#superhero x reader

It was the middle of the night and a few days after his eighteenth birthday when he broke into your room, and by broke in, he literally broke your window to get in. The sound of glass shattering woke you up as the familiar, heavy footsteps of your best friend stomped over to your bed.

"They're making me leave!" He cried, completely uncaring that he woke you, or that he broke your window, or that it was the middle of the night and this was decidedly insane behavior.

"...Yeah, I know." Of course you knew. You knew it was coming for years. You were more surprised that he didn't know.

"You knew?!"

"Everyone did." And you were fine with that. You had your entire youth to make peace with it. He was strong, you were weak. He was going to leave for great things, you were going to stay and work some dead-end job for the rest of your life.

"Well, if you knew, you had time to prepare then." He said it with this...hopeful gleam in his eye. You didn't trust it for a second.

"I've been preparing." You affirmed warily.

"Good. Good." He took a few deep breaths and started moving about your room. "So where's your suitcase?"

"What?"

"Your suitcase." He said slower and more clearly as if his enunciation had been the reason for your misunderstanding, "Where is it? You should be packed and ready to go if you prepared."

"I don't...I don't understand."

"You said you're prepared. As in, prepared to come with me, obviously." It was as if you not coming, not playing the sidelined cheerleader, was not even a possibility to him.

"James, I can't come."

"Sure you can."

"I don't have powers, James!" You gritted in frustration. Maybe if you had powers, maybe if you were special like him, you would jump to be partnered up with him for the rest of your life. But you didn't have powers and you would forever be unequal. "I couldn't even be your sidekick-"

"A sidekick?! No, I'd never let you be a sidekick. That's way too dangerous for you!" He said it with a lack of condescension, as if it were fact. To be fair, it was fact that you were weak, but to hear it from him was a new kind of irritating. "But you could be like...I dunno. An assistant? A secretary?"

"I'm not-"

He cut you off, "Oh! You could be my manager!"

"I don't want to be your manager!" You snapped. You were sure that in James's eyes, this was a grand, sudden betrayal, but to you, this was a long time coming. You spent your entire life trapped by the brilliance of your friend. It didn't matter how great you were. He would always be greater. You loved James, you really did, but as long as he was near, you couldn't love yourself.

"...well, that's..." He paused and you were taken aback by the shift in his usually bubbly demeanour. You've never seen him look so...well, you couldn't even describe the sudden coldness he demonstrated, "That's too bad."

You opened your mouth to argue, to say something in protest against this complete and utter disregard for your input, but he quickly sealed a strong hand over your lips to keep you silent.

"There's really no arguing here, [Name]. I kind of need you. No, I really need you. I can't be a hero without you, so I have to take you with me."

"MMF!!!" Your shout was obviously silenced, but it was worth a try.

"Shh, let's not fight. I'm not doing anything wrong. I'm doing what's best for both of us." He stroked his thumb against your cheek with unmistakable fondness, "So...you're gonna be my manager, yeah?"

You shook your head. You couldn't move your head much, but he could definitely feel your attempted movements.

"I'm so sorry, [Name], but I am going to take you by force if I have to. I'm sure the higher-ups won't mind if I tell them I need you. Plus, management says I'm allowed to take precious items with me."

...

So, you're his personal manager now. You stick by his side, you book his events, you tell him what to say and what to wear, you help him do everything that isn't superpowers-related and most importantly, you don't. leave.

it’s impressive, honestly. you’ve seen politicians less reactive.

“oh—no, i—um. it’s nothing,” he says, and ducks his head, eyes flickering anywhere but your face.

you take the notebook from him. your fingers brush his, and he freezes.

you clock it immediately. the stiffness. the hesitation. the way his breath seems to stutter.

interesting.

“thanks, country,” you say brightly. “you just saved democracy. or at least my grocery list.”

he lets out a small, startled laugh, like he didn’t expect his body to make that sound.

and just like that, the dynamic is set.

you’re everything he isn’t.

you’re loud in the newsroom. not obnoxious—just alive. you talk with your hands. you argue like it’s a sport. you laugh like it’s a dare. you’re confident, unapologetic, and allergic to shrinking.

clark, meanwhile, writes like he’s trying not to be noticed. his articles are devastatingly precise. humane. kind. brutally honest in a way that never feels cruel.

he never raises his voice. he never interrupts. he never makes a scene.

and yet—somehow—you keep ending up assigned to the same stories.

“partner up,” perry orders one morning, waving his hands. “kent, you handle background. you—” he points at you, “—bring the heat.”

clark nods immediately. “yes, sir.”

you flash him a grin. “ready to bring the heat, smallville?”

he nearly drops his pen.

“i’m—not—uh—” he clears his throat. “yeah. of course.” he sounds like he’s bracing for impact.

which, honestly, is fair.

you notice things.

you notice how clark listens to you like you’re the only sound in the room. you notice how he laughs quietly at your jokes, even when you’re pretty sure they weren’t that funny. you notice how he turns red when you stand too close. you notice how he never quite meets your eyes when the conversation turns personal.

and, maybe most interestingly, you notice how careful he is with you.

not in a patronizing way. not in a fragile way.

more like he’s holding something precious he doesn’t believe belongs to him.

you’re working late one night, the newsroom dim and humming with that low electric fatigue that settles in after midnight.

clark sits across from you, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened. he looks more like himself this way, slightly less put together, slightly more real.

“you’re staring,” you mutter without looking up.

his pencil stops moving. “i—sorry. i wasn’t—” he falters, then admits softly, “you just… work very intensely.”

you glance up, smirking. “is that a complaint?”

“no!” he says quickly. “no, not at all, it’s—um—it’s impressive.”

that word lands heavier than it should.

you lean back in your chair, studying him. “clark kent, are you flirting with me?”

he goes scarlet.

“i—what? no. i wouldn’t—i don’t—” he looks like he might short-circuit. “i’m sorry. i didn’t mean—”

you laugh. “relax. i’m teasing. mostly.”

he tries to smile. it comes out crooked, shy, sincere.

you realize something then.

he’s not oblivious, he’s terrified.

there’s a rhythm to the way you work together.

you chase leads. he verifies facts.

you kick down doors. he makes sure no one gets hurt in the process.

you call sources at reckless hours. he sends follow-up emails that somehow sound like handwritten letters.

sometimes, your leg bumps his under the conference table, and he stiffens like he’s been struck by lightning. sometimes, you catch him looking at you when he thinks you’re not paying attention. sometimes, you wonder what would happen if you asked him, point-blank, what he feels.

you don’t.

not because you’re scared.

but because it’s… fun. the tension. the slow burn. the way he seems to hover at the edge of saying something and never quite steps over the line.

one evening, after a long assignment, you end up walking out together.

metropolis hums around you. neon. sirens. wind curling down the streets.

“you ever get tired of this?” you ask him, gesturing at the city. “the noise. the chaos. the pressure?”

he thinks for a moment. “no,” he says quietly. “it reminds me that people matter.”

you blink at him.

god, he’s earnest.

“that might be the most clark kent answer in history,” you say, smiling.

he chuckles softly. “and is that… bad?”

“no,” you hum. “it’s refreshing.”

there’s a beat.

you catch him glancing at you, then looking away again like it physically pains him to hold eye contact.

“you know,” you say casually, “most people would’ve made a move by now.”

his heart stutters so hard you swear you can see it.

“a move?” he echoes.

you tilt your head. “yeah, you know coffee? dinner? a risky workplace flirtation? you’ve had plenty of openings.”

he swallows. “i didn’t want to make you uncomfortable,” he admits. “or assume anything.”

you soften despite yourself. “that’s considerate,” you say gently. “but you’re allowed to want things, clark.”

he looks at you like that sentence is brand new. “i do,” he murmurs before he can stop himself.

your breath catches.

he looks horrified at his own honesty.

“i mean—i—what i meant was—” he stumbles, face burning. “i’m sorry. i shouldn’t—”

you step a little closer.

“hey,” you say quietly. “if you’re too shy… you can just say so.”

his eyes flicker up to meet yours for half a second longer than usual.

“i’m… working on it,” he says.

and something about the way he says it makes your chest feel too full.

later that night, lying in bed, you think about clark kent.

the way his voice softens when he talks to you. the way he holds doors open like it’s a sacred duty. the way he looks like he’s constantly trying not to take up space, despite being physically incapable of doing anything else.

you wonder what it would take to make him brave. you wonder if he’s thinking about you too. you suspect he is.

he’s not very good at hiding it.

you start noticing how close clark kent stands to you.

not close close. never anything bold. never anything that could be called intentional. but closer than he stands to anyone else. close enough that you can feel the warmth of him when you lean over a document together. close enough that your elbow brushes his sleeve more often than coincidence would allow.

he always freezes when it happens.

not like he’s offended.

more like he’s afraid of what might happen if he doesn’t freeze.

you find that strangely compelling.

the story that really bonds you happens in the rain.

a whistleblower. corporate corruption; the kind of thing that makes people nervous, that makes phones go silent, that makes editors suddenly careful.

you and clark spend days chasing leads, cross-referencing financial trails, knocking on doors that open only a crack.

you work like a storm. he works like a steady current.

together, you’re dangerous.

late one night, soaked from a sudden downpour, you duck under the overhang outside the daily planet. your jacket is damp, hair frizzing, pulse still buzzing from adrenaline.

clark stands beside you, rain clinging to the shoulders of his coat.

“you okay?” he asks quietly.

you exhale a breath that feels like steam. “exhausted, wired... ready to flip a table.”

he smiles, soft and private. “you always look like that right before you publish something incredible,” he says.

you blink. “that’s oddly specific.”

“i pay attention,” he says before he seems to realize how that sounds.

he goes red.

you laugh, gentler than usual. “you’re allowed to look, clark.”

“i know,” he says. then, quieter, “i just don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

you tilt your head. “and if i told you i wasn’t?”

he looks at you. really looks at you.

for a heartbeat, he doesn’t look away.

rain rattles against the pavement. the city hums. the world keeps moving, oblivious to the small, electric moment happening between you.

“i’d still be careful,” he says.

something in your chest tightens.

“why?”

“because,” he says, voice barely above the rain, “i care what you think.”

the words hang there.

you feel them settle under your ribs.

you start texting more.

at first it’s strictly work. links, deadlines, notes.

then it’s memes. headlines that make no sense. a blurry photo of a terrible vending machine dinner.

clark replies faster than he probably should.

sometimes his responses are overly formal. sometimes they’re unexpectedly dry. occasionally, he makes a joke so quiet and sharp you wonder how many people miss it.

late one night, you send: ‘ur still up?’

a pause. ‘yes. i couldn’t sleep.’

you consider your next message, then type: ‘me neither. wanna admit why?’

three dots appear. disappear. reappear. ‘because i keep replaying conversations in my head.’

your breath hitches. ‘with who?’ though you already know.

a longer pause. ‘you.’

you stare at the screen, smiling like an idiot. ‘u know u can just say things the first time, right?’

a moment later: ‘i’m afraid i’ll say the wrong thing.’

you type: ‘try me.’

another pause. this one stretches.

Finally: ‘i like you. i just don’t always know how to exist near you without feeling like i’m doing something wrong.

your heart stumbles.

you type slowly this time. ‘you’re not doing anything wrong. you’re just being you.’

three dots. ‘that’s what scares me.’

in person, it gets harder.

you catch him glancing at you when you laugh. when you argue. when you concentrate so hard your tongue peeks out between your teeth.

once, you lean over his desk to grab a file, and your shoulder brushes his chest.

he inhales like the air just vanished.

you pull back, studying him. “clark?”

he swallows. “yes?”

“you okay?”

“yes ma’am,” he says too quickly.

you step closer, lowering your voice. “you don’t have to flinch every time i get near you.”

“i’m not flinching,” he says, but it sounds like a confession.

you soften. “you look like you think i’m going to disappear.”

he meets your gaze, tentative and open. “sometimes,” he admits, “it feels like you belong to a world that moves faster than i do.”

you smile gently. “so keep up.”

“i’m trying,” he murmurs.

there’s a night when the power flickers in the newsroom.

backup generators hum. screens glow. outside, thunder mutters like distant applause.

you’re both still working. of course you are.

you bring him coffee. he thanks you like you’ve given him something sacred.

you sit on the edge of his desk.

“so,” you say lightly, “why haven’t you asked me out yet?”

he nearly chokes. “i—i didn’t think—”

“you didn’t think i’d say yes?”

“i didn’t think it was appropriate,” he says carefully. “or fair. or—”

you swing your legs slightly. “clark. look at me.”

he hesitates. then he does.

you hold his gaze, refusing to let him look away.

“do you want to ask me out?” you ask.

he breathes in, slow and controlled. “yes,” 

you grin. “then ask.”

he pauses. looks terrified. then, quietly, honestly: “would you… like to get dinner with me sometime?”

there’s nothing flashy about it. nothing smooth. no bravado. 

it’s perfect.

“i would,” you smile. “very much.”

his relief is immediate and almost heartbreaking.

he smiles like he’s been given permission to breathe.

later, as you pack up to leave, he walks beside you again.

the city feels different now. brighter. expectant.

at the corner, you stop.

“hey,” you say softly.

he turns to you.

“if you ever feel too shy,” you say, “you can let me know.”

he smiles, warm and bashful and real. “and if i do?”

“then i’ll meet you halfway.”

his voice is steady when he replies, “i think… i’d like that.”

clark kent treats your first date like it’s a diplomatic summit.

he arrives early. of course he does. he’s wearing a suit that looks like it’s been pressed within an inch of its life, tie straightened three times too many, hair just slightly more tamed than usual.

you show up five minutes late on purpose, because you refuse to let him think this is an interview.

when he sees you, his breath stutters like he forgot how lungs work.

“you look… incredible,” he says, immediately flustered by the fact that he said it out loud.

you grin. “you clean up like a man trying very hard not to cause property damage.”

he laughs, relieved.

the restaurant is warm and dim and humming with soft conversation. candlelight glows between you. every little sound feels louder than it should—the clink of silverware, the low murmur of voices, the quiet hum of the city outside.

clark sits across from you, posture careful, hands folded like he’s afraid to knock something over.

you rest your chin in your hand. “you always this nervous smallville?”

he considers lying. he doesn’t.

“yes,” he says simply. “around you.”

your chest tightens. “that’s not exactly a reason to be afraid,” you say more gently.

“i know,” he says. “but it feels… important to get this right.”

“you don’t need to get it right,” you say. “you just need to get it honest.”

his eyes lift to yours. “okay,” he says quietly. “honest, then.”

conversation comes easily, which almost feels unfair given how tense the air between you is.

you talk about work. about your childhood. about the first stories that made you want to chase stories of your own.

clark listens like every word is something he intends to keep.

when you talk about ambition, he watches you with something like awe. when you talk about fear, he watches you with something like devotion.

at some point, you realize his knee is almost touching yours under the table.

not quite, but close enough to feel the heat.

you wonder if he notices. you suspect he notices everything.

after dinner, you walk.

metropolis at night feels like a living thing. lights pulsing, trains roaring, wind tugging at coats and hair.

clark keeps pace beside you, hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed but alert, like he’s constantly bracing for something.

“you know,” you say lightly, “you’re allowed to flirt.”

he nearly trips. “i—i don’t know how,” he admits.

you step a little closer. “try.”

he thinks for a long second. “you… um… make the world feel louder,” he says. “in a good way.”

you stop walking.

turn to face him.

“that might be the most clark kent flirtation i’ve ever heard,” you say softly.

he blushes, but he doesn’t look away this time. “i meant it,” he says.

you hold his gaze.

for once, he holds yours back.

you end up on a quiet street corner, traffic distant, the city’s noise softened into a low, steady hum.

the moment stretches.

you can feel it pulling tight between you.

“so,” you say quietly, “is this the part where you overthink everything?”

he smiles ruefully. “usually.”

“and?”

“i’m trying not to.”

your heart thrums.

he looks at you like he’s standing at the edge of a cliff.

“i’ve wanted to do this for a while,” he admits.

“do what?” you whisper.

he hesitates. then steps closer.

not rushing. not overwhelming. just enough to close the space he’s been so afraid to claim.

his voice is low. “be brave.”

you tilt your head slightly, giving him the opening without forcing him to take it.

his hand lifts, hovering like he’s unsure whether he’s allowed.

“may i?” he asks.

your pulse spikes.

“yes,” you say.

his fingers brush your cheek. he looks like he might fall apart.

slowly, carefully, he leans in.

the kiss is soft.

not urgent. not hungry.

just warm and tentative and full of everything he hasn’t known how to say.

when he pulls back, he looks stunned by his own courage.

you smile. “well,” you murmur, “you survived.”

he lets out a breathless laugh. “barely.”

later, actually walking you home instead of wandering aimlessly, he keeps glancing at you like he’s trying to memorize the fact that this is real.

at your door, he hesitates again.

“thank you,” he says. “for… being patient with me.”

you step closer.

“clark,” you say gently, “if you’re too shy—”

he smiles. “—i’ll let you know,” he finishes.

“exactly.”

he leans in and presses another soft kiss to your cheek this time, lingering just a second longer than necessary.

as he walks away, you watch him go, heart buzzing.

you know this is only the beginning.

he’s still holding back; still keeping secrets, still afraid of taking up space.

and you’re already wondering what will happen when he finally stops.

dating clark kent feels like discovering a hidden room in a familiar building.

everything is quieter. softer. more deliberate.

he opens doors for you. walks on the street-side of the sidewalk. remembers the exact way you take your coffee, the story you once mentioned in passing, the song you hummed absentmindedly while fact-checking.

he never rushes you. he never assumes.

and yet, the longer this goes on, the more it feels like he’s holding back something enormous.

you notice it in the pauses.

in the way he sometimes goes still when sirens echo in the distance. in the way his jaw tightens when the news mentions disasters, crime, people in danger. in the way he sometimes looks at the sky like he’s listening for something only he can hear.

once, in the middle of a conversation, he just… vanishes.

you blink, check the hallway and the stairwell.

thirty seconds later, he returns, breath barely altered.

“everything okay?” you ask.

“yes,” he says too quickly. “i just… needed a moment.”

you believe him. you also know there’s more to it.

the feelings deepen anyway.

you sit on the newsroom roof one evening, city lights spilling out below you like stars that forgot how to behave.

clark brings takeout. you bring sarcasm.

“you ever think about the future?” you ask, leaning back on your hands.

he follows your gaze across the skyline.

“all the time,” he says.

“does it scare you?”

“only when i think about losing people,” he admits.

you glance at him. “people like me?”

his breath catches.

“yes,” he says without hesitation.

the honesty knocks the air from your lungs. you smile to hide it. “smallville, you’re getting bolder.”

“only because you make me feel like i’m allowed to be,” he says.

you almost call him out on it.

on the strange disappearances. on the impossible timing. on the strength he pretends not to have when he lifts things that should strain him.

but you don’t.

not because you don’t notice. because you trust him.

and because part of you wants to see if he’ll tell you on his own.

one night, the tension spikes.

a major story breaks. chaos, sirens, helicopters. the newsroom turns into a battlefield of ringing phones and shouted updates.

you’re chasing leads when the building shudders.

distant explosions. screams somewhere outside.

you feel fear curl in your stomach.

before you can even turn, clark is at your side.

“stay here,” he says urgently.

you grab his sleeve. “clark—”

his eyes lock onto yours, blazing with emotion he can’t quite hide. “i promise,” he says, voice low and steady, “i will come back.”

then he’s gone.

minutes pass. then more.

your heart hammers against your ribs.

when he finally returns, his hair is wind-tossed, his glasses slightly askew, suit rumpled in a way that makes no sense.

“you’re okay,” you breathe.

“yes,” he says softly.

but he looks like someone who just carried the weight of the world.

later, when the adrenaline ebbs, you corner him near the empty copy room.

“clark,” you say quietly, “what aren’t you telling me?”

he stiffens.

“i’m not—”

“you disappear. you come back shaken. you act like the city’s pain is personal,” you press gently. “i’m not asking to accuse you. i’m asking because i care.”

he looks like he might break.

“i want to tell you,” he admits.

“then do it.”

he hesitates, voice trembling. “i’m afraid if i do… you’ll see me differently.”

you step closer.

“clark kent,” you say softly, “i already see you differently. that’s the point.”

his eyes shine with emotion he rarely lets surface. “you make me want to be honest,” he whispers.

“then be honest.”

he almost does.

you can feel it—right there, hovering on his tongue.

but fear wins.

“soon,” he says instead. “i promise.”

you nod.

“soon,” you echo.

the romance deepens anyway.

soft kisses at crosswalks. hands brushing in elevators. late-night phone calls where his voice sounds lower, more unguarded.

once, half-asleep, he murmurs, “you deserve someone brave.”

you smile into the dark.

“then keep practicing,” you whisper.

you don’t find out on a quiet day. of course you don’t.

you find out on a day when the sky fractures.

a crisis erupts downtown—panic, collapsing scaffolding, screaming sirens, people flooding the streets in fear. the newsroom explodes into motion, and so do you.

you grab your coat, your phone, and your resolve.

and then you realize clark is gone.

again.

you don’t think. you just move.

outside, wind howls between buildings, carrying dust and debris. emergency crews shout over one another. somewhere above, something massive groans under strain.

you push through the crowd, heart racing.

“clark?” you breathe, like the city might answer.

and then, 

a shockwave.

the world lurches. people scream. you stumble backward as part of a structure gives way overhead.

you brace for impact.

it never comes.

instead, arms catch you mid-fall. strong, unyielding, impossible.

you gasp as you’re lifted effortlessly out of harm’s way.

you look up.

clark.

not hunched. not hiding. not shrinking.

he stands full-height, coat torn at the shoulder, tie gone, the left frame of his glasses shattered. his face is tilted away, but you could recognize that tie anywhere—the one martha bought for him when he first got hired at the planet, the tie you used to tease him for. wind presses against him like it means nothing.

his face is bare of pretense. his looks… unmasked.

“clark?” you whisper.

he looks at you with something like fear and relief and love tangled together. “i’m sorry,” he says softly.

behind him, metal groans and settles. sirens wail. people stare.

you stare back at him.

and suddenly, everything makes sense.

the disappearances. the timing. the restraint. the weight he carries like it’s a duty carved into his bones.

“you’re—” your voice trembles. “you’re him.”

he doesn’t pretend not to understand. “yeah,” he says.

you laugh once, breathless and stunned.

“of course you are,” you murmur. “clark kent, mild-mannered reporter, secretly the literal impossible.”

he winces like he deserves that.

“i wanted to tell you,” he says. “but can we talk about this later, baby? please?”

“what’s there to talk about?”

“i have to much to tell you, i promise. i just… i was afraid.”

you search his face.

“afraid of what?” you ask quietly.

“of losing you,” he admits. “of you thinking everything about me was a lie.”

your chest tightens. “you idiot,” you whisper, voice thick. “the only thing that would’ve hurt is you thinking i couldn’t handle the truth.”

he looks at you like that sentence might shatter him.

later, when the city settles and the adrenaline fades, you sit with him on a quiet rooftop.

the skyline stretches around you like a held breath.

he stands at the edge, wind tugging at his hair, looking like a man who has carried too much for too long.

“i never wanted to deceive you,” he says. “clark kent is still me. i just… didn’t know how to be both with you.”

you step closer. “you’ve always been both,” you say. “you’re gentle. you’re kind. you’re awkward. you’re brave. you’re infuriatingly self-sacrificing.”

a faint smile flickers over his face.

“and i like all of that,” you add.

he turns to you fully, eyes bright with emotion.

“you’re not afraid?” he asks.

you shake your head.

“i’m not afraid of you,” you say. “i’m afraid for you.”

he exhales shakily.

“i’ve wanted to be honest with you for so long,” he admits. “but i didn’t think i deserved someone who could see all of this and still stay.”

you reach for him, resting a hand over his heart.

“you don’t get to decide what you deserve,” you say softly. “that’s my call.”

he laughs quietly, teary and relieved.

“you’re incredible,” he murmurs.

you tilt your head. “and you’re still too shy,” you tease gently. “even when you can literally lift a building.”

he smiles more fully now. “i’m braver with you,” he says. “you make me feel like i’m allowed to want things.”

“good,” you say. “because i want you.”

the words feel like stepping into open air.

he looks stunned. then certain. then impossibly tender.

he cups your face and kisses you like he’s finally stopped holding back.

not rough. not consuming.

just honest.

You loved Dewey; you really did. You’d gotten him from a shelter when he was just a few weeks old, and every moment spent with him gave you more comfort than most people ever did. But you really wished your love for him was enough to handle his size. Simply playing with him took a lot out of you, and you were not exactly sure you had any strength left in you to be pulled all around the park by your ever-enthusiastic dog.

And somehow — because fate thought it'd be funny — Dewey was way more energetic than the average Saint Bernard. He acted like someone had put espresso in his water bowl every morning.

“I’ll walk you tomorrow, boy. I promise,” you said, reaching out to gently caress the expanse of brown-patched fur.

But Dewey didn’t seem to get the message.

He lunged at your side, knocking you off the couch and onto the floor. Then he pressed himself into you as he licked against your skin.

“Deweyyy,” you groaned, trying to push the huge dog away from you, but he wouldn’t let up. He continued the assault on your face, leaving slobber all over you.

Goodness, what were you going to do?

Just then, Diana stepped into the room, her hair tied up in a bun, a wet towel draped around her shoulders.

“Oh, you’re home-”

Her gaze met you, and she paused, trying to fully assess the image in front of her: you sprawled on the floor, holding onto Dewey’s large frame as he nuzzled into you, licking furiously.

You heard her laugh softly — a sound beautiful enough to ease hours of exhaustion.

“It seems you’re in quite the predicament,” she said, leaning down to look you in the eye.

You sighed once more.

“Yeah. Not-so-little Dew here doesn’t seem to understand just how big he is.”

Diana nodded, glancing from the two of you to his bright blue leash that lay on the floor.

“Shall I walk him while you get some rest?”

“No, no. I’ll do it myself. Besides, he’s a lot to handle. I wouldn’t want you to-”

In one swift movement, Diana reached forward, lifting the dog off you and holding him in her arms.

“Awww. Such an adorable little boy you are,” she cooed softly, stroking thick layers of fur.

All you could do was stare, mouth slightly agape, as Diana moved Dewey around like he didn’t weigh 80 kilos.

Then it hit you.

“Oh, right. Amazon.” You smiled, wondering how you could’ve forgotten that.

But despite that, you noticed Dewey was weirdly calm around her. He was still happy, definitely — you could tell by how quickly his tail wagged — but there was a strange tranquility to his movements now.

“Animals are the peak of purity in Man’s World, y/n. Accept them as they are.”

She continued to comb through his fur.

You watched her, and for a moment your exhaustion melted into something warm.

You were falling in love with Diana all over again — the gentleness she carried as easily as breathing, the strength she wielded like it was nothing, the way even your chaotic dog softened in her hands.

“Now, shall I take him for a walk?” she asked, smiling warmly.

“I’m pretty sure he wants you to,” you said, gesturing toward Dewey, who kept whining and nuzzling against Diana.

She leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your lips. Quick. Soft.

“Perfect. Get some rest, dear.”

Masterlist

All rights reserved. Please don’t copy, repost, or claim this work as your own. This is my creation. Thank you for reading and respecting that.

SUPERMAN! SOPHIA who fell from the stars and learned early that too much power also hurts.

SUPERMAN! SOPHIA who saved you from a burning building, after you swore all was lost and that no gods in the world could save you.

SUPERMAN! SOPHIA who knew the moment she laid eyes on you that you were special.

SUPERMAN! SOPHIA who wanted to know you better; your sweet scent had been stuck in her mind for days.

SUPERMAN! SOPHIA who appeared at your window, hair tousled by the wind, with a shy smile asking if she “could see you for a second.”

SUPERMAN! SOPHIA tried to seem confident but stumbled over her words every time you smiled.

SUPERMAN! SOPHIA who patrolled the city every night, but always ended up at your building to see if the lights were still on.

SUPERMAN! SOPHIA who could hear the whole world in a single second, but hers stopped every time she heard your laugh.

She desperately wished she could be the reason for it.

SUPERMAN! SOPHIA who thought no one noticed when she hovered outside your building, hidden in the shadows, watching just to make sure you were okay.

SUPERMAN! SOPHIA who almost fell onto the street when you suddenly opened your window with a little smile and said, “are you going to stay out there all night or come in already?”

SUPERMAN! SOPHIA who landed clumsily on your balcony, trying to stay calm, but whose eyes couldn’t hide anything — fear, relief, desire.

SUPERMAN! SOPHIA who promised herself to keep her distance, but forgot that promise the moment you called her “my love.”

SUPERMAN! SOPHIA who could hold the weight of a plane in one hand but trembled when your fingers touched her face.

NSFW

SUPERMAN! SOPHIA who begged playfully when you teased her, fingers going deep inside her.

SUPERMAN! SOPHIA who scratched your back, lost in the pleasure you gave her.

SUPERMAN! SOPHIA who loved it when you licked your fingers after making her come over and over again.

“Hmm, love, you taste so good.”

god, she could die from that scene.

SUPERMAN! SOPHIA who asked you to sit on her face, glasses and all.

SUPERMAN! SOPHIA who explored every corner of your pussy with her tongue, going all the way in while holding your hips so you wouldn’t move.

SUPERMAN! SOPHIA who could spend hours on end sucking you. Your taste was so intoxicating that when you came, she made sure to lick every drop.

G!P SOPHIA.

SUPERMAN! SOPHIA who got hard every time she saw you in short clothes. she tried to focus on something else to avoid looking like a teenager with hormones out of control, but when you knelt in front of her, eyes burning with desire, she lost control.

SUPERMAN! SOPHIA who sometimes was so desperate she came in your mouth, or even in your pants if you let her, begging for hours to touch you.

SUPERMAN! SOPHIA who was big and, when inside you, tore you apart, the sounds of her cock fucking you dripping and making a mess in the sheets the only sound present.

SUPERMAN! SOPHIA who, the more you moaned, the deeper she thrust, fucking you hard until no thought remained in your mind. So dumb :( you would do anything to have her inside you forever.

SUPERMAN! SOPHIA!! who always came inside you, her thick liquid running down your legs.

SUPERMAN! SOPHIA who kissed your hair and asked if you were okay or if she had hurt you.

[ 1. ] chronic workaholic──1.2k ✎ ✰

[ 2. ] meeting superman──2.1k ✰

[ 3. ] spilled coffee──1.3k ✎

[ 4. ] nighttime happenings──1.4k ✰

[ 5. ] operation: you (3+1)──2.2k ✎

[ 6. ] medic in denial──1.6k ✰

[ 6.5 ] imagine…──0.4k ✎

[ 7 ] cinematic accidents──1.9k ✎

[ 8 ] stupid choices──1.6k ✰

[ 9 ] coward's self-sabatoge──1.6k ✎

[ 9.5 ] moment's comfort──0.4k ✰

[ 10 ] blamed tension──1.6k✎

[ 11 ] before & after party──1.9k✰

[ 11.5 ] oceans away──0.4k ✎

[ 12 ] the wayne gala ──1.5k ✎

[ 13 ] trust fall──1.3k✰

[ 14 ] friend zone ──1.4k✎

[ 15 ] welcome home ──1.4k✎

[16] a fumbling rhythm──1.7k✎

You had no idea how the conversation turned into a Star Wars deep-dive.

Honestly, you just asked if he liked it and… well.

The answer was a loud, passionate yes.

“...because the duel between Anakin and Obi-Wan on Mustafar isn’t just action,” Clark was saying, his voice soft but fired up, eyes glowing behind those glasses that should not be allowed to look that hot on a nerd, “it’s pure tragedy. The music, the looks—it’s all this perfect build-up to…”

You bit your lip.

You were listening. Kind of.

But your focus kept jumping between how passionately he spoke—like the entire galaxy depended on you understanding that scene—and the way his lips moved. Soft. Full. Way too distracting.

Then there were his forearms.

The white shirt he had on had the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and every time he gestured with his hands, the muscles in his arms flexed just enough to make the fabric stretch.

Unfair.

Who let a nerd look like that?

And those lips.

God, those lips.

He was so into it, so focused, that the heat between your legs felt almost ridiculous.

“…because deep down, Obi-Wan didn’t want to kill him. He begged him to stop. But Anakin was already… he was Darth Vader by then. There was no turning back…”

You didn’t think. You just moved.

You slid over and settled gently in his lap, knees on either side of his legs. Clark blinked up at you, clearly confused, and you shut him up with a slow, deep kiss—one that said exactly what your words hadn’t yet.

He froze. Then exhaled against your lips.

“E-everything okay?” he asked, voice low and a little shaky.

“Keep talking,” you whispered. “I like the way you sound.”

Clark swallowed hard.

“Okay… okay… s-so the duel. When Obi-Wan says ‘I have the high ground,’ it’s because tactically… you know…” he stuttered, trailing off as your mouth found the side of his neck, “uh, it’s better to fight from higher ground because… of tragedy... strategy!. I meant strategy.”

Your fingers slowly started unbuttoning his shirt.

“And… and Padmé shows up in her ship—her ship from… uh… SpongeBob.”

Silence.

You pulled back just to look at him.

Clark blinked.

“No, wait. Not SpongeBob. Padmé shows up with… R2D2. Not… not Squidward,” he said, brows furrowed while you grinned against his now-bare chest.

“You sure it wasn’t Mr. Krabs?”

Clark let out a nervous laugh.

“No, no. Although… if Palpatine were Plankton, that would actually track.”

Your hands slid down his torso, slow, tracing over the tight muscle until you reached his ribs. He sucked in a breath.

“And then Luke… finds out Darth Vader’s his dad. Which is kinda like when Peter Parker… uh… realizes Tony Stark gave him a suit.”

You laughed quietly.

“What does Spider-Man have to do with Star Wars?”

“Nothing. Or everything. I don’t know,” Clark groaned, voice cracking. “You’re seriously messing with my brain right now.”

You rested your forehead against his.

“You’re doing amazing, Clark. Keep going.”

“…Okay. So. Spaceships. They’re important because… speed. Zoom. Pew-pew.”

He wasn’t even pretending to sound smart anymore.

Your lips brushed his ear, and he let out a low sound—half gasp, half whimper.

“Jedi aren’t supposed to, uh… have relationships, you know?” he mumbled. “It’s against the code. But Anakin did. Because… he was in love. And you’re very… close.”

“Close to what?” you asked, all faux innocence.

“To making me say something real dumb.”

“Clark, you’re literally talking about Spider-Man and SpongeBob in a Star Wars rant.”

“…Touché,” he breathed, right before crashing his mouth against yours.

Your hips started to roll slowly in his lap, finding a rhythm that was equal parts tease and promise—and it was killing him.

“And… and the Jedi Council wouldn’t… wouldn’t approve of this,” Clark said, voice breaking as you kissed down his neck. “But I don’t care. Kick me out of the Council. Whatever.”

You smiled against his skin.

His hands trembled on your waist like he couldn’t decide whether to hold on or surrender. Every part of his body was tight underneath you—not in hesitation, but in raw anticipation.

“Are you imagining yourself as a Jedi right now?” you teased.

“I’m trying not to pass out,” he admitted with a breathless laugh, especially when your nails skimmed down his stomach. “You’re… using the Force on me.”

“Maybe it’s the dark side,” you whispered.

Clark let out a strangled chuckle.

“I don’t care if you blow up the Senate. Please don’t stop.”

You found that perfect spot on his neck and kissed it slow—feeling him tilt his head back against the couch with a shudder.

And then…

You moved again. For real.

He let out this sound—half sigh, half plea—and his hands gripped your thighs. His shirt was wide open now, showing off that perfect map of skin under the soft apartment lighting.

It felt too real. Too vivid.

Clark tried to speak again. You heard him.

“I—In Clone Wars there’s this one scene where Anakin and… and Harry Potter—no! Wait…” he groaned, “I meant Ahsoka. Not Harry. Oh my God.”

You took his face in your hands, looked him dead in the eye.

“Clark Kent, shut up and touch me.”

His reaction was instant.

It was like every ounce of restraint shattered. His hands flew up your back like he needed to memorize you, like he was scared you’d disappear.

He didn’t push. He didn’t rush. But you could feel him under you—tense, burning, completely wrecked.

His mouth found yours again, harder this time. Hotter. Hungrier.

Your fingers tangled in his hair as he shifted beneath you, trying to meet every move with one of his own. Like your bodies were trying to talk in a language older than time.

“You’re… you’re sure?” he whispered, barely able to breathe as his hand trailed up your side.

“I literally just told you not to stop. What part’s confusing?”

“The part where this isn’t a dream,” he admitted, smiling shakily as he helped guide your hips into another slow grind.

And then…

Silence.

That kind of silence that aches. The kind that only exists when clothes disappear, when breath catches, when eyes stay locked and the world melts into nothing but this.

Your movements were unhurried but deep, and they made him choke on every inhale. Like every brush of skin sent galaxies crashing into his ribs.

And even in that dazed, almost-gone state… he kept talking.

“I just… wanted to explain why Obi-Wan was right,” he gasped. “But now I swear the Force is literally between us. Right here. On this couch.”

You smiled with your eyes still closed.

“And what are you, a trembling padawan?”

“No,” he whispered, “I’m yours.”

You rolled your hips again—and the sound he made would live in your memory forever.

And then…

The whole galaxy seemed to tilt toward the center of the universe—right where you were.

Where he was.

Where this was happening.

Stars collided.

Breath turned into constellations.

You were rewriting every rule, every boundary, with nothing but touch and gravity and each other.

And still—still—he whispered, breathless:

“Wanna watch Rogue One after this?”

You laughed softly.

Because… yeah. Of course you did.