ellaspidey

[ellaspidey]

Clark Kent: Certified DILF

Summary: Clark Kent gets picked up every time you leave him with Leia for five minutes, so you embarrass him by calling him a DILF. Clark embarrasses you by being a Super (Proud) Dad in front of the pediatrician.

Dad!Clark Kent x Female!Reader

more kent family adventures here!

read pt ii “Are you happily married or just married?” here!

NEW! taglist for kent family adventures here!

You were sitting on the exam table, trying to keep your legs uncrossed and your shirt adjusted while the OB/GYN, Dr. Hassan, checked notes and charts.

Across the room, Clark was hovering… and by hovering, he was already holding a pen and notepad like he was about to take the SAT on your postpartum recovery. In Clark’s arms, Leia—just six weeks old—was swaddled in a tiny blanket, letting out little coos and yawns.

“So,” the OB/GYN began, raising an amused eyebrow, “you’re six weeks postpartum. How are you feeling?”

Clark shot his pen up in the air like a rocket. “Actually, we prepared a list of questions.”

You groaned softly. “Clark—”

But it was too late. He cleared his throat, looking very serious, like this was a congressional hearing.

“Question one: Are there any lingering effects from labor that might require monitoring? Question two: What is the recommended regimen for physical recovery, including core and pelvic floor exercises? Question three: Emotional well-being—screening for postpartum depression—how frequently should this occur?”

The OB/GYN blinked, then glanced at you with a “you didn’t warn me he was bringing a dossier” smile.

You tried to nudge him subtly. “Babe… you don’t have to—”

Clark ignored you, shifting Leia into a gentle bounce in his arms. “Question four: Are there any dietary adjustments necessary while breastfeeding, and how much water intake is ideal? Question five: How long should we expect soreness or fatigue to persist?”

Leia let out a tiny squeak and wriggled happily, clearly enjoying the motion and attention. Clark looked down at her, nodded, and continued, “Question six: Is there any risk associated with resuming moderate exercise at six weeks? Question seven: Pain management strategies—safe options during breastfeeding?”

By this point, Dr. Hassan was openly laughing. “Clark, you’re taking this… very seriously.”

Clark didn’t miss a beat. “I am very serious. This is my family. I need to know everything.”

He jotted a note (another question?) down on his pad—Leia cooing, head bobbing in time with his pen—and then leaned in, whispering to her, “Don’t worry, Bug. Daddy’s making sure Mommy is okay.”

You buried your face in your hands and muttered, “This feels like his postpartum appointment, not mine.”

The OB/GYN chuckled and said, “Well, at least you have a very attentive partner. Most spouses just nod and leave the questions to me.”

Clark shrugged, still grinning like he’d just won a gold medal. “I take my spousal duties very seriously.”

Dr. Hassan shook her head, smiling. “I have to admit—it’s kind of adorable. I’ll answer all your questions, Mr. Kent, but only if you promise not to make all appointments like this.”

Clark’s grin widened. “No promises.”

And as you sat there, watching him gently bounce your baby while asking a dozen more questions about your health, you realized… he may be a little over the top, but Leia and you were in very good hands.

Your doctor chuckled as she pulled on her gloves. “You two are cute. Let’s take a look and make sure everything’s healing well.”

The exam was quick, gentle, and entirely normal. You passed all the checks. You felt good. Dr. Hassan peeled off her gloves and washed her hands with a knowing grin.

“Well,” she said, drying her hands on a towel, “you’re healing beautifully. Everything looks great. You’re cleared to go back to your usual activities… gently.”

Clark looked relieved. Until—

She turned to him, smirking. “That means lay off her for now, okay?”

You snorted with laughter.

Clark blinked. “W-What? I— I wasn’t—”

But before he could finish fumbling his protest, you grinned wickedly and said, “If anything, I need to lay off him.”

There was a full second of stunned silence.

Then Clark made a strangled noise and buried his face in Leia’s baby blanket.

“Honey don’t say that in front of the doctor!” he whisper-yelled, absolutely beet red.

Dr. Hassan burst out laughing.

Leia let out a gurgling sound like she was in on the joke.

You beamed, shameless.

“I’m just saying,” you added sweetly, “he’s been walking around the house shirtless, baby on one arm, folding laundry with the other. What am I supposed to do? Have willpower?”

Clark, now bright red down to his collarbones, muttered into Leia’s tummy, “We are never coming back here.”

Dr. Hassan patted him on the shoulder on the way out. “Congratulations again, Dad. And good luck keeping her off you.”

You laughed the whole way out to the parking lot. Clark grumbled while strapping Leia into her car seat, avoiding eye contact with every nurse you passed.

But even while flustered, he kept glancing at you with that lovesick puppy look.

You nudged him playfully as you got into the passenger seat.

“You okay, DILF?”

“Stop,” he groaned. “I’m fragile right now.”

-

At Leia’s 4-month checkup:

“Name?”

“Leia Kent,” you answered, checking in at the clinic desk. “Four months. Here for a well-baby checkup.”

Clark, behind you, was already bouncing Leia a little too enthusiastically in her carrier. “Four months and two days!” he added brightly. “If that affects anything. Developmentally.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose.

The receptionist just smiled politely and handed you a clipboard.

Clark was buzzing.

Like a puppy who knows the vet was actually a treat store.

“She said ‘da-da’ last week,” he whispered to you, unnecessarily loud. “We should tell them that, right? I don’t want to sound braggy, but I feel like they should know.”

You shook your head at the nurse while filling out the form, “She wasn’t saying ‘da-da’, she was just burping.”

Ten minutes later, you were in the exam room. Leia was on the little paper-covered bed, chewing on her sock. Clark was watching her like she just discovered fire.

The doctor walked in and greeted you warmly. “Alright, let’s see how Leia’s doing! Four months, huh?”

Clark sat up straighter. “Exactly four months and two days.”

The doctor chuckled. “Okay, Dad. Let’s take a look.”

She went through the motions — measuring, weighing, making silly faces to gauge Leia’s response. Leia was unbothered, utterly entranced by her dad invading the doctor’s personal space with how much he hovered.

“Wow,” the doctor said, flipping through her chart. “She’s ahead of the curve in motor skills, babbling well, great eye contact. She's really thriving!”

You smiled, proud.

Clark?

Clark nearly levitated.

“She is?” he said, eyes wide, already emotional. “She is! I mean, we knew she was, of course, but to hear it from a doctor—”

The doctor grinned. “Well done, parents.”

“Oh, thank you,” Clark said, clearly trying to play it cool while literally glowing with pride. “We do what we can. I mean, she’s pulling herself up a little now. Rolling a lot. Very advanced. I don’t know if you want to write that in, just—you know. For the file.”

You gently tugged him down from the clouds by his sleeve.

In the waiting room on the way out, a mom with twins looked up from her stroller.

“First baby?” she asked kindly.

Clark beamed. “How could you tell?”

You snorted.

He leaned down to whisper conspiratorially, “Doctor said she’s thriving. Thriving. That’s not even on the milestone chart. That’s extra credit.”

“Clark, stop talking.”

He was already pulling out his phone. “Do you think the doctor would mind if I left a review? ‘Gave my baby an A++ on life. Ten out of ten. Would recommend.’”

You shook your head. Leia sneezed and drooled on his shirt.

He didn’t even notice. He was too busy being the world’s most obnoxiously proud dad.

And you love him for it.

Even if you had to drag him away from trying to give parenting advice to strangers like he’s the Baby Whisperer™.

To celebrate his happy, thriving baby, the three of you stopped by the park. As you stroll around, you hear it.

The sound of soft gasps. Then a whispered “look at that baby��. Then a slightly shrill “OH MY GOD, she’s so CHUNKY” from a nearby stranger.

You watched Clark’s head lift like a golden retriever, literally bursting at the seams (his henley had three buttons undone, and the sleeves were rolled up to his biceps).

Leia sat happily in the stroller, cheeks squished against the side, one sock missing, legs like little bread loaves spilling out like she was so tired from a long day of doing nothing. She cooed on cue, as if she knew.

“Look at those thighs!” a woman on a jog slowed down just to squeal. “What are you feeding her?”

Before you could answer, Clark, already grinning ear to ear, said, “Milk. Just milk. Can you believe it? Ten pounds eleven ounces at birth. All natural. No powers needed.” He looked at you with an adoring smile. “My wife is a warrior.”

The jogger blinked.

Her eyes snapped to you with horror and awe.

“Oh, honey,” she whispered, placing a hand over her heart. “You poor, poor thing.”

You smiled weakly and gave her a thumbs up.

Clark was still talking. “She’s 98th percentile in head circumference,” he said proudly. “They measured it twice. I asked for a printout.”

“She’s like…a pretty little linebacker,” another mom chimed in, peering over into the stroller. “Is it weird that I want to squish her arms?”

“Please, go ahead,” Clark said, as if Leia were made of stress ball material. “She loves it. These biceps? Hard-earned. Lots of punching.”

“She looks like a baby who wins fights.”

“She hasn’t even lost one,” Clark agreed, beaming.

You were about to push the stroller forward before someone tried to lift Leia up and do baby curls with her.

“I think people are intimidated by how pretty she is,” he said.

You just shook your head.

And made a mental note to call your mom and Ma Kent later and say, “No, he hasn’t stopped talking about how heavy Leia was at birth. Yes, he’s still traumatized. No, he’s not the one who gave birth.”

-

At Leia’s six-month checkup:

It was a perfectly normal Tuesday morning when Clark — cape ditched, glasses on, diaper bag slung over one shoulder — walked into your pediatrician’s clinic with six-month-old Leia in his arms.

Leia, in her favorite froggy hat and strawberry onesie, was babbling happily against his chest, her chunky legs bouncing as Clark gently patted her back and whispered, “I know, sweetheart, we’re almost there. Just a check-up. No shots today. I triple-checked.”

He had checked. Four times. Just in case.

The waiting room, bustling with other tired parents and cranky toddlers, fell into a confused sort of hush the moment he stepped in.

A literal 6’4 wall of kindness and soft-spoken dad energy just glided in with a baby who looked like a perfect mix of chubby cheeks and angelic menace.

“Hi,” Clark said cheerfully to the front desk receptionist. “Leia Kent. 10:30 appointment.”

She blinked. “Of course. Is—uh—is Mom joining?”

“She’ll be here soon,” he said, rocking Leia gently. “I figured I’d get us settled.”

The receptionist smiled a little too long. “Wow. That’s…refreshing.”

Ten minutes later, Clark sat cross-legged on the floor because Leia liked the view better from there, reading her The Very Hungry Caterpillar for the eighth time. Around them, various moms and caregivers tried very hard not to stare.

“He brought his own toys,” one whispered.

“Look at that homemade bottle warmer in his bag,” another murmured. “He knows what a bottle warmer is.”

“Did you see the way he burped her? Like—with control??”

Clark, oblivious, was gently rubbing Leia’s back and counting aloud how many ounces of milk she’d had that morning, purely for her benefit. “...and then at 8:35, we topped up with three ounces. That’s three plus four plus three… do you know what that equals, Leia? A full belly and a very proud dad.”

Leia gurgled her approval.

A young woman across the room cleared her throat and approached.

“Hi! Sorry, I just—your daughter is so cute. You’re doing amazing with her.”

Clark smiled, modest. “Oh! Thank you. That’s really kind of you.”

She tilted her head, all faux casual. “Is it just you two?”

“Oh, no,” he chuckled. “My wife will be here soon.”

“…Oh.”

From the side, “Darn it.”

Inside the exam room, Clark answered every question before the pediatrician finished asking.

“Yes, she’s rolling both directions.”

“Teething? Bottom two are on the way.”

“She sleeps eight hours now — we’re very grateful.”

“She’s saying ‘da-da’, but mostly to her mom.”

The pediatrician raised an eyebrow. “You’re…very on top of everything.”

Clark blushed. “We like to take notes.”

“You made a milestone chart.”

“Well,” he smiled sheepishly, “color-coded systems help.”

The pediatrician laughed. “Mr. Kent, I’m impressed.”

He beamed, Leia blowing spit bubbles from his lap.

Fifteen minutes later, you pulled into the parking lot, stepping out of the car with your iced coffee and the energy of a woman who finally had a solo drive with music not sung by a puppet.

Clark spotted you from the glass doors.

His entire face lit up.

“I’ll be right back!” he said to the waiting room as he jogged out, diaper bag bouncing on his back like he was late for a soccer game.

You barely had time to say hi before he was kissing your cheek and breathlessly updating you.

“Babe! She’s gained exactly 1.2 pounds since the last visit, the pediatrician called her ‘developmentally delightful,’ and I didn’t forget anything! Also—do we need to buy her bigger hats? Because her head’s measuring slightly above average. In a good way.”

You smiled, taking Leia from him. “I leave you alone for one doctor’s visit and you become the President of the Pediatrician’s Fan Club.”

He gasped. “Oh my god, we should start one—”

From inside the waiting room, someone whispered, “Oh no. He’s taken taken.”

Clark, still grinning, waved to them.

You squinted. “Wait. Were people hitting on you?”

He blushed. “...I mean... Leia is very cute.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“I didn’t flirt back!” he said defensively. “I had spit-up on my shirt and talked about her sleep patterns for fifteen straight minutes!”

Leia burbled in your arms, smug.

You kissed Clark’s cheek and whispered, “Let’s go home, Mr. Most Eligible DILF in Metropolis.”

“Never say that again,” he muttered, ears turning red.

But he carried the diaper bag with a little extra pep in his step anyway.

-

You left Clark alone at the park for five minutes.

Leia had spit up on your shirt—directly in the worst spot—and you’d dashed off to the nearby bathroom to rinse off while Clark held down the fort with your now very satisfied, gurgling baby.

You were gone for five minutes.

In that time, chaos reigned.

Clark sat on the grass with Leia in his lap, sunglasses perched on his nose, one arm behind him as he leaned back casually. Leia was babbling happily, slapping her chubby little hands on his chest while he made trumpet noises to keep her entertained.

And the people?

Oh. The people were watching.

A group of joggers slowed down like they were passing a car wreck—but hotter.

A few moms blatantly turned their strollers around for a second lap.

One brave soul walked by twice, the second time with a dog that suspiciously hadn’t been there the first round.

And Clark?

Clark was completely oblivious.

“Who's got the cutest cheeks in the whole multiverse? You do, Leia! You dooo!”

“She’s soooo cute,” someone cooed, stopping nearby.

Clark looked up, polite. “Oh—thank you! We think so too.”

“Is it just the two of you?” another asked, leaning a bit too far forward.

Clark blinked. “Um—no, my wife’s just in the restroom—”

“Oh,” came the collective sigh of disappointment from at least four different directions.

Leia farted loudly, as if to punctuate the moment.

One woman laughed and tossed her hair. “You’re just…you’re such a hands-on dad. It’s rare to see a man so engaged.”

“Yeah,” another chimed in, “and you actually look like you enjoy it. That’s so hot.”

Clark looked mildly panicked. “I—I mean—I do enjoy it, she’s our baby, I love—wait, that’s not what I—uh—Leia, please back me up here.”

Leia burbled unhelpfully and tried to eat his collar.

Meanwhile, you were power-walking back, hearing the giggles before you even saw them.

Peeking around the trees, you caught sight of the scene: Clark surrounded by four flirtatious women and at least two dads who looked personally offended that their own toddlers weren’t pulling the same crowd.

Clark was now stammering something about nap schedules while Leia slapped his cheek lovingly.

You smirked. Oh, you were gonna have fun with this.

You strolled up casually, sunglasses on, coffee in hand, and dropped a kiss to the top of Clark’s head.

“There he is,” you said brightly, loud enough to cut through the tension. “My favorite DILF.”

Clark immediately turned red, but turned to you, “You know other DILFs?”. Leia shrieked with joy.

The circle of admirers looked stunned. One physically took a step back. Another muttered “of course she’s hot too” under her breath.

“I—” Clark cleared his throat. “You can’t just say that in public!”

You raised an eyebrow. “Why not? It’s true.”

“I mean—it’s okay if you say it,” he mumbled, then glared playfully at no one in particular. “Only you.”

One of the stroller moms whispered, “Ugh. That’s kinda hot.”

Clark looked like he wanted the Earth to swallow him whole. Leia simply flopped against his chest with a wet sigh, clearly exhausted from being the most popular baby at the park.

“You always attract chaos when I leave you alone for two seconds,” you teased.

“I was just minding my business,” he grumbled. “We were playing peekaboo.”

“Clark, a woman offered you her number on a granola bar wrapper.”

“She what?!” He panicked, clearly oblivious. “No, she didn’t! Nothing happened!”

You laughed and kissed him again. “Relax, DILF. You’re coming home with me.”

He grumbled. “Stop calling me that in public.”

“I’ll stop when people stop trying to pick you up every time I go to the bathroom.”

You hoisted Leia into your arms and turned to leave.

Clark followed, ears still red. And yet, the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth betrayed him.

Because honestly?

He loved every minute of being your ridiculously devoted husband. Even the mortifying ones.

-

taglist

@toplinehyunjin @vql3rie @celestialend @diannelucille @minienix @evermoresivy @nixandtonic @bl00dstained @tqd4455 @vestafir @sweettbepbo @skzvibes-blog @sweetheartdiariess @blackwidownat2814 @zandra-42 @ysuftmikey @kissmxcheek @soupiemeowmeow @bookishbabyyyy @DreamingofTomorrow @1-800-peakyblinders @kissesofstars @qtmoonies @Casiopea2 @buckystwilight @princess76179 @kaiparkerwife @vinecstasy @averyhotchner

[ellaspidey]

i love the fics where clark is so DILF! but could you do one where maybe reader gets hit on and clark gets jealous 😝

“Are you happily married or just married?”

Summary: Clark always gets picked up when you leave him alone for a minute. When he sees you being surrounded by people at a farmer’s market, he looks ready to beat them off with a stick.

Dad!Clark Kent x Fem!Reader

more kent family adventures here!

read part i Clark Kent: Certified DILF here!

The farmer’s market was buzzing with life—colorful stalls, the smell of fresh bread in the air, people laughing and chatting as they wandered between vendors. You were pushing six-month-old Leia in her stroller, stopping every few seconds because she kept pointing at baskets of fruit and making happy little squeals.

Clark, carrying the reusable tote over his shoulder, glanced toward a stall selling fresh apple cider. “Stay here for a sec, I’ll grab us a couple of cups,” he said, leaning down to kiss your temple before heading off.

It was supposed to be quick. Just cider. Two minutes tops.

Except apparently, in that two minutes, you and Leia became the main attraction.

It started with a woman leaning over the stroller, cooing, “Oh, she’s precious! Is she yours? She has your eyes.”

Then, a man with a scruffy beard wandered over, giving you a slow once-over. “You know, you look way too young to have a kid that cute.”

Another guy chimed in, grinning. “So… are you happily married, or just married?”

You blinked. “…Excuse me?”

“I mean—there’s a difference, right?” he said, smirking like this was the cleverest pickup line in history.

And that’s when you saw him—Clark—coming back with two steaming cups of cider in hand. He was walking at first… but then his eyes landed on the little crowd surrounding you, and his expression changed. His polite, easy-going face tightened into something… intense.

He didn’t break into a full Superman-speed blur—there were witnesses—but the speed-walk was suspiciously close to a sprint. You could tell from the bounce in his long strides that he’d been speedrunning to get to you. Six-foot-four of farm-boy muscle, plaid shirt rolled at the sleeves, hair a little mussed from the breeze, and glasses catching the sunlight—he looked like he’d just walked out of a romance novel… and also like he was ready to politely remove people from his immediate vicinity.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said when he reached you, his voice warm but layered with the kind of calm that made people’s instincts whisper run. He bent down and dropped a kiss on your forehead, lingering there just a second longer than usual.

“Hi, bug. Did you and Mommy make some new friends?”

Leia squealed happily, patting his cheeks. The sound was cute, but his eyes lifted back to the crowd like and these are…?

A guy in a leather jacket, apparently missing all context clues, grinned at you again. “So… you two together?”

Clark’s jaw twitched. “Married,” he said flatly. “Very married. Happily married. With our daughter. Who I love. Very much.” He smiled, but it wasn’t the soft Clark smile—it was the Superman has just decided you’re on thin ice smile.

“Right. Got it,” leather jacket mumbled, taking a step back.

“Well, my wife and I have a few more stalls to hit before Leia’s nap, so…” Clark said with a polite smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

They dispersed almost instantly, like someone had thrown a rock into a flock of pigeons.

You covered your mouth, trying not to laugh. “Clark…”

“What?” he asked, still holding you close as he pushed the stroller forward. “I wasn’t being possessive. I was being… informative.”

You grinned. “You were jealous.”

“I was—concerned,” he corrected, though the tips of his ears were red. “And maybe a little annoyed that I can’t leave you alone for two minutes without you attracting half the farmer’s market.”

You smirked at him. “You looked like you were ready to beat those people off me with a stick.”

Clark huffed, trying to sound casual. “I wasn’t. I was just… in a hurry to get back.”

“A very fast hurry,” you teased, eyeing him. “Was that a jealous sprint, Mr. Kent?”

“I was not sprinting,” he said—too quickly.

You grinned, leaning closer. “Uh-huh. Well, for the record, no one’s allowed to flirt with me but you.”

That earned you the faintest smile, his ears turning pink. “Good,” he murmured, slipping his arm around your waist as he pushed the stroller forward. “Because no one’s allowed to flirt with you but me.”

Leia babbled like she was agreeing with him.

Clark sighed dramatically, looking down at his daughter. “You and I, bug, we’re gonna have to keep an eye on Mommy. She’s clearly too popular for her own good.”

What you didn’t know was that in the moment he’d spotted them crowding you, Clark had been about half a second away from actually breaking the sound barrier to get to your side. Because sure, he’s not the possessive type… but you? You’re his. And he’s not letting anyone forget it.

-

Metropolis was buzzing, as always—cabs honking, vendors calling out deals, and people weaving through the sidewalks with their phones glued to their hands. You were just enjoying the rare calm of a day out with Leia strapped to your hip, the baby squealing happily at every dog that passed.

That was, of course, when it happened.

A pair of men fell into step beside you, one leaning closer with that too-confident smirk. “Hey there, gorgeous. Cute baby. Must take after her mom.”

The second chimed in, “Yeah, what’s your name? You come around this part of town often?”

You tightened your grip on Leia, offering a polite smile. “Thanks, but I’m just out running errands.”

Not taking the hint, the first guy chuckled. “C’mon, don’t be like that. Why don’t you give us your number? For, you know, playdates.” His grin made it very clear he didn’t mean baby playdates.

That was when the air shifted.

You didn’t notice it at first, but the men suddenly looked uneasy, glancing upward as a shadow passed over the sidewalk.

A beat later, a familiar whoosh landed right behind you, and you turned to find none other than Superman himself standing tall, cape flowing, arms folded across his chest like he’d been summoned by divine authority.

“Afternoon, gentlemen,” he said, voice calm but carrying the weight of a thousand thunderstorms. “Is there a problem here?”

Both men froze, blinking up at him. One laughed nervously. “N-no, no problem. Just, uh, chatting.”

Superman tilted his head ever so slightly, gaze narrowing just enough to be terrifying without losing his trademark “friendly hero” smile.

“Good. Because I’d hate to think anyone in my city was bothering a woman and her child.”

The way he emphasized my city sent the men scrambling. They muttered excuses about appointments and errands before practically sprinting away, nearly tripping over themselves in the process. Superman guided you and Leia to an empty alleyway.

You turned back to him, hiding your grin. “Well, that was subtle.”

Superman shifted, clearing his throat, trying his best to look like this was just another part of public service. “Just doing my job. Keeping Metropolis safe.”

You arched a brow. “Safe from pickpocketing, car accidents, intergalactic invasions… and apparently men who dare to flirt with me?”

His ears went a little pink, and he straightened. “It… seemed like a situation worth addressing.”

Leia giggled and reached toward him, little fists waving in excitement. He melted immediately, taking her from your arms with practiced ease. “See? Even she agrees.”

You smirked. “Clark Kent, are you jealous?”

His head snapped up, eyes wide. “What? Jealous? No. I don’t get jealous.” He adjusted Leia against his chest, trying to look composed. “I just—uh—maintain order. Protect civilians. You were clearly being harassed.”

You leaned closer, voice playful. “Mm-hm. So you don’t get jealous when men ask for my number?”

His jaw tightened, the faintest twitch giving him away. “…I don’t like it.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “That’s what I thought.”

He sighed, but the corners of his mouth betrayed him with a smile as he kissed Leia’s hair. “Fine. Maybe I’m a little jealous. But only because I know how lucky I am. And I’m not letting anyone else forget it, either.”

Leia squealed like she agreed, and you just laughed, tugging on his cape. “Come on, Mr. Jealous. Buy us lunch before you scare off the entire city.”

Superman just grinned and fell into step beside you, his cape sweeping dramatically behind him.

-

Before the big Daily Planet gala, Lois decided to stir up some harmless fun on social media. She posted a group photo on Instagram featuring herself, Jimmy Olsen, Clark, and you, all dressed up for a pre-event meeting at the Planet. The caption read:

“Nothing like a little team bonding before the gala! #DailyPlanet #PowerTeam”

Within minutes, the comments section started blowing up. Colleagues, fans of Lois’s work, and even random followers began chiming in.

The comments section was already buzzing.

StarryEyes22: “Wow, who’s the one in the middle? She looks AMAZING.”

MetropolisFoodie: “Lois always slaying, but who is the pretty one next to Kent? 🔥🔥”

And then came the one that caught everyone’s eye.

PowerPuncher: “Dang, she’s stunning! But uh… can her husband fight tho? 👀😂”

Lois burst out laughing when she saw it and immediately pointed it out to you, holding up her phone like it was breaking news. You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help laughing too, because the comment was so bold and out of nowhere. Jimmy was practically choking on his coffee.

Clark, on the other hand, froze mid-sip. His reporter calm vanished in an instant, and you could almost see the sweat forming on his forehead. He mumbled something about “fight?” under his breath, clearly spiraling. Before anyone could say a word, he grabbed his phone and scrolled furiously to Lois’s post.

Seconds later, the notification popped up: clarkkent: “Yes. Yes, I can.”

He had even added a period at the end, like he was trying to sound firm and intimidating. Lois absolutely lost it, doubling over with laughter, while Jimmy was crying in the corner because “Kent just threatened a coffee influencer in Instagram comments!”

You covered your face in embarrassment but couldn’t stop giggling. “Clark, oh my god, what are you doing?”

He looked up, completely serious. “They asked if your husband can fight. They need to know the answer.”

You were still laughing when Lois took a screenshot of the entire exchange and muttered, “Oh, this is going on my story.”

Clark groaned, already regretting his decision, but there was no taking it back now. The internet was about to have a field day with mild-mannered reporter Clark Kent going feral in the comments section.

-

The Daily Planet gala was always a glamorous headache: champagne flutes everywhere, reporters mingling with Metropolis’ elite, and Clark stuck in his tuxedo nervously adjusting his glasses every five seconds. You, however, were handling things far more gracefully—dressed to the nines with Leia balanced on your hip in her tiny satin dress. She was the star of the night, cooing at anyone who so much as glanced her way.

You were halfway through politely answering someone’s question about Clark’s latest exposé when a sudden presence slid beside you. Smooth voice, charming smirk.

“Well, well,” a smooth voice drawled, the man looking utterly at home in his perfectly tailored suit. “Metropolis is full of surprises. I expected to be impressed by Kent’s work tonight… I didn’t expect to be more impressed by his wife.”

Your eyebrows shot up, tightening your hold on Leia as she gnawed on her fist. “Oh… Mr. Wayne, isn’t it?”

Bruce Wayne gave that billionaire playboy smile that could probably sell skyscrapers. “Please. Bruce. And may I just say… you have excellent taste in gowns. Stunning, really. You’re glowing.”

Leia, bless her, let out a loud squeal at that exact moment—whether in agreement or protest, no one could say.

And then, zip.

Clark was suddenly at your side, the tray of hors d’oeuvres he had been fetching completely forgotten on a table across the room. His polite Midwestern smile was firmly in place, but his hand settled on your back with a little too much mine in the gesture.

“Bruce,” Clark said evenly.

“Kent,” Bruce replied just as evenly, tilting his glass toward him.

The two men exchanged the kind of look that said we both know exactly who the other really is, but we’re going to play this game anyway.

“Enjoying the gala?” Clark asked, his voice friendly but his grip tightening ever so slightly around your waist.

Bruce smirked, unbothered. “Very much so. Though I admit, I wasn’t expecting to run into such… captivating company.” His eyes flicked meaningfully between you and Leia.

Leia, perhaps sensing her father’s growing tension, immediately tried to grab Clark’s tie and babbled something incoherent that sounded very close to da-da.

Clark’s smile grew a little sharper. “Yes, well. My wife and daughter tend to captivate people. But you know how it is, Bruce—when you’ve already got the world’s most beautiful girls at home, you stop looking anywhere else.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t know,” Bruce said smoothly, sipping his champagne. “Bachelor life, after all.”

You were torn between laughing and digging a hole to sink into. This was so clearly a territorial standoff.

“Well,” you cut in, bouncing Leia, who now looked between the two men with wide eyes like she was watching a tennis match, “I think Leia’s ready for her bedtime. Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

Clark took her from you instantly, pressing a kiss to her forehead as if to prove a point. “That’s right, kiddo. Daddy’s here.”

Bruce chuckled, clearly entertained. “Relax, Kent. I was only being friendly.”

Clark adjusted his glasses, smile polite but strained. “And I’m only reminding you that my family doesn’t need any more… friends.”

You swore you saw the tiniest twitch of amusement at the corner of Bruce’s mouth as he raised his glass in mock surrender. “Fair enough. Congratulations, Mrs. Kent. You’ve got yourself quite the guardian.”

As Bruce walked away, you leaned toward Clark with a mischievous grin. “Clark Kent, were you just jealous of Bruce Wayne?”

Clark looked down at you, flustered but trying to play it cool. “No. Not jealous. Just… cautious. Protective.”

“Mm-hm.” You smirked, tugging on his tie. “You looked like you were about to throw Bruce Wayne out a window.”

Clark blushed furiously, adjusting Leia in his arms as she let out a happy gurgle. “Well… no one flirts with my wife. No one. Not even Bruce.”

You laughed, kissing his cheek. “Relax, Smallville. He’s not my type anyway.”

Clark blinked, hopeful. “He’s not?”

“Of course not. I married my type. Tall, dorky, bespectacled reporters who moonlight as superheroes and turn into tomato-faced jealous husbands when billionaires flirt with me.”

Clark sighed, but his grin spread wide and goofy as ever. “Guess I can live with that.”

And Leia, as if on cue, blew a spit bubble like she was sealing the deal.

-

taglist

@vql3rie @celestialend @diannelucille @minienix @evermoresivy @nixandtonic @bl00dstained @tqd4455 @vestafir @sweettbepbo @skzvibes-blog @sweetheartdiariess @blackwidownat2814 @zandra-42 @ysuftmikey @soupiemeowmeow @bookishbabyyyy @DreamingofTomorrow @1-800-peakyblinders @kissesofstars @qtmoonies @Casiopea2 @buckystwilight_ @buckystwilight @princess76179 @kaiparkerwife @vinecstasy @averyhotchner @angelicp0etry @multifandom-loser @ladamari68 @httpstoyosi @jakesphere @alina02 @kaorisakamotofan @randomfangirlof @unabashedlyswimmingtimemachine @animegamerfox @thychuvaluswife @clarkclit @tayhobart @obsessedwthdilfs @kneelarhmstrung @helalokithor @loveelylani @kissmxcheek @toplinehyunjin @jvanilly

[ellaspidey]

can't stop thinking about clark realizing you're pregnant before you even had a clue..... (1.8k words)

It's damn near midnight. You'd spent most of the day in bed, barely able to keep anything down. Maybe the flu can still be going around...in March? That's what you told yourself anyway. You'd promised Clark you'd go to the doctor in the morning if you weren't feeling any better.

The day had been uneventful. Your time was spent by nursing cups of broth and watching reruns of your favorite show - it was all you had the energy for yet you were still exhausted by the time Clark came home from work. He had tried to make you eat real food, but even the smell of butter burning slightly in the pan made your stomach flip and allowed the sickness to take over.

Clark had helped you into the bath after and opted to sit on the cold bathroom tile next to you. He missed you dearly, but more than anything wanted to make sure you were okay. He told you what you missed at work today. "Whole lotta nothin," he quipped, his hands moved to push the hair out of your eyes. He told you about the new article he'd gotten approved to write, that he saved a cat from a tree on the way home, that he saw a photo on Jimmy's phone that he really wished he hadn't. Clark sensed that his rambling soothed you, the energy surrounding you turned mellow and your heart rate slowed as he gently massaged your scalp with his fingers. You really were worn down, he thought. He wished more than anything that he knew how to make you feel better, but this would have to do.

That led you to now. In bed, on your side, eyelids growing heavy with one arm and leg draped over Clark's toned chest and legs. He was bare, save for a pair of tight fitting boxers. Any other day, you'd be all over him; begging for him to be all over you until you're a pile of mush in the sheets. But not tonight. Tonight, you just wanted him to hold you. Clark is a good boy, so he was doing just that with his large hand splayed across your back. His fingers occasionally running up and down your spine almost sank you into blissful sleep. That is, until...

Clark stiffened beneath you. It's like his entire body turned to concrete while his eyes darted from one corner of the room to the other. He heard something.

"What is it?" You ask, exhaustion and a hint of annoyance laced in your voice.

"Hear someone," Clark murmured.

He slid out from under you with ease and pulled some sweatpants over his legs. The spot he just left was still warm, but his absence made the bed suddently feel cold and sterile.

"You sure it wasn't just a bird, baby? They've been crashing into the windows like crazy for weeks now."

You're slightly perturbed, but you try not to be. He is Superman after all. His job is to keep the city safe, so you can't blame him for being attuned to hearing anything and everything that could possibly pose a threat. Plus, you knew he cared about your well being more than anything else in this world, so you chose not to push it any further.

Clark doesn't say anything else, only turning back to you with a finger over his lips, asking for silence as he investigates. He glides through the room tactfully and undetected, as if he were a lion hunting its prey. You watch as he pads down the hallway from your shared bedroom and disappears into the darkness that is the rest of your apartment.

He's gone for only a minute or two. When he comes back, you notice his hair is a bit windswept. He must have checked the outside of the building. You can't even imagine if someone had saw him. A half naked man with rock hard abs seemingly levitating outside the 17th floor of a Metropolis apartment building in the middle of the night. Although, it probably wouldn't have been the weirdest thing anyone has ever seen.

"Sorry," he apologizes, "Guess it was nothing."

Clark quickly discarded his sweats back onto the floor and nestled back into bed next to you, resuming the same position you were both in just minutes before. He runs his veiny hand over his face and rubs his eyes, an adorable yawn escaping his lips. Clark was tired too.

"It was probably just something happening on the street. They're still doing night construction across the street," you thought aloud.

"No, honey," he was quick to interject with a click of tongue, "It wasn't something; it was someone. I heard their..."

Clark froze again, ears perking up as he turned to fully face you. He suddenly felt hot and cold at the same time. He looked like he wasn't breathing.

You were growing concerned with his sudden skittishness. "Everything oka-?"

"Heartbeat," he finally mustered up the strength to say out loud.

You're not making sense of what is unfolding in front of you. Clark is staring at you; his eyes felt like they were burning a hole into your soul. His gaze drifts about your body, as if he were checking you for injuries or trying to see if anything was different about you. You notice his eyes are lingering at your lower half, where your arm laid haphazardly across your stomach as you rested on your side. Your engagment ring glimmered in the low light of the lamp in the corner of the room, but that's not what Clark was really staring at.

"So, it was a person or no? I'm lost, bubby," you stated, begging him to make sense of this.

"I only heard the heartbeat when we were in bed earlier. 'S not outside or in any other part of the house. I think...." Clark's voice is shaky now. "I think you're pregnant?" It came out as more of a question than a statement.

It was your turn to be speechless. Your eyebrows furled as you sat up straight. Either Clark was losing his mind or this was some kind of joke.

"Clark, what in the hell are you talking about?"

He's quiet again, only this time he shimmies down the plush mattress until his head is hovering right above your belly and facing away from you. It felt like the whole world stopped in that moment. What if it was true? Is this why you've felt so sick over the last few days? Gears are turning in your head trying to solve this puzzle. When Clark turns his head back towards you, the final piece locks into place.

"I hear it. It's quiet, but it's there. A heartbeat." Clark was smiling.

You reach a hand out to hold the side of his face that isn't pressed against your stomach. You don't know whether to cry, celebrate, or puke for the seventh time today. You run your thumb anxiously along his jawline.

"Holy shit," is all you can muster. "Is that even possible?" You really didn't know. Neither of you did. Sure, you've both pondered (and loved) the idea of mini Clarks and mini yous running around the farm in Kansas one day. However, you had never seriously considered whether or not a human could give birth to a half-Kryptonian.

"Guess so," Clark replies. "We can make some calls in the morning and try to find out."

He's moved back to the top of the bed now and his arms are enveloping you in an all-consuming embrace. His chin is tucked into your collarbone, his breath tickling your neck just slightly with each exhale.

"Are you happy?" He asks, begs, quietly. Your lack of enthusiasm has him growing weary.

You pull back to look at him fully. The dark, curly hair on top of his head, the prickly stubble on his cheeks that appears after a long day, the warmth radiating off his perfect body. You melt under his touch, along with any doubts you had in your mind. In front of you is a man who would literally go to the ends of the Earth (and beyond) to protect you. A man that lends a hand to anybody and anything that could possibly need his help. A man that loves you so deeply that he would know how to find you in any universe or lifetime.

"I think," tears prick at your eyes, "That I'm a little scared. And a little shocked."

Clark nods his head, listening. His jaw twitches slightly.

"That's okay," he tries to reassure you.

"I know." You swallowed hard. The tears were coming now. "But also still a little happy."

It's like a switch flipped, the two of you begin chuckling contagiously in disbelief. Clark thumbed the tears away from your cheeks and you kissed him deeply. He was warm and his tongue was soft, slipping through your mouth and running along your bottom lip.

"I love you so much," Clark says as he pulls back. There isn't a doubt in your mind of how much he means it.

"I love you too, Clark," you beamed, "But I can't believe you thought our baby was an alien intruder that came here to destroy humanity at midnight on a random Tuesday." A fake pout adorned your features.

Clark playfully flicked at your nose, unable to fight the laugh in his belly. "I thought you were sick?" He jested, "Now you have time to crack jokes?"

"Heyyy!" you protested, "Be nice to me. You have to now."

"'M always nice to you," Clark snided, feigning offense and planting a forgiving kiss to the top of your nose.

Neither of you remember when you both fell asleep. You talked until the sun almost began to rise. About what color hair you thought they'd have, what theme the nursery would be, what color their eyes would be. You wanted them to have Clark's, and of course, Clark wanted them to have your eyes. Agree to disagree Clark proclaimed, though he'd be happy even if the baby's eyes were purple. The baby, your baby, was a piece of the two of you and the love you shared so deeply with one another. And that was all that mattered to him.

You woke up turned away from Clark, morning light quickly taking over the bedroom. Your body was engulfed by his broad shoulders as he spooned you. His arm, as strong as it may be, was draped oh so carefully across your abdomen. Clark was already protecting the little one growing inside of you. And he always would.

[ellaspidey]

the necklace ⋆⋅ ♡ ⋅⋆

Pairing: Clark Kent x reader! Word count: 2.2k

Description: You get Clark a silly little gift, a necklace with his ‘superman’ logo on it. He loves it when you bite it while he’s fucking you.

This was requested by the lovely @heroesnpink here

Tags/warnings: smut, piv, allusions to breeding kink, clark is down bad, he’s sweet and hot as hell, necklace kink(?)

Note: Second smut for Clarkie, my god this man has me on my knees 🙂‍↕️ currently trying to catch up with the requests on my inbox! I hope I did this one justice, loved writing it🫶🏼

Masterlist

It started as a joke, really.

You wanted to give Clark something special for his birthday, but it was a bit of a challenge at first. Because what do you get the man who has everything? Who is everything?

Sure, you could give him a pack of mints and he’d still act like it’s the most precious gift in the world, just because it came from you. But you really wanted to do something that felt meaningful.

So you took half a day off from work to wander the mall, hoping to find something nice. You weren’t sure how you ended up in front of a jewelry store, staring at it’s window display, but the moment your eyes landed on it, you burst into a quiet laugh.

There, in the middle of a perfect burgundy velvet case under a spotlight, was displayed a necklace of the iconic ‘S’ symbol, identical to the one he wore on his chest.

“That’s hilarious,” you thought immediately, tilting your head and imagining the look on Clark’s face. You considered it as a joke, something to make him laugh. But the longer you stared at it, the less ridiculous it seemed.

Actually… it started to feel kind of perfect.

You couldn’t help it, really. Giggling to yourself like an idiot while you asked the clerk for the piece. Because you, dating Clark Kent, Superman himself, were about to give him a cute little necklace with his own symbol on it.

If anything, you thought it would be a funny gag gift. You’d laugh about it the whole night, he’d say it’s cheesy and then you’d end up returning it the next day like nothing happened.

And you did laugh the whole night about it. He did say it was cheesy. But you never returned it.

Because he ended up loving it.

Clark walks around wearing his superman necklace proudly, without a single hint of shame when Lois or Jimmy tease him after catching a glimpse of it under his collar.

“My girl got it for me,” he always says, like that explains everything.

Which, in theory, it kind of does. You could get him the ugliest tie in Metropolis and he would still wear it proudly every single day of his life if it made you happy.

Because his girl got it for him.

In the end, the necklace did end up being the special gift you wanted for him. Because yes, it’s cringy, but it means something. It represents everything he stands for, hope, courage, who he is, what he is on this earth for.

And Clark? he adores it.

He practically lives in it. Never even thinks about taking it off.

You don’t complain either. There is nothing sexier than Clark stepping out of a steamy shower, water droplets raining from his dark curls, running down the sharp lines of his gorgeous body. Only a towel covering his lower half and that little necklace gleaming around his neck.

You love pulling him by it, kissing him around it, feeling the cold of the metal against your skin when he hugs you. Getting a peek of it under his work shirts. You just love how much he loves it.

But what you love even more, is when he fucks you wearing it.

When he’s on top of you, his arms braced on either side of your head to hold his weight, caging you with those huge muscles flexing with every deep thrust.

It’s hard to focus on anything when Clark’s cock is buried so deep inside you it makes your whole body shiver, but you always notice the necklace. How it swings with the rhythm of his thrusts, crashing gently against his collarbone with every rock of his hips.

And he knows you like to stare at it. That knowing smile on his face is proof enough.

“Look at you sweetheart, always taking me so well,” he praises in that deep voice. A grin grows on his face like he’s not actively making you see stars around the charm hitting his skin repeatedly.

“Come on, darling,” he whispers, the necklace almost brushing your chest. “I know you can give me just one more…”

And you can. You’d give him as many as he wants.

Clark coaxes you through it, always does. He knows how much he takes, how his cock fills you in ways you were never meant to handle. How every time he makes love to you he gets that dazed, blissed out look in your eyes, and those moans slipping from your lips like you’re not even thinking, just taking him in. All of him.

And this is only your second round.

“Fuck– right there, Clark,” you whimper, barely. Your eyes do the rest, telling him thank you for fucking me this good.

“Right there?” he asks back with a soft chuckle, like he’s delighted to see you fall apart like that.

So he does it again, rolls his hips the exact same way, just to hear the broken sound that escapes your throat as your head falls back in pure bliss.

He leans in closer, burying himself deeper, if that’s even possible. He braces his weight on his elbows now, so he can slide his large hands to cup the back of your head, cradling you carefully. He then lifts your face toward his and places a kiss on your forehead.

And you smile, God you smile, because Clark always manages to be the sweetest man on earth while fucking you into next week.

He pulls apart just enough to look into your eyes, still supporting your head in his hands because he knows you can’t do it by yourself at this point. His mouth stays parted, letting out those heavenly filthy grunts that make you let him use you in any way he wants just to hear them over and over.

He keeps the unrelenting pace without breaking a single sweat, slamming in and out your pussy in sloppy sounds as your wetness drips around him. And that damn necklace keeps swinging, but this time is lightly hitting your collarbone, your jaw, your cheeks. The cold metal is a sharp contrast to your hot skin.

It’s driving you crazy.

“Clark,” you pant, breathless. “T-that thing…”

He slightly tilts his head, stuttering his rhythm when he realizes what you mean. One hand leaves your head, already reaching for the chain, but you stop him.

“No no … leave it,” you say, grabbing the chain and looping your fingers around the charm, pulling softly to drag him closer to your face. Your breath ghosts over his lips, giving him a quick peck before whispering. “I like it.”

“Yeah?” he asks back with a groan, in that maddening tone he loves to use when you do something that drives him crazy.

You hold his gaze, nodding innocently, and slowly pull the charm into your mouth.

Just the tip of it, the cold metal resting against your tongue. You suck it in, swollen lips wrapping around the symbol he carried in his chest like he’s your personal savior. And lord, he is.

Clark makes a sound you’ve never really heard before. A helpless, strangled growl under his breath. His next thrust goes harder, like he just can’t help himself. Like you fucked something in his brain chemistry by doing that.

So he keeps pushing, his speed and strength less controlled now, getting completely lost in the way your face contorts in pleasure while your moans get strangled by the charm in your mouth.

“Sweet Jesus,” he rasps. “Don’t–don’t do that unless you want this to be over right now.”

You can’t help but laugh mid bliss, the necklace charm falling from your lips with a soft pop as a result. You lift your hand to his chest, trapping the necklace between your skin so it doesn’t hit you again.

“You better hold it together for me, superman,” you tease.

Even if Clark doesn’t admit it out loud, you calling him ‘Superman’ in bed just tickles something in his brain. It flips a switch inside him that tells him to fill you up until you carry a baby from him.

Especially after the whole necklace moment.

“I-I dont think I can, sweetheart.”

He stares at you, barely enough blue left in his eyes from his blown pupils. Flushed cheeks, lips wet and parted like he’s seconds from begging you to let him break you. Of course he wouldn’t. Unless you asked.

But he’s too gone at this point. That usual gentleness, that unhurried, teasing control that lets him drag things out for hours so you have time to recover is gone.

Clark slams into you with enough force to knock the breath from your lungs, his hands now locking under your thighs to fold you up for a deeper angle, like he can bend you however he pleases. And he does, only him. He’s moving now with a pace he doesn’t let out that often with you, in fear of hurting you.

But right now? He’s letting himself be desperate. All because of a little necklace.

“You … you put that thing in your mouth darling, you don’t even know what that did to me–“

“Oh, I know,” you moan, your fingers gripping his chest like a lifeline, nails digging in. “I–I love when you lose your mind like this.”

He chuckles breathlessly, almost apologizing. “You don’t see me much like this … do you?”

You shake your head, too breathless to speak again. Because no, you don’t. Clark is always in control. Always worshipful, mindful, making love like he’s got all the time in the world. But there are still times where even a God like him folds under the weight of wanting you.

And now? That necklace, that cute little gag gift his girl got him is now his fucking kink.

He suddenly shifts again, one hand fisting in the sheets beside your head while the other slips between your bodies, fingers finding your clit instinctively.

“Wanna come with you, darling” he blurts out, disheveled strands of dark hair falling into his eyes as he watches your face when he plays with that sensitive spot. “Don’t think I’m gonna last long … not this time. Not after that.”

Neither are you. You never do with him.

You arch beneath him, back going high, thighs shaking under him from the overstimulation. It doesn’t take long before his name tears from your throat when you reach your orgasm for the … how many times now? Can’t even remember what number it is since you started.

“F-fuck–“ You cry out, nails digging into his biceps for dear life.

He dives in to kiss you through it, deeply, passionate, so fucking heavenly like the only way he knows how to kiss. The chain traps between your lips, the charm cold and wet from your mouth pressing against his tongue. He feels it, God, he feels everything… and that’s it.

He slams into you once, twice, and then he’s gasping against your mouth as he spills inside you in twitches. His body shakes on top of yours, choking on a groan so deep you swear you’ll remember it for the rest of your life. You feel him pulse deep, feel him bury his cum as far as he can go, like it’s feral instinct.

Because Clark Kent comes as hard as he fucks.

He stays inside you, panting, his forehead falls to rest on your collarbone like he needs a minute to catch his breath.

Superman needs to catch his breath.

You’re coated in sweat, the sheets a mess beneath you, and that dumb little necklace is still swinging lightly between your hot chests. He doesn’t move in a full minute, giving you time to come down from your own high, hands going instinctively to his head.

“You alright there, supes?” You whisper amused, running your fingers softly through his hair. He lets out a muffled groan.

“I’m fine,” he mumbles into your skin.

You bite your lip to prevent a laugh from coming out. You know he’s lying. His arms are still shaking. His whole body is tense in that ‘I need to pretend I’m fine so I don’t embarrass myself’ way that only happens when you truly, deeply break him in bed.

Because it’s usually the other way around.

“Clark.” You nudge his cheek softly. “You came in like ten minutes into a round … you never come in ten minutes.”

He finally lifts his head, face flushed red, curls sticking to his forehead, and those beautiful swollen pink lips pouting. Yes, pouting.

“You put it in your mouth.”

“I mean, it’s just a necklace,” you snort, shrugging innocently.

“But it’s the symbol. It’s my … you know …” he gestures vaguely at his own bare chest, clearly flustered. “It’s the whole thing … you, and that mouth, and me, and … I’m only a man, okay?”

“No you’re not,” you’re giggling now, fully delighted, as Clark just buries his face again in the crook of your neck.

He laughs against your skin, tickling you. “You know you’ve ruined it for me, right?”

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t wear this necklace anymore without getting hard.”

You both laugh again, tangled together, his weight on top of you makes you feel warm and safe. And somewhere between the breathless kisses and your fingers tracing lazy shapes on his back, you smile at the cold feeling of the necklace trapped between your bodies.

[ellaspidey]

I GOT IT ★ CLARK KENT

꩜ pairing ━━ clark kent x hyper independent!gf

꩜ summary ━━ you tell clark “i got it.” so many times and he is sick of it.

꩜ content ━━ 2.3k words | fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, reader almost has a full blown a panic attack, clark is super duper sweet, reader has… issues but she’s just human <3

꩜ a/n ━━ i wrote this with a plus size in mind but it’s very appearance friendly! and clark being absolutely obsessed with her. might be a smidge little self indulgent im sorry </3 might also have grammatical errors! this is so personal to me i hope you guys enjoy reading this as much as i liked writing it 🫶

as always comments are very deeply appreciated ♡

masterlist | navi | buy me kofi <3

Clark knows you can take care of yourself.

It's one of the things he admires about you. You and your stubbornness, you and your inability to let people help. You, oh you, who is too scared to let Clark all the way in. So unconsciously, you don’t let him do anything for you, including something small as opening the car door. 

Clark finds this out on your first date together.

And boy, you never thought you would be on a date with Clark Kent.

You did imagine it (more than you would like to admit) I mean how could you not? This hulking, tall, 6 '4 broad man that looks like he can throw you around turned out to be the most gentle person you have ever met.

It’s hard not to form a crush.

“I had fun tonight.”

Clark now walks beside you to his car, his height looming and begging for attention. He sounds bashful, and when you turn your head to look at him, you could see how the tips of his ears turn a light shade of pink with him staring down at you.

You softly smile, nervously meeting his eyes, “Me too.”

The walk wasn’t long, and before you could reach for the door handle of his car, his large palm had situated itself there.

You chuckle, “I got it. Thanks, Clark.” placing your hand on top of his to open the door.

Clark’s eyes widened with surprise, his cheeks dusting a light hue at the contact. He was also quite baffled at the fact that you didn’t want him to open the door for you.

He was raised to be a gentleman, opening doors isn’t anything new. Especially on dates. It’s mandatory for him.

He couldn’t even form complete thoughts as the car door opened, your fingers tightening on top of his. You slide in the passenger seat, throwing a cheeky grin at him. You didn’t even let him close the door for you, as you shut it by yourself.

Clark stood outside in the cold night air, staring at you from the window. He cannot believe that just happened.

For once in his life, he didn’t open the door for his date.

The same thing happened when he dropped you off at your apartment. You didn’t even think twice before opening the car door yourself as Clark scrambled out of his seat, racing to open it before you did.

He failed.

But it’s okay, cause you’re pretty and you smell nice, and you’re wearing this giddy smile, eyes a little tired but still sparkling. He stared down at you, with a matching grin and twinkling eyes.

A moment passed, “See you tomorrow?” Clark dumbly asks.

You nod and bite your lip, tummy flipping with excitement and nerves, “See you tomorrow, Clark.”

.

.

.

The past few weeks of seeing Clark has been…nice. He’s sweet, thoughtful and very nice to look at. So when accidentally you snapped at him, you were sure he didn’t want to see you ever again. 

The summer heat is nipping at your skin, you had been stressing out about the printer since morning, the ancient machine that the Daily Planet has kept in store for ‘memories’ will be the death of you.

“Fuck— fucking stupid machine, shit—“

“You need some help there?”

You jump at the sudden voice, butterflies appearing in your stomach as you realise who it belonged to.

“This thing is pissing me off.” you grumble, not even looking at Clark, too busy glaring at the printer in front of you.

The man chuckles, leaning against the wall with hands tucked in his pants pockets as his eyes shamelessly trails over your figure.

“You look pretty.” he absentmindedly said.

The sudden compliment made you freeze your banging on the machine. Finally turning to meet his eyes, with a few strands of hair covering your vision. You tucked them behind your ear.

Because of your frustration at the machine, the small printing room has gotten more hot, which made you more agitated. So, you had put your hair up in a very messy bun, hair coming out in all sorts of directions, two buttons on your top were undone, giving Clark a nice view of your collarbone and a tiny glimpse of your cleavage. He swallowed hard as you fully turned to him.

"I'm a mess." you chuckle, hand resting on your full hips, head tilting to the side.

You look hot and bothered, your cheeks a little pink, your smile is teasing, and your hips are tantalising him. It's making his brain short circuit.

You, successfully making Superman weak in the knees.

He shrugs, hand scratching the back of his neck and awkwardly coughs, "My statement still stands."

Huffing, you face the machine again, "Go back to work Clark, or did you come here just to bother me?"

Clark moves inside the tiny room, his huge figure taking in half of the capacity. You could feel his body heat as he comfortably stood behind you, looking over your shoulder. Stomach flipping when you feel his slow and steady breathing.

"Do you know what's wrong with it?"

"If I did, I wouldn't be here, would I?" you accidentally snapped, eyes widening in horror. Oh no, he's going to hate you. "Sorry. I'm just annoyed and it's so hot in here and—“

His deep laugh stops you from continuing, "It's alright," he shakes his head, "I shouldn't have stressed you out more."

You sigh, guilt eating up your senses. You liked having here with you. He brings a sense of comfort, safety, calmness. He doesn't deserve your little outburst.

Clark sensed the air getting thicker with tension, so he clears his throat, backing up from your personal space, "I can call Jimmy to help you out-"

"It's okay, I got it." you rushed out. Hand clutching tightly at the edge of the printer. You cannot fail this. Don't embarrass yourself.

Clark nodded awkwardly, lingering on the door for a second too long, gazing at you with a certain look before hesitantly leaving you in your little room.

As you hear his footsteps retract, your shoulders slumped in relief, the guilt never once leaving your system.

"Stupid fucking machine."

.

.

.

Turns out Clark doesn’t hate you. 

You have been going steady and now have created a little routine. The grocery runs has been fun, a routine that you two have made after 1 month of dating. Restocking in your respective place every first Saturday of the month, has been consistent.

“Aw, you two lovebirds are too cute.” the cashier complimented, “You match each other very well.”

Your cheeks turn warm, hands occupied by putting the groceries in the bags. Glancing at Clark to see his reaction, your stomach flutters when you see his adorable dimples. A shy smile stretching over his face.

He clears his throat, “Thank you, ma’am.” eyes shifting to yours. Fond, warm, and very much in a daze. 

You quietly giggled, sending the cashier a quick smile before leaving the store. 

Clark falls in step beside you, nudging your shoulder, “She said we look like we’re made for each other.” he shyly muttered. 

You raised your eyebrows, glancing at him from the side, “She didn’t say all of that.” you smirk.

He shrugs, “I filled in the blanks.” his voice soft. 

Your heart stutters. 

Two heavy recycle bags settle in your arms as you try to balance them using your hips. Clark immediately took note of your fidgeting, and quickly moved his hand to grab the bottom of the bags, helping you stabilise yourself. 

“Clark, I got it.” you grumble.

The tall man sighed, almost ripping the bags out of your hands. If anyone looked for too long it was like he was trying to steal them.

“I know you do, sweetheart,” he deeply sighed, fingers pressing against his eyebrows, “but I can do it. Do you see these guns?” he jokes, flexing his biceps close to your face. You laughed. He’s so silly. 

Clark was also carrying his 2 bags of groceries, which is why you do not want him to carry yours. It’s yours. Why would you inconvenience him?

But Clark was adamant, Clark’s other fingers securely tucked in near your wrist where the bag handle is.

You playfully roll your eyes, “Back off, Kent.”

He gasps— loud, dramatic and offended, “I can’t believe you just called me Kent.”

You affectionately rolled your eyes and pushed past him, almost sprinting to the car so that he couldn’t keep up.

Oh, but Clark definitely could.

He chuckled to himself, shaking his head fondly at how stubborn you are. But you’re already opening the back trunk, organising your bags in. He underestimated your dedication, sighing softly with a giddy smile on his face, definitely his girl.

.

.

.

This particular day has been awful.

You’re suffering from writer's block and can’t find to type out any good comments and sentences. Everything you created sounded bleak, bland, boring and Perry has been waiting for a piece from you for days.

When he came to your desk, you gave him a thousand apologies, and Perry looked at you sadly… disappointed, if you would add.

“Should I give this to Cat to cover?”

“No!” you stood up abruptly, chair squeaking and making a few heads turn to you. You could feel a pair of specifically worried eyes on your back, “I got it. I promise. I will have this ready by tomorrow.”

Perry sighed, head nodding slowly, “Alright kid, I trust your abilities but tomorrow is final.” he stated, walking away.

You gripped the edge of your table, fingers twitching and heart suddenly pounding in your chest, “Fuck.” your breathing starts to pick up. 

No, no, no. Please, not now.

Your feet moved before you could think and Clark was up on his feet the second he could hear your uneven breathing. Going to the only place he knows you would go. 

The air on the roof is cold, the sky is so blue it reminds you of someone. But your chest starts to tighten, your vision starts to blur and sweat is forming behind your neck and hairline. 

“Please, please–” sobs start to wreck your body, and your feet are now all wobbly. 

Clark could hear everything from the elevator and it made his stomach drop and eyebrows furrow, as he fidgeted in the small metal box, “Why is it moving so slow—” he angrily muttered to himself, fingers aggressively pressing the button level repeatedly. Not caring the weird stares people are giving him.

The rooftop door violently swung open, so hard it almost flew off its hinges and you knew immediately who was on the other side.

“Clark, leave me alone.” you turn, not letting him see you. Your voice sounded so small, it tore his heart in two and he’s supposed to be indestructible. 

He takes small steps closer to you, “I’m sorry, pretty, but there is no way I’m leaving you up here alone.”

"I got it, it's okay." your voice trembles, lips quivering.

Clark huffed, standing straighter, "No." he clenched his jaw, he sounded... angry.

You glance at him through your teary eyes, "What–?"

"Stop saying that line."

You scoff, "What line?"

Clark stares at you with wide eyes, like the audacity of you to even question that insane, "Your 'I got it' line."

Your stomach drops as your sniffling continues. 

He deeply breathes out, moving to stand directly behind you, hands placed on your hips to turn you to face him fully. His thumbs softly caressing your shirt covered waist.

He leaned down, eyes trying to meet yours, "Look at me." he softly mutters.

Your eyes were fixated on the floor for a couple more seconds before they met his ones. Him and his soft, apologetic, blue eyes. Your breathing slows down.

He stares at you for a moment, searching, evaluating, you don’t even know.

But you would never guess what he was going to say.

"I. Got. You." he states, a pause in between every word. It wasn’t an opinion, it wasn't a joke, it's a statement. A fact. Like the nature of it is embedded in him, "Okay?"

Your lips wobbled, nose twitching and a new fresh of tears making their appearance on your eye line. Panicked eyes staring into his ones, trying to come into terms in what he just uttered out of his mouth.

"I will be here, with you." Clark continues, his hand now moving up to brush your falling tears away, "You can try to push me away but you need to call some reinforcements because I am not budging. You understand me?"

Slowly your arms moves to wrap around him, head tucking in his warm chest. "You got me?" your voice hoarse, his heart sinks seeing you tightly shut your eyes and hearing the hesitance in your tone.

His big arms wrapped tightly around your frame, hands softly caressing your back, "Of course, sweetheart. Always."

“Thank you.”

“My baby.” he sighs, emotional and heavy. His head tucking in your neck as he holds you tighter, “No need to thank me.”

“You make me feel so safe.” your trembling voice continues, a new wave of tears making you choke up.

Clark’s stomach flutters and drops at the same time.

For the strongest man alive, he sure feels pretty useless right now.

Because what has happened before that made you need to say that outloud? He thought it was given? He’s your boyfriend?

He doesn’t dwell on it for long, “I can help you with your paper.” he suggests, pulling your face out of his chest, his large hand on your jaw, thumb softly brushing your skin. 

“Clark—“

“I swear to God if you say—“

You giggled. Clark’s eyes widens at your beautiful voice, goosebumps appearing on his skin. 

“I was gonna say, ‘Yes, I would love your help’.” your voice turned down to a whisper, “Save me, Clark Kent.”

Clark grins, the tears are still in your eyes, some running down your cheeks but your eyes are a little bit brighter, your voice a little lighter, your breathing evening out and you’re still hugging him.

It makes him melt.

“I got you, baby. Don’t worry.”

Now Clark is making it his sole mission to take care of you.

reblog for a superman style kiss 😘

[ellaspidey]

clark being so big you have a belly bulge every time he gets inside you 😵‍💫😵‍💫

warnings: smut (mdni), pwp, feral!clark !!!!! fem!reader, size kink, bulge kink, little bit of dumbification, belly bulge.

“g-god,” he can't help but stare at the obscene bulge every time he bottoms out. clark’s a missionary lover through and through. partly ‘cause he needs to see your face while he's fucking you good.

to keep eye contact with you while your lashes flutter. because yeah, he's got a big, veiny cock. and it reaches places you didn't know could be reached before. and it hits your g-spot over and over again so precisely that it wrecks you until your vision goes blurry and the sheets get ruined when your juices gush out without warning.

but no, he's a true missionary lover ‘cause he gets to see and feel how his dick moves inside you. gets to press your hand right to the bulge in your belly and whisper, “you feel me, sweetheart?” like he’s not already rearranging your guts. like it's even possible for you not to feel it.

his big, warm, heavy hand covers yours. and he's so still. not even moving yet. just stretching you out and feeling you clench around him.

you nod, barely, ‘cause you're already dizzy. he thrusts once, slow and deep and mean, and you moan like it’s the only thing you know how to do.

“c-clark—‘s so—s'fuckin’ deep,” you whimper, slurred and shaky.

he kisses your flushed, sweaty cheek, gentle even with that monstrous cock buried inside you.

“i know, baby,” he groans right against your lips before kissing your swollen bottom one. “feels good, huh? you like that?”

you nod again. you have to nod. he’s leaking inside you already, and your brain is melting into something warm and dumb and dripping. and he’s still watching you like you're the only thing in the world.

he's trying to be polite. he swears. but it's so hard when you’re squeezing him like this. when you’re wrapped around him so tight it makes his fingers twitch on your belly.

he kisses you again, slower now, but his hips shift just a little and—fuckfuckfuck—you clench so hard around him it knocks the air right outta your lungs.

you gasp. “c-clark—baby—wait, wait, i c-can’t—can't—”

“you can,” he says, voice molten, lips brushing yours. “takin’ me so good, sweetheart. so fuckin’ perfect f’ me.”

and then he grinds. rolls his hips forward, like he’s trying to etch himself into your body, like he’s not already kissing your goddamn diaphragm from the inside.

the bulge in your belly moves. you feel it drag under your palm, slick skin stretched taut beneath your joined hands.

“oh my god—”

“i know,” he breathes, kissing your jaw, your neck, the corner of your mouth. “so tight for me,” his teeth scrape over your throat. “could stay like this all fuckin night.”

you wiggle your hips, try to chase friction, try to make him move, and he growls and grabs your hips in those massive hands.

“you keep doing that,” he warns, low and rough against your neck, “and you won't be walkin’ ‘til next week.”

you do it again anyway, hips tilting just slightly, greedy little thing that you are, because the pressure is maddening. you need him to fuck you now, you need that delicious stretch to turn into that brutal, devastating grind that’ll have you melting all over him in seconds.

clark hisses through his teeth. “jesus, baby,” he pulls out just a little—just enough for the fat head of his cock to kiss your entrance— then slams back in with a sharp, heavy thrust that knocks a sob from your throat.

you arch. you keen. your nails dig into his back, your thighs trembling around his waist.

“there she is,” he groans. “that's m’girl. look at you—look how full you are.” he thrusts again, harder this time, and the sound it makes—the wet, filthy slap of skin on skin—echoes through the room.

you’re shaking now. you feel slick dripping down your thighs, soaked with both of you. your moans are all breath and broken vowels now—“ah, ah, fuck, please—”

“i got you,” clark pants, fucking into you slow and deep and so insanely good your eyes roll back. “gonna cum for me, baby. always do. this pretty pussy just can’t help it, can she?”

you don’t even answer. you can’t. your hands are shaking, your thighs clamping around his hips, and your belly tightens like a rubber band about to snap-snap-snap—

and then it does. you cum hard—harder than you knew you could— “clark! ohmy— fuckfuckfuck.”

he keeps fucking you through it. keeps cooing soft praise against your mouth. “that’s it, honey, that's it. ride it out. so beautiful like this, so good for me.”

you’re still twitching around him when he finally lets go—groans so deep, so fucked-out it makes your toes curl—and spills inside you in hot, heavy pulses. his whole body shudders with it, hips grinding down until he’s empty, spent, tucked deep inside where he belongs.

[ellaspidey]

BEACON OF HOPE ⸻ CLARK KENT

clark kent x spider-woman!reader

WORD COUNT. 1.5k SUMMARY. similarities bind you, maybe freakishly so. being a pinnacle of hope to those around you seems heavy, daunting. but it takes the edge off a little bit when you know you have a partner that shares the exact same feelings you do, the same sense of pressure. you share a slice of pizza and a sunset talk, each refuelling from your superhero duties. inspired by this ask from @xmenfan7 ADDITIONAL. lotta fluff, they’re very much in love, a couple kisses

"What'ya got there?" 

Your masked gaze flickers to Clark at your side, your eyes temporarily diverting from the sunset on the harbour in front. "Hm?" you hum, meeting his tilted head, endearing eyes focused on you.

"Your shoes," he starts, pausing when his large, lazy grin hinders his ability to continue talking. He shakes his head, the act an effort to subdue the grand display of endearment on his face. "Is that an 's'?" he teases, nudging into your shoulder from his seated position beside you.

You pause the swinging of your dangling legs, letting them hang from the great height you both find yourselves at. You hold the crust of your pizza slice between your teeth and use your now free hands to lift your leg, holding your foot in place at the ledge of the bridge as you inspect your converse shoe.

Clark reaches for the dough crust in your mouth and brings it to his own, stealing a bite. "Sorta looks like the one I have on my chest," he speaks through the small mouthful and glances down at his suit, that same dopey grin resurfacing. 

You pull down the mask shielding the top half of your face and shake your head, deflecting from a tinge of embarrassment in the way you do best. "That's still there?" you question playfully, joking. "Oh man, I thought I wiped that off."

He sucks his teeth and tuts jovially. "Gosh, that's unfortunate," he picks up your foot and places it onto his lap, like he wanted to get a closer look at the biro scribble on the white rubber. "You've got a great eye for detail."

"Of course I do, look at what I do for a living," you tease and abruptly pull your leg from his lap, letting it hang over the bridge how it was just a moment before the humiliating assault of feelings. "Talking of which," you pause, swiftly changing the subject in which you thought you were being clever about. "Wanna know what my boss said to me today?"

Clark chuckles softly, knowingly — amused by your not so subtle attempt to veer the conversation. 

"He liked the new photos I handed in. He said good job— I mean, he did call me the wrong name, but y'know, how's that for progress?" you pull off your mask and set it aside, and reach for the last chunk of crust in Clark's extended hand. "He's asking for pictures of Spider-Woman," you snicker, speaking through a big mouthful. "Might be the easiest job I've had."

"Know what you mean," he glances down to his lap and his grin widens. "I've been getting some great interviews with Superman lately."

"We have some great luck running into these superheros, don't we?"

He hums, eyes narrowing playfully as they focus on you. "Almost like it's a coincidence."

"Almost," your smile grows brighter and your nose scrunches, expression shamelessly adoring. 

To stubble upon the male equivalent of yourself was not something you'd have ever expected; to meet someone so similar to you in so many ways was simply mad, and it still is. It was probably —definitely— one of your greatest feats, a green man on a flying boogie board or a man made of electric falling short in the grand scheme of things.

You believed Clark to be cut from the same cloth as you. You were virtually the same person and in so, so many ways: each of you optimistically navigating life by the heart and abiding by your morals and principles — living by them like they're a code. Even down to the similarities in your jobs, sure they were competing paper companies, but if you shared too many qualities, it would start to get freaky, right?

You deviate your attention from Clark and to the expanse of water out in front, and like he caught onto your ever so slight shift in mood, he mirrors you — following your eyeline, focusing on the warm hue of orange gracing the sky.

Your attention is momentarily interrupted, and you peer down to the busy street below, preemptively getting ahead on the commotion you sense. You shoot a web from your cartridge below, aiming for the purse stealer making a move though you hinder the suspect's movement, bundling him in your web while the old lady retrieves her purse. 

"God, I hate quiet nights," you peer down to your wrist as you adjust the cartridge and then glance to Clark. "It's like no one appreciates how long it takes to get into the suit."

"You don't keep it on under your clothes?" he jests, lips curling up into a playful smirk. 

"Well of course I do. I do have a reputation to uphold."

"Talking of which," he picks up your mask and places it in your hand, eyeing down to it like a silent gesture. "You should really put this back on."

You give him a small displeased grunt and pop it back on, leaving the bottom half of your face exposed just like before. "Better?"

"Well no, I don't get to see your eyes."

You poke your tongue out in faux disgust, attempting to tease him. "Feelings, erugh," though a real smile soon takes over the pretend contempt and you shake your head. 

Clark catches on and he chuckles softly, revering gaze amused by the sight. "Spoken to your Aunt about this weekend?" he questions, veering away from the moments of vulnerability as he knew it not to be a strong suit for you. 

"She can't wait to meet your parents," your smile widens and you glance downwards, watching your swinging legs. "She told me yesterday that she has only one request," you pause and look up at Clark, his little nod showing you that you hold his attention. "She wants to go to a real, authentic southern diner." 

"Yeah, I think I can get my folks to agree to that," his grin grows bigger and he nods. He then laughs softly, knowingly, like he's recalling a memory. "Remember when we first started dating, and I took you to that—"

"How could I even forget?" you mimic a face of just shy of repugnance. "God, that food was terrible. I've honestly never heard you complain so much— I," you pause, a loud, sincere cackle interrupting your speech train. "I thought that sandwich broke you," you continue talking through the laughter, doubling over as the memory grows clearer in your mind. 

"It felt like that."

"Oh," your hysterics dwindle and you wipe your eyes. "Was probably my favourite date, if I'm being honest," you even yourself out and turn to look at him, showing him the sincerity in your expression.

He leans in to kiss you, pressing a soft, sweet kiss to your lips. "Even with all the throw-up?"

"Are you kidding?" you itch back in, planting another quick kiss. "That was my favourite part. That's how I knew you were the one."

"With my bloodshot eyes and vomit breath, really?" he scoffs jovially, head shaking humorously.

You twist inwards and cross a leg, sitting on it as a way to get closer. And with your other, you nudge it into Clark's hanging feet — letting your swinging leg bump into him a few times before you entwine it with the one closest to you. 

"You're always so perfect and it actually humanised you a bit."

That same dopey smile resurfaces and his nose scrunches, as if it made his expression all the more genuine. He lifts an arm and drapes it over your shoulder, letting it hang there, like it was an effort to keep you near. And in return you lean into him, letting yourself flop forward and into his side embrace.

These sporadic and unplanned moments with Clark were always your favourite, where you'd meet randomly while you're each out doing your own superhero activities. It would somehow always fall around dinner time, and like it had become an unspoken agreement; the bridge became your meeting point while you share a few bites of food from local vendors. 

Though it would only last so long before the city calls you each back, before the people reclaim you for your roles of protection. It means a lot to share these several minutes of quiet with Clark, where you'd each lean on each other to feel more human in a world where you've both agreed to be anything but. 

The city required a lot from you both, though it's made easier when you each have someone who can empathise, genuinely empathise, with what you each go through on the daily. And even when the city may hate you and spew hatred in the tabloids and berate you in the street, you each knew that what you do makes a difference. 

People need superheroes, and guidance. They need someone to look up to, and you each sleep a little better at night knowing that you can both be that to the people. That you can be a beacon of hope to those that need it.

⎯ ☆ ⎯

[ellaspidey]

how to: fall in love again

summary: lovergirl at heart, you've decided love isn't anything you're willing to risk pursuing again after your last boyfriend. and then comes clark kent who's a little too perfect at breaking down those walls. and isn't that terrifying?

word count: 10.8k...yeah <3

a/n: the word count getting longer when i edited oh i'm sure. this one was serious to me. like notes app outline, specific through-line playlist, pinterest board inspo serious. hope it's serious for you guys too hehe fem!reader, no spoilers, avoidant attachment tbh, bit angsty but happy ending! happy reading, let me know what you think <3

If there was anyone more cynical about love in Metropolis than you, you’d be delighted to know. 

It’s not like you’re against love by any means. In fact, you really, well, love it. You love your friends and you love seeing them in love. You enjoy romance books and love songs and romantic comedies. You take pleasure in finding the ways in which love is around you each day. 

You’ve just decided that romantically, it’s not for you. Not anymore, at least. 

It’s been three years since you swore off of it and honestly? You’re doing great! So what if sometimes a viscous yearning creeps through your apartment on a Sunday night? That hardly means anything!

Relationships are one thing and you’ve had your fair share. Once in high school, a couple in college. They never ended well, not like how you would’ve wanted rather. Sometimes they faded like a bruise and other times you were left alone and behind in the rearview. 

But none of that mattered to you anymore once you met Ben.

Six years ago, you fell in love. Ben was a dream and a half. The kind of guy you bring home to your parents and revel in the way they gush over him and the both of you together. The kind of guy someone writes songs about with a swooning guitar and lyrics that wax poetic. The kind of guy you marry. At the time, Ben was it for you. 

Then, three years ago, Ben broke your heart. You hadn’t seen it coming. It felt completely out of left field. You believed you were everything each other wanted until he was walking out the door. 

“I’m not..happy anymore. I don’t know how to make you happy.” He had said and you remember a nauseating confusion coursing through your veins. What did that mean? You were happy….weren’t you? And before he walked out the door, “I hope you find someone who does.”

He clearly had. Two months later he was engaged to another woman you’d had in your home at dinner parties and holidays and suddenly it all clicked. You’re only slightly embarrassed to admit how long you cried and the amount of sweets you ate to try and feel better. 

While the wound was still fresh, the ache cutting so deep in your bones, you decided you never wanted to risk feeling like that again. It took you a while before you felt like you were yourself again.

Two years ago, you got a job as a columnist for the Daily Planet. A basic “how-to” column that you’ve come to love, even if you’d rather be writing something more substantial. There, you met Clark Kent. 

He was everything Ben wasn’t from the second you were introduced. The second he’d fixed his striking blue eyes on yours and smiled at you, something inside you jolted. And you’ve been petrified ever since.

Because if there was anyone who could make you consider taking that risk again, it was Clark.

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆

It’s a busy day at the Daily Planet. Well, it’s always “busy” but it’s especially so today. The printers are working overtime and there’s people fluttering all about, checking edits and typing like there’s no tomorrow. An argument splits open near the coffee counter. 

Deadlines will do that to you.

You’d arrived earlier than usual, earlier than you needed to considering you were basically done with your newest “how-to” for the next print. Still, the only time you can pin Perry White down to talk to him about writing for something other than your column is on his way from the coffee machine and back to his office. 

“But Perry, I think I’ve really got something here! If you’d just look at it-” your footsteps are hurried as you keep pace with Perry. He stops suddenly and you nearly stumble over yourself, words getting cut off.

“Look kid, I appreciate your enthusiasm but right now I need you to stick to your how-to’s,” he fixes you a look and fits his cigar between his lips before resuming his trail to his office. You sigh, but you don’t want to give up that easily.

“But could you at least just-” you start to plead and then you’re cut off again. He holds up a finger this time and heaves a sigh.

“I’ve given you my answer, kid. We’ve got a deadline to meet.” The words form around the cigar in his mouth. You wither, footsteps faltering. 

“Yes, Chief,” you sigh, to which he just shakes his head. Your shoulders sag, the entirety of your body drooping like a wilted rose. When Perry’s out of earshot you toss your head back with a frustrated groan. 

This wasn’t exactly where you thought you’d be by now. Two years seemed like enough time to establish yourself at the Daily Planet. Your little column that’s shoved towards the back of the paper seemed like as good a stepping stone as any towards writing about something more. 

It’s not like you dislike your column, in fact, you really enjoy it. You just feel like you have more to offer after two years if Perry would just give you the chance one of these days.

You’re admittedly, a little visibly pouty on your way to your desk. It feels a little childish, like you might as well cross your arms and stomp your foot with a hmph! You don’t, of course. Though maybe it’d provide some kind of emotional release. That’s why toddlers do it, right?

As you near your desk you notice there’s a new coffee cup waiting for you by your keyboard. The culprit, you notice next, is standing next to your desk with his bag still on his shoulder like he just got in. Which, he probably did.

It’s hard for you to stay grumpy at the sight of Clark. His tie is slightly askew and he’s holding his own cup of coffee, hot where yours is iced. 

He’s far too nice to you, you think, but he’s a wonderful friend. And God knows you were in dire need of a good one after what happened. Sometimes though, when you start to feel a little lonely, you wonder if he’d be a wonderful boyfriend too, but you’re quick to shove that aside. 

It’s better for you to just be friends. Less scary that way. Less of a risk that you end up absolutely demolished again, too.

“Was just dropping this off. Just how you like it,” he says when you’re within earshot, motioning towards the coffee that wasn’t there when you’d gone after Perry this morning. You can see the ring of condensation it leaves against the lacquered top of your desk. You smile at him.

“Thank you. You know you don’t have to.” 

He matches your smile and shrugs. 

“Yeah but I want to,” he says. There’s a faint pink that blushes his cheeks but you think it might just be the lighting. Still, you revel in the fact that he wants to do a nice thing for you. You try to quell it. The familiar fear of getting too close to someone again prickling your skin.

On paper, Clark is the perfect guy to be with after Ben. He’s charming and patient and kind, overwhelmingly so, to everything and everyone he encounters. He never fails to make you smile. Doesn’t hurt that he’s devastatingly handsome, too. 

Truth is, Clark Kent scares you to death.

“How’d it go with Perry this morning?” he asks, breaking you from your thoughts. You deflate, frustrated all over again. A grimace pulls at his face at the look on yours and the huff that escapes you. “That bad?”

“He refused to read it! Appreciates my enthusiasm but wants me to,” you twist your voice into your best impression of your editor-in-chief, “stick to my how-tos.”

You relish in the chuckle your impression pulls out of Clark. He opens his mouth to say something and is cut off.

“Stop flirting and get to work, Kent. We’ve got a deadline,” Perry’s voice seems to boom as he strides past your bullpen on the floor. Clark flounders, cheeks warming into an embarrassed red. You’re all too aware of the amount of eyes on you and you feel yourself start to fold inwards.

The two of you look at each other and Clark flashes you a tight lipped, shy smile. He motions towards his desk across the way and you nod, wordlessly communicating with each other.

“Thanks again for the coffee,” you say before he can walk away. 

“Anytime, really,” he says as he passes. There’s a fleeting press of his hand against your back. Your breath gets stuck in your throat, heat radiating out from where his touch lingered. You steel yourself for a beat before sitting down at your desk. 

The ice in your coffee shifts as you log into your computer. You glance over to Clark though you can only see the back of his head from here. The side of your hand brushes against the cold drops of condensation on your coffee cup. Goosebumps skitter up your arm.

When you finally take the first sip, a pleased hum drifts out of you. It’s just how you like it, like he had said, but it’s also better somehow. Familiar, but different in the best way. 

Just like Clark, you think.

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆

Despite it being sarcasm, you can’t get Perry’s insinuation that Clark was flirting with you out of your head. It’s been weeks and no matter how hard you try, it stays at the back of your mind constantly. And it’s starting to do a number to your nervous system.

Sure, maybe your interactions can be read as flirtatious but Clark’s also your closest friend. It’s just friendly banter and actions to show you care. Hardly anything romantic. 

That’s what you keep telling yourself anyway.

It’s a Wednesday towards the end of summer when you start to notice something different. 

The second the workday ends, you’re logging out with a swiftness. You’re not alone. Nearly everyone at the surrounding desks does the same. 

There’s a shuffle of sound as everyone starts to pack up their things. The corner of your notebook bends as you shove it in your bag and you curse under your breath. You’re inspecting it, trying to bend it back into place but the crease is still there in the corner. Annoying.

“Heading out?” 

The sound of Clark’s voice behind you makes you jump in surprise, your bag falling from your hands and to the ground. You’re pressing your hand to your chest, trying to calm your racing heart. He at least has the decency to look apologetic when you turn to face him.

Clark has a bad habit of sneaking up on you. You’re not sure how someone so…big can be so quiet. Or how he only seems to be able to sneak up on you, considering his occasional clumsiness tends to alert his presence. Too busy always trying to not occupy so much space that he almost seems to occupy even more. 

“Sorry! Sorry.” He’s dropped to the ground to retrieve your bag and bent notebook for you. His lips press together in a sympathetic grimace as he hands them over. Your hand falls from your chest to take them. 

“Jesus, you’re like a stealth agent or something, Clark. I’ll never understand it.” You shove the notebook into your bag and sling it over your shoulder. He shakes his head and is reaching to grab your water bottle for you before you even get a chance to turn around and get it yourself.

He holds it out to you and you smile your thanks. There’s a shock of something almost magnetic when your fingers brush his in the exchange. You try not to flinch away too noticeably. 

“Do you have plans? Like, now?” he asks, almost a little nervous. It makes you nervous and you hesitate in your movements. The corners of your eyes crease as you narrow them quizzically at him. “Sorry, that was..really forward.”

“No…why?” You start to walk away, full trust that he’ll follow you. He does. You slide your water bottle into your bag as you walk, Clark keeping pace. “Do you?”

“Oh! No, no I–Well…maybe?” he stumbles over his words and you glance at him out of the corner of your eye. His shoulders straighten just a tad. “There’s this new ice cream place that just opened downtown and I saw it and thought of you and I was wondering if maybe you wanted to check it out?”

You nearly trip over yourself, a pit dropping from your throat to your stomach. He thought of you. Is he asking you on a date? He thought of you. A mirage of emotions rushes through you and over your face. Clark starts to panic at your silence.

“Totally friendly!” You let out a soft breath. He thought of you. “Obviously! We don’t have to, unless you want to. And it doesn’t have to be tonight, sorry I didn’t–”

Clark’s a panic rambler you’ve come to notice. It’s rather endearing if you’re honest. The two of you pause outside the elevator. You nudge him with your shoulder which jostles you more than it does him.

“Tonight’s great, Clark,” you say, cutting off his rambling. He looks at you and breathes something like a sigh of relief at the sight of your smile. The elevator dings and the doors slide open. He lets you in first, mumbling under his breath.

“Great. Great, okay.”

Clark leads you around downtown Metropolis, his hand hovering just above the small of your back as a guide when needed. You fall into step and easy conversation the whole way, Clark making you laugh without even trying to be funny. 

You mention the argument that you heard break out by the coffee this morning and he tells you it was Jimmy and Lois arguing–Jimmy annoyed that Lois has used up all the sugar. He mentions his Ma is planning to come visit him in the coming weeks and you swear you can feel your chest start to expand at the evident admiration for her in his voice. 

“Here it is!” he announces a few minutes later as you turn a corner. 

The first thing you notice is the red, yellow, and blue striped awning with scalloped edges. A sign above reads Super Scoops in bright letters and a bold font. The obvious hero homage makes you snort but the small line out the door leads you to believe it must be good.

“How’d you find this place?” you ask, relishing in the shade the awning gives while you wait in line.

“Just happened upon it on the way into work today,” he shrugs. He hopes you don’t realize his route to work from his apartment never crosses this section of downtown. If you do, he’s none the wiser. 

“And the whole,” you wave a hand around, “Superman of it all isn’t at all why you wanted to try it?”

You’re teasing. Poking a jest at his superhero work connection. Clark scoffs a little though there’s no malice behind it, and briefly wonders if maybe you’ve figured him out. (You haven’t.)

“No!” his voice pitches up an inch. “I know you like ice cream and you just did that how-to bit about summer and I just thought you might like it s’all.”

There he goes again. Thinking of you and sending your heart ablaze. You need to get a grip. 

The line moves quickly for which you’re thankful. When you get to the counter, you opt for a swirl of soft serve on a cone and Clark gets his in a cup. The price seems a little outrageous for what you’re getting and you accredit it to the theming. 

You pull out your wallet and Clark gives you a piercing look, bumping your hand away though not unkindly. You go to protest but relent and put your wallet back in your bag when he swipes his card. He shoves his wallet back into the pocket of his slacks, stepping off to the side with you.

“I could’ve paid for that, you know,” you say, eyes locked onto the employee dispensing the swirl of chocolate and vanilla onto a cone. The uniforms here are rather silly. Blue t-shirts with little red capes attached, the parlor’s logo on the back. 

“I know. I didn’t want you to,” he states simply, like he’s telling you the sky is blue. You probably should’ve expected it. Small town, farm boy chivalry and such. 

Clark collects your ice creams from the teenager behind the counter who looks a little miserable. You accredit that to the uniform. He passes your cone off to you as he leads you out the door. 

A comforting silence hangs around you as you linger in a little grassy patch next door. There’s kids running around and a dog chases them off leash. A hum of delight escapes you at your first taste of the soft serve. It’s exceptionally good.

Golden rays of the fading sun cast a radiant haze around the outline of your body. Ice cream is starting to melt around the rim of your cone. The surface tension breaks and a rivulet slips over your knuckles. You let out a soft gasp, more an exhale than anything and quickly lick it off. 

Clark’s looking at you. Endearment glimmers in his irises, the sunlight reflecting off of it. You’re trying desperately to ignore the sticky feeling on your knuckles. You need to wash your hands. Or steal a generous glob of hand sanitizer even.

You catch his eye and feel pinned by his stare. You blink at him. 

“What?” you ask. A thorn of self-consciousness pokes at you for a brief moment. Clark shakes his head.

You’ve got a smear of vanilla soft serve across your left cheek from when you tilted your hand to lick the ice cream off your knuckles. Your eyes are doe like. Backlit by the setting sun, the fleeting rays highlight the frizz in your hair, creating a halo around your head. 

Clark thinks you’ve never looked more beautiful.

“You’ve got a little..” he gestures towards his own face. You bristle with a light embarrassment. Before you can reach up to wipe away the ice cream from your face, Clark beats you to it.

He’s somehow procured a napkin and softly wipes the ice cream you smeared across your cheek away. You don’t remember seeing him grab them on your way out of the parlor. 

Time seems to slow. The seconds drag by like the pouring of a thick stream of honey. The moment feels incredibly intimate for what it is. Your breath stills in your lungs. 

“There we go,” he says. He turns and tosses the napkin into the trashcan. The spell breaks. Your fingertips reach up to graze against the spot he cleaned. You drop them before he can turn back around to catch you.

“Thank you,” your voice feels a little shaky. Clark smiles at you with a soft shake of his head, a silent don’t worry about it, and takes a bite of his ice cream.

“This is really good,” he says, swallowing it down. He looks so..boyish in this moment and it does something funny to your heart. Combined with him wiping your face clean, you’re a little afraid you could go into spontaneous cardiac arrest.

You’re staring at him, something sweet and awe-like in your eyes. Something in Clark brightens at your attention. His cheeks twinge pink and he smiles softly. 

“Careful,” he points at your cone that’s starting to melt down to your fingers again. You blink away, embarrassed at your staring and hurriedly lick up the melted cream. What is going on with you?

Clark seems to have figured out a way to weasel himself inside and poke at your tender bits, making things in your chest twitch and move in a way they hadn’t in years. You weren’t sure when he had been able to step in so close to do so.

It feels all too familiar, yet different, just like that coffee he’d brought you a few weeks back. Your heart stutters, the beat spelling out an uh-oh.  

You think you might be falling in love with him.

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆

Things steadily progress with Clark after your ice cream not-date.

You’ve crossed into hug territory. Simple side ones when you see him in the office in the mornings. Longer, more proper ones when you go your separate ways after a hang out. Each one starts to untie the rope that’d been knotted around your heart three years ago. 

The risk grows more and more each day and now it feels even more ominous. Because now Clark’s more than just a potential romantic partner, he’s also one of your closest friends. And the thought of losing him in two ways instead of one scares you infinitely more.

You don’t mean to work so late on a Friday but it happens anyway and when you log out and pack up your things, the moon has risen completely in the sky. Clark has stayed late today too but you wonder if he was just waiting for you to finish so he can walk you home. 

You’ve never asked and he’s never outright offered except for the very first time. Now it’s just become something unspoken. A given in your friendship. You appreciate it all the same.

He lingers outside your apartment with you tonight and you can tell something’s bothering him. Like he’s holding himself back, restraining from something. You go to ask if he’s okay or what’s wrong but you never get the chance. 

Because Clark asks if you want to get dinner with him tomorrow night.

“Like a date. A nice, proper one with dinner and dessert.”

And despite the fear that shivers down your spine and the choking anxiety like a lump in your throat, you agree. 

“Yes. Yeah, that sounds…nice.” 

You hope your smile looks real and not as scared as you feel. He seems to buy it. He’s beaming with glee, trying to hide the intensity of it and failing. Quite adorably, you might add.

“Okay. I’ll pick you up at 7.” He states. No sense of a question, just a simple statement. Warmth rushes through you. 

“Okay.” The word is pushed out with a breath. Clark smiles at you. 

“It’s a date!” 

His enthusiasm is comforting and you squeak out a confirming uh huh! which is all you can seem to muster. Words are failing you. He reaches out to squeeze your hand briefly instead of hugging you goodbye tonight. 

You’re grateful for the change, certain he would’ve been able to feel your racing heart when your chest pressed against him. You watch him walk a few strides down the hall before you go inside. 

You’re already nervous when you wake up on Saturday morning. You spend a lot of the day panicking, over both the mundane and existential. Should you wear a dress? What if this goes horribly sideways and the two of you never speak again?

The usual.

In the end, you decide on your nicest dress, or rather, the nicest date night dress you own. You feel good. So long as you don’t think too seriously about it all. 

You’re trying to practice some age-old breathing exercise in the mirror to calm your nerves. Trying not to overthink too much about your shoes or your hair or how this is your first date in three years. You’re interrupted by a knock on your door.

A quick glance at the clock on your way to the door shows it’s seven on the dot. You’re a little surprised at Clark’s punctuality. Not because you didn’t think he wouldn’t be but because you’ve never experienced it before. A punctual date, that is.

You pause at the door for a beat. Then, you shake out your hands and swing it open.

Clark stands at your doorstep with a bouquet of fresh cut flowers. Peonies and delphiniums, chamomile sprinkled amongst blushing roses in a brown paper wrapping tied with string. He must’ve stopped by the florist for these, you think. It might be the prettiest arrangement anyone’s ever shown you, let alone given you.

Clark is staring at you, jaw a little slack. You feel yourself start to fluster under his gaze, shrinking slowly. 

“Wow. You look..” his voice trails off, eyes dropping to what you’re wearing and back up to lock with yours. “You look great.”

Your smile is a little shy, bright around the edges. The heat beneath your skin makes you feel like you could burst into flames.

“Thank you. You’re not so bad yourself,” you say. He’s wearing clothes similar to what he wears to work, a charcoal pair of slacks and the usual white button down but he’s not wearing a tie and the sleeves are pushed up his forearms. It’s really doing something to you. 

A blush rises on his cheeks and it’s his turn to offer you a shy smile. He clears his throat.

“These are for you,” he says, holding the flowers out for you to take. The paper crinkles as you take them from him. Your fingers brushing sends a pleasant zing! down your back. You can’t resist pressing your nose against the blossoms. 

“They’re beautiful,” you say on an inhale. Clark could say the same about you ten times over. “Come in. I’ll put them in a vase and then we can go?”

You back up to let Clark inside and he closes the door behind him. He stands in the tiny entryway. It’s not very big, your apartment; it looks even smaller with him standing in it.

“You can come in further, you know?” your laugh carries through the air like a breeze. He lingers in the entry of your shoebox kitchen now. The bouquet lays gently on the little kitchen table tucked away in a nook off the kitchen.

You’re grateful for the boost of height the kitten heels you decided on give you, albeit small, as you reach up to grab your favorite vase. Clark’s eyes trail after you as you flit around the kitchen. Watching as you bring the vase to the kitchen sink to fill it with water and take it over to the table.  

You untie the string and paper around the bouquet and place the flowers in the water with the utmost of care. It’s a perfect fit. You fluff it a little bit, arranging it so each blossom has space to shine. Then, you slide it to the center of your little homely kitchen table. 

It’s picturesque. And so are you, standing with your hands clasped, admiring it. Clark wishes he had a camera. You turn and look at him, taken aback a bit at the sweet look in his eyes.

“Ready?” you ask. Clark blinks like he’s been shaken out of a stupor. 

“Right. Yes! Let’s go.”

He follows close behind you as you grab your bag off the hook by the door and lock up. It’s your turn to follow him as soon as you leave your building. Ever the gentleman, he walks on the outside of the sidewalk and offers you his arm to hold.

Butterflies that have laid dormant inside you start to revive and flutter around your stomach. It’s a beautiful night in Metropolis, the sky clear and the air fresh. You think you’d be satisfied if you never made it to dinner and just walked around all night instead. Your feet might not thank you though. 

He takes you to a nice restaurant a few blocks over. A place as nice as this was always reserved for anniversary dates in the past, never for a first. This specific one Clark leads you into, you’d never been to. The reservations always too hard to come by.

You’re a little awestruck when you walk in. Your eyes dance around, taking it all in as you get seated. Beautiful artwork decorating the walls. The tables covered in pristine white linens. The lights are low and there’s music playing softly in the background. Clark pulls your chair out for you and pushes it in. 

“This place is so nice,” you say, as you sit. “How’d you even manage a reservation with so short notice?”

Clark looks a little sheepish, his shoulders hunching upwards towards his ears. 

“Oh I, uh- This is going to sound presumptuous and I apologize. I got one a while ago. It’s just taken me so long to work myself up to asking you out.” He says it like a confession. Something in you preens at the idea of Clark liking you so much, he’d plan so far ahead for a first date with you. 

Your nerves start to ease as the night progresses and maybe the bottle of red wine you share helps a bit too. It’s easy with Clark. As if you’ve always been doing this. It sends a thrill through you. 

Slowly but surely, your defenses start to come down. The hesitancy and fear that normally holds you back starts to fade. Clark starts to see you really shine with each new thing he learns and each new laugh that escapes you.

Just like he said when he asked you out, you get dessert after dinner. A rich slice of the most decadent chocolate cake you’ve ever had in your life. Your eyes close when you take the first bite, a delighted hum escaping you louder than you’d like. 

“Oh my god,” you open your eyes and the amused admiration in Clark’s eyes is clear as the moon in the sky. You get a little shy, your skin prickling under his gaze. “This is the best thing I’ve ever put in my mouth.”

You gesture for him to try it. Clark’s reaction almost mimics yours.

“Golly,” is all he says and you laugh a little at his choice of word, both of you going in for another bite. The cake is gone almost embarrassingly fast but you’re both too stuffed to care. The waiter drops off the check as you take your final sip of wine, draining the glass. 

He reaches for it without hesitation, doesn’t flinch at the total, just slides his card into the fold and sets it on the edge where it’s quickly retrieved. You fold your arms and rest them on the table, your hands holding on limply to the space above your elbows. 

The edges of you feel fuzzy. Your head is tilted a little towards your shoulder, a serene smile on your face. To Clark, you look radiant even in the dim lighting. When the waiter brings back his card, you watch as he signs and puts his card back in his wallet. 

He offers you his hand to help you out of your seat and neither of you let go as you walk out of the restaurant. In fact, you make the move to intertwine his fingers with yours and swing them a little between you. He pulls you into his side and you giggle, your shoulder bumping his bicep. 

You feel giddy head to toe. Maybe it’s the lingering effects of the wine. Maybe it’s Clark’s fingers slotted between yours. Or the way he’s been looking at you all night.

All you know is you feel more happy than scared and it’s been so long since you’ve felt this way that you’ve forgotten how good it feels. And maybe it’s your lapse in memory or maybe it’s Clark but it feels even better this time around.

You’re laughing at something Clark says–he’s been making you do that a lot tonight–when there’s a call of your name. The laughter gets stuck in your throat and dies out quick, your steps faltering on the sidewalk. Clark’s eyes are swimming with concern when he looks at your face. 

“Is that you?” Ben’s voice is just like you remember it. You turn towards it and your hand falls out of Clark’s grip when you catch sight of him. Because standing next to him is Jane. Beautiful, alluring Jane who drank your wine at your hosted parties and probably slept in your bed when you weren’t around. 

You think you might be sick. 

“Oh my god, how are you?” Ben gives you a hug, like you’re still friendly and things ended amicably. Like the last time you saw him he didn’t put your heart through a paper shredder. Your limbs feel wooden as you half-heartedly reciprocate. Ben steps back and wraps his arm around Jane’s waist. “You remember Jane?”

She lifts her left hand in a wave and the streetlight overhead catches on the ring on her finger, making it glint. At least she looks a little awkward at the whole situation. You nod, a pounding starting to form behind your brow. 

“Yeah, I..I remember,” you reply. You take a deep breath, force yourself to smile and sound way more friendly than you feel. “Good to see you.”

The puzzle pieces start to click into place in Clark’s head. He’s not completely aware of your dating history but he’s easily figures out that’s what this is. And that you’re completely beside yourself. He’s quick to wrap an arm around your waist, steady and strong. You relax a bit without even realizing. 

Ben catches the motion and his eyebrows raise a hair. He has to look up at Clark, not by a lot but enough that you notice it if you’re paying close attention. And you are. Then Ben looks at you, silently waiting for an introduction.

“Oh. Ben,” his name tastes like venom on your tongue. “This is-”

“Clark Kent.” He finishes for you, taking a step forward and extending his hand. You think you can see Ben wince from Clark’s grip but it’s gone as soon as it arrives. (And if Clark put more of a grip into the handshake than normal, well that’s nobody’s business but his own.)

There’s a beat of silence that passes. The four of you stand on the sidewalk, almost mirror images of each other. The same wave of nausea passes over you, the pressure in your head getting worse.

“Well, it’s good to see you. I’m glad you found someone who makes you happy,” Ben says, voice genuine. Something in you bristles at that, taking it more as one final nail in the coffin jab at you. Clark feels you stiffen in his hold. You’re not sure what to even say, lips parting but nothing coming out. 

It doesn’t seem to matter. Ben nods at you and Jane gives you a tight smile as they pass. You blink at their retreating figures. You’ve long since gotten over the love you held for him but you didn’t expect the pain of it all to still linger. 

You don’t want to let this one twisted encounter ruin the great night you’ve had with Clark but you can feel your reservations start to creep back in. It’s like Clark can see you start to slowly build those walls back up after he’d worked to pull them apart all night.

“Hey, you okay?” 

You focus on the good. The softness of his voice. The care in his eyes. The steadfast grip of his arm around your waist. You inhale and on your exhale, flash him a shaky smile.

“Yeah. Yeah, that was just…” A plethora of words dance around your head. Weird. Unexpected. Awful. Horrifying. “Strange.”

Clark nods and glances over his shoulder in the direction they walked off in. He looks back at you, your eyes locked where his just were. He clears his throat softly and your gaze finds his.

“Sorry but, I couldn’t stand that guy.” A sudden laugh, loud and genuine bursts out of you. A sentence so unlike Clark and yet, you can tell he means it. His eyes crinkle at the corners at the glow that’s started to come back to your face. He almost hadn’t noticed how dim you’d become in that guy’s presence. 

“Yeah,” you say, as your laughter dies down. Your smile softens. “Me too.”

Clark walks you home, conversation still full but maybe not as lively as it had been pre-Ben and Jane. You hate how they seem to haunt you like this. But you revel in how easy it was–and is–for Clark to make you laugh again. 

He expects the night to end at your doorstep but you invite him inside for a little while longer. You’re a little surprised, mostly delighted when he agrees. 

“Make yourself at home,” you say, kicking off your shoes and walking into your kitchen. Clark toes his shoes off and neatly arranges them next to yours. “Do you want anything to drink?”

Clark glances over and can see you grabbing two glasses down from a cupboard near your tiny stove. You set them on the counter and at his silence, look up to where he’s standing.

“Oh! Water’s fine.”

He takes interest in your photos hanging on the walls and the knick-knacks on your shelves. He particularly likes a corkboard you’ve got hung up with a bunch of mementos pinned: movie ticket stubs, fortunes from fortune cookies, postcards, one of your first how-to pieces from the Planet, a photobooth strip of you. 

You bring your drinks in, and set them on the coffee table, water for him and another glass of wine for you. You sit, knees pulled up on the couch and your feet tucked beneath you, your body facing Clark. You like how he looks sitting in your space. Like he fits right in. 

You talk for hours about anything and everything that seems to come to mind. You share the abridged version of Ben and Jane and your chest goes warm at how quick Clark notices your need for a subject change. He switches gears smoothly. You laugh so hard your stomach hurts.

The hours tick by without either of you paying much attention. Your drinks sit empty on the table and when the conversation lulls, you take them into the sink. Clark checks his watch when you leave the room. 

“Oh gosh, it’s late,” he says. You come out of the kitchen to an apology. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to keep you up. I hadn’t realized it was so late.”

“Clark, it’s okay,” you shake your head with a smile. His mouth is twisted into an apologetic frown. 

“Still. I should let you get to bed.” Only then do you realize how tired you feel.

You walk him to your front door and watch him put his shoes back on. When he straightens up, you take a step closer to him.

“I had a really good time tonight.” You say softly. Your eyes shine in the dim lamplight. 

“Me too.” Clark smiles. He swallows and shifts on his feet. “Would you..wanna do this again?”

“I’d like that.” You nod, smiling widely up at him. He nods.

Clark leans down to hug you goodnight, his arms wrapping tight around your waist. Yours reach up and over his shoulders. Your body sinks into his and you think you could stay right there forever. After a beat, he pulls back but you don’t let go right away.

With your arms around his neck and his around your waist, it leaves hardly any space between you both. Suddenly, the air feels similar to the moment before lightning strikes nearby in a storm. Your gazes both fall from eyes to lips and back. 

Clark’s tongue darts out to wet his lips and you track the motion with your eyes. You swallow, lips parting only just. He starts to lean in and your eyelids start to flutter shut. Your hands are trembling from both anticipation and uncertainty. Not about him, but about the unknown. You send a quick plea outwards that he doesn’t notice. 

There’s no telling what lies on the other side of letting Clark kiss you, a faint warning siren echoing in the back of your mind. You decide to ignore it the second his lips brush against yours. You’ll cross that bridge when it comes. 

The siren fades into a silent static hum, your senses flooded with ClarkClarkClark. Of the gentle press of his lips to yours, pliant and willing. Of the press of his body against yours as you eagerly push up to reciprocate. 

You wonder briefly why you hadn’t done this any sooner. There’s such an ease to it that you almost feel like you’re experiencing deja vu. Like there’s another version of you that wasn’t burned, that gets to kiss Clark like this all the time. You’re envious of her immediately.

His hands slide to your hips to pull you even closer to him and that dreaded siren breaks through the static in your brain. You pull back, your hands falling to his shoulders. Clark’s glasses are askew and have fogged up considerably but he doesn’t seem to care.

“Wait,” you say breathlessly. He’s quick to renew the gap of space between your bodies.

“Sorry-”

“No, no, it’s not- you’re okay,” you pause, chest heaving. You try to catch your breath, coming up short. Your arms fall from his shoulders as you take a step back. “I think I need a second.”

The wounded expression on Clark’s face makes you feel considerably worse. He resembles a confused, kicked puppy and you think you might be sick. 

You turn on your heel and make a beeline for the bathroom. Clark catches your shaking hand wiping at your eyes and doesn’t think twice before following after you. To apologize, if anything. Convinced he’s done something wrong enough to make you cry.

The counter of your bathroom is cold against your palms. You take a couple deep breaths in and out. Mentally kicking yourself because why can’t you just be normal about this and cursing Ben (and his bloodline, too) under your breath for causing your aversion to love in the first place. 

You turn the tap on, splashing cold water on your face in hopes that it’ll shock your system back to normal. Back to how it felt mere moments ago when you were kissing Clark. 

A gentle knock on the door makes you jump.

“Honey, talk to me. What’s wrong?” Your heart pinches, a piece of it chipping away at how sad he sounds. You don’t say anything for a beat. “Did I…” a defeated sigh, “sorry, did I do something wrong?”

You turn the water off. 

“Oh, Clark,” you sigh. He hears the lock click and then the door swings open. This time, his heart twists at the expression on your face. “No, you didn’t do anything wrong. I’m just..”

You let out a sad laugh and then your eyes are pinching shut. You press your face into your hands.

“I’m just a mess.” Your words are muffled against your palms. Clark tsks in disagreement and takes a step towards you. His fingers circle around your wrists and he’s so soft with you, you think you might burst into tears all over again. 

“Hey, hey, no. Look at me,” his voice is equally tender and you let him pull your hands away. The reveal of your eyes shiny with unshed tears chips away at his heart. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing, nothing, I’m fine,” you sniffle, rapidly trying to blink away the tears. One slips past anyway and he quickly smooths it away.

“You’re most certainly not fine,” he says, voice still gentle but firm. Your shoulders slump. Clark sighs. “Let’s get you some water. That sound good?”

You nod, looking at the floor. He leads you over to your couch and sits you down before getting you a glass of water from the kitchen. He’s back faster than you expect and you whisper a quiet thank you when he hands you the water. 

He doesn’t sit until you’ve drunk a considerable amount. You cradle the cup in your hands, looking anywhere but at Clark. 

“I’m sorry,” you finally say. You spare a quick glance up at him. “It wasn’t anything you did, I promise. I just…I haven’t done this since..”

“Since Ben?” Clark fills in. You look at him with a small smile that’s equal parts embarrassed and sad. 

“Yeah. I just spooked myself a bit,” you say. Clark nods in understanding. 

“You don’t have to apologize for that,” he says, resting a hand on your knee. Your eyes focus on it. 

“Okay. I just don’t want you to think it’s because of you,” you say, gaze lifting to his eyes. They’re looking at you like you’re made of porcelain. He scoots a little closer to you on the couch and lightly brushes a stray piece of hair behind your ear. His palm settles on your cheek. 

“We can take it slow, yeah?” Clark offers. You perk up, a little surprised. After all this, he still likes you. He still wants to try with you. The realization makes you ache. You nod, anyway.

Slow is perfect.

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆

The air outside has started to go cold, summer finally fading away into a brisk autumn. You’ve five more dates with Clark now under your belt. It’s slowly getting easier, less scary though you can’t deny that your brain continues to do risk assessments over each new romantic gesture.

He brings you a new assortment of flowers each time. The newest, a golden arrangement featuring sunflowers and dahlias, sits in the usual spot on your kitchen table. The sun reflects off the petals through the window. 

Clark’s at your apartment again in a handknit sweater his Ma made him, sat at the table and warming his hands with a cup of cocoa. Speaking of.. 

“My Ma is visiting this weekend,” he says. 

“Yeah?” 

“And she’d…like to meet you.” 

The world seems to still, your body going with it. You blink at him, lips parting and closing. 

“Oh!”

Clark rushes his words out, sensing the rising panic in your chest.

“You don’t have to, I know we’re taking it slow and this is definitely, probably not even remotely close to that. But I’ve talked about you so much she won’t stop asking about you, even before this started. It’s only if you want to.”

Your heart picks up at the image in your head of Clark including you in his updates to his Ma. It makes you burn from the inside, a sweetness pooling in your veins. He talks about you. The pendulum swings back and forth in your head as you consider it. 

“Okay,” you say. Clark raises an eyebrow at you.

“You’re sure?” When you nod, he beams. He gets up from his seat and comes over to press a kiss against the top of your head. His excitement is sweet to witness. “I’ll call and let her know.”

On Sunday, you go over to Clark’s for dinner. 

You shift nervously outside the door to his apartment. Your fingers are stiff from the brisk air outside and from the tight grip you have on the flowers you picked up on the way over. You close your eyes and take a deep breath, willing your body to still.

Then, you lift your fist and knock it against his door. You’re wiping your palm against the front of your pants when he answers the door. His smile is blinding.

“Hi,” he steps aside to let you in. The door closes behind you and he dips his head to kiss your cheek in greeting as you’re toeing off your shoes. “You look nice.”

“Hi,” You smile, nerves still going haywire beneath your skin. “Thanks.”

“Clark? Is she here?” You can hear her voice from the kitchen and you glance at Clark, grip tightening on the small bouquet in your hand. You’re a little nervous that it's not as nice as it could be. Clark presses a hand against the small of your back and you remember to breathe.

He leads you the short distance to the kitchen in lieu of a response. As soon as she sees you, her eyes light up. You smile nervously at her and give a small wave of your hand.

“Ma, this is-” Clark starts to say, but he’s quickly cut off. 

“You must be, y/n!” Her accent is thick as honey and it warms your heart. 

“Hi,” you hope your voice doesn’t sound as nervous as you feel. “These are for you, Mrs. Kent.”

You hold out the flowers to her and she takes them with a soft audible aw. Then she’s pulling you into a hug and saying, “call me Martha.”

It takes you a beat to huge her back. You can’t remember the last time you’ve been hugged like this. Different from how Clark hugs you, different from your own mother’s hugs. This one has a specific air of home to it that’s overwhelming. 

You look at Clark over her shoulder who looks extra smiley.  When she pulls back, she looks at the flowers again. Then she turns to Clark who already has a hand extended to take them and go put them in water. 

“Clark has told me so much about you,” she says. A hand, weathered and gentle from age touches your cheek. “You’re even more beautiful than he described.”

“Ma,” Clark says, from the kitchen sink. You smile, loving that boyish part of him that still gets embarrassed when his mom shares something she probably shouldn’t. Martha tsks and angles herself slightly to look at him, her hand falling away.

“I’m serious, Clark.” She turns to you and lowers her voice a smidge. “He’s always talking about you, it's hard to get him to stop. I knew I had to meet the girl he’s so sweet on from the second he mentioned you.”

You can feel your skin start to flush. Your eyes catch onto Clark who’s arranging the flowers in the vase and setting them on his own kitchen table. 

“You’re the only girl he’s ever been like this over,” she says almost conspiratorially. Your body softens, something distantly familiar coursing through your veins. Clark catches your eye and smiles at you and it leaves you a little dizzy. 

When the food is ready, the two of them fall into a rhythm, bringing dishes to the table. Watching the two of them interact, you can tell where Clark gets it from. His mannerisms and certain words and phrases in his vernacular. 

Clark pulls out both yours and Martha’s chairs when you sit to eat. The food is delicious and you make a note to ask Martha for recipes when the night ends. 

It’s as easy to talk to her as it is Clark. She asks questions about you and your job and your family. And she also asks about you and Clark. How you met and when you started “going steady” as she puts it. You’re particularly fond of the stories she shares about Clark when he was little. Even more fond of the red blush that covers his cheeks at the more embarrassing ones. 

In the back of your mind though you can’t get Martha’s words out of your head. 

You’re the only girl he’s ever been like this over. 

It unnerves you slightly. And at the same time, you wonder how you could even begin to describe how much it means to you to have his Ma treat you so kind and warm. Like you’re already part of the family. Your mind starts to analyze a risk assessment, a voice in the back of your mind poking and prodding and whispering that something this good has to come down. 

Clark reaches for your hand at the table and gives it a quick squeeze, momentarily pulling you out of your spiral. You look at him with a soft smile, ever grateful and surprised that he can read you so well.

At the end of the night, Martha hugs you tight again and you soak it in. 

“It was so good to meet you, dear,” she says, pulling back from the hug. Her hands hold onto your forearms.

“You too,” you smile and she gives your arms a squeeze. She looks at Clark, who’s holding your purse for you in his hand. 

“You make sure she gets home safe, Clark.” 

Clark lips twitch. “I know, Ma. I always do.”

He’s true to his words, walks you safely home and all the way to your door like he always does. You linger outside the door until you’re toeing the line of inviting him in. He kisses you goodnight, soft and sweet, his hand cradling your jaw and yours pressed against his chest. 

It quiets your brain enough for you to get to bed but when you wake up the next morning, it’s racing immediately again. You’re distracted during the work day and no matter how much you try, you can’t get it to stop. A steady downward spiral.

Clark comes home with you after work. You’re unusually quiet on the walk to your apartment and through dinner–leftovers from the night before that Martha insisted you take home with you.

You clear the table of dishes and Clark helps you wash up. When the two of you go to sit on your couch, Clark sits first and holds out a hand. 

“C’mere,” he says, all but pulling you to sit in his lap, though really you might as well be straddling him. For the first time all day, the chatter in your brain starts to dim. “What’s wrong? You’ve been unusually quiet all day.”

You look down at your hands in your lap and shrug. You’re not sure how to phrase it even if you tried. 

“It’s..nothing. It’s silly,” you finally say, still refusing to look at him.

“Hey,” his voice is a soft caress against your skin, gentle like his fingers that tilt your cheek so you look at him. “It’s just me. You can tell me.”

Your gaze roves his face, stars in your eyes. Clark pushes a stray hair behind your ear, his fingertips grazing your cheek like a feather. His eyes haven’t once strayed from yours. 

A shiver runs down your spine and you try not to squirm. It’s still new being seen like this. Like he’s looking right through you, straight into the messy walls of your subconscious. You swallow, your mouth dry and the words hang in a lump in your throat.

“Just..when I met your mom yesterday,” you can feel the sting of tears behind your eyes, feeling a little silly. Clark’s looking at you, so tenderly it squeezes your heart in your chest. “She hugged me. Like really hugged me.”

The corner of his mouth twitches and something shimmers in his eyes as he scans your face. One hand rubs against your arm and his thumb on the other spreads a tear across the apple of your cheek as he wipes it away.

“Honey, that’s a good thing. Yeah?” 

“I-” You close your eyes and take a deep breath, nodding though your shoulders inch up towards your ears. “Yeah. Yes. I dunno, it just…”

Your shoulders drop on an exhale and your eyes flutter open and latch onto his. Clark looks at you with quiet reassurance. His fingertips trail against the skin of your arms featherlight while he waits for you to finish your thought.

“It felt like home,” your voice is so quiet it’s almost a whisper. Clark's eyes seem to soften even more than they already were. The corners of your mouth twitch into a small smile. You look away to wipe at your eyes, damp fingertips coming to rest along the side of his neck.  “Been a while since I’ve had that.”

Your eyes lock back on his. Something familiar is swirling in his eyes, your breath getting stuck in your throat for the briefest of moments. Your heart starts to play a symphony against your ribcage. Clark’s hands have migrated to the small of your back.

“You’re starting to feel like home,” he says. Your fingers against his neck can feel the timbre of his voice. There’s a rush of warmth that covers you from head to toe. It’s dizzying enough to leave you a little nauseous, though there’s a fleeting thought that wonders if it’s because his words feel like a euphemism for the L word. 

Despite the onslaught of emotion you feel, your lips start to curl into a giddy smile just as Clark leans in to kiss you. His lips slot against yours, slow and sure and it’s enough to steal the breath from your lungs. Your smile gets kissed away but the giddiness doesn’t fade.

His hands on your back pull you closer towards him and your thumbs press against his jawline. Your body feels like it’s starting to liquify in his arms as you melt against him. You pull back and Clark steals one more lingering kiss from you. It elicits another soft smile.

You don’t open your eyes right away, breathing in deep through your nose as you press your forehead against his. His thumbs rub circles against your back and his nose nudges yours. You blink your eyes open and lean back enough to look at him fully. 

You run a hand through the mess of curls on his head, eyes as soft as the edges of your smile. Clark’s looking at you like you hung the moon. The simplest of thoughts pops into your head. A flash of fear shocks your body. You push the feeling down and away, locking it up deep in the gooey center of your heart.

But you can’t lock away the thought that races around your brain like a news headline. 

You’re a thousand percent, without a doubt, in love with Clark Kent.

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆

It’s an almost difficult realization for you in the coming days. The familiar dip in your stomach, a pull on your heart, like passing by an old friend in the grocery store. Things are safe with Clark, you’re safe with Clark. But it doesn’t quell the stutter of fear in the beat of your heart that’s been opening itself back to love.

You can’t help it but you do the best thing you know how. You pull away even though it’s twisting your heart into knots. A part of you hopes that he’ll break things off if you push hard enough. Maybe it’ll hurt less that way.

Because what if you love him too much, too hard that he slips away? In your head, it’s better to withdraw now and first before he ever gets the chance to. Logically, you know it’s unlike Clark but you can’t help it. You’re not feeling very rational right now. Common sense has seemed to fly right out the window.

Clark feels utterly confused. You keep things about the same at work but the second you get home, he can feel you pulling away. You stop answering his calls. You don’t let him kiss you, barely let him hold your hand. 

He goes into fix-it mode, trying to retrace his steps and figure out if maybe he did something but he comes up short. He tries talking to you about it but you shrug it off, insisting everything is fine when he can clearly tell it’s not. 

He decides that maybe you just need a day or two to yourself and he acquiesces, giving you the space that he thinks you need. When he does, you think maybe he’s finally pulling away too and even though it makes you ache, you think it’s for the best.

But when space doesn’t work and you still won’t talk he knows something is really wrong. In his head, he makes a loose plan. He’ll get you to talk to him somehow, if anything to just get some kind of closure if you’ve decided this isn’t something you want to pursue with him anymore. The thought makes him ache but he has to know.

A couple weekends after dinner with his mom, you’re in your apartment staring at the wilted flowers on your kitchen table, wondering if you should maybe get rid of them. But that feels like getting rid of Clark somehow and you can’t bring yourself to do either of those things. 

There’s a knock on your door and your heart knows it’s him before you do. You open the door and there he stands. His nose is pink from the cold and there’s a sadness so heavy in his eyes it stabs at the tender bits of your heart. 

“We need to talk,” he says, and then at the last second, “please.”

You don’t say anything, just step aside to make room for him to come in. You close the door behind him with a click.

“What’s going on?” he asks as soon as you turn around. You fold your arms, hugging them to you like some kind of armor. 

“What do you mean?” you try to play a little dumb and Clark huffs. It’s the first time you’ve ever seen him anything close to angry. 

“You know what I mean. It’s what I’ve been trying to get you to talk to me about for weeks.” he sounds the slightest bit exasperated. “You won’t talk to me outside of work anymore. You won’t let me close enough to do much of anything. You’ve stopped returning my calls. It’s like you’ve completely pulled away.”

He sounds hurt more than anything. 

“Did I do something? What happened?” 

You close your eyes and sigh. “No Clark, you didn’t do anything. Nothing…happened.”

“Then why. Why are you pulling away?”

“Maybe we’re just better as friends!” you burst out, arms falling to your sides. “We were moving too fast. Maybe it’s just…easier if we just go back to being friends. Nothing more.”

“Don’t do that,” he says and you blink at him. Your eyebrows furrow. 

“What? I’m not-” you pinch the bridge of your nose. Your words have started leaving you both so fast your sentences almost overlap. “Clark-”

“You’re quitting before things get tough. You can’t do that.”

“What? I’m not..I’m not quitting. God, Clark I-” your voice starts to break. “I’m trying to protect myself. I’m terrified.”

Clark’s shoulders soften. “Terrified?”

“Yes,” you say and now the words won’t stop spilling out of you. “I’m scared to death of…of this. Of you! Of us! Of…of all of it! I’m scared.”

Clark looks like a kicked puppy again.

“Me? Us?” his voice sounds so small and your heart twists. “Why?” 

“Because I..” you’re almost panting. “Because I love you, Clark. I love you and it scares me because I never wanted to fall in love again. I never wanted to risk the pain of losing someone again. I didn’t want to risk the possibility of things ending just like they did with Ben three years ago.

And then I met you and I just knew if anyone would change my mind it would be you. The thought of being loved by you scared me and at the same time I was scared by how much I wanted that. And I tried not to but falling in love with you was the easiest thing for me to do.”

You’re not sure when you started crying or when Clark got close enough to be able to wipe your tears away with his thumbs. He looks pained at the sight of your tears but beneath that is a joy so vibrant it almost glows.

“Hey, hey, hey,” his voice is a soft melody in your ears. “I love you, too.”

It doesn’t sound as scary to you when he says it outloud. You sniffle, unable to fight the smile that spreads across your face. It’s teary and you’ve got a sudden worry that your nose is running. 

“You do? Even still?”

Clark lets out a soft laugh and nods, wiping away fresh tears that have fallen over your cheeks. “Yeah, honey, I do. Even still.”

“It’s an awful lot of work,” you say. Through a wet laugh, “I’m a mess, clearly.”

“No it’s not. Not for me. Not when it’s you.” 

The look in his eyes is so intense and serious, you’ve no choice but to believe him. Your heart soars. You sniffle again, feeling like a weight has been lifted off of your shoulders. Your fingers curl themselves into the fabric of the sweatshirt he’s wearing.

“Are you gonna kiss me or not?” you tease and it pulls a smile out of Clark. He presses his lips to yours, so tender and soft, it leaves you melting like that ice cream cone he bought you what seems like a lifetime ago.  

Love this go around feels familiar, but it’s different, better even in all the right ways. It’s like returning from a lifelong journey and sinking into a hug. 

It feels like coming home.

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆

as usual, tagging some people who might be interested (if not u can ignore) & those who asked hehehe: @stevebabey @brettsgoldstein @almightyellie @katsu28 @sanguineterrain @anonymouse1807 @superemobitch @manicandobsessive @clonesdserveb3tter @lalameors @celestialend @claudiwithachanceof @pessimisticmoon @clarkstwin @cupid4prez

[ellaspidey]

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.”

[ellaspidey]

earth boys are so serious.

pairing: clark kent x fem alien!reader

summary: out of all the planets you've ever visited, you have to admit – earth is your favorite. and it's not because of the scenery, or the food, or anything else... it's because of your best friend's ridiculously attractive, impossibly charming cousin who lives there.

wc: 10.6k (wow! this was supposed to be a silly little smut...)

genre/tags: fluff/smut, acquaintances(?) to lovers, flirty!reader (she wants that cock so bad), reader comes from a planet other than krypton, p w plot (i accidentally got attached to reader oops), unprotected sex (rubber up y'all), dry humping/grinding, fingering, p in v sex, clark has a huge dick ofc, slight praise kink, dom! clark, ft. kara (platonic).

notes from auddie: sorry for the long wait! tumblr deleted like 20% of this draft before i put it in google docs for safekeeping so i had to rewrite a whole bunch. genuinely loved writing this fic and i def want to explore more w alien!readers LOL. pls enjoy! <3

earth is... loud. and sticky. and kind of ugly in the daylight. at least compared to the other planets you've ventured out. but gods, is it fun.

humans truly have no idea how fragile they are. they have no idea who short their lives are compared to other species you've met among various cosmic civilizations. but maybe that's why they dance like they've got fire in their veins and fuck like the world might end tomorrow.

hell, apparently there's countless songs about fucking without the knowledge of tomorrow.

it's charming. almost addicting.

you're supposed to be here for a little while, crashing on a makeshift couch inside the fortress of solitude while she figures things out (aka where your next destination will be.)

in its own fascinating way, earth reels you in. it's the music, the night lights, the cocktails, the rawness of human emotion.

and then there's her cousin.

clark.

tall, buttoned-up, frustratingly noble clark kent. had kara never told you he was her blood relative, you'd round him up with the other earthlings. he's truly nothing like your best friend.

the morning light in metropolis is softer than on most planets you've been to. everything here feels muted, slower in a way.

you're not used to that. you're not used to staying still, or staying anywhere for more than a night or two. but kara asked. she said she missed you, said you could come crash at her place and promised krypto wouldn't launch into you head first as soon as you flew in. liar.

but honestly? it never takes much convincing for you to visit the planet for weeks at a time. not as long as the six-foot four, broad shouldered, sweet-as-pie cousin of hers makes an appearance during your visit.

you pad into the familiar kitchen, yawning as the oversized shirt you wear slides off one of your shoulders. you scratch at your head, attempting to flatten down any flyaways.

it's quiet, the kind of quiet you never get in the fortress. there isn't the humming of kryptonian technology and no wind against the icy crystal walls. there's only the distant sounds of the city starting its day.

clark's back is to you, tall and solid where he stands at the stove. his hair is tousled from sleep, plain gray t-shirt stretched across his shoulders, plaid pajama pants hanging low on his hips.

he looks delectable.

he glances over his shoulder when he hears your footsteps, and his eyes catch for a mere second on your bare thigh.

"morning," he says gruffly, turning back to the pan. you notice the faint flush on the back of his neck. "you like eggs?" he asks.

"i don't mind 'em," you answer back, leaning your hip against the counter, watching him work.

"how do you like your eggs?" he asks.

"fertilized." you beam.

he freezes.

it's just for a second, but you catch the way his hand stalls with the spatula mid-scramble, the subtle twitch in his jaw like he's trying very hard not to react. then he turns slowly, peering over his shoulder at you.

"seriously?" he deadpans.

you shrug playfully, crossing your arms over your chest. "what? earth humor. i'm assimilating."

"i'm sure," he mutters, shaking his head as he turns back to the stove. but you don't miss the way his ears turn pink.

you grin, unabashed.

it's too easy to fluster him.

you learned that about him the first day of the first time you visited the planet. the first time he saw you float in the midair to grab a glass from the top shelf, his eyes nearly bugged out of his head. you'd just looked at him and asked if he wanted one, too, like the angle of you wasn't giving an obscene view of your too short skirt and the contents beneath it. he'd sputtered something about "gravity not just being an option" and bumped into a doorframe on his way out of the kitchen.

you'd been hooked ever since.

"you didn't have to make me breakfast," you purr softly, voice slightly thick with sleep.

clark doesn't look at you this time. "you got in at three in the morning. figured you'd be hungry."

you smirk. "you keeping tabs on me now, kent?"

you hear him exhale through his nose, steady as ever. unbothered. (liar.)

"i just heard you come in, that's all."

"uh-huh," you hum, amused, plucking a grape from the fruit bowl atop the counter and popping it into your mouth. "right. super hearing."

he plates the eggs with precision, the way he does everything, you've learned. he turns to set them down on the counter in front of you with deliberate care.

"you always listen that closely when i stumble in drunk?" you press, teasing interweaved in between your words.

"i listen closely because you stumble in drunk. someone's gotta maker sure you don't try to fly through the wrong apartment's balcony again."

you'd learned the hard way that earth alcohol severely impairs your flight control. on your third night, you attempted to fly back to the fortress after a few too many tequila shots, only to end up crash-landing in a cornfield somewhere in nebraska, mumbling about ice crystals and asking a very startled farmer if he'd seen your "best friend's smoking hot cousin."

you blink, a scowl appearing on your face. "...that happened once."

"twice."

"okay, twice."

he lifts a brow. "last time you clipped the fire escape."

"that fire escape had it coming."

his mouth quirks despite himself, eyes glinting as he slides a fork toward you. "sit. eat. try not to give me a heart attack for one morning."

you oblige, hopping up onto the stool and dragging the plate toward you. "you worry about me, clark. kinda sweet."

he gives you a look, one that falls somewhere between fond and exasperated. "i worry about everyone."

"sure you do." you take a bite, chewing thoughtfully. "but I’m the only one who gets eggs and scolded first thing in the morning."

he turns back to the stove, hoping to hide the smirk that pulls up the corner of his lips. you catch it anyway.

"so," you say after a mouthful of eggs, lifting your fork with exaggerated curiosity. "what's on the superman to-do list today? world peace? saving a cat out of a tree?"

the kitchen is lazily golden with early morning sunlight creeping through the blinds as you sit atop one of clark's barstools, legs swinging slightly as you eye him over your plate.

clark wordlessly pours you a glass of orange juice, not needing to ask your preference. he does it in an automatic way as if he's done it every morning. like you're just here, part of his routine. it's infuriatingly domestic.

he sets the glass in front of you with a casual shrug. "not sure. i usually wait for an apparent threat on the news or a call from friends."

"oh, right. justice gang," you say, wrinkling your nose. "still a stupid name, by the way."

a subtle twitch plays at the corner of his mouth, and you watch as he chews the inside of his cheek, like he's biting back a smile.

smile at me, coward.

"right," he says, tone even.

it's exasperating, the way he always manages to keep a straight face when you’re trying to crack him. it's almost as if there’s a silent challenge in it. you wonder sometimes if he even knows he’s doing it – weaponizing that steady calm of his like it’s not the most compelling thing in the world.

you shift in your seat, squinting at him like the mere suggestion of an early morning is physically painful. "so, if theres no superman agenda, why on this planet are you up so early?"

clark doesn't miss a beat. "some of us work. you know, make money to pay for existing." clark deadpans, bringing his mug up to his mouth to sip his coffee. he eyes you over the mug, almost pointed, like it's a fact you can't relate to.

"hey, i work!" you protest, immediately defensive.

clark gives you a pointed look. he lifts his brows in that maddening, amused way, leaning against the counter after putting his coffee mug back down onto the hard surface. he crosses his arms and his biceps flex just enough to make you lose your train of thought for half a second. you shamelessly stare, brows lifted at the taut muscle of his arms.

if he notices (lets, be real, he does), he chooses not to comment on it.

"i don't know if intergalactic trade counts as work," he muses.

"it sure as hell pays the bills."

and it does – handsomely.

you've never claimed to be a hero. not everyone is cut out for truth, justice and the whatever-the-hell clark stands for. but you are resourceful. you always have been. always had to be. whether it was skimming atmospheres above a war-ridden moon or stripping through the wreckage of ships, you've made a living out of surviving. scavenging. taking what others overlooked and turning it into something worthwhile.

over the years, you build a decent trade network. you'd collect useful elements, off-world trinkets, experimental gear, honestly, whatever could be repurposed, repaired or resold, and then pass them along to interested buyers scattered across space.

there's a whole underground network of buyers who'd pay top credit for a whisper of alien innovation. and you? well, you're practically fluent in the art of acquiring what they want, no questions asked.

it's not glamorous, not always legal and it's definitely not safe – but it's yours. and it keeps the lights on in whatever hotel-equivalent you're at on other planets.

clark, of course, has opinions about this. you remember the first time kara revealed to him what it was that you did and the way he looked at you – some strange mixture of disbelief and moral distress, like you'd just confessed to selling baby penguins (those are the cute animals, right? you can't keep track of earth life) on the black market.

"she steals things?" he had asked, incredulous, turning to kara like she was the one who needed to answer on behalf of your choices.

"i don't steal, hot stuff," you had countered, your voice piping in an innocent manner. "i salvage," you drawled for extra emphasis, "there's a difference."

"there's really not," he'd muttered to himself, choosing to ignore what you'd called him.

you'd explained that nothing you took every had an owner. abandoned ships. junk moons littered with obsolete tech and precious minerals. all free game, in your book at least. you just happened to be smart enough to see the value in things other people left to rot.

besides, it wasn't like you were smuggling nuclear war weapons for the highest bidder. you dealt in harmless stuff, the kinds of things that actually helped people, even if they might've come with a morally ambiguous origin.

clark hadn't quite agreed. still doesn't, probably. but he doesn't mention it. not out loud, anyway.

"you're off to the monthly moon then?" you ask, your fork clattering against the empty plate.

clark's brows furrow for a moment before softening in realization. "daily planet. yes," he answers.

"i think monthly moon sounds better," you mumble to yourself.

you swing your legs, chin resting in your hand as you watch him move around the kitchen with the kind of quiet ease you don't think you'll ever be able to replicate. everything about clark is measured. controlled. it's like he's always just a little too aware of his own strength and the space he takes up in a room.

"you're really going to go play reporter after all this?" you asked, gesturing to the breakfast scene between you. "all this domestic flirting?" you pout exaggeratedly.

"that was not flirting," clark deadpans, without missing a beat.

"ouch. words hurt," you place a hand on your chest in feigned offense.

he shakes his head but you catch the hint of a smile this time. "you're exhausting."

"you secretly love it."

he doesn't confirm nor deny. instead, he dries his hand on a towel and tosses it over the back of a chair, gaze flickering to the clock on the wall. "i've got twenty minutes before i need to head out."

you raise a brow, lips quirking. "i know what you can do – or who – within twenty minutes."

clark's hand freezes mid-lift of his coffee, fingers curled tightly around the handle but not yet bringing it to his lips.

you see the exact moment your words land; the subtle shift in his shoulders, the faint tightening of his jaw, the way he suddenly won't look at you. not directly.

you grin.

you stretch your arms your head with a languid hum, knowing full what it does to the already slipping shirt draped over your body. his eyes don't flicker, not even once, but you feel the heat in the room spike just a little.

you wonder if he does, too.

"twenty minutes," you murmur softly, tilting your side in a way that almost seems innocent, but you know – he knows, too – that it's anything but. "that's enough time for a lot of things, clark."

clark exhales slowly though his nose and straightens up, visibly resetting his posture. when he finally turns to look at you, his expression is painfully neutral. almost too neutral.

the silence stretches, thick with something unspoken and buzzing.

and then he breaks it, stepping back just slightly and placing his mug down on the counter with a clink.

"i think," he murmurs finally, with a measured calmness that makes your pulse spike. "i need to get ready for work," he says.

coward.

you grin anyway, watching him retreat in the direction of his room. "i'll be here," you call after him, smug. "still very charming. still barely dressed."

clark disappears into the hallway without answering.

but you catch it. the tiny glimpse over his shoulder. the way his eyes dragged, just barely, down your bare legs before quickly looking back.

you hum to yourself, victorious.

by the time he returns, he's fully in his dorky clark kent get-up, charming in it's own right – white button up, gray suit jacket, matching slacks and maroon tie – but the cherry on top is the glasses he adjusts on his face.

"do those really work?" you ask, now having moved to his sofa, sprawled on one side, like you own it. you continue to eye the thick frames. apparently it's some form of hypno-tech for humans – at least, that's what you've heard from kara. it must be, because there's no way a pair of lenses is enough to make the world to see clark kent instead of superman.

"thought you'd be gone by now," he huffs, slinging his knapsack over his shoulder.

you smile, a mischievous glint in your eye. "wanted to see you off before work, sweetie."

clark rolls his eyes, then crosses the room, grabbing his keys and sliding them into his pocket, clearly trying very hard not to engage.

"i don't need a send-off," he says, walking past where you're sprawled on his couch, mock-innocent with a throw pillow half-slid off your lap.

you lean your head back over the armrest to watch him upside-down, hair spilling over the edge. "so no goodbye kiss?" you ask, pouting your lips.

"absolutely not." he says it without even looking at you. but you can see the way his ears turn red.

"what a shame. i'm off to... what's it called again? place with the sparkly tower and long bread?"

clark stops at the door, turning slowly and brows furrowed. "france?"

you snap your fingers. "that's the one. kara wants to go clubbing. apparently, there's some underground spot that plays synth-wave and it looks like an asteroid belt exploded on the inside. she can't get drunk, but she loves the music. i, however..." you give him a slow grin. "...intend to drink very irresponsibly."

clark exhales through his nose again, like it actually pains him to imagine you going through a parisian nightclub, half-lit and laughing, grinding on who knows who, all powered by a cocktail and zero impulse control.

he hesitates in the doorway, a quiet moment stretching between you. his fingers tighten around the knob like he's weighing something.

"you'll be careful?" he asks, voice gentler now, lower. the question's not really a question. but you've come to find out that it's very clark of him to check in like that.

"you earth boys are so serious," you tease.

"y/n."

your grin softens, just a little. you nod, still-upside down on his couch, and a flicker of sincerity creeps into your voice. "always."

clark watches you for another heartbeat and then he sighs, shaking his head to himself. "try not to get kicked out of france," he murmurs before shutting the door behind him.

the door clicks behind him and you let your head fall sideways, a slow smile curving your lips.

the return to the fortress of solitude is sobering in every sense – figuratively and literally.

you land with a soft crunch onto the icy platform just outside its entrance, breath curling in the cold air like lazy smoke. the crystalline towers that shimmer under the arctic sky, casting reflections off the aurora above.

inside, the chill doesn't bite the same way it used to. the fortress hums faintly, always alive but never loud. kara's already there, of course, perched cross-legged on the edge of one of the raised platforms. krypto's curled up beside her, head resting on her thigh, tail thumping softly in greeting as you approach.

"hey," she called. "you took your time."

she looks irritatingly well-rested, already changed into something appropriate for the club: leather pants, iridescent top, hair in it's natural waves.

"you sober now?" she asks.

"unfortunately."

"good," she claps her hands once, sharp and loud in the stillness. "we leave in thirty. we get to the club, get you a drink – or five – and i people watch while you do something regrettable. sound good?"

you grin despite yourself, stretching your arms over your head. "nothing i do is regrettable."

"right," she rolls her eyes, as if that should've reminded her. her eyes cast down to your attire. she lifts a brow. "you're wearing kal-el's shirt."

you look down. clark's tee hanging loosely on your frame, slightly rumpled, smelling faintly of his detergent and something deeply him. you pull at the hem absently, then glance back up with mock innocence.

"he wasn't using it."

kara just rolls her eyes and makes a face that lands somewhere between amusement and disapproval. "you know he's like... kal-el, right?"

you grin. "exactly."

kara huffs a breath through her nose, mumbling something like, 'of all men, kal-el?' but she doesn't press on it. she never does, not really when it comes to him. you figure she knows better than anyone that you're a little hopeless when it comes to her cousin, even when you're main priority is sleeping with him.

you make your way toward your things – a pile of glittery clothing and scavenged tech currently occupying one corner of the fortress – and start sorting for something club appropriate. something earthlings would find charming. or terrifying, whichever. both.

"so, what'd you do last night?" she asks.

you pull out a glittering silver top that may rival any stardust you've ever seen. "not much. got home late. went to clark's."

she pauses. "wait... you actually spent the night at kal's?"

"i always spend the night at his," you counter with a shrug. "you're the one who said i shouldn't risk flying drunk. your cousin has a couch."

"and boundaries," she says, deadpan.

you give her a mournful look. "anyone with forearms like that shouldn't... he made me breakfast this morning.”

kara pauses in her step. she's not surprised but she asks anyway, “…did he?”

“eggs.” you nod solemnly. “scrambled. perfectly cooked. he even gave me orange juice. and none of that stringy stuff in it.”

“that’s oddly specific.”

“right?” you crack one eye open. “he likes me.”

kara gives you a flat look. “you think everyone likes you.”

you hum thoughtfully. “most people do. but clark…” you trail off, a lazy smile tugging at your lips. “he tries so hard not to.”

kara snorts, shaking her head. she watches you for a moment, like she's debating whether to scold you or laugh. she decides to laugh, running a hand down her face.

"you know he's not like us," she says finally. "kal-el doesn't do casual. he doesn't even understand casual."

you pause, holding the top midair, then glance over your shoulder with a slow smirk. "who said i'm trying to be casual?"

kara groans. "you are so going to break my cousin."

you pull off clark's shirt, tossing it into your pile of clothes and begin to shimmy into the tiny silver top. "he'll be fine. he's indestructible, isn't he?"

kara raises a brow. "emotionally? not so much."

you hum nonchalantly. but the comment sticks.

she's not wrong. clark is steady, earnest in a way you don't often encounter – especially in your line of work. he's the kind of man who believes in doing good, in the power of kindness, in something as absurdly fragile as hope.

and somehow, despite everything you've seen in this galaxy, that's what gets you the most.

not the cape, not the strength. not even his hot face and hotter body.

no, it's the terrifying softness he holds in a world that seems to constantly try to turn people hard.

it's... annoying.

but oh, it make you want to fuck him so bad.

you shake your head, reaching for your boots. "come on, zor-el. it's time to be irresponsible."

kara grins. "finally."

you and kara slip out into the chilly morning air, the fortress fading behind you as you both take to the sky. the wind bites at your skin, sharper here than in metropolis, but the rush of flight never gets old. kara’s laughter echoes beside you, bright and light.

the journey to france is a blur of clouds and sunlight, the city of paris unfolding beneath you like a glittering jewel. the skyline is crowned by the sparkly building – the eiffel tower, kara tells you – the iron piercing the pale blue sky.

you land deftly on the rooftop terrace of the club kara had mentioned – an old warehouse with a basement transformed into something otherworldly. neon lights pulse through the foggy night air, casting shifting colors over the crowd gathering below. the hum of synth-wave music vibrates through the walls, deep bass rolling in like waves.

the club is everything kara promised and more: dark yet shimmering with glittering stars strung across the ceiling, walls adorned with holographic murals, and dancers moving as if weightless under the strobe lights.

kara leads you through the crowd, her eyes bright with anticipation as she scans for the perfect vantage point. you slip into the chaos, letting the music pulse through you, the beat a steady thrum against your ribcage.

the drinks come fast. you laugh louder than usual, carefree and loose, the kind of abandon that only comes when the usual weight on your shoulders has slipped away. it's dizzying and dangerous in its own way because your guard is down.

kara watches you, amused and indulgent. “you’re making quite the impression.”

you smirk, "if only the rest of earth felt this homely."

you can only think of one other place on this planet that feels this homely.

before you can dwell on it, a guy from the crowd slides up to you. he flashes you a crooked smile, eyes gleaming under the neon glow as he leans in just enough to catch your attention over the music.

"hey gorgeous, you here alone?" he asks, voice smooth, practiced.

you turn, flashing him a grin that's equal parts amused and deadpan. "depends on who's asking."

the man chuckles, clearly pleased with himself. "name's jake. and you are?" he reeks of vodka.

you tilt your head, eyes sparkling with mischief. you prop your foot ni front of you, leaning back on the other for support and tap your chin in thought. "can i call you clark?"

the man blinks, caught off guard. "clark? why? he your ex or something?"

you smile, the bluntness catching him off guard. "i wish. if he were my ex, that would mean i've already fucked him."

jake laughs, nervously this time, and steps back, suddenly unsure if he's playing the right game. you pat him on the shoulder with mock sympathy as he steps away from you. "better luck next time, jake."

you turn back to the pulsing crowd, the music swallowing the tension, and somewhere in the back your mind, clark's mind lingers, sharp and impossible to shake.

that must mean you need another drink.

you don't remember how many drinks you have, only that kara struggles to carry you out – one of your shoulders looped around her neck – of the neon lit warehouse.

"there's no way i'll be able to fly both of us home," she grunts beneath your weight, dragging you along the streets of france.

"you're supposed to be the stronger one," you tease, head lolling forward, attempting to look at her expectantly.

"i don't exactly charge under the yellow sun on a daily basis so i'm not exactly at peak strength," she mumbles. "and you're deadweight when you're drunk. you flail and scream the second we get off the ground so i'd much rather not deal with that. i'm now realizing why we tend to go out in cities near metropolis."

"call mister hottie cousin of yours then," you slur, eyes fluttered closed as you smile lazily.

kara grunts again, voice low with effort. "you think he's just gonna drop everything and fly halfway across the world to pick up his cousin's drunk best friend at three in the morning?"

you giggle, face pressed against her shoulder. "he's superman. he can do whatever he wants."

she rolls her eyes but doesn't argue with you. she adjusts her grip to haul you more securely.

you mumble something about him being the kind of person who'd go out of his way for other – even you – which makes kara shake her head, half amused and have exasperated, but you can already tell she's dialing.

a few rings later, clark's voice comes through the speaker – calm, steady, just like always.

"kal, i need some help bringing–"

"clark!" you voice rings out, effectively cutting off kara. "i need a rescue," you drawl, voice thick with the haze of too many drinks. "can you come get to us?"

there's a pause, just long enough for you to wonder if you pushed it too far, then a, "on my way."

you can almost see him getting up from bed, swinging his legs over the side. you wonder if he'll come in civilian attire or as his peace-keeping counterpart.

the thought makes a lazy smile curve your lips upward.

minutes stretch as you wait in the chill night, the hum of distant traffic blending with the pulsing music still ringing in your ears.

finally, a shadow drops from the rooftop. it's a figure unmistakably tall, broad-shouldered and decidedly clark. you're too drunk to wonder how he found your exact location.

he doesn't wast time with words, just scoops you effortlessly into his arms, steady and sure as always, despite your wobbliness. kara straightens her back, sighing an exhale of relief.

"are you good to fly?" you hear clark as kara.

"absolutely," she answers.

you lazily blink through your drunken haze in attempt to get a glance of the man carrying you. a smile lifts your cheeks when his chin dips down, casting his gaze on you.

"hey, hot stuff," you slur in greeting, your tone laced with tequila and mischief.

clark exhales through his nose, the corners of his mouth twitching like he's trying very, very hard not to smile. "hi," he says quietly.

"came all the way to paris for little ol' me?" you ask, your words slurred but your grin unmistakably pleased.

he adjusts his grip on you, cradling you close to his chest like you're weightless (which, to be fair, you are to him). "you said you needed a rescue?"

“let's be real, i always need a rescue,” you mumble, fingers toying with the collar of his shirt. “just usually not from france.”

“you’re lucky kara called,” he says, but his voice is warm, not scolding. “think she was about ten seconds from leaving you on the sidewalk.”

“i’d never,” kara says behind him, deadpan. “i would've at least gotten her to a gas station.”

“and you're supposed to be my best friend,” you call over clark’s shoulder.

“good luck,” kara mutters to him, already lifting off into the air, wind kicking up around her. “i’m going to bed.”

clark watches her go, and when he turns back to you, his brow lifts slightly. “you good?”

you grin into the fabric of his shirt. no superman get-up. "yeah, just missed you."

that gets him.

you feel his arms tighten a fraction, and his stride falters for half a step.

"i saw you this morning," he murmurs, tone quiet now. almost too careful.

you hum in acknowledgment. "still missed you."

he huffs out a soft laugh, shaking his head. then, with a subtle shift in his stance, the world falls away beneath you both. the wind cuts around you as he lifts into the air, the lights of paris falling away beneath you. the world goes quiet up here, just wind and breath brushing against your ears.

the air is cold and biting against your skin, but clark’s warmth cuts through it, a steady comfort in the rush of wind. you press your cheek against his shoulder, lashes fluttering closed.

"can i go to your place?" you ask, voice muffled against the fabric of his clothing.

he looks down at you, the press of your cheek against his chest, as he flies above the cloud. "of course."

his words are simple, but they settle deep. heavy in your chest, warm in a way that has nothing to do with his heat against your skin.

he doesn't say anything after that, just flies.

maybe it's safer that way.

maybe if he speaks, he'll say something he can't take back.

or worse – something he means.

you tilt your head back to lazily look up at him, the wind blowing your hair back. his jaw is tight. his eyes fixed at the cloud ahead.

still, you catch the bob of his throat when he swallows.

your voice breaks the silence among the wind. "you'll always come when i call?"

a pause.

then a low, "yeah."

no hesitation. no joke. just... yeah.

you blink up at him, throat tightening for a reason you can't name. the sky around you is ink-dark, the stars scattered in the sky like salt. you stare at his profile. this ridiculous man with his ridiculous heart.

here's clark kent, the man who showed up at three a.m. not because he had to, but because you asked.

even with all your sharpness, all your teasing, and every inappropriate thing you've said in the last twelve hours... he still came.

gods, you think, your mind still muddled with drunkenness. i'm in so much trouble.

you exhale slowly, nuzzling back into his shoulder with a soft mutter. "you're gonna ruin me."

he doesn't answer, but you feel the way his hand flexes around your thigh, just once.

when you wake up hours later, mouth dry and head pounding, you're back in clark's apartment. but this time, you're not on the coucb.

you're in his bed. his bed.

alone.

but there's a glass of water on the nightstand. and advil. and a folded note.

your name is written across the top in that annoyingly neat script of his – as if you're not the only one who'd be in his apartment, let alone his bed.

you reach for the note with bleary eyes and open it with slow fingers.

i'll be back after work. please don't break anything. – Clark (p.s. you snore in your sleep)

you stare at the note, hungover yet still smug.

"i do not snore," you mutter to yourself.

you actually don't know whether you do or not, but that isn't the point. the point is: clark put you in his bed, left you water, and a painkiller for your inevitable hangover.

you look down at yourself. your brow quirks up in curiosity at the shirt draping your figure. a sly smirk curls up your cheeks before you tug at the collar, peering down into it. your smirk falls when you realize clark had simply put on one of his shirts over your night-out top.

he's too respectful, you huff to yourself.

you pad to the kitchen, his note still in hand, scanning the abode of neatness that is clark's apartment. it's nearly absurd how contradicting he is to you.

you do not belong here.

and yet here you are. clutching a stupid handwritten note like it's the first thing anyone's ever left you that felt like care.

his shirt hangs loose off your frame, just long enough to cover your ass in your tiny shorts, but still short enough to be a problem.

you rifle through his fridge (fully stocked with bread, eggs, greens and poultry), attempt to work his dishwasher, and even poke your head into his closet just to see if he organizes his clothing by color.

you take a shower, using his shampoo and conditioner, but you don't mind the way his scent clings to your skin after. in fact, you embrace it. it's warm and woodsy, with a hint of something clean and familiar. you're unsure if that's the soap or just him.

the water helps clear your head, but you still move slowly, your limbs heavy with leftover fatigue. when you dry off with a towel, you skip putting your silver top back on, opting instead for the oversized shirt he'd thrown over you the night before. it's soft and smells like him, too, and without the layer beneath it, the fabric drapes even more loosely over your frame. your underwear are the only thing you keep on, you decide as you look at the tiny shorts you wore prior.

by the time you settle on the couch, legs tucked under you, the sun has fully crested the skyline and your hangover is a gentle throb as opposed to a wave of nausea.

he gets home around six.

clark stops in the doorway, eyebrows raising like he half-expected you to be gone by now.

"you're still here," he says.

you lift and eyebrow and shrug. "i read your note. i figured that was a stay as long as you want invitation."

he hear him huff as he shrugs out of his blazer. he loosens his tie. rolls up the sleeves of his white button-up. "that's a stretch."

"is it?" you ponder aloud, tapping your chin.

silence stretches between you, though he fills the silence by kicking his shoes off near the door and placing his knapsack on a nearby stool.

you decide not to pry and instead, change the subject. "thank you for carrying me back."

clark nods, approaching the sofa. he doesn't sit. not yet. just stands in front of you, hands on his hips like he's trying to decide something.

"you totally could've," you counter quickly. "but thanks for not," you add with a genuine smile.

he smiles back – soft and almost sheepish – but there's something else behind his eyes. a weight. a choice he hasn't explained yet.

you tilt your head. "figured you'd take me to the fortress."

"i was going to," he admits, nodding. "but then you asked me to bring you back here."

your brows raise at that. "i did?"

he exhales through his nose, as if amused by your lack of memory. "you did. made sense. you've been crashing here every night this week."

"and you did," you say slowly, each word holding an extra emphasis.

"and i did," he confirms with a nod. he stands a ways away from you, unbuttoning the cuffs of his dress shirt to roll them up.

"you let me have your bed, too," you add.

"that, i also did," he nods again but this time you see the bobble his adam's apple does.

"how come?"

he looks away for a beat, then back at you – eyes softer than before.

"because," he says slowly, "you should be sleeping on a bed, not a couch."

you raise an eyebrow, skeptical.

he shrugs, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "you're too restless for the couch. too much of a night owl, too many thoughts racing. the couch doesn't give you room to breathe."

you study him, the way his gaze lingers a little longer than usual. the way he's not just talking about furniture, but about you. you don't know how he so easily sees through you and seems to know you so well, and you can't decide whether you like it or not.

you stretch languidly on the sofa, making sure his shirt rises enough to hint at the bare skin of your thighs. "you could've joined me, you know. bed's big enough."

you see him open his mouth to respond before he shuts it as if remembering to process your words first before choosing to respond. he looks down at the hardwood floors for a moment before lifting his head and not meeting your gaze.

"actually, i can't," he murmurs, shaking his head to himself.

you blink. "can't what?"

"i mean– i shouldn't." he runs a hand through his hair, flustered. "you're... unpredictable. and chaotic. and reckless."

you tilt your head, grinning. "i am."

he stares at you like you've personally ruined his life. maybe you have.

you watch him, the way he fights something internal. his jaw tightens like he's holding back a thousand words, maybe a thousand urges. you can feel the tension rolling off him like heat.

"you really don't remember much from last night, do you?" he asks.

your brows raise. "define much."

"you called me hot stuff again," he says.

you grin. "not new information. and i do that sober."

"you also tried to get me to kiss you once we landed back at the apartment."

that gives you pause. okay, that... that you don't remember.

"...did i?" you ask, lips twitching.

he nods, arms now crossed over his chest. "said the air was romantic. said i'd regret not kissing you under the stars." a beat passes. "also said i looked like safety and sex."

you can't help but snort, well aware it is something you'd say. "gotta love tequila."

he laughs. laughs. it's soft, low, not mocking, but fond.

finally.

"you also said you missed me."

your breath halts for a moment, eyes trained on your lap. you slowly peek up at him through your lashes, wary now. "that part... was probably true."

clark's still standing here, looking at you like he's trying to see through all your layers of bravado. and truthfully, maybe he does.

he runs a hand through his hair again, cheeks a little pink. "do you really?"

you blink. "do i... miss you?"

he shrugs one shoulder, but his voice is quieter now. "like, when you're off-world. have you ever once thought about coming back, not just for kara?"

it's a simple question. not a demand. not a plea. just a quiet hope.

you sit up, legs tucked under you, throw pillow in your lap. you stare up at him. "no, not once," you say.

his brows knit, faintly disappointed.

"i think about it all the time."

clark's jaw flexes. and then he finally moves, sitting down on the couch beside you. not touching. not yet. but he's close. close enough.

"i think about you, too," he admits, and it you feel a rush of victory spread across each of your nerves. his ears are pink again, but for once, he doesn't seem to shy away or hide from it.

"yeah?" you ask, lips quirking upward.

he nods.

another beat of silence.

you look down at the note still crumpled in your fingers. you'd been absentmindedly fiddling with it throughout the day. you smooth it over your thigh absently. "you always do the right thing," you murmur. "it's annoying."

clark huffs a soft laugh. "i try."

"you didn't have to come get me."

"i always will."

you look at him again, and this time, the mischief is one from your eyes.

he's so close now.

"you're the most dangerous thing on this planet," you whisper. realizing the statement is true on its own, you add, "for me."

clark's voice is steady. "why?"

you swallow. "because you make me want to stay, clark."

that does it.

the air changes between you. tenses. warms. still.

the air between you was almost something different, teetering on the edge of something so incredibly catastrophic or so devastatingly beautiful.

you can see the way his gaze drops – first to your mouth, then lower. you see his hand twitch, like he wants to touch you but something is holding him back. or, like he's holding himself back.

so you reach first.

you lift a hand and press your fingers gently against his jaw. "i'm sober now, clark."

"i'm aware."

"and i still want to kiss you."

his throat bobs. he exhales and it's sharp and soft at the same time.

"i've been trying really, really hard to do the right thing," he says, voice low and steady, like it's costing him to admit out loud. "to keep my distance. not let it... get messy."

you blink, barely breathing. "and?"

his lips twitch. you don't dare to move. the air between you is so charged it might crack open.

"i don't know what this is," he says, still not touching you. "but if i kiss you, it's not going to be casual. it's not going to be a joke or some in-the-moment mistake."

your breath hitches.

"i don't want to be one of your stops on the way to the next planet," he says, softer now. "so if you're not serious – if you're really just bored and looking for a thrill – please tell me now."

you stare at him. the blues of his eyes stare back into your own irises as his words register.

it's true that during your first visit, your flirting was just that – flirting. harmless, easy, something to pass the time while you awaited your next adventure on another planet.

you liked the way he got flustered. the way he stumbled over his words in the beginning or avoided your gaze like you were something dangerous.

but now...

now, with the weight of his voice still hanging between you, it doesn't feel like just flirting to you anymore.

your throat works around the knot forming there.

very quietly, you ask, "what if i am serious?"

the muscle in his jaw jumps. his eyes search yours for any sign of sarcasm, any game. but all he finds is honestly.

you rush to fill the silence. "i mean, i know i joke a lot. i know i push buttons and say things just to get a rise out of you, but this isn't that. i'm not bored or restless or trying to see how far i can push you before you finally push back. and maybe it's stupid, because you're you and i'm – well, me – but it doesn't feel like a game to me. not anymore. and i don't want you to think i'm not taking this seriously, because i am. more serious than i've taken anything, probably, but i can't seem to–"

your words cut off with a startled sound when he surges forward, catching your mouth with his before you can keep unraveling.

the kiss is firm, steady, and a silencing press that tells you he heard every word you said and he doesn't need more.

and it's not hesitant. it's hungry.

every ounce of restraint he's held for the last however many visits of yours, every sarcastic jab, every midnight glance he thought you didn't catch – it all collapses into this kiss.

clark exhales sharply when your fingers slip into his hair, tugging at it enough to pull a low sound from his throat. his hands find your waist, hesitant at first, like he's still holding back, then firmer, archoring you to him as he kisses you deeper.

you shift onto your knees, straddling his lap without breaking the kiss. you hear his breath catch as you settle over him and you can feel the heat of him through both your layers of clothing. still, he doesn't rush it. his hands stay steady at your hips, his thumbs brushing circles just under the hem of your shirt – his shirt – on your skin.

he pulls away just long enough to rasp against your lips. "still unpredictable."

you grin breathlessly. "still a coward for waiting this long."

he growls and kisses you again, deeper this time, if that's even possible. "so insufferable."

"you like it."

"i really do."

you lean in, your lips grazing his jaw and then lower. "then let me show you just how unpredictable i can be."

clark's hands slide under the shirt fully now, palms warm against your skin. he groans to himself, as if noting the fact that you're no longer wearing the silver top from the night before. "you're not making it easier for me to be a gentleman."

"you've been a gentleman long enough."

your shirt hits the floor first and his eyes rake over you, hungry but reverent, like he's memorizing every inch of you he can see. when his hands find your thighs, he drags them up slowly, thumbs tracing the edge of your underwear.

you reach down and pull his glasses off, setting them carefully on the side table.

"i've wanted to do that for so long," you whisper, fingers tracing his temple gently.

he swallows hard. "yeah?"

you nod, fingers moving to the buttons lining the center of his shirt. "wanted to know what you looked like up close like this. see how blue your eyes really are."

he closes his eyes like he's trying to keep it together. "christ, y/n."

you hum in acknowledgment, pulling either side of his shirt apart, exposing his midsection.

he's unreal, of course he is. warm skin, hard muscle and a faint trail of hair disappearing under the waistband of his slacks. you run your hand over his chest, just to feel him, and his breath stutters.

when you grind down on him, slow yet with purpose, he groans, head falling forward to rest against your shoulder. "you're not playing fair."

"you know i never do."

he huffs a laugh against your collarbone, equal parts aroused and exasperated, his breath hot and shaky on your skin. "i'm starting to get that." one of his hands splay across your lower back, the other gripping your thigh like he needs something to hold onto.

"you're going to ruin me," he murmurs, low like it's a confession.

you lean back just enough to meet his eyes again, fingers still drifting over the hard planes of his chest. "good," you say, not teasing this time.

that seems to snap something in him. he kisses you again, harder now, like he's decided there's no going back. like he's done pretending there's nothing brewing between you.

the kiss turns messy, urgent. his hands are everywhere now – your hips, your ribs, your back. when his mouth trails down to your neck, sucking gently at the skin just below the line of your jaw, your head falls back with a soft moan.

"tell me," he says between kisses, voice low and hoarse. "tell me you want this." his tone is laced with a sense of urgency. a need. he needs to hear it from you. he needs to know this isn't some fling.

"i want this," you breathe. "clark, i want you."

he exhales a breath you weren't aware he was holding. his mouth finds yours again and it's desperate as you press your body flush against him, fingers curled in the thick curls at the back of his neck, the tension that's been coiling between you since the moment you stepped into his life snaps as your hips roll, grinding down deliberately against the bulge straining beneath his slacks.

clark groans, low and raged, hands tightening on your thighs as you rock over him again, slower this time. testing. teasing.

"i need–" he starts, but cuts himself off with a sharp inhale as you roll your hips just right.

you reach down between your bodies and palm him through the fabric of his pants, a wicked little smile curling at your lips. "yeah?"

clark's jaw clenches. his hands are still on your body, but the heat in his eye shifts into something deeper now. like he's no longer bound by hesitation. his hands drift from your ribs to cup the valleys of your chest, groaning at the feeling of your breasts against his palms.

you rock down against him, still in your underwear, but it's not enough. not for him. not anymore.

clark growls – actually, growls – and grabs your wrist, forcing you to sit up straighter. you can feel the hardened bulge of his cock beneath his slacks pressing between your legs.

"you love playing games," he says, eyes dark and breath hot against your cheek. "but you don't get to be in control tonight."

your brow quirks upward. "no?"

he shakes his head once. "you're gonna stay right here," he says, guiding your hips down and along the bulge in his lap, grinding you exactly how he wants you. "but you take what i give you."

a soft, involuntary moan slips out of you.

his grip on your hip tightens. "that clear?"

you nod, dazed. "yeah. yes."

he grins in a way that's more than a usual clark grin. there's more heat behind it. "good."

then, he lets go over your hips, only to trail his hand down and tug your underwear to the side and slide two thick fingers through your slick folds. you gasp, clenching around nothing and you hear him hiss at the feeling of you.

"so wet already," he mutters. "you like when i take charge," he observed aloud, like the thought hadn't ever occurred to him.

you moan as he presses in, slow and deliberate, finger curling inside your velvet walls just right. "fuck, clark–"

"that's it," he murmurs, watching your expression melt all from his fingers.

as he works you open on his fingers, you grind helplessly in his lap, the control shifting entirely into his hands. and you let it. you've been craving it.

you've been craving him. the weight of him, the strength, the heat. the way he takes over without making you feel small in the slightest. the way he knows exactly what you want without even asking.

his fingers keep working inside you, deliberate and deep, curling just right, just enough the halt your breath and make your thighs shake. his free hand slides up your spine, steadying you when your hips start to stutter against him.

"look at you," he says, voice low and near a rasp. "falling apart just from my fingers."

you whimper, back arching slightly as your hands clutch at his shoulders.

the way his fingers move inside you – patient, precise, devastating – has you unraveling far too quickly. embarrassingly too quickly. each curl of his knuckles brushes against your clit, making you jolt with every slow, intentional thrust.

your head falls forward, forehead pressed to his. "clark–"

"i know," he says, voice thick with restraint. "'ve got you."

he kisses you then – deep and slow, not matching the pace of his fingers inside you. his mouth is gentle. his hands are not.

when he adds a third finger, you choke on a moan, hips twitching forward, despite yourslef. it's much too much and not enough all at once, the stretch making your walls flutter and thighs tremble around his lap.

"you're gonna cum on my fingers," he murmurs, like a promise, like a command. "right here. just like this."

you cling to his shoulders, whimpering now with every thrust. he curls his fingers again, slower this time, dragging them against your sweet spot until your vision whites out at the edges.

this wasn't how it was supposed to be. you expected you'd be in control – riding him at your own pace, drawing out every sound he could make. most of your fantasies started with you in charge, maybe giving him the best head of his life right there on that sofa, smug about how easily you could unravel him.

but no. of course clark kent had to flip the script, catching you off guard with just how much strength, how much intention he had under all that restraint. every deliberate curl of his fingers left no room for you to take back the reins, no space to even pretend you were the one setting the pace. he was relentless but measured, like he'd been holding back for too long and finally decided you were the one person he could let himself break for.

"clark–!" your voice breaks, high and desperate.

"i know, sweetheart. let go."

you do.

it hits like lightening, the heat coiling in your gut before snapping, rushing through your veins like fire as you cry out into his shoulder, thighs shaking, body clenching tight around his fingers. he holds you through it, fucking you slowly through the aftershocks until you're boneless in your lap.

you're still panting when he finally pulls his fingers free, bringing them to his mouth without hesitation. he moans low around them, like he's starving.

"clark," you breath, almost pleading, shifting in his lap. it's as if that's the only word left in your vernacular. his cock is hard and heavy beneath you, straining against his slacks, and you can't stop the way your hips roll down, searching for more friction.

his hands find your waist instantly, steadying you, holding you still even when you try to move again. "slow down," he warms, voice rough. "'ve been so patient with you, think it's only right that i set the pace."

you nod quickly, desperate, but he doesn't move right away. instead, he takes his time, undoing his belt and pushing his pants down just enough to free himself. your breath catches at the sight of him, flushed and thick, resting heavy against his stomach.

"go on," he orders softly, the command striking your spine with a warmth. your hands obey before your mind can even catch up, wrapping around him, guiding him through your folds until he's slick with your arousal.

his grip tightens on your hips as he positions you over him. "that's it. sink down on me."

he's thick – too thick, you think at first, the blunt head nudging against you in a way that makes your breath stutter in your chest. your fingers falter around him, because there's no ignoring just how much of him there is to take.

the sheer girth alone has your thighs quaking before you've even started to lower yourself, the stretch burning deliciously slow as your body yield to him. he's overwhelming, every inch of him demanding, and the thought of fitting all of him inside you leaves your head spinning with a mix of awe and desire.

this is exactly what you've been waiting for.

your thighs tremble as you continue, inch by inch, stretching around him until you're full, seated completely in his lap. you feel full, owned, as if he’s been molded to fit inside you and nowhere else.

the breath he exhales against your throat is ragged, and he lifts his head to press his forehead to yours.

"good girl," he murmurs and before you can even think to move, his hands tighten, dragging you down into his rhythm – rolling his hips up into you, forcing you to ride him just the way he wants.

the praise makes your walls flutter around him, and his answering groan rumbles low in his chest.

his rhythm is merciless, hips surging up into you while his grip keeps you exactly where he watns you, hands gripping the flesh of your waist tightly. every drag of his is deep, filing you so completely it border on unbearable. your fingers scramble to clutch his work button-up – still haphazardly pulled open from your doing earlier – for balance, nails digging into the fabric as broken sounds spill from your lips.

his name shatters in your throat, half-plea, half-worship.

what has he reduced me to?

"ride me," he growls against your ear, and you try, you really do, lifting your hips only to sink back down on his.

you ride him like you’ve got something to prove, your pace increasing, thighs trembling as you bounce against his hips. every thrust drags another whimper from your throat, and every sound you make seems to undo him further. he meets your rhythm easily, hips thrusting up to meet you, so deep you see stars.

he meets your gaze, watching you as you bounce above him. his pupils are blown wide, jaw tight, sweat beading at his temple as he watches every flash of expression cross your features. "atta girl," he rasps, voice breaking on a groan. 'taking all of me. you're perfect."

he dips his head down and his mouth finds your breast, tongue tracing a circle around your nipple before sucking it into his mouth, and the pleasure spikes so hard you cry out. your nails dig into his shoulders, no doubt leaving marks across the skin through his white shirt.

and still, his eyes stay locked on yours through it all. tit in mouth.

who knew he could be so obscene?

but it's like he wants to memorize every expression. every twitch. every sound he pulls from you.

you lean forward, both hands cradling his face now pulling him away so you can press your forehead to his. “you feel so good, clark.”

“so do you,” he groans, low and rough.

your rhythm falters just enough to make him hiss, and suddenly his hands are under your thighs, lifting you, fucking up into you with more force, more power than ever before, if that's even possible.

it’s staggering, this man who could shatter anything that steps in his way yet doesn't because of the golden heart behind his ribcage. the man who's looking at you with such a deep reverence, you wonder how on this planet you earned it.

"you're almost there," he mutters between gritted teeth, his movements never faltering as he picks you up and slams you back down along his thick shaft, throbbing with need. "'can feel it."

you whine, your gummy walls, fluttering and pulsing around his cock, speaking for you.

"let go, sweetheart," he rasps, the undercurrent of his tone so fond.

"you, too," you manage, eyes shutting from the sheer pleasure. "want you to."

"i know, i know," he murmur, voice low and reverent. "after."

you firmly shake your head, getting some semblance of your stubborn senses back to you. "no, now."

"sweetheart–"

"inside."

you hear his breath hitch in his throat and see his his eyes darken, pupils blown wide. for a second, his thrusts falter, like he's debating whether to fight you on it. but then your walls squeeze down around him, and the choice is made for him.

"god," he growls, the sound breaking between restraint and surrender. his grip tightens buisingly on your thighs as he slams you down harder, chasing the edge with reckless abandon now. "you're suer?"

"yes," you cry out, nails digging into his shoulder and your head falling forward until your lips brush his ear. "want it. all of you."

his control finally shatters. he drives up into you with a relentless force, the couch creaking under the weight of his power. all you can feel is him splitting you open, the lewd slap of skin on skin and the guttural sounds from his throat as he buries himself deep inside.

your orgasm hits first, white-hot, overwhelming and tearing through your shaking in his grasp, vision blurring as you clamp down on him.

"shoot–" he grits out, hips jerking in short, desperate thrusts. with a groan that rumbles through his chest and right to yours, he finally gives in, spilling deep inside you, heat flooding your core as he buries himself to the hilt.

he holds you there, panting, forehead pressed to your shoulder as he rides out every last pulse. every last wave of it.

you collapse against him, bodies slick and tangled, chests heaving with the aftershock of what just happened. his arms wrap around you instantly, holding you closely.

for a long moment, neither of you move. you're both wrecked, sweaty, gasping as you catch you breaths.

you don't say anything at first.

you just listen to the sound of his heart. it's still thudding fast beneath your cheek.

then, softly, you murmur, “i like earth. loud. messy. but it’s nice.”

he huffs a quiet laugh, the kind that's more exhale than sound and he presses a kiss to the crown of your head.

"you used to complain nonstop," he murmurs, voice lazy and rough with the afterglow. his hand finds your spine, tracing slow, reverent lines. "said the gravity made you clumsy. that the food is too bland. that humans don't know how to drive."

you grin into his chest. "all still true."

another beat passes.

"but it's different now," you add, softer. "it's warm, too. soft."

he chuckles again, but there’s an edge of disbelief to it, as if he still can’t quite believe you’re here. that this is real.

you tilt your head just enough to look at him. his eyes are already on you.

“i think,” you say, voice barely audible but so careful, “i might want to stay.”

he stills for only for a second, but you notice anyway. there's a breath caught in his lungs. you can practically see the hope swelling inside him, too fragile to speak aloud.

“you don’t have to say that,” he says, gently. “not because of this.”

“i’m not,” you say, quickly. “i’m saying it because of you.”

and there it is. that look from him. like you hung the stars and he’s only just realized it. like you’re not some wild, reckless orbit passing through. like maybe you’ve always been heading toward him.

clark's hand cradles your jaw. he kisses you again, softer this time.

“i want you to stay,” he breathes against your lips. “god, I want you to stay.”

you smile, eyes fluttering closed as you press closer, letting his warmth sink into your bones. you choose to ignore the logistics of being an alien and residing on a planet that isn't yours, unsure how citizenship would even work. then again, you'd been off planet for so long, jumping from moon to planet that the idea of citizenship feels almost laughable.

you're a wanderer. a drifter. no borders. not roots. no ties.

but here, wrapped in clark's arms, breathing in the scent of his skin and listening to the steady rhythm of his heart, something definitely shifts within you.

“then I guess I’m home.”

ʚĭɞ reblogs and interaction always appreciated! ʚĭɞ

[ellaspidey]

pentupbf!clark fucking you dumb :( mdni. 18+

your boyfriend was a very patient man, and you admired that about him, everyone did. I mean he was clark kent, everyone's dream boyfriend.

you were grateful to have someone like him in your life, but it was a little irritating that he could go so long without... it.

how far would you have to go for him to absolutely lose it?

you knew what you were doing to him. clark noticed every little thing you did just to get an ounce of a reaction out of him, he would be lying if he said that it didn't work, the constant tent in his pants he had to hide throughout the day proved that much.

how could he not have a raging boner when you were pushing your ass up against him in a not-so-discrete way while the two of you waited in line for coffee, or the way you bent over in a painfully slow manner to pick up the pen that you 'accidentally' dropped in front of his desk, don't even get him started on the red lace panties he caught a glimpse of when you bent over.

his cock was fucking throbbing, and it wasn't even lunch yet.

the ride home from the office was silent. the only noise coming from the poor leather of the steering wheel being squeezed to death in clarks fist and the roar of the car engine as clark sped up even more.

"clark? honey? I think you should slow down a little..."

"im going the speed limit." he murmured. he was going the speed limit, but something felt off. like he was in a rush. he'd been unusually quiet all day.

"is everything alright clark?" you asked softly, maybe you had taken it too far? was he embarrassed? you always made sure no one was actually looking before you 'publicly' teased him.

"im fine sweetheart. don't worry your pretty little head, hm?"

-

"strip."

"w-what?"

"you heard me princess. strip. I wanna see that new red lace set."

"clark I—"

"you know your word."

you looked up at your boyfriend, who was dead serious. clarks eyes scanned every inch of your body as his hand went to unbutton his white button up.

you stood at the edge of the bed in nothing but your red laced bra and work skirt that reached just above your knee. another thing you had done to purposely work him up.

as you began to take off your skirt, clarks hand grabbed your wrist.

"leave it on." he warned before reaching his hand to your face, his fingers trailing down your cheek before he gripped the bottom of your chin.

"get on your knees baby." his tone was strict, his voice deep and demanding. something that was so odd to hear from your boyfriend who was usually so gentle and warm.

nevertheless, you obeyed and dropped down in front of him, his gaze never left yours. not even as he started un-buckling his belt and pulling out his fat cock from the waistband of his boxers.

his tip was swollen and red, already leaking pre from how painfully solid his dick had been all day.

"look what you did. you know I've had to tuck my cock in all day because of you sweetheart? do you know how hard I tried to hold myself back from grabbing you and bending you over my fucking desk in front of the whole office?" his grip on your face was firm as he ran his thumb across your plump lips.

" m-'m sorry clark."

he tutted, his eyes leering into yours, "too late for that now. open up that filthy mouth."

you opened your mouth, sticking your tongue out as saliva dripped onto his hand, "look at you. mouth watering like a fucking slut, this what you wanted huh pretty girl?"

you nodded with no hesitation, earning a satisfied groan from your boyfriend as he slid his throbbing red tip on your tongue, the saltiness of his pre filling your tastebuds.

"hands behind your back." was all he said before thrusting his length into the warmth of your mouth, your eyes brimming with tears as you took him all the way down your throat. he watched as you held back gags with every thrust, his pace increasing as if he wanted to watch you cry and beg for him to stop.

"f-fuck... y-your mouth s'warm princess." he breathed out "you—mm—take me so well."

clark's thrusts grew sloppier as his hands gripped your head, your fingernails dug into your palms behind your back as tears ran down your face, along with your mascara. your teary eyes never leaving his.

it was a sight, and clark couldn't help but to get even more turned on.

" m'gonna—fuck!—m'gonna cum down your throat baby-" and with one more stuttered thrust, his warmth hit the back of your throat before he pulled his length out of your wet mouth.

you felt clark oogling your the way your breasts moved as your chest rose up and down catching your breath, he didn't miss the way your thighs pushed together.

-

its been hours. the room smells of sex, you're covered head to toe in sweat, and clark is still going. you've lost track of how many times you've cum.

your thighs twitched with every thrust, clarks cock was still hard and covered in your slick along with his own cum after so many rounds.

your face was smushed into the mattress, your ass up, and your hands were tied behind you with clarks belt.

"c-clark... I can't—ngh!" a loud slap landed on your ass, clarks thrusts never ended.

"can't what hm? isn't this what you want baby?" he cooed, gripping onto your hips as his pelvis slammed into your ass even harder causing you to cry out.

"s'too much!—fuck!—clark p-please!" you were a sloppy mess, tear-streaked mascara ran down your face, your baby hairs drenched in sweat, and your mind lost in a daze of pleasure.

"you can—s-shit—you can take it pretty girl. you need to cum?"

you nodded, too lost in your own pleasure to find words.

"look at ya, too fucked out to even talk." clark teased as his hand reached up to fondle one of your tits. "say you're sorry baby. than you can cum."

" 'm sor—fuck!— m'sorry! i w-won't do it—ah!—again." you slurred on your words as your boyfriend kissed up and down your back, his thrusts never ending.

"atta girl." clark's other hand snaked in between your thighs, rubbing on your swollen clit. "cum for me baby."

your body jerked before you gushed around his cock for the nth time, loud and pathetic whimpers leaving your lips as you did so.

clarks thrusts finally stopped as he undid the belt binding your hands together and peppered kissed all over the warmth of your cheeks before collapsing next to you out of breath.

he looked over to you, admiring how breathtaking you looked, even while fighting off the urge to shut your eyes and pass out. you felt his strong arms pull you in close.

"just rest sweetheart. I'll clean you up."

that was the last thing you remember before dozing off.

y'all this was not supposed to be this long but im like overly freaked out this week.

[ellaspidey]

crying in the walk-in

crying in the walk-in

summary: after a brutal dinner service at The Bear and overall horrible day, you find yourself crying in the walk-in. but not long after, you end up in the back seat of carmy's car.

word count: 3k

content warnings: smut MDNI!!! afab reader, hand stuff (m and f-receiving), oral (f-receiving), PIV, semi-public sex, soft dom carmy(?), mega praise kink

notes: this is my first fic so please be nice. and send any requests! love you all, especially my greatest inspirations @carmenberzattosgf and @saltnsugarbear

---

at your previous jobs, anyone could tell you: when the going gets tough, you cry in the walk-in. but this was The Bear. the most respected, most esteemed place you'd ever worked. The Bear was not the kind of place you felt comfortable crying in the walk-in. definitely not as a stage, and especially not as the newest, greenest one of the bunch. but one particularly miserable tuesday night, you broke your one rule.

it was a very valid meltdown. your car broke down on your way to work in the morning, which made you late. being late meant you had to rush through your prep. rushing through prep meant when you were working with the molten sugar for marcus' white violet dish, you burned yourself. bad. at least a second degree, but you weren't gonna be a fucking baby about it.

you rinsed your hand in cool water for an agonizing minute or two, bandaged yourself up, threw on a glove, and got back to work. at least it was your non-dominant hand. you knew the dessert course always came up faster than you expected, so you needed all the time possible to finish prepping. when did people start eating so fucking fast? it feels like the pasta course went out two minutes ago, and now you were suddenly sending out desserts.

to make matters worse, one of the servers was out sick. some stomach flu or something, that motherfucker. that meant front of house was stressed, which in turn meant back of house was stressed, namely carmy. and a stressed carmy is never ever pleasant to be around. he never yelled at you directly--after all, you were a pastry stage, responsible more for prep and wiping plates than actually making food through service--but his voice booming throughout the kitchen was giving you a headache.

and here's the kicker: you dropped a fucking plate. and whereas most of the earthenware dishes would break into clean pieces if and when they were dropped, you were serving one of the desserts on delicate glass plates. it shattered into a million pieces, and your heart did too. and jesus christ did carmy yell about it.

by the time you're done with service and cleaning your station, you need a beer. or six. you need a cigarette. or a pack. and you need a good cry. or, rather, an ugly sob. and since your car got towed to the mechanic in the morning, you couldn't just go out to the parking lot and cry in your car like you usually would.

which is how you end up wailing in the walk-in.

you think everyone's gone, aside from carmy meticulously scrubbing surfaces that have already been cleaned at least twice, but you know he's in his own world cleaning, so you're not worried. that is, until the door to the walk-in creaks open.

you're turned away from the door, but you can feel carmy's presence. he approaches you, and you can sense the warmth of his body in contrast to the cold air around you. you try to make yourself presentable, wiping your tears and snot on your sleeve before turning around.

his vibrant blue eyes are calm and kind. neither of you speak for a moment. finally, you feel composed enough to speak.

 "i'm so fucking embarrassed," you say, dabbing at your eyes again with the corner of your sleeve. your voice comes out a squeak, but you continue. "the burn's not even that bad, i'm being such a fucking baby."

"hey," carmy says so gently you could burst into tears again, "you're good."

"i don't wanna be, like, too personal. like, if this is... inappropriate or anything--"

"chef?" carmy says, pulling you out of your spiral. you see him circle his fist over his chest, and you realize he really means it. "you're good."

"thank you, chef," you say, breathing a sigh of relief that you haven't fucked everything up. that the sky's not falling. "it was, like, you know those moments when the world feels so loud that you can't actually hear anything at all?"

there's a small, knowing smile on carmy's face. "yeah, something like that." after a much-needed moment of quiet, he says, "it's late. you ready to head out?"

you nod and follow carmy out of the walk-in. the kitchen is empty, spotless, about a thousand degrees cooler than it gets during service. it's bizarrely calm.

"it's so different when it's empty," you say. "full of, like, possibilities."

carmy holds the back door open for you, and you flip off the lights as you walk out. he locks the door behind you and promptly lights up a cigarette. he takes a drag, then sighs.

"could i--" you begin to ask, and before you even finish the question carmy's handing you the cigarette. you take a couple puffs, then hand it back to him. but after he takes the cigarette back, he takes your hand in his, looking at your fresh injury.

"impressed you made it through service like that. fuck," carmy says lowly. you try to stay calm but your heart flutters the longer he's holding your hand.

"thank you, chef," you say. he squeezes your hand and looks you dead in the eye.

"you don't have to call me that," he tells you firmly, leaning closer into you. he doesn't want to think about work. he doesn't want to be your chef right now. he wants to experience this moment with you, this moment of real human conversation outside the bubble of chaos that was The Bear during service.

you take a step towards him. "thank you, carmy," you say without breaking eye contact. that is, until carmy's eyes go straight to your lips. then you can't help but follow suit and stare at his. they're full and plush and you can just imagine them all over your body. desperate to pull yourself together, you take the dying cigarette from carmy's hand and take a final drag. it emboldens you.

but, before you can make your move, carmy gestures to the parking lot. "how you getting home? you said this morning your car's fucked," he asks. you sigh.

"fuck, i hate taking the L at night," you reply.

"i can drive you," he offers. you're a little stunned. not like it was an insane thing to offer; his place was in the same direction as yours, and although you weren't friends per se, everyone at The Bear looked out for each other. still, he was your boss and not a particularly social guy, and you could tell how exhausted he was just by looking at him. why was he offering this?

"i can call an uber--" you begin, but he cuts you off.

"that's stupid. i'll drive you," he says. he starts walking towards his car, and you follow. but after a moment, you stop, and he stops with you.

"carmy?" you ask, that bubble of sadness and anxiety and rage in your stomach quickly turning into something else entirely. "would it be ok if--"

he cuts you off with a kiss straight to your lips. he's gentle at first, just testing the waters, but when you open your mouth to him, he goes fucking feral. it's all teeth and tongue, one of his hands going to your hip and the other cradling the back of your neck. carmy's lips taste exactly how you expect them to--cigarette smoke and mint gum and unscented chapstick--and it couldn't be more intoxicating. you lean into the kiss, grabbing the soft fabric of that familiar white tee shirt in your fists, trying to hold onto this moment. to hold on to him.

carmy's hand creeps from your waist down to your ass, giving it a playful squeeze. you moan softly, and he does it again, harder, eliciting an even louder groan from you. one of your hands creeps up under his shirt, feeling the firm, chiseled muscles of his stomach. his skin is softer than you expect, and his body is radiating heat. finally, he pulls away from you. you already miss his lips.

"get in the car," he says roughly. as you reach for the passenger door, he shakes his head. "nuh uh, back seat."

you feel your stomach jump to your throat and the heat in your core growing from a flickering spark into a fucking wildfire. you'd been in love with carmy as a chef since you spent an ungodly amount of money to eat at Ever back when you were in culinary school. luxuries for you weren't clothing or perfume: they were meals. meals that made you feel inspired. meals that made you want to be a better chef. and after years following him in magazine interviews, you finally ended up at The Bear, and you realized you weren't just in love with his culinary skill or creative vision: you were in love with the man himself.

you climb into the back seat, and he follows you. as you settle, he leans over, gripping your face sweetly but firmly as his lips crash back into yours. your hands find his abs again, desperate to feel his skin, one hand travelling up to his chest and feeling the muscles there too. sensing what you want from your wandering fingertips, carmy pulls off his shirt. you do the same, leaving him looking like a greek statue and you flushed in your lacy bra. you can't deny it: you started wearing lingerie to work under your kitchen clothes, hoping this moment would come eventually, though you never expected it to actually happen.

one of his hands rushes to knead your breast through the fabric and the other begins to work on unbuttoning your pants. you both moan into each other's mouths, the heat around you rising as the windows begin to fog. with carmy's help, you push your pants down around your ankles, revealing your matching lace underwear already saturated with your wetness. carmy loops his fingers under the elastic of your panties, pulling it and letting it slap back to your skin. the tiny sting sets you on fire.

"please, carmy," you moan desperately, not knowing what exactly you're asking for. all you know is you need it. you need it now.

carmy senses what you want, and you shift your bodies into a different position. "gonna make you feel so good," he says, his voice deep and erotic. you lay your head against the driver's side window, your open legs stretching across the seats. carmy positions himself at your feet, his feet resting in the footwell and his body leaning towards where you need him most.

carmy kisses around the edges of your clothed pussy, nipping at the fabric, teasing you. you don't even try to stifle your moans, letting longing, wanton sounds reverberate in the car. you need more, more, more. once he's finally tortured you long enough, he pulls your underwear down your legs and attaches his mouth directly to your centre. his tongue swirls around your clit and you squeal into your hand.

"not like that, baby, wanna hear you," he says before diving back in. as your moans resume, even louder than before, carmy starts pumping one finger in and out of you, quickly adding another. the stretch around his fingers is agonizingly good. he's obviously dextrous in the kitchen, but you quickly realize his hands may be even more gifted in the bedroom. or, rather, the parking lot.

as his fingers continue to stretch you out, hitting that sensitive spot inside you over and over again, you feel your orgasm building. the bubble of pleasure in your stomach begins spreading through your entire body, and you feel like you're on fire. carmy talks you through it. "so good, just like that, there you go. good girl, show me how well you can take it. you take my fingers so well, baby, fuck." he continues to ramble praises as he pumps his fingers in and out of you, adding a third finger and increasing your pleasure tenfold.

you know you're close, but you try to hold out, to receive as much pleasure as you can before you burst. he's mumbling into your pussy, his words swirling through your fucked-out head. you can barely make out what he's saying until he grabs your hand and looks you in the eye. "you deserve to feel good, baby. gonna give you everything you deserve, my good girl. say it. say you deserve it," he says, staring through your eyes and into your soul.

"i deserve it," you say shakily, but he shakes his head, his hand still moving. you try again. "i deserve it, i deserve it," you repeat with more fire behind it this time.

with that, he sucks directly on your clit, and your orgasm hits you fast and hard. "carmy, i'm cumming," you whine, and he continues sucking and thrusting, working you through your orgasm with skill and enthusiasm.

"that's it, that's it, yes, baby. cum for me, baby, you look so fucking pretty when you cum for me. fucking perfect," he grunts. although your vision is blurry from the strength of your orgasm, you can see he's palming himself through the fabric of his jeans with his unoccupied hand. you see the tent growing in his pants and you want it. you want it bad.

carmy leaves a final, gentle kiss to your pussy before climbing back up and resting his body on top of yours. as he ruts his hips into yours, he roughly shoves his fingers into your mouth. "taste yourself, tastes so fucking good," he says, and the sweet tanginess of your release combined with the feeling of his fingers filling your mouth is so filthy and so. fucking. good.

"carmy please," you whine around his fingers. "please, please, carmy please," you continue, and he begins taking off his belt, quickly followed by his jeans and boxers. his cock, red and throbbing, is a little longer than average, but what astounds you is how fucking thick he is. your mouth salivates with the anticipation of feeling him inside of you. without hesitation, you spit on your good hand and begin pumping his length, pulling a forceful groan from him. "want you to fuck me, carmy, please, fuck me." you're nearly crying with how good his mouth was and how good you know his cock is about to be. "please, ple--"

before you even finish the word, he pushes into you, stretching you wide. you whimper at the stretch, and he makes eye contact with you, concern visible on his face. "ok?" he asks.

"yes, god, yes, it's just been a while," you say, too turned on to be embarrassed.

"then we'll take it nice and slow," he replies into your ear, slowly pulling out almost all the way before thrusting back into you slowly but forcefully. you moan louder than before, your eyes flying shut for a moment before you realize you can't look away from his face. you want to memorize it--every line, every freckle, the tiny scar on his cheek, his dilated pupils and bright blue irises, the vein running down his neck, the beads of sweat on his brow. everything.

"more, more, please," you beg, a tear rolling down your cheek. again, you're not sure what you're asking for. harder? faster? deeper?

carmy takes his chances. he gives you all three. as he pounds into you, letting out pornographic moans of his own, you find yourself screaming. you can't tell if it's out loud or inside your head, and you don't care. with that, he shoves his fingers back into your mouth, cutting off your sounds and filling you to the point of almost choking you. it's fucking heavenly. as your eyes roll back in your head, you see that the windows are completely fogged up. the air is thick and dense, the car full of the smell of sex and the sound of skin slapping skin. you're in your own perfect bubble in the middle of that sketchy chicago parking lot. you want to stay like this forever.

as you feel the pleasure building up through your body, carmy can sense you're getting close. his right hand goes from inside your mouth to around your neck--not applying any pressure, but reminding you that he could. his other hand snakes down your body, twisting at your nipple through the lace of your bra, then trailing down between your bodies to rub tiny circles around your clit. "oh, fuck, yes, just like that. fuck, carmy i'm gonna cum," you whine, and he continues thrusting into you, his movements getting progressively more sloppy.

"me too, baby. so fucking close," he forces out through groans of pleasure. "cum for me, wanna feel you cum around my cock." with that, he crashes his lips back to yours, kissing you furiously as your orgasm hits you like a freight train. you're pretty sure you've died, that the pleasure has you literally ascending. as he works you through your orgasm, he hits his peak too, and you can feel the spurts of hot cum deep inside you. "fuck, cumming," he barely makes out through his moans which have gradually gone up in pitch. he continues to fuck you until he's too sensitive to move, after which he collapses on top of you. you're both panting into each other's mouths as you come down from the high. after a few moments, carmy brushes your sweaty bangs off of your forehead, kissing you gently and playfully all over your face.

"gonna take you home now," he says, getting up from his spot on top of you and searching for his clothes. you quickly realize he means he's taking you to his home. that this night is just getting started.

it's in this moment you know you're completely and utterly fucked.

[ellaspidey]

the silence between heartbeats

david corenswet!Clark Kent x pregnancy loss!reader

word count: 5.1k

summary: Not every love story gets the shiny, happy ending we dream of. Sometimes it shatters right in the middle, and all you can do is hold onto each other in the dark. Clark comes back from a work trip, thinking life is the same as when he left. But when you hug him and break down, he realizes the sound he loved most—the heartbeat of your baby—is gone. What follows is heartbreak, raw grief, and the kind of love that tries to piece back together what can’t be replaced.

warnings: Miscarriage (pregnancy loss), Heavy angst, but also comfort, Clark Kent being the softest, most tender man alive (literally), You will cry, but you’ll also feel like you’re being hugged through the screen, Not recommended for public transport reading… unless you don’t mind ugly crying in front of strangers.

a/n: Based on this request. Remember, my inbox and requests are open for now, so if you want to tell me something or make a request, you can do so. Just be nice. Enjoy your reading 💕

──xoxo, madds ᡣ𐭩

The hospital always smells the same: disinfectant, forced silence, hushed voices echoing down long, too-cold hallways. When your eyes finally open, the white ceiling lights make you squint, and the first thing you feel is the sharp ache in your belly—followed by a hollow emptiness you don’t have words for.

You know what happened before anyone even tells you. The fainting, the fall, hitting the ground—your brain replays it like a bad film reel. And then… nothing. That absence. That hollow space screaming inside of you no matter how much you try to push it down.

Clark is out of town, covering a story. You found out when you woke up that the doctors had tried to reach him, but you begged them not to: “No. Don’t tell him yet.”

You can’t. You don’t want to hear the sound of his heart breaking over the phone. You don’t want him to blame himself, to hurt. Not yet.

So you smile weakly when the nurse checks on you, pretend to be stronger than you are, and let the days crawl by. When you’re finally discharged, you go home alone, baggy clothes hanging off your body, eyes swollen from crying, and a silence in the house that feels louder than any scream.

A few days later, Clark finally comes back. The door opens with the familiar jingle of his keys, followed by the tired sigh of a long trip.

“Sweetheart, I’m home,” he calls out, voice warm, hopeful, filled with the kind of energy he always brings when he walks back into your life.

You smile—mechanically, like your face just remembers what it’s supposed to do. You walk up to him and wrap your arms around his torso. His chest is solid against your forehead, his big hands rubbing soothing circles down your back. He smells like fresh air, like earth, like home.

And right there, that’s where your façade crumbles.

The tears come hot, violent, unstoppable. Your body shakes against his, and you cling tighter, like you could disappear inside of him.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, broken—your voice shredded. “I’m so sorry, Clark… I… I couldn’t do anything. I didn’t want to… I never meant—”

He stiffens instantly. Reflex has him leaning down, searching your face, trying to understand. And then he does. His trained hearing zeroes in, reaching for the tiny heartbeat he’s been quietly obsessed with these last few months. That sound that had been his favorite secret.

It’s not there.

The silence inside you is more vicious than any scream.

“No…” his voice cracks, barely there. He pulls back just enough to look at you, blue eyes brimming instantly with tears. “No. No, no, it can’t—”

You sob harder, words tumbling out in messy fragments:

“I fainted… I fell… I tried—I swear I tried, Clark, I really did—but I couldn’t… I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry—”

He shakes his head desperately, like he can undo reality just by refusing it. Tears stream down his face, and he crushes you against him, so tight it almost hurts to breathe.

“No… no, it wasn’t your fault,” he repeats, over and over, like a prayer, like a curse. “It wasn’t your fault, baby, do you hear me? It wasn’t your fault.”

The strongest man in the world is crying in your arms. Superman—the man the whole world sees as invincible—breaks down with you on the living room floor, wrapping his body around yours like he can still shield you from pain, even though it’s already too late.

That night, there’s no dinner, no small talk, no laughter. Just two broken people tangled up in the dark, tears soaking the sheets.

Clark runs his fingers through your hair again and again, like maybe that simple motion can calm the tremors running through you. His voice is a steady murmur against your ear:

“I love you… I’m here… I’ll always be here… nothing else matters…”

At some point, exhaustion finally pulls you under, asleep against his chest, tear tracks still wet on your face. But he doesn’t sleep. His eyes stay red and open in the dark, heart torn to shreds, listening to the silence where the most beautiful sound he’d ever known used to be.

The next few days are painfully slow. Clark won’t let you lift a finger. He cooks, he does laundry, he pulls open the curtains in the morning to force a little light into the house. Sometimes you catch him crying quietly in the kitchen, palms pressed to the counter, trying to compose himself before you see him.

And sometimes it’s you breaking down on the couch, clutching a blanket to your empty stomach. He always comes right away, kneeling in front of you, taking your hands.

“I didn’t fail you, did I?” you whisper one afternoon, voice cracking.

He looks at you with so much tenderness it almost hurts.

“Never,” he says, firm, certain. “You never failed.”

His thumb brushes away your tears.

“The world can think whatever it wants of me, but you? You’re my strength. You’re my home. That’s all I need.”

The wound doesn’t vanish. Not in days, not in weeks. You both know that. There are nights you wake up screaming, and he’s there, clutching you tight, crying with you. There are mornings when he stares too long at your belly, then quickly looks away before he falls apart again.

But you’re together. And in the middle of the grief, that becomes the one truth you can still hold onto.

One evening, sitting out on the porch as the sun sets, he takes your hand and threads his fingers through yours. His gaze is fixed on the horizon, but his voice is steady.

“I may never understand why this happened. Maybe I never will. But the one thing I do know, the one thing I’m absolutely sure of, is that I love you more than my own life. And as long as we’re together, we’ll find a way through this.”

You rest your head against his shoulder, letting his words wrap around you like a warm blanket. The pain is still there, but you’re not alone. You’ll never be alone.

And in that shared silence, in the middle of the loss, you realize love can also mean this: crying together, catching each other mid-fall, and choosing to keep breathing—even when the world feels like it’s stopped.

[ellaspidey]

SAFEHOUSE ⋆ CK !

pairing. clark kent x fem!reader genre. friends to lovers. sexual tension. smut.

after a brutal event leaves clark weak and poisoned by kryptonite, you follow strict orders to rush him to his parents’ home — the one place you’re certain no one would find him at. a safe house.

word count. 5.1k words warnings. men in pain !! men in pain !! sexual tension. clark worrying about oc. he smells and hears her arousal bc of his super senses giggles. smut. oral (fem!receiving) MUNCH CLARK. fingering. unprotected + rough sex. size kink. tummy bulge. he puts a fucking pillow between the wall and the bed frame. they have to be very quiet. BIG COCK CLARK. squirting.

✶ inspired by events from — SUPERMAN (2025).

ana’s notes. i know this isnt anything jungkook related but .. im going through something rn with this man. i shouldve never fucking watched this movie. some details are improvised bc i lowk dont know shit abt superman (i was always more of a marvel girlie) so if theres smth in here that doesnt make sense for his character .. please just PLEASE JUST DONT OKAY. okie !! enjoy ♡

Clark Kent was a very reserved man.

Even at the office, he rarely had much to say. If someone asked about his day, he’d answer with something short — a few words, never a story. He never flaunted his accomplishments or fed off the praise. Where most of the department reeked of overbearing bragging and egotistical bastards, Clark kept to himself. He was private. Content with staying out of the spotlight.

Even as friends, you knew only fragments about him. How he liked his coffee — black, bitter, not even a pinch of sugar. That he didn’t have an Instagram, Facebook, or any kind of digital footprint beyond an email address. 

And then, of course, there was the part you hadn’t known.

That he was Superman.

He hadn’t wanted you to find out — you could tell by the way he stammered and lied through an explanation the night you confronted him about it. But Clark Kent was not nearly as subtle as he liked to think he was, and you were far too observant. He was conveniently missing whenever Superman was needed. Once could’ve been a coincidence, but every time? No way.

Over time, he was okay with you knowing. He trusted you.

You were his friend. And friends trust and help each other.

Which was why you had helped him get all the way here — to his parents’ home, a beautiful farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. It was quiet. Safe. 

You’d been to Clark’s apartment in Metropolis many times — a high-rise with floor-to-ceiling windows, glossy black marble tiles, and simple, modern furniture.

It couldn't have been more different from the warmth of his parents’ farmhouse in Kansas. Here, the floors were scuffed wood, every step creaking faintly, and the whole house carried the scent of timber with a soft undertone of cinnamon. Memories were painted on the walls — framed photographs of smiles, family trips, and holiday dinners.

Clark’s parents were the kind of people who opened their home to you as if they’ve been waiting for you your whole life, their kindness effortless and genuine. It was a home that radiated comfort and care, and suddenly it made sense why Clark was so well-mannered and grounded. He’d grown up in the center of it all.

His childhood room was left untouched. Band posters and old movie prints clung to the walls, their corners curling. A shelf in the corner displayed trophies and figurines that had clearly been handled and loved. For all that he was, Superman, the man who could save the world and never expect anything in return, there was something disarmingly ordinary about this space. About him.

A low groan from behind you broke through your thoughts.

“You’re still here,” Clark murmured from the bed, his voice low and hoarse. He was lying down, one hand pressed over his ribs like the pressure alone could hold him together. The suit still clung to him, faint streaks of dirt and ash dulling the bright colors. The Kryptonite’s grip had loosened, his veins back to their normal color, but he was still weak. The sun was already setting. He’d be fully recovered by morning.

“Did you want me to leave?” you asked, turning just enough to meet his gaze.

“I- No!” His head lifted slightly, urgency in his tone. “I’m just… surprised.”

There was something behind that word. Not shock, exactly, but disbelief — like he wasn’t used to someone waiting for him to recover. Like he’d expected to wake up alone.

You crossed the room, the floorboards creaking under each step, and lowered yourself into the chair beside his bed. His eyes followed you, searching your face, as if he was waiting for you to change your mind.

“How’re you feeling?” you ask softly.

“Pain,” he replied, a faint, breathy chuckle escaping before his eyes slipped shut. The sound was quiet, but it still carried that small thread of warmth you’d learned to recognize in him.

“Holt said you should feel fine in the morning, once the sun starts coming out,” you told him, keeping your voice gentle, like anything louder might press against his headache.

His gaze flickered, something unreadable in it before he looked away. “I wish you’d stayed in Metropolis,” he murmured, his voice low but edged with frustration. “You’re safer there.”

You shook your head without hesitation. “No.”

“Yes,” he said, more firmly this time. The softness in his tone gave way to steel, the same voice he used when there was no room for argument. “You could’ve gotten hurt just by being seen with me. If something happened, I-“ His jaw tightened. “I wouldn’t have been able to save you.”

You leaned forward slightly, catching his eyes. “Well, I wasn’t,” you said, your tone steady but gentler than your words. “Stop stressing yourself out, Clark. You’ve done enough. You should get some more rest.”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he shifted against the pillows, wincing a little. His hand fidgeted with the edge of his cape, eyes flicking to you and then away again.

“I, uh… I don’t…” He paused, licking his lips. “I don’t really like sleeping in the suit. It’s- uh- kinda uncomfortable. I was just… wondering if- if you could maybe… help me? Just with, y’know… the top part.”

“Y- yeah, sure,” you stammer, pushing yourself up and moving closer. Because you’re his friend. And friends help friends.

You help him sit up slowly, his breath hitching with a groan as his ribs protest the movement. Carefully, you reach behind to detach the cape, your fingers brushing the fabric with a softness that contrasts the roughness of the moment.

Then your hand finds the zipper at the back of his suit. You pull it down slowly, deliberately, revealing inch by inch of his creamy pale skin beneath — smooth, vulnerable, so human.

Clark’s eyes flutter open, meeting yours for a brief second before they close again. The silence between you stretches filled only by the soft sound of the zipper and his shallow breaths.

You help him pull the suit off his arms, the fabric sliding away to reveal his upper body — bare, exposed, impossible to ignore. His chest is broad and muscular, every line defined, almost unreal in its strength. The same goes for his biceps, thick and strong. Suddenly, your own nerves flutter, caught off guard by the closeness, the unexpected weight of this moment.

You steady the back of his neck as he leans back against the pillows, low groans rumbling from deep within him.

“You sure you don’t want me to… take it all off?” you ask quietly, the tension between you crackling like electricity.

If the room weren’t so heavy, if Clark wasn’t in so much pain, he might’ve thrown out a teasing, flirty comment about you trying to get him naked. But tonight, none of that comes.

Instead, he looks at you — eyes searching, silent, as if he’s trying to say something without words. Like he wants something he doesn’t quite know how to ask for.

“If you’re okay…” he murmured quietly, his voice soft, almost hesitant.

You gave him a small, reassuring smile, your fingers lightly tugging at the edge of the suit. He lifted his body as much as he could, every moment careful but willing — doing what he could to make it easier for you.

You kneel at the foot of the bed, fingers working at the heavy boots until they come off one by one with soft thuds against the floor. Then, with a firm grip, you take hold of the suit and give it a swift tug, the fabric sliding away until he’s left in nothing but his boxers.

On any other day, the situation might’ve been awkward — but tonight, he’s too worn down, too sore to care. His head stays against the pillow, eyes half-lidded, breaths slow and shallow.

You keep your gaze steady, careful not to linger, and carry the suit to his closet. The weight of it settles onto the hanger with a soft rustle, the deep blue and red now looking strangely still without him inside it.

“Goodnight,” you murmur, turning toward the door. But before your hand even reaches the knob, he calls your name. “Yes?” you turn back. 

“Don’t go back without me,” he says, his eyes pleading in a way that makes your chest tighten. “Stay here for now. With me.”

You look at him fully this time. His body is bare, save for the thin stretch of fabric covering his hips. You’ve never seen Clark like this — stripped of the cape, of any clothes at that. It isn’t weird in a seeing your family member naked kind of way. It’s… different. Raw. It makes you nervous in a way you don’t want to think too hard about.

“I’m not going anywhere, Clark,” you tell him softly. “I’ll be downstairs if you need me.”

You reach for the door again, but he calls your name once more.

“Yes?”

His lips curve faintly. “Thank you.”

You smile back. “Of course.”

Because friends help friends.

Clark awoke with a start.

The pain in his side had eased to a faint ache, and the heavy fog of fatigue was gone. The room is dim, lit only by the warm glow of the nightlight on the nightstand.

His mouth was dry. A glass of water sounded perfect.

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he got up and reached for the robe hanging on his closet door. The soft fabric brushed against his skin as he shrugged it on. Then, with slow, careful steps, he made his way toward the door, moving quietly as he descended the creaking staircase.

He walked through the dark with ease — even half-asleep, his steps were quiet and calculated — but he flipped the kitchen light on anyway. The soft hum of the bulb filled the silence. He grabbed a tall glass from the cupboard, filled it from the fridge, and downed it in one long swig, the cool water sliding down his throat, washing away the dryness.

“Clark?”

Your voice was soft, groggy. He turned as you padded into the kitchen, rubbing your eyes with the back of your hand.

And then he saw what you were wearing. His sweatshirt — the gray one, hanging loosely on you, sleeves dangling past your fingertips — and pajama pants cinched tight at your waist, the legs pooling around your feet.

“Hi,” he said, the word coming out softer than intended.

“Why are you awake? What time is it?” you asked, coming to stand beside him at the kitchen island, tugging the long sleeves of his sweatshirt — his sweatshirt — over your hands.

He noticed. And for a second, he forgot how to breathe.

“Almost three,” he murmured after glancing at the clock. “I don’t know — just woke up. Can’t sleep.” His sigh was low, weary, as he leaned onto the counter, elbows braced, thumbs fidgeting like he needed to keep them busy.

“What’s wrong?” you asked softly, searching his face.

“Nothing,” he said too fast. Then let out a small groan as he rolled his shoulders — and you caught the grimace of discomfort on his face.

“C’mere,” you said with a knowing smile, motioning him closer. “Let me help.”

He hesitated, a faint smile ghosting over his lips — as if to say you don’t have to do that.

But you were already moving behind him, resting your hand on his shoulder. 

The robe was loose, soft beneath your palms, parting slightly as he shifted. You could feel the heat of his skin even through the fabric. He was broad, solid, so much bigger than you; your hands looked almost delicate against him as you kneaded at the hard line of muscle beneath his shoulder blade.

“Yeah, right there,” he groans, throwing his head back as you press your thumbs into a stubborn knot in his shoulder. The sound is low, unguarded — almost inappropriate for something so innocent.

You press your lips together, heat rising in your cheeks. His robe has slipped just enough to bare more of that solid shoulder, warm under your palms. You feel every twitch of muscle beneath your tiny hands, every breath he exhales as he leans heavier on the counter.

“Better?” you murmured, digging your thumbs in a little deeper.

“Mhm,” he said, the sound deep, almost a growl in the back of his throat. His head tipped forward, giving you more access.

Your thumbs worked lower, along the edge of his shoulder blade, and you felt the faint shift of his breath — slower now, heavier. 

“You’re tense,” you whispered.

“Yeah,” he said, voice hoarse, “you have no idea.”

You cleared your throat, swallowing.

“Alright,” you murmured, stepping back before you got carried away. “Let’s go back to bed.”

He didn’t argue — just pushed off the counter lazily and obediently. The robes knot at his waist had slipped slightly, a slight peek of his chest and the line of his collarbone. Your eyes darted down before you could stop yourself, and you snapped them away just as quickly — but not quickly enough. He saw you.

You turned on your heel, making your way out of the kitchen, pretending you hadn’t been caught looking. Behind you, his mouth curved, faint and knowing, and he followed behind you.

Clark could smell you. Not just the faint trace of soap on your skin, but something stronger, intoxicating — the subtle tang of arousal that hit his scent with every shift of your steps. His jaw tightened. You were just causally walking, but he could hear the faint, wet sounds between your legs.

“Here, come sleep in my room. I’ll take the couch,” he insists, acting like he didn’t know your dirty little secret.

“No, it’s fine-“

“Please,” he cuts you off gently, a quiet firmness in his voice. “Mom and Dad get up super early anyway. I wouldn’t want them to wake you up.”

You press your lips together, trying to argue, but his earnest expression makes it pointless. Finally, you sigh, smiling despite yourself. “Fine.”

His own smile is softer, lingering just a little too long. “I’ll walk you up.”

You climb the creaking stairs, Clark right behind you. Every step is weighted with tension, a quiet electricity that makes your pulse race. 

You reach the room and begin to speak. “Clark, I-“

But before the words can form, the door swings shut behind him. The sound echoes sharply in the quiet house.

Then his lips are on yours. Rough. Hungry. No hesitation. Your heart skips, your knees go weak, and the air between you shimmers with everything that’s been simmering for hours.

He pulls back just slightly, just enough to catch his breath, but the tension in his body is still taut. Pink lips, flushed cheeks, hair falling down his forehead, and those blue eyes darkened with something raw and hungry — lust, need, something you’ve never seen from him before.

He waits. Silent, expectant. Waiting for words you don’t have. Waiting for you to say stop, or a Clark, you’re reading me wrong — but none came.

Instead, your hands find the back of his neck, gripping him, pulling him impossibly closer. His lips meet yours again, feverish and demanding. Every inch of him pressed close, every gasp and low groan filling the space around you. You don’t pull away. You can’t.

He groans against your lips, words muffled but urgent. “Could smell how wet you are,” he breathes, “wanna feel it.”

You don’t pull back. “Touch me, please,” you murmur, guiding his hand. His fingers, much larger than yours, slither inside his your pants. He slides a finger up your folds, warm and slick, and you shiver against him.

“C- clark,” you moan, breath shaky, pushing your hips further into his hand.

The house is quiet, his parents asleep down the hall. Nothing exists outside the room — just the press of lips, the taste of each other, the wet, delicious sound of him touching your sopping pussy.

“Can I taste it, too?” he asks, lips and kisses trailing down your neck.

“Yes,” you moan, shivering. “Please.”

Without another word, he sinks to his knees, hooking a finger into the waistband of the pajama pants you’d stolen from him and pulling them down. You step out, bottom half bare, your panties gone in the washer with the rest of your clothes.

He looks up at you, holding your gaze, and then leans in closer. His tongue flicks out before he takes the first careful lick of your sensitive clit. His eyes flutter shut, lashes brushing his cheeks, as he tastes the sweet, wet arousal that’s been coating your inner thighs. You gasp, already hypersensitive, nearly collapsing at the slightest touch, knees weak from the rush of pleasure.

“So sweet,” he whispers against your clit, mostly to himself — but you can hear it, and can’t help smiling through your breathless moans.

Your fingers thread through his raven curls, brushing the strands from his eyes so you can watch his face. His brows are knitted tight in focus, lips and tongue working you over like he’s starving for it.

“Oh, god,” you moan, voice cracking. “Fucking hell.”

He hums low in his throat, the vibration shooting straight through you. His hands slide up, cupping your ass, pulling you harder against his mouth until his face is buried so deep it feels like he’s trying to breathe you in — like he wouldn’t mind suffocating there.

His eyes flutter open, locking on yours as his lips seal around your clit. The heat of his tongue makes your knees weak, and then — oh fuck — he moves one hand from your ass and slides a finger inside your sopping hole. Just one, but with how big his hands are, it feels like so much more.

You’re grateful for how wet you are; it lets him push in smoothly, his finger gliding in and out with ease while his mouth works your clit.

You can’t tear your eyes away from him. Your mouth falls open in a silent moan, breath coming fast.

“You like that?” he murmurs against you.

You nod frantically. “Fuck, M’gonna cum already, you’re so fucking good at that.”

He smiles against your clit, a low sound rumbling in his throat. Then, cruelly, his mouth disappears, his finger still stroking inside you but slower, lighter, just enough to drive you crazy.

“Clark,” you whine, breathless. “Wh- what are you doing?”

“Wanna hear you beg for it,” he says, voice low, almost a growl. His finger curls, hitting that perfect spot, and your legs tremble.

“Please,” you gasp, hips grinding down to chase his mouth. “Please, Clark- I need you-“

Instead of finishing what he started, Clark pulls back abruptly, sliding his fingers out of you — leaving you achingly empty. You whimper at the loss, hips lifting instinctively, but he’s already grabbing your waist and laying you down flat against the bed.

His chin glistens, but he doesn’t bother wiping it. The robe slips from his shoulders with a careless tug, revealing nothing but hard planes of muscle and smooth, golden skin. You take a shaky breath as he pushes your knee apart with ease, positioning himself between your thighs like he owns them.

You let out an audible whine. He’s taking far too long on purpose, and he knows it.

“Hold on, baby,” he murmurs, low and steady, sinking onto his stomach. His fingers find your clit with maddening precision, spreading your slick over every swollen inch before sliding back inside, stretching you deep. “Just wanna make you cum first… before I fuck you.”

His fingers start to scissor inside you, stretching you open, and you can’t help the moan that slips out — soft, but loud enough to make Clark cautious. Quickly, his free hand grabs the hem of your sweatshirt and yanks it up to your mouth.

“Bite down,” he orders, pushing the fabric between your lips. You obey instantly, teeth sinking into the cotton, your muffled sounds vibrating against it. “That’s it. So good for me.”

Then he’s back down, tongue sealing over your clit. The sensation is sharp and overwhelming, and your legs try to clamp around his head on instinct. He doesn’t let you — his arm hooks around your thigh, holding it wide open with effortless strength, practically hugging your leg against his head as he devours you.

You moan into the sweatshirt, muffled and ragged, hips bucking involuntarily into his mouth as your body trembles with need.

He groans low, mouth pressed to your clit, fingers pumping relentlessly inside you. The friction, the slick heat, the press of his mouth — it all coils tight inside you until you can’t hold back.

Your walls clench around his fingers, gripping him, legs instinctively squeezing shut as the heavy wave of euphoria crashed throughout your body. Your chest rises and falls wildly, and your moans spill out muffled but desperate, through the fabric he shoved into your mouth.

He drinks you up thoroughly before pulling back, lips glistening, dimples peeking through as he licks them. His fingers slip out, and he sucks them clean as well, tasting your arousal like it was the sweetest treat.

He climbs back up, pressing himself face to face with you, and carefully pulls the now-wet fabric of the sweatshirt out of your mouth.

“You’re a dirty man,” you tease, breathless.

“Didn’t hear you complaining a minute ago,” he replies, leaning down to press a quick, teasing peck to your lips. “You want more, or should we just go back to sleep?”

You bite your lip, suddenly shy, the memory of what just happened making your stomach flutter. “Want you,” you murmur, voice soft but certain.

He smirks before leaning down, kissing you so gently it has you weak, tongue exploring yours as if trying to memorize every curve. He pulls back with a final, teasing peck, holding himself up above you.

Then, with one swift tug, he strips off his last piece of clothing and tosses it aside. His cock bounces free — flushed pink, thick. and standing tall, almost smug about the way it makes your breath hitch.

Kneeling over you, he strokes himself slowly, eyes locked on yours. 

“Clark,” you say, voice stern but trembling.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, a soft moan escaping him.

“You’re so… big,” you admit, eyes wide.

“You can take it,” he replies, calm but commanding.

“No, I don’t think I can,” you whisper, heart hammering.

“Yes, you can. C’mon,” he urges, lowering himself closer, teasing the tip against your clit.

He pressed just enough to mix your slick with his pre-cum, dragging it along your folds, and the feeling in the pit of your stomach returns, sharp and insistent. You don’t even think about pulling back anymore.

“Ready?” he murmurs.

You hesitate, then nod anyway, heart pounding.

He smirks and taps his tip against your pussy a few times, making you jolt, before finally pushing it inside. Just the head slips in at first, the stretch sharp but addicting.

“Good?” he asks, voice low.

“Y- yeah… just- just go slow,” you breathe, fingers clutching the hem of your sweater like a lifeline.

Clark nods, obeying, easing inch by inch. The intrusion burns and thrills all at once. He’s not just long — he’s thick, every bit of him prying you open, molding your body to fit his. You’ve never taken anything like this, not even your little friend sitting in your drawer beside your bed back at home.

“You’re so warm and tight- fuck,” he groans, eyes fixed on where you’re joined, watching every slow inch disappear inside you.

Your hand slips down instinctively, pressing against your stomach as he bottoms out with a deep, shuddering breath.

“God, you’re gonna split me in half,” you manage, half joking, mainly serious.

Clark lets out a low chuckle, eyes squeezing shut like he’s hanging into control by a thread. “You got it. Just… give me a second.”

The thin layer of sweat on his body glows under the dim lighting, tracing every line of his chest, his abs, those massive arms you secretly wouldn’t mind being in a headlock by. You stare, unable to look away.

“You okay?” he asks, voice ragged.

“Mhm,” you hum, still pressing where you can feel him through your stomach.

You can feel him through your stomach.

“Alright,” he says, opening his eyes again, gaze dark and steady on you. “Gonna move now, okay?”

You nod frantically, fingers fisting the sheets on either side of you, bracing for what you already know is about to be the ride of your life.

Clark pulls out slowly, painfully, then eases back in with less resistance this time. You’re dripping, slick coating him, smearing over the tops of his thighs with every deliberate push. It’s so warm, so wet, every nerve screams at how good it feels.

“Go faster,” you breathe, voice shaky.

His eyes flick up to yours, brows raised. “You sure?”

“Yes,” you moan quickly, pressing your lips together, trying to stay composed.

He pounds into you harder, setting a faster pace, and the flimsy twin bed groans against the floorboards with every thrust.

You tug at the hem of the sweatshirt clinging to your overheated skin, desperate to peel it off.

“No,” he snaps, catching your wrists. His eyes are dark, hungry. “Keep it on. Wanna fuck you in this.”

He fists the sweatshirt though, yanking it up just enough for your tits to spill free. They bounce with every thrust, and his hand is on you instantly — rough, possessive — squeezing like he owns them.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice low and filthy. “In my clothes. My bed. Taking my cock like you were made for it.” His hand drags slowly down to your waist as he leans close, his chest flush against yours. “Should just make you mine already, huh?”

You can’t even speak — he’s so big, stretching you to the point of insanity, every thrust knocking the wind out of you. It’s almost feral now, the pace, the way the twin bed screeches across the floorboards, springs crying out with every slam. The headboard keeps smacking against the wall, a steady rhythm.

Clark didn’t lock the door. If his parents wake up and come down the hall to investigate, you’ll both be caught — sweaty, naked, and guilty. The thought only makes your stomach flip harder.

“Fuck,” Clark grits out, suddenly stilling inside of you. One hand cradles your head as the other yanks a pillow out from under you. He shoves it between the headboard and wall, eyes flashing back down at you. “Pussy so good, gonna get me in trouble.”

“Clark, M’so close…” you whisper, breathless — too breathless to say it louder, or you’d scream it.

“Yeah? C’mon, baby,” he growls, rocking his hips rough and deep, “wanna feel you cum around me.”

The knot in your stomach tightens to something sharp, electric — not just release, something bigger, heavier. Your brows pinch together, sweat slick on your skin, and you bite your lip hard to keep from crying out.

“M’gonna cum- c- cover my mouth, cover my mouth!” you squeal, the words tumbling out high and panicked.

Clark’s large hand slaps a hand over your mouth, his palm broad and warm, and you grab his wrist instinctively, your fingers not even reaching around it.

Your body seizes up, clenching around him, so tight it nearly drags him under with you — and then it happens. A sudden rush, a warm spray, your release spilling out uncontrollably, soaking his stomach, his thighs, the sheets.

Clark chokes out a moan, eyes blown wide at the sight. “Fuck…” His hips stutter, fighting for control, watching every drop. It’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen — and he’s already thinking about how to make you do it again.

You scream, drooling into his palm, but he couldn’t care less — if anything, it spurs him on. He keeps pounding into you with a ruthless rhythm, chasing his own high. And when the squirting doesn’t stop, when your pussy somehow clenches even tighter around him, he finally pulls out with a guttural curse. His hand works his cock in rough, urgent strokes until hot ropes of cum spill across your stomach, getting on the sweater as well.

He pulls off of you with a long, ragged exhale, chest rising and falling rapidly.

“I don’t want to boost your ego” you murmur, still catching your breath, “but that was my first time doing that.”

“Huh,” he breathes out, eyes wide. “Really?”

“Well,” you tease, a small smirk tugging at your lips. “No one can be hung like you are.”

He chuckles, shaking his head, a faint pink tint creeping across his cheeks.

“God, Clark,” you breathe, glancing down at the mess, “now it’s gonna be obvious when I change clothes.”

“Hey, you made a mess too!” he whines, tugging at the rumpled sheets.

“You think we were being too loud?” you ask, tilting your head as you watch him wipe away all the fluids with the sheets he was going to wash anyway.

“Definitely,” he says with a grin, voice teasing as he gets up and looks for his robe somewhere on the floor. “Maybe we should just leave now… save ourselves the embarrassment.”

You smirk, shifting on the bed. “You might have to carry me this time, though. Just got my world absolutely rocked by Superman down there.”

He freezes for a second, then chuckles, fumbling for his robe and tying it back around his waist. “You did not just call my dick Superman,” he says, shaking his head, still chuckling.

You only hum, shrugging the sweater off and heading to his dresser to find clean clothes that don’t have his cum on them!

“Uhm…” he starts, fiddling with his hands like he can’t decide where to put them. “I… I wanna make things right. The whole… hook up stuff isn’t really my thing. So, when we head back to Metropolis… I was wondering if you- like, maybe you’d wanna go out for dinner, or stay in and I could cook for you instead? Or, um, if not that’s totally fine, I get it! We can just stay friends, act like nothing happened-“

“Clark,” you cut him off, walking toward him. “You just fucked the living hell out of me, and now you’re all shy?”

He laughs nervously, scratching the back of his neck, eyes darting everywhere but yours. “Sorry… so? What do you think?”

You nod, smiling. “I would love that. Honestly, I’d be pissed if you wanted to just stay friends after fucking me like that.”

He chuckles, sliding a hand around your waist to slap your ass. You squeal a little too loudly.

��Shh!” he hisses, leaning closer, smirk tugging at his lips.

You playfully swat him with the shirt in your hands. “You really underestimate your strength, you know that?”

© VOYTER 2025, all rights reserved.

[ellaspidey]

finest shyt ☝️

[ellaspidey]

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.

[ellaspidey]

Afternoon Delight (a very professional lunch break)

Clark Kent x fem!Reader

Word Count: 3.5K

Summary: You and Clark find a private spot to share your break (spoiler alert: you don’t eat lunch)

Authors note: a man with a heart of gold and big shoulders! you bet your ass I am sat (I was there for the politician and Hollywood, I’ve been long seduced by David Corenswet’s siren song)

Warnings: MDNI! so like you fuck Clark Kent, softdom! Clark?, p in v, fingering, mentions of oral and overstimulation, making out, light dirty talk, yearning, two horny fuckers, some filthy language, cursing (not from Clark) ((obviously)), some light exhibitionism, it’s me so gratuitous use of italics

Everyone takes lunch at one.

The entire building clears out, people trickling off the floor in a rush to eat, smoke, scroll on TikTok, what ever they can do with their glorious half hour. It was enough time to leave and get a salad from the fancy and totally overpriced place across the street. Enough time to walk to the park a few blocks down and touch some grass (a necessity for anyone working at the Daily Planet).

Enough time to ride the elevator from top to bottom exactly thirty-six times.

Thirty minutes is also just enough time to sneak in quickie with your very handsome boyfriend Clark.

You’ve been together about a month. A month of goofy smiles, steamy make-out sessions on his couch, and texts that probably shouldn’t have been sent over company WiFi. If you looked up honey-moon phase in a dictionary you’d find a little photo of you and Clark.

It had that new relationship sparkle and that ‘Oh my god finally’ relief, that you only get after three months of clumsy flirting and long yearning looks (primarily from Clark).

Since the first time Clark let you touch him without that stupid, poorly tailored, suit jacket in the way, you haven’t been able to keep your hands off of him. Knowing just how perfect and chiseled he is underneath that layer of nerves and clumsiness- which you’re beginning to think is an act since he almost never trips or stumbles when you’re alone- is intoxicating. The quiet strength that lingers under the skin of Clark Kent. The best part? It’s yours alone, you’re the only one who gets to see that part of him.

It was driving you crazy. You wanted to give him a back massage, bite his shoulder, and ask him to throw you across the room all in the same breath. It’d never been this bad in your past relationships, never consumed you like this before. You’re not even ovulating, you just want him, all of the time. Something that’s deeply inconvenient considering you also work together.

It’s only made worse by the fact that he’s so different in bed. None of his classic cautiousness. Everytime, he asks one quiet “Can I touch you?” and then he’s off to the races. He’s sure hands, messy kisses and a fascination with hickies.

You’re only human, of course you’re addicted to his affection. He’s barely in the door most days before you’re clawing his suit off. Luckily, Clark is more than happy to indulge you.

He’s indulged you on the couch, the floor, the kitchen counter, against the window, in the shower, and one time you almost convinced him to meet you in a diner bathroom (he blushed up to his ears and threw some cash on the table instead, and all but carried you to his apartment instead). You never claimed to have self control.

Today was proving to be longer than most, at least it felt that way. Usually the promise of meeting him afterwork was enough to satiate you, but today it just isn’t enough. You wanted him- no needed him now.

You were pretty sure Clark already knew that though. He’d been riling you up since sat down at your desk. He’d dropped a coffee at your desk- unceremoniously, just everyone else, but yours had an extra note, written in Clark’s signature messy scrawl and bright red sharpie.

“You drive me crazy.”

Strike one.

Around ten thirty he had leaned over your shoulder, under the pretense of helping you with an article. He’d gotten so close you could smell his cologne, feel his breath against your ear. Then he had to audacity to lean his arm over your body onto your desk, trapping you between it and him. Just when you finally got your heart beat back under control- he brushed his lips against your ear and whispered “You look gorgeous today.”

Strike two.

It came to head when Lois offered to set him up with one of her friends and he explained to her that he’s actually seeing someone. Not you, no one knew about that yet. But you knew it was you, and that was enough to bring the roaring, horny, possessive, monster that lives between your thighs to life.

Strike three.

By the time lunch finally rolls around you feel like a live wire. Jumping every time some touches you, snapping at Jimmy when he asks if you want to go get subs. Your skin feels like it’s fire and you’re avoiding eye contact with Clark out of fear you might actually burst into flames.

When the office finally empties, you make your move. Spinning your chair away from your computer (and the blank word document where your article should be) you turn to Clark, only to find him already staring you.

“Lunch?” He asks, that innocent look on his face. As if he didn’t spend the past four hours proving that you really as no better than a man.

You nod, and give him your best attempt at nonchalant, “I have a new spot we can try.”

He smiles that Clark Kent, all American, captain of the football team, smile and seals his fate.

When the elevator stops at the third floor he follows you diligently, without question. He doesn’t falter when you make a sudden left and pull him by the tie into what is quickly revealed to be a small closet. Yeah, you think, he knew this was coming.

Clark looks around, taking in the clutter and what is definitely not enough space for what you have in mind. “I don’t think they have lunch in here Honey.” He tells you.

Honey, you love when he calls you that. It’s so soft, you can almost hear just a little of the Midwest in his voice. It drips with affection and it shouldn’t make you as horny as it does.

“Not hungry for lunch.” You whisper, and then you’re pulling his lips down to yours.

Clark catches up quick, it’s only a moment before his hands find their rightful place on your hips. Still gentle, no tongue- it’s as professional as a kiss can get. He pulls back, much sooner than you would like.

“Brought me all the way down here just for a kiss?” He asks, cocking his head to the side. He looks at you like he already knows the answer, he just wants to make you say it. Like he can hear the way your heart pounds in your chest and your thighs squeeze together. Under his scrutinizing gaze, it’s very hard not to feel shy.

You shake your heard, reaching as high as you can until you’re standing on your tippy toes. Planting your hands on his chest, you use it as leverage, and lean against him while you try to recapture his lips. He pulls them just out of your reach, his smile only getting wider.

“Gotta tell me Honey, or else I won’t know what you want.” Clark teases. He uses his grip on your hips to pull you flush against him, chest to chest, heart to heart. Then he asks the question you’ve been waiting to hear all day, “Can I touch you?”

You don’t feel the pressure on your toes anymore, like he’s holding your weight for you. “Want you Clark.” You sigh. “Please touch me.”

All that bravery ten minutes ago and now you’re like putty in his hands.

He hums, but still doesn’t give in. “Thought we said no funny business at the office?” Clark asks. Despite his teasing tone, you can tell there’s a level of sincerity in his question. This was a line you hadn’t crossed yet, your relationship has only lived inside of little diners and your apartments. This would stretch your bubble further than ever before.

“Not in the office,” you reason and point to a mop in the corner. “Supply closet loophole.” You explain.

Clark nods, you can feel him start to back you up, step by step (though you’re still not convinced your feet are actually touching the ground). “Supply Closet loophole.” He agrees, and when your back finally hits the door his lips crash onto yours.

As previously mentioned, Clark always indulges you.

There’s nothing professional about the way he kisses you now. His tongue finds its way to yours with the first opportunity and one of his legs slot firmly between yours. If you were getting any oxygen to your brain, you’d notice the click of the door locking-ever so practical Clark, but you’re too distracted. All of your attention is diverted to rolling your hips against his thigh and tangling your hands his to hair.

You find the extra curly spot you like, right at the nape of his neck, and tug. As if you pulled on a string Clark groans into your mouth. His hands are slide off of your hips and squarely onto your ass. He squeezes, like he’s just as riled up as you are. He begins to guide your movements, pressing your cunt even harder against his thigh.

You moan, embarrassingly loud for just some dry humping.

“Whats got you all worked up Honey?” He asks, sounding like he already knows the answer.

“You’ve been teasing me all morning.” You whimper. The hand that isn’t tangled in his hair is playing with his tie, rolling the smooth silk of it between your fingers.

Clark chuckles, and then his lips find the crook of your neck. “Me?” He asks, having the audacity to sound surprised. Then he rolls your hips even harder against him, bouncing his leg once for good measure.

You see stars, you can’t be bother to take your skirt off, so it’s bunched around your hips, it’s more of a joke than a piece of clothing at this point. You don’t doubt that your underwear is soaked, distantly you hope he’s wearing black pants. He bounced his leg again.

“Please Clark.” You beg, you need more than this and he knows it. He all but has your body memorized at this point, he’s spent hours upon hours worshipping it. He’s traced every curve with his tongue, twice, He’s made you very aware of his plans to do it a third.

“I wanna see if you can cum like this.” He tells you, unbudging. Another tap with a long punishing roll.

You shake your head, you can hardly see straight. If anyone can get you there it’s Clark, you don’t doubt that. Alas, you don’t have time for trying new things right now. “Not enough time.” You reason, grabbing one his hands and sliding it around to your cunt. “Need more Clark.”

Clark kisses you again. “Another day then.” He relents, and his fingers slip under the band of your panties.

He completely bypasses your clit, much to your dismay. You open your mouth to complain, but before you can he slips on finger inside you. You feel like you could cry from the relief of finally having some inside of you. It only takes a few thrusts for one finger to become two.

Your body slumps into the door when his thumb starts to rub your clit. “Fuck, Clark.” You moan, biting your lip to try and control your volume.

You’re in a pretty abandoned part of the building, only an old fax machine next door, but still- it’d be just your luck that Perry is the only person who uses it.

“That’s my girl.” Clark whispers. His thumb presses even harder, drawing slow circles around your clit while his fingers pick up their pace. “Such a filthy mouth.” He taunts.

He feels so good, he always does. You swear his fingers alone are bigger than a few of the guys you’ve slept with. The first time you told him that Clark made you cum three times with just his hand.

“Want you inside.” You plea, voice breaking as you try not to moan.

Clark clicks his tongue, shaking his head. “Gotta cum at least once for me first. You know the rule.”

Sweet, filthy, ridiculously hung Clark.

He’d had told one night about how the first girl he slept with cried because he was so big, it hurt. Now he refus’es to sleep with anyone until they’re ‘properly warmed up’ in his words. You insist you can handle him, but he won’t hear it. The last time you tried to argue he made wait until you came eight times (once for each inch) before finally fucking you.

Now that you think about it, it might just be a poorly camouflaged overstimulation kink. Something to pester him about later.

Clark’s lips find that spot on your neck, the one that makes your shiver and he sucks hard. His hand starts to move even faster and with one more well timed bounce of his leg you’re falling over the edge.

You bite down on your lip so hard you think you can taste blood, and Clark just helps you ride it out. His thumb not stopping until your legs finally release their death lock on his thigh.

“So good Honey,” he whispers you, placing an achingly soft kiss to your lips. “Still want me?” He asks.

You don’t think it’s possible to nod faster. Your body is like Pavlov’s dog for him now, it knows that was just the warm up.

You hear him undo his belt buckle, and he pulls it through the loops in one quick movement. It’s quickly forgotten on the ground. You beat him to the button on his slacks, deftly undoing it and pulling down his zipper in the next breath. Normally you tease him, pull it down slow and make him suffer for forcing you to wait.

Right now there is the small issue of time, or lack there of. There’s not even a clock for you to check, but you’re sure lunch is almost over.

You palm him through his boxers, just so you can hear the noise he always makes when you do it. A broken moan, it sounds like he could shatter, as if he’s made of porcelain and not steel. Clark is painfully hard, a puddle of pre-cum leaving a damp spot on the fabric. You resist the urge to suck on. Again, time.

He pulls your hand away and takes himself out in one swift movement. No matter how many times you see Clark’s cock, it still knocks the air out of your lungs. If you could go back four months and tell yourself that the shy farm boy is packing, you’d probably have ended up in this situation sooner. Instead you bite his lower lip and whisper, “What’s got you so worked up Clark?”

Instead of answering, Clark grabs the back of one of your thighs and pulls it up and over his hip, your other leg follows without prompting. Your under wear is roughly tugged to the side, and he slides in.

“You’re the one who’s was teasing me.” He finally answers.

Your head is swimming. It doesn’t matter how many times you have him, the stretch of his cock still stuns you. You can feel your walls twitch around him, squeezing tight as if welcoming him home. He feels deeper than ever before in this position, like he’s in your ribs. Clark stays still for a moment, chest heaving you know he’s struggling just as much as you are.

“Tight.” He pants, his forehead is pressed against yours, but his eyes are squeezed shut. If you didn’t know better you’d think he was in pain.

A minutes passes before you start to get impatient, wriggling your hips as much as you can at this angle. “Please.” You whimper, hands clawing at his back, trying to find purchase against the smoothness of his button down. “Please move Clark.”

“So impatient,” he whispers. You clench again and it’s like you can feel him snap. He finally obliges, he’s just not nice about it. Clark pulls all the way out and then slams back in with one deep stroke. He’s not even using his hands to hold you anymore, they’re everywhere else. One is under your shirt reaching up to pull your tits out of your bra. The only is back in your clit, drawing those same hard circles but he even faster this time.

As if he can hear the moan coming up your throat Clark presses his mouth to yours and swallows it.

You fall into a rhythm. Clark fucking you as hard and deep as he can with your legs wrapped so tightly around his waist. You’re doing the best you can with the way he has you pinned, squeezing your cunt in time with each thrusts. It feels as if your body is trying to suck him in, keep him there forever. Your hands clutch uselessly at his shoulders.

The you hear it.

The jingle of keys and someone walks down the hall. The unmissable sound of steps coming towards you. You’re forced to deal with two terrifying thoughts at once.

Lunch is definitely over and if you’re not quiet so is this.

Clark is ahead of you, as he so often is.

His face is calm, still concentrated on the task at hand. Like he once again already knew this was coming. With no hesitation he places a hand tightly over your mouth to muffle your moans, and continues to fuck.

The same Clark Kent, who blushed when you asked if he works out, ignores the very real chance of getting caught in order to keep fucking you.

That familiar heat begins to boil in the pool of your stomach.

For a moment you wonder if this is all just a very elaborate wet dream. Then he hits that extra hard to reach spot inside of you and you are reminded that is it very much real. He hits it again, and then again and then you’re cumming, hard. You don’t just fall over the edge you dive headfirst off of it. Clark jumps right behind you. You assume that whoever was in the hallway is gone because his hand moves from your mouth and his jaw is dropped like he’s moaning. You can’t hear a thing, like it’s all faded to white noise. You’re too lost in pleasure to think straight, you don’t even think you’re in your body.

You feel Clark release inside of you, the intimacy of it enough to make you shiver. As your body comes back down to earth, you feel him slump against you, his head falling into the crook of your neck as he sighs.

“Holy shit.” You whisper, hands smoothing out over the back of his shirt. Neither of you move yet, bodies still humming with the after shocks.

“Yeah.” Clark murmurs against your skin. You can’t see his face, but you can feel his smile against your neck.

Slowly you detangle from each other and begin to pieces yourselves back together. You straighten your skirt out, too cockdrunk to care that it’s a wrinkled mess. You’re tucking your shirt back in when remember something he said. “How am I the one who teased you?” You asked, trying to sound accusing but too fucked out to muster the necessary force.

“You’re wearing my favorite skirt.” Clark’s says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “And my shirt.” He adds, walking over too you. His belt is still undone but he helps you fix your buttons anyway.

Looking down, you realize he was very much right. This is his shirt. You had gotten ready at his apartment this morning. You keep a hand of clothes in his closet and your white button up must have gotten switched with one of his. You’d been in too much of a rush to notice, tucking the excess into your waist band and rolling the sleeves up to your elbows. “You didn’t think to tell me?” You ask, though you’re not exactly angry.

“Figured it was on purpose.” He admitted, “That’s why I was teasing back all morning.”

At least he admits it.

Feeling generous you reach down and buckle his belt. After you reach up and straighten out his (very askew) tie. Then your stomach breaks the silence.

“Ugh, I’m hungry.” You complain, realizing you had just used up for entire lunch break without thinking about the fact that you do still need to eat.

“I told Jimmy to bring us back subs.” Clark assures you. He fixes your hair, helping tame any pieces that were rogue or flat. “Told him we had to work straight through lunch.”

“You knew I was gonna do this?” You ask, smiling anyway.

“If you didn’t- I was.” Clark explains. Adjusting his glasses.

“Awww, we’re so insync.” You melt a little. On a serious note, you really do love how you and Clark are almost always on the same page.

“I think we’re just horny.” Clark laments. He presses one last kiss to your lips, then opens the door.

“Mind sleeping at mine tonight? I need some shirts apparently.” You ask, hand brushing his as you walk side by side back to the elevator. The hallway is still deserted, whoever had been there was long gone.

Clark shakes his head, “I have a sweater you can wear tomorrow.”

The doors ding and you and Clark step inside. By the time you get upstairs, you’ve transformed back into co-workers. With a polite smile you separate and retreat back to your own desks.

You you have about five minutes of peace at, just enough time to unwrap and take the first bite of your lunch when Lois shouts, from across the floor. “Nice hickey!”

Your hand flys to your neck, and when you spin around to look at her, you don’t miss how beat red Clark’s face is. Before you can even try to play it off, Jimmy comes up behind him and pats him on the shoulder. “Nice man.”

Just like that, with a shared smile, some laughter and maybe even a little relief, the bubble pops. Something a little more real, and a little deeper takes its place

Authors Note: working on a masterlist as we speak. another one in the can!!! I have lots of ideas and stuff on working on but I also get very tired so bear with me.

Also is now a good time to admit I haven’t seen the movie yet??? Clark Kent has taken over my TL and subsequently my heart.

Thank you so much for your time and for reading! It means the world to me ❤️

Love you, say it back!

Masterlist!