fandomwriterstuff

[fandomwriterstuff]

IMAX????

[fandomwriterstuff]

𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧

Clark is so completely oblivious to your flirting that you start to wonder if he even understands what flirting is. (He does, and he can prove it.) fem, 3k

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

“Hey, Kent.”

Clark’s answering smile is enthusiastic, but little else. “Hey. How are you, how’s your morning going?”

“Better now that you’re here.”

He takes this more seriously than you’d expect. Or, exactly as you’d expect apparently, because this is Clark you’re talking to. “No one’s made you a cup of coffee?” 

“Well, Jimmy offered, but, alas. Nobody has hands as skilled as yours.”

He nods like this is a given. “I can make you one. Decaf?” Clark laughs loudly at your crestfallen expression. “I’m kidding. Be right back.” 

With caffeine and Clark Kent, your morning promises to improve. It was destiny, fate, and one kind boss that put you in the desk to the right of Clark’s. He’s made good out of a bum deal sandwiched between his desk and a pillar, having turned the pillar into a home for his corkboard and sticky notes. You study him often, his hair kissing the wall each time he leans back to watch the office television. 

You just need to say the right thing to him. To get him to notice you. If he rejected you, you’d stop, of course you’d stop, but Clark hasn’t so far acknowledged your flirting, and even that would be enough to put you off the whole thing if Jimmy hadn’t fanned your flames a few weeks ago. 

He definitely doesn’t know you’re flirting, Jimmy’d said, mouth half full of popcorn, the other half milk duds, that’s what happens to boys when they come from a home on the range, my friend. No game. 

You’d laughed at his grand bravado and kept that information stored away. Clark does seem a little… inexperienced, when it comes to adult life. He’s perfectly normal as things go, but he’s hopeless when it comes to dating. A few weeks ago, a woman at the bar closest to work had asked him if he’d buy her a drink and Clark, all manner of sympathy in his eyes, had asked if she lost her wallet.

So you assume him unknowing and carry on valiantly. “Kent,” you say now, resting your hand on his shoulder, “can we have lunch together?” 

“When, now?” 

“Whenever’s best for you, babe.”

He quirks a smile. “I’m always hungry.”

“I know. I brought you something.”

“You did?” 

“Mm-hm. Put your monitor on standby and come find me.” 

He doesn’t let you get far, his hand pressing lightly to the small of your back as you break for the office kitchenette. “What sort of something?”

“Sorry?”

“What did you bring me?”

“A special treat for a special boy,” you murmur, mostly joking, ever so slightly salacious, and far too much for the setting. 

“You’re leaving me in anticipation here.”

“Is there any other way to leave you, Clark?”

He gives a well-meaning shrug. “Sure, you usually like to leave me hanging.” 

“Don’t be mean. I’ll keep your treat for myself. You know I will.”

Clark chuckles. The sound never fails to light you up from the inside out, has you rushing to the fridge to get your two Tupperware boxes for sharing. You hand one to Clark, the other housing your boring dinner. He slides his arm under yours before the fridge door can close and effectively boxes you in as he grabs his own lunchbox. Your faces are close enough to kiss. 

You take the proximity gratefully, cataloguing the gentle lines of his face. His eyes are beautiful, and light, a warm blue that refuse to dip down to your lips as yours fall to his. You give them a longing stare. Clark collects his lunch and backs away from you. 

He leads you to a table together while shaking the box you’ve given him. 

“What is it?” he asks. 

“It’s not like it’s see through, or anything.”

He grins, eyes averted. “I’m going to guess what it is by sound.” Clark turns the box on its side. “Too soft a noise for cookies. If it were fairy cakes again, I’d hear the paper. And we’ve sworn off of caramel after you almost lost your incisor.” 

“So?”

He sniffs. “Brownies.”

“Cheater.” 

“I’m not cheating,” 

“You are! You’re smelling them, I know you are, they’re chocolatey enough. Just the way you like them, if you even care.”

“Of course I care,” he says, finally letting himself look down at the Tupperware, eyes lit with joy. “Oh, these look beautiful.”

“Well, I tried my best.”

“You didn’t have to go to all the trouble,” he says, even as he pops off the lid and lets out a pleased, decadent sigh, like a king looking over a vast sea of riches rather than four dark squares of fudgey brownies. 

“I don’t mind, Clark. I like doing things for you.”

He eats his brownies. He eats his lunch. You press your ankle to his under the table and smile when he doesn’t pull away, again when he washes your plastics and returns them to you towel-dried for your bag. He says, “Thank you for my treat,” with a small pat to your shoulder. 

Hours pass slowly, but then it’s your long awaited home time and you’re not interested in being alone just yet. 

“Could I ask you something?” 

Clark eases the loop of your tote bag back onto your shoulder. “Always.”

“Would you walk me home?”

“Today?” He holds your arm. “Everything okay?” 

“Would you believe me if I said I’d just really like your company?” 

He rolls his eyes. “Come on. We can beat the rush on the tramline if we hurry.”

You don’t beat the rush hour traffic on the tramline; the tram stations are all lined with people two-thick, so you take the slightly longer way on foot from the office to the quieter residential area where you live. The sky is moody, though the sun stays eager, following the backs of your necks past Metropark and Mr. Caleb’s corner store. 

“Wanna get shaved ice?” Clark asks. 

It may be warm, but it’s getting dark already and the idea of eating shaved ice in the dark is unpleasant. Still, he’s so charming, you end up shaking your head while you weave your arm through his. “Lucky you’re pretty,” you murmur. 

“We don’t have to. We could get coffee.” 

“You want to?” 

“I want you to be less sad,” he says. 

“I’m not sad.”

“No? You seem… I don’t know. You seem sort of defeated. Did something happen at work today? You aren’t acting like you would.”

“How do I usually act?” you ask curiously. 

He wrinkles his nose at you. It’s a fond gesture. “Like you. You’re so yourself. I don’t like seeing you down.”

“I’m not down, Clark. But I don’t know, maybe I’ll ask you something.” 

“Sure. Anything, I’m an open book.” 

You size him up. 6’ ridiculous (or 6’4 if he’s to be believed) and brazenly kind, even the look of him, a nose that’s pleasing to see, would be better to kiss, the lines in his cheeks from his smiling and his crow’s feet crinkle right at the corners of his eyes. His dark grey suit and the skinny red tie you occasionally tug between two fingers. Clark isn’t an open book. He is notoriously hard to get a read on, and he should know this. He drives you crazy. 

“Ugh,” you mumble, rubbing the space between your eyebrows. 

“It’s okay, honey.”

You narrow your eyes at him around your hand. “Clark, are you hard of hearing?”

“What?” 

“I’m genuinely asking. I know it’s a very rude thing to presume about someone out of the blue, or, to ask about, but I figured maybe you have an audio processing issue or something?” 

He doesn’t recoil as some might, or get offended at the question, as personal as it was. “I’m not hard of hearing. Why are you asking me that? Do I miss it, when you’re talking to me?”

“It’s like you aren’t hearing me, yeah.”

“I always hear you.”

“But… I say so many things, and your answers are so– neutral?” You frown at the deep confusion etched between his brows and catch a different thread. “When I said I wanted your company, earlier, you rolled your eyes. Why?” 

“You were joking.”

“Was I?” You untangle your arm from his to get a better view of his expression. “Why would I joke about that? Why else would I want you to come with me?”

“I don’t– I don’t know, you joke so often.”

“When?”

“Like, in the mornings. I ask how you are and you always say you’re better now you saw me.”

“That is quite genuinely true, Clark.”

“But it’s, like. You’re kidding. It’s like play-fighting, only…”

You wish you and Clark could’ve had this conversation sitting down. It would’ve been nicer somewhere quieter, but there’s comfort to be found in the quiet hustle and bustle of the tramlines whirring in the backgrounds, the single train track further from the main city, even the bump and beeping of Metropolis traffic. And there are people everywhere, chatting, walking, occasional laughter filtering through bursts of sound. You smile at Clark as someone out of sight lets out a roaring burst of giggles, enamoured with his own twitching smile, like even the hint of someone else’s joy is enough to bring colour to his day. 

“I could never put my hands on you, handsome. You’re too precious,” you say, almost shy. “Not play-fighting, by the way. I’m flirting with you, Kent. I have been.” 

He raises a hand to his neck, scratches. Lets it flop back down, his lips parting in surprise. “You are?” 

You hold your hands behind your back. “It’s not a joke, Clark. Honey. I’m sorry if I never made that clear for you. I definitely wasn't trying to make a joke out of things. Don’t get me wrong, I love teasing you, and sometimes I’m being hyperbolic, but I mean everything I’ve said. I hope you… hope you don’t mind.” 

You watch in real time as Clark goes a rosy shade of pink. Spreading across his nose, glancing up his cheekbones, a heated stain to evidence his embarrassment even as his lips stretch into a smile that’s unfailingly, untouchably pleased. His eyes go soft, his fingers tickling the back of your hand as he finds it, turns it, and grabs your fingers. Too impatient to thread them together. 

“Oh,” he says, giving your joined hands a sway. You watch him mouth it again. Oh.  

“Clark?”

“When we went to dinner, after Perry’s party, I should’ve paid,” he says. 

“What?”

“And– and there are so many doors I could’ve held for you.” 

“I don’t think that’s true.” 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he says, sounding, for a second, genuinely agitated. It’s a stark contrast to the way he treasures your hand in his, rolling your fingers nicely. 

“Clark, I’ve been trying. For weeks. If anyone’s going to be annoyed right now, it’s me.”

He glares at you. That glare quickly softens, turning to more of a stickied, almost playful smile you fail to place on him. 

“What?” you ask. 

He takes a step into your space. “What?” he asks back. 

“I asked you first.”

Clark takes you in as you shift your weight from one foot to the other,  an uncomfortable warmth spreading over the back of your neck.  

“What?” you whisper. 

“Just looking at you.” 

You flare with embarrassment. “Do not,” you warn. The bite you’d tried for is more of a whine. 

“Don’t what? Look at you? How could I not?” 

“Clark, you can’t be serious.”

“Oh, I’m dead serious.” 

“Dead ridiculous,” you murmur, tail end of your words a breathy, harsh exhale as Clark leans into your space and presses his lips to your skin. 

Anticipation tightens every joint. Your brain catches up slowly, finds his mouth on your cheek, your cheekbone, and the corner of your eye, three soft kisses that threaten to bowl you over in the middle of the sidewalk, despite his hand clasped over yours and the other guiding your face toward his kissing. He presses a final kiss to your temple, takes a breath of you, and lets you fall away. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t notice, before,” he says, rubbing the back of your hand sympathetically, “but I know now.” 

You do your best not to stutter. “Sure. It’s okay.” 

“Yeah, it will be. Where do you want to go for dinner?” 

—

Clark has to confess to bone deep elation. Bordering childish, wildly grown up, he cannot contain or restrain the force of his affection. 

In less pretentious terms, Clark Kent is falling in love. You might’ve had the head start when it came to the whole courting side of things, but Clark would argue he’s pined harder, and for far longer, to the point of delusion: every flirtation was thought to be a joke. Some days he’d believe you, and others he’d go home thinking about a flirty, lovely girl who just likes to make her coworker smile. 

He can’t say he’d believe this, now. Picture you here, sure, achy mornings scrolling his phone in frustration, before tossing it aside to clutch a pillow to his chest, his nose in the case, trying to find your smell. What is it you always smell like? Your perfume. He’s awful at this stuff, knows so many smells but can’t make it out. 

Clark —lucky Clark, in there and now, elated— slips his arm over your chest and pulls you easily into his front. You’re practically weightless to him. 

“Mm…” you mumble. 

He shushes you mindlessly. 

Unfortunately, the sound only serves to wake you more. You doze weakly in his arms, a touch unsettled, all his fault for being selfish, so Clark rubs your back delicately and tries to repent. Wordlessly, he adjusts his arm under yours to hold your stomach in his palm, inching you backward, waiting for a sign. 

You let out a long, low sigh and fall mostly asleep again. 

Clark rests his nose in your hair. This is hard-worked but perhaps unearned, considering all your heavy lifting, but Clark will be damned if he hasn’t tried to make things up to you. The best, worst thing about you is that you find it all endlessly funny; Clark brings you flowers and you tickle him under the chin with their petals; he takes you out for dinner and you sneak off (unsuccessfully) to pay the bill during dessert; he tries to flirt, voice low and warm and pleading, and you ask him if he’d like to play fight. It’s your favourite joke. That’s if you aren’t blatantly pretending that Clark isn’t flirting. 

And you’re here now because… well. You haven’t fucked. Clark has —offered you things. Never wanting to take too soon, but needing you to have. And you’ve let him spin you around some, but tonight was because you just didn’t want to leave. Who was Clark to let you? You should have everything you want, including him, and including this. He’ll lay here stretching an ache out of your back all day if it’s your wish.

He tries to dial back the philosophical. Presses his nose further into your head and closes his eyes again. He’s tireder than usual, but that could be down to the late nights with you. He likes calling you, knowing you’ll answer. He likes listening to you talk, and he loves the casual flirtation you throw at him. Better now, because you know your crush is reciprocated. 

You smell incredible. Clark could fall to pieces about it. 

You wake up, then, Clark’s not sure why, holding his arm off of you to spin beneath it to face him, before forcing yourself under the curve of his chin to hold him. 

Clark doesn’t say anything in case you’re trying to get back to sleep again. He just waits, letting his fingers tumble the length of your back as it rises and falls. 

You don’t fall asleep again. 

“Hey,” you murmur. 

“Hi.”

“Good morning.”

“Better,” Clark says, tipping your head back by the nape of you, something right about it as you follow his hand back to show him your sleep-rumpled face, “now that you’re here.”

You turn your face into his arm. Clark can feel the heat of your skin, and thanks whoever there is to thank for the way that shyness and heat go hand in hand. You’re warm as a hearth against his skin, like a stripe of sun laid down and resting. 

“Steal all my best ones,” you mumble. 

“Best what?” 

“My pick-up lines.”

“Honey, I’m not flirting with you. Is that what you thought?”

He says it in a mumble. Presses it right into your mouth. 

Your first kiss had been somewhat of an oddity. No flirting before or afterwards, no pretenses, only a kiss. You’d been shy the day after your impromptu dinner and Clark hadn’t loved it. ‘Cos you’re adorable, but it had bordered too harshly on unsurety. Like you were waiting for Clark to take things back. 

His hands under your face to hold you. A wading of a kiss turned biting turned pleading, two shades of desperate and third pathetic. Clark had put everything he could into it. Translated months of longing, and the permanent ache that had come with your teasing.

This kiss is nothing like that. It’s melding your mouth against his with ease, meeting you halfway there as his hand carries you inward. Chest to chest, your little smile a lance against his own. 

“M’not flirting,” he murmurs. 

“Why not?”

“‘Cos you have me, baby.” 

You grumble weakly against his lips and take another kiss. “I like the flirting,” you say. 

“That’s too bad, huh?” He presses your shoulder to the bed, watches your eyes widen and then fall shut. “Maybe I can be persuaded.” 

“Flirt with me.”

“Nicer.” 

Your attempt to hide a triumphant smile fails. Clark doesn’t mind. 

“Please?” you murmur. 

He mouthed beautiful into the side of your neck. There’ll be time for the rest. Not that you’ll enjoy waiting —and not that he’ll mind giving in. 

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

Thank you bec for proof reading!!!!♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️

[fandomwriterstuff]

Batman, Superman, and Wonder Woman as a threesome don't really appeal to me but I like the optimism it shows for Bruce's capabilities. yeah don't worry about it just two super strong demigods going at it with a Normal Human Guy clinging on for dear life. they're fucking hard enough to level South Dakota and him? well, he's doing his best. get that man some electrolytes.

[fandomwriterstuff]

٠ ࣪⭑ mastermind

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

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

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

If there were two people who talked the most at the Daily Planet, it would be Cat Grant and yourself.

The two main gossip columnists. You were both brutal. Once, Jimmy was assigned a story with you. He requested to never work with you in the gossip column again after just six hours. Perry agreed. He also never assigned you anything but gossip because the one time he did? You wrote a slam piece on both baseball teams you were assigned to write about. 

Perry realized very early on you were a gossip column writer only. And he was okay with that.

Cat and you were always stunning the offices and newsrooms. Hair, makeup, and pretty outfits every single day, even if you were sick or it was storming out. You always looked good. That was the fun part about the job, and you took it seriously. The fashion, the presence, the image. It wasn’t just for the sake of being seen. It was armor. Lipstick was war paint, heels were your battle cry, and your notes app was a finely-honed blade.

Between you and Cat, there wasn’t a single scandal that went unnoticed or unpublished. You had sources no one else could reach, contacts who owed you favors, and a sixth sense for when something was about to blow up. You weren’t just gossip columnists, you were watchdogs in stilettos.

And Clark? He wasn’t sure what to make of you at first. He’d never met someone who could talk circles around Cat Grant and casually bring up alien migration patterns over lunch. He also didn’t understand how someone could write a piece titled Lex Luthor: Lots of Money, but Hard to Appease? and still manage to interview senators by the end of the week.

You were loud. Smart. A little too clever. But no one could deny it. Every time you walked into the room, the story followed.

And eventually, so did Clark.

“Clark, you gotta hear this, man,” Jimmy’s chair wheeled over beside Clark’s desk. “She’s talking nonsense. Like.. smart nonsense.”

Clark glanced up, already a little wary. “What is it this time?”

Jimmy pointed, discreet but desperate, toward the far end of the bullpen where you and Cat Grant were deep in conversation. “She’s doing something really weird. I walked past her desk and heard numbers. Equations. Graphs. Clark, she’s talking about Superman like he’s a physics dissertation.”

Clark blinked, turning just slightly in his chair to get a better look. You were standing near the coffee station, one hand wrapped around a pink mug that read Panic Then Write, the other animatedly gesturing as you explained something to Cat, who, for her part, looked like she was either being converted into a new religion or trying really hard to figure out whatever you were saying to her.

“—and that’s exactly why his maximum velocity during vertical ascension contradicts the standard gravitational drag equation,” you said brightly. Your hands waved in the air, manicured nails glistening in the light. “Like, there’s no way his flight path over the city last Friday didn’t involve some level of gravitational lensing. Did you see the air pressure ripple? I mean, it wasn’t visible, obviously, but the birds dipped midair. I have a theory, I’m working on it.”

Cat blinked. “You’re telling me you can tell how fast Superman was going based on bird migration patterns?”

“Oh, totally. Well, that and minor wind displacement across a five-block radius. Also, the security cam footage from Ninth and Fulton glitched at the exact time he crossed into frame. It’s like an energy signature thing. I track it in my spreadsheets.” You said it like it was the most simple thing in the world, like anyone else could be doing it.

“Spreadsheets,” Cat repeated, like she wasn’t sure if she should be impressed or afraid.

Clark stared. So did Jimmy. 

“She has spreadsheets,” Jimmy whispered, horrified. It was like every assumption he had previously assumed about you was being thrown out the window.

Clark tried very, very hard not to smile. “About Superman.”

“She’s obsessed, man! She said his cape flutters at a different rate depending on the altitude! She compared it to solar panel kinetics! Who does that?” Jimmy’s exclamation nearly gathered your attention. Jimmy just gave you a small, hesitant nod, making you shrug and continue with your conversation.

“Apparently she does,” Clark murmured, voice a little too fond. He watched your face brighten again as you began explaining something else to Cat.

Jimmy narrowed his eyes. “Wait. You’re into this, aren’t you? You like that she’s a walking Super-statistics manual.”

“I admire her dedication to research,” Clark said simply. Sure, it was the dedication, but this was the first time Clark was actually seeing a whole new side to you.

You were always gorgeous. It was probably the first thing Clark noticed about you. But he knew you had passion, riveting storytelling abilities, incredible grammar and punctuation. Clark knew you were always on time and always listened to people intently whenever they spoke to you. He knew you loved every single color of the rainbow, always greeted everyone in the morning, and made time during your busy day to gossip with Cat. Clark learned a lot about you very quickly.

So, learning you were actually a genius was something he really liked. Really liked. More than your pretty eyes, bright smile, and endearing voice. Especially because you zeroed in on him. Superman. 

“She’s got a color-coded chart titled Flight Patterns vs. Rescue Probability Ratios,” Jimmy hissed, hands flailing around the air. “I saw it with my very own eyes!”

Clark smiled. “That’s actually.. not a bad idea.”

Jimmy groaned. “Oh my god. It’s worse than I thought. We’re gonna find you one day married and buried under pie charts.” No, Clark’s crush was not a secret.

Across the room, you caught Clark’s eye—mid-sentence, mid-rant, mid-explaining the temperature fluctuation when Superman breaks the sound barrier—and grinned at him like you knew he was listening.

Clark gave a small wave.

You waved back.

Clark had always been such a sweetie since day one. He brought you coffee, even if he just went over to the machine to get it for you. Sickeningly sweet, just the way you liked it. You weren’t stupid in any way, shape, or form, so you knew Clark was whipped. Just like how everyone else knew.

He held doors open without making a show of it, remembered how you liked your pens (gel, fine point, purple ink), and always pretended not to notice when you’d start your day with gossip but end it quoting Nietzsche over lunch. He complimented your writing like it was easy—like it was fact. He would even sometimes split his lunch with you if you even briefly commented on how his looked better than yours.

And yeah, sure, he looked like the kind of guy who should be on the cover of GQ: Farmer Edition, all broad shoulders and soft flannels. But he didn’t use that to his advantage. If anything, he blushed too easily and said excuse me even when you bumped into him.

Clark just always had your attention. You loved his silly little jokes, how he would ask you for help with his article even though he really just wanted your opinion, and you especially loved how he looked at you with his bright blue eyes.

And Clark was always there when some new intern or Steve insulted you. You were a total bombshell, yes, but that didn’t mean you were stupid. Clark knew you weren’t stupid, you knew you weren’t stupid, even Steve knew—but he just liked to push your buttons.

Once, Steve had muttered something under his breath about how your lipstick probably took more time than your research. You didn’t even flinch. You were used to it. But before you could reply with something scathing and Pulitzer-worthy, Clark looked up from his desk and said, calm as ever, “She’s written more front pages this quarter than you have in your career, Steve.” Just like that. No raised voice. No dramatics. Steve blinked. Went back to pretending he was important.

You had just smiled sweetly, twirled your pen between perfectly manicured fingers, and softly said, “Thanks, Clark,” like your heart wasn’t thudding in your chest.

He always had your back. When people underestimated you because of the heels or the tight skirts or the fact that you said like and wore rhinestone barrettes, he never did. Not once. And maybe that’s what made your heart twist a little, more than the compliments or the coffee or even the soft way he said your name. The fact that he saw you. No filters, no assumptions. Just you.

Maybe he was your soft spot.

Maybe.

This last fight had been rough for Clark. Millions worth of property damage and a lot of angry people. In his defense, he didn’t mean for the fight to get so out of hand, but to be fair, no one else was fighting that thing. So really, was he fully to blame? Where was The Justice Gang when you needed them?

Talk shows were already speculating if Superman had lost it. The morning news ran slow-motion clips of the destruction on a loop, conveniently skipping the part where he dragged a dozen civilians out of the blast zone with one arm. The word reckless was being thrown around like candy. The city was hard to please. Save them with minimal damage, they’re happy. Save them with anything more, they’re not so happy anymore.

The newsroom was all different conversations about whether Superman was in the right or not. Of course, most of the people Clark surrounded himself were mainly on his side, but they did have opinions.

“I’m just saying, did he need to take down a whole building?” Jimmy asked.

Lois sighed, flipping through her notes without looking up. “It was already empty. Evacuated ten minutes before the hit. Clark wrote that in his piece.”

“Yeah, I know, I read the piece,” Jimmy said, hands up. “I’m just playing devil’s advocate.”

Steve Lombard chimed in from a few desks down, clearly not playing devil’s advocate. “Maybe if he was smarter about it, we wouldn’t be looking at a six-block reconstruction. Just saying.”

“Maybe if you were smarter about it, we wouldn’t still be running that disastrous opinion column you call journalism.”

Clark looked up to see you walk in. Blue blouse, red skirt, red nails, blue headband. You were fully decked out in Superman’s—his—colors. Clark felt his brain glitch in real time. It felt like a system error and complete crash was actively happening as you walked up to the group, grabbing your chair to swivel up and join the conversation.

Lois looked up from her notepad, one perfectly arched brow raised. “What’s with the patriotism?”

You gave a dazzling smile as you sat, crossing your legs with practiced flair. “Just.. showing a little solidarity.”

“With Superman?” Steve asked, incredulous.

“Obviously with Superman,” you shot back. “You think I’m wearing red and blue for the Meteors?” Clark’s brain continued its slow descent into chaos. You looked like every dream he’d never admitted having. Bright, bold, stunning and fiercely on his side. And you looked really good in blue.

Jimmy leaned in, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “You do realize you're basically baiting everyone who’s mad about the damage, right?”

“Good,” you said sweetly, reaching for the coffee Lois had just set down for herself. You took a sip like it was yours. It was the sweetest, maybe even sweeter than yours with all the sugar she dumped into it. “They can be mad and wrong. Multitasking is real.”

Steve leaned back in his chair, unimpressed. “You all act like he’s flawless.”

You gave him a look. “Nobody’s flawless, Steve. But Superman was the only one fighting that thing. It’s easy to criticize from behind a keyboard when you’re not the one getting thrown into buildings.”

Clark’s chest warmed. You weren’t just defending him—you were wearing your defense like a battle flag. You turned slightly, catching Clark’s eye. “And for the record, he saved a lot more than he destroyed.” Clark tried to form a response, but his mouth had completely forgotten how to function.

Lois smirked, clearly clocking the interaction. “Alright, Wonder Woman 2.0, let’s hear it. What’s your angle today?”

You leaned back in your chair, legs still crossed, twirling a pen between your fingers. “Same angle as always, Lois. The truth. It’s not about perfection—it’s about intention. Superman cares. That’s more than I can say for some of the people complaining about the cleanup from their luxury apartments uptown.”

Clark looked down at his screen, a dopey grin tugging at his lips. He felt his heart beating a whole new pattern. It might as well have been spelling your name in morse code.

Then, you reached into your bag, pulled out your tablet, and tapped the screen a few times. “By the way,” you added casually, “I ran a breakdown of structural losses versus casualty prevention. Want to guess how many lives he saved by demolishing that building?”

Steve groaned. “Please don’t say spreadsheets.”

“Oh, I’m absolutely saying spreadsheets,” you grinned, flipping the screen around. “I cross-referenced city evacuation timelines, mapped the creature’s path, and ran predictive models based on its movement patterns. Taking out that building redirected the debris zone by a 42.7% margin. It shielded half the block.”

Lois raised her brows. “You’re telling me Superman used a ten-story office complex as a wall?”

“I’m saying,” you replied, “he thought fast, acted faster, and made the smartest call in an impossible situation. And anyone who can’t see that is probably mad he did more damage to their ego than their rent-controlled apartment.”

“Remind me again of how you know all of this?” Steve sighed like it was a chore to listen to your rambles.

You shrugged, “Double majored in Statistics and Journalism. Thought it may come into hand at some point in my career. Though, I did always hope I would just do gossip.”

“I actually did not know this,” Jimmy raised a hand as he interrupted. “I just thought you were some kind of natural genius.”

“Yeah, no. She has never brought this up,” Lois nodded in agreement, also quite perplexed.

Steve just stared at you like you’d grown a second head. “But you.. only write gossip? Why not do an actual column that people read?”

You ignored the comment. Cat punched his shoulder anyways. “Because gossip moves markets, sweetie. You think LuthorCorp’s stocks tanked last month because of their quarterly report? No. It was because I leaked that Luthor skipped the mayor’s fundraiser and was seen at an off-books dinner with a mystery guest. Which, for the record, was his own clone.”

Slowly, Jimmy leaned over to Clark, not taking his eyes off you. “Yeah, man. You were so right for getting a crush on her,” he whispered, slightly shaking his head in disbelief. 

“I—that doesn’t—”

“You’re wrapped around her finger. You’ve got dibs,” Jimmy whispered back, patting Clark’s shoulder, and swiveling back to his desk.

Clark opened and closed his mouth like a Windows error message. “I don’t—dibs isn’t—Jimmy, that’s not how—” He turned halfway in his chair, gesturing vaguely, but Jimmy had already slipped on his headphones and was pretending to work while very obviously still listening.

Clark sighed, dragging a hand over his face, just as you glanced over from your seat, your pen poised dramatically between your fingers. “Something wrong, Clark?” you asked, head tilted, expression effortlessly sweet and soft, the way you always looked at him.

“Oh, no, no,” Clark shook his head. “Just, uh.. amazed. At you..your calculations.”

You blinked, then smiled, soft and warm like sunlight through a window. “Really? You think they’re okay?”

Clark let out a short, almost breathless laugh. “Okay? They’re incredible. I mean, I didn’t even notice half the things you picked up on. The migration patterns? The glitch timing? That’s.. genius.”

You blushed, glancing down at your notes like you needed to double-check them now. “I just.. like looking closely at things, I guess. Patterns make me feel like the world makes more sense.”

He nodded slowly, watching you. You were a goddess walking among men. Which said a lot, coming from the man that was compared to gods. “You make things make more sense.”

You looked up again, surprised, and your smile grew just a little more shy. “Thank you, Clark. Really. That means a lot coming from you.” There was a quiet moment between you—just long enough for the newsroom to blur around the edges—and then you added, voice even softer, “You’ve always been kind to me. Even before I ever proved I was more than the gossip girl. I don’t think I’ve ever said thank you for that.”

Clark’s heart thudded. “You never needed to.”

“I still want to,” you said. “So.. thank you.”

And he swore, right then, that if he wasn’t already hopelessly gone for you, that would’ve been the exact moment he fell.

Lois turned to Jimmy. “Is she whipped for him too?”

“I think we just found her soft spot,” Jimmy muttered, in literal disbelief that, nerd, Clark Kent, somehow was pulling bombshell, you. The unobtainable girl in the newsroom. The one every guy had a secret, small crush on. He exhaled. “You know what? Good for them. I mean, it's confusing and a little terrifying, but good for them.”

Lois smiled knowingly. “Give it a week. One of them’s gonna crack.”

Watching them closely, Jimmy narrowed his eyes. “My money’s on Clark.”

“Please,” Lois scoffed, waving Jimmy off with her hand. “That girl’s gonna fold like a lawn chair the second he says something too soft with those stupid eyes.”

They both turned back to their work, though neither one stopped listening. Not when you giggled. Not when Clark looked at you like you hung the stars. And definitely not when the entire bullpen slowly started to realize:

The gossip columnist and the golden boy were both very off the market.

[fandomwriterstuff]

You two need to fuck -C.K

Clark Kent x bestfriend!reader

Clark was doing that thing again. The furrowed brow. The clenched jaw. The quiet sigh that was always just a little too loud not to be theatrical.

You leaned against the counter in your apartment kitchen, holding two mugs—one coffee, one tea—waiting to see which one he’d gravitate toward today. He didn’t notice you were watching, not really. Not when he was thinking about her.

“She said I make her feel small,” he said quietly murmured.

Ah. Lois again.

You didn’t roll your eyes. You deserved a fucking medal for that. “I don’t think she meant physically,” you offered, with a sip of your own drink. “I mean, you are Superman, Clark.”

He looked at you, that quiet, miserable look that meant he’d been trying to shrink himself all damn day. “That’s not what I want to be with her.”

You offered the tea. He took it. Predictable. “And yet, every week it’s a new heartbreak monologue,” you muttered.

He blinked. “What?”

“Nothing.”

He caught your tone. You saw the flicker behind his glasses—curiosity, maybe even hurt. You didn’t care. You were tired. So tired of being the one he turned to only after she shattered him into glass pieces and didn’t bother cleaning up after herself. You were exhausted from the bleeding fingers of piecing him back together.

You toss another Red Vine into your mouth and watch Clark pace the length of your apartment like he’s trying to wear holes through the hardwood.

“She said I’m emotionally unavailable,” he mutters, mostly to himself, jaw tight behind his glasses. “That I’m not presentin the relationship. Like—what does that even mean?”

You sigh—loudly. On purpose. “Maybe it means she’s tired of dating a man who disappears every time the sky turns red.”

Clark glances at you with a flicker of guilt in his eyes. But he doesn’t stop pacing. “She knew what this was when we started,” he says. “She knew I’d have to lie. That there were things I couldn’t tell her. I thought she understood—”

You slam your laptop shut, the sound sharp enough to stop him mid-rant. “Oh my God, Clark,” you say, voice dangerously even. “You know what your problem is?”

He stares at you, surprised by your tone. You never raise your voice at him. “My problem,” he repeats slowly, crossing his arms over his absurdly broad chest. “Sure. Let’s hear it.”

You stand up. The air between you tightens. “Your problem is you keep expecting Lois to love the man you pretend to be, and then you throw a tantrum when she doesn’t know how to love the rest of you. You want her to understand you without letting her see you. That’s not love, Clark. That’s hiding.”

The silence after is thick. And for a second—just a second—you let yourself look at him the way you try so hard not to. The way a best friend shouldn’t. Because he’s looking at you too.

“Wow,” he says finally. “Thanks, Doctor.”

You snort and flop back onto the couch. “Anytime, Smallville.”

“She said I’m too intense,” he added quietly. “That I don’t know how to turn it off.”

You stared at him. "Clark, you fly into burning buildings. I don’t think ‘casual’ is really your setting.”

That made him laugh. A little. But you don’t look at him again. You can’t. Because it’s getting harder and harder to keep pretending that being his friend is enough. That hearing about Lois Lane every other goddamn day doesn’t feel like someone carving into your ribs with a hot spoon.

That the real reason you’re mad isn’t because he’s hurting—

It’s because he’s never hurt for you.

Clark crashes on your couch that night.

Of course he does. He always does when things go sideways with Lois. You hand him a blanket without a word.

And you lie in bed for three straight hours staring at the ceiling, teeth clenched, nails digging into your own palm because all you can smell is her perfume clinging to his skin.

You're so good at being the best friend.

So good at biting your tongue.

But your jaw aches now from the effort of it.

And the way he moaned her name in his sleep? Yeah, that almost broke you.

Things start to shift after that. You're short with him in the mornings. He notices. You lie and say you’re tired. Work. Stress. PMS. You say everything except the truth.

Because the truth is this:

You want him.

You want him to stop running to you only when he’s broken.

You want to stop being his Plan B.

And the tension between you?

Way. Fucking. Worse.

Every time he leans over your shoulder to show you something on your phone, your breath catches.

Every time he touches your back absentmindedly, your skin burns.

Every time he calls you “sweetheart” in that low, absent way—God, you want to scream.

The line gets thinner.

The next night, you’re brushing your teeth in the mirror when he appears behind you. Shirtless. Just a pair of sweatpants slung low on his hips and a towel draped over his neck from the shower.

You drop your toothbrush.

He catches it.

You make the mistake of looking up—at his reflection, at him, at the way his eyes drop down your bare legs in that slow, deliberate way that feels like being dragged over coals.

Neither of you moves for a second.

Then he leans down, brushes a damp curl from your cheek, and says quietly, “Don’t start something you can’t finish.”

You hold his gaze.

“I’m not starting anything,” you lie.

And he smiles.

Like he knows exactly how much you want to.

It happens after one too many nights of pretending you don’t hear the way he groans into his pillow. Pretending you don’t wake up pressed against his chest with his hand splayed low on your stomach.

The line thins even more when he zips up the back of your dress for an event neither of you wants to attend, and his fingers hesitate on the zipper at your lower spine, just a second too long.

One night, it gets bad.

You're both on the couch. Movie playing, long forgotten.

Your head is on his chest, his heartbeat rapid, like he's just come back from a fight. Your legs are across his lap, and his hands rest lightly on your knees.

And for a long time, that’s all it is. You shift slightly, stretching, your thigh grazing the hard line of something that absolutely wasn’t there ten minutes ago.

He freezes. You pretend not to notice. But your pulse thunders. Because now you know. It’s not in your head. It never was. You glance up at him, lips parted like you're going to say something.

He meets your eyes, and—

God.

If he kissed you now, you’d let him do anything. But he doesn’t. Instead, he exhales through his nose, jaw clenched tight, and says quietly—

“I think I should take the couch tonight.” And before you can stop him, he’s gone.

That night you dream about him.

Flesh and heat and hands on your hips. His mouth everywhere, saying things in that voice—that voice—you’ve never heard him use.

When you wake up, sweaty and dazed and gasping his name into your pillow, the room is still dark.

You sit up, blink toward the door. And find Clark already standing there. You blink again and he’s gone, you groan flopping back into your bed.

Horny, hot and now sleep deprived. Looking around the room you make sure you're really alone.

Then you roll onto your side and look at the empty space next to you in bed.

His pillow still smells like him—warm cotton and cedar and the subtle ozone of lightning in the distance. It makes your chest tighten. Makes your hips press together in reflex.

Your fingers slip beneath your waistband almost before you realize what you’re doing.

You bite your lip hard. Trying to be quiet. Civilized.

But the thought of him—towering and kind and good, the way he talks to you in the dark, the way his hand grips your waist when he sleeps without thinking—it ruins you.

You close your eyes and think about how close his mouth was the other night when he leaned over you to grab the remote. Think about his breath on your neck. How his voice dropped when he said your name like it meant something.

Your fingers move slower now, deeper.

You moan once—soft, unsure. Then again. Louder. Needier. “…Clark.”

What you don’t know is that he’s standing outside your door. Frozen. Back against the hallway wall, eyes squeezed shut like it’ll block out the sound of you moaning his name. He hadn’t planned to come back so soon. He thought you’d be asleep.

But then he heard you—really heard you. Your heartbeat thudding, your breath going uneven.

And then your voice—“Clark…”

He stiffens. All over. Painfully.

He should leave. Fly off. Do anything but this. But his feet are glued to the floor. His palms are fists at his sides.

Inside, your hips lift off the mattress as your fingers circle faster. Eyes squeezed shut. Head thrown back.

Your other hand clutches his pillow now. You’re gone—completely immersed in the fantasy of his mouth, his voice, his hands all over you. The way he’d speak softly. Tell you how good you’re doing. How long he’s wanted this too.

You come with a cry that’s sharp, broken, and soaked in his name.

“Clark—oh, God—”

Outside, he groans low in his throat and presses the heel of his hand against the bulge in his pants like it might help. It doesn’t.

He leans forward, forehead to the doorframe, trembling with restraint. He won’t touch himself. He can’t.

Because if he gives in now—

If he even thinks about what you sound like on the other side of this door, wet and wrecked and panting for him—he’ll break every promise he made to himself.

He stays there. Long after your breathing evens out. Long after the fan resumes its quiet spin. Hoping that he’ll be able to will away the pulsing erection that's keeping him from making any appropriate decisions at the moment. Eventually walking away back into the living room and back onto the couch, unable to fall asleep without picturing your soft delicate hands touching yourself.

The line becomes non-existent when it happens again when he catches you staring at him mid-shave, towel wrapped around your chest, you quickly look away walking back into your room where you think your out of eyesight.

You drop the towel.

Not on purpose. Not exactly. You just… let it slip off your skin as you root through the bottom drawer for something to wear—something soft, something loose, because sleeping next to Clark has you sweating through your clothes like you're a damn teenager again.

Your nipples peak instantly in the cool air. Your chest tightens with goosebumps, thighs brushing instinctively, and you're too busy pawing through the drawer to realize—

Clark can see you in the mirror.

He doesn’t make a sound.

Not at first. “Is this what you do when you think I’m not looking?”

You freeze. Straighten slowly, heart slamming. “Clark—”

“Don’t lie,” he says, standing now. “You knew I could see you.”

You turn around, lips parting to argue, to say I didn’t mean to—but the look on his face stops you dead.

You turn around slowly. The silence stretches—he’s standing in the bedroom doorway.

You turn slowly, towel long forgotten on the floor, arms crossing over your chest like a shield—but it’s no use. His eyes are already there, already everywhere and anywhere.

“You think I don’t know what you sound like when you come?” he asks, your knees almost buckle.

“Clark—”

He closes the distance between you in three impossible steps, “Do you have any idea what you did to me the other night?” he whispers, voice a growl. “Do you know what it took not to come in here and fall on my knees for you?”

Your breath catches in your throat. “You… heard that?”

He huffs a laugh—humorless. “Sweetheart, I felt it. Every sound you made. Every time you said my name like—” His voice breaks, his hand coming up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing just below your eye.

“Like you wanted me.”

You do. God, you do. But the years of friendship press against your ribs like a vice.

“You were with Lois,” you whisper, not even sure why you're saying it anymore—maybe to punish yourself, or to stop yourself from losing the last shred of control.

His eyes harden, but not at you.

“I was never really with her,” he says, fierce and reverent. “I was trying to be someone else. Someone I thought she could love. But with you…”

His forehead touches yours. Breath shallow. “I’ve only ever been myself with you.”

You exhale shakily, lips parting—“I’m not your backup plan,” you whisper. “If you touch me, Clark, I need to know it’s me you're thinking about. Not Lois. Not what you lost. Me.” His expression twists. Like you’ve just asked him if the sun is real.

He exhales once. Then reaches up—gently—and cups your face with both hands. “Sweetheart,” he murmurs, and God, that voice—low, desperate,“There’s no one else. There hasn’t been for a long time.”

You gasp into his mouth as he walks you back blindly until your knees hit the mattress. His hands—God, his hands—are under your thighs before you know it, lifting you, laying you down like you weigh nothing. Like you’re precious.

“You have no idea—” he groans into your neck, “how long I’ve wanted to—fuck—”

His voice breaks as he kisses his way down your chest, slow and reverent. He’s on his knees now, hair tousled from your fingers, his tongue licking a stripe over the soft swell of your breast before pulling one nipple into his mouth.

You arch with a soft cry. “Clark—God—”

“Tell me this is real,” he breathes, voice wrecked. “Tell me I’m not dreaming again.”

Your hands cup his face, forcing him to look up at you. “This is real,” you whisper, eyes shining. “And I’ve wanted it just as long.”

He surges up and crashes his mouth into yours again, one hand is braced beside your head. The other trails down—over your ribs, your waist, your hip—and then dips between your legs.

He groans the moment he feels how wet you are for him. “Jesus—”

“You heard me the other night, didn’t you?” you whisper.

His eyes flick up. “Yes.”

You blush, but you don’t stop him when he pushes your legs apart and sinks two thick fingers into you like he already knows exactly how to touch you.

You cry out, back arching, fists in the sheets.

“I nearly came just listening to you,” he says, kissing your stomach, then your hip. “And you said my name—God, sweetheart—I’ve never wanted anything so bad.”

His head drops between your thighs.

And when his mouth meets you there—hot, slow, possessive. You grip his hair and moan his name as he licks you open, slow circles that build and build until you’re shaking. Until your thighs are trembling around his shoulders and you’re biting your fist to keep from screaming.

He looks up, lips glistening. “Let go.”

Your orgasm crashes through you like a supernova—blinding, hot, full-body—and when you come down, he’s already kissing you again, sliding out of his sweats, murmuring something soft and low and aching against your lips.

When he pushes inside you for the first time, it’s everything. His forehead presses to yours. His voice rough in your ear. “You feel like heaven.”

You hold onto him like you’ll fall through the mattress without him. “Then don’t stop. Please, Clark—don’t stop.”

He thrusts once—deep, careful, like he’s testing if you can take him—and the sound you make has his jaw going slack.

“God,” he groans. “You’re so tight. I—I don’t want to hurt you.”

You pull him down by the nape of his neck. “You won’t. I want all of it. All of you.”

His rhythm stutters.

Then he grabs your wrists and pins them gently to the bed above your head, gaze wild with something that looks a lot like desperation. “You’re so beautiful.”

The sound of skin meeting skin is filthy now, echoing through the room like thunder.

You wrap your legs around his waist and pull him impossibly closer. Your body moves with his like you were made for this—like you knew it would be like this.

He shifts—just slightly—and hits that spot that has your vision going white at the edges. You cry out, writhing under him, and his hand immediately slips between your bodies, fingers circling your clit like he needs to feel you come again.

“Come for me,” he begs, voice raw and ragged. “I need to feel you.”

You let go moaning—his name echoing from the walls like a siren. He thrusts once more. Twice. Then he’s groaning your name through gritted teeth, collapsing over you as he spills deep inside, hips jerking once, twice more as your walls flutter around him.

He collapses on top of you, breathing hard, the weight of his body grounding you in a way nothing else ever has. His face buried in your neck. Your fingers tangled in the damp curls at the base of his skull.

You lie there for a long time. Sweating. Shaking. Sated. Eventually, he lifts his head and looks at you—really looks at you.

“Can I stay?” he asks softly, and you know what he means. Not the night.

You press your forehead to his. And nod. “I should’ve asked you to stay years ago,” you whisper. He smiles, slow and boyish, and kisses you again.

a/n: MY MAN MY MANNN

[fandomwriterstuff]

Superman can hear you moan -C.K

Synopsis: You didn’t think Clark could hear you moaning his name while your fingers were buried deep between your thighs—until he knocked on your door and proved just how hard it was to ignore. Turns out Superman has super hearing… and zero self-control when you beg for him out loud.

cw: Unprotected sex, oral (f receiving). Creampie. Fingering. Mutual masturbation. Voice kink. Riding. Dominance/power play.  Slight breeding kink. Possessive Clark. super strength use (light). Exhibitionism implications (he can hear you anywhere). 

Metropolis rent was hell.

It was supposed to be just a financial arrangement—two broke twenty-somethings sharing a halfway decent apartment. You met him at some friend's birthday dinner and hit it off over cheap wine and sarcastic commentary about everyone else there. A month later, you were hauling your mattress into a shared two-bedroom.

The first few weeks were shockingly chill. You never really pried into his business—even when he vanished at weird hours or came back with tousled hair and a faint scorch mark on his flannel. You knew. Of course you knew. You weren’t an idiot. But you didn’t ask.

What he didn’t tell you? That he had super fucking hearing.

Scratch that—you had no fucking idea he could hear everything. The soft, wet glide of your fingers. The hitch of your breath. The whisper of “fuck, Clark” that slipped out before you even realized it.

So when you were tossing in bed one night, too restless to sleep, thoughts swirling with everything but rest—maybe it was the way Clark had walked out of the bathroom earlier with a towel slung so low you could see the V of his hips, wet curls dripping onto his shoulders—you’d let your hand drift under the hem of your sleep shirt.

It started soft. Lazy. Gentle. Just trying to calm your body enough to sleep. But your mind wandered. Images of Clark. His mouth. His hands. The way he said your name in that gravelly, sleepy voice when you passed him a mug of coffee in the mornings. Before you knew it, your fingers were slick, breath quick, teeth buried in your lower lip as your thighs squeezed together.

And Clark? Clark was two rooms away, jaw clenched so tight he thought he might crack a molar.

He’d heard everything. The soft gasp when you found that perfect rhythm. The quiet, desperate whimper of his name.

He gave you ten minutes. Ten excruciating minutes. But when you whimpered again—so fucking sweet and breathless, “God, Clark…”—he lost it.

You didn’t even have time to adjust your sleep shirt when the knock came.

Three sharp raps.

Then silence.

You scrambled, fingers sticky, heart racing as you yanked the blanket up and tried to catch your breath. “Uh—yeah?”

Clark’s voice came low, strained, from the other side of the door. “Can I come in?”

You froze. “What?” you squeaked, already flushed.

A beat. Then: “I—I can hear you.”

Your entire body went cold. Then hot. Then achingly wet again.

“Clark,” you breathed, panic rising, embarrassment licking at your spine.

But when the door creaked open—just enough for his silhouette to fill the doorway—you saw the look in his eyes. Like it had taken every ounce of restraint not to burst in sooner.

“You—you heard me?”

His eyes dropped to the blanket still clutched to your chest. “I can hear a lot of things,” he said, voice gravel and heat. “But you? You were loud enough to drive me fucking crazy.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Not when Clark stepped into the room, slow and deliberate, shutting the door behind him.

You were still holding the blanket to your chest, knuckles white. But Clark’s eyes were burning a hole straight through it—and you. “I tried,” he muttered, voice low. “I tried to ignore it. Tried to be decent. But you—you were in here fucking moaning my name like you wanted me to hear it.”

You swallowed hard. “I didn’t know,” you whispered, lips barely moving. “I didn’t think—fuck, I didn’t mean—”

“You didn’t mean to say my name?” he cut in, moving closer. Your bed creaked as he leaned a hand on the footboard. “Or you didn’t mean for me to hear you fuck yourself to the thought of me?” Your heart thudded so loud you were sure he could hear that too.

“I—I didn’t think—” you stammered, throat dry, skin fever-hot. “I didn’t know you could hear me.”

Clark’s eyes dragged over you, slow and hungry. “I always hear you.”

That made your thighs clench under the blanket. “Fuck.” Clark's eyes dropped, following the motion. He smirked—like he could see through the blanket. Honestly, maybe he could. “Can I please touch you?” He asked, almost a whine. 

Your back hit your bed. He bent low, hands gripping the backs of your thighs and dragging you down the bed so fast the mattress squeaked. His head ducked between your legs before you could even moan. 

Your head thrashed back, eyes rolling, and the second he sucked your clit into his mouth you came—hard—grinding helplessly against his face as he groaned and licked you through it

He pulled back only when your legs trembled uncontrollably, chin slick, eyes glazed over. “Get on top of me,” he growled, standing and tossing his shirt aside. “Ride me, sweetheart. Fuck yourself on me like you did with your fingers.”

You didn’t even think. You crawled into his lap as he sat on the edge of your bed, bare and fucking carved from marble. Your fingers wrapped around his cock—it was huge, thick and heavy and throbbing—and your stomach flipped.

“You gonna fit?” you whispered, teasing.

He smirked darkly. “You’re gonna take it.”

And you did.

You sank down slowly, inch by inch, your moans turning to whimpers as he stretched you open. His hands gripped your waist, helping you rock, bounce, take every inch with filthy, possessive murmurs.

“That’s it, baby—fuck—look at you, takin’ all of it.”

You whimpered, nails digging into his shoulders. “Clark—Clark—”

“I know you did,” he growled. “Could hear how bad you wanted it. Hear it every night, baby.”

“Every night?” you cried, jaw dropping.

“Every time you touch yourself.” His thrusts were brutal now, bouncing you like a ragdoll on his lap. “Every time you think you’re being quiet. You think I don’t hear how wet you get when I walk around in just a towel? You think I didn’t notice the way you moan into your pillow when you think I’ve gone to bed?”

You gasped, fingernails dragging down his chest. Your orgasm slammed into you with a scream—tight, fast, messy—and you came gushing around him.

“Fuck, you’re squeezing me—” he grunted. “I’m gonna cum—fuck” He groaned into your neck as he came, hard, gripping you tight as his cock throbbed deep inside your soaked, spasming cunt. The flood of warmth filled you up until it spilled down your thighs, your entire body limp in his lap.

You collapsed forward, his arms tight around your waist. Both of you, panting and sweaty. Until he exhaled a laugh and brushed your hair back gently from your face. “Guess I should’ve told you about the superhearing sooner.”

You blinked. Still hazy. “You think?”

He grinned. “You gonna stop now that you know?”

You smirked. “What do you think, Superman?”

a/n: sometimes I wonder if I’m too slutty

[fandomwriterstuff]

don't want you like a best friend

(clark kent x fem!reader)

The one in which Jimmy Olsen is tired of watching you and Clark dance around your feelings, and decides to do something about it, aka the one where Clark fucks you at a Daily Planet gala.

warnings: 18+, mdni! unprotected sex, pinv, office sex, clark's a little bit jealous, fingering, oral (f!receiving), w/c 4.8k

Jimmy Olsen is sick and tired of being the only one in the office with any common sense. He’s fed up of being the only person in that godforsaken place who sees that you and Clark Kent are ridiculously, embarrassingly, head-over-heels in love with each other.

The kind of love that should really only be seen in movies.

Every Thursday, all the reporters have a briefing session with Perry, to discuss current and upcoming cases. And almost every Thursday, thanks to your piece of shit car, you’re late. Clark’s never been late a day in his life, a trait Jimmy both admires and envies. Which just means that his Thursday morning consists of being the first one to the briefing, and sliding his bag onto a chair next to him - a silent claim that you’re going to be sitting next to him.

He doesn’t even pay attention until you arrive, gaze unfocused as he looks out over the bustling Metropolis city centre.

When you do walk in?

It’s like the world shrinks down to a single room, one in which only you and Clark occupy.

It’s so blindingly obvious, that it makes Jimmy want to scream that neither of you seem to notice, content with longing glances and quick hugs.

It must be exhausting. Pretending you aren’t in love with your best friend.

But he’s out to change that tonight, at the Daily Planet’s annual benefit. It’s a must-attend event, and he knows from sneaking peaks at the seating chart that you and Clark are sitting together. As you always are.

Quite honestly, he's had enough. For the sake of his mental capacity, as well as yours, he needs someone to make a move.

*****

It's been a terrible day. Everything that could possibly go wrong, has managed to in the past twenty-four hours.

Firstly, your car wouldn't start. A fairly common occurrence, but it had been particularly stubborn today, leading to you missing the morning brief entirely. Clark's right, you desperately need a new car - but you've had your current one since college, and are abnormally fond of her, despite her endless shortcomings.

Then, you got assigned a total puff piece. A consequence of being late, you're sure, but still. No one cares about the evolution of Metropolis parking.

After lunch, Clark had been called away for Superman duties in Washington. While you always had full confidence that he'd be okay, you still didn't love watching him battle aliens on live television.

Finally, the beautiful, stunning, crushed velvet dress you'd spent an entire month's paycheck on a few months ago, ripped just as you were pulling the zipper up. It had been entirely your own fault, with your movements too rough after a day of annoyances.

That didn't mean you hadn't cried over it.

The dress had been jaw-dropping. Nothing has ever fitted you better. And you didn't even need to stun everyone. You just wanted one jaw dropped tonight - it's just looking less and less likely with each passing minute.

Eventually, your roommate manages a save, producing a dress from the back of her closet. It hurts a little, leaving your own draped across your bed, but with a decided lack of sewing ability, you have no other choice.

The theme tonight is roaring twenties, and with the pearls and gloves, you still feel like you're hitting the mark.

The headquarters is filled to the brim with people, and you swallow slightly as you head down the steps, to the main hall. Everybody who's anyone in journalism is here tonight, and you always feel a little on edge, wanting to make a good impression.

It isn't until you're almost at the bottom when you spot a familiar face. Clark, hands shoved in his pockets as he hovers near the bar. Almost like a sixth sense, his eyes snap to yours, and he gives you a wide smile, immediately making his way over.

"Hi," Clark breathes, eyes glued to your form. "You look... wow."

"My first dress broke, so I had to improvise." You keep talking, trying to ignore the heat pooling low in your stomach. It might be the stifling heat from inside the gala, or it might be the weight of Clark's gaze. "It belongs to my roommate. It's a little loose at the arms, tight at the hips, but I think it's alright-"

"You look beautiful," He says softly, leaning in to kiss your cheek. He lingers just a second too long to be considered platonic, and your heart flutters involuntarily.

"You don't look half-bad yourself," You manage, as he pulls back.

Silence falls, Clark's thumb rubbing gently at your forearm as you continue to look at each other. His lips part slightly, as if he's about to speak, before a voice interrupts.

"Hey guys!" Jimmy calls, arms slinging around both of your shoulders. "You look great - definitely more on theme than Perry."

You tear your gaze away from Clark, and the spell is broken. You shouldn't be thinking like that about your best friend anyway. It'll only lead to disappointment.

"Listen man, Cat wanted to talk to you quickly about the Renner piece you're working on together. She's at the table already."

Clark nods, and waves you both goodbye, leaving you alone with Jimmy.

"So, Cat and Clark, huh?" He says, gaze focused intently on your expression.

"What?"

"Don't you know? I heard they've been getting super close, because of that article. Heard someone saying at lunch he was thinking of asking her out."

This is the first you're hearing of Cat and Clark. While, yes, you and Clark don't tend to discuss your love lives where possible, you would have assumed that you would know about this.

Not that he needs your permission. Clark can ask out whoever he wants, co-worker or not. Your heart doesn't have quite the same reaction as your brain, opting to stutter and twist unpleasantly in your chest.

"I didn't know that," You reply, voice quiet as you follow Clark's movements, watching him drop down into a seat beside Cat and offer her a smile.

"Would be nice to have a couple in the office, wouldn't it?"

"Yeah. It would be."

Jimmy's words stick in your mind, and you find yourself over-analysing every single interaction over dinner. Clark is between you and Cat, and more often than not you find yourself turning to chat to Perry instead, for fear of giving something away.

He knows you so well, that you're sure he has an idea that something is wrong. But you don't want to talk about it now.

When possible, after dinner, you swap seats with Jimmy, squeezing Clark's shoulder gently as you pass.

A promise to him that you're not mad. You just need a minute. You're now between Perry and Steve, trying to take your mind off of the man sitting across from you. Jimmy's head is bowed low, talking quietly to Clark - at one point you think he's gesturing at you, but it's gone before you can register the movement.

Finally, dinner is over, and you're able to excuse yourself to the bathroom.

Beginning to plan an escape route, you're ambushed by Jimmy as soon as you step outside. Clark's nowhere to be seen. Now that you think of it, you haven't seen him since dessert.

"You need to come quick, there's a breaking story - something about Metahumans in Bovaria."

Frowning, you let him lead you to a quieter area of the hall, a corridor where the executives all have their offices. One of the doors is open, and Jimmy ushers you inside.

Expecting the full team, you're endlessly confused to see Clark alone, expression stormy as he rests against the desk, his legs crossed.

"Wha-"

A slam sounds from behind you, and you spin, coming face to face with a shut door.

“You’ll thank me one day!” Comes Jimmy's voice - the same one that’s been in your ear all night, chattering about Clark and Cat.

“Jimmy?” You call, frowning. “What the hell is going on?”

There’s no reply. A few more bangs on the door, a twist of the knob, but nothing. He’s gone.

You turn back to Clark, brow furrowing. “Do you have any idea what just happened?”

Clark just shrugs, movements muted, as if the very act of leaning against the desk is tiring him. It’s the least charismatic he’s ever been in your three years of knowing him.

“Is something wrong?”

“I don’t know - is there?” He sounds almost petulant, an impressive feat coming from a man who’s 6’4 and 250 pounds. He’s giving your three-year-old nephew a run for his money.

“Given that you could break down that door with a pinky finger and are choosing to mope instead, I think there must be,” You reply, fighting back an eyeroll.

You’re used to this kind of behaviour from the guys you date. Desperate to avoid any kind of communication, they’d rather stew in their own annoyance than have a proper conversation.

You don’t expect it from Clark.

Sweet Clark Kent, who writes you a very detailed letter for your birthday each year, chronicling all his favourite memories you’ve both shared, and what he hopes is coming in the following months. Who’s held you while you cried after breakups, more than once, murmuring assurances into your ear - promises that things will look up. Who walks (or flies) you to your door after every single night out, leaving absolutely none of your safety to chance.

He’s one of the most forthcoming people you’ve ever met.

Whatever’s going on here is entirely unlike him.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were seeing Steve?”

The question stops you in your tracks, confusion flooding through your veins. “What? I’m not seeing Steve. But if we’re talking about relationships here, I want to talk about Cat.”

It’s Clark’s turn to look mystified. “Cat? Why would we talk about Cat?”

“Because the two of you have gotten super close working on that piece together, and Jimmy said that you were going to ask her out-”

“Wait. Jimmy said that?”

You're pacing back and forth, hands gripped around your dress to stop it from catching on the heel of your stilettos.

“-And I get it, because she’s really pretty, and funny, but I guess I just thought you’d tell me these things. Feels kind of shitty finding it out from Olsen.”

He’s straightening up, taking a few steps towards you. “I’m not asking Cat out,” He murmurs softly. “But Jimmy told me you and Steve were basically an item.”

Suddenly, everything starts to dawn on you. Jimmy’s insistence on swapping seats so that you were beside Steve. His overly loud comments to Perry about how well Clark and Cat have been getting on. The fact that he locked you in here in the first place.

“I think we’re being played,” You murmur.

“Yeah. Seems like it.”

You and Clark both fall silent, suddenly unsure of what to say. It’s a stark contrast to your usual dynamic, full of jokes and quips. God, you’re going to kill James Olsen when you get out of this room.

“Did… did it bother you? The idea of me seeing Cat?”

His gaze is planted on you, eyes earnest as he implores an answer. Except you don’t even know where to begin.

Of course the idea bothers you.

It bothers you that you’ve been slowly falling in love with Clark over the past three years, and you feel totally knocked off your axis every time you look at him. In your early sun-kissed daydreams, you would have been married with a baby on the way by now.

You’ve never been one for realism.

Even after finding out about the Superman issue, the dreams still never wavered. You’ve always known, deep in your heart, that you could love Clark the way he deserves. Fully and openly, instead of tucked into the crevices of your heart, too scared to be shown.

But maybe you’ve misread everything. The lingering touches, the constant proximity, the late-night chats. Maybe Clark makes everyone feel as special as he makes you feel.

“Yeah. I guess it did.”

“Why?” His voice is low, betraying nothing.

You swallow heavily. “Clark-”

“I want to know why, honey. Please.”

You want to burst - spill your guts in a way it would be utterly impossible to recover from. Tell him that ‘I love you’ has been on the tip of your tongue since the day you met him. That he’s the best friend you’ve ever had, and yet you still can’t help but want more, more, more.

You’re not sure you could ever have enough of Clark Kent.

But the words don’t come. Not those ones, anyway. “Did the idea of Steve and I bother you?”

“Yes.”

The simplicity in his tone tugs at something in your heart, and you swallow. He's always been braver than you - not just as Superman, but as Clark too. “Why?”

“Because I’m in love with you.”

Your eyes snap up to meet his, widening as his words start to sink in. Mistaking your surprise for concern, Clark begins to backtrack.

“I absolutely don't want you to feel uncomfortable, or weird - and we can forget this ever happened-”

Closing the distance between you both, you press your lips to his. It's a bit of a stretch, hands resting on your waist as you lean up.

However uncertain he felt about his words, there's none of it anymore. Each movement is precise, moulding his mouth against yours as his tongue traces the seam of your mouth.

He lets you set the speed, groaning slightly as you deepen the kiss. Suddenly, you're incredibly grateful for Clark's hands holding you upright - there's a very definite chance your knees are about to buckle.

But then you’re being placed on the desk, a feeble attempt to eradicate the height difference between you both as he settles between your legs.

There's finally a pause, a slight pull-back as he rests his forehead against yours.

“I'm in love with you too,” You breathe, chest heaving slightly. “In case that wasn't obvious.”

He hums, kissing you again. “It was a little, but I like hearing you say it anyway.”

The pace is slower this time, secure in the knowledge of reciprocation as he trails down to your jaw. He’s everywhere, hands roaming down your torso, kneading at your breasts, gripping your ass. It’s only when his hands start to creep up your thighs, through the slit in your dress, that he draws to a stop.

“Let me take you out to dinner.”

Your brow furrows in confusion. “Now?”

He laughs softly, reaching out to cup your face as he shakes his head. “Tomorrow night.”

“What brought that on? Does necking make you hungry?” You quip.

“Ma always had used to say she’d kick my ass if I brought a girl home before I took her out to dinner.”

Despite the smile spreading across your face, you force a pout. “Does that mean you aren’t going to sleep with me until we’ve had dinner?”

“Well,” Clark begins, eyes intent as he levels himself with you. “I was thinking that since we now have a date planned - that having pre-emptive sex wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. I think that actually works out at a moral neutral.”

“Technically, I haven’t said yes yet,” You point out, grinning.

“Are you going to say no?”

You shake your head, lip between your teeth as you look at him. “No.” You don’t think you could ever deny Clark Kent a single thing.

It soon becomes clear that Clark’s waiting for you to make the next move. To cross the line, and prove that this is what you really want. It’s a scary thing - the idea that your relationship has been forever changed from this one moment. But his eyes are earnest, and his hands are soft, and you truly think you might have died and gone to heaven.

Leaning in just slightly, you brush your nose against his, before taking a steadying breath. “I love you.” The words roll off your tongue - not in the stilted, awkward way it’s been with your exes. It feels as natural as breathing. Like some kind of cosmic sign from the universe that this is meant to be happening right now.

Like you and Clark are exactly where you need to be.

“I don’t know if I’ll ever get tired of hearing you say that,” He groans, sloping into your touch as he presses open-mouthed kisses to your jaw.

“Give it a few months, I’m sure I can make you sick of it.”

You’re closer than you’ve ever been. His hand continues to snake upwards, until it grazes the edge of your panties. A whimper escapes, needy and pathetic, whatever nonchalant persona you once held well and truly gone.

“Tell me what you want.”

“W-want you,” You manage. “Please, Clark.”

A little more teasing, before he’s finally circling your clit, and you shiver against him. Your dress is bunched awkwardly round your hips, and you make a mental note to thank your roommate for buying one with a slit that’s just a little too high to be considered classy. The easy access it’s giving Clark is worth all the awkward seating positions during dinner to keep yourself covered.

It doesn’t take long for him to have you keening against him, completely and utterly pliant under his touch. But when he pushes the tip of a finger in, you shake your head, reaching for his belt. “Need you now.”

Clark lets out a small laugh, breath ghosting across your neck. “As much as I'd love to, need to get you ready for me, honey.”

Oh. Oh.

You hadn't considered that Clark’s size would extend everywhere, but it makes sense.

“Y-yeah, okay.”

Then he’s dropping to his knees in front of you, and you feel your throat tighten. Curls messy and glasses askew, he’s never looked prettier. Reaching out gently, you straighten the glasses on the bridge of his nose, and he kisses your knuckles as you pull away.

“Doing okay?” He whispers.

“Better than okay,” You reply, offering him a small smile.

Touch delicate, he parts your legs, and rests his chin on your knee, glancing up again. “You’ll tell me if you want to stop?”

You nod, but know deep down that you won’t be doing that. His fingers hook under the skirt of your dress, pulling your panties down to your ankles, before slipping them into his back pocket. The slight possession in his gesture makes you dizzy.

But you don’t have time to dwell on it when his head is dipping, and his tongue is delving through your folds, earning sweet mumbles and clenched thighs. If it wasn’t for Clark’s super lungs, you’d be a little concerned about his ability to breathe right about now.

He knows exactly how to work you, how to anticipate your every move, as if he’s done this hundreds of times before.

You’d get down on your knees and pray to a god you don’t believe in for the chance to do this hundreds of times with Clark Kent.

It's too much. Too much to stay upright, too much to stay quiet.

With as much grace as you can manage, you lean back on the table, pushing more papers to the ground.

Clark's hands still firmly on your waist, keeping you in place - he uses your movement to hook your legs over his shoulders, angling deeper.

It’s hard to even formulate thoughts, nevermind vocalise them. All you can focus on is each flick of his tongue, calculated and precise, like he was born to live between your thighs.

If it was anybody else, you'd be embarrassed by the way your hips are bucking up against him, desperate for any kind of friction. The moans slipping from your lips, mixing seamlessly with the whines of his name, are borderline obscene. The continued noise from the gala largely drowns them out, but you know that if someone was to take a walk down the executive office corridor right now, they’d catch it all.

His teeth catch your clit, sending a bolt of electricity through you, right before he soothes it with his tongue. Combined with his fingers, the alternating rhythms have you seeing stars. Right when you’re about to unravel, his free hand laces through yours, thumb rubbing circles onto the back of your hand.

“I’ve got you, honey,” He mumbles, vibrations running right through you. “Promise.”

His words snap the string, and you come with a muffled cry. His ministrations continue, soft kisses as he laps at your cunt, taking all he can. It isn’t until your legs stop trembling, and your vision comes back into focus, that he moves upwards, hands guiding you back to sitting.

His lips are on yours again, slow and dirty as you taste yourself on his tongue.

You think you might die if you don’t have him soon. This time, when you reach for the zip on his trousers, he lets you.

Whatever you had been expecting, Clark exceeds it entirely. In both width and length, he’s bigger than you’ve ever seen before. Your hand moves of its own accord. Thumb swiping over the tip, you pump him once, trying desperately to keep your movements steady. When he shudders into your touch, you have to bite back a grin.

Clark is unravelled like this because of you. Only you.

“You’re really big,” You murmur, pace languid as you stroke his cock. You know he knows already. It’s not even an ego thing - just an objective fact.

His head rests forward until it meets your shoulder, muscles tensed. A part of you wishes you were back at your apartment, able to spend the entire night learning every single inch of him, but you suppose that’ll come.

You trace the vein that runs up the side of his shaft, before guiding him towards your core.

“Y-you’re absolutely sure?” It goes unsaid, but you know what he means. This is the point of no return. If we do this, we’re never going to be friends again.

You’re pretty sure you passed that point the first time you kissed.

“Please.”

His hips move just slightly, brushing your entrance, and you inhale at the dull ache, beginning to pool. A little more, an inch or two, and he’s stopping, gaze trained on your face.

“I’m okay,” You murmur. “Just, go slow, okay?”

Clark’s superhuman. He fights the deadliest aliens on a daily basis, and has the strength of a thousand men. But the way he’s cradling your face, kissing you softly as he pushes into you, makes you realise how much he’s holding back. How determined he is not to hurt you.

With each movement, there’s a little more pain, until it’s just gone. When he bottoms out, low groan rumbling in your ear, it’s like you mould around him. Like you were made to take him.

“Doing alright?”

“Mhm, need you to move though.”

Not one to be told twice, he retracts, pulling out to the tip before pushing back in, his hips snapping against yours. He keeps the pace slow at first, gaze fixed on you for any sign of discomfort.

“Prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.” He’s found his tempo, hips rolling against yours with each thrust.

“God, Clark-” The rest of your sentence comes out in a garbled moan, forehead resting against his shoulder as he fills you again. Your nails leave crescent-shaped memories on his shoulder as you try and stay grounded with each rock of his hips.

“I know, sweetheart - taking me so well.”

Your ankles hook behind his back, while he keeps you tight against him, kissing you urgently. As if he’s about to lose you.

Nothing matters anymore, except Clark.

It’s just you, and him, and the world has never felt brighter.

“I-I don’t know where to-” Clark stammers, and you realise he’s struggling to keep everything at bay. But ever the gentleman, he’s not going to finish somewhere without asking first.

“I have the implant,” You murmur, pressing your lips to his jaw as his pace resumes, erratic and sloppy. It’s overwhelming in the best way, coil tightening until you feel like you can't breathe anymore. “S'okay, Clark.”

Nodding, his hand slips between you both, finding your clit with a practiced ease. Each movement draws further whines from you, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

“I-I'm gonna-”

“I know,” He replies. Of course he knows - he's Superman. You're not sure exactly what the extent of his abilities are, but you do know that he's totally attuned to your heart rate right now. “I know, sweetheart.”

It takes a few more thrusts to bring you to orgasm, his own release coming straight behind. Still inside you, he slows to a stop, lips pressed to your temple.

Body going boneless in his arms, he keeps you upright, handle cradling your head to his chest.

“Why did it take us so long to do that?” You murmur.

“Beats me.” His grin is lopsided, peppering your face with soft kisses. “We should do it again sometime. With the proper wining and dining, of course.”

He's pulling out, thumb brushing a few stray hairs out of your face. A quiet ‘wait there’, and he's grabbing some tissues, sinking to his knees to wash you as best he can.

“I think I could fit it into my calender,” You muse. “Can't believe you thought I was seeing Steve. Of all people.”

Dabbing softly, he takes almost painful care to keep your dress clean. It makes your heart soar.

“You thought I was with Cat,” He counters.

“That's a far less offensive assumption than me and Steve!”

“Well, for what it's worth, I'm glad it isn't true,” He hums, standing back up to full height. “Would've made what we just did a lot more complicated.”

“Just as well it wasn’t then.”

You make a move to get back to your feet, before realising your legs are not up for walking just yet. Instead, Clark helps you back into your underwear, pressing soft kisses along your thigh as he goes.

Finally, you’re back on your feet. Your arms are draped across his shoulders, and his settle on your waist.

“I really don’t want to spend another hour socialising,” You murmur, and Clark laughs.

“We could head to the roof - I could fly you home.”

“Jimmy’s already convinced you have some kind of secret identity - I don’t think we should add any fuel to the flames. I think cab works fine.”

“You’re no fun,” He huffs.

“Hey! Does almost-public office sex not count as fun?”

“Fun’s not how I’d have described it,” Clark replies, lips tugging up. “But whatever you need to tell yourself to avoid admitting you have a massive fear of heights.”

“I do not!”

“Do too.”

“I just would rather my feet stayed on the ground where possible.”

He cocks his head just slightly, arching an eyebrow. “Except during sex?”

“Except during sex,” You affirm. “But I would like to head home, soon. Say goodbyes, and get going.” With you.

“See, I was thinking - we’re trying to be greener this year, right? What better way to do that than to share a cab?”

“I like how you think, Kent,” You smile, as Clark heads over to the locked door of the office.

One firm twist, and it swings open. The gala's still in full swing, bustling crowds and journalists milling about.

You don't initially reach for him, not wanting to push or make him uncomfortable. But when he laces his fingers through yours, you smile up at him and let him lead you.

It feels right. Ridiculously right. Like you can’t believe you’ve been friends with him for three years and not had this dynamic.

“What do you think our chances of avoiding Jimmy are?”

“They would’ve been a hundred if we took the roof.”

You laugh. “Last thing you need is Jimmy knowing you can fly. All of Metropolis would know within an hour.”

You’re so caught up in each other that you don’t notice Jimmy strolling over from the bar, looking far too pleased with himself. “Looks like you guys had fun.”

“Yeah, no thanks to you,” You snort. “Top tip for next time? If you’re trying to get two people together, maybe don’t tell them they’re dating other people?”

“But it worked, didn’t it?” Jimmy protests. “Say what you want, but I get results.”

“Well uh, we’re going to head out, now,” Clark begins, and you pray Jimmy catches a drift for once in his life.

“Oh. Yeah. Totally. You guys have way better things to be doing than this - don’t let me stop you!” He gives you both an overexaggerated wink, and you bite back a groan. If there’s one thing you can count on from Jimmy Olsen, it’s that he’s going to make it weird.

It's only when you turn to head out, Clark's hand on your lower back, that Jimmy speaks again.

“Wait… how did you get out?”

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[fandomwriterstuff]

𝐂𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐊𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐤𝐢𝐫𝐭

You like to rush things. Clark takes things slow until he can’t anymore. (Or, you attempt to seduce your coworker in a series of little skirts, and while Clark falls in love with all of you, the skirts don’t hurt.) 4k words, fem.

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

It’s mildly manipulative, what you’re doing to him. Subtle seductions stretched far and wide between weeks of work, your eyes alighting a moment too long on his lips and his neck and his arms. 

You don’t flirt. That’s important. You don’t tell him how handsome he looks when the cold has rosed his cheeks. Won’t mention the poor fit of his gray suit, how it’d look far better on a bedroom floor, or draped across a bathroom stall. Nothing severe. You’re… teasing him. 

For no reason, really. It might be frustration, but wow, wouldn’t that be introspective? You know you could never land a guy like Clark, so you pretend. Blah blah blah, it’s all very boring and your skirt is very short. 

Alright, it’s not that short. It’s the illusion of the thing. The idea that he could get a glance at something, even though the skirt has an inner lining. 

You’re not, you know, obvious about it. Clark might not be looking. But you place your hand on the counter as you reach up with the other for a mug, and you know there’s a stretch of thigh on show if nothing else, heat of a real or imaginary eye on the backs of them as you sigh softly. You genuinely can’t reach. 

You settle back on your heels and turn to find Clark not too far away. “Hey, would you help, please? If you can reach it.” 

You can’t glean any overt interest from his expression, but he says, “Sure,” with warmth on his lips, like he’d gone to say something else and let it fizzle out. 

Clark opens the cabinet door wider and reaches in for a pink mug. It has ‘sweetheart’ written on the side in white, textured font, though the script is elegant. 

“Here, sweetheart,” he says. 

You laugh, mostly to see his satisfied smile. “Thank you.” 

“Can I make it for you?” he asks. 

Clark could hang you upside down and shake you for spare change if he wanted. “You know how I like it.” 

Teasing aside, you spend the afternoon sipping at your coffee with Clark a desk away, Lois adjacent, listening to the click of tens of keyboards and the scritch of shuffled paper on the edges of desks. You work on your small cooking column in relative silence. Three recipes a week, minimum. If you do especially well, Perry lets you slide a conversational piece across his desk for reviewing. You’ve had a couple on the third page. Clark has taken the front page again this week —an exclusive interview with Superman about the Jelly-Mecha that attempted to swallow the WGBS building. 

You’re leaning back with a leg over your knee, your eyes dedicated to the little clock in the corner of your monitor, when somebody hooks the empty chair in the desk beside yours and wheels it over. Clark is sitting next to you before you can protest, a dark-sugared donut in his hands. 

“Okay?” he asks. 

“Are you sharing?”  

“Obviously.” He grins, pulling the donut in his hands apart. Sugar crumbles down into his lap, and the smell of it erupts between you. Apple-cinnamon, miraculously warm when he presses it to your fingers. 

“Thank you.”

Your quiet doesn’t perturb him. He matches your tone, “Yeah, don’t mention it.” 

“Where’s this from?” you ask, taking your first bite.

He takes his own, covering his mouth with his hand as he answers. “Beanies.” 

“That explains why it’s still warm.” 

He shrugs. You don’t get what it means but you don’t care to argue, savouring each mouthful of dough and sugar. You lick the crumbs from your fingers and the corners of your mouth. Clark ate his own half fast, ‘cos he’s a giant with an appetite you envy and revile; in your most humble opinion, it is both impressive and audacious to watch Clark house a BLT in half a minute. 

“Was that good?” he asks quietly, his eyes on your shining fingertips. 

You wipe them on the edge of his napkin. An achy heat eats at your stomach. “You’re spoiling my appetite.”

“Do you have big dinner plans?” 

“Huge! I’m testing something new tonight. Snow mountain garlic and pea risotto, for health week. It’s not particularly healthy,” you confess. “But snow mountain garlic has all these supposed special properties. Doesn’t matter if it’s true, though.” 

“Why not?” 

You like his tone. “It has more allicin. That’s what makes it taste good.” 

“Allicin is antibacterial,” he says. 

“Brilliant. Antibacterial risotto.” 

He holds your eyes for a moment, his own big and especially blue behind his straight frames. “I hope it goes well,” he says. 

It’s a measured sentence, like he’s crafted each word carefully as he said it. 

“I’ll bring you some if it does.” 

“I’d like that.” 

You hide how warming it is to be spoken to like that, carrying the feeling home with you to unravel against the stovetop. If you try harder than usual to make a good meal, it is nobody’s business but your own, and Clark’s, who sits waiting and ready at his desk the following morning. 

“Clark Kent on time?” you tease, letting the handles of your handbag fall into your elbow. “Who would’a thought we’d ever see the day?” 

“I can be punctual,” he promises. 

“Can you? Aren’t you on probation?”

“That wasn’t for tardiness, it was for sick days, and no. I’m no longer on probation.” He smiles with white, shy teeth, a peek of them from between his lips. “I’m on the straight and narrow.”

You imagine the hardness of them against your own lips as you lean in for a kiss, for a split second. The clack you’d inevitably make as your teeth knocked into his, as you hooked your arm behind his neck and dragged him down to you for some light force. 

“‘Cos you’re a good boy,” you murmur, mumble, more to yourself than him (though he is definitely meant to hear you). 

Clark’s face is still. His hands less so, a fist curling against his thigh. His smile is remarkably genuine. “Coffee?” 

Calling Clark a good boy might be flirting. Or not! What’s important is the way it softens him for the working day. How quietly awed he sounds as you unveil a Tupperware container full of risotto for him. He tells you it’s good between big bites. You want to nibble on him, taken by the curve of his bicep each time he brings up his fork, and the tip of his tongue darting out to catch a grain of rice. He’s killing you. You’re dying at the Daily Planet. 

Dramatics aside, he compliments your risotto egregiously, returning the Tupperware with a pristine shine. You don’t play short-skirt with him for days. 

When you do, the skirt is a delicate thing that isn’t as short as you’d expect considering the name of the game, but it’s nearly sheer. Standing in the right light, your hip smushed to the pillarway near his desk while Jimmy tells you about a new kind of giant slug they found living in West Africa, you assume you’re displaying what you’d seen in the mirror that morning. Given enough sunlight, the lavender fabric of your skirt goes translucent. Anyone in looking distance can make out the barest hint of your legs, their shape, a shadow of your thighs and the neat little underwear you have on beneath. You aren’t trying to harass him, but, this is Metropolis. It’s not the most conservative place when it comes to fashion. It isn’t much different to wearing a pair of daisy dukes. 

They’re cuter than denim shorts, though. Velveteen paisley overlaying plain panties. 

It’s not entirely a sex thing. It’s to feel sexy, sure, as an arm to feeling beautiful, desired. You want to know that Clark (handsome, kind, beautiful Clark) sees it, that he wants it, even if it’s a fleeting flash of lust and nothing else. 

And Clark —he doesn’t notice. Doesn’t say a word about it, doesn’t clench his fist or take in a sharp breath. 

You decide you like that just as much and return to your desk, happily ashamed. 

—

The pasta you made yesterday is far better today. The mushroom sauce has soaked into the fusilli. With a scratching of fresh cheese, you lay it over a fresh bowl of rocket and watercress, coat the entire thing in lemon juice, balsamic vinegar, olive oil, and flaky salt, and eat it enthusiastically behind your computer. 

“That smells amazing.” 

You lighten at his dulcet tone. “It’s pretty good. D’you want some?” 

“I’m trying to keep you fed, sweetheart,” Clark says, placing down your ‘sweetheart’ mug and a small plate, “not the other way around. Thank you.” 

His thank you is diligently gentle. He must work at it, to sound so docile. It has to be practised. 

The small plate homes two cupcakes. One has golden cake with a great dollop of fresh cream and cut raspberries atop it, and the other looks like a darker flavour. Ginger? The buttercream is thick and caramelised, with cookie crumbs between its peaks. 

“What have I done to deserve all this?” you ask. 

“You don’t have to do anything at all. It’s your afters. Your dessert.” 

“I haven’t done anything?” you ask. 

He shakes his head kindly. “It’s inherently deserved.” 

If he’s charming or teasing, you can’t tell. 

His eyes fall from your face. You get distracted by his details, the clean hills of his cheeks, his dark brows, sweet mouth and a sweeter nose broad enough to take a kiss or two, and you almost miss the stroke of his gaze lingering on your collar. His fingers twitch. “Can I?” he asks. 

You follow his finger. One of your straps has fallen down, leaving the simple pale elastic of your bra alone. You couldn’t have faked it better. “Sure,” you say under your breath. 

Clark hears it regardless, slipping a fingertip up your arm, a backwards tumble that threatens to send tattle-tale goosebumps over your skin. He hooks the strap under his fingers and brings it over your shoulder, pulling at it enough to make your eyes widen. Then his touch is gone, leaving a strange sensation in its place. 

“You’re dressed really pretty, today,” he says. 

You smile at the joke before you’ve said it. “As opposed to every other day,” you say. 

“This is beautiful. You look beautiful.” 

You duck your head. Sincerity in the face of your sarcasm inspires an amazingly dizzy feeling in the stem of your neck. You have to force back a smile. 

“Thank you, Clark. I’m… glad you think so,” you say eventually. There’s emphasis there for him to take or leave. 

You can see his hesitation, then, a palpable pause while he makes a decision. 

“It’s a nice skirt,” he says quietly. 

There’s nothing imposing in his tone, but there doesn’t need to be. He isn’t tall, dark, and handsome, he’s incredibly, scarily brilliant. He’s smiling at you like you’ve given him a compliment. 

“It’s a little brave,” you say. 

“Bravery suits you. Anyways,” —he touches your arm briefly— “don’t let me keep you. Eat your lunch. Hopefully your coffee won’t be too cold to enjoy when you’re finished.” 

You wish he’d press you up against a wall. He did notice the skirt. He has the self control to leave it alone, or at least to wait for you to bring it. And… yeah, that’s working for you, actually. Really working. You stood in the sunshine to give him an explicit view of your legs and he brought you cupcakes to say thank you. 

—

Apparently, there are limits to Clark Kent’s self control. 

You’re lavishing in Centennial Park under a gorgeous sun. It’s barely seventy two degrees, a tame heat for July in Metropolis, and yet the sun is hitting you just right, kissing at your skin, leaving you sated and heavy under its weight. Clark has rolled up his sleeves (a contributing factor, perhaps, to the contentness you’re carrying) and loosened his tie, sitting where you’re laying down, a sweet hand held to your knee. Today’s skirt is a bias-cut midi dress made of a dark sage green. There are bell-sleeves like petals and a neckline you aren’t worried about, not when he’s guarding you like this. You shift on your back to better feel the sun on your face, and he pulls the skirt along the inside of your thigh. Keeping it in place to protect your modesty, setting every nerve-ending you have aflame with pleasure. 

“Tell me if you feel too warm,” he says. 

“I’m not worried about the sun.” 

“What are you worried about?” 

“Oh, the usual. That some weird space creature is gonna break the atmosphere and kill us,” you croon. 

He delights in your tone, his thumb sweeping a line into your leg. “I won’t let anything kill you.” 

You’d kissed his cheek in the elevator because the line of his nose had looked rather unkissed, and his cheek had been the politer option. You hadn’t expected the quick turn of his head, or the complete lack of nonchalance about him as he’d smiled and laughed and pressed that same cheek to your temple as he’d hugged you with one arm. 

So now you’re here in the park because you hadn’t wanted him to stop touching you. The summer dress wasn’t part of your seductions but it seems to be working all the same. You’re hoping you’ll get a kiss of your own to settle the score before the sun goes down. With where his hands are resting, you aren’t sure where you want one most. One hand on your thigh, one on your knee, his body turned to you like it’s the natural thing to do. He could be generous and give you a kiss beneath both palms. You think you’d quite like that. 

“Do you worry about that a lot?” 

“Hm?” 

“The aliens… The space creatures, do you worry you’ll get hurt?” 

“Not really. We have a great protection detail, don’t we?” you ask. 

He’s quiet for a bit. “What do you think about him?”

You don’t ask, Superman? Of course he’s talking about him. “He’s extremely handsome.”

Clark laughs boisterously and shakes you by the leg. “Alright. Knock it off.” 

“Or what?” 

“Or nothing. Just knock it off.” 

He makes everything sound so satiny. 

“I wouldn’t let anything happen to you,” he adds. 

“Promise?” 

Half a joke. Clark pushes his glasses up onto his nose and finally leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your elbow where your arms are crossed over your chest. “Yeah. I promise.” 

You let him walk you home. That night, one of the star-shaped superaliens appears in the air near your apartment and then there’s a breathless Clark on the line asking if you need some company. You tell him no, ask if you can see him tomorrow when the dust settles, and he promises you that his Saturday was all yours. He actually says it, says, “I think you could ask me for anything after today and I’d try to do it for you.” He’s laughing to diffuse the weight of it, but you take it to heart. 

A Saturday turns to Sunday. A week turns to two. You and Clark trade careful kisses anywhere but the mouth and he doesn’t mention your little skirts. You keep wearing them, especially the velveteen lavender one too sheer for summer, layered over a short silk underskirt to protect your own wits. You’ve seduced him (have you?) but now you’d really like to keep him. 

It’s a Tuesday morning with little to give. The air is already warm, the tram platforms are full. You commute to the Daily Planet for another day of dedicated journalism. 

Jimmy begins the morning with praise. “I made your honeycomb macarons. I actually made them.” 

“And?” 

“And? They were amazing! You’re such a goddamn genius,” he says. 

He gives you a macaron from a tin shaped like Yoda. The cookie is sweet with that perfect, delicate crunch, and the honeycomb ganache is better than your own. You take another one from his tin, giving him a congratulatory pat on the elbow. “They’re amazing!” you say, shells and honeycomb pieces thick in your mouth. 

“What’s amazing?” 

You remember where you are urgently. 

“I made macarons,” Jimmy says. 

Clark doesn’t make fun of his pride. “Really? That’s awesome, man. Can I try one?” 

You swallow the lump in your mouth, washing it down with a quick swig of coffee. 

“Morning,” Clark says. 

“Hi. Good morning.” 

“Hi,” he says, fond. “How has your day been so far?” 

You lick your lips without thinking, sweetness lingering in the stick of your lipgloss. “It was good, yeah. The tram was hot.” 

“You look good.” 

Jimmy wrinkles his nose. “Guys, we talked about this.” 

“‘Bout what?” Clark asks, finishing his macaron in one bite. 

Jimmy is kind enough to roll his eyes and leave it alone, wandering off with his tin clutched to his chest. Clark rolls his eyes too, a secret gesture that has you laughing through your nose. 

“You do look good,” he says again. 

You look down in mild bewilderment. “It’s laundry day.” 

You’re in a pair of black slacks that threaten to slip off your hips at any moment and a button up that should be tight to the waist but unfortunately isn’t. You’d saved the outfit with a necklace and a handful of jewelled rings, but it’s nothing like the stuff you’ve been wearing as of late. Of course he’d notice. 

“This…” He raises a hand to your hip but doesn’t touch.

“What?” 

His thumb presses to a slip of skin so small you hadn’t noticed it was visible. His brow creases like he’s been burned, yet his hand remains where it is. After a heavy second, he squeezes, and he says something too quiet to hear to himself. 

“Clark?” you ask tentatively. “You okay?”

“You have no clue… no clue what you do to me.” 

His eyes are all on you. Deep, indigo-blue. 

Heat leeches up your neck. Your heart capers suddenly. “What do I do to you?” you ask, your tentativeness turned to silk.  

“Don’t.” 

“What do I do, honey?” you ask, nearly whispering now. “I don’t have a clue, right? So tell me, then, what I do to you?”

“What am I supposed to do?” His fingers adjust against your hip. “Why would you do this here?” Clark’s voice breaks with a put-upon heartache. He’s still smiling. “What am I supposed to do, here?” 

“Take me somewhere else.” 

His hand falls away from your hip. You can feel where his fingers had shaped your skin for minutes afterward, following him with a poorly faked casualness to the elevator. 

He hits the button for the basement as you step in. 

“I think they’re still printing,” you say. The mock-up copies get made in the basement, and it’s an all day affair. “It’ll be as busy there as it is–”

No sooner has the elevator started moving than Clark is hitting the emergency stop. 

“Clark!” you say. 

“Can I kiss you?” 

He doesn’t laugh. You lean away from him to take in his long body, his grey suit and red tie and the wetted run of his bottom lip. He has honeycomb in the very corner of his mouth. 

You raise your hand to wipe it away. 

“Yeah, okay,” you say, tilting your chin up slowly. 

Clark grabs two great, heaping, greedy handfuls of your back, long fingers spread out and guiding you in for a kiss you aren’t expecting. There’s genuine hunger there, your teeth clicking as you’d always imagined, a voracious sort of meeting that quickly gentles. He lets out a sigh against your lips and melts against you like a stick of butter over a flame, lax, a hand traversing upward and over and– and his mouth, his kisses are these open, warm mouthings you meet with a stammering heart. This isn’t the slip of control you’d imagined it to be. 

Clark’s kissing you without an ending in mind. You can feel it in the tenderness of his open palm, seemingly laid to sleep at the small of your back. 

“How long does that work?” you ask in a murmur, your lips happily stung. 

“I don’t know. I’ve never done that before.” 

“Really?” 

“When would I have had reason to try?” Clark asks, cupping your cheek in his hand. “You’re so pretty.” He steals another quick kiss. “Do you know that?” 

“I can’t believe this is what got you to crack,” you laugh. 

His eyebrows pinch. “What?” 

“This,” you gesture to your clothes. “Of all the things I’ve worn.” 

“I don’t understand.” Though it’s dawning on his face quickly. “Oh. You– The… Oh.” 

His neck goes all shades of rose. 

“Sorry,” you whisper. 

He tips your head back nicely. “For what? I would’ve cracked anyway. You could’ve worn anything, but… The little purple skirt, that was for me?” 

You press your flushed face to his chest, arms crossing lazily behind a strong neck. “Clark…” you mumble. 

He digs his face into your neck to kiss the softness beneath your ear. You’re surprised he doesn’t whine your name back to you, what with the mood he’s in, but Clark’s got a propensity for sweetness that won’t quit. 

“On purpose,” he whispers, vindicated. “I knew it.” 

The elevator chugs back to life. 

—

You are delightfully, blissfully human. There comes a time when you need saving, and it just so happens that Metropolis brags its very own (and very only) Krypton superbeing. One minute you’re being squeezed in the fist of a raspberry-furred mega fox thing, and the next you’ve been freed and grabbed and propelled through the air in arms that feel oddly familiar. 

“Miss, are you okay? Miss? Miss, are you alright?” 

You look down at the ants of your city and nearly puke up your dinner. “Oh my fuck,” you squeeze out. 

“I’m sorry! I’m taking you back down. There’s a girl, breathe in for me. Deep breaths.” 

You can hardly breathe at all, but your shallow breaths earn you a thank you and a proud pat on the back. Your legs are shaking so hard at touchdown that Superman has to physically arrange them beneath you, his arm glued to the small of your back when you list unsteadily. 

“You’re okay,” Superman assures you. 

His little curl is ever so darling. “Like Clark’s,” you say unthinkingly, wrapping the short strands of hair around your finger. 

“Are you alright?” he asks, generously ignoring your moment of delusion. 

“I thought I was gonna die.” You blanche, glancing back over your shoulder for signs of the megafox. “Fuck.” 

“Everything’s fine, now. I promise you.” 

You take a deep breath. Superman holds you by both shoulders, forcing you to copy a second, deeper breath, then a third. 

“Good girl,” he murmurs. 

Too much like Clark. “My boyfriend, he was–”

“Everyone’s safe.” 

You let out a shaky breath. The last of your panic ebbs from your shoulders. “Okay.” 

“Okay?” 

“Yeah, thank you. For saving me. Thank you so much.” 

“You don’t have to thank me for anything,” he says. His voice goes bendy and weak. 

“I really do. If I died in this skirt, my boyfriend would never forgive me.” 

Superman gives you an appraisal, up and down. Heat flares in your stomach and refuses to cool as he smiles. “Wouldn’t wanna ruin a skirt like that,” he says knowingly. 

You shake your head, not without fondness.

All boys are the same. 

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

thank you for reading!! I hope you enjoyed <3 and thank you Bec for reading it twice at different times

[fandomwriterstuff]

⟢ riding needy, starved clark kent with all ounce of your love for him.

brief cock mention, soft smut, slight overstim (m. receiving)

you hadn’t meant to break him.

well—maybe that’s a lie.

because you know what you’re doing when you press your hand against his chest, straddle his hips, and slide down inch by impossible inch of that thick, curved cock like it’s something addictive. you know the sounds he makes when you take your time, when your hips roll with a kind of syrupy, unhurried rhythm that traps him between your tight, dripping cunt and the weight of your body.

and clark—sweet clark, with his hands already trembling where they’re braced on your thighs, he’s not built to survive this.

he’s sprawled on the bed like a man unraveling, broad shoulders heaving, mouth open and red from biting his own lip. sweat beads at his temple, dark curls damp and sticking to his forehead, eyes glassy and wide and so soft when he looks up at you like you’re the sky cracking open and giving him the sunlight he needs.

“baby, please,” he gasps, voice all gravel and ache, shuddering under you. “i can’t—i can’t not—fuck, please, you’re so—”

you grind down harder, clenching around the fat of him as you rock forward and back, letting his cock drag slow through your soaked walls. he sobs. sobs. it’s not even a moan anymore, it’s a sound scraped out of his chest, broken and needy and utterly helpless.

he’s so deep inside. impossibly deep. thick and flushed and leaking so much precum it’s smearing hot between your thighs, pooling where your bodies meet. he’s always like this with you—too big, like his body can’t help but respond to you with more—more cock, more cum, more need. and you? you eat it up.

you lean in close, sliding your hands over his chest, fingers catching on the swell of his pecs, dragging down over ridged abs that clench as you squeeze around him again. “what, clark? can’t take it?” your voice is honeyed, teasing, and laced with affection so tender it borders on cruel. “thought you were superman.”

he whimpers.

actually whimpers. that’s what really gets you. because the world doesn’t get to see this version of him. not lois, not the justice league, not even the civilians who call his name like a prayer. only you get him like this—panting, begging, trembling under your touch like the most fragile thing in the world.

“you feel s’good,” he babbles, hands sliding up your hips, helpless in the way he clutches at you like he’s drowning. “god, you—you’re perfect. i c-can’t—i love you, love you so much—”

you fuck down harder. not just rolling anymore, but bouncing, riding him filthy now, ass slapping against his thighs as your body moves with purpose. you don’t care how wet it is, how loud the slick, obscene noises are every time his cock drags out and plunges back in. you’re soaked. dripping down his shaft. soaking the sheets. every thrust of your hips has him squirming, choking, wailing under you.

and he doesn’t try to stop you.

doesn’t even want to.

he’s just clinging to you now, hands fisting the sheets, then your hips, then the small of your back, trying to ground himself through the high. his cock is a pulsing, leaking mess inside you, and you can feel every twitch of it. fat and curved and heavy with the need to come. but he’s holding back. you can feel him holding back, like a taut wire stretched to the breaking point.

“you’re close, huh?” you whisper, slowing down just enough to make him whine—deep in his throat, like he’s in pain. “you’re trying to be good. trying not to come inside me yet, aren’t you?”

his eyes flutter, thick brows furrowing, clark’s eyes haze like he’s fucking high, his lips part. but no words come out, just a shattered, desperate nod.

god. he’s so good.

you press a kiss to his collarbone, then his throat, then his jaw, tasting sweat and salt and something so deeply clark it makes you dizzy. you wrap your arms around his shoulders as you move again, this time slower, but deeper—grinding on him, letting the curve of his cock press right into that tender, spongy spot inside you. you gasp on his mouth, lips meeting while he breathes hot on your mouth.

“you can come,” you murmur, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “go ahead. fill me up, baby. make a mess. i want it—i want all of it.”

and just like that—he breaks.

his whole body arches, hips jerking up into you so hard you cry out, and then he’s cumming, moaning loud and guttural and soaked in reverence, spilling inside you with everything he has. it’s so much, so hot and thick, flooding you instantly, pumping in hard, wet spurts as his cock twitches and jerks and refuses to stop.

you keep riding him through it.

don’t stop even as your own orgasm crashes over you, wracking your body with shivers, making your pussy spasm around him so tight he groans into your neck, voice strangled. he’s still leaking into you, still grinding up like he needs to stay inside, like if he pulls out, he’ll lose something he can’t live without.

you slightly lift your hips, the pleasure being too tense but clark is fast yet gentle to press on your back.

“stay,” he whispers, breath hot against your throat. “please, baby. don’t get up yet. i just—i need you. need you like this.” he says it soft. reverent. but the arms around you are iron.

you nuzzle into him, heart hammering, thighs shaking. cum is everywhere like inside you, smeared between your bodies, dripping down your thighs and small pool under his hips but neither of you care. it’s messy and primal and intimate in a way that feels so alive, like your bodies were made to break together like this.

you stroke his curls, and he sighs, finally going soft inside you, still twitching every so often from overstimulation. but his hands don’t stop touching. palms skating up your spine, thumbs brushing the swell of your hips, lips ghosting over your shoulder like a man in worship.

“you ruin me,” he says finally, voice hoarse. “every single time. i don’t even know who i am when you’re on top of me like that.”

you hum, half amused, half delirious. “just clark. just my baby.”

he nods. eyes wet and heart full, because he knows it’s real, because clark kent only get to feel human and not so superman-save-the-world when he’s with you.

“yeah,” he whispers. “yours.” he nuzzles into you.

[fandomwriterstuff]

Office Siren

summary: managing The Daily Planet was a lot of work, thankfully your boyfriend was always there to help you relax when things got especially hectic. content: fem!reader, oral fem receiving, fingering, cursing, overstimulation, dacryphilia, grumpy reader, stressed out reader, golden retriever clark kent, david corenswets clark kent. a/n: was feeling freaky, so I made this. plus I thought the title was silly #needthat (1.7k words)

The clacking of your long acrylic french tips against the mechanical keyboard is usually a sound that soothes you. It means work is getting done, and you wouldn’t have to yell at anyone to finish whatever beat they were working on. 

But right now, you couldn’t think of a more aggravating sound bludgeoning your ears. It’s only 9:30 am, but you’ve been at The Daily Planet since 7:00 am, installing some new ink cartridges into the letterpress – which ultimately ended up exploding all over your new blouse.

To make matters worse, when you finally washed off the lingering ink and decided to grab yourself an iced coffee before the other employees showed up, you were denied by the “closed due to personal circumstances” sign plastered on the cafe door. Great.

As you turned around and made your way back to The Planet, you somehow managed to step on a piece of chewed gum, the gunk clinging to your brand new Mary Janes, causing your eye to twitch as you bit the inside of your cheek.

Being the managing editor of The Daily Planet was… interesting to say the least. 

Unfortunately, as much as you wanted to take the day off and go home, journalism waits for no one, so you continued the trek back in silence.

Thankfully, you made it back in just enough time to unlock the front door – Perry hated when you opened it late, and you hated when he chewed you out for shit you didn’t get paid enough to do.

Which brings you to now, sitting in your office, which was so conveniently located right outside the news room – giving you the perfect view of those who came in late – finalizing the outline for the next print.

Maybe you were lost in your work, in your own head, but you still swore you’d have notice the 6’4 man standing in front of you with an iced coffee in hand and a small smile on his face.

You really needed to get more than 4 hours of sleep.

“Clark, to what do I owe this surprise?” you muse, looking up at him curiously, a small smirk on your face. You and Clark had an interesting relationship, to say the least – you were bossy and stoic, and he did what he was told with a smile.

It doesn’t take long for you to recognize the logo on the cup, it was a cinnamon sweet cream iced latte from your second favorite cafe nearby. How did he know?

“Just figured you could use this,” he smiles, that signature puppy dog expression plastered on his face as he gently sets the cup down onto one of your coasters.

“Well, thank you, I appreciate it” you murmur earnestly, turning back to examine the contents of your computer stoically.

Clark can’t help but frown at your expression. Anyone could tell that you were stressed out, but he knew you better than anyone. Sordid nights together spent tangled up in the sheets of your bed will do that.

“Yknow, I’m sure you could afford to take a break.” The concern is evident in his tone, and you almost smile at the sentiment – until you remember the outline you were working on that needed to be sent in by 3:00.

“Yes, well, I have a lot of work to do” you mutter, brows furrowed as you type away, “as a matter of fact, can you get Jimmy in here, I need him to-” you’re cut off by Clarks huff, arms crossed over his broad chest.

“You need a break, you’ve been here since 7,” he points out, his tone leaving no room for discussion as he uses his foot to slide the door of your office shut with a soft click.

“You’re sweet, Clark, but I really need to get this done,” you murmur with a tired frown, eyes following him as he makes his way over to where you sit behind your desk.

You’re about to give him another spiel about how much you need to do when you feel his hands grasp the sides of your face gently, a soft smile gracing his lips as he looks at you knowingly.

“You’re working too hard, you need a break.” he murmurs, leaving no room to argue as his forehead presses against yours softly, grounding you. He hated seeing you stressed out, and he was willing to do anything to get you to relax.

Your eyes flutter closed, and you don't even notice Clark leaning in until his lips brush yours, prompting a small moan to escape you as you kiss him slowly.

You relax in your chair as his hands trail down your face, one of them holding the back of your head gently as you melt into him.

“Clark- clark, we can't do this here someone will hear us” you murmur as you break apart, face flush and breath unsteady as you look up at him with swollen, bitten lips. He stifles a smile as he runs his hand across your cheek “Then you’ll just have to be quiet” he murmur's softly.

Before you can process his words, his lips are pressing wet kisses along your neck, dipping lower and lower until he’s met with the neckline of your blouse, unbuttoning it swiftly.

He lets out an audible groan when he catches sight of your lacey navy blue bra, fingers swiping across the thin fabric and over your nipples gently, causing you to whine out.

And as much as Clark would love to hear your pretty sounds, the office walls are thin, and he knows you’d murder him if he were the reason the people in the news room heard you.

“shh, baby you know how much I love to hear you, but I need you to be quiet for me” he pleads softly, gently coming down to rest on his knees.

He pulls your pair of sheer stockings down your legs slowly, kissing up your bare thighs as he folds them delicately – he was a gentleman after all.

Your head is thrown back in pleasure when you feel his large fingers dig into the plush of your thighs, moving them apart gently, your black skirt riding up to expose your matching lace panties in the process.

He lets out a large gulp as his fingers brush across your panties, his eyes locked onto the wet spot that's visible and growing as his thumb swipes over your clit, causing you to mewl out. “I know, baby, I know” he murmurs sympathetically.

Your thighs are trembling when he decides to finally stop teasing you, his head ducking between your legs once again as his teeth bite the waistband of your panties, pulling them down your legs gently as he looks up at you, your blissed out expression causing him to harden in his pants.

When they're finally off, he can’t help but grab your thighs again, spreading them apart to admire your pussy, which may as well have been dripping all over your chair. “This is a real pretty sight, baby,” he croons softly; he was addicted to you.

He looks up at you quickly, making sure that you still want this, before his head delves in-between your thighs, his tongue brushing across your clit as your hand grasps his curls tightly. 

“God- Clark” you whine out, eyes screwed tight in pleasure as you feel your thighs crush his head – not that you could actually hurt him.

He doesn't tear himself away, savoring the tase of you and the sounds of your sweet cries, until he feels you getting close, wanting to watch you come apart.

You’re a mess of whines and twitches when his fingers replace his mouth, his head coming up to stare at you writhing in pleasure.

“I know, baby, just let it happen” he murmurs, sympathy edged in his voice as he talks you down, his finger rubbing soft circles on your clit.

All you can muster are quiet whines, words having left your brain a long time ago, which he doesn’t seem to mind. Clark, though never cocky, can’t help but feel prideful at how good he’s made you feel.

He slips two of his thick fingers inside you, causing you to lurch out of the chair in pleasure, his other hand coming down to hold you steadily in place. 

What he doesn’t realize is how the added pressure from his hand enhances the feeling of his fingers, which are reaching places you didn’t even know possible, as he pushes down on your lower stomach. 

“Shh, I know, baby. You’ve been working so hard, huh? Just needed a little somethin” he murmurs, the comforting tone making you clamp down on his fingers involuntarily.

“Please, please, please” is all you manage to whine, sweat beading at your temple as he admires how pretty and absolutely wrecked you look like this.

You truly were a sight for sore eyes – mouth parted softly, breasts spilling out of your bra, legs twitching slightly whenever his fingers reach that one specific spot that makes you see stars. 

Lucky for you, Clark’s never been the type to tease – especially not when you’ve had such a bad day – finally deciding to give you what you want.

“Well, because you’ve been so good” he croons, fingers curling just the right amount to make you tip over the edge, your legs wrapping themselves around his head instinctively.

You’re borderline crying by the time he pulls his fingers out, sucking on them gently as he revels in the taste of you before wrapping his arms around you soothingly.

When he’s finally sure that you’re cognizant and stable, he brushes your hair out of your face, a soft smile on his lips as he leans down to kiss you.

“Feeling better, yeah?” he murmurs softly, a small smirk on his face as you nod your head blissfully, your bleary eyes looking up at him like he hung the moon.

He presses a few gentle kisses to your temple, looking over your now drowsy frame, a satisfied smile on his face. There's nothing like an orgasm to make a girl relax, right?

Now he just had to figure out how to get you home.

[fandomwriterstuff]

clingy clark

( synopsis ) — after insecurely taking advice from jimmy and spending hours online, clark distances himself from you. scared he might’ve overwhelmed you with his clinginess. all for a crying clark to come back home to you.

( warnings ) — none! just an insecure, clingy clark.

( tags ) — @jordiemeow [to be added]

“Just leave them alone for a second, Clark!” Lois laughs, watching as Clark’s arms stay locked around your waist, his face practically buried in your shoulder like a big, needy golden retriever.

“Yeah, dude. Clinginess isn’t cute. I should know. I’m probably the best guy in the room when it comes to women,” Jimmy adds from beside Lois, nudging her playfully before he’s met with a sharp glare.

“Oh, shut up,” you say to Jimmy, leaning back into Clark’s hold. “Just give me a few minutes, baby. Lois and I are talking about the article.” You give his arm a quick pat before slipping out of his grip.

When you and Lois walk off toward the printing room, Clark stays behind. He frowns, glancing at Jimmy and leaning against the edge of the desk, his arms crossed.

“Do you think that’s true?” he mutters. “Do you think they get annoyed when I’m too… affectionate?”

Jimmy barely looks up. “Most definitely,” he says flatly. “I mean, come on, man. You’re like a big dog. Always all over them.. hugging, touching, laying your head on them. If I were dating you, I’d lose my mind.”

And that conversation sticks in Clark’s head longer than it should. Later that night, he’s alone in his cold, quiet room. The only light in the room comes from his computer screen. He’s slouched in front of it, arms crossed tightly over his chest as he stares at the headline on the screen:

“Are Clingy Boyfriends a Turn-Off?”

His eyes scan every word. Each line feels like a hit to the gut. And the comment section? Even worse.

voidsuites: “I dated someone like this once. It was suffocating. I couldn’t even stand next to them without their hands on me.”

jordiemeow: “Clingy partners are exhausting. So glad I got out of that relationship.”

hrtfilm: “Clingy usually means controlling. Red flag behavior, honestly. Be careful, guys.”

jclolz22: “It’s not bad at first.. but after a while, it gets annoying.”

Clark checks every box.

He was always touching you, his hands under your shirt, his chin on your shoulder, his arms around your waist, even in public. He’d pull you into his lap in front of anyone. You were a constant source of peace for him. A calm he never wanted to be without. But maybe that wasn’t how it felt to you. So he thought. So he stopped.

Over the next few weeks, he pulled back. He stopped bugging you at your desk. Stopped waiting outside the bathroom for you. Stopped finding excuses to pass by your apartment after work. No more arms slipping around your waist. No more hands brushing against yours. No more sudden, warm weight of him behind you while you were reading.

And of course, you noticed.

Clark might’ve thought he was giving you space, but you felt the shift immediately. He was always the one who made you feel grounded just when you got too lost in your own head, he’d appear out of nowhere and wrap you up in that warmth like a big blanket. Now, it felt like something important had been quietly taken away.

But being you, you didn’t say anything right away. You just kept thinking. Replaying things over and over.

Did you do something? Say something? Had you pushed him away without realizing? Why didn’t he want to hold you anymore? When was the last time he stayed over? It was driving you crazy. So you decided to fix it.

On your walk home one night, you nodded to yourself, already planning it out. You’d invite him over. Cook for him. Make his favorite, rhubarb pie, using Ma Kent’s recipe (which you were absolutely going to call her for).

But while you were lost in your head, something strange happened. A shadow passed over you. The sun was still high, the sky clear. No tall buildings around you. No trees. No reason for a shadow. So you looked up.

And there he was. Clark, flying overhead in full Superman gear, clearly trying to look casual. A blur in the sky, pretending he wasn’t watching you from above like some lovesick satellite.

You just smiled. Because you couldn’t exactly call him out in public. Superman was supposed to be busy saving people, not floating above his partner on their walk home like a weird, adorable stalker.

But the next day? That was different.

You had the day off. You were in your apartment, music playing quietly from the radio. You leaned against the counter, sliding a tray into the oven. Ma’s rhubarb pie. You were trying your absolute best to get it right before inviting Clark over for dinner.

And as you stood back and wiped your hands on your apron, your eyes drifted to the window. There it was again. That familiar blur of red and blue just outside.

You sighed, walked over to the window, and pushed it open.

“Clark,” you said dryly. “Get inside.”

He tried to pretend he hadn’t heard you at first, looking away dramatically. But eventually, he floated in, landing softly on your floor. He didn’t say much, just sat down on the couch, eyes glossy, face tight with emotion.

You stepped between his legs, placing your hands on his shoulders as he instinctively held your hips, his touch cautious.

“What happened?” you asked, gently.

“What do you mean?” he tried.

You raised your brows. Really?

“I just…” he started, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “Jimmy said I was being too clingy. And then I read this article online. And all these comments. And I thought… maybe I was making you uncomfortable. I thought giving you space was the right thing.”

You lowered yourself into his lap, taking his hand from his face and wiping his wet cheeks with your thumbs.

“And you listened to Jimmy Olsen?” you teased softly, trying not to smile too hard.

He sniffled, nodding. “He said girls hate guys like that. And everyone online agreed. I just wanted to do right by you, baby.”

Your hands moved to cradle his face, your thumbs brushing his cheekbones as he looked up at you, big eyes full of guilt.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“It’s okay, Clark,” you said, leaning in to press a kiss to his lips.

He kissed you back, slow and soft, holding onto you like he was afraid you’d disappear. When you pulled away, you stayed close, your foreheads pressed together, your breath mingling.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, barely loud enough to hear.

“I told you it’s okay,” you murmured. “I’m not mad. I just wish you would’ve talked to me first before disappearing like that, alright?”

He nodded, still holding you close. Then suddenly, his eyes widened, nose scrunching.

“Wait… do you smell something burning?”

You blinked. “Shit. The pie.”

[fandomwriterstuff]

how would clark react to shy!reader wearing cute panties around him for the first time? 

cw: mildly suggestive, fem In the privacy of his own home (and mind), Clark calls you his sweet girl. It’s the perfect way to describe you, and while others may find it saccharine or infantilising, he knows you appreciate it for what it is. A sweet girl given some tenderness back. 

You’re sitting on the arm of his sofa with your socked feet brushing against the floor, in pajama shorts and an oversized t-shirt that cloaks the shape of you. He’s making you a cold lemonade in the kitchen, and if his senses weren’t as sharp as they are he’d have tipped half of it onto the cool tile below. He can’t stop watching you. 

You laugh at the TV. “Clark, you’re missing the best part,” you say. 

He could knock you back onto the couch and kiss you dizzy when you laugh like that, only he’d never be so rough with you.

“I’m coming,” he promises. “No patience at all. You could’ve paused it for me.”

“I’ll rewind it, if you want.” 

Clark couldn’t care less about the movie. What he wants is to be sitting with you again, to pull you into his lap before the sun starts to go down. He needs to get his hours in. They’re owed! 

Clark presses the lemonade into your hand, a kiss to your head, catching the click of your jaw from a poorly hidden yawn. 

“Oh, honey, are you tired?” he asks. He’d had no idea. 

“No, I’m fine.”

“Sure. Okay, but we could finish the movie in bed, right?” 

You take a sip of lemonade. Grin at him like he’s perfect when you swallow. “I’m really not that tired.” 

“Humour me?” 

And oh, don’t you let him take you to bed. He guards your shoulder unnecessarily, pulls the sheets back to help you in while you grumble about being spoiled. Clark puts your movie on and slips into the bed next to you, deciding this is better than the spooning he’d planned on the couch. It would’ve taken ages to convince you that he doesn’t mind your weight. Here in bed, he can lie right beside you without preamble. 

You drink your lemonade, nothing so endearing to him as your sips and the way you wipe the condensation from your glass each time rather than let it wet the bed. Clark turns into you, in part due to low self-control, but more because you’re warm and soft to the touch. He puts his forehead on your shoulder and his hand to the hip furthest him. Under the blankets together, you are perfectly cocooned. 

Which makes it harder for him when you insist on getting up. 

“Where you going?” he asks. 

“Just to the bathroom. Gonna freshen up.” 

To freshen up, he thinks, and not to brush your teeth. Is he going to presume himself a lucky man from turn of phrase alone? No. But does he sit in bed waiting anxiously for you to return? Yes. Clark wouldn’t say it’s hard to get you out of your clothes, euphemism or otherwise; you aren’t uncomfortable around him anymore, just your tentativeness remains. He has to be gentle with you, and he doesn’t mind. 

He isn’t surprised to find you fully dressed when you return, smelling noticeably of lotion and something else he can’t name aptly as you stop at your side of the bed. His stomach flickers with heat as you switch off the bedside lamp, leaving the TV as the only light source. 

“Okay?” you ask softly. 

“Perfect, sweet girl,” he says, matching your tone, almost lost under the sounds of the movie. 

You nod. 

His breath catches and stills as you reach for the edge of your shirt and pull it off. 

Then you slip your shorts down your hips and Clark’s mind takes time to catch up. Like, a ridiculous amount of time. 

You’re not not cute, he wants that cemented in the record forever. You are a darling. In whatever plain white panties you deign to show him, in your simple t-shirt bras and especially out of them, you’re a wonder. Clark can’t believe you’re of earth, sometimes, until he thinks of course you are. You are charmingly, broadly human. 

Right now, you’re wearing the cutest matching set he’s ever seen, his mouth immediately cottoned with longing.

They aren’t ‘sexy’, objectively, a fake satin that looks perfectly comfortable to sleep in. The panties have a lettuce hemming, pink fabric, and his entire body has started to fill with a telling heat following the lines of you. “Are those strawberries?” he asks. 

You pull the sheets back and set yourself down beside him. Your little ankle socks stay on. Fuck, his blood is practically boiling in his veins. 

“Honey, you’re gonna have to let me see,” he says lightly. 

“No, ‘cos you looked at me too long. You’re done.”

You’re serious and teasing at once. 

“How was I supposed to not look?”

“Practice your restraint,” you say, really joking now. If Clark concentrates he can hear the patter of your heart picking up. Anticipation sends a flush over your skin. 

“Let me see you again,” he says, warming your thigh through the sheets. “Please.” 

You lay further down in the bed and breathe deeply. “Kiss me first,” you say, and there, he can hear the thread of your nerves, how much courage it actually took you to stand there and shimmy out of your clothes, knowing it was a big change.  

“Yeah, I will,” he promises, raising a hand to your cheek. “You– I don’t know how to say it. You’re–” He takes a calming breath as you had. He could be far more gentlemanly about the situation if he tried. “Fuck,” he groans instead, tapping his nose against yours, hovering for a kiss. Sweet girl.

You laugh, self-satisfaction new and wholly delightful on you as you tip your chin up to meet his lips. 

Clark pictures the feeling of satin under his fingers and presses eagerly into your mouth.

[fandomwriterstuff]

(via FlimsyFlamingo on Twitter)

[fandomwriterstuff]

Ok, imagine you're comic accurate Clark Kent and you're a working-class immigrant raised on a farm. You grow up and dedicate your life to helping people while being a total malewife to your Pulitzer prize winner girlfriend. You're despised and targeted by an unethical, megalomaniacal billionaire who thinks his intellect and his power and his wealth entitles him to your inherent abilities and the adoration you've earned through years of nonstop altruism. YOU WERE CREATED BY TWO JEWISH MEN IN THE 1930S

And then people complain about a movie about you being too woke

[fandomwriterstuff]

in a comic book movie that's very comic booky, some might argue the most comic booky comic book movie of them all, i'd say the most comic booky line in all of superman is when lex threatens him by saying "i think i'll kill clark kent next" without knowing his secret identity. that line is straight out of the cartoons, i can easily hear clancy brown's lex say that

[fandomwriterstuff]

Read a fucking comic man

[fandomwriterstuff]