hello!! when i saw ur clark x autistic!reader i jumped for joy. tysm for writing it
may i request how clark would help reader when their overstimulated/going thru sensory overload? if not that’s okay love ur works a lot
You feel outside of yourself —something begging to be reformed and re-aligned. Like there's something wrong. Like an outline of a person. Of a being.
There was something deep down that knew this would happen today too. Unsure if it was the way your pastry tasted at the café or the way you lingered on a decision too long. Today just wasnt right. The timing of everything wasnt right. And to make matters worse, it was over 90° at the outdoor shopping mall the two of you were currently wandering about.
Originally, you'd suggested it thinking it might help distract you from the growing headache in your left temple and the anxious ache in the pit your stomach – and it truthfully did, for a little while at least.
Clark had been skeptical as soon as you mentioned the outdoor mall but decided against voicing his concerns, wanting to let you cool off from the frustration of the day. He did however, keep an eye on you as you wandered throughout the mall gradually becoming more and more irritable and hot.
He knew the way your body and mind worked. Understood and noticed things far before you did. He knew you weren't aware of just how overwhelmed you were.
The tipping point was when you were in one of the clothing stores, nursing your boba drink while skimming through a row of shirts only to be roughly knocked into the shelving.
Clark was instantly holding you steady and glaring the man who'd run into you down, muttering a "jesus" under his breath before stroking a hand over your head, "you okay?"
The nod you gave was unconvincing. Especially in the way you had to settle yourself in the moment. Closing your eyes and taking a couple of deep breaths while Clark rubbed your back comfortingly.
He was getting nervous. Everything was too much for you. The music blaring in the shop, the man bumping into you, the teenagers bumbling and squealing throughout the store. Not wanting to stress you out even more, he let you relax yourself, bringing his own iced drink up to your forehead hoping to relieve some of the heat.
It wasnt gonna happen. As soon as you were knocked into the clothes rack you knew you needed to get out of there. The noises in the background was beginning to be too much. You could hardly hear yourself think.
It was then that a group of teenagers in your general vicinity screamed about something that had Clark pulling you into his side and walking you towards the exit.
With clammy palms and shakey breath, you tucked yourself as far as you could into his chest, trying to steady yourself as Clark weaved the two of your around bystanders as gently as he could.
You were so tense in his hold. Shakey and rigid and overheated. Not trusting yourself, you reverted towards silence –removing some of the stress. Clark understood immediately, speaking to you and letting you know what was happening without you needing to be worried about it.
"I know, baby, I know." He whispered to the top of your head, pressing a kiss to your hair. "Gonna get you to the car okay?"
All you could do was nod into his chest. Everyone around the two of you was walking impossibly slow. Sounds and touch were beginning to muffle and dull.
It seemed like forever before you were coming towards the parking structure, Clark still keeping you from peering eyes, running his hand up and down the space of your back.
Once in the elevator, which was thankfully empty and chilled and far more quiet, Clark pulled you into his arms, compressing you to his chest while leaning back against the railing.
"Almost there, you're doing so good." He stroked his hand over your hair. The sound of his heartbeat soothing you for those few quiet moments before you were thrown back into the heat and noise as the elevator doors pinged open.
You'd forgotten that Clark had driven –instantly reminded of it when you saw his giant truck glimmering in the heat of the sun.
Clark led you towards the backseats, opening the door and helping you in so that you could lie down across the three jump seats.
"Keep breathing for me, sweetheart —there you go." He moved to the cab of the truck for a moment, turning the AC on full blast and linking his phone to the screen to turn on ocean waves as background.
Stepping out of the drivers seat, he closed his door and climbed onto the floor mats in the back with you, shutting your door as well. He had your boba cup in his hand, keeping the chilled plastic on your forehead.
It took you a while to completely relax. Breaking your spell with a small but present smile and whispering, "can I have a sip of my drink, please?"
Clark sat with you in the back of the cab, nursing you your boba and petting your hair to the sound of waves crashing until the world didn't seem so big again.
✦Clark Masterlist - Read on a03! - Main Masterlist✦
✦pairing: Clark Kent x female!reader✦
✦summary: Something is wrong. You feel like there's a big part of you that's missing, but you really can't quite place what. It doesn't help that you keep having flashes of a life that isn't yours. Where you're loved. Where you're Clark's, he's yours. And maybe that's been yours the whole time.
AKA you have to forget Clark, but it doesn't really stick.✦
✦warnings/tags: civilian!reader, memory fic, insecurity, angst, fluff, pining, shenanigans, double love confessions for your buck, shameless smut (body worship, dirty talk, fingering, p in v, doggy), no use of y/n✦
✦author's note: This one is very special to me. Enjoy!✦
Someone is watching you. You can feel it, prickling on the back of your neck and making your stomach do odd, little flips. Like it’s trying to pull you in the direction of the attention, even though you can’t think of one good reason for someone to be looking at you.
You’re hiding at your desk, head down, typing fast enough to make the clacking sounds almost louder than the music in your ears. Nobody bothers you when you’re focused like this. People don’t really bother you period. Not at work, when you’re purposefully drowning everything else out.
But you can feel someone.
And when you pause, just to scan around the office and check that you’re not insane, everyone’s eyes are on their own computers or each other. Jimmy and Lois are having a low conversation near the coffee. Cat is examining her nails while snapping at someone on the phone. Steve is laughing at something on his phone—a little too loudly, in the boisterous, fake way that always makes you pretty sure he’s not actually seeing anything funny, and just wants someone to come talk to him—while Perry watches the TV with a focused frown, and Clark stares at his computer.
Just stares at it. Doesn’t type. Doesn’t scroll.
He’s probably just reading something, very intently, over and over.
You look back to your own computer, and call it paranoia.
That would be why your skin feels raw, when you start to type again. Nobody’s watching you—and you check again, just to make sure—and you’re just paranoid.
You’ve been oddly paranoid lately, so it’s tracking. You’re checking the locks of your windows and doors three or four times before you go to bed, like you’re in Gotham. You keep running back up the stairs after you try to leave for work, just to make sure you closed the door. When you walk down the street your gaze lingers on longer shadows, and you look up to the sky as if you’re checking for something.
You’re not.
You don’t even know what you’d be looking for.
All you do know is that you feel like someone is watching you, but they’re not. That you’re paranoid, but it’s likely lack of sleep.
You haven’t really been sleeping, either. Your bed has felt too cold, lately. Too empty. You haven’t been able to bring yourself to even lie in it for more than twenty minutes at a time, resorting to trying to sleep on the couch.
Which is probably why your back always hurts, now.
It hasn’t been a good few weeks. Everything has felt off.
But it’ll pass.
Hopefully.
It’s not, but hopefully, it will.
Someone taps on your shoulder, and you almost jump out of your skin, hand flying out in a faster reaction than you can process.
You smack Jimmy in the jaw, and he stumbles back with wide eyes.
“Oh my god, I’m-“ You yank off your headphones, reaching out nervously. “Jimmy, I’m so, so sorry, you scared me, I’m- I don’t know why I did that, I’m so-“
“Jesus, stop apologizing.” Jimmy gives you a small grin, dropping his hand from where a red mark is starting to form. “I’m alright. Made of steel, you know me.”
You blink at him, and suddenly feel a little dizzy.
“You don’t need to get me a band-aid, sweetheart. They don’t say I’m made of steel because it sounds cool.”
“I, um-“ You shake your head, giving Jimmy another apologetic look. “Do you want some ice?”
“Nah. That sounds cold.”
“It’s ice-“
“Yeah. Cold. I’m a big boy,” he says your name with a shrug. “I’ll live, you know?”
“I guess, but-“
“Can I ask you a question?”
You blink, and Jimmy’s staring at you with an odd intensity. “Yes?”
“Did you guys have a fight?”
“You… guys?” You shake your head, spinning your pencil nervously between your fingers, and Jimmy nods.
“Yeah. You and Clark.”
“Me and-“ Your eyes dart over to Clark’s desk, and he’s still staring at his computer. He’s scrolling now, though. Typing a few words, then scrolling again.
You haven’t spoken to him all morning. And he doesn’t look all that bothered. His hair is messy, and from his side profile you can tell his glasses are a little askew, but that’s just Clark.
“No?” You look back to Jimmy. “Why would we have had a fight?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.” He shrugs, looking over to Clark himself. “Poor guy just has been looking bummed. I thought someone yelled at him, but he hasn’t even really been talking to anyone. Which is weird, right?”
Jimmy looks at you like you’re supposed to agree, and you give him a tight smile.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Jimmy nods to himself. “I mean, he’s Clark. He talks. We all talk. And I don’t know- Maybe I should set him up on another blind date. He hasn’t said yes to me in like, a year, but now- Poor guy might be feeling the loneliness.”
Something tugs on your heart. It’s sore and hot and makes your skin fucking itch.
Your pencil flies across the room, as you accidentally fling it from your fingers. Hits Steve in the back of the head, making you wince.
“Damn, you’re on a roll, killer.” Jimmy grins as Steve glares around to see the culprit. You quickly pick up another pencil. “Is there something going on with you I should be worried about? Are you secretly a vigilante
“No, I’m just…” You take a deep breath, glancing back over to Clark.
You don’t know why you keep looking at him. It’s like you’re looking for some kind of reaction, and you don’t even know to what.
“It’s just a bad week.” You mutter, and Jimmy nods.
“Right, first one back from vacation. Those always suck.”
“Huh?” You’re not really listening, mostly just staring at Clark. His leg is bouncing.
That means something.
You can’t fucking remember what.
“Your vacation. How was it, by the way?” Jimmy bumps your shoulder with his coffee, and you blink.
“How was… my vacation?”
“Yeah. Cuba, right? Or… Cairo. China? It was somewhere with a C. I think. I don’t know.” Jimmy laughs to himself. “Clark did tell me you were going, so maybe I’m just thinking of him.”
“Oh.” You swallow, and Clark’s leg is still fucking bouncing.
“You’re doing it again.” You smile at him, poking your foot against his shin, and he blinks up at you.
“I, uh- I’m not doing anything-“
“You were listening to me. I know you were.”
“But I didn’t even look-“
“I know.” You smile at him. “I just know you. Do you think we should do Rio?”
He turns a little red, eyes darting around the office to make sure no one else is watching, then places his hand on the back of your thigh. Squeezes gently, and gives you a small smile.
“I’ll go where you want, baby. But if you’re asking-“
“I am-“
“Then I’ve been thinking we could go to-“
“Redwood park.” You mutter, looking back to Jimmy. “I think I just went to see the Redwoods, Jimmy.”
“Oh. Well, California starts with C.” Jimmy glances over to Clark. “You should’ve brought Clark with you. He’s always wanted to see those things. Don’t know why he hasn’t. We get plenty of vacation time.”
You nod. “I- I don’t know why either.” You whisper, and Clark’s head turns.
For a split second, your eyes meet. And something flashes over his handsome features that you can’t quite place.
Then he looks away, and his leg stops bouncing.
Your head sort of hurts.
But it’s just been an off week. Jimmy leaves you alone, and you can’t do anything but stare blankly at your computer screen, hoping your fingers will remember how to do anything but spin a pencil, and your brain will clear of this strange fog.
You don’t even remember going on vacation.
And it feels like there's a massive fucking hole, in the center of your chest. It’s got an odd shape. It hums and kicks into a loud gear—like an echo through a cave, a ghostly replication of something that had been there before—whenever you feel it again.
Someone is watching you.
Your pencil flies out of your fingers again.
But when you look around to see if anyone noticed, they haven’t.
It’s like nothing ever happened at all.
The day moves fast, but the strange feeling doesn’t fade. It only gets more and more pressing, until it feels like there’s something iron wrapping around your lungs. Maybe you should go back to therapy. You’re not sure why you left it in the first place.
There’s just a faint impression of it not working. Of something on your tongue you couldn’t let go, that was holding you back from saying anything at all.
But it’s gone now.
You just wish you’d known what it fucking was.
There are a lot of things that are making you feel that. Like you’d had something in your hands, and it had been taken away. Leaving your skin covered in a soot or stardust you don’t know how to wash off, because you can’t even fucking see it. And maybe it’s nothing. Maybe you’re still paranoid. It’s all you’ve been, lately, and there’s no reason for it to just vanish when you go to work.
It’s almost certainly the paranoia.
It will be a whole lot easier, if it’s just the paranoia.
If people have noticed you’re acting differently, they don’t say anything. You fumble your coffee when Lex Luther comes onto one of the TV screens, and Lois gives you an odd, worryingly gentle look, but helps you clean up. Perry talks to you about your article about international metahuman law, and you type slowly, struggling to remember where you found any of your sources. Superman has another save—a kitten, in a tree, and for some reason that makes you feel fuzzy—and you stare at the screen for a little too long. You only stop staring because Cat hits your arm, amusement sparkling in her eyes.
“He’s cute, right?”
“I- Superman?” You can feel your cheeks heat, and this shouldn’t be making you flush. It’s Superman. Everyone thinks he’s cute.
“You think I’m cute?”
“Don’t get a big head.”
“I can’t. Ma raised me better than that, sweetheart. And my head is already huge, but it’s mostly just facts about cows.”
“Yeah? What kind of facts?”
“All of them. Did you know people used to use “cow” as a compliment?”
You smile at him, and there’s something earnest on his face that always makes it hard to even play fake mean. “How the fuck would you use cow as a compliment.”
“Like, uh- You’ve got cow eyes, baby.” He squeezes your hip, and you giggle.
“I have cow eyes?”
“Yeah. But you’re my cow.” He pauses, then frowns. “I don’t like that. It makes seem like, I don’t know, I won you at a county fair.”
You lean down, mock-pouting at him. “So you don’t think I’m a prize?”
“No, I just-“ He sighs. “Can we pretend I never said anything?”
“Nope. I’m your cow, Mr. Kent.”
He groans. “Gosh, no, don’t say that-“
“It’s too late. Live with the consequences of your actions.”
“But I regret this action, I regret it a lot, I should have just told you how to milk a cow- No.” He gives you a firm look, and you’re giggling so much you might fall over. “I know that face, baby, no.”
You shake your head, pushing your words through the laughter. “Were you going to do a demonstration, farm boy? You’ve milked me before.”
“Alright. Come here.”
A large, warm hand glides up to your waist, and you’re still giggling when he pulls you forward. He doesn’t look cute anymore. He just looks handsome, darkened eyes on you, lips curled in a small grin as he watches you-
Cat says your name, waving a hand in your face.
“Sorry, I- Um-“ You look around, and the room isn’t spinning, but all the color seems to be washed out. Like there should be a reason for them to be vibrant, and you can’t find it at all. “I think I need to go to the bathroom.”
“Okay.” Cat shrugs, looking back to the TV. “Weird thing to tell me, though.”
“Yeah, um- Sorry.”
You almost run away from her, and your stomach feels like it’s rising up your throat. Something is wrong. It’s paranoia, but it still feels wrong, and you don’t know where you’re going but you know it needs to be somewhere quiet. Somewhere nobody can touch you, or see you, or say your name. Somewhere in the dark, where your chest won’t keep trying to pull at something you can’t name, where you can put a hand on your throat and just breathe-
You’re only watching your feet, as you walk, because you need to walk in a straight line. You’re not dizzy. It just feels like you’re wading through mud, and if you’re not counting every step you’ll fall over.
So when you turn the corner, you don’t see him until it’s too late, and you’re slamming right into his chest.
“Hey, woah.” Clark's arm wraps around your waist, and your fingers fly to grab the lapels of his suit jacket.
You stare at each other. There’s that same, strange look from before, and it’s everywhere. In the slight, worried pout of his lips, the furrow of his brow, and somehow in the strong line of his nose. His eyes are burning into you, and that buzzing feeling starts to push up your throat, spreading and spreading until the hollow in your chest stirs, and Clark’s hand flexes on your back-
“Taste it.”
He frowns at your offering, a finger covered in frosting. “I know what frosting tastes like, sweetheart. You just slipped, I want to look at your knee-“
“What are you, a doctor?”
“No, but I think I’ve learned enough to know if need to take you to the hospital, and I can x-ray for free-“
You cut him off with a strange noise. It’s as if it’s coming from underwater, muffled and strange. You can’t really hear it at all. “It’s just my fucking ankle. Look,” you swing it dramatically, and his frown deepens. He doesn’t let go of you.
You poke his nose with the frosting, and giggle as his eyes cross to look at it.
“Geez, you really want me to try this frosting.”
“Well, I made it, and I want your opinion.”
He nods, tongue shooting up to lick it off. And it takes a few seconds of ridiculousness for him to get it, but he does. Because he can do fucking anything.
And your heartbeat is in your ears, now.
“That’s really good, baby.” He looks at you with a proud grin, and you don’t give a shit about the cupcakes anymore.
He can see that.
His throat bobs, and his ears turn red as his voice drops.
“You’re sure your ankles okay-“
“Yes.” You cut him off quickly, and his lips twitch.
“May I please have a full cupcake, after we finish?”
You nod, a little like a bobblehead, and he grins at you like he won the lottery.
“Thank you, sweetheart.” He leans down until your noses are bumping. “But just so you know, you’re still my favorite dessert.”
“Are you okay?” Clark says, and it jumpstarts your body.
You shove him back quickly, eyes wide, and try not to think about how he looks like a wounded puppy.
He says your name gently, like he’s trying to soothe a feral animal, and you take another uneven step back.
“I- I’m- I don’t-“
Clark’s voice becomes a little more urgent. “Come here, sw-“ He swallows, syllables sliding together. “We need to get you sitting down-“
“No- No-“ You take a ragged breath. You don’t want him to touch you. Your whole body is leaning to him, like he’s got the gravity of something more than a man, but if Clark touches you, it’s going to hurt deeper than your skin. “I- I’m okay. I’m okay.”
Clark doesn’t look convinced by your repetition. “I know you might feel okay, but- You were staring at me for five minutes, I- Uh- I just think you should rest-“
“I’ll rest. I can rest.” You nod, taking another unsteady step back. The whole earth feels like it’s sliding below your feet. “I might have, like- Food poisoning? Maybe? I’m just- I’m not feeling well, Clark-“
“I know, we can go to the doctor- I mean, not we, but- You and someone-“ The strangeness flashes over his features again. “It can be me. I can drive. I’m good at it, sweetheart, I can drive you-“
“No, I’ll take the subway, I’m- Can you just tell Perry I got sick. Please?”
“I-“
“Thank you, Clark. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
You don’t wait for his response, don’t look back as you almost scramble out of the hallway.
It’s still just the paranoia. You’re just off, and maybe you did get food poisoning. You’d eaten some strange, old pastries that had been at the back of your refrigerator last night. You didn’t even remember putting them there, and they’d tasted fine, but maybe it was a fake fineness.
No. It’s all fine.
There’s still that carved-out, empty feeling in your chest, but you’re fine.
You’ll take a day. Maybe get back with a therapist, or install new locks on your door and windows. Everything will be fine.
Everything was not fine.
You’re having nightmares. And they’re of strange things you’ve never even seen before, like colorful, lava rivers and infinite blackness and odd, jagged edges of strangely shaped cliffs. You’re having nightmares of a gun to your brow and a shining light in your eyes and so much cold. You can’t really feel anything in the nightmares, but you can feel cold, and it makes you wake up shivering and screaming until your voice goes hoarse.
The one day you took off didn’t do much—you mostly just stared at the ceiling, and tried to will everything into being better, which obviously didn’t fucking work—and the moment you’re back at work, everything starts to move too fast for you to catch your breath.
You were gone for three weeks, on a vacation you don’t remember. There’s work that needs catching up on, informants and sources you apparently forgot to tell about your vacation that you need to reach out to, and a lot of time that needs to be wasted on the floor of the bathroom.
It still feels like someone is watching you, in the office. Still feels like something vital is missing from your chest, like an organ that’s been removed. With the nightmares, your sleep doesn’t get better. The paranoia only grows, until you beg Perry to give you a desk that has your back to the wall.
He obliges, with a frown and muttered weird kids.
And you’re slightly calmed, by being able to see everyone who comes in and out of the room. Nobody can surprise you, anymore. When you feel like someone is watching you, all you have to do is look up.
“Just look up.” He says, fingers tracing slowly over the bare skin of your arm. “All you ever need to do is look up, and I’ll be there.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” you say the noise you can’t hear. “What if you’re in Kansas, or- I don’t know, France-“
He cuts you off with a deep, slow kiss that makes you dizzy. “Then call my name.” He mutters against your lips. “And I’ll come for you.”
You rub your eyes, and all the lights are a little too bright. You might need to start wearing sunglasses to work. Inside. Like you have a permanent hangover.
It certainly feels permanent. All these strange, invasive phantom thoughts.
Nowhere is safe from them. It’s why you like the bathroom so much. Sparse and quiet and lonely—which is only making the nightmares worse—but without anything to set you off.
Because fucking everything sets you off.
“Shit.” You mutter, wrinkling your nose at the fridge, then checking the time on your phone. “Shit.”
“What’s shit?” Lois asks, standing over your shoulder, and you slam the door closed.
“I- fuck-“ The sound echoes through the room, and it was too big for such a tiny little thing.
It hums at you. Tauntingly. About how you can be as mean and crude as you want, but it’s still solid. It’s not melting apart at the seams.
You kick it, for good measure, and grunt as it refuses to budge. Stupid fucking fridge.
Lois laughs softly. “I think you beat it.”
“Thanks.” You mutter, wrapping your arms around your stomach. “It’s too late anyway.”
“Too late?”
“I forgot my lunch.”
“Seriously? That’s what you tried to murder the fridge over- Right, sorry.” She smiles apologetically at your glare. “Not just a joke, this time. Didn’t read that one right.”
“No, it’s-“ You let out a slow breath, and you’re so fucking tired. “You’re right, it’s stupid-“
“It’s not stupid, it’s just kind of insane.” She gives you a small smile. “Forgetting food sucks. I’m sorry I laughed at your plight.”
You huff, just through your nose, but with everything feeling a little lighter. It sucks. It’s not the end of everything.
“Who forgot their food?” Clark says, and you turn to see him frowning at you and Lois with an odd intensity. “Lois, you ate earlier, you got taco all over my keyboard-“
“No, I didn’t. That was Jimmy.”
“But Jimmy said it was-“
“Jimmy is a liar. And I didn’t forget my lunch,” she says your name, and all of Clark’s attention seems to hone in on you. It makes you feel fucking dizzy. “She did.”
“You did?” There’s a depth to the concern in his voice. Like you’re swimming into the ocean, when it was just supposed to be the deep end of the pool, and now he’s worried everything is going to sweep you away. “What happened?”
“I don’t know.” You try to hold his gaze, as you speak. It’s shockingly difficult. As if you’re staring at the sun, instead of clear, blue eyes. “I haven’t been sleeping well. Must have thought I grabbed it, then didn’t. I’ll be-“
Clark cuts in, voice earnest. “Do you want mine?”
“No, yours looks like it was made out of dead fish guts.”
“Huh.” He frowns at his spaghetti, still in the white take-out box. “I think it’s just like- Gooey pasta.”
“Wrong, fish guts.” You keep his arm around your shoulders, holding one of his large hands in both of yours, playing with his fingers as you examine dinner. “Why couldn’t we just do pizza?”
“Because Pa taught me to treat a lady-“
“To fish guts?”
“To fancy food.” He kisses the side of your head, dropping the food onto the plate. “If it tastes bad, I can hold your hair back while you vomit.”
“What if you vomit,” you say the noise you can’t hear, and he grins at you.
“I don’t get sick, darling.”
“Maybe. But look at this, I’m sure it could do the job, even on you-“
He kisses you, and your words fall into a loud, long moan. He smiles against your lips, and you wish he’d never figured out this trick for shutting you up. It’s playing dirty, for someone who always follows the rules. You think he justifies it to himself with how you try to chase him when he pulls away, and how he always asks you to finish your thought. As if the kiss was just to kiss.
This beautiful, sweet man might really believe it is just a kiss.
Something low shines in his eyes, though, when he finally gets you to come up for air.
And he fucking knows.
“Gosh,” he mutters, looking over to the food. “You think this will make me sick?”
“Maybe.” You blink at him slowly. “I don’t know.”
“Huh. I mean, I don’t mind pizza. If you don’t mind. I can go get it, right now, but, um- Only if you think this will make me sick-“
You say the sound you can’t hear softly. “I know you worked hard to get this, you don’t have to-“
“No, I think I want pizza.” He leans down, holding your gaze. “Do you want pizza, sweetheart?”
“Yes.” You smile at him, planting a small kiss on his nose. “Please.”
Clark says your name, and you swallow. You don’t feel hungry, anymore. Only sick.
“I’m good, Clark.” You mutter, ripping your gaze down to your shoes. “Thank you.”
You almost run back to your desk, and start talking to people at work less and less. They seem to always set it off—the empty space, the echo—more than anyone else. And avoiding them isn’t a permanent solution, but it should ease the vastness of everything feeling like it’s just fucking wrong.
It should.
But as long as you’re where people can say things to you, it doesn’t.
“You look nice tonight.” A guy with dark hair and darker eyes grins at you, taking a slow swig of his beer like you’re supposed to respond.
You turn your glass in your hands, and give him a small smile. He’s pretty. Not that pretty, but enough to make you not hate looking. And in the dark—once you’re one drink deeper and everything has been numbed a little more—it won’t fucking matter.
“You end up here often?”
You smile, and try not to make it too many teeth. Just be easy, and you can forget better. “Here, or at a bar?”
He laughs. Not a bad sound. Just sort of flat, like there’s an element of it that’s missing. “Either, dollface.”
“Well, I’ve been here a few times.” You try to keep your voice light and breathy. You feel fucking insane. “But usually, I’m just soliciting.”
“Yeah? For what?”
“Mormons.”
The man laughs again, and you try to make your smile wider. The drink can get you halfway there, easily.
It’s the rest of you, that’s always the problem.
You end up in a booth, half on the lap of your bar man—Jack or Jax or Max or Miles or Martholomew, but it really doesn’t fucking matter—and with your tongue shoved down his throat. You’re grabbing at his shoulders and dragging him forward as you try to grind down, but it feels like trying to start a fire with soggy driftwood.
There’s just not enough of him. This man is nice enough, but there’s something shaped like the hole in your body that’s missing. His hands are possessive, but they should be teasing and gentle as well. As if you’re a delicate work of blown glass, that’s stronger than it looks but still needs care. He should let you play until you get tired, and he eagerly jumps in to take over. He’s supposed to have slightly longer hair, and bigger hands, and wrap around you as he kisses, as if he’s more shield than man.
You don’t have any idea where you got those fantasies.
No one has ever touched you like that. Kissed you like that. Been enough that you’d hold them higher than the sun.
“Yeah, doll,” the man grabs your ass as he drawls. “You’re such a dirty girl, aren’t you.”
You frown against his lips. That’s not right either. He’s supposed to say-
“There you go.” He keeps your legs spread apart easily, pushing a finger in until it’s knuckle deep. “Yeah. That’s it. Oh fuck, you’re soaked.”
A loud, desperate moan tears through your lips, the word fuck maybe the most sinful thing in the world, when it’s from his lips. “Please, I- I need it, just-“ You try to roll your hips forward, grabbing at the sheets. “Please-“
“You’ll get it, baby.” He kisses your inner thigh, rubbing the sensitive skin in firm circles. “I always help you, don’t I? I take care of you.”
“Yeah, yes, you do, but- Fuck-“ You moan the sound you can’t hear, grabbing at his wrist. “More-“
“Can you relax, darling? For me, please?”
You go slack, and he grins.
“There you go. That’s my good girl.”
For a moment, as the bar comes back into focus, you’re frozen.
Then the man grunts from below you, and you almost vault off his lap.
Wrong.
Everything, everywhere, is so fucking wrong.
You leave with rushed apologies and a twenty-dollar payment for two drinks—too much, but you just need to go so they can keep the tip—and try not to trip over yourself running home.
And you check the locks, twice. Close the windows and keep all the lights on, even as you get ready for bed.
But it’s not safe.
Not anywhere.
You’re digging through your underwear drawer, and your fingers brush over a thick, warm fabric. When you pull it out, it’s a flannel that smells of stale amber and wood. It feels right, on your fingers, but you don’t have a clue where it came from, or why it’s here.
But it’s warm. Even after months at the bottom of a cold dresser, it’s so warm. Like an ember. Like something clinging to a flickering fire that just refuses to die. That sparks, just when it’s about to go out.
That keeps you warm.
“Put it on, baby. Please.”
“No.” You raise a hand, blocking him from your view. “Puppy eyes don’t work on me,” you hum the noise you can’t hear, grinning out at the field. “I am perfectly warm. I’m basically a furnace. I think I could power the eastern seaboard, with how warm I am.”
“I, um- I don’t think that’s how energy works, sweetheart-“
“But maybe it does.”
He sighs, even as the heavy sound is laced with affection. “Okay. That can be how it works, but- Please. Put it on.” He pauses. “For me?”
You drop your hand, and glare at his pretty, innocent face—which is a fucking act, because he was face deep in your pussy like three hours ago—and hopeful, clear eyes. He just smiles at you nervously, still holding out the flannel, and you roll your eyes.
“I hate it when you play that card.”
He blinks, looking honestly confused. “What card?”
“Shut up.” You grab the flannel out of his hand, and he grins.
“Yes, ma’am. Do you want help putting it on?”
You nod, shuffling closer to his side. If it were anyone else, they’d get a biting, harsh no. You can do it yourself, it’s just a flannel, and—because you’re not fucking seven—you know how sleeves and buttons work.
But it’s him. And you want a reason to be as close to him as possible, so you can figure out how to crawl into his lap after. Be as surrounded by him as possible, and run your fingers through curly hair as he breathes against your neck. It makes you shiver, the feeling of his lips grazing sensitive spots on your throat while his hands splay over your back.
“I’m not cold anymore.” You mumble in his ear, and you can feel his lips curve into a smile.
“Sorry, darling, but- I thought you weren’t cold at all?”
“Don’t be mean.” You whine the sound you can’t hear into his neck, and he chuckles.
“I’ve been learning from the best. And she,” he kisses a spot behind your ear. “Is also so smart, and cares so much, and never lets anything hold her down-“
“That’s not true.” You grumble. “I let a lot of things hold me down.”
“Yeah, but you never give up,” he pulls back, holding your face gently in his hands. His thumb traces over your cheek, and it feels like he’s taking you apart. “You’re strong.”
You laugh dryly. “You’ve been through more.”
“Yeah. Once a goat ate my favorite shirt, and- Gosh, sweetheart, remember how the ice cream place didn’t have the flavor I wanted to show you.” He grins, kissing your cheek. “I’m basically going to hell and back.”
“I’ve had banana splits before-“
“Not like these, though-“
You sigh the sound you can’t hear, and he falls silent. “You know what I mean.”
Something blurs. Like you’re scrubbing through film footage. The world moves fast, and you’re being pulled like a puppet. Saying something, but not having a clue what. Like your voice was taken from your throat. Then it slows down, the world resuming, and your voice resumes.
“I just think- It’s not the same-“
“I know it’s not the same.” He mutters your name, kissing your knuckles. At some point, his hand had taken yours during the blur. You hadn’t even noticed. “But you still get through a lot of stuff, baby. I think it would make most people fall.”
You smile at him sadly, voice dropping to a whisper. “I think it makes me want to fall, sometimes.”
“Well.” He folds his fingers through yours, and the sleeve of his flannel flops slightly. It looks like you don’t really stop at all. You just continue. Right into him. “I’m pretty freaking grateful that you don’t.”
The flannel gets shoved back into the underwear drawer.
You stop looking around at things.
And it’s not fine. Nothing’s fucking fine. You’re not talking to anyone, really. Not going anywhere. Hiding in your own bed, just knowing that something is so incredibly off, as the echoes continue to grow, but you don’t have a word for it. And if you tried to find one, you’d sound fucking bananas. At best, you’re just having hyper-realistic daydreams that are freaking you out way more than they should. At worst, you have a brain tumor.
You’ve explored all the options, in your new favorite place, the bathroom floor. And you’ve settled on a very sustainable do nothing until you either drop dead or someone pins you down and makes you get help. It’s a strategy that’s worked well this long, and nobody has managed to get you pinned down at all.
“You’ve got a flu, sweetheart, you need to stay in bed-“
“You can’t make me,” you sing the sound you can’t hear, spinning in a wide circle, all the colors neon and pastel around you. “You’re not my boss, and you’re not bigger than me. I am,” you wrap your arms around his neck. “Bigger than a mouse.”
“Well, that’s not wrong.” He sighs, and picks you up as if you weigh nothing.
“Wow.” You poke at his muscles, squirming in his arms. “You’re strong. And big.”
“I, uh- Thanks.”
“And hot. It’s so hot.” You whine the sound you can’t hear. “Why is it so hot?”
“That’s the fever, darling.” He sounds amused, but kisses the side of your head so gently. “I’ll text Perry from your phone, okay?”
“Okay.” You mumble, clinging to his shirt when he tries to set you down. “Can you stay?”
He sighs, scanning carefully over your face. “I have work, and- You know, the other thing-“
Everything blurs again. But this time, all of his words blurring together while you’re stuck in a static. Then it all resumes, and it’s as if nothing happened at all.
“Please?” You pout, and he nods slowly.
“Yeah. Okay. I mean, I can’t make a promise about that, but- I swear to you I’ll see what I can do-“
“Yay.” You beam, and flop back down onto the mattress. “I love you, Martian Man.”
“Different guy. And, um- Wrong planet.” He kisses your brow, and your eyes flutter shut. “But I love you too, my cow.”
You hum. “Would you buy me in an auction?”
“You know I’m not answering that, pretty girl.” He mutters, and he’s using the other voice. The deeper, smooth one that always makes you listen to whatever you say. “Go to sleep.”
The lights are getting long. The shadows of the small, Daily Planet bathroom feel longer.
Your eyes are stinging with tears, and you wipe them with the thin corporate napkins.
Spend a little too long looking in the mirror.
Apparently, your thoughts aren’t fully safe anymore either, even in the quiet.
And you’d never said I love you. To anyone.
But you said it to him.
The man who just lives in your head, who you can’t even afford to give a name, pulls love out of you in a way that feels bigger than the hole in your chest. In a way like a tree. Always growing and growing and taking deeper root, until it’s embedded in the Earth.
And he loves you back.
But only in your fucking head.
“I’m not saying it’s weird.” Steve is almost shouting at Jimmy and Lois, and you poke your head over your computer to watch. “You know I’m a big fan of the guys, Lois, I’m just asking questions! Isn’t that our job?”
“To… learn about Kryptonian biology?” Lois snorts, taking a sip of her coffee. “No, I think that’s up to scientists, Steve.”
“Well, they have nothing to study-“
“Neither do we, dude.” Jimmy’s grin is shit-eating. “It’s not like Superman is in this room, so we can ask him questions about his penis.”
Clark coughs loudly, and you frown at him. His leg is bouncing, and his ears look a little red.
Lois sees it as well, and calls across the room, “You alright, Clark?”
“Uh, yeah- I’m, yeah.” Clark clears his throat, shooting to his feet and walking over to join their group.
Which is gathered near your desk.
It’s not making you nervous so much as wired. With every step Clark takes across the room, you feel more and more like electricity is humming under your skin, sparking up in that emptiness and just making everything very fucking confusing.
Then Clark looks at you.
Only a quick glance, with that same worry in his brow and odd shine in his eyes. It’s the only way he’s been looking at you, lately.
You flush, and look back to your computer with everything in you feeling like it’s on fire.
“Um-“ Clark’s words are low, and you see him shake his head in your periphery. He’s looking at you. For too long, you can see the clearness of his eyes, feel them singeing on your skin.
Then he looks away.
And you just feel cold.
“What are we talking about?” He asks the group, and Steve scowls.
“I don’t want your thoughts on it, Kansas, I’m looking for the big leagues opinion-“
“Steve wants us to give Superman a pat-down.” Jimmy says quickly. “The full TSA. He says it’s for science.”
“Which is a ridiculous claim.” Lois adds. “But also pointless. Because what, are you going to just call him out of the sky and start asking him questions?”
“I mean...” Steve pauses. “Isn’t that just what you and Kent do?”
“No. Or, well-“ Clark coughs. “Sort of, I guess. But we’re asking him important questions. About world politics.”
Jimmy raises his hand. “Didn’t your last interview with him consist of only questions about cows and breakfast.”
You peek over your computer again, and Clark is blushing.
“I- He had a hard few weeks-“
“Or you’re just a pussy, right?” Steve laughs, raising his hand for a high five, and Lois gives him a flat look.
“None of us are high-fiving that, man.”
“Whatever.” Steve rolls his eyes. “Why does Kent get to work with Superman and not me.”
Jimmy laughs. “You write sports, dude-“
“I’m sure he has opinions! The people want to know who he is! What baseball team he’s rooting for this season!”
“Yeah,” Lois shakes her head. “I don’t think that’s what people want to know about Superman.”
“I know.” The wind is biting at your skin, and you’re glaring at him in the dark.
This seems like it’s from a long, long time ago. The air is hotter, your shirt one you think you lost months ago. When you reach up to nervously run your fingers through your hair, that’s different as well. And he’s across from you, something different in his clear eyes.
Different from all the other flashes.
The same as it seems to be now.
He sighs, taking a large step forward. “Can we not do this on the roof, please? I’m worried you’re going to catch a cold-“
“I’ll live.” You snap, raising your chin. Which is a mistake—the wind only bites you harder now—but you’re not going to back down from it. You’ll see this through. “I want you to tell me.”
“Tell you what?” He frowns, and winces slightly under your withering look. “I can’t say it. You know I can’t. If I tell you, then that’s on me-“
“What’s on you, the truth-“
“No, what I’ll be doing to you-“
“You’ve done a lot worse-“
“This isn’t a joke!” He shouts your name, taking a large step forward. “You could get seriously hurt, if you actually know! And if you get hurt, and I can’t save you, I’m-“ He shakes his head. “No. I’m not telling you.”
“I already fucking know-“
“Then just know, don’t make me tell you-“
“No, Clark! I know what it means that I know! I-“ You take a ragged breath, wrapping your arms around your stomach. “I’ve known for months, you dummy. I just- I sort of-“ You swallow, choking on the sob forming in your throat. “Never mind.”
You turn to walk away, and the world is blurring from tears in your eyes, but everything is also getting sharper at the same time. Like a camera lens, coming into a focus you hadn’t even known was off.
“No, wait-“ Clark shouts your name, grabbing the crook of your elbow. “Don’t- Shoot-“
He moves in front of you as you yank your elbow away, blocking your path off the roof.
“Move.” You mutter, and he shakes his head.
“You said you wouldn’t never mind me, baby.” He’s using the deep, commanding voice. The Superman voice. It’s cheating. “You promised. I always want to know what you’re thinking. Please.”
You shake your head, staring at his shoes. “It’s stupid-“
“No.” He grabs your chin, gently angling it up. Forcing you to meet his clear, bright, affectionate gaze. When you don’t speak—not out of spite, you’re mostly just trying not to cry—he prompts you gently. “You’ve really known for months?”
“Yeah.” You whisper. “I knew like, the first week I met you.”
His eyes widen. “How-“
“You wear your suit under your clothing, Clark.” You smile at him weakly. “You stretched. I saw. That was sort of it.”
“Oh.” He sighs, glancing down at that same suit, then back to you with a guilty expression. “Shoot.”
“Yeah. But nobody else has noticed, I promise. I asked around in a very covert way and the only other person who’s seen is Jimmy. But he said he asked you about it, and you said it’s just a weird compression shirt. Which, by the way, we need to come up with a better lie, Clark, because that one is-“
“Why didn’t you tell me you knew?” He mutters, and you swallow.
“I wanted you to tell me.”
“Oh.” Clark nods, then says your name gently. “Why were you looking at my shirt, darling?”
You flush. “Don’t- This isn’t about me-“
“Really?” He grins. “Because I kinda think most things are.”
“I- Well-“ You sigh, dropping your face into his chest. “You’re cute.”
“Cute?” You can hear the grin in his voice. “You think I’m cute?”
“And… other stuff.”
“What other-“
“We’ve fucked, Clark!” You shove away from his chest. “You know I think you’re attractive, don’t be mean-“
“Yeah, I’m sorry.” He catches you easily, pulling you back into his body. “I just like hearing what you think about me, sweetheart, I’m sorry.”
“You said I’m sorry twice.” You grumble, and he kisses the tip of your nose.
“Well, I am very sorry. And I love you. You’re the only cow I’d ever want to love.”
Your eyes widen. “You- Clark-“
“You don’t need to say it back,” he mutters your name, moving to kiss the corner of your mouth. “But I do. And I need to tell you something.”
You stare at him, and he grins at you, swiping his thumb over your lip.
“I’m Superman.”
“Oh.” You can’t stop your stupid, wide smile. “Cool.”
“It kind of is, right?” He laughs, and pulls you up into a deep, full kiss.
The long, dramatic kind of kiss. Where there might be music swelling in the background, and spotlights angling down to make the whole focus of everything just you and Clark. He’s dipping you down slightly, and your foot kicks into the air, and you’re dizzy and breathless when he finally pulls you upright. Still giving you smaller, softer kisses as you find your balance.
“Just, um-“ He sighs, still holding you tight to his chest. “Please don’t call me Clark when I’m in the suit, sweetheart.”
You giggle, murmuring against his lips. “I won’t if we can use it for sex stuff.”
“Oh. Uh-“ He blushes, but nods, dipping down to kiss your throat. “I think we can do that. You know you might be the death of me, right?”
“No. You’re not allowed to die.” You kiss the side of his head, and he sighs.
“Yeah. But you aren’t either.” He pulls back, a deep furrow in his brow. “I’m serious. I really don’t want you to get hurt because of this-“
“I won’t.” You smile at him. “I promise.”
Someone says your name, and you blink to see Lois waving a hand in front of your face.
“Um, yeah?”
“Are you okay?” She frowns at you, scanning over your face. “You’ve been staring at the same spot for like, ten minutes. If you need, I can bring you to the hospital-“
“I don’t need a hospital.” You say quickly, looking back to your computer. “I’m fine. Just tired.”
And when you say it that time, it sounds even more like a lie than before. Lois isn’t convinced, even when you manage to talk her into just getting you some ice. You’re not convinced, because you can feel it. Even your computer doesn’t seem to be convinced, the screen so bright it feels judgmental.
But most of all, Clark isn’t convinced.
He’s not looking, when you do your routine scan to make sure nobody is watching. He’s just sitting at his desk, leg bouncing.
Which is something he does, when he’s listening.
You don’t know how you know that. Why you know that. When you learned that.
But you know it’s Clark.
That in your head, it’s Clark. It’s always been Clark.
Or it’s never been Clark, and you’ve just lost your fucking mind.
You don’t know anymore. What’s real. Why your brain has decided Clark is Superman, and why he’d ever say he loves you, or why this is happening to you.
Something is more than wrong. Something is broken. It’s that massive fucking hollow in your chest, and it’s making your heart skip in all the wrong ways. Like you lost your metronome. Lost the beat. Can’t find it again, and now you’re falling and drowning on steady ground.
Everything is so, so wrong.
And when you don’t know what’s broken, you don’t know how to put it back together.
You’re not even sure it can be put back at all.
You have to ask him.
It’s eating you alive.
Clark sits across the office, and you squint at him until his face is a little more blurred, trying to blend it into the man of the echoes. You spend hours staring at your computer screen—decidedly not doing work—listening to his voice imagining him saying things to see if they match.
Every night you watch shadows move over your ceiling at night, trying to organize every single strange moment into its place.
Every morning, you stare at the flannel and try to remember something more.
It’s a puzzle you can’t stand to finish, but need to or everything feels like it’s going to crumble apart. It’s a game you don’t want to play, but can’t bear to lose.
There’s no logical reason for it to be real. You’d remember if you’d been kissing and dating and in love with Clark. Someone else would have known, someone would have said something, Clark wouldn’t have just let you forget if you had the love that seems to run under your every memory of him.
And you’d think about it all the time if you knew Clark was Superman.
You know, because you do think about it all the time. You’ve crunched the numbers. Built Rome in a day then tore it down, outlined the case and solved it with a pipe—anxiously chewed-up pencil—in your mouth.
Clark is Superman.
He’s always vanishing randomly, in the middle of the day. He’s always oddly invested in conversations about Superman, for someone who claims not to care much for superheroes, only ever commenting that they do good work before going to back to scrolling on his computer. He’s never sick, but when he is, it’s right after Superman’s had a really bad fight. His leg bounces when he’s listening to conversations he shouldn’t be able to hear.
He has the same fucking face.
When you look at Clark, then down to the photo of Superman you pulled up on your phone, it’s the same fucking face.
But in the echoes—you’re afraid to call them memories, because that makes all of this too real—you’d told him you figured it out.
It seems like, when you lay it all out on cluttered paper, you’d been dating before you told him you knew.
You don’t know how you started dating.
You’ve stared at him, and every corner of the office, and every single item you own, trying to will the answer into your existence.
Then the building shifts, something clatters in your kitchen, and you shriek.
The paranoia hasn’t gone away.
You still don’t know where it came from in the first place.
And you have to. You have to know. This isn’t something that’s going to pass. It’s only going to build and build and get worse and worse until you’re drowning in the vacuum of it all.
One person has the answers to your questions. And he’s at his desk, tapping on his phone and glancing up at the TV every few minutes.
It shouldn’t be that hard to talk to Clark. He’s your friend, and all you have to do is ask a very carefully calculated question that doesn’t make you sound crazy, but does invite him to tell you what you need to know.
You can’t figure out what that question should be.
So you’ve resorted to eavesdropping.
You shuffle over to the copier, paper crumpling slightly in your fingers, and act as if you’ve never seen a machine before in your life. You’re not sure what you’re hoping he’ll say—maybe, oh, my coworker fell and hit her head and we’re all very worried, but she seems to be alright—but it’s a better plan than just driving yourself insane.
You’re probably still going to end up doing that. It’s the plan you committed to first.
This is mostly so you can say you tried.
And maybe, just maybe, so you can be a little closer to him. Hear his voice.
See if anything at all comes back.
“Ma.” Clark mutters into his phone, and you press a random button. “I’m coming home soon, I promise.”
There’s a pause as another voice crackles through the speaker, and Clark sighs.
“No, I’ve told you, we’re not- Uh, it’s- Ma, it’s complicated- Yes, I know love shouldn’t be, but it’s not the feeling, it’s- Um-“ His eyes flick you, and he clears your throat. “I know I love her, Ma. But- I don’t know. I don’t want to talk about it, please. Yes, I’ll wait for Pa.”
The line goes quiet, and he’s still looking at you. It’s like you’re being set on fire.
You give him a weak smile. “I entered the wrong thing. To be copied.”
“Oh.” He returns the smile, and his looks so soft and real, it makes your throat ache. “They’re, uh- It’s still going?”
“Yeah, I, um- I figured other people might need some.” There’s an awkward moment of silence—he won’t stop looking at you—and you clear your throat. “Relationship problems?”
“No.” He says softy. “Nothing was ever a problem.”
You flush, looking back to the copier, and something really fucking stupid bubbles out of your throat. “Do you like cows, Clark?”
“Yeah. I love them.” He’s still fucking staring at you. “Do you?”
You shake your head. “I’ve always been more of a dog person.”
Ma Kent—with kind eyes and wrinkled hands that just finished touching pretty much everywhere on your face—laughs. “Oh, well, Clarkie was a dog boy, too, y’know. He liked to run around with the shepherds, and fly them up into the-“ Her eyes widen suddenly, and her eyes shoot to Clark. “Oh, I mean- He was just. flyin’ kites with Pa-“
“I would fly the herd dogs up into the sky.” He tells you, hand rubbing on the small of your back. “They liked being up there. Seeing all the birds. Made them happy, so I kept doing it. And it’s alright, Ma. She knows.”
“Oh. Wonderful. Did ya tell her, or did she figure it out.”
“I figured it out.” You beam, standing a little taller, and Clark sighs.
“That’s true. She did.”
“Oh, a smart girl.” Ma tilts her head at you, reaching up to cup your cheek once more. “Do you like pastries? Pa made too many, and I don’t got it in me to eat them all myself.”
You beam at her, leaning into Clark’s side.
She likes you.
The majority of the ride was spent with you working out every possible reason she might not like you, just to be ready. Clark had said you were just nervous, and she’d adore you. You’d told him that it wasn’t about you, it was about him.
You’d never think anyone was good enough for him either.
He’d blushed, and muttered that you felt pretty good for him.
You’d made a sex joke. He’d blushed more.
The goal had been to get them all out of your system before you arrived, because lewdness and vulgarity were on the list of reasons Clark’s parents might not like you. Even if Clark said they didn’t judge other people who swore, you hadn’t been about to take any chances.
But it didn’t matter.
She likes you.
And when Ma Kent starts to lead you into the kitchen, you tug on Clark’s sleeve until he leans down, allowing you to whisper in his ear.
“She likes me.”
“I know.” He chuckles, diving down to quickly plant a kiss on your lips. “Probably cause I love you.”
The paper you’d brought over is shredded on the floor, and Clark is saying your name.
It’s with more and more worry every time, and he’s dropping the phone from his ear. Trying to reach for you.
You can’t let him reach for you, because then he’ll touch you. Trigger another series of sparks in your chest. And it will keep slipping through your fingers too fast, when you still don’t know how to hold on.
But Clark’s a little faster than you think, for a guy his size.
He moves forwards, and catches you by the wrist. “Sweetheart-“
“You’re pushing it.” He murmurs in your ear, and you lean your head back on his chest. “I thought you were tired?”
“I am.” You turn your face, pressing it into his shoulder as you sit in his lap.
He holds you like he couldn’t bear to let go, even when you’re just in bed. Kisses your nose like you’re something sweet, when you’ve been all but grinding down onto his crotch for the last five minutes. But you can feel him, pressing through his sweats and rock hard. And if he just keeps dragging against your thighs and clothed core, you’re going to burst into tears. You need him inside of you.
Now.
“If you’re tired, darling, we can go to bed-“
“Clark.” You whisper, turning your head to meet clear, slightly hooded eyes. “You could cut glass with this.”
You grind down onto him again, and he hisses softly.
“Don’t do that, it’s not fair-“
“Do you want me to stop?” You pout at him in a picture of innocence, and he groans.
“You know I don’t. But-“ He sighs, watching you carefully in the dark. “You’re tired. You sleeping is more important than me, you know-“ He thrusts up, and your lips fall over with a broken moan.
Clark’s eyes widen at the reaction, and he’s quickly grabbing your face, angling it around to check for damage.
“Shoot, baby, I’m sorry- I didn’t mean to-“
“Clark.” You whine, leaning into his touch. “Please.”
His throat bobs, and his thumb drops to slowly trace your lips. “You’re tired.”
“I’m always tired.” You mumble. “I want you.”
“Well, you kind of always want me- Christ.”
You take his thumb fully into your mouth, sucking on it with a lidded, sweet and drunken gaze, and you know you’ve won before you even let your tongue flick over the pad of the finger.
He used a grown-up curse word.
You’re getting what you want.
“You want it?” He mutters your name, voice rough and low, and you hum around him. “Yeah? Can you please use your words, darling?”
You pop off of his thumb, and lean forward until your nose is bumping against his. “Can you please fuck me, Clark. Pretty please?”
He smiles, tangling his fingers in your hair. “That bad?”
You nod, and he raises his brows.
“You going to let me take care of you?”
“Yeah- Oh-“
Your words die with a happy squeak as Clark drags you forward into a deep, long kiss. You’re too lost in the haze of it—of him, lips moving heavy and demanding over yours, teeth grazing your lips—to really notice how he’s moving you, until the angle is one you can’t hold the kiss in.
“Clark- Mmm-“ Your head falls against his shoulder, as he palms your breast with a large hand. “Don’t tease-“
“I’m not teasing.” He hums, slowly guiding your legs apart with his ankles over yours. “I’m taking care of you. And you like it, don’t you? This,” he rubs your nipple between his fingers. “It feels good, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah.” You whisper, and he grins.
“I know. Just feel it, darling.” He kisses the soft skin of your neck, and his hand wanders down between your thighs. “Can you feel it?”
You nod, grabbing his forearm as his massive fingers start to play between the folds of your pussy. You’re not sure when he got your clothes off. You don’t really care.
“Yeah, there you go.” He’s cooing in your ear, and your free arm tries to reach up and wrap around his neck. “That’s it, isn’t it? You’re so wet, sweetheart, you want a little more?”
“Yes.” Your back arches as Clark teases over your entrance. “More. I- I need it Clark, I-“
“Can you say please?” He flicks your nipple, and you nod.
“Please. Please, Clark, god-“ You let out a loud, sinful sound as his fingers find your clit, and start to rub. Harsh and fast, back and forth while he keeps playing with your breasts, and it’s already too much.
He’s worshipful, on your neck. Kissing and sucking on your skin, all while his fingers continue to drive you insane. You’re staring up at the ceiling with glassy eyes, just trying to keep up with what he’s doing to you, and Clark just keeps kissing you and touching your breasts like they’re something holy.
You writhe in his arms, and he just keeps you steadily pinned. You drive to drive your hips up or grind down onto his cock, he slaps your pussy once—lightly, just a sting that makes you gasp—and keeps going. Your arousal is dripping down, wet on your ass and inner thighs, and you fly off the edge without a warning.
Clark doesn’t stop. You can’t manage to close your legs, against his strength, and when you whine for him, you just get the same, low whisper in your ear.
“Need you soaked, darling.” He whispers, just his voice making you moan. “Need you ready for me. You know that. Just one more.”
One more turns into two more, and by the time Clark’s hand finally slows, you’re a shaking, wired mess. He lands light hits on your cunt as you float down, and drags two fingers through the mess with a satisfied groan.
“There she is.” He turns your head, offering you a gentle, loving kiss. “You ready, sweetheart?”
You nod, and Clark clears his throat.
“Can I please do the, uh-“
“Yeah.” You breathe out, trying to worm out of his arms to help.
He doesn’t let you.
Clark grins like he just won the lottery, catches you by the waist, and pushes you slowly down into the mattress. Your face presses into the sheets, your ass up in the air, and Clark runs his fingers back through your pussy. Spreads your arousal around, groaning as his forefinger dips slightly into your cunt, and you flutter around him.
“Yeah. That’s good” He crawls over you to kiss your neck. “You ready?”
You nod, trying to wiggle back into him, and he grunts.
“Yeah, alright, you’re ready. Fuck, darling, you’re so pretty.” He kisses down your spine, slowly massaging your hips and ass. “There you go. Just relax. Oh- Shit-“
Clark pushes into you, the stretch burning so fucking good, and your hands fist in the mattress.
“So good.” He groans. “Always so good and tight for me, sweetheart, you’re-“ He grunts, bottoming out. “So fucking perfect, like an angel, so fucking good. Take me so well, this pussy was made for me-“
“Clark.” You whine, clenching around him, and he ruts into you.
“Oh, God-“ He draws fully out, then slams into you, knocking the air out of your lungs. “Yeah, fuck- Doing so good for me, baby, taking my cock like a- Shit-“
Clark cuts himself off with a groan, and pulls out for a split second, flipping you onto your back.
He slams back in, crashing his mouth down over yours, and starts to fuck you at an animalistic pace. Your nails scratch at his back, your body already so sensitive from before, but it’s pointless. Clark always fucks you like he’s never going to touch you again. His cock hits every spot inside of you that lights you up, his hands wander and touch you in every way you love, because he has them all memorized.
When he hits a sensitive one, and gets a reaction, he fucks you a little harder. You moan his name, and his tongue shoves down your throat.
But Clark still drives his hips in a measured, careful way, keeping himself on a tight leash until you’re shaking and pleading around him.
Then his kisses grow sloppy.
His thrusts become uneven.
And he gives in fully when you cum with a cry of his name, your orgasm rushing through your whole body.
Clark groans, slamming home with a grunt and messy, hungry kiss.
You’re a little dazed, when you float down, but you still manage to reach up. Trace his slack, adoring features with light hands.
“The point of the doggy is that you can dirty talk, baby.” You whisper, and he sighs, dropping his face into your neck.
He still hasn’t pulled out. He hasn’t even fully softened inside of you.
He’s probably not going to for a while. Clark likes to keep himself buried in you for as long as possible, until you need to pee and he’s carrying you to the bathroom.
He also has a dirty fucking mouth, that drives you out of your mind, and he refuses to use it.
“You’re tired.” He mutters. “Felt mean when you’re tired.”
You laugh softly. “You know I like it, Clark-“
“Yeah, but I love you. And you should get the best.”
“I have the best.” You smile at him, and his lips twitch.
“Yeah. I have the best too.”
Clark says your name, voice almost as rough as it had been in your head.
But without any lust or need.
Just worry.
And the same, tangible fucking affection, as his fingers squeeze your wrist.
“I- I have to go.” You whisper, pulling your hand out of his grasp.
He lets you.
Clark could so easily hold on, but he lets you go.
But when you stumble away, and turn to run, you can feel it again.
Someone watching.
And when you glance over your shoulder, this time, Clark doesn’t look away.
He just watches you with something so fucking heavy in his eyes, mouth hanging open as his hand still reaches out.
Like he wants to catch you, but can’t.
Like he knows you’re already gone.
You can’t sleep.
If you get into bed, you look to the side and see Clark there. Lying next to you and grinning. Holding your hand on his chest, then kissing your knuckles before rolling on top of you with a laugh.
Something you’ve never had before.
That it feels like you never really had at all.
And you don’t understand.
You crawl out onto the fire escape of your apartment—curling into a little ball on the stairs and just trying to breathe in the fresh air—and you can’t fit all of it in your head. Where this all came from, why it feels so right, and why you would have ever forgotten it.
If this is something that was real, and you’re not just going insane, then you would never have let it go. You would have climbed mountains and screamed at the clouds, if it got taken away from you. If Clark got taken away from you.
But he was, and you’re just sitting on cold metal stairs.
At least, it feels like he was taken away from you. Something was taken away from you. Something that you needed and wanted has been turned into his gaping hole, and the only thing that seems to fit is Clark.
He hasn’t said anything. Hasn’t treated you any different than you can remember—although you don’t really trust your own mind anymore—and just stares at you with that worry.
As if he knows something’s wrong, but can’t fix it.
Won’t fix it.
If Clark knows it’s broken, he won’t fix it for you. And if it’s not just all in your head, you’re not sure he loved you at all.
Then, you feel it.
Something watching you.
Your head shoots up, and the streets are dark. Quiet, for the city. Not too quiet that it’s heralding certain death, but quiet.
There’s a shadow, in the alley across the street. Oddly shaped, and sort of suspended in the air.
You swallow—if you’re wrong, nobody ever has to know—and whisper, “Clark?”
Superman darts out of the alley, landing across from you on the fire escape, and smiles. Soft. Confident and nervous all at once, with his shoulders relaxed but words gentle and gaze filled with that worry.
And it’s Clark. You can look at him and know that better than anything else. You know his face, because it’s imprinted like a burn on your brain. It’s not strange to see him in the suit, because you’ve seen it a million times before.
You think you’ve seen it a million times before.
But you know you’ve seen the worry. The furrow of his brow and pressing of his lips that’s all Clark, and all for you.
Like he cares.
“I’ve told you not to call me that when I’m in the suit, sweetheart.”
You pull your knees into your chest, blinking up at him. “I- I’m-“
He mutters your name, taking a step forward, and you curl into a smaller ball.
“Why are you here?”
Clark sighs, throat bobbing. “I shouldn’t be.“
“Cl- Superman.” You correct yourself quickly, and it feels strange on your tongue. “That’s not an answer-“
“I was supposed to keep away.” He says suddenly, wincing slightly. “I really shouldn’t be here, I should’ve been avoiding you all together, but-“ He mutters your name, looking up with clear, sad eyes. “I have to know you’re okay, sweetheart. I need you to tell me you’re okay.”
You swallow, forcing your gaze to hold on his. “Why?”
“Why?”
“Why do you need to know?” You whisper. “Why does it matter to you?”
His jaw presses together, and his attention darts out to the street. Mostly empty.
Something tugs on your head, and you can hear him muttering in your ears. Nothing’s ever empty enough. Safer than safe. Don’t want a mostly safe fence post, whole thing will go kaboom down.
Your lips twitch, because you remember laughing at kaboom.
Everything hurts, because you don’t really remember it at all.
“Can we go inside, please?” He points to your window, and you nod weakly.
He reaches out to help you to your feet, but pulls away at the last second, and it makes your heart burn. He opens the window, and holds it up for you to go first.
You want to reach for him, when he clambers in behind you. You can’t get yourself to move.
The moment he’s inside, it hits you like a wave.
Clark’s sitting with you at the table and holding your hand, because he refuses to let go. He’s spinning you around in the kitchen, and carrying a million plates while you giggle, worried he’s going to drop them. He’s hanging that painting on your wall and making your bed while you hug him from behind and kissing you on the couch because you couldn’t wait for the bedroom, but he won’t just take you on the floor. He’s painting your nails, because he spent hours practicing just for you. Kissing your cheek before he leaves in the morning, and looking back with a sweet, secret grin before he leaves out the window.
And it all feels so fucking real. It all fits so neatly into that space in your chest. It makes your heart beat the way it should, and the world seems to stop spinning at an off-kilter angle.
You never would have forgotten that.
But you did.
And you don’t understand.
Clark looks like he’s going to reach for you, clenching and unclenching his fists at his side. He should be out of place, in the bright, costumey superman outfit.
But he doesn’t.
This seems like somewhere he’s supposed to be. The walls feel closer, and it could be the shallowness of your breath, but it also might just be how they’re trying to reach for Clark. As if even they feel emptier without him.
They shouldn’t know him at all. But they do.
You do.
And it makes the emptiness hurt even more.
Clark says your name, watching you like you’re going to turn to dust before his eyes. “Please, tell me you’re okay.”
“I’m not.” You say it before you can think.
You can tell him.
You tell Clark everything.
He mutters your name, and you shake your head.
“I- I’m not okay, Clark, I don’t know what’s happening to me. I don’t know what’s real, I don’t trust myself, I don’t trust anything, and I- I scared, Clark, please, I’m so, so scared-“
A sob chokes in your throat, and he moves in a flash. Pulls you into his chest, holding you tight and wrapping over you. Like he’s trying to shield you from every bit of harm.
You hug him back. Your arms fly up because it feels like the only thing to do, and your face presses into his chest because there’s no other place for you to be. You fit so well there.
You never would have let go.
“I don’t know what’s real.” You whisper into his body, and he stiffens slightly. “Clark, I can’t tell anymore, please, I- I don’t know what happened, I don’t know,” you shake your head, words weak and broken through the tears. “Please.”
You’re not sure what you’re begging for. All you know is that Clark is running his fingers through your hair, and holding you the same way he looked at you.
As if he’s afraid you’re going to vanish from his hands.
“I’m so sorry,” he mutters your name, heavy strain in his voice. “I can’t tell you. It’s not safe.”
You sniff, clinging to him a little tighter. “But I- I think I loved you.”
There’s a long silence, and Clark’s voice is hoarse when he breaks it.
“You did.” He murmurs, and when you lean back, his eyes are shining with tears. “You really did, darling, but- You said it wouldn’t get you hurt.”
Something haunted flashes over his face, and in the very back of your head—pushed under something deeper than the emptiness, under something iron you don’t want to open and set free—you can hear it.
Your own screams.
“It got me hurt?” You blink up at him, and he gives a small, tight nod. “How-“
“Luther.” He mutters, and your blood goes cold. “He worked out I might not just be up in the arctic, all the time. He thought you knew my identity, about my family, my parents. He took you, and-“ Clark’s hands tense on your body, and a tear slides down his cheek.
“Clark-“
“You never broke.” He whispers. “You were so, so strong, but- I can’t let you get hurt again. I- I’m not worth that. Ma and Pa, they wouldn’t want it, nobody should have to go through that just because of me, and I- I found you.” He shakes his head. “I’m never living in a world where I don’t find you.”
“You’d rather not have me at all?”
Clark sighs your name, and you shake your head.
“No, I- I don’t want to forget, you can’t just-“
“It wasn’t me.” He says glumly, reaching up to trace a hand over your face. “You were so worried about me. You said you’d already talked to Terrific about it, and he knew a guy who could wipe it. Everything about us. Everything about me being Superman. Oh, geez.” He laughs weakly. “He’s not going to be happy it didn’t work.”
You drop your chin on his chest, keeping your words soft. “It didn’t. At all.”
“When-“
“The first day I got back from vacation. I remember us talking about redwood trees. You’ve always wanted to go.”
He looks like you’re shooting him. “Yeah. I have.”
“That wasn’t a vacation, was it.”
“No.” Clark bows his head, brow pressing to yours. “It wasn’t.”
There’s a moment of silence as you just breathe each other in, then Clark’s fingers curl on your hips.
“Do you want me to fix it?” He mutters. “Wipe you again?”
Your heart moves into your throat. “No. No. Clark, I- I just want you.”
He frowns, and takes a sudden, large step away. “But what if you get hurt again? It’s not- It won’t be safe-“
“I feel safe now.”
You do.
For the first time since the vacation, you feel safe.
And you’re not going to let go.
“What about when you aren’t safe?” Clark shakes his head, still backing away. “What about when I can’t find you?”
“You will, I trust you-“
“I almost didn’t-“
“But you did-“
“What if I don’t?” His voice is rising, and he’s taking another step away. “Broken hearts heal, I- I’m not God, darling, I can’t put you back together-“
“I already feel broken.” You whisper, and he freezes. “Please, Clark. Please. I- I can feel it here.” You point to the center of your chest. “So much of my life is you, you’re everywhere, I- I’m never going to be able to forget, please don’t make me-“
“I- I’d never make you-“
“So let me stay.” You plead, taking a small step forward. “I still love you, I- I’ll wait forever for you to love me again-“
“I never stopped.” He whispers. “I still love you, of course I still love you, I’ll never stop, you’re- You’re everything to me, but- If you get hurt-“
“I’ll be okay.”
“But-“
“I’m okay now.” You give him a sad smile. “With you. I- I need to remember, Clark. Please.” You take a ragged breath. “Tell me it’s real.”
Clark’s eyes flash, and he shifts on his feet for a second.
Then he’s moving.
Lunging forward, and pulling you into his arms.
Kissing you. Long and deep, like he’s never needed to breathe, and you’ve never needed to breathe either because this is better. This is warm and safe and cared for, and it’s all around you in a way you know so well. Your arm slots around his neck and you trace his face as you get lightheaded, because you could draw him in your sleep.
And the kiss sends so much of it flooding back. Clark’s warm, and he smells like amber and wood. Tastes like sweet pastries and coffee.
Feels like yours.
“It’s real.” He mutters against your lips, and his voice in your head is as clear as the rest of him.
“Clark…” You mumble, and he nods, smiling against your lips.
“You and me.” Clark whispers.
He’s not letting go either.
“It’s always been real.”
✦End note: Oh to love someone so much it physically cannot be erased. I'm very normal about memory fics, guys✦
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“It’s a pan-seared chicken with creamy mashed potatoes, roasted corn, and a tarragon beurre blanc. Comfort food but dressed up a bit. I hope you like it, Clark. Now, dig in and be honest.”
“This looks amazing,” he says earnestly, his eyes wide with a kind of quiet wonder.
“It’s nothing that crazy,” you downplay instantly.
“Well, I wish you could see what I see.”
“Ah,” you squawk in lieu of an actual response. Though you soothe yourself, knowing that if anyone else had experienced the downright heart-melting look he gave you, they’d be reduced to the speech capabilities of a bird too.
You give them a curt nod before disappearing into the back as quickly as you can. As soon as you enter the threshold of the kitchen, you press your back against the door. Then proceed to slide down it.
Why didn’t Lois tell you the friend she brought was so… handsome and sweet?
Or
Running a restaurant is hard, and you’ve been running yourself into the ground; the inspiration that once came so easily has started to dry up. But when fate, or rather, Lois Lane, introduces you to a certain cute journalist, you find yourself struck with a love you never saw coming.
Tags/Warnings: Fluff, Implied Smut, Chef!Reader, Love at First Sight, Dorks in Love, Clark Kent Being Adorable, Secret Identity Stuffs, Clark's Hypno Glasses, Cooking Together, Kissing, Breakfast for Dinner, Falling in Love, Getting Together, Love Confessions, Mutual Pining
WC: 6.1k
A/N: Between You, Me & Tuscany, Sydcarmy edits, the Shawn Hatosy Quinn audio and this fanfic called The Ingredients of You and Me (linked here if you're curious, it's amazing!), I needed to write something with a chef. Hope you enjoy!
***
Something’s missing.
You’ve been bent over your stove for the past hour, tweaking your take on the classic Béarnaise sauce, but it’s missing something.
Something you think you may never find.
With a deep sigh, you look around at the Béarnaise sauce graveyard you’re in.
You had to get this right.
Maybe it’s the fact that you’re under immense pressure, not just from yourself, and the expectations you’ve built up in your own mind. Maybe that’s why nothing makes sense right now.
You take another spoonful, tasting, letting it coat your tongue, thinking that maybe this time, something will click. But no.
It still feels hollow.
You stare at the pan, at the slow swirl of butter and egg and vinegar, and feel like giving up.
Before you can continue to beat yourself up looking for answers, you hear the familiar squeak of the kitchen door.
There stands Lois, hands on her hips, like she knows you’ve been driving yourself into the ground.
“You okay?” she asks, concerned. Without which you would have kept spiralling, or be found under a pile of dirty pans and half-finished sauces.
“I can’t cook. I’m a fraud.”
“I’m sure you’re being dramatic.”
“Am not. This stupid sauce is missing something,” you reply with a pout. You grab a fresh spoon, handing it to her. “Try it. It’s supposed to go with the porterhouse.”
She takes the spoon, blows on it slightly, and tastes, her expression softening instantly. That small look of satisfaction, that’s why you got into cooking. To make people happy.
“I may not have your highly trained palate, but I think it tastes delicious.”
“You’re too kind,” you mutter with a light giggle. You knew she’d say that, though it doesn’t bring you closer to what you're missing.
It’s not just the Béarnaise, it’s most of the menu. The restaurant has been steady, reliable to a fault, a well-oiled machine; you have a brigade of talented chefs who execute every dish with precision, though some of this place’s joie de vivre has gone.
That fresh spark is fading, and ideas are starting to feel recycled.
You knew that it was bound to happen, but only three years in? The stress of it was starting to gobble you up, feet first. If you didn’t shake things up, business would slow to a crawl.
You just knew it, it's a fickle business that thrives on innovation. But you could get it back, you just needed to keep trying, keep pushing, keep—
You hear a shuffle in the main restaurant and look towards the door.
“Is someone else here?” you ask inquisitively.
“Sorry, I brought my coworker with me. We were on our way to a café to work on an article when I thought I should drop by and check on you.”
“You’re not going to a café. Let me cook for you and your friend,” you demand, practically decided on the matter.
“I couldn’t—”
“It would be my pleasure.”
“Aren’t you under enough pressure?”
“It’ll be good practice. You could be my little guinea pigs.”
Lois hesitates, studying your face, as if she’s trying to calculate how many hours of sleep you’ve gotten from a single look.
“You sure about that?”
You wipe your hands on a towel, already reaching for a fresh pan, ready to cook your heart out.
“I need this. Just something simple, y’know. Cooking for friends.”
“Alright,” she says, a small smile breaking through. “But if I get food poisoning, I’m writing about it.”
“Very funny.”
***
Clark waits by one of the tables, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. When Lois asked if they could drop by her friend’s restaurant, he agreed.
“She’ll probably be cooking herself into a coma right about now,” she told him.
It’s a beautiful place, intimate without feeling too small. He can’t believe he hadn’t come across it sooner. From the softly painted mural of the sky at sunset stretching across the ceiling to the polished wood of the tables and bar. It felt warm, lived-in even.
His ears perk up when you start to speak.
“I can’t cook. I’m a fraud,” he hears you lament.
Your voice…there's something about it. Clark feels his heart skip a beat. He's only heard you speak once, but it's like a hit of dopamine.
He tunes back in to hear Lois compliment your cooking.
“You’re too kind,” you say in response, followed by a soft giggle. Clark feels the tips of his ears start to turn a soft pink.
He wasn’t trying to listen. Really. But his super hearing didn’t seem to want to turn itself off all of a sudden. Complete coincidence.
Though it doesn't hurt that the tones of your voice float through his head like a melody. He rubs the back of his neck, suddenly feeling like he’s intruding on something private.
He tunes the rest of the conversation out, focusing on the traffic outside and the light rain just starting to hit the pavement.
Lois exits the kitchen and makes her way over, weaving easily between the tables. “My friend says we can stay and write here if you want.”
“Oh, uh, how kind of her.”
“Yeah, she’ll cook for us too, and before you try and protest, I’ve already tried to convince her not to, but she’s as stubborn as a mule.”
They settle down at a table, the cutlery neatly aligned and cute placemats matching the mural above them.
He listens in again and hears your little mutterings to yourself, “Where did I put the shallots?” and “I need to put an order in for more tarragon…”
“Where are you?” Lois asks teasingly as she waves a hand in front of his face. Had he gotten caught swooning over a person he hadn’t even met yet?
“Just thinking, is all.”
It’s not a complete lie, just a lie by omission.
With a deep breath like you’ve been running all over your kitchen, you step out into the main dining room area. Clark hears your footsteps before he sees you, light and swift.
You come into view with a smile like sunshine, and it’s like he forgets to breathe.
“You must be Clark. Forgive me for trapping you in my restaurant, but now that you’re here, I refuse to let either of you leave hungry.”
For a second, he just… stares.
Then, as if remembering how words work, he straightens, nearly knocking his knee against the table in the process.
“Oh—no, it’s fine,” he says quickly, fumbling with his glasses again, a faint flush still clinging to his ears. “Better than fine. Great.”
Lois snorts under her breath.
“You should’ve heard her five minutes ago,” she adds, leaning back in her chair. “On the brink of a total meltdown.”
“Lois,” you warn, though there’s no real bite to it.
You turn your attention back to Clark. “So what sort of food do you like?”
“I’ll take whatever you recommend.”
You pause for a moment to look him over and attempt to read his mind. With a soft hum, you note his slightly hunched posture, his kind blue eyes behind his glasses, the way he seems both confident and yet a little unsure of where to put his hands.
An interesting case.
“You probably wouldn’t like something super avant-garde, so I’ll leave the molecular gastronomy alone. How about something warm and comforting? You’re a real home-cooked meal kind of guy, right?”
“Right on the money.”
“I can work with that. Any allergies I need to be aware of? I don’t want to kill you, talk about a bad first impression,” you chuckle nervously.
“No allergies I know of.”
You give him a nod, already filing things away. “And the usual for you, Lois?”
“You know me so well.”
“Well…you’re such a Metropolis girl. Your order isn’t that hard to figure out.”
“And what is that supposed to mean?” Lois calls after you, only a little offended, as you walk away toward the kitchen.
Clark follows you with his eyes until you disappear behind those silver doors.
And without meaning to, he's counting down the minutes until he can see you again.
***
You cooked up a little storm in there. A carrot or two may have gone flying, but it was fun, though, no pressure of trying to be the most inventive chef Metropolis has ever seen.
You lay the plates in front of them, that small pit of dread in your stomach as you debate whether they’ll like it or not. It sucks how your perfectionism can’t seem to let you go, or maybe it’s just a bout of imposter syndrome, or even better, a wonderful mix of both.
Though judging by the look on Clark’s face, you have nothing to worry about.
“It’s a pan-seared chicken with creamy mashed potatoes, roasted corn, and a tarragon beurre blanc. Comfort food but dressed up a bit. I hope you like it, Clark. Now, dig in and be honest.”
“This looks amazing,” he says earnestly, his eyes wide with a kind of quiet wonder.
“It’s nothing that crazy,” you downplay instantly.
“Well, I wish you could see what I see.”
“Ah,” you squawk in lieu of an actual response. Though you soothe yourself, knowing that if anyone else had experienced the downright heart-melting look he gave you, they’d be reduced to the speech capabilities of a bird too.
You give them a curt nod before disappearing into the back as quickly as you can. As soon as you enter the threshold of the kitchen, you press your back against the door. Then proceed to slide down it.
Why didn’t Lois tell you the friend she brought was so… handsome and sweet?
After much deliberation, you call her the next day to find out more about this classically handsome man.
The phone trolls for a few moments before she picks up with a tired “hello”.
“Lois, what the fuck?”
“What did I do?” she groans, no doubt running a hand through her hair. You're constantly stressing her out like this.
“Be honest with me.”
“Always.”
“Clark.”
“...Uh huh?”
“Are you tapping that?”
There’s a beat of silence so complete you can practically hear her blinking through the phone.
“I’m hanging up now.”
“Come on! You said you’d be honest with me.”
“He’s single. Happy now?”
You kick the air in your kitchen like it personally offended you, grinning despite yourself.
“…very.”
“Is that the only reason you called me?”
“Uh… no? I wanted to check in on my best friend—”
“You’re so transparent,” she cuts in, amused. “Go back to cooking and daydreaming about Kent.”
“That’s not—”
The line goes dead mid-protest. You stare at your phone for a second, then lower it slowly.
“…Rude,” you mutter.
You glance back toward your stove and a smile blooms on your face. You had every reason to celebrate.
He’s single.
***
He really wants to see you again.
You’ve stayed in his mind for the past few days; whenever his mind was idle, it would all somehow circle back to you. Your nervous monologuing in the kitchen as you cooked, the soft laugh you tried to hide behind your hand, the way your heart skipped a beat when he complimented your food. His might have even skipped a beat too in response.
He’s even gone by your restaurant for dinner… more than once.
“Any exciting plans tonight, Clark?” Jimmy asks, spinning slightly in his chair.
“I think I might drop by Sky Avenue,” he muses casually.
“Wouldn’t this be the fourth time you’ve been there this week?” Jimmy asks with a raised brow, every thought clear as day.
He thinks he’s crazy and maybe he’s right.
“It's a nice restaurant.”
Admittedly, he’s never been the type to frequent the same place over and over, but there’s just something about the food you make. It’s like one bite could transport him somewhere completely new, somewhere where the sun always shines and the air smells of roses; somewhere closer to you.
“You should join me. The food there is really good. Lois can vouch for it.”
“Uh huh. The food,” Jimmy grins.
Clark exhales through his nose, already regretting opening his mouth.
“Yes, Jimmy. The food.”
“Right,” Jimmy says, unconvinced. “And I suppose the chef has nothing to do with it?”
Clark doesn’t answer right away. He just fumbles with his tie a little, loosening it unnecessarily.
“…She’s talented.”
Jimmy laughs at his coy response; he’s more obvious than he thought. Turns out, when it comes to you, Clark can't hide a thing. “Oh, you’ve got it bad.”
“I do not.”
“You’ve been there three times in one week, and you want to go a fourth.”
“It’s a nice restaurant,” he asserts again.
***
The two of them sit by the window, the restaurant bustling, the sound of good conversation and the smell of good food in the air.
It’s strange just how at ease Clark feels here, like he’s seeing into a world you’ve created for others to enjoy.
“So it's not about a girl?” Jimmy asks, still unconvinced.
“No.”
A moment passes as he sees your face flash in your mind. Bright with golden backlighting that most certainly wasn’t there in real life. Or maybe you could just do that, he wouldn't put it past you.
“Not necessarily.”
Clark takes a deep breath as your laugh rings in his mind. Maybe he does have it bad.
“Not entirely.”
Before Clark can defend himself any further—
“Clark. You’re back!”
He startles slightly, looking up, genuinely surprised. He didn’t even hear you walk up.
Where’s his super-hearing now?
“I hope it’s not an imposition,” he says, standing a little too quickly.
“Not at all,” you reply easily. “Spend all the money you want at my restaurant. Plus, in all honesty, the waitstaff are always happy to see you.”
“They are?”
You tilt your head, a playful smile tugging at your lips. “It’s always nice to see a handsome face, right?”
That steals the air from Clark’s lungs in an instant.
“And you must be Jimmy. Lois has mentioned you,” you move on, not privy to the mental breakdown you’ve just caused.
The two of you converse, but he's still caught in the fact that you called him a “handsome face.”
He tries to focus, but then you look at him again, and whatever thought he had just… disappears. He blinks, catching himself, and gently tunes back into the conversation.
“It’s an honour, Clark.”
“What is?” he gulps.
“That my restaurant is your…coup de coeur.”
“Coup de cœur?”
“It's like…”
You tap your chin as you try to find the words, your eyes widening when you finally do.
“It's like you have a crush on my restaurant.”
“That's a good way to put it.” He smiles but thinks what he’d dare not say out loud, “Not just the restaurant.”
***
You're still buzzing from seeing Clark last night. You had heard that he's been by, but you've always been too in the weeds to go out and say hi.
And he looked just as good as you remembered, like the kind of guy you'd end up in a whirlwind romance with. Though you might be getting ahead of yourself.
It’s a slow lunch, the usual clientele lining the tables by the windows, lingering over wine and quiet conversation.
When a rumble shakes the floor—
And when there’s a rumble in Metropolis, there’s bound to be property damage.
You step out of the kitchen into the front, eyes darting to the windows just in time to see Superman.
He’s darting through the sky, a streak of red and blue, lifting debris, carrying people to safety.
Though you're afraid, you feel your heart start to calm. He’d keep you safe, you knew that.
Later, when the worst of it has passed, he lands nearby, scanning the area one last time.
You step outside before you can overthink it.
“Uh, Superman?” You squeak as you walk right up to him.
He turns to you with that million-dollar smile, “Yes?”
He can sense him assessing you for any injuries, ready to help at a moment's notice.
“I—”
You pause, head tilting slightly, thinking, or rather, knowing, you heard something. It’s like your chef instincts kicked in, tuned like a sixth sense for anyone hungry in the vicinity.
“I think your stomach just grumbled.”
“My stomach? Impossible.”
Right on cue, another distinct grumble echoes through the air.
“…Wait.” You point at him, already backing toward the door. “Right here. I mean it, okay?”
Before he can respond, you’re gone.
The bell above the door chimes wildly as you rush back out five minutes later, slightly out of breath, a plate balanced carefully in your hands.
“I’m a chef, so you can trust me. This is like top-tier stuff,” you say, holding it out to him. “Slow-roasted beef, toasted brioche, plus my signature herb butter sauce. And forgive me for sounding a little cocky, but it’ll knock the socks off your grandma.”
He laughs, and butterflies flood your chest like they were activated by it.
Something about it feels warm…familiar.
“Thank you.”
“Long day?”
“You have no idea.”
He takes a bite, and you hold your breath. You might just die if he hates it. The guy saves lives, he deserves a decent lunch.
“This is amazing,” he beams.
“My first job was at a sandwich place, so I've had a lot of practice.”
“I should—”
You know what he's going to say, so you stop him in his tracks and put your hand on his.
“No, no, no, it's on the house, Superman. You just stopped the whole street from becoming a pancake; it's the least I can do. Plus, I doubt you have anywhere to put a wallet. Unless there are pockets I can't see.”
“No pockets.”
“Thought so.”
***
You found yourself inspired yet again, ideas bubbling over faster than you could keep up, churning out sandwich after sandwich after Superman’s visit the day prior.
So inspired, in fact, that you found yourself making a sandwich for a certain journalist you couldn’t quite stop thinking about, sending it to the Daily Planet with a note: “Since you like my food so much.”
As you cool down from your lunch service, your phone buzzes. It’s a text back from Clark, with the cutest slightly off-centre picture of him holding the sandwich, a thumbs up taking up half the frame, like he’s just discovered selfies.
You snort at it, typing out a quick, “Don’t let it get cold.”
He’s such a dork.
You feel yourself brimming with ideas nowadays. You can’t stop them; you’re a fountain of inspiration. Everything just makes sense, like it’s just clicking into place. The puzzle in your mind slowly completes itself. Everything that new feeling goes straight into what you’re cooking.
As you bounce ideas off your sous-chef, pacing slightly, hands moving as fast as your thoughts, she chuckles.
“I haven’t seen you this inspired in a while.”
“Yeah, something’s changed, I guess,” you mumble.
“Or someone?”
“Hm?”
“The super hot guy that’s shown up three or four nights this week?”
You roll your eyes, turning back to your prep for dinner. “It’s nothing.”
“Sure it isn’t.”
You try to ignore the way your lips betray you, curling into a smile so bright that someone could see it from the moon.
***
As if to prove your sous-chef right, Clark’s here again, just stepping in as you clear down. Your head snaps up at the sound of the cars rushing by, becoming muffled as he closes the door behind him.
“Clark?” Your voice jumps an octave, far too excited to hide it. He looks good, almost good enough to eat.
“Hey, I was just in the neighbourhood… I thought I’d visit. Are you busy?"
You blink, then gesture vaguely behind you. “No, I’m just clearing up. About to head out.”
“Have you eaten?”
“Ironically, no. Why? Are you offering?” You chuckle.
“Maybe?”
Seeing him outside the restaurant?
You know you’d be a fool not to say yes.
“You’re on.”
***
After a brisk walk, you reach his apartment.
It’s all comfy and lived-in, books and newspapers strewn across his coffee table, a quiet view that overlooks the city skyline, a wide array of ambient lamps glowing softly in the evening light.
“So what are we doing?” you ask, stepping into the kitchen, leaning lightly against the counter, arms crossed.
“We are not doing anything. You’re sitting back as I cook for you.”
You think of arguing, but that thought quickly dies when you think about how distractingly appealing it would be to watch him cook, sleeves rolled up, his forearms flexing as he moves, completely focused on pleasing you, and decide to acquiesce.
“And what are you making for me, Chef?”
“Breakfast for dinner.”
“I’m sorry, did you just say breakfast for dinner?”
“Just sit back and relax.”
“Most days, I skip breakfast, so this will be a nice change of pace.”
“Skipping meals, especially breakfast? That seems illegal for a chef, no?”
“Oh, shut up.”
He leads you to his kitchen island, and you sit, watching him from your perch, chin resting in your hand, eyes following every movement whether you mean to or not.
He makes quick work of clearing space, pulling ingredients together, taking out pans and bowls with an ease that feels almost practised, starting on eggs like he’s done this a thousand times before. Though the thought that he’s made breakfast for someone like this does have you feeling a little jealous.
“How do you like your eggs?” he asks, interrupting your pouting.
“Soft-boiled,” you reply, a little too quickly, like you’ve been waiting to be asked.
He moves around the kitchen with quiet confidence, tossing bacon into a pan with a sharp sizzle.
“Why do you come by my restaurant so often?” you ask, trying to sound casual.
“It’s like you said. It’s my coup de cœur.”
“Is it just my food?”
He pauses and turns from the stove to look you in the eyes. It's so distracting that you think they should be registered weapons.
“It’s not just your food.”
You look away, knowing that if you looked any longer, you’d end up a puddle on his floor.
“Someone once told me that cooking is an act of love,” you murmur, almost like you’re letting him in on a secret.
“Yeah?” he asks softly, turning down the bacon as he approaches the kitchen island, leaning across from the other side, bringing himself just a little closer.
Eye to eye.
"It was a chef I met when I studied in France for a bit. It was this super-intense French kitchen. I felt like throwing myself in a blender half the time."
You chuckle at the memory of the head chef throwing a pan of coq au vin into the trash just as you were completely it after a single look at it. It wasn't funny haha then, and it isn't funny haha now, so maybe the chuckle is a trauma response.
“Fresh out of culinary school, it was like being on a different planet. My French was shit, I barely understood half the orders being shouted at me, but even being what felt like a million miles away, I cooked my way through it. Made the soup that my mother would make me when I got sick, or the ridiculous overloaded grilled cheese sandwich that my dad called a ‘five-star meal’. And after that one bite, it felt like I was right back there with them.”
Even now, you can taste the salty warmth of broth and melted butter on toasted bread, the memory bringing a soft smile to your face.
“And I… held onto that, knowing that they made them because they loved me. And with every dish I make, every dish I eat, I hold the idea that no matter how far away you are, one dish can make you feel right at home. It’s cheesy, I know.”
“I happen to love cheese so…”
“You love cheese?”
“My favourite’s gouda,” he admits, a little sheepish, and you lightly punch his arm.
“Of course it is. So… what's the Kent family speciality?"
“Biscuits and gravy… takes me back to potlucks and Sunday mornings with more food than anyone could reasonably eat.”
“You'll have to make it for me sometime so I can add it to my mental recipe rolodex.
“I’ll see what I can do,” he says like it's a promise.
His hand inches toward yours. You notice him hesitate like he wants to hold it, but isn’t sure if he should.
“Is that why you cook?” he asks.
“I’d say so. I don't know, I just like to take them to places they’ve never been or places they haven’t been in a while, all through food. I find it interesting, like the association of taste and memory…”
“Are we making a memory, right now?”
You nod, your mind wrapped up in a soft haze. “I think so. Breakfast for dinner will always belong to you, Clark Kent.”
Taking the leap, his hand finally closes the distance, and you feel your heart bloom like a red tulip in spring. He toys with your hand, the rings on your fingers, tracing the small scar you got from the first time you tried cutting onions too fast and nicked yourself for it.
"Cooking is an act of love..." He repeats.
You huff, nudging him lightly with your free hand. “You’re such a dork.”
"You're the one who said it."
"Yes, yes, that's true but..."
You look up from your intertwined hands, catching his eyes, just as smitten with you as you are with him. "There's just something about you saying it."
Letting out a slow breath, your body visibly relaxing as the moment settles around you.
“Makes it… dorky.”
He chuckles before taking your hand and kissing it lightly, the tenderness of it, sending your heart into overdrive. It was a soft brush of his lips against your hands. Hands which work so hard day after day, to feel him kiss them as if they were something precious, made you feel like you were melting.
The moment is interrupted as you both hear the bubbling in the background start to get quite ferocious, “The eggs!”
With a rush, you both fumble back over to the stove, nearly bumping into each other in the process.
“The soft-boiled eggs might be slightly hard-boiled now.”
As he lifts the lid off, the steam gets in his face, so, like the kind person you are, you reach for him on instinct. Just a simple, absent-minded gesture.
“Won’t your glasses fog up?”
Without thinking too much about it, you take off his glasses to de-fog them.
Clark doesn’t move.
You don’t even notice that Clark has become a statue as you wipe off his glasses with your sleeve, humming to yourself oh-so innocently.
Looking back up, you freeze too.
It's like you’ve both looked at Medusa.
If you weren’t mistaken, Superman was now standing right in front of you, but that can’t possibly be, right? The whole world starts to tilt on its axis as you fumble with Clark’s glasses.
What the fuck is going on?
Slowly, almost mechanically, you put his glasses back on his face. “Sorry about that.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
Internally, you are absolutely not okay.
Out loud, you add, “Though we should probably talk about what I just saw.”
“…Probably.”
“You let me take them off,” you sputter out, trying to rationalise what you just witnessed.
“I didn't see it coming.”
“You're Superman. I’m sure I was practically moving in slow motion.”
“Are you mad? Scared?” he asks carefully.
“Wait, mad? Scared? Why would I be scared?”
“I can hear your heartbeat.”
“My heart isn't racing because I'm scared. I guess I'm just surprised…”
You twiddle your fingers, toying with your rings, “Excited?”
“Excited?” he repeats back to you, his eyebrows quirked up in confusion.
“Okay,” you add, slightly breathless. “Maybe a little overwhelmed. This is a lot, you’re a lot. In an amazing and kinda batshit crazy way. I mean…you’re Superman.”
“I’m still me,” he says.
“I know, I know. It's just going to take some or a lot of getting used to, I guess, because, well, holy shit.”
You gesture at him wildly, trying and failing to get your breathing back to normal.
“You’re taking this better than most people.”
“Yeah, well. Most people haven’t had their best customer turn into a superhero while they’re trying not to over boil eggs.”
He laughs at your joke, and you feel yourself ease up. Not only was he a cute journalist, but a superhero?
Jackpot.
“Did you like the sandwich I gave you yesterday…Superman?” you ask as you step into his space, your hand brushing against his.
“Yeah, it was absolutely delicious.”
Like “delicious” was your activation word, you step forward and pull him in by the tie before you can think better of it, pulling him slightly off balance.
He says your name breathy, almost desperate. You gulp, fuck, it sounds too good on his lips, those words of his.
Without delaying for another second, you kiss him like you've been starving for him all your life.
His hands find your waist, holding onto you as you try to climb him like he’s a tree.
The soft moans that escape his lips only urge you on. If you didn't need to breathe, you never would've let go.
You separate to catch your breath, your eyes locked onto one another. You're both hungry but not for pancakes or hashbrowns.
“So you’re okay with me being Superman?” he asks.
“If the way I just attacked your face is any indication, yes. Now, kiss me before I lose all my nerve.”
Like he's been waiting for it, he pulls you back in, all but melting against you. He kisses you as if his life depends on it, like he never knew it could feel so good.
Behind you, the stove clicks softly as you turn it off without looking.
As if reading your mind, he pulls back just a little bit to murmur in a husky voice, “Jump.”
You follow his order, and he lifts you up into his arms, your legs wrapping around his waist.
“Fuck…” you mumble to yourself.
You could get used to this.
“Bedroom?” He asks, searching your face for any hesitation.
You nod excitedly, “Please.”
The world outside can wait.
***
Morning greets you happily, and you greet it back with a big smile.
Everything that Clark did to you last night is still fresh in your mind, just thinking about it makes you feel tingly.
You find your face pressed against Clark’s chest, his arms wrapped around you protectively.
And you must admit, his pecs make good pillows.
You sneak out of bed, successfully not waking him, ready to cook a breakfast to end all breakfasts.
Clark wakes up a while after you to the sound of a busy kitchen.
He follows the noises to see you already cooking and humming to yourself, completely at ease.
In that moment, he wonders to himself if you know just how wonderful you are. It’s like everything you do only makes him fall that much more.
“Morning,” he drawls, his voice deeper from just waking up. Your head snaps up, pupils dilating the moment you lay eyes on him.
“Good morning to you too.”
He rounds the kitchen island to wrap his arms around you from behind.
“Unfortunately, due to you keeping me up last night, we have to have breakfast for breakfast,” you tell him as you crack an egg.
“I'm sorry,” Clark murmurs against your neck, kissing your skin lightly. He just can't help himself.
"How are you making our eggs today?" He asks as he lifts his head from the crook of your neck.
“I was gonna make us omelettes. How do you normally like them? Scrambled? Poached?”
“Sunny side up.”
“I should've known.”
Among the ingredients spread across his countertop, he notices something he doesn't remember buying.
He looks between you and the bread, “This was not in my pantry.”
You shrug at him, "So what if I snuck out to go buy a baguette? It’s going to taste divine, my bread guy baked it just this morning.”
“Your bread guy?” Clark chuckles, the laugh vibrating against your back.
“Oh yeah, fresh ingredients are my love language. Just you wait until I drag you to a farmer’s market, I'll be bouncing off the damn walls.”
He kisses your cheek lightly.
“It's a date.”
***
A little over a month has passed, and you've fallen head over heels.
Farmer’s market dates have become a routine, Sundays spent perusing stalls as if you’ve always done it.
Of course, Clark has been showing up at the restaurant just as often, sometimes helping carry crates when you don’t ask him to and coming to keep you company when you're up late doing prep.
He even surprised you one night by sliding a bowl of beef noodle soup straight from your favourite restaurant in Taiwan. You had been dreaming of this soup since your trip last year.
“Did you fly there?” you asked, mouth agape.
“You told me how much you missed it and I—”
Safe to say you didn't let him finish his sentence, practically leaping into his arms and kissing him senseless.
Some nights, you fall asleep at his apartment without meaning to. Just sitting beside him for a moment that turns into hours, your head on his shoulder, as he reads to you.
And now, you’ve never been more inspired. Ideas don’t feel like something you have to force, freeing yourself from the likes of the Bearnaise sauce graveyard.
Love will do that to a person, you suppose.
The pressure you used to carry like a second spine continues to loosen. You’re not digging yourself into a little hole. Instead, you’re taking it one plate at a time.
Your restaurant is closed, it’s late at night, and you’ve already said goodbye to the last of your staff. You enjoy the kind of quiet that only comes after a full service settles over the dining room, after a job well done.
You walk out of the kitchen and stop still.
Standing among the empty tables is Clark, a smile blooms on his face the moment you step into view.
“What are you doing here?”
“I had to stop by.”
“You had to.” Looking him over, like he stepped out of your wildest dreams, “With flowers?”
He shifts a little, suddenly a touch sheepish. That dimpled smile appears like it always does when he’s trying to charm you. It works every single time. “Yes. With flowers.”
“I would be insane if I left things the way we have.”
You hold your hands behind your back with an easy smile and an even easier lilt in your step.
“And how have we left things?” you ask with a tilt of your head.
“It has been a month, a wonderful month, and we've never said the words. Never put a label on it.”
You continue to weave through the tables, footsteps soft against the floor, until you’re standing just close enough to feel his heart beating in time with yours or at least imagine it.
The dim amber light spills over his handsome face in a golden wash, like he's stepped straight out of a painting.
Outside, rain begins tapping gently against the windows, a familiar pitter-patter.
“And you want to?”
One more step, your shoes are just short of his.
“Put a label on it?”
“I do, you have no idea how much.” He reaches out and takes your hands in his softly. “If I could be so lucky, I would like to be your boyfriend.”
“I’d like that. A lot.”
He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for weeks without realising it, then leans in and presses a tender kiss to your knuckles.
“Are you going to call me a dork again?”
“It’s a term of endearment, Clark,” you say, smiling as you lean in to kiss his cheek. “You’re my dork… and I’m yours.”
Then your eyes brighten as if you’ve just remembered something very important.
“Oh! I have something to show you!”
You pull back just enough to grab a menu from the nearby table and wave it at him with unmistakable pride.
“Now serving breakfast for dinner, once a week.”
“Really?”
“What can I say? You inspired me.”
He wraps his arms around you and picks you up, spinning you around.
“Clark!” You chuckle before returning to the ground.
Though you don't get a moment to catch your breath as his lips find your neck, intent on covering every square inch of it with his touch.
“Let's go to my office.”
“I'll follow your lead.
With a smirk, you grab onto his tie and pull him towards the doors at the back. Making things official between the two of you deserves a proper celebration.
She’s always felt him watching from the edges.
He’s always left before she could ask him to stay.
On Winter Solstice, the shadows stop listening.
Winter Solstice in Velaris was the cruelest kind of beautiful.
The city always dressed itself in light—lanterns strung across archways, fire-magic blooming in glass spheres, the Sidra reflecting it all as if the river had swallowed the stars and decided to show off. Music drifted upward in soft waves, laughter rising from the streets with the scent of citrus and spice.
Warmth everywhere.
Except in the quiet places she carried.
She stood at the House of Wind’s tall windows with a cup of mulled wine that had already cooled, letting the glass chill her palms. Outside, snow fell in slow, delicate spirals. It softened the city into something gentler, like even winter wanted Velaris to feel held.
She tried to let that comfort reach her.
It didn’t.
Because Winter Solstice wasn’t just a celebration. It was a mirror.
A night built for closeness. For truth. For choosing the people she wanted beside her when the world turned cold.
And she had spent too long wanting someone who never let her close enough to be chosen.
She didn’t mean to look for him.
She always did anyway.
Her gaze skimmed the room—Feyre bright and calm near Rhys, Cassian laughing too loudly by the fire, Nesta’s mouth quirked in a way that suggested she was pretending she didn’t like it when Cassian pressed his face to her temple. Mor glittered like Solstice itself, dancing between conversations, her eyes sharp enough to notice everything.
And then—
There.
Azriel stood half-shadowed by an archway as if the room’s warmth couldn’t quite convince him to step fully into it. Wings folded neatly, posture too still, like he’d trained his body to take up less space than it deserved. Shadows drifted close around his shoulders and throat, a living collar of darkness that moved like smoke and memory.
His gaze was on her.
It was never casual.
Not him. Not with her.
It landed with weight, with an intensity that made her skin tighten as if he’d touched her—like he’d brushed the inside of her wrist with those scarred fingers she’d tried not to stare at the first time she met him.
It didn’t matter how long she’d known him. The way he looked at her still made her forget how to breathe.
Her heartbeat stumbled. The room went too loud, too bright.
Azriel’s eyes flicked away.
Not because he hadn’t meant to look.
Because he had—and he didn’t allow himself to keep doing it.
Something bitter and aching rose in her throat. She turned back to the window before her expression could crack.
It had been like this for so long that she sometimes wondered if it was simply what she was meant to have: the almost. The nearly. The hovering edge of something that never became real.
She had learned Azriel in fragments.
In the way his shadows drifted closer when they were alone together—curling at her ankles, brushing her knuckles like a question he wouldn’t ask. In the way he always appeared without announcement when she was in danger, silent as death, precise as a blade. In the way his attention sharpened around her like a protective spell, even when his body stayed at a careful distance.
Everyone saw it.
Cassian’s knowing grin. Mor’s too-gentle “How are you, really?” Feyre’s quiet glances that lingered on her and Azriel as if she were tracking the arc of something inevitable.
But inevitability required movement.
Azriel did not move unless he had to.
And she—Cauldron help her—had never been brave enough to push.
Because intimidation wasn’t only fear.
Sometimes it was reverence. Sometimes it was the awful sense that if she reached for something precious, she might shatter it.
Azriel was not transparent. He did not wear his feelings on his sleeves. He wore them like armor—if she could call silence armor, if she could call restraint a shield. When he did speak, his words were careful, measured, as if he weighed them against the damage they might do.
And loving someone like that felt like stepping into fog: no edges, no certainty, only the possibility of getting lost.
So she did what she always did.
She held herself together.
She smiled at Feyre’s warmth. She returned Cassian’s teasing. She let Mor pull her into a conversation about Solstice traditions and smiled at the right moments.
All while her gaze betrayed her.
All while her heart did what it wanted, no matter how many times she told it to stop.
She knew what she wanted. She’d known for a long time.
The problem was never desire.
The problem was Azriel.
And the part of her that suspected he wanted her too—yet chose distance with a devotion that felt like punishment.
Feyre approached her sometime later, slipping into her space with the quiet ease of someone who had learned how to be gentle with sharp things.
“You’re quiet,” Feyre said softly.
She forced a smile. “Am I?”
Feyre’s eyes flicked toward the archway where Azriel stood. He wasn’t looking at her now. He was looking at his hands—scarred, clasped together.
“He’s quieter,” Feyre murmured, almost to herself.
She took a slow sip of wine. “That’s not unusual.”
“No,” Feyre agreed. Then, after a beat, “But it’s worse on Solstice.”
The words landed like a stone.
She kept her tone light, because she’d become a master of pretending. “Maybe he doesn’t like parties.”
Feyre’s mouth softened. “Maybe he doesn’t like what Solstice asks of him.”
Before she could respond, Rhys called Feyre’s name from across the room. Feyre gave her a look—not pity, never that, but something like understanding—and drifted away.
Her fingers tightened around the cup until the heatless ceramic bit into her skin.
She didn’t want understanding.
She wanted him.
And she was tired of wanting quietly.
So she set the cup down on a side table, the clink too sharp, and slipped out of the room before she could change her mind.
The House sensed her intent; the doors opened without a sound.
Cold air met her face like a clean slap. The balcony corridor beyond was dim, lit by a few low lanterns. Snow swirled at the far end where an open arch looked out over the city.
Her footsteps were steady, but her thoughts were not.
She made it three turns down the hall before a familiar, subtle shift in the air prickled over her skin.
Not footsteps.
Not breath.
Presence.
“Running away?”
Azriel’s voice was low enough that it felt like it belonged to the shadows.
She stopped, hand braced lightly against the stone wall. She didn’t turn right away. She forced herself to breathe once—slow, controlled—before she faced him.
He stood a few paces behind her, as if distance was a habit he couldn’t break. Wings folded, dark hair loose tonight, his expression carved from restraint. The shadows around him hovered close, restless, but they did not drift toward her like they sometimes did.
That, more than anything, made her stomach tighten.
She lifted her chin. “I could ask you the same.”
A muscle in his jaw jumped. “I wasn’t avoiding you.”
The lie was too polished to be convincing.
She let out a quiet laugh—no humor in it. “You don’t have to.”
Azriel’s gaze flicked to her mouth and away again, so fast she almost thought she imagined it.
“I don’t lie to you,” he said, and there was something in his tone—something sharp enough to cut—that made her regret the laugh.
She swallowed. “No,” she admitted. “You just… disappear.”
Silence stretched.
Snow drifted through the open arch behind her, cold flecks melting on her cheek. Azriel didn’t move. He looked like he was holding himself back by sheer force of will.
“You look like you’re afraid of me tonight,” she said softly, because it was easier than saying what she really meant: You look like you’re afraid of wanting me.
His breath hitched. The shadows tightened around his shoulders.
“I’m not afraid of you,” he said.
“No,” she murmured. “You’re afraid of what you feel.”
His gaze snapped to hers, and for a moment the mask slipped—just enough to show something raw beneath.
Fear.
Not of her.
Of what he might do if he stepped closer.
“I’m afraid for you,” he whispered.
The words hit like an open wound.
She stepped closer, one pace. “Why?”
Azriel’s eyes dropped to her hands—empty, bare, the way they always were. Something passed over his face, too fast to name.
“I should go,” he said abruptly.
And just like that, he turned away.
Something in her snapped—not loudly, not dramatically, but with the quiet finality of a thread breaking.
“Azriel.” Her voice came out sharper than she intended.
He paused.
He didn’t turn.
“If you’re going to keep doing this,” she said, heart pounding, “then at least have the decency to tell me why.”
Azriel stood perfectly still.
The shadows around him stirred, but they didn’t whisper. It was as if even they held their breath.
“I can’t,” he said at last.
The words were barely audible.
She took another step. “You can’t what?”
His shoulders rose with a slow inhale. “I can’t give you what you deserve.”
There it was.
The thing she’d sensed for months, for years, threaded through every almost-touch and every careful retreat.
She stared at the back of him, at the lines of tension in his posture, at the wings he kept folded as if he didn’t trust them not to wrap around her.
“And you’ve decided that for me,” she said quietly.
He flinched.
“I know what I am,” he said. “And I know what you—” His voice cracked, almost imperceptibly. He stopped himself. Swallowed. “You don’t need to be tethered to it.”
“Tethered,” she echoed, the word tasting bitter. “Is that what I am to you? Something to be spared?”
Azriel’s hands flexed behind his back.
She could see the scars even from here, pale lines cutting through skin that had endured too much.
He didn’t answer.
He didn’t have to.
The silence was answer enough.
Her throat tightened. “Fine,” she said, forcing steadiness into her voice. “Go. But don’t follow me just to haunt the edges of my life and call it protection.”
Azriel went utterly still.
Then, like she’d struck something vital, he spoke—voice rough, almost broken.
“Being away from you is worse.”
Her breath caught.
She turned her head slightly, trying to glimpse his face. He still didn’t face her.
But she felt the truth in his words the way she felt the wind before a storm.
And for one aching heartbeat, she thought he might finally turn back. Might finally cross the distance and stop treating his longing like a sin.
Instead, Azriel exhaled, shaky.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, as if apology could fill the hollow he kept carving between them.
And then he was gone—silent, swift—leaving only a faint ripple in the air and the cruel awareness that he’d been close enough to touch and still chose not to.
She stood alone in the corridor, snow melting on her skin like tears she refused to shed.
The memory came uninvited, as it always did when he left her like that.
It had been late—too late for anyone to still be awake, except the House itself, humming softly through the bones of the mountain.
She’d been unable to sleep—restless, unsettled—so she’d wandered into the kitchen for tea. The lights were dim, warm. The House offered her a mug before she could ask.
And then Azriel had appeared in the doorway like he belonged to the dark.
She startled. Her hand tightened around the mug.
He paused, as if he hadn’t expected anyone else to exist at that hour. “Sorry,” he said quietly. “I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s fine,” she whispered. “I couldn’t sleep.”
Neither could he, she almost added. But she didn’t.
Azriel stepped inside, the shadows around him softer than usual, like they were tired too. He moved with that careful grace that always made her feel as though she was made of glass and he was terrified of breaking her.
“You should rest,” he said.
“So should you.”
A flicker—something like amusement, quickly buried—touched his mouth. He didn’t smile, not fully, but she saw the ghost of it.
She didn’t know what possessed her then—maybe exhaustion, maybe loneliness, maybe the way his voice always sounded gentler when the world was quiet.
Maybe the fact that she was tired of pretending she didn’t want him.
“You don’t have to be alone all the time,” she said softly.
Azriel’s stillness sharpened.
His gaze lifted to hers, and she felt it—felt the way the air changed when he looked at her like that. Like he was trying to memorize her. Like he was trying to convince himself not to.
“I’m not—” he began, then stopped.
He swallowed. His hands flexed at his sides.
For a moment, she thought he might speak the thing both of them avoided. Thought he might finally offer her something real, something honest.
He took one slow step closer.
Her breath caught.
Azriel’s shadows drifted forward, curling toward her as if drawn by gravity. One brushed her wrist, feather-light, and she didn’t pull away.
His voice dropped into something almost intimate. “If I—”
A sharp knock echoed down the hall.
Cassian’s voice followed, muffled: “Az? You awake?”
Azriel froze like he’d been caught committing a crime.
His shadows recoiled as if yanked by a leash.
He took a step back so quickly it felt like rejection.
“I should go,” he said, voice suddenly flat, controlled.
“Azriel—”
He didn’t look at her as he left.
And she stared after him long after the hallway swallowed him, the untouched words hanging in the air like a bruise.
She returned to the celebration eventually, because it was expected. Because leaving entirely would invite questions she didn’t want to answer.
Because part of her—stupid, hopeful—wanted to see if Azriel would come back.
He did.
Of course he did.
He appeared in the room again, the same as always: quiet, contained, watching from the edges like a guardian that refused to be known.
But something was wrong.
His shadows clung too tight. His posture was too rigid. His gaze kept dropping to his hands, as if he didn’t trust them.
And when their eyes met across the room—brief, fleeting—his expression looked almost… pained.
She held his gaze for two heartbeats.
On the third, he looked away.
That, for some reason, was what did it.
She didn’t want to confront him in front of everyone. She didn’t want to beg. She didn’t want to be the only one reaching anymore.
But the ache had become too sharp to ignore.
She set down her cup again and slipped out.
This time, she didn’t stop at the balcony corridors. She let the House guide her—deeper into itself, down quiet halls where the lanterns burned low and the air felt colder.
The closer she got to the House’s darker wing, the more the pressure in her chest grew.
Not just emotion.
Magic.
A pulse in the air, like a heartbeat out of rhythm.
Her steps slowed.
The House’s lights dimmed as if warning her.
And then she felt it—something wild, something fraying—like shadow and pain tangled together.
She rounded a corner and stopped so abruptly her breath stuttered.
Azriel was on his knees.
His head bowed, hair falling forward like a curtain. One hand braced against the floor, the other clutched his forearm hard enough that blood seeped between his fingers. Shadows swarmed around him—not the calm, curious ones she’d felt before, but frantic, violent, snapping like a storm breaking free.
They struck the walls. They curled around his wings. They writhed as if they were trying to tear themselves out of him.
Azriel’s shoulders shook.
He made a sound—low, strained—like pain dragged through teeth.
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
“Azriel,” she breathed.
His head snapped up.
His eyes were feral—not with anger, but with horror.
“Don’t come closer,” he rasped.
She ignored him.
It wasn’t bravery that moved her forward.
It was instinct.
Because whatever Azriel was, whatever darkness he carried, she had never once believed he would harm her.
Not intentionally.
Not even by accident, if he could help it.
She knelt in front of him, close enough to see the blood trailing down his arm, close enough to notice how pale he’d gone beneath his tan.
The shadows recoiled—not away from her, but inward, as if suddenly ashamed to be seen.
Azriel’s breath came shallow. “I told them,” he whispered. “I told them to stay away from you.”
Her throat tightened. “They’re not the problem.”
His gaze flicked to her face—sharp, searching.
“They won’t listen tonight,” he said, and it sounded like defeat. “I can’t—” He swallowed hard. “I can’t keep them contained.”
She reached slowly for his injured arm, giving him time to pull away.
He didn’t.
Her fingers brushed the skin just below his elbow. Warm. Trembling. Too real.
The shadows—those frantic, sharp edges—stilled at her touch as if she’d pressed a hand to a snarling animal’s head and whispered it calm.
Azriel let out a shaky exhale, almost a sob. He looked like he hated that he needed her to do that. Like needing anyone at all felt like failure.
“Talk to me,” she said gently. “What happened?”
His jaw clenched. “Solstice magic.”
“That’s not an answer.”
His laugh was short, broken. “It’s the only one I have.”
She leaned closer, ignoring the way her own heart throbbed with fear and something worse—tenderness sharp enough to hurt.
His shadows drifted along her wrist, not intrusive, more like they were seeking reassurance.
Azriel noticed and flinched. “Don’t let them—”
“Azriel,” she said, firmer this time. “I’m here. I’m not afraid.”
His eyes flickered with something raw. “You should be.”
She shook her head. “No.”
His voice dropped to a whisper. “I’m not safe.”
It wasn’t a threat.
It was confession.
The air seemed to tighten around them both. The shadows twitched, restless, as if they didn’t like him saying it.
She swallowed. “You’ve saved me more times than I can count.”
“That doesn’t erase what I am,” he said, bitter, and the words tasted like blood.
She stared at him, at the scarred hands clenched into fists, at the wings held too stiff, at the way his gaze couldn’t stay on her for more than a second without sliding away—as if eye contact was too intimate.
“Is this why you keep running?” she asked softly. “Because you think you’re a stain?”
Azriel’s breath hitched.
He looked away.
That was answer enough.
Something in her went painfully still.
She wanted to tell him he was wrong. She wanted to drag him into the light and force him to see himself the way everyone else did: loyal, steady, gentle in all the ways he never believed he could be.
But she knew Azriel.
Pushing him head-on only made him retreat further.
So she did something else.
She stayed.
She shifted closer, careful, and took his injured arm in both hands.
Azriel tensed like a cornered creature.
Then—slowly—he sagged, the resistance draining out of him as if he’d been holding himself upright on nothing but stubborn will.
The shadows softened. They curled around her shoulders, not heavy, but protective. Familiar. Almost grateful.
Azriel watched them do it with a look of quiet devastation.
“They like you,” he whispered.
She blinked. “They’re yours.”
His gaze dropped. “Not always.”
The words were soft, but they carried a weight that made her chest ache.
“What does that mean?” she asked.
His gaze dropped. “And sometimes they feel like they have a mind of their own.”
His eyes flicked up, wary—like he’d said too much.
She didn’t press.
Not yet.
Instead, she asked the question that had been clawing at her for months.
“Why do you keep me at arm’s length?” she whispered. “When you’re the one who keeps finding me. When you—” Her voice faltered. “When you look at me like that.”
Azriel’s mouth tightened. He looked like he might physically split in two.
“I bought you a gift,” he said abruptly.
The words hit the air like a thrown knife.
She blinked, thrown. “You… what?”
His hand moved weakly toward his pocket, then stopped, as if even that was too much.
“Weeks ago,” he said, voice hoarse. “I couldn’t give it to you.”
“Why?”
Azriel’s shoulders shook with a shaky inhale. “Because it felt like a promise.”
Her heart stuttered.
“And you don’t trust yourself to keep it,” she realized.
His gaze snapped to hers.
There—there was the truth.
Not just self-loathing. Not just fear.
The terrifying intimacy of believing that if he chose her, he would inevitably destroy her.
Azriel swallowed, and when he spoke again, his voice broke in a way she’d never heard before.
“I don’t deserve you,” he whispered.
The phrase was so familiar it almost sounded rehearsed—like he’d been saying it to himself for years.
“You don’t get to decide what I deserve,” she said, her voice trembling despite her effort to steady it.
His eyes glistened, and he looked away like he couldn’t stand the sight of his own emotion.
“You’re good,” he said, as if that was the whole of it. “You’re—” His breath hitched. “You still believe in people.”
She felt something crack inside her chest.
“And you think you don’t get to be one of them,” she whispered.
Azriel’s jaw clenched hard. The shadows around him shivered.
Solstice magic thrummed, thick and expectant, like the world itself listened.
“I tried,” he said suddenly, voice rough. “To tell you.”
Her breath caught. “When?”
His gaze flicked to her, then away again. “That night in the kitchen.”
Her skin went cold.
She remembered—of course she did. The almost. The If I— and then Cassian’s knock, the way Azriel had vanished like smoke.
She stared at him, heart pounding. “What were you going to say?”
Azriel’s throat worked. He looked like he was choking on the words.
“I was going to ask you,” he whispered. “If you could…” He shut his eyes. “If you could look at me and still—”
Still want you, she realized.
Still choose you.
Azriel’s voice dropped to something shattered. “But I can’t ask you for that.”
“Why?”
Because it would be selfish, his silence screamed.
Because she might say yes.
Because yes would make it real.
Because real would mean he could lose her.
And Azriel had lived a life built around preventing loss, even if it meant carving pieces out of himself.
His shadows stirred again, restlessness rising, and she felt it—felt how close he was to slipping.
The Solstice magic was pushing at him. Pressing on every locked door inside him.
She tightened her grip on his arm. “Azriel, you’re bleeding.”
He looked down as if only now noticing the blood. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me.”
That simple statement seemed to shake him more than anything else she’d said.
His gaze snapped back to her face.
For a moment, all the careful restraint fell away, and she saw the depth of him—how much he held back, how much he carried, how violently he disciplined his own longing.
Then the mask slammed back into place.
He reached into his pocket with shaking fingers and drew out the charm.
Obsidian.
Smooth.
Etched with runes that glinted faintly even in the dim light, as if the stone held starlight inside it.
He placed it in her palm like he was laying down something sacred.
“For you,” he whispered.
Her fingers closed around it, and warmth bloomed through her hand—magic settling, gentle and steady, as if the charm recognized her.
A ward.
A promise carved into darkness.
She stared down at it, throat tight. “Azriel…”
He flinched at the softness in her voice.
“I couldn’t give it to you,” he said again, as if repeating it would make the shame easier to bear. “Because if you accept it, it means I—”
That he’s choosing you.
That he’s tethering you to him.
That he’s allowing himself to want.
She lifted her gaze.
Azriel looked like he was bracing for rejection. For disgust. For her to finally see what he believed he was and step away.
Her intimidation shifted then—not gone, but transformed.
Because she realized something with startling clarity:
Azriel wasn’t distant because he didn’t feel enough.
He was distant because he felt too much.
And he was terrified of what that meant.
She held the charm tighter. “Thank you.”
Azriel blinked, as if he hadn’t expected that.
She added, voice trembling, “For thinking of me. For carving this. For… trying.”
His throat bobbed. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t make me believe it’s possible,” he whispered. “Not if I can’t—”
She leaned closer, careful, and pressed her forehead to his.
Azriel froze.
His breath caught like he’d been stabbed.
The shadows around them went still, reverent.
“You don’t have to give me forever,” she whispered, voice shaking. “I’m not asking you to swear your life to me tonight.”
Azriel’s exhale shuddered against her lips—too close, too intimate.
“I just—” Her voice broke. She steadied it with a shaky breath. “I just need you to stop disappearing. I need something real, Azriel. Even if it’s small.”
His hands hovered at her waist without touching, like he didn’t trust himself.
“I will ruin you,” he whispered.
“You won’t,” she said softly.
“You don’t know that.”
“I do,” she insisted, tears stinging her eyes. “Because if you were truly dangerous to me, you would have hurt me already. And you haven’t. Not once.”
His jaw clenched. “I hurt people.”
“You protect people,” she corrected, voice firm now. “You bleed for them. You destroy yourself for them.”
Azriel’s eyes flickered with pain.
She swallowed, gentler. “Including me.”
His breath shuddered. “That’s the problem.”
Because it’s different with you, the silence said.
Because he can’t control it.
Because he wants.
The Solstice magic pulsed, and suddenly the shadows stirred—not frantic, but urgent, pressing in as if they were trying to push him toward something he refused to take.
Azriel made a strangled sound, and for a moment his control wavered—darkness rippling, the room’s temperature dropping.
She tightened her grip on him, grounding. “Look at me.”
Azriel’s eyes snapped open.
She held his gaze, refusing to let him retreat into himself.
“I’m intimidated by you,” she admitted, voice shaking. “Do you know that? Not because you’re cruel. Not because you scare me in that way. But because I can’t read you. Because you feel like a locked door and I don’t know if I’m allowed to knock.”
Azriel’s face tightened like her words hurt.
She continued anyway. “But I’m here. I’m knocking. Right now.”
His voice was ragged. “Don’t.”
“Why?” she demanded softly. “Because you think you don’t deserve love?”
His eyes flashed. “Because I know what it costs.”
“And who decided you have to pay alone?” she whispered.
Azriel’s hands finally touched her—barely. His scarred fingers settled at her waist as if he was afraid she’d vanish.
The contact sent a shock through her, sharp and warm.
His shadows shuddered like a sigh.
Azriel leaned in, so close his breath brushed her mouth.
He stopped.
Of course he stopped.
Restraint was carved into him as deeply as those scars.
She swallowed, trembling. “Azriel.”
His eyes squeezed shut. “If I kiss you,” he whispered, voice breaking, “I won’t be able to pretend anymore.”
Her heart twisted.
“Then don’t pretend,” she said.
Azriel opened his eyes.
Something in him looked feral and exhausted and terribly, terribly human.
He stared at her like he was memorizing her face one last time before he lost himself.
And then—
He kissed her.
The sound she made was soft and startled, swallowed instantly by his mouth as Azriel surged closer, like the space between them had finally become unbearable. The kiss wasn’t gentle—not really. It was restrained only by habit, by years of discipline that cracked the second her lips parted beneath his.
Heat flared, sharp and dizzying.
Azriel’s hand came up to her jaw, scarred fingers rough and trembling as they cupped her face like he was afraid she might disappear if he didn’t anchor her there. His mouth moved against hers with a hunger that felt starved, punished, denied for far too long—like he’d memorized this moment in fragments and was finally allowed to take it whole.
Her hands found him without thought.
One slid into his hair, fingers curling at the nape of his neck, tugging just enough to make him break the kiss with a sound that was half growl, half gasp. The noise went straight through her.
His restraint shattered.
Azriel kissed her again, deeper this time—messier, needier—like he couldn’t decide where to touch her first and so tried to touch everywhere. His other hand dropped to her waist, then her hips, fingers flexing as if testing the reality of her, as if he needed to feel the shape of her beneath his palms to convince himself this wasn’t another thing he’d wake from aching.
His shadows reacted instantly.
They surged—not wild, not violent—but hungry, curling around her legs, her back, brushing her arms like too many hands reaching at once. Azriel made a broken sound into her mouth as if he felt it too, as if the darkness recognized what he’d been denying.
“I—” He pulled back just enough to breathe, forehead pressed to hers, breath ragged. “Cauldron help me.”
She barely had time to inhale before he kissed her again.
This time, his mouth slowed, dragged, like he was learning her—like every second mattered. His thumb traced the line of her jaw, then slipped beneath her chin, tilting her head exactly where he wanted it. The possessiveness of the gesture made her knees weaken.
Azriel noticed.
His grip tightened reflexively, one hand sliding lower to brace her, fingers digging in like he couldn’t stop himself. Like he was afraid that if he loosened his hold even for a heartbeat, she’d vanish—and he’d lose his chance forever.
He didn’t let go when the kiss finally broke.
Not when her breaths came uneven. Not when the air felt too thin. His hands stayed on her like instinct—sliding, anchoring, memorizing. One pressed firmly at her lower back, pulling her flush against him, as if distance itself offended him now.
“Cauldron,” he murmured hoarsely, forehead dropping to hers. “You feel—”
He cut himself off with a sharp inhale, jaw tightening like the words were too dangerous to finish.
She shifted slightly, just enough to test him.
Azriel made a low sound in his throat that had nothing to do with restraint.
His grip tightened reflexively, wings shuddering behind him as the shadows thickened, coiling close around them. He pressed his mouth to her cheek, her jaw, the corner of her lips—brief, reverent touches layered with something frantic, like he didn’t know how to stop now that he’d started.
“I can’t—” His voice cracked as he leaned into her neck, breath uneven. “I don’t know how to stop touching you.”
Her fingers slid into his hair again, slower this time. “Then don’t.”
That did it.
Azriel exhaled hard, like something finally broke loose inside him. His shoulders sagged—not in defeat, but in surrender—and his hands spread wide against her back, thumbs stroking slow, grounding paths as if he were trying to convince himself she was real. That this wasn’t another thing he’d been denied for wanting too much.
The shadows settled heavier around them, no longer restless—warm, sheltering, protective.
He stayed there, holding her like the world might demand her back at any moment, breathing her in like air after drowning.
“Say it,” he murmured finally, voice low, almost afraid. “Before I convince myself this ends when the night does.”
She lifted her head just enough to meet his eyes. “I’m not leaving.”
His breath hitched. “Not tonight,” he pressed, barely audible.
“Not tomorrow,” she said. “Not when it gets hard. Not when you decide you’re too much again.”
His grip tightened, just a fraction.
“You’re choosing this,” he said. “Choosing me.”
“Yes.”
The answer didn’t waver.
Azriel closed his eyes like he needed the truth to settle somewhere deep. When he opened them again, something had shifted—still careful, still scarred, but no longer retreating.
“Then I’m yours,” he said quietly. “Not halfway. Not from the shadows.”
His thumb traced her spine, slow and deliberate. Claiming without dominance. Promising without spectacle.
“And I’ll stay,” he added, rough sincerity threading his voice. “Even when I’m afraid.”
She leaned into him, sealing the space between them. “That’s all I want.”
Azriel bowed his head, pressing a reverent kiss to her temple—softer now, but somehow deeper.
His hands never left her.
Outside, Velaris erupted in distant song as midnight rolled in—Solstice officially born. Light flared along the Sidra like stars returning to the world.
Azriel held her as if the darkness itself had finally given him something worth keeping.
And for the first time, he didn’t let it go.
Then Azriel shifted slightly.
Not away—never away—but just enough that his gaze lifted past her, toward the archway above. She felt the subtle change in him before she followed his line of sight, caught the faint huff of breath he let out like disbelief.
She looked up.
A small sprig of mistletoe hung overhead, tucked into the lantern garland as if the House itself had placed it there—white berries glowing softly in the Solstice light, almost shy in their brightness.
She blinked.
Then she laughed, quiet and incredulous. “You have to be kidding me.”
Azriel stared at it for a long second.
Then he looked back at her.
The expression on his face—gods, she’d never seen it before. Something warm and uncertain. Something almost… bashful. As if the weight he carried had shifted just enough to reveal the male beneath it.
“I don’t know the tradition very well,” he admitted softly.
Her smile came easily now, warmth blooming in her chest where fear used to live. “It means you’re not allowed to pull away.”
A beat passed.
Azriel’s mouth curved—not fully, not yet—but close. Close enough to feel like a promise.
“Good,” he murmured.
And when he kissed her again beneath the mistletoe, it was different.
Still deep. Still full.
But slower now. Unhurried. Certain.
His hands stayed warm and steady at her back, holding her like something chosen, something worth keeping. His shadows curled close but calm, content to witness rather than guard.
When he finally rested his forehead against hers again, his voice was quiet but sure.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
She breathed him in, pressed the obsidian charm between their joined hands, and smiled.
“Neither am I.”
Above them, the mistletoe glowed softly.
And for the first time, Azriel didn’t look like someone bracing for loss.
He looked like someone who had decided to stay.
-----
Welll, since more than half you since to like "she" pov better, i tried it ! I originally wrote it with "I" pov, let me know what you think !
summary: Bruce has a tendency to stay up too late working, making his pregnant wife come all the way downstairs to convince him to join her in bed
warnings: sexual innuendos obvi, mentions of scars from whipping, pregnancy symptoms, self-deprecatory thoughts and beliefs, not proofread 😁
Bruce knew he should be in bed.
As soon as he was finished writing up the report from patrol, he should have removed his cowl and costume, turned off his monitors, climbed up the bat-cave steps, and curled up beside you in your Egyptian silk sheets. He could only imagine the heat of your skin against his; the way your body throws itself over his subconsciously.
Yes. He should really be in bed.
But he couldn't drag himself away from work. Not when he had a lead on Dagget's newest offense. If he was lucky, he could trace the fingerprints he'd found left behind on a window-pane, and be one step closer to revealing the truth behind this investigation. Just one more hour...
The elevator shaft behind him began reeling; signaling the arrival of a guest.
You.
Bruce's eyes shifted to the time and he mentally kicked himself. It was past midnight. He mentally kicked himself for the being the cause of another sleepless night for you.
The elevator doors slid open nearly silently and he listened to the soft padding of feet on the cave's floor. Your feet were most likely swelling, again.
"Head back to bed, sweet girl, and I'll join you soon." He murmured, eyes fixed on the analyzing data in front of him.
A hand slid up his bicep to his broad shoulder, thumb massaging the tense muscle there. Bruce groaned.
"Can't sleep without you, Brucey."
It didn't take any effort to peel his gaze from the computer to you.
Bruce hadn't believed in angels until he met you. From the first moment he saw you in that coffee shop, he hadn't been able to think of anything else. And now, with his ring on your finger and the swell of your silk encased stomach from his child, Bruce knew heaven existed. And it was wherever his wife was.
Bruce reached out for you. "Keep me company a while?"
Without further encouragement, you straddled his lap--with some awkwardness thanks to your growing midsection--and laced your fingers behind his neck. You smelled like lavender and vanilla and felt like home.
You pressed your lips to his in reunion. "Missed you."
His fingers dug into the softness of your hips, tongue tracing the seam of your lips. "What did my sweet girl do today?"
"I went to Jason's place with Todd to drop off the rest of his books and then to lunch. Afterwards I took a nap and Alfred was kind enough to wake me up with cookies--and, no, the baby didn't save you any."
"The baby?" he withdrew slightly to take in the tired, mischievous gleam in your eyes. "It would seem the baby has been slighting their father for quite some time now. First with stealing all the blankets and pillows and now with cookies?"
"They're sneaky, like you."
"Apparently, everything's my fault."
"Well," your finger spun the hair at the nape of his neck idly, "when you cheat on your wife with work in the middle of the night, you're automatically blamed."
Bruce trailed kisses along your neck, an apology for keeping you waiting. "You know how I am-"
"Work obsessed and tireless." You shouldered a lock of hair back to give Bruce more skin to work with as you scolded him. He hummed against your pulse, the noise repentant. "I only wish I had as much energy as you. These days, it feels like I wake up and am instantly exhausted."
Before finding out you were pregnant, you had been a dynamo; flitting from one project to another. It wasn't until your second trimester that you began switching luncheons for naps and family nights for early retirement. Bruce and the boys had been extra careful to attend and provide for your wants and needs, from stocking up the ingredients for your cravings to keeping an anti-acid in all of their wallets for your chronic heartburn.
Bruce knew you missed your previous lifestyle, something he had come to guilt himself for cutting short, but you knew him better than anyone else and that meant you were able to smother his fears and regret with reassurances. There was nothing more important you could be doing than growing a piece of him and you, you took as your newest mantra whenever you found him stuck in his own head.
You had been his savior in many ways but he always found himself in awe at the thought that you wanted to build a future, a life, with him. You loved his Robins as your own, treated Alfred as an old friend, and--most importantly--showed up for Bruce in his darkest moments.
"Don't tell me you're still thinking about work."
Your soothing voice brought him back from his thoughts.
He looked up at you, mad at himself for bringing that melancholy frown to your lips. Before you, he might have brushed off your worry and ordered you back to bed to leave him be but you had taught him better.
His palms spanned across your abdomen, scarred fingers kneading the firm skin there. The nightgown you wore tonight fit you like a glove, showcasing every proud curve and giving Bruce the pleasure of seeing what was his.
"I was thinking," he pulled you to him until your fronts were flush as much as they could be, "that you're too good for me."
As he expected, your eyes rolled heavenward in exasperation. "Should I tattoo it over your heart, Bruce Thomas Wayne? I. Love. You."
"And I love you-"
Your finger pinned his lips closed as you glared at him. "I love you and I don't want you saying things like that anymore. If I hear another self-deprecating word from this mouth, I will revoke privileges."
His brow rose in curiosity.
"I will reinstate the pregnancy pillow." You decided.
That had Bruce's eyes widening. He spoke around your finger, "Don't be so hasty, baby!"
"Then stop it." You snapped.
Any other person would have seen the wrath of the Dark Knight if they'd dared speak to him like that. Found themselves dangling from the cave ceiling or knocked on their ass. But he just looked at you with desire. The same thing that had Damian grumbling under his breath at dinner or Dick teasing about a houseful of little Wayne's.
He couldn't stop himself as he kissed you, easily man-handling your body to meld to his preferences.
As he suspected, your limbs went lax as you returned his affection, a moan building in your throat when his hand cupped your throat, moving your head this way and that in guidance.
You might be able to yell at and scold him but Bruce always took back control.
Your fingertips glided over his naked back, feeling the raised scars there from his time as an apprentice of Ra's Al Ghul. Every scar he had, you had kissed dozens of times. He never felt ashamed to bare himself in front of you the way he did when he laid with his past dates. You made him feel whole despite all of his loss and grief.
"You're not bringing that damned pillow back." He growled against your mouth, hips shifting beneath you to support his decision.
You gasped, sensitive from pregnancy.
"Tell me you won't bring it back." He ordered, hips raising again.
"I-I won't!"
He smiled darkly, fingers playing with the hem of your nightgown to push it further up your smooth thighs. You had made him shave your legs this morning as you couldn't reach them without a struggle.
"You wouldn't even be able to find it. I burned it to embers the first night you insulted me with it."
You chuckled breathily. "Good thing I have my billionaire husband's credit card at my disposal. I can buy the entire company and then some."
Bruce nipped at your collarbone. "I hope you weren't planning on getting any rest tonight. Our bed won't be used for sleeping after your impertinence."
"I didn't tell you why I wanted you to come to bed."
author's note: i can feel the words flowing from me 🌊 call me aquaman
CONTENT — 18+ minors dni | established relationship, desk sex, pet names (honey, sweetheart, love), nipple play, grinding, fingering, hand job (very brief), unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), creampie. let me know if i’ve missed anything!
WC — 5.2k
NOTE — i am a whore for this man
MASTERLIST
It was late—the kind of late where the city outside had gone quiet, the hum of Metropolis reduced to the occasional passing car and the faint sound of rain against the windows. The apartment was bathed in a soft golden glow from the lamp by the sofa, the rest of the lights dimmed hours ago.
You were in your pyjamas, curled up on the couch with a blanket and a book you hadn’t turned a page of in at least half an hour. Across the room, Clark was still at his desk—his desk, though it had gradually become an unofficial extension of the Daily Planet.
He was hunched forward, glasses slightly crooked as the faint glow of his computer screen reflected in the lenses. His sleeves were rolled up, forearms flexing with each keystroke. A few buttons of his shirt were undone, tie loosened but still hanging there—like he’d meant to take it off hours ago and forgot.
A half-empty mug of coffee sat forgotten beside him as the clock on the wall read just past midnight. The furrow in his brow told you he hadn't even noticed how long he’d been at it.
You’d tried talking to him. Twice. The first time was to ask if he wanted tea. The second was to point out, rather kindly, that it was past midnight and most people, even Superman, needed rest.
Both times, he’d mumbled something distracted and soft, like “Mm-hmm, in a minute,” without so much as glancing up.
Now you watched him over the top of your book, the way the muscles in his jaw worked when he was concentrating, the way his brow furrowed slightly as he adjusted his glasses, the way his entire world seemed to narrow down to the flicker of his screen.
You loved how dedicated he was—truly, you did—but sometimes Clark could be impossibly, adorably oblivious.
You closed your book with a quiet thud. “Clark,” you called gently.
He didn’t look up.
You sighed. “Clark Kent,” you said, louder this time.
He blinked, looking up briefly—but only for a heartbeat. “Mm? Sorry, honey, I just need to finish this paragraph—”
You sighed again, setting the blanket aside, and standing. Barefoot, you padded softly across the floor, the wood creaking faintly beneath your steps. Clark didn’t even notice your approach. You came to a stop beside his chair, arms crossed, watching as he muttered something under his breath about sentence structure.
You smiled to yourself—then decided, if he wasn’t going to give you his attention willingly, you’d just have to take it.
Without warning, you slipped your hand onto the back of his chair and lowered yourself right into his lap.
Clark froze instantly. Every muscle in his body went rigid, his hands hovering in the air mid-typing, eyes wide behind his glasses like you had just pulled the plug on his brain. For a moment, he just stared at you like he was trying to process what, exactly, had just happened.
You could feel the way his heart jumped in his chest, the heat rushing to his face even before he spoke. His glasses slipped down his nose as he looked up at you, his cheeks burning.
“Wh—what are you doing?” he stammered, voice an octave higher than normal.
You bit back a grin, looping your arms around his shoulders. “Getting your attention.”
He blinked up at you, utterly bewildered. “Well… you have it,” he managed, sounding both flustered and amused.
You tilted your head, feigning innocence. “You’ve been at this for hours, Clark. You promised you’d stop after dinner.”
“I—uh—did I?” he said, already looking sheepish. His hands rested awkwardly on the arms of the chair, like he wasn’t sure where they were supposed to go.
“Yes,” you said pointedly. “Three hours ago.”
He laughed softly, a quiet, apologetic sound. “Sorry, sweetheart. I just got caught up in this piece. Perry will kill me if I—”
You pressed a finger lightly to his lips. “No excuses, Kent. You’ve been saving the world and meeting deadlines all week. You deserve a break.”
Your hands went back up to his shoulders, gently kneading at the knots. The tension that had built up in his shoulders began to melt under your touch, his posture slowly relaxing. You could feel how tightly wound he’d been, every muscle coiled from hours of stillness and focus.
“Y-you don’t have to—” he started, but his words broke off in a quiet, involuntary groan when your fingers found a particularly tight spot near his shoulder blade. His hand instinctively reached up to steady yours, though he didn’t pull away.
You smiled. “You were saying?”
He chuckled weakly, head tilting slightly forward as you worked. “You’re going to make me forget what I was writing.”
“That’s the point,” you said softly, fingers tracing the line of his neck, thumbs moving in slow, firm circles. “You spend all your time saving the world, Clark. Someone’s got to save you from your own work habits.”
His shoulders eased a little, the tension melting away as his eyes softened. “You always know how to make your point,” he murmured.
You smiled, brushing a thumb along his jaw. “Well, you make it too easy. All I have to do is sit here.”
Clark chuckled, finally sliding his hands to your waist—still tentative, still careful, like he was afraid he might startle you. “You know,” he said quietly, “you’re kind of impossible to ignore when you want to be.”
“That’s the idea,” you teased, leaning in until your forehead rested against his.
He laughed again, this time quieter—a sound caught halfway between amusement and surrender. Your fingers moved in slow circles once again, kneading the tension from where his neck met his shoulders.
After a minute, Clark let out a sound somewhere between a sigh and a groan, his eyes fluttering closed.
His grip on your waist tightened ever so slightly, anchoring himself. He leaned into you without hesitation now, the weight of his head finding a resting place against your collarbone.
You kept working at the knots, feeling the last of the tension melt away beneath your fingertips. He turned his head slightly, glancing up at you with a faint smile. “You have no idea how good that feels.”
“Oh, I have an idea,” you teased. “You’re basically turning to putty.”
He hummed, sitting up and pressing a kiss to your temple as you stopped working on his shoulders. Your hands slid down to rest over his chest where his heartbeat thrummed steady and strong.
For a few moments, the apartment felt suspended in perfect stillness—the steady beat of his heart under your palms, the faint hum of the rain outside, the scent of his aftershave and ink and coffee mingling in the air. His glasses had slipped down his nose a little, and you reached up to nudge them back into place.
“Better,” you whispered.
Clark’s smile deepened, small and soft. “Alright. Laptop’s closed. You win.”
You grinned, running your hands up and down his chest slightly. “I always do, Mr. Kent.”
You gently tug at his tie, brushing your lips against his. Clark’s hands shifted in response, moving to your hips and pulling you closer. He let out a breathless laugh, tilting his head slightly and nudging your nose with his.
“I really want to kiss you right now,” he murmured.
“Hmm… do you now?” you whispered, bringing one of your hands back into his hair.
Clark's eyes darkened—a reaction you were incredibly familiar with. Your touch, combined with your tone that was so deliciously, purposefully innocent, was intoxicating. He could never get enough of the way you so effortlessly broke him down into desperate, shuddering need.
He let out a shaky breath, a sound that was almost a whimper as your hand slid into his hair. His grip on your hips tightened reflexively. "You're teasing," he breathed softly, the words more an accusation than a question.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you shrugged, feigning innocence.
Clark was torn between wanting to kiss you senseless and wanting to throw you over his shoulder and carry you off to the bedroom. That teasing, innocent act of yours had a way of driving him absolutely feral.
He huffed out a soft curse, fingers clenching on your hips. "Liar," he murmured, his voice low and thick with suppressed desire. "You know damn well what you're doing, sweetheart."
“And what exactly am I doing?” you whispered, trailing a finger over his jaw and slowly moving your hips against his.
Clark cursed under his breath, a shaky exhale escaping his lips as you began to roll your hips. He tipped his head back as your finger traced along his jaw, exposing the underside of his chin and the long line of his throat.
A shiver ran through him, his skin suddenly feeling hot and sensitive everywhere you touched. It was a delicious kind of torment. A sharp, ragged exhale escaped him. How could one person be so maddeningly and incredibly tempting?
His grip on your hips tightened involuntarily, his thumbs pressing into the softness of your skin as he answered through gritted teeth. "You're driving me insane."
You let out a small smile at his words, teasing your fingertips up his arm until they wrapped around his tie. You gently tugged at the material, pulling him closer and connecting your lips.
The second your lips met, every last bit of Clark's restraint shattered. All the pent-up desire he'd been trying so hard to suppress—the need you ignited in him so easily—finally boiled over.
He kissed you back fiercely, a desperate edge to every movement, his tongue sliding against yours as a low, possessive noise escaped him. His hands roamed over your body, fingers digging into your skin as he tried to pull you even closer, as if he wanted to consume you whole.
His hands slid under the hem of your pyjama top, his fingers tracing over the smooth, bare skin of your stomach and back. The contact was like fire to his already burning desire, the feel of you against his fingertips only fuelling the desperate need for more.
He pulled away from the kiss, breathing raggedly, to bury his face against the crook of your neck. "Sweetheart…" he panted, "I need you so goddamn much right now."
You rolled your hips once again and he instinctively bucked his own in response. He let out a strangled moan, his breathing ragged against your neck. He wanted you. Needed you. So badly it almost hurt, like a physical ache that had settled deep in his very bones.
His lips grazed your skin as he murmured against your ear, voice thick with desperate need.
“This needs to come off,” he gasped hoarsely, fingers tugging urgently at the fabric of your top.
“So does this,” you mumbled, your hands dropping down to undo the buttons of his shirt.
There was something almost frantic about the way you undid the buttons of his shirt, as if you couldn't bear to be apart for even a second longer. Every button undone felt like a small victory—one step closer to your body pressed against his.
Clark reached his hands up, fingers fumbling with the knot of his tie. He tugged—too fast—and the tie slid upward, catching on the arm of his glasses. The next few seconds were a clumsy blur of Clark trying to free it without breaking anything.
“Wait—hang on—one second—this is—” He tried to maneuver the fabric, but it only tightened further until the tie was halfway over his face, glasses askew, and Clark Kent, literal Superman, was helplessly tangled in his own clothing.
You pressed your lips together to keep from laughing. “Easy there, Clarky.”
Your fingers moved from the buttons of his shirt to his tie, carefully lifting the fabric and sliding it over the frames and loosening the knot with your thumbs. You brushed a finger along his cheek as you freed his glasses, untangling the tie and slipping it away in one smooth motion.
“There,” you said softly. “Crisis averted.”
Clark cleared his throat, looking anywhere but at you. “Thank you. I, uh… had it under control.”
“Sure you did, Superman,” you hummed, biting back a smirk and going back to undoing the buttons of his shirt.
Once his shirt was unbuttoned you pushed it off his shoulders, his hands moving impatiently with yours to help shrug off the fabric. Once he tossed his shirt carelessly onto the floor, he leaned into you—his bare chest now flushed with yours.
“Your turn,” he mumbled, gently nipping at the sensitive skin below your earlobe.
He pulled back slightly with that familiar boyish grin—all dimples and mischief despite how utterly wrecked he already was for you.
Clark’s breath hitched as you revealed yourself to him, his eyes darkening with a mix of reverence and pure need as you threw your pyjama top carelessly on the floor. His hands hovered over your waist for a moment—like he wasn’t sure where to touch first—before finally settling on the warm skin of your hips.
"You're so beautiful," he murmured, voice rough with emotion as his thumbs traced slow circles against you.
“You say that every time you see me naked,” you shook your head, rolling your eyes teasingly.
"And I mean it every time," he murmured, his gaze still fixed on you as your hand carded through his hair.
His fingers traced idle patterns along the bare skin of your hips, the touch reverent, almost awed as if he was still marveling over the fact that you were real, that you were his.
He leaned in, his lips brushing against your neck, nipping and kissing until he found a sensitive spot on your collarbone. He lingered there, leaving a mark that would no doubt show for days.
Clark groaned against your skin as you guided his mouth lower. He was only too happy to oblige—his hands tightening on your waist while his lips traced hot, open-mouthed kisses down the slope of one breast before capturing a nipple between them.
He let out another rough sound of satisfaction when he heard the gasp it drew from you, fingers digging possessively into your hips. Every touch was worshipful yet desperate all at once—like he couldn’t decide whether to take or savour but ended up doing both anyway with slow swirls and teasing nips that had you trembling instead for once.
Clark grinned against your skin, feeling the way you arched into him and rolled your hips. He loved how responsive you were to his touch—how every kiss, every nip made your breath hitch and your body tremble.
He switched sides with deliberate slowness, letting out a soft hum as he licked over one nipple before closing his mouth around it again. His tongue swirled in slow circles while one hand slid down to grip the curve of your ass possessively.
Clark pulled back slightly, taking in the sight of you—breathless and trembling from his touch. His forehead dropped to rest against yours as his hands slid up to cradle your face. He kissed you again with bruising intensity. His control was quickly unraveling. The need to take you, to claim you, burned through him like wildfire.
The idea of taking you on his desk, right there and then was the best, most irresistible kind of sin. He moved, lifting you effortlessly off his lap and setting you down on the edge of his desk with a single smooth motion. The sudden shift sent papers fluttering to the floor, but he didn't care—he barely even registered it over the pounding in his ears.
His hands landed on either side of your hips as he caged you between him and his desk, his body slotting between your legs. And then he was kissing you again, claiming your mouth with feverish, desperate movements.
He was completely drunk on the taste of you, utterly addicted. Each kiss was sloppy and messy, like he was trying to devour every last bit of you. His kisses were hard and hungry, fueled by the overwhelming desire coursing through him.
He wanted more, needed more, but restrained himself with the last vestiges of his crumbling control. You let one of your hands fall from his shoulder to grip his wrist, pushing it down to where you craved his touch.
Clark let you guide his hand to the apex of your thighs, the tips of his fingers brushing your sleep shorts. His lips left yours and trailed kisses down your jaw and to your neck before nipping at your pulse point.
His left hand that was still on your hip moved up to tangle in your hair. He tugged gently, tilting your head back to allow more access to your neck. Clark's hand on your thigh slid up, pushing the fabric of your sleep shorts to the side with urgency.
Clark’s fingers dipped past the flimsy barrier there between skin and fabric, seeking out sensitive flesh that practically trembled beneath his touch in anticipation of what was coming. His touch was scorching hot against your skin as he mapped every inch like he was memorising it all over again.
His restraint all but shattered, body taking over entirely as need overruled every other thought left in mind bar the single-minded drive to worship you completely in every way possible.
Clark's breath hitched as his fingers finally brushed against you, the heat and wetness of your arousal sending a jolt straight through him. His touch was hesitant at first—almost reverent—as he traced slow, teasing circles over your clit before dipping lower to gather slick proof of just how much you wanted this.
Clark's lips found yours again in desperate, frantic need, tongue delving deep as if trying to drown himself in your essence entirely. Every thought vanished, leaving only this—the two of you here right now like this.
His head spun dizzy with nothing but the taste of you on lips, the feel of you beneath fingers, the scent of you everywhere. It was all-consuming, addictive beyond measure and more intoxicating than even the strongest liquor.
You moaned into the kiss, thighs clenching around his arm as he slid a teasing finger against your entrance. Every sound, gasp and breath you made drove Clark insane with burning need for you.
Clark gently bit your bottom lip as he pulled away, his finger sliding through your folds and circling your clit. He could feel your thighs trembling around him and it only drove him wilder. His hand left your hair and gripped your hip possessively, holding you in place.
He pushed a finger inside oh-so-slowly as his thumb found your clit. He groaned at the feel of you clenching around him instantly, like your body was made just for him and him alone. He pumped his finger a few more times before easing it out of you and focusing on your clit.
Just when you thought he was going to pull away entirely, Clark slid two fingers inside you, working you open. The wet sounds each time Clark drew his fingers back and forth captivated him. He curled his fingers against that soft, sensitive spot deep inside as his thumb continued its ministrations.
“Fuck!” you hissed softly, the sound of it barely audible.
His fingers moved with deliberate precision, each stroke calculated to wring every possible sound from your lips. Weak and desperate moans spilled past your lips as his fingers pumped in and out of your dripping entrance.
Soon enough, you felt a familiar knot of pleasure beginning to form in your lower stomach. Clark could sense that you were close to the brink and worked his fingers harder. Your eyes squeezed shut, hands gripping Clark’s shoulders as your orgasm neared.
Clark’s fingers curled deeper at the way you gripped him—his name falling from your lips like a prayer. He could feel every tremble of your body against his own, every gasp and shudder as he worked you closer to that edge.
"Look at me," he murmured, locking his eyes onto yours while his thumb circled just right over your clit.
You obeyed, bringing your eyes up to his. Clark's breath hitched, barely, but you caught it. The look in your eyes had sent a jolt of pleasure through his body. The space between you felt electrically thin.
With one final curl of his fingers, you came undone with a broken moan. The sound of your voice breaking in release was like music to his ears, and it filled him with both satisfaction and pride.
Clark held you tightly in his arms, supporting you as you trembled against him—his fingers slowing their movements, gently coaxing you through the aftershocks until you were left a boneless, satisfied mess against his chest.
You caught your breath as Clark brushed a strand of hair back from your face with a tender touch, fingers skimming softly over skin still warm from exertion. He was silent for a moment, just staring, drinking you in.
“You okay?” he asked finally, pulling back with a string of slick connecting his fingers to your cunt.
“Hmm,” you hummed, nodding. “Yeah.”
Clark’s lips curved into a warm, affectionate smile at that answer—a soft laugh rumbling in his chest as he pulled you closer into his embrace. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, his arms tightening around like he couldn’t bear to let you go, even for a second.
“I didn’t break you, did I?” he teased jokingly, voice soft.
“Shut up,” you shook your head, biting back a smile.
Clark's smile widened at that, his eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that made your heart flutter. He couldn't help but tease you sometimes—especially when you tried to deny how wrecked you were from what he'd just done with nothing more than his fingers alone.
He couldn't resist leaning in to press his lips against your forehead again while letting out a soft laugh. "You sure? You're still shaking a little."
“You’re way too cocky,” you grumbled, walking your fingers up his thigh and to his crotch.
Clark’s breath hitched sharply as your fingers brushed against the bulge in his slacks. His hips jerked forward into the touch with a ragged groan before he could stop himself.
“Oh, fuck,” he choked out as you palmed him gently.
His fingers dug into the wood of the desk on either side of you—knuckles white from how hard he was gripping it to keep himself from completely losing control. Clark shuddered beneath your touch, his body tensing then melting against yours simultaneously as he gasped out a ragged breath.
His head fell forward, burying his face in the crook of your shoulder as he fought to regain control of himself. He let out a choked-off moan at the way your thumb traced over him, his hips jerking forward into your touch with desperate need.
He looked wrecked already—glasses askew; lips swollen; cheeks flushed dark red all because you knew exactly how to touch him without trying hard.
“Not so cocky now, are we?” you grinned, unable to hide the smugness from your voice.
Clark couldn’t deny that you had him completely wrapped around your finger. It really wasn’t fair how easily you could get under his skin. He let out a strangled laugh—half desperate, half amused—as he pulled back to rest his forehead against yours.
“Okay,” he admitted hoarsely. “Maybe I should’ve kept my mouth shut.”
“Hm,” you hummed, grinning as your fingers moved to undo his belt. “Maybe.”
“Wait,” he managed to choke out, his hands gently gripping your wrists. “Are you…” he swallowed hard. “Are you sure?”
You nodded, smiling softly and kissing his cheek before replying with, “Of course.”
Your fingers unbuckled his belt with a soft clink before moving to undo the button of his slacks and peeling down the zipper. Clark’s cock was pressing against the cotton of his boxers, straining and desperate to get out.
There was a wet spot seeping at the fabric making your mouth water with anticipation. Your fingers curled around the waistband of his boxers, gently tugging them down. His cock springs free from the ruined cotton of his boxers and slapped against his stomach with a wet sound that echoed around the apartment.
Precum leaked from his tip, dripping down the thick vein along the underside of his cock. Your hand reached out and wrapped around him, feeling the way he throbbed from your touch.
Your thumb gathered the beads of precum, smearing it over his tip and along his shaft like lube. Clark could think let alone breathe. His eyes fluttered shut for a moment as he lost himself in the sensation of your hand.
He managed to crack them open again, glancing down as your fingers wrapped around him so perfectly. His hips jerked forward into your touch as if desperate to chase more of that delicious friction.
“Help me out of these,” you panted, trying to wiggle out of your sleep shorts.
Clark’s hands were on you before he could even think. He lifted you off the desk as you shimmied your sleep shorts and underwear down your legs. Clark gently settled you back down onto his desk and kissed you deeply.
You were practically dripping for him at this point. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer. You rolled your hips against his, dragging his tip through your folds.
Clark let out a rough, ragged sound—his fingers gripping your hips so hard they were sure to leave marks there for days. He could feel the heat and the wetness and the need between you both, and it nearly made him feral with desire.
His forehead thumped lightly against yours as he tried to speak, his voice a low, rough rasp: "I need you, love."
Then he lined himself up, the swollen head of his cock nudging your entrance. His fingers flexed on your hip, and you could feel his restraint beneath your touch. With a swift motion Clark pushed into you, a low groan leaving his lips.
Clark tried to set a rhythm, slow at first to savor the feeling, but each rock was sweet torture. He pulled out to the tip before sinking back into the hilt, savoring the way you took every inch.
His hands tightened on your hips, his control fraying at the edges as he felt you take him in fully, inch by torturous inch. Your ankles lock at the base of his spine, heels digging into his back and pulling him in deeper.
You clenched around him and Clark rested a hand on your thigh, gripping the soft flesh like an anchor. Slowly, Clark began to move his hips but he soon picked up the pace. The desk creaked beneath the two of you from the force of each thrust. His rhythm was relentless—every deep, punishing thrust driving you both closer to the edge.
“Tell me what you need,” he murmured softly, pressing a lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth.
“I just need you,” you panted, trying to match his thrusts with a roll of your hips.
Clark's breath hitched at your words—his hands cradle your hips, guiding you with a gentle but firm rhythm as he leaned in to press his forehead against yours. Clark’s breath hitched—his hips snapping forward with a little more urgency now.
His hands tightened on your hips, holding you steady against each thrust while his lips brushed feather-light kisses along the curve of your shoulder between ragged breaths: “Perfect,” he choked out—voice wrecked but still impossibly tender despite how hard it was to form words.
Clark glanced down and watched the way you stretched around him in utter rapture. His hips stuttered at the sight of his cock disappearing inside of you. He was so close, he could feel it—the heat, the tension, everything coiled so tightly in the pit of his stomach that it was starting to border on painful now.
"Tell me you're close," he breathed out raggedly, one hand moving to your chin to tilt your face towards his while the other held onto your hip for dear life. "Please, gods, I need to know."
“yeah—shit—I am,” you nodded, gripping his shoulders tighter.
Clark groaned at those words—his hips snapping forward with a little more urgency now that he knew exactly what was coming. His hands tightened on your hips—one sliding down to grip the back of your thigh and hitch it higher around him while the other cradled your cheek gently.
"Gods," he choked out raggedly.
His thrusts now grew more erratic by the second despite best efforts to keep steady. Clark let out a choked groan, trying to keep his impending orgasm at bay. He buried his face into the crook of your neck, his glasses almost falling off.
“I love you,” he panted out against your hot flesh before biting down lightly just to feel the way your body arched against him in response.
He couldn't help himself, then—his mouth finding everywhere he could reach, trailing kisses along your neck, your jaw, your collarbone, anywhere and everywhere he could get his lips. "I could stay like this forever," he murmured against your skin, his voice ragged but still impossibly gentle against your ear, "Gods… I don't want this to end…"
Clark let out a ragged groan—his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips as he felt you clench around him again. Clark’s hips stuttered, his rhythm faltering. His breath came in ragged bursts against your neck—hot and uneven—as he fought to hold on just a little longer for you.
“You feel so damn good—I can’t…” He cut himself off with another low groan.
His thrusts grew erratic as his thumb found your clit, rubbing in slow circles—desperatley trying to get you to your orgasm first. You moaned his name, feeling the heat in your lower stomach build.
Clark felt you clench around him as the pressure became too much and with one final roll of his hips, you felt your orgasm wash over you. Clark followed instantly, hips stuttering and body shuddering as he spilled deep inside you—pumping his release deeper with each spasm.
You continued to clench around him and Clark didn’t pull out until he was sure you’d milked every last drop. When he finally did, it was reluctant. He watched as both his and your release leaked out of you and onto his desk.
“Clark?” you muttered breathlessly, still coming down from your high.
“Yeah?” he responded weakly, his glasses fogged up and cheeks flushed a pretty pink.
“What are you looking at?” you frowned, tilting your head and glancing down. “Oh.”
Clark was so entranced by the sight of his release leaking out of you he barely registered the way your fingers carded through his hair. He reached a shaky hand forward and glided his fingers through the mess. His cum mixed with your slick coated his fingers as he smeared it along your folds before pushing it back into your hole.
“Clark Joseph Kent,” you scolded, slapping his chest weakly.
At the use of his full name, Clark snapped out of his trance, glancing back up at you sheepishly. He fixed his glasses on his nose, feeling a blush creep up the back of his neck to the tips of his ears.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, still slowly pumping his fingers inside you.
“No you're not,” you said breathlessly.
“No, I’m not,” Clark grinned, leaning down and kissing you.
🕷️ asking bf!clark kent if he wishes he were taller and him taking it a little too seriously
the first time it slips out, it’s not even meant to be mean.
you’re both crammed into the tiny kitchen of Daily Planet at nearly midnight, surviving on stale vending machine cookies and coffee that tastes burnt enough to classify as a workplace hazard. clark is leaning against the counter beside you, sleeves rolled to his elbows, glasses sliding down his nose while he listens to you rant about a headline rewrite.
he’s smiling.
he always smiles at you like you’re the only person in the room worth listening to and maybe that’s why you say it so casually.
“you know,” you mumble, stealing his mug, “sometimes i wish you were taller.”
clark blinks. “…taller?”
“just a little,” you tease. “for dramatic purposes.”
he gives this soft, confused laugh, ducking his head. “i’m six foot three.”
“yeah, but like. emotionally.”
that gets a real laugh out of him, warm and helpless and so pretty it almost distracts you from the fact that his hand has slid onto your waist without him even seeming to notice.
“emotionally taller,” he repeats.
“exactly.”
“i’ll work on that.”
you grin, expecting him to move on. instead he looks thoughtful. actually thoughtful, like a baby discovering ice cream for the first time.
his thumb rubs absent circles against your side while he stares somewhere over your shoulder, like he’s genuinely considering the logistics of becoming taller for you.
“clark,” you laugh, “baby, i’m kidding.”
his eyes flick back to yours at the word baby. god. that expression should be illegal.
soft blue eyes behind glasses. pink mouth slightly parted. giant farmboy build practically folding around you in this tiny kitchen while his entire attention locks onto you like you hung the moon.
“right,” he says quietly. “kidding.”
but he still looks weirdly determined.
the next morning, you find him standing straighter. you notice immediately because of course you do. “are you —”
“good morning,” he says very quickly.
you narrow your eyes. “clark.”
“yes?”
“ youre standing like a victorian man posing for a portrait.”
“i’m not.”
he absolutely is.
his posture is ridiculously perfect. shoulders back. spine straight. chin lifted. he’s somehow making himself look even broader than usual, which should honestly be impossible considering the man already looks unfair in sweaters.
today’s sweater is dark blue. you hate him a little.
“did my joke actually get to you?” you ask.
“no,” he says. pause. “maybe a little.”
your heart immediately melts into soup. “clark—”
“i know i’m not…” he rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. “you know. huge.”
you stare at him. this man could probably bench press a pickup truck without breathing hard. “you are objectively huge.”
“not compared to some people.”
you burst out laughing because oh my god. “are you comparing yourself to bruce wayne.”
clark goes silent which is answer enough.
you actually have to sit down. “that is insane behavior,” you wheeze.
“he’s taller.”
“by like an inch.”
“it’s still taller.”
“clark, sweetheart, i promise i do not spend my time wishing you resembled a haunted cryptid billionaire.”
he smiles despite himself.
then quieter, almost shyly, “you promise?”
and that’s the thing about clark.
under all that strength, all that impossible goodness, there’s still this softness in him. this quiet want to be enough for the people he loves.
especially you.
you walk over slowly until you’re right in front of him.
“clark kent,” you murmur, sliding your hands up his chest, “do you have any idea what you do to me.”
his breath catches instantly.
every single time.
it’s unfair how reactive he is to you.
“you bend down every time you kiss me,” you whisper. “you block the whole damn sun when you stand in front of me. your hands are so big they practically cover my waist.” your fingers curl into the front of his sweater. “and when you lean over me at my desk? i literally forget my own name.”
his cheeks go pink.
pink like he isn’t built like every single fantasy you’ve ever had.
“really?” he asks softly.
you just stare at him. “clark. be serious.”
his hands settle carefully on your hips like he’s handling something precious. “you said you wanted taller.”
“i said sometimes.”
“that implies recurring thoughts.”
you laugh so hard you nearly snort and apparently that does something to him too because his eyes suddenly darken in that way they do when he gets overwhelmed by affection.
“c’mere,” he murmurs.
before you can answer, he’s lifting you effortlessly onto the counter.
you squeak. “clark!”
“what?” he says innocently, stepping between your knees. “thought maybe this would help with the height issue.”
you stare down at him now eye level. “oh my god.”
his mouth twitches. “better?”
“a little.”
“good.”
and then he kisses you.
slow at first. warm.
the kind of kiss that melts through you piece by piece because clark kisses like he’s terrified of not loving you enough. one hand cradling your jaw, the other spread against your thigh while he tilts his head deeper into it.
you can feel him smiling when you kiss him back harder.
“still wish i was taller?” he murmurs against your mouth.
“mm. maybe.”
his eyebrows lift.
you grin lazily. “might need a better demonstration.”
“yeah?”
“yeah.”
he gives you this look.
this devastatingly fond, slightly heated look that makes your stomach flip.
then suddenly he’s crowding closer, big hands gripping the counter beside your hips, effectively trapping you there while his chest presses against yours.
and god there it is. that impossible size difference. the sheer warmth of him. the way his body surrounds yours so completely it makes your head fuzzy. “how’s this?” he asks quietly.
your brain completely stops functioning.
because clark kent — sweet, gentle, unbearably polite clark — absolutely knows what he’s doing right now.
especially when he ducks his head to kiss the corner of your mouth and murmurs, “feel pretty small from this angle.”
you make a sound that is genuinely embarrassing.
his smile turns smug. smug. on clark.
“okay,” you whisper faintly. “you win.”
“i know.”
“don’t get cocky.”
“too late.”
and then he kisses you again like he’s very pleased with himself.
one-sentence synopsis: matt isn't there in time to stop you from getting hurt, but he has all the time left in the world to help ease your pain.
author's note: sweet matt....... i will manifest daredevil season 4 with my own fucking bare hands if i have to
read on ao3!
You’re still trembling by the time you arrive home.
You aren’t really entirely sure what to do first. For a while, you just stand inside the front door with it locked firmly behind you, doing nothing at all. It’s not until you hear a scrape in the hallway outside your apartment door that you jump, your heart skyrocketing into your throat in an instinctive, automatic fear response. Your terror is bubbling just under the surface, waiting for the moment of your collapse.
It could have been worse. You keep trying to tell yourself that mentally: it could have been so much worse.
The mugger found you walking home alone— even though you only had to walk two blocks from your bus stop to your building, even though you’ve walked it a million times before. Cornered in the darkness at the mouth of an alley you’d been passing by, you only had a moment to hope that Matt would be nearby, that somebody would hear, that this wasn’t really going to happen right now.
You had real fear, fear that you would actually lose your life at this person’s hands. You’ve been stolen from before, and even mugged twice, but this time was different. You’d watch this mugger brandish a knife, and your heart had galloped up into your throat, all thought and logic leaving you.
When the mugger had demanded you turn over your things, you hadn’t been able to make your body move fast enough. They had grabbed you, yanked you forward, knife held tight against the bones in your collar. The blade scraped your skin, and you’d cried out, and they’d grabbed for the bag you were carrying without hesitation.
You let it go, unthinking, and tried to throw a punch to fight them off, just like Matt taught you. You caught them under the chin, and they’d grabbed you up by the throat, tight under your jaw, before they shoved you back against the nearest wall. You could feel your skin split, scratched up on the brick, and your head hit the stone.
Though you lash out again, the blow you land doesn’t do much. You split your knuckles, and they kick your arm back. Finally, you covered your face, and they’d— sprinted away, taking up your bag and running with it.
For a while, you’d just sat there, shaking, trying to think. The only things left in your coat pocket were your keys and your phone, which, thank fuck, at least you had that much. Your wallet and your umbrella and the groceries you just got and the gift you had for Matt and the book you’re reading and— and all your things, your daily necessities, were in the bag, and that’s fucking gone, but you’re alive and you can get home.
You’d shoved upwards, then, and though you wanted to run, you’d only managed to shamble home. It was like your brain and body weren’t processing it properly.
When you’re home, though, and you’ve been standing stock-still for a while, and you finally hear that noise in the hallway, you jump. You end up snatching the nearest chair and wedging it up under the doorknob, just for the extra layer of protection the furniture affords.
It’s over. It’s over, and done, and it could have been so much worse, and there’s nothing you can do right now.
Your trembling becomes a full-body shaking, a teeth-chattering, constant shiver that feels like it’s leaking down into your bones. Your breath starts coming fast of its own accord, hyperventilation in a delayed panic response. Your heart thunders in your chest, its movement so fast it practically feels still.
Your phone rings. You hear the sound before you understand it, the sharp ringing before you actually think to reach for your pocket. You pull it up and out and see Matt’s face on the screen.
Matt.
He sees so much worse on a daily basis. He gets hurt all the time. He wasn’t there to save you when you needed him. He—
He’s calling again, when you didn’t answer the first one in time. You do manage to make yourself move, this time, reaching to swipe to answer, bringing the phone up to your ear. Your hand is shaking so badly the edge of the plastic keeps connecting with the corner of your jaw.
“Hey, (Y/N),” Matt says in a rush the second you pick up. “What’s happening? I started heading towards your place and I can hear your heart, are you okay? Is something happening?”
You shake your head. You don’t know why you are, or what it’s in answer to. He doesn’t know you’re doing it; he’s not even here, and he couldn’t see you if he was, even though he’d probably tease you anyway, say he could hear your hair or your muscles or something like that—
Matt repeats your name, and you try to focus, your mind bleary and constantly drifting as it tries desperately not to think about what just happened.
“Sorry,” you say softly. Your voice sounds strange, even to your own ears.
There’s a beat, and then Matt’s bewildered, concerned voice asks, “What’re you sorry for?”
“I should’ve—” you start to say, then exhale in a gust. You’re standing in the middle of your living room, and that’s where you sit, kneeling right there on the floor. You curl into yourself, pushing your knees into your chest, wanting to feel the solid gravity, the earth beneath you. Your eyes are finally burning over. Your voice breaks when you tell him, “I should’ve tried harder, I should’ve fought— I didn’t fight, I didn’t, I just gave up—”
“What are you talking about? What happened?” Matt demands again, a frantic edge starting to leak into his voice.
You’re turning yourself over to the rising hysteria in you, unable to fight it back now that Matt’s talking to you and you have no choice to acknowledge what’s happened. Your mind is whirling, struggling to process your terrified emotions. “Someone— Someone stopped me and took my stuff—”
“Where are you?” Matt asks. You can hear his breathing shift, changing into a heavier, steadier pace. He’s running, you realize.
“Home,” you whisper. You press the phone tight against your cheek and your ear, feeling the heat blazing off of it just for something to feel. “Matt, I need— I need—”
You can’t manage to get your plea out, begging cut off as your cries start to take you over in earnest, becoming full panicked sobs. Matt says something on the line, but you can’t hear him over the rush of blood in your ears.
You have this foreboding feeling that you just can’t shake, like you’re still being followed, like it’s somehow not over, and it’s making you feel frenzied, deranged, your body only now responding to a threat that’s long gone. You don’t know when you drop the phone; you only realize that you’re not holding it, that you’re holding onto your own hair instead, head bowed into your arms, trying to keep yourself together in one piece.
When Matt comes, it isn’t through the front door. You don’t know if he tried it and gave up or not, belatedly remembering the chair you’d wedged there— but, either way, he gets in anyway. He eases open the window in your living room, and then he’s kneeling next to you, his hand finding the center of your back.
You exhale all at once in a shuddering punch that bursts out of you. You try to say his name, to say, “Matt, I’m sorry,” but it doesn’t come out as anything more than incoherent sounds in the midst of your tears.
Matt just sits down on the floor and pulls you into his arms. You cling to him with numb fingers hooked in the joints of his Daredevil armor, and he doesn’t stop rubbing your back, clutching you close to his front. He’s taken his cowl off, the helmet abandoned nearby, one of the sharp horns leaving a small scratch on your floor.
You stare at that tiny scratch as you struggle to get a grip on yourself. Matt’s presence is helping in leagues, but you’re so far into your frenzy that it takes a while to come back out of it.
You make yourself focus on the even sweeps of Matt’s soft touch as he strokes your back; on the strong hold of his arms around you, keeping you safe; on the press of his lips to your hairline where he keeps murmuring reassuring echoes of the same thing; on the slowing thud of your own heart as you come back into yourself in fragmented pieces.
His hand moves to grip the back of your head, his cheek dragging along yours when he starts to pull back. Your heart kicks up, panic seizing you again, but Matt shushes you.
“I’m not going anywhere, it’s okay,” Matt tells you. “I can smell blood. Is it yours?”
“Yeah,” you whisper. Matt’s hold tightens, and you tell him, voice breaking once more, “I’m sorry—”
“No, no,” Matt cuts you off. He kisses your hair, says, “No, don’t be sorry. Don’t. Just— What happened?”
“I don’t know, I just— I got mugged, I think,” you tell him, embarrassed and terrified and hurt and upset, starting to fall apart. “I wasn’t— I wasn’t thinking, I— I should— I should’ve fought b—”
“I should’ve been there,” Matt says firmly, his tone inviting no argument. “(Y/N), I am— I am so sorry—”
“Matt,” you start to interrupt him. You want to tell him not to be sorry, that he can’t be everywhere at once, that it was over so quickly he couldn’t have done anything.
You can’t make the words come. You just start to dissolve again, repeating, “Matt,” and he kisses your temple hard, letting his forehead drag along yours. The physical touch of him is grounding you, grounding him. He won’t stop touching you, hard presses to make sure you’re still here and alive and okay.
Matt reaches and lifts your hand. You can see him as he’s taking stock of you, cataloguing your injuries through touch and scent, tasting your blood in the air, hearing the tiny noises you make when his gloved fingertips brush an injury.
He removes one glove, then gently touches the edge of your split knuckles. You wince, and he brings the back of your hand to his mouth, kissing it softly.
“I’ll fix it,” Matt tells you.
You’re not sure what you’re expecting him to do, but it’s not for him to start pulling his glove on and separating himself from you. He’s moving to pick his horns back up; your breathing quickens instinctively, fear gripping your lungs all over again.
He must hear the changes in your body, because he pauses, head tilted to the side a bit before he inclines back towards you.
“What’s wrong?” he asks you. Without waiting for an answer, he’s already saying, “I’ll call Claire, she can come while I’m gone and help you w—”
“No,” you finally get yourself to say. Matt’s brow furrows, frustration and confusion striking across his face. “Matt, n— No—”
“Would you rather I call Foggy?” he asks. “Or Karen? They would—”
“Don’t leave,” you beg him. You can’t stop the shattering of your voice as you speak. “Matt, please— Please don’t leave, I can’t— I can’t—”
The words won’t come out of your mouth before your breath is catching up in your throat again, choking off your next breaths. You fold into yourself again, trembling; Matt reaches for you, pulls you back into his lap. His hands have their gloves back on, the leather rough on your skin. You can’t bring yourself to let him go, clinging to him tightly, chest rattling apart.
Matt readjusts, leaning back against the coffee table behind himself so he can take your weight without tipping, focusing on you. His face comes back down to meet yours, cheek brushing yours, his hair soft against your skin.
“You’re okay,” Matt murmurs, voice soft. “Just breathe with me. I’m not going anywhere, you’re okay. In and out. Come on, in and out.”
You have to focus, and it takes pretty much all of your concentration to do it, but you start to steady and calm and slow again. There’s obvious tension roped through every muscle in his body, coiled and ready to spring into action to take down your attacker the second you give the word, but you can’t get yourself to give the word.
You barely saw them; you don’t know anything useful. All you know is that you were terrified, and hurt, and you needed Matt, and now he’s here. You don’t think you can let him go, not even for him to get revenge for you—
—or for himself, you realize, seeing how terrified he is, how angry he is, churning just beneath his surface as he struggles to keep the reins on himself. He grapples to hold his grip, determined not to make this worse for you than it already is by losing control of his emotions, but it’s— it’s fucking hard. You, you, are the person he loves most on this planet— and he dedicates himself daily to protecting people— and when you needed him, he wasn’t there, and you got hurt.
He can’t stop thinking about everything that could have happened. The things he witnesses on a daily basis are just— atrocities. If you were one of those people, he doesn’t think he could take it. If you had been unlucky enough to be one of those poor nameless, faceless fuckers that he’s not fast enough to save, one of those countless people who weigh on his soul, but more, worse, a million times worse, because none of them were you.
None of them are the reason he comes home at all, some days. None of them are the ones who take care of him when he’s hurt, and doesn’t think he needs help healing. None of them are his home, his heart, the person who consumes his every breath and still he wants to give them more.
None of them are you, and he couldn’t take it if it was. He couldn’t.
Matt’s hold on you is nearly tight enough to bruise, but you want it that way. You’d even ask him to hold you even tighter, if you didn’t know it would start to hurt your blossoming injuries.
“Matt,” comes out of your mouth, broken and harsh, jagged in your throat, catching on your tongue. “Matt—”
“I know,” he replies. You can feel it, goosebumps rising all over your arms. He does know, in his bones, coursing through his blood— he knows, what it feels like to hurt like this. It’s stabbing him in the chest, too, the pain of knowing you’re feeling what he tries so hard to protect you from. “I know. I know.”
When you can breathe again, Matt holding you and stroking your back while you press your face to his hard armor and cry until you’re exhausted and empty, you slump against him, letting him hold you up.
“Let me help,” Matt asks, voice low near your ear. Your hands shake, and he hurries to say, “No, I’m not leaving. Just—” He shifts, says, “Here,” and starts helping you to stand.
You let him guide you, assisting you in rising to your feet before he drops to scoop you up into his arms fully. You protest, about to argue that you’re not hurt so badly you can’t walk, but the look on Matt’s face stops you. It doesn’t matter if you can walk; right now, he wants to protect you, and take care of you— and you want to be protected, and cared for.
“You’re okay,” Matt repeats occasionally, when he hears your heart jump or your breath catch. “I got you. You’re okay.”
He doesn’t put you down until you’re in your bedroom with him. He lays you down in bed, then pauses a moment beside you, stroking your hair back from your face. His eyes settle somewhere near your throat as he listens— you don’t know to what.
After a beat, he straightens up and tells you, “I’ll be right back,” then adds before you can protest or even begin to feel the encroaching spike of panic, “I’m just getting the first aid kit. I’ll be one minute.”
He kisses the center of your palm, then vanishes from the room, moving impossibly quickly in his haste. You gather the covers around you, tugging them up, heedless of the fact that you’re still in the clothes you’d been wearing outside, shoes still on. You just want to be wrapped up, comforted, safe, protected.
When Matt returns, he’s shucked off most of his Daredevil armor, leaving him bare-chested and plain-faced, dark red armor covering only his legs now. He sets the first aid kit and a bowl on the side table before he returns his focus to you.
His hands find your hip, then skate up until he’s able to search out the edge of the covers. As he works, he doesn’t speak, though you can see from his expression that he appears to be seething with rage. You can feel it, working its way through his teeth into yours, metal-scrape-sharp, surging through you in jags.
“Here,” Matt murmurs, his tone with you easy even as his words come out hard. “Let me—”
He tugs the covers back, and his fingers drift down to your ankles. When he finds your boots on, still laced up, he nimbly unknots them, tugging them loose. One is removed, then the next; his bare hands, rough though they are, are soft and gentle as he removes one article of clothing from you at a time. He sets them aside in strips, a neat pile on the floor.
His hands seek out your wounds when he has you lying bare on top of the covers. He tilts his head, listening to the swell of your blood as it pools under your skin. He can taste in the air the places your blood rises and breaks the surface, beading with a heavy metal tang in the back of his throat.
You watch his face while he works, unable to look away. It’s so comforting, the familiar expressions that spread as he thinks. His eyes are so warm; you can see your own injuries and his hands reflected in them in the street lights from outside. You hadn’t even managed to turn a light on when you got here, and Matt hasn’t thought of it. Instead, you take comfort in the near-darkness, letting Matt envelop you in it.
He finds first the wound at the back of your head. A frown works its way onto his face, twisting down the corners of his pretty mouth in such a way that makes him seem both impossibly melancholy and incredibly enraged at the same time.
“Will you turn over for me?” Matt asks, his voice soft, low.
His hand finds your shoulder, and he helps you shift to turn onto your side, letting him see the back of your head. He brings the basin of warm water close; you can feel the heat and steam get nearer to your bare skin.
The corner of a warm, damp washcloth meets the very edge of the mark at the back of your head, and you flinch at the unexpected touch.
“I’m sorry,” Matt murmurs.
You close your eyes, saying, “It’s okay,” so low it’s little more than a whisper.
Matt’s fingers stroke through your hair before he takes hold of your shoulder. His other hand drifts up to start gently cleaning again, his touch even more delicate as he endeavors not to hurt you any further.
“No,” he tells you. “It’s not okay.”
Your eyes open again, and you stare at the darkness of the wall opposite, letting your vision swim in the shadows. The backs of them burn, your nose prickling; you take in a shaky breath, willing the tears not to fall.
They well up and start to spill anyways. Your hand drifts up to swipe at your face, but Matt can feel the pull of your muscles, can smell the salt in the air.
“Does it still hurt?” he asks. “I’m sorry—”
“No,” you whisper back. “I’m sorry, I’m just—” You don’t know what you mean to say. You don’t know what you’re feeling, really. “I’m sorry, I don’t know,” you repeat, your voice breaking.
“Don’t be sorry,” Matt says. He finishes cleaning the small injury at the back of your head, helps ease you into sitting up. His fingers drift up to graze your jaw before continuing up to cup your cheek. He hesitates, frowning, then lets his touch skim back down.
You can feel him exploring the swelling of the place just beneath your chin, below the strike of your jaw, where the mugger had grabbed you and forced you up against the wall.
Matt’s brow furrows and creases, his face crumpling as he tries to keep a hold of his emotions. You can feel your own composure splintering again, too, what you had managed to build back up so quickly falling to shreds.
“I should do— something,” Matt says, hands shaking. He traces down to the thin cut left behind by the blade, at the center of your throat, faint over your jugular. His breathing becomes something careful, measured. He keeps moving, hands skimming down over the scrapes cut into the backs of your arms and your calves, and further, the bruise where your arm was kicked, the bloody split skin of your knuckles where you’d landed the few punches you’d managed to throw at all.
He takes stock of you and your injuries before bringing the washcloth to your skin again. In tiny sweeps, he clears the blood away, removes any infinitesimal trace of dirt or germ or grit. Your arms come next, his face focused down.
As he works, barely keeping himself in check, he tells you again, “I should do something.”
“What would you do?” you ask him, voice shuddering a little. You’re not sure what to expect in response.
“I…” Matt starts, then stops. He has an answer ready, you can tell that much, but he’s considering whether or not it’s true— whether or not he wants to tell you about it. After a beat, he decides on honesty, violent though it is, confessing, “I’ll kill him.”
“Matt,” you breathe.
“He cut your throat,” Matt bites out, his jaw so tight you can see a muscle jumping in it as he’s trying to get a grip. “He could— He could have killed you. He w— One— If he had gone one inch deeper, right here,” he says, his fingertip against your pulse where it rabbits in your throat, “You would be d— You would— You would have died. I would have found you in that fucking alley—”
“Matt,” you repeat, voice breaking again.
“No,” he says quickly, then, “Fuck, no, I’m sorry, I fucking— I shouldn’t have said that, I don’t— Fuck,” he cuts out again. He draws his hands to his lap, tight around the washcloth as he wrings pink water out into the bowl again.
He reaches back out to take your hand in his. Gentle between his calloused fingers, he leads your hand down into the water, guiding it until your knuckles are submerged.
“I’m sorry,” Matt repeats to you. “That— I’m sorry.”
“I was so scared,” you admit to him tearfully. His thumb strokes along the back of your head, his head dropping in so he can press his forehead to yours, letting you breathe his air, letting you ground yourself in him. Your other hand flies up to grip his hair hard, threading at the back of his head, hanging on. A sob comes up and you confess, “Matt, I was so— I was so scared, I didn’t— I should have fought back and I know you’ve taught me better but I couldn’t think and I just let him do that and he could have killed me, you’re right, I don— You’re right, I just— I couldn’t—”
“Hey, shh.” Matt takes the dish of water away, setting it aside on the nightstand so it won’t spill. When he returns to you, he takes your wet hand in his, heedless of the water, guiding you up so he can press his lips to the center of your palm. Buried in your touch, he tells you, “You didn’t do anything wrong. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I should’ve—”
“No,” Matt cuts you off. “This is not your fault.”
You can hear the knife’s edge under his words, and you tell him, “It’s not yours, either,” voice vibrating just under the edge of noise.
Matt’s eyes prick with water, red starting to shoot through the feather-fine veins at the corners. You drag yourself in closer to him, and he wraps both arms around you, holding you tight in his strong grip.
You bury your face in Matt’s throat, and he kisses your temple in a hard press.
“Please don’t go,” you beg him, unable to stop yourself. “Please, d— Don’t.”
Matt reaches up to cup the back of your head in his hand, letting you be enveloped entirely by him, held close, embraced so fully you just fold into him.
“I won’t,” he promises you, and you believe him. He won’t— for now, anyway. He kisses the space beside your eye, your cheek, your jaw. You close your eyes and ignore the sting of pain when he does it; it feels better than it did before, better than when you were still alone. You’d rather have it this way, him here with you, holding you, keeping you safe, a protector who is as prepared to kill for you with his bare hands as he is ready to hold you close in those same hands and never let you go.
-
requests used:
"hello my dear heart I have thoughts and dark machinations that must be released into your inbox: im thinking thoughts of matt murdock and y/n being hurt physically by some random crime and just so down emotionally and matt coming to the house/apartment and having to try look after you and not leave you while wrestling with his need to find who hurt you. help me I need support I need matt cleaning wounds and hugging and his rage just under the surface" (@hellomrreaper)
pairing: Matt Murdock x fem!reader (descriptor of hair being long enough to run hands through and comb)
Your insecurities from the past come back to haunt you as you grapple with the paranoia that creeps into your mind when Matt suddenly starts ducking out on dates.
now playing: Seeing Other People by Francis Karel and Maddie Zahm
"i've been seeing other people, all my ex's undertones / assuming i'll catch you in a lie, afraid to read what's on your phone / 'cause when i was seeing other people, i'm not the only one that they took home / now i don't trust so easily, even when i know you're not cheating / i'm the one who's seeing other people in you"
You had finished with your hair and makeup for your date with Matt half an hour ago and were patiently waiting for his call. He would always call to tell you he was on his way to whisk you away from your apartment for the evening, which was something you appreciated rather than being caught half ready. It had been a long week. You were looking forward to getting to relax into conversation with Matt and eventually into his strong arms by the end of the night. Matt had usually ended your dates either in his bedroom or on the couch cuddling, and those times were ones you cherished with your whole being. You would never take them for granted. The moments of intimacy were ones you looked forward to more than anything and were something you were desperately craving after the hellish week you’d had at work.
Getting lost in your thoughts of cuddling Matt, you nearly didn’t hear your phone ringing quietly beside you on the couch. When it finally registered in your ears, you fumbled to pick it up before it hung itself up, answering with a quick, “Matt! Hey!”
“Hey sweetheart,” came Matt’s voice which you noted sounded a bit more gruff than usual. You heard a rustling in the background of the call as he continued with, “I, uh… I hate to tell you this but I have to cancel tonight’s date. I’m really sorry. Something came up with work that really needs my attention. Can we rain check?”
“Oh,” you said, feeling your body deflate into the couch cushion. Shaking away your suddenly spiking anxiety, you forced a chipperness into your voice as you told him, “That’s fine! I hope everything is okay. If I can help in any way just let me know, yeah?”
“Thank you, sweetheart,” he told you, a sense of relief evident in his tone.
There was a heavy thud on the other side of the line and your eyebrows furrowed together as you asked, “Everything okay?”
“Yeah. Just dropped my briefcase, that’s all,” Matt told you. “Client seemed really anxious to speak with us as soon as possible, so I’m more clumsy than usual getting ready to head out.”
“Oh, I see. I’ll let you go then,” you said, in a quieter tone than you intended. “I love you. Talk later?”
“Talk later. I love you too,” he replied.
Matt hung up shortly after and tossed his phone onto his leather couch as he dashed up the stairs. He had suited up in his Daredevil suit in record time while he was on the phone with you. While he hated to cancel another date on you, there was a growing drug gang that he needed to stop before they took over the city. From the rumors he had heard, they were serious business and weren’t afraid to kill for territory. Having killers on his streets was the last thing he wanted. If the streets weren’t safe, then you weren't safe and your safety was not something he was willing to risk.
The crisp air of the city hit Matt as he bolted out of the rooftop access door. He tried to shove down his feelings of guilt surrounding canceling the date as he focused on the sounds of the city around him, trying to find one voice in particular. The voice he had overheard on his way to pick up lunch for himself, Foggy, and Karen the day before. He found it after a few moments, but before he could take off toward where the meeting was taking place, he hesitated. The hesitation was caused by hearing the soft sound of your crying in your apartment a couple blocks down. The sound tugged on Matt’s heartstrings and by instinct his body began gravitating toward your place to provide you comfort, but the sound of a cocking gun tore his ears away from your cries. Within an instant, Matt was on the move, vaulting across rooftops and traversing metal fire escapes to get to the meeting spot. He was racing to get there before the shot rang and a life was taken.
Back in your apartment, the mental turmoil you were experiencing was like a hurricane blowing through your mind with no end in sight. Your hands shook and your heart pounded in your ears as your breathing became shallow and tears blurred your vision. Old memories bombarded your mind, and you were sent back to a headspace that you never wanted to experience again. But, despite your best efforts, you have been… Over the last month or so your mind had slipped into old habits and you had begun to doubt your place in Matt’s life. Canceled plans led to harsh memories that you have tried to leave in your past. But, as you had started to feel more distance growing between yourself and Matt, you couldn’t help but have flashes of memories you thought you had shoved into the ‘forgotten’ box in your mind.
Without your permission, your emotions began to take over and you couldn’t escape the flurry of old memories intruding into your previously peaceful headspace. It was a dizzying feeling as you were bombarded with the memories of harshly spoken words and insults thrown in your direction. No matter how hard you tried to push the memories back they kept coming and soon you felt like you were thrown into the midst of an emotional storm that was pelting you from all sides. Tears began to freefall and test the integrity of your makeup, and you did your best to simply stay afloat as you attempted to find the eye of the storm within your mind. It took longer than you would have liked to admit, but after a few minutes of being bumped around by your painful past, you finally were able to center yourself and take the deep, calming breaths that would slow your heart rate.
As your body began to escape the unnecessary fight or flight mode the phone call with Matt had sent you into, you tried to rationalize his words now that your anxiety had had its turn at ravaging your body. You told yourself that the gruffness in his voice was likely from annoyance with the last minute client call. That the rustling in the background was simply him changing out of his jeans and henley and into a suit to meet with the client. That he truly had dropped his briefcase in his rush to make it to the meeting. There was no reason for you to think that he was with someone else when he called you. It was just fear and anxiety trying to make you self-sabotage. Again.
Taking one more deep breath, you stood up on shaking legs and made your way to the bathroom to remove your makeup. When you looked up at yourself you cringed when you saw how bloodshot your eyes had become from your crying. There were trails nearly barren of makeup that the tears left behind, but much to your surprise your eye makeup had held true to its promise of being waterproof. Your hair on the other hand was a different story. You had a bad habit of running your hands through it when you were stressed, so naturally after a breakdown like that it looked like a rat’s nest… Not wanting to look at yourself in that state any longer, you rid yourself of the makeup and combed through your hair so it wouldn’t be a tangled mess anymore.
As you did this though, you realized that the clothes you had put on for your date were suddenly obnoxious and irritating, causing your heart rate to spike with more anxiety with every move you made. So you quickly took them off and threw on a comfortable and ridiculously soft t-shirt and pajama pants in their wake. Your irritated senses were soothed once you were rid of all the nuisances and you made your way into the kitchen to make yourself a quick and comforting dish for dinner.
With your food balanced carefully on the armrest of the couch while you settled in, you decided to binge British baking shows in order to keep your mind off of things. The soothing accents and descriptions of baked goods would be a welcome distraction. You avoided thinking about the steady ache in your heart caused by the growing number of canceled dates, the descriptions of recipes and the monotonous routines falling like a warm blanket over your mind. They would also help in your attempt to fend off the old memories threatening to take hold of your thoughts once more. While it wasn’t the perfect solution to your problems, it was the best one you had. And, for now, it would have to do.
A week later you waited with bated breath, your heart pounding against your ribs, as the minutes ticked by before Matt would pick you up for your rain-check date. There was less effort put into your hair and makeup for the outing, your anxiety telling you the effort would be for naught, but you still deemed yourself presentable enough to feign confidence being next to someone as attractive as Matt. A sense of relief washed over you when you heard a gentle knock on your door. You let out a deep sigh, a smile painting your lips, as you made your way to the door.
When you opened the door, your heart skipped a beat like it always did when you saw Matt’s charming smile. He stood patiently in the hallway, waiting to take you on your date. “Hey, sweetheart,” Matt said before pulling you in for a kiss.
“Hey yourself,” you told him when he pulled away a few moments later. “How was work?”
“It was good. Got through the toughest part of the paperwork for the latest client,” he told you as you took your keys out of your purse to lock the door behind you. You wrapped your hand around his bicep and began leading him down the hall, the steady tapping of his cane a soothing and familiar rhythm as you walked. “We’re hoping that we could get the opposition to go in with a deal so it doesn’t have to go to court, but it’s looking like this is more complicated than we anticipated. The client is really worried about having to make an appearance, so it’s taking a lot of convincing from Karen to not just drop the case altogether.”
“Oh, that sounds tough, I’m sorry,” you told him as you hit the button to summon the elevator. Matt shrugged in response. It was simply something that came with the job and they were dealing.
“How was work for you?” Matt asked as the two of you stepped into the elevator.
“It was fine. Nothing too crazy,” you replied. “I wish people in this city were a bit kinder, but…”
“Are you okay?” Matt asked quietly, the elevator coming to a stop at the bottom floor.
“I’ll be fine. It’s nothing. Really. I just need to get tougher skin, that’s all,” you told him quickly, trying to brush away his concern. It really wasn’t that big of a deal. Some customers just felt entitled to scream at you and come up with…colorful insults to hurl your way in response to you just doing your job. Matt had bigger fish to fry than that. He was under a lot of stress with this case, it sounded like, and you didn’t want your problems to needlessly occupy his mind.
“Where did you wanna go for dinner?” you asked as the two of you pushed through the front door. The usual sounds of the city bounced around you. Honking cars, scattered conversations, the usual hustle and bustle of good ‘ol New York. It was noisy, but it was home.
“I chose last time, did you have anything in mind?” Matt asked after a few moments of silence. He wondered why you were brushing off his attempts at conversation. He could tell that the question had caused a pang of anxiety to rise in you and he could smell the salt of tears building behind your eyes, but still you pushed the subject away. Why? You were usually fairly vocal about how work was, but lately you had started to close yourself off. It made Matt start to wonder what had set you off… Maybe your supervisor left or something like that. He would try and get to the bottom of that later.
His mind was dragged back into the conversation as you timidly said, “I don’t really have a preference, it’s whatever you wanna do.” You cleared your throat and asked, “What about that scratch made pizza place you mentioned wanting to try? I looked into it and they make their dough and sauce in house every day. They seem to get as many locally sourced meats as possible, too. I think they may actually get some of it from Foggy’s family.”
“That sounds great, lead the way,” Matt replied with a brief laugh. He felt the air shift around you as you nodded and pulled out your phone with your free hand, followed shortly by the quiet electronic voice of the GPS guiding you to your destination.
Matt couldn’t help the small smile that made its way onto his lips as he followed you to the restaurant. The two of you had been together for a while now, his enhanced senses still not something you were aware of, yet you took everything that they affected into consideration. When Matt had mentioned off handedly that the cotton in your sheets felt scratchy on his skin, you had switched to silk and satin ones instead. When you noticed that your lotions and perfumes were too strong for him and gave him headaches, you took to using more toned down and natural scents. You started making meals with organic and fresh ingredients and going to restaurants that did the same because he mentioned one time that processed foods didn’t agree with him. During your time together you had done everything you could to make sure Matt was comfortable even without really knowing why. A warm smile tugged on his lips as he reminisced on how grateful he truly was to you.
Matt had attempted to do the same for you in any way that he could without revealing too much about his abilities. He would swing by a small florist stand and get you flowers when he knew you were having a bad day. He would surprise you with the lunch you had been telling your coworkers you had been craving. He would offer you massages when he could practically feel the tension in your muscles after work. The one thing he couldn’t do was ask why you had been crying so much lately in the safety of your own apartment, tucked away from him and everyone else in the world. He wanted to offer you solace and a place to be vulnerable, but you had never been open in that aspect of your emotions. Well, that and the fact that most of the time when he heard your cries he was in his Daredevil suit and couldn’t just waltz right into your apartment to offer you the comfort you needed. The love you deserved.
When the pair of you neared the pizza place, Matt deeply inhaled the scent of all the fresh ingredients and he sent a smile your way as he told you, “Great choice, sweetheart.”
“Oh, thanks!” you stuttered out, a light blush dusting your cheeks in response to his praise.
The pizza was as amazing as you had expected. The ingredients were all fresh and proved to be the winning combination they were advertised to be. Between bites of pizza, the two of you opted to play a game where you people watched and described passersby to Matt and asked what he thought their story was. As usual, you were floored when Matt would tell you what he thought with a small smirk teasing his lips. When they would walk by, he’d be right on the money. You couldn’t help the school-girl-like laugh that escaped your lips at his latest feat as you asked, “How do you do that?”
“Thanks, in part, to you,” Matt told you with a fond smile on his lips. While that was in fact a little white lie, Matt never missed an opportunity to compliment you and your people skills. “You’re very good at describing people and their mannerisms. It helps me decide if they’re a tourist, a local, a business person, or whatever else.”
“Okay, let’s go again, there’s this man-” you started to say but cut yourself off when you saw Matt’s eyebrows furrow behind his red lenses and he began fishing around in his coat pockets for something. “Everything all right?” you asked timidly, your hands dropping down into your lap to mess with the hem of your shirt.
“Just getting a call,” he told you off handedly as he finally found the flip phone in a pocket and answered it with a quick, “Yeah?” Matt’s eyes closed and you saw the muscles in his jaw working as he ground his teeth together in response to whatever was being said to him on the other line. “Yeah. Give me twenty minutes-” A frustrated sigh heaved from his chest and Matt ran a hand over the stubble growing on his chin before he relented, saying, “Fine. Ten minutes, then I’ll be there,” before hanging up.
You were thankful that he wasn’t able to see the disappointed look on your face. When he hung up the phone mere moments later, you probably looked like a wounded puppy. You forced down the steadily growing feeling of heartbreak as you attempted to casually ask, “You gotta get going?”
Matt sported a painful expression on his face, his unseeing gaze concentrated somewhere on your upper chest while he closed his eyes yet again as he nodded. He got up from his seat and fished his wallet out from his pocket, feeling around for the properly folded bills to pay for the meal and dessert if you wanted. Placing the bills on the table and a kiss on your temple, Matt apologized before unfolding his cane and practically sprinting out of the pizzeria.
The call was from one of Mahoney’s men who was deep undercover in the drug gang he had been trying to take down, and if the intel was right, Matt would be able to take down the growing syndicate that night if he hurried. They were growing more and more brazen as time went on, and even with the threat of Daredevil, the man in charge was committed to getting what he wanted. If that meant killing, then so be it. So, he needed to be stopped. Matt’s senses became laser focused on monitoring where he knew their hideout was. He turned into an unoccupied alleyway before tossing his cane away and vaulting himself onto fire escapes. He needed to get to his suit before he could take down the head of the operation.
Once he was out of sight, a deep sigh left your chest along with a quiet sob that you couldn’t hold back. Not wanting more tears to break free, you closed your eyes and tried to focus on literally anything else besides the growing pain in your chest. You tried to breathe as normally as you could, but it was hard as you felt your throat getting tighter with emotion by the second. Your head snapped to attention as a woman to your left asked, “Can I interest you in some dessert, angiolo?”
“Oh, I-” you started to say as you looked into the small Italian woman’s warm eyes, your voice trembling against your will in the process.
“I’ll get you dessert,” she said with finality, giving you a pat on the back and heading off toward the kitchen. You were left slightly bewildered in her wake, the shock of the strange encounter pulling you out of your heartbreak for a few moments.
The truth of the matter was that she had watched as Matt left in a haste and saw your reaction - how your shoulders hunched inward and you looked smaller as your leg began to anxiously bounce. She returned a few minutes later with a small to-go box filled with cannolis and you thanked her graciously as you handed her the money Matt had given you to pay for the meal. She gave you a warm smile, taking the money graciously, then you headed out of the restaurant.
As you walked back to your apartment, the weight of everything began to rest heavily on your shoulders again. You wanted nothing more than to curl up on your couch with a cup of soothing tea and ignore the world for a while. You buried your emotions as best you could as you headed to the nearest bodega that sold your favorite tea. While searching the aisles, your body went into auto-pilot mode as you made your selection. Your mind pestered you with something that had been bothering you since Matt got that phone call at the restaurant. The phone he answered wasn’t his usual cell phone. His normal phone was a touchscreen one that called out the name of whoever was calling him. This one was a flip phone that didn’t seem to have any of his accommodations. You had seen him put his other phone in his pocket before you left the apartment, so you knew he had that one on him, so why-
“Hey!” came Karen’s chipper voice after she called out your name in greeting.
You tried to subtly wipe away the tears that had begun leaking out of your eyes before forcing a smile onto your face as you turned toward the blonde and said, “Hey! What are you doing here?”
A look you couldn’t quite gauge flitted across Karen’s features before she huffed out a quiet laugh and said, “Oh, you know me, just working late at the office. We ran out of coffee this morning, and I am in desperate need, so I just came here to grab some.” When she said this, you finally noticed the tub of ground coffee she had in her arms as she added, “I’ll have to grab some from the coffee shop for Matt in the morning, but for now this’ll do for me.”
“O-of course,” you said with a small nod. Matt couldn’t stand the taste of pre-ground coffee from the bodega, preferring the freshly ground stuff from the local coffee shops. It was something you had noted early on in your relationship and made sure to get for him weekly to bring to the office. He was always so busy between cases, so it was the least you could do to supply him with the much needed caffeine. But as you stared at the container in Karen’s hands, you felt a pang of guilt hit you as you remembered that you forgot to grab him any this week.
Karen’s soft voice once again broke you out of your head as she asked, “Hey, I uh… I could use the company, do you want to head over to the office with me for a bit? We haven’t hung out in a while.” She motioned toward the box in your hand as she finished with, “We have plenty of hot water to make your tea with, and I think there’s still some honey from when we closed Mrs. Cabrera’s case.”
“Oh, sure,” you found yourself saying before you could fully process it. The people pleaser in you didn’t want to say no, so you paid for your goods and followed her to the offices of Nelson, Murdock, and Page while you tried not to drown in the sea of anxiety that was engulfing you.
On the way there, you nodded at the right places and gave a few affirmatives as Karen talked to you about their latest cases, but you couldn’t help your mind from wandering back to worrying. When the two of you arrived in the office, you let your body take control to begin steeping the tea while Karen began preparing the pot for her coffee. Who had Matt been on the phone with? They were certainly pressuring him to be on time to whatever meeting they were having. Whoever it was obviously was important to him, or maybe you were vastly overestimating your value in his life. Maybe-
“Everything okay?”
That was the first thing you heard Karen ask when your mind finally remembered that you weren’t alone. Pushing down the feeling of embarrassment at being caught lost in your own thoughts, you quickly nodded and forced a smile onto your lips as you said, “Yeah! Of course!” You placed the little box from the restaurant down on the counter and opened it as you asked, “How do you feel about cannolis? There are a lot more in here than I thought and I’ll never be able to eat all of them!”
“Oh, sure…” Karen said slowly, her eyebrows furrowing together as she pondered why you’d changed the subject so quickly.
After savoring the taste of the dessert, you offered Karen another fake smile before asking, “So, these last few cases have been keeping the three of you pretty busy huh? Matt’s been exhausted lately. He told me he’s been getting home pretty late every night after meeting with clients.”
While Karen responded with something about a new client not wanting to go to court and that’s why she was there so late, your mind began wandering again. Was it a client who had called Matt at dinner? He left in such a hurry… You didn’t think that he would answer a client in the way he did though. And there was still the thing about the phone… Did Karen know about who he might be-
Your name being called out again cut through your racing thoughts and you jumped at the sudden intrusion, causing hot tea to spill onto the hand holding the cup. “Shit!” you whispered urgently as you began flicking your hand around to rid yourself of the burning liquid quickly before more of it scalded your skin.
“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to startle you!” Karen said, her hand covering her mouth for a moment in shock before she began frantically looking around for something to help you with.
“No, no, it’s not your fault. It’s mine. I’m sorry. I should really get going. I didn’t mean to interrupt your work. I’m sorry,” you told her quickly while holding back more tears. “Keep the cannolis. They should still be good in the morning.”
“Are you sure? I can see if there’s any aloe or something,” she told you as she dug through her purse.
“Don’t worry about me,” you told her before quickly turning toward the office door and heading out, offering a courteous goodnight before your departure. You just needed to be alone. You could deal with the burn when you got to your apartment, but right now you didn’t need to be in Karen’s company. You were self aware enough to know that just one more thing would’ve set you off into a total mental breakdown…
The next morning after getting Matt some fresh coffee from a local shop near the firm, Karen made her way into the office. “Morning Karen!” Foggy greeted her as she started putting her things down on her desk.
“Morning, Fog! Have a good night?” she asked.
“I did! Marci and I had some pizza then zonked out in front of the TV for a while.. It was great!” he replied, the smile on his face cluing to Karen that what he recounted wasn’t all that had happened, but she kept her smirk to herself as she told him that she was happy he had a good night.
She dropped the bag of coffee by the coffee maker before heading over to Matt’s office. She knocked on the doorframe to get his attention. “Hey. I got you some coffee from the shop down the street. You look like you need it.”
Matt rubbed his temples and nodded, telling her, “Long night. Worked with Mahoney’s guy to take down that drug gang I’ve been after. Didn’t get back to the apartment until around three…” As Matt followed Karen to the coffee station, a familiar floral scent hit his nose which prompted him to ask, “Was she here last night?”
Karen asked your name in a question and got the affirmative, so she told him, “Yeah. She seemed upset when I ran into her at the bodega getting coffee, so I invited her back here to talk. She seemed super distracted, though. When I called her name to get her attention, she spilled her tea and burned her hand. Then she bolted.”
Upon hearing this, Matt sighed and ran a hand over the lower half of his face which prompted Karen to ask, “What did you do?” Right as she did though, a memory hit her and she gasped quietly before saying, “You had a date planned last night… You two were on a date when you had to go take care of that drug gang, weren’t you?”
“Yeah,” Matt admitted quietly, guilt laced in his voice and seeping into his mind.
“Oh, Matt…” she whispered sympathetically. She took a sip of her coffee before telling him, “You know…every time I asked her how she was or tried to offer help, she deflected pretty quickly. She was also super distracted and zoned out a lot. I know that look, Matt. There’s something that’s eating her alive and she’s suffering in silence. She’s not accepting help from her friends.” She placed her cup down on the counter and crossed her arms as she said pointedly, “I think you need to talk to her, Matt.”
“Karen, I-” Matt tried but was interrupted.
“Talk to her,” Karen said with a finality in her tone as a quiet knock sounded through the office, indicating that their first client of the day had arrived.
By the time midday had rolled around, Matt had called you and got your voicemail since you were at work. He opted to go ahead and leave the voicemail, telling you, “Hey sweetheart. Karen told me what happened last night. I realized that there’s something we’ve been needing to talk about. I’ll be over at around seven tonight. See you then.”
By the time you had gotten the opportunity to check your voicemail, you were already back at your apartment after work. A quick glance at your clock told you it was nearly a quarter till seven. When you heard the words there’s something we’ve been needing to talk about from Matt, your heart dropped. Fear and panic began to fill your whole body, gripping your throat in a tight vice.
This was it. This was surely the end of the most wonderful relationship you’d had in years. All because you were too afraid to talk about your feelings. You had overcorrected because of your insecurities from the past and that ran Matt off. Because you were too afraid to accept help from others and he got tired of it. Because he found someone else who was willing to be open and honest with him about everything. Because he found someone better than you. More secure in themself. Less anxious. Someone without a past that haunted them like yours did…
You barely made it to the couch in your living area before collapsing as you were consumed with your brutal thoughts of insecurity and anticipatory grief about the end of you and Matt. The room felt like it was spinning and closing in on you simultaneously. You were left clutching your knees to your chest as you tried to hold onto some semblance of self. You were failing miserably. Shallow gasps of air were all you could manage through your tightening throat. Your heart pounded in your ears. Tears flowed down your cheeks. All encompassing doom clouded the edges of your mind. This was it.
Matt was so exhausted after a long day at the firm, following his even longer night out as Daredevil, that he felt like his enhanced senses were drowning him. Everything was too overwhelming, too distracting, too much. So, he concentrated inward and focused on his own heartbeat to drown out everything else bombarding his senses. He also focused on the flowers in his hand that he had bought for you. The bouquet of roses reminded him of your shampoo, subtle and floral. It put a small smile on his lips as he made his way to your apartment.
Getting lost in concentrating on the smell of the roses and the steady beat of his own heart, Matt didn’t even tune into your apartment until he was right outside of it about to raise his hand to knock. And that’s when he sensed it. Your rapid heart rate and breathing. Fear. Panic. And you were on the other side of a locked door.
Knowing that there was a roof access door nearby and no one else in the hallway, Matt dropped his cane as well as the roses and bolted toward it, desperate to get to you. The chill of the night hit him as he navigated the familiar rooftop and then down to the fire escape outside of your window. Luckily you had left your window unlocked, so Matt threw it open and crawled through before making his way over to your shaking form on the couch.
You were alone in the apartment and there weren't any unfamiliar smells in the space, so he knew there was no immediate danger that set you off. He wrapped you in his arms and rubbed your back as he mumbled, “It’s okay, sweetheart. I’ve got you. I’m right here.”
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” you choked out as you burrowed into his chest.
“Sorry for what?” Matt asked before kissing your temple.
“For not being enough,” you replied, your voice breaking as a fresh batch of tears rolled down your flushed cheeks. Before Matt could even respond to that, you found yourself rambling, telling him, “I thought that if I didn’t bother you with all the shit in my head, then maybe I wouldn’t run you off… I thought that the more of me you saw, the less of me you’d like. But… I still managed to mess everything up… Like I always do…” You huffed out a humorless laugh before saying, “I get it if there’s someone else. I wouldn’t wanna be with me, either…”
Matt felt his heart shatter as the words fell out of you in a grief-filled torrent. Tears began to sting the backs of his eyes. He knew he couldn’t lose himself in his guilt for making you feel this way, though, so he focused back on you. “Hey, hey, just breathe. Breathe with me, sweetheart,” Matt mumbled as he pulled you closer.
Matt ran his hand up and down your back and told you to breathe in and out with the soothing strokes. You tried, but with the amount of anxiety still filling your body and clutching at your throat, it felt like an impossible task. Matt didn’t give up though, and on top of the slow and soothing patterns he ran up and down your back, he began to mumble sweet nothings into your ear that reassured you that you were safe. That you were with him. That everything would be okay. These reassurances weren’t just for you though. They were for him as he too tried to calm down his own racing mind.
After a few minutes, Matt finally got your heart rate and breathing back down to a normal enough pace. When he was sure you were calmed down enough to talk, he tentatively asked, “What makes you think there’s someone else? I promise there’s only you, sweetheart. I’ve never had a partner as kind and caring and accommodating as you. I would be a fool to mess that up.”
“It’s just…” you whispered, a quiet sob tumbling off your lips before you took a deep and shaky breath. “The canceled dates. The bolting in the middle of the one last night. The mysterious flip phone you used yesterday. The background noise on the call last week. Telling me you’ve been getting home in the ungodly hours of the night.” You swallowed hard before pushing through by confessing, “My last relationship… It ended because he was cheating. When I first got suspicious though he made me feel like the bad guy for bringing it up. The things he said were extremely harsh and I guess… I guess my mind never got past that. Now I stuff down all of my own emotions to make sure others are happy and not bothered by my feelings. And over the last month, I couldn’t help but notice that you’ve been doing some of the same things he did, and… Gosh, I should shut up. I'm really sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. Just forget I said anything. I’m sorry…”
More tears began falling from your eyes and you attempted to get up from the couch. You desperately needed to put some separation between you and Matt. You felt like you were just digging a hole you couldn’t get out of. But instead of letting you hide away from him again, his strong arms pulled you impossibly closer and kept you right where you were. “Don’t apologize. Please,” he whispered, his voice breaking with emotion. “He sounds like a controlling prick and I’m sorry that such a caring person ever had to deal with that… You don’t deserve to feel like you can’t talk about your feelings. I’m sorry if I ever made you feel that way.”
“It’s not you, it’s just…trauma,” you told him as your exhausted body relaxed into his embrace. With your senses finally easing after being stretched so thin, you were able to make some sense of the current situation. Looking over at the door to the hallway, you furrowed your eyebrows together as you asked, “Matt?”
“Yeah?”
“How did you get into my apartment?” You hadn’t found the time to get a spare key made to give to him, and you knew that you had locked it on your way in, so how…? You felt Matt’s muscles tense and in response your heart sped up as your anxiety started to settle back in.
In his rush to get to you to provide you with the comfort you needed, Matt didn’t even think about how he would explain how he got into the apartment. After his conversation with Karen that morning, he had thought long and hard about the possibility of telling you the truth about what he did at night, but he didn’t think the conversation would lead here. It seemed like there was no way to avoid it now…
There was a long moment of silence before Matt gave into the inevitable and asked, “Do you want to know the real reason why I stay out so late and have been so exhausted lately? Why I’ve had to cancel dates?”
Confusion filled your mind when he asked the questions. Why was Matt asking that in response to your wondering how he got into your apartment? Surely your apartment manager had nothing to do with- You stopped your spiraling thoughts before they could get out of control and nodded, telling him, “I do.”
Another long pause filled the air before Matt said in a barely audible whisper, “I’m Daredevil…” Your breath hitched in your throat for a moment before you laughed quietly and threw your arms around him in a tight embrace. Matt froze for a second before returning your hug as he asked, “You’re not… I don’t know… Mad? Shocked? Upset? Wanting to run away?”
“I’m just happy you aren’t cheating on me,” you told him, a genuine laugh falling from your lips before you could stop it. You pulled away and kissed his cheek before you said, “No wonder Daredevil’s seemed to take an interest in me getting home safe when I’m out late.”
“Oh, so you noticed, huh?” Matt asked with a quiet chuckle leaving his lips.
“Especially after that group of assholes tried to touch me when I was heading home after Laura’s birthday party,” you noted, a small smile pulling the corners of your lips up.
“Yeah, I may have gone a bit overboard with that one,” he said sheepishly. He cleared his throat and told you, “There was this drug gang that was starting to gain ground over the last few weeks. That’s why I’ve been skipping out on dates here lately. I wanted to keep you and the rest of Hell’s Kitchen safe.”
“Did you deal with them?” you asked.
“Last night, yeah,” he replied. “That was Mahoney’s UC calling me on my emergency burner that Foggy has aptly called my ‘Devil Signal,’” he said, ending his statement with a chuckle and shake of his head.
“So, Foggy knows?”
“And Karen,” he said. “You took it a lot better than they did.”
“Well, that’s because it doesn’t change anything between us,” you told him. “Clearly, I’ve been dealing with your Daredevil schedule since we started dating. The only reason it was bothering me lately was because of my own insecurity. It hasn’t caused any problems, so why would it change anything now?”
“God, I love you,” Matt whispered before pulling you into a gentle kiss.
“I love you too,” you told him as you rested your forehead on his.
You were quiet for a few moments, letting the peace of the moment soothe your swirling mind, before you pulled away and said cautiously, “I do have a question though… Considering what you do as Daredevil, are you really…?”
“Blind? Yes,” he told you. “My other senses are enhanced, though, so I’m able to navigate the world easily. I’m able to hear what other people can’t. That’s how I get to stuff before the cops do.” He rubbed your back as he admitted quietly, “I could hear you having a panic attack in here, so I… I came in through the window.”
“You could…? How?” you asked, feeling your heart jump into your throat.
“Your heart rate just sped up when I told you that,” he told you with a ghost of a smile on his lips. “I’m able to hear people’s heart and respiratory rate. I can also smell cortisol levels and adrenaline. All of that was off the charts when I got here so I broke in so I could comfort you,” he said, his smile evident in his voice as he finished the sentence.
“Oh… This is going to be a learning curve,” you breathed, suddenly feeling very aware of everything your body was doing at the moment.
“And I’ll be here for you every step of the way,” Matt told you before pulling you in for another tender kiss. “Promise me you’ll tell me about whatever’s on your mind from now on?”
“Promise,” you agreed, and Matt could tell by the steady beat of your heart that you were telling the truth.
a/n: this was basically a way for me to process some personal shit (excuse the lore lmao) because writing is my way of dealing with things!
special thanks to @sunflowersandsapphires for helping me process my thoughts and make my ideas into a story as well as to @a-leg-without-fear @dorothleah and @shouldbestudying41 for beta reading and providing edits! i love you all!
cw: fluffy, protective!clark, reader scared herself with a horror movie, based on this request
He picks up on the second ring. The only reason it’s not on the first ring is that he is asleep when you call.
“Baby? Why are you still up?” he murmurs.
Your answer takes a few seconds, and Clark hears your quiet movements at the other end of the line.
“I did something stupid.”
His entire demeanor changes instantly—he’s awake, he’s alert, and he’s terrified. Clark sits up in his bed, the crumpled sheets rustling beneath him. As your words register, his mind takes him to all the worst places. You’re out there alone and hurt, or dying, or about to—
“I watched ‘The Conjuring’ and now I can’t sleep.”
It takes a few seconds for his brain to catch up with what you said, but when it does, Clark’s shoulders slump with relief. He breathes out funnily, like he missed a couple of inhales, then rubs his chest to force away the last bits of lingering anxiety.
“I told you not to watch those kinds of movies, sweetheart,” he chastises gently, “You’re gonna have nightmares for weeks now.”
While he is talking, he swings his feet out of bed and plants them on the cold hardwood floor. As he gets up, already fishing blindly for one of his sweaters, the mattress creaks quietly.
“I know,” you reply sheepishly, “I… I was only gonna watch the first few minutes, but then I… I was so scared I couldn’t move and turn it off.”
Clark chuckles because if he doesn’t laugh, he might roll his eyes, and he really doesn’t want to do that to you–even though you can’t see him.
“You gonna be okay on your own?” he asks as he shoulders his overnight bag, already packed for tomorrow, when he was actually supposed to sleep over at your place.
You’re quiet for a moment, and Clark feels a bit bad for messing with you like that.
“Yeah,” you squeak, your voice oddly hollow, “I—I’ll be fine. I’m just gonna… leave my light on.”
With one last glance at his apartment, Clark opens the sliding door to his balcony and steps outside. The cold air makes the fine hair on his arms prick up.
“That’s very brave of you, but I’m just joking, princess,” he mumbles into the phone, “I’m coming over right now.”
“What? I mean… are you sure? You don’t ha—”
“I know I don’t have to, but I want to, sweetheart. Give me a couple minutes.”
Clark hangs up before you can protest and then pushes himself off the balcony. He thinks about taking his time to seem less conspicuous—you’d be confused if he just randomly appeared at your apartment within less than ten minutes. But then he imagines you bundled up in bed, a blanket wrapped around you with just your eyes peeking out. He wonders how scared you are, and his heart hurts a little just thinking about it. Usually, he loves flying, but the time in the air passes by in a blur when the only thing on his mind is your frightened face.
His knuckles rap against your front door just moments later. No reply. Seconds after he tries again, his phone vibrates. Your name glows across the display, a short message underneath it.
someone’s knocking at my door
He smiles guiltily and texts back, Yes, baby, that’s me.
For a few moments, Clark stands there, waiting. His thumb already hovers over the call button when the doorknob twists and the door swings open to reveal you.
You look disheveled—hair messy, eyes wide and slightly reddened, lips parted softly.
“How are you here?” you ask, immediately falling into his open arms.
Clark runs his hands over your back as your face presses against his chest. He takes a deep breath, biting his tongue before the inevitable lie.
“I told you I’d come over,” he replies.
“Yeah, but… how were you so fast? I was just on the phone with you.”
Clark tuts softly and shakes his head. He pulls away a little to face you, wearing his most convincing smile.
“No, sweetheart, that was… that was practically ages ago. And I… Uber-ed. Super quick. Gonna give ‘em five stars.”
You stare at him critically. He sees the doubt and feels his chest constrict. The fact that he’s lying to you and that you don’t believe him now forces the blood to rise to his face. Luckily, it’s dark enough that you miss the way his cheeks redden.
“You’re probably just a little sleep deprived,” he continues, then takes your hand, “Let’s get you into bed, ok, sweet girl? Tomorrow’s a new day.”
“Um… yeah, okay,” you mumble. You rub your eyes a little, and Clark catches himself melting for you—as he does so often. He tugs on your hand and kisses your temple, leaving you giggling softly.
“What was that for?” you ask.
“Nothing. ‘m just so sweet on you. Even when you watch horror movies and scare yourself half to death.”
❤︎ just a quick reminder that the best way to support authors on here is to comment and reblog ❤︎ ☆ find my masterlist here ☆
Could you please write a pic fic for Clark where the reader is friends with Superman but doesn't know that her coworker and crush happens to also be Superman?
Superman and reader are friends where the hero regularly visits her on her balcony, where she vents about her workday and vice versa. Reader confesses to Superman that she has a crush on a coworker but doesn't know if she should pursue it. The twist is that Clark assumes she's talking about Jimmy Olsen when she's actually talking about him.
Being the selfless person he is, Clark advises her to move on and suggests that she shouldn't waste her time on someone who doesn't reciprocate her feelings. It's all a big miscommunication.
Taking Superman's advice to heart, the reader starts avoiding Clark at work. Clark becomes confused and hurt when he notices her gravitating toward Jimmy instead and giving him the cold shoulder.
Eventually, Clark confronts her about the sudden distance. She admits she had feelings for him but was told by a friend that it was a lost cause. Clark blurts out, "I thought you were talking about Jimmy, not me!"
That's when the reader puts two and two together and realizes Clark is Superman!
He's just not that into you
Pairing: corenswet!clark kent x fem!reader
⟡ Main Index | ⟡ Archive for Earth-181938
Classification: Angsty fluff | Dual identity (Kal-El x reader and Clark x reader), slight miscommunication trope and love confessions
Word count: 6.2k
Divider by me ;)
You walked around your apartment with your phone pressed to your ear, moving between the kitchen, where you checked on your dinner in the oven and the living room, where your desk sat cluttered with an organized chaos only you understood. Your laptop was open on a document half-filled with notes and beside it lay a notepad you grabbed quickly, balancing the phone between your shoulder and ear as you scribbled down details. Your gaze kept drifting to the wall in front of you, a space that had long stopped being decorative and had instead become an extension of your work, covered in pinned articles, photos and lines of thought that connected everything in a way that only made sense when you stood right in front of it.
“You know, it’d be great if you could get him on it,” Lois said over the phone and even through the line you could hear the soft rhythm of her pacing.
You let out a quiet, breathy laugh as you kept writing. “That’s not an option. It’d be smarter to reach out to your contact. If she can get us into the LuthorCorp labs before the press junket, we’ll have something more solid than the speculation we're currently sitting on.”
“It wouldn’t be speculation if you asked a certain someone,” she continued, her tone light and smile practically audible. “You know, I don’t see how you don’t take advantage of the current situation. He’s–” Her voice trailed off just as two distinct knocks sounded against your balcony window.
Your head turned immediately, your attention snapping toward the sound before you even had time to think. Through the glass stood a figure that was, by any measure, not subtle about his presence, raising one hand in a wave.
You walked toward the door, already shaking your head at Lois’ ongoing rant. “I mean, he’s practically a goldmine of information that you just refuse to–”
You unlocked the door and pushed it open as far as it would go so he could step inside, which always required him to angle himself slightly to fit. “Lois, this isn’t really the best time for this conversation to happen again,” you said, closing the door behind him and immediately pulling the curtains shut, because at least one of you needed to think about privacy.
Superman stepped in quietly, removing his boots before he reached the rug and placing them neatly to the side because you had tripped over them enough times. His eyes followed you as you moved, making sure every curtain was drawn and every possible line of sight blocked.
“It’s as good a time as any, because I know you won’t hang up,” Lois said, entirely unconcerned on her end.
You sighed, walking back toward your wall and glancing over your notes. “It’s unlikely, given you still haven’t given me the information you called me for, though I wouldn't call it impossible.” You paused. “It’s definitely tempting.”
“You said you’d talk to him,” she reminded you. Earlier that day, the entire bullpen had paused to watch the live coverage of one of Superman’s saves, something about another failed LuthorCorp experiment spiraling out of control.
“So you think he has a phone…And that I have his number? Sure, Lois, let me just text the extraterrestrial hero and ask him to walk me through what happened today. Do you also want me to ask if he’s single and allergic to pollen?”
“I am,” Kal said quietly from a few steps behind you.
You turned so fast it nearly made you dizzy. “What?” you mouthed.
“Single,” he clarified, unfazed. “Not allergic to pollen.”
“Who’s that?” Lois asked immediately.
“My plumber,” you replied flatly.
She laughed, the sound bright and knowing. “You get visits from your plumber on Thursdays at 8:34 p.m.? What kind of leaks is he fixing?”
“Okay, that was almost funny,” you deadpanned. “Can we get back to it? I don’t have all night.”
“Of course, I wouldn’t want to keep your plumber from tightening your bolts,” she said, clearly pleased with herself before shifting back to her notes. “Alright, forget everything we knew about that scientist who disappeared.”
You moved along your wall, pointing at a pinned photo. “The one who worked at the Summerholt Institute?”
“Yep. His entire research was funded by LuthorCorp, so–”
“We need to assume he was targeted because of that connection, not just his work,” you finished, repositioning the photo with one hand.
As you spoke, Kal moved into your kitchen with that decisive efficiency he always had when it came to saving the day…which immediately worried you. You stepped away from the wall and followed just in time to see him pull the tray from the oven with his bare hands, completely unfazed by the heat, before cooling it down with a soft breath. You groaned at the sight of your failed and slightly charred dinner.
“...Exactly and from there we have nothing. It would be great to ask our beloved–”
“I heard you the first time. Goodnight, Lois,” you said, ending the call with a sigh then audibly winced. “It’s toastier than I’d hoped. I was aiming for a…bronze.” You paused, then added “Thank you.” Which earned a nod from him.
You carelessly set your phone aside and walked closer to pull out another plate for him out of habit, even though his presence hadn’t been planned. “Boring night?” you asked, glancing at him as you started plating the food, unable to think of another reason he would be here.
“I got your call,” he simply said.
You turned to him, narrowing your eyes. “Is there an astral phone line we share that I don’t know about?” You raised your brows. “Do you have mind reading abilities?”
“You could say that...but if I do, they only work on you.” He smiled, something soft and amused in it. “You were at work, I think.”
It took you a moment but then it clicked, the memory of you pacing the hallway, muttering to yourself about how to get his attention after everything that had happened. “Oh…that,” you said flatly, turning back to the counter and reaching for a knife to cut the chicken. “Your eavesdropping is worse than I thought.”
“Hey, you don’t need to feed me,” he said, stepping a little closer as if he might actually stop you this time, though there was no real intention behind it. It was something he said every time, almost ritualistically, as if repetition might one day change your mind, even though it never did and he never truly tried to make it, because staying here like this, had never really been about the food.
You let out a small chuckle, not even looking at him as you continued working. “And you don’t need to remove your shoes every time you come in, but it’s appreciated.” You gestured toward the cupboard without missing a beat, your movements easy in a space that was entirely yours. “Mind getting some glasses?” you added, already knowing he wouldn’t need directions, that he had memorized your kitchen the same way he seemed to memorize everything else. “I have a nice wine you might enjoy the taste of.”
“Are you getting drunk for the both of us again?” he teased, the memory still lingering somewhere vivid for him because of the way your laughter had filled every corner of the room that night, unrestrained and bright in a way he hadn’t been able to forget.
“No, of course not,” you replied, popping a baked green into your mouth as if to punctuate your point, your tone casual in a matter that almost sold it. “I’m a responsible adult, I have work tomorrow…” you trailed off slightly before adding, more lightly, “but I’m free after.”
“I’ll be here,” he said, nodding as he set the glasses down on your small dining table with care that didn’t quite match his strength, the normalcy of the action mattering more than anything else.
“So tomorrow it is,” you answered, the words settling easily between you as you moved to the fridge. You grabbed water for yourself and without thinking, some cold milk for him, your familiarity with his preferences so ingrained it didn’t feel like a choice anymore. As you poured it, your attention drifted back to him, your eyes following the quiet way he moved across the room, watching as he stepped toward your wall and took it in again.
“You know you can ask, right?” he said without turning, his gaze scanning the notes, photos and connections you had pinned up, your thoughts made visible in a way few people ever got to see. “About anything.”
“I know that, Kal,” you replied, your voice soft as you took your seat, waiting until he joined you across the table. The chair beneath him gave a faint groan, a subtle wobble that didn’t escape your notice and before you could stop yourself, you were already reacting to it. “I’ll change these chairs, I swear,” you added quickly, standing again to scribble it down on your to-do list.
You heard his low and unrestrained laugh, to him this had always sounded like a joke, ever since the first time you mentioned it weeks ago, your seriousness about something so minor never quite landing the way you intended.
“I’m serious,” you insisted as you returned, settling back into your seat and glancing at him just long enough to confirm he had already started eating. “The chair breaks, you fall to the floor so hard you don’t just hit it, you go through it, straight down like a cannonball.” You gestured vaguely downward as if mapping out the disaster in real time. “There goes keeping this on the down low, which you’re terrible at, by the way…My balcony is visible from the street,” you reminded him, pointing as if that alone should settle the argument.
“How secret do you want to keep this?” he asked after swallowing, his tone somewhere between curious and amused, though it was obvious that he wanted to understand where your line was.
“Depends on how much you want the press to know you almost crashed into my apartment wearing cheap latex tights and without those adorable red shorts of yours…” you said, the teasing coming easily until it didn’t, your smile faltering just slightly as his eyes met yours and his head tilted in quiet interest. “Which I definitely don’t look at,” you added, a little too quickly to be entirely convincing.
“You’re the press,” he reminded you, leaning back slightly, his arms lifting in mild protest. “And every superhero has tough beginnings.”
“Sure, big blue,” you grinned, taking a sip of your water. “Yours just included debatable flight trajectories.”
“I thought we agreed to re-label it as a badly timed exclusive delivery,” he countered, the corner of his mouth lifting as he leaned into the version of the story he preferred.
“Right, to the balcony you almost ripped off? Sure, yeah, we’ll just pretend you knew exactly where to land, right on a Daily Planet reporter’s doorstep so she could write the exclusive of your debut.”
“Which you didn’t,” he pointed out. He had never forgotten that part, the choice you made when you could have changed everything for yourself in an instant, the restraint that had meant more to him than any headline ever could. He hadn’t been ready then for the world or for what he was becoming but you had been there anyway unassuming and somehow that had made all the difference, because knowing at least one person saw him and didn’t turn him into something else had given him courage no amount of strength ever could.
Whatever the world made of him, you had known him first and chosen him without needing anything in return.
“No I didn’t. You still had some polishing on your techniques to do.” You paused just long enough for it to land, the corner of your mouth lifting faintly. “You’re welcome,” you added, as if the entire evolution of him from falling out of the sky to sitting in your kitchen had somehow been part of your doing, your attention already drifting back to your plate as you kept eating, unaware of how closely he was watching you.
“So what was it about?” he asked after a moment, his tone shifting slightly, curiosity settling in where the teasing had been. “What did you need?”
“Ummm,” you started, buying yourself time as you chewed and swallowed, your gaze dropping to your plate. “It’s not about work.”
“It never is,” he replied in a tone you hadn’t really heard before. Whether it was relief, frustration or some complicated mix of both, you couldn’t tell. Part of him wondered if things would be easier if what existed between you could be contained to something simple and professional, something Clark could survive without feeling like he was constantly standing just outside of it.
“It’s personal…and you’re a guy, so I figured you’d be less biased than–”
“Who? Lois?” he cut in, already knowing the answer before you gave it.
“Yeah…she’s…” you trailed off, your expression softening slightly. “Well, I love her and she wants the best for me, which is exactly why I can’t consult her about this…” You paused, catching the way his eyes had narrowed just slightly, the weight of his attention pulling you back. “Not that you don’t want the best for me too…or maybe you don’t care and I’m reading this wrong…not that this is a thing–”
“You’re rambling.”
“Yep. I noticed,” you admitted quickly, clearing your throat to reset the moment, though the nerves had already settled in too deep.
“Tell me,” he said quietly this time, the insistence softened by something that made it difficult to look away from him for too long.
“Um, I…” you hesitated, then pushed through it anyway, your voice lowering as if that made it safer. “Have you ever had a crush on a coworker?”
“Coworker?” he echoed, the word catching in a way that made it feel unfamiliar on his tongue, even though it shouldn’t have been.
“Right,” you said, the realization hitting you a second too late, your shoulders lifting slightly. “I mean, I guess you don’t really have…that kind of job or coworkers you see enough to accidentally fall for them.” You stood abruptly, draining the last of your glass so the movement alone could end the conversation. “Forget it, it’s stupid.”
Before you could gather the plates and fully retreat into the safety of dismissing it, his hand closed gently around your wrist firm enough to make it impossible to pull away without really trying.
“I want to hear it,” he said, the words certain. “Please, sit.”
The way he held your gaze made it difficult to refuse, it lingered even after he let go, his hand falling away only once you moved, trusting you to come back on your own.
You sat again, your composure not quite as intact as before. “Well…” you started, clearing your throat again as your eyes avoided his, drifting instead to the table, the wall, anywhere but him. “There’s this guy at my job…I’ve known him for a while now, so it’s not…new. I think I was just keeping myself busy so I didn’t have to notice it.”
He didn’t interrupt, didn’t move, didn’t give himself away in any obvious way but his attention sharpened, narrowing entirely onto you like nothing else existed beyond the sound of your voice and the rhythm of your heartbeat, which had already begun to betray you, picking up in a way that made every word feel heavier in his chest.
You smiled faintly as you continued, unaware of how much each detail was doing to him. “He’s really charming and witty, even if he doesn’t think so…he’s the reliable type, you know?” You paused, searching for the right words, your fingers absently tracing the edge of the table. “He might not be there when you want him but he’s always there when you need him…a little like you, actually.” You let out a quiet breath. “It’s just getting harder to ignore and it’s not like I can’t do my job properly or anything but him knowing would just…make things easier. Clearer.”
Kal nodded slightly, encouraging you without pushing, even though every instinct in him was starting to tighten, to brace and prepare for something he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear.
“Is it…” you hesitated, your voice faltering just enough to betray how much this mattered to you. “Would you say it’s a good idea to tell him?” You paused again then added, almost under your breath, “It wouldn’t be anything big, just…telling him how I feel and then probably hiding in a broom closet until he leaves for the day.”
“Do you think he feels the same?” he asked, the question coming out more careful than he intended, his voice catching slightly before he steadied it. “He’d…he’d be dumb not to, but…it’s your coworker, so it might not be–”
“Worth the risk?” you finished for him. “Trust me, I’ve considered every angle.” You shook your head lightly, your gaze dropping again. “He…I’ve never really heard him talk about his feelings, not seriously and I’m too scared to ask his friend who’s another coworker of mine…in case he runs his mouth.” You let out a quiet but heavy breath, you were too self-aware of how you spoke next. “It’s stupid, because I like to think I’m sure of everything else, you know? Everything that matters at work, every lead and instinct…except this.” You glanced down at your hands. “Except when it comes to me as a person and not a reporter.”
A small, almost embarrassed laugh followed. “I mean, I know nothing about guys. Not a single thing and I’d hate to mess up what we have over something I don’t even let myself be sure of.”
“Your heart’s beating really fast,” he said before he could stop himself, the observation slipping out with awe that made your eyes snap up to meet his immediately, startled not just by the words but by the intimacy of them. “I’ve heard it when you’re stressed…scared,” he continued like he was retracing something only he had access to. “I’ve heard it when laughter makes you forget how to breathe and when you’re angry.” He paused, his gaze dropping briefly as he noticed your hand instinctively move to your chest, palm pressing there as if you could steady it through sheer will alone. “But I’ve never heard it beat like that.”
The admission lingered between you and for the first time he wondered if he had simply never listened closely enough before, if somewhere between trying not to overstep and trying not to reveal too much, he had missed something that had been there all along. At work, he was always careful, too careful, splitting himself in two so precisely that maybe he had overlooked the way you looked at Jimmy, the way your voice shifted and how your attention lingered…because of course it would be him.
Jimmy, easy and charming, Jimmy.
Quick with a joke and even quicker with a smile, the kind of person who fit effortlessly into places Clark always felt like he had to earn. It just made sense and that sat uncomfortably in his chest, a reluctant conclusion that followed him even now.
You swallowed, your gaze dropping. “I’m not good at talking about things like these.”
“You’re perfect,” he countered immediately, the words leaving him before he could make them smaller or safer. “And I’m sure he can see that too, unless he’s blind.”
Your eyes lifted to his again, searching his expression as if there was something there you were trying to understand. “Or maybe it’s both of us that are blind,” you said quietly, doubt threading through the words. “I hoped you wouldn’t be this biased.”
“I never said I was the exception,” he replied, his tone just as quiet.
You shifted in your seat, pulling your knees up to your chest despite the instability of the chair, curling into yourself so it made you look smaller, trying to take up less space inside a feeling that had already grown too large.
“You would be in my book…guys like you aren’t ever single for long but me…I’m starting to think I’m the rule,” you admitted after a moment, your gaze unfocused as it drifted past him. “That these kinds of stories just…don’t happen to me.” You let out a soft, humorless chuckle. “I was even spiraling the other day because he’s never called me. Always Lois…” you added, shaking your head faintly. “And I get it, I mean, how could he not? She’s…she’s the best at everything but then I stupidly convinced myself of the fact that I might not look or act available enough. ‘He might not even have my number!’” You quoted yourself, “…but he does. I’m sure he does.” Your voice faltered just slightly before you steadied it again. “The one thing I should know is that if a guy wants to see you–”
“He will see you,” he finished firmly, nodding once and grounding the statement as an undeniable fact, something he himself was living proof of, sitting here late into the night simply because he wanted to be near you, because knowing you were here and not coming at all would have been worse. The thought tightened in his chest and before he could stop himself, before he could filter it into something more careful, the words pushed forward anew. “If a guy wants to date you, he will make it happen. It’s not…your job to figure him out or to decode every little thing he does and build reasons for him where there aren’t any.” His eyes searched for yours. “You shouldn’t have to convince yourself of something he hasn’t given you.”
You sniffled quietly, the sound small but unmistakable and when you blinked, the gloss in your eyes caught you off guard more than anything else because you hadn’t realized how close you were to it until it was already there. The vulnerability of it made you recoil even as it surfaced, the idea of being wanted, of waiting for it, suddenly felt heavier than it should. “Like I said…I might just not be busy enough,” you said, forcing a faint smile that didn’t quite hold. “Is it dumb that I still need to hear it from him? Even if it’s a no?”
He heard it then, the slight hitch in your heartbeat that didn’t match the rest and before he could think too much about it, he was already moving, standing in front of you with a gentleness that contrasted the urgency behind it. His hand came up to your cheek, catching the tear that slipped free before you could stop it and for a moment you just sat there, feeling exposed in a way you had spent so much time trying to avoid, embarrassed by how much it mattered, by how much you had tried to keep contained.
Kal leaned down, pressing a soft kiss against your skin where the tear had fallen.
“Especially then,” he answered quietly but with a certainty that came from experience more than understanding, because he knew what it felt to not know, to exist in that space where something could be everything or nothing at all.
He knew that sometimes the only way forward was through the hurt, that closure, even painful, was still a form of release. Still, selflessly, there was a part of him that wished you would never have to hear that ‘no’ from Jimmy, that the negative answer you were waiting for would never come if it meant breaking you like this, because the thought of watching that happen again settled heavily in a place he wouldn’t allow himself to name but couldn’t ignore either.
Clark kept his attention fixed on you in the days that followed, though he tried to convince himself it wasn’t intentional, that it was simply habit, proximity or the natural rhythm of the bullpen but the truth of it lied beneath every glance he failed to stop and every moment he tuned everything else out just to track the shifts in your routine. You hadn’t seen Kal again, not after that night and part of him remained unable to decide whether the kiss he had pressed to your cheek had been comfort or something far more selfish, something he hadn’t earned and hadn’t been ready to examine. The wine you had promised sat untouched in your kitchen, the plan dissolving into nothing when the city called for him and he answered as he always did and you, of course, had understood without question, which somehow made it worse.
At work, you were different in a manner that didn’t invite questions but demanded to be noticed by him. You were sharper, your focus cutting clean through distractions that would have once pulled you away, your voice was steadier too, more certain when you spoke, like something had been sealed off rather than opened. You followed a schedule he tried not to memorize and failed anyway, your movements no longer drifting from your desk just to fill the spaces between tasks.
You arrived, worked and left, and everything in between felt structured which didn’t leave room for the version of you he had come to know outside of it. Even the smallest details had changed, the way you sat in your chair, the angle of your posture, the arrangement of your desk that he absolutely was not looking at right now, his gaze slipping past Jimmy who stood directly in front, unknowingly obstructing his view.
“I need something, Y/n. Anything,” Jimmy insisted, leaning forward over your desk, his voice low but insistent. “I’d do anything for the smallest hint.”
Clark didn’t need to see your face to know you were smiling, he could hear it in your voice, in the way your breath shifted just slightly and still, with an almost embarrassing certainty, he knew you hadn’t told him yet.
“You need to drop it,” you whispered back, your tone light but firm enough to try.
“I can’t. I can’t,” Jimmy swore, rocking slightly on the balls of his feet, his restlessness almost comical. “It’s keeping me awake at night.”
You laughed under your breath, shaking your head. “No, it’s not. Lois shouldn’t have mentioned anything in the first place,” you said, pointing vaguely, though the moment the words left your mouth it was as if you had summoned her, because she appeared behind you seconds later, leaning in just enough to make you jump.
“I’ll get it out of you if it’s the last thing I do,” Lois declared, her tone carrying far too much enthusiasm for your liking.
“Okay. Stop. Just stop, you two,” you whispered, your voice dipping into pleading as you glanced between them.
“Just tell us and we’ll go,” Jimmy pressed, clearly not intending to honor that request.
“Tell us what?” Clark’s voice cut in from across the bullpen, louder than he intended, the question slipping out before he could stop it and drawing more attention than he had meant to.
He only realized it after the fact, when heads turned slightly and the moment stretched just long enough for it to feel noticeable. He watched as you straightened immediately, Lois stepping away like nothing had happened while Jimmy only took a step back before turning to you again.
“I’ll find out,” Jimmy pointed, catching your gaze and Clark saw it then, something small but new in the way you looked back at him. It settled in him as you stood, grabbing your empty mug and excusing yourself with a quiet word before walking away.
Jimmy made his way over to Clark then, lowering his voice as if whatever he had to say required discretion, his eyes flicking around briefly before settling on him. “You didn’t hear it from me,” he started, already leaning in. “We went to the bar Friday night–”
“Who’s ‘we’?” Clark interrupted, the question too sharp as his focus narrowed.
Jimmy blinked, thrown off for half a second. “Lois, Cat, Y/n and I,” he clarified before continuing. “And I–”
“Where was I?” Clark asked and once again, the words left him before he could stop them. There was an edge of unfamiliar jealousy slipping through.
“I don’t know, man, we tried calling you,” Jimmy said, exasperation creeping in as he gestured vaguely. “Can I speak now?”
Clark nodded quickly, the memory clicking into place just a second too late. He had been somewhere else entirely, wrapped up in activities far removed from who Clark Kent was to people.
“I introduced Y/n to a friend…good looking,” Jimmy continued, his voice picking up again. “The vibes were so good, even I was falling in love with the guy!…works in the building at the end of the street, great potential…he asked her out and she declined.”
Relief came faster than Clark expected, a quiet exhale slipping out before he could stop it and when he realized it might have been too visible, he reached up to adjust his tie, pretending it had been the reason all along, though Jimmy didn’t seem to notice.
“Then Lois went on about some plumber she’s allegedly seeing that she likes and that might be allergic to pollen?” Jimmy added, his tone shifting into confusion. “I don’t know, I was drunk and I’m still confused but I want answers.”
Clark hesitated for just a moment before asking, more carefully this time. “Did…some confession occur?”
“What?” Jimmy’s face twisted in confusion.
“No exchange of truths?” Clark clarified, the phrasing careful enough that it didn’t quite land.
Jimmy stared at him for a second longer before shaking his head and stepping back. “You’re so…odd, man,” he muttered, already turning away, leaving Clark sitting there with more questions than answers and the lingering sense that whatever he had missed, it hadn’t passed as cleanly as he wanted to believe.
Eventually, he stood up and crossed the bullpen faster than he meant to, each step toward the kitchen clicking something into place, pieces aligning into a realization he hadn’t even known he’d been building toward. In all the changes he had tracked in you over the past few days…the schedule shifts, the distance and careful avoidance, there was one thing he had completely missed, one thing so obvious now it made his chest tighten...
“You’re ignoring me,” he said as he pushed the kitchen door closed behind him, sealing the two of you inside while you stood halfway bent into the fridge.
You went still instantly, your back straightening as if pulled by a string and for a full second you didn’t move at all. Then, slowly, you closed the fridge door and cleared your throat, buying yourself time that didn’t come.
“What…do you mean?” you asked, your voice just unsteady enough to give you away.
It hit him sharply all at once and it felt like the first time he’d ever left the ground and realized there was no going back.
“We take the elevator together in the mornings,” he said, voice low but certain now. “We haven’t in three days because you’ve been getting here earlier each day. You’re getting your coffee in here so we don’t cross paths at the bullpen machine and you’ve been eating lunch at your desk while working.” His brow furrowed. “You never do that.”
You let out a small, strained laugh, grabbing your empty mug just to have something in your hands. Without looking at him, you moved toward the door he was still blocking.
“Clark…please,” you said quietly, the word catching as you tried not to meet his eyes at this distance, your heartbeat loud enough in his ears to drown everything else out. How had he missed it? How had he been so blind?
“I’m your exception,” he said under his breath.
You blinked and finally met his eyes. “My what?”
“You said…” His voice faltered for the first time. “I thought you were talking about Jimmy.”
Your face twisted immediately. “What are you talking about? When do I ever talk about Jimmy Olsen?”
“I’m the plumber,” he insisted, the words tumbling out rapidly like it was easier than spelling it out for you.
You froze, staring at him like he had just split into two people in front of you, because everything he was saying were pieces he should not have had, unless...
“Kal…?” you asked, your voice dropping, fragile and uncertain.
Clark reached up and pulled off his glasses.
Your entire expression collapsed. “I’m going to puke,” you said, taking a step back and setting your mug down, your hand coming up instinctively to your chest as the situation crashed down around you all at once.
You had confessed, you had cried….You had done all of it without knowing it was him. He stepped toward you carefully, putting his glasses back on as you steadied yourself.
You swallowed. “Can you…”
He understood immediately and took them off again. Your brows furrowed as you looked at his face, then at the glasses in his hand, then back again, trying to reconcile the two.
“And could you…” you started again and when he put them back on, you let out a shaky breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “Oh god.”
“I understand if you hate me–” he began, lifting his hands slightly but the words didn’t make it far.
Your palm hit his chest in an attempt to push him and he didn’t move which somehow made it worse. “What makes you so sure I won’t walk out there and tell everyone?” you demanded, your finger poking and pressing hard into his chest.
“You’re going to hurt yourself,” he said quietly, his hand closing gently around yours.
“Oh, fuck you,” you snapped, pulling away only to hit him again, harder this time, both fists landing against him in quick succession. “It’s been months since I met the other guy and I’ve known you for years.” Each word came with a strike he didn’t try to stop.
You pulled back, breath uneven. “Was it a coincidence at all?” you asked, your voice sharpening. “How we met…I mean, how I met Kal. Was that–”
“I went to tell you,” he cut in, the confession immediate, unguarded. “It felt safe to tell you and then I crashed and it all came out wrong.” Back then, even with everything he felt for you, he trusted you first. Not because it was easy but because you would have known what to do with the truth when he didn’t.
You let out a short, disbelieving laugh as you took another step back. “You’re an asshole…and a liar.” The words trembled.
“I know,” he said, following slowly, careful not to crowd you. “You have to know…that I don’t call you because my voice shakes when I talk to you…It’s pathetic.”
“I should probably kick you,” you added, a smile breaking through despite yourself.
“I deserve it.” he nodded.
“Stop agreeing with me,” you shot back, your voice rising before dropping again as your ass hit the counter. He stopped a few feet away, giving you space. “It could’ve slipped out while I was drunk…with…with you,” you realized aloud, your eyes widening. “For fuck’s sake, Kal! You could’ve heard me say it to Lois from across the city. That’s unfair!”
“Clark,” you corrected suddenly, your hand pressing to your forehead. “Sorry. Fuck.”
And there it was, the exact reason he loved you, laid bare without you even trying. You understood him in a way no one else did, not just Superman or Clark, but both.
“Call me whatever you want,” he said softly. “We’re both yours.” Your eyes snapped up to his then. “I was too focused on being Clark,” he admitted. “I couldn’t hear it.”
You shook your head, the instinct to take the blame rising even now. You had never planned to tell him at all, not without certainty that he felt the same. You were careful with your feelings, methodical, waiting until it was safe.
“I’m always on the verge of telling you everything,” he went on, his voice quieter now. “All of it, but then–
“We both risked losing someone,” you finished, the understanding settling between you. The worst outcome had always been possible, even if neither of you wanted to admit it right now.
He looked at you like he was waiting to be judged, to be forgiven or rejected, caught in that fragile space where silence stretches too long.
“I wouldn’t have let that happen,” You closed the distance, heels clicking against the floor, loud in his ears and before he could react, your hand was on his tie, pulling him down until your lips met his, his glasses pressing crookedly against his face. It took him a second to catch up but when he did, he leaned into it, holding onto the moment like it might disappear.
Your lips parted with a gentle pop and your eyes lifted to meet his.
“Does this mean hiding in a broom closet is useless?” you asked, straightening his tie, then his glasses because of course…he didn’t need them.
“I happen to have great vision,” he nodded, still looking at you like he couldn’t quite believe you were real. “And a hard time looking away from you.”
A/N: If you enjoyed this story, feel free to explore the archive for more! Liking and reblogging helps others discover my writing and comments always make my day, they’re a huge encouragement for me to keep creating. Thank you so much for reading!
summary: clark's a little too excited to finally jump into bed with you.
galentine's prompt: "is this okay?"
CWs: 18+ mdni!!!! explicit sexual descriptions, fem!reader, dom!reader kinda?, sub!clark kinda?, handjob, premature ejaculation (bless his heart), lots of kissing, some light degradation (clark receiving), mega desperate clark, use of pet names (honey), humiliation, a few tears, some playful taunting, first time that they're sleeping together but neither of them are virgins. i think that's it!
word count: 2.3k!
author's note: our first steamy, smutty fic of galentine's has arrived!!!! thank you so much for reading, any reblogs, comments, and likes are very much appreciated (and i love u for it)!!!!! btw, sorry if sub-ish clark isn't your bag. tomorrow's clark will definitely be for you if you're into soft dom!clark though, so stay tuned for day 4 my dearest house guests <3
galentine's series masterlist!
“Is this okay?” Clark’s gentle check-in, concerned and sweet above all else, is punctuated with his fingers stilling at the lower buttons of your blouse.
Everything between you had been steadily escalating all night. It all started with a date. One that Clark had embarrassingly begged you to go on. It’s not his fault that he was whiny and flustered when he had asked you. You’re the prettiest girl he’s ever seen, and it’s been a long time since he’s gone out with anyone.
He stumbled over himself, cheeks bright red and eyes opened wide as he managed to force out the daunting first-date question he’d been dying to ask you for months. The grin that you graced him with along with the hopeful glint in your gaze made him feel quite silly for being nervous about it.
The escalation started the second you agreed to cut out of the Planet with him. It began with your hand reaching for and grabbing onto his. With your fingers lacing between his, as if you needed to have every inch of your exposed skin glued to his or else you’d die. With the flirty glances you’d lay on him over the dinner table at the restaurant he took you to. With the sultry tone in your voice when you asked him to come back to your apartment while you slowly dragged your foot up and down the bottom of his leg beneath the dinner table.
All of it culminated in him crashing through your apartment door while he cradled you in his arms. He knew he had to move quickly before his disbelief of you actually wanting him set in and ruined the moment, but he couldn’t stop himself from asking that question again and again and again.
“Is this okay?” while he trailed behind you into your apartment.
“Is this okay?” when you jumped into his arms and slammed your lips against his.
“Is this okay?” mumbled against your lips while he was kissing you and carrying you to your bedroom, despite the fact that you were the one who ignited it in the first place.
“Is this okay?” right now with his fingers shakily pawing at the lowest button of your blouse while you lay back on your bed and await what’s to come. And each time he’s asked it, you gave him a beautiful, almost pitiful laugh and an enthusiastic confirmation. Stoked the fire deep within him and made it harder and harder for him to stay put together.
“It’s all okay,” you breathe as you push yourself up on your elbows, just far enough to bless him with a soft kiss. His head is reeling with anticipation and with lust, cloudy and only able to focus on you and the gentle tone of your voice when you speak to him. Your eyes are fiery and wild, your hair is a mess from rubbing against your pillows, and your tongue occasionally runs over your bottom lip between your sentences.
You might kill him. At least he’ll die happy.
“It’s always okay. You don’t have to ask.”
He tries to will away the fire in his cheeks and spreading up to his ears. The amount of times you’ve made him blush tonight is humiliating, but he’ll get over it. Or maybe he won’t. Jury’s still out on that one. Jury’s also out on why he actually likes being humiliated by you so much.
“Just—uh,” he mutters as he manages to unfasten one button on your blouse. “I don’t know. Making sure you still want me, I guess.”
“Are you kidding me?” you ask, your hands trailing up from his chest to his face, your smile sickly sweet as you leave another kiss on his lips, featherlight and lingering in a way that has Clark struggling to breathe.
“All I’ve ever wanted was you, Clark. How haven’t you caught on to that by now?”
Okay, sure; maybe he has been overdoing it a little bit by asking the same question so much, but that’s just because he can’t believe this is happening right now. Your reassurance stokes the already roaring fire inside of him. He feels like he’s burning alive—skin hot and flushed beneath your palms—and he loves it.
“Didn’t wanna assume anything,” he shyly murmurs, “or put words in your mouth.”
“You’re too sweet,” you return when you start moving down his jaw. You trail down to his neck, leaving soft, open-mouthed kisses in your wake. That haze of need clouding his mind only gets thicker when you nip at his left collarbone and your tongue laves over the bite. His hands slide down to your hips so he can grab onto them; a self-soothing method so tight that he might leave bruises on your body.
“Oh, gosh,” he pathetically whines while he leans into your touch, “that feels so good, honey.”
“So polite that you can’t even curse,” you tease. He blushes. Again. If he was honest with himself, he’d admit that he likes when you humiliate him. Part of why he’s so dizzy with lust has got to be because all of his blood is rushing out of his head and down into the front of his slacks.
Your smirk imprints itself into his skin while your hands slowly glide all over his upper body before settling on his chest and clutching at his shirt. A myriad of sensations that he immediately cements within his mind because they feel even better than he thought they would, and…he’s thought about it a lot. Too much, probably. Especially when he has extra time on his hands at the Planet and when you’re wearing that shade of lipstick that he likes.
“You can be a little rougher with me. I can handle it, you know,” you murmur after you pull off of his collarbone and look up at him through your eyelashes. He might faint if you look at him like that again. It’s a struggle for him to regain control of his breathing, and you only make it harder whenever you unbutton another button on his shirt.
“If you have it in you, that is.”
Your taunting comes off as a joke, but the fact that you’re saying it has to mean something, right? Maybe you do want him to be rougher. Whatever you want, you get. Always. He’d die if he wasn’t hand-delivering every wish you’ve ever wanted.
Clark’s hands release your hips and travel up to the bottom of your blouse. He had already unfastened the lowest button on it, but there’s definitely a quicker way to do it than going one by one like he had in mind. If you want it quicker, if you want it rougher, then he’s here to serve that to you—and he’s thrilled to do it. Even if it falls flat, at least you’re giving him a chance to please you.
With one swift movement, he grabs onto each side of your blouse and yanks. Buttons go flying around your bedroom, exposing your bare upper body to the chill of your room and his wandering gaze.
You gasp so loudly that he panics and assumes he hurt you. His heart stalls in his chest. His eyes dart up to yours and he leans back a little, half expecting you to kick him out of here and never want him to come back. Maybe he’ll even quit his job at the Planet if it’s bad enough.
What he finds, instead, is your pupils blown out. Your heart is slamming against your ribcage so hard that it’s almost giving him a headache. Your body is tense and your chest is heaving. The feeling of your sharp nails digging into his shoulders is much more comforting than he thought it would be. Your mouth is open from your gasp, but that doesn’t last long.
You pounce at him, slamming your lips together and collapsing backwards onto your bed, pulling him down on top of you in the process. This kiss is much harsher than the ones before it; clicking teeth, clashing tongues, and wandering hands that can’t seem to stop groping at each other.
And judging by the way your legs wind around his waist and you keep rolling your hips against his, you like this pace a lot more than the borderline hesitant one he was giving you when he followed you into your apartment. A particularly slow, heavy drag of your hips against the front of his slacks brings that quickened pace to a grinding halt, though.
His head falls into the crook of your neck. He groans loudly against your skin, eyes screwing shut so he can concentrate on not finishing in his pants. There’s no way you can’t feel how hard he is. Why else would you be torturing him like this? Teasing him with the prospect of being so close to your pussy but also so far away from her?
“Hey,” you pant, laughing and pressing a few kisses on the shell of his burning-hot ear, “you’re not giving up on me already, are you?”
“No! Never! I just…I need a second,” he pleads while he grabs onto your hips and forces them to still. It’s a gentle press of them onto your mattress, something that shouldn’t have said much but he knows gave him away completely. You don’t listen to his begging. Instead, you defy it; you lift your hips again and lower your voice while you pour it into his ear.
“Uh oh,” you purr, hips lazily rolling back and forth over the front of Clark’s slacks and making him shudder. It’s almost like you intentionally angled your hips to target his cock, to add just enough friction to get him right up to the edge and yet not enough to push him over it.
“Are you already close?”
He whimpers your name and shakes his head. The slow glide of your hand from his shoulder, down his chest and abdomen, and toward his belt has him trembling with both worry and anticipation.
“Lying doesn’t suit you, Clark. You know better. You’re bad at it.”
With that tiny bit of playful degradation that threatens to make him drool, you unbuckle his belt and tug it from his pants. If you slip a hand down the front of them, he’ll be done for. All it’ll take is one hardly-there touch of your palm against his cock to end this party before it even starts.
His hips betray his mind. He gently bucks them up toward your hand when your fingers trail over his waistband. His body knows what it wants, and now that it’s finally getting it, his mind’s desire to not come in his pants isn’t exactly being considered.
His body really doesn’t stand a chance when you unbutton his slacks and he feels the soft pads of your fingertips on the skin of his lower abdomen as they trail down and slip beneath the waistband of his boxer briefs. He gnaws on his bottom lip and burrows his face deeper into your neck. After a particularly high pitched and humiliating whine, he starts trembling.
“I’m hardly touching you and you’re about to come. How on Earth are you gonna survive fucking me?” you whisper. You punctuate your cruel words with a particularly brutal, patronizing little giggle. Clark’s face floods with a heat he’s never felt before. He can handle flying directly into a star, and yet being in your hot seat is too much to bear.
The worst part to him is the fact that if you keep going, he’ll fall in love with you.
When you actually go the full distance, your hand wrapping around his length and your thumb swiping over the tip of it, he lets out a soft, muffled cry against your neck. That taught rubber band deep in his body that you’d steadily been stretching snaps, and he tenses up, and he’s spilling a load all over your hand in seconds. His hips erratically jolt, and he moans your name, and he relishes in the feeling of your proud smile pressed against his ear.
Tears pool in his eyes. He’s not sure if it’s from how good he feels, or how embarrassed he is, or how sweet and gentle your voice is as you talk him through his orgasm. The gentlest part of it all is the feeling of your whispered praises in his ear and your other hand slowly combing through his hair.
“You poor, sweet thing,” you coo before you kiss the sensitive spot beneath his jaw and twirl a few of his curls around your fingers. “Must’ve been so wound up.”
All Clark does is pant against your neck and nod. It’s all he can do since you’ve managed to completely short-circuited his brain. You giggle again. Your hand slips out of his hair and down to his back, where you rub it up and down so slowly that Clark fears he’ll fall asleep due to your gentleness.
“Lay back and let me take care of you, then,” you command. Gentle and kind, and yet confident and almost domineering. It’s utterly intoxicating to Clark. Finally, someone to take care of him instead of him having to take care of everyone else.
“Is that okay, Clark?”
That should have made him blush. Should have made him grumble something out of embarrassment, especially since you deepened your voice to sound just like his when he’d asked you that same question only a few minutes earlier.
Instead, he laughs against your neck. He weakly lifts his head up, kisses you softly because it had been much too long since the last time, and swoons when he pulls away to look into your eyes.
The first time you ever felt jealous with Harry, you were standing in the back of a restaurant pretending to read the menu.
You had only been dating for a few months then, still new enough that everything felt slightly unreal, like you had somehow wandered into someone else’s life and no one had noticed yet. He had taken you to dinner, nothing extravagant, just a small place with low lighting and too many candles on each table, the kind of place where everyone spoke a little more quietly than usual. You remember thinking how normal it felt. How easy it was to sit across from him and talk about nothing for two hours, to laugh with him, to reach for his hand across the table and forget, just for a minute, that he was someone the rest of the world felt like they knew too.
Then he stood up to go to the bathroom, and the spell broke a little.
You had stayed at the table, half scrolling on your phone, half watching the room, when you noticed the two girls at the bar. They were trying to be subtle about it, but they kept looking over at your table, then at each other, then back at him as he walked across the restaurant. You watched one of them smooth her hair, watched the other nudge her with her elbow, and then, right on cue, one of them stood up and “accidentally” ran into him on his way back.
You watched the whole thing happen like you were watching a scene through glass. The surprised face, the hand on his arm, the laugh that was just a little too loud for a quiet restaurant. You watched him smile politely and say something you couldn’t hear, watched the way he handled it with that careful balance he had mastered, friendly but not encouraging, kind but just distant enough.
When he came back to the table, you remember asking, very lightly, like it was a joke, “Do people just do that a lot?”
He had looked at you for a second then, like he was trying to figure out what you were really asking.
“Do what?” he said.
“Walk into you on purpose,” you said, still looking down at the menu like you were deciding between two pastas.
He had been quiet for a moment after that, then reached across the table and taken your hand, his thumb moving once over your knuckles.
“Sometimes,” he said. “You get used to it. Or you try to.”
You remember nodding like that was a normal answer, like that was a normal thing to have to get used to. You remember deciding, right then, that you were not going to be the jealous girlfriend. That you were going to be cool about it, mature, understanding. You told yourself that this was part of loving someone like him, and if you wanted the good parts, the private jokes and quiet mornings and the way he reached for you in his sleep, then you had to accept the rest of it too.
You had been very proud of yourself for that decision.
That was before nights like this.
The event is already in full swing by the time you arrive, the room bright with soft gold lighting and full of people who all seem to know exactly where they are supposed to stand. Harry keeps his hand at the small of your back as you move through the crowd, a quiet, constant point of contact that makes it easier to breathe in a room that still sometimes feels like it belongs to someone else. Every few steps someone stops him, and by extension, stops you. Hands are shaken, cheeks are kissed, introductions are made and remade. You smile when you are supposed to smile, nod when you are supposed to nod, and do your best to follow conversations about projects and travel and people you only sort of recognize.
He leans down slightly at one point, his mouth close enough to your ear that you can hear him over the noise. “You doing okay?”
You glance up at him and smile. “Yeah. Just a lot of conversations where I’m pretending I know what everyone’s talking about.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “You’re doing a very convincing job.”
“I’m a very good actress,” you tell him.
“I know,” he says easily, and his hand presses once, gently, into your hip before someone else is saying his name and he is turning again, automatically guiding you with him so you are never left standing alone behind his shoulder.
You are in the middle of a conversation with someone from a magazine when you see her. You don’t know who she is at first, you just notice that she is looking directly at Harry, not with the polite interest everyone else seems to have, but with recognition, with familiarity. She smiles when he finally notices her, and then she starts walking over like she already knows she will be welcome when she gets there.
“Harry,” she says, and he turns fully this time, his face shifting into real recognition as he leans in to hug her.
You stand beside him, close enough that his arm brushes yours, and you watch the hug last just a second longer than the others have tonight. When they pull apart, her hand stays on his arm like it belongs there.
“It’s been so long,” she says. “You look exactly the same.”
“You don’t,” he says. “You look expensive.”
She laughs and hits his arm lightly. “That’s so rude.”
“It’s a compliment,” he says, smiling.
You tilt your head slightly, watching them, trying to place where you know her from, or if you are just supposed to know. The two of them fall into conversation easily, the kind of easy that usually only comes from knowing someone before all of this, before schedules and teams and publicists.
Then she looks at you, like she suddenly remembers you are there.
“And you must be the famous girlfriend,” she says, smiling as she reaches out to shake your hand.
You smile back and shake it. “I don’t know about famous.”
“Oh, please,” she says. “He never shuts up about you.”
You glance at Harry at that, but he is already looking at you, like he is trying to see how you are reacting to all of this, like he is tracking every small change in your face.
“Only good things, I hope,” you say.
“The best things,” she says easily. “You’re very lucky.”
You are not entirely sure if she means it as a compliment.
Harry’s hand comes back to rest against your lower back, his thumb moving slightly, back and forth, a small motion that feels like a question he cannot ask out loud. The conversation keeps going, but you are not really part of it anymore. You are watching the way she leans in when he talks, the way she touches his arm when she laughs, the way she says, “We should get dinner while you’re in town. Properly catch up,” and then looks at you and adds, “You can come too, obviously.”
Obviously.
Harry gives a vague answer about schedules and travel and how everything is a bit mad right now, and eventually she squeezes his arm one last time before disappearing back into the crowd.
For a moment, you both just stand there, watching the space where she was. Then he looks down at you, his hand still warm against your back.
“You alright?” he asks quietly.
You think about the restaurant, about the girls at the bar, about the promise you made to yourself to be cool about all of this. You lift your drink, take a small sip, and then you smile up at him.
“She seems like she knows you very well,” you say lightly.
It is a simple sentence, and your tone is easy, almost teasing, but you see the way his expression changes slightly, the way he hears the part of the sentence you did not say out loud.
“Don’t,” he says quietly.
You tilt your head. “I didn’t do anything.”
He studies your face for a second longer, like he is trying to decide if this is going to turn into a fight or if he can still steer the night back into something easier.
“Come on,” he says finally, his hand pressing a little more firmly into your back as he guides you through the crowd. “Let’s go say hi to Jeff and then we can get out of here soon.”
“Okay,” you say.
But for the rest of the night, you can still see her hand on his arm every time you close your eyes, and for the rest of the night, his hand does not really leave you, like he knows you are trying very hard to be the version of yourself you promised you would be.
By the time you are both in the car, the night has settled into that quiet, heavy feeling that comes after too many hours of talking to too many people. The city outside the window is all lights and reflections, everything slightly blurred as you pull away from the hotel. Harry loosens his tie with one hand as he drives, the other resting briefly on the center console between you before he glances over.
“You were quiet at the end,” he says, not accusing, not yet. Just observant.
“I was tired,” you say, looking out the window.
He hums softly, like he does not fully believe you but is not ready to push either. For a few minutes, the only sound in the car is the low murmur of the radio and the occasional rush of another car passing. You watch the lights slide across the glass, across your hands in your lap, and you tell yourself, again, that you are not going to pick a fight. That you are an adult. That this is part of it.
He stops at a red light and looks over at you again, really looks this time. “Talk to me,” he says quietly.
You let out a small breath through your nose, still looking straight ahead. “I am talking. I said I’m tired.”
“Yeah,” he says. “But that’s not what this is.”
You turn your head then, leaning back against the seat. “What do you want me to say, Harry?”
“I want you to say what you’re actually thinking instead of whatever this is,” he says, gesturing vaguely between the two of you.
You are quiet for a second, then you give a small shrug. “Fine. I think she was very pretty. And very charming. And very handsy.”
There is a slight pause. Not long, just long enough to feel it.
“She’s an old friend,” he says.
“I’m sure she is,” you reply, your voice light, almost pleasant. “You seem to have a lot of very beautiful old friends.”
He exhales slowly, his jaw tightening just a little. “Alright,” he says. “There it is.”
“There what is?” you ask.
“That tone,” he says. “That thing you do where you say something that sounds fine, but it’s not actually fine.”
You look back out the window. “I’m not doing anything. I’m making an observation.”
“Right,” he says. “A very loaded observation.”
You turn back to him then, your patience starting to thin. “I’m not allowed to notice that another woman had her hands on you all night?”
“She did not have her hands on me all night,” he says, sharper now. “She said hello and we talked for ten minutes.”
“She touched you every time she laughed,” you say immediately. “She asked you to dinner. She told me I was lucky like she was trying to decide if she believed it.”
He lets out a short breath, somewhere between a laugh and frustration. “You’re reading into things.”
“Of course I am,” you say, and now there is something under your voice, something hurt that is starting to push its way out. “Do you know what it’s like to stand next to you in a room like that? To watch women look at you like that? Like they already know you, like they have some version of you in their head that belongs to them a little bit?”
The light turns green but he does not go right away. The car behind you honks and he finally presses the gas, the car moving forward again into the stream of traffic.
“I don’t encourage it,” he says, quieter now. “You know I don’t.”
“I know,” you say quickly. “I know you don’t. That’s not what I’m saying.”
“Then what are you saying?” he asks.
You are quiet for a moment because this is the part that is harder to explain, the part that sounds childish when you say it out loud.
“I’m saying sometimes it feels like I’m sharing you,” you say finally. “With everyone. With strangers, with fans, with interviewers, with women who used to know you before I did. And I know that’s the deal, I know that’s the life, and I told myself I was okay with it. Most of the time I am. But sometimes I’m standing right next to you and I still feel like I’m waiting my turn.”
The words hang there between you, heavier than you meant them to be.
His hands tighten slightly on the steering wheel. “You’re not waiting your turn,” he says.
“It feels like it sometimes,” you reply quietly.
He is quiet for a long moment after that, the car filling with that thick silence that comes when a conversation stops being about one small thing and starts being about something much bigger.
Then you make the mistake.
You let out a small breath and say, a little too lightly, a little too sharp, “I just think it’s interesting that all your ‘old friends’ look like that.”
His head turns toward you so fast you almost regret saying it immediately.
“That’s a really unfair thing to say,” he says, his voice low now, controlled in a way that is much more dangerous than if he were yelling.
You cross your arms, staring straight ahead again. “I didn’t say anything that wasn’t true.”
“No,” he says. “You just said it in a way that was meant to hurt.”
You swallow but do not take it back. “I’m not trying to hurt you.”
“Well, you are,” he says. “And you’re doing it because you’re upset, and instead of just saying you’re upset, you’re taking little shots at me and pretending they’re jokes or observations or whatever you want to call them.”
You can feel your eyes starting to sting now, which only makes you more frustrated. “I am upset,” you say. “I’m trying to be cool about it, Harry. I’m trying so hard to be cool about all of this.”
“I don’t want you to be cool,” he says immediately. “I want you to be honest.”
“I am being honest,” you say, your voice cracking slightly now. “I’m telling you that sometimes this is really hard for me. That sometimes I hate how many people think they know you. That sometimes I hate how many people want a piece of you. And then I feel like a terrible person for hating it because I know this is your life and I know you worked for it and I know you love it.”
He pulls the car into a quiet side street then and puts it in park, turning fully in his seat to look at you.
“Hey,” he says, softer now. “Look at me.”
You don’t want to, but you do.
“You are the only person in that room I was worried about tonight,” he says. “Not her. Not anyone else. You. Whether you were having a good time. Whether you were overwhelmed. Whether you wanted to leave. You’re not sharing me. You’re the one I go home with. You’re the one I’m in this car with. You’re the one I want sitting next to me when all of that is over.”
You press your lips together, trying very hard not to cry now, which is embarrassing and makes you a little angry at yourself.
“I just didn’t like the way she looked at you,” you admit quietly.
He nods once. “Okay,” he says. “That’s fair. But you don’t get to punish me for the way other people look at me. We love each other.”
That lands. Because he is right, and you know he is right, and that almost makes it worse.
“I’m not punishing you,” you say weakly.
He raises his eyebrows slightly. “You told me all my friends are hot and implied I collect beautiful women like souvenirs. That feels a little bit like punishment.”
You wince. “When you say it like that, it sounds bad.”
“It sounded bad when you said it too,” he says, but there is a hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth now, just barely.
You finally let out a small, defeated laugh and cover your face with your hands for a second. “I’m sorry,” you mumble. “That was… contumelious.”
He blinks. “That was what?”
“Contumelious,” you repeat, peeking at him through your fingers. “Insulting in a kind of mean, contempt-y way. I stumbled upon it the other day. I’ve been waiting to use it.”
He stares at you for a second, then actually laughs, a real laugh this time that fills the car and breaks the tension a little.
“You’re unbelievable,” he says, shaking his head.
“I’m serious,” you say, dropping your hands and looking at him. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said it like that. I was trying to act like I didn’t care, but I did. I do.”
He reaches over then and takes your hand, threading his fingers through yours and squeezing once.
“I don’t need you to not care,” he says. “I just need you to not turn it into a competition I don’t even know I’m in.”
You nod slowly. “Okay.”
“And for the record,” he adds, starting the car again, “I’m not going to dinner with her.”
“I know,” you say.
“But I’m also not never speaking to every woman I’ve ever known just because she’s pretty,” he says.
You sigh. “I know that too. I just reserve the right to be a little bit insane sometimes.”
He smiles, glancing over at you as he pulls back onto the main road. “You are allowed to be a little bit insane,” he says. “Just don’t be contumelious about it.”
You groan. “You’re never going to stop saying that word now, are you?”
“Absolutely not,” he says.
And he does not let go of your hand the rest of the drive home.
cw: alcohol consumption, one (1) drunk cigarette, just general softness and sweet clark
Clark’s eyes soften when he sees you.
He half-jogs, crossing the parking lot with his long legs in seconds. One hand is already reaching out for you. You’re clinging to one of your friends, but you ease your grip when your boyfriend stops in front of you. On unsteady legs, you stumble towards him, a giddy smile on your lips.
“Hi, baby,” you greet him, the alcohol slurring your words.
The corners of his mouth twitch in response.
“Hi, sweetheart,” he replies, “How’re you feelin’?”
“Great,” you giggle, then purse your lips as you wait for your kiss. He indulges you, cheeks tinting red as he gives you a quick peck in front of all your friends.
“Let’s get you home,” he mumbles, then slides his arm around your waist. You mumble some half-answer, already too cozily tucked away in his side to care.
“You ladies all got rides home?” Clark asks your friends, “Anyone I gotta drop off?”
Your friends always fawn over Clark, but a question like that really gets them going. A chorus of “No, we’re good, Clark,” and “Thanks, Clark,” echoes across the sidewalk, and your boyfriend just grins sheepishly.
He steers you towards his car, holding you up and steady all the way.
“Did you have fun?” he mumbles as he opens the door on the passenger side. His hand moves with you as you slide into the seat.
“Soooo much,” you answer, your face flushed and eyes bright while you stare up at him like he hung the moon. Clark leans down to kiss your forehead and says, “I’m glad you did.”
For a moment, he just glances at you before he wrinkles his nose. “You smell like cigarettes.”
Your face warms even more than it already had from drinking, and you nod.
“Tilly had some, and I bummed one.”
He shakes his head tenderly.
“They’re so bad for you, baby.”
“I know,” you mumble, “But they don’t count when you’re drunk, do they?”
Clark grins softly. “I’m afraid they do, sweet girl.”
He leans down once more to kiss the top of your head before he slides into the driver’s seat.
After turning on the playlist you made for him, he drives gently, looking out for bumps in the road. Every now and then, his eyes wander to you as you stare dreamily out the window, watching the landscape pass by.
“How much did you drink, sweetheart?” he asks, amused.
You hold up four fingers when you answer, “We pre-gamed at Lottie’s, and then I had three shots and, uh, some pink cocktail and then a blue one, too.”
Clark chuckles, rubbing his chin. “You gonna have a headache tomorrow?” he asks.
You shake your head vehemently, then stop as it makes you dizzy.
“No, no,” you declare, “Don’t you worry.”
Clark sighs softly while he smiles, then rests his hand on your thigh. “I don’t think I’ll ever not worry ‘bout you, princess.”
When he pulls into the driveway, you fumble with your seatbelt.
“I got you,” he murmurs, then reaches over to you and frees you from your restraint.
The walk to his apartment takes forever, as you stumble in your strappy heels, so Clark takes over. One of his arms is already wrapped around your waist, the other one slings under the crook of your knees before he hoists you up against his chest. You giggle gleefully and grin at him.
“That’s nice,” you say as you nuzzle your cheek into his neck, inhaling deeply.
“Anything for my girl,” he whispers.
Clark carries you into the apartment and heads straight to the bathroom. He knows that sober you will thank him for taking off your makeup and making sure you brush your teeth.
He turns on the small light above the mirror instead of the ceiling light before he places you on the bathroom counter. You slump forward, chin resting on his shoulder.
“I’m really tired, honey,” you mumble. He chuckles softly.
“I bet,” he answers, then gently guides you to lean back against the wall, “But you’ll be glad to wake up without all that glitter gluing your eyes shut tomorrow.”
You nod, somewhat appeased.
With one hand, he stabilizes you while the other brushes your hair out of your face. He reaches for the makeup remover. It’s a melting balm in a round tub, and he warms it up between his palms.
“Close your eyes, baby,” he instructs, then begins to work the product into your skin. He is as gentle as he can be while still being precise, as the makeup starts to dissolve off your face in dark streaks.
Once he’s satisfied and sure that your pores are clean, he washes his hands before he grabs your hips and lifts you off the counter.
“Let’s get this off, yeah?”
He holds you tight while you stand over the sink, cleansing your face.
You manage to brush your teeth on your own, and Clark joins you. The low lighting in the bathroom, the shared night routine, and mostly, the absolute trust you have in him—it feels so domestic that Clark’s heart aches a little with contentment. He almost asks you to move in with him right then.
Once the two of you are done, he picks you up one last time, and you don’t open your eyes again until you’re sitting on his bed.
“You want one of your nighties or a shirt?” Clark asks even though he knows the answer.
“Shirt, please,” you mumble, smiling at the prospect of being wrapped in Clark’s scent for the night. He chuckles fondly, then walks over to his closet to get you your favorite tee of his.
After returning with the shirt, he undoes the zipper of your dress and shimmies it off of you. Despite having seen you naked a dozen times, he only looks at your face, clenching his jaw in concentration, as he dresses you in his shirt.
“Good?” he asks. You nod instantly, a mild smile pulling at the corner of your mouth.
“Great,” you murmur fondly.
He brushes his knuckles over your cheek, then works to get off your shoes. The clasps are tiny, and his hands are big, so it takes him longer than he wants it to. When he has finally freed you, you sigh happily.
“Don’t know why you put up with these kinds of shoes,” he mumbles, eyeing the heel critically.
“They’re so pretty,” you answer, eyes half-closed. Clark grins.
“You’re ten times as pretty as they are. Don’t think it’s worth the pain,” he replies. Then he helps you lie down and pulls the blanket over you.
You stare up at him, a sleepy smile on your face.
“You’re pretty.”
Clark feels his cheeks warm as the blood rushes to his head. “You’re drunk,” he states, “But thank you, sweetheart. Now close those eyes.”
“Only if you come here,” you whisper.
He chuckles, then nods.
“Alright, just give me a sec.”
Unlike him, you ogle as he undresses himself down to his boxers, but he doesn’t mind. The mattress dips under his weight when he climbs into bed next to you, and you quickly scoot closer to him, drinking in his warmth and smell. As you rest your head on his chest, he lets his fingers drift over your back along your spine in a soothing motion.
“Sleep now, pretty girl,” he tells you softly, “Sweet dreams.”
❤︎ just a quick reminder that the best way to support authors on here is to comment and reblog ❤︎ ☆ find my masterlist here ☆
I know I said something… I know, I tried. But suddenly Clark Kent decided to live in my mind rent-free and I was forced to write this fic. Honestly, I don’t have constant inspiration—it just comes out of nowhere. If you want to request something, feel free, but I can’t promise when I’ll post it :(
Clark Kent x female reader
Sinopsis: A simple bet tests something Clark Kent has never had to control—his need to be with you. But three days apart feel like forever when home isn’t a place, but a person.
Clark never challenged anyone—ever. Least of all his own girlfriend. But with you, it was different; everything was a game. You always ended up making silly bets about the simplest things. Like that time you told him, "I bet you can’t go a single day without saying ‘thank you.’"
He had laughed with that big smile of his, shaking his head. "Of course I can," he had said confidently.
An hour later, when the pizza delivery guy knocked on the door, Clark had already lost—and he didn’t even know it. The boy delivering the pizza was young; it was obvious it was his first job because he was nervous, fidgeting with his hands, not knowing where to put them.
"Mr. Kent, here’s your pizza. I’m so sorry, it’s my first job and everyone has yelled at me today, I went to the wrong floor," the boy said in a rush, trying to smile even though his fear of being scolded again was clear.
Clark, who had probably already forgotten about their bet, looked at him with those kind eyes of his and said, "You don’t have to apologize at all. You did very well. Thank you so much for bringing it. Hey, don’t give up, alright? The first day is always hard."
The boy left smiling as if he had just won the lottery, glancing back as he walked toward the elevator. When the door closed, Clark turned to you with the pizza in his hand and the expression of a child who had just realized something.
"I lost, didn’t I?" he asked, his mouth slightly open.
"Completely," you laughed, pointing to the table so he would set the pizza down and you could have dinner together.
But this time was different. You had to take a short trip to Minnesota to present at a university. You were going to be there for three days at a conference on geopolitics in Asia, something that excited you a lot. You had mentioned it over dinner, while Clark passed you your favorite lasagna.
"It’s not like I can’t control my urge to fly off to see you," he said suddenly, with complete casualness, as if talking about flying were the most normal thing in the world.
You set your fork down on your plate and looked at him, raising an eyebrow. "Are you telling me you can control that crazy urge you have to fly wherever I am and show up saying you miss me?"
Clark shifted uncomfortably in his chair, remembering at the same time what had happened the year before. When you went to Japan for a convention, he had lasted exactly one day. Well, less than a day. He flew all the way to Tokyo, showed up at your apartment, and you almost had a heart attack from the scare. He was standing at the door with his arms open and a huge pout, saying that one day without you was too much, that he had just gotten home from work and the house was empty and he couldn’t take it anymore. You had barely been starting your day there.
Clark came back to the present, blushing at the memory.
"But that was Japan, love, and it was two whole weeks. Of course I was going to die of loneliness," he said, trying to justify himself.
You laughed freely. "You went a day after I left, Clark. And then you kept going back for the entire two weeks, every single day. No, you can’t control yourself—that’s clear."
You took a bite of your lasagna with a satisfied smile.
"Of course I can," he said, straightening in his chair, accepting the challenge without realizing it.
That was when your eyes lit up. You loved betting with him—you always won. You set your fork down on the plate and looked him straight in the eyes.
"Do you want to make a bet?" you asked with a smile he already knew very well. "During my three days in Minnesota, I don’t want to see you there. No ‘I miss you’ appearances at any hour. No flying over to see me. We won’t see each other until I come back home, understood?" You held out your hand to seal the deal. "Can the great Superman handle that?"
Clark hesitated for only a second. "Of course he can," he said, and shook your hand firmly.
════ ❀•°❀°•❀ ════
"I can’t, I can’t, I can’t," Clark kicked his legs against the floor, careful not to crack the apartment’s concrete, sounding like a little kid throwing a tantrum. He was sprawled out in the living room, staring at the ceiling, whining as if the world had ended.
Only a few hours had passed since you left that morning. He had taken you to the airport, kissed you for a long time at the security entrance, and gone back home confident he would win the bet. But now he was there, rolling around on the carpet, hugging your couch cushion because it still smelled like your shampoo.
You had been officially dating for a year and a half, and living together for a year. In fact, after that trip to Japan—when he showed up at your door a complete mess of tears—he had asked you to move in together. "I can’t stand not seeing you every day," he had said, and you had laughed, but you said yes.
Clark let out a deep sigh, glancing at the clock. It was only seven in the evening. You were probably just arriving at your hotel in Minnesota now, after the flight and everything. He pushed himself off the floor with a groan and walked to the window, looking out at the dark sky.
"I can do this," he told himself. "Three days. Just three days. It’s nothing."
"This is ridiculous," he muttered, resting his forehead against the cold glass. "Why did I accept this bet?"
Your presence was the light missing from his day. Clark had known it from the moment he would come home from work and find you in the kitchen making those strange recipes you found online—odd dishes that mixed things that didn’t go together at all. He always pretended they were perfect, but he couldn’t help himself; he’d come up behind you, peek into the pot, and say, "It’s really good, but I think it needs a little of this," as he added salt. Then he’d frown and add, "and maybe a bit of this too," ending up sneaking in more ingredients to fix the dish without you noticing. When he tasted it, he’d close his eyes and say, "Excellent, you nailed it," and you’d smile proudly, not knowing he had completely fixed the meal.
Or maybe he’d come home and find you in the bedroom, arranging his clothes with yours, organizing the books on the shelf the way you both liked: one month by size, another by publication date, another by rainbow colors. It depended on your mood, and he loved coming home and discovering what new system you had invented. Or you’d simply be in the shower, and he’d hear the water running, imagining you singing songs slightly off-key in the most endearing way.
The simple feeling of knowing you were there—that small signal in his chest that his home existed—was the best thing in the world. But it wasn’t the house, it wasn’t Metropolis, it wasn’t the apartment. You were his home. You, no matter where you were. And now you were hours away.
The worst part? For him, it would only take seconds if he wanted it to. He could fly so fast the world blurred, cross states like someone crossing a street. But he had made a bet—a stupid bet—with you, and even though he knew breaking it wouldn’t really matter because you wouldn’t truly be upset, he wanted to prove it to himself. He wanted to know if he could control that overwhelming urge that surged through him every time you weren’t near.
One hour passed with him staring at the ceiling.
Two hours counting the cracks on the wall.
Three hours hugging your pillow like it was a treasure.
He brought his hands to his face and let out a long sigh. One night without you was too much, he told himself. A whole night feeling the empty space beside him in bed. He remembered your last message, reading it ten times, twenty times, until he had memorized every word.
"I’m going out to dinner with my colleagues, I won’t call tonight, I love you, you’re doing really well with the bet."
You’re doing really well with the bet. You had written that. And then you turned off your phone, probably to enjoy dinner without distractions. Clark set his phone on the nightstand and stared at the dark screen.
════ ❀•°❀°•❀ ════
On the other side of the United States, in Minnesota, you walked through the city’s illuminated streets with a group of university professors. You had dinner at a small Italian restaurant, chatting about politics and travel, and now you strolled slowly before heading back to the hotel.
Dr. Schneifell walked beside you, an older woman with gray hair tied in a bun and round glasses that gave her the air of a library scholar.
"So next year your destination would be South Korea?" she asked with genuine curiosity.
You nodded enthusiastically, slipping your hands into your coat pockets against the night cold. "Yes, I’ve already started talking with some schools there. Apparently they want me to give two talks on geopolitics in Southeast Asia, but they need to align their schedules with mine."
Professor Carther, a young man with a scruffy beard and always holding a cup of coffee, let out a laugh. "Next year? But the year ends in two months—that’s practically right now."
You laughed as well, nodding. "Yeah, well, I’ll probably go around March. So there’s still some coordination to do, but it’s going well."
You reached the hotel entrance, an old yet elegant building with warm yellow lights glowing outside. You said goodbye to them with a smile.
"Well, I’ll head up to my room. Thank you so much for dinner, really—it was wonderful."
Dr. Schneifell kissed you on both cheeks. "Get some rest, you have your presentation tomorrow, and we want to see you shine."
You rode the elevator up slowly and checked the time on your phone: it was eleven at night.
Clark was probably already asleep; it was too late to call him. You walked down the hotel hallway toward your room, slipped the key card into the lock, opened the door, and locked it behind you out of habit. As you turned to switch on the light, you saw a large shadow in the darkness—you jumped and turned on the lamp immediately, almost letting out a scream, but when you saw Clark, you stopped, your heart racing.
He was there, standing in the middle of the room like a child who had just been caught doing something wrong. His hands were in his pockets, his shoulders slightly slumped, and he wore that expression of his that said, “I know I did something, but I couldn’t help it.”
"What happened? Is everything okay?" you asked when you saw him, feeling your heart drop into place again.
Beyond the bets and the jokes, there was always that small fear at the back of your mind when you traveled alone. The fear that he might show up suddenly not because he missed you, but because something bad had happened—because there was an emergency he had to deal with, or because there was danger nearby. Maybe that was why you looked at him like that, with genuine concern, searching his eyes to make sure everything was okay.
He lowered his gaze and whispered softly, "I missed you."
You let out all the air you had been holding and felt your shoulders relax. A smile began to form on your face without you being able to stop it.
"I broke my bet," he said, as if confessing something terrible.
You stepped closer to him and looked at him tenderly. "Love," you called softly, and he lifted his gaze to meet yours. "We never bet anything serious," you said, and he frowned, not understanding. "It’s just a game, it’s fun. But you can break the bet whenever you want, okay? There are no real rules here."
He nodded slowly, as if only then giving himself permission to be there. He took a step forward and wrapped his arms tightly around you, hiding his face in your neck, breathing in your scent—the one he had missed so much in just a few hours. You welcomed him with open arms, gently stroking his back, feeling his body relax against yours.
"Let’s go to sleep," you said after a moment, pulling back just enough to look at him. "Tomorrow you’ll have to go straight to the office from here—are you telling me you brought clothes to change into?"
Clark tilted his head and gestured toward a rack near the window. There hung a neatly pressed white shirt and a dark suit covered in dry-cleaning plastic. There were also black shoes below, perfectly aligned. You smiled seeing everything ready, as organized as ever despite having flown there on impulse.
"Good, then we need to sleep. I’ll wake you up early tomorrow."
He nodded, but when you started walking toward the bathroom to wash your face, you heard his footsteps behind you. You turned and saw him with that hopeful expression.
"Can I come back tomorrow too?" he asked carefully, as if he feared the answer.
You took his hand and smiled. "Of course you can. I have my talk at four in the afternoon, so if you come after work, we can spend some time together. Besides, you don’t need a key to get in, right?" you added with a playful wink.
He nodded happily, but as you both moved further into the room, he asked again, "And the day after tomorrow?"
You stopped, let out a short laugh, and looked at him. You took his cheeks in both hands, squeezing them slightly as you studied him. He wasn’t wearing his glasses this time; his eyes looked big and clear as they stared at you with that adoration you always drew from him.
"Until I leave, okay? And the day we go back, we can fly together so I don’t have to take a plane. Does that sound good? That way we’ll get home faster."
Clark nodded with his cheeks squished between your hands, making a funny expression.
"It’s nice to have a man who can fly," you said with a mischievous smile.
He smiled as best as he could with his face still trapped in your hands, and you leaned in to give him a quick kiss on the lips. "Come on," you said, letting him go and turning to fix the pillows.
The two of you got ready for bed the way you did every night at home. Clark got into bed first, and when you lay down, he immediately settled against your chest, finding his favorite spot. You began to run your fingers gently through his hair, brushing back those curls you loved so much.
Clark wasn’t afraid to admit how much he loved you. He wasn’t embarrassed—not with you, not with anyone. Shouting it to the world wouldn’t matter if you asked him to, and in that moment, curled up there listening to your heartbeat, he felt like he hadn’t broken any bet at all.
He had flown to where he belonged.
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Hi lovebugs! I've got a doctor Harry one shot for you. I may expand on it in the future but for now, enjoy some angst to fluff! I wrote this a loooong time before the SNL skit hit I figured it’s a good time to post it. I am not in the medical field so I may be wrong with terminology or procedures but I did some research so I hope you guys like this!
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WC- 6.5k
Warnings- described injuries, car accident mention, mention of pain medication and IV's, medical stuff in general, angst to fluff, probably inaccurate medical terminology and regulations
The Emergency Department was a chaotic cacophony of beeps, whirs, and voices. It was a chaos he usually thrived in- you sort of had to in order to do this job.
Working 12 years to get to where he was as an ER Attending, he didn’t regret his decision- but that didn’t mean he didn’t get burnt out at times. That his nerves didn’t strain and he didn’t question why he hadn’t gone into a specialty, or primary care instead of this. It was always quickly answered when he was able to make a difference. To reassure someone, or to save their lives- it’s a reminder of why he was where he was.
Dark circles stained his normally vibrant eyes, but his movements were still sharp, precise and practiced. Every step spoke of his training - years of med school followed by a residency that had nearly killed him- and he was proud to have gotten where he was today. He (unfortunately) needed the variety to keep up. Since he was a little kid with his play doctor kit and his little plastic stethoscope, he had hoped he would end up as a doctor in a big hospital like his grandfather was- and he got his wish. As the attending physician on call tonight at the level I trauma center, he was thrown into a variety of situations and each one got the best he was able to do.
No two days in the ER were the same, and that’s part of what he loved about it.
The night was particularly hectic. A multi-car pileup had just been brought in, filling the ER with patients ranging from minor cuts and bruises to a critical trauma case which required immediate surgery and consult with Ortho, which sort of pissed him off considering their urgency did not match his own (though ortho rarely did).
Regardless, he kept it pushing.
Harry moved from room to room, trying to get to each patient in a timely manner, because he knew that waiting was the one of the worst parts of it all. The complaints about wait time were something he both understood and despised. He’d gotten enough of them tonight that he already felt the throb of a headache forming at the base of his skull, but at the very least he had a team of nurses who took no shit. “Report, please.” The automatic hand sanitizer dispenser made a whirring noise as he left one patient's room, the foam being generously rubbed over his hands as he took the clipboard from Janay.
“Another car accident. Female presenting with head trauma, appears alert and oriented but scalp swelling. Complaining of nausea, dizziness and headache. Loss of consciousness for one to two minutes. Mild superficial lacerations to the face, hands and arms, no active bleeding.” She spoke, keeping pace with him as he walked briskly. “Um, left arm pain limited motion. Swelling around the wrist, no open fracture-“
“Thank you, Janay. I’ll get the rest in there.” He nodded, knocking on the door to room 3.
Harry had put on his professional face. He had seen a lot in his career, a lot today, but this wasn’t something he had been able to mentally prepare for.
Something he never wanted to see in his life.
The moment he stepped into the room, his world stopped. There she was, his girlfriend, looking far more fragile than he’d ever want to see her be on the hospital bed. The sight of her cuts and bruises made his stomach churn. He had seen countless injuries in his career, he’d seen compound fractures, an arrow through someone’s shoulder, stab wounds, infections, everything gorey and drastic- but seeing her like this... it hit him differently. Someone he loved.
His heartbeat was ringing in his ears as he blinked a few times to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating from the end of his shift, but unfortunately, the one singular time he wanted to be… he wasn’t. As much as he prided himself on always being able to keep it together the best he could, he’d never been in a situation like this. His professional demeanor cracked slightly as he approached the bed, his voice gentler than before.
"Hey... hey, sweetheart." Rushing to the bedside, his eyes ran over her face. Her beautiful face, cut up from what must have been glass in the crash. Tiny cuts littered her soft skin, making his hand ache to reach out and attempt to smudge them away like her leftover mascara, but he knew that wouldn’t work. “What the fuck happened?”
"I c-called you but you were busy... the car..." Her voice broke as tears welled up, threatening to spill over. She tried to explain through the lump forming in her throat. "There was this car, it came out of nowhere. I veered... I tried to avoid it. Everything happened so fast... glass everywhere..." She broke off with a small whimper of pain, cradling her left arm. Fresh tears spilled over her cheeks, tracking down and mixing with the dried blood on her face. "My arm... I’m trying not to be a baby, but it hurts really bad, H. I-I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to. I tried really hard to protect myself, I tried not to tense up like you told me to, but it happened so fast…"
Her voice cracked as she spoke, her eyes filled with guilt. She hated burdening him, especially after he’d just finished a long shift. The last thing she wanted was for him to have to deal with her, too. Her soft sniffles echoed in the room as she tried to hold back more tears, her hand clutching at her injured arm. "I'm so sorry, Harry. I know you're tired and you don’t need this right now... I’m okay. I’m really okay, I think. I just need Tylenol or something.”
“Sweetheart…” He sighed, shaking his head. “No. You need to be looked at. CAT scans, X Rays, I want every test run on you.” Was it a conflict of interest? Yes. Interests have never been more conflicted, actually. But he was going to pull the strings he could because he wouldn’t be able to sleep not knowing he did every single thing he could- even if it was overkill.
“It’s likely you have a concussion, and with the swelling of your wrist…” He would need to see X Ray first, but he was fairly sure it was a break. How bad was to be determined. “You’ll need something a little stronger than a Tylenol.” It was hard to rip himself away from her side to put his gloves on, but he did it in record time as he returned. “Need you to look past my shoulder. Don’t look into the light, yeah? Need to check your eyes.”
Her eyes fluttered slightly as she looked past his shoulder as instructed, her voice soft and trembling. "I'm really not that bad... I- " She caught herself, knowing arguing with a doctor, especially this doctor, was pointless. Instead, she complied quietly, letting him check her pupils, his finger tracing gently beneath her eyes. Even in her pain and fear, she noticed how tired he looked. "Have you even eaten today?" She managed a weak, watery smile.
Christ. Even after she had most definitely sustained a concussion, a potentially broken wrist and more than likely some whiplash, she was asking about him. Y/N had always been a mother hen in a lot of ways, but she worried particularly about Harry. This, however, was not the time. “I’ve grazed.” Half of a bagel. Two crisps. A handful of pocket mints. Multiple cups of coffee. The hospital had been slammed and he had more things to do than eat. “But that isn’t important right now, my Dove. I can eat at any time. Right now I want to get imaging done.” He needed to make sure there wasn’t anything substantial in her head injury. Time was of the essence.
He had seen so many things go wrong in the past. Things go unchecked. He needed to make sure he had all the bases covered so he could relax even the slightest bit. Having the experiences he had, he knew just how many things could happen. He’d make sure even his regular patients got imaging with this sort of accident- so with Y/N? There was no fucking question about it.
"You haven't eaten a real meal in God knows how long." She muttered softly as he jotted something down on her chart. She knew he was good at his job, hell, he was one of the best doctors in the city. Y/N knew his brain was working a mile a minute - checking off injuries, ordering tests, making sure she got the best care possible. She also knew he hadn't eaten, and that would be something they spoke about later. "I know it isn’t the most important thing right now, but I…. Can you- um, can you call my sister and ask her to go feed the cats?"
He paused mid-sentence, his pen hovering over the chart. Her concern for him and her cats in the midst of her own pain made him want to both smile and curse under his breath. He nodded slowly, making a mental note to call her sister immediately after ordering the necessary tests. “Of course I will.” He reassured her gently before turning back to the chart and scribbling down some notes for the radiology department. “Someone from transport will be here in a few moments. I need to put this order in, alright?” It wasn’t proper in the slightest, giving her a gentle kiss between her brows, but he needed it for his own sanity. “I’ve got you, my Dove. You’re safe with me.”
His mind was racing with thoughts of what could have been. She could have died tonight. His heart was pounding in his chest as he walked towards the computer station with heavy steps. He ran a hand through his hair trying to calm himself down before he actually lost it. This was his worst nightmare, his absolute wish to never happen. Accidents happened. He knew that. But seeing what he saw every day, he was constantly hoping for it to spare the people he loved. It was impossible to fully separate himself from her, though he did his best to clear his brain as he watched her be transported for her tests. As normally as he could, he had winked at her and watched her smile lightly, but his face fell again as soon as she disappeared from sight.
Stepping out into the relative quiet of the hallway, he leaned against the wall, taking a few deep breaths to steady his hands. For the first time in his career, he was experiencing real panic. Seeing her hurt, vulnerable... it brought out all sorts of emotions he tried to keep buried. He dialed her sister's number with trembling fingers, clearing his throat before speaking. "Hey... hey, it's Harry. Everything is alright, I think, but something happened and I need a favor..."
————
In his life, Harry had always had an ability to keep a level head in chaotic situations. Despite anxiety that sometimes lingered, he was a fairly rational person and he had found that to be a strength when he was in both medical school and during his residency. There had been a few cases where he’d almost lost his head. He’d experienced burnout quite a few times. There had been multiple occasions that he broke down after not being able to save someone despite their efforts.
He was human.
To work in medicine, for Harry at least, was a fine line with being able to compartmentalize to make the decisions that needed to be made and not give false hope, but also being able to humanize people and their loved ones. He had thought he had gotten good at it. He liked to be realistic and optimistic, but apparently, this was exactly why people told him not to work on people closest to you unless necessary.
As he paced the hallway, his agitation grew with each passing minute. He knew the protocols, and he understood the concerns of his colleagues.
To be frank- he didn’t give a shit.
When Dr. Thompson, another attending physician, approached him with a sympathetic yet firm expression, Harry's patience wore thin. "Harry," Dr. Thompson began gently, "I think it's best if you step back from this case. Your hours are over, and you know it isn’t protocol."
Harry's eyes flashed, his voice rising sharply for one of the first times at a colleague in his professional career as he cut his colleague off. "Step back? Are you fucking kidding me right now?" He moved closer, invading the other doctor's personal space. The idea of being off of it made him panic internally. He had to be involved. He had to know what was happening; when it was happening. He wasn’t going to leave her side.
"She's my girlfriend! My partner! I know her medical history better than anyone else here!" He gestured, his hands shaking as he ran them through his messy hair. "I'm not stepping back from her. I need to know what’s going on." Even if rationally, he knew she was most likely going to be okay, the 0.0001% chance that it could come back with some sort of complication made him not able to release control. As a physician he knew he didn’t have much control over people, but as a person he thrived off of every little bit he could get.
Dr. Thompson held up his hands in a placating gesture, trying to calm the clearly distraught man before him. It was hard not to show shock when the man was known for keeping his cool. The outburst wasn’t unwarranted, but it was unexpected. "Harry, listen to me. I know you're worried, and I know you want to be involved. But right now, she needs her partner more than she needs another doctor. She needs someone who can be there for her emotionally, who can support her through whatever comes next. I will take over her care, keep you up to date with everything." He paused, his expression softening with understanding. "You're an incredible physician, Harry. But right now, she needs her boyfriend."
Harry's chest felt tighter with each breath, his mind racing as he tried his best to process the words being spoken to him over his internal anxiety. He knew the other doctor was right, but it didn't make it any easier to accept. His skewed instincts screamed at him to stay involved, to oversee every test and treatment personally. But the man in him -the one who loved Y/N deeply- knew that Dr. Thompson had a point. She needed emotional support more than anything right now.
“I want to see every test result. Every scan. Every lab. I want to be in the loop.” He spoke with gritted teeth. Admitting defeat wasn’t exactly what he wanted to be doing- but in this situation, he knew she came first. Even if it made him extremely, wildly uncomfortable.
“This is- M’gonna marry her one day.” A very brief and rare flash of vulnerability crossed his voice. “I need her to be okay. I know that she likely will be. But…” The knowledge he had was both a blessing and a curse. Knowing how it could be fine but also how it could go completely wrong.
The other man nodded solemnly, understanding the gravity of Harry's words and the emotion behind them. The case seemed simple enough, but head injuries were something they all took seriously. It was a rarity to see him in such a state, but he wanted to help.
"You will see every result as soon as I get them.” He assured Harry firmly. "I give you my word as a colleague and a friend. She's in good hands here clinically speaking- you know the team is exceptional- but emotionally? That’s all you." He placed a hand on Harry's shoulder briefly before stepping back professionally but empathetically nonetheless. “Please go get something for yourself to eat that isn’t coffee. She’s still in her scan, last I heard, then she will move to x-Ray. Freshen up, get something to eat and bring it back to her room.”
—-
Harry sat in the sterile room, his elbows resting on his knees as he stared blankly at the floor. The fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. Sitting still with more time to actually notice his surroundings… he found them much more irritating now than they ever were during his shifts.
He had followed Dr. Thompson's advice, albeit reluctantly- rushing to grab a quick sandwich and changing into fresh clothes in the call room before he brought his bag to the room to wait for her- but his mind was elsewhere entirely. Every second felt like a fucking hour as he waited, tapping his foot and checking his phone mindlessly to try to distract himself. It didn’t work. When the door finally opened and she was wheeled back in, he let out a breath as she gave him a surprised smile.
“Hi, darling.” He spoke gently, staying back to let the transporters lock her bed back in place and hang her IV back up. “I called your sister. She’s taking care of the cats.” Once she was set, he sat beside her with the chair dragged over to her side. It was hard to keep hands to himself on a good day when it came to her, but knowing she was injured made it even more so.
He took her good hand in his, squeezing it as he looked at her face, taking a moment to really examine her. The cuts were cleaned up now, but the bruises were starting to show. He could see the swelling around her wrist and knew it was broken. The imaging would tell him how badly.
"How are you feeling?" Harry asked softly, his thumb brushing over the back of her hand. He wanted to ask a million other questions- Did she have a headache? Was she nauseous? But he knew she'd probably downplay everything if he did. She didn’t want him to worry too much. It was a thing she did that drove him nuts.
"Just a little tired and sore." She admitted, her voice slightly raspy. Though she wouldn’t admit him out of fear of hurting his feelings, Y/N was relieved to see him out of his white coat and looking more like himself instead of the composed, professional doctor he usually was when he was working. While both versions of him had her love, she liked this version of him- calm, gentle, a bit messy- better.
It reminded her that he was human, a human that she was so very in love with.
She shifted slightly, wincing at the movement, and he immediately moved to adjust her pillow and covers, his brows furrowing as he stopped her from fidgeting. Y/N was an independent person but sometimes he wished she allowed herself to lean on him a bit more. He loved her confidence and her ability to get things done, he’d never stop it, but in this moment when he felt so helpless? He wanted to be the one to help her.
"Stop fussing, hm? Let me help you." He gingerly adjusted her pillow, fluffing it up to try and get her more comfortable. His movements were careful not to jostle her too much as he tucked the blankets around her. He knew she hated feeling helpless too, but right now... right now she needed to be taken care of. As he leaned over her, he pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. "There." he murmured. “S’cold in here, I know. Keep it arctic for some reason.”
"I'm okay, really." She reassured him, her voice a little softer than usual with the tiniest slur from both the exhaustion and lingering effects of the medication. She knew he hated when she played it off like nothing, but right now she wanted to ease his mind if she could. Y/N could only imagine how hard it was for him to separate the professional doctor and the loving boyfriend right now when she was in his territory. She hated seeing him stressed out, which was one of the reasons she was trying her best to keep things light between them. There was a weighted pause before speaking again, her voice a little quieter. Hesitant. "I was scared though, before." She admitted softly. As much as she didn’t want to, she was still feeling the fact effects of it all as she got to laying there, replaying it all over again in her head.
The professional mask completely fell away, revealing the worried boyfriend who'd spent the past hour trying not to completely lose his shit. "I know you were, love. Fuck. Must’ve been terrifying. Car accidents are extremely scary, baby. I can only imagine." He pulled her hand to his chest, the light squeeze trying to reassure her. "Seeing you in this bed…” He trailed off, swallowing hard, "Christ, s’really fucked me up." He leaned forward, gentle as could be, resting his forehead briefly against hers. “Can’t imagine how you felt having to be brought here.”
While he wasn’t always the most open person with everyone else, he tried to be with her.
Y/N had cracked him out of a fully formed, hard shell about two years back and he tried every day to be the man she needed, not the man he thought other people would want. "Promise me something?" Harry asked quietly, his voice thicker with emotion than it had been in a while. It caught her attention as she nodded. It wasn’t all that often that he got worked up and while she’d known he would be upset by it, seeing him visibly shaken from seeing her in his ER had been enough to show her he cared far more than anyone else could expect. "Promise me you'll tell me if you're in pain. Promise me you'll let me take care of you."
Harry needed to hear it, needed to know she wasn't going to try and be strong for him when she needed him most. He was her rock and she was his, and right now, she was the one who needed support.
"Please. I need honesty about how you’re feeling. Don’t sugar coat it to keep me from worrying. I know you’re okay, that you’ll be fine, but…” He gave her a sad smile. “This is a first for me. Seeing someone I love in a state like this.”
Y/N looked at him with soft, understanding eyes. She knew how hard this was for him. Harry was always the picture of impenetrable, put together, so strong. Seeing him like this, vulnerable and visibly worried, made her heart ache. Squeezing his hand gently, her thumb brushed over his knuckles in an attempt to soothe. "I promise,H.” She whispered, her voice steady and sure. "I promise I'll tell you if I'm in pain, and I promise to let you take care of me. I know this is hard for you, and I'm so sorry."
“Thank you, baby.” He relaxed slightly, the most he could for the situation. “It isn’t about me. M’being a bit of a prick right now, and I’m sorry. I don’t like that they told me t’get off your case but I know you need to be here as your partner. Not your doctor.”
"You're not being a prick. I’d be a wreck seeing you in a hospital bed." She denied, watching his body language closely. Y/N knew him well enough to know when he was stressed or worried- hell, she could practically diagnose his anxiety without him even needing to speak. He was, and he was trying very hard not to be overbearing. That much was something she knew. He was trying to separate his medical knowledge from his love for her, and despite the lack of control he felt that she knew had to be driving him mad, he was here for her as a partner and that made her feel a lot better. "You're being really sweet, actually." She managed a small smile. "You always get like this when people you love get hurt."
Harry gave her a small smile, trying to mirror her expression despite feeling unease inside. “You’re my world.” He spoke quietly. “If anything ever happened to you…” Shaking his head slightly, he didn’t let himself go there mentally because if he did then there would be no stopping him from breaking down. He took her hand again kissing her knuckles gently before placing their hands together between them. “I’m going to stay here tonight.” It wasn’t up for discussion or debate.“They’ll likely keep you overnight anyway.”
"You don't have to-" She started, but he cut her off with a look. It was firm, but not angry. Just letting her know he was very serious about it. "I'm staying." He stated plainly, leaving no room for argument. "They have cots. If not, I'll sleep on the couch or the chair or the floor if I have to, but I'm not leaving you alone tonight. Not a chance in hell." His thumb brushed over the back of her hand, his touch gentle despite the firmness in his tone. "So just accept it, yeah? I'm staying."
———-
About an hour after settling into the room, Harry’s head popped up as he caught Dr. Thompson walking into the room with a small smile, looking relieved. "Good news," he started, addressing both Harry and Y/N. "The scans came back clear. There are no signs of any internal bleeding or swelling in the brain. The wrist is unfortunately fractured, but it won’t require surgical intervention. We're going to need to set the arm in a cast, but it's nothing that won’t heal on its own with the cast and physical therapy later on." He paused, glancing between the two of them. "I’d like you to stay overnight for monitoring, and we'll run another scan in the morning just to be safe."
Harry’s relief was visible as the other doctor continued, trying not to show how surprising it was to see his colleague pressing kisses to the knuckles of the woman curled up in the bed of their ER. There were a lot of things that surprised him about his job, but this was at the top of it.
"The cast should give your wrist and arm the support they need to heal properly. We'll keep you on a drip for pain management and fluids. As for the concussion, you will unfortunately- or fortunately if you need a few days off of work- need to take it easy for the next few days. Ideally, no strenuous activity, limited screen time, and lots of rest. I'll write up a sheet with all the details and any follow-up appointments when you’re discharged tomorrow." He turned to Harry, a knowing look in his eye. "I take it you'll be staying with her tonight?"
"Mmhmm." Harry answered distractedly, his mind already working again as the doctor in him reared his head. "Can I see the radiology results myself?" He needed to see them himself, to make sure he agreed with the diagnosis. He trusted Thompson implicitly, trusted the radiologists who read the x-rays and the CAT scans, but old habits died hard. He uncrossed his legs and sat up straighter in the chair he was occupying by her bed.
His doctor mode was fully back on.
Dr. Thompson nodded, seemingly anticipating this from him. It had taken coaxing to get him to step off as the doctor for her so he wasn’t shocked with the need to see for himself. "Of course.” The doctor said, handing over the tablet with the images displayed. He knew Harry well enough to know that he wouldn't be able to rest easy until he had reviewed them personally.
Harry turned to Y/N, his expression softening as he looked at her. "Baby love, s’it okay if I step out for a few minutes to take a look at these scans? I'll be right back."
Y/N knew his brain worked differently than most. Harry needed that extra reassurance, that peace of mind that everything was truly okay with her body internally. No matter who read the results, he’d want to examine them to make sure nothing was missed. She waved him off gently with her good hand. "Go ahead, love. I'll be right here."
“Thank you, sweetheart. I’ll be outside, just tell the nurse y’need me.” His lips pressed against hers for a gentle peck, tapping her puffy bottom lip with his thumb before pulling back with a deep exhale. The visible doctor mode was on his broad shoulders as he strode up to his colleague, his deep voice murmuring as he stepped out with him.
As Harry disappeared, a nurse entered in his absence with a warm smile, pushing a small medication trolley. She looked at Y/N kindly as she introduced herself, telling her that she was there to prepare the IV for her next increment of pain medication. "You must be Y/N," she said softly, her voice gentle as she took out her supplies. "It's so nice to finally meet Doctor Styles' girlfriend. He doesn’t talk a lot about her personal life very much, but he’s mentioned you a few times. You’re the lockscreen for his devices here, in case you didn’t know.”
Y/N's eyes widened in surprise at the nurse's words- because she didn’t know that much. That had her perked up a bit, her interest piqued. "Really?" She asked, a small smile on her face. "What does he say about me?" She was genuinely curious to know what Harry could have shared about her with his colleagues. She was well aware that he was private about their personal life and he wanted to be with anyone who wasn’t immediate family, a close friend for years or herself, but hearing that he had mentioned her at all was enough to raise her mood. “What is he like here?”
The nurse chuckled softly as she hung a new bag of fluids on the IV pole with her fluids and flushed her with saline before starting to push the meds. “One sec-This will hit you faster than a traditional pill would. You may feel dizzy for a moment but that’s normal. This one is stronger than what they gave you before.” The nurse warned, starting the slow push. Too quick could burn.
"Dr.Styles is... intense." The nurse said with a slight laugh, finishing the syringe before moving to adjust the IV drip rate. "Very dedicated to his job. Very detail oriented. He makes things happen when other people drag their feet, he likes to be efficient." She leaned in slightly conspiratorially. "Not that we mind, of course. He saves our asses more often than not." She paused, straightening up the tray of medical supplies, putting the trash into the bin. "He is professional in all ways, likes to keep work about work, but he has brought you up a few times. You can tell he loves you just by how he talks because he sounds much different. He can sound scary when he’s on the phone with the pharmacy or other departments." She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small business card.
"The animal rescue thing always makes him light up, and he’s quick to pass along your information to any of us who need it." The nurse continued, handing Y/N the card. It was familiar because it was one of her business cards, the logo of the animal rescue center she worked with and Y/N's name and contact information. "He tells anyone who will listen when it comes up about how amazing you are with the animals and how much good work you do." She smiled warmly at Y/N. "If anyone ever mentions they're looking for a pet, he always pushes this card into their hands without hesitation. He's practically a walking advertisement for your rescue center."
She logged the medication into her computer, glancing at Y/N with a knowing smile. "It's clear he's proud of you and your work. And honestly, it's refreshing to see him so... soft about something outside of taking care of the kids that come in. He’s really good with them."
That was something that had Y/N grinning. Maybe it was the medication, but she was fairly certain it was the reminder of just how good Harry was with kids that had her feeling all sorts of warmth radiating from the inside out. One day she knew he was going to be the best father. He’d told her early on he had wanted a family and she couldn’t have agreed more after seeing how he was with his niece and nephew.
“He is. He loves kids. I’ve never met a better man.”
Everyone here was probably a bit scared of him but more than that she could see the respect. He wasn’t a warm and fuzzy person to his coworkers, but he was a good man. He’d give the shirt off his back if someone needed it, and that was something that made her love him even more.
“He’s one of the best.” The nurse agreed. “I think we’ve got this all set. You have the call button, don’t hesitate to push it if you need anything else at all. It was lovely to meet you, Y/N, though I hope we don’t meet again under these circumstances. I can see Dr.Styles coming back over so I’ll get out of your hair.” The nurse gave Y/N a final warm smile before exiting the room quietly.
Harry entered shortly after, his shoulders a little less tense than when he had initially left. Regardless of his trust of the other physician, he had the need to see the results himself and he was glad he did. Y/N was one of, if not the most important people in his life and he wanted to know nothing was missed. He always liked to see scans of patients himself, but it felt even more important when it came to hers.
Thankfully when he had reviewed the scans thoroughly, he was satisfied that everything looked good internally. She would be banged up and bruised with her superficial lacerations and a cast she’d be getting shortly, but she was okay. He’d prefer her not to be hurt at all, but he knew she was in the best place for any sort of injury- and he would be paying close attention even still.
Seeing Y/N smiling softly made him feel better as he took a seat next to her again, hand returning to hers. She was already looking more comfortable with the pain medication kicking in.
Regardless, he didn’t like seeing her in the bed. It made him feel itchy and a bit too hot. There were horror stories from others in the emergency department about finding out loved ones were hurt while on shift, and he could have gone his whole life without being one of them- but he was happier now more than ever that he was here on arrival.
No one could take better care of the love of his life than he could.
Harry sat back down beside her bed, gingerly taking her hand again. It was second nature now that he had it back in his grasp after being separated from her for even just those few moments earlier. "Everything alright? Looking more comfortable, hm?"
“Mhm. Feeling a little floaty and warm, that’s for sure. The nurse was so nice, but she said this was a stronger type of medication than before.” She lazily grinned at him, bringing his knuckles to her mouth this time to kiss them. A huffed laugh escaped him as he pulled their joined hands back towards him and returned the favor before resting his cheek on the back of hers.
“I don’t ever want t’see you in here like this again, okay? Never. Want you healthy and in one piece 24/7.”
“Trust me, you won’t find me in here again. The floresent lights are dreadful. Dunno how you do it.”
"You get used to them." He murmured with a little shrug. "But yeah, they're not exactly...cozy." Harry let out a little laugh through his nose, his thumb brushing over the back of her hand to soothe not only her but himself, too. "I mean it though, Y/N. I don't want to ever see you in a hospital bed again. You scared the fuck out of me today."
“What if I jus’ wanna see you in the sexy white coat, hm?”
The answer was his narrowed eyes and no nonsense face that had her bursting into little giggles. Yeah, if that’s the look he sent to people he worked with, she got why they’d be intimidated. Luckily for him, Y/N only found it endearing.
“Then I’ll put it on at home for you n’do a roleplay. Don’t want you here unless it’s t’pick me up or eat lunch with me, my darling.”
“Hm… if you promise to think about letting us get another cat, I’ll promise.”
Both of them knew she would do whatever necessary to avoid the ER, but she could see the weight of it on him and she wanted to lighten his mood. That was her favorite job of hers in the relationship, getting to see stress melt off of him… all because of her.
Plus, she really did want another cat.
“Fine.” He agreed to it quickly. “Can have as many as you want if it meants you keep yourself wrapped in bubble wrap.”
As the minutes ticked by and she kept up her rambles, the medication began to take its toll on Y/N's system. Her eyelids grew heavy, and her speech became slower, even though it seemed like she was trying to fight through it to tell him about a new intake she’d done at the rescue. Harry watched as she yawned once, twice, before her head lolled back against the pillow on the third time. She was fighting valiantly against it, he could tell, but the meds were winning out.
"Hey... baby, you can just relax." He called softly, drawing her sleepy gaze to him. "You're getting tired, huh?" He knew the answer before he even asked.
“Mhm. These meds are crazy. But M’gonna say, I feel really safe.” She sighed, feeling him brush the hair out of her face with his fingertips. “Got the best emergency contact ever.”
Harry's heart swelled at her words, a soft smile tugging at his lips- a smile that was reserved solely and exclusively for her. "That's right." He murmured, leaning down to press a tender kiss to her forehead. "You've got me for life.”
Warnings: Punishment (or a failed attempt at one), Harry failing to be the 'strict' parent, Yn just laughing because Harry's a menace, but a loving dad.
Prompt: Yn and Harry's daughter, Bella misbehaves forcing Harry to try to 'punish' her, but can't bring himself to do so.
◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊
The first clue that something is wrong is the silence.
Toddlers are rarely quiet for good reasons.
You’re in the kitchen rinsing strawberries when the house goes eerily still. No toys clattering. No little voice narrating her imaginary adventures. No Harry singing nonsense songs in the living room.
Just quiet.
You pause, narrowing your eyes toward the hallway. “That’s suspicious,” you murmur to yourself.
Then—
“BELLA.”
Harry’s voice echoes through the house with dramatic horror. You snort immediately. Yep. There it is.
You dry your hands and wander toward the living room, already smiling because you know the scene you’re about to walk into. And sure enough—Harry is standing in the middle of the room, hands on his hips, staring down at the coffee table.
Bella is beside him. Your two-and-a-half-year-old daughter. Big curls. Bare feet. Pink overalls. Jam smeared on one cheek.
And in her tiny hand—a black permanent marker.
Your gaze slowly follows Harry’s horrified stare to the wall. A very large. Very enthusiastic. Very unmistakable drawing of… something. Possibly a cat. Possibly a dinosaur. Possibly modern art. It stretches across the entire wall beside the couch in thick black loops and scribbles.
Bella beams proudly. “Look!”
Harry looks like someone just informed him gravity stopped working. “Oh my god.”
You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. Bella points at the wall again. “Draw!”
Harry presses his hands to his face. “You did draw, darling. On the wall.”
Bella nods happily. “Yes!”
Harry slowly lowers his hands and looks at you. His expression is a mix of betrayal, despair, and deep parental exhaustion. “Yn.”
You’re already laughing.
“I leave the room for two minutes,” he says. “Two minutes.”
Bella spins in a little circle and adds another bold marker line to the masterpiece. Harry gasps like he’s been shot.
“No—no—no—no!” He gently scoops the marker out of her hand.
Bella frowns. “Mine.”
“No, sweetheart, markers are for paper,” Harry says carefully.
Bella’s eyebrows scrunch. “Draw wall.”
“No, we don’t draw on walls.”
“Yes we do.”
“No we don’t.”
“Yes we do.”
Harry looks at you again helplessly. You lean against the doorway, trying not to lose it. “Parenting looks good on you.”
“This is not funny,” he says.
Bella begins reaching for the marker again. Harry holds it out of reach. “Nope.”
Bella’s lip wobbles. Harry stiffens. “Oh no.”
You grin. Here it comes. Bella’s tiny face crumples like a collapsing building. Her bottom lip juts out dramatically. And then—
“WAAAAAAAH!”
Full toddler meltdown. Harry immediately looks like someone stabbed him in the heart. “Oh my god,” he whispers.
Bella drops to the floor in protest. “MY MARKER!”
Harry kneels beside her. “Bella, sweetheart, we can’t draw on the walls.”
“YES WE CAN!”
“No we can’t.”
“YES!”
Harry looks completely distressed. You lean against the counter, giggling openly now. “This is the moment, Harry. The parenting moment.”
Bella flails dramatically. “MY MARKEEERRRR!”
Harry looks like he might cry too. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
You shrug. “You’re the one who wanted to be the disciplinarian today.”
Harry groans softly. Right. Discipline. He straightens his shoulders. Attempts to look firm.
Harry looks like he might faint. You clap a hand over your mouth to stop the laughter. He points weakly toward the hallway. “Timeout chair.”
Bella clings to his leg instantly. “No!”
Harry melts immediately. “Oh no.”
You shake your head. “Harry.”
He looks at you like he’s being emotionally tortured. “She’s upset.”
“She vandalized the house.”
Bella sobs louder. “SEE??” Harry whispers urgently. “You’re making it worse!”
“I’m standing here!”
Bella buries her face into Harry’s knee. Harry crumbles. He crouches down, rubbing her back gently. “It’s okay, sweetheart.”
You walk over slowly, shaking your head. “No, no. Don’t cave.”
Harry looks wounded. “She’s crying.”
“Yes.”
“She’s very little.”
“Yes.”
“She doesn’t understand.”
“She understands enough to draw on drywall.”
Bella sniffles dramatically. Harry sighs deeply. Then he gently lifts her into his arms. “Okay,” he says softly. “Timeout.”
Bella immediately protests. “NO!”
Harry carries her toward the small chair in the corner. He sets her down gently. Bella crosses her arms. “Mad.”
Harry kneels in front of her like he’s negotiating world peace. “Sweetheart, timeout is just a few minutes.”
“No!”
“You drew on the wall.”
Bella points proudly toward the living room. “Pretty.”
Harry presses his lips together. “It is… very expressive.”
You lose it. Harry glares at you. “Not helping.”
Bella sniffles again. Harry checks the clock. Two minutes. He whispers dramatically to you. “Two minutes feels cruel.”
You whisper back. “She’s not in prison.”
Bella kicks the floor. “Papa mean.”
Harry’s eyes go wide. “Oh my god.”
You snort. “Papa mean!”
Harry clutches his chest. “I’m not mean.”
Bella looks unconvinced. Harry turns to you in distress. “She thinks I’m mean.”
“She’ll survive.”
Bella glares at him. Harry sighs deeply and sits on the floor beside the chair.
You stare at him. “What are you doing?”
“Supporting her emotionally.”
“Harry.”
“She’s having a hard time.”
“She’s in timeout.”
He whispers dramatically. “I feel like a monster.”
Bella sniffles again. Harry rubs her back. “Only one more minute.”
You shake your head. “You are worse than she is.”
Bella perks up slightly. Harry checks the clock again. Thirty seconds. He whispers urgently. “Almost done, sweetheart.”
Bella sighs dramatically like a tired queen. Finally—
“Okay,” Harry says gently. “Timeout is finished.”
Bella immediately launches herself into his arms. Harry hugs her like he just got her back from war. “Oh thank goodness.”
You laugh. “That was traumatic for you, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
Bella sniffles. Harry wipes her cheeks gently. “Alright, little love,” he says softly. “Let’s talk.”
Bella nods solemnly. Harry sits cross-legged on the floor and settles her in his lap. “Do we draw on walls?”
Bella thinks. “…maybe.”
Harry sighs. “No, sweetheart.”
Bella pokes his nose. “Papa sad.”
“I wasn’t sad.”
“You sad.”
Harry softens. “I was worried.”
Bella tilts her head. “Why?”
Harry brushes a curl away from her forehead. “Because when you draw on walls, we have to clean them.”
Bella considers this deeply. “…messy.”
“Very messy.”
Bella nods slowly. Harry continues gently. “And when Papa says timeout, it’s not because Papa is mean.”
Bella stares at him. “It’s because Papa wants you to learn.”
Bella squints. “Learn?”
Harry nods. “Yes.”
Bella thinks again. Then she suddenly hugs his neck tightly. Harry melts instantly.
“Oh no.”
You grin. There goes the lecture. Bella presses a sloppy kiss to his cheek. Harry completely collapses emotionally.
“Okay that’s illegal.”
Bella giggles. Harry kisses her forehead. Then her cheeks. Then her nose. Then her hair.
“Bella.”
Kiss.
“You’re.”
Kiss.
“My.”
Kiss.
“Little.”
Kiss.
“Troublemaker.”
.... Kiss.
Bella squeals with laughter. Harry tickles her sides. You watch the entire scene with fond amusement.
Bella giggles wildly. “Papa stop!”
Harry kisses her again instead. “Never.”
Bella throws her arms around him. “I love Papa.”
Harry freezes. Then his face melts completely. “Oh.” He squeezes her tightly. “I love you more.”
You lean against the wall smiling. Harry finally looks up at you. “I failed the discipline talk.”
You shrug. “She got the point.”
Bella suddenly wiggles out of his lap and runs to you. You scoop her up. Harry stands and surveys the wall again. “…we still have to clean that.”
Bella smiles proudly. “Draw.”
Harry sighs. “Next time we use paper.”
Bella nods enthusiastically. Then whispers loudly to you—
“Papa cry.”
You burst out laughing. Harry groans. “I did not cry.”
Bella giggles. You kiss her head. Harry walks over and wraps his arms around both of you. Bella snuggles between you happily. Harry kisses her curls softly.
