defeatofcupid

[defeatofcupid]

i have been thinking about a clark kent who is obsessed with eating his gf out at the moment and his gf randomly starts piecing together that her nerdy cute bf is actually 🦸‍♂️ i giggled a little not gonna lie

go to town .ᐟ — 18+ mdni, fem!reader, oral sex (duh), overstimulation, multiple orgasms, clark is able to pick up the reader, clark being a hot mess. wc: 1.2k

you don’t think much of it at first. boyfriends go through phases, right? sometimes they’re obsessed with cooking elaborate five-course dinners, sometimes they get really into podcasts, sometimes they. . . you dunno, maybe start a woodworking hobby or whatever.

clark’s phase right now is apparently eating you out like it’s his part-time job, which—fine, you’re not complaining, but you’re also not blind. it’s gotten weirdly intense, like he’s studying you, like he’s clocking times and coming back the next night to try and shave another half-second off. the man treats your orgasms like he’s chasing a personal best.

first off, there’s the stamina thing. you chalked it up to enthusiasm. maybe a low refractory period. whatever. but at some point you’re lying there, legs wrapped around his sculpted neck and your thighs trembling, head thrown back, and you realize he’s been down there for, like, seventy-five minutes straight without even breaking so much as a sweat. no cramp in his neck, no pause for air (which—actually, now that you think about it, how is he breathing?), just this damning, devastating rhythm like he could keep going all night.

and sometimes he does.

you’ve tried to tease him about it, mumble, “ever gonna come up for air?” except the answer always seems to be no. he just chuckles against your thigh and somehow keeps breathing fine. through what? sheer determination? your clit?

it’s in the middle of round… three? four? you've lost count and your brain starts connecting things you really, really don’t want to connect. how he shows up to work without a single wrinkle in his shirt, as if he ironed it with his body. how he disappears sometimes, with the absolute worst excuses (“uh, had to pick up more… milk?”) and then reappears looking like he’s run a marathon but insists he’s fine.

you try not to spiral, but then there’s that one night where he's got you riding his face and it seems like you're drowning him in your slick and you mutter, breathless, “babe, i think i might kill you if we keep this up,” and clark shifts his head just long enough to grin, curls stuck to his forehead from the humidity, and says, “don’t worry, you won’t,” like it’s funny, like. . . he knows something you don’t.

and god help you, your brain immediately goes: what if my boyfriend is actually superman.

you giggle. out loud. clark freezes. “what?” he asks, concerned, like he’s hurt your feelings.

“nothing,” you wheeze, covering your face with your hands. “just—stupid thought.”

he crawls up beside you then, still all flushed and gorgeous and unbearably earnest, and kisses your cheek. “tell me?”

you don’t say anything. not yet. it feels crazy, like connecting a red string between magazine clippings. and besides, what would you even ask? how would it even come out? “hey babe, so quick question, uh—are you superman or just insanely talented at cunnilingus?”

so, you don’t mean to start tracking and doing some light detective work with your boyfriend but it just sort of. . . happens. call it a journalistic instinct.

like, yes, you knew he was strong. he’s big. worked out all his life, probably wrestled tractors for fun as a kid. sure. but no farm upbringing in the world explains why he can hold you up against the wall for entire songs—plural—while eating you out without shaking even a little. you’re gasping, clutching at his shoulders like, “babe, you can put me down, i’m heavy,” and he just smiles (annoyingly, sweetly) and says, “you’re not,” like gravity isn't even a factor for him.

then there are the little things. his vision, for one. wears the thickest glasses known to man, but has this way of finding your keys instantly when you lose them, even when you swear they’re nowhere in the apartment. “oh, they just slipped under the couch,” he says, like he didn’t locate them in half a second without even looking. 

he doesn’t get cold, either. you drag him out on winter nights in just his cardigan, and you’re shivering while he’s all rosy-cheeked and calm, shrugging like, “guess i run warm.” meanwhile you’re layering on three coats and mittens and a hat that martha got for you for christmas.

you don’t plan to confront him about it, obviously. you’ve kind of just been building the conspiracy board in your head for weeks now, filing away each little piece of evidence and it all just sits there, humming under your skin, until suddenly it doesn’t.

because now clark's got you on your back again, thighs over his shoulders, doing that thing where he won’t come up until you’re half begging and incoherent and your brain just short-circuits. you’ve already come three times, you’re slick with sweat in places you don't even wanna mention, you’re tugging at his hair and whining “okay, i can’t, baby, i can’t,” and he’s just looking up at you with this calm expression like he could just do this forever. and that’s when it slips. half of a moan, half of an accusation: “oh jesus christ, clark, are you actually superman or something?”

he freezes. like, actually stops. which he never does. there could be a magnitude 7.0 earthquake and you still wouldn't be able to pry his tongue off your cunt. mouth still pressed to your inner thigh, his whole body goes deadly still like you just flipped the off switch.

“what?” he says, muffled, blinking up at you like a deer in headlights.

you slap a hand over your face, mortified, because of course you’d pick this exact moment to blurt it out, of course your boyfriend’s head between your legs is the time your brain decides to go full tinfoil hat. “nothing,” you groan, voice cracking, “ignore me, i’m—i don’t know, crazy, whatever, just—keep going—”

but he doesn’t. he pulls back, pushes up onto his elbows, hair a wreck, lips swollen and the bottom half of his face covered in your wetness, and he’s looking at you with this mix of panic and… something else. “why... why would you say that?”

you gape at him, heat rushing up your neck. “oh my god. clark. clark. you’re not supposed to answer like that!”

he runs a hand through his curls, looking like the guiltiest man alive, which, honestly, might as well be a confession.

and you just start cackling, because it’s too much—the orgasms, the conspiracy, your nerdy boyfriend crouched between your knees looking like you’ve just discovered his darkest secret. which yeah, you have. “holy shit,” you gasp, covering your mouth, “i was joking, but—you actually—oh my god.”

“please don’t freak out,” he says, which is absolutely the worst thing to say, because now you’re freaking out twice as hard.

you sit up, shoving at his shoulder, still laughing like a maniac. “clark kent is superman and instead of saving the world right now you’re down here trying to give me a fourth orgasm?!”

he groans, hides his face in his hands. “this is not how i wanted you to find out.”

“how were you gonna tell me? over brunch? when we're at the laundromat?” you can’t stop laughing, half-hysterical. “i knew something was off—you don’t breathe, clark, you hold me up like i’m nothing, you literally teleport across rooms—”

he peeks through his fingers, sheepish as hell. “i was gonna try and work up to it.”

and the worst, most ridiculous part is that you still want him, even as your world tips sideways. so you grab his wrists, drag his hands away from his face, and say, still breathless, legs coming to hook around him again. “okay. loooong, serious superman discussion later. finish what you started first.”

his jaw drops. “are you serious?”

“get back down there, kent.”

[defeatofcupid]

Oh great heavens!!

୨୧

thinking about being drunk on clark’s biceps.

(and his…)

tags: clark kent x reader, fem reader, second person pov, no use of y/n, lowkey sub! Clark, established relationship, another blurb/drabble

warnings: explicit smut, cock worship, blowjobs and handjobs, slight face-fucking (?)

word count: 1.7k (not proofread yet)

18+ MDNI.

❅───✧❅✦❅✧───❅❅───✧❅✦❅✧───❅

the air between you is already warm, already charged, when you lean in to kiss him.

clark is careful at first—he always is.

his mouth lingers against yours in a hesitant press, like he’s still not sure if he’s allowed to want you this much, still hovering at that line between restraint and surrender. but the second your hands start to roam, that composure falters.

your palms slide over the breadth of his chest, tracing the solid muscles hidden beneath his shirt. the fabric stretches tight over him, and you can feel the steady thrum of his heart under your fingertips. your hands keep exploring, greedy with affection—squeezing the thickness of his arms, sliding down his stomach, then back up again to those biceps you can’t seem to leave alone.

clark chuckles against your lips, the sound warm, a little disbelieving. he pulls back just enough to glance at you, his lips kiss-swollen, and he looks at you with that boyish expression of his that never fails to undo you.

“you’re relentless, you know that?”

“mm,” you murmur, kissing down the line of his throat as your fingers once again trace the cut of his biceps. “not my fault you’re built like this. you’re so unbelievably handsome. so strong.”

he laughs again, softer this time, but there’s no mockery or embarrassment in it. if anything, he seems quietly amused, like your obsession with him is both bewildering and deeply endearing.

his hand slips around your waist, steadying you, but he doesn’t stop you when you push him back against the couch, climbing half into his lap just to get closer.

“you like being touched,” you whisper against his jaw, kissing the edge of it before trailing your lips down his chest, fingers toying with the buttons of his shirt.

clark hums, a little breathless now. “i like being touched by you.”

that’s all the encouragement you need.

you kiss your way lower, shameless in your devotion, until you’re kneeling in between his legs. his breath catches, that easy smile faltering just a little as realization sinks in.

“wait,” he says, voice quiet but urgent, and his hand hovers awkwardly in the air before resting gently at your shoulder. “you don’t have to…”

you glance up at him, eyes bright, mouth already curving into a grin. “oh, but i want to.”

and then you’re tugging at his belt with the same single-minded focus you’ve had since your lips first found his, touching him like you’ve been waiting all day for this. his glasses are slightly askew, his chest rising and falling with uneven breaths as he watches you, still wearing that soft, incredulous look.

“okay,” he whispers, settling back against the couch, his hand drifting into your hair but with no pressure, no guidance—just a quiet surrender.

your hands are almost trembling with anticipation as you work him free, tugging down fabric until he’s bared to you, hard and heavy in your hand. clark sucks in a sharp breath, his body jolting like he didn’t expect you to move so fast, but he doesn’t stop you. he just leans back, glasses slipping further down his nose, eyes wide and intent on you.

you wrap your hand around him, thumb dragging slowly over the head, and you can feel the way his thighs tremble slightly, the way his chest lifts on a shaky exhale. you look up at him as you stroke him, almost delirious, your voice a whisper of pure awe.

“god, clark… you’re perfect.”

his face flushes instantly, but his mouth twitches into a smile—soft, helpless. “you’re ridiculous,” he says, but there’s no bite to it. just a kind of bashful affection, like he can’t quite believe you mean it, even as his hips twitch under your hand.

you bend down and press your lips to the side of his length, kissing reverently, dragging your tongue along him in slow, deliberate trails. every time your lips make contact, his breath hitches, and every time you glance up, his eyes are there—wide, glassy, trying to take in the sight of you.

“you really have no idea how much i love this,” you say against his skin before flicking your tongue over the tip. his hand flexes in your hair but never pushes, never guides, just rests there like he’s grounding himself.

when you finally take him into your mouth, his whole frame shudders. a deep sound slips from his throat, caught between a groan and your name, and his head falls back against the couch. he’s trying to keep still, you can tell, but the way his stomach tightens and his chest heaves gives him away.

you worship him with your mouth—sucking him slowly, pulling back to kiss and lick along his cock like you can’t get enough. every touch, every kiss, every flick of the wrist is laced with obsession, like you’re tasting something you’ll never tire of.

“sweetheart…” his voice is strained now, rough with the weight of pleasure. “you really don’t have to—“

you pull off just long enough to look at him, lips wet, your smile crooked and hungry. “i told you, clark. i want to.”

your lips seal around him again, slow and eager, and clark’s resolve begins to unravel. he braces one hand against the couch cushion beside him, the other still trembling where it rests in your hair. for a moment, he’s still frozen—still trying to hold himself in check, still trying to be gentle—but the heat of your mouth drags another sound from him, a groan that rumbles low in his chest.

you hollow your cheeks and take him deeper, and his breath stutters. “oh—“ his hips jerk just slightly, instinctive, and he immediately tries to hold himself back, but the damage is done. you moan around him, encouraging, your nails digging into his thighs, and that’s when his restraint finally cracks.

“baby,” he says, voice rough, almost broken. “you’re—god, you’re incredible.”

the words tumble out of him, unpolished and helpless, like he can’t hold them in. his hand cups the back of your head, not pushing but steadying, and when you bob your head faster, his hips start to move—small, controlled thrusts that grow harder to restrain the longer you worship him.

he looks down at you then, and the sight must undo him because he makes a strangled noise, glasses slipping further down his nose. “you’re too good to me,” he murmurs raggedly, though it’s almost lost beneath the wet sound of your mouth and the groans slipping free from his chest.

you hum around him at his words, and the vibration has him swearing softly under his breath—just one syllable, torn from him without much thought. his head tilts back, adam’s apple bobbing. his eyes are glazed, half-lidded, struggling to stay open just to watch you.

“don’t stop,” he pleads suddenly, unguarded, desperate. his hips roll up into your mouth a little harder, thighs tensing under your touch. “just like that. please, don’t stop.”

the way he says it—like you’re the only thing anchoring him to earth—makes you tighten your grip and take him even deeper, greedily, shamelessly. and clark, finally, finally, gives in—moaning openly, rocking into your mouth with trembling control, his praises spilling out between sharp breaths.

“perfect… so perfect… i don’t deserve you—feels so good…”

he’s holding on for dear life.

his hips start to move faster now, his restraint crumbling to pieces as the pleasure overwhelms him. “i can’t—“ he stammers, breath hitching, “i can’t hold it much longer—“

you swirl your tongue over the head, eyes locked on him, voice low and needy. “don’t hold back. i want it.”

and that undoes him.

his entire body jolts, his thighs trembling near your head as he spills into your mouth with a strangled moan, the sound hoarse and unguarded. his head tips back against the cushions, glasses long forgotten, jaw clenched as wave after wave shudders through him. you swallow fervently, still stroking him with your mouth, refusing to let go until he’s twitching against your tongue, until every last drop is yours.

when you finally pop off, chest heaving with your own ragged breaths, clark is staring down at you like you’ve taken the ground out from under him. his hair is mussed, his cheeks flushed, and he looks completely undone—wrecked in a way that makes your chest swell with pride.

clark reaches for you with shaky hands, tugging you back into his lap, into his arms. his breath is still uneven, chest rising and falling rapidly as he buries his face in your hair, inhaling your scent like he can’t get enough of you.

“you okay?” he asks, voice low, and you nod, smirking into his shoulder. “yeah… that was… amazing.”

he chuckles softly, ruffling your hair with one hand while the other strokes your back, lingering over the curve of your spine. “you’re impossible,” he says, voice thick with amusement and awe, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of your head. “you really are.”

but of course, you’re not done. your hands wander again, teasing over the broad expanse of his chest, lips twitching with mischief. “clark…” you murmur, voice sultry and full of untamed need, “i could keep going…”

he groans, pulling back just enough to look at you, eyes sparkling with laughter despite the flushed heat of his face. “alright, alright, that’s enough,” he says, a teasing edge creeping into his voice as he catches your hands mid-reach and tugs them gently away.

his lips curve into a grin, half-exasperated, half-playful. “i mean it. you’ve destroyed me already, sweetheart.”

you pout slightly, mock-offended, but the warmth of his chest, the way his arms are still wrapped around you, keeps the tension from turning sour. “fine,” you murmur, pressing a soft kiss to his jaw, “but just so you know… i’ll be back.”

he laughs again, shaking his head, eyes half-lidded with that bashful, loving amusement he always wears after you’ve overrun him with attention. “i know,” he says, kissing your forehead. “i know. and i’m not… looking forward to it at all.”

❅───✧❅✦❅✧───❅❅───✧❅✦❅✧───❅

a/n: i’m about to fall asleep all i gotta say is i need to be doing gymnastics and circus tricks on it (sorry)

i was feeling repulsed as i already finished writing this that’s hilarious

[defeatofcupid]

watching superman and the kitchen scene begins

me: need that. that’s my three-way. i’m the third.

my friend from high school who was watching with me: so you’re saying you want to be colonized

HELLO???? 😭😭

[defeatofcupid]

friendly friendly advice plsplspls add the "read more" option on yours fics!!! it would be such a clutter for future readers scrolling through your work. it only adds it on its own when ur fic comes on someone's home page, plus it'll make scrolling through ur feed sm better <3

Tysm for the tip! Sorry, I had assumed that they all looked the same on the viewers’ end lol. And you’re right it’s so much easier thank you!

[defeatofcupid]

: ̗̀➛ Superman's twin

ㅤㅤ     ㅤ  ₊✩ˎˊ˗ clark kent x reader

synopsis : Alcohol gives you the courage to finally talk to the hot stranger at the bar, the one you’ve been eyeing every time you came here. What could possibly go wrong?

cw : fluff, suggestive content, alcohol, chubby reader. (david!clark kent) words : 4k

ㅤㅤ     ㅤ  masterlist ⋆ ao3

"You should do it," your friend Lucie said.

If you were in this bar to begin with, it was her fault. She was getting married in a couple of weeks and wanted to celebrate as much as she could with her friends. After the wedding, she and her wife were moving out of Metropolis to Evergreen for her wife’s new job.

So every weekend lately felt like a bachelorette party, and you were always invited.

"Do what?" you mumbled, drunk and barely tracking the conversation.

"Go talk to the guy you've been eye-fucking all night!" she giggled, making the rest of your friends laugh with her.

"What guy?" you asked, trying to sound innocent. You thought you were pulling it off, but you definitely weren’t.

"The one who looks like Superman!" Jenny yelled, just as tipsy as you.

And, well… she wasn’t wrong.

The guy you’d been staring at was probably the hottest man you'd ever seen in your entire life. Tall, broad-shouldered, soft-eyed. His glasses gave him a nerdy charm, but everything else about him, especially that body, told a very different story.

It wasn’t the first time you’d noticed him. The more often you came to this bar, the more familiar his little group became. There was a shorter but still cute blond guy, a stunning bleach-blonde woman, a mesmerizing dark-haired woman, and him.

Just like you and your friends, they seemed to be here most weekends.

For at least the last three weekends, you’d been watching them, especially him. It wasn’t like you were ever going to do anything about it. You never did. But you liked to watch him from afar, a quiet, harmless ritual.

Snorting, you turned away from eyeing them yet again and faced your friends. “You know what? He kinda does look like Superman…” you muttered, almost to yourself, then added quickly, “Just another reason why I shouldn’t shoot my shot.”

That shut down the chatter among your friends. It wasn’t a new thing, you putting yourself down. They were used to it. Not that they appreciated it.

“Oh, stop it!” Claire snapped. “He looks strong enough to manhandle you straight into heaven. Men like him? They love their women thick, girl. I would know.” She laughed, unapologetic.

Another truth.

Claire was a big girl, not that she was hiding it. She owned every inch of herself. And her boyfriend? A sweet, nerdy soul who adored her, fat and all. He was gentle to the core, tall and lanky, always looking at her like she hung the stars.

Claire had always said men like Justin were lovers before anything else.

“He looks like a lost puppy most of the time, but I just know he’d rock your world,” Claire added pointing at the stranger, taking another sip of her cocktail. Will. Like she knew it was inevitable. Like it was already written.

Looking back at the hot stranger, you noticed he was smirking. Your eyes couldn’t seem to leave his dimpled lips alone, and your brain, traitorous as ever, was already conjuring up foul scenarios where his mouth was doing anything but smiling.

You shook your head quickly and turned back to your friends for what felt like the hundredth time tonight. If you’d waited just one second longer, you would’ve met his gaze, he glanced your way, right as you looked away.

“It’s just… he’s out of my league,” you muttered with a shrug, hoping, begging, they’d drop the subject.

All your friends sighed at the same time, but thankfully, they dropped the subject, sober enough to notice you were starting to get uncomfortable.

Truth be told, you weren’t even that fat. Chubby was probably the more accurate word. But some terrible experiences in your past had altered the way you saw yourself. Made you question your worth. Your appearance. Everything.

Your friends had always been there, catching you before you spiralled too far, stopping you from slipping into unhealthy patterns with food or the gym. You owed them more than you could say.

Still, you struggled to believe people could find you attractive. You hadn’t grown up with that kind of validation, and since moving here, most of the men you’d encountered had been… well, bastards, to put it mildly.

And now, your friends wanted you to go talk to a man who looked like he could play a Greek god in a movie. Of course they insisted you were just in denial about your own beauty, but they clearly didn’t grasp just how hot that man was.

You couldn’t really blame them. Out of the six of you, only you and Claire weren’t lesbians. And the handsome stranger was way outside of Claire’s type. She liked, in her own words, “skinny boys with sad eyes.”

So, you did what you all came to do—talked, laughed, danced, and drank. Way too much. Way more than any of the other nights you’d been here. You weren’t even sure why. Maybe it was the energy. Maybe it was Lucie’s countdown to married life. Or maybe it was the unnerving way the stranger’s eyes had brushed past you a few more times than coincidence allowed.

Everyone had paid for a round of shots. Everyone had at least two cocktails. And the bartender, clearly trying to charm a group of mostly lesbians, had given your table two rounds of free shots.

You were wasted. Utterly wasted. And that meant your eyes kept drifting across the bar, to him. Always to him.

Apparently, his friends had the same chaotic energy as yours, because they were now on stage, screaming, well, attempting to sing, Firework by Katy Perry. To your drunken self, they were the best band you’d ever heard. To everyone sober in the bar, it was a train wreck in real time.

Seeing him alone at his table, head in his hands, a small smile tugging at his lips as he watched his friends, did something to you. Your body was already warm and fuzzy from the alcohol, and you couldn’t really say what took over you.

One second, you were sitting with your friends, half-listening to a conversation you couldn’t even follow. The next, you were on your feet, weaving through the crowd on wobbly legs, heading straight for the handsome stranger.

The moment you stood, his eyes left his friends and landed on you. It was immediate, like gravity, and it made your heart skip a beat.

His gaze was gentle, not lingering anywhere inappropriate, but still taking you in with quiet appreciation. A soft smile played at his lips. It almost felt like he’d been waiting for you.

Before you reached him, you glanced back at your friends and flashed them two thumbs up in what you thought was a slick, covert move. It wasn’t. The stranger saw it, plain as day, and let out a quiet, amused laugh.

“Hello,” you said as you stopped at his table. You didn’t sit down right away, not wanting to intrude if he preferred to be alone.

“Hello, Miss,” he replied in a deep voice. His smile was gentle and kind, so different from the usual smiles men gave you.

“You know… you could be Superman's twin?,” you slurred, the alcohol finally catching up with you.

He was even more handsome up close. From here, you could see the faint ghost of his dimples, the softness in his eyes, and the unruly mess of his hair. His shoulders seemed even broader at this distance, and the glass in his hand looked almost comically small. Without meaning to, your thighs pressed together at the realization.

“Yeah, I’ve been told,” he laughed—with you, not at you.

You were more lost in looking at him than in functioning properly. The alcohol still swam in your veins, muddling your thoughts, made worse under the weight of his watchful eyes.

“Do you want to sit down?” he asked gently, pulling out a chair for you.

Something unlocked inside you. The moment you sat, you forgot all about your friends, your shyness, and the belief that he was far out of your league. He was so interesting, the conversation flowed effortlessly, and he really listened to you.

Even when you were certain you weren’t making any sense, especially after ordering more drinks, he stayed attentive. Deep down, you knew you wouldn’t be able to keep this nonchalance if sobriety ever caught up with you.

Clark—that was his name—was, without question, the most attractive and kind man you had ever met. Between every drink, he gently slid a glass of water toward you. He didn’t seem the least bit drunk, but then again, you weren’t sure you trusted your own judgment.

At some point during your conversation, your friends came over to collect you. You threw a little tantrum, refusing to leave with them. Deep down, you knew you’d probably never see Clark again, and that when you thought back on this moment, you’d find it painfully embarrassing. But right now, you wanted to enjoy it while it lasted.

After a few minutes of back-and-forth, your friends finally gave in. Still, Lucie made sure to turn your location on, just in case the handsome Clark turned out to be less than perfect. “You might look like Superman, dude, but I don’t trust strangers,” she said, kissing your cheek before heading off.

As the conversation went on, his friends drifted by one after another to say their goodbyes. By the time the bar was closing, the two of you were the only ones left still talking. When the owner gently asked you to leave, Clark settled both his tab and yours, even though you’d insisted he didn’t have to.

Outside, the night air hit you all at once. The street blurred, the ground swayed beneath your feet. You had badly underestimated your drinking, and there was no denying it now : you were absolutely wasted.

Trying to order an Uber was a disaster, your fingers slipped against the screen, your eyes refusing to focus. Clark stood beside you, gently taking the phone from your hands, putting it in your bag—just after he had looked at your address.

You tried to concentrate on his lips as they moved, but the words slipped past you, blurred and repeating themselves. Even sober, you doubted you could have focused. All you could think about was how soft his mouth looked, how badly you longed to press yours against his.

Not thinking straight, you pushed yourself up, aiming for his lips. But the height difference was impossible to ignore, you realized you’d never reach him like this. In your drunken haze, the only solution your mind could come up with was simpler : you wrapped your arms around him instead.

“Oh,” you heard Clark say with a gentle laugh. His arms came around you, warm hands rubbing your back. “I’ll take you home, darling.”

Giggling like a schoolgirl, you nodded against his chest. Heat rushed to your cheeks. It had been so long since you’d felt this way about a man, and stranger still that this man was, in truth, almost a stranger.

The entire way back was a blur, a warm, hazy kind of blur. Clark didn’t seem to mind your clinginess in the least. You held his hand, clutched at his arm, even traced the lines of his bicep, and he never pulled away. Instead, he just kept talking, filling the walk with easy conversation : little anecdotes about the city, praises about random restaurants, nerdy trivia about Superman.

He knew a lot about him—suspiciously a lot. He’d said he’d interviewed Superman several times for work, which only made him sexier in your eyes. A sweet, nerdy journalist with broad shoulders and kind eyes.

Your absolute favourite kind of man : a himbo.

By the time you reached your place, you didn’t want the night to end. It felt so good, being seen, being appreciated by a man like Clark. He was a dream come true : handsome, intelligent, gentle, and kind.

Clinging to his arm, you walked toward the front door, only to stop abruptly. Your eyes met, finally level in the glow of the entry light. Your gaze drifted down to his lips, while his lingered on yours.

“You wanna come up?” you asked.

Or at least, you thought you did. The words tangled together, blurring into one another. Still, you turned back toward the door with the biggest smile on your face, feeling victorious even though he hadn’t said a single word.

Clark followed you up to your flat, steadying you with his hands as you climbed the stairs, afraid you might miss a step and fall. He couldn’t help but notice the darkness hanging over the building, the front door broken, the lock useless.

At your apartment door, his body went rigid, like a dog catching a sound you couldn’t hear. Maybe he had heard something. This wasn’t exactly the best part of Metropolis, but it was all you could afford. You, at least, had grown used to the background noises and didn’t pay them much mind.

Once inside, you slipped off your shoes while he lingered at the door, carefully studying each of your locks with sharp, deliberate eyes.

When he turned around, you tried to kiss him again. What you imagined as a graceful, soft leap was closer to a clumsy tackle, and Clark caught you easily in his arms. He turned his head just in time, so your lips brushed his cheek instead.

“Sweetheart…” he sighed, voice warm but steady, almost like a warning wrapped in kindness.

If you’d been sober, you would have drowned in embarrassment at being turned aside like this in your own home. But instead, you tried again, practically climbing him like a tree. His large hands settled firmly on your hips, not pushing, not harsh, but guiding you down with quiet insistence.

He didn’t seem the least bit bothered by your weight, which only fuelled the thought spinning in your hazy mind: maybe he did like you. But the way he held you, gentle, unyielding, made it just as clear he wasn’t going to let this go any further tonight.

Or at least, it was clear to him.

Giving up on prying you off, Clark simply shifted you more securely in his arms and started making his way through your apartment, as though he already knew where to go. It didn’t take him long to find your bedroom.

In the meantime, your head had dropped against his neck, your nose brushing softly against his skin as you were gently rocked by the rhythm of his steps. The walk from the front door to your room wasn’t far, but in your drunken state, sleep rushed in far too easily.

It should have been the opposite. Drunk, alone, bringing a stranger into your flat, your mind should have been wide awake, primed to fight or flee. But something about him was different. Soothing. Calm. Safe. It was too easy to trust him.

The moment your body met the mattress, sleep pulled you under without mercy. And the last thought that drifted through your mind before the darkness claimed you was how serial killers would have loved you.

Pounding.

Your head was pounding. Your mouth was dry, your stomach twisted, and you felt grimy all over. Opening your eyes was a nightmare, the sunlight streaming through the window stabbed straight into them.

When you finally managed to keep them open without burning, you dragged yourself into the bathroom. The dress from last night hit the floor, and you turned on the shower. A good, cold rinse might work miracles.

It did, just a little. Out of the shower, you caught your reflection in the mirror. You were a wreck. Hair wild, mascara and eyeliner smeared like bruises around your eyes, your skin paler than usual. The lack of sleep and the leftover alcohol left you looking half-dead.

On instinct, you gulped water straight from the tap before brushing your teeth, desperate to wash the taste of alcohol from your mouth. Dressed in an old oversized football shirt of your brother’s and a pair of panties, you shuffled toward the kitchen, nowhere near ready to face the day.

The plan was simple : grab some breakfast, then crawl back into bed and sleep off the rest of the world.

What you hadn’t expected was Clark, standing in the middle of your kitchen, gently whistling as he cooked. Your eyes flicked to the couch, where a throw blanket lay crumpled, his shoes and socks neatly beside it. It looked very much like someone had spent the night there.

Had he slept on the couch?

Frowning, fragments of last night slammed back into your head, draining even more colour from your face.

He shouldn’t be here. He had rejected you. Surely he would have gone home after you passed out. And yet, here he was, in your kitchen, casually cooking breakfast like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” Clark said gently, without even turning around, as if he had sensed your presence. When he finally glanced back, his warm, calm smile made your stomach twist, half embarrassment, half something else you couldn’t name. He went back to the eggs sizzling in the pan, completely unfazed by your staring.

“Hope you don’t mind,” he continued. “I made breakfast.”

Your brain protested, scrambling to find the right words, or any words at all. Why is he here? Why does this feel… comforting? Your heart thudded, a mix of guilt and something you weren’t ready to admit. He had rejected you, but he hadn’t left. He was here, taking care of you, and part of you wanted to melt into the ease of it all.

You shuffled closer, feeling the edges of panic and gratitude collide. Your mouth opened, but no coherent words came out. All you could do was stare at him, at the soft light of the morning catching his hair, at the way he moved so naturally in your space. It was infuriating, and intoxicating.

“Here,” he said, placing a plate piled with eggs, toast, and bacon in front of you, sliding a cup of water alongside it.

Then he placed a second plate beside yours, this one even more generously filled than the first.

You sat down, still reeling from his unexpected presence, and he settled directly across from you, his calm gaze making it impossible to look away.

You picked up your fork almost mechanically, unsure where to start, your eyes darting to him every few seconds. Clark, meanwhile, ate at a relaxed pace, occasionally glancing up with that calm, steady smile that made your chest tighten.

“Sleep well?” he asked casually.

Your throat tightened, and you swallowed hard. “I… uh… yeah. Thanks,” you mumbled, feeling your cheeks heat up.

You took a tentative bite of your food, your mind swirling between embarrassment, disbelief, and a strange comfort. Every time your gaze flicked to him, you caught little gestures, the way he stirred his coffee, the way he pushed a stray crumb off the table with his finger, that made your heart race.

He was still just as handsome as he had been at the bar.

“Hum,” you began, trying to keep your tone casual. “I don’t want to be mean, but like… did you sleep on my couch?”

“Yeah,” he said, scratching the back of his neck, his gaze darting nervously between you and the couch. “I… I didn’t want to leave you alone. I kept hearing those noises outside, and… well, if I left, your front door wouldn’t have been locked,” he admitted, his words tumbling out in a mix of concern and awkward charm.

There was a pause, filled only by the quiet clatter of breakfast utensils. You couldn’t help but notice the faint blush rising in his cheeks, the way he avoided your eyes for a brief second before meeting your gaze again. Somehow, the honesty, and the tiny hint of vulnerability, made him even more irresistible.

“I didn’t move anything, didn’t touch anything… I left your bedroom the minute you fell asleep,” he rushed out, his words tumbling over each other. “I—uh—I wouldn’t do anything to make you feel uneasy…”

His eyes searched yours, earnest and slightly anxious, as if he needed you to believe him. The awkwardness made him even more endearing, and for a moment, you couldn’t help but soften, realizing how much he cared about your comfort, even before coffee had fully woken you up.

It might have been the lingering alcohol in your blood or the lack of sleep, but tears gathered in your eyes. “That’s… the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for me…”

“It’s the least I could do,” Clark said, his tone calm and matter-of-fact, as if protecting you like this was the most natural thing in the world.

Weirdly, once the initial awkwardness passed, the conversation flowed effortlessly. You forgot all about how messy you had looked, how cringe-worthy you had felt last night. If anything, the man turned out to be an even bigger nerd than you were.

Talking to him felt so natural, almost as if he had been meant to be in your life all along.

But, as all good things must, Clark had to leave, suddenly, and in quite a hurry.

It felt odd. No one had called him, he hadn’t received any texts, and it was Sunday. Yet here he was, rushing off without explanation. You didn’t question it, at least, not out loud. Deep down, the nagging thought crept in: maybe he had only been kind enough to sleep here, to talk to you, without any real interest.

Of course. Clark was way out of your league. The genuine connection you had convinced yourself existed was probably nothing more than a fleeting dream.

As he made his way to your front door, you followed, ready to lock it behind him and bury yourself in bed for the rest of the day. You had plenty of explaining to do to your friends, and you weren’t ready for their lectures about how reckless your behaviour had been.

“Hum,” he started, stopping by the front door. His eyes flicked from the floor to yours. “I… I’d really like to see you again, if you want, of course,” he added quickly, a faint blush dusting his cheeks.

“I’m sorry I have to leave like this, but I have something important I can’t postpone…” he explained, his words tumbling out as fast as before.

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden vulnerability in his voice. For a moment, your mind went blank, the words you wanted to say buried under a rush of warmth and disbelief.

“Uh… yeah, I’d like that,” you finally managed, your own cheeks heating up. “I mean… if you want, too,” you added, stumbling over your words, hating how flustered you sounded.

Clark’s smile widened, his dimples showing, a mix of relief and quiet joy lighting up his face. “Good,” he said softly, almost to himself. “Then it’s a date. I promise I won’t disappear next time.”

The words settled between you, leaving a lingering buzz stronger than any alcohol had. Giggling, you bit your lip before letting out a soft breath. “Okay.”

Then he scribbled something on a scrap of paper, what you assumed was his number, turned one last time, and gently pressed a kiss to your forehead before he was gone. It all happened so quickly that you barely registered the softness of his lips on your skin.

Locking the door, you couldn’t help but smile to yourself. The grin refused to fade, even as you sank back into bed, ready to steal a few hours of sleep.

This time, sleep came more gently than it had hours ago, just as a flash of red and blue streaked past your window.

©sillyswriting 2025

an unexpected sweet clark kent fic before the multi chapter one. i truly love this man beyond comprehension tbh...

[defeatofcupid]

oooo i saw your request for clark kent requests!! maybe something with clark x a poison ivy reader but instead of her being a villain she wants to be better and he helps her!! bonus if he notices when she’s flustered by him because flowers start blooming wherever they are!

📩 Here’s your request. It was really fun to write, I loved it and I hope you enjoy it. Sorry for the delay.

Blooming Secrets

Clark Kent x female reader

WC: 3,900 words approx.

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Your eyes were fixed on the illuminated screen of your computer, while the constant murmur of the Daily Planet newsroom filled the air. Around you, the sound of phones ringing nonstop mixed with the rapid clatter of keyboards and the hurried conversations of reporters. Every now and then, there was laughter or hurried footsteps crossing the hallway. It still felt strange to be there, working in a place you had only seen in the news before. If it hadn’t been for Clark… you probably would never have left Smallville.

Your parents, knowing that in the town your opportunities would be limited, had turned to Clark’s parents to ask for help. That’s how he came into your life, even before you really met him. You were three years younger than him, and in such a small place you had only crossed paths on a few occasions, just a quick greeting on the street or a curious glance from afar. But the Kents knew your secret, the one your parents had entrusted them out of necessity.

You remembered perfectly the day everything changed. You were furious, and suddenly, your parents’ house was covered with plants that had sprung out of nowhere: vines climbing the walls, flowers blooming in impossible corners, leaves slamming against the windows. Later you learned it wasn’t a coincidence. You had a power. You didn’t know how you had obtained it, or why, but it was there. Clark had his abilities because he was Kryptonian. You, on the other hand, had no idea of your origin. You knew you were adopted, just like him, but that had never been a problem… until you began to wonder whether your parents looked at you with love or with fear.

Things got worse when your powers went out of control. Anger or rage made the plants grow uncontrollably: trees rose taller and thicker, the leaves turned poisonous, and their touch could harm anyone. The fear of hurting someone forced you to shut yourself off emotionally. You learned to avoid anger, even if it meant swallowing words you wanted to scream or walking away when you most wanted to stay.

However, happiness was different. When you were content, you could bring a withered rose back to life, make an apple tree bear fruit in hours, or make flowers and grass grow on barren land as if they had always been there. That part of you, the one that created life instead of destruction, was the one you clung to protect.

In Metropolis, your abilities were no longer a secret to Clark. He was the one who helped you get a position at the Planet. It wasn’t as high a position as his; you were just starting out, but you still contributed to the entertainment section, writing small articles while taking photography courses to improve. What you enjoyed the most was covering concerts, capturing with your camera the energy of the crowd and those fleeting moments no one else noticed.

“The article is ready,” said Janeth, dropping a bundle of printed pages on your desk with a loud thump. “I already sent you a copy to your email. I need you to check it and retype it so it’s ready to be published.” She snapped her fingers impatiently. “Quickly, it’s for today, so if there’s any spelling mistake, fix it.”

You nodded without a word, taking the article in your hands. The paper was still warm from the printer, and its smell of freshly dried ink accompanied you as you flipped through it.

“I thought we were going to publish about the arrival of the German actor for the new series Netflix will produce…” you commented, not raising your voice too much.

Janeth snatched the article away with a jerk.

“Perry said yours was garbage. How do you think he was going to let it through?” Her furrowed brow and loud tone made several heads turn to look at you two. You felt the pressure of their stares, but you inhaled deeply, keeping calm.

“But… this only talks about the series. Metropolis has a star in the city and—”

Plash! The smack of the article on your desk cut off your words, making your coffee cup spill a little, leaving a brown puddle next to your notebook.

“How long have you been here? A year? And you already think you have authority to give your opinion.”

Your brow furrowed. Murmurs began to fill the air, an uncomfortable buzz spreading like current through the newsroom. You were about to reply when a male voice interrupted the tension.

“I need your opinion.”

You looked up and found Clark, standing next to you. His expression was calm, but in his eyes shone a genuine interest directed at you.

“Clark, of course,” said Janeth, immediately changing her tone to a kind, almost sweet one.

“No, sorry…” Clark raised a hand, pointing at you. “I was talking to her.”

You noticed a faint blush crossing her cheeks at Janeth’s evident confusion.

Janeth nodded with a smile so kind that for a second it unsettled you; it was too obvious a contrast with the tone she always used with you. Clark, without wasting time, made a slight gesture with his hand for you to follow him. You hesitated just a moment, but then stood up and caught up with him.

As they walked down the hallway, he motioned again, this time toward the side windows. When you turned your head, your breath caught for a moment: in a matter of minutes, thick, dark vines had grown, covering almost half of the glass. Among their leaves, small flowers of an intense color bloomed, releasing a heavy, sweet, and penetrating scent… too penetrating. You recognized it. That smell, invisible to everyone else, was poisonous. Just standing too close for too long would be enough to start feeling dizzy.

Luckily, no one else seemed to notice. With a slight movement of your hand, the vines began to retreat, as if obeying a silent command, until the glass was clean and clear again. The glow of the city returned, and you stepped closer to one of the windows, letting the view of Metropolis distract you for a moment.

Clark stopped beside you, watching you from the corner of his eye. “Working hard?” he asked in a whisper, with that tone that mixed complicity and concern.

You nodded, avoiding his gaze.

Clark had noticed for months: you avoided him. You barely met his eyes, and when you did, it was only for a fleeting instant. He had assumed maybe it was because you didn’t run into each other much outside of work, or perhaps out of embarrassment, knowing he too could hear the shouts of a certain reporter who had been at the Planet for nearly six years. And, in part, he was right.

But the truth was different. Clark stirred strange, too-intense feelings in you, and the worst part wasn’t that… the worst part was what happened when those feelings surfaced. Your powers reacted. Flowers bloomed as if the entire spring had exploded in seconds: alive, bright, beautiful. And though no one else understood what it meant, you knew it was a silent confession of what you had felt for him for a long time.

“Do you have a lot of work today?” he asked, still looking at you.

“Yes…” you answered while taking a glass and filling it with water. “Janeth didn’t raise her voice enough, apparently.”

Clark gave a faint smile, as if holding back a comment, but instead said: “I’ll be leaving the newsroom late today, too. They opened a new Korean food place… I remember you said you’ve been obsessed with that lately.”

You looked at him, confused. “But… we haven’t talked about that.”

He nodded, and this time he was the one to look away, busying himself with pouring a glass. “Well… that’s the downside of having overly sharp hearing… I can hear any conversation. Including yours with Jimmy.”

His cheeks flushed the moment he said it.

You smiled, getting lost in his gaze, feeling the heat rising to your own cheeks. And then it happened: right beside you, an orchid plant that barely had petals and whose stems were dry began to revive. In a matter of seconds, large, perfect purple flowers bloomed, capturing the afternoon light in each petal. They didn’t spill over, they didn’t grow beyond the pot: they simply filled it to the brim, radiant, with a soft and beautiful glow that could never be mistaken for anything dangerous.

“Oh…” you murmured. You nodded before replying: “But I’ll be leaving around ten… I don’t think it’ll still be open.”

“It closes at one in the morning,” Clark replied without hesitation. “If you want to go…”

You nodded, and in that moment your eyes met. It was only for a second, but enough to make your heart race. Then you heard it: a rising murmur around you. You turned with him and saw that all the nearby pots —especially the withered ones— had revived. Not like when you were angry, when flowers burst open violently, filling the air with a dense, poisonous scent, with red and dark tones that could sicken or even kill anyone who breathed too much. No… this time it was different.

This time, the flowers were soft and beautiful, with vivid colors and sweet, harmless aromas. They didn’t try to invade the space or smother anyone: they stayed in place, as if they knew exactly how far to grow.

“Look how beautiful they are,” exclaimed Cat’s voice, walking up to the pot beside Clark. Instinctively, you took a step back and hid behind him, feeling the embarrassment rise in your throat.

“Clark, did you guys buy new plants?” she asked, leaning in to smell the flowers.

“No… I mean, yes… I think Perry did,” Clark improvised, smiling calmly. Cat nodded, satisfied with the answer, and walked off to talk with Jimmy.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured, lowering your gaze. “It’s… stressful to think that if I get too worked up I could… kill everyone here.”

Clark looked at you with a mix of tenderness and seriousness. “It’s just a matter of time. I wasn’t born knowing how to control everything I can do, either.” Then he glanced around, noticing the flowers. “Though these don’t seem poisonous… I didn’t know you could do something like this. What emotion is this?”

You looked at him, and the heat in your face flared again. “I have to go. Janeth might throw me out of the building if I don’t finish the article,” you joked, trying to soften the moment.

Clark smiled, though his voice carried a nuance that disarmed you. “I’d catch you.”

You let out a small laugh, feeling your heart pounding hard. Around you, the reception’s flowers remained open, bright and healthy… all of them, blooming only because of you.

“See you after work, Clark,” you said, before walking away, carrying with you the memory of his gaze.

[defeatofcupid]

clark x gn!reader

synopsis: you meet krypto.

"He's usually never this calm," Clark says, in awe as he observes Krypto laying peacefully on your lap. He wasn't barking or causing mass amounts of destruction—he was just...there.

Calm and steady.

"Is he not?" You ask, smoothing a hand through Krypto's soft fur. You also scratch behind one of his ears and coo when Krypto leans into it, his tail wagging happily. "He seems like such a good boy, though."

Clark snorts. "If causing mass amounts of trouble counts as good, then yeah, he's a good boy."

You shrug. "He probably had his reasons," you say, your smile soft. "I'm sure you did, sweet boy."

Krypto basks underneath the praise, tail wagging faster to show his content. He raises up a little to brush his nose against yours, his tongue flicking out to kiss your cheek.

Clark watches the two of you, his heart oddly warm at the sight. Usually, Krypto is a pain in his behind and causes more chaos than good. But seeing him with you and how he's being so careful settles him. It allows him to know that Krypto would never hurt you; in or unintentionally.

Still.

"Who's my best boy ever?" You continue to coo, your smile widening as Krypto now shakes with excitement in your lap. "Yes, it's you! It's you!"

Krypto barks in obvious agreement.

Clark frowns a little.

He used to be your best boy ever.

[defeatofcupid]

clark kent baby blurb

i can’t get him out of my head. if you can’t either, pls fill my inbox with thoughts on him. anyway, here’s this x

warning, not proofread.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

clark is SO the type to talk to his mom about girls. not intentionally but inevitably…and excitedly. he doesn’t mean to. he never means to. but clark doesn’t have crushes often. they come once in a blue moon. honestly, he doesn’t even know if he can classify them as crushes. crushes are fleeting, child-like, and surface level. and clark…well, he can be intense.

not in a “you consume my every thought” creepy, obsessive kind of way.

maybe a little bit like that.

no, clark’s crushes are painfully innocent. they don’t crowd his entire mind but they do take up space. quietly. reverently. in a i wonder how you take your coffee or what’s your favorite book kind of way. there’s an itch to know the silly little things, a gentle curiosity.

again, clark kent does not crush often. so when he does he gets a little giddy. just a bit. in a cool way of course. he’s 6’4 for goodness’ sake.

he does not spare you a glance every chance he gets. he does not ask lois random questions just to be closer to your desk. and he DEFINITELY does not plan to need copies every time he sees you make your way to the printer. it just happens.

fine, so maybe he’s a bit of a loser. but that’s exactly the point. he can’t talk to his coworkers about you. they already think he is one. he doesn’t need to prove it.

and so when he calls his mom to get a recipe, he doesn’t mean to let your name slip. it just does. she asks how he is and he tells her about the cat the barista drew on the side of his cup. he talks about how busy the train was and of course, he mentions another one of his articles making the front page again. briefly, indifferently. like it’s nothing.

she catches that. and she definitely catches how he proceeds to ramble on about the the pretty coworker that smiled at him in the elevator this morning. like it was the highlight of his day. like you looking at him for less than five seconds is the greatest thing to ever happen to him.

the sharp squeal in his ear tells him he’s messed up. embarrassment washes over him and he blinks at the cabinets in defeat.

“Ma—”

“Oh my—Oh Clark, this is wonderful,” her Southern accent even more prominent.

“She’s n—Everyone’s pretty!Jimmy, Lois, STEVE!!!”

WOW. He really is a mess. He knows his attempts are futile but he tries anyway.

Eventually, he gives up and lets her go on a tangent about the girl that’s stolen her boy’s heart and lets her plan their future trip to Smallville.

He doesn’t have it in him to tell her you barely even talk to him. Or that you have a strict no dating coworkers rule. OR that you’re WAY out of his league anyway.

He doesn’t say any of that. He stays silent.

But when his Ma finally catches her breath and asks, “So what’s she like?”

That’s where Clark Kent is unable to shut up.

“Ma… she’s so—and her eyes they just—don’t get me started on…”

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

Thank you for reading! If you liked it, here’s another piece by me. Enjoy!

[defeatofcupid]

－a family with clark kent !

❛ clark kent 𝑥 𝑓! wife reader ❜ featuring a baby boy kent.

( 𝓼oph's message )。i don't usually do headcanons but thought it would be a good exercise for myself whenever i write for a new character. and... i cannot passed the idea of dad! clark kent.

more clark kent | navi.

꒰ ꒰ა ໒꒱ ꒱ when you found out that you were pregnant with clark’s child, you wondered if clark should wear glasses around the baby or not. 

꒰ ꒰ა ໒꒱ ꒱ it was a discussion that you and clark had in the early trimester and decided to take the risk and let the baby see clark without glasses. after all, you want clark to be himself and comfortable at home. and it’s not like the baby would have photographic memory at such a young age, right? 

꒰ ꒰ა ໒꒱ ꒱ when you gave birth to your baby boy, he’s the cutest you’ve ever seen. your son looks so much like clark – blue eyes, a small tuft of black hair, and the babyish and gummy smile he makes creates a dimple on his left cheek – your heart flutters because your boy is really like clark kent and you love it.

꒰ ꒰ა ໒꒱ ꒱ speaking of clark kent in his fatherhood era… he’s the best father you’ve witness, hands down. attentive, patient and protective that makes your chest bloom in admiration. you see a whole new side of clark, another reason added to the things you love about him. 

꒰ ꒰ა ໒꒱ ꒱ in the early stage of parenthood, you and clark are still learning to differentiate your son’s cries. with clark’s superhearing, he can come flying home in a speed of light to check on you and the baby. if something might be wrong, clark can either listen to the rhythm of your heartbeat and the baby’s or the way either of you breathe to check.

꒰ ꒰ა ໒꒱ ꒱ his superabilities has been an advantage throughout your recovering and looking after the baby. but sometimes it does make clark a little too hyperaware of everything your son makes. even if your son makes the softest and quietest coo, clark’s right next to you and your son in an instant. 

꒰ ꒰ა ໒꒱ ꒱ “i heard him all the way on the other side of the world.” clark says the moment he reaches next to you in the living room. he looks at your baby who snuggles on your chest and he touches the back of his head. “is he hungry? need a diaper change or someone to play with? come here, my boy—” clark gently takes your son from your arms and cradles him, your son snuggling against his chest. “let mama have a few hours of rest to herself.” 

꒰ ꒰ა ໒꒱ ꒱ when your son is old enough to go out, you enjoy taking him on walks as one of the ways to spend time with him. on the dot between ten and half eleven in the morning, you find your usual spot in the park, unstrapping your son out of the stroller and just carrying him around. pointing out at the birds and different trees he can see. 

꒰ ꒰ა ໒꒱ ꒱ you’re feeding your son one morning when clark decides to pay you a visit, but as superman. he lands down on the park in front of you unexpectedly. the red cape sways with the light breeze and clark is bathed in sunlight shining down on him. “superman,” you say as you stand up and hold your baby in your arms. “hi.” 

꒰ ꒰ა ໒꒱ ꒱ “i hope you are well, ma’am.” clark says with a smile. he knows that you are not much of a fan with that endearment but in the moment, it was necessarily so that people wouldn’t suspect there’s something between the two of you. “i was in the area and want to check on the civilians if they are alright. there was a bit of situationship a few miles away down the park. i hope the impact didn’t cause a fright for you,” clark then looks at your son. his dark blue eyes softens, “and your baby.” 

꒰ ꒰ა ໒꒱ ꒱ your son turns his attention to look at clark. but you know that he doesn’t recognise the man in front of him as his father, the unfamiliar man in blue and white spandex looking back at him too. nevertheless, your baby lets out a gummy smile and stretches his arms towards superman, making a soft noise of protest that he’s not close enough to touch clark. “sorry, i think you remind him of his father.” you say with a sheepish smile as your heart races in awe.

꒰ ꒰ა ໒꒱ ꒱ “quite the handsome fella.” clark says with a hint of teasing. you can see the tenderness in his eyes when he looks at his son, snuggling nicely. “may i hold him?” 

꒰ ꒰ა ໒꒱ ꒱ you hand your baby to him and in an instant, you son clings onto clark, tiny hands gripping on the superman symbol. he coos and smacks his lips, forming a small amount of saliva around his mouth. “we’ve got a little drooler here.” 

꒰ ꒰ა ໒꒱ ꒱ “oh, baby,” you smile and use his little bib to wipe off excess saliva around his mouth, earning a soft coo when your son looks at you. he just smiles when you clean him up and clenches his tiny fists. “if he drools, it means he likes you.”

꒰ ꒰ა ໒꒱ ꒱ clark laughs and has to resist the urge to cuddle his son and kiss him. he really wants to but it’s such an intimate moment to do out in the public. and having superman caught kissing someone else’s baby might be a controversial headline in the news that he wouldn’t want to stir. so clark settles to only say; “i feel truly honoured.” 

꒰ ꒰ა ໒꒱ ꒱ clark, in his superman suit, holds the baby as he talks to you. it’s private enough that he can be closer to you, asking about your day and your wellbeing. intertwining his fingers with your, this thumb brushes on the knuckles of your hand. you’re always his priority when the world of his circle of friends and family focuses and dotes on his son. 

꒰ ꒰ა ໒꒱ ꒱ the baby falls asleep on clark’s chest and you’re grateful that he doesn’t cry when clark carefully hands him over to you. “i gotta get back to work and be clark kent the journalist.” your husband says. he manages to sneak in a kiss on the back of your head when no one is looking. “but i’ll see you back home in time for dinner. i love you both.”

 ꒰ ꒰ა ໒꒱ ꒱ at home, you’re keeping an eye of your son strapped on his baby seat whilst you finish up the last meal for dinner. when the front door unlocks and you can hear familiar footsteps, your face is attacked with kisses from clark as he holds you behind in the warmest embrace. “miss you, beautiful mama.”

 ꒰ ꒰ა ໒꒱ ꒱ superman charges himself with the power of the sun, but clark kent feels recharge when he comes home to you and his baby boy. the moment he hears his son’s squeal of excitement, arms flailing in his baby swing, clark’s right next to the baby to pick up, showering his face with kisses and whispers of “i miss you buddy,” and “have you been a good boy for momma?” the evening feels right to clark because he is home; himself, with you and his son together in the same space. 

( 𝓼oph's message part two )。thank you for reading until the end! wow, that was a long headcanon that i wrote. feel free to comment anything in the comments or my inbox.

[defeatofcupid]

clark is so the guy that forgets how to tie a tie just to have you do it for him. pupils dilated, he’d stare down at you with those big blue eyes of his. a faint cheeky grin on his face. what a perfect excuse, he’d think as he attempts to commit every inch of your face to memory. he’d lean in a little closer than necessary and if he’s feeling a bit greedy, he’ll mention that it’s a bit too tight. anything for you to fuss over him a little bit longer. and it’s clark kent so of course he’d be so grateful. he’d lean down and press the softest of kisses to the corner of your mouth, letting it linger too long to be nothing but pulling away too quickly for you to question everything.

[defeatofcupid]

In the Quiet, You

summary: He’s been yours all along. It just takes Clark Kent six tries to say it out loud.

pairing: clark kent x reader

tags: childhood friends to lovers, smallville, slow burn, mutual pining, domestic fluff, eventual relationship, romance, soft! clark kent, love confessions, 5 almosts + 1 forever, arguments, slight angst, clark kent is utterly in love with you pt. 4, can be considered gn! reader, happy ending, loverboy clark kent, second person pov, no use of y/n

word count: 4.8k (not yet proofread)

♡…

The first time Clark almost says it, you’re both thirteen. 

It’s summer in Smallville, the kind that stretches golden across the fields, the kind that smells faintly of cut grass and Ma Kent’s pies cooling on the windowsill. The cicadas sing their endless tune, the sky above painted that honey-thick light that makes everything feel like it might last forever.

You’re sitting on the Kents’ porch swing with a glass of lemonade sweating in your hands. The swing creaks softly with each sway, chains rattling like a lullaby you’ve grown up hearing. Clark is beside you, his long legs already too big for the swing, knees bumping awkwardly against yours every time he shifts. He still hasn’t figured out how to fold himself into his growing body, all elbows and shoulders and too-big hands, though he tries to pretend he isn’t bothered by it.

He’s got one of Pa Kent’s old comic books propped open in his lap, the pages yellowed and soft at the corners. He’s pretending to be invested in the story, pretending not to notice that you’ve leaned just a little too close so you can peek over his shoulder.

“Y’know, you hog all the good parts,” you tease, nudging him with your elbow.

Clark glances up at you, then back at the comic, but the corner of his mouth curls anyway. That boyish grin spreads slow across his face, showing the tiny gap in his front teeth. It’s the same grin that always undoes you, the one that makes your heart do a strange flip you don’t have the name for yet.

“You wouldn’t understand it anyway,” he says, feigning seriousness as his thumb drags over the panel of a spaceship mid-flight. “Too many aliens.”

“Excuse me,” you huff, straightening up with mock indignation. “I’ve seen Star Wars three times. I think that makes me a certified alien expert!”

He snorts. “You fell asleep halfway through the last one.”

“Because you wouldn’t stop talking over the movie,” you fire back.

“I was explaining things,” he argues, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose with one finger. They’re a little crooked, smudged from fingerprints, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

“You were spoiling it,” you correct, sticking your tongue out at him.

Clark laughs, a real laugh—easy and warm, chest-deep, the kind of laugh that makes the air around you feel brighter. His shoulders shake, and for a moment you’re both just kids again, safe and unbothered by the world outside of Smallville’s borders.

He’s about to say something else, you can tell—his lips part, his breath catches in his chest, and his eyes flick to you with a softness you don’t quite recognize yet. There’s a beat where everything stills, the cicadas quiet, the swing pausing at its peak, and it feels like something important is about to happen.

But then Ma’s voice calls from inside the house, warm and lifting, asking if you two want another pitcher of lemonade. Clark shuts his mouth quickly, his jaw snapping closed like he’s swallowed down a secret.

You catch it, though—the shape his lips make around words that don’t come out. I love— and then nothing. 

Instead, he clears his throat, pretending to be casual, and asks, “Want another glass? It’s getting warm.”

You roll your eyes, leaning back into the swing with a sigh, but your smile lingers at the edges of your mouth. You don’t know what he almost said, what he tucked away like it was too precious to share. 

But he does.

He’ll always know.

♡♡…

The second time Clark almost says it, you’re both sixteen.

You hadn’t planned on going to the school dance.

The gym always smelled like a strange mix of sweat and floor wax, the music too loud, vibrating through the floor and into your chest, and the decorations were cheap, crepe paper streamers sagging before the night was even halfway over. 

The punch was over-sweetened, the kind you could practically taste clinging to your tongue in sticky aftertastes, and the lights flickered in a way that made everything look a little surreal, like you’d stepped into someone else’s world.

It seemed like the kind of event other kids looked forward to for weeks—the ones who knew how to glide across the floor in rented tuxes and glittery dresses, who were excited for corsages and disco balls and awkward slow dances. 

Not you. 

Not until Clark showed up at your front door.

He looked… nervous. Taller than you remembered, lanky in the way teenagers suddenly grow without warning, and his suit looked like it had been borrowed from some distant uncle—a little too big in the shoulders, sleeves hitting his wrists just wrong. The tie he wore was crooked, despite Ma Kent fussing over him three times before he left. And his hair—usually fluffy and sun-kissed from Smallville summers—was slicked down with so much gel it seemed almost shiny, darker in the gym light.

In his hand was a single flower, not a store-bought rose or anything pretentious, but one of Ma’s sunflowers from the garden, wrapped in simple tissue paper. It leaned slightly to one side, bright and cheerful, like it had its own small heartbeat, and somehow it made your chest ache with a feeling you couldn’t name.

“Uh…” he cleared his throat, shoving a hand through his hair, fingers trembling slightly. “I figured… maybe we could go. Together. You know. As friends.”

“As friends,” you repeated, though your stomach buzzed with a strange heat, like cicadas had taken up residence inside you. The words sounded silly on your lips, inadequate somehow, but you didn’t know how else to say them.

The gym was exactly as terrible as you expected. 

Streamers hung droopy from the rafters, some already ripped and curling, balloons deflated and sagging into corners. The DJ was skipping songs at random, switching from slow jams to something frantic without warning, and the punch bowl, of course, was empty within five minutes.

Clark looked awkward beyond belief—tugging at his sleeves, blinking rapidly, stepping back a fraction every time someone brushed too close. And yet, he stayed beside you, his presence a steady gravitational pull that had always made you feel safe. That had never once let you feel alone in a crowd. He walked in rhythm with you, careful not to step on your toes, yet somehow maintaining the subtle closeness that always defined the two of you.

Then the slow song started, a syrupy, old-fashioned thing the DJ must’ve dug out from decades ago. Clark’s eyes widened behind his glasses, and you felt that little tug in your chest—the way he always seemed to hesitate when something important might slip.

He held out his hand, palm open, a little clammy, but warm and steady. It was the same hand that had pulled you out of creek beds when you slipped, the same hand that steadied the flashlight when you explored barns you weren’t supposed to. You slipped your hand into his, feeling the reassurance in his grip, the weight of all the unspoken history between you.

“You don’t have to,” you teased, though your voice came out softer than intended.

“I want to,” he said simply, looking at you like the words themselves were fragile treasures, like even saying them aloud might break the magic.

And that was that.

You let him pull you into the crowd, bodies swaying in an awkward shuffle, neither of you good dancers, but it didn’t matter. His free hand hovered at your waist for a long beat before resting there, careful and tentative, as if one wrong move might shatter everything between you. 

Your other hand found his shoulder, and for the first time, you noticed just how much taller he’d gotten, how broad, how… everything about him suddenly seemed bigger, more present, more real than you’d ever noticed.

Clark’s grin was soft, shy, and completely yours. The familiar warmth of it sent a flutter through your chest, one you couldn’t ignore. He leaned in, ever so slightly, just close enough that you could feel his breath ghosting against your temple. His lips parted, voice caught somewhere in his throat between thought and speech.

“You know, I…”

Your heart raced. Your hand gripped his shoulder tighter, trying to hold steady.

“I think…” His gaze flicked down to your lips, then back up to your eyes. His Adam’s apple bobbed nervously as he swallowed, the words hovering at the precipice of everything he’d ever wanted to say. “I think you’re the best friend I’ve ever had.”

It wasn’t what he meant. You could see it in the tightening of his jaw, the way his smile faltered the instant the words left him, like he had betrayed himself. But the lights gleamed off his glasses, the music swelled, and you let it be.

You smiled, soft and shaky, and whispered, “You too, Smallville.”

And Clark held you like maybe that was enough.

For now.

♡♡♡…

The third time Clark almost says it, you’re both grown.

Metropolis is nothing like Smallville. The city hums day and night, lights bouncing off glass towers, streets thrumming with life, car horns and distant sirens blending into a constant urban symphony. 

It’s exhilarating and exhausting all at once, a world that never pauses, and sometimes it feels like it’ll swallow you whole if you don’t carve out a corner just for yourself.

For you, that corner is the Daily Planet newsroom—loud, chaotic, relentless, and ironically comforting. And Clark… he’s that corner too. Even in the middle of all the madness, he’s a steady presence, grounding and familiar, a thread tying you back to something simpler and safe, even in a city that never stops moving.

Tonight, the newsroom is quiet. 

Most of the staff have gone home hours ago, leaving just you and Clark. Desks face each other across a narrow aisle, but somehow he always manages to be half-turned toward you, long legs sprawled under his desk, one shoe kicked off, the other barely balancing on the edge of the chair. His tie is loosened, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose as he leans over his notepad.

A pencil is tucked behind his ear, and in the margins of the paper are little doodles—farmhouses, fields, sometimes a dog that suspiciously resembles Krypto. It’s a private world Clark creates when he thinks no one is looking, and you can’t help but notice.

The tap-tap-tap of your keyboard fills the quiet space between you, mingling with the low hum of the city beyond the windows. 

“You should go home,” Clark murmurs, voice low, careful, like he’s afraid the words might wake the building itself.

“So should you,” you reply without looking up, too absorbed in your work to give him your attention.

“I’m not tired.”

You snort. “Clark, you could yawn through an earthquake.”

“Untrue,” he protests, though the twitch at the corner of his mouth betrays him. “I’d stay wide awake just to make sure you’re okay.”

Your fingers pause over the keys. That’s Clark—earnest, protective, impossibly anchoring in the most unassuming way. His words are simple, but they feel like promises, like he’s quietly staking his claim on a world you didn’t even realize needed claiming.

“Uh-huh,” you murmur, chewing your lip, trying to sound skeptical. “You’re just stalling because you don’t want to type up your own copy.”

Clark leans forward on his elbows, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, the kind that makes your pulse quicken. “Maybe. Or maybe I like being here with you.”

You freeze mid-typing, feeling the warmth of his gaze on you. Slowly, you lift your head and meet his eyes. He’s smiling faintly, tired but bright behind his glasses, hair slightly mussed from running his hands through it one too many times. The way he looks at you—like he’s taking in every little detail—makes your chest feel tight, like it could burst if you dared to move too quickly.

His lips part, breath catching ever so slightly. “I think I—“

“Think you’re about to confess something juicy?”

Both of you jump at the sound of Lois Lane’s voice. She drops a stack of papers onto her desk with a satisfying smack, smirk tugging at her lips as she glances between you and Clark.

“Relax, Kent. Don’t look so guilty. I’m not the IRS.”

Clark fumbles, nearly knocking over his coffee as he shoves his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I wasn’t—I mean, I was just—“

Lois raises an unimpressed brow, clearly trying not to laugh. “Uh-huh. Sure.” She sits, shuffling her papers with exaggerated care, and without looking up adds, “Don’t let me interrupt.”

Clark’s ears flush pink, spreading all the way to the tips. He ducks his head, scribbling nonsense in the margins of his notes, trying to erase any traces of the words that almost slipped out. You bite back a laugh, pretending to focus on your own work, but your heart won’t settle. 

You can still feel the ghost of the words hovering in the space between you, the weight of them pressing against your ribs.

You glance at him secretly. His shoulders are tense, but his eyes, even behind the smudged lenses, are fixed on you in that way he always does—full of warmth, quiet longing, and a nervous energy that has never left him.

He doesn’t finish the sentence. He never does.

But you know.

You always know.

And for a moment, in the half-empty newsroom, it feels like a secret shared only between the two of you, delicate and unspoken, fragile as a breath but as certain as the sun rising over Smallville back when you were kids.

♡♡♡♡…

The fourth time Clark almost says it, you almost die. 

It happens fast. Too fast. 

One moment you’re walking down a Metropolis street, juggling your bag and a cup of coffee, mind racing about a lead you and Clark had been working on. The next, the ground shudders like the earth itself is angry. Glass shatters overhead, people scream, and the building beside you groans before part of its facade collapses in a storm of brick and dust. 

You don’t have time to think. All you register is a deep but familiar (?) voice—sharp and panicked—calling your name before a blue-and-red blur slams into you, shielding your body from the danger with a force that pins you to the sidewalk as the debris crashes down around you. There’s a thunderous rush of air, and then you’re stumbling back into the street, coughing and spluttering, dust clinging to your hair and clothes. Your coffee is gone, your bag torn, and your lungs burn with every ragged breath. 

But somehow… somehow, you’re alive.

Your head lifts, and your eyes meet the figure hovering above you. The iconic blue suit, the cape, the emblem gleaming even in the dust-choked sunlight. Superman. Your heart stills for a beat before pounding again in gratitude and awe.

He lands gracefully, cape fluttering in the wind, and kneels beside you. His hands are on your shoulders, sweeping away dust and checking for injuries. “Are you okay?” His voice is calm, but the urgency underneath sends a shiver down your spine. 

“Yeah—I think so,” you gasp, chest heaving, barely steady on your knees. “Thank you… for saving me.”

“Don’t move yet,” he says, voice firm but gentle. “You might have been hit by debris you can’t see. I need to make sure—“

You shake your head, trying to stand. “No, I’m fine. I promise. Really.”

He studies you for a long moment, eyes intense, and then he’s gone in a blur, leaving only the faint echo of wind and the whisper of his cape. People stare, pointing and murmuring. You swallow hard, your pulse still racing, and for a moment, the world feels impossibly big and impossibly small all at once. Superman saved you.

. . . .

You’re pacing the small living room, bag and coat carelessly tossed onto the couch, heart still racing from the panic of that day. The city hums faintly outside your windows, oblivious to what nearly happened, but inside it feels claustrophobic, charged with anger and fear. 

Clark stands near the kitchenette, hands shoved deep into his pockets, posture stiff. He keeps his gaze low, refusing to meet yours, like he’s bracing for impact. You stop pacing and point a finger at him, voice shaking. “You were there! You’re Superman! You saved me, and you didn’t tell me!”

He flinches at the word, a sharp intake of breath. “I—Yes. I was there. I didn’t want anyone to get hurt.”

“Anyone to get hurt?” Your voice rises, echoing off the walls. “Clark, I almost died! And all this time, you didn’t think I deserved the truth?! What, you didn’t think I could handle it?”

His hands lift slightly, unsure where to place them. His voice rises, strained, but controlled. “You don’t understand! You have to know… I couldn’t risk it. Not your safety, not anyone’s. If people knew—if anyone found out…” His voice lowers. “Everything could change. I couldn’t let you be in danger because of me.”

“Because of you??” The words slip out, sharp and biting. “Clark, I’m not a child! I can take care of myself! I trusted Superman, and it was you all along, and you didn’t say a word. Do you have any idea how that feels!?”

His chest rises and falls rapidly, shoulders tense. “I almost told you… so many times. Trust me, every time I got close, every time I thought I could… I stopped. I couldn’t risk—“ His throat tightens, voice breaking. “…I couldn’t risk losing you.”

You blink, caught off guard by the raw honesty. You cross your arms, trying to rein in the shaking in your hands. “Lose me? Clark, you think keeping secrets like this keeps me safe? You think pretending nothing happened… pretending I don’t see the truth…”

“I didn’t have a choice!!” His voice cracks, echoing against the walls of your apartment. “Every time I nearly told you, I stopped because I couldn’t. I can’t lose you. Not knowing if someone—anyone—would come after you because of me. Not knowing if…”His words falter, chest heaving, and he takes a shaky breath. “…If you’d even want me to be the one protecting you if you knew the truth.”

Your chest tightens, heat and frustration swirling together. “Clark… you should’ve trusted me,” you whisper, voice trembling. “You think I wouldn’t have understood? That I wouldn’t have stayed?”

He swallows hard, jaw trembling, then lowers his gaze. “I just… I can’t lose you. Ever. I—“ ‘I love you’ He almost blurts out, and then stops, throat closing in on itself. 

The words sit heavy on his tongue, aching to be spoken, but he doesn’t push them out. Instead, his face crumples and he pulls you against his chest, burying his face in your hair. His arms lock around you so tightly it almost hurts, as if he’s trying to convince himself you’re really there, breathing and solid in his arms. 

You let him hold you, your cheek pressed to his chest, listening to the thunder of his heartbeat. 

You don’t ask what he almost said. 

You don’t need to.

♡♡♡♡♡…

The fifth time Clark almost says it, you’re home.

Smallville feels different now that you’ve both grown up—the fields look smaller, the farmhouse more weathered—but it still smells the same. 

Fresh cut hay, pie cooling on the windowsill, and the faint hint of laundry soap Ma Kent uses, the kind no store-bought brand has ever managed to replicate.

The kitchen is alive in a way that feels sacred. Lois is leaning against the counter, glass of iced tea in hand, teasing Pa Kent about his questionable taste in movies. “Kevin Costner again, Jonathan? Really? You’re gonna subject us to Waterworld one more time?” Pa pretends to grumble, but the corners of his mouth twitch, giving him away.

Jimmy has his camera out, catching moments no one else thinks to frame: Ma Kent’s hands dusted in flour, the faded family photos tacked to the fridge, the way Kara has claimed the couch like she owns it, sprawled across the cushions with Krypto using her back as a pillow. The dog’s tail thumps whenever anyone says his name, but otherwise, he looks perfectly content to be her blanket.

It’s chaos, but the kind that soothes rather than overwhelms. The kind that makes your chest warm.

You’re standing at the sink with Clark, sleeves rolled to his elbows, forearms damp, soap bubbles clinging stubbornly to his wrists. You wash; he dries. The rhythm is easy, practiced—like you’ve been doing this your whole lives. (Because you have.)

Ma Kent hums faintly in the background, some tune that seems to unravel the tension in Clark’s shoulders. He relaxes in a way he never does in the city. Every once in a while, his hand brushes yours as he takes a plate, a fork, a glass. The first few times you pretend not to notice, but by the fifth brush, your stomach swoops so hard it’s a wonder you don’t drop the dish in your hands.

You risk a glance up. He’s already looking at you.

The farmhouse light catches in his eyes, making them softer, warmer. And suddenly, the room feels smaller, quieter, like it’s just the two of you standing here, hands dripping suds, soap bubbles sliding down your skin. No Lois smirking knowingly from her corner, no Jimmy crouching for the perfect shot, no Kara groaning loudly from the couch about how grossly domestic you two look.

Just you and Clark, shoulder to shoulder at a sink you’ve both outgrown.

He’s holding a dish towel but not moving. Just staring. You feel the air between you shift, thicken, as if the whole house is holding its breath. His mouth parts, his chest rising and falling like he’s been working himself up to this for years.

And then—softly, surely—he says, “I love—”

The door bursts open.

Krypto barrels in like a rocket, nails clicking across the tile, ears flopping. He launches toward the table, tongue lolling, and Kara stumbles in right behind him, nearly slipping as she tries to grab his collar. “He heard the neighbor’s dog again—sorry!”

Water splashes over the counter as you jerk, startled, and Clark fumbles the plate in his hands so badly he almost drops it. You both burst into laughter, the fragile spell shattered, and Krypto immediately demands attention like he’s done the world a favor.

Clark kneels down to scratch his ears, cheeks flushed as if nothing just happened—as if he wasn’t one syllable away from changing everything. “Guess he wanted to say hi,” he murmurs, smiling crookedly.

You crouch too, ruffling Krypto’s fur to hide the way your pulse is still thundering in your ears. “More like he wanted to save you from dish duty.”

Kara snorts from the doorway. “Or save us from whatever disgustingly sappy moment was about to happen.”

Clark shoots her a look over his shoulder, half-annoyed, half-amused. She just grins.

But when he rises again, setting the towel aside, his eyes find yours. And they’re still soft. Aching. Like the words he swallowed are right there, pressing against his ribs, begging to be freed.

You wonder what would’ve happened if Krypto hadn’t chosen that exact moment to make an entrance.

Clark wonders too.

♡♡♡♡♡♡…

The sixth time, Clark Kent finally says it.

The city hums outside your window, distant and alive—car horns, footsteps, the faint thrum of music from a bar across the street. But inside your apartment, it’s quiet, wrapped in that cocoon of stillness that only ever settles between people who know each other down to the marrow.

The lamps are dimmed, golden light spilling over books stacked on the coffee table, your half-finished mug of tea, the couch where Clark sits. His tie is loosened, collar open, glasses abandoned on the side table. His hair is a little messy, the kind of tousled that looks like it should belong to anyone but Clark Kent—except it suits him perfectly. He looks impossibly human this way, stripped of all the things that keep him buttoned up during the day. 

Just him. 

Just Clark.

You curl up in the armchair across from him, knees tucked under your chin, one hand loosely wrapped around your mug though the tea’s long gone cold. Neither of you rush to fill the silence. It stretches out, but it’s not heavy; it’s comfortable. It feels like the silence after a storm, like the kind of quiet that says I’m safe here.

His arm is draped across the back of the couch, long fingers brushing against the cushion. Sometimes—when he shifts, when he leans forward, when the space between you feels small enough to disappear entirely—those fingers almost graze your shoulder. Every near-touch sparks like static, a reminder of all the almosts that have piled up between you over the years.

You let yourself look at him. Really look. 

The strong line of his jaw. The curve of his lips that always seem caught between bashfulness and a smile. The small furrow in his brow when he’s lost in thought. You’ve seen him a thousand times, in a thousand different lights, but somehow he still manages to knock the air out of you.

And then his gaze lifts, meeting yours. His eyes are soft, lit by the lamplight, but unguarded in a way they so rarely are. It’s like watching him peel back every careful layer he’s built—not Superman, not the shy reporter, not the steady friend who’s always there when you need him. 

Just Clark.

Your chest tightens because you know, even before he opens his mouth, what’s about to happen.

His fingers twitch, a nervous little habit you’ve only ever noticed when he’s holding back something big. He swallows, throat bobbing, and then his lips part, the words quiet but certain.

“I love you.”

It’s almost tentative, almost as though he’s afraid to break the fragile stillness between you—but it carries the weight of years. Every half-glance. Every brush of his hand. Every almost-confession.

You blink, heart hammering so hard you’re sure he can hear it. A laugh escapes you, shaky and breathless, because it’s been so long coming that you almost don’t believe it’s real. “Took you long enough, Smallville.”

He exhales a laugh of his own, soft and relieved, his grin spreading wide and bashful. His whole face lights up, eyes shining in that way that always makes you feel like he’s carrying the sun inside him. “I’ve loved you forever,” he admits, voice rough with sincerity. “I just—didn’t know how to say it.”

Before you can answer, he leans forward. His forehead rests against yours, his breath warm against your lips, his hands reaching for yours almost blindly—as if he needs the contact to anchor himself.

Your fingers tangle naturally, fitting together like puzzle pieces that had been waiting all this time.

And then you kiss him.

It’s slow at first, almost tentative—but the second your lips meet, it’s like the years of holding back finally snap. The kiss deepens, soft and certain, and you pour everything you’ve never said into it. 

Every unsent message. Every touch you’d brushed off as accidental. Every long look you’d never let linger.

His hands frame your face, thumbs brushing against your cheeks, and he kisses you like he’s memorizing you. Like he’s afraid he’ll wake up and find this was all a dream. His strength is there, yes, but so is his care—the gentleness he reserves only for the people he can’t bear to hurt.

When you part for breath, your lips still brushing his, he whispers against them, “I mean it. Every single word.”

You laugh again, low and breathless, pressing your face against his shoulder to hide the giddy smile threatening to split your cheeks. “I know,” you murmur into the fabric of his shirt. “I always knew.”

He lets out a sound that’s half a laugh, half a sigh, his cheek resting against yours. His arms wrap around you fully now, pulling you into his chest, holding you like he’s never letting go.

“I can’t believe I waited this long,” he admits, voice muffled in your hair.

“You almost said it five times before,” you tease softly.

“Yeah,” he says, chuckling, pressing a small kiss to your temple. “But it’s worth the wait if the ending’s you.”

Your throat tightens, tears pricking at your eyes, and you press your forehead against his again. The city hums on around you, but here, in your apartment, time feels suspended. There’s only warmth. There’s only laughter. 

There’s only Clark Kent—your friend, your constant, your gravity—finally saying the words you’ve always needed him to.

And for the first time, the world feels exactly right.

♡…

a/n: oh boy, the clark kent obsession is real y’all. (and i’m not even a big dc person)

but just know i’m sitting here rubbing my hands together every time i think of the perfect song to pair with a fic

i was thinking of that one verse from this song that’s like “you’re the girl, you’re the one” “gave you everything i loved”

[defeatofcupid]

Stranger danger

Clark kent x reader

In which you get drunk and don't recognize your boyfriend

11:12 PM – Somewhere in Metropolis, outside a very loud rooftop bar

You were not a heavy drinker. Clark had learned that by date three.

So when Lois insisted you try the new bar she found for girls’ night, and you tried to keep up with everyone else—Clark knew.

He knew.

He got the call from Lois around midnight: “Hey, Kent? Your girl had, like, half a glass. She’s a mess. She keeps hugging a potted plant and telling it to grow strong and proud.”

He was there within minutes.

Clark stepped out of the elevator and was immediately hit with the scent of perfume, bad decisions, and four different kinds of fruity alcohol.

“Hey, Smallville!” Lois shouted, half-waving, half-holding you up. “She’s all yours.”

You were sitting slouched on a barstool with your chin in your hand, staring at the decorative lights like they were a philosophical mystery. Your lip gloss was smudged, your hair was in slight chaos, and you looked like you’d just remembered gravity exists.

Clark approached slowly, smiling. “Hey, baby. You ready to go?”

You blinked. Then squinted. Then recoiled so hard you nearly fell off the stool.

“STRANGER DANGER!”

Clark paused, hand halfway out.

“…Babe?”

“Don’t ‘babe’ me, creepy tall man!” you slurred, pointing your finger dramatically at his chest. “You’re not my boyfriend. He’s hotter. You’re just a knock-off brand.”

Clark raised a brow. “Knock-off?”

“Yeah!” you said, wobbling as you stood up with all the grace of a baby deer. “My boyfriend? He’s a dream. He has big muscles and bigger dimples and the soul of a golden retriever—also? He could kick your ass, so back off.”

He gave Lois a look. She just shrugged and pulled out her phone to start filming. “For future blackmail.”

Clark turned back to you, biting back a smile. “Honey. It's me. Clark.”

“Lies. LIES!” you gasped, stumbling back. “Clark would never wear that ugly jacket. And his hair is fluffier. You used too much gel or something.”

“I didn’t even—"

“AND,” you added, raising a very unsteady finger, “my Clark smells like cinnamon rolls and comfort. You smell like laundry detergent and coffee.”

Clark sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Okay. What do I have to do to prove I’m me?”

You squinted. “Tell me the name of our cat.”

He blinked. “Dimple.”

“…Lucky guess.”

“I know the exact number of times you’ve watched Pride and Prejudice in the last month.”

“That’s public information! Anyone who has my insta knows that” you declared.

“I also know,” he said, leaning in just enough to murmur near your ear, “what you whispered in my ear last night. Right before I—”

“OKAY YOU’RE CLARK,” you said very quickly, smacking his chest and immediately flinging your arms around him. “Why didn’t you say something sooner, you weirdo?”

“I literally did,” he mumbled into your hair, already scooping you into his arms bridal style.

You snuggled into his neck and sighed dramatically. “You’re lucky you’re pretty.”

From over his shoulder, Lois called out, “Good luck, Kent! She threatened to fight a streetlamp earlier!”

“I stand by that,” you muttered sleepily. “It looked like it was judging me.”

12:02 AM – Your shared apartment, Metropolis

Clark balanced you in his arms as he unlocked the door, gently pushing it open with his foot.

You stirred against his chest, blinking up at him with all the grace of a starfish learning how to walk. “Wait… this isn’t my house.”

He sighed. “It’s literally our apartment.”

“…Our apartment?” you asked, confused.

Clark raised an eyebrow as he carried you straight to the couch and set you down carefully.

You gasped. “You moved in with me?!”

Clark just looked at you. “…We’ve been living together for almost a year”

You blinked. “Oh my god, we’re married.”

Clark huffed a laugh. “Sure, if that helps.”

You suddenly looked down at your feet. “Oh no.”

“What?”

“My shoes are strangling me.”

“They’re heels,” he said patiently, crouching in front of you. “They do that.”

You stuck your leg out like royalty. “Fix it, peasant.”

“Wow,” Clark muttered with a smirk as he unbuckled one strap. “You get wine in and suddenly I work for you.”

“I’ll double your salary if you also get me snacks after,” you said, already slumping sideways like your spine had turned to jelly.

He got the other shoe off, then gently helped you to your feet. You immediately draped yourself over him like a scarf.

“Okay, let’s get you in pajamas,” he said, walking you toward the bedroom.

“I love pajamas,” you said dreamily.

He guided you to sit on the bed, rummaged through your drawer for your favorite soft shirt (his shirt), and returned to find you trying (and failing) to remove your dress by yanking it over your head while still sitting.

“Alright, I got it,” Clark said, laughing softly as he knelt in front of you again and gently pulled the dress up over your head.

You blinked blearily, still sitting there in your underwear. “You’ve seen me naked, right?”

“Yes,” he said patiently, sliding the shirt over your arms and tugging it into place. “Like, a lot.”

“Okay good,” you nodded, like this was vital information.

He helped you into your pajama shorts, then guided you to lie down, pulling the blanket over you. You hummed happily as he tucked you in, hair flopping over your eyes.

“Hey Clark?” you mumbled, already halfway asleep.

“Yeah?”

“I know I called you ugly earlier but you're really, really hot. Like stupid hot. Like I would absolutely make out with you right now but my mouth is not sure where my face is.”

Clark laughed quietly and kissed your temple. “I’ll take a raincheck on that.”

You smiled sleepily, fingers curling in his shirt as he sat down beside you. “I like you,” you whispered. “Don’t tell my boyfriend though.”

He grinned. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

10 minutes later

“W-Why are you so beautiful?” you wailed, sitting upright, clutching the fabric of his shirt like it grounded you. “It’s not fair! You look like—like a prince. But also, like, a kind school librarian. How??”

Clark blinked. “Um—”

“I love you,” you sobbed, wiping your face with the hem of the shirt you were wearing—which was, unfortunately, still his shirt. “You’re just—Clark, you’re so nice to me. And strong! And you carry the groceries in one trip! You always put my fries in the bag before I remember to ask!”

His heart melted on the spot. “Sweetheart, it’s okay—”

“No!” you sniffled dramatically, pointing at him like you were on a soap opera. “You don’t understand. You’re, like... the most beautiful man. And you love me? Me?? I’m a weirdo with shiny powers and sarcasm for blood and you’re—you’re you!”

He wrapped his arms around your trembling frame as you cried into his shoulder.

You hiccupped. “You’re perfect. I bet even your organs are symmetrical.”

Clark tried not to laugh as he tucked you closer. “Thank you, I work very hard on my internal balance.”

“And your nose,” you whimpered. “It’s so straight. And your hands are really big and safe, like oven mitts but sexy.”

That one made him lose it. He laughed so hard, his body shook.

“I love you too,” he whispered into your hair, kissing the side of your head. “Oven mitts and all.”

You sniffled and curled into him. “Promise me you’ll always be this pretty.”

“Can’t make any guarantees,” he said gently, “but I can promise I’ll always be yours.”

You nodded, your eyes already fluttering shut.

You’d been quiet for about a full minute now—curled up in his arms, cheek pressed against his chest, breathing slowly like maybe sleep had finally claimed you.

Clark adjusted the blanket over you gently.

And then—sniff.

"You're so good," you whimpered.

Clark looked down, concerned. "Still thinking about my oven mitt hands?"

"No!" you wailed. "I'm crying because you're... you're so good. Like annoyingly good. You make me want to be a better person, and I didn’t even ask for that!”

He smiled, rubbing slow circles against your back. “That’s not a bad thing, baby.”

“Yes it is!” you pulled back to look at him, lip wobbling. “You don’t get it—I used to hate bugs. Like, full-blown scream-and-launch-a-shoe-across-the-room hate.”

“Sounds reasonable.”

“But now?” you placed a dramatic hand over your heart. “Now I gently escort them out! I trap them in a cup! I talk to them! I say things like, ‘I don’t like this either, little guy, but I’m being a good person today because of Clark Kent.’”

He bit back a laugh.

“I nearly cried yesterday when I saw a spider,” you added. “And not because I was scared. Because I was proud of myself for not committing murder.”

“That’s genuinely impressive,” Clark said, completely endeared. “But if there’s ever a bug you don’t feel emotionally ready to negotiate with, I will be your backup.”

You sniffled. “You’d do that for me?”

He nodded. “I’d fight a thousand spiders for you.”

You clung to him tighter. “You’re my hero not superman—my superhero. My emotionally balanced, sunshine-of-a-human, insect-sparing angel man.”

Clark chuckled as he kissed your forehead, heart full to the brim. “And you’re my dramatic, glowing, slightly drunk, bug-rescuing princess.”

“I’m gonna marry you,” you slurred sleepily against his chest.

“I’m holding you to that,” he whispered.

You were already half-asleep again.

Morning after

There was something both peaceful and ridiculous about watching you sleep with one arm flopped dramatically over your face like you’d just fainted from the weight of your own emotions.

Clark had been up for a while now. Not because he needed to be — he could have slept another four hours easy — but because he’d woken at dawn with your wine-soaked declarations still echoing in his head:

“You even make me save bugs, Clark. BUGS. That’s love!”

He smiled to himself from the doorway, arms crossed, leaning into the moment.

You were still wearing his oversized T-shirt, hair sticking up like a windswept crown, mascara smudged like warpaint. You looked both completely chaotic and completely divine.

God, he loved you.

The night before had been a whirlwind: the potted plant pep talk, the streetlamp argument, the declaration that he was "too beautiful to be trusted," and, of course, your tearful vow to marry him... probably soon.

And through it all, he’d just held you. Because your love — messy, honest, loud, and too big for your body — was the most grounded thing in his life.

Even now, passed out and softly snoring, you were his favorite view in the entire universe.

He crossed the room quietly and crouched beside the bed.

You stirred, face scrunching like the sun had personally offended you.

“...Clark?” you mumbled.

“Morning, sunshine,” he whispered.

You groaned. “Why’s the sun so loud.”

He chuckled. “Do you remember anything from last night?”

You didn’t answer right away. Then came a muffled, defeated: “...Did I cry?”

“Oh, yes.”

“About your face?”

“And my hands.”

You rolled onto your back, one hand over your eyes. “Oh no.”

“And the bugs,” he added gently, grinning.

“God help me,” you whispered into the pillow.

He kissed your temple, brushing your hair back like it was instinct. “You were perfect.”

You peeked up at him, one eye squinting like you weren’t sure if you were allowed to believe him yet.

“You’re lying to make me feel better.”

“Always,” he said, smiling. “But also not really.”

You paused. Still groggy. Still blanket-wrapped and unbrushed and softly glowing in the morning light.

And then you whispered, “I meant it, you know.”

Clark blinked. “Meant what?”

“Last night,” you said, quieter now. “About wanting to marry you. About the bug thing. About… everything.”

His breath caught, just for a second.

He took your hand gently, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. “I know,” he said. “I meant it too. All of it.”

You smiled then — a small, sleepy, devastatingly sincere smile.

And he couldn’t help himself. He leaned in and kissed you again, slow and soft, like a promise.

As he pulled back, your eyes were already fluttering closed again.

“Clark?” you mumbled.

“Yeah?”

“You’re still really pretty. Just so you know.”

He laughed quietly, resting his forehead against yours. “And you’re still mine.”

“Damn right,” you whispered, already halfway asleep.

And this time, you stayed that way — curled against him, safe and glowing and annoyingly good — the literal best decision he’d ever made.

---

@animegamerfox

[defeatofcupid]

EFFECTIVE | CLARK KENT

David!Clark Kent x fem!olsen!reader

SUMMARY : At the bustling Daily Planet, you, Jimmy Olsen’s charming and confident sister, unexpectedly visit, instantly captivating the newsroom—especially Clark Kent, who becomes adorably tongue-tied in your presence.

WARNINGS : mostly fluff, Clark Kent getting utterly wrecked by charm, Jimmy Olsen suffering comedic sibling humiliation

3.0k words

The Daily Planet was alive with its usual, borderline frantic hum.

Phones rang, reporters yelled over cubicle walls, and printers jammed in sync with someone’s muffled cursing. On the far side of the bullpen, Perry White’s door slammed shut with the kind of finality that meant someone’s story hadn’t quite made the cut.

Jimmy Olsen spun into the newsroom like a man shot out of a cannon, camera bag flung over one shoulder, shirt slightly wrinkled, and a half-eaten bagel clenched between his teeth.

He dropped into his seat across from Clark Kent’s desk with a heavy exhale.

“Morning,” Clark said, glancing up from his computer.

“Is it?” Jimmy mumbled through the bagel. “Because my train stalled, the coffee shop forgot the second espresso shot in my order, and a pigeon tried to land on my head in Midtown.”

Clark chuckled quietly. “You sure it wasn’t a drone?”

“Nope. I made eye contact with it. It knew what it was doing.”

Lois Lane walked by holding a manila folder and a very full coffee cup. “Please tell me that isn’t your excuse for being late today.”

Jimmy raised a finger. “Technically I’m five minutes early.”

“You’re five minutes late if you’re trying to impress Perry,” Lois shot back.

“Not everyone’s trying to impress him. Some of us are just trying to survive him.”

As she passed by, Cat Grant followed in her wake, heels clacking authoritatively. She paused at Jimmy’s desk just long enough to deliver her daily jab.

“You have a stain on your shirt.”

Jimmy looked down. “It’s artistic. Cream cheese is textural.”

Cat didn’t stop walking. “You’re going to die alone and stylishly disheveled.”

“Yet somehow,” Jimmy called after her, “I still have a better dating record than you.”

“Exactly,” Cat shot over her shoulder. “It’s tragic.”

Clark tried—and failed—not to laugh. “You kind of walked into that one.”

“Oh come on, Clark.” Jimmy leaned back in his chair and gestured around them. “Do you remember the gala last month? That art journalist with the blue dress practically wrote me poetry in real-time. I’ve got a magnetic vibe.”

“You screamed at a spider in the elevator two days ago.”

“I was ambushed.”

Lois reappeared beside Clark’s desk, now flipping through her notes.

“Look, Jimmy,” she said flatly, “I’ll admit you’ve somehow baffled the natural order of the universe. Women love you. It’s like watching a raccoon win a beauty contest. Weirdly impressive, slightly alarming.”

“Hey,” Jimmy said with mock offense. “Raccoons are adorable and resourceful.”

Clark smiled as he typed. “So… when do we get to meet your family? You talk about your sister all the time, but she’s like Bigfoot. Many claims, no sightings.”

Jimmy sat up straighter, a glint of pride—and nervousness—flashing across his face. “Actually… she’s stopping by today.”

Clark looked up. “Really?”

“Yeah. Just visiting. She’s got a layover in Metropolis for a few days, and I figured, hey, why not subject her to the madness?”

“Is this the sister who beat you at Mario Kart for twelve years straight?”

“The same,” Jimmy said, dramatically. “Lena ‘Turbo Mode’ Olsen. She’s smart. Cool. And—”

He paused.

Lois narrowed her eyes. “And?”

Jimmy sighed. “Okay. Just… do me a favor and don’t, like, fall in love with her.”

Clark blinked. “What?”

“I’m serious, man. It happens every time. I introduce her to my friends, and boom, instant crush. It’s like her mutant ability. She walks in, says hi, and suddenly people are writing sonnets.”

Lois raised an eyebrow. “You’re being dramatic.”

“No, I’m being traumatized. My college roommate asked her to marry him after one game night. She beat him at Scrabble. That was the trigger.”

Clark gave a small smile. “I’m sure she’s great.”

“She is,” Jimmy said with a nod. “But she’s also the only person alive who can roast me to dust in ten syllables or less, so just… brace yourself, okay?”

Lois muttered, “This is going to be so good.”

—

The elevator chimed.

No one really noticed it at first—not with Lois muttering something under her breath about fiscal fraud, and Clark flipping through zoning maps of Metropolis’s aging sewer infrastructure. Jimmy was elbow-deep in his camera bag, swearing softly as he dug around for a spare lens cap that was clearly lost in a black hole.

And then Cat Grant looked up—paused mid-step in her strut toward the break room—and blinked.

Hard.

A few heads turned after her, curiosity piqued by something in her expression. Even the intern closest to the elevator stuttered in his phone call, suddenly tongue-tied.

Then Lois turned around too.

“Oh,” she said, voice dry but vaguely impressed. “Okay. Yeah. That’s Jimmy’s sister?

Clark followed her gaze instinctively—then froze.

⸻

It was less like someone stepping out of an elevator and more like someone stepping onto a stage.

You weren’t subtle.

You wore a short, flared white dress that framed your figure with an almost dangerous precision. The puffed sleeves sat high, the deep plunging neckline left no ambiguity about your confidence, and the skirt swished above your thighs with each step. A wide, square collar framed the bare skin at your chest, soft scalloped trim catching the light. Your long hair tumbled in loose waves over your shoulders, and you smiled like you knew exactly how many heads were turning.

The room… paused.

Not froze — just stuttered. Reporters stumbled over their sentences. Keyboards stopped clacking. Even Perry White’s door cracked open slightly, as if the universe itself demanded witness.

Clark had only seen people react like that to Superman (himself) — and somehow, this was better.

Cat let out a low whistle. “Oh, Jimmy,” she muttered. “There’s no way she’s related to you.”

Lois blinked. “He’s gotta be adopted. No offense.”

“Rude,” Jimmy said automatically — then followed their gaze and froze. “Oh no.”

You spotted him

“JIMMY!” you beamed.

He stood up too fast, knocking over his chair with a loud clatter and scrambling to catch it before it hit the floor.

“Oh no,” he repeated, louder this time, and bolted toward you. “Why are you like this?”

“Like what?” you grinned, arms open. “Fashionable? Charming? Socially competent?”

You collided in a hug halfway across the bullpen, nearly knocking over an intern.

“You wore the dress,” Jimmy hissed as you separated.

“You said you weren’t gonna wear it!”

“You dared me,” you said sweetly. “And you know I’m petty.”

“Yeah, well, now Clark’s gonna short-circuit and Lois is gonna draft a wedding registry before lunch.”

“Sounds like a you problem.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

He groaned. “How long are you staying again?”

You ruffled his hair. “Long enough to emotionally damage you. Like a good sibling.”

Clark hadn’t moved. At some point, he’d lowered his zoning map and just… stared. Glasses slightly fogged. Lips parted like he’d forgotten how oxygen worked.

Lois nudged him. “Close your mouth, Smallville. You’re gonna catch flies.”

“I’m fine,” Clark said, definitely not fine.

“You’re blushing so hard, Smallville. She’s got you down bad.”

“Lois.”

Cat crossed her arms. “This is gonna be so entertaining.”

Jimmy led you to his desk, rambling nonstop — mostly to distract everyone from how completely wrecked Clark looked.

“You remember that bakery I told you about? Still gives me muffins. I think they legally adopted me. Also, my neighbor definitely thinks I’m FBI, which is fine, I’m not correcting her—”

You rolled your eyes affectionately. “God, you talk more when you’re panicking.”

“I am not — okay, yeah, I am,” he admitted. “But you wore that to a newspaper office.”

You waved vaguely. “You said it was casual.”

“This is not casual. This is… I don’t know, every man’s sexual fantasy come to life.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Lois leaned back in her chair, sipping coffee. “She’s even better than I imagined.”

You turned and smiled. “You must be Lois.”

“That obvious?”

Jimmy gestured between you. “Lois Lane, my sister Y/n. Y/n, this is Lois Lane.”

You offered your hand. “Nice to meet you. I’ve heard… stories.”

Lois shook it. “All true.”

“Even the one with the stapler?”

“He unplugged my monitor.”

“Justified,” you said.

Then came Cat. “Cat Grant,” she said. “Resident taste-maker, HR’s worst nightmare.”

You grinned. “You’re the one with the killer shoe collection and the office playlist that makes Jimmy cry?”

Cat beamed. “I knew I liked her.”

Jimmy made a strangled noise. “Stop bonding with my coworkers!”

You turned, finally, to the one person you hadn’t met.

Clark Kent.

He stood up automatically. Tall. Nervous. Shoulders too broad for his sweater vest. That smile — not dazzling, not flashy, just real — hovering uncertainly on his lips.

“Hi,” he said, a little breathless. “I’m Clark. Clark Kent.”

You smiled — and something in your expression softened.

“I’m Y/n. Olsen. But I guess that’s… obvious.”

You shook hands.

Clark blinked.

You tilted your head. “You okay?”

He nodded too fast. “Yeah! Just, um. Processing.”

Jimmy groaned. “He’s a goner. He’s already gone.”

Cat leaned over to Lois. “He’s gonna write poetry about her, isn’t he?”

“Oh yeah,” Lois said. “Free verse. There’ll be metaphors.”

You didn’t let go of Clark’s hand right away. “You’re not what I pictured.”

“Oh?” he asked.

“Jimmy said you were kind of a nerd.”

Jimmy threw his arms in the air. “You weren’t supposed to say that part out loud!”

“Don’t worry,” you said. “It’s a compliment. I like nerds.”

You lingered near Jimmy’s desk, fingers idly looping around the strap of your bag as your eyes flicked around the Daily Planet bullpen. Phones were ringing. Someone was swearing at the copy machine. Lois was pacing with a folder tucked under her arm, eyebrows furrowed like she was mentally rewriting a headline. Cat Grant stood near the coffee station, turning her spoon like she was plotting either a column or a murder.

It was, you thought, a lot. But it suited Jimmy. The noise, the movement, the messy kind of brilliance in every corner. And truthfully? You liked it. It felt alive.

Clark, on the other hand, hadn’t moved much at all.

He stood beside his desk in a perfectly pressed gray suit, tailored just a bit too well for someone who still managed to look like he’d feel bad if he took the last cookie in the breakroom. One hand braced the back of his chair like he couldn’t decide if he should sit, stay standing, or jump out the window. The other hovered near his belt awkwardly, then slowly migrated to his tie like maybe it needed straightening. It didn’t.

He adjusted his glasses.

Paused.

Adjusted them again.

You looked at him again.

And smiled.

Not the dazzling, walk-into-the-room-and-own-it smile you’d used coming off the elevator. This one was smaller. Tilted. Intimate, almost. Like you were already in on the same joke, even if neither of you had told it yet.

Clark’s heart, which had already been on something of a joyride since you arrived, gave another wholly unnecessary lurch.

“Um…” he cleared his throat. “Do you… want to sit? I mean, not that you have to. Obviously. You’re probably just stopping by. Visiting. And I’m sure you’re fine. You look fine. Not that— I mean—”

Jimmy groaned. “Oh, man. He’s spiraling.”

You turned toward Clark fully, your mouth curving with something halfway between amusement and danger.

“Are you always this smooth?” you asked.

Clark gave a helpless little shrug. “Not intentionally.”

Then he sat down. Realized you were still standing. Shot back up.

His chair scraped loudly across the floor, making Cat flinch from across the bullpen.

Lois glanced over her shoulder, coffee halfway to her mouth. “Jesus, Kent. What are you doing, proposing?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time someone did,” Jimmy muttered, thinking of his college friend.

Clark rubbed the back of his neck. “Just trying not to be rude.”

You stepped forward, into his orbit, until he had to look down to meet your eyes. You tilted your head, gaze sweeping up the full length of him.

“You really are tall,” you said, eyes narrowing slightly like you were running the numbers.

Clark blinked. “I’ve… heard rumors.”

“I mean, I assumed Jimmy was exaggerating. He said you were like… polite skyscraper tall. I thought he was being dramatic.”

“I am never dramatic,” Jimmy muttered from his desk, which no one acknowledged.

“I feel like you could change the lightbulbs in my apartment without standing on anything.”

“Probably,” he admitted, cheeks going slightly pink. “Though I try not to flaunt it.”

“No, you should flaunt it. I mean…” Your eyes flicked over him again. “Statistically speaking, this is a very generous use of vertical space.”

Clark made a noise in his throat that might’ve been a laugh, might’ve been an internal scream.

You smiled again — soft this time, almost fond. And then, as if to really test the theory, you stepped forward until you were fully in his shadow. You tilted your head, eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

“I stand corrected,” you said, still studying Clark. “Do you always wear suits this well, or is that a Tuesday-only kind of deal?”

Clark blinked again. “I—I don’t know. It’s just work.”

“Well,” you said, smile deepening. “You’re really out here making cardigans look like a missed opportunity.”

Cat, nearby, nearly choked on her coffee.

Lois, still observing with the detached joy of a spectator at the zoo, raised a brow. “How are you doing, Smallville?”

Clark didn’t answer.

Because you stepped even closer. He could feel the edge of your dress brush against his pant leg — soft, light, and completely ruining his ability to form full thoughts.

You tilted your head back to meet his eyes again.

Even in your heels, you barely made it to the middle of his chest.

“I get the feeling you duck through a lot of doorways,” you murmured.

“Historic ones,” Clark said, trying not to smile. “Or Perry’s. He refuses to raise the frame.”

“Do strangers ask you to reach things in stores?”

“Almost daily. Someone once handed me their toddler like I was a cherry-picker.”

You laughed, and it was warm and breathy and real. “Do you accept bribes for shelf assistance?”

“I take muffins. And the occasional heartfelt thank you.”

“Duly noted.”

Behind you, Jimmy groaned again. “I swear, if you two start writing poetry to each other in the middle of the newsroom, I’m transferring."

“You wouldn’t survive at the Gotham Gazette,” Lois said.

“I definitely wouldn’t,” Jimmy admitted.

Clark looked back at you. You hadn’t moved away.

Neither had he.

“You’ve got a good thing here,” you said, glancing around. “It’s loud, but smart. Has that weird mix of chaos and community?”

“It’s basically a co-dependent newsroom family with aggressive deadlines,” Clark said.

“And a lot of caffeine,” Lois added.

“And someone crying near the elevator every other Wednesday,” Cat muttered, eyes still on you like she was sizing you up for a feature piece titled The Woman Who Made Kent Forget English.

You smiled again, looking back at Clark. “So. Lunch?”

Clark blinked. “What?”

“I’m assuming you were about to invite me somewhere. Or were you planning to just keep towering over me and talking about lightbulbs?”

Clark cleared his throat again. “I was… yeah. I was going to ask. I mean — I am asking. I was headed out for lunch. There’s this place — quiet, kind of tucked away. They have this lemon tart. Or maybe it’s lime. It’s… citrusy. Which doesn’t sound impressive, but—”

“Clark,” you interrupted gently, eyes sparkling.

“Yes?”

“Are you asking me out?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it.

Then gave a tiny nod. “Yes. I think I am.”

There was a beat.

“You’re really bad at this,” you said, softly.

Clark looked down at himself — his pristine suit, the pressed line of his pants, his shiny shoes — and then back up at you. “I know.”

“I like it,” you added, voice low.

He swallowed, nerves making everything in him tense just a little.

“You’re very…” he started, then hesitated, mouth twisting as he searched for something accurate but not too much.

You waited.

“…effective,” he said at last, a little helplessly.

You blinked. “Effective?”

“In the sense that I lost all coordination for like twenty minutes. And probably half my vocabulary.”

That did it.

You laughed — loud and delighted and completely unfiltered. It made Lois smile. Cat smirk. And Jimmy sigh like his soul was leaving his body.

You reached out and touched Clark’s arm lightly, steadying yourself. “God, you’re cute.”

Clark’s mouth opened, no words came out.

You stepped back, finally remembering the world around you. Your eyes flicked to Jimmy, who was slumped over his desk in defeat.

“Oh,” you said, suddenly wincing. “Right. Sorry, Jumbo.”

“Don’t call me that in front of witnesses.”

You ignored that. “I got a little distracted.”

“You think?”

You grinned at your brother, then reached over and nudged his shoulder. “But hey… that thing I came to tell you, when I originally came here to spend time with you?”

Jimmy sat up slowly, suspicious. “The layover?”

“Not a layover.”

He frowned. “What?”

“I’m moving here,” you said simply. “To Metropolis.”

A beat of stunned silence.

“What?” Jimmy squawked.

You just smiled sweetly. “I found a place. Signed the lease yesterday. I figured if you were gonna keep making me sound like Bigfoot, I might as well haunt the city myself.”

Clark blinked. “Wait, you’re moving here?”

“Yup,” you said, popping the ‘p’. Then you turned back to Clark with a shrug. “Guess that makes this lunch slightly less ‘last chance’ and slightly more ‘welcome to the beginning.’”

Cat nearly dropped her coffee.

Jimmy looked like he’d just witnessed a robbery.

And Clark, adjusting his glasses one last time, managed a small, stunned smile. “That’s… effective.”

You laughed again and nodded toward the door. “Lead the way, Kent.”

He held it open for you — ducking slightly to clear the frame — and followed you out into the city.

Jimmy stared after you both, slack-jawed.

Lois took a sip of her coffee, her voice dry. “Your sister just moved to Metropolis and stole your newsroom.”

Cat grinned. “Honestly? Iconic.”

Jimmy groaned, head dropping back to the desk. “I hate everyone.”

Lois patted his shoulder. “You’ll get used to it. We all did.”

[defeatofcupid]

Clark Kent is not the easiest target if you want a quick laugh.

You're online shopping one day and come across the perfect shirt for Clark. Its form-fitting and a beautiful navy blue that brings out his eyes perfectly.

When you surprise him with the package one day when he gets home from work, he's so excited to see what you got him, despite the fact that you keep trying to tell him its just a normal navy shirt.

So he decides to tear it out of the package one day and throw it into the wash, not even reading the white block print on the front — not even seeing it.

The two of you have an outing scheduled for the weekend and he decides that'll be the best time to show off his new shirt. He wants you to know that he loves you and that hes happy to wear what you get him.

Saturday rolls around and you're getting ready when you see him wander into your bedroom wearing the new shirt you got him. You have to stifle a giggle because has he even looked at himself in a mirror yet? Does he even know what the shirt says?

"You look pretty," he smiles at you, kissing the top of your head from your seat at your vanity.

"Mhm," you cant help but just stare at the shirt in the reflection of the mirror, "oh, thank you," you coo, stroking the side of his cheek scatteredly.

"You almost ready to go?" He asks, already leaving the room.

"Uh huh," you hum absently.

The day goes on smoother than youd expected. Not that you thought anyone would come up and ask where to get a shirt like that or just straight up pointing and laughing, but there are... looks.

Looks that Clark notices about halfway through the day while the two of you are hand in hand walking down the busy sidewalk with drinks in hand.

"Okay, why does everyone keep staring at me." He asks, obviously getting a little frustrated and concerned.

And a part of you wonders if he's thinking that maybe his cover's been blown. That his name has been blasted all over times square with Superman's Identity Found!

But you know exactly why everyone is looking at him and youre beginning to feel a little guilty for stressing him out. You fight the urge to tell him, honey I think its your shirt.

But he's just so funny to tease so you let it go on a bit longer. Plus, you know he'd get you back tenfold and not have any guilt about it so you decide it all cancels out karmaically.

When the two of you finally get back to your apartment around late afternoon, Clark is steady behind you on the steps to your floor, asking and asking and asking about all the weird looks and snickers people were giving him.

"I mean, c'mon. I didnt have food on my face did I?" He stops on the marble stairs, footsteps ceasing to echo along your own. "You didnt let me walk around with food on my face did you?" He staring up at you, brows furrowed in concern.

You sigh, "no, I think it was just a weird day." Youre too tired to keep the act up and partially beginning to get frustrated that its taken him the entire damn day of getting weird looks and literally laughed at and he hasnt looked at himself in the mirror or down at his shirt once.

Clark is not the easiest target if you want a quick laugh.

You can tell hes not convinced by your response but follows you nonetheless, still blabbering behind you about all the theoretical possibilities besides his fucking shirt.

"It cant be Superman, I checked my phone there's absolutely no news about it. Maybe it was —"

"Honey," you stop at the front door, halfway through turning the key, "don't worry about that. I promise you nobody found out."

Clark groans, balling up his fists and pressing them to his eyes in frustration.

"But how can you be so sure! Maybe there's something they know that i dont!"

Ain't that the truth.

You dont say anything as you open the door and make your way into the bedroom to undress down to more comfortable clothes.

Clark follows you, still going on.

"I really need to start being more careful, I mean, what if someone follows us or you or what if —"

He turns around to head to the closet and catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror and the white block letters across his shirt. He lets out a wryly scoff.

Orgasm Donor

"Are you serious." He turns back to you, hands on his hips. "Like are you actually serious. Are you five years old?" He grabs a pillow from the bed and chucks it at you.

You're in hysterics, just absolutely sobbing on the bed in laughter.

"Im— how did you not even look once?" You squeal, kicking your feet up.

"Because this is silly! Its ridiculous!" He spanks you on the butt, "you're ridiculous."

You're still laughing when you hear him leave the room and murmer something about how he's no longer going to be donating which makes you immediately stop the giggling and hop up from the bed, following him with a "wait what?!"

[defeatofcupid]

clark kent x reader ♡ 266 words, fluff, f!reader

in which you and clark have a sweet moment together before he leaves for work.

“Clark!”

He was heading to work, just about to step outside your apartment when you called out his name. You ran over to him and caught his wrist in a gentle grip, tugging him towards you. His brows were furrowed, a frown curving his lips. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“Your tie. It’s crooked.” 

You reached out to straighten it. Being so focused upon the task at hand, you were oblivious to the way Clark was gazing at you, the smile that he was wearing bringing out the dimples that you loved. The feeling of his lips pressing to your forehead caused you to look up. 

“What was that for?” you asked softly, heart skipping a beat.

Clark shrugged. “I just love you. That’s all.” 

You grinned at him. “How much?” 

He leaned forward and kissed you earnestly. “So much,” he said against your lips.

“I love you, too,” you whispered after pulling away, butterflies erupting in your stomach. “I hope you have a good day at work.”

“I’ll miss you,” Clark said, kissing you once more.

Your cheeks started to hurt from how hard you were smiling. “You won’t be gone for that long, Clark.”

“Still too long without getting to see you.”

“So dramatic,” you giggled.

“You know you love it.”

You shoved lightly at his chest. “Yeah, yeah. Get to work, you’re going to be late.”

“Bye, love you!”

He stumbled a bit as he rushed out the door, causing you to laugh again. You were still smiling as he disappeared down the hall.

“Love you, too,” you whispered to yourself.

[defeatofcupid]

18+

the hardest part about parenthood isn’t the tantrums, the messes, or even the endless streams of “why, why, why.”

it’s that you can’t have clark when you want him.

there’s no denying your husband is built for fatherhood. he’s so good at it, that sometimes you forget he’s yours before he’s anyone else’s. the kind of dad who can wake up at 3 a.m. to check for monsters under the bed and still be cheerful at work the next morning. you can’t even resent him for it. not really.

but sometimes you think you might combust if you don’t have him inside you.

then there are nights when you’ve been thinking about him since dinner, replaying the feel of his body pressed against yours before the sound of tiny pattering feet down the hall tore you apart. nights when he’s finally closing the bedroom door, finally looking at you with that lovesick expression that says he’s been thinking about you just as long.

the kiss is so uncoordinated and hot in a way that makes you both laugh against each other’s lips, because you’re supposed to be quiet and instead you’re making the kind of sounds you swore off after becoming parents.

“y’know,” you mumble, words muffled by the press of his lips, “we’re one squeaky floorboard away from blowing our cover.”

“teenagers get away with it all the time,” he’s gently nudging you back toward the bedroom as his palms slide under your blouse. “think of it as an… rendition of our glory days.”

“teenagers don’t have a three-year-old with freakish night instincts.”

“fair point,” he concedes, slipping his tongue past your lips before you can pursue the matter further. there’s a muted thud when your back hit the bedroom door, followed by both of you shushing each other through another wave of giggles, your fingers fumbling with the buttons on his shirt while he makes quicker work of your jeans. you get one, maybe two seconds of air between kisses, long enough to see the look in his eyes—hungry, a little feral, even—before he dips back in, and the two of you start shedding clothes in the space between the door and the bed like you’re on a timer.

the first pass of his tongue over your clit has you gasping, fingers flying to his hair without thought. he moans. actually moans into you, the sound vibrating straight through you.

“quiet,” you gasp, though the warning is half-hearted and he knows it. clark works slow, circling his tongue in languid motions, coaxing your hips into arching off the mattress. he’s always been good with his mouth (a truth you learned quite early, and with considerable pleasure) ergo, a fact you’ve had no reason to doubt since. when your fingers thread into his dark curls and tug lightly, he groans again, the sound vibrating through you.

clark’s mouth leaves you reluctantly, lips glistening, and he crawls up over you. bracing a forearm by your head, his hungry blue gaze dropping to your lips before darting away as if he’s suddenly remembered exactly where his have been, that kansas-bred politeness kicking in at the worst possible time.

you roll your eyes, grab his jaw and kiss him hard enough to settle it. sloppy and with tongue, nothing like the chaste pecks you’ve been surviving in daylight hours. the low noise of surprise melts into a pleased hum against your mouth. he tastes like you, and that thought alone has molten desire dripping through your loins like warm honey. you’re suddenly reminded of your first months together—back then you thought you were the one leading him astray, the metropolis girl corrupting the sweet farm boy from kansas. turns out? said sweet farm boy could rail you stupid when he wanted to.

when he pulls back, breath mingling with yours, he murmurs, “you used to tell me you were gonna be the bad influence.”

shit. can he read your mind now? is this what marriage does to a couple?

“yeah,” hips tilting when his hand slides between you, guiding himself into place. his engorged tip nudges you open.

“turns out kansas boy’s the real menace.”

“guess i like surprising you.” his laugh is fond. perhaps even a bit smug as he kisses your cheek.

“mm, so you like—oh!” it’s been a while, and your husband always been… very much well endowed. your nails catch against his shoulder blades, looking for something to hold on to while your body adjusts around him. the first stretch burns sharper before it melts into pleasure. “–corrupting me.”

“ah, semantics,” the first few strokes are slow, controlled; his idea of easing you into it. his hips rocking slowly for you to adjust and luxuriate in every delicious ridge and vein. he soothes you with another kiss, lips lingering at your temple, as if he can kiss the ache away.

“we’re gonna get caught,” though it sounds far less convincing when your voice jumps an octave halfway through. clark presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth, still easing deeper.

“then we’ll just have to… finish quick.”

a laugh bubbles in your throat, “since when have you ever been quick?”

“are you complaining?”

“god, no—” the words dissolve into a moan when he rolls his hips forward, that heavy length pressing so toe-curling, gut-wrenching deep that your vision whites at the edges. it doesn’t matter how many years you’ve been at this; your husband is still unfairly big, and it always feels like he’s rearranging your insides.

“just… making an observation, is all.”

clark rears back his hips enough to thrust in again. “then observe this,” he grins faintly, punctuating the joke with another push that has you gasping.

“you feel… incredible,” he groans, “always so tight for me.” your fingers thread into his dark curls, tugging when the pace turns almost punishing. “someone’s—ah—someone’s cocky.”

he grins against your neck, not slowing down one bit. “just making an observation, is all.”

“hngmm clark—” your head tips back into the pillows as your back arches clean off the mattress. he grins boyishly, flashing two dimples. and presses another kiss to your mouth. “yeah?”

“it’s—oh fuck. it’s a lot.” your thighs quake when he bottoms out again, a dull burn giving way to that deep, drugging fullness you’ll never get used to. his laugh is husky, broken up by the rhythm of his thrusts. “thought you liked a lot.”

you dig your heels into his ass, pulling him closer.

“i do.”

he catches your jaw with his hand, thumbing the apple of your cheek adoringly, even while he’s pounding you into the mattress.

“don’t stop.”

he doesn’t. if anything, he doubles down, fucking you with such earnestness that has you clutching at him like you’re the one with superstrength.

“i—oh, clark, f-fuck,” your body seizes up, white-hot pleasure searing through you and you’re both cumming in perfect synchronicity. he kisses you through it, whispering things you can’t even fully hear over the ringing in your ears: “love you,” and “so good,” and “m’ yours.”

by the time he softens inside you, you’re still clinging to him, dazed and aching and so full in every sense of the word. amidst the haze, you bite back the sting in your eyes because how could you possibly cry over something so painfully mundane—sex with your husband in the middle of a weekday—can still feel so… profound. and clark must feel the same, because between kisses to your neck, he murmurs, “you feel like that one perfect moment. so perfect that you’re afraid it’s a figment of your imagination… but it’s actually happening. gosh. i love you.”

you’re still catching your breath when there's a knock on the door.

“mommy? daddy? why’s your door locked?”

“told you we’d get caught.” you bite back a laugh, hiding your face in clark’s neck, and he just sighs, pressing one last kiss to your cheek.

[defeatofcupid]

Mr. Terrific: "GET YO FUCKING DOG BITCH-"

Superman: "He don't bite."

Mr. Terrific: "YES TF HE DO-"