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luveline · 3 days ago

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𝐂𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐊𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐤𝐢𝐫𝐭

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

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Here, sweetheart,” he says.

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

“Can I make it for you?” he asks.

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

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

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

“Okay?” he asks.

“Are you sharing?”

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

“Thank you.”

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

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

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

“That explains why it’s still warm.”

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

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

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

“Do you have big dinner plans?”

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

“Why not?”

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

“Allicin is antibacterial,” he says.

“Brilliant. Antibacterial risotto.”

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

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

“I’ll bring you some if it does.”

“I’d like that.”

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

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

“I can be punctual,” he promises.

“Can you? Aren’t you on probation?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

“That smells amazing.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I haven’t done anything?” you ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“This is beautiful. You look beautiful.”

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

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

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

“It’s a nice skirt,” he says quietly.

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

“It’s a little brave,” you say.

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

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

—

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

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

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

“I’m not worried about the sun.”

“What are you worried about?”

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

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

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

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

“Do you worry about that a lot?”

“Hm?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Or what?”

“Or nothing. Just knock it off.”

He makes everything sound so satiny.

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

“Promise?”

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

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

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

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

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

“And?”

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

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

“What’s amazing?”

You remember where you are urgently.

“I made macarons,” Jimmy says.

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

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

“Morning,” Clark says.

“Hi. Good morning.”

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

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

“You look good.”

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

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

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

“You do look good,” he says again.

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t.”

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

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

“Take me somewhere else.”

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

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

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

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

“Clark!” you say.

“Can I kiss you?”

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

You raise your hand to wipe it away.

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

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

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

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

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

“Really?”

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

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

His eyebrows pinch. “What?”

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

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

His neck goes all shades of rose.

“Sorry,” you whisper.

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

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

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

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

The elevator chugs back to life.

—

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re okay,” Superman assures you.

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

“Are you alright?” he asks, generously ignoring your moment of delusion.

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

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

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

“Good girl,” he murmurs.

Too much like Clark. “My boyfriend, he was–”

“Everyone’s safe.”

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

“Okay?”

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

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

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

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

You shake your head, not without fondness.

All boys are the same.

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

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

#clark kent x reader #clark kent x you #clark kent x y/n #clark kent #clark kent fic #clark kent blurb #clark kent drabble #clark kent imagine #clark kent fanfic #clark kent fanfiction #superman x reader #superman #superman x you #superman blurb #superman drabble #superman fanfiction #superman fic

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softvalentines · 4 days ago

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pairing: clark kent x reader cw: smut, implied afab reader, detailed cock description, size kink (girth, curve, heavy leaking), overstimulation (both reader + clark), possessiveness, breeding implications (clark cumming inside reader), messy cum play / excessive cum, mild cock worship, oral fixation (mentions), soft dom clark tendencies (whining, needy, desperate), praise kink (clark praising reader, reader overwhelmed by him), slight somnophilic undertones if interpreted (from exhaustion overstimulation context), implied emotional dependency (clark clinging, not wanting to stop)

you're thinking about clark’s dick again.

because how could you not? it’s almost a problem — the kind of thing that stays in the back of your mind during the day, lurking like a half-forgotten dream, like the heat off sun-baked asphalt or the feel of his calloused palm on your throat.

its slightly paler than the rest of him, with the faintest gradient of color that darkens where it matters most. the kind of cock you can tell stays heavy even soft, obscenely thick — thick enough that when you first dropped to your knees and wrapped your fingers around it, you couldn’t get your hand to fully meet around the base. one of those things you both half-laughed at the first time, though clark’s laugh was tight and frayed at the edges, like it physically hurt him to joke about something that made his stomach twist up so tight.

and it’s heavy, too — warm and weighty against your palm, a pretty flush already gathering at the tip before you even do anything, fat droplets of pre-beading and threatening to spill over at the barest touch. he leaks like it’s a biological malfunction, an embarrassing, syrupy need that never seems to stop, stringing from his tip to your wrist while he hisses through his teeth, murmuring soft, ruined apologies against the shell of your ear like he can’t help it.

there’s a curve to it, one you don’t always catch with your eyes — it isn’t obvious, isn’t obscene. but you feel it. god, you feel it. when he’s got you split open underneath him, when you’re writhing against the mattress and clenching around him so hard it makes him stutter his hips, you feel that gentle bend pressing into the most sensitive part of you, scraping maddeningly slow along your walls until yourwhole body’s tensing like a live wire. mind-numbing is a generous word for it. it’s more like being torn in half and reassembled around him.

and the thing about clark is, he overstimulates himself as bad as he does you. you’ll be beneath him, pinned under the impossible press of his weight, those big hands splayed possessively on your hips or tangled tight in your hair, and he’s whining through every thrust. panting ragged against your skin, muttering broken things like 'so good, so tight, can’t—fuck, can’t stop', because even when his cock’s visibly twitching, so sensitive it’s driving him stupid, he won’t pull out. won’t slow down. he wants to fill you, wants to stuff you so full of his thick, heavy release that it’s leaking out around him while he keeps going. and it’s so much. an actual, shameful amount.

by the time he cums, it’s never one neat pulse — it’s messy, viscous, endless. you swear you can feel it flooding you deeper, warmer than it should be, spilling out before he’s even finished. and clark’s never quiet about it, either. no, he’s desperate. one hand cradling the back of your head while he whimpers against your throat, hips jerking in tiny, needy thrusts as if he can’t bear the emptiness the second you’re not milking every drop from him.

and omfg, his happy trail. keeps it trimmed, neat, because even though he could let it go wild, he’s always a little shy about looking too unkempt, the boy from smallville still somewhere under the god-tier frame. but it’s there, that soft dusting of dark hair starting just under his navel, trailing down to where it thickens at the base of his cock, and you swear every time you catch sight of it, you get a little lightheaded. and yet here he is, flushed and wrecked, reduced to a whining mess in your hands, drenching your insides and clinging to you like you’re the only tether he’s got left on this earth.

and every time, you promise yourself it’ll just be a memory. that you won’t think about it next time you’re out together, next time he wraps an arm around your waist too casually or calls you ‘darlin’ in that low, honeyed voice. and yet here you are, thinking about clark’s dick. again.

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fear-is-truth · 5 days ago

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18+ mdni

having marathon sex with clark kent means discovering the limits of your own body in ways you hadn’t thought to fear.

the man’s an arsenal: super strength, super speed, super hearing, super everything—and that includes the way he fucks. that poor hole of yours stays stretched and drooling for hours, muscles fluttering weakly around the fat girth he keeps buried with near-religious devotion.

you’ve both joked that clark could probably fuck you through a calendar month without blinking…and to be totally honest, he probably could. the same bottomless reservoir of energy that allows him to lift oil tankers and fly transoceanic routes is now solely devoted to ruining your pussy.

clark is gentle, always—but that doesn’t spare you from the fatigue after the sixth(?) round. you’d ride him until your thighs start to tremble, chasing orgasm after orgasm until your hamstrings feel liquefied. and clark, ever the sweet lover, would smile through it: that sweet, dopey golden-boy grin stretched across his stupidly handsome face as he admires you bouncing on him. x-ray vision zeroed in between your legs, he sneaks a few peeks of himself vanish inside you over and over, fat tip pushing past the tight squeeze of your walls and breeching your cervix. his dick stays hard through half a dozen orgasms, doesn’t soften. your body gives out long before his does. throat raw, pussy raw, walls twitching with every pass of his cock. he holds you open, murmurs in that farmboy voice—almost bashful—as he fucks into your limp body like he can’t help it.

he’s learned your limits too well. waits til you slump forward in exhaustion, thighs quivering too hard to hold yourself up, before flipping you onto your back. spreads you open, sinks back in to the hilt. hips snapping with metronomic tempo, each thrust hitting the sweet spot inside you that sends your toes curling.

your orgasm hits sharp with him buried that deep, stuffed full like your womb’s been turned inside out. and he holds there, as if time itself were malleable and meant solely for your pleasure, and the concept of stopping never occurred to him.

this is a man who saves entire worlds.

and your pussy’s the one getting absolutely annihilated.

#wrote this at a farm #yeehaw ig #clark kent #superman #superman 2025 #clark kent x reader #clark kent x y/n #clark kent drabble #clark kent smut #david corenswet #david corenswet smut #superman smut #dcu #dc #dc fanfic

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bodhiscurls · 14 hours ago

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

...

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

instead, he's met with silence.

pure, heavy, lonely silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he wants forever with you.

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

note: i dont think im a dc girl, i think im just a david corenswet girl im ngl the press run hes been on lawddddd

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barnesonfilm · 5 days ago

Text

★ summary: coming home after a long day of work to your boyfriend, clark kent.

★ pairing: clark kent x reporter!reader

★ warnings: 18+ mdni, fem reader, smut, unprotected p-in-v, oral f-receiving, breeding kink if you squint, praise, use of y/n, cursing, potential superman spoilers, ungodly levels of clark kent being the best boyfriend in the world

★ word count: 3.7k

★ a/n: I saw superman tuesday and I have not been able to get clark out of my head, specifically the scene of them in the apartment. this is based heavily on that. this is also my first published writing, so please be kind to me or else...

The smell of pancakes enveloped your senses the moment you unlocked the door to your apartment. You knew automatically that once you walked into your kitchen, your boyfriend would be standing there still in his work slacks, slaving over the stove, making much more food than necessary for two people. This was beginning to become a pattern, an endearing one, but a pattern nonetheless.

“Honey, I’m home!” You drawled, hanging your coat up and letting your bag fall to the floor. As always, your instincts were correct. Clark was standing by the stove, his white button-up shirt still on, with his sleeves pulled up to his elbows.

“Hi darlin’,” He said without even turning around. His eyes were laser-focused on flipping the pancakes onto a plate. Soon, the pan was abandoned, and he was rushing towards you, picking you up with ease. Giggles escaped your mouth when he spun you around the dim kitchen, pressing small kisses all over your face.

“Did you miss me?” A squeal left your lips, kissing him back feverishly.

“It’s been so long.” He chided, acting as if you two didn’t see each other in passing during your entire work day. Being a reporter alongside him at the Daily Planet had its ups and downs. Keeping your relationship a secret was tiresome, but worth it to avoid all the unnecessary attention. Besides, what's one more secret? There were no Superman photo ops or inside scoops from reporters about your relationship—simply Y/n and Clark.

“Oh yeah?” You mocked batting your eyes at his giddy face. You’d never get tired of how excited he was to love you.

“Every second without you is torturous.” His eyes shone from the reflection of the city lights reflecting off the windows. Once you were back on solid ground, you took a step around the kitchen, looking at his impressive spread of various breakfast foods. Notably, the stack of at least a dozen pancakes.

“One day we’ll have breakfast at breakfast time.” The teasing tone laced your voice as you reached to grab plates from the top shelf. He strided over and placed his hands on your hips, sliding underneath your shirt. His large hands engulfed your waist.

“Oh, I see. I come home after a long day of work and slave over this hot stove for you, yet you’re so cruel to me.” He couldn’t keep a straight face as he said this, helping you grab the plates down.

“A long day of interviewing yourself, huh? Tell me how that works?” You bite back as you both danced around each other in the dining room, setting the table and making each other's plates.

“That’s not fair. It’s hard work knowing what to say-”

“How is it hard work?” He closes his eyes tightly at your question, resisting the urge to roll his eyes.

“The questions are difficult to answer sometimes-“

“You make the questions!”

“Yeah, well, I’m doing twice the work!” His arms flailed in front of him before he gestured for you to take a seat. The vein in his neck was protruding slightly, as it always did when you worked him up. You placed a gentle kiss on his forearm as he pushed your chair in for you.

“You’re ridiculous.” You scoffed as he sat in front of you, passing the syrup.

“And you love me.” There was that beaming smile again. A smile that could light up a thousand suns. The only reason you got out of bed some days.

“Yeah,” You smiled. “I suppose I do.” There were very few things in this world you were sure of, and the biggest one was how much you loved the man sitting in front of you. From the moment he spilled coffee all over your desk and blushed so crimson you thought he was going to pass out. There hasn’t been a moment since you’ve felt unloved or unsafe.

“One of these days, someone’s going to wonder why Superman likes Clark Kent so much.” You brought up, His eyebrows now in a constant furrow. With a mouthful of pancakes, he mumbled something incoherent. Once he swallowed, he began his arguments again.

“It’s not hard to believe he’d find a journalist to confide in and only be comfortable with that one.” He rambled, not meeting your eyes. “It makes much more sense than him going on a press tour.”

“Isn't it a little morally wrong to bias yourself so much?” You finally ask. “You’re not gonna ask any questions that are uncomfortable to answer.”

“Eat your pancakes. That I made. With love. Now.” He was tabling this conversation for now. Not a hint of actual anger in his tone. Your response was angrily stabbing the syrupy mess on your plate.

“So aggressive.” His voice was barely a whisper as he failed at hiding his amusement behind his drink.

After a little more debating and a whole lot of pancakes later, you both stood side by side at the sink. It was an unspoken rule that if he cooked, you’d wash, but only if he was allowed to dry. He stood beside you, meticulously wiping the plates with a washcloth as if it were his favorite activity in the world. His brows furrowed in concentration, making sure there were no streaks. These were some of his favorite moments with you. Mundane activities like washing dishes, grocery shopping, or doing laundry. It made him feel normal; there were no secrets to be had within these walls. Just love in its purest form.

The comfortable silence in the kitchen was soon broken by a large splash as the plate slipped from his hand back into the soapy water. It made a comical flop as it splashed water all over you, drenching you. The man's shoulders beside you began to shake silently, failing miserably to contain his amusement.

“It’s not funny!” You shriek, trying to wipe the soap bubbles off.

“Oh, it’s kinda funny.”

You snatched the washcloth from his hand and tried to pat dry your now-soaked shirt. Aggressively patting the fabric while glaring up at him.

“Come on, I'll put it in the wash for you.”

He did feel bad. Despite all his attributes, he was the clumsiest person alive. It was endearing when it wasn’t ruining your shirts, or your couch cushions, or the rugs. At least this time it was just dishwater.

Trapping your bottom lip between your teeth, you peered up at the man. “Is this just some elaborate scheme to get me out of my shirt, Mr. Kent?”

His composure shifted, and his giggles stopped abruptly.

“No? No! Well, no, but wait-“ He rambled his face turning a pale shade of pink, “ No! But I’m not complaining now.”

Suddenly, the mood shifted in the room from playful to tense with desire. Taking the teasing even further, you leaned back against the damp sink and grabbed the bottom button of your shirt, popping it open. Clark let out a shaky breath, his eyes never leaving yours. Before your fingers could even reach the second button, his body was colliding with yours.

Your lips connect feverishly, teeth almost clacking together at how fast he moves. He tasted sickly sweet, still smelling faintly of syrup. A moan escaped the back of your throat, and he swallowed it greedily. His hands knocked yours out of the way, gently resuming your unbuttoning. The shirt was opened and thrown across the room in record time. With your damp shirt out of the way, he lifted you and plopped you down on the counter, his lips never leaving your skin.

“What happened to putting my shirt in the wash?” No hint of real concern was in your voice as he dragged his lips to your neck, pressing hot, wet kisses on the newly exposed skin. Nipping at the juncture between your neck and shoulder, making you mewl in his grasp.

“I’ll buy you all the shirts you could ever want.” His words slurred. “I will give you the world.” A promise he intended to keep.

Your hands instinctively tangled in his unruly curls when he dropped to his knees, leaving a trail of open-mouth kisses over your chest and down to your navel. Pant buttons were fumbled with, and he took his time carefully pulling your bottoms off your legs. It took every ounce of his impulse control not to rip the fabric off your body.

Your eyes met as he pressed a gentle kiss to your inner thigh. Taking the time to admire the hunger swirling around in his almost black irises. If only the world could see him now, on his knees, looking up at you as if you were a god. Ready to worship at his temple.

Before you could fully soak in the sight between your legs, he attached his mouth greedily to your cunt, devouring you with fever. Eyes rolling to the back of your head as the pleasure licked up your spine. His fingers gripped your thighs, keeping you spread apart for him.

“Fuck-“ A gasp escaped from your chest, causing him to chuckle into you.

You tugged gently at the ends of his hair as he continued his assault. Nothing could be heard but your panting and the sounds of him lapping greedily at your core like a man starved. It wasn’t long before your legs were tensing around his head tightly. He moaned softly into your wetness, this turning him on as much as it did you. The vibrations caused your hips to jolt in shock, grinding yourself against him.

This spurred him to slip his hand around, guiding a finger into your entrance. His fingers moved in tandem with his mouth as he sucked your folds greedily. The one quickly turned into two, and soon he was curling them up into your sweet spot, making you see stars. His brows furrowed in determination to pry all of the pleasure he could out of you.

“Oh fuck, Clark, I’m-“ Your head instinctively went to lean back in the haziness of your pleasure, but before it could make impact with the hard cabinet, Clark gripped your legs tight and in the blink of an eye you were transported to the bedroom, your back hitting the pillows gently. Nothing but a gentle whoosh and a change of location. A slight dizziness fell over you at this, your eyes closing to fight it off. All while his mouth and fingers never once stopped. There was no time to process what had just happened before your orgasm hit you.

A desperate moan of his name escaped as you came for him, hips bucking wildly. You had to pry his head away from you to ride out your aftershocks. If it were up to him, he’d live with his head between your legs. His face was glistening with your release, his grin cocky.

“Did you break the sound barrier to make sure I didn’t hit my head?” Disbelief in your voice. Your legs were shaking, your throat dry.

“Would you rather I let you hit your head?” He hovered above you, his eyes almost black as he devoured you with his eyes.

The grin that formed on your face was contagious. “God, I love you.”

“And I love you.” A kiss pressed to your neck, traveling down your chest again.

You leaned up on your elbows to meet his gaze. “If you loved me, you’d take your clothes off. I don’t think it’s fair you’re fully dressed.”

“Yes, ma'am.” He salutes, that Kansas drawl he denied was slipping through. He ripped his shirt off in one fluid moment, almost surprised he didn’t rip the thing in half dramatically. Taking your own time to admire his chiseled chest and the way his arms flex with each frantic movement.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you.” A dreamy sigh left your lips as you watched him crawl back in between your legs.

“I’m the lucky one.” He said, giving you that bright smile before pressing his mouth to yours. You kissed him back feverishly. Your hands immediately went to his chest, feeling the hard ridges and curves of him. It wasn’t long before you were both bare, what little clothes remained long flung across the room. He was everywhere, all over you. His body lying between your hips, his hands roaming every inch of skin, while his hips rutted against yours messily. His hard length brushes against your inner thigh.

“Can I make you feel good again, baby?” He asks, his eyes meeting yours as he looks up from your chest. Nodding feverishly as he takes your hardened nipple into his mouth, circling the bud with his tongue.

“Use your words, sweetheart.” He demanded, letting your nipple go with a loud, wet pop.

“Yes, yes, please.” You begged. “Need to feel you.”

He was never one to deprive you of what you needed. So he eagerly obliged, gripping his length in his hand, stroking himself a few times before lining himself up with your entrance. He slowly pressed himself into you, a whimper escaping his lips. His eyes squinted in pleasure when he bottomed out, your hips flush to his. He gave you a moment to adjust to his size, as he stretched you in the most delicious way. A subtle shift of his hips into you and your head was thrown back into the pillows. The sheer size of him had you clinging to his shoulders like a lifeline.

“Oh my god.” The words tore from your throat violently.

“No god here tonight, baby, just me.” The cockiness exuded from his voice. Nothing made him feel more on top of the world than looking down at you, so full of him, writhing around in pleasure.

“Need you.” You finally found your voice. You were throbbing around him begging for him to move.

“I know. I got you.” He assured you snapping his hips into yours in a rhythm that took your breath away. Your nails digging into his shoulder blades so hard he'd be bleeding if he was anyone else. The slap of hips against each other was music to your ears. The wet friction of skin rubbing against each other deliciously.

“Doing so good, sweet girl.” His voice came out in a broken moan, taken over by how good you were squeezing him. The compliment had you cockdrunk, mumbling broken curses. One of his hands gripped the bed frame, and his other wrapped around your thigh, holding it up to his chest as he entered you even deeper than before. His forehead pressed against yours, both of your panting and moans filling the air around. You couldn’t think, you couldn’t speak. All you could do was enjoy the feeling of him moving so deep inside you.

“Taking my cock so well.” He praised watching where your wetness formed a ring around his length. He slid in and out with no resistance. The lewd sounds bouncing off the walls. He committed this sight to memory.

He could feel you clenching around him as his hand slipped down, rubbing tight circles on your clit. Your eyes rolled in the back of your head, your second earth shattering orgasm of the night on its way.

As if he read your mind he rubbed his thumb over your temple. “You’re gonna come again for me, huh?” He grunted, not relenting from his pace.

Words couldn’t form on your lips, just whines of his name over and over as your pleasure hit you in waves. He could feel everything. Every sigh of pleasure you made. He could feel the goosebumps rising beneath your skin, the sound of your blood rushing in your veins, and the subtle twitch of your body when you were about to come. He knew your body like the back of his hand.

“Oh yeah, you are. There you go. Let go for me.”

You were coming around him before you could even warn him. Your brain was so lost in pleasure, you couldn’t even register that you were repeating his name over and over.

“Good. Girl.” He punctuated with his hips, which were slowly losing their rhythm. Making sure to ride out your high with each deep thrust.

“You’re gonna make me come.” His grunts came out faster as he gripped the bed frame tightly. The sound of splintering wood comes from behind you. Lost in the haze, you couldn’t care less if he broke yet another bed frame.

“Please, baby, come for me.” Pressing lazy kisses down the side of his neck as his hips stilled and jolted inside of you. His groans were muffled by your hair as he drowned in his euphoria. His cock twitching inside of you as he came. Heavy breaths against your neck, he kept his thrusts slow, giving you every drop of himself.

His head lolled gently to your chest, his body crashing onto yours gently. Bodies sweatily intertwined, basking in the afterglow.

“I love you.” You whispered, rubbing his back gently as you both came down. His thumb was tracing small circles on your hips.

“I love you too, my beautiful girl .” He pressed a soft kiss to your lips before slowly pulling himself out of you with a hiss. But not without taking time to admire his messy handiwork.

“You’re such a boy.” You chided as his hand drifted around the mess between your legs, his fingers trailing gently around your clit. Your hips jolted due to the sensitivity.

“Can you blame me?” He smiled bashfully. He gave you one last playful pat before he crawled off of you, heading into the ensuite.

Twirling around in the sheets dreamily, you watched his bare figure stroll into the bathroom. The sound of the bath water starting distantly made your heart swell.

“Ms. Y/l/n, your bath awaits.” He bowed in the doorway, illuminated by a few candles he had lit on the counter. It wasn’t long before he was swooping you up bridal style. He placed you gently into the water, and as soon as your muscles hit the warm water, you couldn’t help the groan that escaped your lips.

“I’ll be right back.” Another kiss to your forehead as he went to change the sheets on the bed and gather pajamas for you both. You weren’t sure how you got so lucky for this man to worship you. Placing pink bath salts into your bath and picking out pajama sets for you. You weren’t surprised to see a towel in the warmer either.

The water sloshed around the edges of the tub when he slid in behind you. You both settled comfortably together. Your weight on top of him, legs tangled together, and his arms wrapped around your shoulders. His hard shoulder was the perfect pillow for you.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you.” You mumbled while his hands smoothed down your hair. His own eyes closed, relishing in the feeling.

“It’s a good thing you’ll never have to know.’ He reassured you, holding you even tighter in his arms, like at any moment's notice you’d fade away. Idle small talk filled the steamy bathroom. From how ridiculous the new deadlines were at work to how he’d been handling the conflict in foreign nations.

“You just have too much heart. That’s not a bad thing, Clark. The world just hasn’t caught up yet. Don't let them take any of that kindness away from you.”

“I’m just doing the best I can. I’m saving so many lives, but I can never save them all, and it kills me.” His voice was thick with emotion. You turned your body around and straddled his hips, careful not to flood the bathroom as you moved around. Grasping his face in your hands, you looked deeply into his icy blue eyes.

“Exactly that. You are doing your best, my love. You’ve saved thousands of people, and you’ve inspired even more. You are a beacon of hope in dark times, yes, but don’t let that weight crush you.”

He responded by kissing you passionately. Not as hungry and desperate as earlier, but gentle, full of unsaid words of affirmation. Nothing but love flowing between you two.

“I’m so in love with you. Every day, I find a new reason to love you even more than I do now.” You managed to say between his bashful kisses.

“I’m gonna love you every single day for the rest of your life.”

“Pretty sure the saying is “rest of my life.”

“I meant what I said. There is no me without you. I refuse to exist in a world without you in it.” His eyes were steady. You knew he meant every single word he said. Your brows furrowed, and you leaned forward, attacking your lips together again. His hands grabbed your hips, positioning them over his own.

Before things could heat up again, your small oasis was soon cut short by the shrill sound of a ringtone you’ve learned to despise. The small flip phone on which you drew the Superman signal on the back of the day he bought it. His body tensed upon hearing it, knowing he’d have to leave. There were always going to be people to save.

“What terrible timing they have.” His tone is flat, taking one last look to admire your bare figure on his lap.

A disappointed smile graced your mouth. “It’s okay.” You reassured him, his soft, tired eyes meeting your own. “Like you said. We have the rest of our lives.”

“I’ll come back as soon as I can.” He promised as he shimmied out of the porcelain tub. A chuckle left your mouth as you heard him whooshing through the apartment, getting dressed, not before answering the phone. You’d bet and then win that it was Guy on the other line giving him a hard time.

He gave you one last goodbye before he stepped out of the open window, flying off to save the world yet again. You settled back into the bath, letting the water engulf you. You knew what you were getting into the day he asked you to be his. The ache of missing him, the worry of something happening, yet you’d take it any day for the honor of being loved by him. So you’d enjoy the bath he drew for you, put on the pajamas he picked out, and curl up in the bed he made for you. Waiting for him to be back by your side. He’d go out and fight tooth and nail to save everyone to make it back to you in one piece. Because no matter what, he’d move the earth to make sure he was back by your side.

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thebestandworstdayofjune · 7 months ago

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clark kent loves quietly

This is a collection of head canons I wrote with David!Clark in mind, but would really work for any Clark iteration. That teaser trailer did something to my brain

He knows that you hate being spooked, and his quiet footfalls have gotten the better of you more times than you would ever admit. When he comes home from a day of work, or finds you tucked into whatever you are working on, he purposefully makes sure that his footfalls are heavy, so that you hear him coming. You jump slightly when he notches his chin in the space between your head and shoulder, but he is quick to squeeze you tight and soothe them away.

You would think that he tries to fight your battles for you, protection hard wired into his veins. But he’s much the opposite. He knows that you can take care of yourself (super-human threats excluded, of course) and is happy to watch you stand up for yourself. It’s nice to see you love yourself loudly by making your wishes known.

This man can cook. He spent a lot of time with his mom in the kitchen, who used cooking to cope after his father passed. He absorbed every second of it, intent on making the memories last. Food is one of his love languages now. He will pick up your favorites if he is eating out, but when you are having a particularly hard day, he plops you down on the couch with your beverage of choice in hand, and insists you don’t move. You had assumed that cooking would be frustrating for him, all the super speed in the world can’t make onions caramelize faster, but he finds it so soothing- especially when he knows that you’re going to give him one of your big smiles, the kind saved just for him, at the end of it all. His specialties are casseroles and chilis and his mom’s fluffy biscuits, if you were wondering.

Does his best to mind his business (keeping his super hearing off the speed of your heart) as long as you promise to let him know what is bothering you as soon as you’re comfortable. He hates to see you hurting, but also respects that sometimes you need to process on your own. It’s unspoken between the two of you, you’ll curl up with him when you’re ready and spill your guts, and he will have a super powered ear at the ready.

Any of your accomplishments are office gossip for weeks, because he is telling everyone. A picture of you with the degree you finished several months into dating is framed on his desk, when you accept his proposal he finds ways to slip it into most conversations. You always blush, which fills him with pride. He insists it isn’t gossiping if it’s talking about yourself. You smile and resist the urge to point out that it is often more so about you. He views you as a singular unit in all things, and you can’t find it in yourself to complain.

Clark was simultaneously terrified when you figured out that he was the one flying around the city fighting super humans (and rescuing the occasional cat stuck in a tree), and not the least bit surprised. He has long considered you one of the smartest people that he has ever known. He chides himself for not preparing for it better. He stood speechless for several moments, before tripping over his words, a muddled confusion of explanation and apology. He calmed when you smiled shyly at him, approaching him like he might spook at any minute. He stilled, allowing you to take control of the situation and gently slip your hand into his. You squeezed, he squeezed back, and the rest was history.

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love-quinn · 4 days ago

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— PHONE LINES

summary — when the city’s under fire, your coworkers' first priority is breaking the story. you, however, have more pressing issues. like finding your boyfriend, clark.

warnings — i haven't consumed a single other piece of superman media in the last 10 years so this is entirely based off the 2025 movie, i made lois a girlkisser because look at her (w supergirl because i shipped it at 7) , SPOILERS for the plot of 'superman (2025)'

pairing — clark kent x daily planet!reader

pronouns — she/hers

featuring — clark kent, lois lane, jimmy olsen, cat grant, perry white

word count — 2746

note — if this is innacurate to the Greater Superman Lore i do apologise i'm very much like,, dc adjacent i've been getting into more of the superhero genre over the past year and had the vague idea that i'd tackle marvel first but i went to the cinema to watch this and literally haven't stopped thinking about him since, again this will have spoilers for the movie read at your own risk. also the dialogue probably isn't right because i'm writing this from memory for a movie i saw two days ago.

There were times when you wondered why the hell you still lived in Metropolis. Why didn't you pack up your one bedroom apartment and high tail it out of there. The two recent attacks on the city lately, combined with the fact that Superman was allegedly on Earth to lord over everybody. You’d always thought Superman was kind of cool, and with everything that had happened lately, you were still hoping with a small part of yourself that he was who he said he was.

California probably had enough news to keep you busy, probably had warmer weather too. You didn’t even do serious journalism, you worked the entertainment column. If anything, California would be better for your career.

Sure, there were more earthquakes on average there, but you were pretty sure that none of the tectonic plates ever split to create an interdimensional void. At least, that’s what you thought was happening, based on the fact that the ground was coming apart and the chasm was glowing a bright purple.

You’d been at work when it hit, sitting at your desk and staring blankly at the empty copy on your screen, your list of events for the week scrawled neatly on the front page of your notepad, knowing all you had to do was zhuzh it up a little. You were only procrastinating it because it felt like the only thing of substance you got to do that day, knowing that the second it was over you were going to have to launch directly into the important news that a hollywood actor and his wife had announced their divorce a few hours prior. Maybe if you got that done fast enough you could talk to Penny and ask if she wanted help thinking of crossword clues.

Now, almost everyone had evacuated except you and a few of your coworkers. Lois was explaining the scandal to Perry, who sat in his chair smoking his cigar, something about Lex Luthor trying to buy a country. You couldn’t hear it over the yelling from the street and your phone pressed to your ear.

Hey, you’ve reached Clark Kent of the Daily Planet, leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.

You didn’t bother leaving a message, there was no way he didn’t know about this. You hadn’t seen him in almost two days, he’d answered your texts sporadically, apologising for taking off so suddenly. Stomach flu, he’d warned you when you’d offered to go to his apartment. Highly contagious.

“And you have a spaceship?” Terry asked. You weren’t sure what conversation they’d been having, but maybe the stress was getting to your head.

You dialled the number again. Hey, you’ve reached Cla-

“Shit,” you hissed. You and Clark had only been dating for a few months, it wasn’t even anything serious. You hadn’t even told anyone, that was how casual it was. He’d take you out on dates after work, make you dinner, sing your praises when you told him you didn’t feel like a real journalist. He was the sweetest guy you’d ever been with, and if things didn’t work out you weren’t sure what you would do.

Because that’s what kept you tied to the Planet, you knew. Your lovely coworker sitting just two desks down from you, turned to your adoring friend who would smile at you over yesterday’s paper and tell you he knew you’d helped with the crossword. And now, Clark. Not quite your boyfriend, not quite not your boyfriend.

You suspected Lois knew because there wasn’t a lot that woman didn’t know, and Cat seemed to have a sixth sense for that sort of thing. Jimmy you weren’t able to read as well, you guys weren’t as close, but he was always kind to you when the two of you found yourselves at the coffee pot together.

You hadn’t told anyone, but if Clark had you wouldn’t be angry. A glow bloomed in your chest at the idea that the two of you were important enough to be worth speaking of.

“Hey,” Jimmy’s hand was on your shoulder. You glared down at your texts to Clark, unanswered, unread. “You coming? We’re going.”

“We’re just gonna-” you watched Jimmy heft Lois’s clue board – equipped with red string and a concerning amount of selfies from a pretty blonde – “We can’t just leave!”

“‘Course we can,” Jimmy said, struggling under the weight of the board and the baby-talk he was trying to cajole you with. “Come on, let’s go. We’re in a rush.”

You looked around desperately. You didn’t know where Clark lived, what side of town, if he’d been in the rip’s path yet or not. Your apartment was East, it’d hold for a little while longer. If Clark was looking for you, he’d come here.

Still no sign of him. He’d left his suit jacket hung over the back of his chair the last time he’d come in. The Planet was mostly business casual, but you liked him in a suit, so you weren’t going to complain.

Even Steve had grabbed his stuff to follow the group. You were the only one still standing there. “But what about Clark?”

Lois stopped in her tracks, for just a moment, turning around to face you. “I know where he is. Come on.”

She’d known what to say to you, alright. Lois had been the first person Clark had told about his budding relationship with you, or more accurately she’d asked him about it once and he’d caved without any pressure.

She was also the only person in the world aside from his parents who knew his identity, and Lois knew if he’d told you, there was no way you’d still be standing there.

You grabbed your stuff as quickly as you could, albeit clumsily, following the group. You weren’t sure what you were expecting as Lois hurried you along onto the building’s roof, Lois and Jimmy spewing all the information they had on Lex Luthor being behind the vicious decline in popularity that had befallen Superman lately, but a literal spaceship being parked there wasn’t it.

“I don’t understand-” you said, moving out of the way for Jimmy to load the board onto the ship. “Lois, where’s Clark?”

She looked at you from the other side of the doorway. “Last I heard, Kansas. At his parents’ place.”

Clark had gone to Kansas? He’d only been sick a few days. He hadn’t said anything, his last text to you simply reading: The second I’m better, you can expect a night in to make up for this.

You’d sent back: can’t wait. He’d liked the message.

“Why didn’t…” you couldn’t ask that, not when you were standing at the door of a literal spaceship. You clambered on, reaching behind you to pull Cat up with you. The two of you claimed the last available seats, with Lois at the helm.

Perhaps you should have been listening earlier. Lois got Jimmy to transcribe with his pen between his teeth, talking about Lex Luthor’s big master plan to profit from the war, but you were still staring down at your phone.

Hey, this is Cl-

Why hadn’t Clark told you he was going to Kansas? It had been two days since you’d last seen him, sure, but that message had been sent last night. Lois, in between trying to figure out the controls and verbalising her article for Jimmy to type, was looking back at you in your seat as much as she could.

She couldn’t ease your worries, not now, not in front of everyone at work. You just stared down at your phone like it would suddenly will Clark to appear. Though, now you were in the sky, you weren’t sure that’s what you wanted anymore.

You’d really liked him, maybe even enough to ask him to be your boyfriend. You weren’t very good at making the first move, and, to his fairness, neither had he. But he’d bitten that bullet for you, asking you out and spending countless nights making you feel special.

Jimmy’s leg stretched over to kick you. He was sitting too far away for it to be unintentional, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the laptop for longer than a second, and with his pen in his mouth it was hard to ask what he wanted to.

You nodded, and when you realised he didn’t catch it, spoke gently. “Yeah, Jim.”

Jimmy handed his laptop off to Perry, who read the article. Within minutes, your phone was lit up with an alert.

The Daily Planet — BREAKING: Billionaire Lex Luthor Colludes with Boravian Government to Invade Jarhanpur - by Lois Lane.

Okay, that made sense, you supposed. Lois had mentioned something about Mr Terrific on the way up, so she’d clearly been speaking to the Justice Gang (crew? you could never remember their name), but you still weren’t aware of why Lois had one of their spaceships.

There was a lot of stuff that you probably should have been paying attention to but you couldn’t take your focus off of Clark. The only thing you could think about were all the worst possible things. What if his stomach flu had knocked him out so he didn’t even know what was happening?

Why had he gone to Kansas if he wasn’t feeling well, and why hadn’t he told you? He’d told you about his parents, how he’d been adopted as a kid, how he grew up on a farm in Smallville. You weren’t sure if he’d mentioned you to his mom and dad, but that didn’t bother you.

You would’ve appreciated a text, though.

The hurt was second only to the worry. This was common in Metropolis, world-ending cataclysms were what drove your career, if you were ever able to get it off the ground. There was the time that the library got hit with a huge ice monster while Clark was there and he’d dropped his phone somewhere in the stacks, hiding there while Superman dealt with the monster. That had been four days after your first date with Clark, and you’d kissed him right there in the break room, with no regard for who could have seen.

You just wanted to make sure he was okay, gripping your phone in both hands until your knuckles turned white.

“He’s okay,” Lois was keeping the ship steady. She turned to you for a moment before looking back out the front window. “I know you’re worried.”

“Why did he,” you had to pause to wet your lips, so dry they were cracking. “Why did he go to Kansas?” Your cheeks felt wet. You didn’t want to cry in front of your coworkers.

Lois seemed to be very conscious of what she was saying in front of the rest of them. Steve was shakily trying to down a probiotic, Jimmy was texting frantically, pen still in his mouth, Cat seemed unbothered, Perry had a cigar in his mouth. “His glasses,” she said finally, tone even. “He had an issue with them - the glasses - and had to go see his parents.”

You’d never seen Clark without his glasses, not even the one time he’d slept over. You’d fallen asleep on him while watching a movie, and then the next morning he’d woke you with a soothing hand on your back, already dressed for work in yesterday’s clothing.

But you had. It had been late one night, Clark had turned away from you to wipe them on his shirt and when he turned back, they were only mostly on. His face looked different from the split second, still familiar, still loving and comforting, but not quite like your Clark.

But perfectly like the man who had been plastered on the front page of the newspaper as recently as that morning.

“Why didn’t he tell me?” Lois knew you weren’t talking about Kansas.

“He wanted to,” she said. “He wanted you to be the first person he told. I… figured it out,” she glanced behind at you. “He…” she swallowed, looking back. “He… they closed the rift.”

You, despite your better judgement, unbuckled. Lois was already standing, gripping onto you tightly. Jimmy was at your other side, and he pressed a triumphant kiss to your hairline. Cat screamed in your ear but you didn’t even care.

As Lois landed the ship, the six of you poured out, all desperately looking for your loved ones. Jimmy was practically tackled by a gorgeous woman who ran at him so hard he had to lift her off the ground to avoid falling over. Lois was wrapped in a hug by a pretty blonde girl wearing a fur coat and red boots, looking more at peace than you’d ever seen her during the year you’d been coworkers.

You stood there, beside the spaceship, clutching your phone and watching the sky. They’d fixed the rift, surely if Clark was dead it would’ve been major news. You’d already gotten eight more google alerts about Luthor since the Planet had broken the story. Surely a casualty like that would make for front page news.

“It’s Superman!”

And there he was, high in the sky above the now destroyed Luthorcorp building. He didn’t stop, though, heading straight west until he eventually went out of sight. Lois clapped you on the shoulder, still wrapped up by the blonde girl who looked slightly hungover and also apparently freezing by the way she clutched her coat close. “It’s obvious once you see it.” She muttered.

You nodded, still gazing at the spot you’d last seen him.

“What is?”

His voice was different, now that you noticed. Clark’s voice went deeper when he was in costume, or perhaps out of costume, whichever he considered true really. But you didn’t turn for Superman, you turned for Clark.

He caught you when you reached him, a strong hand on your back and the other on your hip. “Hi, honey.” Neither of you cared that your coworkers were right there.

“I love you,” were the first words out of your mouth, terrified that you wouldn’t get a chance to say them. Not after the day you’d had.

Clark clutched you tighter. “I love you,” he said warmly, voice breaking like pancake batter spilling over a pan. Like a cup overflowing. “I love you.” Not too, not as well. Independent from yours.

He kissed you, after two full days without you, it made him feel better than the glow of the yellow sun, beginning to set but still high in the sky. “I wanted to tell you,” he urged against your mouth. “Every time I looked at you it felt harder. I love you, I didn’t want this to have to be something you deal with. Didn’t want you to know too much.”

You pulled away, chest heaving, one hand clenched around that tie he was wearing. Home and back in five minutes and he’d taken the time to put his tie back on. “I could know everything in the world about you and I’d still want more,” you said gently.

“You’re not angry?”

You almost looked offended. “That my boyfriend stopped a geopolitical conflict? Or that my boyfriend has a second house I haven’t seen?”

Clark said your name, low on his lips and heavy in his throat. “I am sorry,” he was sincere, not apologising for either of the things you’d just brought up. The sidewalk was put together, but there was still a crack down the middle.

“I believe I was promised a night in,” you said. “You can make it up to me then. Because I don’t care about this stuff, I never have, you know that. It’s not me. I care about you, about Clark Kent, who once tried to make me a birthday cake and ended up almost burning his apartment down. Who would hold my hand on the way to work like we had some huge secret, that lugged my couch up four flights of stairs because it didn’t fit in the elevator. That once told me he hopes people think of him as highly as they think of me.”

Your face was warm under the pad of his thumb. “I’m your boyfriend now?” He felt you get warmer.

“I said that for dramatics,” you said, “You want it, you gotta earn it.” Clark laughed, the warmest sound you had ever heard. You continued. “Just like you earned all those interviews with Superman.”

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moonylovegoodsposts · 7 months ago

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sneak peak

Back To You | David!Clark Kent × Plus Size Latina! OC

Wordcount(for this sneak peak): 189 word

Warnings: fluff, no use of Y/n (no matter how hard I try, I just can't get myself used to write using the Y/n thing, I'm so sorry about that!). Plus sized Oc, because why not? and Latina(Brazilian) Oc, because again, why not? Her name will be revealed in the nexts post. Hopefully I'll finish the chapter by tomorrow or after, I really don't know, depends on my inspiration.

faceclaim: Brianna Marquez (@/brimarqz)

"Need some help?" I hear a voice that makes me turn back to the farm entrance and see a ridiculously tall guy wearing a blue flannel shirt and jeans, standing in front of the porch steps. "Excuse me?" I ask, not understanding where the man came from. I look a little behind him and see a blue pickup truck parked at the farm entrance. How did I not hear him coming?

"My parents said you came to live here permanently, so I thought it would be a good idea to come and help you... and it's summer, I have nothing to do on my parents' farm, so..." he continues chattering, as he climbs the steps, seeming nervous about something but only one thing goes through my head: Who is this guy?

"Excuse me, who are you again?" I ask, very confused, making him stop on the last step, his expression changing a few times. "Do I look that different?" He asks with a smile, looking at me. I open my mouth to say some sarcastic retort, but my brain freezes when I finally recognize the bright blue eyes. "Clark?"

#clark kent x y/n #clark kent headcannon #clark kent x you #clark kent x reader #clark kent x female reader #superman #superman drabble #superman x reader #david corenswet

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hanasnx · 7 months ago

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ᯓ★ “ I WANNA FUCK WITH THE LIGHTS ON ” — clark kent.

MINORS DNI 18+ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ NOTES: this movie isn’t out yet but i can’t wait that long to take advantage of my superman kick and fuck this man. unfortunately i don’t know much about his characterization other than the trailer content. WARNINGS: fem reader ノ established relationship ノ explicit sexual content ノ size difference ノ dick riding ノ objectification ノ p in v ノ praise ノ clark has huge dick syndrome.

“Just… take it slow.” CLARK KENT encourages, but it’s said more so for himself than you. A large, flattened palm emphasizes his instruction, gesturing for you to relax without grabbing you to take over your actions. You stop, his eyes flickering to meet yours questioningly, until he takes a shot in the dark. “Please.” It’s delightfully endearing, and it loosens you up a little.

“It’s not that, Clark, I’m just—you’re just so… you know,” Big. You try to hint at it without blurting it out. Hovering over his lap too long, a tremor builds in your thighs, and you bite down onto your lip as you let it pass through you in a shudder.

His expression adjusts as the realization dawns on him, “Ah,” he exclaims thoughtfully, and he tests the waters, bringing his hands to your body to rest in comfortable places. Your waist seems appropriate, and your fingers fiddle with the muscle in his shoulders as you keep chewing your lip. “Do you want me to take over?” the question is punctuated with a shift of his hips, arranging himself in a better position to begin, but even the marginal movement has you whining with need. It alerts him, tensing up instantly as he freezes while your pretty face twists in pleasured agony. You’re still wrapped around his reddened tip, and it’s a burning kind of stretch that makes you wish you could just shove him in all the way—at the cost of ripping you in half.

Through your heavy lids and thick eyelashes, you manage to meet his gaze with darkened pupils that don’t want to cooperate. You hum a pitiful “uh-huh” while you nod your head, signaling to him that he’s right. His thumbs on your torso stroke at your skin comfortingly, big hands clamped around you as he raises you. The lip of his head catches on the rim of your pussy, and you suck in a breath as an emptiness replaces what used to be filled.

“We’re gonna take it nice and easy,” Clark talks you through it, but even his exhale hitches when cold air hits his slit. Carefully, he lowers you back on, feeding his dick back into your silken walls before taking it away again—all to introduce your hole to his size little by little. The method chips away at your tightness, and you try to follow his movements with yours even if you’re weak in the knees. “Wanna look at me, duchess? Let me see your eyes?” He tilts his head, his curls falling over his forehead as he chases your gaze. You do your best to peel your eyes open one-by-one, granting him his wish as you pant through your open mouth taking his cock one agonizing inch at a time. The sight of you barely holding on when he’s not even halfway in, stretches a smile onto his face, and if you were more coherent, you’d say it’s one of pride as well as endearment.

One hand cautiously releases your side, while the other takes your weight entirely, bobbing you up and down as if you were no heavier than a fleshlight. His other slides between you two to seek out your pretty bud, resting his thick fingers on your thigh while his thumb comes to stroke at that clit. The new sensation slicks you up as quickly as it occurred, and you gasp at how elevated it all feels from a simple action like that. “That’s what you were missing. Right, baby? It’s hard to loosen up without it. You’re so tight…” You know he didn’t say it like it’s a compliment, but it makes your insides jump anyway. Your muscle contracts and suddenly he can fit a lot more in. “Does that feel good?” he asks, his thumb leisurely circling your bud as your pussy drools around him.

Desperately, you nod your head with a couple of “mm-hmm’s!” that lead him to speed up—introducing you to more of his length as he picks up the pace on petting your clit. Your hands abandon gripping his shoulders for stability and instead overlay his. Yours are dwarfed by him, but he takes your guidance, absorbing how you’re putting pressure on his knuckles and replicating it against your poor pearl, getting puffy from the stimulation and the lack of getting railed. It all lights a fire under your ass, and your body moves for you, bouncing in place to try and force more of his cock into you. You can’t overpower the Superman, but he does let you take it all down to the hilt—his strength making a sex toy out of you.

#10k #indy: drabbles #ch: clark #clark kent drabble #clark kent smut #clark kent x reader #clark kent x fem reader #au: david!clark #clark kent x you #clark kent x y/n #clark kent imagine #clark kent fanfiction #superman smut #superman x reader #superman 2025 smut #david corenswet smut #reader insert #smut

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sunsburns · 6 months ago

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

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

and he always does.

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

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

but there are things you’ve started to notice.

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

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

you know what he’s doing in there.

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

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

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

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

no, you need to be the one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he looks utterly wrecked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“fuck, please—”

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

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

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

clark kent is completely undone.

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luveline · 15 hours ago

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𝐓𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐋𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐦 𝐋𝐚𝐩

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

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

“Are you bringing the briefcase?”

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

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

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

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

“Who’s that one?” you ask.

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

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

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

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

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

“Did I tell you that, too?”

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

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

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

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

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

“No? You should get used to him.”

“Didn’t peg you for a bully, Kent.”

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

“So funny.”

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

“Off!” you demand.

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

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

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

“Wanted to do this all day,” he says.

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

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

“Are you tired?”

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

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

“Can you make me dinner?”

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

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

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

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

“Kiss?” he asks.

You use his tie to guide him down.

—

Clark brought his pajamas in the briefcase.

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

And his pyjama pants are blue.

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

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

He shrugs. “I brought slacks for tomorrow.”

“How much fits in that briefcase?”

“You’d be surprised. Move over?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you okay?” you ask softly.

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

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

“Do you…”

“What?” he asks.

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

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

“Do you work out?”

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

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

“Is this still part of the genuine question?”

“No, this is the flirting.”

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

You look up to let him kiss you.

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

“Where are you going?” he whines.

“You’re tickling me.”

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

“Don’t pressure me.”

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

“Let me feel your heart.”

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

“I think you’re dead at a hundred.”

“What’s that mean, doc?” he murmurs.

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

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

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

He sounds delightfully bashful. It begets another kiss.

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

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

“Sure,” he says, like a liar.

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

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

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

“You found Charlie.”

“You were hiding him.”

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

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

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

“Since you were young?” he asks.

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

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

“Don’t talk through my teddy.”

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

“He loves you.”

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

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

Clark is up in three seconds flat.

—

You wake with a start.

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

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

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

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

“Clark?”

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

“What’s wrong?”

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

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

“Was it me?”

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

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

Just like that.

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

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

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

You cover your mouth with your hand.

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

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

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

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

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

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sc3ptre · 8 days ago

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Off the record

Pairing: Clark Kent x fem!reader

Masterlist | Who am i? | REQUESTS ARE OPEN!

A/n: I just had to and if you’ve seen the movie and that scene, you’ll understand why

Warning: SMUT +18 (with plot) | safe sex, p-in-v, oral f! receiving during a professional environment, praise, superpowered sex?, power imbalance, destruction of property during sex

If you’d like something a bit hotter, check out A healing touch Disclaimer: This scene is loosely based on content shown in the trailers for Superman (2025) — so technically, no major spoilers! That being said, if you're trying to go into the movie completely fresh, feel free to skip this for now and come back later.

Word count: 3.3k

You got home late, again. The city was quiet in that way it only ever was past midnight with streetlights buzzing faintly, the sound of your boots echoing in the stairwell and your coat carrying the weight of the day like a second skin.

Once inside, you kicked off your heels, pulled your scarf free in one motion and slung your bag onto the hallway hook like muscle memory. The apartment welcomed you with familiar silence and the gentle creak of old pipes. It smelled like dust and the faint ghost of coffee and maybe the takeout you didn’t finish yesterday.

You locked the door behind you without looking and then you heard it, a sound that shouldn’t be there, one of a pan shifting.

It was soft and deliberate, like someone trying not to make noise in your kitchen.

You froze, coat still half-off. Your brain went cold before your hands did, every hair on your arm standing. You moved without breathing, slow and smooth, peeling the coat the rest of the way off and dropping it on the hook while simultaneously reaching for the bat you kept stashed by the door, the one with the worn grip and the cracked stripe of duct tape at the end. You hadn’t used it in years, not seriously, but your fingers still curled around it like you’d never stopped.

The hallway felt longer than usual as you crept toward the sound. Your breath came shallow and the refrigerator hum gave away nothing. You rounded the corner, raised the bat and swung hard without thinking twice.

The bat made solid contact with something unmoving and unbothered, and then cracked violently in half. It felt like hitting a steel beam with a stick of chalk.

“Shit–!”

You staggered back in pure panic, already wincing and then realized, mid-heart-attack, that the man now holding the broken bat with one hand and a sauté pan in the other was, in fact, Clark.

Still wearing his work clothes, pressed dress pants and the white shirt rolled up at the sleeves, his chest just barely stretching at the buttons. His hair was tousled, his eyes unfairly soft and he smelled like butter, basil and the kind of quiet only he seemed to carry in your space.

You stared at him, wide-eyed while he looked at you, entirely unfazed, holding half your weapon like it was a bouquet.

“I’ll get you a steel one,” he said calmly, as if the most normal thing in the world was letting you try to brain him with a Louisville Slugger and then continuing to sauté garlic.

“I knew it was you and I still panicked,” you said, chest still tight, adrenaline peaking. “I am so sorry. God, did I–did I hurt you?”

“You can’t hurt me...physically that is, so if you’re planning on breaking up with me tonight then the answer would be yes, emotionally.”

“I’m not and that’s not the point. The point is I hit you with a bat.”

“And I made you dinner,” he said mildly, nodding toward the stove. “One of us is clearly ahead in this relationship.”

You blinked then laughed, nerves breaking like surface tension. You stepped closer, smelling whatever he was cooking, pasta, maybe. Something with cream, pepper, garlic and fresh herbs, because of course he would make it taste better than the best restaurant in Metropolis.

Of course he would do this without asking.

Of course he would smell like rosemary and feel like a safe house in the middle of a war.

He didn’t even wait for you to react or respond. After setting the pan down, he just leaned forward, touched your hips gently and lifted you like you weighed nothing, placing you on the kitchen counter with a softness that felt like something sacred. He stepped in between your knees, pulled you forward by the waist and kissed you slowly, like the world didn’t matter.

You curled your fingers into the collar of his shirt and kissed him back, melting and losing track of everything except the solid warmth of his hands and the way his mouth moved like he already knew what you needed but eventually, your brain kicked back in and you pulled back slightly.

“Mmmm…you’re hiding, aren’t you?”

He paused, forehead leaning against yours.

“You made dinner,” you continued softly, “...You never make dinner unless you’re avoiding headlines.”

“I’m not hiding,” he murmured, brushing a kiss to your jaw.

“You’re literally in the middle of a political firestorm, Clark. There’s a subcommittee meeting about you on four separate networks.” You shifted your head back slightly, forcing him to meet your gaze. “They’re calling it a ‘failed interventional conflict.’ They're saying you lost a war you started.”

He didn’t flinch but he didn’t meet your eyes, either. You exhaled, pressing your palm to his chest. “Let me help, let me do something. I’m not just…whatever this is. I’m still good at my job and you can’t interview yourself forever, it’s suspicious.”

“It’s really not.”

“Oh yeah? Not to mention it’s wildly unprofessional, unethical and quite simply stupid–”

“That’s taking it too far…and I know you’re very good at your job,” he said quietly, one hand brushing your thigh. “Too good.”

“Then let me interview you…him. You know how much it matters, and–”

He was quiet for a second but then nodded. “Fine.”

“…What?” you paused, registering his words. “You’ll let me interview you as…Superman?”

“Yeah… sure,” he agreed, voice sheepish with a slight edge of doubt.

You slid off the counter then, still buzzing from his kiss and went to your bag, pulling out your small field recorder, the one you kept for quick takes and on-the-fly quotes. You placed it on the counter, clicked it on and gave him a small smile as you sat back up on the counter and crossed your legs.

“Alright,” you said, in your best calm-journalist tone, the one that always made people lean in without realizing it, “Superman.”

Something in him changed instantly. You heard it more than saw it, that shift. The register of his voice dropping a full octave, steady, strong and smooth like ocean pressure. It was calm and assured, the voice the world believed in.

“Miss Y/l/n,” he said and just that tone, sent a ripple down your spine that made your knees tighten.

You cleared your throat. “There’s been a lot of controversy around the UN vote last week. Some say you overstepped–”

“I acted on intelligence I believed to be urgent,” he said. “And I take full responsibility for my actions, but I believe they prevented greater loss of life.”

You nodded, swallowing. “And the report about your…uh, withdrawal–”

“I withdrew because I was asked to. Not because I was defeated.”

You were about to ask the next question when he stepped between your legs again, parting them with ease, close enough to touch and pressed a kiss just beneath your ear.

You jolted slightly. “Clark.”

“I’m still answering.” He murmured, voice dipping lower, kisses trailing now to the base of your neck, each one melting something inside your chest. His voice was unsurprisingly steady when he spoke again. “I intervene when the scale of a disaster surpasses what human systems can handle…I don’t weigh in on politics.”

“You entered a country illegally.”

“I stopped a war.”

"You crossed borders without permission, ignored airspace alerts, made a decision entire governments didn’t agree on…what–” you began, breath hitching slightly when his fingers gently swept higher, drawing slow circles through the fabric of your pants “–what happens when the public perception of your involvement shifts?”

He tilted his head slightly. “If I’d waited for permission, there wouldn’t have been anyone left to thank me. Bottom line is, I care what the truth is, I care about the people who are afraid and I care when I become a reason they feel unsafe, which I’m not.”

You let out an embarrassing moan which was supposed to be a warning. “Fuck, Clark–”

“Superman,” he corrected, deep and rich in your ear, the sound of it sending something hot and traitorous spiraling in your stomach. “I thought this was formal.”

“It was, Superman.” You gritted out, watching as his hands went higher and higher, “I swear to God–”

Before you could protest any further and remind him of the running recorder, of your journalistic integrity…of anything remotely rational, he kissed you. Full and deliberate, every part of your body folded into it like you’d been waiting to be touched like this again.

The recorder was still on and the interview far from over but neither of you seemed to remember.

His mouth was everywhere, devouring your lips, tracing a desperate path down your jaw, your throat and the hollow where your pulse thundered so loud you were sure he could hear it. His large hands roamed under your shirt, dragging it up inch by inch, fingertips so broad but gentle– always so careful—even when he was trembling with need.

The countertop was cold beneath your thighs but the rest of you was burning. Clark stood between your knees, pressing himself forward until there was nothing but heat and fabric between you.

His hands found the buttons of your blouse, undoing them with almost superhuman precision except when he lost patience, then the fabric tore apart, seams splitting and buttons flying beneath his grip. Your bra followed, straps flicking off your shoulders before his mouth found you again, hot, wet and all teeth scraping gently around your nipples as he sucked and groaned, letting you hear how much he ached for you.

You arched into him, fingers tangled in his hair as he lavished attention on your hardened nipples, causing your lips to part in pleasure. Your legs parted for him in anticipation as your panties clung to you with unabashed heat. When you gasped, Clark grinned against your skin, catching every tremble in your voice and every spike in your breathing.

“Your heart,” he growled, moving up to kiss under your jaw, leaving wet kisses and soft bites you wished pierced through your heated skin, “it’s racing. Like you’re about to run or come from me just touching you…so which one is it? Mm? I can hear the blood rushing in your veins.”

His voice vibrated everywhere, inside your chest and especially between your legs in a way that made you grind against the cold marble, erupting soft whimpers from your plumped lips. He brought you even closer to the edge so you could rock your hips against the hardened tent in his pants, desperate for more friction. Your head fell back as he gained more access to your neck, groaning into it as you continued to rub your clothed center against his erection.

The sheer understanding of what was missing settled between the both of you and Clark acted on his desperation first by grabbing the sides of your pants and yanking them down your legs, your panties disappearing with them in one smooth motion as air cooled your swollen and wet folds, making you whine as if it had been your lover’s touch, suddenly withdrawn. He looked down at your nakedness then, eyes darkening with pure want as its sweetness filled his nostrils.

He dropped to his knees as if he’d been defeated, a sight that nearly undid you, spreading you wide on the countertop before he shamelessly buried his face between your thighs, tongue broad and hot, licking a slow stripe from entrance to clit, spreading your folds apart to accommodate him.

Clark groaned at the taste of you, pressing a kiss to your swollen and aching clit before sucking and flicking his tongue against it at just the right pressure. It was never random, he listened to every thud of your heart, every tiny gasp or shuddering inhale, adjusting his rhythm to what made you crazy. His spit mixed with your sweet arousal, coated his lips and chin as he penetrated you with the tip of his tongue. You closed your eyes and gently grinded your hips against his mouth as he continued, eliciting the softest of moans from your beautiful throat while you pulled him closer to you by his hair.

His fingers slid inside you then, replacing his tongue as he let it flick against your bundle of nerves again, making you shudder. His digits were long and thick, curling up to hit a perfect spot that made your vision go white and your eyes roll, a sight he couldn’t help but grin at. He worked you over with a skill that could only come from pattern recognition beyond human ability, sensing precisely when your pulse jumped and when your breath caught just when you were about to fall apart.

“Let go,” he murmured against you, tongue relentlessly moving against you until he felt you pulse. “I know you’re there.”

You cried out, fingers clutching at his hair so hard you were thankful you couldn't hurt him, as you came for him with your hips jerking helplessly against his tongue and fingers. You could feel him smile against your heat as he worked you through every aftershock, sucking and licking you off all you had to offer him.

He stood in a rush, eyes wild, moving with the kind of urgency that said patience was not on the menu tonight and just as your fingers fumbled at his belt, he froze.

“Hang on,” he murmured and vanished in a gust of air so fast it nearly knocked the blender clean off the counter. It teetered for half a second and whoosh he was back, one hand catching it casually mid-air while the other held up a foil square like he hadn’t just broken the sound barrier to practice safe sex. You reached for his belt then but he was already outpacing you, ripping his shirt open like it had personally wronged him and then flinging it aside, exposing the stretch of muscle he was made out of. You ran your hands across his chest causing him to shudder under your soft and warm hands, your lustful gaze heating his skin more than a thousand suns ever could.

He shoved his pants down, boxers barely cleared before his cock sprung free, thick, flushed and achingly hard. You wrapped a hand around him and he groaned like he was a second short of combusting, the sound vibrating in your bones as you watched him roll the condom on. He pulled you to the very edge of the counter guiding his cock against your entrance and slowly pushing in with a clenched jaw and a deathly grip to your thighs. The sight of your pussy leaking and fluttering around it made his hips jerk forward then retract pulling a wince out of you. He paused only to look into your eyes.

“Tell me if I’m too much,” he said, voice hoarse but utterly tender.

You answered by wrapping your legs around his waist, tilting your pelvis back and pulling him in slowly, moaning as he slid deep inside with ease, stretching you so wide you could hardly breathe. Clark gritted his teeth, fighting not to move too fast but the way you squeezed around him made his control snap slightly.

He thrusted slowly at first, savoring every inch of your slick pussy as his lips fell apart, letting out soft gasps of pleasure that made your nipples harder as they tickled his chest. Your hands grabbed at any skin available, nails digging into almost unbreakable skin as his rhythm sped up, fueled by the overwhelming pleasure building between you. Each movement was deep, powerful, filling you so perfectly you could barely hold yourself together.

You both moaned in the same space, sharing breaths as you kissed while your tongues fought for control. You could taste yourself on his lips, the same sweet slick that was now leaking onto the counter and between your naked bodies as he delivered unforgiving thrusts that seemed to split you open, while his hands were around you, making it impossible to even think about pulling back.

“You don’t know how many times…I’ve thought about fucking you over your desk afterhours.” He mumbled onto your mouth with a grin that could’ve made you come. Your heart had staggered and he knew it. “Like the sound of tha’?”

You nodded quickly, messily as pleasure took over your brain and the only thing you could voice were moans and drawled whines.

“Uhhh–What? Want me to…write a piece…about how well Superman f–fucks?”

He chuckled deeply and the counter creaked, threatening to give beneath the force of his grip on the edge whenever he couldn’t force his hands to be gentle on you. He wanted them everywhere, really…on your ass, your thighs, cradling your head while he kissed you silly while his dick caused addicting damage within you. He whispered your name like a secret prayer between grunts and moans that made you forget he wasn’t an ordinary man.

“So beautiful…fuck… sweeter than any sunrise. I’m never giving this up.”

He listened to your body, tuning his pace to the staccato of your heart as it started to climb again and your nails failed to dig deeper into his skin. “That’s it,” he panted. “There, just like that…you’re so close, breathe, baby.”

You were both getting louder now, his voice rougher, needier, while yours was high and desperate as he pounded into you harder, faster, until the counter and everything on it shook violently around you.

“Clark…I–” You broke off into a wail as he hit just the right spot over and over, until your orgasm crashed through you like a tidal wave. Your whole body went tight around him and he lost whatever little restraint he had left when your head fell back against the upper cabinet, lips parted and letting out the most sinful sounds he had ever heard. Your pulse points were on full display as blood rushed down, making your pussy and clit pulse for him.

He slammed in hard one last time and crack!. The edge of the countertop sank under his grip as he came inside the condom with a helpless and guttural moan, hips locked tight to yours, burying himself deep inside you so you could feel his cock throb.

You collapsed against each other, sweat-slick and shaking, his arms still holding you close like he never wanted to let go. Then came the sharp press of something under your hip, the cracked edge of the countertop, jagged and out of place.

You winced and instantly, he lifted you like you weighed nothing, cradling you against him as he stepped back, brows furrowed with guilt.

He pressed soft kisses all over your face and shoulders while you caught your breath. “Sorry about the mess…I’ll pay for it.” he added with a sheepish little smile, leaning in to kiss the spot behind your ear he knew made you sigh.

You brushed a kiss over his lips and chuckled breathlessly. “Yes you will.”

Clark grinned against your mouth, his hands still sliding softly over your sides but then your gaze drifted and landed on something that made your stomach drop.

The recorder. Still blinking and running.

“Shit,” you whispered, pulling back slightly as panic flooded your chest. “Shit, shit. The interview.”

He blinked, lips parted and twitching into a smile as he fumbled for the stop button like it might bite him. “I trust you’ll keep this part off the record.”

You turned your head to glare at him. “You have to say that before you rail me into the countertop!”

He smirked, hugging you closer like the most unbothered man alive. “Noted. I’ll…make sure to think about that the next time”

You stared at him, still breathless, ruined and absolutely already planning on letting him destroy you again…after you destroyed the recording, of course. Just in case.

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innorality · 15 days ago

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clark kent can feel everything. he hears everything, sees everything, smells everything... so best believe your orgasms are as pleasurable for him that they are for you.

he's already high off the sensations that your body allows him to witness during sex—the way your walls stretch everytime he thrusts up into you, the way you insides keep increasing the amount of wetness pooling between your legs, the way he can hear your eyes rolling back a bit further more at each stroke of his finger against your clit...

but it's only when you orgasm that he thinks he has truly hit the jackpot. when you whimper out his name while stuttering about how you're cumming, he already knows. he hears your blood rushing in your veins, he smells the cream oozing out of you, he feels your body heating up instantly.

the way your entire body is putting in maximum amount of effort to take him, to adjust to the kryptonian, makes him climax aswell.

and when he sees his cum sneak into your womb while using his x-ray vision, he thinks he might faint.

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bodhiscurls · 4 hours ago

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where do we go now? ( clark kent )

cause now i'm half of myself here without you. you're the best in my life and i lost you. it was one-sided hate how i hurt you. (by gracie abrams!) you don't know where he disappears to- there's always excuses: he's caught up at work, stuck in traffic, some stupid alien attack cut him up on his commute. but now more than ever when you need him to show up at a family dinner where you planned to introduce him to your parents, he still comes in pieces and enough is enough.

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

themes: angst, break up, no happy ending

he's not coming.

you smile sheepishly at your mother who sends you a small smile and she begins to start serving the mains. you've made it past appertisers, skipped out on the drinks and small talk, catching them up on work and laughing over memories- now you're entering dangerous uncertain territory and all you could do is sit and stare at the clock as the minutes passed by.

fourty three minutes have passed by.

your father tried not to shoot you a disapproving glance- it had taken so much work to warm him up to clark. don't trust those journalists, he said with that gruff tone in the same way he had told you to keep playing a sport even after graduating university or when he had changed the tires on your car- you don't blame him for worrying. you've never brought a guy home before so the bar was low.

lower than fourty three minutes late.

"i'm sure, he just got caught up late with work," you try though the words feel stale and your mother reaches out to place a hand on yours in comfort. its eight pm, you think. should the offices be closed by now? you have no idea.

"you are more than welcome to take some back for him," and your heart soars at the kind offer. though a thank you might cement the fact that he's stood you up on your own family dinner.

"he's coming, i'm sure. in fact, i'll just ring and see where he is," you stand shakily, embarrassment creeping up on your neck as you make your way to the stairs. and just as you suspect, he does not answer like he hadn't the past four times. a sigh escapes you and you know that after tonight, you won't have to keep feeling this way.

you and clark have been dating for six months- he occupies the apartment opposite yours and that's how you met. through laundry days and dinner dates, the two of you had started something slow and sweet at the beginning. it was like having sleepovers every single night and when you'd fall asleep in his big strong arms, nothing in the world seemed to matter anymore. you probably spend more time in his than you do your own.

then the lies started to creep in; it started as an offhanded excuse for traffic, then he started "forgetting" date nights- being caught up at work. you knew nothing about the journalism world so gave him the grace he needed and it was so easy to fall back into routine, the small comfortable world you built when you weren't pushing an arguement. and the thing with clark was- he never played nasty, never said things he didn't mean in the heat of the moment. he was thoughtful, patient, let you get it all out then apologises- promising you're the centre of his attention, a sad cycle you've trapped yourself in.

the phone is warm in your hand, like a subtle burn to let you know its still there and you close your eyes. this dinner was important to you- its not often you visit your parents and tell them about the supposed love of your life to which they actually return interest. tonight they were supposed to be getting to know him, to love him the same way you had. if only he could show up.

the door knocks with heavy taps you'd know in any lifetime and you open it wearily.

"hey," comes his breathless greeting, a grin laced on his features, stretching his cheeks as he takes a step forward. he lands a kiss on your cheek sloppily and you don't find yourself leaning into it anymore. it comes and it goes as quickly as it did.

"hey," he loops a finger under your chin to bring your gaze to his. "i am so sorry, this alien attack thing redirected my route like four times- i tried to get here as soon as possible," the words come out in a hurried breath and you furrow your brows, wondering if he's rehearsed this on the way here.

"doesn't matter, thank you for coming," you speak though theres no bite or tone in your voice, just weariness and fatigue of someone who's been let down too many times.

"wait, honey," and you don't grace him an actual reply, just a faint "not here," before tugging his hand in yours as you make your way to the dining room. you've hardly interlocked his fingers in yours, emptily holding his palm and letting go of it as soo as you meet your parents again.

your parents are mid laughter when they stop and spot clark, instantly rising to their feets to greet him. clark's bigger than most humans, instantly filling up the room with his body and his heart and he charms the pants off your parents.

he talks politics with your father, plays into your mothers gossip, tells jokes like all the times he's ran away it's to play stand up comedian and you hate how it just feels so perfect. "wow" your mother mouths across the room, sending you and exaggerated swoony smile and it does make you laugh softly. as if on reaction, clark's ears perk up at the sound, sending you a gentle smile and wrapping his hand under the table around yours.

you lean into his shoulder after the meal, needing to balance the weight before deciding to help your mother clear the table. the dishes you carry are swiped clear, clark clearly a fan of your mother's voice and when you land them in the sink with a gentle thud, you feel your mother's hands at your shoulders from behind you.

"darling," she murmurs and its ever so gentle that you can feel the tears gloss over your eyes. "i don't mean to judge but he seems incredible and all but," and you knew the but was coming, "what good can come from a man who loves you in pieces," her whisper cracks open your heart and lays it bare bloodied and bruised.

"mom," you whimper softly in her hold and she's instantly shushing you gently, rocking you back and forth in hug that holds you together firmly. it's not something you didn't know, it's just the first time someone has said it aloud to you and it hurts all the same

"i love him," you breathe, "and i know he loves me," you try.

"and sometimes it's not enough," she strokes your back in comfort and you look up to the ceiling, trying to force those tears back down.

"i know," you clear your throat and she lets you stay like that a little longer. when you return to the living room to find clark's heavy eyes on your figure and dinner wrapped up, you don't meet his gaze.

you kiss your mother and father on the cheek as clark shakes their hand firmly, wrapping your mother in a hug. they wave goodbye to you from the doorstep and watch you get into his car as clark shuts the door behind you.

the engine starts with a soft purr before he pulls out and starts the drive home. the quiet of the night entering your car as you both work your way around the elephant in the room.

he tells you about work to which you reply with nods and one liners and clark senses the shift like it's in the air suffocating him. he parks up on the side and you look around in confusion- this isn't the way home. you look over at him and for once in your life you don't actually know what to think about him.

"do you wanna tell me whats on your mind?" he speaks softly. too softly that it blurs the edges of the cuts he's left on you before and you almost faulter.

"nothing," you get out, because you don't actually know where to start.

"its not nothing if it's got you upset like this, baby," and when he sees you flinch at the pet name you used to adore his heart stills, missing a beat thundering in moment.

"it's you," and the beats stop entirely as he's stuck to the seat. you watch his expression, eyes begging him to just anything but he's stunned into a careful silence.

"it's me?" he asks slowly and you nod, the lump in your throat tightening your voice.

"i can't do this anymore, clark," and the first teardrop glistens in the dark as it falls. "there's only so much i can do, i've tried to hard to be patient- i, i, ah," you groan feel the rush of emotions overwhelm you, "i stretch myself to new limite to make room for all your lies and secrets and i'm breaking clark."

you look up from your lap, years wetting your lashes to face him honestly- he needs to know the damage he's done, "you don't even know what you do to me and it's unfair clark, it hurts," you try and wipe away the tears that fall but a new fresh batch that form and drop and before you know it, the mascara streaks a messy river down your face and you can't stop this.

he doesn't say anything for a moment, focusing on the heavy rise and fall of his chest. he should've known that he was breaking you apart, that he hadn't given you the trust that this relationship needs to work but he's harbouring a secret that could put you in so much more danger if you knew.

but still he tries, "honey, we can fix this," comes an honest admission of stern determination and you pull back, recoiling in anger.

"there is no we, clark," you jab a finger at his chest, "we haven't been on the same team for a while, you've left me on a one vs one each time you disappear with some lame excuse and i have to convince myself that you're not lying or hiding that it's all okay- we," you repeat back to him in a scoff, "i've tried to fix this so don't demean me and dog me down with a 'we'." there's no room for clark to carry on before you're ranting again.

"you were late to family dinner," your voice lowers an octave in defeat- letting him know that tonight was the final straw. "you know how important this was to me, you're the first guy i've brought home and you made me look stupid- then you play happy home pretend like it's nothing and you make me feel stupid too- what kind of asshole does that?" you ask him. he gave you a glimpse of what the future could've looked like if he just let you all the way in and you hate him immensely for it.

"i'll cut back on work, we can spend more time together- i can fix this," he pleads but you shake your head softly.

"i'm done, clark. i think it's time we call it," you nod to yourself more than anything.

his reply comes as quick as it is stubborn, laced with firmness and the fear of letting the best thing happen to him go, "i dont want to."

"i need to." comes your desperate whine.

"but i love you-" and you wince because on any other night it's what would've made smile, laugh and melt into his embrace. now it stands outside the cage you're trapped in, molted into the key that's so close within your grip.

"and its not enough," you counteract, "not when its also determined through actions- when it doesnt come whole- when i get bits of you when you decide to show up like youre superman saving the day," you list off your fingers and clark momentarily stumbles at your comparison. you use it ironically and it being the cause of his relationship failing pricks at his heart, he can feel the migraine coming in already- the you sized hole he's unable to fill.

"relationships arent perfect they dont-" he stumbles and its clearly the wrong thing to say when you cackle loudly in irony.

"oh god i know! ours is far from perfect!" your voice grows a little quieter and settles an air of finality, "love isnt always easy clark, but it shouldnt have to be so fucking hard."

"im calling it now, before we lose more time to this and we wake up so miserable one day suddenly i don't know ten years down the line tethering ourselves to a feeling we thought was enough and i hate both you and me for staying. i'm not happy clark and i cant live like that- i refuse to live like that," you beg and he sighs in defeat.

"im sorry," he murmurs, unsure of what he could say. nothing can change your mind. he's fucked this up and there's no way out of this for him.

"thats nice to hear," you accept, unwilling to forgive him just right now when the feelings are still raw, fresh and tug at the seams of your mind. your fingers find your temples to massage the growing aches and you face the window- looking anywhere other than your doomed lover, "please take me home."

no words are spoken for the remainder of the journey back to your apartment complex. the faint murmurs of billy joel's "piano man" hum alongside the engine and for once it feels like the universe is on your side- there's no traffic for miles, green lights ahead and you get home within minutes. clark however, still gets out the car at lightning speed before you, almost knocking you over to open your door and walks a few steps behind your pace to make sure you get up to the level of your apartments okay.

the final nail in his coffin is when you turn the key to your own apartment door instead of his like you would usually do almost every night and shut it without so much as a look behind. he stands there, pressing his forehead to the cool wooden panel of your door and breathes in heavily.

"fuck," he sighs, the feelings of tonight weighing his body down that he stays there for a couple of minutes before heaving himself up and heading into his own. he however does take one look back behind him only to find nothing changed- the door still shut on him and the sounds of light switches clicking off.

he doesn't blame you one ounce for ending things- you're stronger than he is by miles but that doesn't mean he isn't going to miss you any less.

note: REDEEMING MYSELF AFTER THE LAST ONE GUYS ‼️ this one goes out to @velovicy here's a real break up / unhappy ending - no grovelling however because i do fear this one may be unfixable but i love me a bad ending sometimes and hope you liked it too - let me know what you all think! 💘 i love hearing what you guys have to say x

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