#superman reader

“And if it’s not her, it’s the dog.” You grumble, throwing your head back in exasperation, but giving Clark more room to suck a hickey into your neck. He bites just right till he’s soothing the pain with his tongue, licking a long stripe back up your neck. 

“Uh-huh.” 

It’s not that Clark doesn’t want to keep talking, but he knows he only has so much time with you. It’s been quickies or risky sexy for the past week. At least Kara is apartment hunting now, but considering he had unrestricted access to you before; now it’s nearly impossible. He’s not sure how much longer he can go on like this. 

Especially now, a hand slotted against your mouth as he ruts into you after pulling as many orgasms he could from you before the throbbing of his cock was impossible to ignore. She’s not home yet. His ears haven’t picked up on the sound of the lock turning, but if his hearing goes so far, he can only imagine hers. “I know, pretty.” He reassures, watching the way your pupils dilate. Your breath comes out of your nose, fast and hard, trying to contain yourself. The room is soft groans, whimpers, his words glide over your skin like a secret. You’ve become so used to moaning Clark’s name like a prayer. “I want to hear you. You know I do.” He grunts, his words accompanied by his thrusts. 

Clark’s hand unfortunately can’t cover the lewd sounds filling the room as your pussy grips him. There’s a small puddle of slick underneath you from the other orgasms he had pulled out of you. There was so much pent up want and need between the two of you. It wasn’t much of a challenge for him. You’re soft and pliant beneath his hands now. “Come on, sweetheart. Give me another one.” He’s pleading, wanting to chase after your release with his own. There was no better way than feeling the way you throbbed around him after an orgasm. Just the right amount of pressure, your body alight from his actions. Your pleasure became his own. 

As soon as you succumb to the pleasure, he’s following soon after you, whispering praises along with his sloppy kisses. “That’s it, that’s my girl.” The squelch from his own spend and yours fills the room as he pushes his come further into you with his thrusts. “Gotta give it all to you. Don’t know when I’ll get a chance to do it again.” And Clark after an orgasm is even more touchy, wanting. His hands teasing your sensitive skin. He’s lost in it. All he can see is you. All he can feel is you.

The hand against your mouth is forgotten, his mouth is slotted over your own instead. You practically swallow his words. His cock is still hard inside of you as he begins teasing the bundle of nerves between you. You’re so sensitive, you hiss. “Clark. I–” 

You knew you shouldn’t have started it again.

Watching Invincible for, what, the ninth time in a row was, objectively, a bad idea.

Sleep deprivation? Imminent. Emotional damage? Guaranteed. Obsession? Already too late.

But could you stop? Absolutely not!

You already knew this entire show like the back of your hand, and yet, there was this strange compulsion to watch it over and over and over again. You’re pretty sure your mom is close to calling it an addiction at this point. Which…. fair.

She’d have a heart attack if she saw you right now.

“Just one more episode,” you mumbled for the fourth time this night, wrapped in a blanket burrito, the glow of the TV flickering across your face. Somewhere, in the very back of your mind, you registered just how ridiculous this has gotten— how you could quote entire scenes, how you had very strong (and sometimes crass) opinions about the story’s politics like it was real-world discourse.

Maybe your mom was right—

By the time you finally conked out, the sun was already threatening the horizon, Mark’s monologue to Conquest serving as background noise to your slumbering thoughts.

═══════

When you opened your eyes again, everything was… wrong.

No ceiling fan, no tangled charging cable, and most concerningly, where the hell is all your merchandise?! Your posters, the various comic books scattered across your room, your limited edition Atom Eve figurine?!?!

Before you can spiral any further— seriously, you spent hundreds on all of your shit— you finally take notice of where you are.

Just white.

Endless, blinding, sterile white.

“…Okay,” you say slowly, nodding along like this is all completely normal. “Either I’m dreaming, dead, or I finally snapped.”

A soft ping answered you.

A translucent screen flickered to life in front of your face. Its color was a soft blue, almost like it was trying to seem nonthreatening. Wasn’t really working, if you’re being honest—

WELCOME, USER.

PLEASE SELECT YOUR ABILITY.

You stared at it.

Then squinted.

Then reached out and poked it.

Your finger passed through the surface like mist, but the screen rippled in response.

“Oh, this is definitely a dream,” you decided. “Cool. Cool, cool, cool. Love that for me.”

The screen remained.

Waiting.

Expectant.

Can… machines be expectant…?

ENTER DESIRED ABILITY:

You hesitated— for just a moment.

I mean… if this was a dream…

A grin tugged at your lips.

“Alright,” you muttered. “Let’s make it count.”

Your fingers moved instinctively, like you’d typed it a thousand times before in debates, forums, comment sections—

Superman.

You didn’t elaborate, didn’t specify, didn’t think.

Why would you? This wasn’t real. Nothing that happened here meant anything out of this small moment. You’d wake up the next morning with a pounding headache, a few missed messages from your mom, and go on about your day. Nothing mattered—

The screen pulsed.

Once.

Twice.

You get the sudden feeling that you just fucked up.

Then—

INPUT ACCEPTED.

Your smile faltered.

“Wait—“

FINALIZING SELECTION.

“Hold on, I didn’t—“

POWER SET: SUPERMAN— CONFIRMED.

“Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me.”

The world dropped out from under you.

═══════

You didn’t move at first.

Not because you couldn’t— but because you were afraid to.

The last thing you remember was that white room, the screen, the very questionable life choice of typing in “Superman” like you were picking a username instead of rewriting your entire existence. And now—

Now everything felt too sharp.

Your eyes were still closed, but light pressed insistently against your eyelids, brighter than it had any right to be. The air brushed against your skin in a way that felt… detailed. Individual. Like you could map every current, every shift in temperature without even trying.

And the noise.

God, the noise.

It wasn’t loud, exactly. Not overwhelming in volume, but it was layered. Complex. A thousand tiny sounds stacking on top of each other until your brain didn’t know what to do with them.

A clock ticking somewhere nearby.

Footsteps— no, multiple sets— moving above you.

Voices. Muffled through walls, but still clear. Too clear.

A car passing outside.

Another one, further away.

A siren in the distance.

Your breath hitched.

“Okay,” you whispered, your voice trembling despite how steady it sounded to your own ears. “Okay, okay, okay…”

You forced yourself to open your eyes.

The ceiling came into focus instantly— no blur, no adjustment period. Just crisp, clean lines. White paint. A faint crack in the corner you could’ve sworn you counted the edges of without even trying.

“…That’s not normal,” you muttered.

You really need to quit talking to yourself.

Slowly, carefully, you pushed yourself upright.

Big mistake.

The moment you moved, your hand twitched instinctively against the surface beneath you— and the metal frame of the bed groaned.

You froze.

“…No.”

You looked down.

Your fingers were curled into the edge of the frame, the metal bent inward like soft clay. Like it hadn’t stood a chance.

You released it immediately, jerking your hand back like you’d been burned.

“NO.”

Your heart was racing, and you heard it. Not just felt it. Heard the rapid thud-thud-thud echoing in your chest like a drum.

Along with it came everything else.

Louder now.

Closer.

Someone talking in the hallway outside—“…told you, man, it’s not my shift—“

A phone vibrating in another room.

Water running through pipes somewhere below.

You slapped your hands over your ears.

Tried to ignore just how easily you could’ve smashed your own head like a god damn melon—

It didn’t help.

“Too much— too much, too much—“ you squeezed your eyes shut again, curling in on yourself. “Okay, okay— think. Think. This is— this is just sensory overload. Like— like Superman. First time. Focus, focus—“

Superman.

The word landed heavily. Your stomach dropped.

“…No way.”

Slowly, you lowered your hands.

The noise didn’t stop— but it… shifted. It wasn’t any quieter, but your brain started picking it apart, separating it into pieces you could almost manage.

Almost.

You swallowed hard and and swung your legs off the side of the bed, placing your feet carefully on the floor like you expected it to crack beneath you.

It didn’t.

“Good,” you whispered. “That’s good. Floor is good. Love the floor.”

Your gaze lifted, drawn toward the window across the room.

Sunlight poured through it— too bright, too vivid. You could see dust particles floating in the air, each one catching the light like little stars. Beyond the glass, the world stretched out in impossible clarity.

Buildings.

Streets.

Cars.

People.

You walked slowly, every movement deliberate, controlled.

“Don’t break anything,” you murmured under your breath. “Rule number one: don’t accidentally punch through a wall.”

Step by step you made your way to the window.

Your hands planted themselves on the glass— rather unnervingly, you don’t leave behind any fingerprints.

The city sprawled beneath you— but it wasn’t your city.

It took a second for your brain to process why.

The layout was wrong. The buildings unfamiliar. The skyline is just off enough to trigger that uncanny, creeping realization.

A sharp, whistling sound catches your attention— demanding you to look up—

A blur streaks across the sky.

Your breath catches in your throat.

A figure— no, a man— is flying.

You lean closer to the glass, eyes widening as your vision— traitorously, helpfully— zooms in without your permission.

The man slows down midair, hovering for just long enough for you to recognize him.

The red and white suit, the dark hair with streaks of gray, and that insufferable mustache—

Omni-Man himself lingers long enough outside your window for you to catch a glimpse of his furrowed brow before he’s taking off once again, disappearing between buildings.

Your stomach dropped straight through the floor.

“No way,” you said again, weaker this time.

Your mind scrambled, piecing it together faster than you could stop it.

“Oh no.”

You stumbled away from the window like it had shot you, shaking your head rapidly.

Of all the worlds, of all the fictional universes you could’ve landed in.

It had to be this one!

The one where cities got leveled, where heroes lost, where people—

Your thoughts cut off abruptly.

Your breath leaves you in a shaky exhale, you gaze drifting up towards the window once again.

Your reflection stares back at you faintly in the glass— wide-eyed, pale, terrified.

“I picked Superman.”

You have to resist the urge to reach up and tug on your hair.

“… in the Invincible universe.”

Silence hung heavy in the room.

You let out a weak, hysterical laugh, dragging a hand down your face.

“Yeah,” you muttered. “This is going to go great.”

The kitchen smelled like vanilla and sugar and that slightly toasted edge of something that had been in the oven five minutes longer than the recipe demanded, because you were physically incapable of not hovering.

You had made twenty cupcakes.

For six people.

You always did this. Your brain knew the math. Your hands did not. Your hands were built for other things. Saving people. Stopping trains. Lifting cars off pedestrians. Accidentally making enough baked goods to feed a small afterparty.

Right now, you were in a hoodie with flour on the cuff and an apron that said Kiss the Cook that Lara had bought as a “joke” and then immediately insisted you wear every time you stepped near a stove. You’d rolled your eyes and put it on, because the girls had the collective ability to peer-pressure a literal Kryptonian.

And because Sophia had walked into the kitchen, taken one look at you in the apron, and said, very calmly, “Cute.”

Not nice. Not thanks.

Cute.

Like she was tasting the word.

Like she owned it.

Like she owned you.

Which-unfair. Completely unfair. Because you were still working on this new thing where Sophia was… Sophia. Your girlfriend. Your popstar leader girlfriend. Your gorgeous femme fatale girlfriend who could cut glass with her eyeliner and break your brain with a smile.

And she knew it.

She knew it in the same way you knew the sky was blue and gravity existed and that if you tried to hold a cardboard cupcake carrier like it was made of steel, you would accidentally turn it into confetti.

Sophia drifted into the kitchen now, silent in that way she did when she wanted to be noticed.

She was dressed for absolutely no reason-because she could. Dark lipstick. Silk blouse. A sleek ponytail that swung like a warning. She had gold hoops in her ears and a look on her face that said she was either about to destroy someone in a boardroom, or pin you against a wall for fun.

Possibly both.

You pretended to be very focused on frosting.

“You’re hovering,” she observed, voice low.

“I’m baking,” you corrected, carefully piping a swirl like it was a bomb you were trying not to set off.

“You’re hovering,” she repeated, amused.

You glanced over your shoulder. “I’m excited.”

Sophia’s eyes flicked over the cupcakes lined up like obedient little soldiers. Chocolate. Vanilla. A few with strawberry frosting because Lara had demanded “options.” One with extra sprinkles because Megan had leaned in, eyes shining, and whispered, “Do the gay one.”

You still didn’t know what that meant, but you’d put rainbow sprinkles on one anyway, because it made Megan happy and also because you were weak to anything that looked like it needed defending.

Sophia stepped closer. Her perfume hit you like a soft punch. Expensive. Dangerous. Like someone had bottled temptation and sold it with a warning label.

“You made these,” she said, like it was a statement and a trap all at once.

“For you guys,” you said. Then, because you couldn’t help yourself, you added, quieter, “And… you.”

Sophia’s mouth curved. Not a smile. A decision.

“Oh?” she purred. “For me?”

You nodded quickly, very serious. “You said you liked the ones last time.”

“I did,” Sophia agreed, dragging the word out. Her gaze dipped to your hands-big, steady, careful hands-then to your forearms, then to your biceps like she was taking attendance. “You’re very… thoughtful.”

Your face heated. “I just-yeah. I wanted to do something nice.”

Sophia leaned in, her fingers brushing the tie of your apron like she was checking a leash. “You always do something nice.”

You swallowed. “I-”

“Which,” she murmured, eyes lifting to yours, is sweet.”

You blinked. “mm” you say unable to say other things

Sophia’s eyes flicked downward.

You followed her gaze.

There, in the center of the tray, was the one you’d set aside with extra care. Vanilla cupcake. Slightly taller swirl that you'd done the second she walked in (the rest were naked). A little heart of sprinkles right on top, because you’d been feeling bold and also because your brain went she’ll like it and then your hands went decorate like you’re worshipping.

You reached for it.

Carefully. Gently.

You’d told yourself: soft hands.

You’d told yourself: it’s a cupcake, not a boulder.

You’d told yourself: You are capable of human-normal grip strength.

And you would’ve been.

Probably.

If the living room hadn’t been loud.

If Megan hadn’t yelled “CUPCAKE DELIVERY??” from down the hall like a gremlin who smelled sugar from a mile away.

If you hadn’t gotten flustered because Sophia was watching you like you were entertainment.

If Sophia hadn’t leaned against the counter, arms folded, looking like she belonged in a spy movie where she seduced people for sport.

You lifted the cupcake.

And your fingers-

Your fingers did what they always did when you weren’t paying attention.

They applied “lift a car door” pressure to “tiny cake.”

There was the softest squish.

A tragic, quiet sound.

You froze.

The cupcake slumped in your grasp like it had given up on life.

The frosting collapsed sideways. The little sprinkle heart slid off, landing on your thumb like a tiny accusation.

Your brain stalled.

Your chest tightened.

Your eyes got hot.

“No,” you breathed. “No no no-”

Sophia’s brows lifted.

Not in concern.

In delight.

“You… squished it,” she said, voice velvet.

You stared at the ruined cupcake like you’d just watched a puppy get kicked. “I didn’t mean to.”

Sophia took a slow step closer. “Mm. Of course you didn’t.”

“I was being careful,” you insisted, and your voice was doing that awful thing where it got too thick. Too earnest. Too hurt, over something so stupid and small.

It wasn’t stupid.

It was for her.

It was the cupcake you’d made extra nice because she’d liked the last batch and you liked making her happy and you wanted to be good at this-dating, romance, not accidentally breaking fragile things-because your whole life had been built around strength and control and saving, and now you were holding a mushy cupcake like it was the end of the world.

You looked up at Sophia with wide, miserable eyes. “I ruined it.”

Sophia’s gaze flicked over your expression, and something in her softened-

Just for a second.

Then she smiled again. Slow. Sharp. Wicked.

“Oh, baby,” she cooed, and the pet name landed like a hand around your throat. “Are you gonna cry?”

You blinked hard. “No.”

Sophia hummed. “Liar.”

Behind you, the living room erupted into the sound of human beings who had just been handed a gift.

Megan appeared in the doorway first, her eyes going huge. “OH MY GOD.”

Lara followed, immediately collapsing against the doorframe like she couldn’t stand under the weight of how funny this was. “She’s-she’s literally-”

Manon sauntered in, already smug. “Is that the Superman one?”

Yoonchae peeked around Megan’s shoulder, whispering, “She looks… very sad.”

Daniela walked in last, saw the cupcake, then saw you-six-foot-something, built like a Greek statue, capable of bench-pressing a helicopter-and her mouth twitched.

“So,” Daniela said thoughtfully, “the strongest person alive just lost a fight to frosting.”

“SHUT UP,” you hissed, mortified. Your cheeks were burning. Your eyes were still threatening betrayal.

Megan clapped a hand over her mouth like she was watching a priceless documentary. “She’s gonna cry over a cupcake,” she wheezed.

Sophia didn’t even look at them.

Her attention stayed on you like you were the only thing in the room.

She reached out and, with infuriating gentleness, peeled the ruined cupcake from your grip. Her fingers brushed yours as she took it, and you swear she did it on purpose.

“Aw,” she murmured, turning it slightly as if examining a crime scene. “You really did crush it.”

“I didn’t crush it,” you protested miserably. “I just… applied too much pressure.”

Sophia’s eyes slid to your arms. “You always do.”

Your stomach flipped.

That was not-

That was not how she said it.

The girls collectively made the sound of people who knew exactly what she meant and were enjoying your suffering.

“Oh my god,” Lara breathed. “She’s flirting while you’re grieving.”

“You’re so dramatic,” Manon said, but she was smiling.

Daniela’s grin widened. “This is my favorite thing that’s ever happened.”

You tried to salvage your dignity. You failed. “It was supposed to be hers.”

Sophia’s eyes warmed. “It was supposed to be mine.”

You nodded helplessly.

Sophia set the cupcake down on the counter with exaggerated care, then stepped into your space.

Close. Too close.

Her fingers came up, slow as a promise, and brushed a smear of frosting from the side of your thumb.

You went completely still.

Sophia brought the frosting to her lips.

Licked it.

Maintained eye contact the entire time.

You made a sound in the back of your throat that was, unfortunately, very close to a whine.

The living room went silent for precisely one heartbeat.

Then Megan made a choked noise like she’d just swallowed her tongue.

“OH,” Megan said, scandalized. “That’s- that’s not-”

“Okay,” Lara whispered, gripping Yoonchae’s arm like she needed support. “Okay. She’s evil.”

Sophia smiled without looking away from you. “I’m not evil.”

Daniela snorted. “You just licked her cupcake off her finger like a vampire.”

Sophia tilted her head. “And?”

You were still stuck on the fact that her hand was on yours. Her nails were perfectly done. Her thumb stroked the side of your knuckle like she was soothing a skittish animal.

And you-strong enough to crack steel-were standing there with your pulse in your ears because your girlfriend was touching you like she was in control of the entire universe.

Sophia’s other hand slid up your arm.

Slow.

Deliberate.

Her fingers traced the curve of your bicep like she was mapping it.

“You’re so strong,” she murmured, voice low enough that it felt like a secret. “My poor baby. You don’t even know your own strength.”

Your throat bobbed. “I do.”

Sophia’s brows lifted, unconvinced.

You swallowed. “Sometimes.”

Sophia’s mouth curled. “Sometimes.”

Her palm pressed lightly into your bicep, and you felt yourself melt in a way that was humiliating. Like your body didn’t care that you could fly. Like it didn’t care that you could stop bullets. Like it didn’t care about anything except Sophia touching you.

“I made it for you,” you said again, softer, pathetic about it.

Sophia’s eyes narrowed, pleased. “I know.”

“I wanted it to be perfect.”

Sophia’s fingers flexed, massaging you like she was comforting you, and her voice turned sweet in that dangerous way. “Sweetheart. It was perfect.”

You blinked. “It was… crushed.”

Sophia leaned in, lips almost brushing your ear. “You crushed it.”

Your brain short-circuited.

From the doorway, Megan made a noise like she was physically restraining herself from yelling.

“Stop,” Yoonchae whispered, but she was smiling.

Manon muttered, “This is sick.”

Daniela, who had zero shame, said brightly, “Do it again.”

You made a strangled sound. “Daniela-”

Sophia pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes dark and amused. “Do you want another one?”

You nodded miserably. “Yes.”

Sophia’s smile widened. “Say please.”

Your jaw dropped. “What-”

Sophia’s thumb brushed your lower lip, light, almost teasing. “You heard me.”

You looked at her like she’d asked you to walk into traffic.

She looked back like she’d already bought the traffic and named it after you.

Your voice came out small. “Please.”

The living room behind you collapsed into chaos.

Lara actually slid down the wall laughing.

Megan shrieked into her hands.

Manon looked like she was going to pass out from secondhand embarrassment.

Yoonchae whispered, “Oh my god,” in a tone that meant she was delighted.

Daniela blinked once. Silently.

Sophia didn’t even acknowledge them. She just turned, picked up a fresh cupcake with delicate fingers, and held it out to you like she was feeding a wild animal.

“Open,” she said softly.

Your eyes widened. “Sophia, I can hold-”

Sophia’s gaze sharpened. “I said. Open.”

You opened your mouth.

Sophia placed the cupcake in, careful, slow, pressing it against your lips just enough to make you feel it.

Your cheeks burned. You took a bite, trying to be normal about it, but you weren’t normal, you were you, and Sophia was… that.

She watched you chew like it was art.

“Good?” she asked.

You nodded quickly. “Yes.”

Sophia’s fingers stayed under your chin, tilting your face up. “Good girl.”

You stopped breathing.

From the doorway, Megan made the noise of someone dying.

Sophia looked back at you, satisfied, and wiped a crumb from the corner of your mouth with her thumb.

Then she licked that too, because apparently she’d woken up and chosen violence.

You were not going to survive this relationship.

Sophia’s hand slid back to your arm, squeezing your bicep with lazy ownership. “There,” she murmured. “See? I’ll take care of you.”

You stared at her like she’d hung the stars.

And Sophia, because she was Sophia, tilted her head and smiled like she knew exactly what she’d done to you.

“Next time,” she said softly, “don’t touch my cupcake.”

You swallowed. “Okay.”

Sophia’s smile widened, full femme fatale. “Good.”

Behind you, Daniela sighed like she was watching cinema. “This is unbelievable.”

Lara wheezed, “She could bench-press a planet and she’s getting bossed around with frosting.”

Manon shook her head, muttering, “Kryptonian himbo house husband puppy. I can’t do this.”

Yoonchae whispered, very reverently, “Mama y papa,” and Megan burst into laughter so hard she had to sit down.

You, still burning, still chewing, still being held by the chin like you belonged to Sophia

…couldn’t even be mad.

Because Sophia leaned in one more time, kissed your cheek-soft, smug, and possessive-

and murmured, just for you:

“My strong girl.”

And honestly?

"hard night?" you asked softly, giving him a smile. you entered his orbit, wrapping your arms around his neck in a gentle embrace.

"mm," clark murmured. his arms came to hold you tight against him as he buried his face in your neck, breathing deeply. he pressed a kiss beneath your ear, then at the side of your neck. you shivered. "missed you so much, sweetheart."

"yeah?" you laugh softly, carding your hand through his carefully coiffed curls, letting them fall loose. "missed you too, superman."

he keened at the name, nuzzling in further and groaning briefly under his breath, pressing another long kiss to the column of your throat. "couldn't get back here quick enough. i was thinkin' about you the whole time."

you felt his arms tighten around you, the heat of his palms pressing into the expanse of your back. you hummed softly, holding his cheek and guiding his face out of your shoulder so you could get a good look at him. clark's eyes were laser-focused on you, drinking in your image.

"honey," clark breathed, the pet name rolling effortlessly out of his pretty pink lips. "i need you."

"clark," you smiled, warmth curling through your chest. "you have me. i'm right here, baby."

"no, i-" clark swallowed, tongue darting out to wet his lips. you watched his eyes flicker down to your lips, to where your body wore his shirt, then back up. "i need you."

"oh," you blinked, understanding his meaning, and a rush of heat flooded your gut. before you could say anything else, clark had tugged you close again, capturing your lips in a hungry kiss.

clark tended to kiss you like it was the last time he'd be able to, and this time was no different. he swallowed the little surprised sound you made, his tongue at the seam of your lips. you let him in, happily, desperately, and your hands fisted curls of black hair. he kissed you like he was memorizing the way you felt, the way you tasted. all heat and passion and mess, just the way clark liked it.

his hands slid to your ass, squeezing the flesh firmly, before breaking the kiss to bend and lift you into his arms. your legs wrapped around his waist. he carried you like it was nothing, fingers dimpling the bare flesh of your thighs. you could feel your core press against the firm edges of his stomach, still covered with blue leather. he looked up at you then, eyes blown wide with need, his lips wet with your saliva. fuck, he was gorgeous.

clark kissed you again, messy with need, teeth clacking and tongues dancing, eyes shut as he maneuvered you both over to the bed. he lowered you onto it, following you down so he didn't spend a second away from your mouth.

"baby," clark murmured softly, his breath warm against your ear. his teeth grazed the lobe, making you shiver, and he smiled into another kiss on your neck.

"what d'you need, clark?" you asked, voice thick through your own arousal.

he kissed back up to your mouth, his cape fanning over you both like a blanket, trapping the heat between you.

"can i go down on you?" clark asked breathlessly. (and as if you would ever say no to that.) "please, i need to taste you, honey. please."

you nodded enthusiastically, clark's face breaking into a brief dopey grin. he backed off you and fell to his knees, pulling you by your legs to the edge of the bed.

"oh, baby..." clark moaned at the sight of you above him, legs spread and propped up on your elbows, staring him down. you were wearing one of his favorite pairs of underwear - the plain cotton ones that were a pretty deep blue. they were so soft and hugged your hips and highlighted your ass in a way that drove clark absolutely insane. "so pretty f'me."

"clarkkk," you whined, desperate for the feeling of his hands and mouth. but clark liked to take his time, and he looked completely at peace between your thighs. after receiving another nod from you, clark tucked his fingers under the waistband and pulled them off of you.

"pretty girl, all f'me," clark muttered, almost to himself, the blue in his eyes practically gone. he took your legs in warm hands, propping them up on his shoulders.

clark pressed a kiss to your ankle, softly, reverently. like he was doing something holy. you watched with bated breath as clark moved, his eyes never leaving the aching spot between your legs.

he moved to your calf, pressing slow kisses along the skin. "i'm so lucky to have you like this."

then your knee, then your thigh, all with the adoration of a priest worshipping his god. "beautiful. so beautiful."

he kissed up the inside of your thigh, his hands sliding up your legs to encourage them further open. he inched closer and closer to where you needed him, so close you could feel his labored exhales on your cunt.

"please, clark," you whimpered, egging him on with your heel against his back. you swore you were so wet it was dripping onto the bedsheets below. "need your mouth, baby."

clark had the nerve to smile while every inch of your body was on fire. he blew a gentle gust of cold air against your clit, making you twitch and yelp under him.

"sorry, baby, i had to," clark breathed before you felt his tongue, warm and flat and big, against your hole. you gasped out, a hand immediately flying to clark's hair and gripping tight. he moaned at the feeling, the vibrations sending rumbles of pleasure through your gut.

clark ate like a man starved, with long strokes of his tongue, as if he couldn't get enough of the taste of you. his fingers gripped your thighs tight, keeping your legs open for him even as you bucked and grinded against his tongue. his lips zeroed in on your clit, sucking just the way he knew you liked.

"fuck, clark-" you moaned, tense with hot pleasure. "please, just like that."

clark keened at the praise, continuing his worshipful ministrations. a thick finger prodded at your entrance, the mix of his spit and your slick allowing easy entry. you whimpered at the feeling, grinding your hips down against the digit. he pumped in and out, matching the pace of his mouth, never letting up.

you could feel your orgasm coming in the blinding throes of clark's mouth. he knew, of course - clark was tuned in to every sign your body gave, and he had memorized the way your heartbeat raced when you were close.

"so good," you could barely get the words out, completely distracted. "feels so good, baby, fuck, don't stop-"

clark slipped in another finger, and with a particularly long suck on your clit, he brought you caterwauling off the edge. you yelled out his name, your grip on his hair bruising and your heels digging into his cape. your eyes were wet and screwed shut, a full body tremor taking over. he slowed but didn't stop, drinking every drop of pleasure he could take from your body. there was a sheen of sweat on both of your faces, and clark slowly pulled his fingers out.

"so perfect," he muttered, rubbing circles on your thigh. you gasped a few deep breaths as your high came down. "so beautiful, baby, you taste so good, did so good for me."

you peeled your eyes open, panting lightly, so you could look at the man beneath you.

fuck, he was a sight. superman, in all his glory, was on his knees for you, his mouth wet with the taste of you. his cheeks were red and his curls were mussed and stuck up in random places in a terribly cute post-sex look. his eyes were blown, staring up at you like you had just given him the moon. he licked his pink lips, getting one more taste of you. he looked like your favorite wet dreams.

god. superman. on his knees. for you.

You have to wipe the look off your face. I mean, whose voice sounds like that? All kind and dripping with sweetness. You don’t trust Clark Kent as far as you could throw him and God knows you weren’t moving that well-toned body of his, how much did he work out and that bone structure, I mean– “What, Clark?” You know you sound snippy because he looks like a kicked puppy. Well, actually, he always looks like that around you. 

Clark’s glasses sit on the edge of his nose, he pushes them up as he speaks, “Oh, um, sorry to bother you.” His desk chair scoots over from his desk over to yours. A common occurrence. Jimmy and Lois would share a glance over it, you’re sure. “I was just wondering if you’d read over my latest piece. The new one about Superman.” He’s got that look on his face. Is he trying to impress you or shove it in your face? Everyone would kill for an interview with Superman, but of course, Clark Kent is the only one to secure them. 

You roll your eyes. You can’t help it. “Clark, I’m sure it’s great. I’m sure it’ll be on the front page like the last four articles you wrote about him.” You turn your attention back to your computer, not wanting to continue the conversation. 

“Oh, really? You think so?” It typically takes a few more sassy replies from you to get him to retreat back to his desk, but not this time. This was Clark Kent who only ever takes your words at face value. Clark Kent who can’t seem to pick up on the fact you’re annoyed with him, always. Clark Kent who won’t stop till every person at the Daily Planet at least tolerates him. 

“You bet, Clarkie.” Your voice is laced with faux sweetness, but Clark turns away with a smile on his face, his posture straighter than before, desk chair wheels sliding back the way he came from.

Clark would annoy you more if it wasn’t for the little way your heart flipped when he came through the door every morning. But that part of you was never your brain talking, hell, it probably wasn’t even your heart. You swore off the men of Metropolis a long time ago. Relationships were always too complicated and men more so. You have been hurt too many times. They all started off strong. Kind, gentlemen-like, and a little too good to be true. More likely than not, Clark Kent was the same. He wanted one thing and once he got it? No more doors opened before you had a chance to look up. No more take-out containers appearing during the nights when you had to make a deadline. Not to mention you worked together. You couldn’t handle ruining the one place you actually loved. And for what? Clark Kent? Even if it was real, he is too sweet. He probably helps old ladies cross the street and the only thing you ever knew was tumultuous relationships. 

You would throw your hands against the desk if you didn’t want to draw so much attention to yourself. He always had a way of worming himself into your brain. He didn’t even have to try very hard. His smile lit up rooms. He was so tall and broad yet he tried to shrink so as not to take up so much space. You could kill him, you think. 

It was clear to Lois and Jimmy that Clark has a crush on you. It was the most obvious thing on the planet. Clark was nice. The whole act you assumed was for the purpose of getting things out of others was simply how he was. He was a gentleman from Kansas, always taught to do the right thing from Ma and Pa. But it was different with you. He was even more nervous than usual. Clark went out of his way to make sure you were comfortable, that you were seen. If you rubbed at your temples too much, an Advil would appear on your desk. If you yawn a little more than usual, a cup of coffee prepared just the way you like. He never needed the credit for it either. Just did it because he knew it was the right thing to do for someone you admired.

You picked up on it. You weren’t blind. “I mean, he does that for everyone, doesn’t he?” You had asked Lois last week. 

Her eyebrows raised. “I mean, no. If I ask, sure, Clark is happy to get me a cup of coffee from the break room. For you? He’ll go to that place down the street.” She had a knowing look on her face. More often than not, you had been going back to Clark as a topic of conversation. In the past, you brushed him off. 

You sighed, picking at the skin around your fingers. “Well, if anything, he just wants to get in my pants.” You had seen it before. Hell, the last intern the Daily Planet hired had tried it too, but once he realized you weren’t interested, the pleasantries had stopped. That hasn’t happened with Clark, not yet anyway. “Right?” You looked at Lois again. 

“Sure and settle down with you in Kansas somewhere and give you a handful of kids and wait on your hand and foot or whatever floats your boat.” She shrugged. She wasn’t going to waste more of her breath trying to convince you that Clark was one of the good ones. You had to figure that out on your own and your mind was surely set on staying away. And she sure as hell wasn’t gonna go out of her way to vet him for you, at least not for a little while longer. I mean, she had her $50 bucks put on the fact it would take longer than six months for you guys to go on a date. Jimmy on the other hand was convinced it would take less than six months. She was right on the cusp of winning, you just had to hold out a little while longer. Lois can't let Jimmy Olsen win a bet. “But, really, you’re probably right. I mean no man is that perfect.” She emphasized, glancing over at Clark. 

That was a week ago. Now, your restraint seems to be thinning more and more every day that you catch a glimpse of him in that white button down, his glasses hanging close to the tip of his nose. You had managed to finish the day off still mildly annoyed at him, though. I mean, push up your glasses for God's sake.

Clark, on the other hand is making eye contact with Jimmy, shaking his head vehemently as Jimmy gestures over to you, mouthing, “Come on, man. Ask her out!” Clark is nervous. He didn’t want to ruin anything between you, but it was getting harder for him to ignore the ache in his chest. He glances over at your desk, noticing that you're packing your bag for the night. Oh gosh, is he about to do this? 

Jimmy throws a fist up in the air signaling triumph as Clark scrambles out of his chair, stuttering over his words, “Oh, hey, wait, let me grab that for you.” He reaches your desk, scooping your bag over his shoulder as he smiles. “You know, we, uh, walk the same way.” 

You shrug. “Okay.” It was a long day. He was strong and capable. He could carry your bag a few blocks. He’s quick to grab the door before you can, push the elevator button, and follow you to the street. 

“How was your day?” He asks, genuinely curious. He’s only stalling a little on asking you on a date. I mean, would you say yes? Were you set on being friends? Friendly co-workers? He knew he wanted more than that and Ma always said it was better to just take a chance. 

“Honestly? It kind of sucked. Perry was on my ass, sending me email after email when I sent in my draft for Sunday. I just– I worry I’m not always picking up the slack. Like, that I’m not good enough to be here.” You sigh, glancing up at Clark as you walk. Where the hell did that come from? But you knew. Clark was always easy to talk to. He had a way about him that sort of eased the ache in your chest. 

The frown on his face is genuine. “Oh, come on, you know that’s not true.” His brows are furrowed, his grip tightening on your bag. “You’re one of the best writers I know.” He clears his throat, his admiration as clear as day. “Plus, Perry was just in one of his moods. It had nothing to do with you. In fact, it might’ve been my fault.” He’s sheepish when he says it. 

Your mouth drops open. “What? Clark Kent, golden boy? Perry upset with you?” You bump into his side as you walk, teasing him. Conversation flows easy between Clark and you. As much as you hated to admit it at times. 

Your building looms in the distance. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to get a taste of Clark Kent. It had been awhile since you had any romantic prospects. Maybe it didn’t have to be so life or death for you. Maybe it could just be fun. It could even be nice after the day you had. 

Your footsteps slow down as you reach the front door of your building, your body turning to face Clark. His eyes stare down into your own. He swallows. Does he know what you’re about to ask?

“Do you want to come up?” 

“Can I take you out on a date?”

You both stutter over your next sentences. “Oh– Well.” 

“Yes.” You say at the same time, a matching grin on both of your faces. 

—- 

What were you doing? Maybe you didn’t quite think this through, you think as your front door clicks shut. 

“Oh, you can just, uh,” You grab your bag from Clark’s shoulder, dumping it off on your coffee table as you take in the state of your apartment. It wasn’t that bad. After taking a quick inventory, you turn back to Clark, finding him with a goofy smile on his face. As much as you wish it wasn’t, it was contagious. “Stop smiling like that.” You can’t help the way a smile tugs at your own lips looking at him. 

His fingers push the bridge of his glasses up his nose, a chuckle falling from his lips. He’s got a blush dusting his cheeks, has he always been this cute? “I just can’t believe you said yes to a date. I mean, and now I’m in your apartment and it’s just–” 

You close the space you made, stopping his rambling as you stare up at his face. I mean you invited him up for a reason, right? You might as well take the chance while you have him here. You could do this despite your heart wanting to jump out of your chest and into his. You stand on your tip-toes, leaning into him. “Come on, Clark, kiss me.” Here you were, taking the chance. God, that stupid button up and your stupid feelings. 

He really doesn’t have to be told twice. Clark’s hand comes up to cup the side of your face, leaning in and connecting your lips together. Oh, fuck. Your lips move in sync, your eyes closing as you melt into his touch. He is so big, so tall, and all consuming as he deepens the kiss. His nose nudges against your own as he tries to get as close as possible to you. A small groan escapes his lips as he pushes your bodies together, a hand on the small of your back. “I, uh, ‘msorry.” He mumbles against your lips before pulling back and resting his forehead against yours. Clark, ever the gentleman, worrying he’s taken it too far. “I’ve wanted to do that forever, didn’t know if you’d ever ask.” 

A small laugh escapes your lips, already feeling drunk from the feeling of his lips against yours. “Not sure I was ever going to ask.” You peck his lips, sliding your hands across his chest. “But maybe I finally lost my senses.” 

“Oh, yeah?” He can’t wipe the smile off his face as his hands glide over your shoulders to slide down to hold at your waist. “Can I kiss you again?” His hands give your hips a gentle squeeze before he sees your nod and dives back in and this time, it feels even more consuming than the last. Your hands can’t stop exploring the expanse of his chest, his back, the hardness of him, his biceps and the softness too, the way his biceps flex when his arms move to pull you closer. Your hand finds his as you continue to kiss. You pull away from his lips as you begin to tug him towards the couch. 

Clark is quick to sit down and pull you onto him. He isn’t sure how he waited this long to kiss you, to touch you. The world before seems foreign to him now. Have you always been this soft? This beautiful? His hands are moving over your body, squeezing your plush hips in his hands as his lips work down your neck. “I still want to take you out, okay?” He reassures you. His fingers tease at the edge of your shirt, pushing it up an inch just to get a taste of your skin. His fingertips tickle at the bare skin of your tummy; it makes you shiver. You can barely think. “I, uh, I’ve wanted to ask you out for so long.” Every word is punctuated with a kiss as he moves all over your neck, your throat, back to your face: your lips, your cheeks, nuzzling you now that he’s allowed to. “Is this okay?” His fingers are skating at the edge of your shirt, the heat they leave in their wake is enough to make you shiver. You nod. 

Clark shakes his head, fingers desperately gripping at your waist again. “No, I need to hear you say it.” His forehead is pressed against yours, wondering how the hell he ended up here. Maybe he’s dreaming. “Please.” 

You nod again, “Yes, please. Touch me.” Your thighs are straddling his lap as your hips subconsciously grind down against him as you give him your answer. He’s hard underneath you. You swallow. Sure, you knew what you invited him up here for, but you didn’t expect the way heat pooled in your stomach, the way his lips felt against yours. It was electric. You didn’t think you had wanted someone so bad from a kiss before. Didn’t think you’d ever want Clark Kent like this. Clark Kent with his curls disheveled from your hands, his pupils blown out underneath his glasses, the few buttons of his shirt undone, the expanse of his chest peeking out from underneath. You could come from that sight alone.

Clark’s hands tease underneath your shirt, squeezing and touching over all the skin he can reach before he’s pushing a hand underneath your bra and taking your mouth with his again. He can’t help the groan that escapes as he grinds up against you, the feeling of your bare skin making him come undone. “Ah– I,” Clark’s head falls back against the couch as you press down against him, creating a pace against the hard-on in his pants. “I, I don’t do this, usually.” He wants to elaborate, wants to tell you he really does prefer a first date because he wants to earn this, earn you, but he can’t get much else out as he watches you on top of him. 

“Uh-huh.” You're lost in the feeling of dry humping with him, throat tight. Your pussy aches every time his clothed cock rubs just right. You can only imagine how big, how girthy he is if he feels this way through his pants. Your hands are gripping at his shoulders as you rut against him, his hands still kneading your breasts. 

His hands are pulling your top over your head, undoing your bra so he can get at more of your skin with his hands and his mouth. He takes extra care to make sure no piece of your skin goes untouched.

“Come on, Clarkie, please.” You beg, the usual teasing nickname slipping out without a thought, wanting to feel his hands where you really need them. It seems to work as his large hand slips underneath your pants, fingers swiping down to feel your heat through your underwear. He can feel the wetness seeping through your panties. His fingers tease, paying attention to your clit, giving it an experimental rub through the cloth to see your reaction. Your hips buck, losing whatever rhythm they might have had as you cry out. It’s been awhile and you’re so sensitive, you go to explain just as his fingers shove the cloth aside and touch with no barrier. “Ah, oh, fuck.” Your hips stutter again, his fingers slipping toward your entrance. 

“Oh, wow, honey.” He breathes out, mouth kissing at your chest as his fingers tease at your slick entrance. His fingers swipe through your folds before sinking in a single finger. He barely has to push in before you sink down onto it fully without a second thought. You’re so wet, a second finger slides in as easily as the first, he can feel the way your pussy throbs at the intrusion. “Feel good?” He cuts through your foggy mind, his fingers sloppily moving in and out as his mouth returns to claim yours. You give a slight nod, lost in the feeling. “You still gonna let me take you out?” His thumb joins in, lightly rubbing at your clit. 

“Yes, you can take me out on a stupid date.” You push your lips harder against his, moving your hips against his hand, the sound of his fingers fucking into your slick heat fills the room. The feeling in your stomach tightens, close to release. Of course you’ll go out with him especially if his fingers feel this good. Oh gosh, if his fingers feel like this, what will his cock feel like? 

Clark’s fingers keep nudging at your clit, his fingers inside of you feeling over that spongy part, petting, coaxing. He is keeping a steady rhythm as he tunes into the sound of your breathing, the steady thump of your heart. Every time he senses a slight stutter, he keeps the steady rhythm going. His eyes rake over your body, his other hand holding your hips in place the more they want to rut against him. He can’t focus like that. His cock is throbbing in his pants, but he thinks he could cum just watching you like this. With his senses so in tune with yours. “You gonna come, baby?” A kiss presses to your neck, “You gonna come on my fingers?” You choke on your words, your pussy tightening with the feeling in your stomach. It’s about to snap every time he speaks. “Let me see it,” He begs, somehow his voice sounds nearly as wrecked as you feel, “Please.” Clark’s voice cracks, holding you to his chest just as the band in your stomach snaps. You fall forward, gripping at his clothed chest. 

“Ah, ah, ah, fuck, Clark.” You gasp, his fingers slowing down their assault, but working you through your orgasm till your body twitches and your hand shoves at his wrist, “Ha, Clark, quit.” You breathe, hiding your face in his neck. His fingers slowly leave your panties, not too fast. He can tell how sensitive you’re feeling. He wants to laugh, but only from the sense of happiness building in his chest. 

“Good?” His voice is hoarse, deeper than usual. One hand slides to your back, rubbing small circles. 

You nod sleepily. “God. Great, Clark.” Your voice is breathless. Even after your orgasm, you aren’t unaware of his cock still pressing into your clothed core. You aren’t unaware of how big it feels. You aren’t unaware of the ache still in your pussy, needing him to really fill it. You’re still sensitive, but your body is still curious as your core makes another swipe over his lap, testing, teasing.

His hands are quick to grab at your waist, holding you still. “Ah, ah, I–.” He laughs, head dropping back to the couch as he stares up at your face, glasses crooked. A small, knowing grin adorns your face. God, did you get prettier? “I, uh–” He glances at the clock on your wall. He had plans. Superman duties. And he really does want to take you out first. His cock twitches. You can see the inner battle on his face. Was this Kansas boy serious? He really did want to take you out? “I have to go and I really do want to take you out first.” He’s sheepish as he says it, a light blush dusting his cheeks. As if it’s something to be embarrassed about. As if he didn’t make your heart squeeze and give you the best orgasm you’ve had in months. 

“You mean it?” You tease, your lips press a small kiss to the side of his mouth. 

Clark nods, those matching grins adorning your faces again. “I mean it.” 

— 

6:00 PM. Saturday. 

The click of shoes against hard wood. Again. Again. Pacing. A glance at the clock. A glance at the calendar. 

6:30 PM. Saturday. 

A sigh, shoes dropping to the hard wood. You slump on the couch, glancing at the last texts you exchanged with Clark this morning. 

pick you up at 6 pm on the dot :) 

Clark was rarely late and when he was, he made up for it. You try to remember that. 

7:00PM. Saturday. 

You fight the urge to text him. Is he okay? Surely he wouldn’t stand you up. That would be silly.

7:30PM. Saturday.

Would it? 

9:20PM. Saturday.

No, not silly. No text and a no show. You want to text Lois, ask if she wants to go out to the bar. I mean, you got ready and for what? But your heart actually breaks a little. A little told you so to yourself. I mean, he couldn’t even close the deal so what did he really get out of it? You grumble, sinking into the couch. Stupid feelings and stupid chances. How are you supposed to face him on Monday? Maybe that’s on him. Maybe he can deal with the death glares you stare into the back of his head now. Did he do this on purpose? Did he know you really did not want to fall for his stupid little act and somehow got you to anyway? 

“Ugh.” You throw your phone onto the cushion beside you, heading falling back just as a knock startles you in the silence. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” 

You’re quick to rise from your spot on the couch, even quicker to rip the door open. You can’t even speak before Clark is apologizing. “I am so, so, so, sorry.” His eyes meet yours as soon as you open the door, the kicked puppy look is on full blast. “Please, don’t shut the door.” He begs, one hand extending to you, the other holding a bouquet of flowers. 

“Are you serious, Clark?” You want to scream, but your voice is low. Lethal. 

His eyes plead with you. “I got caught up in, in, — I mean, have you seen the news? I was on the other side of the city and there was an attack, I mean it was just like the one from a few months ago, you remember the one, right?” He’s rambling, he knows it. He means it. He wouldn’t have missed your date unless he had good reason. It’s not like he has to tell you his secret, not after one missed date. “There was this huge explosion and all the transit had to stop, and, you don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?” He saves himself the embarrassment and stops talking as you pull out your phone and see the news. 

Okay, so you spent 3 hours sulking around the house without checking the news. Is that on you or him? And God, Clark probably stuck around to help cats out of trees and old ladies under rubble. You’re almost sure of it. “Oh.” You say dumbly, looking back up at him before your eyes narrow. “No text? Not even one?”

He shrugs, that sheepish look on his face as he holds up his phone, the screen black. “No battery.” 

You roll your eyes, tugging him into your apartment. “Okay, fine. You’re forgiven.” You point a finger at him, poking at his chest. “For now.” 

— 

So you reschedule for next weekend. This time, there’s even less pressure on it. You had planned a dinner and movie at your place. There were too many deadlines lately at work this week and you hadn’t wanted to go out. Clark agrees with the promise that he’ll take you out somewhere really nice once work isn’t as stressful. Not even a first date down and he’s already planning the other ones. Quite sure of himself, you think, as you finish getting ready. 

You had already ordered the pizza and he was due to be at your apartment in about 15 minutes. 

It’s starting to feel like a repeat of your first plans when 30 minutes go by and the pizza begins to grow cold on the table. You played it safe this time too and let the news play while you waited. Just in case.

You want to cry when another hour goes by. How did you let yourself get your hopes again? You sit on the couch and let it happen. There’s no use pretending that your heart wasn’t feeling the way it was. You liked Clark. Like really liked him. You liked the stupid way he wrote your name on the coffee cups with the stupid smiley faces and you liked the way his eyes searched for you in the morning at work, you liked the way he texted you his stupid thoughts and dumb fun facts. He was genuine and goofy. Like stupidly so. But he was also opinionated and never afraid to stand up for what was right. You liked the way his hands would linger on your back when he held the door open for you, you liked the way he started sneaking kisses on the elevator at work. 

You hope he shows up at the door still. You hate yourself for it, too. There was a reason you didn’t want to get your hopes up about Clark Kent because you would be stupidly in love if you did. 

You fall asleep on the couch crying yourself to sleep. No fist knocking against wood wakes you up. 

The sun rises another day. 

– 

Can we talk?

You want to throw your phone across the room. Can we talk? Really? He wants to stand you up and thinks you can’t take the hint? Now he wants to break it off in person? I mean, what was there to even break off? You’ve only been seeing each other for a week, if you can even call it that. There was no date. Just secret kisses, secret touches in the elevator and the copy room and the stairwell and– you groan, unsure of what to even say. Did you owe it to yourself to see him again? To tell him off? 

ok. u can come over in an hour 

– 

Maybe you’ve shot yourself in the foot. As Clark sits across from you on the couch, you lose all the fight you once had. You’re just sad. Because Clark Kent is perfect in nearly every way except he can’t show up to a date on time to save his life. 

He’s nervous. You have no idea why he’s nervous considering he already did the hard part and stood you up twice. No better way to tell a girl that you’re not really interested. “I, um–” He clears his throat, avoiding eye contact. 

How do you tell the girl you like that you're Superman? Clark wishes he could bring out his phone, bring up the notes app he had jotted ideas down on. The words came easier to him in writing. There was no easy way to get this out. Clark Kent had no excuse for missing his dates with you. Superman did. How does he separate the two? How did he ever believe he could? How selfish could he be? There was a reason he didn’t date. But it was different when it came to you. He felt like he could be himself, as much as himself as he could be without really telling you about Superman. Did this have to be so convoluted? He trusted you. He knew you had integrity. He knew this wouldn’t change a thing, but bring more understanding between the two of you. He knew if he told you, this could really happen. Everything might fall into place. 

The real selfish thing was not allowing Clark Kent to love. He owed it to himself to let love in. What else was there? The most human thing of all. 

“This isn’t easy for me.” He clears his throat finally looking up at you. He wants to reach across the couch, take your hand in his, pour his heart out. But he doesn’t deserve that. Not yet. “I, uh, don’t deserve your forgiveness.”

You roll your eyes. “Just spit it out, Clark.” There’s a venom in your voice that breaks his heart, “I expected this. I mean, really? I should’ve known it was all an act.”

Clark frowns. “That’s really what you think of me?” His emotions seem to be getting the best of him. He knows you don’t mean it. You’re hurt. He’s hurt you.

“I mean, really? How else do you explain this?” You move your hands around the air between the two of you. “You wanted a little secret, office romance or whatever. I don’t know!” You’re exasperated. “You don’t want the, like, real thing.” You frown. “It’s fine. Just stop dragging it out.” You can feel the tears sting at your eyes. 

“That’s not at all what this means to me.” He looks at his hands, wrings them together. “You- I, –” He runs a hand over his face. “You remember when I missed the first date we had?” Clark makes eye contact with you again, watches you nod, watches the first tear drop. “I wasn’t just caught in the middle of all of that, I mean, I was. But not in the way you think.” He swallows, brings his hands up to his face. “I was– I am–” He rips the glasses off his face, watching recognition dawn on your face. 

“Clark.” You are at a loss for words. “I mean, what?” Your hands reach forward to grip his face in yours, thumbs sliding across his cheeks. He’s your Clark, but he’s Superman. The man from work who had driven you up the wall from how perfect he had this act down. The man who was respectful to a fault. The man whose values were worn on his chest and his heart on his sleeve. The man you knew as Clark Kent makes so much sense now like two pieces of a puzzle finally creating the full picture. 

Clark laughs, unsure of himself. Unsure of how to be these two things to you at once. “I’m sorry. I swear, I’m usually on time. Just two really ill timed alien monsters attacking and you know, it’s kinda–” You cut him off with a kiss. 

“Thank you for telling me.” You shake your head still unsure of if you’re seeing things right. “I can’t imagine.” You're still holding his face in your hands, in awe, watching in real time as these two personalities come to meet in the middle, meet in the man before you. How do you blame a guy for missing a couple dates when he’s saving the world? Especially when he makes it up to you in so many other ways. “I can’t imagine what you have to carry on your own.” You frown, hands sliding from his face to his chest. You imagine the suit as your fingers run over his chest, the beacon of hope that those colors carry, the hope he has to carry for the world. 

Clark can’t keep his hands from you anymore as he moves one to cup your cheek. “You’re not mad?” He smiles, “You can still be mad.” He reassures, pushing your hair to tuck behind your ear. “There is nothing in the world that can truly keep me from you, not anymore.” His lips are close to connecting with yours and those words alone have you closing the distance. 

There is so much between you. The sadness you were feeling washes away into something entirely different. Deeper, stronger. Admiration, longing, a trust that settles in your bones. “Don’t make me wait again, Clark.” You tease, “Superman.” Your words are laced with the emotions you’re feeling, dripping with something you can’t quite name.

Clark eases you down onto the couch, his lips still capturing your own as his fingers explore your body. They run along your thighs, your legs, reveling in the fact that you’re still here, that you know him. That you still want him. “I mean it. I’m gonna do my best with you. I promise. As long as you’ll let me.” And his words have a different meaning. You share him with the world, but know him more intimately than the world ever could. 

Your body arches into his touch, his fingers dancing along your skin. He tugs off your shirt, his own following as he gets to know your body, slowly, surely. “I’m not going anywhere, Clark.” Your voice is breathless as his fingers slip in between your bodies, under your pants, a familiar ache in your bones as his fingers gather up your slick and make circles around your clit. You can feel him pressing against your inner thigh. Your own hands explore down his chest till they’re running over the outline of his cock through his pants, your breath hitches as you feel how big he is. At the same time, he’s pushing two fingers into you, slowly easing them in and out, searching for that soft spot deep inside you, the spongy spot that has you cooing. 

He’s quick to draw an orgasm from you once he gets your pants off, peppering kisses over your face, your torso as he works you through it. “I got you, come on, let me have it.” He’s kissing over your neck as you come down, “So pretty.” He praises, his other hand running up and down your side. 

“Clark.” His head is tucked into your neck. “Clark.” You're laughing, his fingers tickling the skin of your thighs. He’s still hard, you can feel him pressing against your naked core, but he makes no effort to address it. “Are you gonna fuck me, Clark?” You whine, pushing back up into him. 

His lips return to yours briefly before he’s looking down at you. “You’re sure?” 

“I think there’s nothing that I want more right now.” You give him a push of your hips to make a point. 

Clark groans into your mouth, nodding. “Okay, okay.” He sits up, slowly unbuckling his pants and pushing them down with his boxers. His cock springs free. 

Oh. 

Oh.

He’s bigger than you could’ve imagined. Longer than you felt. Thicker than you felt. You can’t seem to tear your eyes away from his cock. It’s almost embarrassing. Clark’s hand is rubbing the back of his head, looking at the way you’re ogling him. “I, uh–” You swallow, “Is that even gonna fit?” Your eyes flit up to his own before looking back down. Your pussy clenches at the thought of him working his way into you. “I mean, Clark–” Your laugh is breathless. 

Clark is leaning back over you, his fingers finding your wetness again, pooling even more than before from your orgasm and the sight of his cock. “She’s wet enough to take it.” He mumbles, fingers gathering your wetness before he’s smearing it onto his cock and spreading the pre-cum that has gathered from his leaking, red tip. He pumps his cock a couple times in his fist, his other hand squeezing at your waist. “You trust me, don’t you?” Clark purrs with a few lingering kisses against your neck. You nod, at a loss for words as the tip of his cock pushes through your folds, nudging at your clit. The feeling makes you jolt. Clark’s eyes are locked on the sight of his cock glistening with your juices, rubbing along the length of your slit, teasing, testing, eyes glancing up at your face to gauge your reaction. 

You whine, hips stuttering against his own, needing him to fill the ache between your legs with the length of him. “I told you not to make me wait again.” You hiccup, bottom lip jutting out. 

Clark hisses as his tip nudges at your entrance, your hips seeking where you want him most. His tip catches at the soft ring of flesh, sinking in as your hips continue to tease him. It’s easier than you thought, a soft squelch filling the living room as he gives you the first inch. Your slick lets him in easily as your pussy begins clenching around him. “How’s that feel, sweetheart?” His cock stills in you, not pushing in until you adjust to the thickness of him. You’re nodding, unable to speak from how good it feels. “Use your words.” He urges, voice steady despite how wrecked he feels, his hand sliding down your body, thumb finding your clit. 

“Yeah, yes, Clark.” You choke out.

“Good.” He answers, pushing in the rest of the way as your pussy gives way. It’s snug and your pussy clenches around his cock. He can feel your walls stretch, accommodating his size. When he reaches the hilt, he groans out, “I knew you had it in you.” His thumb is still toying with your clit as he begins to move in and out. He’s slow with it at first, letting you adjust to the feeling of his cock fully sheathed inside you. “You’re taking me so well.” It’s constant praise as he’s shoving his cock in and out, the lewd sounds filling the space; his balls hitting your ass he picks up the pace.

“Clark, I– Oh, fuck.” You’re drunk from the fullness of him. You live and breathe Clark Kent. If you thought his kisses were all consuming, there’s nothing compared to the feeling of his dick splitting you in half, his lips capturing yours in a kiss as his pace picks up. His thumb rubbing small circles at just the right pace, the right pressure. It’s better than you could’ve imagined. Your throat is tight, your entire body clenching from the pleasure of it, just waiting to snap. 

“Come on, baby.” He’s urging you, cock pushing as far as he can, his body snug against your own as he ruts into your pussy, grinding his length deep within you. He’s losing his resolve. He’s not sure how much longer he can hold onto his semblance of sanity here. How long he can keep his strength in check as his fingers squeeze onto your waist. It stings, but only adds to the pleasure.

The only thing you can feel is Clark. His fingers on your waist, squeezing, his thumb toying with your clit, his cock shoving in, his mouth kissing along your throat. “Come with me.” He’s begging, voice cracking, but you can’t tell. Too lost in the feeling of him, your fingers clawing at his back, legs wrapped around his waist, clutching him as close as he can humanely get. You have no idea how badly he needs this, lives for this.

It snaps. “Oh, Clark.” Your thighs tighten around him, the tightness in your body evaporating as you come, body shivering as he works you through it. He’s following behind you, his cock coating the inside of your pussy with his spend. His hips grind into yours, working his cum deeper and deeper into you as you both cling onto each other, his cock kissing your cervix as he comes down. Both breathless, both completely spent. There was no way you were getting Clark Kent out of your bones, out of your head. You’re thinking it’ll only be easier to forgive him if every apology is like this. 

His arms are on either side of your face as he peppers kisses across your skin. “Okay?” Clark is softening inside of you, the rest of him visibly melting at the sight of you, he’s not sure if he can handle seeing you like this, so pliant in his hands, so in love. “I’m gonna move, sweetheart.” A soft sound fills the room as his cock slides from inside you. His body is moving from a top of yours and your hands grip at his biceps, a pleading look in your eyes. 

“Don’t go, Clarkie.” Your voice is small, almost sad. You’re not sure you can ever give him up.

Clark shakes his head, gathering up your body against his. It’s effortless on his part. “Don’t plan on it.” He promises. The rest of the day is for you. The rest of the night is for making up for the mistakes he’s already made. And oh, Clark Kent always makes up for his mistakes. He would make sure he earned every single piece of you, every day. That is the only way he knew how to do it. He only knew how to live by being all in and completely dedicated. 

For a long moment, you just stood there.

Staring.

Breathing.

Trying very hard not to think.

Every time your thoughts started to form, they spiraled— fast, sharp, and unforgiving— straight into you are not in your world anymore and you gave yourself Superman powers like an absolute idiot.

So, you didn’t think. You just breathed, slow and steady, like that might somehow anchor you in place.

“This is fine,” you said out loud, because apparently saying it made it more believable. “People wake up in alternate realities all the time. Totally normal. Happens every—“

Your reflection moved.

You froze mid-sentence, your body going rigid as your eyes slowly drifted toward the wardrobe mirror across the room. There you were— standing exactly where you should be with that ‘deer-in-headlights’ look— but something about it felt… off.

“… that’s not right…”

You took a cautious step closer, as if the mirror might betray you if you moved too quickly.

It didn’t, just like the floor didn’t crack when you moved. Still, better safe than sorry.

The mirror just stood there, reflecting you back with quiet, unwavering honesty.

Except… it wasn’t quite you.

You were taller. Not dramatically so, but enough that it threw everything off. Your eye level sat higher than it should be, your proportions just slightly stretched in a way that made you feel like you’d been shifted half an inch out of alignment.

Your shoulders were broader, too. Your posture naturally straighter, like your body had decided slouching was no longer something it tolerated.

Which was something you dreaded if you were to pull off the whole ‘Clark Kent’ persona thing—

You looked stronger.

Not bulky, or exaggerated— just built.

Like every part of you had been refined into something sturdier, something denser. Something that could take a hit and keep standing.

For the second time in an only a few minutes, your stomach dropped straight out of your ass.

“Oh my god, I got buff.”

Your hands came up immediately, patting at your arms, your sides, your waist, like you were checking to make sure everything was still attached properly.

Spoiler alert: you were not pulled apart and put back together again like some sort of Frankenstein experiment. Your nose shape was still the same, your lips still had the same pull as before, shit— even your hip dips remained!

Still, it was unnerving to see all these familiar features on an unfamiliar body.

Everything felt solid (R.I.P to the soft pudge on your stomach, you will be missed). Real. Warm beneath your touch.

“…Okay,” you said faintly, trying to keep your voice steady. “Okay, that’s— fine. That’s fine, I can work with this. I can—“

Something brushed against your brow.

You stilled.

And finally, your gaze rested on the one small thing that really drove the ‘oh-my-god-I’m-fucking-Superman’ idea home.

A single curl of hair, resting perfectly, deliberately, across your forehead.

You stared at it.

You pushed it back. It fell forward again.

You blinked, then pushed it back again, harder this time. It bounced right back into place like it had something to prove.

“No,” you said firmly, like this was the one thing you could not stand with. “Absolutely not. I refuse. I reject this. I did not sign up for branding.”

The curl, evidently, disagreed.

It stayed exactly where it was, like it paid rent.

After a stunted pause where you had to heavily resist the urge to march into the kitchen to grab a pair of scissors and snip this damn thing off—

You leaned closer to the mirror, narrowing your eyes at your own reflection. “…Okay, but—“ you tilted your head slightly, studying yourself from a different angle. “—why does it kind of work?”

You straightened a little, almost unconsciously. Your shoulders squared, your posture shifted, and something about the way you held yourself changed in an instant. You plastered on a brilliantly bright smile, and— oh my god, are those dimples?!

“Hold on—“

You turned slightly, then the other way, taking yourself in from different angles. There was something undeniably different about your presence now.

Something that made even standing still feel intentional— like you occupied space in a way you never had before.

“…I mean,” you said slowly, “if I’m going to be stuck like this…”

Your gaze drifted downward as you shifted to see yourself from a side angle. A smug grin pulls at your lips once you see the buff increase also applied to your ass.

“… it could be worse.”

The moment lingered for just a second too long before your expression flattened entirely.

“Focus,” you told yourself sharply. “This is not the time to be hot and mysterious! This is the time to panic correctly.”

With that, you tore yourself away from the mirror (not without sending one last look at your behind— holy shit, even your back is ripped!) and started pacing the room. Every step was careful— you didn’t trust your own strength not to betray you if you got careless.

“Okay, so,” you muttered, ticking points off on your fingers. “New body. Super strength. Super senses. Probably the rest of the package too. That’s— great. Love that. Big fan.”

Your gaze swept the room— and then stopped.

There, sitting on a small desk near the wall, was a phone. Plugged into a charger. Completely normal. Completely out of place.

Your breath caught.

You rushed toward it, then forced yourself to slow down halfway there, visibly reining yourself in. “Careful,” you whispered under your breath. “Gentle. You are no longer allowed to run.”

A bit strict, yeah, but you can’t run (ha) the risk of accidentally slamming through the wall and giving the neighbors a fright.

You pick up the phone like it might explode.

It didn’t.

(Maybe you should stop being such a pussy and realize that not everything is going to crack under you— maybe. Hopefully.)

The screen lit up instantly. No lock screen. Not even a password.

“…Suspicious,” you muttered, eyeing the thing like Cecil-fucking-Stedman might pop out and ask threaten you to join his team. That obviously doesn’t happen so you allow yourself to relax— only slightly though, because that old man is more slick than a greased up eel—

Your thumb hovered for a moment before tapping the screen. The display flickered to life, showing the time, the battery— and then the date.

You nearly gagged at the sudden information presented before you.

February 26th, 2021.

One month before the events of Invincible start to take place. One month before Mark Grayson gets his powers. One month before Nolan Grayson murders the Guardians of the Globe and breaks the trust of everyone around him.

You’re gonna be sick.

You lean closer, as if the proximity might somehow change what you’re seeing.

It didn’t.

The date remained exactly the same. One month before everything.

Your thoughts came too fast now, tumbling over each other.

Cities reduced to rubble.

Blood stained concrete.

That train—

You squeezed your eyes shut, shaking your head like you could dislodge the images.

“Nope! Nope, we’re not thinking about that.”

But you already were.

Because you already knew how bad it would get. You knew who was coming, what was coming— and now you were here, with powers that practically screamed Viltrumite-Level-Threat! Might as well write it across your forehead in bright red marker.

Worst of all, you have no idea how to use your fucking powers! You’ve been dropped in this absolute hellscape with no control, no training, and absolutely no clue on what you’re supposed to do.

Your breathing quickened.

“I can’t— I can’t do this,” you muttered, your voice unsteady. “I’m not a hero, I watched this from a couch. With snacks. I didn’t sign up to—“

A sharp ping cuts through your thoughts.

You suppress the urge to send your head through the nearest wall.

The air at your right side shimmered.

“Come the fuck on—“

Light fractured across empty space, assembling itself piece by piece until the now-familiar screen snapped into existence.

But this time—

It looked different.

Not just a floating message— a full interface.

Clean lines. Structured panels. Soft glowing borders that felt less like something divine and more like something ripped straight out of a video game HUD.

Text scrolled in smoothly, accompanied by a quiet chime.

[SYSTEM ONLINE]

USER SYNCHRONIZATION: Complete

POWER SET INTEGRATION: Stable

Welcome, PLAYER

You stared at the word.

“…Player?” you echoed faintly. “Oh, that’s not— no. I don’t like that. That implies mechanics. I don’t want mechanics.”

The interface did not care.

A new panel slid open to the side with a soft, satisfying click.

[PRIMARY DIRECTIVE INITIALIZED]

The text beneath it appeared one line at a time.

Objective: Establish Hero Identity

Time Limit: 30 Days

Requirements:

Gain Public Trust

Gain Recognition from Active Heroes

Achieve Positive Standing with Global Defense Agency

Your pulse spiked.

“…Excuse me?!”

Another line appeared.

Failure Condition:

Classification as Unregistered Threat.

Silence filled the room.

Your mouth opened slightly.

Closed.

Opened again.

“Oh, so you’re not even pretending this is optional.”

A soft ding responded as another panel slid into place.

[DAILY QUEST: HEROIC ENGAGEMENT]

Description: A hero is defined by action. Passive observation will result in failure.

Objectives:

Intervene in 1 Civilian Incident (0/1)

Prevent Property Damage or Injury (0/1)

Maintain Controlled Use of Power (0/1)

Optional Bonus:

Positive Civilian Reaction Recorded (0/1)

Rewards:

+1 Reputation (Local)

+1 Control

System Guidance Unlocked

Failure Penalty:

Negative Reputation Modifier

Increased Surveillance Risk

You blinked at the screen.

“…You want me to go outside?”

[CONFIRMED]

“…And do hero work.”

[CONFIRMED]

You let out a short, breathless laugh, dragging a hand down your face. “In the Invincible universe. The one where people get obliterated. That’s the one you picked.”

The interface remained perfectly still.

Unbothered.

Unmoved by your plight.

Your hand slices through the air, the screen only flickering briefly in response. Your lips curl up in a snarl as you continuously try to swipe the screen away, the words remaining unchanged.

Your other hand came up, swiping harder, more frantic. Again. Again. Again.

“Go away—!”

Your voice broke completely now, rising with panic as you tried to shove it aside, to push it out of your space, your life.

“Stop it— just— stop!”

Your hands cut uselessly through light.

The interface didn’t move.

Didn’t even react.

[QUEST TRACKING ACTIVE]

“STOP!”

The shout tore itself free from your throat, raw and desperate, echoing off of the walls.

Silence.

Your arms dropped.

The fight drained out of your body like someone had pulled a plug.

You stood there for a second longer, shaking, your breath coming in short, uneven bursts. Your vision blurred, the room warping at the edges as tears spilled over before you could stop them.

“I’m not— I’m not supposed to be here…”

That was the worst part.

Not the powers.

Not the System.

Not even the month.

The quiet, suffocating realization that everything familiar was gone.

Your home.

Your life.

Your mom.

Even the person in the mirror didn’t feel like you anymore.

“I don’t even—,” your breath stuttered, shoulders starting to shake as you pressed a hand to your face, trying and failing to hold it together. “This isn’t my body…”

The words came out in a broken whisper.

“I don’t— this isn’t mine.”

Your knees gave out before you really registered it.

You sank to the floor hard, catching yourself just enough not to crack the tile beneath you, curling in on yourself like you could somehow make all of this smaller.

Manageable.

It didn’t work.

Tears slipped freely now, hot and relentless. Your breathing uneven as panic bled into every inhale you took.

Fear.

You were scared.

“I don’t want to do this,” you whimpered, the words barely audible even to your sensitive ears. “Why me?”

The question hung in the air.

Your fingers curled weakly against the floor, your body still trembling as everything finally set in all at once— the reality, the responsibility, the impossible expectation sitting just inches from your face in the form of that damned screen.

It didn’t care.

Of course it didn’t.

It just hovered there.

Patient.

Waiting.

[OBJECTIVE REMAINS ACTIVE]

“…Yeah,” you whispered hoarsely, tears still slipping down your face. You make no move to wipe them away, your hollow gaze fixed on the glowing screen. “Of course it does.”

You let your head fall forward to rest against your arm, eyes squeezing shut like that might block it all out.

It didn’t…

Nothing did.

After a while— seconds, minutes, you didn’t know— your breathing started to slow. Not steady, your throat still caught every so often.

Just… less jagged.

You didn’t get back up.

Didn’t argue again.

Didn’t try to swipe the screen away.

You just laid there on the floor, feeling small in a body that felt too strong for you, staring at nothing as the weight of everything settled in.

You didn’t bother denying it anymore— this was real, and no amount of screaming or crying was going to change that.

═══════

The System had the decency to let you wallow in self pity for another half hour. You stayed slumped on the floor, your tears having dried out a while ago. A petulant pout stuck itself to your face as your body trembled just enough to remind you that you were still alive.

You let yourself breathe, small, shaky breaths, trying to convince yourself that the world hadn’t completely collapsed— just your personal world, your body, your future.

A sharp ding cut through the quiet.

You raised your head, fully prepared to cuss the System out for interrupting your little pity party.

The HUD glimmered again, impossibly bright in the dim room.

[SIDE QUEST ASSIGNED]

Your stomach lurched.

Objective: Prepare for Your First Day at the Daily Planet

Description: You are to integrate into your designated occupation to establish a cover identity.

Requirements:

Don professional attire suitable for office duties.

Arrive at workplace before 9:00AM

Maintain composure during first interactions with colleagues

Rewards:

+Reputation (Local)

+Public Recognition

+ [DAILY PLANET] Fondness

Your jaw dropped.

The world snapped into sharp focus. Your pity party evaporated instantly, mind racing as adrenaline floods your veins.

“No, no, no, no, no!” you shouted, scrambling to your feet. The room seemed impossibly small all of a sudden, furniture threatening to block your path as you made a mad dash towards the wardrobe.

Your hands gripped the glass knobs of the doors and flung them open, eyes darting across hangers and drawers.

Clothes. You needed clothes. Work clothes.

Your fingers flew over shirts, jackets, skirts, slacks, your mind moving faster than your body as you tried to find something professional. Fuck, you worked as a god damn librarian in your past life where the only dress code was to be dressed! You had no idea what shirt went with what skirt, or if heels are the only acceptable footwear.

You needed to find something professional, something you could survive wearing. Something that wouldn’t scream alien monstrosity disguised as human.

You yanked out a crisp white button-up and froze, staring at it. “…I… can I wear this? Is this even— does this even fit this stupid body?!”

Of course it fit.

Your new body was built differently, and the shirt clung in all the wrong—and right— places, but there was no time to freak out over it. You shoved it on, fumbling with the buttons, muttering curses under your breath the whole time.

You grabbed a blazer next, a pair of slacks, shoes— black flats that looked fairly comfortable— and tried to assemble an outfit that wouldn’t stick out too much.

All the while, the System’s screen stayed stubbornly by your side. It displayed a clock that was slowly ticking down to 9:00AM.

One hand mussed up your hair as the other adjusted the collar of the shirt for the third time in thirty seconds.

You carefully played with the strands to hide the pronounced curl that still fucking refused to blend in with the rest of it—

“Oh!”

A pair of light red glasses stared up at you innocently, like they weren’t the one thing that pulled this whole thing off. You paid no mind to how perfectly they were placed or how they fit the curve of your face— you were just happy that this whole thing might not go up in flames yet.

The System made sure to have you grab a lanyard and a briefcase, both tucked neatly by the front door.

The door slammed shut behind you as you rushed out into the hallway, almost crushing some poor guy against the wall.

“Sorry,” you called out over your shoulder, already speed-walking down the hall. “In a rush!”

The man grumbled some curses after you but you couldn’t make them out properly over the racing of your own heart.

Christ on a stick, just how bad can this get?!