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sceletaflores · 3 days ago

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STIMULI AND RESPONSE: A STUDY IN CHEMISTRY…

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｡𖦹°‧➵ PAIR: Reed Richards x fem!reader

｡𖦹°‧➵ WC: 6k

｡𖦹°‧➵ CONTAINS: 18+ SMUT MDNI, spoiler free, age gap (unspecified), intern reader, divorced reed (sorry sue), swearing, sexy science, first kiss, lots of data talk but it’s just filth, sex pollen, fingering, p in v, dr. reed ‘any size you want’ richards, finger sucking, nipple play, creampie, porn w/o plot, no use of y/n.

｡𖦹°‧➵ NAT’S NOTE: well this was extremely inevitable…we all knew this was coming. i loved fantastic four and i love marvel’s first family, the avengers don’t have SHIT on them. i can’t believe this is my very first (1st) sex pollen fic, like i’ve really been dropping the ball but that ends right now. hope y’all love it, mwah!

dividers by lovely @saradika-graphics & reed pic by angel @iamasaddie!

dr. richards asks a favor of you…

The Baxter Building laboratory always smells faintly of motor oil and hot circuity, like the very air itself has been charged.

You've long since gotten used to the smell after all these months spent hard at work in your internship.

You're used to the low hum of oscilloscopes, the spotless glimmer of all the different chrome instruments strewn about the room, the tick of Dr. Richards' watch when he's hunched over his workbench with the kind of single minded focus that never fails to make your chest ache.

It’s well past midnight, another day of you staying far beyond the allotted time, but it’s hardly out of the ordinary by now. Dr. Richards research—and mind quite frankly—has no regard for any kind of normal office hours. It’s almost as if he exists in a different realm, tethered only loosely to the rest of humanity by his work.

That’s another thing you’ve become accustomed to. The clipped speech, the crisp white lab coats always just a bit rumpled from long days, and the air of a man who thinks faster than anyone could follow.

You were supposed to be here for observation, honing in on the delicate skills needed to work in a lab as complex as this one. It started off as just another internship credit. Two semesters of assistance. What it’s slowly morphed into is something more like a full time job, if not a full on fixation with your boss.

You’ve become the one person Dr. Richards doesn’t mind in his peripheral vision. Always quiet, always ready, always watching him with eyes a little too attentive, voice a little too eager each time he speaks to you.

It’s something you never let yourself think about too closely. The one thing you’d never stick under the dozens of highly advanced microscopes just beneath your fingertips.

It’s not plausible.

You’re halfway through labeling a series of glass slides when the door softly hisses open behind you.

“Ah, there you are. Wonderful.”

You swivel around on your stool, standing almost automatically—like Dr. Richards' mere presence demands it. At this point, you’re sure that it does.

He’s standing at the threshold of the lab—tall, thoughtful, thin glasses balanced on the bridge of his nose. In the bright, sterile fluorescent lights, Reed Richards looks less like a man and more an idea given form. All poised intellect, sharp eyes, and a mind clearly three steps ahead.

“Dr. Richards,” you greet, smoothing your skirt out of habit, because no matter how hard you try, you always feel like a nervous schoolgirl around him. “I was just logging the slides from the blood pressure data–”

“Excellent.” He cuts in gently, like he always does when your words are just a little slower than his. “However, I have a far more pressing matter at hand.”

Dr. Richards strides past you to his desk, flipping open one of the many notepads cluttering the space. It was quiet for a few beats, only the sounds of pages turning and muted mumbling as he read over the flurry of sporadically scrawled notes and equations.

You stay in your spot a few feet away, hands clasped in front of you as you wait patiently for him to speak again. He isn’t the kind of man you dare to interrupt when he gets lost in his work.

He picks up a stray pencil to scribble one final note in the margin, then straightens and turns his sharp gaze on you. “I need your assistance with a controlled trail,” he says simply, like he’s requesting something as routine as a full body scan.

“A trial?” You blink, taken aback. Your eyes cut to the clock hanging on the opposite wall, noting the time before returning your gaze to his passive expression. “Tonight?”

“Yes,” he says without hesitation, waving you over and turning back to his work. The quiet clinking of glass rings out as he cards his fingers through a test tube rack full to bursting with a different array of brightly colored chemicals. “It’s Compound 83. A strain I synthesized last week from the pollen of a Peruvian orchid."

You cross the short distance obediently, perching yourself on the spare stool next to him just as he plucks out a tube filled with a viscous pink liquid.

Dr. Richards swirls the tube gently, brow furrowed as he watches it splash up against the sides. “Genus Cattleya venusta. Extremely rare. Hyper stimulating. A short half life. I’ve…refined it recently.”

You nod, still confused but refusing to let it show. You pick up your own notebook from the pile, the one with a small atom sticker he placed in the top right corner to mark as yours. “What does it do?”

He hesitates, just long enough for you to notice. But the moment is gone just as fast as it came, giving you no time to think on it.

“It’s a neurological accelerator targeting oxytocin, dopamine, and a few obscure hypothalamic pathways we’ve only begun mapping. Thus, when administered in a controlled environment, should trigger an amplified parasympathetic response.”

Dr. Richards’ voice is calm, measured, full of the kind of certainty that makes people believe anything he says. He adjusts his glasses with his free hand as though to punctuate the statement.

You slip the pencil resting behind your ear out and begin dutifully recording his dictations on a fresh page. “Amplified parasympathetic response,” you repeat, as though saying it out loud will cement the idea in your mind. “Meaning…relaxation?”

“Relaxation, certainly. But more specifically…” He trailed off as his long fingers drum along the glass tube. “...heightened sensitivity, increased blood flow to erogenous zones, accelerated dopamine release, and a…well, a state of arousal far surpassing the body’s baseline capacity. Think of it as a neurological catalyst. A kind of–hm–sexual amplifier, for lack of a better term.”

You blink. Your pencil abruptly stills against the paper. “Dr. Richards…” you begin carefully, dreading the answer you were sure to receive. “Are you saying this is…an aphrodisiac?"

“Yes,” he says, dryly. “But I’d prefer we didn’t reduce it to that.”

Your pulse quickens before you can stop it. You try to disguise the sudden dryness of your mouth with a stunted laugh void of all humor. You’re unsure if this is a joke, some elaborate scientific prank to weed out the weak interns—or if Dr. Richards is really asking what you think he is.

He takes a step closer, peering at you over the frame of his glasses. “I need data on its physical, behavioral, and cognitive effects. In vivo. A live trial. Unfortunately, none of the team are suitable candidates due to immunogenic complications. Johnny had a reaction. Ben refused.”

You don’t bring up the obvious member missing from his apparent previous failed trails. The divorce was none of your business, it never will be. You’ve seen Sue and Reed interact less than a handful of times since the news broke to the press and then to the general public. They seem to be working together quite well despite what one might think, still cordial and professional with each other in every facet within the team.

Your grip on your pencil tightens, lips parting. “And you want me to…test it?”

“Yes.” Dr. Richards nods once, deliberate. “Your physiology is well suited to controlled observation. You’re young, in excellent health, no known endocrine disorders. Statistically ideal.”

Your stomach sinks, a flush of warmth creeping up the back of your neck. It’s hardly a compliment, practically the furthest thing from one. It still has arousal sparking deep in your belly, the idea that he’s looked at you. He’s cataloged you. He’s thought about this moment carefully, crunched the numbers and deemed you the best candidate for this experiment.

You don’t realize that you’ve gone quiet, the silence stretching out in the spotless lab as your brain tries to process all the input you’ve received in the last five minutes.

“I wouldn’t ask,” he says quickly, taking your silence as a negative. “if I didn’t think you capable. You’ve shown remarkable composure under pressure. And I assure you—if at any point you wish to stop, you only need to say so. Consent, of course, is paramount.” His gaze finally softens, just enough for you to see the man behind the scientist. “I’d never want to harm you.”

You swallow stiffly, your throat dry. “What about you?”

Dr. Richards brows furrow slightly, like you asked him an extremely stupid question. “It would be irresponsible to not include myself. The biochemical pathways are interactive, and I must assess the shared impact.” He raises the test tube to the light, the liquid shimmers under the bright white rays. He glances at you again, eyes unreadable. “To be perfectly clear, the study would involve direct physical contact.”

It’s the most clinical way anyone has ever told you we’d be having sex.

Heat flares under your skin, like thousands of tiny pinpricks breaking out all along your body. “So, what you’re really asking me is to–”

“Copulate,” he supplies matter of factly, as if he’s describing the weather. “Us, under the influence of the compound.”

He says it like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like the simple word us doesn’t rearrange your entire nervous system. Like you haven't spent months wondering if Reed Richards—brilliant, remote, obsessively precise—even thinks about you at all when he’s not assigning you lab reports.

You try to find the words, but they all tangle in your throat. “Um, what–what exactly would the study entail?” you finally manage.

“Simple,” he replies, turning fully toward you now. His deep brown eyes pin you to your seat with clinical intensity. “Oral intake of the compound, both subjects will report on their individual symptoms as they manifest. I’ll monitor physiological changes as it begins to take effect—heart rate, body temperature, pupil dilation. Eventually, I’ll…well.” His voice trails off, as if only now realizing the inevitable conclusion. “We’ll engage in various sexual activities to evaluate its full efficacy, at which point I’d assess how, if at all, the effects might be mitigated or resolved.”

“Resolved,” you echo, voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes,” he says softly. “Achieving climax would, in theory, alleviate the overstimulation.”

Your breath catches, sharp and shallow. Once again, he says it like it’s nothing—like sex with him is just another variable on a spreadsheet.

Your heart pounds hard against your ribcage, your palms sweaty. The logic is sound, of course it is. The delivery is methodical, careful. You hear the question Dr. Richards isn’t voicing beneath it all clearly despite all that.

Would you let him touch you?

You should say no.

You really should.

This could complicate everything, in a myriad of different ways. Dr. Richards is your boss, your mentor. The possible legal ramifications alone should be enough to scare you out of the lab and all the way back to the safety of your apartment.

Instead, you hear yourself whisper, “I’ll do it.”

The relief on Dr. Richards face was subtle but unmistakable. His shoulders relax, dropping a beat of tension you didn't realize was there. You have the inexplicable urge to laugh, at how ridiculous this all is. Or maybe, it was because he thought you'd ever be able to say no to him.

"Very good." He nodded once, his face already set with determination. He swept the notebook from his desk, the test tube still secure in his other hand. "Follow me."

You have no choice but to obey.

The isolation room is a sea of crisp white.

White walls. White floors. A single chair is bolted to ground right in the center, padded with spotless white leather.

It's sterile in nature, it was designed that way. Silent except for the low electrical hum of the halogen lights shining overhead. There’s a faint antiseptic tang in the air, like bleach diluted with something floral. Faint enough to almost be pleasant.

You know for a fact there's a camera somewhere, disguised in the ceiling tiles. It's for safety purposes, to monitor subjects from afar when they're deemed to dangerous for an in person encounter.

You wonder idly if Dr. Richards disabled the camera, or if he's kept it on.

The latter seems extremely likely. If you know him at all, he'll want the footage to be available for later use. To review the trial as more of a fly on the wall when all is said and done.

The idea of him re-watching this encounter has your chest tightening, something like embarrassment and arousal churning together sickly somewhere deep in your stomach.

Dr. Richards enters behind you, his footsteps soft against the tile as he passes you and stops next to the chair. "If you'll sit, we can begin."

You lower yourself down into the chair, it was made to cradle the spine and ensure maximum muscular relaxation. You've cleaned it before, wiped it down countless times. Logged its maintenance just as much. You never thought you'd be perched on it like this, legs pressed together nervously, arms resting primly at your sides.

"I'll begin with a baseline assessment." He clicks his pen, flipping his notebook open with brisk precision. "Pulse, temperate, pupil reactivity." His voice is calm, steady. As though he isn't about to feed you something that will make you ache for him.

He doesn't look nervous—he never does—but the faint tightening at the corners of his mouth betrays just how carefully he's bracing himself for what's about to happen.

Dr. Richards leans in closer, and for a moment the clinical facade fades. His scent—clean linen, aftershave, the acrid note of lab alcohol—floods your senses. He takes your wrist gently, sliding his fingers over the delicate skin of your wrist until the press against the throb of your pulse.

"Eighty beats per minute," he murmurs to himself, eyes narrowing as he counts under his breath. "Slightly elevated. Presumably caused by anticipation."

"You think?" You speak before you can think better of it, tone laced with the barest hint of sarcasm.

"I know," he replies matter of factly, jotting the number down. His fingertips linger on your skin for a bit longer than necessary before falling away. "Measuring pupil dilation now."

He plucks a small penlight from the breast pocket of his lab coat. Without warning, he reaches forward and takes your chin between gentle fingers, steadying you. His thumb brushes your check as he shines the small light back and forth over your eyes.

You hope he can't feel the warmth rising beneath your skin. The beam stings, but you hold still, because he expects you to.

"Pupils responsive," he notes, close enough that you feel the fan of his breath. He clicks the pen light off, slipping it back in his pocket before his hand moves up and presses against your forehead.

It takes every bit of will in your mortal body not to lean into his touch.

"Temperature is normal." He nods, dropping his hand to scribble more information into his notebook. "Ninety eight point four."

You fight the urge to laugh. You feel like your skin's blistering.

"All right." Dr. Richards takes a step back, placing his notebook on the tray. "We can proceed."

Your heart skip three times over in your chest as you watch him retrieve the test tube. He unscrews the cap, and a sweet, heady scent drifts through the air between you. It hits your nose like perfume. Your mouth waters against your will.

"Compound 83 has been calibrated to a micro-dose." He picks a pipette off the metal tray resting on the table beside you, sliding the dull tip inside of the test tube and carefully measuring a few milliliters of the liquid. It shimmers rosy pink in the light, filmy and iridescent like the surface of a bubble. "Oral administration. It should take approximately three minutes to cross the blood-brain barrier."

You nod once, jerky and tense. You don't trust your voice enough to speak.

"Tongue out," he instructs softly, taking a step closer.

The command makes your stomach twist.

You part your lips, tipping your head back slightly. The first drop lands on your tongue, and the taste is shockingly sweet—like sugared fruit with bitter, chemical bite beneath. Dr. Richards tilts the pipette, letting the measured dose coat your taste buds.

"Swallow." His tone leave to room for hesitation.

You obey, throat working as you take it down. His eyes track it the movement with the subtle air of fascination. For your apparent bravery? For your insistent need to please? You're not entirely sure.

"Good," he whispers, reeling back to take his own dose. He sets the tube and the pipette down, checking his watch. "Note the taste."

You roll the few drops left around in your mouth, absentmindedly chasing the flavor. "Sweet. Slightly bitter."

Dr. Richards nods in agreement. "Any tingling? Metallic aftertaste? Olfactory shifts?"

You shake your head, wringing your hands nervously. "No. Not yet."

"Good," he repeats, eyes sharp as he keeps his gaze trained on his watch, recording the time down to the second. "Now, describe the sensation. Do you feel warm?"

You do, now that he's brought it up. A pleasant heat thrumming just beneath your skin, like the hot spray of a shower head beating down on overworked muscle. Nothing you can't handle.

You nod, tongue coming out to sweep along your bottom lip. "Yes. If baseline temperature was determined as normal, I'd estimate it's climbed approximately six degrees."

"Fascinating," Dr. Richards mumbles, reaching out yet again. Long fingers catch your wrist, gently circling it to find your radial pulse point. "Pulse is elevated, one hundred and thirteen beats per minute."

Your thighs shift slightly, the hem of your skirt creeping up with the movement. His eyes track it, his gaze feels like a physically caress on the newly exposed skin.

He drags his eyes back up slowly, really looking at you, studying your face. "Pupillary dilation at…remarkable. Nearly thirty percent increase already."

Your hands fall to the armrest on either side of you. "Dr. Richards-"

He cuts you off. "Subject B experiencing similar symptoms to Subject A. Internal temperate is rising steadily."

He sheds his lab coat then, draping it over the back of the chair. He unbuttons the cuffs of his sleeve with deft fingers, rolling them up to expose the corded muscle of his tan forearms. The collar of his shirt is askew, just enough to show off the hairy skin of his chest. His undershirt is thin enough that you can see the slight clench of his abdomen.

He looks more inviting this way, more approachable. Devastatingly handsome.

You try not to notice the way his suspenders hang loosely around his hips. You fail.

White hot heat unfurls low in your belly, sharp and sudden, like the spark of a match catching dry paper. Your skin prickles, sweat beading at your hair line. Every inch of you is hyper aware of Dr. Richards nearness radiating the same warmth.

Your breath hitches, hands squeezing the chair's armrests. "Dr. Richards, I-"

"Reed," he interrupts, his tone tighter than before—strained. "Please, call me Reed."

Your chest heaves, lips slick and parted as you suck in greedy lungfuls of air. Your thighs clench, pressing together tightly. There's an unmistakable dampness spreading over the thin cotton fabric of your panties.

“Breathe normally,” he instructs, eyes glued to your chest, to the hard peaks of your nipples straining against your shirt. “The compound should take effect within-”

You don't hear the rest.

The compound spreads faster now, thrumming in a way that's inescapable. The room feels like someone cranked up the heat as high as it goes, your skin sings under every brush of air. You shift again, and a needy sound escapes before you can catch it.

Blood rushes through your ears, a mess of white noise. Your heart pounds in your chest, adrenaline coursing through your veins to light them up like you took an injection of kerosene.

"Reed…" You breathe, voice gone airy and taut. "It's-it's getting stronger."

"Wonderful." It's almost as if the word is pulled from him before he can think better of how lewd it sounds. "Describe the sensation in your lower abdomen."

He means your pussy—your brain supplies unhelpfully. The thought alone has another humiliating sound falling from your lips.

"Pressure," you admit softly, eyes never straying from his. "Heat. A kind of almost…pulling sensation."

Reed's eyes darken, it's unmistakable. "Touch sensitivity?"

You blink. "I-I don't know."

"Then let's determine."

Before you can respond, he steps forward. Your thighs part instinctively, giving him the room he needs to loom over you.

You can hardly sit still beneath the intensity of his gaze. Your thighs part further, and he notices—of course he notices. His sharp brown eyes flick down, linger, then return to your face.

Reed reaches up slowly, being sure to let you see the path his hand takes through the air. Gently, so gently, he cups the side of your face.

The touch is featherlight. Measured. His skin is warm, callused. Your eyes flutter shut, a soft moan falling from your lips. His skin feels scorching, burning a plane of heat along the side of your face.

“You’re—extremely sensitive,” he observes. “Marked increase in reactivity. Pupils dilation increased to 100%. Body language—shifting. Seeking friction.” His fingers trace down your neck, just barely ghosting over your pulse.

You suck in a sharp breath.

“You’re trembling,” he murmurs, his own hand shaking. “Very responsive to light contact.”

You want to deny it, but the data is undeniable. Your breath is quick, thighs pressing tight together, nipples showing through the thin fabric of your blouse.

Another wave hits you hard. Your hips shift against the chair involuntarily, and Reed watches. “Pelvic tension. Motor restlessness. Onset confirmed at three minutes, thirty seconds.”

Your back arches off the chair, sweat dripping down the length of your spine. You finally let yourself lean into his touch, panting at the contact.

“I can feel it as well,” he says quietly, breath hot against your ear. “My palms are sweating. Heart rate elevated. There’s a persistent ache behind my eyes. Blood flow redistribution—predictable.”

You glance down.

There's a very pronounce tent in straining behind the fly of his slacks. A patch of wetness darkens the khaki fabric, spreading and so inviting.

You moan at the sight of it, your hands twitching with the need to touch.

"This will be for data," he says, like he's convincing himself the words are true.

You nod, dragging your eyes back up to his own. Your gaze is dazed like you've been spun in circles.

Reed kisses you.

Your hands fly to the lapels of his lab coat, dragging him down as he leans into the chair with you.

It's not romantic. Not soft. Not scientific. It's hungry, searching. A filthy mess of spit and something delicate and layered shattering like sugar glass between the two of you.

He's trying to map you, to gauge your reaction. His tongue slides into your parted lips and you whimper, aching. Reed swallows the sound, returning one of his own. A deep, low groan that wracks through your body like thunder.

When he pulls back, you chase him.

"Extraordinary," he breathes against your mouth, more to himself than to you. "The compound is creating extreme dopaminergic reinforcement."

"Touch me," you gasp, past the point of desperation. "Please, Reed. Touch me. I need-"

Reed's mouth crashes against yours, hard enough to clack your teeth together roughly. He's more gone than you thought, the careful man who handles each and every lab instrument like they're made of blown glass long gone as he claims your mouth. His hands slide up you body—along your waist, up over your ribs, until they cup your breasts.

You cry into his mouth when his thumbs brush over your nipples. The stimulation is immediate, electric. Explosive.

He pinches them between long, nimble fingers—caution lost in the whirlwind of arousal.

You keen.

“Heightened sensitivity confirmed,” he murmurs against your jaw, now completely wrecked. His voice is hoarse. “God—you're responding faster than anticipated. It's remarkable.”

You gasp when he yanks your blouse open with a sharp tug. Buttons scatter across the floor, clinking against the tile. His hands are on your bare skin now, mouth following. You arch as he sucks a nipple into his mouth, his fingers teasing the other.

Reed groans like he's in pain, panting against your breast. “Where are you experiencing the most acute sensation?”

Your tongue is too thick in your mouth. You try to swallow, try to answer, but it comes out wrong.

He leans closer, resting his forehead against yours. “You’ll need to verbalize, please.”

“Between my legs,” you manage, barely audible. “It—it’s extremely sensitive.”

A low sound rings out in the minuscule space between your lips. It takes your molasses drenched thoughts a few beats to realize it's coming from Reed. From somewhere deep in his chest, clawing its way out.

“Understood.” His touch travels, skating down lower until his fingers are trailing up the inside of your trembling thigh. “Do I have your permission to proceed with physical contact?”

"Yes," you whisper, and it comes out far too fast. Too eager. You can't find it in you to care. "Yes, Reed."

Reed slips his hand under your skirt, seeking out the damp plane of your pussy.

You jolt at the contact, hips twitching forward before you can help it.

Through the cotton, he traces the outline of your cunt, every shift of pressure measured, every reaction recorded in the keen flick of his eyes. He presses just slightly against your clit and watches the way you squirm, the way your breath stutters.

“Fascinating,” he repeats, eyes fixed on you as you start to writhe beneath him. “Clitoral response is heightened. You’re…exquisite. Perfect. Responding exactly as hypothesized—no, better—God, better.”

Two fingers spread you wide, and the slick sound is nothing but downright obscene. Your hand flies to his forearm, gripping it tightly as his index finger teases along your entrance.

You whimper, taking your bottom lip between your teeth.

“Remove your underwear,” Reed instructs, not unkindly—but without pause. “I’d like to confirm those measurements manually.”

You scramble to do exactly as he says. You lift your hips, fingers fumbling with the hem of your skirt and dragging the soaked panties down your thighs. You can’t bring yourself to look at him as you set them aside on the tray. The air hits your bare cunt like a slap—wet and exposed and throbbing.

Reed sinks to his knees.

It’s the first truly shocking thing he’s done all night.

He doesn’t say anything about it, not at first. He just positions himself between your legs, face level with your cunt, and exhales once. A long, slow breath. It's ragged at the edges, tormented.

It makes you shiver.

“Excellent visibility,” he mutters, seemingly unbothered by the fact that your folds are glistening and swollen inches away from the front of his face. You can still hear the slight termor of his voice all the say. “Subject appears to be fully engorged. Labia minora are visibly distended. Vulvar tissue is flushed.”

His first finger enters you with barely any resistance. You’re so wet, the stretch is effortless, obscene. He watches the way you swallow him in, his jaw flexing once as if trying not to react.

“Incredible,” he says, voice low. “Increased elasticity. Temperature is elevated. Constriction around the first phalanx…tight. Responsive.”

He curls his finger experimentally.

You choke on a gasp.

He adds another.

The stretch has your thighs clenching automatically around his wrist. You’re wet enough to hear it—the slick, filthy sound of your cunt sucking him in. Reed doesn’t blink.

“Two digits…full insertion.” He speaks as if he’s trying to distance himself from it. But his breath is shallower now. His cheeks are flushed. “Subject is—remarkably reactive.”

Reed scissors his fingers gently, eyes trained on the place where they disappear into you. “You’re pulsing around me,” he murmurs, full of awe. “That’s…beautiful.”

You’re past the point of embarrassment now. Your hips rock helplessly into the rhythm he sets—slow, firm pumps, angled just slightly until—

“Oh my god—”

“There,” he breathes, and there’s an almost feral edge in his voice. Not clinical. Not detached. “That’s it, isn’t it?”

You nod desperately, your free hand flying to your mouth to muffle the pathetic noises spilling out.

“Dampness-Jesus Christ,” he rasps, voice barely intelligible now. “Lubrication ratio also surpasses hypothesized maximum. You’re absolutely soaked. I—God, I need—I have to be inside you. Now.”

He slips his hand from between your legs and frees himself from his trousers with the same kind of focus you’ve seen him use to construct a fusion coil. Efficient, but trembling at the edges. His cock is flushed a deep red, thick, the tip shiny with precome as it presses against the heat of your cunt.

You moan at the sight. Your mouth waters as your cunt throbs with the raw, visceral need to be filled.

Reed stands, cock sways in the air, hard and heavy, pressing insistently against the slick seam of your cunt. Your body jerks at the contact, thighs twitching open wider, a helpless invitation.

The heat of him is almost unbearable, the swollen head nudging against your entrance like he’s testing the resistance.

His eyes are wild now, pupils blown wide, but his voice is still that low, steady baritone, though it trembles with restraint. “Lubrication is more than sufficient,” he says, breath ghosting over your lips as his hand fists at the base of his shaft. “Your body is prepared to accommodate penetration.”

Prepared—like you’re a lab experiment instead of a dripping mess beneath him. The words shouldn’t make you whimper, but they do.

Reed drags the head through your folds, coating himself in your wetness, collecting every drop. You keen, desperate for him to breach you, hips canting forward as if your body could take him in by force.

And then, without warning, he presses inside you.

The stretch punches the air from your lungs. Reed’s cock slides in slow, thick, impossibly deep, the sweet burn of it making your spine arch off the chair.

It's everything you've imagined it and more. All the guilty nights spent after lab hours with your fingers stuffed inside yourself as you let yourself indulge in the plethora of dirty thoughts floating around your brain couldn't have prepared you.

Nothing in the universe, this one and all the others, could have prepared you for the feeling of Reed Richards cock craving your cunt open like it belongs there.

You cry out his name, hands flying to his shoulders so your nails can dig crescent moons into the muscle there.

His head tips back, a guttural groan tearing from his throat. “Ah—constriction exceeds expectation. Warmth is—” He cuts himself off with a shudder. “You’re perfect. Absolutely perfect.”

There's no easing into it, no letting you get used to stretch. Your whole pelvis burns. The perfect mix of pain and pleasure intertwined together as one.

Reed fucks you with a single minded intensity, the same focus he gives to his equations, except now it's your body under his meticulous study, your cries the data points, your rapidly approaching orgasm the undeniable proof.

Your body arches off the chair, legs wrapped tight around his waist. He sets a brutal rhythm, each thrust deeper than the last, his hands braced on either side of your head.

“God,” you cry, nails clawing at his shoulders. “It’s—it’s too much—”

“It’s the compound,” he pants, his hair damp and curling against his forehead. “It’s magnifying everything. Every nerve. I can feel your heartbeat around me—Jesus—” Reed watches you through half lidded eyes, his expression wrecked, fevered. “Your walls are…milking me,” he mutters, reverent. Worshipful. “Constriction’s incredible. God, you feel—unreal.”

You moan louder when he adjusts his angle, the thick head of his cock rubbing against the sweet spot inside you. Your hand flies to your mouth, trying to muffle the noise.

“Don’t,” Reed growls, catching your wrist. He guides your fingers away from your lips and replaces them with his own. “Open and suck. Need to test oral fixation. S-salivary response.”

You suck greedily, tongue swirling over his fingers. The broken sound he makes only spurs you on. He moans when you suck harder, when you glide your tongue along the pads of his fingers like you want to devour him whole.

“You’re—fuck—you’re responding to every variable,” he says, voice cracked wide open, losing composure fast. “You’re better than anything I could’ve projected.”

You gag softly around his knuckles when his pace picks up, each thrust deep and punishing. Your nipples rub against his shirt, swollen and desperate for friction.

“Good girl,” he breathes, hips slamming harder into you. “God, you look so beautiful—sucking my fingers while I fuck you.”

Reed pauses, trembling, as if his own body is trying to calibrate to yours. “Is the stretch too much?” he manages, voice frayed with strain.

Your answer is a desperate whine, your hips bucking as his fingers slip out of your mouth so his hands can grip your hips tightly. “More. Please, Reed—”

His lips press hard to your ear, and you feel the words rumble out of him. “I can make it better. Adjust dimensions.”

It takes a second for your brain to process. And then he shifts.

You feel him thicken inside you, the stretch intensifying deliciously as his cock grows, swelling to fill you more completely. Your cry is broken and raw, your cunt clenching around him like a vice.

You’re dizzy, trembling, barely holding on. The friction is unbearable, the way his cock drags against your walls like he was designed for you. Reed leans back just enough to watch your face, his own expression wrecked. His cheeks are flush, curls plastered to his sweaty forehead.

“That’s it,” he murmurs against your skin. “Your body’s pulsing, clenching—I can feel it, how bad you need it. You’re going to—God, you’re going to come so beautifully.”

Your hands scramble to sink into his salt and pepper hair, holding him against you, desperate. He growls low in his throat, hips picking up speed, driving into you harder, faster. The lewd slap of skin on skin echoes off the pristine white walls, obscene and unrelenting.

When his free hand slides down to rub your clit, your vision whites out.

“Reed—!”

Your orgasm hits like a tidal wave, ripping through you so violently you sob. Your cunt spasms around him, sucking him deeper, milking him. You’re shaking uncontrollably, tears sliding down your temples as Reed groans against your breast.

His thrusts turn erratic, his composure breaking. “Constriction—fuck, so tight—I can’t—” He slams in deep, burying himself to the hilt.

With one last broken groan of your name, he’s coming inside you—flooding you—his cock stretching slightly, growing thicker as if his body wants to stay buried in you. You feel the warmth of it spread, thick and hot and unstoppable, deep inside where no one else has ever reached.

His forehead drops to yours, sweat slick, breath ragged. “Perfect,” he whispers, almost delirious. “Absolutely…perfect data set.”

Reed places a sweet kiss over your slack lips, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles along the skin of your hips.

You’re still trembling when he pulls back enough to watch the way his come leaks out of you around the base of his cock to drip down onto the leather, eyes dark with awe. His thumb swipes gently along your clit again, just to watch you jolt.

“Reaction remains heightened post-climax,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “I’ll need…further confirmation.”

The look in his eyes tells you he isn’t nearly finished.

MINI NAT'S NOTE: this man is autistic and literally no one can convince me otherwise. i was sitting in that theater like, he’s my people…anyway i need that. those little slutty grey patches? yeah. that’s some good goddamn fucking food.

also, who knew all the hate i spewed on my chem lecture last semester would come back to bite me hard in the ass writing this. i mean i'm really in my chemistry bag with this one. that and a&p. can you tell i’m a stem major? i know all my professors would be proud.

thank you so much for reading, love you!

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madamechrissy · 11 hours ago

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Satoru Gojo can't help but desperately eat Suguru's cum pouring out of your pretty cunt, lapping it up until there's not a drop left inside you.

His swirling blue eyes look up at you, glittering as he murmurs - 'tell Suguru how much better I am, sweetheart, that I d-dont miss him' while scissoring long digits inside you, your eyes rolling back, cumming on his pretty face.

You date both of them, they'd brought you into their lives, but they're in the biggest fight, and now you're stuck being the go between for two six-foot-four sorcerers! You're bruised everywhere, your cunt and your ass are truly ruined, and they just won't make up.

'Hah, tell Satoru your ass feels so much better than his,' Suguru Geto whispers, cock stretching your little puckered hole, making you cry out, thighs trembling. He's fucking that liquid lube deep inside you, his fingers on your clit, black silky hair draped on your shoulder. 'I c-cant!?' He chuckles. 'You can, love'

'He said what now!?' Satoru is putting you in a full mating press, his blindfold is shoved up high. That cock thick and heavy against your entrance. 'Toru, can you two-mnh!' Satoru slams his cock deep inside you, big hands shoving your thighs higher, his white hair falling over a brow. 'Bet he'll be mad if I get our girl pregnant first, huh?'

'He said what now!?' Suguru's furious when he kneels, shoving your ass against the door, inhaling the scent of Satoru's cum that's slipping out from your abused hole. 'Sugu, please can you all get along again? I'm not even- ngh!' Suguru's tongue ring clicks against your clit. 'He thinks he'll get you pregnant first? we'll see about it.'

Suguru turns you, murmuring - 'arch for me, princess' and you do just that, letting him shove that silk robe you're wearing up your hips. After he cums inside you, biting your neck to the point it's almost bleeding, you're too wobbly to even walk, deciding to go home and try to hide from them.

How much dick can you take really!?

Satoru just appears in thin fucking air in your bedroom that night though, you roll your eyes at him, covering your face. 'Toru...' he says nothing, kicking off his shoes and laying in your bed, tugging you close. 'I miss him' he murmurs, you sigh and nod, brushing his hair back, feeling awful that they won't just communicate.

'You two will be fine,' he kisses on your neck sweetly, before scowling, seeing Suguru’s teeth marks. He touches the bruise, chuckling in that dark tone that makes you tense up. 'Hah, does he really think he'll win? I'll mark you everywhere before I send you back' then he's sinking his teeth into the mark, tugging your ass against his hard body.

You really need them to make up.

Wow this is freaky I'm ovulating 🤭

#gojo smut #jjk smut #geto smut #satosugu x reader #satosugu x you #jjk x reader #satoru x reader #gojo x reader #gojo x geto x reader #satoru gojo x reader #suguru geto x reader #suguru smut #satoru smut #suguru geto #satoru gojo #satosugu #satosugu smut

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kissbabie · 3 days ago

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❤︎ ໋𓈒 SIZE KINK

featuring. gojo satoru

gojo’s cock is just so big. of course, that was obvious since the start, considering the way it bulged against his pants whenever he got hard, and how big and broad he was in general regarding his build. you and him have had sex several times, but that doesn't mean you were able to get used to his cock, that was not only massive, but also so pretty — its pretty skin tone with a delicate pink tip, flushed and leaking.

and now he's he’s caging you in underneath him, staring down with a cheeky grin, loving the way your face contorts in pleasure and struggle as your pussy is trying to fit his cock, stretching around his girth. he thinks you look so adorable, the way you squirm and whine, and how your brows pinch together the moment only the tip starts to press inside. he cockily coos, “c’monnn, sweets… open up. is it too much for your little hole? just the tip, princess. you can take that, right?"

"toru-toru, too big!" you cry, throwing your head back against the pillow as your eyes squeezed shut, your thighs instinctively twitching to close around his waist.

gojo groans, letting out a laugh and watching the way your pussy sucks in his tip. he huffs. “you're so tight, pretty."

you nod weakly, already breathless with your hands clinging to his biceps tightly. your cunt was soaked and aching, fluttering around just that one thick inch, and every slow twitch of his cock makes you desperately need him to bottom out, but also want to push him out.

“i c-can’t,” you whimper. “toru, toru- satoru, might cum, 'm— i can’t—”

his grin widens, with a soft, mocking sound rumbling from his throat. “already?” he teases. “you're really gonna cum from the tip? fuck, that’s adorable, sweets.”

gojo leans down, kissing your cheek as his hips slowly roll forward, easing in just a little more. you sob, whole body jolting, arms wrapping around his shoulders as your pussy tries to take it. “theeereee you go… shhh,” he murmurs. “you’re doing so good. Just a little more, yeah?”

you're completely delirious, overstimmed from the stretch, from the pressure of it sinking deeper — its thick veins dragging against your walls, the flushed head nudging your sweet spot without even meaning to. slick drips out around him, messily pooling beneath your thighs, and your stomach tightens like you're about to snap.

your voice is wrecked when you cry, “ ‘m gonna cum— please— it’s too much—!”

“yeah, you are,” he whispers, his thumb caressing your cheek. “gonna cream all over my cock just from taking a couple inches, yeah?”

he's barely halfway in when your orgasm hits. your pussy clenches down so hard around him, whimpering and sobbing as you cum on his cock. and gojo groans against your skin, hips rocking just slightly, slowly and indulgent, “shiiit… you came so hard for me. you want more, sweets? you wanna be a good girl and take all of it now?”

your pussy is still twitching under him as tears pool at the corners of your eyes, but you nod. you're helpless as finally, gojo bottoms out. you choke on a moan, mouth falling open as your whole body locks up. his hips press flush to yours, and your belly gets so tight from the pressure, and you swear you can feel him in your gut, stretching you around every thick inch of his cock, bulging veins rubbing against your inner walls, and your cunt pulsing around every throb of his cock.

“good girl,” he purrs. “let’s see how much you can really take.”

#jjk x reader #gojo x reader #gojo smut #jjk smut #gojo satoru smut #jujutsu kaisen x reader #gojo satoru x reader #satoru gojo x reader #gojo x you #satoru gojo smut #jjk x you #jujutsu kaisen gojo #jjk x reader smut #gojo satoru #jjk gojo

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auroralwriting · 1 day ago

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٠ ࣪⭑ suburban legends

‎pairing: clark kent x bombshell!reader (part two) (3.0K words)

summary: as one of the daily planet's most popular gossip column writers, clark is surprised to learn you're a genius when it comes to superman. he's also surprised to learn you aren't all heels and makeup..

so how do you react to finding out he's the superhero you're utterly obsessed with?

warnings & content: bombshell!reader, female reader, not technically bimbo reader but others assume so, clark is whipped from the start and somehow becomes more whipped, reader double majored in stats and journalism go smart girls go!

٠ ࣪⭑ this is a part two to mastermind! i hope you love this one as much as the first! // requests for clark are currently open!

If you would’ve asked anyone at the Daily Planet newsroom how long it would’ve taken for you and Clark Kent to get together, they would’ve said you already were. Of course Lois and Jimmy had made bets, too.

Lois was right. As usual.

It wasn’t that the two of you had been flirting exactly. Not in the obvious way. It was just the way Clark always found your favorite pen when it went missing. The way your desk was next to his, even though technically yours had been assigned across the room. The way you’d always pass him a post-it when he forgot his press badge, and he always brought you coffee without asking how you took it—because he already knew. He way he’d make a stupid joke and you’d laugh, or how his day visibly brightened when you gave him attention..

And now? Now that it was official? That you’d actually gone on a date and kissed him and fallen asleep on his shoulder during a movie you picked but didn’t finish? Well, nothing had really changed.

Except everything had.

“You two are disgusting,” Lois said, sipping her coffee without looking up. Seeing you two graze hands at the printer and blush several times a day was ingrained in her mind already. Not that she really minded.

“We’re not even touching,” you replied, flipping through your printouts.

“Exactly,” she deadpanned. “You’re radiating soft couple energy from opposite sides of the bullpen. It’s oppressive.”

Jimmy leaned over from his desk, whispering loudly, “Did you kiss him?”

You didn’t look up. “Jimmy.”

“I bet you kissed him.” You didn’t reply. “You totally kissed him.”

From across the room, Clark looked up from his monitor and smiled at you—that smile, the one that made your knees go funny even when you were sitting down. You tried very hard not to melt into your chair.

Lois sighed. “And that’s my cue to go find a real story.”

Jimmy leaned over again. “Was it good?” You picked up a rolled newspaper and bopped him on the head without breaking eye contact. “Worth it,” Jimmy grinned.

“Tell me,” Steve rolled over in his chair. “Is this the kind of story you’d post about in your column? About the date with the office nerd and how you out-nerd him on a day to day basis?”

You turned slowly toward Steve, eyebrow arched like you were deciding whether to laugh or end his entire career. But instead of firing back with something sharp, you just smiled. “No,” you said simply, voice calm. “Because it’s not gossip. It’s mine.”

Steve blinked, caught off guard by the sincerity. So was Jimmy, actually. Even Lois paused mid-step, glancing over her shoulder. Clark looked up from his desk, a soft crease forming between his brows. Like he wasn’t sure if he should step in or let you handle it. (Spoiler: you always handled it.)

You turned back to your laptop, fingers tapping at the keys. “Besides,” you added without looking up, “if I were going to write about someone in this office, it’d be the guy who still hasn’t figured out how to use the shared printer.”

Steve grumbled something under his breath and wheeled away.

“Real talk,” Cat interrupted. “What about that Superman article you were talking about posting?”

You perked up slightly, spinning your pen between your fingers as you leaned back in your chair. “It’s almost done. I just want to fine-tune some of the analysis. I added a new section on his flight patterns—based on the velocity shifts I tracked last week.”

Jimmy, now safely two desks away, visibly winced. “Please tell me you didn’t break into another security feed.”

You smiled innocently. “I prefer the term borrowed temporarily.”

Cat raised an eyebrow. “You’re seriously going to publish an article with that much math?”

“It’s not just math,” you said with a light shrug. “It’s data-backed storytelling. I’m not trying to make people fall asleep. I’m trying to show them the truth. That he’s not reckless. That there’s precision in what he does. There’s science to it. Intention.”

Clark’s pen slipped from his hand. You didn’t notice, but Cat did. And so did Lois, who appeared back in the room just in time to catch Clark doing the world’s worst job at pretending he wasn’t completely floored by you.

Cat smirked and turned back to you. “You’re something else.”

You glanced up, blinking. “Good something else or..?”

“Definitely good,” she said. Then, nodding toward Clark, “And clearly not going unnoticed.”

Clark, red-faced and trying to recover, coughed lightly. “I think it’s a great idea for a piece,” he said quickly. “The public could use more informed perspectives.”

“See? Clark gets it,” you folded your arms over your chest.

“Because he’s head over heels—” Jimmy was interrupted by Lois smacking him with a newspaper, making him swat her away like a fly.

You bit back a laugh, then glanced over at Clark. He was already watching you, a little dazed and dreamy, like someone who’d forgotten the rest of the world existed. The second your eyes met, he blinked and gave you a small wave, almost sheepish. And despite everything, despite the teasing and the headlines and the very real article on your desktop detailing Superman’s aerodynamics, you blushed.

Jimmy groaned. “Oh my god, you’re both twelve.”

But Lois just smiled quietly, sipping her coffee as she turned back toward her notes. Because for all the chaos and caffeine-fueled headlines, for all the alien invasions and metahuman drama, something in this newsroom had finally settled.

That night, you sat on Clark’s couch, laptop on your lap as your back rested comfortably against his side. His arm closest to you clung around your collarbones; the most gentle of headlocks. A loving one. Sure, you and Clark had only been on one date, but it didn’t feel like you needed more.

Here you sat, Clark by your side in a sweatshirt and sweatpants. You, without makeup, hair undone, wearing one of his old shirts and your old sleep shorts, nothing else felt better.

Sure, getting dolled up every day was a true joy, and you wouldn’t have it any other way, but being so bare like this for Clark was something else.

It was a kind of quiet intimacy you hadn’t expected to come so easily. The kind that didn’t need fanfare or flowers or fancy dinners. Just shared space, shared warmth, and the soft brush of his thumb against your arm every few seconds—like he needed to remind himself you were really there.

Clark rested his chin lightly against your head, eyes half-lidded behind his glasses as the evening news murmured low from the TV. He wasn’t watching it. Neither were you. The screen of your laptop cast a soft glow over the both of you as your fingers idly tapped at the keyboard.

“You working?” he asked, his voice quiet, more vibration in his chest than sound in the air.

“Mhm,” you hummed. “Polishing the Superman piece. Just tweaking the structure a little.” You had paused, craning your neck to look back at Clark. “Do you think Perry will take this seriously?”

Being a gossip columnist was great until you wanted to post a story like this.

Clark tilted his head, looking down at you with that soft, thoughtful gaze he always seemed to wear when it came to you. His fingers gently brushed your arm in quiet reassurance.

“I think,” he said slowly, “Perry will read it twice. Once as your editor. And once as someone who knows you don’t write anything unless it matters.” You blinked at him. “And if he doesn’t,” Clark added, a small smile tugging at his lips, “I’ll talk to him.”

You let out a soft laugh, half-exasperated, half-grateful. “You don’t have to go full.. Superman on my editor.”

If you would’ve looked closer, you would’ve seen how Clark nearly flinched at the words. You were only joking. You didn’t know. Phew.

“I wouldn’t.” He shrugged, trying to play off the surprised look he was sure he just flashed. “Just full Clark Kent. Turns out he’s surprisingly persuasive.”

You rested your head against his chest again, the sound of his heartbeat calm and steady beneath your cheek. “I just want people to know what I see. That he’s—” You paused, smile curling at the edges of your mouth. “That he’s more than what they say. That all the things he does—how he calculates impact zones, how he measures air displacement to avoid hurting people—it’s all intentional. It’s all done with care.”

Clark’s hand found yours, fingers threading between yours. “Then write it,” he murmured. “Exactly like that. Exactly how you see it.”

You turned your hand over, palm to palm, your fingers curling softly around his. “You know, you’re the only story I never want to twist.”

He kissed your forehead gently. “And you’re the only reporter I’ve never tried to avoid.”

That was the night Clark decided he wanted to tell you the truth. About who he was, what he could do, where he came from. That he was Superman.

But how do you go about telling the woman you’re falling in love with that you have a double life? That you’re, to put it plainly, from another planet. That you’re the person she’s been fawning over for ages now. That’s not something to just admit over dinner.

It wasn’t the kind of thing you slipped in between bites of spaghetti or during commercial breaks on movie night. Not when you were sitting in his sweatshirt, warm and real and tucked into his side like you’d always been there. Not when you’d just told him—with so much gentleness and trust in your voice—that you didn’t want to twist his story.

Clark stared down at you that night as you drifted off, your fingers still lightly curled around his, laptop dimming to sleep on the coffee table. Your breath evened out. You sighed softly in your sleep. And he just watched. Heart full. Terrified.

Because the truth wasn’t just about who he was. It was about who you were becoming to him.

He’d had plenty of close calls. Plenty of maybe this is the moment conversations lined up, planned in the back of his head, rehearsed like a press briefing. But none of them had ever made it out. Because what if you looked at him differently? What if your voice changed when you said his name? What if you stopped smiling when you saw him flying overhead?

What if knowing he was Superman changed the way you saw Clark?

But that night—watching you there, curled up against him in a way that made his life feel smaller, sweeter, less lonely—he realized he wanted you to know him. All of him. The writer. The hero. The man who somehow, impossibly, was lucky enough to love you.

So no, it wouldn’t happen over dinner.

But it would happen.

Because if there was one person in the world he could trust with the truth, it was the one person who already saw him more clearly than anyone ever had.

Clark hadn’t meant to come straight to you. Not like this. Bloodied lip, bruised ribs, heat radiating off his skin like the fight was still clinging to him. He was supposed to be more careful. More invincible. He wasn’t supposed to scare you. He especially wasn’t supposed to tell you like this.

But the moment he stumbled onto your fire escape—barely hovering before collapsing onto the floor of your apartment—you didn’t panic. You didn’t scream. You didn’t even look surprised.

You looked concerned.

“Superman?” Your voice was soft, a whisper above the hum of the city below. You dropped to your knees beside him instantly, hands fluttering near his chest. “You’re hurt.” Your eyes scanned all over him worriedly, almost as if you had your own x-ray vision.

He gave a weak smile. “Hi, angel.”

“How did— oh, Clark.” You said his name so softly, the realization hitting you. You were already reaching for the first aid kit you kept under the sink.

“I’m okay,” he said. “It’s just—night. No yellow sun. Slows the healing down.”

You froze for a second, processing, then frowned. “So you can’t heal right now?”

He shook his head once.

You looked at him—really looked. His eyes were glassy but focused, his chest rising a little too fast, jaw tight. He was clearly in pain. His eyes scanned your face like it was his last ever sight. And still, somehow, your biggest concern was him.

“Okay,” you said, like it was the easiest decision in the world. You rolled up your sleeves, grabbed gauze, and pressed a towel gently against the gash on his cheekbone. “Then it’s my job to fix you up.”

Clark blinked. “You’re not.. surprised?”

“I mean, a little,” you admitted, biting your lip as you dabbed the blood away. “Of course I’m surprised. Never could have guessed that Superman would come to me for help.” Your brows creased and furrowed as you focused on gently wiping away any crimson from his face. “But mostly I’m just mad someone hurt you.”

His heart could’ve burst right then and there.

“I also think I figured it out two weeks ago. You being Superman.”

Clark blinked, then blinked again. “Wait—what?”

You didn’t look up right away. You were too focused on the scrape along his jaw, cleaning it with practiced, careful hands. “The flight patterns. The voice. The way you disappear from the bullpen every time Superman shows up. You’re not as subtle as you think, farm boy.”

“I—” he started, but you gently pressed a bandage to his cheek.

“And then there was every single time you stared at me like I hung the stars when I defended Superman or wrote about him...”

Clark groaned softly, dropping his head back against the wall. “I knew you’d eventually notice. Just.. not this soon.”

You smiled, finally meeting his eyes. “I was waiting for you to tell me. I figured it had to be something big if you hadn’t said anything.”

“It’s not that I didn’t want to,” he said quickly, eyes searching yours. “I was going to. I am going to. I just—didn’t know how. Or when. Or how you’d react, because you could’ve reacted really badly.”

“And now?”

“Now I’m.. bleeding on your rug and you’re still here.” His voice dipped, warm and quiet. “I think that tells me everything I need to know.”

You leaned in, gently brushing his hair off his forehead. “It does,” you murmured. “But I want to hear it from you anyway.”

Clark smiled. Soft, real, a little tired. “I’m Superman.”

You kissed his forehead. “You’re Clark Kent. Superman’s just your second night job.”

“What’s my first?” Clark curiously asked.

You brushed that soft curl away from his forehead. “Being my boyfriend.”

Clark’s breath caught in his throat, just for a second. That quiet, golden second where time didn’t quite move. Then, he smiled. Big this time. The kind of smile that made the corners of his eyes crinkle and his whole face light up like sunrise. “Best job I’ve ever had,” he whispered.

You leaned in closer, your forehead resting against his. “Even better than saving the world?”

He grinned. “Way better. The world doesn’t kiss me goodnight.”

You laughed, soft and warm, and kissed him again—this time on the lips, slow and steady, like you had all the time in the universe.

And for once, neither of you was rushing off to chase a headline or stop a satellite from falling out of orbit. No breaking news, no alarms, no distractions. Just the hush of nighttime and the steady beat of his heart under your palm.

You pulled back just enough to whisper, “You should really let me fix that cut now.”

Clark smiled, still dazed, still starry-eyed. “Only if I get another kiss after.”

You rolled your eyes fondly and reached for the first aid kit. “You drive a hard bargain, Kent.”

“You got an interview with Superman?” Steve’s face looked genuinely bamboozled. “Of all people? You?!”

You didn’t even flinch. Just kept sipping your iced coffee through a straw, glossy lips curving into the softest smile.

“Yeah,” you said easily. “He trusts me.”

Jimmy wheeled over like he was front row at a soap opera. “Wait, when did this happen?! You’ve been sitting at your desk all morning.”

You shrugged. “Scheduled it for last night. He came right after his fight. He’s a busy guy.”

Lois raised an eyebrow over the top of her coffee mug. “And let me guess—you met him somewhere discreet, middle of the night, barely any witnesses? Or maybe he flew you to some rooftop where no one could see or hear you for the maximum privacy?”

“Something like that,” you said lightly, clicking through your draft on screen.

Steve scoffed. “You? Interviewing Superman? No offense, but you write about celebrity scandals and hair products.”

You turned to face him, voice sweet as honey. “And yet, I still managed to land the most elusive interview since Clark interviewed him. Wild, huh?” Clark, from his desk across the bullpen, choked on his water. Jimmy looked over. Lois didn’t even try to hide her smirk.

Cat Grant passed behind you, gave your shoulder a light pat, and muttered just loud enough for Steve to hear, “Get used to it. She’s been leaving all of us in the dust since day one. But my fashion breakdowns will always be superior.”

You smiled, gaze flicking to Clark. “Guess some people just have the right sources.”

And Clark—bless him—was trying not to grin like an idiot. He failed. Spectacularly.

“This interview is going to be.. super.”

“Oh, no.”

“God, please, no.”

“I hate you.”

#auroral writing #auroralwriting #dcu #dc comics #superman #superman movie #superman x reader #superman x you #clark kent #clark kent x reader #clark kent x you #kal el #dc fanfic #superman 2025 #david corenswet

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geneeste · 2 days ago

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I debated posting about this because I know it will be controversial and because I myself have complex feelings about it, but to quote an intrepid intergalactic explorer: we can talk about this.

A discord fic club recently advertised they would be reading one of my fics. I was actually really excited about this! Hopefully new people get to enjoy a thing I worked hard to make for them, and I was really looking forward to hearing what they thought about it.

Except the advertised date came and went with silence on the actual fic, so I assumed that it got canceled or something.

But, no, it didn’t - I heard later that the group had in fact read my fic and apparently loved it. Quietly. To themselves.

And, like, look — I’m trying to write this with a minimum amount of snark, because on one hand I’m a fic reader too and I firmly believe that people have a right to enjoy fic however they wish. As I writer, I also don’t think I’m entitled to comments, but like 90% of writing fic for me is to be part of a community, and being a part of a community means commenting on fics so that there are more fic and the community continues.

On the other hand, as a writer, I have to be honest — hearing that people specifically scheduled time to read a fic I wrote and then loved it while not sharing any of their thoughts with me? That doesn’t make me feel good. I feel like it should, but it doesn’t. It makes me feel like my fic is just content to be consumed without regard to the effort that went into making it.

The fic in question? I worked on it on and off for literal years. It had to be betaed. It had to be formatted to be posted to AO3 properly, I had to work on the meta bits to properly tag and warn people.

All of that is work, and the only thing I ask for (and any fic author, really) is engagement and encouragement from the people reading the fic.

This isn’t snark or bitterness to say that if the trend is going to be people talking amongst themselves about my fic in a group chat with total silence to me as the author, then I don’t see the point in going through all the effort to post fic publicly. I’ll just send it to my own group chat. If that’s the community now, then that’s where I’ll go. I’ll hate it, honestly, but like. If that’s the deal, that’s the deal.

Anyway, I’m clearly in my feelings about this. I really am truly glad people liked my work. But this really bummed me out.

#genie’s stuff #fandom #community #fanfiction #commenting

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tangledinlove · 21 hours ago

Text

lovestruck and looking out the window

part one | PART TWO

pairing: clark kent x fem reader 6.2k

summary: you survive the metropolis museum and just really miss clark. its a shame you have to settle for a disappointed superman instead

content: a lecture from superman, clark kent is silly, everyone's in love!!

As it turns out, the building toppling into the museum was kind of Superman-bait.

You figure this out on your hospital bed, the gash on your arm freshly wrapped in bandages and gauze. You're embarrassingly winded after all those lung tests, and are still seeing spots from when you had a light shone into your eyes. Though her work is done, the nurse who did it is hovering over your side, her eyes fixed to the TV.

“There’s a major development in our story involving the Metropolis Museum of Art,” one of the newscasters begins, her tone rehearsed in that way all people on TV speak. “We have just received word that the collapse of its neighboring building, an empty but newly built office complex, was caused by an explosive placed on its fourth floor.

“Officials believe that this device was planted to distract emergency services from the bank robbery in the Central Business District. While it is still unclear how much money was stolen, early estimates suggest losses upwards of seventy-thousand dollars. Bill Rossi is on location with the details. Over to you, Bill.”

The screen cuts to a man in his mid-forties, his mustache thick and his lips pressed thin. There’s a few awkward seconds where he stares into the camera before smiling. “Thank you, Linda. Eyewitnesses believe that this may have been the work of some metahumans, with some reporting seeing ‘a blue figure with a laser gun’ blowing a hole in the side of the building…”

Your focus wanes as the camera pans over to the bank, blue goo dripping down where a wall used to be. First responders rush across the screen, walking through the wreckage of it all.

You wonder again why you chose to live in Metropolis over Central City.

You’ve never been so excited to see the steps out of the metro.

Your arm aches like crazy and you really just wish you could call Clark, but your phone fell out of your purse sometime when you were being rushed to safety.

It’s hard not to believe that this isn’t another example of the universe punishing you. You wanted a Clark-free day, and it’s what you’re getting.

Instead, you’re forced to settle for his freaky doppelganger, because Superman is leaning against a streetlight a few feet away from your metro exit.

The sentence sounds insane to even think about, but it’s a fact. He waves and grins at the few people who pass by, who beam smiles back at him. You get the urge to prod at his dimples, which are made even more pronounced by the upturn of his lips.

You weren’t lying when you told Clark that you thought Superman was great. As you walk past him, a kid wraps herself around one of his legs, and he crouches down to talk to her. The girl’s dad trails behind her, looking just as starstruck as he speaks with the hero about the thunderstorm that hit Metropolis last night.

Superman seems so genuinely happy about getting the chance to talk to everyone, and you find it surreal that he’d saved you just a few hours ago. You can’t wait to tell Clark about your first meeting with his not-friend.

Superman’s gaze lands on you, and you feel your heart break free from your ribcage.

He’s just as striking up close, the sweetness of his face offset by the intensity of his eyes. A frown flips his features, and he kindly excuses himself from the conversation he’s having before he…

Huh. That’s funny.

Superman starts walking somewhat in your direction.

You turn your eyes forward and keep walking. His gaze is so intense, you almost feel bad for anyone who’s ever been on the receiving end of it.

The rich timbre of his voice drags your thoughts away from your walk. Distantly, you hear, “Excuse me, I need to speak with you.”

Your steps falter ever so slightly, but you continue walking. You resist the urge to be nosy and look to see who Superman is flagging down, instead looking in your purse to make sure Clark’s dumb paperweight is still inside. You hadn’t checked if it’d cracked in the commotion, and you feel a little sick at the thought. You’d almost died for this thing, after all.

“Ma’am?” Superman says again. This time, he’s right beside you.

For the first time since you’ve gotten discharged from the hospital, you stop moving.

You hadn’t had much time to really look at Superman earlier. He’d flown you out of the museum and said something a little rushed and frantic — maybe a ‘get to safety!’ — before he was hurrying back inside to save more lives.

As you stare up at him now, you have a little more time to really look at him. He sounds beyond upset, but he’s just as gorgeous as he is on TV — a fact that you’ll be sure to leave out when you recount this to Clark.

You turn around to see if someone is standing around you, and frown when you come up empty. The only person on this half of the street is you.

“Oh. Hello, Superman. Sorry, I didn’t realize you were talking to me.”

“I understand. I’m sorry to bother you, but I’ve been meaning to speak with you,” he says, his hands falling to his hips. His eyebrows are knit together in what looks like… disappointment. You can’t help but feel like you’re in trouble.

“Okay,” you say, drawing out the last syllable. You can’t quite tell if the hospital was thorough enough in their concussion screening. “Do you mind if we do this while we walk? I really need to get back to my apartment.”

“Of course.” His voice is so agreeable you find yourself getting a little distracted. He redirects you by kindly gesturing ahead, and you find yourself leading Superman back to your home.

“Would you like me to fly you there?” he offers. “I’m sure it’d be a lot faster.”

“No, thanks. It made me a little sick last time.”

It’s not that big of a deal to you, but Superman’s frown seems to worsen. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know it could make people feel like that.”

“Don’t be. It was either that or getting crushed by a falling building, right?”

Your joke seems to fuel Superman’s bad mood even more. You walk a little faster, letting him lengthen his strides.

“That’s actually what I wanted to speak with you about.”

“The museum?”

He nods, and when he turns to look down at you, the edge of his cape brushes your arm. The fabric is impossibly soft.

“When I found you, it seemed like you were walking further into the building. Is that correct?”

You wrack your brain to the moments before you were taken out of the building. Had it really only been three hours ago? It feels like it’s been a week since then.

“Well, kind of. I wasn’t trying to, like, run into the flames or anything, but I was picking up something I’d dropped. And it just happened to be further away from the door.”

The vein on his forehead seems to twitch. “Do you understand how dangerous that was?”

Your head throbs similarly. “Sorry, what?”

You aren’t sure you’re hearing him right. Is Superman… trying to lecture you?

“I feel the need to ask you what you were thinking,” he says, completely serious. “You were putting your life at risk.”

“I was hardly in danger.” You only half believe that, but can’t find it in you to agree with him. He’s somewhat hijacked your walk home, after all. “It was only an extra few seconds that I was inside the building. And, did it really matter? You were there to save me, anyway.”

“And I’m glad I was.” Superman says, his eyebrows bunching together. “Who knows what could’ve happened if I wasn’t there? Those seconds could’ve been the difference between life and death.”

You frown, but don’t respond. He’s stopped trailing slightly behind you and is now walking alongside you, absorbed in his rant.

“What could’ve possibly been so important that you were willing to risk your life for it?”

Someone gives you an odd look as you pass by. You can only imagine how weird this looks: Superman arguing with a civilian in the middle of the street. It definitely isn't something you see everyday.

Or any day, actually. You've never heard about Superman lecturing someone on proper emergency response before.

“It was a paperweight.” The admittance kind of hurts. It sounds ridiculous when you say it out loud. “A Superman paperweight from the museum.”

He blinks, his eyes widening a fraction. He stutters out something, and you tilt your head, confused.

“I need you to understand that what you did was incredibly stupid. You can not and should not be putting yourself in danger for— for a thirty dollar piece of glass!”

You’re impressed at how accurate his price guess was, but irritation still flares up in your chest, souring your mood. “No offense, but you can save the lecture for someone who needs it. I’m not an eight year old.”

He holds up a finger to correct you. “Clearly, you do need it—”

“You’re not my friend or my boss,” you say, just like an eight year old, “so I appreciate the concern, babe, but I think I’m fine.”

Superman’s steps falter. His eyes glance upward. Then, they shift somewhere to the left of you. Your eyes widen as the apples of his cheeks pinken with blush.

The shiftiness, the glancing away and then around before back at you… you’ve seen it all before.

Superman has the exact same reaction to the nickname as Clark.

His doppelganger, the same man who looks just like the superhero when his glasses are off. But that couldn’t possibly mean…

No.

There’s no way.

Are you seriously considering the idea that Clark is Superman? Just because they get embarrassed the same way?

You’re being ridiculous. Superman’s name is Kal-El, and he’s some guy from Krypton. You’ve read Clark’s articles about him, the ones he’s written after interviewing him.

Interviews only Clark seems to be able to get.

You must be concussed. You're definitely just confused.

Superman continues to rattle off words at you, almost pouting with how frustrated he is. The words enter in one ear and out the other as you take him in.

From a distance, he and Clark look similar enough. They’re around the same height and have the same hair color, and the strands free of gel even seem to curl the same way. They share perfect dimples, and even though Clark hides in those baggy suits of his, you’ve seen him in those nice t-shirts he has. There’s no hiding that frankly, he’s built. Just like the man speaking with you now.

But Superman shows his face. All the time. He’s not like Batman or The Flash with their masks and hidden identities. Superman is a real man from Krypton, who probably goes home to his massive superhero lair under the city. Not your little apartment complex by the park.

But… there was the blushing. The way Superman knew exactly how much the paperweight was — the same paperweight Clark complained was too expensive. The way he knew just what metro stop you’d be getting off at, and his odd interest in your safety.

Your head is reeling.

“—I don’t have to be your friend or your boss to be worried about you,” Superman says when you tune back in. You stare blankly at the outline of his back. Could this really be Clark? “It’s up to all of us to look out for each other. The job doesn’t just fall to the people we know.”

Superman walks alongside you a little too naturally, like he’s done it a million times before. He even interrupts his rambling to remind you to watch your step when you pass by the sidewalk with the broken slab of concrete. The way he leads the charge back to your apartment is like second nature.

“So, I’m sorry, if you didn’t want to hear this, but it was very important to me that I spoke with you about this,” Superman says, gesturing very seriously.

At the end of the street, you let your steps slow, gaze fixed on the man as he continues to speak.

He’s frowning when he says, “I’m sure that you have plenty of people at home that care about you and worry about your wellbeing. So, when you act recklessly like this, you’re not only—”

Without a spoken direction from you, or with you gesturing in any way, Superman turns on his heel and leads you around the corner. Right in the direction of your shared apartment.

You grab the back of his flowing cape and tug.

Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t do much. He staggers back a step, but you think it’s more to do with the shock of you pulling him back, rather than any show of your strength. Superman whirls on you, startled. You step forward until your chests are nearly an inch apart, staring directly into his eyes.

“What—”

“Clark Kent,” you hiss under your breath. “You must be very proud of yourself.”

His features blow wide with shock. He blinks owlishly, surprise swimming in his blue eyes. “W-I’m not… What?”

“Oh, come on, farmboy.” You lean back to cross your arms, frowning. “I can’t believe all it took was one conversation with you in your costume to figure it all out. You couldn’t have at least pretended not to know where our apartment was?”

Superman — Clark — pulls you closer by your shoulders, holding your injured arm very gently. He throws a few glances around the empty street, like he’s checking to see if there really is no one around. It's only when he’s certain the area is clear that he coughs and lets you go.

“That’s a pretty big assumption,” ‘Superman’ says, his voice taking on an even more authoritative tone. “And one that’s untrue.”

“Superman.” Your voice softens as you say it. He stands up straighter, like he’s trying to make himself even larger than life. “You can hide under that cape all you want, but Clark Kent is going to bleed through no matter what.”

He opens his mouth, about to protest, but you continue.

“You still blush when I call you ‘babe,’” you say, watching his face light up with embarrassment. “And you still nudge me twice to switch spots so you can walk closer to the street.”

“I—That’s… you can’t…” His lips flatten into a line, frustrated, while he wrestles with what to say. When he grimaces, it looks all too familiar.

It does nothing but make you more sure.

The man in front of you is your best friend. There’s no doubt about it.

A second later, the urge to argue leaves him.

He drops his voice to a whisper, and you finally hear it for the first time today.

There’s no Superman-tone-of-voice when he speaks, no puffing out of his shoulders, or a dazzling smile meant to put scared people at ease.

He’s just your Clark when he asks, “Can we talk about this at home?”

(For the second time in one day, Clark takes you flying. This time, he makes sure to go a lot slower.)

“Krypto,” you echo, slumping back against his couch cushions. “You named your dog Krypto.”

Clark looks the picture of innocence in front of you, your knees knocking together where he sits in front of you on the ottoman. He’s since changed out of the Superman suit at your request — the sight of the symbol on his chest was making for a very distracting conversation.

As you look at Clark now, in a pair of jeans and one of his old Hanes t-shirts, you have a hard time believing the words he’s saying. He looks like any old person you’d find on the streets of Metropolis while he explains the powers and the flying to you.

Maybe you should’ve made him leave the suit on.

“He’s not even mine. I was just… dogsitting.”

“No wonder you refused to tell me what his name was.”

Clark smothers down a smile. “A bit on the nose, isn’t it?”

“Hmm. Just a bit.”

You take another sip from the glass of water he gave you. He’d told you that you were only allowed to ask questions if you’d finished the cup, but you know he’d answer no matter what.

“The whole thing with the yellow sun is pretty crazy,” you add thoughtfully. “If you photosynthesize, does that mean you’re kind of like a plant?”

“Well, I don’t photosynthesize, so, not really.”

You make a noise that’s between a scoff and a laugh. “You said, and I quote, ‘the Earth’s yellow sun is the source of my powers.’ That sounds a lot like photosynthesis to me.”

It’s kind of endearing how seriously he takes your half joke. He perks up at the chance to explain something. “Plants don’t have powers, the last time I checked, but I understand where you’re coming from. They’re converting light energy to chemical energy, but—”

Clark trails off when he looks over at you, and you don’t bother with hiding the smile on your face.

“...You’re trying to distract me, aren’t you? So you don’t have to hear the rest of my lecture about your safety?”

“There’s more?” You try not to sound shocked when you say it, but you do. “And it’s not my fault you’re so easily distracted, Superman. All I did was ask you if you’ve been faking being asleep all this time. You were the one who wanted to go into the specifics of if it’s really necessary for Kryptonians to eat food or take naps.”

He mumbles something like, “It was a really good question, actually,” before he replaces the empty glass you’re holding with his own hand. He tugs you up from the couch and you trail behind him dutifully.

You swipe over his calloused palm and squeeze until he has to let go.

He moves to the fridge and you watch him intently from your new seat atop his counter. You really like Clark. You find yourself charmed by most things he does, whether he’s hunched over his laptop working or filling up your cup.

He presses his side against your left thigh when he hands it back to you. “Here you go.”

You feel warm. “Thanks, superstar.”

Clark’s eyes shine. “That’s going to be right up on the list of nicknames with farmboy, isn’t it?”

“Oh, you bet. I’m trying to decide which one I like better.”

“I’m partial to both, I think.”

“That’s good. I like Big Blue, too.”

“I’m sure Green Lantern will be stoked to hear that.”

You lean heavily on his shoulder, and he curls an arm around you, taking care not to disturb the bandages around your bicep. Usually, you’d find the silence in the room discomforting. But there’s something so natural about being in Clark’s apartment, letting him bring you glasses of water and teasing him about whether or not he’d classify as a plant.

He squeezes your side and you let out a pleased sigh.

“Hey,” he teases. “You wanna explain why you were at the museum and not halfway to Civic City earlier?”

Right. You’d almost forgotten that you’d lied to him about that. Your chest pangs with regret.

“I was buying you a gift.” You gesture back in the direction of his front door, where you left the piece of glass by his key dish. “Remember? The ridiculously expensive paperweight?”

“Yeah, I remember.” His voice is light, but you recognize this sidehug for what it really is.

Clark is softening you up to get you to confess. And the worst part is — you think it’s going to work.

“What was the occasion, though?” he adds, very nonchalantly.

“No occasion,” you answer quickly. You squeeze your eyes shut and try not to lean too close to him. “It was just because.”

“Oh, yeah? That’s real sweet of you.”

“Well, you’re a sweet friend.” You press your lips together firmly to try and resist the urge to spill your guts to him. “You don’t believe I’d buy you a gift just because?”

Clark laughs. “I believe you. But I also know that’s not the case right now. I notice a lot more than you think.”

“Yeah? And what are your supersenses telling you, Superman?”

He seems amused. “Well, I can hear the sound of your heart beating a little faster.” He brushes your hair away from your face to look at you better. “You blink more often when you lie, and you try not to look at me as much. But you also don't like eye contact when you're embarrassed, so sometimes it's hard to tell. I usually can though."

His words have pulled the rug out from under you, and he can tell.

You’ve never felt so… seen before. You notice all of Clark’s weird quirks because you really like him, and honestly have for a while. You never once expected that he’d been doing the same for you — taking note of your tells and habits.

The little smile on his face grows. “You’re not the only one who knows the other person so well.”

You can’t help it. You poke at one of his dimples, and his warm laughter curls up inside your chest.

“Whatever, detective.”

“Are you going to tell me, then?”

“Maybe.”

“I’ll pay for your coffee next week,” he bribes.

“You do that anyway,” you point out. “I’ll tell you for free. As long as there’s no dinner pancakes for the next two weeks.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Deathly.”

He crosses his arms in front of his chest while he mulls it over. The idea is very serious to him, apparently.

After a few seconds, he says, “Alright, fine. No pancakes. Now get talking, superstar.”

Your lips press together while you look at him, and his eyes remain on your face even when you glance away.

The feeling of his gaze feels like little pinpricks on your skin. You wonder how much of that is Superman, and how much of that is Clark.

This entire situation is just so embarrassing.

“I was avoiding you,” you admit, dropping your voice to a whisper.

The words sound harsh, but he seems to take them head on. His head tilts. “Why?”

You whack his shoulder. “Did you forget the part where I joked about wanting to be in Superman’s harem? And then immediately told you that you were the spitting image of him?”

Clark’s lips turn up into a closed-mouth grin.

“You freaked out, and then I freaked out, so I assumed—”

“Hey, hey, hey,” he says, cutting off your rambling with a hand on your thigh, “I wasn’t freaked out by what you’d said. I was worried you’d put it together. About me being Superman. You’d never seen me without my glasses on before.”

You frown. “My first thought when I realized that you looked the same wasn’t that you were Superman. I was more annoyed that you looked cute with or without your glasses on.”

Clark flushes red. You preen.

“My glasses,” he says, like he’s just remembered something. He pats around his collar until he finds the frames, the temples tucked into the neckline of his shirt. “I forgot to tell you. They’re Hypno-Glasses. They kind of mess with your head. Trick you into thinking I look a lot different than I actually do.”

He slips them on, and your lips part.

It’s just like it was last night. The difference on his face is there, you just can’t pinpoint where, or how.

You urge Clark closer until he’s standing between your legs, your gaze transfixed on his face. His eyes go a little crosseyed with how close you are, the remnants of his blush still lingering on his cheeks.

You hold onto the frames and push them up slightly, until they no longer obscure his features.

It’s so weird. It feels like your eyes are straining, but when you blink, the tension is gone, and Clark’s face changes.

“Woah.” It’s all you can manage to say.

He looks a little shy under your attention, which is funny when you consider the fact that he moonlights as a public figure. “How different do I look?”

You hum, letting the glasses slip back down his nose bridge. Your touch lingers on his shoulders. “Not too different. It’s kind of like… like when Catherine upstairs got her haircut. Your face is the same, but it’s also managed to change everything.”

His eyes dance over your face, and you find yourself a little self-conscious. You wonder just how well he can read you with his enhanced senses. Your hands feel clammy.

“Sorry, it’s hard to explain. You already know you still look cute, if that’s what you’re worried about,” you add.

He smiles to himself, his eyes cast downwards. “I’ll sleep a lot better tonight, thanks.”

“You’re always welcome, Clark.”

His line of sight trails down to something by your side, and he stiffens. “Your arm.”

You glance down and see what he’s so worried about. The cut on your bicep has bled through the bandages slightly, a small blot of red blooming there.

When you look back up at Clark, he’s already digging through the cabinets over the sink.

“What’re you looking for?” you ask, raising your voice over the sound of various cleaning supplies being knocked over.

His head pops back out, a white box in his hands. “This.”

It’s a first aid kit, which he drops down next to you on the counter. A thin layer of dust flies up, and he waves it away with the back of his hand. Clark cracks open the container and begins to take stock of what’s inside, his face screwed up in thought.

“Hey, Superman,” you say, leaning over on the counter to look through it with him. It’s full of all the medical supplies you could ever possibly imagine. “What hospital did you rob for this?”

He raises an eyebrow at you, reaching for something towards the bottom. “I bought this myself, actually.”

“I thought the big yellow Sun helps you heal.”

“It does.” He answers you absentmindedly, squinting at a small packet of… something.

You pick up a yellow tube on the top of the pile. “Then who’s the Neosporin for?”

“You.”

Clark gives you about five seconds to let the words sink in before he says, “Ha! Here it is.”

It’s a roll of bandages. He gestures for you to stick out your arm, which you do without a word. You feel dizzy.

“Sorry—this is for me?”

“Yep.” He’s winding another thin layer of the material around your arm again, looking very concentrated. He frowns, rewraps a section, then continues again when he’s satisfied. “Do you remember that time you almost cut your finger off chopping onions?”

“That’s an exaggeration. The cut was hardly that deep.”

He laughs. “Well, it made me realize that you’re… a lot more fragile than I am. So I got this in case you ever really did hurt yourself.”

Clark had gotten all of this for you. He’d bought all of these things that he’d never use himself, just in case you’d ever need it.

It feels like you left your heart in the sky while soaring a thousand feet over Metropolis. You fight down the lovesick look threatening to take over your face.

“The man said at the hospital that a little bleeding is normal,” he explains. “I’ll just have to add another layer of bandages and then apply pressure, and then the bleeding should stop. We’ll have to go back if it’s still bleeding after half an hour, though.”

“The man at the hospital,” you repeat. “You were at the hospital?”

Clark freezes where he’s applying firm pressure to your cut. “Superman may have passed by today.”

“While I was there?”

“Maybe. You might have been. It’s a big hospital.”

You think you’re on your way to falling really in love with Clark Kent.

You pass him a piece of medical tape, which he uses to seal the bandage neatly. He takes care to press it down flat, making sure there aren’t any creases. He’s awfully committed to the task, glancing over the wrap, testing your circulation and seeing if it’s too loose.

“I was really worried, you know,” he says, after checking the bandage for the fiftieth time. It’s obvious that it’s secure, but he seems to need something to do. “I didn’t recognize it was you until after I got you out of the museum. And I almost didn’t believe it.”

“Oh, Clark, I’m sorry for lying about where I was. I was embarrassed by what I’d said, but I also just needed…”

Things you can’t admit to him.

“…I guess I wanted to be alone today.”

He seems to wilt.

“The paperweight was an apology gift,” you admit, a little ashamed. “I felt so bad not talking to you. I was going to go down to the park and eat lunch, but I was really just thinking of you the entire time.”

Clark’s smile doesn’t meet his eyes. “I know that I worry, and I’m not going to apologize for that. I worry because I care about you. But I am sorry if I… make you feel coddled. I don’t mean to, I just want you to be okay. So if you—you ever want space, or a day to yourself, I understand—”

“No, Clark, that’s not it at all,” you answer unthinkingly.

“It’s not?” He looks beyond confused. “What is it then?”

You hadn’t thought this far into the conversation when you responded to him a second ago.

How do you even begin to explain this to him? Sure, you avoided him because you were embarrassed, but you also avoided him because you were scared. Scared of your feelings, scared of wanting to be more than friends, scared of what that’d do to your friendship.

But this is Clark. You refuse to let him think he’s done something wrong for even a second. You have to tell him the truth, even if it means humiliating yourself all over again.

“Well…” you begin, unsure. You resist the urge to bury your face in your hands, unable to take the look on his face. He’s so earnest. “You’re my best friend, if you couldn’t tell already.”

“Uh oh,” he jokes, tapping your side. “This can’t be good.”

“I don’t want space from you. That's kind of my problem.”

“Why would that be a problem?” It’s such a genuine question that it makes your heart ache. “I love spending time with you, too.”

“It’s ‘cause I really like you, Clark. I like you so much I got scared and told you I was leaving the state. I like you so much I thought a day away from you would make my feelings more normal. I—I like you so much I spent thirty dollars on a stupid paperweight for you!”

He looks winded. You watch his eyes widen with each word, and your stomach churns anxiously.

“Honestly, now that I think about it, you could’ve gotten that paperweight for free, right?” you ramble on. He’s staring at you, his mouth parted in surprise. “I mean, you could've just flown in dressed as Superman and probably asked for one.”

“It’s not the same, though.” The soft lilt in Clark’s voice makes your head spin. You’re momentarily distracted by him caressing the skin of your thigh, but he makes sure you’re looking at him when he says, “It means more because it’s from you. Someone who I also like. A lot.”

Oh, you think to yourself.

“Oh,” you say out loud.

Clark’s amused. “Do you really think I let just anyone drool on all my sleep shirts?”

“Wow.” You dig a finger into his chest, your face heating up. “Who knew Superman was such a dick?”

“I thought I’d have to watch a horror movie all by myself tonight,” he says, a teasing smile on his face.

You thread a hand through his hair, and he leans into your touch. You’re shaking a little. “Maybe you’d actually be able to finish one without me there.”

He beams at you, practically shining. “But then who’d be there to grip onto my shirt and make me turn on all the lights?”

“Hmm. Dunno. She sounds very reasonable, though.”

”Very.”

“The night isn’t over yet, Clark,” you remind, hand sliding down his chest. “We can still watch that horror movie.”

His eyes light up, his gaze flickering over your face. “I actually had something in mind.”

“Clark, fuck—oh my god.”

He smiles, pressing a tender kiss to your jaw.

“Holy shit,” you gasp out. “You’re actually fucking crazy.”

His arms tighten around your sides, and you think you’re clutching onto him so tightly it’ll draw blood.

“When you said you had ‘something in mind,’ I didn’t think you meant something like this!”

Clark tilts his head. He looks down.

All the way down.

From the top of one of the tallest buildings in Metropolis.

You wouldn’t be surprised if you walked right into a flying bird at this height. The concrete ledge he's lowered you down onto feels halfway to crumbling.

“Hey, you’re okay,” he says, aiming to soothe. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

You give him the most incredulous look you can muster. “Clark, you know I trust you with my life. But what are we doing up here? Besides raising my blood pressure, that is.”

He laughs again, the slight breeze biting his cheeks. “If you’d unlatch yourself from my neck, you’d be able to see.”

“I’d also be able to fall one hundred stories to my death.”

Clark exerts no effort when he turns you in his grasp, despite your death grip on him. He spins you around in the direction of the city, and you hold your breath, afraid to breathe wrong so high up.

In front of you, is the most gorgeous sunset you’ve ever seen. The horizon is lit up in a smattering of gorgeous purples and pinks and oranges, and you gasp.

“Oh,” you say, relaxing in his hold. “I thought you were doing this to mess with me.”

Clark smiles into the crown of your head. “As if I’d ever do such a thing.”

You really like Clark. You can’t believe you ever thought you’d be able to wish away your feelings for him.

“I’m returning that paperweight if you drop me, by the way.”

“Oh, honey, please, anything but that.”

You kiss Clark Kent in front of the Metropolis sun until your knees buckle and you nearly slip off the building ledge.

Thankfully, he makes sure to pick up where you left off when your feet are on solid ground again.

Ivyyy @supermans_wife OH MY GOD OH YMG FOD OH YMG FODKD roe @gothamsurvivor ↳ replying to @supermans_wife oomf are you okay Ivyyy @supermans_wife ↳ replying to @gothamsurvivor IM AT MY FRIENDS HOUSE AND JUST LOOKED OUTSIDE OF THE FUCKING WINDOW AND I SAW SUPERMAN MAKING OUT WITH SOME GIRL ON SOME ROOF WHAT THE HELLLLLL not carly @c4rlycane ↳ replying to @supermans_wife that was me sorry ❤️we’re asking you to please respect our privacy at this time JustinIT @justinit04 ↳ replying to @supermans_wife Holy shit are you serious lmfao Ivyyy @supermans_wife ↳ replying to @justinit04 I AM NOT KIDDING. attachment: [supermanhasagfthisisnotadrill.jpg] 🍒 @iluvtheflash ↳ replying to @supermans_wife His tongue is definitely down her throat… DELETE THIS NOW PLEASEEEE [CLOSED] SUPERMAN IS CUFFED 😭😭 @ sup3rman ↳ replying to @supermans_wife Excuse me ma'am, not to be disrespectful or rude but could you please take post down. That is my sister who was killed by a metra train. And it this post is very disrespectful. Idk who you are or if you even know her but I need you to take this down please. D4RKNESS @FILLTHEV0ID ↳ replying to @supermans_wife #Supershit getting a girl before me 🥀 star | 8 days until s2!! @ robintruther ↳ replying to @supermans_wife Thank you ivy I actually can not wait to list your account and this photo as my thirteenth reason

BONUS:

Clark pokes your side, voice rough with sleep. “What are you doing?”

You look up at him through the glasses you stole from him. They really do absolutely nothing — they’re just a magical pair of blue light glasses.

Clark’s pretty as a picture laying on your bed, the rising sun painting his back golden. You press a kiss to his arm, the closest part of him you can reach.

You smile. “Nothing. Just catching up on some Superman hate posts.”

notes: clark the people's prince thank you for bringing back the concept of #RealMen. let me know if u had a blast i know i did!!!

tags: @yondiii @drunkinthemiddleoftheday @anuncalledbridge @okayiamkassandra @gabrielle-tia @mantumuncher223 @or-was-it-just-a-dream @angelayse @k-tblog @lunascerebro @as1yasss @chenellearose @reblcaptain @ogjacksonsimp @warmdragonfly @claudiwithachanceof @weepingwolfdaze @stereading @dahling-dahlia @softestqueeen @deadbird14 @eepyfaerie @iyskgd @a-taken-url @roastyyytoastyyy @trendknd @accoochtrement @luvvly-lydia

579 notes · View notes

leclerc-hs · 23 hours ago

Text

bad grip - op81

pairing: oscar piastri x fem!reader summary: in which you can't seem to get oscar to crack OR you and oscar are in love, but only friends... warnings: friends to lovers au, angst, smut, jealousy, fluff?, NOT PROOFREAD, language, shitty writing?? word count: 5.4k author's note: hi hi hi!!! this was posted from my queue so hopefully everything goes accordingly! i still can't stop thinking of his head tilt in that one video from admin. so hot. maybe i need to write more of him....also like the win last weekend?? charles helmet smut will be on patreon august 1 sometime at night btw!! xoxo enjoy :))))

You’re snuggled up into the corner of the hotel room couch, drowning in the hoodie you stole from one of his suitcases when he wasn’t looking. And it smells like him. Like his cologne mixed with something clean beneath it.

The sleeves hang past your hands. And you pull one sleeve over your hands, bunching it between your fingertips.

One leg is pulled near your chest, while the other is stretched out, letting your toes brushing against the edge of his thigh. And he hasn’t moved. No, he’s just sitting there looking a little uneasy. Not sick. But in an antsy kind of way.

And he’s got this look in his eyes. Where his mind is on total overdrive but his mouth stays shut. Giving nothing away.

His fingers tap against his thigh in the same rhythm it always does when he’s lost in his head. Tap. Tap tap. Tap. Pause. Repeat.

The TV is playing some random show that neither of you are paying attention to. But you don’t really care. It’s just background noise.

You glance at him. And his face is calm, but you know better. Know him better.

“You’re quiet tonight,” you mutter, voice soft.

And he shrugs. But his face doesn’t change. “You’re loud enough for the both of us.”

You snort, hitting his leg with your toes, just to feel him push his leg back. “You’d miss me if I shut up for more than a few minutes, be honest.”

This gets you a look. One of those slow glances that starts near your mouth and ends at your eyes. And his mouth quirks up.

“You’re right,” he says, voice low. “Hate the peace and quiet.”

You tilt your head, eyes narrowing but smile growing. “Y’know, you’re so full of shit sometimes.”

His head finally hits the top of the back cushion behind him. Shoulders dropping a fraction. Relaxing. But he turns just enough to face you a bit more directly. Arm stretching along the back of the couch, fingers dangling behind your neck. But not touching you.

“I like when you talk,” he says. Like it’s so simple.

And it catches you off guard. Hits you right in the chest. You swallow hard.

“Are you flirting with me?” It comes out light. In a teasing manner as you raise a single brow. “Because it felt like you just did.”

He doesn’t answer immediately. Doesn’t look away either. Just watches you for a long moment.

And then he shifts just a little closer. Knee brushing against yours. And then his fingers stop tapping.

“Would it be so bad if I was?”

It’s not cocky. Not smug. And its not even really a question.

Your breath stutters a little, just for a fraction of a second. And you know he notices because his eyes flicker. Like he’s been wondering what you’d do with the truth.

Your tongue darts out to wet your lips slowly. “I guess that depends on how good you are at it.”

And for the first time all night, he laughs. It’s not loud. More like a huff.

“Guess we’ll see,”

You walk into his hotel room before him, kicking your shoes off, and stretching your shoulders with a loud sigh. Like the night’s worn you out, which it has.

The door clicks shut behind you. “I might be dying. Like actually dying.”

Behind you, Oscar’s quiet. But you hear his movement as he slips his jacket off. Unbothered.

“Y’always eat like you’re Joey Chestnut or somethin’…in a eating competition,” He mutters, slinging the jacket on the back of a chair.

You spin around, in full righteous offense. A loud gasp. “I had two courses! And you had three…and you still stole half of my dessert!”

He doesn’t even so much as bat an eyelash at you. Just lifts a brow and folds his arms across one another. “Yeah, but I’m elegant. Y’looked like you were gonna vacuum the plate right up.”

Your jaw falls open. “You’re such a little shit when you’re full.”

His lips twitch upward. “M’always a little shit.”

You let out a groan. Theatrical and loud. Collapsing backward onto the edge of the bed. Arms spread wide. “I need a massage. Or a nap. Or death.” You shimmy up to the top of the bed, head on the pillow.

Oscar doesn’t respond. Just disappears into the bathroom with that usual silence of his. And you hear the faucet running a few moments later, the zip of the toiletry bag he always packs.

And your eyes fall shut for a few seconds. Then the sound of footsteps approaching, and you glance up. He’s standing there.

Placing a glass of water and two ibuprofen onto the nightstand beside the bed. Doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t even bother to look at you for long. Just…leaves them there.

Your chest tightens. Just a little bit.

“Wow,” you smile. “Wanna tuck me in too? Maybe read a bedtime story?”

Oscar snorts, but sits at the edge of the bed. Crossing one of his legs onto the mattress without hesitation. “What do y’wanna hear? The story of a girl who inhales her dinner, talks too fast, and ends up losing her feet from stupid shoes?”

You laugh, reaching out to shove his shoulder. But it’s equivalent to punching a wall. He doesn’t move. “You’re lucky I’m too tired to chuck something at you.”

He grins. Then tilts his head just a little bit. “Your mascara’s smudged.”

You blink. And before you can reach your phone to check with the camera, he’s already leaning in, thumb brushing under your eye. Careful. Sweet.

“For someone who acts like he hates people,” you say. Throat tight. Eyes on him. “You’re kinda soft.”

Oscar shrugs one shoulder, fingers lingering against your cheek. “You’re not people.”

And it hits you a little harder than it should.

The sky is a bright orange as the sun sets over the water, stretching along the coastline just outside of Melbourne. From where you sit, the beach house…tucked up a hill behind you, looks kind of like some staged postcard. Windows open and curtains swaying from the ocean breeze.

Oscar is sprawled out beside you on a navy blue striped towel. Arms folded behind his head. Sunglasses sitting on the slope of his nose. And his hair is chaotic looking. But he looks calm. Is calm. The only kind of calm you see only outside of the paddock.

You’re sitting beside him. Heels dug into the sand, hands resting on the towel behind you, sitting you up. The heat of the sun clings to you.

“Sometimes I forget that you’re Australian,” you say. Turning your head to look at him.

And he cracks one eye open, not bothering to lift his head from the palm of his hands. “Because m’not riding a kangaroo or throwing a barbie?”

You snort. “Because you barely tan. You just burn. And you’re always like….not here…y’know?”

His lips twitch. “Keep talkin’ and see if I drive you back to the airport.”

But he doesn’t take the bait. Just closes his eyes again, like he’s unbothered.

You smile, looking back at the ocean. “Please. You love having me here.”

There’s a short-lived moment of silence. Just the sound of waves crashing against the shoreline heard.

“Yeah. I do.”

It’s a simple response. There’s no teasing tone. No smirk. Just a truth. And it sends a wave of warmth through your chest. Making your stomach flutter.

You look back at him. And he’s now propped up on a single elbow, his sunglasses pushed to the top of his head. And his eyes are on you. Just looks at you with that soft intensity he’s so good at.

Then, with a light touch, he’s reaching over and brushing the grains of sand of your knee. Hand lingering a second longer. Warm.

“Y’always this annoying on holiday?” He says, amused. A tiny smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

You shrug your shoulders and turn to look back at the water. “Only for people I like.”

And it’s silent again for a few moments. Before he’s muttering, “Lucky me.”

And the funny thing is…he means it.

The kitchen is dim. The ocean breeze blows through the open patio door. The curtains around it moving gently along the light breeze.

You’re standing barefoot on the tile, swallowed in one of Oscar’s oversized hoodies. The same one you always steal.

It just fits the best you always claim. It falls mid-thigh, sleeves long and hanging past your hands as you fumble around making cups of tea. The kettle is heating on stove. Steam starting to flow from the spout.

Oscar walks in behind and doesn’t speak. He moves quietly…always has. He just steps up behind you, all calm and heat, reaching up over your head.

His chest brushes against your back. Light…but definitely intentional.

You keep your eyes fixed on the kettle as he opens the cabinet and grabs two mugs with one hand.

“Y’just love to do that, don’t you?” Your voice is teasing.

Oscar raises a brow as he hands you a mug. “Do what?”

You turn to face him.

Big mistake.

Because he’s fucking close. Closer than he should be. Like the kind of close where your chests are touching and the air is thick.

You tilt your chin up anyways. Eyes narrow. A smirk on your lips. “Hovering.” You say. “Acting like it’s not on purpose.”

And his eyes darken just a little bit. Steps a fraction closer. Smirking as he leans a hand on the counter beside your hip. Trapping you.

“M’just helping.”

“No.” You grin. “You’re flirting.”

His lips twitch. And he does’t deny it.

Just hands you a mug. Fingers brushing against yours.

“Am I doing a bad job?” He asks. A slight tilt of his head.

You blink. The kettle whistling behind you.

And you hold his gaze. Curling your fingers around the mug to keep yourself steady.

Then you step side, walking through the small opening he left. “Six out of ten.”

And he lets out a short laugh behind you. “Generous.”

You pour the steaming water into the mugs, and then head toward the patio door.

“Still not kissing me,” you call without giving him a look. “Points off.”

And he just watches you walk onto the patio.

You’ve met most of Oscar’s close friends by now. The few he lets into the smaller corners of his life. The people he trusts. And it’s easy to forget how long you’ve actually known each other.

The bar is dim and chill. A local band is playing some covers, lighting low, and a breeze is pushing through the open doors.

You’re standing in a circle with some of Oscar’s friends. Not a well made circle, but a circle nonetheless. You’re nursing a cocktail, laughter slipping easily. Your hand brushing against one of their arm’s as you make a point in the conversation, as you lean in a little too close to hear a joke.

Across the room, Oscar’s leaned against the bar with one of his friends.

Watching. Not in a weird way. Just observant. Like he always has been.

His arms are folded across one another. A beet bottle in hand, his thumb tapping against the bottle. And he seems quieter tonight. Still engaged in the conversations, still smiling. But his eyes haven’t left you for long. And every time someone touches your arm, or makes you laugh just a little too much, you swear you see his jaw clench.

You try to ignore it. Chalk it up to just Oscar being in a mood.

Until some guy you’ve never seen before slips into the circle. Tall. Tan. Definitely a few drinks in. And he slides in like he knows someone. Which maybe he does…and then says ajoke that has everyone laughing. Even you.

And when you laugh, he leans in closer. His shoulder brushing yours.

Totally casual and meaningless. At least it is…to you.

But not to Oscar.

Because he’s beside you before the guy even finishes his next sentence.

“She’s good,” Oscar says, voice smooth. “Thanks.”

The guy blinks. Confused. “Just being friendly, mate.”

Oscar smiles. But its not really polite. It’s sharp and tight. Barely reaches his eyes. “So am I.”

It’s not really a threat. But it sure as hell lands like one.

The guy steps back. His hands raised in mock surrender. “Alright, alright.” He mutters something before heading back to the bar. Disappearing.

You turn to look at Oscar. “That was dramatic.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even glance at you right away. His eyes are still trained on the guy’s back, following his exit.

When he finally turns his head, his eyes sweep down to yours. Slow. Steady.

“Don’t like people touching what’s mine,” He says casually.

“Yours?” You echo. Voice quieter than you mean it to be.

Oscar breathes out a low huff. Runs a hand through his hair. “Shit,” he mutters. “I meant…”

“No.” You step closer to him. Voice calm. “You meant what you said.”

He looks at you. Like really looks at you.

And for once, the silence isn’t calm. It’s tense.

“Yeah,” he says. Voice a whisper. “Yeah, I did.”

You don’t answer right away. Just hold his gaze. Then slowly, reach for his half-empty drink. Sip it without even asking.

His eyes stay fixed on you.

“M’not a thing you can own, Osc.” Your voice is teasing. “But you can keep hovering if it makes you feel better.”

He hums. His hand reaching for your waist and settling there like he’s been aching to do it. His thumb slips along the waistband of your pants.

It’s possessive. It’s soft. It’s him.

“I wasn’t asking,” he says.

The rest of the night is still warm as you walk side by side with Oscar, neither of you really saying much.

You haven’t really needed to.

“Your friends are fun,” you say eventually. “Even if they told way too many embarrassing stories about you.”

Oscar glances over, but only for a few seconds before looking back toward the street. A smirk pulling on his lips. “Don’t act like you didn’t love every second of it.”

You grin and nudge his shoulder. “Not my fault young Oscar was so chaotic.”

He laughs. A short one. But real.

Another few steps of silence pass. And then his voice breaks it.

“I didn’t like that guy touching you tonight.”

You turn your head to look at him. Still walking. And your breath catches.

He’s already looking at you. Eyes serious. Steady. But there’s a faint blush showing on his cheeks that crawls down to the collar of his shirt.

“Yeah, I noticed.” You mutter. “Got all alpha male on him.”

Oscar breathes through his nose. Not really a laugh nor a sigh. “Did I?”

You nod, turning to look back at the pavement ahead. “Yeah. It was all so don’t touch her or I’ll kill you energy.”

He’s quiet for a single step.

“You didn’t seem to mind.”

You freeze. Stop walking.

And he stops too. Turns to step closer to you. So close that your space becomes his too. So close that you can smell the faint linger of his cologne.

Your heart hammers in your chest.

“I didn’t,” you whisper back.

His gaze is locked on your eyes for a brief moment. But then flickers down, trailing your face like he’s trying to memorize everything about you. And his eyes land on your mouth for a moment too long, before looking back at your eyes.

“Osc,” you say.

Its a warning. A dare. A plea.

But he exhales hard. Like he’s winded. Before lifting his hand slowly to your jaw.

“I want to,” he says, tilting his head back for a moment with his eyes squeezed shut. “Like…really fuckin’ want to.”

His thumb brushes your cheek. And you’re leaning into it.

“But if I…” He swallows. “If I kiss you now…I wont…I won’t be able to pretend after.”

You understand. Fingers twitching at your sides. You want to reach for him. Let your mouth crash into his and finally…finally see what it’s like when he stops holding back.

But you don’t.

Because you know once the line is crossed, there will be no going back. And that means something.

So instead you give him a slow nod. “Okay…not tonight.”

His jaw clenches. But he nods.

And then you walk again. Slower. Your hand slipped into his. And he’s gripping it like he’s been waiting for years to do this.

The house is still. Quiet.

The kind that only exists before any coffee is made.

You wake slowly, limbs heavy. Twisted in the same blanket Oscar threw over you last night when you passed out on the couch in the middle of a movie. The blanket tangled around your legs, an arm slung over your head to block the light filtering through the curtains.

You blink a few times. Trying to recollect your thoughts. Wondering where you are, what time it is, and why your back fucking hurts.

“You snore a lot.”

You groan, rubbing at your eyes. “I do not!”

Oscar laughs. “You definitely did last night.”

You sit up, the blanket slipping down to your waist in the process. Your hair’s a mess, eyes still half-lidded. And you glare down at him. Because he’s sitting on the floor in front of you. His legs stretched out and back resting against the couch.

His hair is almost as crazy as yours. Wearing the same hoodie he pulled on after you got back from the bar last night. Sleeves pushed up. Mug in his hand.

“It’s too early to fight.”

Oscar lifts the mug to his lips. “Wouldn’t win anyway,” He says with a small smirk. “You’re a menace without coffee.”

Your heartbeat rises. Stupidly. At how close he is. And not just physically. But because he always seems to be near when you wake up. Like he doesn’t want you to wake to an empty room.

You look at the mug. “Is that mine?”

He holds it out without a word.

Your fingers brush his as you wrap both hands around the warm mug. Sighing into the first sip…because it’s perfect. Just how you like it.

You glance at him. “Y’know…you’d make a good housewife, Osc.”

He looks at you with a flat look, but it’s soft. “You’re on the couch I got. Drinking coffee I made.”

You smile over the rim. “And you still won’t kiss me.”

It slips out. Fast. Almost too easy.

You don’t even look at him when you say it. Just bit your lip, pretending its a joke.

But he doesn’t laugh. And he doesn’t let the silence enter either.

“Don’t.” His voice serious. “Don’t say it like that.”

You blink. “Like what?”

“Like I didn’t want to.”

You nod slowly. The mug right before your lips. Chest tight. “Then why didn’t you?”

He exhales through his nose. Runs a hand through his hair. Looking at the ceiling like there might be some answer hidden up there. “Because you matter,” He says. “And I’ve never cared this much before.”

You scoot down the couch. Knees brushing his shoulder so that he can lean into them if he wants to. He does.

You sip your coffee. “M’not going anywhere, Osc.”

And maybe that’s all he needs to hear. Because a second later, his head drops to your knee. Like he’s been wanting to lean into your touch for too long.

It’s late. The kind that makes hotel rooms feel lonely. Another country, another race.

The curtains are closed, a crack of light entering in the middle.

You’re sitting on the edge of his bed. One of his hoodies, like always, draped over you.

Across the room, Oscar sits in the chair near the window. Legs stretched and ankles crossed. Shoulders loose, but he’s not relaxed. His eyes are on you.

“You okay?” You ask.

He nods. Shrugs. “Just tired.”

You hum in agreement. But something isn’t right. Not with the way his jaw’s clenched. And how he’s acted all night long. With his clipped responses.

“You’ve been distant.” You say.

“I know.”

He doesn’t deflect. Doesn’t argue.

And it lands harder than you expect.

You look down at your fingers, twisting the rings on your fingers. Throat tight. “Is it me?”

His body shifts. Like he wants to reach for you, but won’t.

“No,” he says. Quick. Firm. “Never you.”

And you nod. Even though it still aches.

“Feels like me,” your voice small.

Oscar breathes hard, tipping his head fall agains the back of the chair. Closing his eyes for a moment. And when they open again, they’re gentle.

“It’s what you make me feel,” He says. “M’not used to it.”

He shifts forward. Resting his elbows onto his knees. Fingers laced between them.

“Especially now that we’ve…uh…addressed it,” He adds. A smile tugging at his lips. “Being around you makes everything else…” He trails off.

Searching for the right words. But they don’t come easily.

“Harder.’

You blink, a little confused. “Harder?”

He nods, eyes trailing toward the window.

“To focus. To race. To pretend that I’m not thinking about you all the time.”

You move quietly. Taking in his words. Cross the room and sink down to the floor in front of him.

“I don’t want to make things harder for you,” you whisper.

He lets out a small breath.

“It’s not your fault. Never your fault.” He’s looking at you. Eyes dark. “You just make me want things…that I don’t know if I’m allowed to have.”

You miss Oscar.

The afterparty is buzzing. Music hammering against the walls. McLaren finished a race with a 1-2 podium finish. The kind of result that earns drinks and a late night of dancing.

Your standing near the balcony doors, letting the breeze cool your skin. A half finished drink lingers in your hand. The condensation slipping onto your fingers.

And Oscar hasn’t spoken to you all night. At least, not properly.

No banter or smirk. No actual conversation.

You told yourself you wouldn’t care. That he’d never make a move anyway.

And then Lando appears. Sliding into the space beside you with a crooked grin and a beer in his hand.

“Didn’t thin you’d be all the way out here,” he says.

You glance at him, giving a faint smile. “Just observing. It’s so hot in there.” You turn to look at Oscar.

Still leaned against a wall, surrounded by people. Laughing with the engineers. Relaxed.

Lando follows your gaze. “Y’always stare at him like that?”

You scoff. “What?”

“He’s not even paying attention, y’know. But I am.”

You grin, knowing he’s just being a playful little shit. “But I am.”

You look at him. Really look. And he’s close. Eyes warm, teasing.

“That’s the line you’re sticking with?” You tilt your head. Smiling.

He grins back. “Is it working?”

And the worst part about it…is that it kind of is. At least for a brief second. Because Lando is easy in a way Oscar never is. Open. Bright.

So you lean in, just a smidge. Let yourself enjoy the way Lando looks at you because why not? Let him flirt. Let his eyes trail your face, flick to your mouth. Let him step closer.

And you feel the weight of Oscar’s stare from across the room. Heavy. Like a hand resting on your shoulder.

And when you glance Oscar’s way, he’s watching. Not smiling. Eyes dark. Like he’s debating whether he should walk over and intervene. But he doesn’t. Because that’s not his way.

No. He’s too calm and calculated. Too careful when it comes to you.

So you head back towards the center of the room with Lando a few minutes later, laughter filling the air.

You spend the next hour trying to focus. Let Lando spin a story in your ear. Let him twirl you around. But your eyes keep scanning the room. Call it a habit.

And then you finally see him standing not too far away. Alone. Eyes locked on you like he’s been waiting for you to notice. Waiting for you to move.

Lando catches your stare, urges you to go talk to him. And Oscar doesn’t move until you’re only a few inches from him.

“I saw that,” he says. Voice low.

You tilt your head. “What?”

He lets out a bitter laugh. “Lando.”

You shrug. “He was just being nice.”

But his gaze sharpens. “He was all over you. Touching you.”

You close the space between you. His gaze drops to your mouth for a half a second.

“Okay,” you say. Soft. “So what?” Are you gonna stand there and sulk?”

You take another step. His breath catches.

“Or are you going to actually do something about it?”

He leans in. Slow. “M’trying to not fuck this up.”

“And what if you already are?” You whisper.

He freezes. Because he knows your right.

Knows that if he keeps holding back too long, keeps pretending, and keeps letting moments pass… that it will push you away.

You don’t even make it to the end of the hallway. Not even close to it in fact.

Because Oscar’s hand is wrapping firmly around your wrist. Stopping you.

And you turn, startled by the grasp. But he’s right there. And you feel the way his chest rises and falls too fast. The tension cracking.

His fingers slide lower until he’s lacing them with yours. And then pulls you back into him. You stumble just a bit, but he’s steadying you. Guiding you until your pressed back into the wall.

You gasp.

“Don’t do that again,” he says. Voice stripped of calm. Serious.

“Do what?” You play dumb.

“Lando.” His jaw clenches. Eyes flickering with something possessive in them.

He drops your hand.

“Flirt with him,” he grunts. “Letting him fuckin’ touch you. Letting him look at you like..”

“I wouldn’t have to if you’d stop acting like you don’t want me.”

And it hits him hard. Right in the center of his chest.

He steps closer. So close that you can feel his breath hit your face. A hand bracing on the wall beside your head.

“Y’think I don’t want you?” His voice is torn. “I’ve wanted you since the first time you wore my hoodie. Since you sat on my couch like you belonged there years ago. And every day since..it’s just gotten worse.”

Your throat tightens.

“Oscar,” you breathe.

But it’s too late.

His mouth crashes into yours like he’s fucking starved for it. It’s not slow or careful. It’s everything poured into a kiss that’s hot and all consuming.

You gasp into him and he outright groans at the sound. Hands finally grabbing for your hips.

He presses himself into you. Mouth moving like he’s making up for all the times he didn’t touch you. Didn’t kiss you.

And when he finally pulls back he looks wrecked.

“I’ve been trying to be careful,” He presses his forehead against yours. “But you…” He starts to shake his head. Fingers curling deeper into the skin of your waist. “Y’know exactly how to push all of my fuckin’ buttons, yeah?”

You smile into his lips. Head spinning just a little bit. “And you’re just figuring that out now?”

He grunts but then kisses you again. Rougher. More of a claim than anything.

And he’s done holding back.

Oscar’s hands are on you the very second the hotel door clicks shut.

His hands grip your waist like he wants them attached there forever. Like he can’t bare to ever be apart from you again. His mouth crashes onto yours mid-step as he walks you backward without ever breaking the kiss. It’s rough and relentless. His hands slipping under your dress in the process.

You gasp when your legs hit the edge of the bed, and then he’s pushing you down on the mattress with a soft push.

He follows. Doesn’t even speak. Just groans at the sight of you beneath him. Like that alone is enough to undo him completely.

“Should’ve done this weeks…years ago,” he mutters. Voice rough and full of need. “Should’ve fucked you the second you started looking at me like that.”

You dig your fingers into his back as he leans forward and kisses you again. Harder. Like he wants to fuse your mouths together.

And he only pulls back to drag your dress over your head. He barely glances at it as he throws it somewhere in the room. Probably onto the floor. His eyes stay locked on you.

He undresses himself fast. And you barely get a full look at him before he’s crawling back over you.

But even in that blur of movement and speed, you see the way he trembles.

His fingers find your thighs, curling one of your legs over his hip. Grinding down against the damp lace between your legs.

“Still gonna tease me?” Your voice is shaky.

He laughs, rolling into you. “Not teasing,” he mutters. “You’re fuckin’ soaked.”

You moan loudly.

And then his hand slips between your thighs, pushing the lace aside. He finds your clit with ease, rubbing slow circles that make your hips jolt.

He leans forward, near your ear. “Flirt with Lando again…” He drags his tongue hotly over your neck. “And I’ll fuck you where he can hear you next time.”

You arch under him. Shaking.

He groans. Deep. Uneasy. “Fuck, you like that?” His voice drops lower. “Y’want me to make you loud, hm? Let people hear who you really want?”

“Fuck, Osc…” you gasp, but it breaks out into a moan as soon as he hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties. Ripping them down your thighs in a fluid motion.

Then he’s between your legs.

Pushing into you with a stretch that burns in the best fucking way. Your mouth falls open quietly. Just the gasp of him finally being in you.

His head falls to your shoulder, shuddering once he’s fully seated inside. “Fucking fuck..” He barely gets his words out. “Y’feel so fuckin’ good.”

You wrap your legs tighter around his waist. Digging your nails into his back. And he starts to move. Hard. Deep.

His hands fist into your hair, holding you in place beneath him. And his mouth presses hot open-mouthed kisses along your throat. Claiming you.

“Y’think we’re still just friends?” He grunts. Nipping at your ear. “Tell me we’re not.”

You don’t answer. Can’t answer.

So he drives his cock into you harder. Meaner.

“Fucking say it,” He grunts. And he sounds wrecked. “Say we’re not fucking friends anymore while I’m buried in this cunt.”

You whimper. Breathless.

“No,” you cry out. “No…we’re not…fuck fuck…we’re not friends.”

He thrusts deeper, every stroke hitting that spot deep in your belly just fucking right.

You cry out, arching into him. Fingers fisting the fabric of the sheets.

And you do. Over and over. Until your cunt clamps down around him and you’re unraveling. Crying out into the space between his neck and shoulder. Shaking.

He groans. His thrusts losing rhythm as you milk his cock. Spasming around him.

“Fuck fuck fuck,” He yelps. Following seconds later, hips stuttering. A tumble of curses falling out of his mouth as he presses deep into you one final time before releasing into you.

Your chest is still rising and falling. Oscar hasn’t moved much. Still inside of you. Breathing into your shoulder.

You’re staring at the ceiling, content.

“I meant what I said,” he mutters. His thumb reaching out to brush your cheek. “I’ve wanted you for a long time.”

You nod. “I know.”

He leans in. Presses careful kisses to your cheek. Your forehead. Your lips

“No more pretending, yeah?”

"Yeah."

#oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri angst #oscar piastri smut #oscar piastri fanfic #oscar piastri x you #op81 x you #op81 x y/n #op81 imagine #op81 x reader #op81 fic #f1 x you #f1 imagines

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satellite-evans · 1 day ago

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Hey guys, these are just some Clark Kent/Superman fics I really enjoyed and wanted to share with all of you, if you love the character as much as I do, hopefully you’ll find something here to add to your reading list!!! xxx

mastermind by @auroralwriting

guilt of the quiet one by @sillyswriting

the less i know the better by @writingmeraki

everyone adores you (at least i do) by @rosesaints

you are in love by @auroralwriting

till i lose it by @fawnindawn

love, meteors, and clark kent's accidental flight by @stevebabey

immune by @ggclarissa

foolish hearts by @tw1sters

mysteries of our disguise revolve by @supershithits

you didn't kiss me goodbye. by @bodhiscurls

super-headaches at the daily planet by @luveline

chewing gum by @indouloureux

to whom it may concern by @cursedheartsclub

'til our fingers decompose, keep my hand in yours by @alwritey-aphrodite

the other man by @honeypiehotchner

the one with the ring by @ifyouweremine

kryptonite kisses by @a-romantics-guide-to-life

it's so hard being a pretty gal by @vitoriadior

free fall by @starksweasley

i like when you're jealous by @toxicflowergirl

not the usual by @amorwrld

told you so by @hearts4hughes

kiss me by @sunshine-lux

Please show these amazing writers some love! These are just the ones I’ve read recently, but I’m sure there are plenty more well-written fics out there, so don’t be shy, send them my way! xxx

#clark kent #clark kent x reader #clark kent fic rec #superman #superman x reader #superman fic #superman 2025 #superman fic rec #david corenswet #david corenswet x reader #david corenswet fic rec #fic rec #superman fanfiction #fluff #smut #check all these amazing writers out

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roanofarcc · 13 hours ago

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Can I request Clark Kent x reader where Clark is more confident as Superman so he attempts to ask reader out as him. But reader turns him down and confess that he's a nice guy but reader is in love with Clark Kent. Not knowing Clark is actually Superman

stop, this is so cute 😭

•••

READ ALL ABOUT IT!

pairing. clark kent x reader

summary. you were almost certain the morning headline would read how you rejected superman, all because you can’t get your co-worker, clark kent, out of your head.

warnings. Not edited. slightly awkward (but in a cute way) reader & clark/superman! reader is down bad. clark is a cutie. may do a part 2 if the people would like!

word count. 2.1k

The Daily Planet was always buzzing. The sound of shoes clicking, keyboards tapping, and chatter ranging from serious to quick quips tossed around. You often relished in the noise, finding a sense of peace in the chaos.

However, your senses were on overload after a rather disastrous morning. You woke up late, spilled your coffee leaving your apartment, failed to hail a cab and ended up walking only to be rewarded with blisters on your heels. Your only saving grace from your bosses wrath was that you submitted your latest piece two days before the deadline, cutting you a sliver of slack. Still, you were at your wits end and it wasn’t even lunch time yet.

To make matters even worse, your cross-desk coworker was looking at you with those rounded eyes and pursed lips that you had thought about one too many times for it to be platonic.

Clark Kent was a dream, unfortunately. It would have made your life and crush easier if he were an asshole, even sometimes. But he was too good to be true, which made you sick to your stomach.

Workplace crushes were bound to be a disaster, you had told yourself. No matter how mature and adult you were, the stakes were too high. You worked hard for your job, and the possibility of something going wrong if you pursued a relationship or acted on your crush paralyzed you. Instead, you just glanced longingly at Clark from across your desk and tried not to pounce on the man when he smiled sweetly at you or brought you a coffee, like he knew you needed it. He even made it exactly how you liked it.

"You didn't need to do that," you said, accepting the mug from his hands with a soft smile that always graced your face in his presence.

Clark shrugged you off. "You always say a good cup of coffee can get you through anything," he repeated your philosophy back to you, causing heat to rise to your face. "And you seem a little..." he trailed off, like he didn't want to offend you.

"Like a mess?" you answered for him, rubbing the bridge of your nose.

He was quick to shake his head. "No! No, you're not a-a mess. Not at all. I was going to say tired."

"That too." Even though you had slept late, it was because you were up late, your mind refusing to let you rest. Sipping the hot coffee, you felt it fill you with the warmth you needed, paired with Clark's pretty gaze. "You're too good to me, Kent."

Clark chuckled and shook his head, retreating to his desk across from yours. The two of you fell back into your work, sharing ideas and snarky jokes about your coworkers as the day progressed. Your words had rang true, and that mug of coffee did turn your day around enough to lift your spirits. Before you knew it, it was time to clock out.

You weren't stalking Superman. That you wanted to make abundantly clear. If anything, Superman was stalking you, but not really. You settled for calling it a recurring coincidence that became an odd habit. To be fair, it was your apartment's rooftop, not Superman's. But not many people in your building found the same comfort in it as you did. There was something about standing on the roof, overlooking the city as the breeze painted your skin, that filled you with a sense of ease.

It wasn't a nice rooftop, but it was like your own little sanctuary. Then, one night, as you enjoyed the sounds of the city below, you were joined by a figure clad in red and blue.

You'd never seen Superman up close, only in photographs or flying overhead as he kept the city safe. In person, he was somehow more and less intimidating at the same time. He was tall and broad; his body capable of stopping a moving train or scooping up civilians who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. But there was a softness to him, too, a gentleness you didn't see until gazing at him up close. The single curl that fell against his forehead, the glint in his eyes that told anyone looking into them that he was there for good.

That carried over in your conversations as well. From that first night that he explained the rooftop was the best vantage point for looking out for some threat that he was looking to take care, and every time he just so happened to come back and join you, you noticed the softness more. How he'd save everyone, from people to squirrels in danger, and believed that goodness was everywhere, you just had to know where to look.

It became routine for you and Superman to spend evenings on the rooftop when there weren't any immediate threats. He'd ask about you, your work, and everything in between. He, of course, was more elusive about his life of superhero-hood. He was a good listener, and you had that journalist habit of grilling him; he'd laugh it off, though, never annoyed as he tried to answer with a certain vagueness you had no choice but to respect.

"You are confounding, Superman," you said, eyeing him as you dangled your legs off the edge of the building.

He sat beside you, chuckling. "Is that so?"

"You don't even care about the credit or recognition." You understood that people sometimes did things for the sake of doing them, not expecting anything in return. But to repeatedly stand for good and expect nothing in return, it was confusing. Not even in a small or subtle way. Superman just saved the day and moved on. You wondered if he understood he had on the impact he had on those he saved.

"That's not what I do it for," he said.

"I know. That's what makes you confounding."

He stood to his feet and offered his hand. You accepted it, allowing him to pull you up effortlessly. "I should get going."

"So soon?" you said with a small frown. You could have spent ages talking to Superman, trying to figure him out. It was an itch you couldn't scratch.

His lips parted for a moment; you thought he was hesitating, which was the last thing you'd expect from Superman. But he pulled himself out of it, clearing his throat and glancing at you with a purpose in his eyes.

"Can I ask you something?" You nodded, curiously rocking forward on your toes. "I like this, talking to you."

You smiled. "That's not really a question."

He playfully rolled his eyes. "Let me finish?" You held your hands up in mock defense, prompting him to continue. "My question is, do you...like it?"

"Talking to you? Of course I do. Why do you think I keep finding myself up here?" It wasn't just because it was a good place to clear your head, not anymore. You enjoyed his presence.

"Good. That's good," he said, more to himself than to you. "In that case, would you let me take you out?"

It took a moment for his words to register in your brain, stilling your body. As heat rose to your face, a chill ran down your spine, the two colliding in an unfortunate mixture in your body.

"Oh, that's not a good face," Superman said, his eyes peering into yours.

"I...you...oh!" Embarrassment and a strange tug festered inside your chest. You were almost certain that you were the only person in Metropolis who wasn't head over heels for Superman. It wasn't that you didn't find him attractive or ridiculously sweet. No, he was the whole package and more. He was most people's dream!

Unfortunately, you were hung up on your soul-crushing crush on your coworker, that you hadn't looked at anyone else romantically, not even the dream that was Superman. It was crazy, if you were being honest.

There you were, on a rooftop with Superman asking you out, and you had to reject him because of the off-chance that your co-worker picked up on your crush, even though you tried not to let it show. If any of your friends had been beside you, they'd push you off the roof for how stupid you were being, but you couldn't help it! Clark Kent took residency in your mind, leaving no room for Superman.

"I'm sorry," you blurted out, covering your face with your hands. "This is...I don't-"

He was quick to cut you off. "There's no need to apologize. I overstepped."

You glanced at him through your fingers before dropping your hands altogether, shoulders sagging with them. "It's not that I don't think you're wonderful. I do! Really, I just...I'm sort of hung up on someone else at the moment."

If he had been like many of the men you knew, he'd throw a fit like a child. You half expected it anyway, despite the charged air that surrounded him. But that thought melted away with his soft smile. It was so genuine, it almost made you want to cry.

"They're lucky," he said. "I hope they know that."

You sighed, turning back to the city skyline. "They don't even know they're all I can think about."

"Why?"

"Because I'm scared to tell them," you admitted. "We're friends, and I don't want to ruin that, but...but I know I have to do something before I lose it, or him."

There was a small crease formed between Superman's brows. "If you don't mind me asking, who is this friend?"

"You know, actually. He's interviewed you a couple of times and works with me at the Daily Planet," you said. "Clark Kent."

The expression on Superman's face was unreadable. He just stared at you for a long moment, like he'd been frozen, before he snapped out of it with a shake of his head.

"Y-Yeah. Clark. Cool dude."

You couldn't help the guilt that rose in your throat. "I'm sorry."

Superman stepped forward and placed his hands on your shoulders. "Don't apologize, please," he said. "But as someone who knows Clark, I think you should just tell him instead of waiting for him to notice. He can be a little clueless, sometimes."

You weren't sure if it was the air that surrounded Superman, or the fact that you finally said your crush aloud to someone other than your journal, but a small tug of confidence befell you right there, on the roof. Maybe it would make things messy and work more complicated, but there was also a chance that it could work out. You just needed a little bit of confidence.

"And if I fall flat on my face?"

Superman shook his head. "I have a hunch he won't let you."

As the work day came to a close, you were jittery, like you had drunk several cups of coffee. You made up your mind after your conversation with Superman; you were going to ask Clark out and pray to whoever would listen that you didn't humiliate yourself.

It wasn't uncommon for him to walk you home when the weather was nice. Sometimes you'd chat about the day behind you, excited about Lois's latest piece, and laughing about Jimmy's latest relationship drama.

That day, however, you two talked in comfortable silence, close enough that your hands occasionally brushed.

It took one block for you to work up the courage.

"Hey, Clark?" He hummed, turning his head to look at you. He pushed up his glasses with his finger, cheeks lightly rosy and eyes sparkling in the street lamp light. "What are you doing tomorrow night?"

He didn't think much about it, answering quickly with, "Nothing."

"Me neither," you said, fiddling with your hands in front of you. "Would you, maybe, want to do something with me? Together. Like, you know, a date...?"

Your heart was drumming wildly inside your chest. Once the words were out of your mouth, you couldn't take them back; it was just out there, lingering between you.

Clark stopped walking, and you felt like you wanted to throw up. You were so worried you ruined it, that precious friendship with one simple question. In the short time of Clark's silence, you thought how'd you kill Superman for setting you up to fall on your face.

"A date?" he repeated.

You couldn't help but wince. "Unless you don't want to, which is totally okay. I-"

He cut you off with a swift shake of his head. "No, no. I'd like to. Go on a date, I mean. With you." His words came out choppy, a little awkward, but adorable at the same time.

A smile stretched across your lips as the two of you gazed at each other in the middle of the empty sidewalk. "Cool. Then, it's a date."

Clark mirrored your smile. As you two continued to walk, he gently took your hand, intertwining your fingers.

#superman 2025 #clark kent x reader #clark kent x you #superman x you #superman x reader #clark kent #superman #superman fanfiction

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rosesaints · 5 hours ago

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the mystery of love

pairing: clark kent (superman 2025) x reader summary: clark is soft in ways the world doesn’t always notice. he makes breakfast for dinner, reads to you when you’re sick, peels oranges like his mom used to, and sunbathes on the fire escape like a houseplant that loves way too hard. he doesn’t say “i love you” until the light is just right and you’re wrapped up in him like a second skin, but he shows it every day in the way he stays. inspired by the orange poem by wendy cope. (or alternatively: 4 times he showed you he loves you + 1 time he says it) listen to the playlist here. word count: 11.1 k. oops. i swear this was only supposed to be 8k words but unfortunately, i'm insane. content warnings: 18+ mdni, fem!reader, established relationship, piv sex, character study, dom/sub undertones, switching (reader and clark take turns domming/subbing), marking kink, hair pulling, big soft men who are whipped for you, soft but kind of unhinged sex, size kink (clark picks up the reader/pins them down), nipple play, unprotected sex, oral (fem!receiving), outdoor sex (sex against a tree), face riding, public sex, use of pet names, tooth-rotting fluff, my love letter to midwest summers!

Your boyfriend photosynthesizes.

Well, that's the joke, anyway.

You’ve said it so many times now it might as well be printed on a T-shirt. My Boyfriend Is Solar-Powered! in Comic Sans. Or maybe Papyrus. Whatever will annoy him the most. Haven't really decided yet.

It started out as a throwaway line, one of those things you kind of just say when you’re half-awake and fully-annoyed because he’s hogging the sunny spot in the kitchen again like a smug, six-foot-four housecat with insane shoulders and even more insane bedhead.

But the first time you said it—like, actually really said it—he was standing by the window, shirtless, holding his coffee in that chipped blue mug that says "My Son's a Smallville Elementary Grad!" and somehow survived a farm, a college dorm, three apartments, and a move cross-country.

The light was doing that thing it loves to do in the morning, all golden and warm and syrupy, catching on his collarbones and the slope of his neck like he was painted by fucking Michelangelo. He had one hip braced against the counter, the other leg crooked, like someone told him to look as unintentionally hot as possible while waiting for the kettle filled with your guys' tea to boil.

You blinked at him, still clutching your own mug and not yet caffeinated enough to regulate your mouth, and said, “Do you ever feel like… like a plant?”

He raised an eyebrow. Blew on his coffee. You can see the way his breath fogs up slightly, that super breath of his doing just enough to cool down his coffee to the perfect temperature. “That a dig?”

“No. It’s just. You—" You waved vaguely in his direction. "Well, you just kinda look like you’re charging.”

That got a huff of a laugh. “What, like a phone?”

“No,” you said, and grinned into your mug. “Like I said, a plant. Like you're photosynthesizing.”

After that, it became a thing.

He always smiled when you said it. Looked down at himself, half-amused, half-embarrassed. “I mean,” he’d say, “you’re not wrong.” Or: “Someone’s gotta keep the plants company, y'know?"

But he never corrects you. Never laughs it off like it’s ridiculous.

Because it isn’t.

You’ve seen the truth of it, slow and subtle and layered in all the small things. The way he’s just a smidge lighter on his feet after a sunny day, how he runs warmer, more golden, like someone turned the saturation up to a hundred. The way his voice softens, deeper, when he’s been in the sun too long. The way the shadows under his eyes seem less sharp after just an afternoon spent lying on the roof, pretending he’s napping when you both know he’s just... breathing.

And the bruises. That’s the part he thinks you don’t see.

You do.

They heal so much faster when he’s been drenched in the sun. You’ve watched the inky blackish-purple fade to this sickly yellow in the span of a couple hours and tried really, really hard not to stare.

You’ve said nothing when he limped into bed one night after a particularly difficult battle and rolled out of it the next morning like absolutely nothing had even happened. Sometimes he winces and pretends it’s nothing. Sometimes he… forgets to pretend.

And still, you never say that’s not normal out loud, even though it’s not. Because he isn’t. Not in the way that matters. Not in the ways that make you love him.

You love him like a long exhale. Like a secret that’s safe with you. Like the song you play on repeat in the car, the one you never get sick of, even though it makes your throat tighten every time.

Sometimes it’s peaceful, like when your ribs finally uncages and let someone else in for the first time in your life. But sometimes, sometimes it's just so fucking devastating.

Because he’s Clark. And Superman. And most importantly, he's yours.

And it feels too big. Too fragile. Like trying to hold water in your hands. You want to keep him safe, but you also want to keep him. The real him. The him that leaves you sticky notes that say “eat something, please” and walks around humming old Mighty Crabjoys songs and insists you don’t have to fold my socks, seriously, who folds socks?

But you lie awake sometimes watching him breathe, thinking to yourself, How do I love someone that belongs to the world?

And the answer is: you just do. One day at a time. One morning at a time. One sunlit moment in the kitchen at a time.

That Monday morning, it’s the same as always.

You pad into the living room half-asleep, dragging your feet and wearing one of his T-shirts that hits you mid-thigh. He’s already up, standing barefoot by the window, coffee in hand, arms folded loosely across his chest like he’s holding himself together in case he gets pulled apart again later.

Pause in the doorway. Watch him for a second. The way the light pools around his ankles. The way his shoulders lift, just barely, when he hears your steps.

He doesn’t turn.

“Guess what,” you say.

He smiles, small and crooked. “Hmm?”

You cross the room. Slide your arms around his waist from behind and press your face between his shoulder blades, where the sun’s been warming him for at least half an hour.

“You’re glowing again,” you murmur. “Must be that high-potency sunlight. You hogging the sun again?”

He laughs, the sound low and warm. “You caught me.”

“You’re a danger to local crops,” you whisper. Feel the goosebumps rising underneath his skin. “The corn’s jealous.”

“Oh no. Not the corn.” He turns a little, just enough to look down at you. His eyes are so fucking blue at that moment. “Should I apologize to the corn?”

“Absolutely. It’s your fault they can’t compete. You're literally the reason why Iowa's GDP is going down.”

He leans in. Brushes a kiss to your temple. “I’ll draft a formal statement for them later.”

You stay like that for a minute. Him holding you. You pressing your nose into the slope of his back, breathing him in—sunshine and laundry and that faint green note that’s uniquely Clark. Like basil, or clean leaves. Like something still growing.

And you think: This is the part he doesn’t say out loud.

This is how he tells you.

Not with words. Not yet.

Your boyfriend photosynthesizes. And maybe it’s not the kind of love you can pin down, or explain, or protect. But it’s real. It’s alive.

And you love him.

And he, quietly, completely, loves you back.

(He hasn’t said it yet. But you don’t really need the words to know.)

Clark shows you he loves you in ways so small, they’d be easy to miss if you didn’t know how to look for them.

But you do. You catch them in those quiet little corners of the day.

The way he folds down the corner of your book before you can reach for a receipt or a pen. The way he touches your wrist, not yanking, just there, when you step into the street without looking. The way he makes a soft sound of protest—ahem, maybe more like politely exasperated—when you try to carry six grocery bags at once like you, too, are invincible.

And then there’s the orange.

You’re curled into the couch, one of his sweatshirts swallowed over your knees, watching—but not really, to be honest—some long-winded documentary about volcanoes or Icelandic horses or some other quietly majestic subject that definitely feels at odds with your mood. The narrator has this super calm, soothing British lilt and the lighting is very National Geographic: all muted blues and wide drone shots and crashing waves. You haven’t really spoken in close to at least half an hour.

Clark doesn’t push. Never does.

He just lets you sit in it, whatever it is, as long as you need to.

But eventually, he nudges your ankle with his socked foot, like a hello, and when you glance up, he’s setting something on the coffee table with a kind of shy precision.

An orange.

Already peeled.

Not just peeled. Sectioned. Arranged.

It’s kind of ridiculous, how careful it is. No torn rind, no mangled wedges. The peel’s just laid out like a ribbon, one continuous spiral that speaks of time and gentleness and someone who took this seriously. Each segment is placed on a napkin, still glistening with juice, like a little offering.

You blink at it.

Then at him.

He’s pretending to watch the TV, but his body betrays him. His shoulders just slightly angled toward you, eyes flicking sideways like he’s checking the weather.

“I didn’t know if you were hungry,” he says after a beat. Like he’s not sure he’s allowed to say more. “But it’s one of the sweet ones.”

Your throat does something stupid. You reach for a slice and hold it for a second, too long, then pop it into your mouth.

It’s still cold from the fridge. Bright, juicy, perfect. Like summer broke through the haze in your chest.

You make a noise you don’t mean to. Something between surprise and relief.

Clark shifts, trying to look casual, but you catch that familiar smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“I was gonna ask if you wanted one,” he says, still mostly facing the TV, his face painted in blue. “But you looked kind of… I don’t know. Stuck. So I figured I’d just do it.”

“You peeled it for me?”

He finally looks over at you, eyebrows lifted. “Well, yeah.”

And somehow that—that—is what catches in your chest. Not the orange, not the care. The way he says it like it’s obvious. Like of course he did. Like there’s a whole world of things he would do just for you without even needing to be asked.

You swallow. “You didn’t have to.”

“I know,” he says, shrugging a little. “But that's kind of the point.”

You don’t say anything for a minute. Just reach for another slice.

When you bite into it, something in you loosens. Maybe it’s the juice. Maybe it’s the tenderness.

Clark, watching out of the corner of his eye, shifts a little closer and says, voice low, “When I was a kid, my ma used to 'em for me.”

You glance over. He’s staring at the documentary again, but the way he says it, it’s not for the Icelandic horses on the screen.

“She knew I hated the sticky part,” he goes on. “Didn’t like having all that juice on my fingers. So she’d do it before school. Wrap ‘em up in plastic, tuck ‘em in the corner of my lunchbox next to whatever sandwich she made that day. Tuna on Fridays. Always with too much mayo.”

You smile, just a little. “You were a picky eater?”

“Not picky,” he says defensively. “Just—just particular. I didn’t like when my food touched.”

“Mhm.”

“I was seven!”

You laugh, and he finally looks at you, sheepish and warm.

“She used to write little notes sometimes too,” he adds. “On the napkin. Stuff like ‘remember your science quiz’ or ‘you’re stronger than you think.’” He scratches the back of his neck. “Sometimes just a heart. Sometimes that was enough.”

You watch him as he says it, and you think, Of course. Of course you grew up like that. With kindness taught into you like table manners. With love folded into your lunchboxes.

“And now,” you say, voice subtle, “you’re the one peeling oranges for someone else.”

He shrugs again. “Only for you.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“I mean it,” he says. “Everyone else can deal with the sticky fingers. You get the napkin and everything.”

You press a slice into his hand before you can talk yourself out of it.

He pauses, then leans forward and bites it from your fingers, playful but gentle. A little juice escapes down the corner of his mouth. He licks it away without breaking eye contact.

It shouldn’t make your heart ache. But it does.

“Thank you,” you say quietly.

“For the orange?”

“For the orange. And the napkin. And, you know. The general care and keeping of me.”

He smiles at that. Tilts his head toward you until your shoulders brush.“Well,” he says, “you’re pretty high-maintenance. Comes with the territory.”

You scoff, gently ebow him. “I am not.”

He raises his brows. “Okay. Yesterday, you made me reheat the tea because it was two degrees below your ideal sipping temperature.”

“That’s not high-maintenance. That’s just me having standards.”

“Sure,” he murmurs, bumping your knee with his. “And your standards include expertly peeled fruit on Tuesdays, apparently.”

You roll your eyes, but your smile gives you away. “I just mean…” You trail off, unsure how to say it without sounding too serious, too much. You chew your lip, watching the way the light hits his profile. “I hope,” you say softly, almost to yourself, “you never stop doing that.”

He leans his head against the back of the couch, close enough that his shoulder brushes yours. “What, feeding you citrus?”

You huff out a laugh. “You know what I mean.”

He doesn’t answer for a long moment. Then he says, simple and sure, like the truth it is:

“I won’t.”

You don’t even really remember texting him. You think you might’ve. Maybe. Who knows.

In the middle of your 2 a.m. sick delirium, burning up and freezing at the same time, with every single cell in your body screaming and staging some sort of mutiny, you vaguely remember opening your phone with bleary eyes and typing something half-coherent.

A string of emojis. A sad face, a skull, a wilted flower. Vomit emoji. You might’ve hit send. You might’ve just passed out mid-thought.

Either way, Clark’s there when you come to.

He’s on the floor beside your bed, cross-legged, slouched a little in that way he always is when he’s trying to make himself smaller than he actually is. He’s doing this thing he does similar to when he's reading out his first drafts—voice low and even, a little scratchy like he hasn’t used it much today, or maybe just because it’s the middle of the night and the Metropolis is quiet for once and so is he.

You blink, once, twice, groggily, and he doesn’t even look up as he says:

“…and then I told Jimmy that if he was going to hide in the cafeteria instead of facing Eve, he should at least clean up after his brooding, because no one wants to sit next to a scone that’s been glared at for thirty minutes."

That's when you make a sound—half a groan, half a breath—and he glances up.

“Oh,” he says, smiling. “Hey. You’re awake.”

God, you swear your head's a pressure cooker. Your throat feels like someone lined it with sandpaper and regret. You’re pretty sure you’re covered in sweat, and not in a sexy, cinematic way, but more in a swampy, bedraggled, my skin might never be clean again kind of way.

And yet here he is, reading from what you now realize is his work notebook.

Not even a novel. Just… Clark, narrating his week.

“God,” you croak. “I think I’m dying.”

Clark shifts immediately, one knee bent, his hand brushing against your arm like he’s checking for tremors. “You’re not dying,” he says gently. “You’re just sick. Classic human stuff. I Googled it to make sure.”

“You Googled my flu?”

“Yeah. Also called my dad.”

Your lips twitch. “Of course you did.”

“He said tea, soup, and don't try to touch your toes.”

You blink at him slowly. “I wasn’t gonna—”

“I didn’t think you would. But he insisted.”

He presses a glass of water into your hand. Holds it there, actually, like you might forget what to do with it. You sip slowly, mostly because he’s watching you with the intensity of someone monitoring the nuclear launch codes. His hand stays curved behind your back the whole time, steady and warm, his thumb sweeping once over your shoulderblade.

“Still tastes like shit,” you mutter, grimacing.

“That’s just your fever lying to you,” he says. “Give it time. I brought supplies.”

Which is how, ten minutes later, you’re propped up like a limp marionette with three pillows, wearing one of his hoodies, while Clark, bless him, is rumbling around in your kitchen making the world’s most dramatic instant ramen.

He hums while he works, something mellow and vaguely twangy—something that sounds like wide-open spaces and Sunday mornings and the kind of radio stations that only exist halfway between here and Kansas.

When he brings the bowl back, he sits on the edge of the bed and feeds you, spoon by spoon, blowing on each bite first like he thinks you might scald your tongue.

You watch him through a fever-glazed blur. “You’re really committing to the bit.”

He raises an eyebrow. “What bit?”

“The Florence Nightingale… Florence Kent thing.”

He grins, bashful. “It’s not a bit. I just… I didn’t want you to be alone.”

Your stomach flips. It has nothing to do with the soup.

“And also,” he adds, “I brought a book, thought you might like something to listen to in the background.”

You blink at him.

“I figured I’d read to you once the soup’s done. Unless you’d rather I make more toast. I could do toast. Or try. I mean, it’s technically one of the few things I can’t mess up.”

You take the spoon from his hand. “Baby.”

“Yeah?”

“Sit down before you vibrate out of your flannel.”

He obeys instantly, because Clark is nothing if not obedient when you sound just a tiny bit bossy and ill. You laugh a little. Then cough a lot.

When you stop hacking, there’s a glass of water in your hand again, and he's looking at you like he’s trying to mentally calculate your temperature based soely off your pupil dilation. You wave him off until he settles down again, until his work stories blur into white noise and you feel yourself drifting.

Later, when the room is dark except for the glow of the bedside lamp, and your fever’s burning lower, no longer trying to boil you alive but still leaving your limbs really heavy and wrung-out—you stir, blink groggily, and find him exactly where he’s been all day: back on the floor, this time leaning against the bed frame like he’s trying to become one with the carpet.

There's a book in his hands.

You squint. “Is that… Star Wars?”

He doesn’t look up right away. Just flips a page, calm and unbothered, like this is a completely normal Wednesday night activity. “Yeah. From a Certain Point of View. It’s like… like—little side stories. People on the edges of the main stuff. Background characters getting the spotlight. I thought you might like it.”

You blink slowly. “You’re reading me Star Wars fanfiction.”

Clark glances up, grinning. “Not fanfiction. It’s licensed content.”

“Clark.”

“It’s from Jimmy.”

“Clark.”

He holds his hands up in mock surrender. “Okay, okay, it’s kind of sanctioned fanfic. But it’s good. There's one from the point of view of Obi-Wan’s ghost and it made me emotional.”

You try to snort, but it comes out more like a croak. “You’re such a nerd.”

“Says the person who cried over an R2-D2 Lego set last Christmas.”

“That was a very moving gift and you know it.”

Clark reaches over to adjust your blanket, tucking it up under your chin with careful fingers. “I just thought it might be nice. Something familiar. It’s kind of like comfort food, but for your brain.”

You look at him—really look at him—glasses askew, hair flattened on one side from the couch pillow, sweatshirt stretched over his broad chest like it was never meant to fit a man built like a brick wall—and feel that weird, awful feeling twist in your chest again.

The one that always comes when he’s like this. Sweet and earnest and just slightly off-center in a way that makes your whole life feel gentler.

“Thank you,” you rasp, voice hoarse but sincere.

He shrugs, like it’s nothing. “Don’t mention it.”

Then, after a beat:

“I was gonna read the one about the cantina bartender next. He has some very strong feelings about the music.”

“. . . Okay yeah, you're weird.”

“Exactly.”

He closes the book for a moment and reaches for your hand under the blanket. His fingers wrap around yours, warm and firm and callused at the knuckles. He squeezes gently.

“I know I’m not good at this,” he says, so quietly you almost miss it. “The taking-care-of-people thing. Not like my dad was. He used to bring orange Jell-O and put those cold cloths on my head when I got sick. He'd sit with me and hum old country songs like that could fix it. And sometimes, it kinda did.”

You squeeze his fingers back. He looks at your joined hands like they’re something fragile.

“I don’t really even know all the right things,” he continues. “But I’m gonna stay right here until you feel good again.”

You swallow. Your throat aches. Your heart does, too, but in a different way.

“Clark,” you whisper. “You’re doing perfect.”

He gives you this look—hazy and overwhelmed, like maybe he needed to hear that more than he thought. He leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead, cool and steady and grounding.

“I got you,” he murmurs. “Always.”

He reads until your breathing evens out again, then switches to humming—barely there, just a thread of melody tracing the shape of the room. He doesn’t move from his place beside your bed.

You don’t think he even blinks when you stir, reaching a hand out for his. He’s just there.

So you dream of a cantina bartender with strong feelings about the music. Of a man with dark hair and horrendous posture and the kindest eyes in the galaxy, carrying soup and picture books and the whole weight of your heart like it’s not heavy at all.

It was supposed to be a date.

Like, a real date. One with proper shoes and napkins that aren’t made of recycled drive-thru material. A night where neither of you had to sprint, lie, cover for the other, or show up late with leaves in your hair because someone, cough, got caught helping rescue a tour boat from sinking off the coast of Maine.

Just dinner. Just one Thursday evening. A normal, honest-to-god, pre-planned, mildly fancy dinner.

You’d even made a reservation at that Italian place ou guys have been meaning to try.

Clark had combed his curls with what looked like actual intent and buttoned his shirt all the way to the top, then unbuttoned one (just one) like he’d read about the concept of casual in a book. You caught him practicing his posture in the hallway mirror before you left.

“Do I look like I own a belt?” he’d asked.

“You do own a belt.”

“Right, but do I look like I believe in it?”

You had rolled your eyes. He’d kissed your forehead. You’d both agreed, silently and aloud and silently again: This time, it’s gonna stick.

Just dinner.

Just you and him.

Just—

The sky, it turns out, had other ideas.

You’re only two blocks from the restaurant, your heels clicking rhythmically against the sidewalk. He’s saying something about dessert—about how he’s never actually had crème brûlée and how suspicious he is of any food that requires a blowtorch—and you’re about to tell him that he’s a coward and has terrible, horrible opinions when he—

Flinches.

Just slightly. A twitch, more than anything. Like someone tugged on the collar of his shirt from behind.

You stop. Narrow your eyes.

“Kent.”

He stills, then winces, and it’s over. The wind picks up just enough to ruffle his jacket and toss a strand of your hair across your lip.

“Baby,” you say, dragging out the vowels like you’re preparing to scold a dog who’s eyeing the Thanksgiving turkey.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I know. I know. I just—there’s something happening in Hob’s Bay. I think it’s Parasite again.”

“Parasite?” you repeat, like that somehow makes it better. “The guy who eats energy and punches holes through cement walls like graham crackers?”

Clark winces again, guilt washing across his face like rain.

“I can take you home first,” he says quickly. “I’ll be fast. Twenty minutes. Tops.”

“You said that last time,” you remind him.

“Yes, but this time I mean it with—” he pauses, trying to sell it, “—I mean it. I've got improved time management skills. I’ve been working on it, I swear. I downloaded a calendar app.”

“Oh my god, Clark.”

“I even color-coded it!”

You cross your arms. “Clark.”

“I swear on my mom’s ceramic cow collection.”

“…The one on the microwave?”

“She dusts them twice a week.”

You sigh, but you’re already unhooking your arm from his. He’s practically vibrating now, trying to stand still. There’s a flash of green in the far-off clouds.

“I liked this dress,” you say.

“I love that dress,” he says, almost reverent. “I’m gonna come back and ruin it for you in much better ways.”

A beat. He realizes how that sounded. “I mean, like—because of pasta sauce. And maybe dancing? gosh, I’m terrible at this—”

You laugh despite yourself. Even as the first drops of rain start to hit your shoulders. “Go, Kansas.”

He kisses your cheek. Then the other. His hands linger against your face a half-second too long, his thumbs warm even through the chill.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he says, quiet now. “Promise.”

Then he’s gone.

“I know,” you reply to no one in particular, because you do.

You spend the next hour curled on the couch in the dress you never got to wear properly, the hem slightly damp from the rain and your eyeliner gently betraying you. The news cycles through static, then footage of Clark shielding a crowd with a dented bus stop sign like it’s a riot shield, eyes glowing faintly, shoulders squared. Calm. Measured. Still gentle, even in a fight. You eat a sleeve of saltines out of spite.

He texts you twice:

CLARKY <3: STILL FIGHTING THE SLIME GUY. HE’S YELLING ABOUT “THE SYSTEM” SO I THINK THIS IS POLITICALLY MOTIVATED. CLARKY <3: ALMOST DONE. PLEASE DON’T FALL ASLEEP. I OWE YOU SO MUCH CREME BRUILALAE 🍨

You don’t reply. He needs to focus. But you do leave the kitchen light on.

It's past ten when he gets back. He lands with a whisper on your fire escape—so quiet it takes you a second to realize he’s there. You’re already in pajamas at this point.

He taps gently on the window.

When you slide it open, he’s dripping. Suit ripped at the collar. A graze on his temple that’s already healing. Mud on his boots. Eyes wide and sheepish and a little desperate.

“You’re late,” you say.

“The Italian place was closed,” he says, holding up a crumpled brown paper bag like an offering. "But I brought dumplings?"

Your stomach betrays you with a loud growl. Fucking saltines. He smiles, relieved.

“They’re from that place you like,” he adds quickly. “The one with the crab rangoon that makes you make weird noises.”

You cross your arms. “You think you can just bribe me with steamed buns and flattery?”

“Yes?” he tries.

“…You’re not wrong.”

You step back to let him in. He shrugs off the cape, moving slower than usual. His shoulders dip lower. His steps drag a little. The exhaustion sits in him like weight.

“Sit down,” you say.

“I can—”

“Clark. Couch. Now.”

He obeys without question, settling into the cushions like a man unraveling. You grab a towel and a hoodie from your room—one of his—and toss both at him. Then you disappear into the kitchen.

After a beat, he calls after you: “I missed you, by the way.”

You don’t answer right away. Just finish plating the takeout, dividing the dumplings and the sticky rice and the rangoon with practiced ease. Your apartment smells like warm ginger and garlic. Familiar. Safe.

When you bring the food over, you find him curled sideways on the couch, legs too long, towel around his shoulders like a cape. He grins when he sees the plates.

“You forgive me?” he asks, hopeful.

You hand him a rangoon. “Chew before you talk.”

He does. Then says, with a mouthful of crab: “I really did want it to be a normal night.”

You look at him. At the tired, good man who flew across the city to keep someone else’s world from breaking. At the one who brought you dumplings and rainwater and apologies on the roof of his tongue.

“I know,” you say.

He finishes chewing, then leans forward, chin on your shoulder, voice curling around the edges. “You look beautiful, by the way.”

You snort. “You say that now that I’m in fleece pants with soup stains.”

“I stand by it,” he murmurs. “Always.”

You let him curl around you then, dinner plates on the coffee table, reruns of I Love Lucy playing low in the background. He eats with one arm around your waist. You steal his dumplings when he’s not looking.

Later, when you’re both too full and too warm and too tired to move, he says it again.

“I’ll make it up to you.”

You nudge his leg with your foot. “You already are.”

He hums, pleased but tired, and lets his head fall back against the cushions. “Still wish I hadn’t missed dinner. Not the food. Just—being there. With you.”

There’s a smear of sauce near his mouth when you glance over him. He’s so unbelievably warm around the edges like this—like the fight’s finally bled out of him and he’s just Clark again. Your Clark.

“You always say that,” you murmur.

“Because I always mean it.”

You reach up, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. He goes quiet. Doesn’t blink. Just watches you like he’s trying to memorize the moment.

There’s a beat where neither of you speak. The kind that hums with the weight of something unspoken, blooming slow between you. Then, without moving your hand, you ask, “You gonna let me kiss you now, or are you still trying to be polite?”

That gets a smile. A real one. A little crooked, a little shy.

“You can do whatever you want,” he says. “You always could.”

So you lean in.

The kiss starts off like a warning.

Your mouth brushes his—brief, firm, no room for questions, not really—and then again, slower this time. He makes a noise, deep in his chest, something caught between relief and surrender.

When your fingers slide into his hair, he tilts into it instinctively. His hands stay right where they are, just one at your waist, one braced uselessly on the couch cushion like he’s reminding himself not to move unless you ask him to.

He huffs something like a laugh when you pull back for a breath. “You’re terrifying, you know that?”

You smile. “Flatterer.”

His hand on your waist shifts slightly, pulling you in closer. Not rough. Not needy. Just—anchoring. Your knees bracket his hips and you kiss him again, open-mouthed this time, licking into his mouth like you’re starved and this is your first taste of real food.

And Clark lets you.

He lets you kiss him with all the frustration of the ruined date and the tension of waiting and the affection that’s been building in your chest for weeks, maybe months. He meets you where you are—mouth pliant, eyes closed, his breathing slowly unraveling under your hands.

“You always come back like this,” you whisper, teeth grazing his jaw. “All apologies and those puppy dog blue eyes and your make-up take-out. Like I wouldn’t crawl across glass to have you.”

He exhales, sharp and shaky, like your words hit a nerve. His hands tense slightly at your thighs, just for a second, then relax again. He doesn’t try to flip you, doesn’t shift to take control. Just looks at you.

“I mean it,” you murmur, kissing just under his ear. “You come in, wrecked and kind and too damn good, and I’m supposed to what? Sit next to you like my skin isn’t trying to crawl off my bones just to get to yours?”

Clark swallows. “You—” His voice is rough, halting. “You can have me.”

He says it so quietly you almost miss it.

“You already do,” he adds. “You don’t have to prove anything. You—”

Your mouth is on his before he can finish. You kiss him like you’re trying to breathe him in, to memorize the way his ribs rise under your hands. His lips part on a gasp, and you take it as invitation. He lets you tilt his head back even further, lets you set the rhythm—his hands gripping the couch cushions like they’re the only things that can possibly ground him.

You pull back, just enough to see his face. His hair’s still damp, starting to curl at the edges, his cheeks flushed. His glasses are askew, so you reach up, slow, deliberate, and slide them off. Set them gently on the side table. His eyes don’t leave yours for a second.

"Stand up," you say, and he does, wordless, chest rising fast under the hoodie. He's got the towel instead of the cape draped around his shoulders, like he's still half in hero mode. You take that off.

Your fingers go to the hem of the hoodie next, lifting it slow. He raises his arms obediently, eyes half-lidded, focused. He’s still in the bottom half of the suit, and your breath catches—because even now, even like this, he wears it like a second skin.

But you want the man. Not the symbol.

“Off,” you say, fingers brushing the slick, faintly scorched fabric of the suit’s torso. “I want you, not him.”

He nods. It’s so damn slight, like he’s not so sure his voice will work. His hands go to the hidden seams and he peels the suit down, exposing inch after inch of bare skin beneath—toned and marked from the night, faint purple bruises already turning gold where his healing has started. You trail your fingers and follow him down, down, down his sternum, then lower, across his ribs.

The suit hits the floor in a gentle whisper. Boots, too. The cape’s already been discarded—somewhere between the fire escape and your front door—and now he’s just standing there in front of you, bare and breathless and completely yours.

“Come closer,” you say. "It's my turn."

He goes to help you, but you stop him. Eyebrows raised. "Eyes up here. I'll do it myself."

Clark watches you the whole time, not rushing, not leading. His expression open, undone. His bottom lip's caught between his teeth, eyes trained on every single one of your painstaking actions. Peeling your shirt off, your ratty fleece pants, your bra, all of it. He's enjoying this way more than he should, those eyes of his glinting in the light, but that's the intoxicating part of it.

When you're done, he finally speaks up, voice reduced to a hush. Wills himself to look away from your body and just look into your eyes. "How do you want me?"

You hum, turning on your feet, pretending to think it over. Really, it's just an excuse to have him look at your bare body. Tempt him a little bit. It drives him insane. Still, he doesn't break eye contact.

"I think," you purse your lips. "I want you underneath me tonight."

He nods. Serious. "Of course."

You lead him back to the bedroom slowly. Not because he needs help walking, but because there’s something in you that just wants to savor the walk. He lets you guide him backward, his legs bumping against the edge of the bed.

He sits.

Then waits.

Clark just looks so… perfect like this.

Hard, aching, weeping, cheeks pink and pupils dilated. Hands, those goddamn hands, politely by his sides. Does nothing but lay down on the mattress, just waiting for whatever you feel like doing to him. The knowing—the seeing, does more to you than you'd like to admit.

You crawl, slowly, over his body. Fingers skirting over the freckles of his body, the light dusting of hair across his torso, the goosebumps that rise there. Anything but pay attention to his cock that's begging for you, until you're close to straddling his face, hovering there.

A pause. Those baby blue eyes, the cause of so many of your little deaths. His lips, pink and wet as his tongue swipes over them. A hint of a smile. You brush a curl away from his forehead, fingers slow and thoughtful.

"Okay."

Once you give him the go-ahead, he's all instinct, steady hands pulling your thighs more snug over his shoulders with all of the skill and quiet confidence of a man who's been breaking you down and laying you out for a long time.

It's so easy—so easy to lose yourself in it. So easy when you're on top of the world.

Clark knows. You've genuinely never met a guy who enjoys eating someone out more than him. He knows all the ways to make your legs shake and your head vibrate out of its skull, all the little skills and patterns and consistencies to get you to cum within minutes, but from the way he takes his time, mouth roaming everywhere—your thighs, your legs, the back of your knees—

He means to torture you. Make you eat your words. But you're gonna have the last say tonight.

You squeeze your legs around his face, bringing his attention to you, all blue-eyed innocence glancing up to you. Little shit. "Hey," you will your voice into something vaguely commanding. "How many times do you think you can make me cum tonight?"

All you get is a lopsided smile. "As many times 's you want."

"Ball park?"

He strums his fingers along your thigh. Pretends to think about it. Looking up at the corner of his eyes like he's doing mental math. "How about we start with five or six and go from there?"

"Perfect. Delightful, Kent. Alright, procee—"

His arms tighten around your thighs, and that's all the warning you get before he dives right in, parting your lips with his tongue and tasting all that you've got to offer, and god, if that doesn't make the slick accumulate even more in between your thighs, gushing, eyes falling closed.

A trooper always, Clark's mouth is warm, forming into a smile. "Baby, you taste so good. Needed this."

There's desperation in it, the way he sucks on your clit, two fingers finding themselves rocking against your cunt so that you feel nothing but full, boundless pleasure. You're so wet that his digits are sliding effortlessly, even more so as he licks you through it.

All you can do is whimper and whine, hands coming to rest up against the headboard. "Clark, Clark, so good. Don't stop. Please."

The mattress shakes around you as he grinds up into the air, barely concealed want and need and everything he hasn't said before, teeth gently scraping at your cunt. You can hear it too, the way his mouth works against you, his moans rising above it all. And god, the tension—the fucking strength of this man—the fact that he's letting you ride his face like there's no tomorrow.

Then his tongue sweeps hot across your clit, his two fingers curling inside you at the exact moment you squeeze. And fuck, you pulse hard and come until you've got nothing left to give, just a mantra of his name—"Clark, Clark, baby—"

He licks and sucks you through the aftershocks, shuddering through it all, and then it's back down to earth.

You fall down on the bed next to him, legs unable to hold you up. The only way to describe how you feel now is just—pure, fucking, boneless glee. And then you look over, and god, if that's not the best view in the world—Clark. The bottom of his face glistening, smiling in that stupid, boyish way of his, curls in his eyes and a twinkle there like he just won the lottery.

"What are you smiling about?"

Clark shakes his head, shrugging and looking up at the ceiling like it has the answers. "Oh, nothin'. Just happy."

This hunger, this love for him—you don't think it'll ever go away. You don't think you could ever get sick of it, you don't think you can ever get your fill of him. You're going to want him this badly for the rest of your life.

But before you could spiral down that terrifying staircase of thoughts, you're brought out your stupor with one large hand trailing up your thigh. Clark's shifted so that you're beneath him, world turned upside down. He's going back down for more.

"We've got at least four more to go, sweet girl. Made you a promise, remember?"

It’s honestly the quiet that gets you, at first.

That slow, rolling kind that doesn’t sit heavy so much as drape itself across everything like an old quilt. The kind of quiet that has its own rhythm. Space between sounds.

Not silence, never that, but it's more akin to a hush. A pause you didn’t know your life had been missing.

There are birds, sure. A lot of them, actually. There’s the wind, too, rattling through those wheat-colored fields, whistling past the house's warped slats like it’s trying to remember a song it used to know. But underneath it all is stillness.

A kind of breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding, now slowly, slowly letting out.

Smallville wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

You’d pictured something more… stylized. Romanticized.

A little more soap opera meets Hallmark original—maybe some mysterious family feuds and charming small-town antics. Some lingering drama about a pie contest. You fully expected someone with an old-timey name to pour you coffee at the local diner you guys stopped at and mention she “hasn’t seen Clark Kent around these parts in a while.”

Instead, you got: rooster at 5:30. Floorboard in the kitchen that creaks like it’s about to file a complaint against you just for exisiting. A guest room that smells faintly like wood polish and wheat. You got Clark, elbow-deep in chicken feed at seven a.m., wearing a white t-shirt that’s hanging on by a thread but you're not complaining.

You’re house-sitting for the Kents while Jonathan and Martha are on a cruise—a cruise, of all things. Clark’s voice had been thick with disbelief when he told you.

“Can you believe my dad packed four Hawaiian shirts?” Then later, when they called from the boat to say they’d already made friends with a retired couple from Branson and signed up for salsa dancing classes, Clark had stared at the phone like it had personally betrayed him.

“They deserve it,” he says eventually, a little quiet. “They’ve never done anything like this. I hope they stay gone the full two weeks.”

You’d kissed his shoulder and said, “Selfishly, me too.”

Because being here, just the two of you, it’s not glamorous. But it feels like something. Something good.

One morning, early on, you found yourself squinting into the haze of a Kansas dawn, clutching a cup of coffee that tasted like burnt hope, and whispering, half to yourself, “Do… do the cows have names?”

Clark, already in his work boots and wrist-deep in a feed bag, turns like you’d just offered to marry him.

“Of course they do!" he says, smug. “That’s Millie.” He points at a big black-and-white cow with the expression of someone who’d once gone on Twitter and got traumatized. “She’s real skittish when it rains but loves, absolutely loves cantaloupe rinds. That one’s Donnie—he’s dramatic. Moooos like he’s dying if you’re even five minutes late.”

You blink at him. “You’re serious.”

“Deadly,” he says, patting Millie with the same affection he uses on your lower back when you cook dinner barefoot. It makes you snort. “Also, we don’t call it breakfast here. It’s ‘morning feed.’”

You stare. “This is so not the rural romance novel I signed up for.”

He grins, boyish and crooked. “Let me guess. Thought it’d be Days of Our Lives but make it cornfed?”

“Exactly. Where’s the murder mystery? The barn dance? The family rival who wears all linen and says ominous things like, ‘You’ll never take the south pasture from me, you bastard.’”

"You forget. It's the Midwest. We're not in the South," He scratches behind Donnie’s ear. “But there is a someone with drama kinda like that here. Name's Barb, I think,” he says. “She runs the Dairy Queen and once hit a deer with her truck and cried about it for a week.”

You pause. “…Okay. That’s actually kind of sad. But wholesome."

“See?”

The days fall into a rhythm, eventually.

You weed the garden (poorly). He fixes the gate (obscenely well). You help collect eggs and try not to let on that the chickens genuinely unsettle you. Clark, that menace, just laughs every single time one flaps in your general direction and you flinch like it’s going to demand your wallet and keys and job.

One Friday afternoon, you find yourself washing strawberries at the sink while Clark scrubs paint off the porch railing—some old project Jonathan started and never finished.

You glance up and he’s standing there in the sun, t-shirt stained, face flushed, humming some old country song under his breath, and your chest physically hurts from how much you love him.

“You wanna do something dumb?” you ask, voice louder than it needs to be, just to get his attention.

Clark looks up, squints against the light. “Always.”

It’s not fancy.

Twenty minutes later, you’re both in the back pasture, far enough from the house that it’s just you and the cows and the sound of summer in every direction.

There’s a plastic grocery bag between you full of things neither of you should technically call lunch. Two kinds of chips (barbecue for you, cheddar for him). A Diet Dr. Pepper, sweating in the heat. One sad gas station brownie. And a couple of oranges, wrapped carefully in plastic wrap.

You lift an eyebrow as you start to unpack. “You know we have actual food, right?”

He shrugs, pulling the chips open. “The grocery store’s like forty minutes away,” he says, like that explains everything. “Didn’t wanna leave you.”

Your mouth opens, ready to toss something casual back—something about sandwiches, or homemade pasta salad, or literally anything with protein—but then you see how gently he’d wrapped the oranges. How he packed napkins, remembered your favorite chips, brought two plastic forks for the brownie like it was a birthday cake.

So instead, you say, “...I like barbecue,” and your voice is quieter than you mean it to be.

He glances over, chin on his shoulder, smiling like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “I know.”

You eat like kids. Cross-legged on the blanket, crumbs everywhere, licking orange juice off your thumbs. You wipe your hands on your pants. He stretches out on his side, elbow propped, watching the clouds like they’re moving too slow. His knee brushes yours and doesn’t move away.

You think you feel a mosquito bite. You don’t really care anymore.

“I forgot what this feels like,” you say at one point, picking salt from the corners of your lips. “Just… doing nothing. On purpose.”

He hums. “It’s good for you. Stillness.”

“You sound like your mom.”

“She’s smarter than I am.”

“You said that last night when I told you to take a nap.”

“See? Pattern holds.”

You lean back on your elbows and look at him, really look. The way the light gets caught in his lashes. He’s watching you, too, like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. Like the world could ask for him and he’d still choose to stay here, sweaty and dumb and mosquito-bitten and happy beside you.

He peels another orange with a practiced hand, splitting it down the middle and handing you the sweeter half.

“Thanks,” you murmur.

“Sometimes I miss this, y'know?” he says, around a bite of an orange.

You glance over.

“Not the chicken poop or the mosquito bites,” he adds, “but the...quiet. The not-having-to-be-everything-all-the-time. Out here, you’re just...you. You fix the fence. You make a mess. You listen to cicadas and complain about the humidity and your ma yells at you for tracking dirt inside.”

You tilt your head. “You ever think about staying? Settling down here?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just plucks a blade of grass and spins it between his fingers.

“Sometimes,” he admits. “But then I think—this is what shaped me. But it’s not all I am. The world’s loud, and it’s messy, and it needs things. But this…” He looks at you. “This is what I miss when I’m out there.”

You nod. Reduced to speechlessness, because it's so tender and perfect and so him that it hurts.

Clark finishes the orange. Wipes his fingers on a napkin, then on his jeans when that doesn’t do the trick. You lie back on the blanket with a quiet sigh, letting the sun press into your skin, the breeze lift the sweat at your temples.

It could’ve ended there. Could’ve been just a quiet kind of golden. But then you nudge his ankle with yours.

“Bet I could outrun you,” you say lazily, like you’re not poking a bear.

Clark huffs. Turns his head toward you, amused. “That so?”

“Mmhm,” you say, stretching. “You’ve been slacking. Porch paint and chicken duty’s got you soft.”

He squints at you. “You really wanna start this?”

“You said yourself, Kansas. Nothing to do out here but complain about the heat and cause a little trouble.”

He smiles slowly. The kind of smile that curls at the corners. Dangerous in the way only someone so gentle and kind can be.

“Alright then,” he says, sitting up. “You get a ten-second head start.”

Your eyes go wide. “Wait, really—”

“Nine,” he says, already grinning, already counting.

You scramble to your feet. “Oh my god, you are not serious—”

“Eight.”

You bolt.

The grass is taller in some spots and it catches at your ankles, slows you down. The air is thick with sun and the hum of everything living. You turn left, laughing, hair sticking to the back of your neck, and glance behind you just in time to see him loping after you, easy and unhurried, like he’s letting you win.

Which is worse. Infuriating. Fucking ass.

“KENT!” you shout over your shoulder. “I swear if you let me win I’m gonna trip myself just to spite you—”

“Then you better run faster!” he calls back, but he’s laughing too, bright and open and young in a way he doesn’t always let himself be in the city.

You make it halfway to the barn before he catches you, just a hand on your waist, barely a tug. You spin with the momentum and half-collapse against him, breathless, wheezing from the run and the heat and the sheer absurdity of it all.

“You cheated,” you gasp.

“I didn’t even use my powers.”

“That’s worse.”

He leans in, resting his forehead against yours, both of you flushed and sweating and smiling like idiots.

“You’re fast,” he murmurs, voice low. “But I know how you move.”

You roll your eyes, still catching your breath. “Don’t say stuff like that unless you wanna get kissed.”

“Maybe I do,” he says, quiet now.

Oh, if that doesn't make you wanna ruin him. When you lean in, he tastes like oranges and sweat and something warm you can’t name.

“You’re always holding back,” you murmur against his mouth. “Let me have you.”

Clark’s breathing stutters.

“You have me,” he says, like it’s a promise. Like it’s been true since the first day you met.

Your teeth graze his lip, just enough to make him gasp. “Then act like it.”

Now that—that—does something to him.

His hands slip quickly under your sundress, palms mapping the curve of your back, hungry and greedy all at once. Your head tips back when his mouth finds your neck again, hot and open and just a little bit wild. His teeth scrape the spot just beneath your ear and your fingers clench in his curls, hard.

The bark digs into your shoulder blades. You can faintly feel the ground disappearing from under you. Grass sticks to the backs of your calves. The sky overhead is lazy and blue, clouds like pulled cotton, and none of it, absolutely none of it, matters.

Not the cows, not the heat, not the fact that you're pressed up against a pecan tree in the middle of a Kansas pasture—just this. Just him.

It doesn't take long for it to escalate.

You're not normally a fan of this—quickies, anyway, you'd rather take your time, break him down methodically, piece by piece, but you think you'd actually combust if you don't have him right there, right at that second. And damn it, you will.

You will.

Your hands scramble to wrench his shirt off, a mad dash to get as close to his skin as possible. He helps you, your pretty boy, your sweetheart, your sunshine—chuckling when the fabric inevitably gets caught between his head and shoulders.

"Clark—" you glare at him, not really annoyed with him but his stupid, stupid shirt. "Get it—please, get it off—"

"So impatient," He grins. He helps you anyway, giving you that final push to get the shirt off his head. And then ou're like a moth drawn to a flame, nipping at his skin, sucking little love bites that you know he adores into his chest. "Baby, sweetheart—"

"Sweetheart, baby—" You kiss his collarbone, hands going to undo his belt, the metal clinking from your actions. "Need you now."

Clark nods vigorously at that. "Yeah, yeah—okay."

He readjusts, free now from his belt, jeans dropping low, and he's scooping your thighs up so you're flush against the tree for leverage. The bark of the tree's rough and it'll leave some truly horrendous marks later, but he's pushing your dress up around your waist, cock situated and ready at your entrance.

A breath. A look between you. And then he sinks you down, no prep, no foreplay, just him and the burn of taking all of him bare.

You make an embarrassing noise when he bottoms out, yelping and wrapping your arms around his neck. Clark slows down, pressing kisses on your forehead and muttering small little praises. "You're doing so good. You feel amazing, baby, you just let me know when, I'll wait—"

Fuck, that turns you on more than it should've. You clench around him, mouth parting in a quiet moan. "Now, I'm ready now. Move, Kent."

His hand hitches your leg up higher for a better angle, and—yeah, if that's not the hottest thing in the world. The tenderness mixed with the way you know he's about to utterly destroy you. He rolls his hips, once, twice, until he sets a punishing rhythm.

He moves, hard and deep inside of you, always a stretch widthwise. Always feels like a rearrangement. Every single vein, every twitch, every agonizing inch as he gets to work fucking you like your life depends on it.

And the tree shakes—it fucking shakes, leaves falling all around you—when his pace gets punishing and relentless. All you can do is take it, legs shivering and hands scrambling to hold on to something, anything.

The strap of your dress has fallen down your shoulder at this point, and Clark takes the opportunity to wrap his hot mouth around your exposed nipple, eyes falling closed. "Tastes like heaven."

"Clark—" You shudder, his ruts turning more and more shallow. "Need more, I need—need help, please—"

He nods against your skin, letting go of your nipple with one wet pop. A hand skirts down between you, wordless, and rubs hard circles against your clit, never twisting, just a constant, almost vibrating pressure that wrenches more desperate gasps out of you.

You love him.

It hits you the hardest at that moment, when he grins and you can feel those tell-tale signs of your orgasm shuddering closer, so impossibly close that it makes your knees weak. Like your body can’t hold the thought anymore.

Months of this, this agonizing need to tell him, to show him. And suddenly it’s all you can feel—this pressure behind your teeth, this wild, unspooling thing clawing to get out. You didn’t plan on it. You don't meant to. But it’s already there, clawing its way up your throat with a kind of ferocity that feels unstoppable.

You pull back a breath. Just enough to get the words free. Try to get lucid fast.

“I—”

But then his hand’s on your cheek.

Soft. Certain.

“Wait,” he says, and it’s gentle, but firm enough to stop you.

You freeze, stunned. Like someone hit pause on your entire brain.

“W–W–What?” you whisper, barely breathing. His pace doesn't break. Still pounding into you like he doesn't see right through you. His eyes flicker between yours—quiet, careful, like he sees exactly where you were going. Like he caught the words mid-flight.

“Not yet,” he murmurs. “Not like this, baby. Not while I'm—not against a tree.”

“I don't—I don't mind,” you whine.

He laughs under his breath. "No.”

You must've pouted, must've frowned, or… or something, because Clark's expression goes soft. He tugs you closer, hips going deeper this time until your head falls back, like an apology.

You're so close, so goddamn close, and fuck, if he's not determined to make it up to you. Focus redirected to the sole goal of making you finish harder than you ever have before. Another broken moan slips out of you.

And you're still overtaken by this need to say something, something to encapsulate this feeling inside of you. So instead, you say the next best thing, “You’re mine,” you say, fierce and true and sure.

Clark nods. “Yours,” he echoes, like it’s gospel.

You come around him like that, muscles wound up tight, him working himself into you faster—faster, until he pulses inside you. It's all warmth, his shoulders shaking like a leaf, you holding onto him like the old tire swing on a tree. Chests heaving. Sweat pooling underneath your knees. But he doesn't let go.

He pulls back just a tad, just enough to rest his head against the crook of your neck. His curls tickle your skin, just slightly. "Hold me tighter?"

You're still quivering, traitorous legs twitching, but you do. You wrap your arms around him and squeeze until he sighs, relaxed and spent and all the things that you let go unsaid.

The cows, thankfully, have the decency not to interrupt.

He’s on the fire escape again.

You don’t see him at first—just the corner of his shirt sleeve through the window screen, fluttering gently in the breeze like a flag someone planted in a place they want to stay.

You step closer.

And there he is.

Sitting on the metal grate, knees drawn up, socked feet tucked against the warm steel, one arm draped loosely over the railing like he forgot the rest of the world exists. His head's tilted back against the sun, eyes closed, face subdued in that way it only gets when no one’s watching.

Or maybe just when you are.

His shirt—some washed-out old thing from Central Kansas A&M—is rumpled and crooked on his frame like he pulled it out of the laundry basket and shrugged it on without thinking. One sleeve's shoved all the way to his elbow, exposing the freckles on his forearm.

You’re barefoot, cradling a sweating glass of lemonade in your palm, still in sleep shorts and one of his too-big sweaters again. You hadn’t meant to come looking for him. You just woke up and felt the space beside you was empty, not in a sad way, just… hollow. Cool.

You followed the pull of it until it led you here.

He doesn’t move when you open the window. Doesn’t speak. But his eyes blink open, lashes catching the light. He looks at you, and that alone does something to your insides.

It’s the kind of look that hits low and blooms slow.

Not a spark, but a sunrise.

His smile when he sees you is small. A little crooked, like maybe he’s not so sure it’s okay to be this happy about something so simple.

Like you just standing there, sleepy and squinting and probably still with pillow creases and hints of drool on your cheek, is his favorite part of this whole Saturday.

He lifts a hand and stretches it toward you.

Palm up.

Fingertips flexing.

“C’mere,” he says, voice warm from disuse. “It’s nice.”

You don’t hesitate.

You climb carefully, your lemonade forgotten on the windowsill, and ease down between his legs. The fire escape creaks beneath you but holds. Of course it does. He shifts to make room for you like he already knew exactly how this would fit—your back against his chest, his knees bracketing yours, arms folding around you like second nature.

And you just sit like that, folded into him.

His chin hooks over your shoulder. His breath brushes your neck. One of his hands rests against your stomach, just above the hem of your sweater, warm through the fabric. The other finds your thigh, fingers drumming lazily against the denim there.

And you breathe. In and out. Slowly. Like maybe you forgot how before this.

“You been out here long?” you murmur.

He shrugs behind you. “I dunno. Long enough, maybe.”

You lean back into him, let your head fall onto his shoulder. “Get what you needed?”

There’s a long pause. Not like he’s unsure, just like he’s letting the quiet fill in some blanks first.

“Yeah,” he says finally. “I think I did.”

You let the silence stretch after that. It’s not awkward. It’s just… Clark.

Which is to say: it’s safe.

The sunlight spills golden across the alley, catching in the curls at his temple. Today, he smells like clean cotton and cedar and whatever fancy soap he borrowed from your shower. His skin's warm.

You rest your hand over his where it sits on your stomach. His thumb traces a lazy circle just under your ribs, like he’s mapping out the shape of you in his mind.

“I used to sit like this back home,” he says after a while, voice soft. “Not on a fire escape, obviously. We had a roof. And a swing. My dad always left it out a little too long, so in the summer it was warm to the touch by the time I got to it.”

You hum, eyes slipping closed.

“He used to say it was good for me. Sunlight. Said I always looked like a weed after a storm when I stayed inside too long. Pale and strung out and grumpy.”

“Grumpy?” you smile, turning your face a little to glance at him. “You?”

“Oh yeah,” he grins. “Pouty little farm boy, hair sticking up, refusing to eat my vegetables unless they were corn.”

“Let me guess,” you say. “Martha snuck green beans into casseroles when you weren’t looking.”

He makes a pleased noise. “Bingo. Said it was her secret weapon for keeping me out of trouble.”

“That and the swing?”

“That and the swing.”

You settle again, your cheek to his shoulder, the metal warm beneath your thighs. You wonder if this is what he felt like, back then—sitting outside in the golden quiet, the weight of the sky pressing gentle on his shoulders, like a blanket he didn’t know he needed.

“Isn’t it a beautiful day?” he says suddenly, like it just occurred to him.

And it is.

But it would’ve been, anyway.

You twist slightly, enough to catch the line of his jaw, the slope of his nose. He’s not glowing. Not exactly. But something in him is bright.

And you—you love him so goddamn fiercely in that moment it feels like your ribs might crack from the inside. Like your heart is blooming against them, stubborn and wild and wholly his.

You lace your fingers with his where they’re still resting against your chest. His grip tightens. Not possessive. Just… sure.

He’s quiet a long time.

Then, like he’s been trying to time it right: “I love you.”

Just that.

Just the words, tucked into your collarbone. No fanfare. No build. Just truth. It roots into you like sunlight in soil. You don’t speak for a long moment, trying to get your lungs to work again. Your body. Everything else. Because it’s a simple sentence, but it feels like something tectonic and holy.

Eventually, you turn, slow and sure.

“I love you too.”

His head drops forward until his forehead presses to yours. You feel him exhale, shaky but smiling.

“I kept trying to find the right time,” he says. “I didn’t want it to feel like… I don’t know. A checkpoint. Like I had to say it because it was next on the list.”

You smile, thumb still brushing his skin. “So you went with the middle of the fire escape, during golden hour, while I’m in your hoodie and haven’t showered since last night?”

He shrugs. “Yeah. Felt right.”

You sit like that for a while, sun on your skin, his breath on your neck. The world feels quieter with him this close. Still.

Eventually, when the light starts to dip low, painting the fire escape in rust and gold, you shift to get up.

He doesn’t let go. Not immediately. His hands stay at your waist, his fingers patient where they rest at your sides. Anchoring you.

“You look good in this light,” you murmur. “Like—too good. It’s kind of rude, honestly.”

He huffs a laugh. “Yeah?”

You nod. “Like you belong in it.”

He looks at you for a long moment, something intimate and private in his eyes.

Then, “You’re not wrong.”

You tilt your head. “What, that you photosynthesize?”

But he just shakes his head, slow.

“No. Just… I think it’s you,” he says, almost like he’s surprising himself. “You make everything brighter.”

And it’s stupid, and it’s a little embarrassing, and you kiss him anyway. Because he’s warm and real and saying the kind of thing that would make anyone else roll their eyes—but with him, it just lands.

Tastes like the last light of the day and something sweet and earthy beneath it. Like coming home.

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