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violentdeliiights · 2 days ago

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(Poly fae 141 x unseelie queen reader. cw: abusive relationship (inclues reader but not the 141, not graphic))

The Seelie palace grew out of the silverwood like a promise that refused to age.

Towers of milk-stone braided with vines of living light climbed into a sky the color of ground pearl. At dawn the halls were washed in rose, at noon in precious gold, at evening in blue so deep the windows behaved like lakes. The courtiers called it perfection and their laughter rang like chimes across galleries hung with sun-caught tapestries. They smelled of nectar, stale triumph, and cruelty too old to recognize itself in a mirror.

You were the lone unseelie fae amidst a kingdom of light. Shadows bled from your skin like whispers, no matter how carefully you dressed in silks spun from sunbeams or veiled your hair in chains of glass. The courtiers’ smiles were brittle, polite only in the way one greets something venomous they cannot quite banish. But the cruelest of all was your husband, the Seelie King himself.

You learned the corridors by their perfumes; orange blossom near the southern stairs, crushed mint where servants slipped, and night-blooming cereus along the Queen’s Gallery that everyone pretended you did not rule.

“Smile properly,” your husband would say when the court stared. “Our citizens do not wish to see winter on a summer throne.”

“I am smiling.” You would answer, smoothing pale silk over your knees. Your smile always made him laugh, for he wanted you to sparkle like something recently purchased, not settle like something ancient and true.

He had married you for spectacle: an Unseelie consort hung like a dark jewel in his bright diadem. To him, you were more a curiosity than you were a person.

He paraded you at banquets where musicians wore golden masks and the meat on the platters still breathed sweetness from enchanted orchards. He liked to stop at the mouth of feasting, hold you by the wrist, and make the court admire how their sunlight could balance a sliver of night. He told them you were reformed, civilized, rehabilitated by his mercy. He said it like keeping a hawk hooded and tied made the hawk love leather and its perch.

His laughter, ringing sweet for his subjects, turned sharp when it bent toward you, every word a needle. He mocked the way your shadows lengthened, the way mortals shied from your unearthly gaze, the way the moon always seemed to bend toward you, as though the night itself recognized kin. At feasts, he set you at his side yet starved you of dignity, cutting you down with barbed jests until the whole court giggled like sycophant birds.

“Your Majesty,” Captain Price would interject, always at the exact second your husband’s hand tightened and your bones creaked. “The northern levy awaits your word on the moon-tithe.”

“Mmm,” the king would say, releasing you so quickly you had to steady yourself. “Have they displeased me yet?”

Price, with his storm-weathered voice and patience that had seen too many winters, would tip his head a fraction. “Only by not hearing your wisdom sooner.”

Price had a talent for walking a sentence to the edge of a cliff and then turning around before anyone noticed the drop. He was your husband’s favored advisor because he never humiliated him, and he was your favorite because he never let the king humiliate you.

“Your smile is fine,” Simon told you once after the feast, when the drumline had marched away. He leaned in the shadow of an arch where candlelight refused to declare itself, and wore a mask from another war and a silence that felt like shelter rather than threat. “You don’t have to use it on me.”

“I know,” you said, letting your mouth rest. “It’s heavy when it’s not wanted.”

He tilted his head, the skull of fabric catching and then absorbing the light. “Do you want to go somewhere quieter, Queen?”

“Yes.” You said, and he walked with you down the servants’ stairs to the kitchen garden where night moths stitched pale cursive across the lavender and the lanterns didn’t insist you were pretty in the proper way.

Soap always found you afterward, smelling like gun oil and oranges stolen from a bowl. He could not stop bringing you small championship prizes: pearls that rolled like moons in the hand, a pocket-watch that never kept time in the same direction twice, a velvet pear he’d “won” from a tree who had dared him to try. And often, a cup pressed into your palms when the king deliberately withheld one.

“You’ve got the best smile when you think no one’s watching, my Queen,” he told you one afternoon in the hawk mews. He stood with his arm outstretched, a hobby hawk stepping from leather to bone as if your wrist were its only true perch. “I can guard it for you if you like. Put it in my kit next to the spare fuses, eh?”

“You’d lose it with the rest, Johnny.” You said, laughing, and he grinned until you believed laughter could be a kind of armor you also could wear.

Gaz arrived at your side with a measure of quiet that sounded, when it broke, like honest water. He brought maps and a way of seeing the kingdom as something a person could walk, not just sing and dream about. He charted wind-hollows in the forests and the sweep of silver streams; he could tell you how long it took a mortal farmer to carry wheat to the market gate in heat and in rain, and how many shoelaces wore out on the way.

You loved him for it because it made the realm human, and you loved how soft humans were, all short and fragile lives.

“If the borders offend you,” he said once in your rose arbor, rolling out a vellum sheet that smelled faintly of wolf-bane and ink, “we can redraw them. Lines are lines because we’ve agreed to keep them. Agreements can be improved, Queen.”

You touched the point of his quill where it paused at the Unseelie line, a ragged hem of forest the court called a mistake and you longed to call home. “And if what I am offends them?”

“Then they are badly educated and wrong, and deserve to have their tongues cut for disrespecting my Queen.” Gaz said, and his eyes did not perform kindness. They simply were kind.

They were your husband’s advisors by oath. It should have meant that they were his hands, his eyes, his very will. It turned out to mean they knew the difference between oath and justice, and still chose you above both.

Your marriage had been an event too bright for comprehension, truthfully.

Two centuries ago, when a war between courts cracked the sky into a stain the mortals called eclipse, an Unseelie princess refused to let the rivers choke on ash. You crossed into Seelie light with your hands lifted and your teeth sheathed; you knit a bargain in the oldest language, the one that lives under every other- trade, heart, and winter for summer.

Your father died, your sisters chose exile, and your mother spat at the ground before she’d ever call you daughter again. Your husband accepted your hand like a prize, thus you wore the ring like iron sometimes and like freedom when you remembered what the bargain had bought: not his approval nor his love, but the fact that the rivers still ran clear.

In the Seelie court, your shadow lengthened at your back like a rumor. Children slipped blackberries into your palm; old men bowed and pretended it was because they had to, perfumed ladies watched for you to break into teeth, and the king made you into long jokes. He liked to say he had domesticated a thunderstorm, now kept like a bottle on his desk.

Then the border murmurs began.

At the edge of the kingdom the silverwood leaned against the Unseelie wild, bark against bark, a press old as the first clap of frost. Hunters came back with stories of glamours gone thin, of stag tracks walking in circles, of will-o’-wisps burning in colors wrong for joy. Price brought these reports to the king with maps and the weight of his voice. The king, a citadel of himself, listened and laughed.

“The wild does not trouble me,” he declared in the glass hall, his reflection multiplying him into an army you could not escape. Last night, he’d slapped you so hard your head had rung with your empty vows for hours. “I trouble it. Prepare a hunt. I’ll teach it manners.”

“You’ll teach it a route, my King,” Gaz said gently afterward in the war room. He was drawing lines through the forest paths while Soap tried not to juggle a wax seal and Ghost pretended the candle flames had confided something to him- certainly far more important than anything the King had to say. Price was silent as death, eyes closed. “If you go in shouting, everything that dislikes you will know where to aim.”

“It’s not in his vocabulary, quiet,” Price murmured, once the King was gone. He glanced at you without making it a performance. “But we can flank the vocabulary. For you, always for you, Queen.”

The hunt thus left at moonrise.

Trumpets chewed the air. The king’s cloak was a flood of cloth. He had already chosen the story; he just needed the forest to obey. You stood on the marble steps in your night-silver gown and told yourself you were grateful he did not ask you to ride at his side. His last look over his shoulder was not to you, but rather was to the mirrored hall that held all his favorite versions of himself.

“Be safe, please.” You said to Price as he tugged his gloves, perfumed with your favorite crushed flowers. You said it to each of them, your palm a brief press over leather and gauntlet and bracer. Your words went into their bones like warmth.

“We’ll bring him home.” Price promised, steady as weather, in front of everyone’s eyes.

Ghost nodded once as well, the kind of vow no one else recognized as a vow, and his shadow slipped ahead as if to scout the dark itself.

Gaz, eyes like flint struck in a hearth, tapped the rolled maps against his thigh. “I know the path where nothing sings.”

Soap, with an irreverent kiss to your knuckles, grinned crooked and fearless even as the King’s face darkened. “I’ll race the sunrise itself back. Save me a sweet.”

The dawn that returned did not return the king, however.

The court’s hall sounded like a flock torn apart. You stood on the dais while the advisors came through the doors in a line that told you more truth than words. Price first, posture straight as if the structure of the room needed borrowing. Gaz behind him, carrying his maps rolled tight as a wound. Soap walking so carefully it frightened you more than blood would have. Ghost at the last, his silence wrapped around them like a cloak.

“The king fell,” Price said, voice even against grief not his own. “A snarl of old roots took the ground beneath his horse. He struck his head. We tried. He died with no pain.”

The courtiers burst into more sound- shock, relief badly disguised as outrage, a kind of small-boned panic flapping in place. You placed your hand on the throne’s arm and felt the pulse of the realm accept your skin.

Law is not love. It’s a structure. It had always been waiting for weight that would not shatter.

By marriage, by the bargains sealed under eclipse, by the oldest phrases carved on stone you could not lift, you were now sovereign. When the court looked at you to protest, they found Price’s gaze. When they turned to hiss, they discovered Ghost’s presence like a winter wall at their backs. Soap smiled like he had never been afraid of anything, and somehow no one wanted to test that. Gaz said, calmly, that the law bound the light as firmly as it bound the dark, and even the king had never dared argue with the shape of old words.

You took the crown that day and it fit, mich to your surprise. You had expected a burn at the very least, but no such things happened, and It settled like something that remembered your head from a previous life.

Your reign did not burn so much as it grew.

You brought moon-market sellers in from the shadows and set rates that didn’t strip their knuckles. You opened the palace’s eastern gate to the wild and let the deer graze the queen’s meadows until the grass understood it should grow the way it had been designed to. You let Unseelie and Seelie creatures trade names in the court until the names recognized each other. The river, which had run clear because you had paid for it, laughed at last in a sound you had always wanted to hear.

At your side, your advisors never receded. Price learned the etiquette of the old Unseelie groves and taught the old groves to accept an officer’s patience. Ghost became very good at speaking to the palace’s oldest doors; they liked him because he never lied to them. Soap trained the royal guard to fight as if they loved what they defended, not as if they feared punishment. Gaz redrew the maps and the kingdom softened its edges in response.

There were nights when strategy ended and devotion began: the four of them wrapped around you in the private rooms that had once been cold, and you told stories in a heap of velvet and leather and wool, your crown in its box like a sleeping hawk, and the window cracked so the night could breathe with you. They touched you like a thing both holy and human, and asked for nothing you did not want to give. They called you by a name you didn’t realize you had kept hidden until their mouths shaped it.

Power has many forms; one auch power is being known without being consumed.

“Read to me.” you asked softly one night, and John found the oldest account books because he knew it calmed you to make sense of what had once been senseless. He read columns about salt and candles until his voice turned husk and honey, and then he kissed your brow until the weight of him was more familiar than any pain on your shoulders.

“Tell me a secret.” You asked Ghost another, and he gave you a word in a language that meant both ‘path’ and ‘choice’. He said it was useful because the world always wanted you to pretend those were separate, but you were both fae and far too clever for the tricks the world liked to play.

“Take me flying,” you told Soap, and he laughed, and you climbed the west tower to the griffin eyrie and returned with your hair rigged with wind.

“Show me where the world breaks and mends.” you asked Gaz, and he laid the maps flat and pointed to every seam. You put your fingers on each one until you could feel them through the paper, a pulse of place you had promised to keep alive.

Time moved: mourning rituals were performed for a husband you had never been allowed to grieve, and the bards composed epics about hubris and roots that had learned to grasp. The court, relieved to be asked for dignity instead of constant applause, pretended it had always wanted this.

On the winter solstice, you held a private vigil because the old words said queens must greet the longest night with their own mouths. The fire cracked like bones made of sugar.

Price poured tea that tasted like smoke caught in honey while Simon sat with his back to the hearth, a shape of patience with a blade’s attention. Soap sprawled on a settee stitching a torn falconer’s glove with a patient care that made his wrists into a prayer and Gaz worked a puzzle of ivory and iron, fitting pieces until they made a city that could survive a flood.

“I like this kettle,” You said to Price, watching steam curl the way a fox’s tail does. “It pours as if gravity is a suggestion rather than the law. It reminds me, strangely, of a mortal book. Something with Wonderlands and painted roses.”

“I had the smith weight the handle,” he said, subtly smug in the way only he can. “Balance is not magic. It’s craft. And I have no idea what book you are talking about, Queen.”

“It can be both. you said, and let your hand settle on his, ring against knuckle. It was an innocent sentence. No one could have argued with it. You smiled, then, the honest smile, and no one asked to see it again because they already had and already cherished it.

Authorless stories like to say the king died by chance. In the weeks after solstice, chance turned itself over like a coin on your palm and showed you the other face, and a memory slipped its pins free. It was small and domestic, and it was nothing like a war report or a confession.

In spring, long before the hunt, you had asked Soap to teach you pruning to escape the harsh gaze of your husband even if it was for a few hours. You had stood with him in the royal orchards on a bright morning and took the gardening knife like a lady takes a fan. He told you where to cut so the tree would spend its strength in fruit rather than fuss.

“Here,” he said, guiding your hand from behind, the knife kissing a branch where the bark cupped a bud. “You make a clean angle and the rain slides away. No rot and less shock.”

“It looks cruel.” You said quietly, and the branch fell like a soft sigh.

“It looks like choosing,” Soap replied, and you nodded and learned the pattern. You pruned with elegance and left no ragged edges. The trees loved you for it and the kitchen girls swore the pears glowed.

In summer, you had asked Gaz to help you move lanterns along the eastern footpaths. “For the moon-moths.” You had said, and it was true enough; they came in a flood of pale wings when you were done. He measured the distances precisely with his thumb against the map and paced them out under the stars. You hung silk shades that turned the light gentle, and path looked like a necklace laid across the forest’s throat.

In early autumn, you had asked Ghost to show you a simple binding knot. “I want to secure my veil when the wind rises, with my own hands rather than the maid’s.” You had told him, and he took your veil in his gloved hands and showed you how to loop and pull and tuck. He watched your fingers learn until they were quicker than his. You laughed when he admitted you were better, and then you taught the knot to the ladies who tied ribbons into their children’s hair.

In late autumn, when the king announced his hunt, you went to Price in the war room and asked about routes. “Not for him,” you said. “For the kitchen carts. The old road puddles. The wheel ruts deepen when the weather turns.”

John, who cared about carts because they carried bread and bread carried people, redrew that path and sighed. “We’ll take the long one through the silverwood this week,” he decided, scratching in the change on parchment. “It will spare the axles and the teamsters’ spines.”

You thanked him as if you had not known exactly which branch of road that meant.

None of it was a plot, moon forbid, not in the shape of tales where villains twist their mustaches and string skulls like beads.

You held a pruning knife and moved lanterns and learned a knot and praised a cart path. You made tea and you listened. You asked that no horns sound at night because the wren fledglings were late and the court had already broken one nest with too much applause. Innocence, strung like bells along a ribbon a child could have braided.

The forest remembered you in the way forests do- by alteration. The lanterns drew the moths, and the moths drew the owls, and the owls moved the mice, and the mice burrowed where the old roots loosened, and the loosened root made a snag under a particular stretch of leaf-mold where hooves could catch. The cart route took the kitchen train away from the trail the king preferred because he liked his meat steaming and his triumphs witnessed twice. The knot tied beautifully, stronger than it looked, and it held where a panicked mount’s tack failed so that when the animal reared, the bit did not give, and a neck arched too hard and too far.

When Price told the court the king fell, he was not lying. When Gaz rolled up the maps and looked at you, there was nothing in his eyes but a whole life of soldiering pinned to duty. When Soap stitched leather by the fire, his hands did not shake. When Ghost stood between your throne and the whispering courtiers, no blade had to be drawn.

You never touched the king. You only touched everything else.

Now, the night after solstice, with the tea sweet and the hearth audibly content, you sat among the four men who had been oath and shelter and mirror and home.

“Do you remember,” you asked, and the four of them looked up because the way you said it gave the words a drawer in which to rest, “when we moved the lanterns last summer?”

“Aye,” Soap said, bright as the sun. “The moths turned the air to lace.”

“And we kept the kitchen carts out of the puddles,” John added. He set down the kettle as if it had become heavier than copper. “Good call, that.”

“The old road would have cracked a wheel,” Gaz agreed. He nudged a puzzle piece into place and smiled when the city in miniature locked together. “I met a baker who didn’t have to carry flour on her back that week.”

“And the knot?” you asked Ghost, and his masked gaze touched your hands then your throat then your hair in a sequence that did not look like a sequence until it had finished. “The one for windy nights.”

“It’s a pretty knot,” he said. “It keeps what it holds.”

You leaned back. The fire had settled to coals and they pulsed like the breath of a sleeping creature. Your crown rested in its box on the table, the velvet dented from wear. You closed your eyes and you smiled in the way Soap had said was your real one. The room was so safe you could hear the winter outside complaining to itself and crooning to you.

“Thank you,” you said, and the two words were so gentle they did not land until after they had been spoken. “For keeping him safe as long as you could. For bringing him home. For tending the orchard. For moving the lights. For tying my veil.”

No one moved for a few heartbeats. Then they moved like people who know how to keep balance on tilting decks: John reached for your hand and did not squeeze it, and Ghost’s head tipped, distance shifting infinitesimally. Soap’s needle paused in leather mid-stitch, the thread drawing a taut line that trembled and then stilled, while Gaz’s finger hovered above the last piece of the flood-city, not placing it yet, not quite yet.

“You gave the orders,” John said finally, and his tone made it sound like a benediction instead of an accusation. “Quiet ones and Old ones. Wiser than horns and men with horns.”

“I never ordered any man to kill a king,” you answered, opening your eyes. The truth, as old as any forest, sat down beside the fire like a fifth companion. “I only asked you to help me keep a garden.”

Ghost’s breath made the mask shift a fraction. Soap exhaled a soft laugh that wasn’t laughter at all, and Gaz put the last piece of the city in and it fit with a click you felt in your spine.

“Gardens have rules,” Gaz said, softly, as if he were speaking to the puzzle rather than to you. “We only followed them.”

“And rot spreads,” Soap added, finishing the stitch, his hands very careful. “You cut it before it takes the rest.”

“Balance is craft,” Price murmured, reaching for the kettle to pour you more tea that had been empty for ten minutes. He did not spill a drop. “And sometimes magic.”

Ghost’s gloved thumb brushed your wrist where the pulse lived. “It was a pretty knot.” He repeated, once, as if repeating it untied and retied the world.

You set your teacup down without ringing porcelain against porcelain. The sound would have been small and it might have woken nothing. You watched the glow on the crown’s velvet and saw not jewels, but moths.

The story, the one bards would sing, would remain simple, and the courtiers would always prefer it that way. A king went into a wood he thought he owned; a root he did not see reached up to take what it was owed; four loyal advisors did all a person could do and could not out-argue gravity; a widow wept with dignity and taught a court to be better than it had been pretending for a very long time.

Another story would live beneath it like the mycelium under a meadow- the true architecture that fed everything above:

A queen tended a realm, asked for small mercies that became large inevitabilities, drew moths to light, moved carts from ruts, tied wind from hair, learned how trees breathe, and reminded men that orders do not always sound like war. Her beloveds listened because they had learned to hear old languages, and she spoke the oldest: love. She never touched the king, but she held the knife and she kept the lanterns and she pulled the knot snug.

When you rose at last to bank the fire, the four of them stood with you.

Price lifted the crown box and closed it gently, then Ghost ushered the shadows into their corners as if they were dogs and it was time for sleep. Soap wrapped the mended glove around your hand and kissed your knuckles with a flourish that would have made a crowd cheer if a crowd had been permitted this private room. Gaz rolled his maps and did not need to look at them to know where the paths led.

“Shall I post the guard on the eastern walk?” Price asked, as he always did, because habit becomes ritual and ritual becomes the way a world stays standing.

“Let them rest,” you said, and your voice made the winter outside lean its ear to the stone. “There is nothing there tonight that wishes us harm.”

It was an innocent sentence. The hearth glowed, your lovers smiled, the palace breathed. Somewhere beyond the walls the lanterns held a steady, quiet light, and the moths wrote their soft living script across the darkness, spelling the shape of a kingdom that had finally learned its better story.

Only later, perhaps years from now, perhaps in a sudden midnight clarity, would a listener assemble all of it- the pruning, the lanterns, the knot, the road- and feel their heart give a small, amazed jolt at what a garden truly is when the gardener knows what she is doing.

They would understand that a queen did not plan a death the way villains do. She curated it the way a conductor leads a symphony, baton never touching a single instrument. It would still be beautiful then, and it would be horrible too, and that, you had learned at the edge of two courts and two kinds of day, is what it means to reign.

It is what it means to be Queen.

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violentdeliiights · 6 days ago

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(poly werewolves 141 x female human reader || part one)

The forest had a rhythm to it.

Not one of ticking clocks or hours counted on a calendar, but a living rhythm- crows taking wing at dawn, the hush of deer at the river come twilight, the cicadas sawing the silence into ribbons each dusk.

You had lived long enough in your solitude to learn that rhythm as if it were your own pulse; it told you when the seasons turned, when the rains would come, when the bears would lumber down from the higher ridges.

And now, it told you this: you were no longer alone.

Not alone in the way of creatures and their breath in the dark. That, you had already grown used to. It had been weeks since the night of blood and storm, since four shadows had collapsed on your porch and vanished again like wraiths. Weeks since your quiet life had been rewritten with the subtle signs of guardianship- the gifts left on your steps, the predator tracks cut short by heavier, sharper prints circling yours, the strange hush that fell upon the clearing as though the forest itself bowed to some unspoken command you weren’t privy to learn just yet.

This was different.

It began with smoke: not yours, but a thin, rising thread of it curling from the tree line across the lake. The abandoned cottage there had stood for years, sagging into the earth, its roof bowed, its hearth gone cold. You had passed it once in your first spring here, peered into its hollow frame and decided it was a place ghosts might linger and one you’d not waste time on.

But one crisp morning, you looked up from your own chopping block and saw smoke rising from that chimney, steady and sure. Not ghosts, then. Neighbors.

You almost laughed aloud at the absurdity of it. Neighbors. Out here, where the road gave way to little more than deer tracks, where storms cut power for days and the forest demanded a kind of loyalty from those who dared live in it. Few came this far. Fewer stayed, and the closest civilization was the village more than a few miles away.

And yet, the very next week, you saw them.

Four men, crossing the river path with lumber on their shoulders, voices a low rumble of camaraderie. They moved like soldiers: even in their quiet, you recognized the familiar cadence of it. Broad-shouldered, scarred in places they did not bother to hide, eyes sharper than any civilian’s had right to be. You stood at the edge of your garden with your cane, watching from beneath the brim of your hat as they passed.

They raised hands in greeting. Not intrusive, not prying. Just a neighbor’s courtesy.

“Morning,” the one wearing a cap said, polite and friendly.

You returned the nod, though your throat felt thick. Morning.

And then they were gone, melting into the forest trail with their burden of timber.

It should have ended there; A curiosity, an oddity you would eventually grow used to, the way one grows used to a raven’s nest high in the eaves. But it didn’t end, because you noticed the rhythm shift again.

One night, when the coyotes returned, you woke to find your porch lamp already lit, its flame burning steady in the storm winds. You had not lit it. And in the woods beyond, instead of growls, you thought you heard the heavy tread of boots driving the animals off.

Another morning, your cane slipped from your hand as you struggled with a basket by the river. Before you could stoop to fetch it, one of the new men appeared on the path, his russet-colored sweater catching the light, eyes gleaming. He bent and handed the cane back with a grin quick as a flame, gaze bright and unreadable. “Careful there, Miss. Slippery ground.” His voice was warm and careful as honey, and he vanished again before you could properly thank him.

And yet another time, as dusk bled into the forest, you froze on your porch when a bear lumbered near the treeline. You were reaching for your gun when you saw movement from the corner of your eye.

A pale shape- no, a man this time- standing just beyond your garden’s edge. He didn’t shout, didn’t wave his arms. He only stood, utterly still, eyes fixed on the animal. And somehow, impossibly, the bear huffed, turned, and wandered off, as though cowed by something larger than it could name.

When you blinked, the man was gone before you could thank him.

They eventually introduced themselves to you proper, of course. John Price, Kyle Garrick, Simon (just Simon), and Johnny MacTavish. Normal names. Names no one in the village had, so they couldn’t be related to anyone there. They gave them easily, with the kind of ease soldiers had when lying about where they’d been stationed or what unit they’d served in- it wasn’t so much dishonesty as a well-worn habit of keeping the truth folded deep.

You offered your own name, a little stiffly, though your voice warmed when Johnny tilted his head, smile bright enough to catch in the lamplight.

“Bonnie name for a bonnie lass.” He’d said, syllables lilting. His eyes crinkled at the corners, and you found yourself looking away too quickly, unsettled by how closely he looked when he said it.

John had only given you a slow nod, his pipe stem caught between his teeth, smoke curling from the corner of his mouth. Simon- towering, quiet, eyes like bruised steel- didn’t say much at all, only let his gaze sweep across your porch as if assessing its defenses. Kyle had been the first to offer a hand, warm and calloused, his grin kind, his touch gentle and firm.

It should have ended there, polite words shared over a fence-line, the sort of introduction that fades back into distance.

But it didn’t: you began to notice them even in the smallest corners of your life, even after those previous few instances.

Once, when you walked to the cottage after a trip to the village with a pack too heavy for your frame, you found yourself flagging by the first step of your porch. The weight dragged your bad leg nearly to buckling.

Before you could curse the ache in your thigh, the strap lightened- lifted clean from your shoulder. Kyle had taken it without asking, carrying the burden as if it weighed nothing at all.

“You should’ve called for one of us,” he said, his tone almost scolding, though softened by his smile. “Could’ve saved you the trouble.”

“I didn’t know I was supposed to.” You replied, half defensive, half annoyed by the pack, the fall, and the ache in your leg.

His answering smile was gentle and so pretty you wanted to look away, boyish in a way that contrasted with the scars along his jaw. “Supposed to? Maybe not. But next time, eh? You’ve got four big men around, we’d carry anything you asked for.”

He didn’t give the pack back until you were safely at your door, and even then he dropped it on your table and only then left.

Another evening, you lingered in the garden, tending to the last stubborn shoots of late summer. Your hands were deep in the soil when you realized you weren’t alone: Simon stood just beyond the fence, arms folded, shadow long across the tilled earth, a balaclava on his face.

You startled, dropping the trowel. “Holy shit, I didn’t hear you.”

“You weren’t meant to,” he answered simply, voice deep enough that it seemed to stir the very air. Then he climbed over the fence, and knelt beside you. “Let me help.”

You frowned, brushing dirt from your palms. “…. Why are you here?”

His eyes moved- slow, deliberate- across the treeline, then back to you. “Because you’re out here.”

He didn’t explain further and didn’t step closer. But something in the words lingered in your chest, heavy and oddly steadying. He remained until you finally rose, cane in hand, and went inside.

Only then did his shadow slip away into the dusk.

John was more deliberate in his approach, but quieter too, woven into habits you didn’t notice until later: your woodpile, once dwindling faster than you liked, seemed replenished each week with neat stacks of logs you didn’t recall chopping. Your fence rail, loose and wobbling, had been reinforced with fresh nails one morning before you woke.

You caught him once, pipe smoke curling through the mist as he set down an axe (deliciously bare-chested, though you didn’t let yourself focus on that for now).

“John, you don’t need to-“ you began, bristling at the thought of being pitied like this.

He cut you off with a steady look, his voice calm but edged. “A storm’s coming, and I hate having nothing to do, doll. Let me do this for you.”

There was no mockery in his tone. Just fact and just care wrapped in command.

And when he walked past you to the gate, boots crunching against frost, he paused just long enough to murmur, “You shouldn’t be doing it alone, anyhow.”

Johnny was the opposite of John’s steady gravity. He was the fire you kept roaring in your fireplace during winter- restless, bright, and impossible to ignore. He turned up most often in the in-between hours, whistling as he carried back game from the woods, or lounging on your porch rail as if it were his own.

“Dinnae like the way that trap was sittin’,” he remarked once, nodding toward the line of your snares along the brush. “Let me change ‘em for ye, lass. Or add more.”

“I’ve been setting those for years.” You replied, defensive and unimpressed.

“Aye, and maybe I’ve got sharper eyes.” He winked, grin flashing quick. “Humor me, hen. No harm in letting me take a look.”

And somehow, by the end of it, you’d let him place new snares, his broad hands surprisingly delicate with the wire. You told yourself it was easier than arguing, but the warmth in your chest when he looked up, face flushed with exertion, said otherwise.

There were subtler things too. Things you couldn’t explain: when you once left food cooling on the windowsill overnight, you woke to find no scavengers had touched it, though the forest was full of them.

When you walked the river trail, you sometimes caught the smell of woodsmoke and earth that wasn’t your own, and felt the hair on your arms rise as though someone padded just beyond sight.

And in the coldest nights, when your pain kept you awake and the silence pressed too close, you sometimes swore you heard it: the long, low timbre of a howl rolling down from the ridges. Not threatening and not mournful, but something as deep as the forest itself. Claiming.

It should have frightened you.

You fell asleep without clutching your gun.

Bit by bit, you softened toward them: At first, it was in the way you didn’t chase them off when you found them mending something around your homestead. Later, it was in the way you let Kyle carry heavy things without argument, or let Johnny sit on your porch and chatter until the stars came out, or let Simon stand in the dark corners of your garden without demanding he explain himself.

And with John, it was in the way you eventually set two mugs on the table instead of one when you brewed tea on colder mornings- never asking if he’d stay, but always finding the second cup drained when you returned from the stove and found new chopped wood.

They were men, yes. But they were something else too, something you hadn’t yet named. Their movements were too fluid, too sure-footed, their eyes too sharp when they caught the light. They carried the forest with them, as if it bowed to their passage.

And sometimes, when you looked too closely, you thought you saw it: a shadow of fangs when Johnny grinned too wide; a glimmer like molten gold in Simon’s eyes when the moon was high; the twitch of John’s shoulders, as though his body itched to shake free of its human shackles; the way Kyle sniffed the air, subtle, like scent was as telling as sight, and accirately told you whethere it’d rain or not.

Subtle signs and little truths you kept tucking away, telling yourself they were tricks of light and fancy- but you knew the rhythm of the forest better than anyone.

And the forest whispered back to you, clear as bone and blood:

These men are not just men, and perhaps peace did not shatter.

Perhaps it only changed shape.

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violentdeliiights · 6 days ago

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#baby damian🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹#my shaylasss

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violentdeliiights · 6 days ago

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: ̗̀➛ Superman's twin

ㅤㅤ ㅤ ₊✩ˎˊ˗ clark kent x reader

synopsis : Alcohol gives you the courage to finally talk to the hot stranger at the bar, the one you’ve been eyeing every time you came here. What could possibly go wrong?

cw : fluff, suggestive content, alcohol, chubby reader. (david!clark kent) words : 4k

ㅤㅤ ㅤ masterlist ⋆ ao3

"You should do it," your friend Lucie said.

If you were in this bar to begin with, it was her fault. She was getting married in a couple of weeks and wanted to celebrate as much as she could with her friends. After the wedding, she and her wife were moving out of Metropolis to Evergreen for her wife’s new job.

So every weekend lately felt like a bachelorette party, and you were always invited.

"Do what?" you mumbled, drunk and barely tracking the conversation.

"Go talk to the guy you've been eye-fucking all night!" she giggled, making the rest of your friends laugh with her.

"What guy?" you asked, trying to sound innocent. You thought you were pulling it off, but you definitely weren’t.

"The one who looks like Superman!" Jenny yelled, just as tipsy as you.

And, well… she wasn’t wrong.

The guy you’d been staring at was probably the hottest man you'd ever seen in your entire life. Tall, broad-shouldered, soft-eyed. His glasses gave him a nerdy charm, but everything else about him, especially that body, told a very different story.

It wasn’t the first time you’d noticed him. The more often you came to this bar, the more familiar his little group became. There was a shorter but still cute blond guy, a stunning bleach-blonde woman, a mesmerizing dark-haired woman, and him.

Just like you and your friends, they seemed to be here most weekends.

For at least the last three weekends, you’d been watching them, especially him. It wasn’t like you were ever going to do anything about it. You never did. But you liked to watch him from afar, a quiet, harmless ritual.

Snorting, you turned away from eyeing them yet again and faced your friends. “You know what? He kinda does look like Superman…” you muttered, almost to yourself, then added quickly, “Just another reason why I shouldn’t shoot my shot.”

That shut down the chatter among your friends. It wasn’t a new thing, you putting yourself down. They were used to it. Not that they appreciated it.

“Oh, stop it!” Claire snapped. “He looks strong enough to manhandle you straight into heaven. Men like him? They love their women thick, girl. I would know.” She laughed, unapologetic.

Another truth.

Claire was a big girl, not that she was hiding it. She owned every inch of herself. And her boyfriend? A sweet, nerdy soul who adored her, fat and all. He was gentle to the core, tall and lanky, always looking at her like she hung the stars.

Claire had always said men like Justin were lovers before anything else.

“He looks like a lost puppy most of the time, but I just know he’d rock your world,” Claire added pointing at the stranger, taking another sip of her cocktail. Will. Like she knew it was inevitable. Like it was already written.

Looking back at the hot stranger, you noticed he was smirking. Your eyes couldn’t seem to leave his dimpled lips alone, and your brain, traitorous as ever, was already conjuring up foul scenarios where his mouth was doing anything but smiling.

You shook your head quickly and turned back to your friends for what felt like the hundredth time tonight. If you’d waited just one second longer, you would’ve met his gaze, he glanced your way, right as you looked away.

“It’s just… he’s out of my league,” you muttered with a shrug, hoping, begging, they’d drop the subject.

All your friends sighed at the same time, but thankfully, they dropped the subject, sober enough to notice you were starting to get uncomfortable.

Truth be told, you weren’t even that fat. Chubby was probably the more accurate word. But some terrible experiences in your past had altered the way you saw yourself. Made you question your worth. Your appearance. Everything.

Your friends had always been there, catching you before you spiralled too far, stopping you from slipping into unhealthy patterns with food or the gym. You owed them more than you could say.

Still, you struggled to believe people could find you attractive. You hadn’t grown up with that kind of validation, and since moving here, most of the men you’d encountered had been… well, bastards, to put it mildly.

And now, your friends wanted you to go talk to a man who looked like he could play a Greek god in a movie. Of course they insisted you were just in denial about your own beauty, but they clearly didn’t grasp just how hot that man was.

You couldn’t really blame them. Out of the six of you, only you and Claire weren’t lesbians. And the handsome stranger was way outside of Claire’s type. She liked, in her own words, “skinny boys with sad eyes.”

So, you did what you all came to do—talked, laughed, danced, and drank. Way too much. Way more than any of the other nights you’d been here. You weren’t even sure why. Maybe it was the energy. Maybe it was Lucie’s countdown to married life. Or maybe it was the unnerving way the stranger’s eyes had brushed past you a few more times than coincidence allowed.

Everyone had paid for a round of shots. Everyone had at least two cocktails. And the bartender, clearly trying to charm a group of mostly lesbians, had given your table two rounds of free shots.

You were wasted. Utterly wasted. And that meant your eyes kept drifting across the bar, to him. Always to him.

Apparently, his friends had the same chaotic energy as yours, because they were now on stage, screaming, well, attempting to sing, Firework by Katy Perry. To your drunken self, they were the best band you’d ever heard. To everyone sober in the bar, it was a train wreck in real time.

Seeing him alone at his table, head in his hands, a small smile tugging at his lips as he watched his friends, did something to you. Your body was already warm and fuzzy from the alcohol, and you couldn’t really say what took over you.

One second, you were sitting with your friends, half-listening to a conversation you couldn’t even follow. The next, you were on your feet, weaving through the crowd on wobbly legs, heading straight for the handsome stranger.

The moment you stood, his eyes left his friends and landed on you. It was immediate, like gravity, and it made your heart skip a beat.

His gaze was gentle, not lingering anywhere inappropriate, but still taking you in with quiet appreciation. A soft smile played at his lips. It almost felt like he’d been waiting for you.

Before you reached him, you glanced back at your friends and flashed them two thumbs up in what you thought was a slick, covert move. It wasn’t. The stranger saw it, plain as day, and let out a quiet, amused laugh.

“Hello,” you said as you stopped at his table. You didn’t sit down right away, not wanting to intrude if he preferred to be alone.

“Hello, Miss,” he replied in a deep voice. His smile was gentle and kind, so different from the usual smiles men gave you.

“You know… you could be Superman's twin?,” you slurred, the alcohol finally catching up with you.

He was even more handsome up close. From here, you could see the faint ghost of his dimples, the softness in his eyes, and the unruly mess of his hair. His shoulders seemed even broader at this distance, and the glass in his hand looked almost comically small. Without meaning to, your thighs pressed together at the realization.

“Yeah, I’ve been told,” he laughed—with you, not at you.

You were more lost in looking at him than in functioning properly. The alcohol still swam in your veins, muddling your thoughts, made worse under the weight of his watchful eyes.

“Do you want to sit down?” he asked gently, pulling out a chair for you.

Something unlocked inside you. The moment you sat, you forgot all about your friends, your shyness, and the belief that he was far out of your league. He was so interesting, the conversation flowed effortlessly, and he really listened to you.

Even when you were certain you weren’t making any sense, especially after ordering more drinks, he stayed attentive. Deep down, you knew you wouldn’t be able to keep this nonchalance if sobriety ever caught up with you.

Clark—that was his name—was, without question, the most attractive and kind man you had ever met. Between every drink, he gently slid a glass of water toward you. He didn’t seem the least bit drunk, but then again, you weren’t sure you trusted your own judgment.

At some point during your conversation, your friends came over to collect you. You threw a little tantrum, refusing to leave with them. Deep down, you knew you’d probably never see Clark again, and that when you thought back on this moment, you’d find it painfully embarrassing. But right now, you wanted to enjoy it while it lasted.

After a few minutes of back-and-forth, your friends finally gave in. Still, Lucie made sure to turn your location on, just in case the handsome Clark turned out to be less than perfect. “You might look like Superman, dude, but I don’t trust strangers,” she said, kissing your cheek before heading off.

As the conversation went on, his friends drifted by one after another to say their goodbyes. By the time the bar was closing, the two of you were the only ones left still talking. When the owner gently asked you to leave, Clark settled both his tab and yours, even though you’d insisted he didn’t have to.

Outside, the night air hit you all at once. The street blurred, the ground swayed beneath your feet. You had badly underestimated your drinking, and there was no denying it now : you were absolutely wasted.

Trying to order an Uber was a disaster, your fingers slipped against the screen, your eyes refusing to focus. Clark stood beside you, gently taking the phone from your hands, putting it in your bag—just after he had looked at your address.

You tried to concentrate on his lips as they moved, but the words slipped past you, blurred and repeating themselves. Even sober, you doubted you could have focused. All you could think about was how soft his mouth looked, how badly you longed to press yours against his.

Not thinking straight, you pushed yourself up, aiming for his lips. But the height difference was impossible to ignore, you realized you’d never reach him like this. In your drunken haze, the only solution your mind could come up with was simpler : you wrapped your arms around him instead.

“Oh,” you heard Clark say with a gentle laugh. His arms came around you, warm hands rubbing your back. “I’ll take you home, darling.”

Giggling like a schoolgirl, you nodded against his chest. Heat rushed to your cheeks. It had been so long since you’d felt this way about a man, and stranger still that this man was, in truth, almost a stranger.

The entire way back was a blur, a warm, hazy kind of blur. Clark didn’t seem to mind your clinginess in the least. You held his hand, clutched at his arm, even traced the lines of his bicep, and he never pulled away. Instead, he just kept talking, filling the walk with easy conversation : little anecdotes about the city, praises about random restaurants, nerdy trivia about Superman.

He knew a lot about him—suspiciously a lot. He’d said he’d interviewed Superman several times for work, which only made him sexier in your eyes. A sweet, nerdy journalist with broad shoulders and kind eyes.

Your absolute favourite kind of man : a himbo.

By the time you reached your place, you didn’t want the night to end. It felt so good, being seen, being appreciated by a man like Clark. He was a dream come true : handsome, intelligent, gentle, and kind.

Clinging to his arm, you walked toward the front door, only to stop abruptly. Your eyes met, finally level in the glow of the entry light. Your gaze drifted down to his lips, while his lingered on yours.

“You wanna come up?” you asked.

Or at least, you thought you did. The words tangled together, blurring into one another. Still, you turned back toward the door with the biggest smile on your face, feeling victorious even though he hadn’t said a single word.

Clark followed you up to your flat, steadying you with his hands as you climbed the stairs, afraid you might miss a step and fall. He couldn’t help but notice the darkness hanging over the building, the front door broken, the lock useless.

At your apartment door, his body went rigid, like a dog catching a sound you couldn’t hear. Maybe he had heard something. This wasn’t exactly the best part of Metropolis, but it was all you could afford. You, at least, had grown used to the background noises and didn’t pay them much mind.

Once inside, you slipped off your shoes while he lingered at the door, carefully studying each of your locks with sharp, deliberate eyes.

When he turned around, you tried to kiss him again. What you imagined as a graceful, soft leap was closer to a clumsy tackle, and Clark caught you easily in his arms. He turned his head just in time, so your lips brushed his cheek instead.

“Sweetheart…” he sighed, voice warm but steady, almost like a warning wrapped in kindness.

If you’d been sober, you would have drowned in embarrassment at being turned aside like this in your own home. But instead, you tried again, practically climbing him like a tree. His large hands settled firmly on your hips, not pushing, not harsh, but guiding you down with quiet insistence.

He didn’t seem the least bit bothered by your weight, which only fuelled the thought spinning in your hazy mind: maybe he did like you. But the way he held you, gentle, unyielding, made it just as clear he wasn’t going to let this go any further tonight.

Or at least, it was clear to him.

Giving up on prying you off, Clark simply shifted you more securely in his arms and started making his way through your apartment, as though he already knew where to go. It didn’t take him long to find your bedroom.

In the meantime, your head had dropped against his neck, your nose brushing softly against his skin as you were gently rocked by the rhythm of his steps. The walk from the front door to your room wasn’t far, but in your drunken state, sleep rushed in far too easily.

It should have been the opposite. Drunk, alone, bringing a stranger into your flat, your mind should have been wide awake, primed to fight or flee. But something about him was different. Soothing. Calm. Safe. It was too easy to trust him.

The moment your body met the mattress, sleep pulled you under without mercy. And the last thought that drifted through your mind before the darkness claimed you was how serial killers would have loved you.

Pounding.

Your head was pounding. Your mouth was dry, your stomach twisted, and you felt grimy all over. Opening your eyes was a nightmare, the sunlight streaming through the window stabbed straight into them.

When you finally managed to keep them open without burning, you dragged yourself into the bathroom. The dress from last night hit the floor, and you turned on the shower. A good, cold rinse might work miracles.

It did, just a little. Out of the shower, you caught your reflection in the mirror. You were a wreck. Hair wild, mascara and eyeliner smeared like bruises around your eyes, your skin paler than usual. The lack of sleep and the leftover alcohol left you looking half-dead.

On instinct, you gulped water straight from the tap before brushing your teeth, desperate to wash the taste of alcohol from your mouth. Dressed in an old oversized football shirt of your brother’s and a pair of panties, you shuffled toward the kitchen, nowhere near ready to face the day.

The plan was simple : grab some breakfast, then crawl back into bed and sleep off the rest of the world.

What you hadn’t expected was Clark, standing in the middle of your kitchen, gently whistling as he cooked. Your eyes flicked to the couch, where a throw blanket lay crumpled, his shoes and socks neatly beside it. It looked very much like someone had spent the night there.

Had he slept on the couch?

Frowning, fragments of last night slammed back into your head, draining even more colour from your face.

He shouldn’t be here. He had rejected you. Surely he would have gone home after you passed out. And yet, here he was, in your kitchen, casually cooking breakfast like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” Clark said gently, without even turning around, as if he had sensed your presence. When he finally glanced back, his warm, calm smile made your stomach twist, half embarrassment, half something else you couldn’t name. He went back to the eggs sizzling in the pan, completely unfazed by your staring.

“Hope you don’t mind,” he continued. “I made breakfast.”

Your brain protested, scrambling to find the right words, or any words at all. Why is he here? Why does this feel… comforting? Your heart thudded, a mix of guilt and something you weren’t ready to admit. He had rejected you, but he hadn’t left. He was here, taking care of you, and part of you wanted to melt into the ease of it all.

You shuffled closer, feeling the edges of panic and gratitude collide. Your mouth opened, but no coherent words came out. All you could do was stare at him, at the soft light of the morning catching his hair, at the way he moved so naturally in your space. It was infuriating, and intoxicating.

“Here,” he said, placing a plate piled with eggs, toast, and bacon in front of you, sliding a cup of water alongside it.

Then he placed a second plate beside yours, this one even more generously filled than the first.

You sat down, still reeling from his unexpected presence, and he settled directly across from you, his calm gaze making it impossible to look away.

You picked up your fork almost mechanically, unsure where to start, your eyes darting to him every few seconds. Clark, meanwhile, ate at a relaxed pace, occasionally glancing up with that calm, steady smile that made your chest tighten.

“Sleep well?” he asked casually.

Your throat tightened, and you swallowed hard. “I… uh… yeah. Thanks,” you mumbled, feeling your cheeks heat up.

You took a tentative bite of your food, your mind swirling between embarrassment, disbelief, and a strange comfort. Every time your gaze flicked to him, you caught little gestures, the way he stirred his coffee, the way he pushed a stray crumb off the table with his finger, that made your heart race.

He was still just as handsome as he had been at the bar.

“Hum,” you began, trying to keep your tone casual. “I don’t want to be mean, but like… did you sleep on my couch?”

“Yeah,” he said, scratching the back of his neck, his gaze darting nervously between you and the couch. “I… I didn’t want to leave you alone. I kept hearing those noises outside, and… well, if I left, your front door wouldn’t have been locked,” he admitted, his words tumbling out in a mix of concern and awkward charm.

There was a pause, filled only by the quiet clatter of breakfast utensils. You couldn’t help but notice the faint blush rising in his cheeks, the way he avoided your eyes for a brief second before meeting your gaze again. Somehow, the honesty, and the tiny hint of vulnerability, made him even more irresistible.

“I didn’t move anything, didn’t touch anything… I left your bedroom the minute you fell asleep,” he rushed out, his words tumbling over each other. “I—uh—I wouldn’t do anything to make you feel uneasy…”

His eyes searched yours, earnest and slightly anxious, as if he needed you to believe him. The awkwardness made him even more endearing, and for a moment, you couldn’t help but soften, realizing how much he cared about your comfort, even before coffee had fully woken you up.

It might have been the lingering alcohol in your blood or the lack of sleep, but tears gathered in your eyes. “That’s… the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for me…”

“It’s the least I could do,” Clark said, his tone calm and matter-of-fact, as if protecting you like this was the most natural thing in the world.

Weirdly, once the initial awkwardness passed, the conversation flowed effortlessly. You forgot all about how messy you had looked, how cringe-worthy you had felt last night. If anything, the man turned out to be an even bigger nerd than you were.

Talking to him felt so natural, almost as if he had been meant to be in your life all along.

But, as all good things must, Clark had to leave, suddenly, and in quite a hurry.

It felt odd. No one had called him, he hadn’t received any texts, and it was Sunday. Yet here he was, rushing off without explanation. You didn’t question it, at least, not out loud. Deep down, the nagging thought crept in: maybe he had only been kind enough to sleep here, to talk to you, without any real interest.

Of course. Clark was way out of your league. The genuine connection you had convinced yourself existed was probably nothing more than a fleeting dream.

As he made his way to your front door, you followed, ready to lock it behind him and bury yourself in bed for the rest of the day. You had plenty of explaining to do to your friends, and you weren’t ready for their lectures about how reckless your behaviour had been.

“Hum,” he started, stopping by the front door. His eyes flicked from the floor to yours. “I… I’d really like to see you again, if you want, of course,” he added quickly, a faint blush dusting his cheeks.

“I’m sorry I have to leave like this, but I have something important I can’t postpone…” he explained, his words tumbling out as fast as before.

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden vulnerability in his voice. For a moment, your mind went blank, the words you wanted to say buried under a rush of warmth and disbelief.

“Uh… yeah, I’d like that,” you finally managed, your own cheeks heating up. “I mean… if you want, too,” you added, stumbling over your words, hating how flustered you sounded.

Clark’s smile widened, his dimples showing, a mix of relief and quiet joy lighting up his face. “Good,” he said softly, almost to himself. “Then it’s a date. I promise I won’t disappear next time.”

The words settled between you, leaving a lingering buzz stronger than any alcohol had. Giggling, you bit your lip before letting out a soft breath. “Okay.”

Then he scribbled something on a scrap of paper, what you assumed was his number, turned one last time, and gently pressed a kiss to your forehead before he was gone. It all happened so quickly that you barely registered the softness of his lips on your skin.

Locking the door, you couldn’t help but smile to yourself. The grin refused to fade, even as you sank back into bed, ready to steal a few hours of sleep.

This time, sleep came more gently than it had hours ago, just as a flash of red and blue streaked past your window.

©sillyswriting 2025

an unexpected sweet clark kent fic before the multi chapter one. i truly love this man beyond comprehension tbh...

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violentdeliiights · 6 days ago

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cw. porn with no plot

"stop moving, fucks sake. i said spread y'pussy."

you whine loudly, already overstimulated to hell with how he’s made you cum on his tongue twice already, but any time you stop spreading your pussy lips with two of your fingers, he gives your pussy a spank or bites your thigh hard enough to bruise.

he's on his stomach between your legs, messy mouth glistening with your slick as he guides your hand back to your sopping hole to make you spread yourself. you've never felt more lewd in your life. as you open yourself up for him again, juices drip down your thighs and ass in pearlescent globs.

his eyes are locked on you the whole time, burning up at you through his lashes. the moment you finally pull your dripping folds apart again the way he wants, he licks up into you, sucking your pussy lips into his mouth to gather your cum and leakage into his mouth. he leans back, mixes it with his saliva, and dribbles it out of his mouth to spit it back onto your pussy. "there. now your pussy's as nasty as you, girl."

his spit runs down over your folds, thick and messy, stringing from your clit to your hole before dripping into the wet spot beneath you, and he groans at the sight like it's art. his tongue follows it down immediately, licking it back up greedily, nosing at your spread-open hole before plunging his tongue deep inside, pushing past your fingers as if he's trying to tongue-fuck you open from the inside.

he pushes your thighs apart roughly, then shoves two fingers inside you without warning all the way to the knuckle. you scream and arch your back, but he's uncaring. he scissors them, stretching you open as his tongue flattens against your clit and starts circling hard. the combination makes your whole body lurch, your chest heaving as broken noises fall out of you, but he just groans into your cunt, the vibrations sending sparks shooting through you.

your fingers are shaking so bad you can hardly keep them in a v-shape to spread yourself, but you do because the alternative is worse. every drag of his tongue on your hole, then inside you as he fucks his tongue against your gummy walls; makes you clamp around his fingers.

but when he wraps his whole mouth onto your plump pussy and sucks violently...

your orgasm tears through you but he doesn’t stop for a second. he moans into your cunt and continues drinking you down, fingers shoving in and out and tongue lashing at your clit while you scream.

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violentdeliiights · 6 days ago

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ive gotta say people on the internet being honest about what they find hot in people's bodies and behaviors has done more for my body image issues than any body-positivity mantra ever. thank you people on the internet for being horny about literally every possible part and variation of the human body and for sharing it

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violentdeliiights · 6 days ago

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right side of my neck

18+ nsfw, clark kent x fem reader & mutual mast 2.5k

— inspired by the freaked out bvs bathtub scene... and the cha sunghoon thing iykyk. but they both wear glasses 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️ hear me out….

A TYPICAL FRIDAY NIGHT GOES LIKE THIS: after a long week of bullheaded bosses and shitty drip, your boyfriend fills the huge bathtub in his midtown apartment before he sets out for his nightly patrol.

it’s routine. well-oiled, set in its path.

but tonight is different.

he’s home early for once. early enough that you’ve just slipped into the warm water, work clothes still settling on the floor; you haven’t even taken off your glasses.

“comfy in there?”

clark leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. the sleeves of his work shirt are filled out nicely—seams just a hush beneath strained, like he’s trying to keep it a secret from you.

(hell, by the looks of it, he never went on patrol in the first place.)

he’s watching you with that soft, downturned angle to his eyes, the one that brings out the slightest shadow of his premature crow's feet. glasses slightly fogged, the thick rims slide down the bridge of his freckled nose.

you find that it’s possible for your heart to somersault and your throat to go dry at the same time.

you shift in the tub—bare knees bumping into the wall, forearms resting on the porcelain edge (later, he’ll call you a siren) as you look up at him.

“clark,” you say, a soft smile tugging at your mouth. “how was work?”

the way he pushes off the wall and pads over should be criminal. he holds his hands behind his back and sets his mouth in a pensive twist as if he really needs to think about it.

as if you don’t know that he’s thinking about something completely unrelated to a stack of unopened emails and a rash of correction marks on his latest article.

(stellar, by the way. it’s not boyfriend bias, or whatever clark calls it these days. your argument is that he’s truly an eloquent writer—it just happens that your type is soft, earnest, and well-spoken.)

he hums, a low ‘mm’ that echoes like a gunshot in this room of tile and silver. “the usual. mr. white’s expecting my next superman article soon, jimmy’s complaining about his new talking stage.”

“again?”

he echoes your smile. braces his hands on the edge of the tile on either side of your elbows and bends forward until the tips of your noses brush. your breath shivers at the sight of his dark eyelashes fluttering down behind his glasses.

“yeah, again.”

you lift a finger and poke the left side of his face, right by the corner of his mouth. baby-soft skin, the barest prickle of stubble, joy tucked into the pocket of his dimple.

“anyone ever tell you the glasses are hot?” you whisper.

you know the answer. you tell him every day.

"it's kryptonian glass," he explains, like it never gets old. you pinch your mouth and the corner of his flicks up, left dimple making an indent under your finger. "there's a...subtle hypnotic effect."

he can definitely hear your pulse rocketing to sky-high rhythms. your inhale quivers as a shaky smile blooms on your face.

"am i hypnotizing right now?" you ask, just to tease.

grinning wider, a curl of clark’s hair falls loose and your other fingers, at rest, twitch against the tub’s edge.

pitching his head down, “very.”

the last of your breath leaves you when his lips slot over yours. he kisses you like he wants it to linger. for you to feel the ghost of it for days.

and you know full well that can and will happen.

clark falls to his knees, cradles you in the crook of his right arm. shoulder to shoulder, fist curling against your spine. doesn’t care if his sleeve gets wet with the droplets decorating your back.

he starts descending into borderline hunger, left hand palming your cheek, tilting your head so he can deepen the kiss with a soft groan.

the sound burns through you, lighting the embers of desire that never really get put out when clark kent is your boyfriend.

clinging to the front of his shirt, you feel kind of dizzy, on the edge of buzzed. not sure of how long time has passed—maybe an hour, maybe ten seconds.

he smells so good. clean eucalyptus and clothesline wind, because of course he’d dry his things the way his ma taught him to.

once he’s sure that your lips are tingling, clark moves onto your cheek, sowing a line of reverent, purposeful kisses to your brow, then your ear.

his thumb catches on the wing of your own glasses and he plucks them off on autopilot. sets the frames on the counter, the action natural to him.

honestly, you’d forgotten them.

you can’t help but mumble, “quiet night?”

he hums into the shell of your ear—vibrates down to your quickly warming core. his glasses press against your temple. “just wanted to spend time with you.”

you comb his curls back, wet fingers parting through his hair easily. “which galactic threat did you have to bribe this time?”

clark pulls away, a bead of water rolling down his forehead from your side quest of styling him. cheeks pink like he’s drunk, he untangles his arms and wipes his fingers over his lenses.

“superman doesn’t bribe.”

“mhm.”

“seriously,” he says, pulling his socks off. the action is so quintessentially, endearingly clark. fine with wet sleeves, but socks are a no-go. “i asked if i could take care of my beautiful girlfriend for a night, told him how lovely and sweet you are, and we postponed doomsday until tomorrow.”

you grasp for the wings of his collar—already unbuttoned. he was planning for this.

you giggle against his lips when he obliges to your wordless command and kisses you again.

“still, i don’t think it’s gonna be so quiet,” you manage between stolen breaths. he laughs quietly into your mouth, an outpour of giddiness.

then clark swings his leg over the edge—left followed by right, slacks blooming even darker as they start to soak up hot water. heat pools in your stomach, neck, face like the heavy ripples licking at the walls of the tub as he blinks down at you.

the clear, deep blue you so love to see has practically been swallowed by his pupils. your tongue feels heavy at him kneeling on the porcelain floor of the tub, broad hands settling beneath the surface.

molten heat flushes through your body.

you're all wound up. his knee nudges the inside of your thigh, and you lift your hips slightly to feel something, anything that'll satisfy the ache building up between your legs.

eyes trailing lower, you catch sight of clark straining against his pants. he gingerly trails his fingers from your knee to hip, slipping deeper into the water. his other hand cups your neck, keeps you grounded here.

reminds you that there are moments like these between the crazy midair fights and busy metropolis streets. moments where clark can be transparent.

selfish—in that juxtaposing, selfless way. how he so clearly wants and needs and still takes pleasure in fulfilling you first.

“can i?” clark pleads, because despite the many times you've reminded him that he doesn't even need to ask, he still never fails to. voice dipping so deep it cracks, eyes fluttering close in the way you know he’s taking in other things.

how the bare skin of your calf rasps against the soaked hem of his slacks. or your pulse, stammering at a million beats. maybe the wetness pooling in your cunt too, surely diluting in the water.

he noses at the underside of your jaw, soft lips teasing your throat. you can hear his swallow, waiting.

a broken sort of sigh leaves him, and his knee—rough with his slacks—makes full contact with your cunt. cold, hard lenses flatten against the side of your neck.

you shiver. full-body. livewire running beneath your skin.

“tell m’what you want, honey.”

not fair. you suffocate a sob in your lungs as you slip your hand over his and draw it where you need it most.

pressing your cheek against his, clark slips his thumb over your clit. he goes slow, circling in reverence with the intent to pull you apart until your seams are visible.

there's that faint callus on the tip of his thumb—the one that never really fades away because he always holds his pens too tight. it gently scrapes at your nerves at another flex of his wrist, another roll of his thumb.

you throb, suddenly aware of how empty you are.

hanging your head down, you smother a quiet, sharp inhale into his hair.

you’re feverish. out of it. head spinning, eyes struggling to stay open. urgency tugs at your stomach, winding closer to an inevitable peak.

clark detaches himself from your neck, his other hand taking off his glasses in one smooth motion—they land somewhere with a careless, far-off clatter—before slotting his lips over yours. his tongue traces gently over your bottom lip.

you swear your hands move on their own. like second nature, your fingers are wading through the warm water, nudging at the button of his slacks.

(no belt. clark really was prepared for this.)

he decides that now is a nice time to drag his forefingers through your folds. the barest brush, enough to taste and leave you shifting your hips up for just a little more.

you know clark. he's versed in the little things he can do to make your thighs tighten around him and your legs to kick out, the ways he can make you cum in minutes and he's taking his sweet fucking time to take you apart—

"honey," he mumbles against your lips. your fingers are still trying to undo his pants, a task so simple that you're kind of embarrassed at how clark's turning your brain to mush. "y'don't have to."

your stomach does a sharp kick at that. his accent peeks out when his words get all muddled and slurred together and fuck, it's unbearably hot. your skin is burning. clark is burning.

"please." your voice is quiet, shivering. you blink at him, too fast, trying to etch every moment into the underside of your skull. "please, i want to."

you don't really care that you're naked and he isn't. it's kind of hot, seeing his white shirt sticking to his stomach, fabric transparent and dripping.

the faint dusting of hair on his chest, the soft outline of his muscles are even more apparent to you than normal. how he's breathing—steady, steeling breaths, but they're starting to toe the edge of faster.

"don't beg. you never have to beg," he says, index and middle finger torturously spreading you open, thumb still circling your clit. your whine is quiet, but it sounds like reverb to you. his eyelashes flutter, pupils dinner-plate wide. "not with me."

"can i?"

he nods, and kisses you again.

you know he has to be cheating when he works two fingers into your cunt—full, so full, and you burn where he touches—and helps you undo the button with his other hand.

damn superpowers.

your vision's too woozy, locked onto the way his brow crinkles like fucking paper when you reach in and wrap your hand around the head of his cock, but if you checked now, you know he's using his hovering ability in some shape or form.

or he might just have incredible core strength. whatever it is, you want him to keep doing it, even if it's giving him an unfair advantage.

"yeah," clark gasps. short, incredulous. you work your hand up the shaft—he's heavy and aching in your palm, hardness practically sweltering. "that's it, sweetheart."

his thoughts are just as smudgy as yours. you can see it in his eyes when he tilts forward to press his forehead to yours—hasn't broken a sweat just yet; the way his pupils are dilating, quivering in that slightly alien way that sets something off in you.

clark curls his fingers, rocks the thickness of them into your cunt like he's fucking desperate now. gone is the sweet, gentle man who was taking his time. he's dead-set on making you cum around his fingers with that steely resolve straightening out his shoulders.

you stroke him faster in response and his breaths come out shorter, louder. lets out a particularly loud moan when you squeeze your hand and twist just so around the head, thumb pressing into his slit, and he pushes that spongey spot in you that makes your head spin.

stars spark in your vision, stomach coiling tighter and tighter with every ounce of pleasure clark fucks into you with his fingers.

you squeeze your eyes shut, tip your head back to let him plant his mouth on your collarbone and suck. clark's teeth scrape along the base of your neck, tongue sweeping hot over your skin soothingly.

you're helpless, teetering on the edge of here and nothing. soft sounds and gentle splashes and his name whined like a prayer—clark, clark, want it, clark, god—and he grinds the pad of his thumb into your clit and your nerves fucking catch.

like the raw, exposed wires in water. and fuck, you're squeezing around his fingers, walls fluttering as he rocks you through your orgasm.

someone's whining, and you realize belatedly that it's clark, hips grinding into your hand and chasing his own high with a pitched sound clawing at his throat, even as he's working you through the aftershocks still twitching in your body.

"too good, baby," he pants, rolling his head so that he's deeper in your embrace, wet shirt sticking to your naked chest, breaths fogging into the juncture of your neck.

says your name, cracked in the middle, and you're sliding your hand up to twist around the head of his cock because you're helpless to his call. clark buries a moan into your skin, damp curls tickling the lobe of your ear, and—

he's throbbing in your palm. impossibly harder, hotter. sweltering as he releases with a choked groan, halfway through another repetition of your name, hot ropes of cum spilling into your palm.

you come down slowly, an unwind of floating, disconnected thoughts and boneless bliss. pruned skin, still-warm water, loose strings of white you didn't manage to catch.

whatever, slurs the voice in your head. you always end up taking a shower anyways.

(that's when this usually happens. in the shower, taken against the tile instead of slow and purposeful on a porcelain floor.)

clark pulls his fingers out like he doesn't want to leave. leaves his face hidden in your neck, small smile carved into your shoulder.

"sorry," he croaks, palms smoothing over your hips. "uh. we should shower off."

oh, so he's really keeping that routine.

you hum, fingers still shaking slightly when you lift them and card through his hair. patient, caring. heart swelling at the way he just melts and sighs into you.

"i didn't bribe him, by the way," clark mutters, words smudgy and smeared together. still kind of drunk off his high, like you are.

"i was joking, clark."

"well, i wasn't. negotiated doomsday by talking about my sweet girl, can you believe that?"

you stifle a giggle.

yeah. you can believe that.

— soz im saying things for the sake of saying them…. first public freak out and its not proofread, clark kent fandom please be kind 😭😭

COMMENTS/REBLOGS GREATLY APPRECIATED <3

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violentdeliiights · 6 days ago

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leave a message at the tone

summary: in which Clark becomes very familiar with your voicemail after choosing work and Lois, once again. when you finally call, he’ll drop everything for you.

content: fluff and then just hurt with little to no comfort or resolution :/ feeling less than and like a second choice (story of my life!), clark basically begging bc he loves you obvi, sorry im an absolute sucker for angst

———————————————————————————————

present day.

“hey - you know who it is, and you know what to do.” beeeeeep.

he’d gotten used to hearing it. he could recite your voicemail from memory, the amount of times he got it when he’d call.

after the first couple dozen calls, they became less frequent until they shrank down to zero. you weren’t going to pick up. he knew that, but some small part of him thought maybe, just maybe, he’d hear the line click and your breathing on the other end.

he missed you, so much, and it was his fault you were gone.

———————————————————————————————

2 months ago.

you stare at the string of texts - as if your glare could alter reality.

made those cupcakes you love, can’t wait to see you! really missed you today ☹️

i missed you more, pretty girl. I’ll be home soon.❤️

part of you had just been waiting for it to happen again. another night - some baked good getting staler by the minute propped up on a pretty plate, awaiting Clark’s arrival. the frosting on the cupcakes looked sadder each hour that passed where Clark didn’t walk through the door. you knew where he was, who he was with, and what he was doing.

you can’t get mad at him for doing his job. it’s who he’s with, and when that person happens to need him, that bothers you. you’ll never get used to the feeling of your stomach dropping when you check find my friends, and their locations are directly next to one another at the office.

you think you’re numb to the situation. that it shouldn’t be a suprise anymore. you don’t cry - yet. all you do is sigh, pick yourself up, and crawl into bed. tears fall, but not for him, for you.

———————————————————————————————

The last text he sent was at 7:30. you asking where he was sent at 8:00. It’s almost midnight when you hear the front door creak open. you don’t get up to greet him. instead you close your eyes, resuming your curled up on your side position under the sheets.

when your bedroom door pries open, you still don’t open your eyes. you hear him pad across the hardwood, landing on his side of the bed.

he peels back the covers, gently crawling into the bed next to you. you feel the weight in the bed shift, but don’t move a muscle. he leans over, kissing your exposed shoulder and down your bicep. you softly stir on instinct, halting your movements as quickly as they started.

“‘m so sorry, baby,” he whispers between pecks. “caught up at work again - perry has been on us this week.” he attempts to joke.

you don’t roll over, you don’t shift, you only softly reply, “i can’t keep coming in second.”

his brow furrows, pulling back. “what do you mean, honey?”

“Were you with Lois?”

the silence is deafening. and it’s all you need to hear. it’s a moment before he speaks up again.

“yeah, uh - i was. why?”

“i don’t think we should see each other anymore.” you mutter, voice hoarse - evidence of the sobs that wrecked you not even an hour prior.

time stops for clark. a tear you didn’t realize had been forming slides across the bridge of your nose.

“what?” his voice is no longer a whisper. “why? baby-“ his hand is on your arm, prompting you to turn to him, but you don’t. not looking at him makes it easier. you can’t cave, you can’t keep doing this to yourself. letting him do it to you. he pauses, pieces falling into place in his mind. “because- cause of Lois? baby, we were working, I promise-“

“I know,” you interrupt. “your work is important to you. you should focus on that.”

“no, baby - no. stop it,” he’s lightly shaking your arm, begging you to just look at him. “baby - can you just look at me? please?” nothing.

“Lois, too - you can have the best of both worlds without worrying about how to make time for me.”

he’s panicking now. you’re right next to him, but he can physically feel you slipping further and further away. he’s trying to grab you, pull you back in, but your slipping through his fingers like sand.

“honey, what are you even saying? i love you, more than anything, you’re the most important thing to me.”

“it doesn’t feel like it.”

“then I’ll do better. you’re the best thing that ever happened to me, and I’m so sorry for making you feel like you weren’t. I love you so much, don’t wanna lose you,” his voice is breaking. you fight every urge to turn around and comfort him.

“you started losing me the first time you didn’t show.”

he thinks he’s going to be sick. your words hit him like a punch to the gut. all those missed dates, all those late nights - they come flooding back to him. he can just see you, alone in the apartment, glancing at the door every few minutes for him to come in, and it never happens. how could he do this? what has he done? is he losing you forever? all these thoughts are running through his head - all he knows for sure is it is no one’s fault but his.

before he can say anything, before he can keep begging for you to listen to him, that he loves you, that he’d never intentionally make you feel like less than you are to him, you speak up once more, with a finality in your voice that breaks his heart into even smaller pieces than it already had.

“leave your key in the morning. goodnight, clark.”

he lies awake that night, listening to your breathing, unsure if he’ll ever fall asleep to that lullaby again. in the morning, with tears in his eyes and a heavy heart, he slips out the door. you choke on sobs when you hear the door close on your lives together.

———————————————————————————————

present day.

you shouldn’t call him. you owe yourself that. yet you can’t ignore the pull you feel towards him when something goes wrong - after the day you had, you yearn for just a glimpse of the comfort he always gave you before. fuck it.

the tone only drones once before it clicks, and Clark’s voice comes through the speaker.

“hello?”

“hey,” you breathe. there’s a beat where neither of you speak, silence killing you softly. “I, um- sorry, I shouldn’t have bothered you - I just didn’t know who else to call,” he hears you sniffle on the end of the line, perking up as alarms sound in his mind.

“no, swee-,” he stops himself before he can fully call you sweetheart. he bites his lip prevent him from further embarrassment. he can’t call you that anymore, but it was once so natural. like instinct. you catch it too, more warmth growing in your tummy at the slip up than you’d like. “no. y’re not bothering me. ever. what’s going on?”

“can you just- can you come here?” you squeeze your eyes shut, bracing for an impact that wouldn’t possibly come. he would come. any time you call, he’d come - no questions asked.

he’s caught off guard, making few sputtered starts of sentences. he manages to set himself straight, speaking an eager (but not too eager), “of course i can. im wrapping up in the office, be there in 15?”

“yeah, no rush. thank you, clarkie.”

he smiles at the nickname. “always. whenever you need me.”

he was going to fix this - with hopes that he’d never have to hear your voicemail again.

———————————————————————————————

a/n: still not over the love on my last fic, thank you 🥹

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violentdeliiights · 7 days ago

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Kyle gets sudden and intense bursts of affection that you, as his partner, are often the victim of.

Hes not clingy by nature, and you both enjoy alone time to focus on hobbies or just chill out for a bit. You could go entire days not saying a word to eachother and still be completely in love.

But sometimes, kyle gets struck by the need to squish you in hugs and pamper you and just love you. Emerging from his room with that wide smile of his, eyes glinting when he finds yours. You, as always, know exactly what he needs and stand with your arms wid open. Carefully positioned in front of the couch after a few too many incidents.

Kyle nearly tackles you, hitting against your body and wrapping you so tight in his arms that the pair of you flal over into the couch. His laugh is loud and fizzles like strawberry soda against your tongue when he turns to kiss you. "Love you, baby. Love, love, love you!"

Because you both are nothing more than two lovesick fools, you only grin and pepper kisses over kyles face. One for each cheekbone, his nose, forehead, the corners of his mouth. Your own giggle jostling kyles form from how hes holding you against him "love you too, kyle. Love you so much."

Another peck to the sharp highlight over his browbone from the kitchen, "and who am I to thank for this sudden burst of affection from my dearest treasure?"

Kyle just snorts, tucks his head into your shoulder with an embarrassed laugh. "...Johnny sent me a car video and it looked so cute with big wet eyes," he turns his face to press lips into your pulse "cute little thing reminded me of you."

#kyle garrick ceo of cuteness aggression

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violentdeliiights · 8 days ago

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sorry for how I acted when there were multiple noises happening at the same time

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violentdeliiights · 8 days ago

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when the cool moot is like ??? Interacting with you ???? And holding conversations with you ???????? But they’re cool ????? ??? And you’re lame ??????

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violentdeliiights · 8 days 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

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violentdeliiights · 8 days ago

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make sure to follow your favourite fanfiction authors on tumblr to get such important updates as, "i'm Thinking about the fic really hard, i swear" "hashtag #notwriting" "im going to commit mass murder if i have to write" "theoretically if the next chapter came out in five months--"

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violentdeliiights · 8 days ago

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casual

Clark Kent x fem!attorney!Reader

Summary: Your blossoming relationship with Clark Kent has you questioning whether what you have is serious, or something casual.

Word Count: 7.6k+ (phew)

Content Warnings: SMUT (18+)!!! fingering, oral (fem), unprotected sex, we're together but ?? are we serious trope??, miscommunication trope, clark and reader are certified yappers™, clark is so sweet and understanding it hurts, flirty!!!! reader and clark, angst!!, clark the lover boy

Author's Note: this is the most self indulgent fic i've written in a long time!!! anyway who cares!! please let me know what you think. only descriptive part of reader is that she has glasses. here are some things you need to know: foia = freedom of information act - attorneys/journalists/whomever send these to get government and public records. nicknames for reader and clark come from the following legal and journalism movies: legally blonde, erin brockovich, to kill a mockingbird, and to all the presidents men. none of these are suggest reader's appearance!! just wanted to use them. please let me know what you think, mwah!

There’s a soft knock on your office door as you pour over the discovery documents Metropolis’s legal department finally sent over. The sheer volume of documents in front of you was giving you a headache. You take off your glasses and lean back in your chair.

“Come in!” you shouted.

The door clicks open, and Clark pokes his head in. You grin at his surprise arrival. A soft, closed mouth smile stares back at you.

“You have a minute? I have a FOIA request for you and some oddly specific legal questions on behalf of a source,” Clark asked, sitting down in the chair across your desk and kicking his legs up as if he’s at home.

“I can give you a minute as long as you take your filthy shoes off my desk,” you teased, shoving at his shin. Clark laughs quietly under his breath and takes his feet off your desk and fixes his posture. He wordlessly passes the FOIA request over to you, and you put your glasses back on.

“What’s this request for?” you asked, skimming over it.

“I’m writing a piece about the insurance policies the city buildings have when they get damaged from… extra-terrestrial crime fighting,” Clark answered, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

You can’t help the smirk that slowly crosses your face. You cross your arms over your chest and lean back into your chain again. “Were you assigned this by Perry, or did you get a tip from your source?”

Clark flushes under your intense gaze and scratches the back of his neck. He shifts in his seat and swallows hard. “Why are you asking me all these questions? I’m the journalist here.”

You can’t help the loud cackle that rips through your throat, and you grin wildly at him. His reaction is all you needed to know that he in fact did get this information from his super source. “Clark, I’m an attorney. I get paid to ask questions just as much as you do. The only difference is that I do it to cover your ass, and you do it to cover a story.”

Clark laughs quietly and blows a raspberry before running his fingers through his messy curls. “Nothing gets past you, huh?”

“Nope! It’s my job to know everything so the Daily Planet doesn’t get sued.”

A brief, comfortable silence falls between the two of you before you ask, “What oddly specific legal questions does Superman have now?”

Clark stutters and blushes again. “I didn’t say who my source was,” he stammered.

You smile so hard your cheeks ache. “Clark,” you laughed, “you didn’t need to. Everyone knows you’re the only reporter he’ll speak to. I won’t tell anyone about the things you ask me; you can trust me.”

His beautiful blue eyes widen, and he moves to stand. “I do! I do trust you. I don’t want to make it seem like I don’t. I’m just… very protective over him.”

Your smile softens and you stand and follow him to the small sofa on the far side of your office. You sit beside him, your fingers itching to reach out and hold his hand. You want nothing more than to reassure him, to let him know anything he shares with you about Superman will stay secret. You can’t quite bring yourself to cross that boundary.

“I know,” you whispered. “I don’t blame you. I’m just surprised Superman has you asking legal questions on his behalf. I didn’t think you were that close.”

Something in the air shifts between you two and Clark’s large, muscular thigh brushes yours. You swallow hard and grasp your skirt, holding it to your knees. You tear your eyes away from his, glancing out the window to the city below you. Clark coughs.

“We’re not close,” Clark mumbled back, “I just don’t think he trusts anyone else to speak on his behalf, especially if it’s about legal stuff. I mentioned you and how I trust you, and I think the convinced him.”

Your eyes widen and you can’t help but gasp. Superman knows about you? Clark talked about you to Superman? You can hardly believe it.

“You talked to Superman about me?” you asked in both awe and disbelief.

“Yes,” Clark answered like it was the most obvious thing in the world. He smirks and leans against the arm of the sofa. “Why does that surprise you?”

“Clark!” you shouted, shoving him playfully. Despite his clumsiness, he’s a mass of muscle that doesn’t budge underneath your touch. “Don’t say it like that! We’re talking about Superman here! God forbid I fangirl a little bit. It’s not every day you get the news from the only person he’ll interview with that he knows you exist. I’ve never even seen him in person!”

Clark laughs, deep and warm and it settles deep in your bones and inside your chest. His laughter washes over in like a warm blanket. His eyes crinkle at the edge and they’re bright and full of mischief.

“Of course, he knows you exists. It’s not like we spend all our time talking about him when I interview him.”

Warmth spreads up your neck and something flutters in your chest at the realization.

Clark talks about you. Clark talks about you to Superman of all people.

Your bright grin turns into a soft smile. The moment blankets the room and your heart races. You have so many questions you want to ask him. What’s Superman like? Why is he consulting Clark of all people for legal advice instead of Google like any other normal human being? But most of all, you want to ask Clark if he has feelings for you.

Why else would he talk about you to other people? What kinds of things is he telling Superman about you? You’re dying to know. You suddenly don’t care about the legal question Clark wanted to ask you.

Your eyes flicker from his soft and earnest eyes to his lips and back up again. Clark watches you carefully, a slow smirk cutting across his face. You feel yourself lean towards him, your fingers close enough to brush against the top of his hand closest to you.

There’s a harsh knock on your office door that brings you back to reality. You tear yourself away from him and move to stand on shaky legs behind your desk. The door opens and Perry steps inside, not even bothering to spare a glance at Clark. He asks you about the documents you received that have remained untouched on your desk since Clark stepped into your office

Heat immediately rises from the base of your spine to the tips of your ears. You watch Clark stand from the corner of your eyes and push his glasses back up his nose.

“I’ll see you later,” Clark smiled gently, slipping out of your office.

….

The next time you see Clark for more than five seconds, you were with Jimmy and Lois at a bar getting some drinks after work. You hadn’t expected to see him. According to Jimmy, he usually took off after work most days and politely declined any social engagements. You thought it was odd.

Clark was Daily Planet’s golden boy. He was always on the front page with some iteration of a story about Superman. Everybody liked Clark. He was dorky and goofy despite his large size and always made an effort to say hello to the janitors when he saw them. He was gentle and kind and was great at his job. Why wouldn’t he want to be around people that saw his worth and congratulated him on his success?

You see Clark before Lois and Jimmy. He’s still dressed in today’s work clothes, but his hair is wind swept, and his cheeks are flushed. He ducks as he enters the threshold of the bar and glances around the room. A grin rips across his face when his eyes find yours and it makes your stomach flutter with anticipation.

He moves quickly and carefully through the sea of people standing by the bar counter before finally making his way to your table. He shrugs off his jacket and takes the empty seat across from you.

“Clark! You made it just in time. We’ve been debating the likelihood of Superman getting sued by the city, but Ms. Elle Woods over here will not give us her legal expertise,” Jimmy shouted beside you, taking a long swig of his beer.

Embarrassment washes over you and you tear your eyes away from him, attempting to sink into your seat. You grab your own glass and take a long pull of your own beer. You glance up at him and he smiles sweet and easy.

“As the bona fide expert on all things Superman, we must have your input,” Jimmy demanded, slapping his glass on the table. Some of his beer spills over the lip of the glass and on to the table.

Clark raised his brows and smirks, crossing his arms over his chest. “I would much rather hear what Ms. Brockovich thinks,” he teased, his eyes light and full of mirth.

The nickname sends a jolt through your spine. You swallow hard and press your fingers into your thighs, anchoring you to your seat. You let out a careful breath and catch Clark’s eyes again.

“Well, I guess in theory, Superman could be sued by the city,” you answered slowly. Something imperceptible shifts in Clark’s eyes that you nearly miss it. “But I don’t think it’s likely. It would bring a lot of negative publicity. I think if the city sued him, they’d have to also sue Green Lantern, Hawkgirl, and Mr. Terrific since they’re also superheroes that unfortunately contribute to the damage to the city. It won’t sit well with the public though. Superman’s protecting the city and the citizens, so they won’t risk it with a frivolous lawsuit. It would look bad on their part, not his.”

“Aha!” Jimmy exclaimed, pointing at Lois with a shit eating grin. “I told you so.”

Lois rolls her eyes and sips at her drink. “But what about private citizens? Do you think citizens that were hurt because of Superman can sue him for damages?”

“I mean… yeah, but I don’t see how successful they’d be. You’d have to find him and serve him with the paperwork in order for the lawsuit to go forward. It’s not like anyone knows where he lives. Plus, he’d likely have a defense of others, himself, or necessity so he wouldn’t be found liable for damages anyway.”

Jimmy laughs again and Lois frowns. You catch Clark’s eyes again and his handsome, soft smile greets you. His eyes are warm and endearing. You can’t help the smile that fights its way on your own lips. You quirk a brow and nod to him.

“What do you think, Mr. Bernstein? Is that why you ask me all those legal questions on his behalf? Is Superman afraid to get sued?” you asked as you brought your beer to your mouth, finishing the last of it.

“Isn’t everyone afraid to get sued?” Clark retorted.

You hum and nod appreciatively. “Touché, Kent.”

Clark laughs again and takes his glasses off long enough for him scratch the bridge of his nose where his glasses sat on his face. You can’t help but stare. Clark’s jaw looks sharper, more pronounced. His cheeks look thinner, and his shoulders are heavy and strong, like he has the weight of the world on his shoulders. He almost looks like Superman.

The moment quickly passes, and Clark fixes his glasses back on to the bridge of his nose. He catches you staring at him and he fights a grin.

….

“Has anyone ever told you that you look like Superman?” you asked as you walked up the small steps leading to your porch.

You didn’t even bother arguing with him when he joined you on your commute home after leaving the bar. Clark, ever the gentleman, wanted to make sure you got home safe. It touched you, but you still said: “I have pepper spray in my bag and Superman lives here.”

His smile, light and tender stretched across his face. “You’re not too far from me. It’s just another ten minutes, and besides, it’s not like Superman can be everywhere all the time. He has a life too, y’know,” Clark hummed as you walked, a teasing lilt to his tone.

You stare at him and watch his dimples poke out of his cheeks. You nudge him with your hip, and he playfully stumbles on the sidewalk. A loud chortle fills the space between you, and Clark’s smile turns gleeful at your laughter. He stops just for a second before you’re in step with each other once more.

“No, really? Superman has a life? Please tell me more, Mr. I’m-the-only-reporter-he’ll-speak-to.”

“I mean, he doesn’t share much about his personal life for obvious reasons,” Clark answered carefully, his voice measured and even. “But he was raised by human parents, has likes and dislikes like the rest of us. He’s not that much different from you or me… he just happens to be an alien with super powers.”

You hum and nod quietly as you walk, but don’t press for more answers. You don’t blame Clark for being overprotective and cagey with what he decides to share with you about Superman. Despite his insistence that they weren’t close, you knew they were. How else could he write all those beautiful and profound articles about the Man of Steel? Clark wasn’t just a run of the mill reporter to Superman.

He was somebody.

But you knew better than to pry and ask more questions. It would have the exact opposite effect. Clark would shut you out and push you away. The last thing you want is to push Clark away.

You feel Clark’s eyes turn on you as you slowly come up to your street, your house within eye distance. You feel yourself slow down with each step closer to home, Clark matching your pace.

“What is it?” Clark asked as the two of you stood just below the porch steps. “Was it something I said? I feel like you’re using that legal brain of yours to try and figure me out.”

You know he says it to tease you, that he means nothing by it. He’s smiling and his cheeks are a flushed pink. But something twists in your chest. Why couldn’t you turn off your analytical, inquisitive brain for once? Why do you always ask so many questions?

Why are you so nosy?

So, instead of being open and honest with him, you move on to something silly and light. You grin and bound up the steps of your porch. You turn to face him, carefully pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, and ask, “Has anyone ever told you that you look like Superman?”

Clark guffaws, his shoulders shake with laughter. His face lights up and his brows pinch together. He takes a step closer to you and points at himself. You take the opportunity to stare at him unapologetically, unafraid to get caught.

Clark’s holding his blazer over his arm. His white button up is starting to wrinkle against his strong chest and the sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. His muscular forearms shine under the streetlight. Clark’s hair is a mess of curls, just begging you to let your fingers run through them. Just looking at him, this openly, this freely makes your heart race.

“Me? Look like Superman?” Clark laughed with a grin, “I think you need to get your eyes checked Ms. Finch.”

You laugh too, shaking your head and biting the inside of your cheek. “No way! You totally do. You’re just… the nerdy, gangly, softer lookalike. Especially when I catch you without your glasses.”

Your confession hangs in the air and charges the small space between you. Your words slowly fall on Clark’s shoulders. He stares at you with such reverence it makes your legs shake. Your breath catches in your throat the longer as you wait for him to say something, say anything.

A slow, soft smile breaks through and Clark takes a careful step towards you, like he’s afraid to spook you. You have half a mind to turn and run inside, slamming the door in his face, yelling at him to go away.

But you don’t. You can’t.

“Do you catch me without my glasses on a lot?” he whispered, standing just close enough that his shirt brushes yours. He gives you enough space so that if you want to pull away you can.

You swallow hard, shaking your head. “No. I just… I noticed it tonight at the bar when I was looking at you.”

Clark grins again, this time boyish and charming. He leans just enough so that your noses brush. This time, you see him. The soft, barely there freckles painting his face. The way his dimples just light up his smile. The way he sees you.

Waiting and wanting. Patient and gentle. Adoration and piety.

“Do you look at me a lot?”

You don’t have it in you to lie. Not here in this moment with him, not ever.

“Yes.”

Clark beams. He gently takes you by the waist. One hand settles at your hip, the other resting against your neck. His warm, rough fingers brush at your jaw and your cheek.

You feel his warm breath against your face, his mouth just barely there, but he doesn’t kiss you. Not yet.

You savor the feeling, and you know Clark is too. This is the before. The anticipation. The excitement. The what if. You can’t cross that line yet.

You know you can’t go back to how things were before this moment. Before he joined you on your porch steps and before you teased him about his celebrity lookalike. Before Clark took you by the waist and held you like you were a rare jewel, a priceless artifact. Before Clark looked at you like that.

“Did you mean what you said? That I’m the softer lookalike to Superman?” Clark asked, his words nearly brushing into your mouth.

You let out a careful breath, shivering under the weight of his stare. Despite the situation, you can’t help but tease him. “I think I also said nerdy and gangly,” you laughed quietly. The hand resting on your hip playfully pinches the skin there. “When have I ever said things I don’t mean, Clark?”

He hums in reply, nose brushing against yours again. Your fingers squeeze the wrinkled fabric of his shirt in anticipation.

“Just checking, occupational hazard.”

Your head falls back as you laugh, and Clark brings you back to him with a gentle tug.

His lips momentarily kiss your teeth. You nearly melt into his arms. Your mouths move slowly together, like Clark’s scared one wrong move, one wrong kiss, will send you running for the hills.

You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him deeper, closer to you. You eagerly and greedily card your fingers through his dark, messy curls. Clark sighs into your mouth and the hand on your neck slides up and cradles your head. The kiss is warm, soft, wanting. It’s gentle but eager.

He swallows the soft gasp in your throat as the hand on your waist slides underneath the hem of your blouse. Clark’s hand just rests there, squeezing your hot skin, like he just needs to touch you. His fingers aren’t wandering or expectant. They don’t slide your shirt up and run across the lip where your bra sat on your chest. His hand is just there.

Clark’s glasses knock against your own and you laugh against his mouth before pulling away to catch your breath. Your breaths mix together, and Clark chases your kiss swollen lips. Your hands slide from his shoulders to chest, feeling his racing heart and heavy muscles beneath your fingers. His own hands cradle your face and he kisses you once, twice, three times before really giving you the opportunity to breathe.

Clark’s tie is askew, and his face and ears are flushed a warm pink. The lipstick you applied after your last drink stains his lips. His glasses are crooked on his face, and it gives you the perfect opportunity to take them off his face. Clark doesn’t stop you.

Without his glasses, his facial features are more defined. Strong cheek bones, sharp jaw, smooth skin, careful eyes. You reach and twirl the singular curl resting on his forehead between your fingers. Clark kisses the inside of your wrist.

The same familiarity washes over you like before when you saw Clark without his glasses. But, as you gently push them back over his nose again, just like before, it goes away.

….

You try to ignore the questions brewing in the back of your mind when you notice things you probably shouldn’t. Why does Clark disappear at odd times of the day? When he returns, why does he look so flushed and winded? Why won’t he let you spend the night, or even visit his place? Why does he cancel dates at the last second?

Why are you so nosy?

You chalk it up as an occupational hazard. You don’t want to ruin something new and exciting. Your relationship with Clark is blossoming, new, and fresh. You don’t want to push him away because you can’t stop asking questions.

You haven’t been dating for long. You’re still getting to know these softer, sweeter, gentler versions each other and if Clark wants to wait to tell you things he’s not ready to share with you yet, you have to respect that. You don’t blame him… and yet.

It keeps you up at night, tossing and turning as you can’t stop thinking about Clark.

He’s the perfect boyfriend, despite everything. Your relationship isn’t secret, but private. Clark buys you a coffee and bagel when you’re running late to work and has it sitting in your office when you arrive. He kicks his feet up on the sofa in your office during late nights of combing through discovery and legal documents he doesn’t understand just to be with you, and work beside you.

When Clark spends the night at your home, he’s the perfect chef and dotting boyfriend. He massages your feet when they hurt from the heels you wear all day. He holds you against his chest and runs his fingers down your arms, and despite the warmth of his touch, you shiver.

The more time you spend with Clark, the more your feelings grow stronger and deeper. It starts to feel like love, and you have no one to talk to about your reservations. Was this thing you had with Clark casual and fun? Is that why you haven’t been to his apartment? Is that why he cancels dates? Is that Clark’s way of telling you this thing you had was nothing serious?

It scares you. You haven’t felt like this about someone in such a long time, so you try and bury your feelings. You shrug off the canceled dates and texts that go hours unanswered. You could make this casual and fun and pretend it was nothing serious, despite the growing space Clark takes in your heart.

You ignore the ache in your chest every time you see him and watch him leave. You ignore the flutters in your stomach when his eyes find yours across the bullpen as you leaned against the door to your office and watched him. You pretend you’re not in the midst of falling in love with him. You pretend you’re not already in love with him.

“Hello? Are you even listening to me?” Lois asked you, waving her hand in front of your face.

You blink back to reality, away from your thoughts and aching heart. Your eyes find hers and her brows are pulled together in concern. “Sorry,” you apologized quietly, “what were you saying?”

Lois opens her mouth and then closes it. You watch her watch you. Her mouth quirks to the side and she leans against your desk. “Are you okay? It’s not like you to be lost in your thoughts. Is something wrong?”

You swallow hard and a shaky breath escapes your throat. Your legs tremble and you bite the inside of your cheek. You cough to avoid the quiver in your voice.

“I think… I know I’m in love with Clark,” you confessed, biting back tears, “and I think Clark thinks our relationship is casual.”

You know you should leave it at that. You shouldn’t be sharing your relationship woes with someone other than Clark, but you can’t help it. You need someone else’s shoulder to lean on, and that was always Lois. Everything you’ve antagonized and lost sleep over just spills out of you.

“Clark’s wonderful, don’t get me wrong, but he’s also cagey and secretive. I still have never been to his apartment. He cancels dates at the last second and always uses the same excuse. He takes hours to respond to my texts. He disappears for hours during the day and when I ask him about it, he says it’s for a story he’s working on.”

“Have you asked him about it?”

You shake your head, and you hate yourself for the rogue tear that slips out. “No. I’m scared to. We haven’t been together for that long and I don’t want my anxiety to ruin what we have. I’ve always asked too many questions in the relationships I’ve been in. I don’t want to push him away.”

Lois says your name in that pitying, chastising way friends do when they think you’re being ridiculous. She takes your hand and squeezes it gently.

“Have you seen the way Clark looks at you? He adores you. He looks at you like you’ve hung the moon. You should just ask him, clear the air. Clark is the only one who has answers to your questions. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

You nod quietly and thank her for the advice. You wish sometimes you could shut off your brain. You’re your own worst enemy. You can’t just let things go. Now, all you have to do is ask and hope that Clark doesn’t break your heart.

….

There’s a soft knock on your door while you’re in the midst of doing laundry. Music plays quietly in the background and the warm scent of your candle fills the living room. You pause the music and pad over to the front door. You open it and your heart skips.

Clark stands before you holding a beautiful bouquet of flowers in one hand and your favorite Mexican takeout in the other. He’s dressed in a dark blue cotton t-shirt and black slacks. Like always, his glasses sit low on the bridge of his nose. Clark’s black curls are wind swept and his cheeks are rosy.

He leans forward and presses a gentle kiss to your cheek before slipping through the threshold and into the front hallway of your home. You shut the door and watch Clark toe off his shoes, set both the flowers and food on the kitchen table, and make himself at home here with you. The ache that settled in your chest returns.

“I texted you I was on my way, but you didn’t answer,” Clark said as he set the table.

“Sorry,” you apologized quietly, slowly making your way into the kitchen. “I was doing laundry, wasn’t expecting you.”

Clark’s warm laughter fills your home. His boyish grin stretches across his face as he looks you up and down before taking you by the waist. “I can tell,” he teased, toying with the hem of your ratty, faded University of Metropolis School of Law, t-shirt and short lounge shorts sitting on your hips.

His mouth finds yours and he kisses you sweetly. It’s a gentle kiss, a kiss you’ve shared so many times. It takes like intimacy and domesticity rolled into one. It’s your favorite kind of kiss Clark gives you. It’s a kiss that makes you think your blooming relationship is anything but casual. Like always, his glasses clack against yours when your noses brush.

Clark pulls away and you push his glasses back up his nose. He takes you by the hand and pulls out a chair for you. You thank him quietly and he takes the spot across from you. You listen to Clark recount his day as you eat quietly, too caught up in your head thinking about the conversation you had with Lois earlier today.

“Sweetheart, are you okay? You seem pensive,” Clark asked quietly, breaking into your thoughts.

You look up from your food and blink at Clark. His brows are pinched together with worry, the lines on his face pronounced. His eyes are wide and open, filled with concern. You wipe your mouth with a napkin and swallow hard.

You nod despite yourself, ignoring the truth. “Yeah, yeah. I’m okay.”

“Are you sure? You were glaring at your refried beans. You know you can tell me anything, right?”

Clark’s giving you the opportunity to come clean and be honest. Who would you be if you didn’t take it?

You let out a shaky breath and move to stand. You can’t help but pace back and forth from the sliding glass door leading to your backyard to the kitchen table. You swallow hard and look at Clark. Everything you’ve been keeping to yourself spills out of you.

“I’m trying to be respectful of your boundaries, Clark, but I can’t help but feel like my feelings for you are stronger than the feelings you have for me,” you confessed, tugging at your shirt as you paced. “I don’t ask you why you won’t let me come to your apartment. I don’t ask you why you cancel dates last minute and disappear for hours during the day. I don’t pester you when you take hours to return my texts or calls. I don’t push when you give me the same lame excuses whenever I do ask. I don’t want to be nosy. I tried to pretend like those things don’t bother me and act like a cool, casual girlfriend who doesn’t care so I don’t mess this up, so I can still call you mine, but that isn’t me and I can’t do that anymore.”

Your words settle on Clark’s broad shoulders, and his beautiful smile turns down into a sad frown. You look away from him and push the tears threatening to spill over your cheeks down your throat. Clark takes a careful, measured step towards you, like he’s afraid one wrong move will spook you.

“You think what we have is casual?” Clark asked, his voice rough and wounded.

You turn and look at him. His face is flushed, and you see the hurt in his eyes. You sigh and shrug pathetically. “What else would it be, Clark?” you can’t help but ask, your voice full of exasperation. “You cancel dates all the time and you won’t let me come to your place, despite living ten minutes away. What am I supposed to think when you’re so cagey and secretive with me!”

Your heavy breaths fill the room, and you cross your arms over your chest. All you want to do is curl up into a ball and cry. A pathetic tear paints your cheek. Clark’s face twists in pain at the sight of you crying and he whispers your name. You shake your head and turn your back on him, staring at your backyard through the sliding glass door.

You feel the heat of his body behind you, chest brushing against your back. His fingers ghosting your waist. His breath hits the back of your neck. “I can explain,” Clark whispered, “please let me explain.”

You let out another careful, measured breath and turn to face Clark. Your eyes meet and his heavy hands find yours. His thumbs brush against the back of your hands.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been honest with you. There’s a reason why I’m so cagey and secretive. There’s a reason why I cancel dates last minute and I don’t have you over at my apartment. I just wanted to keep you safe and that part of my life separate,” Clark’s voice is soft and repentant. His warm breath hits your cheeks. “I can see how it looks and I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

You hold your breath in anticipation, waiting for his answer, for his explanation.

“I’m Superman.”

Your nose scrunches up and you pull away from him. You wrap your hands around your middle and glare at him. The space between you cataclysmic. You let out a bitter laugh. This is what you get for being open and honest about your feelings? A pathetic admission that Clark Kent is Superman? Yeah right.

“Yeah, right,” you scoffed with an eye roll, “and I’m Wonder Woman. I just poured my heart and soul to you, and your explanation is that you’re Superman? You can just tell me that you want to break up, that whatever this is between us is casual. I’m a big girl, Clark. I can handle rejection. What I can’t handle is being lied to and being treated like I’m a fucking idiot. I was just teasing you when I mentioned it that night we first kissed.”

Clark winces at your harsh words and blatant rejection when he reaches for you, “Sweetheart, listen, I’m not—”

“No!” you shouted, your voice trembling. “I shouldn’t have waited this long. It’s my fault for dragging this on far longer than it should. I just couldn’t help myself and then I had the audacity to admit to myself that I love you.”

Your confession charges the air and fat tears stain your cheeks. Clark’s gentle, pleading eyes widen at your admission. You hear his shaky exhale, and his fingers carefully remove his glasses. You watch him set them on the kitchen table and he squares his shoulders. He takes a careful step and then, like it was nothing, floats into the air.

You gasp, stumbling back into the couch. The towels you folded sitting on top fall to the ground. Your eyes widen in awe and disbelief, your mouth a gap. You blink once, twice, three times as Clark—Superman— nears you. His feet touch the ground in front of you, and you stare.

Clark is Superman. The man who trips over his chair in the bullpen is Superman. The man who blushes every time you swear is Superman. The man you love is Superman.

“I guess you are Superman,” you whispered, swallowing hard.

Clark laughs softly and this time, you don’t pull away from him when he reaches for you. His built, muscular arms wrap around you, and he pulls you into his chest before slowly floating into the air with you in his arms. You gasp again and cling to him, shrieking his name. Clark laughs again before gently placing the two of you back on solid ground.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner,” Clark apologized, his mouth grazing your throat. “I was just trying to figure out the best way to do it. I didn’t mean to make it seem like I wasn’t serious about you… about us.”

He brushes away the last of your tears and kisses your cheeks, your nose, your temple. You shiver under his touch and run your fingers up and down his broad back.

“I’m sorry I yelled at you,” you sniffed quietly. “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you. I just… I was going crazy thinking our relationship was casual when I didn’t want it to be. I get overwhelmed when I think about how much I love you.”

Clark beams at you, his smile light and radiate. His nose brushes against yours again and his hands slide up your back and press firmly against your shoulders, pushing your chests together. His mouth nearly touches yours when he whispers, “Gosh… we must be a match made in heaven because I get overwhelmed when I think about how much I love you.”

You can’t help the wet laugh that escapes at Clark’s own admission. His thumbs move to hold your face and brush away your tears. Your fingers grasp his shirt, and your mouths meet in a slow, emotional kiss.

You lean into him entirely and Clark lifts you like you weigh nothing. Which, you guess now is true since he can hold entire buildings on his back now that you know he’s Superman.

You sigh and breath him in all at once as he blindly leads you to the bedroom. The kiss is reverent, deep, filling your soul.

Clark rests you on your back against the mattress and looks at you like you hold the universe in the palm of your hands. He looks at you like you’re the most beautiful woman in the world and not some irritable attorney dressed in old clothes. Clark stares unapologetically at you. His smile sweet and adoring. His palms rest at your thighs and run up and down the bare skin. Your hands grasp at his t-shirt, and you slowly pull it up his body and off his shoulders.

Your hands rest on his burly chest. Your fingers press to every curve of muscle you can get your hands on. Clark whispers your name and gently pulls you up to the headboard, his mouth swallowing your soft sighs. He takes your legs and slowly wraps them around his waist.

You feel the weight of his hardness against his slacks brush against the soft fabric of your shorts as Clark grinds into you. You gasp, your fingers squeezing the flesh on his shoulders and dragging down his back. He groans into your mouth.

“Clark,” you panted as he kissed your throat and gently bit into your skin, “please.”

You feel him smile into your skin and he noses your throat before his eyes find yours. You catch your breath, and he holds your face in his hands. Clark gently pulls you up and whispers against your mouth, “Wanna take care of you, sweetheart. Wanna show you how much I love you. Wanna take this nice and slow. Can I do that, baby?”

You nod eagerly, kissing him lazily. He grins against your lips, and you momentarily kiss his teeth before he pulls away. He delicately takes your glasses off and reaches for the hem of your shirt. You watch with heavy eyes as Clark slowly pushes your shirt up your body and over your head. He groans when he sees you’re not wearing a bra. He carefully places your glasses back on your face. You blink Clark back into focus.

“There, now you can see me again,” he hummed, kissing you sweetly.

Clark’s mouth is soft and eager against your burning skin. He loves every inch of you his mouth can reach. He bites the top of your chest gently. Your moan echoes off the walls and straight to Clark’s ears. He smirks, biting down just enough that he knows a bruise will form.

Clark trails kisses down your body. He kisses your breasts, your sternum, down your belly, and just above where your shorts sit on your hips. Clark grins against your skin, breathing in deeply. His blue eyes are dark and dilated with desire.

“I can smell just how wet you are, baby,” Clark murmured against your tummy, nosing at your shorts. “Can hear your heart racing, too. Can you lift your hips?”

You shiver in anticipation and gently lift your hips off the bed. Clark’s hands gather your shorts in his hands and gingerly pulls all remain fabric from your body. Your ears ring as Clark continues his journey down your body.

He places a warm, teasing kiss to your knee, nipping at your thigh. You cry out in agony, willing Clark to wrap his beautiful mouth around your throbbing pussy. Your fingers grasp at his hair, but he doesn’t budge. Clark chuckles into your skin and takes another deep breath in before licking a long strip from your center to your clit.

You cry in pleasure and feel Clark’s hands tug under your hips, pulling you closer into his mouth. Your legs lay open on the bed, bare and ready for Clark. The sound of your slick against his mouth fills your ears and your head falls back against the pillow, feeling the pressure against your hole as Clark devours you.

You moan and feel one of Clark’s fingers gather your wetness before gently pushing you open. “C-Clark!” you sobbed, sinking into the ecstasy. Your sweat and tears stain your skin.

“You can hold it,” Clark’s voice vibrated against your weeping hole, a shock shooting up your spine. “You’re not ready.”

You wail and squeeze Clark’s head between your thighs. The bastard laughs, and before you can say anything, a second finger enters you.

You’re near the edge of your orgasm. The coil in your belly begs for release. The pressure of Clark’s tongue and fingers against your clit has you seeing stars.

“Please, Clark,” you begged, hot and flushed underneath him. “Need to cum. Please let me cum.”

“Only, ‘cos you asked so nicely,” he hummed into your skin.

Clark curls his fingers and laps at your clit lazily as your orgasm washes over you. You cry his name and shake beneath him as he coaxes you through it. Your fingers stay rooted in his hair as you come down from your high, teary and breathless.

Clark carefully pulls his fingers out of you, and you whimper. You watch him lick his fingers clean before he moves up your shaking body and kisses you. You moan against his mouth at the taste of yourself on his tongue.

You greedily grab his waist and fumble with his belt as you kiss. Clark’s warm, teasing laughter brushes your lips and he kicks off his pants and boxers when you push them down his thighs.

Clark grabs your legs and carefully wraps them around his waist once more. You feel the head of his cock gather the slick between your legs. You mewl against his mouth and wrap your hand around him. Clark shudders and grunts against your mouth. You delicately line him to your entrance between your folds.

Your breath catches in your throat as Clark slowly pushes inside you. Your mouth falls open and Clark kisses your sweaty temple.

He’s massive and thick as he holds your hips and brings the two of you together inch by inch. Clark stretches you and fills you to the brim. He doesn’t move, just sits there milking your warm walls as you adjust.

“Breathe, baby,” he murmured into your ear, “only makes it hurt more if you’re not breathing.”

You gasp for air, fingers clawing at his shoulder. You nod mutely and breathe in and out. A few moments pass and Clark’s nose brushes your before he kisses you. It’s slow, intimate, gentle.

Clark pushes in until he bottoms out. You groan into each other’s mouths and the weight of him inside you makes you shiver. Clark’s thrusts are deep and methodical. He doesn’t want to hurt you. He can’t bear the thought of breaking you.

You squeeze around him experimentally and Clark’s face falls into the nape of your neck. He grunts into your ear, rocking in and out of you. Your headboard hits the wall with each thrust.

“If you keep doin’ that, I won’t last long,” Clark said through gritted teeth as he bit the column of your throat.

“Who says I want you to last long?” you teased out of breath, squeezing him again.

Clark growls and rocks into you harder, faster, deeper. He ruts into you, his fingers sliding down your body and pressing against your throbbing clit. You whine against his mouth and squeeze your eyes shut as your orgasm climbs closer and closer.

“Open your eyes, sweetheart,” Clark whispered against your skin, “wanna see those pretty eyes when you cum.”

You do as you’re told and your eyes meet his as your release washes over you, his name a prayer on your lips. Your jaw is slack as Clark chases his own orgasm after you. He kisses you passionately as he comes inside of you. His spent fills you and spills out of you at once. You’re shaking beneath his as you come down from your highs, wrapped in his arms.

Clark slowly pulls out of you and presses a kiss to your forehead before climbing out of bed and walking into your bathroom. You watch him with hazy eyes as he washes his hands and wets a washcloth under the sink before returning to you.

Clark delicately wipes you clean between your legs, whispering quiet apologies when you hiss at how sensitive you are. He tosses the cloth into the dirty clothes bin and returns to his spot beside you in your bed. He takes you in his arms and you stare at him, basking in this moment.

“I can’t believe you only wear stupid glasses to hide your identity,” you huffed in disbelief, brush his hair out of his face.

Clark grins and does the same to you, pushing hair behind your ear. “In my defense, they’re hypno glasses. They usually work, but I guess nothing gets past you, hmm?” he kisses you delicately.

“I mean… it kind of did get past me and you had to float in the air for me to believe you were Superman. But we don’t have to focus on the details, do we?” you asked against his skin.

Clark laughs and pulls you into his chest, kissing you sweetly.

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