#supes

Apartment 2b, straight across from apartment 3b.

For the better part of 3 years, you and Clark Kent have lived in these apartments. It took 3 months for you to first interact, 4 more to invite him over for coffee.

You couldn't have just said, " hey Clark, wanna come over for coffee?

Nuh uh, this is you that we were talking about, so obviously it had to have been in a ridiculously, word vomit-y way.

You were both returning from work at the same time, something that had happened every day this week, and every week before that. Turns out you have the same hours as the daily planet reporter across the hall. 

You’d meant to ask him in for coffee last week, but overthought the concept too much. 

Who wants coffee after work? hellloooo caffeine wakes you up and he is obviously trying to go to sleep after work, not get more energy? sigh, just forget it.

But that one evening, the one where returning to your dull, cramped apartment alone for what must've been the thousandth something time, was too tiring and depressing to endure again. There was also that little hope in your head that maybe he was tired of it too. So you decided to spew out whatever word vomit was pending in your mind, before you had time to think about it.

“Hey Clark wait up,” 

A light buzz of excitement shook in the pit of your heels, when you realized that you were really doing this. Watching him turn around at your words, maybe just a little too quickly, like he was waiting for you?

“Y- yeah whats up?” he continued after clearing his throat, his initial attempt at a response coming out far too high pitched for a grown man.

“I uhm, did you…”

I want to come inside! Say it. Come on say uh, say did you want to come inside Clark, do you want coffee? For the love of god say something and stop staring at him.

He looked at you expectantly, but not like he just wanted you to hurry up and spit it out, more like he would wait another hour for you to speak without a complaint.

The first thing you noticed about him, he was always well mannered. Not even on purpose, it was more like a reflex. 

“Do you want the, uhm apartment tour?”

…Seriously? I mean I know I said say anything but come on! It's a metropolis apartment, the layouts are basically the same in every one for the next 10 blocks you idiot! 

“Or, not that because that doesn't make sense, we have the same apartment. I meant coffee, do you want boffee-"

 A sigh of disappointment left your lips and your head dropped at your speech impediment that seems to have resurfaced from 1st grade, and set up shop right in between you and the man across from you.

To your surprise, when you lift your head back up, Clark hasn't gone into his apartment and shut the door, with a mental note to avoid his embarrassingly awkward neighbor for the rest of his life. He is instead, leaning against his locked door, with his hands shoved awkwardly in his pockets, and an amused little smile on his face, one that shows the cutest dimples you've ever seen in your life. 

“Do you wanna start over?” he draws, tone laced with just as much amusement as his face

A tang of shame and something else you can't quite put your finger on, causes the corners of your mouth to curve up in a small smile, as your eyes meet his.

“ Would you like to come inside for coffee, Clark?” you manage, finally.

“Yea, yea I would”

---------

After that, the two of you were classified as normal friends for a while, but became more the first time you drunk-puked all over his shiny black work shoes. Situations like that are really always the make or break point in any kind of relationship, lucky for you it worked out in your favor.

Well lucky isn't exactly the word you would've used to describe it at the moment. It would be something more along the lines of horrific or treacherous, but looking back now... no that was uh, still pretty bad.

But it turned out great! Because now, 2 years and a few months later, Clark Kent is pattering around in your kitchen –he's the only one that's ever really used it– making you lunch. The same way he had for… you can't even remember how long now. 

You watch uselessly from the couch while he cooks a random meal that you'd sent him off Instagram reels, you offered to help, but even he isn't polite enough to pretend you'd know what you were doing. 

He pretends to not want to make it, claiming that social media is causing your generation to lose the good quality meals passed down from your elders. But every time you send him a new video, with the message “ can u make this 4 me??”, he’s over by yours the next day.

 Holding bags of groceries, because “the only groceries you ever buy are instant noodles and frozen fries”, ready to make whatever it is that you want. 

He was like that in every way, with you at least, always there in a flash when you needed him. 

Whether it was a crazy bad date that you needed to escape from. Like that one last week that was so bad you still couldn't even tell him. And he didn't need you to, he just stood outside the ridiculously expensive restaurant your date had insisted on, then just so happened to conveniently forget his wallet, only after ordering the both of you two of the most expensive entrees on the menu. 

Carefully studying the tall building, shifting his body weight on either foot while waiting outside for you. All the while silently wondering if these are the only kind of guys you're into, the expensive restaurant, designer wearing, horrible credit kind. 

Eventually you did come outside, moving too quickly for heels that were as high as yours, glancing back to the glass front wall of the restaurant, wondering if your dad had seen you take the turn to the exit, instead of the bathroom.

After hearing you say once that you didn’t wanna talk about it, he filled the silent walk with ramblings of the hookup stories Jimmy would run his ear off about when he was trying to work.

Shoulders –more like your shoulder and his upper arm, due to your height difference- just barely bumping together as you made the trek back to your place in the chilly, busy, Metropolis streets.

When he noticed your teeth slightly clatter and your shoulders shake a little from the breeze, he didn't say anything about how your date should've offered you his jacket the moment he saw you in that beautiful but slightly skimpy dress, like he wanted too.

Instead, he shrugged off his own, wordlessly draping in over your shoulders. He couldn't just tell you why he  couldn't get cold, despite how much he wanted to.

So instead he continued the flow of the conversation so you did not have the option to reject the sentiment, in fear of him being cold. 

Wrapping his jacket around yourself tighter, you wondered what it would be like to be more than friends with a guy like Clark. Even though you knew you didn't really want “ a guy like Clark”, you really just wanted him. 

“What are you day dreaming about over there?” he remarked from across the kitchen/living room, quickly noticing the lack of keyboard clacking from where you were sitting.

“Just about how I'm ready to tell you about my nightmare of a date from last week” you stated in a sorta cocky tone, only because you know how much he hates not knowing things. Not looking up from your laptop, you quickly type in the last sentence of your paragraph. 

You listened from your cozy position on the couch as the tried to feign nonchalance at your statement, accidentally knocking something over in the process.

He was always so predictably, himself, yet another thing you loved about Clark Kent.

“Yea?- Crap… Ill ah, ill clean that up dont worry” 

“Didnt doubt it Kent” the words leaving your mouth in a vaguely mischievous tone, a plan forming in your mind. As you leisurely strolled over to the kitchen island, dropping yourself down on a creaky stool,  and scooping a handful of shredded cheese in your mouth, taking advantage of his distraction. By the time he noticed, you already raised your hand up to your mouth.

“Hey dont! Ah you little…” he drew sarcastically from your kitchen floor, where he was looking up at you from his hands and knees, wiping up the spilled mixture before it could seep into your sketchy flooring, making a suspiciously attractive tsking noise.

You never noticed, but he always knew when you were going to take something, and what you were going to take. So he’d secretly grate more cheese, or cut a few more strawberries, in anticipation for your stolen handful. Pretending he didn't know, because he knew you liked it.

Clark was just the kind of guy that remembered all those little things about you. 

Like how you “didn’t believe in umbrellas” because it was “just a little rain”. But you always found an umbrella in that little space between your wall and front door, where the paint is cracked along the seam.

Or how you never packed any food for yourself because you claimed you never got hungry at work.

 You did, wouldn't admit it, but you did. Clark knew that about you, which is why you'd always find an apple, crackers, and a juice box in a little box at the bottom of your laptop bag. With a little note in Clarks scribbly hand writing that says “eat me, im good for you!”

You didn't verbally thank him because you knew he didn't want you to.

So instead you did little things for him too, brought new flowers for his apartment without mentioning it, always picking up two laundry detergents at the store because he never remembered it.

You weren't the kind of girl that remembered all the little things about people, you were barley able to remember your own shit, let alone somebody else's.

But for Clark? for him you did, every time.

Friends just do stuff like that, you told yourself. Don't be full of yourself, he doesn't like you, you're just close friends, your subconscious insists whenever your heart gets the notion that it could be for a different reason. 

“Thought you had a story for me? Jeez, where are you today princess?” 

His words dragging you back down to earth, you met his slightly concerned gaze. he was using the nickname he’d given you a while back, after you first asked him to make one of your “reels meals” as he so cleverly called them.

(It wasn't that clever but you didn't have the heart to tell him, because he looked so proud of himself.)

“Didn't realize you were so eager to know about my love life, kansas” you replied, with a nickname of your own, one you’ve also been calling him for a while. 

“Yeah, yeah, you caught me, now spill” 

You couldn't help but giggle at his inability to hide his flaming curiosity when it came to you.

 “Okay well, it was going great until he showed up 40 minutes late with no text…”

You watch as his jaw dropped, before you swear you literally saw the thought shoot up to his head, his face morphed into that of someone who was trying to stifle a laugh.

“Wait, what do you mean it was going great until he was late? That was how he started the night!”

He replied after he was sure he wouldn't burst out laughing in your face, although you still weren't too sure of his ability to compose himself.  

“Yeah it was great when I was at home!”

Now he did laugh in your face, and you couldn't help but join him. It didn't matter what he was laughing at, between his dimples, and the tone of his laugh, you were always laughing with him. 

“Aw princess…” 

He said, gazing at you with a remorseful look on his face. Not that remorseful, considering he still had that big dopey grin of his across his face, but still remorse nevertheless. 

“Thats it Kent, you're not getting any more story time, you’ve lost your privileges!” you exclaim dramatically feigning sadness at his reaction. 

“I just, you deserve better. You know that right?” he says, his laugh drying up, looking you straight in your eyes, completely serious when he says the last part of his sentence.

“Yeah, i uh i know that it's just…” you look down to where your fingers are fiddling with a bottle cap you hadn't even realised you’d picked up, while you try to figure out how to word what you want to say.

“I'm tired of not having someone, you know? For all that romantic jazz” you trail off, trying to make your feelings sound less serious than they are, because you don't like serious feelings.

Clark however, doesn't mind talking about your feelings at all.  “Is that why you went out with that…” he takes a second, choosing his words carefully as he tries to remember that he was raised as a well mannered farm boy who usually has no trouble refraining from profanity.

nother thing that was different with you, he felt so strongly about well, everything concerning you. Like it was all heightened or something.

“Jackass?, jerkoff? dickhe- ” you fill in after noticing his lack of words.

“I was trying to avoid profanity, but yeah.” he cuts you off, exaggerating the word “avoid” to remind you to not “be so crass”.

“I guess, these days it feels like, having someone is better than nothing, y’know?”

“Yeah i get it”

This is it, ask him on a date!! You're both lonely, Do it!

“Hey listen Clark, would you uhm want to… uh-”

Your ability to speak is short circuited by his direct gaze into your eyes.

You’ve studied Clark Kent’s face countless times, and every time, it steals away your ability to speak. 

The subtle crinkle in between his perfectly shaped eyebrows, the one that tells you, you have his complete undivided attention.

The stubble that he rarely let grow, but when he did, it extended your ovulation by 4 days, each time. And his blue eyes that held so much emotion when he looked at you, like you were the only girl he’d ever seen. 

A sudden ding, that you quickly recognized as your oven timer, cut through the tension and made you jump a little.

“And that would be our lunch, let's see how it turned out” Clark said, trying not to sound excited at his newest creation. 

“Yeah lets see if I'm gonna keep you around” you joked

To which Clark snorted in response as he kneeled down to pull the tray out of your old cranky oven. 

“Like you could find someone else to do crap like this” he says under his breath, knowing he'd hate if you went out and got yourself a boyfriend to do this stuff for you, he definitely knew you could.

“Mmm yeah i guess you're right…” you replied, letting him know you heard him anyway, extremely enticed by the smell wafting out the oven. If you could, you'd be floating out of your seat in the air to the smell of the food, like those cartoons you watched as a kid.  

Clark got to work plating the food, placing in front of you, a plate, knife and fork. Before turning around to grab you a coke from your fridge.

Pouring it into a glass instead of just giving you the can like you insisted,

“Hey, the can is fine!” your groan, reaching for his arm across

“No, that's so… just no” you watched the 6 '4 man shudder at the idea of drinking soda straight out the can, quite the ridiculous sight.

“Fine but you're just giving me unnecessary dishes to wash.”

Scoffing in response “ like you ever wash dishes, please! Its dishwasher or dirty over here”

“And besides, I cooked, ill wash the dishes”

“Thats not how it works”

“Its how it works with me, now eat your food” he says while placing down the glass beside your plate.

Giving up on arguing with the incredibly stubborn giant in front of you, you instead dig your fork into your food and bring it up to your mouth.

“Clark, this is great! holy sh-” you grumble out loudly , bringing your hand up to cover your mouth, since your mouth is still full.

“Hey, you can thank me by refraining from your course language, missy” he cuts you off before you finish your sentence. 

“Yeah alright, dad” you remark under your breath, quiet enough so that there was no way he'd be able to hear it.

“What was that? He says without missing a beat, spinning around with a plate and glass of his own before setting it down across from you.

“Wha- how’d you hear that?” you replied, shocked. 

“You- y’said it so loud what do you mean?” he said too quickly, like he was covering something up. Averting your eyes while he spoke in a tone that was too high for him to be telling the truth.

Normally, he is great at lying, seeing he’s been doing it for more than 2 decades now. It's just that thing about it being you, that's causing his ability to dwindle. 

“Oh” you spoke again, you knew you didn't say it audibly, you barely heard it yourself. Over the years, being friends with Clark Kent means you’d have to pretend you didn't notice something.

There weren't any huge slip ups from him that would lead you to question if he wasn’t human or anything. Just little things, here and there. 

Like when he would take a pan out of the oven and use an oven mitt, only those oven mitts were way too thin for him to be holding the pan for longer than 5 seconds. You’d gotten them for 30 cents at a garage sale, you’re pretty sure they’re older than you. 

So without even noticing you were doing it, you’d make up excuses for him along the way. 

The oven mitts aren't that thin then, I must just have really sensitive hands or something. 

Oh anybody could've accidentally snapped that door handle off, it was loose.

Little things prevent you from believing the impossible that everyone did, whether they noticed it or not. Which was probably a big part of the reason Clark had managed to keep it undercover for as long as he did. 

“ Do y’have any more horrible dates planned for tonight, or are you staying in?” his voice cut through the momentary silence.

You scoffed before replying, “ill have you know that the date I have planned for tonight is rather promising” in a know-it-all tone.

“Mhm” Clark says skeptically.

“Whats his name?” he asks and you mentally kiss your teeth. You were hoping he didn't ask that. 

“Its…” you take a second before continuing, brain scrambling to decide if you’d rather make up a fake name then tell him, as you move food around with your fork. 

Sighing, you reluctantly continue, "It's Bartholemew… But he goes by Bart!” you're quick to add the latter when you see his lips beginning to curve in a cocky smirk. 

“Well I hope it goes well.”

“So do I Clark... so do I” you said hopelessly.

It took a while for Clark to be comfortable enough with you to joke around with you a little. When you first became friends, he was all gentleman-y.

 Don’t get me wrong he still is, he's just able to joke around with you now, he’s comfortable. That was what you weren't willing to risk by dating him. Him having someone comfortable to him was such a big factor in your lack of courage.  

—-------

Turns out Clark was right, your date sucked. After getting all dolled up, makeup, hair, the perfect dress, your date wasn’t just late.

He was hours late, as in your date started at 6 and he showed up empty handed at 8.. He’d texted you “5 minutes babe” , at 7 o clock and even your standards weren't low enough to deal with that. 

So here you are, alone in your bed at 9:30, face rid of makeup all snuggled up in your bed, rewatching glee. Instead of being wined, dined, and brought back to bed like how you intended this night to go. 

You’d been wallowing in self pity for hours and decided to make it worse by ordering junk food around 30 minutes ago. Which is what you thought that the loud bang you heard was. 

Woah, the driver must be in a hurry, you thought. 

Only that noise didn’t come from the side of your wall that the door is on, no that came from across the apartment, from where your window is?

Dragging yourself out of bed, you go to investigate the noise, freezing suddenly when you hear your window latch open. 

Holy shit okay, okay this is happening. Fuck my phones dead, that's, that's fine i can do this.

You talk yourself up, grabbing the closest thing you can find to defend yourself, the umbrella.

Quietly, you creep around the corner, steps silent as adrenaline and nervousness buzz through your entire body. Hands shaking so bad you're worried the intruder can hear the latches on the umbrella clicking together. 

Taking one last deep breath, you veer your head around the coroner, only to find the last thing you would expect. 

“Clark?” The words leave your mouth at the same time your death grip around the umbrella loosens, clashing to the floor as you rush over to kneel beside the bleeding, large, groaning man on your floor. 

Your shock and adrenaline illuminates throughout your body even faster as you take in his appearance. 

His hair disheveled in a way you've never seen it before, his soft curls aren't combed back, they now sit all over his head, tangled with between the strands. His face is littered with little cuts,

your eyes zoom in on a particular gash under his eye. Watching it a little further, it almost looks like its… healing itself? 

You watch in amazement as the skin under his eye begins to pull itself together. Forcing yourself to look away, you trail your eyes down the rest of his body.

The familiar emblem is what you notice first, then your brain starts to register the deep blue covering his broad muscular shoulders, the dirtied red cape that surrounds his body. 

Clark Kent is Superman.

The thought races in your head as your mind draws you back to all the things you excused or turned a blind eye to all of these years, how could you have not noticed this?

“M’sorry, t-thought you weren’t home” his deep, damaged voice cuts through the sound of your heart beating erratically in your eardrums. 

“Clark you’re…” you say, unable to continue.

“Superman? Yeah i notic-” he fills in for you, trying to joke away the terribly concerned look in your eyes. 

“Hurt” you cut him off “You’re really hurt” you say, eyes trained on the cuts littering his face, like you think it'll go away if you blink, like you think he will go away.

Shock drapes over his pained features, like he can't believe that you'd care about anything other than the stamp across his chest.  

“Yeah I was, mmfph, yeah I'm hurt” he concludes after trying, and failing, to sit up and talk to you.

Your thoughts momentarily short circuit, trying to figure out what to do, before realizing that you couldn't possibly know how to help him because he is an alien. 

Bringing your hand to either side of his face, forcing him to look at you when his eyes began to flutter closed and his head began to loll to the side. 

“How do I help Clark?" you decide to just ask him, concern washing through your body at a rate that disables your critical thinking skills.

“I'm really sorry about– ahh jeez –this, I thought you wouldn't be here ill-” he drones on, literally apologizing for bleeding into your carpet.

Squeezing his face lightly, you interrupt him again, “Clark”

You watch him look at you, like he's trying to look straight through your eyes and into your mind to figure out what the hell you're thinking right now.

“Yeah?” tone softer than before.

“How do I help?” You say slowly, hoping that he'd stop feeling guilty and just tell you what to do.

“Can you uh, help me up? I'll be fine, I heal fast, I just need to sleep it off.

Immediately, you shift your body to help him up, a low deep groan leaving his lips when you begin to help him off the floor.

He begins to walk over to the front door of your apartment but you quickly drag him deeper into yours. 

“I can go.. Ill be fine i promise” he begins

Holding your ground, “No, no way Clark im not leaving you like this come on” you say as you lead him towards your bed.

He drops heavy onto your mountain of blankets, eyes closed in pain. You find yourself worrying about who's been taking care of him while he takes care of everyone else. 

You bring yourself to lay beside him, wrapping your hands around his head, wishing there was more you could do.

“Again i'm sorry about this, about all of it i-”

“Stop apologizing Kent, trust me if I didn't want you here you wouldn't be here” you joke, trying to make him feel less guilty.

You watch a small smile grace his face, wincing at the same time he does when the movement stretches a cut on his eyebrow.

“How long?” you ask 

“How long what?” he replies, craning his head to see you

“How long does it take for you to heal?”

“Oh this? This isnt bad ill be all good and out of your hair in a few hours” he downplays.

“I guess I'll see what happens on the news tonight huh?

A low chuckle leaves him, filling the quiet room  “Yeah I guess you will.”

—----

You both keep the conversation going, as an attempt to distract yourselves from how close you are to each other.

It doesn't work, every time your leg brushes against his thigh, or he shifts to get comfortable, you notice it. You both really notice it, and it's driving you crazy. At some point during your conversation,Clark was able to turn on his side to face you. 

So now it wasn't just the moderate physical touch that was driving you mad, it was the way he looked at you too. He looked at you like you were the best thing he’d ever seen, and somewhere under that all that adoration, there was something darker that mustered as well.

Soon, you realized you both hadn't said anything for a whale, you were just looking. Just for a second, something you could have easily missed, his gaze dropped down to your lips. 

That second was all it looked for you to bring your face just that little bit closer, and finally close the gap between you two. Clark stilled for a moment, before beginning to move his lips on yours. He didn't kiss like you thought, in truth you’d never been kissed like this before. 

He moved his lips on yours like he craved you for years, and maybe, he had?

His hands grazed the curve of your waist, seemingly asking for permission. You granted in by moving even closer to him, causing his back to lay flat on the mattress, you brought your thighs on either side of him. 

 Hovering your center over his, not because you didn't want them to connect– in this moment, you actually wanted nothing more, but because that would make it real.

Breaking the kiss would also make it real, it would mean you would have to look him in the eyes and give him the chance to take it back.

Eventually, did you have to pull away to breathe, and meet his gaze. When you did pull away, his lips were all pinked and swollen, pupils dilated and he studied you with the same intensity you studied him with. Searching your eyes for any sign of doubt, anything that told him you didn't want to cross this line. 

Because you both knew that once you did, there wouldn't be any going back. 

“Are you sure? I need you to be sure” his gruff voice cut through the blissful silence.

Deciding quickly in your head, you lowered yourself onto him, connecting your heat to his. The action earned you a deep growl that you were sure you would never forget.  

Studying his expression again, you noticed the crinkle in between his eyebrows again, and felt a shock of worry course through you. 

“Shit did I hurt you?” You ask, voice sharp and concerned

“Not the word I’d use to describe it princess” he replied, a subtle smile on his face.

“I need to hear you say it, please.” he spoke again, in a tone sounding like he was in pain.

You brought your face as close as you could without kissing him, and whispered the words he’d dreamt about hearing for far too long. 

“I want this clark, I want you”  you told him, rolling your hips into his so you could watch him writhe underneath you.

Hearing those words seemed to flick a switch in Clark's mind, gripping your waist, he flipped the both of you in one swift motion. The action surprised you, causing a yelp to leave your lips.

“Making noise for me already?” He speaks slowly against your neck, trailing sloppy kissing along your sweet spots, as he begins undressing you. 

This new version of the sweet, thoughtful, gentle man you've known for years, has a pool of wetness collecting in your underwear. 

All you can do is moan helplessly while he works his way around your body, seemingly knowing every one of your buttons to press. The sounds you make bounce off the thin walls of your apartment, drawing Clark's attention.

He murmurs from his position just below your waist , “Cant be too loud okay baby, walls are thin” 

As he pulls your thin sleep shorts and underwear down your thighs.

“You- you’re… wow” he stutters out.

“Clark!” you whine, struggling to keep your composure since he is taking so long.

“Sorry, sorry baby” he says, dragging the suit from its low position on his hips, all the way down to his ankles, before kinking it off. 

Leaving him in his boxers, you examine his length through them, sitting up on your elbows to watch him. 

Dragging your eyes away from his underwear and back up to his gaze when he catches you staring. A lopsided smile sits on his face as he watches you. You’re in nothing but your red lacy bra now, you’d still had it on from your previous night plans. Desperately whining for him to bury his cock deep inside you. 

You watch him peel his underwear off, as soon as his cock is released from its confines, all nine inches of him spring out against his stomach. Tip glistening in precum, you don't even notice your tongue come out to wet your lips.

A smug chuckle leaves Clark's lips as he brings himself back down on top of you, his arms on either side of your head.

“Condom?” your eyes watch as his mouth contours to form the word, wanting nothing more than for him to have his mouth on you.

Your gaze is still trained on his lips while the words leave your mouth,

 “I-im on the pill” you stutter out. The realization that this is finally happening hitting you all at once.

“Okay, are you sure you wanna…?”  Clark speaks again, still wanting to make sure everything was right for you. 

“Yea, yes just, kiss me? Please” you say while bringing your hand up to either side of his head, dragging his lips down to yours. You feel his tongue swipe across your bottom lip and the action has you opening your mouth even wider for his access. 

Pulling apart from you, Clark lazily strokes himself in preparation. You look down at the motion to find yourself entranced by the sight. 

“Gonna make my girl feel good” he mutters the words more to himself than to you.

 You feel the tip of his cock graze your entrance and gasp, causing his head to look away from where you're both connecting, and back at you. 

“Tell me if I need to stop, okay?” he says, light concern floating evident on his expression.

“Oh hold on” you say, contouring to try and remove your bra, before you feel a large hand on your stomach stop you.

“Wait can you uh, can you leave it on” he says, eyes gauging your reaction.

Swallowing, you nod and lay back down, gesturing for him to continue. 

“You say the word and I stop okay? No hard feelings”

“Clark…” 

“Yeah”

“Fuck me please” you dont even recognize your own voice, desperation so evident in your tone. 

Your words are all it takes for Clark to move himself into you, a synchronized moan leaving the both of you. Your hands shoot to grip either side of his arms, to brace yourself. 

“Hpmh- you feel, shit baby can I move?” he strangles out, using all his control to not thrust further up into you.

You nod eagerly, the feeling of him inside you with nothing in between the both of you unlike anything you’d ever felt before, you'd had raw sex before but it wasn't like this.

Clark drags himself out of you, before aggressively thrusting back into your throbbing pussy, that had been sucking him in with so much force, it took effort to move.

He continues his motions, causing moans so harsh to leave you, you weren't sure if you were moaning or screaming. 

“Clar- Clark, feels so, i can’t…fuck” you sputter out, brain rendered useless when he was fucking you this well.

“What's that princess? Where's all your attitude now baby?”

His words cause you to squeeze him in even further, his cock throbbing with need inside you is all you can think about. 

Clark brings his motions to a stop, causing a look of confusion to cover your features. He brings his hands to the backs of both your knees beside you, and your ankles over his shoulders.

In this new position, he somehow feels even deeper than before. He continues his pace, fucking you like youve been waiting for. 

“G’na, fuuckk, Clark” you scream, feeling the tight coil in your stomach radiate through you, unable to control yourself. 

You’ve never come so hard in your life, toes curling, vision blurry, all the while he is still pumping in and out of you, searching for his own release. 

You feel a large palm clamp over your mouth muffling your loud cries as Clark buries his face on your shoulder, releasing his load, deep into you.

All you can do is lay there and listen to his moans of pleasure as you let him use you. 

You both sit there for a minute, breathing heavily against each other, coming down from your highs. 

After a moment, Clark drags himself out of you and drapes a blanket over your naked, sore and shaking body. Your eyes flutter shut as you hear the shower begin to turn on, and Clark returns, still naked, holding a towel.

“Come on let me get you cleaned up”

After watching you groan and roll deeper into the mattress, Clark lets out a sigh of amusement before lifting you in his arms and carrying you towards the bathroom.

Adding to the overflowing list of things you loved about Clark Kent. 

“Mr. Kent? She’s all set. The numbing drops are still wearing off, so her vision will be blurry, and she might be a little… loopy and emotional. The sedative can have that effect. It’s all perfectly normal, and should wear off by the end of the night.”

Clark nodded and then was at your side in an instant, his hand finding the small of your back. “I’ve got you, sweetheart. How are you feeling?”

You turned your head towards his voice, and a wobbly smile spread across your face. “Clark? Is that really you? Clark, your face is all… smudgy. Like a watercolor painting or something left in the rain.”

He chuckled softly, guiding you toward the exit. “Hi honey, yeah its me.”

“I-I feel really good, Clark. Like I’m floating or something. In space with the stars. How are you feeling, Clarkk,” your words slightly slurred.

“I’m good honey, let’s get you home.”

The car ride was where it truly began. You were silent for the first five minutes, staring out the window. Then, you gasped so sharply Clark’s super-hearing kicked into overdrive, his head snapping toward you, expecting pain.

“Clark,” you whispered, your voice filled with awe. “The trees.”

He relaxed, a smile tugging at his lips. “What about the trees, darling?”

“They have leaves,” you said, as if revealing the secret of the universe. “I can see all the little leaves, I think. Individually! From the car! I didn’t know you could do that. I thought trees were just… green blobs with feelings.”

He burst out laughing, the sound warm and rich in the confined space of the car. “Yes, they tend to have leaves. It’s one of their defining features.”

You nodded sagely, then your expression crumpled. “Oh, that’s so beautiful,” you whimpered, and fat tears started rolling down your cheeks from behind the ridiculous sunglasses.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Clark said, immediately concerned, his hand leaving the gearshift to find yours. “Are you in pain? Do your eyes hurt?”

“No, well a little,” you sobbed, laughing at the same time. “They’re just so pretty. The leaves are so pretty and I’ve been so mean to them, calling them blobs. I’m a terrible person.”

Clark bit the inside of his cheek, trying desperately to maintain a composed, supportive-boyfriend demeanor. He wishes he could record you right now. “You are the least terrible person I know. And the trees forgive you.”

By the time you reached his apartment building, you were a whirlwind of fluctuating emotions. In the elevator, you stared at your reflection in the polished brass doors.

“I look like a confused housefly,” you announced, poking at the sunglasses.

“A very stylish housefly,” Clark assured you, ushering you out as the doors opened.

“I don’t like them.”

“You dont have to wear them for much longer.”

“I don’t want to wear them now,” you say affirmatively and getting mad, pulling them off your head, but Clark’s large hands stop you before they are fully off.

“Hey, hey, let’s leave those on for me, okay. You can take them off in a couple hours.”

“Okay, I’m sorry,” you say, eyes watering and lip quivering to start crying again, feeling really bad.

“No, no you’re fine, honey don't cry. Come on, we’re here.”

He got you settled on the couch, propped up with a mountain of pillows, a blanket tucked around you. He’d just turned to get you the prescribed eye drops when you let out a choked gasp.

“Clark!”

He was at your side in a nanosecond. “What’s wrong? Is it stinging?”

You pointed a trembling finger at the far wall. “Your clock.”

He looked at the simple, analog clock he’d had since his Smallville days. “What about it?”

“I can see the little lines… the tiny numbers…” Your voice broke again. “I can tell the time from all the way over here. I don’t need to squint or walk closer or anything. Clark, I’m a superhero., like you.”

This time, he couldn’t stop the full-bellied laugh that escaped him. He knelt in front of you, taking both your hands in his. “You absolutely are. The most powerful one I’ve ever met.”

You beamed at him, tears still tracking down your temples into your hairline. “Does this mean I get a cool cape? And a theme song? I want a theme song.”

“I’ll have one composed for you by morning,” he promised solemnly.

The next few hours were a masterclass in Clark Kent trying to navigate a landscape of pure, unfiltered, sedative-induced whimsy. He administered your eye drops, which you declared felt like “angry little fairies spitting in my eyes,” and then you immediately forgave the fairies because, “they’re probably just doing their job.”

He made you a simple soup for dinner. You took one spoonful and started crying again.

“This is the best soup I’ve ever tasted,” you wept.

“It’s canned chicken noodle,” he said gently, utterly bewildered.

“I can see the pepper floating in it!” you wailed, as if this were a profound culinary revelation. “It’s a masterpiece. You’re a soup genius.”

Later, as dusk settled and the city lights began to twinkle outside the window, you grew quiet. Clark was reading next to you, occasionally glancing over to make sure you were comfortable.

“Clark?” your small voice broke the silence.

“Right here, honey.”

You were staring at your own hands, turning them over and over. “My hands,” you whispered. “I can see all the lines. The little wrinkles. I never realized my hands were so… detailed.” You looked up, and even through the dark lenses, he could feel the intensity of your gaze. “Do you know how many times I’ve looked at my hands? A million times. But I’ve never really seen them before.”

Your chin started to quiver. “I’ve been missing so much.”

That did it.

He set his book aside and moved closer, carefully wrapping his arms around you. You buried your face in his chest, your shoulders shaking with quiet, overwhelmed sobs, the tears lubricating your eyes making them feel better as well.

“It’s okay,” he murmured into your hair, rubbing slow circles on your back. “You’re not missing anything now. You get to see it all, from the beginning.”

“It’s just… a lot,” you hiccupped.

“I know,” he said, and he did. He remembered the first time his senses had dialed up to eleven, the overwhelming flood of information, the sheer noise of the world. He’d had his parents to guide him. The least he could do was be your anchor now.

After a while, your crying subsided into sniffles. You pulled back, wiping your eyes carefully with the tissue he offered. “I’m sorry. I’m a mess. I’m crying over leaves and soup and my own stupid hands.”

“Don’t you dare apologize,” he said, his voice firm but gentle. He reached up and carefully took off the disposable sunglasses. Your eyes were a little red-rimmed, the pupils wide, but they were clear. They were yours. And they were fixed on him with a clarity that made his heart stutter.

You stared at his face, your gaze tracing the lines of his jaw, his brow, the curve of his lips. You reached up, your fingers gently brushing a stray curl from his forehead.

“There you are,” you whispered, your voice full of awe. “I could always see you, of course. But… there you are. So clear and all mine.”

Clark felt a lump form in his own throat. He was completely undone by this simple, loving statement.

You leaned forward, your forehead resting against his. “Your eyes are so blue,” you murmured. “I knew they were blue, but I didn’t know they had little gold bits in them. Like the sky holding onto the sun.”

He closed his eyes, savoring the moment, the intimacy of it. 

“You’re crying,” you said softly, pulling back and brushing a thumb under his eye, where a single, traitorous tear had escaped.

He let out a wet laugh, capturing your hand and pressing a kiss to your palm. “I think you’re rubbing off on me.”

You smiled, a real, steady, clear-eyed smile. “I love you, Clark Kent.”

“I love you too,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “More than all the leaves on all the trees.”

You giggled, the sound light and free. “That’s a lot of leaves on trees.”

“It is,” he agreed, pulling you back into his arms. He held you as the last of the sedative finally wore off, as your breathing evened out and you drifted into a peaceful sleep against his shoulder. 

Handler—that’s your official title.

In practice? More like assistant.

In reality? Babysitter.

Who's your asset?

Soldier Boy—America’s first superhero, presumed dead for decades, until he clawed his way out of some Russian hellhole. He came back meaner, angrier, and with a vendetta. Payback, his old team, didn’t stand a chance. He wiped them out without blinking.

Vought, ever the master of spin, welcomed him home like a prodigal son. New narrative, same suit, same brute underneath. His face plastered on every screen, his sins scrubbed clean with a PR firehose.

Since then, he’s burned through handlers—ten, maybe fifteen. You're number sixteen. The only one who's lasted. The only one he listens to. Somehow, you’ve managed to hold the leash no one else could. For some reason, he lets you.

You remember the first time you met—how he looked at you. Eyes sharp and unreadable, like he was sizing you up for a fight... or something else. A year later, that look hasn’t gone away. You still don’t know what it means. Maybe you do. Maybe it’s safer not to think about it too hard.

The bond you’ve built with him is… unorthodox. Not quite handler and asset. Not exactly friends. Definitely not what Vought had in mind. It doesn’t have a name, but it’s there—shaped in the silences between The Seven meetings, PR stunts, quiet limo rides to bullshit charity galas. Drunken elevator trips up to his penthouse in Vought Tower.

There were nights—when he’d had one too many—where he let pieces of himself slip. Russia. His father. Things no one else got to hear. You’d be on the floor in a silk gown, wrestling with the laces of his boots while he sprawled across the bed like a fallen statue, mumbling through the haze.

“How fucked up is it,” he said once, voice slurred, “that the gentlest hands that’ve ever touched me… are on Vought’s payroll?”

You dropped his boot with a sigh. “Maybe if you turned down the whole ‘I fought the Nazis’ routine and actually let someone in—”

“Fuck you, dollface.”

“Yeah, yeah. Fuck me,” you muttered, flicking off the lights and shutting the door behind you.

You never talked about those nights. You think he appreciates that—how you don’t bring it up, don’t push. How you let him keep his armor on, even when it’s cracked and slipping.

Now? You're here. Just another day on the job.

“Hey? Hello…?” You snap your fingers in his face. “Can I get your attention, please? We really need to go over these.”

“Goddamn, doll,” he mutters, dragging his gaze up to you. “Let me breathe for a fucking second, would ya? You’ve been yappin’ that pretty mouth all morning.”

You slap the papers you were reading from down on the glass coffee table.

“If I don’t get your okay on one of these scripts today, it’s gonna be my ass, SB.”

He leans forward, the leather groaning under his weight. Flicks his blunt over the ashtray. His eyes drift—predictably—to the curve of your hips in that pencil skirt.

“And what a fine ass it is,” he smirks.

You roll your eyes, hand planting firmly on your hip. “Seriously?” You snatch the blunt from his fingers like a pissed-off teacher.

“What?” he says, holding his hands up, unbothered. “I’m trying, I swear. You know it gets loud in here.” He taps two fingers against his temple. “Hard to focus. Especially when it's this bullshit.”

You want to stay mad. Really, you do. But you can see it—the way he’s barely holding the noise back—you can’t help the way your anger fizzles out.

Your shoulders drop. A sigh. “If I let you do the thing… will you check in here so we can finish this?”

It’s an arrangement. One that’s never talked about once it’s done. But for some reason, it helps him quiet the chaos in his head. You don’t even know how it started—no, that’s a lie. You do know. Just like you know exactly why you keep letting it happen.

He doesn’t hesitate. Just nods and stands.

You reach across him to stub out the blunt, then sink into the warm space he left behind on the couch. He scoops up the scripts you’d flung and hands them back to you without a word.

You start with the one on top. “Okay, so this one’s called Red Blood, White Stripes…”

As you speak, he rolls up his sleeves, the fabric stretching over his forearms.

“It’s a war drama,” you continue. He undoes the top two buttons of his shirt.

“Think Saving Private Ryan,” you say as he slides the coffee table back to make room. “Except you’re the guy doing the saving—and the killing.”

“Yeah… don’t know about that,” he mutters as he nudges your heels apart with his boot.

“Says you’re sent behind enemy lines—” He drops to his knees, grips your legs at the bend, and yanks you down so your ass is perched on the edge of the couch. “—to extract a rogue American agent.”

You lift your hips automatically as he pushes your skirt up, panties dragged down and off in one fluid motion.

“Don’t think I’m feelin’ this one,” he huffs, eyes locked on the wet heat between your thighs. His tongue flicks out, wetting his bottom lip.

You toss the pitch to the floor. He leans in, kisses the inside of your thigh—slow, deliberate.

“Okay… Homeland Security. Action thriller.” You grip the stack of pages a little tighter as his breath ghosts over your core.

“Yeah? What’s it about?” he asks, hands sliding up your legs, thumbs parting your lips right before pressing a kiss to your clit.

You take a shaky breath. “Like Die Hard in the suburbs.”

He swipes his tongue between your folds, firm and hot. You make a small sound in the back of your throat but force yourself to stay focused.

“Terrorists take over a small American town on the Fourth of July…” you begin, voice wavering.

His hands move. He grips your thighs tight, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh as he spreads you open wider. His mouth is relentless—tongue gliding, teasing, claiming. Hot, wet, precise. His beard scratches against your skin, leaving a burn that makes your toes curl—the kind of pain that makes you ache for more.

You try not to react, to hold on to the professional thread of this bizarre little ritual, but he knows your body too well by now. Knows exactly where to circle, where to flick, where to suck until your knees start to tremble.

You clear your throat, determined. “You’re on leave… drinking in a dive bar…”

He groans low against you, the vibration lighting you up from the inside. His hands slide beneath your thighs, hooking them over his broad shoulders as he dives in deeper. His tongue drags slow and flat, then fast and pointed, alternating like he’s conducting an interrogation with his mouth.

“You sober up just in time to—ah… ah, f-fuck…”

His mouth seals around your clit, tongue swirling the swollen bud. He gets you. Hits that spot with precision, curling his tongue just right, and you nearly lose your grip on the scripts in your hand. He’s breaking your composure and he knows it. It’s a mission to him now—and he never leaves a mission unfinished.

“To kill them with fireworks,” you finish on a shaky breath, your voice barely a whisper.

He pulls back just enough to glance up at you, chin glistening, eyes burning with amusement and hunger.

“Who the fuck comes up with this shit?” he mutters, shaking his head before diving right back in.

You arch off the couch, a soft whine escaping before you can stop it, the script forgotten as you toss it blindly to the floor.

“Captain of the Stars. Sci-fi epic,” you breathe, trying to keep it together.

He answers by slipping his tongue inside you, slow and deep. Your free hand flies to his hair, threading through the thick, messy strands. You tug gently, and he groans into you—a low, filthy sound that vibrates straight through your core.

He fucking loves when you grab his hair. Loves it rough. Loves your loss of control disguised as dominance.

“You’re cryo—" you start, then stop. Cryogenically frozen. That’s what the pitch says.

Without thinking, you toss the script to the floor.

No. Not this one.

Something twists in your gut. That strange, protective instinct you have for Soldier Boy swims to the surface. Fuck them—the suits, the assholes upstairs, whoever thought it was a good idea to pitch a story where he willingly steps into another glass coffin. Even for a movie.

You blink down at him—between your thighs, his eyes closed, mouth worshipping you.

Your chest tightens.

Though you'd never say it out loud, this man—who drives you up the wall and makes you want to rip your hair out—is one of the closest things you have to a… you don’t even know. But it’ll be over your dead body before you let Vought put him in another box.

It's that thought that drags your fingers tighter against his scalp—grounding yourself in him as much as he’s grounding himself in you.

He pulls away, sensing the shift. His brows knit, breath ragged, eyes flicking up to yours. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing… get back to it.” You lean forward, grab his collar, and pull him back in. He smirks.

You let your head fall back, lifting the next script to your line of sight.

“Justice Boot. Buddy cop comedy… fuuuck.”

He does that thing you like—God, you don’t even know how to describe it.

“You’re paired with a rookie female supe for PR reasons,” you breathe out.

Your back arches.

“Chaos ensues when you refuse sensitivity training and instead teach her…” A shaky inhale. “That real justice involves a baseball bat and bear traps…”

He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t slow. You set the script on the couch next to you. A maybe.

His hand reaches around your thigh, tugging your blouse loose from your skirt, sliding beneath to trace the line of your stomach, then higher—to palm your breast through lace.

You’re spiraling.

“Fuck… just one more,” you whimper, unintentionally.

He could finish you right now—he knows it. But he waits.

“Victory Squad: The Musical,” you try, breath catching. “You sing, you dance, you kill Nazis—yeah… yeah, right there…”

He slips a thick finger inside you. Your thighs clamp closed around him. He yanks you back open.

Another deep breath. Just get through the pitch. Just one more—

“You sing, you dance, you kill—”

You give up.

The last script hits the floor with a soft thud.

Both hands tangle in his hair. Your eyes close.

He’s won the battle. You’re not sure but you think you can feel him smirk between your thighs. He adds another finger, curls them just right, does the thing with his tongue.

“Fuck…fuck…ye…yes...” you come hard. Legs shaking on his shoulders. Walls fluttering and pulling him in. He works you through it with that same relentless focus, mouth and hands steady.

You go limp against the couch, head spinning, nerves humming under your skin. He finally slows, easing off. He knows exactly when too much becomes too much. His mouth lingers on your thigh, one last kiss before he sits back on his heels.

No words.

He doesn’t toss your panties at you like he used to, doesn’t bark out some crude one-liner and walk off. Instead, he finds them on the floor and eases them back up your legs with surprising care. Smooths your skirt down over your hips. Adjusts the hem.

Your eyes meet. There’s a pause. A beat where neither of you speaks, if you do, it might ruin whatever fragile, unspoken thing is sitting heavy between you.

You rise, standing over him. One hand under his chin, tilting it up. The other wipes his mouth with the edge of your blouse before tucking it back into your skirt.

You bend, gathering the discarded scripts into a messy pile. He watches, still kneeling like a soldier waiting on orders.

“I’ll tell the team we’re going with the buddy cop comedy,” you say, voice rough.

He grins, slow and lazy. “Tell ’em my co-star better be hot.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t help the tug of a smile that pulls at your mouth.

You turn to leave, then stop. Glance back over your shoulder.

“Get cleaned up. You’ve got an interview in an hour.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, mock salute and all—but his tone is softer now. His head clearer.

You leave the penthouse with his heat still lingering between your thighs and the sound of him lighting another blunt behind you.

credit & links:

⟡ more soldier boy.

⟡ gif & pics from pinterest, edited by me.

⟡ dividers by @easytiger-xo.