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phoenix-eclipses · 4 days ago

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you're a teacher, currently trying to fill up your summer vacation with freelance work when you stumble into not one, but two situationships with clark kent, the adorkable reporter from the daily planet, and superman, the hero you can't stop running into. overall? you're having a very interesting break.

wk: 14.8k (worth it i pinky swear)

the best and the worst part of teaching is that you never stop having summer break— two and a half months of pure boredom and relaxation that always go the same. you find a job, you visit family, you take random classes at the community center just to get yourself out of the house. you really did not expect this year to be any different, any better. you expected the same boredom, the same routine, the same desperation to find someone to occupy your time.

however, you didn’t count on clark kent to stumble into your life and take your world by storm.

you met in late may, the first time you came around the daily planet selling pictures for the paper. you spent a lot of your free time behind a camera, capturing moments you didn’t want to lose— and you really needed some extra cash. metropolis might pay better than most cities, but at the end of the day, a teacher’s salary is a teacher’s salary.

you were hopelessly turned around, clutching a small, manilla file that was nearly overflowing with the photographs you felt were relevant enough to submit with one hand and biting your freshly manicured thumbnail with the other, staring up at the very useless building directory, reading the names and numbers with little understanding. the receptionist had told you to go to perry white’s office for your meeting— but she hadn’t been so kind to tell you exactly where you could find it.

the signs were no help. you are embarrassingly lost, and—

“need any help?”

you turn around, dropping your hands to your sides. you’re met kindly with the direct view of a man’s chest, forcing you to tilt your head up to meet his gaze.

and there he was. six foot four, built like a linebacker and stuffed into a suit, wearing glasses that looked a bit too small and a smile that seemed a bit too warm. the man you would come to know as clark kent— the center of your universe.

and those eyes. bluer than the ocean, captivating you so wholly you forgot to breathe. one’s that looked to you with such unequivocal kindness, coupled with a smile that was breathtakingly gentle— you forgot how to breathe.

he’s staring down at you as if he’s not the only one who needs to catch his breath. as though he finds something about you to be just as overwhelming as you find him.

he pauses, clearing his throat. “i just mean— ah, sorry, you look lost. i-i can help you. i work here. uh, reporter— um, i mean—“ he takes a deep breath, extending a hand. “clark kent.”

god, he’s adorable.

you smile up at him, taking his hand in yours and giving it a gentle shake. you note how large and uncalloused his hand is, and try to ignore the shocks of electricity you feel with that first, all-consuming touch. you tell him your name, thankful that you don’t manage to stumble over your words, and he jots it down in the back of his head like it’s sacred. “i’m looking for mr. white’s office? i have some pictures for the paper.” you explain, holding up your file.

“oh, yeah, that’s my boss. i’ll walk you there.” he says, looking down at you with a soft grin that renders you so useless you nearly forget why you’re here. carefully, he motions for you to follow him, and you oblige, walking slowly down the arched hallways of the daily planet at his side. your heart begins to pound out of your chest.

there’s a beat of silence as you walk, before he breaks it with, “can i see them?”

he points to the folder in your hands, the one that you’re clutching like a lifeline. you hand it over without a second thought— how are you supposed to say no to the ridiculously cute, dorky guy guiding you through the building? you’re just not.

he cards through them carefully, commenting on the quality, the angles, the color grading, basically just complimenting every picture while you try not to swoon. he pulls one of the prints out of the file, a rare picture of superman you managed to get two weeks ago. you consider it the strongest picture in your portfolio. most of the photos of superman are blurs of red and blue, or shaky selfies he’s taken with fans. this one is still, certain— hopeful. you took it candidly. he was crouched with a kid, one of your students, helping him fix his broken project with gentle hands.

you think about that moment every now and then. it changed you from a casual viewer of superman’s heroics to someone who supported him completely. you watched him stop, and with hands capable of much greater things, sooth the worries of a child when he could have been doing anything else. it instilled a kind of faith in humanity you hadn’t felt in a long time.

“i like this one.” he mumbles, sliding it out of the folder, staring at it like it means as much to him as it does to you. superman fan, noted.

he pauses, staring at it a second longer than he did your other pictures, memorizing every detail before sliding it back inside the folder. “i don’t see how perry wouldn’t buy these— you’re an amazing photographer.” he says with a smile, handing you back the file.

you do your best not to turn completely red at the compliment, looking up to meet his gaze. “i’m a teacher, actually.” you explain, bouncing on the balls of your feet. “just looking for a side hustle. that picture of superman? he’s helping one of my kids.”

“really—? wow that’s really, uh, very cool.” he says, wearing a smile that you try your best not to read into. you both stop in front of an office with the name Perry White stamped across the door in shiny silver lettering. as anxious as you are to start the meeting, your heart sinks when you realize your time with clark is over. “well… good luck.” he says, all shy and dorky in a way that makes your knees weak. “i have a feeling i’m gonna see you around.”

you can’t help but grin, thanking him for walking you— and for the vote of confidence. you really don’t want to say goodbye, not when one look from him already disarms you.

he opens the door for you, and he’s lucky enough that you don’t realize how long he lingers by the office, memorizing every detail he can catalogue— the way you stand so confidently, yet with a demeanor that is so kind and genuine it makes him reevaluate everything he’s been looking for, the way the draft from the vent in perry’s office blows through your hair and makes you look like a movie star, the way you speak like it’s your favorite thing to do.

you leave the meeting with a steady freelance gig, and a yellow post-it note you hadn’t noticed earlier, tucked into an interior pocket inside your file.

i really hope you call me (xxx-xxx-xxx)

-clark :)

you’re in your apartment when you find the note, and you can’t help but giggle like a schoolgirl, heat rising to your ears and dusting your face a rosy shade of pink. you waste no time dialing that number.

——

you meet superman before you see you clark again. actually, you’re on your way home to get ready for your first date with clark, trying to not let the nerves and anticipation shake you.

you’re excited. like— bouncing off of the walls, can’t stop thinking about him kind of excited. you text constantly, and he calls you like talking to you is the highlight of his day, not some chore he has to do to maintain a relationship. you’ve been talking for about a week, and all the time with him has done is confirm your many blooming suspicions about him: he’s sweet, gentle, incredibly well-spoken and not afraid to be open about his interest in you in this shy, dorky kind of way that makes you kind of want to melt.

you’re practically skipping down the street when it happens. it’s barely sunset, but you suppose crime doesn’t really depend on time of day anymore, not in the era of aliens and meta-humans. a hand darts out of the alleyway, grabs your arm, and pulls you into the shadows. before you can think to scream, to ask for help, anything— there’s a knife at your throat and you realize that your silence is a lot more valuable than your survival instinct.

“wallet, now.” you can barely see him— a combination of the dark alleyway and blurry vision. you make out dark clothes, dark eyes, and an expression that tells you to comply with whatever he says.

your heart is beating so loudly you can feel it in your fingers. you’re shaking like a leaf— fumbling with your wallet, trying to hand it to the mugger.

it drops from your hands. you look up at the man, eyes wide with the overwhelming fear for your life. you fucked up. it’s over. you can practically envision your funeral: sad, sparse, the death of someone who’s never really lived. you slam your eyes shut.

but then there’s a gust of wind, and the knife disappears from your neck.

it takes a moment for you to breathe, to process, to blink open yours and face a blue chest with a red and yellow emblem.

“are you okay, ma’am?”

your gaze moves up to meet his. you’re not all there yet. there’s still adrenaline moving like shocks of lightning down your veins and the phantom breath of death sticking up the hairs on your neck. all you can really focus on is his eyes. impossibly blue like the deep sea, captivating you so wholly you forget yourself for a beat too long.

“ma’am?” he repeats, and his voice less authoritative. instead a gentle, concerned call to your senses, breaking out of your haze.

you down, taking a deep breath. “yes, uh…” your hand darts to your neck, feeling for any imprint the knife could’ve left. you’re grateful to find nothing but untainted skin, like it had never happened at all. “i’m fine.”

he nods, but there’s something in his expression that tells you he isn’t totally convinced. he hands you your wallet, a small, green leather clutch you’ve carried around since you were eighteen. somehow it had become the last thing on your mind.

“you’re safe, i promise.” he says, and his voice is so tender it makes you nearly forget that it’s superman standing in front of you, making sure that you’re okay. “the danger’s gone.”

you look up at him, eyes wide, brimming with tears you don’t know if you can hold back for much longer. he leans in a little closer, just enough for you to notice, his eyes checking over you carefully. maybe you’re just thrown off, because of the whole… mugging situation. but he almost looks a little scared, maybe a little relieved, like you mean a bit more to him than a civilian he saved.

you shake the thought. you’ve heard he’s like that anyways, kind, caring, a boy scout through and through. the look you’re seeing now can’t be anything more than that.

he clears his throat, leaning back, taking on a more official, heroic posture. “can i take you home, ma’am?” and just like that, the moment’s over.

you nod, letting him guide you out of the alleyway with a touch that is impossibly gentle for someone you’ve seen pummel aliens into the ground with a single punch. a comfortable silence hangs between you, and you’re grateful the streets are empty enough for no one to pay the pair of you any mind.

you must look ridiculous together. the thought makes you smile, and your adrenaline-induced panic is officially over.

“thank you.” you say, breaking the silence. you smile up at him, craning your head to meet his gaze. he honestly looks a bit surprised that you’re thanking him. “for… y’know, saving me.”

“of course. i’m glad i made it in time.” he says with a quiet nod, his eyes meeting yours. his smile is so genuine, so human, you wonder how anyone could really hate him.

you miss the lovestruck look in his eyes.

you laugh. “me too.” you say, your hands swinging freely at your sides. “i know you don’t normally handle, uh, muggings, so… i feel pretty lucky.”

his eyes dart away, looking around at the block— anywhere but you, really, but he doesn’t stop smiling. “well, i try to keep an eye on the street. y’know, on the rare days when aliens and robots don’t tear apart the city.”

you grin, his eyes meeting yours again. “yeah, i know.” you say, looking up at him with wide, starry eyes that make him forget he’s superman and not anything besides the man lucky enough to be by your side.

your eyes are so focused on the god beside you that you miss a step, losing your balance because the tip of your heel got caught in a sidewalk crack. you fall into him— no, you practically dive into him, because of course you do.

“woah there.” he says. his hands, which are just warm and huge and tender, carefully grab your sides and he steadies you, lifting you back onto your feet.

you pause, flush with embarrassment. “i’m so sorry,” you cringe, looking up at him. “my heel got stuck because i had to humiliate myself and ruin the moment.”

he laughs, sliding his hands away and looking down at you with a soft smile. “no harm done. just glad i caught you, miss.”

you pause, returning his smile with a grin that you just can’t seem to push down.

“i saw you once, with one my students. he broke his history project, a popsicle stick model of the golden gate bridge?”

“i remember— jackson, right?” he asks, and there’s something so touching about him knowing the name of the random child he helped— it makes you want to melt. “smart kid, i’ve never met someone so knowledgeable about geography.” he says, nodding towards you.

“right? he’s a little genius. i’m pushing him into architecture. i teach third grade, which is, i think, the best, ‘cause you get to see their passions develop in real time.” you say. you’re not sure why talking with him feels so easy, so natural. maybe it’s the whole superhero thing, or his impeccable bedside manner— but whatever the reason is, you can’t remember the last time you smiled so much.

“that sounds very rewarding.” he says, a gust of wind blowing his cape through the air. “i wanted to be a teacher, once.”

“got busy?” you ask, gesturing to the suit.

he laughs in the sort of way where his shoulders shake and his voice booms throughout the street, even though you didn’t say anything particularly hilarious.

“you could say that. how’s jackson doing now?”

“he’s on his way to becoming a very talented fourth grader.” you hesitate, before you continue. “i got a picture of you two, when you helped him.” you pause, stopping in front of your apartment building. “not in like a creepy stalker way— i’m a photographer too. kind of. hence the photo.”

he pauses, peering down at you curiously. “may i see it?” he asks.

you stop, your eyes locked with his. you can’t kick that feeling— how familiar he is. you can’t quite place it, so you push it back down deep for another day. “yeah.” you say, softly, pressing on the door. “i’ll be right back.”

it only takes you about a minute to retrieve the photo, digging through that same manilla file for your spare copy, the same file that clark stuck his number in. god— you were supposed to start getting ready, like, fifteen minutes ago.

you pray clark is late.

there’s a shadow over your window before you start heading back downstairs. right. flying. superman can fly. not crazy at all. you stumble over towards your fire escape, grinning up at him while you slide up the window.

you stick your head out, leaning on your arms, halfway out the window.

“here, uh, this just a print.” you say, handing him the picture. he takes it gently, his fingers brushing against yours. he stares at it for awhile, his eyes tracing over every detail.

“could i… keep this?” he asks, looking up at you like you’re the most important thing in the world— in a way that knocks the air out of your lungs.

you nod, because really, how could you say no when he’s staring at you like that? you didn’t have a choice.

“thank you.” he says, before clearing his throat, floating back out towards the alleyway. “i, uh, i should be going.”

“you got big plans tonight?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

he laughs, a soft chuckle that rings like wedding bells in your ears. “something like that.” he pauses again, looking back down at the picture and then up to you. “…see you around… miss.”

there’s a burst of wind and just like that, he’s gone.

and maybe, just maybe, you have a tiny crush on superman.

——

your date with clark was an awkward, disastrous, mess— in all the best ways. the flowers he brought you had somehow gotten smushed, even though he insisted they came from the little shop on the corner right by your apartment— but they were your favorites. the restaurant lost your reservation, so you ended up having a picnic with food from the best food truck you’ve ever been to. the conversation was bumpy, at times a little difficult to navigate, but by the end, you had never laughed so hard in your life.

you really had never met anybody like clark kent.

he’s a gentle giant, a man who, despite being extremely built, you truly incapable of hurting a fly. he’s also the perfect gentleman, the definition of a man. for the entire evening, he refused to let you open a door, or pay, and when you started feeling a little chilly when he was walking you back to your apartment, late at night, he tucked his jacket over your shoulders before you even had the chance to complain. he’s also just… kind, plain and simple. he stopped to help an old woman cross the street, to ask a kid where his mom was and led him back to his parents, and, no shit, he literally rescued a cat from a tree. mind you, all in the span of four hours. he’s a good person, the kind of guy you read about in fairytales and grow up thinking doesn’t exist.

but here he is.

“i had a really good time tonight.” he says, lingering by your door. you nodded in absolute agreement, looking up at him with a giant, uncontrollable smile that he returns in full.

“yeah, me too.” you respond. the distance between you closes quickly, you lean in just enough to feel clark’s breath ghost on your face.

he flushes and looks down to his feet, like he’s working himself up for something— before his eyes dart back to yours. “i, uh… i really want to kiss you right now.”

you can feel a red hot fire spread to your cheeks, and you pray that the dim light of your apartment prevents him from seeing it. your eyes meet his, staring through his glasses into a sea of endless blue.

you’ve never actually wanted someone to kiss you more than you do right now.

“yeah?” you ask, your voice teasing him ever-so-slightly while you move in closer, your fingertips brushing against his.

“may i?” he asks, sliding his unbelievably large hands on your sides then down to your waist, leaning over you in a way that makes you feel incredibly warm. you have to physically tilt your head back to meet his eyes, and your mood nearly sours at the idea that at some point you’ll have to pull away.

you nod, and slowly, delicately, he leans in— pulling your body gently against him, his lips pressing into yours. it isn’t an eruption of passion, or some overwhelmingly fervent kiss, no. it’s soft, slow, sensual, an agonizingly perfect connection that makes you knees go weak when you’re in his arms.

it’s too short, that’s your only complaint. he pulls away breathless, smiling down at you with a pink tint dusting his cheeks, ushers you back into your apartment and demands that you have a wonderful night, insisting that he’ll call you in the morning.

you go to bed that night an hour later, only certain of two things.

this was going to be the best summer ever

you like clark kent so much it makes your head hurt

you want to see if superman is as good a kisser as clark

——

“here.”

clark pushes a cup of coffee that is somehow still piping hot into your hands, smiling down at you. you’re not sure how he even knew you were coming to the planet today, much less when to meet you at the door, but you liked that about clark. he always knows a lot more than he lets on. you chalk it up to the investigative journalist in him.

“you got me coffee?” you ask, feeling the warmth from the cup spread through your hand. apparently, no matter how hot it is outside, none of that leaks into the planet. it’s freezing.

“yeah, i didn’t know what you liked, uh, so there’s cream and sugar— not too much, though, uh, well, i mean, hopefully there’s enough—“

you press a kiss against his cheek and that effectively cuts off his rambling and leaves him quietly flushed, his eyes focused only on you. “thanks, clark.” you say, taking a sip. it’s a bit too sweet, but so incredibly thoughtful you might just start taking your coffee this way.

he smiles, going red from his neck to is ears— god, he’s so cute. “you’re seeing perry today?” he asks, walking with you down the hall. you nod.

“apparently he likes my work so much i get a daily planet issued camera.” you say excitedly. clark chooses to leave out the part where he practically begged perry to lend you one, a privilege freelancers don’t usually receive. he has to do an extra mountain of paperwork every night for a month— but gosh was it worth it to see you so giddy.

“makes sense.” he muses. “perry rewards the incredibly talented.”

he says it in a silly way, but you can tell he’s completely serious. he’s so sweet it literally makes your teeth hurt.

you’ve been on three other dates since the first, and you’ve bumped into each other at the daily planet a couple times before this— everything is going extremely well. he’s so caring, thoughtful, and the more you learn about him the more infatuated you get. you swear, when he puts his hands on you it makes you dizzy.

it’s perfect. he is. there’s only one issue: his constant tardiness, and his tendency to cancel last minute, or just not show up at all. it bugs you, when you’ve gotten all dolled up just to have to fight back tears at midnight, forced to leave an angry voicemail or two after you’ve downed a glass of box chardonnay, stuck alone, in your living room.

but he makes up for it with a thousand apologies and small gestures that make you wonder why you were ever mad.

it’s frustrating— the doubt creeping in about whether or not he likes you, the anger of being left behind without so much as a call, the loneliness that swallows you like a black hole. but when you’re with clark, he makes sure that his feelings for you are never in doubt, swearing up and down that he just has supremely bad luck and it doesn’t have a thing to do with you. still, it makes you wonder: what makes clark kent so busy?

“my lunch break is at one,” he says, taking your folder like it makes all the sense in the world for him to carry it and not you, “if you want to hang around a bit after your meeting, we could grab something together?”

you nod, looking up at him as you approach perry’s office. “that’s perfect. i was gonna stop at the bookstore down the street and grab something for my mom’s birthday. pick me up there?”

“yes ma’am,” he says in a way that is all too familiar, and he hands you back your folder, tucking it underneath your arm, his hand ghosting at your side. “good luck.”

“don’t need it. i’ve got you.” you say, opening the door and heading in. you don’t see the way clark flushes, this time redder than a tomato, nor jimmy laughing at him from all the way from across the building.

——

you’re on your way to the bookstore when it happens— the sky opens up, a giant alien-whatever pops down and starts wreaking havoc on the skyline of metropolis. the event is far enough away to where you would normally just shrug and continue on your path towards the bookstore while the people wait for superman to show up.

except that you’re a photographer now. professionally. and professional photographers run towards their killer shot, not away from it. besides, your meeting with perry didn’t go… the greatest. he said most of your shots were unusable— and he wanted more pictures of superman.

but it would be stupid to run into danger like that— clark would disapprove, so would probably anyone with common sense. the ground is literally shaking because that demon thing knocked a skyscraper over like legos— you really should walk away.

so, obviously, you end up climbing a tree about a hundred yards away from the creature (and superman, who stepped in about a minute ago), trying to find your perfect shot. it’s stupid, really, the way that you’re about twenty feet off the ground, perched just right on the branch so that if you can get superman and the alien to stay still for half a second— you’ll have your picture.

unfortunately, you hadn’t accounted for the monster to have giant fireballs spewing out of its fingertips, with one specially aimed at you. foolishly, you expected it to be the normal kind of cryptid.

so, you shut your eyes and brace yourself, praying that you’ll be the sexy kind of burn victim and not a crisp, dead one— but the impact never comes. instead, a pair of arms wraps around you and you’re on a rooftop— ridiculously far away from the scene with no way down.

“stay here,” superman says, flying back with a harsh burst of air. he sounded… angry, probably from the fight but… you can’t shake his eyes met yours in that single glimpse, before he had gone back into the fray.

the fight takes four minutes. you’re like, a mile away, on top of some random building with a pretty subpar view of the action— but you manage to still make out the flashes of blue and red that surround the being and shoot him back off to space.

you frown, peering over the edge of the building. there’s no rooftop access, no door, nothing. you’re kind of just stuck— which is perfect, because it’s 12:55 and clark’s about to get off for lunch, so he’ll get stood up while you figure out how to get down.

“you need to be more careful.” a voice behind you says, and you jump, nearly toppling over the side of the building.

a hand grabs your arm and spins you around to face him, steadying you— it’s superman. thank god.

you nod. “yeah. probably.” he looks unconvinced, and maybe a little pissed. his arm drops back to his side and he shoots you a stern look.

“it’s irresponsible to run into danger like that. you could have died, ma’am.” he says. his hair looks a bit windswept, curling around the edges like clark’s does when he tries to tame it. his eyes zero in on the camera hanging around your neck. “no picture is worth your life, okay?”

you nod, looking down, a tad embarrassed. “yeah… adrenaline kinda beat me on this one.”

he shakes his head. “promise me you won’t do anything like that again.” he says. when you look up at him, he doesn’t look angry anymore. he looks scared. its the kind of thing that makes your heart jump into your throat.

“please?” he asks quietly, his gaze locked with yours.

you nod, swallowing down the strange feelings twisting around in your gut. “okay. i promise.”

there’s a beat of silence before he steps towards you, beaming down at you like you’re any other citizen. “let me get you down from here.”

“please do.” you agree, and he lifts you by the waist like you’re featherlight, slowly flying you down until your toes touch the concrete.

“by the way,” he begins, speaking quietly as you land, stepping back, “i framed that picture you gave me. thank you.”

he’s gone before you can say ‘you’re welcome,’ just a blur of red and blue that disappears into the sky like a shooting star.

he remembered you.

he probably remembers everyone he meets on the street— he’s known for stuff like that, being so kind, so hopeful.

but he remembered you. and that feels different.

your phone rings and you shake off whatever you’re feeling, because clark, the guy that you really really like and who really really likes you is calling and there’s no reason you should be thinking about someone as untouchable as superman in the way that you are right now.

“clark, you will never believe what just happened—“

——

today is july first.

your one month anniversary with clark. the day that marks one of the best months of your life coming to a close— and hopefully a sign that these next months are going to be just as good, if not better.

this month, clark kent has literally swept you off your feet. perfect dates, amazing chemistry, gentlemanlike in a way that all seems too good to be true. and maybe it is.

because, well, it’s three hours after your date was supposed to start. clark had been talking about today all week, texting you every free second about the amazing evening he had planned— but he’s not here. he couldn’t even send you a text, “hey, so sorry i can’t make it. raincheck?’ nothing.

you wonder what the excuse is, this time. had to work late? ma called and he lost track of time? you hate it, how small you feel when he forgets about you. you suddenly wish it was august again, so you could have school and a whole new pack of students to occupy your time with— you wouldn’t even have to think about clark, you’d be so busy.

right as you reach for another glass of wine, there’s a knock at your door.

you frown, tiptoeing silently towards the peephole like you don’t already know who it is.

it’s clark— and he looks rough.

there’s a nasty shiner on his eye, and he’s got blood peeking out from under his collar, and you wonder what other injuries his clothes are hiding. it takes you half a second to swing the door open, your hands flying to his face.

“holy shit clark— are you okay?” you ask, eyes wide, checking every inch of his face to see just how bad it is. you’ve never seen him have so much as an odd bruise before, but now…? he looks beat. “what happened?”

his eyes don’t follow your hands, or your movements, they don’t stick to the ground, they just find yours and hold your gaze once you’re done giving him an extremely thorough once-over for any prevailing injuries. “you were crying.” he frowns, looking down at you.

you pause, lowering your hands. “yeah, but—“

he hands— which are notably shaky, press against your biceps, wrapping around your upper arms as if to ground himself.

“i’m so sorry.” his voice is so tender it practically kills you, pure, genuine guilt and sadness that makes you feel like a jerk for even being mad in the first place. and those eyes— god, those eyes. they take you and they refuse to let go.

“clark, you look like shit, i’m not upset—“ you start, biting down on your lip. he cuts you off by pulling you into a suffocating embrace, holding you so close and so tight he practically knocks the air out of your lungs, not that you mind.

he traps your lips in a kiss— one that isn’t soft, or gentle, not the way that clark usually kisses you. it’s fervent, sloppy and overwhelming— he surges into you like he never thought he’d be able to do it again.

what you don’t know is— with the battle he had, the one he lost, that was exactly what was on his mind.

“i’m sorry i missed our date. i promise i’ll make it up to you.” he mumbles as he pulls away. he buries his face in the crook of your neck, squeezing you like he can’t get you close enough. you have no idea what’s going on, but you like the way you feel when he holds you, so you don’t stop him.

you tentatively wrap your hands around him, unaware of the fallen god that has you in his arms. “what happened?” you ask quietly, your voice just a whisper against his ear.

he gives you a final squeeze that toed on the line of breaking your ribs before pulling back, looking down at you. “uh, i just… this lady got her purse stolen, picked a fight i couldn’t win. i’m fine, promise.”

you nod, your heart swelling with both concern and pride. you picked the guy who’d risk his own safety to help an old lady get her purse back— the thought makes you all warm and fuzzy, especially now that you know he’s okay.

you have to push down the feeling that there’s more to the story than he’s letting on.

“do you wanna come in?” you ask, tilting your head. he shakes his head.

“i uh, i can’t. gonna sleep this off— but i’m gonna make this up to you. i swear— you can take that to the bank. i just didn’t want you to think i flaked for no reason.”

you smile up at him, shaking your head. he’s too damn sweet for his own good.

“okay, well, get home safe, okay?” you say, pressing a kiss on his cheek before sending him away with the promise that everything will be fine in the morning.

——

you didn’t think that “i’m gonna make this up to you. i swear— you can take that to the bank.” meant breaking into your apartment to make you breakfast, but apparently that was clark’s exact line of thought.

you didn’t even register the sound of him in your apartment when you stepped out of your bedroom— your hair a mess, makeup peeled off, wearing nothing but an oversized sleep shirt and your panties. you yawned, stretched, then nearly jumped out of your own skin when you noticed him staring at you from over your stove like you were the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen.

“what are you doing here?!” you yelled, darting back into your room, searching frantically for a hairbrush.

“uh, i, um— i wanted to make you breakfast?” he starts, putting his hand to his face and shaking his head. “starting to realize how creepy this is.”

you sigh, laughing softly to yourself, the shock slowly wearing off. “it’s really sweet, clark, just give me a minute to look… presentable.” you say through the door.

“you look beautiful— but, sorry. take all the time you need.”

you emerge ten minutes later with your rats nest combed out, your makeup done, and wearing a pair of shorts that fit snuggly around your thighs. clark smiles at you in a sort of, i’m-sorry-for-breaking-in-but-hey-here’s-some-breakfast, kind of way.

you shake your head, walking over to him and letting him wrap an arm around you, taking a deep breath to smell the absurd amount of pancakes he made for the two of you. seriously, there’s like, three stacks and half a bowl of batter left. you lean against him, enjoying the warmth.

“sorry for freaking out.” you say as he presses a kiss against the top of your forehead.

he shrugs. “sorry for breaking into your apartment.”

you laugh. “yeah— how long have you been here, and how did you get in—“ you pause, looking up at him, noticing how clean his face is for the first time. “your bruise is gone.”

he leans back, rubbing his neck. “yeah, uh… i’m a fast healer.” he pauses and shrugs like that’s the only answer he can give you. “i’ve been here for like, thirty minutes. your neighbor let me in. mrs. stilinsky?”

you nod— decide not to question anything, moving back to lean on the countertop. you note the way he shifts in the back of your head and move on.

“i still feel bad about last night,” he starts, pausing to lift you up and onto the counter like you’re featherlight. you giggle, leaning in to press a quick kiss on his lips. “hence the breakfast. if you’re not busy today, i’d like to make it up to you.”

you raise a brow. “you know you don’t have to make up ‘getting jumped’ to me, right? i kind of get that one.”

he leans back to flip another pancake, shaking his head. “this is non-negotiable, honey.”

you roll your eyes, grabbing a pancake off of one of the stacks. “actually, i could use another set of hands to help me decorate my classroom…” you say, taking a bite of the pancake, looking up at him. “god, this is good— how did you make this?” you ask, mid-bite.

he laughs, a motion that moves through his shoulders. “kent family recipe. ma would kill me if i shared.”

“—is there pumpkin spice in this?”

——

clark insisted on being the only one to carry anything— so you’re mapping out your classroom while he hauls stuff from your car, little by little.

you’re switching to second grade this year, so you have a newer, slightly crappier classroom a mile farther from the teacher’s lounge, and a new curriculum to teach— but you don’t particularly mind. eight is a good age, you’ll just need to practice a little more crowd control during your lectures.

most of your stuff was brought over from your old classroom last week, this is just the stuff you bought with your daily planet money to get a fresh new look for your class.

clark drops the last of the junk gently by the door, smiling down at you as he approaches. he hooks an arm around your waist and presses a kiss atop your head, giving you a quick squeeze. “so, what are we doing today?”

you grin up at him, leaning into his side while you begin rambling about your big plans for the room.

you kinda prefer this to big dates. there’s something special about the mundane when you get to do it with clark. you just like being around him, basking in that sweet farm boy energy that has you totally whipped.

“okay, so, i’m gonna move my bookshelf to this corner, and then i’m gonna put up a bunch of posters in this area and make it, like, a reading corner, right. i’m gonna put up one of my big art wall things here and the other over there, and—“

you’re cut off by an earthquake.

clark instinctively tightens his grip on you, looking up and around for any danger. your frown, leaning into him.

he looks up at the ceiling for what seems like a beat too long when the ground shakes again. a couple trinkets fall off of a bookshelf, and one of your boxes topples over. he looks down at you, ushering you out of the classroom. “is there somewhere safe to hide?” he asks, looking up and down the hall.

“here, c’mon,” you start, leading him down the hall. “kids go in the gym for tornado drills— it’s kind of the same thing?”

he nods, following you with his hand tightly interlaced with yours. the ground shakes again and little bits of drywall fall from the ceiling— none big enough to do any real damage, but enough to spook you.

you and clark make it to the gym, where the infrastructure seems a lot more sturdy. you run inside— but he hangs by the door. “i’m gonna see if anyone else needs help, okay? i’ll be back.”

“clark—!“ you start, but he’s already gone.

you frown. the school is empty save for the two of you. he should be back in two, maybe three minutes.

but he’s not. he’s not back in five. or ten.

by the twelve minute mark you’re worried in a way that is all-consuming— and the building keeps shaking. you nearly got smashed by a ceiling tile that came loose, and you’ve spent the last few minutes half focused on clark’s survival and your own.

you give up on waiting, going to the administrative office to check the cameras for him, a relatively easy journey. you flip through them all twice. you give time for him to leave any blindspot. he isn’t there— he just ditched you.

you try not to throw the computer across the room. you could, logistically, and you could blame the damage on the whatever going on outside— but you don’t. you just storm out of the building, looking up at the sky.

superman’s fifty feet above your school fighting some robot-looking thing mid-air. to be fair, he’s winning, but not enough for you to be particularly thrilled about the sighting. you look around for clark, and he’s nowhere, which is just great.

“clark!” you call out, looking for him, ducking debris from the action above you. you turn the corner of the building, looking around by the dumpster, trying to see if he was hiding with some sweet old lady or doing anything besides running away and abandoning you.

you rush past the wall— and maybe if you were a bit less panicked and a bit more observant you would have noticed the pile of clothes peeking out from under the dumpster, or the glasses that belonged to clark kent reflecting sunlight onto the stack of bricks behind you.

but you continue, rushing out to the courtyard, met with a great big field filled with nothing but astroturf and gym supplies.

“clark!” you call again. he’s not there— you know he isn’t and you’re really, really freaking out. what if he got caught under a chunk of debris? what if that robot monster up there crashed into him? what if he really did just abandon you and leave you to fend for yourself?

you brush that last one off. he wouldn’t do that. you know him well enough to know that. he’s good to his core, he’s not the type of guy to run from danger.

you look up at the fight above you. superman is pummeling into the robot like there’s no tomorrow, getting closer and closer towards the ground. he’s right above the field you’re hanging around, and—

oh shit.

they both crash against the ground, knocking a literal crater into the field. the impact of the collision knocks you onto your ass, and despite being fifty feet away, the yelp you let out when you hit pavement attracts superman’s attention— and the thing he’s fighting.

it happens in slow motion: you, with wide eyes, scrambling to get up on shaky legs, the robot, hurling towards you impossibly fast, and superman, an inch behind, trying to stop it

you’re frozen. you can’t run, or fight, or even move— you’re just stuck, shaking, your heart beating out of your chest, adrenaline shooting through your veins like fire.

you think it’s the end, but superman grabs hold of the thing when it’s an inch away, pulling it back and throwing it across the field so hard the boom that follows sounds like a missile strike. you just stare, your breaths uneven and panicked, watching with teary eyes as superman punches that thing into the ground, ripping the machine’s head off with bare hands, tearing it apart until it’s nothing but scrap metal and wire.

and then he turns to you, moving faster than the speed of light across the field to gently help you up.

“are you alright?” he asks, taking your hand. your legs are shaking so bad that he has to practically hold you upright, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

you nod. “yeah, i’m okay.” you say, taking a deep breath, swallowing down your panic.

he checks you over for any injuries, the same way he did the first night that you met. “you shouldn’t have been out here.” he says, and he sounds frustrated— you feel bad. bad that he always seems to be saving you, and that you seem to be his least favorite regular. he’s saved you once a week for the last month at least, sometimes when you’re taking pictures for the planet, sometimes when trouble just seems to follow you home. either way— you have seen a lot of superman lately.

“i uh, yeah, i was looking for… clark kent? i know he’s interviewed you before, have you seen him?”

his gaze softens, and he takes a breath, looking down and shaking his head softly like he’s having a conversation in his head you aren’t privy to.

“he’s fine.” he says, looking up at you. you’re captivated— it’s always those damn eyes. bluer than the pacific, you don’t know how a man so perfect can exist.“i, uh, he was about to get crushed by some debris, so i moved him half a mile west.”

you breath a sigh of relief. “thank you.” you say, steady enough to stand a bit taller. he doesn’t let go.

“you get into a lot of trouble, don’t you?” he asks— not in a, ha-ha we run into each other a lot way, but in a, hey i’m kind of concerned about your well-being kind of way. your heart leaps to your chest.

“yeah. kept my promise though. didn’t come out here for a picture.”

he smiles— you almost swoon— and shakes his head. “do i have to start keeping a special eye on you, miss?”

you try not to blush. you fail. “with my luck, that might just be necessary.” you say, smiling up at him.

you pause.

you are totally flirting with superman. and even crazier— superman is totally flirting with you.

you have clark. loving, caring, sweet, handsome clark.

but can it really hurt to indulge in the fantasy for a minute longer?

“well, if you need anything, ma’am, call out for superman, and i’ll be there.” he says.

“anything?” you ask, raising an eyebrow. “i might just take advantage of that.”

he laughs— a laugh that seems too familiar. “i hope you do.”

you look up at him, tilting your head. “thank you, again, for saving me.”

he smiles, looking down at you, giving your hand a final squeeze before he lets you go. he leans in a bit closer, smiling down at you in a way that makes your heart jump to your throat. “i’m always gonna save you. i promise.”

the way he says you gives you pause. it makes your knees want to buckle. it makes this whole thing seem completely unreal.

because he’s talking about you like you mean a lot more to him than a pedestrian he’s had to save a couple times. like you’re someone he cares about— which confuses you a lot more than you care to admit.

he leans back, clears his throat, acts like he said a bit more than he should have and returns to that superman persona he let slip for half a second. “you try to stay safe, okay?” he says, raising an eyebrow, and you nod, a little dazed.

“on it.”

he steps back and shoots back off into the sky, and you stare until he’s completely gone, now just a whisper of blue in the skyline of metropolis.

“hey! there you are!” clark’s voice echoes from behind you. you spin around, overwhelmed with relief that he’s safe and running back towards you.

you practically crash into him, simply relieved that he is safe and not smushed under a building or something like that. his arms wrap around you so tight you can barely breathe, and you hold him so close you think your arms might break.

“i got so scared when you didn’t come back.” you mumble into the fabric of his shirt. he nods, pulling back, looking down at you.

“yeah, uh, i was looking for others and this giant piece of wall almost got me— superman swiped me out and took me like, three blocks away.” he says, taking a deep breath. “i’m really glad you’re okay.”

you nod, swallowing down the guilt forming in your chest. here clark is, all worried about you, who literally ran back from half a mile away to come and get you, and you were just flirting with superman.

“yeah, uh, superman saved me too. guess we both got lucky.” you say, chewing on your lip. you feel horrible.

he frowns. “a-are you okay?” he asks, tilting his head. you hate how he can read you like that.

you nod. “yeah, uh, i think i just want to go home.”

——

that night you sent clark home, promising you would call him in the morning. you told him that you were just a bit shaken— and you were. but not from the whole… robot trying to kill you thing. from the superman one.

you just felt guilty about it. confused on what made superman so keen on you. you’ve felt confused a lot, lately. about clark, superman, your own feelings.

to make it clear: you are 100% whipped for clark. he is your perfect man, and he has never made you doubt for one second that he likes you just as much as you like him. the whole superman thing feels like a fantasy come true— having some angelic, godlike protector single you out. it’s probably very human to have some feelings, to get a little flustered when someone like superman flirts with you.

there’s just something about superman that feels achingly familiar, in the kind of way that bugs you wholly. his laugh, his voice, his eyes. the eyes get you the most— like there’s something right in front of you that you just can’t see.

you take another sip of your beer, looking out at the moonlit skyline from your fire escape.

“are you alright?”

you jump, whipping your head around to see superman floating ahead, approaching you slowly, like he’s afraid you’ll scare. he smiles, leaning against the railing of the fire escape, looking down at you with this weird, soft look in his eye. like he’s worried.

you nod. “what are you doing here?”

he shrugs. “i wanted to make sure you were okay, after today.” he says, staring at you with those impossibly familiar blue eyes.

you raise an eyebrow. “do you check up on all the people you save?”

he chuckles, and shakes his head. “just the lucky ones.”

you pause, offering him a beer. he waves his hands no, climbing over the rail to sit with you.

“you’re real friendly.” you observe, taking another swig of your drink. he shrugs.

“just concerned.”

there’s a long beat of silence before either of you speak again. you’re not really sure what to say, how to proceed. you can feel him staring at you, while your eyes trace over the buildings around you.

“how’s your day going?” you ask, blinking back up at him. he stares for a second, then smiles— and those eyes capture you once more.

“been an odd day. y’know, stray robot attacks and all.” he pauses, giving you a once over. “you?”

you shrug. “odd’s probably the best word for it.”

“would you like to talk about it?” he offers. “i’ve been told that i’m a good listener.”

do you wanna talk about it? it’s kind of been an emotional roller coaster of a day. of course, it’s the kind of thing that would only happen to you, having superman on your porch step, asking how you feel. at first, all the running into each other seemed like dumb coincidence— now it all feels a lot heavier.

“i’ve been seeing a lot of you lately.” you say, tilting back your head to get a better look at him.

he nods. “is that a bad thing?”

you shrug in response. “it’s an odd one. especially ‘cause—“ you start, cutting yourself off. you look down, chewing on your lip so you don’t confront superman for being a huge flirt.

he looks at you inquisitively, a small frown playing on his lips. “‘cause?”

you take a deep breath, looking down. “i have a boyfriend. well— he’s not technically my boyfriend, yet. he hasn’t asked, but like, y’know. i really like him.”

you look back up and he’s smiling, almost like he’s trying to suppress a grin, which confuses you even more, because, like, two minutes ago he was acting all into you.

“and how are things going with your not-boyfriend?” he asks, leaning back.

“great. so i need you to stop flirting with me.”

he laughs— he actually laughs, with his full chest. acts like you saying that is the silliest thing in the world. like he didn’t randomly show up at your apartment to ‘check on you.’

he smiles up at you with this weird, knowing twinkle in his eye. “you’re right. i’ve got no business getting between you and clark.”

you pause, your eyebrows knitting together. you didn’t mention anything about clark.

“how’d you know it was clark?” you ask, frowning.

he pauses— like his body stutters. “uh, well—“ he starts, stumbling in a way that seems so familiar, just like everything else he does. god, what is it about him? “i assumed, since he was who you were looking for at the school.”

you nod, training your eyes on the loose curl sitting on his forehead. you guess that makes sense, at least, enough for you to not dwell on it any longer. yet, coupled with everything else you’ve noticed, it’s all just… very strange.

“i’m onto you, superman.” you say, looking up at him, eyebrows raised. you see it, just the briefest, tiniest moment of panic in his eyes before the superhero persona sets back in. it’s just enough to let you know that you’re not crazy.

“onto me?” he asks, slightly incredulous. “what for?”

you shrug, leaning back against the railing, taking another quick sip of your beer before placing it down against the barred floor of your fire escape. “just whatever it is that you’re hiding from me.”

he nods, like he’s barely entertaining the idea. “i could just stop running into you.” he says, a bit more serious now than he was a minute ago. “if i was hiding something.”

you smile, shaking your head, standing up and leaning back against the railing. “you could. i doubt you will.” you say, flashing him a grin, hoisting yourself up to sit on the railing.

he tilts his head. “why’s that?”

now, you wouldn’t do this if you weren’t at least two beers deep, and right now, you’re three and a half in, so your judgement is maybe… slightly impaired. besides, it’s not like this is the farthest you’ve ever gone to prove a point.

you slide your legs over the rail, and without a single thought or hesitation, you push yourself off.

you plummet for a bit longer than you thought you would— not like the drop would kill you, anyways, you live three stories up, but you’re a lot closer to the ground than you thought you’d be when he catches you.

his arms wrap around you bridal style— and he looks kind of pissed. he doesn’t quite look at you, not until you’re back up safely on the fire escape and he’s floating back out in the alleyway.

“that was, gosh—“ he starts, looking down at you, arms crossed. “why would you do that?”

“i knew you would catch me.” you say, your eyes glancing up to find his.

he shakes his head. “promise me you won’t do that again. ever.” he asks, eyebrows firmly knit together.

you nod, which, doesn’t seem to be good enough for him, because he tilts his head and looks at you with a gaze that is incredibly stern. you reach out your hand, extending your pinky finger out towards him.

“i pinky swear.”

he smiles, locking his finger with yours. “thank you.”

there’s a boom somewhere off in the distance, one loud enough to attract his attention. his hand slips away from yours, and with a nod, he’s gone.

you’re gonna figure him out.

——

it’s been two weeks since that night— and that was the last time you saw superman, a new record for you and him. you enjoyed the space as much as it infuriated you— so your time has been spent cataloguing every interaction, sorting through everything that bugged you, even slightly.

you don’t tell clark about it. it can’t feel good to hear that your girl is constantly thinking about another guy— especially one that is a god amongst men.

you and clark do have a good rhythm, though. he spends most nights at your place now, and he spoils you with two ‘real dates’ (as he calls them) a week. it’s nice, having him around. someone you can force feed your baking to and cuddle up with when watching scary movies.

it’s nights like tonight, actually, that make you so into him it scares you. he came over after work, and after making you a pasta salad that tasted like heaven on your fork, you sat together on the couch to watch some random sitcom he liked. his arms wrapped around you immediately, and he held you so close and so tight it was basically impossible not to fall asleep in those big, bulky arms of his.

you blink awake now, soft light and sound still playing on your television despite how quiet everything else seems. you listen to clark’s breathing, steady and even, snoring softly with his grasp loose around you.

you slide out of his arms quietly, surprised that you didn’t manage to wake him when you knocked into the table behind you on your way to the bathroom. you come back two minutes later, wiping your hands on your sleep shirt and looking down at him.

he looks so peaceful, so relaxed. it makes you smile. carefully, as to not wake him up, you slide his glasses off of his face and put them on your coffee table, and grab a blanket off of your armchair to throw over him.

in this motion, you realize you’ve never actually seen clark without his glasses before. you look down at him, tilting your head, squinting for whatever shapes you can make out with such little lighting.

you didn’t realize how strong his prescription was, because he looks quite different. like— noticeably different.

huh. he looks a lot like superman.

you frown. squint a little harder. besides the hair, he’s nearly identical.

you shake the thought. it has to be some weird coincidence, right? clark, your clark? not possible. you’re too sleepy to give it much thought, anyways.

still, it bugs you. it bugs you the next morning, when he makes you breakfast. it bugs you the day after, when you see him at the planet. it bugs you for another week, because the similarity is just too damning.

you stare down at that picture you have of superman. of him, helping your student. the one that inadvertently led you to clark. the one that superman himself framed. you’re looking at all the similarities of note between clark and him. sure, they’re different, but everything different is something easily changed. hairstyles, tone of voice, hell, even posture.

you chew on your lip. it’s 5:30, clark’s supposed to pick you up in two hours.

but, hypothetically, if you went to his place now and looked around when he wasn’t expecting you… would you find this picture hung up somewhere?

it would be just to get the thought out of your head. you’re like, 95% sure there is no way in hell that clark kent can be superman. especially because, if he was, and he’d been flirting with you as superman? you’d be beyond pissed.

you knock twice on the door. “clark?”

you hear a shuffle and a pause. it takes thirty agonizingly long seconds for him to open the door, but when he does it’s all smiles and laughter— “hey, what are you doing here? thought i was picking you up later.”

he urges you in and gently shuts the door behind you, smiling down at you. your eyes trace every inch of the apartment, looking for something you pray you don’t find.

“i didn’t want to wait any longer,” you say, looking back up at him, “i missed you.”

he grins, wrapping an arm around you and giving you a squeeze. he looks nice— white button up, black slacks, his hair impossibly perfect. you lean into him, nearly forgetting about your mission.

“do you want to just hang out here tonight? skip the date?” he asks, sliding your purse off of your shoulder and setting it down on his mahogany front table— one that he made himself when he still lived in smallville.

“actually,” you say, uncertainly, sliding off your jacket. “that sounds perfect. i wanna talk.”

he raises a brow, taking your jacket and hooking it the coat rack. you lead him to the living room, flopping down on the couch. “do i need to be worried?”

he sets himself behind you, leaning against the back of the couch, smiling down at you. you look around, still looking for that picture— one you’re sure you won’t see amongst the decor of his apartment.

“yeah, maybe.” you say, your eyes meeting his. his smile fades, and those ocean blue eyes stare down at you with just enough concern to make your heart skip a beat. “what are we?”

you don’t know why you picked that question to stall for time, but here you are.

he takes a breath, like that question somehow relieves him— what an odd guy.

“what do you want us to be?”

he asks it gently, hopefully, like he’s easing you into it. he is— he wants you, bad. more than just a summer situationship. clark isn’t built for that. but he understands hesitation, he understands if you want to take your time. he’s got all the time in the world.

you pause, taking a breath. “well, i really like you clark.” you say, scooting back on the couch, patting the empty space next to you as a signal. he dances around the side of the couch, extra careful not to knock into anything and disrupt a moment like this one. the couch dips beside you and you sit with your legs crossed, facing him.

“i really like you, too.” he says, quietly, like it kills him not to say more.

you nod, chewing on your lip. “and i want to be your girlfriend.”

he breaks out into a grin, leaning back, looking at you with nothing but love in those ridiculously blue eyes. “yeah?”

“not that you don’t still have to ask me, cause you do, and you have to make it, like, the most romantic thing i’ve ever seen.” you say, smiling up at him. he nods— super serious, like one of your kids planning out an assignment in their head.

“i promise.” he says, leaning in. “i’m gonna romance your socks off, babe.”

you laugh, wrapping your arms around him and pulling him against you. he presses a quick kiss against your lips— one you’re careful not to get sucked into; you’re not done yet.

“now that that’s settled,” you say, forcing him back with a playful push that elicits a groan from him. “if i’m gonna be with you— you can’t hide anything. i need complete, open honesty.”

he nods, looking away. you frown. “is there anything you haven’t told me? anything important?”

he pauses, his eyes trained to the wall, like he’s deliberating on something super important.

were you right? is clark really… superman?

he looks back at you, smiling, like that moment didn’t happen. like everything is alright. “i stole one the toys from your classroom.” he shrugs, laughing a bit. “the stuffed deer? it reminded me of you.”

you gasp, feigning offense. “i’ve been looking for him everywhere!” you exclaim in fake horror, but you can’t help but giggle.

what were you thinking? clark, superman? sweet, adorkable clark? it’s more likely that he’s secretly mother teresa.

his laugh grounds you, and he slings an arm around your shoulder, pulling you into him. “i’ll let you know if anything else comes to mind.” he says, pressing a kiss to your temple. “wanna watch a movie?”

you nod, looking up at him. “i’ll let you pick it if you make popcorn.” you grin, pressing a kiss against his jawline.

“yes ma’am.” he says, standing up, lingering in your touch a second too long before leaving for the kitchen.

you watch him, unable to suppress a giant, dorky smile. god, you love him.

oh god, you love him.

you decide to table that thought for when you get home.

“i’m gonna change into one of your shirts!” you call out, standing up and heading towards his room. you’re still in date night attire, and you would much rather be dwarfed by one of clark’s nice, cotton, smallville t-shirts than brave the night in jeans and a tube top.

“have fun!” he calls back, and you can hear the sporadic popping of the popcorn from the kitchen.

you make it to his closet, filtering through the half-dozen tees he keeps hung up. he doesn’t have that many clothes, you note, a few dress shirts, a couple cheap suits, two pairs of jeans, and a box of ties below it. you look around a bit more, noting the weird amount of dress shoes he has lined up on the ground when you notice a pair of black wingtips sat above a silver, face-down picture frame.

huh.

maybe if you were a bit more trusting and a bit less suspicious you would have left it alone— but that isn’t you.

your eyes flicker to the doorway, which is empty, and back to the frame. carefully, you crouch down, sliding the shoes down to the ground, tentatively picking up the frame and flipping it towards you.

your heart beats out of your chest.

it’s the picture.

the one you took of superman, the one you gave him that first night, the one he told you he framed— the one that you decidedly did not give to clark, the one that clark never told you he framed, the one that clark would have no reason to hide except—

that he’s superman.

that you were right.

that he lied to you.

you take the picture. hold it so tight your knuckles turn white. walk out of the closet, out of the bedroom, into the kitchen. drop it on the countertop so clark can see it.

the look on his face tells you everything you need to know. he looks shocked, caught, then scared, guilty. his eyes dart from the picture to you in an instant. the microwave beeps three times, the popping slows to a stop. it’s over.

“i can explain.”

you shake your head. he doesn’t need to— it’s pretty open and shut. he lied to you, and if it was just him hiding the superman thing, you could understand. “you talked to me as superman— flirted with me, asked personal stuff— you lied. you’ve been lying, this entire time, i—“ you take a deep breath, fighting tears. “i should go.” you say, spinning around on your heels.

he grabs your hand before you can move, squeezing it gently. “please, wait— let me explain it. please. you don’t understand.”

you pull away, looking at him with nothing but hurt in your eyes— because you are hurt, you feel betrayed and broken and everything you thought you wouldn’t feel with clark. you stare at him, trying your hardest not to cry— not in front of him. he looks hopeless, half-defeated, uncertain, and lost in a way that overwhelms him.

you sniffle, shaking your head. “i understand fine, clark.” you say, swallowing down your heartbreak and peeling towards the door.

“this is over.”

——

the days that follow are bleak. all you have to show for the breakup are dark, lonely hours wasted in pints of ice cream and dirty tissues. your only solace is scrolling through article after article— either ones written by clark, or ones written about him.

you push yourself through it with everything you can muster, praying that he doesn’t hear your sobs from across the city. you love him. loved him. and you’re not sure you’ll ever be so in love again.

but he betrayed you, he lied to you— he hurt you in a way that you can’t explain. you don’t want to let that push you down any more than it already has.

so, you push back. get up, out of bed, get dressed, call your friends, make plans. put yourself in a situation where you don’t have to think, especially about clark. it’s been ten days since you stormed out of his apartment and you have to move forward. it’s the last day of summer before you go back— you can’t have let it all been a waste.

you club. you party. you convince yourself that you’re having fun. you drink too much and then you spend an hour sobering yourself up before you home. you kiss your friends goodbye and toss the numbers you had pocketed in the trash outside your apartment. you head upstairs, taking a deep breath to try an avoid letting yourself think about the silence.

about clark.

and, when you get to your door, fumbling for your keys— you notice a piece of neatly-folded card stock taped below your peephole, your name encircled by a heart on the front of it.

carefully, you take it down, removing the tape with little tear and opening the letter, recognizing the handwriting before you can even read a word.

to start this, you were right. i shouldn’t have lied, i shouldn’t have pretended i wasn’t lying, i shouldn’t have spoken to you under false pretenses. the last thing i ever wanted was to hurt you, and for that, i am so sorry.

i hope, for you, this past week hasn’t been as miserable as it has been for me. i hoped to have seen you at the planet, or bump into you on the corner, or find some way to see you and try and redeem myself— but i couldn’t wait any longer to explain.

yes, i am superman. i was born on the planet krypton, sent here as an infant, and adopted by my parents, john and martha kent. i have a cousin who too, is from krypton, but remembers much more than me about home, and i take care of her superpowered dog, krypto, in a secret fortress in the arctic. i can fly, i can move incredibly fast, i have inhuman strength, x-ray vision, laser vision from my eyes and breath that can freeze nearly anything, all given to me by the earth’s yellow sun.

i came to you as superman at first by accident. the night i saved you from the mugger, before our first date. i had spent the days leading up to our date spiraling. you, who are so perfect, so beautiful, and so kind, were going out with me, and i was terrified to mess it up. i realized how easy it was for me to talk to you as superman, when it was difficult for clark kent. the times i saved you, i shouldn’t have lingered. the times i spoke to you as him, i shouldn’t have been there. at first, it had been a crutch, but by the last time, it had become a compulsion.

i had to see you. to make sure that you were safe, and warm, and happy. i realize now that i violated you in a way i cannot make up for. for this and for everything else, i am truly sorry. while my betrayal is inexcusable, know that i did it because i love you. this summer has been the best of my life, i have never met someone as compassionate, hilarious, talented, and beautiful as you, i have never wanted to be around someone more than you, i have never had someone plague my thoughts and dreams the way you do. you have quickly become my everything, my reason for waking up, for helping people, for pushing through every day.

you asked me, the day of our fight, to make my request for you to be my girlfriend the most romantic thing you’ve ever seen. and i promised you that i would.

and while i have lied to you, hidden things from you, and hurt you, i have never broken a promise.

open the door, please.

you look up from the note, wiping away a river of tears that had just poured out of you. carefully, your hands wrap around the doorknob, slowly turning it and pushing the door open.

and there he is.

standing in the center of the room, surrounded by a thousand rose petals, holding a giant bouquet with an iron grip. candles litter the foyer, giving his face an ethereal glow in the low light. his glasses are gone. his curls are out. he’s someone between clark kent and superman now, someone who you desperately want to know.

he clears his throat, his gaze holding yours hostage with those infinity blue eyes captivating you so wholly.

“i promise never to hurt you again. never to lie to you, or hide things from you, or betray your trust— if you’ll let me be yours again.” he says, smiling down at you like he’s on the verge of tears. “will you be my girlfriend?” he asks, as you approach taking in the entire set up slowly, trying not to lose what little composure of yours you still have.

you take a breath, your eyes locking with his once more.

“yes.” you say, grinning while tears— happy ones, slip from your eyes. he smiles wider than you’ve ever seen, practically throwing the bouquet so he can wrap his arms around you in a giant bear hug.

he lifts you up and spins you off of the ground, pulling an exciting giggle from your lips. it takes you a second to realize he’s off the ground too, that you’re both mid-air inside your tiny apartment— but you’re too focused on clark to mind.

he holds you close, leaning in just enough to warm your face with his breath.

“i love you.” he says, quietly, like if saying it any louder would have scared you away.

“i love you too.” you say, smiling.

he grins, leaning into you and crashing against you with a kiss so fervent it nearly topples you over— so passionate it makes your chest explode with warmth.

and suddenly, just for a moment, just for now— everything is okay again. and you know that as long as you have clark at your side, it always will be.

——

there are two quick knocks on the door, followed by a rasp “honey? you okay?”

you tremble, sat with your back against the door, bunched up in your wedding dress, trying to force the tears to stop falling to avoid messing up your ridiculously expensive bridal makeup. ten minutes ago the pressure got to you, and five minutes ago you sent your entire party— bridesmaids, stylists, even your mom —out the door so you could properly break down.

“yeah.” you say, sniffling. your voice shakes so much that the lie isn’t even half-convincing. clark can see right through you anyways (literally), so it’s not like you were really trying to lie. you just didn’t want him all concerned. it’s his wedding day too, you want it to be the happiest day of his life, even if your own experience is a train wreck.

you can practically hear his frown. “kara told me what happened.” he says, softly.

oh. yeah. your bridezilla breakdown. not one of your best moments. you aren’t exactly proud of screaming at your mom to stop messing with your hair, or your aunt for commenting on the fit of your dress, or your bridesmaids for giving you all sorts of unsolicited advice. you yelled, threw a fit, and pushed everyone out of the room so you could sob mascara into your veil.

“can i come in?” he asks, gently, and you let out a weak laugh.

“the groom can’t see the bride before the wedding, remember?” you say. he groans, sliding down against the door, his back to you.

“that’s a silly rule.” he says, and you smile. you love how much he makes you smile.

“i don’t need any more bad luck.” you wince. “did kara tell you about my bitch fit?”

you hear him snort a little bit through the door. “she used nicer words.” he says, pausing. “wanna talk about it?”

god yes. it’s all you want to talk about. but you don’t want to bring clark down any further than you already have. you want him to have the perfect wedding, even if you are decidedly not.

“it’s fine. i just needed a minute.” you say, your voice shaking again— enough to where you know clark won’t drop it now. you bury your head in your dress, taking a deep breath.

“c’mon. i’m your husband in like, ten minutes. you can talk to me.” he says. his voice is so sweet and syrupy— you’re not sure how you can refuse him.

you lean up, back against the door, shutting your eyes so tight it hurts. the words spill out of you so fast you don’t even think about them before they do. “i wanna be married to you so bad. but god— i know we spent so much on this and we spent so much time planning it but… i just want this over with. my dress is so goddamn tight and nobody can leave me alone for half a second without telling me something i need to be doing or something i’m doing wrong. and i just— it all got to be too much. and now my mom is probably gonna storm out ‘cause i yelled at her and then my dad won’t be there to walk me down the aisle, and i just ruined everything for no good reason.”

the end of your rant is met with a beat of silence. a terrifying, overwhelming, moment where you think you might have finally scared off clark.

of course, you didn’t. you couldn’t. “hey, honey— nothing’s ruined. look, don’t think about what your mom wants, or what your bridesmaids want, or even what i want. what’s gonna make you happy? ‘cause i could fly you off to a courthouse right now and ditch the party. all i want is to married to you— you could be in your pajamas for all i care and you would never have looked more beautiful. i just— darn it, i want you to be happy.”

you’re crying again, but this time you’re smiling, because god, your fiancé is just so sweet it makes your knees weak.

“what do you want, sweetheart?” he asks again, his voice so soft and tender it makes you turn to putty.

you sniffle again, wiping your tears with your fingers while trying not to further destroy your $120 makeup. “i really want a hug.” you mumble, staring down at your mascara-stained hands.

“on it.” he says, and you hear him stand up and try for the door— which is still very much locked.

you giggle a bit, standing up with him “i can’t let you in, though. the rule?”

he scoffs. “that rule is just plain— gosh, it’s just ridiculous. let me in, please, or I’m gonna break this door down.”

you laugh— god, it feels so good to laugh. you haven’t seen him all day and it felt like you were drowning.

you pause, giving in and slowly turning the lock, but you don’t quite open the door yet.

“promise me you’ll keep your eyes shut?” you ask, knowing how silly it sounds. god help you, you’re a bit superstitious.

“scouts honor.” he confirms, and you slowly open the door, peeking out to see clark, who looks breathtakingly stunning, with his tie wrapped around his eyes like a blindfold.

you laugh, smiling so wide the muscles in your mouth start to get sore.

“there she is.” he says, reaching out blindly for you, his hands— impossibly warm, feeling around for your shoulders. “you feel very beautiful.”

you laugh, wrapping your arms around him and burying yourself against him, your head in his chest. his arms circle your body and he squeezes you so tight you might faint— exactly the kind of hug you needed.

you do your best not to let yourself cry, but clark has a way of forcing the tension out of you, one way or another. one hand presses into the small of your back, the other strokes your hair softly. little praises and comforts slip from his lips like sugar, while you sob into him.

“i love you so much.” he whispers, giving you another squeeze.

“i love you too.” you cry, holding him so tightly your arms ache. “i am so excited to be married to you— this is not cold feet i promise.”

he laughs, nodding against you. “i know, honey, i know.” he says, and god, he knows just how to sooth every one of your worries away.

finally, you pull away, looking up at him. his glasses are tucked into his pocket, his hair is slicked back with one little curl popped out against his forehead. his suit is a deep black, with a navy blue tie (still covering his eyes) and a matching pocket square that makes him look irresistible.

“you look really nice.” you say, sniffling, but you can’t wipe the smile off of your face.

he shrugs. “i’m sure it’s nothing compared to you.” and he says it like you aren’t already a mess and you’re not blushing like, well, a bride.

you grab the edge of his sleeve and use it to wipe away your tears. his thumb brushes against your cheek, falling to your bicep when you let his sleeve go.

“so, what’s the plan, gorgeous?” he asks, grinning down at you with that five-star smile that gets you every time. “are we sneaking out and going downtown?”

you take a deep breath, shaking your head. “no, no we’re doing this.” you say, leaning into his touch. “but if you, say, asked one of your superhero friends to slip a roach down my mom’s dress, i think i’d skip down the aisle.”

he laughs, squeezing your arm and pulling away. “i’ll see what i can do.”

you smile, memorizing how dorky he looks with that tie around his eyes and his cute open mouth smile.

“see you on the other side?” you ask, tilting your head.

“see you on the other side.” he confirms, stepping back with just enough uncertainty to let you know that he’s not using any x-ray vision.

you watch him through the crack in the door until he’s gone, smiling so wide you might be stuck that way.

half an hour later the music starts, your dad takes your hand, and you’re walking down the aisle like nothing ever went wrong.

first you eye the crowd, looking over the array of friends, family, and superheroes that showed up. thank goodness clark is a reporter and not, say, an office worker, because you don’t know how else you could explain the random celebrities like bruce wayne and oliver queen who are sat in the audience.

then you look at your feet, which, are hidden beneath the dress, but you want to make sure you don’t stumble and embarrass yourself with a hundred pairs of eyes on you.

finally, you look up at clark, who’s staring at you in the sort of way that makes you feel faint. like you’re the most beautiful woman in the world. like you’re about to make his knees buckle. like he’s in pure awe. he doesn’t even look nervous— a trait which you envy, because you’re an absolute mess right now. he just looks captivated.

you make up to the alter, looking up at him with a healthy mix of nerves and excitement. he’s looking down at you like he’s never been more certain of anything in his life.

“i love you.” he mouths, grinning at you.

“i love you more.” you mouth back, and he shakes his head with glee.

“—you may now share your vows.” the officiant says, looking to clark.

he smiles, looking down at his feet, taking a deep breath before looking back up at you.

“for… for a long time i didn’t know what to write. i had about six… thousand drafts, but i don’t think there’s any way i can put into words how much i love you. how much i depend on you, how much of my happiness is thanks to you. i have so much purpose now. because if i can make you happy— if i can make you safe, if i can make you feel loved and supported and half as good as you make me feel every day by just being you… i’ll have accomplished more than i’ve ever dreamed of. i love you, honey, so much it makes my chest hurt. and i am the luckiest man in the world to be the man who gets to marry you— my soulmate.” he looks back up at you with stars in his eyes— your spaceman.

there’s like, five tears sliding down your cheeks by the end of that speech. you literally cannot stop smiling. you expected a lot— his job is writing for chrissakes— but wow.

wow.

“i, uh, wow. i don’t think i can top that.” you say, and a gentle laugh echoes from the crowd. you take a deep breath. “clark, i— i spent a lifetime thinking i’d never find someone like you. you’re, literally my knight in shining armor. when we met, and you walked me to perry’s office when i was so, horribly lost, i remember thinking how much i wanted this guy to ask me out. and then i found your number in my files, and i didn’t even realize how lucky i was. clark— my life has become so much better because you’re in it. having you, my rock, my best friend, my soulmate— i don’t have to dream any more. every morning with you is one come true. you are the incredibly dorky, adorable, and unfathomably amazing love of my life, and marrying you is the best thing i will ever do. i’ve never been certain of anything, but for this i have no doubt: i love you, clark kent, and i will love you no matter what life throws at us— i know that despite any tragedy or circumstance, i am yours, always and forever.”

you smile up at clark, droplets of water falling further down your face while a single tear drops from his eye. he smiles at you like you’re all he could ever want. you are.

“by the power vested in me by the state, i now pronounce you mr. and mrs. clark kent, husband and wife. you may now kiss the bride.”

clark grins at you and leans in, his lips pressing gently against yours, his hands pulling you in by your sides. the music plays, the church erupts in applause, and your husband knocks the breath out of you and for one moment, just one, everything is completely perfect.

this is so easily the longest fic i've ever written.... i am very proud of her though i very much hope you all enjoy!!

#this fic… guys omg this fic #kicking my feet. sobbing. blushing. screaming into my pillow #it’s beautiful i ate every word #clark kent the man you are #the whole letter to apologize is just :(#GIMME HIMMMM #also the wedding #THE WEDDING????#Im sorry if Im not getting married to him I dont want it #Wdym he willingly puts a blindfold on just because of a superstition he doesnt care about so we can get a hug #hes so sweet :(#i wanna like cling onto him like a koala and never let him go #thank you for this masterpiece

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phoenix-eclipses · 6 days ago

Text

next door's lemonade

pairing: dilf!clark kent x fem reader

summary: clark kent’s a mild-mannered single dad, but when you decide to turn up the heat, things get messy—literally. three easy steps to seduce your unlikely crush, plus one totally unexpected meltdown. chaos, flustered kisses, and way too much dad energy guaranteed.

cw: age gap, domestic thirst, 40 yr old single dad clark, i had mid 20s reader in mind but it's up to you, soft-spoken filth, oral (f!receiving), pet names, overstimulation, size kink, thigh riding, praise, piv smut, unprotected sex, creampie, breeding kink, 3k wc mdni

you’re convinced clark kent was god’s personal apology to women for everything else men have done.

he’s quiet, polite, and always has that bashful little smile when he sees you. when he walks his daughter to the bus stop every morning, your heart does that stupid flutter thing—but worse than that, your uterus practically weeps. her pigtails are always slightly crooked, like he tried his best and she wouldn’t sit still, and the sight alone makes you want to hand in your iud and volunteer as tribute.

but clark? clark’s completely unaware of the chaos he causes. or so you thought.

you’d always exchanged casual greetings—him with his chipper “morning” and you with a smile that bordered on horny—but nothing past that. until one day, standing outside your front door, key half in the lock, you catch sight of him in his front yard.

his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, hands deep in the flower bed. his shirt clings to his back in all the right places. biceps flex. forearms strain. there's a smudge of dirt on his jaw.

he looks up. catches you staring.

you freeze.

he waves. smiles. it’s boyish. innocent. cruel.

you scramble inside like you just saw god himself—because, honestly, you might’ve.

and that’s when it hits you: this man will not realize you want him unless you physically spell it out. and even then, there’s a 50/50 chance he’ll think you’re just being neighborly.

fine.

you can be aggressively neighborly, because one way or another, you are going to get into clark kent’s dad pants if it’s the last thing you do.

step one: bait the child

you “accidentally” bake too many muffins. double batch. how clumsy of you.

“these? oh no, i can’t eat them all. would your daughter like some?”

she comes over giggling and thanks you every time, bouncing with excitement. and when she beams up at clark and says, “daddy, she made blueberry again!”—your heart squeezes in your chest and your pussy clenches right after from the goofy smile he gives you, muffin crumbs on his lip.

step two: damsel in distress

you wave him over one hot afternoon. “mr. kent! my ac unit’s being dumb again. it’s so confusing. would you mind taking a look?”

he spends twenty minutes crouched down fiddling with it, sweat glistening along his hairline, shirt riding up in the back, glasses slipping down his nose. you pretend not to stare. you fail. miserably. he turns back, flustered. “it was just the filter. uh—real easy fix.”

“still, thanks,” you say, handing him a cold, homemade lemonade. “you’re such a good neighbor.”

his ears turn red. he mumbles, “a-and you can just call me clark, you know. ‘mr. kent’ makes me sound like… my dad.” his laugh is self-conscious, cheeks pink as he glances at you and quickly looks away.

god, how can a 40-year-old dad be so fucking hot and so stupidly cute at the same time?

“sure thing, clark.” you purr. he blinks twice like his brain just blue-screened.

step three: verbal homicide

today’s the day.

you and clark are sitting on your front porch. he’s sipping the lemonade you made. his daughter’s across the lawn, playing with chalk on the driveway. you watch her draw a lopsided sun with a smiley face.

“she’s amazing,” you say softly. clark beams with quiet pride. “next woman in your life’s gonna be real lucky to have your baby.”

he chokes.

full on, hand-on-chest, coughing fit.

you innocently pat his back, wide-eyed. “oh no, clark! you okay?”

“w-wow, that’s… uh… that’s quite a thing to say,” he manages, voice an octave higher. his ears are red. “i mean—thank you, that’s… that’s kind. she’s, uh… she’s my whole world.” he glances away again, adjusting his glasses like they’re suddenly the most interesting thing on earth.

you blink at him all doe-eyed. “i just meant—anyone would be lucky. you’re an amazing dad. sweet. strong. gentle. built like a truck.”

his jaw tightens.

you bite your straw.

he gulps.

it’s so over for him.

step four: reap the rewards

you wait until his daughter gets picked up for a sleepover before making your move.

it’s storming. your lights flicker. and right as scheduled, you're knocking on his door.

“power out?” he asks softly.

“yeah,” you say. “can i wait it out in here?”

he hesitates. then nods. “of course, it's no bother.”

you smile sweetly as he lets you in.

both of you are sitting on his couch now. clark’s all stiff and awkward. his glasses fog slightly every time he exhales.

your legs are in his lap.

he’s definitely pretending not to look at them.

he’s not touching you, not really, but his hand’s resting near your calf and you can feel the heat radiating off his skin. his eyes flicker down to your thighs again—just for a second.

then he mumbles, “you’re, uh… you’re real young.”

you blink innocently. “too young for what?”

he opens his mouth. closes it. flusters.

you lean in.

he doesn’t stop you.

you touch his cheek, soft and slow, and whisper, “you’ve been such a good neighbor to me, clark. such a gentleman.”

he swallows again. you’re starting to love how often you make him do that.

then you murmur, “you wanna keep bein’ a gentleman, or can i show you how long i’ve been thinking about your hands?”

you start to climb into his lap and his breath catches.

“i don’t think—i mean, this probably isn’t—” he cuts himself off when you fully settle in his lap. his hands hover near your waist but don’t quite touch. “i’m—i’m not exactly good at this sort of thing,” he says quietly, eyes darting everywhere except your face. “you think i don’t notice when you look?” you murmur. he swallows. “i—well. i try not to.” “that’s cute.” you lean forward. “wanna try failing a little harder?”

then you grind down.

he jerks beneath you.

his hands fly to your waist—but he doesn’t stop you.

“been thinking about this forever,” you whisper against his neck. “thought about riding your thigh just to see if you’d notice.”

his chest rumbles. “i noticed.”

you shiver.

“then why didn’t you do anything?”

he exhales shakily. “i’m not supposed to want you like this.”

you whimper. “but you do.”

“yes,” he admits, breathless. “god help me, i do.”

you start grinding against his thigh, desperate, sticky, your hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt.

he’s hard. thick and long and straining against his pants.

his hands move to your hips. help you rock. guide you through it like it’s killing him.

you whimper when your clit drags against the firm muscle of his thigh.

“oh my god—fuck—”

he stiffens. “don’t say that. don’t curse.”

you blink, dazed. “you don’t like it?”

he looks almost pained. “i just—i don’t use that kind of language, and i don’t like hearin’ it on your pretty mouth. not when you’ve got so many sweeter things to say.”

you blink.

then you grind harder.

“you’re unreal,” you pant, high on power. “clark, i swear—your thigh—i’m gonna cum just like this, i can’t—”

his breath comes fast.

“you wanna come on my thigh, darlin’?” his voice is low, but there’s that shy hitch in it, like he’s almost embarrassed to say it out loud. “go ahead. make a mess, it’s alright—i’ll take care of it.”

your whole body shudders at the warmth in his tone.

“yeah?” he murmurs, glancing down at where you’re pressed against him. “you gonna–uh, soak right through these shorts for me?”

you nod frantically.

“pretty girl,” he breathes, thumb brushing your cheek in a gentle, almost hesitant touch. “you’ve been actin’ so sweet lately, real flirty. but– you’re not a bad girl, right?”

“i’m such a slut,” you whisper, breath hitching.

clark sits back just slightly, blinking hard. “hey—hey, now. don’t say that.”

“why not?”

his brows pinch. “’cause that’s not… that’s not what this is. you’re not—i mean, you’re just…”

he looks flustered. desperate to explain. “you’re sweet. and—and good. and i’m probably too old and really not good at this anymore, but—”

you pull him back in by the collar.

“clark,” you whisper. “shut up and keep ruining me.”

“yes ma’am,” he mutters again, voice cracking.

you’re whimpering into his neck, panting like it’s the only thing keeping you alive.

your clit is throbbing. his thigh is slick. and he’s so still underneath you, chest heaving with every shaky breath, eyes fixed on where your soaked sleep shorts have turned nearly translucent against his skin.

“clark—i’m gonna—”

“go on, honey,” he breathes. “i’ve got you”

your head drops against his shoulder. you cry out—soft, desperate, overwhelmed—and he shudders beneath you when your body locks up and twitches in his lap.

“that’s my girl,” he murmurs, a little bashful. “such a good girl for me.”

you’re trembling. sensitive. overstimulated. and yet—

you still want more.

you roll your hips again, chasing that high, gasping when it stings a little but still feels so good.

he freezes, swallowing hard. his voice gets all tight and breathy.

“don’t… don’t do that.”

“why?”

he bites his lip, voice cracking just a little.

“’cause if you keep goin’, i’m not gonna be able to stop… and, uh, that’d be a problem.”

your eyes flutter open.

your lips part.

yes, you think. finally.

“then don’t stop,” you whisper. “please. i want it. i want you.”

he groans—actually groans, like you just kicked the legs out from under his self-control—and then suddenly you’re on your back, clark looming over you, so much bigger than you imagined.

his broad shoulders block out the lamp behind him. his hand cups the back of your knee, spreading your legs gently but firmly, as if he’s trying to be respectful even now.

you’re soaked.

he stares down at your flushed body and breathes, “you look like temptation itself.”

he sinks to his knees at the edge of the couch like you’re holy.

like he’s praying.

your breath catches when he pushes your thighs apart, pulling down your small shorts and panties, pressing a soft, warm kiss to your inner thigh. then another, higher. and another, closer to where you need him.

he looks up at you once, eyes dark, lips parted.

“i haven’t… done this in a while,” he confesses. “i hope i don’t mess it up.”

“you wont,” you whisper, chest heaving.

he smiles. soft and sweet. “okay, baby.”

then he leans in and devours you.

his mouth is warm. firm. so, so thorough. he kisses you like it’s a love language, like it’s something he’s always wanted to do but never thought he’d get to. he eats like a man starved—slow at first, reverent, dragging his tongue through your folds until you’re squirming—and then deeper, rougher, gripping your thighs tight as he licks into you like he’s memorizing the shape of your pussy with his tongue.

you moan. loud. unrestrained.

“oh wow,” he breathes, pulling back just enough to blink up at you, dazed. “you—you taste like—uh—like sugar? or lemonade? is that weird to say?”

you giggle, breath hitching when his tongue darts out to lick a slow stripe through your folds again.

“you can say whatever you want as long as you keep doing that.”

“okay,” he mumbles, immediately diving back in, muffling a sheepish, “yes ma’am” against your cunt like the respectful farm boy he is.

you whimper.

he laps at you again, dragging his tongue from your entrance to your clit in one long, messy stroke.

you arch off the couch. cry out. your second orgasm hits harder than the first—shaking your legs, making you grab for him, thighs clenching around his head.

he doesn’t stop.

god, he doesn’t stop.

he sucks your clit right through it, tongue flicking, mouth hot and wet and everywhere, and suddenly you’re crying—hands fisting in his hair, tears streaming down your cheeks.

and clark—sweet, soft clark—he pulls back just enough to kiss your thigh and murmur, “you cryin’, darlin’? oh, honey. did i go too hard?”

you sob. “n-no—feels so good—i just—”

he kisses you again. this time, between your legs. slow. gentle. sinful.

then he presses a kiss to your hip and asks, sweet and red-faced, “may i…?”

you nod. “please.”

he pulls out a little foil packet from his wallet.

“you had that ready?” you tease.

he blushes so hard you think he might die. “i—just in case. not that i assumed—i didn’t! i just… hoped.” you bite your lip, voice soft but steady. “i appreciate the gesture, but i wanna feel you, clark.”

clark blinks fast, mouth opening and closing like a stunned fish before he fumbles, setting the condom aside like he’s a little caught off guard.

you giggle.

and then he unbuttons his pants.

you don’t even get to see him pull it out. you just feel the weight of it as he presses the head against your inner thigh, and even that makes you twitch.

“you sure about this?” he asks, voice tight, breathless.

you nod, voice shaking. “please. want it so bad.”

he leans over you. presses his forehead to yours.

his cock nudges your entrance.

thick. heavy. he’s holding back like he’s scared of breaking you.

he’s so careful when he pushes in. you’re so tight around him he actually groans.

“oh, sweetheart. i’m—i’m sorry, i’ll go slow—”

you nod.

he bottoms out.

his hands tremble when you look up at him. flushed. full.

your hands clutch his shoulders as your body stretches around him. you feel every inch. every pulse. he’s groaning—groaning, eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched as he sinks deeper and deeper.

“feels like heaven,” he chokes. “tight little thing—s’like you were made for me.”

you nod, trembling. you feel so full—like your body had just been waiting for this, built for this, desperate to be filled up by a man with hands big enough to lift you and a voice soft enough to break you.

stays there.

“you okay?” he asks, voice almost shaking.

you nod, tears still on your cheeks.

“clark—i need you to move.”

and when he does?

it’s over.

he breaks you down slowly, tenderly, thrust by deep thrust.

he kisses your tears away.

he calls you his sweetheart.

he thrusts deep, still trying to be gentle.

“feels like i’m dreamin’, sweetheart,” he mumbles, burying his face in your neck. “i can’t believe this is real.”

you gasp. your walls clench. he whimpers.

he whimpers.

his forehead is pressed to yours. one of his huge hands is cradling the back of your neck. the other is splayed low on your stomach like he’s trying to feel himself from the outside, to make sense of how snug you are, how perfectly your body takes him.

“can feel it, sweetheart,” he pants softly. “you’re squeezin’ me so good. like you don’t wanna let me go.”

you don’t.

you never want him to stop.

you’re crying now, wrecked and wet and shaking, each drag of his cock against your walls sending little shocks of heat straight to your toes.

he murmurs against your skin, “is that too much, baby? you need me to slow down?”

you sob out a broken, “no, please don’t stop—feels so good—clark, please—”

he hushes you softly, lips brushing your temple. “i got you, honey. i know.”

you swear you can feel him twitching inside you, the stretch just bordering on overwhelming—so thick and deep and gentle, like he wants to ruin you but only if you’ll let him.

and you will.

you want to.

you want to feel him lose it. you want to feel him fall apart.

“i wanna make a mess in you,” he confesses, voice cracking just a little, breath heavy. “wanna fill you up good. is that okay?”

you moan. nod frantically. “yes—please—please—”

his thrusts get a little rougher. still slow. still deep. but heavier now, driven by the desperation he’s clearly been holding back this whole time.

“clark—”

and then he kisses you.

not just a press of lips—a real, messy, breathless kiss, mouths open, tongues grazing, teeth clashing a little when he finally ruts deep and stays there, cock pulsing hard inside you as he cums.

you feel it—hot and thick and endless, like his whole body’s pouring into you.

you gasp against his mouth. twitch. your walls flutter around him.

he groans through his orgasm, lips brushing your cheek. “that’s it, baby—take it. take all of it, you’re doin’ so good—”

he stays there.

buried inside.

not moving, not pulling out, just breathing hard and holding you like you might float away if he lets go. you’re both sweaty and sticky and breathless, and your thighs are quivering, but his arms never stop holding you.

you don’t know how much time passes.

just that eventually, you feel his hands—big and warm and careful—slide beneath your thighs as he lifts you gently into his arms.

“where are we going?” you whisper, voice small and dazed.

he chuckles softly. “bed.”

“you want me to stay?”

he kisses your forehead. “if you’ll have me.”

(you will.)

he helps you clean up. tucks you in. finds one of his old flannel shirts for you to wear—big enough that it hits mid-thigh.

you’re curled up in his lap again—except this time, under the covers. his hands are stroking your back slowly. steady. reassuring.

you murmur, “was it weird? being with someone younger?”

he blushes a bright red.

“felt right to be with you.”

you go quiet.

then: “i think i wanna be a stay-at-home wife.”

he laughs—bright, full, happy—and kisses the top of your head.

“yeah?” he murmurs. “that why you keep bakin’ cookies for my daughter and flirtin’ with me?”

“…yes.”

he smiles against your hair. “well. if you’re serious about it, honey—”

he kisses your temple.

“—we can talk about it over breakfast.”

“you’re makin’ me breakfast?”

“of course,” he says, brushing your hair off your cheek. “you like bacon? i make ‘em good. you can show me how you make that lemonade."

and maybe—just maybe—he makes you a baby too.

but that’s for next time :3 a/n: still haven't watched superman. this was supposed to be a request and i got very carried away...

#omg i need this man #idc about any other man but if clark kent wanted me to carry his child… mayhaps #the way he still wants to act all proper :(#like no dont call yourself a slut like PLSSSS #need dilf clark in ways that should concern others

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