#Clark Kent Drabble

[fear-is-truth]

soft dom!clark kent teaching inexperienced reader | 18+

he keeps one hand braced behind him on the mattress, the other cradling your the back of your head. callused fingers splayed at your nape, thumb grazing the hinge of your jaw. your lips part, wrapping around him tentatively, eyes flicking up toward his face. the warmth of his cock fills your mouth in increments, the unfamiliar weight heavy on your tongue. your jaw aches already. sensing your trepidation, he strokes the side of your face.

“go slow,” clark murmurs, “just—mhgm, yeah. just like that.”

your mouth eases off him with a quiet pop, until only the engorged tip rests between your lips. lick a long strip down the veiny length, then take him again, deeper. his cock presses past your palate, and spit gathers at the corner of your mouth, dribbling down your chin as you bob your head. “keep your tongue under,” he instructs softly, rubbing his thumb slowly against the apple of your cheek. “don’t worry about mess.”

“fuuuuck.. that’s it. such a fast learner.” clark sucks in a deep breath through his teeth, the cut of abdominal muscle twitching when you hollowed out your cheeks. “doing a great job, baby.” more confidently, your fingers wraps around the base, stroking in compensation for what your mouth can’t reach. a groan bubbles deep from his throat, low and strained.

you gag once, tears prickling.

“don’t rush,” he shushes, fingers scratching soothingly against your scalp. “just—keep going like that. f-fuck—you’re perfect.” there’s gravel in his voice now; strain bleeding through the seams. his grip in your hair tightens, as his cock pulses against your tongue. another twitch.

“baby wait, you don’t have to. you can spit if you want—oh.”

you swallow him down before the sentence finishes. thick spurts hit your tongue, warm and saline, carrying a bitter tang but not unbearable. the reflex takes effort, but you manage, throat working around him while tears slip from your lashes. cock twitching with residual spasms, he moans through grit teeth.

clark eases himself from your mouth, the rosy pink tip glistening. large hand cradles your jaw, wiping at the slick corner of your mouth with the back of a knuckle. “c’mere,” he tucks himself away with one hand and, with the other, guides you to sit back on the mattress. kneeling down, he settles between your legs and presses his lips to the inside of your thigh.

“my turn.”

[little-miss-dilf-lover]

18+ mdni

clark "say thank you, baby" kent who ingrains the importance of manners into you. words of please and thanks go a long way with most, so what would make clark any different? 

he's a man made of pure heart, valves and veins containing nothing but good — his kind nature all done without any need for acknowledgement or praise. everything he does, done simply just because. though after a while, he'd find himself chasing after approval, and so he'd turn to you. 

but it would manifest differently.

when the head of his twitching cock rests on your tongue, he's muttering blissed, mumbled words of praise; talking sweetly of how beautiful you look with his dick in your mouth or how pretty your eyes look. and once he's finished emptying the contents of his balls on your flat and extended tongue, he's closing your mouth — a finger pressing up under your chin, as if he's asking you to swallow. he'd then come down to your level and meet you with a kiss, uttering a simple "say thank you, baby," against them.

or even when he's feeling particularly naughty, thick heavy cock resting on your cunt, he'd wait; teasing you with that he knew you wanted most — with what you needed more than everything else in the world right now. he'd grind himself through your pussy's lips, pushing his tip past the slick of your folds until he can surprise you with his dick. he'd grant your desperate pleas and begs, and would sink deep inside. pressing chaste, urgent little kisses across your cheek as he works them towards your ear. muttering softly into the shell of it, "say thank you, baby."

⎯ ☆ ⎯

[laceyfaeryy]

Can we pleaseeeeeee get ddlg Clark with reader??????

(I love your writing so freaking much!!!!!!)

MDNI 18+

— ddlg with clark kent

cw: vaginal sex, unprotected, size kink, stomach bulge, ddlg, overstimulation,

“look at me baby,” clark cooed as his large hand gently cupped your cheek. “let me see your eyes.”

he had you on your back with your knees pressed to your chest, with his cock shoved deep inside your cunt, making a small bulge visible around your stomach. “you’re doing so well, just let me see those pretty eyes yeah?”

you hiccuped, gently opening them, instinctively his thumb gently wiped the tears streaming down your face. a soft small smile forming on his face, “there we go, wasn’t so hard was it baby?”

“just needed some encouragement yeah?” he groaned, thrusting slowly, making you whine pathetically, “and i’ve got all day.”

you felt his fat tip nudging your most sensitive spot, making you see stars and tear up again, his face becoming blurry. “don’t cry again, i want you to see me.”

he gently kissed your face, his touch so soft like he didn’t want to break you. “just be good to daddy yeah?”

the pad of his thumb gently tugged on your bottom lip that was jutted out in a small whiny pout, all red and swollen. the sight was pathetic, pathetic enough to have his cock swell even further inside your gummy walls clenching sound him.

“if you keep pouring like that i’m going to put those pretty lips to good use yeah?”

the bed creaked with his thrust, the pillows thudding on the floor with the blankets falling. “just one more baby, for me.”

he watched as the base of his cock had a creamy white ring, your previous orgasm making a mess around your inner thighs, and clumping around his trimmed pubes.

“doing so well, taking daddy’s cock yeah?”

you shook your head, lips trembling from the overstimulation and your cunt all puffy and leaking, but clark shook his head. “you can, and you will.” his hands gently making their way near your stomach, pressing it down to coax your orgasm.

[blushhbambi]

Clark kent. using his strenght on you like nothing. like oh look! there's a bird out the window on a tree. you can't see it but Clark can. so he doesn't even look at you when he stands behind you and lifts you by the armpits. and you're surprised OBVIOUSLY. but he's so oblivious and he's like, "Babe, look, it's right there!" while your pussy is pulsing his full legal kryoptonian name in morse code.

mdniᝰ.ᐟ manhandling, lewd language, p in v, cowgirl, tiny size kink, domestic fluff... . ༉‧₊˚.

no because it's insane how oblivious he can get, you're like a little doll compared to him and he can just toss you around like it's fucking nothing. he needs to get past you in the kitchen? he'll full-on pick you up and place you to the side. can't reach the top shelf? clarks already got one arm wrapped around you pulling up.

poor boy doesn't even know what it does to you, his big hands over your waist, spread over your soft skin with not even a flinch of struggle on his face.

hes so casual with it too, its almost domestic. i can imagine you don't wanna get out of bed one morning and he's so done with you, he just pulls you up by your ankle and holds you upside down till your giggling and swatting at him. or if your feeling lazy and tired after a long day of work he'll just pick you up and lay you down comfortably in bed. hes so strong but so gentle at the same time and thats what's just so yummy about clark.

ughh or if your being annoying or bratty for whatever dumb reason he doesn't even like arguing with you. just lets you whine and yap till he's had enough and throws you over his shoulder with a roll of his eyes and marches up to your bedroom.

and god when he fucks you... he's obviously a gentle giant and wouldn't even dream of hurting you but let's be honest he's huge and it's just such a struggle to stuff all of him inside you. you clearly need a little help and he can't help but drag you up and down on his cock with ease. you don’t even have to move or think, just let clark do all the hard work and feel every thick inch of him pumping your fluttering cunt. it's slow and soft and so so filling, he hits so deep you swear you can feel the head of his cock hit your heart. clark just sits back and watches you with his pretty, puppy dog smile.

© written by blushhbambi— do not steal or claim as ur own ᝰ.ᐟ

[dreamylittleangel]

clark when you have a wet dream

cw : smut mdni, fem reader, dry humping, thigh riding, could be considered light somno, making out, praise, somewhat subby clark, cumming in pants, brief descriptions of vaginal sex

requests are open!!!

3:16 AM, the clock reads as clark turns over, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

he looks down at you, curled into his chest, the picture of serenity. your head rests comfortably on his right pec as though it's a pillow. your right arm is strewn across him as well, your fingers curling around his left bicep, as though he'd slip away from you if you didn't keep him there. one of your legs is bent and slotted in between his own, cozy as can be.

your face is smushed into him as you sleep and clark can't help but admire you. he's sleepy, very much so, but he almost debates staying awake just a few minutes longer just to watch you. it's would be creepy in any other context, but he's just so in love with you.

he sighs and shuts his eyes, snuggling into his pillow once again when he hears you start to whimper. he opens his eyes again, concerned he's woken you up somehow, when he realizes you're still fast asleep.

he dismisses it and goes to close his eyes again when you mumble out a "mmm clark". he's surely awake now. he starts to wonder if you're dreaming about him, almost letting out a little "awww" at the thought. how much more precious could his sweet girl get? that's when he feels you lazily roll your hips against his thigh.

oh.

clark immediately feels his cock begin to harden at the realization of what was going on. he certainly wasn't going back to sleep now.

you whimper again, still completely asleep. he feels his cock twitch, at which he lets out a groan. he tries to quiet himself after, wanting to let you enjoy your dream. you rut your hips against his thigh and moan again, lips parting, eyes still shut in pure bliss. god, he could cum right there.

you continue your ministrations a little more consistently now and clark is just melting. he doesn't know whether to wake you up or just keep watching. torn, he decides to just gently help you along, placing his hands on your hips and guiding you in rocking against him. as he does so, he begins to feel your need soaking warmly through your thin sleep shorts. he shamelessly let's out another groan.

it's not long after this that you start to stir. "clark?" you murmur, your hips slowing just barely as you become conscious. "whaddya doin?" you question, referring to his hands cradling your hips, still moving you back and forth.

"were you havin a dream baby?" he asks, ignoring your question. your eyes widen.

"mhmm," you respond simply, starting to remember. his grip on you tightens slightly.

"yea, i thought so hun," he says, voice deep with lust. "wanna tell me about it?"

you hesitate, half because your still sleepy and half because you can hardly string together a coherent thought as he continues to move you back and forth on the muscle of his thigh.

" i- mmmh- you were letting me ride you," you stutter, the friction on your clit delicious as his thigh flexes and he pushes you a little harder against him.

"oh yeah? what'd it feel like baby?"

"so fucking good clarkie. you were stretching me out so much- oh god," you start to roll into him on your own accord.

"gosh your so hot," he whispers, growing impossibly harder, his cock now straining against the soft fabric of his flannel pj pants.

"and you were telling me that i was so tight and- ohhh fuck- you were gonna fill me up so good-"

"mmmfh, c'mere," clark moans lowly, moving his hands up to your waist to change your position. you whine at the loss of contact on your clit that is absolutely throbbing at this point, moaning in relief again when he sets you atop his clothed cock.

god he feels so big. you don't wait for instruction, you start to drag your achy clit against him with fervor, both of you moaning out in unison.

"baby im not gonna last if you keep makin those pretty noises," he says, eyebrows knitting together as he tries to hold back.

you whimper again at his words alone. "me either," you breathe out between moans. "just cum with me clark," you state, your orgasm building embarrassingly quick within you.

he pulls you in for a kiss, his tongue immediately slipping past your lips and into your mouth, causing you to moan against him. he allows you to break away as his hands snake up under your tank top and he begins to play with your nipples.

everything becomes too much. you press yourself against him even harder as you continue to bounce. you let out a near incoherent string of please and clark like it's a prayer, eyes rolling back at the increasing pleasure he was giving you.

"yeah, oh my, just like that baby, make a mess on my pants, god you're perfect," he encourages breathily. you cry out at the praise and speed up.

clark bucks up into you one, two, three times, and the coil within you snaps. your moans are borderline pornographic and your toes curl as you ride out your high, release leaking through your shorts and right onto his dick.

you're so caught up in the bliss of your own orgasm, you barely hear his broken whimpers, let alone notice him cumming in his pants.

[sunsburns]

best to you — clark kent

⟢ synopsis. clark loves being superman, though he can be away for hours and sometimes days on end. you tend to miss him more than you admit, and you find comfort in wearing his clothes and... his spare superman suits.

⟢ contains. fluff!! established relationship, a tiny bit of angst if you squint, but it's all cute i promise! kissing, flirting, clark being... well, clark!

⟢ wc: 3k+

⟢ author’s note. thank u anon for requesting this ur a life saverr!! also it's canon clark loves hot cocoa after a stressful day and i love that.

It’s not that Clark doesn’t love what he does. He does—loves it deeply, in that soul-rooted kind of way that keeps him steady even when the world tilts sideways. He loves being Superman. He loves the responsibility, the purpose, the grit, and how it isn’t easy. Loves that he has to make an effort, that he can make people smile and feel safe. He loves that he gets to help when others can’t, that sometimes just showing up is enough to give people hope.

He loves being able to inspire—not just in the cape-and-boots kind of way, but in the quiet ways too. A steady hand, a reassuring nod, a smile offered in the chaos.

But still… It’s a lot, you know?

It’s the kind of weight that settles in his bones, even if they’re not supposed to get tired when the sun is up. Fighting off alien threats, trying to keep everyone alive—everyone, not just the people on his side. And everything, trying to make sure there’s as little damage as possible in the aftermath. Then there are the arguments that follow, always sharp-edged and exhausting: Guy and Mr. Terrific, voices raised in another ethics debate about why it was fine to obliterate some poor creature without so much as trying another way. Without even asking if it had a name.

Then the smaller things, the ones that don’t necessarily make headlines unless he interferes. Like the afternoons he spends in the library helping a kid he’d met at the park with homework, long division turning into a full-on math circle when six more children joined in, pencils clutched in tiny hands and hopeful eyes blinking up at him like he might actually know what he was doing.

He didn’t.

Clark barely remembered the formulas himself, stumbling through each problem with a sheepish grin and a prayer to whatever cosmic force governed decimals. Because let’s face it—he’s a writer. A reporter. He hadn’t taken a math class since high school, and even then, he’d spent most of it dreaming up headlines and sketching out columns in the margins of his notebook.

So, yes—being Superman is good work. Important work. But it’s still a lot.

And the only reason it doesn’t crush him—doesn’t swallow him whole some days—is you.

The knowledge that, no matter how long the day stretches, how heavy the cape feels on his shoulders… he gets to come home to you.

He doesn’t bother with the door anymore.

There used to be a wall of sleek ceiling-to-floor windows in his living room of the apartment—an architectural choice meant to make the space feel expensive, expansive, with a view of the Metropolis skyline. It shattered months ago during a late return from Tokyo, when he couldn’t be bothered with the doorman, the lobby cameras, or changing out of his suit at all.

He never replaced the glass. Just cleaned up the broken pieces and left the sky wide open. Maybe he should buy some curtains.

Tonight, like most nights, he drifts in through the gap on his wall, boot soles brushing the hardwood with the softest of thuds, cape fluttering behind him before settling in a heavy line down his spine. He lands like he’s done it a thousand times. Because he has.

The apartment is quiet. Dim. Only the soft blue glow from the TV and the familiar orange halo of the corner lamp light the room. The air smells faintly like something yours. Your cooking and some cocoa (because Clark doesn’t really like the taste of coffee, and sure, he’ll have a cup of joe every once in a while, but he’d much rather have a hot cocoa or juice). Clark can’t help but blush at the thought of you in his kitchen, making food on his stove, and he vaguely wishes he’d been home to help you. Stupid, little things like this always make him flustered, no matter how long he’d been dating you.

His stomach grumbles at the thought of food.

Then, he exhales.

The suit clings to him more than usual tonight—soot crusted in the fibres, ash smudged across his chest like fingerprints he couldn’t shake. The aftermath of a city-sized wildfire up in the woodlands of Canada, or maybe it was from the quake in the Caribbean (or was it eastern Asia?)—he doesn’t know anymore. The day bled into night somewhere over the Pacific, and his brain never got the memo by the time he got back to Delaware.

His fingers flex at his sides as he steps further in, the dirt crumbling a little with each movement. He winces, knowing he’d have to sweep it up come morning. Not now, not when his shoulders ache. When his ribs feel bruised, even though they’re not. The Superman Robots and Gary made sure to take good care of him.

The only part of him that isn’t exhausted is the part that knows he’s home.

Then he sees you.

Tucked into the couch, knees pulled up, curled under a familiar shade of red.

He nearly steps past it, assuming it’s another throw blanket at first glance, but then his whole body halts mid-stride, heart giving a strange, unsteady lurch. It flutters somewhere between his ribs, then sinks low into his gut, warmth unfurling from the centre of his chest and crawling up into his throat, his cheeks, the tips of his ears.

Because there you are—wrapped in his suit.

Not the one he’s wearing, obviously. This is a different one. Another spare. He keeps a few stashed away; in the Fortress, one folded neatly in a drawer back home with Ma and Pa. And then there’s this one.

It’s the one from earlier this week, the one he’d left draped over the back of his desk chair in his bedroom after peeling it off post-meteor rescue. He meant to wash it. You must’ve beaten him to it. It looks freshly laundered, no question—cleaner than he’s felt in days. And now it’s wrapped around you.

The cape drapes over you like a weighted blanket, swallowing your frame in waves of bright crimson. The fabric dwarfs you, stretched wide in the shoulders, long in the sleeves—the suit is too big in all the ways he is. The crest is wrinkled slightly where your arms are wrapped around it, like you’d been holding it and yourself.

You’re fast asleep, breathing gently, mouth slightly open. Even drooling a little. You must’ve tried to wait up. The TV is still on, volume low, flickering gentle colour across the walls and casting soft shadows over your sleeping face. A familiar comedy movie he can’t recall the name of slowly comes to an end, and he fights back a smile at the sight of two mugs on his coffee table.

Yours is nearly empty, and the other is still full of cocoa, long gone cold.

A deep, familiar pang settles in his chest—the kind that doesn’t come from wounds or exhaustion, but from disappointment in himself. He can’t remember how many times it’s happened now: you, waiting up; him, caught somewhere between firestorms, alien debris fields, and time zones. The world always needs something from him, and you’re left holding the space between.

The guilt and disappointment that hurt his chest have something gentler beneath them. Hope, maybe. Or fear. He wonders, not for the first time, if there’s a part of you that resents him. If there’s some hidden corner of your heart that’s gone untouched for too long. If your silence ever folds in on itself, turns bitter without him noticing.

Even with all his abilities, he knows better than to assume he can see and know everything.

But you’re here. You stayed. Wrapped in the folds of his old suit as if it means something to you beyond fabric and stitching. And he knows that kind of comfort—the reaching for something just to feel close to the one you miss. He knows it because he feels it too (and he takes a few things of your own for himself). He knows you miss him as much as he misses you, so much so that you try to find some comfort wearing his clothes.

He sighs, quiet and rueful, reaching over to gently flick off the TV. The apartment falls into stillness, warm and dim.

Then he moves toward the couch.

You don’t stir as he crouches beside you, one arm sliding beneath your knees, the other behind your back. You’re so warm, soft against the roughness of his suit, and you sigh in your sleep as he lifts you into his arms, like your body already knows it’s him, and in response, he can hear your heart kick up a few beats.

The moment he straightens, you stir in your sleep. The edges of it slip from you as you start to wake, and Clark immediately goes still.

“Hey, Superman,” you mumble, eyes still mostly closed, a lopsided little grin tugging at your lips.

He looks down at you, your face still nestled against his shoulder, and feels his own lips twitch into a smile he couldn’t stop if he tried.

“Hey, you...” he whispers, voice softer than a breeze. And then, because Clark can’t bite back a bad joke even if it kills him. “Guess there’s two of us now. You fell asleep on the job, though.”

You huff out a quiet laugh, breath warm against his collarbone. Thank God. No one laughs at his jokes like you do—genuinely, softly, like you think they’re clever instead of corny. But he knows you think they’re corny and find them funny anyway. “It’s part of your charm,” you told him once.

Your arms loop around his shoulders, pulling yourself closer with the easy kind of trust that knocks the breath right out of him.

“Well,” you say, voice still heavy with sleep, “your suit was warm. And it smells like you. Couldn’t resist.”

As you speak, Clark’s heading toward the bedroom in long, steady strides. The door swings shut behind him with a soft thud as he nudges it closed with the toe of his boot. He sets you down gently on the bed.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, eyes cast downward and dropping to his hands as they trail away from your sides. “About being late.”

You barely sink into the mattress before you’re pushing yourself back up again, arms tense beneath you, spine straightening like the words alone jolted you fully awake. Your brows furrow, a wrinkle forming between them, eyes wide with soft disbelief.

“What?”

Clark opens his mouth, hesitates. He feels… embarrassed now. A little silly. Ridiculous, even. But it’s there, stuck in his chest like something splintered and raw. Still, he tries.

“I just…” He shifts, the words clumsy on his tongue. “I feel like I’m keeping you.”

Your head tilts, confusion still drawing shadows across your expression. “From what?”

He lets out a breath, glancing away. “From sleep. Mostly.” His lips quirk, but the smile doesn’t land. Now he definitely feels silly. “But you know... other stuff. Normal stuff.”

“Normal stuff?”

“Yeah.” His voice, unfortunately, cracks.

There’s a flicker in your gaze then—concern, maybe even a bit of heartbreak. You move on the bed, inching toward him as he stays standing at your side, still in full uniform like he’s half-holding himself apart from this space. From you.

You reach for his cape with gentle fingers, giving it a tug. “Clark, come on,” you sigh softly, coaxing. “Sit down.”

He doesn’t answer at first. Not with words, anyway. He watches you with that faraway look he sometimes gets when he’s trying too hard to stay grounded, to not float off with the weight of it all. But after a moment, he sits beside you. The mattress shifts under his presence.

“It’s just…” he starts again, quieter now. “It’s something that’s been on my mind a lot.”

“It’s on your mind?” you echo.

“It’s how I feel,” he says finally. Clark lifts his gaze just enough to meet yours, then drops it again, watching his fingers loosely thread together in his lap. His shoulders lift in a slow, awkward shrug. “I just... I can’t help it.”

You notice the way his jaw tightens, how his brows pull together in that way they always do when he’s caught in his own head. And then, gently, you shift closer.

It takes a second—you’re still wrapped in the bulk of his suit, swimming in it. You fumble with the cape first, shoving the heavy red fabric behind you with a soft huff so you won’t sit on it. He watches as you move, the smallest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, despite himself.

It makes you smile, too, a breathless laugh escaping you at the ridiculousness of it.

Finally settled, you press a hand to his shoulder, fingers curling gently into the fabric of his suit. You tilt your head slightly, that familiar teasing glint in your eye softening the line of your mouth. “Well, I’m honoured I’m constantly on your mind,” you murmur, your voice just as warm as your touch. “I just wish you weren’t beating yourself up about it.”

He exhales, almost a laugh, but it doesn’t quite make it. “It’s hard not to.”

“Clark...” you breathe, thumb brushing over the muscle of his shoulder, then you reach a little higher, nails raking the base of his skull. “We’ve talked about this.”

“I know.”

“If anything, I’m sorry I make you feel like this.”

His eyes flick up sharply. “It’s not your fault.”

“And it’s not yours either.” You inch in even closer, your knees touching his now. “I knew what I signed up for when you told me. I know you’re going to be late sometimes, and yeah... I worry. But I also know you’re out there helping people. That you’re doing something good. That you’re doing what only you can do.”

He’s quiet, just listening, his eyes drinking you in like you’re the first calm he’s had all week.

“And that’s what’s more important,” you finish, gently. “Besides, you always find time for me.”

He shakes his head, barely, like he doesn’t want to disturb the moment, even as guilt stirs low in his chest .“Not enough.”

But you’re already leaning forward, your forehead nudging his, your nose brushing his with a quiet, tender smile. “Yes, it is. It’s enough,” you whisper, your words skimming against his mouth. “And you’re not keeping me from anything, Clark. You’re what I come home to.”

That makes him smile, teeth and all; he can’t stop himself if he tried. He can feel it blooming over his face, stretching his cheeks until they ache. And when he sees your grin mirror his—just as wide, just as real—it knocks the breath from his lungs all over again.

Warmth floods his chest. It’s dizzying—heady. The way you look at him like that, like he’s something precious and whole, like he’s never once faltered under the weight of his mistakes. He doesn’t know how you do it: you can hold all of him like it’s so easy. Like it’s always been meant for you.

You’re effortlessly radiant, and he can’t help but think that maybe the earth made sense the day it brought you into it. That it would only ever make sense if you were part of it.

His thoughts scatter as you inch closer again, shifting in the oversized suit still wrapped around you. It pools at your arms, slides against your skin with every small motion. You huff softly, shoving the bulk of the cape behind you again, pushing it like it’s an old blanket you’ve worn a hundred times.

There’s a glint in your eye, a spark of something playful under all the softness. Clark can’t stop smiling at you, and it’s all he can do not to melt into the floor.

Butterflies threaten to consume him fully, fluttering hard against his ribs. All thoughts are no longer tinged with guilt or second-guessing.

He’s not prepared for you to lean closer and kiss him. It’s gentle, warm, and slow, like you’re feeling the shape of him all over again. You drink in the pleased sound he makes in the back of his throat like it’s sustenance. Your lips move slowly against his, but he can’t quell his sudden eagerness now that you’re this close.

He doesn't even think before leaning in harder, lips moving more eagerly against yours.

His hands find your waist, sliding around you to pull you flush to him, holding you close like he’s afraid you might slip away. You shift easily in his grasp, fitting against him like second nature. Your fingers find the nape of his neck, brushing through the hair that lies short there, nails raking lightly—a touch that sparks a shiver right down his spine.

Your arms wrap around his shoulders, tugging him even closer, and the contact floods his system with sensation. He’s glowing from the inside out. His lips keep seeking yours between smiles and breathless laughs without real meaning. And when you shift into his lap, knees braced on either side of his thighs, he leans back a little without protest, lips chasing yours all the while.

He keeps pressing kiss after kiss to your mouth when you move, some missing—a soft brush to your cheek, the corner of your mouth, even your chin. You laugh at the clumsiness of it, at the stupidly happy grin spreading across his face, and it only makes him kiss you again.

When you lean back slightly, just enough to look at him, Clark is sure he must be blushing a ridiculous shade of red. Like a teenager. His breath catches, heart stammering a beat too hard against his ribs.

You’re glowing—or maybe that’s just how he sees you. Lit by the soft lamp-light, eyes gleaming, hair tousled, smile curling at the edges like a secret meant only for him. He stares up at you like you’re responsible for the stars in the sky. “Aw, shucks. You really are somethin’ special, y’know?”

You smile wider, “I can’t believe you say that stuff unironically.”

“What stuff?”

“Shucks.”

“People say ‘shucks.’”

“You’re literally the only person who’s ever said ‘shucks’ in my entire life.”

He shrugs like he’s shy, “Guess that makes me special too, huh?”

“Golly gee, good for me, then.” You roll your eyes fondly.

“Are you making fun of me?”

“Just a little.”

His hands settle at your waist again, thumbs stroking small, unconscious circles. And he feels the little flutter of your heartbeat stuttering at the attention. His grin turns a little crooked, a little helpless. If he could bottle this moment, he would. He’d carry it with him always, like a talisman.

But then your expression shifts a little. You bite your lip, brows twitching in the faintest hint of frustration as your arms reach behind you.

Clark blinks, watching you carefully. “What is it?”

“I’m just…” You fumble a bit beneath the cape still draped around you, puffing your cheeks in mild annoyance. “Trying to find the zipper.”

He tilts his head, amused. “Hm?”

“Of the suit,” you huff, dropping your arms and resting your hands on his shoulders with a sigh. “It’s heavy, you know?”

That makes him laugh—a quick, unguarded sound, half-snort, half-sigh. He thinks it’s wildly unattractive. But your smile only grows at the sound of it, and that alone makes his cheeks flush hotter.

“Here,” he says, voice gentler now, full of quiet affection.

He helps you peel the suit off with a kind of practiced care, fingers moving patiently as he guides the fabric down your arms and off your shoulders. You shift, stepping out of his lap and out of the suit in one smooth movement, the blue and red pooling like silk at your feet.

You’re left in a delicate and pretty, soft white tank top, with tiny ruffled edges along the neckline and hem. There’s something impossibly endearing about it, especially paired with the fact that you’re not wearing any pants, legs bare and beautiful under the low light.

Clark doesn’t even try to hide how he’s admiring you. You saunter back to him, hips swaying slightly, and his heart skips again. Gosh.

“Thanks,” you sigh, climbing back into his lap with familiar ease. Your fingers cradle his face  gently, and then your lips brush his. “I love you,” you whisper against his mouth.

“Love you more,” he says, already breathless.

You giggle between his lips, soft and amused. “Literally not possible.”

“I think it is,” Clark murmurs, barely a breath. He sighs into the kiss like it’s the only oxygen that matters. One of his hands slides lower, daring past your hips, tracing the edge where the soft fabric of your underwear ends and warm skin begins.

And just when his mind begins to slip into that space where everything blurs but the feel of you, you pull away. Not far, just enough to press soft, teasing kisses along the edge of his jaw, then down the strong line of his throat. His fingers twitch on your hips and waist, aching to pull you closer, to hold you like a lifeline.

“Mmm, wait,” you breathe, palm pressing gently to his chest as you lean back to really look at him. Your expression twists, “No dirty clothes on the bed.”

Clark blinks. “Wha—?”

“Go,” you laugh, nudging him off with a light kick on his side that barely lands. You settle deeper into the pillows and clean sheets, “Go change. And shower. You smell.”

“I don’t—”

“You do,” you say sweetly, grinning like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You’ve got dirt and sweat all over you. Go. I’ll still be here when you’re back.”

He drags a hand down his face with a dramatic groan. “Fine. Sure, okay. Don’t fall asleep. I’ll be quick.”

“Whatever you say, Big Blue.”

You can’t see his smile widen when he walks into the bathroom, but you know it does.

[pinksplace]

Immovable Object, Unstoppable Force

alternatively: Clark Kent and the Art of the orgasm

18+ MDNI

what’s this? Oh it’s Clark Kent’s poorly disguised overstimulation kink

word count: another drabble, probably 1-1.5k

warnings: overstimulation, some overstimulation, maybe a hint of overstimulation, some overstimulation if you squint, oh god I almost forgot overstimulation

fem!reader, no use of Y/N

You felt like you were missing something.

Your girlfriends would talk about it, giggle about how their boyfriends had managed to get them off, sometimes even twice. You’d smile and nod, pretend to be happy for them. Sometimes you’d fib, tell a salacious story of your own, never admitting that none of boyfriends had ever actually gotten you there.

As time went on, you began to just assume your friends were lying, or worse maybe, there was just something wrong with you.

Then you met Clark.

You’d told him before you slept together that you’d never actually orgasmed before. The words tumbling off your tongue in a moment of insecurity and nervousness. Years of lame, lazy lovers tricking you into thinking it just wasn’t possible. You thought he deserved to know. You assured him you would still enjoy it, still wanted to feel that closeness with him, just that he shouldn’t be offended when it doesn’t happen.

Clark just kissed you, and said “I’ll take care of it.”

He made you cum three times that night before he even got inside you.

He became obsessed with it after that.

Clark Kent, your sweet boyfriend, the mild mannered momma’s boy, the clumsy reporter in his too-big suits, is absolutely insatiable. He lays you out, expertly kisses you until your lips are numb and presses you until the mattress until you have no choice but to melt.

He crawls down your body, joking that he’s visiting his second home. Then he eats you out until his glasses fog up, when most men might take that as a sign to stop, Clark just takes them off, places them carefully on the nightstand, and keeps going.

He ignores your whines, the way you tug his hair, the way your legs clamp around his head. If anything, it all spurs him on, making him even more enthusiastic. He uses every part of his face to make it happen, his tongue dexterous and fast, never tiring. His nose finding a way to nudge your clit just right.

Clark only uses his hands when he wants to tell you something, using his fingers to get you stretch you, his thumb circling your clit. He’s never not working you over.

“Sweetheart, I missed you so much.” He says, voice dripping with affection, as if you’ve ever spent longer than two days apart.

“Honey you taste so good, please can you give me one more?” Please, as if it’s really a question, you know better and it’s never just one more.

When you’re shaking with overstimulation, thighs clenched around his head, “Baby, stop. I’m doing something important.” He never gives you a chance to comply, instead taking your thighs in his hands and pressing them into the mattress, spreading you open for him.

When he fucks you, it’s all-consuming.

He thrusts deep, each stroke is well aimed, perfectly timed, and leaves you agonizingly full. Clark found that soft spot inside you (the one that makes your vision white out), that first night too. He makes sure to hit every-time now.

By this point, you’re jello, or at least close to it. Half the words out of your mouth make no sense, just babbles of his name and half-slurred ‘I love you’s.

Your hands scratch down his back, never making purchase, never breaking the skin despite your attempts (and much to Clark’s dismay, he loves being marked by you, reminders that he’s yours just as much as you’re his).

Clark has surpassed every man you’ve ever been with, in skill, size and stamina. You thought it would be over after he came, thought it was just average human male biology.

Once again, Clark proves himself to be above and beyond average.

He can go for three, some nights even four rounds. Half the time he doesn’t even break a sweat, he fucks like he’s superhuman. He fucks like it’s what he was made for, specifically like he was made for you.

He tells you as much. His words saccharine and sinful.

“This is everything, you’re everything.” He murmurs against your neck, grinding deeper than you thought possible.

“Never wanna leave you, gonna stay right here, forever.” You believe him. You honestly believe he would spend the rest of his life inside you, you would let him.

“They didn’t deserve you, didn’t know how to touch you. Properly.” He laments, as if you even still think about them, as if you could remember their names when he’s this deep.

“Always gonna make you feel good, always gonna put you first.” He promises, and despite your better judgement, you believe him when he says that too.

You tighten around him, again, and again and again. You moan his name until you’re blue in the face. Wrap your legs around his waist and even though every part of your body feels like it’s on fire, you pull him closer. You kiss him hard, and tell him to cum deep.

Clark has ruined you, if he ever ended things you’d be forced to join a nunnery or risk spending the rest of your life comparing everyone else to him. Then you look in his eyes, and see the future you’re still too scared to talk about out loud, and think that you have nothing to worry about.

He pushes you over the edge again. Apologizing for it.

“I’m sorry Honey, I’m so sorry, I know it’s a lot.” Clark’s like a man possessed. Your cunt is so wet and sticky he almost slides out every time he draws back. He wipes the tears from your cheeks, and presses the softest kiss to your lips.

“Just one more, c’mon baby, one more.” You give it to him. body tensing at his command, you don’t even try to fight it this time, you know it’s no use. Clark the immovable object, your orgasm the unstoppable force.

You asked him why one night, after he had cleaned you up and rolled you into his arms.

“I’m making up for lost time.” He said, kissing the top of your head. It’s almost a gentleman’s answer, but you know better. You know the real answer, he says it everytime, right before he falls over that last edge. When he’s too lost in pleasure to pretend like he’s doing this just for your benefit.

“I love that I’m the only one who can make you feel like this.”

It’s usually what sends you over the edge, for the real last time.

You love it too.

The chronicles of Clark Kent and MY poorly hidden overstimulation kink <3

Thank you for reading my friends!!!

Masterlist

[sammyslittledoll]

pairing : Clark Kent x Reader. warnings : sexual content. overstimulation, squirting, dacryphilia, praise kink, p in v, doggy style, unprotected sex, creampie. porn with no plot. 18+ only !!

˚⋅౨ৎ Clark Kent when you're overstimulated...

your thighs are trembling indecently hard, threatening to give out under the force of Clark's thrusts, his bruising grip on your hips being the only thing which holds you in place for him to fuck— ass up, legs spread wide open to accommodate his broad hips in between your thighs, your face smushed into the pillow beneath your head.

"Clarkie—" you whine, your voice all sweet and fucked-out making his cock throb inside your pussy as he shushes you gently. " I know, baby, I know. But you're doin' so good f'me, makin' me so fuckin' proud. Just a little longer, yeah ?" he coos, picking the pace up again, his cock— thick, hard and gifted with the kind of intimidating girth that stretches you till you're aching— driving deeper into your soaked pussy with every forceful pump of his hips.

His dick pounds into your sweet spot with pin-point precision, your moans loud and shameless, mingling with tiny little sniffles that slip that past your lips as tears of overstimulation dampen the pillow under you, your hands scrabbling uselessly against the sheets when he starts fucking you harder.

"M'gonna cum again." you whine and he moans behind you, his hips stuttering for a second, like even the thought of you soaking his dick with another climax is driving him crazy, his cock thickening even more inside you until you can every singular bulging vein wrapped around his shaft dragging against your tight walls. " Y-yeah ? So fuckin' pretty when you're spoilt stupid on my cock, f-fuuuck. Give it t'me sweetheart, c'mon." he groans, jackhammering into you with renewed lust until you squirt, a sudden, wet gush of your arousal soaking his cock, your thighs and the fucking sheets, making you scream— high-pitched and pornographic, his eyes rolling back at the sound.

"Holy shi—" Clark starts, his words cutting off with a deep moan as buries himself to the hilt inside your slick, clenching walls and cums, spurts of release— hot and thick— filling you up until it drips back out around his cock, making an even bigger mess down your thighs.

Your legs finally give out as you collapse, your brain successfully pounded into an empty mess. You're ready to drift off, exhaustion making your limbs heavy and your eyelids flutter when you feel it.

A small, barely perceptible thrust that turns into Clark fucking into you again with small nudges of his hips that force his cum back into your pussy— thoroughly used and clenching weakly around his shaft. "But you said—" you whimper, your voice slurred and barely coherent. "I know baby. But I need to make you squirt like that again. Just one more time, I promise." he says, his voice soft and coercive.

And you know he's lying.

a/n : my first time writing for this God of a man. please be nice <3. and I am officially writing for Clark Kent now. if anyone would like to be added to the taglist for the same please don't hesitate to let me know <3 taglist : @y0inked, @castielsonlyangel, @zenoxl, @bowxs.

[luveline]

𝗜 𝗞𝗻𝗼𝘄, 𝗜 𝗞𝗻𝗼𝘄, 𝗜 𝗞𝗻𝗼𝘄

You confess your affections to an unsuspecting Superman, but your best friend Clark can’t know about your crush, okay? You’d die of embarrassment. (Or, Clark falls in love while Superman does most of the wooing.) fem, 8k

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

You never thought you’d get to talk to Superman. You've never been in that kind of danger, and you never hoped to be. You hadn’t wanted to talk to Superman because you know this is weird. You can’t have a crush on someone you don’t know. It’s idol worship, a celebrity fixation, and Superman is the perfect target. You’re not alone in loving everything about him —it’s easy. You aren’t ever confronted with the bad in his good. 

And then he’s standing in front of you with his hands braced on your shoulders, and there’s blood running down your face from your temple and you’re crying, because it hurts, because you’re in the panic of your life and not sure what to do next. 

He frowns at you with an unwavering gentleness. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, “take a deep breath, ma’am. Deep breath.” 

“It’s bl– bleeding.”

“I know.” 

You shudder through tears as Superman brings his cape up and rips. It startles you, sending fat tears plinking down your cheek. You hold your breath as he brings his scrap to your face, dabbing the wetness from your cheeks before turning the fabric and holding it to your temple firmly.

You gasp painfully under his touch, desperate for air.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice a new shade, “it’s alright, you’re going to be fine, I promise. I’m gonna press this to your head, and we’ll see if we can get this bleeding stopped. As soon as it does, I’ll take you down and we can get you some real help.” 

You nod, skittish as a scared deer, eyes as wide as they’ll go to follow his movements. It doesn’t hurt any more than the injury itself as he presses down on your head wound. He sighs in sympathy anyway. A broad hand spreads behind your back, familiar in a way, or maybe it’s the way he’s talking to you now. Like he knows you as you know him. 

The photos of him online don’t do him justice. 

“It’s not bad. I know it hurts, but,” —his hand finds your shoulder, squeezes lightly— “it’s because it’s so high up, alright? They always bleed more. It doesn’t mean this is anything to worry about beyond fixing you up and getting you some pain relief.” 

“You– you’re real help.” 

He holds your gaze. “Yeah?” 

You wonder if he can feel the heat of your blush. It’s all over. He’s lucky your head wound doesn’t start spurting. “Yeah– yeah, I– Superman.” 

His smile is everything. “What?” he asks patiently. 

“I’m a big fan of– of yours.” 

“You are?” 

“You’re so brave,” you breathe out in a rush, though it hurts your head. “So brave. And– and…” 

“Sorry,” he murmurs, putting a little more pressure on your temple. “Thank you for being a fan. All I want is to keep everyone safe.” 

“You’re so gentle with everyone, even the aliens, and– you’re pretty…” 

“Pretty?” he asks, pure surprise in his voice, his hand falling off of your arm. 

You wince. “Yeah. Yes. Handsome. Sorry, you must get told that so much.” 

“It’s okay. I won’t hold you to anything you say. You’re injured, after all.” 

His teasing tone pretty much flies over your head. “No, I’m not lying. I mean it. You’re really lovely, and what you do, it makes you lovelier, it does–” You nearly choke on your enthusiasm. He has to know.

“Don’t get wound up, I’m sorry. I believe you. Let’s try to stay calm.” 

Your head is aching in a new way, now. Less the sting of a wide cut, more beating, like a whirl in your own brain twisting and shaking, dizziness alive behind your eyes and threatening to knock you over. You clutch at Superman’s arm and he knows what you need, slipping his free arm behind your back before you can collapse. 

“I don’t usually get crushes on people,” you inform him. “But it was hard not to get one with you. You’re even nicer than I thought you’d be.” 

“It’s easy to be nice to you. Easy as breathing.” 

Superman hugs you. You swear he does. But when the concussion begins to clear up and your confusion wanes in a hospital bed outside of the battle zone, you realise that he was holding you upright. Superman doesn’t know you, he never will, and you’re okay with it in the grand scheme of things. If you had to meet him, you’re glad it was while he was keeping you safe. He really is a good guy. 

—

A week later, Clark Kent is waiting for you at the doors to the Daily Planet. 

“Are you sure you don’t need more rest?” he asks, forcibly removing your handbag from your shoulder to carry himself.

“I’m sure.”

“It’s okay if you need more time to recover. You’re still wearing a dressing.” 

“It’s a bandaid, Clark, and it’s to hide the scar for now, it’s–”

“It’s still a wound.” 

“It’s fine! You saw it, you know it’s fine.” 

Your overbearing best friend had surprise-visited you the day after your injury despite a text to tell him to stay home. You’re fine. It was a cut and the mildest concussion you could’ve had. You didn’t throw up, or collapse, you’d simply gotten confused and bled all over Metropolis’ finest super hero until his hands were more red than white.

“It looked awful, it still does.” 

“It looks fine. Even the nurse said it was a small cut, in an unfortunate place.”

“Very unfortunate.” 

You follow him to the elevator bank with a frown. “Clark, you don’t have to sulk.” 

“I’m not sulking! I just don’t see what’s wrong with staying in bed for now.” 

“I have stuff to do, babe. I have to work. I have to move forward, it barely hurts anymore.” 

He likes being called babe, simpering accordingly. “Well, you’re sitting down all day. Doctor’s orders.” 

“Show me your oath and I’ll consider it.” 

“Please?” 

He looks like he could cry. Not that he will, but like he could if you keep saying no to him. And despite all your grievances with being treated like you’re fragile now, you decide to take it easy, if only to give Clark the peace of mind. “Okay, sure. You can wait on me all day.” 

“Yes. Thank you.” 

Clark’s your best friend because —no matter how much it might confuse you— he seems to really love you, maybe from the moment he met you. You started at the Daily Planet and he took to you like a duck takes to water. Everything you said made him laugh, every recipe you wrote was one he had to try. And you figured it was something boys tend to do, right? Pretend you‘re interesting until they get what they want from you, but Clark’s never asked for anything else, loving you wholly and expecting nothing in return. 

You let him swing an arm around your shoulders, a mirror of himself those few nights ago where he’d come shaky and sorry to see you. He apologised for not being there when you got hurt, as if he could’ve stopped it. 

“I’m sick of working already,” you say. 

“Then let’s go home.” 

“Clark. I’m being conversational.” 

“Don’t tease me,” he pleads, sounding all sudden and whiney. You squirm out of his arms to poke his side. Gets more solid by the day. Idiot boy. 

“Have you been working out?” 

“Can you stop?” 

“Can I stop? You’re a nightmare.”

Clark threatens to superglue you to your deskchair, but he titters around you hopelessly all day. 

— 

You’re laying on the gravel roof of your apartment on top of a sun lounger, trying to decide if getting some sun is worth all the noise. Beeping, birds, cars, doors, the wind, this high up and occasionally curving through buildings to kiss your skin —noise, noise, noise. Your phone is ringing while you ignore it, desperate to get through the last chapter of your book without interruption. You have thus far been foiled, and figured nobody’d be able to find you up here. 

The quick, awful zip of a high impact sounds somewhere close. You nearly topple from your lounger, a hand pressed to your chest, your heart racing near painfully at the surprise. You whip your head to the horizon looking for smoke, but there’s nothing. For a few minutes, you can’t hear anything at all. 

The shape of him descends before your mind can catch up. Then, he’s there in one piece. A touchable dream, Carol Ann Duffy at work and torturing you in passing. You’ve seen a ton of photos of him, hundreds, videos of girls recording to ask him sweet questions, and you’ve never seen him smile so shyly. You shiver violently down your arms, but Superman isn’t here to hurt you. 

“I’ve been looking for you.” 

“You were?” you ask.

“I wanted to make sure you were doing okay.” 

You sit up properly. The book in your lap makes a crunching noise that you happily ignore. “I’m fine. I’m fine, did you– You’re here to see if I’m okay?” 

His smile strengthens. “Is that okay?” 

You stammer, “Of course it’s okay!” A flush rises from your chest to your cheeks as he stays there. He’s not leaving until you answer. Holy fuck. “I’m great, Superman. All healed up.” 

“Are you sure? You still have–” He gestures to your bandaid. 

“It’s to keep it clean in the daytime. I take it off before bed.” 

“Does it hurt?” 

“No, of course not.” 

“Why of course not?” 

Your heart makes a funny pulse. Handsome isn’t the right word for him. There’s something special about it, otherworldly, literally, the cut of his jaw somehow sharp and soft at once, his pert nose, his eyes gone light in the sunshine and framed by dark lashes that beg to be touched. You imagine running a fingertip along them, gently brushing them up for no reason at all, and he narrows his gaze at you in your silence. The shorts you’re wearing have you worrying you’re underdressed in his eyes. They’re pajamas, pink with black polka dots and edgings. You’d had the forethought to wear a short-sleeve rather than a vest lest one of your neighbours find themselves up here with the same quiet idea. Superman’s fully clothed in comparison. 

His boots look formidable next to your puppy dog socks. 

“It doesn’t hurt,” you promise, half-lying and uncaring. Superman saved you. He’s perfect, so your head doesn’t hurt. 

“You seem a little flustered, is all.” 

“Oh. Oh, well, it’s hot out, and I’m not like, super used to being in your company. Or any company, um, like yours.” 

“You’ve never met a metahuman?” 

“No, never.” 

“We’re just like everybody else.” 

You laugh. 

“No, really,” he says, idling toward you, red boots treading the gravel down flat. “I’m just like you, you don’t have to be nervous.” 

“Sorry.” 

“Now what do you have to be sorry for?” 

You laugh again, a giggle you’d never admit to. He’s strangely intimidating; a presence, but not an imposing one.

“What are you reading?” he asks, nodding to your lap. 

“Oh, uh. Uh, it’s called The Ocean?” You straighten up the book to show him the cover. “It’s good, uh, the main character is a young boy who wants to find his father, I think it’s supposed to be a take on The Odyssey,” 

“Why is he looking for his father?” 

“He’s missing after a terrible war. It’s one of those ones that hurts the entire time but the ending has wrapped it up so nicely, it was worth it.”

“Maybe I’ll read it, too. You look like someone who has great taste.” 

“You can borrow my copy.” 

Superman’s gaze narrows again. “You’re finished?” 

“Yeah, I finished it before you got here.” 

He waits in the quiet. You’re sure he’s going to call you out for your lie. It's not as though a Kryptonian truth-radar would be outside of the realm of possibility. 

Superman finally smiles. “I promise to bring it back,” he says simply. 

“Sure. Well, take your time.” 

—

How long can it possibly take a superhero to read one book?

You shouldn't be thinking about it again. Poor Clark is sitting in the corner of the couch with your feet stuck under his thighs, telling you about the grocery store widow who asks him for help to take her groceries out to her car whenever she sees him. She’d spotted him at the produce section today and dibsed him, and Clark doesn’t mind (though she leaves her car at the back of the parking lot no matter the weather). In fact, Clark doesn’t bring it up to complain. He’s sympathising with her, how lonely she must be. 

You try to shake Superman from your head while Clark is talking, but the thoughts of him won’t budge. 

You’d made a fool of yourself on the roof. Superman had taken your book to be polite. He probably won’t come back. 

“Hey.” 

You lift your head. 

Clark’s looking at you. Big blue eyes in a classic face, the line of his glasses dark and heavy against his brow. They trace your expression, searching for the misery you’ve failed to hide, until he finds it in the creases of your eyes. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks. His voice is weak with worry. 

“Nothing.”

“It’s something.”

“It’s really not.” 

“It definitely is. You can tell me about anything, you know. Or you don’t have to tell me, but I’ll be here for you no matter what. Some food for thought.” 

“Food for thought. Eat this, Kent,” you say, jabbing him at the top of the thigh with your heel. 

Clark grabs your foot. “Come on. I know something’s wrong, and I don’t understand why you wouldn’t tell me, but…” He lets your foot smack down into the top of his thigh to grab his tea instead.

“Isn’t that cold?” you ask. 

“It’s tepid,” he allows after a sip.

You laugh, so he laughs. It’s a lovely sound.

“Again. Again, you don’t have to tell me what’s wrong, but I’d listen if you wanted me to.”

“Don’t try and make out like you’re not keeping secrets.” 

Clark goes slack-jawed. “Sorry?” 

“You don’t tell me everything. I know exactly where you disappear to all the time.” 

“You do?” 

You climb up on your knees and settle in front of him. You’re wearing those pink polka dot shorts like you were on the roof with Superman, in hopes they’ll summon him to you like a talisman. Clark presses his lips together, watching you closely as you take his face into your hands. 

“You’re dating Lois Lane,” you say. 

His fingers dust your elbow. “What?” 

“You’re sweet on her, aren’t you? Plus, you’re busy all the time. You’ve cancelled movie night three times this month, did you know?” 

“I’m sorry–”

“I’m not. I’m happy for you.” 

Clark shakes his head. “But Lois and I… I mean, not for months. We were almost something, I think, but no. Not for a while.” 

You let your hands fall off of his cheeks. “Oh. Sorry, Clark.” 

“Don’t be. I should’ve told you, but it was new and then it was over.” 

“You should’ve told me,” you agree, “but I sort of get why you didn’t. I’m your girl best friend. That’s a thing.”

“You’re my best friend,” he promises, no ‘girl’ prefix necessary. “That’s not why it ended, Lois isn’t like that. It was… we disagreed on so many things. Looking back, I think she was right about most of it.”

“Well, she’s a girl.”

“That she is. You’re all the same, aren’t you? All dazzling.” 

He says it with an earnestness that reminds you of the other half of your friendship-equation. Clark’s your best friend because he loves your work and your jokes and your company, and you’re his best friend because he’s good as gold, inside out, just awfully lovable.

“You’re ’dazzling’ too,” you say. “You are.”

Clark offers you his mug of tea. You take a sip for something to do. 

“Not that cold,” you murmur. 

“I never realised you were such a liar.” 

“I don’t really lie to you, Clark.” 

He leans up to kiss your head, chaste against your purpling scar. “I know.”

—

“So, this book–”

You jump hard enough to send your groceries five different ways, oranges and kiwis for Clark flying up in the air. They never hit the ground —Superman catches them in two hands. 

Your loaf of bread lays cradled in his arm like a baby. 

“Fuck,” you complain. 

“I’m sorry.” Superman laughs at you. Laughs. “Sorry. But this book, is there a sequel?” 

“What?” you ask. Superman tips your groceries into your waiting paper bag. 

“I think I need a sequel.” He pulls The Ocean from a pocket and squeezes it unkindly. “I think it ruined my life.” 

“There’s no sequel. But–” don’t spoil the ending for me, you almost say. “Did you enjoy it at all?” 

“It was good. Do you read a lot, or are you down to the real heart-achers?” 

“Uh, I guess. Well, no, I used to read more, but I didn’t have time for a while ‘n now I’m usually too stirred up to settle down.” 

“You cook.” 

You blink. “You googled me?” 

“No, how could I? But I did see you on the third page of the Daily Planet. You have a little author’s window. You made pumpkin pie.”

“For Thanksgiving weekend, yeah. They only ever put me near the front or on the main page of the website if it’s the holidays.” 

“Is that true?” 

You shake your head. Not to say no, to say, let’s not talk about it. Silly insecurities are unnecessary conversation. At least, they are with him. 

Someone gasps from behind you. With one comes a few. The people near the crosswalk are starting to notice Superman’s tall figure standing in the sun, and though you’d wish he’d managed to hide in the shadows, you admit to yourself that there’s nowhere else he could ever be. He looks right in the sun. 

“Do you want to come with me?” he asks. 

Do you want to go with him? What the fuck does he think? said in your head ecstatically, not a lick of derision against him. Your excitement nearly blinds you. 

“Yeah,” you say, practically mumbling, wanting to come off nonchalant and instead sounding painfully shy, even to your own ears. 

“Yeah?” He offers an arm. “Come here.”

Your charmed little laugh makes him grin. “Alright?” he asks, locking an arm around you vice-tight. 

“Where are we–”

The air leaves your lungs in one fell swoop. There and gone, breathless and weightless in tandem.

The sky is more than blue when you’re in it. 

There’s nothing you can say about it. You’re terrified Superman is going to drop you, you can hardly breathe from the sudden speed at which you’d been taken up with him, but beyond that, there’s nothing to say. Wordless, endless sky. Blue, blue—

“It’s not as scary as you think, right?” he asks, his head angled down to yours. 

“I expected you to have to shout. I don’t know why.” 

“It’s windier in the air, but we’re close. I don’t need to yell.” 

“You’re lucky I didn’t get many groceries.” 

“You aren’t heavy.” 

You’re delighted. “This is a paper bag, you realise! I’m surprised it didn’t explode the second you got me up here!” 

“I’ll be careful. You’re precious cargo, and you deserve a better experience now than the one you got when you first came up here with me.”

“I don’t remember much of it.” 

“That’s okay. I do.” 

You should feel ridiculous, but strong arms hold you steady. Blue eyes like someone familiar pour over your face, as though they need to see you clearly, with all this perfect light. Your few groceries are squeezed between your chests as you squeeze him by the neck, desperate for the extra security, that he won’t simply let you go, and have you fall. 

“This is amazing,” you breathe, your eyes sweeping down to take in beautiful Metropolis beating away beneath you. The cars look like ants. The buildings cast shadows you’d never noticed from the ground. 

“Yeah,” he says. “It’s something.” 

You glance up to find him still staring at you. 

The girls on SuperClub would never, ever believe you if you tried to tell them what passes between you, then. (Not that you frequent SuperClub. Often. You see it while scrolling, and you tend to scroll past it with a fond eye roll.) They wouldn’t believe that Superman brings his hand to your head to touch your temple, as though your small scar is a personal affront to him. They wouldn’t believe the way that he pauses when you shudder. Wouldn’t believe how he lets his fingertip tumble down your cheek, or the soft incline of his head. The slightest kiss of his eyelashes meeting in the very corners of his eyes as they almost close. 

“Don’t feel guilty, please,” you say. 

“What?” He sounds as though he’s woken up from a nap. 

“About what happened. It wasn’t your fault that I got hurt. I wanted you to know that. You saved me.” 

Superman lets the distance between your two faces grow. “I…”

“If this is what that is, if you feel like you owe me something, well. You don’t… I don’t know you, Superman, but sometimes I think I do. It’s like… someone I've met before? I can see your bleeding heart.” You offer a brash smile. “But I’m just fine. You promised me that I would be, and I am.” 

“You’re not making this any easier for me.” 

You shift in his grasp, his hair tickling you and the little hairs on your arms. 

“I’m not a very easy person,” you say. 

Superman presses his nose to your cheek. 

“I think you’re giving me tachycardia,” you whisper.

He hears it. Doesn’t answer for a while, and when he does, it’s to neither of the things you said before.

“Let me take you somewhere new,” he says.

—

A day later, Clark asks if he can bring you dinner. Like and unlike himself, to care enough to ask but to forgo his usual boisterous lack of respect when it comes to taking care of you. Clark recognises that you like to be cared for aggressively. That you want someone to care so much that they won’t stop at the first hurdle. You want someone to take it at a sprint, and Clark’s a show off loser-dork who likes taking care of you. 

He meets you at the door, where you show him your small picnic basket kitted with two plates, knives, forks, and a hidden dessert. “Too hot in my apartment,” you say. 

“What’s wrong with the AC?” 

“It’s leaking.” 

“I’ll take a look at it. What happened to that fan I got you?” he asks, his fingers at your wrist trying to steal the basket. 

“Oh, Clark, can’t you just leave me alone?” you plead. 

He laughs like a kid. “I love when you do that.”

“What?” 

“I don’t know, is it sarcasm? I don’t think that’s apt. Whatever it is, when you act like that? You’re really convincing. It’s funny.”

“I can be funny.”

“I know, that’s what I’m saying. You’re really funny. Can you do it some more?”

“Now it’s not natural, though.” 

“Please?”

“Leave it alone, Clark. You’re such a beg.” 

He laughs again. It peters off to a quiet you’d like to live in. His takeout bag rustles, your picnic basket rattles, his fingers brushing the back of your arm as he follows you down the street to the wooded path. 

There’s a small park not far from your apartment that’s been divided into two halves. The playground for the neighbourhood kids, and the picnic tables made of strangely shaped wood. They’re all rounded. One table is shaped like an ‘S’. Another like a filled in ‘8’. 

You sit at the one furthest from the playground, coincidentally shaped like a ‘C’. “For Clark,” you say, pleased. 

“Adorable.” 

You set up your plates, dividing up the food squarely. Clark had the wherewithal to bring two cans of soda and a big bottle of water. He asks which one you want, cracking it open accordingly. “Gonna pour it into my mouth, too?” you tease. 

“Do you not want me to be nice to you?” 

And the night slips away. You eat your takeout at the picnic table and linger until your legs are numb. The grass around the park is damp, but you sit, and you shoot the breeze until the sun starts to go down. It must be hours out there together. 

Clark takes his jacket off and spreads it over your shoulders. “This is your only bad trait,” he says happily. “You never tell me when you’re cold.”

“I’m not that cold.”

“Sure you’re not. Look, come here,” —he pulls you bodily into his side, his voice turning silky as angora— “you act like you’re such a plague, like– I don’t know, like I wouldn’t wanna know that you’re cold.”

“I don’t act like that.” 

“You do. You could rely on me for more, you know? I want you to lean on me.” 

You lean on him.

Clark presses his nose to your temple, his glasses digging into your skin.

And you think, I know you. 

But you don’t know why. 

—

Clark can't believe this is happening again. 

He woke up this morning with a scary yet firm plan: he’s going to get himself together, pluck up what he has in the way of courage, and be honest with you about Superman. If only so he can stop lying to you. He should’ve told you months ago that he was Superman. Hell, he might’ve told you from the moment he met you, that’s how sure he was that he’d love you. As a friend —his best friend, half of his life. There’s this ease, like he’s known you for far longer than he truly has, like he could know you for the rest of his life. 

And lately. 

Oh, lately. Clark can’t get a handle on things. He hadn’t realised he was falling in love with you, isn’t even sure that’s the way to describe it; far from a sharp plummet downward into love, this has felt like a slow and steady ascent, but now suddenly he’s at the mountain top and the air is thin, and he’s looking for you, aching for relief, and you’re sitting in the snow with your book and your shy smile, cross-legged, just waiting for him to get there and open his cowardly mouth. 

Or that’s what he’d like to think. 

Fact of the matter is, Clark would like to kiss you. Hold your hand, have your head rest on his shoulder. He’d like to pull you into his lap and squeeze. Clark could die happy if he got just one shot at it, no matter the outcome. 

He knows he won’t lose you, but he’s worried you don’t want what he wants. He’s gotten so close to having you, he’s not sure he can take being any further apart than this. 

Clark takes the tramline to the rich part of the city with the best florist. There are buckets and buckets of flowers; orange tiger lilies and white orchids turned green in the sun; roses as big as his fist, unfurling; sweet peas kissing pinkest camellias all tangled up with baby’s breath. He chooses the sweet peas. They really are sweet, their hemmed edge petals curling in and nearly blue. They’re beautiful. He can see them in a glass on your nightstand by tonight if he’s lucky.

It’s on the walk to your apartment (tramline too busy to risk, lest your flowers get hurt) that the trouble begins. 

The light goes out. 

It doesn’t make logical sense. He’s outdoors. It’s the early morning, the sun should be shining for hours to come. 

He looks up and finds a singular dark rectangle over Earth. 

It blots out everything, disapears the clouds, turns the blue sweetpeas in his hand a tired shade of grey. 

Clark wonders if he should’ve told you how he felt when he had the chance. Then, he leaves his glasses, his jacket, and his sweetpeas in the hedgerow at the park with alphabet picnic tables and throws himself upwards into the sky.

—

What emerges from the spaceship (and it is a spaceship, made of an element humans aren’t want to touch) are creatures shaped like spinning asterisks, wisps of their angel-white bodies bending the shadows they’ve cast down onto Metropolis. It’s like smoke. 

The dark makes it hard to breathe. 

You sit huddled in your bedroom looking out through the window, despite a desperate urge to hide somewhere further inward. Sirens echo throughout otherwise quiet streets, discordant wailing that wavers for long, sharp minutes. There had been screaming and crying and the splintering sounds of glass. It’s not —not unseeable, out there, but anyone with poor vision will find themselves stranded.

You open your phone. Your theory is that the aliens have been able to dampen sound as well as sun, leaving the battlefield dangerously quiet. Clark’s not answering your texts because he never has his phone, but you’re sure he’s out there somewhere. He told you he was coming. The last message he sent this morning blinks at you from the bottom of your screen: Coming by soon if you’re not busy, do you want me to bring breakfast? 

You’d said, just some eggs please if you want eggs 

You’d said, hey, are you safe? What’s with the dark? 

You’d said, clark please text me back right now, I’m freaking out, do you need me to come get you? 

He won’t answer the phone. Outside, up in the sky where it’s darker still and the white shadows have begun to ripple, the occasional red beam of heat slices into whiteness, turning it to shadows again. There are two sets of red if you watch carefully. Green light flickers at the ground. 

And Clark Kent is out there all alone. 

You crawl to your shoes under the bed and put them on, pajamas and all. Clark’s blue hoodie lays on the back of your deskchair. You shrug it on. 

He’s gonna lose his entire mind if you do find him out there. Can friends ground you? Because Clark’s going to ground you. But you’d rather be grounded than all alone. 

—

Superman groans into the floor, his tongue coated in dust. 

He has far better vision than a person feasibly needs. He wore a pair of glasses once that are supposed to approximate what it’s like to have legal blindness, and he’d felt suddenly, achingly sorry for the human race. But then he’d found the glasses stand beside it with all their different prescriptions and shrugged it off. Humans are brilliant. He’s in awe of their persistence, their resilience, and their strength. He knows he can find it in himself to go on because they can, too. 

He has better vision, and still he finds himself batted away from the entities like a bothersome fruit fly. 

“Krypto?” he asks into the smog. 

His borrowed dog flies at him with impressive speed, pressing his snout straight into a bruise. 

“Ow!” 

Krypto snuffles and hits at his arms with both paws. 

“Krypto, stop! Jeez, stop. You’re such a pai– Ow! Get off.” 

Krypto nibbles his shoulder. 

Clark forces himself to sit up. At least he hasn’t killed the dog. Kara would probably eviscerate the planet country by country if something happened to her dog, not mentioning the aliens that started this whole thing. And he is good at bringing the suit when Clark needs it. 

He rubs at his eyes and drags himself to his feet, back aching, eyes like sand. Nothing is healing because he can’t feel the sun, but he’s not too hurt. He can take a bad landing. He can take twenty of them. 

“Krypto, stay.” 

Krypto tilts his white blurry head. 

“You’re not helping.” 

Arf! Clark rolls his shoulders and shoots back into the air. 

Krypto stays down, for now. 

Clark takes a lap through the air, searching for signs of life with his ears. The eery quiet is beginning to fill with catastrophe.

“Clark?” 

He stops dead in the sky. 

“Clark?” you call, ten miles below him, shouting all clipped and scared. “Clark Kent! Are you out here? If you can hear me, call back to me!”

He says your name.

“Clark? I’m here!” 

Clark looks up into melted-sugar shadows as they begin to curdle and makes a choice. Damn the aliens, they can have the sky, so long as Clark gets to keep you safe. 

He has to keep you safe. 

—

You’re watching a shadow plummet toward you when the sky opens up into shards of Technicolor. Concentrated around a single point of red and blue and moving so fast it turns puce.

—

There’s a scene in The Ocean where the main character realises his father has been dead before the beginning of the book. Dead for years. He goes searching for him because he’s scared to be alone, brave enough to realise it, and young enough to misunderstand the danger of the world. He treks sandbanks, ferries favour, turns in promises and follows the footsteps of a man long dead across the world. Clark told you once, privately, quietly, in a moment that immediately panicked him, that his parents had adopted him, and that his birth parents had left him with a letter after they both died.

What did it say? you’d asked. 

To be good. 

You find your copy of The Ocean cradled in familiar hands. You recognise its secondhand cover, the bends in the front where a previous owner had tented it for a long period of time. The spine is loose and lax with age. The pages are yellow with time. 

Clark is sleeping quietly in the plastic-wrapped chair beside your bed. He doesn’t have a bruise or cut. He doesn’t look anything like Superman had as he’d flung himself at you, two seconds too late, his body a shield against an explosion that lit your body with fire and colour alike. The whole world had been red, and then yellow, and suitably blue. There was pain. 

Not a darkness as people often say. Just hurting and now this. 

You take a scary breath. Hitching and pained, you search for comfort and find none of it. There’s a needle in the back of your hand secured with a teddy bear wrapping. The sheets have been drawn to your chin and choke you as you try to sit. 

After a moment of struggling, you sink back and try for another breath. Deep, aching breaths. You do it until your lungs burn, these awful, stringing breaths, eyes to the ceiling and fighting the spots of nothingness that cloud your vision. 

“Hey,” a soft voice says, softer hand pressed to the curve of your neck. “Oh, hey, sweet girl, hey… it’s okay. The pain won’t last, they gave you a little more morphine a few minutes ago, it’ll kick in.” 

“Uh–”

Clark makes a sound. “Oh.” 

You let your eyes slide to him. He’s checking his wrist where it’s resting on you. 

“I was sleeping for a long time, I… Honey, I’ll get a nurse.” 

“No,” you breathe. 

“Yeah, honey, I’ll get a nurse,” he repeats, stroking your neck with his thumb. His eyes are their usual calm blue, bearing down into your own with an emotion that’s somehow palpable and implacable. “It’s no good, you being in pain like this. I’ll come right back.” 

“Clark, don’t go,” you whine. 

It’s like the world has been placed heavy on your head. 

Clark offers you relief. “I won’t go if you don’t want me to. Tell me what’s hurting, and I’ll fix it.” 

You shake your head at him. Fuck, nothing hurts. It’s not pain you’re being smothered in. 

“Okay,” he murmurs.

For a while, you don’t talk. Clark stays stooped over you, too tall and careful anyhow to stay out of your light. He holds your cheek, rubbing at skin with his thumb until it’s tickled into numbness, your body begging you to move away from his touch and your brain knowing you can’t. You’ll never duck away from his fingertips ever again. 

Where he’d been unhurt, he isn’t unharried. His hair is in a complete disarray, curls in places pulled straight and greasy behind his ears. His face is pale. His eyes flicker obsessively between you and your monitor, as though he can decipher the information it displays. He must see something there that he trusts, sitting down again in the chair dragged quick and easy to the side of your bed. His hand stays at your face. He’s long. It’s simple work. 

“You read The Ocean,” you whisper. 

“I read all your annotations, too,” he tells you, turning his hand to run it down your cheek, his fingernails especially silky against the line of your jaw. 

You turn your face toward his touch. Your eyes flutter closed as he indulges your deepest fantasy. 

“I didn’t–” Oh, you can’t say it. You hadn’t meant to want him like this. You hadn’t known he was Superman, and isn’t that awful? Something cruel. Your best friend kept a worst secret. 

He doesn’t rush you. 

You’re ready to try again a few minutes later. His fingertips have started to draw a flower into your neck. 

“I’m embarrassed that Clark knows what I said to Superman,” you say plainly. 

“Superman didn’t tell Clark anything,” Clark says. His voice is light in contrast to your hesitancy. 

“But you know it all.” 

“I know you,” he agrees. 

“I’m really… sorry. I’m sorry, I–” You search for his touch and he immediately cups your cheek again. “Clark, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come out looking for you. I didn’t realise you could look after yourself and I made things worse.” 

“Do you even remember?” he asks. 

Mildly. You’d woken once before and found a less fixed Clark covered in blood above you. A part of you had understood that it was Clark, even without his glasses, and a different part knew it was Superman. Then things had blurred, half-replaced by a memory of his hand behind your back in the middle of a meadow halfway across the world, that beautiful quiet valley where the water had been ice and the grass emerald velveteen under your legs. 

In the dream, Superman (and this had been real until it wasn’t), turned to you, and said, with Clark’s dorky intonation, “That’s seriously beautiful, huh?”  

“You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“But–”

“You don’t. I won’t argue about it with you. You have no apologies to make, you did everything right and nothing wrong, and I lied to you, and I got you hurt, and…” He has the gall to pink in the cheeks, like you’ve taken the skin between your knuckles and pinched. “I wasn’t honest with you about my feelings. I almost kissed you as Superman, and that wasn’t fair.” 

“You really are… him?” you ask weakly. 

“Yeah, I am.” 

Clark sits up as a doctor opens your room’s door. 

“Everything okay?” she asks. When she sees you awake, she smiles broadly. “Hey, you’re up! Can we get you some dinner now?” 

“You skipped breakfast,” Clark tells you. 

“I was awake for breakfast?” 

“Barely. We had you on some pretty gnarly painkillers,” the doctor says. She adjusts her white coat. “I just wanted to check in with your nurses and your lovely partner here that you hadn’t thrown up again.” 

You flush. “I’m fine.” 

Clark simply rubs your chest like a wave of his hand against your heart. 

“I’m worried you haven’t gotten enough sustenance this past day, but we try not to hook you up with too many things,” the doctor explains, “much better for you to settle and then eat. And to drink some water!” 

“I don’t feel very hungry.” 

“The painkillers you’re on can make some people feel quite sick. But try your best, okay? I’ll come back after dinner to see what we can do about those broken fingers.” 

You follow your arm down to your hand. Your pinky and ring finger on the non-dominant hand have been splinted but not casted. 

“Oh.” 

The doctor takes her leave, abandoning Clark to your questions. 

“What’s wrong with me?” you ask. 

“You got concussed again. It made you sick, and your hand is very nearly broken, but they think it’s just your fingers from the look of your x-rays. And you have a long cut.” He puts his hand on your stomach gently. “Here. Almost as long as your arm, but it’s a surface cut. You landed on debris. I’m sorry, my– honey. Sorry.” 

You can’t fight the chills or your bewilderment. “What for?”

“I didn’t get to you fast enough.” 

“Clark.” Your mouth is dry. He’s pretty. Your head goes round and round and aching and then with a dash of clarity, the world snaps back into place. Your hospital room is empty and bright, with a vase filled to bursting with sweetpeas in pride of place on your nightstand. There are voices drifting in from the hallway, and Clark is handsome even as he tears himself apart. The silver lining his bottom lashes doesn’t go unnoticed. “I’m okay, babe.” 

He laughs wetly. 

“I’m fine,” you promise, quieter now. “How couldn’t I be? You’re so gentle.” 

Clark finds your hand, pulling it to his forehead, his body bending forward like a marionette on loosening strings. He shakes his head vehemently, his grip on your wrist tight but far from cruel. 

“You’re gentle,” you promise under your breath, “I told you that before, didn’t I? You’re kind, and brave, and– it’s not your fault I went looking for you.” 

“I should be comforting you. I should be helping you,” he whispers. 

“You won’t catch me crying on your shoulder twice, Superman.” 

His head flinches up, like he’s realising for the first time that you know who he is. 

Whatever he sees in your face helps him to settle down. He curls long, thick fingers around your hand. You can’t help noting how adversely tender they feel while he holds your hand. 

“What did you think of the book?” you ask finally. 

“I didn’t know you liked to read,” he says. 

You shrug. Let your head fall back into a thin pillow, wondering how you might go about getting a better one, and beginning to feel the effects of the painkillers they’d been talking about. “It’s not like it’s the most alarming secret, between us.” 

He lets out a wounded whine. “Why do you hate me?” he asks. 

“You’re due some hazing.” 

“Can’t you take pity on me?” he asks. 

You curl your fingers around his where they’d otherwise been limp. “I’m not really half as cool as I’m trying to act, Clark.” 

He sulks beautifully. “I think you’re lying to make me feel better.” 

Only a little. 

—

Being cool around Clark Kent lasts about as long as the morphine does. The reality is this: Clark Kent —best friend extraordinaire, sweetheart farm boy who’s vetted all your worst ideas, held your hair back in the smallest toilet in Metropolis bar history after a too-happy happy hour, knows all your holey socks and questionable medical queries— is Superman. 

And Superman? 

He’d been courting you. 

The word is antiquated and accurate. Superman had been cautiously courting you with his sparse visits, shy and brave at once, brash but remarkably put together. It is after you know the truth that you realise Clark had been not so secretly courting you simultaneously. 

“Is that why you were bringing me dinner and stuff?” you ask, lured into the conversation by accident, now deeply curious. 

“No. I did that stuff before I wanted you. It was hard to sort the feelings into boxes, like– platonically, I’ve loved you since you came into the office with your miserable laptop and– and romantically, I don’t know. I guess I didn’t realise until I tried to kiss you and you wouldn’t let me.” 

“Sorry?” 

“I tried to kiss you, and you thought it was a pity kiss.” 

You hold him by the shoulder. “That was real?” 

“Do you dream about it?” he asks knowingly. 

“It was really going to be a kiss?” 

He softens. Clark, big on your smaller couch, in his pajamas with his hair finally washed again and your hand in his lap, rests his shoulder into yours with a long-suffering sigh. “Best kiss of your life,” he promises. 

“Prove it.” 

“What?” 

It’s been four days since the hospital and Clark is horrifically chaste. “Do you not want to kiss me?” 

“You know I do.” 

“So kiss me.” 

He pinches your chin. “If you wanted a kiss, you could’ve just taken one,” he tells you, looking you straight in the eyes. 

“From Superman?” you ask with a little scoff. 

He moves his head from left to right. “From me,” he says. 

There has been so much to tell him. So little space to hide from him. Lines of books you’d underlined for him, lines for Superman, for both of them. The guilty way you’d watched Clark Kent take off his shirt at the public pool in summer heat and the loop of Superman under your thumb as you’d fallen asleep scrolling SuperClub. You’ve been more honest with him than you’ve dared to be previously. 

Clark has repaid you in kind. 

Did you know, he’d confessed, when you were still grody from the hospital and he’d demanded you let him stay, that night, that everything I’m good at is because of the sun? I can function without it. I can store up the energy in my cells and I don’t need much to stretch it far, but without the yellow sun, I’m just like you? 

How could I know that? you’d thought. Why are you telling me this? you’d asked instead.

I want you to know. 

Clark loves the sun, you realise now. He turns his face up to it often, soaking it in silently. He gets this look whenever he stops to take it in. Perfect contentment. Trust, that it will make him feel better. 

Clark tilts his chin against yours, nudging your face gently inward, giving you the shortest glimpse of that content stretched across a smile as it presses into yours.

You hyperventilate your way into an open-mouthed, gasping sort of thing, and find Clark a fiercer kisser than you could’ve imagined. All those daydreams about Superman saving you from another day copyediting your own messes, you’d never thought to picture the boy sitting at the desk across from you, how his hand might slide behind your neck like water. How he’d take the breath from your lips and offer his own in a shaky, wanting gasp. 

Superman, breathless under your touch. No one would ever believe you. 

“Did you want me to tell you how it ends?” 

You break away from him, panting, vaguely confused. “Sorry?” 

“The Ocean? You never finished it.”

“Oh. Maybe you can read it to me. You know, afterwards.” 

Clark grins. “After,” he promises, leaning down for another kiss. 

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

thank u Bec for proofreading ur brains are irreplaceable <3 and thank u everyone else for reading! 

[fear-is-truth]

18+ mdni

having marathon sex with clark kent means discovering the limits of your own body in ways you hadn’t thought to fear.

the man’s an arsenal: super strength, super speed, super hearing, super everything—and that includes the way he fucks. that poor hole of yours stays stretched and drooling for hours, muscles fluttering weakly around the fat girth he keeps buried with near-religious devotion.

you’ve both joked that clark could probably fuck you through a calendar month without blinking…and to be totally honest, he probably could. the same bottomless reservoir of energy that allows him to lift oil tankers and fly transoceanic routes is now solely devoted to ruining your pussy.

clark is gentle, always—but that doesn’t spare you from the fatigue after the sixth(?) round. you’d ride him until your thighs start to tremble, chasing orgasm after orgasm until your hamstrings feel liquefied. and clark, ever the sweet lover, would smile through it: that sweet, dopey golden-boy grin stretched across his stupidly handsome face as he admires you bouncing on him. x-ray vision zeroed in between your legs, he sneaks a few peeks of himself vanish inside you over and over, fat tip pushing past the tight squeeze of your walls and breeching your cervix. his dick stays hard through half a dozen orgasms, doesn’t soften. your body gives out long before his does. throat raw, pussy raw, walls twitching with every pass of his cock. he holds you open, murmurs in that farmboy voice—almost bashful—as he fucks into your limp body like he can’t help it.

he’s learned your limits too well. waits til you slump forward in exhaustion, thighs quivering too hard to hold yourself up, before flipping you onto your back. spreads you open, sinks back in to the hilt. hips snapping with metronomic tempo, each thrust hitting the sweet spot inside you that sends your toes curling.

your orgasm hits sharp with him buried that deep, stuffed full like your womb’s been turned inside out. and he holds there, as if time itself were malleable and meant solely for your pleasure, and the concept of stopping never occurred to him.

this is a man who saves entire worlds.

and your pussy’s the one getting absolutely annihilated.

[kissmxcheek]

Flash & Focus pt.7/?? series masterlist ; part 6

pairing: clark kent x photographer!reader wc: 7k

series description: new to metropolis and the daily planet, you find yourself falling for your deskmate, Clark Kent, who you're convinced will never look your way. a rescue from attempted mugging becomes many late nights spent with superman on your apartment balcony... god why does he seem so familiar?

tags/warnings: fluff, angst, arguing, Lois Lane bff.

a/n: think.. the yellow dress from How to Lose a Guy in 10 Day.. but blue. ok thanks

---

Your apartment was too quiet.

Not peaceful. Not calm. Just still in that heavy, echoing kind of way.

Your camera bag was packed and by the door, ready to ruin your outfit and announce to the world that you were there for work, not because you actually belonged in that shiny, glittering world. Along with it, your press badge.

The dress Lois dropped off after work yesterday clung to you like a memory—cool, weightless, impossible to ignore. Pale blue, almost silver in the lamplight, and it slipped over your skin like water. You adjusted the straps in the mirror without really looking at yourself, then turned to smooth the hem where it kissed your ankle.

The low back crossed at your waist like a secret, like a silky armor.

You stared at your reflection.

Superman had kissed you. Held you. Looked at you like you were made of light and it still hadn’t been enough.

You hugged your arms around yourself, where his had rested yesterday—steady, warm, almost reverent. He’d touched you like he knew your soul. But he hadn’t let you touch his.

He was there, yes. In rooftop silences, in quick rescues, in shared glances that bordered on intimacy. He was always there but he was never really with you.

Not in the way that mattered.

You didn’t know what his apartment looked like, or what time he liked to wake up, or how he drank his coffee—if he drank coffee. You didn’t know what song got stuck in his head, or what his handwriting looked like, or whether he preferred dogs to cats.

You didn’t even know his first name.

But Clark…

You sat down slowly at your vanity, the chair creaking beneath you as you reached for your lipstick with hands that weren’t steady.

Clark.

You knew Clark.

You knew he organized his tie rack by color, but only wore the same four over and over. That he always cracked his knuckles before typing a big story. That he bought two newspapers every morning—one to read and one to underline.

You knew he kept a running list of books he wanted you to read, and always folded down the corner of the page he thought you’d love most.

You knew he kept a plant on his desk that never got enough sunlight, but he watered it every morning anyway—out of hope, or habit, or both.

You knew he called his parents every day on his way to work, even just to ask how the weather was going to be that day.

You knew the way his shoulders relaxed when he heard your voice. The way he softened around you, even when he didn’t realize he was doing it.

You knew him.

And he knew you.

Not just the polished parts. Not the work smile or the confident stride you put on every morning.

Clark knew your silences. Your insecurities. The way you tapped your foot when you were anxious. The way you got quiet when something really hurt. He noticed. He remembered.

He knew what kind of stories you wanted to tell. What kind of journalist you wanted to be. What kind of person you were fighting to become. And he made you feel like that version of you already existed.

Even after he let you down, even after he hurt you, he still knew you.

The lipstick hovered over your lips.

“I think I’m in love with him,” you whispered to your reflection.

It felt like a confession.

You didn’t mean Superman.

You meant the man with ink on his fingers and coffee stains on his sleeves. The one who missed your date and broke your heart and still made you smile even when you swore you were done.

You meant Clark.

Because just being there wasn’t enough.

Being known—really, deeply, truly known—that was love.

And he was the only one who’d ever really seen you.

You reached for your earrings, smiling faintly as you put them on.

And maybe, it wasn’t too late to see him, too.

---

The lobby of your apartment building was dim and quiet, lit only by the orange glow of a buzzing sconce overhead. You stepped outside and closed the door behind you with a soft click, before reaching down for your camera bag—its familiar weight grounding you. Your press badge swung gently from your neck, the Daily Planet logo catching the light as the sun set.

You stepped into the cool evening air and froze.

Clark Kent was waiting by the curb.

He looked taller tonight. Maybe it was the sharp cut of his charcoal-gray suit or the quiet confidence in the way he stood beside the yellow cab. His tie was a deep navy you'd only seen once, instead of the printed ties he often wore at the office. However, it was still slightly crooked in that perfectly Clark way. And in his hands, a bouquet of flowers—white tulips, sweet peas, a few violets.

Your heels clicked against the concrete steps as you approached, slower than necessary.

He looked up and could've sworn he stopped breathing.

His eyes swept over you once, then again, slower. More carefully. He blinked like he wasn’t sure you were real.

The bouquet dipped slightly in his grip.

“You’re…” he shook his head, letting out a breath. “You’re a vision.”

You hesitated at the last step, like he would disappear if you approached any closer. “I thought I was meeting you there.”

Clark straightened, his expression shifting—earnest, steady. “I wanted to do this right,” he said. “I should’ve picked you up last time. Should’ve knocked on your door and told you how honored I was to take you out. I should’ve shown up.”

You didn’t say anything. The city moved around you but all you could hear was your heartbeat in your ears.

He took a step closer, flowers held out between you. “I can’t change what I did. Or what I didn’t do. But I’m here now. And I want to make it up to you,” he said. His voice dipped lower, soft and raw. “Because you deserve that. You deserve someone who shows up.”

Your eyes flicked to the flowers. Then to him.

And even though your guard was still halfway raised, even though the echo of disappointment still lingered in your chest, you took them.

The petals were soft beneath your fingertips. Forgiveness. Vulnerability. A peace offering wrapped in quiet beauty.

“Thank you,” you said, the words barely above a whisper.

A pause stretched between you, warmer this time.

Then you smiled toward him, eyes soft. “You clean up nice.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, gaze flicking down in that boyish way you knew too well. “You’re one to talk,” he said, eyes returning to you. “I’m still trying to remember how to breathe.”

Your stomach fluttered, treacherous and full of hope.

He reached for the door and held it open. “Shall we?”

You stepped inside, the dress brushing against your legs as you slid across the seat. Your camera bag settled at your feet, the press badge swinging from your neck as you adjusted the flowers in your lap.

He rounded the cab and climbed in beside you, shutting the door with a soft click.

The car pulled away from the curb and into the flow of downtown traffic, neon signs and city lights painting the windows in streaks of gold and blue.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Clark’s hands rested nervously in his lap. You glanced sideways and caught him looking again.

“What?” you said, not unkindly.

He smiled a little, eyes warm. “I was just thinking… this feels like a moment I don’t want to mess up.”

You turned to face him fully, flowers still resting in your lap. “Then don’t.”

He blinked, surprised by your honesty, then nodded once. “I won’t.” Clark smiled, a real smile that you hadn't seen for far too long, "I promise."

You looked at him a moment longer, searching his face. His tie really was crooked.

You reached over before you could stop yourself, straightening it with careful fingers.

He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Just watched you, like your touch was something holy.

When you pulled your hand back, his smile had softened.

“I’ve missed this,” he said quietly.

You turned your gaze out the window. “So have I.”

Clark watched you against the blurring Metropolis lights, remembering all the ways he rehearsed this as the words died on his lips.

To get your attention, he reached out for your hand. The contact startled you.

"I-" He searched your eyes for some reassurance. "I want to tell you everything- I will. Tonight."

You smiled, "Okay," and turned back to the window, keeping your hand interlocked with his. You hoped he understood from your touch what you couldn't say with words.

That you loved him, that the wait would be worth it, if his explanation was too.

And for the rest of the ride, the two of you sat close, the space between you humming—not empty, not awkward, but full of the possibility of something beginning again.

---

The annual Metropolis Charity Ball was already in full swing by the time you arrived. You stepped out of the taxi with Clark by your side, matching Daily Planet press badges hanging over your hearts and your camera slung discreetly over your shoulder.

The venue was a converted museum ballroom, high ceilings and golden with old-world charm. The event was complete with glimmering chandeliers, sprawling velvet curtains, marble columns wrapped in lights. The place buzzed with Metropolis elite: politicians, CEOs, a few familiar celebrity faces, and far too many people who had unkind opinions about your work.

You moved through the crowd with practiced ease, your camera in hand. You snapped candid moments: a senator laughing too hard, a tech CEO shaking hands with a movie star, the mayor’s wife adjusting her husband’s lapel with carefully veiled annoyance. You didn’t pose anyone.

In your opinion, real was always better.

When you found Clark, coming towards you with two champagne flutes in hand, you were leaned to get a shot of the mayor shaking hands with the state senator in front of the lively jazz band.

“We’re here for work,” he said, offering you one of the glasses, “but that doesn't mean we can't enjoy ourselves.”

You raised an eyebrow, taking it. “You’re feeling rebellious tonight.”

He chuckled. “Don’t tell Perry.”

You clinked your glass against his, the sound soft and crystalline.

"I won't have to, when you go and tear up the dance floor." You joked through a sip of champagne.

He looked over, uneasy, at the groups of couples dancing to the live band. "I'm...not much of a dancer."

Then you looked up at him. “So.”

He blinked, smiling. “So…?”

You sipped, letting the pause stretch. “So where’s this grand explanation I’m owed?”

There was teasing in your tone, but not all of it.

Clark faltered. “I… Yeah. I know. I just—”

“Excuse me,” a sharp voice cut through, and a small cluster of city hall aides materialized beside you, led by a man with a fake tan and a suffocating bow tie. “You’re the ones from the Planet, right?”

Clark straightened, and you tensed slightly.

“You wrote the piece about the infrastructure delays,” another aide added. “The one that conveniently twisted the mayor's words? The truth?.”

Your smile came slow and sharp. “If by truth, you mean the millions in city funding disappearing into ‘consulting fees’ and six separate delays being blamed on nonexistent supply chain issues, then yeah, I guess we did write that.”

Clark tried not to laugh. He failed.

The first aide’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “It’s cute," he sauntered up to stand inches away from you, "the way you show up here, mingle, thinking you belong because of the plastic tag hanging around your neck.”

Your camera strap shifted on your shoulder as your brows lifted.

The air tightened.

Clark stepped forward, voice calm but firm. “Hey. If you’ve got a problem with the reporting, file a complaint with our editor. Otherwise, maybe try having a drink and not harassing my partner.”

There was steel beneath the word partner, and even you weren’t sure if he meant professional or not.

The aide blinked, thrown off. “Right. Of course. Wouldn’t want to upset the press.” He walked off in a huff, his colleagues following like ducklings in overpriced shoes.

Clark exhaled and looked down at you. “You okay?”

You shrugged. “I’ve been told worse.”

He gave a small smile, but his heart was hammering a little harder than it should have been. God, you were fearless. Sharp without being cruel. And beautiful in a way that made his ribs ache.

Before he could say something—something dumb, something true—a voice to your left caught both your attention.

Senator Lucille Grant. Chair of the city’s public transportation committee. Talking to a lobbyist you didn’t recognize. She was leaning in close, speaking under the music, unaware you were listening.

“…the whole bid was rushed, but he signed off anyway. We told them the concrete wasn’t up to code, but if they’re cutting the ribbon next week, that’s on them.”

Clark’s eyes flicked to you. You already had your phone out, voice memo recording.

He stepped in casually, lifting his press badge. “Senator Grant—Clark Kent, Daily Planet. Mind giving me a quick comment on the mayor’s involvement with the North Corridor expansion?”

She stiffened. “This is hardly the time—”

“You were overheard saying the mayor ignored safety warnings,” you said lightly, almost sing-song. “That sounds important, something civilians deserve to know, wouldn't you agree?"

Senator Grant’s jaw clenched. “Off the record.”

You smiled like a shark. “In a room full of journalists?"

She muttered something about damage control and walked off in a flurry of rich perfume.

Clark turned to you, eyebrows raised. “That was fast.”

“She gave us more in ten seconds than we got two weeks of city hall hearings,” you said. “And look over there—”

You nodded subtly toward the far end of the ballroom, where two construction execs were talking, pale and tense. One of them glanced toward the stage where the mayor was now stepping up.

“They don’t look like men confident in their boss,” you added.

Clark gave a low whistle. “This might be bigger than just a delay.”

“Think we just found our next front page.”

You both turned toward each other at the same time, the noise of the ballroom falling away just a little.

Clark's stare was intense, but his smile matched yours, that of a child's—ecstatic, buzzing.

You cleared your throat, still smiling. “We make a good team Clark,” you said.

His expression softened. “We always did.”

And for a second, the warmth in his eyes wasn’t professional. It was personal. Admiring. A little in awe.

You looked away first, heart thudding.

Then the lights dimmed, and the mayor took the stage and adjusted the mic with a smile polished to a shine.

He opened with the confidence of someone used to applause. “Good evening, everyone. It’s an honor to welcome you to this year’s Metropolis Charity Ball. Thank you for your continued support and generosity—tonight’s contributions will go directly to rebuilding critical infrastructure across the city. Roads, transit, community shelters… we’re making great progress.”

You shared a look of disbelief with Clark.

You raised your camera, snapping a few obligatory shots of the mayor, the crowd, the banners behind him.

“And, of course,” the mayor continued, “we’re grateful for the continued protection and partnership of our city’s greatest hero—Superman.”

Your finger hesitated on the shutter.

You dropped the camera slowly to your side, trying to keep your face still.

The applause rose around you, but your body didn’t move. Your grip on your camera tightened.

Clark shifted beside you.

You didn’t look at him.

The mayor kept talking—something about gratitude, about vigilance, about being one city under the watchful eye of its guardian—but the words had already blurred.

You weren’t sure why it hit so hard.

Maybe it was the mention of Superman in this sea of polished, powerful people. Maybe it was knowing how the world admired him, praised him, trusted him… while you felt so betrayed by him.

Or maybe it was just the memory—his hand on your back, his mouth on yours, the way he looked at you like you were everything—and how easily he’d vanished afterward.

Clark’s voice was soft, just above the music and applause. “Do you want to step outside?”

You didn’t answer right away.

You just nodded and let him guide you out through the side doors, away from the cameras and the crowd.

---

The two of you found yourselves stepping out the side doors of the museum, past velvet ropes and towering columns, and into the quiet hush of the gardens.

The air outside was cooler now. Crisp. Night had fallen fully, and with it came a soft breeze that rustled the dark leaves overhead and made the lantern-lit trees shimmer like something out of a dream. Strings of golden fairy lights looped along the hedges and wound around the marble pillars, their glow warm against the cool stone paths.

Neither of you spoke right away. You just walked slowly together, side by side, your heels clicking softly on the pavers. You could still faintly hear the jazz band inside—muted saxophone, the low hum of a bass—but it sounded a world away.

You crossed your arms lightly over your chest, more out of instinct than chill. Finally, you broke the silence. “How well do you know Superman?”

Then, quietly: “Better than people think.”

You nodded, uncrossing your arms. “Yeah. Me too,” you murmured.

Clark looked at you for a long moment. The kind of look that searched deeper than skin, like he was trying to read the questions you hadn’t asked yet.

The air shifted between you. Something warmer. Heavier.

The jazz music inside swelled—slow, romantic, aching.

Clark’s hand brushed yours once, then again. On the third pass, you let your fingers hook with his for just a moment.

It sent a little static zip up your spine.

He smiled down at you, a bit shyly. “You were amazing in there,” he said softly. “The way you handled the aides. The quote you caught. How fast you noticed those councilmen sneaking off.”

You glanced sideways at him, trying not to smile. “Well, we are supposed to be working, remember?”

“I know,” he said. “You just keep impressing me.”

You let the silence bloom between you for a second, feeling the hum of it settle low in your chest. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s true.”

You slowed near the edge of the garden where a low stone wall bordered a shallow fountain. Tiny lights were woven through the greenery above you like stars tangled in branches.

Clark turned to face you. “I used to hate events like this.”

You raised a brow. “Because of the dancing? Or the company?”

He laughed, quietly. “Because I never knew how to be. Either I had to pretend I was smaller than I am… or pretend I wasn’t anyone at all.”

You tilted your head. “And now?”

He looked at you. Really looked at you. “Now I don’t mind them so much.”

That pulled a soft breath from you. Your gaze dropped to his lips, then quickly flicked away.

“I- I think,” he said, stepping just a little closer, “that it has something to do with you.”

You blinked.

“I’m serious,” he murmured. “You walk into a room, and, and everything shifts. You make people want to be honest. Braver. More themselves.”

You swallowed hard.

“You’re… Gosh, you’re smart, Y/n. And funny. And too clever for your own good. And you wear your heart on your sleeve in a way I only dream of doing. And- and I am really not good at this,” he added quickly, his voice cracking with something a little nervous and a lot vulnerable. “But I just—I wanted to say it.”

Your voice was smaller than you meant it to be. “Say what?”

“I think I’ve been scared,” he said. “That if I let you see all of me… you’d realize I’m not the person you’ve built in your head.”

You looked up at him, and the ache in your chest was impossible to ignore.

The saxophone inside hit a long, low note.

Clark reached out, his fingers brushing your elbow. “Dance with me?”

You hesitated, just for a breath.

Then you nodded.

He pulled you in gently. One hand found the small of your back. The other slid into your palm, warm and steady. You swayed beneath the lights, surrounded by the rustle of the trees and the distant murmur of music. There was no one else out here. Just the two of you.

You leaned into him without thinking and rested your cheek against his chest. His heart caught. Clark tightened his hold around you.

“I thought you didn’t like dancing,” you said.

“I don’t,” he said. “But I like dancing with you.”

You let out a soft laugh. Your eyes fluttered closed, just for a moment.

And then, quietly, you said, “You still haven’t told me what happened that night."

The words hung between you like mist.

Clark’s breath hitched. His hold on you shifted, just slightly. “I wanted to,” he said. “So many times, more than you know. I’ve replayed that night in my head over and over, trying to figure out what I should’ve done differently.”

You tilted your head up to look at him and meet his gaze.

“I should’ve told you everything.”

He swallowed. “But I didn’t. Because if I did… I didn’t know if you’d still look at me the same way.”

He paused. He could hardly hear the soft music over your quick beating heart.

The two of you stopped swaying, just stood in the warm, twinkling lights as Clark held you to his chest.

“And now I think I was a coward.”

“Clark—”

“I’ve lied,” he said, “about who I am. About who I’ve always been. But I can’t keep doing that anymore. Not with you.”

“I don’t understand,” you whispered.

Clark shut his eyes tight and took a deep breath before giving you one last look of love.

His voice dropped to barely above a whisper.

“I’m Superman.”

You paused. Then began to laugh—sharp, startled. “Okay. That’s funny, Clark. Almost had me.”

He didn’t laugh with you.

Your smile faded.

He just… looked at you. With that same softness. That same quiet weight.

You stared up at him.

You reached your hands up to his face, just like you had done so many times before, and stopped to cup his face. You rested your fingers gently, brushing his cheek with your thumb, as if love could save you from what was about to come.

"Y/n," Clark's voice was heavy and quiet.

Slowly, you pulled the frames from his face.

He didn’t stop you. You slid them off gently—half expecting him to make some joke, to laugh, to break the spell.

But he didn’t.

Your vision blurred slightly. You blinked to adjust your gaze. And, for the very first time, you saw him clearly.

It was him.

It was him.

Superman.

You stumbled back a step, glasses still in your hand. “No.”

“Please,” he said gently, stepping forward.

“No,” you said again, louder. Your breath was starting to come quicker. “No. No, no—”

“Hey—” He tried to reach for your arms, your shoulders, but you backed away.

You were starting to hyperventilate. Your chest rising too fast, your hands shaking as you stared at the glasses in your grip like they were poison.

“You can’t—Clark, you can’t be him—Please,”

“It’s still me,” he said, voice quiet but urgent. “I’m right here. Just look at me—”

“I am looking at you!” you snapped, voice thick with tears. “I’m looking at both of you at once and I don’t—I don’t know how to make sense of it!”

He tried again, softly, “Please—can I just—”

“Don’t touch me!” you choked, backing away another step.

Clark froze, his hands hanging useless in the space between you. His face was stricken.

“You lied to me,” you whispered, “every day that I've known you, you've lied to me. You let me talk to you like you were different people. You let me—God—confide in both of you.”

“I wanted to tell you,” he said, “I swear I did—”

“But you didn’t!” Your hands curled into fists. “You let me believe Clark Kent didn’t want me. You let me sit in that restaurant alone like a fool while you were out being—being this. You let me cry to you! About Clark!”

He took a step closer. “I didn’t do it to hurt you.”

You laughed through your tears. “Well, you did.”

Clark looked like he was swallowing broken glass. “I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t know, if I told you everything, if you’d still want me.”

Your voice cracked. “You let me fall in love with you.”

He stopped cold.

“What?” he said.

You were breathing too fast. Tears streaking your cheeks.

Clark’s mouth opened slightly. His entire body stilled.

“You love me?” he whispered.

You just looked at him and something in your expression broke him.

He stepped forward like he couldn’t stop himself, like he needed to say something, fix something, do something—but you took another step back.

“I don’t know who I love,” you said. “I don’t even know who you are.”

“I’m still the same man. The one you talked to in the breakroom. The one who got nervous asking you out. The one who kissed you on that rooftop and has regretted leaving you minute since.”

You shook your head. “I can’t do this. I can’t—Clark, I need—I need time to think. I need space.”

He reached for you one more time. “Let me at least call you a cab—”

“I don’t want anything from you, Clark.” You said, and it seemed to burn your tongue to say his name.

That sentence hung in the air like smoke.

You turned and walked away, fast and unsteady. Past the fountain. Past the lights. Toward the curb.

When the cab pulled up, you climbed in and gave the only other address you could remember besides your own.

You couldn't go home. You couldn't be in your living room where he held you as you cried, couldn't be in your kitchen where you shared midnight snacks, couldn't be in your bed where he lied you down to sleep. You, especially, couldn't be on your balcony where he kissed you senseless.

You didn’t look at him until the door shut.

And when you finally did glance back—

Clark was still standing there on the curb, tears in his eyes, hands slack at his sides, glasses gone. Watching you go.

You looked down at your hands to find his glasses still pressed tightly in your grip.

Tears blurred your vision again.

You turned your head toward the window as the cab drove off into the dark.

---

The cab rolled to a stop beneath the flickering streetlamp outside Lois’s apartment building. The city had hushed to a whisper, forcing you to sit in silence, in the gravity of your pain.

And then there she was.

Lois stood at the edge of the sidewalk in leggings and a hoodie, arms folded tightly across her chest. She looked up the second the cab pulled in, already moving. She didn’t wave, didn’t say your name—just opened the door and knelt beside you like she’d done this a thousand times.

You didn’t speak.

She didn’t ask.

Her hand curled around yours, warm and grounding, and without a word she helped you out of the backseat, one palm pressed steady at your back.

Your shoes dangled from one hand. Clark’s glasses from the other. You were still in the pale blue gown—the one that you felt nothing but joy in hours ago. Now, it just felt like a costume. Something you’d worn in a version of your life that didn’t exist anymore.

Your press badge and camera hung heavily on your side.

Lois led you up the steps slowly. Neither of you rushed.

Inside, the familiar creak of her apartment door opened into the kind of chaos only Lois Lane could live in. Piles of notes and newspapers arranged like sacred offerings across the coffee table. An old couch with a faded quilt that had somehow survived three apartments, a dog, and two breakups. Fairy lights hung lazily across one window.

It felt like home.

She closed the door behind you, slid the chain lock into place, and turned to face you.

You were still standing.

Barefoot. Blinking. Trembling.

In a motherly way, she guided you to the living room.

“You need tea,” she said. “Or something stronger.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

The electric kettle clicked on with a quiet hum, filling the small apartment with soft noise.

You sat down slowly on the edge of the couch and stared at nothing.

The glasses were still in your hand.

You turned them over once. Then again. Then pressed them to your chest like that might anchor you.

Lois returned with two mugs of steaming tea, one for you and one for herself. She set them on the table and sat down across from you on the floor, like she had when the two of you were nineteen and cramming for finals. You didn’t speak. You just stared at the swirl of steam, waiting for the tea to cool.

But all you could think about was Clark. Superman. Clark being Superman, the two men not being two men after all, just one person. One person that you still, even after everything, loved deeply.

You started to cry again—ugly, shuddering sobs that felt like they came from the soles of your feet. You curled into yourself, arms wrapped tightly around your waist as if that could hold everything in.

Lois dropped down beside you, her hand running softly up and down your back.

You tried to explain, to form words between the gasps. “He’s—he’s—he lied—he let me—Lois, he—”

“I know,” she said quietly.

You froze.

Your sobs hiccupped to a stop. Your tear-streaked face turned toward her slowly, almost accusingly.

“What?” you whispered.

Lois swallowed, her expression unreadable. “I know. About Clark. That he’s Superman. I’ve known for… a while.”

You blinked.

For the first time since the reveal, since the heartbreak and unraveling of your entire understanding of reality, you felt something new:

Anger.

"You knew?” The words came out sharp. “You knew and you didn’t tell me?”

She opened her mouth, but you were already sitting up—shoving off the throw pillow, pushing your feet down like the ground could anchor you.

“You’re my best friend, Lois! How could you do this to me?”

“I—”

“No. No excuses. You had a million opportunities to tell me and you chose not to. Every single time!” You stood now, trembling. “You let me pour my heart out to you. You watched me fall apart over both of them, and you just—what? Sat there and lied to my face?”

“I didn’t lie,” she said gently. “I just didn’t tell you.”

“That’s the same thing!” your voice cracked. “Lo, I told you everything. I asked for your help. I told you I felt like I was going crazy because I couldn’t figure out why I felt like I knew Superman, and I did! I did, and you knew why, and you said nothing.”

“I know,” Lois said, voice soft, pained. “I know, and I hate it. I hated every second of it.”

You shook your head, eyes burning. “God, you could’ve stopped me from getting hurt. You could’ve said something, anything, and instead you just—just let me spiral."

“I wanted to,” she said, standing now too. “I wanted to so many times. But it wasn’t my secret to tell.”

You stared at her, vision blurred again. “I trusted you.”

“And I never stopped trusting you,” she said, stepping closer. “I trusted you to survive it. I trusted that when he finally told you, it would mean something. Because it does. Because he chose to tell you.”

“That doesn’t make this okay. At all.”

“I’m not saying it does,” Lois said. “I’m saying I know it hurts. I’m saying I’m sorry. But I also know he loves you. And I think—God, I think you love him, too-”

“Of course I still love him!” you shouted.

The words exploded out of you like a shattering glass. Sharp. Sudden. Too loud in the quiet apartment.

Lois didn’t flinch. She just stood there. Staring at you.

And you stared right back.

Both of you locked in place—eyes wide, breath held, as if the air between you might snap.

The silence after was so thick it rang in your ears.

Then your shoulders slumped. The strength drained from your spine. And with a heavy exhale, you sat back down on the couch like your legs couldn’t hold you anymore.

Your voice, when it came again, was quieter. Rough. Broken.

“It’s not about whether or not I love Clark. Superman. Whatever.” You shook your head, tears slipping down your cheeks. “I know I love him.”

You looked up at Lois, eyes glassy, face raw. “I just don’t know how to trust him.”

“I know,” she said softly. “I know that kind of lie—no matter how well-intentioned—feels like it rewrites everything. Like suddenly you have to go back and reevaluate every word, every look, every moment.”

You nodded slowly, jaw tight.

“But here’s the thing,” she continued. “Clark has spent his entire life hiding who he is. All of who he is. He didn’t do it to hurt you. He did it because he’s afraid.”

Lois held your hands in hers. "You're...different, Y/n. You walk around with your heart on your sleeve, you're an open book. You're so trusting and, and good."

You tried to drop your head in your hands but Lois knelt down in front of you,

“Vulnerability doesn’t come easy for him, not the way it does for you. He’s spent years trying to protect everyone else. But he’s never let anyone protect him. Not really. Not like this. Not until you.”

You stared down at the glasses still in your hand. Your fingers curled tighter around them.

“I know he should’ve told you sooner,” Lois went on, her voice a little quieter now, more intimate. “And I’m not saying you have to pretend it didn’t hurt. But,"

You looked at her.

She held your gaze. “He’s trying. Really trying. To be open. Honest. Vulnerable. With you. The way you’ve wanted him to be.”

You felt your chest twist at that. Your own words echoed back to you—two months of asking for something real. And now that it was in front of you, broken open and vulnerable… you didn’t know what to do with it.

“Don’t turn him away now,” Lois whispered. “Not when he’s finally giving you everything you asked for.”

You exhaled slowly, slumping further down into the couch, your whole body deflating. The silky skirt of your gown pooled around your legs, the remains of something once glamorous.

You looked up at the ceiling, tears drying on your cheeks, voice barely a whisper.

“Love is hard.”

Lois sat down next to you and leaned her head gently on your shoulder, her hair brushing your bare skin.

“Yeah,” she said. “But it’s really good too.”

The room went quiet for a second.

Then, her voice came light and mischievous:

“So… are you gonna tell me about the kiss?”

You groaned and grabbed the throw pillow beside you, smacking her squarely in the side.

She yelped. “Hey!”

You grinned through your tears. “You are the worst.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

You both burst into laughter, loud and messy, the kind that cracked something open inside you and let the light back in.

You covered your face, half-laughing, half-hiding.

Lois nudged you. “Okay, but seriously. He’s so handsome. Like, unfairly so. Even when he’s trying to play it down with those dumb glasses.”

You shook your head. “Don’t even start.”

“I mean, broad shoulders, big hands, stupidly soft hair?"

Lois ran her hands through her hair dramatically, mocking Clark. You put Clark's black frames on her face and fell back in laughter.

She removed the glasses and returned them gently to you.

As she did, she leaned closer, voice dropping to a teasing whisper. “Bet the kiss was really good.”

You covered your face. “Lo.”

“I’m just saying, if the man kisses as well as he writes—”

“Lois!”

She grinned, unapologetic.

You were still laughing, still breathless, when it quieted between you again. Not in a sad way. Just peaceful. The kind of quiet that lives in a room between people who really, truly know each other.

Your laughter softened, and you found yourself looking down at Clark’s glasses again. Your thumb traced the frame, slow and careful.

Your voice came out smaller than you expected.

“I love him,” you said. “I know I do.”

Lois didn’t say anything for a second. She just leaned her head back onto your shoulder and let you speak.

"I just don't know what to do with it."

---

You slept at Lois's that night. You never even thought about going home.

Once the tears and giggles stopped, Lois opened her phone to order some Thai food from the last place in Metropolis still open at 1 am. The two of you sat on her bed sharing Pad Thai, sticky rice, and a bottle of red wine.

Your gown—the once-stunning thing that had seemed so perfect when the night started—now hung limply on a plastic hanger in her tiny, overstuffed bathroom.

Instead, you donned an old college sweatshirt that you're sure she stole from you at one point. Soft from too many washes, faded letters reading DUKE JOURNALISM CLUB, and heavy in a way that grounded you.

You ate with plastic chopsticks and drank from mismatched mugs, red wine staining your lips and warming your chest.

For the first time in what felt like days, you were full. Not just from food, but from the feeling of being understood. Safe.

Halfway through your pad thai, you turned toward her, squinting with mock suspicion.

“Wait,” you said, pointing your chopsticks like a weapon, “you never answered my question.”

Lois blinked, feigning innocence. “Which question?”

“How the hell did you figure out Clark is Superman?”

She snorted and grabbed an egg roll. “Ugh. I didn’t figure out anything. The idiot revealed it to me on accident!"

You gaped at her.

“Okay, okay.” She laughed. “It was… honestly so dumb. We were at the Planet late one night, back when we were interns and covering the Riverside arsons. I was being annoying—like, purposefully annoying—and I stole his glasses off his face because I wanted to prove he could barely see without them.”

You choked on your noodles. “Lois.”

“He slapped his hands over his face! And then said, ‘Lois, give them back.’ And I swear, the second I looked at him I just froze. It was like someone flipped a switch in my brain.”

You grinned.

“I made him float two inches off the ground just to prove it.”

“Of course you did.”

"He was so embarrassed,” she said, proudly. “Which was wild. Because he literally flies.”

You laughed, hard. “That’s it?!”

“That’s it,” she said smugly. “Then he made me swear not to tell a soul."

You shook your head in disbelief. Then you both got quiet.

“You’ve been sitting on this the entire time I've been in Metropolis,” you said, voice low.

Lois’s smile faded. She looked down at the food between you.

“Yeah,” she murmured. “I wanted to tell you. So many times. But it wasn’t my secret. And I knew the second you fell for Clark…” she glanced up at you, eyes soft, “that this would hurt. But I also knew that it would all be worth it.

You looked away. “Well, it hurts."

“I know.”

You sat in silence for a moment.

You curled against the headboard, legs tucked beneath you, watching the city lights blink through her window.

Your voice came softer this time.

“Do you think he’s okay? Right now?”

Lois tilted her head.

“I think he’s miserable,” she said honestly. “But also… hopeful. I think he’s just hoping you’ll still be there. That you’ll see him now. All of him. And not run.”

You nodded slowly, heart squeezing.

“I think I already saw him,” you whispered. “Maybe even before I realized it.”

She smiled and reached over, pulling the blankets up over both of you. The chill in the air didn’t feel so bad now.

"When you decide what to do," Lois stopped to look at you knowingly, "because you don't have to decide right away, okay? You don't owe him anything."

She stopped to sip her wine. "I'm with you. Whether you decide to forgive him and elope-"

"Lois."

"or hate him forever! I'm with you."

You let her words settle, warm and solid like the blanket draped over your legs. Lois leaned back into the pillows, one arm flopped across her forehead in mock dramatics, already half-asleep. But your mind stayed stubbornly awake.

You nudged her. "Lois,"

"Hm?"

"How did you know I was coming here? After the ball?"

Lois turned, half-lidded and tired. "Clark called me. Wanted to make sure you weren't alone."

The apartment was quiet, save for the occasional hum of traffic far below. You tilted your head toward the ceiling, watching the way the light from the street glowed soft and golden.

You hadn’t meant to fall for him—not Clark, not Superman. Certainly not both.

But here you were, heart aching, eyes sore, stomach full of lukewarm pad thai and a truth too big to ignore.

You still loved him.

You loved the way Clark always looked at you like you mattered, like every word out of your mouth was worth remembering. You loved the way he fumbled with his glasses when he got flustered, the way he offered his coat like it was second nature, the way he always asked how your day was and truly wanted to know every time.

You even loved the way he’d lied, in a strange and twisted way because it meant he was human. Flawed. Scared.

Just like you.

And God, hadn’t you always been a little scared too?

You’d spent so long holding yourself to impossibly high expectations, unsure if someone like him could ever truly want all of you. The messy, insecure, stubborn parts, the parts that got jealous or cried too easily or pushed people away too quickly.

But he had seen you, really seen you, and still stayed.

Now it was your turn to decide if you could do the same for him.

Was loving him worth the risk of getting hurt again?

You swallowed hard, eyes stinging.

Maybe.

Maybe loving Clark Kent meant accepting all of it. The secrets. The cape. The fear. You knew love wasn’t supposed to feel perfect all the time. But maybe it was supposed to be brave. Messy. Honest.

And maybe if he was finally willing to be vulnerable with you, you could be brave enough to be vulnerable with him, too.

After all, you’d spent all this time begging for his truth. And now you had it. Raw, cracked wide open, messy as hell—but real.

All you’d ever asked from him was honesty.

Now he was offering it.

How could you stop loving him now?

You shifted on the mattress and looked over at Lois, already snoring softly beside you, tangled in the blankets.

You smiled, faintly.

You didn’t have an answer yet. Maybe you’d still wake up tomorrow and feel angry. Or hurt. Or tired.

But for the first time in a long while, you didn’t feel like you were in the dark.

---

a/n: big reveal. drama. love. it's a very 'will she or won't she' type beat.

god this part my favorite. definitely. fav line: You even loved the way he’d lied, in a strange and twisted way because it meant he was human. Flawed. Scared.

hope you guys liked it:)) not much left until the series is done and then i'm gonna start working on my requests! requests are OPEN for more clark/superman fics, headcanons, thoughts, or just to yap about him

much love🪷🪷🪷 pls reblog and comment if u liked

taglist: @liuralibrar @icybarness @angel-dust-cb @crbpoetry @aim-formyheart @lavendermoons222 @10hrs26mn @linambc @casalucard @ticklish-leafy-plant @asteria33 @tati-the-fangirl @g4rb4ge-dump @yourmyonlyobsession @voidsxntry @my-little-secret-diaries @britttzy267 @nothere2478 @hagarsays @otakusimp1 @twsssmlmaa @kitten-daisy @qardasngan @writerreal @please-help-this-little-lesbian @brillitos-azules @selfishlycalculatingvisitor @pleasecallmeunhinged @materialgirl-97 @ldrfanatic @bellegirl16 @or-was-it-just-a-dream @khxna @rorysbrainrot @smolivin @screamingplastictoenail88 @slayerofthevampire @kneelarmhstrung @227777777333 @ifilwtmfc @loftilyviolentthunder @justp3achy03 @animegamerfox @nina-from-317 @sizzlingkryptonitetale @arcaichive @bamitzzsam @bellascrap @dntdltkss @livbonnet @scorpio-echo @bloodiedlusts @corenswetwife @lanasdolll @kai59999901 @ivegotdaddyissues @americanboz0 @ayy1234567 @jenneric2003 @areleine @turtle-in-a-tornado @keiralovesmoony @smellybad @shortandb1tchy @i1ovedeanwinchester @lando-scales @lilac-and-cherries @bananaminion678 @azrielsbbg @annabethboleyn @odevote118 @the-hist0rian @cyntsvmv @novausstuff @lecwife @reiofsuns2001 @renaeant @sleeplessskeleton @nanamilkbread @after8hore @abasnail28 @vanessalovesonedirection @annieaniya @nixandtonic @rhiannonhippiegirl @dvdsniffer @negasonic-teenage-asshole @jsjajsjsnannzjisjs @andriannag @booknerd62529 @imsonotweird @gwcses @infinitepersuasion @dreamer7black @sofia-1d @dazecrea @adoringanakin

comment to be added to the taglist💕

---

[laceyfaeryy]

hey queen!!! can we get maybe a size kink fic with clark kent?? i mean height difference, belly bulge, everything, thank you

MDNI 18+

— size kink scenarios with clark kent

cw: vaginal sex, size kink, belly bulge, not proof read

height difference - it was no secret that clark was tall, a towering height of 6’4 and 240 pounds, could point him out in a crowded room. though it was the small things that made you have a small ache in between your thighs. things like him having you bend down as you spoke about your day, or how you had to step on his shoes, then go on your tippy toes to give him a kiss.

fucking you in a headlock - the room is filled with the filthiest noises when clark fucked you, lewd skin slapping, the sound of your gushing cunt and the combination of his grunts and your high pitch moans.

but right now, you were a babbling mess, drool dribbling down your chin and down to his biceps as your eyes rolled back.

“taking it so well baby,” he cooed as he continued to rut into you like a feral animal, trying his best to contain his strength.

his large muscular frame held you tightly, essentially making you his own personal flesh light. your cheeks squished together as you babbled mindlessly, him fucking your brains out.

belly bulge - “fuck,” clark hissed as your gummy walls clenched around him, so warm and inviting, almost milking him dry. “too much clark,” you whined, trying to wriggle out of his grasp, only to have his large hands squeeze the side of your body. “don’t run away baby, just take the whole thing.”

it was a sight truely, watching your small cunt accomodate and stretch out only for him, and how he had a visual of how truely deep he was in you. “see this?” his voice hoarse as he gently traced the small bulge. “this is how far i’m inside you.”

sometimes the sight was simply just too much, his mind going hazy as he thrusted harshly into your cunt, the headboard of the bed smashing against the wall, and the bed creaking with his weight whilst your nails scratched his back.

wearing his shirt whilst letting him fuck you - if you weren’t on his cock bouncing like an eager bunny, then you would’ve been the cutest thing he’s ever seen wearing his shirt. your frame absolutely drowning in it as it fell down your shoulders, the material bunching up as you continued to ride him. “you like wearing my clothes so much don’t you baby?” his hands gently tugging the material, his cock swelling even more at the sight. him inside you, and you wearing his shirt.

maybe he’d have you on your knees too.

[milliesfishes]

“It’s just.. amazing to me. You made him.” Clark averts his eye almost shyly, back to his son. A dark breath of hair covers the top of his head, the same jet black as his, but it’s your eyes staring up at him. Silent, and if Clark didn’t know any better, maybe judging. Sizing his dad up. Well, if that’s really what Jon was doing, then he would easily be able to tell he was in for it. Your man had absolutely every intention to raise a good man, kind, and considerate, and so ultimately caring that it would dwarf even himself. When he muttered that whole speech to you, late in the night when you were wrapped in his arms, about as close as you could be with a baby bump between you, you almost giggled before you saw the serious expression on Clark’s face. Then, you knew, you picked the right man to have a baby with. He didn’t just want a wife and a kid; he wanted to be a husband, and a father. this entire paragraph just sums it up for me he's so PERFECT HE'S MY BABY I WANT HIM HORRIBLY BAD :((((( :((((((( <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3

okay now I’m just having baby fever with Clark Kent ! !

tw; mentions of childbirth duh, clark is a diiilllffff

You aren’t sure why Clark is as terrified as he is to hold your son. He’s so gentle in every aspect that it seemed impossible for any harm to come to the tiny, lighter-than-air baby. But Clark’s dark brows are raised from under his glasses, his lips parted just so as he stares down at the little thing in his hands.

He’s changed back into the other clothes he flew (literally, and about as conspicuously as a flying 6’4, 240 pound man could be) you to the hospital in, left behind the scrubs they gave him in the delivery room for a crisp button-up rolled to his elbows and a pair of jeans. God, he looked handsome. And holding a baby? Even more so. You were fawning over your own husband from where you sat up in the hospital bed, a little worn out from delivering a half-kryptonian baby. Clark had cooed praise and apologies throughout the labor, pushing your hair back from your forehead. At first you thought it was sweet he was apologizing, even though it wasn’t necessarily his fault. When things got painful, though, you began to think, yeah, it is his fault, he should be sorry!

Now, you were right back to being in love with your dork of a man. Who was murmuring, voice gentle as if he might break the baby by raising it, “He’s so.. Little.”

You hum sweetly in the affirmative. Clark cradles Jonathan— named after his pa who was driving up from Smallville with his ma as you speak— carefully, by the back of his head and small back, tentative as if he was scared he’d drop him. It’s almost laughable, how hesitant this strong, huge man looks holding this tiny, hardly-nine-pound newborn so delicately. “He’s.. maybe two hours old, y’know,” you remind, as an explanation.

“Two and forty-five minutes,” Clark corrects, glancing up at you with a sweet smile that flashes his dimples. You huff in disbelief. He steps closer to your bed, rocking Jon as you reach out to curl your fingers around his wrist. His words are breathed in awe, “I can hear his little heartbeat.”

“Yeah?” Clark nods, blue eyes landing on you again. You must’ve looked like a terrible mess, but he stared like you were a supermodel. Another one of those golden smiles makes your knees weak, and you aren’t even standing on them. You let out a soft laugh when he just silently holds your eye, “What’re you thinking about?”

“It’s just.. amazing to me. You made him.” Clark averts his eye almost shyly, back to his son. A dark breath of hair covers the top of his head, the same jet black as his, but it’s your eyes staring up at him. Silent, and if Clark didn’t know any better, maybe judging. Sizing his dad up. Well, if that’s really what Jon was doing, then he would easily be able to tell he was in for it. Your man had absolutely every intention to raise a good man, kind, and considerate, and so ultimately caring that it would dwarf even himself. When he muttered that whole speech to you, late in the night when you were wrapped in his arms, about as close as you could be with a baby bump between you, you almost giggled before you saw the serious expression on Clark’s face. Then, you knew, you picked the right man to have a baby with. He didn’t just want a wife and a kid; he wanted to be a husband, and a father.

Clark, with an almost comically nervous expression, shifts the baby to the crook of his arm to that he can hold your hand grasping below his wristwatch. “Doesn’t that just amaze you?” He lifts his brows and a smile of your own creases your eyes. What a dork. What a dilf, you amend in your brain.

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess it does.” You mutter, your free hand reaching up to lay over your baby’s forehead. A soft, quiet grunt of a breath comes from Jon’s nostrils and Clark looks down at him like he’s just started to cry diamonds. It’s a long time that you stand that way, each of you holding onto the other, basking in the nearing life on the horizon. Clark would be a good dad, you knew, and he constantly insisted you’d be a good mom. But, well. Neither of you know what to expect with a half-superhuman baby. You’re in for a long ride.

[sunsburns]

imagine trying to keep up with clark 🤯 (18+)

clark kent is an undeniably gentle lover—clumsy at times, almost bashful, his movements hesitant in a way that’s endearing. sometimes, he looks to you for reassurance, those soft blue eyes pleading, asking if he’s making you feel good.

and he always does.

he knows your body so well it’s almost frustrating. his hands, his mouth, the way his voice drops just slightly when he whispers your name—it’s enough to leave you trembling every time.

he always tells you that you do. “perfect,” he murmurs against your skin, his breath warm and uneven as he buries his face in the crook of your neck. his voice is wrecked, raw in a way that makes you believe him—for a moment.

but there are things you’ve started to notice.

like the way he lingers for just a second too long, his lips brushing your temple as if hesitating to pull away or draw you closer. or how his hands tremble slightly when they release you, the strength behind them still careful, too careful. then, there are the moments he waits for you to fall asleep—the soft creak of the mattress, the shuffle of his feet as he slips out of bed, barely disturbing the air.

it’s always the same. the quiet click of the bathroom door, the faint rush of water as he turns on the shower.

you know what he’s doing in there.

and it eats at you, imagining him under the stream of hot water, head tilted back, his chest heaving as he works through the need that still claws at him. need that you weren’t able to fully satisfy.

once, you caught him. half-asleep and bleary-eyed, you stirred when the bed dipped, his weight returning as if nothing had happened. his skin was still damp, his hair darker and curling against his forehead.

but you want to be the one to help him blow off that steam.

“just blowing off some extra steam,” he said softly, leaning down to kiss your forehead.

no, you need to be the one.

you want him completely undone—panting, his chest heaving, red staining his cheeks while he’s too wrecked to say anything but your name. you want him shaking with pleasure, the same way he leaves you, winded and unable to think of anything else.

you want him gasping, moaning louder, his voice breaking apart as he tries to keep himself together. you want to see spit pooling at the corners of his lips, his body shuddering uncontrollably. you want him to blow load after load—on you, with you, inside you—until neither of you can take any more.

you just have to make sure you don’t turn the tables on yourself.

“you got another one for me, hun?” clark pleads, his voice soft but ragged.

his curls stick to his forehead, damp with sweat, and his face is flushed deeper than you’ve ever seen. his big hands hold your hips gently, fingers twitching as if he’s trying to resist gripping you tighter.

you’re blubbering, incoherent, your eyes unfocused as your nails scrape at his shoulders. it’s ridiculous trying to leave marks on steel skin, but the feeling of him, the weight of him, makes it impossible to stay still.

you’ve finally managed to corner him. after weeks, nearly a month of easing him into the idea that you could keep up with him, he let you try. and now he’s showing you a side of himself you’ve never seen before.

his body trembles against yours, his movements are frantic, urgent, a stark contrast to the measured pace he usually sets. your legs ache as you struggle to keep up, your body pliant and exhausted, while he bucks up against you, doing most of the work after you had given up on riding him.

he moves you easily, up and down his cock, his strength apparent even in his restraint. his head falls back against the headboard, blue eyes locked on yours, his glasses long discarded.

in all honesty, you don’t know if you have another one in you. you’d lost count three orgasms ago. you must’ve been delusional thinking you could keep up with clark kent, a man who is finally breaking a sweat, his broken moans and soft whimpers starting to turn into ones you’ve never heard from him before. even after cumming countless times, making a mess of your sheets, he still wants more, asks for it, begs for it—he needs more, he can take more, wants to give you more.

the slow drag of his cock, sliding in and out of you, has you mewling, tears staining your cheeks as the pleasure mounts again. his grip is firm but careful, guiding you, ensuring you can take everything he’s giving.

he makes you feel so good. your body trembling in his hands, every nerve alight and melting under his touch. you’ve become putty for him to mould.

it’s a little embarrassing, honestly—that he’s got you like this. you were supposed to be the one pleasing him, breaking him down, undoing him. not the other way around.

but he seems perfectly satisfied with the way things are right now.

you’re fully collapsed onto him now, your strength all but gone. his hips jerk upwards, his movements frantic and desperate, breath puffing hot air against your ear.

“can you… can you look at me?” he pleads, his voice cracking as his hands shift from your hips to cradle your face, tilting your head so you’re staring into his glassy, almost desperate eyes. “look at me while you come—it’ll make me come, too. please.”

you mean to whine, his touch burning against your skin, but the sound catches in your throat when you see him.

he looks utterly wrecked.

his eyes are clouded, unfocused, his lips slick and parted, his brow furrowed with something between pain and pure desire. you imagine you look much the same—spit glistening on your chin, cheeks flushed and tear-streaked, wetness trailing down your thighs.

he holds your gaze for a moment, his thumb brushing your lower lip before slipping into your mouth.

then, both of you move at once—you surge forward to kiss him, capturing those perfect, pink lips, your movements slow and languid while he remains restless. he adjusts to your pace, pulling you impossibly closer.

his blue eyes roll back as he thrusts into you again. one hand traces lines up your spine while his lips devour yours, leaving you trembling and teetering on the edge within minutes.

his kisses turn softer, trailing to your cheek, his teeth catching on your skin as he nips gently. “i’m not hurting you, am i?” he murmurs, his voice trembling. “i know it’s sensitive, baby. tell me if it’s too much, okay? i can stop if—”

“no, please,” you whimper, terrified he might actually stop. “it’s so good.”

you’re drunk with desire, clenching tightly around him.

“you feel so good, baby. so fucking good. you’re taking me so well.” his next thrust is sharp, deep, dragging a cry from your lips as he stills, buried to the hilt. “you’re gonna make me come again,” he groans, his voice breaking.

“fuck, please—”

“i want you to come for me again,” he interrupts, his desperation bleeding through. “you’re so tight and hot when you do. i need it again—please, baby, one more for me. can you give me one more?”

“i—yeah,” you nod, trembling, your body already vibrating on the verge of release.

he hardly gives you a moment to recover before he’s crooning, “one more, just one more, please, please, please—”

clark kent is completely undone.

[sammyslittledoll]

pairing : Clark Kent x tipsy!Reader. warnings : sexual content. grinding, pussydrunk!Clarkie, cunnilingus, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, praise kink, cumming untouched. porn with no plot. 18+ only !!

˚⋅౨ৎ x p!link

"But Clarkie, I'm horny !" you pout, stomping your foot— all bratty and defiant— your hands curled into little fists at your sides. "I know. I know, baby. But you're drunk, we shouldn't b—" he placates and you roll your eyes before straddling his lap, determined to crack that infuriatingly responsible exterior and have your way with him.

And knowing how easy Clark is to rile up ? He'd be doing exactly as you say in no time.

"I don't care. I'm like soo wet." you whine, batting your eyelashes up at him, dragging the soaked lace of your underwear against the big, tantalising bulge —already straining against his sweats from your earlier make-out— in a deep grind that makes him gasp, his hands hovering over your hips, hesitant and trembling. "I needed your dick like yesterday, Clarkie. I've literally been thinking 'bout you the entire day... 'bout how you fuck me stupid, how you feel deep inside my pussy. Ugh, I need it s'bad, baby. Please ? " you whisper, your words slurring even more from the way the thick ridge of shaft grinds perfectly against your clit, making you moan. And finally, his hands settle on your waist.

_

Clark's face is buried between your legs, big hands pinning your thighs open to the bed from the way you're writhing uncontrollably, bucking against his mouth, your hands tugging at his hair as you moan— loud and pornographic— from how good he's making you feel.

He laps hungrily at your clit— circling and then sucking with just the right amount of pressure that borders on too much— groaning into your weeping cunt like he's the one getting off just from tasting you. And from the way his hips grind into mattress below with desperate little thrusts— he probably is.

He works you over with his mouth like he's starving and when your first orgasm hits— hot and blinding— your hands clawing at the sheets as your thighs clamp around his head from the way he's moaning into your pussy, the vibrations making your eyes roll back— he doesn't stop. He just pushes your thighs open wider, his eyes flashing with warning as he mumbles, "Keep them there. I'm not done yet."

He doesn’t even fully pull away to speak, just enough for you to make out his words before his mouth is back on you with a stuttered groan — like every second he spends without his mouth on you is killing him. His tongue laves through your soaked folds— deep and desperate— working you up into another frenzy till your whimpers of overstimulation melt into cries of pleasure, once again.

"C-Clark, m'gonna cum again !" you whine and he redoubles his efforts, your body going pliant under the weight of his whorish need to make you cum over and over and over again, until he's satisfied.

Each thick, filthy drag of his tongue against your dripping pussy has your vision starting to blur at the edges when your second orgasm hits, pleasure and overstimulation warring against each other, making you push at his head in desperation. Clark grunts into your oversensitive folds, shaking his head earnestly like he's begging as he pins your wrists your sides.

No one would expect the big, bad Superman to be a slave to pussy, but here Clark Kent was, eating you out like it's goddamn job and he can't even bare to think about stopping.

"I-I can't anymore. Please— it's too much." you sob but he isn't listening, rutting harder against the bed as he pushes your thighs up to your chest with a groaned plea. "I know you can, baby. You're my good girl, yeah ? Just gimme one more. I know this sweet little pussy's got another in her." And his mouth is back on you again, relentless and selfish.

By the time your third climax rips through you— overwhelming and borderline painful— you're actually crying, tears of oversensitivity running hot down your cheeks as you whimper weakly. Clark moans— loud and satisfied— into your pussy, leaving you clinging to the absolute edge of consciousness. He finally pulls away after licking you clean, a dopey, fucking boyish grin of utter delight on his face— like he didn't just make you pass out from his mouth alone. His face is the absolute picture of debauchery— flushed with sticky rivulets of your slick running down his mouth and jaw from how long he spent eating you out, his hair sweaty and sticking all pretty to his forehead.

You smile, slow and lazy at the sight of him above you, your eyes half-lidded. " Don't think you're gonna be able to take my cock after this, baby." he whispers, pressing a sweet, chaste kiss to your cheek before pulling you against him.

"But what 'bout you ?" you slur and he smiles sheepishly, blushing harder. "Don't need to worry 'bout me, sweetie." he says and your eyes fall down to his bulge, your jaw dropping in shock when you see the front already soaked through, obscenely, with his cum.

a/n : saw this clip and my pussy brain went "Yup, that's Clark. Now write about it." if anyone would like to be added to the taglist for Clark Kent please don't hesitate to let me know <3 taglist : @y0inked, @castielsonlyangel, @zenoxl, @bowxs.

[celinelikecelinedior]

just opened tumblr and I have been blessed

Bred like a housewife -C.K

Synopsis: You married Superman. And still, the most dangerous thing in this house is the way he fucks you. Clark Kent has duties. He chops wood with his bare hands, fixes the sink before you even know it’s leaking, folds the laundry with perfect corners. He grills barefoot in jeans and nothing else. He takes the trash out with one hand and drags you back inside with the other, fingers already curling between your thighs. But his favorite chore? Breeding his needy little wife full every goddamn night.

cw: 18+ explicit content/NSFW. Breeding kink. Unprotected sex/creampie. Size kink. Power dynamics (husband/dom!Clark x submissive wife!Reader). Slight degradation/possessiveness. Biting/marking. 

Clark’s been gone all day, fixing up the fence, hauling wood, doing those sweet small-town husband things that make your pussy ache just watching him sweat. And when he walks through the door—dirty jeans, white T-shirt stuck to his chest, hair a mess—you’re already waiting in his favorite apron and nothing else.

He grins. “That what you’ve been wearin’ all day, sweetheart?” He groans, picks you up like nothing, and lays you on the kitchen table—right next to the casserole—pulls your panties to the side, and sinks in raw.

You moan, back arching, cheeks flushed. “Mhm—wanted you all day—need it, Clark, need you to fill me up—”

He groans like it hurts to hear you say that, hips snapping forward, pounding you into the counter like you’re nothing but a warm, wet hole for him to breed.

“You want a baby, huh?” he mutters, voice rough and low as he fucks you deeper, harder. “Want me to knock you up right here in the goddamn kitchen?”

“Yes,” you whimper, legs shaking. “Please—fill me up, baby, I want it so bad—”

His grip tightens, fingers bruising your hips. “My princess,” he growls. “My pretty little wife. My perfect fucktoy. Walkin’ around the house with my cum dripping outta you—”

You cry out, and he slaps your ass, thrusts getting ragged, desperate. “That’s my girl. Taking all of it. Just like I taught you.” 

You cum first, of course. Screaming his name, walls clenching, body trembling—and he follows fast, cock pulsing deep inside you as he fills you up with thick, hot cum that leaks down your thighs before he’s even done thrusting.

And when you try to move away—legs wobbly, dripping—he grabs you by the waist and pulls you back. “Nuh-uh, sweetheart,” he says, voice dark. “You’re not wasting a drop.”

You end up on his lap, straddling him on the kitchen chair, his cock still inside you, keeping it all in while he kisses your shoulder and presses a hand to your belly like he’s already imagining you round and swollen.

“‘Til it takes,” he murmurs. “Again and again.”

Because Clark Kent’s husband duties don’t stop at fixing the plumbing. They end with a baby in your belly and your thighs too sore to close.

a/n: can you tell im ovulating