sorry.” Clark stammered, goofy Snoopy tie askew.

“Clark took ages getting ready, he couldn’t find any of his things this morning.” You clarified, shooting Jimmy a look when he snorted behind his hand.

“You two are so cute.” Lois joked, taking a seat at her desk right next to your’s.

“He’s adorable, but messy.” You added, smiling at Clark’s offended “hey!”

Though your mood dampened and your smile fell when you spotted the elephant on your desk. You picked up the vase (was that real, genuine crystal you were holding?) and read the note.

‘Big fan of your latest article.’

L.L

You exhaled loudly through your nose before tossing the arrangement into the large trashcan by the coffee station. You’d think after no response and the flowers constantly ending up in the trash that Lex would take the hint.

But you, more than anyone, would know Lex was nothing if not obstinate.

“Exes are fun, aren’t they?” You muttered, Lois gently squeezed your hand in support. Clark looked over at you, his sweet blue eyes asking all he couldn’t say. ‘You okay?’

You shrugged. The difference between Lex and Clark was going to give you whiplash one day. You had work to do, and you couldn’t waste time thinking about that bald freak. Besides, you had a new boyfriend who was super handsome and super sweet. You didn’t need Lex anymore, not like you ever did.

You opened up your little filing cabinet beneath your desk, and got to work.

———

It was nearing your lunch break, and you’d have to be blind to not notice Clark constantly turning in his chair to look at you. You smiled, biting the tip of your pen before saving your draft and standing up.

“You’re so obvious.” You teased, placing your hands on his shoulders. Clark adjusted his glasses, “am not. I’m just hungry and wanted to get lunch. Preferably with you.”

“You’re sweet.” You smiled, “c’mon Smallville, lets go.”

The two of you walked hand-in-hand out of the Daily Planet, walking a few blocks to Clark’s favorite falafel stand. The owner, Malik Ali, was a kind man who always gave you and Clark sodas for free. It was also the best falafel you’d ever had.

The two of you sat peacefully in the park, watching the ducks swim on the surface of the pond. It was a nice day out, sunny but not unbearably hot. There was even a cool breeze moving through the leaves.

You leaned against Clark’s shoulder, content and unaware.

———

“Swap to camera 25-A.” Lex commanded in the control center of Luthorcorp. His employees swapped the feed, using a surveillance camera by the park to watch you and your new beau. Lex ran a hand along his bald head, watching through one of the computers.

He was seething. You ignore his lovely, expensive gifts, you start seeing a new man, Lex had half the mind to send the Engineer to “persuade” you into changing your mind. Adding insult to injury, it was the stupid journalist that always interviewed Superman. No matter what corner of his life it was, Lex could not escape that piece of shit alien.

Some of the employees shared a look, one of the newer ones having the audacity to ask “Mr. Luthor, what’re we doing?”

“Shut up!” Lex yelled. The employee cowered in his seat. That was what set off Lex’s little tirade.

“Swap to 1-C!

“Swap to 66-A!”

“23-F!”

“4-C!”

“1-A!”

His employees swapped surveillance feeds as fast as possible, each giving a different angle of you. They had all memorized what you looked like at this point, one even saw you at a corner bodega once. They were also convinced Lex was starting to lose his mind.

Eve stood in the corner of the control room, hand held so tightly her knuckles were turning white. It wasn’t a fun experience for her to see her supposed boyfriend so obsessed over his ex of now four years. But with how unstable Lex was becoming, she was too afraid to say anything. Instead, she took a selfie in front of one of his whiteboards detailing which code meant which camera. Right now, they were watching from a camera in front of Metropolis’ first (and only) BatBurger.

It wasn’t until you and Clark finished eating and walked together back to the Daily Planet that Lex stopped yelling. He heaved, staring at the footage of Clark holding the door open for you as you walked in, and he couldn’t see you anymore.

———

It was nearing 9 PM when you got to go home. Jimmy left around 6, Lois at 8. Clark was still working, blazer hanging off the back of his chair as he typed.

“Hey.” You softly said, approaching him, “don’t you think its time to go home?”

“I’m almost done.” Clark said. You looked at his laptop to find he was writing ‘news’ over and over again. You took the initiative to wrangle the mouse out his hand and save the file before shutting down the PC.

“I think you need dinner and sleep.” You softly implored, “c’mon, hotshot.”

Clark went to protest, but you’re sure he was about to say the word “news” instead of what he actually meant to say. He just wordlessly nodded, cheeks turning red. You would’ve laughed, but you were also exhausted and were hardly in the position to throw stones.

The two of you took a cab to your apartment (you’d been contemplating asking Clark to move in, he spent more time at your flat than his own.) Your beloved Siamese, Moo, meowed happily when she saw the two of you enter. Mainly because her food bowl was empty.

Clark adored little Moo, moving to feed her and cooing (“what a pretty lady,” he ran his hand along Moo’s coat as she ate) while you hung up your coat and took off your shoes. Such a long day…

Your apartment complex rattled.

Moo shot into your arms like she was a kitten again, terrified. You and Clark went to your windows, seeing a new villain of the week terrorizing Downtown Metropolis.

Clark immediately kissed your temple before saying, “I’m going down there, people might need help.”

“Clark, don’t you dare!”

“Sorry, love you!” He bolted out your apartment, and if it weren’t for Moo, you’d chase after him. You understand that he was raised to be good, but this— this was too much! He was just a human, what could he possibly do against a villain?

Hawkgirl flew past your apartment, her screech making Moo’s ears flatten against her head. You held her close.

You really hoped Clark would come back safe.

———

Clark didn’t come back that night. Even after the villain was quelled by Green Lantern, trapped in a fluorescent green cage and handed over to the proper authorities. Moo had calmed down, asleep on her cat tower, but you remained anxious. You were watching the news for as much information as you could find, only hearing about Mr. Terrific, Hawkgirl, Green Lantern and Superman (who was the first at the scene.) You swapped the channel, stumbling upon a press conference with the president of Boravia. What a wretched man. Anyone with half a mind could see right through his lies about Jahanpur. You swapped the channel again.

You couldn’t find anything out than what you already heard. Green Lantern subdued the villain, Hawkgirl threw her mace at his head, Superman is in Jahanpur—

What?

You sat up. It was true. The news channel showed the video of Superman at the border between Jahanpur and Boravia, stopping the Boravian invasion singlehandedly. You saw a little boy and his sister holding onto his red cape. Your heart beat fast in your chest.

The Boravian military was forced to retreat. You watched as the Jahanpurian people celebrated Superman as he singlehandedly stopped a war. You had never seen a superhero do something like that before.

Something warm blossomed in your chest, and tears fell from your eyes.

———

It was all the rage in the Daily Planet the next day. Everyone was trying to figure out as much as they could about what happened in Jahanpur, while also trying to be the first article published. You ignored the box of chocolates Lex had sent and sat at your desk, mind preoccupied. Lois was typing rapidly on her computer while Jimmy looked over some photos he took, Clark’s desk was empty. You kept looking up from your monitor every so often to see if he had come in. He hadn’t.

Matter of fact, he hadn’t shown up until mid-day. You looked up when you heard Perry warn Clark about his tardiness, to which he quickly apologized before rushing over to you.

“Honey, I’m so—“

“Save it.” You said, “this isn’t the place to talk about it.”

Lois discreetly peered over the divider.

“___, I-“

“Clark, please just go to your desk.” You flatly said. Clark deflated, but he nodded and left you alone.

“Everything okay?” Lois softly asked.

“Oh, just a little tiff.” You muttered, returning your focus to your draft. Lois didn’t ask anything else, out of respect.

You knew Clark kept looking over at you, you could feel his eyes. But you were definitely not in the mood after the scare he made you go through. Lunch time rolled around, and Clark stared at you. You went alone. You got pizza, but still left a five dollar tip for Malik.

———

“Trouble in paradise, she’s eating alone.” One of Lex’s employees, Larry, said. Lex shot to the nearest monitor, watching you eat your pizza alone on a park bench.

“They didn’t go to work together, either.” Another one spoke up, “Kent arrived late.”

“Good, good.” Lex hummed, blue eyes wide, “swap to—“

Lex was shut up when the cameras showed Clark running up to you. They had no audio, but they could tell Clark was pleading for forgiveness for whatever it was that he did based on his body language. Lex yelled, enraged, when he saw you take Clark’s hand.

———

“I really am sorry, ____.” Clark softly said, sat next to you on the bench.

“I know.” You responded, “you don’t have a bad bone in your body. But you need to understand how worried I was, you didn’t come home at all.”

“I-I was helping.” Clark stammered, “those people, they— that guy put them in danger.”

“I know, I know.” You sighed, “but it isn’t always your fight, either. The Justice Gang, or whatever they’re called, they were there. Sometimes, you have to leave it to the Supers.”

Clark adjusted his glasses.

“Am I sleeping on the couch tonight?” He hesitantly asked with a smile, which unfortunately made you smile too.

“Have fun snuggling with Moo.”

“She isn’t as warm as you!”

“She’ll smack you if you snore, by the way.” You snorted as Clark made a face of despair. You kissed him on the cheek, making him drop the act.

“I love how good you are, even if you put yourself in danger.” You softly said. He took your hand in his, squeezing it.

“I’m not going anywhere, I promise.” Clark assured you, and you nodded. He was a good, honest man. You knew you could trust his words.

But you didn’t know even half of the truth.

a/n: hellooo :3 i havent written in a while, sawryyy. i saw the new superman movie and a lightning bolt of inspiration shot thru me :3 uhh lex is going to be an absolute asshole and evil pos in the fic so don’t expect anything good to come from him, he’s a villain for a reason

[moon-child-goddess]

Next door (Part Two)

Clark Kent X Neighbor (Fem) Reader

This is part two I wrote this so many times this is the version I settled with. Its 1.7k words.

Part One Part Three

Summary: Reader is putting together a bookshelf and who knew it could be so hard.

Warnings: Flirting while furniture building (aka: slow burn danger zone), some angst, I don’t think there is anything else.

I had been staring at the instruction booklet for what is beginning to feel like an eternity. The paper started to look like it had been written in some cursed alien dialect. Created by beings who had never experienced human frustration.

The cartoon man on page three was grinning at me, all dead-eyed and smug. That stupid Allen wrench in hand like it would help him survive the zombie apocalypse. I glared at him, resisting the urge to shred the paper into confetti and host a solo spite parade.

I sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by wooden dowels, screws that swore they were different but looked suspiciously identical. And a slow rising fog of existential regret.  

“Okay.” I muttered, gripping the back panel to slide in. “You want to fight? You’ve got one Billy Bookcase.”

This wasn’t building. This was humiliation in plywood form.

I jabbed a peg into the designated hole like it had insulted my best friend, and yelped when the side panel collapsed, smacking me in the shin with karmic precision.

“Son of a— Holy, stab me with an Allen wrench, that really hurt.” I doubled over clutching my leg, betrayed by gravity, Swedish engineering, and whatever unhinged optimism had inspired me to start this doomed project.

“You inanimate piece of—”

A knock interrupted my spiral.

It was soft. I nearly missed it. But there was something familiar to the rhythm of it.

I stopped mid curse, foot hovering inches from the panel I’d been preparing to kick into next week.

“Hey.” A voice came through the door. Gentle. It was a calm to the storm in my apartment pulling me back from the edge. “You ok in there?”  

I let out a dramatic exhale and dropped my foot onto the floor. “Define okay, because I think this bookshelf has developed a superiority complex and is actively plotting my downfall.”

There was a pause, long enough that I started to wonder if I had scared him off.  

“Should I be worried? Because it sounds like the plywood’s winning in there.”

How did he know? Was my apartment secretly made of tissue paper?

I limped to the door, massaging my shin, and opened it to find Clark. In another flannel shirt that looked softer than the last one. Hair tousled enough to look effortlessly charming. Like he was a lead in a romcom who had just wandered off set and landed in my hallway.

He glanced over my shoulder with a raised brow.

“Ahhh, “He said with mock sympathy. “You got IKEA.”

“I thought I got a bookshelf,” I replied, sighing theatrically. “Turns out I adopted a very angry puzzle.”

He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck, which of course made him somehow more attractive.

“Want some help?”  

I crossed my arms. “Are you going to charm the bookshelf into submission with those capable hands?”

"Charm is my backup plan if the wrench fails."

“I am perfectly capable of assembling furniture, Boy Scout.”

I knew he wasn’t offering because he thought I couldn’t do it. He was nice. He baked cookies. But I was stubborn. Proud. Borderline feral. I handled everything solo—this should’ve been no different.

Clarks’ hands raised in exaggerated surrender. “No doubt,” he said, voice soft but teasing. “But if you let me help, I promise not to take too much credit when it inevitably looks amazing.”

I squinted, suspicious of his confidence. But my lips twitched. “Fine. But if it collapses in the middle of the night, I’m blaming you.”

“Deal.”

He stepped inside and knelt beside the wreckage, grinning like he’d entered a cozy war zone.

“Okay… You flipped the backing upside down.”

“I did not,” I lied, channeling a false bravado.

He glanced up over his glasses, eyes twinkling. “You definitely did.”

Behind his back, I stuck out my tongue. Yes, it was childish. But it was also satisfying. I was beginning to hate how endearing he was.  

Not really. But still.

He flipped through the manual like it was written in his native tongue. “This screw goes here,” he said, “and this peg goes there—not where you tried to marry it to the wrong shelf.”

“How are you so good at this? Are you secretly a carpenter? Or were you manufactured by IKEA? And if it's the latter, do they sell more of you?”

I was kidding… mostly.

“I am actually a journalist.” He added casually, a lilt of a chuckle.

I tilted my head. That was unexpected. I don’t know what I thought he did for a living, but a journalist wasn’t in the top 5.

I watched him fit two pieces together with maddening ease. “You either have magic powers, or you are annoyingly competent.”

He smiled, unabashed. “I will take it as a compliment.”

The next twenty minutes unfolded like an unexpected duet. We bantered. I cursed the instruction booklet. He apologized to it like a nerd. And I laughed way more than I’d anticipated.

Holding out a palmful of screws was my idea of ‘helping’. Somehow, he always picked the right one without looking.  

“These boards are identical,” I grumbled, holding up two that looked like siblings separated at birth. “I think IKEA’s real business model is emotional chaos and tears.”

“They’re different,” he said, leaning close. “One has three holes. The other has four.”

I held the two boards side by side squinting. “Four versus three. Guess subtle differences can change everything. Learned that the hard way.”

He laughed—eyes crinkling, chest shaking. “Sounds like there’s a story behind that.”

“Oh, there’s a whole anthology. Mostly red flags and furniture that never got finished.”

He bumped into my arm lightly. “I promise not to ghost mid-construction.”

I nudged him back, teasing him. “Bold promise. Next, you’ll be telling me you follow through on texts and build pillow forts like a pro.”

Clark tilted his head, smirk playing at the corner of his lips. “I mean... where are your throw pillows and sheets?”

I rolled my eyes, trying not to laugh. It was easy with him. Easier than it should’ve been.

“Don’t tempt me. I have been missing childhood whimsy.”

A quiet settled in as we finished the shelf. It wasn’t awkward in any sense. Just charged, a soft static lingering. Our fingers occasionally grazed when we reached for the same piece.

My hair kept falling in front of my face, and without a thought, he reached over and brushed a strand behind my ear.

His knuckles traced over my cheek. I froze. My breathing hitched, the warmth of his skin ignited something I’d been trying not to name. His touch was gentle like I was made of porcelain. And it made me want to cry.

Clarks fingers withdrew slowly, deliberately, as if he had felt it too.

He pulled away very slowly. Letting the moment sit.

Neither of us spoke right away. But the silence wasn’t empty—it hummed. I pretended to refocus on the bookshelf, but I could still feel the ghost of his fingertips along my skin.

I watched his hands as they tightened the last screw.

“There. Billy lives.”  

I blinked at the finished bookshelf. “We did it. We’re amazing.”

Clark grinned. “Amazing people deserve rewards.”

Was this his way of spending more time with me? I wasn’t going to complain.

“Cookies again?” I asked, very seriously. I’d devoured the last ones embarrassingly fast. Kept the plate longer than I needed to, too.

Although that would be a reward for me. Not for his hard work.

“I was thinking something better.” He offered a hand to help me up. “There’s a corner bodega with overpriced celebratory sodas and sandwiches that probably violate food codes—but they’re incredible. You in?”

“Yes, but I’m paying. As an official thank you for your carpentry powers.”

His fingers wrapped around mine. Warm. Grounding.

“Noble gesture,” he said. “But I feel morally obligated to battle you for the bill.”

He acted like one of those gentlemen you read in historical romance novels. And it made me swoon.

But he had another thing coming if he thought he was going to pay.

I arched a brow. “Then prepare for war, Boy Scout.”

It got me another glorious laugh, as I grabbed my shoes. I glanced at Billy from the doorway.

“You tried to win the fight Billy, but I have a Boy Scout.”

At the bodega, everything smelled amazing. Like every food item contained too much grease, and would clog your arteries.

He didn’t let me pay.

I tried. I even pointed at random décor and pulled a weak “made you look” move. He tapped his card before I could blink, like a magician with a sixth sense.

When I tried to send him money, he stole my phone and pocketed it with a shake of his head.

“I at least owe you pizza.”

“Sounds fantastic,” he said, holding the door for me. “You can come to my place.”

“We can build that fort too.” I winked. Half joking half not.

“I wasn’t joking, you know.” It came out as a whisper, almost shy around the edges. “About the fort. I think it would be fun.”

Clark looked down at his shoes, then back up, meeting my gaze with something steadier than before. “I like being around you. It’s... easy. Even when you’re threatening plywood.”

I wanted to respond with something cool, maybe funny. But the words dissolved. Because he didn’t say it like a pickup line — he said it like a truth. And I didn’t know what to do with that

My fingers curled tighter around the waxy soda cup as I looked at him—this man who smelled faintly of cinnamon and kindness. The breeze kicked up just enough to tug at his flannel, and I wanted to follow it—to see where this moment would lead if I didn’t pull away.

“Let’s go home.” I muttered out instead.

I needed to clear my head. Time to think. To figure out why his laugh made my stomach flip and why a shared screwdriver felt like something more.

We should be friends. Just friends. I can handle that.

For those who wanted to be tagged:

@animegamerfox @anonymouse1807

[on-a-lucky-tide]

Want my prompt to shake the table a bit, see a pairing that I almost never see alone:

Ghost/Gaz. Something sweet, something feral; a nice mixture. Your call but I trust your judgment.

Gaz tries to give Ghost what he asked for but it's too much.

cw: failed scene, Dom drop.

"You sick bastard, by the time I'm done with you, you'll be wanting to tell me everything," Gaz murmured close to Ghost's mask, circling the end of the riding crop around one pale nipple. It pebbled eagerly, a flurry of goosebumps running over Ghost's shoulders as he watched Gaz sneer. "I'll need a gag to shut you up."

Ghost hummed low in his throat and spread his knees out, testing the rope cuffs securing his wrists behind the chair. His cock strained against the confines of his keks and he wanted nothing more than to feed it between those pretty lips. Gaz was in control through, which set Ghost's fuckin' blood on fire.

The first strike stung. A firm lash across his chest that caught a nipple. His head fell back and he grunted, eyes fluttering as the welt prickled and throbbed in the aftermath. A second fell right next to the first, precise, measured, and Ghost's mouth fell open under the mask; the third punched a low groan, his shoulders rolling, wrists straining against the rope.

There wasn't a fourth.

Ghost looked up, examining Gaz through lidded eyes. It took him a moment to surface through the fog in his head created by sting of the riding crop, but when he did, the pinched expression on Gaz's face set his teeth on edge.

"Sir," Ghost tried. Nothing. He kicked his boot against the floor to get Gaz's attention before the pit opening in his head swallowed him whole. "Kyle, colour."

Gaz blinked. "Huh?" He looked washed out, hollow, his eyes distant. The crop dangled in one hand, his shoulders hunched.

"'m red, we're done," Ghost said.

"Shit, was it... Did I do something wrong? Si, I'm sorry, I..."

"Ya gonna untie me before I pop my bleedin' thumbs to get out?"

"Don't do that, you crazy arsehole," Gaz cast the crop aside and ran around the back, picking the knot open until it fell away. Ghost heard him hiss, and then in the next moment his fingertips were stroking the friction burns around Ghost's wrists. "Fuck, shit, look at... I'll get the... I'll get the stuff."

Ghost watched him scuttle over to the chest of drawers at the far wall and find the Savlon. It was a nice chest of drawers. Not like the IKEA shit in Ghost's gaff, but one of those oak numbers from Oak Furnitureland. Ghost had half expected Gaz to still live at home, to have to shove a t-shirt in his mouth as they fumbled in his childhood bed with Thomas the Tank Engine bedsheets.

But, like in many things, Gaz had surprised him. The flat was tidy. Nice little bolt hole in northern Kent where he was just close enough to visit his parents in London, but just far outside enough to be able to afford to eat when he was on leave. Ghost didn't miss the sergeant's salary.

Gaz approached tentatively. "Give me your wrists," he said, trying for the commanding tone he has used in the scene, that he used so effortlessly in the field, but missing the mark. His voice wavered and that pinched expression was still on his face.

Ghost patted two hands on his lap, drawing his knees together enough to create a platform, and then opened his hands. Gaz didn't need a second invite and sank gratefully onto Ghost's thighs, his own either side. "Wrists," he insisted, and Ghost lifted them up for inspection.

"Gonna tell me what happened?"

"It's nothing," Gaz said, squeezing out a little bit of cream onto his forefinger and then carefully rubbing it against the burn. Ghost knew this part of it was important. Gaz cared. He cared a lot, fuck knows why. Ghost didn't pretend to understand how his mind worked; Gaz was good, you know, proper, and rather than try to dissect that and risk driving it off, Ghost has decided to throw himself heart first into earning it.

"We won't be goin' anywhere 'til you do."

"Oh yeah? What if I kick you out on your arse?"

"I'd climb back in the window."

'We're on the seventh floor."

"Yeah."

"Fuckin' nutcase," Gaz breathed through a chuckle, and then moved to Ghost's second wrist. "I'm sorry, alright? I'm sorry I couldn't... I couldn't give you what you needed."

"What did I need?"

Gaz fixed him with a quizzical look and Ghost gazed back placidly. "You needed me to beat you, right? Like I would in a fucking interrogation." There it was. Ghost could feel the sharp edge of it, like running his fingers over a soft blanket and finding a razor sticking out of it; the hurt biting into Gaz's skin.

"Ya didn't hurt me, Kyle."

"Yeah? Wos all this then?" He gestured at Ghost's wrists, his chest, pressing his lips together.

"Pleasure."

"What?"

"Told ya when we started. I like it, makes me feel good, makes the next part when I fuck ya even better."

Gaz got that sheepish look on his face and Ghost knew if he kissed him, Gaz's cheeks would be warm beneath his lips.

"I'm sorry, it... It was too much like... Look, I can do better next time, I can get my head on right, and.."

Ghost hummed, hooking a thumb beneath his bally to pull it off. Gaz's pupils blew wide. Ghost liked that, the way Gaz looked at his unmasked face; with want and affection. He took Gaz's chin and pulled him down for a kiss, teasing his lips open, keeping it gentle. He scooped a hand behind Kyle's arse and scooted him forward until the warm seat of his sweats sat over the hard bulge in the front of Ghost's belted combats. He needed to feel; to be grounded in the reality, rather than the fiction he'd created in his head, of what he'd done.

Gaz moaned softly into Ghost's mouth, a muffled 'Simon' tried to slip out, his hands splaying on Ghost's chest, trapping the cold tin of the tube against his skin. When Ghost drew away, still with one arm to keep Gaz against him, he tilted his head. "There are plenty more ways ya can make me beg."

Gaz rolled his lower lip between his teeth, one eyebrow raised. "I thought you liked the pain..."

"I like to be pushed to my limits. Pain's the easiest way."

"Yeah, looks it..." Gaz said dryly, eyeing the reddened stripes on Ghost's pale chest. He stroked down the edge of one with his fingertips, grimacing. "Alright. What are the other ways? Not gonna lie, Si. It wasn't doing much for me."

"Ya could shove a big vibrator up my arse and edge me 'til I cry."

Gaz choked on air. "What?"

He liked it though. The sound of it. His hips gave a little twitch, the first squirm of arousal.

"Ya could make me do push ups until I can't, then punish me by not letting me cum 'til I beg you."

Oh, he really liked that. Ghost's eyes dropped to Gaz's lap, head tilted, to admire the curve of his cock pushing through the grey flannel. "What else?" Gaz asked, his voice low.

"I could warm ya prick while ya watch footie. Cuff me so I can't touch myself, maybe put a remote control vibrator in my arse."

Gaz licked his lips. "Yeah, I... I like these ones better."

"Soft touch."

"Ah, fuck off, mate. I..." Gaz sighed, running a hand through Ghost's scruff of blonde hair. "I want to make you feel good, I do, but the whip just feels like I'm bringing work into our bedroom. Makes me feel sick, you know?"

"Thanks," Ghost said, "for tellin' me. I wouldn't have been as brave."

Gaz studied him for a long moment, his thumb brushing over the faint lines at the corner of his eye, then down the knife scarring over his jaw and lip. "You sure it's not the pain you want, Si? Don't lie to me."

Ghost considered his answer carefully. "I like it. But I don't need it. I need you," he said. "No point in it if ya in your head when we fuck after. I ain't selfish, Kyle. Not with shit like this."

He was selfish in other ways. Hoarding Kyle's time on leave for one. He knew, realistically, he had to go and see his mum tomorrow or face her wrath, but that didn't stop Ghost resenting the absence slightly. Their time was precious, finite. Ghost didn't like sharing.

His answer appeared to appease Gaz, who sat back to smooth some more Savlon over the welts on Ghost's chest. While he worked, Ghost's hands wandered, the one behind slid into the crease between his legs to find the heavy, warm weight of his balls, while the other caressed over his abdomen, backs of his fingers playing in the soft trail of hair down the middle. "Oi, let me finish before you get handsy," Gaz grunted.

"No." Ghost went to Gaz's chest and thumbed over a nipple, savouring the gasp like the first sip of bourbon after a long op. It didn't take him long to get Gaz hard, ignoring his protests when he stood and carried him to the bed, pushing those sweats off to the floor so he was gloriously naked against his crisp sheets.

Ghost sat up, spreading his knees open between Gaz's legs, leaving him on display to be admired. Gaz knew how good looking he was, with his sculpted arms above his head, his body chiselled from bloody marble, his Hollywood good looks, his perfect cock arched up from groomed pubic hair, and the perfect furl of his hole. He writhed, twitching his hips up in needy little thrusts as he basked in his arousal. "Hng, Si," Gaz moaned, lower lip rolling between his teeth.

"You fockin' tease," Ghost growled, undoing his belt with one hand and whipping it out as he popped his fly with the other. He got his keks halfway down his thighs before he leaned forward and sank into a kiss, hands stroking up Gaz's biceps to lace their fingers together.

They'd fuck all afternoon, like they always did in the first few days of leave; hot, heavy, frantic, sometimes tender. They would emerge later to eat and play FIFA on Gaz's PS4 with some beers, before falling asleep in a heap on the sofa. In the morning, it would be the gym, then some bedroom cardio, before mooching about a local town, back to the bedroom, rinse and repeat. Boring for some, maybe. It was the first time in Ghost's life he'd ever looked forward to his annual leave.

[bmbsurveyltd]

Get Accurate Results With Trusted Construction Site Survey Services in London

In any building project, the process of construction site survey is the first stage and the most significant one. It aids in the translation of the paper plan to the ground so that the builders may develop a conception to where and how to begin work. With BMB Survey Limited, this process is simple, transparent, and efficient to all the clients.

[thinkmarkthink]

Lex Luthor & Clark Kent – “Your Son, My Clone, and Other Poor Life Choices”

Lex shows up at the Kent farm unannounced. Which is already a problem.

But he shows up at the Kent farm wearing sunglasses, carrying a tablet, and acting like he’s here for brunch. Which is a bigger problem.

Clark answers the door with one eyebrow already raised and a dishrag over his shoulder. “Please tell me you didn’t do something stupid.”

Lex strides past him like he owns the place. “Define stupid.”

“Did it involve my son?” Clark calls after him.

“In my defense,” Lex says, settling into the dining room chair like a vampire staking territory, “he’s only technically your son. Genetically, he’s half me.”

There’s a moment of such pure silence, even the chickens outside pause.

Clark slowly turns. “Lex.”

“Yes?”

“You don’t get to use the word ‘technically’ when you’re talking about illegally cloning someone’s child out of sheer intellectual spite.”

Lex sips the coffee he poured himself, grimacing. “You use cheap beans. Typical Kansas.”

“Lex.”

“Yes, yes.” Lex waves a hand. “Morality. Ethics. Consent. You’re very loud about those things.”

Clark crosses his arms. “You created a living being. A child. You engineered him in a lab like a goddamn science fair project.”

“I also gave him telomere durability that will outlast your own.” Lex shrugs. “You’re welcome.”

Clark looks like he’s trying very hard not to throw Lex through the sun.

“You didn’t have to raise him,” Lex adds, suddenly much quieter. “That was your choice.”

Clark doesn’t answer immediately. Just exhales. “Yeah. It was.”

Lex taps the edge of the mug. “And?”

“And what?”

“How’s he doing?”

Clark watches him. Really watches him. “He’s good. Kind. Stubborn. Stronger than both of us. He gets in trouble at school. Wears socks that don’t match. His best friend is a bat. They got married last week, apparently. Candy rings.”

Lex nods, carefully blank. “That’s… good.”

A long pause.

Then: “He thinks you’re an egomaniac with chronic loneliness and too many suits.”

Lex smiles faintly. “He’s not wrong.”

Clark leans on the doorframe. “You didn’t make him who he is, you know.”

“I gave him his potential,” Lex says.

“And he chose to be better than either of us,” Clark says. “That’s what makes him my son.”

Lex stands, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve. “Next time he breaks something expensive with his heat vision, tell him he gets that from me.”

Clark rolls his eyes. “You’re not on the emergency contact list.”

Lex’s smirk is slow and poisonous. “He already has my number.”

Clark groans.

Outside, Kon sneezes mid-flight and accidentally sets a scarecrow on fire.

[cherrrydragon]

➤ find something worth saving (it's all for the taking)

CHAPTER TWELVE: PICTURE PERFECT

← back to chapter list

SUMMARY ↳ You think you understand why people say "Happy Holidays." You are happy. A busy household during Christmas is something you’re familiar with. You distinctly remember waking up in the tower on Christmas morning to find Thor standing above you with a big stupid grin, not even having changed from his asgardian armor. This time, however, it’s Jon floating above you, a silly Santa hat on his head. “Merry Christmas.” You roll over, pulling your pillow over your head. “Nothing merry about waking me up so damn early.” pairing: jon kent x gn!reader x damian wayne warnings: none, none at all wc: 4.3k

sorry for the late-ish post! totally forgot it was upload day woopsie

The next day, you're awakened by the sound of Alfred entering the room with a tray of food. You sit up, feeling much better already, and gratefully accept the meal. "Thank you, Alfred," you say with a smile.

"You're quite welcome," he replies, his tone warm. "Master Bruce and the others will be here shortly. They have a few more questions for you."

You nod, taking a bite of the food and feeling your energy start to return. True to Alfred's word, Bruce, Damian, and Jon enter the room a few minutes later.

Bruce starts. "We've been discussing your situation. We’d like to better understand your abilities. You've explained your origins, but we need to see what you can do."

You nod, setting the tray aside and standing up. "Fair enough. What do you need to see?"

"We'll start with a simple demonstration of your web abilities," Bruce says. "Show us what you can do with and without the bracelets."

“Not inside the room. Go downstairs,” Alfred cuts in firmly. You all nod and scurry downstairs. Bruce shows you how to access the Batcave via the clock. You pretend to pay attention, as if you didn’t already know. Once inside, he takes you all aside into a quaint little training room, where all the other batkids are waiting. The mat feels like home under your feet. He prompts you to show them what you can do.

You nod and raise your wrist, shooting a web towards a nearby wall. The organic webbing shoots out with precision, sticking to the wall firmly. It’s a simple web, straight and true. Equipping the bracelets, you decide to send out a web-net. The size of it covers a great deal of the wall.

“My organic webs are really only good for swinging and grabbing stuff,” you explain.

“[Name] has 576 possible web-shooter combinations,” Karen pipes up helpfully from the computer. Bruce’s slight frown suggests he’s not used to her yet, and probably won’t be for a while. “Much more versatile than their organic webs, of course.”

Tim looks impressed as he glances at Bruce. "576 combinations? That's... a lot."

You grin and nod. "Yeah, my dad loves over-engineering things. The web-net is just one of the many tricks up my sleeve."

Damian steps forward, eyes narrowed in thought. "What about your strength and agility? We need to see how you compare to us."

You nod, understanding the need to prove yourself. "Sure thing. What do you want me to do?"

Bruce gestures to a nearby set of weights. "Lift that."

You walk over to the weights, easily lifting a barbell that looks like it should be far too heavy for your frame. You then set it down and leap onto a nearby platform with a single bound, showcasing your agility.

"Not bad," Damian admits, though his tone is still cautious. "But can you fight?"

You smirk. "Why don't we find out?"

Damian raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued by the challenge. He steps onto the mat, and you both take your stances. The others  watch closely as you and Damian circle each other.

Damian strikes first, his movements quick and precise. You dodge and counter, your enhanced reflexes allowing you to keep up with his speed. The two of you exchange blows, each testing the other's limits. Damian's skill is evident, but your enhanced strength and agility give you an edge.

He’s got all the tells of a trained assassin. His eyes dart around your figure, looking for openings and weaknesses. He adapts seamlessly, each of his movements controlled and calculated. He aims to control the flow with every jab, kick and punch. Unfortunately for him, you’ve been trained by one of the deadliest assassin of your world, Natasha Romanoff.

You decide it’s time to up the ante. You feint to the left, then quickly spin and sweep his legs out from under him. Damian lands on the mat but rolls back up to his feet instantly, eyes blazing with determination. He’s not used to being bested so easily, but he respects the challenge.

“You’re good,” Damian admits grudgingly, adjusting his stance. “But let’s see how you handle this.”

He lunges at you with a series of rapid strikes, forcing you to focus entirely on defense. You block and parry, your reflexes barely keeping up with his speed. You notice an opening and take it, landing a solid punch that sends him skidding back.

Before he can recover, you shoot a web at his feet, sticking him to the mat. He struggles for a moment before smirking and cutting himself free with a small blade.

“Me! Me next!” exclaims Stephanie, waving her hand around in the air. You take turns sparring everyone—save for Jon, who has just been watching a bit stiffly—, winning every time (not to brag or anything). You get a few hearty laughs when you manage to lift Jason with one hand and gently slam him to the mat. 

Then your final opponent steps up, Cassandra Cain. You gulp slightly. She’s written off as one of the best fighters in the Batfamily, and probably the DCverse. You’re supposed to be holding your strength back to show your skill, so it’s a matter of being smart, not strong.

You start cautiously, circling each other as you assess her fighting style. Cassandra doesn't waste any movements, each strike calculated to test your defenses. You rely on your agility and strength to keep up, blocking and countering her attacks with equal precision.

As the spar intensifies, you find yourself impressed by Cassandra's skill and adaptability. She adjusts her tactics based on your responses, probing for weaknesses in your defense. You're forced to rely on more than just brute strength, using strategy and technique to gain an advantage. Damn, she’s really good. It’s a blessing you’ve been trained by the goddam Avengers.

Your fighting styles are similar, fluid and dance-like. You’re impressed but not surprised by her ability to read your movements and react almost instantaneously. Natasha’s words replay in your mind.

“Predict every possible movement of theirs.”

You huff, arms hanging by your side, tired. “What, like Garou?”

Natasha raises a perfect eyebrow, her expression a mix of curiosity and slight amusement. You wave your hands in dismissal. “Forget it.”

Natasha steps forward, her movements fluid and controlled. “It’s not just about predicting every move, it’s about understanding your opponent’s rhythm and intent. You need to see the fight a couple of steps ahead. Every slight movement can give away their intentions."

She demonstrates, moving with a fluid grace that you've come to admire. "You have the strength and agility. Now you need precision and awareness to make them truly effective."

In front of Cassandra now, you truly do feel like Garou. Your mind paints images of every way she could go, every move she could make. You feint to the right, then shift your weight and spin to the left, aiming a kick at her midsection. Cassandra blocks it effortlessly, but you expected that. Using the momentum from your spin, you drop low and sweep her legs.

Cassandra jumps, avoiding your sweep with an almost inhuman agility. But you're ready. As she comes back down, you grab her wrist and twist, using her own momentum against her to flip her onto the mat. She lands softly, rolling to her feet with a small smile.

"You're very good," Cassandra says quietly, her tone filled with genuine admiration.

"You're incredible," you reply, equally impressed.

Dick claps to be dramatic, initiating a round of applause from everyone else (except Damian, the stinker). You grin and bow dramatically. “Kicked our asses,” mumbled Jason, rubbing his jaw.

After the applause dies down, Bruce steps forward, a thoughtful look on his face. "You've shown us your abilities, and it's clear you have the skill and strength to be a valuable asset. Now we need to focus on integrating you into our ways."

Alfred clears his throat politely. "Perhaps, Master Bruce, our guest would benefit from a proper rest before diving into further training and mission planning."

Bruce nods. "Of course. We'll take a break for now. You've done well today."

As the group disperses, Jon approaches you with a friendly smile. "Hey, that was awesome. I can't wait to see what else you can do."

“Well thank you… Superboy,” you grin as he rolls his eyes playfully. Hooking your arm in his, you begin to walk out the cave. “Seriously thought, I bet if I was a normal person I still could’ve figured you out.” He raises a brow in challenge. “I mean, the Ferris wheel thing? Seriously?”

He groans. “I was trying to get you to safety!”

“My hero,” you smirk.

He drops you off at your room, exiting from your window with a wave. Nari is happily cuddling with Alfred on your bed, the sight making you coo. You gently sit by them and run your hand down Nari’s back.

Your door opens without as much as a knock or warning. Damian pauses when he sees you on the bed.

“Now, what would you have done if I was naked?” you ask sarcastically, rolling your eyes.

“Tt,” he scoffs, eyes looking away. “I was merely looking for Alfred.”

“Might have to get in line somewhere, Nari’s holding her hostage,” you hum, looking down at the pair. The sounds of purring cats fills you with calm. You see him still standing in the doorway. “Well? Come on, come sit.”

He hesitates to move, before stepping forward and shutting your door. He sits on the other side of the cat pile. “What’s up with you?”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

You shrug nonchalantly. “I just mean you’ve been weird since I revealed my totally awesome alter ego.”

“I have not.”

You roll your eyes. "Oh please, Damian. You practically scowled through our entire spar. You mad ‘cause I kicked your ass or something?”

He crosses his arms defensively. "I am not upset."

"Right," you say skeptically. "Then what is it?"

Damian looks away, his expression unreadable for a moment. "It's nothing."

You raise an eyebrow. "You don't usually act like this. Come on, out with it."

“You…” he grumbles, clearly annoyed at being pushed, “...everytime I think I have you figured out, you surprise me.” He leans back, lying down on your mattress. “I don’t know anyone like you. And now, to find out you have been parading around as the new vigilante we’ve been so preoccupied with…”

You lean back as well, listening as Damian tries to articulate his thoughts. His demeanor shifts from guarded to contemplative, and you sense a rare vulnerability in his words.

“Not to mention you’ve known who we were since then…” he muttered, eyes on the ceiling. “

You listen attentively, sensing Damian's struggle with his thoughts. His words reveal a complexity you hadn't fully anticipated. "It must be strange," you offer quietly, "to have someone come into your world who knows so much and yet is still a mystery to you." 

“Are you mad because I kept it a secret from you…? Technically, you kept Robin a secret from me,” you offer.

Damian shifts slightly, his gaze flickering to meet yours briefly before returning to the ceiling. "It's not just that," he admits quietly. "You're skilled, strong, and you fit into our world seamlessly. It's..."

He shifts closer, his expression unreadable but his eyes holding a mix of curiosity and something deeper. "I want to understand you better," he says, his voice low.

You reach out, cupping his face with your hand. His eyes bore into yours, earnest. "I want you to understand me better too, Damian," you say softly, meeting his gaze with sincerity. "I know I've come into your life in a pretty unconventional way, but I'm here now. And I'm not going anywhere."

Then, you add shyly, “if you’d have me.”

Damian's lips quirk in a small, almost imperceptible smile. "You've certainly managed to keep me on my toes."

You chuckle softly. "Likewise. But hey, that's part of the fun, right?"

He nods, a thoughtful expression crossing his features as his eyes grow half lidded. "Fun... yes, I suppose it is."

Your heart slows in its beats, relaxing. You take in the mattress against your cheek, taking in the calm and gentle atmosphere. You feel a rush of warmth as Damian's hand finds yours, his touch surprisingly tender. The air around you feels charged with a mix of uncertainty and possibility. You squeeze his hand gently, a silent reassurance that you're here, you're present, and you want this.

"I didn't expect this," Damian admits quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

You turn your head to look at him, meeting his gaze. "Neither did I, to be honest. But sometimes unexpected things turn out to be the best."

He nods slowly, his expression softening as he looks at you. "You're not like anyone I've ever known."

"And you're not like anyone I've ever known either," you reply with a small smile. "But I think that's a good thing."

Damian leans closer, his face now just inches from yours. "Perhaps..."

Before either of you can say anything more, the door creaks open slightly. You both turn to see Bruce standing there, a faint hint of concern in his eyes.

"Ahem," Bruce clears his throat. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything important."

Damian sits up abruptly, his demeanor shifting to a more guarded stance. "Father, what is it?"

Bruce steps into the room, his eyes briefly scanning the scene before focusing on Damian. "I need to speak with you about something. Come down to the cave."

Damian nods, the serious look returning to his face. "Understood. I'll be there shortly."

Bruce glances at you, his expression softening slightly. "Thank you for your cooperation today. Your skills are impressive, and we look forward to working with you." Ever the most formal guy in the room.

You nod, feeling a mixture of pride and nervousness. "Thank you.”

Bruce gives a curt nod and leaves, the door closing softly behind him. Damian turns to you, his expression thoughtful.

"I should go," he says, his tone reluctant.

You nod, understanding the demands of their work. "Of course. Duty calls."

As Damian stands, he hesitates for a moment before grabbing your hand and pressing a light kiss on your pulse. "We'll talk more later," he promises. You can say anything, so you nod.

Damian leaves the room, and you find yourself alone with your thoughts. Nari, sensing the shift in mood, nuzzles closer to you, offering silent comfort. You stroke his fur absently, your mind replaying the events of the day.

A busy household during Christmas is something you’re familiar with. You distinctly remember waking up in the tower on Christmas morning to find Thor standing above you with a big stupid grin, not even having changed from his Asgardian armor.

This time, however, it’s Jon floating above you, a silly Santa hat on his head. “Merry Christmas.”

You roll over, pulling your pillow over your head. “Nothing merry about waking me up so damn early.”

Jon chuckles, his laughter light and carefree. "Come on, Scrooge. Get up and go downstairs." When you don’t move, he pounces on you. His fingers wiggle across your stomach as you shriek and fight to get free.

“Okay, okay! Jeez,” you concede. He rolls off of you, not without placing a hard kiss on your head. 

Damian pokes his head into your room with an annoyed expression. "What’s all this nonsense?"

Jon turns to him with a bright smile, "Just spreading some holiday cheer. Get in the spirit, Dami!"

You stretch and sit up, rubbing your eyes. "Yeah, Dami. It’s Christmas. Let’s be cheerful and merry."

He scowls slightly but steps into the room. "Tt. Christmas is just another day."

You and Jon share a knowing look before you hop out of bed and tackle Damian in a hug. "Oh, come on. Even you can't be grumpy on Christmas!" Damian sighs but doesn't push you away. 

The three of you head downstairs to the living room where the rest of the Batfamily is already gathered. The faint scent of Alfred's cooking wafts through the air, and you can hear laughter and chatter echoing through the halls. The tree is beautifully decorated, and presents are piled high underneath it. Bruce is sitting on the couch with a cup of coffee, looking surprisingly relaxed.

Alfred hands you a steaming mug of hot cocoa as you join the group. "Merry Christmas," he says with a warm smile.

"Merry Christmas, Alfred," you reply, taking a sip of the rich, delicious drink. You glance around the room, your gaze landing on Damian, who is sitting quietly by the tree, watching the proceedings with a thoughtful expression.

You join the rest of the Batfamily in the living room, enjoying the festive atmosphere. Jon is already diving into his presents, enthusiastically tearing off the wrapping paper. Dick and Barbara are sitting together, exchanging gifts and laughing. Tim is deep in conversation with Stephanie, who is trying to guess what he got her. Even Jason seems to be in good spirits, joking around with Duke and Cass.

You decide to approach Damian, holding your mug of hot cocoa. You sit down beside him, the warm and festive atmosphere contrasting with his contemplative demeanor.

He glances at you as you settle beside him, his expression softening slightly at your presence. "Enjoying yourself?" he asks, his tone carefully neutral.

You take a sip of your cocoa, letting the warmth spread through you before answering. "Yeah, it's nice. Reminds me of home," you admit softly, thinking back to the holidays you spent with your family and the Avengers. Damian watches you quietly, seeming to consider your words.

"Your family must be... different," he finally remarks, his tone almost curious.

You nod, a faint smile playing on your lips. "Yeah, definitely different. But they're good people. Just like yours." You gesture subtly towards the rest of the Batfamily, who are now engaged in lively conversation and laughter.

Damian follows your gesture with a small nod, his gaze lingering on his family for a moment. "They're... unique," he admits quietly, a hint of something warmer in his voice.

Finally you sigh, “Well.” You dig into your pocket and pull out a box, handing it to him.

“Merry Christmas.”

He takes the box, opening it gingerly. Inside lies a sleek looking ring. Damian raises an eyebrow, his expression shifting from surprise to intrigue as he takes the ring in his hand.

"What is it?" he asks, turning the ring over to examine it.

“A ring,” you smile. He rolls his eyes so you elaborate. “It’s something I made. Karen is built into it, so she can help you personally.” You tap it twice, pulling up a hologram. “Here’s all the stuff she can do.”

The hologram reflects in Damian’s eyes as they flutter left to right, reading. “Happy to help, Damian,” Karen says.

“It also works as a communicator, so if you’re ever in need of me to save you from getting your ass-kicked, she’ll let me know,” you grin.

Damian ignores your little comment in favor of sliding the ring over his finger. He examines the way it shines under the light, nodding. “It’s adequate.”

You roll your eyes good-naturedly. “You’re welcome.

He gets up abruptly then. “Stay there,” he commands, walking off into another room. He’s gone before you can blink, so you clasp your hands together awkwardly and observe the room. Jon has gone and went to his parents (which, oh my god, Superman and Lois Lane are here, holy shit. You wonder if Bruce told them about you.) and is talking animatedly to them. In his hands is a small canvas in his hands, you can barely make out the portrait of Jon on there. Must be Damian’s gift to him.

Speaking of, you hear his footsteps come back. You turn to see Damian returning with a small, elegantly wrapped box in his hand. He sits back down beside you, his expression more relaxed than before. He holds out the box towards you.

"Here," he says simply, his voice quieter than usual.

You take the box, carefully unwrapping it to reveal a.. camera! It’s a nice one, definitely expensive. It fits perfectly in your hands, just the right size for travel.

"You said you like photography," Damian explains quietly, his gaze flickering to meet yours. "You also said you’d like a memory. Now, you can capture them.”

You feel a rush of warmth in your chest as you realize the significance of the gift. "You remembered.” It comes out as a whisper. “Thank you, Damian," you say softly, touched by his gesture. You attach the strap of the camera and hook it around your neck.

He nods, seeming satisfied with your reaction. "It suits you," he remarks, his tone almost approving.

You smile, reaching out to gently touch the lens. "I love it."

“[Name]!” Jon exclaims, crossing the room to get to you. His hands grasp yours and pull you off the couch. “Come meet my parents.

Oh dear. You send a look to Damian for help but the bastard just smirks at you. You chuckle softly at Damian's smirk before allowing Jon to lead you over to where Clark Kent and Lois Lane are standing. They both turn to you with warm smiles, Clark's eyes twinkling with curiosity.

"Hello, [Name]," Clark greets you warmly, extending a hand. "It's good to finally meet you. Jon has told us a lot about you."

Lois nods in agreement, her expression friendly yet keen. "Yes, Jon's been quite excited to introduce you to us."

You shake Clark's hand with a smile, feeling a mix of nerves and excitement at meeting such iconic figures. Shit, you thought you would’ve had the fan behavior under control by now. "It's a pleasure to meet you both, Mr. and Mrs. Kent. Jon has been wonderful to be around.”

Jon beams proudly, standing beside you. "They're really nice, right?"

Clark chuckles warmly, his gaze flickering briefly towards Jon before returning to you. "He speaks very highly of you, [Name].” He pointedly looks at Jon as he says this.

Lois’ eyes flick down to your camera. “Interested in photography?”

You nod eagerly, feeling a little more at ease with their friendly demeanor. "Oh, yeah. I like capturing moments. It’s a small passion of mine.”

“Well if you ever get tired of superheroing call me. I’m sure we could use an excellent photojournalist,” she winks.

“Mom,” Jon complains. Lois shrugs innocently.

You laugh warmly, feeling more comfortable with Lois' playful banter. "I'll keep that in mind, Miss. Thank you." In another universe, maybe.

Jon tugs at your hand. "Come on, I want to show you something." He drags you towards the Christmas tree where a beautifully wrapped gift waits for you. You hear the chuckles of his parents as you’re pulled away.

You smile at Jon's enthusiasm, kneeling down to unwrap the present. Inside a bracelet. The beads make up a beautiful image of green and blue. There’s a spider charm hanging from it. Jon beams up at you, clearly proud of the gift he chose.

“I saw a video online about making bracelets for each other's eyes,” he mutters shyly. “I made one for you out of me and Damian’s eyes.”

The bracelet feels like gold in your hands. "It's perfect, Jon," you say genuinely, feeling touched by his thoughtfulness.

Clark and Lois watch the exchange with warm smiles, clearly pleased by Jon's happiness and your appreciation.

You thank Jon again with a hug, feeling a surge of warmth at the bond you've formed with him and his family, hearing his heartbeat speed up before his arms wrap around you. “Oh, before I forget.”

You pull out another box, handing it to Jon. “I know you were listening to me and Dames earlier, stinker.” It’s cute to see how his face turns red after being caught. “It’s the same thing I got him. Connects to this–” you tap the nano-earpiece where Karen speaks to you. “–and his. Our own little channel.” Jon's eyes widen with excitement as he takes the box from you, eager to see what's inside. He opens it carefully, revealing a similar looking ring. His grin widens as he realizes what it is.

He slips the ring onto his finger, marveling at how it fits perfectly. "This is so cool. I can't wait to try it out!"

The rest of the Batfamily gathers around, curious about the new gadgets and gifts being exchanged. Dick claps Jon on the back. "Nice one, Jon! Now you can bug them anytime."

Jason chuckles. "Or maybe they'll bug you."

Duke eyes the camera around your neck. “Ooh, family photo time?”

Groans echo the room as your hands come up to grip the camera. With everyone gathered around the Christmas tree, you snap a few photos, capturing moments of laughter and camaraderie. Jon is grinning widely, Damian is trying to look nonchalant but can't hide a small smile, and even Bruce cracks a rare smile at the camera. The rest of the Batfamily, along with Clark and Lois, join in the festive spirit, making silly faces or posing dramatically.

“Now you,” Cass says, waving you over. You huff good-naturedly and set the camera up, scurrying to squeeze between Damian and Jon. You hold up your hands in the ‘spidey’ pose, grinning. Jon squeezes you and Damian to him, cheeks mushing with each others.

The pictures turn out perfect.

notes: jon watching reader and damian spar: am i into this

yeah damian felt a little thrown finding out he doesn’t know you as well as he thought. i figured he’s the type to not like knowing things, and well, reader being spinnerette? and knowing he was robin before he could ever think to tell them? yeesh. its okay now though :)

[suzukiblu]

WIP excerpt for Jan behind the cut; mistaken identities and interdimensional refugees. ( chrono || non-chrono )

And they must have a Clark. Kon can’t imagine how they couldn’t. 

He can’t imagine how anywhere couldn’t, if it came to it. 

Yeah, that’s a healthy thought, Kon reflects resignedly as Alfred shuts the car door and goes around to the driver’s side to slip into his own seat. Alfred starts the engine and pulls out of his parking spot, and Jon nervously grips Kon’s sleeve. He twists his wrist to grab the kid’s hand, and immediately ends up with Jon pressed completely against his side and resuming his earlier sniffling buried against his bicep. It’s whatever, obviously; Kon figures if the kid cries on the suit a bit, he can just get it . . . dry-cleaned, he guesses? Probably this is a dry-cleaning thing? 

God, who knows, Tim got the damn thing for him. It might need to be cleaned by a hyper-specific radiation or fresh water from snowmelt on the Alps or a custom-designed spray from the Batcave, for all he friggin’ knows. 

“Hello, Mr. Kent,” Alfred says as soon as the aid workers on the street have directed the towncar out of the immediate area of the refugee camp, his voice wryly but politely amused, and Kon feels an immediate rush of relief. Thank fuck, yeah, okay. Not that he really thought Alfred of all people thought he was actually a version of Batman, just . . . yeah. Just–yeah. It’s a relief. “Dare I ask why you informed the aid workers that you were Master Bruce?” 

“I did not, but I winked at a pretty lady while wearing a very expensive suit and holding a traumatized kid, so apparently some assumptions were made,” Kon admits sheepishly, and Alfred’s mouth quirks in the rearview mirror. 

“Do tell,” he says. 

“Please tell me Batman isn't gonna pull the ‘no outside capes in Gotham’ card over this,” Kon says, dragging a hand through his hair and slightly wrecking the carefully slicked-back style he had it in. At this point, he does not care. “My Batman knew I was in town.” 

“Oh, did he?” Alfred asks, still seeming wryly amused. 

“Mine too!” Jon blurts, straightening up a little as he leans back a bit from Kon. He keeps a hand on his arm, but Kon figures that’s no surprise. He’s a pretty familiar face, considering. Like, double-familiar, in a sense. 

“Ah, yes,” Alfred says, glancing carefully at Jon in the rearview mirror. “I’m sorry, young man. May I inquire after your name?” 

Well, shit, Kon thinks as Jon wilts immediately and tightens his grip on his sleeve, then buries his face in his bicep again. Not ideal, probably. At least, explaining Jon as a person is probably gonna be a whole thing, and not a thing the local Batman is gonna be thrilled to hear. 

Could be worse, admittedly. Could be “oh, Lex Luthor cooked me up in a basement”. 

Yeahhhhh. Well, at least Alfred actually recognized him, so apparently he does exist here. So like, at least they’ve only got to get through one of those explanations. 

“Jon Kent,” Jon says quietly, and Alfred . . . pauses. Kon does not let himself wince or look guilty or anything even remotely similar. Look, he’d have forewarned them if he’d had the option, okay? 

“I see,” Alfred says carefully. “May I inquire, young Mr. Kent, as to who your father might happen to be?” 

“Clark Kent,” Jon says, his voice still quiet and grip on Kon’s sleeve probably at hydraulic-press levels by now. “And my mom's Lois Lane.” 

“Ah,” Alfred says. “Please don't take this question the wrong way, young man, but would you happen to be adopted?” 

“No,” Jon says, setting his jaw stubbornly. 

“I see,” Alfred says. Kon–sighs, for lack of a better idea, and just wraps his arm around Jon. 

“I got you, Jonno,” he says, trying to sound reassuring. He’s not as good at that as Clark is, which is immediately proven by Jon tearing up and just clinging to him, full super-strength and all. A less invulnerable version of him would definitely bruise. 

And literally any baseline human would get their fucking spine crushed.

“I’m not dangerous,” Jon mutters. “And I’m not gonna hurt anybody. You know I wouldn't, right? I–I know you haven't had me yet in your reality, but–” 

Wait. 

What? 

“–but I'm not bad, I wouldn't hurt anyone, I promise, you know you and Mom wouldn't ever have a kid who was bad!” Jon chokes past an almost-sob, and Kon’s stomach sinks like a rock. 

Okay. Jon does not, in fact, have a version of him in his reality. 

Fuck. 

Also, apparently has some really concerning ideas about biological determinism and nature versus nurture and whatever else, but like, he’s like ten, that’s–normal, or whatever, that’s–

Fuck. 

“Jon, kiddo, no, I’m not–” he tries, and then the car dashboard lights up with a low, melodious sound, and Alfred presses a button on the steering wheel. 

“Report,” Batman’s voice says neutrally from the speakers, and Kon immediately winces. 

Well, this is gonna go just great, isn’t it. 

“Well, it seems Batman doesn't yet have to worry about an interdimensional territory dispute,” Alfred informs him dryly. “Superman, however . . .” 

Fuck his entire fucking life, Kon thinks. 

So much for not having to give both of the awkward explanations. 

“. . . Kent,” Bruce says, sounding immediately exasperated and also way less “Batman”, which Kon wishes he could assume were a good sign. “Why the hell did you tell the aid workers you were me?”

[amaris-whisperer]

Ghost of the Cape | Superman x Reader (1)

Pairing: Clark Kent | Superman x Reader Genre: Post-Apocalyptic Romance, Slow Burn, Emotional Drama, Sci-Fi Warnings: Emotional themes, grief, trauma recovery, mentions of death and global disaster, soft angst, tender moments, slow emotional healing, no use of powers (initially), canon divergence (2025 AU) Chapters: 1 l 2 l 3 l 4 l Epilogue -- Chapter 1: After the Fall

The snow fell in silence.

Not the kind of silence that brings peace. This one carried weight, like the world was holding its breath. The branches were bowed under white, and the last remnants of sun struggled to push through a thick gray sky. The mountains loomed like ghosts along the horizon.

I pulled my scarf tighter, breath curling from my mouth like smoke as I stepped carefully along the frozen path. The soles of my boots crunched against a mixture of old leaves and new ice. The cold bit into your fingertips, even through gloves. Winter had come harder this year. Harder than last. Harder than the year before that.

I adjusted the strap on my shoulder, feeling the weight of the canvas bag slung over my back. Inside it were hand-wrapped preserves, two canisters of coffee grounds I had bartered for at the last settlement, a thick blanket, a paperback copy of To Kill a Mockingbird, and a dozen sealed packets of heirloom tomato seeds. I had brought food before. Water. Rope. Batteries. But this time, I brought things that made life feel like it was still worth living.

There was no sound but the wind through the branches and the distant creak of frost settling. No engines. No planes. No sirens. It had been that way since the Blackout. A clean silence, some had called it in the early days. Now it just sounded like grief.

I followed the path until it forked and curved around the base of a cliff. I didn’t hesitate. I had made this journey four times already.

Once out of duty.

Twice out of guilt.

Now because something in me needed to.

I found the cabin tucked between old trees like it had grown there naturally, just another part of the forest. A thin ribbon of smoke rose from the chimney. He was still here. I stepped up to the door and knocked twice.

No answer.

I knocked again, louder.

Still no sound.

I leaned my weight against the door and called out.

“It’s me. I brought coffee. And seeds. You like tomatoes, remember?”

A creak. Then the rattle of a latch. The door opened slowly.

He stood in the doorway, broad and silent, framed in half-shadow. His hair had grown longer since my last visit, curling at his neck and temples. His beard was fuller too. His clothes were threadbare but clean: worn jeans and a flannel shirt rolled at the elbows. He looked like a man who had tried very hard to disappear. But even now, after all this time, his presence filled the space like gravity.

“Tomatoes,” he said softly, like he was still tasting the word.

I smiled.

“I figured you were ready to stop living off dried beans.”

He stepped aside, allowing me in with a small nod. The cabin was warm. A fire burned low in the hearth, casting amber light across the wooden floors. There was no electricity. No running water. But the place was cleaner than it had any right to be. Sparse. Organized. Lived in by someone who knew how to survive.

I set the bag down on the table and began unpacking.

“You don’t have to keep doing this,” he said, his voice a quiet rasp behind me.

I didn’t turn around.

“Doing what?”

“Bringing things. Checking on me.”

“I’m not here for you,” I replied calmly. “I’m here for the tomatoes.”

I heard the faintest huff of air from behind me. Almost a laugh. Almost.

When I turned, he was looking at the fire, not at me. His face was leaner than it had been during the golden days. Shadows carved deeper into his cheeks. There was still a strength to him, though dulled. Not gone. Just buried.

I joined him near the fire and handed him a mug filled with the instant coffee I had brewed outside with boiled snow water. He accepted it wordlessly.

“You should come back to Southfield,” I said.

His eyes flickered. Just for a second. I saw the resistance before he said anything.

“I can’t.”

“You can. You just won’t.”

He lowered the mug and sat in the old armchair by the fireplace. I took the seat across from him.

“They’re rebuilding, Clark. People are planting again. Children are laughing again. You were right about that plot of land behind the old grocery. Turned out to be perfect for corn. It’s a community now.”

He stared into the fire.

“They don’t need me.”

“They don’t know they do.”

He closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, he looked at me — really looked at me — for the first time since I walked in.

“I failed them.”

The words were simple. Final. No trace of doubt.

I leaned forward slowly, elbows on my knees.

“You didn’t cause the Blackout.”

“I didn’t stop it either.”

I didn’t argue. I had learned that guilt was a cage with invisible bars, and he had been sitting inside it for years now.

“I remember that day,” I said quietly. “The sky changed. Turned green. People thought it was lightning, but it was something else. Satellites dropped like stones. Half the planet went blind in under twenty minutes. And then you vanished.”

He flinched, just slightly.

“You flew up into the storm.”

He said nothing.

“You were trying to stop whatever caused it. Some kind of solar detonation, right? From the outer belt?”

“I flew too close,” he whispered. “The surge hit me before I could reach the core. It fried everything. My senses. My cells. I crashed somewhere in the Arctic. Crawled out of the snow like a man, not a god.”

I stared at him, heart tightening.

“You’re still you, Clark.”

“I’m not Superman anymore.”

“So what?”

He looked up sharply. I didn’t soften my gaze.

“Superman was a symbol,” I said, voice steady. “But Clark is the man who mattered. The one who cared. The one who didn’t give up.”

“I gave up the moment I stopped trying to fix it.”

“You didn’t give up,” I said. “You survived. You lived. And if that’s all you could do, then that’s enough.”

He looked away again. The fire snapped gently.

After a long pause, he asked, “Why do you keep coming back?”

I didn’t answer right away. I let the quiet stretch.

“Because I remember who you were before the cape,” I finally said. “The man who helped carry water barrels up flights of stairs for strangers. The man who held dying hands. The man who brought hope just by standing in the sunlight.”

His shoulders dropped, like some unseen weight shifted.

I stood and moved toward the table again.

“I brought a book,” I said. “Something to read by the fire. It’s a classic. I thought you might enjoy it.”

I placed the worn copy of To Kill a Mockingbird on the mantle.

“I’ll be back in a week with some more supplies,” I said gently. “Maybe some socks too. I noticed yours have holes.”

He didn’t protest this time. Didn’t try to stop me.

I moved toward the door. Just before stepping outside, I paused.

“If you ever want to come back,” I said, “we’ll keep a place for you. Not because you’re Superman. But because you’re Clark.”

He said nothing. But as I opened the door, his voice caught the air behind me.

“Thank you.”

I turned, surprised. His eyes met mine. For the first time in a long while, they looked a little less haunted.

“You’re welcome,” I whispered.

Then I stepped out into the cold and let the forest swallow me once more. -- Here’s another Superman 2025 fanfic. I'm kinda obsessed! Have you seen the movie? What do you think so far?