goldenbrowns

[goldenbrowns]

SOFIAAAAA UR LAST CLARK IMAGINE IS SO CCUTE AND SWEET 🥹🥹🥹 I LOVE BIG CLARK BEING SO SUBBY!!! Can I request pretty pwease a continuation of it but spicy 🥹 if not that's totes fine tew! But jealous whiny clark under u whutta dreammm 😍😍😍

part one right here! ︵ ♫ ﹗ .anything for you hun, i got so insanely carried away with this... i have been rubbing my grubby little hands together thinking about writing this ask, and finally i can. sooo, hope you enjoy anon! kiss kiss. ALSO READ THE FIRST PART FOR CONTEXT!!!! wc: 3k warnings: smut, sub!clark, soft dom!reader, dirty talking, cursing, unprotected sex, p in v, boob fixation

JEALOUS CLARK KENT — PART II◝ zᶻ

(read part one right here for context!)

Clark’s breath hitched when you said that, his whole body tightening beneath you like he didn’t quite know what to do with the weight of your words. And maybe it was that—maybe it was the gentle way you looked at him, the way your voice curled around his name like a promise—that made him finally speak up again, even if it came out a little more desperate than he intended.

“…You’re still mine, right?” he asked, so softly you barely heard it. “Like, really mine?”

Your brows arched slightly, lips curving with a heat that started slow and deliberate. “Of course I’m yours,” you said, tilting his chin just enough to make sure he stayed looking at you. “Did you think I’d spend the whole day making that poor intern blush just to come home and fall asleep on the couch?”

Clark flushed deeper, his hands hesitating where they rested on your hips. “I don’t know…” he muttered. “Maybe.”

You leaned in closer, your nose brushing his. “That doesn’t sound very fair, Clark. You think I’d ignore my sweet, loyal, adorably pouty boyfriend after a long day like this?”

He whined—an actual whimper—from somewhere deep in his chest, like the teasing was fraying whatever fragile string of control he had left.

“I-I wasn’t pouting,” he mumbled, voice cracking with the effort of lying.

“You totally were,” you whispered, letting your lips ghost over his cheek. “And you were sulking. And getting all jealous. Which was…” Your voice dipped. “Really fucking hot.”

His eyes snapped to yours, wide and disbelieving, his throat visibly working as he tried to swallow the sound threatening to slip out of him.

“I—what?”

“You heard me,” you murmured, brushing your lips slowly across his jaw. “You trying to act all cold and moody when you’re actually this close to begging for attention? You getting all quiet and clingy just because I said Noah did a good job?” You leaned in, mouth nearly brushing his again. “You, sitting here squirming in your skin ‘cause you hate not being the only one I praise?”

Clark whimpered again. His hands, which had just been holding you like something fragile, now gripped at your thighs tighter, like maybe he was finally giving himself permission to want more.

“You are the only one I praise like this, Clark,” you whispered, rocking your hips ever so slightly in his lap. He let out a shaky exhale. “You're the only one who gets this version of me.”

His cheeks were red now, his glasses slipping slightly down the bridge of his nose. “Th-This version?”

You smiled, wicked and slow. “The one that knows exactly how much you like it when I talk like this. When I remind you that you're mine.”

“I… I am,” he said, the words fumbling past his lips, breathless and needy.

“Say it again.”

“I’m yours.”

“Louder.”

“I’m yours,” he said again, more desperate, like he needed it.

Your nails traced lightly down his chest, and he gasped. “That’s right. You don’t need to worry about some nervous little intern when I’ve got you—shy and flushed and trembling just because I looked at someone else.”

His breath hitched, and his hips jerked beneath you slightly, involuntary.

“You’re burning up,” you whispered against his ear. “You can’t even stand the idea of someone else getting my attention. Isn’t that right?”

He whimpered, nodding fast, his whole body humming under your touch. “Y-Yeah. I hate it. Hate when you laugh like that with someone else. When you touch them.”

“Mmm, and what do you want me to do instead?”

Clark swallowed hard, voice barely above a whisper. “Touch me.”

“Yeah?” you purred, one hand moving to trail along his inner thigh, your lips grazing his ear. As your fingers brushed against the fabric covering his thigh, he visibly shuddered. “You want all my attention now? Gonna be good if I give it to you?”

He nodded, head lolling back just slightly, and the look on his face—completely undone, blushing, breathless—made your stomach twist in the best way.

“You don’t ever have to fight for my attention, Clark,” you murmured, fingers slipping beneath the hem of his shirt. “You already have it. Every shy glance, every little pout, every time you beg without even saying a word…”

A soft, broken moan slipped from him at that, and he tried to bury his face in your shoulder again—but you stopped him with a hand to his cheek, tilting his face back toward you.

“No hiding. Not tonight.”

His lips parted, trembling slightly, like he wanted to say something—maybe thank you, maybe please, maybe I love you—but no words came.

So then, you kissed him. He looked so utterly helpless, how could you not? Poor boy looked like a lost puppy.

The kiss deepened in a heartbeat—soft at first, like a promise, then messier, hungrier, fueled by all the pent-up tension and jealousy he’d swallowed down all day. Clark kissed like he was afraid to take too much, but also like he might break if he didn’t have more. His hands gripped your waist with a tremble, half-desperate, half-gentle, like he was caught between worshipping you and needing you to ruin him.

You shifted in his lap deliberately, rolling your hips just enough to make him gasp into your mouth. He pulled back with a startled noise, breath shaky, eyes wide. “Y-You’re really not mad?”

You smiled against his lips, brushing your nose against his. “Mad? Baby, I liked seeing this side of you. All jealous and clingy like you can barely sit still unless I remind you you’re mine.”

His cheeks flushed so red you were almost surprised steam didn’t rise off him. “I—don’t say stuff like that,” he mumbled, clearly flustered. His lips inched away from yours to nestle his face against your cheek, just close enough to your neck.

You leaned in, brushing your lips down the column of his throat, slow and teasing. “Why not? It’s true. You are mine. And I like when you get a little possessive. Especially when it makes you this squirmy.”

His breath hitched, and you could feel how tightly he was gripping the couch beneath you now, like he was physically restraining himself. And, judging by the very obvious way his cock was pressing against your thigh, he was losing the battle fast. You could feel him pulsing under you every few seconds, clearly trying not to rut himself against you like some dog in heat.

“Clark…” you whispered, lips grazing his pulse point. “You want me to stop?”

He shook his head wildly. “No! I mean—no. I want—God, I want you so bad it’s stupid. Just… I don’t want to be, like, too much, or weird or—”

You straddled him a little firmer now, cupping his face in your hands so he had to look at you, pulling him closer. “You’re not weird, baby. You’re just a little needy tonight. And that’s okay. You can be needy with me.”

That earned another soft whine from him, high and caught in his throat like he was trying not to let it out but couldn’t help it. His eyes fluttered, sending you a faltering gaze. His hands then finally moved from the couch to your hips, holding you with a little more certainty.

“And if I keep teasing you like this…” you murmured, dragging your fingers up his chest, slipping just beneath his shirt, “...what are you gonna do about it?”

Clark swallowed hard, eyes flicking from your face to your clothed cunt as you began to grind down on him. “I don’t—I don’t know.”

You tilted your head, lips brushing his jawline. “Wanna find out?”

He blinked at you, wide-eyed and panting softly. “Y-Yeah.”

You smiled wickedly. “Then be good, baby, let me take care of you.”

His entire body shivered at that, and he practically melted back into the couch, all that earlier tension unwinding from his spine like a tightly coiled spring finally released. His hands stayed on you, but they were trembling again, his touch reverent and hungry all at once.

“You want my praise so bad, Clark,” you whispered, nipping his earlobe. “You get jealous ‘cause you want to be the only one I tell how good they are, right?”

“Mhm,” he breathed, voice barely a sound. You felt his cock twitch under you at the sound of your voice.

“You are the only one,” you murmured, slowly dragging your hips against his again. “And if you’re a good tonight, I’ll make sure you never forget it.”

He whimpered, holding onto you like you were the only thing anchoring him to reality. “Please…”

You smiled, kissing the corner of his mouth, then his flushed cheek, then his throat. “There’s my sweet boy.”

He let out a soft, broken laugh that melted into a gasp when your fingers toyed with the edge of his waistband, deliberately vague—like you were making a game out of how close you could get without giving him the relief he so clearly needed. You pulled his sweatpants down as far as your position could allow, which was probably just below the inner thigh.

“D-Don’t tease…” he whispered, hips twitching helplessly beneath you. He looked so powerless like this, so helpless. The look on his face, the way he couldnt help but rut into you, his glazed over eyes... His fingers dug into your hips, not to control—never to control—but to anchor himself. Like if he wasn’t holding onto you, he might actually float away.

You leaned in, brushing your nose against his. “But I like teasing you,” you murmured, slow and syrupy. “Especially when you get like this. All desperate and trembling and so, so good for me.”

His cock—already straining against the fabric—twitched again at your words, and Clark let out the most pathetic little whine you'd ever heard from him. “I-I’m trying to be good,” he mumbled, voice cracking, “I’m trying so hard…”

You smiled softly, your fingers slipping beneath the waistband of his boxers with deliberate care, cool skin meeting warm flesh. You let your hand linger there a moment, just resting, letting him feel your presence like a silent promise.

Then, slow and teasing, your fingers traced light circles over his shaft, mapping the length of his cock. He was rock hard. Knowing Clark, he was probably running circles in his mind worrying about how embarrassing it was to be this hard from your teasing. He always excuses himself for wanting you this much, especially so carnally. You felt his cock pulse beneath your touch—soft at first, then growing taut, the heat radiating through your fingertips.

Your hand tightened just a little, thumb stroking the sensitive underside of his tip with featherlight pressure, careful not to rush him, savoring the way his breath hitched, the subtle tremble that ran up his spine.

You let your touch glide lower, fingertips wrapping around the base beneath the thin fabric, rolling gently as you stroked with slow, measured movements—each slide coaxing a deeper breath, a quieter moan. For a second, you took your hand out of his boxers to lick the length of your hand to stroke him more easily. And Clark full on whimpered at the sight of that, a genuine sound of despair as his brows furrowed under his glasses.

When you slithered it back down the fabric, Clark’s hips jerked involuntarily, pressing upward into your hand as if begging for more, but you held back, savoring the tension between you—drawing it out, letting every second stretch deliciously.

Your other hand tangled in his hair, forcing him to look into your eyes, steadying him as your fingers moved in slow, deliberate circles, learning every curve, every inch of his cock as you’d finally allowed yourself to touch it.

He shivered beneath you, lips parted, eyes wide and vulnerable, utterly undone by your careful, possessive ministrations.

You paused for a moment, fingers still gently wrapped around him, your gaze locking with his wide, searching eyes. The air between you thickened, charged with the promise of everything neither of you wanted to say aloud yet.

Slowly, you leaned in, your voice a low, teasing whisper against his ear. “Clark… do you want me? Do you want me to fuck you, honey?”

His breath hitched sharply, pupils dilating, cheeks flushed deeper than before. The vulnerability in his gaze met a fierce need—shy but undeniable.

“Yes..” he admitted, voice trembling but honest. “So bad.”

You didn't wait another second after that. You stood up, toes landing on the soft carpet beneath you, and his eyes flickered to your hands as you began fumbling with the zipper of your pants. He finally took the hint and began rolling the bunched-up fabric of his boxers and sweatpants down his legs. When you slid yours down, you couldn't help but notice the way his cock bobbed indecently with every swift motion of his leg, trying to kick his pants off. What a vision, you could've sworn he would've been able to see the wet spot on your panties even from so far away.

As soon as his boxers landed on the floor, you pounced on him. Your panty-clad cunt, making contact with the length of his shaft, resting against his belly. He stifled a moan and quickly began toying with the buttons of your shirt.

His hands went immediately to your shirt, fumbling at the buttons with trembling fingers, too impatient to bother with grace.

“Let me—” he swallowed hard, eyes flicking up to meet yours, wide and burning. “Let me see ’em, please, sugar. Please.”

“You sound desperate, Clark.”

“I am desperate,” he admitted without hesitation, his voice breaking slightly on the word. His gaze met yours, wide and almost feverish. “I need you. I need to touch you, to see you… please, darlin’, don’t make me—”

His fingers trembled as he finally managed to undo the last stubborn button, his breath catching in his throat when your shirt slipped open just enough to reveal the curve of your skin beneath.

Clark swallowed hard, eyes wide and fixed on you like you were the only thing keeping him grounded. Without thinking twice, his hands moved to the edge of your shirt, hesitating just a moment before he slid it fully off your shoulders, dropping the fabric somewhere behind him.

He looked up at you, cheeks flushed, eyes searching for permission. When you simply smiled and nodded, his hands shakily reached for the clasp of your bra.

Fumbling awkwardly, his fingers struggled to find the latch, and he let out a small, embarrassed laugh. “I’m… not very good at this,” he whispered, voice thick with both nervousness and need.

When he finally slipped the delicate bra straps from your shoulders, your breasts gently spilled free from the cups, soft and supple. Your nipples instantly hardened at the cold air. Clark, on the other hand, just stared with his lips parted open, one moment away from drooling down his chin. Which you were sure he was about to be doing just that in a few seconds, by the way his cock was twitching under the wetness of your panties.

Almost as quickly, he snapped out of it, and his left hand pushed your back to press your breasts against his mouth. As his lips latched hungrily against your nipple, his other hand snaked its way down your stomach and under your panties, quickly finding your clit. Your soft moans only fired him up further, beginning to press open-mouthed, sloppy kisses to your hardened bud. He continued to lap at you with his tounge pressed wide against the flesh of your nipple, sucking it into his mouth to flick it slowly. For a second, he began moaning alongside you.

Then, his voice—soft, hoarse, barely more than a whisper—pressed right against you, his words trembling with both need and a hint of possessiveness. “Hmph— y’think Noah would ever do this for you?”

Your senses were far too overwhelmed to assess the question, let alone even answer it. Your hand reached for the curls on the back of his head as you arched your back into his mouth. His other had kept working wonders under your panties.

“No,” he murmured again, voice cracking just a little as he held you tighter, “Noah wouldn’t know how— how to make you feel like this. How to make you… want. H-he couldn't ever make you this wet.”

That had done it for you; you needed to fuck this man instantly. You had never needed anyone so bad in your life. Whatever magic he’d woven around you was completely undeniable. Just as he was beginning to press his mouth even harder against the flesh of your breast, you pulled him away by the back of his head. His hand stopped on your clit, and he understood immediately. With spit still running down his chin, thick and shiny, his hand went to set aside your panties. He was far too desperate to wait for you to take them off.

"I need you right now, Clark..." You half-whispered. With a lift of your hips, you grabbed the base of his cock and guided him into you. His grip on your panties as he held them apart almost faltered the second he felt you.

His breath hitched the instant he felt you, a shiver running through him as his grip on your panties — which he held just apart — almost faltered. His fingers trembled slightly, betraying the mix of surprise and need flooding through him. You could see it in his eyes — wide, vulnerable, and searching — as if trying to anchor himself in the moment, to steady the rapid beating of his heart.

Clark’s voice was soft but urgent, barely above a whisper. “M' not gonna last long, sugar. I'm sorry.” His words were a plea, laden with a mixture of desire and hesitation, as if he were both afraid and desperate all at once.

You smiled, leaning in close enough for your breath to ghost over his lips as you inched down his cock greedily, taking in every inch. “It's fine, baby. Just use me.” Just as you said this, you began slowly bouncing your hips to meet his. The quiet 'tap tap tap' of your skin meeting, echoing through the room.

He really was being honest when he said he wouldn't last long. You could see it in his face, the way the muscles on his arms shivered, and how he reached over to your breasts to squeeze and pinch at your nipples. His face contorted into a half frown, brows squeezing together while letting his mouth hang open. If Clark was anything in the whole wide world, it wasn't quiet. This man moans and whimpers shamelessly.

You leaned down to kiss him, purposefully giving an obscene lick to his chin where his sad trail of drool laid. You took his lips into your mouth, slotting yours over his, dragging him into the sloppiest makeout you’d had with him in weeks. Your hips bounced faster now, and his grip on your thighs tightened, but it felt like he was trying to slow you down, desperate to keep control.

You knew him too well—you could tell he didn’t want to embarrass himself.

Just as if to prove your point, he began shaking his head in a silent 'no' beneath your teasing tongue. High-pitched sounds escaped him, breathy and shaky before he finally managed to speak.

“No!—baby, please, m' gonna—”

You pulled back just enough to flash a wicked smile, eyes locked on his. “Isn’t that the whole point, Kent?” Finally, your hips picked up a different pace, one even sloppier. Between your arousal and Clark's cum, every time your hips landed back on him, you were able to hear the slosh of both of you underneath you.

His body tensed beneath you, every breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts, as if he was holding onto the edge of a storm about to break. You felt the heat radiate from him, the desperate pulse beneath your touch growing stronger by the second.

“No, no, no…” he gasped again, voice raw and trembling, thick with need and disbelief. “Feels so good, honey. God—”

His hips jerked uncontrollably against yours, every muscle coiling and releasing like a taut spring finally snapping free. His eyes were locked on where both of you were joined. The tension built and broke in waves, each one stealing his breath and making his grip on your thighs tighten as if you were his only anchor to the world.

You slid your hand with gentle firmness along the line of his hip, steadying him as his body shuddered beneath your palm, trembling from the force of his release. His breath hitched, coming in ragged gasps that filled the quiet room, mingling with the soft sounds of his surrender.

“Clark,” you murmured softly, voice steady and warm, “you’re doing so good. Just like that.”

His lips parted in a fragile moan, eyes fluttering open to meet yours—wide, vulnerable, and completely undone by the moment. The flush on his cheeks deepened, and the slight quiver in his jaw betrayed the depth of his feeling.

“You’re so good to me,” he moaned, voice thick with awe and raw surrender, “makin’ me feel so good…” Just then, after saying that, his hips snapped into you one more time, and he groaned. As he continued filling you up, his hips stayed pressed flush against you, shaky and trembly.

After the rush of emotion began to settle, you both remained close, the world outside your shared space fading away into a gentle hush. Clark’s breathing was still uneven, and you could feel the subtle tremors in his hands as he brushed a loose strand of hair from your face with the softest touch.

You shifted slightly, pulling him down into a careful embrace, your arms wrapping around his shoulders as he rested his forehead against yours. The vulnerability that had filled the air moments ago softened into quiet warmth, an unspoken reassurance that neither of you were going anywhere.

Clark’s voice was low and tentative. “Are you okay?” he asked, searching your eyes for any sign of discomfort or regret.

You smiled gently, cupping his cheek with your hand. “I’m more than okay.”

His lips brushed your palm, a quiet thank you without words, before he settled closer, letting his body relax fully against yours. You stroked slow circles on his back, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your fingers.

For a long moment, the only sounds were your mingled breaths and the faint hum of the city beyond the window. In that stillness, you both found comfort — a silent promise.

When he finally spoke again, it was with a shy smile. “Thank you—for being patient with me.”

[goldenbrowns]

going absolutely lunatic conjuring up my next clark kent fic... this is my very lowkey, and not at all conspicuous way of saying that my asks are always open to your dirty little thoughts. @goldenbrowns's hotline is your best friend...

[goldenbrowns]

stop this means so much to me, this is so sweet. being told i write clark kent in character is probably the equivalent to the feeling of being knighted. ily hun <3

જ⁀➴ CLARK KENT HEADCANNONS

just boyfriend clark and his antics ◟✿ warnings: not really, pretty fluffy.

જ⁀➴ Clark’s music taste isn’t exactly broad. He mostly listens to what he grew up with—songs that remind him of home, of mornings in the Kent farmhouse with his mom humming along as she cooked. Don McLean is sacred. American Pie, Vincent—classics. He puts them on while making breakfast, like clockwork. And without fail, they wreck him. You’ll glance over and find him tearing up at the stove, blinking fast like that’ll help. You ask him once, “Why do these songs get you so emotional? You’re not even into Van Gogh.” (The song "Vincent" is basically an ode to Van Gogh, and "American Pie" is one to Buddy Holly)

He sniffles, flips a pancake, and says, “You’re heartless. Have you heard the lyrics? That’s poetry, thank you.”

“You cried during a commercial for arthritis cat food last week.”

“Because I have empathy,” he shoots back, mock-offended.

And yeah—he’s Superman, sure. But you’ve never met anyone softer than Clark Kent listening to a Don McLean song at 8 a.m. in his kitchen.

જ⁀➴ You hadn’t quite gotten used to it—being with Clark, knowing he truly, unshakably loved everything about you. Not just your laugh or your thoughts or the way you held his hand when you were nervous. But you, completely. You used to think Clark’s love for humanity ended with the soul—compassion, hope, bravery. But it’s more than that. He sees the human body as something sacred, something resilient. Even if his is nearly identical, he knows he’s not really one of you. Maybe that’s why he’s so in awe.

Your past—boys who picked apart what you wore, what you looked like, how you looked when you didn’t smile—left marks. And so did your own words, the ones you whispered to the mirror in quiet moments.

But Clark? He traces those same parts like they’re written in gold.

“You know,” he says one night, running a hand gently along your arm, “I don’t think people realize how incredible they are. Everything your body’s been through, and it’s still yours. Still strong. Still beautiful.”

You try to brush it off with a laugh, but he stops you, eyes soft.

“No, I mean it. You’re a miracle. Every inch.”

જ⁀➴ Clark may not get sick like humans do, but he knows how fragile the human body can be—and he reveres it. He reads medical journals like most people scroll social media. Every new study, every breakthrough—he’s on it. If researchers say something might cause long-term damage? It vanishes from your home without a word. One day it’s in the pantry, the next it’s gone. You’ve learned not to ask what happened to the non-stick pans.

He’s quick to scold too, in that soft but stern Clark Kent way.

“You drank that energy drink again, didn’t you?” he says, arms crossed.

You wince. “It was one time. I was exhausted.”

“Caffeine, synthetic taurine, seventeen grams of sugar, and no actual nutrition,” he lists off instantly. “You may as well drink battery acid.”

“Okay, Dad.”

“Oh, but I will call your mom if you keep this up.”

But underneath the scolding is love—a deep, anxious kind of love. Because he’s seen how delicate humans are. How easily hurt. And the idea of losing you to something preventable makes his heart ache in ways even he can’t explain.

“You only get one body,” he murmurs once, wrapping his arms around you. “I don’t get to fix that if anything were to happen to you."

And even though he says that—calm and grounded—he knows the truth. If anything ever happened to you, if you ever got sick and couldn’t be treated here, he’d tear through the galaxy without hesitation. He’d fly straight through the heart of Andromeda if it meant finding a planet, a cure, a fragment of something that could save you. Nothing on Earth or beyond would keep him from trying.

જ⁀➴ Clark was never exactly tech-savvy. He still types with one finger and once called the Wi-Fi “the internet signal.” But he does have an Instagram account—with exactly 15 followers (two of which are your parents) and follows mostly rescue shelters, NASA, and you.

And he lives for Reels.

You can hear them echoing through the apartment when you’re in the shower—dog videos, inspirational quotes in cursive fonts, and Flowers by Miley Cyrus for the fiftieth time in ten minutes, all blasting at full volume like your boyfriend’s a suburban mom on her iPad.

He sends you a steady stream of dog memes, tiny cat posts with a follow-up message saying “you,” and medical infographics with captions like “new study suggests drinking cold water too fast is bad for your esophagus,” followed by no context. Just the link and sometimes “pls read.”

But the best part? When you post a selfie.

He replies three, four, sometimes five times to the same Story. Once with “Sweet Jesus,” then again with “That's my girl!!” and “Good grief.” And maybe five minutes later: “Lord have mercy I need to sit down.”

જ⁀➴ Clark has terrible dad jokes. Like, the kind that make you roll your eyes so hard you’re afraid they’ll get stuck. But he tells them anyway, with that earnest smile that makes you laugh even when you’re trying not to.

He loves puns—the cheesier, the better. One minute you’re having a serious conversation, and the next he drops something like, “Why don’t scientists trust atoms? Because they make up everything.”

You groan. “Clark, please.”

But then he just grins wider, proud as can be. “I’m here all week.”

He saves them for moments when you need a little lift, or when you both are just lounging on the couch. You swear his joke book is infinite—and honestly, a little bit endearing.

જ⁀➴ Clark tries so hard to keep up with your slang, but it doesn’t always land. One afternoon, you’re scrolling through your phone, laughing at a TikTok, and he peers over your shoulder.

“That’s so… cunty?” he repeats carefully, raising an eyebrow like he’s testing the word for balance.

You blink, surprised. “Uh, yeah. Like, unapologetic, powerful, feminine. Kind of fierce energy.”

Clark nods slowly, considering. “So if someone does something bold and… that way, you’d say, ‘That’s so cunty’?”

You grin, amused. “Exactly.”

The next day, you catch him using it in the newsroom, totally deadpan: “Lois was being so cunty about the lead on that story.”

Lois gives him a look that could freeze a volcano. Clark just shrugs, smiling like he nailed it.

You laugh, shaking your head. “You’re never getting rid of that one now.”

જ⁀➴ Clark doesn’t curse. Ever. You’ve known him through world-ending crises, explosive arguments at Daily Planet, and even a dropped pie on Thanksgiving—not once have you heard anything harsher than a “heck” leave his mouth. So naturally, when you stub your toe on the coffee table and let out a very colorful string of expletives, he gasps like you’ve just kicked a nun.

“Language,” he says, pausing mid-fold with a pair of your socks in hand, brows raised in gentle disapproval.

You shoot him a look through the pain. “Clark. I’m in agony. You want me to say ‘gosh darn’ and call it a day?”

“I’m just saying there are... alternatives,” he says, calmly, like this is a productive conversation and not a moral intervention. “You could say, like, ‘shoot’ or ‘fudge.’ Or ‘crumbs.’ People say ‘crumbs,’ right?”

You stare at him. “Clark, no one under the age of 97 says ‘crumbs.’”

He crosses the room and kisses your forehead like he’s trying to cleanse your aura. “You kiss me with that mouth?”

You grin. “You love this mouth.”

He stammers, caught. “W-Well. That’s not the point.”

જ⁀➴In your household, killing bugs is absolutely forbidden—not by you, but by Clark.

You learned this the hard way the first time you spotted a spider on the wall and casually asked, “Can you kill that?” He turned to you like you’d just asked him to burn down an orphanage. “Kill it?” he repeated, hand to his chest in genuine sympathy for the spider.

“It’s more scared of you than you are of it.” You rolled your eyes, but he wasn’t done. “What if it has a little spider family to go back to?” he added softly, already retrieving a cup and a piece of paper to gently relocate the poor thing.

Since then, it's become routine: you scream, he walks in calmly, says something like “Let’s not be dramatic,” and gently escorts the bug outside like it's a guest who overstayed its welcome. You’ve caught him more than once murmuring “Sorry, little guy” while setting them free. You gave up arguing about it—Clark Kent doesn’t kill anything that isn’t absolutely world-ending. Not even spiders.

[goldenbrowns]

david corenswet:

they love me because I be saying shit like alas and perchance

[goldenbrowns]

ABYSS KISS ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪࣪|| clark kent x fem!reader || oneshot

other pairings: inexperienced!reader x clark kent

summary: You and Clark Kent had always shared something unspoken — a quiet safety. Long before your relationship, he was the one who listened to your rants about failed dates and your fears around intimacy. You’d told him everything: how romance never quite fit, how sex had become a distant memory. But Clark saw you. He always had. Now, after months of slow, growing affection, you’re finally together — though physical closeness still feels unfamiliar. He knows that. So one quiet night, with trust hanging in the air as you cuddled under a blanket watching a movie, you get a little squirmy from the close contact, and he noticed, offering to help.

word count: 7.6k

warnings: service!top clark, inexperienced!reader, dirty talking, fingering, oral fem!receiving, spit as lube, pussy pronouns, mild language, praise kink, dacryphilia, clark is a bit condescending, size kink, didn't notice I made the reader kinda nonverbal sometimes...,

There was always something about Clark Kent that felt different. Not in the obvious way — not the glasses or the quiet charm, not even the way he seemed to fill up a room without meaning to. It was in the stillness. The way he listened without trying to fix, the way he gave space without making you feel abandoned. Being around him felt like standing in sunlight: gentle, quiet warmth that you didn’t realize you needed until it settled on your skin.

And over time, you found yourself leaning into that warmth. Little by little, you let him see parts of you that had long been tucked away — not because he asked, but because with him, the silence didn’t feel heavy. You told him things. Things you didn’t usually admit out loud. About how love had always felt more complicated than comforting. How dating, for you, was less about connection and more about surviving mismatched expectations.

One night, when you were still just friends and sitting side by side on his couch with takeout boxes between you, you’d launched into one of your trademark rants — the kind where frustration blended with disbelief.

“He actually got mad,” you’d said, gesturing wildly with a half-eaten spring roll. “Like actually mad. Because he paid for dinner and brought me stupid gas station flowers, and thought that meant I owed him something.”

Clark had looked up from his food then, eyebrows lifting. “Wait, first date?”

“First date,” you said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “As in, ‘Hi, nice to meet you, here's a meal and a bouquet, now let’s pretend we’re in a poorly written porno.’”

He had laughed, but it wasn’t mocking. It was low and disbelieving — incredulous on your behalf.

“I just— I don’t get it,” you continued. “Like, why do some men think basic decency is currency for sex? I was polite. I said thank you. I smiled. That doesn’t mean I was ready to jump into bed with him, and somehow I was the bad guy?”

Clark shook his head, frowning now. “You’re not the bad guy for having boundaries. That’s... basic human respect.”

You’d blinked at him, something soft unraveling in your chest. “Yeah. Try explaining that to someone who thinks dinner is a contract.”

There was a pause then. One of those Clark pauses, thoughtful and charged with something unspoken. When he finally spoke, it was quieter.

“If anyone makes you feel like you owe them your body for kindness, they don’t deserve any part of you. Not your time. Not your laughter. Not even your irritation.”

You remember that moment clearly — not just because of the words, but because of how he looked at you when he said them. Like your worth was a given. Like your no would always be enough.

It stayed with you. The way he didn’t flinch at your anger. The way he didn’t make it about him. Just listened, nodded, understood. That conversation, like so many others, built the invisible thread that tugged at you each time you looked at him. Until one day, it wasn’t just a thread — it was a lifeline.

You didn’t fall in love with Clark all at once. It wasn’t a cinematic moment or a lightning strike. It was a slow, steady accumulation. His laugh in the morning. The way he always remembered how you took your coffee. The way he looked at you when you were talking — like nothing else mattered. You started to feel it like warmth in your chest, like gravity pulling you closer to something safe.

And when you finally did get together, it wasn’t sudden. It didn’t need to be. You already knew each other in ways that mattered more than the official labels.

Still, even with all that love, there were parts of you that felt unsure. Not because of him, but because of everything that came before. Intimacy — real intimacy — had become a kind of foreign language you used to speak fluently but had forgotten. It had been years since you’d let someone close, really close. And though you weren’t a stranger to sex, it had been long enough, and fumbled enough, that the idea of rediscovering it felt tangled with nerves and doubt. You’ve had one boyfriend before, but after that, your experience had stayed very limited.

But Clark never rushed you. Never assumed. He kissed you like you were something precious, like he had all the time in the world — and maybe he did. With him, you never felt like you were running out of time. You just felt held.

He never asked when. Never implied if not now, then when. He just was — beside you, consistent and patient. The kind of man who didn’t tally favors or gifts or kind gestures. The kind who simply loved you, and let that be enough.

Still… you thought about it.

You tried not to — not in a desperate, spiraling way — but your mind would drift. To the shape of his hands, the low timbre of his voice when he whispered things only meant for you. To the way he smelled, like warmth and safety and something slightly earthy, like rain on pavement. You’d wanted him, as badly as you hoped he wanted you. Probably just as much.

You tried not to dwell on it, tried not to let your imagination carry you too far, but the past few weeks had made it harder. Your thoughts got tangled in moments that felt almost like permission: the brush of his lips against your throat when he hugged you from behind, the way his hand lingered at your waist just a second too long, the sound he made when you kissed him like you meant it. All of it built up — slow, steady pressure under your skin that made you restless and squirmy and so unbelievably pent-up.

So today, when you and Clark were curled up on the couch watching one of his nerdy sci-fi movies — something about time loops and space-time paradoxes you barely followed — you weren’t feeling your best. Or maybe that wasn’t the right word. You were warm, content, half-focused… and aching in a quiet, constant kind of way that made it hard to sit still. Harder still to pretend it wasn’t happening.

You’d ended up in your usual spot: half under the throw blanket, your head resting against his shoulder, his arm slung around you lazily. The bottom half of both your bodies were hidden beneath the soft fabric, though of course not all of it — Clark’s feet, long and bare, stuck out at the edge of the L-shaped couch. Over 6’5” of muscle and kindness. There wasn’t a blanket in the world long enough for him.

But now, you were suddenly aware of everything.

The way his fingers were idly tracing soft, feather-light circles on your shoulder — so gentle you might have missed it if you weren’t completely tuned into every square inch of your skin. How his other hand, the one that had been resting on his own leg when the movie started, had migrated beneath the blanket… and was now settled on your thigh. Higher than usual. Not improper, not demanding — just there, and warmer than it should’ve been, radiating through the fabric of your sweatpants and directly into your bloodstream.

Your breathing had shifted before you realized it. Slower, deeper. Each inhale filled with the scent of him — something clean and earthy, like cedar and soap, and something else, something him.

You could feel the lines of his torso beneath his shirt, solid and defined. Every breath he took made the muscle beneath you shift — the quiet rise and fall of his chest just under your cheek. And every time he chuckled at some ridiculous sci-fi paradox or whispered a nerdy fun fact into the space between you, you felt it vibrate through his chest and into your bones. It was grounding. It was too much.

And then… there was that.

Your leg, draped so innocently over his lap — a position you’d taken a hundred times without thinking — was suddenly very much something. Because now, you could feel it. The shape of him beneath the blanket, beneath the thin fabric of his sweatpants. Not exaggerated. Not something he was pushing or calling attention to. Just present. Solid. Real.

Your thigh had unknowingly settled over the curve of his cock, and now you couldn't un-feel it. The contact wasn’t overt — there was space between you still, air and fabric and hesitation — but your skin was screaming anyway.

He was huge. You weren’t just imagining it. Even through the thin fabric of his sweats and the shared heat between your bodies, the shape of him was unmistakable. Heavy. Firm. Bigger than what you’d expected — not that you hadn’t thought about it before. Of course you had. But knowing and feeling were entirely different things. One was curiosity. The other was a full-body crisis.

You shifted — subtly, guiltily — like maybe adjusting would help you think straight, but it only made it worse. The soft drag of your thigh over him shifted the position of his cock in his sweatpants. Was he wearing no underwear? Your skin prickled, flushed and alive, every inch of you screaming for more friction, more pressure, more.

You tried to focus on the movie. Tried to listen to Clark’s heartbeat under your cheek instead of the storm building low in your belly.

But all you could think about was how hot he felt. How there he was. How easily you could shift again — just a little — and slide your leg closer, press down on it, maybe even roll your hips pretending it was accidental.

Just as your thoughts started to spiral — body taut, blood buzzing, desire thick and almost dizzying — Clark cut through the tension with a low, casual murmur.

“You know,” he said, voice warm with that familiar nerdy amusement, “if this movie followed the actual laws of time dilation, that character would’ve aged about fifty years by now.”

You blinked.

It took a full second to process the words. Your brain, still tangled in heat and friction and the maddening outline of him beneath your leg, scrambled to catch up. The sudden whiplash of him being so Clark in this moment — dorky and oblivious or maybe too unaware — made you let out a laugh. Or something that was supposed to be a laugh.

But it came out too fast. Too high. Too tight.

Clark’s hand stopped its lazy circles on your shoulder. His body stilled, just slightly, like he was tuning in. You didn’t even have time to hide the way your breath caught before he gently turned his head down toward you, his brows knitting in that soft, concerned way he always wore when he sensed something just beneath the surface.

“Hey,” he said, barely above a whisper.

His hand moved — slow and careful — under your chin, coaxing your gaze upward. His fingers were warm and steady as they tipped your face to meet his. And when your eyes finally found his, wide and glassy, you knew he saw everything.

You tried to speak — to joke, to dismiss, to breathe — but the words stuck. Your cheeks burned. Your lips trembled. And it wasn’t from embarrassment. It was too much. You were too full of him — of want, of fear, of need. It sat in your throat like a secret you couldn’t keep anymore.

“Are you okay?” he asked, voice soft but sure, genuinely concerned.

You swallowed, but it didn’t help. His eyes searched yours, and something in you cracked under the pressure — not in a painful way, but in that raw, terrifyingly beautiful way vulnerability always finds its edge.

You tried to laugh it off, forcing a joke as a shield. “I’m fine,” you said quickly, voice a little too high, trying to brush away the tension that suddenly thickened the air between you. “Really, it’s nothing. Just… you know, too much sci-fi for one night.” You smiled, hoping it sounded casual, maybe even funny.

But Clark wasn’t buying it. His eyes held yours, steady and searching, and there was no flicker of doubt in his expression—only care. “Uh uh, there's something wrong I can tell,” he pressed softly, his voice gentle but insistent, as if he could see past your words to the fluttering nerves you were trying so hard to hide.

Embarrassment flushed through you like a wave. You palmed your face, cheeks burning hot against your fingertips. “God, this is so stupid,” you muttered, the words tumbling out in a rush. “For the love of all things, please just let’s keep watching the movie.” You hoped to shut down the conversation, to bury the fluttering ache and the heat pooling low in your belly under the easy distraction of the flickering screen.

But Clark wasn’t letting go. Not tonight.

His hand, the one resting on your thigh, tightened just a fraction—not enough to hurt, but enough to anchor you back into the moment. You blinked up at him, caught between wanting to run and wanting to melt into the warmth that radiated from his body so close to yours.

“I mean,” you stammered, cheeks still burning, “you’re just… so close. And so warm. And your hand there,” you glanced down at where his fingers lay lightly on your thigh, “it’s… dangerous.”

You swallowed hard, heart pounding in your ears. Then, unable to stop yourself, your eyes flicked down further, toward the unmistakable curve beneath the blanket, not even hard, just resting there. “And then there’s that,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper, pointing subtly to where he was pressed beneath your leg.

Clark looked down, blinking innocently as if he hadn’t a clue what you meant — but the flush creeping up his neck when he finally looked down said otherwise. He caught on, of course, he did. And the way his brows furrowed, a little guilty, a little sheepish, made your heart twist.

His hand left your thigh for a moment, as if almost apologizing for the weight it had. His voice dropped to a tender murmur. “I’m so sorry,” he said, sincerity threading through every word. “I didn’t mean to— I never wanted to make you feel uncomfortable. I was clueless, honestly. I didn’t realize… I never wanted to rile you up like this.”

He sounded so genuine, so careful, like he was cradling something fragile and precious—you—in his hands. His thumb brushed gently over your knuckles as if soothing a child, and you felt yourself melt a little under the weight of his concern.

You took a deep breath and shook your head, trying to pull back some of the heat rising in your cheeks. “The problem’s me,” you said, voice a little breathless but steady. “I’ve just been getting way too in my head lately. Like, really pent up.” You gave a small, almost sheepish laugh. “Honestly, it’s ridiculous. I feel… needy. Not in some dramatic, emotional way — just… like I haven’t had a moment to myself that’s not thinking about wanting something I don’t know how to ask for.”

You shrugged, trying to make light of it but the honesty was there. “I catch myself daydreaming about just… being close to you, how you'd feel, fuck— how warm you are. And then I panic because I’m so out of practice I don’t even know where to start. So yeah, I’ve been a little wound up. And it’s been making me feel all kinds of weird.”

Clark’s expression softened instantly, his eyes filling with a kind of heartbreak that made your chest ache. His voice was low, full of regret and tenderness. “My poor baby,” he murmured, brushing his thumb lightly over your knuckles again. “I’m so sorry for making you feel like this. I wasn’t aware — I swear, I didn’t realize how much you were holding in.”

He leaned in a little, careful not to crowd you, but wanting you to know how deeply he cared. “You don’t have to pretend with me,” he said quietly. “I want to understand. And I want to help, in any way you’ll let me.”

You nodded slowly, still taken aback by the tenderness in his words. Your eyes were glassy, brows furrowed as if trying to process the weight of everything he was offering. “Okay,” you whispered, voice barely audible. “Yeah… I think I want that."

Clark’s gaze softened even more, his thumb brushing lightly over your cheek as if to soothe the hesitation lingering there. “Yeah, you sure?” he asked gently, his voice low and steady. “I don’t want to rush you. This is just as important to me as it is to you. I want us to move at your pace, not mine. I never want to do anything that makes you feel uncomfortable or unprepared.”

You blinked up at him, a shy smile tugging at your lips as you whispered, “Pretty please?”

The softness of the words — simple, honest, and a little bit playful — seemed to melt something inside him. His eyes brightened, warm and tender, and he smiled like a puppy who’d just been given a treat he didn’t expect.

Without another word, he leaned in slowly, his hand still cradling your cheek, and pressed his lips gently to yours. The kiss was soft, careful, full of promise — the kind that said, I’m here. We’ll go as far as you want. It was everything and nothing all at once, a beginning that needed no grand announcement.

When he finally pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his grin was shy and wide. “Your wish is my command,” he whispered, the playful glint still shining bright.

You weren’t sure who moved first after that kiss — maybe it was him, maybe it was you — but suddenly his hand was sliding down, slow and deliberate, until it found your thigh again. This time, he didn’t stop. His palm moved over your skin like it had a destination, like it already knew the map. It moved down your shorts and settled on the edge of your panties. He hesitated just long enough for you to breathe out a quiet, "Yes."

His touch shifted then — not quite dropping his hand inside, not yet, but there, right over your cunt. The heat of his hand through the fabric was maddening, careful but firm, his fingers moving in a way that made your legs tense and your breath catch. You bit your lip hard, trying not to make a sound, but it didn’t help. You were already sopping wet, enough to feel embarrassed about it or how much you wanted this. Your hips reacted on their own, a soft, needy roll up into his touch like your body had been waiting for this longer than your mind could admit.

He hummed, low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your lips as he kissed you again, deeper this time. His hand drew feather-light circles on the sopping fabric right above your clit. And not in a rushed, frantic way. He wanted you like someone starved who knew exactly how to savor.

“You’ve been holding this in, and Ive been such a jerk teasing you like this...” he murmured against your jaw, his fingers still working slow, steady circles over your cunt, making the fabric even damper with want. “All this time... my poor baby.”

You could barely breathe. Everything in you felt tight, electric, so pent-up you didn’t know whether to cry or beg or both. All you could do was nod, grabbing onto his shirt like it was the only thing keeping you grounded.

“Let me take care of it,” he whispered, kissing just beneath your ear. “Let me take care of you.”

His fingers lingered a moment longer, tracing slow, teasing circles over your cunt through the fabric. The touch was deliberate, hungry but controlled—like he was memorizing every curve, every soft inch beneath his palm. You could feel the heat pooling deeper, the dampness growing with every subtle press and glide.

He pulled back just enough to let his lips brush against your jaw again, low and rough this time. His voice was a husky whisper, both sweet and edged with something darker. “Can I take these off, honey? Would you like that? Wanna touch you—Gosh, you´re soaked pretty girl...” he asked, eyes locked on yours, serious but charged with that raw need you hadn’t heard from him before.

He barely gave you time to nod before his fingers curled beneath the waistband of your panties and shorts, tugging slowly and deliberately. The fabric slipped down inch by inch, the movement unhurried as if he was savoring the anticipation rather than rushing toward the reveal. Even before you were half naked, his hand’s motion was both tender and claiming.

His eyes, half-lit by the soft glow of the room and locked onto yours, held something raw — a blend of hunger tempered by care. There was a teasing glint there, a spark that said he knew exactly the effect he had on you and was savoring every second of it. His gaze flicked down briefly towards your cunt. He had meant it to be discreet, but because you were side by side, nestled against him, his view was limited — a teasing mercy that only made your awareness of being exposed all the sharper.

You swallowed hard, suddenly acutely conscious of the cold air against the wetness of your cunt and the way his chest seemed hotter now. So much so that part of your defenses were down. Heat flushed your cheeks and neck as the weight of vulnerability settled in. You shifted instinctively, grabbing the bottom of your shirt and pulling it down to cover yourself, the fabric a small shield between you and his gaze.

He caught the movement and chuckled softly, a low, teasing sound that vibrated through the space between you. He began pressing soft pecks against your neck as he softly caressed your mid-thigh. “Covering up already?” he murmured, voice thick with both amusement and something deeper, more intimate. “That's cute, baby.”

You gave a shaky laugh, eyes darting away for a moment, but he gently lifted your chin with a finger, coaxing you back to meet his gaze.

“Hey,” he said, voice soft but sure. “There’s nothing to be nervous about. I’m just lookin', you look so pretty. We can stop whenever you want, baby."

His thumb brushed tenderly over your cheek, lingering as if searching for permission without pressure. Then, voice dropping to a low murmur, he asked, “Can I touch you? Really touch you?” His eyes darkened with need and care, waiting for your answer — patient, undemanding.

You thought, heart pounding, breath catching in your throat, caught between the desperate want curling inside you and the fragile nerves fluttering beneath the surface. But when you whispered out a shaky "ýes", he smiled — slow, sweet, and promising.

The hand that had been gently cradling your cheek drifted downward with a quiet confidence, fingers brushing over your collarbone, then gliding down the front of your shirt. When it reached the spot where your own hand still clutched the fabric, he paused. His fingers curled gently around your wrist, giving it a soft squeeze — not demanding, just asking.

“Let me,” he murmured, his voice low, coaxing.

You hesitated for a breath, then released your grip. He lifted the hem of your shirt just enough to reveal the soft curve of your stomach and left it there — not pulling it higher. His hand traced along your skin, slow and reverent, before settling lower, cupping your dripping cunt.

A low sound left him — somewhere between a breathless laugh and a groan — as he glanced up at you with a smirk. "You're soaked, sweetie..."

His fingers spread your folds, and with the middle one, he began to tease at your slit, ever so gently, still a goddamn gentleman. Your eyes screwed shut as soon as he touched you; your senses felt heightened. It had been so long, and you never remembered it feeling so overpowering.

His eyes stayed fixed on your face, and not just for one reason. Part of him was carefully scanning for any flicker of hesitation — ready to stop the second he sensed discomfort. But the other part, the more selfish one, was completely enamoured by the pretty little faces he was pulling from you. He wanted to memorize every little reaction, every twitch of your lips, every flutter of your lashes.

You, on the other hand, couldn’t meet his gaze. Your face had twisted into something almost unreadable — a blend of too much sensation and too little control — your eyes shut tight, as if blocking out the weight of his stare might somehow ground you. Your hand clung to the fabric of his shirt like it was the only steady thing left.

His voice dipped lower, rough around the edges as his fingers continued their slow, unrelenting rhythm over your clit, sometimes stopping himself to guide a teasing finger along your slit coaxing, testing. The pad of his finger brushed just a little firmer over that sensitive spot, watching the way your body reacted — the stuttered breath, the soft twitch of your hips.

“You think you can take a finger, hm?” he murmured, tilting his head so his lips brushed the shell of your ear, voice thick with heat and something almost reverent. “You wanna try it out?”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, one brow raised, his eyes flicking between your flushed face and your parted lips. His hand never left you, still teasing slow circles, coaxing you toward a yes without saying it. His other hand cupped your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek. “I wanna hear you say it. You wanna feel me?”

You hesitated, breath catching, heart pounding loud enough to drown out everything else. But then, with a shaky breath and a nervous smile, you nodded. “Yeah… I want to. I think I can.”

The thing is, you can take a finger, that had never been a problem before. But Clark was huge all over, and his hands and fingers were no exception. So you had every right to doubt your abilities right now. And now that your arm had unknowingly begun to press against the very unmistakable bulge in his sweatpants, the sheer size of his cock had made itself very clear to you. So now you didn’t know what to pray for, if for you, or for your cervix after tonight.

That smile of his — soft, crooked, a little too pleased — stretched across his lips, and he leaned in to kiss your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. “Good girl,” he rasped, like the words tasted good coming out.

Then his fingers dipped lower, dragging slow, lazy circles on your hole, clearly teasing you, taking his time. “Gonna be real gentle,” he muttered against your skin, “but you gotta relax for me, yeah? Let me in, gotta relax for me.”

And just as your hips rolled into his hand in response, desperate and involuntary, you heard him chuckle softly. His middle finger slowly pushed inside your cunt, making you hiss. His finger was so deliciously thick, you still werent sure how you'd take a second one.

“You’re already so worked up, pretty thing. You’ve been wanting this all night, haven’t you?”

Clark’s gaze lingered on your face, heavy with warmth and something deeper — a kind of reverence. His finger slowly worked itself in and out of your cunt, drawing wet and sloppy noises from between your legs. You almost sighed in embarrassment, but his eyes locked on the way his finger drove itself inside of you said something else entirely. Then, the way he looked at you made it hard to breathe, like he was seeing something rare, something he wasn’t quite sure he deserved.

“Look at you,” he murmured into your ear, voice husky with awe. “You’re driving me insane.”

His finger moved with slow, deliberate care, making a beckoning motion inside of you that made your breath catch and your body respond without hesitation. The warmth of his touch and how deep his finger was pounding inside you sent shivers through you, teasing and coaxing every nerve awake.

His fingers paused for a moment, resting gently inside you, slick with your own want, as he looked down at you with a slow, knowing smile. His eyes held a mix of mischief and tenderness as he asked, voice low and teasing, “You want me to try another, baby? See if you can take it?”

The quiet tension between you made every nerve alive, every small sound in the room amplified in your ears. You hesitated for a moment, then nodded slightly, the smallest flicker of courage sparking inside you.

His fingers lingered just for a moment before he gave a slow, approving smile that softened into something warm and encouraging. “That’s my girl,” he murmured, voice low and pleased. “You’re doing so damn good.” He pulled his finger out of your hole with a wet squelch and brought his whole hand to this face, licking both the finger that was just inside you and his ring finger, putting them both in his mouth and licking them clean.

He brought his hand down once again to your cunt and played with your folds as he began to speak, both of his fingers gently parting you open. He brushed his thumb gently over your clit, eyes searching yours with quiet pride. “Can you see that? How well you’re doing? Because I do —" Before he finished the sentence, you felt his fingers sliding inside you. Jesus Christ, were they thick. "You're taking my fingers so well... So proud of you, sweetie."

His fingers moved gently, steadily working themselves in and out, each stroke measured and patient, as if memorizing every inch of you. The careful rhythm was both soothing and disgustingly filthy, and you found yourself leaning into the feeling, trusting him completely. You started to realize that Clark had picked up on how your cunt was making those wet, needy sounds whenever his fingers brushed your G-spot — and the bastard had clearly begun doing it on purpose. The grin on his face every time he did so, completely betrayed him.

You felt yourself growing squirmier, his movements growing quicker, pulling you closer to him as the heat between you intensified. Your breaths came faster, shallow and uneven, and you found yourself shifting against his hand almost without thinking — a mix of desperation and need that made your body ache to close the distance. The pressure of his finger practically drilling against your cervix, the slick warmth beneath his touch, was driving you wild, and you couldn’t hide how much you wanted more.

Clark caught every sign — the way your hips pressed forward, the small gasps that escaped your lips, the trembling of your thighs. His eyes darkened with raw desire, flickering with a hunger that made his usual calm seem to crack at the edges.

“Please,” he murmured, voice thick and almost desperate. “Let me taste you. I want to be right there with you.”

You swallowed hard, your cheeks flushing deeper as the raw need in his eyes pulled at something inside you. Your breath hitched, nerves fluttering between hesitation and craving. Finally, with a shaky but determined voice, you whispered, “Yes… please, Clark. I need you.”

He moved down slowly from beside you, eyes never leaving yours — not in hesitation, but in reverence. He gently took his fingers away from your cunt. His knee hit the floor at the foot of the couch with a gentle thud, one hand steadying himself on your leg, the other smoothing over your hip like he was committing every inch of you to memory.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured, not teasing this time, just quietly observant.

You nodded, unable to speak, breath caught somewhere between anticipation and disbelief. The way he was looking at you — like you were something sacred and starved for at the same time — made your stomach twist and flutter.

Clark leaned forward, placing a kiss just above your knee. Then another, higher this time. His fingers slid along the back of your thigh, coaxing you gently apart. His eyes stared right back into yours, and even with the unmistakable tension behind them, they felt warm. His blue eyes dilated and were glassy, just as desperate as you were. His eyes then, for the first time, tore themselves away from your face and landed at your sopping cunt, probably soaking the damn couch. He grabbed your hips with both his hands and scooted you over to the edge of the couch, dangerously close to his face. You were sure you almost felt the cool breeze of his breath on you.

"She's so pretty, baby. I could stare at her all night. Y'think she'd let me?"

His voice was a mix of awe and hunger, low and reverent like he was speaking about something sacred. Before you could answer, his hands were already guiding your hips, drawing you toward the edge of the couch where he now knelt, completely devoted. He went silent for just a second, and you noticed the motions of his tounge under his cheeks, gathering up spit. And just when you had straightened up, you saw him softly spitting on top of your slit, letting it drizzle down. His breath ghosted over your skin, warm and teasing, and then — a kiss to your clit. His tounge poking out for just the sweetest second. He looked like he was making out with it. Slow and deep, full of want. Not rushed, not frantic, but purposeful.

You gasped, your hand instinctively flying to his shoulder, gripping the fabric of his shirt like it was the only thing grounding you. His hands never stopped moving, one firm on your hip, anchoring you, the other gentle and coaxing on your hole, insistent on the come-hither motion inside you. The pressure of his touch, the warmth of his mouth — it all blended into something that made your breath stutter and your knees unsteady.

Clark pulled back just enough to glance up at you, his eyes dark and shining. “She likes that, huh?” he murmured, breathless. “She’s being real sweet to me.”

You nodded, barely able to form words, chest rising and falling with shaky rhythm.

“Good,” he said, kissing your thigh, his voice thick with need and adoration. “I’ll be real sweet to her, too. M'gonna kiss her real nice.” His tongue dips down once again, this time faster, flicking with speed over your folds. He swipes his tounge up and down your slit, latching on to your clit with intent. He gently sucks it into his mouth as his eyes flick over to you. His eyes were teary and glassy, his brows were furrowed, and his cheeks flushed a deep pink. On the other hand, his fingers kept working themselves in and out of you at incredible speeds, pulling out slick and wet nosies from your hole.

You moaned and whimpered as you held onto his curls. You could see the way his nose was nestled right above your mound as he lapped against you. There were moments when he closed his eyes and let his tongue move in slow, deliberate strokes—savoring you like something sacred. And then there were the moments he kept them wide open, gaze locked onto yours with a quiet intensity, just so you’d see exactly what you were doing to him. With his tongue laid flat against your clit, he began to shake his head slowly from side to side, coaxing out new, breathy little sounds from you with every deliberate motion. And he did exactly that, that fucker...

Your expression twisted into something unrecognizable — brows drawn tight, lips parted and trembling, flushed cheeks burning with heat. The sounds slipping from you were raw, utterly human. Your chest rose in short, frantic bursts, heart pounding so violently it felt like it might break free. You were so close now.

“Look at that... that pretty face doesn’t even know what to do with itself,” he jokes.

You huffed, half-laugh, half-whimper. He had to make everything into a joke—even now. That stupid little grin on his stupidly gorgeous face.

But before you could say anything back, another soft cry slipped from your mouth, your fingers tightening in his hair as the waves kept building. His nose was still nestled against you, warm breath ghosting over your sensitive skin, tongue working in slow, relentless circles. When you dared to look down, you found him already staring up—eyes wide open, clear and locked on yours. Not blinking. Not distracted. Just watching you fall apart.

It was all too much.

Somewhere between the pressure, the intimacy, and the fact that this man was on his knees for you like he lived there, the tears came. Quietly at first. One blink, then another. Warm trails down your cheeks that you barely noticed—until he did.

His tongue paused. “Hey—hey,” he said softly, voice suddenly gentle. “Is everything okay?”

You nodded quickly, voice catching as you said, “Yeah, yeah, it’s—God—it’s just so good.”

Clark let out a breath of relief, then that smile came back—just a little crooked this time, playful but still sweet. “Damn. Had me worried for a sec. Thought I broke you.”

You gave a weak laugh, still breathless. “You kinda did.”

He chuckled, pressing a soft kiss to your inner thigh. “Guess I’ll take that as a compliment.”

And just like that, his teasing edge returned, his confidence slipping back into place. “Y’cryin’ and shaking and still askin’ for more… You sure you can handle it, sweetheart?”

You shot him a look, smug despite the tears. “I think I deserve more.”

Clark grinned like you just challenged him to a game he knew he’d win. “That’s what I like to hear.”

As soon as he said that, your head shot back to look at him as he dived down once again, eyes flicking over his sweet face. His nose was nudged against your lips, almost looking like he was making out with your cunt. He didn't blink once as he gazed up at you, his head moving from side to side to help himself, the sound of his tounge flicking against your heat, his ragged breath against you every time you moaned or whimpered... He was enjoying this just as much as you were.

Apparently, seeing him so vulnerable—so willing to give you exactly what you needed, so desperate for your release—was all it took. Your hand clenched tightly at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer, pressing him deep against your cunt. The moment you did, a guttural, primal groan escaped him—raw and almost like a soft whimper. You guided his head with steady hands, making sure he knew exactly what you wanted. Through it all, he never once broke eye contact, completely focused on you, completely yours.

"Clarkie... I'm so, soo— Jus' keep going"

Clark smirked, his voice low and amused, replacing his tongue with his voice to speak, his pace still electrifying. “Clarkie knows exactly how ‘so’ you are, baby. Let me give it to you hun, relax." Right after you whispered those words, something inside him shifted — a surge of need that drove him deeper, harder than before. Both of his hands grabbed your knees, pulling them up closer to your shoulders, giving him full, unguarded access. Your fingers clenched tighter into his hair as he shook his head gently from side to side, his tongue tracing feverish, demanding patterns over your clit, like a man who hadn’t tasted anything in days.

His index and middle fingers pressed inside you, moving with a relentless rhythm that made your breath catch. You could feel the pressure building in your lower belly, amplified by his other hand resting firm against your stomach, pressing just enough to send every sensation spiraling higher. He was utterly in control — completely on top of everything.

Clark held your hips steady, steadying you as you rode out the wave. His lips brushed softly against your folds, a quiet, approving “Mhmm?” escaping him, keeping pace with the rhythm of your release, grounding you in that moment of shared intensity. The wave ran through every fiber of your being as you tried to stabilize yourself against anything you could get your hands on. Your ragged breaths began slowing down, and so did Clark's movements.

Clark’s hands never wavered as he slowly lifted his head, eyes dark and shining with something fierce yet tender. “See? Told you there’s nothing to be scared of with me,” he murmured, voice thick with satisfaction. “You did so damn good, baby. So perfect.”

You let out a shaky breath, cheeks still flushed, heart pounding wildly. “I want more,” you whispered, voice trembling between need and disbelief. “I want you… all of you.”

A slow, amused smile spread across Clark’s face, one brow arching as he shifted his weight. “Easy there, tiger” he said, standing up from the floor, adjusting his pants low around his waist and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His gaze flicked to you, playful but filled with raw hunger. “You almost had trouble with my fingers — how do you expect to take anything else?”

Your eyes involuntarily drifted down to the unmistakable bulge pressing against the fabric of his pants. Jesus Christ. Maybe he was right. How exactly were you supposed to take that? The thought sent a thrill of both fear and excitement spiraling through you.

Clark caught your glance and let out a low, wicked chuckle. “Don’t worry, baby. Clarkie’s got plenty of time to get you ready. He’s gonna make sure you’re so good and soaked, you’ll be begging for every inch.”

His hand slid to your waist, fingers tracing lazy, possessive circles over your skin. “I’m gonna take my time with you — make you mine. Every inch, every sigh, every sweet little sound.”

You shivered, the mix of his confidence and the raw want in his voice washing over you, making you ache for what was to come. The room seemed to shrink around you, the air thick with tension and promise — and in that moment, you knew you were exactly where you were supposed to be.

He took your hand with a gentle yet possessive grip, guiding it deliberately toward the unmistakable bulge straining against the fabric of his pants. His eyes locked onto yours, dark and smoldering with that intoxicating mix of tenderness and raw hunger, making your breath catch before your fingers even brushed his skin.

“Feel that, baby?” he murmured, voice low and teasing, a slow smile curling at the edges of his lips. “That’s all yours to get used to. Every inch.”

His breath hitched as your fingers tentatively traced the outline of his cock beneath the fabric, the heat radiating from him sending a delicious shiver coursing through your body. The hardness was undeniable — full and firm — and you could almost feel the power wrapped up in that tight, confident length.

He held your hand firmly, sliding it up and down, letting you feel the heat and hardness pressing insistently beneath the fabric. His eyes never left yours, searching, challenging — but with a softness that made your heart flutter.

“Now, be honest with me, baby,” he said, voice low and steady, with a teasing edge. “You think you can take that, huh?”

You hesitated, cheeks flushing deeper as you swallowed hard. Your voice was barely a whisper when you finally admitted, “No... I don’t think I can.”

A slow, knowing smile curved Clark’s lips. “That’s what I thought,” he said, his tone gentle but firm. “You don’t have to rush. Nothing worth having ever comes without time.”

He leaned closer, his breath warm against your temple. “Everything has its time, baby. There’s a moment for everything — for learning, for trusting, for letting go. And me? I'm not going anywhere. I’m here to make sure you’re ready, every step of the way.”

His fingers brushed lightly over your skin, soothing and steadying, grounding you in the safety of his presence. “You don’t have to be perfect, and you don’t have to be ready all at once. We’ll take it slow — slow enough for you to feel everything, to want everything.”

His eyes locked with yours, the weight of his words settling between you, wrapping you in a quiet promise. “When the time comes, baby, you’ll know. And I’ll be right here to give it to ya'.”

[goldenbrowns]

YEARNING!CLARK HEADCANNONS

♬⋆.˚ have this while i prepare an actual substantial fic. beware, these are actually pretty long headcannons. cw: overall fluffy, subtle sexual themes, mentions of clark touching himself, i made clark an abba fan, clark being absolutely head over heels for you, just a love-sick puppy

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ There’s this playlist Clark keeps on his phone—he never shows it to anyone, not even you. It’s just called “Untitled,” because naming it feels like admitting things he’s not ready to say. It’s full of songs that hit him right in the chest whenever he hears them, songs that make him think of you in ways words never could. Like “Something” by The Beatles—soft and quiet, like the way he watches you when you don’t notice. Then there’s “Silver Springs” by Fleetwood Mac, a raw, aching song that he feels describes exactly what it feels like to have you so near but still somehow out of reach. And “Just the Way You Are” by Billy Joel, because sometimes he just wants to tell you he loves you exactly how you are, with all your flaws and little quirks, no changes necessary. Clark listens to it when he’s flying alone under the stars or lying awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering if you’ll ever see him the way he sees you—like you’re the only thing that’s ever truly mattered.

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ Clark hates your dates. Not in a jealous, over-the-top way, but in the quiet, I’m holding back so much kind of way. He always tries to smile, asks the right questions, nods politely—but inside, he’s grinding his teeth. Like the time you came back after a dinner with some guy who talked way too much about his “startup” and way too little about anything interesting. Clark was sitting on the couch when you walked in, and without even looking up, he muttered, “So, did Mr. Silicon Valley impress you with his business jargon or just bore you into next week?” You laughed, a little surprised, and he smirked—he never says stuff like that, but sometimes the words just slip out. You gave him a look and he quickly added, “I’m kidding... mostly.”

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ Clark remembers everything about you. The way you take your coffee—half a sugar, a splash of oat milk, “a lid if we’re walking”—he’s got it down to a science. The fact that you hate the sound of Velcro, that you once said November feels like a lonely month, that you always wear your favorite sweater when you're sad. He stores it all away like it matters—which, to him, it does.

One night, you’re digging through your bag, frustrated, muttering, “I swear I had chapstick—”

Without a word, Clark reaches into his jacket pocket and hands you your favorite one. Not just any chapstick. The exact brand. The weird mango-peach one you can never find anywhere.

You blink at him. “Okay, how did you know that?”

He shrugs, but there’s this tiny, sheepish smile tugging at his mouth. “I mean— you always lose yours. You mentioned once that the mint kind makes your lips sting. During that hike last spring, remember? So...y'know, figured I might get you one.”

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ You and Clark have been best friends for years, and your level of comfort around him is second nature—you casually lounge around his apartment in oversized shirts and no pants like it's your own place. Meanwhile, Clark is doing everything he can to stay composed, quietly losing his mind over how little you notice what it does to him. He’s constantly redirecting his eyes, clenching his jaw, and pretending he’s not affected—until one moment, when he finally cracks and awkwardly asks:

“Are you… cold?”

You pause mid-bite, eyebrows scrunching. “Huh?”

He gestures—vaguely, vaguely at your upper half—then immediately regrets it. “Just—your tank top, it’s… uh, it’s thin and I thought maybe, temperature-wise, you were… chilly. I mean, I’m not your thermostat. Sorry. Or not. Forget it.”

You look down. Then back at him. He’s flushed, ears pink, very clearly avoiding eye contact with your chest now like it owes him money.

You snort. “Jesus, Smallville, just say I’m poking through my shirt.”

“I wasn’t gonna say it,” he mumbles into his glass of water.

You grin and go right back to your peanut butter. “You’re cute when you malfunction.”

He chokes a little. Doesn’t speak again for five whole minutes.

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ Clark tries so hard not to touch himself thinking about you. He’s convinced it’s degrading somehow—like he’s crossing a line he can’t take back—though, yeah, he’s definitely slipped a few times. The other day, he caught himself staring at your legs when you bent over to grab the TV remote, and there it was: just a quick flash of pink lace underwear beneath your oversized shirt. It was enough to make his breath hitch.

Then there was that time he accidentally walked in on you in the shower. You didn’t freak out, didn’t rush to cover up—just shrugged like it was no big deal, which, honestly, made it worse. The way the water glistened on your skin, the soft steam curling around you, the way you looked over your shoulder with that casual smirk—it burned itself into his brain.

Or the countless nights when you’d fall asleep on his couch in nothing but that tank top he knows you wear because you like the way it feels loose and light. He’d watch you, heart pounding, hands clenched tight in his lap because the urge was there, always there—imagining how your skin would feel under his fingertips, how your breath would hitch if he dared to kiss the mound hidden under your cute little panties.

Clark’s caught himself biting his lip in the newsroom, sneaking glances when you laugh across the room, imagining what it would be like to pull you close, to feel you flush beneath him, whimpering, shaky, and needy. But then he shuts it down, because this is you—his best friend—and the thought of ruining that makes his hands tremble more than anything else.

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ One night, you’d had a little too much—more laughs than sense, the kind of night where your phone suddenly feels like the safest, most honest place to spill your thoughts. You text Clark something cheeky, something that made you grin even as your fingers wobbled over the keys.

“Hey Smallville... if you wanted me, you’d just say it. I’m kinda tired of waiting. Just say the word, and I’m yours.”

You hit send and immediately think, Oops.

Seconds later, your phone buzzes.

Clark: Wait. What? Clark: Did you just— Clark: Where are you?

You can almost hear the panic in his texts. He’s not just confused; he’s flustered—like he accidentally stepped into a tornado of feelings he’s been trying to keep locked down for years.

You type back, “Haha, I’m fine. Just at the bar. Why?”

Clark: You’re not fine. I can tell. I’m coming to get you. Don’t move.

You stare at your screen, heart racing. He’s already in motion, even without a clear plan, because when it comes to you, Clark’s impulse is always to protect, to show up.

Minutes later, he’s at the bar, eyes scanning until he finds you—laughing too loud, cheeks flushed, the very picture of reckless charm. He doesn’t say much at first, just pulls you up and wraps an arm around your waist. God, you looked so beautiful like this, so happy, so carefree.

“You’re ridiculous,” he mutters, voice low, but there’s something tender under the teasing. “You know that, right?”

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ Clark is the kind of guy who’ll randomly decide to cook you dinner out of nowhere. It’s not just about the food—it’s his way of showing he cares without having to say a word. When he cooks, there’s always music playing in the background. Normally, he’s this bright, goofy person, always smiling and joking, but the moment the music starts, he becomes… well, just another person—except he can’t help but shuffle and subtly shake his butt from side to side while chopping or stirring like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

One night, you wander into the kitchen to check on the food and find Clark fully in his element: a wooden spoon held like a microphone, dramatically belting out the lyrics to “Lay All Your Love on Me.” You'd swear he was one sway of the hips away from reenacting that iconic Mamma Mia scene, all flailing arms and exaggerated facial expressions, totally caught up in the moment.

“What exactly are you doing?” you laugh, leaning against the doorway.

Clark shoots you a cheeky grin, voice low and playful as he sings the next line: “Don’t go wasting your emotion, lay all your love on me.”

You think it’s just for fun—until you catch the way his eyes lock onto yours with a quiet intensity that sends a thrill straight through you. The lyrics aren’t just part of the song—they’re a message, meant only for you.

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ Following the same train of thought as the last headcannon, Clark’s love for ABBA isn’t just a quirky hobby—it’s kind of his way of holding onto joy, even when things get heavy. Their songs remind him of simpler times, of laughter and light, of his Ma dancing in the living room, and when he’s happy, he can’t help but get swept up in their energy.

There was this one time you locked yourself in the bathroom, tears streaming down your face. You can’t even remember why now—maybe it was exhaustion, frustration, or just one of those days when everything feels too much. All you knew was the weight crushing your chest. Then, from the other side of the door, you heard Clark’s phone softly playing “Chiquitita.”

He spoke through the door, voice gentle but tinged with that hopeful edge that always gets under your skin.

“Like the scene, y’know? From Mamma Mia? You love that one.”

You sniffled, voice barely a whisper. “Clark…”

He chuckled softly, trying to keep things light, but the concern in his eyes was unmistakable when you finally cracked the door open.

“Come on, open up. Tell me what’s wrong.”

You hesitated, but the warmth in his gaze made it easier to lean on him.

He wrapped you in a careful hug, whispering, “There she is. That's more like it.”

[goldenbrowns]

i promise i’m gonna get to your asks babes, im just waiting to finish this fic. after that im all yours

[goldenbrowns]

youre so funny queen

OMG THANK YOU BAEEE ILY XX🤭

[goldenbrowns]

work is keeping me busy but I PROMISE YALL im working on something with inexperienced!reader x clark kent. SO SOON GUYS!!!

[goldenbrowns]

clark kent im afraid...

[goldenbrowns]

PLEASE could you do a jealous sub clark kent ): he's so whinyyy and u have to keep proving to him that u only want him and he's just huffing and looking away and he doesn't wanna meet ur eyes bc he's a little shy about your affection and ur teasing but he's also just relishing in it 😕 when he's being bratty about it u tease him about the guy he's jealous of bc he's being so whiny about it 💔💔

︵ ♫ ﹗ oh, of course i can, subby clark holds such a special place in my heart. in fact, as soon i saw this ask i got to writing. this is so yummy, anon. wc: 2k

JEALOUS CLARK KENT◝ zᶻ

(part two right here!)

You and Clark had been dating for about a month now—still deep in that heady honeymoon phase where every glance and touch felt like the most important thing in the world. So when moments like today happened—when Clark got a little insecure and whiny—you couldn’t help but soften toward him. You knew in your heart, beyond any doubt, that Clark was the only one you wanted. But for some reason, he wasn’t so sure about that.

The day at the Daily Planet had been a whirlwind. You’d been assigned a new intern, a nervous but eager guy named Noah. You threw yourself into the role of mentor, patiently showing him the ropes, encouraging him with your usual bright smile. “Good job, Noah! You’re already better than I was when I first began,” you’d teased, ruffling his hair when he caught on to something quickly. You tried to be as supportive as possible, coaxing and praising, but it meant you barely had a moment to breathe—let alone think about Clark.

And Clark noticed. Oh, he noticed.

You hadn’t glanced at him once all day. Not across the cluttered desks, not in passing by the coffee machine. You’d been running around after Noah like he was some lost puppy you had to keep on track, and Clark’s usual quiet confidence was replaced by a growing simmer of jealousy and hurt. He was supposed to be yours. The one you sent secret smiles to when no one else was looking. But today? You were gone—your attention consumed by the eager intern who clung a little too tightly when saying goodbye.

Clark shut down his computer early, practically storming out without saying much more than a stiff, “See you at home, babe.” The smile that followed was forced, tight around the edges.

When you arrived, the house felt quieter than usual. Clark was in the kitchen, stirring something slowly, brows drawn together in a way that made your heart squeeze. His icy blue eyes were fixed on the pot, but they looked dimmer, sadder, watery—like the light had gone out a little. He barely glanced your way.

You stepped closer, sensing how tense he was, the slight trembling in his hands. “Clark,” you said softly, reaching out to gently touch his arm, “what’s wrong? You can tell me.”

He swallowed hard, eyes darting anywhere but your face. His fingers nervously pushed up his glasses, then fiddled with the edge of his shirt. His voice came out small and hesitant, almost stumbling over the words. “I… I don’t really know how to say it right, I feel so stupid and needy… But I didn’t like the way he was looking at you. That, um— Nico, Noah, whatever...”

You nodded encouragingly, heart tightening. “Mmhmm.”

Clark blinked rapidly, rubbing the back of his neck, cheeks flushing faintly. “And, well, you didn’t even… look at me today. Not even once. It… it felt like I wasn’t there. And well, I like looking at you, y'know that...”

You gently reached out and turned him toward you, making sure he met your eyes. His gaze flickered between yours. “Hey, maybe take a break from the stove? You’re staring so hard you’ll burn a hole in the pot.”

He managed a small, shy smile but still avoided your eyes. You guided him to the couch and helped him sit down, then settled on his lap, careful to keep your voice soft and soothing.

He fidgeted with his glasses again, hands twitching like they didn’t know what to do with themselves. “It’s just… every time he hugged you… I wanted to get up and, I don't know, pull him away. I didn’t like it. And, god— the way he kept staring at you?”

You smiled gently, brushing your fingers through his hair. "You're so silly. You know he's just a kid, he was assigned to me, honey."

His cheeks darkened even more, and he looked anywhere but your face. “I… I just don’t like it. I don’t like thinking… maybe he thinks he has a chance with you. And the worst part is, he's not doing anything wrong— I... I don't even blame him, you're the prettiest girl there. But— but, you're mine...”

You cupped his cheek gently, your thumb tracing slow, soothing circles over his skin as you held his gaze. His eyes were wide and uncertain, flickering nervously away every few seconds like he wasn’t sure if he deserved your full attention. The tremble in his hands grew more noticeable as he fidgeted with the edge of his glasses, pushing them up again and again, clearly struggling to keep himself together. “Clark,” you whispered softly, “you don’t have to worry about any of that—not even for a second. You’re the one I want. You’re the one I’m with. No one else even comes close, okay?”

He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing as if the words you spoke were almost too much to take in. His voice came out small and shaky, barely above a whisper. “I… I’m probably being a baby about this, but… I get jealous sometimes, and I may sound silly... No, I-I do, sound silly, jus' forget it...” he cut through, palming his face, looking to avoid your gaze further. There was a soft, whiny edge to his words, as if he was scared you’d think he was dumbfor feeling this way.

You brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead, your fingers lingering as you smiled warmly. “Hey, hey! You’re not stupid at all, Clark. It’s okay to feel jealous. It means you care—deeply—and that’s not something to be ashamed of.”

His hands trembled more now, and he nervously adjusted his shirt, biting his lower lip in a bashful attempt to hide his flushed cheeks. “I’m sorry I’m being such a baby about this,” he muttered, eyes dropping to the floor. “I just… I don’t want to seem needy or weak.”

You shook your head gently as you let out a soft chuckle, leaning in to press a soft, lingering kiss to his temple. “There’s nothing wrong with being vulnerable. It’s one of the things I love most about you. You don’t have to hide your feelings from me.”

He looked up then, finally meeting your eyes for a brief moment, but the shyness still shone brightly in his gaze. “Please don’t laugh at me, baby,” he whispered, voice cracking slightly. “I just… care a lot, and sometimes it’s hard not to feel... overwhelmed? I dunno...”

You smiled tenderly, fingers threading through his hair as you held him close. “I would never laugh at you, Clark. Your feelings are important to me—all of them, even the messy, scared parts. You’re safe here, always.”

His shoulders finally relaxed a little, and he leaned into your touch, closing his eyes for a moment before opening them again to look at you with a softness that made your heart ache. “Thank you,” he whispered, his voice raw and honest. “For loving me even when I’m… like this, i mean”

“For exactly who you are,” you promised, pressing a slow kiss to his temple.

Then, just as you were about to pull away, he hesitated, eyes flickering with a shy intensity. His voice dropped lower, almost a whisper, but there was something possessive beneath the timidity. “You’re… mine, you know that?” he said, blinking rapidly, fingers nervously twisting together. “I don’t really like sharing.”

You chuckled softly, heart melting at the earnestness in his voice.

He looked at you again, cheeks burning hotter now, but he kept going, a shy whine threading through his words. “I didn’t like how you were telling him how good of a job he was doing either… that’s supposed to be just for me.”

You could feel the corners of his mouth tug upward, the tiniest smile hidden against your chest, but he didn’t lift his head. His arms wrapped tighter around your waist, almost like he was afraid that if he let go, you’d drift off to reassure someone else. You combed your fingers gently through his hair, letting the silence stretch—warm and safe—until you felt the softest sigh leave his lips.

“You know,” you said after a moment, your voice teasing but tender, “you’re being awfully possessive for someone who wouldn’t even look at me five minutes ago.”

He let out a muffled groan and turned his face away further, burying it into your shoulder like a sulking cat. “Stopppp…” he muttered, voice embarrassingly high and soft. “Don’t make fun of me…”

“I’m not making fun,” you promised, pressing a kiss to his hair. “I’m just saying… all this whining and sulking, all these jealous little sighs… it’s kinda cute.”

He groaned again, only this time it had a whiny little kick to it, like he was too proud to admit he liked the attention but too soft to push it away. “I’m not whining,” he said into your neck, voice muffled but petulant. “You were just—he was so close to you. And you were laughing at his jokes. You never laugh at mine like that.”

“Oh, please,” you said with a laugh, pulling back slightly just to look at him. “Clark, you’re literally the funniest person I know. You're the only one who’s ever made me laugh-snort in a meeting.”

He refused to meet your gaze, now fidgeting with the hem of your shirt like it might save him from combusting on the spot. His ears were glowing red. “Yeah, well… I didn’t like it. He was all over you. And you were all smiley and… nice.”

“I’m always nice.”

“Not that nice,” he huffed, pouting like it physically hurt to admit it. “You touched his arm and everything.”

You smirked, unable to resist the temptation. “Ohhh, this is about the arm touch?”

“Shut up…” he whispered, more embarrassed now than annoyed, curling in closer like he could disappear inside your chest. “You said he was doing a good job. Twice.”

Your fingers danced over his jaw, tilting his face up just a little. “Do you want me to take it back? Call him and say, ‘Hey Noah, I was lying. You actually suck. Clark’s the only one who gets compliments from now on.’”

Clark gave a tiny snort despite himself and shook his head, clearly caught between sulking and basking. His lashes fluttered as he stared down at your collar instead of your eyes. “No,” he mumbled. “That’s mean. He’s… fine. I guess.”

You leaned in closer, lips brushing the shell of his ear, your voice dropping to something just a bit more playful. “Mmm. So you don’t want me to tell him he should stop looking at me like I’m a walking fairy tale?”

Clark stiffened, cheeks going crimson as he peeked at you, finally daring to meet your gaze. “He was looking at you like that…”

“And you didn’t like it?”

He let out a soft, broken sound that was part pout and part whimper. “No.”

Your smile turned mischievous. “Well, you’re gonna have to try harder to stake your claim, baby. You can’t just sulk and grumble about it.”

“I don’t sulk,” he shot back, clearly sulking.

You giggled, poking his side gently. “You do. Like a jealous little puppy. All pouty and sad-eyed and desperate for head pats.”

He huffed again, hiding his face in your shoulder, but you could feel the way his arms clung tighter to you. “I hate when you say stuff like that.”

“No, you don’t,” you murmured, stroking his back. “You love it. You’re literally purring.”

“I’m not—!” he started to protest, but the breathy laugh in his voice gave him away.

You pressed a kiss to his flushed cheek, smiling against his skin. “It’s okay to like being babied a little. Especially when you get all cute and bratty.”

He stayed quiet after that, just curling closer, lips parting like he wanted to say something but couldn’t quite bring himself to. Finally, in the softest voice imaginable, he whispered:

“I just want you to tell me I’m doing a good job. I like it when it’s jus' for me.”

You froze for a second, the honesty of it hitting somewhere deep. “You are doing a good job, Clark,” you said, threading your fingers through his hair again. “With everything. You’re the one I come home to, the one I trust with all of this,” you gestured around the space between you, “you’re not just that—you’re my favorite part of the whole damn day.”

[goldenbrowns]

જ⁀➴ CLARK KENT HEADCANNONS

just boyfriend clark and his antics ◟✿ warnings: not really, pretty fluffy.

જ⁀➴ Clark’s music taste isn’t exactly broad. He mostly listens to what he grew up with—songs that remind him of home, of mornings in the Kent farmhouse with his mom humming along as she cooked. Don McLean is sacred. American Pie, Vincent—classics. He puts them on while making breakfast, like clockwork. And without fail, they wreck him. You’ll glance over and find him tearing up at the stove, blinking fast like that’ll help. You ask him once, “Why do these songs get you so emotional? You’re not even into Van Gogh.” (The song "Vincent" is basically an ode to Van Gogh, and "American Pie" is one to Buddy Holly)

He sniffles, flips a pancake, and says, “You’re heartless. Have you heard the lyrics? That’s poetry, thank you.”

“You cried during a commercial for arthritis cat food last week.”

“Because I have empathy,” he shoots back, mock-offended.

And yeah—he’s Superman, sure. But you’ve never met anyone softer than Clark Kent listening to a Don McLean song at 8 a.m. in his kitchen.

જ⁀➴ You hadn’t quite gotten used to it—being with Clark, knowing he truly, unshakably loved everything about you. Not just your laugh or your thoughts or the way you held his hand when you were nervous. But you, completely. You used to think Clark’s love for humanity ended with the soul—compassion, hope, bravery. But it’s more than that. He sees the human body as something sacred, something resilient. Even if his is nearly identical, he knows he’s not really one of you. Maybe that’s why he’s so in awe.

Your past—boys who picked apart what you wore, what you looked like, how you looked when you didn’t smile—left marks. And so did your own words, the ones you whispered to the mirror in quiet moments.

But Clark? He traces those same parts like they’re written in gold.

“You know,” he says one night, running a hand gently along your arm, “I don’t think people realize how incredible they are. Everything your body’s been through, and it’s still yours. Still strong. Still beautiful.”

You try to brush it off with a laugh, but he stops you, eyes soft.

“No, I mean it. You’re a miracle. Every inch.”

જ⁀➴ Clark may not get sick like humans do, but he knows how fragile the human body can be—and he reveres it. He reads medical journals like most people scroll social media. Every new study, every breakthrough—he’s on it. If researchers say something might cause long-term damage? It vanishes from your home without a word. One day it’s in the pantry, the next it’s gone. You’ve learned not to ask what happened to the non-stick pans.

He’s quick to scold too, in that soft but stern Clark Kent way.

“You drank that energy drink again, didn’t you?” he says, arms crossed.

You wince. “It was one time. I was exhausted.”

“Caffeine, synthetic taurine, seventeen grams of sugar, and no actual nutrition,” he lists off instantly. “You may as well drink battery acid.”

“Okay, Dad.”

“Oh, but I will call your mom if you keep this up.”

But underneath the scolding is love—a deep, anxious kind of love. Because he’s seen how delicate humans are. How easily hurt. And the idea of losing you to something preventable makes his heart ache in ways even he can’t explain.

“You only get one body,” he murmurs once, wrapping his arms around you. “I don’t get to fix that if anything were to happen to you."

And even though he says that—calm and grounded—he knows the truth. If anything ever happened to you, if you ever got sick and couldn’t be treated here, he’d tear through the galaxy without hesitation. He’d fly straight through the heart of Andromeda if it meant finding a planet, a cure, a fragment of something that could save you. Nothing on Earth or beyond would keep him from trying.

જ⁀➴ Clark was never exactly tech-savvy. He still types with one finger and once called the Wi-Fi “the internet signal.” But he does have an Instagram account—with exactly 15 followers (two of which are your parents) and follows mostly rescue shelters, NASA, and you.

And he lives for Reels.

You can hear them echoing through the apartment when you’re in the shower—dog videos, inspirational quotes in cursive fonts, and Flowers by Miley Cyrus for the fiftieth time in ten minutes, all blasting at full volume like your boyfriend’s a suburban mom on her iPad.

He sends you a steady stream of dog memes, tiny cat posts with a follow-up message saying “you,” and medical infographics with captions like “new study suggests drinking cold water too fast is bad for your esophagus,” followed by no context. Just the link and sometimes “pls read.”

But the best part? When you post a selfie.

He replies three, four, sometimes five times to the same Story. Once with “Sweet Jesus,” then again with “That's my girl!!” and “Good grief.” And maybe five minutes later: “Lord have mercy I need to sit down.”

જ⁀➴ Clark has terrible dad jokes. Like, the kind that make you roll your eyes so hard you’re afraid they’ll get stuck. But he tells them anyway, with that earnest smile that makes you laugh even when you’re trying not to.

He loves puns—the cheesier, the better. One minute you’re having a serious conversation, and the next he drops something like, “Why don’t scientists trust atoms? Because they make up everything.”

You groan. “Clark, please.”

But then he just grins wider, proud as can be. “I’m here all week.”

He saves them for moments when you need a little lift, or when you both are just lounging on the couch. You swear his joke book is infinite—and honestly, a little bit endearing.

જ⁀➴ Clark tries so hard to keep up with your slang, but it doesn’t always land. One afternoon, you’re scrolling through your phone, laughing at a TikTok, and he peers over your shoulder.

“That’s so… cunty?” he repeats carefully, raising an eyebrow like he’s testing the word for balance.

You blink, surprised. “Uh, yeah. Like, unapologetic, powerful, feminine. Kind of fierce energy.”

Clark nods slowly, considering. “So if someone does something bold and… that way, you’d say, ‘That’s so cunty’?”

You grin, amused. “Exactly.”

The next day, you catch him using it in the newsroom, totally deadpan: “Lois was being so cunty about the lead on that story.”

Lois gives him a look that could freeze a volcano. Clark just shrugs, smiling like he nailed it.

You laugh, shaking your head. “You’re never getting rid of that one now.”

જ⁀➴ Clark doesn’t curse. Ever. You’ve known him through world-ending crises, explosive arguments at Daily Planet, and even a dropped pie on Thanksgiving—not once have you heard anything harsher than a “heck” leave his mouth. So naturally, when you stub your toe on the coffee table and let out a very colorful string of expletives, he gasps like you’ve just kicked a nun.

“Language,” he says, pausing mid-fold with a pair of your socks in hand, brows raised in gentle disapproval.

You shoot him a look through the pain. “Clark. I’m in agony. You want me to say ‘gosh darn’ and call it a day?”

“I’m just saying there are... alternatives,” he says, calmly, like this is a productive conversation and not a moral intervention. “You could say, like, ‘shoot’ or ‘fudge.’ Or ‘crumbs.’ People say ‘crumbs,’ right?”

You stare at him. “Clark, no one under the age of 97 says ‘crumbs.’”

He crosses the room and kisses your forehead like he’s trying to cleanse your aura. “You kiss me with that mouth?”

You grin. “You love this mouth.”

He stammers, caught. “W-Well. That’s not the point.”

જ⁀➴In your household, killing bugs is absolutely forbidden—not by you, but by Clark.

You learned this the hard way the first time you spotted a spider on the wall and casually asked, “Can you kill that?” He turned to you like you’d just asked him to burn down an orphanage. “Kill it?” he repeated, hand to his chest in genuine sympathy for the spider.

“It’s more scared of you than you are of it.” You rolled your eyes, but he wasn’t done. “What if it has a little spider family to go back to?” he added softly, already retrieving a cup and a piece of paper to gently relocate the poor thing.

Since then, it's become routine: you scream, he walks in calmly, says something like “Let’s not be dramatic,” and gently escorts the bug outside like it's a guest who overstayed its welcome. You’ve caught him more than once murmuring “Sorry, little guy” while setting them free. You gave up arguing about it—Clark Kent doesn’t kill anything that isn’t absolutely world-ending. Not even spiders.

[goldenbrowns]

In this house, we wear heart shaped lockets and make heart shaped things, stare at moon and do grandma activities and just love, love, love and love.

[goldenbrowns]

this week, a hot new bombshell has entered the villa!

[goldenbrowns]

just saw superman. great movie but, more importantly, i need to bounce on it, expeditiously.

[goldenbrowns]

DRIVING ME BACKWARDS ୨୧ || clark kent x fem!reader || oneshot

summary: Clark Kent is usually calm under pressure—he writes award-winning articles, apparently interviews Superman on a daily basis? But when it comes to you, he becomes a walking disaster. He fumbles with his coffee. Trips over nothing. Forgets how doors work. Jimmy tries not to tease him about it, Lois rolls her eyes, and Perry White, all-knowing and omnipotent, decides to assign you both a story— specifically an issue on Superman... Inevitably, you grow closer.

word count: 11k

author's note: tbh i made clark more pathetic than usual, but that's just me indulging in my own fondness for sad little men. anyways, i watched superman, and david corenswet somehow made me want clark kent and his stupid little glasses, ugh. henry cavill wouldn't have known how to spark such whimsy onto this character, only david knew how to truly inspire this sense of raw patheticness — which, btw, i'm eating tf up!!!!

warnings: sub!clark, sort of switch!clark, service top!reader, spit as lube, dirty talking, handjob, oral m!receiving, mild dacryphilia, mild language, size kink, clark is HUNG, dom/sub dynamics, and i kinda blue ball you towards the end, sorry...

It all started about a week after your first day at the Daily Planet—an office full of chaos, newsprint, and the faint hum of old typewriters mixed with the chatter of determined reporters. You had just settled in at your new desk, trying to carve out your little space in the madness when Clark Kent, all glasses and nervous energy, came barreling toward you with a coffee cup in hand. You barely had time to look up before hot liquid spilled across your papers and the wooden surface, the rich scent of coffee filling the air like an awkward apology.

“Oh my god, I am so sorry! I don’t know what happened, I—” Clark stammered, eyes wide and embarrassed, already grabbing napkins and paper towels as if trying to erase the very moment. His face was a soft shade of red, and you couldn’t help but notice how utterly clumsy and pathetic he looked in that instant, fumbling like a rookie instead of the calm, mild-mannered reporter you’d imagined. You barely made much of it—accidents happen. “It’s fine,” you said, waving him off with a small smile. “Really.”

But that was just the beginning.

Over the next few days, you noticed Clark acting…odd around you, and not in the usual shy, office-cute way. It was like he was walking a tightrope between wanting to get closer and being scared to take even a single step. Sometimes, you’d catch him staring at you from across the room, the faintest crease of worry on his brow, only for him to look away so fast you wondered if you’d imagined it. Once, when you passed by the coffee machine, he offered to get you a cup, but his hands trembled so much you ended up grabbing the pot yourself, smiling awkwardly at his flushed face.

“Clark, you okay?” you asked lightly, amused.

“Yeah! Just… uh, just fine. Thanks,” he said, clearing his throat, shoving his hands in his pockets like that would somehow hide his jitteriness. “I mean, no problem.”

Sometimes he’d stand too close when you worked late on a deadline, hovering just on the edge of your personal space, like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how. Other times, you caught little things: the way his glasses fogged up when you leaned over to look at his computer screen while discussing an issue, or how his voice stumbled when he tried to ask you anything at all. It was subtle, but it was there—and it made you smile.

One afternoon, as you were digging through a stack of papers, Clark shuffled over nervously, holding a crumpled piece of paper. “I, uh, wrote a story. Would you want to—maybe—read it? And tell me what you think? I'm not so sure about it...” His voice was soft, almost hopeful. You looked up, met his uncertain gaze, and felt your heart skip.

“Of course,” you said, reaching out to take the paper. “I’d love to.”

He smiled, that shy, clumsy smile that made the whole office seem quieter somehow. And that’s when you realized: Clark Kent might be the most awkward person on the planet, but he was also the only one who seemed completely and hopelessly human in this whole damn office.

A few days later, you found yourself leaning over the cluttered desk of Jimmy Olsen, the newsroom’s resident charmer and self-proclaimed ladies’ man. You were deep in discussion about a tricky story idea—a feature on Metropolis’s urban development that could either make or break your footing in the Daily Planet. Jimmy, with his easy grin, was trying to convince you that the flashy angle was the way to go, while you argued for something more nuanced and honest.

“Trust me, you want the splash, the drama. People eat that up,” Jimmy said, his voice smooth as he clicked through photos on his screen. “Plus, you know I have a knack for making stories sexy.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled nonetheless. “Sexy isn’t exactly the word I’d use for city planning.”

As you spoke, your attention drifted briefly to the side, catching a movement behind Jimmy. There, just a few feet away, was Clark Kent. His usual calm demeanor was replaced by something else entirely—a crease in his brow that you didn’t remember seeing before, subtle but sharp, like a storm cloud hanging over his features. His eyes flicked rapidly between his computer screen, Jimmy, and you, like a silent witness to the conversation. You almost caught the way his chest puffed out slightly, the faintest sign of tension in the otherwise quiet room.

Before you could ponder it further, Lois Lane, ever sharp and always one step ahead, slid her chair beside you with a sly smile. She leaned in, her voice barely above a whisper, “Looks like someone’s a little jealous.”

You blinked, glancing back toward Clark, who had quickly masked whatever emotion was crossing his face with a careful smile. But the faint flush rising in his cheeks gave him away.

“Jealous?” you echoed softly, a smirk tugging at your lips. “Of Jimmy Olsen?”

Lois just shrugged, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Well, you know, Jimmy’s kind of the office heartthrob. But Clark’s the one who’s all awkward and nervous whenever you’re around.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “I think you’re imagining things.”

Before Lois could even answer, Perry White appeared beside you, his usual commanding presence filling the corner of the room. His sharp eyes swept across the desks, quickly surveying the hustle and bustle of reporters typing away, phones ringing, and the occasional shout from the bullpen. He cleared his throat, a sound that immediately drew a little more focus.

“Alright, people,” Perry announced, “I’m making my rounds to see that everyone’s on top of their stories. No slacking today.”

You seized the opportunity, glancing up at him. “Perry, what do you think about the story I was debating with Jimmy? The corruption piece or the human-interest one?”

Perry nodded thoughtfully, about to answer, when you leaned in a bit, dropping your voice. “Actually, there’s an even more interesting lead—something about Superman. Some new developments, maybe worth pursuing.”

His eyes flicked over to Clark’s direction, and a knowing smirk crept across his face. “Well, if you’re chasing Superman stories, it’d be ideal for you to work with Kent. He’s been getting exclusive interviews lately. No one else has that kind of access.”

Clark, who had been quietly typing away at his computer, seemed to catch the mention of his name. He didn’t look up, but you could have sworn his cheeks instantly turned an awfully bright shade of pink—like someone just turned on a spotlight directly on his face. He was clearly trying hard not to look like he was eavesdropping, but the subtle shift in his posture betrayed him.

Perry’s voice cut through the low hum of conversation, sharp and unmistakable: “Kent! You’re working with her on this one. Get your notes together, and no slacking off, got it?”

Clark jerked slightly at the sudden call, fingers hovering awkwardly above his keyboard before he forced himself to look up. His eyes met Perry’s briefly, then shifted toward you. For a moment, the pink flush in his cheeks deepened, betraying the storm of nerves swirling beneath his calm exterior.

“Yes, sir,” Clark managed, voice a little tighter than usual. He quickly averted his gaze, fiddling with the edge of his glasses as if to steady himself.

You smiled, trying to mask your own flutter of excitement. “Looks like we’re partners,” you said, leaning forward. “Guess I’m stuck with your coffee-spilling antics for a while.”

Clark’s lips twitched into what might have been a nervous smile. “I’ll try not to ruin the story this time,” he said softly, though you caught the hint of earnestness in his tone.

As Perry moved on, casting one last sharp glance around the room, Clark stood up, gathering his papers with a sort of determined clumsiness that only made him more endearing.

The very next day, the usual clatter of the newsroom was punctuated by a sharp thud as Perry White slammed a hefty stack of papers down on your desk, his expression all business and barely contained frustration. “Here,” he barked, eyes narrowing over the rims of his glasses. “This is your next big assignment. You two need to get to the bottom of it—fast.”

You flipped open the top sheet and began scanning the headline and notes: “Rising Movement to Place Superman Under Government Control.” The article outlined a growing faction arguing that Superman’s immense power was too dangerous to be left to his own judgment—that the world would be safer if he operated strictly under government orders rather than acting independently. The report highlighted heated debates in political circles, public protests, and the concerns of civil liberties groups.

Your heart skipped a beat as you glanced up to see Clark quietly approaching your desk, curiosity already written on his face. You tapped the papers with your pen. “Perry wants us on this one. They want to control Superman, make him accountable to the government instead of him just… doing whatever he thinks is right.”

Clark’s eyes flicked over the pages, lips pressing into a thin line. “That’s… complicated,” he murmured, voice low. “It’s not just about control. It’s about trust. And freedom. If Superman is tied down by bureaucracy, what happens when there’s a threat the government doesn’t recognize? Or worse, a government that abuses that control?”

You nodded thoughtfully. “Exactly. And the public’s divided, too. Some think he’s a hero who can do no wrong; others see him as a threat. We have to find the middle ground, the real story beneath the headlines.”

Clark shifted on his feet, glancing up at you. “We’ll need to talk to experts, politicians, maybe some of those protesters. And maybe, if we’re lucky, someone close to Superman.”

You caught the flicker of something in his eyes—you weren’t really sure of what, nor where you able to pinpoint it, something he wasn’t saying out loud. But you didn’t press. Instead, you smiled. “Looks like we’ve got our work cut out for us.”

Both of you settled back into your respective desks, the din of the bustling newsroom slowly fading as reporters finished their stories and started filing out for the day. The clatter of keyboards and ringing phones gave way to a quiet stillness, broken only by the occasional rustle of papers or the hum of the overhead lights. One by one, desks were abandoned until only yours and Clark’s remained illuminated, the soft glow of your lamps casting long shadows across stacks of notes and crumpled drafts.

The hours slipped by unnoticed as you each dug deeper into your leads, following threads through interviews, anonymous tips, and public records. You scoured news archives for any sign of organized opposition, while Clark cross-referenced political statements and campaign funding reports. The story was more tangled than you expected—nothing straightforward or easily pinned down.

Just as the clock hands crept toward midnight, Clark’s voice broke the silence, tentative but urgent. “Hey… come look at this.”

You pushed back from your desk and made your way over to his, where his screen displayed a series of financial reports and internal documents that looked like they’d been buried intentionally. “LexCorp,” Clark said softly, eyes flickering between the screen and you, “is behind the campaign to control Superman. They’re funneling money and influence to politicians and media outlets pushing this agenda.”

Your breath caught. It was the kind of lead that could shake the city—and maybe the world—but Clark’s next words tempered the shock. “Still, the numbers show that only a very small percentage of the population supports this. The majority of the country—people who see Superman as a symbol, a beacon of hope—stand firmly against it.”

You nodded slowly, feeling a mix of relief and unease. “That makes sense. People want to believe in him, in what he stands for. But it’s worrying. A campaign like this—rooted in fear and control—can still breed hatred and division.”

Clark’s gaze met yours, the weight of it hanging between you. “We need to show the truth, not just the noise.”

Without a word, you gathered your papers and notes into a somewhat organized pile, lifted your chair, and walked it over to Clark’s desk, dragging it just close enough so your knees brushed the edge of his. He blinked up at you, surprised but not displeased, and you could almost hear the subtle stutter in his thoughts as he adjusted his glasses quickly—a nervous habit you’d come to recognize.

The second you sat down beside him, Clark shifted in his seat like someone caught doing something they weren’t supposed to be doing, though all he’d done was sit perfectly still. His hands hovered above the desk uncertainly, fingers curling slightly, as if unsure where to place them. He clearly didn’t want to invade your space, even though it was you who had crossed into his.

“I figured we’d work faster if we pieced this together here,” you said, sorting through your notes as you leaned in to glance at his screen again. “Also, my desk lamp is starting to flicker, and I value my eyesight.”

Clark let out a quiet breath—almost a laugh—but his smile was soft, a little shy. “Yeah, sure. Of course. Makes sense.”

Still, he sat stiffly for a moment, as though his very presence beside you might be too much. His shoulders were drawn slightly inward, and he was clearly trying to take up as little space as humanly possible. You, on the other hand, had spread your pages across the edge of his desk without hesitation, your elbow brushing his now and then as you gestured toward the evidence.

His knee accidentally bumped yours under the desk, and he jerked back like he’d been shocked, muttering a soft, “Sorry—wasn’t trying to—”

You just smiled and shook your head. “Relax, Kent. I’m not going to bite.”

That earned you another small laugh—quieter this time, but more genuine. He seemed to settle slightly after that, his posture loosening bit by bit as the conversation drew back to the story at hand. You discussed the implications of LexCorp’s involvement, the ethical concerns around power and influence, and the danger of letting fear shape public perception.

You worked in silence for a while after that, the occasional exchange of thoughts passing between you and Clark like smooth ripples across still water. Pages shifted, keys clicked softly, and the atmosphere between you warmed—not from proximity alone, but from a shared sense of purpose. The weight of the story wasn’t just journalistic anymore. It felt personal. Important.

Eventually, you leaned back in your chair, rubbing at your tired eyes and speaking aloud what had been forming quietly in your mind. “I think the best move is to break this in two parts. First, a direct response to the growing fear—the rhetoric trying to paint Superman as a threat. We need something that calms the public down, brings back some clarity.” You glanced at Clark, who looked up at you, attentive. “A brief interview with Superman. Something measured. Controlled. Honest. People still trust him—most of them, anyway. If we lead with him, everything else that follows will hit harder.”

Clark nodded slowly, but you could see the flicker in his eyes—the guarded tension that always came with the mention of Superman. He adjusted his glasses, more composed this time. “And after that?”

You turned your chair slightly to face him fully, the pages spread between you like a puzzle finally coming together. “Then we go after LexCorp. Publicly. Thoroughly. We use the second piece to expose how this entire campaign—this whole attempt to regulate Superman like a weapon—is being run by a company with a known history of corruption.”

You tapped your pen against the notes, where you’d highlighted several lawsuits and whistleblower reports. “LexCorp has a decades-long track record of endangering the environment through illegal waste dumping, of committing large-scale corporate fraud, of lobbying its way out of accountability. And now, they want to play puppet master with the one person on this planet powerful enough to stop them from getting worse. They’re selling the idea that regulation means safety, but what they’re really selling is control. Control of him.”

Clark didn’t respond right away. He just stared at the papers for a long moment, his jaw tight, expression unreadable. You let the silence stretch, giving him space to process. Finally, he spoke, voice quiet but firm.

“Superman was never meant to be a weapon,” he said. “That’s not who he is. He’s supposed to be a symbol of peace. If he starts answering to governments—especially ones with corporate strings attached—he stops being that. He becomes something else. Something… dangerous.”

You nodded, grateful that he’d said it out loud. “Exactly. And that’s what we have to make clear to people. This isn’t just about Superman—it’s about what happens when fear is exploited by people who want power.”

The conversation drifted into silence after that—comfortable, if a little heavy. The two of you sat quietly, side by side, eyes scanning the notes and articles sprawled across Clark’s desk like pieces of a conspiracy no one else had dared to connect. Outside the windows, the city hummed in a low, sleepy rhythm; only the soft tapping of the building’s old radiator and the muted street sounds below remained.

You leaned back in your chair, gaze softening as you looked over the scattered sheets between you. It felt like a moment suspended in time—two overworked journalists sitting in a room half-lit by stubborn desk lamps and mutual exhaustion. And something about that stillness made you brave.

“I think,” you began slowly, “we’ve earned at least one conversation tonight that doesn’t revolve around corruption, lawsuits, or Lex Luthor.”

Clark blinked, eyes drifting away from the papers to glance at you, a little startled. He looked so genuinely caught off guard that for a second you thought he might ask who you were talking to.

But after a pause—and a small, sheepish laugh—he adjusted his glasses and nodded. “Right. Yeah. Of course. I just—wasn’t expecting…”

“A human moment? Wow, you really think so little of me?” you offered, half-smiling.

He returned it faintly. “Something like that.”

You shifted slightly in your seat, turning more toward him, your voice easy. “So. What do you do, Clark Kent, when you’re not hunched over this desk pondering your next angle? What exists outside the bylines and bad coffee?”

He looked at you for a long moment, clearly searching for an answer—or maybe just still recovering from the shift in tone. “Well,” he started slowly, “I guess I’m… kind of boring.”

You raised an eyebrow, unconvinced.

“I mean it,” he added a little nervous now, like he was trying to prove something to you. “I read a lot. I walk a lot. I like old radio broadcasts—sometimes I help my mom with stuff around the farm when I have time to get back to Kansas. I, uh… I don’t really have hobbies that impress people at parties.” He trailed off and his brows furrowed for a second as if he himself didn’t believe a word he said.

You laughed softly, leaning your elbow on the desk. “Not everything’s about being impressive.”

He looked at you again, glad you had changed the subject, more fully this time. “What about you?”

You tilted your head. “Are we flipping the question back on me already?”

Clark gave a little grin, almost teasing, but there was warmth in his voice when he said, “Well… you started it.”

You leaned back in your chair, stretching slightly, your body cracking in protest after sitting for so long. “Well,” you said, considering his question, “outside of investigating shady billionaires and defending Superman’s honor in print... I like sleeping. A lot. When I can get it. And late-night takeout. And really bad movies.”

Clark’s brows lifted, intrigued. “Bad movies?”

You nodded with a mock-serious expression. “Oh, I’m talking truly bad. I’m talking alien-invasion-budget-of-twenty-dollars bad. Practical effects made of paper plates bad.”

He chuckled, the sound low and surprised. “So, you’re saying if I brought over, say, ‘Attack of the Radioactive Squirrel People,’ you wouldn’t turn me away?”

You narrowed your eyes, playing along. “Only if you bring snacks and don’t ask logical questions during the film. Logic ruins the experience.”

Clark feigned deep thought. “Would I not be able to ask why the squirrels are radioactive?”

You gasped dramatically. “Absolutely not. That’s part of the mystery.”

He laughed again, fuller this time, shoulders relaxing as he leaned a little closer. “You know, I never would’ve pegged you for a bad sci-fi lover.”

“And I never would’ve pegged you for someone who listens to old radio shows,” you shot back with a grin. “You hide it well. You’ve got the whole ‘mild-mannered’ thing down to an art.”

Clark made a face. “It’s not an act, you know.”

You hummed, skeptical. “Mmhm. Sure. You just happen to be the only person in the office who never yells, never swears, and always holds the elevator even if it means missing it entirely.”

“That’s just manners,” he muttered, clearly embarrassed now. “I wasn’t raised in a barn.”

You tilted your head at him. “Weren’t you, though?”

He paused—then gave you a half-smile, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Okay, maybe a little.”

You both laughed, the tension from earlier fading further with each second. The newsroom was almost completely dark now, lit only by your two lamps and the glow of the city outside. The silence between you felt different this time—not weighted by stress or urgency, but warm, companionable.

“I’m just saying,” you added casually, “if we end up working together more often, you might need to brush up on your bad movie tolerance.”

Clark raised a brow, teasing right back now. “Is that a threat or a promise?”

You smirked. “Depends. How do you feel about sequels that make the original look like a masterpiece?”

He mock-shuddered. “Terrified. But intrigued.”

You leaned back again, your eyes catching on the scattered papers across the desk, but your focus had long drifted from newsprint and ink. Clark was still sitting beside you, uncharacteristically relaxed—well, sort of. His shoulders were tense, and he was very obviously trying not to look at you too directly, which only made your curiosity grow stronger.

“You know,” you said, keeping your tone light, your voice laced with just enough teasing to make him look up, “you never answered the question.”

Clark blinked. “What question?”

You rested your elbow on the arm of the chair, chin in your hand. “What you do outside of work. Like—really outside. People. Dating. A girlfriend, maybe?”

His reaction was immediate, if subtle—his hand, which had been draped stiffly on the arm of his chair, flexed so hard his knuckles whitened, and the veins along the back of his hand stood out like cords. His glasses slipped a little down the bridge of his nose from the sudden shift in posture, and he pushed them back up with a quick, nervous tap of his finger.

“What?” he said, far too quickly.

You bit back a smile, watching him carefully now—not just his face, but his whole frame. The way his body filled the chair, broad shoulders and long limbs all seemingly trying to shrink and fold in a little. Like he was trying to make himself smaller in a space he very clearly couldn’t.

Your knee was pressed up against his—had it always been that close? You weren’t sure. But now that you’d noticed, it was impossible not to notice. Especially when his didn’t move. Didn’t twitch or pull away. Just... stayed there, warm and solid against yours.

You tilted your head again, letting your voice drop just a little lower. “It’s a pretty straightforward question, Kent.”

He cleared his throat. “I—uh—I don’t. I mean. No.”

You turned slightly toward him, lips curving into a slow grin. “No girlfriend? That’s surprising.”

“What—Why’s that surprising?” he asked, clearly trying to sound casual, but his voice had gone scratchy, like his throat had decided to betray him.

You let your eyes trail down, briefly, taking in the way his forearms were tensed now too, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing more of those oddly strong hands. The tendons moved with every subtle grip and shift along the chair’s arms, like he didn’t quite know what to do with them. His fingers had curled so tightly over the edge now that you were sure he’d leave dents in the wood.

You shrugged, still watching him from the corner of your eye. “I don’t know. You’re kind of charming in that nervous, buttoned-up sort of way. Some people are into that.”

Clark’s brows drew together slightly, his lips parting like he was going to respond—but no sound came out. Just a breath. Just a little, flustered exhale like he couldn’t believe you’d said that out loud, like his brain had stopped functioning at the suggestion that someone might be into him.

His glasses slid further down his nose, and in his fumbling attempt to fix them, he knocked them a little sideways. His hands were big—awkwardly precise—and the way he pushed them back up just made it worse. He cleared his throat again, too quickly this time.

“Well, I—uh, I think that’s… that’s nice of you to say,” he finally managed, voice half-pitched and apologetic, like you were the one who had just walked in on him in a compromising position.

You couldn’t help it—you laughed. Not cruelly, not loudly. Just a soft, delighted kind of laugh that bubbled up from your chest because God, this man was endearing. Six and a half feet of solid muscle and broad shoulders, and yet here he was—blushing like a schoolboy because you’d complimented him. Barely. Lightly.

Clark looked down, probably trying to hide the growing flush on his neck, which had started to crawl past the collar of his shirt. “I’m not… I mean, it’s not like people are lining up.”

“Oh, come on, Kent,” you said, voice teasing now, elbow brushing his lightly. “Don’t play modest. I’ve seen the way some of the women in this office look at you. Even the new girl from research couldn’t remember her own name when you brought her coffee last week.”

“That was just because I brought the wrong order,” he mumbled quickly.

“Uh-huh. Sure it was,” you said, grinning. “And when she said she’d ‘never tasted anything sweeter’? Totally about the coffee.”

Clark groaned softly, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand as if he could physically rub the embarrassment away.

He finally looked at you again—really looked—and the corner of his mouth twitched upward in spite of himself. His eyes were warm behind the lenses, full of something quiet and boyish and undeniably fond.

“You’re kind of mean,” he said, but there was no heat to it.

“And you’re kind of fun to fluster,” you replied, nudging his knee with yours again—deliberate this time.

He froze for a heartbeat. Just one.

Then he smiled, soft and crooked.

“I’m starting to think you like making me nervous.”

You tilted your head again, letting the silence stretch for a second too long. Then, with a little shrug, you whispered, “Maybe I do.”

Clark swallowed hard, then, with a kind of bravery you hadn’t expected, he let one hand slide gently to rest on the armrest closer to you—as if testing the boundaries, trying to be near without crossing a line he wasn’t ready for.

Your pulse sped up. You wanted to reach out, to close the gap, but something held you back—a delicate balance of respect and something else, something tender and new.

Before either of you could say anything else, the distant sound of footsteps echoed through the quiet newsroom. The moment shattered like glass.

Clark’s hand jerked back quickly, and he adjusted his glasses with a nervous chuckle. “Looks like we’re not as alone as we thought.”

You laughed softly, the tension easing just a bit. “Guess the newsroom’s ghosts don’t like to miss out.”

He smiled, eyes still warm as he packed away some of the papers between you.

“Tomorrow,” you said quietly, “we’ll finish this. And maybe… talk about other things, too.”

He continued right after that, standing up and stretching. “I’d like that. Maybe you can come over tomorrow to write the piece after work. If you want of course— Unless you have something else to do? ”

"Yes, Clark, I'd like that. I'll give you a call." You sent him a smile, trying to prove to him he had nothing to be nervous about anymore. But something told you that this act wouldn't be easy to drop. The poor guy was a lost cause.

As you gathered your things and headed for the door, you glanced back once more. Clark Kent—the man who was a mystery and a friend, awkward and brave all at once—gave you a small, hopeful smile.

The next day flew by in a whirlwind of stories, calls, and chasing down leads. The newsroom buzzed as usual, but beneath the noise, your thoughts kept drifting back to last night—the quiet moment with Clark, the way his nervous smile had stayed with you.

As the afternoon wore on and people began packing up, you were sorting through your notes when your phone buzzed softly. You glanced down and saw a message from Clark. You looked up and, almost without thinking, spotted him sitting across the room, his glasses slightly crooked as he fiddled nervously with a pen.

The message read: “If you’re still up for it, my place. 7 PM?”

You smiled to yourself and quickly typed back, your fingers flying over the screen: “You know you can talk to me like a normal person, right?”

Almost immediately, he glanced your way, cheeks flushing just a bit, before he sent a quick thumbs-up from across the room.

A little while later, as the last of the reporters packed up and the newsroom began to empty, Clark appeared at your desk with a hesitant smile, glasses slightly askew as usual. He glanced down at his phone, then back up at you.

“Ready to head out?” he asked, voice soft but steady. “It’s not far from here. We can walk—it’s a nice evening.”

You nodded, gathering your bag and slipping on your jacket. “Yeah, sounds good.”

Together, you stepped out into the warm glow of the evening, the city buzzing softly around you. The streets weren’t crowded, just a few pedestrians and the occasional hum of distant traffic. Side by side, you walked—easy, natural—sharing bits of small talk that felt surprisingly comfortable.

Clark occasionally stole glances at you, a faint smile tugging at his lips when he thought you weren’t looking. You noticed how the city lights caught the flecks of blue in his eyes, making him look a little less like the nervous, awkward guy at the office and more like someone who belonged here—right here beside you.

You found yourself smiling more than you realized, drawn in by his quiet earnestness, the way his eyes lit up when he described simple pleasures. It was a side of Clark Kent few got to see—behind the glasses, behind the awkwardness—a man who cherished the ordinary moments.

At one point, your knees brushed again, and this time neither of you moved away. Instead, Clark’s smile deepened just a little, shy but genuine.

As the outline of his apartment building came into view, nestled between a bookstore and a cozy café, the streetlamps cast a warm halo over the doorway. Clark pulled out his keys, fumbling slightly, and you couldn’t help but laugh softly at his endearing clumsiness.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” he said with a grin after taking the elevator and settling before his door, pushing the door open and holding it for you.

Inside, the space was simple and inviting, with shelves lined with books, a few framed photos, and a soft couch that looked perfect for late-night talks or movie marathons.

You both dove into the writing like something had possessed you—pure adrenaline and sharp focus, the kind that only came when the stakes were real and the story mattered. The laptop passed feverishly from one lap to the other, sometimes mid-sentence, sometimes with a flurry of half-laughed instructions and half-bitten curses about formatting or sourcing. You’d never worked this quickly on any project, not even under deadline. But this—this felt different. Urgent. Important.

Clark had thrown off his suit jacket the second you'd settled into his apartment, letting it drape carelessly over the back of the sofa. His tie was askew now, loosened at the neck and clinging faintly to one side like it had given up trying to be proper. His white shirt was rumpled with the kind of lived-in texture that came from the day dragging on and on—and you couldn’t help noticing how the fabric clung in places. His shoulders looked even broader without the layers hiding them, and when he rolled up his sleeves again, the definition in his forearms was downright distracting.

Every now and then one of you would catch a typo or notice something off in the phrasing, and you’d lean in to fix it together. Once, you’d missed a whole line—your fingers hesitating over the keys—and without saying a word, Clark had reached over. His hand engulfed yours easily, warm and solid, his fingers dwarfing yours as he corrected the sentence himself. He didn’t move your hand—he just covered it, guiding it with a quiet, gentle pressure, his touch firm but careful.

You were sitting side by side on the couch, your thighs touching, pressed flush together. It wasn’t a small couch, not by any stretch—but Clark somehow still managed to take up half of it. More than half, if you were being honest. His long legs sprawled slightly, the muscle clearly visible beneath the fabric of his pants, shifting every time he adjusted. You could feel the strength in him, just sitting there, all that quiet power contained and careful and... close. His thigh next to yours was solid heat, twice the size of yours, pressed from knee to hip.

His fingers lay sprawled casually across his own thigh, thick and unhurried, veins prominent against the backs of his hands. You watched them for a second too long, eyes tracing the way they twitched occasionally with thought—how one hand flexed when he leaned forward, the fabric of his shirt stretching over his back, drawing your attention to places you probably shouldn’t be looking.

After a while—maybe the fourth round of proofreading between the two of you—you sat back with a satisfied hum, eyes scanning the final draft on the screen one last time. It was perfect. Crisp, clear, bold. Every line landed. Every quote hit. The tone, the flow, the weight of it—dead-on.

Clark was rereading a paragraph you’d rewritten when you looked at him and grinned. “I think we did it.”

He glanced at you, then back at the screen. “We really did.”

Without even thinking, you held up your hand. “Fist bump.”

He blinked at it like it was a foreign concept, then chuckled and tapped his knuckles lightly against yours. There was something deeply satisfying about it. Not just finishing the piece, but finishing it together. You slumped back into the couch with a dramatic sigh, and Clark followed suit, both of you sinking into the cushions like deflating balloons.

It wasn’t even that late—maybe just past ten. The soft hum of the city drifted in through his windows, and for once, there wasn’t anything left to worry about. The story was done. All that remained was… whatever this was.

And well, you couldn’t let a moment like this go to waste.

You turned your head toward him, voice light. “So… as I was saying yesterday—no girlfriend?”

Clark let out a quiet groan, rubbing the back of his neck. “You really don’t let things go, do you?”

“Absolutely not,” you said sweetly. “Especially when I see an opportunity to make a certain someone all red in the face again.”

“I wasn’t red,” he mumbled.

You tilted your head, grinning. “You so were. Somewhere between strawberry and a ripe tomato.”

He let out a quiet huff of a laugh, but he wouldn’t meet your eyes. “It’s not a crime to be single, you know.”

“No, of course not. But it is curious. Clark Kent, charming, gentle, built like he could bench press a building—and not a single soul to call his own?” You gave a dramatic sigh, leaning back further into the cushions and tilting your head toward him. “It’s practically a scandal.”

His hand came up to cover his face for a second, and you heard him mumble behind his palm, “You’re relentless.”

You nudged your knee against his. “I just think the people deserve to know. The truth is out there.”

He peeked at you through his fingers. “You’re making this weird.”

“I’m making it fun,” you corrected. “And I haven’t even started with the follow-up questions.”

Clark gave you a look like he was trying very hard not to smile, but you could see the corners of his mouth twitching—and more importantly, the way his shoulders had hunched up slightly, like he was trying to disappear into the couch. As if that was even remotely possible with how big he was.

“I mean, it’s not like I haven’t—uh—dated before,” he stammered, eyes suddenly fixed very intently on the ceiling. “I’ve just been… focused. On work. And other things.”

“Oh? Other things?” you echoed, eyes gleaming. You leaned a little closer, chin propped on your hand like you were very seriously conducting an interview. “Mysterious. Do these things wear lipstick and heels or—”

“No—God—no! Not like that, I mean—” He fumbled, his voice jumping an octave, ears turning red now. “I meant like… just life things. Family. Writing. Coffee. The weather. Taxes. Normal things.”

You stared at him, deadpan. “Taxes.”

He exhaled, dragging a hand down his face with a low groan. “Can we pretend I said literally anything else?”

“Nope,” you said cheerfully. “Clark Kent: tax enthusiast. Definitely the sexiest answer I’ve ever heard.”

“I don’t know how to talk to you,” he muttered under his breath, shifting slightly like he wanted to vanish into a fold of the cushion. His shoulders were so wide that when he tried to hunch them, it only made them more obvious—like a mountain trying to duck under a table. His thigh was still pressed to yours, firm and warm, and when he moved slightly, your whole leg moved with him. The man was gravitational.

You tilted your head slowly, letting the silence stretch between you, a teasing glint sparking in your eyes. “You don’t?” you repeated, voice low and rich with mock innocence. “Do I make you nervous, Kent?”

It hit him like a sucker punch. Clark’s mouth parted as if to reply, then faltered. Closed. Opened again. Whatever he wanted to say, his brain wasn’t cooperating. His gaze darted to your face, lingered on your mouth just a second too long, then snapped upward toward the ceiling—like maybe salvation was written somewhere in the paint.

“Nervous isn’t… the word I’d use,” he finally muttered, voice deeper now, rough at the edges. “More like… wound up.”

You blinked.

The shift in the air was immediate—like someone had struck a match and held it between you. The words settled in, thick and full of implication, and you didn’t miss the way Clark immediately stiffened once he heard himself. His body locked up, like the realization hit him two seconds too late.

Your eyes met, and you watched it register behind his glasses—the double meaning, the subtext, the blush already blooming beneath his collar. His pupils dilated just slightly, and for a moment, he genuinely looked like he wanted to rewind time.

You smiled. No, you grinned. Slow and amused, dangerous in the way only a woman who knew exactly the effect she had could be.

“Wound up, huh?”

His ears turned bright red. You didn’t think you’d ever seen that happen to an actual adult man before. It was adorable.

“That’s… that’s not what I meant,” he said quickly, the words tumbling over each other. He sat up so fast the cushions shifted, his glasses sliding slightly down his nose. “I meant like—tense. Stressed. Not like that. That's— you're so dirty-minded.”

“Oh, no no no,” you said, turning toward him fully now, the couch creaking just slightly beneath your combined weight. You lifted a brow, voice thick with faux concern. “You already said it. Wound up. It’s okay, you don’t have to backtrack. It’s really bad for the human body to stay that way, y’know?”

He coughed—hard—into his fist, as if his lungs were trying to eject him from the situation entirely.

You inched in a little closer, chin resting in your hand like you were very seriously interviewing him. “When’s the last time you let off a little steam, anyway? That kind of tension? It’s terrible for your health. Builds up. Makes you twitchy. You could explode, in more ways than one.” You joked, clearly enjoying how flustered you were making him

His mouth opened, then immediately snapped shut. Again. His whole frame looked like it was short-circuiting—eyes wide, neck stiff, hands suddenly very still on his lap like he didn’t trust them to move. The tips of his ears were crimson now, and his knee gave a visible twitch where it touched yours.

“I… I don’t know,” he said finally, voice hoarse and absolutely not helping himself. “It’s… it’s been a while.”

You leaned in just a bit more, your voice dripping with playful condescension as you arched an eyebrow. “No one at work, then? No girls sneaking around, taking care of you? Or outside work? Surely someone’s keeping you from turning into a walking ball of tension.”

Clark’s face flushed deeper—if that was even possible—and he shifted awkwardly, trying to make himself smaller in the already cramped space. His broad shoulders hunkered down like he wished he could disappear entirely into the couch cushions. His fingers gripped the edge of the sofa tightly, veins standing out from the strain. His leg twitched where it pressed against yours, betraying how flustered he truly was.

“I—I don’t think that’s really... how it works,” he stammered, eyes flicking away, unable to hold your teasing gaze. His voice cracked just slightly as he added, “I’m not really—uh—good at that sort of thing.”

You softened your tone just a little, letting the teasing linger but adding a hint of genuine curiosity. “Alright,” you said, your eyes locking with his, “setting aside how things are—which, let’s be honest, isn’t exactly thrilling—would you want that? For someone to take care of you? To take real good care of you, Clark?”

His breath hitched, and you caught the sudden catch in his throat. His body tensed for a split second, fingers tightening a bit more on the sofa’s edge. He swallowed hard, eyes darting away for a moment before he met your gaze again—this time softer, more honest.

He hesitated for a moment, then finally looked down, his voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah… I think I’d like that. Someone to—take care of me. To make me feel… wanted. To help me relax. I don’t really know how to ask for it, but… I want it.”

His fingers twitched nervously on the edge of the sofa, and he shifted slightly, as if trying to make himself smaller—almost like he was half-expecting you to laugh it off. Instead, his eyes stayed fixed on yours, vulnerable and honest in a way that caught you completely off guard.

“I just… I don’t know how to say it out loud. But I want to be held. To be touched… And—Um, well, yeah.” His voice faltered, thick with something unspoken, as he glanced up briefly, cheeks flushed and breath shallow.

You looked at him softly, your voice gentle but steady. “Would you let me help you with that, Clark? To… take care of you the way you need?”

He blinked, clearly taken aback by the question. His eyes widened, and for a moment, he looked almost speechless—like he hadn’t expected you to ask.

“I… I—” he stammered, words catching in his throat. “Y-yes. Please.”

As he spoke, his voice low and whispery, you couldn't help but notice a sudden shift in Clark. His broad frame tensed subtly, shoulders stiffening like a wire pulled taut. Your eyes flicked downward, and there it was—an undeniable bulge pressing insistently against the fabric of his pants. It hadn’t been there earlier, not when you first began talking, but now it had made its unmistakable presence known.

The sight hit you with a raw intensity. Was he really this pent up? This desperate, maybe? The way his hands clenched and unclenched on the edge of the couch, the quick, shallow breaths rattling in his chest—it all spoke volumes. His steady composure shattered, replaced by a vulnerability so fierce it almost scorched the air between you.

Clark shifted awkwardly, trying to adjust himself, covering the imprint of his twitching cock, like it would somehow disappear or at least be less obvious. One of his hands wrapped a hand around it, looking to shield himself from your view, trying to not seem like some pervy teenager. His thigh pressed a little harder against yours in the movement, muscles flexing under his pants, taut and commanding. Every subtle twitch, every tiny flex of those long fingers gripping the sofa’s edge, betrayed the storm raging just beneath the surface.

Your gaze flicked to his clenched hand resting just above the unmistakable tent, and without hesitation, you reached out gently, sliding your fingers around his wrist. His breath hitched, and his eyes widened as you slowly pulled his hand away, freeing the evidence of his need from its grip.

“You’re trying to hide this from me now, huh?” you tease, your eyes flickering between the bulge straining against his pants and the glaze settling over his eyes. “Can’t have that.”

Clark’s breath catches, and he swallows hard before meeting your gaze with a shaky, “Um, No, I’m not.”

As you take his hand from his lap, you finally place a hand over his cock. He was radiating heat, and from what you could feel as you rubbed your hand gently up and down the length of him, he was huge and ridiculously girthy.

Clark’s breath hitched sharply, a soft, barely-there noise escaping his lips—half gasp, half moan. His face flushed crimson, eyes fluttering shut for a moment before snapping open, wide and vulnerable. His jaw clenched tightly, as if trying to hold back whatever words or sounds threatened to spill free.

Clark’s breath hitched again, his eyes darting nervously as your hand traced slow, deliberate circles. His voice was shaky, barely above a whisper, thick with a mix of disbelief and desire. “You’re… you’re really mean, you know that? You can’t just—do this to me,” he murmured, cheeks flushed deeper, words stumbling over each other as he struggled to keep control. “It’s… unfair.”

"Can't I? You want me to stop touching you? Because I can do that." You began, looking right into his eyes. Most of the time, the poor thing couldn't keep eye contact; his eyes flickered from your eyes to your hand, or to the ceiling. As you stared him down, the motion of your hand limited itself to his tip, feeling around the wet spot he had begun to make on his pants.

His breath hitched, voice shaky but earnest. “No! please don’t stop… I want this.”

A shaky sigh escaped him as his body tensed under your touch, every muscle stretched tight with anticipation and need. Despite the vulnerability in his eyes, there was something fierce simmering just beneath the surface—an unspoken surrender that made the air between you crackle with electricity.

Your hands stopped stroking him for a second, your fingers wandering around the strap of his belt, shuffling under the fabric of his dress shirt. "Then what do you want? I can't just do whatever I want with you, can I?" You raised a brow teasingly, pushing for an answer.

Clark’s voice trembled as he finally found the courage to speak more directly, eyes searching yours for any sign of hesitation. One of his hands found the back of your head and cradled it, brushing soft circles against your scalp. “Um— well, you can… You can use me. You can use your hands on me too, if you want,” he murmured, his cheeks flushing deeper as the words slipped out, raw and unguarded.

You smirked, leaning in with a playful glint in your eyes. “That’s very unspecific, Kent. What exactly would that imply?”

Clark’s cheeks flared bright red, his breath catching as he swallowed nervously. “Don’t—come on, you’re really gonna make me ask for it, just like that?”

You chuckled softly, voice low and teasing. “Yup. Tell me what you want, big boy.” One of your fingers curled just below the hem of his pants, making him suddenly shiver from the unexpected contact. His abs and the muscles on his torso jerking suddenly.

The hand resting lightly on your head suddenly stilled. Clark shut his eyes briefly, as if gathering every ounce of courage to say what he felt but barely dared to voice. When he finally tilted his head toward you, his brows knit together and his eyes glistened with a vulnerability that made your heart ache. He looked so raw—so close to breaking—and for a moment, you almost felt sorry for him.

“Please, baby, jus’ touch me,” he whispered, voice trembling. “Can you—God.” He cut himself off abruptly, blinking up at you, clearly torn between shame and need, unsure if he could even say the words that were burning behind his lips. Yet, there you lay, watching him, waiting.

He swallowed hard, voice rough and desperate now. “Jesus… you’re really driving me backwards. Look at what you’ve got me saying…” His breath hitched. “Can you please jerk me off, baby? Put me to good use. Do something. Whatever…”

Your fingers fumbled almost instinctively at the buckle of his belt, heart hammering as you slid his pants down his thighs just below his knees, leaving him in his boxer briefs, feeling the tension release with the sound of the clasp. Calvin Klein— you weren't even surprised, he even looked like the models in the magazines. Without hesitation, you moved over him, settling on his lap, heat radiating from your bodies as you leaned in to capture his mouth with a hungry kiss.

His breath hitched when your legs came into contact with the flesh of his thighs, hands gripping your waist as the space between you vanished.

There was no gentleness here—only the raw need that had been building between you, unleashed in a rush of heat and urgency. His mouth opened beneath yours, inviting, desperate, and you wasted no time slipping your tongue inside to explore, tasting the sweetness of his tounge and the tremble of his lips.

His hands tangled in your hair, pulling you closer, making you drag the heat of your clothed cunt against his leaking cock as if trying to make up for lost time. Your fingers pressed firmly against his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heartbeat beneath the fabric. You began humping him, and so did he. He whimpered into your mouth every time his tip caught the seam of your jeans, serving him as some sort of satisfaction. His hips rolled hungrily against yours as he kept shamelessly moaning into your mouth, sounding like a desperate man, each whimper more needy. The kiss was possessive and wild, a fierce claiming that left no room for doubt about the fire burning between you.

You broke the kiss suddenly, something which thankfully lent you the view of his soft, plump lips now swollen and red, his cheeks and ears rosy as ever, and his glasses, as always, lying askew on his nose. You latched onto his neck, and he let out a high-pitched noise. He's so cute. As your tongue lapped against the skin of his neck, your hands wandered down to the hem of his boxers and slowly snaked themselves under them. As your hands wandered further, you could feel how soft the skin of his abdomen was, and later, just below, you could also feel he was trimmed, and then, just further down—

Jesus. Christ.

He was fucking huge. Your hand wrapping around the base of his cock basically counted as a miracle; you almost couldn't clasp your hand into a fist around it. He was long, too, your hand wrapped tight around him, and you stroked him once, earning a shiver from him. Even without looking at it, you could feel the ridges of the veins running along the side of his cock as you stroked him. God bless this man, truly.

"Mhmph." He flinched as he clearly had tried to say something, but that was the only thing that came out of his mouth. A pathetic sigh.

Just as your lips left a blooming mark on the side of Clark’s neck—deep, flushed, and unmistakably yours—a flicker of something wicked sparked to life in your mind. You let your tongue trace the edges of the bruise for one last second before your hand, which had been steadily working his cock beneath the waistband of his boxers, suddenly stilled.

He gasped, a breathless whimper catching in his throat at the loss of contact. You slowly withdrew your hand, dragging it out deliberately, your fingers slick with proof of just how far gone he was. He let out a soft, pitiful noise, equal parts frustration and pleading, as if you’d stolen the only thing keeping him grounded.

You leaned back just enough to meet his eyes—wide, glassy, stunned—your own gaze dark and commanding. Then, you lifted your hand, palm up, just beneath his face.

“Spit on my hand, Clark,” you said, low and deliberate, your tone a perfect blend of authority and challenge.

His breath hitched. He blinked once, twice, as if trying to determine whether he’d heard you right. His lips parted, trembling slightly.

“I—wha…?” he stammered, voice thready and wrecked. “You want me to…”

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” you murmured, voice like velvet and sin.

His Adam’s apple bobbed hard as he swallowed. You could see the war in his head—modesty clashing with the overwhelming desire to please you. Finally, he nodded, barely perceptible, and whispered:

“O-okay.”

Clark’s breath hitched audibly, chest rising with a sharp inhale as you pulled your hand back and held it in front of him. His eyes—already wide and glassy—darted to your fingers, then up to your face. You could see the war inside him, flickering right behind his glasses. Some part of him still wanted to be composed, respectable. The other part, the one unraveling at your words and touch, was clawing its way to the surface.

His jaw tensed like he might say something—but then he didn’t. Instead, he leaned forward slightly, lips parting just a bit. His breath brushed against your palm. And then—

Spit.

It was small, and hesitant as he let it drip from his mouth to the palm of your hand, but it was there. His cheeks flushed instantly deeper, as if even the action startled him. He didn’t look away, though. No—his gaze held yours, almost defiantly now. There was shame in his expression, yes, but also something else. Want. Trust. Hunger.

You let a smirk tug at your lips. “Good boy,” you murmured, low and warm like velvet. The way he shuddered at just that made your pulse kick up. His fingers were still clenching the fabric of your pants, like he was holding himself back from... something.

With your other hand, you reached down and tugged at the waistband of his boxers, fingers fumbling slightly against the elastic. Finally, you hooked them properly, intent clear in your movements. Clark let out a shaky breath, lifting his hips in a silent invitation, and his own hands moved to help, pushing the fabric down with an urgency that betrayed just how far gone he already was. For a second, the waistband caught his shaft, making it even harder to pull down.

What a sight.

This was probably the first time you'd ever seen a man having a hard time taking off his boxers from how utterly huge he was.

Finally, in an act of desperation, he yanked them down, freeing his cock from under the fabric. It sprang out, slow and steady, oscillating back and forth from the front of your jeans to his belly button. Jesus. His tip was a deep shade of red, leaking with eager drops of precum, coasting hungry down the very slit. He was thick, like oddly girthy. His shaft was very faintly a darker shade of skin than the rest of his body, something tending towards pink or light mauve. Veins, humming with desire, painted the sides of his shaft, making it all the more intimidating. Clearly, you had been staring for too long because his breath hitched, and his whole cock twitched before you, swaying towards him. His eyes darted away for a moment, glancing anywhere but at you—as if the weight of your gaze made him suddenly self-conscious.

He shifted slightly, the vulnerability of the moment pressing on him, and yet there was an undeniable softness in the way he looked back, hesitating but trusting. “You’re… really looking at me, aren't you?” he joked quietly, letting out a soft nervous laugh.

You became aware of the look on your face, and your eyes darted towards him. "Yeah, well, I don't know if you're aware of how big you are, Clark." You let out a breath as your hand, still slick from his spit, slid down to stroke him once and for all. Your hand glided down effortlessly, making wet and sloppy noises under you.

Clark blinked, clearly caught off guard by your words. His cheeks flushed deeper, and he shifted uneasily, sucking in a breath and puffing his chest the second your hands started working on him. “I—uh, dont give it much thought…” he murmured, voice soft and a bit breathless. “You really think so? It’s not like I’ve been hiding it on purpose.”

That made you scoff, but your hand kept working at the same pace. You wanted to put your mouth on him so bad, but considering how he was reacting now, he'd probably implode from just having your tounge on him. But then again, wasn't that the whole point? So then you decided to do so. You got off his lap, hand still wrapped around the base of his cock, working him oh so sweetly, and as soon as your knees found the carpet, you brought your tounge to his tip, swirling the slick around it.

Clark flinched suddenly, muscles tensing like coiled springs beneath his shirt. You had begun to stroke his cock faster, your mouth taking him deeper into your mouth, you kept one hand at his base helping yourself with what you couldn't take fully. The flesh of his thighs tightened and strained, every movement charged with raw energy. His head fell back against the cushion of the couch, eyes closing briefly as a low, guttural sound escaped from deep within him.

Without hesitation, his hand shot up to your head, fingers threading gently through your hair. Despite the strength behind the motion, his touch was soft and soothing, cradling you at the base of your skull and tracing slow, comforting circles along your neck.

You arched an eyebrow, a playful smirk tugging at your lips as your hand continued its slow, deliberate motion. “That feel good?” you teased, voice dripping with mischief. Your grip tightened just slightly, testing his reaction, fingers sliding with purpose along his shaft.

Clark’s breath hitched again, eyes fluttering open to meet yours—wide, vulnerable, and shimmering with a mix of surprise and something deeper. His voice came out husky, uneven, betraying how much your touch affected him. “Y-yeah… Fuck,” he cursed. He cursed?

That was the first time you had ever heard Clark Kent curse, really curse.

That only ignited you. Your mouth and hands began to work at new speeds. You kept yourself coordinated, sometimes pulling away to spit on the very tip, or to pull away for a second to look at him from under your lashes. The poor man was done for; you could tell he was close by the way he had begun to hold onto the back of your head tighter, pushing you down onto his cock.

Clark’s breath came in shallow, uneven bursts as his eyes darkened with something raw and unguarded. The usual calm that defined him seemed to melt away, replaced by a flicker of desperate yearning that made his entire body tense and shiver.

His gaze locked onto yours, glazed and unfocused for a moment—as if the world had narrowed down to nothing but the heat of your touch and the magnetic pull between you. His lips parted slightly, breath hitching as if he struggled to find the right words, but none came.

Then, something completely and utterly unexpected happened: he spoke—without being coaxed, prompted, or begged. His voice, low and certain, cut through the air like it had always belonged there. He furrowed his brows, lips pulling into the faintest pout as he locked eyes with you, unblinking. And then, like some quiet ritual had reached its climax, he reached up and slid his glasses off, tossing them onto the table behind you with a casual flick of his wrist.

In an instant, he changed. Not in a subtle way—not in a blink-and-you-miss-it kind of way. It was seismic. Gone was the quiet, anxious boy who shrank into himself. He rolled back his shoulders like he’d just remembered he had them. His knees spread wider, his posture now dripping with a kind of authority that hadn’t been there a minute ago. It wasn’t just confidence—it was control. Power. Presence.

He looked like a completely different person—no, he was a different person. And you were choking on that realization as much as you were on him.

What the actual fuck just happened?

"Yeah? Y'taking me so good, you know that? Jesus— your mouth's so warm, baby." Then the hand on your hair pulled your hair into a makeshift ponytail. He was close, you could tell. His hips bucked involuntarily, making you take him completely, and for a few seconds, he held you there, nose nestled against the trimmed hairs of his pelvis.

"Taking care of me so nicely. Just like— just like that." He tilted his head to get a good look at you. "Atta girl," that sent shivers down your spine, only fueling you further. Your head bobbed with your newfound speed, only making him groan louder.

He began once again, "I’ve been trying to be good. Trying not to think of you like this— always so nice to me. But you've made it so hard— God." You moaned around him, and that's when you began to feel his cock twitch around your lips, so you sped up. "Hell, you made it so hard. Tried not cummin' in my pants like a teenager every time you walked with one of those tight little pencil skirts."

"Tried not to think of you like this. Never touched myself—God, never, not once. I felt so bad thinking of you this way after you had been nothin' but nice to me. Such a sweet angel. Nothin' but a good little girl to me." You smiled as you bobbed your head faster, helping yourself with your hands every now and then. He really was such a kind, pure-spirited person (putting away the fact that his cock was shoved down your throat). Even if you had begun to guess how he felt about you the first few weeks, it was still sweet hearing him say it. Spit had begun to pool around the corners of your mouth, making the noises coming from your lips even filthier. They were wet and sticky, echoing around the room, sometimes interrupted by a sudden pop when your mouth slipped away from his cock.

"Oh, baby, you're drooling everywhere." He brought a single knuckle to your lips and cheeks and began brushing off spit. "M'gonna cum in your mouth, honey, can I?" His finger then caressed your cheek as his breaths began to grow rapid and unsteady. You nodded with a small hum.

His hand stayed pressed against your head, still holding your hair into a ponytail. Even now, knee deep in such filth, he was still such a gentleman. But then, his grip shifted—tightened. A low, instinctive reaction. His eyes, darkened and wide, dropped down to meet yours. The soft blue was now nearly eclipsed by pupils so dilated they looked black in the dim light. His chest rose sharply with each breath, muscles tight under his shirt, as if his body couldn't quite decide between tensing up or melting down completely. And just when you thought he might say something—anything—he tilted his head back again with a low, stuttering whimper, shoulders twitching like he’d lost the strength to hold back.

"M'gonna— God, taking me so well, such a messy girl. Fuck me, fuck me, fuckme, fuckme, fuck-" His words died out on his throat, and his throat closed up. Your mouth continued to lap at him up and down, forcing him into your throat and bobbing your head to meet the snapping of his hips. Suddenly, with one last thrust, he moaned, and you felt the warm sensation of cum trickling down your throat. He held you there by the back of your head, pressed flush against the skin of his pelvis. His hips stuttered and his muscles flexed as he let out a string of incoherent words.

As he continued to paint your throat, he tried to excuse himself and be the gentleman that he is once again. He sounded like he was about try cry, and for a second you were sure he was when you saw a tiny speckle of light catching a tear on his cheek. "I'm not usually like this—Oh!" You tried not to cough or choke, but eitherway the sounds of your throat closing up on him were nothing but quiet. "M'sorry, I'm so sorry, baby. So good to me, making me feel so good..."

Finally, he let go of the grip on your hair, and you swallowed everything he gave you. You pulled away from his cock with a small pop as a string of saliva followed your lips. He looked so genuinely fucked out, his breaths came in uneven rhythms, your cheeks were flushed red, some tears had gathered right around the corner of his eyes, and most definitely in yours too.

You sat beside him, curling a hand around his shoulders, gently combing through his damp hair as he softly opened his eyes. His lashes fluttered like he was waking from some fever dream, and for a moment, he just stared—like he wasn’t sure you were real. Then he blinked a few times, the last of the tears clinging to the corners of his eyes, and let out the softest, shakiest breath.

"Hi," you whispered, your thumb brushing a stray lock from his forehead. God, what a ridiculously gorgeous man—even flushed and undone, or maybe especially then.

"Hi, right back at you," he managed, voice breathless and rough-edged. He giggled—just a short, embarrassed sound, like he couldn’t believe himself. His hand found your thigh, grounding himself.

You leaned in, your forehead brushing his temple, lips ghosting the shell of his ear. “You know…” you murmured, voice all soft and teasing, “You’ve still got to get that Superman interview.”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t stammer. Didn’t blush like he usually did when you got close. Instead, he turned his head slightly, just enough that his mouth nearly brushed yours, eyes shining with something sharp and knowing.

“Oh, absolutely. You’ve got the right person for that.”

The way he said it—low, smug, a little amused—sent a flicker down your spine. There was a glint in his eye that hadn’t been there before. Not the bashful gleam of Clark Kent fumbling with his words. No. This was something else entirely. A secret he was daring you to notice.

Clark’s eyes darkened with playful mischief after that as he suddenly shifted, moving with surprising speed to pin you gently against the corner of the couch. His broad frame hovered over you, breath warm against your skin.

A slow grin spread across his face. “But I think,” he murmured, voice low and teasing, “It’s your turn now. Pa always said a gentleman knows how to return a favor.”

He held your gaze for a moment longer, that mischievous smile still playing on his lips. Then, with a soft chuckle, he leaned in just slightly, the space between you charged with unspoken promises.

And just like that, the moment hung suspended—waiting, electric—before the world around you slipped away, leaving only the two of you in that quiet, perfect pause.

MINI AUTHORS NOTE: would yall believe me if i told you i got my period while writing the smut bit…

[goldenbrowns]

LOVESICK

yearning!clark kent x journalist!reader | note: clark is a lovesick, obsessed puppy in this (just how i like them😛) also, this may be one of my favorite writings ever

clark kent didn’t consider himself a yearner. he wasn’t one of those tragic types who were moon-eyed and love-drunk, penning sonnets in the margins of his notepad. no, he was practical, maybe quiet. a man with responsibilities bigger than himself. but then there was you and suddenly he was bringing two coffees to the office each morning just in case you hadn’t had time. suddenly he was standing every time you entered a room. suddenly he was rearranging his schedule around yours without a second thought, following the sound of your laugh like it was a goddamn north star.

lois called it whipped; jimmy called it pathetic; clark just called it tuesday.

he could hear the click of your shoes from downstairs. he pauses writing mid stroke, eyes zeroed in onto the floor. using his x-ray vision, he saw you tap the elevator door. his chair spun as he sprung out of it. he moved fast—not super-speed fast, not cape-and-crisis fast, but fast enough that jimmy raised a brow from the bullpen and muttered something under his breath about puppy dogs and lost causes. clark ignored him. he straightened his tie (even though it was already straight), swiped the extra coffee off his desk, and positioned himself at your workspace with the same intensity most people reserved for emergency landings. by the time the elevator dinged, he looked casual and effortless. like he hadn’t just rerouted the last five minutes of his life to be exactly where you were about to be.

“hey, clark,” your voice was enough to make him feel lightheaded. he turned his head to meet your gaze and the world shifted under him. you were clad in kitten heels and those pants that accentuated your curves. his jaw fell slack. “is this for me?” you smile, motioning to the coffee in his hand.

he blinked, caught in the orbit of your mouth, your eyes, the way sunlight caught in the strands of your hair. “uh—yeah.” his voice cracked like a teenager’s. he cleared his throat. “yes. i mean, if you want it.”

your smile deepened. “i always want it.” your fingers brush his as you grab the cup. he feels an electric bolt where you touched. “you’re the best.” he swore his knees buckled a little. he didn’t even respond. he just stared at you with that dazed, lovesick look—eyes soft and dreamy, mouth parted and cheeks red. lois, somewhere behind him, let out a very loud jesus christ.

as you put the cup to your lips, it became harder to watch. he swallowed hard, watching your lips wrap around the lid like it was the most important review of his life. you hum in approval, lipstick staining the paper, and clark had to look away before he did something humiliating. like sigh or propose.

“y/n, can i get your opinion on this headline?” lois called from across the office, already spinning her monitor toward where you stood. you turned your head, casual as anything, but clark swore—swore—there was a breeze that hit just right. your hair moved like you were walking off a film set, backlit and glowing, and the smile you tossed over your shoulder nearly knocked the wind out of him.

“of course,” you said. and just before you turned, your eyes caught his again. one last glance. “bye, clark.” two words. simple and completely harmless. yet, they landed like a truck.

“b-bye,” he stammered, too fast, too breathy. “yeah. see you—later. or, uh in five minutes. depending—probably.”

you laughed—you laughed—and kept walking. jimmy snorted so hard he nearly choked on his granola bar. “dude.”

lois didn’t even look up. “we get it, clark.”

he sank back into his chair, cheeks burning, heart thudding out some ridiculous rhythm he was pretty sure wasn’t FDA-approved. but still, he smiled. you’d said goodbye like it meant something and he’d spend the rest of the day pretending it wasn’t the best part of his morning.

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