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sugugori · 4 days ago

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Just a Silly Phase I’m Going Through

Description: Best friends through thick and thin, Clark and reader think they can get through a tangle of complicated feelings without something changing. Loudly wrong.

Pairing: Clark Kent x Reader

Warnings: smut (p in v, oral, fingering)(18+), clark is a whiny little angel

Word Count: 5.4k

A/N: horny again had to write about it. i did not edit this so if you see an error no you didnt (also using im not in love for the title cause mr gunn used it in guardians and i thought it was fitting)

Clark Kent. He was a lot of things. An alien, sure. A small-town boy. Kind. Nerdy. Superhuman. Sweet.

Most importantly to you, he was a life-long friend, and a massive loser. In the best way.

“Alright, Superman–” you started, though a hand quickly slapped over your mouth.

“Shh,” he whispered frantically, withdrawing his hand. “Sorry. I just… Don’t be so loud about it!"

"Sorry," you replied through a laugh, not in the least actually apologetic. “It’s just so dorky.”

He frowned; his jaw set in place as he looked away from you. You watched as he took a seat on the couch in your living room, melting into the cushions. Part of you felt bad having made him pout like this, but at the same time… ‘Superman’ was a dorky moniker. You’d been friends too long for him not to get teased about it.

You conceded, sitting next to him. “Okay, okay… Clark. Come on, I was just joking around.”

“Someone could hear you,” he mumbled, fidgeting with his hands in his lap.

“Someone could– Clark, we’re alone in my house,” I gesture at the obviously empty townhome. “Who’s gonna hear us?”

“I don’t know! Someone could, though!”

You sighed, placing a hand between his shoulder blades, rubbing softly. He could be such a baby. He leaned into you, still pouting, but enjoying the closeness.

“I don’t want anything to happen to you because of me.”

“It won’t, Clark.”

“You don’t know that.”

“No, but it can be inferred. Besides, you’d always be there to protect me anyway.”

He was quiet for a moment, but you noticed the tiny tilt of his lips at that. He leaned back to look at you.

“You’re my closest friend. I just want to make sure you’re safe.”

“Hey… I know this is getting bigger. And its… new,” you say softly, referencing his rise to near-stardom as Superman. It had been a quick transition, and you could tell it weighed on him. “But you’re still you, and I’m still me. Nothing is going to change.”

And you were right…

Sort of.

Things did start to change, but not necessarily for the worse. Actually, a lot of it was for the better.

Clark got a job at the Daily Planet: his dream.

You started working at a local non-profit for victims of extraterrestrial mayhem: ironic.

You both moved to downtown Metropolis, only blocks away from one another. It was nice. It was… more of the same. Which, again, wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. But…

God. Starting to fall for your best friend was embarrassing.

You weren’t sure when it happened, but suddenly his smile was more than comforting. It felt like home. Every time he looked at you, sure you still saw the boy you’d been friends with for ages. But you also saw the man he was now.

And good lord was he gorgeous.

He groans your name, reaching around you. “Please, just cut it out. Give it back!”

“Absolutely not,” you laugh, leaning away from him, trying to get the remote out of his grasp. “No more football, I want to watch something actually entertaining. Your team is miserably losing anyway.”

“What if they come back? It’s never too late!”

“They’re down almost thirty points in the fourth quarter.”

He frowns. “You’re mean. Have some faith.”

You scramble away from him, finally changing the channel to an old sitcom you both love. He grumbles under his breath, pretending he doesn’t think one of the jokes is funny. You sit next to him after putting the remote on the side table, glancing at him with his pouty lips and flushed cheeks. Even irritated he was hot.

“You’re a big baby.”

“I am not. You’re just pessimistic. They could have won, and then we would have gotten to see it and it would have been amazing. But no, you ruined our chances of seeing the greatest comeback in the world.”

“…dramatic, too.”

He cracks a small smile. “You just hate to see me happy.”

“You love this show, and you were getting worked up about them losing. You have a much higher chance of being happy not watching the game.”

He huffs again, plopping his head on your shoulder. He sniffs once. Then twice.

“Hmm…”

“What?” you question, wondering why he’s sniffing you like a dog.

“You’re wearing a new perfume.”

“Uh… yeah?”

He hums once. “It’s nice. I like it.”

“Oh,” you say shortly, swallowing. “Thanks.”

He nods, his messy hair tickling your neck. “Why’d you change it?”

You shrug. “Just trying something new.”

“So… you’re not like… dating someone or anything?”

“What?”

“Just curious,” he says quietly. “That would probably be a reason to change it.”

“I just liked this one, Clark. Wanted to try something new. If I was dating anyone, I would have told you,” you snort, a little curious why he was laying on the third degree.

“Okay. Just wanna make sure I can warn any guy that comes near you how much of a headache you are,” he says, trying very poorly to hide a smile.

“Oh, whatever.”

He pauses, then looks at you with wide eyes. “Wait. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to actually…”

“I’m not mad, Clark,” you reassure him with a chuckle as he starts to sit up.

“Oh. Okay,” he replied with a nod. “Just making sure.”

You both fall quiet for a while, watching the show. You’re halfway to falling asleep before Clark suddenly sits up straight, shoving his phone in your face, a headline about the miraculous comeback from his favorite football team gracing the screen.

“I told you they’d win!”

“Oh, well color me surpr–”

He groans, slumping down with his head in your lap, trying very hard to be angry. It doesn’t last long as you stroke his hair and offer to order his favorite takeout. He is so easy to please. You take a moment to look at him lying there, attempting to curl his body up onto the couch, but still somehow taking up every millimeter of space.

“When did you get so big?” you ask, voice soft and teasing.

“Always have been.”

“No, I very distinctly remember you being smaller and dorkier at some point. You’re… a man now.”

“That tends to happen in time,” he chuckles lowly. “And I was never dorky.”

“You still are.”

He grumbles. “Still always taller than you.”

“This again? Clark, we were having that argument as 12-year-olds. I think we’re old enough to move past that now.”

“No!” he all but squeaks out. “If you’re bringing up me apparently being small and dorky, I’m bringing up you being short.”

“I’m average height!”

“Yeah, to an earthworm, maybe.”

“Not my fault you’re freakishly tall.”

He laughs, looking up at you from your lap. You look right back at him, neither of you saying anything before he finally turns back over. A gentle smile is set on his face as he watches the show you put on. Your stomach does somersaults. You reason that you’re probably just hungry and finally order the food you promised him.

It’s a common occurrence, going to his place, or him to yours. All to do… practically nothing. Sometimes you might go out, or meet up with friends. You’re particularly fond of his friends from work, Lois and Jimmy. Even if they always tease you about how close you and Clark are.

But most nights, you end up on a couch, either watching a movie or reading. Usually just chatting about anything and everything.

It’s been that way between the two of you since you met him in middle school and he invited you over to meet the cows on his parents’ farm. He was a cute little kid with ears too big for his head and a sweet smile. And you were a little firecracker who his parents always seemed to love despite your knack for getting him into trouble.

Trouble like seeing if edibles would work on him. That was tonight’s experiment.

He yawns deeply, arms stretching above his head, testing the seams of that white t-shirt. And giving you a peek of what you would enthusiastically consider a happy trail.

“I am beat,” he smirks, looking down at you.

“Weed will do that to you.”

“Shouldn’t have let you talk me into that,” he shakes his head, putting his hands on his hips.

“Just wanted to see if it would actually work on you if you took enough. How is it?”

He snorts. “It’s doing something. I still think if we do it again, we should probably shoot for like 15 or 16 of those little gummy things rather than, what, 10?”

“12,” you correct him.

“Ah,” he nods slowly, turning around to face the tv instead of you. “You know, I really am beat. I could probably pass out right here, right now…”

“Clark, no–”

He groans, slowly falling backwards on purpose, right where you sat.

“Stop,” you laugh, pushing him away as he falls on top of you.

He giggles, not moving. “Aw, come on, short stack. I’m not that heavy.”

“You’re like a pile of bricks.”

“No, I am not,” he defends, frowning. “You’re mean to me.”

“You love me.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he rolls his eyes, turning around to face you. Neither of you realize just how close you are until it’s too late and you can feel his breath on your face.

You stare at him, and he stares right back. All would have been well, too, if you didn’t catch him glancing at your lips.

“Maybe you should…” you start, but are cut off by his lips on yours.

Whoa.

You’d always thought it was kind of cheesy when people described any kind of intimacy by saying fireworks went off. But now? Yeah, it made more sense for sure.

Involuntarily, you groan. He mimics your sound, hands on your hips as he settles himself between your legs, pressing your body down into the couch cushions as if he’d planned this. Your arms circle around his broad shoulders, one hand tangling in his messy hair. He practically moans your name into your mouth and you feel yourself soak through your panties immediately. Thank god for thick sweatpants.

“Please,” he whispers, his voice needy and wrecked already.

“Please what?”

“I… I don’t know,” he shakes his head, lips dragging over your jaw, neck, collarbones, practically anywhere he can currently reach. “Still thinking on it.”

Your eyes squeeze shut as he explores you, his hands moving over your chest, down your stomach, and to the waistband of your pants. He pulls back for a moment, looking you in the eye.

“May I?”

“Okay,” you reply simply. He could ask for anything at this point and you’d have agreed.

He smiles, kissing you deeply again. You let your body roll up into his, drawing another pretty sound from the back of his throat. You use the opportunity to slide your tongue against his. He counters, though, by tugging your pants off of you easily.

You’re not sure if you’ve ever been more turned on.

You reach down to try and start the same process on him, but you’re stopped by his hand entirely circling your wrist. You break the kiss, looking up at him in confusion. He merely shakes his head, kissing you softly as he places your hand on his shoulder. You groan, annoyed by the interruption, to which he smiles. The asshole.

“What’s so funny?” you mumble against his lips.

“You pouting. It’s cute.”

“You’re rude.”

“Let me take care of you,” he replies softly, kissing your cheek.

That does it. You shudder as he moves down your body like your whole worldview didn’t just shift from such a small action. The gentle look in his eyes, the way his lips met your cheek like his tongue wasn’t just in your mouth, his hands touching every part of you reverentially… it was too much. You knew you were officially in too deep. But you couldn’t hold back from falling further.

“You’re so pretty like this,” he whispers against your stomach, lips touching your skin from where he’d slightly pulled up your sweatshirt. “Tell me to stop if you don’t want this.”

“I want this,” spills from your lips before you can even think about it. You see him smile again.

It all happens at once. Too much, too fast, but somehow not enough. His lips trail up your legs as he tugs off your panties. Not before making a comment that he thought it was sweet how much of a mess you made for him. You’re squirming and moaning under him as his lips finally find your center, eating you like he’s starving.

“Clark,” you gasp out, a hand in his hair as he pushes your legs up to get a better angle.

He looks gorgeous like this. Hair falling over his forehead, tongue occasionally darting into your view when it’s not actively tearing you apart from the inside out. Worst of all, the louder you are, the more enthusiastic he gets.

“You’re a dick,” you moan, not meaning a word of it as you try to hold off from coming all over his pretty face.

“You love me,” he mocks your earlier words straight into your pussy.

Fuck.

You whine at the vibration, still slightly holding onto your dignity as you refrain from letting yourself finish just yet. But, of course, you just have to look down at him, unable to get enough of the view of his face between your legs. It’s heaven. And it kills you. The second you see that son of a bitch smiling while he devours you, dimples poking into his cheeks, you can’t hold on any longer.

Praises and a vague call of his name fall from your mouth like a waterfall as you gush against his lips. He stays put, cleaning everything you have to give him as you come, having the audacity to moan like he’s the one with the hottest person in the world going down on him. You shake with the force of your orgasm, still holding onto his mop of hair, twitching every time he gently licks at you.

“Clark…”

“Hmm?”

“Enough.”

“M’not done yet,” he replies, eyes still closed, mouth still moving.

“I can’t… can’t handle any more right now.”

He sighs, conceding. He kisses your cunt once more before moving back to your lips, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

“That was… fun,” he breathes out as he pulls away from your lips.

“Fun?”

He tilts his head slightly. “You don’t think so?”

“I think you just ruined me.”

He smiles again. “I’d never.”

“Too late.”

“You can’t be ruined. Look at you.”

You blinked, looking up at him. “Huh?”

He shook his head, looking down. “Nothing. Just… You can admit you had a good time.”

You chuckle once. “Alright. Alright, fine. It was… definitely a good time.”

He smiles softly again. “Good. Um… I am gonna go get a towel for you. And maybe some mouthwash for me so you don’t have to smell… well… you on me all night.”

“You saying I smell weird?” You snort a laugh in response.

“Not in the slightest. Honestly, I almost finished myself off just tasting your—”

“Okay,” you interject quickly, blushing. It felt almost odd hearing him dirty talk. Even if it was also unbelievably sexy. “Point taken. Maybe I don’t necessarily want to smell myself on you for the rest of the evening.”

He chuckles softly. “Alright. I’ll be back then.”

The next few weeks it’s all you can think about. He doesn’t try anything else past a friendly hug when you’re together, but part of you wishes he would. The image of him fucking smiling while eating you out is imprinted on your brain.

The feelings it gave you other than pure want… that’s another story.

You’re sure he has to notice the fact that you can’t look at him without it turning into a gaze that could only be described as pathetic. Googly eyes could also be a good descriptor. But if he does notice, he certainly doesn’t mention it. And that feels almost worse than the embarrassment that would come with being teased about it.

You were finally able to admit to yourself, fully, that you’d fallen head over heels for him. There was no way you could deny it. Not when every glance sent a shockwave through you, and even the thought of him had you grinning to yourself like an idiot.

You were meeting up with him after work to go get dinner before vegging out at his place. You stood by the front doors of the Daily Planet waiting for him, having got off sooner than he did that day. It was fifteen minutes or so before you saw a giant stalking past you.

“Hey!”

He turned around, confused for a moment before a grin took over his face.

“Hey! I didn’t see you. I thought you worked until six today?”

“Got off early,” you replied, adjusting the strap of your bag on your shoulder. You looked at him in those silly fake glasses of his and couldn’t hold back a laugh. “You look like such a nerd in those.”

He frowned. “Come on, that’s a low blow, you know I need these.”

“I know,” you roll your eyes. “Doesn’t make them less ridiculous. It’s a good thing you’re hot.”

He blushed, looking away. Which you absolutely relished in. He didn’t often have such a reaction to you complimenting him.

“Aww. Are you blushing?” you tease.

“No!”

“You totally are!”

“You called me hot, what else am I…” he huffs.

“It’s not like I’m making moves on you. It’s an objective observation.”

“You need to look up the definition of ‘objective’ again.”

You laugh, trying not to let yourself get caught staring at him as he started on about his day at work.

You eat your meal together, go on a brief walk through the city afterward, and finally land on his couch, wearing his shirt and his pants, drinking tea he’d made you in his favorite mug. He always insisted on giving that one to you, despite it clearly being the one he loved the most. You didn’t have the heart to tell him you actually preferred the blue one he always shoved in the back of his cupboard.

“They’re thinking of replacing my boss,” you mention as he sits down with you, handing you a cookie he’d baked the day prior.

“What? Didn’t you say she was, like, the best part of your job.”

You nod slowly. “Yep. I’m thinking about maybe leaving. I mean… I love what we do there, but they’re just trying to change things for the worse at this point.”

He hummed, dissatisfied with the news. “Well… You know, there is an opening for an editor at the Planet.”

You snort a laugh. “You’re trying to get me to work with you, now?”

“It’s a good job. With benefits.”

“You’d get sick of me within a week if we worked together. Plus, I don’t have any media experience.”

“I could never get sick of you,” he rolled his eyes in response. “And I could put in a good word for you with Perry. You help me edit my stuff all the time and you’re great at it.”

“That’s not the same as doing it for a job, Clark.”

“Still counts.”

You sigh, trying to hide your smile as you shake your head at him. He merely shrugs, the suggestion entirely sincere to him.

“Just an idea. Think about it.”

“Alright. Just for you.”

He smiles, leaning a little closer as his gaze trails back to the movie he’d put on. You can tell he’s thinking about something.

“What’s going on in that big old head of yours?”

He snorts. “Nothing to worry about.”

“Tell me anyway.”

You watch him as he swallows once, then sets down his mug on the table. He leans back into the cushions.

“You want the honest answer?”

“Well, I don’t want you to lie to me.”

“Fair,” he chuckles softly, then looks at you. “I’m, uh… I’m kind of thinking about, well, last month.”

“What about it.”

“You know what,” he replies quietly, his face flushing a little again. “The thing we haven’t talked about since it happened.”

You chew your lip, nodding. “Right.”

“I just… It was… nice. But maybe we should talk about it at some point.”

Nice. You suppose that’s one way to put it.

“What do we need to talk about?”

He raised a brow at you. “Maybe the whole making out thing. And… the other stuff.”

“I mean… We did it. And it was a one time thing cause it was fun and– I don’t know. What else is there to talk about?” you question, trying to remain at least vaguely nonchalant.

“I can’t stop thinking about it,” he admits softly.

Suddenly you’re hot. It hits like a tidal wave with the way he looks at you, clearly remembering everything in the same way you have been every single damn day since it happened. His wide eyes are darkened in a way you haven’t seen before, and his lips are looking suspiciously delectable in this moment.

You lean in, not hesitating to kiss him again. It feels even better than it did the first time, his lips working against yours in a way that has your head absolutely spinning. He pulls you up on your feet, not pulling away for even a moment.

“I need… I need you,” you mutter against his lips, hands dragging down his chest towards the waistband of his pants. “Don’t say no this time.”

He huffs, lips moving to your jaw. “You need me?”

“Please, Clark,” you gasp.

He kisses down your jaw, sucking a soft mark just under it before moving his lips down.

“Are you sure?” he all but groans against your neck, already pulling your top up. “I need you to be absolutely, one-hundred-percent positive about this, because I don’t know how else I’ll feel okay doing this to you–”

“Clark. Please. I’ve never been more sure about anything.”

He whimpers, whimpers, at that response, tearing at your shirt until its tossed across the room. He kisses down your neck, hands touching anywhere and everywhere they can reach.

“How is this going to affect our friendship?” he asks through kisses.

“I… I don’t know. Let’s not think about that right now, just– fuck.” He bites down on your neck before soothing it over with his tongue. “I just need this. Need you. We can figure out everything else later.”

He pulls back, drawing a frown to your face.

“You know I really care about you. Right?”

“Of course I do, can we just…”

He says your name, probably softer and gentler than you’d ever hear it. You stop talking, looking up at him.

“Please,” he whispers. “Just… I need you to be positive about this. Completely. It’s going to change things with us.”

“It doesn’t have to.”

“It will,” he reaffirms.

“Why? Why can’t we just do this and… and be friends? Things don’t have to be different. They weren’t last time.”

“All I did was go down on you last time,” he states plainly, as if him even mentioning the act didn’t have your knees weak all over again. “This is different. I can’t… I can’t have sex with you and not let it change everything. I can’t be inside of you and have you expect that I’ll be able to look at you the same way.”

Your brows knit together. “What do you mean? That’s still sex.”

“It means…” he swallows, his gaze dropping to your lips for a moment like he can’t help it. “It means that I am dangerously close to falling in love with my best friend, and I don’t think I’ll be able to pretend like I’m not if we cross that specific line. Gosh, even if I just felt you touching me, it would change everything. I know it’s silly, but it’s just… different to me. And besides, we were high when that happened.”

“Clark,” you interject with a snorted laugh. “I took half a gummy, you took like 12 to barely get an effect.”

“Still counts,” he argues, pouting a little.

“Hardly.”

“You know what I mean though.”

You swallow. You do know. Partially because you haven’t stopped thinking about that night since it happened. He was scared that what happened to you in that moment would happen to him: ignorance would no longer be bliss. You’d know what it felt like to have one another. Fully.

“I know. But… I don’t care. Not if you don’t.”

He scoffs. “I lay my heart on the line and you don’t care?”

“Not… Ugh,” you groan, “not like that. I mean… I don’t care if it changes things. I-I want it to change things.”

His eyes widen as he looks at you, perfect brows raising almost into his hairline.

“You do?”

“You’re fucking oblivious–”

“Hey!”

“I’ve been in love with you for ages,” you blurt out. “Probably the whole entire past year.”

“Just a year?”

“Yeah, I… Just?” you question, pulling back slightly to give him the full effect of your bewildered stare.

He smiles. The bastard. All dimples and teeth and rosy cheeks.

“I win again,” he mentions like you’re supposed to know what he’s talking about.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I win. I’ve been fighting off being in love with you since, like, right after we left Smallville. Maybe before then, too, but definitely after.”

“What?”

He smiles even brighter somehow. “I thought all this time that you’d go run off with some guy or girl and leave me in the dust.”

“You like me?”

His smile slightly drops as he raises a brow, muttering your name. His hand reaches up, stroking your cheek tenderly. “I’ve turned down every girl who ever liked me. I spend at least seventy percent of my free time with you. And, honest, last time I talked to Ma she asked when me and you were coming home.”

“You really should visit them more often.”

“I know,” his smile turns unbelievably soft. “But I want you with me next time. And every time. I don’t ever want to be without you, you know that?”

“Clark…”

“I love you.”

Your mouth goes dry. You knew it was coming, but it still hits you like a freight train. His gaze so sweet and magnetic and sincere and so… Clark. That satin-soft smile doesn’t leave his lips.

“Maybe I should’ve told you forever ago, but I didn’t want to mess things up between us. You’re everything to me,” he whispers, kissing your forehead gently. “I’d give up anything for you, but the best part is that I know I’d never have to. You’re so lovely. So caring, loving… even though you try to hide it with eighty layers of sarcasm. It’s kind of endearing, you know?”

You laugh softly, eyes welling up. “You suck.”

“I love you,” he repeats.

You let a shuddering breath leave you. “I love you, too.”

He wet his lips, and you don’t miss the action. It’s hard to say who leans in first, but all that matters to you is that you’re kissing again, his lips soft and perfect against your own.

Clothes are discarded on the floor as he walks you back to his bedroom, laying you down softly on the bed, lips trailing over your body like he’s worshipping you.

“Golly, you’re… perfection,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

He leans down to kiss you, shutting up what he knew would be a teasing remark about the use of ‘golly’ in bed. You chuckle against his lips, and he hopes you don’t notice his matching smile. But you do. Of course you do.

He wipes that smile off your lips quickly, though, as he presses a finger into you. He moans into your mouth, crooking that finger as if he’s somehow already memorized your body.

“Fuck,” you groan, biting down on his shoulder.

He adds another finger, pumping them in and out of you, moaning like its doing something for him to take you apart like this.

“Clark. Please.”

“Shh, baby. Want you nice and ready for me.”

A strangled noise leaves from deep in your throat, and he takes the moment to kiss you again like his life depends on it. It doesn’t take him long to have you coming on his fingers, working you through it with only the kind of care and attention you’d expect from him.

“Attagirl. There you go. Breathe for me, baby,” he mumbles in your ear, kissing just behind it.

“Why do you have to be so fucking sweet and attentive,” you grumble, leaning your head back in his pillow.

“You don’t like me being sweet?”

“It makes me ridiculously horny.”

He laughs, pulling his fingers out of you to stroke himself slowly. You look down at him, quite literally salivating as you see him fully. The fact that his cock still looks that big with his huge-ass hand around it… God.

“You can take it,” he reassures you before you can even mention it. “We’ll make sure.”

You moan, eyes rolling back. “You can’t say shit like that to me.”

“I mean it.”

“That makes it worse.”

He grins. “You’re adorable. Come here.”

He pulls you closer, dragging himself through the slick built up between your folds, his eyes glued to the sight.

“I could finish right here,” he breathes out, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. “Damn it.”

“Naughty.”

“Shut up,” he laughs, though its soft and broken.

The moment he slides into you, everything feels… right. It’s like a puzzle piece slotting perfectly into place. With a little bit of force. You don’t mind.

He pushes in slowly, eyes quickly flitting between your face and lips making those pretty sounds and your cunt swallowing him. The moment he fully sheaths inside of you, he crumples, his body falling on top of yours. Its crushing in the best way.

“You feel so perfect. Like you’re made for me,” he almost growls, pulling back before thrusting into you again.

You feel like a rag doll, his body lurching your forward with every thrust. He’s caring and sweet and kind, but it doesn’t exactly make him gentle in this moment. He holds your hip with one hand, lacing his fingers with yours with the other.

“I love you,” he moans, before whimpering again.

That does it for you immediately.

“I l-love you,” you respond, your voice broken between gasps and moans.

He whines with every thrust as he gets closer and closer to the finish line. It’s a blur of skin and sweat and the smell of something that’s so uniquely him.

“I need you,” he breathes out.

“You have me.”

He whimpers again, straight into your ear, as he falls apart, filling you with everything he has.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he moans, his hips not stopping their motion. “You should’ve… first… oh gosh…”

“I’m… fuck, don’t stop. It’s okay,” you reply, holding onto him for dear life.

It only takes a few more snaps of his hips before it’s your turn to finish. You grip onto his shoulders and back, back arching into his firm chest as you squeeze him hard, drawing another broken sound from him.

“Baby…”

“Shh,” you shake your head in response. “Not yet.”

“Hmm…” he lets out, the sound high pitched and needy.

You breathe heavy, as does he, his face still buried in your neck, planting soft kisses on the damp skin there. You lay there with him for minutes before you finally feel like you’ve calmed down enough to speak.

“Holy shit.”

He chuckles softly. “Yeah. I’d have to agree.”

You look at him with all the affection in the world as he leans back to look at you. He smiles softly, kissing your forehead.

“Was that… was I okay?”

You snort. “Okay?”

“Yeah, I mean,” he shrugs once. “I’ve only done that like twice. And never with someone I’m in love with.”

You smile a little. “It was perfect.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you nod easily. “Easily the best I’ve ever had. Like seriously, if I wasn’t already into you I think this would have been my turning point.”

He laughs. “Good. I’m glad you liked it.”

“Loved it.”

“Me too,” he says gently, kissing you once. “Let’s go get you cleaned up, and then I am making you tea. Or cocoa. Or honestly like a five-course meal. Whatever you want as long as you let me do this again some time.”

You laugh, letting him carry you to the bathroom like you’re weightless. There were definitely perks to being in love with Superman.

#superman #superman 2025 #superman fanfiction #clark kent x reader #clark kent fanfiction #clark kent fluff #clark kent smut #superman smut #superman x reader #clark kent x female reader

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sugugori · 5 days ago

Note

hiii can we have clark and his shy girlfriend who’s never had a boyfriend before, so she thinks she has to be ‘sexy’ for him and how he reacts? love

cw: mildly suggestive, fem “Can I come in?”

“I’m peeing!”

You’re inspecting a little bump on your leg, actually, that could be a zit but doesn’t really look like one.

“Yeah, honey, I just need to grab my laundry. I won’t look!”

You roll your shoulders. You’ve been getting used to this with Clark very slowly —how easygoing his love actually is. Doesn’t care if you’re peeing, if you’re naked and unready, if you forgot to shave. Doesn’t mind the way your stomach gurgles at night laying under his arm, or the smell of your hair in the mornings; that not-quite-sweat dampness, he loves it, burying his nose in your neck every time without fail.

And now. You could have your panties around your ankles with a soft tummy roll and he doesn’t care. It’s perturbing.

“Can’t wait two seconds?” you ask lightly, unlocking the door.

He’s vaguely apologetic. “Sorry, baby. Didn’t mean to rush you off the pot,” he says, moving you aside with a nice hand to your shoulder.

“Oh, what?” you ask, wrinkling your nose at his weirdest phrase to date.

“If you need to go–”

“Clark, stop. Stop, please.”

“Well, don’t be shy about it!” He pulls your slouchy sweatpants back up your hip and kisses your temple. Quick, chaste, and soft. “Got any laundry for me? I’m doing lights.”

Later that night, after you’ve showered and he’s washed up, his neck still the tiniest bit red from shaving, he sits at the headboard in his boxers with his legs crossed. He’s reading a paperback against his thigh, the pages bent back in one hand.

It makes your stomach warm. Zinging excitement all over your skin at the idea of being where his paperback is, under that same thoughtful stare.

You check your reflection in the full length mirror.

It is terrifying to want him like this, but you won’t be a fool. Clark can hardly be expected to match your mood if you crawl into his lap like a worm begging for a nice touch. No, you have to try to persuade him into amorousness. You check that your shift is falling nicely and move for the bed.

Clark looks up when you kneel, his face quickly taken by a smirk. It looks funny on him, missing any of the smugness you might see when he’s Superman against one of his boggling villains. He seems boyishly pleased before you’ve so much as opened your mouth.

“Are you busy?” you murmur softly.

“Oh, never too busy for you,” he says, rolling it around in his mouth as he places his book upside down on the nightstand.

“No? I don’t have to persuade you to put things down?” you ask.

He really couldn’t look happier. Like, he’s ecstatic rather than lustful, though this is often how it starts with him.

“Nothing in there could be as interesting as you are,” Clark says. He pats the bed in front of him. “Come here? There’s more than enough room for you.”

You cannot crawl sexily, won’t kid yourself into thinking so, instead walking carefully on your knees until you’re in touching distance, settling quietly, carefully.

“You’re such a treasure,” he says, more to himself than you as his fingers brush your knee. “Have you always worn stuff like this?”

“The shifts?” you ask, pinching the fabric between your fingers. “No, not really.”

“No?”

“No. I bought a couple when we first started dating…” You flush at the idea of telling him something like this and then tell him anyhow, because you might be the shyest thing he’s ever seen, but you’re also undoubtedly in love with him, and craving to have him in confidence is a constant. “It was exciting, when you asked me to be your girl,” —that exact phrase— “I went online that night to look at babydolls and, uh, new panties and things, I never had to before. I liked thinking about it.”

His fingers work further down your thigh. “Never had to?”

“No. You’re my first boyfriend. You know that already.”

Clark soothes away your puzzled tone with a big hand spread out over your thigh. Shaved again. He rubs at you searchingly, his brow slightly crinkled. “I’d have you in a sack, if you wanted that.”

You laugh.

He smiles. “I would. You could wear full briefs to bed.”

“Yeah, cos that’d be sexy. Me in my jammies, you’d love that.”

Clark smarts, indignant. “I would.”

You laugh again, wrapping your fingers around his thick wrist. “Sure.”

“Honey, I would. I’d love to see you in your pajamas. I didn’t realise you had pajamas, I– stupidly, I thought this was what you’d usually wear to bed.”

“I’m supposed to be sexy.”

You hadn’t meant to say it quite so abruptly. Clark wasn’t expecting it either, his lips parted enough to catch a slip of his tongue. Just as abruptly, his teeth snap and his mouth closes, both hands finding yours. “You are,” he says, his mouth such a serious line that your heart feels like it’s constricting in your chest for a moment. “Without trying, you are. With effort too, don’t get me wrong, I– I don’t think I’ve ever had so much blood in one place–”

“Clark,” you whine, unbidden.

“–some nights, your dresses, those lacy skirts and stuff, that’s all beautiful. You’re beautiful. But don’t think you have to dress up every night for my benefit, huh?” Your face goes so hot you can feel it in your ears, ‘cos his voice is like satin, talking to you like you need it gentle. “I’d just as happily have you in one of my old t-shirts. Or your jammies.”

“Why are you asking me about this?” you deflect.

He closes his hands around your wrists with a light squeeze. “You won’t let me in the bathroom when you’re in there most the time, but every night you stand in the door in one of these lovely things and I was just… wondering, I guess. I can be really awkward. I wanted to know if I was overstepping with the bathroom thing, but. Anyways. I have my answer.”

“What? What answer?”

“You have a complex. I’ve given you a complex,” he says decidedly.

“You did not.”

“I did. Clearly, I haven’t made it obvious how much I want you at all hours, in anything, and you assume you have to dress up to earn my affection.” Clark dips his head forward, a sweet, dark curl kissing his forehead. “Tell me you like the lingerie, at least.”

“I do.” You realise you can tell him more, and decide to trust him with a little more truthfulness. “I don’t love shaving my legs every night.”

“No?” His eyebrows rise. “Then don’t.”

“Yeah? You won’t care?”

“Of course I won’t.”

You hold your arms toward him and he does the same, taking your hips into his hands as you begin the melding ascent into his lap. Clark folds you into him nicely. “And you really don't care if I stop wearing the lacy panties?”

“Honestly? I assumed you were spoiling me. I had no idea you thought I’d care about them otherwise. Wear anything. Wear nothing.”

You press your nose to his neck, withholding a sound too close to a moan at his smell and general solidness beneath you. His arms are a vice around you that you’d rather die than lose. Especially now he’s letting you say goodbye to headrush-showers and the two hour delicates wash on cold. “Promise?” you murmur.

“I promise.”

Clark proves it with a gift just a day later: a five pack of granny panties and pair of pajamas two sizes too big, for your ultimate comfort. He still finds a way to get you out of them, though, citing an intrinsic sexiness about you that you’re more than happy to oblige him with.

#are you kidding me #he’s the sweetest #clark kent x reader #clark kent x you #clark kent x y/n #clark kent #clark kent fic #clark kent blurb #clark kent drabble #clark kent imagine #clark kent fanfic #clark kent fanfiction

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sugugori · 5 days ago

Text

Foolish Hearts

Loving Clark Kent is easy, but he seems to find letting you go even easier. At least, until Clark is forced to fully reckon with what it means to really lose you.

▸ PAIRING: Clark "Superman" Kent x F!Reader ▸ WARNINGS: Hurt/comfort?, very little angst, limited knowledge of DCU ▸ WORD COUNT: 4.6K ▸ A/N: quick thing i wrote instead of working. i love a soft yearning clark who gets a lil jealous. also a sucker for exes to lovers so here we are! pls go easy on me, clark isnt the easiest to write :')

—

The breakup is easy. Painfully easy. Too easy.

“I don’t think I can do this anymore, Clark. I’m tired of constantly waiting for you, wondering if you’re going to show up and being disappointed when you don’t. I think… we just want different things right now.”

His gaze only briefly falters before he nods silently, keeping his head ducked. “I understand.”

No fight. No rejection. Part of you hoped that Clark would say something, convince you to stay. If he even asked you to reconsider, you would’ve. It wouldn’t take much for you to forgive Clark Kent.

But he doesn’t, so you let him go, and he does the same for you.

Being friends with Lois and Jimmy throughout the early stages of your careers means that you are bonded by the shared struggle of being a journalist in Metropolis. The violent streak of villains streaming into the city. The sick billionaires plotting the deaths of good, innocent people. The corrupt government willing to sell themselves to said billionaires for more power over neighboring countries, even allies. That sort of depravity binds you.

Regardless, meeting Clark was inevitable. On the surface, Clark is broad and tall, oftentimes too big for whatever space he is in, no matter how many times he tries to shrink himself to avoid attention. But Clark is also delicate and gentle and clumsy, all of the traits that make him endearing to those around him.

You can’t help but want to protect Clark. When someone’s giving him a hard time, you are the first to stand up for him. He is a man who means well.

It is not difficult to fall for him, especially when the glances he sends your way are shy and curious. Whenever he gets caught looking a little too much, he quickly drags his eyes away with a blush creeping up his cheeks.

Clark is thoughtful. Once he finds out how you take your tea, he prepares a perfect cup for you every morning. The right temperature, the right sweetness. He never fails to walk you home at night, taking the time to make conversation to learn more about you as you also learn about him growing up in Kansas. He reluctantly leaves you at your door each evening, refusing to actually depart until he sees you waving at him from the safety of your home.

Clark Kent is a good — no, he is a great — man.

When he finally asks you out to dinner, it is natural to say yes. The first date quickly leads to a second and a third, consecutive nights spent giggling over nothing and everything. Clark asks you to be his exclusive girlfriend with a bouquet of your favorite flowers and a home-cooked meal.

With strawberry pancakes on the table and the stars twinkling outside, Clark shyly asks you to love him and only him.

Again, another easy yes.

Things with Clark are easy, at least for a while. Superman’s growing popularity along with the Justice Gang (you’re still debating if you really want to put that name on paper) draws plenty of unsavory characters to Metropolis, the temptation of challenging Earth’s mightiest heroes luring them into the otherwise quiet city.

With Superman getting busy, so does Clark. The two seem to have a good bond, with Clark getting exclusive interviews after every battle, which makes big splashes on the front page. His career takes off and Perry has been more than pleased with his work.

However, with this new steep trajectory, it also means that Clark has less time to spend on things outside of work. One of those things is you.

There have been a handful of dates where he shows up an hour late, if he even shows at all. When he does, he is disheveled, having rushed from wherever the battle had been to the date spot that you had picked out and planned. When he doesn’t even appear, the apologetic texts come in hours after you’ve gone home and prepared yourself for bed.

These days come with excuse after excuse. Perry held me up. Trains were delayed. Traffic was crazy. There was an accident on the highway. Superman this, Superman that. At some point, you have to salvage your pride and admit to yourself that maybe Clark isn’t as interested in you as you are in him. He has a stronger relationship with Superman than he does with you.

Because someone who wants to make time would. Right? That’s what you’ve always believed.

Perhaps the bitter pill to swallow is just that — Clark does not want to make time so he doesn’t. It’s a simple line of thinking but it’s one that you settle one to give yourself a reason to call it quits. With an amicable breakup, there is no tension between the two of you. A few awkward silences here and there, but nothing either of you can’t handle.

Your freelance work with The Daily Planet also means you frequently see him at the office. You walk in and greet your friends, Clark included. When you wrap up a meeting with Perry, Clark is there waiting with your cup of tea ready. He is still same old Clark which makes it difficult to not fall more in love with him.��

Even today, as you step out of Perry’s office and towards one of the spare desks, Clark is rising from his desk with a cup of tea. Clark is still indisputably beautiful. The way his dark curls fall against his forehead, his glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose. Your heart aches. Once upon a time, you had buried your fingers through his thick hair as he whispered kisses onto your skin.

Now, his touch feels like a distant stranger.

“Good afternoon,” he smiles, dimples appearing.

Your heart flutters traitorously in your chest and you stomp down on those butterflies in your stomach. He really is unfairly handsome. “Good afternoon,” you return politely.

As much as you tell yourself to be calm, cool, and composed around him, your heart never fails to say otherwise.

“How was your meeting with Perry?” Small work talk is always his safe bet.

“Good, I’m making good progress on my piece. Just need to do a little bit more digging to polish things up.”

At that, his brows furrow in concern. “Aren’t you working on that piece about the Gotham masked vigilante? What’s his name again? Batman?” You’re surprised that he knows what you’ve been investigating. Maybe it came up in other conversations with the Daily Planet team. “Is that safe? I mean, Gotham isn’t exactly a walk in the park. Not that you’re not strong, because you are, and you’re very smart and incredible—” he bites his tongue, wincing when he realizes that he’s rambling.

This is the Clark that you’ve missed. Awkward, concerned, adorable.

“I could go with you, it might be safer,” he offers. You cock a doubtful eyebrow at him. Clark is big and tall, but he’s also a semi-klutz. You can’t imagine him going with you into Gotham with his puppy-dog eyes and golden retriever energy, talking to your sources. Superman feels more of his speed compared to Batman.

“Thank you, Clark, but honestly, you don’t have to worry about me. I’ve been working with Gotham PD and I’ve got good sources who have my back. I’ll be safe.”

He looks far from convinced but that’s just who Clark is.

Thankfully, he decides to drop the subject and move on to the next. By the way he keeps shifting around your desk, you almost think that he wants to spend more time around you, even if it means talking about the most meaningless things. “Are you going to the event tonight?”

It’s an industry networking night The Daily Planet is hosting. Every year, Perry invites the who’s who of the news world — anyone from newspapers, television, and even social media (the last one Perry is less happy about but he has to keep up with the times). It’s a chance for his full-time staff and any adjacent journalists that he likes (you) to meet other professionals.

Really, it’s an excuse to drink and shit talk the industry that you all love with your peers.

You show up on time, hoping to get a few drinks in to loosen you up before the head honchos arrive. Apparently, a few of your friends have the same idea. When you enter the room, your eyes immediately land on Clark.

It’s not that you’re looking for him, your eyes naturally find his tall frame in the room. At least, that’s what you tell yourself.

Lois waves you over and you snatch up a glass of champagne on the way. Your shimmery black dress flutters against your thighs, landing at an appropriate length without looking too risque, but also not too conservative that it looks like you’re going to a business dinner.

“Look at you,” Lois beams, taking your hand and twirling you around.

You giggle and stop with a curtsy. “Thank you, you clean up very well yourself, Miss Lane.” Lois’ navy blue dress is stunning and emphasizes every gorgeous part of her.

Jimmy tugs you into a side hug. “I might need you to protect me tonight. Those two girls from accounting keep making eyes at me and I’m starting to get scared for my safety.”

A smirk pulls at your lips. “Only you would be terrified of hot girls pursuing you.”

“It’s not just me! Tell her, Clark. They’re relentless and I just want to write my articles.”

That is when your gaze finally shifts to Clark. You’ve been trying to avoid looking at him because you already know how your body will react. It’s always been the worst at self-control when it comes to Clark.

Still, you eventually have to look at him and he is delicious in his classic black tux. His glasses are still perched on his nose but his hair has been slicked back slightly, taming the wild tendrils.

“Mhmm, relentless,” Clark mumbles distractedly, too busy looking at you in the dress. You can feel the trail of fire his gaze leaves on your skin as he peruses you. When his eyes finally meet yours, you could see the blues have turned into midnight.

Shivers snake up your spine and your breath hitches quietly in your throat as you try to pull your stare away from him, but you can’t help it. Your body feels tingly all over with the way he drinks you in like a man parched.

You remember the nights Clark looked at you like this, right before he slants his lips over yours, tugging you desperately into bed. He’s always been greedy with you, chasing after your kisses, refusing to let you leave. He bides his time worshipping you until you have no other thoughts except his name rattling in your mind.

Swallowing thickly, you watch as Clark’s eyes fall to your throat. His fingers twitch by his side, betraying his desire to reach out to you.

The magnetic pull to him is undeniable. You almost cave. You want to give in.

However, the sound of your name crescendoing in your ear yanks you out of this haze. Clark looks away just as Perry reaches you. He looks irritated. “What are you doing? I’ve been calling you. Come on, there’s someone I want you to meet.”

Lois and Jimmy look relieved to be released of the tension, glancing at each other with knowing looks. They are fully aware of how things ended between you and Clark, opting to choose no sides.

Before you can respond, Perry is already dragging you by the elbow towards a man some distance away from your friends. Sighing, you plaster on a smile when you finally lock eyes with the man Perry is introducing you to.

“This is Mark, he works for the Gotham Gazette.”

Your eyes flick to Perry briefly, a go-get-him look in his eyes. You’ve been meaning to talk to someone at the Gazette to see if they have additional sources or if they’re willing to offer a comment for your piece.

“Pleasure to meet you, Mark,” you force out your brightest grin.

Honestly, you are in no mood to socialize, but anything for the article right?

The three of you chat briefly about how Mark and Perry knew each other. Mark is significantly younger than Perry but no less ambitious. You can see him being the editor-in-chief for the Gazette soon. Perry gives you one last look before leaving the two of you alone to chat.

“Can I get you a drink?” It’s an open bar but sure.

So you make your way to the bar and he puts in both your orders. Mark mentions his interest in learning more about your piece on Batman and what you’ve found so far. “Well, I can’t really share my sources. Plus, I’d like to publish it once it’s final, so no sneak peeks,” you smile behind your cocktail.

“Beauty and brains,” Mark hums. You feel heat lick at your skin at the compliment. Mark is good-looking, you’ve spotted a few dirty looks thrown your way since you started speaking with him. But he can’t hold a candle to Clark.

Speaking of Clark, you try to search the room for him and spot him some distance away. His eyes are still on you, narrowed now but still on you.

Mark interrupts your thoughts, “Would you like to get some air? I’d love to chat more with you, it’s just getting a bit loud here, isn’t it?”

The absolutely not nearly falls from your lips, but you remind yourself again that this is work. This is what tonight is for. Armed with pepper spray in your purse, you let him lead you out onto the balcony of the banquet hall. The music fades out behind you, turning into a distant muffle. Mark’s hand reminds low on your back, a little too low.

The two of you share more small talk for a little bit, but all you want is to get more out of him for your article. You don’t care much for his Ivy League education or his pretentious boarding school. You’ve seen your fair share of privileged kids and Mark feels like another.

“So, what else do you know about Batman?”

The corner of Mark’s lips tip up. Perhaps you sound overeager, but he still plays along anyway. “How about, if I share some of my Batman sources with you, you go on a date with me.” He leans against the railing, a charming smile dancing on his lips as he leers at you again.

The look isn’t particularly flattering nor uncomfortable so you let it slide. The industry is smaller than you’d like, which means you can’t exactly tell him to piss off without ruining Perry’s relationship with the man.

“Trading secrets for a date? Your editor would be ashamed of you,” you choose to tease.

“Well, anything to get to know you a little more. Even if it means risking my journalistic integrity.”

One date for more sources? That seems like the easiest and best bargain you’ve ever struck.

However, before you can agree, Clark’s face flashes in your mind. Sweet Clark. He would likely hear about this date. And while the two of you aren’t technically together anymore, it doesn’t mean you want to close out that possibility completely.

Crap.

You open your mouth but the words don’t come out when you feel an arm slide around your waist. Whirling to your side, you crane your neck to look at Clark who is suddenly next to you. You didn’t even the door click open.

“Clark,” you blurt out.

“Perry says he wants to see you,” he bites out. His eyes are laser focused on Mark as he says this, fingers digging into your side.

“Right now?”

“Yeah, something about that senate policy piece for next week.”

The senate policy piece isn’t due for another two weeks, the hearing was pushed back. You cock an eyebrow at Clark but he still isn’t looking at you.

“Sorry about that, I have to steal her for a second.” He does not wait for Mark to respond before he manhandles you — gently — back into the building and straight into a closed-off room on the side.

Once you’re in there, he doesn’t seem to know what to do with himself. He paces the length of the room, which isn’t long at all, while you stand by the shelves, arms crossed over your chest.

Clark isn’t a liar until he needs to be, you suppose. The question is why he needs to be one.

“What’s going on? I know that piece isn’t due for a while. Perry wouldn’t be badgering me on a night like this for work.”

“Were you going to say yes?” Clark asks, a little breathless as he stops and turns to look at you.

His eyes are bright blue underneath the room’s fluorescent lights. They are softened by the creases on his face, the concern that etches itself deep into his skin.

“Say yes to what?”

“To a date with him?”

How did he— “How did you hear that? You weren’t even there when he asked me.”

Clark purses his lips and only looks at you. “Well, were you?”

“Why does it matter if I did? It would’ve been for work.”

“It was a date.”

“I wanted his intel for Batman.”

A groan slips past his lips as he reaches up and runs his fingers through his hair, curls coming apart. “I could help you get that, you don’t need to go on a date with him for that.”

“How would you help me do that? You don’t do work or pieces on Gotham.”

Clark opens his mouth, frowns, then promptly shuts it again. “I would’ve figured it out.”

“It’s really not a big deal, Clark. Mark isn’t a bad guy, Perry knows him, that’s why he introduced us.”

He looks far from appeased, earning a sigh from you.

“You want to tell me what this is really about?”

His face crumbles, blue chipping away into something lighter, something more vulnerable. “I miss you,” he whispers. “I miss you so much.”

Fuck. All the air is sucked from your lungs as you look at him. “Clark, don’t do this.”

“I do. I know it’s been a couple of months but I can’t stop thinking about you, how good things were between us. And I know it wasn’t perfect, I’m not perfect, but I want to be with you.”

This can’t be happening. Not now. You’re in the midst of a very public event for god’s sake and Clark is… Clark. He’s beautiful and he’s honest and wonderful, and he’s telling you that he misses you.

Your heart splits in two as you look at him. Fury and sorrow mixes inside you. How dare he but also why is he doing this? Why is he doing this to you now of all times? “If you told me all this when I told you things weren’t working out, I would’ve said yes in a heartbeat. I would’ve stayed. But now that time has passed, I still don’t see things changing. It’s not like we’re any different.”

Clark swallows. “We can be different. We can. I need to tell you something—”

The door slams open and Lois spills inside, stumbling in her heels. “Clark, you have to see this.”

The desperately apologetic look on his face says everything. The excuse on the tip of his tongue is loud and clear before he even opens his mouth. Another story to chase. Another thing that takes him away from you.

Something in you cracks because this is not unfamiliar. It’s like the time before and the one before that. You know that nothing is going to change between you and Clark. Doomed before you even start.

Seeming to sense that shift, Clark steps up to you and catches your chin between his fingers. His eyes are earnest, pleading, as they search yours. “I have to go, but I’ll come by your place after.”

It’s not a question. It’s not a request. It’s a promise.

Instead of arguing, you whisper, “Okay.” He presses his lips against your temple. His touch is gentle, but there is a tremor to his mouth that melts your heart. With one last squeeze of your hand, Clark heads out to what most likely is a battle scene.

By the time you regain your composure and rejoin the guests, everyone is honed in on the one television screen in the room. Some massive monster has breached the Delaware Bay, clawing its way towards the shore. News and police choppers are circling the scene, the whirring of its blades buried in the monster’s roars.

The Justice Gang has been at it for a couple of hours with no progress made. You see Superman fly into the scene and the guests erupt into cheers. It’s another day in Metropolis but Superman somehow always puts on a show.

Superman’s laser beams are followed by Hawkgirl’s strikes. Mr. Terrific’s T-Spheres and Green Lantern launch combination attacks of offense and defense. In no time, the heroes take them down. Another successful day for the metahumans. Just another day in Metropolis. The attendees swiftly turn back to their conversations.

Glancing back at the screen, you wonder if Clark is already out there. You wonder if he’s safe. If he got his big story. If he’ll make it back to you.

When the camera comes in close to the heroes, they do a full close-up of each hero, including Superman. His face, dashing and bloodied. But that’s not what you pay attention to. It’s his eyes.

The eyes of a man who has looked at you across the office for months. The same eyes you yourself have gazed upon on those late nights sharing snacks and giggles under your duvet. The same eyes of the man who made you a promise just thirty minutes ago.

You have never paid too much attention to Superman. He’s another superhero. A supposedly, particularly kind one who really considers humanity when saving the world. But there are enough journalists who write about him that you have never felt the need to really care.

Plus, you have Clark and he is equally — if not more — cute and nice and big.

Now that you’re really looking at him, looking at his eyes, you think that Superman has Clark’s eyes.

And you’ve never been an idiot. At least, you didn’t think so until today. Everything seems to fall into place. The excuses, the disappearances that are always timed with Superman’s fights, both domestic and international. It all makes sense.

You are still stewing in this discovery when you hear a knock at your door a few hours later. You know who it is, of course.

When you swing your door open, the first words out of your mouth are “you’re Superman.”

Not an accusation, just a fact.

Clark shows up at your door with flowers, your favorites, and no glasses. You feel your breath catch. The resemblance has always been there, you don’t know how you could’ve been so blind. All the pieces seem to click into place.

He takes a step forward, you take a step back. One after another until you’re pressed up against the wall and the door is closed behind the two of you. He sets the flowers on the hallway table and dips his head, a shaky exhale escaping. He leans closer, until his lips are brushing yours.

“I am,” he murmurs.

“Why didn’t you just tell me?”

The time that you’ve lost. The evenings you spent wondering what if.

You look up at him, those familiar blue eyes that now you’re struggling to fully recognize. “Why now? I mean, we had months. You had months to say otherwise.”

Clark shies away slowly, his gaze shattered with guilt. “I thought I’d be content with just being in your orbit, just by being… around you. But I realize today that it’s not enough. The idea of you with someone else — someone else who makes you laugh, who cooks you breakfast for dinner, who gets to tell you that they love you every day — I don’t want to imagine that. Today, I felt what it was like to possibly lose you and I’m not perfect, and I’m selfish, but I want you. I want to be with you.”

Your palms flatten on his chest as you push him away. The flicker of hurt in his eyes is unmistakeable but you need space. You need to breathe and think about this.

It had torn you apart months ago to end things with Clark. You knew it was a leave you before you leave me situation. All this time, you thought it was the best thing to do for yourself. Although you weren’t with Clark for that long, your chemistry wasn’t something you could ignore.

There are piece of yourself that you’ve given Clark that he can’t possibly return.

“I don’t get it, you— we could’ve had all that. I always just thought that you didn’t have time for me, that you weren’t actually interested.”

Clark winces as another sympathetic expression settles on his features. “For a while, I thought it would be easier for you, if I wasn’t in your life. I didn’t want to inconvenience you or hurt you more than I already have.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“I don’t know, it seems like I have fudged it up, haven’t I?” He smiles softly. Fudged. God, as if you couldn’t be any more endeared by this man. “I can’t be the perfect boyfriend. To be fair, I don’t think anyone can. But I can promise you I’ll do my best to be better. I’ll overcommunicate. I’ll always have the justice… thing supporting me. It won’t be all me all the time. I’ll make sure we have time.”

“Clark, that’s not… right. You have a city and a world to protect, and I don’t want to be the person standing in the way of that.”

An exasperated sigh escapes him. He pulls on his curls again. “You can’t— you can’t possibly think that that’s why. I’ve always wanted to protect the world, that’s what I always believed to be my purpose. But with you, it’s even more clear. I want to make sure this planet is safe, because you’re in it. So if you’ll allow me, and if you’re willing, I want to give us another chance to make it. Because I really, really like you.”

The gravity of his words sink into your bones. Clark is at his best when he’s like this. Beautiful, sweet, honest. He is trying now and you have to give him credit for it. And you miss him so, so much. You don’t even realize how much until he’s right here again with you. You miss how he held you gently with his large hands, the way he would slip into your bed quietly and tuck you into his chest.

And maybe this time, you can make it work.

You know you can.

“I really like you too,” you confess quietly.

Clark’s eyes brighten and that beam of hope strikes you in the heart. “What do you say? Would you give me a second chance?” He is smiling but you can see that his eyes are tight. He’s nervous.

You laugh, “Yeah. Let’s try this again, Kent.”

–

Bonus:

“Wait, so does that mean you’re friends with Batman?”

Clark freezes. “Um, yes we have met a few times.”

“Do you think you could get me an interview with him?”

“Honey…”

“Come on!”

#you’re right op #he definitely is the type to say fudge #so cute #clark kent #superman #superman movie #clark kent x reader #clark kent x you #clark kent imagine #clark kent x y/n #superman x reader #superman 2025 #superman x you

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sugugori · 6 days ago

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Jason who's favorite position is prone.

Don't get it wrong, he's a complete amateur when it comes to sex. The first time you two fucked, he cried. So this little discovery, it was an accident, truly. He didn't mean to get carried away but you were squeezing him so good, and the pretty sounds you were making had his knees giving out.

At first, he had you face down, feeding you those deep strokes, the kind that leaves you breathless. But then he began to move, pushing at the curves of your hips, then your spine, forcing you down until your tummy presses against the soft sheets. And he can't help it, naturally wherever you go, he follows. So he lays himself right on top of you, he's so big too. Big thighs cage around your ass, grinding real deep and slow. It’s downright sinful. Jason Peter Todd in all his 6'1 glory, smothering you against the mattress and it's like something inside him clicks. His mind won’t shut the hell up because suddenly, you’ve gone all soft and pliant, and he’s whispering real filthy, “just needed some good dick, huh?”

His mind is so fucked out, he hasn’t realized how good he’s been fucking you until he registers your squirming and soft whining beneath him. Sometimes he forgets how big he is, all of him. Because in this position, he basically kisses your cervix. He’s taking his time, it’s torturous, the slow drag of his hips, and the way he bullies his way back in- pushing up against that sweet spot that makes you cream.

He’s got his lips pressed against your ear, cooing and shushing you so sweetly when you say you can’t take anymore. One hand pushing past your hips to pet at your sensitive clit, and you paw at his wrist- a weak attempt at pushing him away. It’s too much, he’s too big and he’s talking so fucking nasty in your ear you just can’t take it.

But every time you try to shut your legs in protest, his thighs flex and his ankles lock around yours, easily pushing them back open. Wordlessly saying, “take it, take it, take it”.

And after fucking you through your third orgasm, this man has the audacity to blush. Shoving his face into your neck but at some point, his mind gets all hazy. He latches his canines onto your throat and you cum. Still fucking you through the mattress, he works you up to your fourth. And when you finally come down, you sob out a half-hearted “mean”, but he doesn’t budge- just hushes you with a sickly sweet “did so good, baby”.

reblogs are appreciated! ⋆˙⟡

#thank you for 9k!#jason todd smut #jason todd x you #red hood x reader #red hood #Jason Todd x reader smut

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sugugori · 6 days ago

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𝗱𝗶𝗳𝗳𝗲𝗿𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗱 𝗼𝗳 𝗸𝗶𝘀𝘀

You realise nobody’s ever gone down on Clark before and aim to change that. (Or, Clark gets spoiled.) fem, 3k

established relationship, oral sex, messy gentle blowjob, a helping hand, mildly inexperienced clark

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

Clark strokes the back of your neck gently. He has nice fingers. He’s tall, so his arms are long and his hands are wide, but they’re pretty, too, with trimmed cuticles and light hairs at the knuckles. You squint with an eye smushed close in his chest, daytime TV the only discernible sound beyond Clark’s breathing. You time your inhales to his, then your exhales. Clark probably hears it, but he doesn’t say anything. His touching grows softer still.

You shift in his hold some and wrap an arm around his waist. Under your arm, you can feel the bite of his denim jeans. They’re a good fit. They… accentuate things.

You try to pay attention. Clark put the cooking channel on because he knows that’s what you like. He is earnestly sweet, and likely heartily bored.

You let your hand fall to his thigh. His skin is warm even through the denim, heat seeping through your hand and his thigh, back and forth.

If your face were to fall a little further down, if his hand slipped higher, guiding your head…

You slide your hand up to his hip and feel at it accordingly. “Clark?” you ask, voice croaky with disuse.

“Mm?”

“Can I ask you somethin’?”

“Sure, baby. Ask me something.”

You could fall asleep like this if heat weren’t stirring in your stomach at even the idea. Clark calling you ‘baby’ with his Friday-night-tired voice doesn’t hurt the fantasy. Your knees hot against the hardwood, braced, Clark’s stuttering pleasure.

He must find a tell in your expression, going quiet and smiley. “What?” he asks.

“You don’t have to answer.”

“I doubt I’ll mind. I’d tell you anything.”

You let your thumb stray toward the inside of his thigh. Feel the muscles there twitching. “I know I’m not your first girlfriend, but you told me you aren’t… totally experienced.”

“Right. What, do you want to know what I meant?” he asks.

You know Clark’s fucked girls. Has gone down on girls, just not many. Clark has fucked and gone down on you, and he did it beautifully, but he’s never let you blow him: you’ve never asked. And it isn’t because you don’t want to, only, Clark seems to have a want to do things in his order and you’d been happy to follow his lead this whole time.

“Has anyone ever gone down on you?” you ask quietly.

Clark goes slightly stiff, despite best intentions. “No,” he answers, scratching at the nape of your neck. “No one’s ever gone down on me.”

“You don’t want to try?”

“No one’s ever offered, and I guess I’ve never wanted to ask.”

“How come?” you ask, to gauge where he is with it.

“It’s different, to ask. Girls– women are expected to do certain things, but I’ve never expected anything of you. I still don’t. I figure if you want to, you’ll ask me, and if you don’t want to, it’ll never hurt anyone that you don’t.”

He’s so, so sweet. The thought of him being too shy or too unwilling to be that guy makes you want to do it more. There is an expectation in contemporary culture, but it doesn’t mean the act itself between you and Clark has to have that connotation.

“Can I blow you?”

Clark huffs a quiet laugh. “You don’t have to, honey.”

“Please?”

Clark can’t hide the heat of his skin under your hands, but he’s putting up a convincing front otherwise. His hair has fallen into his eyes again, sweet knocked curls kissing a pale forehead. “I don’t wanna hurt you,” he says.

“It doesn’t have to hurt anyone,” you say. You’ve both fallen into the quiet voices you use before you fuck, and he’s wearing an expression you’d find mirrored if you could see your own face, like he’s waiting for the next move, and then the next. “Okay? It’s not rough. Not unless you want it that way.”

“Uh– I–” And while you’d like to say there’s something in him turned on at the notion, you genuinely believe that Clark Kent is astonished at the idea of hurting you on purpose.

“You can tell me exactly what to do, or I could,” —you let your hand rest at his belt buckle— “do what I think you’d like. I can make you feel good, Clark.”

Clark’s eyes fill with knowing. You’re seducing him and he’s being pulled in, but going willingly doesn’t mean he’s unaware. “Is that what you want? You wanna make me feel good?” he asks, teasing and testing.

“Will you return the favour?”

“I can lay you out right here,” he promises simply. Which is why getting on your knees in front of him is easy work. The eagerness on his face turns to worry, “Hey, you don’t have to kneel down there, we can move.”

“It’s easier like this. Can see everything.”

“Oh.” His mouth tightens.

“Not so easy, being seen up close,” you murmur. “But I know you’re pretty, Clark.”

He’s hardening in his jeans. You readjust your position and use your weight to spread his thighs some, which helps to send a little more blood to his cock. You watch the fabric tighten a touch, watch Clark’s cheek dimple as he bites the inside of his mouth.

“You okay?” you ask.

“Hey,” he says, taking your elbows into his hands, “I’m fine, just trying to act like a gentleman.”

Straightforward when he isn’t telling the flimsiest lies ever. You rally at his eagerness, holding his arms in tandem, fingers spread over curved biceps.

“You really are something,” you mumble, letting your fingers trail down his arms.

“Should I– can I take my belt off?”

“Yeah, honey, open it up. Or I can?”

He nods tightly.

You slip the leather of his belt from the buckle, heat pooling in your abdomen at the clink it makes, and the quiet shush as you free it from a belt loop on either side. Your fingers are steady as you unbutton him, as you take the zipper between your fingers and pull it down. His legs widen to let you in, and you slide into the space as well as you can. His thighs are muscled, solid around you, squeezing you gently as you push his shirt up his stomach.

“Lay back a li’l,” you murmur.

Clark lays back.

The erotica of his open jeans and his trimmed, dark tummy hair makes your eyes warm. Standing, you could rap your knuckles against his waist and hear it like stone, but there’s a new softness to his stomach when he slouches.

You work your hand up to his bulge.

“Are we done?” Clark asks, tipping his head back with a groan. There’s redness climbing his neck. “Fuck, let’s– let me take you to bed.”

He’s mostly kidding. Careful, you slip your hand up his cock and back down again, marvelling the rigidity of it already, saliva pooling right behind your teeth. “Can I move these outta the way?”

“Honey, don’t,” he says. Which means Honey, don’t tease.

“Baby,” you say, he’d felt it coming, but he still drags his head up to stare at you like you’re a dream, “do you want this?”

“Yes,” he says.

“Can I kiss you?”

He’s not so pale in the face now. “Yeah,” he says, “please.”

You take the length of his cock into a tentative hand and lean downwards. Clark makes a noise before you’ve so much as breathed on it, the red head of his cock dry but so full of blood it looks bruised as your fingers close at the shaft. You look up at him, and you feel his weight in your hand, angling yourself down to touch his cock to your cheek. Then you turn your face to brush it over your lips, and any cool Clark held swiftly dissipates.

It’s slow to begin with, just kissing a mouthing at the length of his cock, feeling it twitch on your tongue, the heat of his blood in your palm as you drag it up and down. With enough kissing the skin is slick, and stripping it makes a sound that’s almost as lewd as his shudder when you take the head against your tongue for the first time. He smells so fucking good, he smells clean, and he smells like his skin and that sweat scent before it has time to sour, like he’s overheating under your hands, and he smells like precum as it begins to dribble from his slit. You press your nose to his cock, drinking up the gasp he makes, his thighs tensing under your touch. And it’s perfect, but he needs to relax.

“Baby, take your pants off,” you say, drawing back from his cock, spit wet on your bottom lip.

“What?”

“I can’t kiss all of you–”

“I don’t think–”

“Clark, I’m not going to break your trust, baby,” you say, giggling lightly, not gonna kiss anywhere he doesn’t what, “just– just get undressed. I can– I can be naked, too.”

He’s better convinced. Clark shimmies his jeans off, then his shirt when you laugh. You strip out of your shirt and reach back for your bra, but Clark clasps your wrist and insists that the jeans be the first thing to go.

“Idiot,” you murmur without heat, standing off your achy knees to unbutton your jeans. You roll them down your hips.

Clark’s once over isn’t half as salacious as it could be. “Beautiful,” he says.

“Thank you. You like the set?” you ask, turning to the side to show him your blue underwear. The panties have see-through lace squares at the sides and the bra’s slightly too tight at the band, but his gaze doesn’t linger anyplace. He finds your face.

His eyes flicker to your panties and then back again. “Beautiful,” he says again. “Come and sit up here with me, sweet girl. Can’t do that to your knees anymore.”

“It’s easier–”

“I can move, but you can’t sit down there anymore.”

You love when Clark uses his voice like that. It’s like it’s not him anymore. It’s not, totally. Threads of his other half wrap you up, have you crawling onto the couch next to him to set yourself down across his thighs, left arm and shoulder leaning on his legs, right arm guiding the head of his cock back into your mouth.

“Guide my head,” you murmur around him.

He gives his sharpest pant yet. “What?”

You grab his hand and press it to your neck. “Move me onto it.”

“I don’t want to choke you.”

“Then be gentle,” you advise softly. “I won’t let you choke me, babe, I just need help finding a rhythm.”

For some reason, that’s what gets him most. Clark dissolves back into the cushions with his hand grasping your neck, guiding your head as you take his cock into your mouth. It’s all hot and humid and his crotch is quickly wetted, spit under your nose and on your chin, eyes misty as he brushes the back of your mouth with his cock. You refuse to choke and scare him off, so whenever he guides you down too close, you pull away.

You hold the swell of him rather sweetly, rubbing a thumb over them each time you pull off his cock. He’s eager to fuck against your warm tongue, just a little too much, and you’re staring up at him with your mouth full and your nose wet when his eyes go silver.

“That’s perfect,” he says, his pelvis flexing, “just like that– just– you’re perfect, I swear–”

“Love you,” you say, sniffing the heat that’s gathered in your nose away gently.

“I love you.” He grabs your cheek in his hand. “I love you more, honey, you look insane like this, I didn’t realise…”

“This is why people like it so much.”

He adores the hint of shyness he hears in your voice, you can see it in his smile. You can almost see his teeth. But behind his smile there’s a need there, something anxious, so you lean your face against his hip and begin pumping his cock in a slick hand. “Let me make you cum,” you say softly.

Clark doesn’t answer. He gives you this besotted leap-of-faith kiss pressed to top of your head and nudges your mouth back toward his cock. “Kiss, please,” he begs.

You press tens of little kisses into his cock, letting precum bead up and drip onto the tip of your tongue.

“Clark,” you say, licking the salt from your lips as his breath starts to stagger, “you can cum, honey, do you want to? You can cum in my mouth.”

He shakes his head vehemently and covers your hand where it’d been pumping his cock. For a second, things are stopped, but then he drops his head back against the cushions and uses your hand under his to jerk his full length, sticky heat pressed into each finger, the pressure of each strip like a lick until he’s suddenly over the edge. He brings your hand up and tugs at the tip of his cock, cum dripping down your knuckles in fat rivulets.

You give an experimental pull.

“Fucking–” He moans your name like an afterthought. “Ah, baby, baby–”

“Sorry,” you say.

Clark catches his breath for so long you worry you’ve permanently maimed him. He’s still holding your sticky hand to his cock, letting it drip down his front and his hip the longer he leaves it alone, but who are you to judge? You force him to free your hand in search of a discarded t-shirt.

When you’ve managed to clean off your hands and Clark’s abdomen, he lifts his head from the couch to deliver a suspicious glare. “What the hell, babe?”

You startle. “What?”

“How’m I ever supposed to get off by myself now? I think you just ruined me forever.”

“I’m sure you’ll be okay. Idiot.”

He wipes his hands again and before he takes your face into both hands. “Kiss, okay?” he asks, pulling you forward.

“Mm,” you affirm against his lips. A kiss is sorely needed.

It’s an unashamed kiss that spans a half-second too long, like he’s forgotten you need to breathe to survive, but he says sorry with a chaste peck pressed to the very corner of your eye and one of his great groaning sighs as he gets an arm around you and manhandles you into his lap.

“Watch your dick, baby,” you mumble, ready for the quiet, dizzy afterparty that comes whenever you both fuck.

Clark just laughs under his breath. “It’ll be fine. Now let me see these,” he says, tipping you back enough to bring his free hand to your thighs. His thumb brushes the bump of your cunt. “I don’t think you can take these off. That’s, like, not even federal at that point. It’s international.”

“Crime to undress me?” you ask, not bothering to click into the conversation fully. Clark’s barely any better, all mumbly and sluggish as he brushes a hair off of your cheek.

“Mm, no, I don’t think so. That wouldn’t bode well for me, would it, beautiful?”

You wrap your arms around his neck to nuzzle under his jaw.

And Clark? He lets his head fall back again, sighing with the same dizzying pleasure he’d shown with his cock pressed to the roof of your mouth, as though he finds your affection just as heavenly.

“I owe you a debt,” he says to the ceiling.

You kiss his Adam’s apple, unhurried. As far as you’re concerned, he’s paid it forward greatly,

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

#jeez #he’s perfect #clark kent x reader #clark kent x you #clark kent x y/n #clark kent #clark kent fic #clark kent blurb #clark kent drabble #clark kent imagine #clark kent fanfic #clark kent fanfiction

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sugugori · 6 days ago

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Still his miniscule snotty annoying tiny baby brother even after all these years

#stop it #sobbing #jason and dick #dick grayson #batman #dc comics #dcu #batfam #batfamily #jason todd

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sugugori · 7 days ago

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𝗜 𝗞𝗻𝗼𝘄, 𝗜 𝗞𝗻𝗼𝘄, 𝗜 𝗞𝗻𝗼𝘄

You confess your affections to an unsuspecting Superman, but your best friend Clark can’t know about your crush, okay? You’d die of embarrassment. (Or, Clark falls in love while Superman does most of the wooing.) fem, 8k

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

You never thought you’d get to talk to Superman. You've never been in that kind of danger, and you never hoped to be. You hadn’t wanted to talk to Superman because you know this is weird. You can’t have a crush on someone you don’t know. It’s idol worship, a celebrity fixation, and Superman is the perfect target. You’re not alone in loving everything about him —it’s easy. You aren’t ever confronted with the bad in his good.

And then he’s standing in front of you with his hands braced on your shoulders, and there’s blood running down your face from your temple and you’re crying, because it hurts, because you’re in the panic of your life and not sure what to do next.

He frowns at you with an unwavering gentleness.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “take a deep breath, ma’am. Deep breath.”

“It’s bl– bleeding.”

“I know.”

You shudder through tears as Superman brings his cape up and rips. It startles you, sending fat tears plinking down your cheek. You hold your breath as he brings his scrap to your face, dabbing the wetness from your cheeks before turning the fabric and holding it to your temple firmly.

You gasp painfully under his touch, desperate for air.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice a new shade, “it’s alright, you’re going to be fine, I promise. I’m gonna press this to your head, and we’ll see if we can get this bleeding stopped. As soon as it does, I’ll take you down and we can get you some real help.”

You nod, skittish as a scared deer, eyes as wide as they’ll go to follow his movements. It doesn’t hurt any more than the injury itself as he presses down on your head wound. He sighs in sympathy anyway. A broad hand spreads behind your back, familiar in a way, or maybe it’s the way he’s talking to you now. Like he knows you as you know him.

The photos of him online don’t do him justice.

“It’s not bad. I know it hurts, but,” —his hand finds your shoulder, squeezes lightly— “it’s because it’s so high up, alright? They always bleed more. It doesn’t mean this is anything to worry about beyond fixing you up and getting you some pain relief.”

“You– you’re real help.”

He holds your gaze. “Yeah?”

You wonder if he can feel the heat of your blush. It’s all over. He’s lucky your head wound doesn’t start spurting. “Yeah– yeah, I– Superman.”

His smile is everything. “What?” he asks patiently.

“I’m a big fan of– of yours.”

“You are?”

“You’re so brave,” you breathe out in a rush, though it hurts your head. “So brave. And– and…”

“Sorry,” he murmurs, putting a little more pressure on your temple. “Thank you for being a fan. All I want is to keep everyone safe.”

“You’re so gentle with everyone, even the aliens, and– you’re pretty…”

“Pretty?” he asks, pure surprise in his voice, his hand falling off of your arm.

You wince. “Yeah. Yes. Handsome. Sorry, you must get told that so much.”

“It’s okay. I won’t hold you to anything you say. You’re injured, after all.”

His teasing tone pretty much flies over your head. “No, I’m not lying. I mean it. You’re really lovely, and what you do, it makes you lovelier, it does–” You nearly choke on your enthusiasm. He has to know.

“Don’t get wound up, I’m sorry. I believe you. Let’s try to stay calm.”

Your head is aching in a new way, now. Less the sting of a wide cut, more beating, like a whirl in your own brain twisting and shaking, dizziness alive behind your eyes and threatening to knock you over. You clutch at Superman’s arm and he knows what you need, slipping his free arm behind your back before you can collapse.

“I don’t usually get crushes on people,” you inform him. “But it was hard not to get one with you. You’re even nicer than I thought you’d be.”

“It’s easy to be nice to you. Easy as breathing.”

Superman hugs you. You swear he does. But when the concussion begins to clear up and your confusion wanes in a hospital bed outside of the battle zone, you realise that he was holding you upright. Superman doesn’t know you, he never will, and you’re okay with it in the grand scheme of things. If you had to meet him, you’re glad it was while he was keeping you safe. He really is a good guy.

—

A week later, Clark Kent is waiting for you at the doors to the Daily Planet.

“Are you sure you don’t need more rest?” he asks, forcibly removing your handbag from your shoulder to carry himself.

“I’m sure.”

“It’s okay if you need more time to recover. You’re still wearing a dressing.”

“It’s a bandaid, Clark, and it’s to hide the scar for now, it’s–”

“It’s still a wound.”

“It’s fine! You saw it, you know it’s fine.”

Your overbearing best friend had surprise-visited you the day after your injury despite a text to tell him to stay home. You’re fine. It was a cut and the mildest concussion you could’ve had. You didn’t throw up, or collapse, you’d simply gotten confused and bled all over Metropolis’ finest super hero until his hands were more red than white.

“It looked awful, it still does.”

“It looks fine. Even the nurse said it was a small cut, in an unfortunate place.”

“Very unfortunate.”

You follow him to the elevator bank with a frown. “Clark, you don’t have to sulk.”

“I’m not sulking! I just don’t see what’s wrong with staying in bed for now.”

“I have stuff to do, babe. I have to work. I have to move forward, it barely hurts anymore.”

He likes being called babe, simpering accordingly. “Well, you’re sitting down all day. Doctor’s orders.”

“Show me your oath and I’ll consider it.”

“Please?”

He looks like he could cry. Not that he will, but like he could if you keep saying no to him. And despite all your grievances with being treated like you’re fragile now, you decide to take it easy, if only to give Clark the peace of mind. “Okay, sure. You can wait on me all day.”

“Yes. Thank you.”

Clark’s your best friend because —no matter how much it might confuse you— he seems to really love you, maybe from the moment he met you. You started at the Daily Planet and he took to you like a duck takes to water. Everything you said made him laugh, every recipe you wrote was one he had to try. And you figured it was something boys tend to do, right? Pretend you‘re interesting until they get what they want from you, but Clark’s never asked for anything else, loving you wholly and expecting nothing in return.

You let him swing an arm around your shoulders, a mirror of himself those few nights ago where he’d come shaky and sorry to see you. He apologised for not being there when you got hurt, as if he could’ve stopped it.

“I’m sick of working already,” you say.

“Then let’s go home.”

“Clark. I’m being conversational.”

“Don’t tease me,” he pleads, sounding all sudden and whiney. You squirm out of his arms to poke his side. Gets more solid by the day. Idiot boy.

“Have you been working out?”

“Can you stop?”

“Can I stop? You’re a nightmare.”

Clark threatens to superglue you to your deskchair, but he titters around you hopelessly all day.

—

You’re laying on the gravel roof of your apartment on top of a sun lounger, trying to decide if getting some sun is worth all the noise. Beeping, birds, cars, doors, the wind, this high up and occasionally curving through buildings to kiss your skin —noise, noise, noise. Your phone is ringing while you ignore it, desperate to get through the last chapter of your book without interruption. You have thus far been foiled, and figured nobody’d be able to find you up here.

The quick, awful zip of a high impact sounds somewhere close. You nearly topple from your lounger, a hand pressed to your chest, your heart racing near painfully at the surprise. You whip your head to the horizon looking for smoke, but there’s nothing. For a few minutes, you can’t hear anything at all.

The shape of him descends before your mind can catch up. Then, he’s there in one piece. A touchable dream, Carol Ann Duffy at work and torturing you in passing. You’ve seen a ton of photos of him, hundreds, videos of girls recording to ask him sweet questions, and you’ve never seen him smile so shyly. You shiver violently down your arms, but Superman isn’t here to hurt you.

“I’ve been looking for you.”

“You were?” you ask.

“I wanted to make sure you were doing okay.”

You sit up properly. The book in your lap makes a crunching noise that you happily ignore. “I’m fine. I’m fine, did you– You’re here to see if I’m okay?”

His smile strengthens. “Is that okay?”

You stammer, “Of course it’s okay!” A flush rises from your chest to your cheeks as he stays there. He’s not leaving until you answer. Holy fuck. “I’m great, Superman. All healed up.”

“Are you sure? You still have–” He gestures to your bandaid.

“It’s to keep it clean in the daytime. I take it off before bed.”

“Does it hurt?”

“No, of course not.”

“Why of course not?”

Your heart makes a funny pulse. Handsome isn’t the right word for him. There’s something special about it, otherworldly, literally, the cut of his jaw somehow sharp and soft at once, his pert nose, his eyes gone light in the sunshine and framed by dark lashes that beg to be touched. You imagine running a fingertip along them, gently brushing them up for no reason at all, and he narrows his gaze at you in your silence. The shorts you’re wearing have you worrying you’re underdressed in his eyes. They’re pajamas, pink with black polka dots and edgings. You’d had the forethought to wear a short-sleeve rather than a vest lest one of your neighbours find themselves up here with the same quiet idea. Superman’s fully clothed in comparison.

His boots look formidable next to your puppy dog socks.

“It doesn’t hurt,” you promise, half-lying and uncaring. Superman saved you. He’s perfect, so your head doesn’t hurt.

“You seem a little flustered, is all.”

“Oh. Oh, well, it’s hot out, and I’m not like, super used to being in your company. Or any company, um, like yours.”

“You’ve never met a metahuman?”

“No, never.”

“We’re just like everybody else.”

You laugh.

“No, really,” he says, idling toward you, red boots treading the gravel down flat. “I’m just like you, you don’t have to be nervous.”

“Sorry.”

“Now what do you have to be sorry for?”

You laugh again, a giggle you’d never admit to. He’s strangely intimidating; a presence, but not an imposing one.

“What are you reading?” he asks, nodding to your lap.

“Oh, uh. Uh, it’s called The Ocean?” You straighten up the book to show him the cover. “It’s good, uh, the main character is a young boy who wants to find his father, I think it’s supposed to be a take on The Odyssey,”

“Why is he looking for his father?”

“He’s missing after a terrible war. It’s one of those ones that hurts the entire time but the ending has wrapped it up so nicely, it was worth it.”

“Maybe I’ll read it, too. You look like someone who has great taste.”

“You can borrow my copy.”

Superman’s gaze narrows again. “You’re finished?”

“Yeah, I finished it before you got here.”

He waits in the quiet. You’re sure he’s going to call you out for your lie. It's not as though a Kryptonian truth-radar would be outside of the realm of possibility.

Superman finally smiles. “I promise to bring it back,” he says simply.

“Sure. Well, take your time.”

—

How long can it possibly take a superhero to read one book?

You shouldn't be thinking about it again. Poor Clark is sitting in the corner of the couch with your feet stuck under his thighs, telling you about the grocery store widow who asks him for help to take her groceries out to her car whenever she sees him. She’d spotted him at the produce section today and dibsed him, and Clark doesn’t mind (though she leaves her car at the back of the parking lot no matter the weather). In fact, Clark doesn’t bring it up to complain. He’s sympathising with her, how lonely she must be.

You try to shake Superman from your head while Clark is talking, but the thoughts of him won’t budge.

You’d made a fool of yourself on the roof. Superman had taken your book to be polite. He probably won’t come back.

“Hey.”

You lift your head.

Clark’s looking at you. Big blue eyes in a classic face, the line of his glasses dark and heavy against his brow. They trace your expression, searching for the misery you’ve failed to hide, until he finds it in the creases of your eyes.

“What’s wrong?” he asks. His voice is weak with worry.

“Nothing.”

“It’s something.”

“It’s really not.”

“It definitely is. You can tell me about anything, you know. Or you don’t have to tell me, but I’ll be here for you no matter what. Some food for thought.”

“Food for thought. Eat this, Kent,” you say, jabbing him at the top of the thigh with your heel.

Clark grabs your foot. “Come on. I know something’s wrong, and I don’t understand why you wouldn’t tell me, but…” He lets your foot smack down into the top of his thigh to grab his tea instead.

“Isn’t that cold?” you ask.

“It’s tepid,” he allows after a sip.

You laugh, so he laughs. It’s a lovely sound.

“Again. Again, you don’t have to tell me what’s wrong, but I’d listen if you wanted me to.”

“Don’t try and make out like you’re not keeping secrets.”

Clark goes slack-jawed. “Sorry?”

“You don’t tell me everything. I know exactly where you disappear to all the time.”

“You do?”

You climb up on your knees and settle in front of him. You’re wearing those pink polka dot shorts like you were on the roof with Superman, in hopes they’ll summon him to you like a talisman. Clark presses his lips together, watching you closely as you take his face into your hands.

“You’re dating Lois Lane,” you say.

His fingers dust your elbow. “What?”

“You’re sweet on her, aren’t you? Plus, you’re busy all the time. You’ve cancelled movie night three times this month, did you know?”

“I’m sorry–”

“I’m not. I’m happy for you.”

Clark shakes his head. “But Lois and I… I mean, not for months. We were almost something, I think, but no. Not for a while.”

You let your hands fall off of his cheeks. “Oh. Sorry, Clark.”

“Don’t be. I should’ve told you, but it was new and then it was over.”

“You should’ve told me,” you agree, “but I sort of get why you didn’t. I’m your girl best friend. That’s a thing.”

“You’re my best friend,” he promises, no ‘girl’ prefix necessary. “That’s not why it ended, Lois isn’t like that. It was… we disagreed on so many things. Looking back, I think she was right about most of it.”

“Well, she’s a girl.”

“That she is. You’re all the same, aren’t you? All dazzling.”

He says it with an earnestness that reminds you of the other half of your friendship-equation. Clark’s your best friend because he loves your work and your jokes and your company, and you’re his best friend because he’s good as gold, inside out, just awfully lovable.

“You’re ’dazzling’ too,” you say. “You are.”

Clark offers you his mug of tea. You take a sip for something to do.

“Not that cold,” you murmur.

“I never realised you were such a liar.”

“I don’t really lie to you, Clark.”

He leans up to kiss your head, chaste against your purpling scar. “I know.”

—

“So, this book–”

You jump hard enough to send your groceries five different ways, oranges and kiwis for Clark flying up in the air. They never hit the ground —Superman catches them in two hands.

Your loaf of bread lays cradled in his arm like a baby.

“Fuck,” you complain.

“I’m sorry.” Superman laughs at you. Laughs. “Sorry. But this book, is there a sequel?”

“What?” you ask. Superman tips your groceries into your waiting paper bag.

“I think I need a sequel.” He pulls The Ocean from a pocket and squeezes it unkindly. “I think it ruined my life.”

“There’s no sequel. But–” don’t spoil the ending for me, you almost say. “Did you enjoy it at all?”

“It was good. Do you read a lot, or are you down to the real heart-achers?”

“Uh, I guess. Well, no, I used to read more, but I didn’t have time for a while ‘n now I’m usually too stirred up to settle down.”

“You cook.”

You blink. “You googled me?”

“No, how could I? But I did see you on the third page of the Daily Planet. You have a little author’s window. You made pumpkin pie.”

“For Thanksgiving weekend, yeah. They only ever put me near the front or on the main page of the website if it’s the holidays.”

“Is that true?”

You shake your head. Not to say no, to say, let’s not talk about it. Silly insecurities are unnecessary conversation. At least, they are with him.

Someone gasps from behind you. With one comes a few. The people near the crosswalk are starting to notice Superman’s tall figure standing in the sun, and though you’d wish he’d managed to hide in the shadows, you admit to yourself that there’s nowhere else he could ever be. He looks right in the sun.

“Do you want to come with me?” he asks.

Do you want to go with him? What the fuck does he think? said in your head ecstatically, not a lick of derision against him. Your excitement nearly blinds you.

“Yeah,” you say, practically mumbling, wanting to come off nonchalant and instead sounding painfully shy, even to your own ears.

“Yeah?” He offers an arm. “Come here.”

Your charmed little laugh makes him grin. “Alright?” he asks, locking an arm around you vice-tight.

“Where are we–”

The air leaves your lungs in one fell swoop. There and gone, breathless and weightless in tandem.

The sky is more than blue when you’re in it.

There’s nothing you can say about it. You’re terrified Superman is going to drop you, you can hardly breathe from the sudden speed at which you’d been taken up with him, but beyond that, there’s nothing to say. Wordless, endless sky. Blue, blue—

“It’s not as scary as you think, right?” he asks, his head angled down to yours.

“I expected you to have to shout. I don’t know why.”

“It’s windier in the air, but we’re close. I don’t need to yell.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t get many groceries.”

“You aren’t heavy.”

You’re delighted. “This is a paper bag, you realise! I’m surprised it didn’t explode the second you got me up here!”

“I’ll be careful. You’re precious cargo, and you deserve a better experience now than the one you got when you first came up here with me.”

“I don’t remember much of it.”

“That’s okay. I do.”

You should feel ridiculous, but strong arms hold you steady. Blue eyes like someone familiar pour over your face, as though they need to see you clearly, with all this perfect light. Your few groceries are squeezed between your chests as you squeeze him by the neck, desperate for the extra security, that he won’t simply let you go, and have you fall.

“This is amazing,” you breathe, your eyes sweeping down to take in beautiful Metropolis beating away beneath you. The cars look like ants. The buildings cast shadows you’d never noticed from the ground.

“Yeah,” he says. “It’s something.”

You glance up to find him still staring at you.

The girls on SuperClub would never, ever believe you if you tried to tell them what passes between you, then. (Not that you frequent SuperClub. Often. You see it while scrolling, and you tend to scroll past it with a fond eye roll.) They wouldn’t believe that Superman brings his hand to your head to touch your temple, as though your small scar is a personal affront to him. They wouldn’t believe the way that he pauses when you shudder. Wouldn’t believe how he lets his fingertip tumble down your cheek, or the soft incline of his head. The slightest kiss of his eyelashes meeting in the very corners of his eyes as they almost close.

“Don’t feel guilty, please,” you say.

“What?” He sounds as though he’s woken up from a nap.

“About what happened. It wasn’t your fault that I got hurt. I wanted you to know that. You saved me.”

Superman lets the distance between your two faces grow. “I…”

“If this is what that is, if you feel like you owe me something, well. You don’t… I don’t know you, Superman, but sometimes I think I do. It’s like… someone I've met before? I can see your bleeding heart.” You offer a brash smile. “But I’m just fine. You promised me that I would be, and I am.”

“You’re not making this any easier for me.”

You shift in his grasp, his hair tickling you and the little hairs on your arms.

“I’m not a very easy person,” you say.

Superman presses his nose to your cheek.

“I think you’re giving me tachycardia,” you whisper.

He hears it. Doesn’t answer for a while, and when he does, it’s to neither of the things you said before.

“Let me take you somewhere new,” he says.

—

A day later, Clark asks if he can bring you dinner. Like and unlike himself, to care enough to ask but to forgo his usual boisterous lack of respect when it comes to taking care of you. Clark recognises that you like to be cared for aggressively. That you want someone to care so much that they won’t stop at the first hurdle. You want someone to take it at a sprint, and Clark’s a show off loser-dork who likes taking care of you.

He meets you at the door, where you show him your small picnic basket kitted with two plates, knives, forks, and a hidden dessert. “Too hot in my apartment,” you say.

“What’s wrong with the AC?”

“It’s leaking.”

“I’ll take a look at it. What happened to that fan I got you?” he asks, his fingers at your wrist trying to steal the basket.

“Oh, Clark, can’t you just leave me alone?” you plead.

He laughs like a kid. “I love when you do that.”

“What?”

“I don’t know, is it sarcasm? I don’t think that’s apt. Whatever it is, when you act like that? You’re really convincing. It’s funny.”

“I can be funny.”

“I know, that’s what I’m saying. You’re really funny. Can you do it some more?”

“Now it’s not natural, though.”

“Please?”

“Leave it alone, Clark. You’re such a beg.”

He laughs again. It peters off to a quiet you’d like to live in. His takeout bag rustles, your picnic basket rattles, his fingers brushing the back of your arm as he follows you down the street to the wooded path.

There’s a small park not far from your apartment that’s been divided into two halves. The playground for the neighbourhood kids, and the picnic tables made of strangely shaped wood. They’re all rounded. One table is shaped like an ‘S’. Another like a filled in ‘8’.

You sit at the one furthest from the playground, coincidentally shaped like a ‘C’. “For Clark,” you say, pleased.

“Adorable.”

You set up your plates, dividing up the food squarely. Clark had the wherewithal to bring two cans of soda and a big bottle of water. He asks which one you want, cracking it open accordingly. “Gonna pour it into my mouth, too?” you tease.

“Do you not want me to be nice to you?”

And the night slips away. You eat your takeout at the picnic table and linger until your legs are numb. The grass around the park is damp, but you sit, and you shoot the breeze until the sun starts to go down. It must be hours out there together.

Clark takes his jacket off and spreads it over your shoulders. “This is your only bad trait,” he says happily. “You never tell me when you’re cold.”

“I’m not that cold.”

“Sure you’re not. Look, come here,” —he pulls you bodily into his side, his voice turning silky as angora— “you act like you’re such a plague, like– I don’t know, like I wouldn’t wanna know that you’re cold.”

“I don’t act like that.”

“You do. You could rely on me for more, you know? I want you to lean on me.”

You lean on him.

Clark presses his nose to your temple, his glasses digging into your skin.

And you think, I know you.

But you don’t know why.

—

Clark can't believe this is happening again.

He woke up this morning with a scary yet firm plan: he’s going to get himself together, pluck up what he has in the way of courage, and be honest with you about Superman. If only so he can stop lying to you. He should’ve told you months ago that he was Superman. Hell, he might’ve told you from the moment he met you, that’s how sure he was that he’d love you. As a friend —his best friend, half of his life. There’s this ease, like he’s known you for far longer than he truly has, like he could know you for the rest of his life.

And lately.

Oh, lately. Clark can’t get a handle on things. He hadn’t realised he was falling in love with you, isn’t even sure that’s the way to describe it; far from a sharp plummet downward into love, this has felt like a slow and steady ascent, but now suddenly he’s at the mountain top and the air is thin, and he’s looking for you, aching for relief, and you’re sitting in the snow with your book and your shy smile, cross-legged, just waiting for him to get there and open his cowardly mouth.

Or that’s what he’d like to think.

Fact of the matter is, Clark would like to kiss you. Hold your hand, have your head rest on his shoulder. He’d like to pull you into his lap and squeeze. Clark could die happy if he got just one shot at it, no matter the outcome.

He knows he won’t lose you, but he’s worried you don’t want what he wants. He’s gotten so close to having you, he’s not sure he can take being any further apart than this.

Clark takes the tramline to the rich part of the city with the best florist. There are buckets and buckets of flowers; orange tiger lilies and white orchids turned green in the sun; roses as big as his fist, unfurling; sweet peas kissing pinkest camellias all tangled up with baby’s breath. He chooses the sweet peas. They really are sweet, their hemmed edge petals curling in and nearly blue. They’re beautiful. He can see them in a glass on your nightstand by tonight if he’s lucky.

It’s on the walk to your apartment (tramline too busy to risk, lest your flowers get hurt) that the trouble begins.

The light goes out.

It doesn’t make logical sense. He’s outdoors. It’s the early morning, the sun should be shining for hours to come.

He looks up and finds a singular dark rectangle over Earth.

It blots out everything, disapears the clouds, turns the blue sweetpeas in his hand a tired shade of grey.

Clark wonders if he should’ve told you how he felt when he had the chance. Then, he leaves his glasses, his jacket, and his sweetpeas in the hedgerow at the park with alphabet picnic tables and throws himself upwards into the sky.

—

What emerges from the spaceship (and it is a spaceship, made of an element humans aren’t want to touch) are creatures shaped like spinning asterisks, wisps of their angel-white bodies bending the shadows they’ve cast down onto Metropolis. It’s like smoke.

The dark makes it hard to breathe.

You sit huddled in your bedroom looking out through the window, despite a desperate urge to hide somewhere further inward. Sirens echo throughout otherwise quiet streets, discordant wailing that wavers for long, sharp minutes. There had been screaming and crying and the splintering sounds of glass. It’s not —not unseeable, out there, but anyone with poor vision will find themselves stranded.

You open your phone. Your theory is that the aliens have been able to dampen sound as well as sun, leaving the battlefield dangerously quiet. Clark’s not answering your texts because he never has his phone, but you’re sure he’s out there somewhere. He told you he was coming. The last message he sent this morning blinks at you from the bottom of your screen: Coming by soon if you’re not busy, do you want me to bring breakfast?

You’d said, just some eggs please if you want eggs

You’d said, hey, are you safe? What’s with the dark?

You’d said, clark please text me back right now, I’m freaking out, do you need me to come get you?

He won’t answer the phone. Outside, up in the sky where it’s darker still and the white shadows have begun to ripple, the occasional red beam of heat slices into whiteness, turning it to shadows again. There are two sets of red if you watch carefully. Green light flickers at the ground.

And Clark Kent is out there all alone.

You crawl to your shoes under the bed and put them on, pajamas and all. Clark’s blue hoodie lays on the back of your deskchair. You shrug it on.

He’s gonna lose his entire mind if you do find him out there. Can friends ground you? Because Clark’s going to ground you. But you’d rather be grounded than all alone.

—

Superman groans into the floor, his tongue coated in dust.

He has far better vision than a person feasibly needs. He wore a pair of glasses once that are supposed to approximate what it’s like to have legal blindness, and he’d felt suddenly, achingly sorry for the human race. But then he’d found the glasses stand beside it with all their different prescriptions and shrugged it off. Humans are brilliant. He’s in awe of their persistence, their resilience, and their strength. He knows he can find it in himself to go on because they can, too.

He has better vision, and still he finds himself batted away from the entities like a bothersome fruit fly.

“Krypto?” he asks into the smog.

His borrowed dog flies at him with impressive speed, pressing his snout straight into a bruise.

“Ow!”

Krypto snuffles and hits at his arms with both paws.

“Krypto, stop! Jeez, stop. You’re such a pai– Ow! Get off.”

Krypto nibbles his shoulder.

Clark forces himself to sit up. At least he hasn’t killed the dog. Kara would probably eviscerate the planet country by country if something happened to her dog, not mentioning the aliens that started this whole thing. And he is good at bringing the suit when Clark needs it.

He rubs at his eyes and drags himself to his feet, back aching, eyes like sand. Nothing is healing because he can’t feel the sun, but he’s not too hurt. He can take a bad landing. He can take twenty of them.

“Krypto, stay.”

Krypto tilts his white blurry head.

“You’re not helping.”

Arf! Clark rolls his shoulders and shoots back into the air.

Krypto stays down, for now.

Clark takes a lap through the air, searching for signs of life with his ears. The eery quiet is beginning to fill with catastrophe.

“Clark?”

He stops dead in the sky.

“Clark?” you call, ten miles below him, shouting all clipped and scared. “Clark Kent! Are you out here? If you can hear me, call back to me!”

He says your name.

“Clark? I’m here!”

Clark looks up into melted-sugar shadows as they begin to curdle and makes a choice. Damn the aliens, they can have the sky, so long as Clark gets to keep you safe.

He has to keep you safe.

—

You’re watching a shadow plummet toward you when the sky opens up into shards of Technicolor. Concentrated around a single point of red and blue and moving so fast it turns puce.

—

There’s a scene in The Ocean where the main character realises his father has been dead before the beginning of the book. Dead for years. He goes searching for him because he’s scared to be alone, brave enough to realise it, and young enough to misunderstand the danger of the world. He treks sandbanks, ferries favour, turns in promises and follows the footsteps of a man long dead across the world. Clark told you once, privately, quietly, in a moment that immediately panicked him, that his parents had adopted him, and that his birth parents had left him with a letter after they both died.

What did it say? you’d asked.

To be good.

You find your copy of The Ocean cradled in familiar hands. You recognise its secondhand cover, the bends in the front where a previous owner had tented it for a long period of time. The spine is loose and lax with age. The pages are yellow with time.

Clark is sleeping quietly in the plastic-wrapped chair beside your bed. He doesn’t have a bruise or cut. He doesn’t look anything like Superman had as he’d flung himself at you, two seconds too late, his body a shield against an explosion that lit your body with fire and colour alike. The whole world had been red, and then yellow, and suitably blue. There was pain.

Not a darkness as people often say. Just hurting and now this.

You take a scary breath. Hitching and pained, you search for comfort and find none of it. There’s a needle in the back of your hand secured with a teddy bear wrapping. The sheets have been drawn to your chin and choke you as you try to sit.

After a moment of struggling, you sink back and try for another breath. Deep, aching breaths. You do it until your lungs burn, these awful, stringing breaths, eyes to the ceiling and fighting the spots of nothingness that cloud your vision.

“Hey,” a soft voice says, softer hand pressed to the curve of your neck. “Oh, hey, sweet girl, hey… it’s okay. The pain won’t last, they gave you a little more morphine a few minutes ago, it’ll kick in.”

“Uh–”

Clark makes a sound. “Oh.”

You let your eyes slide to him. He’s checking his wrist where it’s resting on you.

“I was sleeping for a long time, I… Honey, I’ll get a nurse.”

“No,” you breathe.

“Yeah, honey, I’ll get a nurse,” he repeats, stroking your neck with his thumb. His eyes are their usual calm blue, bearing down into your own with an emotion that’s somehow palpable and implacable. “It’s no good, you being in pain like this. I’ll come right back.”

“Clark, don’t go,” you whine.

It’s like the world has been placed heavy on your head.

Clark offers you relief. “I won’t go if you don’t want me to. Tell me what’s hurting, and I’ll fix it.”

You shake your head at him. Fuck, nothing hurts. It’s not pain you’re being smothered in.

“Okay,” he murmurs.

For a while, you don’t talk. Clark stays stooped over you, too tall and careful anyhow to stay out of your light. He holds your cheek, rubbing at skin with his thumb until it’s tickled into numbness, your body begging you to move away from his touch and your brain knowing you can’t. You’ll never duck away from his fingertips ever again.

Where he’d been unhurt, he isn’t unharried. His hair is in a complete disarray, curls in places pulled straight and greasy behind his ears. His face is pale. His eyes flicker obsessively between you and your monitor, as though he can decipher the information it displays. He must see something there that he trusts, sitting down again in the chair dragged quick and easy to the side of your bed. His hand stays at your face. He’s long. It’s simple work.

“You read The Ocean,” you whisper.

“I read all your annotations, too,” he tells you, turning his hand to run it down your cheek, his fingernails especially silky against the line of your jaw.

You turn your face toward his touch. Your eyes flutter closed as he indulges your deepest fantasy.

“I didn’t–” Oh, you can’t say it. You hadn’t meant to want him like this. You hadn’t known he was Superman, and isn’t that awful? Something cruel. Your best friend kept a worst secret.

He doesn’t rush you.

You’re ready to try again a few minutes later. His fingertips have started to draw a flower into your neck.

“I’m embarrassed that Clark knows what I said to Superman,” you say plainly.

“Superman didn’t tell Clark anything,” Clark says. His voice is light in contrast to your hesitancy.

“But you know it all.”

“I know you,” he agrees.

“I’m really… sorry. I’m sorry, I–” You search for his touch and he immediately cups your cheek again. “Clark, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come out looking for you. I didn’t realise you could look after yourself and I made things worse.”

“Do you even remember?” he asks.

Mildly. You’d woken once before and found a less fixed Clark covered in blood above you. A part of you had understood that it was Clark, even without his glasses, and a different part knew it was Superman. Then things had blurred, half-replaced by a memory of his hand behind your back in the middle of a meadow halfway across the world, that beautiful quiet valley where the water had been ice and the grass emerald velveteen under your legs.

In the dream, Superman (and this had been real until it wasn’t), turned to you, and said, with Clark’s dorky intonation, “That’s seriously beautiful, huh?”

“You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“But–”

“You don’t. I won’t argue about it with you. You have no apologies to make, you did everything right and nothing wrong, and I lied to you, and I got you hurt, and…” He has the gall to pink in the cheeks, like you’ve taken the skin between your knuckles and pinched. “I wasn’t honest with you about my feelings. I almost kissed you as Superman, and that wasn’t fair.”

“You really are… him?” you ask weakly.

“Yeah, I am.”

Clark sits up as a doctor opens your room’s door.

“Everything okay?” she asks. When she sees you awake, she smiles broadly. “Hey, you’re up! Can we get you some dinner now?”

“You skipped breakfast,” Clark tells you.

“I was awake for breakfast?”

“Barely. We had you on some pretty gnarly painkillers,” the doctor says. She adjusts her white coat. “I just wanted to check in with your nurses and your lovely partner here that you hadn’t thrown up again.”

You flush. “I’m fine.”

Clark simply rubs your chest like a wave of his hand against your heart.

“I’m worried you haven’t gotten enough sustenance this past day, but we try not to hook you up with too many things,” the doctor explains, “much better for you to settle and then eat. And to drink some water!”

“I don’t feel very hungry.”

“The painkillers you’re on can make some people feel quite sick. But try your best, okay? I’ll come back after dinner to see what we can do about those broken fingers.”

You follow your arm down to your hand. Your pinky and ring finger on the non-dominant hand have been splinted but not casted.

“Oh.”

The doctor takes her leave, abandoning Clark to your questions.

“What’s wrong with me?” you ask.

“You got concussed again. It made you sick, and your hand is very nearly broken, but they think it’s just your fingers from the look of your x-rays. And you have a long cut.” He puts his hand on your stomach gently. “Here. Almost as long as your arm, but it’s a surface cut. You landed on debris. I’m sorry, my– honey. Sorry.”

You can’t fight the chills or your bewilderment. “What for?”

“I didn’t get to you fast enough.”

“Clark.” Your mouth is dry. He’s pretty. Your head goes round and round and aching and then with a dash of clarity, the world snaps back into place. Your hospital room is empty and bright, with a vase filled to bursting with sweetpeas in pride of place on your nightstand. There are voices drifting in from the hallway, and Clark is handsome even as he tears himself apart. The silver lining his bottom lashes doesn’t go unnoticed. “I’m okay, babe.”

He laughs wetly.

“I’m fine,” you promise, quieter now. “How couldn’t I be? You’re so gentle.”

Clark finds your hand, pulling it to his forehead, his body bending forward like a marionette on loosening strings. He shakes his head vehemently, his grip on your wrist tight but far from cruel.

“You’re gentle,” you promise under your breath, “I told you that before, didn’t I? You’re kind, and brave, and– it’s not your fault I went looking for you.”

“I should be comforting you. I should be helping you,” he whispers.

“You won’t catch me crying on your shoulder twice, Superman.”

His head flinches up, like he’s realising for the first time that you know who he is.

Whatever he sees in your face helps him to settle down. He curls long, thick fingers around your hand. You can’t help noting how adversely tender they feel while he holds your hand.

“What did you think of the book?” you ask finally.

“I didn’t know you liked to read,” he says.

You shrug. Let your head fall back into a thin pillow, wondering how you might go about getting a better one, and beginning to feel the effects of the painkillers they’d been talking about. “It’s not like it’s the most alarming secret, between us.”

He lets out a wounded whine. “Why do you hate me?” he asks.

“You’re due some hazing.”

“Can’t you take pity on me?” he asks.

You curl your fingers around his where they’d otherwise been limp. “I’m not really half as cool as I’m trying to act, Clark.”

He sulks beautifully. “I think you’re lying to make me feel better.”

Only a little.

—

Being cool around Clark Kent lasts about as long as the morphine does. The reality is this: Clark Kent —best friend extraordinaire, sweetheart farm boy who’s vetted all your worst ideas, held your hair back in the smallest toilet in Metropolis bar history after a too-happy happy hour, knows all your holey socks and questionable medical queries— is Superman.

And Superman?

He’d been courting you.

The word is antiquated and accurate. Superman had been cautiously courting you with his sparse visits, shy and brave at once, brash but remarkably put together. It is after you know the truth that you realise Clark had been not so secretly courting you simultaneously.

“Is that why you were bringing me dinner and stuff?” you ask, lured into the conversation by accident, now deeply curious.

“No. I did that stuff before I wanted you. It was hard to sort the feelings into boxes, like– platonically, I’ve loved you since you came into the office with your miserable laptop and– and romantically, I don’t know. I guess I didn’t realise until I tried to kiss you and you wouldn’t let me.”

“Sorry?”

“I tried to kiss you, and you thought it was a pity kiss.”

You hold him by the shoulder. “That was real?”

“Do you dream about it?” he asks knowingly.

“It was really going to be a kiss?”

He softens. Clark, big on your smaller couch, in his pajamas with his hair finally washed again and your hand in his lap, rests his shoulder into yours with a long-suffering sigh. “Best kiss of your life,” he promises.

“Prove it.”

“What?”

It’s been four days since the hospital and Clark is horrifically chaste. “Do you not want to kiss me?”

“You know I do.”

“So kiss me.”

He pinches your chin. “If you wanted a kiss, you could’ve just taken one,” he tells you, looking you straight in the eyes.

“From Superman?” you ask with a little scoff.

He moves his head from left to right. “From me,” he says.

There has been so much to tell him. So little space to hide from him. Lines of books you’d underlined for him, lines for Superman, for both of them. The guilty way you’d watched Clark Kent take off his shirt at the public pool in summer heat and the loop of Superman under your thumb as you’d fallen asleep scrolling SuperClub. You’ve been more honest with him than you’ve dared to be previously.

Clark has repaid you in kind.

Did you know, he’d confessed, when you were still grody from the hospital and he’d demanded you let him stay, that night, that everything I’m good at is because of the sun? I can function without it. I can store up the energy in my cells and I don’t need much to stretch it far, but without the yellow sun, I’m just like you?

How could I know that? you’d thought. Why are you telling me this? you’d asked instead.

I want you to know.

Clark loves the sun, you realise now. He turns his face up to it often, soaking it in silently. He gets this look whenever he stops to take it in. Perfect contentment. Trust, that it will make him feel better.

Clark tilts his chin against yours, nudging your face gently inward, giving you the shortest glimpse of that content stretched across a smile as it presses into yours.

You hyperventilate your way into an open-mouthed, gasping sort of thing, and find Clark a fiercer kisser than you could’ve imagined. All those daydreams about Superman saving you from another day copyediting your own messes, you’d never thought to picture the boy sitting at the desk across from you, how his hand might slide behind your neck like water. How he’d take the breath from your lips and offer his own in a shaky, wanting gasp.

Superman, breathless under your touch. No one would ever believe you.

“Did you want me to tell you how it ends?”

You break away from him, panting, vaguely confused. “Sorry?”

“The Ocean? You never finished it.”

“Oh. Maybe you can read it to me. You know, afterwards.”

Clark grins. “After,” he promises, leaning down for another kiss.

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

thank u Bec for proofreading ur brains are irreplaceable <3 and thank u everyone else for reading!

#literally the only fic I’ve had time to read today and it was worth it #so good so good so good #he’s so sweet #clark kent x reader #clark kent x you #clark kent x y/n #clark kent #clark kent fic #clark kent blurb #clark kent drabble #clark kent imagine #clark kent fanfic #clark kent fanfiction

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sugugori · 10 days ago

Text

i got it — clark kent ⋆౨ৎ˚

꩜ pairing ━━ clark kent x hyper independent!gf

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

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

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

as always comments are very deeply appreciated ♡

masterlist | navi

Clark knows you can take care of yourself.

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

Clark finds this out on your first date together.

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

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

It’s hard not to form a crush.

“I had fun tonight.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He failed.

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck— fucking stupid machine, shit—“

“You need some help there?”

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

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

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

“You look pretty.” he absentmindedly said.

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

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

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

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

You, successfully making Superman weak in the knees.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Stupid fucking machine."

Turns out Clark doesn’t hate you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your heart stutters.

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

“Clark, I got it.” you grumble.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, but Clark definitely could.

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

This particular day has been awful.

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

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

“Should I give this to Cat to cover?”

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

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

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

No, no, no. Please, not now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Stop saying that line."

You scoff, "What line?"

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

Your stomach drops as your sniffling continues.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Clark—“

“I swear to God if you say—“

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

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

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

It makes him melt.

“I got you, baby. Don’t worry.”

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

reblog for a superman style kiss 😘

#so sweet omg #im obsessed with him #clark kent #clark kent x reader #clark kent x you #clark kent x y/n #clark kent x female reader #superman

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