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#superman x y/n#superman x you#superman#superman x reader#superman 2025#david corenswet#david!superman#david!clark kent#clark kent x you#clark kent smut#clark kent imagine#clark kent x reader#clark kent#clark kent x female reader#clark kent x y/n#kal el#x reader#reader insert#allhailbuckybarnes#lyssrecs#lysswrites#things i wish you said#dcu#dc x reader#dc fanfic#dc fanfiction#smut/fluff#angst city#i am mayor#first chapter

𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐈 𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐝 ~ "𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑎𝑟𝑘"

Clark Kent (Superman) x Childhood!Best-friend!Fem!Reader

boarders by @enchanthings & @cursed-carmine 👠🧸🎇

wordcount. 5.5k ~ masterlist.

Warnings: Fem!Reader, SMUT (Minors DNI), Fingering, Lots of Pet Names, Lots of Praise, Minimal use of Y/n, Sexual Assault, Assault, Panic Attack, Vomiting, Drunken Decision Making, Sweet Clark, Just Adorable Clark, Unsafe Sex, Jealousy and Unrequited Love leads to Sex, What are we, Angst City, I am Mayor, Childhood Friendship, Fluff, Alcohol Consumption, First kiss, Reunion, Verbal Fight, Hint of Physical Abuse, Flashbacks, Tension, Consent is so Punk Rock, Seemingly Unrequited Love, Guilt, Expert Pining, Yearning City, I am Mayor, Anxiety, Hurt/Comfort, Even Clark isn't perfect, We are all human, Sexual Context, Loss of Virginity, Punk Rock Kindness

"𝐵𝑎𝑏𝑦, 𝑠𝑜𝑟𝑟𝑦 𝐼 𝑙𝑒𝑓𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑎𝑟𝑘,

𝐼 𝑎𝑙��𝑎𝑦𝑠 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑐ℎ 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑙𝑒𝑔 𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑜𝑛 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑠𝑖𝑑𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑐𝑎𝑟"

The sparkling lights of the gym shone in the wake of your eyes. Your gown hung around your waist in calculated waves, and Clark's palm lightly grazed your lower back. His collar was popped, tie was loosely hanging on for dear life. Rented suit jacket abandoned on a random chair.

His smile was wide, bringing out your own as you gazed into ocean blue irises.

This was it. Senior prom.

And you were looking absolutely breathtaking.

The night had already been full of laughter, punch, and dancing until you had to peel off your high heels. Clark was your date, of course. The two of you were inseparable, giggling and shrugging off the common "it couple" comments. Clark was dragging you back to the middle of the dance floor, swaying your hips to the rhythm while you shrieked, mouthing the words to "Sexy Back."

Everyone around you stood out of the way.

Because Smallville High's sweethearts were the center of the energy. Best friends who had been through every high and low, but refused to take the next step. Captain of the football team and the captain of the theater club. Talk about a dramatic couple.

Neither of you even considered bringing a date, knowing that you were bound to ditch them for each other's attention and company anyway.

Clark's piercing tenor rings in your ears as he sings along, hands spread wide on your hips, as he pulls you taut to his chest. If it weren't so casual, so normal, you'd be blushing, freaking out inside.

You totally weren't freaking out.

The feel of his fingers protectively gripping your skin through the fabric, and the way the sweat of his hair rolled from his forehead to yours as you danced along. It was enough to drive any sane girl mad.

You two were truly idiots. This was just normal. This was just friendship.

It was obvious to anyone but you both.

But that would all change tonight.

You pull back from Clark, eliciting a groan and a pout from his cocky frame. He pulls you back, "Where do you think you're going, sweets?"

"Cmon Kent, I need more punch."

The two of you make your way to the tables of various snacks and drinks, Clark grabbing a can of ginger ale as you gag and grab your own cup, pouring some more punch.

"What's wrong with ginger ale?"

"What are you, seventy with stomach problems?"

"Oh, can it, sweets."

You smile, poking his dimple with your finger like you always do, and strut away dramatically towards a table. Clark lingers, rolling his eyes, and heads to the football table to see some friends.

His hand clenches the can a little bit tighter as he lets go of a tight breath. He couldn't wait another night.

You've made your way back to the table where your clutch lies, picking it up and mindlessly reapplying the lip gloss you brought. You sit with a groan, rubbing at the arch in your foot.

"Wow, I can't believe Kent would leave you here when you're looking like such a snack." A sickening voice proclaims from across the table.

You grimace, facing none other than Gabe Peters, a very bad-for-school biker. He'd been after your attention all senior year, showing up any time Clark left you alone. Which wasn't much.

"What do you want, Peters?" You grumble, narrowing your eyes as you set down your drink, cracking your knuckles, and sighing. He mocks offense, dragging a hand to his face and slapping himself lightly, "Just wondering what you're doing after this, prom queen."

You roll your eyes at his efforts, glancing to where Clark's jock buddies continued to laugh at their table. He had to be at least halfway across the gym. The smoke from several machines made it much harder to make out anything but the dance floor.

Gabe stood, crossing to your side as you discreetly pushed away, body language completely closed off to him.

"Nothing with you, Gabe, piss off." You glance across again, willing for Clark to look back your way.

"I figure Clark can't see you over here, huh?" He smiles wickedly, grabbing your chin with a grimey hand and leaning in. Your own hand flies up to swat him away, but you aren't quick enough.

Gabe lands a wet kiss on your lips faster than you can say, "Fuck you."

You swerve away, slapping him as jaws drop and gasps ring out around you. He brings a hand to his cheek, rubbing it and grasping for your wrist.

Your eyes begin to well with tears, and you stand, "Fuck you, Peters!" You flinch as his fingers wrap around your slender wrists, squeezing with a familiar force. He harshly pulls you to his chest, palms making their way to your ass.

You bring a knee to his crotch as he grazes it, and he doubles over.

"Goddamn it, you bitch!" He cries.

Heart pounding and eyes scanning a forming crowd, you can't see Clark... so you run. Pushing through the yearbook staff, who have enthusiastically formed a hurdle, cameras at the ready. You make a break for the doors leading outside, bursting through them as tears flow freely down your cheeks, running south to your neck.

The wind outside whips at the skirt of your dress, bracing yourself against the bricks, you lean over and hurl from anxiety. Your chest feels tight, too tight.

His hands are around your wrist. "You bitch!"

Mom is on the floor, hands over her ears as Dad kicks her stomach again, cracking another rib.

He turns towards you to grab your neck, a violent glint in his eyes.

Clark appears behind you in an instant, hands bunching up your hair as he whispers, "Sweetheart, hey, hey. Let it out, I'm here. Hey." Another hand rubs comforting circles into the small of your back as he surrounds you with warmth, a letter jacket being placed gently over your shoulders.

You spit out whatever is left, eyes crushing together in a pinch as you turn and bury your head into his chest, sobbing in ragged motions. Clark catches you instantly, hands wrapping possessively around your back, one on the nape of your neck. He curses into the cold night, the twilight of the moon shining on his eyes.

"He- he..." You start, but Clark shushes you, cooing and stroking lightly at your curled half-up-half-down hairdo. "I know. I know, the boys are taking care of it, let me get you home, sweets."

"No! N-no, Clark. I can't go home, not now, my D-Dad." You cry, pitifully shaking in his grasp. He nods, bringing his forehead to yours as he instructs you to match his breathing.

Your noses bump in a fit of intense silence.

"There you go, good, good sweetheart. Cmon, I'll take you to mine then, fuck prom." Clark announces, brushing away some tear-stained strands. He stares at your defeated face and sighs. Why were you so damn beautiful when you cried?

You nodded, letting him pick you up now, carrying you bridal style to his truck in the parking lot across the field. Hands wrap around his in comforting stability as you lean in and kiss his cheek.

It's friendly.

Bullshit.

"Thanks, super-boy." His ears turn pink.

You pass the home goal posts, and Clark quietly shouts, "Go Clark, go Clark, go Clark!" The last one comes out high-pitched and squealish. You slap at his chest, a soft grin replacing the frown.

"Shut it, Kent."

"What? I'm just imitating you in the stands."

You smile, laying your head in the crook of his neck as you sigh, "Whatever, you were the one crying in the audience when I died as Juliet."

"I still can't believe Dean Matthews got to kiss you before me." He teases back, causing another smack to his chest. You each laugh.

It's a fake laugh.

You've both danced around a kiss for weeks now.

"Whatever, Mr. football star. Half of the cheerleaders would pass out if you even winked at them." Clark huffs out a laugh, throwing his head back at the thought.

He reaches the truck, holding you with one arm as the other pops open the passenger seat. He drops you inside, making sure you don't knock your head.

"Your carriage, m'lady." His dimples are so prominent in this lighting. Eyes watching you with an amused glint, something else lying beneath them. Your throat catches, before you fake another quip.

"Why, thank you, oh galliant knight." You croon, leaning up to meet his gaze, Clark breaks away first.

Pussy, you think.

"A knight! I'm your knight!" He yells, making you jerk up a hand to cover his mouth. But all it does is muffle his yelling, "Yo-umm-hea-er-thmat smmmallville! I'm her kmmight!" Your laugh comes out unashamedly, "Clark!"

He just flashes you another crystal white smile, shutting the door gently and walking to his side. When he gets in, you lean back into the leather seats. "You're really gonna give up the prom king crown for me? I'm honored."

Clark puffs, "Ah, whatever... Plus, I won it last year." He glances towards you, giving you a "oh, cmon" look when he realizes you haven't buckled. You just fake innocence and grin back at him.

"Okay, humble bragger." That pulls another laugh from his chest, as he leans across the truck to grab your seat belt.

You gulp at the close proximity of his chest to yours, his breath fanning over your face in a restrained way, making your heart pound a little more. But as intimate as the moment is, it's fleeting, and Clark is sitting back in his seat before you blink.

"Alright... Joe's, and then mine," Clark announces, wiggling his eyebrows at you as he starts the truck. Your eyes sparkle at the hint of trouble in his tone, making your fingers twitch with excitement. Joe's liquor store it is. The engine roars to life, and "The Police" blast into each of your ears.

You both gasp as the familiar tune "Roxanne" fills the truck. Clark gives you a smile, leaning a hand over to your side and presenting an imaginary mic, "Take it away, baby."

You wince as a hand flies up to your neck, rubbing at the quickly sharpening ache there. This damn Jeep can't support my fucking back.

A pit begins to form in your stomach as you turn onto Hartford Drive, headed just south of Joe's and towards the Kent farm. Tommy sent you to return some gardening tools he'd borrowed from Martha. You were half sure he was doing it just to mock you.

Usually, this wouldn't be an issue; you'd swing by, kissing Johnathan on the cheek and hugging Martha around the back. They'd welcome you in with lots of compliments, stating how good you looked, and how nice it was of you to come by.

Iced tea would be plunged into your hand before you could think, and you would be rushed to a recliner, Johnathan and Martha taking the dusty couch. They'd flood you with questions, wanting to know everything from what you'd eaten that morning to how your love life was. Martha was always extra curious about your love life.

But today... It was different; Clark was home.

He was home, and you'd already avoided him once.

The driveway came into view, and you took a deep breath, turning on your blinker and sighing. You pushed down every conflicting thought and prayed for this to be quick and painless.

Your eyes flash to the barn.

You hadn't been in there since July of senior year.

You hadn't seen the inside of that damned barn in 8 years.

Everything felt very emotional once again.

You're giggling like an idiot, bottle of hard whiskey in your hand, and your head is leaned back into Clark's chest behind the mighty fine establishment of Joe's Liquor Store. You're sitting, he's pulling the bottle from your lips as you try to take another swig.

Clark had tipped off a guy to buy it for you, paying him a crisp twenty and smiling with a crooked grin. The man had chosen a pretty intense bottle, in which two chugs had your head buzzing and your heart racing.

"No more for you, sweetheart." Clark tuts, stealing it and taking another drink of his own, choking slightly as you shift around between his legs.

Goddamn it, baby.

You pout, "Cmon, Clarkie, I want some more." He grins, shaking his head at you lightly and chuckling as you look up into his eyes, lips inches from each other. The stars above you both, twinkle in a magical way, making this night one both of you couldn't help but remember.

"No. You don't need more. You're plenty tipsy now, sweetheart," Clark laughs, tilting your chin up to meet his eyes. He takes a deep breath, but doesn't lean in. Even as beautiful as you are, he can't kiss you while you're drunk. Not after the night you've had.

Even though it kills him not to.

But you've leaned in now, grazing your lips on his in a sensual way, and his stomach is fluttering in a silly spin. "Y/n..." he warns, a lower tone taking over his throat.

Clark doesn't mean for it to come out as a croak, but he's a weak man. Hell, he's still a boy, mentally. You were perched in his lap, nothing short of sinful. Your prom dress pulled up for easier movement. The skirt was dirty with mud, and the summer sweat clung to your skin.

It was utterly tempting.

"What?" You ask, breathless and shocked that you'd done that. You lean away quickly, pushing off the ground and trying to stand. Cheeks burning, your legs wobble as you brace against the brick of Joe's store.

Clark jumps up, "Hey. Be careful."

But you're desperate to make the moment less awkward as your heart wrenches in sudden rejection. So you give him one last look before you're off to the corn fields. It takes Clark by surprise, although he'd have no trouble catching up. Super speed and all.

But you're buzzed, and he doesn't trust those cute little legs to carry you all the way back to the farm. So, being the genius eighteen-year-old boy he was, Clark zoomed off after you. He sees you giggling as you struggle through the stalks, and he sighs to himself.

You're pushing through the field, a drunken giggle falling from your mouth, when all of a sudden, you're back in Clark's arms, flying above the field. Your jaw drops, and a jolt in your stomach begins to form.

"Oh fuck!" You scream, tightening your hold on his arms and digging your nails into his skin. Clark is laughing his ass off, doing some over-exaggerated spins and kissing your hair.

You feel very sick again, and you try to warn Clark, but it's too late. He rushes you to the ground as you hurl. His apologies spew out like water from a hydrant, but you wave him away.

After a moment of deafening silence, you laugh out loud.

Clark's eyes widen in surprise as you turn around to face him, hair a mess and eyes wild like fire. Your dress is seriously ruined, with dirt, grime, and bits of cornstalk all over it. But you've never felt so alive.

"That was one way to get it out of my system," you say, looking back up at Clark affectionately. He wishes he could just freeze this moment and have you look at him this way all night.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," Clark starts, but you grip his lapel, dragging him towards you and smashing your lips to his.

His eyes close immediately, and his hand wraps instinctively around you, one taking you by the neck as he deepens the kiss. You pull away, though, gasping and apologizing, "Oh my god. I finally kissed you, and I kissed you with throw-up breath!"

The panic that had stirred in his chest was squashed as he grabbed you by the throat gently and redirected your mouth to his with a huff. He kissed you deep and slow, until it felt like your lips were burning and your breath was waning.

You didn't realize the ground beneath you was feeling so distant, but the second Clark pulled away, you were staring into his eyes amid the air.

He was staring at you like you'd just given him a pack of first edition Star Wars tapes.

"You think I care about throw-up breath when the prettiest girl in the world is kissin' me?" Clark teases lightly, forehead coming to rest against yours.

"Clark, I'm brushing my teeth if we're going to make out for the first time."

He sighs and rubs his nose against your cheek. "Alright, I'll go get my extra brush. You get your cute butt to our spot." All you can do is nod when he speaks to you like that. With a dominant tone that makes you feel all warm and suddenly pent up. He sets you both back on the ground, pecking at your lips again with a soft groan, and finally breaks for the house in flight.

You stand there for a moment, holding the crown of your head with your palm and squealing. It was just like you'd imagined it. Nothing big, nothing too much.

Everything had just clicked into place, naturally.

Oh my god.

To the barn you go.

You hold a fist up to the door, balancing the box of tools on your good hip. Knocking lightly, you let out another long breath. There's a rustle from inside as Clark Kent's frame makes its way to the door from the hall.

He opens it with a quick swing.

You both stare. Neither one daring to speak first.

But your hip gives way slightly, and you shoot your gaze down with a gasp of sharp pain.

"Oh shit," Clark says, reaching a hand out to stabilize you as you begin to tumble. A soft groan follows from your lips, and you grasp his arm with a quick hand, squeezing it. He takes the box without another word.

"Thanks," you whisper, cheeks burning in an embarrassed tint.

"N-no... ahem... no problem, sweetheart," Clark says lightly, his hand leaving your hip as you pull away, patting his arm in a purely friendly manner. You glance up at his face when you hear the familiar nickname, and he looks just as shocked as you.

"It's just my hip," you breathe out, mesmerized by the eyes that stole your heart in the third grade. Clark looks just as conflicted, as his eyes flick between yours and your very full, very close lips.

"Right, your hip, the accident." He says, in a cracked tone that's full of pity. It makes your heart hurt on the inside. You couldn't let this affect you. Not again, Y/n.

"Um... right, so. There are Martha's tools." You say, backing away from him with a quick step, and making a break for your Jeep.

You yelp out a haphazard thank you from Thomas as you quickly walk to the vehicle, limping. Clark calls out your name, and you pause.

Without a doubt, you could walk away. You could pretend he didn't exist, and go on your way.

But this was Clark Kent, your best friend. The first, only boy you'd ever loved. The man who saved squirrels from the road and cats from trees. His heart was bigger than the moon. You couldn't do that to him, even after all he'd done. How selfish he'd been.

So you turn.

"Yes, Clark?"

He gulps, a nervous look on his face, short fingernails picking at the cardboard around the corner of the box.

"I didn't know."

Your stomach churns very uncomfortably.

"It's alright, Clark." You respond, brushing off the rawness that scraped its way up your throat. Harsh words begging to come out.

"No!" He shouts, dropping the tools to the deck and taking a step down the porch.

"S-sorry. But, no. It's not. It's all my fault." Clark admits, and his voice almost sounds as if he'll cry.

"Clark..." You whisper, he's made his way to you. He's merely steps away.

"It's not okay. But I'm home. And I won't leave until you know how sorry I am." He mutters, reaching a hand to graze yours.

You pull it away and face him, "Good luck with that, Clark. Eight years don't just fly by." No smile, no teasing grin. The softness in your eyes had hardened over.

It scared him.

His face freezes as if you'd slapped him. Eyes wide and hurt, brows furrowed together tightly, painfully. His hands clench and unclench at his side, the way they did when he hadn't caught the football and missed a touchdown.

"Goodbye, Clark." You say, opening the door and climbing inside. He just stands there, gazing at you through your windshield until you're backing up. He looks as though he wants to stop you, but his feet won't move. He just stares.

Then he finally retreats, slowly turning away and heading back to the porch, back inside. The tools stay on the deck.

You feel guilty, but it was better than letting your heart break again.

You take one last glance at the Barn before you drive away. Nights spent dreaming of Clark Kent were over; it was time to wake up. You missed his hand on your thigh as you drove away.

When Clark climbs up the ladder, his heart jumps to his throat. Toothbrush and paste in hand, he peeks his head up through the loft, seeing you lean against the wood.

You're staring back at him with a look that makes his cock jump in his suit pants. Be a gentleman, dumbass.

You accept the toothbrush with desperate hands, immediately pushing some paste from the tube and brushing at your teeth rapidly. Clark watches you, amused at your fierce determination.

"Not too hard, sweetheart, don't want your gums to bleed."

He takes his place next to you, exhaling as he slides down the barn wall, sitting beside you and swinging an arm over your back.

You give him a look, and he laughs, poking your nose with a cheeky grin on his face.

You stand, and spit out your paste, giving him a smile, waiting for his approval. Clark laughs and gives you two thumbs up.

"There. Allllll clean." You laugh, Clark hooks a hand around your ankle, and topples you over onto him.

It's not cute. It's hot.

You land with a shriek, hands bracing themselves on his chest. His nose brushes yours again as he takes you in for a kiss. His lips are soft, lingering as they explore the kiss. It makes your fingers twitch against his chest, smoothing out whatever wrinkles the field caused.

Clark swipes a tongue against your lips, and you finally let him in with a soft moan. His tongue catches your teeth. It's not messy, but it's new. He groans as a hand finds the back of your head again, fingers curling protectively around your skull as he deepens the kiss further.

He breaks away after what seems like twenty minutes, breathing in short pants, eyes flickering around your face.

"God, you are beautiful." Your cheeks feel insanely warm again, and you avoid his gaze. But Clark catches your chin, "Ah ah ah, no, look at me, sweetheart." You can't help it, your eyes find his again.

They speak a million words.

"I want you. I do, Clark." You tell him, fingers now curling in the soft hair by his ears. He breathes.

"Y'sure? We don't. You've been drinking." His voice fails him, coming out as more of a pathetic ask than an offer.

"It's out of my system, and I want you, Clark."

Clark doesn't need to hear another word as he drags your mouth back to his, claiming it with a brusque kiss. He scoots you away from the wall, placing you down gently against the wood and hay, and kisses you senseless. His hands roam all over your frame, becoming romantically familiar with your body.

You, however, are too utterly atonished at his kissing skills, moaning as he scrapes his teeth against your lips, your tongue. How he nips against your neck as his body crowds yours.

He whispers out words of comfort, "You're so good for me, so beautiful," as he kisses your ears, your eyes, your veins. His hands find your breasts, and he breathes in quickly, squeezing and rolling at your nipples through the fabric.

You mewl into his neck, begging him for more.

"Shh, shh, baby. I'm here," he calls, smothering your collarbone with kisses.

"God, you're so soft, and you're here with me." His voice is laced in disbelief. You pull at his hair, bringing his lips to yours, and he groans, a hand slamming against the wood next to your head.

"I need you, Clark." You beg, a hand lacing in his locks and a sob escaping your lips.

It's pitiful, it's wretched.

It's exactly what Clark needs to hear to rip apart your dress.

His hands find the bust, and he rips each stitch. You don't mind, the dress is plenty ruined, and you'd much rather be naked than clothed right now. So you reach for his shirt, pulling at buttons and popping them open. He groans when he tears it away from your breasts, a lace bra holding them in place.

He sighs, burying his head between them with kisses, worshiping the skin, wet with sweat. You moan out, legs wrapping around his middle and pulling him towards.

"Let me get this damn dress off." He croaks, face against your chest, and you nod. You sit up, giving him better access as he drags the zipper down quickly, pulling the dress from your torso and towards your feet. His eyes graze over every inch of you with a severe need.

Clark pulls his shirt from his chest quickly, unbuttoning his pants and pulling them to his ankles quickly. You stare up at him, balanced against the wood of the loft. You looked so soft, and your skin glowed in the light.

"You're everything," Clark whispers, his eyes raking over the lace as hands find the clips, struggling with a huff before unclipping it successfully and dragging it down your arms.

Then he just sits back on his knees, taking you in. His breath catches, and his fingers gently place the bra on the floor. A hand raises to your neck, tracing down to the valley of your breasts with two fingers.

Clark finds a nipple, rolling it, watching you gasp, and crawls to you again. He gropes at your chest as his lips find yours with a heated kiss. Lips of heat smash together, tongues searching for hidden secrets.

You pull him against you with a mewl, fingers brushing lower towards his boxers, towards the hard outline there. You touch his cock through the fabric, and his voice breaks, ragged and desperate. His tongue sweeps across your neck.

"Fuck! I need you." He rasps, a hand reaching towards your panties and tearing them down your legs. "Please, p-please Y/n, tell me I can touch you," Clark begs, voice raw with genuine need. You nod, pushing his hand to your fold with your own, guiding him to you.

"Touch me, Clark."

Clark moans as he finds you soaked, two fingers part you, and he strokes softly through your folds. You are a moaning mess beneath him, hand pulling down his boxers and gripping his cock with a solid fist.

He grunts, circling your clit as you begin to pump him slowly. The two of you make sounds of pleasure at the feeling of finally touching each other. Clark pulls your hand away from his cock.

"No, you get to come. I need you to come." He whispers against your lips, kissing them softly and finding your clit again. You whine against him, completely helpless.

"I know, I know. It feels good, sweet girl." He coos, the other hand finding your hole and pressing gently, slowly.

He finds your eyes. "Do you think you can take my finger?" You whimper, nodding rapidly and begging him to let you take it.

"You gonna let me be your first, pretty?" Clark asks, voice soft and adoring as he watches you pant. You whine, a tear running down your cheek as you beg, "Please, Clark. It's yours, I'm yours."

His heart lurches, and he leans to kiss the tear away, "I love you, y'know that?"

You smile, wide and pretty.

"I love you, Clark."

He pushes the finger in, shushing your moans with a kiss, nipping at your hairline, and whispering sweet nothings into your ears.

"There you are," he groans, sweetly and safe. His voice guides you, as his finger finds its way into your walls. You're crying now, curled into his neck, purely pitiful as you take his finger.

Clark still draws lazy circles around your clit, loosening your pussy for his second finger, which dips to join the first, stretching you wider for him.

"Good girl, you're doing so well."

You kiss at his neck, bringing your hips up to his hand, trying to push him deeper, "Please, Clark, more." He huffs out a laugh, pushing the second finger to the hilt as he fingers at your bundle of nerves.

"Don't get greedy on me, baby. You'll get it all. Be patient." He warns, pinching your clit lightly between a thumb and forefinger, making you cry into his chest, sobbing with overstimulation.

Clark kisses you again, finding your worn lips with his as he begins to pump you, curling his finger against your walls. He hits a spot that makes you gasp.

"Fuck!" You cry, hips bumping his hand with passion, you're chasing the release that builds low in your belly. Clark obliges, pumping faster and drawing tight circles now.

"Please come, let me feel it on my hands, baby. I want to feel it." He begs, kissing your cheekbone. The cord pulls tight as his teeth graze your earlobe, and it snaps.

Your hips twitch, legs sprawled and wild, as Clark fucks you through the pleasure, his lips kissing at the tears which fall down your cheeks.

"Oh, good girl, good girl." He croons, fingers slowing down gradually as you gush against them.

You pull him into another kiss, and he raises his arousal-soaked hand to his mouth, sucking in his fingers as you draw a breath. He groans around his digits, kissing you and forcing his tongue into your mouth so that you may taste.

He pulls you towards him, and his heavy cock slaps against your stomach.

"We don't-t, have to," Clark strains as your fist finds him again, pumping him with solid strokes and kissing at his jaw, "Please, Clark, please."

Your begging weakens him, and he lines his cock up, rubbing it against the wetness. His hands are tight fists, roughly placed against the wood of the loft.

The head is thick, pink, and angry. Pre-cum drips around the slit, running down to the base where soft curls lie. Clark slaps his cock against your clit, once, twice. You groan and claw his shoulder. "Please."

"Okay, okay, pretty girl, take me." He whispers, voice ragged and tight as he pushes the head into your pussy. Your walls oppose him, but he eases in slowly, letting you take a couple of inches before he retreats.

He pushes in again, a long and broken cry exiting both of your mouths as he goes another inch deeper this time.

"You're so tight." He grunts, hand cracking the wood by your head as he grips it like crumpling paper.

You're clenching around him, and he brings a hand down to thumb at your clit again, "Let me in, cmon baby." His voice is barely a whisper, raw and full of passion that has been pushed down for years.

His constant circles make the cord tighten again, but this time, he holds you there, letting you teeter on the edge as he eases himself in, inch by inch, until he finally lies hip to hip with you. Clark kisses you now, murmuring his love again and again against your skin as you milk him. A long and slow release squirting around his cock.

It makes him grunt as you cry in a quiet whimper, completely fucked out. Clark's hips pick up the pace, and your legs wrap around him in overstimulation.

"Oh god, I'm close, please- please." He cries now, hips becoming erratic in their movements, and he suddenly cums, painting you with his load, owning you. He sinks to the floor, hands cradling your head as he showers you with love.

"So good f'me, you're my girl. You're my baby. Oh god, you're so beautiful, look at you." He mumbles, disbelief and pleasure etched all over his face.

Clark finds your lips as he drags you back into his lap.

"I love you."

"I love you, too."

You could lie here in his arms, in this barn, forever.

taglist. @otakusimp1 @animegamerfox @punksnotdeadbutiam @angelicp0etry @elfypineapple @cecesilver

authorsnote. The first chapter is here! I really desperately hope you enjoyed!

dm or comment if you want to be added to the taglist!

Please consider reblogging if you loved it!

[lyssmasterlist]

#superman x y/n#superman x you#superman#superman x reader#clark kent x you#clark kent imagine#clark kent#clark kent x reader#clark kent x y/n#kal el#lois lane#lysswrites#oneshot#dc universe#dcu comics#dcu#dc comics#fanfic#fanfiction#clark kent fic#clark kent fanfiction#david corenswet#james gunn#clark kent x female reader#superman x fem!reader#x y/n#x reader#dc fanfic

In sickness, in health

Clark Kent (Superman) x Ex!Wife!Fem!Reader

wc: 4.6k

boarders by @cursed-carmine & @saradika-graphics 🧊💋🦴

~ reblogs, comments, and likes are so appreciated ~

It’s been almost exactly a year since the split. Clark left with a resounding slam of your door. You got the papers a week later, tears streaking down your cheeks, but if it was what he wanted, you’d sign. So you did, you gave him his share and made do with yours. The argument regarding your safety due to Clark being Superman had strained your relationship to the breaking point. And like so many other unlucky couples, you just couldn’t work it out.

When you get a random call around 2:30am the day after Thanksgiving from Ma, your heart drops. The connection is weak; all you can make out is, “Clark… Hurt… Please come as soon… He asked… you.”

It’s enough for you to throw clothes into a duffel and book the next flight. You still loved him, even after everything. And he needed you.

You laughed at the irony of your vows. You would still keep them. You hoped Clark wouldn’t send you away when he came to.

Warnings: Mentions of Violence, Clark has Kryptonite Poisoning, Clark is Whiny, Husband Clark Kent, Hurt/Comfort, Very Slight Reference to Sexual Content, Guilt, Fear, Reuniting with your Ex-Husband Superman, Unsolved Tension, Lots of Angst, Slight Mentions of Near-Death Experiences, Pain, Reader is Down Bad, Clark is also Down Bad, This is Angst City, and I am the Mayor

You glance over at the clock, and it reads 2:15am. Great, another sleepless night, alone. The bed feels cold and empty beside you, hollow from days past. You roll over, trying desperately to get into a comfortable enough position to sleep. You know it’s hopeless, but you try anyway.

The wind whips against your window pane, reminding you of the harsh reality of the time of year it was. Late November, Thanksgiving had just passed, and it was your first Thanksgiving without Clark. You’d spent the day binge drinking and watching horrible Hallmark movies about city girls and country boys.

You sigh in defeat. It would only be a couple more weeks until he’d been gone for a year.

The sadness sank deep into your chest, aching and beating slowly in your sorrowful heart. The tears had all but vanished, causing you to lie there, eyes dry. You quit feeling sorry for yourself a long time ago, but the holidays reminded you so much of Clark, hopefulness lingering in everyone’s attitude that you passed on the street.

The difference was that each of your friends had someone to come home to. Lois had Jimmy, and you could sadly tell that they pitied you, often offering to take you to dinner, letting you third wheel their events, and pretending that everything was okay.

Lois had cussed out Clark when he’d made the decision to leave you. Calling him a “selfish asshole," and stating that his resignation to The Planet was "Total, utter bullshit!" Jimmy tried to stay out of it as long as he could, but he ultimately sided with Lois every time. You’d been really thankful to have someone on your side. Because once the media caught wind of Superman’s secret love affair, they’d immediately taken it way too far.

Rumors of cheating, emotional abuse, etc., lingered in the magazines for a few months. You barely left your house, afraid to be assigned a lead on 'the mysterious wife of Superman.' Clark spent many weeks as his alter ego fighting to have every false allegation taken down. He loved you so much it hurt, but he couldn’t bring himself to put you in constant danger, not after your accident. That was his sorry excuse for walking out on you.

You blamed it on his fear that too many people were uncovering the possibility of Clark Kent being Superman.

You ponder the thought of calling him, and glance at your phone, thrown lopsidedly to the pillow next to you. After all the pain and abandonment, you had only called Clark twice. The first time was on your birthday. Lois had taken you out for drinks, and well... you got wasted.

You had called him, just for the phone to ring twice before going to voicemail. You cussed him out for not calling and singing to you, sobbed into the phone as your friends tried to calm you, and puked onto the floor when Lois finally ripped your phone from your hands. She muttered something crossly towards Clark in the message, stating that it was "just like you to not call her on her birthday. No contact doesn't mean forgetting everything she means to you."

The no-contact rule was torture for both you and Clark; he told you it was the best way to keep you safe. But he was unwilling to hear just how desperate you were to keep him in your life. You longed to know how he felt. You wanted to know the truth: that he missed every inch of your skin, just like you missed his. You were sure that he truly just hated you, and it pained you so bad that you spent many nights on the roof of your apartment building, pondering the fall.

You wondered if Clark would catch you halfway down.

You doubted it, the longer he'd been gone.

Abandoning those thoughts, you roll in the opposite direction of your phone, mentally cursing yourself for the pure audacity to think of calling Clark right now. He was probably out saving some damsel in distress anyway. You sigh, gazing into the clock that now reads 2:24am.

This was going to be a long night. The kind of night that promised nothing but silence.

You close your eyes, huffing into the stillness of your bedroom, and try to count sheep.

You’re about four sheep in when your phone rings, the song “You Are My Sunshine” echoes into your ears, and you sit up. That was Ma’s ringtone.

Your heart drops to your stomach. Clark.

Picking up the phone without a second thought, you raise a shaky hand to your mouth, biting your nail in anxiety, “Ma?”

The line cracks, muffled and broken between what you’re sure is Ma crying, and she speaks, “Y/n! Sweetheart, is that… we need you… Clark’s hurt… please… as soon as possible… he asked for you.”

The line goes dead.

You brush some of your bed head off your forehead and inhale with an open mouth. Your head spins and you stand on two wobbly legs. Clark was hurt. Superman, hurt. Your Clark. The cheeky man that had stolen your heart with his messy black hair and rigid dimples. The same Clark, who used to kiss your stomach unhurriedly and stare at you too long with those ocean blue eyes. You prayed for him to be alive within the cold air of the night.

Tears somehow found their way to your cheeks again, running like rain on a car window, recklessly. You pulled out a bag and quickly stuffed a charger, some clothes, and god knows what else inside. You didn’t pay it much mind, thinking only of Clark, and the quickest way to get to him.

You would catch the next flight, no matter what it took to see him again. Ignorant of the price, even though you had very little. You cared only to see Clark, to brush his hair between your fingers and whisper sweet nothings into his temple, breath brushing his ear. That was what you used to do when a fight went South, when a civilian died. You were the only one who could console him. He went at ease when you were near. Maybe that's why he needed you.

Ma used to call you his ‘emotional kryptonite.’ God, you missed him.

As you pass your kitchen on the way out, you glance at the fridge. No, you were still far too full from Thanksgiving dinner at Jimmy’s to eat anything. But you hesitated. Clark loved your peanut butter brownies. They’d go bad otherwise. Maybe that’s what he needed.

You sigh, rip a Tupperware container from its place in the dishwasher, hands shaking from stress and worry, and dump the remainder of your brownies in. Every little thing in this apartment still screamed his name, his presence. The candle by the couch, one he’d bought you after saying it reminded him of your shampoo. Each dent in the drywall, where he’d slammed you into the wall after a long day when he just needed release, nipping at your neck with want. The robe that used to be his, hanging on a hook, which now acted as your oversized towel after a bath.

It all became a way of coping. Every first aid kit you had on hand for the cuts on his knuckles, every pocket protector you’d stuffed away into a drawer with no need for them anymore. You slowly forgot the meaning of living with him, the meaning of living. But he was still in every sentence you wrote at The Planet. He lingered in every breath you drew in, alone.

Your life had faded into a concept of surviving. And you did everything you could to stifle any hope of him returning.

He’d made it very clear that he wouldn’t.

You zip up your duffel, brownies inside. Your heart still beats wild and uncomfortably in your chest. Every second you wait, you’re not there for Clark. He asked for you. Your lip tilts up, it’s not a smile, but it’s something.

The gate is quiet, the crowd small but steady. People shuffle between TSA checking and cuss at a small volume when they get flagged for the fluid bottles in their bags. You pass through, keeping to yourself, too hurried to worry about the way a woman shoulder checks you. You brush it off, rushing for your 4:30am flight to Kansas City. Pa would meet you there in his dusty red Chevy, probably halfway squeeze the life out of you, and cry like the old sap he was.

You loved it, you missed the family you lost because of those damn papers.

You take a sip from the four-dollar water bottle you bought in the small gift shop by your gate. The water tastes like metal and something else you can’t quite put your finger on. When they call for boarding, you spring up, wiry and light on your feet, clutching the strap of your duffel like it was rope and you’re hanging off a cliff.

You take the aisle seat on the fourth row, eager to be one of the first people off the plane. You had no luggage to pick up, no rental car to wait for, only the promise of your quick feet and small frame to shift through the crowd. You willed the plane to arrive before schedule, and sat back, headphones playing “The Mighty Crabjoys.” You chuckle, strained, and raise a head to your forehead, rubbing away the memories like smudged lead on paper.

The flight was four hours; that meant you had four hours to try and sleep. You crack your neck in restlessness, recoiling in the thought of how Clark must feel. Hurt, alone. A feeling you’d become far too familiar with. Still, it left a heavy sting of guilt deep in your stomach, causing it to churn with unease.

Every second you’d had with Clark was magical; you felt like you were in heaven in the moment. He was the dream, the perfect gentleman. He memorized your heart and made it his. Promised you a life full of adventure, risk, and happiness. You never expected him to stomp on it all with his custom Kryptonian boots. You didn’t think he meant to, truly. But now you looked back over the years like a sad nostalgic dream, crushed by the weight of every harsh truth and splintered trust.

It must be nice to never feel like this. You cursed every delusional happy couple; they all had what you still hoped for with every moment alone in the shower, someone to love. To hold.

Where you two had left things, it didn’t promise much to look forward to. The argument, which caused Clark Kent of all people to slam your door, snapping several hinges, explained his reason for never calling you, never sending a card. The way he’d spoken to you, the way you’d spoken to him, it was lethal. It destroyed years' worth of admiration, every morning naked in bed, giggling, every night dripping in sex and sweat. You both had crushed the walls you once built with hammering words, shattering the mirror of truly seeing one another.

Your heart died that day, with every word he’d uttered, fists drawn tight and rigid to his sides. And god, when you’d slapped him, he raised one of his fists. You both stared at it like it had betrayed you each in its own way. His eyes widened, and he gulped so hard you heard it. Your breath sucked in with a sharp gasp, and you flinched away. He crumbled, tears spilling down his cheeks, “baby, no, no… You know I would never. Oh god, Y/n, sweetheart, you have to believe me.”

“Get out, Clark.” You’d whispered, eyes screwing shut, your own sorrowful tears spilling all the way to your collarbones. He flinched like your words had slashed his middle. “Y/n, not until I know you’re okay—” but you’d cut him off, hands slapping to your cheeks and angrily swiping at your hot tears. You stared into his eyes, yours cold with hatred. “G-get the fuck out, Clark.” A breath, “Please, don’t make me ask again.”

He hesitated, watching your chest rise and fall quickly. He gave you one long and suffering look, his face screaming anguish. His mouth hung open, angry words dangerously hanging on the tip of his tongue. Hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, right foot beginning its anxious habit of tapping against your floor.

Then without warning, he’d turned sharply, grabbed his coat from the rack he’d hung only weeks prior, and left. No more backward glances, no more second chances. Clark read your mind in that last look, and had seen just how much he needed to go. So he did. The man was painfully true to his word.

You wish you could take back every word. Every cutting touch and angle you’d pushed. He only wanted to protect you, and you’d freaked. It wasn’t entirely your fault; you knew what you were getting yourself into from the start. Clark was never satisfied, knowing you were always unsafe.

Every encounter you’d made with villains, most of them run-of-the-mill losers who had figured out Clark's identity, had chalked up to another point towards an at-home fight. You were certain that you could handle it. Clark was never so sure, always so afraid of you breaking, of losing you. He didn’t know that he eventually would lose you in an even greater fashion. You weren’t glass, you weren’t a damsel in need of saving. You knew the cost of loving Superman; it laid heavy in your chest like a stack of bricks.

But the difference was you knew that it was worth it for Clark, and he didn't.

But then, the accident happened. You were never supposed to be there, if you’d just listened. He wouldn’t have almost lost you. Clark had been too late.

You could confidently confirm that when you’re about to die, your life does indeed flash before your eyes. It had, in a burst of darkness and dust. Then, you were gone.

You jolt awake at the force of the plane landing. Ah, you had fallen asleep. Clark. You were almost home. Please hold on.

When the airplane clears to exit, you shoot up. Offering a quick apology to those ahead of you, and shuffling between the rows, practically running down the loading gate. You sprint through the crowd, avoiding a businessman and his steaming latte. Your eyes scan the pickup lane, finally landing on Pa.

He’s waiting, cardboard sign in hand, with your name scribbled messily. You smile softly, and your heart aches with pure and utter homesickness. You run up to him, taking him by surprise as you wrap your arms around him. He chuckles in shock and returns the hug, squeezing you tightly like an overprotective parent when their child returns from war. You don’t realize the tears until they’ve already fallen, and he’s whispering, “I missed you, buttercup,” into your ear.

“Please tell me he’s alive, Pa.” You murmur, voice breaking, desperate and raw. Pa nods firmly, pulling back from the hug. “He’ll be okay. I think this fight woke’m up from the horrible, ugl’ah nightmare of losin’ you.” He confirms, patting your shoulder in comfort.

“He doesn’t miss me. I just wanted to see him. I-I had to know… had to know he was okay.” You cry, burying your head into his neck. Pa sighs, rubbing at your shoulder blade with his worn hands, “Sweetheart, he doesn’t know just how much he needs you.”

You bite back the words “I still love him” and instead nod, wiping at your eyes with the back of your hand. Pa smiles, flashing you a true American farmer grin, and opens the door of the truck for you. You climb in, breathing in the scent of the Kent household and relax back into your seat. A feeling of anticipation begins to thrum quietly in the hollow of your heart.

The drive feels shorter than you remember, Billy Joel and Diamond Rio streaming out of the radio in their regular fashion. You watch the corn fields pass, remembering the first time Clark had brought you home with him. You’d been so nervous, even though you had no reason to be worried. Ma and Pa were the parents you never had.

When the split happened, they didn’t know who to call first. They’d called Clark, obviously. But you were the one they visited. That meant something real to you. You weren’t sure Clark knew, so you’d stowed it away with every flannel he hadn’t bothered to pick up.

You see the sign for Smallville, and your heart leaps in your chest, with a sudden burst of anxiety.

You pull up to the driveway, and with every yard closer, your chest grows increasingly tight. The house looks the same as you’d seen it. Crooked shingles and white siding frame the childhood home that Clark grew up in. The fields outside whistle in the wind, drifting with memory and nostalgia. You grip the handles of your duffel and pinch your wrist. This was truly real.

When the tires screech to a stop, you sit still against the leather, waiting a minute before hopping out. Ma meets you at the screen door, pulling you straight into her arms and brushing your hair with a soothing hand. You meet her with a sigh, “Ma…” She shushes you, just breathing into your shoulder with a shuddering inhale, holding you. Your face twists into something deeply uncomfortable, scrunching up like wrinkled laundry. You hold back the tears, and break apart, holding each of her shoulders, “I need to see him.”

She nods in understanding, stepping out of your way. “You know where to find him, babygirl.”

You move down the hall in a silent tradition, without a second thought. You pass the endless frames, which hold everything sweet and innocent about Clark beneath their glass. The hallway moves around you as your feet hit carpet, slow, sure, and familiar. Everything comes to a slow rhythm of instinct. The door to Clark’s bedroom is ajar, allowing you to see his posters, trophies, and baby blue wallpaper from the outside.

Your feet come to a rest at the threshold. Blinking in slow motion, your eyes well up once more. You’re not sure if it’s from fear or excitement. Maybe it’s just the overwhelming sensation of knowing that the love of your life waits inside. You haven’t seen him since he slammed that oak door back in the city.

You weren’t sure about this.

But nothing stops you from stepping inside, a vow kept in the hushed corners of the Kansas house. You were here in sickness, in health. Through the fall from grace and the cold, bitter reality of hurt.

When you behold Clark lying on his full-sized bed, completely crushing it beneath his massive frame, you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. He’s not asleep, but he hasn’t noticed you yet; that or he’s pretending you aren’t there.

His eyes flicker to yours, and he draws in a quick, faltering breath. “You came,” he cracks, with a pitiful and wretched timbre of disbelief. His eyes pinch together with a raw and painful flinch.

You drop the duffel and stride to his side in three short steps, collapsing to your knees.

“You called.”

He breaks, the waterworks instant. His chin quivers in a way that tells you everything you needed to know. That he regretted those words too, that he missed you every. damn. day. That he tried so hard to stay away that it had utterly destroyed him on the inside.

You drop your head onto his shoulder and sob, “I thought– I thought, oh god, Clark. I– I thought you were gone.” Your tears wet the flannel on his chest, and you bring a hand up to feel at his face. He struggles, weeping openly and watching you cry too, clutching your body with one strong but weary arm.

“I’m so fuckin’ sorry. I’m so sorry,” he whispers, painful and pure with every shake.

His voice is muffled in your hair, strands spread across his chest. He holds you like something scared, secret. It’s a moment that you both know you’ll store away somewhere safe. The air around you shifts in a tense click.

You lift your head, meeting his red-rimmed eyes, bluer than ever through his crying, with yours. They hide away a hideous guilt, masked by his determination to make the right decisions. All the while, Clark knew he hadn’t.

He’d stormed out that day, only to collapse into the brick outside the building, tearing at his shirt and sobbing unashamedly.

Every day he’d spent without you had been true hell, and even now, Kryptonite poisoning and all, his chest felt lighter at the graze of your touch. It was all the pain medicine Clark needed.

“I’m glad you’re here.” He admits, not quite meeting your eyes this time. His chest rises in a steady thrum, and he rests his head back against the plush pillow. He doesn’t dare to lie, to fake some sorry excuse due to the no-contact rule. It was a dumb, fucking stupid rule that he had used to cower from his problems.

The truth was, Clark hadn’t felt like Superman since he’d left.

He felt like a traitor to the name of Justice and Hope.

You were his hope, you were his peace. It was all because of you that he could wake up every morning and promise the people of Metropolis his best self.

He hadn't promised anything in a real long time.

Clark stares at the ceiling as you shift off your knees, rising again to your feet and searching for the chair by his desk. You pull it to the bed, sitting down slowly.

“I came as quick as I could, t-took the next flight out.” You tell him, searching his eyes with yours, reminding him of just how much you cared. He looks at you again, and for a moment you both sit there, silent. The intensity leaves a pit in each of your stomachs. Clark clears his throat, coughing slightly in strained air, “Thank you, Y/n.”

You nod without restraint, your neck cracking at the sudden movement. You both huff out a laugh. It feels like everything.

You’re not sure how this moment feels so reverent, so private. But it does. You feel miles away and nearby all in the same twitch of your fingers. Clark stares at you like you might disappear into the light of the lamp beside you if he blinks. His hair is a mess, swamped around his bloody forehead.

“You need some serious sun, golden boy,” you laugh, calm and slow this time. Clark breathes out a sigh of relief at the domestic tease. “Wow, teasing me already, sweetheart? It’s true, nothing’s changed, has it?” He eases, but the words are more than a tease; he really is asking. The words hold the weight of the truth, the ugly and bitter loss of time together you’d each given up. Clark didn’t know just how much you had changed. All the ways you tried to survive.

You meet his eyes again and hold your breath. His face still screams apology, so you let it slide, allowing an instant quip to smooth out on your tongue. You wouldn’t start anything; not now.

He still realizes what he’s said, and mutters another stream of haphazard ‘I’m sorry’s.’ You just stroke at his collarbone with your thumb and shake your head, dismissing his fears.

You speak again after a moment of peace, the only sound being his clock ticking and the rustle of the covers from him shifting around, soft groans accompanying his change. "What hurts?"

He laughs, a deep tenor you had once heard in the shell of your ear and between your legs, and coughs, "The question really is: What doesn't?" It makes you furrow your brows and give him a pitiful look. He hated it, he always had. The look you gave him when he'd come home from a fight. You looked like you'd taken every single hit with him, and your eyes reflected the pain of every punch.

You always felt guilty, as if you'd held him a little longer, massaged his muscles a little harder, it wouldn't have hurt him so badly. Your empathy was your greatness weakness.

"'m so sorry, Clark," you breathe, voice laced with desperation. He shakes his head, "No. No, sweetheart. This ain't about that." It makes you immediately hush, nodding and trying to swallow down the pain you still long to express. He notices your retreat, and reaches out a hand, catching yours. "What I mean is... I wish I hadn't. I-" he pauses, flashing you a quick look of hesitation, and his Adam's apple bobs up and down.

"I never should've walked out of that door. I never should've pushed you away. I thought I-I was protecting you." He mumbles, words shattering the fragile veil of certainty, head tilted down in shame. Everything was up for question now. You gasp sharply and your face scrunches again, tears coming close to erupting.

He watches with a sick look on his face, swallowing down his own sorrow. You reach for his jaw with your palm, fingers spreading across the familiar dimple on his cheek. You dip the tip of your thumb into it on instinct. "I should've fought more for you." You whisper quietly.

His chest quivers, and his hand curls up around yours, grounding you.

"I can't keep pretending like I'm half the man I was when I had you."

You both let the words sink in, and you just stare. His face looks tired, lonely. The apologies promise more hope than either of you had been able to manifest. But there was still hurt, so, so much hurt.

But now... You each let it hurt. You take the first step towards acceptance. As a team.

You stand, and paddle over to your bag, reaching for the one thing you'd brought to lighten the mood. Clark breathes in an awkward laugh, "You didn't."

You smile at him, and for a second he remembers just how truly beautiful your smile is. You look perfect like this, messy hair and sore eyes. You had never needed to be anything but yourself for him to fall on his knees for you.

"I did. Always for you, Clark."

He frowns, and a tear spills over his cheek.

"I don't deserve it."

You sigh, and rub at your eye. "You don't decide that, Clark."

You sit back down, this time on the edge of the bed. The springs creak in protest, almost as if to say, "Really? You too?" But you pay them no mind.

In the silence of the dusty childhood bedroom. You raise a brownie to Clark's lips. As always, he takes a timid first bite, letting the flavor hit his tongue with a groan. You smile, he smiles back.

The pair of you still, and finally enjoy each other's presence. The moment is nothing solid; it flows like water, unsure and without balance. But it flows all the more, running over into every harsh moment alone, and flooding them into oblivion.

There is no promise of something future, no guarantee of something grand and romantic, no sign that leads to a full recovery. But for now, you're just happy to be with him again.

Your Clark.

Your love.

Your husband.

In sickness, in health.

In hurt, in heartbreak.

"I missed this," one of you whispers, the other nodding.

"Me too."

THANK YOU FOR READING!!!! This is my baby. I hope you enjoyed.

Please consider reblogging 💌

[lyssmasterlist]

Long day, Kent?

Clark Kent (Superman) x Journalist!Fem!Reader pt. 1/2

Like, reblogs and comments are so so appreciated

boarders by @cursed-carmine ⭐️🗞️🇺🇸

Clark Kent and you used to be friends. You used to build each other up, used to edit each other’s articles, rooting for them to make the front page. Actually, you used to have a serious crush on the man. But that was a lifetime ago, now, you’d each woken up. You were the floors main reporters for The Daily Planet. Everything between you two that was friendly, had turned sour with tension. Your LexCorp scandals and his luck-of-the-draw interviews with Superman fought for the front page every-time. The teasing, the flirting, the arguments, it was making each of you simmer.

Enter a bad date into the mix. Ensuing jealous Clark. Leading to the big fight. It leaves you both sure of your hatred for each other. So what happens when you finally make contact with Superman?

Clark can’t bring himself to kill, unless it’s for you.

Warnings: SMUT (minors dni), Unprotected P in V Sex, Fem receiving Oral, Lying, Sexual Tension, Teasing, Reader doesn’t know Clark is Superman, Workplace Drama, Soft dom Clark Kent, Fingering, Praise Kink, Tender Sex, Gentle Fucking, Clark Kent is a Munch, Size Kink bc Obviously, Newspaper Article Drama, Rivalry, Mention of Sexual Assault, Jealousy, Protective Clark, The Fine Line Between Love and Hate, Superman to the Rescue, Reader still likes Clark, It's mutual, Clueless Clark Kent, You are Clark's Kryptonite

Word Count: (7.1k) geez girl

It was never supposed to get this deep. The rivalry, the teasing remarks. The fight for every front-page story. You were starting to get into it. Or better yet, Clark Kent was beginning to get under your skin again.

The man was relentless; his interviews with Superman, who fought your LexCorp scandals for the front page of The Daily Planet, had become a personal vendetta. The two of you, who used to get each other coffee in the morning, used to ask each other for tips, ways to get your boss, Perry White, to hear your voices, were now workplace enemies.

Every day you stepped foot into the building, Lois met you with another annoying thing Clark had done to weasel an interview out of the Krypton, people's heads turned. They knew not to get in your way, and they avoided any further questions. You and Clark were the primary reporters, your desks adjacent to each other, caddy-cornered with Lois and Jimmy.

Today wasn’t any different; you’d locked up your apartment and headed to the subway, vanilla frappe in hand. The ride had been approximately 12 minutes, as always, you’d stood near the front, impatiently awaiting your turn to step off the filthy transport.

Forgetting the events of last night, you pulled out a notepad and wrote down several notes to remember for editing. You’d strutted in, adorning your blood red Prada heels, a clutch rather than a briefcase.

Lois met you by the printers, a pen balanced between her straight teeth. She’d hissed another shitty excuse that Clark had bragged to Jimmy about his friendship with Superman. She hugged you in comfort, asking you if you were sure that you were okay after last night.

Ah, yes, last night.

Last night, the night you’d finally gone out with Dean Marcus, the man you’d been flirting with since you’d met him in a bar. He was cute, tall, and lean; he reminded you of Clark. That was what you liked about him. The date sucked. Dean slid the check your way, ‘since you’re the big time reporter after all.’

He’d gripped your ass, shocking you, and making you silently confirm the promise to knee him in the balls once you got back to your place. He’d walked you home, taken you by surprise, and slammed you against your door, “I know you like it rough.” You’d quickly kicked him off, kneeing him as promised, and sent him away.

Slamming your door, you leaned against it, heart beating wildly. You pulled out your phone, thumb hovering over Clark’s contact. You considered the damage of calling him, and chose not to.

You snap out of your thoughts when Lois calls, “Y/n?”

“Don’t worry, Lo, he’ll be toast this morning. Once he sees my review on LexCorp’s new technology for global warming, displayed on the front page. It’ll shut his sorry ass up. Those dimples will disappear into sad little lines.” Lois laughed sharply at that, smacking your shoulder, “You’re so bad, Y/n, the poor guy can’t take it. I think he’s seriously gonna combust if you flirt with him anymore.”

You feign offense, “Me? Flirting with Clark Kent? Please.” Your best friend, Lois, and Jimmy (Clark’s best friend), who you were sure were hooking up behind your backs, had their own bets on you and Clark.

You had to admit, you couldn’t blame them; the rivalry always had a tint of want between the lines. But it was all fun and games to you. Clark got on your nerves far too much for you to want him. His slutty little glasses didn’t help, though.

Lois pulled you towards your desk, earning a groan from your glossed lips. The sight of Clark leaning over the desk, far too small for his huge frame, made your head pound with predictable intensity. He made no effort to greet you, no sly comments as you announced your presence with the click-click-click of the heels he hated so desperately.

They supposedly ‘altered his focus’ when he wrote, regardless of the fact that his pieces were embarrassingly vague, the man had a source with Superman, of all people. He wrote with a tone that felt cautious, like he was afraid to give too much information. It had always caught your attention, whereas everyone else on the floor was madly impressed with his relationship to the super.

Just another thing about Clark Kent that had irked you.

His unfair advantage. Men, am I right?

You sigh dramatically at the lack of attention, causing Jimmy to laugh, “What, Y/n, is lover boy not giving you enough attention this morning?” You glare at him, “Can it, Jimmy, I just want to see the look on Kent’s face when he reads the front page this morning.” You smile at the back of Clark’s head, and he pays you no mind, scribbling away at a notepad. His breathing, however, pauses, and he takes a sharp inhale of disgust at you tapping your heel against the marble floor.

“Something wrong, super-boy?” You grin, and his head whips around in panic. “What did you just say, Cherry?” You laugh at his flustered remark. He frowns with disdain, his eyes still and searching yours, the nickname he gave you for your signature color rolls off his tongue with a snicker.

“What? I figure by now you’re Superman’s little apprentice in training…” You gasp, “Maybe he’ll give you an outfit to match him and the mutt he keeps around!” Clark tightens his jaw, physically holding back another snide comment, he shakes his head and laughs sarcastically, “Alright, Cherry, for someone who talks about LexCorp so much, you’d think he was your ex or something. Not getting enough dick? At least my articles remain relevant; everyone knows Lex is a snake. He’s just a neutral evil.”

Clark tasted the words as they left his mouth. Ma would slap him silly if she'd heard him. Why had he said that? God. You brought the worst out of him.

You narrow your eyes, “It’s Y/n asshole, and god forbid I write about someone who needs taking down. I couldn’t even catch an interview with Superman, lord knows he’d turn me down with some sorry excuse about his gay lover at The Planet!” Clark straightens his glasses on his nose and fumes at you. Before he can fire back, Jimmy tries to diffuse the situation: “Hey, Clark, dude, want to catch a beer after work?” Poor, poor Jimmy. He’d just been caught in the crossfire.

Clark turns his face to his friend, smiling with his innocent pearly whites, the trenches of his dimples shining from the light of the golden sun, “Sure, Jimmy, why don’t we bring Lois along too, maybe she’ll tell us why Y/n woke up on the wrong side of the bed again.” Jimmy’s eyes widen, and he nervously watches you burn holes into the muscles of Clark’s back.

“Sorry boys, girl code, can’t tell you two any of Y/n’s business without her consent. Consider it all off the record.” Lois commented from her desk, not bothering to join in on the discussion. It doesn’t stop Clark from speaking, “Alright, I guess we can just fantasize about Cherry’s date last night that went South when the guy realized she was too busy looking at herself in the little mirror she keeps in her clutch to listen to him.” Jimmy laughs, but quickly quiets when Lois shoots him a betrayed glance.

You, however, turn to Kent and curse, “Fine, Clark, my date went South, but we have work to do. I need to get back to my job; not all of us get to have play dates with supers. Some of us actually work.”

You gesture to yourself, Lois, and Jimmy. Clark smiles, satisfied with his effect on you, and winks, “Fine, Y/n, let me know if you need any more tips to get on the front page.” You frown and poke several holes into the foam of the coffee cup, now empty from your thirst. Clark heaves and turns back to his work, letting his eyes be the last to fall from yours.

Something about Clark calling your name like that burned a fire deep within your stomach. You used to recognize it as pure hatred and put it off, but it had become a blurry picture of lust and fury over time. Wrapped up in a bow of past feeling. Yes, you could admit, there was a time when you saw something with him, back in the days of friendship. The days when he’d greet you with a hug that held too long, and the smile that used to cause a flutter in your chest.

That Clark was everything you wanted, but as soon as you fought over the front page, instead of your feelings for each other, the friendship had soured. You both were far too stubborn to admit that all you wanted from the start was the appreciation of each other’s praise.

You return to your article, adding the finishing touches and sending it off to the boss. You sigh and collapse back into your chair. The ding of the sent notification rings between the editors' desks. Clark tilts his head your way, frowning. “What’re you playing at, Cherry?” You grin to yourself, taking a sip from the new coffee Jimmy fetched you in apology for laughing at Clark’s joke.

“Nothing you shouldn’t already be used to, Kent.”

His lips draw into a tight line, and he shifts uncomfortably in his rolling chair. He watches as Lois’s face lights up at the notification on her screen. “Y/n! Perry sent it right through to us, you know what that means!” She giggles and pulls out her wallet, tossing you a 20. “You deserve it, girl.” You smile at your best friend affectionately and turn to Clark. He’s been watching you with fire beneath his clear blue irises.

“What? Are you afraid to open your email? Face it, Clark, Superman is old news. He’s the same old innocent hero, shaking hands and patting children’s heads. He doesn’t deserve the front page just because he’s different. LexCorp needs to be brought into the light. I’m doing some good work, it just took Perry some time to see it.” You ramble excitedly, and Clark sits and watches you passionately defend your work before he can comment. Your eyes are wild, and your hands flair with the familiar intent of offending him.

“Relax, Y/n, it’s a good article. Front page? We’ll see.” He snickers, and he tosses you a recorder, “Here, listen to what I got from Superman the other day.” You catch it without a second thought, your grip tight and calculated. “Y’know, I could just break this… Right?” He glares at you, leaning in and crossing the wooden barrier between your desks, “You wouldn’t dare, sweetheart.”

Lois and Jimmy shoot each other looks as they watch Clark get in your face. Jimmy slips her a note, and she leans down, slapping a hand over her mouth in shock and amusement. It read:

If she makes front page he owes me 50 bucks and I can text her anything off his phone, I was gonna let you do it, because I figure you’d make him sound just as love sick as he really is

Lois grins and squeezes her boyfriend’s arm, watching as you hover the recorder over your cup of coffee. Clark snaps out and catches your wrist, his hand gripping it tightly. He slowly pulls it to his own hand, giving you a ‘drop it’ look. You do so, eyes wide at his dominant stance, the feeling of his fingers on your skin burning deep inside. He sustains eye contact, lips pulling into a sweet grin, as he takes the recorder back into his grip.

He leans to your ear, his breath teasing the shell of it, “Good girl, finally listening to me for once.” You gasp silently, a stunned expression on your face. You pull your wrist from his grip and stand.

“Go to hell, Clark Kent,” you stammer and rush to your boss's office to talk to him about the article. He watches you leave, concern shining on his face. Did he do something wrong?

Lois shoots him an angered glance, “Don’t put your hands on her, asshole. Don’t you know what happened?” Clark straightens up, “What are you talking about, Lois?” Jimmy shifts in discomfort as Lois shoots him a look. “You were supposed to tell him to not be an ass today, Jimmy.”

“What happened?” Clark barks, his voice breaking with stress. Lois raises a hand to her forehead, rubbing the space between her brows with concentrated fury. “Her date went bad, not because of her, Clark. The guy was a total dick, he made her pay, he grabbed her ass in public, and he walked her home just to threaten date rape.” She grunts, looking at Jimmy as he rubs her arm in comfort. Clark’s eyes widen. “What the fuck?!”

“Nobody riles her up like you, Clark, but today? I wouldn’t.” Jimmy offers cautiously.

Clark’s fists tighten. “Who? Who did this?” He stares down at his desk, willing his eyes to not sear through the wood. Lois shrugs, “Some guy she met at a bar. A real gentleman.” She sneered. Clark growls, slamming a hand down on the desk. He stands, following where you went. Whoever touched you would pay for it. Why hadn’t you told him? He’d find out.

Clark set off to find you, beelining for Perry’s office, but he didn’t see you anywhere. He knocked on the door to encounter a very busy Perry White, who covered the microphone on his cell and mouthed, ‘What do you want, Kent?’

“Where’s Y/n?” Clark asks, rubbing at his temple as his foot anxiously taps against the floor. Perry directs him towards the filing room with a waved hand, ushering Clark out of his office and slamming the door hurriedly. He sees you, cowering behind a filing cabinet, several papers in hand. So unlike you. You always held yourself with a stubborn pride, leaving any trace of insecurity beneath layers of fake confidence.

When Clark walks up, you turn away quickly, but he steps forward regardless, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder. It molds familiarly around your collarbone. You shiver. “Y/n, they told me what happened. I’m so sorry, Cherry.” Clark softens, aching to see your face as he reaches for your jaw. You pull from his grip, shaking, “It’s fine, Clark, I’m fine.”

“No, it’s not fine. That guy deserves to go to jail.” Clark mutters, “He deserves more than that. Please, Y/n... look at me.” You whip around, angrily, “Why do you care, Clark? It wouldn’t surprise me if you high-fived the guy.” You stung him with your words, all the sweet honey of your feelings towards him disappearing.

Clark’s mouth drops in pain, and his eyebrows draw together. A beat passes, and everything unsaid between the two of you hangs in the air. “Y/n.” He finally speaks, quietly, “That’s not true.” He reaches out for you, and you flinch away, giving him a wounded look.

“Oh, it isn’t? So every time you leave me in the dust and spit in my face, you’re just playing around?” You argue, pointing a finger at his chest boldly. “It’s all about who makes the front page nowadays. What happened to us? To the nights at the bar? Why do you hate me now?”

Clark scoffs, furiously twisting his head, “No, you don’t get to turn that on me. We both got cocky, Y/n. That’s not just my fault. You’re just as stubborn as I am. That’s why we never would’ve worked.” He shouts, fists drawn tight to his sides in frustration.

You pause, searching his eyes to clarify that he really meant that, and you sigh, defeated. Your shoulders droop like they do when you need to hide away and cry. Clark notices.

“I can’t do this, not with you, Clark. After everything, don’t pretend to be the hero now. If we didn’t work, why do you care?”

And with that, you rush off, leaving Clark to try and decipher what to say. He stands still, helpless and flustered. His heart beats quick and hard. He didn’t mean that. Why had he said that? He still loved you. You just didn’t know, and now you were hurt, both by him and some dickhead who never deserved you. Whoever had done this to you would pay.

After a workday full of avoiding Clark, you head to the corner store by your apartment. All that’s on your mind is a glass of wine and a face mask. You strut inside, mindlessly weaving through each aisle and picking out your favorite junk food. The events of the day race through your mind tirelessly, and you groan to yourself in frustration. Why can’t you just get Clark out of your head? Why didn’t you tell him? He would’ve been there.

You knew he would’ve put every single argument aside and been by your side in lightning speed. You were just afraid. Afraid to let someone in, to let him in. If you opened that door, you would never be able to close it, not to Clark. He meant so much to you, more than he knew.

The day you first started at The Planet, desk empty and waiting to be filled with ideas and inspiration, you’d met him. He was wide-eyed, beautiful, with goofy glasses drooping over gorgeous ocean eyes. His black, messy hair flopped on his forehead, indicating that he didn’t brush it that morning. Clark was shy, fidgeting with his pen and keyboard as he introduced himself quickly. You’d smiled sweetly and told him your name.

You didn’t know just how pretty he thought you were. It debilitated him, causing him to spill his coffee on his shirt. A moment you endlessly teased him about for being clumsy. You’d learned his habits, his favorite coffee: a caramel macchiato. You’d brought him one after a week of being desk mates, and you swore his eyes burned red when he’d found it on his desk with a sticky note attached.

After weeks of getting to know each other, you went to the bar with Lois, your new friend, and his best friend Jimmy. The night was full of joy, drunken karaoke, and truth or dare. Clark let loose for once, showing you his wild side. You were officially smitten. Watching him loosen his collar and unbutton the top of his shirt, dancing around with a beer in hand, was enough to make you sweat.

You’d gone home that night with your fingers twitching for release, the thoughts of Clark undoing you, fueling your movements as you came in your bed. You know he’d talk you through it, sweet and slow. God, you wanted him.

So you told Lois, who squealed enthusiastically. She immediately turned work into an intervention, pushing you and Clark together just as much as possible, not that you minded, of course. But it was quite obvious after she purposely made Jimmy cancel last minute with her on your weekly outings as a group.

It left you and Clark to talk, and boy, did you. Every night was filled with endless stories of his childhood with Ma and Pa Kent in Kansas, followed by your rough upbringing in Gotham. How you’d made a life for yourself that was worth living. His hand was always on your collarbone, lightly pressing, grounding you. It inched between your neck and chest, stinging deep into the tips of his fingers.

Clark promised to bring you with him on a trip back home, stating that Ma would be tickled to pieces. He didn’t know how much it made your heart flutter to imagine the possibility of being the first girl he brought home, lover or not.

The problem was always what you each left unsaid. He was constantly your first call after a bad day, arriving at your apartment with your ice cream and a new juicy magazine. In between every head you laid on his chest, him stroking your hair, was need. The kind that went without saying. Every comforting word, every “That’s it, let it out, sweetheart,” as you’d puke from the alcohol. There was something there, but you two were just too afraid to ruin it.

So you each lingered, a little longer than before. You buried yourself in articles, work, anything to get your mind off of his dimples, off of the sweat on his brow when he’d show up at dinner, god knows what he’d been up to. And Clark had taken it out on his opponents, giving them the frustrations that he felt when it came to the need to kiss you.

He wanted to so badly, it just had to be the right time.

So, the press gala for The Planet was his attempt at said right timing. You’d walked in, a cherry red gown hugging every curve of your body deliciously. Clark shouldn’t have waited. Because you’d been called up, clapped on the back for your debut on the front page.

Where did he really mess up, though?

Clark hadn’t congratulated you. He took one look at the editor on your arm, hugging you around the waist and kissing your cheek in congratulatory fashion, and he’d let himself out. He hesitated, and it came across as jealousy. You were hurt, really hurt.

All you wanted was his approval.

So you’d cut him off, no more coffee, no more tips. You’d become cold to him, afraid to be cut by his sharp jawline and quick tongue. You’d hardened over and become a real reporter.

He regretted it every day. And you did too. You missed him. He missed you. But not now. Now you were both sure of your feelings. Whatever was there, it was gone.

You walk to the register, handing the man your groceries, and you begin to pay. A large blast of fire hits the window, and it knocks you to the ground. Fuck.

Just another day in Metropolis.

You duck underneath a halfway burned counter and shake from the intensity of the blast. A strong hand hoists the wooden piece up, and you cower, just ready to beg for your life.

Instead, you are met with the beckoning gaze of Superman, in all his Red and Blue glory. He anxiously looks you up and down, faltering in some twisted recognition, and clears his throat. "Um, ma'am, are you alright? Here." You cough from the flames and nod breathlessly as he grabs your waist and seamlessly lifts you from the trashed floor, gently carrying you to the pavement outside. He was absolutely stunning, and he watched you with hooded, worried blue eyes. They reminded you of Clark.

He set you down carefully, with a tenderness that made your heart flutter. "Please stay out of trouble," He whispered to you, glancing up at the 'Justice Gang,' who seemed to have taken over whatever that thing was in the sky.

"We can't have all the pretty reporters in Metropolis getting burnt alive." Superman continued, making you blush an embarrassing crimson. He smiled, glancing down at your lips and swallowing hard.

Wait, how did he know you were a reporter? Before you could ask, Superman had already flown off to help the others. Wait.

Clark. Duh, what a jerk. At least this gorgeous super thought you were pretty.

You watched him effortlessly beat the creature, slowing its path to the ground and steering it out of trouble. Whipping out a recorder and cheering to yourself, you approach Superman, head searching for Clark in the gathering crowd. This is my chance.

He recognizes you immediately and quickly rushes over to your aid, doing a once-over and sighing in relief when he sees that you are unharmed. "Are you alright, miss? Do you need me to walk you home?" Superman offers, disregarding all the flashing of cameras and microphones being shoved into his face. You each stand for a moment, taking each other in. Clark sighs in his mind at the irony when he sees the recorder in your hand. You gulp at the pure hunk in front of you.

"Superman, could I bother you for an interview? Oh! Of course, yes, please do!" You stutter, remembering his offer. He nods, amused, and begins to follow you.

You just fought with Clark Kent about this man, and now he was walking you home. What a day.

You take the long route, avoiding the subway for any weird interactions. Although several people still give you looks. You don't pay them any mind as you rattle off questions for Superman, who answers clearly, as if he has been prepared for them all his life. He pats kids' heads as they pass, their mouths to the floor at the sight of him.

You laugh, holding your stomach, "God, it is true, you really do pat their heads." Superman mocks offense, bringing a hand to his chest, "Alright, little lady, just because the kids love me." He smiles cheekily, flirty. You blush.

When you reach your building, you wrap up the endless interrogation, thanking him for all his comments. You ensure him that your writing will be true to his statements, to which he comments, "I know, I've read your articles on LexCorp, they're really good."

You slap his arm, "Stop, you haven't. I'm nothing special. Barely make the front page these days because of you." Clark watches you undermine your own skill, and it kills him inside not to say something. So he does, cautiously.

"Y'know, that guy, Kent? He talks about you." Superman offers with a shrug on his shoulders. You scoff, "I'm sure, how much shit has he talked about my writing?" Superman interjects, "No shit. Seriously! He always gets the most he can out of me. I'm pretty sure he's just trying to impress you, ma'am." He states plainly, laughing at your skepticism.

"Well, I guess that's sweet." You reply, unlocking your door with the twist of the key. "Keep an eye on him for me, Superman. The guy is too stubborn and selfish to let some of us care for him. Y'know, he's going to kill me for this." You laugh, a strained breath, and sigh. Clark notes the pain beneath your breath.

"He won't. I'll make sure of it, sweetheart."

Your eyes narrow at the familiarity of his tone of voice, and Superman fidgets with his hand nervously. That was weird.

"Um... well, this has been real, Superman, thank you for saving the day again," You awkwardly remark, and tap your fingers against your crossed forearms. He takes the hint, "Erm- anytime, ma'am." With that, he rushes off, leaving you confused and thinking.

You shake off the weird timbre of his voice that reminded you so much of Clark, and you grin. Oh, this was gonna be good.

You strut into The Planet, passing the coffee bar on your way to your desk. You don't bother to make yourself a cup, for you are far too jazzed about your interview with Superman.

When you launch yourself into your seat, abandoning your clutch to the floor, Clark whips around to see you. He notices the bruise forming on your wrist, probably from where you tried to catch yourself yesterday. You wince as you twist it to write. He fakes his ignorance, "Your wrist okay, Cherry?" You answer him, "Just fine, Clark." Your voice is sweet and sharp with a cheery demeanor he isn't used to.

He nods, hair flopping with his movement, "Whatcha writing?"

Your fingers pause on the keys, and you smile up at him sweetly, "Met your buddy yesterday. He saved me and was nice enough to give me an interview."

Clark's jaw drops in the satisfying way you'd imagined it late last night. Next to him, Jimmy stammers, "You met Superman?!" You nod, earning you an excited squeal from Lois and a high-five from Olsen.

"He was very sweet, and oh god, not to mention, total verified hottie." You laugh and point towards Clark, "He even gives your slutty little glasses look a run for its money." Clark gulps long and hard. You thought he was hot. His cock jumps in his dress pants. Fuck.

"Oh yeah, Y/n?" Lois asks from beside you, wiggling her eyebrows and making you nod quickly, "Oh, one hundred percent would let him hit." Clark groans, slapping a hand to his face in sexual frustration. The three of you whip around to see him panic, "W-what?! That's my friend you're talking about."

"Sure, super-boy, hey, do you have his number?" You ask, leaning across the wood of your desk to beg Clark with your little puppy dog eyes. Your shirt droops just enough for him to glance a look at the top of your breasts and heave. "God! Y/n! He's not a piece of meat!" Clark cracks, wiping a hand across his forehead in despair. You giggle and lean back, "Sorry, Kent, I just know how to spot big dick energy, if you know what I mean." You wink and begin to type again.

Clark lets out a wearying breath and sits back into his seat. You were going to be the death of him.

You go about the rest of the work day, typing away at your computer, being sweet to Clark. He wonders if you’re just in a daze, or if you hit your head too hard. He doesn’t care, at least you were attracted to him the whole time, even if you didn’t know it.

When he overhears you gossip to Lois about all the things you’d let Superman do to you, he sighs, pinching his leg and willing himself to breath. The things he would do to you if you’d let him.

The group celebrates your front page article for the first time in a while together, and Clark hugs you, drawing a slow and tense breath from your lungs as you hold him back. You each shudder.

Clark silently promises to make the night of the gala up to you, and he conjures a plan up. He needed to fix this, he needed to tell you how he felt, and for the first time since childhood. He was going to tell someone his identity. God, he was whipped.

When you leave for the day, winking at Clark and telling him to say hi to Superman for you, Clark smiles like an idiot, he nods, “Get home safe, Cherry.” His heart continues to beat wildly in his chest as he watches you saunter away, happy.

He quickly gets to work.

You lie on your couch, sipping a celebratory bottle of wine, and giggle to yourself. Clark had hugged you; he had been proud of you. You were getting everything you wanted. You still cared about him, you knew it. Your emotions had run high the day before, causing you to speak some harmful words.

It made you cringe at what you'd said. But Clark didn't seem upset today. You needed to tell him how you felt. Putting the glass of wine on your table, you pull out your phone and click on your messages. You didn't know if it was the alcohol that gave you the courage, but you stood, pacing.

Maybe going to his place would be better? Yeah.

You quickly slip on some shoes, hardly noticing the fact that you hadn't taken off your face mask, and that you were only in a robe. Yep, definitely the alcohol.

You reach for the handle of your door, but a knock rings out, making you gasp in fright and clutch your chest. "Y/n? It's Clark!" His voice muffled through the door, you stood for a moment, frozen in the doorway, before you reached a hand down and opened the door.

There, Clark Joseph Kent stood in all his glory, a gift bag in hand, and a ridiculous look on his face at the sight of you. He immediately burst into laughter, and you fumed, "What?!" He struggled to speak between his fits of giggles and weakly pointed to your face. You reach a hand up to brush some crumbs off, when you feel the gooey substance of your face mask, and your jaw drops wide.

You quickly rip the sheet mask off your face and exclaim, "Eat shit, Kent!" You begin to laugh along with him. You let him in as he calms himself, a nervous and timid posture taking over the giddy one as his huge body makes its way to your couch. He sits in his favorite corner of it, glancing at the wine and making an 'ah-ha' look.

You take in the sight of him back on your couch, and your heart skips a beat. "What's the cause of your visit, Clark?" You ask, wiping the remainder of your mask off with a kitchen towel. He sighs, "Um... I just wanted to talk to you, and y'know, it's on the way."

"Yeah?" You ask, watching his eyes as they search yours. You sit on the coffee table across from him, meeting his gaze with your own, "Well, here I am."

"Here you are,'" Clark repeats, breathless and quiet, before clearing his throat and picking up the gift bag by his feet.

"I-I-uh, well. I got this for you. Hey wait! Before you open it..." He says, reaching for the bag and getting it out of your range as you go for it. You loved presents, he knew.

"...I'm sorry, Y/n, for being a dick, a total, utter dick to you. I should've, well, there are a lot of things I should've done." He starts, lowering his head in an ashamed posture. You watch, and reach a hand to his cheek, raising his jaw to meet your gaze.

"There are a lot of things I regret, too, Clark." You admit, eyebrows drawn together in worry, "It's not all your fault, it's mine too." He sighs, "We're idiots, and we should've talked it out from the start."

You smile, nodding, and he brings a hand to rest over the one on his cheek, thumb mindlessly rubbing at your skin. You breathe in quickly. Clark glances at your lips, "I should've told you how damn proud I was of you at that gala, sweetheart. I saw that guy, and I panicked. I was jealous." He whispered, giving you his best 'kicked puppy' look.

You gasp, "You were jealous? Clark, be serious. You had no competition." He smiles, matching the grin on your lips. "I'm not sure about that now, I hear Superman has a little crush on you," Clark sighs, leaning in defeat. Little do you know, he's going to milk this so well.

"Clark, be serious, in what world would a super fall in love with a journalist like me? And besides, I lied, slutty glasses are much more preferred." You giggle cheekily and boop his nose, knocking his glasses to the ground. "Oh, shit, sorry."

Clark smiles as he watches your small frame duck and retrieve his glasses from the floor, 'That's alright, ma'am." You gasp at the recognition of his deeper voice. You shoot up, glasses in hand. You take in the sight of Clark without his glasses, and you begin to understand. If he had his hair combed, maybe tighter clothes... oh god.

"Oh... my god." You stammer, eyes wide and taking in the sight. Clark Kent, your friend, your rival, wasn't Superman's best friend.

Clark Kent was Superman.

He takes a deep breath and reaches out, cupping your jaw and closing your mouth, which had hung open, "I know, sweetheart. I know."

You immediately burst into questions, to which he states, "Later, no, you can't tell anyone, yes, yes, no, hey! Calm down, Y/n." He tightens his grip on your jaw enough to make you pause. "I was terrified when I saw you on the floor of that corner store, sweetheart. I knew right then and there I had to fix things, that I had to tell you."

You nod, "Of course! It all makes sense now." He laughs and brushes a piece of your wild hair behind your ear. "I want you to open your gift now, honey. Can you do that for me?"

You agree after seeing his look, and pull the paper from the bag, grabbing the frame inside. Your eyes tear up at the gift. It's a framed copy of your first front-page article. You smile and hug it to your chest, looking up at Clark with glassy eyes. "Clark... I don't know what to say," He shushes you, stroking your cheek with his thumb. "This is what you deserved that night, Y/n. Not my jealousy. That night was about you, and I was selfish."

"I didn't make it any easier on you, Clark, I thought... thought that if I hid away from you, maybe you couldn't hurt me again, I'm sorry." You sniffle as you meet his eyes. He smiles softly, curling his finger under your chin and pulling it towards him.

"You can't hide from me, baby." He whispers, lips inches from yours. "Now, can I please give you the congratulatory kiss you so deserve?"

You nod, a tear streaking down your cheek as you finally kiss him softly and slowly. His lips meet yours like waves on the sand, natural, comforting, right. He smiles, teeth raking as he deepens it, pulling the frame from your hands and placing it down on the table with ease. His hands took their place on your chest.

One hand wraps around your back, crushing your frame against his own as he lifts you up and into his lap with zero effort. The other sneaks its way to your neck, gripping it with a soft intensity that makes you gasp into his mouth.

He uses it to touch his tongue to yours, finally tasting you. He groans, and his hand on your neck curls around the back, tangling into the strands of hair there. Clark pulls away to stare into your lust-blown eyes, "I love you." He whispers, heart racing, as he rests his forehead against your own.

You smile in disbelief, "I love you too, super-boy." Clark growls and smashes his mouth to yours. Your hands search his chest for the buttons, and you fidget, popping one open.

He breaks away again, looking down at your hands making quick work of his shirt and he pants. "I need you, Clark." You whisper, and his head whips up to look at you. "Course you do, baby. I'm here, I'm not leaving."

You moan at his confidence and kiss him again. Clark stands, you in his arms as he backs you into the hallway. He crashes you against the wall as a hand finds your breast. He squeezes it softly, groaning at the feel of it beneath his palm. "Bed..." You whimper, and he nods, throwing open the door and throwing you onto the mattress.

He kisses down your neck, his breath hot and heavy, and he leaves plenty of marks. 'Mine..." Clark whispers to himself, licking the vein on your right side, and continuing south. He helps you sit up, tearing the robe from your chest and unclipping your bra with zero hesitation.

When Clark's lips wrap around your nipple, you whimper, legs crashing around his middle and squeezing him closer. He chuckles, raising his head to peck your lips, "I know... I know, sweet girl. Feels good, yeah?" You whimper his name and groan, helpless as he attacks your chest with kisses.

"Gonna... make you... mine." He growls into your skin as he nips his way down your tummy, giving it quick attention, but not stopping. His breath fans over your panties, and he tongues the cotton. "Got one more way of celebrating, you baby, you gonna let me taste you?" He asks, looking up at you, as he drags his tongue over the fabric, barely rubbing your swollen clit. His eyes scream sin and sweetness.

You howl out an agreement, and he drags down your panties without another word, attacking your pussy with his mouth. His tongue feels like fire as it licks from the bottom to the top, and he moans into your pussy.

"You taste real good, Cherry." He growls as he licks around your folds, making an obscene mess of the area. His saliva drips down his chin, and he watches you twitch beneath his tongue. You squirm, legs tightening around his face, causing him to bring a hand to one thigh, pressing it towards your stomach, "Keep your legs up for me, baby, c'mon now. Let me enjoy my pussy." You moan and nod breathlessly, bringing one hand to hold your legs up for him, the other buried in his messy jet black hair.

He holds you down to the bed with his hands on your ass, squeezing as he devours you whole. His tongue licks up, making tedious circles on your clit, sucking and spitting. The sounds drive you wild, moans spilling out of your lips, "Clark! Oh- fuck. Oh god, Clark!" It only spurs him on, making him bring a finger to your hole, teasing around it, and finally burying it to the hilt.

You cry out, and he shushes you, arousal dripping from his chin, "I know, baby, it's big, but we've got to start somewhere. God, look at you, pretty thing. You're so good for me." He coos, letting his thumb make lazy strokes on your clit, and he comes up to kiss you.

You cry out for him, "Mmm... Clark! I lo-love you." He smiles, kissing you deeply and fucking you nice and slow with his middle finger, curling it until you see stars. "That's it, baby, you're mine." You babble, nodding and panting, "Yours, Clark... Y-yours."

He growls, "good girl," and picks up the pace on his hand as he fucks your pussy harder. Clark returns to your clit with his tongue, sloppily sucking and licking it like a madman.

"Want you to cum for me, Cherry girl, all over my mouth and hand. Can you do that f'me?" He muffles against your folds and adds his index finger, hoisting your waist up and hitting a new angle.

You see white and cum almost immediately, gushing into his mouth as he groans, sucking it all up. He fucks you through it, holding down your spasming legs and licking from bottom to top, adding one last peck on your clit. He lifts you into his arms, sucking off his fingers, and brushes your hair off your face. "So, so good for me, baby." You smile, fucked out, and tuck your head into his neck.

Clark sighs, "I love you, Cherry girl."

THANK YOU FOR READINGGGGGG! I've been so horny for this man y'all... Okay, anyways. Bye now!!

Reblogs and Comments save authors' livezzz

Pt. 2 out soon!

[lyssmasterlist]

In sickness, in health

Clark Kent (Superman) x Ex!Wife!Fem!Reader

wc: 4.6k

boarders by @cursed-carmine & @saradika-graphics 🧊💋🦴

~ reblogs, comments, and likes are so appreciated ~

It’s been almost exactly a year since the split. Clark left with a resounding slam of your door. You got the papers a week later, tears streaking down your cheeks, but if it was what he wanted, you’d sign. So you did, you gave him his share and made do with yours. The argument regarding your safety due to Clark being Superman had strained your relationship to the breaking point. And like so many other unlucky couples, you just couldn’t work it out.

When you get a random call around 2:30am the day after Thanksgiving from Ma, your heart drops. The connection is weak; all you can make out is, “Clark… Hurt… Please come as soon… He asked… you.”

It’s enough for you to throw clothes into a duffel and book the next flight. You still loved him, even after everything. And he needed you.

You laughed at the irony of your vows. You would still keep them. You hoped Clark wouldn’t send you away when he came to.

Warnings: Mentions of Violence, Clark has Kryptonite Poisoning, Clark is Whiny, Husband Clark Kent, Hurt/Comfort, Very Slight Reference to Sexual Content, Guilt, Fear, Reuniting with your Ex-Husband Superman, Unsolved Tension, Lots of Angst, Slight Mentions of Near-Death Experiences, Pain, Reader is Down Bad, Clark is also Down Bad, This is Angst City, and I am the Mayor

You glance over at the clock, and it reads 2:15am. Great, another sleepless night, alone. The bed feels cold and empty beside you, hollow from days past. You roll over, trying desperately to get into a comfortable enough position to sleep. You know it’s hopeless, but you try anyway.

The wind whips against your window pane, reminding you of the harsh reality of the time of year it was. Late November, Thanksgiving had just passed, and it was your first Thanksgiving without Clark. You’d spent the day binge drinking and watching horrible Hallmark movies about city girls and country boys.

You sigh in defeat. It would only be a couple more weeks until he’d been gone for a year.

The sadness sank deep into your chest, aching and beating slowly in your sorrowful heart. The tears had all but vanished, causing you to lie there, eyes dry. You quit feeling sorry for yourself a long time ago, but the holidays reminded you so much of Clark, hopefulness lingering in everyone’s attitude that you passed on the street.

The difference was that each of your friends had someone to come home to. Lois had Jimmy, and you could sadly tell that they pitied you, often offering to take you to dinner, letting you third wheel their events, and pretending that everything was okay.

Lois had cussed out Clark when he’d made the decision to leave you. Calling him a “selfish asshole," and stating that his resignation to The Planet was "Total, utter bullshit!" Jimmy tried to stay out of it as long as he could, but he ultimately sided with Lois every time. You’d been really thankful to have someone on your side. Because once the media caught wind of Superman’s secret love affair, they’d immediately taken it way too far.

Rumors of cheating, emotional abuse, etc., lingered in the magazines for a few months. You barely left your house, afraid to be assigned a lead on 'the mysterious wife of Superman.' Clark spent many weeks as his alter ego fighting to have every false allegation taken down. He loved you so much it hurt, but he couldn’t bring himself to put you in constant danger, not after your accident. That was his sorry excuse for walking out on you.

You blamed it on his fear that too many people were uncovering the possibility of Clark Kent being Superman.

You ponder the thought of calling him, and glance at your phone, thrown lopsidedly to the pillow next to you. After all the pain and abandonment, you had only called Clark twice. The first time was on your birthday. Lois had taken you out for drinks, and well... you got wasted.

You had called him, just for the phone to ring twice before going to voicemail. You cussed him out for not calling and singing to you, sobbed into the phone as your friends tried to calm you, and puked onto the floor when Lois finally ripped your phone from your hands. She muttered something crossly towards Clark in the message, stating that it was "just like you to not call her on her birthday. No contact doesn't mean forgetting everything she means to you."

The no-contact rule was torture for both you and Clark; he told you it was the best way to keep you safe. But he was unwilling to hear just how desperate you were to keep him in your life. You longed to know how he felt. You wanted to know the truth: that he missed every inch of your skin, just like you missed his. You were sure that he truly just hated you, and it pained you so bad that you spent many nights on the roof of your apartment building, pondering the fall.

You wondered if Clark would catch you halfway down.

You doubted it, the longer he'd been gone.

Abandoning those thoughts, you roll in the opposite direction of your phone, mentally cursing yourself for the pure audacity to think of calling Clark right now. He was probably out saving some damsel in distress anyway. You sigh, gazing into the clock that now reads 2:24am.

This was going to be a long night. The kind of night that promised nothing but silence.

You close your eyes, huffing into the stillness of your bedroom, and try to count sheep.

You’re about four sheep in when your phone rings, the song “You Are My Sunshine” echoes into your ears, and you sit up. That was Ma’s ringtone.

Your heart drops to your stomach. Clark.

Picking up the phone without a second thought, you raise a shaky hand to your mouth, biting your nail in anxiety, “Ma?”

The line cracks, muffled and broken between what you’re sure is Ma crying, and she speaks, “Y/n! Sweetheart, is that… we need you… Clark’s hurt… please… as soon as possible… he asked for you.”

The line goes dead.

You brush some of your bed head off your forehead and inhale with an open mouth. Your head spins and you stand on two wobbly legs. Clark was hurt. Superman, hurt. Your Clark. The cheeky man that had stolen your heart with his messy black hair and rigid dimples. The same Clark, who used to kiss your stomach unhurriedly and stare at you too long with those ocean blue eyes. You prayed for him to be alive within the cold air of the night.

Tears somehow found their way to your cheeks again, running like rain on a car window, recklessly. You pulled out a bag and quickly stuffed a charger, some clothes, and god knows what else inside. You didn’t pay it much mind, thinking only of Clark, and the quickest way to get to him.

You would catch the next flight, no matter what it took to see him again. Ignorant of the price, even though you had very little. You cared only to see Clark, to brush his hair between your fingers and whisper sweet nothings into his temple, breath brushing his ear. That was what you used to do when a fight went South, when a civilian died. You were the only one who could console him. He went at ease when you were near. Maybe that's why he needed you.

Ma used to call you his ‘emotional kryptonite.’ God, you missed him.

As you pass your kitchen on the way out, you glance at the fridge. No, you were still far too full from Thanksgiving dinner at Jimmy’s to eat anything. But you hesitated. Clark loved your peanut butter brownies. They’d go bad otherwise. Maybe that’s what he needed.

You sigh, rip a Tupperware container from its place in the dishwasher, hands shaking from stress and worry, and dump the remainder of your brownies in. Every little thing in this apartment still screamed his name, his presence. The candle by the couch, one he’d bought you after saying it reminded him of your shampoo. Each dent in the drywall, where he’d slammed you into the wall after a long day when he just needed release, nipping at your neck with want. The robe that used to be his, hanging on a hook, which now acted as your oversized towel after a bath.

It all became a way of coping. Every first aid kit you had on hand for the cuts on his knuckles, every pocket protector you’d stuffed away into a drawer with no need for them anymore. You slowly forgot the meaning of living with him, the meaning of living. But he was still in every sentence you wrote at The Planet. He lingered in every breath you drew in, alone.

Your life had faded into a concept of surviving. And you did everything you could to stifle any hope of him returning.

He’d made it very clear that he wouldn’t.

You zip up your duffel, brownies inside. Your heart still beats wild and uncomfortably in your chest. Every second you wait, you’re not there for Clark. He asked for you. Your lip tilts up, it’s not a smile, but it’s something.

The gate is quiet, the crowd small but steady. People shuffle between TSA checking and cuss at a small volume when they get flagged for the fluid bottles in their bags. You pass through, keeping to yourself, too hurried to worry about the way a woman shoulder checks you. You brush it off, rushing for your 4:30am flight to Kansas City. Pa would meet you there in his dusty red Chevy, probably halfway squeeze the life out of you, and cry like the old sap he was.

You loved it, you missed the family you lost because of those damn papers.

You take a sip from the four-dollar water bottle you bought in the small gift shop by your gate. The water tastes like metal and something else you can’t quite put your finger on. When they call for boarding, you spring up, wiry and light on your feet, clutching the strap of your duffel like it was rope and you’re hanging off a cliff.

You take the aisle seat on the fourth row, eager to be one of the first people off the plane. You had no luggage to pick up, no rental car to wait for, only the promise of your quick feet and small frame to shift through the crowd. You willed the plane to arrive before schedule, and sat back, headphones playing “The Mighty Crabjoys.” You chuckle, strained, and raise a head to your forehead, rubbing away the memories like smudged lead on paper.

The flight was four hours; that meant you had four hours to try and sleep. You crack your neck in restlessness, recoiling in the thought of how Clark must feel. Hurt, alone. A feeling you’d become far too familiar with. Still, it left a heavy sting of guilt deep in your stomach, causing it to churn with unease.

Every second you’d had with Clark was magical; you felt like you were in heaven in the moment. He was the dream, the perfect gentleman. He memorized your heart and made it his. Promised you a life full of adventure, risk, and happiness. You never expected him to stomp on it all with his custom Kryptonian boots. You didn’t think he meant to, truly. But now you looked back over the years like a sad nostalgic dream, crushed by the weight of every harsh truth and splintered trust.

It must be nice to never feel like this. You cursed every delusional happy couple; they all had what you still hoped for with every moment alone in the shower, someone to love. To hold.

Where you two had left things, it didn’t promise much to look forward to. The argument, which caused Clark Kent of all people to slam your door, snapping several hinges, explained his reason for never calling you, never sending a card. The way he’d spoken to you, the way you’d spoken to him, it was lethal. It destroyed years' worth of admiration, every morning naked in bed, giggling, every night dripping in sex and sweat. You both had crushed the walls you once built with hammering words, shattering the mirror of truly seeing one another.

Your heart died that day, with every word he’d uttered, fists drawn tight and rigid to his sides. And god, when you’d slapped him, he raised one of his fists. You both stared at it like it had betrayed you each in its own way. His eyes widened, and he gulped so hard you heard it. Your breath sucked in with a sharp gasp, and you flinched away. He crumbled, tears spilling down his cheeks, “baby, no, no… You know I would never. Oh god, Y/n, sweetheart, you have to believe me.”

“Get out, Clark.” You’d whispered, eyes screwing shut, your own sorrowful tears spilling all the way to your collarbones. He flinched like your words had slashed his middle. “Y/n, not until I know you’re okay—” but you’d cut him off, hands slapping to your cheeks and angrily swiping at your hot tears. You stared into his eyes, yours cold with hatred. “G-get the fuck out, Clark.” A breath, “Please, don’t make me ask again.”

He hesitated, watching your chest rise and fall quickly. He gave you one long and suffering look, his face screaming anguish. His mouth hung open, angry words dangerously hanging on the tip of his tongue. Hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, right foot beginning its anxious habit of tapping against your floor.

Then without warning, he’d turned sharply, grabbed his coat from the rack he’d hung only weeks prior, and left. No more backward glances, no more second chances. Clark read your mind in that last look, and had seen just how much he needed to go. So he did. The man was painfully true to his word.

You wish you could take back every word. Every cutting touch and angle you’d pushed. He only wanted to protect you, and you’d freaked. It wasn’t entirely your fault; you knew what you were getting yourself into from the start. Clark was never satisfied, knowing you were always unsafe.

Every encounter you’d made with villains, most of them run-of-the-mill losers who had figured out Clark's identity, had chalked up to another point towards an at-home fight. You were certain that you could handle it. Clark was never so sure, always so afraid of you breaking, of losing you. He didn’t know that he eventually would lose you in an even greater fashion. You weren’t glass, you weren’t a damsel in need of saving. You knew the cost of loving Superman; it laid heavy in your chest like a stack of bricks.

But the difference was you knew that it was worth it for Clark, and he didn't.

But then, the accident happened. You were never supposed to be there, if you’d just listened. He wouldn’t have almost lost you. Clark had been too late.

You could confidently confirm that when you’re about to die, your life does indeed flash before your eyes. It had, in a burst of darkness and dust. Then, you were gone.

You jolt awake at the force of the plane landing. Ah, you had fallen asleep. Clark. You were almost home. Please hold on.

When the airplane clears to exit, you shoot up. Offering a quick apology to those ahead of you, and shuffling between the rows, practically running down the loading gate. You sprint through the crowd, avoiding a businessman and his steaming latte. Your eyes scan the pickup lane, finally landing on Pa.

He’s waiting, cardboard sign in hand, with your name scribbled messily. You smile softly, and your heart aches with pure and utter homesickness. You run up to him, taking him by surprise as you wrap your arms around him. He chuckles in shock and returns the hug, squeezing you tightly like an overprotective parent when their child returns from war. You don’t realize the tears until they’ve already fallen, and he’s whispering, “I missed you, buttercup,” into your ear.

“Please tell me he’s alive, Pa.” You murmur, voice breaking, desperate and raw. Pa nods firmly, pulling back from the hug. “He’ll be okay. I think this fight woke’m up from the horrible, ugl’ah nightmare of losin’ you.” He confirms, patting your shoulder in comfort.

“He doesn’t miss me. I just wanted to see him. I-I had to know… had to know he was okay.” You cry, burying your head into his neck. Pa sighs, rubbing at your shoulder blade with his worn hands, “Sweetheart, he doesn’t know just how much he needs you.”

You bite back the words “I still love him” and instead nod, wiping at your eyes with the back of your hand. Pa smiles, flashing you a true American farmer grin, and opens the door of the truck for you. You climb in, breathing in the scent of the Kent household and relax back into your seat. A feeling of anticipation begins to thrum quietly in the hollow of your heart.

The drive feels shorter than you remember, Billy Joel and Diamond Rio streaming out of the radio in their regular fashion. You watch the corn fields pass, remembering the first time Clark had brought you home with him. You’d been so nervous, even though you had no reason to be worried. Ma and Pa were the parents you never had.

When the split happened, they didn’t know who to call first. They’d called Clark, obviously. But you were the one they visited. That meant something real to you. You weren’t sure Clark knew, so you’d stowed it away with every flannel he hadn’t bothered to pick up.

You see the sign for Smallville, and your heart leaps in your chest, with a sudden burst of anxiety.

You pull up to the driveway, and with every yard closer, your chest grows increasingly tight. The house looks the same as you’d seen it. Crooked shingles and white siding frame the childhood home that Clark grew up in. The fields outside whistle in the wind, drifting with memory and nostalgia. You grip the handles of your duffel and pinch your wrist. This was truly real.

When the tires screech to a stop, you sit still against the leather, waiting a minute before hopping out. Ma meets you at the screen door, pulling you straight into her arms and brushing your hair with a soothing hand. You meet her with a sigh, “Ma…” She shushes you, just breathing into your shoulder with a shuddering inhale, holding you. Your face twists into something deeply uncomfortable, scrunching up like wrinkled laundry. You hold back the tears, and break apart, holding each of her shoulders, “I need to see him.”

She nods in understanding, stepping out of your way. “You know where to find him, babygirl.”

You move down the hall in a silent tradition, without a second thought. You pass the endless frames, which hold everything sweet and innocent about Clark beneath their glass. The hallway moves around you as your feet hit carpet, slow, sure, and familiar. Everything comes to a slow rhythm of instinct. The door to Clark’s bedroom is ajar, allowing you to see his posters, trophies, and baby blue wallpaper from the outside.

Your feet come to a rest at the threshold. Blinking in slow motion, your eyes well up once more. You’re not sure if it’s from fear or excitement. Maybe it’s just the overwhelming sensation of knowing that the love of your life waits inside. You haven’t seen him since he slammed that oak door back in the city.

You weren’t sure about this.

But nothing stops you from stepping inside, a vow kept in the hushed corners of the Kansas house. You were here in sickness, in health. Through the fall from grace and the cold, bitter reality of hurt.

When you behold Clark lying on his full-sized bed, completely crushing it beneath his massive frame, you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. He’s not asleep, but he hasn’t noticed you yet; that or he’s pretending you aren’t there.

His eyes flicker to yours, and he draws in a quick, faltering breath. “You came,” he cracks, with a pitiful and wretched timbre of disbelief. His eyes pinch together with a raw and painful flinch.

You drop the duffel and stride to his side in three short steps, collapsing to your knees.

“You called.”

He breaks, the waterworks instant. His chin quivers in a way that tells you everything you needed to know. That he regretted those words too, that he missed you every. damn. day. That he tried so hard to stay away that it had utterly destroyed him on the inside.

You drop your head onto his shoulder and sob, “I thought– I thought, oh god, Clark. I– I thought you were gone.” Your tears wet the flannel on his chest, and you bring a hand up to feel at his face. He struggles, weeping openly and watching you cry too, clutching your body with one strong but weary arm.

“I’m so fuckin’ sorry. I’m so sorry,” he whispers, painful and pure with every shake.

His voice is muffled in your hair, strands spread across his chest. He holds you like something scared, secret. It’s a moment that you both know you’ll store away somewhere safe. The air around you shifts in a tense click.

You lift your head, meeting his red-rimmed eyes, bluer than ever through his crying, with yours. They hide away a hideous guilt, masked by his determination to make the right decisions. All the while, Clark knew he hadn’t.

He’d stormed out that day, only to collapse into the brick outside the building, tearing at his shirt and sobbing unashamedly.

Every day he’d spent without you had been true hell, and even now, Kryptonite poisoning and all, his chest felt lighter at the graze of your touch. It was all the pain medicine Clark needed.

“I’m glad you’re here.” He admits, not quite meeting your eyes this time. His chest rises in a steady thrum, and he rests his head back against the plush pillow. He doesn’t dare to lie, to fake some sorry excuse due to the no-contact rule. It was a dumb, fucking stupid rule that he had used to cower from his problems.

The truth was, Clark hadn’t felt like Superman since he’d left.

He felt like a traitor to the name of Justice and Hope.

You were his hope, you were his peace. It was all because of you that he could wake up every morning and promise the people of Metropolis his best self.

He hadn't promised anything in a real long time.

Clark stares at the ceiling as you shift off your knees, rising again to your feet and searching for the chair by his desk. You pull it to the bed, sitting down slowly.

“I came as quick as I could, t-took the next flight out.” You tell him, searching his eyes with yours, reminding him of just how much you cared. He looks at you again, and for a moment you both sit there, silent. The intensity leaves a pit in each of your stomachs. Clark clears his throat, coughing slightly in strained air, “Thank you, Y/n.”

You nod without restraint, your neck cracking at the sudden movement. You both huff out a laugh. It feels like everything.

You’re not sure how this moment feels so reverent, so private. But it does. You feel miles away and nearby all in the same twitch of your fingers. Clark stares at you like you might disappear into the light of the lamp beside you if he blinks. His hair is a mess, swamped around his bloody forehead.

“You need some serious sun, golden boy,” you laugh, calm and slow this time. Clark breathes out a sigh of relief at the domestic tease. “Wow, teasing me already, sweetheart? It’s true, nothing’s changed, has it?” He eases, but the words are more than a tease; he really is asking. The words hold the weight of the truth, the ugly and bitter loss of time together you’d each given up. Clark didn’t know just how much you had changed. All the ways you tried to survive.

You meet his eyes again and hold your breath. His face still screams apology, so you let it slide, allowing an instant quip to smooth out on your tongue. You wouldn’t start anything; not now.

He still realizes what he’s said, and mutters another stream of haphazard ‘I’m sorry’s.’ You just stroke at his collarbone with your thumb and shake your head, dismissing his fears.

You speak again after a moment of peace, the only sound being his clock ticking and the rustle of the covers from him shifting around, soft groans accompanying his change. "What hurts?"

He laughs, a deep tenor you had once heard in the shell of your ear and between your legs, and coughs, "The question really is: What doesn't?" It makes you furrow your brows and give him a pitiful look. He hated it, he always had. The look you gave him when he'd come home from a fight. You looked like you'd taken every single hit with him, and your eyes reflected the pain of every punch.

You always felt guilty, as if you'd held him a little longer, massaged his muscles a little harder, it wouldn't have hurt him so badly. Your empathy was your greatness weakness.

"'m so sorry, Clark," you breathe, voice laced with desperation. He shakes his head, "No. No, sweetheart. This ain't about that." It makes you immediately hush, nodding and trying to swallow down the pain you still long to express. He notices your retreat, and reaches out a hand, catching yours. "What I mean is... I wish I hadn't. I-" he pauses, flashing you a quick look of hesitation, and his Adam's apple bobs up and down.

"I never should've walked out of that door. I never should've pushed you away. I thought I-I was protecting you." He mumbles, words shattering the fragile veil of certainty, head tilted down in shame. Everything was up for question now. You gasp sharply and your face scrunches again, tears coming close to erupting.

He watches with a sick look on his face, swallowing down his own sorrow. You reach for his jaw with your palm, fingers spreading across the familiar dimple on his cheek. You dip the tip of your thumb into it on instinct. "I should've fought more for you." You whisper quietly.

His chest quivers, and his hand curls up around yours, grounding you.

"I can't keep pretending like I'm half the man I was when I had you."

You both let the words sink in, and you just stare. His face looks tired, lonely. The apologies promise more hope than either of you had been able to manifest. But there was still hurt, so, so much hurt.

But now... You each let it hurt. You take the first step towards acceptance. As a team.

You stand, and paddle over to your bag, reaching for the one thing you'd brought to lighten the mood. Clark breathes in an awkward laugh, "You didn't."

You smile at him, and for a second he remembers just how truly beautiful your smile is. You look perfect like this, messy hair and sore eyes. You had never needed to be anything but yourself for him to fall on his knees for you.

"I did. Always for you, Clark."

He frowns, and a tear spills over his cheek.

"I don't deserve it."

You sigh, and rub at your eye. "You don't decide that, Clark."

You sit back down, this time on the edge of the bed. The springs creak in protest, almost as if to say, "Really? You too?" But you pay them no mind.

In the silence of the dusty childhood bedroom. You raise a brownie to Clark's lips. As always, he takes a timid first bite, letting the flavor hit his tongue with a groan. You smile, he smiles back.

The pair of you still, and finally enjoy each other's presence. The moment is nothing solid; it flows like water, unsure and without balance. But it flows all the more, running over into every harsh moment alone, and flooding them into oblivion.

There is no promise of something future, no guarantee of something grand and romantic, no sign that leads to a full recovery. But for now, you're just happy to be with him again.

Your Clark.

Your love.

Your husband.

In sickness, in health.

In hurt, in heartbreak.

"I missed this," one of you whispers, the other nodding.

"Me too."

THANK YOU FOR READING!!!! This is my baby. I hope you enjoyed.

Please consider reblogging 💌

[lyssmasterlist]

ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ

𝐶𝑙𝑎𝑟𝑘 𝐾𝑒𝑛𝑡/𝑆𝑢𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑚𝑎𝑛

ʟᴏɴɢ ᴅᴀʏ, ᴋᴇɴᴛ? ᴘᴛ.1 ᴘᴛ.2

Clark Kent and you used to be friends. You used to build each other up, used to edit each other’s articles, rooting for them to make the front page. Actually, you used to have a serious crush on the man. But that was a lifetime ago, now, you’d each woken up. You were the floors main reporters for The Daily Planet. Everything between you two that was friendly, had turned sour with tension. Your LexCorp scandals and his luck-of-the-draw interviews with Superman fought for the front page every-time. The teasing, the flirting, the arguments, it was making each of you simmer.

Enter a bad date into the mix. Ensuing jealous Clark. Leading to the big fight. It leaves you both sure of your hatred for each other. So what happens when you finally make contact with Superman?

Clark can’t bring himself to kill, unless it’s for you.

ɪɴ ꜱɪᴄᴋɴᴇꜱꜱ, ɪɴ ʜᴇᴀʟᴛʜ

It’s been almost exactly a year since the split. Clark left with a resounding slam of your door. You got the papers a week later, tears streaking down your cheeks, but if it was what he wanted, you’d sign. So you did, you gave him his share and made do with yours. The argument regarding your safety due to Clark being Superman had strained your relationship to the breaking point. And like so many other unlucky couples, you just couldn’t work it out.

When you get a random call around 2:30am the day after Thanksgiving from Ma, your heart drops. The connection is weak; all you can make out is, “Clark… Hurt… Please come as soon… He asked… you.”

It’s enough for you to throw clothes into a duffel and book the next flight. You still loved him, even after everything. And he needed you.

You laughed at the irony of your vows. You would still keep them. You hoped Clark wouldn’t send you away when he came to.

ꜰɪɴɪꜱʜ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴀʀᴛɪᴄʟᴇ, ᴄʟᴀʀᴋ

Clark promised.

He had to get this article done by tomorrow morning, or Perry would have his head. And you, as always, were not helping.

Bottoms off and hips deep on his cock, wearing his favorite red set that made your breasts look perfect. You were quite the sight. Clark's hands shook as he clacked away at his cheap keyboard.

ᴛʜɪɴɢꜱ ɪ ᴡɪꜱʜ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴀɪᴅ - ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ

𝐁𝐚𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐧 "𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐈 𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐝” 𝐁𝐲 𝐒𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐚 𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫 - The plot and storyline are my own, but every chapter is both named by lyrics and is loosely in line with lyrics from the song! Keep that in mind 🪽

The summers of your childhood were full of iced tea, trouble, and your best friend: Clark Kent. Nights of rocks on your window pane, sprinting through fields of corn and wheat, and waking up extra early to finish your chores every Saturday in the promise of another adventure, swirl around in your memory fondly. You were young and madly in love with your best friend. He was your prom date, your first kiss, the only person you trusted with the bruises from your dad.

But he was also the captain of the football team, a straight-A student, and well... an alien. That last one was a secret, of course.

As your younger days came and went, with them, Clark left. Leaving you behind to hold up the fort in Smallville while he headed to the big city to fulfill his purpose, protecting the innocent. Why had it bothered you so much? You were never officially more than friends.

When Clark returns one summer to visit home, you aren’t ready to be faced with your past. It seems he has everything he ever wanted, but is that true? Has he found a life that satisfies him without you in it?

You used to lie in his lap while he twirled your hair and talked about a life outside of Smallville, used to clean his cuts as he learned the ins and outs of his powers. That Clark was reverently yours. This Clark seemed miles away.

The words you both dare not speak hang in the balance. But who will be brave?

𝑅𝑜𝑏𝑒𝑟𝑡 𝑅𝑒𝑦𝑛𝑜𝑙𝑑𝑠

ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ᴄᴏɴꜰᴇꜱꜱɪᴏɴ - ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ

bob can’t stand it. you’re just too fucking pretty. you distract him, you make every horrible, ugly thought dissipate. he craves it. he knows you, and you know him. it feels right, and his feelings are so strong he doesn’t know what to do anymore. he has no idea that you feel the same. that you ache for his comfort, for his feelings to reflect your own.

but a week of strained normalcy, a build up of emotional tension, and a failed mission lead to more than innocent, friendly thoughts. bob’s limits are reached on waiting for the right damn moment.

he has to tell you. you want to tell him. let’s watch each of you try

ʟɪꜱᴛᴇɴ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴇ

Bob wishes you would just fucking listen sometimes. Yes, you were powerful. You could obviously do some serious damage.

But you weren’t careful.

You were reckless.

ʙʟᴜʀʙꜱ

Playing with Bob's hair

Overprotective Bob

𝐵𝑢𝑐𝑘𝑦 𝐵𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑒𝑠

ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴏꜱꜱ - ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ

Moving to New York City from your small town of Paris, Tennessee was not an easy task. But as a young detective assistant directly graduated from your local police academy, you didn’t expect anything to be handed to you. You had to take.

When you get hired to assist a mysterious, tall, and ruggedly handsome detective named James Barnes, you expect to be taught the basics of the field. What you didn’t expect was to be thrown into active combat, pushed to your limits, and given morally gray choices within the first 24 hours on the job.

You definitely didn’t expect to grow feelings for him.

This job wasn’t predictable. It was adapt, or die. It doesn’t help that you have a rising suspicion that your boss isn’t as clean of a man as he came across on paperwork.

Will you survive? It’s been up to him from the start.