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xplicitz · 1 month ago

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ʏᴏᴜʀꜱ ɪɴ ꜱɪʟᴇɴᴄᴇ

Clark Kent x Reader

Tags / TW: 18+, MDNI, coworkers-to-lovers, mutual pining, slow burn, jealous Clark, protective Clark, touch-starved Clark, emotional tension, smut, fem!reader, oral (f!receiving), light dom Clark, edging, creampie, aftercare, unspoken feelings, “accidental” confession, fluff to filth. | Smut, Mutual Pining, Oral (F & M Receiving), Vaginal Penetration, Creampie, Praise, Soft Dom Clark, Touch Starved, Dirty Talk, First Time

Summary: You’ve worked beside Clark Kent at the Daily Planet for years—close enough to memorize his sighs, his typing rhythm, his tie rotation. But lately, something has shifted. You start receiving gifts: things too specific to be random. A book you’ve mentioned once in passing. Your favorite flower tucked into your desk. Then, one night, after a particularly brutal date with someone else, you find Clark waiting for you outside—wet, pissed off, and clearly done watching you want someone else.

The flowers show up after your date with that idiot from IT.

You’d barely made it through dinner. He’d been late, hadn’t held the door, and called the waitress “sweetheart” like it was charming. He kissed like he was trying to prove something—aggressive, sloppy, forgettable. You came into the office the next morning still irritated, your head aching from too much wine and too little satisfaction.

And there it was. A single tulip sitting on your desk. Purple. Your favorite.

Fresh, perfectly centered beside your keyboard. No card. No note.

You looked around the bullpen like someone would jump up and confess. No one moved. The buzz of conversation, clack of keyboards, and scent of burnt coffee carried on as if nothing was different. But something was.

You didn’t miss the way Clark looked away the second you turned toward him.

He was already at his desk, glasses low on his nose, typing with that usual intense focus like he was writing the world into shape. His tie was a little crooked. His sleeves rolled up to the elbow, exposing his forearms. You watched the way his fingers moved across the keys—calm, deliberate, powerful. You swallowed and turned back around, forcing your attention to the screen in front of you.

It wasn’t like you hadn’t noticed Clark before. You always noticed Clark. You noticed the way he laughed with his whole chest, how he always stood when someone entered the room, how he knew when you needed space before you asked for it. But he was… untouchable. Gentle in a way that made you want to break something. He offered you gum once and your fingers touched. You’d thought about it for weeks.

The tulip wasn’t the last thing.

A few days later, a package showed up on your desk. You didn’t order anything. It was wrapped simply—brown paper, twine. Inside was a paperback book. Out of print. A poetry collection you’d mentioned once months ago while proofreading one of Clark’s articles late at night. You hadn’t even remembered saying it aloud.

You opened the cover and there was one line written on the inside:

“For when the days feel too loud.”

Your breath caught. You stared at the handwriting. It wasn’t familiar, but it was careful. Neat. Intentional.

You glanced over at Clark. He was chewing his pen, eyes locked on his screen. When you got back to your desk and said softly, “This was a really thoughtful gift,” he didn’t even turn his head.

But his fingers paused. Just for a second. Like he’d been caught mid-breath.

You waited.

He said nothing.

You let it go, but your heart didn’t.

That week, you watched him more than you should’ve. You noticed how he never touched anyone. Always kept a polite distance. When someone clapped him on the shoulder, he’d stiffen, almost flinch. He walked softly, too, like he didn’t want to be heard.

You wondered what it would take to make him want to be seen.

He’d always had this air of control, like he was holding back something massive just under the surface. And sometimes, when your hands brushed passing each other a file or you leaned too close over his shoulder to look at his screen, you swore he stopped breathing.

It started to drive you crazy.

The way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t looking.

The way he never looked when you wanted him to.

One afternoon, you caught him staring. You were eating lunch at your desk, spinning the stem of a cherry between your fingers, bored out of your mind, when you looked up and saw him.

His eyes were fixed on your mouth.

You popped the cherry into your mouth and bit down slow. Didn’t break eye contact. The juice slid along your lip, warm and red. You licked it away.

“See something you like?” you asked, voice soft.

He looked startled. His gaze snapped back to your eyes, then downward.

“I wasn’t—” he began.

“You were.”

Clark opened his mouth like he wanted to explain himself, but couldn’t find the words. His hand was curled tightly around his coffee mug.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured.

And for some reason, that disappointed you.

After that, things got strange. He was quieter, more distant. The next time you went on a date—and made the mistake of mentioning it—he didn’t speak to you for two days. Not coldly. Not mean. Just… gone.

You asked him a question in a meeting, and he gave you the shortest answer possible. No eye contact. No softness. Like someone flipped a switch and shut him off.

You told yourself it didn’t matter.

You weren’t even sure who you were trying to convince anymore—yourself, or the part of you that watched Clark Kent like he held the answers to every ache you never admitted out loud.

It didn’t matter that he’d gone quiet. That he hadn’t said good morning. That he didn’t make a dumb joke when you tripped over the carpet coming back from the printer. That his eyes didn’t linger on your lips anymore.

It didn’t matter.

Except it did.

It mattered too much.

Because his silence wasn’t cold. It was careful. Surgical. Like he’d studied exactly where to pull back without drawing suspicion. Like he thought the distance would protect you from something.

He didn’t stop being kind. He still held the elevator. Still left you the last good coffee pod in the breakroom. Still moved your cup off your keyboard when you got up and forgot about it.

But he stopped looking at you.

He stopped seeing you.

And that was somehow worse than being ignored.

You caught yourself watching him more than you should have. Watching the way his jaw tensed when someone flirted with you. Watching the way he gripped the edge of his desk when you wore lipstick.

At night, you lay awake and remembered his laugh. The softness of it. The way it filled up the air around you like sunlight through a window.

You wondered if he laughed like that for everyone.

You wondered if he’d ever laugh like that with you again.

You started to feel haunted by him—by the absence of him—while he was sitting right there.

And then you started getting bolder.

The cherry was a test. You were eating lunch at your desk, the fruit juicy and sweet, and you noticed him watching you. His gaze locked on your mouth.

You licked the juice off your thumb, slowly.

“See something you like?” you said, meeting his eyes.

He froze.

“I wasn’t—” he started.

He looked wrecked with guilt. Swallowed hard. “I’m sorry.”

“You were.”

You didn’t know why that disappointed you more than anything else.

After that, he got quieter.

The next time you mentioned going on a date, he didn’t speak to you for two days. Not even a nod in passing.

You told yourself it didn’t matter again.

And again.

Until one night, you came home, mascara smudged from crying in the Uber, heels in your hand, phone full of texts you didn’t want to answer. You stepped out into the street to get some air—just for a second—and stopped.

There was a figure leaning against a lamppost across from your apartment.

Clark.

His white button-down was soaked through from the rain, sleeves clinging to his forearms. His hair was wet, a dark curl falling over his brow. No umbrella. Just standing there, unmoving, watching your building like it owed him something.

You froze on the steps.

Your breath caught.

“Clark?” you called, voice unsure.

He didn’t move.

So you did.

You walked down the steps slowly. Water soaked through your socks. Your dress clung to your thighs. A car passed between you, spraying your calves with gutter water, and still he didn’t move.

When the street cleared, you finally saw his face.

She looked so tired.

Not in the way people usually mean—bags under the eyes or messy hair. No. She looked like she’d given up something just to stand there.

He wanted to scream.

He wanted to fly to wherever that guy lived and make sure he never spoke her name again. He wanted to wrap her in a towel and hold her until she forgot how to frown. He wanted—God, he wanted.

And he couldn’t have her.

He’d tried.

He’d pulled away.

He’d left flowers and books and notes because it was the only way he could show love without risking her. Because if she knew—if she saw what he really was—what he could do—

But then she saw him.

And her voice cracked when she said his name.

And something inside him broke clean open.

“Clark?” she called again, softer now, like a secret.

And then she said the one thing he couldn’t take.

“I don’t want them. I wanted you.”

It hit him like a punch.

He was moving before he knew he’d decided. Across the street, through the rain, heart pounding harder than it had on any battlefield. The closer he got, the more he saw—the way her mouth trembled, the way her arms folded across her body like she was holding herself together.

He stopped just inches from her.

She smelled like rain and perfume and everything he’d tried to forget.

His voice cracked when he said it. “You have no idea how long I’ve waited for you to say that.”

She stepped forward. He did too.

And then he kissed her.

He kissed you like he’d been holding back for years.

His hands cupped your face, thumbs stroking your cheeks like he needed to ground himself in you. He tasted like rain and heat and something deeper—something barely controlled. And when you pressed your body against his, feeling just how hard he already was, a desperate sound caught in his throat.

You pulled him upstairs. Not a word between you. Just wet clothes, shaky hands, and every second of longing crashing down all at once.

Inside your apartment, you dropped your purse on the floor and turned to look at him—fully, finally—and he looked like he might fall apart.

His shirt stuck to his chest, sheer in the dim light, outlining muscle and scars you’d only ever imagined. You reached for the hem and started to pull it up, but he caught your wrists.

“Let me,” he said, voice hoarse.

You nodded.

He peeled it off slowly, rain-slick fabric clinging to skin. His eyes never left yours. Not even once.

“You’re shaking,” you whispered.

“I’ve imagined this so many times,” he murmured, “I don’t know if it’s real.”

You stepped close, pressing your palm flat against his chest. His heart thundered under your hand.

“It’s real,” you said. “Touch me.”

And he did.

Carefully at first. Reverent. His hands slid under your soaked dress, calloused palms gliding up your thighs, fingers trembling. He kissed your neck—soft, then harder. Teeth. Tongue. His breath grew ragged when you moaned.

He whispered your name like a prayer and lifted you in one clean motion, like you weighed nothing.

He laid you down on your bed as if you were made of porcelain. You reached for him, but he shook his head.

“I need to taste you first.”

He sank to his knees at the edge of the bed, hands on your thighs, spreading you open like a gift.

“Please,” you whispered.

That was all he needed.

You were already soaked between your legs. He could see it before he even touched you. Glowing with arousal, lips glistening, like your body had been waiting for this as long as his had.

He dropped to his knees, pressing a kiss to the inside of your thigh. You twitched.

“Just relax,” he murmured.

But it was for himself.

“You’re so wet,” he rasped. “Is this all for me?”

You nodded frantically.

“Say it,” he growled, mouth hovering just above you, breath hot on your soaked folds.

“All for you,” you panted. “Always been for you.”

Clark’s mouth met your pussy with no hesitation—like a man starved. His tongue was slow at first, long strokes from your entrance to your clit, savoring you, tasting every reaction. When you whimpered and arched, he groaned, gripping your thighs tighter.

Because the second his tongue met your pussy—he lost all control.

God.

You were sweet. Warm. Slippery. Better than any dream.

And you tasted like you belonged to him.

He licked a stripe from your entrance to your clit, slow and deliberate. You gasped, back arching, and it made his cock twitch painfully in his pants.

He didn’t stop.

He couldn’t.

His hands gripped your thighs, fingers digging in just enough to leave marks. He sucked your clit into his mouth and groaned when you moaned his name. He felt you tremble, felt the way you ground into his face like you needed him deeper.

She’s letting me do this. She wants this. She wants me.

It drove him crazy.

Your thighs tightened around his head, and he welcomed it. He buried himself in you, nose nudging your clit, tongue fucking you slowly, then fast, then slow again until your legs were shaking and your hand was yanking his hair.

That did something to him.

He dove back in harder, sucking your clit, fucking you with his tongue, messy and desperate and filthy. You cried out, fisting the sheets, grinding into his mouth like your body couldn’t help it. He moaned when you did, rutting his hips against the bed like he couldn’t take it.

But when you told him to touch you, something inside him snapped.

He wasn’t thinking anymore. He was acting. Driven by every glance you ever gave him, every smile you ever aimed his way, every outfit that made his mouth go dry because he couldn’t stop wondering what was underneath.

And now he had you in front of him. Bare. Soft. Shivering.

“Fuck—Clark—I’m gonna—”

“Give it to me,” he growled, licking you through it, holding you open while you shattered against his mouth.

And when you did—when your whole body went tight and you cried out his name like it meant something—he came so close to finishing just from that.

He licked you through it. Slow. Gentle. Thorough.

Worship.

When he finally pulled back, your chest was heaving, your skin damp with sweat, your eyes half-lidded with need.

And all he could think was:

I’d die between her thighs if she asked.

He didn’t stop until you begged him to.

When he finally rose, his face was soaked with you. His pupils were blown, jaw tight, chest heaving.

“You okay?” he asked, brushing hair from your forehead.

“Yes.”you said, voice cracked and wild.

He cursed under his breath and stood, tugging off the rest of his clothes with shaking hands. When his pants dropped, you saw all of him.

And fuck, he was huge.

Thick. Heavy. Flushed dark pink at the tip and leaking.

“Jesus,” you breathed.

“I’ll go slow,” he said, voice strained. “I’ll stop if it’s too much.”

You reached for him. “I don’t want slow, Clark. I want you inside me now.”

He climbed onto the bed, eyes locked on yours as he lined himself up. He pushed in slowly, stretching you inch by inch, watching your face for any sign of pain.

You gasped when he bottomed out, your legs wrapping around him instinctively.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he whispered. “So tight. So perfect.”

He started to move—slow thrusts at first, deep and grinding, like he wanted to memorize the way you clenched around him.

Then harder.

Deeper.

You cried out as he hit the perfect spot, and that broke something in him.

He pinned your wrists above your head and fucked you—deep, rhythmic strokes that left you moaning into his mouth as he kissed you between gasps.

“You should’ve been mine this whole time,” he growled. “You’re mine now. Say it.”

“I’m yours,” you gasped. “God—Clark—don’t stop—”

He let go of your wrists to cup your face again, forehead pressed to yours, pace quickening.

“I’m gonna cum,” he groaned, “inside you—if you let me.”

“Do it,” you begged. “Fill me up. Want it so bad.”

His thrusts grew frantic. He cursed again, and then he was coming—hard—his whole body shuddering as he spilled inside you, hips jerking, cock throbbing as he groaned your name like a vow.

You came again just from that.

From him falling apart over you.

He collapsed beside you, pulling you into his arms immediately, still buried deep inside.

His breathing was uneven. His hands trembled as they held your waist.

You weren’t done with him.

Not even close.

He’d kissed you like he was starving, eaten you out like he was dying, and now he sat at the edge of the bed, hands still shaking, mouth still wet with you.

You pushed him back gently, straddling his thighs, and whispered, “Let me take care of you.”

He shook his head. “You don’t have to—”

You kissed him to shut him up.

Then you sank to your knees between his legs, hands already sliding up his thighs, and when you wrapped your fingers around his cock, his whole body shuddered.

He was so thick. So heavy in your hand. Veins bulging, tip flushed and leaking.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “You don’t have to—”

“Stop talking, Clark.”

You licked the tip slowly. Just once. His hips jumped.

Then you took him into your mouth, slow and deep, until your lips brushed your hand.

He whined.

A deep, broken sound that made you throb between your legs.

His hand tangled in your hair—not to force you, just to feel you. Ground himself. His thighs were trembling. His breath ragged.

“God,” he groaned. “You feel—fuck—you feel perfect.”

You sucked harder, spit dripping down your chin, hollowing your cheeks just the way you knew would make him lose it. Every time you pulled off to breathe, you stroked him with your hand, lips swollen, eyes locked on his.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he whispered. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

You smiled.

Then went back down, deeper this time, until he hit the back of your throat. You swallowed around him, humming, and he nearly came right there.

“Baby—wait—if you keep going, I’m gonna—”

You didn’t stop.

You wanted to see him come undone. Wanted to see the man who had held back for so long finally break.

And he did.

He warned you. Twice.

Then he gasped, low and guttural, hips jerking as he came down your throat. Hot. Heavy. Endless. His hand gripped your hair like a lifeline, his eyes squeezed shut, body tense with release.

You swallowed every drop.

When you pulled off, he looked completely wrecked—sweaty, wide-eyed, panting, yours.

You climbed into his lap and kissed him again.

“Still think I didn’t have to?” you teased.

Clark smiled, dazed. “If that’s what I get for shutting up, I’ll never speak again.”

His mouth was still on yours when you felt it—his cock twitching between your legs again.

Still hard.

Still needing you.

You pulled back from the kiss, panting. “Already?”

Clark didn’t answer right away. He looked wrecked—hair tousled, lips swollen, chest rising and falling like he was trying to calm something deeper than just breath.

He reached for your face with both hands, cupping you so gently it almost broke you.

“I’ve waited too long to stop at one.”

Your heart slammed in your chest.

You kissed him again, and this time, there was no hesitation. You were already on top of him, thighs straddling his lap, your slick heat pressed against the length of his cock.

He grabbed your hips, steadying you, grinding up between your folds.

You moaned into his mouth.

The stretch as you sank onto him again was deeper now, slower. The first time had been frantic. This was something else.

This was possession.

You braced your hands on his chest, fingernails digging into muscle as you took him all the way in. He hissed through his teeth.

“God, you’re tight—still so tight.”

You started to move—hips rolling, rising and falling, slow at first, then faster. His eyes locked onto where your bodies met, and you heard the ragged growl in his chest.

He looked like he was in pain.

You loved it.

“Is this what you’ve been wanting?” you whispered.

His fingers gripped your waist tighter. “Since the first day I saw you.”

You rocked harder. The sound of skin slapping echoed around the room, wet and fast and so good. Sweat slid down your spine. His eyes never left your face—even when he was losing it, even when he groaned your name like a prayer.

You leaned down to kiss his neck, biting just enough to make him gasp.

“I love how you sound,” you murmured. “Love how you beg.”

He thrust up hard, surprising you.

You cried out.

Then he flipped you—fast, dizzying—and suddenly you were beneath him, wrists pinned above your head, legs spread wide as he sank back in, deeper than ever.

Clark was feral now.

Thrusting into you like it was the last thing he’d ever do. Like he needed to claim you from the inside.

“You feel like heaven,” he groaned. “Like you were made for me.”

You clawed at his back. “Don’t stop.”

He didn’t.

He fucked you like a man losing his mind—fast, deep, hard. Your body was shaking beneath him, crying out with every stroke, your vision blurring with the intensity of it.

His forehead dropped to yours. “Come for me again. I want to feel you.”

You did. Loud and fast and helpless, your whole body clenching around him as you came.

He followed you seconds later, growling deep in his throat, holding you tight as he spilled into you, trembling with it.

You lay there tangled, chests rising and falling together.

He kissed your temple. Your cheek. Your mouth.

Then he whispered the thing you were both too scared to say before:

“I want you. Not just like this. I want you.”

And this time, you let yourself believe it.

You barely made it into work on time.

Everything still ached—in a very specific, thoroughly satisfied way. Your blouse collar was tugged just a little too high to cover the fading bruise Clark left with his mouth. Your gait? Not quite a limp, but not far from it.

You were trying to keep your head down, heart still buzzing from Clark’s Good morning, sweetheart whispered in the hallway when Lois cornered you in the copy room.

“So…” she said slowly. “How’s your weekend?”

You blinked. “Fine?”

“Mm. Fine. Right.” She stepped forward, pulled a folder from the copier, and gave you a look. “You’re glowing like you just had a religious experience. And Kent came in with his shirt inside out.”

You froze.

Lois smiled like a cat who had the cream. “You missed a button, by the way. And there’s a very suspicious mark under your left ear.”

Your hand shot up to cover it.

Too late.

“Please tell me you didn’t let the Boy Scout hit and run,” she whispered. “Because if you broke Clark Kent’s heart, I’ll break your kneecaps.”

You blinked at her, mouth dry. “I… we…”

Her eyes softened.

“Oh, sweetie,” she said. “You’re in so deep.”

You exhaled slowly.

“I think I always was.”

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xplicitz · 1 month ago

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Mmmmmm easy white chocolate

DAVID CORENSWET Behind the scenes of Superman (2025)

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xplicitz · 1 month ago

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xplicitz · 1 month ago

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RIGHT HERE, ALWAYS

Daily Planet – 10:43 PM

You were still staring at your computer screen, a little wine-drunk from the mini bottle you kept in your desk drawer for “emergencies.” One glass down, trying not to spiral over yet another “so sorry, something came up” text from yet another man who clearly didn’t mean what he said.

It was silent, except for the hum of fluorescent lights and the steady click of Clark’s keyboard across the bullpen. You thought he left hours ago.

You stood up, smoothing down your skirt, and walked over, heels clacking softly on the tile.

“You’re still here?” you asked, trying to keep your voice light.

Clark looked up slowly, those soft blue eyes blinking behind his glasses. “Could say the same about you.”

You smirked, arms folded. “Let me guess—news never sleeps?”

He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Nah. I just didn’t feel like leaving you alone.”

Your heart skipped a little. It always did when he said things like that.

You rolled your eyes, trying to brush it off. “I’m fine. Just another trash fire of a date that bailed last-minute. Nothing new.”

Clark’s jaw ticked slightly. “You don’t deserve that.”

Your chest tightened, but you forced a laugh. “Apparently I do. That’s the pattern, right?”

Clark stood up slowly, his full height towering over you now. His voice dropped, steady and low.

“You really don’t see it, do you?”

You blinked. “See what?”

He stepped closer, his fingers brushing lightly against your wrist—gentle, like he was checking if he could.

“How they never show up. How they never stay. And how I’ve been right here—every time you fall apart.”

You swallowed hard, breath catching. “Clark…”

“I’ve watched you cry over men who didn’t know the first thing about loving you. I’ve held you, patched you back together, then watched you go running again—to someone else.”

His hand slid along your jaw. Warm. Steady. Dangerous.

“But not tonight,” he said. “Not this time.”

And before you could say anything, his mouth was on yours—gentle, at first, like he was still asking permission. But you didn’t stop him.

You couldn’t.

—Your apartment. 12:17 AM.

You barely made it through the door.

Clark had you pinned against the inside of your apartment wall, the door slamming shut behind you as his mouth crashed into yours again—no hesitation this time. His glasses were long gone, tossed in the elevator. His tie had been ripped loose in your hands.

You didn’t know who moaned first—you or him—but it was loud. Desperate. The way his hands gripped your hips, dragged your body against his—it was like he’d snapped. Like years of carefully buried feelings were detonating all at once.

“I tried,” he muttered against your mouth. “I tried to be patient, to be good. I tried to just be your friend.”

You gasped as his hands slid down to grip your thighs, lifting you up like you weighed nothing. He carried you to the couch, never breaking the kiss, his voice a growl against your lips.

“But you’re mine. You’ve always been mine.”

He laid you down, hovered over you, and you saw it for the first time—the fire in his eyes. The heat. The hunger. This wasn’t just your sweet co-worker anymore.

He dragged your shirt up and over your head, mouth falling to your neck, sucking hard, claiming. One hand held both your wrists above your head, the other unbuttoned your jeans so fast the metal snapped.

“You don’t get to cry over them anymore,” he growled, sliding your jeans down your legs, slow and rough. “Not when I’ve been here—watching them waste you.”

His mouth dipped lower, teeth grazing the inside of your thigh. You whimpered.

“Clark—”

“No,” he cut in, voice thick, eyes locked on you. “Say it right.”

Your breath caught. “Superman?”

His smirk was dark, dangerous. “Not tonight.”

He pulled your panties down with his teeth, eyes never leaving yours. “Tonight, I’m just the man who’s gonna ruin you for anyone else.”

And then he did.

With fingers first—two deep, slow thrusts that had your back arching, then faster, rougher, curling just right. His mouth followed, tongue relentless, hands pinning your thighs down when they started to shake.

You tried to beg—for what, you weren’t sure—but he didn’t let up. Just kept devouring you like he’d been starving. And maybe he had.

When he finally came up for air, his lips were wet, swollen, jaw clenched like he was barely holding back.

“I’m not done,” he said, voice like thunder.

He ripped open his shirt—literally—buttons flying, and your breath hitched at the sight. All that muscle. All that strength. Yours.

You reached for him, but he pinned your wrists again.

“No,” he growled. “You don’t get to lead this. Not after all these years. Now you’re gonna take it.”

He slid inside you in one slow, devastating thrust—stretching you, filling you completely.

You cried out.

His head dropped to your shoulder. “Fuck, you feel too good. You were made for me.”

And then he moved.

Hard. Fast. Possessive.

His hands gripping your waist, your thighs, your throat—not tight, just enough to make your head spin, to let you know who was in control now.

You came once, then again, legs shaking, voice gone.

And when he came—deep inside you, whispering your name like a prayer—it felt like something cosmic had cracked open between you. Like the Earth had shifted.

You clung to him. He didn’t let go.

Not now.

Not ever.

—Your bedroom. 5:42 AM.

You were barely awake—sore, aching, the best kind of wrecked—when you felt him behind you again. His chest was warm against your back, his breath brushing your ear.

“You still with me?” he murmured, voice raspy from sleep and last night’s growl.

You nodded, eyes fluttering shut again, but then you felt it—him. Hard and hot against your lower back, already twitching like he’d been thinking about you in his dreams.

“Clark…” you whispered, half-laughing, half-gasping. “I can’t even move.”

“I’ll do the work,” he whispered, lips skimming your neck. “Just need to be inside you. Just one more time.”

Your breath hitched.

You felt his hand slide over your waist, fingers gliding lower, parting your thighs from behind. He pushed inside slowly, the stretch somehow deeper this way, more intense. You whimpered.

“Shh,” he whispered, kissing the back of your shoulder. “I know, baby. I know it’s a lot. Just let me feel you.”

He started moving—slow, but deep. Purposeful. Each thrust drew a sound from your throat you didn’t even recognize. You reached back, found his hand, laced your fingers with his.

“You’re mine,” he whispered again, hips stuttering. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” you breathed.

He groaned low in your ear, losing his rhythm for a second before gripping your hip and slamming into you, chasing his high. You tightened around him, your body responding to his every movement like it knew him.

You both came together—loud, breathless, his name a broken cry on your lips, yours a snarl on his.

He didn’t pull out right away. Just stayed there, chest pressed to your back, breathing hard, hand still holding yours.

—6:15 AM.

Your sheets are ruined. You aren’t even mad.

You were lying tangled in your bed, legs barely working, his arm heavy across your stomach. His other hand was brushing your hair back gently, like he couldn’t stop touching you.

You turned your head to look at him.

He was already staring. Like he hadn’t stopped all night.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

You gave a little smile. “I can’t feel my thighs. But yeah, I’m good.”

He laughed—but then his face softened again. You saw it hit him—this wasn’t just a hookup for him. It never was.

“Why didn’t you ever say anything?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Clark looked down at your fingers playing with his. “Because you deserved to fall in love on your own. Not because I waited around.”

You swallowed hard, throat suddenly thick.

“I think I just did,” you said.

He blinked. “What?”

You reached up, touching his jaw. “Fall in love. Just now. With you.”

Clark leaned down, kissed you—so slow, so tender it made your heart ache.

“I’ve been in love with you since the day you spilled coffee on your blouse and cursed in three languages,” he whispered. “You don’t have to fall. I already caught you.”

And he did.

Every time.

#clark kent x you #clark kent x reader #clark kent #superman fanfiction #david superman #superman x reader #superman 2025 #superman #david corenswet #best #dc comics #dc universe

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xplicitz · 1 month ago

Text

Clark Kent’s been quiet long enough.

You’re the office distraction everyone wants—

but when Clark shows up at your door one rainy night,

all that patience finally breaks.

Jealous looks. Fogged-up glasses.

Rough hands that know exactly what they want.

————

jealous!Clark | office tension | slow burn | Superman x Reader |Clark Kent x Reader

read below 👇

MINE TO TOUCH

Flashback — Earlier That Day

It started like any other Tuesday.

The office smelled like burnt coffee and cheap cologne. Phones ringing, keyboards clacking, reporters yelling across the bullpen. Clark tried to focus on the story he was editing—some city council zoning mess—but every time he heard your laugh across the floor, his fingers froze.

Then he showed up.

Jackson. Sales guy. Too much hair gel, not enough brain cells.

You were standing at the copier, wearing that black dress that always made Clark’s self-control feel like it was held together with one fragile thread. Jackson slid in close. Too close. He touched your arm.

And you smiled.

Not the smile you gave Clark—the soft, shy one you probably didn’t even know you gave him. No. This was different. Flirty. Or at least he thought it was. And Clark heard it—Jackson’s thoughts.

God, she’s fine. Bet she’s wild behind closed doors.

Clark’s jaw clenched.

He looked back at his screen, pretended to keep typing. But his heat vision flared for just a second—burned the corner of his notepad. No one noticed.

Except Lois. Of course.

She leaned across her desk with that smug look. “If you don’t say something soon, she’s gonna let someone else take her out for drinks. And then dinner. And then—”

“I know.”

Lois raised a brow. “Then what are you waiting for? An engraved invite from God?”

Clark didn’t answer. Couldn’t. He had too much to lose. You didn’t know what he was. You didn’t know what it meant to be with him. And he’d convinced himself that staying away was protecting you.

But watching you laugh at Jackson’s dumb joke like it meant anything—that cracked something in him.

By 5:00 p.m., he’d made up his mind.

By 11:42 p.m., he was standing outside your door, soaked in rain, heart pounding in his ears.

❤️💛💙❤️💛💙❤️💛💙❤️💛💙❤️💛💙❤️💛💙

You didn’t expect anyone when the knock hit your door.

You’re in an oversized tee and shorts, fresh out the shower, damp hair pulled into a lazy bun. One sock on. A mug of tea forgotten on the counter. It’s been a long day—full of over-confident coworkers making passive flirty comments, and the one person you actually wanted attention from pretending like you didn’t exist.

You crack the door open—and your breath stutters.

Clark.

He’s standing there, rain clinging to his broad shoulders, hair slightly messy from the wind, glasses fogged up. His jaw’s clenched, chest rising and falling like he’s either run here… or had to talk himself into knocking ten times before he actually did.

You blink. “Clark? It’s almost midnight.”

He swallows, eyes scanning you—bare legs, damp skin, the soft cotton of your tee sticking to your frame. He looks away quick, but not before you catch that flicker of heat.

“Can I come in?” he asks, voice lower than usual. Rough.

You step aside, heart racing.

He walks in slowly, like he’s still not sure if he should be here, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just stands in the middle of your living room, soaked, jaw tight.

You finally break the silence. “What’s going on?”

He looks at you. Really looks. And it’s different this time. Not shy, not soft. Something in his eyes is sharp. Possessive.

“You let him touch you today.”

Your mouth parts. “What?”

“In the office. Jackson,” he says, almost like it burns to speak the name. “He touched your arm. You laughed at his stupid joke. You looked at him like…”

“Like what, Clark?”

He shakes his head. “Like he could be something to you.”

You fold your arms. “And what, you get to decide who I laugh with now?”

His eyes flash red for half a second—heat, restraint, a warning—and then it’s gone.

“I’m tired of pretending,” he says. “Tired of hearing what they think about you. Of watching them circle you like you’re something they can just… take.”

You step closer. Just barely. “Then say it. Stop being quiet about it and say what you want.”

There’s a beat of silence. A breath. And then—

He steps in.

Fast

Big hands on your waist, pulling you in like he’s been starving. His mouth crashes into yours—hot, urgent, desperate. You gasp against him, grabbing at his soaked jacket, pulling it down his shoulders. His glasses fall to the floor. Neither of you care.

He walks you back until your spine hits the wall. One of his hands slides under your shirt, warm and rough, the other cupping the side of your face like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he growls against your skin, lips trailing down your neck. “You think I don’t notice you? I’ve wanted you since the day you walked into the bullpen. But I’m not like them. I don’t want you for show.”

His eyes meet yours, fierce and full of something deeper than lust.

“Everything.”

Your back hits the wall with a quiet thud, and Clark presses his forehead to yours, his breath ragged. It’s like something cracked in him, something he’s been holding in for too long. He kisses you again, slower this time, but deeper—like he’s trying to memorize every inch of your mouth, your taste, the way your hands tremble a little against his chest.

You pull at his shirt, the soaked fabric clinging to him, and he helps you strip it off, muscles flexing as it drops to the floor. His body is sculpted—unreal, warm even after the rain, chest rising and falling fast under your touch.

He rests his hands on either side of your head, caging you in, looking at you like he’s never wanted anything more.

“I’m trying to be gentle,” he murmurs, lips brushing against yours. “But if you don’t tell me to stop, I’m not walking out of here tonight.”

You stare at him, lips parted, heart pounding so loud you’re sure he hears it. “I don’t want you to stop.”

That’s all he needs.

He picks you up like you weigh nothing, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he carries you to the bedroom. The air between you is thick—hungry. His kisses trail down your jaw, your collarbone, soft and hot and dangerous.

“I’ve thought about this,” he confesses against your skin. “Too much. Every time you leaned over my desk… every time you wore that damn lipstick and didn’t even know how bad you were messing with me.”

You tug at his belt, biting your lip. “Maybe I did know.”

He growls low in his throat. “Don’t say that unless you’re ready for what that means.”

You look him dead in the eyes. “I’m ready.”

He undresses you slowly, like he’s worshipping, not rushing. Kisses every spot he reveals like it’s holy. His hands roam—gripping, teasing, learning you. And when he finally lays you down, his body pressed over yours, everything slows. He’s not just here to take—he’s here to feel.

Your hands tangle in his hair, and you whisper his name—Clark—like a prayer, and he nearly loses it. His movements get rougher, more desperate, lips trailing down your chest, hips grinding into yours. It’s soft and it’s messy and it’s perfect.

“You’re mine,” he whispers into your neck, as if he’s claiming you. “You always have been.”

And just before everything melts into heat and moans and tangled sheets—

You pull him in close and say, “Then show me.”

You wake up slow.

The room is dim, filtered through gray clouds. The sheets are tangled around your legs, and the warmth beside you is unmistakable. He’s still here. That alone surprises you.

Clark Kent is in your bed, shirtless, hair messy, glasses gone. His arm is draped around your waist, hand resting low on your stomach like he’s holding you in his sleep. Like he needs to.

You twist slightly to look at him.

He’s watching you.

Eyes soft. Less heat than last night—more awe. Like he still doesn’t believe he’s allowed to be here.

“Hi,” you whisper.

His voice is gravel. “Hi.”

A pause.

Then he leans in, presses a kiss to your shoulder. Just one. Slow. Gentle in a way that makes your chest ache a little.

“You stayed,” you say, not teasing—just quietly surprised.

He nods. “Wasn’t gonna leave unless you made me.”

You hum. “So all that shy, stuttering Kent stuff was fake?”

He grins against your skin. “No. That was me trying not to throw you over my desk every day.”

You snort. “You sure did a good job pretending I didn’t exist.”

He props himself up on one elbow, fingers tracing circles on your hip. “I never didn’t see you. You walked into that newsroom and I’ve been holding my breath ever since.”

You’re quiet for a second, the weight of it settling.

Then: “I should’ve let you kiss me weeks ago.”

“I would’ve ruined it,” he says honestly. “Wasn’t ready to not be careful with you.”

His hand slides up, resting just under your ribs. “But last night? You pushed me too far.”

You smirk. “So what now?”

“I make you breakfast.”

“You cook?”

“No, but I can make toast without setting off the smoke alarm.”

“…Barely.”

He grins. “Fair.”

He pulls himself out of bed, slips on his pants—low on his hips, of course—and heads to your kitchen. You sit up in bed, blanket around you, watching him move around your apartment like it’s his second skin.

For a second, it’s easy to forget this is Superman.

He looks like someone’s boyfriend. Yours. Kind of.

Then he turns back, leans in the doorway, and says:

“I meant what I said last night.”

You tilt your head. “Which part?”

He looks you dead in the eyes.

“You’re mine.”

Daily Planet Office — The Next Morning

Clark walks in late.

Hair still damp. Tie undone. Shirt wrinkled. And worst of all—smiling.

Smiling.

Lois Lane sees it instantly from across the bullpen. She doesn’t say anything right away. She just watches. Her partner—Mister Mild-Mannered, Mister “I’m Just Tired”—is humming. Clark Kent is humming.

Red flag.

By the time he reaches his desk, she’s already there waiting. Coffee in one hand, suspicion in the other.

“Well, well, well,” she says, leaning against his cubicle wall like a shark. “Look who finally got laid.”

Clark chokes on nothing.

“I—what?”

She grins. “You heard me.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Lois raises an eyebrow. “You’re humming. Your shirt’s inside out, by the way. And you didn’t even flinch when Perry screamed at Jenkins about the budget. You always flinch.”

“I don’t always flinch.”

“You flinch every time, Clark. You’re like a scared golden retriever with x-ray vision.”

He sighs. “Lois—”

“No. Nope. Don’t even try it. Tell me who. Was it the comms girl?”

He doesn’t answer.

She leans in, eyes wide. “It was her. OH MY GOD—did you finally—”

Clark cuts her off, voice low. “Can you not say it like that?”

Lois slaps her hand over her mouth and still manages to whisper, “You totally did.”

She drops into the chair across from his desk like this is the best gossip she’s ever had in her life. “Okay, spill. How long has this been going on? Was it passionate? Did you break her bed? Did you—”

“Lois.”

She grins. “You’re blushing.”

“I’m not—”

“You’re literally glowing. Like post-flight, post-save, post-sex glowing.”

Clark drops his head into his hands. “This is inappropriate.”

Lois leans forward, grin dropping just slightly. “Hey. For real though. You like her, right?”

Clark looks up. And this time he doesn’t dodge.

“Yeah. I really do.”

Lois’s expression softens. “Good. ‘Cause if you hurt her, I’m the one who’s gonna write the headline.”