sikayeto

[sikayeto]

dad mode: activated

david corenswet!Clark Kent x pregnant!reader

word count: 3k

summary: Imagine your husband turning into a full-on "dadzilla" before the baby even shows up. Clark's reading podcasts, keeping spreadsheets of kicks, and buying every baby item known to mankind (because apparently. you can't start too early). It's chaotic, it's adorable, and yes... someone's counting the kicks like they're counting lottery numbers. Expect coffee, chaos, and Clark Kent's love levels hitting over 9000.

warnings: Pregnant and early pregnancy content (aka lots of cuteness and raging hormones). Obnoxiously adorable new dad. May induce involuntary giggles, sighs, and "aww"s. Not suitable for those who hate extreme love and excessive diaper planning.

You wake up with the feeling that someone is watching you. And it’s not that fleeting glance you sometimes notice when Clark finds you especially pretty in the morning —which, according to him, is always— but one of those intense stares you can almost feel on your skin. It takes you a few seconds to open your eyes, still curled up in the sheets, and when you do, there he is.

Clark Kent, your husband, sitting on the edge of the bed with a slightly furrowed brow, watching you as if you were the most delicate and complex mystery in the universe. His hair is a bit messy, probably because he ran his hand through it about fifty times in the last few minutes, and he’s wearing that gray t-shirt you love so much because it shows his chest and arms… although right now he looks more concerned than showy.

“Good morning…” —his voice is low, as if he’s afraid of waking you completely.

“Good morning,” you answer, still sleepy, rubbing your eyes. “Are you okay?”

He blinks, as if he didn’t expect you to ask that.

“I… yeah, of course. It’s just that… you’ve been asleep for thirteen hours.”

You stay silent for a moment, trying to figure out what’s wrong.

“Clark… that’s… normal. I’m pregnant, remember?”

“Yes, but…” —he leans slightly toward you, resting his hands on the mattress— “I read last night in chapter six of Practical Guide for First-Time Dads that, although extra sleep is common, it can also be a sign of…” —he lowers his voice as if it were a secret— “iron deficiency.”

You sigh with a mix of tenderness and resignation.

“Clark, honey… we had spinach for dinner last night.”

He straightens up but doesn’t look completely convinced.

“Was it enough spinach?”

You smile because, although his level of worry can sometimes be overwhelming, you can’t deny how adorable he is.

“I promise it was enough. Besides, the doctor said everything was fine at the last checkup.”

Clark nods, though his eyes still have that glint of “I’ll watch you anyway.” And you know he will.

When you try to sit up, he reacts as if you just announced you were climbing Everest.

“Wait, wait,” he says, taking your hand and helping you sit up with exaggerated care. “Slowly.”

“Clark… I’m not made of glass.”

“I know, but…” —he gestures with his hands, searching for words— “you’re carrying our baby here”—his palm rests gently on your belly, which is barely noticeable since you’re only a month pregnant, and his expression changes completely: from worried to absolutely melted—“And I can’t help wanting to protect both of you… all the time.”

You feel warmth rising to your cheeks. Since you found out about the pregnancy, Clark has developed the ability to make you feel like you’re the center of his universe with just a single look.

“By the way…” —he says suddenly, breaking the moment as he stands up— “don’t go down to the kitchen yet.”

“Why?” —you ask suspiciously.

“Because…” —he shrugs— “maybe I bought… a few things.”

You follow him with your eyes as he leaves the room and, driven by curiosity, you put on a robe and slowly go downstairs. What you see leaves you speechless.

The kitchen looks like a rural version of a baby store. On the table, there are at least four bags full of tiny clothes, stuffed animals, blankets, and a couple of toys. And that’s just what’s visible: on the counter, boxes of pacifiers, bibs, and what looks like a sleep monitor with more functions than your phone are stacked up.

“Clark…” —you murmur, both amused and astonished— “what is all this?”

He appears from the pantry with another bag.

“I was going to downtown yesterday for a meeting with Perry… and I passed by this store that had a 30% discount on everything.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“Everything?”

“Everything,” he confirms, holding up a small yellow onesie with little duck prints. “Look at this. It’s unisex, so it doesn’t matter if it’s a boy or a girl.”

“Clark, there’s still more than half the pregnancy left…”

“Exactly,” he says very seriously. “And that’s why we’re getting a head start. Besides, you can never be too prepared.”

You look at him and can’t help laughing.

“You’re taking this very seriously.”

“Of course,” he replies without a second’s doubt. “I’m not going to improvise with something this important. I already listened to the first four episodes of First-Time Dads: How to Survive, and according to the host, the key is planning.”

You bring your hand to your mouth to stifle another laugh.

“Are you seriously following a podcast?”

“Yes,” he says proudly. “It has sections like ‘Common Mistakes of New Dads’ and ‘How to Interpret a Baby’s Cry.’ Vital information.”

You take the yellow onesie from his hands and look at it with tenderness.

“You’re an exaggeration… but a very adorable one.”

He smiles and comes closer, wrapping his arms around you from behind and resting his chin on your shoulder.

“I promise I won’t let you lack anything… neither you nor the baby.”

You turn slightly to look at him, and there’s that gaze that makes your whole world feel safer.

“I know, Clark.”

You spend the rest of the morning watching him sort the clothes by size and type, noting in a little notebook what “is missing” (even though clearly nothing is missing). Every time he feels a kick from the baby, his face lights up as if it were Christmas, and yes, he’s counting them.

“That was number twelve,” he announces with a goofy smile. “Today they’re very active.”

“Or active,” you correct.

“Or active,” he repeats, kissing your temple.

The morning goes by in a flurry of laughter, kisses, and small debates about whether they really need three thermal blankets (“Just in case,” he says). And although you know the road ahead will be long and full of new challenges, at this moment you’re certain you couldn’t have a better partner to walk it with.

The aroma of freshly brewed coffee fills the kitchen, and you’re still half curled up at the table with a steaming mug in your hands, trying to process what just happened: Clark has decided that this weekend will officially be the start of his “first-time dad training.”

“Honey, today we’re going to start with the list of things I need to learn,” he announces, taking out a notebook that looks more like a military field manual than a simple family planner. “I’ve divided everything into categories: sleep, feeding, diapers, crying, first steps, toy names…” —he pauses dramatically— “and distraction techniques.”

“Clark…” —you laugh, half in disbelief— “is it really necessary to have distraction techniques for a baby?”

“Absolutely,” he replies very seriously. “It’s part of the podcast. There’s a section called ‘How to Calm the Baby Before the Dad Panics.’ We should start there.”

You can’t help but smile as you watch him pull out his phone to play the corresponding episode. He sits across from you, eyes wide, pen ready to take notes as if he were at a press conference.

“Listen to this,” he says, playing the host’s voice through the phone. “It’s normal for first-time dads to feel insecure, but staying calm is key. Remember, your baby can sense your anxiety, so take a deep breath and trust your instinct.”

Clark lowers his voice and looks at you with huge eyes.

“See? That means if I get nervous, the baby will get nervous too. I have to stay calm!”

“You’re doing great so far,” you murmur, caressing your belly, which reacts with a small kick as if the baby approves of his efforts.

“That was number fifteen today!” he announces, frantically jotting it down in his notebook. “I could turn this into an official report for the hospital if I wanted.”

You laugh and look at him with a mix of tenderness and amusement. Clark Kent, your husband, journalist of Metropolis, super strong, handsome, brave, literally Superman (and now obsessed first-time dad), sitting there taking notes on the baby’s movements and repeating podcast phrases as if they were sacred commandments.

“Honey, I need to make a call,” he says suddenly, getting up and grabbing his phone.

“Again?” —you ask, amused— “You called half an hour ago.”

“Yes, but this time it’s important,” he replies, frowning as if it were critical—“I need to know if it’s normal that you dreamed of eating ice cream with pickles and the baby reacted by kicking.”

Before you can say anything, he’s already dialing. You hear him greet with a “Hi, Ma… yes, again…” and murmurs that sound like a mix of worry and excitement.

Meanwhile, you sit down and watch how his hand trembles slightly as he holds the phone. He’s incredibly adorable. Every time he hangs up, he sighs, as if he just completed an impossible mission.

“Mom says yes, it’s normal,” he announces finally, lowering the phone. “Seems like the baby has a good sense of humor.”

“Clark…” —you laugh— “the baby isn’t even born yet and you’re already calling them funny.”

“It’s true! Besides, if we keep this up, the baby will grow up with all the stats recorded. Number of kicks per day, sleep patterns, reactions to food…” —his gaze softens— “and, above all, with lots of love.”

That afternoon you decide to go to the baby store at a mall. Even though you’ve already bought more than could fit in a room, Clark insists that “checking inventory and seeing new things” is part of the training. You walk beside him as he moves from section to section, pointing at everything with enthusiasm and muttering the techniques he heard on the podcast.

“Look at these diapers,” he says, holding a pack. “They say they’re ultra-absorbent. Essential for the first months. We should have at least three packs.”

“Three packs of thirty,” you correct, trying to organize his chaos. “And yes, they are necessary.”

“Exactly!” he says, marking something in his notebook. “Category: diapers. Top priority.”

Then he moves on to bottles.

“These are better than the ones from the last visit,” he declares with authority. “According to the podcast article, the shape of the nipple helps reduce colic.”

“Clark, you’re taking notes on everything,” you observe, amused.

“No, not just notes. I’m building the ultimate first-time dad manual,” he says seriously. “This is a lifelong commitment.”

After a couple of hours among tiny clothes, educational toys, and items you didn’t even know existed, you finally leave the store carrying bags like it’s early Christmas (though Clark carries everything because he insisted you shouldn’t lift anything heavy). Walking to the car, Clark stops and places a hand on your belly.

“I promise I’ll do everything I can to be the best dad,” he whispers, and you can feel his heartbeat strong against your side. “I won’t miss a single moment, a kick, a dream, or a scare.”

Your eyes well up a bit, and you hug him tightly, knowing he feels exactly the same.

That night, at home, you decide to try a technique Clark heard on the podcast: a “connection ritual with the baby.” He sits beside you on the couch, gently places his hands on your belly, and starts talking to it.

“Hi, little one…” he says, with a voice mixing nervousness and tenderness. “I’m your dad… yes, that guy who’s a little crazy, but loves you more than anything. I bought a million things for you, I counted your kicks, and I promise I’ll always be here.”

The baby gives a small kick just as he says “I love you,” and Clark laughs like a child.

“See! I think they answered me.” —He looks into your eyes— “This is just the beginning of our life together.”

They spend the night talking, planning, dreaming, and laughing, while Clark reminds you every few minutes that you’re not just the mother of his baby, but the woman he loves more than anything. And as you listen to his ideas, worries, and first-time dad delusions, you know that with him by your side, everything will be perfectly imperfect… and wonderful.

The morning begins calmly, with sunlight streaming through the curtains and casting golden rays on your now very noticeable belly. You stretch in bed while Clark, faithful to his routine, is already in the kitchen making coffee and reviewing his notes on “baby sleep patterns” in his notebook.

“Good morning, beautiful,” he says, placing the cup in front of you with exaggerated care, as if it were the most delicate possession in the world. “Did you sleep well?”

You nod, but before you can respond, Clark is already beside you, gently placing his hands on your belly.

“Today I feel optimistic,” he announces. “But I want to check something first.”

“Check what?” —you ask, curious.

“The number of kicks this morning.” —He leans in, resting an ear near your belly, as if he could hear the baby speak, though all he hears is the faint heartbeat thanks to his super-hearing (thanks, Krypton).

“Clark…” —you laugh— “it’s barely seven in the morning.”

“Yes, but routine is important. First-time dad: how to survive recommends it.”

You can’t help laughing as he takes notes in his notebook and mutters to himself about “fetal activity” and “expected movement patterns.” Every time the baby gives a small kick, his face lights up, and you can see how his love for both of you grows with every tiny movement.

After breakfast, you decide to spend the morning at home, organizing the baby’s room and reviewing recent purchases. Clark has a level of focus bordering on obsessive, measuring, sorting, and noting everything while you watch with a mix of awe and tenderness.

“Look at this,” he says, lifting a small musical toy. “This could be perfect for hand-eye coordination. According to the podcast, we should introduce it gradually around three months.”

“Clark… we still don’t even know the due date,” you respond, though deep down you love his enthusiasm.

“I know, but it’s better to be prepared for any scenario.” —He looks at you with a smile full of pride and love— “I want to make sure you have everything you need to rest and feel calm.”

Just as you start helping him place toys on the shelf, you feel a slight dizziness. You stagger a bit, and Clark reacts instantly, almost as if he triggered an internal alert mode.

“Careful!” —he exclaims, taking your arm gently but firmly— “Do you feel okay?”

“Yes… just a little dizzy,” you murmur, trying to reassure him as you lean against his chest.

“We’re not going to assume anything,” he says, eyes full of concern. “We’ll take this step by step.” —He runs to get your water bottle and helps you sit on the couch, placing pillows behind you for extra comfort.

You feel safe, even as your heart races a little from his immediate reaction. Clark is not just your husband, but your protector, and seeing him so concerned makes you love him even more.

“I’m going to call Mom,” he announces, grabbing the phone. “She always knows what to do.”

The conversation with Martha Kent is quick but effective. Clark takes notes on every recommendation, repeating it like a diligent student while assuring you that everything is under control.

“According to Mom, this is normal,” he finally says, hanging up. “It’s just a bit of morning fatigue and hormonal changes. But I’ll be with you all day, making sure you’re okay and so is the baby.”

You spend the rest of the morning resting on the couch while Clark makes sure everything around you is perfect. He cooks something light for lunch, checks the room temperature, and arranges your pillows so you feel comfortable, while continuing to murmur about relaxation techniques and routines to stimulate the baby.

“I’ve read that talking to them and gently touching the belly helps with development,” he says, placing his hands on your belly. “Good night, little one. I’m watching you,” —he jokes— “I’m here all day!”

In the afternoon, they decide to do something Clark has wanted since finding out about the pregnancy: take photos of your belly to document everything. He takes his camera and asks you to pose, making funny comments about “the future star of the family album” while capturing every angle with devotion.

“I think we should keep doing this every week,” he says, showing the photo on the camera. “This way we’ll have a perfect record of the baby’s growth.”

“Clark… you’re obsessed,” you respond, though your smile betrays you.

“It’s not obsession,” he corrects, winking. “It’s pure love.”

Night falls, and you cuddle together in bed, Clark placing his arm around you while resting his head on your shoulder.

“Promise me something,” you murmur. “That no matter what happens, we’re going to enjoy every moment.”

“I promise,” he replies, kissing your forehead. “And I also promise to talk to the baby every night, tell stories, sing if necessary, and make sure they know how much we love them from day one.”

“Clark…” —you whisper, feeling his breathing sync with yours— “I think they already love us as much as we love them.”

“Yes,” he says, eyes shining. “And I can’t wait to meet them. To see them grow, to protect them, to teach them everything I know and learn along with them.”

You snuggle against his chest, feeling that this little being, not yet born, has already changed your lives forever. And as Clark speaks softly, sharing his dreams and promises with the baby, you know you’re building a world together full of love, patience, and laughter.

The whisper of his voice and the baby’s small kicks create a melody that lulls you and reminds you that, although there will be challenges, with Clark by your side, every step of this new adventure will be perfect.

And on that quiet night, surrounded by toys, tiny clothes, and the notebook full of notes from the most enamored first-time dad in the universe, you realize something: no matter what the future holds, you’ll face it together, with love, humor, and the certainty that you already have the most important thing: a heart ready to care for you always.

[sikayeto]

sue me

clark kent x wayne! reader

summary: after a nasty breakup, you find your name plastered on the front page of the daily planet, courtesy of no other than your ex, clark kent. warnings/tags: female reader, angst, slight smut (mdni), make-up sex except clark gets blue balled, kitchen scene inspired (aka dry-humping), sub! clark if you squint, battinson sister, maybe a little ooc in terms of the dc universe but suspend belief for me, inaccurate descriptions of legal processes, reader is lowkey tortured (she gets it from her brother), em dashes but i just love using them sorry, very loosely based on sue me by audrey hobert, happy-ending!!! wc: 3.2k words

Billionaire Heiress Flees Gotham Amidst Flood

The headline flashes in your face as your friend shoves the latest edition of the Daily Planet at you.

Ever since you were a kid, your actions have been carefully scrutinized by the public. Your birth was commemorated with a special edition of the Gotham Gazette. When you were 17, you got into your first wreck, and despite your pleas to Bruce for help, you became tabloid fodder for The Inquisitor. It's safe to say you've developed tough skin. Especially now with your brother out of the public eye, you're low-hanging fruit for the press.

But this time it was different. As your eyes scanned the byline, wondering which of your usual critics you could owe thanks to, your breath suddenly hitches in your throat.

Clark Kent.

It's been nearly two months since you ended things with Clark. You had met at Wayne Enterprises' annual New Year's Eve charity gala—one of the rare events where your brother would make a public appearance. This also meant that the Gotham Museum would not only be swarmed with pretentious benefactors but also scrappy reporters itching for a quote. You hated both, but you had to keep up appearances.

It was nearly midnight, and the party was still in full swing. You spent the last couple of hours dodging reporters with half-truths and shooting fake smiles at billionaire donors. You needed a moment alone, away from the social climbers, the opportunistic tabloid writers, and the unremarkable men trying to woo you with the promise of a New Year's kiss. Bleh.

Quietly, you slipped away to the rooftop. Looking over your shoulder constantly to make sure no one was following you. The cold air hit you like a knife. It's sharp, but you don't mind—you liked remembering that you're human. You made your way through the fake turf and obnoxiously bright fairy lights toward the ledge of the roof. You paused to take in the Gotham skyline.

You thought about how much this skyline had changed since you were a kid. You thought about the trips to your parents' loft in the city center whenever they had business that they knew would take a while. The ride over in the car, as your parents had to stop you and Bruce from killing each other. Your favorite was when your parents finally had a moment to themselves. They would take you and Bruce out on the balcony and point out the different buildings that littered the sky. Many of the ones that you had known when you were younger no longer stare back at you today. You weren't sure when you started crying, but you knew when you stopped.

"I hope you're not thinking of jumping from there."

Your head shot back to look at who was speaking, and in the process, your heel caught on the train of your gown. Suddenly, you're falling face-first toward the ground. But you never hit the floor.

You found yourself being hoisted up by a big pair of arms. For a second, you thought it was your brother. You looked up and were instead greeted by piercing blue eyes staring at you through black-rimmed glasses. He was tall, very tall, but not intimidatingly so. He flashed you a nervous smile, and you watched as the dimples formed in his cheeks. He was cute. A cold breeze passed between you two, making you realize how close you actually were to him.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you," he said, letting out a soft chuckle.

"It's alright. Luckily, I had my knight in shining armor to save me," you said, lightly punching his bicep. You cringed at yourself; you were still a little bit drunk. You changed the subject, "So you're a reporter, right?"

He looked at you, dumbstruck. "How'd you know?"

"I mean, the place is swarming with either donors or reporters, and your off-the-rack suit and crooked frames tell me that you're not one of the former. So, who are you with? The Inquisitor?" Your last question had more bite to it than you intended.

"Ouch. No, I'm with The Daily Planet." He reached out his hand and flashed you a crooked half smile. "Clark Kent."

You stared at him for a second and watched how the moonlight lit up his face as a curl hung perfectly over his forehead, swaying ever-so slightly in the breeze. You swore that even in the cold, you could feel the warmth radiating from him, like he was the sun.

"I know you." You took his hand and shook it, trying to ignore the warmth rising in your chest the longer your bodies made contact. "You're always on the front page with a new Superman article. I hope you know that scoring exclusives with your super buddy doesn't mean that you'll be able to get one with me."

"Oh, yeah. I sort of expected that, but I'm not here to report on you."

You shot him a quizzical look.

"I'm working on a piece on LuthorCorp. Lex Luthor is funding one of your major donors here tonight, and I'm just following the money." His gaze softened as he leaned in a little closer, "Besides, I told my editor that the Wayne siblings liked to fly under the radar. Y'know, I learned a bit from my pal Superman about respecting privacy."

Suddenly, the conversation was interrupted by a chorus of cheers. It was midnight.

You looked up innocently at Clark. "Hey, I've got a question for you, Mr. Reporter."

"Mhm," he hummed.

"D'ya got a girlfriend?"

He nearly choked on his spit as he tried to utter a simple, "No."

Smiling, you pulled him in closer by his collar and whispered into his mouth, "So, no one would mind if I did this?"

You closed the distance with your lips and waited for him to reciprocate. You felt his body ease into yours, lips moving in tandem. Your fingers snaked into his hair as his right hand cupped your cheek while his left hand made its way down to the small of your back.

You pulled away first. His once gelled hair was now a tousled mess of curls upon his head. The ghost of your red lipstick faintly lingered upon his lips. You smiled at the sight. "Happy New Year's, Clark."

After that night, you two were practically inseparable. Your apartment in Metropolis, which was once furnished with just the bare necessities, became filled with mementos of Clark. The street art you commented on in passing on a walk one day with Clark? He surprised you with it that weekend at dinner. The time you refused to let Clark visit because you didn't want to give him the flu? The weighted teddy bear and heated blanket he left in a care basket outside your door still live on your bed. When the newest season of Great British Bake-off dropped, and you were obsessed with honing your baking skills? Clark saved up to surprise you with an all-new stand mixer in your favorite color for Christmas.

But it wasn't the gifts that won you over. It was the thought and love that Clark put into them. You were used to receiving gifts from men in your past, but they tried to impress you with things they assumed you wanted. Jewelry, art, cars, whatever they thought fit the Wayne image, but it wasn't you. Clark, however, saw past your last name, and you loved him for it.

That's why that night hurt so much. You were sprawled out on the couch in a Smallville High School sweatshirt, many sizes too big for you. Anxiously, your eyes darted back and forth from the door to your phone. It had been three hours since Clark said he would come over, and he was still nowhere to be seen. No text, no call, nothing. He had begun to make it a habit of no-showing and cancelling at the last minute, but you always took him back. He would show up at your door the next morning with flowers and coffee, flashing his big puppy dog eyes at you. Each time, you folded.

But you could only take so much. In the year that you dated, you felt yourself grow closer to him than anyone else in your life, while also growing farther and farther apart. Your abandonment issues could only take so much, and Clark knew that. Yet, despite all your pleas for honesty, he never budged. You knew something had to give.

The next morning, when he inevitably showed up with flowers and your coffee made just right, you let him in without a word. Not looking him in the eye as you broke his heart.

"Clark, I can't do this anymore. You say you love me, but you don't show it. At least, not anymore." You can't look at his face, but from the way his body tenses, you can imagine his expression. Your voice started to quiver, "I love you. So much. But I need stability. I need someone who I know won't leave me like my parents did, like so many people have."

"Darling, c'mon," he pleaded.

"Clark, I'm serious," you said, avoiding his gaze. You could almost hear the tears as they welled in his eyes.

"I owe you an explanation. Please just let me give you that much," he desperately cut through your words.

"Clark, if I let you do that, then I'm just gonna end up taking you back, and I can't let that happen. Not this time. I can't hurt myself anymore. I'm sorry."

Clark didn't fight back, although a little part of you wished he did. He accepted defeat and choked out, "I'm so sorry, love," as he made his way out the door.

And so there you were, alone, wearing Clark's sweatshirt, in your apartment full of memories of what once was.

Now you were in that same apartment, mementos of Clark shoved in a box in your closet, as you clenched the latest edition of The Daily Planet in your hands. Memories and feelings that you were trying to bury for the past two months threaten to resurface.

"This article is such a cry for attention, I mean, what happened to journalism?! You should sue him," your friend says bluntly.

You blink at her.

"I mean for slander, or libel, or whatever the print version is. Maybe throw in a little defamation for good measure."

"I couldn't do that to Clark," you push back.

"Oh, god," your friend groans, "have you FORGOTTEN what that man put you through the last couple of months of your relationship. Shall I pull out the notes app list I made, recording every time that he stood you up?"

"No, no," you said, swatting her phone away. "I don't know, it feels way too harsh, and we're currently going no contact anyway."

"In case you don't remember, you're the one enforcing no contact. Loverboy has been calling, emailing, texting, carrier-pigeoning you nonstop since the breakup." Your friend lets out an exasperated sigh. "Just get one of your arsenal of lawyers to serve him!"

You don't say anything. You just shoot her a look and move on, but the conversation sticks with you. You sit in your bed that night, looking around your room, and the memory of Clark still lingers. The Mighty Crabjoys poster hung above your record player? It came with the record that Clark got you as a consolation gift for missing the concert he had given you tickets to. The Lego flowers sat neatly upon your nightstand? You and Clark built them together during a date night at your place after he flaked on going to the movies the night before. The half-empty perfume bottle collecting dust on your vanity? Clark had gotten it for you after an awful fight about his unreliability. He said it was so you would always have a reminder that he was with you, even when he wasn't. Even in his worst moments, he still managed to be the most thoughtful man alive. It infuriated you.

So, you took your friend's advice. You spent the week in Gotham consulting with your lawyers and ignoring the wary looks Bruce gave you. After a week of endless meetings and "well, maybe I shouldn't"s, the lawsuit was ready to be filed, and you had the honor of serving it.

That's how you end up outside the door of Clark Kent's apartment on a Friday evening. You can hear the faint sound of pots rattling as he cooks along to a recipe video on full volume. You remember all of the times you would yell at him to turn down the volume because "surely you can hear it just fine with the volume just halfway up." But you weren't there to scold him anymore.

You hold your breath and close your eyes as you hold out your hand to knock, when all of a sudden the door swings open. You were face-to-face with Clark.

"Hi," you let out breathlessly, like all the air was suddenly squeezed out of your lungs. You always let your guard down around him, even when you hate him.

"Hi," he says back, cautiously. "What are you doing here?"

You're brought back to reality. Clearing your throat, you tell him, "I'm suing you. You've been served," as you hand him the stack of papers.

He gives you a small smile. "Do you want to come in?"

"Clark, I'm suing you. Can you give me any hint of a reaction? Please—"

Clark drags you inside anyway.

"Clark, are YOU crazy? I'm leaving right now, and you should be glad I don't add a kidnapping charge to your case. God, you're insufferable." You're on your way out when you're stopped in your tracks.

"I'm Superman." He says bluntly, but there's a sincerity in his voice that stops you from laughing in his face. The same inflection that Bruce had when he finally came clean to you about Batman.

The air in the room is heavy as you turn to look at him. His face lit up in the moonlight the same way as it was that first night you had met him, except this time his glasses were off, and suddenly, you understood.

Clark makes his way toward you as you drop your hand from the door handle. He stops two feet away, his eyes begging for you to close the distance. So, you do.

He wraps his arms around you tightly, like he can't bear the thought of you getting away again. Leaning down in your ear, he whispers, "I'm so sorry I didn't tell you sooner. I was so caught up in the idea that I was protecting you that I didn't realize I was hurting you until it was too late. I haven't been able to forgive myself since."

His breath is hot against your skin. Your hand is on his chest, and you can feel his heartbeat. He's a nervous mess. Superman is a nervous mess. All because of you.

You move his chin so you're looking each other in the eye. "Is that why you wrote that article, Clark?"

"Yes." A blush forms on his cheeks. "I know you enough to know that you probably didn't realize that the salacious headline didn't match the way I defended your character in the actual article. I know you would want to find a way to hurt me the way I hurt you. I knew you wouldn't have spoken to me any other way."

You're stunned. All you can do is make a slight "oh" sound with your mouth.

Clark continues, "I'm sorry, love. I know it doesn't change the past, but—"

It was your turn to cut him off as you shut him up with a kiss. It's angry, aggressive, and passionate. It's everything you've been feeling for the past two months being released in one moment.

It doesn't take long for you and Clark to return to a familiar rhythm. His lips rest on yours, and he bites your bottom lip in a way that makes your knees weak. His tongue makes its way into your mouth as he tastes you for the first time in months, letting out a soft moan against your lips.

Your hands are in his hair, it's all so messy and so primal. The harder that he bites, the harder that you pull his hair. Strands of black curls threaten to escape from your fist. Your free hand rests on his chest, as you feel the way his breathing goes up and down, up and down. He puts his hand on yours and brings it down as he traces your curves.

When he reaches your ass, Clark lifts you up without breaking the kiss and walks you over to his kitchen counter before setting you down. You pull away for a second and just take him in. His curls are a dark mess on his head as they stick out every which way. His eyes are glazed over with a mixture of love and lust. His face is flushed with sweat, though you can't tell if it's his or yours. He looks beautiful like this.

Your lips crash onto his, and he bucks into you. His grey sweatpants do little to hide how hard he's getting, and you thank him for it.

"Clark—fuck," you moan breathlessly.

You grind yourself onto him, desperate for something you've been starved of for so long. You feel his cock twitch through his sweats, and memories of him pounding into you with his huge cock flood back. You remember thinking he was going to split you in half as he had you an overstimulated, dirty mess, and now you knew why.

His back arches as he tries to close the distance even more, letting out soft grunts in your ear; they're only for you to hear. Your hand snakes its way up underneath his shirt, feeling your way up his abs. He sighs happily at the sensation, immediately taking off his shirt.

Slowly, you begin to kiss your way down his neck, not caring how rough you are. You know he can take it. "My perfect boy. My gorgeous, gorgeous boy. My Superman," you moan out in between kisses.

Clark's a mess next to you. Your hand moves from his chest down to his waistband. He shivers and moans your name as you pull on his sweatpants.

"Missed me so much, you're a mess, and I've barely even touched you." Your fingers trace along the waistband of his boxers as you feel his abs flexing with every breath.

"Gonna make me cum right here if you keep teasing me like that," Clark moans into your mouth.

"Is that a promise?" you ask innocently as your hand slides down into his boxers.

"Yes, baby, oh—"

BEEEEEEEEEP

Your heads shoot up toward the smoke alarm going off, then down to the smoking, charred concoction now sitting on Clark's pan. You can't help but laugh.

"Aren't you supposed to have like heightened senses or something?"

"Well, I was a little distracted," he said, gesturing to you while running to fan the smoke away from the alarm.

And that's how you found yourself in Clark Kent's apartment on a Saturday morning, wearing his high school sweatshirt, calling your lawyers to throw out the lawsuit while Clark made you breakfast.

a/n ahhh i hope you guys enjoyed this!! it's the first fic i've written in a while tbh i usually use this account for lurking LOL, so any feedback would be awesome!! let me know if you guys like wayne! reader <3

[sikayeto]

Had ex!husband trope thoughts yesterday and felt like I had to share a small blurb.

WARNINGS: can be read with either Robby or Abbot as the ex-husband, hehe. Non-explicit descriptions of p in v sex, non explicit sex, open ending. It's been a while since I've written smut, so I am just warming up with this.

So, you have been divorced from your man for a few months now. You decided not to tell your families right away so you could figure everything out without the input of others. It was your marriage, not theirs. You also are grieving certain aspects of that lost love and just want to sit in silence for a bit. Don't want condolences. Don't want insults. You're protecting your heart.

Which makes things awkward when there's a celebration and your family expects both of you to come. You can't blame them. You dug your own hole by faking a steady relationship. It's fine, you know how to make it seem like there's no division. "Operation still married and content" is initiated.

It's only natural married couples stay in the same room. Your childhood bedroom reeks with thick tension as you drop your belongings at the foot of your bed. Your ex husband offers to take the floor, but you refuse, knowing it would just fuck up his back. You didn’t want to see him wincing in pain the next morning. And this was your room first, so by default you should stay on the bed as well.

His warmth seeps into your flesh, despite the physical distance, hair rising on the back of your neck as you turn your back to him. You close your eyes, but sleep does not greet you like you wished. Not with the presence of the man you still long for to some degree. If you were braver, you would simply tuck yourself into his mass and fall asleep instantly. You knew you would. Even when you were fighting before divorce, you would still bind yourself to his flesh like he was some glowing beacon.

It seems he can't sleep either. If the quiet sighs he lets out indicate anything.

Restlessness plagues both of you, and you dread the exhaustion that you'll have to deal with come tomorrow.

There’s one resolute, heavy sigh before your ex shifts and molds into your back. You stiffen, and he squeezes your hip.

"Don't say anything."

So you don't.

Though sleep is once again evading you when hands start to explore the curves of your body. Goosebumps rise over your flesh as warm breath hits the back of your neck, and there's a subtle grinding against your backside. Instinctively, your arousal builds as his hands drip beneath the waistband of your pants.

You wonder if he even fully realizes what he's doing. Groping at a body that he technically doesn't have the right to anymore.

You're only human, though. A needy one. So you push your hips back, letting him apply more pressure. He's hard and leaking against the cleft of your ass, making desire pool into your core.

In the darkness, he helps you rid yourself of your pants before he frees himself as well. He groans when his bare cock settles between your thighs for a moment, while his calloused fingers dip into the slick arousal that builds between your legs.

Aching and desperate, he sinks into you in no time. When you let out a loud whine, his hand slaps over your mouth. Just in time for his hips to start pushing up into you. He can feel the rumbling moan that pants against his palm, and he has to suppress his own satisfaction.

He helps you reach your climax before he pulls out and finishes on your back and ass. Shaky hands roam over your stomach as you both come down-sweaty and blurring the lines between what your relationship is.

He disappears for a moment before returning to wipe down his spend and between your legs. The whole time you're lying there spent, eyes already ready to close. All that pent-up frustration is gone for the time being.

You say nothing again as his arms find their place around you, soft breaths hitting the back of your neck yet again.

[sikayeto]

Your Jack. (Your med school ex Part 2)

Jack Abbot x Doctor!F!Reader

Find Part 1 here!

13k || All my content is 18+ MDNI || CW: jealous!Jack; insecure!Jack; soft and fluffy; reader has smoked a cigarette twice when under extreme stress; reader asks for a cigarette (jokingly?); alcohol; a hint of soft Dom!Jack if you squint; reference to brat-tamer!Jack being a little mean in a way you like; quick reference to the roof and jumping; reference to wishing to strangle someone (not reader, I bet you can imagine who); fingering; spit as lube; short description of oral; short description of PIV sex; not edited or beta-ed; no y/n or related

Summary: The aftermath of what Jack said to you and the outing to the bar.

AN: Hi!! Thank you all so much for the love on Part 1! Hopefully Part 2 will be okay. I think it might go a bit of a different direction than one might think, and a different direction than we might normally expect from me (?). I don't know lol. Also I fear I may have let some of you guys down with the bar scenes, but writing group scenes is very tiring for me lol and it wasn’t where I wanted to spend my time for this story and I was over writing fucking Dale and coming up with shitty flirting and trying to make it fit, so I’m sorry if the bar stuff isn’t what you were hoping for. I hope it ends up okay and that you're able to enjoy and thank you for reading! ♥️

You stare at Jack in disbelief as he walks away from you.

"Here's hoping you don't let him, I guess."

You know why he said it. You know that he's jealous and very insecure right now. You know he didn't and doesn't mean it. You know he already regrets it. And you know he does trust you. But none of that makes Jack's words hurt any less right now.

You force yourself to look away from Jack and walk to the bathroom. You turn the sink on and let the cold water run over your wrists, closing your eyes and tilting your head back.

"Just me," Dana says as she walks in, checking all the stalls before leaning back against the sink next to you. "You okay, Kid?"

You take in a deep breath through your nose and let it out. "You have a cigarette?" you half joke with her as you turn the water off and dry your hands.

"Ha!" Dana laughs. "Yeah, but I won't give you one."

"Why?" You give her a weak pout.

"Jack wouldn't be pleased with me. And I don't think you really want one." She flicks her eyebrows up at you.

You roll your eyes at her. "Well great news! He's already mad at me, so we can just tell him I snuck it from you without asking. If he even notices that I smoked. That would require him getting close enough to me to smell me and I don't think he's particularly interested in that right now." Dana is right though. You don't really want one.

She gives you a look. "No. But I will step outside with you if you want." You nod and the two of you leave the bathroom and walk out into the ambulance bay until you're standing in what's left of the sun. "So. You okay?"

You huff a laugh. "Well my creepy med school ex is here and I've had to spend the majority of my day suffering with him, and my boyfriend hates me, so I'm just great. So, so great."

"Jack does not hate you," Dana nudges you with her shoulder. "That man isn't capable of hating you, he loves you far too much."

"Let me be dramatic," you teasingly glower at her for a second. "Mad at me then. Jack's mad at me," you shrug. "For having a past it feels like And not being able to control someone else." You sigh, shaking your head. "Fucking Dale. And I get it. I totally fucking get it. If the situation was reversed and it was me having to watch him be with one of his flirty exes all day… He's reacting much better than I would be. Like so much fucking better. So I really do get it, and I know how irrational it is and how it's about insecurity and not really your partner, but I just. I don't like upsetting him or making him hurt and I think that's what I'm doing right now and I don't know how to fix it."

"I know it feels and seems like it's you, but it really isn't. To the extent he even is upset or hurt, it's not on you Kid. Like you said, his jealousy is about his insecurities and feelings." She gives you a sympathetic smile. "I don't think he's even mad at you. He's in his head. And that's a hard place for him to be sometimes."

"I know," you whisper, heart aching at the thought. "And I hate that. I don't want him there alone when he doesn't want to be alone and when it's hard and when he never has to be there alone again. I wish he'd just have a real conversation with me about it." You shake your head and rub your temples. "He seems to think there's some sort of competition going on between him and Dale to have me, but there's not. There's no question. I've been counting down the minutes until I get to be free from Dale. I count down the minutes until I get to fully be with Jack again when we're on shift together, or the minutes until I can go home to him when we're not. Jack is it for me, Dana, you know? He's the one."

Dana gives you a knowing smile, clearly thinking back to when she knew her husband was the one. "I do, yeah."

You chew on the inside of your cheek to try and fight off the tears you feel coming. You can't cry at work over this. It's incredibly unprofessional.

"I don't know how to make him understand that he's the only one I want and love. That he's the only person I've ever truly loved and been loved by. The only person to ever make me feel truly loved. Jack gives me everything, he leaves me wanting for nothing. He's not perfect because nobody is, but I couldn't create a better partner for me. I'd never let him go. He's Jack." You pause, trying to hold it together. "He's my Jack." Your voice cracks on his name and a few tears spill over. "All I want in this moment is a kiss from him and a big hug and him to tell me it's okay and we're okay and that everything is normal and good. I just want him," you sniffle.

You shake your head at yourself and wipe away your tears. "And I can't have that because we're at work and because I'm throwing myself a pity party and letting myself wonder if he even wants that anymore at all even though I know this is all because he's scared of losing me right now," you laugh sadly with Dana. You look over at her. "Right?" Dana nods, wraps you in a hug and rubs your back. "I just want him. But it's fine, everything will be fine. I'm just ready for the day to be over and to never see Dale again."

"You want me to talk to him?" Dana asks as she pulls out of the hug.

You shake your head at her. "That's not your job-"

"I asked. And I have a feeling that when we walk back in he's going to be watching us and come over to me and ask what's up. So if you're okay with it, I'll talk to him. Maybe tell him some of what you said?" She tilts her head at you and raises her eyebrows.

"Okay," you nod, "yeah, if you don't mind. But if you do, please don't. We'll figure it out. We always do."

Dana nods and flicks her head in the direction of the doors. "You ready?"

"Yeah." You clear your throat as you walk with her. "Sorry for this. Very unprofessional of me."

"It's fine, Hon. It happens," Dana chuckles.

You wipe at your eyes one last time as you cross the threshold back inside. "Does it look like I've been crying?"

She shakes her head. "Nah. You didn't cry long enough or hard enough for it to show."

"Good," you nod. "Thanks Dana." You smile at her and squeeze her arm before walking away, conscious of Jack's eyes tracking you.

Jack regrets it the minute he says it.

"Here's hoping you don't let him, I guess."

He has no idea why he doesn't immediately turn around and apologize. Maybe he doesn't want to see the look on your face, the hurt he knows has to be there. Maybe he doesn't want to risk you saying fine, that you will give Dale a chance to win you back. Maybe he's worried you won't forgive him.

Because Jack knows he's taking out his emotions, his insecurity and jealousy, on you rather than just discussing the whole situation with you. Part of him is scared to bring it up and have that be how you realize that all of his insecurities are actually things you should leave him for, just like he thinks.

It just feels so stupid and almost pathetic for him to be this insecure when he knows he doesn't have a reason to be. And he knows he doesn't need a reason for his emotions, but that lack of a reason makes it feel so much worse to him. So does him knowing you don't even like Dale, that you're desperate for the day to be over so you can get away from Dale and not have to play quite as nice.

Deep down Jack knows this isn't really about Dale per se, because he knows how you feel about Dale. Dale is just a representative of every person who flirts with you, of everyone who could take you from him, everyone who you could see is so much better than him.

He knows this is about himself. About how he sees himself, both generally and in relation to you. About how scared he is of losing you, of being hurt. About how he doesn't think he's good enough for you.

At least he knows what he'll be talking about with his therapist at his next session.

Jack tracks down all of the med students and residents, has everyone present or update him one last time so he's ready to hand off to Shen. He hates how nervous he is when he starts walking around looking for you so that you can update him.

When he can't find you he goes to the hub figuring you'll turn up there looking to update him eventually. He's only been there thirty seconds or so when he looks up and sees you and Dana walking in from the ambulance bay together. His eyes are glued to you as you reach up to your face and wipe at your eyes. Jack's heart and stomach fall at the sight.

You were crying. He made you cry. He wants to go to the roof and do it, and that's not even that dramatic. He hates himself for making you cry, which he tries very hard to not let make him even more insecure.

He watches you until he can't anymore, his head turning back to Dana who flicks her chin at the empty behavioral 1, telling Jack to follow her. He does quickly, eager and terrified to hear what she has to say, to find out why you were crying.

"Listen," Dana starts as Jack closes the door. "I get the jealousy. I know how instinctive and consuming and uncontrollable it can feel. But you're being an ass Jack, and you can't take out your jealousy and whatever other emotions you've got going on in your head on her. And, you know, to help with your jealousy, Jack, she loves you and wants you even when you're being an ass." She raises her eyebrows at him in emphasis.

"I know," he runs a hand through his hair, "believe me I know and I feel bad and I don't know why I'm being like this when I know she can't stand him," Jack sighs, shaking his head and looking at the floor. He wants to ask about the conversation Dana had with you, but it feels wrong to ask. "I…" he trails off as he looks back up at Dana.

"She told me I could talk about what she said during our conversation," Dana offers, trying to give Jack a place to start.

His eyebrows shoot up. "Really?" Dana nods. "Okay, well, um, how'd it go?" He's not sure what specifically he should ask about.

"Well she started the conversation by asking for a cigarette." Dana gives Jack a look.

"Shit," he mumbles, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. You don't smoke. But you've admitted to Jack that you smoked once, after your licensing exam when you were so stressed and fried and keyed up that a friend offered you a cigarette and you just took it as something to focus on. And Jack has actually seen you smoke once, standing outside silently with Dana against the hospital wall after PittFest. So you asking for a cigarette is not a great sign. "Did she really want one?"

"Nah," Dana shakes her head with a small smile. "I don't think so."

Jack nods slowly. "She cried?" The strain in his voice is obvious.

"Mm," Dana hums, moving her head side to side a little as she thinks. "I don't know that I'd call it crying. She shed a few tears, yes."

Jack cringes, slamming his eyes shut and bowing his head for a moment. "Why?" he mumbles as he looks back up at Dana.

She gives him a sympathetic smile and laughs softly. "Because she loves you."

He furrows his brows at her and tilts his head, shaking it a little. "What does that mean?"

Dana shrugs. "She thought you were mad at her and I said I didn't think you were mad at her, just in your head. She said she knew and that she doesn't want you to be there alone when you don't want to be and don't have to be and that she wishes you'd have a real conversation with her. And she said that you're the only person she's ever truly loved and to ever truly love her and make her feel loved and that you're not perfect because nobody is, but that she couldn't create a better partner for herself and she'd never let you go. She said you're Jack and paused and then said you're her Jack and that's when the tears fell."

The bittersweet ache in his heart is so strong it feels harder to breathe. It's bittersweet because you're out here saying all these perfect and loving things about him, things you've been trying to tell him all day and he's being a dick to you and letting his emotions control him. "Fuck!" Jack runs his hand through his hair again, tugging at the roots a little just to try and center himself. "Fuck," he mutters under his breath. Now, even with as loved as he feels and the way you described your devotion to him to Dana, he's worried his attitude and behavior might have pushed you away just a little too far. He looks at Dana with eyes that reflect the ache in his heart. "Do you think she'll forgive me?"

"Well, she also told me toward the end of our conversation that all she wanted right now is a kiss and big hug from you and for you to tell her that it's okay and you guys are okay and everything is good and normal." Dana raises her eyebrows at him, smiling softly again, and moves toward the door. "So I think in some ways she already has forgiven you, Jack. But you gotta talk to her. Really talk to her and explain and be honest." She shoots him a pointed look before opening the door and walking back to the hub to hand everything over to Lena.

Jack stands there for a moment thinking about everything you said to Dana, everything you've said to him today. A million realizations hit him at once, all boiling down to the same conclusion that he's really known all day but that he's actually able to, for the first time today, believe.

He doesn't need to be jealous.

Even with all his insecurities and the reasons he can come up with for why he should be jealous and why you should be with someone else, anyone else, he doesn't need to be jealous. You're completely devoted to him in a way he's quite sure he doesn't deserve, especially with how he's been treating you today.

Jack knows he needs to find you, have a real conversation with you and apologize. Grovel if he has to, if that's what you want. He'll get down on his knees. But for some reason he doesn't think you're going to want that.

He walks out of the room and looks around for you. He spots Shen at the hub first and decides to just go hand off so he can continue his search for you.

Jack goes over and brings him up to speed on almost every patient but then remembers he hasn't checked in with you one last time. "Oh, let me go talk to her and I'll find you to finish."

Shen shakes his head as he takes a sip of his iced coffee. "You don't need to, she found me and just gave me the update directly because you were busy and honestly it was just easier, saves the game of telephone."

"Oh," Jack has to control the way his shoulders want to deflate and his voice wants to reveal his disappointment, "okay, yeah. That makes sense. That's it then. Floor is yours."

"Cool. Have fun at the bar tonight and have a drink for me," Shen tells Jack as he walks away.

"I don't think this place serves boozy iced coffee, but I'll try," Jack jokes with him.

You and Jack don't speak for the rest of the shift or before you all start walking to the bar. You're not sure if Jack wants to talk to you and for some reason you feel like you don't really know how to talk to him right now in a sense. You hate it. But you figure he'll come to you when he's ready.

Word had spread throughout the day and there's a good group of you going to the bar, a few people who didn't work today meeting you there. You change into a comfortable pair of jeans you keep in your locker and take your scrub top off so that you're just in your undershirt, wipe your arms and neck down with a baby wipe and then throw on your cotton zip-up jacket. You want as much of the day off you as possible. Jack has a similar idea, taking his scrub top off so that he's just in his undershirt and cargos.

You're already waiting with some of the group at the hub when Jack walks over. His eyes run up and down your form, appreciating the fit of your jeans and undershirt, a small smile twitching up at the corners of lips. That smile falls when he sees Dale give you similar elevator eyes and look at you hungrily. He clenches his jaw at it, he doesn't like another man looking at you, especially Dale, and especially with that look.

Jack's smile falls into a frown when he takes in your face. You look tired and worse, defeated. He starts walking to you, hoping he can pull you aside somewhere before you get to the bar but is quickly intercepted by Dale as Samira walks up to you. It at least makes him feel a little better when you perk up a little as you chat with Samira.

As you leave the hospital and head for the bar you and Samira fall to the back of the group, Jack deliberately doing the same, hoping he can slot himself in so that he's walking next to you, maybe take your hand. But it backfires spectacularly when Dale ends up between you and Jack.

You're surprised when Jack seems so… unbothered by it, your eyes flicking over at him, narrowed in slight confusion. He seems to have chilled out tremendously, to the point he's not getting completely worked up again as soon as Dale does something he doesn't like. He doesn't look mad or upset. Maybe a bit irritated but not even that, really. It throws you, but you go with it, hope he really has hit some kind of turning point.

Once you're at the bar, Jack takes over holding the door so he can catch you as you walk in. "Hey," his fingers brush your elbow but he doesn't grab it, isn't sure if you'd be okay with that right now, "can we talk outside for a minute?"

"Of course," you nod, stomach starting to churn a little. There's a meekness to your words and nod that makes Jack frown to himself. "Hey, Samira, I'll catch up with you inside," you call to her before turning around and stepping outside with Jack.

"Let's, um, go around the corner, yeah?" You nod at him and follow him around, standing across from him just inside the alley on the side of the bar. Jack lets out a steadying breath, hoping he hasn't permanently damaged your relationship or pushed you away. "I am very sorry for the way I've treated you today. I apologize, deeply and sincerely, and I'm happy to apologize again and talk more later. I've been jealous and battling my own insecurities all day, that's not an excuse, just an explanation, and I let it all win and took it out on you and that's unacceptable. I didn't mean any of it and I know you're not interested in him and aren't going to even entertain taking him back. I know I made an already difficult and trying day more difficult and trying for you and I'm very, very sorry, and I hope you can forgive me."

You let out a relieved sigh, glad he really has turned a corner, even if only somewhat, even if only enough to apologize and see how he's been acting today clearly.

You give Jack a loving smile and take a step closer to him, rest your hands on his chest. "Of course I can forgive you." You lean up and kiss him, sense he needs the reassurance, and frankly so do you. Your smile grows when Jack sighs in relief and you watch the tension melt from his shoulders. "I get it. I get how easily the jealousy and insecurities can take over. I'm not happy with how you treated me at times today or that you wound up taking it out on me, of course, and I know you're not happy about it either, and we both know it's not okay, but I understand why it happened, and it hasn't changed anything between us, okay? Your jealousy and insecurities don't get that kind of power. Neither does he." Jack nods and you slide your hands up to hold the back of his neck, thumbs running along his jaw. You enjoy the slight scratch of it from his stubble that's grown out over the day. "Is there a reason you wouldn't just talk to me about it all?"

Jack licks his lips and shakes his head, takes a couple of seconds to put his thoughts together. "I was afraid, I still am a little, honestly, that if I told you all of my insecurities it might make you see them and realize that I'm right to be insecure about them and they're reasons to leave and so talking would end up making you leave. I know how twisted and fucked that logic is, I just couldn't help but be terrified by it and so I didn't talk. And me thinking that it would make you leave, that's not a reflection of you and anything I think you'd really do, it's totally my brain projecting my past and trauma and just what I think you should do, maybe. Because sometimes I really believe that you could do better. That you should. And that I don't deserve you."

"Jack," you whisper, heart hurting at the thought of him hurting and having those thoughts.

"It's hard not to compare myself. To any guy, but especially an ex. And it's hard not to see myself losing that comparison," he admits. "Even against Dale."

"Jack, Sweetheart, I don't see other people like that. None of them. I don't compare you to anyone. I don't need to. I know I have the best and everything I could ever ask for and then a whole lot more." You're not going to push him to reveal his insecurities right now, especially not here. You might ask when you're home but even then you know they're something he needs to be ready to share.

The earnestness in your expression and your words are like a balm for Jack, soothing still recovering nerves and thoughts of his insecurities. "I know, I do. I promise," he murmurs.

"I couldn't compare you to anyone if I tried. You're my Jack. Nobody could ever make me feel the way you do. There's just something about you." You bite your lip and giggle preemptively a little. "A je ne sais quoi, one might say."

You and Jack look at each other for the briefest second before bursting into laughter together. "I love you, and I'm really happy we're okay," Jack says through his laughter. He wraps his arms around you and pulls you into him, kissing you breathless and then giving you the big hug you told Dana you wanted. "And I'm really, really sorry that I hurt you. I hate it so much."

You wrap your arms around his neck, holding Jack close. "I love you too, and I'm really happy we're okay too," you murmur into his chest just loud enough for him to hear. "And I forgive you."

Jack rubs his hands up and down your back and sways the two of you a little bit. "It's okay," he murmurs, "we're okay and everything is normal and good." There's the slightest intonation at the end that tells you he's seeking your reassurance that what he's saying is true.

"Everything is normal and good," you reassure him as you pull back to look at him. You raise your eyebrows at him a little. "How are you feeling now? You seem kind of… chill. Like he stood in between us as we walked and you didn't seem to be super bothered."

"I'm feeling better about it, yeah. Talking with Dana helped, a lot. I know it should have been talking with you, but she told me some of what you said and I don't know… I just got over myself in a way," he shrugs. "It's still kind of hard to watch and stirs up insecurities, but I'm in control of them now at least. I tried looking for you to talk to you before we got here, but I couldn't find you and then you were talking with Samira and Dale came up to me."

"He idolizes you," you smirk at Jack.

Jack rolls his eyes at the thought of Dale. "Do you want an apology from him? Publicly or privately or both? Because I'm happy to make sure he apologizes."

You chuckle and shake your head at him. "Nah. I'm over it and him. It's just not worth it. You can give him a little piece of your mind if you want at some point, without making a scene, please, but honestly I don't want to give him any more of my time or have to hear anything else from him, much less some pathetic, disingenuous apology that he doesn't understand why he's giving."

"That's fair," Jack nods. "Do you want a public apology from me? Either here or at the Pitt? Or both. I'm sure people saw me being an ass to you today."

"No," you laugh softly. "I don't think anyone actually really did other than Dana. Nobody said anything or gave me any looks. And even if they did, you apologized to me and we talked and that's all that matters. Plus I hate that kind of attention." You and Jack share a look. "But I appreciate you asking and acknowledging it was in public. And I appreciate you owning how you acted and not making excuses or trying to play it off and giving me a sincere apology. Not everyone would."

"Of course. It's about the least I could do," he smiles at you. "Is Dale making you seriously uncomfortable with the flirting? I hesitate to call it flirting but that's just the easiest way to refer to whatever it is he's doing."

"Not really," you shrug, stepping out of the hug as Jack does so that the two of you can walk back to the bar. "Especially now that we're okay and you've chilled about it. It's just kind of funny and I imagine it's only going to get increasingly entertaining with drinks."

"Alright," Jack chuckles. "Do you mind then letting me be the one to tell him about us when the time is right? If he starts making you uncomfortable, just tell him or do whatever you need to do, of course."

You laugh as you walk into the bar. "Sure, Sweetheart, you can tell him."

"Thank you," he smirks at you, following you in. "You want a drink? I'll go grab us some at the bar."

"I do," you nod, peering around the bar looking for the group and Garcia. They've splintered off into smaller groups, but you spot her pretty quickly. "I need to see what Yolanda is drinking. I'm buying for her."

Jack raises an eyebrow. "Lose a bet?"

"No," you smirk at him, "she was fucking phenomenal with Dale today."

"Oh was she?" Jack returns your smirk. "Well, you go find out what she had and text me and I'll get it put on my tab. I'll buy her drinks all night for that."

You giggle at him. "Alright, I'll see you over there." You give Jack's arm a little squeeze and head over to her table, taking off your jacket and using it to save the seat next to you for Jack and to prevent Dale from leaving his seat across the table to come sit next to you. You find out what she was drinking and text Jack, let her know he's buying for her all night and glance at Dale in explanation, making her laugh.

It only takes Jack a few minutes to make his way over, setting your favorite drink down in front of you and his neat scotch in front of the seat next to you that he takes.

"Wow," Dale drawls, "I wish our attendings bought us drinks," he tries to joke. It earns him some half-hearted hums from around the table. You bite your tongue and don't inform him that Jack isn't buying you a drink as your attending, but as your boyfriend.

Conversation starts to flow, and people move around tables to mingle and get to talk to everyone. At some point Jack and Dale end up alone, a situation you spot immediately and watch out of the corner of your eye.

Dale brings up the open attending position again. "It would be so great if you could put in a good word for me. I'd love to get to work in the Pitt."

Jack takes a sip of his scotch and nods. "I mean yeah, I'll report what I observed if you make it far enough for them to ask me." He knows the chances of Dale's application getting that far are slim.

Unsurprisingly, Dale misses the slight dig. "Thanks man, I really appreciate it!" Dale looks over at you and nods. "Yeah, it would be great. Since she has an attending position here, if I got the other one I bet I could get her back and rekindle things with my full package." Jack doesn't have to follow Dale's eyes to know he's looking at you. "Would be kinda cute. Little attending power couple."

Jack clenches his jaw and feels the flare of insecurity and jealousy trying to come up but controls himself and doesn't let it take over. He just gives Dale a smile and nods. "Good luck with that, Dale."

Dale's even more all over you at the bar once he talks to Jack and you return to your original seat. It goes on and on and you're surprised Jack hasn't told him yet. You keep waiting for Jack to jump in and say something but he doesn't. He just sits there quietly sipping his scotch, watching with an amused smile. The two of you exchange looks and smirks at things Dale says and a couple of times you have to look away from each other to keep from laughing. Jack has clearly come to enjoy it for the free comedy show that it is.

"Do you remember getting stuck in that basement together during our third year of med school?" Dale asks you, clearly trying to take it somewhere flirty or sexual. You've just started shutting him down to the best of your ability, much to the amusement of the group.

"No, but I do remember each of the seven times you passed out in anatomy lab and how you could never tell the difference between the clitoris and urethra and in general did so poorly with female reproductive anatomy they kicked you off your OBGYN rotation early." You smile sweetly at Dale, the alcohol helping you feel less bad about the jabs you're making.

Santos chokes on her drink, almost spitting it everywhere and Samira has to abruptly get up and leave the table with her hand over her mouth, the rest of the table looking down or away and trying to cover their laughter.

"Oh that absolutely tracks," Garcia nods.

Jack's clearly holding back a laugh as he finishes his scotch and sets his empty glass down. "Another round?" he asks the group. As a chorus of yes rings out Jack stands and heads to the bar.

"You know what, I'll help," you tell everyone, getting up and following him to the bar, wanting a moment alone with him. You slide onto the stool next to him as he finishes ordering. "Hi," you smile.

"You following me?" he teases, turning on his stool so that he's facing you.

"And what if I am?" you challenge with a tilt of your head.

Jack shrugs, that easy smile he has that you love so much pulling onto his face. "It would make me a happy man."

"I have good news for you then."

He laughs softly and nods. "I'm sorry again, Sweetheart. I hate how I was with you today in those bad moments. I loved the good moments we had. But I hate that I made you hurt and cry. That thought kills me. I want to be wiping your tears and holding you through them, not causing them."

"I know, Baby, and I forgive you. You didn't really cause them as such. I was just emotional and overwhelmed by how much I love you and what felt in the moment like my inability to make you see it." You rest your hand on his thigh and squeeze gently.

"You do make me see it, I swear. It's not you doing anything wrong that made me like that, it's-"

"Hey," you cut him off gently, not wanting him to get too worked up or back in his head, "I know. I know it's not about me or anything I did or didn't do or am or am not doing."

"Good," Jack nods slowly. "As long as you know."

"I do." Your brows arch in curiosity, eyes narrowing just slightly and an amused smile gracing your face. "But so you really just got over your jealousy?"

Jack opens his mouth to say something but then stops. He doesn't want to do this here. "One second," he tells you. Jack flags down the bartender and asks if he can take the drinks over to the group, pointing at the table. The bartender agrees and Jack drops a $20 on the counter before standing and holding his hand out to you. "Come with me."

You tilt your head in playful suspicion but take his hand. You'd follow Jack anywhere. You let him lead you through the bar, neither of you caring who sees nor trying to hide it. Jack takes you down the stairs to the much nicer and very clean single stall bathroom that only locals who frequent know of and are allowed to use.

You raise your eyebrows at him and smirk as you walk in, Jack locking the door behind you.

"Don't look at me like that, this isn't going where you think it's going. I just didn't want to have this conversation at the bar." He walks over to you and settles his hands on your hips.

"Oh," you croon, "but the bar bathroom?"

"Is private," he nods at you teasingly.

You hum in acknowledgment. "So you just got over your jealousy?"

Jack tilts his head as you move a little closer to him and wrap your arms around his waist loosely. "I'm not sure I'd say got over it, because it's still there. Like I said, it's more like after talking with Dana and thinking about what you said to her and had said to me during the day, all these realizations hit me, ending in me realizing that I don't need to be jealous, even if I'm feeling jealous, so it's easier to not let it take control. I mean I knew that all day, so I guess it was really me being able to actually believe that I don't need to be. I'm not saying my insecurities have just disappeared, I'm just handling them better right now and realized I know so many reasons why I don't need to be jealous and give into that feeling, even with my insecurities."

"You wanna share some of those reasons?" you ask. "And that's a serious question. You can say no, you don't have to share. I just wanted to let you know that I would listen if you wanted to say them out loud or if you want me to know some to remind you of if this happens again."

Jack nods. He takes a second and then lets out a long breath. "I know without a doubt you love me and choose me every day even if I question the wisdom of that choice because of how I feel about myself. I know that you're patient with me, even when I'm being an asshole." The two of you exchange small smiles. "I know that you'll give me grace when I make mistakes, that you're not going to run away just because I make one and am an asshole or whatever it might be, I know you're not going to run and find someone new just because things get hard. I know you're committed to me and to us."

His eyes start to grow a little glassy. "I know you could never love him, or anybody else for that matter, the way you love me. Twelve hours with him and you look like you're ready to jump off the roof," Jack pushes his lips together in a tight line and shakes his head once as he swallows thickly. "I'm the one who talks you off the roof. I'm the only one you trust to talk you off the roof."

You both laugh softly, your eyes growing glassy to match Jack's. "Very true," you murmur.

Jack takes in a deep breath. "And I know without a doubt that he could never love you the way I do. For so many reasons. But primarily because he only sees you as something to have. I see you as everything. The only thing, the only thing that matters, because that is what you are to me. The only thing that matters. I need you to know that. I don't need any of the rest of this shit, as nice as it is." He pauses for a second to take you in, make sure he has your gaze. "And I know that you only want and love me. Not Dale or anybody else. Just me. Just your Jack."

You nod at him, giving his words a chance to linger in the small space between you. And also to let you and Jack come down a little bit, not wanting either of you to get totally bogged down in emotion, even good emotion, in the bathroom of this bar and then have to return to the group upstairs.

"Good," you start, "all of those things are true. I'm glad you were able to realize all that, you fucking goose," you tease him. Jack laughs, lets out a small groan because he still has no fucking idea where that came from when he called you it earlier today. You have to laugh along with him, his laugh always infectious and mood brightening.

You bring your hands to cup Jack's face as your laughter trails off. "My Jack," you whisper with a beaming smile.

"Your Jack," he whispers back and nods, smiling just as hard. Jack takes in a deep breath and shakes his head at you a little. "I love you so fucking much." He leans in and kisses you, both of you smiling so widely that it doesn't quite work at first. You both melt into it though, Jack's arms wrapping around you tighter.

He starts walking you backwards, one hand sliding up to cup the back of your head as you hit the wall. You moan when you're finally able to really taste the scotch on Jack's tongue and that's when he pulls away to kiss at your jaw. "You wanna know what else I know?" he asks, his voice low and seductive, all gravel, while one hand comes and unbuttons and unzips your jeans with ease.

"Yeah," you pant softly as Jack slips his hand into your pants below your underwear and works his fingers downward.

You make a noise of protest when Jack abruptly pulls away, both of you looking at each other in confusion.

"Jesus fucking christ," Jack's face twists with a hint of concern, "I've never felt you this… dry."

You scoff. "Hello? Do you remember who I've spent all fucking day with? And then on top of that you were giving me whiplash. Of course it's a fucking desert down there." The two of you share an amused laugh as Jack flicks his eyebrows up at you in acknowledgment. "Just keep kissing me and talking to me, and using your fingers and it'll be quick," you tell him a little breathlessly as you try to grind down onto his hand.

"Yeah?" Jack asks with a smirk, pulling his hand from your pants to spit on his fingers before slipping his hand back where it was, his other hand holding onto your hip. His lips find yours once again and the heel of his palm grinds against your clit while his fingers run through you and tease your entrance.

"Yeah," you mumble against his lips. Jack laughs softly against your lips before kissing you hard, consuming you and swallowing down every whimper and moan and sigh his lips and fingers pull from you. "Just so you know," you breathe as his lips move down to your jaw, "this is going exactly where I thought it was."

Jack nips at the corner of your jaw, smirking at the little gasp you make. "I mean I can stop," he hums. "We're just starting to get somewhere," Jack murmurs as he pushes a finger inside of you now that you're wet enough and you keen for him. "But I can stop."

"Do not fucking stop," you pant, one of your hands flying down to hold onto his wrist so that he can't pull away, both of you pretending you'd be strong enough to stop him, your other hand gripping the bicep of his other arm.

He chuckles darkly against your ear. "Well when you order me so nicely."

Jack kisses you again, starts pumping his finger in and out of you slowly, adjusting his hand so that his thumb can work your clit more precisely than the heel of his hand. You pull your head back, pushing it into the wall a bit at the feeling. "Oh, Jack," you sigh so sweetly for him it almost makes his teeth ache.

"My beautiful woman," Jack murmurs, more to himself than anything, a small smile pulling at his lips, but his eyes beaming as he looks into yours, the corners crinkled how you adore. After a few seconds the smile grows into a self-satisfied smirk, his eyes narrowing just slightly, now sparkling with heady lust that has you shivering. "I know he could never fuck you the way I do," he rasps as he slides another finger inside of you, thumb working your clit a little faster. "Because he's just a little fucking boy and you need a real man to fuck you right."

"Fuck, Jack," you moan, clenching around him as the fire he's started in your lower abdomen stokes hotter.

Jack swallows down your moan as he kisses you again, sucking on your tongue. He's fully hard now, already straining against his boxer briefs and cargos. He pulls away to let you get some air, your eyes finding his automatically, knowing it's his expectation. "Good girl," he praises you, giving you a single pass of his fingers with them crooked just right to rub over that perfect spot inside you. "I know he couldn't get as deep inside of you as I do." Jack emphasizes his words with a harsh thrust of his fingers inside you as deep as he can get them, careful not to scratch or ram into your cervix.

His thrust forces you to take a sharp breath in and your hand around his wrist tightens as you try and fail to think of anything other than "Jack," to breathlessly stutter out.

"I know he couldn't make you feel as full as I do," Jack groans, again emphasizing his words, this time by fucking a third finger inside of you. His cock throbs at how tight you are around his fingers, how hot you are and how wet you've gotten. How wet he's made you.

"Shit, your fingers feel so good, Jack," you moan, your orgasm building almost embarrassingly quick. Your hand on his bicep moves up to his hair, fingers tangling in the salt and pepper curls you love so much. "So, so, fucking good. Make me feel so full."

"Did he ever even make you come?" Jack whispers at your ear, gently biting the shell of it as his fingers continue to work you, thumb playing with your clit just how you like and need, slick with your own arousal.

You manage to pant out a laugh. "What the fuck do you think?"

"No, he didn't, did he? He left you to do all the work for yourself, which is an atrocity." He 'tsks,' shaking his head a little as he pulls back, blown hazel eyes boring into yours. Jack finally gives you what you want, crooking his fingers again and keeping them like that as he continues to fuck you with his fingers, switching up his rhythm to keep you guessing, but always dragging along that spot. "Pretty thing like you should be able to just relax and let all the way go and give into the feelings, be made to feel good."

"You do," you mewl, "Jesus, Jack, you do. You do, make me feel so good."

"Yeah, I know I do, Baby. And this," Jack grunts, curling his fingers with greater pressure and pushing down harder with his thumb so he's almost cupping you, "is mine," Jack groans. "Your pussy belongs to me."

He starts moving his fingers again, and you keen for him, "Yeah, yeah, yours, Jack. Yours." Your mind is starting to get hazy from the pleasure, Jack quickly becoming the only thing that exists for you, words and coherent sentences getting harder to form. You let your head fall against the wall and close your eyes.

Jack's cock throbs and strains painfully against his boxer briefs and cargos. He knows he's leaking for you, is desperate for some relief but ignores it to focus on you. He realizes your eyes have closed and that's simply not going to work for him. "Ah, ah, you have to keep looking at me Baby, or I'll stop."

You force your eyes back open as Jack's hand on your hip comes up, his thumb brushing over your lips. You open your mouth for him, whimpering when he slides his thumb in and presses down on your tongue to move your head back down a little so he can see your eyes better. He picks up his pace as he does, your orgasm so close you can taste it.

Jack smirks at you when you have to move your hand from his wrist up to his shoulder to help steady yourself, your other hand still in his hair and tugging with every stroke of his fingers. "I know that even if he tried, he couldn't make you come as hard as I do."

You moan against his thumb and Jack pulls it from your mouth. "No, only you Jack," you pant, having to really work to keep your eyes open. "Only you, Jack. Jack, Jack, Jack."

"I know he couldn't make you come this fucking fast in the bathroom of a bar after a twelve hour shift, much less the trying and never-ending twelve hour shift you just had," Jack husks, the way you say his name making him shiver.

"Jack, please!" You're close, you're right fucking there. And Jack knows it. You know he knows it. "Please, Baby," you moan, "please, please, please."

"And I know I can make you come after all that." Jack's free hand covers your mouth to muffle the cry of his name he knows you're about to give him. He times the next drag of his fingers with the pass of his thumb over your clit perfectly. "Easily."

Your orgasm crashes down on you as Jack finishes the last syllable of the word, pleasure searing through you and stars dotting your vision as you fight to keep your eyes open for Jack. You're thankful for his hand over your mouth keeping you quiet as you let yourself relax and let all the way go and completely give into the way Jack is making you feel so fucking unreasonably good.

Jack praises you as he works you through it, "my good girl," and "you did so good for me, Baby," and "there you go, that's it," and your name dripping off his tongue. Though still muffled by his hand, Jack's name similarly falls from your lips over and over, and Jack can feel every time you moan his name, the air you expel to make the sound hot against his palm. He slows just before you hit painful overstimulation, working you up enough so that you'll feel every movement of the seam of your jeans for the rest of the night.

He pulls his hand from your over your mouth and his fingers from you, humming in appreciation as he admires how slick you've gotten them while you suck in huge breaths of air and try to catch your breath. Jack offers you one to clean for him and keeps the other two for himself.

You don't care that you're still panting, still feel a little like you're not getting enough oxygen, you open your mouth for him when he offers it and make a show of sucking it clean, holding his gaze the entire time and deliberately letting a little spit drip from the corner of your mouth.

Jack gathers the spit on his finger as he pulls it from your mouth, kitten licks it clean and then sucks his other two fingers clean, holding your gaze just as you held his. He groans from deep in his chest at the taste of you, lets his eyes flutter closed for a few seconds as he enjoys.

He opens his eyes as he pulls his fingers from his mouth. "So sweet for me."

"Oh, fuck Jack," you pant softly, breathing a laugh. "You and your perfect fucking timing are gonna kill me one day."

"You think I'd ever let that happen?" he quirks an eyebrow and smirks as his hands come and button and zip your jeans.

You pout, drop your weight onto one hip and everything, still catching your breath. "So no fucking me here?"

Jack chuckles at you. "No, Baby," he shakes his head. "You're going to have to wait until we get home for that." He brings his hand up and cradles your jaw, brushes his thumb over your lip and then kisses you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. "But good things come to those that wait," he murmurs against your lips, giving you one last chaste kiss before pulling away.

You whine, but pacify yourself by reaching for his waistband, knowing he's hard. "At least let me take care of you, Handsome," you croon, licking your lips and starting to fantasize about the feel and taste of Jack in your mouth.

He intercepts your hands before they make it to his waistband, bringing each to his mouth and kissing your palms. "Home," Jack murmurs firmly.

You give him another little pout but don't push the issue, tell yourself waiting makes it better. You turn to look in the mirror, fixing your hair some and smoothing out your shirt.

Jack slides up behind you, arms wrapped around your middle as he rests his head on your shoulder and tilts his head, catches your gaze in the mirror. "Somehow you look even prettier like this, when you're glowing and dewy from coming so hard and still so needy."

You shiver at his words, turn in his arms and smile, ghost your knuckles over his cheek. "You're very sweet."

"Just the truth, Sweetheart," he smiles at you and then leans in for a quick kiss. "Okay, you head back out. I'm going to take a minute," he gestures at his still hard cock, "and then I'll come join you."

You nod. "Okay, Baby. I'll see you out there." You give him one last kiss and head to the door.

"Hey," Jack gets your attention before you open the door, gives you a knowing smirk, "if a good moment comes, tell him."

"So how come this boyfriend of yours never showed up? I wanted to meet him." Dale takes a sip of his beer while trying to make some sort of suggestive eyes at you that fail comically. A small group of you are at a high top table, Jack having slipped away a few minutes ago to settle up with the bartender. You're really not surprised when Dale tries to show he's better in front of the group, but you are a little disappointed Jack isn't here for it. "I'd never stand you up, especially not in front of a group."

There have been several moments since you returned to the group where you could've told Dale, but none of them felt quite right. This moment, however, feels perfect.

"Oh Dale." You smile and finish off what's left of your drink as the group tries to stifle their laughter. You set your glass down and smirk at him. "You've already met him."

You laugh under your breath as you watch Dale's brows furrow and lips pull down into a frown as he looks around at the men of the Pitt who are in your group and scattered around the bar.

Jack stays to the side, out of view but within ear shot and hears the conversation. So with perfect timing, you feel an arm wrap around your waist and smell what's left of Jack's cologne as he walks up behind you. "Hi," he murmurs at your temple, just loud enough to be heard by the group, "I love you." You lean back into Jack as he kisses your temple, absolutely relishing in Dale's horrified expression. Jack is fine with respectful and classy PDA when you're not at work even when you're with people from work, so it's not like any of this is scandalous to the rest of the group. "You ready to go home, Sweetheart?"

"Love you too, Handsome," you murmur back, turning your head and taking a proper kiss from Jack. "And yeah, I was just thinking about how I'm getting kinda tired."

Jack hums as he straightens back up, staring Dale right in the eyes. "Can't have you getting too tired on me before I get you in bed."

Dale looks like he might be sick, clearly panicking at the realization that he's been flirting and making sexual comments to his idol's girlfriend all day. The others at the table are all looking down at their laps for the most part, knowing that if they look at each other they'll all lose it and start laughing. They glance up every now and again, though, to get another look at Dale's face.

"Very true. I'm sure the walk to our place will wake me up some." You give Dale a saccharine smile as Jack takes a step back and helps you off the barstool and into your jacket. "And we have tomorrow off, so we can sleep in."

"Maybe I'll make you breakfast and bring it to you in bed if you're good," Jack winks at you.

He turns his attention back to Dale, and if looks could kill, Dale would be dead. Jack takes in a deep breath to calm himself a little, remembering what you told him earlier when he asked if you wanted an apology from Dale. "A bit of professional and personal advice. The next time a woman tells you she has a boyfriend and doesn't react to your attempts at flirting, back the fuck off and fucking stop." He raises his eyebrows at Dale and nods to underscore his words.

His anger flares again as Dale looks at him in fucking confusion. God he'd really love to strangle this asshole a little bit, but Jack is quite sure that would qualify as making a scene. "You're lucky that she's so over it and you and that she doesn't want to give you any more of her time or hear anything else from you. Because if it were up to me you'd be on the bar publicly apologizing to her now and you'd be back in the Pitt the next time she works apologizing to her in front of everybody for the fucking complete lack of respect you showed her today."

You bite your lip as you watch Dale's eyes somehow grow wider, his mouth opening and closing as he shakes his head, trying to find words to get himself out of this. You let him flounder for a moment before replying to Jack.

"We'll have to see about breakfast in bed I suppose, Dr. Abbot," you smirk at him before turning your attention back to the group, pausing for a second just to revel a little more at Dale's face. "Goodnight and good luck to those of you working tomorrow. See you all soon. Well," you look Dale in the eyes, "not you luckily."

"Have a good night guys," Jack nods at the group, laughing under his breath as he gives Dale one last glare.

You give everyone a little wave as you turn with Jack and start walking out of the bar. When you sling an arm around his waist and lean into him Jack runs his arm up your back, holding the back of your neck gently to help guide you through the fairly busy bar.

"That's my girl," Jack praises you just loud enough for the two of you to hear as you get close to the door.

You shrug. "Just telling the truth. If I never see him again it'll be too soon. And hey," you squeeze his waist and pause at the side of the door, "I really appreciate you respecting what I said earlier and giving him a little piece of your mind without turning it into a huge scene and not forcing him to apologize. A lot of men would've just kind of disregarded that and gone full knight in shining armor just to prove a point to everyone else."

"I'll always respect your choices, Sweetheart," he smiles down at you. "In everything."

"I know and I didn't doubt it for a second, I just still think I should acknowledge that I see you doing it and I appreciate it," you explain. "I really did love what you said though. Very hot, Dr. Abbot."

"Good. I'm very glad you know and don't doubt it," he says seriously. "And I'm glad you found it hot. I'd also like you to know that I wanted to strangle him, just a little bit, but I didn't because that probably would've caused a scene." You snort a laugh and shake your head at him as you smile. Jack chuckles with you as he opens the door for you. "You think he'll still apply for the attending position?"

"Oh absolutely." You roll your eyes to yourself and shake your head. "You know in some ways I'd love to see that interview and him absolutely groveling at your feet."

Jack huffs. "He doesn't need to grovel at my feet. He needs to at your feet." After a second Jack sighs and then gives a single laugh. "The look on his face was fucking priceless."

Both you and Jack burst into laughter. "I know I wish I'd asked someone to record it," you giggle. Jack wishes he could bottle the sound and how good it makes him feel.

He subtly glances through the window near the table you'd been sitting at and then slows. You look up at him with raised brows, confused about why you're stopping. "Can I kiss you?"

You give him an amused smile. "Since when did you need to ask?"

"Since there's a dual motive because I both want to kiss you and Dale is watching and I want to rub it in. But I don't want you to feel used," Jack explains.

You giggle again as you lean up to kiss Jack, wrap your arms around his neck and open your mouth for him before he even has to ask. Jack wastes no time deepening it, gliding his tongue across yours as his hands slide down your sides to your back, moving lower until his hands slip into the back pockets of your jeans and pull you closer to him by your ass.

"You're so adorable. I love you," you whisper against his lips before giving him another lingering kiss. "That was very sweet of you to ask, but I'd like to rub it in too."

"Clearly," he laughs against your lips, pulls his hands from your pockets and wraps his arms around your middle, holding you close. "I love you too."

You and Jack chat about whatever comes to mind as you make the short walk home hand in hand with your fingers laced together.

"Oh," you squeeze Jack's hand, "remind me at some point when we're home that I need to order more of these scrub pants."

"Okay," he draws out the first syllable. "Why?"

You glance up at him and smile sweetly. "I want enough of these to make sure I can wear them every time I work with you."

Jack lets out a pained groan. "That's just mean. That's like…" He tries to think of a comparison. "I'm going to start wearing only my undershirt. No scrub top."

"That is so unfair," you whine, thinking for a second. "Though, you know, that'd probably improve the patient satisfaction scores of the patients attracted to men who only get to admire you from afar, so I guess I can suffer to get Gloria off our backs. Only if you give me the credit with her."

Jack huffs a laugh. "Stop it." He bumps your shoulder with his.

You shrug. "I'm just saying the people attracted to men love you, Dr. Abbot."

"They do not." You can hear the teasing eye roll in his voice.

You glance up at him with an amused smirk. "How many phone numbers have you been given so far this year Jack?"

"What?" he mutters, taking a second to think about it. "Honey, I have no fucking idea. Not many."

"Not many, he says," you laugh to yourself. "32, Jack. Just that I've been around to witness or been told about. It's mid May. 32."

Jack scoffs. "How the fuck do you know that?"

"Because I'm jealous every single time I see it happen or am told it happened and so my mind just makes me keep track of the number." You glance up at Jack and smile when you see his mouth a little open and eyebrows raised, a bit surprised. "You're not the only one in this relationship who gets jealous, Jack. Though, I can admit it's much different when it's random people and not someone from the past who there's been a kind of relationship with."

"Is that why you've been so chill about me being jealous and a dick to you in certain moments today? Which again, I truly am sorry for being like that." He shoots you a sheepish smile.

"I've accepted your apology," you tell Jack gently. "We're okay, I promise. And I'm not upset with you." You give his hand another squeeze. "You have to work on forgiving yourself, Baby." Jack nods slowly. He knows he does. It's just really hard to think about forgiving himself for hurting you.

"But yeah, that's part of why. The other part is if the situation was ever reversed, and it was your ex flirting like that with you I'd lose it, like I would be fully apoplectic. I'd make sure she knew so fast and be such a bitch you'd probably have to send me home," you laugh. "It would be insecurity fucking central, especially because I'm sure all your exes are fucking gorgeous. I wouldn't be able to keep it together, I'd have to force myself to not talk to you so that I didn't take it out on you and that would be so hard to do because talking to you would give me reassurance. It would be bad. So, yeah. I get it, you know?"

"And partially, I don't know," you shrug softly, "I don't like that you felt jealous and insecure and I don't want you to feel like that because I know how much it sucks, but the fact that you did get jealous made me feel good in a way? Like in the sense that, to you, I'm worth getting jealous over."

Jack lets out a long breath and slows you both to a stop under a streetlight so you can see each other well when you face each other. "Okay, first of all, none of my exes are anywhere near as gorgeous as you, so try to remember that. And second, yeah, of course you're worth getting jealous over. The thought of losing you in any way terrifies me. You're worth more than getting jealous over. I mean jesus, Sweetheart, you're worth everything to me. My other limbs," he gives you a humorous smile, "my career, being a doctor, my freedom. My life. Everything."

You have to look down for a couple seconds to blink back a few tears. "God, you so would say that under a streetlight on a random street in Pittsburgh, just like you said all that romantic shit in the bathroom of a bar," you laugh under your breath as you look back up at him.

He raises an eyebrow at you. "Is that a bad thing?"

"Not at all," you shake your head, pausing. "It's..," you press your lips together in a smile and nod once. "It's a Jack thing. It's just very you to say something that romantic and meaningful and loving in some random spot as reassurance. Which," you cock your head at him, "you realize the same is true for me of you? You're worth everything to me."

"I know," he nods with a sappy smile.

"You don't ever need to worry about losing me to someone else. You're my forever, Jack. My always. My constant." The corners of your lips twitch up in a teasing smile. "The stripes to my zebra."

"Oh god," Jack groans, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you into his chest. "We were having such a nice moment and you just had to bring up fucking zebras," he teases, unable to hide his laughter.

He leans down and kisses the top of your head, the two of you standing there and laughing for a bit together before you pull away from him.

"But I'm serious." The way you smile at him makes Jack dizzy, your eyes glittering with love. "There's no me without you anymore, Jack. Without you, I'd be a shell of myself. You carry my heart."

Jack smiles back at you, his eyes glittering just like yours. "As you carry mine, Baby." He leans down and kisses your lips and then your forehead. "Let's get home."

You nod and keep one of your arms wrapped around Jack as you start walking towards home again. The silence you share is comfortable and familiar. It's the sound of you both winding down from your shift and the day.

Your walk home continues in silence until you abruptly break it. "You know, we could have zebra print as one of our wedding colors." You know you're not engaged, but you also know it's coming sooner rather than later. You can just feel it.

"Stop it." Jack tries to stop the laugh your words pull from him but he can't. "What am I gonna do with you?"

You and Jack don't make it to the bedroom when you get home. He has you pinned to the wall next to the front door and his lips on yours seconds after your bags hit the floor. It's only another fifteen seconds before he's walking you backwards to the couch and getting his lips on a different part of your body that has you arching your back and tugging on his hair as Jack devours your pussy.

He doesn't give you any time to recover, his cock inside of you within seconds of pulling his mouth off you. It ends with the two of you in a heap on the couch, Jack's head on your chest as you giggle in a post-orgasm haze about how good he fucks you and Jack pants about how he'll never get enough of you.

You eventually pull yourselves together enough to take a shower together. You talk more as you wash each other, Jack revealing some of the insecurities he was dealing with earlier, and you reassuring him. And now Jack finds himself naked and waiting for you in bed while you finish up your skincare. He lets his eyes roam your body greedily when you walk out of the bathroom naked. You notice of course, and it makes you feel better about yourself than he could ever fathom.

"Okay, so, I know this is probably awful, and you don't have to answer, but I'm kind of dying to know." You raise an eyebrow at him. "Was he even good in bed?"

You laugh, having been wondering if he'd ever ask. You stop at the dresser to answer him before finding one of his old t-shirts to wear to bed. "Not my worst, for sure. At the time I thought he was pretty good, but I was comparing him to college experiences, so," you shrug. "I was serious in the bathroom at the bar, though, he never made me come. I got off while he was fucking me because I got myself off, but he never made it happen by himself."

Before you can turn to find a shirt Jack beckons you to him with his fingers, opening the comforter for you to climb in. He wants to feel as much of your skin on his as possible. "You wouldn't describe him as having been pretty good now?"

You get on the bed from the end and start climbing your way up Jack's body. "Now I know he was just okay at best. Not bad, but just okay."

Jack smirks. "Oh yeah? And how do you know that?"

"Well," you smirk back at him, lowering yourself on top of him so that you're chest to chest, and giving him a quick kiss, "I started getting fucked by this really hot doctor, the hottest and most handsome man I've ever seen, actually. His name is Dr. Jack Abbot. He's shown and continues to show me what sex can really be, how good I can really be made to feel."

"Sounds like quite the guy," Jack hums. But there's a little flush to his cheeks that tells you how much your words mean to him.

"He is." You lean in and give him another couple of kisses. "You have nothing to worry about when it comes to anyone I've ever slept with. You're really, really fucking good at everything related to sex, Jack. You're far and away the best I've ever had."

"Yeah?" Jack chases your lips and gives you a sweet peck.

"Mhm," you nod. "And I know it's because you love me. Like truly love me. And so even when you have me sobbing with my head pushed into the mattress and you're being a little mean how I like because I was being a brat and you're fucking me within an inch of my life, I feel loved and I know I am loved, just as much as I feel and know it when you're holding me close and making love to me and saying you love me over and over. I always know. I always feel it. And it's not even just love, it's your love, and that just adds something for me, I guess."

Jack's heart throbs in his chest because you are so sweet and precious and always know just what he needs to hear even when he doesn't know. "I am very, very glad that you always feel that and know it, because I do truly love you, more than I know what to do with." He gives you a loving smile. "And know that I always feel and know I'm loved by you."

"Good." You smile back at him and lean in for another kiss, let him deepen it. Jack rolls the two of you as you kiss so that he's on top of you. But you know it's not going anywhere, both of you are too tired. You know he just wants to lay on you and be held after the battle he's had with his thoughts all day.

Jack settles his head on your chest, the thump of your heart calming him and helping lead him to sleep. You wrap your arms around him and run one of your hands through his hair, scratch at his scalp how he enjoys.

After a bit Jack breaks the comfortable silence you've been resting in. "I think we should plan a vacation."

"Yeah? Where do you wanna go?" You run your fingers through the curls at the nape of his neck and the scratch there, pulling a soft groan from Jack.

"Preferably somewhere we would spend most of our time laying in the sun." He nuzzles his nose against your skin, pressing a few soft kisses to the top of your breast.

"Mm," you groan longingly at the thought, "I think that sounds lovely and perfect."

"You're not bummed it's not Paris?" he teases. But there's a bit of a real ask behind it.

You snort. "Hardly. I'd love to go with you someday, and I appreciate you being worried about that, but if you think I could ever be bummed about the prospect of getting to press myself into your sun-warmed body and getting to see you half naked, all tanned with your freckles popping more…" you hum as you imagine it, "then you're very wrong."

Jack chuckles. "Alright, I just wanted to check."

"We can look around online tomorrow if you want." You yawn, your sleepiness starting to hit you hard.

"That sounds good, Baby." Jack shifts, leaning off of you and nodding with his chin to tell you to turn over so he can spoon you.

You shake your head, you want to spoon him tonight because you want to hold him and because you know it's what he needs tonight after battling his insecurities all day. "Other way. I want to be the big spoon tonight."

He lets out a soft breath, gives you an even softer smile before kissing you. "Okay."

Jack rolls and you roll behind him, spooning him as best you can with the size difference between you. He takes your arm that's over the top of him and brings it in close to his chest, snuggling up to it as he basks in the feeling of being held.

"Love you, Jack," you mumble, sleep thick in your voice as you give in to it.

"I love you too," he murmurs, "sleep well, Sweetheart because in between looking for a vacation spot I intend on fucking you so good over and over again tomorrow that you forget his and any of your exes names."

I hope it ended up being okay and that you were able to enjoy! I really love hearing your thoughts and comments, they motivate me so much, and your interactions truly mean the world to me! Thank you so much for taking the time to read! ♥️

She's Here Part 3 is next up on my list!!

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[sikayeto]

MAN'S BEST FRIEND

Clark Kent X Female!reader || WC: 3K

SUMMARY: After a grueling day at The Daily Planet, Clark returns to his apartment surprised to find more than just Krypto waiting in his bed.

WARNINGS: Contains NO Superman spoilers! Established relationship, no angst at all, SO much fluff, domestic bliss, Krypto being a menace, flirty/suggestive banter, lovesick!Clark, reader knows he's Superman, slight hurt/comfort, a rushed ending (sorry)!

A/N: I hope this makes up for all the angst from my last two Clark Kent one-shots! This will probably my last update for a while, so I hope y’all enjoy it! Divider by @bernardsbendystraws <3

➩ main masterlist

➩ clark kent masterlist

After the grueling day he had at work, Clark wanted nothing more than to collapse into bed. Between looming deadlines, a spat with Lois, Perry’s sudden decision to pile on even more assignments, and Jimmy’s untimely jokes that grated harder than usual, it was safe to say his patience had been stretched thinner than newsprint. His ears still rang faintly with the hum of clacking keyboards and voices constantly calling his name.

For once, Metropolis would have to survive a night without Superman, because tonight, Clark Kent needed rest more than air itself. The moment the key turned in the lock, some of the tightness in his shoulders eased slightly. He slipped inside, nudging the door shut with his heel. The apartment was dim, touched only by the faint glow of the city lights bleeding through the curtains.

He didn’t even bother with his usual neatness; instead of setting his messenger bag carefully on the hanger, he let it drop to the floor with a dull thump. The strap slid across the hardwood, forgotten. Clark tugged his glasses from his face, rubbing at the sore bridge of his nose with the heel of his hand. His eyes burned with fatigue, his body heavy from hunching over a desk all day. He had one thought, one plan: shower, then bed. Nothing else.

But as he stepped further inside, his sigh caught in his throat. Scattered across the floor, like breadcrumbs, were the faint impressions of paw prints leading down the hallway. “Krypto.” Clark muttered, though his voice held no real bite. The dog had never mastered the concept of personal space. No matter how much Clark tried to enforce boundaries, Krypto always managed to worm his way into the places he wasn’t supposed to be, beds, couches, sometimes even the kitchen table.

Normally, Clark would brace himself for chaos. A hyperactive ball of fur and joy, ready to pounce. And tonight, when all he wanted was silence, it felt like the last thing he had the energy for. Still, he reluctantly followed the trail. Trudging toward his bedroom, Clark’s suspicions proved correct when the paw prints ended right in front of the door. He let out a weary sigh and pressed his palm to the frame.

“Krypto, buddy, I’ve had a long day, can we not do this right—” The words fell away, vanishing before they ever left his lips. His eyes softened instantly at the scene before him. Sure enough, Krypto was sprawled across his bed, but instead of chaos and overturned pillows, there was a stillness he hadn’t expected. The room, usually in disarray whenever Krypto claimed it as his own, looked untouched. And Clark knew exactly why.

Because of you.

There you were, curled delicately against Krypto’s side, as if the giant pup were nothing more than a plush toy. One arm looped loosely around his neck, your fingers sunk gently into his fur, your face pressed into the soft expanse of white. Your chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, lashes resting against your cheeks in a serenity that seemed too good for this world. And Krypto, his normally restless, bounding, overzealous companion, was still as stone.

Clark’s tension dissolved in an instant, shoulders loosening, lungs drawing in a deeper breath than they had all day. The ache in his muscles seemed less sharp, the exhaustion that weighed him down was replaced by a quiet warmth spreading through his chest. His lips tugged upward, slow and helpless, at the sight of the two beings he loved most in this world tangled together like they belonged nowhere else. For a fleeting second, he simply stood there, taking in the scene in front of him.

Krypto’s ears twitching as he dreamed, your soft hair tousled against his pillow. It was domestic, pure, almost painfully tender, and for Clark, it was everything he never thought he would deserve. He exhaled, the sound closer to a laugh than a sigh. Careful not to disturb you, he stepped closer, moving with the same reverence he used to cradle fragile lives as Superman. He slipped off his tie, his shirt untucked in a rare act of disregard, and lowered himself gently onto the edge of the mattress.

As he toed off his shoes, the mattress dipped beneath his weight, and before he could settle, a small, warm hand slid around his waist. Clark froze for a heartbeat, then his lips curved into a smile. “You know,” He scoffed softly, voice laced with teasing. “As gorgeous as you are, this still counts as breaking and entering.” Tilting your head against his shoulder, you blinked up at him, eyes heavy with drowsiness but bright enough to pierce through the haze of his exhaustion.

“Not when I have a key.” You whispered back, sass curling in your tone. You leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the cheek where his dimple had just begun to show. Clark chuckled, the sound rumbling low in his chest as he melted into your touch. The tension of the day unraveled further when your hands slipped beneath the hem of his rumpled button-up, tracing warmth across his skin. Your lips brushed down the line of his neck, featherlight, and the heat pooled in his chest.

“Got off work early,” You murmured between kisses. “And I missed you.” The words, so simple yet so sincere, made his heart trip over itself. Six months. It had only been six months since you came into his life, and never, not once, would he have believed he could be so completely undone by someone’s mere presence. He wrapped an arm around you, drawing you closer, careful not to jostle the peacefully slumbering Krypto at your side.

Your head tucked perfectly beneath his chin, your breath warm against his throat, your fingers idly brushing patterns against his ribs as though you’d been doing it forever. “This,” He whispered into your hair, the single word carrying every ounce of awe he felt. “Is exactly what I needed.” Your hum of agreement vibrated against his chest. Clark smiled into your hair, closing his eyes, allowing himself, for once, to stop carrying the weight of the world. No deadlines, no responsibilities, no voices demanding Superman.

Just the sound of your breathing, the warmth of your body pressed to his. But of course, almost as if sensing he was being excluded, Krypto drowsily lifted his head. The second his eyes caught sight of Clark, the calm serenity in the room shattered. His tail thumped so hard against the sheets it rattled the nightstand, and with a burst of enthusiasm, he shoved himself between you both, his little red cape rustling as he barked loud enough to rattle Clark’s tired skull.

Clark’s shoulders stiffened immediately, his body going rigid as the weight of the dog pressed insistently against his ribs. His mouth flattened into a thin line, blue eyes narrowing at the canine who seemed to thrive on chaos. “Krypto—” Clark started, voice sharp, but before he could finish, the dog launched himself off the bed. His paws hit the floor with a thud, and he immediately latched onto the hem of Clark’s pants, tugging with surprising force.

Clark let out a strangled howl of pain as the fabric tightened against his leg, nearly toppling him sideways. “Krypto!” His tone was half warning, half plea, but the pup was relentless. You reacted first, slipping upright in bed with that soft, commanding tone Clark could never quite manage. “Krypto, lay down, boy.” You patted the empty space beside you, coaxing him with an ease that left Clark dumbfounded.

To his utter shock, Krypto froze, ears perking up at the sound of your voice. Then, in a heartbeat, he released Clark’s pant leg and bounded back up onto the mattress, on your side, of course. He curled against you obediently, pressing his snout into your hip with a pleased huff, tail swishing happily now that he had regained your attention. Clark blinked, utterly floored. Never in his life had he seen Krypto respond so quickly, so… politely.

The only person who ever managed to get close to that level of control was Kara, and even then, mayhem always followed. “What the hey, dude!” Clark exhaled, running a hand down his face in exasperation. He shot his dog a look that could have cut steel. “You never listen to me.” Krypto’s response was nothing short of smug, his big eyes half-lidded in contentment as he snuggled deeper into your side, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

You laughed, the sound light and bubbling, and reached out to ruffle his shaggy white coat. “Such a good boy, aren’t you, Krypto?” You cooed, and the superdog responded with an enthusiastic lick across your cheek. Clark’s eyebrows pinched together, his lips tugging down into a pout. He looked every bit the picture of a man betrayed by his own best friend. “Unbelievable.” He muttered, watching the way Krypto basked in your praise like royalty.

“Stop pouting, you big baby.” You teased, shifting to face him fully. Your hand left Krypto’s fur, warm fingers finding Clark’s cheek instead. The contrast made him shiver. Your touch was featherlight, the pad of your thumb brushing along the stubble that had shadowed the edge of his jaw after a long day. Clark’s lips parted slightly, the protest on his tongue withering away under the tenderness in your eyes.

Your thumb traced higher, softly ghosting over the edge of his dimple, a spot only you seemed to know by heart. “There’s that smile.” You whispered softly, coaxing it back. Clark let out a breath that trembled more than he meant it to. His hand came up instinctively, covering yours where it cupped his face. The warmth of your palm bled into him, grounding him more than any anchor ever could. His gaze flicked down to your lips, then back up, eyes soft but wanting.

You closed the distance first, pressing your mouth gently to his. The kiss wasn’t rushed or urgent, just slow, unhurried, the kind of kiss meant to soothe rather than ignite. Your lips molded against his like they were made for him, a familiar shape he could sink into endlessly. Clark sighed into you, the sound low and reverent, his free hand curling around your waist to pull you flush against him. Krypto gave a disgruntled huff, squished between you both, but Clark ignored it entirely.

A grin tugged against his mouth mid-kiss, mischief breaking through the softness as he shifted his grip and lifted you effortlessly onto his lap, a deliberate act of spite. You laughed into his lips, the sound muffled but bright, your hands framing his jaw as if to anchor him there. For Clark, the world could have fallen apart outside that bedroom and he wouldn’t have noticed, not when you were this close, not when you tasted like comfort, like home.

When you finally pulled back, it wasn’t far. Your noses brushed as you lingered in the quiet aftermath, your breath warm against his lips. His forehead pressed to yours almost instinctively, his eyes fluttering shut. “You, sweet girl,” He murmured softly, his voice gravelled by exhaustion and something deeper. “Are dangerous.” You smiled at that, brushing a thumb across his cheek. “Go shower, Smallville.” He groaned, clinging onto you tighter.

But when you gently pushed yourself off his lap and patted his chest, urging him toward the bathroom, his feet dragged like a child being told bedtime had come too early. To his dismay, you declined the teasing offer to join him, answering with a kiss to his temple and a promise of endless affection waiting when he returned. Luckily for you, that was all the incentive he needed.

Clark took what was arguably the fastest shower in recorded history, steam still curling from his damp hair as he stepped back into the bedroom. He hadn’t even bothered with a shirt or pajama pants, just a fresh pair of boxers clinging to his hips, skin smelling faintly of soap. As he stepped back into the bedroom, the sight waiting for him made his chest tighten. You were curled beneath the blankets, head propped on one hand, the curve of your lips hinting that you had been waiting just for him.

As he stepped back into the bedroom, the sight waiting for him made his chest tighten. You were curled beneath the blankets, head propped on one hand, the curve of your lips hinting that you had been waiting just for him. Krypto, of course, had claimed the end of the bed, stretched long across the sheets like he paid the rent. The dog cracked one eye open at Clark’s return, then promptly buried his nose back into your side with a self-satisfied sigh.

Clark rolled his eyes, yet he couldn’t stop the smile tugging at his lips as his gaze swept across you, drinking in every detail. The shirt you had slipped on was one of his old college tees, faded blue, stretched loose at the neckline, slipping lazily down one shoulder. It hung on you in that way only worn cotton could, soft and lived-in, clinging faintly in places it had no right to.

The hem barely grazed the tops of your thighs, leaving your legs tangled in the sheets, bare and inviting. Meanwhile, your eyes had already begun their own slow, appreciative journey across him. You bit down lightly on your lower lip, gaze tracing the way water still clung to his damp hair, then drifting lower to his chest. Even relaxed, his pectoral muscles flexed with the easy rhythm of his breathing, leading down to the carved lines of his abdomen.

Your stare lingered shamelessly on the sculpt of his biceps as he reached up to run a hand through his wet hair, muscles shifting beneath his skin almost like he was a marble statue brought to life. Heat coiled low in your stomach, the simple sight of him making your mouth water despite how many times you’d seen it before. The novelty of Clark Kent in all his half-dressed glory had never worn off, and you doubted it ever would.

Clark caught the way you were looking at him, the subtle drag of your teeth against your lip, the flicker of hunger that softened immediately into warmth when your eyes met his. His heart gave an unsteady lurch, not from lust but from awe, because you looked at him like he was something worth wanting, worth waiting for, and he still didn’t quite know how to process that.

A crooked smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Careful,” He teased, voice low and playful despite the weariness still clinging to him. “If you keep staring at me like that, I’ll start thinking you only keep me around for the view.” You huffed a laugh, stretching out your hand toward him from beneath the blanket. “Maybe I do,” You countered, tone sly but softened by the warmth in your eyes. “But lucky for you, I happen to like the man attached to the muscles too.”

Clark’s cheeks flushed, the bashfulness you loved so much bleeding through the confidence of Superman, and it made your grin widen. He stepped closer, the mattress dipping as he climbed in beside you, damp skin brushing against your bare legs beneath the sheets. Without hesitation, you shifted closer, molding into his chest like you’d been waiting for this moment all along.

His arm immediately circled around your waist, pulling you flush against him, the weight of his palm pressing firmly yet tenderly into your side. His thumb traced lazy, absent-minded strokes over the soft fabric of his old t-shirt draped on your frame. He buried his face into your hair, inhaling the faint scent of your shampoo and perfume that had long since clung to his pillows, and for the first time all day, he exhaled without restraint.

You nestled deeper, one hand resting on the solid expanse of his chest, fingers curling instinctively into the smooth lines of muscle beneath his damp skin. His heartbeat thrummed steadily under your touch, strong but calm, grounding you in the way only Clark could. Just as the two of you settled, a soft whine broke the moment. Clark cracked one eye open to find Krypto sitting upright at the foot of the bed, tail wagging, gaze fixed expectantly on the small space between you both.

Clark groaned, shaking his head. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” Before he could protest further, Krypto gave a determined hop and wedged himself right into the narrow gap burrowing between your bodies. His cape bunched up against Clark’s ribs, his cold nose pressed insistently into your side before he finally sighed, utterly content. You laughed, reaching down to scratch behind Krypto’s ear.

“Spoiled.” He scoffed, though the fond smile tugging at his lips betrayed his words. With a resigned sigh, he shifted his arm so that it draped over both you and the superdog. Krypto’s tail wagged once before he stilled, his warm body pressed like a living barrier between you two. Clark's arm tightened around you, pulling you impossibly closer, and he pressed a lingering kiss to your temple. You tilted your head up, catching the look in his eyes, the exhaustion still lingering there.

Only now, his features had softened, the tautness in his muscles finally slipping away. He kissed you again, this time slower, his lips brushing tenderly against your forehead. You felt as Clark’s body finally eased, the last traces of tension bleeding out of him as he sank deeper into the mattress with you tangled in his arms. For the first time all day, he wasn’t Superman. He wasn’t Clark Kent, the overworked journalist. He was just yours, wrapped up in love and the quiet comfort of home.

Thanks for reading! likes, reblogs, and comments are always appreciated! Feeling generous? Leave a tip!

[sikayeto]

I have come to the conclusion that this is the FINEST FUCKING MAN ON EARTH.

[sikayeto]

18+ | clark x f!reader

summary: you encourage clark to try something new.

cw: titty-fucking

"Do you wanna?" You ask teasingly, pushing your breasts together to create a soft, warm, and inviting valley. Gosh, it looks devastatingly tempting and Clark's cock twitches in agreement in his pants.

"U-um," Clark stutters, cheeks already a violent red as he tries not to blatantly stare at your chest. "I-I, I—" His eyes subconsciously dart down to your tits again, and you giggle at the small squeak he makes. "I wouldn't, er, want to, want to be disrespectful and, yeah, I—"

"Clark," you say, aiming to pull him from his spiral. "While I adore how gentlmanly and respectful you are, I wouldn't mind you being disrespectful sometimes."

Clark's eyebrows arch up in surprise. "S-seriously?" He asks and you nod with a smile.

"Seriously," you repeat, rising up onto your elbows from where you lie on the bed. "I don't mind being thrown around a bit and being used, y'know? I've always enjoyed it, but I feel like it'd be more fun with you."

"...And why's that?" Clark asks warily, despite already having an idea of what the answer is. He can see it from how wide your smile gets.

"Because you're so cute and fun to tease," you coo, laughing as Clark grows even more flustered. "Plus, I know you'd still be respectful about being disrespectful too."

"Has anyone ever told you you're a piece of work?" Clark asks, calming slightly after a moment.

"You aren't the first to say that, and you won't be the last." You chirp happily, and that has Clark smiling, exasperated but fond.

"Would—?" Clark starts and stops, eyeing your breasts purposefully now. His cock twitches again, eager to feel the warmth of your chest. "You–you really wouldn't mind?"

You firmly shake your head, rising onto your knees and shuffling towards him. His hands are on your bare waist instantly, and he watches as you deftly take off his belt and unzip his pants. His lashes flutter when your hand slips into his boxers, palming at his hardening length.

You lean in closer, your tits pressed against his clothed chest as you murmur, "I really, really wouldn't," into his heated ear.

Clark swallows, holds onto his restraint, but your thumb rubs over the leaking tip of his cock.

A heavy shudder courses through as his restraint slips from his hands. And he's pushing you back onto the bed and climbing over your body, hovering over your stomach. You're staring up at him, eyes blown wide and tongue running over your lips as he frees himself.

"God, Clark," you whisper, reverent, before you're pushing your tits together. "Please, please."

Clark nods shakily, taking hold of his cock and leaning forward to slide it between your tits. Warmth hits him hard, almost hot and gosh, so soft. It's impossible not to moan, a pathetic one tumbling out of him as he pulls out and thrusts in again. He lets go of his cock, the grip of your tits good enough to hold his girth as he slides in and out.

What he leaks makes the valley of your chest nice and wet. It stains you in small drops of wet, smearing with every pass of his cock. And gosh, it feels amazing. It feels so darn good that he never wants to leave; he never wants to part from this experience. With every thrust his orgasm builds and builds, curling tight in his balls as they slap against your soft skin.

And you?

The sight of you further adds to all of this; it heightens it.

You're flushed, lips parted and eyes glassy, and fingers digging into the plush of your breasts. Your thumbs rub circles over your peaked nipples, adding more onto what you're already feeling. Your breath catches, shudders with your pretty eyes crossing ever so slightly.

All because Clark is using you like this, like a toy to be played however he likes.

And something in Clark further snaps, push your hands away so he can grab at your tits. Then he's pushing them together with enough force to make you gasp, to maybe even leave bruises, as his hips work faster. His thumbs find your nipples, rubbing them with mean circles before he's plucking at them, pinching and twisting.

Your back arches, your expression shattering at the immense pleasure coursing through you. And Clark takes that as encouragement to push even more, tossing caution to the wind as he really and truly uses you. Thrusting hard enough to shove your body up the bed, hard enough to make your eyes roll back at what he's doing to you.

"Is-is this okay?" Clark pants out, a wreck of himself. "Am I, ah, am I doing good?"

You nod eagerly, desperate as your hands lace through his over your tits. "Y-you d-doing so well, C-Clark. S-such a g-good boy—!"

Clark whimpers, whines deep from his throat at the praise. He's about to cum, he can feel it. It's about to punch him mercilessly in the stomach and coat you in his spend, dripping in white and maybe some will get in your mouth and—

He's curling over you, cumming hard enough to see stars. His hips slam between your tits once, twice, thrice as he shudders above you, whinning loudly as he crumbles from within from the heavy heat.

You're moaning, open mouth catching spurts of his cum as you peer up at him with heart-shaped eyes and—

Clark swears he passes out.

[sikayeto]

finding the right words

pairing: clark kent x fem!receptionist!reader

summary: clark kent is already late to work as is, so what’s the harm of a little longer spent with you? (you and clark spend mornings at the office doing the crossword together)

word count: 5.1k

content: fluff!!!, mutual pining aka a couple of idiots, flirting, probably some daily planet related inaccuracies (i’m still learning), she/her pronouns for r, first kiss!

a/n: hiii angels!!! this is my first official clark fic!! i had so much fun writing it and (even tho im sooo nervous to share) i hope you love it!! corenswet!clark truly changes a woman hehe

✐ᝰ.ᐟ

You’d involved Clark into your morning routine at the Daily Planet by accident. Mostly.

There’s only so much to do as a receptionist, especially at the very beginning of the day. Mainly, it’s saying hello to everyone that walks in, connecting calls to the right extensions, lots and lots of clicking things on your computer. Scheduling meetings for Perry, looking through 3D house tours when you’re bored. The usual.

So, naturally, you’d started ‘testing’ the paper’s crossword puzzles as you sipped your coffee to pass the time.

You did them by yourself at first. And you’re not too proud to admit that you sometimes used your computer to look up the answers you didn’t know. Clark banned this once he got involved, but hey, at least you learned something.

And then, one morning, Clark was there at the perfect time. Walking in late as always, looking flustered but no less handsome.

You’d been stuck on this crossword since you’d started it. It was Friday, and the Daily Planet’s puzzles grew more difficult each day of the week.

When Clark came in a good 25 minutes late, instead of leaving it at your usual exchange of “hello” and “how are you,” you stopped him.

“Hey, Clark?”

He’d already been a few steps away, heading toward his desk, but he stopped when you spoke. Turned around with bright eyes. If he was a dog, his ears would have been perked, you think.

“Yeah?”

He was back in front of your desk before you could speak, glasses slipping down his nose slightly where he looked at you seated in your rolling chair.

“Whirlybird, nine letters. Have anything?”

Clark glanced down at the crossword sitting on your desk, a little smile flashing over his face. “Did you try ‘eggbeater’?”

You looked back to your paper, pencil held in preparation, and of course — of course — it worked.

“Oh, you’re good, Kent.”

He smiled, crooked and somehow proud and bashful at once.

At first, you really were stuck on that prompt and were prepared to ask whoever walked in next, but you were glad it was Clark.

Because, like a lot of people in the office, you have a bit of a crush on him. You’d never spoken enough for it to be anything more, but you have two working eyes and you’ve witnessed him be sweet to literally everyone.

He’s gorgeous, obviously. Curls framing his face, glasses sitting on his nose, a sharp jaw, dimples that are on his face more often than not because he seems to be smiling constantly. His shirt tight over his shoulders and biceps, his pants a little short at the ankles because he’s so damn tall.

You could keep going on, but even more than his appearance, he is undeniably kind.

An intern drops a tray of coffees, Clark is there with paper towels. Someone needs a last minute edit of their article, Clark is the first to offer. Hell, one time, the newsroom was such a mess, he stayed behind to help the janitor clean up. You could go on about things like that, too.

So yeah, you like him. It’s almost impossible not to.

That day, you needed help, but you also saw an opportunity, and you knew (still know, even now) that Clark just couldn’t say no to lending a helping hand. You banked on it even, because just as he was about to turn away, you stopped him again.

“You know, I could use a partner on this one. Friday crosswords always get me.” You tapped your pencil against your cheek. “If you have time, I mean.”

He didn’t. He shouldn’t have time, but he’s Clark so he agreed.

Unbeknownst to you, Clark had been trying to get himself to say more than five words to you every morning. He thinks you’re beautiful and sweet and fun, and even though a lot of people underestimate you, he has a feeling things would be about ten times more chaotic at the Daily Planet if it weren’t for you.

He set his briefcase down and leaned against your desk. He didn’t leave until the crossword was finished, effectively making him fall even further behind on work.

Since then, he’s been doing the crossword with you almost every single morning. You can count on one hand the times he’s missed it.

It started slowly. You would ask him prompts every couple of days when he came in, luring him into joining you until you didn’t even have to ask anymore, he’d just take his place by your desk and lean over to see the puzzle for himself.

Simply reading the prompts together and filling it out turned into learning how smart he is, how quick. It turned into sharing little stories about your crappy apartment or his Ma and Pa back home between questions. It turned into something like friendship.

And, occasionally, it turned into flirting via prompts. You tested the waters that way, toed a line. You ask Clark questions like ‘ways in which to show affection, ex: physical touch‘ just to hear him say the words love language.

Once, he’d stayed behind at the office so late that he got his hands on the next morning’s crossword and he took the liberty of leaving it on your desk with his guesses marked in pencil next to the prompts. He knows you like to be the one to write in the boxes.

He wasn’t at work the next day, but when you walked in, that crossword sat on your desk with a neon yellow sticky note on top from Clark, signed with a stupid smiley face.

You still have the note.

Today, Clark leans on your desk the same as always, two hands splayed on the wood to hold him up, his head bent at an awkward angle to read the puzzle.

“Why don’t you just pull up a chair?” you ask. “Won’t your neck get sore like that?”

“I have to be prepared to run in case Perry sees. An extra chair next to you is pretty incriminating.”

“But Perry loves me.”

“Yes, and he tolerates me.”

“Aww, Clark. I don’t think it’s possible to only tolerate you, you’re too charming.”

“I don’t think charming is the right word here.”

“Well, I do.”

Clark shakes his head and tries to pretend to be normal about that. He’s probably failing, because his face feels warm already and he can’t stop looking at your eyes and how they shine whenever you tease him like that.

Charming. Sure.

A minute later you almost laugh to yourself at one of the prompts. Too perfect not to voice it.

“Flirt,” you say.

His eyes whip up from the page and to your face. “I- what?”

“Flirt, five letters,” you point at the paper. “Get your head in the game, Kent.”

“Oh!” He scratches at the back of his neck, pushes his glasses up, then, with a tinge of pink to his cheeks says: “Vixen, tempt. Tease.”

Now you’re the one feeling warm. Yes, it’s your own doing (you’d wanted to hear him recite the words) but you don’t think you’ll ever unhear that. The way his voice went quieter, lower.

The way his arms are perched right in your eyeline, sleeves rolled up, hands tensing against your desk.

Vixen, tempt. Tease.

The words play in your mind every time you tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. Every time Clark pushes his sleeve up further or laughs or smiles at you or solves a tougher clue like it’s obvious.

Vixen, when you bite the end of the pencil while you think, Clark’s eyes tracking the movement. Tempt, when he stays with you far too long that morning; Perry’s in a meeting, and it’s almost lunch when you finish the crossword and Clark tears himself away.

Tease, when you watch him walk to his desk. When you catch him turning around to look at you one more time.

-

You’re half asleep when Clark comes in a few days later, elbow resting on the smooth surface of your desk, chin perched in your hand. You’ve been staring at this month’s calendar for fifteen minutes now, your blinking growing heavier and heavier.

You jolt when a coffee is placed in front of you, right next to the paper open to the crossword you’ve yet to start. Clark is on the other end of that coffee, smiling kindly and maybe a little teasingly.

“Good morning, sleepyhead.”

“Only-” you stifle a yawn, checking the time on your monitor “-seventeen minutes late today. Is that a new record?”

“I greet you with coffee and you’re on my case already. Wow.”

He goes to take the cup back, you smack his hand away, and he winces and clutches it to his chest like it hurts. You know it doesn’t. You’d never actually smack Clark, and you’re too tired to muster up the energy, anyway.

“No take-backs, Kent. I need this.”

“I can tell,” he says, not malicious or judgemental, just honest, genuinely concerned, “you okay?”

You take a sip of your coffee, “Fine, yeah. Couldn’t really sleep last night. Superman vs. alien was happening down the block.”

“Don’t tell Lois, she’ll want every detail out of you.”

“Too late. She knows where I live, so..” you shrug, “I don’t mind. Finally I’ll get my own name in the paper.”

Clark had no idea you’d been close to the action last night, and he’s glad that you’re okay. If anything, it’s probably best he didn’t know at the time. Superman can’t do his job properly if he’s worrying about you mid-battle.

“I’m surprised you weren’t there after to get an interview,” you say.

“No, I was in bed. Sleeping. Obviously.”

You raise your eyebrows at him.

“I don’t interview him every time something happens. Just when he’s.. willing.” He clears his throat when you squint at him. “Read me a clue.”

You want to say something else, something about how his subject change was not subtle, but then he’s dipping down and leaning into his elbows rather than his hands.

Suddenly he’s closer, and you can smell his cologne and see the dimension in his eyes. Yeah, impossible to say no to him.

You look away from his face and onto the page. You can feel the weight of his gaze on you as you skim the words, and you fight a laugh when you get to the one you decide to read aloud.

“Oh! Speaking of… Superman’s weakness, ten letters.”

“Kryptonite.”

Clark realizes his mistake as soon as he speaks. It isn’t that he’s wrong (obviously) it’s that he nearly cut you off with the speed of his reply. And, according to the pleased smirk on your face, you noticed.

He straightens, because you’re reading him a little too closely, and because (if he wasn’t.. who he is) his back would be hurting from leaning the way he had been.

“Maybe I should time you on this next one,” you tease. “Power often used by Superman, six letters.”

“It’s flight,” he answers easily. When you give him another look, he adds: “These are commonly known facts!”

“Maybe by you, mister Superman expert.”

You’re teasing him, clearly. Because yeah these are facts that most people know, especially if they work at the Daily Planet where someone is talking about him pretty much all the time.

The property damage vs. lives saved debate. Once, it was: are the trunks really necessary?

“Yeah, well I do- uh, interview him a lot. So I know the guy.”

Clark tends to defend Superman, you’ve noticed. Most of the office has. He writes about him favorably in his pieces, after all.

You agree with him, but it’s fun to rile him up, to hear him get a little defensive, his voice higher, a hand running through his hair and leaving a curl sticking up.

“I thought it was just when he was willing.”

“He is often willing.”

“Yes, I know. It’s often on the front page.”

Clark is biting back a smile, you can tell because of his dimples. Always giving him away. You laugh as he grabs the paper from your desk, pushing up his glasses and holding it up as if he’s reading straight from the page.

He isn’t, because he says, “Oh, look, you’re in this one! Daily Planet receptionist who thinks she’s hilarious.”

You gasp, feigning offense. “What happened to Clark Kent the sweetheart?”

And Clark knows you’re just joking around, but you calling him sweetheart in any form is enough to have his cheeks warm, the tips of his ears going pink.

“Still here,” he says, setting the paper back down in front of you. He leans down slightly to do it. You poke his dimple.

“Yeah, he is.”

Then you’re back to the crossword.

Both of you should be doing actual work. You answer the phone when it rings, but still. Clark surely has writing or editing to do, and while you don’t have a specific to-do list, something always comes up.

But it’s so easy to get lost in this, to pretend like maybe you’re at your kitchen island in the morning instead of at your desk in an office full of people. To imagine a room bathed in the warmth of sunrise rather than the harsh overhead lighting of the office. One that smells like breakfast and home and not stale coffee and printer sheets.

The world slows. It’s just you and Clark and paper and a pencil.

Twenty minutes and a completed crossword later, Clark heads over to his desk. He loves his job, and he likes being around Lois and Jimmy and everyone, he only wishes that your desk wasn’t so far away.

The mornings are all he gets with you, and by the time he finishes work, you’re already gone. If he was better at this sort of thing, he’d have asked you on a date that first day, but he isn’t, and he didn’t.

Clark’s chair creaks when he sits, his briefcase set onto his desk. He doesn’t even have time to turn his computer on before Lois and Jimmy are on him.

“Kent’s here!” Jimmy cheers. “How’s your girlfriend doing today?”

“She’s not my-” Clark looks between Lois (who takes a sip of coffee and gives him a pointed look over her mug) and Jimmy and quickly realizes he’s not winning that battle.

-

It’s a wonder that you and Clark have yet to get in any actual trouble for hanging out on company time. Save the teasing from your coworkers and Perry’s shouted admonishments, of course.

Clark is only twenty minutes late today. He walks in with his usual flustered trying-not-to-look-flustered look and his hands full. Briefcase in one hand, but this time, it isn’t a coffee in the other.

It’s a small bouquet of flowers.

“Who are you trying to butter up with those?” you ask him, nodding to the blooms clutched gently in his fist.

“I’m not,” he tells you. Not lightly, either. It’s not unkind — Clark never is — but it’s firm. “They’re for you, actually.”

You instantly feel sort of like a jerk. “I’m sorry, Clark, I didn’t-”

“You don’t need to be sorry. Just take them. Please.”

You do just that, his fingers brushing yours when he hands them over. There’s a half-drank glass of water on your desk. You plop the bouquet into it.

“They’re lovely. Thank you,” you trace the edge of a petal. “What for?”

“Does there have to be an occasion?”

He looks nervous, which isn’t unusual for Clark, but it’s sweet all the same.

Despite your feelings, you’d never really bought into the idea that there would be anything more with Clark. You believed that you would flirt with him forever and that would be enough.

But right now, with his smile both bright and unsure, you feel like maybe, just maybe, you could have been wrong about that. That maybe one day he’ll see you outside of your office clothes and out from behind your desk. That you could hold his hand and he could lead you through crowded sidewalks.

And maybe, if you’re lucky, you really could be doing crosswords in his kitchen in your underwear and one of his shirts.

Clark Kent the sweetheart. You smile to yourself.

“No,” you almost whisper. “No occasion necessary.”

Clark’s smile is instant and gorgeous. Like you’ve just told him the best news ever, like he’s won something.

He’d been nervous coming in, but when he walked past the vendor on the sidewalk and saw the flowers he thought of you and bought them without really thinking about it. Clark’s palm was sweating against the stems. It’s worth it, though, for the reaction he got, for this moment that feels like a declaration.

The first bouquet of many, he hopes.

Then your phone is ringing and the bubble pops, the noises of the office come back into focus where they’d been muffled before. Printers and keyboards and chair wheels and mice. You pick up the phone, say a quick hello, and transfer the call to the right person.

“That one was for Perry,” you say after hanging up. “He sounded mad. Let’s get this crossword done before he comes out asking me why I give him calls he doesn’t wanna sit through.”

(Always joking, you know that. But to a lot of people Perry’s jokes just sound like Perry being serious.)

So you start the crossword, an easier one today. Clark answers obscure, niche questions with ease and you’re reminded of how nerdy (and adorable) he is. He reads you the easy ones and makes you feel like a genius for getting them right.

With only four words left to go, Perry comes out of his office. You take one look at his face and know the call didn’t go well, and that you probably shouldn’t take your chances with getting caught today.

You’d be fine, probably. But Clark would get a lecture about already being late enough as is, surely.

“Clark, hide,” you mutter.

“What?”

“Frustrated Perry incoming. Hide.”

Instead of running out the door or something, Clark literally vaults himself over your desk and stuffs himself underneath it, thankful for the panel in the front that hides your legs, and Clark, from view.

The fabric of his shirt brushes against your bare leg, and you’re suddenly reminded that you’re wearing a skirt today. You breathe in sharply and cross your legs, your foot knocking against Clark’s bent knee. You tuck the pencil behind your ear and start clicking around on your computer, making yourself look busy.

Beneath your desk, Clark is trying not to burst. He can smell the lotion you use on your legs and can feel your ankle through his clothes whenever you shift. There’s a tiny scar on your knee he wants to ask you about.

He resists the urge to trace it, to run a fingertip down the length of your calf.

What has he done?

You look up when Perry approaches, smiling innocently. “Hey, boss.”

“I thought I told you not to give me any angry business men on the phone until I’ve had lunch.”

He shakes a finger at you. You try not to laugh.

“I can’t control their tempers, Perry.”

“Maybe you should talk to ‘em longer. Calm ‘em down before you send them to me.”

“You can’t fool me, I know you like to argue. You’re secretly grateful for that call. Got your blood pumping.”

Perry rolls his eyes at you. It’s fond, you think.

He rolls up his sleeve and checks his watch. “Did Kent come in yet?”

You shake your head, “Haven’t seen him, sorry.”

“Damn kid’s gonna give me an aneurysm.”

“Too bad you kinda need him for all those Superman exclusives, huh?”

Clark pinches your ankle beneath the table, you kick him gently in return.

Later, you’ll think of that small touch, the gentleness and playfulness of it, and you’ll replay it over and over. You’ll feel that same warmth spread up your leg, blooming from where he’d touched you. You’ll place your fingers exactly where his had been and squeeze.

Right now, you’re a little busy trying to get Perry away.

Your boss grumbles something at your comment. Louder, he says, “Well when you see him tell him I want to talk to him.”

“Will do, boss.”

You salute, Perry makes a sour face then walks off.

Once he’s safely out of view, you push your chair back and duck down so you can see Clark. He’s completely squished under your desk, crouching on his knees, his neck bent awkwardly.

You stifle a laugh at the sight. “The coast is clear.”

He nods and shuffles out from under the desk, you move your chair back more to give him some room. Of course, Clark manages to bump his head on his way up, rustling every single thing on your desk.

“Clark!” You cover your mouth, but still, a giggle bursts out of you. “Real discreet.”

“I’m sorry that my head trauma might draw some attention,” he mumbles.

“Aww, let me see,” you reach for him, and he’s still kneeling so you don’t have to reach very far. You run your fingers over his hairline, right where he’d bumped his head, pushing his hair away and tracing the spot. “No bump, no scratch.”

You’re a little surprised. If he’d hit his head with enough force to move things, you’d expect there to be some physical evidence of it besides the bit of water that escaped your glass-turned-vase.

Later, much like you’ll think about his hand on your ankle, Clark will think of yours in his hair.

“Maybe just to my ego,” he says, standing up fully. As if he even has a big one. Clark dusts off his knees, pushes his glasses up. “Gosh, that was close.”

“You know, you could have just run around the desk instead of jumping over the thing.”

“Yes, I probably could have,” he nods, hands on his hips as if he’s assessing the situation. “I also probably would have tripped and fallen if I tried. These floors are quite slippery.”

“Quite,” you nod.

Today, Clark finishes the crossword on the same side of the desk as you. You even let him write the last word, watching his tongue poke out in focus.

You spend much of the rest of the day looking at the flowers he brought you, pinching a stem between your fingers to make sure this morning was real.

-

Clark has yet to show up today. If it was twenty minutes, an hour, maybe even two, you wouldn’t have questioned it. That’s normal for him. However, it’s been three.

Sure, he’s been away before. Sick or had a day off like anyone else. You hadn’t been close enough to him to worry then. Now, after spending nearly every single morning with him, it’s strange for him not to be around. You feel his absence like a cloud looming over your desk.

The paper is open to the crossword page, your pencil sitting over it. You haven’t touched it yet. It feels wrong to do one without Clark.

The TV further in the office is turned up, Superman flying around and saving people and breaking things fills the room. Many reporters are gathered in front of the screen, Lois in front of the bunch.

You, on the other hand, are looking up Clark’s listed phone number in the system.

You’re glad that pretty much everyone else has something to distract them as you pick up your office phone and dial his number. It rings and rings and rings until you’re greeted with his voicemail. You’re not exactly surprised he didn’t pick up, but you’d hoped he would.

Still, the sound of his voice and the way he trips over his words once or twice makes you smile softly, twisting the phone cord around your finger. You hesitate when the beep sounds, momentarily worried that you’re doing a little too much, that you shouldn’t have called at all, but you care and you want him to know that.

“Hi, Clark,” you start. “It’s me, I mean, you know that, obviously. I just wanted to make sure you’re okay, so let me know. I’ll be here, crossword at the ready. Um. Bye.”

You hang up and drop your face into your hands. A big part of your job is quite literally making phone calls, and that was probably the most awkward voicemail you’ve ever left in your life.

A tiny groan escapes you before you straighten. Clark Kent has you completely twisted up. You miss him and you saw him yesterday.

A small group of Daily Planet reporters and staff seem to be leaving to head towards the action, Jimmy and Lois included. You stop them right before they head out the door.

“Do you guys know where Clark is?” you ask, trying to sound unbothered, just curious. Judging by the look they share, you fail.

“No idea,” Jimmy says, “but it’s Clark. He always shows up eventually.”

“Right,” you nod.

“Don’t worry,” Lois adds. “He’ll turn up looking like a puppy and all will be right in the world.”

You smile at them and watch them go. The office is a little quieter once they do, that steady buzz still present, just smaller. You turn back to your computer and answer emails until Jimmy and Lois come back, rushing towards their desks to work on the latest Superman news, surely.

Still no sign of Clark.

Actually, he doesn’t show up until most of the office has left, until you’re standing up and packing your bag. Half of the lights are off, the space significantly quieter than usual. And just as you’re slinging your bag onto your shoulder, Clark Kent bursts through the door, skittering to a stop in front of your desk.

His hair is a windswept mess, his glasses are hanging on the tip of his nose; he pushes them up just as you think it. He’s not wearing a tie or a jacket, just a dress shirt that you think might be buttoned wrong. It isn’t even tucked in.

“Kent, you’re late,” you grumble in your best Perry impression. It’s terrible but Clark still laughs.

“I’m sorry, I was-” his hand waves around loosely. “I couldn’t get here until now.”

“You don’t have to apologize, Clark. I’m not actually your boss.”

“I’m not sorry I missed work,” he says. He takes a few steps closer, until his shoes touch the front of your desk and it’s the only thing in between you. “I’m sorry that I missed this morning.”

“Oh.”

You’ve imagined a moment like this so many times. Thought about what you might say to him, how you’d tell him that you cherish those mornings and want to have evenings and afternoons and everything that feels just like them. Better, even. Now, you don’t have the words. Can’t find them.

Just your purse slipping down your shoulder and onto your desk with a dull thump. Just your eyes focused on Clark’s, so kind and open and hopeful.

“I was never a morning person when I was younger, my Ma would tell you the same, but you make it easier to wake up. You’ve converted me. Mornings are my favorite time of day now.”

Clark is practically panting, his palms sticky and his eyes searching your face.

When he got home from Superman duties, and he’d seen a missed call from the office, he hesitated at first. Didn’t want to deal with work just then, but something in him urged him to listen to the voicemail. He’s eternally glad he did.

Because he heard you, all sweet and concerned. You being the one stumbling, for once. You caring about him enough to call.

He knew then and there that he had to do something. That he couldn’t let this thing between you go unspoken anymore. He’s tired of not saying what he means, even if it scares him.

“Clark, I.. I really like mornings, too.” And you. Even more so, I like you.

He smiles, huffs softly like he can’t believe this is happening. You can’t, either.

Clark hands you a small box you hadn’t even noticed he’d been carrying. You open it and find a cupcake, some icing smudged on the lid and the sides from his rushing. Your favorite flavor, and you don’t even remember ever telling him what it was.

At your distraction, Clark twists the crossword on your desk towards himself and picks up the pencil. He pauses briefly at finding it completely empty still. The smallest thing, the absence of action, really, but it warms him. It says enough.

He writes in a few of the boxes, then spins it back to face you.

You set the cupcake box aside gently and lean down to see what he’s written. The words are jumbled and they certainly don’t match up with the clues. “Clark, these are wrong-”

“Just read what it says. Trust me.”

So you do, the words coming together to form a phrase that makes your stomach flip. Will you go on a date with me?

You climb onto the desk and sit on the edge in front of him. It isn’t the most graceful thing, but you suddenly feel the urge to be much closer to him, and Clark watches you move like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

He’s standing between your legs, his hands coming down to rest atop the desk beside your thighs. Framing each other in. Two pieces clicking into place.

“So, will you?”

“Three letters, affirmative agreement.” You straighten his collar for him. “Need me to solve that one for you?”

“Mm, just to be sure.” His thumbs skim the side seams of your pants.

“Yes, Clark. Of course.”

He smiles again, and you can’t help but mirror it with your own. His nose brushes yours, his hands shifting to hold your hips.

There’s nobody left inside but the two of you, but even if there were people around, you don’t think you’d care. All you see is Clark, all you feel.

The tip of his nose slides against yours again, like a question. “You gonna kiss me or what, Kent?”

“Before the first date?” he asks.

“I think we’re long past that, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” he breathes, and then his lips are on yours.

Your hands tighten on his shoulders, his fingers dig gently into your thighs. It’s soft and delicate but it’s also hungry, in a way. In how he tugs you closer, how he pulls back briefly to smile before diving in again.

If you’ve noticed any oddities surrounding him and Superman lately, they’re forgotten at the moment. You aren’t too concerned, anyway. That’s a puzzle for another day.

For now, it’s you and him and nothing else. It’s seven letters, no flaws, best possible outcome.

It’s perfect.

✐ᝰ.ᐟ

thank you so much for reading! if you enjoyed please consider leaving a comment and/or a reblog!! it’s the only thing that helps others see my writing and would mean so much <3

[sikayeto]

Reader is weakkk for some Clark neck kisses while pregnant. Praises her on everything she’s done for him a whole heartfelt praise on giving him a family, something to come home too… no smut just some fluff neck kisses 🥺 the kitchen scene is embedded in the mind lol ( I don’t know if I doubled sent this too you?!) if I did I apologize!

Superdad in training

Pairing: Clark Kent x fem!reader

Masterlist | Who am i? | REQUESTS ARE OPEN!

a/n: I would also let him impregnate me ngl

No warnings or spoilers for the film! Word count: 1.4k

The rooftop belonged to the two of you. Not officially, of course, because the building had its rules, its lease clauses and common space policies—but over time, the rooftop had quietly become yours. Strung fairy lights danced across the concrete railing, a cozy bench sat in the corner with a slightly threadbare blanket tucked over the backrest and a few struggling potted herbs lined the edge like hopeful, green confetti. 

It wasn’t much but it was yours. 

You were bathing in the afternoon sun, one hand resting absentmindedly on the curve of your belly, when a familiar low whoosh hit the air, followed by the gentle scrape of boots touching down and a gust of wind that curled around your ankles like a welcome-home greeting.

Clark landed behind you with a box in his hand and a look on his face that said he’d been flying too fast and too far for you. After all, a car ride was rarely an option.

“What’re you doing out here?” he asked, voice warm but already threaded with concern. “It’s not safe.”

You laughed, not because it was funny, but because it was so him. “Clark,” you said, turning slightly, hand still protectively resting on your bump, “you literally reinforced the railing…twice and tested it. I couldn’t fall off this rooftop if I tried.”

His brows tugged together. “I know. I just…” His eyes flicked downward for a beat to your stomach, then your feet and finally to the box of donuts in his hand before meeting yours again. “I worry.”

“You always do.” You smiled.

“And I always will.”

You stood and stepped toward him. He closed the distance in the way he always did, with gentle touches and that quiet, whole-body sort of love that made you feel like the center of the galaxy.

“I got the ones you like,” he murmured, lifting the box. “From that place in Chicago.”

You gasped, dramatic and delighted, reaching for it. “You flew halfway across the country for powdered donuts with cream filling and rainbow sprinkles?”

“I’d fly across the universe for you,” he said easily, walking you toward the stairs with a gentle arm on your lower back.

You snorted through a smile, letting him lead you. “You’re such a sap.”

“And you keep falling for it.”

By the time you were inside the apartment, barefoot and glowing from fresh air, you were already halfway through your second donut. Clark trailed you into the kitchen like a shadow made of soft cotton and love, peeling off his jacket and rolling up his sleeves.

You stood there chewing thoughtfully with a few rogue sprinkles dotting your shirt.

He stepped up behind you, sliding his arms around your waist with the reverence of someone holding the whole world. His hands splayed gently over the curve of your belly, thumbs brushing idle circles like a lullaby for the little one growing inside you.

“You’re really doing this,” he whispered against your neck, lips brushing skin with featherlight care. “You’re creating a whole person…a whole life.”

You tilted your head slightly, offering more of your neck without meaning to. He took the invitation with a smile and another kiss.

“Didn’t do that one alone…”

“I know, I just–” His voice cracked a little and he pressed his lips against the same spot again, like anchoring himself to the moment. “I still can’t believe it. That I get this…you, this baby and a home to come back to.”

You stayed quiet, chewing slower now, blinking back something soft and messy from your lashes. He kissed the shell of your ear and kept talking, low and steady, voice wrapped in honesty.

“I grew up thinking I'd always have to be two people. That there’d never be space for both, but somehow…you found room for both of them. You don’t just love the reporter or the cape, you love me and you gave me a family.”

You turned slightly, donut still in hand, neck warm from affection. “You make it very easy to love you, Kent.”

He chuckled softly and kissed your jaw once more, then rested his chin on your shoulder and swayed you gently back and forth. “Even when I hover like an overprotective nurse?”

“Especially then.”

A beat passed. You finished the last bite of your donut and licked powdered sugar off your fingers.

“Hey, can you do me a favor?”

He hummed. “Anything.”

You nudged him lightly. “Can you take a peek in there? Just…let me know if the baby’s got the middle finger up or something.. You know, like those memes? I swear, ‘baby of steel’ kicked me with an attitude earlier and it’s really not my fault I couldn't stop sneezing. I don’t want this to be our first fight.”

Clark pulled back slightly and laughed, that deep, honey-warm laugh you loved. His eyes flicked downward for just a second, long enough for a discreet scan before he smiled again.

“She’s smiling,” he said softly, hand still rubbing circles against your belly. “Kind of.”

You blinked. “...She?”

His smile froze and your jaw dropped, sugar-dusted mouth hanging open. “You said she!”

Clark looked like a man caught in a courtroom cross-examination. “I didn’t say—well…I didn’t mean–”

“You totally did! Clark, I’m pregnant, not deaf.”

You could read the apology on his face but you were already squealing, eyes wide and half-laughing, half-crying, as you bounced on your toes in pure, unfiltered joy.

“She?!” you shouted again, holding your belly with one hand. “Clark, she?! Oh my god! We’re having a baby girl?!”

You started to do a little victory hop,  just a tiny one…a celebration bounce but Clark’s arms immediately shot out in alarm, hands hovering like airbags.

“No jumping!” he yelped, already trying to steady you. “Feet on the ground, sweetheart! Flat. Both feet!”

You only laughed harder, utterly radiant with happiness, tears springing into your eyes and powdered sugar still dotting your mouth. “I’m fine! I’m just happy! I’m so happy!”

Clark didn’t answer, he was already walking briskly toward the living room, opening drawers and scanning the shelves like a man on a mission, while muttering under his breath. “Where’s the book? The baby one with the illustrations, the index and the emergency checklist. You were jumping…That counts as an impact, right? I don’t know. Where is it?”

You followed, half-laughing, half-concerned, as he located the dog-eared maternity guide and flipped through it with the intensity of someone researching a potential alien invasion.

“Clark,” you said gently.

“One second, baby.”

“Clark.” you said again, grinning and slightly breathless. “How long have you known?”

He froze mid-page flip and answered sheepishly without looking up. “A few days, you kept tossing in your sleep.” He paused, “Couldn’t help it, my eyes wander when I’m worried.”

Your chest tightened around the affection and the swell of something too big for words but he was already talking again before you could say anything. 

“Sweetheart, maybe put on your shoes.”

You blinked. “My shoes? Are we getting celebration donuts? I’m kinda hungry.”

“We’re taking a trip to the hospital,” he said, still flipping pages at hyperspeed. “Not for anything bad. Just a precaution…soft precaution. We’ll call first, I’ll carry you and get you more donuts after but we’re going.”

You burst out laughing again before crossing the room to him and throwing your arms around his body from behind—the powdered sugar from your face leaving a faint print on his back.

“She’s fine, okay?” you whispered. “And so am I.”

He stilled, then slowly lowered the book and turned in your arms. Big, warm hands finding their place once more over the life you were both months away from meeting.

“She’s fine,” he repeated. “And so are you.”

You hummed and leaned forward, resting your head on his chest, cheek pressing against the soft stretch of his shirt now. There, beneath your ear, was the steady thunder of his heart, only not so steady right now.

“Your heart’s beating really fast,” you murmured.

Clark stilled for a beat. Then gave you a tight, nervous hum that sounded like it came with too many spiraling thoughts.

You grinned into his chest, patted his back and caved. “I’ll go put on my shoes.”

He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for the last three minutes, head tipping back in blessed relief. You pulled away slowly, still laughing under your breath as you padded out of the room, voice lilting just loud enough for yourself.

“Good thing you didn’t see the backflip I did to get out of bed this morning—” You joked.

“What!?” came Clark’s alarmed voice behind you, sharp with concern.

You froze mid-step, grinning. “Nothing, Smallville!” you called sweetly but he was already following, half-panicked and full of love.  “You said a backflip?!” He asked, and the apartment echoed with your laughter and the warm, overprotective footsteps of the man who loved you more than gravity.

----

Likes, reblogs and comments are always greatly appreciated! ❤️

[sikayeto]

in the past 24 hours

IPC formally declared famine in Gaza

Israeli article shows internal IDF documents confirm at least 83% of Palestinian casualties are civilians, making the civilian to combatant casualty ratio equivalent only to that of genocides such as Rwanda or Srebrenica and taking it far outside former conflict ratios

Previous State Spox Matthew Miller admits Netanyahu told them the war would go on "for decades" and that he had known Israel was the primary obstacle to the ceasefire negotiations for the past two years, despite publicly blaming Hamas for not accepting ceasefires

these are all things that we already knew, things i have repeatedly fought with users here on, things that are being confirmed now that it matters less

[sikayeto]

In fact give us vampire au robby

vampire!robby who switches to night shift and has to steal blood from the blood bank until he comes across you in the er after cutting your hand. he insists on suturing you up even though someone else could do it because your blood smells so good…

he waits until the room is empty to stare into the very depths of your being and tell you ‘don’t scream, sweetheart. everything’s gonna be alright,’ before tilting your head to sink his teeth into your neck.

thanks to the compulsion, you don’t scream.

though that doesn’t stop you from wondering.

“why am i not afraid?”

after one last greedy swallow, robby pulls back to look at you, squinting for a touch cause you’re prettier than he realized. licking the blood from his lips, robby sighs.

“‘cause i told you everything would be alright.”

“but it’s not. you’re a vampire. and you bit me…”

your voice is strange. like you’re there but not, and robby likes that because it’s different. usually they cry or fall into a voiceless stare. but you—you’re asking questions. blinking at him with a cute frown that he wouldn’t hate seeing again.

“very astute observations,” he bobs his head with a small nod, body thrumming with a nice pulse. you’re the first fresh drink he’s had in weeks. “anything else before we continue?”

fuck. you’re actually thinking of something to say, robby can literally see you gears trying to turn.

finally, you flick your eyes to him.

“do i taste good?”

time stops.

you wait expectantly.

robby grins.

[sikayeto]

I LOVEDDDD swear jars and tiny titans!! It’s so adorable and genuinely is such a fun take on the ramifications of Clark having a child.

Idk if you’re planning to write a part 2 but I will most certainly read it if you do 🤍

Supermom in training

Pairing: david!clark kent x fem!reader

⟡ Main Index | ⟡ Archive for Earth-181938

⟡ Here's more of this family part 0 and part 1

Summary: Between defective powers and a tiny, opinionated would-be superhero, Clark finds himself wanting more.

Classification: Fluff with some suggestive comments

Word count: 1,5k

Divider by me ;)

It had been three days since your daughter floated above Mr. Terrific’s lab floor like a delighted balloon. Three days since you’d accidentally bent light around your fingertips like you were auditioning for a sci-fi movie…and three days since the idea of “normal” had quietly packed its bags and moved out of your life.

And in those three days… nothing.

Not a block levitated, not a rug corner fluttered, not a single aura shimmered and also no flying babies.

You were beginning to think the universe was playing a very cruel game of peekaboo.

The kitchen smelled faintly of coffee and overripe bananas as you stood barefoot by the counter, arms crossed and a dishtowel slung over your shoulder. Your daughter was in her high chair, a tiny empress in a kingdom of crushed Cheerios and mashed sweet potato, her wide eyes tracking you as you paced.

“You know, it’s actually kind of rude,” you started, gesturing vaguely with a spoon like you were addressing a town hall. “One minute, we’re bending the laws of physics, the next…poof. Nothing, not even a sparkle and it’s not for a lack of trying.”

Your daughter babbled something around a fistful of cereal dust, nodding solemnly like she understood every word.

“That’s what I’m saying,” you agreed instantly, leaning against the counter. “Your dad, he’s built for it. He thrives when the world expects him to…he hovers in the sky and punches asteroids…or whatever he does with those huge arms of his. Don’t get me wrong, I rather your feet stay on the ground and don’t think I'm gonna let Uncle T make you that supersuit, because I’m not. So, I’m fine if you want to keep your powers on pause for a bit–”

You lowered your voice conspiratorially, tapping the tray in front of her. “But me? I wouldn’t mind if mine came back. Just a little, I mean…how nice would it be if I could fold laundry with my brain or sweep up your cracker explosion without lifting a finger? I could be a supermom.”

You let out a small laugh that wilted quickly. Your shoulders dropped. “…But no. I had to get scared and now I’m just… broken.”

Your daughter squealed, banging both hands against the tray like she was casting her vote.

“Exactly!” you laughed, then sighed, rubbing the bridge of your nose. “Still… It's scary, isn’t it? I don’t want you to think you’re dangerous because of what you can do, because you’re not. You’re perfect and I’m sure your daddy would agree. But sometimes, sweetheart, people look at power and forget about the person who holds it. They start with words like ‘risk’ and ‘mutation’ and next thing you know, they’re trying to legislate who you even are.”

You swallowed, voice softening. “And if you grow up having to carry that weight… Gosh, I just wish I could shield you from it forever but I can’t and that terrifies me more than anything else.”

The kitchen went quiet except for the faint thwack, thwack of your daughter smacking her spoon against the high chair tray, as if applauding your monologue.

You chuckled weakly, turning away to fuss with the coffee pot even though it was empty. “Thanks for the pep talk, kiddo… and people say you can’t birth your best friends.”

And that’s when you heard the floor creak.

Before you could even think, your chest tightened, adrenaline sparking hot under your skin and suddenly the air shimmered. It wasn’t just a reflex; it was instinct. A translucent field bloomed outward from where you stood, wrapping you and your daughter in a cocoon of warped light.

The world tilted before you heard a thump and then a crunch as something… no, someone collided with the wall hard enough to dent the drywall.

You gasped, turning wide-eyed toward the sound just as the shimmering field dissolved around you.

“Clark?!”

Sure enough, your husband was standing against the far wall, shoulders hunched like he’d just taken a linebacker tackle. Behind him, a comical crater in the plaster framed his silhouette perfectly and dust trickled down onto his jacket.

Clark blinked once, then adjusted his glasses like that would somehow restore his dignity. “...I, uh, was gonna knock.”

You clapped a hand over your mouth, torn between horror and laughter. “Oh my God. Did I just–?”

Before you could finish, your daughter let out a delighted giggle, smacking her palms together in a clumsy little clap, clearly thrilled by the sight of her dad-shaped dent in the wall.

“Throw me across the kitchen? Yeah and my own kid’s applauding, which is just great.” he said, his voice wry but calm, stepping forward and brushing more drywall off his shoulders. “But I guess we know your reflexes are working.”

You turned toward the high chair, trying to gather yourself, only to find your daughter grinning at you through a mask of mashed sweet potato. Her cheeks were sticky and hands even worse, like she’d been finger-painting with lunch.

You let out a weak laugh, dragging a hand down your face before looking back at Clark. “We were just… how much of that did you hear?”

Clark straightened, scratching the back of his head. He had been five blocks away when he heard your daughter’s loud giggle and started listening in. “Enough to know you’re not broken, neither of you.”

Your stomach flipped, equal parts embarrassment and relief. “…So all of it.”

“Pretty much.” His expression softened, the corners of his mouth lifting. “And you don’t need powers to be the supermom you already are.”

You let out a reluctant laugh, feeling some of the tension drain from your chest. “So corny.”

“You liked it,” he said with a grin. “Your heart jumped.”

“It also did when I did that,” you pointed toward the dent in the wall.

Clark glanced back at the mark, running his thumb over the cracked paint. “Don’t worry. I’ll fix it later, just add it to the list.” His lips twitched, almost smiling. “Right between ‘replace the toaster’ and ‘buy more baby wipes.’”

Despite yourself, you snorted. He turned back to you then, his expression gentling as he crossed the room. He reached out, carefully, as if not to spook your powers again. 

“I’m sorry I scared you, sweetheart, it won’t happen again.” His hand brushed your arm, reassuring you.

You nodded, still catching your breath then caught the way his mouth curved, just slightly, into a mischievous grin.

Clark set a gentle hand on your hip. Then, he hooked his finger into a belt loop and gave a careful tug, drawing you closer. “Although…” He tilted his head, lowering his voice, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Hypothetically, if we were to have another baby… would this get worse?”

Your brows shot up. “Clark–”

“‘Cause I-I think I like worse,” he added quickly, a sheepish laugh bubbling out of him, ears turning faintly pink.

Before you could answer, your daughter wrinkled her tiny face, lower lip trembling. Then came the wail, loud and piercing with full toddler disapproval.

You both froze, staring at her, before you turned slowly back to Clark, deadpan. “I don’t think she likes the sound of that…sorry.”

You held up a hand and gave him a light, playful push on the chest.

Clark winced dramatically, pretending to stagger from your “force,” then bent down and scooped her up from the high chair to soothe her. “Okay, okay. Message received. No petitions for siblings before the princess’ bedtime.”

You shook your head, still half-laughing, half-shaking with leftover adrenaline, as you watched Clark cradle your very unimpressed super-toddler. He gently pressed one hand over her ear and tucked the other against his chest, mouthing, “Renegotiate tonight?”

Your daughter fussed, smothering his white shirt with her sticky little face coated in sweet mashed potatoes. You laughed, leaning against the counter. “Take that shirt off and I’ll think about reconsidering.”

His eyes flicked to yours, catching a faint shine just behind your lashes, a glimmer that grew lighter and lighter right before a button on his shirt popped free, pinging softly against the tile. Clark raised an eyebrow with a teasing glint in his eye and let a slow smirk tug at his lips. 

“Nice trick. Does that mean I can help you practice later?”

Your daughter's cries pierced the room again, high-pitched and urgent, breaking the teasing tension like a sudden clap of thunder. Clark shifted instantly, rocking her gently in his arms while muttering, “Oh come on, it’s okay. Daddy’s just joking.” His tone was calm but carried that unmistakable edge of someone trying not to panic themselves.

You laughed, the sound echoing off the kitchen walls and used the moment to escape.

Clark’s head turned, following your movement with an amused, half-exasperated expression. “You know what it is?” he called after you, his voice carrying into the hallway. “She can feel your heart skip a beat…or a few. It makes her nervous.”

You froze for a second, the combination of exhaustion and humor catching you off guard and then let out a sharp laugh that made your shoulders shake. “Sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night,” you shot back, leaning against the doorway to peek at him.

Clark smirked, his eyes sparkling despite the baby still fussing in his arms. “You know what does help?” he asked, stepping closer to the threshold, bouncing her gently. “Couple’s cardio.”

A/n: More of this family is coming! spanning from pregnancy to life with their tiny superhero. Stay tuned! Thanks for reading guys 💛

[sikayeto]

Thinking about soap and a reader who works at a dog rescue??

Nearly every other Saturday, the most charming man you've ever met comes in asking to play with the dogs. It's been a few weeks and you've come to expect him, on slow days you even join him in the little meeting area. Today, no one's been in or out of the rescue, and you're counting down the minutes until Kyle's usual time. You perk up when the bell rings, coming around the corner.

"Oh, Kyle! Welcome back, I've got a new pup who–" you pause in the doorway, eyes landing on Kyle and a man you've never met. He's shorter than Kyle, hands shaky where they wrap around a cane. His eyes are a dull blue, his head a grown-out shave. You note the bright red, fresh scar across his temple then move on. "–This new pup you'll love. Who's this?"

You step closer, reach out a hand for the man to shake. He grins at you, but his grip is weak where it clasps around your hand. You can tell it bothers him. "This," Kyle leans over and pats his friend on the bicep "is Johnny. He's in town with me for a bit, figured he'd like to see the dogs."

"Oh! Wonderful then! Cmon, I'll take you to our greeting area, we want some energetic or calm ones?" You lead the two back, and kyle smiles when he notices you walking much slower than your usual pace so johnny can keep up.

"Calm would be nice." Johnny replies, looking inside the kennels you pass.

While kyle helps johnny sit down on the turf of the greeting room, you dip into the back. Only one dog comes to mind when you see johnny, a perfect fit for him.

"This is Moxie" you introduce. She comes out on a leash, ambling into the room without rush. Bowing her head to sniff at Kyle's and Johnny's hands. "A mutt, but we're pretty sure she has some sheepdog in there somewhere."

Moxie takes her time inspecting Johnny, circling him, bumping her wet nose against his arm and shoulder. Once she deems him thoroughly searched, Moxie all but climbs onto Soap's lap. Large, fluffy body flopping down with her full weight. Johnny makes an 'oof!' Sound when his back is pushed into the ground.

Moxies tail is wagging slowly, muzzle pushing against johnnys temple gently. He's frozen for only a moment, then shaking hands come up to bury themselves in fur. "Awe, look at ye lass! A great big thing, aren't ye? Just want some cuddles, is that it?"

You come sit next to kyle, both of you watching as johnny visibly relaxes. He leans over to whisper "...thanks for this. Hes been having a rough go of it."

You hum, watch as moxie licks at the scruffy hair atop Johnny's head "You guys have places to be? If he likes Moxie he'd love Dusty, I've got ingredients in the fridge for salmon."

Kyle hums, leans back on his hands. "I think that would be nice for him. Good food and a giant dog? He'll be happy he survived."

Across the room, Johnny is smiling wide while Moxie drops her full body weight onto him and begins to doze off.

[sikayeto]

Swear jars and tiny titans

Pairing: dad!clark kent x fem!reader

⟡ Main Index | ⟡ Archive for Earth-181938

A/n: Posting something extra this week!

Summary: When Kryptonian DNA and science collide, one thing becomes clear: parenting just got a lot more complicated.

Classification: Fluff

Word count: 3k

Divider by me ;)

The morning had been quiet in that deceptively sweet way only weekends could be. Sunlight warmed the hardwood floors of the apartment as your daughter sat plopped in the middle of her soft play mat, babbling to herself in between stuffing an unreasonably large plastic block into her mouth and furrowing her brows when it didn’t quite fit.

She was almost one, her soft curls still sparse and eyes bright and mischievous with fingers constantly grabbing, exploring and throwing. She wasn’t walking yet, not really talking either and while part of you sighed in relief that she hadn’t developed powers yet, you both knew that moment could come and likely would…eventually.

Clark was nearby, folding tiny shirts and onesies into neat piles on the couch with a domestic precision that somehow didn’t rob him of his ridiculous otherworldly charm and you were pacing slowly behind the coffee table, one eye on your child and the other glaring at the TV screen currently filled with faces you didn’t like at a panel of politicians and pundits. All shouting over each other while throwing around words like “meta-human danger”, “genetic unpredictability” and “public safety risks,” all while their faces remained calm and composed, pretending the entire conversation wasn’t built on paranoia and ignorance.

Your arms crossed, uncrossed and then waved in frustration. 

“They keep talking like it’s a disease,” you said, gesturing toward the screen like the people behind it could see you. “As if powers make someone dangerous by default and as if everything good Superman has done can just be…erased because one of them got scared of someone who can fly.”

Clark looked up from the laundry, his hands stilling on the tiny shirt he’d been folding, watching you with that almost-smile he got when you said something that hit him right in the chest. It wasn’t pride exactly, it was deeper than that, warmer…like the look of a man silently confirming to himself, ‘Yeah… I married the right person.’

“And you know what pisses me off?” you continued, louder now, voice shaking just slightly, not from fear but from frustration that had been slowly curdling in your chest for weeks. “They never talk about the people who get saved, or how the government fails its citizens until someone like you has to step in. They only talk about the ‘threat,’ never the source of the danger. It’s not the powers, it’s the people in power who are the problem. Jeez, it’s like we’ve been through this a hundred times and they’re still…still–”

Your hands flew out in an exasperated motion, fingers splayed and trembling slightly as you gestured at the screen, your heart hammering in your chest so loudly that Clark drowned in the sound, a rapid, insistent drum that made him instinctively want to step closer and tell you to take a breath but before he could say a word, a soft clatter that hadn’t come from your mouthy toddler echoed through the room and objects began to lift, hovering in the air.

He turned slowly, now with the soft fabric of a tiny sock half-folded in his hands. His eyes darted toward the block that had been in your daughter’s grip just moments ago…suspended now, mid-air with no visible support, rotating slowly. But then it wasn’t just the block, no, now it was the stack of clean laundry still unfolded that slowly rose beside him, a few pens on the nearby side table and even the edge of the area rug drifting upward like caught in a soft breeze that didn’t exist.

You kept talking, not even noticing, so caught in your own momentum that you didn’t realize the world around you was bending. “I swear, if one more senator uses the word ‘mutation’ like it’s a death sentence, I will–”

Clark stood up cautiously, like one wrong move might scare the whole scene away or make it worse, his eyes flicking from your daughter to the floating toys and laundry, then back again.

He approached the nearest object, a stuffed giraffe lazily bobbing in the air and poked it with one careful finger. It drifted in a slow circle before sinking and plopping to the floor beside her.

With a furrowed brow, he bent to pick it up, then tossed it gently upward, almost like a basketball free throw. It sailed… and promptly dropped right back down at his feet. Now he was frowning in full, grabbing a block next and trying again before facing the same result.

“Sweatheart…we have a situation,” he said softly, but you didn’t hear him yet.

“It won’t be anything illegal, I assure you. I know I'm not above the law, I’m usually quite literally under it–”

“Sweatheart?”

“Yes, baby?” you answered first without looking but then when you finally turned, you followed his gaze to the toys, the laundry, the everything hanging motionless in the air. Your gaze settled on the block, now spinning lazily midair in defiance of gravity and just bellow it, your daughter was sitting calmly, watching with her mouth still open around the corner of another toy.

Your heart stopped.

“Is that her?” you asked, a little too loudly, looking down at your child like she'd just grown wings.

Clark was already crouched next to her, brows knit as he studied her expression. She blinked up at both of you, curious and maybe a little confused, but completely still. Not even reaching for the toy she'd just lost.

That’s when you finally lowered your arms, your hands falling to your sides with the heavy weight of disbelief…and just like that, everything dropped.

The toy clattered back onto the play mat, rolling until it bumped against your daughter’s foot. Socks fluttered down to the couch and the pens clicked against the coffee table before rolling out of sight. Then, almost comically, a tiny lavender onesie drifted in the air for a beat longer than everything else before plopping right onto Clark’s head like it had chosen him on purpose.

There was a beat of stunned silence until your daughter’s whole face lit up and she let out a full, bubbling belly giggle, the kind that came from deep in her tiny chest and made her wobble over on her hands. She smacked the play mat with both palms like she’d just witnessed the greatest slapstick comedy of her short life, her little squeals filling the room.

Clark froze, the soft fabric obscuring his eyes and you stared at him trying hard not to smile at the ridiculous picture he made with baby laundry on his head, your heart still thudding from the realization of what just happened.

“Holy shit,” you blurted without thinking, the word slicing through the moment like a stone in a still pond and that’s when your daughter, still watching the both of you with open amusement, kicked her little feet, clapped her hands like she’d just been given the best show of her life and repeated, clear as day, in a proud little voice:

“Sheeh!”

Clark slowly stood to his full height then reached up, grabbed the shoulder of the onesie and peeled it off his face. He looked at you with a raised brow, his mouth twitching between a smirk and a lecture before pressing into a thin line and then, without saying a word, he pointed toward the swear jar sitting on the kitchen counter.

You groaned, already leaning over to snag his wallet from where it sat on the arm of the couch and flipping it open like this was the most normal thing in the world. Clark didn’t even blink, just stood there pointing and holding the onesie in one hand while you thumbed through his cash, plucked out a bill and crossed the room to shove it into the swear jar with practiced ease.

“Happy?” You asked.

He didn’t have to say a word; his expectant silence was enough to make you roll your eyes and fish out a second bill, also from his wallet, for the baby. She let out another delighted squeal at the sight of the green paper disappearing into the jar, as if she somehow knew she was part of the joke.

Clark’s arms dropped to his sides, shoulders slack, making you want to bite back the laugh threatening to bubble up but letting it slip only as a quick, quiet chuckle that you immediately smothered behind your hand before straightening your posture and trying to look like the composed parent in the room.

“She said her first real word!” you defended softly, marveling that it wasn’t just another “mama” or “dada.”

“Which was profanity,” he replied flatly, the faintest twitch of his brow betraying that he was not amused, at least not yet.

“She’s a genius then, wise beyond her years.” You turned to him, arms crossed like you were ready to die on this hill. “This feels like a parenting win to me.”

He just shook his head, letting a slow grin spread across his face, the warmth behind it melting away the last frayed edges of your nerves. “We’re gonna need a bigger jar,” he said, voice soft but amused, eyes flicking to you with a teasing glint.

Then he scooped your daughter into his arms, still giggling and kicking like she hadn’t just mimicked your cursing and possibly witnessed the laws of physics bend around her parents.

“When I said we needed to start saving for college,” he murmured to her, still grinning, “I didn’t mean it like that.”

You stayed rooted near the kitchen, heart slowly returning to its normal rhythm with your hands pressed to your hips like they might hold you together. “So…are we sure that wasn’t her?” you murmured, almost hoping he’d say yes just so the world would feel normal again.

Clark glanced at you over his shoulder, one eyebrow arched in that really? way. “Unless she’s secretly channeling your stress hormones like a tiny Kryptonian lightning rod, no.”

You blinked, trying to find humor in the sudden swirl of confusion, awe and cosmic implications.  “Cool, cool, cool…” you murmured finally, the words tasting odd in your mouth, like trying to talk with a mouthful of marshmallows. “You could also lie to me… it’s fine, you know?”

Clark didn’t reply at first, just crossed the room in that unhurried, steady way of his, to press a gentle kiss to the crown of your head before plucking the car keys from the counter. With a slight tilt of his head toward the front door, he shifted your daughter in his arms, bouncing her gently as she blew spit bubbles, blissfully oblivious to the fact her parents were quietly recalibrating their entire understanding of reality.

“Where are we going?” you asked cautiously, your voice somewhere between curiosity and wariness.

“To see Uncle Terrific,” he said with a small grin, brushing a thumb over your daughter’s tiny fist before tickling her belly. She squealed and kicked her legs, giggling like nothing in the world had changed because, for her, it hadn’t. “And maybe run a few tests.”

You nodded slowly, letting the words settle. “So… just a normal Tuesday, then.”

“Just a normal Tuesday, my love,” he assured, voice warm and certain in that way that always made you believe him, even when the air still felt charged from whatever had just happened. “Everything will be okay.”

The lab was all smooth chrome, glowing screens and quiet humming tech, the kind of place where even a sneeze felt like it might cost thousands.

You sat on the edge of the exam bed, legs swinging while watching your daughter sit contentedly in the middle of the lab floor, chubby legs splayed and tiny hands busy in her own little world. One of Mr. Terrific’s T-spheres hovered nearby, its soft LEDs blinking like a tiny planet within reach. She leaned forward in that wobbly toddler way, tongue poking out in concentration and let out a delighted babble as if sheer will alone could draw it closer. The sphere drifted an inch too near and she clapped, ecstatic, fingers stretching with fearless curiosity that you recognized as equal parts of both of you.

“She’s going to find a way to get drool on that thing,” you warned without moving, half a laugh stuck in your throat because nothing about the day had been normal.

“It’s fine,” Mr. Terrific said without looking up from his console, voice dry. “They’re durable. Also waterproof.”

“She’s teething, so it’ll be a lot more than you think.” Clark added from beside you with one hand sliding across the small of your back and up between your shoulder blades in a slow, steady stroke designed to ease the jitter in your ribs without breaking whatever tiny spell of composure you were clinging to.

“I’m the one who spends hours cleaning them after your visits, Clark, it’s always bad,” Mr. Terrific grumbled but even his complaint had softened at the edges as your daughter squealed and reached again.

You smiled faintly, the nervous flutter still lodged somewhere in your chest. You wanted answers, wanted clarity but weren’t entirely sure you were ready for the implications. “Will this take long?” you asked, voice small over the gentle hum of the lab and the hovering T-spheres your daughter was mesmerized by.

“I hope not,” Mr. Terrific replied dryly, not even glancing up from his console. “I’ve got work to do, and I don’t exactly make house calls.”

He then leaned back, folding his hands together and launched into an explanation that sounded like a lecture from a university you’d never attended. “Given the inheritance of kryptonian genome vectors interlaced with retained paternal DNA post-partum within your own cellular structure, it is plausible that latent metahuman potential was both preserved and modulated in your genome, resulting in a phenotypic expression triggered by acute emotional stimuli.”

You and Clark exchanged a look, Clark raising an eyebrow as if to say here we go and you cleared your throat. 

“And for people with an average IQ?” you asked, half-smiling.

Mr. Terrific leaned forward, tapping a pen against the console. “In more accessible terms, what we’re seeing is a form of microchimerism. Cells from one individual persisting in another long after birth. In your case, paternal cells remained within your system and under the right stress or stimuli, they manifested in ways that produced metahuman abilities. Essentially, the leftover DNA from Clark acted like a latent switch, waiting for the right signal to activate. Smaller activations may have happened before but they were beneath the threshold of detectability.”

You swallowed, feeling your pulse still trying to catch a normal rhythm and Clark gave your shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “So… I’m basically a Kryptonian-powered mutant now,” you murmured, half in awe, half in disbelief.

“Exactly,” Mr. Terrific said, tilting his head with a small nod. “Welcome to the club.”

Clark’s brow furrowed slightly as he glanced at you, concern mixed with curiosity. “You said mutation… so it’s not going away?”

Mr. Terrific shook his head slowly, folding his hands over his lap. “No, not at all. In fact, it’s likely to continue evolving over time, adapting in response to both internal and external stimuli. Think of it as a dynamic trait rather than a static one.”

You felt a shiver of awe and a hint of nervousness at the idea and Clark’s hand found yours, giving it a gentle squeeze as if silently promising, we’ll handle this together.

That’s when it happened.

The T-sphere hovered a little higher, drifting just out of your daughter’s reach yet she didn’t seem to notice. Her tiny hands reached up again and suddenly she wasn’t on the floor anymore.

She was floating a few feet above the ground, her hair lifted gently as if underwater and her round cheeks flushed with delight. She giggled, kicking her legs while lazily spinning in a slow, carefree circle.

Clark straightened instantly, eyes wide, while you stayed frozen on the edge of the exam bed.

All three of you just stared at her and then at each other. Clark and Mr. Terrific’s gazes found you at the same time, their expressions a mix of disbelief and that slight “what did you do?” tension.

“That’s not me,” you said quickly, raising both hands in surrender before rapidly lowering them just in case.

Your daughter clapped her hands and that tiny movement made her twirl a little more, laughing fully with pure joy.

Clark reached up carefully, catching her midair and lowering her gently into his arms, his smile breaking into a wide grin. “Look at ‘er, flying already,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. “Who’s daddy’s best girl?”

The baby responded with a full, belly-deep giggle, her tiny hands waving excitedly in the air as if she knew exactly what she had just accomplished. You shook your head, half-laughing, half-panicked and jabbed Clark lightly in the ribs. “Wipe that grin off your face, mister. We are so in over our heads.”

He just chuckled, bouncing her lightly. “And I'm loving every second of it.”

You turned to Mr. Terrific, arms crossed and voice steady despite the adrenaline still humming through you. “Whatever you had planned today? Cancel it. We need to figure out how to baby-proof the sky.”

Clark added with a smirk, still holding your daughter, “And of course, baby-proof the apartment again for our newly powered toddler.”

Mr. Terrific groaned dramatically, running a hand down his face before nodding, clearly conceding to the chaos. He started pulling a tablet from his workbench then. “Fine, fine… now that this happened, as a late push present, here are the initial designs for your daughter’s super suit–”

Both you and Clark yelled in unison, “Nope!”

Instinctively, you raised your hand and a faint, shimmering aura radiated from your tingling fingertips, bending the light around it ever so slightly. The tablet lifted gracefully, hovering toward you as if drawn by invisible threads, until it settled securely in your grasp, a visible confirmation that your powers were evolving exactly as Mr. Terrific had predicted.

“Not even as a Halloween costume?” Mr. Terrific asked, amusement sparkling in his eyes, clearly enjoying the display.

“Too soon,” you said firmly, eyes narrowing in mock seriousness. “Now let’s get to work before I start to panic.”

Clark let out a soft laugh, resting a hand on your back as he watched you and in that moment, it hit him: you were very much in over your heads.

A/n: Telekinesis inspired by a conversation with @fire-joestar :) thanks for sparking the idea!

[sikayeto]

Alpha Clark being on a mission when his rut hits 🤤🤤 he struggles to get through the mission, being noticeably more irritable and frustrated, his strength harder to control, and his scent managing to poke through his blockers from how intense it is. He spends every night fucking into the mattress, humping a pillow like he’s a newly-presented teenager, trying so desperately to shave off some of his need but it’s hard when all he can think about is popping his knot in you 💔 when he gets back home trust you won’t be leaving the bedroom for a week

i combined this ask with another one i received bcus both concepts are just too delicious 😵‍💫 got carried away once again

pls send me your alpha!clark thoughts

nsfw content below the divider!

warning: clark swears in this one

Clark can sense people starting to notice. He avoids eye contact with Mr. Terrific, pointedly ignoring the concerned looks he’s receiving, instead focusing his energy on fighting off the extraterrestrial threat, but he’s not fighting right. His reflexes are just a little too delayed, his flying is wobbly, he can’t focus, and he’s using way more of his strength than he usually would, can’t seem to reign it in. Clark’s been frustrated with the Justice Gang before, but when he screams his head off at Hawk Girl for accidentally injuring a deer, he’s aware he’s behaving unusually.

And he’s not dumb. He remembers the symptoms. Fidgeting with his collar because of how it brushes against his scent gland. Feeling his temperature climb, to the point where he’s sweating even in the Fortress. He keeps breaking things – leaving craters every time he lands on the ground, shattering glasses of water, crushing doorknobs. He’s taken great care to keep his ruts at bay, having been on the strongest suppressants possible for years. Superman can’t just disappear for a week, and he especially can’t disappear in the middle of an important mission, but the scent blockers aren’t enough to cover his scent as it intensifies, taking on that pre-rut burnt edge. Everyone that's come within a five feet radius of him in the past few days has done their best to hide their nose wrinkling when the smell of a smoldering campfire hits them, but of course Clark notices the twitching noses, the wary glances.

Then there’s the nighttimes, when his fellow metahumans retire to get some rest before resuming the hunt for the threat, and he’s left alone to deal with the feeling like he might be burning from the inside out. And he can’t stop thinking about you.

You, and your soft, loving eyes, the feeling of your body pressing against his, how sweet you smell every time he shoves his nose against your neck and takes a deep breath, how you squeal every time he does it.

Every night ends the same: Clark, flushed and sweating, abs flexing as he fucks up into his fist, imagining it’s your sweet cunt pulsing around him instead. He forces himself not to pop a knot at the thought of burying his teeth in your scent gland, he’s trying to be respectful, but golly, it’s getting harder not to think of you every single second.

He’s aware that he’s barely been a help on this mission, too distracted, too rash. The final fight is nasty, Clark barely able to see past his frustration for long enough to develop any real strategy, and it drags out for hours. Sloppy. Not his style. As soon as he deals the final blow, he flies off, barely stopping to make sure the Justice Gang was able to get the threat into custody.

His flying skills are just as sloppy, barely able to keep himself high enough in the sky to fly straight home to you.

He crashes through your window before he even consciously realises where he’s going. His body is drawn to yours, stumbling through your apartment to find you, sitting up in bed. The crash woke you up.

“‘M so sorry,” He gasps out, delirium starting to set in as he takes in your scent.

“Clark?” You climb out of bed, catching him as he stumbles into your arms, brushing away the curls that were stuck to his forehead, drenched in sweat. “What’s wrong? You were gone for so long, I saw you on the news- oh-”

His lips attach to your neck, practically suckling on your scent gland, needing to taste you after so many days apart, covering your scent with his.

“Missed you so much,” He growls, backing you up against the bed. “I thought about you, every night I was gone, jus’ wanted to be right here.”

“I missed you too- hah- Clark!” His knee comes up, wedging his thigh between yours, and he groans at the squish of your slick pussy.

“Need to knot you.” He’s scrambling to tear his suit off, grabbing you by the hips and laying you on your stomach, crawling over you. “Need it, baby- oh, please-”

He practically mounts you, laying you flat under him and rutting into you from behind, arms on either side of you, caging you in. His lips don’t leave your neck except to give you a sloppy kiss, muttering about how good you are for him, how well you’re taking him, how he’s gonna keep you full with his knot forever. He brings you to orgasm after orgasm on his cock, prepping you for his knot and you’re nothing but grateful. You whimper every time you feel his already inflated knot press up against your entrance, the sheer size of it, but after your fourth orgasm you start to grind back against it, making him hiss above you.

“Fuck, I’m g’na give it to you, don’t worry, baby- hah-” He’s barely pulling out, sloppily grinding his cock into you, grazing his teeth against your neck. You’re squirming underneath him, babbling about how bad you want it, begging like he’d ever deny you his knot.

He lets out something like a snarl when it finally slips into you. He barely has a second to think, scrambling to put his hand over your neck and burying his teeth into the back of it instead of your scent gland.

By the end of the week, his skin is littered with his own bite marks, evidence of how badly he wants to make you his. But not this time.

[sikayeto]

a conflict of interest

summary: clark kent is great boyfriend when he shows up— but that’s if he does. whether it’s staying late at work or not answering texts for hours on end, there is always something that ends up getting in the way. but one day, he shows up when you least expect it. one day, he shows up when he shouldn’t.

pairing: david!clark kent x fem!reader

content warnings: 18+, established relationship, not entirely movie timeline accurate, the reader doesn’t know that clark is superman, sweet fluffy smut, unprotected p in v (wrap it up for real, ok?) why yes clark is neurodivergent thank you for asking!!!, clark is a very mediocre liar and is really lucky his gf takes his words at face value (for the most part), graphic descriptions of injury, a bit of angst, happy ending!

word count: 10.3k (roughly edited)

clark kent was an odd guy.

you’d known that from the moment you met him. well, you had bumped into him more so than you did meet him, per say. you took the same train into work. seeing him was an every day occurrence unless one of you were sick.

he was a reporter. you figured that out when you saw him walk into the daily planet, arms full of papers and his hair a mess. did he ever brush it? no, you concluded as you saw him get onto the train with unkempt, curly hair nearly every single morning.

he was odd, always a bit out of step, but he was kind. so kind that it was a bit sickening. you had seen him help an elderly man onto the train when his walker gave him a hard time. he politely asked people to move for a pregnant lady who was trying to be discreet and not cause any issues by asking other passengers to get up. he’d made silly faces at a fussing baby when he thought no one was looking. the train filled with bubbling laughter almost as sweet as the dimpled smile you’d seen light up his handsome face.

it took a few accidental shoulder brushes on the train and same walk down the crowded, busy streets of metropolis for him to realize that you were apart of his daily routine. once he noticed you, though? it was was the beginning of something so, so beautiful—something you’d never had with another person.

it started with smiles. soft ‘hey, good morning.’s were shared. so were the ‘fancy seeing you here.’ and ‘do you come here often?’ quips. of course, there was the occasional ‘are you stalking me?’ joke you would make that was always answered with a blunt ‘yes…’ from him that made you laugh.

you learned his name and he learned yours. you and clark sat next to each other on days there were seats available, legs touching as you shared in soft, causal conversation and lingering looks. most of the time; though, there weren’t any seats, which meant that you were a bit too close to his side as the train swayed. despite all the stuff he lugged to work with him each morning, his hand always found its way to the small of your back when you wobbled.

you did it on purpose. you rode the train enough. you were an expert. you were only ever clumsy around him. it was intentional and he knew it. he was hoping you’d never stop.

at some point, you started holding hands on your walk to work. well, you linked arms. with all the stuff he carried with him it made it a bit difficult to hold hands, but he found ways to touch you as frequently as you found ways to touch him. he started kissing you on the cheek before he hurried into work. shortly after, you began to rise onto your tippy toes to meet him halfway and kiss his in return.

you aligned lunch breaks when you finally exchanged phone numbers. nearly every day he was waiting for you right outside the office building you worked in. you were a boring secretary and he was clark kent, the man who interviewed superman. in your head, he was the coolest person in the world. the most gentlemanly, too. he made sure to have you walk on the inside of the side walk. he opened doors for you. he paid for every meal.

you didn’t know it at the time, but he thought you were cool, too.

there was a never a serious conversation about dating. no big question. no large confession because the love you shared had blossomed between you so vibrantly— so palpably. one day, his toothbrush had made as much of a home beside yours in the cup on the sink as his boxers did in your laundry basket with your panties. saying ‘i love you’ was just as easy as waking up beside him.

what wasn’t easy was how often clark was absent.

it wasn’t ever long enough to confront him about. it wasn’t like he was gone for days at a time. it was small moments that he missed. he canceled dates at the last minute. he always said it had something to do with work. it was easy enough to believe. most of the late nights he was missing from your side were spent interviewing superman. it was hard to think it was anything else when you saw the proof of it in ink the next day on the cover of newspaper.

clark kent was too good of a man to cheat. you knew that. the thought had only crossed your mind a few times in the beginning. of course, it did. any sane person would think their boyfriend was cheating on them with how often clark went awol on you… but it was an easy thing to put to bed a little more than a year into dating him since he crawled his way into your sheets even at the latest of hours.

you were his home.

and he always found his way back to you.

you had to admit that the thing he had going on with his glasses was weird though. he slept with them on. he showered with them on. he never took them off even when you nagged that they were going to dent his nose and sink into his eyes. he would laugh, say ‘no, they won’t, honey,’ and kiss you to shut you up.

an odd, odd guy.

you speculated early on that he was on the spectrum — even before you started dating — and he proved that more than once. he was quirky. he had his little habits, like the thing with never taking off his glasses and the fact that he couldn’t sleep with socks on. he never swore. ever. you hadn’t heard him curse once. he liked to collect bottle caps and magnets. and he knew every single thing about you. your favorite color. your favorite food. your coffee order. your zodiac sign. your preference between gold and silver jewelry. the man even knew what phase the damn moon had been in on the day you were born.

despite how much you loved him, you had a nagging feeling that you couldn’t say the same about him. sometimes — when he was gone without so much as a text — you felt like you hardly knew him.

clark kent was a genuine man but you couldn’t help but wonder from time to time if he was ever truly honest with you.

—

he woke you up with kisses.

some mornings he was gone before you woke up. early morning meetings or something along those lines pulled him from bed and had him on the train without you. right now though? right now he was here. right now, you had him all to yourself.

a smile pulled across your lips as he pressed soft, sweet kisses to your cheek. you were flush with a light pink color and warm from a full night of sleep beside him. last night had been a good night. he spoiled you rotten by taking you out to eat at one of your favorite little diners. despite it being a bit of a shit-box, the two of you always dressed up like you were going to a michelin star restaurant. being fake fancy together was one of your favorite things.

and so was taking off his nice suits.

his tie was hanging on the headboard. your heels had come off by the front door while he had kicked off his own shoes on the way to your bedroom. his belt lay discarded on the floor by the bed, covered in a pile of your clothes.

“i know you’re awake,” clark whispered. he rubbed his lips along your cheek. “you’re smiling.”

you laughed. the sound was soft and heavy with a morning grogginess that would fade the more he kissed you. “i’m not pretending to be asleep…”

“you best not be, missy.” he purred, kissing along your jaw. the frame of his glasses brushed against your face, the hinges on the temples creaking faintly. it was a sound you’d always been aware of. it was a sound you’d grown to love. an intimate, private noise.

“i dreamed about you and i’m far too keen on spending as much of my morning kissing you as i can…” he murmured, nipping at the pulse point in your neck.

“just kissing?” you asked with your breath catching in your throat. he heard it. better yet, he felt it against his lips.

he was the one smiling now.

“mm…” he half-heartedly pondered your question that he already knew the answer to. he gathered your bare waist in his hands and wiggled his way between your warm, soft thighs. “maybe a bit more than kissing…”

“can i?” he asked in a whisper. he pulled back just enough to meet your eyes that you finally opened as his erection grazed your inner thighs. you were a vision of sleepy bliss that he was intent on savoring.

you answered him with a kiss that melted him.

you laced your fingers into his always messy black hair and pushed your body against his. the hard, defined muscle that lie under his velvet, perfect skin was starkly different from your curves, blemishes, and rolls. early on, you’d been nervous to be naked around him. it had taken every ounce of bravery you had in you to take your clothes off the first time you saw him bare. he was a god damn supermodel.

you learned quick that you were heaven to him.

clark relished in every soft dip of flesh under his calloused fingers. he kissed every scar you had— every freckle and mole. he was not the type to go to church but he worshiped you.

“lord have mercy on me…” clark whimpered as he slid himself one inch at a time into the warm, silky haven between your legs. he kneaded at the pillow under your head and squeezed his eyes shut.

you smiled against the curve of his shoulder. he was cute in a pathetic-but-sexy kind of way. you ran your hands down his muscular back and guided him closer — deeper — until he was all the way inside you. sometimes, it was hard to take all of him. he was very well endowed. nine heavy, hefty inches hung between his legs— but he’d fucked you so good last night that you were prepped to take him now.

“does it feel okay, honey?” clark asked with his breath heavy in his chest. he pulled back enough to meet your eyes. you could see the sheen of sweat already beginning to build on his brow. he always got worked up so quick. his hips were already trembling.

you nodded, just as breathless and warm in the face as him. “yes.” you brought one hand up to cup his cheek. “you feel so good, my love…”

he smiled and you could’ve died. truly, you could’ve. he was so handsome that it nearly stopped your heart. his lips pulled back into the most perfect, dimpled smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes and revealed straight, white teeth.

you couldn’t kiss him fast enough.

it felt like you were attacking him. honestly, it was like you were trying to eat the poor bastard. you wanted every piece of him. every morsel. and he surrendered willingly to you. he let himself be consumed by all that you were. he wanted to be apart of you. if he could’ve, he would’ve melded his soul to yours and branded your name onto his heart.

he loved you so, so much.

but he was holding back.

whether it was words he seemed to swallow away or moments like these where you could feel the tension in his muscles as he moved within you, he was keeping something from you. you tried to ignore it. you did ignore it. you told yourself over and over again that he was deeply awkward and clumsy in both his words and his actions.

yet the way his jaw clenched and his knuckles turned white as he gripped the pillow under your head suggested it was more than just clark being clark.

a sharp, shocked gasp escaped your lips as he squeezed your face between his fingers. your eyes popped open, wide and dilated like a cat. you’d been lost in the rhythm of his hips, of the squeak of the springs and headboard tapping the wall just loud enough that you should’ve been worried the person who lived in the apartment over could hear it.

the look on his face made you jolt under his touch.

his glasses were low on his nose. those sharp, full brows were pinched in a deliberate concentration you couldn’t say you’d ever seen before. his eyes were a richer, deeper shade of blue. heavy, harsh breaths slipped through parted lips that looked fuller.

something in you wanted to rear away because clark looked like a stranger for that one fleeting moment.

“you’re so beautiful…” he murmured.

before you could breathe out the breath that had caught in your throat, he kissed you.

gentle, warm lips you’d know anywhere pressed against yours in a kiss so intimate it made your blood burn hot in your veins. his hand softened on your jaw. he held the tip of your chin between his thumb and index finger. you wrapped your arms around his neck and hooked your legs higher up on his hips.

you came together. in perfect synch, eating up the other’s moans, you came undone with him. you always made the most beautiful noises when you came for him. he slid arms underneath you, holding you so tight against him that you could feel his heart pounding against your chest as he filled you.

clark looked like clark when he pulled away from the kiss you shared. your nose had helped push his glasses back up into their usual position on his face. the sheepish, bashful smile on his lips made you question why your heart was still racing so frantically.

“i love you, honey.” he whispered in that too-soft, almost squeaky voice of his. you realized only then how different his voice had sounded in that fleeting moment— raspy and deep.

“i love you, clark…” you whispered back.

—

“lunch today, yeah?” clark asked as you got off the train together. you nodded, arm looped through his. “sandwiches or pizza?”

“i’m feeling pizza.” you said, tipping your head back to look up at him. he was so tall. you wanted to climb him like a tree…

now wasn’t the time for that.

clark smiled. he leaned down and pressed a kiss on the space between your brows. “pizza it is then.”

you had left your apartment early enough to get coffee together. despite both getting to work at your usual times, making a coffee run made it feel like you had spent more time together than you actually did. the daily planet building was closer than your office, so you dropped him off at work.

“see you at half past one, my love.” you said, standing on your tippy toes to kiss him. even your heels couldn’t help the height difference.

“i’ll miss you every single moment we’re parted, baby,” he murmured against your lips. he always made sure to kiss you three times. “love you.”

“love you.” you smiled.

he winked at you before heading off inside. it made your heart flutter. he did. he had a real talent for being the most charming man you’d ever met while also being the most awkward— the most clumsy. god, was he clumsy… he nearly spilled his coffee all over himself when he pulled the door open.

clark shot you a bashful, embarrassed smile. you couldn’t help but giggle at him. you blew him a kiss and he made the cutest kissy-face right back.

the rest of your walk to work was easy, albeit a bit lonelier. it was down the street and around the corner from where clark worked. your job was easy but it kept you busy. coffee refills, answering emails, scheduling meetings, and picking up the phone to speak to people who really wanted to speak with your boss instead of you. the pay was good and you got along with those in the office well enough. your boss wasn’t too bad, either.

it could’ve been worse. that’s what you told yourself when the hours of corporate life crawled on, at least. no matter how busy you were at your desk, you found time to text your boyfriend. you were lucky today. he texted you first. it made you feel a bit crazy for thinking he was ever absent.

[i miss you]

god, that made you smile like a teenage girl. with red cheeks and a racing heart, you texted him back.

[i miss you, lover boy. how’s work so far?]

[i’m stuck writing sports today…]

[you love sports!!!]

[not funny… :( i would rather eat cement than write about how the basketball team humiliated themselves on the court again, babe.]

[it’s honestly really shocking most of those guys made the team. you’d think if you got paid to play a sport you’d actually be good at the sport…]

[that’s what i’m saying!!!]

you laughed under your breath. you could almost feel how hard he had slammed his thumb on the exclamation point key.

[i understand you, my love. if it’s any consolation, when you write the sports column it finally makes sports interesting! :P]

you were quick to tuck your phone away when the door to your bosses office opened. he gave you a small nod before he headed to the men’s room. you let out a soft breath and glanced back down at your phone. clark hadn’t replied yet, so you got back to work drafting an email to one of your bosses clients.

the worst part of your job was standing by the printer. for some reason, it was irritating to you. the whirr of the machine as it spit out warm, freshly inked paper grew mundane. you pulled your phone back out as you waited for all the papers to finish printing.

clark hadn’t replied.

it made you miss him. so much so that it felt like a festering, aching wound in your chest. you wanted to reach through your phone screen and poke at him so that he put his attention back on you.

you settled for a double text.

[did the sports section kill you??? :( ]

as soon as you hit send, the building shook. you put your hands out to steady yourself. people around you gasped. they stood up from their desks and glanced around. everything went still. too still. quiet. and then the ground shook again and the sun was gone.

you dropped your phone as you stared out the floor-to-ceiling window. outside the thin sheet of glass was a giant, scaly monster. your lips parted in a gasp of shock— of horror, but it died in your throat as fire shot out of the mouth of the monster.

you dropped down and covered your head as the glass shattered and sprayed into the office like free-falling diamonds. the floor above you was not spared from the flames as you and your floor were.

a boom so loud it shook the air echoed like an unimaginable rumble of thunder.

you covered your ears and lifted your head. the monster began to stumble. it was going to crush the building. you saw it tumbling towards you. you’d be flattened under tons and tons of brick and cement in moments— too quick to register it.

but the splat never came.

a red whipping cape whooshed mere feet from where you were huddled in on yourself by the printer. with an other-worldly ease, superman pushed the scaly monster away from the building. it stumbled forward instead, crushing nothing but park greenery and a pretty water fountain under its feet as it fought to balance itself.

you had never been more in awe.

a soft breath escaped your lungs as superman turned. he was looking up, no doubt checking on the people on the floor above. he signaled a thumbs-up, asking people if they were alright. he nodded his head before his gaze dropped. it landed on you.

he descended and it was like seeing an angel. instead of wings, a ruby red cape swayed behind him.

“are you hurt?” he asked. his voice was like sunlight. it was warm and rich and peaceful. it made your cheeks burn— or maybe it was seeing him touch down onto the carpeted floor you were still cowering on that made you flush.

he reached for you and you reached right back for him. he lifted you to your feet like you weighed nothing. it made you dizzy— he did. or perhaps that was the adrenaline. he looked around at your coworkers, nodding at them.

“you— you know my boyfriend…” you muttered dumbly. you couldn’t think straight whatsoever. not even if someone paid you to. clark was the first thing on your mind always, more so now than ever.

superman’s brows raised and he smiled at you. that smile made you all the more wobbly. he gave your shoulders a gentle squeeze, making sure you were steady on your feet.

“do i?” he asked. there was hint of something in his voice. maybe you could’ve placed it if you weren’t so shaken up.

“clark,” you said softly. you nodded your head, looking up at him with red cheeks and parted lips. “his name is clark kent.”

superman smiled all the more. “i’m well acquainted with mr. kent, yes. he does me justice in the paper.”

something in you fluttered. whether it was your stomach or your heart you weren’t sure. you felt a spark of recollection sizzle through your veins as you looked into those rich, deep blue eyes. stupidly, you felt like you’d known this man all your life. it had to have been the delirium of the moment and how much you had seen of him on the news that had you feeling that way.

it was definitely because clark spoke about him all the time.

superman gave your chin a soft touch, pulling you back into reality in those mere seconds he was stood in front of you. “you stay safe, miss. i know mr. kent would be very upset if something happened to you.”

“uh-huh…” you nodded.

that moment had felt infinite and yet not long enough. you almost reached for him again when he pulled away. you couldn’t help it. in the face of something so scary, he was a comforting beacon.

you texted clark with shaking hands when you finally picked up your phone.

[do i have a story for you…]

—

clark rushed home to you as soon as he could.

while you had been sent home immediately after the incident at work, your boyfriend had an obligation to cover anything and everything superman related for the daily planet. it was a frequent thing these days for him to be stuck at work with the conflict between boravia and jarhanpur going on. superman had stepped in without permission from the united states to prevent an invasion. despite clark’s long nights, you were happy to see him get front page on the paper. his interviews with superman were always an entertaining read. they had good banter even during serious topics of conversation.

“honey?” clark called out, dropping his bag by the door.

you jumped off the couch and hurried your way to him as soon as he rounded the corner. he scooped you up into his arms and the two of you let out the same breath of relief. the poor guy look disheveled. had he run all the way home? most likely.

“oh, my freaking gosh, baby, i was so worried about you…” clark sighed, squeezing your thighs firmly in his hands. “you’re not hurt, are you?”

“m’ okay,” you murmured into the warm crook of his neck. you don’t think you’d ever been more relieved to see him— to feel him. hell, even to smell him.

“i met your friend.” you said softly. you pulled back to look at him, a small smile on your lips.

“superman?” clark smiled back and gave you a knowing look. “he mentioned it when i talked to him after his fight with that…thing…”

“he’s as amazing in person as you’ve said he is. it’s so different seeing him up close than it is on tv…” you said, eyes glimmering with something warm and content.

clark huffed out a laugh through his nose and gave your thighs a soft squish. “are you crushing on my most coveted interviewee, honey?”

you laughed and pressed a kiss to his lips. “only a little bit…”

clark grumbled as he made his way to the couch. “great.” he sat down with you in his lap and smirked, “i have to worry about my coworkers trying to get their hands on superman as it is. i gotta worry about you now, too?”

you laughed all the more and shook your head. you liked that he was making you laugh. it took the edge off the lingering anxiety from this morning’s near-death experience you’d been narrowly saved from.

“i only have eyes for you, clark.” you promised him. you touched his chin and pressed a kiss to his lips.

clark gathered you closer to him, not letting you pull away just yet. his hands splayed along the curve of your spine. he moved his lips reverently against yours. he was kissing you like you were going to slip through his fingers. there was tremble in his shoulders that did not go unnoticed by you.

you pulled away from the kiss slowly, lips mere inches apart. your nose brushed against his. “i’m okay, baby. i promise.”

“if anything ever happened to you…” clark swallowed hard. he cupped your cheeks in his warm, calloused hands. “gosh, honey, i would lose my mind…”

“shh,” you murmured. you curled your hands around his wrists and shook your head. “none of that. don’t go down that hole because i’m right here. i’m here.”

clark let out a slow breath. your words meant a great deal to him. the tension dropped from his shoulders and he gave you a tiny nod. you were right and he knew it.

you were there and you were okay.

“i’m glad sports didn’t kill you today.” you said under your breath with a smile. you leaned in to kiss him.

clark let out a low, raspy laugh. he pecked your lips and gave your ass a soft pat. “i’m glad you didn’t get crushed by a giant lizard monster.”

“looks like superman saved us both.” you said.

clark grinned. “looks like he did.”

the evening was comfortable. clark did his best to make sure you were content. despite your best effort, you couldn’t completely hide the fact that today had frazzled you. every loud city noise made you jump. he held you close as you lounged together on the couch. a movie played on the tv that neither of you were paying much attention to. you were more focused on the steady, mighty pound of his heart under your ear as you laid atop him.

“i’ve got you,” he murmured into the roots of your hair. his breath was so warm it sent tingles dancing down the nape of your neck.

you nuzzled in closer to him and let out the tension in your muscles that you didn’t mean to hold. he pressed kiss after kiss to your head, softening you all the more. it felt so good. the ache you had felt earlier in the day when he hadn’t responded to your text was forgotten. in its place was an overwhelming, overflowing well of love for him.

he was so calming. it was one of your favorite things about him— the fact that he a giant, warm teddy bear disguised as a man. you didn’t fight the drowsiness that came over you. you simply tucked your face down into his chest and let your eyes close.

—

you woke up too hot. too thirsty. alone. you pushed yourself off your tummy and glanced around. the living room was glowing with the light of the muted tv. you rubbed your eyes as you stretched, working out an aching kink in your shoulder.

“clark?” you called out softly.

he was gone.

the apartment around you was too quiet and too chilly as you searched for any glimpse of him; but you had known he was gone as soon you woke up by yourself. it made your heart sink. you chewed on your lip as your finger lingered over the ‘call’ button on his contact in your phone.

you didn’t make that call.

you tossed your phone onto your bed and sat down on the edge of it. the city lights bled in through the slits of the blinds, painting you in fluorescent stripes. it was in moments like these where you felt a twinge of resentment. no matter how hard you tried to smother it, it always came back. it burned you from the inside out until tears spilled over your lashes and wet your cheeks.

where could he have gone?

that was one of the questions you asked yourself over and over and over again. for nearly two years, you spent far too many nights weeping like this. you’d fall asleep to find him gone when you woke up. you’d suffocate in a wave of loneliness that felt fatal.

you tried to call him.

the dail tone dragged and dragged and dragged. you chewed on the skin around your nails as your leg bounced. you wouldn’t have been happy to hear his voice even if he did pick up. you would have to hear some excuse that would feel more like bullshit than it did anything genuine.

you did hear his voice.

you heard that same automated message each and every time you tried to call him when he was gone.

“hey, it’s clark kent. sorry i can’t come to the phone right now but leave a message after the beep and i’ll get back to you as soon as i can. thanks.”

the beep was piercing in your ear. it should’ve jolted you. it should’ve been means for you to hang up. you never left him voicemails. well, you rarely did. but for some reason, you couldn’t bring yourself to move as the silence dragged on. it was like a weight on your chest, crushing you one ton at a time. you couldn’t pull your phone from your ear and press the big red button that would end this small pocket of hell you found yourself wallowing in.

in that moment, you hated him.

you hated him and his talent for disappearing when you wanted him most.

when you needed him.

“goodnight, clark,” you murmured.

you hung up and went to bed. with tears staining your pillow and your covers cocooning you from the stillness of your bedroom around you, you fell asleep.

it was cruel of the universe to let you dream about him. his hands. his charming smile. his pristine glasses that had not one single scratch on them despite the fact that he never took them off. his goofy little laugh. his kisses.

you woke up angrier than you fell asleep because he hadn’t found his way back into your bed.

the world around you felt your wrath. the drawers and cabinet doors were slammed. the cup you smacked down onto the countertop and filled with orange juice didn’t deserve it. neither did the carton of orange juice as you shoved it back into the fridge. you didn’t deserve it either as you ripped out hair trying to get the knots out of your tangled ends.

despite his preference to live at your place, clark still had his own apartment. every now and again you would find yourself over there with him. you would cook in his kitchen, shower in his bathroom, and make love in his bed. you liked his place. you liked being where he was.

it boiled your blood all the more to imagine that he had slipped out while you snoozed on the couch to go home after what had happened to you.

he really had to have been the most dense, idiotic idiot to ever live and breathe…

the cherry on top of the rotted cake you found placed in front of you was that you still had to go to work. the only damage done to your office were the windows. a crew was already there replacing them and your boss green lit an questionable afternoon shift for everyone in the office.

you felt like a walking hurricane.

the train ride into work mocked you. every rattle of the cart that had you swaying was a reminder that he wasn’t there to steady you. there were no knowing looks to give each other this morning.

‘i love you,’ his eyes would profess to you in the crowded, congested train car. a sweet, perfect non-secret you kept. it felt like a game: we are in love and we want people to see it in the way we look at each other.

a bond felt, not heard.

by yourself today, you felt both unheard and unfelt by clark. he hadn’t even had the decency to text you. no call, no nothing. just that empty silence that grew more and more frequent between you both.

when a text from him finally did come, you ignored it. well, you read the whole thing. it was a decently sized paragraph, but you didn’t reply to it. you flipped your phone over and tried to forget it as you typed away on your keyboard.

it was hard to draft an email when his painfully well-written words turned over and over in your head.

[hey, honey. i’m so sorry i had to run last night. i got a call from superman and we met to discuss what the monster he fought was. i didn’t want to wake you. i know i should’ve but you looked so peaceful, baby, and i just wanted you to rest. by the time he and i wrapped everything up, it was easier for me to head to my place. it was cruddy of me not to at least text you and i know that. sometimes, things get all jumbled up for me. i can be such a jerk, huh? i really am sorry, my love.]

you chewed on your lip as tears blurred your vision. you pulled your hands away from the keyboard and rubbed at your eyes. god, why did he have to be so…so perfect despite his repeated mistakes?

when your phone dinged again, that grudge you wanted to hold against him felt minuscule in comparison to the relief that flooded you.

[can we grab lunch? how does ice cream sound? something sweet for my sweetheart? hehe :) we can get whatever you’d like. i just want to see you and kiss you and love on you, honey.]

[ice cream for lunch sounds great.]

you could imagine the relief on his face. the poor bastard had probably been kicking himself all morning long. he had no doubt drafted that text message as many times as you were trying to draft and perfect the email you were sending out on behalf of your boss.

it made you grin. just a bit. the smallest, tiniest bit. barely anything. nothing, even. and the warmth that filled your face? you ignored it.

when 1:30 rolled around, you turned off your computer and clocked out for lunch. you had 45 minutes of peace from the gray, boring drawl of your office. when you stepped outside, it was sunny and warm.

and he was there.

his hair was a curly mess in his face and he looked like a kicked puppy. he kept his head down, his hands twisting in front of him as you approached him. he glanced at you. his lips twitched into a nervous little smile.

you didn’t say all but one word to him. instead, you punched him on the arm as soon as he was close enough.

he nodded, rubbing his bicep. “i deserve that.”

you grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and tugged him down into a deep, desperate kiss. his arms instantly wrapped around you, one strong hand tangling into the roots of your hair. the busy city around you faded into nothing. you two were entirely alone, secluded in a burning moment of intimacy that said so much more than ‘i forgive you.’

every kiss and squeeze said ‘i love you so much that i can’t ever feel anything else for you.’

clark looked drunk when you pulled away. heavy, almost wheezy breaths escaped his parted lips. it made you smile. he smiled, too, disarming you without knowing.

“ice cream?” he asked in that sweet, a-pitch-too high voice of his.

you nodded, fixing his tie. “ice cream.”

clark’s taste in ice cream surprised you the first time you’d gone to get some. you figured he would have been more of a savory-sweet person, choosing a flavor like coffee or pistachio. no. not even close. he liked birthday cake with rainbow sprinkles. despite your warning to get a cup since it was warm today, he got it in a cone. you enjoyed watching him struggle to keep the ice cream from dripping all over himself as the you sat together at the table outside the ice cream parlor.

“you’re making a mess.” you laughed, popping another bite of ice cream into your mouth.

“i’m not, i’m not.” he insisted. he licked around the edge of the cone to keep everything neat.

neat enough, at least.

you hated how quickly your mind wandered as you watched his tongue lap up the cold, sweet treat as it dripped. you had a sweet, dripping treat he could lick up, too, but it wouldn’t be cold…

“stop it.” he murmured. he could see you out of the corner of his eye. sitting shoulder-to-shoulder, he could nearly feel what you were thinking.

“huh?” you feigned innocence. “m’ not doing anything. i didn’t even say anything.” you took another bite of ice cream. this time, you pulled the spoon out from between your lips a beat too slow.

his eyes locked on your mouth.

“you’re a naughty little thing…” clark grumbled under his breath. distracted by you and your teasing, his ice cream became a melted mess. he got up to get a few napkins.

you grinned to yourself.

when he sat back down beside you, he was close. extremely close. his ice cream lay face-down in a cup and he wiped his hands off on brown napkins. he was turned towards you. the large, firm expanse of his chest could’ve burst free from the buttons of his shirt if it was even a fraction of a bit tighter

“eyes up here,” he whispered, tucking a finger under your chin.

you had no time to lift your gaze because he leaned in and kissed you. he made good on his promise over text. he loved on you like there was no tomorrow. he was reserved enough — mindful of those around you both — but just sensual enough to made your skin buzz underneath your clothes.

“i want you to know,” he murmured, moving his lips from yours to your cheek. your jaw. the soft spot underneath your ear that had you tipping your head back the tiniest bit. “that you are the most important person in the world to me.”

your heart skipped a beat.

right now, you didn’t just feel like the most important person to him— you felt like the only person in the world. the way he stroked the back of your head with every kiss softened you so much that you could’ve turned to mush. you were mush. you hid away in the crook of his neck and whimpered.

“don’t be charming…” you fussed.

clark laughed. “you love when i’m charming.”

“yes, but my poor heart can only take so much. romantic clark makes me breathless enough. add charming clark into the mix and i fear i won’t live to see the sun set.”

“charming me and romantic me are different people?” he asked with a small tip of his head.

you couldn’t help but laugh. despite the hint of playfulness in his voice, you had a feeling he was genuinely asking. “it’s just an expression, babe.”

“hm,” he tipped his chin down to look at you. he ran his fingers through your hair gently, tugging at it so subtly you felt like you lifted you head on your own accord. “expression or not, every version of me loves you, honey. very, very much.”

you smiled.

that was a bit cheesy but it was good.

“every version?” you asked in a whisper.

he tucked a finger under your chin and smiled at you, dimples and pearly white teeth on full, glorious display. “every and all.”

“even the ones you hide from me?” you asked.

his brows furrowed for a moment. a fleeting one. a brief look of confusion twisted on his handsome face. and then he whispered words that not even he believed.

“i don’t hide anything from you…”

you smiled at him— but it wasn’t exactly kind. it was sympathetic. it was pitiful when paired with the feather-light laugh that came out of your nose. “sure you don’t.”

clark looked away. his jaw tightened and you could see he was biting back his words. you knew he had a temper. somewhere behind that gentlemanly honor, it was there. a simmering anger not always easy to keep at bay.

“i don’t lie to you.” clark said lowly. the stress on that word was his way of letting you in. in a tiny, very insufficient way, he was giving you something.

a crumb.

that was all it was.

but you couldn’t say for certain if that was true or not. lying and hiding things were not exactly synonymous, but they were close enough. like cousins, in a sense.

“i’d hope you didn’t.” you said, looking back at your ice cream. it was half-melted in the cup. your spoon was sunken into it.

“why are you being this way?” clark asked. he shifted his weight, rubbing his hand over his forehead. he was growing more and more frustrated.

in turn, you could feel your own frustrations arise back up.

that grudge reared its ugly head.

“what way am i being, clark?” you asked. you shook your head at him, hoping to catch his eyes. “i mean, i’ve been pretty gracious about all the times you’ve up n’ disappeared without so much as a word.”

clark grit his teeth together. “you know it’s because of work, honey.”

“yeah. interviews with superman that take you until four o’clock in the morning to finish. i’m well aware.” you muttered bitterly.

“for god sake, baby, it’s not my fault i’m supposed to come when called. if i don’t, i miss the chance to talk to him. it’s not like he’s someone i have on speed dial. when he has time, i don’t waste it.”

“no, you just waste mine.” you said.

you wished you hadn’t. you met his gaze and both your faces crumbled. you saw his heart break. christ, you almost heard it. you shook your head, placing your hand on his arm as if to reach out and take those words back.

“i didn’t mean that.” you whispered.

clark didn’t look at you but he didn’t nudge your hand away either. “you did.”

“i know i’m not the greatest boyfriend.” he said before you could utter any pathetic apology that couldn’t remedy the hurt you just caused him. “there is so much that i could do better and i know that.”

“clark…”

“i’m work-focused to a fault and i know it hurts you. i know my absence causes you pain. i see it without you having to say anything. it kills me to be the root of your upset but i have an obligation, honey.”

an obligation to the paper.

you hated how jealousy-fueled anger made your eyes burn in an instant. you hated the way it made your throat tight. you hated the way your voice shook. you hated how much it hurt you to hear outright that you were not at the top of his list.

“it’s a fucking newspaper…” you whispered. if you didn’t whisper you were afraid you’d yell.

clark’s eyes snapped down you. he reached out a hand but before he could bring it to you’re tear-streaked cheek, he stopped himself. he looked at you as someone would broken glass. something they had to be careful with. something that could cut them.

hurt them.

“it’s not just a newspaper, my love…” clark whispered with a slow shake of his head.

an angry cry slipped passed your lips. you shook your head, grabbing your purse as you got up. “not just a newspaper? what the fuck does that even mean? do you even realize how that fucking sounds, clark?”

clark was on his feet immediately. he matched your quick strides, keeping the closeness to you that you tried to distance yourself from. “baby, it’s my job. it’s my whole life. it’s what i’m passionate about. don’t you understand that?”

you could’ve screamed.

you almost did.

you whirled around and stuck a finger in his chest. “understand? you think i don’t understand? i of all people in the world understand! but, jesus, clark, it feels like you are more passionate about your job than you are about me sometimes!”

clark’s browns pinched and his lips parted in a soft, awful agony that made your chest hurt. “that’s not true, honey. you know it’s not.”

“do i?” you asked. you turned your head away and wiped the tears on your cheeks. “i could have died yesterday and instead of staying with me, you left.”

“you didn’t even call me back…” you cried.

stabbing him would’ve hurt him less than those words did. he bit down on his lip and shook his head. you could see him choking it back. an excuse. a way out. a reason why leaving was more important.

“i’m sorry,” he whispered. he stepped forward and reached for you. “baby, i’m sorry.”

“yeah, you’re so fucking sorry.” you scoffed, nudging his hands away. “you’re so sorry, clark, that you say it all the fucking time.”

clark shut his mouth.

both of you knew there wasn’t anything he could say to make the hurt you felt better. he had screwed up last night. worse than he had before— worse than you wanted to admit to yourself.

“superman picked me up off the floor even when he didn’t have to. yet my own boyfriend couldn’t stay with me undisturbed for the one night i thought he would have known i needed him most.” you said.

clark grabbed you by the shoulders. he grabbed you so firmly it rattled you. your eyes widened and before you could snap at him, your voice died away.

the man stood before you now was suffering.

he was drowning even though there was no water. he was choking on all the words he could never say outright. but he said the ones he could— the ones he meant with every fiber of his being.

“i love you,” he whispered. his voice was like molten heat that weakened your core. the look on his face hurt the way looking into the sun did. “you don’t understand— you can never understand just how much i love you, honey…”

his voice broke when he said that sweet, sweet name he always called you. your breath shook as he let go of you. you stood there stunned. frozen. paused like he clicked the button on the tv remote. all you could manage was a few slow blinks and shallow, uneven breaths.

“i— i love you,” you stammered.

a weak, tired smile curled at the corner of his mouth. “i know, baby…”

“i’m sorry.” you breathed, placing your hands on any part of him you could. you curled your fingers around his suit jacket.

“i know,” he said again. softer this time. so much softer. he leaned down and rubbed his nose against yours. “i’m sorry, too. i don’t mean to be a jerk…”

“i know,” you echoed.

he reached to gather you closer, to horde you against his chest like the most precious thing in the world to him. you let him. there was solace to find in his arms. comfort. forgiveness. true, genuine forgiveness that was as easy to hand over as a kiss.

perhaps you were a fool for it, but you did forgive him. you forgave him even though you knew this problem would persist. but some couples had real problems— like cheating and lying. clark was right. he didn’t lie to you. he hadn’t ever. he just…he didn’t always tell you everything.

some faults could be accepted.

and this was one you were willing to accept.

he walked you back to work. with his arm wrapped around your shoulder and you tucked into his side in a way that made you feel teeny tiny, he guided you through the ever-crowded streets.

“i might have to stay late at the office tonight.” he gave you a guilty look and chewed on his lip. “i’ll try not to be any later than seven, honey, but—“

“clark,” you said, turning to face him. you cupped his cheeks and pinched them gently between your fingers. “as long as you tell me where you’ll be and give me notice, you don’t have to apologize.”

he let out an awkward, almost relieved chuckle. he nodded that perfect, handsome head of his. “okay…”

you parted ways with a kiss that lingered on your lips even after he pulled away. the feel of his mouth on yours burned all the way back to your desk. you felt much better during the second half of your shift than you did for the first. even more so when your phone dinged.

[i would’ve liked licking you way more than the ice cream by the way :D]

you put your head in your hands and laughed as your face turned red. you loved him so much…

he was definitely worth every absent moment.

—

clark let you know for sure that he would be staying later at the office by the time your work day ended. part of you wanted to visit him. maybe you should’ve, but walking into the daily planet was more than a bit intimidating. it was one of the busiest places in the city and you wanted him to focus so that he could come home all the quicker. besides, you had to catch the train or you’d be stuck waiting for the next one for nearly an hour.

at this time of day, the city was in rush hour. the streets were lined with cars that never seemed to move more than a few feet. the sidewalks were packed with people walking shoulder-to-shoulder. everyone was trying to get home to their families, their pets, their bubbles of comfort.

your greatest comfort would be home no later than 7:15, or so he said. you couldn’t wait. to make up for the hurt you caused, you planned to make him his favorite: breakfast for dinner.

despite the fact that clark was not with you, you didn’t feel lonely on the train. you didn’t feel bitter. a permanent smile was glued to your lips at the idea of getting to see him again. you couldn’t wait to see his face when he walked into your apartment a found a stack of warm waffles drenched in butter and syrup waiting for him.

you went to the grocery store that was only a ten minute walk from your place after getting off the train. you were going to go all out for him tonight. there would be no frozen waffles popped into the toaster. no, you’d make them from scratch. finding the ingredients you’d need was easy enough. you’d only been grocery shopping at market-stop for your entire adult life.

to be extra sweet, you bought him flowers. he was always spoiling you with bouquets. your kitchen was usually full of about three full vases at a time that he swapped out when they started to whither. even though you knew these yellow daylily’s were going to live in your kitchen next to the roses, peonies, and carnations he bought you, it was the thought that counted.

what was that saying, though?

no good deed goes unpunished?

you learned that not even two seconds after leaving the grocery store.

screams of terror jolted through you and froze your blood in your veins. chaos consumed the streets in milliseconds as the hammer of boravia barreled down the street, sending cars flying and people running for their lives.

you ran. as soon as you realized what was happening around you, you ran as fast as your feet would carry you. it didn’t feel fast enough. it wasn’t fast enough. it was a horrible nightmare come to life where no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t get anywhere. you couldn’t get away.

the chaos consumed you whole.

the pounding of feet became more than something you could just hear. you hadn’t realized you’d been knocked over until footsteps became something you felt. the sole’s of men and women’s shoes alike pressed into tender skin. into bone. your back. your legs. your arms as you tried to shield your head. you couldn’t hear yourself shriek over the countless cries of others around you.

flower petals lay crushed and scattered on the side walk as people ran over them.

ran over you.

“jesus, lady, i got ya!” shouted a voice that sounded like it broke through ice.

the next thing you knew you were on your feet. grasping your stomach and wheezing as you tried to pull any air into your flattened lungs, you could hardly focus. you tried to mutter a ‘thank you’ to the man who had helped you up— but a large piece of stone squashed him like a grape as rubble began to fall from the sky.

blood splattered all over you.

you could smell it.

you could taste it it the air.

one second, a fully grown adult man had been standing in front of you. now, his hand was sticking out from under a piece of cement that was an inch away from taking you down with him. his blood was all over you. bits of flesh and organ and brain matter.

purgatory.

it was the only word to describe where you found yourself— the frozen state of shock you were in. with the city crumbling around you as the hammer of boravia unleashed destruction from the sky, you couldn’t move. you couldn’t blink. you couldn’t even bring yourself breathe.

you flinched as a meteor crashed down into the street. large chunks of pavement went flying past you in something you would later chalk-up as divine intervention. in that moment, you could only watch as superman crawled his way out of that crater.

as he hauled himself out of the hole in the earth, his eyes landed on you. amongst the running, screaming crowd you were the only thing that was still. a bloody mess of shock and injury. you hadn’t realized you were clutching your arm to your chest as your shoulder hung at an angle that screamed dislocation. you couldn’t feel the pain.

you could only feel shock as the look on superman’s face twisted into agonized horror.

he was in front of you before you even had the chance to blink. it startled you. it pulled a gasp from your lungs when he seemed to move so fast that he teleported from his place on the street to no more than two small inches from you.

“what the heck are you doing here, honey?” superman asked, his hands nearly shaking as he caressed your face. it was like he was afraid to touch you, to hurt you any more than you already were.

you blinked at him.

it wasn’t the shock you were in that shocked you in that moment. it was that name slipping so easily from his lips. it had you as open-mouthed and bug-eyed as a fish out of water.

that was a name no one but clark called you.

“h—honey,” you murmured. you felt lopsided. the world did. everything was backwards. you grasped onto his arms for support, feeling like you were about to go head over heels in a not-so-good way.

clark must’ve called you honey so often that superman thought that was your name.

“okay, okay…” superman said softly, keeping you upright with firm, steady hands that caught you around the waist. he looked around. despite the lag in your own brain, you knew that the gears in his were turning.

he couldn’t stay with you.

he had to go stop the hammer of boravia.

superman hadn’t ever been selfish. every action since his arrival into the spotlight had been for the good of the people. he was the most righteous public servant to ever live and breathe— and you were nothing but the girlfriend of a daily planet reporter he got on well with.

being selfish was a human trait. clark kent was selfish with his near insatiable hunger for work. for a story that meant something. for an interview that could change flow of society’s day when it hit the paper. he was a selfish man— and he was at work. right now, he was at work unaware that you were covered in blood and the shoe-marks of those who had trampled you in the street.

it was something selfish superman did when he lifted you into his arms and shot up into the air.

it felt like being on a rollercoaster. the way your stomach turned and the wind tickled your face reminded you of the coasters you used to ride every summer break. you almost wanted to laugh. in your weakened state of mind, you could’ve laughed at the bubbly feeling in your belly.

but there was no laughter slipping past your lips. not when superman’s hands splayed across you in a way that felt too familiar to feel in the arms of a stranger.

the superman thing to do would’ve been to drop you off at a hospital. that’s what you thought he was going to do. it was the logical thing. in his eyes, you must’ve been too injured to leave behind. you definitely felt rough. you could feel the terrible ache in your shoulder now. the bruises forming on your spine from the feet that had run across you.

it was a selfish, human thing to do to fly you far out of the city, over the ocean, and somewhere so cold it made you coil like a spring against his chest. it all happened so fast that you felt dizzy— sick to your stomach. like a fever had set right into your bones.

“i know it’s cold, i’m sorry.” he murmured into your ear. in one smooth movement, he pulled his cape around you both to shield you from the bitter cold.

“superman,” you chattered out, your teeth clicking. “you…you…” you wanted to say so many things. ask so many things. confront him about so many things because now it was all so crystal clear you felt like a blind fool.

but he beat you to it.

“yes, honey, it’s clark.” he said, his voice as soft and tender as it was when you were laid in bed together. gone was the ocean-deep tone that superman used. “it’s clark, baby. i’m right here.”

clark kent and superman were both lucky you slipped unconscious because the reaction you would’ve had could’ve brought the moon crashing into the earth.

—

it was so bright and crystalline-white when you opened your eyes that you had to have been in heaven.

you sucked in a slow breath of crisp, cool air into your lungs. you tipped your chin down. there was no pain. not an ache or a hurt to be felt. you flexed your fingers. you wiggled your toes within the fluffy socks on your feet. you rolled your shoulders.

no pain.

not an ounce of it.

there was a hum of something familiar in the air. low enough not to disturb the peace in this castle of ice and crystal, but enough to fill the silence that would’ve been there without it.

‘cause a punk rocker, yes, i am.

well, i’m a punk rocker, yes, i am.

lord help you…

superman really was your boyfriend.

“sir, she’s awake.” a robotic voice said as you pushed yourself up. your head was a bit spiny but you could have felt far, far worse considering what you felt like before you went unconscious.

“yeah, gary, i can see that.” he said.

you turned your head and there he was— a pillar of hope and handsomeness that winded you. you shuddered a small breath and it felt like your eyes adjusted, like everything had finally snapped into place. you could see them both at the same time.

clark.

superman.

him.

that dorky walk couldn’t be fully covered up by the prefect posture. despite how neat his hair was, that one rouge curl told you all you needed to know. no amount of superhero-proof gel could save clark kent from his unruly curls. and that smile? that nervous, dimpled smile?

“clark.” you said.

“hi, honey…” clark whispered, making his walk of misplaced shame towards you one guilty step and nervous hand twist at a time.

“does anything hurt?” he asked in a voice far too tender. he gently ran his fingertips up your thighs without lifting his gaze to yours.

“no.” you whispered. now that he was close to you, you were a bit starstruck.

your boyfriend was superman.

“you can punch me if you want.” clark said with a small, playful smile. he glanced at you.

you couldn’t help the soft laughter that escaped you. “m’ not going to punch you…”

“although, i have serious questions about the ethicality of your interviews.” you said, poking him in the chest. you leaned in closer so that he had to meet your gaze. “and about how you handled what happened after you pancaked into the street…”

clark tipped his head and chuckled. “my interviews are ethical enough, my love.” the grin on his lips spread ear-to-ear. “as for my very heroic action of saving a young lady in obvious distress?”

“it was…mmm…” he pressed a quick, feather-light kiss to your lips, “let’s say, a conflict of interest.”

you laughed. “a conflict of interest?”

“i told you, honey, you’re the most important person in the world to me.” clark said.

you couldn’t help but smile. ever the charming, your clark. you shook you head and wrapped your arms around his neck.

“what?” he asked. he gave your hips a soft squeeze and pouted. “why are you shaking your head at me?”

“because you’re an idiot, clark kent.” you said, more smiley than you’d ever been before. “and you’re the most wonderful man i’ve ever met.”

“i am pretty great guy.” clark agreed.

“some would even say super.” you said with an all too smug smile. “a super man.”

clark rolled his eyes. “you’re done.”

“oh, i’m just getting started, baby.”

thank you so much for reading! i hope you enjoyed <3

[sikayeto]

SAFEHOUSE ⋆ CK !

pairing. clark kent x fem!reader genre. friends to lovers. sexual tension. smut.

after a brutal event leaves clark weak and poisoned by kryptonite, you follow strict orders to rush him to his parents’ home — the one place you’re certain no one would find him at. a safe house.

word count. 5.1k words warnings. men in pain !! men in pain !! sexual tension. clark worrying about oc. he smells and hears her arousal bc of his super senses giggles. smut. oral (fem!receiving) MUNCH CLARK. fingering. unprotected + rough sex. size kink. tummy bulge. he puts a fucking pillow between the wall and the bed frame. they have to be very quiet. BIG COCK CLARK. squirting.

✶ inspired by events from — SUPERMAN (2025).

ana’s notes. i know this isnt anything jungkook related but .. im going through something rn with this man. i shouldve never fucking watched this movie. some details are improvised bc i lowk dont know shit abt superman (i was always more of a marvel girlie) so if theres smth in here that doesnt make sense for his character .. please just PLEASE JUST DONT OKAY. okie !! enjoy ♡

Clark Kent was a very reserved man.

Even at the office, he rarely had much to say. If someone asked about his day, he’d answer with something short — a few words, never a story. He never flaunted his accomplishments or fed off the praise. Where most of the department reeked of overbearing bragging and egotistical bastards, Clark kept to himself. He was private. Content with staying out of the spotlight.

Even as friends, you knew only fragments about him. How he liked his coffee — black, bitter, not even a pinch of sugar. That he didn’t have an Instagram, Facebook, or any kind of digital footprint beyond an email address. 

And then, of course, there was the part you hadn’t known.

That he was Superman.

He hadn’t wanted you to find out — you could tell by the way he stammered and lied through an explanation the night you confronted him about it. But Clark Kent was not nearly as subtle as he liked to think he was, and you were far too observant. He was conveniently missing whenever Superman was needed. Once could’ve been a coincidence, but every time? No way.

Over time, he was okay with you knowing. He trusted you.

You were his friend. And friends trust and help each other.

Which was why you had helped him get all the way here — to his parents’ home, a beautiful farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. It was quiet. Safe. 

You’d been to Clark’s apartment in Metropolis many times — a high-rise with floor-to-ceiling windows, glossy black marble tiles, and simple, modern furniture.

It couldn't have been more different from the warmth of his parents’ farmhouse in Kansas. Here, the floors were scuffed wood, every step creaking faintly, and the whole house carried the scent of timber with a soft undertone of cinnamon. Memories were painted on the walls — framed photographs of smiles, family trips, and holiday dinners.

Clark’s parents were the kind of people who opened their home to you as if they’ve been waiting for you your whole life, their kindness effortless and genuine. It was a home that radiated comfort and care, and suddenly it made sense why Clark was so well-mannered and grounded. He’d grown up in the center of it all.

His childhood room was left untouched. Band posters and old movie prints clung to the walls, their corners curling. A shelf in the corner displayed trophies and figurines that had clearly been handled and loved. For all that he was, Superman, the man who could save the world and never expect anything in return, there was something disarmingly ordinary about this space. About him.

A low groan from behind you broke through your thoughts.

“You’re still here,” Clark murmured from the bed, his voice low and hoarse. He was lying down, one hand pressed over his ribs like the pressure alone could hold him together. The suit still clung to him, faint streaks of dirt and ash dulling the bright colors. The Kryptonite’s grip had loosened, his veins back to their normal color, but he was still weak. The sun was already setting. He’d be fully recovered by morning.

“Did you want me to leave?” you asked, turning just enough to meet his gaze.

“I- No!” His head lifted slightly, urgency in his tone. “I’m just… surprised.”

There was something behind that word. Not shock, exactly, but disbelief — like he wasn’t used to someone waiting for him to recover. Like he’d expected to wake up alone.

You crossed the room, the floorboards creaking under each step, and lowered yourself into the chair beside his bed. His eyes followed you, searching your face, as if he was waiting for you to change your mind.

“How’re you feeling?” you ask softly.

“Pain,” he replied, a faint, breathy chuckle escaping before his eyes slipped shut. The sound was quiet, but it still carried that small thread of warmth you’d learned to recognize in him.

“Holt said you should feel fine in the morning, once the sun starts coming out,” you told him, keeping your voice gentle, like anything louder might press against his headache.

His gaze flickered, something unreadable in it before he looked away. “I wish you’d stayed in Metropolis,” he murmured, his voice low but edged with frustration. “You’re safer there.”

You shook your head without hesitation. “No.”

“Yes,” he said, more firmly this time. The softness in his tone gave way to steel, the same voice he used when there was no room for argument. “You could’ve gotten hurt just by being seen with me. If something happened, I-“ His jaw tightened. “I wouldn’t have been able to save you.”

You leaned forward slightly, catching his eyes. “Well, I wasn’t,” you said, your tone steady but gentler than your words. “Stop stressing yourself out, Clark. You’ve done enough. You should get some more rest.”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he shifted against the pillows, wincing a little. His hand fidgeted with the edge of his cape, eyes flicking to you and then away again.

“I, uh… I don’t…” He paused, licking his lips. “I don’t really like sleeping in the suit. It’s- uh- kinda uncomfortable. I was just… wondering if- if you could maybe… help me? Just with, y’know… the top part.”

“Y- yeah, sure,” you stammer, pushing yourself up and moving closer. Because you’re his friend. And friends help friends.

You help him sit up slowly, his breath hitching with a groan as his ribs protest the movement. Carefully, you reach behind to detach the cape, your fingers brushing the fabric with a softness that contrasts the roughness of the moment.

Then your hand finds the zipper at the back of his suit. You pull it down slowly, deliberately, revealing inch by inch of his creamy pale skin beneath — smooth, vulnerable, so human.

Clark’s eyes flutter open, meeting yours for a brief second before they close again. The silence between you stretches filled only by the soft sound of the zipper and his shallow breaths.

You help him pull the suit off his arms, the fabric sliding away to reveal his upper body — bare, exposed, impossible to ignore. His chest is broad and muscular, every line defined, almost unreal in its strength. The same goes for his biceps, thick and strong. Suddenly, your own nerves flutter, caught off guard by the closeness, the unexpected weight of this moment.

You steady the back of his neck as he leans back against the pillows, low groans rumbling from deep within him.

“You sure you don’t want me to… take it all off?” you ask quietly, the tension between you crackling like electricity.

If the room weren’t so heavy, if Clark wasn’t in so much pain, he might’ve thrown out a teasing, flirty comment about you trying to get him naked. But tonight, none of that comes.

Instead, he looks at you — eyes searching, silent, as if he’s trying to say something without words. Like he wants something he doesn’t quite know how to ask for.

“If you’re okay…” he murmured quietly, his voice soft, almost hesitant.

You gave him a small, reassuring smile, your fingers lightly tugging at the edge of the suit. He lifted his body as much as he could, every moment careful but willing — doing what he could to make it easier for you.

You kneel at the foot of the bed, fingers working at the heavy boots until they come off one by one with soft thuds against the floor. Then, with a firm grip, you take hold of the suit and give it a swift tug, the fabric sliding away until he’s left in nothing but his boxers.

On any other day, the situation might’ve been awkward — but tonight, he’s too worn down, too sore to care. His head stays against the pillow, eyes half-lidded, breaths slow and shallow.

You keep your gaze steady, careful not to linger, and carry the suit to his closet. The weight of it settles onto the hanger with a soft rustle, the deep blue and red now looking strangely still without him inside it.

“Goodnight,” you murmur, turning toward the door. But before your hand even reaches the knob, he calls your name. “Yes?” you turn back. 

“Don’t go back without me,” he says, his eyes pleading in a way that makes your chest tighten. “Stay here for now. With me.”

You look at him fully this time. His body is bare, save for the thin stretch of fabric covering his hips. You’ve never seen Clark like this — stripped of the cape, of any clothes at that. It isn’t weird in a seeing your family member naked kind of way. It’s… different. Raw. It makes you nervous in a way you don’t want to think too hard about.

“I’m not going anywhere, Clark,” you tell him softly. “I’ll be downstairs if you need me.”

You reach for the door again, but he calls your name once more.

“Yes?”

His lips curve faintly. “Thank you.”

You smile back. “Of course.”

Because friends help friends.

Clark awoke with a start.

The pain in his side had eased to a faint ache, and the heavy fog of fatigue was gone. The room is dim, lit only by the warm glow of the nightlight on the nightstand.

His mouth was dry. A glass of water sounded perfect.

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he got up and reached for the robe hanging on his closet door. The soft fabric brushed against his skin as he shrugged it on. Then, with slow, careful steps, he made his way toward the door, moving quietly as he descended the creaking staircase.

He walked through the dark with ease — even half-asleep, his steps were quiet and calculated — but he flipped the kitchen light on anyway. The soft hum of the bulb filled the silence. He grabbed a tall glass from the cupboard, filled it from the fridge, and downed it in one long swig, the cool water sliding down his throat, washing away the dryness.

“Clark?”

Your voice was soft, groggy. He turned as you padded into the kitchen, rubbing your eyes with the back of your hand.

And then he saw what you were wearing. His sweatshirt — the gray one, hanging loosely on you, sleeves dangling past your fingertips — and pajama pants cinched tight at your waist, the legs pooling around your feet.

“Hi,” he said, the word coming out softer than intended.

“Why are you awake? What time is it?” you asked, coming to stand beside him at the kitchen island, tugging the long sleeves of his sweatshirt — his sweatshirt — over your hands.

He noticed. And for a second, he forgot how to breathe.

“Almost three,” he murmured after glancing at the clock. “I don’t know — just woke up. Can’t sleep.” His sigh was low, weary, as he leaned onto the counter, elbows braced, thumbs fidgeting like he needed to keep them busy.

“What’s wrong?” you asked softly, searching his face.

“Nothing,” he said too fast. Then let out a small groan as he rolled his shoulders — and you caught the grimace of discomfort on his face.

“C’mere,” you said with a knowing smile, motioning him closer. “Let me help.”

He hesitated, a faint smile ghosting over his lips — as if to say you don’t have to do that.

But you were already moving behind him, resting your hand on his shoulder. 

The robe was loose, soft beneath your palms, parting slightly as he shifted. You could feel the heat of his skin even through the fabric. He was broad, solid, so much bigger than you; your hands looked almost delicate against him as you kneaded at the hard line of muscle beneath his shoulder blade.

“Yeah, right there,” he groans, throwing his head back as you press your thumbs into a stubborn knot in his shoulder. The sound is low, unguarded — almost inappropriate for something so innocent.

You press your lips together, heat rising in your cheeks. His robe has slipped just enough to bare more of that solid shoulder, warm under your palms. You feel every twitch of muscle beneath your tiny hands, every breath he exhales as he leans heavier on the counter.

“Better?” you murmured, digging your thumbs in a little deeper.

“Mhm,” he said, the sound deep, almost a growl in the back of his throat. His head tipped forward, giving you more access.

Your thumbs worked lower, along the edge of his shoulder blade, and you felt the faint shift of his breath — slower now, heavier. 

“You’re tense,” you whispered.

“Yeah,” he said, voice hoarse, “you have no idea.”

You cleared your throat, swallowing.

“Alright,” you murmured, stepping back before you got carried away. “Let’s go back to bed.”

He didn’t argue — just pushed off the counter lazily and obediently. The robes knot at his waist had slipped slightly, a slight peek of his chest and the line of his collarbone. Your eyes darted down before you could stop yourself, and you snapped them away just as quickly — but not quickly enough. He saw you.

You turned on your heel, making your way out of the kitchen, pretending you hadn’t been caught looking. Behind you, his mouth curved, faint and knowing, and he followed behind you.

Clark could smell you. Not just the faint trace of soap on your skin, but something stronger, intoxicating — the subtle tang of arousal that hit his scent with every shift of your steps. His jaw tightened. You were just causally walking, but he could hear the faint, wet sounds between your legs.

“Here, come sleep in my room. I’ll take the couch,” he insists, acting like he didn’t know your dirty little secret.

“No, it’s fine-“

“Please,” he cuts you off gently, a quiet firmness in his voice. “Mom and Dad get up super early anyway. I wouldn’t want them to wake you up.”

You press your lips together, trying to argue, but his earnest expression makes it pointless. Finally, you sigh, smiling despite yourself. “Fine.”

His own smile is softer, lingering just a little too long. “I’ll walk you up.”

You climb the creaking stairs, Clark right behind you. Every step is weighted with tension, a quiet electricity that makes your pulse race. 

You reach the room and begin to speak. “Clark, I-“

But before the words can form, the door swings shut behind him. The sound echoes sharply in the quiet house.

Then his lips are on yours. Rough. Hungry. No hesitation. Your heart skips, your knees go weak, and the air between you shimmers with everything that’s been simmering for hours.

He pulls back just slightly, just enough to catch his breath, but the tension in his body is still taut. Pink lips, flushed cheeks, hair falling down his forehead, and those blue eyes darkened with something raw and hungry — lust, need, something you’ve never seen from him before.

He waits. Silent, expectant. Waiting for words you don’t have. Waiting for you to say stop, or a Clark, you’re reading me wrong — but none came.

Instead, your hands find the back of his neck, gripping him, pulling him impossibly closer. His lips meet yours again, feverish and demanding. Every inch of him pressed close, every gasp and low groan filling the space around you. You don’t pull away. You can’t.

He groans against your lips, words muffled but urgent. “Could smell how wet you are,” he breathes, “wanna feel it.”

You don’t pull back. “Touch me, please,” you murmur, guiding his hand. His fingers, much larger than yours, slither inside his your pants. He slides a finger up your folds, warm and slick, and you shiver against him.

“C- clark,” you moan, breath shaky, pushing your hips further into his hand.

The house is quiet, his parents asleep down the hall. Nothing exists outside the room — just the press of lips, the taste of each other, the wet, delicious sound of him touching your sopping pussy.

“Can I taste it, too?” he asks, lips and kisses trailing down your neck.

“Yes,” you moan, shivering. “Please.”

Without another word, he sinks to his knees, hooking a finger into the waistband of the pajama pants you’d stolen from him and pulling them down. You step out, bottom half bare, your panties gone in the washer with the rest of your clothes.

He looks up at you, holding your gaze, and then leans in closer. His tongue flicks out before he takes the first careful lick of your sensitive clit. His eyes flutter shut, lashes brushing his cheeks, as he tastes the sweet, wet arousal that’s been coating your inner thighs. You gasp, already hypersensitive, nearly collapsing at the slightest touch, knees weak from the rush of pleasure.

“So sweet,” he whispers against your clit, mostly to himself — but you can hear it, and can’t help smiling through your breathless moans.

Your fingers thread through his raven curls, brushing the strands from his eyes so you can watch his face. His brows are knitted tight in focus, lips and tongue working you over like he’s starving for it.

“Oh, god,” you moan, voice cracking. “Fucking hell.”

He hums low in his throat, the vibration shooting straight through you. His hands slide up, cupping your ass, pulling you harder against his mouth until his face is buried so deep it feels like he’s trying to breathe you in — like he wouldn’t mind suffocating there.

His eyes flutter open, locking on yours as his lips seal around your clit. The heat of his tongue makes your knees weak, and then — oh fuck — he moves one hand from your ass and slides a finger inside your sopping hole. Just one, but with how big his hands are, it feels like so much more.

You’re grateful for how wet you are; it lets him push in smoothly, his finger gliding in and out with ease while his mouth works your clit.

You can’t tear your eyes away from him. Your mouth falls open in a silent moan, breath coming fast.

“You like that?” he murmurs against you.

You nod frantically. “Fuck, M’gonna cum already, you’re so fucking good at that.”

He smiles against your clit, a low sound rumbling in his throat. Then, cruelly, his mouth disappears, his finger still stroking inside you but slower, lighter, just enough to drive you crazy.

“Clark,” you whine, breathless. “Wh- what are you doing?”

“Wanna hear you beg for it,” he says, voice low, almost a growl. His finger curls, hitting that perfect spot, and your legs tremble.

“Please,” you gasp, hips grinding down to chase his mouth. “Please, Clark- I need you-“

Instead of finishing what he started, Clark pulls back abruptly, sliding his fingers out of you — leaving you achingly empty. You whimper at the loss, hips lifting instinctively, but he’s already grabbing your waist and laying you down flat against the bed.

His chin glistens, but he doesn’t bother wiping it. The robe slips from his shoulders with a careless tug, revealing nothing but hard planes of muscle and smooth, golden skin. You take a shaky breath as he pushes your knee apart with ease, positioning himself between your thighs like he owns them.

You let out an audible whine. He’s taking far too long on purpose, and he knows it.

“Hold on, baby,” he murmurs, low and steady, sinking onto his stomach. His fingers find your clit with maddening precision, spreading your slick over every swollen inch before sliding back inside, stretching you deep. “Just wanna make you cum first… before I fuck you.”

His fingers start to scissor inside you, stretching you open, and you can’t help the moan that slips out — soft, but loud enough to make Clark cautious. Quickly, his free hand grabs the hem of your sweatshirt and yanks it up to your mouth.

“Bite down,” he orders, pushing the fabric between your lips. You obey instantly, teeth sinking into the cotton, your muffled sounds vibrating against it. “That’s it. So good for me.”

Then he’s back down, tongue sealing over your clit. The sensation is sharp and overwhelming, and your legs try to clamp around his head on instinct. He doesn’t let you — his arm hooks around your thigh, holding it wide open with effortless strength, practically hugging your leg against his head as he devours you.

You moan into the sweatshirt, muffled and ragged, hips bucking involuntarily into his mouth as your body trembles with need.

He groans low, mouth pressed to your clit, fingers pumping relentlessly inside you. The friction, the slick heat, the press of his mouth — it all coils tight inside you until you can’t hold back.

Your walls clench around his fingers, gripping him, legs instinctively squeezing shut as the heavy wave of euphoria crashed throughout your body. Your chest rises and falls wildly, and your moans spill out muffled but desperate, through the fabric he shoved into your mouth.

He drinks you up thoroughly before pulling back, lips glistening, dimples peeking through as he licks them. His fingers slip out, and he sucks them clean as well, tasting your arousal like it was the sweetest treat.

He climbs back up, pressing himself face to face with you, and carefully pulls the now-wet fabric of the sweatshirt out of your mouth.

“You’re a dirty man,” you tease, breathless.

“Didn’t hear you complaining a minute ago,” he replies, leaning down to press a quick, teasing peck to your lips. “You want more, or should we just go back to sleep?”

You bite your lip, suddenly shy, the memory of what just happened making your stomach flutter. “Want you,” you murmur, voice soft but certain.

He smirks before leaning down, kissing you so gently it has you weak, tongue exploring yours as if trying to memorize every curve. He pulls back with a final, teasing peck, holding himself up above you.

Then, with one swift tug, he strips off his last piece of clothing and tosses it aside. His cock bounces free — flushed pink, thick. and standing tall, almost smug about the way it makes your breath hitch.

Kneeling over you, he strokes himself slowly, eyes locked on yours. 

“Clark,” you say, voice stern but trembling.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, a soft moan escaping him.

“You’re so… big,” you admit, eyes wide.

“You can take it,” he replies, calm but commanding.

“No, I don’t think I can,” you whisper, heart hammering.

“Yes, you can. C’mon,” he urges, lowering himself closer, teasing the tip against your clit.

He pressed just enough to mix your slick with his pre-cum, dragging it along your folds, and the feeling in the pit of your stomach returns, sharp and insistent. You don’t even think about pulling back anymore.

“Ready?” he murmurs.

You hesitate, then nod anyway, heart pounding.

He smirks and taps his tip against your pussy a few times, making you jolt, before finally pushing it inside. Just the head slips in at first, the stretch sharp but addicting.

“Good?” he asks, voice low.

“Y- yeah… just- just go slow,” you breathe, fingers clutching the hem of your sweater like a lifeline.

Clark nods, obeying, easing inch by inch. The intrusion burns and thrills all at once. He’s not just long — he’s thick, every bit of him prying you open, molding your body to fit his. You’ve never taken anything like this, not even your little friend sitting in your drawer beside your bed back at home.

“You’re so warm and tight- fuck,” he groans, eyes fixed on where you’re joined, watching every slow inch disappear inside you.

Your hand slips down instinctively, pressing against your stomach as he bottoms out with a deep, shuddering breath.

“God, you’re gonna split me in half,” you manage, half joking, mainly serious.

Clark lets out a low chuckle, eyes squeezing shut like he’s hanging into control by a thread. “You got it. Just… give me a second.”

The thin layer of sweat on his body glows under the dim lighting, tracing every line of his chest, his abs, those massive arms you secretly wouldn’t mind being in a headlock by. You stare, unable to look away.

“You okay?” he asks, voice ragged.

“Mhm,” you hum, still pressing where you can feel him through your stomach.

You can feel him through your stomach.

“Alright,” he says, opening his eyes again, gaze dark and steady on you. “Gonna move now, okay?”

You nod frantically, fingers fisting the sheets on either side of you, bracing for what you already know is about to be the ride of your life.

Clark pulls out slowly, painfully, then eases back in with less resistance this time. You’re dripping, slick coating him, smearing over the tops of his thighs with every deliberate push. It’s so warm, so wet, every nerve screams at how good it feels.

“Go faster,” you breathe, voice shaky.

His eyes flick up to yours, brows raised. “You sure?”

“Yes,” you moan quickly, pressing your lips together, trying to stay composed.

He pounds into you harder, setting a faster pace, and the flimsy twin bed groans against the floorboards with every thrust.

You tug at the hem of the sweatshirt clinging to your overheated skin, desperate to peel it off.

“No,” he snaps, catching your wrists. His eyes are dark, hungry. “Keep it on. Wanna fuck you in this.”

He fists the sweatshirt though, yanking it up just enough for your tits to spill free. They bounce with every thrust, and his hand is on you instantly — rough, possessive — squeezing like he owns them.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice low and filthy. “In my clothes. My bed. Taking my cock like you were made for it.” His hand drags slowly down to your waist as he leans close, his chest flush against yours. “Should just make you mine already, huh?”

You can’t even speak — he’s so big, stretching you to the point of insanity, every thrust knocking the wind out of you. It’s almost feral now, the pace, the way the twin bed screeches across the floorboards, springs crying out with every slam. The headboard keeps smacking against the wall, a steady rhythm.

Clark didn’t lock the door. If his parents wake up and come down the hall to investigate, you’ll both be caught — sweaty, naked, and guilty. The thought only makes your stomach flip harder.

“Fuck,” Clark grits out, suddenly stilling inside of you. One hand cradles your head as the other yanks a pillow out from under you. He shoves it between the headboard and wall, eyes flashing back down at you. “Pussy so good, gonna get me in trouble.”

“Clark, M’so close…” you whisper, breathless — too breathless to say it louder, or you’d scream it.

“Yeah? C’mon, baby,” he growls, rocking his hips rough and deep, “wanna feel you cum around me.”

The knot in your stomach tightens to something sharp, electric — not just release, something bigger, heavier. Your brows pinch together, sweat slick on your skin, and you bite your lip hard to keep from crying out.

“M’gonna cum- c- cover my mouth, cover my mouth!” you squeal, the words tumbling out high and panicked.

Clark’s large hand slaps a hand over your mouth, his palm broad and warm, and you grab his wrist instinctively, your fingers not even reaching around it.

Your body seizes up, clenching around him, so tight it nearly drags him under with you — and then it happens. A sudden rush, a warm spray, your release spilling out uncontrollably, soaking his stomach, his thighs, the sheets.

Clark chokes out a moan, eyes blown wide at the sight. “Fuck…” His hips stutter, fighting for control, watching every drop. It’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen — and he’s already thinking about how to make you do it again.

You scream, drooling into his palm, but he couldn’t care less — if anything, it spurs him on. He keeps pounding into you with a ruthless rhythm, chasing his own high. And when the squirting doesn’t stop, when your pussy somehow clenches even tighter around him, he finally pulls out with a guttural curse. His hand works his cock in rough, urgent strokes until hot ropes of cum spill across your stomach, getting on the sweater as well.

He pulls off of you with a long, ragged exhale, chest rising and falling rapidly.

“I don’t want to boost your ego” you murmur, still catching your breath, “but that was my first time doing that.”

“Huh,” he breathes out, eyes wide. “Really?”

“Well,” you tease, a small smirk tugging at your lips. “No one can be hung like you are.”

He chuckles, shaking his head, a faint pink tint creeping across his cheeks.

“God, Clark,” you breathe, glancing down at the mess, “now it’s gonna be obvious when I change clothes.”

“Hey, you made a mess too!” he whines, tugging at the rumpled sheets.

“You think we were being too loud?” you ask, tilting your head as you watch him wipe away all the fluids with the sheets he was going to wash anyway.

“Definitely,” he says with a grin, voice teasing as he gets up and looks for his robe somewhere on the floor. “Maybe we should just leave now… save ourselves the embarrassment.”

You smirk, shifting on the bed. “You might have to carry me this time, though. Just got my world absolutely rocked by Superman down there.”

He freezes for a second, then chuckles, fumbling for his robe and tying it back around his waist. “You did not just call my dick Superman,” he says, shaking his head, still chuckling.

You only hum, shrugging the sweater off and heading to his dresser to find clean clothes that don’t have his cum on them!

“Uhm…” he starts, fiddling with his hands like he can’t decide where to put them. “I… I wanna make things right. The whole… hook up stuff isn’t really my thing. So, when we head back to Metropolis… I was wondering if you- like, maybe you’d wanna go out for dinner, or stay in and I could cook for you instead? Or, um, if not that’s totally fine, I get it! We can just stay friends, act like nothing happened-“

“Clark,” you cut him off, walking toward him. “You just fucked the living hell out of me, and now you’re all shy?”

He laughs nervously, scratching the back of his neck, eyes darting everywhere but yours. “Sorry… so? What do you think?”

You nod, smiling. “I would love that. Honestly, I’d be pissed if you wanted to just stay friends after fucking me like that.”

He chuckles, sliding a hand around your waist to slap your ass. You squeal a little too loudly.

“Shh!” he hisses, leaning closer, smirk tugging at his lips.

You playfully swat him with the shirt in your hands. “You really underestimate your strength, you know that?”

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