celestiall222

[celestiall222]

No Sex until Friday -C.K

cw: Explicit sexual content (18+), masturbation, mutual masturbation, overstimulation, marking (biting), creampie, praise/degradation mix, orgasm control.

It starts with a bet. A stupid one.

“Four days,” Clark says, leaning against your kitchen counter like the most smug farm boy in the galaxy. “No sex until Friday. You can do that, can’t you?”

“Oh, I can,” you lie. You cannot. It’s not that you’re addicted to him—it’s just… fine, okay, you are. When your boyfriend is literally Superman, restraint isn’t exactly your strong suit. But you were still going to try.

You cross your arms, aiming for nonchalance. “You’re forgetting something, Smallville. I’ve got self-control.”

“Uh-huh,” he says, sipping his coffee like this is nothing. “You couldn’t even make it through Man of Steel Monopoly without—"

“That doesn’t count,” you cut in, cheeks warming at the memory. “You were cheating.”

“I was winning.” He tilts his head toward you, voice dropping low, “and you’re already thinking about breaking the rules.”

“I am not.” You absolutely are.

“I’m just saying,” Clark continues, “I think you’ll fold by Wednesday night.” 

“Oh, please,” you scoff. “I’m making it to Friday. And when I win, you’re taking me to that seafood place in Metropolis. The fancy one.”

“Sure baby, if you even make it that long.” He said laughing, and it was warm and deep and did things to you that were going to make this whole “no sex until Friday” arrangement absolutely impossible.

“So,” you said, stepping closer until your chest brushed his arm. “If we’re doing this… what exactly counts as breaking the rules?”

Clark hesitated, his jaw tightening just slightly, which told you he hadn’t actually thought this through. “Uh… no sex. That’s all.”

Your smirk was wicked. “Define sex.”

“You know, sex.”

You tilted your head. “Right. But define ‘sex,’ Kent. Because I’m pretty sure you’ve got, like, Smallville Boy Scout definitions, and mine might be… broader.”

His eyes flickered down at you—quick, almost guilty—and then back up, “You know what I mean.”

“Mm. I don’t. Clarify.”

Clark sighed, that low, exasperated sound he made when you were purposefully annoying him and he secretly liked it. “No kissing where it counts. No touching where it counts. No…” His voice dipped lower, “…oral anything.”

You fought a grin. “Interesting choice of words.”

“Stop,” he warned, but his cheeks were pink now, which was almost as satisfying as getting him into bed.

“Stop what? I’m just trying to make sure we’re on the same page,” you said, running your finger in an absentminded little circle against his bicep. “So I could walk around the apartment in a towel after a shower, dripping water everywhere, and that wouldn’t be breaking the rules?”

“That’s… not—” He coughed. “That’s not technically sex, no.”

“Or I could sit on your lap during movie night. Totally innocent. No rules broken.”

Clark’s jaw flexed again. “…Right.”

“And if I… oh, I don’t know…” you leaned in so your lips were just brushing the shell of his ear, “…accidentally moaned your name in my sleep?”

He turned to look at you fully, and the shift in his eyes made your knees a little weak—like you’d just poked at the Superman side of him instead of Clark. “You keep testing me, sweetheart, and Friday’s going to be very, very long for you.”

“Bold of you to assume I’ll regret winning.”

He hums, all calm and unbothered, but you can see it—how his hand lingers on the counter, knuckles whitening just slightly. “You remember what happened the last time we made a bet?”

You try to play innocent. “Nope. No idea what you’re talking about.”

Clark gives you a look, the one that says he’s running through every single memory in his superbrain and knows you’re lying. “You ended up handcuffed to my bed for three hours.”

You snort. “And you loved it.”

“Mm.” His lips twitch, fighting a smile. “Not the point.”

“You’re right,” you say, sidling past him toward the couch, deliberately brushing against his chest on the way. “The point is that you’re going to be paying for my oysters and champagne by Friday night.”

He follows you—because of course he does—and drops onto the couch beside you. “And the point is that you have zero poker face.”

“Oh, please.” You grab the remote, flicking on Netflix. “I’ve got plenty of poker face.”

Clark doesn’t even answer—just drapes his arm over the back of the couch and lets his thumb graze the bare skin of your shoulder.

You last fifteen minutes before you start to squirm. He notices, naturally, and smiles faintly like the predator he’s pretending not to be. “Wednesday night, huh?” he murmurs, eyes on the TV.

You grit your teeth, leaning back into his arm like you’ve got something to prove. “Friday, Kent. I’m making it to Friday.”

And that’s when he leans in, lips brushing the curve of your ear. “Guess I’ll just have to make sure you’re good and restless until then.” You know, in that moment, you’re so fucked.

The next morning, steam still clinging to your skin from the shower, you tug on a thin silk night slip, one thaf is definitely not bet-friendly—and pad into the kitchen.

Clark’s already there, hair damp from his own shower, in a fitted blue t-shirt that makes your pulse do funny things. He’s sitting at the table, reading the Daily Planet on his tablet, coffee in hand, and working his way through a plate of eggs 

You pause in the doorway, catching his eye for just a second, then—without breaking contact—you reach for the hem of your night slip and tug it up. Over your hips. Past your chest. And off.

Clark freezes mid-bite. Fork halfway to his mouth.

“Morning,” you say breezily, tossing the slip onto a chair and padding over to the laundry nook, bare ass bouncing. You bend tossing in towels with your ass high, knowing full well he can see everything. The air’s cool, nipples tight and aching, and you swear you hear him exhale a curse under his breath.

Laundry done, you saunter into the kitchen, open the cabinet, and pour yourself a cup of coffee like you’re not putting on a one-woman burlesque show before breakfast.

You take the mug to the couch and plop down next to him, crossing your legs. “Whatcha reading?”

Clark doesn’t look. “News brief. Morning update for the Planet.”

“Mhm.” You sip. “How’s that going?”

He swallows, jaw tight. “Fine.”

The silence stretches. You shift, scooting an inch closer. Then another. Until your thigh brushes his. His voice is slightly hoarse now. “Sweetheart—”

“Can I have a hug?” you interrupt.

“Not a good idea.”

“Didn’t ask if it was a good idea.” You set your coffee down and slide into his lap before he can react, straddling him.

Clark’s hands fly to your hips—not to pull you closer, but to keep you in place—as if that’s somehow going to help. You loop your arms around his neck, leaning in until your breasts press against his shirt. “It’s just a hug, Smallville. Not breaking any rules.”

Clark’s eyes are locked anywhere but on you, like he’s memorizing the wood grain of the coffee table. His thumbs flex against your hips before he catches himself and goes still. “You’re—” His voice comes out rough, like gravel. He clears his throat. “You’re naked.”

You tilt your head innocently. “Am I?”

He gives you that look—the one that I’m two seconds from throwing you over my shoulder. “You know you are.”

“Right. Which… is fine.” You shift just enough that the movement drags your nipples across his chest. “Because being naked isn’t against the rules.”

The rest of Tuesday is… fun. For you. For Clark, it’s some kind of Herculean test of willpower.

By Wednesday morning, you’ve traded the silk night slip for nothing but one of his button-ups—and not much else. 

By Thursday, you can tell he’s hanging by a thread. Which is exactly why you push.

That night, you’re in bed together. You’ve been good—technically. No touching “where it counts.” No breaking the rules. But as he scrolls through something on his phone beside you, broad shoulders relaxed against the headboard, you get an idea.

You start slow—just sliding a hand over your own stomach under the blanket. Then your fingers drift lower. You bite back a sound, but the mattress dips as his head turns. “Sweetheart?”

“Hmm?” You keep your eyes closed, breath soft and uneven now.

Clark freezes. “What are you—” His voice drops. “Oh, no.”

“Not breaking the rules,” you murmur, lips curving. “I’m just… helping myself sleep.” Within seconds, your fingertips find slick heat, and your hips give a tiny involuntary roll. The sound that slips past your lips is embarrassingly needy. You hum, teeth catching your bottom lip. You keep going, rubbing slow circles, your breath catching in quiet, uneven little gasps. 

His phone’s still in his hand, but his jaw is tight now. “You trying to get me to lose?”

“Mm,” you breathe, eyes closed. “Not… technically…”

The blanket shifts over you as your hips move again. Your whimper is quiet but not quiet enough. Clark groans under his breath, rolling to face the opposite direction like distance will save him. “You’re impossible.”

You smile to yourself, dragging your fingers lower, dipping into your own heat. The slick sound is filthy in the quiet room, and the next moan that slips out is louder. He inhales sharply through his teeth, but doesn’t move.

“Fine,” you pant, your own voice starting to shake with how badly you’re aching. “Guess I’ll just keep doing it myself… thinking about your cock instead of my fingers… about how big you’d feel inside me right now…” That does it. His free hand shifts under the blanket toward his own waistband, and a second later you catch the faintest movement of his fist working over himself. Your hips stutter. “Clark—”

“Don’t start,” he grits out, jaw tight. “You started this game.”

You let out another moan, high and breathless, and that’s it—his phone clatters to the nightstand. In one motion, he’s on his side facing you, catching your wrist under the blanket and pulling your fingers from yourself.

“Move ‘em,” he orders, you barely have time to inhale before he’s replacing them with the hot, thick press of his cock, sliding in slowly. You moan, nails digging into his shoulders as he stretches you full.

Clark braces one palm beside your head, the other gripping your thigh so tight you swear you’ll feel it later. “Four days,” he murmurs against your ear, voice low and dangerous. “I made it four days with you teasing me like that. You owe me.”

Your nails rake down his back, earning a low grunt. “Fucking… knew you wouldn’t last,” you manage between moans.

Clark’s laugh is dark and breathless against your skin. “I lasted,” he pants, slamming into you harder. “You didn’t.”

You gasp when his hips snap forward, the headboard knocking against the wall. “I—” you start, but it melts into a moan.

“Could’ve kept my hands to myself,” he goes on, driving the words between thrusts, “but then you had to sit there and—god—touch yourself right next to me.” His pace picks up, his fist bunching the sheets near your head like he’s holding back from just railing you into the mattress.

His forehead presses to yours, sweat slick at his hairline, and his voice drops to a dark murmur that makes you clench around him. “God—fuck—” you whimper, the words breaking into a moan when his cock drags against that perfect spot inside you. You’re so wet now that every snap of his hips is filthy and loud under the blankets, slick and obscene.

“You hear that?” Clark groans, fucking you harder. “That’s how fucking desperate you are. Four days, and you’re dripping all over me like a slut who can’t keep her hands to herself.”

He bites down on your shoulder, groaning like he’s just as far gone, hips jerking into you with mindless, hungry force. “Gonna cum in you,” he grits out. “Gonna fill this perfect little pussy so deep you’ll still feel me tomorrow.” You choke out a cry, your back arching as your orgasm hits—sharp and devastating—your cunt pulsing around him, slick spilling down between your thighs. He fucks you through it, chasing his own high, his thrusts growing erratic.

When he finally eases back just enough to look at you, you feel the hot spill of him leaking out between your thighs. His fingers slip down, pressing against your swollen cunt pushing his cum back in making you jolt.

“Not done,” he murmurs, watching your face as he keeps moving inside you, slow and filthy. “I’m gonna fuck it deeper so you remember who you belong to.” And with that, Clark Kent—boy scout farm boy, world’s greatest hero—starts all over again, ruining you until you can’t even remember what day it is, much less who won the bet.

a/n: ive has the MOST stressful week but alas time shall go on and writing smut exists so staying alive can’t be that bad also super thankful for all of u whores

[celestiall222]

ᯓ★ MINORS DNI 18+

CLARK KENT folding you up. he’s putting your knees to your ears, squishing you down like a little human pretzel while he mounts you, using his weight and strength against you. the kind of position that makes you short of breath, giving you that dizzy little feeling, the one that has you passively accepting anything he does to you. you can hear how wet you are, you can hear it fill the room—how it squelches whenever he bottoms out. when he adjusts you one last time, yanking you by your hips to be that much closer to him, and fixing his hands in the crooks of your knees to keep your hole raised and your legs up… you hear him chuckle. the sweetest clark kent snicker you’ve ever bore witness to. sheepishly, you peel your sleepy eyes open one by one to look at him in the dim light, questioning him with your glance, remarkably vulnerable. he answers you, dragging his bottom lip through his perfect white teeth. “it’s nothing, it’s just… you’re just so little.”

[celestiall222]

IM SCREAMING FROM THE MOUNTAINSSSSS COWBOY SYLUS FANTASY RETURNS WITH A BURNIN SOUTHERN PASSION ART BY CHIMCHILLA

This makes me want to write!!! Cookin up a cowboy sylus drabble as we speak!!

[celestiall222]

clark kent accidentally using you like a stress toy after a hard day of being superman

you don’t even get a hello before clark’s got his lips on yours.

he’d barely shut the front door before he was on you—lifting you off your feet with a soundless grunt, kissing you so deeply you forgot your own name. the door didn’t close all the way. his glasses are still on. his shirt’s still half-tucked from wherever he came back from. and he doesn’t seem to care.

his mouth trails down your neck, hot and shaky. he doesn’t talk yet, but you can feel it in his grip—he’s tense. wired. too quiet. the kind of quiet that comes after something bad.

you wrap your arms around his shoulders, and he exhales hard—like just touching you let him breathe again.

“bad day?” you murmur, brushing your lips against his temple.

he just nods. silently carries you to the bedroom like his life depends on it. like he needs you right now more than air.

then?

he lays you down.

tugs your clothes off like he’s being careful, but still rushing. his hands shake when he lines himself up, and he looks down at you like he’s asking for forgiveness before he’s even started.

“sorry if i’m bein’ selfish, sweetheart,” he says softly, cupping the underside of your knee and pushing it up toward your chest. “i promise i’ll take care of you after. i just—i really need you right now.”

and then he sinks into you.

you gasp. every time you think you’ve adjusted to his size, you forget—he’s massive. too big. stretches you so wide you feel the outline of him in your belly. but the worst part is that he doesn’t stop. he keeps going, keeps pushing your legs up, folding you into a mating press as his hips press flush against yours, cock buried to the hilt.

“oh gosh,” he breathes, jaw trembling. “you’re just so warm. so perfect. always take me so well…”

you can’t even respond—just whimper and arch into him, and he starts moving.

deep, dragging thrusts that shake the bedframe. his grip is vice-tight on the back of your thighs, his broad chest pressing your knees to your shoulders, sweat already starting to bead at his temple. and then—finally—he talks.

“this guy… this absolute jerk thought he could take down a whole city block,” he grits out, still speaking like he’s complaining to a friend, not while pounding your cunt like it owes him rent. “flung a taxi at a daycare, would you believe that? and people think i’m too soft when i hold back—golly…”

he punctuates the word with a sharp thrust, making your toes curl.

“so i didn’t. i didn’t hold back this time, i—I really gave it to him, you know? but then lex starts in with his ‘oh superman, you’re a danger to society’ speech and—good grief, darlin’, you’re squeezin’ me so tight—”

your fingers dig into his biceps as he fucks you harder, angling his hips just right to grind against your sweet spot. your eyes roll. your thighs shake. and clark—poor sweet clark—is too in his head to realize he’s fucking the soul out of you while venting about his commute.

“i was just tryin’ to help. like i always do. and people still looked at me like i’m some kinda monster, but then i come home and—and you let me do this, and—and god, baby—you always make me feel human.”

you can’t breathe. can’t think. your hands are scrabbling at his back, legs trembling in his grip, and he’s just moaning softly into your neck now, whispering sweet nothings while his cock splits you open.

“m’sorry, sugar,” he mumbles as your eyes roll back, pace never faltering. “didn’t mean to go this hard—just… needed to feel close to you. needed to feel good. you always make me feel good, angel.”

you’re gonna cry. he’s so deep you feel like you’re gonna pass out, and he doesn’t even realize he’s got you halfway to god while still talking like a 1940s housewife.

you try to tell him you’re close, but it comes out as a breathless sob. clark pulls back to look at you—sees the tears, the shaky mouth, the way your body’s convulsing beneath him—and his expression softens, even while his cock’s still grinding into your cervix like a battering ram.

“oh gosh,” he whispers, instantly panicked. “did i hurt you? are you—darlin’, are you okay? i didn’t even notice how hard i was goin’, i’m so sorry—”

you cling to him, voice wrecked.

“clark—don’t stop. please, don’t stop—just wanna cum—”

he exhales like you just saved his life. kisses your temple. then fucks you so deep you see stars.

your orgasm hits like a tidal wave—loud, messy, devastating. clark groans your name like a prayer and finishes seconds later, cock twitching inside you as he fills you to the brim, thick and hot and so much that it leaks out around his base, dripping onto the sheets in warm streaks.

and when it’s over, when your body’s gone limp and your breathing is ragged and you feel like you’ve been hit by a train (a hot, kansas-born train), clark gathers you up like you’re something precious. kisses your hair. wraps you in a blanket and tucks you under his chin like nothing happened.

“gosh, you’re good to me,” he murmurs. “can’t believe you put up with me when i get like that.”

you smile weakly, snuggled against his chest, still full of him.

“you can be rough with me anytime, clark. just… maybe warn me first so i'm prepared to see heaven again.”

he chuckles, sheepish.

“sorry, angel. guess i don’t know my own strength.” a/n: i still havent watched the new superman movie yet but i just had to

[celestiall222]

Crybaby girlfriend reader who is way too overstimulated as she tries her best to continue riding Clark only for him to wrap his arms around her and pull her down while he takes over and she just sobs in his neck clawing at his chest because he just feels sooo good😭😵‍💫😍

this has made me, quite literally, ill to think about. here’s a lil somethin’ for you honey <3

cw: nsfw, fem!reader, pet names (baby, mama), soft dom!ish clark, not proofread but i tried :)

“claaark!” you whine, eyes squeezed shut and thighs tensing, your skin sticking to the tops of his strong, hairy thighs as you chase a high that… frankly… clark’s already gotten you to twice…

“i know, i know, ‘s good, huh? hm? ‘s that good?” he coos back, chest heaving with your movement— sweat pooling in his collar bones, and hair gel falling loose

your deep cry, your immediate “yes yes yes” as you fight to try and keep that delicious friction between your cunt and his happy trail almost has clark’s eyes rolling back in complete ecstasy

except, of course, his sweet girl is shaking like a leaf; pouting like he’s about to pull away the sweetest honey in the world. eyes teary and fingers grabby for him

“baby.. baby w-wait hang on, c’mon, lemme take care’a you.. let clark fix it, huh?” in the sweetest, but simultaneously sluttiest tone ever as he adjusts you in his lap

your arms are pinned to your sides. as he bear hugs you, flexing his thighs to scoot you further up his body—never once pulling out of you

“i gotcha, mama. i gotcha…shhh, ‘s that good? huh? no more crying, ‘mg gonna give it to you, i promise” shushing you and pistoning his hips so deep inside of you that you swear he’s seated himself comfortably in your tummy— scaring away the butterflies that always seem to linger there when he’s with you

“my weepy baby, just needed me… needed your clarkie, right baby?” his teasing is met with more weeping, borderline sobbing hiccups from you as you claw at his chest

and clark wouldn’t have it any other way!

and on a day where’s he more tense… feeling mean (which is foreign to him, truthfully), he’d mock your “o” shaped mouth, smiling with full dimples as he taunts “ohhh, that’s nice huh? love my crybaby, just needed a good screw.. thas’ all… thas all….”

[celestiall222]

"clark kent who loves to have you in . . ." | nsfw headcannons

warnings — [minors dni!!] detailed sex positions and descriptions, clark and his huge dick, me just being really horny but what else is new 🤒

clark who loves to have you in missionary because he needs to be close. the kind of close where your breath mingles, where he can see every twitch of your face, every tear that wells up when he fucks you too deep, too good. he’s slow at first—so slow, dragging his cock in and out, watching it disappear into you while your legs tremble on his shoulders. his massive hands cradle your thighs or pin your wrists to the mattress, depending on his mood.

“you look so fucking beautiful like this,” he groans, hips snapping forward, burying himself to the hilt with a hard thrust that makes you scream. “can you feel how deep I am, sweetheart? i love feeling you so deep like this”

the kiss is messy, wet, his tongue almost violating your mouth as his pace turns punishing. his skin slaps against yours, sweat slick between you, his pelvis grinding just right to make you clench and whimper. when he’s close, he holds your face, panting, whispering filth so softly into your ear.

“gonna fill you up, baby—fuck, i’m gonna fill this pussy so deep you’ll feel me tomorrow.”

clark who loves to have you in cowgirl because he loses his mind when you’re on top. his hands rest on your hips, but only because you let him touch. his muscles are trembling, jaw clenched, trying not to grab you and flip you over, but watching you take control? watching you grind on him, tits bouncing, face twisted in pleasure? it drives him insane.

“fuck, just like that—god, look at you, so pretty” he pants, eyes glued to where you’re bouncing on his cock, loud and wet. “y’so tight, baby, you’re milking me, please ride me faster.”

sometimes he just can’t help himself so pins your hips down, holding you in place while he thrusts up, hard and fast, letting you feel how strong he is, how deep he can get when he really tries.

“all mine,” he growls, sweat dripping down his temple. “youre all mine—you hear me, sweetheart? say it.”

clark who loves to have you in prone bone for when he just has the urge to ruin you sweetly, clark flips you on your stomach and fucks you deep, slow, unrelenting. his weight pins you down, one big hand gripping the back of your neck, the other tangled in your hair. you’re panting—drooling, with your cheek pressed to the sheets, back arched as his cock grinds into you, stretching you so good you can barely even think to breathe.

“taking me so well, baby,” he groans into your ear, lips brushing your skin. “you love this, don’t you? love being good f’me, while i’m in you deep and slow.”

you whimper, and his hand slides under you, fingers rubbing your clit in slow, lazy circles. his cock drags inside you, thick and hot, your slick making it so messy, your thighs soaked, his balls slapping your pussy with every thrust. he keeps whispering—filthy praise, soft groans, desperate moans when you clench around him.

“god—i’m gonna come so deep inside you, sweetheart. don’t run. stay right here. lemme feel you.”

clark who loves to have you in standing doggy just for days when he wants to grab you, bend you over the kitchen counter, the dresser, whatever’s closest, and take you hard. his hands are bruising on your hips, slamming you back against him with every deep thrust. your knees shake, your breath comes out in moans, and he’s groaning behind you, eyes locked on the way your ass bounces.

“god—you’re just s-so perfect,” he growls, landing a sharp slap that makes you yelp. “wish you could see how I’m splitting you open, baby.”

you grip the counter, desperate to stay upright, but he’s relentless, pounding into you so hard you feel him in your stomach. his hand wraps in your hair, yanking your head back so he can whisper in your ear.

“you gonna come for me like this? ‘can feel it getting closer, just let go baby.”

you come with a scream, and he fucks you through it, grunting as he spills inside you, his cock twitching deep, filling you up, your legs giving out as he holds you against him, shaking. “so so good f’me”

clark who loves to have you in spooning for those mornings that are lazy and soft. clark pulls you close, wraps around you, and slides in from behind, thick and slow and perfect. his arm curls under your head, the other gripping your thigh, keeping you spread for him. his cock drags in deep, slow thrusts, and you’re gasping, boneless in his arms.

“still sleepy, baby?” he teases, kissing your neck. “m’sorry im just so needy this morning….”

and he just loves the intimacy—the way your bodies fit, the way you whimper when he grinds into you, slow and deep. his hand sneaks between your legs, rubbing your clit, making you moan, squirm, beg.

“gonna keep you here all day,” he groans, his thrusts getting rougher, messier. “fill you up, over again, and over again, until you’re dripping on the sheets, baby. can you feel how much I love you?”

a/n: love u guys sm please send requests for me to get back to and write for!! i write for remmick and clark kent rn <3

tags: [reply or dm to be added] @jimmys-tiara @dolleciita @budgiefeatherboa @flixpii @redhairedgardenfairy @faestunna

dividers | @cursed-carmine

© kentblvd | don't copy, steal, or translate any of my work

[celestiall222]

lovestruck and looking out the window

part one | PART TWO

pairing: clark kent x fem reader 6.2k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Huh. That’s funny.

Superman starts walking somewhat in your direction.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The museum?”

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

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

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

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

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

Your head throbs similarly. “Sorry, what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No.

There’s no way.

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

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

Interviews only Clark seems to be able to get.

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

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

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

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

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

Your head is reeling.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You grab the back of his flowing cape and tug.

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

“What—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It does nothing but make you more sure. 

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

A second later, the urge to argue leaves him. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hmm. Just a bit.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You feel warm. “Thanks, superstar.”

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

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

“I’m partial to both, I think.”

“That’s good. I like Big Blue, too.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, yeah? That’s real sweet of you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Whatever, detective.”

“Are you going to tell me, then?”

“Maybe.”

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

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

“You can’t be serious.”

“Deathly.”

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

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

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

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

This entire situation is just so embarrassing. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Clark flushes red. You preen.

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

He slips them on, and your lips part. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re always welcome, Clark.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You.”

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

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

“Sorry—this is for me?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“While I was there?”

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

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

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

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

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

Things you can’t admit to him.

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

He seems to wilt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, you think to yourself.

“Oh,” you say out loud. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

”Very.”

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

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

“Clark, fuck—oh my god.”

He smiles, pressing a tender kiss to your jaw.

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

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

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

Clark tilts his head. He looks down.

All the way down.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

BONUS:

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

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

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

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

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

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

[celestiall222]

The Space Where You Forgot Me

Clark Kent x female reader

Synopsis: Clark Kent had never raised his voice. His love was gentle, his presence steady. But when he began to slip away—through silence, missed dates, and unanswered texts—the quiet hurt more than any argument ever could. Until she decided to leave… and he realized the only way to save her was to show her who was truly behind the mask.

Warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, crying, jealousy, emotional breakdown, marriage proposal, protective!Clark, soft!reader, slight misunderstanding, hurt!Clark, happy ending.

WC: 4,806

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Since you started your relationship with Clark, fights simply didn’t exist. Clark didn’t fight. He would never raise his voice. His tenderness wasn’t a learned gesture—it was part of him. He cared for you with that disarming gentleness, listened to you patiently, and when something hurt, you talked about it. Always.

But something changed.

At first, it was subtle. A date he postponed with a believable excuse. Then another. Later, he simply didn’t show up. He began leaving the office early without waiting for you, without saying goodbye. He wouldn’t reply to your messages during the day, and when he finally did, it was only to coldly ask if you had made it home safely. You’d reply “yes” with trembling fingers. But that was it. No more “I miss you,” not even a “rest well.”

You saw him from afar, laughing.

You weren’t a jealous person. You repeated it like a mantra. But it was impossible not to notice the closeness between him and Lois. The laughter they shared, the secrets in their eyes. The way Clark gave Lois her favorite coffee… and then gave you yours, but different, as if he no longer remembered what it actually was.

He wasn’t distracted at work. Only with you.

And it hurt.

You sighed every time you noticed, and having him in front of you that night, at your apartment door, shoulders slumped and holding a bouquet of purple tulips in his hands, tasted bitter. Painfully bitter. Because Clark, of all men, seemed to be the only one who would never make you feel that way.

“You said you were at work, Clark…” you whispered, your voice breaking with the tears you were holding back.

He didn’t look at you.

“You weren’t answering your phone and… then Lois replied. She said she was helping you with an article. At a coffee shop.”

Your voice trembled at the end. And you swallowed hard.

“It’s not what you think,” Clark murmured, barely audible. “I… I really was finishing the article.”

Your eyes clouded. You didn’t want to think that Lois was doing more with your boyfriend. Because you knew her. God, Lois was everything you weren’t: bright, charismatic, confident. She had been good to you, even kind. But maybe that wasn’t what hurt. Maybe it hurt that, unknowingly, she was taking up the space you no longer knew how to fill.

“It’s late, Clark. Dinner’s cold. You don’t need to stay,” you said, in a voice that barely held itself together.

He finally looked up and saw the mess in your kitchen. The lasagna, the one he knew took you hours to prepare. The decorated table. The burned-out candle. Your glass half-filled. His untouched plate.

He felt the weight of his mistake and took a step forward, clumsy, unsure.

“I…”

“Goodnight,” you interrupted him.

You didn’t ask him to leave. You didn’t need to. He knew the way out.

You turned slowly and walked to your room. When you closed the door, the front one closed minutes later. You knew he had left.

And you cried.

You hugged your knees and cried as if doing so could empty your heart. You felt stupid staring at your phone screen, waiting for a message. A call. An apology. Something.

But he didn’t insist. He didn’t call.

He didn’t come back that weekend.

You cried until Monday morning. And when the alarm went off, you got up as best you could.

You put cold spoons on your eyes to reduce the swelling. You put on glasses to cover what was left. And you went to work. As if nothing inside you was broken.

When you arrived, Clark wasn’t there.

You didn’t even turn when his chair creaked next to you. You just opened your laptop with steady hands, ignoring that, for the first time in months, there was no cup of coffee on your desk.

Such a simple gesture… and so his.

You swallowed the emptiness knotted in your throat. And you didn’t notice that no one else had coffee either. Clark hadn’t spoken, hadn’t greeted anyone.

You drowned in the screen. You wrote aimlessly, soullessly, just to avoid thinking. Until Jimmy’s voice broke through your isolation.

“Hey! We’re thinking about going out today,” Lois said with that energy of hers that could fill any room.

“Lois forgot to mention that we don’t know where yet,” Jimmy added, laughing, sitting right in front of you to make you look at him. “Looks like you guys didn’t sleep well. Did you misbehave last night?” he joked, making both him and Lois laugh.

You barely managed a smile, small, fragile, like the faint line of a fresh scar.

“That’s not the point,” Lois continued, moving to Clark’s side and looking at both of you. “We’re thinking about grabbing some Italian food.”

“But we don’t know where,” Jimmy repeated.

“I got it!” Lois said, giving Clark a gentle tap on the shoulder, not noticing how he tensed. “Let’s go to that coffee shop from last time.”

Your heart sank.

“A coffee shop that opens at night?” Jimmy asked, confused.

“Yeah, it opens at midnight. They have jazz in the background, they serve cardamom coffee,” Lois said, almost reciting. “It’s delicious, with that old-timey atmosphere, perfect for relaxing. I don’t even like coffee, but they have beer too. It’s a fantastic place, right, Clark?”

You weren’t listening anymore. You were just watching Lois, talking about the place that was yours. Yours and his.

No one else knew.

That place was where Clark had taken you on your first date. Where he asked you to be his girlfriend. Where he said, laughing, that not even the Daily Planet could reach him. Where he took off his glasses and just let himself be.

Your gaze blurred on the screen. You felt Clark’s eyes on you, but you didn’t have the strength to meet them.

“Let’s go,” said Jimmy. “You guys are coming, right?”

The answer got stuck in your throat. And just then, Perry came out of his office and called you with a gesture. You gave him a weak smile, like someone clinging to a reflex, and left.

As you walked out, you didn’t return to your desk. You went straight to the bathroom. Closed the door. Breathed once. Twice. Three times. Until you broke down.

You cried so silently it hurt more.

Clark heard everything. Every stifled sob. Every broken exhale. He saw your silhouette through the wall, sitting on the cold floor, hugging your legs. He waited. Wanted to move. Wanted to knock. But then Perry called him too.

When you came out, he was gone.

You grabbed your things. Didn’t say goodbye.

And you left.

At home, you did what Perry had asked, sent it, and sat by the window, looking at the city. You didn’t know if it was the right time, but you did it: you asked Perry for a transfer to the Washington office.

He simply nodded. Said he’d see if something was available.

You closed the laptop. Closed everything.

You got into bed without even changing clothes.

And you cried so much… you didn’t realize when your phone died. Or the message Clark had sent.

And then, when you felt like you were drowning in pain, you heard the glass of your window shatter. Someone had broken it. You opened the door in silence… and saw him.

You saw him.

He wasn’t wearing the suit. There was no blue, no red cape. Just a shirt with the first buttons fastened wrong, a wrinkled tie, his glasses on the floor, probably fallen from the impact. His hair was messier than ever. You looked at him, frowning, your heart in pieces.

“What are you doing here, Kent?” you asked with restrained rage, broken inside, but still with fire in your voice.

He looked at you, eyes red, shining with tears. You never called him Kent. He was always Clark. Your Clark. He walked toward you crying. And when he was in front of you, so close, you saw him fall. He knelt before you, trembling, and cried. Cried like the world had never seen him cry.

“Don’t go…” he whispered between sobs. “Not because of me.”

“What I do from now on is none of your business,” you said with a shattered voice, broken inside. And even though having him there, on his knees, took your breath away and shattered your soul… you refused to give in. Because you were broken. Because he had allowed it.

“I didn’t do anything wrong…” he murmured, not daring to look at you. “Lois…”

“Don’t mention her!” you screamed, and your scream was a whip of pain, a roar of everything killing you inside. “Leave her out of this! Say it. Just say it! That you don’t love me anymore. That you fell in love with her. That you got tired of me…”

Your tears fell uncontrollably, and with each word, you felt yourself tearing apart inside.

“I warned you, Kent…” your voice trembled. “I told you I could handle everything. Everything! Except watching you stop loving me. And you… you promised!” You let yourself slide against the wall, collapsing to the floor as if you could no longer carry the weight of what you felt. “You promised that if one day you stopped loving me, you’d tell me…”

He approached, slowly, as if afraid of breaking you further.

“And I haven’t broken that promise,” he whispered, his voice as wounded as yours. “Because I never stopped loving you. Never. There isn’t a single day, not one night, when you’re not on my mind. You are my beginning and my end. You are the most important thing in my life. The only thing I have that is truly mine.”

His words were a desperate sigh. A contained scream.

And it was true. Of course it was.

He had spent hours flying aimlessly, searching among buildings, in the shadows, fearing something had happened to you. That you had vanished from his world. And yet, there you were… alone, in your apartment, crying over him.

And then he understood. That it wasn’t Superman who could hurt you. That the symbol, the hero, the savior of the world… wasn’t the problem.

It was Clark Kent. He was the one who had hurt you.

He had neglected the most sacred thing he had: you. His home. His love. His peace.

The chest of light you were to him now lay in pieces before his eyes, trembling, looking at him with your soul wide open.

And for the first time in his life… he felt the world wouldn’t end because of a nuclear explosion or an intergalactic war.

It would end if you turned your back on him.

“Lois knows,” he said, taking your hand in his, still in tears. “She found out. She confronted me. I told her you already knew, but… I got scared. I asked her not to tell anyone. She asked for interviews with Superman… and I gave them to her. We talked. But at no point… at no moment… did I ever want that to make you feel insecure. I swear on what I love the most. I swear on you.”

He lowered his gaze, as if he didn’t deserve to hold yours, and his fingers trembled as they clutched yours in desperation.

“They were investigating Clark Kent,” he whispered. “And not because they suspected he was Superman… but because they believed that if they got rid of the journalist, they could hurt Superman afterward. They knew Clark Kent was close to him. That he defended him. That he covered for him. And when they found out who his girlfriend was…” He swallowed hard, his voice shaking. “They knew that even without the suit, you were still tied to me.”

He lifted his gaze just a bit, broken, pleading.

“They’d come for me first… and then for you. Not because you were just another civilian, but because you were my heart. Because even if Superman survived, without you, nothing would be left.”

He let go of your hand for just a second and covered his face with both hands, frustrated, as if trying to hold back a scream. Then he reached for you again.

“I thought about you every minute. I didn’t sleep, I didn’t eat. I imagined every possible way they could hurt you. If they followed you. If they saw you leaving my apartment. If they filmed you. If they recognized you as my weakness. I was going crazy, sweetheart.”

His voice broke completely.

“I asked Lois to come with me. She volunteered. Said she could take the risk. I promised I’d protect her. That nothing would happen to her. We just wanted to find out who was behind it.”

You looked at him, confused.

“Then why didn’t you tell me?” you whispered, and your voice—so small and broken—shattered him.

“Because it’s easier to work with someone you don’t love. If it had been you… if you had been there in front of me, I wouldn’t have been able to concentrate. With Lois, I can pretend. Stay alert. But if it had been you… I… I wouldn’t have been able to focus. They would’ve beaten me. They would’ve killed me. They would’ve taken away what I love most.”

He leaned a little closer to you, as if his words needed less space between you.

“You are my blind spot, my only weakness, my everything. I’ve been fighting with myself all weekend. I couldn’t even touch my phone. I kept thinking about you, what you thought of me, if you hated me already. But I never stopped loving you for even a second. Not one.”

You looked at him, holding back your tears, feeling that your soul ached more than your body.

“So… you haven’t stopped loving me?”

He shook his head desperately, new tears falling down his cheeks.

“Never. Never. I don’t even know what it would be like to fall in love with someone else, because my love… it only exists for you. There’s no one else. There never has been. There never will be. Not even if the world falls apart. You’re the only thing that stayed when everything else collapsed.”

He paused, looking at you, chest heaving.

“I wanted to protect you… and in doing so, I was the one who broke you. Not Superman. Not the threats. Me. By trying to keep you away from danger, I ended up leaving you in the dark. I made a mistake. Not as a superhero. As a man. As the man who should have taken better care of you than anyone.”

You leaned in. Wiped his tears with trembling fingers and hugged him tightly. As if that hug were the only thing keeping both of you from completely falling apart.

“Don’t ever do it again, Clark,” you whispered, your voice broken, drowned by your tears. “Or I swear… I’ll cheat on you with Superman.”

He let out a sobbed laugh. He didn’t pull away. He clung to you with trembling arms, burying his face in your chest as if that were his only salvation. He breathed in your scent with desperation, with need, with love. He felt your hands stroking his curls like shelter. Like forgiveness.

“Marry me,” he said suddenly, so unexpectedly that you looked at him thinking you had misheard. “Not now, don’t answer yet. Just… promise me that if I ever ask you, you’ll say yes. That your yes will be real.”

“After making me feel like my trust was hanging by a thread?” you asked, still holding him, your eyes clouded with tears.

He nodded. Didn’t run from the guilt. He trembled with it.

“Yes. Because I still love you. With all that I am. With what I have and what I lack. Because there’s no one else. There never has been. No one else has ever lived here,” he said, placing your hand over his chest. “Only you. Always you. And I don’t want to live in a world where it’s not you.”

And he said it with a truth that burned. It wasn’t a plea. It was devotion. Pain. Love in its rawest form.

And so it was.

Clark didn’t just apologize. He rebuilt you. Day by day. With flowers in your kitchen: roses, tulips, sunflowers. With dinners where he showed up even if he was bruised, even if he could barely stand. Because he preferred for you to see him hurt… than to search for him in tears when he didn’t show.

He kept every word.

He always came back.

He was yours. And he proved it. With actions, with silence, with his gaze. He married you. Wore his ring every day, everywhere. And when duty called him as Superman… he left the ring on the table, next to a note written in trembling handwriting:

"I always come back to you."

You never felt that emptiness again, that doubt. Because he never treated you like just a girlfriend again. You were now his wife. His home. His peace. His north.

The future mother of his children.

His entire world.

💌 I take requests occasionally! If you have an idea, feel free to send it my way. I’d love to bring it to life 🤍

[celestiall222]

UNDERSTANDABLY SO.

(superman 2025) clark kent x fem!reader

synopsis: clark kent is overwhelmed by his affection for you, and your relentless lack of will to see it. a gift mishap in the planet office gives you the false pretense that clark’s just not that into you, leading to a dramatic turn of events between you two.

tags: unedited, reader is a cynic && an unofficial eldest daughter with wounded self-image, clark thinks he’s being delusional (he’s not) (you are madly in love with him too), fluff && slowburn, coworkers && friends to lovers, the pov is kinda messy (sorry) (it’s roughly third person omniscient but it focuses for a hot minute on how down bad he is for you), angsty bc you drive each other crazy by not communicating, making out!

- no use of y/n!

Everyone knows that Clark’s benevolence is anything but ill-inspired. He doesn’t believe you incapable, doesn’t face you with a smug look or egocentric smirk, expect any goodwill or favors in exchange whenever he helps you or anyone else about their daily tasks—or a cup of coffee, on him.

In his head he mulls over the details of your order, —of everyone’s, of course; the heap of sugar that Lois absentmindedly churns into hers, hardly dissolving, (“I party like a rockstar, choir boys!” She defends to Jimmy and Clark) the moderate spoonful Jimmy adds in his, and when it comes to your preference—the miniature cup of cream, cautious spoonfuls of sugar, and exact number by which you swirl your stirrer. But that wasn’t him being any more excessively chivalrous than he already was, right?

Much to the dismay of an internally disgruntled Clark, you fail to see how his regular acts of altruism are especially catered towards you when he does them. He is patient, and if there’s anyone he’s willing to wait for, it’s you—but he’s unsure how to magnify that you’re the main object of his daily affections. At some point he accepts with defeat that you’re not so oblivious to his obvious adoration, just that you won’t requite it.

Stifling down his unwavering desire, he relishes in the way you take a long sip of your coffee, and when you thank him and say “Wow Clark, you could’ve fooled me. If I didn’t know any better I would’ve thought I’d just made this,” he almost wants to wrap himself in the warm embrace of your appraisal, feeling gratified by your satisfaction over something as simple his mastery over your cup of coffee.

On occasion you seemed especially soft towards him just the same, but Clark boiled every charitable deed down to your character, that you just shared in his goodwill and nothing more—like the time he lost his glasses.

Clark paced around his desk in a frantic haze, turning manila file folders over and shoving binders and stacks of loose leaf paper entirely aside, finally hollering from under his desk, “Has anybody seen my glasses? I remember taking them off for only a second, and—”

He hears you clear your throat from behind him after missing the click of your heels as you sauntered towards his desk. The abrupt sound coupled with his rush to get to you cause him to hit his head against the desk’s bottom and you stifle a little laugh watching his big body struggle from underneath, feeling sorry for him. Slowly he comes out from under, rubbing his poor sore head. He feels overcome with an immediate sense of serenity when he sees you, his missing pair of spectacles in hand.

This time he clears his throat. “Sorry, I didn’t see you there—,” he starts.

“Don’t be, Clark,” you finish.

He sees your waiting hands nursing his glasses, and before he can mutter a prompt ‘thank you’ or take them for himself, you’re putting them on him yourself, pushing them up the bridge of his nose with a manicured finger.

His breath catches hard in his chest and his eyes zero down in on you as you do it, (vision still fuzzy), your smile cheesy and large on your face and a focused sparkle in your eye. You’re more than happy and willing to do it, so he doesn’t stop you—not like he wanted to.

“All better?” you inquire with a tilt of your head, still looking up at him, giving his still-sore head another rub. All he can do is stand there and nod dumbly, while Lois and Jimmy’s eyes return to their screens when you look back to relieve the feel of brazen eyes behind you after cheekily smiling and watching through the whole exchange. He can only shove down the feeling and the signs that might be pointing in his favor. He needed to be sure.

It never seems to register that your thoughtfulness towards him is reciprocated romantically, even if in the most trivial of ways; that you truly know him and await the invitation to explore the most of obscure trenches you’d yet to get to know of him, to finally be his—like when you’d asked him to come over to your desk and proofread an article you’d just written while you left to the lady’s room. Unbeknownst to him, you’d left a split screen tab open of a love song by The Mighty Crabjoys playing, perfecting timing your departure with the song so that the lyrics aligned with his arrival at your desks with words perfectly encapsulating how you felt about him.

In all fairness, you’d wanted him to know how loudly you’d loved him in the quietest of ways, with as little words as possible. A part of you couldn’t believe a man could be this good and expect nothing in return, and that he could feel as strongly about you when you felt you had so little to offer. Often overcompensating for insecurity and fear of abandonment, you serviced him and others to assure yourself of having some purpose or usefulness, paying extra attention to him, whether it be his quirks and interests or ‘punkrock’ bands he’d loved ardently in his adolescence.

Whenever you’d tell a story to your coworkers or drone about the random events of the weekend, it was always Clark whose eyes yours had the tendency to meet, it was only him you really cared to tell the happenings of your life to—whether they were plain and mundane or eventful. Every now and then you’d narrate to them your close encounters with Superman, who seemed, by sizable coincidence, rather prone to saving you, or at least catching you for small talk in between lifting metal beams above his head or clobbering a wild beast to its knees, much to your confusion. You recalled to Lois, Jimmy and Clark how Superman had once left a monster’s severed green, suctioned tentacle, festering with great big leaves, at the foot of The Daily Planet’s entrance and how you’d glided over the slimy thing, landing right on your bottom.

“And he left this slimy thing—I don’t even know what it was—on the concrete when I was leaving work and you won’t believe how I tripped right over the giant thing, it was just covered in mucus all over the sidewalk so I never stood a chance getting past it unbruised. Green ivy monster tentacle…whatever slimy gross diseases it had on it made me itch for a week.” You told the story with a fit of laughter that encouraged the three to join in, too, making Clark feel better.

He winced a little at first, feeling apologetic at the damage he’d dismissively left unfortunately for you, and you didn’t fail to leave out how remorseful Superman looked as he brought you back to your feet with the monster tailing only mere feet from behind him. That week you’d headlined Superman, on the front page in big bold letters dubbing the story badly, “Superman Shunts Tentacled Green Ivy Monster.” Clark gave you two thumbs up and an amused grin from over the papers across you at his desk only seconds after skimming the headline. Your heart fluttered within your rapidly pounding chest when you smiled back.

Everything you take from one another is with a grain of salt, the fleeting glances (more like stares), lightest flutters of touches before darting away, and compliments especially tailored to one another; you both noticed everything.

Against all odds (besides the subtle implications that there might be something there), Clark decided to make the first real big move to finally initiate something between the two of you. If you really weren’t up to accept his final advance, he wouldn’t let his pride be wounded. He was a man, and he could dismiss the torment of rejection for your sake, because nothing made him happier than doing something for you, and so be it if that something meant letting you go.

For months, Clark thought to carefully plot his way around asking you out—finally settling on a simple but sweet gesture that would shed a light on how he knew you, on how he listened. After all, listening and memorizing seemed to be your shared love language. He’d bought a rather large vase in your favorite color, wrapping it with a ribbon of an accent shade of that color. The vase was filled to its brim with your favorite flowers in a bright, big, bouquet. A tag hung loose around the neck of the vase.

Clark arrived early that morning, awaiting your arrival; you were of the first at your desk when the day began and the regular Daily Planet chaos ensued. All he needed to do was write a date proposal on the tag of the vase.

Somewhere between now and his lost-glasses fiasco, he’d lost the pen you’d given to him one day, in your favorite color, when he’d loosely mentioned how many of his own ran dry and he needed to make a run to the store that day for a refill on supplies. Frantically searching high and low, he the glint of the pen caught his eye from afar, on Lois’s desk. He was sure she wouldn’t mind you shuffling through her penholder for it.

In his best handwriting, he scrawled on it, “Unlike slimy green monster tentacles, these won’t give you poison ivy. They’re nicer too, I hope.”

He smiled down at the vase, proud of his work. He turned the tag over to its other blank side to pen the note’s author as well as your name, but all he could get out before hearing the boom of Perry’s voice from office’s coffee hutch was “From Clark.”

“Kent!” Perry squawked at Clark with a furrowed brow, hands on his hips before ushering him to his own office, going on about how he needed to talk about his latest part of the paper and his miraculous interview scores with Superman. He anxiously left the vase there, awry still on Lois’s desk.

Victim to Perry’s droning, he missed you filing in closely after Lois.

“What’ve we got here?” Lois asked rhetorically, immediately seeing the vibrant flowers perched idly on her desk.

“Ugh, must be that hookup from a month ago that keeps showing up at my apartment. God, if he knew anything about me, he’d know I’m sensitive to pollen,” Lois exclaimed, completely missing Clark’s scribbled note and wrinkling her nose in revulsion before letting out a roaring sneeze. You laughed beside her, admiring the gift wistfully and thinking about how lucky you’d be to receive something as simple but grand as this, even if the guy totally failed to think it through especially for Lois. She tossed the vase in the wastebasket beside the coffee hutch before slumping in her seat.

Noticing Clark’s absence and entrapment in Perry’s office in the last ten minutes since you clocked in, you gave him an apologetic glance (which he exchanged with a grateful smile) when you made your way towards the piping hot coffee percolator. Humming to yourself, you stopped in your tracks noticing the tag that Lois had missed to see entirely—the side of it reading “From Clark.”

Your heart dropped in your chest. It wasn’t like you hadn’t already believed Clark couldn’t like you back, but to finally have to settle with the reality of it when you had the slightest twinge of hope made you feel completely idiotic. It was like you thought, that this friendship couldn’t foster something more, that the discreet intimate moments you shared and sweet nothings amounted to just that—to nothing. You made your way back to your desk, forgetting your coffee and feeling defeated. The rest of the day you were practically mute and unreceptive to your coworkers’ advances at conversation, leaving them dazed and confused.

Clark wasn’t any more chatty than you. Finally leaving Perry’s office after a good while, his eyes settled on you, eyes completely trained to your screen, and to his great disappointment, noticed your abandoned flowers in the chasm of the coffee station wastebasket. He left out a great sigh of disbelief and anguish, sitting back at his desk to watch you only to notice the way your eyes completely dodging his at every glance.

Only when you were making your way out of the Daily Planet did he make any true efforts to converse about the matter, only hesitating for a moment before calling your name, hoarse and weak, with your back turned towards him.

You swiftly turned your heel to finally look at him, like it didn’t hurt, like the last thing you wanted to do was leave him here in the office lobby, knowing he didn’t deserve it, but that you couldn’t take it, that you couldn’t bear to be here, with him.

“The flowers,” Clark started, eyes fluttering shut with anguish before opening to look back at you. “Why—”

“Clark, you don’t need to explain to me. I just feel stupid for ever thinking that this,” you cut through over him, pointing between the two of you, “could be something. That we were something. And it’s not fair to you that I iced you out for that, and that I can’t just be happy for you trying your shot with Lois, but—

“They were for you,” Clark didn’t bother letting you finish. He couldn’t bear a moment longer of hearing your misconceptions that his affections could be for anyone else but you. Couldn’t you see what you do to him? He looked utterly disheveled standing before you, black curls unkempt atop his forehead glistening with sweat, tie nearly undone and dress shirt unbuttoned some way up the collar, all tense and distant from the heartbreak he’d endured all in a single work day. The abrupt confirmation that you’d felt the way he did was some consolation in his woe over the principle of the situation and that his efforts at you had almost gone unheard.

You suddenly pitied him, feeling that familiar heart drop. You shuffled your feet, looking down at your heels. “Clark, why didn’t you say anything?” you were meek when you asked, suddenly afraid.

“Why didn’t you?”

His question was rightful as your own, the thousand words you’d been meaning to say to him finally making their way to your lips, in due time after for so long suffocating, choking down within you.

“Clark, I’m no good for you, I could never actually consider that you’d actually want to be with me,” you let out a mirthless laugh as your eyes well to their brims with tears that you fight to keep down.

“How could you say that about yourself?” he asks more to himself more than to you, as he makes his way over towards you, closing the vast gap of air where tension lingered. Clark was not only inherently an empath and raised by a good pair of people. Aside from the virtue that so naturally came to him, like it coursed within his veins, he had to study the mosaic of the human character, acquaint himself with all its complexities, and understand that cynicism didn’t come as easily to him as it did others, understandably so.

If there was nothing in the world to be cynical of, Clark wouldn’t be suited up against ravenous beasts every other day. He had to sympathize with, though he could never understand, that for some odd reason you were riddled with a sense of damaged esteem that made sure you were never made privy to his adoration.

You can only fall silent as the tears finally stream down, feeling vulnerable there before him. The silence stings and thickens the air.

“Let me?” he asks you gently, opening his arms to embrace you, to which you timidly nod. He rests his chin above your head, hunched over.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks, feeling even more timid and vulnerable than you. You nod at him with a weak smile when his eyes meet yours, but his lips don’t meet your own. They kiss your tears away, and at your forehead and quivering chin, whispering in between each thing he loved about you, how kind and noble you were for being here in him in this moment, naked from the shell that for so long you’d found solace in, your brains and beauty, how you made him laugh the most of everyone in the office, that being here and working with you was some beautiful luck of the universe and the only great thing he had to look forward to every day, if nothing. That memorizing every incandescent detail about you—from your coffee preferences to the animation with which you narrated your stories, and the crinkles by your eyes when you laughed with him while doing so, was a routine he never would tire of.

When his lips finally meet yours, you’re both warm and calm with a sense of comfort, of togetherness here in this moment. You’re unconcerned with your worthiness to latch on to him, or shy away when his strong hands cup your face, or when he deepens into the kiss passionately.

When he breaks away and the pacific blue of his eyes meet yours, breathing heavily, he says, “We’ll go slow. I want you to trust me, I want you to know how much I really like you, and I like you a lot,” he says and you share in your laughter this time, genuine and hearty.

“I like you a lot too, Clark Kent. Thank you for waiting, for liking me this much,” you say sincerely. He wants to say he needs nor expects any gratitude for being enamored by you, that it really takes no work, that it’s less task and more instinct, and that you were worth every second of the wait. Before he can open his mouth again, you are pressing his lips to his again and all he can do is melt into it, and hold you.

[celestiall222]

٠ ࣪⭑ mastermind

‎pairing: clark kent x bombshell!reader (3.0K words)

summary: as one of the daily planet's most popular gossip column writers, clark is surprised to learn you're a genius when it comes to superman. he's also surprised to learn you aren't all heels and makeup

warnings & content: bombshell!reader, female reader, not technically bimbo reader but others assume so, clark is whipped from the start and somehow becomes more whipped, reader double majored in stats and journalism go smart girls go!

If there were two people who talked the most at the Daily Planet, it would be Cat Grant and yourself.

The two main gossip columnists. You were both brutal. Once, Jimmy was assigned a story with you. He requested to never work with you in the gossip column again after just six hours. Perry agreed. He also never assigned you anything but gossip because the one time he did? You wrote a slam piece on both baseball teams you were assigned to write about. 

Perry realized very early on you were a gossip column writer only. And he was okay with that.

Cat and you were always stunning the offices and newsrooms. Hair, makeup, and pretty outfits every single day, even if you were sick or it was storming out. You always looked good. That was the fun part about the job, and you took it seriously. The fashion, the presence, the image. It wasn’t just for the sake of being seen. It was armor. Lipstick was war paint, heels were your battle cry, and your notes app was a finely-honed blade.

Between you and Cat, there wasn’t a single scandal that went unnoticed or unpublished. You had sources no one else could reach, contacts who owed you favors, and a sixth sense for when something was about to blow up. You weren’t just gossip columnists, you were watchdogs in stilettos.

And Clark? He wasn’t sure what to make of you at first. He’d never met someone who could talk circles around Cat Grant and casually bring up alien migration patterns over lunch. He also didn’t understand how someone could write a piece titled Lex Luthor: Lots of Money, but Hard to Appease? and still manage to interview senators by the end of the week.

You were loud. Smart. A little too clever. But no one could deny it. Every time you walked into the room, the story followed.

And eventually, so did Clark.

“Clark, you gotta hear this, man,” Jimmy’s chair wheeled over beside Clark’s desk. “She’s talking nonsense. Like.. smart nonsense.”

Clark glanced up, already a little wary. “What is it this time?”

Jimmy pointed, discreet but desperate, toward the far end of the bullpen where you and Cat Grant were deep in conversation. “She’s doing something really weird. I walked past her desk and heard numbers. Equations. Graphs. Clark, she’s talking about Superman like he’s a physics dissertation.”

Clark blinked, turning just slightly in his chair to get a better look. You were standing near the coffee station, one hand wrapped around a pink mug that read Panic Then Write, the other animatedly gesturing as you explained something to Cat, who, for her part, looked like she was either being converted into a new religion or trying really hard to figure out whatever you were saying to her.

“—and that’s exactly why his maximum velocity during vertical ascension contradicts the standard gravitational drag equation,” you said brightly. Your hands waved in the air, manicured nails glistening in the light. “Like, there’s no way his flight path over the city last Friday didn’t involve some level of gravitational lensing. Did you see the air pressure ripple? I mean, it wasn’t visible, obviously, but the birds dipped midair. I have a theory, I’m working on it.”

Cat blinked. “You’re telling me you can tell how fast Superman was going based on bird migration patterns?”

“Oh, totally. Well, that and minor wind displacement across a five-block radius. Also, the security cam footage from Ninth and Fulton glitched at the exact time he crossed into frame. It’s like an energy signature thing. I track it in my spreadsheets.” You said it like it was the most simple thing in the world, like anyone else could be doing it.

“Spreadsheets,” Cat repeated, like she wasn’t sure if she should be impressed or afraid.

Clark stared. So did Jimmy. 

“She has spreadsheets,” Jimmy whispered, horrified. It was like every assumption he had previously assumed about you was being thrown out the window.

Clark tried very, very hard not to smile. “About Superman.”

“She’s obsessed, man! She said his cape flutters at a different rate depending on the altitude! She compared it to solar panel kinetics! Who does that?” Jimmy’s exclamation nearly gathered your attention. Jimmy just gave you a small, hesitant nod, making you shrug and continue with your conversation.

“Apparently she does,” Clark murmured, voice a little too fond. He watched your face brighten again as you began explaining something else to Cat.

Jimmy narrowed his eyes. “Wait. You’re into this, aren’t you? You like that she’s a walking Super-statistics manual.”

“I admire her dedication to research,” Clark said simply. Sure, it was the dedication, but this was the first time Clark was actually seeing a whole new side to you.

You were always gorgeous. It was probably the first thing Clark noticed about you. But he knew you had passion, riveting storytelling abilities, incredible grammar and punctuation. Clark knew you were always on time and always listened to people intently whenever they spoke to you. He knew you loved every single color of the rainbow, always greeted everyone in the morning, and made time during your busy day to gossip with Cat. Clark learned a lot about you very quickly.

So, learning you were actually a genius was something he really liked. Really liked. More than your pretty eyes, bright smile, and endearing voice. Especially because you zeroed in on him. Superman. 

“She’s got a color-coded chart titled Flight Patterns vs. Rescue Probability Ratios,” Jimmy hissed, hands flailing around the air. “I saw it with my very own eyes!”

Clark smiled. “That’s actually.. not a bad idea.”

Jimmy groaned. “Oh my god. It’s worse than I thought. We’re gonna find you one day married and buried under pie charts.” No, Clark’s crush was not a secret.

Across the room, you caught Clark’s eye—mid-sentence, mid-rant, mid-explaining the temperature fluctuation when Superman breaks the sound barrier—and grinned at him like you knew he was listening.

Clark gave a small wave.

You waved back.

Clark had always been such a sweetie since day one. He brought you coffee, even if he just went over to the machine to get it for you. Sickeningly sweet, just the way you liked it. You weren’t stupid in any way, shape, or form, so you knew Clark was whipped. Just like how everyone else knew.

He held doors open without making a show of it, remembered how you liked your pens (gel, fine point, purple ink), and always pretended not to notice when you’d start your day with gossip but end it quoting Nietzsche over lunch. He complimented your writing like it was easy—like it was fact. He would even sometimes split his lunch with you if you even briefly commented on how his looked better than yours.

And yeah, sure, he looked like the kind of guy who should be on the cover of GQ: Farmer Edition, all broad shoulders and soft flannels. But he didn’t use that to his advantage. If anything, he blushed too easily and said excuse me even when you bumped into him.

Clark just always had your attention. You loved his silly little jokes, how he would ask you for help with his article even though he really just wanted your opinion, and you especially loved how he looked at you with his bright blue eyes.

And Clark was always there when some new intern or Steve insulted you. You were a total bombshell, yes, but that didn’t mean you were stupid. Clark knew you weren’t stupid, you knew you weren’t stupid, even Steve knew—but he just liked to push your buttons.

Once, Steve had muttered something under his breath about how your lipstick probably took more time than your research. You didn’t even flinch. You were used to it. But before you could reply with something scathing and Pulitzer-worthy, Clark looked up from his desk and said, calm as ever, “She’s written more front pages this quarter than you have in your career, Steve.” Just like that. No raised voice. No dramatics. Steve blinked. Went back to pretending he was important.

You had just smiled sweetly, twirled your pen between perfectly manicured fingers, and softly said, “Thanks, Clark,” like your heart wasn’t thudding in your chest.

He always had your back. When people underestimated you because of the heels or the tight skirts or the fact that you said like and wore rhinestone barrettes, he never did. Not once. And maybe that’s what made your heart twist a little, more than the compliments or the coffee or even the soft way he said your name. The fact that he saw you. No filters, no assumptions. Just you.

Maybe he was your soft spot.

Maybe.

This last fight had been rough for Clark. Millions worth of property damage and a lot of angry people. In his defense, he didn’t mean for the fight to get so out of hand, but to be fair, no one else was fighting that thing. So really, was he fully to blame? Where was The Justice Gang when you needed them?

Talk shows were already speculating if Superman had lost it. The morning news ran slow-motion clips of the destruction on a loop, conveniently skipping the part where he dragged a dozen civilians out of the blast zone with one arm. The word reckless was being thrown around like candy. The city was hard to please. Save them with minimal damage, they’re happy. Save them with anything more, they’re not so happy anymore.

The newsroom was all different conversations about whether Superman was in the right or not. Of course, most of the people Clark surrounded himself were mainly on his side, but they did have opinions.

“I’m just saying, did he need to take down a whole building?” Jimmy asked.

Lois sighed, flipping through her notes without looking up. “It was already empty. Evacuated ten minutes before the hit. Clark wrote that in his piece.”

“Yeah, I know, I read the piece,” Jimmy said, hands up. “I’m just playing devil’s advocate.”

Steve Lombard chimed in from a few desks down, clearly not playing devil’s advocate. “Maybe if he was smarter about it, we wouldn’t be looking at a six-block reconstruction. Just saying.”

“Maybe if you were smarter about it, we wouldn’t still be running that disastrous opinion column you call journalism.”

Clark looked up to see you walk in. Blue blouse, red skirt, red nails, blue headband. You were fully decked out in Superman’s—his—colors. Clark felt his brain glitch in real time. It felt like a system error and complete crash was actively happening as you walked up to the group, grabbing your chair to swivel up and join the conversation.

Lois looked up from her notepad, one perfectly arched brow raised. “What’s with the patriotism?”

You gave a dazzling smile as you sat, crossing your legs with practiced flair. “Just.. showing a little solidarity.”

“With Superman?” Steve asked, incredulous.

“Obviously with Superman,” you shot back. “You think I’m wearing red and blue for the Meteors?” Clark’s brain continued its slow descent into chaos. You looked like every dream he’d never admitted having. Bright, bold, stunning and fiercely on his side. And you looked really good in blue.

Jimmy leaned in, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “You do realize you're basically baiting everyone who’s mad about the damage, right?”

“Good,” you said sweetly, reaching for the coffee Lois had just set down for herself. You took a sip like it was yours. It was the sweetest, maybe even sweeter than yours with all the sugar she dumped into it. “They can be mad and wrong. Multitasking is real.”

Steve leaned back in his chair, unimpressed. “You all act like he’s flawless.”

You gave him a look. “Nobody’s flawless, Steve. But Superman was the only one fighting that thing. It’s easy to criticize from behind a keyboard when you’re not the one getting thrown into buildings.”

Clark’s chest warmed. You weren’t just defending him—you were wearing your defense like a battle flag. You turned slightly, catching Clark’s eye. “And for the record, he saved a lot more than he destroyed.” Clark tried to form a response, but his mouth had completely forgotten how to function.

Lois smirked, clearly clocking the interaction. “Alright, Wonder Woman 2.0, let’s hear it. What’s your angle today?”

You leaned back in your chair, legs still crossed, twirling a pen between your fingers. “Same angle as always, Lois. The truth. It’s not about perfection—it’s about intention. Superman cares. That’s more than I can say for some of the people complaining about the cleanup from their luxury apartments uptown.”

Clark looked down at his screen, a dopey grin tugging at his lips. He felt his heart beating a whole new pattern. It might as well have been spelling your name in morse code.

Then, you reached into your bag, pulled out your tablet, and tapped the screen a few times. “By the way,” you added casually, “I ran a breakdown of structural losses versus casualty prevention. Want to guess how many lives he saved by demolishing that building?”

Steve groaned. “Please don’t say spreadsheets.”

“Oh, I’m absolutely saying spreadsheets,” you grinned, flipping the screen around. “I cross-referenced city evacuation timelines, mapped the creature’s path, and ran predictive models based on its movement patterns. Taking out that building redirected the debris zone by a 42.7% margin. It shielded half the block.”

Lois raised her brows. “You’re telling me Superman used a ten-story office complex as a wall?”

“I’m saying,” you replied, “he thought fast, acted faster, and made the smartest call in an impossible situation. And anyone who can’t see that is probably mad he did more damage to their ego than their rent-controlled apartment.”

“Remind me again of how you know all of this?” Steve sighed like it was a chore to listen to your rambles.

You shrugged, “Double majored in Statistics and Journalism. Thought it may come into hand at some point in my career. Though, I did always hope I would just do gossip.”

“I actually did not know this,” Jimmy raised a hand as he interrupted. “I just thought you were some kind of natural genius.”

“Yeah, no. She has never brought this up,” Lois nodded in agreement, also quite perplexed.

Steve just stared at you like you’d grown a second head. “But you.. only write gossip? Why not do an actual column that people read?”

You ignored the comment. Cat punched his shoulder anyways. “Because gossip moves markets, sweetie. You think LuthorCorp’s stocks tanked last month because of their quarterly report? No. It was because I leaked that Luthor skipped the mayor’s fundraiser and was seen at an off-books dinner with a mystery guest. Which, for the record, was his own clone.”

Slowly, Jimmy leaned over to Clark, not taking his eyes off you. “Yeah, man. You were so right for getting a crush on her,” he whispered, slightly shaking his head in disbelief. 

“I—that doesn’t—”

“You’re wrapped around her finger. You’ve got dibs,” Jimmy whispered back, patting Clark’s shoulder, and swiveling back to his desk.

Clark opened and closed his mouth like a Windows error message. “I don’t—dibs isn’t—Jimmy, that’s not how—” He turned halfway in his chair, gesturing vaguely, but Jimmy had already slipped on his headphones and was pretending to work while very obviously still listening.

Clark sighed, dragging a hand over his face, just as you glanced over from your seat, your pen poised dramatically between your fingers. “Something wrong, Clark?” you asked, head tilted, expression effortlessly sweet and soft, the way you always looked at him.

“Oh, no, no,” Clark shook his head. “Just, uh.. amazed. At you..your calculations.”

You blinked, then smiled, soft and warm like sunlight through a window. “Really? You think they’re okay?”

Clark let out a short, almost breathless laugh. “Okay? They’re incredible. I mean, I didn’t even notice half the things you picked up on. The migration patterns? The glitch timing? That’s.. genius.”

You blushed, glancing down at your notes like you needed to double-check them now. “I just.. like looking closely at things, I guess. Patterns make me feel like the world makes more sense.”

He nodded slowly, watching you. You were a goddess walking among men. Which said a lot, coming from the man that was compared to gods. “You make things make more sense.”

You looked up again, surprised, and your smile grew just a little more shy. “Thank you, Clark. Really. That means a lot coming from you.” There was a quiet moment between you—just long enough for the newsroom to blur around the edges—and then you added, voice even softer, “You’ve always been kind to me. Even before I ever proved I was more than the gossip girl. I don’t think I’ve ever said thank you for that.”

Clark’s heart thudded. “You never needed to.”

“I still want to,” you said. “So.. thank you.”

And he swore, right then, that if he wasn’t already hopelessly gone for you, that would’ve been the exact moment he fell.

Lois turned to Jimmy. “Is she whipped for him too?”

“I think we just found her soft spot,” Jimmy muttered, in literal disbelief that, nerd, Clark Kent, somehow was pulling bombshell, you. The unobtainable girl in the newsroom. The one every guy had a secret, small crush on. He exhaled. “You know what? Good for them. I mean, it's confusing and a little terrifying, but good for them.”

Lois smiled knowingly. “Give it a week. One of them’s gonna crack.”

Watching them closely, Jimmy narrowed his eyes. “My money’s on Clark.”

“Please,” Lois scoffed, waving Jimmy off with her hand. “That girl’s gonna fold like a lawn chair the second he says something too soft with those stupid eyes.”

They both turned back to their work, though neither one stopped listening. Not when you giggled. Not when Clark looked at you like you hung the stars. And definitely not when the entire bullpen slowly started to realize:

The gossip columnist and the golden boy were both very off the market.

[celestiall222]

text messages between you and clark kent part two!

summary: second part to the first one linked here! these are so much fun to do! a varies of concepts and sneak peeks into you and clark’s messages, mwah! ❤️💙💛

tags and warnings: mentions of y/n, mild cursing, jealous clark, and flirty talks

──────────

my superman 🦸🏻‍♂️

Guess what I was just told by Jimmy

⤷ you: oh gosh, what did he say now????

Apparently on social media there’s a trending name for me

⤷ you: i think i might know 😅😅

#Supershit

Makes me feel like #shit

⤷ you: clark you and i both know you’ve made such a difference and keep the world safe, they’re #shit for making posts like that.

I’m not even upset, It’s quite funny 🙂🙂

⤷ you: ok #supershit ❤️

Don’t start

──────────

my superman 🦸🏻‍♂️

Where are you?

⤷ you: me and lois went to brunch :))

⤷ you: why??

Because your house key is finally not under the mat and I wanted to visit you

⤷ you: did you check under my plant??

⤷ you: i got a new key design ☺️☺️

I can’t even lie, I look so good

⤷ you: you always do 😉😉

⤷ you: especially when you’re in your suit and saving the world

⤷ you: my #supershit ❤️

Woman 😐

──────────

my superman 🦸🏻‍♂️

⤷ you: remember that exclusive interview you did last week? where they attached the go-pro on you?

Yes?

The one that broke mid mission? 😅

⤷ you: this is about to become my favorite picture of you :))

Delete that right now.

WHERE DID YOU EVEN FIND THAT?

HOW ARE PEOPLE GETTING THIS?

⤷ you: it’s trending on social media 😂😂

⤷ you: you’re quite literally a meme now, i fear

⤷ you: i wonder what clark kent will write about in his next article 🤔🤔

He’s speechless and won’t be writing one

──────────

my superman 🦸🏻‍♂️

Just got asked if I was single at this interview I am at

⤷ you: ???

⤷ you: and what did you say???

Nothing.

I just showed them my lockscreen and she walked off 😊

⤷ you: this is giving #supermanaura 🤭🤭

⤷ you: what’s your lockscreen??

Well it’s like a slideshow

These are a few that are included

⤷ you: 😏😏😏

⤷ you: what would have you done if that didn’t work?

Show them my wallet where I have a bunch of our polaroids

Or yell “I HAVE A HOT AND BADASS GIRLFRIEND”

⤷ you: you’re getting the best head ever tonight

Say less 🏃🏻🏃🏻🏃🏻🏃🏻

──────────

my superman 🦸🏻‍♂️

Tell him to step away from you

⤷ you: what are you talking about?

He’s standing wayyyyyy to close to you

Way to close for my liking

Why is he smiling at you??

Y/n

If he shakes your hand 😐😐

⤷ you: you can’t be serious??

⤷ you: i barely met him today

I am so serious

Fuck this, i’m coming over to you

Gonna show him you’re mine and mine only.

──────────

my superman 🦸🏻‍♂️

⤷ you: took these pictures of you last night

⤷ you: love your eyes and dimples sooo much

Be honest you like it when I wear a suit

⤷ you: like?

⤷ you: like is an insult.

⤷ you: i love it when you wear one.

With my glasses or without?

⤷ you: both.

⤷ you: this is turning you on right…

Yes

Very much so

⤷ you: and my intentions were pure sweet and innocent

There’s nothing innocent about you sweetheart 😘

──────────

my superman 🦸🏻‍♂️

one missed call from my superman 🦸🏻‍♂️

two missed calls from my superman 🦸🏻‍♂️

three missed calls from my superman 🦸🏻‍♂️

Call me.

Krypto escaped

⤷ you: AGAIN?

⤷ you: this dog never listens to you 😂

Nevermind.

I just found him hidden under your pile of clothes

⤷ you: awww

──────────

my superman 🦸🏻‍♂️

Just remembered how you kept ignoring me my first month at The Daily Planet and got so sad

Why would you do that to me?

⤷ you: because i felt intimidated by you

⤷ you: because i loved you from the first glance

⤷ you: and because i knew you were superman and didn’t want to endanger you or me

⤷ you: and because of jimmy’s loudy mouth

Let’s just blame it on Jimmy

Can’t believe he made us suffer so much 💔💔

─────────

my superman 🦸🏻‍♂️

⤷ you: clark, come back home

What? Why?

⤷ you: because you forgot to give me a goodbye kiss

I literally gave you five

⤷ you: exactly my point.

⤷ you: you always give me ten

Open your door

─────────

my superman 🦸🏻‍♂️

I think you should just move in with me now

⤷ you: huh??

⤷ you: what do you mean??

You’re here everyday, wear my clothes, krypto loves you, you have your own desk to work, your scent is on my bed, and most importantly your books are lying around.

⤷ you: but what if i get annoying or you hate it after a week :((

Could never get annoyed or even mad at you sweetheart

I want you here.

I want you next to me for the rest of my life.

⤷ you: i love you so much ❤️❤️

⤷ you: we can talk more about it later tonight

⤷ you: i’ll pick some of my stuff up on my way to your place

No need to

I already did it

⤷ you: really clark? 😐

─────────

[celestiall222]

Farmboy Fuck Session -C.K

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“C-Clark—someone might see—”

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

“I wore it for you, dumbass.”

“And now you’re gonna pay for it.”

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

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

“I—maybe.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Please—”

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

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

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

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

Clark groaned. “I swear to god—”

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

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

“You never said that!”

“I didn’t think I had to.”

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

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

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

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

“Maybe I want another round.”

He stilled. “Here?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

a/n: he’s so boyfriend husband daddy

[celestiall222]

text messages between you and clark kent!

summary: a varies of concepts and sneak peeks into you and clark’s messages! decided to switch up the au and do this instead of a fic! mwah! ❤️💙💛

warning and tags: some mild cursing, flirty texts, mention of y/n

──────────

my superman 🦸🏻‍♂️

At the grocery store, want anything?

⤷ you: yes please! barbecue chips i have been craving them all day!

Barbecue chips? Weird…

⤷ you: weird? didn’t you eat my entire bag last week?

I recall no such thing. Picked up your favorite chocolate covered strawberries :))

⤷ you: smooth, but you’re not forgiven, i love you be safe!

──────────

my superman 🦸🏻‍♂️

Wake up sleepy head sent at 6:30 am

Okay, now you’re ignoring me. sent at 6:37 am

Sweetheart wake up soon, I made you breakfast and I want you to enjoy it while it’s warm :)) sent at 6:45

⤷ you: clark you know i don’t wake up at 6am like you do…

⤷ you: but thank you handsome, it’s delicious just like you 😉😉

Make sure you take your vitamins. I laid them on your vanity.

Handsome? I’m sexy. I’m hot.

⤷ you: what would i be and do without you?

⤷ you: never complimenting you again…

──────────

my superman 🦸🏻‍♂️

Why do you still have your house key under your mat?

⤷ you: how do you know i have it there?

⤷ you: you’re breaking into my apartment? might have to call batman on you 🦇🦇

Call him, and Gotham City will have me as their one and only hero.

Guess you don’t want takeout from Nancy’s…

⤷ you: should’ve just started there, i’ll be home in 30 minutes! 🥰

Be safe, i love you!

⤷ you: you better leave my house key where you found it.

No.

──────────

my superman 🦸🏻‍♂️

⤷ you: this was so hot btw.

⤷ you: what brittney spears said, “cause momma i’m in love with a criminal” 😍😍

Mind you, I was literally innocently incarcerated… No criminal here, just your favorite superhero.

⤷ you: i don’t see batman here?

Wait till I get home…

⤷ you: 😏😏😏

──────────

my superman 🦸🏻‍♂️

Why did I just find this on my desk?

⤷ you: what did you find?

⤷ you: clark???

⤷ you: hello???

⤷ you: clark i hate when you do that.

⤷ you: batman is better then superman.

Woman, Jimmy wasn’t letting me text you back.

Stop ragebaiting me.

You need to stop that. Breaking my damn heart.

This is what I found, I miss you darling ❤️💔

⤷ you: missing our trip in smallvile :((

⤷ you: you better place that picture where everyone can see, btw.

Sorry I can’t. My girlfriend believes Batman is better 😕😕

⤷ you: 😐😐😐

──────────

my superman 🦸🏻‍♂️

I miss you so much, baby :((

⤷ you: i miss you more handsome, what time are you going to be finished?

Hopefully soon. Jimmy and I advanced so much on this article, all we need to do is edit, revise, and get it approved.

⤷ you: okay! hurry up missing your kisses and cuddles 🥰🥰

Be home soon! ❤️

──────────

my superman 🦸🏻‍♂️

Feeling so jealous right now. You looked so fucking hot and sexy tonight 🥵🥵

⤷ you: some selfies to keep you occupied 😘😘

Jealous. Envious. Sick. Of every man who’s gonna lay eyes on you tonight.

⤷ you: none of them are you :))

Still, almost wanted to convince you to stay home.

⤷ you: i was tempted, after i saw you in that white tank top and sweats…

Offer still stands…

⤷ you: no thanks, gonna enjoy this margarita a guy bought for us 🙂‍↔️🙂‍↔️

What?

Hello?

Y/n?

Babe, you better throw that shit away.

Clark Kent transferred $150 into your account!

Don’t let them buy you anything. Use my money.

⤷ you: look at this pic lois just took of me

🥵🥵🥵🥵

⤷ you: you like?

Like?

Like is an insult.

I love it.

Can’t take this anymore.

I’m on my way.

⤷ you: really clark??

Yes really. What if the same guy or another dares to buy you a drink?

⤷ you: patiently waiting 😘

⤷ you: betting you a game of pool, loser has to do the dare.

What’s the dare?

⤷ you: come and fine out, xx.

──────────

my superman 🦸🏻‍♂️

⤷ you: sooo how mad would you be if i witnessed something 🙂🙂

Depends on what it was.

What happened?

Are you okay? Do I need to call a lawyer?

⤷ you: you might need to call your cousin, after you see what happened.

⤷ you: krypto found your red boots and well… he relieved his stress and anger on them

You’re lying

😐😐😐😐😐

Don’t joke with me because this is the fifth pair he’s gotten into and destroyed.

⤷ you: kidding! but i did clean them for you.

⤷ you: with soap and water.

YOU WHAT?

WITH WHAT?

one missed facetime call from mr. superman 🦸🏻‍♂️

two missed facetime calls from mr. superman 🦸🏻‍♂️

Answer your phone

⤷ you: jeez, i was joking. you literally fight and walk on fire, get them dusty or muddy but a little bit of water and soap damages them?

⤷ you: i used the boots solutions and polish for them, they’re nice and clean, super shiny.

Thank you so much, sweetheart ❤️❤️

I’ve been meaning to clean them

Sorry for getting mad at you ://

⤷ you: i will forgive you only if you bring me those infamous pink glazed donuts

Anything for you darling!

──────────

mr. superman 🦸🏻‍♂️

I love your eyes. Your smile. Your hair.

⤷ you: oh gosh… what did you do?

⤷ you: what do you need?

Can I not compliment my beautiful girlfriend?

Why do you automatically assume I need a favor?

🤨🤨🤨🤨

⤷ you: i know you clark.

Really? What’s my favorite color?

⤷ you: red and blue

What’s my favorite food?

⤷ you: pancakes or anything breakfast related

My favorite movie?

Tangaled

That’s your favorite movie.

⤷ you: i’m serious… what did you need?

I have dinner reservations at the Loft Rooftop, be ready by 8pm.

Wear something red.

⤷ you: undergarments or dress?

Both. See you soon, xx

──────────

my superman 🦸🏻‍♂️

Can you come to my desk really quick?

⤷ you: clark, i’m literally behind you 🤨😐

I know. Scoot your chair over here.

I miss you

⤷ you: ok i guess

──────────

my superman 🦸🏻‍♂️

Might be a little late to dinner

There’s trouble in Bakersline

⤷ you: ok! no worries, i just got home.

⤷ you: yes i locked the doors, and closed the curtains.

Good. You’re perfect.

I’ll be home soon as possible.

⤷ you: please be careful clark, it’s already late and there isn’t any sunlight anytime soon.

Always am! I love you ❤️

──────────

[celestiall222]

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

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

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

"Clark, please—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

God, you really do love him like this though.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’ll be worth it.

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

thank you so much for reading, love you!

[celestiall222]

‘N Side (Clark Kent x Fem!Reader)

summary: “You say it’s big, but you take it, ride cowgirl” — riding Clark for the first time

warnings: minors dni (18+)— porn w/out plot, size kink, big dick clark supremacy, cowgirl position, piv sex, unprotected sex, creampie, overstimulation (?), slight breeding kink , hyperspermia, clarks loves to praise

word count: 3.3k

a/n: heard that lyric from Pyramids by Frank Ocean and something came over me like a feral beast. I need David Corenswet’s Clark Kent/Superman SOOO FAWKING BAD BROO, I made this to help w that unyielding thirst Ive got for him🙂‍↕️. title name is from the Steve Lacy song. Hope you all enjoy <\3 !!

In, out, In out. 

You repeat the words to yourself like a mantra. Your chest heaves softly, breaths ragged and short as you try to calm your racing heart. You can feel it thumping in your chest, trying to crack through ribs and run free. 

Your face is flushed, the heat of cheeks has your head spinning. Every nerve of your body is taut, pulled and aching in anticipation. You bite your lip, bruising the softness while your fingertips dig into your boyfriend's chest. 

Your nails leave small crescent moons around his shoulders, knuckles going white from how hard you grip at him. 

Breathe, breathe. 

You’re practically shaking, mouth going dry and you have to close your eyes to collect yourself. 

 “Are you alright, baby?” Clark asks in a sweet voice, concern coating the words. His large hands are settled around your hips, squeezing and massaging gently at the plush flesh in an attempt to calm you. 

“It's okay if you can’t do it, we don't have to.”

He looks up at you with those big puppy eyes, stripping your soul bare with one look. It has you feeling exposed,  even though you’re already naked in his lap. 

If it were any other night, you would only see the raw hunger and desperate need he had for you bubble up out of him. Watch it take over and fill his lungs like water, consuming him until he’s not even thinking rationally anymore. 

But tonight, right now, all you can see is the pure love and affection he has for you. You’re watching it spill over and out of him with small tears, batting them away and letting them get caught onto his thick lashes. Overwhelmed with your sweet presence. 

The sight makes your heart clench, you know you can’t lie to him. 

You nod gently, moving to cup his cheeks in your hands. Your thumb wipes away the few stray tears that fell, mouth planting a soft kiss upon his lips.

You both sigh at the sweet taste of each other, Clark’s grip on your thighs tighten. 

“I’m okay. Just need a second.” You rasp out, pressing your forehead against his. 

He hums, pulling your body closer to his. 

He adjusts his hips slightly, letting you fall closer into his chest. Your thighs slide over his, a small whimper escaping from your lips as you feel his hard cock nudge against you. 

It wasn’t always like this. Most of the time you were the one stirring him on, begging and moaning for more as he held you beneath him. His hands gripping your hips tight while he split you open with each harsh and slow thrust he gave you. The sound of your combined moans and ragged breaths filling the room, sounding like a symphony made just for the two of you to hear. 

But tonight, you’re sitting on his lap, naked as the day you were born with him beneath you. His shirt was torn off, hair messy and cheeks painted a dusty pink from your shared kisses. His glasses are slowly sliding off the bridge of his nose, crooked as he looks up at you. There’s something in his eyes that makes it seem as if he was holding the world in his arms. 

A bolt of pleasure runs down your spine, trickling down between your legs until you can feel your own desire. 

Of all the times you’ve been with him, this suddenly felt like too much. 

From this position, you finally got it through your head just how big he was. The massive length and thickness of him has your head reeling.

It’s heavy, the tip a soft pink and dripping with so much pre you wonder if he hadn’t cum already. It lays against his lower belly, twitching beneath your soft touch as your hand goes to stroke him. 

He’s so hard. Soft whimpers escape Clark as you fist him, thumb swirling the wetness that leaks from his tip before spreading it all over the length. You pump your wrist up and down, lips moving back onto his and drinking up each sweet sigh that escapes him. 

Your cunt aches for the sweet stretch of him filling you up. You’re tightening around nothing as you remember for the way he loves to enter you slowly, feeding you inch by thick inch until you’re crying by the time he bottoms out. 

Sometimes you swear you can feel him in your throat. Feel the way he practically rearranges your insides, nudging against your sweet spot with every thrust and desperate rut. 

His tongue pushes past your lips, large hands gripping you by the back of your neck to keep you still. You whine, feeling him deepen the kiss, tongue tasting your mouth while saliva begins to slowly spill out from the corners. 

You let go of him, hand digging into his curls and grasping at them as he hungrily steals the air from your lungs. 

Mindlessly, your hips begin to move against him. Blindly searching for any kind of pleasure you could find and take. You feel him pressing into your thigh, skin softly gliding against it from the stickiness that leaks out and coats him. 

The feeling has both of you moaning, lips parting and puffy from the pleasure. Your lungs are burning now, nerves coming apart and ready to burst from not even doing anything. 

“Honey, please…” Clark begs in a broken whisper, 

hips thrusting up into you. The motion spreads you wider, leaving a space for his cock to nudge perfectly against your clit.  

You moan, nodding your head swiftly while trying to take deep breaths. Your hands grab at his shoulders again, holding yourself up from falling over into him. 

“Okay, baby. Okay.” You whisper back, voice coming out in a rasp. You tilt your head down, gulping down the small lump that started to form in the back of your throat. 

You pull a hand away, letting it wander down his chest. It roams over his skin, feeling the heat radiating off of him and into your fingers until you're gliding over the small trail of hair that leads down to his v line. 

You breathe in deeply, taking his heavy cock back into your hand. You lift yourself up slightly, just enough so that you can feel his head brush against your folds. 

You bite your lip, hissing in at the sensation of him parting through your wetness. He glides through easily, his own hand coming down to help guide it to your entrance. He teases you a bit, nudging and rubbing his tip up and down your lips, smearing pre cum all over you until he nudges over your clit again. 

The hand still on his shoulder pinches him hard, a silent warning to stop. He huffs out a low laugh, stopping the motions and finally lining himself up against your entrance. 

It happens fast, the way you sit down and let his cock fill you up. You wanted to go slow, get used to each inch like you were taking him for the first time all over again, but you just couldn’t. The second you felt the painfully sweet stretch of him enter you, it was hard to resist. 

Your thighs fall flat against his, wind knocked out of your lungs as you feel him split you open. Your back arches, hands bracing yourself on his shoulders again as you let yourself get used to him. 

Your walls flutter around him, molding into the shape as you try to catch your breath.  

 The position makes him feel deeper than ever. Bigger, longer, thicker. You’re practically shaking on top of him, thighs clenching around his own as you try to position yourself at a more comfortable angle. 

“So big,”. You whimper out shyly.

You move your knees slightly, spreading them out until your posture is straight and you find a good balance. You straddle him like one would a mechanical bull, holding on tightly in fear that you may get thrown off suddenly. 

“Feels bigger than usual.” 

You tilt your head down to see the way he disappears into you. In the dim light of the living room, you can see your wetness glistening as it drips out and onto the dark messy hairs at the base of his cock.  

The words have a guttural groan escaping from Clark, rumbling from his chest and out his throat. You can feel him twitch inside of you as he does, shutting his eyes tightly as his hands grip at your hips once more. 

You feel a tinge of cockiness at the reaction, biting a smile back. A shiver crawls down your back when you finally decide to move. 

It starts off slow, moving with small and soft bounces on his cock. You lift your hips up and down, locking and working all strength to your knees as you savor the sweet stretch of him. It feels better as you slide him in and out of you, not all the way, but pulling out just enough so you're able to feel him nudge at your sweet spot with each thrust. 

You would say you’re hardly moving, but the way Clark looks under you makes you think otherwise. His face is flushed, blood rushing and coloring his cheeks a bright red now. His head is tilted back, exposing his neck full of kiss marks and his puffy lips were parted just enough that you can hear each whimper and moan that escapes him.

His curls are messy, sweat dripping down his forehead and covering his toned chest in a thin layer. He opens his eyes to look up at you, glossy with tears of pleasure before roaming over your body.  

The feeling is intoxicating. It spreads through the veins from your head all the way to your fingertips, feeling like you’re on fire just by touching him. You fasten your pace, happy to watch your boyfriend fall apart into a pile of mush. 

“Baby,” He groans the nickname like a prayer, the strong grip of his hands on your hips faltering to go roam over your body. 

He squeezes at your thighs, softly massaging the plush skin of your ass before making his way up to your tits. His thick fingers run over your ribs, shaking as if he was afraid to even touch you. In his head, you were a goddess sent from heaven just for him. Your divine purpose to drive him mad with love and lust, his place of worship between your thighs in exchange for the intoxicating feel of you riding and milking his cock. 

His hands cup your breasts, holding and feeling their weight in his palms. Your movements make them bounce lightly, the sounds of your wetness gushing around him fill the room with your sweet little gasps. 

He thumbs over your nipples, rolling and swirling the soft buds beneath the pads. He pinches and pulls softly, relishing in the way your hips stutter and eyes close in response to the feeling. Every touch he gives you goes straight to your pussy, waves of pleasure coming over you like a rock being worn away by the sea. 

Pleasure consumes you whole, running down your spine to the tips of your fingers and toes. You feel every nerve of your body become frayed at their endings, buzzing and aching as the tight knot in your stomach builds. 

“ ‘M gonna cum,” You whimper out, thighs beginning to shake around him, muscles growing weak and tired from your riding. The steady pace you built faltered, all movement reduced to your hips weakly grinding into his lap. You thought it would help you last longer, be able to have him under you for a few minutes more. But your clit catches against the coarse hair at his base, making you whimper from the light stimulation. 

Clark only stares up at you, mesmerized at the way you use him. He hadn’t even done anything, and you’re still falling apart in his arms.

Your posture weakens, leaning forward and into him as you begin to litter small butterfly kisses around his face. Your lips wander over his mouth, trailing up his cheeks and temples as hot breathy moans escape from you. 

He tries to chase your lips with his own, nudging his head up until your foreheads are pressed together. 

“You’re so pretty baby,” He moans out, raising a hand to cup your chin with his index and thumb before pulling you into a deep kiss. His lips feel like soft pillows against your own swollen ones. 

“So good to me,” his hands wander down your back, helping your needy and increasingly sloppy attempt to get yourself off. You nod mindlessly, fingers digging into his skin as a way to ground yourself to reality. 

“Take me so good too, love watching you fall apart” He whispers against you, before punctuating the sentence with a sudden and harsh thrust up into you. 

The movement makes you lose your balance, sending you flying into his chest. He quickly secures your body close to his, wrapping his strong arms around your middle to keep you tight and still. 

He feels even deeper like this (if that was even possible). Your back is arched in a way that has your ass slightly up, tits pressed flush against his chest while your face gets buried in the junction of his neck. 

You’re even more lightheaded now, whimpering at the way his hands explore the expanse of your back before settling on your ass. 

“G-gosh, baby. You’re so tight,” Clark groans out breathlessly, sounding more wrecked than you were. 

“‘S alright though, just leave it me now, yeah?” 

He gives you no time to respond. In a second, he starts to piston into you.  

His cock thrusts in and out of you at a desperate pace. You feel every vein, every twitch of him inside of you. His pace is almost animalistic, going so fast you can feel your wetness gush and spill out of you, dripping down his thickness and onto his heavy balls and your thighs. 

Your eyes roll back into their sockets, mouth parted and you’re practically wailing in pleasure. The sound fills the room, growing thick and heavy with the heat of your bodies and combined need. 

You’re drooling against his skin, biting and licking at his collar bones, leaving tiny red marks as you try not to cum. 

Clark whimpers loudly, gasping softly in between moans as his hands grip you so hard you’re sure he’s going to leave bruises. 

Groans rumble out from within his chest, shaking his body and your own as they escape. You can feel the sensation crawl from your ribs down to your thighs, finding a home right in between them. 

He’s all around you, filling your ears and body so entirely that he’s all you can think of. 

From his hard chest pressing into yours, his big strong arms holding you tight, and his heavy thick cock pushing in and out of you. It was too much. 

Your thighs shake, eyes closing shut, and you feel the knot in your stomach come undone. 

It’s quick, slamming into you without a warning. It takes your breath with it, rendering you silent and not being able to give your boyfriend a warning. 

But Clark knew, he always knows. He memorized the way your pussy gets tighter around him, growing wetter as you start to take in more and more of him in. He lives for it, dreams of it. An addict to the sweet feeling of your body falling apart  just for him. 

“So good, honey, that’s right.” He whispers sweet words into your ears each time, always choosing to run his mouth and talk you through cause he knows it only makes you cum harder. 

“Good girl, you came so quick for me, yeah? Yeah, baby, it’s okay.” 

The words are slurred, growing less coherent as he keeps thrusting up into you. His pace slows, no longer as fast but still just as desperate. 

You’ve grown limp in his arms, letting the remaining shockwaves of your orgasm wash over you. You’re not even sure they’ll ever end, for the way he keeps bottoming out and rubbing your clit against his pubic hair has your head reeling. 

“That’s right baby, take it take it take it,” He repeats the words like a prayer. 

It feels like he’s splitting you open, the tip of his cock kissing your cervix and rubbing at your sweet spot like his life depends on it. 

You feel the knot start to build again, pussy fluttering and tightening around him once more. It’s weaker this time, body more sensitive and not over the first one that had pushed through you. 

It’s also messier this time. There’s tears streaming down your cheeks, lips bit raw and red from biting them. You can hear the combined wetness between you two. The sound of your arousal gushing out and no doubt staining the poor couch beneath the two of you. You feel it at the back of your thighs, coating his lower belly as his happy trail keeps rubbing and grinding against your clit. 

Shivers crawl up your spine, fingers leaving Clark’s skin raw and red as you’re sent over the edge all over again. 

The feeling is enough for him to reach that peak too. 

Soft, high pitched moans spill from his throat, rising up from so deep within his soul that you’re sure you’ve ruined him for good now. 

Thick, hot ropes of cum spill deep inside of you. Filling you to the brim and dripping out from the edges even with his cock still buried to the hilt. He keeps rutting into you softly, working through his high as his cock keeps twitching and spilling more cum inside of you. 

Deep down, he wishes that none would spill. Wants it all to stay inside, let it stick and keep you so full of him that he’s with you all the time. But stupid gravity and the ridiculous amount that he gives you always ends up leaking out and onto him. 

His hips come to a slow, finally stopping to give the two of you est. 

Sweat covers your bodies in a thin layer, lungs heaving and chests flush against each other that you’re almost certain your skin has melded with his own. 

You’re both breathing heavily, mouths agape trying to greedily swallow in all the air that escaped from your bodies. You can feel Clark’s heart pound from within his chest, beating in time and at the same speed as your own. 

In, out. In, out. 

You remind yourself all over again. 

Your eyes fall, lashes brushing against your cheeks while you press one into Clark’s shoulder. You’re facing his neck, nose nudging right at his pulse point and you relish in the soft way he keeps hugging you. 

He surrounds you entirely, filling your head and soul in a way you could never be mad about.

His hands softly massage the skin over your hips, thumbs running over the tiny indents his fingers left. Later tonight, he will bend down and try to kiss bruises away, begging for the forgiveness that you will undoubtedly give. 

He tilts his own head back to you, kissing your temples and nudging his own nose through your hair. He tries to breathe you back into him, never being able to get enough.  

“You okay, sweetheart?” He asks in a rasp, voice dry and softer than a whisper.  

There’s a sweetness in the words that make you smile. Your heart aches, a warmth different than the one you feel all over your body spreads within your chest.  

“Never better.” 

Thank you for reading </3!! Comments and reblogs are v much appreciated! If you have any insights please leave them kindly!

a/n: my first time writing for Clark, I hope to write more for him 🙂‍↕️

[celestiall222]

𝗜 𝗞𝗻𝗼𝘄, 𝗜 𝗞𝗻𝗼𝘄, 𝗜 𝗞𝗻𝗼𝘄

You confess your affections to an unsuspecting Superman, but your best friend Clark can’t know about your crush, okay? You’d die of embarrassment. (Or, Clark falls in love while Superman does most of the wooing.) fem, 8k

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

You never thought you’d get to talk to Superman. You've never been in that kind of danger, and you never hoped to be. You hadn’t wanted to talk to Superman because you know this is weird. You can’t have a crush on someone you don’t know. It’s idol worship, a celebrity fixation, and Superman is the perfect target. You’re not alone in loving everything about him —it’s easy. You aren’t ever confronted with the bad in his good. 

And then he’s standing in front of you with his hands braced on your shoulders, and there’s blood running down your face from your temple and you’re crying, because it hurts, because you’re in the panic of your life and not sure what to do next. 

He frowns at you with an unwavering gentleness. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, “take a deep breath, ma’am. Deep breath.” 

“It’s bl– bleeding.”

“I know.” 

You shudder through tears as Superman brings his cape up and rips. It startles you, sending fat tears plinking down your cheek. You hold your breath as he brings his scrap to your face, dabbing the wetness from your cheeks before turning the fabric and holding it to your temple firmly.

You gasp painfully under his touch, desperate for air.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice a new shade, “it’s alright, you’re going to be fine, I promise. I’m gonna press this to your head, and we’ll see if we can get this bleeding stopped. As soon as it does, I’ll take you down and we can get you some real help.” 

You nod, skittish as a scared deer, eyes as wide as they’ll go to follow his movements. It doesn’t hurt any more than the injury itself as he presses down on your head wound. He sighs in sympathy anyway. A broad hand spreads behind your back, familiar in a way, or maybe it’s the way he’s talking to you now. Like he knows you as you know him. 

The photos of him online don’t do him justice. 

“It’s not bad. I know it hurts, but,” —his hand finds your shoulder, squeezes lightly— “it’s because it’s so high up, alright? They always bleed more. It doesn’t mean this is anything to worry about beyond fixing you up and getting you some pain relief.” 

“You– you’re real help.” 

He holds your gaze. “Yeah?” 

You wonder if he can feel the heat of your blush. It’s all over. He’s lucky your head wound doesn’t start spurting. “Yeah– yeah, I– Superman.” 

His smile is everything. “What?” he asks patiently. 

“I’m a big fan of– of yours.” 

“You are?” 

“You’re so brave,” you breathe out in a rush, though it hurts your head. “So brave. And– and…” 

“Sorry,” he murmurs, putting a little more pressure on your temple. “Thank you for being a fan. All I want is to keep everyone safe.” 

“You’re so gentle with everyone, even the aliens, and– you’re pretty…” 

“Pretty?” he asks, pure surprise in his voice, his hand falling off of your arm. 

You wince. “Yeah. Yes. Handsome. Sorry, you must get told that so much.” 

“It’s okay. I won’t hold you to anything you say. You’re injured, after all.” 

His teasing tone pretty much flies over your head. “No, I’m not lying. I mean it. You’re really lovely, and what you do, it makes you lovelier, it does–” You nearly choke on your enthusiasm. He has to know.

“Don’t get wound up, I’m sorry. I believe you. Let’s try to stay calm.” 

Your head is aching in a new way, now. Less the sting of a wide cut, more beating, like a whirl in your own brain twisting and shaking, dizziness alive behind your eyes and threatening to knock you over. You clutch at Superman’s arm and he knows what you need, slipping his free arm behind your back before you can collapse. 

“I don’t usually get crushes on people,” you inform him. “But it was hard not to get one with you. You’re even nicer than I thought you’d be.” 

“It’s easy to be nice to you. Easy as breathing.” 

Superman hugs you. You swear he does. But when the concussion begins to clear up and your confusion wanes in a hospital bed outside of the battle zone, you realise that he was holding you upright. Superman doesn’t know you, he never will, and you’re okay with it in the grand scheme of things. If you had to meet him, you’re glad it was while he was keeping you safe. He really is a good guy. 

—

A week later, Clark Kent is waiting for you at the doors to the Daily Planet. 

“Are you sure you don’t need more rest?” he asks, forcibly removing your handbag from your shoulder to carry himself.

“I’m sure.”

“It’s okay if you need more time to recover. You’re still wearing a dressing.” 

“It’s a bandaid, Clark, and it’s to hide the scar for now, it’s–”

“It’s still a wound.” 

“It’s fine! You saw it, you know it’s fine.” 

Your overbearing best friend had surprise-visited you the day after your injury despite a text to tell him to stay home. You’re fine. It was a cut and the mildest concussion you could’ve had. You didn’t throw up, or collapse, you’d simply gotten confused and bled all over Metropolis’ finest super hero until his hands were more red than white.

“It looked awful, it still does.” 

“It looks fine. Even the nurse said it was a small cut, in an unfortunate place.”

“Very unfortunate.” 

You follow him to the elevator bank with a frown. “Clark, you don’t have to sulk.” 

“I’m not sulking! I just don’t see what’s wrong with staying in bed for now.” 

“I have stuff to do, babe. I have to work. I have to move forward, it barely hurts anymore.” 

He likes being called babe, simpering accordingly. “Well, you’re sitting down all day. Doctor’s orders.” 

“Show me your oath and I’ll consider it.” 

“Please?” 

He looks like he could cry. Not that he will, but like he could if you keep saying no to him. And despite all your grievances with being treated like you’re fragile now, you decide to take it easy, if only to give Clark the peace of mind. “Okay, sure. You can wait on me all day.” 

“Yes. Thank you.” 

Clark’s your best friend because —no matter how much it might confuse you— he seems to really love you, maybe from the moment he met you. You started at the Daily Planet and he took to you like a duck takes to water. Everything you said made him laugh, every recipe you wrote was one he had to try. And you figured it was something boys tend to do, right? Pretend you‘re interesting until they get what they want from you, but Clark’s never asked for anything else, loving you wholly and expecting nothing in return. 

You let him swing an arm around your shoulders, a mirror of himself those few nights ago where he’d come shaky and sorry to see you. He apologised for not being there when you got hurt, as if he could’ve stopped it. 

“I’m sick of working already,” you say. 

“Then let’s go home.” 

“Clark. I’m being conversational.” 

“Don’t tease me,” he pleads, sounding all sudden and whiney. You squirm out of his arms to poke his side. Gets more solid by the day. Idiot boy. 

“Have you been working out?” 

“Can you stop?” 

“Can I stop? You’re a nightmare.”

Clark threatens to superglue you to your deskchair, but he titters around you hopelessly all day. 

— 

You’re laying on the gravel roof of your apartment on top of a sun lounger, trying to decide if getting some sun is worth all the noise. Beeping, birds, cars, doors, the wind, this high up and occasionally curving through buildings to kiss your skin —noise, noise, noise. Your phone is ringing while you ignore it, desperate to get through the last chapter of your book without interruption. You have thus far been foiled, and figured nobody’d be able to find you up here. 

The quick, awful zip of a high impact sounds somewhere close. You nearly topple from your lounger, a hand pressed to your chest, your heart racing near painfully at the surprise. You whip your head to the horizon looking for smoke, but there’s nothing. For a few minutes, you can’t hear anything at all. 

The shape of him descends before your mind can catch up. Then, he’s there in one piece. A touchable dream, Carol Ann Duffy at work and torturing you in passing. You’ve seen a ton of photos of him, hundreds, videos of girls recording to ask him sweet questions, and you’ve never seen him smile so shyly. You shiver violently down your arms, but Superman isn’t here to hurt you. 

“I’ve been looking for you.” 

“You were?” you ask.

“I wanted to make sure you were doing okay.” 

You sit up properly. The book in your lap makes a crunching noise that you happily ignore. “I’m fine. I’m fine, did you– You’re here to see if I’m okay?” 

His smile strengthens. “Is that okay?” 

You stammer, “Of course it’s okay!” A flush rises from your chest to your cheeks as he stays there. He’s not leaving until you answer. Holy fuck. “I’m great, Superman. All healed up.” 

“Are you sure? You still have–” He gestures to your bandaid. 

“It’s to keep it clean in the daytime. I take it off before bed.” 

“Does it hurt?” 

“No, of course not.” 

“Why of course not?” 

Your heart makes a funny pulse. Handsome isn’t the right word for him. There’s something special about it, otherworldly, literally, the cut of his jaw somehow sharp and soft at once, his pert nose, his eyes gone light in the sunshine and framed by dark lashes that beg to be touched. You imagine running a fingertip along them, gently brushing them up for no reason at all, and he narrows his gaze at you in your silence. The shorts you’re wearing have you worrying you’re underdressed in his eyes. They’re pajamas, pink with black polka dots and edgings. You’d had the forethought to wear a short-sleeve rather than a vest lest one of your neighbours find themselves up here with the same quiet idea. Superman’s fully clothed in comparison. 

His boots look formidable next to your puppy dog socks. 

“It doesn’t hurt,” you promise, half-lying and uncaring. Superman saved you. He’s perfect, so your head doesn’t hurt. 

“You seem a little flustered, is all.” 

“Oh. Oh, well, it’s hot out, and I’m not like, super used to being in your company. Or any company, um, like yours.” 

“You’ve never met a metahuman?” 

“No, never.” 

“We’re just like everybody else.” 

You laugh. 

“No, really,” he says, idling toward you, red boots treading the gravel down flat. “I’m just like you, you don’t have to be nervous.” 

“Sorry.��� 

“Now what do you have to be sorry for?” 

You laugh again, a giggle you’d never admit to. He’s strangely intimidating; a presence, but not an imposing one.

“What are you reading?” he asks, nodding to your lap. 

“Oh, uh. Uh, it’s called The Ocean?” You straighten up the book to show him the cover. “It’s good, uh, the main character is a young boy who wants to find his father, I think it’s supposed to be a take on The Odyssey,” 

“Why is he looking for his father?” 

“He’s missing after a terrible war. It’s one of those ones that hurts the entire time but the ending has wrapped it up so nicely, it was worth it.”

“Maybe I’ll read it, too. You look like someone who has great taste.” 

“You can borrow my copy.” 

Superman’s gaze narrows again. “You’re finished?” 

“Yeah, I finished it before you got here.” 

He waits in the quiet. You’re sure he’s going to call you out for your lie. It's not as though a Kryptonian truth-radar would be outside of the realm of possibility. 

Superman finally smiles. “I promise to bring it back,” he says simply. 

“Sure. Well, take your time.” 

—

How long can it possibly take a superhero to read one book?

You shouldn't be thinking about it again. Poor Clark is sitting in the corner of the couch with your feet stuck under his thighs, telling you about the grocery store widow who asks him for help to take her groceries out to her car whenever she sees him. She’d spotted him at the produce section today and dibsed him, and Clark doesn’t mind (though she leaves her car at the back of the parking lot no matter the weather). In fact, Clark doesn’t bring it up to complain. He’s sympathising with her, how lonely she must be. 

You try to shake Superman from your head while Clark is talking, but the thoughts of him won’t budge. 

You’d made a fool of yourself on the roof. Superman had taken your book to be polite. He probably won’t come back. 

“Hey.” 

You lift your head. 

Clark’s looking at you. Big blue eyes in a classic face, the line of his glasses dark and heavy against his brow. They trace your expression, searching for the misery you’ve failed to hide, until he finds it in the creases of your eyes. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks. His voice is weak with worry. 

“Nothing.”

“It’s something.”

“It’s really not.” 

“It definitely is. You can tell me about anything, you know. Or you don’t have to tell me, but I’ll be here for you no matter what. Some food for thought.” 

“Food for thought. Eat this, Kent,” you say, jabbing him at the top of the thigh with your heel. 

Clark grabs your foot. “Come on. I know something’s wrong, and I don’t understand why you wouldn’t tell me, but…” He lets your foot smack down into the top of his thigh to grab his tea instead.

“Isn’t that cold?” you ask. 

“It’s tepid,” he allows after a sip.

You laugh, so he laughs. It’s a lovely sound.

“Again. Again, you don’t have to tell me what’s wrong, but I’d listen if you wanted me to.”

“Don’t try and make out like you’re not keeping secrets.” 

Clark goes slack-jawed. “Sorry?” 

“You don’t tell me everything. I know exactly where you disappear to all the time.” 

“You do?” 

You climb up on your knees and settle in front of him. You’re wearing those pink polka dot shorts like you were on the roof with Superman, in hopes they’ll summon him to you like a talisman. Clark presses his lips together, watching you closely as you take his face into your hands. 

“You’re dating Lois Lane,” you say. 

His fingers dust your elbow. “What?” 

“You’re sweet on her, aren’t you? Plus, you’re busy all the time. You’ve cancelled movie night three times this month, did you know?” 

“I’m sorry–”

“I’m not. I’m happy for you.” 

Clark shakes his head. “But Lois and I… I mean, not for months. We were almost something, I think, but no. Not for a while.” 

You let your hands fall off of his cheeks. “Oh. Sorry, Clark.” 

“Don’t be. I should’ve told you, but it was new and then it was over.” 

“You should’ve told me,” you agree, “but I sort of get why you didn’t. I’m your girl best friend. That’s a thing.”

“You’re my best friend,” he promises, no ‘girl’ prefix necessary. “That’s not why it ended, Lois isn’t like that. It was… we disagreed on so many things. Looking back, I think she was right about most of it.”

“Well, she’s a girl.”

“That she is. You’re all the same, aren’t you? All dazzling.” 

He says it with an earnestness that reminds you of the other half of your friendship-equation. Clark’s your best friend because he loves your work and your jokes and your company, and you’re his best friend because he’s good as gold, inside out, just awfully lovable.

“You’re ’dazzling’ too,” you say. “You are.”

Clark offers you his mug of tea. You take a sip for something to do. 

“Not that cold,” you murmur. 

“I never realised you were such a liar.” 

“I don’t really lie to you, Clark.” 

He leans up to kiss your head, chaste against your purpling scar. “I know.”

—

“So, this book–”

You jump hard enough to send your groceries five different ways, oranges and kiwis for Clark flying up in the air. They never hit the ground —Superman catches them in two hands. 

Your loaf of bread lays cradled in his arm like a baby. 

“Fuck,” you complain. 

“I’m sorry.” Superman laughs at you. Laughs. “Sorry. But this book, is there a sequel?” 

“What?” you ask. Superman tips your groceries into your waiting paper bag. 

“I think I need a sequel.” He pulls The Ocean from a pocket and squeezes it unkindly. “I think it ruined my life.” 

“There’s no sequel. But–” don’t spoil the ending for me, you almost say. “Did you enjoy it at all?” 

“It was good. Do you read a lot, or are you down to the real heart-achers?” 

“Uh, I guess. Well, no, I used to read more, but I didn’t have time for a while ‘n now I’m usually too stirred up to settle down.” 

“You cook.” 

You blink. “You googled me?” 

“No, how could I? But I did see you on the third page of the Daily Planet. You have a little author’s window. You made pumpkin pie.”

“For Thanksgiving weekend, yeah. They only ever put me near the front or on the main page of the website if it’s the holidays.” 

“Is that true?” 

You shake your head. Not to say no, to say, let’s not talk about it. Silly insecurities are unnecessary conversation. At least, they are with him. 

Someone gasps from behind you. With one comes a few. The people near the crosswalk are starting to notice Superman’s tall figure standing in the sun, and though you’d wish he’d managed to hide in the shadows, you admit to yourself that there’s nowhere else he could ever be. He looks right in the sun. 

“Do you want to come with me?” he asks. 

Do you want to go with him? What the fuck does he think? said in your head ecstatically, not a lick of derision against him. Your excitement nearly blinds you. 

“Yeah,” you say, practically mumbling, wanting to come off nonchalant and instead sounding painfully shy, even to your own ears. 

“Yeah?” He offers an arm. “Come here.”

Your charmed little laugh makes him grin. “Alright?” he asks, locking an arm around you vice-tight. 

“Where are we–”

The air leaves your lungs in one fell swoop. There and gone, breathless and weightless in tandem.

The sky is more than blue when you’re in it. 

There’s nothing you can say about it. You’re terrified Superman is going to drop you, you can hardly breathe from the sudden speed at which you’d been taken up with him, but beyond that, there’s nothing to say. Wordless, endless sky. Blue, blue—

“It’s not as scary as you think, right?” he asks, his head angled down to yours. 

“I expected you to have to shout. I don’t know why.” 

“It’s windier in the air, but we’re close. I don’t need to yell.” 

“You’re lucky I didn’t get many groceries.” 

“You aren’t heavy.” 

You’re delighted. “This is a paper bag, you realise! I’m surprised it didn’t explode the second you got me up here!” 

“I’ll be careful. You’re precious cargo, and you deserve a better experience now than the one you got when you first came up here with me.”

“I don’t remember much of it.” 

“That’s okay. I do.” 

You should feel ridiculous, but strong arms hold you steady. Blue eyes like someone familiar pour over your face, as though they need to see you clearly, with all this perfect light. Your few groceries are squeezed between your chests as you squeeze him by the neck, desperate for the extra security, that he won’t simply let you go, and have you fall. 

“This is amazing,” you breathe, your eyes sweeping down to take in beautiful Metropolis beating away beneath you. The cars look like ants. The buildings cast shadows you’d never noticed from the ground. 

“Yeah,” he says. “It’s something.” 

You glance up to find him still staring at you. 

The girls on SuperClub would never, ever believe you if you tried to tell them what passes between you, then. (Not that you frequent SuperClub. Often. You see it while scrolling, and you tend to scroll past it with a fond eye roll.) They wouldn’t believe that Superman brings his hand to your head to touch your temple, as though your small scar is a personal affront to him. They wouldn’t believe the way that he pauses when you shudder. Wouldn’t believe how he lets his fingertip tumble down your cheek, or the soft incline of his head. The slightest kiss of his eyelashes meeting in the very corners of his eyes as they almost close. 

“Don’t feel guilty, please,” you say. 

“What?” He sounds as though he’s woken up from a nap. 

“About what happened. It wasn’t your fault that I got hurt. I wanted you to know that. You saved me.” 

Superman lets the distance between your two faces grow. “I…”

“If this is what that is, if you feel like you owe me something, well. You don’t… I don’t know you, Superman, but sometimes I think I do. It’s like… someone I've met before? I can see your bleeding heart.” You offer a brash smile. “But I’m just fine. You promised me that I would be, and I am.” 

“You’re not making this any easier for me.” 

You shift in his grasp, his hair tickling you and the little hairs on your arms. 

“I’m not a very easy person,” you say. 

Superman presses his nose to your cheek. 

“I think you’re giving me tachycardia,” you whisper.

He hears it. Doesn’t answer for a while, and when he does, it’s to neither of the things you said before.

“Let me take you somewhere new,” he says.

—

A day later, Clark asks if he can bring you dinner. Like and unlike himself, to care enough to ask but to forgo his usual boisterous lack of respect when it comes to taking care of you. Clark recognises that you like to be cared for aggressively. That you want someone to care so much that they won’t stop at the first hurdle. You want someone to take it at a sprint, and Clark’s a show off loser-dork who likes taking care of you. 

He meets you at the door, where you show him your small picnic basket kitted with two plates, knives, forks, and a hidden dessert. “Too hot in my apartment,” you say. 

“What’s wrong with the AC?” 

“It’s leaking.” 

“I’ll take a look at it. What happened to that fan I got you?” he asks, his fingers at your wrist trying to steal the basket. 

“Oh, Clark, can’t you just leave me alone?” you plead. 

He laughs like a kid. “I love when you do that.”

“What?” 

“I don’t know, is it sarcasm? I don’t think that’s apt. Whatever it is, when you act like that? You’re really convincing. It’s funny.”

“I can be funny.”

“I know, that’s what I’m saying. You’re really funny. Can you do it some more?”

“Now it’s not natural, though.” 

“Please?”

“Leave it alone, Clark. You’re such a beg.” 

He laughs again. It peters off to a quiet you’d like to live in. His takeout bag rustles, your picnic basket rattles, his fingers brushing the back of your arm as he follows you down the street to the wooded path. 

There’s a small park not far from your apartment that’s been divided into two halves. The playground for the neighbourhood kids, and the picnic tables made of strangely shaped wood. They’re all rounded. One table is shaped like an ‘S’. Another like a filled in ‘8’. 

You sit at the one furthest from the playground, coincidentally shaped like a ‘C’. “For Clark,” you say, pleased. 

“Adorable.” 

You set up your plates, dividing up the food squarely. Clark had the wherewithal to bring two cans of soda and a big bottle of water. He asks which one you want, cracking it open accordingly. “Gonna pour it into my mouth, too?” you tease. 

“Do you not want me to be nice to you?” 

And the night slips away. You eat your takeout at the picnic table and linger until your legs are numb. The grass around the park is damp, but you sit, and you shoot the breeze until the sun starts to go down. It must be hours out there together. 

Clark takes his jacket off and spreads it over your shoulders. “This is your only bad trait,” he says happily. “You never tell me when you’re cold.”

“I’m not that cold.”

“Sure you’re not. Look, come here,” —he pulls you bodily into his side, his voice turning silky as angora— “you act like you’re such a plague, like– I don’t know, like I wouldn’t wanna know that you’re cold.”

“I don’t act like that.” 

“You do. You could rely on me for more, you know? I want you to lean on me.” 

You lean on him.

Clark presses his nose to your temple, his glasses digging into your skin.

And you think, I know you. 

But you don’t know why. 

—

Clark can't believe this is happening again. 

He woke up this morning with a scary yet firm plan: he’s going to get himself together, pluck up what he has in the way of courage, and be honest with you about Superman. If only so he can stop lying to you. He should’ve told you months ago that he was Superman. Hell, he might’ve told you from the moment he met you, that’s how sure he was that he’d love you. As a friend —his best friend, half of his life. There’s this ease, like he’s known you for far longer than he truly has, like he could know you for the rest of his life. 

And lately. 

Oh, lately. Clark can’t get a handle on things. He hadn’t realised he was falling in love with you, isn’t even sure that’s the way to describe it; far from a sharp plummet downward into love, this has felt like a slow and steady ascent, but now suddenly he’s at the mountain top and the air is thin, and he’s looking for you, aching for relief, and you’re sitting in the snow with your book and your shy smile, cross-legged, just waiting for him to get there and open his cowardly mouth. 

Or that’s what he’d like to think. 

Fact of the matter is, Clark would like to kiss you. Hold your hand, have your head rest on his shoulder. He’d like to pull you into his lap and squeeze. Clark could die happy if he got just one shot at it, no matter the outcome. 

He knows he won’t lose you, but he’s worried you don’t want what he wants. He’s gotten so close to having you, he’s not sure he can take being any further apart than this. 

Clark takes the tramline to the rich part of the city with the best florist. There are buckets and buckets of flowers; orange tiger lilies and white orchids turned green in the sun; roses as big as his fist, unfurling; sweet peas kissing pinkest camellias all tangled up with baby’s breath. He chooses the sweet peas. They really are sweet, their hemmed edge petals curling in and nearly blue. They’re beautiful. He can see them in a glass on your nightstand by tonight if he’s lucky.

It’s on the walk to your apartment (tramline too busy to risk, lest your flowers get hurt) that the trouble begins. 

The light goes out. 

It doesn’t make logical sense. He’s outdoors. It’s the early morning, the sun should be shining for hours to come. 

He looks up and finds a singular dark rectangle over Earth. 

It blots out everything, disapears the clouds, turns the blue sweetpeas in his hand a tired shade of grey. 

Clark wonders if he should’ve told you how he felt when he had the chance. Then, he leaves his glasses, his jacket, and his sweetpeas in the hedgerow at the park with alphabet picnic tables and throws himself upwards into the sky.

—

What emerges from the spaceship (and it is a spaceship, made of an element humans aren’t want to touch) are creatures shaped like spinning asterisks, wisps of their angel-white bodies bending the shadows they’ve cast down onto Metropolis. It’s like smoke. 

The dark makes it hard to breathe. 

You sit huddled in your bedroom looking out through the window, despite a desperate urge to hide somewhere further inward. Sirens echo throughout otherwise quiet streets, discordant wailing that wavers for long, sharp minutes. There had been screaming and crying and the splintering sounds of glass. It’s not —not unseeable, out there, but anyone with poor vision will find themselves stranded.

You open your phone. Your theory is that the aliens have been able to dampen sound as well as sun, leaving the battlefield dangerously quiet. Clark’s not answering your texts because he never has his phone, but you’re sure he’s out there somewhere. He told you he was coming. The last message he sent this morning blinks at you from the bottom of your screen: Coming by soon if you’re not busy, do you want me to bring breakfast? 

You’d said, just some eggs please if you want eggs 

You’d said, hey, are you safe? What’s with the dark? 

You’d said, clark please text me back right now, I’m freaking out, do you need me to come get you? 

He won’t answer the phone. Outside, up in the sky where it’s darker still and the white shadows have begun to ripple, the occasional red beam of heat slices into whiteness, turning it to shadows again. There are two sets of red if you watch carefully. Green light flickers at the ground. 

And Clark Kent is out there all alone. 

You crawl to your shoes under the bed and put them on, pajamas and all. Clark’s blue hoodie lays on the back of your deskchair. You shrug it on. 

He’s gonna lose his entire mind if you do find him out there. Can friends ground you? Because Clark’s going to ground you. But you’d rather be grounded than all alone. 

—

Superman groans into the floor, his tongue coated in dust. 

He has far better vision than a person feasibly needs. He wore a pair of glasses once that are supposed to approximate what it’s like to have legal blindness, and he’d felt suddenly, achingly sorry for the human race. But then he’d found the glasses stand beside it with all their different prescriptions and shrugged it off. Humans are brilliant. He’s in awe of their persistence, their resilience, and their strength. He knows he can find it in himself to go on because they can, too. 

He has better vision, and still he finds himself batted away from the entities like a bothersome fruit fly. 

“Krypto?” he asks into the smog. 

His borrowed dog flies at him with impressive speed, pressing his snout straight into a bruise. 

“Ow!” 

Krypto snuffles and hits at his arms with both paws. 

“Krypto, stop! Jeez, stop. You’re such a pai– Ow! Get off.” 

Krypto nibbles his shoulder. 

Clark forces himself to sit up. At least he hasn’t killed the dog. Kara would probably eviscerate the planet country by country if something happened to her dog, not mentioning the aliens that started this whole thing. And he is good at bringing the suit when Clark needs it. 

He rubs at his eyes and drags himself to his feet, back aching, eyes like sand. Nothing is healing because he can’t feel the sun, but he’s not too hurt. He can take a bad landing. He can take twenty of them. 

“Krypto, stay.” 

Krypto tilts his white blurry head. 

“You’re not helping.” 

Arf! Clark rolls his shoulders and shoots back into the air. 

Krypto stays down, for now. 

Clark takes a lap through the air, searching for signs of life with his ears. The eery quiet is beginning to fill with catastrophe.

“Clark?” 

He stops dead in the sky. 

“Clark?” you call, ten miles below him, shouting all clipped and scared. “Clark Kent! Are you out here? If you can hear me, call back to me!”

He says your name.

“Clark? I’m here!” 

Clark looks up into melted-sugar shadows as they begin to curdle and makes a choice. Damn the aliens, they can have the sky, so long as Clark gets to keep you safe. 

He has to keep you safe. 

—

You’re watching a shadow plummet toward you when the sky opens up into shards of Technicolor. Concentrated around a single point of red and blue and moving so fast it turns puce.

—

There’s a scene in The Ocean where the main character realises his father has been dead before the beginning of the book. Dead for years. He goes searching for him because he’s scared to be alone, brave enough to realise it, and young enough to misunderstand the danger of the world. He treks sandbanks, ferries favour, turns in promises and follows the footsteps of a man long dead across the world. Clark told you once, privately, quietly, in a moment that immediately panicked him, that his parents had adopted him, and that his birth parents had left him with a letter after they both died.

What did it say? you’d asked. 

To be good. 

You find your copy of The Ocean cradled in familiar hands. You recognise its secondhand cover, the bends in the front where a previous owner had tented it for a long period of time. The spine is loose and lax with age. The pages are yellow with time. 

Clark is sleeping quietly in the plastic-wrapped chair beside your bed. He doesn’t have a bruise or cut. He doesn’t look anything like Superman had as he’d flung himself at you, two seconds too late, his body a shield against an explosion that lit your body with fire and colour alike. The whole world had been red, and then yellow, and suitably blue. There was pain. 

Not a darkness as people often say. Just hurting and now this. 

You take a scary breath. Hitching and pained, you search for comfort and find none of it. There’s a needle in the back of your hand secured with a teddy bear wrapping. The sheets have been drawn to your chin and choke you as you try to sit. 

After a moment of struggling, you sink back and try for another breath. Deep, aching breaths. You do it until your lungs burn, these awful, stringing breaths, eyes to the ceiling and fighting the spots of nothingness that cloud your vision. 

“Hey,” a soft voice says, softer hand pressed to the curve of your neck. “Oh, hey, sweet girl, hey… it’s okay. The pain won’t last, they gave you a little more morphine a few minutes ago, it’ll kick in.” 

“Uh–”

Clark makes a sound. “Oh.” 

You let your eyes slide to him. He’s checking his wrist where it’s resting on you. 

“I was sleeping for a long time, I… Honey, I’ll get a nurse.” 

“No,” you breathe. 

“Yeah, honey, I’ll get a nurse,” he repeats, stroking your neck with his thumb. His eyes are their usual calm blue, bearing down into your own with an emotion that’s somehow palpable and implacable. “It’s no good, you being in pain like this. I’ll come right back.” 

“Clark, don’t go,” you whine. 

It’s like the world has been placed heavy on your head. 

Clark offers you relief. “I won’t go if you don’t want me to. Tell me what’s hurting, and I’ll fix it.” 

You shake your head at him. Fuck, nothing hurts. It’s not pain you’re being smothered in. 

“Okay,” he murmurs.

For a while, you don’t talk. Clark stays stooped over you, too tall and careful anyhow to stay out of your light. He holds your cheek, rubbing at skin with his thumb until it’s tickled into numbness, your body begging you to move away from his touch and your brain knowing you can’t. You’ll never duck away from his fingertips ever again. 

Where he’d been unhurt, he isn’t unharried. His hair is in a complete disarray, curls in places pulled straight and greasy behind his ears. His face is pale. His eyes flicker obsessively between you and your monitor, as though he can decipher the information it displays. He must see something there that he trusts, sitting down again in the chair dragged quick and easy to the side of your bed. His hand stays at your face. He’s long. It’s simple work. 

“You read The Ocean,” you whisper. 

“I read all your annotations, too,” he tells you, turning his hand to run it down your cheek, his fingernails especially silky against the line of your jaw. 

You turn your face toward his touch. Your eyes flutter closed as he indulges your deepest fantasy. 

“I didn’t–” Oh, you can’t say it. You hadn’t meant to want him like this. You hadn’t known he was Superman, and isn’t that awful? Something cruel. Your best friend kept a worst secret. 

He doesn’t rush you. 

You’re ready to try again a few minutes later. His fingertips have started to draw a flower into your neck. 

“I’m embarrassed that Clark knows what I said to Superman,” you say plainly. 

“Superman didn’t tell Clark anything,” Clark says. His voice is light in contrast to your hesitancy. 

“But you know it all.” 

“I know you,” he agrees. 

“I’m really… sorry. I’m sorry, I–” You search for his touch and he immediately cups your cheek again. “Clark, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come out looking for you. I didn’t realise you could look after yourself and I made things worse.” 

“Do you even remember?” he asks. 

Mildly. You’d woken once before and found a less fixed Clark covered in blood above you. A part of you had understood that it was Clark, even without his glasses, and a different part knew it was Superman. Then things had blurred, half-replaced by a memory of his hand behind your back in the middle of a meadow halfway across the world, that beautiful quiet valley where the water had been ice and the grass emerald velveteen under your legs. 

In the dream, Superman (and this had been real until it wasn’t), turned to you, and said, with Clark’s dorky intonation, “That’s seriously beautiful, huh?”  

“You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“But–”

“You don’t. I won’t argue about it with you. You have no apologies to make, you did everything right and nothing wrong, and I lied to you, and I got you hurt, and…” He has the gall to pink in the cheeks, like you’ve taken the skin between your knuckles and pinched. “I wasn’t honest with you about my feelings. I almost kissed you as Superman, and that wasn’t fair.” 

“You really are… him?” you ask weakly. 

“Yeah, I am.” 

Clark sits up as a doctor opens your room’s door. 

“Everything okay?” she asks. When she sees you awake, she smiles broadly. “Hey, you’re up! Can we get you some dinner now?” 

“You skipped breakfast,” Clark tells you. 

“I was awake for breakfast?” 

“Barely. We had you on some pretty gnarly painkillers,” the doctor says. She adjusts her white coat. “I just wanted to check in with your nurses and your lovely partner here that you hadn’t thrown up again.” 

You flush. “I’m fine.” 

Clark simply rubs your chest like a wave of his hand against your heart. 

“I’m worried you haven’t gotten enough sustenance this past day, but we try not to hook you up with too many things,” the doctor explains, “much better for you to settle and then eat. And to drink some water!” 

“I don’t feel very hungry.” 

“The painkillers you’re on can make some people feel quite sick. But try your best, okay? I’ll come back after dinner to see what we can do about those broken fingers.” 

You follow your arm down to your hand. Your pinky and ring finger on the non-dominant hand have been splinted but not casted. 

“Oh.” 

The doctor takes her leave, abandoning Clark to your questions. 

“What’s wrong with me?” you ask. 

“You got concussed again. It made you sick, and your hand is very nearly broken, but they think it’s just your fingers from the look of your x-rays. And you have a long cut.” He puts his hand on your stomach gently. “Here. Almost as long as your arm, but it’s a surface cut. You landed on debris. I’m sorry, my– honey. Sorry.” 

You can’t fight the chills or your bewilderment. “What for?”

“I didn’t get to you fast enough.” 

“Clark.” Your mouth is dry. He’s pretty. Your head goes round and round and aching and then with a dash of clarity, the world snaps back into place. Your hospital room is empty and bright, with a vase filled to bursting with sweetpeas in pride of place on your nightstand. There are voices drifting in from the hallway, and Clark is handsome even as he tears himself apart. The silver lining his bottom lashes doesn’t go unnoticed. “I’m okay, babe.” 

He laughs wetly. 

“I’m fine,” you promise, quieter now. “How couldn’t I be? You’re so gentle.” 

Clark finds your hand, pulling it to his forehead, his body bending forward like a marionette on loosening strings. He shakes his head vehemently, his grip on your wrist tight but far from cruel. 

“You’re gentle,” you promise under your breath, “I told you that before, didn’t I? You’re kind, and brave, and– it’s not your fault I went looking for you.” 

“I should be comforting you. I should be helping you,” he whispers. 

“You won’t catch me crying on your shoulder twice, Superman.” 

His head flinches up, like he’s realising for the first time that you know who he is. 

Whatever he sees in your face helps him to settle down. He curls long, thick fingers around your hand. You can’t help noting how adversely tender they feel while he holds your hand. 

“What did you think of the book?” you ask finally. 

“I didn’t know you liked to read,” he says. 

You shrug. Let your head fall back into a thin pillow, wondering how you might go about getting a better one, and beginning to feel the effects of the painkillers they’d been talking about. “It’s not like it’s the most alarming secret, between us.” 

He lets out a wounded whine. “Why do you hate me?” he asks. 

“You’re due some hazing.” 

“Can’t you take pity on me?” he asks. 

You curl your fingers around his where they’d otherwise been limp. “I’m not really half as cool as I’m trying to act, Clark.” 

He sulks beautifully. “I think you’re lying to make me feel better.” 

Only a little. 

—

Being cool around Clark Kent lasts about as long as the morphine does. The reality is this: Clark Kent —best friend extraordinaire, sweetheart farm boy who’s vetted all your worst ideas, held your hair back in the smallest toilet in Metropolis bar history after a too-happy happy hour, knows all your holey socks and questionable medical queries— is Superman. 

And Superman? 

He’d been courting you. 

The word is antiquated and accurate. Superman had been cautiously courting you with his sparse visits, shy and brave at once, brash but remarkably put together. It is after you know the truth that you realise Clark had been not so secretly courting you simultaneously. 

“Is that why you were bringing me dinner and stuff?” you ask, lured into the conversation by accident, now deeply curious. 

“No. I did that stuff before I wanted you. It was hard to sort the feelings into boxes, like– platonically, I’ve loved you since you came into the office with your miserable laptop and– and romantically, I don’t know. I guess I didn’t realise until I tried to kiss you and you wouldn’t let me.” 

“Sorry?” 

“I tried to kiss you, and you thought it was a pity kiss.” 

You hold him by the shoulder. “That was real?” 

“Do you dream about it?” he asks knowingly. 

“It was really going to be a kiss?” 

He softens. Clark, big on your smaller couch, in his pajamas with his hair finally washed again and your hand in his lap, rests his shoulder into yours with a long-suffering sigh. “Best kiss of your life,” he promises. 

“Prove it.” 

“What?” 

It’s been four days since the hospital and Clark is horrifically chaste. “Do you not want to kiss me?” 

“You know I do.” 

“So kiss me.” 

He pinches your chin. “If you wanted a kiss, you could’ve just taken one,” he tells you, looking you straight in the eyes. 

“From Superman?” you ask with a little scoff. 

He moves his head from left to right. “From me,” he says. 

There has been so much to tell him. So little space to hide from him. Lines of books you’d underlined for him, lines for Superman, for both of them. The guilty way you’d watched Clark Kent take off his shirt at the public pool in summer heat and the loop of Superman under your thumb as you’d fallen asleep scrolling SuperClub. You’ve been more honest with him than you’ve dared to be previously. 

Clark has repaid you in kind. 

Did you know, he’d confessed, when you were still grody from the hospital and he’d demanded you let him stay, that night, that everything I’m good at is because of the sun? I can function without it. I can store up the energy in my cells and I don’t need much to stretch it far, but without the yellow sun, I’m just like you? 

How could I know that? you’d thought. Why are you telling me this? you’d asked instead.

I want you to know. 

Clark loves the sun, you realise now. He turns his face up to it often, soaking it in silently. He gets this look whenever he stops to take it in. Perfect contentment. Trust, that it will make him feel better. 

Clark tilts his chin against yours, nudging your face gently inward, giving you the shortest glimpse of that content stretched across a smile as it presses into yours.

You hyperventilate your way into an open-mouthed, gasping sort of thing, and find Clark a fiercer kisser than you could’ve imagined. All those daydreams about Superman saving you from another day copyediting your own messes, you’d never thought to picture the boy sitting at the desk across from you, how his hand might slide behind your neck like water. How he’d take the breath from your lips and offer his own in a shaky, wanting gasp. 

Superman, breathless under your touch. No one would ever believe you. 

“Did you want me to tell you how it ends?” 

You break away from him, panting, vaguely confused. “Sorry?” 

“The Ocean? You never finished it.”

“Oh. Maybe you can read it to me. You know, afterwards.” 

Clark grins. “After,” he promises, leaning down for another kiss. 

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

thank u Bec for proofreading ur brains are irreplaceable <3 and thank u everyone else for reading! 

[celestiall222]

Superman can hear you moan -C.K

Synopsis: You didn’t think Clark could hear you moaning his name while your fingers were buried deep between your thighs—until he knocked on your door and proved just how hard it was to ignore. Turns out Superman has super hearing… and zero self-control when you beg for him out loud.

cw: Unprotected sex, oral (f receiving). Creampie. Fingering. Mutual masturbation. Voice kink. Riding. Dominance/power play.  Slight breeding kink. Possessive Clark. super strength use (light). Exhibitionism implications (he can hear you anywhere). 

Metropolis rent was hell.

It was supposed to be just a financial arrangement—two broke twenty-somethings sharing a halfway decent apartment. You met him at some friend's birthday dinner and hit it off over cheap wine and sarcastic commentary about everyone else there. A month later, you were hauling your mattress into a shared two-bedroom.

The first few weeks were shockingly chill. You never really pried into his business—even when he vanished at weird hours or came back with tousled hair and a faint scorch mark on his flannel. You knew. Of course you knew. You weren’t an idiot. But you didn’t ask.

What he didn’t tell you? That he had super fucking hearing.

Scratch that—you had no fucking idea he could hear everything. The soft, wet glide of your fingers. The hitch of your breath. The whisper of “fuck, Clark” that slipped out before you even realized it.

So when you were tossing in bed one night, too restless to sleep, thoughts swirling with everything but rest—maybe it was the way Clark had walked out of the bathroom earlier with a towel slung so low you could see the V of his hips, wet curls dripping onto his shoulders—you’d let your hand drift under the hem of your sleep shirt.

It started soft. Lazy. Gentle. Just trying to calm your body enough to sleep. But your mind wandered. Images of Clark. His mouth. His hands. The way he said your name in that gravelly, sleepy voice when you passed him a mug of coffee in the mornings. Before you knew it, your fingers were slick, breath quick, teeth buried in your lower lip as your thighs squeezed together.

And Clark? Clark was two rooms away, jaw clenched so tight he thought he might crack a molar.

He’d heard everything. The soft gasp when you found that perfect rhythm. The quiet, desperate whimper of his name.

He gave you ten minutes. Ten excruciating minutes. But when you whimpered again—so fucking sweet and breathless, “God, Clark…”—he lost it.

You didn’t even have time to adjust your sleep shirt when the knock came.

Three sharp raps.

Then silence.

You scrambled, fingers sticky, heart racing as you yanked the blanket up and tried to catch your breath. “Uh—yeah?”

Clark’s voice came low, strained, from the other side of the door. “Can I come in?”

You froze. “What?” you squeaked, already flushed.

A beat. Then: “I—I can hear you.”

Your entire body went cold. Then hot. Then achingly wet again.

“Clark,” you breathed, panic rising, embarrassment licking at your spine.

But when the door creaked open—just enough for his silhouette to fill the doorway—you saw the look in his eyes. Like it had taken every ounce of restraint not to burst in sooner.

“You—you heard me?”

His eyes dropped to the blanket still clutched to your chest. “I can hear a lot of things,” he said, voice gravel and heat. “But you? You were loud enough to drive me fucking crazy.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Not when Clark stepped into the room, slow and deliberate, shutting the door behind him.

You were still holding the blanket to your chest, knuckles white. But Clark’s eyes were burning a hole straight through it—and you. “I tried,” he muttered, voice low. “I tried to ignore it. Tried to be decent. But you—you were in here fucking moaning my name like you wanted me to hear it.”

You swallowed hard. “I didn’t know,” you whispered, lips barely moving. “I didn’t think—fuck, I didn’t mean—”

“You didn’t mean to say my name?” he cut in, moving closer. Your bed creaked as he leaned a hand on the footboard. “Or you didn’t mean for me to hear you fuck yourself to the thought of me?” Your heart thudded so loud you were sure he could hear that too.

“I—I didn’t think—” you stammered, throat dry, skin fever-hot. “I didn’t know you could hear me.”

Clark’s eyes dragged over you, slow and hungry. “I always hear you.”

That made your thighs clench under the blanket. “Fuck.” Clark's eyes dropped, following the motion. He smirked—like he could see through the blanket. Honestly, maybe he could. “Can I please touch you?” He asked, almost a whine. 

Your back hit your bed. He bent low, hands gripping the backs of your thighs and dragging you down the bed so fast the mattress squeaked. His head ducked between your legs before you could even moan. 

Your head thrashed back, eyes rolling, and the second he sucked your clit into his mouth you came—hard—grinding helplessly against his face as he groaned and licked you through it

He pulled back only when your legs trembled uncontrollably, chin slick, eyes glazed over. “Get on top of me,” he growled, standing and tossing his shirt aside. “Ride me, sweetheart. Fuck yourself on me like you did with your fingers.”

You didn’t even think. You crawled into his lap as he sat on the edge of your bed, bare and fucking carved from marble. Your fingers wrapped around his cock—it was huge, thick and heavy and throbbing—and your stomach flipped.

“You gonna fit?” you whispered, teasing.

He smirked darkly. “You’re gonna take it.”

And you did.

You sank down slowly, inch by inch, your moans turning to whimpers as he stretched you open. His hands gripped your waist, helping you rock, bounce, take every inch with filthy, possessive murmurs.

“That’s it, baby—fuck—look at you, takin’ all of it.”

You whimpered, nails digging into his shoulders. “Clark—Clark—”

“I know you did,” he growled. “Could hear how bad you wanted it. Hear it every night, baby.”

“Every night?” you cried, jaw dropping.

“Every time you touch yourself.” His thrusts were brutal now, bouncing you like a ragdoll on his lap. “Every time you think you’re being quiet. You think I don’t hear how wet you get when I walk around in just a towel? You think I didn’t notice the way you moan into your pillow when you think I’ve gone to bed?”

You gasped, fingernails dragging down his chest. Your orgasm slammed into you with a scream—tight, fast, messy—and you came gushing around him.

“Fuck, you’re squeezing me—” he grunted. “I’m gonna cum—fuck” He groaned into your neck as he came, hard, gripping you tight as his cock throbbed deep inside your soaked, spasming cunt. The flood of warmth filled you up until it spilled down your thighs, your entire body limp in his lap.

You collapsed forward, his arms tight around your waist. Both of you, panting and sweaty. Until he exhaled a laugh and brushed your hair back gently from your face. “Guess I should’ve told you about the superhearing sooner.”

You blinked. Still hazy. “You think?”

He grinned. “You gonna stop now that you know?”

You smirked. “What do you think, Superman?”

a/n: DADDDYYY