people always assume i like old men bc of a power imbalance and they’re right but I am the powerful one bc I’m hot and in my prime and they’re pathetic
summary — joel has never been one to give in, yet somehow you've changed him — broken him down and opened him up. cracked his ribcage in two. wrapped yourself tightly around his organs, and now he has to carry the weight of you.
word count — 13.8k
tags — joel miller x reader, dad's best friend, no outbreak/no cordyceps, age gap, slow burn
content warnings — hefty age gap (reader late 20s/joel early 50s)
psa — okay so i got tired of waiting to hear back from support and decided to go ahead and post this chapter. i am still holding out hope i'll get my blog back but in the case i don't, this is my backup/new one! if you're one of the readers of this fic or my former follower who is finding this then feel free to follow me back for future updates just in case ♡
author’s note — i wanted to thank you all for your patience on this chapter, i'd been really unmotivated to finish it during this whole fiasco, but luckily i had already written the bulk of it before it all went down. that being said this is by far and away my favorite chapter i have written so far!! it's also the longest sitting at a whopping 13k words! also i name drop reader for the first time in this fic oopsie! and last but not least, thank you all as always for your continued support and love for this story! this has been such a great experience for me, and given me so much confidence as a creative writer, and it's all because of you all and your lovely comments and messages! love you all dearly, and i hope you enjoy! ₊˚⊹ᰔ
It’ll be fine by dusk light, I’m tellin’ you, baby / These things eat at your bones and drive your young mind crazy. / But when you place your head between my collar and jaw / I don’t know much, but there’s no weight at all.
There’s this heaviness to Joel’s bones like lead. Suddenly all the iron in his blood congealed, weighing him down. It’s with him the moment he wakes up, and each second that passes, every minute that his mind is filled with you, it gets heavier. He’ll lift his head from the pillow, neck already aching under the strain, only to find the shape of you still lingering in the mattress beside him. Your smell permeates everything around him, suffocating in the way only love can. It’s that burn, the need to breathe in the water, even when you know it will drown you. But the thought of that temporary relief, the cool rushing in, for even a moment of bliss makes the pain worth it.
He carries it with him throughout the day, like a chain around the ankle, dragging his guilt everywhere he goes. The deafening silence of it taunting him — work, the store, the gas station, home. It’s as inescapable as the wind, or the unrelenting Texas sun. Each day it crushes him and he has to learn how to carry it.
There are moments he wonders if it’s all worth it. If this thing is worth the weight.
In his weakest moments — or maybe his strongest, it’s hard to tell which is which at this point — he thinks about ending it. Imagining full conversations with you, sometimes he even imagines telling you the truth. But more often than not he imagines a lie, excuses or confessions, sharp words meant to maim. Taking a blade to his ankle, sawing through bone and sinew, forcing the weight off of him, even if it leaves you both scarred.
Those are the moments Joel can’t stand to look at himself. Every reflection he passes his eyes avert, he can’t stand it. The man who looks back at him, all bruised under eyes and worn lines, greys standing out more and more against his dark hair. That man looks old — looks weak.
Joel always considered himself to be strong, to know who he was, what he wanted. But ever since that day it’s all out of balance. Like everything is just slightly off center, his equilibrium trying desperately to catch up, to keep him from falling.
He’s a mess. Coming to work late, ordering the wrong supplies, putting mayo on his sandwhich when he fucking hates mayo. Tommy keeps making jokes about him getting old, senile. Joel does his best to laugh it off but by the time he’s at work the weight is so unbearable he can barely think about anything else. He tells himself Tommy doesn’t notice.
The drive home everyday is a blur, everything distorted, just movement and light. It’s dangerous really, he shouldn’t be driving like that but what else is he supposed to do. Maybe Tommy is right, maybe it’s sundowning or something; no matter that Joel’s only 52. It’s a reasonable explanation, why the evening comes and suddenly everything feels different.
It has nothing to do with him opening the door and finding you there. Sometimes you’re in the kitchen like you used to, listening to some grungey band while cooking over the stove. Other times you’re on the couch, curled up under a blanket watching some gory horror movie. Whichever way he comes home to you, the warmth of you envelops him instantly. Your scent lingering over everything, sinking into his bones. In those moments it’s a comfort, not at all the suffocation of the mornings. He relishes those moments. His bones lose their ache, the weight left at the door. You always turn, sensing him there before he’s even made a sound, and the smile that spreads across your face is the most beautiful thing Joel thinks he’s ever seen. No sunrise, no solar eclipse, could ever compare to it. It’s a blessing bestowed upon him that he doesn’t know how he managed to deserve.
In those moments he’s himself again — he knows with every fiber of his being who he is, what he wants. It’s you. Your light always shining on him, filling him up, no room left for doubt or guilt.
He still doesn’t know how you manage to come over so often. Doesn’t know what you said to your old man that explains your delayed departure. Sometimes he wonders whether you simply don’t tell Daniel where you go at night, or maybe he doesn’t even notice.
Tonight’s another one of those nights, this time you greet him at the door, wrapping your arms around him within seconds of crossing the threshold into the safety of his house. The weight of you almost knocks him over, Joel having to counteract it by taking a step back, balancing you both. You nuzzle into his neck, and already he can feel your warmth sinking into him — easing the tension from his weary body. Joel can’t help the sigh that falls from his lips as he breathes you in, nuzzling his head into your hair.
His eyes fall shut and for the first time in the day he finally feels like he can breathe. Each muscle in his body slowly unwinding. You let go, rocking back on your heels to your normal height, eyes level with his sternum.
“What was that for?” He huffs out, rubbing his neck.
“Nothing really. Just a long day” You look down, toeing his boot with your sock clad foot. He laughs at that, the idea of you being the one of them to have a long day is amusing. Joel lifts his eyebrows, but doesn’t pry. He knows if you want to share you will, and lord knows he’s got more than enough on his mind as is.
He runs his hand down your arm as he passes, moving to set his toolbag down. You follow close on his heels, like his shadow, and for a moment it reminds him of Sarah. When she was young she used to follow Joel around like a puppy, always asking questions about what he was doing and telling him whatever popped in her mind. Joel shakes the thought from his head violently with a crack of his neck, the comparison of you to his own daughter is too much.
Too real. Just another reminder of the exact things he tries his hardest to forget about.
But there’s moments, fragments interlaced with glimpses of her — that girl he once knew. No matter how much he tries to ignore them, avert his gaze, clear his mind, she’s always there in the room with the two of you.
You’ll smile, and he’ll see her, the tooth you lost in third grade, knocked loose when you’d fallen out of a tree. You’d been so worried about whether or not it’d actually grow back.
Or you’ll laugh, the two of you watching a movie, and he’ll hear her. The kind of uninhibited laugh, straight from the belly, and she’s beside him again. When he’d have to babysit you because Daniel was out on patrol; you and Sarah huddled up on the couch, watching some braindead kids show.
It makes guilt rise in his throat like bile — the acidic taste of shame that he has to swallow down.
It always passes though, as soon as she’s there she’ll be gone again — you sitting in her place. It takes his breath away each time. It never gets easier.
Joel walks over to the couch, sinking into it with a groan, and starts unlacing his boots. You plop down beside him, snaking your legs onto his lap. He’s coming to learn these new mannerisms of you, the need for contact — to be grounded by him. Whether it’s your feet touching his under the table, your legs draped over his lap, or your side pressed against his. Joel doesn’t mind though, it’s comforting to him. A balm to his guilt, physical reminders that you want this.
No matter how many times he’s heard you say it over the past two weeks, he’s always grateful for the reminder.
“I hope you don’t mind, but I really wasn’t in the mood to cook. Do you mind if we just order something?” Joel’s working on his boots, but he can see you in his peripheral, watching his expression. He turns to meet your gaze, and there’s something hidden behind your eyes, like you’re worried he’ll be upset with you. He hates it, his jaw ticking.
He smiles warmly at you, tossing his boots onto the ground, “That sounds great, baby”.
You brighten at his words, a small smile curling your lips, and you snuggle a bit closer into him. He’s learned you love the pet name. The first few times it ever slipped out were in moments of weakness, a subconscious association. But now he uses it more often than not, noticing how you blush every time.
“Can we get Chinese though? Last time we got that other stuff I had heartburn for days.” Joel rubs at his sternum from the memory. Some spicy stuff you’d sworn was good and he’d made the mistake of trusting you.
You laugh, shaking your head, “Okay, okay. No more Indian, got it.”
Joel leans forward to grab the remote, having to hold onto your knees to stop your legs from slipping off his lap. He flips through the channels until he finally lands on what looks to be a horror movie if the person screaming bloody murder has anything to say for it.
You perk up beside him, scootching closer, “Ooooh! I love this movie!”
Joel squints at the screen, trying to figure out what the hell is going on as a group of people huddle around a screaming little boy. He flinches at the sound, face twisting, “I don’t get how you like this shit. What’s this about anyway?”
“Y’know The Shining? Well it’s like a sequel. It’s about the little boy Danny, but he’s grown up now. He meets this little girl who has the same powers as him and basically he’s trying to save her from these immortal people who live off of the energy of their psychic abilities. It’s a whole thing, but I promise it’s good!” Joel’s not so sure as the people start violently stabbing the little boy, but he’s willing to take your word for it.
He grabs your phone from your hands, your attention focused on the movie now, and he distracts himself with ordering food.
By the time the food comes, Joel has to admit you were right. The movie is actually really interesting, even if he barely remembers the last time he watched The Shining. More so he enjoys watching you watch it. The way your eyes track the movement on the screen, the small opening of your lips when you notice new things. Joel loves just to watch you, somehow he’s figured out how to do it without just staring. Unlike you, who always looks at him with such intensity, like you’re afraid he’s going to disappear.
When he gets up to grab the food from outside, he doesn’t fail to notice the slight downturn of your lips at the loss of contact. He makes sure to come back quickly, placing the bag on the coffee table before heading back to the kitchen to grab plates and a couple beers.
The moment he sits back down you’re on him again — legs across his lap, and he smiles to himself. He makes plates for the two of you, handing you yours first before serving himself. He relaxes back into the couch, sinking into your warmth at his side. You're close enough that his arm is slightly restricted, but he doesn’t mind.
He’s not sure how the two of you managed to sink into such a comfortable routine. Maybe it’s because you’d already had one before everything happened — your weekly dinners a mold for this newfound thing.
The two of you haven’t really talked about it. Neither Joel nor you much for opening up, and you’ve always read each other so well. Talking about it feels redundant, unnecessary.
Not that Joel wouldn’t like to know, to understand what this means to you. If it means anything really. If it’s just fun or something to cope with your last relationship.
If he means anything in the long run, or if it’s just a fling. Some short lived thing that you’ll grow out of. Leaving him irrevocably changed.
He doesn’t know, and for once he’s more than willing to live in the unknown. This is what you both want at this moment, and if that changes — well he’s a grown man. He’ll live with it. Face it head on, accept it as it comes to him.
Joel’s pulled from his thoughts when you nuzzle into him. He hadn’t even noticed you’d moved, now lying on your side, head resting gently in his jean clad lap. He’s so attuned to you he hadn’t processed it, yet his body naturally molded to you — his arm draped over your side, holding you to him, his other hand running through your hair.
He pauses a moment, coming to like in a dream, and she’s there again. The young girl from before, resting gently on his lap. But he swears you’d never done that, Sarah was always the one to fall asleep during movies, head on his thigh, drool staining his jeans. But he’s looking at you, mousy hair in waves, freckles on your cheeks, small fingers clenching as you dream.
It startles him, he has to close his eyes, a sharp pain stabbing in his ribcage.
When he opens them again, she’s gone — you lying in her place. Eyes half open, barely watching the movie as you begin to doze off. Dark hair still tangled in his fingers from where they’d been running through it. Joel’s breath comes in short succession, he disguises it, clearing his throat.
You don’t seem to notice, your eyes finally drifting shut as your breathing slows, his palm still pressed tightly to your stomach.
Joel reaches for his beer, careful not to wake you. He finishes it off, needing the cool liquid to calm his mind, to bring some clarity, or maybe just enough of a haze to dull the noise. He finishes the movie, listening more to the sound of your breath than the words, and tries not to notice the cold sweat that is drying on the back of his neck.
Joel wakes up with a start, the same as every other morning, heavy breaths through his nose, rapid rise and fall of his chest. Joel’s always been tormented with bad dreams, his mind coming up with some of the worst possible realities in his sleep.
Sometimes he dreams of losing Sarah, the feel of her blood on his hands so real. Other times his dreams are more abstract — more feelings than anything else. Feelings of dread, of unimaginable rage, of loss.
Lately, he dreams of you. Your face twisted in disgust, looking at him like a stranger. Words he knows you’d never say falling from your lips like venom.
When he regains control of his body, muscles loosening, he turns his head sharply, and feels relief flooding his system to find you sleeping form next to him. The gentle rise and fall of your bare back a reminder. You don’t always spend the night, more often than not heading back home late; doing your part to avoid suspicion.
But last night you’d chosen to stay, something clearly roiling behind your eyes and Joel never was able to deny you.
He catches his breath as he watches you, trying to match with the steady rhythm of your own breathing. Once his heart slows, he turns his head, checking his watch on the bedside table. As usual, he wakes up just on time. Joel hasn’t used an actual alarm in years, his body instinctively knowing when it’s time to start the day after years of the same routine.
He sits up gently, careful not to wake you as he rises from the bed. He grabs a change of clothes, and heads into his bathroom. He makes the mistake of catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror, and already the weight is settling back. The knowledge of who exactly is lying in his bed sinking into his skin like hooks.
When he steps out of the bathroom, hair damp and work clothes on, you’re awake. Though you’re pretending not to be, eyes still closed. But like a sixth sense he knows you’re not sleeping, your breathing and body language different. It brings a smile to his face.
He walks over softly, stopping at the edge of the bed. He kneels down next to you, placing a gentle kiss to your temple, and he doesn’t miss the way your body responds to the touch. You open your eyes then, slowly still feigning sleep, a soft smile on your face. He strokes a stray hair behind your ear as you watch one another.
“I’ve gotta get going, lock up when y’ leave?” You nod your head gently, leaning into his touch where his hand still rests in your hair.
Joel takes one last lingering look at you, eyes roaming your face, trying to make it last. Needing your warmth, hoping maybe this time it won’t leave him the moment he walks out the door.
But by the time he’s in his truck, music humming low, his limbs are heavy again — the only warmth is from the burn of coffee down his throat.
“Come on, brother! It’s been a shit fucking day, one beer’ll do you good!” Tommy hollars over his shoulder as he heads for his truck.
“Since when was it one beer with you?” Joel scoffs, but the look on his younger brother's face says he won’t hear the end of it if he doesn’t tag along. He’ll be hearing how he’s getting old for weeks. Joel rolls his eyes, heaving out a heavy sigh, and Tommy laughs in response — knowing he’s won. He pats the side of his truck door, “Come on then! We’ll ride together, I’ll give ya’ ride in the mornin’”.
Joel doesn’t love the idea, but Tommy’s got that expression that says I’m not gonna listen to a word you say, so he just grumbles as he walks around to the passenger side — shit eating grin plastered to Tommy’s features. A mile down the road and Tommy’s still looking like he won an argument so Joel punches him in the arm, but his brother just rubs his arm and laughs it off.
They pull into the parking lot, and Joel is immediately reminded of the last time he was here. The familiar gravel dust hiding the evening sun outside Dark Skies.
He swallows down the memory, giving his brother a raised brow, “Really?”
“What? They got cheap beer, since when were you too good for a dive?” Tommy pats his brother on the shoulder before hopping out, not noticing the discomfort on Joel’s face.
He cracks his neck, trying to right himself, and follows his brother out of the truck. Joel knows he’s been off lately, but being here is disorienting. Things are good with you, or as good as they can be given the circumstances. But this place reminds him of you in a way that’s uncomfortable. The vision of your falling apart just from the sight of him.
Guilt sinks its teeth into him, drawing blood. You seem happy with him, happier and lighter than you’ve been since coming home. But he can’t shake the feeling that he’s tainting you. Doing something forbid and sick, something he’ll regret. Moments like that night remind him of your fragility. No matter how much you do your best to hide it, Joel can see the cracks in your armor. He hates to think that he might be the one who put them there, and that maybe now, he’s only adding more.
When this inevitably ends, likely blowing up in your faces— Joel can’t think about what it might do.
The strong smell of cigarettes and beer permeates the air of the bar, distracting Joel from his mind for a moment. It’s then he hears Tommy’s voice, it finally piercing through as a whistles, “Earth to Joel, god damn. What’s up with you lately?”
Joel bristles as he sits down next to his brother, his voice coming out rougher than he means for it to, “I don’t know what you mean”.
“You’re in another world, that’s what. Y’seem out of it, orderin’ the wrong lumber, telling guys to go work on shit we finished Tuesday, not listenin’ when I talk to you. Is everythin’ alright?” Tommy’s tone is scolding but behind it Joel can hear the genuine concern.
“‘M fine, alright. Will you just lay off it?” Joel knows he shouldn’t snap at him, knows he just cares. But the air in here is thick, lying on his skin in a way that makes it crawl. He can’t stop picturing you in here, in this place. It’s dark, dirty, sleazy — not a place you should be. Your a grown woman, he knows that, but imagining you in a place like this… A beautiful young woman in a bar filled with pervy men and drunks, it makes him feel sick. It also doesn’t pass his notice that if you were here right now, he’d be lumped into the category of the latter, and that makes his head throb.
Joel rubs at his temples, even as he can hear Tommy’s voice distant beside him, “Damn, god forbid y’worry about a guy”, he mumbles into his beer. Joel grabs his roughly, needing the feel of the cool glass on his lips. He can feel his body temperature rising, discomfort and anger pooling in his gut.
He really should leave. This isn’t a good combination, alcohol and unruly emotions. Tommy’s always been as hotheaded as him, and at this rate things are adding up to a very uncomfortable drive home if he doesn’t get himself under control.
He can hear Tommy talking beside him, he can’t quite make out what he’s saying over the roar of his blood, so he just hums every once in a while. Tommy used to Joel’s nonverbal habits.
Joel can’t stop his eyes from wandering, looking at the bartender, the customers, the dirty floor, and the dollar bills on the walls. Wondering where you sat, who talked to you, if anyone touched you. His skin is crawling and he’s finished his beer in record time, already motioning the bartender for another. He’s pulled violently back into the moment at the mention of your name. He turns his head sharply, looking at Tommy with a furrowed brow.
“What’d you say?”
Tommy rubs at his eyes, clearly annoyed at talking to a brick wall, “I asked ‘bout Wren. If Dan’s said anythin’ about her goin’ home. I knew he’d mentioned it ‘while back but from what I heard she’s still here.”
Joel bristles at the mention of you, his eyes flickering, trying to swallow down the words in his throat, “Why would’ya think I’d know anythin’ about that?” His voice comes out sounding off even to his own ears, and Joel knocks his boot into the bar, scolding himself internally.
Luckily, if Tommy notices he doesn’t say anything, just giving Joel a strange look, “Well, I know she’d come over to yours for dinner sometimes, just wonderin’ if she’d mentioned anything.”
Joel still doesn’t understand where this line of questioning is going, and he can feel the muscle in his temple flexing over and over, tension tightening the lines of his body, “Why are you askin’?”
Tommy looks his brother over before turning to take another sip of beer. He waits a moment to respond, and Joel feels like he’s going to crawl out of his skin. He can hear it now, his brother asking — accusing him, telling him he’s making a mistake. That he’s sick. His fist tightens around his glass, his breath coming heavy out of his nose.
“The Fourth’s coming up soon, my cookout ‘nd all, just wanted to know if she’d be coming along, damn. What’s the matter with you anyway? You don’t need to bite my head off every time I ask you somethin’. When’s the last time you got laid, Jesus”. Tommy huffs a breath into his beer as he takes another sip, and eyes meeting Joel reflection in the mirror at the back of the bar.
“The fuck is that supposed to mean?” Joel’s voice comes out clipped and sharp, staring daggers into his brother's profile.
“Jesus, Joel. It don’t mean nothin’ other than you’re wound tight as hell, ‘nd you’re takin’ it out on me.” Joel knows’ he’s right, knows he needs to calm down. To stop acting so god damn insane, but he can’t shake it. His whole body is off, his mind dislocated, rattling around in his skull making it hard for him to focus on anything than the feel of it.
He cracks his neck, downing what’s left of his beer. He really needs to get home, to get out of this fucking place. To take a freezing shower and try his best to fall into a dreamless sleep. He finishes off his beer, standing up slowly as his joints crack at the movement.
“Where are you goin’ now?”
Joel’s already half way to the door, pushing it open with more force than necessary, slamming it a bit too hard off the wall. He fumbles in his cargo pocket, searching for the smashed pack of cigarettes. He walks until he finds himself next to Tommy’s truck, propping a boot up on the tire as he leans back against it, the metal still warm from the sun.
He lights the cigarette, relishing in the sweet burn of the tobacco as he inhales. He closes his eyes, lets it sink in. Images of you flash in his mind — at the lake, hair dripping water on your shoulders, or sitting on the log behind your house, golden light of the sun illuminating your eyes. He can still feel the air of that place clinging to him, making him restless. He wants to be home, to be with you. Your arms wrapped around him, your lips on his skin. Sometimes you run your fingers through his hair, stroking gentle circles, and he refuses to admit to himself how much he loves it.
He’s pulled from his reverie by the sound of gravel crunching under boots, he opens his eyes to find his brother’s irritated face looking back at him. “Don’t worry, I got your tab”. When Joel doesn’t say anything — not thanks or acknowledgement — Tommy curses under his breath and heads to the other side of the truck, wrenching the door open.
Joel takes one more long drag before stomping the cigarette out with his boot. He climbs in beside his brother, and the drive home is quiet. Tension radiating in the cabin. Joel knows he’s being an dick. Taking things out on Tommy that his brother doesn’t even know about. He should talk to him, try and explain in vagaries. But Joel knows he can’t.
If he opens his mouth everything will spill out. Confessions like vomit will come pouring out, a mess on the ground between them. It almost happened once already; the first time he’d run into Daniel since things changed with you.
He’d been at the store, picking up a new shipment for the site when he’d heard the all too familiar sound of your Dad’s voice booming from behind him. Joel immediately tensed up, his whole body solidifying into stone, nausea roiling in his gut. He’d done his best to act normal, turning around, an impression of a smile on his face.
Luckily for Joel, your Dad has always been painfully oblivious. Never one to be able to read people, their emotions and mannerisms always seemingly foreign to him. It’s a miracle really, because Joel was practically falling apart at the seams. Sweat beading on his temples, fists clenching and flexing by his sides, eyes looking everywhere but in the eyes of the man whose daughter he’d defiled. He hadn’t heard a word Daniel had said, suddenly grateful for his best friend's ability to fill any silence with noise. Luckily, the worker had come back with Joel’s shipment, cutting the conversation short. Joel doesn’t think he managed to say a single sentence to Daniel before taking the cart of lumber back to his truck, a mangled excuse for a goodbye vomited on the floor.
It’d taken him almost twenty minutes in his truck before he’d been able to see straight. Flurries in his vision keeping him from driving back to work as he’d tried not to throw up outside the window.
“What’s she doin’ here this late?” Tommy’s voice is loud in the cabin, pulling Joel’s attention to what he’s looking at.
Your car is parked in the driveway. It’s only barely night, but still he knows how odd it must look for you to be at his house. Especially without him there. The implications of you having a key, of you feeling comfortable enough in his home. Tommy’s still looking at your car lit up by the headlights as Joel frantically tries to think of something to say.
His mind is racing and his skin feels too tight and the air too thick. Finally Joel just opens the door, hoping out without acknowledging Tommy’s comment. Hoping maybe if he just doesn’t say anything it won’t seem as strange as he knows it to be. “Thank for the beers, I’ll see you in the mornin’”.
Before Tommy can respond, mouth hanging slightly open, a question on his face, Joel closes the door with a slam. Walking up to the house in a few long strides, before practically falling into the safety of its walls.
Joel almost has to lean on the door once he’s inside, needing desperately to catch his breath. But he doesn’t have a chance, you're sitting on the couch, book laid across your lap when you look up startled by his sudden entrance.
“Hey, are you—”
“What are you doing here?” Joel’s voice comes out harsh, like sandpaper even to his own ears. He sees you tense up instantly, back going rigid at his tone. He watches as a number of expressions flash across your face, eyebrows flinching.
“I just… I don’t know, I was bored and—” Joel cuts you off again, hand rubbing painfully at his eyes, “You can’t just drop by whenever you feel like it. Tommy just dropped me off ‘nd was wonderin’ why the hell you’re here, ‘nd without me”.
He sees it instantly, the wound opening up, your eyes flickering, clearly taken aback by his anger. He expects you to get defensive, to bare your teeth, fight back like you usually do. But you just seem to shrink, knees pulling tighter to your chest, “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t think about it…”.
Joel hands come up to rub his face, trying desperately to ground himself, to soothe the panic and anger filling his blood. He knows he’s being cruel, that he’s hurting you. He can see it, but every time he opens his mouth his words come out sharp.
“Look, you just— it looks bad, ‘kay? I couldn’t even explain it, and I can only imagine what the hell he’s thinkin’. I mean what if he says somethin’ to your Dad or Maria?” Joel sighs heavily, grinding his palms into his eyes, “You can’t just come whenever you feel like it, you need to tell me”.
When Joel drops his hands, his stomach lurches, a whole new wave of guilt gripping him. You’ve pulled entirely into yourself, your book having slipped onto the floor, your arms wrapped tight around your knees. You look so small all of a sudden, and she’s there again. The girl who won’t leave Joel alone. Eyes glassy, nose red, looking everywhere but at him because she’d broken a glass rough housing with Sarah. Cowering like a dog waiting for the boot, so used to her Dad’s anger.
Just like that she’s gone, and with her Joel’s anger, his fear. You’re you again, but your eyes are still glassy, trying desperately not to cry. Your arms still wrapped tightly around yourself as protection against the anger in his voice. Joel hates himself.
For taking this out on you. For making you feel like you needed to make yourself small again.
With heavy feet he drags himself over to you, noticing how you don’t move, like a deer on the highway. Once he’s standing in front of you, he pauses a moment, waiting. You don’t unfurl, a slight tremor to the tense lines of your body, and Joel feels sick. He hates seeing you like this, hates causing it. He’s always been the good one. The good man in your life, the one who’s calm, collected. The one you could count on.
He drops to one knee. The other. Until he’s kneeling in front of you, resting back on the heels of his boots. You still won’t look at him, eyes trained down at your forearms, shining even in the low light. He lifts his hands slowly, gentle not to spook you, and rests them gently on your knees.
He presses down gently, trying to get you to open up. After a second you give, your legs unfolding from against your chest, sliding down to rest on the couch in front of him, his hands now on your knees. Your arms are still tight around your stomach, holding everything in. He hates it, seeing you protect yourself from him.
Joel can’t stand it — hurting you. He leans forward, slow enough to give you a chance to pull away. When you don’t he leans down until his head is resting gently on your lap; nose pressed against your thighs. He takes a deep breath, inhaling you — vanilla and something he can’t quite place, something distinctly you. It grounds him. He can feel it, the weight, sloughing off his back.
His muscles relax just so, even if his grip on you tightens. He squeezes his eyes shut, hoping he can convey to you everything that feels impossible for him to say.
After what feels like eternity, he feels your arms unwrap slowly, one coming to drape across his shoulders, holding him closer. Then deft fingers running through his hair, pulling at the curls at the nape of his neck, making him shiver. He listens to you breath, feels the faint beat of your heart against his cheek where your femoral artery pumps beneath your skin.
Somehow, entwined with you, Joel finds the strength. Your hands on him, grounding him, holding him together, making sure he won’t slip through the cracks. He tilts his head to the side, ear resting against your thigh. He closes his eyes, it’ll be easier to do this if he can’t see. Less senses, easier to digest.
“I’m sorry, baby.” It comes out quiet, a whisper.
When you don’t respond, just gentle strokes on the back of his neck, he continues, “This whole thing it’s just— it feels wrong,” He pauses again, trying to find his words. Trying to figure out how to explain to you, to untangle the mess of rot that’s eating away at him.
“It feels wrong because it feels right. I feel like… I know you’ve said you want this. We both do. That this is your decision but… I can’t shake the feelin’ that I’m corruptin’ you. Ruining you. That I’m some sick old man, takin’ advantage of you because you’ve been hurtin’. ‘Cause you trust me. It makes me feel fuckin’ sick, I can’t— I can’t shake it”. Joel shakes his head, grinding it against your leg, pressing into your skin. Wishing he could sink into you, or pull you inside of him. Let you see first hand, let you feel the weight that’s eating at him. His grip on your legs tightens further, and he thinks for a moment he’ll leave bruises, your skin always so tender.
He feels nauseous at the warmth that grows inside of him at the thought. Of marking you this way. “Fuck”, he bites through his teeth, a burn building at the back of his eyes.
Your hand stops its ministrations in his hair, coming to lay underneath his jaw. You lift his face towards you, and when Joel opens his eyes he has to bite down on his tongue to stop the tears that threaten him at the sight of you. You look beautiful, wide eyes filled with something that looks painfully like love. But it can’t be, Joel knows that.
You care for him, in the way you always have, but in the end this will be a phase for you. A fling, a fleeting relationship that will teach you things you’ll carry into your future. He’s merely a story for you, one you’ll probably tell to your friends back in the city. A crazy adventure you had back home with your Dad’s best friend.
Joel knows it’s true. Can feel it in every fiber of his being, sitting right here at your feet. In the end this will only make you stronger; even if it leaves Joel in ruins.
What scares Joel the most about that thought, is that he’s fine with it — almost comforted by it. Once again the man you need him to be.
Your eyes roam his face, and gently you lean down, pressing a kiss to his lips. Joel melts into you, his grip on your thighs must be painful because your mouth falls open a bit, a gasp escaping. He just presses further, deepening the kiss, needing the reprieve you give him.
Only with you does it get easier — your touch, your kiss, your body taking his — only then does he feel solid again. Everything aligning, perfectly placed.
Joel breaks away, a trail of spit still connecting you both. He hovers just above your lips, thinking, deciding. His grip on you loosen just so as his hands slide up to your hips, fingers dipping beneath the band of your sweatpants. Gently he pulls them, sliding them down your thighs, you lift up off the couch to help him — one hand perched on his shoulder.
Joel has to lean back slightly to free your ankles, but as soon as they’re tossed to the floor he’s back, kneeling before you. His eyes roam over your bare legs, hands tracing lines across your smooth skin, relishing in the effect he seems to have on you. The goosebumps with every pass of his finger tips, the slight tremor to your legs in anticipation, the shallow breaths falling on his neck.
In these moments, Joel’s body works outside of itself. He’s a man possessed, watching from the sidelines as he does things usually reserved for his darkest moments. These moments with you — he never thought would become reality, and he swears they aren’t. They exist in some other world, somewhere distant, faraway. Somewhere that you’re not you, and he’s not him. Sometimes he thinks you can tell the disconnect that happens inside his body, the only way his mind can seem to cope with what he’s doing.
A look will cross your face, like you see him, see how far away he is, and you pull him back. A hand firm on his face, grounding him, forcing him back into his body. It’s violent, it’s jarring, but Joel lets you. Every time.
He watches as his hands slide up, fingers dipping beneath the waste band of your underwear, your stomach sucking in a breath. Joel pulls them down painfully slow, repeating the process, watching the lift of your hips as you help him, exposing your perfect cunt to him. He drops them on the floor, noticing the wetness already staining the cotton; but even then his eyes never leave the sight of you before him.
You try to close your thighs, a reflex reaction to being so on display, but Joel’s hands stop you, holding you firm in place. He knows his grip is harsh, that he should be gentler with you, but he can’t control himself. You pull something out of him, something dark and possessive, something that eats away at his control.
His hands slide around to the back of your thighs, falling just above your knees, and with one swift movement he pulls you down the sofa, relishing in the small gasp that falls from your lips.
A grin twists Joel’s features as he gently places your right leg over his shoulder, forcing you closer to him. Loves the way your knee presses against his head, still trying to shield yourself from being so exposed. But he knows you can’t, knows deep down you don’t want to. He can see the evidence of your arousal before him, your cunt dripping beautifully, flushed and perfect. The patch of fine hair above your mound begging for him to stroke it like he does your head so many times.
Joel leans his head against your thigh, breaths deeply, the scent of you filling him up, making his cock ache inside his jeans. He hasn’t even touched you — not really — and yet already his cock is half hard, Joel having to adjust his position to stop the painful press of it against his jeans.
He wants to make it up to you, the vision of your tears still so fresh in his mind. A gentle press of his lips to your inner thigh, and already your gasping. Without turning his head, he flicks his eyes over to you, and the sight of you is almost too much.
Your bottom lip is caught between your teeth, the pressure of them painting it scarlet. Your cheeks are flushed the most beautiful pink, the color of a soft sunrise. Your eyes, usually beautiful globes of caramel, are half hidden by thick lashes, watching him intently. A grin curls Joel’s features, his grip tightening just so on your thigh, and he watches as your brow twists at the pressure.
Ebony locked on amber, he trails closer to your cunt, his beard scratching against the tender flesh of your leg, making you jolt with every touch.
When he reaches the dip of your thigh, he places a gentle kiss before baring his teeth, canines sinking into the sensitive skin there, forcing your mouth open as you gasp. Joel flicks his eyes up to you, and sees the way your mouth falls open, brows twisting in pain, the curve of your breasts rising rapidly. He’s figured out you like it, the mix of pleasure and pain. The roughness of his edges fitting so perfectly with the softness of your curves.
He drags himself to your core, to where he knows you want him — need him. His nose just barely grazes your hair and already you’re flinching, aching with anticipation. Joel can’t help the rush that goes to his head at the knowledge of his effect on you.
Joel’s been with women, many in his life, but no one has ever been as reactive to him as you. The slightest brush of skin, even a glance, and you’re melting into him. He doesn’t know what the hell he ever did to deserve it — but in these moments he’s grateful. Down right fucking blessed.
He nudges you lightly with his nose, toying with you, devouring the whimper that falls from your lips. You lift your hips towards him, trying to force yourself closer, and Joel puts a stop to that quickly. He drapes his left arm across the bottom of your stomach, pressing your hips firmly into the cushion. He feels you squirm against his grip, though you know there’s no use.
He watches you through his lashes as he does it again, his mustache scraping against the sensitive bud making your hips jolt underneath his forearm, bringing a smile to his face. He blows on it gently, bringing a whine to your lips, “J-Joel…”.
“Yeah, baby?” He drawls, voice soft, accent thick like honey, “Wha’s the matter?”
Your eyes are wide, pupils swallowing the warmth in your eyes. Your bottom lip almost trembles, looking so similar to your face earlier. “P-Please Joel”, you whine.
Joel lifts an eyebrow, clicking his tongue, “Now darlin’, you gotta use your words. I ain’t a mind reader, now am I?” He knows he’s being cruel, but he can’t help himself. The way your body is trembling beneath him, your thigh pressed tight against his head, it brings something out of him he’s never felt. The whine that falls from your lips is downright pathetic, and he swallows it up.
He almost feels bad — almost.
Your voice comes out small and shaky, not at all the woman who had told him to fuck her that night. “Joel, p–please, I need… need your mouth”.
Joel makes an expression of mock concern even as his fingers stroke gentle circles on the skin of your hip, your thigh. “Hmm, whatdy’a mean sweetheart? Ya’ mean like this?” And he opens his mouth placing a gentle bite to the dip of your thigh, a sob falling from your throat.
“N-N-No, Joel please, please you know— my cunt, please”. Your voice is desperate, breathy and wavering.
Joel smiles against your skin, soaking up every second. “Ohhhhh, I see. You want me to kiss her? Yeah?” He watches as you nod your head, lip tucked between your teeth again, fingers gripping into the leather of the couch.
Joel hums, repositioning himself over your dripping core. His eyes never leave yours, even as his grip on your stomach tightens, leaning close, his breath against your cunt having you practically shaking.
“Mmm, like this?” Joel opens his mouth, placing a gentle kiss right on top of your clit, his tongue flicking the slightest bit, making you buck.
He watches as your eyes flutter, a choked sob escaping between your parted lips. He feels as you squirm underneath his touch, and he knows you’re past speaking. He hums again, deciding to stop toying with you.
“Or maybe sumthin’ more like this?” Eyes still locked on yours, with the flat of his tongue Joel licks a long swipe through your slick folds, the tip dipping inside of you, tasting the delicious taste of your arousal. He can’t help the groan that falls from deep in his throat, and he doesn’t miss the way your eyes roll back in your head, plush lips falling into a silent o.
He repeats the movement again, taking his time with each swipe of his tongue, and he watches as you fall apart beneath him. Your body is partially limp, your leg draped loosely over his shoulder, the other dangling off the couch next to him. He stops a moment, needing desperately to reposition his now painfully hard cock inside his jeans. The whine that you make at the loss sets off something inside of him.
His mouth returns to you with a new intensity. The kisses he places on you are downright filthy, practically making out with your cunt. He sucks on your swollen clit, pulling it into his mouth before he flicks his tongue against the bundle of nerves. Suddenly your hand is gripped painfully into his hair, yanking him closer, making tears sting the edges of his eyes. He hisses between his teeth, but it only encourages him.
He can tell by the rigidity in your body, your muscles tense and straining against him that you won’t last much longer. Your knee rests at the back of his neck, pulling him impossibly closer to you. His nose is shoved against your pelvis, not giving him much air to breath but fuck he couldn’t care one bit. Joel thinks he could die right now on his knees, face pressed against your core, and he’d die happy.
He finally loosens his grip on your thigh, sliding his hand up between your legs and instantly pushing two fingers deep inside of you. The slick warmth of your cunt makes him groan against you, your legs falling open for him, feet propped on the edge of the couch as you slide closer to him. He pumps his fingers in and out, the feel of your muscles sucking his fingers back in every time, so desperate to be filled by him again.
Joel can feel his cock leaking against his stomach, and he knows if he had the slightest bit of friction — a few thrusts against the couch would have him over the edge like a fucking teenager. He doesn’t know how you do this to him, again and again. Turning him into a mess like he’s not a grown man.
He slips in a third finger, stretching you further, and curves his fingers, pressing against that sweet spot he’d found inside you that first time — so perfectly placed for his long fingers, and that’s all it takes. Your body locks up, mouth falling open, brow twisting in pain, his name falling from your lips in a hoarse scream. He feels your muscles clench tightly around his fingers, a flood of arousal soaking him, running down his palm, his wrist. He keeps pumping them, stroking that spot, devouring your clit as your legs tremble around him. Your thighs pressed tightly to either side of his head, holding him in place so he couldn’t pull away even if he wanted to.
The moment he feels your body relaxing, the wave of your orgasm receding, he pulls away. Joel stands up so fast he can see you barely processing his movements, your eyes glassy and distant. He sits down on the couch, the leather groaning beneath the weight of him. Instantly he’s freeing his cock, it practically springing from the confines of his clothing. It aches against his hand, and he runs his hand up and down the length of it, trying to relieve some of the ache, His balls feel painfully heavy, and he knows he won’t last long but he needs you now.
He leans over, gripping your waist, and with a simple tug he’s pulling you over to him. You're still blissed out, your body pliable and moving at the slightest of guidance. He settles you onto his lap, and luckily you’re able to find enough wherewithal to position yourself comfortably over him. Hovering over his leaking cock, he guides down on to him.
You’re soaked from your climax, and he’s able to bottom out inside of you in one thrust. Joel’s head falls back against the couch, a hiss between his teeth at the warm tightness of you. He doesn’t know how you do it, even after just having his fingers stretch you, your cunt practically chokes his cock, the pressure so much Joel genuinely thinks he could come without you even moving.
His head is still thrown back, breathing deeply through his nose hoping he can last long enough to not make this fucking embarassing, so he doesn’t notice your movements. He feels your fingers against his waist, making him jump — he’s always been ticklish. He lifts his head, and sees you looking at his body, sliding his shirt up, eyes clearer now.
He lifts his arms, helping you to strip him, and the moment you throw the fabric away, your hands are on him. You grip at his chest, his biceps, and Joel can’t help but feel his head grow the size of fucking Jupiter. The way your eyes roam over him, like you’re taking him apart at the seams, it makes him feel attractive in a way he hasn’t since he was young.
Joel’s not an idiot, he knows he’s not bad looking — he never had a problem getting women when he was younger. His hair still dark, skin tanned from days spent in the sun. But over the years it’d just lost importance to him. With work and Sarah to focus on, it rarely crossed his mind whether or not women still wanted him, still looked. But underneath your gaze, Joel remembers what it felt like to be wanted.
He’s pulled violently from his thoughts when you start to move, a gentle rock of your hips, grinding down on to him. His hands fly to your hips, gripping on to you tight enough to bruise. You place your hands on his shoulders for purchase before you start moving — up and down, thrusting yourself again again onto his cock.
“Fuuuuck,” Joel groans from deep in his chest, voice rough with arousal. He bucks his hips up, matching your movements, and his lip twitches at the yelp that he knocks out of you. He knows he’s hitting that spot inside of you — the two of you have fucked enough times that’s he’s learned just how to do it, no matter what position, to turn you into a trembling mess. He repeats the movement every time you thrust down onto his cock, and watches as your eyes start to glaze over again.
“‘S that feel good? Huh, babygirl?” The pet name falls from his lips before he can think better of it, but his mind is ruined by a lust filled haze so he can’t find it in himself to care. All he can process is the rapid nodding of your head in response. The way your tits are bouncing with each of your movements, drawing his attention away from your face for only a moment. Ever since you’d forced him to look at you — to watch as he fucked you — he’s felt like an addict. He can’t get enough of your expressions, your sounds, every minute detail of when he’s inside of you.
Joel feels his control slipping, he can’t last much longer like this. He stops his own movements, wanting to watch you, to see how you fuck yourself on top of him. His left hand slides up your body until it’s resting gently on your neck, fingers spread wide across your sternum and all the way to the other side of your throat. His right hand moves from its home on your hip to grip the soft flesh of your ass as you bounce on his lap.
He leans back against the couch, eyes trained on every detail of your face. The sweat that’s beading at your temples, the way your hair bounces behind your back, your lip tucked back between your teeth in that face that drives him fucking wild. Your grip on his shoulders begins to tighten painfully, and he knows you won’t last much longer either.
He sits up then, wrapping his arms tightly around you, pulling you flush against his chest. You gasp at the contact, arms snaking around his neck. He leans forward, scooting you both to the edge of the couch, giving him room to thrust deeper inside of you. He bucks his hips, slamming into your cunt. With each thrust he hits that spot, your mouth pressed tight against his ear, teeth grazing the skin there — singing for him.
Within a minute he feels the walls of your cunt clench around his cock making him gasp. His movements stutter, pace erratic as he feels the tension in his balls finally release. Joel’s orgasm floods his system like a tidal wave, drowning him in you. Every squeeze of your cunt furthering his own pleasure. You’d assured him of your birth control, and yet still there’s a split second that something like fear darkens the edges of his mind as he spills deep inside of you.
Slowly, you come down, your body going limp against his, Joel’s own blood beginning to cool. He leans back, arm wrapped tightly against your back, holding him to you. He groans as he sinks into the couch, the cold of the leather refreshing against his sweat slick skin.
Your head is tucked into the side of his neck, the feel of your panting breaths sending shivers down his arms. The two of you sit like that a moment as Joel catches his breath, his stamina not as good as it once was.
Joel starts stroking gently across the skin of your back, feeling as your own breathing begins to steady. His hand traces circles between your shoulder blades, the repetitive motion soothing you. He can tell by the heaviness of your limbs, your arms still wrapped around his neck.
Suddenly, his hand stills in its menstruations — his blood running cold. He tries to swallow, his throat suddenly painfully dry. He shuts his eyes hard, opening them after a few seconds. He repeats it once. Twice.
He can feel it, the difference. Your hair suddenly smells not of vanilla but citrus. Your arms frailer around him. His stomach flips, bile rising in his throat.
He hadn’t even realized he’d been doing it — a simple reaction, muscle memory. She’d been sick once, the flu, and Daniel had been out, unable to take the time off. Joel had looked after her instead, she’d slept on the couch — this couch. He’d come out in the middle of the night for some water, and found her hunched over the trashcan, gentle sobs around gags echoing in the room. He’d gone to her instantly, sitting next to her, pulling her to him. It didn’t matter in that moment that she was probably too grown for this, he’d known it had soothed Sarah when she was sick and his father instincts had kicked in. She’d melted into him, cold sweat soaking her shirt. He’d lifted the back of it and started stroking gentle circles between her shoulder blades. They had sat like that for a long time until the nausea had passed, sleep finally taking her.
Joel pushes you away then, hands firm on your shoulders, the air between you cold. Your eyes open wide, startled by his sudden movement. His eyes roam over you — your features, right again; hair darker, skin lighter, eyes duller. His breath comes in heavy pants through his nose, and he hopes to god you don’t notice the shake of his arms against your skin.
“Joel? What’s wrong?” Your voice groggy with sleep but filled with concern, brown eyes roaming over his face. He feels like he’s going to be sick. Joel swallows down the vomit, the bitter taste of guilt.
When his voice comes it’s surer than he feels, “N-Nothin’. Sorry, I– Must’ve dozed off. Got spooked ‘sall”.
You don’t look convinced, worry etched into the lines of your face, but you don’t pry. You slowly pull yourself from his grasp, a slight downturn of your lips at how easily he’s willing to let you go. You extend your hand to him, fingers long and elegant again, “Come on, let’s go to bed.”
Joel nods his head, eyes not quite meeting yours. He takes your hand, letting you guide him. When you curl up together, your head tucked beneath his chin, his chest is tight, breath restricted — crushed beneath the weight.
Joel wakes with his breath caught in his throat, chest heaving. His muscles are locked in place, like he can feel his tendons wrapped around bone, taught as a bow string. He has to close his eyes again, open, and close, open again. Deep breaths through his nose. Slowly sensation returns to him — a twitch of his finger, a warmth at his side.
He turns his head stiffly, and finds you still sleeping, curled up under his arm. He has to consciously relax his hand, his grip tight against your back — his fingers ache from the tension.
His sleep is never good, his dreams either endless nothing or wrought with misery. Another series of deep breaths as his body returns to the realm of the living, and he’s able to move. He extricates himself gently from your grasp, careful not to wake you.
Resting at the edge of the bed, Joel looks down at your sleeping face — all the lines you’ve gained over the years gone, wiped clean. Restored back to your former self. Your lips are slightly parted, the soft rise and fall of your back puts a rock in Joel’s stomach. He cracks his neck, looking away, memories of last night already flooding his system.
He stands with a groan, his weary body aching under a new day. When he reaches the door, he leaves it slightly ajar, an invitation for you to follow when you wake. He’s learned your habits already, the anxiety you feel first thing in the morning, especially when he leaves before you. Even a gesture as simple as the door puts your heart at ease.
Joel reaches the top step when he smells it — the scent of coffee already permeating the air. He pauses, foot half on the next step. For a moment he wonders if he’s finally lost it, maybe a stroke, or maybe he’s still dreaming. He continues his path to the kitchen wearily, worried of what may meet him.
He rounds the corner, and freezes in place, the ground unstable beneath his feet. The rock from earlier is now lodged painfully in his throat, restricting his breathing.
Sarah turns around, holding two steaming coffee mugs, a smile splitting her face, “Surprise!!” she beams. Joel’s blood feels like it’s stopped circulating in his body, his head going fuzzy, vision blurred. He vaguely feels a smile split his features, his body working on autopilot.
Sarah laughs, always the intuitive one, clearly reading Joel’s shock. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you first thing in the morning. Made coffee!” She walks over to him, placing his usual mug into his grasp.
“H-Hey babygirl, sorry ‘m not quite awake yet… I didn’t know you were coming”, even to his own ears Joel sounds off. He kicks himself internally, trying to regain some semblance of normalcy. He takes the mug from her, sipping the scalding liquid, using the burn to ground himself.
“Yeah, well, hence the surprise” she drawls sarcastically. “The clinic said I’ve been doin’ well, so they let me take off for the Fourth.” Joel nods his head, taking another sip of coffee as he leans against the counter. He looks at Sarah from the top of the mug, eyeing her, “You cut your hair”.
She smiles then, a bit awkwardly, rubbing her hand across her close shorn scalp. “Yeah, needed a change. I donated it if it makes you feel any better — I know how much you loved it”. She averts her eyes, and instantly she’s a kid again, nervous for having done something she knew would upset him. He reaches out, placing his hand against her neck, stroking the small curls there, “It looks great, baby. Just makes you look grown, you tryin’ to make me feel old?”
“Yeah well, hate to break it to you Dad but—” she sucks her teeth, “Ain’t gettin’ any younger”. Joel rolls his eyes, but pulls her to him, wrapping his arm around her as he places a soft kiss to her forehead. “Missed you, babygirl”. Sarah wraps her arms around his waist, squeezing him like she used to when she was small. Joel smiles against her head, before saying lower, voice sarcastic, “Didn’t miss the sass though”, and Sarah gasps over dramatically as she moves away, shoving his shoulder playfully.
“It’s your fault for raising such a witty daughter” she says, sticking her tongue out at him. She picks up her own coffee mug, resting against the counter opposite him. Father and daughter fall into comfortable banter, Sarah telling him about her internship, Joel listening quietly.
The conversation reaches a lull, Sarah toeing the ground with her shoe. Joel knows that look. Knows there’s something she wants to say, and suddenly all the lightness of the past moment is gone.
She looks up at him, setting her coffee mug on the counter as she crosses her arms. When she finally speaks her voice is slow, drawn out, like she’s nervous to ask. “So… who is she?”
Joel practically chokes on his coffee, trying his best to disguise it by clearing his throat, but by the lift of Sarah’s brows she knows she’s got him. She can’t hide the smirk that twists her features as she watches him blunder. “W-Who’s — I– I don’t, Whatdya mean?”
She gives him the same look he knows he’s given her a hundred times when she would spew bullshit out of her mouth. “Come on Dad, I saw her car outside. I know that’s why you were all weird when you came downstairs, I didn’t mean to intrude but also, like, this is my house”.
Joel can’t hide the grimace on his face, he lifts his hand, rubbing his face roughly, hoping maybe he can find a way out of this. He curses under his breath, but before he can even try to respond, Sarah's talking again — clearly finding this all very amusing.
“Or… I guess I shouldn’t assume, his car?” Joel’s hand drops from his face so fast he slams it against the cupboard behind him. His eyes are like saucers as he stares at her, “What? N-No, what the fuck? ‘M not gay, Sarah, Jesus."
She lifts her hands defensively, “Okay! Okay, sorry it’s not like we ever talked about it or anything!” Her voice is light, breath shaking with laughter.
Joel glares at her before clearing his throat, rubbing the sting from his hand.
“Look, Dad, I’m not weirded out or anything if that’s what you’re worried about. I think it’s great, god knows you’ve been alone long enough—” Her voice cuts off abruptly, smile falling from her face. Her whole body tenses up as she stands a bit straighter. Sarah’s eyes go wide, recognition seeping into them as she looks just over Joel’s shoulder.
His blood runs cold, nausea roiling in his gut. He feels you, your presence, and for the first time he hates it. He can’t even get himself to turn around, to look at you, but he knows you must have come downstairs. Must have seen the open door, accepted the invitation, come looking for him. Probably heard his voice, smelled the coffee, came to investigate. All completely rational things to do, things he knows he shouldn’t be upset with you for. And yet he doesn’t want to turn around. Doesn’t want to see your face.
Sarah’s still gaping, mouth open almost comically, her eyes flicking back and forth between her childhood friend and her father — puzzle pieces slotting together.
Joel hears you move, and finally he turns, his neck aching from the effort. You’re a mirror of Sarah, frozen in place, one foot still on the bottom step, arm holding on to the wall as you had rounded the corner. Your eyes are wide and full of guilt, mouth shut around excuses he knows you want to say. But from the mess of your hair, Joel’s shirt draped around your frame, bare legs peaking out from underneath, there’s nothing that can be said to fix this. The evidence of the crime so clearly laid out, Sarah doesn’t even have to think — simply witness.
Joel’s hand balls into a fist against the counter, anger flooding his system — anger at himself, anger at you. Your eyes shift from their hold on Sarah to look at him, and the fear there makes his heart ache, simmering the anger in his blood for a moment. Joel’s mind is reeling, an endless mantra of regrets making the silence of the room deafening — he should have kept the door shut, should have made you park down the street, should have made you go home last night, should have never done this.
Somehow, you break the silence first. He doesn’t know how you manage to find the strength to speak, but even when you do your voice is choked — forced around the knot in your throat, “I should go…”.
The spell lifted, Sarah comes back to life, like hearing your voice returned her to the painful reality of the situation. She lifts away from the counter instantly, body rigid. She turns sharply, walking to grab her bag from its spot next to the counter, “No, please, I don’t want to interrupt. I’m gonna— gonna go see some of my friends. Haven’t told them I’m in town, I’ll go there, yeah.” She sounds more like she’s talking to herself than them, the dissociation in her voice like a blade in Joel’s heart. There’s pain hidden beneath her nonchalance — betrayal — and Joel feels like he’s going to be sick. He wants to stop her, to fall to his knees, apologize, flog himself, anything to have her look at him but she won’t. Her eyes carefully trained on her things, looking anywhere but at the other two bodies in the room. She grabs her keys, slinging her backpack over her shoulder before heading for the door, “I’ll be back later”. With that Sarah’s gone, the door shut, the sound reverberating through the room even though she shut it gently.
If it weren’t for the counter solid beneath him, Joel is certain he would have collapsed under the weight of this moment. He wasn’t sure whether he ever would have told Sarah about this, about you. In all honesty, he was hoping things would end before it ever got to that point. That you would move on, grow bored, leave, before it ever got close to Sarah finding out. She need never know. But that’s been stolen from him. Ripped from his grasp by a simple invitation — a mistake.
Joel’s ripped from his thoughts by a hand on his shoulder. He jumps, the violence of his movement startling you as well, your hand instantly lifting from its place. Your eyes are wide and glassy, likely mirroring his own, and Joel feels sick. You open your mouth as tears begin to well at the corner of your eyes, “Joel… I’m sorry—”. He steps away, needing the distance, and he almost feels bad when he sees the way your face crumbles at the movement.
He wants to say something, knows he should, but nothing is working. His mouth, his muscles, his brain, his heart, it’s all wrong. Wrong wrong wrong. It’s unreality, everything offkilter, nothing is right. He’s hurting you but he’s not because this isn’t happening. He’s hurting Sarah but he’s not because it didn’t happen. He’s hurting himself but he’s not because there’s no way this is happening. He could pick up a knife and plunge it into himself and it wouldn’t hurt because this. isn’t. happening.
Joel vaguely registers you saying something, but he can’t hear it — not that it matters anyway because you’re not really here. You’re still upstairs in bed, sleeping soundly next to him. He hears the door open and shut again, but still he doesn’t move from his spot. He’s pretty sure he’s planted to the floor. If he looked down, his feet would be merged with the wood, splinters underneath his skin — the kind of strange things only in dreams. A laugh bubbles in his throat at the thought — that’s what this is! A dream! A horrible, awful, painfully realistic dream. That’s all. He’ll close his eyes, take a few deep breaths, and open them to find himself back in bed — you pressed against his side, Sarah two hours away. Yes.
Except he does all of those things, and he’s still here. Still in the kitchen. Coffee mug still on the counter, the pair of it sitting across from him — the painful reminder of what’s just happened.
Joel Miller’s life has just fallen apart. In an instant, he’s lost everything that’s ever mattered to him. All because he was selfish. Because he was weak.
Joel’s body comes to life in a flash, he moves quickly to the sink, leaning over it just in time to spill his guts onto the steel.
It’s dark by the time Sarah comes back home, late enough that Joel had convinced himself she may never return. His mind has been reeling all day since she left, images of her with her friends telling them how disgusting her father is. How he’s a perverted old man fucking her childhood best friend. The same girl who’d played with her in her room, who’d babysat her in middle school, the girl who's only six years her senior. His mind was relentless, never giving him a moment of peace.
After Tommy had come to bring him back to his truck, he’d tried to work around the house. Tried to clean, tried to sleep, anything but of course, his mind is inescapable. Ultimately he’d ended up outside, sitting on the porch nursing a glass of whiskey. He’d stared into the trees behind the house until they didn’t look like trees anymore — the shapes morphing into scenes, images of everything leading up to this moment. Wondering if there was anything he could have done to prevent this.
And of course there was. Countless decisions he could have made, mistakes he could have avoided. He knows it’s useless, thinking like this, what's done is done. But this is his life, his daughter, his heart — damn if he’s not going to mourn it.
By the time he heard the front door open, Joel had gone numb. After hours of nothing, his limbs had melded with the wood of the rocking chair, his head lost in a whiskey haze. The familiar sound of Sarah’s footfalls snaps him back to reality — his body painfully aware again. It’s like he had been floating just outside of it for hours, and now he’s thrust violently back — his skin too tight, his heart too large against his ribcage.
Joel lifts the glass to his lips, probably the first movement he’s made in hours if the ache in his arm is any tell. The screen door opens next to him with a creak, and he sees her out of the corner of his eye. Sarah pauses as the door slams behind her, and still she won’t look at him. Joel avoids the ache in his body to look at her, to reach for her, to beg her for forgiveness.
He gives her space, lets her take the reins of how this is going to go. Everything that’s lead to this exact moment is a direct result of his decisions, so it only feels right to let her decide how it ends. She crosses his line of sight, moving to sit in the chair to his right. Sarah breathes a heavy sigh, and suddenly she sounds so much older than he’s ever thought her to be. In his minds eye, she’s still his little girl — big hair and toothy grin. But he knows she hasn’t been that in years.
No, she’s grown now, a woman in her own right, living a life outside of her father. Old enough to not need him anymore, to be able to cut him off if she needs to. That thought almost breaks him. Joel can feel his chest cave in, the preemptive ache of losing her. He needs her to talk, to say something. He knows he has no right to rush this, but it’s killing him — the waiting.
He turns his head finally, taking in the sight of her, and he feels the back of his eyes burn. She looks so much like his little girl, her knees are tucked up to her chest, arms wrapped around them, brow twisted in thought. She’s chewing her lip, an old nervous habit she never left in childhood. Her long fingers are picking at a fray in her jeans, and he almost feels the urge to reach over and stop her. She must feel him looking, because she turns her head just slightly, but still she won’t meet his gaze. Her eyes instead looking out at the same trees he had lost himself in earlier.
They sit in silence for what feels like eternity, Joel boring holes into the side of her face — now that he’s looked he’s unable to look away. So when she finally speaks it startles him, like a blow to the stomach, the wind knocked from him.
“How long?” Somehow he thought she’d yell, even though it goes against everything she has ever been. But her voice is as soft as ever, the only difference the lack of it’s usual playfulness, instead she just sounds tired.
Joel swallows around the lump in his throat, his voice is hoarse from hours of misuse, “Not long. Few weeks.” He doesn’t elaborate, letting her steer the conversation.
She nods her head, a hum from her bitten lips. She turns and looks at him then, and he thinks he could cry. Her eyes are steady, no hint of anger or disgust in them. They roam over his face, soaking in his features, like she’s trying to see her father.
“Is— is it serious? Like,” she twists her brow, searching for the right words, “Are you two like, together?” There’s no judgment in her tone, but there is a hint of something else under the surface that sets him on edge.
“I— I don’t know. We haven’t… we haven’t really talked ‘bout it.” Joel feels shame flush his features, embarrassed by having this conversation and he can already feel his temper rising. Talking to his daughter about his love life in any capacity feels odd, so unlike them, and with all the other factors it’s downright uncomfortable. His skin itches and he yearns desperately for a cigarette.
Sarah just nods her head at his words, looking away again. She’s quiet for another spell, clearly doing her best to digest this information, and no matter his discomfort, Joel is grateful. Grateful that she is even willing to talk about this with him, to be so much more rational than she has any right to be. He wants to speak, to apologize, to confess, to give her permission to hate him, to be disgusted by him. But the moment he opens his mouth, she starts again.
“Does Uncle Dan know?” A new wave of guilt washes over Joel. Uncle Dan, a title that’s yet another cruel reminder of how fucked this all is. Joel can feel anger taking root in his gut, sweat forming at his temple as his jaw clenches down painfully.
His voice comes out strained, “No. Only you.”
Sarah turns to look at him then, an unreadable expression etched into her features, and for a moment she looks so much older than his baby girl. Her eyes search his face, and he’s not sure if she finds whatever it is she’s looking for, but when she speaks her voice mirrors him — his own temper thrown back at him.
“We’re you two planning on telling him? Or me for that matter?”
Joel doesn’t know why that sets him off, he has no right to be upset especially in this moment. But he’s suddenly defensive — feeling protective of you, of this thing that’s formed between the two of you. The mention of Daniel, that anyone at all should feel they have a right to know, he has to bite his tongue to stop from saying something stupid.
“Look, we didn’t mean for this to happen! It wasn’t— it was never supposed to be anything. I’d hoped—“ Joel stops, he drags a hand across his face, taking a deep, rattling breath in. Trying his best to lower his voice, to temper his anger. “I didn’t think it’d ever get that far. I figured… she’d leave before it did.”
He must look a wreck, because when he looks back at his daughter, her features are softer. Her eyes roam his face, and something like understanding, or maybe pity, takes root there. He can feel the exact moment the anger floods his body, leaving him tired. He flicks his eyes away, worried she sees too much.
“Do you love her?”
Joel’s body tenses painfully, one harsh line as his heart stops — the question knocking the wind from his lungs. His fingers wrap painfully around the glass as muscles constrict, and for a moment he’s afraid he’ll break it. A part of him wishes he would, the pain of it would ground him, blood dripping from his palm. He never expected her to ask that, of all things. Maybe accuse him of using you, of bad intentions — just another gross old man. But no. Somehow she knows the uglier truth inside of him. That which Joel hasn’t even allowed himself to think, let alone feel. Too busy feeling sick from it, throat clenching painfully around the words lodged in his throat.
He knows he’s been quiet for far too long, knows he should say something, anything, but his jaw won’t move — too afraid of what might pour out.
A touch startles him, nearly jumping out of his skin at the sudden contact. He looks down to where Sarah has gently placed her hand on his wrist, encouraging him to loosen his white knuckled grip. His breath finally comes, ragged and betraying. His eyes sting, his throat burns, and god he hates this. Hates being so fucking weak. When did he get to be this fucking weak? A mess of a man. Pathetic and aching.
Sarah speaks softly, pulling him from his thoughts, “Hey… Dad. I meant what I said earlier. You deserve to be happy. And if she is the one who can give you that, then I’ll adjust.” She squeezes his wrist a fraction, causing him to finally meet her gaze. His eyes burn and he knows she must see the sheen to them, because her brow twists slightly as her own reflect the dim light of the porch. “Just… look out for yourself, Dad.”
She smiles, a small thing, and Joel feels a stray tear escape. He nods his head, clearing his throat as he wipes the tear away roughly. She lets go, wiping at her own eyes as she leans back in her chair — kind enough to at least pretend not to see.
Sarah gives his wrist one more squeeze before standing, she presses a gentle kiss to the crown of his head as she passes before going back inside — the sound of the screen door shrill in Joel’s ringing ears. He’s grateful to her. For not making him answer, for not pushing it. For her understanding that he by no means deserves. He doesn’t know what he did to deserve a daughter like her — someone so good, so unlike himself. He leans forward on his knees, hands pressing harshly into his eye sockets as he tries to refortify his walls.
series description: new to metropolis and the daily planet, you find yourself falling for your deskmate, Clark Kent, who you're convinced will never look your way. a rescue from attempted mugging becomes many late nights spent with superman on your apartment balcony... god why does he seem so familiar?
tags/warnings: the most insane tension w superman ever documented... flirting, that's pretty much it.
---
You were severely multi-tasking. And slightly failing at it. After getting the green light from Perry to start working on the city hall attack piece, you immediately started editing the plethora of pictures you caught that afternoon. Thrilling, dynamic shots of the beast attacking City Hall. Superman's dedicated profile as he faces the creature head-on. Dust circling them in a titled, crumbling room. Your second front page of the week was on the line.
However, Clark's dinner-date invitation had your mind preoccupied. Balancing your laptop in one hand and your cellphone on your shoulder, you had Lois on speaker as you chose an outfit for your date.
"I told you it would happen eventually," She mused, "Why do you think I had the two of you sat together in the first place?"
You stopped flipping through clothes and blinked. "That was your doing??"
"Seriously Y/n? A photographer and a writer. You're two completely different departments, you know I had to pull some serious strings to make that happen."
You were right. Lois did run the place.
"Regardless! I need the perfect outfit for tonight."
"You need to get those photos in to Perry. You could show up in a cardboard box and still have Clark at your feet." Lois's voice sounded sure over the phone, but you couldn't stop from spiraling as you threw clothes on your bed and skimmed through shoe options.
As kind as Lois's words were, this would be your first date in months. You were never the dating type. And even if you were, this wasn't just a random date. This was Clark Kent, the man you'd spent every work hour of the last month staring at instead of editing. So, you chose to ignore Lois's vote of confidence.
"Are heels too much?"
Just then, you heard a familiar tapping on your sliding door.
Lois sighed. "Well are you wearing a dress or pants because I-"
"ThanksforyourhelpLois bye!"
Throwing your phone onto your bed, you sped to your balcony like a child, a smile plastered onto your face.
As you faced the glass, you were met with Superman, dramatically laid sideways on your patio furniture.
You opened the door and leaned against the threshold, smiling wide, "Are you lost or something?"
He didn't sit up immediately. Instead, he propped his head up on one hand and gave you a slow, cheeky grin.
“Thought I’d check on you. Y’know, since you were nearly squashed by half of City Hall earlier today. That tends to ruin a Thursday.”
You rolled your eyes, stepping out onto the tiny balcony. “That was barely a near-death experience. You’re just feeling vain from the photos I got of you."
“Oh absolutely,” he deadpanned. "Nothing beats a terrified close-up of me catching a hundred-ton support beam mid-collapse. Flattering.”
You sat down beside him, legs crossed, your ankle bumping against his boot. “I’ll have you know that shot is going to be front page. Again.”
He raised his brows. “Second front page this week?”
You grinned. “I’m getting kind of good at this. You better not start slacking off. I need the drama for content.”
He chuckled, looking out toward the skyline, arms folded behind his head. “I’ll see what I can do. Maybe I’ll let a train dangle a little longer next time," He looked your way, "you know, for the drama.”
The breeze was warm, the air tinged with a mix of city grit and summer promise. You glanced at him sideways, still amused. “So, what’s the real reason you’re here?”
He looked at you. Then, ignoring your question entirely, he asked, “You were smiling when I got here. I want to know why.”
You blinked, and felt your cheeks warm. Because someone had finally worked up the courage to ask you out, but saying that out loud felt oddly… intimate.
So naturally, you dodged with sarcasm.
"What? I can't be happy to see Metropolis's favorite metahuman?" You wiggled your brows but he saw right through you, one of the things you appreciated most.
You stretch your arms above your head with a yawn. “Fine. You really wanna know?”
He nodded, sitting up properly now. The sunlight catches the sharp line of his jaw. He’s too polished for your little balcony, like he was dropped into it from another universe. But somehow, he never made you feel small in comparison. Just steady.
You felt giddy telling him, like a teenage girl again, and couldn't contain the smile on your face.
“Clark Kent asked me to dinner. On a date."
There it was. The reason your heart had been pounding against your ribcage all day.
Superman chuckled, seemingly unsurprised. “He finally grew a pair.”
You scoffed and smiled down at your lap. “Yeah. It was kind of out of nowhere. Right after we got that major story from city hall. He just… asked! I was shocked. Said something about wanting to do it for a while, and then got all flustered when I said yes.”
You told the story looking out at the skyline, unable to meet Superman's eyes, which allowed him the privilege of admiring you in the 5:00 sun setting perfectly on your balcony.
Superman’s lips twitched. You could swear he’s bit back a grin. “Sounds like him.”
You tilted your head, narrowing your eyes. “So, how well do you know Clark anyways?”
“Not well,” he said thoughtfully. “Quiet guy. Good reporter.”
You huffed and closed your eyes. “He’s so much more than that.”
Something in the way you said it, soft and certain, caught Superman's attention because his smile faltered, just slightly, but enough for you to catch it.
You leaned closer, elbow bumping his. “I need your help, actually.”
That perked him up again. “What are friends for?"
You stood with an outstretched hand, inviting him into your apartment. “Are they for fashion advice..?”
He blinked.
“I wear the same suit every day,” he says. “Not exactly Vogue material.”
“And yet you’re the only man I trust with this!" You pause. “Which says more about the other men in my life than it does about your wardrobe, honestly.”
You open your sliding door and stepped inside. “Come on. I need an outfit. First date. Very high stakes.”
He peered in awkwardly. “You’re inviting me inside?”
“Why? Are you going to judge my decor or something?”
He stood, towering over you with that impossibly regal posture but moved forward with hesitation.
You smiled, gentle this time. “Well, welcome to my incredibly glamorous, single-bedroom shoebox. You want to hover or actually use the door?”
He walked through the sliding glass like a normal person. It’s almost funny, seeing Superman try not to bump into your thrifted furniture or step on the stray sock near your coffee table.
He stood by your bookshelf for a moment longer than necessary. You followed his gaze to a framed photo of you and Lois. Your eighteen year old selves, hair cut shorter than it is now, holding guitars up like trophy's.
He couldn't tear his eyes away from your smile, so wide your eyes were shut as if the photo had been taken mid-laugh.
"You play guitar?"
You laughed, remembering college. "Used to. That's my best friend, Lois. Very 'punk rock' back in the day."
He chuckled, settling near the corner of the couch but still sitting upright, like he was afraid he’d break something just by leaning back.
You ducked into the bedroom for a moment, and returned with three hangers clutched in one hand and two pairs shoes in the other.
“Okay,” you said, tossing the shoes onto the couch beside him. “Fashion crisis. Ready?”
Superman raised an eyebrow. “Am I qualified for this?”
“You’re literally bulletproof,” you deadpanned. “I think you can handle a pair of strappy heels.”
You held up the first outfit—a wrap dress in a navy blue, almost elegant. Much nicer than anything he had seen you wear at the office.
“Option one: effortless charm,” you announced, turning slightly for dramatic effect and holding the hanger up to your frame. “If Clark is into girls who drink overpriced cocktails and shop designer, this is the one.”
He tilted his head, considering. “It’s… very date-y.”
“Is that your professional opinion?” you asked, amused.
He shrugged. “You look good in blue.”
You blinked. Then recovered. “Okay, but don’t let that sway you. I need objective rankings here, not flattery from flying men.”
“Not flattery,” he said, quieter this time. “Just true.”
Your stomach did a tiny, unwelcome flip. You ignored it and grabbed the second option—a long, black skirt and fitted maroon blouse.
“Option two,” you say, holding it in against you, “screams ‘I’m a serious journalist-slash-photographer who also knows how to flirt over candlelight.’"
He can't contain his laughter. “That one’s dangerous.”
You grin. “Good dangerous or bad dangerous?”
He meets your eyes. “Good.”
Your throat tightens slightly. You hadn’t expected him to look at you like that—like he sees every inch of you even when you’re hiding behind fabric like armor.
You looked down at the pile of clothes that's accumulated at your feet and sat on your ottoman, defeated. He noticed your frown and leaned forward, so close his knees bumped yours.
"Hey, what's going on? I still haven't seen the third option." He tried to get a smile out of you but it didn't quite reach your eyes.
"These are all wrong. And the third option is...stupid. It's dumb, really. I feel dumb. I haven't been on a date in forever," You hugged yourself with your arms, "It hasn't even started yet and I feel like I've already messed it up."
You mumbled but he heard it all. Every bit of insecurity and self-doubt that dripped from your words. It physically pained him.
"I think," he leaned forward to pull the third hanger from the stack, where a blush pink dress hung delicately, "we should see the third option before we jump to any conclusions."
You looked at the dress, then back at him. You sniffed then stood back up straight, snatching the dress away.
"Glad to see you putting your fashion expertise to use."
He stood up from your couch and admired the room as you changed. With his superhuman hearing, he could hear you softly humming in the next room. The framed photos, loose camera equipment, and the lingering scent of your perfume made Clark feel more at home in Metropolis than he'd ever felt before. You made him feel at home.
You called out from your bedroom, "It's just so...girly."
He stopped, rolling his eyes. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but you are...a girl? Yes?"
He laughed as he traced the petals of the fresh flowers on your mantle, and suddenly, you emerged.
"Ta-da." You announced, flatly. You looked up at him unsurely as you stood unbalanced on your toes. "Ok, but imagine I'm wearing those heels I showed you? Is it okay?"
“You look…” He swallowe. “Perfect.”
You froze. Then snorted. “You’re not allowed to say stuff like that.”
“Why not?” he said, still watching you like you hung the stars.
“Because I’m already nervous enough about this date,” you admitted, softer now. “And hearing that from you of all people? Kind of makes me forget how to function.”
You moved to face yourself in the mirror and he slowly came up behind you. He let his gaze travel from the pink fabric at your fingertips to the pink flush on your cheeks.
“This one,” he said immediately.
You blinked. “Really?”
“Yes.” His voice firmer this time, more certain. “It’s you. You don't need to be someone else, you're perfect.”
You’re not sure what to say to that. So you fiddle with your fingernails instead.
He softened. “Don’t get me wrong, you’d make Clark’s brain short-circuit in any of them. But this one? You'll kill him.”
You looked down, biting your cheek to fight the grin rising up. “Wow. That’s… dangerously close to another compliment. Should I be worried?”
He tilted his head a little, playfulness back in his eyes. “I can pull it back. Want me to start critiquing your sock choices instead?”
You glanced down at your long mismatched socks—one with tiny coffee cups, the other with cats wearing sunglasses.
You shrugged. “Bold fashion is a lifestyle.”
“I can tell.”
The two of you made eye contact in the reflection of your hallway mirror, for slightly too long, before the proximity made you feel dizzy. He stepped back first.
"Well," he scratched his head and looked around, searching for a way to lighten the mood, "my work is here done. Tell Clark he can add 'Fashion Expert' to my profile."
"I'll tell him to add 'narcissist', how's that?" You put your hands on your hips, laughing. "I'm only joking. Thank you for this. Really, I needed it."
“I just don’t want you to doubt yourself tonight,” he said. “You deserve to feel amazing. You are amazing.”
Your heart thud so hard you’re sure he can hear it.
“Remind me again why you’re not the one taking me to dinner?” you teased, trying to lighten the moment.
He laughed, but there’s a flicker behind his eyes.
"C'mon, you're way out of my league."
You smiled, stepping forward and brushing invisible lint from his shoulder. “You’re always full of wisdom when you drop by unannounced.”
He gave you a look. “You love it.”
“I really do.”
The two of you stood in the quiet for a moment, the city muffled behind your windows, the late afternoon sun slanting golden through your curtains.
And then—your phone buzzed from the kitchen. A reminder.
“Shit,” you murmur, glancing at the time. “I need to finish editing these photos before I meet Clark.”
He nodded, stepping back toward the balcony.
“Thanks for coming,” you said, voice gentler now. “I mean it.”
“Anytime.”
He paused with one hand on the railing, turned back over his shoulder. “And hey?”
You raised an eyebrow.
“If he doesn’t kiss you tonight…” He smiled, just a little smug. “You let me know. I’ll have words.”
You laughed. “Will those words be delivered via lightning speed or righteous eye laser?”
“Depends on how it goes.”
And with a gust of wind and a flash of red and blue, he’s gone.
You’re left standing there, hair tousled from the breeze, heart impossibly full.
Because somehow, between the teasing, his kind words, and the way he looked at you—
You felt beautiful.
---
a/n: this one is shorter but i felt like superman wasn't getting enough attention ;) hope you guys enjoyed! soooo much tension i LOVE IT
!! - also just wanted to say that i might be mia for a minute.. im having surgery tomorrow and, while i have the next part in the works, it's still very much a rough draft. forgive me! but part 5 will be posted sometime in the next week :)
please comment and reblog and let me know what u think!
series description: new to metropolis and the daily planet, you find yourself falling for your deskmate, Clark Kent, who you're convinced will never look your way. a rescue from attempted mugging becomes many late nights spent with superman on your apartment balcony... god why does he seem so familiar?
tags/warnings: fluff + flirting, alien attacks, clark being in love w you that's all ;))
---
Clark stood in line at Velvet Roast Cafe, shifting his weight from foot to foot as the barista called out another name that wasn’t his. He was already going to be late. Again. But he stayed.
He didn’t rush things, not when it mattered.
His own black coffee was already in hand, but the second cup, the important one, was still being made. Almond milk, cinnamon, two espresso shots. No sugar. You’d mentioned it once during a late night editing, almost apologetically. “I know it’s fussy,” you’d said with a laugh, "but there’s only one place that gets it right.”
This place.
He glanced at his watch and exhaled through his nose, not quite impatient. Just nervous.
Lois’s voice replayed in his head from the day before.
'You like her. She likes you. Why are you still tiptoeing around it like a schoolboy with a crush?'
Because it felt like that. Like a schoolboy thing. Like his heart picked up speed every time you looked at him too long, every time your name ended up next to his on an article.
“Clark,” the barista called, setting the drink on the counter.
Clark stepped forward, carefully picking it up by the edges of the cardboard sleeve. The foam art was perfect. A tiny leaf. He smiled.
This would be the perfect start to the perfect day because today, he would finally ask you out. Finally.
-----
9 a.m. sharp.
You stepped off the elevator and into the familiar storm of ringing phones, clacking keyboards, and the occasional shout of “Copy!” from across the room. The Daily Planet in all its chaotic glory.
It was just as loud and fast-paced as the day you arrived a month ago—back when everything felt too big and too fast and far too intimidating. But now, it was just… alive. It moved around you, and with you, and you knew exactly where to go, who to smile at, which printers to avoid when they jammed.
You belonged here now.
“Hello, front page!” someone yelled as you passed.
You turned and caught sight of Lois, who held up the morning paper like a trophy. “You nailed that rooftop shot. Perry won’t shut up about it.”
You smiled, trying to sound casual despite the warmth rising to your cheeks. “Guess I got lucky.”
“No such thing as luck when it comes to composition like that,” she shot back before disappearing behind her monitor.
More greetings followed as you made your way to your desk. A nod from Steve. A raised coffee cup from Cat. A celebratory fist bump from Jimmy as he waved the newspaper in your face. Each one made your heart feel a little lighter.
You slid into your chair, the leather worn and familiar now. Just like the skyline view behind it. You reached into your camera bag and pulled out your own copy of the paper. Folded, slightly wrinkled, but perfect in its own way.
There it was: your photo.
Superman, caught mid-launch against the glow of the sunrise, cape trailing behind him like a flame. A smile on his face. You remembered the eye contact you held with him before you took it. Clean lines, perfect exposure, framed just so. A shot you weren’t even sure you got at the time. And right below it,
Words by Clark Kent.
Photography by Y/N L/N.
You traced your name lightly with your thumb. First front page. First of many, maybe.
You looked up to face Clark’s desk. Empty.
He was late. Again. Not that it surprised you. He was always late. Still, you found yourself glancing at the elevator every few minutes, waiting for him to appear like he always did: wind-tousled, slightly breathless, with an apology and a sheepish smile.
You couldn't stop the grin on your face. You didn’t mind the waiting.
---
Clark took a deep breath as he stepped off the elevator. The usual chaos, but his eyes moved past it all.
To you.
You were at your desk, framed by the sun coming in from the windows, the golden light dancing off your hair. You were scrolling through something on your screen, pen tucked behind your ear, completely focused. You looked settled. Comfortable.
He remembered the way you looked when you first arrived a month ago. Sometimes quiet, a little unsure, always observing. Now, the way people passed you with quick hellos and inside jokes said everything. You weren’t just part of the newsroom now. You were a bright spot in it.
He made his way toward you, slower than he needed to, just taking in the moment.
“Morning.”
You looked up.
Clark stood at your desk, hair slightly mussed, glasses sliding down his nose. He held the paper in one hand and a coffee tray in the other.
“I just wanted to say… your photo’s incredible.”
Your mouth quirked into a smile. “I was going to say the same thing about your piece. It's perfect, Clark.”
He blinked. “Really?”
“Like you don't agree,” you teased, and he laughed, ducking his head like you’d caught him off guard.
You stood to properly face him and, for a moment, the noise of the floor blurred into the background. Just the two of you, standing at your desk, paper between you like some unspoken agreement. You looked up at him, almost expectedly as he opened his mouth to say something.
From behind you, Lois sent him two big thumbs up, eagerly nodded her head, and mouthed, Do it!
Clark opened his mouth to finally ask you to dinner, but instead,
"Coffee!"
Lois cringed at him. "I- yes, I almost forgot I brought you coffee. From that one place you like."
He presented it with both hands and a dimpled smile that made your knees feel weak.
"Clark! You shouldn't have."
"You know, to celebrate our front page." Clark scratched his head and readjusted his glasses before he continued, "Speaking of celebrating, I was thinking, maybe-"
“KENT! L/N! My office!” Perry’s voice cracked through the room like thunder.
You both turned, startled, as Perry disappeared back through his door, already muttering to himself.
Clark grimaced. “Sorry. Rain check?”
You laughed under your breath. “Sure. Let’s go see what this is about."
Inside, Perry waved a pair of passes at you both before tossing them on the desk. “My source just green-lit it. Mayor’s finally giving that damn infrastructure update. You two are going.”
Clark blinked. “Together?”
“You’ve worked together before. Figure out what questions you're asking. I want you covering the talk and the press gaggle after. I need photos, quotes, and something I can print by morning. You’ve got fifteen minutes to get across town.”
You and Clark stood like a pair of deer in headlights.
"Well, get moving!"
Racing out of Perry's office, you looked over at Clark with a sideways smile. “Guess my coffee’s coming with me to City Hall.”
He smiled. “Guess so.”
You nudged him gently. “You were going to say something before Perry ruined the moment. What was it?”
He smiles and shook his head dismissively. "I’ll ask you after the mayor.”
---
City Hall was crowded, bustling with press badges, camera flashes, and too many elbow-to-elbow conversations. You stood shoulder to shoulder with Clark, your camera strap cutting diagonally across your chest as you adjusted your lens. Clark scribbled notes in a small pad, brow furrowed, glasses sliding as always. He glanced at you once or twice, as if checking you were still beside him.
You were. Close enough to feel the soft brush of his sleeve every time someone jostled past.
The mayor had just stepped up to the podium, the murmur in the room dimmed to a low hum. Clark’s pen paused, and he leaned over just enough to whisper, “You think he’s actually going to say something useful?”
You grinned, camera still lifted. “Maybe three minutes of content wrapped in a twenty-minute speech.”
He chuckled. “You’re generous.”
You kept close as the mayor launched into policy updates, infrastructure promises, and buzzwords strung together in a well-rehearsed script. You watched Clark flip seamlessly between observation and intent listening. His head tilted with that analytical squint he got when something didn’t quite add up. You snapped a few photos of the mayor, then a few more of the press line, the raised eyebrows and tired eyes of journalists who’d heard it all before.
Clark flipped his notepad closed, seemingly having collected everything he needed from the mayor's worn speech. He took a deep breath and leaned in, "So- earlier,"
You looked up from your camera. Your smile and raised eyebrows made Clark feel weak. He stammered and cursed the charm he lacked when he wasn't Superman.
"I was just going to say, or- more like ask really.. we should, well I'd like to—"
And then the ground shook, interrupting him.
A low rumble at first. Barely enough to register, until the chandeliers began to tremble overhead. On instinct, you reached out to grab Clark's arm as he pulled you towards him in protection.
Then the side wall exploded inward in a storm of glass and steel.
The crowd scattered, panicked screams erupting as dust clouded the air. You stumbled back, blinking through debris. Something massive—eight, no, ten feet tall—stepped through the gaping hole in the wall. The brute had cracked, stone-like skin, jagged horns, and wild, bulging eyes. Its clawed hands and twisted snarl indicated raw rage. People bolted. Some ducked. Security shouted. The mayor was hauled away mid-sentence.
“Y/N!” Clark’s voice cut through the chaos. His hand closed firmly around your arm. “Come on,”
He pulled you behind a column as another blast ripped through the entrance hall. You ducked, heart pounding, camera still clutched tight. Clark looked at you with his eyes wide and urgent. Despite your fear and adrenaline, your mind could zone in to his protective grip on you.
“Get outside with security. I—” He stopped. Hesitated. “I’ll be right back.”
“What? Where are you—Clark!”
But he was already gone. Disappearing into the crowd, swallowed by smoke and stampeding people.
You looked around. People ran. Sirens began to wail outside. But amid the panic, you saw what no one else had: the alien had paused, surveying the carnage, giving you a fleeting but perfect shot.
Your instincts overrode common sense. You took off.
Through the side hall, through scattered debris, you moved until you had a clean angle. Kneeling behind the mayors forgotten podium, you snapped shot after shot. The shutter clicks were deafening in the silence between impacts. You zoomed in, capturing the impossible, the surreal.
Then it turned.
The being's gaze locked onto you.
“Oh shit,” you breathed, lowering the camera.
It raised an arm, roaring. You could feel its anger building as it crushed a column while approaching you. The ceiling began to groan at the loss of support.
A flash of red and blue and wind whipped around you as a body slammed into yours. Superman's arms wrapping protectively, pulling you back just in time. The monster's oversized claw hit the marble behind you, leaving only debris where you once stood.
And then—
“Y/N!”
You hit the ground hard, half-on top of someone else. The wind knocked out of your lungs, but arms steadied you. Large hands. Familiar ones.
“Superman,” you gasped, heart racing.
His eyes searched your face. “Are you hurt?”
“I—” You looked down. “No. No, I’m okay.”
He helped you to your feet gently, his hands warm and careful. His cape fluttered around you like a shield as he stepped between you and the alien.
“And here I am,” he said, with a look that was both exasperated and amused, "thinking I was the brave one.”
“I was doing my job,” you protested, still breathless.
He turned his head just enough to give you a look. That knowing one, the one that always made your stomach twist. “You ran toward the ten-foot alien.”
You crossed your arms, camera still dangling from your neck. “You weren’t here yet.”
“Because I was saving other civilians,” he deadpanned, eyes still on the creature approaching again. “You are not expendable, Y/N.”
You blinked at that. “Well, that’s… a loaded compliment.”
His eyes flicked to yours briefly, and for a moment, the world was still. Then the alien lunged again.
Superman stepped forward, wind surging around him as he launched into the air, colliding with the creature mid-charge. The impact shook the floor again, sending cracks through the tile. You stumbled back and ducked behind another pillar, watching as Superman and the creature exchanged blows. It was like watching thunder punch lightning.
You kept taking photos, fingers trembling, breath caught somewhere in your chest.
Then they slammed into the building’s support beam, and half the ceiling groaned.
Superman was there again, barreling across the hall, catching a falling section before it crushed the last remaining exit in the room. He set it down carefully, then turned, scanning. His eyes landed on you.
He blurred to your side in less than a second. “You’re leaving. Now.”
“Just a few more photos and I'll—”
“Y/N,” he said, and something in his tone made you freeze. “Please.”
You swallowed. He never panicked. Not like that.
So you nodded. “Okay.”
He scooped you up in his arms and brought you back outside. The way he held you reminded you of the first time you met. Briefly, you thought about how much had changed since that night. When you looked back, he was already making his way back towards City Hall, cape streaming behind him like fire.
Outside, the city was chaos. Emergency crews pulling people from rubble, Metropolis PD trying to regain order. Your hands still trembled. You sank onto the curb and checked your camera screen.
Dozens of shots. Perfect ones. Pulitzer-worthy ones, if Perry had any sense.
With the creature under control, Superman crouched beside you, eyes scanning your face with quiet concern.
“Still in one piece?” he asked.
“Barely,” you said, exhaling a laugh. “Thanks to you.”
He smiled, a small tilt of his mouth that made you feel seen. “Anytime.”
You adjusted your camera strap and frowned up at him. “Clark disappeared during the attack.”
“Did he get out?” Superman asked, tone mild, casual.
“I think so,” you said. “He took off right before everything exploded. Said he’d be right back.”
Superman tilted his head, as if thinking. “He’s probably fine.”
You gave him a look, half-annoyed, half-worried. “Yeah, well, I’d rather find out sooner than later.”
He hesitated, then straightened. “I could walk you home. Just to be safe.”
Your smile was grateful, but you shook your head gently. “Thank you, but I need to find Clark. Make sure he’s okay. And we’ve got a story to write.”
His heart swelled, forgetting that you weren't just coworkers or strangers who worked together. You actually cared about him. He nodded once, slowly. “Of course.”
You rose, dusted yourself off, and gave him a final look—warm, familiar. “Be careful out there.”
“You too,” he said softly. He turned to take off and leave the scene, but stopped, "I'll see you tonight...to make sure you're okay."
"What are friends for?" You smiled.
And then he was gone.
---
You finally found Clark near the media tents outside the building, hair tousled, glasses slightly askew, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His blazer was missing and you wondered when he had time to take it off in the midst of the attack. He was jotting something down while speaking to one of the mayor’s aides. You froze for a second just taking him in. He was safe.
When he noticed you, his entire expression lit up. “Y/N!” he called, jogging over to you. “Are you okay?”
You let out a breath. “I’m fine. Bruised pride. Possibly bruised rib. But fine.”
He gave a small, disbelieving laugh. “You scared the hell out of me. I turned around and you were gone.”
“You were gone,” you countered, poking him lightly in the arm. “One second you’re pulling me behind a pillar, the next you vanish. Where did you go?" You almost pleaded for an answer, "Are you okay?"
He looked sheepish. “Yeah, I… I saw the mayor being pulled out through the side entrance. I figured if I could catch him before he was whisked away, I might be able to get something, so I followed. Managed to ask him a few things before security kicked me out.”
You stared at him, deadpan. “Clark. There was an alien inside the building.”
“I was very polite,” he said earnestly. “And he was talking.”
You blinked once, then laughed. “Okay, I can’t even be mad. I got some of the best shots of my life.” You and Clark stood nearly cheek to cheek staring at the one of a kind shots on your tiny camera screen.
He grinned, eyes shining. “Then we’ve got the full package. Photos, quotes, first-hand accounts…”
You both paused, your matching smiles settling into something a little more quiet. A little more charged.
He shifted, suddenly uncertain again, glancing down at his notebook, then back up. “Listen… now that we’re both still in one piece, and the story’s—well, in the bag…” He couldn't seem to meet your eyes like he did before.
You tilted your head. “Clark?”
He scratched the back of his neck. “Would you… want to grab dinner? Tonight, maybe? Just the two of us.”
Your eyebrows lifted slightly. “Like a celebration?”
“Kind of,” he said, and then quickly added, “but not just a celebration. I mean—yeah, we should celebrate the story, sure, but I was thinking…” He let out a breath and looked you right in the eyes. “I was hoping it could be a date.”
Your heart stuttered. You felt heat rise to your cheeks before you even realized you were smiling. “A date date?”
He gave a lopsided, bashful grin. “Yeah. That kind.”
You nodded, almost too fast. “Then yes. Yes, Clark, I’d love that.”
His relief was immediate and so was the spark of something else behind his smile. Like he’d been holding that question in for weeks and was finally allowed to exhale.
"You know, I was wondering when you'd ask," You reached for his arm again, this time more gently. “You really picked an alien invasion to finally ask me out?”
He chuckled. “Well… I’m a slow starter.”
You bumped your shoulder against his. “Rain check’s officially redeemed.”
As the two of you waited to hail a cab, he stopped to admire your ferocity, fearlessness. It left him in awe. Before he lost his courage, "Tonight then. 7. The little Italian place a couple streets down from the Planet?"
"I'll see you there."
Like you had dreamed of doing since you arrived in Metropolis a month prior, you stood on your toes and reached up to Clark's dark curls. Your fingers gently brushed strays curls back to fully see his blushing face.
Clark, blushing, caught your hand before you could pull back and pressed a soft kiss to your palm.
---
a/n: part 3🥲🥲 pls note the time skip. i wasn't going to make everyone sit through a month of slow burn. that's a lot. even for me.
part 4 will be out before u know it!! possible tmr.. stay tuned and don't forget to comment and reblog if u enjoyed<3
series description: new to metropolis and the daily planet, you find yourself falling for your deskmate, Clark Kent, who you're convinced will never look your way. a rescue from attempted mugging becomes many late nights spent with superman on your apartment balcony... god why does he seem so familiar?
tags/warnings: use of yn, alcohol consumption, bff lois, fluff and flirting, lois lane coffee addiction
---
You weren't right on time to work but, actually, early. The events of last night had you tossing and turning. But it wasn't the attempted mugging that had you unable to sleep. No, just the fact that Superman spent the next hour on your balcony after returning you to safety. Talking about everything from petty crime to your recent move, he genuinely cared about your opinion on the city and whether renting a U-haul truck was worth the price tag. You wondered if this was a common occurrence with all of the women he saved.
You giggled at the the shocked look on Lois's face as she walked through the Daily Planet elevator doors to see you already sat at your desk.
"Have I entered an alternate universe or are you early for once?" She slyly stole Clark's rolling chair and pulled it forward to be knee to knee with you. The moment made you nostalgic, reminding you of sharing a dorm in college.
Lois noticed your stare. "Oh he won't mind. Clark is late most mornings anyways. If it weren't for his Superman exclusives, Perry would've sacked him by now."
"That and maybe the fact that he's a Pulitzer Prize winner?" You subconsciously defended him. God why did I do that? Lois picked up on everything.
"Oh so you've done your research on him?" She smirked knowingly and took large sip of coffee.
"No! I mean- no. I work here now. I know some things about my coworkers." You tried not to smile under her clever gaze.
"Uh huh. So, how was your first day on the job? I want highlights and lowlights." She sat up straight, giving you her 'interview face' as she tried to act serious before two of you broke laughing. "Seriously! I dragged you into this, the least I can do is make sure you're actually enjoying it."
"Alright. Highlight is probably the office." You spun your chair slowly to get a full 360 of the timeless office space architecture and floor-to-ceiling windows. "Lowlight was.. maybe.." Lois listened distractedly, taking another sip of her coffee, "gettingmuggedonthewalkhome." You finished without meeting her eyes.
"WHAT" You felt the entire floor's eyes on you.
"Shhh be quiet Lois!!"
"What do you mean you got mugged? Are you ok? Why didn't you call me? Oh my god. Fuck y/n!" Lois patted down your arms and held at your face tightly like a mother would check for injuries on her child.
"L-Lois." You said through squished cheeks. "I'm okay now." You gently pulled her hands off of your face and leaned in to whisper, "Superman saved me."
Lois's eyes widened.
"Superman? You met him?" She leaned even closer like she couldn't believe what she was hearing.
"He just came out of nowhere! I don't even know how he knew something was wrong. It must be a superhero thing."
Lois opened her mouth, about to speak, before closing it tight.
"And I didn't just meet him Lois I-" You stopped to see if anyone was listening. "I don't know if this is normal but he stayed. He asked if I was okay, how I was doing, he was...nice. He was friendly."
At that exact moment, you heard a small crash and profuse apologies. Clark Kent, late and bumping into the mail cart. Your eyes softened as they met his. He immediately looked away to pick up his papers, pretending to not have seen you. Lois saw the interaction and deflated at his stupidity.
As he neared your desks, Lois stood and returned his seat to him with a speculative glance towards Clark.
"So, you were saying," Lois added as Clark took his seat "Superman saved you huh?"
Clark looked unaffected by the news before Lois sharply widened her eyes at him. As if rehearsed, He choked on his coffee and stammered as he looked back and forth between you and Lois.
“Oh—uh, wow. I—are you okay?”
"Yes.. I'm okay! The oddest part was that he stayed with me for a while after to make sure I was okay. Is that like normal?" You asked Clark, as he was the only one with any sort of relationship with the superhero.
Lois chimed in. "Yeah Clark. Is that normal for Superman to do?" She crossed her arms in question.
"Well I think he—" He stopped after meeting Lois's warning gaze, which you conveniently missed as Perry passed making sure everyone was on task.
"You know Y/n," He started without meeting your eyes, just fiddling with papers on his desk, "I only interview him about recent events. So I wouldn't really know what's normal. I um Lois—uh can I speak with you maybe? In the breakroom?" You frowned. He just sat down was already trying to get away from you.
Lois rolled her eyes at him before softening her gaze at you. "Don't forget, be at mine around six tonight! And, please, let me know if you need a ride home."
Lois and Clark made their departure and you couldn't help but sigh watching them walk away in tandem. Again, Clark couldn't hold a conversation with you. Was it something about you?
Taking advantage of the quiet, you opened Adobe on your computer and began the day.
---
Practically dragging Clark by his colorful tie, Lois led them to the break room and shut the door before rounding on him. She took a Daily Planet newspaper from the counter (with your photos coincidentally plastered on the page) and started hitting Clark upside the head with each harsh word she spoke.
"Clark Kent! You stupid stupid man!"
"Ow! Ow! Lois, quit it!" Clark held his hands up in surrender before removing his glasses and dropping his shoulders.
"You followed her! And saved her 'out of nowhere'!"
"What was I supposed to do? Just let them rob her?"
"You stayed at her apartment after." Lois put her hands on her hips at his lack of response.
"Yeah that— that wasn't smart in hindsight."
Lois scoffed in disbelief.
"'Wasn't smart'? I'll tell you what isn't smart, Clark." She paused to look at him and ensure he listened to every word she said.
"What isn't smart is having a great girl sit across from you all day but you won't look up to make conversation." Clark looked down at the floor in embarrassment.
"What especially isn't smart is getting too close to her as Superman. Let her get to know you, Clark. She wants to but you won't let her. It's easy to hide behind Superman but it's hard to be yourself. Do the hard thing."
Clark looked up to meet her eyes again then looked out of the break room window to see you at your desk. Your eyes were locked onto your screen, busy editing another beautiful shot. He was in awe of your vision, in awe of you as your hair cascaded down your shoulders and your forehead crinkled in focus while you worked.
"You're right. Tonight. At your place I— I'll be... normal?" He looked down at Lois for approval.
"Be you. And I'll be happy."
---
Lois Lane’s apartment was bigger than you expected, all wood accents and warm lighting, her style somewhere between modern chic and organized chaos. There was a record playing softly in the corner, something jazzy, and the scent of red wine and takeout hung in the air. People laughed and talked in little groups, familiar with one another, and you hovered near the kitchen island, clutching a paper plate with a half-eaten spring roll like it’s a shield.
You don’t know anyone here.
Lois had greeted you warmly when you arrived, complimented your outfit, introduced you to a few people but she’s been pulled into conversation after conversation ever since. You don’t blame her. She’s the host. You just wish you had someone to talk to.
You’re mid-sip of wine as you scanned the room for Lois or maybe a quiet corner where you could pretend to check your phone, when a man with slicked-back hair and the glossy eyes of someone three drinks in slid into your personal space. He leaned an elbow on the counter beside you, his grin wide and too confident.
“Well hello,” he said. “You Lois’s friend? Because I’ve definitely never seen you before. And I’d remember seeing you.”
You stiffened slightly and gave him a polite smile as you took a subtle step back. “Yeah, I just moved here. I work at the Daily Planet now.”
“Ooh, a journalist?” he said, wagging his eyebrows like he thinks he’s being charming. “Guess I better behave, huh? You gonna write about me?” He winked, and it… wasn't great.
You laughed, nervously. “Not exactly..”
He chuckled like you told the funniest joke in the world and takes another step closer. “Then, how exactly is it?”
You glanced around the room, searching for an escape, and that’s when you saw him. Clark Kent. He was standing by the bookshelf, holding an empty wine glass cup in one hand, glasses slightly askew. He was mid-conversation with Jimmy, but his eyes flicked toward you. He noticed.
Your expression must have given you away because suddenly he excused himself and crossed the room with purposeful strides. His hand came to rest lightly on your lower back, not enough to startle you but just enough to signal something, and he said, voice warm and casual, “Hey, sorry I took so long. You doing okay?”
It took you a beat to realize what he was doing. You blinked, then nodded. “Yeah,” you said quickly, grateful. “All good now.”
The tipsy guy looked between the two of you, his smile faltered. “Oh—are you two—?”
Clark cleared his throat. “Yeah,” he said easily, more easily than you'd seen him say anything around you. “We came together.”
You glanced up at him, surprised. For the first time, you notice his height. His cheeks are a little pink. Maybe it’s the wine. Or maybe not.
The guy nodded slowly, hands raised like he means no harm. “Got it. Nooo problem.” He gave you a final glance, then backed off and disappeared into the crowd.
Clark dropped his hand from your back. “Sorry if that was too much,” he said, fidgeting with the edge of his shirt, “You just looked… kind of trapped.”
You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “No, thank you. That was perfect.”
He smiled—a little awkward, a little shy—and glanced around the room. “First party in Metropolis?”
“Yeah,” you admitted. “I mean, first everything in Metropolis, really.”
“I remember that,” he said. “When I moved here, I got lost trying to find the Planet on my second day and ended up in a bakery. I bought a muffin just so I wouldn’t look weird.”
You laughed, and it felt good. “Was it at least a good muffin?”
“The best,” he said solemnly. “Banana walnut. Changed my life.”
You’re smiling before you realize it. The awkwardness between you started to melt into something more comfortable. You noticed the way his glasses slid down his nose and how he pushed them up with one finger as he talked, like muscle memory. His shoulders are broad beneath his button-up, and he smelt faintly like cedar and something clean. You take a moment to appreciate his appearance outside of his normal office-wear, how handsome he looked and how little he seems to realize it.
“Clark! Y/n!” Lois’s voice cut across the room. She’s holding two drinks and grinning. “Finally found you! I was wondering where you snuck off to.”
Clark stepped back slightly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just—uh—rescuing people?"
Lois handed him a drink and raised a brow. “You two finally talking? Good. I was starting to think I’d have to physically shove you into a conversation.”
You blinked. “What?”
Clark gave her a warning look, but Lois just shrugged, unapologetic. “Come on, you’ve been circling each other all week at work. It was painful.”
Clark cleared his throat and sipped from his cup. You, meanwhile, felt your face flush.
Lois patted your arm, amused. “Anyway, I’ll leave you two alone. Try not to be boring.”
She disappeared into the crowd again before either of you could stop her.
Clark glanced at you, sheepish. “She’s… not exactly subtle, huh?”
“Nope,” you said, trying not to grin. “Not even a little.”
Clark watched your smile into your drink, seemingly unable to keep eye contact any longer. He noted the pink gracing your cheeks and felt his heart swell.
There’s a pause, the music filling the space between you. Someone in the other room shouted out a toast, and glasses clinked. Clark remembered Lois's lecture earlier and took a deep breath, summoning courage, before leaning a little closer, voice lowered.
“I’m glad she pushed us into talking, though.”
You blinked up at him. “Really?”
He nodded, then hesitated. “You’ve seemed… really interesting. And nice. And funny. And I’ve been meaning to introduce myself properly, but I always end up spilling coffee or dropping my pens or—”
“—walking into the mail cart?” you added, smiling.
He laughed, shaking his head. “That happened once.”
You sipped your drink as your eyes flicked up to meet his. “Well, I’m glad you rescued me tonight.”
“Anytime,” he said, meaning it with all his heart. Then he paused. “Want to, um… keep talking? Maybe step out onto the fire escape? It’s quieter.”
You nodded, smile wide. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
He gestured for you to go first, and you weaved through the crowd toward the open window. The cool night air brushed your skin as you stepped outside, the city stretched below and you wished you had your camera on you.
Clark joined you at the railing, his shoulder just inches from yours.
“Welcome to Metropolis,” he said, soft and genuine.
You glanced over at him, heart thudding. He took pride in hearing every beat. “Thank you” you said. “It’s already better than I expected.”
He met your eyes and you swear, just for a second, you saw something behind them. Hope, maybe. Or something warmer.
You looked away first, smiling to yourself.
Maybe this city won’t be so lonely after all.
---
As the last few guests filtered out of Lois's apartment, she insisted Clark escort you home, "to avoid any more mugging!", she said, although Clark did not protest to the job.
You briefly feared an awkward walk home, lacking conversation, similar to your time spent with Clark at work. However, your fears were instantly put to rest.
You walked side by side beneath the hazy glow of the Metropolis streetlamps, your shoulder occasionally brushing his. The wine had left you warm and a little floaty, and you couldn’t stop giggling at him. Clark didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he looked amused, his eyes soft behind his glasses, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth every time you stumbled over your own feet or launched into a ridiculous story.
Eventually, there came a small silence. The good kind. The kind that made you feel suspended in something electric and unspoken.
You smiled back at him, the warmth in your chest spreading a little further. You hadn’t expected the walk to feel like this—so easy, so light. At work, Clark was quiet and thoughtful, often scribbling notes down, blue eyes behind his glasses flicking up to you only when something caught his attention. Tonight, though, he's more relaxed. More playful. You’re not sure if it’s the evening air or the company, but either way, you liked it.
“I think I’m finally starting to settle in,” you said after a moment. “Metropolis doesn’t feel quite so overwhelming anymore.”
“Because of the job?”
“Partly. The Planet’s… a lot. But in a good way.” You glanced at him. “And the people help.”
He gave a small smile, eyes still on the sidewalk ahead. “Anyone in particular?”
You raised an eyebrow. “You fishing for compliments, Kent?”
“Maybe.”
You laughed. “Fine. You’ve been… surprisingly nice.”
“Surprisingly?”
“Well, you were a little intimidating at first.”
His head snapped toward you, eyes wide behind his glasses. “Me?”
“Don’t act shocked! You’re tall, mysterious, and whether you advertise it or not, I am very aware of your success at the Planet.”
“I’ll have you know you're the only person who's ever said I'm 'mysterious',” he says, sounding only halfway defensive.
“And intimidating.”
“I was trying to be polite.”
You stopped, hesitating, but the wine still in your system sent the words out anyways. “You barely spoke to me all week.”
Clark felt disappointment in himself that you noticed his distance. “I didn’t want to say something awkward,” he admitted.
You looked over at him, amused. “You’ve been working next to Lois Lane for years and I made you nervous?”
“She’s scary. You’re… different.”
You paused at the crosswalk and glanced up at him. “Different how?”
He hesitated. Then, quieter, “You notice things. And you don’t try to be impressive, but somehow you are anyway. Your recent photos in the paper today were amazing, by the way."
You thanked him and looked away before he could see the full extent of how much his words meant.
You slowed as you reached your building, the familiar red brick and ivy-wrapped staircase coming into view. “This is me,” you said, feeling a small pang of disappointment that the walk is already over.
Clark stopped beside you, glancing up at the brick and stone with a small nod. “Looks like a good place.”
"Astute observation, Mr. Front Page," you teased.
"I'm more articulate in writing, I promise." He responded, smiling down at you.
You went up onto the first step and turned to meet his eyes, still not matching his height. Not moving, you said, "I should go up."
“Yeah,” he said, not moving either.
Another pause.
“Thanks for walking me,” you said finally.
“Thanks for letting me.”
You didn’t mean to hesitate. You didn’t mean to look at his mouth. But you did. And he noticed.
And maybe it was the wine or the breeze or the way the city had softened for a moment, but you reached up and touched the lapel of his coat gently, fingers brushing the fabric. Not pulling him in. Just… there.
“Goodnight, Clark,” you said.
He smiled. “Goodnight, Y/N.”
And he waited, just a second longer than he needed to, before turning to leave.
You stood there for a few seconds after, watching him walk away, heart doing somersaults again. Then you turned, climbed the stairs to your apartment, and smiled all the way to your door.
Clark heard every step up you took up to your fifth floor apartment and felt his heart beat along with you. He stopped, not ready for the night to be over, turned around, and mentally prepared for Lois's reprimands.
---
You sat on your balcony with two cups of water, trying to flood your system of the multiple glasses of wine before you went to bed. Also, trying your hardest not to grin like an idiot. It wasn’t working. You exhaled, leaned back against the railing, and let the breeze hit your face. Your cheeks were warm and still flushed from earlier. You laughed to yourself, remembering Clark’s firm hand on your arm as you stumbled down Lois’s stairs. Without warning, you heard a confident voice coming from your left.
“Something funny?”
Your head snapped to the side and you were met with Superman’s electric blue eyes.
You nearly choked on your water. “Jesus—!”
He chuckled. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
You placed a hand over your heart, your pulse jumping under your fingers. “You really need to announce yourself...or wear a bell or something.”
“I’ll look into that,” he said, lips twitching.
You glanced at the ledge where he hovered, cape stirring gently in the breeze. Somehow, he always made the dramatic entrance look casual. “What are you doing here?”
“I was in the area. Thought I’d check in on you.” His voice softened, and you realized he was being sincere. “After what happened yesterday.”
Your breath caught, the memory flashing through you—the alley, the panic, the way he’d appeared out of nowhere, his voice calm and steady as he sent the men running and carried you home like it was nothing. He heard your heartbeat speed up at the memory.
“Oh,” you said. “Right. Thanks for that. Again.”
“You don’t have to thank me,” he said, "it's my job."
"Self-proclaimed job. No one forces you to use your powers for good," you paused to look him in the eyes and then smiled to lighten the mood, "most probably wouldn't. So, thank you."
You gestured to the patio chair next to you, "Since this is your second night here in a row, you might as well sit down.”
He blinked. “Really?”
“Yeah. Why not? You’re the one who saved me from getting mugged yesterday. You've earned a chair.”
He stepped onto the balcony with surprising grace and sat down beside you. You handed him your second glass of water without a word.
He accepted it with a quiet “Thanks,” and took a sip. His presence was calm, grounded, so different from the headlines and dramatic rescues. You could almost forget you were sitting next to the most powerful being on the planet.
Almost.
“So…” you said, breaking the silence, “what brings you to my modest fifth-floor balcony tonight?”
He tilted his head at you. “I was in the neighborhood?"
You scoffed. "Do you often visit everyone you rescue, or am I special?"
"Well, you mentioned you're new to Metropolis so that puts you on the priority-visitation list. That, and I don't want to ruin my spotless reputation with the Daily Planet's esteemed employees."
You laughed, dodging the compliment. "I wouldn't say esteemed, I barely been there a week. I'm dying for some real assignments! Seriously, I feel like...an intern." You mockingly shuddered at the word.
You both laughed again, and it felt good. Light. Not like yesterday, when you could barely catch your breath.
“Okay,” he said after a beat. “Now that you’ve had time to recover, tell me—what were you smiling about when I got here?”
You groaned softly, burying your face in your hands. “I knew you’d circle back to that.”
“You looked like someone who just heard a very good secret."
You peeked at him through your fingers. “Maybe I did.”
“Care to share?”
You pulled your legs up, burying your face into your knees to hide from his stare. “It’s dumb.”
“I doubt that.”
You hesitated. You hadn’t told anyone,not even Lois, and now Superman was sitting two feet away from you with that perfectly patient expression on his face.
“I was thinking about someone,” you said finally, voice quiet. “Someone I work with.”
His brow lifted slightly, but he didn’t speak.
You fidgeted with your glass. “You know him, actually. Which automatically means I can't tell you."
This made him hopeful. It felt wrong to talk about his alter ego with you but he couldn't seem to stay away from the topic. He playfully rolled his eyes before downing his glasses of water with a dramatic sigh. "I'm a good secret keeper! My loyalty lies with the good people of Metropolis."
You stared at him, deadpanned, "You're really theatrical you know that?"
"I've been told before."
You softly groaned and slumped down in your chair.
Dropping your head into your knees again with a soft groan, you mumbled, "I wasthinkingaboutClarkKent.."
He blinked. "Come again?"
"I was thinking about Clark Kent!"
There was a flicker of something across his face—amusement? Panic? You couldn’t tell.
“…Clark?” he repeated.
You nodded. “Yeah.”
Superman didn’t respond right away. When he did, his voice was careful. “I wouldn’t have guessed.”
“I know,” you said with a soft laugh. “I don’t think anyone would." You fidgeted with a loose thread on your sweater as you spoke. "He’s quiet. And so awkward. And somehow always misplacing his press badge. But… he’s so kind. And thoughtful. And he listens, like really listens, even when I’m tipsy and talking about something dumb which I know I'll regret later. I've just never met anyone like him," Superman was still, but his gaze stayed fixed on you. "which is awful because I'll probably never meet anyone like him again. I doubt I have a chance."
He looked at you, almost offended.
"Are you kidding me?”
You blinked and lifted your head just enough to squint at him. “What?”
He was staring at you—genuinely surprised, like you’d just told him you were moving to the moon. His posture had shifted, more upright now, as if trying to compute something he hadn’t quite expected to hear.
“You really think you don’t have a chance?” he said.
You wrapped your arms around your knees and sighed. “I mean… yeah? He’s so—Clark. He’s so gentle and sincere and… Clark. And successful! I’m just some overly caffeinated new girl who keeps forgetting how to work the copier.”
Superman blinked, clearly trying to make sense of you.
“And he’s so handsome,” you went on, sounding more desperate by the second. “Like, stupidly handsome. Have you seen his smile? The dimples? It’s unfair. He just kind of walks around with that quiet little laugh and his glasses slightly crooked and—ugh. I’m a disaster.”
He didn’t speak. Not immediately. Just kept watching you with that unreadable expression and a face that was slowly, unmistakably turning pink.
You squinted. “Wait… are you blushing?”
“No,” he said quickly. Too quickly.
Your eyes narrowed. “Yes, you are. You’re totally blushing.”
“I’m not,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck like it might help hide his ears, which were definitely going red.
You sat up straighter, pointing at him like you’d just caught him red-handed. “You’re so blushing. I didn't even know you were capable of that. Why? Is it just that weird? Hearing me talk about someone you know?”
He hesitated, then nodded slowly, like that answer seemed safe enough. “Something like that.”
You laughed softly, dropping your hands into your lap. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to put you in the middle of a workplace romance crisis. You probably came up here to make sure I wasn’t traumatized, and now I’m confessing my feelings for your only interviewer like we’re at a slumber party.”
He gave you a small smile, still looking dazed. “It’s okay. I don’t mind.”
You stared at him for another beat, then leaned in a little, lowering your voice. “But promise me you won’t tell him. Clark, I mean.”
His brows lifted. “You think I’d tell Clark?”
“I don’t know what kind of friendship code you superheroes follow,” you said, wagging a finger at him.
You held out your pinky. “Swear you won’t tell Clark?”
He looked at your hand like it was a sacred artifact, then slowly extended his own and locked pinkies with yours.
“I swear,” he said solemnly. “My loyalty lies with the good people of Metropolis.”
You snorted. “That’s exactly what you said earlier.”
“It’s my official oath now.”
You shook on it, then let your pinky drop. “Thanks. For not making it weird. I didn’t mean to dump that all on you, I just—ugh, I’ve been holding it in, and it’s getting bad.”
“How bad?”
“I saw him take his roll up his sleeves yesterday to fix the printer,” you said, staring up at the sky. “I nearly walked into a closet.”
Superman coughed into his fist. It sounded suspiciously like a laugh.
“You think I’m kidding,” you added, glancing at him. “But I had to pretend I was looking for toner just so I could hide behind the supply shelf and pull myself together.”
He was laughing now. Really laughing. The sound of it eased the heat from your cheeks a little.
“You have it bad,” he said, grinning.
“I know! It’s a problem. And Lois, my best friend, already suspects something, which is a whole other problem because she’s a human lie detector and if she finds out, she'll never let me forget it."
'You have no idea,' He thought.
The wind stirred again, brushing past the two of you in soft bursts. For a moment, you both just sat there, side by side, watching the lights of Metropolis blink in and out.
“You really think I have a chance?” you asked, quietly this time. “With Clark?”
Superman turned to you, and for once his voice was less like the public figure you knew and more like something warmer. Quieter.
“I think if Clark heard even half of what you just said,” he murmured, “he’d be speechless.”
You smiled down at your hands. “He’s already kind of speechless around me.”
Superman chuckled. “Then I guess he’s halfway there.”
You gave him a look. “Okay, that was kind of sweet.”
“I have my moments.”
You yawned into your sleeve and stood, brushing off your legs. “Alright, you should probably go fly off and stop a meteor from crashing or something. And I should try to sleep before I dream about Clark’s glasses again.”
“You’re making it hard not to tell him,” he said, standing too.
You pointed at him again. “Sworn oath.”
He raised his hand. “I remember. I’ve got the pinky bruise to prove it.”
You rolled your eyes but smiled. “Thank you. For listening.”
He gave you a crooked smile. “What are friends for?”
You smiled in response. "We're friends?"
His eyes widened like he said something he shouldn't have. "Yeah I mean— yes. If you want to be. I'm not saying—"
"I want to be," You crossed your arms "if I get some exclusive photos for the paper."
He smirked playfully and chuckled, "You know you and Clark have more in common than you think."
"That's the cost of my friendship." You shrugged with a smile.
"You got it then." He turned around, preparing to lift off into the night sky, "Goodnight, Y/n."
Then, with a soft flutter of his cape and the faintest gust of air, he rose off the fire escape and disappeared into the sky.
You stood there for a long moment after he left, staring out over the city. Somewhere out there, Clark Kent existed in the same city as you, smiling that soft, dimpled smile, misplacing his press badge, and holding doors open like it was his full-time job.
And somewhere even higher, flying above the rooftops, was the one person who knew just how much he meant to you.
---
a/n: part 2 finally here!! i am so so in love with this chapter please comment and reblog if you are too<33
so.. lois knows clark is superman. i know. huge twist. stay tuned ;))))
series description: new to metropolis and the daily planet, you find yourself falling for your deskmate, Clark Kent, who you're convinced will never look your way. a rescue from attempted mugging becomes many late nights spent with superman on your apartment balcony... god why does he seem so familiar?
tags/warnings: use of yn, attempted mugging, saved by superman! lois lane coffee addiction, fluff and new beginnings
---
Moving to Metropolis had sounded more romantic on paper. Big city, big chances, and bigger stories. In reality? It was loud, smoggy, and somehow every cab driver had tried to kill you on the way to work.
But as you stood in the massive lobby of the Daily Planet building, one thought cut through the mental static: Lois Lane owes me dinner.
You took the elevator up with your camera bag slung over your shoulder and a fresh blister forming on your heel. New city, new job, new shoes. All at once. Genius.
The doors opened onto an organized chaos. Phones were ringing, reporters shouting, someone laughing at something that was definitely not work-appropriate. And then there she was.
“Hey, hotshot!” Lois Lane, your oldest friend from college, strutted toward you with a coffee cup comically large in her hand. No doubt her third cup this morning. She pulled you into a hug.
“You made it,” she said. “And on time. Miracles do happen.”
You rolled your eyes, grinning. “I had to bribe a cab driver with my breakfast!"
Lois took your camera bag and motioned you forward like she owned the place. Which, honestly, she kind of did in spirit.
“You nervous?” she asked as you wove through desks and people.
“Only about… ninety percent.”
“You’ll be fine. You’re talented, hungry, and you don’t oversaturate your shots. Perry’ll love you. He hates drama and loves a Canon girl.”
You smiled. “Still think this wasn’t a pity hire?”
“Don’t make me slap you on your first day.”
She stopped next to a desk near the windows. “You’ll be stationed here. Next to Kent. He’s...” she lowered her voice, “...a little awkward, but very sweet. Doesn’t bite, I promise."
You turned just in time to see him look up.
Clark Kent.
You recognized him from his bylines. He had made the Daily Planet front page more times than you could dream, especially those rare, mind-blowingly intimate interviews with Superman. Everyone said no one got the Man of Steel like Clark Kent did. You’d imagined him to be sort of… slick. Sharp. Confident.
He was, instead, currently spilling a pencil holder.
“Oh, gosh—I—hold on—sorry, that—hi,” he said, crouching quickly to gather his mess. It was sweet.
You bent down to help him. “You must be Clark. I’m y/n. The new photographer. And apparently your desk neighbor.”
He looked up, glasses slipping slightly, face flushed. “Right! Y/n. Lois mentioned you. Uh, welcome. I mean, welcome to Metropolis. And the Planet.”
“Thanks,” you said with a small smile. “Nice to meet you.”
He looked like he was about to say something else, then stopped, smiled too wide, and nodded once like that would do.
You got settled in while Lois disappeared to hunt down coffee, and Clark stayed mostly quiet, stealing glances every so often like he couldn’t decide whether to start a conversation or continue furiously typing.
After a bit, he cleared his throat. “So, do you like it here so far?”
You looked at him, thankful for the question. “Metropolis? I mean, I’ve been here less than a week, but it’s got charm. In a ‘try not to die crossing the street’ kind of way. I'm waiting for the alien attacks Lois keeps warning me about."
He laughed, almost nervously. "Yeah, it'll grow on you. The city, not the attacks! But some thrill is never bad if you're a journalist."
You talked a bit—light stuff. Cameras, college, whether the coffee machine here had ever worked (it hadn’t since 2017). He seemed more at ease when you weren’t looking directly at him, like he worked better in side glances.
As Clark worked, his dark, unruly curls came down to fall softly onto his face, slightly blocking your view of him. You imagined yourself reaching out over the space of your desks and tucking them back gently into his hair.
Perry eventually barked your name, bringing you back to life from your daydream.
"All the rookies have to earn their keep, the same goes for you. I need you to run to the downtown office and pick up some film and sort through it by tomorrow. Keep whatever's useable and scrap the rest." Perry handed you an address and a 'good luck' before you turned away from him, dreading the journey and leaving your new desk mate. Something about Clark Kent. He was magnetic. Lois would roll her eyes if you ever dared tell her this.
---
Back at your desk, with a box full of photos and some undeveloped film, you spotted Lois and Jimmy standing near the breakroom, laughing about something on Jimmy’s phone. Clark lit up the moment he joined them, suddenly a little louder, joking easily, teasing Jimmy about his tie and nudging Lois like they were siblings. It was like watching someone step out of a shell. You wondered what it would take to get him to laugh that way with you.
You stayed near the vending machine and pretended to decide between chips and gum while secretly admiring him.
It wasn’t just that he was attractive (which, duh—he was). It was the way he carried himself. Quiet, but steady. Kind of like the eye of the storm in a newsroom that never stopped moving. You didn’t see many people like that. Especially not in Metropolis.
You were still smiling to yourself when he wandered back over, holding two mugs of what might pass for coffee.
“I got you one,” he said, offering a cup. “I tried to get the least burnt pot. It might be edible, no promises."
You took it, heart weirdly warm. “Thanks. For the record, this is already the nicest thing anyone’s done for me since I moved here.”
He smiled, almost shy again. “Just wait till someone gives you one of the horrible break room muffins Then you’ll really feel welcomed. Or poisoned.”
You laughed and sipped the coffee. Burnt, yes. But kind.
You were about to ask how long he’d been at the Planet when Lois returned, sliding between the two of you like she was born to do it.
“So?” she said. “How’s the new desk dynamic?”
Clark gave her a smile, then glanced at you. “She hasn’t quit yet. I think that’s a good sign.”
You laughed. “Give me at least two weeks before I start flipping tables.”
Lois looped an arm through yours. “Good, because you’re officially invited to my place tomorrow night. Small thing, don't worry. Wine, snacks, everyone you should know. Clark’ll be there too.”
You looked over at him, surprised. “You party?”
He looked immediately flustered. “I—I mean—I go to things. Sometimes.”
“If I can drag him there. And Clark owes me. Big time.” Lois said, smirking knowingly at him. “And you’ve earned it, rookie. First day, first assignment, and you didn’t accidentally destroy your photos. You’re already ahead of half the interns we’ve had.”
You looked at Clark, then back at Lois. “Alright. I’ll be there.”
Clark nodded slowly, a smile tugging at his mouth and dimples forming on his cheeks. “Cool. Cool, yeah. Should be fun.” You could die at the sight of him.
Lois raised her eyebrows at the two of you and muttered, “Lord help me,” before walking away.
And you?
You stayed by Clark’s side a moment longer than necessary, sipping bad coffee and wondering how someone could be both so quiet and so magnetic all at once.
Maybe Metropolis wasn’t so bad after all.
---
Night had fallen and you and Clark were the only two left on the dimly lit floor. Sorting through the last of the photos Perry had assigned to you, a tired sigh left your lips, catching Clark's attention. Over the long hours, his oversized blazer had come off and his sleeves had been rolled up over his larger-than-average forearms. You pretended not to notice.
"I remember 'earning my keep' with Perry. I had to spell check nearly 100 pages of Cat Grant's previous drafts. By hand."
You cringed. "I met her! She was.. sweet. Very chatty." He gave you a knowing smile that made it impossible to look away.
You wondered what could possible be keeping him here at the office so late. Most likely another Pulitzer Prize winning article or front page worthy interview with Superman. The knowledge of his success made you wallow. An office crush was nice, but a crush with some likelihood would be nicer. You were an unknown photographer with a job your best friend got you. He's made headlines in Metropolis. No chance.
Sirens followed by the sound of fires trucks in the distance removed you from your thoughts and Clark tensed up. In one smooth motion, smoother than you had seen him move all day as he stumbled around the office, he put on his coat and stood from his desk.
"Well I hate to leave you as the last one standing on your first day.."
"I get it. And no worries, hopefully this isn't the first late night of many." You tried not to feel sad at his departure.
"Goodnight y/n". You watched him turn away and speed towards the elevators and wondered what waited for him outside the walls of the Daily Planet.
---
The clock hit 11 pm, the last of the photos were neatly organized in collections of different events, and you had missed the last metro home. You normally would advise against walking home late at night in a city you don't know, but after the longest first day known to man, nothing would stop you from getting home. Especially not the impossibility of hailing a cab at this hour.
You walked home, replaying the days events (Clark Kent's dimpled smiles), and evidently missed the two shadowed figures trailing behind you.
A sharp yank on your purse snapped you out of your thoughts. “Hey!” you gasped as the the two men lunged at you. Before you could react, one of the men grabbed your wrist and pulled you toward a narrow alleyway between two buildings.
“Let me go!” you shouted, struggling against his grip.
“Be quiet,” the other one hissed, shoving you roughly against the brick wall and trying to pin you against it.
Then, a gust of wind surged through the alley. A sudden blur of red and blue streaked down from above. One man was flung backward by a powerful, unseen force. The other turned, just in time to see a fist grab the front of his jacket and lift him clean off the ground.
Superman stood there, eyes steely, cape billowing. “Let her go.”
The man dropped your arm instantly. Superman caught you before you stumbled. You looked up at him with a wide gaze. Sharp jawline and kind eyes. So much for a first impression.
He turned to you, expression softening. “Are you hurt?”
You shook your head, breathless. “No… not anymore."
He must've realized your proximity—you, held tightly in his arms and off the ground, due to the great difference in height—and stammered with a certain familiarity as he placed you gently back on your feet.
"Well.. That's what I'm here for. Could I help you home.. miss?"
You stood frozen.
Your purse hung loosely from your hand, the strap torn. Your wrist ached. Your knees trembled, and the adrenaline that had surged through you like fire was now draining, leaving you cold and dizzy. The edges of your vision shimmered, the night closing in. Your chest tightened, not from pain, but pressure, like you couldn't believe what had just happened.
You couldn’t move.
Then he was in front of you—tall, still, powerful. His red cape fluttered slightly behind him, and his eyes met yours.
Superman.
You exhaled a sharp, stuttering breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, and shut your eyes. You don't remember when he reached out his hands to take yours.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The distant city noise carried on as if nothing had happened, but in this pocket of shadow, the world felt suspended.
“You’re safe,” he said, low and certain, the feeling of his hands grounding you. The words settled over you like a blanket.
You nodded faintly, still staring at the ground. Still in disbelief. He dropped your hands gently but he didn’t rush you. He stood nearby, giving you space but never stepping away. Eventually, when the worst of it passed, you managed to speak.
“I should go home.” You tried to regain composure. "It's not far."
"I'd feel better if I saw you home, Y/n." He offered you an outstretched hand.
"How are you with heights?"
---
a/n: part 1... please let know if you even want a part 2 of this.. or what u want to see! dms are open i need someone to throw ideas at so if you are that person pls hmu!
dailybridgerton
snowghoul
gummygunk
kianamaiart
blakekathryn
ellievsbear
