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valerievortex · 9 hours ago

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clark is in kryptonian heat

part 1 here :p cuz I promise if u don't read it you won't understand a THING

clark kent feels weird, today.

like, really weird.

this morning when he woke up, he felt like he was having a heat stroke. his skin was buzzing and uncharacteristically warm, but he just brushed it off thinking it was his kryptonian body acting up again.

well, he wasn't wrong.

at work, everything felt worse. he felt intensely disoriented, his head buzzing and spinning endlessly. he had trouble controlling his strength, accidentally shattering his coffee mug or even unwilling snapping his keyboard in half.

but everything got worse when he sensed you.

not saw, sensed.

it was unusual, truly. he spotted your body heat among others, could only focus on your voice, and damn, since when does your skirt hug your butt like that? he quickly shook his head to escape those nasty thoughts but, in vain. it was like his entire body—the codex itself—was forcing him to focus on you. every thought in his head were of you, you, you.

but that was before you interacted with him, before you even laid your eyes on him.

when you did, everything spiked.

as soon as he saw those pretty eyes bore into his, he felt the heat in his chest spread out throughout his entire body. he shifted uncomfortably because of the raging boner he had and licked his lips in what seemed to be dehydration.

and his mind recognized it, recognized you—the groove of your walk, the sound your thighs rubbing together with each step, the familiar beating of your heart, and if he listened close enough, he could even hear the sound of your pussy lips–

"hey, clark," you waved at him and he stopped breathing, clenching his jaw tightly to conceal the ungodly sound that was currently clawing at his lips, ready to escape.

you noticed something was wrong with your beloved, and set a hand on his chest. his usually rock solid skin felt softer and incredibly warmer. when you moved to the right, you could feel his larger heart beating atleast ten times faster than it usually would.

"what's wron..." you trailed off when he grabbed your hand—tightly—and gave you a crooked smile as his eyebrows bent and pinched together. "p-please, dear, go away b-before i–" another spark of heat, "j-just go." and with that, he let you go, disappearing into the men's bathroom and leaving you there, confused and concerned.

it was only hours later, in the evening, that you saw clark again.

you were simply getting up to reheat your food before something—someone—crashed through your living room wall, knocking you down with it.

a strong hand wrapped around your head before you could knock it on the ground and before you knew it, a very familiar pair of lips came locking onto yours, kissing you deeply into his palm.

he pulled away to give you a moment to breath as he dipped down into you neck, licking and sucking. "c-clark what has... what has gotten into you?" you barely manage to breath, the dust and smoke of the broken wall was making it hard to inhale (and see clark at all), aswell as the weight of his body on yours.

"i don't- I dunno, I..." he kept licking your skin like a dog, your taste giving him some kind of sexual gratification. "all day I've been... my body felt so... so freakin' warm and just– I felt like all I needed was you... I couldn't even focus on anything i kept..." he was curiously out of breath, like the effort of simply speaking to you while holding back the urge to fuck your brains out was too much for him.

"...I kept smelling you and- and hearing you... and– jesus, I just.. want you so bad, darlin'.." he licked his way back up to your lips, nibbling on your bottom one softly. "clark," you finally managed to say, the dust settling. "tell me what you need." your hair ran up his back and into his hair, scratching his scalp which nearly made his eyes roll back.

"you. I need you, c-can I have you? please?" and the way he's just asking makes you want to give him everything he could ever ask for.

so you do.

as soon as you let out a soft "yes," he became a totally different kryptonian.

and that's how you ended up with your back arching away from the dining table, shoulders pressed against the cold surface by clark himself to keep you from slipping away at each mean thrust of his hips.

it's been, what, 4 orgasms? neither of you knew and honestly, neither of you cared—matter of fact, you both stopped caring when he finished inside for the first time and it happened.

the hooks.

"i- I wanna..." he swallows sharply, "I wanna feel it again, d-dont you, sweet thing? i-it felt so good, right? right." the both of you nodded dumbly at eachother and he smiled, terrifyingly so.

clark kent looked feral. his eyes were as hectic as his hands, moving everywhere. he wanted to see you, to feel you, to give in to you. he was inside you and yet he wanted more. he wanted you to be his—more than you already were.

"stuffin' you full so that- oh, god, yes— so that you can carry my kids... so that everyone will know you're– m-mine... mine, mine." he squeezed your breast, his gaze zeroing onto the oddly shaped (thanks to his buds) bulge on your stomach before his hand followed, caressing his cock through your skin and twitching every time the buds were stimulated.

it felt perfect, truly. he felt like you were made for him. the gummy texture of your walls fit perfectly with his buds as each of them grazed the crevices of your rugae every time his hips bumped into yours.

"c-clark, I don't... I'm gonna— i- i cant-" he presses down onto the bulge which makes you scream, "y-yes you can, baby, please- one more, just one more- i– please, sweetie, gosh, I love you so much!" his speech quickly became incoherent—a sign of his impending orgasm.

another tell-tale sign is, of course, the hardening of his buds. they were so strong that they halted his movement, burying him deep inside you while hooking onto your ridges. "o-oh my god–" you gasped, feeling the vein on his cock rubbing against your g-spot. "t-too much– I'm- I'm too full, clark!" and he shakes his head, chuckling lowly.

"n-no you're not baby! i-i can see it! you still... you can still handle more..." he starts to look more and more pained with each word, his body aching for release. "p-please.. pleasepleaseplease–- take it, baby, take it... please, it hurts... y-you're gonna be good f'me right? gonna be good and take it?" fuck, it was intoxicating. everything was. his speech, his smell, the feeling of his alien dick literally hooking inside you to cum deep in your womb...

"please..." was all you could mutter, but he understood. his body understood.

his release was cataclysmic. the buds settled slightly deeper into your crevices, allowing him to shoot into you with bullseye precision. "h-holy– oh my‐" he couldn't even speak. his breath came out in short pants and he looked up, as if begging some higher being to release him from this seemingly everlasting ache.

upon feeling his warm cum painting your insides, and hearing him mumble "g'nna make you a mommy... you're gonna look s-so pretty with my– hhnnng... my kid inside y-youu...", you orgasmed aswell. you walls clenched and rubbed against the now soft buds on his dick, pressing down onto his shaft which has his stomach clenching and caving, almost folding the kryptonian in half.

in the midst of it all, you swear you saw his eyes glow red for a moment, but he quickly blinked that away. his eyes flickered back to your face, and then back to you pelvis, before he threw his head back again with a groan.

"y-you're... shoot.." he's barely catching his breath, "you're not... full enough.." and he resumes his thrusting which makes you give up on looking at him, eyes lazily rolling back.

your entire body relaxed and went limp, allowing him to use you as he pleased.

"wanna make you a mommy... and you're not full enough."

you were right, after all.

those buds are, in fact, useful for breeding.

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valerievortex · 9 hours ago

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Hello tumblr. At the ripe age of thirty five years old, I have decided to join you all because I heard there were lots of other queer people here that like horror and podcasts and writing.

If I'm bad at this, blame the fans of my podcast, who bullied me into it.

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valerievortex · 9 hours ago

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‘bandaids.’ bob reynolds.

summary: bob reeeeeeeaaaaaalllllyyyyy likes your new suit.

pairing: bob reynolds x thunderbolts!reader

insp by: @opheliabbarnes perv bucky. i also JUST watched a bob edit with the song ayo technology by 50 cent and wow… boner city

word count: 3.3k

cw: very suggestive themes, bob is super pervy and super dirty minded, reader has a semi skin-tight suit, mentions of erections, mentions of public sex, mentions of wanting to die, mentions of sex, mentions of masturbation, mentions of just lots of stuff.

a/n: this is my first ever slightly saucy fic guys… be kind to me world… thank you opi for proofreading love you my day one

minors dni 😠

"hey, do you have a band-aid? ava mentioned you have a stash— oh."

bob's hand freezes on your door handle. his sentence dies in his throat, like he had hit a wall mid-sentence— the wall being you, halfway into your suit, bare back turned, zipper still undone. your arms are stuffed halfway into the sleeves, suggesting that you've been struggling with it for a while now.

you're not exactly naked, but there's a considerable amount of skin on display for bob to see— shoulder blades, spine, the soft curve of your lower back— stretching all the way down to where the suit is bunched and clinging desperately to your hips, caught on a zipper that refuses to budge.

"oh hey." you smile as you greet him, watching him in the reflection of your mirror, "great timing. can you zip me up?"

bob pauses in the doorway. he wasn't expecting you to welcome him in. he wasnt expecting you to be smiling at him as if he had walked in on a normal day— like your back wasn't half-bare and your suit wasn't clinging to you in all of the right places.

but he's not complaining. not even a little. there's a small part of him that feels like he should be ashamed of entering your room without knocking, but when has it ever failed him? it was only last week when he had come knocking to ask if you had seen his missing sock and walked in on you pulling on a pair of tight jeans.

they had no business being that tight, and you had no business squeezing into jeans a size smaller than you really needed.

you had just looked up at him and raised an eyebrow, and all he could do was nod and stammer as he backed out of your room. sock be damned. he had thought about it for three days straight, and then every so often when he closes his eyes.

but this? he would never forget this. this was jerk-off material.

"yeah." he licks his lip. his voice is calm— casual— but he can't hide how his eyes trail down the length of your legs, "yeah, i can do that."

he steps further inside your room, making sure to let the door click softly behind him. he tells himself it's because you wouldn't want anyone else to see you like this, but he knows it's because he doesnt want anyone else to see you like this— not when you look so guarded, so unbothered, like it means nothing to you when it's tearing him apart in real time.

you turn slightly as you pull your hair back for him, and bob swears he could combust right then and there. the sunlight streaming in from your window hits your back with the utmost precision, highlighting every line and every dip of your skin that the suit doesn't cover.

his fingers twitch at his side. he's not even touching you yet and his mouth has gone dry— completely, humiliatingly bone dry. tongue stuck against the roof of his mouth, breath immensely shallow, and his heart pounding in that pathetic traitorous way it always does around you.

"you're not..." he blinks, faltering for a moment as his eyes catch the curve of your back. his voice drops, barely audible, "wearing anything under it?"

"under what?” you raise a brow at him, “my suit?"

bob hums. it’s quiet, like he regrets it but can’t bring himself to take it back. what the hell possessed him to ask that.

and you laugh. "i'm wearing underwear." you answer like it’s just an innocent and genuine question— like bob isnt imaging your boobs pressing flush against your suit, or that he isn’t hoping you get a little cold and your nipples peek against the fabric.

you're so close that he can smell you. warm skin, the faint sweat that sits idly on your neck, and the subtle smell of something that lingers in your clothes.

and then bob reaches out. his finger tips graze the zipper where it rests against your lower back, and for a second, he just... pauses. not because he doesn't know how to do it, but because the the contact alone is enough to completely unravel him. you're so warm.

he starts to pull the zipper up. as his knuckles drag against your skin, he watches as goosebumps trail up your spine.

"your hands are cold." you laugh, light and easy, like you don't care. like you don't feel how low he reaches down your back.

he wants to die. right there. on the spot. just collapse and never get up so he doesn't have to deal with the awful humiliation of how bad he's holding himself together. you dont say anything, just raise a brow like you know, and that's somehow worse.

"sorry." he mumbles, "it's, uh— a little cold in here."

it's a dirty white lie. the room is fine. he's the problem.

bob's fingers fiddles with the zipper, pulling it up. he tries to ignore the way the suit tightens around your body, like it was tailored specifically to ruin him. every inch he closes seems to draw the fabric tighter, wrapping around you like a second skin.

the suit shrinks around the curve of your ass and the dip of your hip, and all he can do is watch shamelessly in the mirror as you slide your arms in, the fabric slotting perfectly under the swell of your breasts, sculpted around them in a way that should be illegal.

"who's hurt?" you quietly ask as you smooth the sleeves of your suit, taking a look at yourself in the mirror.

“oh, uh…” bob finishes the zipper with a satisfying click. he lets his hands fall to the front of his lap, interlocked to hide the growing bulge in his pants, "mel."

"she's still here?"

bob hums, "val wants to see the suits. she put her hand on the counter where alexei dropped a glass earlier. yelena got all the glass out of her hand... but.." he licks his lips, "she's still bleeding pretty bad.”

your lips curl into a smile and you look up at him as you strap your utility belt on, and oh god, bob wants to die, "is that what that noise was?"

bob hums, but his mind is far away. he wishes you wouldn’t look at him like that. like you aren’t even surprised that it was him that showed up at your door. like you knew he’d come with a flimsy excuse like val and a cut that isn’t even his.

you just look so good, and not even because your suit is skin tight. don't get him wrong— being skin tight definitely helps, but there's another reason why he's hiding his lower half behind his hands. its because you look strong. bob almost wants to ask you to throw him onto your bed just to see if you can.

he watches as you walk over to your closet and reach up to the highest shelf— your suit straining against your waist and ass— and pull out a small tin of band aids. bob watches you unscrew it, your gloved hands moving easily over the can.

"you um... you have so many." he swallows, eyes flicking from your hands to your face.

"yeah.” you let out a breathy laugh as you pull two out, “turns out you don't really need them when you live with assassins who don't even cry when they get stabbed."

you hand them to him and he takes them without a word. his fingers brush against yours— not even for a second— and it short-circuits something in his chest.

you dont walk back to your closet and reach for the highest shelf like he wants you to. you dont stretch on your toes and give bob the agonising view of your suit riding up your back and give him an excuse for staring like an idiot.

instead, you place the tin on your desk— simple, casual, and thoughtless. and somehow its worse, because now bob knows you’re not doing it on purpose. youre not stuck in the same tormenting spiral like he is, and you’re certainly not hot for him like he is for you.

and then he watches you walk to the door, too enamoured— hypnotised, really— by the way the fabric of your suit clings to your thighs, how every step you take stretches it just right, tight and smooth and totally unfair.

he doesn’t even realise you’re leaving under your hand shifts on the door knob, pulling the door open. you turn back to him— real slow— and smile at him like you hadn’t just rearranged every single thought in his brain.

“you coming or what?” you ask as you hold the door open.

and god help him, he doesn’t even think. he just surges forwards towards you like you’ve got a leash around his neck and all you have to do is tug.

you and bob walk into the living room. it’s already chaos— the team standing around in front of valentina like they’re being strip-searched, and mel standing off to the side typing down all of valentina’s complaints into her ipad.

“i mean, if i wanted someone to look like they’d just crawled out of an arsenal, i’d have asked alexei.” valentina drawls as she circles yelena like a hawk, eyeing the bits and bobs on her suit, “this doesn’t scream hero. it screams… assassin.”

yelena doesnt even blink, “that’s because i am one.”

then valentina sees you and bob walk in. her eyes drag over you first— dissecting your suit choice with critical eyes— and then she cocks her head at bob, who’s holding mel’s bandaids.

“ah, there you are.” valentina pivots mid monologue, her heels clicking against the linoleum as she beelines towards you two. she makes a grabbing motion for bob, who holds the bandaids out, and she takes them. “there’s your bandaids, mel.”

mel scuttles forwards with a small smile and takes them with a small ‘thank you’. valentina barely acknowledges it and turns back to you.

"it's a bit... skimpy... don't you think?" she says, lips turning like she’s being generous with her wording, “i did give you two options, didnt i?”

bob wants to disagree. he wants to say no, the suit fits perfectly— or maybe something worse, something honest— like it almost fits too well, and that you look so good that he hasn’t looked away from you ever since he stepped foot in your room. but he doesn’t.

you dont miss a beat— "i'm a stealth specialist, valentina. did you expect me to choose the one that sounded like maracas every time i walked?"

bob lets out a small sigh of relief at your words. he likes your suit just the way it is. he really likes your suit. more than he should. its actually kind of a problem.

valentina doesnt try to argue with you. instead, she just exhales sharply through her nose and waves you off like youre an annoying fly in her orbit. “whatever. natasha romanoff wore something similar and look how popular she was— and bonus, you’re the only one who doesn’t look like a linebacker!”

yelena, from across the room, scoffs under her breath.

valentina ignores her. “oh, and don’t get it all destroyed or anything. your suit isn’t cheap and i dont want to have to buy you spares if i don’t need to.”

“i’ll try not to.” you give her a half-assed smile and turn on your heel, already walking towards the elevator, “wouldn’t want to inconvenience you.”

valentina’s voice follows you, “where are you going?”

“to test out the new suit.” you call over your shoulder as the elevator doors slide open for you, “gotta make sure it holds up before i go out and destroy it.”

valentina opens her mouth like she’s about to say something, but surprisingly— for the first time in her life— she has nothing to say.

you step inside and give your team a smile, but catch bob rooted into the ground like he’s deciding whether or not he’s allowed to follow. you press a hand against the doors to stop them from closing.

“you wanna join me, bob?”

bob doesn’t answer. he just moves— fast and clumsy, almost tripping over his own foot in his rush to get to you. when he slips into the elevator next to you, you pretend not to notice that he’s smiling like a complete idiot.

“honestly? its not that bad. a little tight on the thighs, but i’m not exactly complaining.”

bob hums in agreement.

“apparently it’s bullet resistant, heat-resistant, stab-resistant… basically every-resistant you can think of. that’s probably why val said it wasn’t cheap.”

bob nods.

“i mean, she called it skimpy, but if you think about it, it’s way more tactical. less fabric equals less drag. it’s simple physics, bob.”

you're talking to him— about how the suit can fit accessories and weapons if needed, and how it feels sleeker and way lighter than your old suit— but bob isn't listening.

bob is good at fake listening. it's a bad habit that’s become a skill. he knows how to nod at all of the right times, and sometimes even bothers to give a half-asses reply if he knows you're not paying close enough attention.

he hears you— he thinks he does— but the words just mesh together into a big pile of alphabet soup. all he can focus on is the curve of your mouth, the shine of sweat on your temple, and god, the way your suit clings to you every time you move.

right now, he's more preoccupied on how your suit stretches thin against the curve of your ass rather than the bullseye you just hit with your dagger. he's chewing on his thumbnail as a vice, barely resisting the urge to just reach out and pull you in by your thighs. his spot on the floor helps hide the bulge in his pants, and his arm is stuffed under his shirt, pinching the skin on his stomach to at least try to hold back.

it’s even harder when you’re showing him these awesome new parts of the suit and dragging your hands against your body like it isn’t driving him absolutely insane. he really would be interested and pay attention if you didn’t look look like that.

he swears he could drop to him knees right now and worship the ground you walk on. kiss the space between your shoulder blades. say something stupid and reckless that destroys all the respect you have for him. he would grab you and crazy passionate love to you right in front of everyone if you had asked him to.

“you’re staring.”

bob blinks— caught. you’re looking down at him like youre about to discover every thought he’s been thinking for the past hour, and his stomach drops. his mouth opens and then shuts again.

“i was just trying to…” he scratches the back of his neck, nodding like he knows what he’s talking about, “y’know… focus. on your form.”

you raise a brow, “my form?”

“yeah.” he nods, “it’s really, uh… efficient.”

you’re so close that he can feel the heat radiating off of your skin, and if it was even possible, he feels his dick strain even harder against his pants. he has to bite his lip to keep himself from making a sound.

“okay.” you shrug.

bob’s not really giving you much to work with, but he’s good company. instead, you turn around and point at a strap across your back. it’s twisted and digging into your skin, and no amount of reaching behind you is fixing it. “you mind helping with this harness? i can’t reach it.”

bob doesnt want to get up. not because he doesn’t want to help— he wants nothing more than to help you— but because his entire body has betrayed him. he’s been sitting on the floor the entire hour acting like he’s simply keeping you innocent company— but there’s nothing innocent about the building, burning tension pressing against his pants.

he didn’t know what he expected. if anything, he had done this to himself. you’ve been moving around the training room in that damn suit, stretching and working out and talking to him while he sits there and ogles you. he could’ve solved this hours ago with a quick bathroom fix, but no, bob had to be selfish and have you all to himself by sticking himself to you like glue.

and now you’re asking him to come and touch you?

bob thinks he might be cursed. or he’s being tested. or both.

he gets up. he hopes— prays— that you dont suddenly turn around and look at him, because then you’d see it— all of it. by the time he’s behind you, he feels rabid. he’s almost afraid he might drool on you.

“it’s digging in kind of weird.” you tell him as you pull your hair out of the way, “just needs to be untwisted.”

his finger slips under the strap, sliding down against your back and grazing against your spine. you know he’s just trying to untangle it, but you don’t expect him to be breathing down your neck.

“this one?” he murmurs, dazed out of his fucking mind.

“mm-hm..” you don’t flinch or move. if anything, you lean into his touch.

you don’t mean to, and neither does he— but somewhere between his hands brushing against your harness and your shoulder dipping to give him more access, you both start to lean into each other— just slightly, just enough— and the space between you disappears like it was never there to begin with.

and then you shift. just a little. just enough to feel it. the press of something firm against the small of your back. its barely a second, but it feels like years for bob. the press of your back against his cock wrings out a small whimper from his mouth.

he wants to die.

he freezes behind you. his hands are still working clumsily at the twisted strap, and suddenly every ounce of his blood is either pooling in his cheeks or rising to the tip of his dick.

did you notice? did you hear him? you must’ve. there’s no way you didn’t hear his pathetic whimper. it was right there—

his finger slips from your back and he steps away. you start to turn around, and he’s convinced this is it. he expects you to look at him with disgust, or tell him that you think he’s a gross pervert and that you never want to see him again. he wouldn’t blame you.

but no— you’re smiling at him like he’s just done you the biggest favour. like you hadn’t just accidentally bumped into the biggest and most humiliating problem that was currently ruining his entire life.

“thanks, bobby.” you beam like you hadn’t just reset all of the chemistry in his bloodstream, “you mind getting me some water? i’m exhausted.”

bob swallows so hard that it hurts, “yeah. no—no problem.”

he turns, and practically scampers away like a disgraced rat— head down, footsteps clumsy, still trying to hide the absolute mess he’s become underneath your presence— and then he hears you.

“hey bob?” you call.

he freezes and turns. his eyes are so wide and guilty, and his hands fumble with the front of his sweater like it’ll shield him from the absolute humiliation bleeding through his entire body.

“you might wanna…” you tilt your head, your lip tucked between your teeth like you’re resisting the urge to laugh, “sort that out before anyone else sees.”

bob stops.

oh. my. god.

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valerievortex · 12 hours ago

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🜼 ⋆ clark thinks he’s built wrong cause his xxl condoms don’t fit

cw: brief cock mention ( vein, curve, girth, freckles, hair ).

it’s not even hard—he’s not even hard—and the damn thing is already blushing at the tip, thick with blood and heavy enough to rest against the dense curve of his thigh.

clark’s got those lazy, dusky veins wrapping around the shaft like vines, one in particular that runs along the underside in a thick, stubborn line that catches the light when he moves. it pulses sometimes, like it’s annoyed. like it knows he’s trying to tame it into latex and propriety.

and the condoms? the xxl ones? they look like balloon animals stretched halfway up, stuck at the swell where he starts to really thicken out. can’t even roll past the middle.

they pinch and they fucking hurt like hell.

he thought it was a brand issue at first, bought three different boxes. tried different positions in the mirror: bent forward, standing up, leg on the toilet like some godforsaken centaur and every time, it’s the same problem.

“built wrong,” he mumbles, cheeks pink, breath fogging the mirror. he won’t meet his own eyes.

but the truth is, he’s not built wrong. he’s built like clark. heavyset and freckled, like every inch of him has been kissed by the sun and decided to keep the evidence. even there, right at the base, he’s got those faint little reddish freckles dusting the skin. it’s the same shade as the soft trail of dark hair leading down from his navel, and the darker patch at the root—almost black, thick and coarse, barely trimmed because he’s too embarrassed to do anything else to it.

he doesn’t know what to do with himself. he can bench-press a tractor but can’t figure out how to be small enough to fit.

he keeps the box in the drawer like it’s a shameful secret. unopened now, just there like it’s mocking him into a reminder of how big he is.

he’s not sure if he’s supposed to apologize for it or warn someone or just… hide.

but maybe one day—maybe—someone will kiss that apologetic look right off his mouth and tell him he’s not too anything. he’s just clark. and he fits them just fine.

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valerievortex · 12 hours ago

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enough for you // clark kent x reader

Plagued by insecurities, you can't imagine that Clark Kent would ever return your feelings. After weeks of pining, weeks of feeling your heart break more and more, it all comes to a fever pitch. Can you and Clark work it out?

Warnings: swearing, drinking, angst, very vague mentions of smut(like so vague), reader is insecure, Clark is a nervous wreck.

a/n: ahhh my first post!!! this is unbetaed, and only somewhat proofread. contains gratuitous use of em-dashes, ye be warned.

wc: 2549

It didn’t take long for you to realize just how perfect Clark Kent was.

It started off with the little details. The way he brought coffee and snacks to everyone in the office, how he never hesitated to help someone with an article, and how he offered genuine, thoughtful advice without any expectations of reciprocity. How he made a point to listen, really listen, to what someone was saying, and committed to making them feel seen. On most other people, it would feel performative—a masquerade, concealing something darker. With Clark, it was natural, innately him, and so authentic that it made your heart swell.

After working with him for a few months and going from colleagues to friends, that esteem shifted to something sweeter. Respect became admiration. Admiration became reverence.

You almost didn’t notice the change in your feelings; it happened so gradually, until one frantic Monday morning. A busy weekend had you running late, and as you darted through the cubicles at The Daily Planet, you and Clark slammed into one another, coffee cups and loose papers flying. Hot coffee drenched your front, plastering your silky blouse to your skin. The stinging pain of hot coffee on your skin was replaced with amusement when you heard Clark exclaim, “Oh, fudge!”

That, and the way that he instinctively reached out towards your chest, barely brushing his large hands over the dripping fabric of your top, so close to your skin, before remembering himself and pulling away. As he stammered his way through apologies, a bloom of color covering his cheeks, you realized just how handsome he was when he blushed. You also realized you had never heard an actual swear word pass his lips. It wasn’t anything world-shaking; plenty of people didn’t curse, but something about it solidified your opinion of Clark’s inherent goodness.

It also made you realize how out of your league he was.

After that, you took note of how he avoided your eyes when you and Jimmy joked around, trading poorly concealed innuendos in the bullpen. How, when you swore or told a crude story, his face flushed, and he went quiet.

The real breaking point came a few weeks later, at Lois’ birthday celebration. You’d taken the opportunity to dress up a little nicer than usual, wearing a new outfit that showed off much more than your typical office get-up. You looked good, and you felt good too. Jimmy whistled when you stepped up to the group, taking your hand and twirling you around playfully.

“Damn girl! Clark’s gonna lose it when he sees you.”

“What does that mean?” You asked, unable to decipher Jimmy’s tone of voice. He was already a few drinks in, and his words were slurred.

Jimmy let out an uncharacteristic giggle and shrugged coyly. “I’m just saying, that outfit might upset his…delicate sensibilities.”

Before you could press for more information, Jimmy was distracted by the song playing over the speakers and dragging Lois into a dance. It wasn’t long before Clark showed up, and to your dismay, he didn’t even greet you. Clark was always willing to chat when you were out together with the group, and his sudden distance was perplexing.

It wasn’t until you caught him looking at your outfit from across the room, with dark eyes and a clenched jaw, that Jimmy’s earlier remark came back to you. Was Clark offended by your outfit? Despite yourself, your earlier confidence shriveled. You’d never been the type to care what anyone else thought of you, and who cared what a man had to say about your clothes? But still, you were disappointed and embarrassed that once again, you weren’t good enough for Clark Kent.

After far too many drinks, your happy buzz began to veer towards sloppy inebriation. You decided to call it a night before you could embarrass yourself even more. You quietly said your goodbyes, then stepped out to the curb to wait for your Uber. You were too in your head to notice Clark's attentive gaze on you through the windows of the bar, making sure that you got into your Uber safely.

Thoughts swirling, you once again reflected on the idea that your bad mouth, skimpy clothes, and overall impropriety had to be something of a turnoff for guys like Clark. You were too crass, too dogmatic, too…you. And though Clark had never given any real indication that he looked poorly upon you or your personality, recollections of previous partners lamenting your indecency flashed through your mind, and something in you shattered. The harsh slap of reality overrode the feelings that you’d been nursing for months at that point.

It was ridiculous. You knew that Clark was too good for you, but something about that night, that moment, made it impossible to ignore.

Clark Kent wasn’t going to fall for a woman like you. Ever.

Since that night, you had pulled back, locking your feelings away in a cage and shoving them into a dark, empty corner of your heart. You tried ignoring how your heart fluttered when Clark’s fingers brushed yours as he handed you a cup of coffee(doctored to your taste perfectly, even though you’d never told him how you liked it). Tried to push aside the way that your stomach flipped and twisted into knots when he grinned, or God forbid, when he beamed, his dimples coming out in full force.

Every smile, every thoughtful gesture, every word that Clark spoke to you threatened to unleash everything you had tried so hard to conceal.

So, to spare yourself, and Clark, the trouble of your inconvenient emotions, you started avoiding him. At least as much as you could avoid someone you worked with, someone whose friends were also your friends, someone who, no matter how much you tried, you couldn’t cut off completely.

You didn’t think that Clark noticed the difference in your behavior, or even cared about it. If anything, you thought, he was probably relieved that he didn’t have to deal with you anymore. You never noticed the way his eyes would follow you, a small furrow between his brows every time you kept your distance from him. You never noticed how much he cared about anything you said or did. Until that night. The night.

You and the Daily Planet crew were all at Jimmy’s apartment. A Friday night happy hour gathering that turned into even more drinks back at Jimmy’s had left you a bit tipsy. You were on the sofa, barefoot and giggly, talking to Cat about a recent date you’d gone on. It was nothing special, just a guy from Hinge who was cute and interesting enough to warrant an evening of your attention. You didn’t mention that if you squinted, he sort of, vaguely bore a resemblance to Clark. Several drinks had left you uninhibited, and you gave Cat more detail than you might’ve otherwise, especially in mixed company. As you recounted the date, particularly the sordid details of what happened after, you made eye contact with Clark. He was sitting across the room, hands clenched around his drink, eyes locked on yours, displaying an emotion you didn’t recognize. You hadn’t thought you were talking that loud, but if the look on Clark's face was any indication, he’d heard every word you said. Shame burned in your gut, and you swiftly changed the subject, trying to forget the look in his eyes.

It was ridiculous. You were a grown woman. You can do, say, and dress however you’d like. If you want to wear skimpy clothes or hook up with guys from dating apps, you have every right to do that.

There was just something about Clark, though, that made you want to impress him. Be good enough for him. It was exhausting and terrifying all at once.

You couldn’t make it more than 5 minutes before making your excuses to leave Jimmy’s, citing a headache as you grabbed your purse and pulled on your shoes. As you slipped out the front door, the one voice you didn’t want to hear called out to you.

“I’ll walk you home,” Clark stated, his tone leaving no room for argument. You simply sighed and kept walking, keeping your eyes focused on the ground. You told yourself it was because you were tipsy and you needed to focus on your steps. But you knew that it was really because, if you looked at him, you would break down. You didn’t acknowledge his presence, ignoring the warmth of his body as you walked down the block together, his sleeves occasionally brushing against yours, the scent of his cologne, something woodsy and smooth that clouded your senses, ignoring all of it to the point of distraction, a crack in the sidewalk sending you plummeting towards the ground.

Before you could fall, however, Clark’s arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you back upright. You looked up at him, the streetlights casting his face in shadows.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice kind despite it all. Another round of mortification coursed through your veins. He must’ve thought you were such a wreck.

“M’fine,” you muttered, quickly pulling away from his grasp. As you started to walk again, Clark grabbed your hand in his own.

“Did I do something wrong?”

All the air rushed from your lungs, your eyes welling up at the sound of his voice. He sounded so genuinely sincere, so remorseful without cause. Even though it was all your fault, of course Clark—poor, sweet Clark—would find a way to blame himself.

“No, you didn’t do anything wrong.” Your response came out strangled, weighed down by months of suppressed sentiments and insecurities.

“Then why won’t you talk to me? Why won’t you look at me—I mean, really look at me?” His gentle hold on your wrist released, his hand moving instead to your chin, tilting your face toward his own.

The tears fell without permission, streaming down your face with a vengeance. Maybe it was the pleading look in his eyes, and his soft words imploring you to open up to him. Maybe it was the drinks you’d consumed. Maybe it was simply exhaustion. Exhaustion from spending all that time pretending you weren’t totally gone for this man. Whatever it was, you knew you had to tell him something—anything.

“I just—I don’t want you to hate me,” you choked out, keeping your eyes downcast.

“Why on earth would I hate you?” He asked you so earnestly, as if the mere idea of Clark Kent hating anyone was inconceivable. Another wave of tears streamed down your face, only to be gently brushed away by Clark’s calloused thumb. “I could never hate you,” he said simply, “and I’m sorry if I ever made you feel otherwise.”

You took a moment to collect yourself, to find the words to explain.

“I just—you’re so good, Clark. Truly, genuinely good. Sometimes when I’m around you, I feel like a total wreck. I’m not like you. I barely have my shit together—and even though it shouldn’t matter, I care way too much about what you think of me. Fuck—I just want you to respect me. I want you to like me the same way that I like you.”

Clark’s eyes are wide, and his voice is soft when he speaks.

“You think I don’t respect you?”

He takes your silence as an answer and places both hands on your face. “Sweetheart, I’m flattered that you think I have my shit together. But I can promise you, I don’t have a damn clue what I’m doing half the time. And I’m sorry—I’m so sorry, if I’ve ever made you feel like I don’t respect you. Because I do. So much. And if you like me even half as much as I like you, then I’m a lucky man.”

“Oh.” No other words would come out; you were struck speechless. Was he saying what you thought he was? “I just thought—”

“Thought what, sweetheart?” His gentle tone encourages you to open up, to tell him what has you so shaken.

“Well—when we were at Lois’ birthday celebration, you looked like you hated what I was wearing. Like it was too slutty or something. You didn’t talk to me, you barely even looked at me. And tonight, when I was talking to Cat about hooking up with that guy—it seemed like you were put off by it.”

As you say it, you feel absolutely pathetic. Never before had you cared about male validation, yet here you were: practically begging Clark Kent to hold you in high regard. His hands leave your face and clench at his sides as he looks down at the ground.

“The only reason why I didn’t talk to you at Lois’ party was because I knew I’d make a fool of myself if I tried. I didn’t hate what you wore, I loved it. I just knew that if I spoke to you, if I even let myself look at you for too long, I would only embarrass myself. And yeah, I was a bit put off when I heard you talking about that guy earlier. But not because I was judging you. Because I was jealous.”

“You were jealous?” You ask, struck dumb by his words.

Clark only nods, still looking at the ground. Even under the dim streetlights, you can see the flush creeping across his cheeks.

“Clark, look at me.”

He does, and now it’s your turn to hold his cheeks in your palms. For a moment, you both just look at one another, your eyes conveying everything you’re both too overwhelmed to say. You let your gaze dip down to his mouth, hoping that he’ll understand what you want—what you need. Of course, he understands, and finally, Clark Kent leans down and presses his lips to yours.

It’s everything that a first kiss should be. Actually—it’s even more.

You both lose yourselves in the moment, pulling each other tighter like you just can’t get close enough. It isn’t until a car alarm goes off down the street that you separate. Clark rests his forehead on yours, and for a second, you both just breathe, trading warm breaths in the cold night air.

“I should’ve done that a long time ago,” Clark says. Then, he presses a trail of whisper-soft kisses to your temple, your cheek, your chin. “I’m sorry I made you feel like you didn’t matter. Like I didn’t—don’t think the world of you.”

All you can do is nod, pressing your own kiss to his shoulder as you pull him into a hug. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you what I was feeling,” you tell him, “I let my insecurities get in the way.”

You know it’s not perfect. That this is just a start, and there’s so much more that you have to talk about. But for now, in this moment, it’s enough.

It’s enough for Clark to finish walking you home. Enough for him to press another kiss to your mouth, lingering just a second too long—like he doesn’t want to stop. Enough for you to fall asleep to thoughts of Clark Kent, a smile on your face.

please consider sharing your thoughts <3 i'd love to know what you think!!

crossposted on ao3

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valerievortex · 13 hours ago

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As a person who flinches when animals get hurt, I really love Superman. Wdym the guy chose to get caught by Lex just because he didn't want his cousin's dog to be alone? Wdym he wanted to terminate the Kaiju in a less painful way? Homeboy saved a squirrel. Superman is for the dog and animal lovers. It's easy to fall in love with the guy.

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valerievortex · 13 hours ago

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clark using his x-ray vision to scan for a threat around the building n accidentally sees that you have nipple piercings instead

follow up thought: him remembering it in the worst time possible and blows a load when he thinks about it while he’s jerking off alone

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valerievortex · 13 hours ago

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₊˚⊹⋆ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐋𝐔𝐄 𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐑 !

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: Bob Reynolds x GN!Reader

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: You and Bob are regulars at the same bookshop, but you both realise you’d like to be more than faces you spot by chance. So, what better way to start that relationship than with an aquarium date?

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: First dates, slightly nervous Bob and reader. Pure sweet, blush-worthy fluff otherwise!

𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 | 𝐌𝐂𝐔 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

It started with a message. One typed and untyped repeatedly with nervous fingers and a racing heart.

Well, technically, it started with a nervous conversation over in the bookshop you both were regular visitors of. Around two weeks ago, you finally said, “We should hang out sometime,” and Bob, after blinking rapidly like he couldn’t believe his ears, said, “Yeah. I’d like that. I’d really like that.”

You weren’t sure if he’d actually follow up. He seemed like someone who meant things, really meant them, but also like someone who might back out just to avoid being a bother. He was kind like that, always a bit too thoughtful.

But now here you are, outside the city aquarium, checking your reflection in the glass doors, heart doing somersaults. There’s a nervous, fluttering weight in your chest, made heavier by the fact that Bob, tall, golden, inexplicably gentle Bob, is walking up the path right now, looking like the human embodiment of sunshine in a hoodie and jeans.

He spots you and slows a little. His hand lifts in a small wave.

You wave back. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he says, voice a little hoarse. Then clears it, smiles, and tries again. “Hi. You look… wow.”

You laugh, cheeks heating. “Wow?”

“Like. Really good. In a cool way. Not like. Not like a weird, um, Jesus,” Bob stops himself, laughs softly, and rubs the back of his neck. “Sorry. I’m not great at this.”

You find yourself stepping closer, heart weird and warm. “That makes two of us.”

Bob’s smile widens. “Great. We’ll be bad at it together.”

The aquarium is quiet, cool, and softly lit. The kind of space that feels like it was made for comfortable silences and hand-holding. You walk side by side through the first few exhibits, reaching childlike levels of excitement over reef fish, tiny glowing jellyfish, schools of darting neon things. A lot of the time, it’s just pointing out the weirdest ones and exchanging quiet commentary.

Bob laughs when you point out a crab that looks like it’s wearing a top hat. You giggle when he names a particularly disgruntled-looking eel mumbling, “Kevin.”

At one point, you catch him watching you instead of the fish. When you glance over, he looks away quickly, ears pink.

“You’re really into this stuff, huh?” you ask.

He nods, a little shy. “It’s peaceful. Things make sense here. No one’s pretending.”

You hum. “Are you pretending?”

He goes still beside you. Then, “Not with you.”

Your breath catches. Bob, suddenly nervous again, gestures at the next tank. “C’mon. I think the penguins are up ahead.”

You make it through the penguin exhibit with Bob cooing at a tiny one that looks like it’s trying to fight a rock, and the Amazon section where you nearly lose your mind at the otters. Bob soft-laughs beside you, hand nearly brushing yours, and then finally reach the heart of the aquarium, the big tunnel tank.

It’s a massive, arched hallway of glass, water above and around, glowing blue, full of rays and sharks and silver schools of fish that glitter like confetti. The blue and green light flickers over your faces.

You both go quiet. Not awkward quiet. Reverent.

“It’s like being inside a dream,” you whisper.

Bob doesn’t answer at first. Then you feel it, his fingers brushing yours again. This time, lingering.

“I don’t really do this,” Bob murmurs hesitantly. “Dates. People. I never feel… normal. Or safe. But with you, I…,” Bob trails off, exhaling heavily. The words stay unspoken, but you understand.

You turn toward him slowly. He’s looking at the water, or trying to. But, his focus keeps slipping back to you.

“Bob,” you say gently. “I’m really glad you asked me to come here.”

His eyes meet yours. And for a moment, the water goes still. Not literally, but something in the air. That hush. That moment of stillness before something brave.

“I want to kiss you,” he says, voice low, honest. “Is that okay?”

You nod. “Yeah. It’s okay.”

The kiss is soft. Careful. A little clumsy, noses bump, he pulls back like he’s afraid he ruined it, you giggle and tug his hoodie to bring him back, and then it’s just warm. Sweet. Like the lights above you, soft and blue and full of wonder.

When you finally pull apart, Bob’s blushing so hard his ears match his hoodie. You’re smiling like your face can’t help it.

You lean in and whisper, “Best first date ever.”

And Bob, brilliant, bashful Bob, smiles like he’s just been handed the whole ocean.