#david!clark kent

[tempobaekh]

i need him so bad its concerning at this point

[sabledfabled]

Tears (run down my thighs...)

synopsis: Honestly, you almost wished you had a bit more self-respect—sure, Clark's obviously more attractive than all of the other men you've dated, but a lot of the things that turn you on about him are pretty commonplace. Also, it's early days. You're not even sure if you can call him your 'boyfriend' yet, but still, here you are, imagining jumping his bones all because the poor, charming, achingly handsome guy is assembling the new chair you got from IKEA.

word count: 5.2k

content warnings: I don't even know how to tag this. Competence kink, I guess? The reader literally gets turned on by Clark doing the bare minimum (being responsible, respectful to women, putting together furniture...). Some strong language, allusions to smut, plenty of sexual tension, domestic fluff, implied phone sex/mutual masturbation, horniness, they're both disgustingly down bad for each other, mentions of past shitty boyfriends, erm, gratuitous descriptions of how damningly hot and charming Corenswet's Clark Kent is. Anything else? Oh, a smattering of Sabby C references. Also, it's very unedited. I wrote this in a blind, mad rush.

note: This might, inadvertently, be the least feminist thing I've ever written. I swear, the reader isn't usually like this! Clark just has this kind of effect on people. This ended up way more lovey-dovey than I meant it to be. I'll do something sluttier soon, probably.

Inspired by, Tears by Sabrina Carpenter

A little initiative can go a very long, long way / Baby, just do the dishes, I'll give you what you want...

You swear, you didn't mean to objectify Clark.

It was kind of like this internal reaction your body and mind would get whenever he did something mildly responsible, or said anything remotely rational and astute around you. Last week, he mentioned that he checked the weather for the night of your date and told you, completely innocently, that you should probably bring a coat and wear sensible shoes. It probably turned you on more than any lousy boyfriend ever had before him.

It didn't exactly help your internalised kicking yourself (for the total lack of self-respect or dignity this predicament was leaving you with) that you and Clark had only being going about for about two months at this point. Honestly, you weren't even sure if you could call him your 'boyfriend' yet. He hadn't asked you to be his girlfriend, and he didn't introduce you as such the other night when his adoring Ma and Pa called to check in, just as the two of you were eating the shakshuka he cheffed up. Rather, he flipped the camera around, almost shoving his phone under your nose and brightly telling his folks your name, cheesing at you as they bumbled out affectionate hello, dear!s and took it in turns telling you how pretty you were.

(After Martha Kent mock-sternly asked him when he was going to bring you back to Smallville to meet them in person, Clark went this darling, pinkish colour and hastened to wrap up the call. He didn't quite meet your eyes for the rest of the evening).

Whatever.

In all honesty, you didn't care that much for the label. Not yet, anyways. This, whatever it was you had, was enough. The bi-weekly dates he would take you on, and the fresh tulips in the earthenware vase on your desk at the Daily Planet every Monday without fail. Almost, you were afraid of the illusion shattering after you did become 'the girlfriend.' This aching part of you dreaded that this rosiness would leave if Clark was to officially call you guys 'together,' and that the honeymooning nights of charming dinners in candlelit restaurants, the tender, careful sex, and the litany of lovely, absentminded things he did for you without expecting anything in return would come to an end. After all, every other guy you've dated suddenly would lose all charm and doting effort as soon as you became their girlfriend—as if to say, here, damn, can you stop expecting me to be a decent guy, now?

Realistically, you knew Clark wasn't like that. But, you really, really liked this phase you were in now.

And you really liked how competent and helpful Clark was.

"—then he said that it's front-page worthy and to keep up all the good work—honey? Hey, are you listening?"

Shit. Right. He's here. In your apartment.

It's easy to lose yourself in thoughts about Clark. Having sex with Clark. Being on dates with Clark. How handsome he looked. You get in your head about plenty of things, but he was a different caliber of distracting and consuming. It was almost as if he burrowed himself into the hollow space under your ribs that had been yawningly empty ever since your last boyfriend split.

You were sat on the countertop of your apartment's kitchenette, your thighs mostly bare thanks to the cotton sleep-shorts that hiked up, the flesh underneath touching the cold granite as your feet swung naturally. Clark, however, was elbow-deep in the soapy suds of your sink, washing the dishes from the delicious dinner he just cooked for the two of you, and you suddenly remember what had you so caught up in sugared daydreams this time. And, really, if your mum knew that the daughter she raised to be independent, uncompromising, and a bit of a misandrist, was fawning over her not-boyfriend simply because he was doing the dishes, she'd probably grab you by the shoulders and shake you so hard that your gooey, Clark-filled brain would rattle against your skull.

But, she should try being in your position and having the sight you had right now. Which, excruciatingly, involved the crisp-white sleeves of Clark's shirt being rolled up to his elbows, toned forearms covered in soapy bubbles, and the material around his broad shoulders straining as he craned at the waist to blink at you all obliviously. Almost doe-eyed, he definitely didn't realise that you were naming the imaginable children you never really wanted until him, and brainstorming other menial chores you could ask him to do around your apartment.

"Sweetheart? Hey, are you all right—"

"Huh?" You blink, startled. "Oh. Shit, sorry, yes. M'listening."

Clark's head tilted to the side, unconvinced. "Are you sure? I feel like I lost you there."

"Nope, didn't lose me," you replied as earnestly as you could, flashing him a warm smile.

It softened out the worrying lines between his eyebrows and made a boyish grin of his own curve up the corners of his mouth. God, he hurt your heart.

It genuinely rattled you that he was this attractive.

"All right," he said amiably, turning back around to rinse off the wooden chopping board he used earlier to dice vegetables, "if you say so."

Then, he was going on again about his latest article, one that he was extremely proud of, because it was all about social justice and the importance of good, old-fashioned neighbourly kindness in the big city. And, yes, you were proud of him too—and you really were trying to listen to him, because it was a beautiful article, and so well-being, and compassionate, and all the other wonderful things you could say about the issue and Clark alike. But it was really hard to concentrate when he was unravelling the dish towel you kept slung through the door-handle of the oven to dry his hands before making sure your dishes were arranged carefully enough on the draining-board so he could fully grant you his attention. In doing so, he realised with another warm, face-splitting grin that he had indeed lost you again, and you would've missed the soft laugh that swelled through his chest if it wasn't for his large hands coming to rest on your thighs.

"And she's gone again," he mused wryly, one of his thumbs rubbing soft circles on your skin.

"Nope," you deny, tangling your legs around his waist, threading your fingers through the belt-loops of his work trousers, "not gone. Right..." you lean forward, smacking a kiss against his jawbone, "here."

Clark blushed furiously, hands gripping your thighs a little tighter.

"Hmm," he mumbled, "sure. So, what was I saying then?"

"You were talking about your amazing, brilliant, Pulitzer-price worthy—"

"Okay, that's an exaggeration—"

"Article," you finished, ignoring him, lips now smearing your faded gloss against his cheekbone next.

Your hands moved, always greedy, and flattened against his chest, smoothing down a few creases in that unfair shirt of his. He pressed even deeper into your flesh, never hard, but so distinctly him in the half-soft, half-calloused pads of his fingertips—you never really did understand how he could simultaneously have the working-hands of a farm boy, but a tenderness that never felt rough like the toughened hands of other guys you'd been with.

"And," he interjected hoarsely, emptying his throat, skin reddening under your roaming mouth, "what was I saying about the article?"

Right hand now on the nape of his neck, you raked your nails gently against the curled tufts of hair he had their, and delivered the most teasing smile you could for a woman who was just thinking about the blatantly torrid ways to thank her not-boyfriend for the bare minimum of cleaning plates.

"Always work with you, isn't it, Kent?" you sighed fawningly, pretending to be a tinge forlorn. "Never the girl throwing herself at you..."

Clark's pupils were blown. "Throwing...you're, wait..." Your hands were on his belt.

"Waiting," you said sweetly, letting your hands linger.

"Where's this come from, honey?" he asked a little breathily. "I mean, I'm not complaining, but, all we did was eat dinner."

"God forbid mushroom risotto gets a woman a bit riled up?"

Your hands still didn't move to unbuckle his belt. He said wait, after all.

Clark laughed warmly. "Risotto gets you going, huh? Duly noted."

And you doing the dishes, you mused to yourself, and turning up for work at the right time, and holding the door open for me, and how you know where all of my kitchen utensils are kept, and—

Clark beamed at you like you were the prettiest thing he's ever seen, and he was still stood between your legs, knees grazing his hips, this half-hesitance about him as if he still couldn't decide whether he should pull you closer or wait for a signal (like you hadn't given him enough). All of this made the sinews of your heart throb, because only Clark Kent could go from looking like the most capable in the man in the world to the most endearingly self-conscious boy to put his hands on you.

You wanted to kiss the air from his lungs.

"So," you drawled drolly, sinking your ankles into the hollow dimples at the base of his spine, "what's the going rate for your dishwasher services, Kent? Because payday's not for another week, and I was thinking I could compensate you in—"

"You don't have to pay me for washing your dishes," he laughed, the wonderful, half-startled sound rumbling through his chest under your left palm.

You squint a bit, cursing yourself. "Oh, I know," you said airily, pecking the corner of his sweet mouth, trying to figure out how to go about this subtly, "but I want to. Generous tipper and all that."

Clark's hands flexed again, and despite that gorgeous smile he was giving you, there was a small dip of his eyebrows and enough of a crease between them to tell you that he wasn't quite sure what it was that you were offering, or rather, if he was even deserving of it. His gentlemanliness made you want to tighten your thighs around him, but it also bothered you the slightest bit. Could this beautiful, wonderful boy get the hint?

"Not really sure I did much to earn your generous tipping, to be fair, honey," chuckled Clark, lighthearted and so sweetly ignorant.

"I think you've done plenty, Clark," you retorted patiently, thumb tracing the dimple his smile punctured in his ruddy cheek. "You made me that risotto—"

"Oh, the risotto that's apparently got you so riled up, yeah?"

"Mhm, the very same—and then, after painstakingly cooking for us—"

"It really wasn't that big of a deal, I love cooking for—"

"And doing my dishes," you swooned, pressing another kiss to the one corner of his mouth, then a third to the other, more deliberate and lingering, enough for you to feel his mirroring dimple make a charming appearance. The fourth kiss was featherlight and directly to his soft lips. "See? Easy. Payment rendered."

"Mm," said Clark thoughtfully, trying to sound very pensive, though his breath was more shallow now with your mouth still so close to his, and his eyes glued to that imperceptible space between you like it was becoming physically bothersome. "I don't know, sweetheart, 'feels like I might be overcharging you."

You giggled, and genuinely wanted to throw yourself off the roof of the apartment complex for how coquettish you sounded. "Well, I, for one, think you're underselling yourself..." Your lips ghosted against his, smiling, "...Mr. Front Page."

"Gosh, you're... All right. You win." His hands were suddenly on the narrowest part of your waist, lifting you from the countertop as if you weighed the same as a scrap of paper, and started for the hallway to your bedroom. "Remind me to make you the mushroom risotto every date night, hm?"

Remembering how to use your phone gets me (oh so, oh so, oh so hot!) / Considering I have feelings, I'm like, "Why are my clothes still on?"

Your not-boyfriend flew back home for his week off work to help out his folks on the farm, and it was a troubling blend of emotions that you were left with in his absence. It wasn't in your nature to be jealous, nor in Clark's nature to warrant any kind of doubt regarding his loyalty (again, still not his girlfriend)! But, men in general tended to be untrustworthy, and a few of the douchebags you encountered pre-Clark proved to be unfaithful. In college, a guy that you had been seeing quite seriously went on a 'lads' holiday' for spring break and suddenly forgot that you, and your six-month relationship, existed. He didn't call, he didn't text, but he did sleep with the first pretty girl to simper at him.

Granted, you didn't like him half as much as you like Clark, so despite a bit of a wounded pride, it did little more than make you hesitant to trust future partners. He also wasn't half the man Clark was, and amounted up to little more than another college mistake—the kind you tallied up alongside lethal hangovers and twisted ankles credited to irresponsible heels. So, you really shouldn't compare Clark to the nineteen-year-old disappointment of a guy whose face you could barely even picture now, but Clark was something real, and something wonderful, and even though you're not technically his girlfriend, you were terrified of that happening again with him.

Unfortunately, you used most of your contract-mandated holiday earlier that year after a bad bout of influenza, so you were still at work, whilst Clark was off in Smallville, looking disgustingly handsome and being grotesquely helpful. The entire first day of him being away, you alternated between staring longingly at his empty seat at the Planet, missing the morning coffee he'd bring you with a chaste kiss to the temple of your head, and blinking forlornly at your silent phone. Lois, headstrong and the kind of fiercely self-sufficient woman that you should be acting like right now rather than this pining, unravelling mess, taunted you for the bi-hourly checks at your messages and call log. It made your stomach hurt, but you laughed, and made some lousy joke about Clark 'rubbing off on you,' yet on your lonely walk home—hand missing the warmth of Clark's, bag feeling extra heavy without him there to carry it for you—all you could think about was, He's not gonna call. He's with his family, he probably isn't even thinking about you!

You get home, you make yourself dinner, and you might as well have digested gruel because everything tasted like dirt compared to Clark's cooking. You were in the middle of washing your dishes, sighing dejectedly at the memory of Clark stood in the very same spot you were approximately nineteen days ago, attractive and obliging in a way that was anguishing, when you phone stated to vibrate on the kitchen island next to the mug-holder tree you thrifted last month. The vibrations had the ceramic of your mugs clattering, but you didn't care much for chips in the chinaware as you peeled off the pink rubber gloves. Clark's contact picture taunted you—a devastatingly good photograph of him in your bed at midmorning, all sunny and pretty, curls dishevelled against your pillow, and you, out of shot, but in memory, perched on his bare abdomen. You ditched the gloves like limp, flightless birds against the sink, not caring when one slithered into the soapy wetness of the basin. You snatched up your phone and answered the call, smearing a damp fingerprint against the screen.

"Hey, honey."

God, you'd missed his voice. It sounded slightly different, more tired, you supposed. Lovely, all the same. Just the right amount of gravelly to make you practically sway the short walk to your bedroom.

"'Missed you today," Clark sighed, lovelorn, killing you. "How was work?"

You flopped onto your bed, trying to make your voice levelled as to not show your pathetic giddiness at his call.

"Oh, you know," you said, mock-dreamily (but, not really mock at all), "boring, without you."

"Oh, because I'm so entertaining, right?" he laughed at you, not unkindly. Charming. A bit of that initial exhaustion from his greeting softening into a familiar fondness at hearing your voice. "I mean what I said, you know...I really do miss you."

"Aww, you miss little old me? It's barely been twenty-four hours, Kent," you teased good-naturedly, as if you hadn't spent the whole day worrying that he might not call.

Some rustling travelled through the frequencies of the call, as if he was readjusting, or changing. You weren't sure, but your mind wandered.

"I know that," Clark returned dryly, but still tender, "but, we've been spending a lot of time together, haven't we? It's a little weird to suddenly just, like, not see you. I don't know," he said breathily then, a bit sharp, "it's stupid."

"Hey, no." You straightened up, practically launching yourself into a sitting position, spine flush against the mountain of pillows that probably missed Clark as much as you did. "It's not stupid. I..." You gnawed nervously at the tender flesh of your bottom lip, trying not to think about the other night when Clark caught you in the middle of the very same bad habit and gently reprimanded you for it, his thumb coming to rest on it so you wouldn't bite at the worried skin. "I miss you, too."

The honesty made your voice small and heart pang. It was as if you pried open your ribcage, splayed yourself bare to him. The vulnerability made your canines sink apprehensively into your tongue.

"Yeah?" he exhaled, timid. "You mean that, sweetheart?"

"Yeah," you answered in a whispering, unusually bashful, "I mean it, Clark."

"Jeez. Wow. I'm glad. 'Really glad, honey."

It was funny that he called you 'honey,' when he had the most honeying voice in the world and when he made you feel like you were wading through molasses of manuka. You swore that his voice had more of a Kansan tang, even after such a short time back in his hometown already. It made your thighs clench together shamelessly, and you found yourself easing back into a reclining position, the hand that wasn't holding the phone preciously to your ear flattening against your middle.

"Clark?"

"Yeah, gorgeous?"

"I really, really miss you," you practically whined, hating yourself.

"Darn it. You sound real pretty right now, sweetheart." He almost sounded pained by the inconvenience of the distance.

You laughed faintly, teasing the fraying waistband of your sleep-shorts. "Clark, you've got no idea."

A hum, and another rustle, and God, you really wished you could see him right now. Clark, big, and tall, and half-hard in a twin-sized mattress. You wondered if he was still sweaty and dishevelled from a long day of languishing on the farm, or if he was all clean and wet-curls from a shower—truthfully, you couldn't decide which option turned you on more.

"What do you mean by that, sweetheart?" he asked innocently.

"That..." Your fingers toyed at the threadbare bow crowning the ratty lace of your underwear, "...I've been waiting for you to call me all day. That you remembering how to use your phone's got me more turned on than I've been in my life. That I miss your voice, and your face, and your—"

"All right, honey," he laughed sweetly, sounding a bit out of breath and like he was trying to keep a check on himself, "I think I get you now."

All you did was hum in response, still fiddling with that pathetic bow. The two of you went very quiet as the tension swelled between all that distance.

"Are you, erm—" Clark emptied his throat, awkward, "are you—"

"Am I touching myself?" you teased.

A choked breath, an audible swallow, and the prettiest, airiest laugh you've ever heard from him, until finally, "Yeah. Yeah, sweetheart. Are you?"

"Not yet. Not if you don't want me to."

"Don't want...?" Disbelief rasped his voice more than his weakened exhaustion, "I want you to do whatever you wanna do. And if you wanna..."

His chivalrous resistance made your teeth bare. "Touch myself?"

"Golly," said Clark, agonised.

"You're precious, Clark."

"I'm bad at this. I've never, uh, you know..."

"Had phone sex?" you supplied, still not fully slipping your hand past the waistband, enjoying the tantalising shivers over your skin as your nails raked shyly against your hipbone. It was as if you were waiting for a permission that Clark was too much of a gentleman to figure he had the right to grant.

"Yeah," he breathed, dulcet, "that."

You couldn't resist laughing at him again; you really hoped he didn't think it was unkind.

"But..." The enormity of his desire seemed to make Clark waver, deep voice somehow both guttural and delicate as he struggled to find the right words, as if this kind of language didn't really fit on his tongue, "I want to. If, you know, if you want to."

Why the hell were your clothes still on again?

A little communication, yes, that's my ideal foreplay / Assemble a chair from IKEA, I'm like, 'uh, huh!'

"Baby, could you pass me the Allen key?"

Honestly, you could not give a fuck about Allen or his key right now.

Not with Clark Kent lying on his back over your Persian rug, torso naked and the muscles of it flexing as he outstretched his hand for you to give him one of the thingamabobs from the baggy that came with the terracotta, mid-century armchair you purchased from IKEA that afternoon. He was half underneath it, the only thing ensuring it didn't collapse on him being his other hand, gigantic and sturdy underneath one of its legs, and did you mention shirtless? The ridiculously toned planes of his abdomen weren't even sweaty, despite lugging the entire flatpack package up the multiple flights of stairs to your apartment, and the fiddly ministrations of putting the chair's framework together. You sometimes wondered if he was even human.

"Honey," he called out for you again, still not straining, still patient, still every bit of the doting nickname he relished you in, "an Allen key, please?"

"Hmm?"

You're sprawled out on the loveseat across from him, empress-like, as if cut from some Botticelli painting of a woman being fanned by palm leaves and fed grapes. It was summertime, and you were Clark's girlfriend now (it didn't take long after him returning from Smallville, needy for your touch after similar calls every ensuing night, for him to ask you), and he still treated you right. Still doted. You almost hated yourself for ever doubting that his sweetness would be conditional.

Oh, well. That was the past. In the present, Clark was assembling the chair you mooned over earlier, and very nearly left behind at your midday-trip to IKEA because of the price-tag. It was Clark who paid for it, in the end. Handing over the ogling-eyed cashier his card like it was nothing as you lovingly smacked your lips to his cheekbone and thanked him over, and over, and you'll definitely be thanking him later, too. For buying it, for putting it together, for letting you just admire him shirtless, and for being the best boyfriend in the world.

"The Allen key," Clark repeated, not an ounce of frustration in his voice as he peeked from underneath the chair to flash you a saccharine smile. "It's on the coffee table."

"Oh," you said, a fawn in headlights, "right. Yeah. Sorry, here."

Then, you were on your knees, crouched at the altar of your responsible, competent, handsome boyfriend, handing over a small, silvery wrench, and trying not to audibly whimper at the mere feeling of his fingers grazing yours as he took it from you.

"Thanks, baby. M'almost done, yeah?"

You stayed knelt. Staring, unashamedly. Neck a little craned. Underwear a little wet. Heart rabbiting against your ribs. He went back to work, teeth bared around the bolt he kept there as he lined up the Allen key with the screw he was fitting snugly.

Admiring, your eyes never left him, you swore they didn't even blink. He might've even been talking to you, but it all fell on deaf ears. It made you feel a little bad, sometimes, this tendency you had to ignore what your boyfriend was saying in favour of whatever daydream you were in the middle of. You really didn't like to make a habit out of being ignorant when Clark was usually so attentive to everything you said, and your boyfriend definitely wasn't a boring person to listen to. But, he really was beautiful. And, sure, he mumbled something once about that word making him feel a little 'silly,' but there wasn't many words worthy of him.

You barely acknowledge him finishing up, not until he pushed it backwards, right into the place you allocated for it earlier, still on his back. It was subconscious, what came next. As aforementioned, it was an internal reaction you had with Clark—entirely organic and visceral, almost auto-pilot, as if he really was within the very marrow of you, of your desires. You kept one knee on the right side of him and swung your other leg over so you were straddling him, taking him by surprise. If he had been talking, he certainly wasn't now. Still, his hands immediately came to rest on your waist. Politely, tenderly, his thumbs slipped right under the material of your top to stroke over your hipbones.

He meant to sit up, gather the mismatched tools that littered your carpet, and maybe make the two of you a coffee or something before you settled into your new chair, but all those plans went out of the window. Smiling up at you, Clark seemed rather satisfied with his position anyways, curls haloed underneath him, around his bright face, dimpled and lovely and just as besotted with you as you were with him, thankfully.

"What's going on in your pretty head, hm?" Clark teased, kneading the flesh of your hips.

"You can't call me pretty when you look like that just putting an IKEA chair together, Clark," you reprimanded severely, meaning it.

Clark blinked at you, faltering. "I don't...? You are pretty. All I did was—"

"Buy me the chair I wanted. Put it together. Make sure I eat every day. Came with me to the dentist last week when I was too scared to by myself. Wash the dishes every night, even after cooking us dinner. Keep a little basket with pads in it in your bathroom for when I'm on my period—"

"I'm not exactly going to let you bleed out on my bedsheets, sweetheart."

"Help me with deadlines," you continued brusquely, ignoring him. "Always make sure I'm wearing the appropriate footwear for the weather, and when I was too stubborn last week, and insisted on wearing heels even though you told me it was gonna rain, you carried me home."

Clark practically pouted. "Your feet would've gotten soaked."

You almost pulled down his pants right then and there. "God," you said, gently scratching at his chest, "you're everything, Clark."

"Honey, this is all—everything you're saying, it's the bare minimum," Clark protested meaningfully. "It's stuff that I should be doing. You don't—" He was so sweet as he shook his head, almost doglike, eyes blue and earnest and loving, "you don't have to thank me for things like washing your dishes, or helping you put together furniture, or taking care of you. I want to take care of you. I lo—shucks."

He almost said it.

Neither of you had said it yet.

It was there, tangible, palpable, and inevitable in the both of you. Almost living, that unspoken thing. It had its own pulse, blood of its own, bones of its own—a mass of something very real, and very good, and very yours.

But neither of you had said it.

And Clark just almost crossed the line.

His hands, startled, loosened. Then flexed. Then, slackened entirely. Falling limply into your rigid lamp.

"I didn't mean...Aw, darn it, I'm sorry, sweetheart," he apologised. "I didn't mean to rush you or anything. Or to tell you on the floor. I wanted to take you for dinner. I booked a reservation at Rudy's, that pizza place you like. It was going to be really nice, I promise. I'm really, I'm so—"

"I love you too, Clark."

You were pretty sure you were soaking through your underwear right onto his naked torso at the domesticity, at the stupid chair, at how good he look underneath you. You loved him so much that you might cry, tears sloping your cheeks or running down your thighs, it was hard to say.

Clark didn't mind. Clark loved you, too. He told you so. Well, almost. He wanted to take care of you, he said. So genuinely, so easily. Your gorgeous, handy, kind-hearted boyfriend wanted to take care of you, and he loved you, and he built a chair for you, and he had that soft glint in his eyes that told you that, maybe, one day, he'd build you a whole damn house. And you'd watch, his work jeans tatty and stained, slung low on his waist, shoulders broad and put-to-work, hands callused from all the good he does, but so soft at the end of the day as they treat you like he was supposed to.

So, yeah, it could be said that a lot of the things that turned you on about Clark Kent were commonplace—making you dinner, washing the dishes, remembering to call, and putting together a chair—but it wasn't really the gestures that mattered (even if it got you all hot and bothered seeing him do things so effortlessly, and purely out of the goodness of his heart). But, fuck it. Clark never made you cry. Not in a bad way, anyways. Sure, the sex brought you to tears sometimes, but more often than not, they slicked your thighs rather than your cheekbones, and he loved you.

That's all that counted, really.

[audreystacksdiamonds]

David Corenswet's Clark Kent Fic Recommendations

blurbs

trying go give clark a hickey by @hearts4hughes

small town heat by @lazysoulwriter

made of steel, heart of gold by @lazysoulwriter

he does like me, i guess by @sillyswriting

size kinks blurbs by @diorchids

drabbles

riding needy, starved clark kent with all ounce of your love for him by @nanamisweetgirl

clark kent using his super strength to fuck you mid-air by @nanamisweetgirl

eating you out by @sadgirlily

no one laughs at clark's jokes but you by @rotapathetic

marathon sex with clark kent by @fear-is-truth

risky sex by @innorality

green with affection by @hederasgarden

clark kent fucking you into a headlock by @fear-is-truth

body worship with clark by @sunsburns

little things about clark + newsanchor!reader by @blushhbambi

the sun by @hederasgarden

dry humping by @fear-is-truth

catching clark watching love island by @p3terparker

clark realising you are pregnant before you even have a clue by @kindnessistherealpunkrock

you're thinking about clark’s dick again by @softvalentines

clark kent is a good boy by @softvalentines

headcanons

clark kent core by @sadgirlily

his favourite positions by @fear-is-truth

clark kent loves quietly by @thebestandworstdayofjune

soft boyfriend clark kent headcanons by @404superman

clark kent sfw headcanons by @fear-is-truth

clark kent nsfw headcanons by @fear-is-truth

whipped clark headcanons by @squipa

crybaby!girlfriend tries to continue riding clark by @groovyangelkisses

imagines

imagine fucking clark kent... mid-air by @innorality

imagine kissing clark kent by @sunsburns

multipart stories

my hero - busted! by @jungkooklover777

oneshots

office siren by @thatfoxygrl

the interview no one can ever know about by @louisaskywalkerani

no strings attached... unless? by @kryptoclark

first date by @blushhbambi

hit me hard and soft by @sceletaflores

not tonight, sweetheart by @louisaskywalkerani

jealous of jimmy by @plaidcowboy

eyes like pretty lights by @fawnindawn

bringing you back to earth by @miedei

my cape by @fluentmoviequoter

no. 1 party anthem by @sunsburns

he's all that by @fawnindawn

makes paintings with his tongue! by @sceletaflores

off the record by @anon-18

the interview by @hearts4hughes

lovesick by @hearts4hughes

night's so blue by @junleb

kiss me by @sunshine-lux

[vitoriadior]

Clark Kent x Fem!Reader. Masterlist

Will you marry, kiss or kill me?

(Summary) Where you decide to kill Oliver Queen, kiss Clark Kent, and fuck/marry Bruce Wayne. Clark hears you and can't stop overthinking about it all day—why would you want to marry or even fuck Bruce Wayne and not him? You don't want to marry him? To fuck with him?

Clark had dug his teeth into his palm so hard that it had left a notory mark. If he weren't a super alien, no one would have endured such an act without at least screaming of pain.

Clark had almost absentmindedly bitten his pen so hard that all the ink had stained his shirt, mouth, and hands— What's happening to me today? He was trying to wash his face in the office bathroom while remembering what he had heard a few hours earlier.

You were sitting on Cat's desk, chatting with her and occasionally annoying jimmy. One leg over the other while you laughed at something silly or hid before Perry realized that you had left your desk alone just for a minutes. "What? Why would you kill Flash?" You giggled at Cat's answers— Marry green lantern, Kiss Aquaman and kill flash

"Just not my type," Cat shrugged, taking a sip from her cup and raising her eyebrows with a smile in your direction. "Your turn, missy"

"Okay. We take for granted that marry is an extension of fuck?" Cat nodded. You stretched your head as if you were about to enter into a complex physical and mental battle: Marry, kiss or kill— Clark Kent, Oliver Queen and Bruce Wayne.

Clark didn't need much of his super hearing to be able to hear you from his desk—or well, it's not like he's paying any more attention now than before when he hears his name considering he's been listening to every one of your words since you went up to his floor. You don't know, but it's a way to know the things you like so he can have a conversation with you in the elevator afterwards.

But hearing his name makes things a little more interesting

"Clark? You're definitely playing your cards right girl" You look to the sides as if making sure the reporter wasn't listening. Oops. "Okay, give me a second."

"Kill— Oliver" You shrugged simply, it had been the easiest part to choose. "Because he's handsome, but I think Clark is more handsome, you know?" Clark smiled to himself and scratched the back of his neck as if he were looking at you instead of Perry, asking him for to do an interview. "Kent? Kent, are you listening to me?"

"Kiss— Clark" at this Cat gave you a small pinch on the knee that made you both chuckle "Because I think it would be super cute, you know? Like, an elevator kiss or something super rom-com coded. He would apologize or something like that"

"And definitely fuck Bruce Wayne— or well, marry him"

"Now we're talking" was the last thing Clark heard, because as far as he's concerned, he entered another reality since he heard the words Fuck and Bruce Wayne from your mouth in the same sentence. The rest of your words just felt like a kryptonite arrow stuck in his jugular. You? Marrying the Bruce Wayne instead of him??? Why? He can be a much better husband!

"It's just that he has this whole aura of— like bad boy, you know? The handsome bad playboy" You bite the tip of your finger, fantasizing a little without realizing it. "its so freaking sexy. He reminds me a lot of Edward from Twilight, you get it?"

So freaking sexy. Clark knew you thought he was handsome, more handsome than Oliver Queen at least. But apparently not as freaking sexy as Bruce Wayne. You've called him handsome, sweet, super nice and super cute but never sexy.

He tried not to dwell on it, but the thought crept in anyway—Bruce Wayne with his sharp suits, his confidence, his mystery, while Clark was still the farm boy who sometimes tripped over his own shoelaces. What could he offer that a man like Wayne couldn’t? Clark has super powers, and knows how to fix a tractor.

Clark looks at the ink running down his chin with a grimace of disgust. So, you'd be willing to kiss him but not marry him (And don't fuck with him either, but that idea made him blush more than he'd like to admit) and you like bad boys. I'm a little bit of a Bad Boy too, Clark thought almost as a consolation, thinking of that time he swore to Ma Kent that he wouldn't eat so many hot cakes anymore but he kept doing it. A real Bad boy

"She likes Bad Boys, Jimmy." Clark is putty on his friend's desk—and Jimmy is certainly starting to get annoyed about the fact that this is the third time he's heard Clark say the same thing over and over again. "She likes guys like Edward Cullen. Why wouldn't she want to marry me? Lois, why wouldn't she want to marry me?"

"Maybe because Bruce Wayne is a millionaire and you're not?" Lois has definitely reached her peak with this "she wouldn't consider marrying me" discussion. "Why does it matter? It's just a high school silly game"

Later, Clark is in his apartment, just picking at something he defrosted himself with his heat vision for dinner—he didn't really feel like cooking. He had Kara on the phone "Um, hey, I know this is a weird thing to ask but—" Clark tried to laugh at his own words so as not to sound so stupid "Do you happen to think I'm the same vibe as Edward Cullen or Bruce Wayne? You know, the vampire and—"

His cousin hung up the call

It may be a silly high school game, But thinking that your type is more like Bruce Wayne, like Edward Cullen's vampire, and not like Clark's clumsy farmer puts him off. And well, considering that this morning he was one hundred percent sure that today would be the day he would ask you on a date he would have to seek his trust because he really doesn't remember where he left it.

"Hypothetically speaking," Clark took a breath before emphasizing the word hypothetical. He was helping you log reception calls, staying late with you so you wouldn't have to go home alone. "If we were the only people in planet. Just you, me and Bruce Wayne"

"Bruce Wayne?"

"Yes. Bruce Wayne" Your smile made Clark smile. "Well, since there are only the three of us, we'd have to reproduce, you know. So here's the question—who— who would you choose to reproduce with first?"

"What?"

You laughed out loud while Clark tried not to laugh too— this is serious for him "Come on, this is serious. Me or Bruce Wayne?"

"Okay, okay," you shook your head, trying to think about the situation—Clark's eyes made you realize what he wanted you to answer. It was so obvious "Considering I don't know Bruce Wayne personally at all, I'd choose you."

"Really?" "Yes"

Clark is dumbfounded and lets out a silly laugh just like Goofy from Mickey Mouse "You're making me blush" You rolled your eyes as you headed back to work. Clark pulled at your sleeve to get your attention again.

"And hypothetically speaking again" too many hypothetical questions for your liking "If I asked you to have dinner with me tonight, would you say yes?" Clark couldn't look you in the eyes, and the red of his ears told you why. "You don't have to reproduce with me on this one. Unless you want to, although I think it would be weird to do that on the first date, I mean—"

You chuckle and steal a kiss on Clark's cheek. You definitely hadn't killed Oliver Queen, or married Bruce Wayne, but you had kissed Clark Kent. And that's enough for him.

Taglist: @starincarnated @angelicp0etry @yeonalie @lator-gators @starssfall @moomumu @chamorunsmiles @urlittleangelbaby @americanboz0 @mysticdinosaurpirate @spiidergwenn @sugarbutterbailey @pestoluvr8 @ilovemangoes444 @kaiparkerwife @qardasngan @animegamerfox @helloimamistake @rinapomu @chaoticroaddreamerpasta @ryomku @dreamlesssleepsaga @yzuposts @mickey-mouse-crackhouse1902 @j07lvrg @khxna @1wannab3inaband @wintersoldierenthusiastt @yyiikes @rosie-hao @psiiconic @httpstoyosi @lettucel0ver @scorpio-echo @iveofficiallylostmymarbles @aratakiittooo @angelicprincess12 @pinkluv29@shine101 @karimestarksworld @lortheswiftie @bangtanevermore @njdluvr @justamina-blog @avroravia @m3lod7 @just-pure-trash @pprettyvisitorr @againanothersideblog @differentcandycreation @hagarsays

[lolnothankyouplease]

should’ve been a cowboy | farmhand!clark x fem!reader

summary: you and clark move back to kansas so he can help on the farm and your man is hot when he works outside all day.

CW: MDNI, 18+, smut, explicit content, unprotected sex, p in v sex, oral sex (f!rec), fingering (f!rec), handjob, orgasm denial, riding, nipple play (f!rec), clark being obsessed with reader’s tits, begging, boob sucking, pussy sliding, embedded p!links, not proofread at all

turns out the perfect evening consisted of a rocking chair on your porch, tooth-rottingly sweet tea, and clark in one of his flannel shirts he only wears when it starts to get cold at the start of fall. used to be - wine, the symphony, and clark in his blue pinstripe suit, but since moving out to kansas to help his parents with the farm, you’ve adjusted. clark teases that you’re still a city girl, but the amount he says that lessens every time you get on the tractor or muck out a horse stall.

the screen door creaked open and your husband stepped out onto the porch, in that fucking flannel.

is he getting broader? have his arms gotten bigger?

you blamed his change in vocation - reporter to farm hand - for the heat pooling between your legs, “hi, honey,” you cooed, deciding to ignore your urges for the time being. clark was probably tired from the day. he’d gotten home and immediately hopped in the shower so his hair was still a little damp, curls flopping down lower than normal, “you need a haircut soon,” you brushed the curls back from his face as he lifted you out of the rocking chair, cradling you to his chest as he sat in it and held you in his lap. “you or ma can do it, whoever gets to the scissors first,” clark responded with smile. “she told me she was going to buzz your hair like when you were little the next time you let it get this long and i know you would let her so i’ll trim it tomorrow night,” you rolled your eyes at him, he took the opportunity to nuzzle his face into your neck and press a kiss there.

“mm,” you hummed, leaning further into clark’s embrace. the kisses pressed to your neck turned messier, heavier. a mark bloomed under clark’s mouth on your collarbone, pulling a soft whine from your throat.

“love these little shorts on you,” your husband tugged on the hem of the daisy dukes gracing your hips, “love when you get this little tank top on and forget your bra.” your nipple was brushed by soft fingers through the fabric of the white ribbed tank then pinched between clark’s thumb and middle finger. that action made a moan tear out of you.

“love that you’re getting softer here,” a warm hand crawled up your tank to your tummy, brushing carefully, “love that these are fuller,” the hand crept up further to cup a breast, thumb swiping over the sensitive bud there, “love these little stretch marks you’re getting,” hand under the waistband of your shorts to grip your hip.

“you gonna just feel me up on the porch, cowboy, or are you gonna make a move?”

clark surged forward to capture your mouth in a bruising kiss, lifting you under your thighs to get your legs around his hips while he carried you inside. the screen door slammed behind you as you pulled back from the kiss to pull your tank top off. your tits pressed against clark’s flannel, lighting up the nerve endings there. the bed creaked under yours and clark’s combined weight. he kept your legs spread around him, shedding his flannel and t-shirt.

“jesus christ, i don’t think a farmer’s tan has ever gotten me wet until right now,” you gasped under him. you dug the blunt tips of your nails into clark’s biceps where pale skin met sun-kissed skin, “you’re such a hard worker, baby, i fucking love you.”

clark responded to your praise by popping the button on your shorts and tugging them down your legs. he groaned when his eyes met your black sheer thong, “gosh you look so good.”

“nothing else doesn’t show lines under those,” you bit your lip as clark started to lick and suck your left nipple, making soft pleased sounds when you tugged his hair.

he made his way down your body, ending up with his face between your legs, “you’re so wet,” he commented, gently touching over the little fabric covering your cunt with two fingers, “gonna get my mouth on you.”

clark tugged your thong off and settled between your legs, reaching his big hands up to play with your tits while his tongue started to work over your clit.

“cl-clark, fuck, i need you closer,” you whined after a minute or two of his mouth on you. normally, you would love to come on his tongue but this time, you needed him. clark heeded your request immediately, dragging his face out from between your legs and settling for letting his fingers circle your clit while his mouth worked on your nipple again.

the combined sensations pushed you over the edge with little warning, leaving you gasping and writhing beneath clark’s broad frame.

after catching your breath, you pushed clark onto his back. he raised a brow at you, “what are you up to?”

“you work so hard, baby. my big strong man helping out on the farm,” you popped the button on his jeans and got them off of him - with assistance. you straddled his hips and started to grind back against his hard cock. his hands flew to your hips, gripping them while a deep moan sounded from his mouth. you rolled your hips again, leaning down so your tits were in clark’s face. he took a one into his mouth, sucking on your nipple and letting out another moan.

you kept up your motions, letting clark’s thick cock slide between your wet folds, the sensitive head meeting your clit every time. clark grew tired of the not enough feeling and reached down to grip his own length, lifting it so your next grind would let him slip into your wet heat.

“fuuuck,” you cried out, sitting up slightly to take him deeper inside you. clark’s hips came up to meet yours, finally letting him hit just the right spot inside you.

clark had a tell when he was getting close. he would always knit his brows together and his mouth would fall open, but you could tell he was right there when he stopped caring how hard he was thrusting into you. so, when he started slamming into you, losing control, you leaned forward and whispered, “where do you wanna come, baby? in me, on me, or you want me to get down there so you can come all over my face like you like?” shocking you, clark shook his head and ceased his movements, pulling a whine from you.

“tell me no,” he begged, “tell me i can’t until you come again. make me wait. make me make you come again.”

you raised your brows at him and he looked utterly wrecked, begging you to deny him. you granted his wish and pulled his cock out of you entirely, “sit up and play with my pussy that you stretched out until i come and then maybe i’ll let you finish on my tits.”

by the almost-whimper that sounded from your husband, you knew you’d done what he wanted and more. he sat up slightly, back against the pillows. you sat with your back against his chest and guided his hand down to your folds. clark started to swipe through them with his fingers and rub against your clit with his fingertips.

by the time clark had fingered you over the edge again, he was looking desperate. his cock was dripping precum from the tip so much that his whole length was shiny. you laid on your side next to him and gently started to play with the tip of his cock.

clark couldn’t help himself when he reached over to squeeze and palm one of your tits. you finally wrapped a hand around him and lazily stroked a few times before whispering for him to come for you. he did with a gasp then a groan you could tell he was holding back.

after a few minutes of holding each other and coming down from the high you were both on you looked at clark and smirked, “so you’re into orgasm denial now, hmm?”

clark blushed a deep shade of red and buried his face in your neck, “just like when you tell me what to do, you’re so hot. i like being good for you.”

“you’re so good for me, clark.”

A/N: send me more requests for farmboy!clark

[marvel-hiddles-stark]

!! 18+ minors dni - this post contains explicit content !!

david!clark kent x fem!reader

summary: very tired and very pregnant, you wander down to the kitchen in the middle of the night feeling restless. lucky for you, your loving husband always seems to know what it is you need at any given moment.

wc: 3.9k

tags & cw: nsfw, cursing, pregnancy, fem afab reader, established relationship, fluff, intimacy, tired and mildly flirty clark (his kansas accent slips out when he's tired, FIGHT ME), vaginal fingering, oral (f receiving), clark being the soft pleasure dom we all know he is, clark and his filthy fucking mouth, pussy pronouns (istg idek how I developed such a strong liking for this but it's hot asf like???), lots of praise

a/n: ugh. I'm so fucking soft for this man that I'm genuinely disgusted with myself. it's so bad that he inspired me to make my first official post on here so uh...welcome to me I guess? god forbid a puppy dog himbo with a savior complex enters the picture and I lose all sense of reason. and feminism, apparently.

I hope you enjoy and please feel free to like, reblog, or comment :)

want some more clark content? Check out my masterlist!

It was late; the lights of the city swathed your apartment in soft, golden-blue light. Lately it seemed that you were as restless as Metropolis itself; though, perhaps that had something to do with the half-Kryptonian baby squashing your bladder and mucking up your endocrine system. 

You padded into the kitchen to snoop around the fridge for what had to be the fiftieth time in the last eight hours. Which was pointless; it wasn’t as though new food would magically teleport onto the shelves. But your little girl was restless, demanding, and unrelenting. Therefore, despite your exhaustion, you found yourself craving something, anything at the ungodly hour of 4 am. 

Normally Clark jolted awake the moment he felt you sit up in bed, but earlier in the evening he’d been halfway across the globe neutralizing some extraterrestrial threat in Europe. He’d returned home battered and bruised, which wasn’t at all uncommon but never failed to make you fret incessantly over him despite him constantly reminding you of his superhuman healing. 

You’d insisted that he catch the last half hour of sunlight on the balcony to get rid of the nasty bruises across his chest and ribs, to which he did not put up a fight. Clark was powerless when it came to you—he’d fly in circles around the galaxy, lasso the moon, and hand deliver the stars if you asked him to. The feeling was mutual, though your comparatively human abilities were slightly more grounded. 

But, a setting sun could only do so much. He was still mentally and physically fatigued. You weren’t better off either, having been fighting an upset stomach and a thrashing part-alien baby for most of the day. 

Clark had passed out almost as soon as his head hit the pillows, staying awake just long enough to secure you in his arms, delicately cradling your swollen tummy.  

Mhm. That lasted about twenty minutes before you shoved out of his embrace, sweaty and irritated and ignoring his resounding grumble. The man was like a convection oven, for god’s sake. You kicked the sheets off of you five minutes later, tossing and turning. 

It had been a long night.

After a grueling fifteen minutes spent opening and closing the pantry and fridge, you accepted defeat and settled on something healthy and harmless—crunched ice. Not exactly a craving, given that you’d enjoyed the delicacy since you were a kid, but it was satisfying no less. 

Clark found you staring absently out your floor-to-ceiling living room windows and gnawing on the icy treat in your cup. For someone with a frame as broad as his, he was surprisingly light on his feet. You chalked it up to his Kryptonian physiology. You hadn’t even known he was there until two large arms encircled your waist, coming to rest gently over your belly. The warmth from his bare chest emanated through your sleep shirt and you shuddered at the contrast.  

“Chewing ice is bad for your teeth, you know.” 

You grunt your response around a mouthful of said ice. “Well someone forgot my java chip ice cream on his last grocery run, so this is the next best thing.” 

You felt his huff of amusement down the side of your neck. “Sorry, my love. I could get you some now?” 

“It’s four in the morning, Clark.” 

“Not in Australia. Or Guam. Or Egypt. Or—”

“Alright,” you rested a hand over his, squeezing his fingers. “Point taken. But no. I was just pulling your leg, baby. You don’t need to do that, especially after the day you had.”  

“I would, for you.” He nuzzled against your neck, his five o’clock shadow making you squirm at its itchiness. 

“I know, which is why I’m specifically asking you not to.” You sighed in contentment as warm lips pressed along your skin. It was truly remarkable how quickly you shifted between detesting his heat and craving it. 

“How did you know I was up?” you ask, though it really could’ve been anything. The man could hear the air pop between your joints without any strain. 

“Ice machine,” came his low response. 

“Sorry,” you say. “Didn’t mean to wake you.” 

“S’alright, don’t need to apologize.” The words were spoken around a yawn, which only made you feel more guilty. But then the little gremlin in your womb decided to knee you in the gut, and any guilt at disturbing his rest evaporated. 

Stupid Clark. He did this to you, dammit. 

Sensing the movement, Clark pressed a few more kisses along your jaw. “She keepin’ you up again?” 

“Yes.” 

Then he did something revolutionary. His large palms slid under your oversized sleep shirt to spread fully across your stomach. He lifted your rounded tummy, effectively eliminating the weight of your belly and alleviating strain you hadn’t even been consciously aware of. 

The moan of relief you let out bordered inappropriate, but you couldn’t care less. Your head fell back against his shoulder. “Oh. Oh, that’s really nice.” 

Clark chuckled against your neck. “Yeah?” 

“Fuck,” you cursed. “Yes. Don’t move. Actually, just keep doing that until I have to deliver.” 

You felt the curve of his smile along your skin. “You know I love you, but that’s over a month of standing.” 

“You’re Superman, you can handle it. Besides, it’s your fault I’m like this.” 

Another huff against your skin. “If my memory serves me correctly, I recall your active and enthusiastic participation in my causing of your current state.” 

Against your will, you feel yourself flush. You’re momentarily thankful for the cover of dark before recalling that your husband has superhuman vision. 

“Whatever,” you groan. 

The two of you stay like that for a few long moments, rocking gently back and forth as Clark cradles your belly like it’s the most tender thing in the world. Which to him—to you both—it definitely is. 

You let yourself bask in the feeling—the weightlessness in both mind and body, a blissful mix of relief and serenity. Love warming the cockles of your heart. You move your free hand behind you, reaching up to gently card your fingers through his hair, head still tipped onto his shoulder. The sound he makes is akin to a purr, like a giant overgrown cat at the feeling of your hand in his curls. 

“I love you so much,” he murmurs, and it’s soft and sweet and laced with so much affection that you feel your heart skip in your chest. “M’so lucky to have you. To have this family we’re making.” His thumbs trace circles on your belly. 

“I love you too,” you respond, biting your lip as he peppers kisses across your jaw. 

“Come back to bed, baby,” he whispers in your ear, tired and wanting. “Let me hold you.” 

“You’re holding me just fine right here.” Honestly, the thought of returning to bed right now made you cringe. Sweaty sheets were a fate worse than death to you. That and, well, your human radiator of a husband curling around you certainly wouldn’t make matters any better. 

Clark gave you a lazy smile, moving one hand from your belly to tilt your face to his. You felt the breath of his words across your mouth, lips brushing yours. 

“Bed’s comfier.” 

You hummed as he gently pressed his mouth to yours; it was hardly a real kiss, more of a half-hearted, intimate brush of your lips. 

“And hotter,” you whispered. “You’re like an oven, Clark.” 

He sighed. “I know. I’m sorry.” 

“That’s not your fault.” 

You couldn’t help but smile at the genuine remorse in his voice. Clark had always been the most considerate person you’d ever known. But now, nearly eight months pregnant with his daughter, that attentiveness had increased tenfold. It wasn’t smothering, just…a little excessive, sometimes. You knew he’d back off if you asked, even if it would pain him a bit. For the most part, you found it incredibly attractive. So much so that you could hardly wait to see the kind of father he’d become—you knew he’d be an amazing one. Your baby girl was incredibly lucky. 

He tried to kiss you again, but the angle was hardly a comfortable one, so he turned you in his arms to face him. You whined in protest, instantly feeling the weight settle back on your front and lower back the moment his hold was gone.

Clark swallowed the sound with the unhurried press of his lips. You set your cup of mostly melted ice on the coffee table, attention entirely redirected to the mountain of a man in front of you. His arms enveloped you entirely, hands touching the opposite elbows as he held you close. He kept just enough space between you that made it obvious he was still wary of your growing belly. Because he was always wary. Always careful. Always aware of his size and yours and the variance in your strength. 

Fuck. He was so perfect you could sob. 

When you broke for air, he glanced at the cup you’d discarded on the table, and you knew then and there that a giant quart of java chip ice cream would be waiting for you in the freezer by noon. Because that’s just how Clark was. 

“Craving satisfied?” he asked, voice gruff with what was likely exhaustion, but your haywired hormones heard the tone and sent a physiological reaction due south. 

And for fuck’s sake, he could not be that damn oblivious. In fact, you knew he wasn’t. Clark Kent may have mastered the shy-guy, Mr. Innocent facade for the rest of the world, but you’d lived with and loved him long enough to see through the cracks. 

Frankly, it was criminal how good he looked right now, glancing down at you shirtless and without his glasses. His hair curling naturally in its sleep-mussed state. Lips just this side of swollen from your slow kisses. 

You ran your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. “Not even remotely,” you say breathily.

He kissed you again, and you got the feeling those heightened senses of his had more than detected your sudden shift in mood. 

Clark always touched you with profound reverence. It was a careful line he walked that straddled an ever-present awareness of your fragility compared to him, and an all-encompassing desire that drove him to grip you a little tighter, kiss you a little harder. In the end, you craved any piece of him he would give you. Accepted him all, in his entirety, wanting him to be gentle whilst also yearning for him to release his inhibitions. 

Of course, pregnancy had put a tiny damper on your sex lives. It seemed you were getting hornier and hornier whilst Clark—still desperate for you, but undeniably more careful—became warier and warier. A disparity that was obvious in your next exchange. 

“We should sleep. It’s nearly 4:30,” he says, though any serious intention is absent from his voice.  

“Yeah, I hear you.” 

“And you’re far along, sweetheart. You need rest. It’s not like we would be doing anything crazy anyway—”

“Mhm.” 

“...could…should…wait till morning—”

“Clark?” 

“Yeah?” 

You pulled back slightly to look him square in the eyes. “If you don’t put your hands down my pants right now, I’m going to go digging in my nightstand and take care of things myself.” 

Even in the dark living room, you watched the lighter part of his eyes vanish into black. “Well, can't have that, can we?” 

Hands shifted beneath your thighs, lifting you with startling ease as you wrapped your arms around his neck. He deposited you on the sofa, leaning over you as his hands landed on the back of the cushion, framing you between them. 

“You undo me,” he says breathlessly, landing sensual kisses on your lips. You felt your entire body jolt to life, a truly remarkable feat for the middle of the damn night. “I can’t say no to you.” 

“Then don't,” you shudder, nails digging sharply into the skin of his lower back. “Please, Clark. I can't, I—”

Before you could finish your sentence, Superman was on his knees for you. “I know, baby. I know.” Kisses pressed up each shin, on both knees. “What do you need? Tell me.” 

“Just you,” you could hardly form coherent thoughts beyond that. 

“You have me,” he panted against the inside of your knee. “Gonna have to be a little more specific.” 

“Clark,” you hissed. Right now, you don’t want to play games. Normally you loved them, loved how they—he—drove you crazy, but it was late and you were tired and hot and desperate and you needed him so bad—

He seemed to get the message. Large hands were softly, slowly peeling down your sleep shorts and underwear in one go. Then they prodded your knees apart. Large shoulders settle between them, warm lips burning a path up your thighs. 

Though he’d done it a million times before, seeing his face framed between your legs, dark shadows sharp across his even sharper features, it made you flush all the way down your chest. When he looked up at you, face illuminated only by the city lights as if he were some kind of angel, you felt your entire body shudder. 

You swept the falling curls from his forehead. Despite being nearly eight months pregnant, it was impossible not to feel desired when he looked at you like that—like you were the very axis of the earth, his entire world spinning around you, grounded by you, drawn to you as if by gravity. 

“M’sorry you can’t sleep,” he says, sounding breathless as his thumb settles at the apex of your thighs, circling tortuously to wind you up. He leans against your leg, cheek resting on your inner thigh as you feel the breath of his voice caress your most intimate area. “Jus’ let me touch you, baby. Let me make this pussy feel good. Relax her, put her right back to sleep.” 

You’re already making noise. It would otherwise be embarrassing if it weren’t for the fact that you were very pregnant, very tired, and well…it was Clark. Your sinfully beautiful husband with an equally sinful mouth who also happened to be one of the most reverential beings on the planet, bestowed with more strength than God and a kind of tender caring that more than quadrupled his physical prowess. 

At your feet, Clark looks totally enraptured. Parted lips allowing sporadic, mesmerized puffs of air to escape his mouth as he watches himself touch you, looking more focused than even his most stressful days at the Planet, cramming deadlines for Perry. 

His thumb is brutal, devastatingly accurate, and so slow that it’s driving you readily insane. But God, it’s so good. Just what your aching, delirious body was craving. It hadn’t been a snack you coveted, it had been him. Your love. Your Clark. 

You tell him as much, mumbling unintelligible jargon as he builds you up nice and slow. He wets the index and middle fingers of his opposite hand in his mouth, before sliding them up and down the swollen length of you. All the while his thumb works your clit, rocking steadily back and forth with just the right amount of gusto that makes your hips cant towards him. 

“My needy wife. It's so late, you should be sleeping.” He presses a kiss to your inner thigh, almost absently as he rambles to you. “But you can’t when you’re this worked up, can you? Can hardly blame you, baby. Golly, look at this pussy. This beautiful body, workin’ so hard, isn’t she? You’re so good. So, so good. So proud of you.” 

You whine, head tipped back against the couch as he sinks a finger into you, thumb still working over your clit as you blush at the sounds your body makes under his ministrations. He knows just how to touch you, to pull you delicately towards the edge of bliss, teetering on the cliffside, just shy of freefall. 

You warn him of your impending release but he’s way ahead of you, knowing and playing your body like a fine-tuned instrument. He vanishes his thrusting finger and you make a pained sound in his absence, only to stutter a breath of surprise when he grips your thighs and pulls you firmly to the edge of the cushion. 

“Up around my shoulders, baby, wanna taste you. Can I taste you, sweetheart?” 

You nod frantically, but this is Clark, and he’s never touching or assuming unless he’s fully reassured of your consent, so you know what he’s asking when he pinches the flesh of your thighs in warning. 

“Yes,” you pant like a Pavlovian dog, sinking into the couch with your hands tangled in his curls. “Please, Clark. Please, baby.” 

“Just relax,” he mumbles, and he’s all hot mouth and hot skin as he licks into your aching cunt. He’s messy with it, moaning and licking, wholly uncaring of the obscene noises he’s making. “Such a messy pussy. Let me take care of ‘er, hm?” 

You practically melt into the cushions, ankles locking behind his neck as your thighs squeeze around his ears. Clark loves it. Every second of it, despite your gripes over the years about suffocating or hurting him. 

Rationally, you know you won’t—you can’t—hurt him, but the worry is a force of habit. Plus, he rarely lets you return the favor. Hell, half the time you’re begging to reciprocate before he lets your mouth wander anywhere below the belt. It gets frustrating, because there’s few things you love more in life than watching from your knees as Clark Kent comes undone. 

In times like these, though, you’re more than grateful to have a husband as doting and desperate as he is. 

His hands plant on your hips, encouraging the shy movements you’re making subconsciously. “Good girl, baby. Take it from me. C’mon.” 

His voice rumbles against your pussy, the warmth of it making you squirm on the couch, sweat slicking your skin. Your sleep-shirt feels like too much; your tits are aching, oversensitive to the point of discomfort, as you writhe against his lapping tongue. 

Clark rears back just far enough to let a string of saliva fall onto your clit, the city skyline catching the slick shimmer of your arousal on his chin. His thumb once again finds the pulsing bundle of nerves, pushing back its sensitive hood to watch his spit slide down between your folds. 

“Mmm, look at how messy you are for me, sweetheart. Wish you could see how pretty she is. So beautiful.” He slid his fingers down your center, slippery with the evidence of your arousal, the sound of it so lewd that you close your eyes with a spluttering sigh. “You like it, baby?” he continues. “I think she likes it. Hear how filthy she is f’me? Practically suckin’ my fingers in.” 

Your eyes roll into your skull. “Holy fuck, Clark. Y-you can’t just say things like that—”

The man has the audacity to smile shyly, as though he wasn’t moments ago spewing the filthiest words known to man. 

“Sorry. Can’t help myself. Too much?"

“No,” you breathe. “S’okay, just…a lot…”

“Just tell me if it gets too much,” is all he says before he's leaning forward, moaning as he licks up your cunt like it's a piece of damn candy. You make a strangled sound, somewhere between a moan and a whimper, ugly and mangled in the back of your throat. It drives him to double his efforts, slipping two fingers easily into you without resistance. 

You internally curse your large belly, as it blocks most of Clark from view, prevents you from watching the curve and clench of his jaw, the fluttering of his lashes. So you rely on your other senses instead—the little grumbles of his pleasure that make you shake, the way his silky curls feel between your fingers as you tug. 

Already wound so tight, it doesn’t take you long to near that supernal precipice again. Your thighs tremble around his head, pushing him away, pulling him closer, and it’s a telltale sign to Clark that you’re nearly there. 

His mouth leaves your cunt long enough to say, “please come for me, baby. Oh God, please, wanna feel it. Mm, let me feel it—”

Your body obeys almost as if hypnotized. 

It’s relief and strain and pleasure meshed into one hazy exhale of passion. You’re whining what sounds like a mix of his name and something else, something like pleasepleaseplease. Clark pulls you gently yet firmly over the edge he helped you climb, guiding you down with the continued pass of his tongue through your weeping cunt.

You’re boneless in the aftermath of it. Clark nuzzles the warm skin of your thigh, panting as he watches your body quiver and come down. Large hands caress anything they can reach—shins, thighs, hips. He leans forward to press a kiss onto your pregnant belly. You see his eyelids flutter in the dark, heavy with tire. 

“Better?” he asks. 

It’s a tangible effort to lift your head from the back of the couch. With what little strength you have left, you pull his face up to yours. “Yes. Thank you. I love you.” 

You don’t let him get in a word, knowing it’ll be a plethora of “of course” and “anything for you” and a bunch of his other go-to’s that make your heart swell and your blood feel warm. Instead, you lean forward and kiss him. It’s sluggish and a teensy bit sloppy, but neither of you care. You can taste yourself on his lips. 

His blue eyes are fuzzy with exhaust but brimming with love, always, for you. You can see a warped piece of yourself in the flicker of his pupils and know he’s seeing the same unyielding fondness in yours. 

“Back to bed now, please?” he pleads. Despite the baritone of his voice his tone reminds you of a puppy dog. 

You make a noise of acquiescence, but not before cupping his face in your palms and batting your lashes at him. “I don’t exactly see what you got out of this.” 

He turns to kiss your palm. “I got plenty,” he says. “Giving you pleasure might as well be giving it to myself. I’m fine.” 

“But—”

“Bed. Love. We’re going back to bed. Sweaty sheets and all. C’mere, baby.” You don’t have time to protest before he’s wrapping his arms around your back and lifting you into him. He bends to grab your discarded bottoms with one hand (he hates leaving clutter) before walking you both back down the hall to your bedroom. 

You opt to ignore the very obvious bulge currently pressing into your thigh, because you know the outcome would be the same—an obvious, inarguable denial. Honest to God, you have no idea how the man has so much restraint. But, you have to agree that you don’t think you have it in you to do anything more. The post-orgasmic haze has just reminded you that it’s likely nearing 5 am, and you can’t keep your eyes open much longer. Thank fuck for weekends. 

He sets you down with a kiss to your hairline, and you all but flop back onto the pillows. Mercifully, in the time you were gone your pillowcases had returned to their usual cool temperature. Even so, you weren’t taking any chances. 

“Stay on your side of the bed, Smallville,” you jibe as he climbs into bed beside you. You hadn’t even noticed he’d untucked and pulled the crumpled sheets away from your side until he slid under his. 

“Loud and clear.” There's a tinge of amusement in his voice as he settles, smacking his pillow a few times. You know him well enough by now to know that he'll last maybe a half hour before folding around you again. Because he just can't help himself. And pregnant or not, you don't have the heart to shove him away a second time.

“G’night, darling,” he says.

“Goodnight, Clark.”

[mcu-binge]

Unspoken || Clark Kent x Reader ||

Pairing : Clark Kent x Reader Word count : ~2835

Summary : secret situationship clark kent x reader. you flirt back with someone new, clark short-circuits. cue petty office games

Tags/warnings : jealous!Clark, fluff, light smut (?)

A/N : Hellloooo I rewatched Twisters last night and I may or may not have written something inspired by David’s character Scott. Let me know if you would like to read it! Requests are still open feel free to send me one Clark Kent related or not!

=====================================

Daily Planet, 11:44 a.m.

You feel her before you hear her.

The intern. Madison. Or Madeline. Something with lip gloss and a fake laugh.

She floats past your desk again, third time this morning, armed with a stack of files she definitely doesn’t need help carrying.

You keep your eyes on your monitor. You’ve gotten good at pretending. Good at pretending a lot of things.

But you don’t miss the way her heels click to a stop at Clark’s desk.

“Oh my gosh, you’re seriously working through lunch again?” she coos, like it’s an original observation.

You can practically hear Clark smile. “I like to get ahead on edits. Makes Perry slightly less terrifying.”

She laughs way too loudly.

You tap your pen against your notepad. One, two, three. Breathe.

“You know,” she says, “I read that piece you did on the fires last month? The way you described the scene… it was like I was there.”

“Thanks,” Clark replies, gracious as ever. “It was a tough one to write.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it. You’re so good with words.”

You look up then. Clark is smiling. Polite. Friendly. Maybe not flirting, but… not shutting it down either.

Your stomach knots not necessarily from insecurity, but from the quiet ache of knowing you don’t get to say anything. Not here. Not where people would ask questions.

Not where you’d have to admit that you snuck into his apartment last weekend and fell asleep wearing his flannel shirt. So you turn back to your screen. Focus. Breathe.

Until you hear her say “I don’t know how anyone expects me to get anything done with you sitting over there being all—” She lowers her voice. “Clark-y.”

You blink. Clark-y? What the hell does that even mean?

And that’s when you hear him laugh. Really laugh.

That’s it. That’s the crack. A fine, hairline fracture in whatever unspoken arrangement the two of you have been delicately well stupidly balancing.

You stand, a little too fast.

“I’m going to grab coffee,” you say, mostly to the air.

Clark looks up. “Want me to come with?”

“Nope.” You’re already walking away.

Behind you, the intern giggles again.

You’re back from the coffee run, to-go cup in hand and pride barely intact, when a voice stops you cold.

“Sorry—hold it right there. Light’s hitting you just right.”

You blink, turning toward the source.

He’s standing by the east-facing window, DSLR slung across his chest, a lopsided smile pulling at his lips. Tousled hair, scruff like it’s grown in defiance, and the posture of someone who doesn’t know how not to be confident.

“I’m the new photographer,” he says, as if reading your mind. “Caleb.” He adds extending a polite hand to you

You raise an eyebrow suspiciously before shaking it. “And you just take candids of coworkers without asking?”

“Only when they look that good holding caffeine.”

It should make you roll your eyes. It should. But something inside you, the same something that had to endure Miss Clark-y 20 minutes ago nudges you to tilt your head, just a little and let him snap some photos.

You smirk just a little. It’s harmless. It’s fun. And most importantly, you know exactly who’s watching from the corner of the bullpen, hand halfway to his glasses like he’s pretending to clean them.

Clark.

He’s facing his screen, but his ears are pink. You know that pink.

“Anyway,” Caleb says, stepping back, “if I’m ever assigned to your stories, we should, uh, coordinate. Lunch maybe. Talk shop.”

You nod. “I’ll think about it.”

And just like that, he walks away. No lingering, no pushiness. Just a lingering impression and a very obvious audience.

You don’t even have to look to feel Clark’s gaze. Not just watching. Tracking.

You take one slow sip from your coffee and return to your desk like nothing happened. The rest of the work day drags on with you avoiding Clark's glances and heading straight home after.

--

Your phone buzzes just as you’re about to put it on Do Not Disturb.

Clark Kent

You hesitate. One beat. Two. Three. Then answer.

“Didn’t peg you as a night owl Mr. Kent,” you say, voice soft in the dark.

Clark chuckles. You can hear the faint rustle of his sheets. He’s in bed.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he says. “Thought I’d call my favorite insomniac.”

“Oh? And here I thought I was just your coworker.”

“You know better than that.”

There’s a pause a thick and warm and familiar one.

You let it hang a moment longer. “Hmmm… what’s on your mind?”

“I don’t know,” he says casually. “Just wondering how your day went. You were… smiley.”

You blink at the ceiling. “Am I not allowed to smile?”

“You are. It’s just…” He trails off. “New guy got you grinning like that on day one?”

You smirk, biting your bottom lip. “You mean Caleb?”

“Is that his name? I didn’t know; he didn’t come by and take my picture.”

You laugh. “You’re not even pretending to be subtle.”

“I’m just curious,” he says, too quickly. “Didn’t realize you liked… confident guys with man buns and vintage cameras.”

“He doesn’t wear a man bun, Clark. Is that jealousy I hear?”

“Nope.” He’s quiet for a second too long. “Just trying to figure out what your type is.”

You let that hang in the air.

“I don’t think I have a type,” you murmur. “But I do like when a guy makes an effort.”

He exhales. “I make an effort.”

“Do you?”

“Hey, I brought you soup when you were sick.”

“And I never said thank you properly.” Your voice softens, slow and warm. “You’re sweet, Clark.”

Another silence. Then “I don’t want to just be sweet.”

That does something to you.

You shift under your blankets, suddenly too aware of the sound of his voice through the line.

“So you’re calling me for a bedtime confession?”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Maybe. Or maybe I just… didn’t like seeing someone else flirt with you.”

“Why?”

“Because…” His voice dips lower. “I prefer being the reason you blush.”

You’re quiet.

Clark clears his throat like he said too much. “Anyway. Sorry. Didn’t mean to make this weird.”

“It’s not weird.”

Another pause.

“You make me act weird, you know that?” he says.

You smile into your pillow. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

Clark laughs, soft and wrecked. “Goodnight.”

“Night.”

“Sweet dreams.” He adds.

“Dream sweet and of me,” You add with a smile before hanging up.

—

You don’t expect anything when you walk in.

No follow-up to the flirt-heavy, “I don’t want to just be sweet” phone call. Just normal Clark behavior: polished, polite, maybe a little sheepish for opening up the way he did.

You definitely don’t expect your exact coffee order, oat milk, half pump vanilla, cinnamon on top sitting on your desk like it manifested from a dream.

You stop. Stare.

There’s a sticky note stuck to the lid:

Figured I owed you caffeine after that late call. – C

Your stomach flutters.

You barely have time to recover before Kat waltzes past, side-eyeing your cup.

“Oof. Is that from who I think it’s from?”

You shrug, playing dumb. “No idea.”

“Sure,” she snorts.

9:05 a.m.

You’ve just settled back at your desk when Clark appears. Not his usual notebook-in-hand work mode. He strolls in like he owns the place. His sleeves rolled to the elbows. Glasses on dangerously close to heartthrob-who-reads-poetry territory.

And he’s beaming. Like nothing in the world is wrong.

He leans against your desk, tilts his head. “Morning.”

You glance up. “Little late, aren’t you?”

He taps your empty coffee cup. “Thought I’d give you time to enjoy that first.”

You deadpan. “That’s suspiciously thoughtful.”

He lowers his voice. “Just making sure I stay your favorite.”

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks betray you.

“Anyway,” he adds, dropping a paper bag in front of you, “they were out of your favorite muffin, so I brought you the second favorite. Blueberry and don’t pretend it’s not.”

That makes you smile. “You remembered that?”

“I remember a lot of things,” he says, voice dipping.

Before you can form a snappy comeback, he’s already walked off.

Kat peers around the divider again, mouthing: WHAT IS HAPPENING

You don’t answer. Mostly because you don’t know anymore.

1:12 p.m.

Caleb returns from an assignment and spots you in the copy room.

“Hey, smiley,” he says, stopping just short of the door. “You free for lunch?”

You open your mouth to respond friendly, casual, not flirty when a shadow moves behind you.

Clark appears out of nowhere, holding a takeout bag in one hand and a smug smile in the other.

“Ooof she’s booked. I grabbed lunch for us,” he says, breezy and bold. “Hope you’re still on your wings kick.”

You turn, confused. “You… ordered lunch?”

Clark nods. “Figured I’d beat the rush.”

He sets the bag down and for the first time in office history brushes his hand against the small of your back. Not obviously. Not possessively. Just enough.

“Sorry,” he says to Caleb. “Didn’t mean to step on your plans.”

Caleb blinks. “Oh. No worries. You guys enjoy.”

Clark just smiles and hands you a box of fries like a man very pleased with himself.

At 3:27 p.m. Flowers arrive.

It’s a small bouquet of wildflowers and peonies soft and subtle. There’s no note. Just a tiny card in the bottom of the vase with your initials. But the handwriting? You’d know it anywhere.

Kat is losing her mind.

“Girl. What is going on. Is this your boyfriend or a PR stunt?”

You laugh, half-exasperated, half-flushed. “It’s complicated.”

Clark walks past your desk with a mug of tea, glances at the flowers.

Then, audible enough to be overheard, he mutters, “Wonder who the lucky guy is.”

Kat actually squeals.

End of the day. The office is mostly empty. You go into the copy room to grab some print outs when Clark appears in the doorway. It’s quiet maybe a little too quiet. Like the building is holding its breath.

“I need to talk to you,” he says, low, almost careful.

You don’t look up. “Now’s not great.”

“Tough.” His voice drops. “I’ve been patient. That’s done.”

You freeze.

He walks in, not fast, but with purpose. Like every step is a choice. He doesn’t stop until he’s close.

“You smiled at him like he made your whole damn day.”

You scoff. “You mean the same way I’ve smiled at you for weeks?”

“That’s different.”

“Is it?”

“I’m the one who knows how you take your coffee. I’m the one you call when you can’t sleep. I’m the one you wear flannel shirts from like we’re already—” He cuts himself off, jaw clenched, chest rising and falling.

You turn slowly, heart pounding, voice quieter. “Like we’re already what Clark?”

He stares at you. And it hurts. Because his eyes aren’t soft right now they’re hungry. Sharp. Bruised.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “But I do know I wanted to tear that camera out of his hands.”

You take a shaky breath. “You didn’t say anything.”

He exhales through his nose. “Because if I said anything, I was gonna say everything.”

You blink. “Then say it.”

He moves. One step. Then another. Until you’re backed up against the copy machine, the hum of it echoing your pulse.

“I want you,” he murmurs. “Not just late at night. Not just when no one’s looking.”

His hand grazes your wrist barely, but it sets your whole body on fire.

“I want to touch you whenever I want,” he says. “I want to sit in meetings and watch you try not to look at me. I want to take you to lunch and not pretend it’s platonic.”

You exhale shakily. “Then why haven’t you?”

His jaw ticks. His eyes flicker down to your mouth, then back up like it physically hurts him to look at you.

“Because…” he starts, voice low, tight, “I won’t be pretending. And if people know—if they connect us—then you’re not just some coworker anymore. You’re a target.”

You blink, a little thrown. “What?”

He swallows hard. “I interview Superman. People already watch me too closely. There’ve been threats before anonymous calls, notes, people trying to leverage my contacts. And if anyone figures out what you are to me—” His voice catches. “I don’t know what I’d do if you got hurt because of me.”

The air between you thickens. Not with fear, but with feeling. Sharp and aching and all-consuming.

“Clark,” you whisper, stepping into him, hand curling around his forearm. “I don’t care.”

“You should.”

“But I don’t.” You shake your head. “I care about you. I’ve been waiting for you to say something—anything—but all I’ve ever wanted was for you to want me out loud.”

He looks down at your lips then your eyes and suddenly he starts leaning into your like gravity, hands finding your waist, your hips, hauling you into him like he needs to feel every word he can’t say. It’s clumsy, frantic, desperate.

You stumble backwards hitting the copy machine. He palms blindly resting his hands on it, never breaking the kiss, never loosening his grip.

“You drive me crazy,” he breathes against your mouth.

“Ditto” you gasp, already tugging at his tie, his shirt, anything to get closer.

He lifts you with a groan, setting you down on the copy machine like you belong there, like he’s dreamed of this a thousand times. His kisses trail down your neck, hot and open-mouthed, like he’s memorizing you with lips and tongue.

“This is reckless,” he mutters, voice hoarse.

You curl your fingers into his hair. “You started it.”

He huffs a shaky laugh, then bites back a moan when you tug him in tighter. “I want you.”

“Then take me.”

His lips press against yours tongue begging to be let in, and there’s no more talking. Just moaning. Gasping. Your skirt is hiked up bunched at your thighs. You hastily unbutton his pants desperate to feel him. Desperate friction. You stroke his cock hungrily. His hand comes down moving your panties to the side. His name gasped against his shoulder as he moves inside you, forehead pressed to yours like prayer, like apology, like finally.

There’s nothing gentle about it just months of buried tension erupting into something real and raw and undeniable. His hands move your hips holding you tightly as he relentlessly thrusts into you. You lean back against the copy machine unable to keep yourself up anymore. He takes the chance and lets his hands explore every part of you.

And when it’s over when you’re clinging to him, lips swollen, heartbeat skittering against his chest. He presses a kiss to your temple.

“No more pretending” he whispers against your forehead

You smile, “No more.” You whisper back breathlessly

—

The next morning the morning air is crisp. City traffic hums in the background. You round the corner, distractedly tugging your scarf tighter, and nearly walk past him.

Clark. Leaning casually against the brick column like he’s in a cologne ad. Two coffees in hand. Hair a little windswept. Tie crooked in a way that makes your stomach flutter.

You stop short. He lifts your coffee and gives you that smile. The private one. The I didn’t sleep much thinking about you one.

“Good Morning,” he says, voice soft. “Brought reinforcements.”

You take the cup and stare at him for a beat. “You waited for me?”

He shrugs like it’s nothing. “Didn’t want to walk in alone.”

You glance at the Planet’s doors, then back at him. “You okay?”

“I’m great.” He bumps your shoulder. “Last night was… clarifying.”

You laugh under your breath, cheeks warm. “You mean wildly overdue?”

He grins. “That too.”

You sip your coffee, then glance sideways at him. “You sure about this?”

Clark’s eyes drop to your mouth, then back to your eyes. “More sure than I’ve been about anything in a long time.”

He opens the door for you, lets you step inside first, hand gently pressed to your lower back like it’s second nature. It sends a chill up your spine, but not in a bad way.

You walk toward your desk side by side, your steps synced, conversation light. And then, right there, in full view of Kat, Perry, Jimmy, and every nosy intern with a crush, Clark does something unthinkable. He leans in.

Not dramatic. Not flashy. Just casual, confident, and real. He presses a soft, slow kiss to your lips like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“I’ll see you at lunch,” he murmurs, like it’s been your routine for years.

Then he walks off. Calm. Collected. Definitely smirking.

You’re frozen.

The bullpen? Silent.

Kat’s jaw is on the floor. The intern drops her pen. Perry mutters something about “finally.”

You sit down slowly, heart hammering in your chest, still holding your coffee like it’s the only solid thing in the world.

Kat leans in, eyes wide. “What the actual hell just happened.”

You take a breath. Smile.

“Clark Kent just hard-launched me to the entire newsroom.”

[buckybarnesplum]

This is so good yall

things my chronically offline bf does — Clark Kent

summary: clark kent thinks tiktok means the passing of time, you're a (wannabe) influencer. what could possibly happen? answer includes but isn't limited to thirst traps, using your hot bsf to go viral, online anonymous confessions, and one really old cat named bean. word count: 15k (insane, ik) content warning: heavy rom-com vibes, heavy on the comedy and ridiculous. heteroerotic friendship, domestic clark & reader (they see each other naked and sleep together & so much more, they're literally disgusting), size difference, reader is a (non famous) influencer but she goes viral thanks to clark not knowing what slay means, clark and reader have no notion of privacy or boundaries around each other, they're also so stupid. heavy fluff, everything is sweet and nothing hurts. an embarrassing amount of slang and memes and tiktok mention (i apologize). this is seriously just crack. oh ALSO protective clark oh em gee i swooned writing that part. lois and jimmy act like creepy twins /aff notes: this got out of hands, guys. ty for 1k<3 i hope you enjoy! apologies for the slightly rushed ending, i was growing tired with this behemoth of a fic

It’s common knowledge that Clark Kent and technology do not mesh well. He writes all of his drafts on paper. He takes notes on his legal pad with a pencil that he keeps losing, and he uses a cassette recorder for interviews, and he uses an actual camera for pictures. He has a phone, he has a laptop, he just— doesn’t really use them. He doesn’t know how to and doesn’t need to know more than is absolutely necessary (as in how to send emails, how to use Google and how to type his final drafts for proofing).

So anything beyond that, and he’s completely out of his depth. Put him in a complete alien civilization light years away from Earth and he would still be more at ease than if you’d asked him to make a TikTok video and, God forbid, post it. 

So really, it only made sense that his best friend was an influencer. You weren’t exactly popular, and you didn’t do it for fame, you just enjoyed sharing your life with the people who stick around. You were a wizard with your phone and could turn any moment into something cinematic. 

The two of you were polar opposites. He was the moon, pulled into orbit around you, and it made sense he felt so good whenever he was with you. You were the sun. 

He was happy to tag along with you to any of your adventures. Trying out a new restaurant, a new club, vlogging a last-minute trip, trying out PR packages you get. 

You’d always been the life of the friendship, and Clark was never afraid of being in your shadow. In fact, he reveled in it. He liked being invisible to others around you, as long as he was seen by you. It was more than finding a distraction so people didn’t look at him for too long and start getting suspicious; it definitely helped, for sure, but it was never what made him want you as his best friend. He couldn’t help it. After all, he was a sunflower. And you were the sun. 

Sometimes his colleagues at The Daily Planet didn’t believe him when he talked about you to them, and gave them your username. It didn’t help that he didn’t have any social media so he couldn’t show them that you followed him back. Clark didn’t really care whether they believed him or not. 

“It’s not because she has less than a thousand followers doesn’t mean your lie would be more convincing,” Jimmy said with the sageness of a monk. “She’s too pretty for you.” Then, as an afterthought, he added: “No offence, Clark.”

Clark shrugged. “None taken. I know she’s pretty.”

Lois hit Jimmy on the shoulder. “Eve is too pretty for you too but you don’t see me insulting you.”

Clark frowned. “Guys, she’s my best friend, not my girlfriend.”

Jimmy looked at him with pity in his eyes. “Lying about having a best friend is so sad… I didn’t know you were so lonely, Clark. I’ve been failing as a friend.”

Clark just rolled his eyes but didn’t try to convince him, since he didn’t seem like he wanted to be convinced. 

“She would love to meet you one day,” Clark added before forgetting. He kept forgetting to. Or maybe, he just wanted to have you all to himself. He’ll never tell. 

Jimmy looked at him suspiciously. “Is she just going to be a printed picture of her Instagram feed on a doll?”

Lois and Clark both ignored him. 

“If she’s your best friend, she must be a really good person, then. I would love to meet her,” Lois said, before pressing on the follow button. Ding! “Oh. She followed me back already.”

“She knows about you,” Clark said. “She must have recognized you.”

“That was quick,” Lois noticed. 

“Yeah,” Clark replied. “She says she’s terminally sick online or something. I never understand her when she says those Internet words.”

Jimmy’s jaw dropped. “He wasn’t lying…” he whispered to himself, mind blown. Which, honestly, he should have seen it coming. Clark was the most honest person he’d ever met. He was incapable of lying to save a life. Jimmy pressed the follow button on his phone too, as if some part of him still wasn’t convinced, and watched with quiet horror as a follow back notification popped. And he couldn’t justify it as you just following back everyone, because you only followed cat and food accounts.

Clark just thought Jimmy was being his weird self again and didn’t pay it too much attention. Honestly, he just took it as a compliment to you, which made him happy. He always felt proud and happy whenever people complimented you, as if he was an extension of you. 

“Great, I will call you for the details. She’s gonna love preparing something for the four of us. She’s such a good event planner.”

Of course Clark didn’t text. Not that he didn’t want to, it was just that even the biggest phone he could get was still too tiny for his hands and it made typing a pain in the butt. 

“Cool, can’t wait,” Lois said. Jimmy was just staring in the horizon. 

Clark smiled. He was happy all of his favorite people were going to meet. 

You were waiting for Clark at the Daily Planet’s lobby. You were taking pictures of the regular cat that became an honorary reporter at the office, more exactly. 

“Hi Clark,” you brightened when you saw him. 

“Hey you,” Clark replied, fondness dripping from his voice until it was sticky and sweet. “How was your day?”

“It was okay, I found this new spot we absolutely have to try together,” you replied, getting on your tiptoes despite your heels to press your lips to the edge of his mouth. Clark smiled instantly, like a switch was flipped.  

Some people would say you were too obsessed with image and social media, but Clark knew you better than anyone else. Even if you weren’t an influencer, even if social media and the internet didn’t exist, you would still be the same. You would still take pictures of your day, share your meals with Clark in a spot you really liked, and you would still take video diaries. 

“I can’t wait,” Clark replied. “Oh by the way, Jimmy and Lois said yes.”

With his superhearing, he heard Jimmy gasp from somewhere behind. “She’s really real. Wait, I thought he said she was his best friend? Why are they kissing?” Then the unmistakable sound of Lois slapping his shoulder. 

He tuned it all out. He would get over his weird crisis later. 

You grabbed his hand and dragged him away. 

“Oh, yeah, I saw they followed me both. I figured you talked to them.”

Clark squeezed your smaller hand in his. 

“What did they think?” you asked curiously. 

“Lois said you must be a good person if you’re my best friend. Jimmy… well, I think he really liked you. He said you were way too pretty for me, whatever that means,” Clark replied earnestly. 

“He’s an idiot,” you replied. “I’m not too anything for you. I’m just right for you.”

Clark nodded. “Exactly. Perfect for me.”

Clark often offered to learn about internet and what you do, but you just replied, “no it’s fine, don’t worry about it <3” (you made the heart with your hands). 

You appreciated his offer, but you knew how all of this made his head turn and how hopeless he was with everything that was even remotely tech-related (don’t even get her started on microwaves and Clark). And quite frankly, you found him cute just the way he was. Like an overgrown, oversized, oblivious but eager puppy. 

“You’re sleeping over tonight, right?” 

You were asking as if it was a planned event, when in fact Clark wasn’t aware of this until right then and there. But Clark was nothing if not adaptable (he did get adapted to an entirely new and foreign planet when he was just a baby), and nothing if not used to you, so he took it in stride and nodded. 

“Mhm,” he replied. “I’ll even make dinner if you want.”

“Deal.”

Walking to your place hand in hand had become routine early on in your friendship and one of the few things Clark would never bring himself to sacrifice. It was home away from home. 

“I’m going to the gym tomorrow, you’re coming with me.”

“Okay.”

“Great.”

Clark, being who he is, didn’t need a gym, or at least not one fit for humans, but you asked, so he obeyed. 

“What time?”

“Six am.”

That meant you were trying again to renew yourself and to adopt better habits and hobbies. It was something you routinely went through almost every six months. First when it’s the new year, second when it’s June, when you realized you’d been slacking off and not following your new year resolutions, and Clark became your accountability partner.

That title sounded big and full of responsibilities, but Clark didn’t really do anything, really — except show up wherever you went and gently reminded you of your commitments. When it was something really important, like taking your meds, he pressed but other than that, he let you flit through life like the butterfly you were meant to be. 

Clark was awake before you, unsurprised to find you pressed against his body, sleeping deeply while holding him like you were scared he was going to flee. Well, considering he was Superman, he guessed you weren’t far off the mark. 

With his free hand, he grabbed your phone to check the time since the arm he wears his watch on was currently being repurposed as a body pillow and his heart felt heavy at the thought of disturbing your sleep. 

5.15AM. He woke up early, but not too early. Just in time to wake you up so you could enjoy your ‘free time with Clark. That’s what you called cuddling up with him and talking about your dreams before you both had to leave the bed. 

“Psst,” he whispered against the crown of your head. “Morning, sleepyhead.”

“No,” you grumbled. 

He chuckled softly. “What about your free time with me?”

“Mhmhmhmmm…” you mumbled before shifting position until you were actually cuddling him. “‘m awake,” you said. 

He didn’t doubt you. He just thinks that you’re also asleep at the same time. 

The both of you stayed like this for half an hour, Clark rubbing his thumb mindlessly on your arm, a quiet and gentle smile on his face while he listened to you ramble about your dream.

“You dreamt I was Batman?” he asked incredulously, swallowing back the laughter that overcame him. “Sweetheart, I’m literally already my own superhero, why would you dream of me as someone else?”

“I don’t know, Clark,” you replied and he didn’t need to look at your face to know you were rolling your eyes. “I didn’t do anything. I was quite literally just a spectator. Don’t shoot the messenger and all that.”

“You’re right. How could I forget you were literally incapable of wrong doing?”

“Mhm,” you hummed. “Better not forget next time.”

You fell back to sleep at six am on the dot. Clark tried to wake you up and remind you of your plans but you declined all attempts with the smooth dexterity of a politician deflecting questions. 

“Sleeping with you is its own workout anyway,” he muttered to himself. 

Clark quickly left you when he heard someone call for Superman but he came back before you woke up, which didn’t actually say anything about how long he took, since your sleep schedule was as predictable as a string of letters typed by a thousand monkeys on a typewriter. 

He was under the shower when you finally woke up and barged in through the bathroom without a care in the world. 

“I’m sleepy,” you tell him while peeing. 

“Hi sleepy, I’m Clark,” Clark replied while showering. 

You chucked the entire roll of TP at him and Clark didn’t even try to avoid it, even though he definitely could have. (You loved Clark dearly, but his dad jokes when you just woke up were unforgivable.)

Morning you was the best kind of you, and it was nice to know that your grumpiness didn’t do anything to erase your lack of privacy, because invasive you was also the best kind of you.

It’s not like there’s anything you didn’t already see. 

(To be fair though, you didn’t just start barging in on him when he was naked without a care for his consent, it just… happened. 

First it started with you walking in on him changing boxers, dick and everything out. Then it was him accidentally walking on you under the shower (honestly, how he didn’t realize you were under there with all of his gazillion superpowers was beyond the two of you). And then again, you walk in on him because you keep forgetting that Clark’s at your place more often than not, and then after that Clark accidentally used his super vision on you because he thought you were injured.

 So you sat him down one day and asked if he minded whenever either of you accidentally sees the other naked and he replied ‘no’, so you asked, ‘would you mind if it wasn’t accidental? Not exactly on purpose but just… not caring at all?’ and he said ‘no’, and you said ‘okay, by the way you have a big shlong’ and that’s basically how it started (after teaching Clark what shlong meant.

Clark only regrets his decision when it’s early in the morning and his hormones are raging and you’re changing in front of him like no one’s watching.)

He was out of the shower by the time you were brushing your teeth. 

“You’re not vlogging this morning?” he asked, feeling that same rush of pride he felt whenever he used one of the words you taught him, towel wrapped around his middle. His hair was wet and curled and doing all kinds of swoopy woopy things. His chest was glistening and dripping with water. 

“I wanted to but I also didn’t want you to steal my thunder with your naked cameo,” you replied with a floss string between your two front teeth. “Although you would have definitely made me go viral.”

“Ah, my bad,” he replied humorously. “I’ll try to be less… hot under the shower next time.”

You threw the used floss in the bin. “I don’t think that’s possible, unfortunately.”

Clark blushed and the redness followed him right to his neck and collarbones. 

You grinned toothily at him so he could inspect your teeth. He grabbed your chin between his index and thumb, and used his thumb to push your lower lip lower. “Mhm…” he hums thoughtfully. “Perfectly flossed. You get a star. Doctors from around the world want you as their client.”

“Yay! Thanks, Clark!”

His lips broke into a happy grin. “You’re welcome. You know, it’s not too late to go to the gym now.”

“I was hoping you wouldn’t say that,” you said. “My past self was crazy. I don’t associate with the likes of her anymore.”

“I see, your past self is being cancelled. Right?”

You burst out laughing before petting the top of his head. “God, I love you Clark. Never change.”

You ended up going to the gym anyway, dressed in your “cuntiest” outfits to “serve” (to serve what? Clark thought you quit being a server a year ago), but all you did was point at things and ask Clark if he could max them all out. Of course he could, and you knew he could, but you asked for a demonstration anyway. 

Then, because seeing him succeed flawlessly at every machine (and after attracting every “gym bro” in the vicinity who started asking Clark about powders and training regimen and whatnot, and lowkey looked impressed when Clark replied earnestly to the question of how he became so strong with “By being kind and respectful to everyone”), you decided he now had to do pushups with you sitting crisscross applesauce on top of him. 

“But why?”

“I’ve always wanted to know what it felt like to be a barbell,” you replied. 

“I think you mean plate, sweetheart.”

“Same difference,” you replied. And of course, Clark was totally convinced. 

“Do you mind if I take pictures?” you asked him once you were sitting on him and he was laying on the floor, shirt off. 

“You know I don’t,” he replied. He didn’t need to remind you not to post his face anywhere because he trusted you implicitly. 

And then he started the pushups with complete ease, because there was no better way for him to spend his day-offs than to go to the gym with your best friend and use her as additional weight. 

You took plenty of pictures; some you called aesthetically pleasing and “would do well in tumblr”, others you said were just silly and for fun.

You showed him the pictures while still on his back, your arms on each side of his neck as you scrolled through the pictures for him while he stayed in an isotonic contraction (his muscles didn’t even flail, and it took you almost fifteen minutes to show him everything because you annotated each one.)

“I really like this one,” Clark said, lifting a hand from the floor to point at a picture, still lifting your weight with only one arm. 

The picture he picked was one where he looked at the mirror in front of you, and he was obviously looking at you, while you were making a silly face that wasn’t really silly, because it made you look devastatingly pretty. You were also flexing your left arm, winking and tugging your tongue at the camera. 

“Solid choice,” you replied, tapping something on the screen. “Definitely one of my favorites too.”

He smiled happily, and then remembered they were in public and he shouldn’t be showing off his strength so much, as much as he wanted to impress you. 

So, he pretended to have his muscles locking and asked you to get off, in case anyone was watching. You were always up for a bit of acting with him. You said it made you feel like the sidekick of a hot spy in a film noir.

Clark hung in the side while you took a video of yourself rambling to the camera — he was tall enough that he didn’t worry about his face being caught on camera, but the camera could still pick up your interlaced hands from the angle you held the camera. People would only be able to see his arm swinging and the beginning of his legs. 

You were talking about going to the gym and how you earned a big meal after it (though if you asked Clark, he would say you should never feel like you have to earn a meal, and that you could eat anything anytime you wanted if it made you happy). 

You set up the phone against the wall so it could take a video of you and the table. Clark was sat across from you, and again, wasn’t visible at all. Not even your face fully showed. Just the bottom half of your face. Your hands did most of the talking as you animated your stories with a floating burger. 

The camera captured Clark’s hand across the table, wiping the side of your mouth with a thumb, and your pleased, bashful smile after. 

It captured you stealing fries from Clark’s plate, and then Clark sharing half of his fries with you. 

It captured your laughter, and then your lips as they moved to form the words: I love you, Clark.

(When you finally uploaded the video to YouTube a while later, people commented: 

‘am I the only one who felt like a third wheel throughout the video? I loved it though. Always wanted to be the third to a hot couple’

‘God I see the things you do for others’

‘Guys ik she said he was just her best friend but I’m seriously having doubts rn. Maybe she meant it as in best boyfriend?’

‘You’re so pretty!!!!!! And your bf looks so hot too. Definitely my fav power couple of youtube’

Which then pushed your videos to more people.

You read all of the comments to Clark while he was writing down notes for his next article. His thoughts? “I think they really liked the video. I’m happy for you, sweetheart.”)

You picked a nice coffee shop downtown for your first meeting with Lois and Jimmy. Jimmy couldn’t look you in the eyes in shame. 

“I’m so sorry I doubted Clark’s ability to have pretty friends,” he said, before getting elbowed by Lois in the ribs. 

“Excuse my friend. He’s a dumbass.”

You took it in stride. You loved them and they loved you. Jimmy helped you take the perfect pictures for your picture dump, Lois and you talked about fashion, and Clark was happy to just step back and watch as three of his five favorite people get along so well. 

“How did you guys meet?” Lois asked curiously. She’d been eyeing the way you were both sitting so close to each other it bordered on lap sitting. 

“He mistook me for a scarecrow,” you replied. 

“We were childhood friends.”

“Clark I love you, but for a journalist you’re really bad at hooking people in,” Lois said. “As for your best friend, she was clearly made to hook people in.”

Clark was too happy to even feel offended, and just let you tell the story. The insult flew right over his head. 

It wasn’t anything grand. Clark was in the fields with his parents when he noticed a figure almost his height in the distance, and ran towards it. It was you, standing still with your arms outstretched. 

He ran back to his parents and asked if they put a new scarecrow in the fields that looked like a little girl. 

Jo and Ma looked at each other concerned before setting off to find this little scarecrow girl. 

And the rest was history. 

“I still don’t know what you were doing,” Clark confessed at the end of your story. “You won’t tell me.”

You shrugged. “Because I am aloof and mysterious.”

“This raised more questions than it answered,” Jimmy said with a faraway look on his face. 

“Good,” you and Clark said at the same time. 

“Your friends are really nice. Maybe I should become a journalist too and then become your colleague. That would be so much fun,” you told him after quitting Jimmy and Lois. “What do you think?” You took a sip of your Oreo milkshake you got for take-out.

Clark smiled. “I think you just can’t get enough of me,” he said.

You squeezed his hand. “Yeah, you’re right. I won’t even try to lie.”

He laughed. 

He had never realized how his friendship with you could be seen as strange until you were both in college and everyone on campus the two of you were dating. It was common knowledge around all of the campus that you and Clark were the it couple. Even in high school, you’d been both voted prom queen and king, even though you both didn’t even know you were participating. Clark didn’t regret it though, because he got to wear a crown alongside with you and dance. It was one of his fondest memories with you. 

“Friends don’t act like that,” people would say. No one would ever be able to understand the bond you two have, so he doesn’t bother replying or trying to explain. Besides, what you have between the two of you was special, and he wanted to keep it that way. 

But Clark supposed there was some part of truth to that. Lois and Jimmy were his best friends too, but he would never cuddle in a bed with them, as much as he loved them. He also wouldn’t even dream of letting them peck him on the lips, or, God forbid, walk in on him under the shower. 

If this friendship was considered weird, then he was happy to be weird with you. Besides, nothing he could ever do would be weirder than being an actual alien pretending to be human. Or stumbling through your window into your apartment, jaw dislocated and nose bleeding.

“Clark? Is that you?” you called out from the kitchen.

He closed his eyes. Coming here was a bad idea, because he hated the thought of worrying you, but there was also nowhere else in the world he would rather be. “Yeah,” he replied, voice distorted because of his jaw. He heard you close the lid on a sauce pan and wipe your hands on a kitchen towel before hearing the soft pads of your feet walking into the living room.

“Hey, what did I say about tracking blood and mud in my apartment?”

Your words sounded mad but your voice betrayed your worry. You dropped the kitchen towel and reached him in quick strides. He was sitting on the floor against the wall, and you fell on your knees, hands hovering over his jaw, unsure whether you could touch him in this state. 

“Sorry,” Clark replied. “Will remember for next time.”

“There won’t be a next time because you’re going to stop letting bad guys hit you, okay?”

He laughed, even if it hurt to. Of course you said it as if it was that easy. It wasn’t, but Clark would make it so. 

“Stop laughing at me,” you chided, even as you inspected his nose. “It doesn’t look broken, so that’s good.”

“It healed on the way here. Perks of being Superman.”

“Stop acting like nothing’s wrong or I’ll break your nose myself, and I’ll make sure your healing factor is too busy to handle your nose first.”

“Wow,” he said. “Such violence coming from such a tiny little human.”

You grabbed his jaw without a warning and snapped it back into place. 

“Golly, woman! Warn a guy first, will you?” he yelped indignifyingly, rubbing his smarting jaw, before moving it left and right to make sure it was still working. He didn’t need to worry because you were a professional by now, ever since you were both fourteen and you started playing nurse for a Clark who was discovering his powers and trying each day a new way to test his abilities.

“If I warned you, you would never be ready,” you replied, and Clark smiled sheepishly at that. You were right. Despite him being the strongest human on Earth, his pain tolerance was subpar, and he always chickened out before anything like that. Usually, you would at least fake a countdown. “And besides, that’s what you get for making fun of me.”

He pouted. “I’m sorry baby,” he said, batting his eyelashes at you. 

“Ugh! This is so unfair,” you groaned, before bending at his height and pressing your lips against his pout in a quick peck. “I hate you.”

“I love you too,” Clark replied, not in the least bit remorseful for guilt-tripping you, basking in the bliss of the feeling of your lips against his, as fleeting as it was. 

You pinched his bruised nose and stood back up.

“Ow, ow, ow!”

“Don’t even try to talk to me for the next five minutes. I’ll be too busy hating you.”

He was behind you before the five minutes even were up, wrapping his arms around your waist, still pouting. “Why are you so mean to me?” he asked, cheek pressed against the top of your head. He was still in his dirty Superman suit; he hadn’t even taken off his boots yet. 

You were trying really hard to ignore him. It was funny, and Clark couldn’t keep up the wounded act any longer. His shoulders were shaking with barely suppressed mirth. 

“Message received, baby. I’ll let you be for five minutes. In fact, I’ll let you be for thirty minutes.”

He used that time to clean up the mess he’d left behind (superheroing wasn’t a clean job) and finally take a shower. He tried not to notice how you kept pretending you forgot something in the bathroom while he was showering. First, it was your glasses, which you hadn’t even found, then you had to check a pimple on your face, and then it was your makeup, which you needed to retouch. 

“You know,” he said, voice barely heard over the sound of the stream of water. “I’m starting to think you’re just finding any excuses to come check on me.”

You shot him a dark look. “You said you weren’t going to bother me for thirty minutes.”

“I’m not bothering you, but you are bothering me.”

He realized his mistake before the words even finished leaving his mouth. You gasped.

“See if I ever bother you again,” you said, turning on your heels.

Clark groaned, before shutting the water off and grabbing a towel to wrap around his hips and chased after you, dripping water everywhere but unable to care because he just wanted to catch before you locked yourself in your room (and coincidentally blocking him from getting his clothes) and started listening to heartbreak songs at full volume. 

“Nooo,” he whined, “you know I love it when you bother me! Please don’t ever stop!”

“Nuh uh,” you replied, escaping his hand narrowly.

“Oh come on, are you really going to sulk at me for that? And why were you so mean to me anyway? Ever since I got here, you were being grumpy, which, don’t get me wrong, I love it, but I don’t understand why, did I do something wrong?”

“Oh I don’t know, maybe it’s the fact that you were injured again as Superman, you don’t take it seriously when I’m worried, you make fun of me when I tell you to be more careful, and you tracked blood everywhere! You know I hate blood! Stupid blood! And your blood isn’t even normal, it’s alien blood!”

You still didn’t stop walking but now the two of you were walking in circles until you were the one chasing him now. It was a ridiculous sight, but it wasn’t an unusual occurrence at your household. 

“Wait, what do you mean by alien blood?”

“Your blood doesn’t come off easily, you know that! Remember when I was trying to scrub your blood out of the rug and I kept mixing any chemicals I could find and accidentally made chloroform?”

Clark felt silly for entertaining for even one second the terrifying thought that you thought of him differently, and his shoulders dropped. He stopped walking. And he did remember that time. Of course he did. He’d been sick with worry his muscles had locked in place for a few seconds before he finally spurred into action and got you to a safe place with fresh air and threw away everything else before it did more damage. 

He’d made you sleep over at his place for a week to make sure the smell had completely left the apartment. 

“Baby, I’m sorry, I know you hate blood, but I really wasn’t thinking straight, and I just wanted to see you, and it made everything else disappear. It’s not an excuse however, and I apologize for it. And I’m also sorry for not taking you seriously when you’re worried about me, it’s just… I’m not laughing at you, it’s just… it’s really sweet how you’re always so worried about me, and you always get so endearing when you lecture me, I just can’t help myself.”

You sniffed. “Okay, fine. I forgive you. And I’m sorry for being so mean to you today. It’s not really because of you. I’m just so irritated these days and lashing out makes me feel better, even though I shouldn’t.” 

Clark’s heart instantly broke at your small voice, and gathered you in his arms. “No need to apologize, sweetheart. I gave you a good reason to get annoyed at me, it was my fault.”

“It’s always your fault,” you mumbled, voice muffled by his chest. 

He snorted through his nose, unable to help himself. “Yes, baby. It’s always my fault, and I’m sorry.”

“Mhm, and you’re taking me out tonight.”

“Okay, baby. Anything you want.”

There was a comfortable silence before you said, “I think your towel just fell.”

Clark couldn’t look at you for the rest of the day without going as red as his cape in the face and you laughing at him every single time. 

“It was time it happened, you know? It’s just the natural course of events.”

You pretended it was fine, but Clark could tell you were embarrassed a little too and that knowledge comforted him a little. 

You were laughing at him again. Because he just took out his pocket notebook from his backpocket so he could make a note out of something he wanted to look up later. And he had a tiny pencil that came with it.

“You’re so—” you shook your head.

“An old soul?” Clark offered helpfully as he closed his notebook and slid it back in his pocket. 

“Chronically offline, I was going to say, and it’s crazy how even your words reflect how chronically offline you are.”

Clark smiled. He liked it when you teased him, because it meant you liked him, even if he had ten billion other proofs that you liked him. 

“I’m going to say words and you’re going to say the first thing that comes to mind, okay?”

“Let’s do it.”

He moved his upper body so that he could fully face you, giving you all of his attention.

“Serve.”

“Tennis.”

“Eat.”

“Food.”

“Slay.”

“Dragons.”

“Flop.”

“Flip flop.”

“Tik Tok.”

“Clock.” 

Your face got progressively red as you tried not to burst out laughing. 

“Do you know what rizz means?”

“Uh… not really, but I remember Lois telling Jimmy she didn’t understand how he got so much rizz. Is it… freckles? He has a lot of freckles.”

You broke into laughter. “Oh you’re so cute, Clark. I just want to eat you up. In a soup. Like wonton soup but it’s Clark soup.”

“Thank… you?” 

“You’re welcome, babe.”

Clark Kent was a mild-mannered, soft-spoken, respectful young man. It’s a truth universally acknowledged. Despite his stature and his size, no one had ever seen him use it in a way to cause harm rather than help. Sure, they’d seen him climb on top of a tree to save a kitten, help lift things from one floor to another, but they’d never seen him use that strength against someone else. 

And no one ever will. Not even you. Clark takes great mesures to make sure that it stays that way. He’ll do anything to protect you from anything that could upset you and if it’s truly important, he won’t tell you about it. Why would he ruin your day when he was perfectly capable of handling everything? He was happy to handle everything else while you were busy enjoying yourself, like now.

You weren’t even drunk — you hated alcohol and besides, Clark couldn’t get drunk either so it wouldn’t be fun for him to be the only one sober — but you were feeling the music, and talking to someone, looking gorgeous and in your element in your dress. You looked stunning. Not just because your dress was pretty — though it was — but because you were radiating with joy. You loved going out and having fun and dancing to a music that reverberated deep in your ribcage. 

“Hi Clark!” you screamed over the music, even if he could have easily heard you mumble it ten feet away in the middle of fireworks. “You having fun?”

“I am,” he called back.

You grabbed him by his hands and tugged him against you. “Come on, let’s dance.”

“Oh, no, you know I don’t do any of that.”

You snorted. “If it’s just because you’re embarrassed of your dance moves, I won’t judge, I promise. I’ve already seen them all anyway.”

“It’s not that…” he countered weakly. It was exactly that. His gracefulness as Superman unfortunately did not translate to when he was Clark Kent, and coupled with his height and size, he was an actual public hazard. He didn’t want to accidentally bump into someone or, God forbid, step on your feet. He knew you wouldn’t care, but he did, and it made him feel bad. 

You huffed. “Fine. I’m gonna go dance with that hot guy over there, then. He’s been trying to talk to me for like an hour but since I thought you were going to dance with me… anyway, it’s his lucky day, bye Clarkie,” you said, before sauntering over to the guy who, Clark had to admit, was attractive. 

He watched you talk with him with an unnamed feeling in the pit of his stomach, and he forced himself to take a sip of his water. Maybe he should have gone with you. 

But then you were back already, not even ten minutes later. You said you just didn’t “vibe” with him, but Clark suspected it was because you missed him.

“Let’s go home,” he whispered against the crown of your head. “I was getting tired anyway.”

“Bollocks,” you replied in a fake posh accent. “You never get tired.”

He hummed. “True. I just wanted to go home with you.”

“Then let’s go home.”

The streets of Metropolis were half-lit. It was a Friday night in the summer so everyone was still out, despite the late hour. He had your hand in his and you were skipping on the pavement, heels clicking, arm swinging. 

He loved you best when you were like this. Happy and blissful and totally unaware of the rest of the world, because you trusted him to have your back, even if you weren’t entirely aware of the many ways he’s had your back.

“I hate the subway,” you muttered, scanning your metro card against the reader. 

“Well, you refuse to fly you home, and also walk home so,” Clark replied patiently. 

“Should have taken a taxi.”

“And complain about how it’s expensive all the way home?”

“You know, Clark, I don’t think I appreciate how much you know me. Maybe it’s time we start putting some distance between the two of us.”

Clark didn’t need to reply, he merely looked down at the way you were literally pressed against him until there was not a single inch of space left between the two of you. 

“Shut up,” you grumbled. 

The subway was full despite the late hour so the both of you had to keep standing. Well, Clark had to, but you leaned against him, putting most of your weight against him. He loved it. 

It happened when there were only five stops left.

You were rambling to Clark about something even you wasn’t sure about it, when Clark noticed the man behind you who had been trying to get closer for the past five minutes.

His reaction was swift but controlled. Making sure your attention was elsewhere, namely fixating on the bright lights announcing the stations left, he grabbed the man’s wrist in a tight enough grip that it was uncomfortable, but not tight enough to break anything — yet. 

“Hey, baby, can you explain to me what Instagram again?” he asked you, voice soft and sweet. 

“Again?! You do realize it’s been—“

He tuned you out, not out of malice, just so he could focus his energy into the man who thought sticking his phone underneath your skirt was a good idea. 

The man’s eyes looked up in unwarranted anger, ready to yell at whoever dared touch him, but it quickly switched into fear once he saw the stony expression on Clark’s face — and the height and muscle he had on him. 

Clark knew he shouldn’t, but he squeezed his grip tighter until his super hearing could pick up the sound of his joints creasing against each other. 

“Are you even listening to me, Clark? This is your problem, because you say you want to understand but then you always zone out even before I even start.”

“Sorry darling, there’s just a… bug that’s been bothering me.”

“Silly, just swat it away, and then give me your full attention.”

Clark grinned, and twisted the man’s wrist until it sprained. Just enough to make him second guess himself next time he tried to pull this stunt again — to you or any other unsuspecting girl who may not have Superman by their side. The phone dropped and Clark ‘accidentally’ stepped on it.

“Perfect idea, my smart girl.” 

The rest of the ride home went without any other problem, but Clark still couldn’t for the life of him understand what Instagram was. 

You passed out in bed before Clark even took off his pants. 

He sighed at the sight, but without any real annoyance. He supposed your clothes were comfortable enough to sleep in, but he gathered your makeup wipes from the bathroom.

You mumbled something intelligible when the mattress dipped underneath his weight as he crossed a leg on the bed and sat down, and he smiled. Even unconscious, you were endearing. 

He poured some product in the cotton before he wiped your face with it gently. He did the same with another cotton wipe and focused on your eyes this time, removing the mascara and eyeliner he loved so much that made your eyes look even bigger and shinier. 

He threw everything away and then got into bed behind you. Sleep had never felt sweeter than when he slept with you in his arms. 

Things my chronically offline bsf does

“What’s this?” Clark asked, blinking at the screen you just shoved in his face as if you were afraid he was going to somehow miss the glowing bright box. He was drinking his glass of milk when you walked in the kitchen in a flurry of excitement. 

“It’s an idea for a TikTok,” you explained. It probably explained it for most people, but it only left Clark even more puzzled. He knows you explained it to him, multiple times, but he keeps forgetting. 

“What’s bee-ess-eff?”

“Best friend. It’s you. You’re my chronically offline best friend. I think the world needs to know about this.”

“Uh… sure?” He wasn’t sure why the world needed to know the things he did, but he wasn’t one to not show you support whenever he can, so he went along with it. “What sort of things do I do?”

“Take notes on an actual notepad.”

“That’s normal, why would they care?”

“You use physical maps.”

“They’re fabricated for a reason!”

You ignored him again. “You print recipes instead of following them on your laptop. Wait, let me correct that. You ask me to print you the recipes because you still haven’t figured it out.”

He blushed at that. “But it’s just so much easier that way! I like having everything I need right in front of me. I don’t want to have to scroll or zoom in or whatever else it is.”

“Mhm,” you replied, unconvinced. “I still think it makes for a really funny TikTok video, so. I’m posting it.”

“Well… okay. Sure. Maybe someone in the comment section will explain to me why it’s so funny.”

You snorted. “I love you, Clark.”

He brightened up, confusion leaving his face. This, he knew. This, he was used to. “I love you, sweetheart. Let me know when you upload it. I want to read comments with you.”

The TikTok was forgotten for a bit. Life got in the way, you got distracted by other shinier, newer, better things, and it was deadline season for Clark, and crime seemed to have multiplied overnight. 

So, it wasn’t long before he and you finally got to reading the comments. 

“Clark, you’re a famous man,” you preamble. 

He paused mid-slurp of his chicken noodles. “Huh?”

“The video blew up.”

Clark instantly looked concerned. “What? Are you okay?”

“Yes, silly. It means the video went viral.”

“It went where?”

“Ugh! Whatever. You’re famous. I got like 35k comments.”

Clark knew what going viral meant. He was just being a little jerk, and you were so used to him being actually that obtuse that the joke flew right over your head. 

But the number made him pause. “That many? Where do these people come from?”

“All around the world. Do you want me to read the comments for you or not?”

Clark placed his chopsticks down and stapled his fingers, as if he was getting ready for an important meeting. “Let’s hear it.”

You cleared your throat, readying yourself to start reading some sort of royal decree. “Him having the actual notepad from old iPhone noteapp is taking me out.”

Clark was frowning, not upset, just trying to understand. “Okay, but where is my notepad taking them out?”

“Do you actually want to know or do you prefer living in bliss?”

“Uh… is it bad?”

“No, I just don’t know if you want to preserve your ignorance.”

“Oh. Explain this one. I’m intrigued.”

You did, and he cracked a smile when he finally got it. You kept reading him some comments, explaining them when needed. 

“Someone said, this is the only person who would probably survive a nuclear fallout.”

You snorted at that one, knowing that the commenter couldn’t possibly realize just how close to the truth they were. 

“How did they know?”

“It’s a figure of speech, honey.”

“Oh. Okay, next one.”

“I am lowkey jealous of him. I bet he is happy and healthy and has clear skin.”

“Could you reply to them?”

“Yeah. What do you want to say?”

“Tell them that if they have questions about how I live, they can ask me. Or I guess, direct message you.”

“If I do that, everyone will flood my DMs but fine. The things I do for you… okay, done. Next. Bet he pays all his bills by check too with a crying emoji.”

Clark frowned. “Why are they sad? Did I make them sad?”

“A crying emoji is basically laughter, don’t worry.”

“Weird. Next.”

“This guy’s got the world’s cleanest internet footprint. Even rainbolt wouldn’t be able to find him.”

“Who’s rainbolt?”

“A dude who’s really good at finding locations in the world with the tiniest picture.”

“Oh.”

Sometime between the first comment and the last one, you’d ended up on his lap, and he’d leaned back against his chair to give you more space. 

“What is this one?”

“I hope he knows he’s iconic,” you read out loud. 

“Oh. That’s really sweet. I am iconic, thank you. But so are you.”

You smiled, pleased before bursting into laughter. “Oh you’re gonna hate this.”

“Uh oh. Lay it on me.”

“Chronically offline but chronically FINE,” you said, barely able to read it with a straight face. “I should have known people were going to lose their mind over you.”

“I’m fine? As in, nice to look at?”

“Yes, honey. They’re saying you’re hot.”

“Oh. How many of them?”

“That comment alone got fifty thousand likes.”

“Gosh. The Internet is a scary place.”

You kept reading comments, giggling to yourself. 

He can write me a letter any time. 

I would learn how to use a rotary phone for him. 

I’m getting a pigeon just so he can start sending me letters. 

“Unlucky for them, you’re all mine.”

Clark smiled, pleased and smug. That’s right. He was yours. 

You started including him more in your TikToks, partly because people demanded more of him, but mostly because you enjoyed doing things with him. 

You posted another one: 

things my bsf does for me because he’s just built like that

Ever since they met, Clark had just felt more inclined to do things for you. He was raised that way, yeah, but it was more than that. 

Clark didn’t think there was any door he’d let you open when he was around. Paying for you had always been second nature to him, just like kissing your forehead whenever he was happy. Holding your hands started out because you wanted to hold his hand, but he kept the habit. Now he couldn’t go anywhere with you without holding your hand. 

If anyone asked why, he wasn’t sure he would be able to explain why. He just felt like it. Just like walking on the side of the road, or gently guiding you with a hand to the small of your back. 

He didn’t see anything out of the ordinary in the things you picked, but somehow the internet had a lot of things to say about it. Surprisingly, they were all nice. 

May this kind of friendship kidnap me (What?!)

Is someone going to tell them? (Tell them what?)

I don’t think they’re aware they’re dating. (Clark would like to believe that he would know whether he was dating someone or not.)

THEY SLEEP TOGETHER?!? (Yeah? How else would they cuddle then?)

I feel so bad for their partners. (Clark and you haven’t dated anyone ever, so the worry was appreciated but unwarranted.) 

I’m struggling to find a good bf because girls like her are hoarding the good men (What?)

Girl you’re living the life. Where can I find me a man like that? (In corn fields.)

THAT SHOULD BE ME… holding your hand (Oh! Clark recognizes that song.) 

Clark didn’t say anything as you wedged your head between his arm and forearm, using it as a sort of prop, only watched in confusion as you took a picture of it using the reflection on the train’s windows. 

“It’s for my collection,” you helpfully added. 

Your collection of pictures of the two of you. Picture of your hand against his, another one of you flexing your arm next to his relaxed biceps, his hand wrapped around your waist. He never really understood why, but he didn’t need to understand it to feel a sort of understated satisfaction and pride at the sight of the two of you together, your difference in size so pronounced. When asked about it, you merely said ‘Tumblr’s gonna go crazy’ as if it explained everything.

Clark didn’t know who Tumblr was, but he felt bad for them. 

But like anything else that you did or said, Clark didn’t need to understand it to support it. 

During lunch break, Clark was swamped by Lois and Jimmy who stood over his desk like two very nosy sentinels.

“Did you see your best friend’s new post?”

Clark clicked out of a tab before peering up at his two other best friends through his thick glasses. “Uh… she didn’t show me anything, so I wasn’t aware she uploaded something new. Why? Did she?”

“Oh no,” Lois said, way too normally. “We, uh, we were just wondering if she was going to post something soon.”

“Yeah, we became huge fans. We can’t get enough of her posts,” Jimmy supplied. 

Clark beamed. “Oh, that’s really sweet. She’s going to be so happy hearing that. I’ll definitely let you guys know if she ever wants to post something new on the TikTok.”

“Cool, cool,” Jimmy said in his usual shifty way.

“Wanna go out for lunch with us?” Lois asked.

“Uh… sure,” Clark replied with a nod. You were busy that day, so it wasn’t like he had anything planned with you.

Clark wasn’t much of a talker. Around his loved ones, he preferred listening. He couldn’t get enough of it.

Jimmy was talking about his latest date with Eve, a really sweet girl who kind of reminded Clark of you, because she was an influencer too. 

Lois talked about her latest investigation against Luthorcorp. You could take her out of the office but you couldn’t take the journalism out of Lois. It’s how Lois and him had become friends when Clark first joined the Daily Planet. 

“How are things with her?” she asked once the conversation trailed off and Clark smiled, always happy to talk about you.

“Good, we’re actually going to the movies tonight. I can’t wait.”

Lois slurped loudly on her Oreo milkshake. 

“The new horror movie?” Jimmy asked. “Eve and I went to see it last week. It was really good but I think Eve forgot she had her own seat.” He rolled his eyes. 

“Eve deserves so much better,” Lois sighed longingly. 

“Hey! You said you weren’t gonna say stuff like that to me!”

Lois shrugged. “I lied.”

Clark watched them bicker happily. Weirdly enough, it reminded him of his own parents bickering together. 

Clark raised a brow at your look. “Lazy night tonight?”

You were dressed in Clark’s old hoodie that still hung loosely on you and a pair of sweatpants (not his, unfortunately), and your hair was tied haphazardly into a bun. “Mhm,” you grunted. “I looked at my closet and it looked back at me and then I stared back and I realized I was way too lazy tonight to dress up properly. So, you get this.”

“Well, not that you asked, but I still think you’re gorgeous like this. Actually, I think I like you better like this, wearing my shirt.”

“Possessive much, huh?”

Clark rubbed the back of his hand with a sheepish smile. “Ah, well…”

Clark liked going to the cinema with you. He liked buying you overpriced snacks just because you loved them, and he loved it when you inevitably get tired mid-showing and lay your head against his shoulder. Or when you grow bored with the movie and start playing with his hand instead, sending shivers down his spine when you caress the back of his hand with a feather-light touch. 

“This movie is so lame,” you grumbled, hand digging into Clark’s popcorn.

Most of all, he just loved you. Even when you were being a harsh critic.

Clark’s eyes crinkled as he laughed. “It’s a children’s movie, sweetheart. What did you expect?” he whispered back. 

“Even kids deserve quality! They need to watch good movies at the earliest so that they learn to appreciate good cinema.”

Clark snorted. He usually tried not to be so noisy in the cinema but the room was filled with approximately twenty children who were all screaming or crying or making some sort of noise. His snort flew under the radar. 

“Have you always been this passionate about children movie?”

“I was a child once too, Clark. This is very important to me.”

Clark barely resisted the urge to grab your hand, buttery and salty, and press a kiss to it. 

Clark cannot exist without you, but Clark thinks that you could exist without him, you just choose not to. 

“Clark,” you said one day, phone in one hand and Clark’s arm in the other. “My favorite bubble tea shop is offering free drinks for couples on Valentine’s day. We have to go.”

Clark knew that bubble tea was your favorite, so it was easy to agree. “I’m not sure they count best friends as couples, though.”

“Oh Clark, you dummy. We’re going to go there as a couple. I got us matching outfits. We’re going to be the cutest couple ever.”

Clark heard matching outfits and his heart hammered inside his chest. He was no stranger to matching outfits. It was you, after all, who introduced them to him. 

It had started out small: friendship bracelets, then necklaces, then clay rings they made together. 

Then one day you’d come across matching beanies and bought them on an impulse, because they made you think of him. Clark had really loved the beanie. His was red and blue, because of course it was. Yours had been pink and black. 

From then on, there were no more limits to what you would consider matching. You’d even made him exchange sim cards holders so that yours became black and his pink. 

A full matching outfit had always been the next natural course of action. 

“Wouldn’t that be… lying?” he said, smiling sheepishly. As much as he loved the idea of wearing matching outfits with you and helping you get free boba, he wasn’t so sure he wanted to help you commit fraud. 

“Clark, think about it. We regularly go on date together. Your toothbrush is next to mine in my bathroom. We celebrate anniversaries. We sleep in the same bed. These are all things couples do.”

“Yeah? But we’re not a couple.”

“They don’t have to know that! We’ll just let the facts speak for themselves.”

“Well…” 

Clark Kent was about to commit fraud in the name of love friendship.

You got your free drinks because nothing could stand in the way between you and your favorite drinks with pearl shaped tapioca inside. 

“Hey, Kat,” you said, greeting the cashier by name as if you guys were long lost friends. “Can you help me out?”

Kat had a confused smile, but she also looked intrigued. “Sure?”

You hook a thumb towards Clark. “He’s been sleeping in my bed for close to a year now, and he makes me breakfast every day, but he refuses to believe we’re dating.”

Clark’s entire face went beet red with sheer embarrassment. “H-Hey!”

Your grin could put to shame the Cheshire cat’s smile.

Kat snickered. “Oh boy, he’s got it bad, isn’t he?”

You showed her your matching clay rings. “Look at this. We made them together ten years ago. And now because he refuses to admit we’re together, I won’t be able to get my free drink.”

Kat’s eyes went big, before looking at Clark like he was really dumb. “Is he blind?” she asked you while looking at him.

“Well, they do say that love makes you blind.”

Oh you were good, and you were such a menace, and Clark wasn’t sure his face was ever going to be able to go back to a normal shade after this.

“Was this really necessary?”

“No, not really,” you admitted, taking a large sip from your straw. Your drink was pink, because of course it was. It’s Valentine’s day, after all. “But it was fun. And I technically didn’t say lie.”

“You’re going to be the death of me,” he whimpered.

“You love me.”

“I do. Unfortunately for me.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing, sweetheart. Enjoy your drinks. They’re tainted with the taste of my mortification.”

“Yummy. Extra delicious.”

Contrary to popular belief, Clark Kent was a menace too. He just hid it really well, and only let it show around you.

It was stupid, really. He came across a joke store and he went inside for some reason. He thought he would find something silly or cute for you. Maybe matching disguises. 

But then he found a disturbingly realistic cockroach and before he knew it, he was out of the store with a bag and three dollars missing from his wallet. 

He already felt so guilty, but also very excited. 

Clark was pretty humans all over the globe, metahuman or not, had been able to hear your scream when you noticed the cockroach right next to your eyes.

“Clark!” 

Your first scream was one of fear.

Another thing about Clark Kent was that he had a terrible poker face. It’s why you loved playing poker against him.

But it also meant that he was the worst at playing pranks, because guilt always showed on his face. Ergo, you knew instantly.

“Clark!”

Your second one was of anger and Clark smiled, ducking his head to the side. “Good morning?”

“Oh Clark, I hate you.” 

But Clark didn’t need his enhanced vision to see the way your lips quirked up as you struggled to not smile. 

“Are you free Friday night?” you asked him, peeking your head inside the bathroom where Clark was showering. Thankfully he was only showering and not doing anything else. 

“Uh, sweetheart, you know I’m always free Friday nights,” he said, wiping a hand over his face to see you better. 

You snorted. “Oh yeah. Forgot you were such a nerd. Oh well, consider yourself not free anymore. You know, you look really cute with your hair pushed back.”

He flushed.

“You blush down there too. Interesting.” 

You closed the door behind you and he let his forehead bump against the wall with a dull thud. Oh, he was in so much trouble. 

If Clark Kent stopped being dishonest with himself, he would finally let himself admit that he liked you more than normal friends, and more than their own brand of friendship.

His feelings for you ran as deep as the ocean, as old as the birth of his civilization. From the day he thought you were a scarecrow, to his first kiss. His first kiss was with you, of course. It was your first too. You said you wanted to know what the fuss was all about. 

Fireworks had erupted the moment your lips touched his, and never stopped once whenever he saw you. 

Clark Kent was really in love. With his first kiss, his first friend, his first love, you.

And it wasn’t as scary as people made it out to be, honestly. Nothing was scary when you were there. 

When he first started getting his powers, it was scary but you were there. You made it not scary. 

When Pa Kent had a health scare, it was really scary, but you were there. You made it not so scary. 

Point was, Clark wasn’t afraid of the depth of his feelings for you, because he had blind trust in you. (And something told him that you felt the same.) 

Even if you dragged him to random parties on a random Friday after work. It felt weird to spend eight hours cooped up behind his laptop and then find himself in a nightclub that same night, wearing clothes that were way too fitted. 

“I need you to wear something good,” you told him before dragging him into an impromptu shopping spree. It was planned for you, but it was a surprise for him. Really, who was he to tell you no? 

Your whistling and happiness were worth wearing something out of his zone of comfort. 

“You never leave your drink unattended, okay?” you warned him seriously. 

Clark only nodded sagely, even though he was fighting the stupid grin that was threatening to break on his face. It was cute how you worried for him, even though drugs literally had no effect on him. 

“No drinks left unattended, got it. And I don’t talk to strangers. Unless they’re cute.”

“Don’t sass me, young man. I’m doing this for you.”

His smile turned softer. “I know. Thank you, sweetheart.”

It was a regular nightclub, like any other. You wanted to taste their drinks, take pictures, have fun. Clark was used to these nights. You were there for the fun, he was there for you. 

He didn’t usually dance but there was something different about tonight. He remembered the way he felt when you went to dance with someone else, and he didn’t want to make the same mistake twice. 

He waited until you finished your drink to ask, “Can I have this dance?”

You looked at him with eyes wide like saucers. “Oh em gee!” you shrieked. “I thought you would never ask!”

If he’d known how happy it would make you, he wouldn’t have kept refusing you. 

He wasn’t really used to dancing, and the only thing that came to mind when he thought of dancing was slow dancing. So that’s what he had in mind when he asked you. But then you finished his glass in one go and pressed yourself to him until there was no more space left, and the rest of the world disappeared.

He could feel everything. The press of the swell of your breasts against his chest, your hands gliding along his waist, the intoxicating smell of your lavender perfume.

Oh yes. This was a nightclub. This was how people danced. He swallowed thickly. Maybe he chose the wrong time to ask for a dance. 

Your hands are now caressing your neck, up to your hair, your head turned to the side. You were one with the song, and Clark was frozen in place, hands hovering in the air, suddenly unsure whether he was allowed to touch you.

“Aw, Clarkie, getting shy on me now?” you teased him when you noticed him unmoving. You grabbed his hands and placed them on each side of your waist. “Just follow the music. Sway from one side to the other.”

He tried, but God did he feel stiff and watching you in your element didn’t help. The friction of your dancing body against him was doing something to his nerves.

“Look at how the man are dancing with the girls,” you whispered. “Try doing the same.”

He looked, and immediately averted his eyes. “I can’t do that,” he whispered in panic. “It’s… borderline graphic!”

You laughed. “Oh Clark. You’re adorable. I’m gonna grind on you,” you said with that same look on your face that said you were up to no good, and that Clark couldn’t even dream of surviving you.

“Please don’t,” he whimpered in a tiny voice. “At least not here, where everyone can see.”

You paused at that, your teasing smile frozen in place, and Clark watched with barely muted satisfaction at how he’d so easily rendered you speechless. 

But then your eyes turned mischievous, and Clark realized his mistake. “I like the sound of that.”

He groaned, throwing his head back. You used that moment of weakness to press your lips along the lines of his neck. Not a kiss, not a bite. Just the soft press of your lips against his neck.

And then you screamed when your favorite song came on, and it was like that moment never even happened. 

“This is my song!” you squealed excitedly. 

You were so drunk.

Clark Kent didn’t mind taking care of you when drunk. He would like to say it was because he always wants to take care of you, but the truth was a little more selfish than that. 

Sure, drunk you was a menace, but when you got tired and sleepy and drunk, you were always so sweet. So clingy, so desperately needy and Clark absolutely loved to take care of you in that state. You were already clingy on a normal day, but drunk and sleepy was a whole other level. If he didn’t have his Superman strength, he would never be able to extricate you from his body. You turned into an oversized, drunk, needy koala. Clark leaving for just one minute to bring you water was enough to send you into an inconsolable state, so he learned to improvise. Again, he was thankful for his superstrength allowing him to lift you with one arm while he took care of things. 

Tonight was no different. By the time you both reached your apartment, you were already dozing off to sleep but fighting it, your entire chest wrapped around Clark’s arm. 

“Clark, you’re staying the night, right?” you asked, voice muffled and words slurred. 

“Yes,” he replied, fighting hard a smile, turning his own copy of your keys in the lock. 

“And you’re staying with me, right?”

“Yes,” he replied. This time he couldn’t help the smile. He helped you walk inside.

Your bottom lip quivered, tears already forming in your eyes. You let go of him. “You hate me!” 

Clark’s eyes went wide. “What? Where the heck did that come from? I just said I was staying with you.”

“Yes, but you sounded like you hated me when you said it,” you replied, voice already watery. 

“Gosh no, what? I could never love you. I love you. Always have, always will.”

“So why did you stop calling me petnames? You hate me!”

You broke into tears in the middle of your living room and for the first time since ever, Clark felt utterly helpless. He hadn’t even noticed that he’d stopped. 

“Oh baby, is this what it’s about?” he cooed, and his heart broke when you nodded pitifully. “Come here sweetheart.”

He opened his arms and you launched yourself into them. He closed his hold around you, his arms wide enough so he could hide all of you, and protect you. Your shoulders shook with the strength of your sob, and once again he found himself wondering how such a tiny little thing could have so much feelings inside of her. 

“I love you baby, I could never hate you. Forgive me?”

“Okay,” you said, sniffing. A second later, he felt you wipe your snotty nose against the really nice shirt you got him earlier. He suppressed a small laugh. “I love you too. Even if you’re mean sometimes.” A pause. “Okay, you’re never mean. But still.”

“Thank you sweetheart.”

He kissed the crown of your head and you didn’t move for so long he thought you’d fallen asleep, but your heartbeat was still strong and rapid. 

“Let’s get ready for bed, okay?”

“Okay.” But you still didn’t move.

No matter, Clark thought. He had superstrength for a reason. He easily lifted you with one arm, and his heart swelled inside his chest at your giggle. You were such a strange girl. 

“Open up,” he said with a tap of his finger on your chin after he placed you on top of the bathroom counter, standing between your open legs, and pouring toothpaste on your toothbrush.

“Aaaah.”

“Good girl,” he praised, and started brushing your front teeth in gentle circular motions. 

You had your right index finger hooked inside his pants. You always needed to feel him around, even when he was literally brushing your teeth. 

Your mascara had run across your cheeks — unable to support a drunken night of dancing and singing and crying; your eyes were slightly red and your undereyes were swollen, and yet you were still the prettiest sight he’d ever laid eyes upon. Your lipstick was smeared across your lips, and Clark wanted to run his thumb across so badly, just to smear it even more.

You were patient while he meticulously brushed your teeth because you’d gotten used to him brushing them for two minutes exactly as prescribed by dentists. He was thorough in his cleaning, making sure you were properly clean before he makes you gargle and then spit in the sink. He didn’t give you water to rinse it off because he’d seen that you shouldn’t do that. 

Then, with movements honed with years of practice, he grabbed your cotton pads and miscellar water from your skin care product self.

“Can you close your eyes for me, sweetheart?”

The effect was instant. You pouted. “But I wanna see you.”

“I’ll be quick, I promise.”

“Okay.” 

You closed your eyes and he started with them, gently wiping your makeup with the cotton pad. “Almost done,” he whispered. Your fingers tugged at his pants. 

Then, it was your lips’ turn, and Clark imagined it was his thumb wiping them.

“Yucky. Doesn’t taste so good,” you mumbled.

He laughed. “Oh baby, you shouldn’t taste it.”

You pouted again. 

He used a fourth pad for your entire face, just to remove dirt and threw everything in the bin. 

You grinned at him, all sleepy and mellowed out and looking like the angel you were. You were still in your outside clothes — Clark hadn’t gotten to that — and the juxtaposition of your sweet and innocent smile and your clothing was endearing. You could do both so well, and he loved them both a lot, but he always preferred the side of you that felt more like his, the one with no pretenses, no walls put up. Just you and your unfiltered love. 

“All cleaned up, baby. Now we just need to get you into some comfortable clothes and we can go to sleep.”

You looked proud of yourself, even if all you’d done was lean sleepily against his chest and made his job a lot harder than it should. 

Neither of you blushed when he helped you take off your clothes. You were drunk and sleepy, and Clark would never take advantage of you in this state. His eyes didn’t look anywhere he wasn’t supposed to, and his movements were clinical. His hands didn’t linger, didn’t stray.

He loved you and that meant he would never hurt you. 

Then, finally, when you were both dressed and in bed, he gathered you in his arms and listened to your heartbeat until it slowed down. It never took too long, when he held you and you were drunk. You were always out like a light when he cuddled you close to his chest. 

Clark got the idea the next day, when you were under the showers and he saw your phone light up with a notification while he was still in bed. It was a notification from TikTok — he recognized that logo. 

He grabbed his own phone and downloaded the app himself, and struggled for close to thirty minutes just to create an account. Most of that time was spent figuring out a username (in the end he kept the default one TikTok gave every user). 

Then you came out of the shower and Clark forgot about it.

“Wanna go grab brunch?” you asked him, still dripping on the floor, towel around you.

“Sure. Bubby’s?”

“God yes.”

Bubby’s was your go-to restaurant whenever you were hangover — or just particularly hungry.

Clark didn’t waste a second and stood up from his bed, his phone completely forgotten. 

It was only a month later, when he received a notification from the app (that confused him for a good ten seconds until he remembered how he’d downloaded the app) inviting him to join a random person’s LIVE, that he remembered the really stupid idea he had.

He spent one hour learning how to use TikTok and another one trying to make a video. He kept accidentally deleting everything with his stupidly big thumbs and he tried five times before he finally finished.

It was nothing big — it wasn’t even a video. Just a static picture and some text, but he did it himself. He even managed to change the color of the words and add a gif (because he thought that was really cute and like something you would love).

He felt silly for how proud of himself he felt. He just hoped he didn’t do anything wrong, and then pressed on the post button. 

He wasn’t quite sure what hashtags were or even if they were needed, but he added one just in case — the first one that popped up. 

And then he deleted the app, promptly forgetting about it and going back to his usual life. It was either the stupidest idea he’d ever had, or the greatest one. In any case, he was already onto the next thing. Namely, taking you out to dinner in a near future. 

  ───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

You woke up to your phone absolutely blowing up. Clark was at work and had been for a few hours already.

It was strange, you thought as you looked at the hundreds of notifications showing up on your lockscreen. You hadn’t posted anything on there in so long, and definitely nothing about Clark (apparently your videos about him always did crazy well). 

Oh no, you thought to yourself. Were you getting cancelled?

Half of your notifications were mentions to a random video from an account with no name and no picture, and only one post.

IS THIS THE BSF?!?!

I KNEW IT!!!!

omg i ship them so bad

Is this @pinkbubbles’s bsf?!?! The girl in the picture looks so much like her

@pinkbubbles GIRL LOOK

LMAO i literally just saw the other pov of this, tiktok knows what its doing 

You clicked on the video. It was silent. It was just a picture, one that you recognized. It was you. A few years ago, when you’d traveled to the beach with Clark and he invited you to diner that night. He’d taken a picture of you, and he wanted to be subtle so your entire face didn’t show. Just your smile and your arms. 

The caption read: she doesn’t know i am so in love with her. 

This had to be Clark. The username and picture matched, and only him had access to that picture.

You burst out laughing when your read the caption and it was just ‘i hope she loves me back #charlidamelio’. But your heart was still hammering inside your ribcage like a crazed horse who wanted to break free.

Clark was in love with you. And he confessed through TikTok. Of all the places. It was so him and so unlike him at the same time, that you didn’t know whether you should laugh or cry or burst inside his office. 

Honestly, the crazier thing was that you had posted something exactly like it a few months ago. It was just a video of Clark, not showing his face, and the caption ‘he doesn’t know i am in love with him’. The only difference was that you’d used an actual song, and you didn’t use any hashtags. It wasn’t meant to go viral. It was just… a letter inside a bottle thrown to the sea. A way not to explode while holding onto what felt like your biggest secret. 

And Clark had the same idea, it seemed. A few months later, but still. You wondered when was it—what had pushed him to publish something like that. More importantly, how he’d even been able to do this, when Instagram as a concept itself broke him.

Oh God. He was in love with you, and his confession had gone viral. It was such a strange thing to say. Clark, going viral. Clark who only had an iPhone so that he could use iMessage with you and match lockscreens and sim card holders. Clark who thought TikTok was a song and not an app.

You think you’re going crazy. Clark Kent was going to be the death of you. 

He was acting like nothing was wrong when you met up with him after work. He had that dopey smile on his face, the one that meant that nothing was wrong and that the world was a beautiful and perfect place to be. He usually had a terrible poker face — just that one time he bought a fake cockroach to scare you and the guilt was written all over his face like face paint for children. One look at him and you realized that the monstrosity you woke up next to was fake, and none other than Clark’s latest childish stunt. 

Now 

So how did the man who couldn’t even keep a surprise secret without blubbering and stuttering over his words look so serene? As if he didn’t just break the Internet and turn upside down your heart in the same night. 

“Hey, baby,” he said, head tilted to the side like a confused little puppy who doesn’t understand why his owner wasn’t acting like normal? “How was your day?”

“Uh… um… it was okay. Thanks! How are yours?” 

He raised an eyebrow with a teasing tilt of his lips. “How are mine? Mine what?”

You’d meant to ask how his day was, but at the same time how he was, and your tongue twisted. Oh God. He was usually the awkward one out of the two of you. Not you. Never you. You didn’t even feel that awkward when you’d hugged him once and he felt your stupidly perk and hard nipples. Admittedly, that was because Clark had done something worse just the day before and by comparison nothing you could ever do could ever be worse. 

“I hate you,” you grumbled, slamming a weak fist against his chest. 

Why did it have to be you who found out? What even were you supposed to be doing with information like this? Kiss him? Offer him a ring?

Clark didn’t look particularly offended by that. His hand merely found its place on top of yours and squeezed. “Come on, let’s go. Where are you taking me tonight?”

Your mind blanked. “Uh. Home?”

“Then let’s go,” he replied, his hand finding its natural position at the back of your neck, warm and present and guiding without being oppressive. He’d done that particular gesture a thousand times and you’d never particularly reacted. But tonight, it was different. Tonight, you were being held by the neck with the knowledge that he loved you. That he was in love with you as well, and that maybe had always been. 

Well, if you were being honest with yourself, you would realize that this wasn’t supposed to be surprising. Clark was Clark and you were you, and the pair of you had always been like this — and your weird heteroerotic friendship had always been this way probably because you were both desperately and pathetically in love with each other. 

But panicking about required love was more dramatic.

“Clark.”

“That’s my name, yes.”

“Smartass.”

He smiled in reply. 

He was being so weirdly normal. As if he hadn’t posted his confession for possibly millions to see last night. 

What if that wasn’t even him? What if someone hacked his phone and got his pictures of her? Poor Clark was definitely the kind of person who would fall for a phishing scam. There was a 33% chance of him actually being hacked. This was serious. You had to talk to him about it. 

But… not now. 

Now, you were going home with your best friend of almost thirty years and you were going to make him make dinner and you’re going to light candles and then you’re going to make him take pictures of you. 

It was a regular night for the two of you. Except for the glaringly obvious and impossibly unavoidable fact that made every moment, every look, every touch a thousand times more… charged. More intimate. More… 

You were running out of adjectives. 

“This pasta is wonderful,” you told him and appreciated the way his ears still turned pink every time you praised his cooking. 

“Ah, well, thank you, sweetheart. I wanted to make them from scratch but I didn’t have time.”

“Another time,” you replied. His homemade pasta was to die for, and he always made the best shapes ever. (One time you stole dough from him and made a penis shaped pasta. He couldn’t look you in the eyes without bursting into laughter for the rest of the evening.)

“Another time,” he confirmed. 

Silence fell. The flames were still flickering, unbothered and swaying to the dancing of the air. It cast a particularly romantic light to the whole scene. Which was fitting, considering the two of you were apparently in love with each other, and probably have been for the past two decades.

Oh no. Have you guys wasted two decades for nothing when you could have been happily dating and in love? Perhaps you’d have even been married by now. Yeah, definitely married by now. 

“Clark.”

His fork stilled mid-twirl and looked up to you, his entire attention riveted on you. 

“Could you pass me the salt?”

His sauce was perfectly seasoned but it wasn’t your fault you chickened out right at the last minute. 

“Sure thing,” he replied, standing without a complaint and getting it from the kitchen. 

You were going to talk about the marriage thing another date. Well, you figured you should talk about the confession thing first. 

You can do this. 

You should also do something about those really nosy followers of yours who demanded an update quite literally every hour. 

You really missed life back when you only had one follower — Clark’s account before he forgot the password and gave up on having an online presence. 

You couldn’t post a single story of a cute cat you saw without getting swarmed with messages and comments, and not one of them was about the cute feline. 

“Hey Clark, look at this cute cat I saw earlier.” 

When in doubt (read: lacking attention), always turn to Clark. 

“Oh look at that little fella,” he replied, genuinely excited to see him. You could always trust him to say the right thing. “Was he on your way to work?”

“Uh-huh,” you replied. “He was sooo cute. Almost adopted him.”

“Why didn’t you?”

Oh, yeah. He was perfect. 

“Well we hadn’t talked beforehand about bringing a child into this life so I didn’t want to presume.”

“Next time, then.”

“Next time,” you confirmed. 

As easy as that. He’d agreed to adopt a child, so the marriage talk would be easier than anticipated. 

Naturally, you found yourselves at a rescue center, trying to find the perfect fit for them. Clark wanted a dog, you wanted a cat, so you compromised and got a really old cat who’d been waiting for a forever home for fifteen years. 

Her name was Bean (you let Clark pick) and she was both the loveliest and saddest creature you both had ever seen. Her favorite spot to sleep was between the two of you, and she got sad whenever Clark wasn’t staying over the night, so Clark officially moved in. For Bean, of course. 

Clark was, much to your dismay, her favorite, but you understood her. Clark was your favorite as well. 

“You know,” Clark said one day while Bean was busy purring up a storm on top of his large chest (oh how you were jealous), “she really reminds me of you. She always meows outside the bathroom door whenever I take a shower, and she recently learnt how to open the door. Just to stare at me.”

You snorted. “That does sound like something I would do.”

Clark scratched behind Bean’s ears subconsciously. “It’s not just that. It’s… well, she’s quite clingy.”

“I am not clingy,” you refuted automatically, but it was more of a knee-jerk reaction than anything. 

Bean meowed in displeasure too. 

“Sweetheart, you’re currently using my arm as a body pillow.”

“Doesn’t mean anything.” Bean meowed. “See? She agrees. We aren’t clingy.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He scratched the top of your head, and you think he meant to scratch Bean’s head, not yours, but you found that you absolutely didn’t mind. 

“Meow,” you said, just to really sell it in case he suspected something. 

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

Clark was pleasantly surprised when Lois told him that she wanted to see you again. Jimmy, of course, heard it and was promptly standing guard at Clark’s desk. 

“I want to see her too,” he said. As always, he was expertly (read: awkwardly) avoiding the looks a coworker had been giving him for the past three days. 

“Uh…” he pushed his glasses up his nose. “Sure. She would love that. And I would love that too.”

“It’s weird, we thought you would be more ecstatic than this,” Jimmy said. 

“You guys talk about me behind my back?”

“Duh,” Lois replied. “What else are we supposed to do when you randomly and suspiciously disappear at random intervals during a work day?”

He blushed. “Fair enough. But why did you think I would be happier than this?”

Lois and Jimmy shared a look. “How can he be so big yet so dense?” Lois asked. 

“Hey!”

“Honestly, I just want to know what went through his brain at that moment,” Jimmy said, like he was discussing the weather. “Was he held at gun point? Did his phone become conscious on its own? How did he even know how to use the app?”

“I couldn’t have asked better questions myself,” Lois said, nodding wisely as she took a sip from her monstrous drink. “Clark, would you be up for an interview later?”

Clark frowned. “What… what is going on?”

They shared a look. 

“I don’t think he knows that we know.” 

“Or that the entire Internet knows,” Lois added. 

“Or that she knows,” Jimmy appended. 

“He thinks he’s sleek with it,” Lois commented. 

“Stop talking like creepy twins!” he shrieked. His dignity was never left intact around those two. “What is going on? No, I don’t wanna know. I need to take a break.”

“Should we tell him?”

“Yes. I mean, they adopted a cat together. I don’t think he knows the implications of it.”

“What does Bean have anything to do with any of this?”

“Bean is your child. You’re the father, your best friend is the mother. You guys have moved in together, you co-parent a child, and you’re both in love.”

He finally blushed. “No we’re not.”

“Yes, you are. You confessed to her and she confessed to you.”

“Wait… when did she confess?”

“Oh great heavens.”

Taking an impromptu coffee break, they dragged Clark to the break room where they sat him down (he was going to need it) and showed him his video on Jimmy’s phone and her video on Lois’ phone. 

“Who are you and what have you done with our Clark Kent?” 

“The Clark I know would have never confessed like this. Granted, it’s cute, but it’s not something Clark would do.”

“He can barely use the selfie mode on his phone!”

Clark Kent really felt like a hostage being interrogated, with the two of them looming over him like menacing journalists who wanted to get to the bottom of this. The only thing missing was the table and a threatening lamp projected right in his face, blinding him. He could very well see Lois with a foot up on her chair, elbow on her knee as she stared him down so menacingly he had half a mind to confess to things he didn’t even do, just to make her stop. 

 His face was impossibly red, and the only thing he was thinking about wasn’t about how millions of people saw his video, but that you must have seen it, because everyone was tagging you in the comments, and this was definitely not the way he expected to confess to you. 

Beneath it all though, his chest was rumbling with pleasure at the confirmation — finally — that you felt the same. Knowing it was different from being clearly told. 

“Stop grinning like an idiot, this is making me wanna puke.”

“Gross. Maybe we shouldn’t have shown him this. His face is making a very disturbing and off putting expression.”

“I’m just happy and mortified! Can’t I be happy and mortified in peace?” Clark whined. 

“No,” came their reply in unison. 

“Guys, something came up. I have to go. Tell Perry I’ll work from home.”

He doesn’t wait a second for their answer. Quite frankly, he didn’t care much at the moment. He had a girl waiting for him at home to kiss her senseless.  

masterlist ᯓ★ directory ᯓ★ come say hi

[stargazsblog]

I CAN SEE YOU ──꒰✉️꒱ ❞ ‧₊˚

｡𖦹°‧⭑.ᐟ clark kent x fem!reader

꣑ৎ you and clark have been secretly dating for three months. no touching, barley talking at work. so why does it feel like everyone knows?

꣑ৎ now playing - i can see you by taylor swift

tag/warnings: fluff, swearing, making out

note: KITCHEN SCENE!!!!! i know i am a little late on this but i just watched superman a week ago and oh my god i love it sm

Working with Clark is probably the most stressful thing ever. Not because he’s difficult—he’s actually the sweetest person in the office. Always kind, always helpful, always handsome.

Which makes it even worse.

Because you’re dating him. Secretly.

And if you told anyone that, no one would believe you. You two barely even look at each other during work hours. He treats you like any other coworker—polite, distant, professional. And you’ve gotten pretty good at pretending you don’t stare every time he rolls up his sleeves or adjusts his glasses.

But now? Now it’s been three months. Three months of pretending you don’t notice him when he walks past your desk with his tie slightly loosened and a coffee in each hand—only placing one on Lois’s desk.

Three months of pretending you’re not dating the guy who texts you goodnight with terrible emojis and kisses your forehead like he’s scared he’ll break you.

And somehow, it still feels like everyone knows.

Maybe it’s the way Jimmy gives you a look every time Clark walks by. Or how Lois asked—very casually—if there’s someone special in your life. Or how Clark, bless him, keeps sneaking glances at you when he thinks no one’s looking.

Working with Clark Kent is exhausting.

You don’t see Clark, but you know he’s late. Again.

You’re standing by the printer near his desk, waiting for your files to finish printing. It’s the closest you’ve been to his chair all week, and it still feels too close. He’s usually already here by now—tie straight, glasses slightly fogged from the rush in. But today, his desk is empty.

Or… it was.

While you’re focused on the machine slowly spitting out paper, you don’t notice him quietly slipping in behind you. You only hear the sound of his bag hitting the floor.

“So this guy flew into Midtown and started attacking people, demanding Superman show up?” Lois says, her voice sharp and curious.

You freeze, your hand hovering over the warm stack of papers. You don’t turn around. You can’t. You already know exactly what they’re talking about. Clark had come to you right after—scuffed up, hair messy, eyes tired. He held you for a long time and whispered, “I’m okay.”

Now he’s here, in clean clothes and calm glasses, like none of it happened.

“Yeah,” Clark replies easily. “It’s all there in my article.”

You can’t help it—your lips twitch into a small smile. His voice is warm, smooth, and steady. Totally unbothered. Like he hadn’t just saved the world again.

You force your attention back to your papers, trying to ignore the twist of jealousy in your stomach. Lois is always talking to him. Laughing with him. She has no idea.

You’ve just collected the last page when you hear someone call your name.

“Hey, Y/N!”

You turn instinctively—and freeze.

Jimmy’s smiling at you from across the room. So is Lois. And so is Clark.

All three of them are watching you, but it’s Clark’s eyes you notice first. There’s a flicker of something behind his glasses. That soft, familiar look he gives you when no one else is around. The one that says, I see you.

You swallow hard, cheeks warming. You pray no one notices.

“Uh—yeah?” you say, pretending like your heart isn’t racing.

Jimmy grins and waves you over. “We were just talking about the Superman situation. You saw it, right?”

You nod slowly, trying not to look at Clark. “Yeah. I saw some stuff online this morning.”

“Total chaos,” Lois adds, crossing her arms. “Guy shows up out of nowhere, starts attacking people.”

Jimmy leans forward, eyes lighting up. “So what do you think of him, Y/N? Superman, I mean.”

Your brain short-circuits. You know they’re just making conversation, but suddenly it feels like the room is too bright, too quiet, like Clark’s staring straight through you.

What do you think of Superman?

You think he’s brave. You think he’s gentle. You think he makes you pancakes at 2 a.m. and wraps you in his arms like you’re the most important person in the universe.

But you can’t say any of that.

So you shrug, and hope your smile doesn’t look as nervous as it feels.

“I mean, he’s cool. I guess?” you say, casually, maybe too casually.

Clark lets out a soft chuckle behind you. Just one little laugh—but you hear it loud and clear.

“Just cool?” Jimmy raises an eyebrow, clearly enjoying this.

You blink, flustered. “I mean—do you want me to stand here and praise him for what he does?” you say, half-laughing. “He’s Superman. He’s already got enough fan clubs.”

Lois smirks. “So you’re not a fan?”

“I didn’t say that!” you rush to add. “I just—he’s fine. He does good things. Very… heroic.”

You feel Clark’s eyes on you. You know he’s trying not to smile.

Jimmy grins like he’s cracked some secret code. “You’re totally hiding a crush.”

Your eyes widen. “What? No. Nope. Not at all.”

“Okay, okay,” Lois says, waving it off, “let her live. We’ve all got our opinions.”

You mutter something about needing to get back to work and shuffle away, heat blooming across your cheeks. You don’t dare look at Clark as you pass him—but he leans in just slightly as you go by and murmurs, barely audible:

“Just cool, huh?”

You don’t even look at him. But your smile gives you away.

Your hair’s a mess, your shirt’s half-unbuttoned, and your bag is slipping off your arm. You don’t even bother turning on the lights as you shut the door behind you with your foot and toss your keys somewhere near the counter.

You drag yourself into the kitchen, already reaching for the fridge.

You let out a loud scream.

“Holy shit, Clark!”

Because there he is. In your kitchen. Like it’s totally normal. Shirt sleeves rolled up, glasses off, standing barefoot in front of the stove like he hasn’t just scared ten years off your life.

He glances over his shoulder, completely calm. “Hey.”

“Babe, next time text me you’re coming,” you say, hand still pressed to your chest.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says as he turns off the stove and walks toward you, warm and soft in every movement. “I just know how stressed you’ve been lately, so I wanted to make your favorite—breakfast for dinner.”

You set your bag down and walk toward him, a small smile tugging at your lips.

“That’s your favorite,” you reply.

He grins, dimples and all—those dimples.

“No… last time I checked, you love breakfast for dinner,” he teases, slipping his arms around your waist.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders with a quiet laugh. “You’re annoying.”

“And you’re adorable,” he murmurs before leaning in to kiss you, soft and slow like he has all the time in the world.

Then, without warning, he picks you up effortlessly and sets you on the kitchen counter. You squeak a little, grinning against his lips.

“I thought you were tired,” he says, voice low and amused.

“I was. Then you showed up looking like this,” you tease, tugging playfully at his rolled sleeves.

Clark lets out a hum and starts kissing your neck, slow and deliberate, like he has nowhere else to be but here with you.

“You know,” he whispers between kisses, his lips brushing just under your jaw, “I think we’re doing pretty good at hiding our relationship.”

“You think?” you breathe out, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “Pretty sure your friends have been looking at me weird.”

He smiles against your skin. “Let them look.”

His hands slip under the hem of your shirt, fingertips skimming your waist. “They don’t know anything.”

You tilt your head back slightly, giving him more access, your voice barely a whisper. “They know something.”

Clark pulls back just enough to meet your eyes—dark, soft, and burning with something heavy. “Do you want to stop?”

Your pulse stutters. “No.”

His mouth meets yours, deeper this time, and when he lifts you off the counter and starts walking you toward the bedroom, you forget about Jimmy, Lois,—everything except him.

The newsroom hums with the usual clatter — phones ringing, typing, someone arguing near the printers. You step off the elevator, pretending like everything’s normal. Like you didn’t spend the night in Clark’s arms. Like your shirt doesn’t still smell faintly like his cologne.

Clark walks in behind you, a minute later. Casual. Professional. His tie’s slightly crooked.

You brush past each other in the hallway. Barely. Not even enough for anyone to notice—

Except Jimmy.

Jimmy, sitting at his desk with a half-eaten bagel, tracks the interaction like he’s watching a spy movie. His eyes squint. He leans over toward Lois, lowering his voice like he’s about to break the biggest story of the year.

“How long have they been dating?” he asks.

Lois doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t even glance away from her computer.

“Three months.”

Jimmy chokes on his bite. “Wait, what?! You knew?!”

Lois finally looks up, unimpressed. “Jimmy. Please. Clark literally smiles now. He’s writing down his so-called funny jokes and he’s wearing cologne. You think he does that for himself?”

Jimmy blinks, stunned. “I thought he was just… glowing.”

Lois rolls her eyes and goes back to typing. “He’s in love, not radioactive.”

[icybarness]

i have this idea of reader getting clark to try on period cramp simulator…ik he can handle quite an amount of pain but i just wanna read his reaction

Periods

Pairings: Clark Kent x reader | Wc: 733

Notes: Rahhh thank you so much for 1k notes on Size kink with David! Feel free to check out my masterlist 😜 also kinda not proofread!

Summary: You try a period simulator on Clark.

Warnings: mentions of periods!

After having brunch with your girls down the street near your shared apartment with Clark, you decided to walk home, until you ran into a small knick-knack shop. Making your way into the store, the hundreds of random miscellaneous items flood your vision. From the walls to the shelves, every little corner was filled with something.

You decide to browse through the various games, books, house decor, and more until one box catches your eye.

Hm. A period pain simulator? Interesting.

For a cheap price, you decided to make your way to the cashier to purchase it, wanting to test it out on your loving boyfriend. Would he really feel anything? Probably not. But you just wanted to try. To see.

You knew it wouldn't bring him any pain, but it was more out of your curiosity.

Can Superman feel period cramps?

Finally making it home, you open the front door to see your Clark in his black work khakis and a white button-up, sleeves rolled up, indicating he must have gotten home from work not that long ago.

“Hey, sweetheart, how was the brunch today with the girls?” making his way over to you for a tenderized, welcome home kiss.

Murmuring against his lips, “ Mmm- It was wonderful.” But as you pull back, you bring the box in between you two.

“I got a little something from the store coming home.” As you bring the box up closer to his face, grinning.

An eyebrow raised, he examines the box closely, “P-period cramp simulator?” 

“Yeah!  Can I try it on you, baby?!” as the excitement seeps into you, “I know this might be nothing to you, just wanna see if you can feel it,  but I just wanna try, pretty please?” you ask, giving your boyfriend the puppy eyes he can never say no to.

The heat in his cheeks rises,  blossoming to a rosy pink. Your curiosity for him to try makes him nervous, but he can never say no to you ever.

“Y-yeah yeah, honey of course.” 

The two of you make it to the couch as you insist he lie down. You slowly take the hem of his white button-up to pull it up, revealing his abs. God, it still makes your heart beat faster all the time.

Do you even think this might work? You didn't even know. Opening the box, you set up the patches on different parts of his abdomen, setting up the settings on the device. “You ready?” as you look up at him.

“Ready as ever, Cronkite.”

You set the dial to level 1, the easiest part, and watch Clark to see if he feels something, anything.

“Do you feel it?” 

“I don’t. Is that thing even on?”  joking, scoffing like it's nothing to him.

Once you slowly hit the dial to five, it starts a reaction from him. “O-Oh, okay, yeah, I do feel it. Is this what you go through every month, baby?” as he looks into your eyes, feeling a huge guilt that you have to go through this every month.

“Yeah, unfortunate, right?” you giggled; you know Clark can't feel pain, especially with this machine, but it fascinated you that he was able to feel the sensations that come through it.

You slowly make your way to the tenth level, the most intense, and Clark shifts his gaze to you immediately. “Whoa, whoa! Sweetheart this is what you feel?!”

You break out in a fit of giggles, finding it hilarious that Clark figures the pain periods come in.

“Y-Yeah, I do – I describe the level ten as the brutal part during my cycle,” you breathe in, catching yourself for some air from all the laughter. You eventually turn off the machine.

“Sweetheart…. Really?” he sits up now, leaning over to you, directing his steel blue eyes to yours, and you see the worry washing across them. Feeling guilty, knowing that it's natural, he can't help but feel so helpless that he can't take away the pain that happens every month.

“Baby– it's okay. You help soothe the pain always, you make it better for me than it seems. The soups, snacks, heating pads, kisses, and cuddles? That's all I need.” You cupped his jaw and brought him in for a kiss, letting him know that you feel safe and better when he's around you.

Since that day, Clark has given you extra of everything for the months of your cycle.

[y4-mama]

M'kay- I have a request for David Corenswet!Superman (if you are up for it.) It's been in my head since I saw the movie sooo...

Okay, so- Clark, Lois, Jimmy, and Reader are all sent to a party/gala that the Mayor of Metropolis is hosting, and they are there because Bruce Wayne is along with other major millionaires/billionaires. Sometimes, throughout the night, Bruce sees Reader and Lois talking and starts flirting with Reader (though Reader thinks he's flirting with Lois). And Clark sees and gets jealous and just goes up to them and pushes Bruce away from them.

And makes some comment to Bruce that she's his girl. Reader is surprised.

(Whether Bruce knows Clark is Superman is up to you.)

I just want a Bruce/ Clark rivalry.

She’s with Smallville.

David!Clark Kent x Reader

Content: jealousy, possessive behavior, implied rivalry/competition between love interests, mild verbal confrontation, and suggestive romantic tension.

WC: 1.21k

A/N: i am SO sorry for taking so long to get to this. came someone PLEASE tell me why the “keep reading” thing doesn’t work on my fics it’s driving me insane😭 if you want to request something here are my rules and who i write for

The grand atrium of Metropolis City Hall glittered like a jewel box that night. Strings swelled from the quartet in the corner, chandeliers threw prisms of light across polished marble floors, and every person in the room radiated money, power, or a desperate hunger for one or the other.

You weren’t sure why you felt so out of place. The dress Lois had bullied you into borrowing fit well enough, your shoes didn’t pinch too badly, and Jimmy assured you you looked “camera-ready” before you’d even left the Daily Planet. Still, standing among senators, CEOs, and socialites made you tug at your strap nervously, wishing you’d brought a notebook to hide behind.

“Relax,” Lois murmured, nudging you with her elbow as the four of you entered together. “We’re not here to outshine anyone, we’re here to observe.”

“Speak for yourself,” Jimmy whispered, already fiddling with his camera, trying to capture shots of the opulent floral arrangements. “If I get a picture of Bruce Wayne tonight, I’ll outshine Pulitzer Lane herself.”

Clark, towering and broad-shouldered even in an ill-fitting jacket, smiled faintly at Jimmy’s excitement. He adjusted his tie, glancing across the atrium. “Looks like you’ll get your chance.”

Because Bruce Wayne had arrived.

It was like a ripple passed through the crowd, conversations dipped, glances darted, the Mayor himself strode forward to shake the Gotham billionaire’s hand. Bruce took it all with calm ease, flashing a polite smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He wore his suit like it was spun from shadow, and when he lifted his gaze from the Mayor’s flattery, it landed squarely on you.

You froze.

Surely you’d imagined it. There was no reason for Bruce Wayne to notice you in a room like this. But Lois noticed the direction of his gaze instantly. A sly grin tugged at her lips.

“Well, well. Looks like Gotham’s finest isn’t here just for politics.”

“What?” you hissed, cheeks heating. “He’s probably looking at you-”

“Sweetheart, I know when a man’s looking at me,” Lois said, smug. “And trust me, he’s not.”

Before you could argue, Bruce detached himself from the Mayor and began making his way toward the bar. Lois dragged you with her in that direction, muttering something about champagne.

The moment Bruce reached the bar beside you, the room seemed to hush. “Lois Lane,” he greeted smoothly, offering his hand. “Your reputation precedes you.”

Lois shook it, smirking. “And yours precedes you further.”

His chuckle was low, practiced. But when his gaze shifted to you, something changed. His smile softened, becoming less of a mask. “And you are?”

“I-I’m just-”

Lois cut in and gave him your name, clearly enjoying your fluster. “Researcher. She keeps the rest of us from printing garbage.”

Bruce’s attention lingered, sharp and unrelenting. “Metropolis has been hiding its real treasure.”

You laughed awkwardly, trying to deflect. “You meant Lois.”

“I didn’t.” His voice was velvet and certainty all at once.

The conversation spun from there. He asked you questions, genuine or strategic, you couldn’t tell, about your work, your city, your thoughts on the press. Every time you tried to involve Lois, Bruce circled back to you. His hand brushed the bar near yours when he set down his drink, his eyes caught yours just a fraction too long.

Lois, for her part, was eating it up, sipping champagne and biting back laughter.

And across the room, Clark Kent was unraveling.

He could hear it all: Bruce’s low tone, your quickened pulse, Lois’ muffled amusement. Jealousy wasn’t an emotion Clark often let take root, but it thrummed through him now. Unwelcome, hot, and entirely human. He knew Bruce Wayne’s reputation, the way he collected conquests like cufflinks, the way he looked at people like puzzles to be solved. And he hated that you were suddenly his latest curiosity.

Clark moved. He didn’t storm. Clark Kent didn’t storm, but his steps ate the space between you and Bruce with quiet finality. His large hand landed on Bruce’s shoulder, firm enough to halt him mid-sentence.

“That’s close enough, Wayne,” Clark said, his voice low, rougher than you’d ever heard.

Bruce turned, eyebrows lifting in mild surprise. “Kent.”

“She’s my girl,” Clark said, the words steady as bedrock.

Your breath caught. “I’m what?”

Bruce’s lips curved into a sharper smirk, eyes gleaming. “Interesting. I wasn’t aware.”

“You are now.” Clark’s hand didn’t budge from Bruce’s shoulder. His gaze. Usually so kind, so unassuming behind those glasses, burned with a heat that pinned Bruce where he stood.

The standoff lasted only seconds, but it felt eternal. Finally, Bruce inclined his head, a predator’s smile playing at his lips. “Of course. I wouldn’t dream of overstepping.” He eased back, but not before murmuring, “Gotham and Metropolis, always full of surprises.”

As he melted back into the crowd, Lois let out a bark of laughter. “Well, Smallville, you sure made tonight interesting.”

You turned on Clark, still reeling. “Your girl?”

His ears flushed crimson. “I-I didn’t like the way he was looking at you.”

“So you staked a claim?”

He adjusted his glasses, sheepish. “Guess I did.”

You didn’t have time to argue before Bruce returned. Not to the bar, this time, to the dance floor. He extended his hand toward you with a charming smile. “One dance? No harm in that… unless your guard dog objects.”

Lois nearly choked on her drink. Jimmy muttered, “Oh boy.”

Clark’s jaw tightened. “She doesn’t owe you anything.”

But Bruce didn’t drop his hand. His eyes flicked to you, daring, amused. The crowd was watching now.

Your heart pounded. You should’ve said no. But Lois’ elbow nudged your ribs, and before you knew it, your hand was in Bruce Wayne’s and he was leading you onto the floor.

The dance was smooth, practiced. Bruce moved like a man who’d done this a thousand times. His touch was polite but firm, his words low enough for only you to hear. “You should know, Clark Kent doesn’t scare me.”

“He wasn’t trying to-”

Bruce’s smirk silenced you. “He called you his. If he’s going to say it, he should be prepared to prove it.”

The dance ended, applause fluttered, and Bruce bowed gallantly before releasing your hand. “Thank you.” His eyes flicked to Clark, still watching like a storm about to break. “Until next time.”

You barely had a chance to breathe before Clark was at your side again, his hand gentle but insistent on your arm as he guided you away from the crowd. His expression was thunderous.

“Clark-”

“I don’t like him around you,” he admitted, voice taut. “Not just because it’s Wayne. Because he looks at you like you’re a game.”

“And you look at me like… what?” you asked softly.

His gaze softened instantly, the storm in his eyes giving way to something vulnerable, unshakable. “Like you’re the best part of my life.”

You froze, heart in your throat. For once, Clark didn’t look away. He didn’t hide behind awkward laughter or push his glasses up to stall. He just looked at you, steady and sure, and let the truth hang between you.

Bruce Wayne might’ve been watching from across the room, amusement still tugging at his lips, but he’d already lost.

Because when Clark said you’re mine, it wasn’t a claim. It was a promise.

[auvespertine]

clark kent who lets you sit on his lap as he work on a new article in your shared apartment—he would place soft kisses on the top of your head while you traced little shapes on his chest with your fingertips.

it’s a comfortable silence. his warmth, and his familiar scent always making you feel safe. at home.

clark does feel the same with you. he loves the way you look at him with such adoration, as if he is the most important person in your life. the way you pepper him with kisses—along his jaw, his neck.

he loves the way you playfully nuzzle your noses together, leaving the two of you giggling like lovestruck teenagers.

he appreciates how you take your time cleaning his glasses when they get smudged, and how you place them back on him again. your fingers lightly brushing his face. so soft. so gentle.

he loves when you sit on his lap, fiddling with the buttons of his shirt as you hum your favorite song until you drift off to sleep.

and clark kent—your ever devoted and sweet lover, would never wish for anything more than to stay like this with you forever in his arms.

[vitoriadior]

Your english teacher and your gym teacher are getting married.

Clark Kent x Fem!Reader. Masterlist

Summary: Where your kids and Clark's kids are 100 percent sure the English teacher (You) and the gym teacher (Clark) are dating.

You don't mean for your students to think you're dating Clark—of course not. But of course no one can put a limit on the imagination of a group of kids with a gym teacher like Coach Kent and a English teacher like you. So while Clark is carrying a soccer ball under his arm and a stack of notebooks that he's helping you with, you smile at him, Clark blushes, and two girls giggle behind you.

"Look at them, they look like real husband and wife." One of them covers her mouth with her fingertips as she watches Clark clumsily drop the ball when he hears you laugh.

"Can you imagine them having a date? That would be so romantic," the other girl sighs, imagining the gym teacher as english miss's prince.

In the background of the girls, there are two boys making disgusted faces and pretending to throw up. The cool couch Kent hanging out with the boring English teacher? Ew. "Coach, swear you're not dating Miss English."

"What?" Clark, who is in the schoolyard with his class, frowns as if he were speaking another language and blushes when he understands the question.

"Yes, swear it!" Another boy, with the soccer ball in his hands, stands still, refusing to put it down until the Coach takes the oath.

"I'm not— I'm not dating her," Clark shakes his head, adjusting his cap so the kids won't notice his blush.

"Why? Did— did she said something about me?"

So maybe Coach Kent had a crush on you. Kids always tell the truth, so even the school custodians were aware of the way Coach would stare at you whenever he interrupted your class, Or how he always timidly saved you a place next to him in the teachers' lounge. When he enters your class, he always makes sure to adjust his cap and greet you shyly, then put a much stronger and coach-like voice towards the kids

He might be eating a turkey sandwich at the lunch tables as hungrily and messily as a bear, but if you're there, he'll turn into the most well-mannered man in the world. He might also make sure he's not sweating around you, and maybe put on a little of cologne (Pa Kent says that women love cologne)

Sometimes he even stays behind the door of your classroom, sure that no one sees him smiling while he listens to you read a story or sing a song. girls will giggle, boys will threaten to vomit

You are calmly giving your class as usual, the sound of the gym class in the courtyard is muffled by the windows. Rachel, your student with two blonde pigtails and green eyes is reading the second paragraph of the Little Mermaid when a football ball hits your face. All the children burst into laughter

You can hear all the noise from the playground disappear in seconds, and with a vision half blurred by the impact as the window of your classroom is broken. All the children in your class are peering out the broken window, completely ignoring the fact that you are shocked and your face is swollen from the blow.

"Look, it's Coach Kent!" The children laugh at the coach's scared face. Clark had the expression of someone who had just seen a ghost, although what he actually saw was the ball hitting your face. Someone had inadvertently used a little bit of Superman strength, all because he was so silly and distracted admiring the English teacher's profile.

Clark is in your classroom with his entire class behind him in a matter of seconds, he has a hand on yours, checking your nose "Are you okay? I didn't break you anything, right?" The second question comes out with more fear and guilt than the first. But that's nothing until he sees your nose start to bleed.

"What— What are you—" Before you know it, Clark has picked you up off the floor like you weighed as much as a pillow and carried you princess style as he stormed out of the classroom, still with all the kids following behind "Coach—what are you doing?"

"I'm taking you to the nursing" Clark doesn't see you as he walks, but only when his ears turn completely red like strawberries does he tell you everything. Was there a need to carry you like a princess? Not really. All the children had made a fuss for him to carry you? Actually yes.

Being so close to you makes Clark feel like he's in a trance. Having his hands on you, and you having one of your hands around his neck (because you have the other one squeezing your nose) seems like a dream. Of course, the fact that your nose and face are like that because of him isn't so much part of the dream

"I'm telling you it's okay," you smiled as the nurse gave you something cool to put on your face, while Clark kept apologizing over and over again. He had the eyes of a puppy who knows he deserves to sleep outside.

"It's not okay," Clark insists, thanking the nurse once she returns to her desk. You're sitting on the table while Coach stands between your legs with that expression. Your friends would call it the pathetic man expression, a yearning expression. All you know is that your face feels hotter than before. "I'm so— so sorry"

"Please let me make it up to you" and you really know you can't say no. "Please"

You're so focused on Clark that you both come out of the same atmosphere when you hear the children behind the door. "Miss, forgave coach Clark, please!"

"Yes, he's very sorry!" The girls defend you while the boys try to defend their Coach with little resources. "And— and he likes you a lot! He didn't do it on purpose!"

"Yes!" All the children, this time boys and girls say at the same time, while Clark knows that the children do it to support him, he can't help but feel embarrassed. Is it so obvious?

"Please, pretty pleaseeeee?"

You laugh and shake your head. "Look at you, you have a whole group of lawyers defending you." Clark himself chuckles, the color in his face not disappearing. The nurse might say that he has a fever.

"Yeah. I do"

Taglist: @starincarnated @angelicp0etry @yeonalie @lator-gators @starssfall @moomumu @chamorunsmiles @urlittleangelbaby @americanboz0 @mysticdinosaurpirate @spiidergwenn @sugarbutterbailey @pestoluvr8 @ilovemangoes444 @kaiparkerwife @qardasngan @animegamerfox @helloimamistake @rinapomu @chaoticroaddreamerpasta @ryomku @dreamlesssleepsaga @yzuposts @mickey-mouse-crackhouse1902 @j07lvrg @khxna @1wannab3inaband @wintersoldierenthusiastt @yyiikes @rosie-hao @psiiconic @httpstoyosi @lettucel0ver @scorpio-echo @iveofficiallylostmymarbles @aratakiittooo @angelicprincess12 @pinkluv29

@shine101 @karimestarksworld @lortheswiftie @bangtanevermore @njdluvr @justamina-blog @avroravia @m3lod7 @just-pure-trash @pprettyvisitorr @againanothersideblog @differentcandycreation @hagarsays

[marvel-hiddles-stark]

midnight snuggles

david!clark kent x fem!reader

summary: clark returns to you sometime in the middle of the night. you hold him close, grateful that he’s home. 

wc: 1.2k

tags & cw: sfw, pure fluff, fem reader, established relationship, cuddles (oh to be held by clark kent), KISSES KISSES KISSES, short, sweet, and wholesome

a/n: oh, nothing. just me being a lovesick fool imagining midnight cuddles with clark.

want some more clark content? Check out my masterlist!

It has to be the wee hours of the morning when you finally feel the bed dip to your left. You can’t recall when you’d fallen asleep; probably sometime after eleven, reading glasses haphazardly falling down your nose, TV still playing some cliche rom-com you’d had on for background noise as you caught up on emails for The Daily Planet. 

Having never been a heavy sleeper, you stir easily at the feel of your cheaters being removed from your face. Warm lips press into your forehead, tender and lingering. 

“Mmm…Clark?” 

“Hey, baby,” comes his response, low and silk-soft as you struggle to blink the sleep out of your eyes. 

In the darkness of your bedroom, it’s difficult to make out anything beyond the broad shape of him leaning over you, a large hand moving to caress the apple of your cheek. You manage to rest your hand over his with an obnoxious yawn that sneaks up on you out of nowhere. 

You barely catch Clark’s lips twitching down into a frown. “You waitin’ up for me again? The TV was still on.” 

His tone isn’t exactly condescending, it’s worried. As though you’d die without a few extra hours of sleep from ensuring that your superhero boyfriend came home in one piece. But Clark has always been an obsessive level of caring, fussing over your wellbeing more than anyone in your life had before. He regularly insisted that you didn’t have to wait up for him, especially on nights as late as these. Your rest was much more important, particularly on weekdays—which it currently was—when you had mornings filled with meetings and deadlines. 

However, you find it damn near impossible to sleep easy when the love of your life is actively putting his own in imminent mortal danger. Kryptonian invulnerability or not, you still worry. All the time, every time he leaves.  

“Was jus’ trying to get some work done,” you say instead, trying to meet him somewhere in the middle. It’s a feasible excuse; Perry had been wringing you dry lately. 

You can tell he’s not convinced by the rumble in his voice. “Mhm.” 

Hoping to distract him from the plight of his girlfriend losing sleep over his wellbeing, you tug him down to kiss you. He goes easily, molten lava under even the simplest of your touches. Warmth tickles your body as he settles over you, kissing you softly. 

"I missed these lips," he whispers into your kiss, and it sends a quiver all the way down your spine. "Just kept thinkin' about coming home to you."

You think your heart might genuinely be at risk of bursting in your chest. His words make you feel weightless, like you're in freefall.

"I thought of you too," you respond as he works your lower lip between his. "Every minute."

Clark makes a contented noise, before pulling back to look at you with that dopey grin of his.

"What?" you ask, quirking a brow at him.

"Nothin'. You're just really pretty."

That makes you snort. "I'm pretty sure I was drooling on the pillow five minutes ago."

He shakes his head. "Don't care. Still cute."

You don't get to argue, because he's rapidly pressing little pecks all over your face. Cheeks, nose, forehead, brows. You giggle, squirming under the sheets.

He eventually finds your lips again, moving slow, unhurried. A relay of how much he missed you, loved you, in his absence.

“You’re home late,” you grumble blearily against his lips. 

He retracts slightly, thumb tracing your bottom lip. “Got caught up. You know how Guy likes to cause a scene.” 

You hum in response, trailing your fingers gently through his hair. You squint through the dark, eyes darting all around his face and any visible part of him in scrutiny. 

He chuckles, and you can hear the grin in his tired voice. “Baby. I’m fine.” 

It’s not enough for you. “You’ve downplayed your state of health to me before.” 

“That's only because I don’t want you to worry,” he says, nuzzling into your neck. You feel his body relax, melting into you as your arms wrap around his shoulders. He’s careful not to put his full weight on you, not that you’d mind either way. 

“Yeah, well, I do. You’d do the same if it were me.” 

He can’t—and doesn’t—deny it. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles, sounding crestfallen in a way that makes your heart clench in your chest. You wonder briefly what it is he’s apologizing for; he’d never apologize for being Superman, because you know it’s an integral part of who he is. And although you’ve had your lows, you’ve long accepted that part of him. But, he habitually asks forgiveness for having to leave you in the first place; for being a cause of your distress, your unease, even if he knows he can’t neglect his duties.  

“S’kay,” you soothe, letting your hands slip underneath what you assume is one of his age-old Mighty Crabjoy shirts. He’s warm and real under your exploring palms, and you sigh in content as silence blankets around you. If you’re slyly trying to feel around for any nicks or cuts on his back, he simply lets you do it. 

After a few moments of blissful quiet, you ask, “Gardner aside, how was Moscow?” 

“Beautiful. Snowy,” he says into your shoulder before placing a kiss where your neck meets the hinge of your jaw. “Wanna take you back there. You loved it last time.” Another kiss along your jawbone. “Brought you back some pastila.” 

“The apple ones?” you say hopefully. 

He pulls back to give you a little nod with a smile so cute and proud that you can’t help but return it. “Mhm.” 

“God, I love you,” you say, and his smile doubles to show his pearly teeth and you give in to the temptation of kissing him again. 

Clark’s a gentle lover, always has been, and probably always will be. He holds you like he does the world, all-encompassing and protective, as though it’s his sworn duty to keep you safe.

When you break for air, he rolls away onto his back, taking you with him. You settle on his chest, legs tangled together, his hand cradling the base of your skull while yours finds home gripping the collar of his t-shirt like a baby monkey. 

“M’laptop…” your sleepy brain manages to remember you’d fallen asleep with it on the bed. And you were fairly certain your Dell—mighty as she was for getting you through college—couldn’t withstand a 240-pound Kryptonian rolling over it.  

“On the desk,” he says, yawning.

You squirm for a moment, getting that odd sweeping feeling of overwhelming comfort; a random surge of giddiness, almost, upon being in your lover’s arms once again. There’s nothing quite like this state of peace, the reassurance that your Clark has made it home to you again.

“Thank you,” you blurt, lips unbidden from your sleepiness. 

"S'nothing, charger was already there and everything—"

"No," you cut in. "For coming home t'me."

You feel yourself rise on his chest as he takes a long, deep breath beneath you. He presses a kiss into your hair.

“I’ll always come home to you,” he whispers.

“You better.” You feel the sluggish pull of sleep tugging you under.

“I promise.” 

[kissmxcheek]

Flash & Focus - series masterlist - COMPLETE

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

warnings/tags: use of yn, fluff, angst, ..serious tension, lois lane supremacy:)

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part 1 - 2k words

part 2 - 5k words

part 3 - 3k words

part 4 - 2k words

part 5 - 3k words

(part 6 teaser)

part 6 - 5k words

(part 7 teaser)

part 7 - 7k words

(part 8 teaser)

part 8 - 8k words

(part 9 teaser)

part 9 - 6k words

disclaimer !! please read

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a/n: it's finally here! pls pls comment any suggestions you have for where the story should go and dms are open if you'd like the proofread or see the next part early 👀 thank u lovelies for letting me b creative (and take my sweet time writing lol)

taglist: @liuralibrar @icybarness @angel-dust-cb @crbpoetry @aim-formyheart @lavendermoons222 @10hrs26mn @linambc @casalucard @ticklish-leafy-plant @asteria33 @tati-the-fangirl @g4rb4ge-dump @yourmyonlyobsession @voidsxntry @my-little-secret-diaries @britttzy267 @nothere2478 @hagarsays @otakusimp1 @twsssmlmaa @kitten-daisy @qardasngan @writerreal @please-help-this-little-lesbian @brillitos-azules @selfishlycalculatingvisitor @pleasecallmeunhinged @materialgirl-97 @ldrfanatic @bellegirl16 @or-was-it-just-a-dream @khxna @rorysbrainrot @smolivin @screamingplastictoenail88 @slayerofthevampire @kneelarmhstrung @227777777333 @ifilwtmfc @loftilyviolentthunder @justp3achy03 @animegamerfox @nina-from-317 @sizzlingkryptonitetale @arcaichive @bamitzzsam @bellascrap @dntdltkss @livbonnet @scorpio-echo @bloodiedlusts @corenswetwife @lanasdolll @kai59999901 @ivegotdaddyissues @americanboz0 @ayy1234567 @jenneric2003 @areleine @turtle-in-a-tornado @keiralovesmoony @smellybad @shortandb1tchy @i1ovedeanwinchester @lando-scales @lilac-and-cherries @bananaminion678 @azrielsbbg @annabethboleyn @odevote118 @the-hist0rian @cyntsvmv @novausstuff @lecwife @reiofsuns2001 @renaeant @sleeplessskeleton @nanamilkbread @after8hore @abasnail28 @vanessalovesonedirection @annieaniya @nixandtonic @rhiannonhippiegirl @dvdsniffer @negasonic-teenage-asshole @jsjajsjsnannzjisjs @andriannag @booknerd62529 @imsonotweird @gwcses @infinitepersuasion @dreamer7black @sofia-1d @dazecrea @adoringanakin @trentknd @juskonutoh @sapphichotmess @callsignpxnguin @drunkinthemiddleoftheday @lleahhhhhh @xxreyofsunshinexx @1800-fight-me @hockeyboysarehot @coupdc @luvaerina @pulsingllamaartificer @8ella222 @voideren @people-go-crazy-sometimes @youroldfashioned @winterassassin1804 @lolurk @bemybabyxos @averyhotchner @maciejane @f4sh10n-m4v3n @nbhrhn @malikwolf @crowleythesexydemon @will-graham-1 @applepi405 @claireybeary13 @rue963 @cherriesherry @iyskgd @agentorange9595 @jadorelove @knife-wife042321 @merakifreedom @loverlygirl521 @zyncs-simphouse @dream-alittlebiggerdarling

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[icybarness]

Sabrina oh Sabrina look what you did…Someone make a fic with this song pleaseee😭