#clark kent x reader

[yawnzshit]

glasses are the sluttiest thing a man could wear.

[sceletaflores]

─ ✮⋆˙ 𝑯𝑰𝑻 𝑴𝑬 𝑯𝑨𝑹𝑫 𝑨𝑵𝑫 𝑺𝑶𝑭𝑻 || 𝑪𝑳𝑨𝑹𝑲 𝑲𝑬𝑵𝑻

MINI NAT’S NOTE: i haven’t stopping thinking about this loser kansas failure man since friday. i literally got out of bed to write this because i can’t sleep. hope y’all love it, mwah!

CW: 18+ SMUT MDNI, fem!reader, rough sex, service top clark, he whimpers cause i said so, sexy uses of x-ray vision, clark kent can FUCK, super stamina yes god, hyperspermia, superman’s super huge dick, belly bulging, porn w.o plot, no use of y/n.

"Clark, please—"

Your voice breaks on his name, swallowed by the sound of the headboard slamming into the way again and again and again.

Your thighs are shaking, pinned wide open by Clark’s hands, his grip near desperate as he ruts into you with a punishing force. It’s not as hard as he could go, you know that he must be biting through his lip trying to control himself. You wish he could go harder, that he could really give it to you. 

He deserves it. He works so hard, he deserves a nice warm hole to pound into after saving the world for the hundredth time—or after turning in another perfect front page piece to Perry.

You’ve brought it up a few times, when Clark was too drunk off the feeling of your lips against his own and the taste of your tongue on his to shy away from the conversation.

You could take it, you’d take anything he gives you with open arms and spread legs and a smile on your face.

Clark’s far too sweet to ever pin you down and just take. He’s a gentleman through and through, he was taught to treat ladies with respect. Superman isn’t an exception to those good farm boy manners of course, no matter how many times you’ve daydreamed about him flying through your window and tossing you on the mattress and using you.

God, you really do love him like this though.

“Sorry,” he pants, forehead pressed to yours, dark curls mussed. “I’m sorry, I can’t—I can’t stop. You feel too good, baby, you’re so good.”

Clark’s voice breaks on the last word like he’s begging you to understand, but the thrust of his hips says otherwise. There's nothing apologetic about the way he’s fucking you—like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. Like his survival depends on it. The bed’s screaming under the weight of his body, your body, his strength.

Your spine arches off the bed as his hips slap against yours hard enough to sting, wet and relentless. “Clark,” you gasp, nails raking down his back uselessly. “Don’t stop. Please—don’t stop.”

His cock splits you open again and again, thick and flushed and incessant, pistoning deep and hard and needy. It’s too much. It always is. Too thick, too long, the fat head of him kissing up against something so deep inside you it shouldn’t be physically possible.

The room smells like sex. Sweat and musk and Clark—rain, ozone, sunlight. The sound of your bodies coming together bounces off the walls, the wet slap of skin on skin. The filthy, slick noises of your pussy sucking his cock deeper makes your ears burn.

You’ve lost count of how many times you’ve come. Clark hasn’t. Of course he hasn’t.

“Five,” he groans, burying his face in the sweaty expanse of your neck. “You’re so sensitive now, baby, I know—I can hear it, your heartbeat skips every time I do this—” he pulls out, just halfway, then slams forward and stays there, his cock so deep your stomach distends a little. “Gosh, look at that.”

You’re soaked, ruined, you know it. You’ve been trembling under him for five rounds, but you love it. Every ragged thrust, every strangled apology he can’t stop moaning, every load he pumps into you like his body has to. You wrap your legs tighter around his waist, drag him even deeper, and Clark whines.

“I’m—fuck—I’m gonna come again—please, baby, let me—please—”

He’s come three times already. You can feel the wet, hot mess he’s made of you, dripping down your thighs, soaking the sheets. You’re already so full. You feel full.

The last time he came inside you he barely gave you a minute before he was hard again, aching and apologizing even as he buried himself back in your cunt. His come is still dripping out of you in thick, creamy ropes, and he still hasn’t stopped chasing it. He can’t.

"Yes." Your legs wrap tighter around his waist. You want it. You need it. “Give it to me, Clark.”

That's all it takes for him to lose it again.

His body locks up—hips jerking, mouth falling open with a loud, broken moan.

You cry out as you feel him twitch deep inside you, and then it happens again—hot, endless, thick spurts of come painting your insides, filling you up so full it hurts. Clark’s gasping, his mouth falling open against your shoulder, his whole body trembling. 

His cock doesn’t go soft, it never does. Not when he’s buried in you like this. Not when you keep fluttering around him, squeezing down like you want to milk every last drop from his body.

“Shit, I didn’t mean—‘m sorry—I keep—” His hips stutter and then roll again, like he’s addicted to how you feel around him, like stopping would kill him. “It’s too much—I know, baby—I just—you make me so messy—”

There’s even more come leaking down your thighs in thin streams of white, soaking the sheets, slicking his cock every time he pulls out just to slam back in. You can feel how slippery everything is now, how swollen you are, how stretched. And still—he doesn’t stop.

“You—shit, you take it so good,” he moans. “My good girl—my pretty girl—look at you, look at how much I gave you.”

Clark looks down, a soft groan rips out from somewhere deep in his chest at the sight of his cock punching up inside of you. His eyes go, glassy and unfocused for a moment. That’s the only warning you get before he tilts his hips ever so slightly, and you’re crying out when he hits that spot up inside you perfectly on the next thrust.

That’s a definite perk of dating a metahuman, x-ray vision. You know that even without any special powers he could take you apart until you were a crying, shaking mess. That being said, the MRI eyes help.

Clark has spent hours learning each and every part of your body, inside and out. He’s made a home between your legs and watched your nervous system light up more times than you can count. 

He’s watched the way your dopamine levels spike when he mouths at your clit just right, the way your pulse lights up when his fingers slide deep and curl at just the right angle. He’s studied you like scripture, like a blueprint.

You cry out, screwing your eyes shut as your hands slide down his back. You revel in the feel of him on top of you, the muscles of his back rolling and working under your greedy touch. You’re going to come again, you know you are. The spring inside of you starts coiling tighter and tighter with each thrust.

“Please,” Clark gasps, nearly sobbing it. “Let me—one more time, I promise—please—I know you’re full, baby, I know—just one more.”

“You’re gonna break the bed again,” you gasp, too dumb and lost for words to say anything else.

Clark doesn’t respond—maybe he can’t. Maybe he’s already too far gone to hear anything but the desperate squelch of his own come leaking out of your ruined pussy and down the hard length of his cock.

“I love you—I love you so much," he mutters incoherently, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles over the meat of your hips as his cock carves a place for itself inside you. "You feel too good—god, you were made for me.”

The mattress jerks violently beneath you with every thrust—you can feel the wood frame groaning, splintering. Not the first time. Probably won’t be the last.

It’ll be worth it.

MINI NAT'S NOTE: anyway this movie changed my life. i started rewatching 70s superman the second i got home. james gunn thank you for making superhero movies with love and whimsy again.

thank you so much for reading, love you!

[fawnindawn]

he's all that.

clark kent x reader. (3.2k)

summary: as a reporter of the daily planet, you haven’t been shy of your dislike for superman. clark is desperate to prove to you how superman, and by extension, him, is not as bad as you think.

content: flufff, clark kent being an adorable loser, still a loser as superman, interview banter, superman as the wingman for clark (cheeky ik), silly coworkers having a crush on each other but having no idea its reciprocated, office romance

author’s note: seeing clark’s frustration in the interview and article scene in superman 2025 got my head spinning 😏

“Okay, but why do you dislike him?”

Clark is on his interrogation case again. You don’t blink an eye as he settles across your desk, squeezing into the office chair with one elbow leaning on the armrest as he waits expectantly, almost desperately for your answer.

Every time you publish a new article with your detailed opinions on Superman’s recent actions, to provide an alternate perspective against the other rose-coloured articles of Metropolis’s favourite metahuman, Clark is always the first in line to question you.

“I don’t particularly dislike him.” Typing away at your computer to polish up one of your drafts, you rehearse the same line you tell everyone. “How could I dislike someone I’ve never met?”

“Then why the title?” He huffs. “I mean, come on. 'Superman’s Ulterior Motives In Recent Metropolis Fire Controversy'? You make him sound like a criminal."

“Come on, Clark.” You give him a pointed look. “You know how article headlines work. If I wrote something like “a critical approach to Superman’s latest actions regarding the fuel explosion”, who would read that?”

“I would.” His response is immediate, and it forces you to crane your neck, away from your latest article that’s been giving you writer’s block, to cast your attention to him.

“I appreciate the sentiment, but one reader wouldn’t exactly meet my paycheck’s expectations.”

“Well, I’m sure there are others who would appreciate a less cash-grabby title.” He retorts.

He realises the error in his words the moment he's on the receiving end of your icy glare.

“I have work to do, Clark.” Placing a metal sign that states "DO NOT DISTURB" on your desk, he doesn't need a hint to get that you're telling him to leave. "Even if you don’t appreciate my efforts, you could at least go distract someone else with your critiques.”

Clark knows he’s made a huge mistake. He doesn’t actually think your work is cash-grabby, he just wished you could see him- well, his alter identity in a more positive light. He loves your work, even if it makes him cringe when you point out his flaws with your cutting tongue, getting under his skin better than anyone else could.

You’re brilliant, and he’s just.. him. As Clark Kent, he doesn’t hold a candle to you. You’re fierce, bold and you leave a mark with your words and your presence. He can’t even begin to describe how much he admires you, but you barely even glance his way.

Maybe that’s why he’s in the office, eight on the dot every morning with a coffee in hand for you, asking you about your articles, your thought process, anything to get a few minutes with you.

Now, he’s officially screwed it up. Whatever tolerance you held for him previously, it’s all gone now thanks to his stupidity.

He sighs, shutting down his computer. He can’t even focus, and his eyes were starting to strain over staring at the blank document. Glancing over at you, you’re still typing away, with that same furrow in your brow that he’s memorised in his mind. How could he make it up to you? How could he change your mind?

Shifting his weight, his chair squeaks as he ponders.

“What are you looking at?” Clark jumps, suddenly registering Jimmy’s voice. Its rare for him to not hear footsteps nearing him, and it's only more proof of how much of a distraction you were. “Oh, her. Your office crush.”

“I do not have a crush.” Clark interjects, feeling oddly defensive. Having a crush on you, it makes his neck hot from the mere thought of it. “I just made her angry, and I’m thinking of how to make amends.”

Jimmy laughs. “Unless you somehow snag an interview with Superman for her, I think you’re going to have to wait awhile for her to cool down.”

“What did you just say?”

“That you’ll have to wait awhile?”

“No, the other thing.”

“Oh, an interview?” Jimmy scratches at his head. “I overheard her talking to Lois about how she’s stuck on her most recent article, and that she wished she could have a one-on-one with Superman to hear his perspective.”

That’s it. He may have screwed it up with you as Clark Kent, but Superman may be able to salvage this. Clark practically leaps off his chair, giving Jimmy a grateful squeeze. “Thank you, man. Seriously, I owe you.”

“Woah, dude. You’re heavy.” Jimmy huffs. “You’re welcome? But how are you going to get Superman to agree? It’s not like you have his contact or anything, do you?”

Clark doesn’t bother to reply, determination coursing through his blood as he walks out the office. Nearly out of ear-shot, he still hears Jimmy’s ‘Wait, Clark! Do you?’ repeating as an echo through the walls.

By the time you've managed to break a paragraph into your latest article, you feel that incoming headache and back-pain on its way to torment you for your incompetence. There's this block in your mind that refuses to be drained, and your tension with Clark earlier this morning certainly didn't aid you in your focus. You look up, noticing that the office is practically empty, and that most of the lights are off except for a few desk lamps from other co-workers who haven't left either.

You eye Clark's desk discretely, only to feel a pang of disappointment that he's already left. You rarely fought with him, as much as he was an insistent Big Blue fan. He was the sweetheart of the office, and on some days, you'd like to think he extended his sweetness a little more to you than everyone else. After today's conversation, you probably soured his impression on you after bashing his favourite metahuman in your headlines.

There's some part of you that worries you won't see him at your desk tomorrow with your coffee and another debate ready on his lips. He had left so early, which is incredibly unlike him. He couldn't possibly still be upset that you told him to bugger off, did he? He didn't seem like the type to hold a grudge, but maybe today was a step too far?

You shook your head, trying to shake off all your thoughts about your strange co-worker with his oddly charming demeanour and a size too large for his clumsy antics. Maybe you should pack up and go for a walk to clear your head. Sitting around here wasn't doing you much good other than increasing the hours of your back and eye strain.

Metropolis was nice at night. The city, which was always packed with crowds and honking cars, had quiet down at this hour. You watched as the lights went out in the tall buildings around you, signaling people leaving their work stations or going to sleep for the day.

If only you could get your hands on an interview opportunity with Superman. Funnily enough, despite having lived in Metropolis your whole life, you've never seen the hero who was so beloved in people's hearts. Other than social media spottings and the morning news, you have never seen the actual man who captivated Metropolis.

Kicking a crushed soda can on the sidewalk, you wonder if your bad luck in sighting him has to do with your articles being the singular negative perspective in the Daily Planet.

"Should I consider that as littering?"

Your head snaps up, and you.. can't believe it.

"Superman." You gasp, and realise this is probably the first time you've addressed him to his face rather than through an article.

He smiles, and you're surprised by how human it is. He bends down, picking up the soda can you kicked and tossed it into the nearest trash can- which was nearly ten feet away.

"You shouldn't be out alone this late." He comments. "The city's crime rate is higher at night."

"Isn't that what you're here for?" You ask. "To keep the city safe?"

His dimple deepens, and he lowers his head in a nod. "I do my best, but I can't be around every area no matter how fast I try to fly."

"Right." Through your daze, only one thought comes through with sharp clarity. You can't lose this opportunity to interview him. "Um, actually. I'm a news reporter from the Daily Planet. I was wondering if we could have a-"

"An interview?" His voice is filled with mirth. "Of course."

That was easy. Easier than expected. The daunting task and envy of Clark being able to secure interviews with Superman so easily seems less intimidating now, but you find yourself at a loss of what to ask as you prepared your recorder.

"What is your line of thought regarding the recent Metropolis fire?" You decided to start there, the topic most fresh in your mind from having just published the article this morning.

"I saw people that needed saving, so I did just that." He answers.

"However, when you saved the culprits who intentionally started the fire and insisted they be brought to the hospital and taken care for, you received a lot of criticism for not considering the victims who had to watch you care for the culprits."

"In life or death situations, I don't place people in boxes based on their roles. I do think the culprits need to face the consequences of their actions, but they were also injured. A life is still a life."

"You have very strong morals." You responded. "However, people are concerned on whether your judgement can be misplaced one day, and that you'll let the wrong people walk off free because you only cater to your own morals. What do you have to say to that?"

"If I had to consider what everyone wanted before I made a decision, I would have lost a lot of lives. In my situation, I will always be prone to making mistakes, so I try to make the ones I'll least regret."

"That is true." You answered, not expecting him to be so honest and open to your intrusive questions. "You are one of the only few metahumans in Metropolis. Have you ever felt out-casted by living on Earth?"

"Not really." He shrugs. "I always saw myself as human. I was raised by human parents with a normal human life. I am a Metropolitan as much as everyone else here."

"Just with ridiculous strength and the ability to fly." You point out.

He laughs. "And that too."

He walks alongside you as you add on more questions, your excitement palpable over the chance to finally have a real debate with the man himself. He's charming- irritatingly so, and sometimes, you have to force yourself to focus on what he's saying and not the way his eyes glimmer under the street lights, or how his height makes you crane your neck to look at him in the eye.

“So do you swoon all reporters this way to keep your pristine reputation?” You tease.

“Nope.” That damn dimple of his. “You’re the first person I’ve ever done this with.”

“Interviews? You sure give plenty to Clark.”

“Clark?" His expression freezes for a moment before relaxing. "Ah, that Daily Planet reporter? He’s a nice guy who happens to be around whenever I.. save people.”

“Yeah, tell me about it.” You huff. “He might be your biggest fan.”

He takes note of your tone, the near sigh at the end of it. “Do you not.. like him?”

“No, I never said that! It’s just that..” How could you tell Superman of all people that you had a disagreement with Clark just this morning about him? “I was a little harsh with him this morning.”

“How so?”

“Well, before I met you.” Evading your gaze, your force yourself to admit the truth. “My impression was different to his, and it was quite obvious from my articles. He commented that my works were cash-grabby.”

“That’s a rude thing to say.” He responds.

“Really?” You implore. “I mean, I wasn’t exactly kind when twisting my words to fit the narrative of what sells. I didn’t consider how you also have feelings, and that you’ll probably feel horrible if you read what I wrote. Maybe I felt defensive about what he said because I was scared he’d be right.”

“Well, he isn’t right.” His gaze is determined, so sure his words are the truth. “Your articles are amazing, and he’s a fool to comment on them so carelessly.”

You blink. “You read my articles?”

He realises his accidental confession, his lips stuttering to come up with a response. “Occasionally.” He coughs, being the one to avert his gaze this time. “I am a Metropolitan, and you make good headlines for the news covers. Even I can be curious about what the Daily Planet writes about me.”

”My, if Superman is keeping an eye on my writing, I’ll have to be careful on what I say.”

“No, I like your honesty.” There he goes again with that smile. You understand what people mean when they say it blinds you. “It’s refreshing. And it’s good journalism.”

You snort at his words. “If Clark heard you say that, he’ll never dare critique my articles again.”

“You sure do mention Clark a lot.” He murmurs. “Is he a close colleague or..”

“Oh, not really.”

For some reason, his expression dampens at your words.

“He’s, how do I put it?” You mutter. “He’s like this ball of sunshine. He’s always got something nice to say to everyone, and a real big heart. He'll help out when the photocopier is down, when someone could use an extra coffee, when someone needs a proofreader. He’s the complete opposite of me. It's like he came into this world to help others.”

“Is that a bad thing?” He asks.

“No, actually I-” You bite your lip, wondering if you should tell him. I mean, it’s not like him and Clark are tied to the hip or anything, it’s practically the same as telling a stranger. “I kind of do- like him.”

Superman is silent. Deathly silent. It’s like he’s going through cardiac arrest, and you hurry to speak to clear the air. “You can’t tell him. I swear, not even my closest friends know about this.”

He seems to be recovering from your words, with a small grin raising the left corner of his lips. “I can keep a secret.”

“No, seriously. No one except you and my cat knows about this.” You sigh, feeling the flurry of emotions overwhelm you. “He drives me crazy.”

He looks like he’s trying to contain his laugh, making you feel even more silly. “How so?”

“He never gives me a break to recover from well, him. It's like he's always ready as soon as I reach the office with my favourite coffee, having already read through my entire article even if I published it minutes before. He’s always hogging my desk and asking me questions during my break too, and I do my best to not feel special because he treats everyone nicely.”

“From the way you put it, I think he likes you too.”

“Seriously?” You ask, trying hard not to be swayed by his confidence. He's looking at you so earnestly as he says it, it's almost like he knows he's right.

“Why don’t we do a little test?” He offers. “Does he wait to give coffee to other people in the morning?”

“No..”

“Does he ask other people about their articles?”

“Not that I know of?”

“Does he spend time with others during break or is it always just with you?”

You’re silent, feeling the racing of your heart. Superman smiles again, as if he already knows the answer you refuse to accept.

“I think you should have a talk with him.”

The moments you had with Clark flash through your mind. All the times he was so considerate with you, so passionate, and.. how you ended things today with him during your conversation. You didn't want to lose him, not when you had a chance to turn things around. “You know, Superman? Maybe you're right.”

The next day, after Superman graciously dropped you off at your apartment per your directions, you feel your anxiety clogged up in your throat as you wait for the office elevator. Your foot taps anxiously, wondering if you should truly take the advice given to you and confess to Clark.

Worse case scenario, you get rejected and have to face a lack of free morning coffees and interrogations for the rest of your career. That realisation does pummel your spirits down a little. You do like his interrogations, even if you had to be held at gunpoint to admit it.

You reach your floor, and step out with a chaotic choir shrieking in your chest, instinctively looking to your desk where Clark would usually be waiting with your coffee. Your heart seizes when you find no one there. Right, maybe this is a sign that your plan is bogus and you should come back to Earth, instead of listening to some metahuman’s love advice-

A call of your name interrupts your train wreck of thoughts. You turn around, and Clark is standing there with your coffee.. and a bouquet in hand.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to be late.” He stammers. “Your favourite coffee spot was crowded today, and the florist was on the opposite side of town, and I wasn’t sure what flowers you liked.”

“Also, I’m really truly sorry about the other day.” It’s like he’s on a marathon but with words, spilling sentences out like he’s rehearsed them beforehand. “I didn’t mean to call your articles ‘cash-grabby’. You’re an amazing writer, probably the best I’ve ever met, and I don’t want you to feel insulted by my stupid comments-”

You step closer, ignoring his rant and place a kiss on his cheek, stopping him in his tracks. His lips are still parted midway through his sentence, only now, there’s no sound coming out from him.

“Thank you, Clark.” You replied, ignoring the shakiness of your hands. “And lilies are my favourite, so good guess.”

He swallows dryly, blinking like a morse code pattern as he tries to find something, anything to respond to you. “Well- Right. That’s good. Flowers are good.”

You laugh, taking the coffee from his hand to take a sip, mostly to ease your nerves from your impulsive action. The faint scent of coffee and peanut butter was still lingering in your mind from having been so close to him. “I have a new article on Superman." You brought up, trying to seem casual as you toy with the back of your chair. "I thought you would like to have a read.”

That seems to kick him back into his senses, his response arriving as soon as you stopped yours. “I would love to.”

You move the monitor to make the article visible to him. “I’ve come up with a few pointers, but I need help with the title. Do you want to.. work over it while getting lunch together?”

“Yes!” He exclaims, a grin so wide on his face it nearly splits it in two. “I mean, yeah." He shrugs, a light red coating his ears. "I would be glad to help out.”

You can’t help the grin that slips out when you see his, which is as infectious or even more so than Superman’s. Maybe Clark was right about Superman being more than the words you wrote about him in the past. Yet, it was the man in front of you now.. that held your heart.

a/n: I love him so much. The movie was so good, I was geeking the entire time. I have so many more fics I want to write for Clark, I can’t wait!

[melaninforkings]

feels so good to know that superman fics are gonna surge especially now that we have the hottest superman ever

[luveline]

𝐒𝐮𝐩𝐞𝐫-𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐲 𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐞𝐭

Something about Clark makes your head hurt. (And something about Superman is strangely familiar.) 3k words, fem.

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

“Good morning.” 

A stress ball goes careening off the edge of your desk as your body catches up. “Fuck,” you breathe, twisting in your seat to find the Daily Planet’s most puppy-eyed journalist towering over your desk. “Clark! You scared me.” 

Your whisper-shouting amuses him. He smiles, creasing a small wrinkle in the corners of his eyes, pretty pink mouth too much to deal with. If he notices you looking and then looking away, he doesn’t show it. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, not sounding too sorry. 

“Are you?” 

“I’m so sorry. Really. What’s got you so, ah, immersed?”

You click the minimise button on your open window, clearing your desktop before he can spot your shoddy workmanship. “Nothing.” 

“Sure. I believe you. Do you want a cup of coffee?” 

“No, thank you.” 

He lingers. Your office skews toward casual dress but Clark’s hardly the first to wear a proper suit, skinny black tie against a solid backdrop. You’d quite like to grab it, hoisting him downward, and you know you’d never do it, but the thought is nice. Your face and neck warm with it. 

Clark’s smile is soft and yet endlessly indulgent, like you’ve given him what he’d sorely wanted. “I can help, you know. I’d love to help you with whatever it is that’s making you all… cagey,” he says. 

“You’re always helping me.” 

“That’s not true. I couldn’t help you move.” 

You wave a hand at his wincing. You hadn’t asked him to, and you hadn’t minded when he cancelled at the last minute. “I’m just happy your ma was okay.” 

“I’d still like to make it up to you.” 

“How?”

His smile is crazy. Magnetic and tempting and sickening, too, nausea a pit in your stomach that blooms the longer you stare at him. Sometimes, sometimes, Clark smiles at you in this quasi-specific way and you think —you. I know you. 

And then a headache comes like a knife between your eyes. 

Clark startles at your hard flinch. “Migraine again?” 

“Not a migraine.” 

“Then what would you call it?” 

“A shooting pain? They don’t last long enough to qualify. Jimmy says so.” 

“What does Jimmy know about headaches?” Clark asks, voice taking on a silky quality that threatens to send shivers down your back. He hesitates in front of you, taller and taller as the moment stretches, before he bends at the waist to touch your forehead. “Sorry, can I just– is this okay?” 

“Sure, but, what are you–”

His hands are warm. “You don’t feel hot. What did the doctor say?” 

“I didn’t go.” 

“You didn’t go?” His softness turns stiff. “Why wouldn’t you go? Sharp pains like this aren’t normal. Why wouldn’t you go and get that looked at? You already made the appointment.” 

You shift away from his hand. It would be easy to meet him where he is right now. You could tell him that it isn’t his problem nor his business. That you didn’t wanna get looked at and ignored, again. You woke up this morning and couldn’t hack it. 

“I didn’t feel like it,” you say, not without care. 

“You didn’t feel like it.” His eyebrows rise. His thumb strokes over the curve of your eyebrow as he pulls his hand away to straighten his glasses. 

“That’s what I said, yeah.” You laugh at his parroting. “I’m fine. It’s not so bad when I’m at home. I figure maybe it’s the computer screen.” You let him stare at you in his sternness until you start to feel too much like a bug under a magnifying glass. “If I send you this bit on one-pan carbonara, could you just– read it for clarity? And cross out whatever sounds ridiculous?” 

“I doubt anything sounds ridiculous, but I’m happy to read it.”

“Thank you, Clark.”

“You’re welcome.” 

He takes a seat at his desk across the way, forcing you to turn your chair away from your computer to see him. You pretend to watch the TV, eyes flicking carefully to his back, waiting for a sign that he’s found a mistake in your article that needs changing. You’re caught on the dark curl of hair kissing his jacket when he tips his head back to meet your eyes, like he’d known you were staring the whole time. “This is great,” he says. “It’s nice, I love the anecdote at the end, you aren’t overwhelming the reader but there’s a clear set of directions and you explain it well.”

“Oh. Thank you. It’s not like there’s much to explain, really.” 

“Sure,” he says, always sure, so easy for him. “But for somebody who’s never cooked alone before, I think this is a nice starting point. I might try it.” 

“Really?” 

“Yeah, you can judge me on it. We can put your instructions to the test.” 

You laugh through a smile. “You can’t make carbonara?” 

“That tone you’re using wasn’t one I picked up on in the article.” 

At the end of the workday, when you’ve exhausted yourself mapping out your next week of online columns and the sun has turned Metropolis into a baking puddle, Clark catches you on the way out and walks with you to the end of the block. “So,” he says, knocking his glasses up his nose with a rushed hand, “are you free tonight?” 

“Why?” 

“To help me with this carbonara.”

“You’re serious?”

“Yes, please. I could use your guidance. I don’t think I even know what to put in a carbonara.” 

“You do. You’re lying.”

He smiles. “Yeah, I’m lying. Come help me anyways?” 

Grocery shopping with Clark is weirdly nice. He makes you laugh; he smells amazing when you stand beside him picking out fresh herbs, a cologne that lingers but you can’t place; he carries both bags from the store to his apartment, and makes it look like easy work. 

—

“Okay?” 

Things with Clark are so new they’re barely anything at all, but there’s an exclusive sort of sweetness to him as he slides a coffee onto your desk. You raise your chin to meet his eyes, dark behind darker glasses. Blue eyes, you know, but less piercing than you’d imagine them to be. 

“I’m okay.” 

“How’s your head?” 

It actually really hurts, now he’s mentioned it. “Fine.”

“Well, it’s decaf.”

“Spoilsport.” 

“But it’s just the way you like it, otherwise.” 

You raise your brows and take a showy sip, visibly judging his performance. The flavour hits the back of your throat, but after a rough swallow, you realise it’s probably the nicest cup of joe you’ve ever had. “That’s perfect,” you tell him, voice all scratched up and awed as he peers down at you. 

He really looks like someone else, sometimes. The more you think about it, the worse your head hurts, so you push the thought from your mind. “Thank you, Clark. This is really good. Do you– is this, like, a hobby?” 

“What, making coffee?” He deliberates with a shrug. “Not really.” 

“You’re just naturally good at everything, then.” 

“Of course not, I’m… I practised. I wanted to make it how you like it.” 

You lift your shoulder before his hand comes down to squeeze it. He handles you so easily, and so kindly, that a little brashness like this makes all the difference. His thumb works into the bone of your shoulder and it nearly-not-quite aches as it brushes its way up to the side of your neck.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks quietly. 

You tell him you are. The workday goes like any other, you send him what you’re working on, Clark sends you back a sweet comment. He asks you if you’re busy on the way out, and you agree to go grocery shopping with him so he can attempt your recipe for honey-roasted peanuts under the watchful eye of a professional. 

“It’s not complicated, Clark, you just blanche your peanuts–”

“Raw ones?” 

“Yeah, well. You can use the pre-cooked ones, but they’re not as nice. Then you make your glaze, honey and butter and a little bit of sugar, you read the recipe–”

“Yeah, I read it, I just know you can make it better than I can, and I need the excuse to spend time with you. Which you know,” he says, holding the door for you as you go. 

It’s sitting on his kitchen counter with the smell of honey-sugar thick in the air that Clark kisses you for the first time. You’re wondering if this is real, if the handsomest man you’ve ever met genuinely wants you, and he’s sliding a hand up your thigh with a gentleness that tickles. “Hey,” he says simply. 

“Hey.” 

“Thank you.” 

“For what?” 

“For helping. For not laughing when I burned the butter.” His hand coasts to your hip, opening and then pressing into softness unabashedly. “For… letting me be a coward, for this long.” 

There’s a headache brewing square between your brows that you fight to ignore. They’re awful lately, shooting pains that don’t end unless you close your eyes. 

“This isn’t cowardice,” you say, because it’s unbelievable that he wants this, and if he doesn’t kiss you soon your heart’s gonna fall into your stomach. “Just the run up.” 

“Yeah.” He grins. “I like that. The run up to a good kiss?” he asks. His voice has gone small and weak. You don’t mistake it for nerves. This is something else entirely.

You close your eyes. It’s all the answer he needs. Your mouth falls open slowly against his as he tilts his head, as his body tries uselessly to slot between your thighs. You sigh a half-protest and he murmurs sorry into your open mouth. 

You don’t get another headache for days. 

They come back to bite you, though. Superman spent the morning playing on TV, fighting a water monster that threatened to drown an elementary school with gelatinous gloop. Clark texted you an apology of all things a few hours ago when he realised the water monster had flooded 110th street, stranding him in a bakery. Your pastries are dry! he’d promised. 

He rolls into work halfway through the day, when Superman and the Justice Gang have successfully boiled the water monster off in another shocking display of heroism. They’d blocked him into a glowing green box with Superman and a triangulation of Mister Terrific’s flying robots, amplifying his heat division and filling the box with boiling steam. Superman had been unaffected, as usual. 

Clark looks red in the face, ridiculously sorry as he presses a kiss to your cheek and a brown paper bag against your chest from behind. “Hi,” he says, “how are you?” 

You preen into his kiss. His nose lingers against your cheek. “I’m fine.” 

He smells weirder than he usually does. You sniff him curiously, promoting a warm huff of a laugh and another kiss to your cheek. “What’s up?” 

“You smell different.” 

“I do?” 

“You’re not wearing any cologne.” 

“I guess I’m not. I was in a rush. Did you eat?” 

“Yeah, we had sandwiches.” 

“Did Jimmy pay again?” 

“He did not. He offered.” 

He pulls you back to his chest. “He did.” 

“You’re not actually jealous.” 

“It’s polite of him,” he says, falling into that little voice that makes you wanna ask him to take you home. What is his problem? He’s 6’4, he’s wide, he has no business baby-voicing you and you’re eating it up ‘cos you know it isn’t put on. He gets sweet when he’s comfortable. You make him happy. 

“You’re smiling,” he accuses. 

“Nope.” 

The headaches persist. Clark is this shining bright spot of goodness in your life, even if he kisses you rather impolitely when the office clears at hometime, even when he disappears at strange times. He always texts, so. There’s a hundred different reasons as to why he’s late for work, or cancelling a date last minute, and he makes it up with flowers and apologies out of the ears. 

Superman gets busy on the news. You feel a bridge there, something about something about Clark Kent. A migraine hits before you can figure it out. 

It’s a few weeks after your first kiss, and you spend the morning flicking through photos of you and Clark. He likes taking them, holding your phone out in front of you both. “Smile!” he says, kissing you fondly when you oblige. You’re thinking about getting a couple of them printed for your photo album, though that might doom the whole thing, really, an early jinx, so for now you settle for thumbing through them with a big smile. Your head’s been hurting some since you woke up. You blame Clark for surprising you with a too-early FaceTime, sheets pulled up to your nose. 

To make up for waking you, he promises to bring groceries. You’d written a recipe for creamy mushroom eggs a few days ago that he swears he can make so long as you’re watching. 

You struggle out of bed when you hear him knocking. He’s grinning at the door, three paper bags hoisted in arms that have no business being as shapely as they are, his hair wet with rain and curling against his forehead. 

“Oh, no, it’s raining?” 

He leans in to peck you, paper bags crinkling sadly between your chests. “Not much.” 

His obvious lie makes you laugh, which has him stealing another kiss from the apple of your cheek. 

“You okay? How’s the head, today?” 

“It’s fine.” It’s protesting, actually, angered by your movement. 

“Why don’t we go sit you down, huh?”

“I don’t know why…” 

Clark guides you to the kitchen, shelving the paper bags on your small table and shepherding you into a chair at the head of it. “Why what?” 

You chew your lip. 

“What?” he asks patiently. 

“It’s like they get worse when you ask me about them. Maybe it’s psychosomatic? I’m sorry, I don’t mean– you don’t make them worse, Clark–”

But doesn’t he? He’s looking down at you and your headache is blistering, that single black curl against his forehead as his glasses slip down a damp nose. He’s wearing a blue hoodie and light wash jeans and it’s stirring and it hurts your head. 

“Oh,” he says quietly. 

“It’s not you, Clark.” 

“It might be.” 

“What?” 

He bends slightly to see you. Your eyes throb in their sockets as he watches you, clearly thinking, the cogs behind pretty eyes turning slow. 

Clark brings his fingertips to your cheek. “You’ve always been very observant.” 

“Have I?” 

“Of course. You’re so smart, you have an eye for detail, the small things, all the most important parts. That’s why you’re good at what you do, right?”

“I don’t follow, Clark.” 

“Your headaches are the worst at work, right?” 

“Yeah.”

“And since we’ve been dating, they follow you home, too.” You’re worrying that this is the breakup when he raises both hands to his glasses. “It’s my fault. Or, it’s down to these.”

You stare at him wordlessly. 

“It’s– Four. Made me these, they all did, to obscure my identity. So I could have a normal life.” 

You’re feeling pretty nauseous, as things go. Maybe you’re having a stroke? That’s how these happen, sudden, strange feelings in your hands and garbled speech. Aren’t you the one who’s supposed to be speaking in riddles? 

Clark strokes your cheek again quickly, fingers going back to the arms of his glasses before you can savour the touch, and he works the black body of them down his nose and off. 

You squint at your almost-boyfriend. He looks different without the glasses. Paler. 

Then he straightens up and the pieces click firmly into place. 

Your lips part. He folds his glasses into the front of his hoodie, crossing his arms over his chest to follow. 

“I know it’s a lot to take in.” 

“How are you… Your glasses– and they– the headaches?” 

“I don’t know. They never told me there’d be side effects.” 

“Who’s they?” 

He smiles rather boyishly, considering. “The bots, at the Fortress of Solitude. Four never mentioned that it could hurt you. I’m sorry about that.” 

Superman is looking down at you with big blue eyes and Clark Kent’s pretty mouth. That you’ve kissed. You’ve kissed superman. 

“Can you stop frowning? You have a nicer smile,” you say finally. 

He wants to do as you’ve asked, but his expression stutters. “You’re not mad?” 

“About what?” 

“About– about what? About my secret.” 

You’re not sure you can say ‘Superman’ out loud. “Either I’m having an aneurysm, or you have, like, the world's biggest burden on your shoulders. How could I be mad about that?” 

“What is wrong with you?” he asks. Clark-man (wow!) grins sudden and sweet as he loses his straight-backed posture, bending down again, looking for your hands where they live waiting at the ends of your arms for his touch. “I’m a metahuman. Hell, I’m not even human. I’m from space. You’re being unbelievably cool about this.” 

You settle into your chair with a tired smile. “My headache’s gone for the first time in months.” 

He pulls your hand to his chest. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah, completely. Who knew it was you the whole time? Should’ve stayed away. Just, I couldn’t manage it.” 

He kneels at your feet. “Is it really all better?” he asks.

The relief is nothing you’ve felt before. The first absence of pain after weeks of pinching agony. 

Clark pulls the glasses off of his hoodie and throws them over his shoulder. They land with a crack in the kitchen sink. 

“Don’t you need those?” you ask. 

He takes your face into a big, big hand, smiley and shy as he pulls you down to meet his mouth. “Not for this,” he promises, breath warm on your lips and your tongue as he takes the lead. The kiss goes hot and heavy as honey under summer sun, blistering, and searchingly slow. He kisses better without his glasses. You shuttle the thought away for a later date and let yourself sink into the heat of his chest. 

—

“I thought Superman didn’t have time for selfies?” you croon sometime later, sated and steady with a warm body behind your back. 

Clark hums into your hair tiredly. “Huh?” 

“You always make us take photos together.” 

“Well, that’s different. With you, I’m usually Clark.” 

“Usually?” 

He kisses the top of your ear. “Yeah. Guy you just met? That was Superman. But otherwise, I’m just Clark.” 

You groan as he laughs, giving it your best attempt at wiggling out of his reach to punish him for the cheesy line. Strong forearms cross over your stomach to pull you right back in. 

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

thanks for reading!! hope you enjoyed!! and thank you becs for proofreading quick before I posted !!

[raysome]

In a world of AO3 warriors, I'm forever a Tumblr Trooper...

[iamvengeance-iamtheshadows]

The only thing unrealistic about the new Superman movie was that the civilians of Metropolis fled to Gotham out of all places to not be in danger 😭

[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.

[groovyangelkisses]

clark with a ditzy, crybaby!coworker who he is secretly in love with is so special to me ♡

cw: hyperfem!reader, not proofread… just a little hc to daydream about clark to

going into work at the daily planet with teary eyes, and a sad little frown as you shuffle towards clark’s desk in your heels

you hold your wrist up toward him. “clarkie, look… my bracelet’s stuck.” :(

and clark doesn’t say a word. just kneels down in front of you on one knee and unhooks the tiny golden charm bracelet caught on your zipper.

and jimmy is sat there in hysterics over how whipped clark is… like literally holding his stomach at the speed with which clark put down his files and coffee cup to help you

and when you squeal and jump up to hug him with a loud “thank you, thank you, thank you!” and throw your arms around his neck

clark is RED and completely hunched down to your height but soooooo happy to see your pout go away

smilin’ at you with a sweet, proud nod as you go sit down at your desk with your jingling little bracelet now free of your tight cardigan

“jimmy! jimmy, look! clark fixed my bracelet, isn’t he a doll?!” “oh yeah he’s a real peach, honey”

blowin’ him a kiss before you fix up your mascara that was running earlier from the sheer stress of stuck jewelry

clark catches it with a blush, sliding into the front pocket of his suit for safe keeping <3

anything to make you smile <3

[drewstarkeytruelove]

my current obsession?

…

i actually need him so bad yall have NO idea

[sillyswriting]

: ̗̀➛ but he doesn't like me, does he?

ㅤㅤ     ㅤ  ₊✩ˎˊ˗ clark kent x reader

synopsis : There was one thing you knew for sure, absolutely certain: Clark Kent didn’t like you. Not in an angry or rude way, he was still polite, still himself. But you could feel it. His body language and attitude gave everything away. Your coworkers kept insisting you were wrong, but then why did he keep avoiding you?

cw : smut, unprotected sex, coworkers to lovers, idiots in love, insecurities, height difference, chubby reader. (david!clark kent) words : 12.7k

ㅤㅤ     ㅤ  masterlist ⋆ ao3

It was no secret at the Daily Planet that Clark Kent was a gentleman. His coworkers liked to joke that his mama raised him right—but if only they knew, it was actually his pa who was the emotional one.

Still, the truth stood : Clark Kent had been raised right.

He brought coffee to his colleagues in the morning, at least when he wasn’t running late. If someone forgot their wallet, he’d quietly pick up the lunch tab, never expecting to be paid back. He always volunteered for the articles no one else wanted to write, the stories everyone avoided.

That’s just Clark. A pleaser, through and through.

It did wonders for the office. You hadn’t met a single person who didn’t like Clark, he made it so easy to appreciate him. A gentle, big man with a heart of gold, who could hate that? You certainly didn’t. But still, you couldn’t shake the feeling that he didn’t like you.

Every time he walked past your desk, he avoided your gaze, eyes low and fixed on the floor, hiding his face from you. Sure, he never left you out of his little acts of kindness, bringing your favorite vanilla latte to your cubicle next to Jimmy’s with that soft, polite smile, but he never lingered. Not the way he did at other people’s desks.

At first, you chalked it up to being the new hire. But as the months slipped by, you started to realize, he just didn’t like you all that much. Which was a shame, really, considering the rather enormous crush you’d developed on the man.

You had done a marvellous job of hiding it. You were always polite with Clark, but you never stared too long, never asked your coworkers about him, never lingered by his desk longer than necessary. Still, every time he was near, your heart would pound like crazy, ready to burst right out of your chest. It was ridiculous.

Almost 26, and you still had crushes like you were in high school. You’d thought you were past all that, especially after enduring so many terrible dates. Maybe the problem wasn’t you, maybe it was the men of Metropolis. Because you seemed to have no trouble falling for a man from a small town lost somewhere in Kansas.

“Hello!” snapped you out of your daydream, along with fingers flicking in front of your face. “Have you even been listening to me?” Jimmy asked, exasperation written all over his face.

Obviously not. You hadn’t heard a word.

“Of course, Jimmy,” you said quickly, looking him in the eye.

You’d been staring at the empty coffee cup on the corner of your desk, the very one Clark had brought you that morning. You grabbed it hastily and tossed it into the trash. It had been sitting there like a quiet taunt, mocking you with the reminder that you could never have the one man you actually wanted.

Jimmy frowned at your abrupt action but quickly moved on, picking up where he'd left off with his story about his latest date. You loved him—really, you did—he was one of your favourite coworkers. But god, did he talk a lot. And since your desks were practically conjoined, you were the default audience for all of his dating escapades.

It had been a long day.

You’d spent it covering yet another political scandal, this time in Gotham City. Something about the Mayor being killed. The details were murky, grim, and far too much for a Wednesday. You couldn’t help but wish the day would just end already.

Dropping your head onto your arm, you let out a groan as you remembered the errands still waiting for you. If you didn’t get to the store soon, you’d be dining on water and regret. If Jimmy noticed you disinterest in the conversation, he didn't act on it as he kept yapping about the girl he had seen the night before. 

And to top it all off, you needed a new perfume, your old one was currently sitting in the bottom of your trash can, shattered into a hundred glassy pieces. Just one more little tragedy in a day full of them.

From the moment you woke up, it had been that kind of day. And you couldn’t wait for it to be over.

“Care for a drink tonight?” Lois’s voice cut through the room like a whip, barging in out of nowhere, and mercifully putting an end to Jimmy’s endless rambling.

Normally, grabbing a drink with coworkers would’ve sounded nice. Fun, even. But not tonight.

Your head was pounding, a dull, throbbing ache that had been building for hours. That’s when you realized, you hadn’t had any water today. Just coffee. So much coffee. And now exhaustion clung to you like the plague, dragging you down like a ball and chain around your ankle.

“Not for me…” you mumbled, face buried in your arms. “My head’s killing me, so… no drinks tonight.” 

After a few worried words from Jimmy, which you quickly brushed off, he went right back to talking about his date. This time, to Lois. Which, unfortunately, meant he started the entire story over again from the beginning.

You sat up with a quiet groan, realising you still had about two hours left at work. Deciding to make good use of the time, you started preparing questions for your next interview, then moved on to editing your article about the Gotham City scandal, scheduled to run the next day.

Once you were fully immersed in your work, the background noise faded. Jimmy’s voice, Lois’s witty remarks, none of it registered anymore. It was peaceful, being tucked away inside your own head, fingers dancing across the keyboard with purpose.

Unfortunately, that peace did nothing for your pounding headache, especially since your glasses were currently sitting on your coffee table at home, forgotten yet again.

The voices around you quieted when a bottle of water appeared on your desk, followed by a single aspirin. They had been placed gently on the wood, carefully set down so as not to disturb your focus. It was a quiet, thoughtful gesture, tender in a way that caught you off guard.

Looking up, you found yourself met with soft blue eyes, warm and filled with concern.

“For your head,” Clark said simply, before turning back to his own desk under the watchful gaze of three stunned coworkers.

How had he known?

He’d been at his desk the whole time. When you mentioned the headache, your voice had been muffled into your arms, barely audible even to Jimmy and Lois, who were sitting right beside you. 

But Clark? Clark had heard you all the way across the room?

You couldn’t begin to figure out the logistics of it, but your heart didn’t care. It tumbled over in your chest, stuttering at the unexpected sweetness of it all. 

What you didn’t see, because his back was turned, was the small, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of Clark’s mouth as he sat back down.

When you turned your eyes back to your coworkers, both Jimmy and Lois were looking at you with raised eyebrows and matching, knowing smiles.

Jimmy had been teasing you about Clark ever since he caught you blushing the first time Clark brought you coffee. And Lois? She never missed a chance to mention the "energy" she claimed she could feel between the two of you, whatever that meant.

“Oh, fuck off,” you muttered, ducking your head and returning to your article as you twisted open the bottle of water. You popped the aspirin and took a long sip, trying to drown the heat rising in your cheeks.

For someone who didn’t seem to like you very much… Clark was oddly caring. 

But that was just Clark. He cared about people, that’s who he was. Thoughtful, selfless, kind to a fault. You were part of his daily life, part of the Daily Planet team, and even if he didn’t like you that way, he would still care.

That’s just how he was. Clark Kent had been raised right. There was no denying that.

A few days later, it was your turn to be late to the Daily Planet. It was rare for you, almost unheard of, but some alien had decided to crash-land on Earth the night before, and the resulting battle with Superman had wrecked part of your subway line.

You’d ended up walking twenty minutes to the office, arriving late, sweaty, and just in time to miss the morning meeting. Your punishment? Covering sports for the day. Fantastic.

You hated sports. Ironic, really, considering some of your old dates used to joke about how unathletic your body looked. Those assholes.

When you finally made it to your desk, your usual iced vanilla latte was already waiting for you, right next to a fresh bottle of water. God. Did he have to be this thoughtful?

It made everything worse. Or better. You weren’t sure anymore. All you knew was that you liked him even more now, which was exactly the problem.

“Thought you were dead,” Jimmy said the second you dropped into your chair. “Was gonna swing by your place tonight and steal your vinyl collection.”

You shot him a flat look. “Yeah, well, if Superman hadn’t turned half the N line into a pile of concrete, I wouldn’t have had to walk twenty minutes to get here.” You groaned and took a sip of your coffee. 

Sweet, cold, just how you liked it. The smallest part of you hated how good it tasted, because it meant he remembered exactly what you liked. Again. And of course, he’d made sure it was iced, the summer heat had already started hitting Metropolis like a brick wall.

Jimmy giggled beside you like a child. You glanced over to see him diving into his assignment, politics, the lucky bastard. He had a long day of work ahead, while you were stuck with nothing interesting. Groaning under your breath, you reached into your bag and pulled out your glasses, resigning yourself to a long, boring day. You already knew you were going to hate it.

“Hey.” A soft voice called from behind you.

You turned, half-expecting it to be someone asking for a stapler or sticky notes. But it was Clark. You offered him a polite smile, assuming, like usual, he was there to talk to Jimmy. You were already halfway turned back toward your screen when you noticed something strange : his eyes were still on you.

You raised a brow, unsure. “Hello,” you replied, voice cautious, heart beating fast. He looked like he was fighting back a smile.

God. That little almost-smile. Your heart tripped over itself. How could someone that big be so ridiculously cute? It made no sense. None at all.

“I know you’re not a fan of sports,” Clark began, his tone gentle, “and I got stuck with local news today… which I also know you like.”

Your heart stuttered. You didn’t even need to look, Jimmy was absolutely staring at the two of you, probably wearing that smug told-you-so smirk he always pulled when it came to Clark. He’d insisted for months that you were wrong, that Clark did like you.

“He’s just polite,” you used to argue. 

“He’s polite to everyone,” Jimmy would say. “But with you? He’s thoughtful.”

And damn it, now it was starting to look like Jimmy might’ve been right.

“I asked Perry, and he said as long as we’re both okay with it, he doesn’t see any problem with us switching—” Clark stopped mid-sentence. 

He’d stepped a little closer to your desk, his expression soft and earnest… but then something shifted. His brow furrowed slightly, as if catching something out of place. “You changed your perfume?”

Oh.

You had. The other night, when you finally made it to the store, they’d been out of your usual scent. You’d spent a good hour testing every bottle on the shelf until you found one you liked, something softer, quieter. No one else had noticed the difference.

But of course Clark did.

You blinked, caught off guard. He wasn’t even that close. You weren’t wearing much of it. How did he notice? You felt your heart knock hard against your ribs. There it was again, that strange awareness. Like he saw and heard and felt things other people didn’t.

“Yeah,” you said, keeping your voice casual even as your pulse betrayed you. “Just trying something new.”

Clark didn’t say anything right away. His gaze lingered a little longer, thoughtful, before that small, secret smile tugged at the corner of his lips again. You didn’t know what that smile meant. But you were starting to want to.

“Anyway,” he said quickly, as if realising how odd his comment about your perfume might’ve sounded. “I figured you might want local news. I really don’t mind sports.”

He offered a soft smile as he handed you the annex documents.

“Oh, thank you so much, Clark,” you said, relieved and maybe a little too enthusiastic, swapping him the sports documents in return.

Your fingers brushed, just barely, and it sent a shiver down your spine. He was warm. Of course he was. He looked like he gave the best hugs. The kind you could melt into and forget the world existed for a little while.

You shook your head subtly, trying to knock the thought loose.

Now was not the time to imagine Clark Kent curled around you in bed during the dead of winter, holding you close while snow fell outside. Not the time to picture flannel sheets and his soft breath against your neck. Those kinds of thoughts were supposed to stay in your bedroom, late at night, when the lights were out and your imagination ran free. 

Not in the middle of the office. Not in the middle of the day. And definitely not while standing in front of the actual man who starred in every single one of those fantasies.

You cleared your throat, eyes darting anywhere but his. “You’re a lifesaver.”

Clark gave you a look you couldn’t quite read, something quiet, maybe a little amused, but he didn’t press. Just nodded gently and stepped back toward his desk. And damn it, there went your brain again. Right back to flannel sheets and the curve of his smile.

“Girl, you are down bad,” Jimmy snorted from behind you, pulling you right out of your spiral.

Without even looking, you grabbed the first thing within reach, a ruler, and threw it at his head. It hit him square on. “Worth it,” he laughed, rubbing the spot before turning back to his screen.

You huffed and tried to do the same, shaking off the embarrassment and diving into your article. What you didn’t catch, too flustered and too focused on pretending not to care, was the quiet laugh Clark let slip from his own desk.

Soft. Low. Amused. Like he’d heard the whole thing… 

You’d never been particularly fond of walking home.

The streets of Metropolis were always crowded, day and night, and ever since Superman had wrecked part of the N line, your commute had grown by twenty exhausting minutes each way.

Why was it so easy to smash half the city every month, but fixing it always took forever?

So you walked. Again. Winding your way toward the still-functioning stretch of the N line, where you could finally hop on a train for the last ten minutes of your journey. You were just passing a little corner restaurant when you heard your name.

Your full name. Spoken in a voice you’d come to recognize far too easily.

Clark.

Your heart jumped. Turning around, you caught sight of him instantly.

He looked the same as he had in the office, same button-up shirt with his sleeves now rolled up to the elbows, but somehow, he also looked softer. His hair had loosened in the summer humidity, and a single curl had fallen down across his forehead.

He looked good. Too good.

“Oh, hi, Clark,” you said, inwardly cringing at how small and soft your voice came out.

He smiled, warm and easy, walking toward you. “Didn’t expect to see you here. Never caught you around this part of town before.”

You shrugged, trying to keep things casual despite the way your stomach flipped. 

“Oh, yeah, no, um…” You stumbled over your words, eyes flicking to the restaurant window behind him like it might save you. “Superman destroyed the N line near the office, so I have to walk all the way to the library station to catch the part that wasn’t damaged.”

Clark winced sympathetically. “Right. The whole N line mess.”

He’d been different with you lately.

Not dramatically, not enough to confirm anything, but just enough to keep your brain in a constant, swirling fog. He talked to you more. Not just about assignments, but about music, coffee, the weather, small things, personal things. His eyes stayed on you when you spoke, warm and focused. He lingered at your desk a little longer than he used to. Not like he did at Lois’s desk, all easy banter and playful grins, but still. It was something.

A start.

And right now, with his sleeves pushed up and that single rogue curl falling onto his forehead, it was definitely doing something to your heartbeat.

There was a pause, not uncomfortable, but charged, and you scrambled to keep the moment going.

“What about you?” you asked, voice softer. “You grabbing dinner?”

Clark nodded, smile easy. “Yeah. I like this place. It’s quiet, kind of tucked away. Close to home.  Good food. I come here sometimes after work. Helps me think.”

His voice was slower now, more casual than at the office. The city buzzed around you, horns in the distance, the hum of summer heat, but this little moment between you felt strangely still.

“Have you eaten?” “Well, have a good night.”

You both spoke at the same time, the words overlapping, catching you off guard.

Laughter bubbled out from both of you, soft and awkward, as you stood there on the sidewalk, caught in that strange, fluttery space between goodbye and something more.

You were so drawn in by him, his eyes, his voice, the quiet warmth he carried, that you didn’t hear the teenager barreling toward you on a skateboard until it was too late. But Clark did.

Before the kid could slam into you, his hand wrapped around your forearm, firm, steady, warm, and in one smooth, instinctive motion, he pulled you into him.

The strength of it startled you. You knew Clark was strong, he was tall, broad-shouldered, always lifting stacks of paper like they weighed nothing, but this was different. He’d pulled you so quickly, so easily, it knocked the breath out of you. You stumbled forward, colliding with his chest, hands instinctively pressing against him to keep balance.

Solid. Warm. Safe.

Before you could even register how close you were, before you could say something awkward to ruin the moment, Clark gently let go of your arm, only after making sure you had your balance again.

“Want to grab some dinner with me?” he asked, like it was the most natural thing in the world. And really, how could you say no to that?

What you expected to be a quick dinner between coworkers turned into something else entirely, something easy. You shared the food you ordered, Clark was right: the place was good. Casual, quiet, with a back booth tucked away from the crowd where it was just the two of you and the low hum of the city outside.

You talked. About your lives. Childhood memories. Favorite music. Silly stories from high school. Your mutual hatred for Metropolis sports coverage when he told you he actually didn't like covering sports.  

It wasn’t forced. It wasn’t awkward. There were no strained silences, no moments where you felt like you had to fill the space. The conversation simply flowed.

And for the first time in forever around him, your heart was quiet. Not because the feelings were gone. But because they finally felt safe.

Of course, Clark being Clark, he insisted on paying and walking you home, or at least to your subway station. He argued it was late, that the streets weren’t safe, as if you lived in Gotham City. That made you laugh. Ever the gentleman, he made sure to walk on the side closest to the road and even offered to carry your bag.

You had refused, obviously. Walking next to him felt strange. For one, he was so much taller than you, fitter, broader. Beside him, you almost looked like a child in comparison. You’d put on your nice skirt that morning, the one that made your ass look great, but it came with downsides, especially after meals.

Your stomach stuck out, bloated from the food, and with the heat, you hadn’t brought a jumper to hide it. That’s why you insisted on keeping your tote bag, slinging it on the side he was walking on, using it to shield your stomach from his view.

What you didn’t know was how Clark couldn’t help his eyes from drifting downward every time he fell a step behind you on the street, not on purpose, of course. But he couldn’t look away from the bounce of your ass, the way your thighs moved with each step. It was mesmerizing to him.

Finally, you reached the subway station. A bit too soon for your liking, it almost felt like you’d just been on the best date of your life. But it wasn’t a date, and Clark was still that coworker who, as far as you knew, didn’t like you all that much. Even if it didn’t truly feel that way anymore.

Maybe Jimmy was right?

“Well, you get home safe, alright?” Clark said, a small, knowing smirk playing at his lips. Knowing of what, you couldn’t quite figure out.

“Yeah, hopefully Superman took the night off,” you joked.

The smirk faded from his face, just a little, but enough. Maybe you shouldn’t have said that. You knew he and Superman were... friends, sort of. Clark was, after all, the only reporter in the city who ever got interviews with him.

Your subway ride was filled with secondhand embarrassment as you replayed everything you’d said tonight. You’d been awkward, not really that funny, and, overall, it felt like you’d talked way too much. But Clark had brought up topics you were passionate about, and once that happened, well... you yapped.

You shook your head, trying to shake off the uncomfortable weight of cringe. You’d apologize tomorrow morning, just to be safe. No need to give Clark another reason to like you even less.

Once you arrived home, you looked up at the sky, drawn by strange noises echoing above the rooftops. There he was, Superman, fighting off another threat from outer space. The battle was so close to your building you could see the entire scene unfold with startling clarity. That gave you an idea.

You made your way up to the rooftop, sat down, and pulled out your little notebook. You started writing it all out like a novel : vivid descriptions of the fight, the way Superman moved with precision, doing everything he could to avoid causing damage to the city. You noted how he kept trying to push the alien threat higher into the sky, away from civilians, careful not to hurt the beast more than necessary.

Perry would love these notes. Maybe he’d even let you cover the attack for the paper tomorrow. You kept writing, capturing everything, even the moment the Justice Gang showed up to help contain the creature, working together to finally subdue it.

The air up on the roof was lighter, breezier than the stifling heat you’d endured all day, and it made you want to stay. So you fetched your laptop, opened a blank document, and started shaping your article. Even if you hadn't officially covered the attack, yet, Perry would greenlight it, he always did when your writing spoke for itself.

You lost track of time, deep in your work, until a soft cough interrupted your flow… from the sky?

You looked up quickly, startled, and there he was. Superman himself. You’d never met him in person, but then again, who hadn’t seen him? Everyone knew that face. You knew him even better than most, thanks to Clark, who was always going on about him, especially after those exclusive interviews.

“Well, hello, Miss,” he spoke first.

You snorted softly, eyes still on your laptop screen. Not exactly ignoring him, but definitely unimpressed. Typing away, you mumbled a half-hearted, “Hey.” Maybe you were still a little petty about the N line being down.

“You shouldn’t have stayed outside during the fight,” he continued, landing gently on the rooftop and staying a respectful distance away. “It got a bit too close to your building.”

“Hm?” you murmured, barely looking up. “Oh, yeah. I’ll be alright.” You waved off the concern, trying not to sound as dismissive as you felt.

But you could feel his confused gaze on you, lingering, slightly thrown off. Clearly, he wasn’t used to being ignored. That might do him some good. Might help deflate that ego a bit. You kept typing, your fingers flying across the keyboard, but a small part of you couldn’t resist. He was standing right there. And, honestly, he could be useful.

“So, would you say you were a little in over your head before the Justice Gang showed up?” you asked, voice casual, laced with dry sarcasm. “Because it kinda looked like it from here. The alien was clearly kicking your ass for a minute.”

You didn't mean it cruelly, just honest observation. He had looked a little overwhelmed at first.

Superman blinked, clearly not expecting that kind of feedback. His brow arched, just slightly.

“Is that your professional opinion?” he asked, his voice smooth but amused. “From the rooftop press box?”

You shrugged, not looking up from your screen. “Hey, I had the best seat in the house. Front-row view.”

He chuckled softly, the sound low and surprisingly human. Almost familiar. “I’ll admit, he had a few unexpected tricks. But I had it under control.”

“Oh, sure, no doubts,” you said, finally glancing up. “Right up until the part where you got slammed into a billboard. Very graceful.”

He smiled, wry, almost humble. “That was... tactical repositioning.”

You snorted. “Is that what you call getting launched like a ragdoll now? Tactical.”

“Well,” he said, folding his arms, cape fluttering just slightly in the breeze, “you’re welcome for the save.”

“You didn't exactly save me,” you teased, then added with a touch more bite, “Though I will say, I’m glad you didn’t take out the rest of the N line this time.” Your fingers hovered above the keys as you shot him a pointed look. “I wouldn’t have been nearly as nice in the article otherwise.”

Superman’s lips twitched, like he was fighting back a laugh, or a wince. “I see. So your forgiveness is tied directly to public transport?”

“Absolutely,” you replied. “I can forgive a lot, but making me walk fourty minutes everyday? That’s borderline villain behavior.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Noted. I’ll add subway lines to the list of things to protect at all costs.”

“Good,” you said, returning to your typing. “Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got an article to write. Since I know you only give your interviews to Mr. Kent.”

You didn’t even try to hide the edge in your voice. Petty? Maybe. Deserved? Also maybe. 

There was a pause. Then, with a teasing voice, Superman spoke again. “Jealous of Clark?”

You scoffed without looking up. “Please. I’m just saying, he gets exclusives, I get the N line destruction and a rooftop cameo.”

Another pause. A longer one this time.

“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “I’ve read your articles.”

That made your fingers freeze for just a second. You had written about Superman before, here and there. Not often, mostly because your beat was international politics. But he’d made waves recently with the Boravian government, and you couldn’t not cover it.

Unfortunately, you hadn’t exactly been... gentle.

“I don’t think you like me very much,” he said, laughing softly. Not defensive. Not wounded. Just amused.

“It’s not you,” you said quickly. “It’s your actions. You act like you’re above the law, above international conflict and diplomacy. It was just an objective piece, you know? Freedom of the press.”

You tried to keep it light. You really weren’t in the mood to argue with the most powerful metahuman on Earth.

“I’ve never doubted your objectivity,” he replied, his tone teasing. “You’re with the Daily Planet, after all. Home of the most brutally honest reporters in Metropolis.”

That earned a small, reluctant smile from you. But still, something nagged at you. The way he looked at you. The way he spoke, gently, like he already knew how you thought. The rhythm of his voice. That soft smile.

It felt like you knew him.

Not just in the he's a global figure kind of way. But personally. Intimately.

Your brows furrowed slightly as you stared at him. It was so familiar, and yet your brain couldn’t quite latch on to the why. You blinked and shook the feeling off, typing again. Maybe you were just tired. Or maybe Clark had spent too much time talking about this guy.

But the thought lingered.

“Anyway,” you said, stretching your arms with a dramatic sigh, “I’d better get back to my flat. Long day tomorrow, got to write about all the money your heroics cost the city. Call a few insurance companies… you know, the fun stuff.”

You flashed him a teasing grin as you gathered your things.

Superman chuckled. “Sounds thrilling.”

You headed toward the rooftop door, hand on the handle, but paused to glance back one last time. “Goodnight, Superman,” you said, softer this time. Genuine.

“Goodnight,” he replied, already turning slightly as if ready to take off, then paused. “Oh, and… I’m sorry about the N line. I’ll keep an eye on the tracks next time. Promise it won’t get destroyed again ma'am.”

There was a grin on his face as he said it, wide, smug, just a little too pleased with himself. A shit-eating grin. Then he was gone, vanishing into the sky with a gust of wind and a blur of red and blue. You stood there for a second, squinting up at the empty sky.

That grin. You knew it. You’d seen it before, up close, maybe even across the office.

But where?

After that night, Clark started acting... different.

Not in a dramatic way, he was still the same with everyone else. Polite, calm, a little awkward in the way only Clark could be. But with you, something had changed. He was more open, more playful. The teasing started subtly, soft jokes at your expense, quick little comebacks. Nothing cruel. Just familiar. Comfortable.

He stopped watching his feet every time you walked into the room. Stopped leaving the break room the moment you stepped in. And he actually talked to you now, full eye contact, even smiling sometimes like he meant it.

It was whiplash, honestly. Not that you didn’t like it, you did. You just couldn’t figure out why he’d changed his opinion of you so suddenly. 

You hadn’t even had time to apologize for being a little too awkward during dinner that night, before he’d smiled and told you he’d had a great time. Then he suggested doing it again, once a week, until the N line was repaired.

Like a standing dinner appointment. A kind of compensation, he’d said. As if he had been the one who destroyed it.

Of course you’d agreed, on one condition: you got to pay next time.

He’d agreed, smiling that soft, unreadable Clark Kent smile. But it had been three weeks now. And somehow, you still hadn’t paid for a single meal. He never let you.

It was a weird dynamic.

Every dinner with Clark felt like a date. The kind Jimmy wouldn’t shut up about, candlelit, good food, long conversations full of smiles and eye contact. You didn’t really talk about them at work. You mentioned them here and there, but you stayed discreet.

Mostly because you were convinced you were overthinking them.

Clark was one of the kindest, most genuine men you knew. Gentle, respectful, always listening, he asked about your opinions, remembered little details you'd said in passing. And he looked at you like what you were saying mattered. Like you mattered. 

But you couldn’t help but feel it was just friendliness. Nothing more.

Lois and Cat, of course, completely disagreed. They kept telling you you were letting your insecurities cloud the obvious. “He likes you. Like, actual likes you, likes you.” But no matter how many times they said it, the thoughts wouldn’t leave you alone.

Clark was beautiful, annoyingly so. Funny, in that dry, awkward way. Clumsy, in a way that made him human. And strong in a way that made your brain short-circuit if you thought too hard about it. He could have anyone in Metropolis. Girl, boy, model, athlete—you name it.

And still, your coworkers were convinced he wanted to date you. It didn’t make sense.

You weren’t ugly, at least, you didn’t think so. You just weren’t remarkable either. Mundane, maybe. And yeah, you were overweight. You knew it, even if you tried to act like it didn’t matter. But somehow, when Clark looked at you during those dinners, smiling like you were the best part of his evening. And with every passing week, the dinners lasted longer. 

Shaking your head, you looked down at your watch. 

Right now, you were sitting in City Hall, waiting for your interview with the Mayor. You were investigating LuthorCorp and its suspicious investments in political campaigns and city projects as well as foreign politics. It wasn’t the first time you’d tried to dig into Lex Luthor’s operations, but every attempt had ended the same way.

He was too powerful. Too calculated. And absolutely unafraid to bribe, threaten, or manipulate any institution that stood in his way.

You’d already been waiting for hours, juggling other article drafts, answering Perry’s increasingly impatient calls every hour about your progress with the Mayor. Which, so far, was absolutely nonexistent.

It was getting dangerously close to the end of your workday—and the end of the Mayor’s. You could already feel the familiar sting of a wasted afternoon.

Looking up from your laptop, you spotted the Mayor’s secretary walking toward you. The expression on his face told you everything before he even opened his mouth. You sighed, here we go.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice syrupy-smooth in a way that only made it more irritating. “But the Mayor won’t be able to meet with you today.”

You almost admired the effort he put into sounding polite, almost. But you knew the truth : everyone in this building hated reporters. Especially the ones who asked the kind of questions you did.

“Tell him he won’t be able to avoid reporters forever,” you said, not bothering to hide the edge in your voice. “And to stop wasting people’s time.”

You shoved your things into your bag with practiced frustration, snapping your laptop shut and slinging the strap over your shoulder. You stormed out through the main doors, the late afternoon sun catching in your eyes as you stepped onto the front steps of City Hall.

You didn’t get far.

An unfamiliar voice called your name from behind you. You froze mid-step, your stomach already sinking. Turning around, you found yourself face-to-face with none other than Lex Luthor himself, stepping smoothly out of the building like he owned it, which, in a way, he probably did.

“I’m quite sorry you couldn’t meet with the Mayor,” he said as he approached, that infuriatingly calm smirk playing on his lips. “We had a lot to discuss.”

You scoffed, lifting your chin to meet his gaze without flinching. His eyes held no remorse, no real apology, only calculation.

“It’s fascinating,” you said coldly, “how every time I have an appointment with the Mayor, you just happen to show up, Mr. Luthor.”

Lex’s smirk deepened, a flash of amusement passing through his eyes like he was genuinely enjoying himself.

“Well,” he said smoothly, clasping his hands behind his back, “some would say great minds tend to orbit the same circles.”

You raised a brow, unimpressed. “Others would say it’s suspicious."

It was his turn to scoff.

You weren’t impressed by Lex Luthor, not like half the city seemed to be. To you, he was just a man. A rich one, yes, with a dangerous amount of power and polish, but still just a man.

For years, every reporter at The Daily Planet had tried to land an interview with him. None succeeded. Lex was meticulous about his image, controlling every frame, every word. He only appeared on talk shows where he could steer the conversation, only issued carefully worded statements, and never, not once, allowed a journalist past the doors of LuthorCorp.

This wasn’t your first interaction with him. But it was the first time you thought you might have a shot at playing the game differently.

“I thought reporters loved suspicious,” he said, stepping closer. Not enough to invade your space, but just enough to remind you of the power he wielded. Political. Financial. Personal. “It’s almost like you enjoy sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

You crossed your arms, meeting his gaze without flinching. “You make it easier than most, Mr. Luthor. Corruption has a way of attracting unwanted attention.”

His smirk deepened, sharp and knowing, like he was starting to enjoy the direction this was heading.

“Ah,” he said, tilting his head as though you'd just handed him a compliment. “Still, I admire your persistence. Most people back down after one roadblock. But not you. Or your little friends at the Planet.” He spat the word like it tasted rotten, the disdain unmistakable.

“Yeah, well,” you said, eyes narrowing slightly, “we’re not most people, I guess.”

You saw it then, a flicker of something behind his eyes. Anger. Not loud or unhinged, but tightly coiled, controlled. He was a master at that. Lex Luthor didn’t explode, he simmered, he plotted, he waited.

And so you shifted. Softened.

“But I must say, Mr. Luthor…” you added, letting your voice drop just slightly, almost shy, almost deferential. “You impress me too.”

That caught him. His gaze sharpened, not with suspicion, not yet, but with curiosity. You saw the faintest hitch in his breath, the flick of calculation behind his polished exterior. This was unfamiliar territory. Praise wasn’t your usual currency with him, and he knew it.

You smiled, just enough. Meek. Disarming. Let him take the bait.

“You look surprisingly well, considering how much you’re handling these days,” you said, voice casual, light. “Must be exhausting, juggling all those city contracts, private acquisitions… and now all this quiet financing of the Boravian conflict.”

His smirk faltered. Then vanished completely. Silence.

You could almost hear the gears grinding behind his eyes. Then, there it was, the slip.

“How do you know about that?” he snapped, the chill in his voice a sudden, biting thing. “There’s been no official statement.”

Got him. You smiled slowly, the kind of smile that didn’t bother hiding the satisfaction underneath.

“I didn’t,” you said simply, reaching into your jeans pocket. The small recorder glinted in your hand as you held it up between you. “But thank you for the confirmation.”

He stiffened. You stepped back.

“You’ll be hearing from us soon, Mr. Luthor, but I know you won't answer anyway,” you added smoothly. “Have a good evening.”

Then you turned, walking away before he could gather himself enough to spin it back in his favor. Your heart was pounding in your ears, adrenaline surging. You had a lead. You had a quote. And Lex Luthor had finally made a mistake.

Still riding the high of your small victory, you left the City Hall behind in a rush, already pulling out your phone to call Clark. It was supposed to be dinner night, but this couldn’t wait, you needed to tell him what had just happened.

Sure, it hadn’t been entirely ethical. But Lex Luthor never played by the rules, so why should you?

An hour later, you sat across from Clark at your shared table, half-typing, half-talking, your food long forgotten as you recounted every detail of the encounter. He listened patiently, his plate nearly empty, while yours remained untouched, your fingers dancing across the keys in a blur.

“So, let me get this straight…” Clark said, a warm laugh slipping out as he leaned back in his chair. “You didn’t actually record him?”

“Of course I didn’t,” you muttered, not looking up, still deep in the rhythm of your draft. You grabbed a quick bite, chewing fast before continuing, “Why would I have been recording him? It's not like I knew he was gonna talk?”

Clark shook his head, eyes soft, amused. “Not exactly your most ethical moment,” he teased, the smile tugging at his lips belying any real disapproval.

You shot him a look, playful and unrepentant. “Yeah, well, ethics get a little blurry when you're up against a guy who treats international conflict like a business expense.”

He grinned, taking another bite, still watching you like you were the most fascinating thing in the room.

“You know,” he said after a beat, “Perry’s going to lose his mind when he reads this.”

You smirked, finally pausing to glance at him. “Good. Finally got my front page.”

You looked up, and froze for just a second. He was staring at you with the kindest eyes you’d ever seen. Unwavering. Soft. Like you were something rare and remarkable. Like he saw all of you and still chose to look that way.

Your chest tightened unexpectedly. No one had ever looked at you like that. Not like you were just a reporter chasing a story, but like you were everything worth watching. Right on cue, your heart skipped. Flustered, you stabbed another bite of food with your fork and went back to typing, willing the blush from your cheeks.

Eyes still on your screen, you asked, trying to sound casual, “What? Do I have something on my face?”

He let out a quiet laugh, warm and low. “No. I’m just… proud of you,” he said, like it was the easiest truth in the world. “Even if it was a slightly debatable trick.”

You allowed yourself a small smile, hidden by the screen. “Slightly? You’re going soft on me, Kent.”

“Only with you.” He winked, finishing his own food. 

That made you stop typing. Just for a beat. Then, you swallowed once, quietly, unsure if it was the food or the flutter in your chest, and resumed typing, pretending like the world hadn’t just shifted a little between you.

You spent the rest of the night writing, the soft clack of your keyboard mixing with Clark’s quiet commentary as he leaned over your shoulder. He offered suggestions here and there—cleaning up a sentence, pointing out a stronger lead, helping shape the tone without ever overshadowing your voice.

It was nice. Sweet, even.

You weren’t used to this kind of collaboration, gentle, unhurried, easy. The back and forth between you felt natural, like you'd been working this way for years.

Sometimes your hands would brush when you passed him your laptop, or when you reached over, completely shameless, to steal a bite of his second dinner. He gave up trying to stop you after the third attempt and just started ordering extra. 

He was eating a lot. A lot. But then again, with a body like his, it made sense. Tall, broad-shouldered, solid in a way that felt permanent. You figured all that muscle had to be maintained somehow.

Still, every now and then, you’d glance at the empty plates piling up and mutter, “Where does it all go?”

He’d just grin, dimples and all, and say, “Good metabolism.”

You didn’t believe that for a second. But you didn’t press it either.

The article was nearly done. You were both full, him more than you, and the restaurant had settled into a comforting silence broken only by quiet conversation, shared glances, and the hum of the city through your open window.

Somewhere between line edits and midnight, you realized something dangerous.

You didn’t just like working with Clark Kent. You liked being with him. What had started as a small, harmless crush had grown into something massive, and dangerous.

It crept in quietly at first. But now? It lived in every glance he gave you. Every time his soft, thoughtful smile found you across the table. Every time his hand gently reached out to stop yours from biting at your nails when stress took over. Those small, careful gestures chipped away at your resolve until your heart ached just from being near him.

So when he walked you to the subway that night, the city glowing gold around you both, and pressed a kiss—soft, lingering, infuriatingly gentle—to your cheek… your heart nearly gave out. It thumped wildly in your chest, loud enough to drown out the world for a moment.

You knew you were playing with fire. But God, you longed to get burnt.

You smiled as you descended the stairs into the subway, clutching your bag a little tighter. Hope curled in your chest like something too bold to name.

Maybe, just maybe, one day he’d feel the same way.

Sitting at your desk, you stared at the front page of the freshly printed Daily Planet.

Lex Luthor Admits to Financing International Conflicts

Your name sat proudly beneath the headline.

Perry had been thrilled with the article, grinning like a madman when it hit print, puffing his chest as he waved the paper around the newsroom. The Daily Planet's lawyers, on the other hand, were already on their third round of phone calls before noon. Emails, threats, cease-and-desist letters, they were pouring in from every direction courtesy of LuthorCorp’s legal team.

But Perry had your back. He stood behind the article, behind you, citing freedom of the press with fire in his voice and a cigar practically dangling from his teeth. You hadn’t seen him that fired up in years.

Still, even with the rush of adrenaline and pride, you couldn’t quite relax. You stared at the bold headline again, heart pounding. You’d done it.

You’d poked the beast, and it had roared. But you didn’t regret it. Not even a little.

And just when the nerves started to crawl in again, a gentle tap came on the edge of your desk. You looked up to see Clark standing there, holding two cups of coffee. One was already missing a sip, his.

The other? Yours, just the way you liked it.

“Front page, huh,” he said softly, eyes warm. “Welcome to the club.”

You took the cup, fingers brushing his. That look was back in his eyes again, that same quiet pride from a few nights ago, the one that made your heart trip over itself.

“Thanks,” you said, your voice lower than you meant. 

He smiled again before making his way toward his own desk. 

You felt so proud of yourself. You couldn't help but smile for the rest of the morning, having a hard time focussing on your work for today. Your eyes always lingered back toward the newspaper lying on your desk. All your team had made sure to congratulate you, filling your heart with warmth. 

“Drinks tonight, you can’t say no. We are celebrating you!” Lois’s voice shot across the bullpen like a bullet, barely giving you time to blink before she was already halfway to Perry’s office, heels clicking with authority.

You looked up from your monitor. “I didn’t even say anything yet!”

And she was right, you couldn’t say no. It was Friday night, and you had nothing better to do. You weren’t behind on work, the fridge was stocked, the laundry was done. You had no excuse. And you had made the front page! It was a thing to celebrate. 

And maybe it would help taking your mind of Clark, and your not real dates. 

They were fun, too fun, really. Liberating in the moment, like you could breathe around him. But afterward? The crash was brutal. Your brain wouldn’t stop spiraling, overthinking every word, every glance, every little laugh. It hurt. Even when it shouldn’t.

That’s how you found yourself, hours later, sitting at a sticky table in O’Sullivan’s, Metropolis’s finest pub, surrounded by your favorite coworkers. Clark and Cat were deep in a heated debate about Superman’s very questionable sense of style, while you, Lois, and Jimmy were somehow talking about... toes?

Jimmy had started it. He always did. The man had a gift for derailing any normal conversation within five minutes.

Oh, and Steve was there too. He hadn’t said much, but he was sipping his beer like a man who had no idea how he’d ended up in a conversation about capes and toes.

As the night wore on, everyone was getting progressively more affected by the alcohol. Everyone but one.

Clark.

He was weirdly good at holding his drinks. Thinking about it, you couldn’t recall ever seeing him drunk. You were fairly sober yourself, a little tipsy, pleasantly warm, but nothing like Jimmy and Cat, who were currently butchering We Will Rock You on karaoke with the absolute confidence of people who had forgotten shame existed.

“How come you’re not drunk?” you shouted over the noise, leaning in a little closer. 

He turned away from the chaos, and those soft, annoyingly kind eyes landed on you. Paired with that specialty Clark Kent smile, gentle, quiet, and somehow entirely his, it sent a sudden jolt of heat straight between your legs.

“It’s simple,” he said, holding up his beer. “I didn’t drink that much.”

Sure enough, he was still nursing his first beer, half-full. Meanwhile, the table had gone through at least four rounds.

You stared at the glass, distracted now by the way his fingers wrapped around it, long, strong, careful. The glass looked small in his hands. Like a toy. And for some reason, that sent another ripple of heat through you.

“You seem a little out of it,” Clark added, that soft smirk playing at his lips again, just this side of teasing, but still warm.

You blinked, realising you’d been staring. Hard.

“Oh no, I’m good,” you said, far too loud, and threw both thumbs up in an awkward gesture that immediately felt like a mistake.

Had you been sober, you might’ve cringed. Hard. But right now? Cringing wasn’t on the menu. Not when your brain was soft and hazy, and your eyes were locked on his mouth, on that smirk.

You’d seen it before, of course. He was your colleague, your friend, and Clark smiled all the time. But there was something different about this smile. Something tucked just behind it, something unspoken, almost amused. It tugged at the edge of your memory. Familiar. Too familiar. But just foreign enough to slip out of reach.

Your brows pulled together, the confusion settling in your expression before you could hide it. He tilted his head slightly, watching you. Curious. Patient. Like he knew something. Almost amused. 

“Tell him!” Lois’s voice rang out far too close to your ear, snapping you miles away from your little internal investigation. “Tell him about the little cute alien that was glued to your window for days!”

You blinked, turning to find her grinning like a devil, eyes glassy from one too many drinks. Beside her, Steve looked unsure, eyebrows raised, clearly bracing for whatever bizarre story was about to unfold.

They were both watching you. Waiting.

It was a silly story. Embarrassing, even. But one you liked telling, so you did just that. Animated and loud, hands waving around as you launched into the tale.

What you didn’t notice, though, was the way Clark let out a quiet sigh as you turned away. The tension in his shoulders softened, his body subtly relaxing now that he was no longer under your scrutinising gaze.

The hours passed in a haze of laughter, bizarre stories, and absolutely butchered karaoke performances. It had been a long time since the Daily Planet crew had spent a night like this, no deadlines, no looming crises, just fun.

You felt good. Sobered up completely now, like most of the group, except Jimmy, who was still riding whatever chaotic, alcohol-fuelled high had taken hold of him three hours ago.

Thankfully, he lived near the bar, just a few blocks from Lois and Cat. The two women, still giggling, promised to get him home in one piece. You watched them chase after him with fond amusement as they all disappeared into the night.

Yeah. Tonight had been good.

“Fuck,” you muttered under your breath as you checked the time. No way you were making the last subway, especially with the fifteen-minute walk to the nearest working station.

“Everything okay?” Clark asked beside you, concern laced in his voice as his gaze dropped to your phone.

You sighed, trying to wave it off. “I missed the last metro,” you said, almost sheepish. Then, looking up at the soft, quiet summer night around you, you added, “But it’s fine. It’s a good night for a walk.”

“I’ll walk you home,” he said simply, firmly. The kind of tone that left no room for argument.

So, after a quick wave and a goodnight to Steve, you found yourself on the sidewalk beside him, heading off into the quiet streets. Of course, you did try to protest. You told him, more than once, that you were fine walking alone, that he really didn’t need to go all the way to your place when he lived so close to the bar.

But he waved off every concern without missing a beat. 

“I’m not letting you walk home alone at nearly 1 a.m.,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “My ma would kill me if she found out.”

You laughed, shaking your head, but secretly? You were glad he insisted.

The thirty-minute walk flew by in what felt like seconds. One blink, and suddenly, you were home.

Conversation flowed effortlessly, like it always did since that first dinner. Comfortable. Familiar. He still walked on the side closest to the road, like always. But tonight, he was a little closer than usual. Just enough that your fingers brushed now and then, barely there, featherlight, but every time, your heart skipped like it hadn’t quite gotten the memo to stay calm.

You didn’t say anything about it. Neither did he. And neither of you moved away, either.

You joked about Jimmy and Cat’s drunken rendition of classic rock songs, gently mocked Steve for always looking like he’d wandered into the wrong timeline, and even admitted that you agreed with Cat about Superman’s questionable taste in suits.

Clark had laughed at that, a soft, genuine sound that made something warm bloom in your chest. And just like that, you were standing in front of your building. The night felt too short. The goodbye, too soon.

Standing on the stairs just before the front door of your building, you found yourself eye-level with Clark, a rare occurrence, given the fact that the man was a literal giant. Something in his eyes, in the way his body leaned ever so slightly closer to yours, in the quiet reluctance on his face, as if he, too, was a little sad the walk had ended, pulled the words from your lips before you could second-guess them.

“Wanna come upstairs?” you asked, the question barely louder than the breeze. A whisper, almost lost to the wind.

But Clark heard you. Of course he did.

Not just because he was standing close, but because it was your voice. A voice he would pick out in a sea of thousands. A voice he'd hear anywhere, no matter how far. Though you didn’t know that part.

He nodded, barely, a quiet “Yeah” slipping from his lips like a promise.

It wasn’t long before your back hit your front door, upstairs, his body pressing gently, but undeniably, against yours. His lips found yours with the kind of urgency that had clearly waited too long. Soft, but certain. Gentle, but wanting. The kiss was rushed, but not careless. It felt like everything you’d both been holding in, months of glances, of almost, of quiet moments too full to name.

This wasn’t a kiss just for the sake of kissing.

You kissed him harder, pushing up on your toes to meet him, trying to say with your mouth what your heart had never dared to voice. That you liked him. That you had for so long. That you hadn’t imagined any of it.

Clark groaned softly into the kiss, lowering himself just enough until, without warning, his arms swept around you, lifting you with an ease that felt unfair. You wrapped your legs instinctively around his waist, breath catching in your throat as he deepened the kiss. He let you no time to protest. 

His mouth moved against yours, tongue seeking, exploring, like he had something to say too. Something he hadn’t found the words for yet. And you let him say it this way.

His hands slid under your thighs, pulling you closer until your bodies were flush, his warmth seeping through your clothes and setting your skin on fire. You wrapped your arms tightly around his neck, anchoring yourself to him as if you might float away otherwise.

The kiss deepened, slow and searching, a conversation without words. His tongue traced yours, tentative at first, then more sure, like he was learning the shape of you, committing every detail to memory. 

Finally leaving the front door, Clark walked inside your flat with the ease of someone who belonged there. Without hesitation, he made his way to the couch and sank down with a quiet groan, the sound thick with relief.

You settled on his lap, feeling the solid weight of him beneath you. At the noise he made, you instinctively tried to shift, to sit beside him instead, worried you might be too heavy. But Clark’s hands found your hips, gripping firmly, holding you in place.

“No,” he murmured, voice low and urgent, his fingers tightening just enough to pull you closer. You froze as his lips found yours again, this kiss deeper, more demanding. You barely had time to protest before his arms wrapped around you, anchoring you to him.

Your breaths tangled together, your heart pounding in a wild rhythm that echoed his own. You felt it under your fingers. Time seemed to stretch, the world outside shrinking until it was just the two of you, suspended in this moment where everything finally made sense.

When he pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes were dark, shimmering with something raw and real. “I’ve wanted this for so long,” he murmured, voice low and rough. “More than I knew how to say.”

Frowning, you let out a confused sound. "I thought you didn't like me." 

Now it was his turn to look confused. Clark blinked, his eyes narrowing slightly as he tried to process your words. Then, slowly, a genuine smile spread across his face, followed by a laugh, deep, sincere, and filling your flat.

“Is that why you always looked so gloomy around me?” he asked, the smile still lingering.

“You avoided me, Clark. All the time. Watching your feet whenever I was near, never talking for more than a minute, never lingering at my desk unless it was necessary…” you said, a hint of frustration creeping into your voice at his teasing. “How the hell was I supposed to know you liked me?”

“I bring you coffee,” he said matter-of-factly, as if that explained everything.

“You bring coffee to everyone,” you shot back, deadpanned, rolling your eyes.

Clark chuckled, shaking his head with that familiar, easy grin. “Yeah, but I always made sure you got the good stuff. Overly sugary milk with a bit of coffee.”

You raised an eyebrow, skeptical, but couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at your lips. His lips trailed softly from your cheek to your jaw, then down to your neck. He lingered over your pulse point, as if savouring the gentle thrum beneath his touch.

“Just know,” Clark murmured, his head still resting against your neck, “I’ve always appreciated you.”

Before you could respond, his lips found yours again, silencing any argument with a tender, insistent kiss.

The kisses felt euphoric, as if time itself had slowed to stretch them out for hours. With Clark, everything was effortless and unhurried. Unlike your past lovers, there was no rush, he moved as if he had all the time in the world, and right now, so did you.

His hands explored your body with tender care, caressing softly, never demanding, always gentle. He asked before slipping your shirt off, waited for your consent before removing your bra. Once you were bare, he peeled off his own shirt, never making you feel vulnerable or exposed.

His touch was intoxicating, as soothing as his lips. You melted under the weight of his hands, large, warm, and perfectly fitting as they cupped your breasts. His fingers toyed with your peaked nipples, alternating between soft caresses and gentle pinches, an unspoken apology woven into each movement. Paired with his lips tracing your neck and lips, it was utterly overwhelming.

Without even realising it, your hips began to move, grinding softly against him, responding to the slow, delicious tension building between you.

He chuckled softly against your lips as your covered core pressed against his already hard length. It was one of the hottest sounds you’d ever heard, a breathless, teasing laugh that sent shivers straight through you. Jimmy had been right, you were absolutely down bad.

“Keep going,” he groaned into your ear, his voice thick with need, just as you paused to rest your forehead on his bare, warm, and slightly sweaty shoulder.

His breath fanned over your skin, warm and steady, grounding you in the moment. You lifted your head slowly, eyes meeting his, dark, intense, and full of something deeper than desire.

His hands found your waist again, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. The heat of his body seeped into yours, setting a slow, steady rhythm as your hips moved against him. Every touch, every brush of skin, was electric, soft, like he was memorising every curve, every inch of you. You felt safe, wanted, and adored in a way you hadn’t known you needed.

You felt how wet you were, and judging by the hard length pressing against you, you knew he was just as affected as you were. It felt incredible to be wanted by Clark—needed, desired. For months, you had told yourself you were too plain, too overweight, too annoying. But it turned out he liked all of that about you.

You rocked your hips again, frustrated by the layers of clothing between you. Without thinking, you stood up and hurriedly peeled off your pants and panties in a clumsy, rushed way, like the fabric was burning your skin.

Standing naked before him, you noticed the effect it had on Clark. He froze, almost like his brain had short-circuited, not quite processing the very clear message you were sending, that you wanted him naked too. Instead, he simply admired your body, his eyes tracing you slowly and thoroughly, over and over.

Taking matters into your own hands, you knelt in front of him, fingers already fumbling with his belt buckle. That seemed to snap him back to reality. He gently took your hands in his, kissed your fingers softly, then stood up, pulling you to your feet with him.

After slipping off his pants and briefs, he sat back down on the couch and pulled you back onto his lap.

Your breath hitched as his warm hands settled on your hips, grounding you against him. His gaze roamed over your bare skin, eyes filled with awe and something soft, like he was seeing you in a way no one ever had.

You leaned into him, your hands resting lightly on his broad shoulders, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath his skin. The weight of him was comforting, a promise of care and tenderness.

Slowly, carefully, his lips traced a path from your neck to your collarbone, each touch igniting sparks along your skin. You sighed, the tension of months of self-doubt melting away under his gentle attention.

"You're so fucking beautiful," he murmured between kisses.

You gasped, eyes wide as a teasing smile tugged at your lips.

"Did Clark Kent just swear?" you teased, knowing full well his reputation at the office for a gentle, swear-free vocabulary. The fact that he’d let loose like this on your skin made your heart swell with warmth.

He playfully nipped at the skin of your breast before his lips closed over your nipple, while his fingers danced teasingly on the other. Your hips began their slow rocking again, finally satisfied by the warmth of his skin pressed against yours.

You felt him twitch against your stomach, biting your lip at the raw desire radiating from him. It had been far too long since you’d felt this wanted.

“Clark,” you moaned softly.

“Hm?” He lifted his head from your breast, eyes searching yours, waiting.

“I need you,” you whispered into his ear, voice tender and full of longing. “Please.”

How could he ever say no when you sounded that sweet?

Clark’s breath hitched, a low growl vibrating in his chest as he pulled you tighter against him. His hands slid down your back, fingers tracing the curve of your spine with a reverence that made your skin tingle.

Without breaking eye contact, he gently tilted your chin up and kissed you deeply, slow and deliberate, like he wanted to memorise every inch of you. His warmth seeped into you, grounding you in this moment where nothing else mattered.

His hands gently lifted your thighs, easing them onto his lap just enough to draw himself closer to your warm entrance. He paused, holding you there, then looked at you through his glasses, silent, searching, asking without words if this was truly what you wanted. You nodded and pressed a soft kiss to his lips.

With utmost care, he began to lower you onto his length, inch by inch, never rushing, always attentive to your reactions. The warmth and pressure were overwhelming, but not in a painful way more like a delicious surrender. You should have known, it's always the quiet, nerdy, clumsy ones who surprise you by being big.

Finally settling back onto his lap, you needed a moment to catch your breath. You slumped against him, your head resting in the crook of his neck, your hands gripping his shoulders tightly. His hands were steady and soothing, tracing gentle circles along your back, cupping the nape of your neck with tender care. His soft voice whispered warmth directly into your ear, telling you how good and warm you felt.

He urged you to take your time, to never rush, he could wait as long as you needed, even the whole night. But you didn’t need time. You needed to move. So, slowly and hesitantly at first, you began to rock your hips, a gentle, tentative motion.

It felt good, so good. He was reaching places no one else ever had, not even your toys. The sensation was unfamiliar, almost overwhelming, but far from unwelcome. You kept rocking against him, and each pass of his pelvis against your clit made your breath catch in your throat. It was breathtaking... but soon, it wasn’t enough.

Lifting your head from the crook of his neck, you looked up at him, really looked. You wanted to see his face, his expression, as you began to bounce on him. It started softly, tentative, testing the limits of what your body was discovering. But the more you felt, the bolder you became—and so did he.

His hands found your hips again, guiding them with more purpose, lifting and pressing you down onto him in a steady rhythm. But even that didn’t satisfy him for long. Soon, his hips began to thrust up to meet yours, strong and fast, until his pace overtook yours and all you could do was hold on.

Moans, grunts, whines, and gasps filled the room, raw, honest sounds tangled together with the sharp rhythm of skin against skin. Sounds that had never once filled this flat before Clark.

After a few minutes of his relentless rhythm, you felt your orgasm building, close, achingly close, but just out of reach, like it was trapped behind a wall of glass. You let out a soft whine directly into Clark’s ear, trying to rock your hips in rhythm with his, but you couldn’t keep up. He was too fast, too deep, too much.

But he noticed. Of course he did. The way you whimpered, the way your body tried to move, it told him everything. And he felt it too, in the way your pussy tightened around him with desperate pulses, clenching so hard it almost made him see stars.

He smiled, just a little. His girl only needed a bit more.

His hand slipped between your bodies, fingers sliding down to where you were joined. At first, he just teased, letting his fingertips brush lightly across your skin. It earned him another needy whine, one that made him chuckle softly against your shoulder.

Greedy little thing you were.

And he adored you for it. Clark would give you anything.

Without holding back any longer, his fingers found your clit, circling it in slow but steady motions, firm, grounded, perfect. The added pressure sent shocks of pleasure through you, colliding with the rhythm of his hips pounding into you. Your toes curled. Your hands dug into his shoulders. It was all too much.

And then it happened, your release crashing over you, breathtaking and unstoppable. The moans caught in your throat, your body trembling as wave after wave of pleasure consumed you.

Clark wasn’t far behind. The sound of your climax, the way your body tightened around him like a vice, it pushed him over the edge. With a groan that rumbled deep in his chest, he came hard, spilling into you, filling you with warmth.

Even as the last waves of your orgasm pulsed through you, Clark didn’t stop. His thrusts slowed just enough to keep from overwhelming you, but they were still deep, intentional. He stayed hard inside you, your slick heat coaxing him to keep moving, to draw every last ounce of pleasure from your spent body.

Finally, after a few more thrusts, he stilled remaining inside you.  A golden, heavy quiet filled the room, broken only by the sound of your ragged breathing and the gentle thump of his heart against your chest.

Clark didn’t move right away. He just held you. One arm wrapped securely around your waist, the other stroking your back in slow, grounding circles. His lips pressed soft, breathless kisses against your temple, your cheek, your shoulder, everywhere he could reach without letting you go.

“You okay?” he murmured, voice low and careful.

You nodded against him, too dazed to form words just yet. He smiled softly and shifted just enough to grab the blanket off the couch, wrapping it around your back without slipping out of you. He stayed seated, still joined, still holding you close like he couldn’t bear to let you go.

Getting up with you still in his arms, his softening cock still nestled in your warmth, he carried you gently toward the bathroom. He turned on the water, letting it warm up for the both of you, steam already beginning to rise and curl around the tiles.

He set you down carefully on the counter, your body pliant in his arms. Your head came to rest against the cool mirror behind you, eyes half-lidded, lips parted in a dazed smile. Clark let out a quiet chuckle at your blissed-out expression, brushing his fingers tenderly across your cheek.

“I’m gonna pull out now, okay?” he said softly, voice full of care, not wanting to startle you or cause any discomfort.

“Yeah…” you mumbled, barely coherent, too tired and thoroughly spent to say more than that.

The shower was quick, quiet, and sweet. Clark was gentle with every touch, washing your body with thoughtful care, making sure not to linger too long or overstimulate your already-sensitive skin. He moved with reverence, like tending to something precious.

When it was over, he didn’t bother trying to dress you. Instead, he wrapped a towel around your damp body, gently patting you dry before scooping you back up into his arms.

He didn’t go back to the living room for his briefs, didn’t bother with anything else. All that mattered was getting you comfortable.

He carried you straight to your bed, settling you down with the same tenderness he’d shown you all night. Then he climbed in beside you, pulling you into his arms like you belonged there, like you always had.

The soft throw blanket he’d grabbed on the way to the bathroom now covered both of you, a light layer against the summer night. The duvet was folded off to the side, too heavy, too much, especially with Clark radiating warmth like a human furnace.

You let yourself melt into him, safe, warm, held.

You felt like you were on another planet, drifting through the best dream of your life, half-convinced you’d wake up any minute. Needing to make sure he was real, solid and warm beneath you, you clung to him. One leg curled possessively around his waist as you lay nearly fully on top of him, your bodies still bare, still close.

His semi-hard cock rested dangerously close to your still-sensitive cunt. It was a risk… but one you welcomed. A game you were more than willing to play again if it led to the same beautiful consequences.

Your fingers traced idle shapes along his chest, feeling the slow rise and fall of his breath. When you looked up, you found him already watching you, glasses still perched on his nose.

Weird.

Had he even taken them off in the shower? You couldn’t quite remember. Your brain had been hazy, your body boneless, your mind confused, but you were almost certain he’d kept them on the whole time. Just like he was keeping them on now, even though you both clearly had no plans of moving anytime soon.

You brushed it off, figuring he just wanted to see you clearly. Maybe it was a comfort thing. Maybe it was just Clark.

The silence stretched for a few more moments, soft and content, until you broke it with a rasping whisper. “You know I had the biggest crush on you for months?”

His lips curved into that smug, infuriatingly cute grin. “Oh yeah. I know,” he said, teasing deep in his voice.

You squinted at him, suspicious. “What do you mean, you know?”

Still grinning, he added—without thinking, way too casually. “I could hear how fast your heart was beating.”

Silence. Your brain stalled.

“You could… what?”

His smile faltered. Fuck. Clark had a lot of explaining to do.

©sillyswriting 2025

im so obsessed with this man i wrote this in two days...

[jungkooklover777]

𝑀𝑦 𝐻𝑒𝑟𝑜 ; clark kent / superman

summary: an office romance sounds good in theory but what happens when it goes according to theory?

pairing: fem!reader x corenswet!clark kent + journalist!reader x journalist!clark kent.

trope: office romance + coworkers to friends to lovers.

genre: fluff + some angst + slow burn romance.

warnings‼️: crude language + minor alcohol consumption + near-death experience + misogynistic remarks towards reader (from a jealous coworker who’s also a man r we surprised) + idk shit abt journalism.

word count: 11,031.

random disclaimerrr: heyy haha… heyy… how y’all doin… ik ik it took me for-fucking-ever bc in all honesty, i forgot about dat doe. & i lowk had writer's block but ITS OUT NOW SO YAYYY!! happy reading! ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ ♡ © 2025 @jungkooklover777

A knock sounds at your already open door, causing you to pause your typing and look up.

“My office in five.” Your boss and an editor-in-chief— Perry White— commands.

You send him a nod and he’s on his way back.

It was a chill day until the cloud of quiet chatter evaporated and was replaced by a thick blanket of excitement.

“What is going on out there.” You curiously mutter.

You think about entering the crowd but you decide against it as you remember your initial task.

Perry may be a fair boss but his agitation takes on several forms, you do not wanna be caught on the receiving end of it.

You knock on his door and open it.

“Alright, Kent— oh. Here she is.”

You can’t see how this ‘Kent’ guy looks but he’s definitely a little over 6 feet. His gray coat outlines the broadness and muscly look of his back.

Damn, he’s kinda big.

He turns around and the only thing you can think of is Squidward whining in frustration, Oh no, he’s hot!

His eyes are a remarkable shade of blue, a lovely bunch of black curls sit atop his head, and his skin reminds you of the nice sand accompanied by the local beach.

Kent’s sporting a pair of black framed glasses and he’s the handsomest “nerd” you’ve ever seen.

You hope your ogling isn’t obvious.

“L/n, meet Clark Kent. Kent, this is Y/n L/n.”

This Greek God of a man shakes your hand and it’s warm. So. Warm.

He smiles and goddamn it is beautiful. It’s so perfect with all his perfectly straight, perfect shade of white teeth.

AND HE HAS DIMPLES?! HOLY FUCKIN’ SHIT!

“It’s nice to meet you.”

And of course, an attractive voice that matches his equally attractive face. It’s deep and confident and you’re crushing so hard on him right now.

“It’s nice to meet you, too.” You calmly say.

“Get acquainted well because you’ll be showing our new guy here the ropes. Starting now.”

Your heart drops down to your ass and you retract your hand.

Of course this had to happen to you.

“Oh, okay.”

It was in fact not okay but it’s not like you had much of a choice in the matter.

You exit first and are met with so many faces outside the office. Comically, they all look away and pretend to do something important.

Now you realize why there was a crowd earlier, because of the handsome new guy.

You ask him to wait for you while you go grab some things from your desk.

“Okay, Clark—”

You’re gone for literally 1 minute and the poor guy’s already being swamped.

There’s a blonde girl, bit of a ditz. Twirling a strand of hair while giggling over something seriously unfunny.

She’s accompanied by a guy who’s much shorter in comparison to Clark.

He’s yammering away about how he’s always wondered what it’s like to be on a farm…

“I mean, I was at one for the DP but they didn’t have much internet so we couldn’t cover much. And the smell?” He shuts his eyes and wrinkles his nose in disdain. “I can’t imagine how it was for you, man.”

You watch in horror as he takes a sniff, yes; a sniff at Clark and hums, “You smell great, though! What is that, uh, aftershave. Or sum’?”.

Clark responds with a nervous laugh at his sudden proximity. “It’s Polo by Ralph Lauren. Uh, the blue one.”

“Whaaat?” The guy laughs in surprise.

Clark folds his lips inwards and raises his brows in an awkward manner.

What do you say to that? Truly.

What an idiot, you cringe internally before coming to his aid and kicking off his first day.

It’s the end of Clark Kent’s second week. He’s a great addition to the Daily Planet team and you have to say, he’s really nice.

His first few days were spent showing him around. Perry’s office, your office, the newsroom, break room, copy room, mail room, bullpen, so on and so forth.

You were sure Clark could use a better mentor but he thought otherwise. ‘You’re a good teacher, I like learning from you.’ He said.

He was very quiet at first, kept to himself and didn’t approach anyone unless he absolutely needed to.

You were the only person by his side almost every hour he worked so it made sense to just go to you.

The more you talked to him, the more he got out of his shell.

A friendly relationship blossomed and soon, he was a willing participant.

You like to drink something in the morning while you work and you didn’t realize Clark took a mental note of that.

Since your first week together, he brought you something everyday.

“As much as I appreciate this, you’re not the drink guy.”

You were worried he thought you’d expect him to do this all the time now but he denies the notion.

“Oh it’s no big deal, I pass by a cafe on my way here so it works out. Plus, I know the owner so I get a discount every time I go.”

You smile at that. This little tradition has become an essential part of your day, it’s how you start it. It’s also special to you because it’s just for you.

Your crush on him grows by the day but you can’t help it! It’s so hard not to like this guy.

He’s still a bit shy at times but you think that’s part of his charm, and he’s got you good. He’s just Clark, a sweet guy from a small town with big arms dreams.

“So, what are the plans for today?”

He asks this everyday in hopes of going on a side quest with just the two of you.

Alas, that doesn't happen nearly as much as he'd like but at least he still gets to see you whenever he likes.

“Today, we’re going to a meeting.” You answer as you quickly send out one last email.

You grab your purse and Clark brings his notebook to the conference room.

He pulls out a chair for you and you smile gratefully, whispering a ‘thank you’.

Perry and the other senior position holders make their way in and take their seats.

“Alright, let’s get started.”

Perry announces that at the end of the meeting, there will be a spot open for another editor-in-chief.

Instantly, there’s hushed chatter of who can be nominated to fill the slot.

You’re positive you hear your name among the many different routes of conversation. You don’t notice Clark glancing at you when he hears it, too.

“L/n.”

You feel everyone’s eyes on you and want to fuse with the chair you’re sitting on.

“She’s our most talked-about reporter and has been here for almost three and a half years. How she’s doing better than most of you at this table, I have no idea. Great work, Y/n.”

You purse your lips in an awkward smile at the jab towards everyone else layered between your praises. “Thank you, sir.”

Clark allows his lips to be pulled back in a small grin, unable to hide his happiness for you.

You know some people in the room are envious of you and are incapable of witnessing your success, but you’d be damned if you let them ruin this moment for you.

The rest of the meeting goes by smoothly and it’s time for Perry to announce the new editor-in-chief.

“Of course, it came as no surprise for us to come to unanimously nominate Y/n L/n as one of our new editors-in-chief.”

You know you should be happy and a small part of you is relieved that your hard work paid off, but you’re not entirely sure.

You’ve only been here for 3 and a half years and this is a huge promotion.

Are you ready for this? How do you know you’re ready? When do you know you’re ready?

You force yourself to get out of your head and express your gratitude.

“Thank you so much, I really appreciate it.” You smile as you shake their hands, accepting their approval.

You still had some time before accepting the offer but it felt like you had to take it.

The reality is: you don’t know what you want.

Most of the people leave but some stay behind.

“Congratulations, Y/n. You definitely earned it.”

Remember the envious people that were mentioned earlier? This guy— Mark Callahan— is one of them.

He sticks his hand out for you to shake but you clock his underlying tone.

“Thanks.” You smoothly move past him to the door with Clark following.

“Bitch.” He mutters to himself.

Clark stops dead in his shoes. “What did you just say?”

Mark smirks lazily and the few of his dastardly henchmen eye you with jealousy.

Your eyes are a bit wide, lips agape at his sudden change in attitude. “Clark..?”

This is Clark Kent. The shy, dorky, kind of an aloof guy with long legs, a killer smile, and a nice heart.

You never thought he could get mad. You haven’t even see him annoyed up until this very moment.

Mark takes a step towards you but Clark is quick to get in between you and him.

He pokes his tongue into the side of his cheek and chuckles. “Relax, man. I’m not gonna hurt your little girlfriend.”

Clark steps forward, his height giving him the upper hand as Mark’s ego forces him to maintain eye contact, even if he has to tilt his chin up a bit.

“You couldn’t even try.” He softly yet subtly mocks.

Mark tightens his jaw and you can feel the tension growing.

You tentatively reach out and put a hand on Clark’s shoulder. “We need to go.”

He maintains eye contact with Mark for a moment longer before budging and walking out.

Clark’s jaw is set and you see the faintest twitch of the muscle, his face stern and hand sweeping his curls.

He holds the elevator for you and you gulp nervously.

“What… was that?” You dare ask.

He assures you it's nothing but you can feel the intensity of his annoyance radiating off of him. It fills the elevator when you step in.

You don't know how badly his blood boils at the thought of someone being so casually disrespectful towards you.

His hands were clenched tightly, his knuckles turning white from the pressure. He forcefully wipes his hands on his trousers and tries to cool down.

You let that go but can’t let go of how badly he gave you the butterflies.

You couldn’t even try.

That part replays in your mind.

It was the way he said it, like he was so sure of himself.

He was obviously putting Mark in his place but for you? He did that for you?

Your lips fold inwards to conceal the squeal (read: scream) that's begging to be released.

As the elevator arrives at your floor, Clark extends his arm for you to get out first then follows you out.

Chivalry isn’t dead?!

You don’t know much longer you can contain yourself.

“Hey, Y/n?” Clark calls out.

You swiftly turn around on your heels. “Yeah?”

He stares at you for a moment, like he’s gathering his thoughts carefully.

He has so much he wants to say. Every time you thank him for bringing you your morning drink, he wants to say, you deserve nothing but the best. He wishes to say how beautiful you look everyday, how smart you are when you're feeling doubtful.

Instead, he holds it all in and says something a friend would say. It doesn't mean anything less to you, he knows that. So he says something so kind, it leaves you with heart eyes.

“You deserve that promotion.”

In all the time you’ve spent here, not many people have said anything like to you.

There’s the fake compliments said out of spite. You’ve already gathered a mental list of who fits that category.

Then come the words of encouragement, said by a select few genuine people. Perry and your best friend, Lois are— were the only members of this group.

Clark being an addition to this list is obvious, it was only a matter of time, but it means so much coming from him.

You blink and feel lightweight.

“Thank you.”

He gives you that award-winning smile you love seeing so much and is on his way to work.

You feel distracted as you work, smiling like an idiot every now and then when his words ring in your mind.

You deserve that promotion.

Resting your head in your palm with your elbow extended in a comfortable position, you sigh dreamily; staring blankly at your loading computer screen.

“L/n.”

You immediately straighten your back and set both hands on the keyboard, suddenly irritated with how slow the network on your computer is.

“Sir?” You acknowledge him by poking your head out from behind the screen.

“Good work on the Stenson article,” He shows the newspaper bundled in his hand. “It’s gotten Star’s attention.”

You’re impressed with yourself. “Oh.”

He angles his head down to where he can see you through the space above his glasses. “You okay?”

You nod in a way that is more convincing yourself of what you’re saying than him. “Mhm. Just, uh… surprised because they’re our rivals.”

Knowing The Daily Star has its eye on you is a bit unnerving but what kind of opps would they be if they didn’t.

He hums in thought. “Well, I thought I’d stop by and let you know.”

“Right. Thanks.”

You track his movements until you’re sure he’s gone and smack some sense into yourself.

“Focus, Y/n. Focus.”

You are invited to attend a conference in Washington, D.C. along with a few handpicked journalists.

As you await for the plane's landing, your mind wanders back to the new guy. You wish Clark could’ve came.

You just think he would’ve had so much to learn and experience, nothing else…

A rattle echoing through the jet brings you out of your thoughts.

The captain makes an announcement but you feel like something’s off.

It’s the reporter in you, a 6th sense.

Another shake and now everyone’s a bit nervous, worried looks painted across their faces and yours.

You open the flap to your window and see nothing but soot. Dark gray matter surrounds the jet and it’s so thick, you can’t see past it.

You start to smell it soon and so does everyone else.

“What’s that smell?”

“It smells like… like smoke?

“Is something burning?”

The captain makes an announcement telling you to not to panic but of course that ironically makes everyone panic.

Oxygen masks drop down and you don’t waste any time grabbing yours but the dread spreads all over you when you take a deep breath in.

Suddenly, the jet jolts forward and it feels like you’re diving into something. It’s going headfirst into the direction of the ground so quickly and you can’t make sense of anything.

The passengers frantically scream and descend into chaotic paranoia as they hold on to dear life. Your heart pounds in your chest, threatening to jump out.

This is it, you think. This is how it ends for you: in a freak accident.

You close your eyes in fear and hope the impact crushes you so quickly, you don’t feel any of it.

A quick and easy death is a death that is most favorable.

Suddenly, you feel the aircraft being lifted up. The speed of which is swift yet steady, unlike the previous moments when it felt like you were falling to your deaths.

You don’t dare look out your window in fear of it all being a figment of your imagination but someone else does.

“We’re… we’re saved.” Someone calmly informs.

The plane is set down on the ground and the doors open up automatically.

Your eyes widen when you see a man in a blue suit and red cape step onboard.

He’s kind-looking. The steely blue eyes somewhat familiar, maybe it’s his aura.

“It’s alright, everything’s okay.” He smiles and you’re taken aback with how eerily familiar the action is.

“Is everyone alright? Nobody hurt?”

Everyone shakes their head simultaneously as if in a trance, left and right.

He nods in consideration. “That’s good. You all can step out now, it’s safe.”

Nobody moves. No one can! They’re still trying to wrap their heads around this miracle.

There’s this man— in a cape, no less— and he’s asking if everyone’s okay from what could’ve happened.

There’s no doubt in your mind that somehow, he is singlehandedly responsible for saving you all.

Someone in front dares to speak everyone’s mind. “You saved us.” They say as they make their way to him.

The mystery man looks at the passenger with a humble look.

He puts a comforting hand on their shoulder and escorts them out, everyone else following suit.

Everyone else but you. You’re frozen in a whirlwind of emotions, mostly shock.

You’re so out of it that you don’t even notice him coming up to you, his striking blue eyes steady on your form.

“Are you alright, ma’am?”

You whip your head up at him and realize you’re the only one onboard the plane.

“Umm, yeah. I-I think.” You furrow your eyebrows as you feel your foot stuck in a comatose position.

“Can you stand?” He gently asks.

You go to stand up from seat when a sharp pain shoots through your ankle.

A quick breath is drawn from your teeth and he notices immediately.

“Your ankle.”

“Yup.” You hastily grit out.

He looks at you in contemplation for a moment before doing what he has to do.

“Do you mind if I carry you out?”

You pause your unsteady breathing and look up at him through your lashes.

I didn’t hear that.

“Uhh…”

There is a right answer but you don’t know if it’s the answer.

He’s strikingly handsome, so unfairly dashing.

He’s looking at you with those kind eyes and waiting patiently for your word.

“No. No, I don’t mind.” You clear your throat gingerly.

The soft curve of his lips make you feel a bit at ease for a moment.

He holds his hand out for you to take and gently pulls you into him when you do, wrapping that arm around your back. He bends down to hook his other arm under your knees and lifts you so effortlessly, you feel yourself swoon at his display of strength.

Your brain goes quiet and you can’t think about anything else but him. You’re starstruck by him.

Is this a bad time?

He looks straight ahead as he walks towards the open doors but the slight curve of his lips gives the impression of a soft smile.

Soft gasps and wide eyes paint the picture of surprise and you’re immediately flushed so deeply into embarrassment.

The man holding you doesn’t say anything but he silently shares your opinion.

As he walks down the ramp, you look anywhere but at him and the very obvious audience in front.

The symbol on his chest catches your eye and you’re analyzing it. It appears to be a red diamond encasing a capital letter of the same color, an ‘S’.

You wonder what it stands for, what it means to him.

People make room for him as he walks to a spot where you can comfortably rest.

You can feel everyone’s eyes on you and it bothers the hell out of you, but you bear with it for the moment.

He finds a bench within the stagnant ocean of people and sets you down on it, an apologetic expression framing his face.

“I’m sorry.”

You peer up at him in surprise. “For what?”

He sets his hands on his hips, subtly tilting his head to the left and you see behind him the wandering eyes and gossipy mouths.

You snort softly, shaking your head lightly at their antics.

“It’s not your fault. They’re just… trying to figure out what just happened.”

He nods, turning back to the plane with a determined look.

“The ambulance is on its way.” He says as he turns back to you.

You nod, not wanting to look away from his eyes.

The air is thick with so many unanswered questions left unasked, but your throbbing ankle takes a backseat to it all.

This man is a miracle in the flesh and he’s filled your mind with so much curiosity, you don’t know what to do with it.

“You’re gonna be alright.” He says it with such confidence that you believe him.

And he’s gone, flying upwards into the air and in a direction one can only point to.

People crowd the spot he just stood in and stare up in awe at the phenomenon: a man just flew right to the sky!

What a headache and headline this is going to be.

Your ankle was as swollen as an orange, thankfully like the ones that are really small and are known as ‘Cuties’ or whatever the hell.

There's a brace on it to keep from hurting as much but the swelling's still got a long way to go.

You're currently icing it as much as you can before it falls off when you hear a knock on your window.

You hold your breath and lean ahead a little, trying to hone in on the knock truly being real or a part of your imagination.

It's when you hear it again that you decide, nope, totally real.

You move slowly, setting the ice pack on your dresser before carefully moving your leg and setting your foot down on the floor.

Eventually, you make it to your window and look through the blinds to see what could be causing that noise.

You softly gasp. “Holy shit.”

It's the guy from earlier, the same man who may or may not have saved your life. But he's floating, literally standing on air.

You pull your blinds all the way up and open your window, not hiding the shock on your face as you stare at him dumbfounded.

He titters softly, finding your reaction amusing.

“Can I come in?”

You wordlessly step aside with your mouth slightly agape, not really grasping the gravity of the situation.

He flies right into your bedroom while you budge the window back down and close the blinds.

With his back turned against you, you take this chance to make yourself look more put together. Your hands find their way into your hair and subconsciously pat down your body to press the fabric of your clothes as flatly as possible.

He’s studying your room and now you’re even more self-conscious even though it’s relatively tidy.

“I’m sorry for showing up here unannounced.” He says as he turns around to face you. “I hope I don't come off as a stalker.” He snorts softly.

You laugh along, nervous. “I was just icing it before...” You trail off, making a gesture towards the window.

He nods, clicking his teeth. “Ah, right. Sorry, once again.”

You shake your head. “No, don’t be. It’s okay.”

You move to sit back down on your bed and continue icing your ankle.

“You left your purse.”

He reveals the black purse to you and you gasp at the revelation, so relieved as you thought you were going crazy looking for it.

“Oh, thank you. Thank you so much.” You say as he chuckles softly and hands you your purse.

“No, don’t thank me. Just doing what’s right.”

Something about his words makes you pause. The familiar syntax reminds you of someone who’d do what he just did.

You don’t even look inside to see everything in order because oddly enough, you trust it is.

Your grin makes the man in front of you feel strangely victorious.

“Not many would do what’s right.”

He squints his eyes and tilts his head to the side, as if to disagree. “I think we all deserve a little grace every now and then.”

“You have faith in humanity?”

You don’t mean to start a conversation about the moral dilemma of being human but his response intrigues you.

“I do.” He answers with such confidence that you believe him.

“At least that makes one of us.” You look back down at your hands applying pressure to the pain.

“Why don’t you?” He asks with genuine wonder.

You tilt your head at him, intrigued. “Are you really asking me that?” You squint your eyes playfully. “I’m an investigative reporter. I’ve seen and heard things that have made me come close to quitting.”

“Why haven’t you then?” He cheekily asks with a smirk of his own.

You're taken aback with his playful wit exuding a flirty vibe.

You'll bite.

“Because even though my job can be draining, I still love what I accomplish.”

He's delighted with your reasoning, appreciating your love for the game.

“Well said.” He nods.

You tilt your head up, the reporter in you wanting to talk to him more.

“Your turn.”

He raises an eyebrow at your proposed question.

“What do you do?” You ask.

He clicks his teeth lightly. “Well, you’ve seen me fly. I can hear well over the distance and lift very heavy things, if that’s what you’re asking.”

He knows that’s not what you’re asking, you know he knows that.

You smile, shaking your head at his quips. “As in your occupation, Mr..?”

He stands with a knowing smile. “I’ll tell you next time.”

You blink, startled by his suggestion. “Next time?”

He walks towards your window and you follow, opening it for him.

“Until next time, miss L/n.” He says with a wink,

And he's gone.

You're left staring at his fantastic display of power, soaring into the night sky before he disappears into the clouds.

You've never been this fascinated with anything before, but he isn't “anything” or “anyone”. He's a phenomenon, man with great power.

You don't see that often.

You wonder who he really is, where has he been all this time? What's his story?

So many questions, so little time but you'll hold him to that promise of a next time.

“Next time.” You murmur in confidence that he'll find you again.

Lois enters your office with a particular pep in her step, a knowing smile on her lips as she sees you.

You don’t look up from your work as you know there’s nobody else that can enter your office that way. (even perry knocks, lois)

“Sooo?” She asks, strangely enthusiastic.

“So.” You reply uninterested, flipping through pages.

She stares at you like you know what she’s talking about before bombarding you with questions.

“Who is he? What’s he like? Where's he from—? Wait, he’s human, right?”

Your eyes widen just a fraction before you dial it down.

You can't tell anybody about your encounter with him. At least not until you've had some questions answered.

A hurried breath is pushed past your lips, your eyebrows furrowing in annoyance at your friend’s prying form.

“No comment.” You say plainly, not indulging her.

Clark walks by with a new drink of the day and sets it down on your desk, a sweet smile on his face.

“For you.”

You know those certain people who just have you on automatic smile as soon as you see them? He's quickly becoming that person for you.

“You are such a nice guy, Clark.” Lois shakes her head in amazement.

She can't believe men like him do, in fact, exist.

That causes a noticeable blush to coat the tips of his ears and spread thinly across his cheeks.

He's humble. “I appreciate that Lois.”

This tradition is a declaration of friendship, a bond he claims to regard just as much as you do.

A sip of it simultaneously warms your heart and reawakens the butterflies lying dormant in your stomach.

“I agree.” You softly smile. “You’re committed to keeping up with this.”

He looks down and pushes his glasses up with an index finger, clicking his teeth together shyly. “Well, I’m no guy in a cape.”

There he goes downplaying his efforts and staying humble, as usual.

“How’s your ankle?” He asks as he eyes it.

You look down like you just remembered. “Oh, yeah, it’s fine. The swelling’s gone down a lot so I’m good to come back.”

Lois watches the news on one of the tv’s in the room play a clip someone managed to record of said guy fly up into the air, departing with a sonic boom.

She leans into Clark a bit, looking straight at the tv with that same damned topic on her mind. “Clark, do you think he’s handsome?”

He clears his throat lightly, sniffing as he tries to figure out how to answer that wild question. “Well, I— uhh… um— he’s, he’s… conventionally attractive.” His tone gets pitchy at the end, like he's asking, not telling.

“Lois.” You sigh.

“What? He’s so cute guys, I don’t know why no one else is talking about it.”

You take a peek at Clark and find quite a bit of blood rushing to his face.

“Clark, are you alright?”

“Huh— yeah. Yeah, no, I-I’m good! I’m fine, it’s just uhh… hot.” He nods, trying to look convincing.

Lois doesn’t miss a beat. “He’s hot.”

“Oh my god.” You groan.

“No, like, seriously.”

And it’s your fault for knowing how serious she is.

“Do you guys think he’d go for me?”

“Oh, yeah. For sure.” You nod with a fake smile. “He’d be all over you.”

She bursts out laughing, her focus on the poor guy in your midst. “He’s as red as his cape.”

You turn your head to see and it’s true, he’s super red in the face and just refuses to make eye contact.

“I’m just gonna go… do that thing Perry wanted.” He sends you girls a quick nod and smile before basically running out of y’all’s presence.

You watch him go and find his vulnerability endearing. He’s not afraid to show his feelings but like in typical Clark fashion, gets a little embarrassed when he does.

She purses her lips apologetically.

You shake your head at her. “Lois, if you were a man...” You raise your eyebrows and push air out in yet another sigh.

She takes your lack of words as a sign to contemplate the idea, then says, “You’d be my first target.” with a nod and serious look.

“Get out.”

You hadn’t anticipated your savior to be the subject of fascination so soon. Later on in the afternoon, in fact.

“L/n, you’re a firsthand witness. What do you think?”

Everyone’s eyes are on you as they wait for you to tell your story. You haven’t felt this nervous since your interview with this place.

You clear your throat a bit, feeling your nerves on fire.

“I believe he stopped the plane from crashing.”

You don’t need to be a telepath to know what they’re all thinking: you’re fucking crazy.

Of course, that’s an impossible thing to do but not everyone in this room was there.

“You think… he was responsible for saving everyone that day?” Perry asks, intrigued by your line of reasoning.

“Yes. He opened the doors and immediately asked if everyone was alright and if anyone was injured.”

A few people murmur in doubt but you continue.

“I sprained my ankle somehow and he offered to help me off and took me to an area where I could wait for an ambulance.”

They eye your gloved ankle, unimpressed. (it’s not like you’re here to knock their socks off anyway)

“He helped you off the jet? How?” Someone asks.

“He, um… carried me out.” You quietly say.

The atmosphere shifts and you can really feel and see just how shell-shocked everyone is.

“He carried you out?!”

“As in, in his arms? You were carried out in his arms..?”

You immediately jump to your defense. “I’m not sure why and, or how that matters.”

They’re incredulously adamant about it. “How come? You’ve not only had a conversation but also came into close contact with him—”

“And that’s where your focus lies?” Perry cuts in.

You look at him in thanks and he nods in acknowledgment.

“I dunno.” A board member sighs. “Some mysterious, muscular man coming to save the helpless woman story won’t run headlines.”

You scoff in disbelief. “Excuse me?”

Perry feels a headache coming on.

“You asked about my encounter and I told you. I’m not here to be a headline.”

The man who thought of that “brilliant” idea is coated in embarrassment, feeling annoyed at receiving the heat.

“Anyone have any useful ideas?” Your boss asks with his thumbs pressing down on his temple.

There’s some chatter about this man and how he managed to save the plane, if he did. Some even discuss if he’s capable of being a potential threat to the country.

“You’re dismissed.” Perry says with a pointed look.

You leave with your head down and jaw tight, coming to sight with Mark.

“Excuse me.” You drop the hint of ignoring him but he doesn’t care.

“Going somewhere?” He asks with a smug expression.

You still push past him with him only to turn around and tail you.

“Yeah. Some of us have jobs to do.”

You don’t care how you look and/or sound.

You just got reduced a damsel-in-distress by a board member while your boss ignored him. Granted, he stuck up for you when it came time but he also dismissed you like you weren’t needed anymore.

Mark pokes a tongue into his cheek, his frustration with you at its boiling point. “And what’s yours? Playing hooky with Superman?”

You don’t know whether to be offended or question the ridiculous choice of name for the man, first.

You choose the first option as it’s the most relevant.

“What did you just say to me?”

He smirks like he just found a pressure point on you. He takes a step closer. “You heard me.”

He actually thinks he's got you this time.

“What, got nothin' to say now that Kent isn't here to save you?”

All that annoyance you were feeling just know? Yeah, that's amplified by a thousand now that he brought that up.

“I can stick up for myself, and I definitely won’t take any shit from you.” You spite. “If I took that promotion back then, you would’ve been fired and on your ass in less than a minute.”

You're pulling rank but it isn't rage-bait if it's true.

He's seething now. A vein protrudes from his forehead and he inhales deeply to try to keep himself together as much as possible.

“Oh, I know how you got that promotion.” He spits that venom so carelessly with the most malicious intent.

You squint your eyes in suspected belief.

Mark continues his verbal assault.

“Yeah,” He nods. “It wasn't that hard to figure out why the old man favors you so much.”

You were right, it had been what you were thinking.

The envy in him has always given off a strong stench, he literally gives the evil eye to those better than him in every way possible.

At your loss of words and hurt expression, he smirks before delivering what he thinks is the final blow. “I’m willing to bet you slept your way to the top.”

In this very moment, you realize you don’t have to listen to his shit any longer.

Your strike his face, open-handed; hard. A powerful smack resulting in a red handprint on his blanched face.

The ear on that side of his face rings piercingly loud and in his disoriented state, nearly collapses onto the floor.

A chorus of sharp gasps and sound grimaces snap you out of the adrenaline-fueled rage consuming you.

It seems that you’ve gathered quite a crowd of spectators. The horrified look on your face isn't nearly enough to convince your innocence to anyone just joining now joining in.

“What the hell is going on out here?” Perry's voice booms.

You shakily inhale, meeting his accusing gaze and you watch as he tracks a path between you and Mark writhing on the floor.

You fight the urge to roll your eyes at his pathetic acting.

“Get in here. Right. Now.”

With your chin up, you walk right past the whimpering mess on the floor; your heel almost crunching his fingers if it weren't for his reaction time.

You know you shouldn't be the one to feel embarrassed but there's still a part of you that does.

After all that you've put into this place, some overzealous, whiny little piece of shit wants to humiliate you by attempting to slutshame? In this day and age?

You huff in exasperation of being on your way to overstimulation by the very quick turn of events.

You're already sat when Mark comes in and Perry shuts the door, but not before yelling at everyone to get back to work.

You feel your victim to your far right, not wanting to sit down.

“Sit down, Mark.” Perry says before looking at him quizzically. “And why are your hands covering only one side of your face?”

You bite back an explanation and a smirk.

Mark doesn't say anything but instead opts to show, he drops both hands hesitantly to his sides.

Perry's reaction is nothing short of priceless. He thinks about exclaiming but when side-eyeing you and carefully assessing your careless reaction, he clocks it.

“I was counting on you being bitch-slapped one of these days but I was not expecting you to be dumb enough to try her.” He dryly chuckles in half admiration and half disappointment.

“Sir? You're actually siding with her right now?”

You close your eyes and mentally prepare to be fired.

Perry’s expression is that of a Don’t try me and Mark actually takes it seriously this time.

Wonder what’s the difference in you giving him that look and Perry…

“What happened, L/n?”

You open your eyes nervously and take a breath, preparing yourself to speak your truth.

“I slapped him… because he accused me of sleeping my way to the top for the promotion.”

There’s about a few seconds of silence before Perry speaks up.

“What.” He just says but it’s his tonal shift that makes Mark sweat.

“W-well, I just said that in the heat of the moment.” He chuckles nervously. “I didn’t mean that—”

Perry pinches the bridge of his nose to try to calm himself down. “I have no tolerance for this kind of behavior, Callahan. You know that.”

Said boy clears his throat and sniffs. “Y-yes sir, I do—”

“Then why did you do it?” Perry’s eyes bore into his with such intensity, it makes you a bit uneasy as well.

Mark opens and closes his mouth trying to come up with an answer to that obviously rhetorical question like a fish.

At his lack of words, your boss scratches his forehead. “Here’s an easier one: what did you think you were accomplishing by demeaning her character like that?”

Still no answer.

He puts a finger on Mark's chest, pressing into it as he says, “I’ll tell you. She is your superior because she, unlike you, gets it. She gets this job, what it means to be a reporter.”

His condescending tone towards the other male isn't unheard of but it sure as hell surprises you a lot.

Mark tightens his jaw and turns his head to look at you in malice. “With all due respect, sir, you should understand why I said that.”

“I don’t have to understand a goddamn thing.” His gruff voice reverberates through the walls, causing you to straighten your back.

Perry then carefully and slowly says, “Get the fuck outta here, you’re fired.”.

Mark dares to speak up even now. “But, sir—”

“Right now!” The older man barks his orders and like the sad little puppy Mark is, follows one last time.

When he leaves, Perry sighs and turns to sit down in his chair. He pours himself a drink, offering one to you.

You stare at him wearily before declining but he pours you a drink, anyway.

He silently takes a sip, prompting you to do the same and you feel the smooth, mellow taste of Brandy.

He groans, satisfied with the drink.

You set your glass down, feeling your nerves becoming slightly undone by the aftertaste.

It’s momentarily quiet, the awkward silence now comfortable.

You’re the first to break it. “Am I being fired?”

This is apparently funny to him because he laughs. Yes, he wheezes before giving in to the chest-laugh every man his age has.

You awkwardly chuckle along, not knowing if that's the right move.

He sighs in satisfaction once more.

“Y/n,” He begins warmly. “I can't fire you after that shitshow.”

Anyone else would think that statement was made in fear of being seen as an asshole who doesn't stand in solidarity with women but not you.

Perry White can put on a show of being a bitter old man but now's not one of those times.

“You did what you had to do and since I'm being honest,” He leans in a little like he's about to share a secret. “I'm glad you gave me a reason to kick his ass out.”

That brings a soft smile on your face, one that expresses your gratitude.

“I’m sorry you had to deal with that.”

“Most bosses wouldn't give a fuck.” The word rolls off your tongue with such smoothness, you forgot to code switch.

He takes no mind and instead lets you talk informally, he gathers you deserve that much.

“I'm not most bosses.” He wittily replies with a wink and tight-lipped smile.

“No, you are not.” You say with an appreciative nod.

You ignore everyone that didn't need your help for the remainder of the day.

As Mark took the walk of shame, it made you feel a little better when you saw people who you've never spoken to give him dirty looks and shake their head at him in disapproval.

Even though he got at least half of what he deserved, you still felt the aftermath of his words. They stung and it just made you think, how many other people feel that way?

You drowned yourself in work, you felt as if you're now obligated to work twice as hard.

Then you hear him.

“Y/n?”

You move your head from your hand and look up above your computer, spotting no other than your trusty colleague and friend.

“Clark, hey. What’re you doing here?”

“Hey, I was just about to ask you that.” He says with a boyish smile and points at you.

You smile back instinctually. “I'm just finishing up some stuff, meeting deadlines.”

“Ah.” He nods.

You eye the time and decide to save what you have left, planning to resume tomorrow.

“I was doing the same.”

You put on your jacket and grab your purse, walking out with him.

“This late?”

Poor guy, you hope he doesn't have a workload as big as yours if he's staying until almost 2 am.

“Yeah.” Clark sighs tiredly. “Perry gave me Mark's last assignment.”

You pause locking your office door, not expecting that answer.

Clark pretends not to notice.

As you enter the elevator (before clark, of course), you make light conversation.

“So ready to go home to my bed.” You tip your head back close your eyes, letting yourself rest for a moment.

“For real, I was about to fall asleep at my desk if it wasn’t for you.”

Both of your eyes open. “What do you mean?”

“I thought I was the only person here but then I saw your lamplight on so, I figured why not fight it for as long as I can.”

Had he stayed this long for you?

“Clark…”

You feel guilty and why wouldn’t you? He was basically waiting on you to call it in and stood by the entire time.

“It’s okay! No harm done.” He insists.

He was actually meaning to go home the same time you were, so he could talk to you.

He knows how pathetic that sounds but he'd rather be a pathetic man with a crush, even if that sounds elementary.

Instead, he opts on telling a half truth. “I needed the extra hours anyway.”

You turn to face him. “You did?”

Uh oh. He wasn’t supposed to say that.

Stupid sleep-deprived brain making him say things he’s not supposed to.

“Yeah, cause my research and work ethic is different from Mark’s.” He purses his lips and nods lightly.

Though he may look confident on the outside, he’s freaking out on the inside.

What was he supposed to say, the truth? Yeah, I was out late saving the planet one country at a time. That kind of stuff tends to get tiring if I have to wake up on time, ha ha ha.

He hopes you believe him and don’t inquire any further so he won't have to come up with another lie.

You hum before yawning lightly. “Makes sense.”

Clark watches you cover your mouth with the back of your hand and notices how you close your eyes when you yawn.

He also notes that you're really comfortable around him. You don't think twice about saying certain things in front of him.

He likes being the reason you let your guard down, he does the same around you.

You can see him staring into the side of your face so you turn your head, meeting his warm yet intimidating stare.

Your lips automatically purse into the friendliest awkward smile you have and he returns the sentiment.

You both then look away simultaneously. You look up at the countdown whereas he looks down on the shining metallic floor.

There’s still 25 more floors to go before you meet the garage parking lot.

The atmosphere grows a little awkward but is forgiven as there’s a shared understanding: you’re both fucking exhausted.

Though, there is something Clark wants to talk to you about.

“Y/n?”

“Hm?”

He hesitates for a moment, his mouth opening then closing as he thinks about how to bring this topic up.

“I heard about what happened.”

You slowly turn your head to him wordlessly, waiting for him to continue.

He stares back at you and you notice how blue his eyes look under fluorescent light.

“I’m sorry.” He murmurs, affected by the outburst as anyone else who gave a damn.

You’re touched.

“You don’t have to apologize, Clark.” You say as you look down at your shoes, suddenly growing shy of his eyes.

“I know,” He says. “But I care.”

The sentiment doesn't go unnoticed. Your lips turn up appreciatively.

“I know that as a woman, I'll be undermined at times but that was seriously a low blow.” You vent. “Even for him.”

Your disappointment isn't hard to assess. Even though you knew he'd be the one to say something like that, you still would've liked to be proven wrong.

Clark feels for you, you shouldn't have to feel alienated by your colleagues.

“I'm sorry nobody spoke up. I would have.”

“I know.” You say. “Thanks, Clark.”

“Of course. Anytime.”

You think about how nice it is of Clark to say this but you’re reminded of his absence prior.

“Where were you today, by the way. I barely saw you.”

He lies straight through his teeth. “I was out running some errands.”

He was actually stopping a country from getting actively bombed but that’s a story for another time.

“Perry still giving you the Miranda treatment?”

He chortles at your reference. “What can I say, I make a great Andrea.”

“You do. Who’s your Emily?”

You both take a moment to think about this.

“I got nothin’.” You say.

Clark agrees, although he’s come up with an alternative approach.

“There’s Mark, but he’s more Emily to your Andrea.”

You make a motion to wrap your hands around your neck and pretend to choke yourself.

It gets a good laugh out of him.

You blow a soft raspberry. “I just want my Nate. Without the “I'm insecure and feeling jealous because my partner is having it better” part.”

You look up at him and say without thinking, “You’d make a great Nate.”

You’re so tired, very exhausted from the day taking a toll on you, which explains why you’re just saying random shit.

Clark feels hot, like his whole face is on fire. He chuckles bashfully, very obviously failing at trying to not let that affect him so much.

The elevator dings and you both look up, finding the doors to open and reveal the garage parking lot.

“So, what do you mean by that? Exactly.” He furrows his brows and pushes his glasses up.

You step out, feeling all of your nerves turn to ice as you realize the weight of your words. “Oh, you know. You'd be a supporting and secure boyfriend.”

He's stumped, left watching as you walk to your car.

You wave goodbye before getting into your car and he returns the gesture.

You turn to face him, walking backwards. “Good night, Clark.”

He feels the blood wash over his heart like the ocean returning to shore.

“Good night.” He murmurs fondly.

“Dude, this is a terrible idea.” Jimmy scolds. “Your worst one yet, and you barely have those!”

But Clark isn’t listening, he’s already made his mind up.

“If I like her as a man then I have to respect her as Superman.”

Okay, that was a bar, Jimmy concedes.

“Besides, she wouldn’t tell anyone.” Clark adds.

Of course you wouldn't tell anyone about Clark’s identity, he knows that.

“I know that,” Jimmy sighs. “But think of your relationship with her as Superman from a journalistic standpoint.”

Jimmy just wants the best for his best man, he wants Clark to really think about this. l

“She won’t let her bias for you stop her from doing her job, even if that means asking questions you can’t answer directly.”

Diving headfirst into something like a romantic relationship without going over the logistics is bound to crash and burn.

But it’s you, the same woman who understands him. You see him, know him. You’re not one to hide how comforted you feel when he’s around, he literally hears your heart rate when he dotes on you.

You must feel the same way. Right?

But how would you react to this? Would you still feel the same? Would you still view him as the same Clark who goes out of his way for you?

After some careful consideration, Clark comes to a conclusion.

“Okay.” He says.

Jimmy closes his eyes in relief, sighing at the fact that his friend chose his mind over his heart.

“I’m going to tell her everything.”

Jimmy slaps a palm across his forehead all wide-eyed, not believing he got bamboozled this way.

He now has to watch his best friend throw everything away for the ruzz (reporter huzz).

Clark feels a weight lifted from his chest at this decision. He's always wanted to tell you but his moral obligation was to this planet, regardless of what heart entails.

He walks to your office, stopping just before the door to check on his appearance. He moves his head to the side, inspecting his hair. He then fixes his tie and glasses.

Satisfied with himself, he knocks and waits for your approval.

“Come in.”

Clark pokes his head in comically.

Your eyes flit up and when you see him, giggle at his silliness. “Hey, you.”

His chest warms at the sight and sound of your delight.

You seem so easygoing, truly content when you smile or laugh. Do you know that?

His takes in your face.

Your hair shines from the light, cascading down your shoulders and framing your it nicely.

Your eyes are on him and every time you look at him, he feels as though he can tell you anything. And though they're beautiful, his favorite part about your face have to be your lips.

You're a very expressive person so your words and reactions make up everything about you.

He loves seeing them pull you into a smile and laugh, especially when he's the reason.

It’s like a reward, seeing you joyful because of him.

He's momentarily distracted by the sight, always on the verge of forgetting his objective as soon as your pretty lips move around.

You say his name like you're in the middle of something.

He blinks, shaking himself out of his daydream. “I'm sorry, what? I was not paying attention, I'm sorry.”

It's refreshing to see a man apologize so much but it feels weird coming from him.

“It's too early for this, I know.” You jest kindly. “I was asking what can I do for you?”

“Oh! Right, why I'm here.” He chuckles, embarrassed.

Get it together, Clark he warns himself mentally.

“I, um... I wanted to ask you something.”

You lean your elbows on your desk, giving him your undivided attention. “Sure, what's up?”

He walks to your desk, taking out a sticky note folded in half. He hands it to you.

I have something I want to talk about, meet me in the mailroom? Lunch on me ;)

You can't with this guy sometimes. Asking you to lunch via sticky note?

“That is seriously the cutest thing ever.” Lois coos.

You've been smiling since he gave the note to you, grinning at him as he walked out of your office.

You even did a celebratory squeal before containing yourself.

“Isn't it?” You giddily ask. “Ugh, he's so cute.”

Lois nods in agreement, wondering when she's gonna find her own Clark Kent.

“What do you think he wants to talk about?” You ask.

Lois looks at you bewildered. “What do you mean? Isn't it obvious?”

You stare at her expectantly, blinking.

“Oh my god.” She groans. “He's gonna tell you how bad he wants you, Y/n!”

“He is?” You say, hopeful.

She nods ecstatically and spins you around in your chair to face her. “Think about it. You two have been dancing around this unspoken attraction between you for how long?”

You instantly give her a time period. “Almost a month.”

“That was rhetorical.”

“Oh.” Your lips pull to the side, sheepishly. “Sorry. Continue.”

“The point is, he obviously feels for you. It was just a matter of when he’d get the balls to make the first move.”

You nod along, finding her logic unarguable.

“Okay. Okay, so I just walk in and tell him—”

“No, no, no. What? Don't do that! He's the one asking you to come over so let him go first.”

“Right, right.” You blink. “Let him go first, you're right.”

Lois puts a sympathetic hand on your shoulder. “You're nervous, and that's okay. Just breathe, be calm, cool, and collected. You're Y/n L/n, investigative reporter at the Daily Planet.”

“I’m Y/n L/n, investigative reporter at the Daily Planet.” You repeat like a mantra.

Lois smiles encouragingly, being your best hype-woman.

“You’re fucking amazing.”

You close your eyes and blindly trust her. “I’m fucking amazing.”

“You’re the baddest bitch here and you know it.”

You blow air deeply, feeling yourself relax a bit. “I’m the baddest… bitch here and I know it.”

“Fuck yeah, you do!” She exclaims and you find yourself smiling, shaking your head at her theatrics.

You fucking love this girl.

“You got this, okay? Don't think too much, it'll feel natural once you let him talk.”

You feel like you’re about to get in the boxing ring with your everything that could go wrong.

“Go get him, tiger!”

It's lunchtime and for the first time in history, you're not hungry.

You can't even think about eating out of anxiety.

You walk towards the mailroom and suspire when you go to twist the door handle.

You're immediately met with the dreamy pair of eyes you were hesitant to see.

You shut the door behind you, none of you want to be the one to move first.

“Hi.” He hums.

“Hi.” You say, equally as soft.

He clears his throat lightly and gestures you over, some sandwiches and sodas decorating the table.

“Panera?” You say with glee.

His lips pull back at your reaction. “Yup.”

You reign in your excitement, remembering why you came here in the first place.

“So.” You hint subtly.

“Sooo.”

You tilt your head at him, narrowing your eyes playfully at him. “Sooo, what'd you have to tell me?”

He clicks his teeth. “That's the question.”

You tip your head back and half-whine, half-laugh. “Oh my god, stop baiting me!”

Clark finds humor in edging you on like this, how often does he get to see you so highstrung?

“Okay, okay, alright.” He airily chuckles. “I'll stop.”

You blink patiently, the remnants of a grin on your face.

He soughs, building up the confidence to tell you how just much he feels for you.

“Okay.” He licks his lips, meeting your gaze.

He's caught, mesmerized by the way your attention is on him. He doesn't realize just how heavy his stare is until he watches you squirm.

“Clark..?” You call out to him thinking he's spacing out.

“Sorry.” He says on default, though he's not really apologetic for anything at all.

You're just so—

“Beautiful.”

Your breath catches in your chest and he's mortified.

“I, I just said that... outloud.” He stammers.

You watch him scramble for a way out.

“I'm sorry— not that you aren't beautiful, which you are. You so are.”

He cringes at himself and you hold back a simper, finding him so endearing.

“I just, um... Alright, here's the thing.” He claps both hands together softly.

“Mhm.” You nod, furrowing your eyebrows and to show you're just as serious about what he has to say.

“I... I have, uh— wait, no. That's not right.” He mutters to himself.

You come closer, standing right in front of him. “Clark.”

He looks down, stunned at your proximity and stops babbling.

“Just say it.” You coax gently. “Whatever it is, I'm sure we can work through it, together.”

Together. He thinks about the good ending, the one where you do end up getting together.

As you look up at him with those kind eyes, he feels everything he has to say come right out.

“I can't stop thinking about you.” He confesses.

You blink, startled by this even though you were expecting it.

“I like you, a-a lot, and I have so much to tell you.”

Clark's eyes flit between yours, desperately searching somewhere for you to feel the same.

He hears your heartbeat skyrocket, he feels your hands shake slightly from the adrenaline. The smell of your perfume thickens the air and he can't get enough. He can almost taste the color of your lips with how close they are.

He gulps, growing jumpy from your silence.

“Say something, please.” He whispers.

Another moment of quiet, not voluntarily. You're just trying to find the right words, yourself.

“I... I feel the same.”

That familiar megawatt smile graces his lips and you feel the tables turn, you in his previous postition and he in yours.

“I have for a long time.”

His eyes crease at that and he can't help the laughter bubbling out of him.

You laugh with him, not believing this is happening right now.

“You have no idea how long I've been holding that in.” He tells you, leaning on the table behind him.

“Not longer than me.” You suppose.

His eyes quirk up, silently asking you to go first.

So you do. “Since you started bringing me my daily dose of energy.”

He hums.

“Now, you.”

He looks at you with the fondest expression ever, you hold yourself back from kissing him stupid.

“Since my first day.” His voice thick with honey.

Your eyes soften and though he's won, you don't take this as a loss.

“Seriously?”

You don't mean to be so anticlimactic but how else does one react to feelings of romance being reciprocated?

As if Clark Kent couldn't get any more attractive, he takes your hand with the utmost care and rests it right on top of his heart.

“Can you feel that?” He asks while gauging your every little microreaction.

It speeds up gradually as your hand connects with the fabric of his shirt, pure electricity binding you together.

You nod, involuntarily fighting the tears you sense.

“Aw, don't cry.” He cradles your face in his hands and you close your eyes, overwhelmed by his affection for you.

“Come on, let me see you.” He ducks his head down, trying to catch your shy eyes.

When you finally do, he smiles so brightly that you swear it's like looking directly into the sun.

“There she is.”

You chuckle weakly, sniffling once.

He lets go of your face and can't resist the temptation of not touching your arms. He rubs them up and down a couple times, feeling goosebumps arise in their wake.

“Can I have a hug?” You ask, looking back at him through your lashes.

He feels his heart stop right there, that look sends him over the edge and you don't even know it.

Clark wordlessly leans down and pulls you in, his strong arms wrap around your waist comfortingly while you reach up on your toes.

You rest your head on his shoulder and feel your hearts beating under each other so passively, a sigh escaping the confines of both your mouths simultaneously.

Something about this feels like déjà vu, like you've been in a similar position.

“Hey.”

“Hm?”

“Remember that conference I was supposed to go to in DC but got cancelled because the jet almost crashed?”

He pulls away with a straight face, hiding the absolute chaos unfurling behind those eyes.

“Yeah..? Why?”

You look at the door then back at him.

“I haven't told anyone about this but afterwards, Superman came by my place.”

“What? No way!” Clark gasps.

You nod cooly.

“So, what happened? What'd you guys talk about?”

You tell him how he stopped by to return your purse but something has been bugging you since.

“I just don't know how he got my address.”

“Oh, that's easy.” He doesn't feel like playing this game anymore, too many sweats. “I know where you live.”

You’re perplexed and then some because what does that mean?

“What are you saying?”

He puts both hands on your shoulders and gives you a riddled look that says, Come on, think about it. You know what I’m saying.

A lightbulb turns on in your head but it can’t be. There’s just no way you’re thinking what he’s thinking.

You’re too flabbergasted to say a word. You just stare at him, open-mouthed and wide-eyed as you say it out loud.

“You’re… you’re— you,” You chuckle dryly, your head spinning a bit. “You’re Superman?”

He doesn’t give any indication of agreeing with you but his silence does.

Clark’s trying to get a read on you.

You then cover your mouth with both hands, muffling an excited ‘Oh my god!’.

He feels reassured.

“You’re Superman!” You whisper-scream.

“Yes, yes. I am.” He nods while checking the door to see anyone coming in.

You just stare at him in wonder, taking this all in.

It all makes perfect sense.

Who else would be selfless enough to protect those who can’t protect themselves? To have integrity the most Clark Kent trait you can think of.

You know Clark has a big heart but this? This is next level.

“Why are you telling me this?”

He looks at you like the answer to that is simple, which to him, is. It’s always going to be simple if it involves you.

“I don’t want to start this on a lie.” He reveals as those damned blue eyes fixate on you.

You can fly right now.

He leans in ever so slowly, tracking any detail on your face that may give away the impression of not wanting him in your space.

When he finds none and is absolutely sure, he puts a hand on your cheek and asks, “Can I kiss you?”.

“Yes.” You sound softly and it’s as if a prayer has been answered.

Your eyes flutter shut and he parts his lips for you, you anticipate them to be just as soft and lush as they seem.

He believes he’ll finally be able to understand the languid nature of your mouth and decipher its meaning.

Sparks fly when you make contact, it strengthens the electricity that makes your chemistry.

The kiss is a breath of fresh air, the kind that blows in quietly; peacefully.

He’s sweet, undoubtedly so. His palms hesitantly splay across the curves on your waist. You smile at the soft touch and he does as well.

Your hands are on his chest and you can feel every pulse, flutter, and pang of his heart.

You think it’s poetic; the influence you have on his heart, both figuratively and literally.

He rests his forehead on yours and you look up at him from under your lashes.

He’s about to speak up when he hears something, something you don’t.

His ears perk in the direction of the distressed sound and he turns his head apologetically.

“I have to go.” He regretfully informs.

You reach up to kiss his cheek and rid him of guilt.

“When you come back, I’ll be right here.”

Clark hugs you once more and asks, “You’re my hero, you know that?”.

You chortle and respond with, “Is that Superman talking or you?”.

“Both.” He pulls back with a kiss on your head, winking at you with a cheeky grin.

He runs out the door and leaves you with the ghost of his touch and words that form a sappy smile on your face.

Superman may be the world’s hero, but Clark Kent is yours.

[miedei]

Honey.

helping clark housesit for his parents leads to: 1. lots of teasing, and 2. getting very familiar with his childhood bedroom (aka fucking in clark's childhood bed)

a/n: watched superman (2025) like 10 hours ago and my childhood crush is soooo back i need him bad, went into a different plane of existence and wrote this in a two-hour-old gdoc, first dc fic!!

cw: clark kent x fem!reader, established relationship, smut mdni, banter, fingering, praise, lowkey size kink he's HUGE, slightttt dumbification but not really by clark, unprotected piv, he almost breaks the headboard, defiling clark's childhood bedroom, you want each other badddd

wc: 2.8k

mlist

(reblogs are the only way to promote fics on tumblr! please reblog if you enjoyed it :) )

“So, this is where Clark Kent grew up, huh? I can see it now, you’re running in that field, yelling at your dad on the porch, sneaking a nudie mag in your backpack through that door—”

A large palm flattens over your mouth, muffling your next words. Slumping your shoulders dramatically, you look up with mirth in your eyes. 

Clark is standing in front of you, his expression defeated. It’s clear he’s half-regretting inviting you to house-sit for his parents with him for the week, but the flush on his cheeks indicates that your teasing isn’t all bad. 

“I’ll have you know I never had any magazines that weren’t PG-13.”

He speaks with a mock-injured tone, hand slipping down to rest on your back as he guides you through the screen door into the old-fashioned living room. 

“What kind of degenerate do you think I am? Ma raised me right.”

You should be teasing him further. If you had your wits about you, you would. It’s unfortunate that the feeling of Clark’s hand on your lower back makes you go a little loopy. You’re lucky he hasn’t caught on to what his touch does to you, or you’d be screwed. 

Flushing slightly, you dance out of his grip, running a finger over the shelves. 

“So, are you gonna, um, give me a tour? Lots of anecdotes, I want the true Clark Kent experience.”

His low chuckle is indulgent, a finger hooking into your belt loop as a means of tugging you towards the door. 

“If you want it, you’ll get it. Just don’t be mad at the tour guide when this takes a while.”

You have to shake the daze from your eyes before you can hear the story he’s telling about accidentally cracking the kitchen countertop.

The Kent house is exactly how you’d expect it. It’s quaint, the decor reflecting the cozy tastes of his parents. Each room has a reminder of Clark though, whether intentional or not. 

The doorway to the bathroom has markings of his growing height in childhood, including the five-month period where he went from 5'8" to 6’3”. The office has a dent in the wall, where Clark sheepishly tells you he kicked a soccer ball by accident when he was ten. It leaves you feeling as if you knew him when he was young, by proxy of the many scrapes he got himself into. 

Nothing does it like his bedroom, though. The final stop on his tour, Clark forgoes any preamble, simply opening the door and letting you wander in. 

It’s a stark contrast to the rest of the house, the brown paneled walls plastered with various posters and pictures. You can’t help but grin, seeing the trophy case with all his football awards near the window. 

“Wow, Kent. Didn’t realise you were Boy Wonder, too,”

You cross the room, immediately fiddling with the academic awards that are hanging on the far wall. 

“I mean, is it even fair at this point?”

You can hear him huff out a deep breath, picturing how he’s surely lifting one large hand to rub the back of his neck, his flannel straining against the bulge of his bicep and—

“It really wasn’t that big a deal, Smallville’s got a pretty good high school for the area.”

His voice cuts through the static in your brain, the barely-there heat of his chest radiating towards your back snapping you into reality at once. Humble bastard.

Turning to face him, you step as close as you can, hands finding their rightful place on his shoulders. 

“I think you’re selling yourself short. Besides, it’s better for me if you’re exceptional. I get to pat myself on the back for locking you down.”

You go in for a quick peck, pressing your lips to his slightly-chapped ones for a brief moment. Parting from him, the two of you seem transfixed by each other’s eyes, Clark leaning back in for another when a distinctive poster catches your eye, making you turn your head.

Clark’s lips land on your cheek as you rile yourself up for more teasing. 

“Clark! The Mighty Crabjoys? Are you kidding?”

He lets out a groan, hands settling at your waist as he attempts to turn you back toward him. 

“Yes I did listen to them, yes I was an insufferable poser as a kid, yes you would have mocked me relentlessly, now please?”

His lips seek yours, molding against you for another moment before you pull back again. 

“No, wait, don’t distract me. That’s there unironically? Like, you listened to them, and listened to them so much that you just had to—”

You’re cut off again, tasting the cornbread you’d had earlier on his tongue as he laves it over your bottom lip. Suddenly you’re not all that bothered with the poster anymore. 

It’s his turn to talk now, it seems.

“Can we please stop talking about the poster?”

His voice has deepened a few octaves, sounding eerily similar to his Superman voice. It’s doing bad things for your panties, feeling your thighs rub together involuntarily. You’re rendered mute, nodding wordlessly up at him. 

A self-satisfied smile settles on his face, using his grip on you to walk you backwards until the backs of your knees hit the bed. 

“Thank you, honey.”

He’s pushing you down softly, lowering you until you settle against the plaid sheets. You’re given absolutely no time to register anything else about the bed, not when he’s settling over you, all broad chest and thick thighs and beautiful face. 

“Clark…”

“Yeah? What is it?”

It seems like he’s relishing the opportunity to get you back for all your teasing, leaning on an elbow resting near your head as his other hand slips down to grip your hip. It’s unfair how he gets to you. 

“I want… You know what I want.”

You can barely stand to look at him, his eyes are so big and kind. You could get lost in him, drawn in by his gravitational pull. 

“Yeah, I do know, don't I? You want your clothes off, sweetheart?”

Your head begins to nod before you even register it, making Clark laugh as he sits up to tug off your clothes. 

Once you’re sufficiently undressed, you’re feeling a little unfair. He’s still wearing so much. Clumsy hands fly to the hem of his shirt, pushing it up gently. 

“You too, Clark. Not going to let me be the only one in their birthday suit, right?”

He blushes, but follows the movements of your hands, shucking off his shirt and jeans, although the black boxers he’s got on remain there, much to your dismay. The moment he’s bare enough, he’s climbing right back over you, lips pressing to yours with insistence. 

Clark generally lets you take the lead with kissing, letting you explore his mouth with as much zeal and vigour you can muster. He’s content to moan into your mouth, hands running wild over all the newly-exposed skin at his disposal. 

Rough fingertips travel up to your hair, smoothing it back as your tongue brushes against his. A soft squeeze to your breast when you gasp for air before diving right back in. Slowly, slowly, he begins to make his way down your body.

You falter a little as he lingers over your stomach, rubbing a thumb over your lower belly, feeling yourself ache for him. Your own hands spring into action, caressing over the planes of his abdomen as you move lower and lower. 

However, a hand encircles your wrist before you can reach his boxers, Clark’s abashed face looking at you.

“Not yet, baby. Can’t—oh, gosh,”

He throws his head back in pleasure when you forge forward, boldly gripping him through the thin fabric. 

“Clark, please. You said you’d give me what I wanted.”

He seems to falter, but his touch doesn’t move, redirecting your hand to rest on his shoulder. 

“You know we can’t… yet. I don’t want to hurt you, sweetheart.”

Damn it. Damn his big fucking eyes and his honeyed voice. You can’t complain, no matter how much you’d want to. Not when he’s looking at you like that. 

With a sigh, you slump a little, voice slightly petulant. 

“Fine.”

He sees right through it, of course he does. 

“Oh, I know. It’s so hard, isn’t it, letting me touch you?”

You’d have a cutting reply on the tip of your tongue if his hands weren’t roaming again, his left cupping the back of your head as the right makes its way down to where you’re dripping. 

Your legs spread automatically, letting his fingers brush against your soaked folds. You have to moan, the feeling of his larger fingers always overwhelming at first. 

He swipes through your folds, once, twice, until his index finger is covered in slick. You’d be embarrassed, but it’s hard to feel anything but pleasure when Clark is touching you. Slowly, he brings his index up to your hooded clit, pressing down on it with practised precision. 

It’s like he’s feeling it too, the way he starts to pant at the sight of you getting enveloped in bliss. This is a part of your routine because you need to be worked open, yes, but it’s also selfishly for Clark’s own satisfaction, you both know it. 

The pleasure arcing up your spine has you arching your back, right leg jerking involuntarily. It only seems to spur him on, index leaving your clit. 

Acknowledging your whine with a kiss to the temple, Clark moves his hand slightly, positioning his finger a little lower. 

“Here we go, honey.”

He pushes further, thick finger brushing your gummy walls deliciously. Every time Clark fingers you, you worry that you’ll never be able to go back to your own fingers again. His are like the rest of him, broad, work-worn and skilled. The way he slowly increases the pace of his movements have you squirming under him, hands scrabbling at his shoulders. 

“Doing so good for me, baby. Take it like a champ, every time.”

His hushed praises are sent straight to your core, hot breath fanning over your cheek as he adds another impossibly large finger to the mix. 

The stretch burns, in the way that has you gushing around his digits. You’re openmouthed, unable to stop the endless torrent of moans and whimpers that leave you. 

“Clark—!”

He smiles a little, watching how your hips are starting to grind down on his palm. 

“Yeah, honey? Feeling good?”

You nod frantically, staring wide-eyed up at him.

One more finger joins the two already plunging in and out of you, and the staggering onslaught of sensations pushes you over the edge. 

A final brush of his palm against your clit and you fall apart, choked moans spilling into the air as your hips stutter.

“Oh my god, ohmygod, Clark!”

He knows to work you through it, slowing his pace until the wave has crested, and you’re looking up at him with big, wet eyes. 

Pulling his hand away from you, he dips down, capturing your lips with his. 

“How’re you feeling, honey? Want to stop?”

You’d rather die. You tell him so, reveling in the shock on his face. He seems to forget how badly you want him until it's shoved in his face, so you do just that.

Snaking a hand between your bodies, you brush the waistband of his boxers again. 

“Please, Clark? You know I can take it. Just wanna feel you.”

He’s a sucker for you, you both know it.

That’s what has him shoving down his boxers with graceless hands, what has him blushing when you compliment his cock for the umpteenth time. 

He’s hovering back over you, the mattress dipping by your head and hip, where he’s braced himself with a hand and knee. His other hand has found purchase on your thigh, kneading at the plush flesh idly. 

You wonder absentmindedly if there will be any marks left later. He’d be mortified. You’d love it.

“Sweetheart, you ready? Gotta take this slow,”

He’s let go of your thigh, gripping his cock at the base so he can swipe through your folds. You both let out guttural moans, laughing at each other when the pleasure subsides. 

“Yeah, Clark. I want it.”

He’s embarrassed by your confession, like he always is, but that doesn’t stop him from pressing his hips forward a fraction. The blunt tip of his cock pushes past your entrance, the stretch causing another moan from the both of you. 

You’ll never get used to it, the all-encompassing pleasure that comes with the first few inches of him. 

He’s slow, taking his time as he groans word salad into your ear. 

“Feels so—so good, baby. Always so good for me, aren’t you? Does it— oh, god— you feeling okay?”

His voice is hoarse, as if he’s been yelling for days. You can’t help but feel a little satisfaction at how thoroughly you seem to wreck the Man of Steel. 

“Yeah, Clark… Keep going.”

He nods, pushing even further. The tip of him reaches somewhere deep in you, somewhere only he’s ever been. The heady haze in your mind can’t dissipate, not when he’s making you feel like this. 

It feels like an eternity, but finally, his hips meet yours. You’re feeling obscenely full, like you could never live without him in you like this. It has you whining sharply when he pulls himself out slightly. 

However, the feeling of him pushing back in sends any thought of complaining flying out of your head. He’s swift in finding that perfect pace — somewhere between stuffing you as full as you can be and providing the friction he craves. 

Throwing your head back, you see his right hand hover in the air, as if he’s unsure what to do with it. It seems as though he’s decided when it grips the headboard behind your head, but a splintering sound has you pushing past the daze to warn him.

“Can’t— Don’t break the headboard—” You’re cut off by a moan, unable to stop yourself. He seems suitably chastised though, his hand balling into a fist and pressing into the mattress instead. You feel a distant hope that he won’t punch through that, somehow. It’d be a hell of a story to tell his parents why you had to replace it.

His left arm has slid under your shoulders in the meantime, holding you as close to his chest as possible. You’re sure he gets some pleasure out of it, but you know he does this for you. 

He knows you like to be overwhelmed by him, surrounded by his touch and smell and words until every thought’s been chased from your mind but him. He won’t let you run away from the excruciating pleasure, and you’re grateful. It’s even more wonderful here, in this single bed that forces you even closer to him than normal.

The brutal pace he’s set has you floating up to the sky in no time, head in the clouds as you let him hold you close. 

It could be a lot of things, but you’re getting close after only a few short minutes. It could be the deep groans that he’s letting loose in the air between your mouths. It could be the tight grip he’s got you in. It’s probably the incessant grinding of his pelvis against your clit when he drives home. 

Whatever it is, your arms around his neck tighten as you attempt to tell him. 

“Clark— Clark, m’gonna…”

He nods, smiling breathlessly down at you, knowing you want reassurance. 

“Me too, baby. Go ahead, you can come.”

Something about his gasped-out words has you spiralling, your climax hitting you at once. Walls spasming around him, his hips falter in their speed, slowing to a more languid, leisurely pace as he works you through it. 

“Good— good girl, honey. Feel so good.”

He lets you pull him in for a filthy, openmouthed kiss, pressing his pelvis against yours. 

One final grinding motion, and he’s gasping into your mouth. The blooming heat inside you has you shuddering with an aftershock of pleasure, moaning one final time. 

He remains pressed against you for some time, his arm holding you slightly off the bed as your chests heave. Only once he catches his breath (annoyingly quickly) does he settle you back against the sheets.

The next few moments are a blur, Clark kissing you one moment, softly wiping at your pussy with a cloth the next, and finally bringing a glass of water to your lips. 

“Feeling okay? Tired?”

“Yeah, a little, but a quick nap, and I’ll be ready.”

He looks at you quizzically, tilting his head in a way that reminds you of Krypto.

“What, you don’t have more in you? C’mon, Superman, we’ve got to wear you out at some point.”

He’s blushing again.

[diorchids]

clark kent who… | size kink blurbs.

clark kent who accidentally bumps into you in the office hallway and immediately grips your waist to steady you—his hand nearly spanning your whole side—and says, “sorry, didn’t see you there,” even though you’re literally half his size.

clark kent who always hands you your coffee with his fingers brushing yours, making you feel how comically large his hands are compared to yours. one time, you wrapped both hands around his wrist just to feel the difference, and he stopped breathing.

clark kent who stands behind you during meetings, and when he leans down to whisper something, his voice rumbles in your chest and his body completely eclipses yours.

clark kent who always crouches a little when talking to you, murmuring things like “this better?” with a crooked smile, and you hate how flustered it makes you feel standing next to his massive frame.

clark kent who picks you up by the waist like it’s nothing—to move you out of the way, to set you on a counter, to carry you over puddles—and always murmurs, “you’re light as a feather,” like it’s your fault he’s built like a god.

clark kent who slips his jacket over your shoulders when you’re cold and doesn’t say a word when it falls to your knees, swallowing you whole. he just watches you wear it with this unreadable, hungry look in his eyes.

clark kent who brushes a hand down your back and spans your whole spine in one pass. you shiver. he feels it. “sorry,” he murmurs. “too much?”

clark kent who can’t help groaning the first time you palm him through his slacks, because your hand looks tiny on him and you’re barely covering half of what’s there. “sweetheart,” he pants, “you sure about this?”

clark kent who lifts you like a doll and sets you down on his bed, spreading your legs with those thick, calloused hands like he’s opening a present. “look at you,” he whispers. “so soft. so small.”

clark kent who holds your wrists above your head with one hand and uses the other to tease you until you’re gasping, squirming, begging—his voice wrecked as he says, “need both hands to touch me, but i only need one to ruin you.”

clark kent who goes down on you slow and reverent, holding your thighs open with ease while he eats like a man possessed. when you cry out, overwhelmed, he just groans, “let me. i can take it. i want all of you.”

clark kent who whispers, “you’re doin’ so good, sweetheart,” as he stretches you open on his cock—thick and massive, taking everything in you not to break. “almost there, baby,” he coos, kissing your neck. “just a little more. you can take it. be good for me.”

[starktonyx]

Sex pollen - Clark Kent x reader

Word count: 3.2k

Description: When Clark gets poisoned with sex pollen, he tries everything in his power to stay away from you. Until he ends up crashing into your living room, and you have a god on his knees, with your name in his mouth and your body at his will.

Tags/warnings: smut, established relationship, clark is sorry, he gets freaky with his powers, consent kink, breaks you and worships you at the same time, begging, praising, hovering (yes hovering👀), so much dirty talk (he’s feral but sweet), overstimulation.

Note: Guess who watched superman today and got a new man to obsess about🙂‍↕️ honestly I don’t even know what took over me when I wrote this but all I can say is go ahead, live your best life and enjoy the sweet filth 🫶🏼

archive / masterlist

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You wake up with a loud crash coming from your living room. You jolt upright from your bed as you hear glass shatter, sprinting toward the noise. You curse as your body, only covered by Clark’s giant shirt, gets hit with the crisp midnight air as wind gushed through your apartment like a hurricane just passed by.

A figure stood where your glass door used to be, leaning weakly on what was left of the frame. You turned on the lamp next to you, illuminating your boyfriend’s stumbling body.

“Clark!?” you exclaim, confused by his abrupt arrival.

He doesn’t look up, just stands there against the frame, chest heaving, fists clenched. Like he is barely holding himself together.

Worry washes your features, something must be really wrong. You start making way over to him, but as soon as you take a step forward he puts a warning hand in front of him.

“Stop! Don’t move,” his deep voice comes out strangled, like he’s been screaming for hours. “Don’t come closer… please. Just–just stay there.”

He keeps his hand up to stop you, panting heavily as he swallowed to try to soothe his dry throat. He slowly looks up, and groans when he meets your eyes. His pupils are blown wide, dry lips parted, his breath ragged like he’s been flying across the globe. His usually perfect wavy hair is now flat, messy, sticking to his sweaty forehead.

“I didn’t want to come here,” he whines. “I–I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

“What happened to you?” You ask from your spot, fighting the urge to run to his aid.

“I’ve been infected,” he chokes out, and your brows furrow more. “Some kind of … alien pollen. It hit me out there. I flew straight into it and fuck ... It’s messing with my head, my body, I…”

He suddenly turns away, pacing in small frantic circles on your balcony like he’s trying to shake something off. His hands tremble as he fights to not make eye contact, like just looking at you hurts.

“What do you need? D-do you have the antidote?” You ask, scared as hell. He never acts like this.

He just shakes his head first with a bitter laugh, only to nod frantically afterwards.

God, if only you knew.

“I tried to wait it out,” he groans, fists now in his hair. “I swear I did, my love, I locked myself away for hours … tried to fly as far as I could but I kept turning back because I could smell you.”

Your breath catches in your throat, somehow understanding what this was about.

“I can smell you, sweetheart. Even from across the city … I can hear you breathing … your heartbeat. I didn’t want to hurt you but right now I have you in front of me and I can see–dammit … I’m sorry–“

He stumbles backward like he’s ashamed of himself, like he can’t even look at you.

“You know can’t turn it off,” he whispers. “I never mean to look, I swear, but I can see you now. Everything.”

Of course you know what he means. You know he can see right past his giant shirt covering your body. And the guilt on his face is gutting. He looks like he’s trying to claw his own powers out of his skin.

“Clark… it’s okay. You don’t have to explain, ”you step forward, slowly, gently. “It’s not like we haven’t–“

“No you don’t get it!” He snaps, his voice booming through your walls so loud you were sure everyone on the block heard him. He instantly feels worse with the way you flinched to his volume. “S-sorry darling … you just don’t get it … you have no idea what it’s like to smell you and know how soft you are, how warm. My instincts are going crazy. I just need to be inside you … I need to touch you, mark you, fill you up until I can’t think straight,” he just rambles, eyes raking through your body.

You take a deep breath, his words making you clench your thighs together and he noticed. Of course you’ve had sex before. You know what he sounds like when he’s needy. But this? This is feral. You’ve never seen him like this.

But you’re willing to do anything to help him. Always.

“Clark… you don’t even have to ask,” you speak softly, your own eyes darkening with desire.

He shakes his head. You don’t even understand the amount of restraint he’s having right now.

“I do … I always do. Especially now. Because I’m not going to touch you like I should. I’m not going to make it about you. I’m going to use you. Because you’re the only one who can fix me … you are the antidote and I hate it. I hate that I can’t even think straight unless I’m inside you … I need you so bad, darling, I’m shaking–“ He cries, an actual tear comes out his desperate eyes.

You’re watching a god fall apart in front of you.

Because of you.

You finally cross the space left, and he doesn’t stop you this time. You grab his face between your hands, and kiss him without hesitation. His arms immediately cling to your frame, cold hands slipping under your shirt to roam every inch of your warm skin.

You moan into his lips, when you taste the salty tears on his face. His hands land on your ass, and he squeezes hard, bruising, making you squeal. He immediately pulls back, apologizing. Like he still can’t let himself go.

“I love you, I’m sorry–” he blurts out immediately, hands soothing the skin he pinched while he fought the urge to do it again, harder. “God I love you … and I would never hurt you. Never. I swore I’d never touch you like this. Unless you asked me to. Unless you wanted me to. So please … tell me you want this too. Say yes, or I’ll leave. I swear I will.”

He nods, frantically, like he’s trying to convince himself more than he’s trying to convince you.

“I’ll leave if you tell me to,” he breathes. “I’ll fly through a mountain. I’ll bury myself in the ocean. Just don’t say yes unless you want this. I’m barely holding on– if you say it, I won’t be able to stop.”

You want him. God you always want him.

The way he keeps asking makes you want him even more. Even if he’s not your Clark now. Even if he won’t take care of you like he always does. Even if you can’t breathe or move after. Because you love him too.

“I want it,” you whisper against his lips, nodding. “I want you. You need me? Use me. Take all you want … I can take it.”

It’s over.

The moment you say yes there’s no going back. He lunges forward, tightening his grip on you as he lifts you off the ground to fly you towards the wall, knocking the lamp when your back hit the wall, leaving you both in complete darkness. Only the moonlight left to shine over his hungry eyes.

His massive hand cradles the back of your head to protect it from the hit, while the other tears off your shirt like he needs your skin on his or he’ll die. Your panties don’t even last two seconds before they fly away too.

His lips hit yours. Tongue desperate, hands everywhere, so large, so shaky, everywhere at once. He groans into your mouth like a man dying of thirst finally tasting water.

“Thank you,” he gasps between kisses. “Thank you sweetheart … I’m so sorry I can’t help you first … but I need you … I need to feel you inside, please just let me…”

He knows it hurts you when he doesn’t prepare you properly, when he doesn’t make you cum at least twice on his fingers before he fucks you …but he can’t right now. Not when he can smell how soaked you are already, not when he swears it’s dripping on the carpet.

“Do it,” you pant, hungry for him. “Clark just do it … please.”

He doubts only for a second, and then without thinking he rips the suit. Literally tears it at the waist, tugging it to get rid of it completely. He’ll care about that later.

Right now he is just muscle in front of you.

His painful cock springs up, and he presses himself to you with a wet slap, your back hitting the wall again. Your pussy throbs at how impossibly huge he is over your stomach.

You’ve had him before. You’ve barely made it. You still want him to rearrange your guts.

“Feel that?” he groans. “That’s what you do to me, that’s what’s been driving me insane all day, darling.”

He’s not even pretending anymore, his cock is throbbing, massive, already leaking. He aligns himself between your soaked folds, rutting the tip against your pussy a few times like he’s lost control of his body entirely. You moan at the friction. Every nerve ending screaming.

You know he’s gonna wreck you. You weren’t ready. But at the same time you’ve never been more ready.

He grabs your thigh and lifts it against the wall, before whispering against your lips. “I’m sorry…”

He pushes his hips forward, and when he finally slides home with a snap … raw, hard, you let out a strangled scream.

One long, broken sound, high pitched and helpless, because he stretches you brutally, all at once, bottoming out with a growl. An actual growl. Like he finally felt some type of relief since he got hit with the pollen.

You fight back a cry, lunging forward to bite his shoulder. He starts fucking you into the wall as he whispers ‘I love you’ ‘thank you’ ‘sorry’ like some sort of chant. Like it’s the only thing keeping him rooted to the version of him that is still careful with you when you have sex.

Your breath leaves you in a gasp, your bare back against the cold plaster, legs around his waist, and arms clinging to his biceps for dear life. All you can do is moan as you get adjusted to his unfairly thick cock slamming in and out of you.

“Just like that … you’re taking me so well,” he pants. “You can do it, sweetheart … you’re doing so good … fuck, you were made for this … made for me.”

His hands grip your thighs. He fucks you like he’s possessed, no rhythm, no thought into it, just deep, hard thrusts that hit something devastating every time, shaking the wall with every slam of his hips.

And the whole time, he keeps whimpering into your neck.

“I love you … I’m sorry … I love you …I’m gonna ruin you …I need it…”

You think you’re about to white out when the room starts moving, but you quickly realize what’s happening.

He’s lifting your bodies off the ground.

Still fucking you.

Going up as much as your ceiling allowed him too. He pins you high on the wall when his head touches the roof, like gravity doesn’t apply anymore. It never does, not to you, not to him.

So now you’re fucking hovering. Literally. Unable to do anything but take it.

And you feel him like never before. A complete moaning mess. Nails dragging down his back, mouth open in shock as you look down to the floor. Your whole body is a live wire, and he’s fucking you like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.

His cock twitches inside you. He’s already close. Has been since he walked through that window. But he’s holding it, fighting it, because he needs to stay inside. Needs to keep taking. You can’t.

“Fuck Clark … I’m gonna–“

“Yes? do it … darling please, you’re doing so well. I’ve got you … cum all over this cock baby I got you.”

Your body breaks before you can breathe. Your first climax of the night hits hard, clenching down on him, while you pant into his chest. Your whole body goes limp and he feels it.

He fucks you through it. Rough thrusts with his hand stroking your back and the other wrapped under your thighs. He keeps thanking you as his cock splits you open over and over.

“I wanna give you everything,” he groans, voice cracking. “Fill you up, stuff you full of me … Can I? Please? Let me finish inside you …. let me have you–“

“Yes, yes, fill me up,” you blurt out, still seeing stars.

He slams in once more and chokes, hips locked, whole body shuddering as he comes with a moan so broken it feels like it came from his soul. He shakes as he fills you, mouth pressed to your neck.

He doesn’t pull out yet. He holds you there, trembling, pressed against the wall like he knows you’ll fall if he loosens his grip.

Even after the first wave passes, after the groans, the shaking, the desperate I love you’s, he holds you like you’re the only thing anchoring him to this planet.

“…Are you okay?”

You just nod, breathless, a blissed out smile in your face. He smiles too. And then, slowly, he lowers you back down to the floor.

But he’s not soft for long. He doesn’t even give you a minute to recover. He can’t. The second round starts before the first one even finishes sinking in.

You’re still trembling in his arms, leaking down your thighs, whimpering his name into the crook of his neck. And he’s still inside you. Still painfully hard.

Still needing you.

“One more, please. Just–just one more,” he begs. “Let me have you again. Please, darling I need it.”

“Take it Clark, take all you need,” you nod, absolutely wrecked.

But what’s a few more rounds with your unearthly strong boyfriend?

He melts.

You usually go multiple rounds, but he’s softer, he gives you downtime, even brings you water in between orgasms. But right now he can’t believe the way he fucked you and you still let him have more. But he needs more. The pollen is fogging his brain.

He finally pulls out, just to set you down on the floor. The second your back hits the rug, he’s on top of you again. And god he’s heavy. Solid. He doesn’t even hold his weight like he usually does because all he’s thinking about is fucking you senseless.

He buries himself deep again, groaning, cursing under his breath. You close your eyes, nails digging the carpet, back arching when you feel him deeper from this angle. You pant small whines from the feeling.

“Shhh … don’t–“ he coos, he wants to be slow, but he can’t. His hips snap hard without even thinking. “You’re doing so good, sweetheart … so good for me… just need one more.”

You know it’s not just one more. And he fucking knows that too.

None of you cares.

“You’re so wet … so perfect” he groans, the filthy sound gushing loudly every time he thrusted. “I didn’t even give you time to come down … didn’t even let you breathe and you still take me so well”

He praises. Worships. He looks down to where your bodies meet, and he sees right through your skin. He can see his huge cock filling you with every thrust. He can see your walls clenching around him. And he looses it.

You’re suddenly running out of air when he presses his chest to yours, pining you tighter to the floor with his body as he pushes harder. And you feel all of him. The broadness of his chest against your ribs. The strain of his thighs bracketing yours. His cock still buried deep, rock hard.

You hit his bicep with your hand first, but he’s not paying attention, he’s too caught up on the way your pussy takes him to notice.

It’s not smooth. Not rhythmic. Just sharp, ragged thrusts that hit you so hard your body jerks on impact, tits bouncing, nails clawing at his back as he crushes you into the floor with every rut of his hips.

Your head starts spinning.

“Clark,” you choke out, hitting his bicep again. “I can’t–can’t breathe…”

His head finally snaps at you, eyes going wide. He lifts up a bit, but he doesn’t pull out, he just … can’t.

You finally gasp for air as he shushes you softly, tucking away the hair sticking to your sweaty forehead.

“I’m sorry … I can’t … can’t stop. I tried, I swear I tried,” his forehead presses to yours, without crushing you alive this time.

His hips don’t stop moving. You pant between moans. You’re close again, you can feel it.

“It’s okay, you’re just … you’re so big …so heavy.”

“I’m sorry,” he breathes. “I’m sorry, I know. I just … I don’t want to let you go–”

“Don’t,” you whisper. “Don’t let me go.”

His expression breaks. Because he knows. And you know. He’s not really letting you go. Not all the way. He’s still pressing his weight into you, even as he tries not to. Because he needs to. Because letting go means losing you, even just for a second.

He doesn’t know what takes over him, he grabs your hands and pins them above your head. Watching you sob, moan, eyes rolling back, skin already bruising in multiple places by his grip. He’s not like this. He should be apologizing. Begging. But you just feel so damn good.

And you like it, god you love it.

“I–I love it when you fuck me like this,” you confess, voice barely above a whisper, dumb smile on your face as he hits that spot repeatedly. “I just- I can’t…”

“I know darling, I know … just a little more,” he groans. “One more please. You can take it …you’re doing so good.” He soothes, but he can’t slow down, not when you’re clenching him like that.

He picks up the pace.

“C-Clark … please, I’m gonna-“

“I’ve got you, darling …I’ve got you, let yourself go for me.”

You see white this time. You’re not even moaning anymore. Just gasping. Twitching. Letting him take what he needs because you want to. Because this is Clark, your Clark, and you’d give him your whole body a thousand times if he needed it.

And he does.

He fucks you like you’re his last breath.

Even after you’re wrecked, limp, twitching … he keeps going.

You don’t even remember the next time he finishes. Or the time after that. Or where it happened. Your body is a mess, trembling and raw and wet and full. Marked. Praised.

All while he keeps saying, “Just one more … just let me stay inside you a little longer… please sweetheart, I’m still hard I know you can take it … this is the last time I promise…”

Again and again. You’ve never heard him lie so much before.

Yet still, with your hair splayed, legs shaking, literal tears leaking from the corners of your eyes from the pleasure, the pain, the strain, the goddamn pollen he pumps into your body every time he comes…

You are having the time of your life being drunk on his cock.

“Fuck me harder.”

You beg, even when you can’t feel it anymore. Maybe that’s why you need it harder … deeper.

And because you knew that once he came back to normal he wouldn’t fuck you like this again. And he makes sure to let you know.

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry I’m hurting you. I just need you so fucking much … I love you I love you I love you—”

You just nod, because it hurts embarrassingly good.

You lose count of how many times he comes in total. How many times you come. You only know time’s passed when the sky starts to lighten outside your broken window, and Clark is rocking into you so slowly it’s more like he’s just holding you in place, his mouth pressed to your shoulder, whispering thank you with every lazy thrust.

By the time he finally slows down, finally wears the substance out of his body after dumping it all inside you … you can’t move. You’re limp in his arms, boneless and dripping and his.

Your bed feels incredibly soft in contrast to all the spots he fucked you on last night.

You’re draped across his chest, tracing the muscles under his bare skin. His fingers are in your hair. Barely moving, just tracing small patterns. Soothing you like he didn’t cause all the pain in your body.

You’re still trembling a little. Just from… after. Your body’s still echoing with everything he gave you. Everything he took.

Worth it.

Clark kisses your temple. He hasn’t stopped kissing you every few minutes. It’s like he’s trying to apologize without saying it. Like he’s trying to prove that he’s still the man you love, the man who flinches when he bumps your head by accident, who picks you flowers and gets flustered when you kiss him in public. The one who always put you first in bed.

Not the one who just broke the sound barrier flying to your apartment because his cock told him to.

“…I broke your window,” he finally breaks the silence, a chuckle makes his chest vibrate against your ear.

“Clark … you broke a lot more than my window.”

You both start giggling … glowing. Your throat hurts, you’re sore, probably can’t even walk today or the whole week, and somehow, it feels like the safest place on Earth.

“I love you,” he whispers. “So much.”

“I know,” you whisper back. “You said it like 87 times while destroying me.”

⋆⋅ ♡ ⋅⋆

Feedback and sharing is always appreciated, thank you so much for reading <3

[devourrrmee]

GLORY BOX

warning - p links! dni if uncomfortable.

dc men (dick grayson, bruce wayne, jason todd, clark kent) x fem! reader

warning! must be logged into twt/x for you to see the links :p

incl ⤷ unprotected sex, oral, facefucking, rough sex, spanking, fingering, breeding kink/creampie, size kink(heavy in clark’s…couldn’t help it💔), anal play/fingering, public sex, car sex, hate fucking, male moaning, meow

ᯓᡣ𐭩 DICK GRAYSON

— he pounces on you once you’re alone

— mutual masturbation

— bf!dick who comes home from patrol all needy for you

— the ending to the classic “shut up”…”make me”

— size kink size kink size kink size kink

𓆰 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪ BRUCE WAYNE

— he’s just trying to ease your nerves before meeting the team!!

— fucking you on a yacht bc he’s bruce wayne

— husband!bruce who plays with your holes for stress relief :3

— he’s ruined other guys for you, all you crave is him

— fucking you after a gala

༉‧. JASON TODD

—“that’s it, take me all the way. fuuuckk.”

— bf!jason who sends you this shit so you’ll come home earlier

— he texts you “big dick is back in town” when he’s done w a mission

— somno with jason

— “ i hate you so fucking much.” “yeah? doesn’t seem like you hate my dick though..”

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ CLARK KENT

— husband!clark who eats you out and spells his name against your cunt with his tongue

— he’s too big so he has to fuck your thighs

— someone is not aware that he is … well endowed

— enjoys when you grind against him

— he makes himself smaller to function in everyday life and forgets how big he really is