This event is brought to you by @societynsoelsscribbles (and I’m eternally grateful!).
Jan 3: “You make it very hard to think”
PAIRING: David!Clark x Reader
SUMMARY: the lights are out at the Planet, and game night is on! When you show your coworkers one of your favorite games, the final round against Clark has you feeling things.
Jan 4: “Here’s another curse. May all your bacon burn”
PAIRING: David!Clark x Witch!Reader
SUMMARY: as a witch, you had your share of not-so-good ideas. But sitting on top of an edifice while Superman tried to convince you not to jump (when you wouldn’t) was your favorite.
Summary: honestly, you don’t need a man – God knows your last relationship was enough of a bad imprint to you, and the idea of having another relationship is not exactly thrilling. But when you’re chosen to join a bachelorette-style TV show as the bachelorette herself and with ten men fighting (quite literally) for your attention, the shy guy who shouldn’t be there can become your second chance at love.
Pairing: David!Clark Kent & Female!Reader
A/N: this is gonna be a very short fanfic inspired by a TV show I’ve never watched and Olivia Dean’s album, which I love. This is not an AU, so Clark is still Superman and you’ll discover how the man ended up on this program. I hope you enjoy our little adventure!
Summary: if there’s one thing Clark knows about you is that you’re a light drinker – that being the reason why you rarely indulge… and a night out with your friends seems like the perfect moment to do so.
A/N: this is my second scribble for June Jukebox Scribbles and I decided to go for one of the swap outs. This chapter’s song is If the World Was Ending - JP Saxe feat. Julia Michaels, and trigger warning: alcohol consumption. Enjoy!
“Hey, honey”.
You giggled happily as your boyfriend’s voice filled your ears, slightly modified by his phone’s mic. God, you loved Clark’s voice.
“I love your voice too, baby” Clark replied, his chuckle was possibly the sweetest sound you’ve ever heard, “Were you out drinkin’ with the girls?”.
You hummed, throwing your body back-first on your terribly uncomfortable sofa, listening to any creaking sound that could announce its demise. If it were up to Clark, you’d have already bought a new couch (and a new apartment, and stove, and whatever you were lacking at your small but well-loved – not to say old – apartment), but you couldn’t have it, not when in a week your life would change.
“And did you have fun?”.
You pouted, adjusting your body on the couch so you were as comfortable as possible (which meant not much), your legs on top of the armrest and your head against the soft pillow Clark had given you, “It’s not funny when you’re not here”.
Clark laughed, and the screeching sound on his side told you exactly where he was: at the Planet, even though it was later than usual. It wasn’t uncommon, considering that he’d stay late whenever Superman had someone to save, “Thanks for lying to me, hon”.
“I’m not lying!” You insisted, even if the night had been fun, and that was probably your alcohol-driven lovesick version speaking about your desire of having your boyfriend with you, “Thea said your stealing me from them”.
“Well, I am”.
“And that you should be ashamed”.
“I’m not”.
“And…” you hiccuped, making a face at the taste of alcohol that was still on your mouth. That was exactly why you rarely drank – you hated the taste, even though you were happier and lighter whenever you drank three margaritas, “What should we call our little girl?”.
Clark was silent for a minute, then two. Then a few more heartbeats. You were almost convinced that he had hung up on you – which would be strange, because Clark Kent would never – when he finally managed, “Our little girl?”.
“Yeah” you nodded, closing your eyes as the light started to make your head pound, “Thea reads the cards, y’know. Said we’ll have a baby girl”.
His silence was shorter now, only enough for you to yawn loudly, the phone almost slipping out of your hands in your tiredness, “Oh, did she?”.
“Yeah” was your reply, your brain ready to shut down, “I said we should name her Lara, but she said the cards wouldn’t have it. Then I suggested Martha, and it was a yes”.
“We don’t have to name, uh, our girl after my mom” Clark whispered – or maybe you were so tired that his voice was starting to sound farther away, “I know there are other names you like”.
“Yeah, but I love you”.
“And I love you. And I’ll love our girl even if her name is Violet”.
“I probably wouldn’t” you pulled a face, heart warming as you heard him laugh again. Talking with Clark was your favorite thing to do in the whole world, “Can you fly here tomorrow?”.
“I can do it know” he offered, “Do you want me to?”.
You thought about it for a second, even though your mind was still slightly blurred – which only made your answer even more obvious, “I’ll leave the balcony door open”.
“I’ll be there in an hour. Go to sleep” he whispered, “I love you”.
You were on a deep sleep when Clark made it to your house, still laying on the couch, your body facing the window as if waiting for him to arrive. It was inevitable the way Clark smiled at the image of you, taking you in for a moment before he moved, holding you in his arms as if you were his most prized treasure – and you were.
And as he walked to your bedroom, he saw the same future Thea had seen in the cards, and he couldn’t help but wish that someday it would become true.
June Jukebox Scribbles, June 1st: “I never understood a single word he said”.
Summary: during a date with your boyfriend, you can’t help but notice a small change from a previous relationship.
A/N: well, it’s been a while. This is my first entry for @societynsoelsscribbles June Jukebox Scribbles and the first thing I’ve written in a while, so I’m not sure if I really liked it. English is not my first language, and I feel like I’ve used the same words too many times, but I hope you still enjoy this little scribble. Bye!
“Funny”, you thought to yourself, looking at the man in front of you with a dopey smile on your face, “That’s different”.
It was your first date in a few months – almost a year –, and while people could write essays about how going out with someone new wasn’t that hard, you knew yourself well enough to recognize this as the milestone it was.
More so when the man in front of you was arguably the sweetest person you’ve ever met.
“Am I talking too much?” Clark questioned sheepishly, pushing the dark frames of his glasses back on the bridge of his nose, his cheeks reddening adorably as he moved on his chair, “I can talk less”.
“No, please” your answer was rushed, and maybe you should feel ashamed for that – for how eager you might have sounded, or how intense. Too much, maybe. But not with Clark, “I’m just… wondering”.
Clark’s head tilted to the side, the smile he’s been directing you being replaced by a frown. You had to keep yourself from smoothing the space between his brows, an old habit you got from your grandmother to keep the wrinkles away, “What are you wondering about?”.
“It’s just…” you shrugged, looking at your intertwined hands on top of the table. The restaurant around you was bustling with light and conversations, but somehow it felt like the two of you were the only people in the room, “I never understood a single word he said. It’s different with you”.
Clark’s expression softened, and your rapid heartbeat (that you had failed to acknowledge until now) immediately got another pace. It was as if your body was so in tune with Clark that it would answer immediately to his smiles, his caresses, his adoration and love.
You were never one to believe in soulmates, but you could die on that hill: Clark was yours.
Clark moved his hand through the table, his fingers brushing yours gently before his strong hands brought yours to his lips, brushing a kiss that made your face heat. And out of everything else, that – his open affections – was what made you love him even more.
“I don’t wanna talk about something you don’t understand” he whispered gently as he kissed each of your fingers, “What you have to say is valuable to me, and if you can’t be a part of the talk, I don’t wanna talk about it”.
You beamed, letting go of Clark’s hand to caress his cheek, satisfied as he closed his eyes in bliss, leaning against your touch as your thumb moved on his skin. That was the best thing to happen to you – he was.
And as the night went on, you couldn’t believe you were that lucky.
I really really REALLY wanna read a David!Clark Kent x Reader in which reader is pregnant with someone else’s baby (maybe a toxic as shit ex who fled when the pregnancy was discovered) and good guy Clark just steps in and pretends to be the father until it’s not pretend for him anymore and feelings happen. Does anyone has a suggestion?
This work is a part of the January Jumble Scribbles project, Jan 20: “if anyone walks in, that’s on you”.
Pairing: David!Clark Kent x Reader
Summary: during a party, Clark and you find yourselves in… inappropriate positions.
A/N: this is the most suggestive fix I’ve ever written, so I guess I should say minors DNI, 18+ (and at the same time it sounds clickbait because, well, you’ll find out soon). English is not my first language, not proofread, hope you enjoy!
divider found on pinterest!
“If anyone walks in, that’s on you!”.
You looked over your shoulder, meeting Clark’s eyes not for the first time that night. He was exactly where he had been before: his huge, muscular body slightly pressed against yours in that enclosed space, one hand in the small of your back, keeping you slight bent in front of him.
“I know” you whimpered, your legs trembling from the effort that being on that position demanded from you, “Are you halfway, at least?”.
Clark looked down the expanse of your back, groaning as he shook his head. You felt his hand moving in your back, rough and callused, but still careful, mindful; he was trying to keep his restraint, in order not to hurt you.
He took an impulse, then another. You gasped, hands flying to the wall to keep your body steady, your fingers closing, knuckles against the cold tiles, nails digging into the palm of your hands. Breath ragged.
“You okay?” Clark asked, his breath fanning against your skin, hot against the cold coming from the droplets of sweat that were gathering all over your face, neck and, if you were being honest, body, “I can stop, if you’re not. I’ll stop right now”.
“No, no. No!” Your voice was filled with despair, your head moving from side to side in a vehement negative. He couldn’t stop, you’ve been too far already, and to stop right now would have you mortified, even more than the fact that Clark could see how red you were, physical proof of your embarrassment at that moment. Stopping wasn’t an option, not anymore, “It’s close, I can feel it. You just have to go harder”.
Clark gulped, leaning his forehead against your shoulder. You felt when his glasses skimmed your skin, serving only to make you shiver again, “I can’t go harder without hurting you. And that’s something I refuse to do”.
“You won’t” was your reassurance, even if you knew he was right.
Clark could hurt you. Not intentionally, of course – you weren’t only talking about Superman, Clark’s superhero version, the secret he held close to his heart, but your friend, Clark Kent, who showed up at the cafeteria you worked at just to buy shit coffee and give you tips; who would make you dinner every other day because delivery wasn’t healthy, and you were in the brink of diabetes, so ordering junk food wasn’t an option he’d ever entertain; who convinced his boss that writing a piece on whales would be good for the Planet (the Daily Planet, not the planet itself) just because you watched a documentary on Discovery Channel and proceeded to make a whole research about the topic and had been bugging him about it for forever.
Clark was, essentially, the reason why you were there tonight: he’s been doing so much for you, that was the least you could do for him. Even if it hurt you a little bit.
“I–” you took a deep breath, contracting your stomach and trying to sit upright, your body moving closer to his. The soft thud of the MDF door making it known to you that Clark had also moved back, propped by your movement, “I can take it. Please, go ahead”.
Clark was silent for a while, and you imagined the situation by his point of view: you, with your back turned to him, dress open, only centimeters (and a lot of pain) keeping you apart. You wanted to laugh – that was exactly the kind of situation you two would get into during your college days, the one that got you in trouble quite often.
“Okay” he finally replied, the hand he had used to keep you upright going to the small of your back, accompanying his other. Clark’s voice was unsure, trembling, as if he really hoped you’d give up on this ordeal, but your decision was made – and it wasn’t like you could go out all sweaty and wet for nothing; your pride wouldn’t allow it, “I’ll push on the count of three, right?”.
You snorted at his words, amusement all over your features as you pulled the tiles with more force, “Is it one of that situations in which you say you’ll do it on three and– oh!”.
Your spine straightened, or something like that.
Clark had moved quickly, and the force of his shift had been enough to pull you completely against his body, your bottoms against his front, your head in the crook of his neck.
You had fallen over him.
Eyes closed. Lips parted. Clark’s hand were firm on your waist, keeping you grounded, keeping you close. You could feel his breath on your temple; you could feel the expanse of his chest against your back; you could feel… well, Clark. Every little bit of Clark Kent’s body, you could feel it against you.
And it was marvelous.
Overwhelming.
An outstanding experience.
It was also mortifying. And such mortification was what reminded you of your whereabouts, and why the two of you ended up there: afraid of getting caught, bodies glued to each other, unable to move away.
“Clark?” You whispered with uncertainty, not moving an inch of your body, afraid of what it could cause.
Again, you felt ashamed: you’ve been friends for so long, that the idea of shrinking when with him had been unfathomable most of the time; now, in this predicament, the way your voice sounded weak wasn’t something you could control.
“Hm?” Clark asked, lowly. You weren’t even sure if he had hummed that, or if the vibration of his chest made you believe he was trying to communicate in any way. For your own mental health and for the sake of your heart, you decided to go with the first option, “Yes, sweetheart?”.
Oh.
Well, your heart could go fuck itself, then.
“We should go back to the party” you reminded, still unmoving in his arms, “I have to take the sweat of my body, and I’m pretty sure your clothes must be wrinkled now”.
Clark’s response came equally hushed, his voice deep, croaky as he brushed the tip of his nose against your temple, “I’ll clean you up in a second, just…” he took a deep breath, and your brain took a while to process that he was smelling you, trying to commit your scent to mind. You hoped the sweat hadn’t absolutely ruined the experience to him – the strengthening of his grip on your waist was a good enough answer, “Wanna stay like this a minute more”.
“Okay” you bobbed your head, pressing your body against his even more, “Yeah, okay”.
It wasn’t appropriate, or practical. It wasn’t comfortable (there was a toilet in front of you, and considering the space Clark’s body took, you were almost merging with him inside that stall), but it also was. It was contradictory, but it was yours.
At least for a while.
“Did I say you look beautiful in this dress?” Clark breathed against your ear, his mouth too close, and still too far.
You managed to scoff, even though it sounded painful, “You talking about the dress that opened by accident and brought us here? The dress that almost made you break my spine only to raise the zipper? I might stop eating, it was perfect yesterday”.
“It’s still perfect, because you’re wearing it” he stated with certainty, daring to kiss your cheek before he moved your body away from his, both his hands going to your waist as he slowly turned you to face him. His eyes drove down your body, a satisfied smile on his face as he assessed you, “You look astonishing in this dress, sweetheart”.
“Astonishing and beautiful doesn’t have the same meaning”.
“Beautiful can’t cover it” Clark returned, his eyes finally meeting yours, “You’re always astonishing”.
You blushed. And if being zipped up by your best friend (that you definitely had a crush on, and that called you sweetheart twice) wasn’t extremely mortifying, the look on his face – decided, heavy, full of desire and lust – was; more than that: the fact that his super-human abilities gave him access to all those feelings; your smell, the race of your heart, your failing breathing.
“Well, quit being flirty, Kent” you swatted his shoulder, moving to the insufficient space between the toilet and the stall’s walls, trying to keep space between the two of you, hoping that charged tension would go away, at least while you were in that very public, very non-hygienic space, “You invited me to a party, not a flirting contest in a bathroom stall. What was that you said? If anyone walks in, that’s on you? Well, I say the same!”.
Clark kept his look trained on your for a while more, evaluating something you weren’t sure what it was. Then, with a nod, he opened the door, moving out of the stall and holding it open for you to move past him.
You were already halfway to the sink when his voice sounded again, causing you to stare at him from his image in the mirror, “But if I invited you for a flirting contest, would you say yes?”.
The smile on your face could be mischievous, but Clark Kent could read you like a book. So, the words you said next weren’t necessary, for he already knew the answer, but you decided to say them anyway, “You’ll only know if you try”.
Summary: after being in a toxic relationship for years, moving back to Metropolis to live with your best friend seems like the best option – that is, until you unwittingly fall in love with Clark Kent… and is loved back.
Warnings: Angst. Mentions of psychological and physical abuse (really quick, no graphic depictions). Happy ending. Reader doesn’t know Clark is Superman (and won’t find out in this one).
A/N: so, if you never listened to Zara Larsson’s the healing, I’ll sweetly recommend you to do it NOW, because this song is everything, and it’s the only reason why I’ve written this piece. Reader has a nickname, Venus, in honor to the masterpiece that this album is, but only her best friend call her that. Also, english is not my first language, so I’m sorry for any mistake. Enjoy!
So, no, it’s not your fault that I can’t love you yet…
“Can you bring me a cup of coffee, please?”
You smiled at Lois, offering her a simple nod as you made a beeline for the small coffee table Perry had setup at the Planet’s bullpen “for everyone’s commodity” – which was his non-problematic and non-suable way of saying they would work more if a trek to the kitchen wasn’t needed –, a place you were visiting with more frequency than you wished the past few weeks.
Or months.
Or years.
Whatever kept the nightmares away, you were up for it; even if it had the potential of giving you a heart attack anytime soon – the constant trembling in your hand after the fifth cup were clear giveaways that something was not right with your health anymore.
But you could always count on someone to keep your racing heart at bay, and if you were not mistaken, he’d pop out…
“I know this is kind of hypocritical, but maybe you should wind down on coffee. I’m starting to hear your heart beating faster”.
Right on time.
The smile you plastered on your face was as real as they got nowadays, but you were aware he wouldn’t buy it any other way. So, you didn’t mind forcing your muscles to widen as you turned you head to face the owner of the low, soothing voice you’d grown accustomed with – the only other person who you felt fully understood you, even without having all the details on what was wrong with you.
“No, that was not truth” you reminded yourself, straightening your spine with the intention of convincing your brain of your usual scolding, “There’s nothing wrong with you. There was something wrong in your life, and you cut it. You’re okay. You’re good”.
And… you were not buying it. As usual.
But Clark Kent – your work colleague and the sweetest man on earth – had no idea of your internal turmoil. Rather the opposite. He wasn’t looking at you, as he usually wasn’t, as he grabbed his extra cup in the (empty, considering the hour of the day) armoire and started fixing a cup of tea you knew was for you.
You pouted, “I love camomile”.
Clark looked at you with the corner of his eyes, his glasses falling out of his nose in an enchanting way as he smiled, proud of himself, “I know. It’s your favorite. And helps with the headaches that come with your coffee addiction”.
“It does” you agreed, wanting to reach out and touch his arm. To give him some physical acknowledgement that you saw what he was doing, and that you were grateful for that, but…
The one before him wasn’t gentle. And you weren’t used with gentleness, not when it came for free, anyway.
He finished stirring the cup, his hand traveling instinctively to the pot of sugar before he looked up at you, the earnest, worried look on his face causing your body to shiver. It was instinct, the way you took a step back – not out of fear, but because you knew that was an unfamiliar ground –, but the way Clark did the same was clearly intentional. He was offering you space to fear, to habituate to that; Clark was taking an step back so you could give two forward whenever you were ready.
Your throat closed. Your eyes burnt. Your heart broke. And the only words your brain was receiving from its very biased reading of the world outside was that it had been your fault, his withdrawal. You had to fix it.
Make it better, now!
You inhaled sharply through your mouth, forcing your feet to move – only one step, move your leg, raise it, and place your body one step closer to Clark –, but when you finally managed to put your feet back on the ground, Clark had taken one more step back, his blue eyes fixed on your face as he shook his head, his features relaxed and one side of his lips tilted up in a silent reassurance: it’s okay. Take your time. I’m not in a hurry.
Somehow, that only made you feel worse.
“How bad is the pain?” Clark questioned, his hand still on top of the sugar pot, “Sugar can worsen it, so…”.
You shrugged. Did he know that this question was two-sided for you? Which pain was he asking for, exactly? The pounding headache you felt, thanks to your inability of suppressing caffeine and the lack of sleep, or the one you felt in your heart whenever he was around? The guilty that pounded heavy on your shoulders whenever you remembered your last conversation?
Clark was smart, and attentive, and he seemed to be really in tune with your feelings. With that said, you wouldn’t be surprised if he was asking about both. He probably was. But you could only offer an honest answer for one of them, so, “8 out of 10, I’ll say”.
“That’s worst than yesterday” he frowned, moving his hand up for a moment before he dropped it back to the side of his body. Clark directed you an apologetic smile before he let go of the sugar pot, placing both his hands around his mug, keeping it there for a minute before he nodded to himself, lifting it up and offering you, “Here. Camomile, no sugar”.
You offered him a grateful nod, taking his offering off his hands and lifting it to your lips. Clark’s look only lingered until you took a sip, and then, with a satisfied nod, he moved the cup you were previously nursing – Lois’ – and started serving a generous amount of coffee in it.
“You know this is for Lois, right?” You questioned with one brow raised.
Clark’s head bobbed once, “I imagined, yes. You always get coffee to her when you come to get yours”.
“Hm” you murmured, observing as – differing from what he did to yours – Clark poured an unhealthy amount of sugar inside the mug. Lois did like too much sugar on her coffee (which was a common topic of discussion between the two of you), but what made your traitorous heart beat faster was the inaccuracy of the quantity of sugar she’d take. “Isn’t that too much sugar?”.
Clark shrugged, “Don’t know. I’m not sure how much sugar Lois takes, maybe I’m going for giving her a sugar rush”.
You laughed. Not loud, or scandalous – it’s been a while since you’ve been able to be scandalously happy –, just a snort, a simple move of your shoulders upward, a fairly strangled sound leaving your lips, one that someone would have to know you well enough to recognize as what it was.
Clark recognized it. And he smiled back.
“Do you…” he begun, but interrupted himself. Looked around, uncertain, trying to make a decision. You’ve seen it before – the first time Clark asked you out, when you said ‘no’, even though your heart scolded your for turning out something you’ve been wishing for so long. Too long, “You know what? Just–”.
“Shane is in town” you cut him off, surprised by the tone of your voice, its volume and, more than anything else, the way your body propped itself closer to him, driven by nothing but impulse and need. Need to be close. Need to get Clark closer, “Hm, he… he’s bringing his new boyfriend. He’s gonna host dinner at ours, tonight. Lois and Jimmy will be there, too. Would you like to come?”.
Clark’s mouth dropped open, surprise all over his features. You were surprised, too – yes, your best friend had come home with his new boyfriend, Hayes, and was going to host dinner for you to meet him; but it was, at least as far as Shane had planned, a family thing. Meaning: you, him, Hayes and an unhealthy amount of expensive wine, and not enough food to feed an army of your closest friends.
But you’d text him. Tell him to buy food. You’d pay for it, eventually. Yeah, that was a good plan.
“Oh” Clark finally muttered, moving his head up and down in an acknowledgment of your invitation. He was shocked, and rightfully so – that was, after all, the first time you invited him over to your house, “You… you sure you want me to come?”.
Your reply was embarrassingly quick for someone who was fighting against stutter and anxious crying, “Yeah. Yeah, of course. Shane is very excited about this new boyfriend of his, and he liked you all that time he came with me for the party, so he just wanted to… you know… tell everyone and celebrate? I have no idea how his mind works”.
Or yours, for the matter.
Clark didn’t seem to mind, though. With a sheepish grin, he nodded at you once before turning his body to the universe behind you – the Planet’s bullpen was teeming with life, the sound of fingers pressing the keyboards aggressively had been wiped out of your mind during your talk, such as the loud conversations and the curious looks that were directed toward you.
It wasn’t uncomfortable, having people staring; rather than making you embarrassed, having eyes on you kept that feeling of safety, the one you’ve been lacking for a while, alive.
“I’ll see you there, then”.
You didn’t reply, and you knew Clark wasn’t expecting an answer. So he just moved past you, Lois’ mug in hand as he set off to do what you’ve been tasked to do originally.
And you knew the way he skimmed his fingers over yours as he walked away was very intentional. As everything else Clark Kent did.
…
“How are you doing?”.
You bit your bottom lip, rolling your eyes as you tilted your head to the side, finding Shane’s bright green eyes on you, “Tell Clark to stop worrying”.
Shane gasped, lifting his hand to his heart, “Can’t I check on my little sister?”.
“We got the same age, stop with this nonsense!” You patted him in the arm, shaking your head in disbelief, “And I know Clark sent you. He’s been keeping his eyes on me the whole night, I could feel him breathing down my neck”.
“No, that was me” Shane pointed at himself proudly, “I was checking to see if you liked Hayes, and I was really nervous about it”.
“Why would you be nervous if I’d like your new boyfriend?”.
Shane widened his eyes, as if your question wasn’t reasonable, “Because I wouldn’t bring someone around if you didn’t feel safe with this person. That’s the criteria, and you know it”.
You knew it. Of course you did.
It hadn’t been always like that. Before, Shane was as much as a free soul as he could be, always bringing men and women indiscriminately to his home, dating them for a few months and then announcing he was tired of it; then, he’d go to a club, find someone else and do it all again.
That had changed after you moved in. You didn’t ask Shane to stop bringing company, but he understood you moving in as a message to settle down – he met Hayes at work, the two of them started a very casual relationship and then, one year after, they were officially a couple.
You’ve been beating yourself up for a while because of this, questioning yourself – and you tossed and turned in your bed – if Shane was really happy with Hayes, or if it was his way of accommodating you into his life. If Shane was giving up a part of him so you wouldn’t feel threatened, or unloved.
“Shane…”.
“No, I mean it” he cut you off, leaning against the balcony’s rail to look in your eyes, “I know you’re hard on the ‘relationship’ topic, and I don’t want you to be uncomfortable–”.
“I’m not” your voice was secure. Not a murmur or a croak, but the truth. You might have met him tonight, but Hayes seemed to be a good man and Shane looked happy; none of those facts would wipe the doubts off your mind, but you could use the truth in them to calm down the man that received you in his family with open arms, but that you were still too afraid to lose to call ‘brother’, “Hayes is cool. Really closed off, but cool” you looked over your shoulder, the glass door that gave access to the garden behind your house allowing you full vision of the havoc that was being wreaked at your living room, “He seems to get along with everyone”.
Shane hummed, crossing his arms in front of his chest, trying to look nonchalant. You readied yourself to what would come next, “He gets along pretty well with Clark, if you wanna know”.
“Shane”.
“I’m just saying…” he raised both his hands, “That if you ever decide to take Clark off the bench, we can have a double date and it won’t be awkward”.
“He’s not on the bench” you replied defensively, even though you seemed to shrink as you turned your eyes back to Shane, “Does he feel like he’s being benched?”.
Shane shrugged, “I don’t know, Venus. I’m not his best friend, I’m yours”.
You were silent for a moment, and then, “I don’t want him to be benched. I honestly would rather he move on, but…”.
“But he wants you” he seemed to think for a moment, and then corrected, “He loves you. Been loving you for a while, if we’re being honest here”.
As if on cue, Clark looked up from where he was in the living room, sitting alone in an uncomfortable ottoman Shane had bought in a thrift store because… well, because it was cheap. The look in his eyes was one of fear, and you could hear his voice in your head, asking, “Are you okay?”.
You moved your head once, an answer. “I’m alright”.
Clark kept his eyes on you for a second before he was pulled back into whatever conversation he was having with your companions.
“He doesn’t care, you know?” Shane’s voice was what brought you back to reality, pushing you out of the fog of feelings that were now swerving your mind, and not only your heart, “About waiting. Not to romanticize him or whatever, but I’ve got a feeling Clark would wait his whole life, if that was how long it took you to give it a shot”.
That idea was equally as troublesome and fearful as the prospect of letting him in, “I don’t want him to wait for forever”.
“Than maybe you should start thinking about today” Shane rebutted quickly, though he was still being patient, tender. Facets of his personality that he kept hidden from the world outside, something that only belonged to you and Hayes, you supposed, “I know you’ve been through shit, Venus, but maybe if you can stop running away and just… jump, you’d take your shot at happiness”.
You were silent for a moment, or maybe more than that. Lost in your own thoughts, afraid of the memories the silence always provoked in you. And when the voices grew too loud, you shook your head in what was both a way to wipe those memories out of your head and a reply to Shane’s words, “I don’t know if I believe in happiness anymore”.
“You do” Shane nudged you, “Otherwise, he wouldn’t be benched. He would be far, and you don’t want him far”.
You looked at Clark again, and you didn’t need any confirmation that your brother was right.
“No. I don’t want him far”.
…
The first thing you told your therapist the day you met was that you didn’t know that love was a contact sport.
She hadn’t been puzzled, or surprised. She didn’t frown or invalidated your words, using smart wording to say that love was actually a gift, and the best thing that could happen to someone. She just sat there, in silence, listening.
Your voice wasn’t loud, or confident. You didn’t hold your heart on your sleeve, but kept it locked inside a Pandora box, aware of the monsters that would come out once it was open. It took you three months before you could finally explain what you meant with those words.
“People always brag about how beautiful and unique love is, but the only thing I know about love is that it hurts” you’d said, tears streaming violently down your face as you sputtered those words out of your mouth, of your heart, of your core. You had faith that if you said them out loud, they’d not be a problem anymore – that you’d be free, “Love has been pushing me right over the edge for years, and all I did was pretend everything was okay, because I believed the people around me loved me, but if this is love… I’m not sure I want it”.
Your therapist had been understanding. She nodded as you spoke, validated your feelings, and when you stopped talking, she looked at you and smiled. Not condescendingly, but as someone who accepts you as you are, with your flaws, your traumas and everything else, “You can tell me if I’m wrong” she started, pointing at the small notebook where she scribbled while you talked, “But I think we’re getting into the most important part: the healing”.
You wanted to correct her. To say you weren’t healing, that things were getting worse. That you had some trouble sleeping, and that whenever you laid down, you felt like there were knifes on your bed, prompting you to go back to the place you fought so hard to leave, the person you’ve been before.
You were convinced that that would be the topic of your session when the smell of camomile filled your nose, causing you to look up from the infinite piles of paper Perry White had left on your table that morning, your eyes meeting the well-known frame of Clark Kent – Superman’s exclusive journalist – beside your desk.
Clark wasn’t looking at you, or talking to you at all. He was leaning against Jimmy’s table as they discussed something with Lois (which wasn’t a rare occurrence); that could be passed as just another day on the Planet if it wasn’t for the creak of Lois’ chair as she turned to look at you.
“What do you think, Venus?” She questioned. You recognized the tone she was using, because it denounced her mood; a quick assessing of the situation had you sure that Clark and Jimmy were probably ganging up on her, and she wanted you to even the ground, “You agree with me, right?”.
“What are you discussing?”.
“Lois thinks a piece about climate change right now is not good enough, because we don’t know what’s making our climate crazy like that” Clark replied, sitting on Jimmy’s table so he could be looking at you. By ‘that’ he meant the fact that the weather seemed to be unable to find stability, and while yesterday had been hot as hell, today you were fairly sure Elsa was having a great time on her ice castle, “Jimmy wants to write the piece anyway, so we can talk about prevention”.
“Prevention?” You dropped your pen, turning your body completely to the group, “But we can only prevent for things that we see coming, like leaving home with a jacket on your bag because you know it’s gonna be chilly that night, did any of you find a pattern to the climate changes?”.
“Well, kinda” Jimmy replied, checking his annotations, “We have two days of scalding sun, three of terrible snow and the other two are rainy days”.
“Okay, but do we know when each of them are gonna happen?” You rebuked, and was met with a silent shake of Jimmy’s head, “Then we don’t write about it. People can’t leave their homes with a jacket, a sundress and an umbrella everyday. That’s terrible logistic. We should wait until we know the pattern, so we can talk about it”.
You didn’t pay attention to the rest of the interaction, or spared a glance to any of them after you directed your focus back to your work. But something clung to you, a tickling that you couldn’t name, but overwhelmed you enough to cause a change in your perspective for that day.
“I saw a guy today, at work” you told your therapist, feeling your cheeks burn as if you were a teenager, and not a woman, “And I thought he was cute”.
“Is that a bad thing?” She questioned curiously as she wrote something on her notebook.
“I don’t know” you scratched your arms, a nervous habit you’d picked up on a while ago, and that you were having trouble getting rid of, “I don’t know if I’m ready for… you know, the whole thing”.
“The whole thing?”
“Yeah, you know. Liking someone. Dating. Not fearing your partner will beat the shit out of you”.
As usual, she didn’t react to your words. You hadn’t come around to tell her the specifics of your relationship – she knew there was psychological abuse, and you were pretty sure she suspected there was physical, too, but she never commented or forced you to talk about it –, but you’ve been feeling brave enough to reveal bits and pieces recently, and she called it advance. A part of the healing.
“Hm. But thinking a man is cute doesn’t mean you’ve got to marry him tomorrow. It just means you think he’s interesting”.
“I thought my last boyfriend was interesting”.
“I’d think so, you were together for a while. But…” she removed her glasses, meeting your eyes. Without the barrier, it seemed like she was trying to pierce your soul, “Maybe you should allow yourself to see if you think people are interesting. You don’t have to engage in a relationship with them, just… give yourself the chance to feel again. Maybe you’ll be surprised with what you find”.
And you were surprised. If the surprise had been pleasant or not, was still pending in your mind.
“Hey”.
You looked up from your place on the couch, even though you knew exactly who it was.
“Hi” you replied, “You still here?”.
Clark’s face was painted red by your question, and the pleasure of seeing him like that was enough to wipe away the embarrassment of practically asking him to leave your house, even if that wasn’t what you wanted. Not at all.
“Your brother went out with Hayes, and Lois and Jimmy went home, so he asked if I could stay and make you company” he shoved his hands inside his pockets, balancing on his feet, “I can leave, if you want me to”.
You opened your lips to reply, but closed them a second later. Did you want him to go? Well, the easy answer was no, you didn’t; you wanted Clark to stay, and to hold you, and to shower you with the reverent love you knew he felt for you.
The love you knew you felt back, even though you were not ready to acknowledge that.
The words spilled out of your mouth faster than you could think, “Do you feel like I’m benching you?”.
Clark’s feet rooted back on the ground, his brows furrowing as he tried to gather the meaning behind your words. Finally, his eyes widened in concern, and you were worried as he dropped to sit on the coffee table in front of the couch – another thrifted member of your family, and that you weren’t sure would support Clark’s weight.
“No, of course I don’t feel like that” he said calmly, his fingers interlaced on top of his legs, “Do you feel like you’re benching me?”.
“Kind of? I don’t know” you replied in an embarrassed whisper, looking at your feet, “I mean, I didn’t think, until Shane told me that I should take you out of the bench, and now…” you looked up, gathering the courage to stare him directly, “Now I don’t know what to feel”.
If there was one thing you admired – and loved – in Clark Kent, it was the way he didn’t rush to speak. Unless he was in a heated discussion with any of your colleagues, Clark was always open-minded, slow to make his opinions known, and empathic about other people’s feelings.
At first you thought he was walking on eggshells with you. As time passed, you realized that he was trying to decode your feeling, so he could be as honest with you as he could, without patronizing you. Without treating you like you were a porcelain doll.
How could you not fall in love with him?
“Remember when we went out last month?” He begun, and you frowned at the sudden change of topic, “We went to that bar, and you got drunk, and I brought you back home”.
“Yes. Not my best moment, but sure – I remember. I mean, kind of”.
Clark nodded, “You did drink a lot, and I didn’t expect you to remember what you’ve done or said, but… you asked me why I didn’t move on. Why I was still waiting on you”.
You gasped, “I did what?”.
“I never told you because I knew you’d be embarrassed, even though there was nothing to be embarrassed about. It is a fair question”.
More than that, it was a question sober-you have been wanting to make for too long, but was too afraid of the answer – or of Clark taking it as a reason to look for something else – that you never brought yourself to ask.
The fact that you’ve made that question a month ago and he still remembered that, that Clark was still thinking about an answer to that question, was enough to make your heart stop.
That’s it. He’s finally moving on.
“What…” you cleared your throat, trying to sound less like a lost puppy after losing its favorite toy, “What did you say?”.
Clark was silent again, and you could see his arm moving, though his eyes didn’t left yours at any moment. After a while, you felt something touching your hand – something warm, his hand.
And for the first time, you didn’t move away.
“I said that there’s nowhere else I wanna be. No one else I wanna be with” he whispered, squeezing your hand softly, tenderly, “I said it’s not your fault that you can’t love me yet, that I know there are things you’re still keeping to yourself, but I’m willing to wait for you” Clark leaned slightly forward, gauging your reaction with your eyes, “That I’ll love to be with you after the healing is done”.
You weren’t aware that you were crying until a smile appeared on his face, a smile that was nothing more than a turn of his lips – the smile you had fallen in love with –, but that held everything you loved about Clark: his tenderness; his big heart; his delicacy.
“Can I touch you?” He questioned silently, “On your face?”.
You nodded, too weak to use your words. You felt when Clark let go of your hand, bringing your hand to your eye level, so you could watch his movements as he made them; you felt when he touched your cheek, his thumb wiping away your tears, your eyes closing at the caress.
That was the first time you felt secure enough to have your eyes closed with someone other than Shane. The first time you gave your trust to someone else. That was monumental.
That was the healing – or at least a part of it.
“I will, too” you whispered, “I’ll love to be with you after the healing is done”.
Clark didn’t reply with words, but you felt when his lips touched your forehead, then the tip of your nose, and the corner of your mouth.
And you felt something else among all those feelings of being safe, and cherished. You felt like home.
And you knew for sure that Clark Kent would be with you. And he’d wait for you.
Day 4 - “Here’s another curse. May all your bacon burn” | David!Clark x Witch!Reader
SUMMARY: as a witch, you had your share of not-so-good ideas. But sitting on top of an edifice while Superman tried to convince you not to jump (when you wouldn’t) was your favorite.
A/N: I don’t know if I liked this story that much, but I had a good time writing it and I hope you enjoy :D not proof-read.
There were moments you questioned the extent of your sanity.
Like when you decided to move to Metropolis with the sole reasoning that there were so many metahumans in that god-forsaken town that no one would notice (or bat an eye at) a woman calling herself a witch.
Or when you decided to open a witch store (The Witch’s Cove – pick your poison, feel the magic!) in the heart of that same town because a neighbor had felt better after testing one of your infusions, and suggested that “you should sell some of yours natural products, I know people who’d love to abandon heavy meds for these” as she wiggled her brows as if you had served her an opioid and not a mix of herbs.
Or – and this was one of your favorite questioning moments – when you sat on the border of a high edifice, your legs tangling over the edge, and made Metropolis’ hero believe that you were ready to end your immortal life.
“I-I know… that things may sound bad now” he had said, his desperate eyes focusing on your face, his hands extending in front of his body, ready to grab you if you took a swing to your ultimate death (or rather, your rebirth), “I mean, no. I don’t. But–”.
You chewed on your bottom lip, trying to keep a rumbling laugh to come out of your chest.
He was cute – you had to give it to him –, but not only appearance-wise. Superman, the guy whose existence you used to make your best to ignore, was described by people as a “good guy”: he flew around battling monsters, ending fires, saving women and men in despair. You’ve heard, though you weren’t sure if it was veracious or not, that he even saved a cat from being crushed, once.
Looking at the babbling mess floating in front of you, you were almost sure it could be true.
“So, huh…” he floated closer to you, offering his left hand, palm up, a crooked smile on his lips. He seemed sheepish, like talking someone down from possible suicide wasn’t part of his superhero resume, “Can we go back to the ground now?”.
You clicked your tongue, folding your knee to bring it closer to your chest. You noticed his breath hitching, and the way his eyes followed his every movement, how he inched closer to you and, surprisingly, how a single droplet of sweat running down her face.
“You seem incredibly fond of the ground for someone who can fly” you pointed, swinging your body back and forth – not enough for you to fall to your demise –, “Very hypocritical of you”.
Superman’s eyes traveled down, to the expanse of nothingness under you. You could see people walking around, some of them stopping to look up at your interaction, others waving it off as someone else trying to get attention; it was funny how nobody had called the police (which should be the standard proceeding for situations like that), but then, who’d need the cops when you could pay them to stay at home while Superman did the work?
Oh, so yeah. There it was: the reason you never told anyone you were a witch. Too much job, too little payment.
“Huh, guess those people want a show” you said, bringing his attention back to you, “Should I…?”.
You moved. Just a quick swirl with the intention of bringing your legs back to the safe perimeter of the building’s concrete roof.
The only problem was that Mr. Nice Guy – with his powers, and good looks and even better intentions – didn’t receive the “not jumping” memo.
He dove. Hands outstretched in front of him, a gasp escaping through his lips as he grabbed your waist, shoving your body back towards the concrete floor.
You were ready for the impact – your back hitting the ground; the sound of your bones breaking and the pain that would come with it; your skull would open with the impact and that was it: you’d be reborn in less than two minutes, back to your store and having died once again because that’s exactly what immortality was about.
But none of those things came.
Instead, you had arms around your middle, keeping you close to a hard chest, covered by a layer of inescapable and infinite blue. You felt a bump to your head, something pointy – a chin, probably – against your hairline.
But it wasn’t painful, nor comfortable. It was just… unexpected?
“What…” you gulped, trying to move out of his embrace, but being stopped by the tightening of his arms, “What are you doing?”
“I’m sorry, I can’t let you do this” he stated, voice holding way more certainty than it had before. You wished you could look up at him, that he was able to see the fuming gaze you were directing at this insufferable man, but moving seemed like too much of a hazard, and, yes, you could put a spell on him or something like that, but was he even worth the effort? “I know you might be hurting, and I understand, but there’s so much more for you–”
“Oh, for Medusa’s sake, Superman!” You spat, squatting him on the chest repeatedly, hoping he understood it as an order to let you go, “I wasn’t going to jump! Let me go!”.
It took him a while to – understand? Process? You weren’t sure –, but as soon as you felt his hold on you loosening, you moved sideways, rolling out of his chest to fall directly on the ground. You weren’t surprised when he moved equally as fast as before, using his hands as a protection to keep your side from hitting the ground with force, and you were – silently – grateful for that.
“You… weren’t?” He asked, clearly dumbfounded by your words.
“I wasn’t” you repeated, sitting on the ground, “And honestly, it isn’t like I was going to die if I jumped, so…”.
You observed as Superman’s brows furrowed, and you knew your words were only making him more and more confused by the second. Maybe you should start explaining things after saying them – that would be beneficial, yes, but where was the fun in that?
“What do you mean?”.
You wrinkled your nose, waving one of your hands in a dismissive way as you used the other to support the weight of your body as you stood. He did the same, Superman – and the amount of times you thought about his title was getting upsetting, so it seemed reasonable to ask, “What’s your name?”.
He took a step back, surprised, “I’m Superman” he replied. And even though it was obvious, his tone held nothing but infuriating gentleness, rather than the fierce irritation you were used to apply whenever someone made you repeat something you’ve made clear thousands of times before, “Did you hit your head?”.
“You wouldn’t let it” you muttered, patting your clothes to remove the dirt, “I meant, your real name. Like, your parents didn’t call you Superman, right?”
“Oh. No” he cleared his throat, “I’m Kal-El”.
You raised one brow, “That’s a different name”.
“It’s Kryptonian” he explained, “That’s where I’m from. Krypton”.
“Is it a country?”.
“It’s a planet”.
“Oh, you’re an immigrant! And an alien” You leaned back slightly, looking him up and down, “Living in the US must be a thrill. I’d know”.
“You’re not from here?”.
You snorted, lowering your voice as you moved closer to him, as if you meant to tell him the secret of a lifetime. He moved too, leaning to your height instinctively, “I’m from a lot of places”.
You could see the question is his – Kal-El’s – eyes, but by the way his shoulders hunched a bit, you were fairly sure that (as most people did) he was getting tired of your antics. So you decided that maybe you could give him answers to a few of his questions.
“I’ve cursed my ex” you said, shrugging your shoulders as if it was an everyday occurrence, “Made him drink one of my potions and now he’s a cat”.
“You what?”.
“It’s been a while, so now he’s already used to it, but yeah” you wiggled your fingers, and Kal-El tracked the movement as if he expected something to happen, “He cheated on me, then condemned me to the trials. So, when I came back to life, I gave him a little something that made sure he’d never see himself rid of me”.
Kal-El’s eyes moved back to your face, slightly narrowed, looking for a hint that what you just said was just a joke. There wasn’t, obviously, because it was the truth: William was a cat, a treacherous one at that, and was constantly trying to run away from you.
“That’s why I’m here today” you pointed at the edge of the edifice you’ve been dangling on the whole day, “I’m giving him a few hours of peace before I go back to make his life miserable”.
Kal-El blinked. And blinked. And blinked again.
Oh, good. You broke Superman.
“Now that we’ve settled on that, I must go” you informed, two fingers on your forehead as a farewell, “He’s been alone for too long, and I have new curses to…”.
“You’re being serious about it?”
You clicked your tongue, “Do you wanna meet my cat?”.
“How are you gonna prove he was human?” Kal-El asked, wrinkling his nose as he studied your movements.
That was a good question.
“Fair enough” you nodded, “So I’ll offer you something else. What’s your favorite food?”.
He shrugged, “Breakfast for dinner”.
You opened your mouth. Then closed. Then opened again, “That’s a rather human response”.
“I grew up here”.
“Huh” you pouted, “Ok, it’s good enough. Here’s another curse, Kal-El: may all your bacon burn”.
Then there was silence. Complete and utter silence as Kal-El’s breath hitched, the tension of expectation thick in the air – but nothing happened.
“Was something supposed to–?”.
“You’ll see” was your response, “Meet me here in a week, I’m sure you’ll have something to tell me”.
As you walked back home that day, you didn’t know if you’d see Superman again – no, that was a lie; you definitely would see Superman again, he was the town’s hero. He was on TV and newspaper with a frequency that seemed both forced and fitting, considering he was doing good things for the town.
But you weren’t sure if you’d see Kal-El again.
You knew your curses were good enough (and sometimes too good, even impossible to be reversed) and that even without your usual tools, the one you threw on him would work. What you didn’t know was if he’d be smart enough to do the math, and, if he understood what you’ve done, if he would be intrigued enough to drop whatever he was doing just to let you know that, yes, it worked.
So you followed your life as normal.
You sold medicines and potions.
You made sure your store was clean, and that new clients were coming.
You made William, the Cat’s life hell.
And by the end of the next week, you were back at your old spot: one leg hung over the rail of that same edifice, your eyes on the sky as you took in the rays of sun in your skin.
Underneath you, people walked through the streets of Metropolis with their usual rush. Some stopped, again, to look up to the sky and found you there: sitting, waiting. This time, though, they just moved on with their lives, resigned, not really upset about what an stranger would or wouldn’t do with their – supposedly – miserable life.
You felt him arrive before you saw him…
“Ok, it was cool and all, but I’d really appreciate having bacon again”.
A smile appeared on your lips as you looked over your shoulder at the man behind you, “Good to see you again, Kal-El”.
a/n : saw this picture and thought IMMEDIATELY of our boy Clark so I wrote something about it, enjoy!!!
warnings: fluff, kissing
The couch is too small for the way your life has expanded lately.
Between the throw blanket bunched at the bottom, the blue pillow with the white grid pattern you keep meaning to replace, and the warm, solid length of Clark Kent stretched across it like he was built for comfort, there isn’t a spare inch left.
Not for you.
Not for—apparently—Miso.
Your cat is a ruthless opportunist.
Miso is also currently purring like a tiny motor and using Clark’s chest as a bed, his orange body curled in a perfect cinnamon roll right over Clark’s heart. One paw is splayed possessively against Clark’s shirt like he’s claimed him. Like he’s always belonged there.
Your phone is facedown on the cushion near Clark’s hip, its screen dark. The TV plays something you aren’t watching. The city outside the window is a soft smear of lights. Inside, the only sounds are Miso’s purr and Clark’s slow breathing.
You’re half draped over Clark, your torso angled across him, your cheek pressed to his jaw. One arm is tucked under you awkwardly; the other cups his face, thumb idly smoothing the faint crease between his brows.
Clark’s eyes are open, watching you with that gentle, patient warmth that always makes your chest feel too small for your heart.
His lips curve. “You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?” you whisper, though you already know.
“That look,” he says. His voice is quiet, careful—like he doesn’t want to scare the moment away. “Like you’re trying to… file me away in your brain.”
You soften into him, your smile tugging at one corner. “Maybe I am.”
Clark’s gaze flicks down to your mouth, then back up, almost shy. “It’s distracting.”
“Oh?” you murmur, and lean in.
The kiss is slow, warm, familiar. The kind that feels like sinking into a blanket still warm from the dryer. Clark’s hand slides up your back—broad palm, gentle pressure—pulling you closer in that unspoken way he has, like he’s saying mine, like he’s saying please don’t go anywhere.
Miso’s tail flicks once, offended by the movement.
Clark freezes mid-kiss.
You pull back just enough to see his expression.
His eyes widen a fraction—like he’s been caught.
“Sorry,” he whispers immediately, to the cat.
Your lips part on a silent laugh. “You apologized to him.”
Clark’s face turns faintly pink. “I—he was comfortable.”
Miso kneads Clark’s shirt once, as if to confirm: Yes. I was. You were ruining it.
“You know,” you whisper, nuzzling your nose against Clark’s, “I used to think Miso was incapable of loving anyone but me.”
Clark’s eyes dart down to the cat like he’s afraid to offend him. “Maybe he still only loves you.”
Miso purrs louder.
And, as if to make a point, he shifts—very deliberately—so he’s even more on Clark and even less on you, pressing his little forehead into Clark’s collarbone.
You stare at the betrayal, deadpan.
Clark’s mouth twitches like he’s trying not to laugh.
“Oh my God,” you whisper. “Did you see that?”
Clark’s voice is so soft it’s almost reverent. “He… headbutted me.”
“He does that to me when he wants food.”
Clark’s eyes sparkle. “So what does it mean when he does it to me?”
You narrow your eyes at the cat. “It means he thinks you’re the food.”
Clark finally breaks, letting out a quiet laugh that vibrates under your cheek. The sound warms you from the inside out. He tries to keep it small, considerate, but it’s still Clark—everything about him is big, even when he tries to contain it.
Miso doesn’t even stir. Just purrs and purrs.
Clark looks down at him, almost disbelieving. His fingers hover uncertainly, like he’s afraid to do the wrong thing. “Am I allowed to pet him?”
“You’re allowed,” you say, still watching the cat like he’s a traitor, “but he’s picky.”
Clark’s hand lowers, careful as if he’s defusing a bomb. Two fingers stroke Miso’s back.
Miso purrs like he’s being paid.
Clark’s eyes go soft. “Oh.”
You lift your head, watching Clark’s expression shift into something helplessly tender. “Oh?”
“He’s… so small,” Clark whispers, like it’s a sacred realization.
“Miso is not small,” you say indignantly. “Miso is sturdy.”
Clark’s lips twitch. “Sturdy,” he repeats, like he loves the word.
Miso’s paw stretches, toes flexing. One little claw catches on Clark’s shirt. Clark doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move. Just watches with a kind of calm devotion that makes you ache.
“You’re doing that thing,” you whisper.
Clark blinks. “What thing?”
“That look,” you say, and press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Like you would die for him.”
Clark exhales, amused and fond. “He’s family.”
“You have known him for—what—three weeks?”
Clark’s brows lift, quietly offended on Miso’s behalf. “Time is relative.”
“Is that a Superman thing or a Kansas thing?”
Clark’s laugh is breathy. “It’s a ‘your cat chose me’ thing.”
You groan softly, dramatic. “My own cat. My son. Turned against me.”
Clark’s arm tightens around you, pulling you snug against his side. He doesn’t say anything, but the gesture is a warm answer: I’m not going anywhere. I’m here. I’m yours.
You turn your face into his neck and breathe him in—clean laundry, faint coffee, something uniquely him that you can’t name but could recognize in a crowd, in a storm, in the dark.
Your lips brush his skin. A kiss. Another. Slow, unhurried. Not asking, just giving.
Clark’s breath catches.
His hand slides up from your back to cradle the base of your skull, fingers threading gently into your hair. He tilts your head just enough that the next kiss lands under your jaw, then at the soft spot beneath your ear.
It isn’t verbal. It doesn’t need to be.
It says: I love you. I’m here. I’m careful with you.
You shiver, more from tenderness than anything else.
Clark pauses, like he’s checking in without words. His thumb strokes your hairline, a quiet question.
You answer by kissing him again—mouth to mouth this time, slow and deep, your hand sliding down from his cheek to his throat, feeling the swallow there, feeling the way he leans into you like he can’t help it.
His other arm wraps fully around you, holding you as if you’re something precious he doesn’t quite trust the world with.
Miso, of course, chooses this exact moment to stretch, arching his back and pressing directly into Clark’s chest—wedging himself more firmly between you, like a furry little wall.
You pull back, incredulous.
Clark looks down at Miso, then up at you, guilty and amused.
Clark’s fingers keep petting Miso without even thinking about it now, a slow steady rhythm. Miso’s eyes are closed, face loose with contentment. His paw remains firmly planted on Clark like a stamp: approved.
You sit up slightly, propping yourself on your elbow so you can properly look at them both.
Clark follows your movement with his eyes. “What?”
You gesture at the scene: Clark sprawled on your couch, hair mussed, glasses slightly crooked from you stealing kisses and pressing your face into him; your cat curled on his chest like he’s known him his whole life.
“This,” you say softly. “Is ridiculous.”
Clark’s expression softens. “You don’t like it?”
Your chest tightens at the earnestness in his tone. You lean down, kiss the tip of his nose. “I love it.”
Clark’s lashes flutter.
You kiss his forehead, right above the frames of his glasses. “I love you.”
His breath catches again. Like it always does, like the words still surprise him, still hit somewhere deep.
He reaches up, fingers brushing your cheek like he’s making sure you’re real. “I love you too,” he whispers. “So much.”
It isn’t dramatic. Clark never makes love feel like a performance. It’s simple. Honest. Like he’s handing you something priceless with both hands.
You swallow, blinking fast.
Clark notices immediately—because he notices everything about you, always. His hand slides to your jaw, thumb brushing under your eye. “Hey.”
You huff a tiny laugh. “I’m fine.”
His gaze is steady. Gentle. “You don’t have to be fine.”
That’s the thing about him. He makes space for you. For every messy human thing you carry. He doesn’t rush you through it. He doesn’t demand you be smaller.
You exhale and let yourself melt down onto him again, fitting into his side. You tuck your face into his neck, hiding.
Clark’s arms come around you like a promise.
Miso purrs louder, as if pleased you’ve finally learned your place.
You whisper, muffled against Clark’s skin, “I swear to God, he likes you more than me.”
Clark’s chest rises with a quiet laugh. “I don’t think that’s possible.”
You lift your head and point accusingly at the cat. “Miso.”
As if summoned, Miso opens one eye, regards you with bored superiority, then slowly closes it again—pressing his cheek deeper into Clark’s shirt.
Clark bites his lip like he’s trying not to grin.
You stare at Clark. “Don’t.”
Clark’s shoulders shake silently.
“Oh, so you think it’s funny?” you whisper.
Clark tries to look innocent. He fails immediately. “I’m not—” he starts, but his eyes give him away, bright and amused.
You lean in like you’re going to kiss him.
Clark’s smile softens, his eyes dipping to your mouth—
And you kiss Miso’s head instead.
Right between his ears.
Miso’s purr stutters, then resumes even louder, traitorous.
Clark goes still, like he’s watching something precious and doesn’t want to blink and miss it.
You glance up at him. “What?”
Clark’s voice is soft. “Nothing.”
But his eyes say everything: I can’t believe I get to be here. I can’t believe you let me in.
Your throat tightens again.
You shift closer, sliding your hand into his hair behind his ear, fingers brushing the soft curls there. You kiss him—gentle, lingering—and Clark responds like he’s been waiting for it, like he’s always waiting for you.
His hand finds yours and laces your fingers together, holding tight.
He turns his head slightly so the next kiss lands deeper, warmer. You taste faint peppermint, like he’s had tea recently, and something else—something like home.
When you pull back, you don’t go far. Your lips hover near his.
Clark’s eyes search your face. “You okay?”
You nod. “I’m just… happy.”
Clark’s expression changes, like something in him gives. His forehead touches yours. “Me too.”
Silence settles again, comfortable and heavy with meaning. Clark’s thumb strokes your knuckles. Miso’s purr fills the gaps between breaths.
And then Clark whispers, almost to himself, “I didn’t think I’d get this.”
You blink. “Get what?”
He looks at you, and the honesty in his face is so raw it makes your chest ache.
“This,” he says, barely audible. His eyes flick to Miso, then back to you. “A normal night. A couch. Someone I love. Someone who… wants me here.”
You cup his face with both hands now, holding him steady. “Clark.”
He swallows. His voice cracks just slightly. “I know I can do a lot. I know I’m… capable.” He shakes his head like he hates how it sounds, like he doesn’t want to turn it into a thing. “But sometimes I feel like I’m always leaving. Always running toward something. And I don’t want to be the kind of person who—”
You cut him off with a kiss.
Not because you don’t want to hear him. But because you want him to feel the answer.
Your mouth is soft against his, your hands firm on his cheeks, grounding him. Clark exhales, melting into it. His arms close around you—strong, careful, reverent.
When you pull back, you keep your forehead against his.
“You’re here,” you whisper. “Right now. You’re with me. And you come back. You always come back.”
Clark’s eyes glisten, and he looks almost stunned by the gentleness.
“I come back,” he repeats, like he’s tasting the truth of it.
“Yes,” you say. “And you’re allowed to want this. You’re allowed to keep it.”
A tear gathers at the corner of his eye. He blinks it away quickly, like he’s embarrassed.
You kiss the corner of his eye, the place the tear tried to be.
Clark’s breath trembles.
Then, carefully—like he’s afraid to move too much—he shifts his face into your neck and just holds you there, breathing you in.
His voice is muffled against your skin. “Thank you.”
“For what?” you whisper, stroking the back of his head.
“For… letting me be Clark,” he says. “Not… not the other things. Just… me.”
Your heart clenches, full.
You tighten your arms around him. “Always.”
Miso purrs in agreement, like he’s the officiant.
Clark lifts his head, and the softness returns to his mouth, his eyes. He kisses you once—quick, sweet, like a promise. Then again—slower, deeper.
His hand cups the side of your face, thumb tracing your lower lip when you part.
You sigh quietly, melting into him.
Miso chooses that moment to stretch his paw up and press it against your arm, as if to remind you he’s still there and still in charge.
You freeze.
Clark freezes too.
You both look at the cat.
Miso’s eyes remain closed. The paw stays firmly planted like a barrier: Enough. He’s mine. Go away.
You stare at Clark.
Clark stares at you.
And then Clark’s lips twitch, and he whispers, “I think he’s… setting boundaries.”
You bury your face into Clark’s shoulder, laughing silently so you don’t jostle the cat too much.
Clark’s laughter rumbles under you, quiet and delighted.
You lift your head, grin wicked. “Oh, so you and my cat are a team now.”
Clark tries to look serious. Fails. “We have an understanding.”
“You have an understanding.”
Clark nods solemnly, then immediately softens. “But you’re my favorite.”
You arch a brow. “Am I?”
Clark’s eyes warm, earnest and steady. “Always.”
Your smile goes soft. You lean in and kiss him—slow, thorough, the kind that turns your bones into honey. Clark sighs into it, his hand sliding down your spine to your waist, pulling you closer until there’s no space left to doubt anything.
When you finally pull back, you rest your cheek against his, breathing together.
Miso purrs.
Clark whispers, almost awed, “He really likes me.”
You glance at the cat, then back at Clark, affectionate resignation in your eyes. “Yeah.”
Clark’s smile is boyish, like he can’t believe he won something so small and domestic and perfect. “I’m gonna try not to let it go to my head.”
“It already has,” you say, and kiss his jaw.
Clark’s arms tighten around you again. He presses a kiss to your temple, then another to your hairline, then a slow one to your forehead that lingers like he’s blessing you.
You close your eyes.
You let yourself sink into him, into the warmth and the quiet and the steady beat of his heart under Miso’s curled body.
Outside, the world can be loud. It can be sharp. It can demand.
But here, on this couch, there is only softness.
Clark’s hand keeps tracing slow circles on your back.
Your fingers keep threading through his hair.
Miso keeps purring like he’s guarding something sacred.
And you realize—so quietly it almost hurts—that this is the safest you’ve ever felt.
Not because nothing bad can happen.
But because if it does, you won’t face it alone.
Clark kisses your shoulder through your shirt, gentle and reverent, and you turn your head just enough to whisper into the curve of his neck:
“Stay.”
Clark doesn’t answer with words.
He answers by tightening his arms around you—careful, protective, devoted—holding you like you’re home.
And Miso, traitor that he is, purrs louder as if to say:
SUMMARY: the light is out at the Planet, and game night is on! When you show your coworkers one of your favorite games, the final round against Clark has you feeling things.
CLASSIFICATION: fluff, really. Competitive journalists. There’s parental abandonment if you squint. Clark being adorable (as usual).
A/N: this is part of the January Jumble Scribbles, and I know I was only supposed to write 300 words, but I got ahead of myself, and I’m not sorry. Hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it :D
Game nights had always been your favorite thing. Hands down.
Karaoke? Fun, but only if you were drunk enough. Happy hour? Fun, but only if you were with the right people. Work party? Fun, but only if you were drunk enough and with the right people.
Game nights were something else, entirely.
You had your first game night when you were six, and while most people usually had their first game parties as a way to spend more time with their school friends – people they cherished and had fun with on a daily basis, but that they also wanted to be a part of their life outside school -, yours was your parents way to make sure you weren’t alone as you grew up.
Your parents were – well, are – diplomats. You always knew their job was big, and not because the President usually sent you birthday and Christmas gifts, but because you were constantly inside a plane; as of five years old, your passport was so full with stamps that your mother had to run with you to the embassy to make sure you’d be allowed to leave the country with that passport, otherwise they wouldn’t make it to an important reunion.
All that to say: your childhood wasn’t normal. You didn’t attend schools (changing schools would be too much of a psychological hazard to you), you had in-home teachers; your childhood friends were either the kids of your parents’ staff or kids of other diplomats, and both were scarce; you had a cook, a babysitter, a tutor, and you saw them with more frequency than you saw your parents. You had money – more money than you could account for, even now that you were almost 30.
And yes, it was was terribly lonely.
But you had good parents. Busy, definitely, but good. They were attentive, and supportive, and they cared. And when your therapist made it known that you weren’t feeling lonely only because you were out on social interactions with people your age (which was never solved) but because you missed their presence, game nights became a thing.
“We know we’re not here as often as we’d like it…” your mother had told you once, her eyes shining with unshed tears. You always knew, somehow, that not being a present mother took a toll on her way more than not being a present father took a toll on your dad; for your mother, if there was a problem, it should be solved. For your father, tough love was the way to go, “But we can promise you that one day a month we’ll take an hour to play whatever you want with you. It’s gonna be our game nights”
You were a child, so you couldn’t understand that that wasn’t the way your life should be. You weren’t supposed to have your parents for an hour a month, and then be anywhere else in the house pestering the staff for affection they had no obligation of offering you, but that they did anyway.
But that was what you could have. And for a girl who didn’t understand she had nothing, it was enough – so you sucked it up.
Monopoly. Ticket to Ride. Clue. Chess. Checkers. You played it all. And by the time you were eighteen and enrolled in university, your repertoire in board games was almost as impressive as your resumé – difference being that a resumé got you enrolled, and not… well, playing.
Studying journalism was a hell of a ride. At first, you thought you wanted to be like your parents: working with international relations and becoming someone whose kids would also be gifted by the president – it was a depressing sight, the idea that you’d give your children the scraps of love you had to accept growing up –, and then a trip changed everything to you.
The Daily Planet was a dream. Its localization in the heart of Metropolis; the pulling smell of old parchment; the crack-crack of old chair that held (with sacrifice, obviously) the weight of story on the making; the loud conversations (discussions, actually) between journalists that wanted their points to get across. Things were happening there, and you wanted to be a part of it.
So you sent your resume to Perry White, along with a piece you wrote on food poisoning for the college’s journal. You were lucky enough to be hired as intern, and you’ve been there since then.
But this wasn’t a trip down memory lane – this was about game nights.
Like the one you’re having right now.
“Ok, so the rules are simple…” you sat up between Clark and Lois, your eyes scanning everyone in the room carefully as if the point you would make next was one of great importance. Your hands moved quickly, shuffling the cards in your hands, “One of us will get one card and read what’s written out loud. Let’s say it’s written…” you scrunched your nose, removing one card from the middle and reading it to them, “Oh, a food with P on its name. I’ll press the letter on the circle” you pressed the letter P, “say my food, in this case, pasta, and then press the bottom in the middle” and as you did, the familiar tic-tac of a clock filled the ambiance, “And then it’s Clark’s turn. Whoever gets it wrong is out of the game. Got it?”.
Everyone gave a silent nod, and you smiled proudly at yourself, even though explaining this game was fairly easy.
This was the first time you organized a game night with someone who weren’t your parents, which was huge for you.
In college you had the desire to do it, but you learnt soon enough that frat parties weren’t the place for game nights – mostly because frat people would enjoy things you weren’t keen to play, like strip poker –, so you never brought it up. You and your roommates did play a lot of UNO, but it was something to pass the time, and caused too much fights to be considered a fun time with friends.
At first, you thought at work it would be the same: too many egos, too many fights, no fun at all. This exact thought caused you to withdraw from everyone up to the moment you were not an intern anymore, but a full-time journalist – and that was when it all changed for you.
“Everybody, I have news” Perry had said on your first official day, capturing everyone’s (displeased, mostly) attention. He pointed at you with his cigarette, and you crumpled your nose at its smell, “This is news. She’s the news. You know her, no need to make presentations. She’ll be joining us here as our new journalist, be good to her”.
And that was it. Perry didn’t show you to your desk, just turned his back on you (as usual) while everyone else got back to their jobs – writing, for some; pretending to write, for others.
Your snorted, because yes, it was uncomfortable to be watched, and it was equally uncomfortable to be ignored. But that was the Planet, and you loved that place.
Besides, people were rarely left unattended in a place where…
“Sorry about that. Here, I’ll show you to your desk”.
Clark Kent worked.
Clark was, in a lack of better words, a human-sized fluffy bear.
He was tall, strong (broad shoulders, huge biceps, probably a six-pack hidden somewhere under his shirt), completely disheveled (as per-usual) and soft on every edge. He was the kind of reliable person that people both loved having around and loathed for its unbridled kindness.
Clark was the kind of guy you could count on to be with you on hard moments, but also help you with your groceries when your car broke.
He was calm.
Steady.
Good to the bone.
And the reason why you had so many friends sat around you on your first game night at work – at work because the lights had gone out, and while the interns had sprinted to their houses, the full-time workaholic team had stood as rocks on their place of employment.
You all had issues. A lot of them.
“Who wants to begin?” You asked, even though you knew—
“I’ll go” Lois stated, taking the cards from your hands and taking the last card on the pile, “Hm, names of books. I press the letter and say the name, right?”.
“Yup” you agreed with a nod, “Then it’s my turn”.
“‘Kay” she leaned over, pressing the letter ‘O’ and saying, “Odyssey”.
You hummed in appreciation, that was a good book. The kind of thing you imagined Lois reading.
She pressed the white button on the center of the red circle, and the simple tic-tac was enough to make your heart beat faster, the adrenaline and competitiveness that you knew so well taking the best of you.
You pressed ‘D’, then said, “Divine Comedy” and pressed the central white button.
Clark was next, pressing ‘T’, “The Narnia Chronicles”.
It wasn’t a surprise when the next person – Cat – decided to follow his groove by saying “Prince Caspian”.
“Is it even fair?” Lois protested, crossing her arms in front of her body as she looked at Cat over your shoulders, “I mean, Clark kinda gave it to her”.
“Yeah, but it’s the name of the collection, not the name of the book” Jimmy pointed on the other side, “Actually, does Clark’s response counts? It’s not the name of a book”.
Lois clicked her tongue, her sharp look turning to the man beside you, “Jimmy’s got a point”.
“I think it’s valid” Clark said, being followed by a mocking ‘of course you do’ that you were pretty sure had been muttered by Lois, “I mean, if I’d said ‘Harry Potter’ it would’ve been valid, right?”.
“Yeah, but the books are actually called Harry Potter” Lois retorted, tapping you on the leg, “You’re the one with the rules. Is Clark’s answer valid or not?”.
You could say it was. The rules were very vague, so a lot of it was up to however you interpreted them; besides, it was the first time you were all playing together, journalists could be very competitive, and Clark was just so sweet…
“It’s ok if it’s not” Clark said, looking down at you with his baby blues. His voice was calm, accepting, as if he knew about your inner turmoil (and here you were being dramatic) and was trying to make sure you didn’t feel uncomfortable with the role you’d have to play there, “I don’t think I’ll go too far in this game, anyway” he leaned closer to you as if he was going to whisper on your ear, but saying it out loud, “Lois is set to win”.
“I sure as fuck am!” Lois agreed with a firm nod, “So?”.
The timer stopped. And you’ve never been more grateful for that – even if it didn’t put you closer to winning the game.
“Let’s consider this a trial run” you suggested, turning the blue mechanism that would bring the letters back to its positions, “But, yeah. Sorry, Clark. Next time you’ll have to say the name of the book, and not the collection”.
Clark smiled, “Will do”.
You kept your eyes locked for a while, and it was strange how you never noticed how blue his eyes really were. You always thought they resembled Lois’ (because you weren’t very good with different hues), but there was something… else going on in Clark’s eyes, something you couldn’t pinpoint.
And, of course, he was looking at you like that. Clark and you had been friends for the most part of a year now, and you were completely dumbstruck whenever he looked at you like that – his eyes were almost closed, not in an accusing way, but rather in a soft, pondering way; his lips were slightly up in what you assumed was a smile that, even though it didn’t reach his eyes, still made them glow. If you didn’t know better, you’d say he looked at you adoringly.
And you had to know better, because you’ve never seen him look like that at anyone else.
Lois elbowed you in the middle, and the discomfort enough to bring you back to earth, “Your turn”.
“Oh, sure!” You cleared your throat, praying that the lanterns you had turned up wouldn’t be good enough for your coworkers to see you were blushing, “Uh- name of songs. I’ll go with…” you pressed ‘S’, “Silver Springs” and the the game was on again.
Contrary to his belief, Clark did got far in the game – and it was a tough game.
You had finished the letters more than once – most of the times in food related questions; Steve had been eliminated in a question about celebrities (in which he tried to cheat by saying the name of his dog); Jimmy started a heated discussion with Lois after trying to pass the name of a book as a movie name; Cat got uninterested and gave up after the third round (which was disappointing, because she was good); and Lois, most to her chagrin, had lost on the semifinals because she wasn’t as versed as Clark and you on medicine names.
“Why do you know so many?” Jimmy asked, tilting his head to the side.
You shrugged, “I make strange searches when I’m not busy”.
Clark’s answer was fairly similar, but with better reasoning, “Ma had a surgery a few years ago and reacted badly to a medicine. I started researching meds that had that same component so it wouldn’t happen again”.
Lois pinched her lips together, narrowing her eyes as she pointed accusingly at them, “So I’ve lost to two cheating nerds”.
“It wasn’t cheating!” You protested, moving so you could sit in front of Clark, “It was the power of unrestrained curiosity”.
“Exactly what she said”.
“Okay, so, last round. All or nothing” you licked your lips, eyes narrowing towards Clark, “Are you ready?”.
Clark wasn’t like you.
Your back was aching a bit, so you knew you were slightly hunched in a challenging position (again, you could be really competitive on game nights), your eyes were narrowed and there was a vicious smile on your lips. You were there to win.
Clark, on the other hand, only seemed to be having a good time. That look was still on his face, unmoving, disturbing, toe curling; it was causing butterflies to fly everywhere in your stomach, and you were kinda expecting to vomit anytime soon, but not out of disgust.
You noticed, maybe too late, that Clark would be fine if you won. Because that was just who he was – a kind, sweet, adorable man.
But there was something else. You could see it – but the name of whatever it was, well, that was another thing completely.
“Go on” he waved at the significant smaller pile of questions you’ve spent the whole night passing around the group.
You picked a question, eyes falling to the question that would declare the winner of tonight’s game night… and it was terrible. The most anti-climatic, battle numbing question of all times.
Your shoulders hunched, “No way”.
“What is it?” Clark asked, moving slightly closer to you, looking strangely… worried? About the ordeal, “What’s the problem?”.
“Name of superheroes” you read, showing him the card, “Kinda boring for journalists, right?”.
Clark laughed, and when he did so, he did with his whole body: his head fell down, his hand moved to his chest, and his voice boomed around like thunder. You couldn’t help but admire the scene, and when he looked back at you, you hoped you averted your eyes fast enough, “Guess we can make it work. C’mon, you go first”.
You took a deep breath, pressing ‘G’ and stating, “Green Lantern”.
Then, ‘H’, “Hawkgirl”.
Then, ‘M’, “Mr Terrific”
Then ‘B’, “Black Canary” (and here you almost screamed, because how dare he steal away your chance at saying Batman?).
And then, with a mischievous smile on your face, you pressed ‘S’, “Superman”.
You pressed the white button.
And watched as Clark’s mouth opened and closed. Again. And again. And again.
But he didn’t speak.
You weren’t sure how far in his 1-minute time he was, but your body had gone electric, excited, ecstatic. There was just no way Clark would remember the name of another hero, and you knew the tic-tac was close to and end.
So, while you didn’t want to celebrate ahead of time, your body wasn’t following your rules anyone: you perked up, spine straight and what you believed was a maniacal smile forming on your lips. You could feel it in your bones: the elation that came with victory. With winning in something you hold so dear, after playing with people you cherish.
But the real victory came when, seconds before the timer ran off, Clark released a deep, contented sigh, his attention completely focused on… well, you.
And then he fired, “You make it very hard to think”.
Your gasped at his words, but didn’t have time to do anything about his words – the timer went off, and unhinged screams forced their way inside your skull, arms grabbing you from your shoulders as Lois frantically thanked you for not losing the game.
You were sure something was happening around you, but you couldn’t care less. Because while Jimmy and Steve moved to pat Clark’s shoulder, Cat studied the red stop board with curious fascination over the mechanisms, and Lois grabbed her phone off the ground because, “Thank God!”, the light was back on, all you could see was Clark Kent.
“You make it very hard to think”, he said.
You wondered if he knew – no, he certainly didn’t, how could he? – that from that moment on, those words would be tattooed on your mind like a constant reminder of that day.
You wondered if Clark Kent knew that, from that day on, he had made it hard for you to think.
Your heart skipped a beat. He smiled.
And there was the answer your were looking for: he knew. Clark would always know.
SUMMARY: you don’t hate superheroes. You don’t. Definitely not. But if you do, there’s certainly a reason – and maybe Clark Kent will be the one helping you figure that reason.
A/N: as a disclaimer - I’m a the coronas’ fan. They have this AMAZING live album, Live At The Olympia that basically saved my life. So, this is supposed to be a short-fic with 12 chapters, each one corresponding to a song from that album, but my vacation is over in 4 days, so maybe the chapters will take a while to come out. Lord help me. Again: English is not my first language, hope you enjoy!!!!
You don’t hate superheroes. You don’t. Definitely not. Honestly, how could you?
It has been a few weeks since you moved from Gotham to Metropolis, not because you were running away from their current savior (they called him Batman, which was just… fitting), but because the criminal ratings on that damn city were spiking up rather than going down, going out at night was always an adventure and the last time you felt safe was… huh, you weren’t sure you’d ever felt safe in that town.
Curious.
So, Metropolis was obviously a better, safer choice. Yes, you’ve had done your research – you were majoring in journalism, after all. Moving to another city without doing extensive research wasn’t an option – and yes, you were aware that Metropolis also had its own savior (Superman, with the fitted onesie, the undies on top of his legs and the S drawn on his chest), but for some reason you judged it less distressing to deal with, I don’t know, a dinosaur than a dude in penguin clothes feeding you cocaine.
Gotham was a shit show. Batman was a shit show.
Superman, as you learnt in those few weeks, a show. But not a shit one – at least that’s what your coworkers at the Planet seemed to believe.
“He’s our local hero” Jimmy Olsen had pointed once, after you all had gotten Planeted-in during one of Superman’s fights. It wasn’t a dinosaur (thank God!), but a metahuman – which, you learnt, stood for someone who has powers – and not a powerful one at it, from what TV was saying, “Appeared out of nowhere, it was strange at first, but he ended up helping, so…”
“So you just…” you raised one brow, skepticism written all over your features as you leaned closer to your colleague, “Accepted it?”
Jimmy shrugged, “I mean… yeah?” He pointed at the windows of your floor as if it meant the expanse of the universe, or simply as if that guy – Superman – was there, with them, listening, “The man’s not doing anything wrong, and always stays to help the small business that are destroyed in the fights. He’s helping. We’re safer. It’s a win-win”
“Well, it’s a win” you pointed, turning to face the small TV they kept closer to your desks. The fight was over, and the cameras were focusing on one thing: Superman, a smile on his face as he played with the kids that approached him; it was sweet, really. But you were from Gotham. And a journalist. So, “But what is he winning?”
Again: you don’t hate superheroes. Really. Not at all. But you also weren’t drawn to believe they’d just do good out of the purity of their hearts.
You were from Gotham, for God’s sake. Your local superhero, if he could be called that way, was a violent mess – a shit show, as stated previously; he was, in your point of view, more a vigilante than a superhero (which was admittedly fine, considering he never labeled himself as a superhero), but you had limits.
And traumas.
And fears.
And now you had them all in Metropolis, the place where their superhero was nice with people, and with kids, and with animals, and with everyone, and still… you didn’t feel like you could trust him.
“You should talk to Clark”.
You turned back to look at Jimmy, whose stance hadn’t changed from what it was before: he was laid-back, sitting comfortably on his chair, legs up on his table as he (pretended to) read something one of the interns gave him to check for mistakes or give feedback.
You scrunched your nose, the name sounding pretty familiar, though you couldn’t exactly remember which one of the guys on the bullpen it belonged to, “The nerd with glasses?”
Jimmy snorted, almost falling off his chair. You had learnt that his sense of humor was… exaggerated, considering that he’d laugh out of almost anything, but, hey – you barely had any sense of humor, so could you really judge the guy?
“Yeah, yeah” he wiped his eyes out of the single tear than ran out, “Yeah, Clark. Big. Nerdy. Sits across from you. Enjoys discussing with Lois”
Lois looked up from her computer, her name the only way to summon her when she’s too much into whatever she’s writing. You liked her, Lois – she was serious, dedicated to her job, wrote good articles. She liked you (she told you that) because you were the same thing, but with more pauses: while Lois would sit and work in an article until her fingers were numb, the only way for you to guarantee the quality of your work was through pauses; and you wouldn’t stop until it was perfect.
“We’ve got to be addicted to progress” what was one of her teacher had said in the past, marching around the classroom as a general who knows everyone there would abide by her orders, and still not wanting them to do so – she wanted them to question, not accept. That was their job. That’s what they had to be, “Ask yourselves, how can I make this piece better? What questions should I do next? Is it objective, or am I pouring myself in this piece? If you’re not satisfied with the answers, you’re not done yet”
You still had trouble understanding how she survived Gotham.
“It’s not arguing when he can’t win” Lois pointed, her voice muffled by the pen she had between her lips, “But I’ll give that to him: Clark always interviews Superman, which, I confess, might make him biased…” she gave you a knowing look, one that said, ‘I know what you’re gonna say next, so I’m getting ahead of it’, “But he can do a good job. Sometimes”
“Such a praise coming from you, Lois. Thank you”.
Oh, you knew that voice. When it came to remembering faces, you were the worst – you could identify differences in faces, and you were pretty good with specific traits (Cat’s blonde hair, Lois’s bright blue eyes, Jimmy’s terrible haircut), but that was pretty much it. It wasn’t aphasia, because you didn’t forget those faces after seeing them, but the doctors couldn’t exactly explain what was happening with your occipital cortex, so they just went with what was easier: you’re good with voices, tones, cadences. Use it in your favor.
“Don’t get used to it” Lois replied, squinting her eyes.
“I won’t”.
You finally turned to look at the newcomer, merely moving your body on Jimmy’s table – facing away from Lois and meeting Clark Kent’s stunning ocean eyes.
Jimmy was right. He was nerdy. And big – broad shoulders, broad arms, and you wouldn’t look at it because harassment was a real thing, but you could bet he had enormous legs hidden behind the tissue of his tailored pants.
He was, objectively, beautiful. And had a good boy vibe going that could be interesting if you didn’t have your quote of trauma offered by good boys – and bad boys, ha!
Clark placed his charter bag on his table, fumbling with the papers he had left behind before the attack. You hadn’t noticed that he left (again, your perception wasn’t as good as it should be when it came to individuals), but now you noticed him: disheveled hair, crooked tie, shirt slightly off his pants, and crumpled.
And he left… wait, “Were you outside during the fight?” You asked, mouth agape, “During the fight?”
“Hm, yeah?” Clark replied, throwing his mess aside as he sat on his chair, “I always do it”
“You…” you scrunched your nose, “You do? Why?”
Clark looked up at you, his lips slightly parted as he apparently thought about… something. If this something was your question or a good enough answer, you weren’t sure.
“He’s Superman’s best friend” Lois replied for him, with a side of teasing in her voice.
“I’m not his best friend” Clark retorted, his nose scrunched in a grimace, “He just… talks to me. For example, today…”
Jimmy didn’t want to know what happened today. In fact, he seemed very eager to throw you under the bus when he said, merrily, “She doesn’t believe Superman”
You could see that Clark wasn’t over whatever he was going to say – his mouth was still open, and his blue eyes were traveling between you and Jimmy, befuddled.
“You don’t believe Superman?”
You bit your lip, wanting to slap Jimmy on the head for his words, but decided that being a stuttering mess would be less embarrassing (and wouldn’t send you straight to HR), “I never said I don’t believe him”
“She didn’t” Lois agreed, bringing her chair closer to their small, and uneven, circle, “She said he’s probably getting something out of it. You know, win-win”
“Why would he want something out of it?” Clark’s voice was filled with of disbelief, his eyes blinking non-stop, “He’s saving people, isn’t that enough?”
“Well…” you took a deep breath, “No?”
“Why not?”
“Why are you so passionate over it?”
“I’m-”
“Clark’s in love with Superman” Jimmy joked, and everyone knew that. Until…, “I mean, are you?”
Silence. You narrowed your eyes, both you and Lois staring at Clark’s clearly confused glance, “What?”
“In love” Jimmy followed, and you heard Lois’ chair cracking as she leaned against it, “With Superman”
If you thought Clark couldn’t look more… out of place? Confused? Offended? You weren’t sure.
“What?”
“Man, there’s no judgment here” Jimmy continued, hand on his chest. He spoke like a father trying to comfort his child in times of need, “If you’re into guys, you know, it’s okay. We won’t judge you”
“No” Lois agreed, but her smile hold clear mischief, “But we’re gonna make jokes. Not about you liking men, but about you liking him”
The look Clark directed to Lois was loaded, the look of someone who shared a secret with another person – and you felt that itching of curiosity, the need to know something that was right in front of you, but you couldn’t grasp.
“I’m not” Clark replied, his stare fixed on Jimmy, “It’s just, he’s a good guy. He helps people. Saves lives…”
“Talk dictators down” Lois added, getting up from her chair with a single movement and moving to sit on top of Clark’s desk, finally in your sight, “He does it all. Hey, you’re from Gotham, right?”
You nodded.
“And you don’t like Superman?” Clark asked, offended, “Isn’t your hero a guy dressed as a bat who just shows up at night?”
That was an incredibly accurate description, you had to give Clark that. But Batman was, for you, way more than just a guy (deducing it was a guy) dressed as a bat: he was the reason you left.
“Didn’t say I like him” you shrugged.
“So you don’t like Superman?”
You opened your lips, eyes fixed on your coworker. It was funny, you thought, how you couldn’t even remember his face a few minutes ago, and now you were in the middle of fight because of your lack of… appreciation for a superhero he only knew by passing.
Yeah, you were right. Biased. But when it came to their local hero, weren’t all of them?
Maybe that’s what they needed: someone to break their bias. To make them see that maybe they should question that man more.
“I never said that” you pointed calmly, crossing your arms in front of your body as you straighten up your position, “But I can compromise, if you agree to something”
Lois raised on brow in interest, “Now we’re talking”
Clark took a deep breath, but leaned toward you, placing his elbows on his knee and intertwining his fingers under his chin, “What do you want?”
You smiled at him, knowing you could do more. Ask the right questions. Be… addicted to progress, as your teacher used to say.
Summary: Clark gives a heartfelt wedding speech <3
Word count: 1.9k+
Warnings: fluff
A/N:
this is something that was in my drafts for ages lol so I aoplogize beforehand if its bad xxx
English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.
Happy reading xxx
I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.
The music fades into something gentle, something warm, the kind of melody that doesn’t demand attention but wraps itself around the room like a shared sigh. It's quietly alive beneath the low murmur of voices, beneath the clinking of glasses and soft laughter, until the reception hall feels less like a place and more like a feeling like contentment, joy, love settling comfortably into every corner.
Your feet ache from hours of dancing, from spinning and swaying and being pulled back into Clark’s arms again and again like gravity itself insists on it. Your cheeks ache from smiling so much it feels unfamiliar, like you’ve unlocked a muscle you didn’t know you were capable of using this way. And your heart feels so full it borders on painful, like it might burst right out of your chest if you let yourself think too hard about the fact that this is real.
You’re married.
Clark’s hand is warm in yours, fingers laced together easily, naturally, as if they were always meant to fit that way. His thumb moves in slow, unconscious circles against your skin, grounding and steady. He hasn’t let go of you all night. Not during the dances, not during the laughter, not even when people pulled him away for congratulations. Somehow, he always found his way back.
He leans down now, tall frame bending instinctively toward you, and his lips brush your ear as he whispers.
“You okay?” he asks softly.
It’s the same question he’s asked you a thousand times before. On quiet mornings. On difficult nights. In moments of fear and moments of joy. Like he’s checking in not because he doubts you, but because he wants to know you, every second of you.
You nod, a quiet laugh slipping out before you can stop it. “Perfect,” you whisper back.
The word feels fragile in your mouth. Too small. Too simple for something this big, this overwhelming, this achingly beautiful. But it’s the only word that doesn’t crumble under the weight of everything you’re feeling.
Perfect.
Clark smiles, the kind of smile meant just for you—soft at the edges, full of warmth. His forehead dips briefly to rest against your temple, and for half a second, the rest of the world disappears entirely.
Then—
The sharp, clear clink of a glass cuts gently through the room.
Heads turn. Conversations taper off. Chairs scrape softly against the floor as people shift, attention drawn forward. The energy changes—not abruptly, but expectantly, like the air before a deep breath.
You feel it before you see it.
Clark straightens beside you, shoulders rolling back just slightly as he draws in a breath. It sounds different than his usual steady inhale—just a little unsteady, just a little heavier. His hand tightens around yours, not enough to hurt, just enough to anchor himself.
Across the room, Lois grins like she’s been waiting for this moment all night. She raises her glass with a playful tilt.
“Well,” she calls out, voice bright and teasing, “I guess it’s the groom’s turn for a speech.”
Laughter ripples through the hall—warm, affectionate, filled with familiarity. A few cheers follow. Someone whistles. Martha presses a hand to her chest, eyes already shining.
You feel Clark squeeze your hand just a bit tighter.
He stands.
And somehow—somehow—even now, after the vows spoken with trembling voices, after the rings slipped onto waiting fingers, after the laughter, the tears, the kisses, the dancing—your breath still catches at the sight of him.
Clark Kent.
Your husband.
He looks impossibly handsome, suit slightly rumpled from hours of movement, hair not quite as perfectly neat as it was earlier. There’s a softness to him now, an openness, like the weight of the day has settled into his bones in the best way. He adjusts the microphone with careful hands, clearing his throat once, then again.
He glances out at the room—at his parents, at friends, at coworkers, at people who have loved him for years and people who have only just begun to know him.
Then his eyes find you.
They always do.
The room seems to fade.
He clears his throat once.
Then again.
The sound carries softly through the microphone, small and human and unmistakably him. A few people smile already, recognizing the nerves he didn’t quite manage to hide.
“Uh,” he starts, and a gentle chuckle rolls through the crowd before he can stop himself. Clark huffs out a quiet laugh, one corner of his mouth lifting as he rubs the back of his neck. “Hi.”
The laughter that follows is warm, affectionate. Not mocking, never that. It’s the sound of people who love him, who know him. You feel it ripple through the room and settle in your chest like a familiar embrace.
You smile back at him without thinking, heart swelling at the sight of his sheepish grin, the faint flush at his cheeks. Even now, even today, he looks a little surprised that everyone is looking at him like this.
“I—” He exhales, shaking his head slightly. “This wasn’t supposed to make me nervous,” he admits, glancing down at the podium for a moment before lifting his gaze again. His eyes shine—not with fear, but with something too big to hold quietly. “I’ve… I’ve talked in front of people before.”
That earns another ripple of knowing smiles, a few murmured laughs. Lois raises her eyebrows theatrically from her table. Someone near the back mutters, “Understatement,” and Clark smiles wider, shoulders loosening just a fraction.
“But this—” His voice softens, dropping into something more intimate. “This feels bigger.”
He looks at you again.
This time, he doesn’t look away.
The room seems to dim around the edges, like the world has gently narrowed until it’s just the two of you. You feel his gaze settle into you—steady, reverent, full of awe—as if he’s memorizing this moment all over again.
“When I was a kid,” Clark begins, “my parents taught me that love is a choice.”
Jonathan nods slowly, pride and emotion written plainly across his face. Martha presses a hand to her mouth, eyes already glassy.
“They taught me that it’s something you show up for every day,” Clark continues. “Not just when it’s easy. Not just when it’s loud or grand. But in the quiet moments. The ordinary ones. The ones no one else sees.”
His voice is calm, but there’s weight in it—years of belief, of lessons learned at a kitchen table in Smallville.
“They showed me that love is steady,” he says. “Patient. Real.”
He swallows.
“And for a long time… I thought love was something I watched from the outside.”
Your throat tightens instantly, like your body knows where this is going before your mind catches up.
“I thought it was fragile,” he admits, the word chosen carefully. “Temporary. Something that people were kind enough to offer—but not something that stayed.”
He lets out a breath, slow and controlled.
“I learned how to stand on the edges. How to protect myself by not reaching too far. By not wanting too much.”
Your chest aches.
“Then I met you.”
The words are simple. Unadorned.
The room goes completely silent.
So quiet you can hear the distant clink of glass from the bar, the subtle hitch in Clark’s breathing as he steadies himself.
“You didn’t just see me,” he says, voice thickening. “You looked at me.”
His eyes flicker over your face, your tears, your smile, the way you’re holding yourself together by sheer will.
“You asked questions,” he continues. “You listened to the answers. Even the ones I didn’t know how to explain yet.”
A tear slips free, trailing down your cheek.
“You stayed,” Clark says, emotion creeping into every syllable. “Even when I tried to pull away. Even when I didn’t know how to let someone stand that close.”
His hands curl briefly at his sides.
“Even when I didn’t think I deserved to be chosen.”
Your vision blurs completely now. You don’t bother wiping the tears away. You don’t want to miss a single second of this.
“You taught me,” Clark says, voice steadier now, grounded by the truth of it, “that love isn’t about being perfect.”
He shakes his head softly.
“It’s about being honest. About letting someone see every part of you. The strong parts, the hopeful parts… and the scared ones too.”
His hand lifts slightly, fingers twitching like he wants to reach for you, to ground himself in your touch. He lets it fall back to his side, trusting the moment to hold him instead.
“I’ve faced a lot of impossible things in my life,” he says quietly.
There’s a murmur of understanding. Some knowing, some unaware of just how true that statement is.
“But loving you?” He lets out a breath that sounds almost like a laugh. “That’s never been hard.”
His smile is soft, genuine, awed.
“It’s the easiest, most natural thing I’ve ever known.”
Someone sniffles loudly. Then another. You hear a quiet sob near the front row.
“You make me laugh when the world feels heavy,” Clark continues. “You remind me to rest when I forget that I’m allowed to. You remind me that hope isn’t just something to fight for, it’s something to live in.”
His voice cracks, just slightly, and he pauses.
Just long enough to breathe.
“And today,” he says, swallowing hard, “you said yes.”
A fresh wave of tears spills over your lashes.
“You chose me,” he says, awe clear in his voice. “Not just for today. But for every day after this.”
He shakes his head, overwhelmed.
“Every morning. Every night. Every version of me I haven’t even grown into yet.”
His eyes glisten openly now.
“And I promise—” His voice wavers, and he doesn’t try to hide it. “I promise to choose you right back.”
He smiles through tears.
“On the quiet days. On the hard days. On the days when we’re dancing barefoot in the kitchen at midnight,” a few soft laughs ripple through the room, “and the days when we’re too tired to speak at all.”
His breath shudders.
“I promise to protect your heart as fiercely as I protect this world,” he says, the words heavy with meaning. “To listen when you speak. To learn when I fall short. To grow with you, not away from you.”
He straightens, voice steadier now, stronger.
“To love you with everything I am,” he says. “Human. Hopeful. And whole.”
His gaze never leaves yours.
“You are my home,” Clark finishes, barely above a whisper. “My greatest truth.”
A tear slips down his cheek.
“My forever.”
For a moment, no one moves.
It’s like the entire room is holding its breath.
Then it breaks.
Applause crashes through the hall. Cheers. Tears. Open sobbing. Martha stands, hands pressed together, crying without restraint. Jonathan wipes at his eyes, jaw tight with pride. Lois is a complete mess—mascara streaked, laughing and crying at the same time as she claps.
Clark sets the microphone down gently and walks straight toward you.
You stand before you even realize you’ve moved.
You meet him halfway, hands coming up to cradle his face, thumbs brushing away tears as he leans his forehead against yours, breath warm, familiar.
“I meant every word,” he whispers, voice breaking.
You laugh softly through your tears, pressing a kiss to his lips, then another. “I know,” you whisper back.
The room erupts again—cheers, applause, joy—but it all fades into the background.
Summary: While moving in together, you find something Clark never meant you to read yet.
Word count: 7k+
Warnings: fluff
A/N:
English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.
Happy reading xxx
I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.
The new apartment smells like cardboard and fresh paint and the faint trace of Clark’s cologne. Clean, warm, familiar. The kind of scent that settles into your lungs and makes you exhale without realizing you were holding your breath.
Home already, somehow.
You’re sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, surrounded by half-opened boxes and crumpled packing paper, when Clark straightens up in the kitchen doorway. He’s holding an empty cabinet door in one hand, brow furrowed in concentration, until he notices you looking at him.
That sheepish, boyish smile appears. The one that still makes your chest flutter even after everything. After years. After knowing him in ways the world never will.
“We forgot paper towels,” he says, solemn. Like it’s a confession. Like this might be the thing that finally proves neither of you is qualified to live like an adult.
You blink at him for a second. Then laugh.
“Of course we did,” you say, shaking your head. “We remembered the coffee maker but not paper towels.”
He winces slightly. “That’s on me.”
“No, it’s on us, baby,” you say. “This is a shared failure.”
He laughs softly, relief easing his shoulders. “I’ll be back in five minutes,” he promises, already reaching for his jacket. “Ten, max. I’ll just run downstairs.”
He hesitates before leaving, eyes lingering on you in a way that feels deliberate. Like he’s committing the image to memory, your hair pulled back messily, one of his old t-shirts hanging loose on you, surrounded by boxes labeled Kitchen and Bedroom and Our Stuff in his careful handwriting.
He steps closer, crouches down in front of you.
Before you can say anything, he leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead. It’s soft. Unhurried. The kind of kiss that doesn’t ask for anything, doesn’t rush toward the next moment. Just affection, given freely.
Like he has nowhere else he’d rather be.
“Don’t unpack anything suspicious without me,” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin.
You snort. “No promises.”
That earns you a grin—fond, hopelessly in love—and then he’s standing again, slipping on his jacket, glancing back one more time before opening the door.
The lock clicks behind him.
The apartment goes quiet.
Not empty, but peaceful. The kind of quiet that exists only when you’re building something with someone. When silence isn’t absence, but comfort.
You sit there for a moment longer than necessary, just taking it in. The light filtering through the windows. The way the space already feels shaped around him. Around you.
Then you turn back to unpacking.
Clark’s boxes are… exactly what you expect.
Neat. Carefully taped. Every one labeled in that slightly slanted handwriting you know so well. You open a box marked Kitchen and find everything wrapped meticulously, towels folded evenly, utensils bundled together with rubber bands.
You smile to yourself. Of course he did this.
The next box reads Books (Misc.).
That one draws your attention immediately.
You open it and begin lifting out familiar spines—journalism textbooks from college, thick hardcovers with cracked spines, novels he insists he only read once but you’ve caught him rereading late at night more times than you can count. There’s a battered paperback with a folded corner you recognize; he’s had that one since before you met.
Each book feels like a quiet reminder: I know you. I know this life.
Then your fingers brush against something that doesn’t feel like the others.
Smooth. Cool. Leather.
You pause.
Nestled between two hardcovers is a notebook. Dark blue. Leather-bound. The edges are worn, the spine softened like it’s been opened and closed many times. Cherished.
You lift it carefully, like it might be fragile.
Your brow furrows.
You’ve been dating Clark for a while now. Long enough to know his habits. His routines. Long enough to know he’s not the kind of man who leaves things unexplained—not intentionally, anyway.
And he doesn’t keep a diary.
You’ve never seen him write in anything like this. Never noticed a notebook tucked away. Never seen him carry it, never heard him mention it in passing. For someone who’s otherwise so transparent with you, this feels… different.
Private.
Your thumb rests against the edge of the cover.
A small voice in your head speaks up, gentle but firm.
This is private.
You hesitate, the weight of the notebook suddenly heavier in your hands. You imagine Clark’s careful way of holding things he values. The way he looks at you when he thinks you aren’t paying attention. The trust between you—earned, mutual, precious.
You should put it back.
But curiosity slips in—not sharp or invasive, just confused. Tender. The kind that comes from closeness, not entitlement.
Why has he never mentioned this?
You glance once toward the door, as if he might somehow already be back, watching.
Your fingers tremble slightly as you open the cover.
Just a peek, you tell yourself. Just the first page.
The paper inside is thick, slightly yellowed with age.
And then you see the handwriting.
Clark’s.
Careful. Earnest. Familiar.
Your breath catches in your throat as you read the first line.
For my wife, Y/N.
Your heart stutters so hard you actually have to put a hand to your chest.
For a second, you think you’ve misread it. That your eyes are playing tricks on you. You blink once. Twice.
The words don’t change.
Wife.
The room tilts, just slightly—not enough to knock you over, but enough to make everything feel unreal, like the ground has shifted beneath your feet. You sink back onto your heels, the notebook heavy in your hands, heavier than any box you’ve lifted all day.
Wife.
He hasn’t proposed.
You’ve talked about the future—carefully at first, like people do when they’re afraid to hope too much. Conversations that started with someday and maybe and eventually grew into when and we. You’ve talked about living together, about places you might want to travel, about growing old in ways that felt half-joking and half-serious.
But this?
This feels like peeking behind a curtain you weren’t meant to see yet. Like stepping into a moment that was supposed to belong to another day. Another version of you—dressed up, heart racing, standing across from him while he asks the question out loud.
Your hands tremble as you turn the page.
The paper whispers softly, like it knows it’s holding something sacred.
I’ve held this diary since the moment I met you in the Daily Planet lunchroom. November 30th, 2021. The day my world changed color, suddenly brighter, like a rainbow I didn’t know I’d been missing.
Your breath catches painfully in your throat.
November 30th, 2021.
You remember that day. The awful salad. The broken microwave. The sandwich he offered you like it was the most natural thing in the world. You remember thinking he was kind in a way that felt rare, disarming.
You didn’t know you’d changed his world.
Tears blur the ink almost immediately. You swipe at your eyes with the back of your hand, then stop—afraid of smudging the words, as if they might disappear if you’re not careful enough with them.
I’m giving you this on our wedding day. I don’t know what our lives will look like then, or how many ordinary, beautiful days will have passed between now and that moment, but I know this much with absolute certainty.
If one day, any day, you ever feel like I don’t love you, like I’ve grown distant or the world has tried to convince you otherwise, I want you to open these pages and see how completely, how endlessly, you are wrong.
Every word here is proof of how I fell in love with you and how I kept falling, again and again, without ever meaning to stop. I loved you then. I love you now. I will love you for the rest of my life.
Yours forever,
Kal-El
Your chest aches in the best, most devastating way.
It’s not the sharp kind of pain. It’s warm and overwhelming, like your heart has grown too big for your body. Like something is blooming inside you without asking permission.
Never stopped falling for you.
You press the notebook to your chest for a moment, breathing around the emotion, trying to steady yourself. The apartment feels impossibly quiet, like it’s holding its breath with you.
Then, slowly, reverently, you keep reading.
Every page is dated.
Every entry is a memory you recognize.
11/30/2021
I think I met the love of my life today.
I don’t know if that’s ridiculous. I don’t know if it’s too soon to even write that sentence. But if I don’t write it down, I’m afraid I’ll convince myself later that I imagined how it felt.
Daily Planet lunchroom. Same cracked tile floor. The microwave was broken again. Someone burned popcorn. Perry was arguing with someone down the hall. It was just… another day.
And then she was there.
She was sitting by herself at one of the small tables near the window, shoulders slightly hunched, staring at a salad like it had personally wronged her. She looked exhausted. Not just physically, like the world had asked too much of her lately. There was something about the way she sighed that made my chest tighten.
I don’t usually act on impulse. I think too much. I hesitate. I measure consequences.
But today I didn’t.
I walked over and held out half my sandwich before my brain could stop me. I didn’t even introduce myself first. Just said something awkward about how the salad looked like it needed backup.
She looked up at me, like really looked, and for half a second I thought I’d made a mistake.
Then she smiled.
Not polite. Not small. A real smile that reached her eyes. She laughed and said I was “brave but misguided,” and suddenly the noise of the room faded into nothing. I don’t know how else to describe it. It was like the air changed density. Like the world sharpened into focus around her.
We talked. About nothing important. About everything. She teased me gently. Asked questions that showed she was actually listening to the answers. When I told her my name, she repeated it like it mattered. When she told me her name, I repeated it because it did matter.
When she went back to work, I stood there for a second too long, holding the empty plate, feeling… undone.
My hands were shaking.
I’ve lifted mountains. I’ve stopped trains mid-crash. I’ve flown through storms without fear.
I have never, ever felt like this.
If this is love, then it’s quieter than I expected. Steadier. Like something ancient settling into place.
I don’t know what will happen next.
I just know I don’t want to forget how today felt.
12/14/2021
First date.
Coffee was supposed to be an hour. That’s what I told myself before I left my apartment. That’s what I told her when we sat down. I even checked the time at the start, like that would somehow keep things contained.
It didn’t.
It lasted almost four hours, and I didn’t notice the time passing until my cup had gone cold and the café started emptying around us. I don’t think either of us wanted to be the one to say it first, that it should probably end, like saying it out loud would break something fragile.
She talks with her hands when she’s excited. I noticed that almost immediately. Little movements at first, then bigger ones when she got passionate about a story. She smiles before she finishes her sentences, like she already knows how they’ll land. And when she listens, really listens, she tilts her head just slightly, eyes focused, like she’s saving every word somewhere important.
No one has ever listened to me like that before.
I found myself talking more than I usually do. About work. About Kansas. About things I don’t normally share. It felt natural, like my mouth was ahead of my caution for once. She never rushed me. Never looked bored. Every response made me want to tell her more.
When we finally left, neither of us wanted to go straight home, so we walked. No destination. Just side by side, letting the city unfold around us. The air was cold, and she tucked her hands into her coat sleeves. I kept noticing small things, the way she matched her pace to mine without realizing it, the way she pointed out things she liked as if she wanted me to see the world through her eyes.
The city felt different with her there. Smaller. Kinder. Like it was giving us space. Letting us borrow it for a while.
I kept thinking I should impress her. Say something clever. Something charming. Something worthy of the way she looked at me. But every time our eyes met, my chest felt too full for pretense. Every rehearsed line disappeared. All I could do was be honest.
And she seemed to like that.
I felt safe.
That word keeps circling back. Safe. Not because I’m strong, not because I could protect her if I had to, but because I didn’t feel like I had to be anything other than myself. I didn’t feel watched. Or measured. Or like I was hiding parts of who I am.
I walked her home and stopped outside her building. I told myself not to linger.
I lingered anyway.
When she said goodbye, smiled at me one last time, and turned toward the door, I felt it, physically, like something tugged inside my chest, like part of me wanted to follow her without question.
I stood there longer than necessary after she went inside, just breathing, memorizing the feeling.
I replayed her laugh the entire way home.
I still am.
01/22/2022
Dinner with her.
We went somewhere small tonight. Nothing fancy. One of those places that smells like oil and salt and warmth the moment you open the door. The kind where the tables wobble slightly and the menu hasn’t changed in years.
She ordered before me because she already knew what she wanted. I liked that. I ordered fries, intending to share them, but I didn’t say it out loud. I just assumed. That probably says something.
They came out hot, steam curling into the air between us. We talked while they cooled, about work, about something she’d read, about nothing important. I was halfway through a story when she reached over.
No asking. No hesitation. Just gently, like it was understood.
She took one fry, careful not to brush my hand, and went right back to listening like she hadn’t just done something quietly significant.
She didn’t even look guilty.
A few seconds later, she noticed me staring.
“What?” she asked, smiling around the bite.
The corner of her mouth curved up like she already knew the answer. I felt my face ache from smiling back before I even realized I was doing it.
Anyone else, I would’ve said something. Joked. Pretended to be annoyed.
Instead, I felt… calm.
Something settled into place inside me. Not a spark. Not a rush. Something steadier. Like my body recognized her before my mind caught up. Like some part of me had already decided: this is where you’re supposed to be.
I didn’t mind losing the fry.
I didn’t mind anything at all.
Oh.
This is it.
This is how it starts, not fireworks or drama or some grand moment you tell people about.
Just a shared table. Warm food. Easy silence.
Belonging.
03/05/2022
Fifth date.
I told her.
I knew I was going to tonight. I’d known all day, maybe longer. The thought sat in my chest like a weight—heavy, necessary. I kept telling myself that if this was going to be real, if she was going to be real to me, then she deserved the truth. All of it.
Still, my hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
We were sitting close, closer than before. The lights were low. The city outside the window hummed softly, distant and unaware that my entire world was about to split open. I could hear my own heartbeat. I kept rehearsing the words in my head, terrified that if I didn’t say them perfectly, I’d lose her.
Superman.
Krypton.
The truth.
I’ve faced down enemies without fear. I’ve stood between the world and destruction without hesitation. But tonight, my palms were damp, my throat tight, my voice almost too small to trust.
I told her anyway.
I told her who I am. Where I come from. What I can do. What I can’t. I told her about the loneliness. About the responsibility. About how sometimes it feels like I’m made of glass despite being unbreakable.
I watched her face the entire time.
I was ready, so ready for her to pull away. To stiffen. To look at me like I was something dangerous or unknowable. I was ready for disbelief, fear, distance. Ready for the sound of my own heart breaking quietly while I pretended I understood.
She didn’t do any of that.
She didn’t interrupt. She didn’t stare at me like I was a spectacle. She didn’t flinch when I said the word Superman. She didn’t look for the door.
She listened.
The same way she always does. Head tilted slightly, eyes steady, hands folded together like this mattered. Like I mattered.
When I finished, the silence stretched. I could barely breathe. I felt exposed in a way I never have before. Like I’d peeled myself open and handed her everything unguarded.
Then she reached for me.
She took my hand—warm, grounding, real—and said, “Thank you for trusting me.”
That was it.
Not I need time.
Not I’m scared.
Not I don’t know what to say.
Just gratitude.
Trust meeting trust.
Something inside me broke open then. Something old and carefully guarded. I didn’t realize how much of myself I’d been holding back until that moment, how alone I’d been even when surrounded by people.
I don’t think she knows what that moment did to me.
I don’t think she knows she became my safe place tonight. That for the first time in my life, the truth didn’t feel like a burden, it felt like a bridge.
I fell in love with her again. Deeper than before. Permanently. In a way that doesn’t fade or loosen or ask permission.
If she ever doubts how much she means to me, I want her to remember this night.
I want me to remember it.
06/18/2022
She fell asleep on my shoulder.
We were supposed to watch the movie all the way through. She picked it. I remember that, she was excited about it, insisted it was better than I thought it would be. She curled up beside me like she always does, close enough that our arms touched, close enough that I could feel her warmth even before she leaned into me.
About halfway through, her head tipped just slightly toward my shoulder. I felt it before I saw it, the gentle weight of her settling, like she was testing whether it was okay.
I didn’t move.
A few minutes later, she tucked herself in properly, her head resting just under my chin, her hair brushing my jaw. Her breathing changed slowly, quietly, until it evened out into something soft and steady. The kind of breathing that only happens when someone feels completely safe.
I could feel everything. Every small shift of her weight. Every tiny exhale. The way her fingers twitched once, then relaxed, trusting I was there.
The movie kept playing. The plot resolved. The credits rolled.
I didn’t move.
Forty-two minutes passed. I know because I counted, not because I was bored, but because I wanted to remember how long I’d been allowed to hold this moment. My arm started to ache. My shoulder went numb.
I didn’t care.
I’ve stopped disasters. I’ve lifted impossible things. I’ve been praised for saving the world more times than I can count.
Tonight, the most important thing I did was stay perfectly still so she could rest.
I watched the rise and fall of her chest. I memorized the way she fit against me, like she had always been meant to. I thought—very quietly—that if this was all love ever asked of me, I would give it gladly.
I would do it forever if she asked.
And if she never did, I think I still would.
09/02/2022
Work.
Nothing remarkable was supposed to happen today.
Just another morning at the Planet. I was standing by my desk pretending to read an article when I felt it.
That gentle pull. That awareness.
I looked up without thinking.
She was across the newsroom, half-hidden behind a monitor, focused on her screen. And then—like she felt me looking—she glanced up.
Just a second. Maybe less.
Our eyes met.
She smiled.
Not big. Not obvious. Just enough. Just for me.
My heart did something ridiculous. The kind of thing I’d laugh at if it were anyone else. I felt it in my chest, in my hands, all the way down to my feet like I’d forgotten how gravity worked for a moment.
We didn’t speak. We didn’t wave. We didn’t need to.
It felt like a secret we were sharing in plain sight, something small and precious tucked between deadlines and coffee cups.
I looked back down at my desk, fully aware that my smile was impossible to hide.
I still get nervous when she looks at me like that.
I’ve faced impossible odds. I’ve stood against things that should have terrified me. But that quiet smile across the newsroom still makes my pulse stumble like I’m fifteen and hopelessly obvious about it.
She makes me feel young. Not careless, but alive. Like someone who’s still discovering what love can be, who hasn’t reached the end of the feeling yet.
Lois noticed. Of course she did. She smirked when she passed my desk.
Jimmy noticed, he raised his eyebrows and whispered “cute.”
Cat noticed. Steve noticed. I think Perry noticed too, though he pretended not to.
I don’t care.
They can notice all they want.
All I want—all I will ever want—is for her eyes to keep finding mine. In crowded rooms. In quiet mornings. Across every place life puts us.
For the rest of my life.
11/30/2022
One year.
I don’t think I really understood what today would feel like until it was already happening. I knew it mattered. I knew it was important. But I didn’t expect the weight of it, the way it would sit in my chest all evening, heavy and warm and almost too much to hold all at once.
A year.
That sounds so small when you say it out loud. Twelve months. Three hundred sixty-five ordinary days stacked gently on top of each other. Days that didn’t look remarkable from the outside. Days filled with work and quiet dinners and laughter over nothing.
But when I looked at her tonight, really looked at her, I felt the miracle of it.
The fact that she’s chosen me. Every day. For an entire year.
Not the idea of me. Not the parts that are easy or impressive. Me. The quiet mornings. The long nights. The truths she learned early and never turned away from.
She gave me her gift first.
She didn’t hand it to me right away. She asked me to sit down, her voice careful, almost shy. I noticed her hands shaking as she set it on the table between us, wrapped in brown paper, the edges taped too neatly. Like she’d redone it more than once. Like she’d worried about it.
“I need you to know,” she said quietly, eyes fixed on the package instead of me, “I tried my best.”
That alone made my chest tighten.
When I unwrapped it, I understood why she’d been nervous.
It was a painting.
Not small. Not casual. Not something done in an afternoon. This was time. Intention. Patience. The kind of work you only do when you’re willing to put your heart somewhere visible and vulnerable.
It was the farm.
My parents’ farm.
She’d painted it in late-afternoon light, the kind that turns everything golden and soft, the kind that always made me feel safe growing up. The house stood steady and familiar, the porch just right, the fields stretching out behind it the way they always do. Endless. Open. Like they belong to anyone who needs space to breathe.
And in the center—
All of us.
Ma and Pa.
Me.
And them.
My birth parents.
All of us standing together, arms around one another, no distance between us. No time separating what was lost from what was found. No planets. No years. No absence.
Just together.
Like it was always meant to be that way.
For a second, I couldn’t breathe.
She rushed to explain, words tumbling over each other as if she were afraid the silence meant she’d done something wrong.
She told me she used pictures to paint the farm I have hanging in my apartment since she hasn’t been there yet. Told me she watched the video again—the one that came with me when I was sent to Earth—paused it, rewound it, studied my birth parents’ faces so she wouldn’t get them wrong.
She told me she didn’t want to mess it up. That she just kept thinking—
Her voice softened then.
—that they’d want to see me happy. That my parents—all of them—belong together in my life. Even if it never looked like this in real life.
My hands were shaking when I held the frame.
She painted Ma’s smile exactly right. The gentleness in my Pa's eyes. That quiet pride he never needs to announce. And my birth parents—hopeful, loving, looking at me like I was everything.
She gave me something I didn’t even know how to ask for.
A world where nothing was lost.
I didn’t cry right away. I think I was too overwhelmed. I just stared, memorizing every brushstroke, every careful decision she’d made with love. Trying to understand how someone could see me so clearly.
“I didn’t know if it was okay,” she whispered. “But it felt important.”
I pulled her into my chest without thinking. I couldn’t help it. I needed to feel her there, solid and real.
It was the most understood I have ever felt in my life.
Then it was my turn.
I won’t pretend I didn’t agonize over her gift. I did. For weeks. I wanted it to be something beautiful. Something lasting. Something that carried meaning even if the words failed me.
Inside the small velvet box was a necklace.
Gold. Delicate. The chain thin and warm. And at its center, a butterfly—crafted so carefully it looked like it might lift off at any second if the light caught it just right.
She went very still when she saw it.
I remembered something she told me once—quietly, almost like she didn’t want to make it important. That butterflies were her mother’s favorite. That they reminded her of gentleness. Of transformation. Of staying, even after someone leaves.
I chose it because of that.
Because I wanted her to have something close to her heart. Something that carried love forward instead of marking loss. Something that said she is held—by memory, by love, by me.
It cost more than I usually allow myself to spend on anything. More than was practical. More than was reasonable.
But she’s worth it.
All of it.
She cried then.
Not loudly. Just leaned into me, clutching the necklace like it was something fragile and sacred. My hands weren’t steady when I fastened it around her neck. I don’t think I trusted myself to be.
It looked like it belonged there.
We didn’t say much after that.
We just sat together, her painting propped carefully against the wall, the butterfly warm against her skin, the quiet settling around us like a promise.
A year.
One year of choosing each other. Of learning each other. Of loving in ways that still surprise me.
I still can’t believe she’s with me.
I still wake up amazed that someone so thoughtful, so kind, so deeply human, has chosen to share her life with mine.
If this is what one year feels like, I want all the years.
Every single one.
With her.
02/11/2023
She had a bad day.
I knew the moment I saw her.
She tried to hide it, smiled when she walked in, asked how my day was—but her shoulders were too tight, her voice just a little too careful. I didn’t call it out right away. I’ve learned that sometimes she needs space to land before she can let go.
Later, when the apartment had gone quiet, she finally sat beside me on the couch and exhaled like she’d been holding her breath all day.
She didn’t want fixing.
She didn’t want answers.
She didn’t want me to make it better.
She just wanted someone to sit with her.
So I did.
I stayed exactly where I was. Close enough that our knees touched. Close enough that she could lean if she wanted to—but I didn’t pull her in until she chose it herself. When she finally rested her head against my shoulder, it felt like permission.
I wrapped an arm around her slowly, carefully, like she was something precious.
We didn’t talk much. A few quiet words. Long stretches of silence. I could feel the tension leaving her shoulders little by little, like she was setting something heavy down piece by piece. Like she trusted me to hold the weight with her, even if I couldn’t take it away.
I watched her breathe. I watched her relax.
I wished—again—that she could see herself the way I do.
Strong, even when she’s tired.
Kind, even when the world hasn’t been.
Brilliant in ways she never gives herself credit for.
Braver than she knows, simply for showing up every day and trying.
She thinks strength looks loud. Unbreakable.
But this—this quiet endurance, this softness she allows only with me—this is the bravest thing I’ve ever seen.
Loving her feels like standing in sunlight. Not blinding. Not overwhelming. Just steady and warm and certain. Like something you can build a life in.
I finally understand what “home” means.
It isn’t a place.
It’s this moment, her leaning into me, the world quiet for a while, knowing I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
With her.
07/29/2023
She met my parents today.
I’ve been nervous about a lot of things in my life. I’ve faced fear head-on more times than I can count. But today, today my stomach was in knots in a way that surprised me.
I brought her home.
Not just to Kansas. Not just to the farm.
Home.
I didn’t warn her much beforehand. Maybe I should have. I only said that my parents would love her, and that was true—but it didn’t feel like enough. I don’t think I realized until today how much it mattered to me that they see her the way I do.
She wore something simple. Comfortable. Herself. She was polite without being stiff, warm without trying too hard. When Ma hugged her, I watched her melt into it like she’d been waiting for that kind of welcome without knowing it.
Ma loved her instantly. I could tell by the way she touched her arm when she laughed, by how quickly she started asking questions—not the polite kind, but the ones you ask when you want to know someone. Pa watched quietly at first, like he always does, measuring more than he speaks.
Then she offered to help in the kitchen.
She didn’t have to. She just did. Like she belonged there.
I stood in the doorway for a while, pretending not to watch as she laughed with Ma, as flour dusted her hands, as she listened to stories about me growing up with the same attention she always gives me. I saw something in Pa's expression then. Something soft, approving, settled.
At dinner, she asked them about their lives. Their history. She listened when Pa talked about the land. She thanked Pa for the meal like it meant something to her.
When Pa finally said, “We’re glad you’re here,” I felt something loosen in my chest that I didn’t know I’d been holding.
Later, when she stepped outside with me and the cicadas filled the evening air, she slipped her hand into mine like it was second nature. Like she’d always known how to find me.
I realized then that this wasn’t just me bringing her into my world.
She was already part of it.
If there ever comes a day when she doubts—when the world feels loud or unkind or she wonders where she belongs—I want her to remember this. The way my mother smiled at her like she was already family. The way my father looked at her like she was someone worth trusting with what matters most.
I don’t know when I’ll say it out loud.
But today made something very clear to me.
She isn’t just someone I love.
She’s someone I’m building a life with.
Every single day.
10/26/2023
Tonight reminded me why I survive.
I came home barely holding myself together.
I don’t usually let it get that bad. I tell myself I won’t, that I’ll pull back sooner, that I’ll know my limits. But tonight I misjudged things. Strength. Timing. My own belief that I can always take one more hit if it means someone else doesn’t have to.
By the time I made it back to my apartment, my ribs felt like glass. Every breath was shallow and sharp, like my lungs were cutting against something broken inside me. My shoulder burned, deep, angry pain that wouldn’t quiet no matter how I shifted my weight. I could feel blood drying along my side, stiffening my suit, pulling at my skin every time I moved.
I didn’t knock.
I couldn’t risk standing upright long enough to do it.
I just leaned against the doorframe for a second, forehead pressed to the cool wood, wondering how much she’d see the moment I stepped inside. Wondering if I could make it to the couch without worrying her too much. Wondering—selfishly—if I could keep this from being one of the nights that lives in her fear.
She heard me anyway.
She always does.
The door opened before I could decide anything, and there she was.
Not panicked.
Not shouting my name.
Not frozen in shock.
Just there.
Her eyes found me instantly, sharp and assessing, taking everything in at once—the blood, the way I was favoring my right side, the way my shoulders were held too stiff, like they were bracing against pain I didn’t want to admit to yet.
I could hear her heart.
It was racing. Fast. Uneven. Terrified.
And still—her voice was calm.
“Hey,” she said softly, like she wasn’t looking at someone who’d barely made it home. Like she wasn’t scared out of her mind. “Come sit down. Slowly. I’ve got you.”
Those words, 'I’ve got you', did something to me. I felt my knees weaken the moment she said them, like my body finally believed it was allowed to stop fighting.
She moved with such care. Every step deliberate. Every touch gentle and precise, like she was handling something precious instead of broken. She didn’t rush me. Didn’t bombard me with questions or try to assess everything at once.
She knew (somehow) that her calm was the thing keeping me upright.
That her fear, however loud it was inside her, wasn’t what would help me heal.
I watched her swallow it down for me.
I watched her steady her hands before she touched me, watched her breathe slowly on purpose, watched her make herself quiet so I could finally exhale.
She helped me sit, eased my weight down inch by inch, murmuring small reassurances the whole time. Nothing dramatic. Nothing heroic. Just constant presence. Proof that I wasn’t alone in the room with the pain.
When she cleaned the blood from my hands, she did it like she’d done it a hundred times. Cloth warm, pressure careful, movements practiced. But I could hear her heart the entire time, still racing, still afraid.
It never slowed.
And still, she stayed steady.
She talked while she worked—not about what happened, not about what could have gone wrong. Just small things. The grocery list. Something funny she’d read earlier. The way the neighbor’s dog barked all afternoon.
Grounding sounds. Anchors.
I realized then how much effort it must take. How much strength it takes to choose calm when fear is screaming in your chest. How brave you have to be to love someone like me and still soften your hands when they come home hurt.
That’s when it hit me. Again.
Anyone can love the invincible part of me.
The symbol.
The strength.
The idea of safety.
But she loves the part of me that limps home at midnight, trying not to bleed on the floor. The part of me that miscalculates. The part of me that hurts. The part of me that needs someone else to be strong for a moment.
She didn’t ask me to be Superman tonight.
She let me just be Clark.
The way she held me—careful, unafraid, unwavering—did something to me. It settled somewhere deep and permanent, like a truth clicking into place.
I fell in love with her again tonight.
Not loudly.
Not all at once.
Just deeper.
And I don’t think there’s an end to how far that goes.
04/10/2025
We talked about moving in together.
It wasn’t supposed to be a big conversation.
We were sitting on the couch, legs tangled, the TV on low in the background. I don’t even remember what we were watching. She said it casually, almost offhand—something about how much time we already spend together, how it might just make sense.
My heart immediately started racing.
I tried to play it cool. I nodded. I said something reasonable. I even managed to keep my voice steady for a few seconds.
I failed.
I felt my smile give me away before I could stop it. I felt the warmth spread through my chest, that light, buoyant feeling that only she gives me. I don’t think I realized how much I’d been hoping for this until she said it out loud.
We talked about logistics—closets, commutes, who has the better couch—but underneath it all was something quieter and deeper. Certainty. Not excitement that burns out fast, but the kind that settles in and stays.
Ever since that conversation, my mind hasn’t stopped wandering.
I keep imagining mornings.
Her hair messy, sleep still clinging to her voice when she says my name. Sunlight spilling through the window, dust floating in the air like it’s been waiting just for us. The sound of her moving around the kitchen while I pretend not to watch, the comfort of knowing that no matter how the day unfolds, we’ll come back to each other at night.
I imagine shared spaces—books mixing on shelves, her things slowly finding their way into every corner. Little arguments about nothing. Quiet routines that become sacred simply because they’re ours.
I’ve already imagined a ring.
Not just the ring itself, but the way her eyes will widen when she realizes what I’m asking. The way her hands will shake just a little when I take hers. The way saying her name followed by my wife will feel like the most natural truth I’ve ever known.
I don’t know when I’ll ask.
I want it to be right. I want it to feel like us—honest, unhurried, full of love.
But I do know this: the answer has lived in me for a long time. Longer than I realized. Since the day I offered her half my sandwich in a noisy lunchroom and felt my world shift in a way I couldn’t name yet.
Everything since then has just been catching up.
If love is choosing someone every day, then I’ve already made my choice.
I’m just finally ready to say it out loud.
11/11/2025
Lois asked me today why I haven’t proposed yet.
She didn’t mean it unkindly. Lois rarely does, even when she pretends otherwise. We were finishing up a story, the newsroom mostly empty, and she leaned back in her chair, studied me for a long moment, then said it like it was obvious.
“So,” she said, “are you ever going to put a ring on her finger, or are you just going to keep pretending she’s not wildly out of your league?”
I laughed. I couldn’t help it.
Because she’s right.
I know she is.
I’ve always known.
Lois kept going, softer this time. “You love her. Anyone with eyes can see that. So what are you waiting for? You scared?”
I thought about that long after she turned back to her screen.
Am I scared?
Yes.
But not in the way she meant.
I’m not waiting because I’m unsure. I’m not hesitating because I don’t know what I want. I don’t wake up questioning whether she’s the one. That answer has lived in me for years now, steady and unmovable.
I’m waiting because I’ve never been this sure before in my life.
Everything else I’ve ever faced—every fight, every impossible choice—has always come with certainty baked in. I knew what had to be done. I knew I could endure it. I knew the risk.
This is different.
This isn’t about survival.
It’s about forever.
I want it to be right. I want it to feel like us—unrushed, honest, full of intention. I don’t want to trip over my own eagerness and risk losing something this precious by moving too fast, by letting the moment feel careless instead of considered.
She deserves a proposal that feels like a promise kept, not a step taken too quickly.
I want the timing to be gentle. The kind that says I chose you every day before this, and I will every day after.
I know she’s out of my league.
She always has been.
But she chose me anyway. She keeps choosing me. And that still humbles me more than I know how to say.
So no Lois, I’m not waiting because I’m afraid to commit.
I’m waiting because this is the most important question I will ever ask.
And when I ask it, I want my hands steady, my heart open, and the certainty she’s given me reflected back to her without doubt or hesitation.
I already know the answer.
I’m just making sure the moment honors how much she means to me.
Always.
Your tears fall freely now, blurring the words, splashing onto the pages of a love story written quietly, faithfully, just for you. You don’t try to stop them. There’s no point. This is what it feels like to be seen so completely it almost hurts.
The notebook trembles in your hands.
Then—
The soft jingle of keys at the door.
You gasp, sharp and startled, like you’ve been caught somewhere you weren’t supposed to be. Your head snaps up, heart slamming against your ribs. Panic flares—not guilt exactly, but something close enough to make your chest tighten. You scrub hastily at your cheeks with the heel of your hand, trying to erase the evidence, trying to breathe like your world hasn’t just quietly, irrevocably shifted.
The door opens.
Clark steps inside, paper towels tucked under his arm, jacket half-unzipped, hair slightly mussed from the breeze outside. He looks relaxed—content in that soft, domestic way he’s been wearing all day.
Happy.
Then his eyes find you.
Sitting on the floor.
Diary open in your hands.
Eyes red. Face flushed.
He freezes.
Not just still—suspended. Like time has paused mid-breath.
“…Hey,” he says carefully, voice gentle but alert, like he’s approaching something fragile. “What’s wrong?”
Your throat tightens painfully.
You push yourself to your feet slowly, the movement unsteady, like gravity has changed without warning. You clutch the notebook to your chest instinctively, fingers curling into the leather as if it might vanish if you don’t hold on tight enough.
“I—” Your voice breaks immediately. You swallow, try again. “I’m so sorry.”
That stops him.
He blinks, confusion flickering across his face. “Sorry?”
“I didn’t mean to,” you say quickly, the words tumbling out now that they’ve started. “I was unpacking and I found it and I didn’t know what it was and I shouldn’t have opened it, I know that, I just—” You shake your head, tears spilling again. “I’m really sorry, Clark. I never wanted to invade your privacy.”
For a heartbeat, he just looks at you.
Then realization dawns.
You watch it ripple across his face: the widening of his eyes, the sharp inhale, the way his shoulders tense as understanding crashes in. Horror. Embarrassment. Tender, helpless panic.
“Oh,” he breathes. “Oh—Y/N, I—”
The paper towels slip from his arm as he sets the bag down too fast, hands fumbling like his body can’t quite keep up with his thoughts. “No—hey, no, you didn’t do anything wrong. I swear, I wasn’t hiding it from you. I just—I wanted it to be for later. For the right moment.”
His voice falters, vulnerability bare on his face. “I was waiting. I didn’t want to rush it. I wanted everything to be… right.”
You shake your head, tears blurring your vision. “I know. I know. I just—reading it felt like stepping into something I wasn’t meant to see yet.”
His expression softens instantly.
Before either of you can say anything else, you cross the space between you in three quick steps and throw your arms around him.
Clark stiffens in surprise for half a second—pure reflex—before he melts into you completely. His arms wrap around you strong and sure, one hand pressing gently between your shoulder blades, the other cradling the back of your head like he’s afraid to let go.
He holds you like you’re something precious.
Like you’re fragile.
Like you’re endlessly, irrevocably loved.
You bury your face in his chest, breathing him in—home, warmth, safety—and your voice shakes when you speak.
“It’s the most beautiful thing anyone has ever written about me,” you whisper. “About us.”
He exhales, long and unsteady, like he’s been holding that breath for years. His forehead rests against yours, eyes closing briefly as if to steady himself. When he pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes are glossy, shining with emotion he isn’t trying to hide.
“You weren’t supposed to read it yet,” he murmurs softly, thumb brushing beneath your eye, wiping away a tear with reverent care. “I was waiting for the right moment to propose. After we settled in. After this felt like home.”
Your breath catches.
“But,” he continues quietly, a small, almost bashful smile tugging at his mouth, “everything in there is true. Every word. I’ve loved you since the moment you smiled at me over a sad microwave lunch.”
A wet laugh slips out of you despite everything. “You really wrote it all down.”
He nods, almost shy now. “I wanted proof,” he admits. “For you. For forever. In case the world ever got loud. In case you ever doubted how sure I am.”
You lift your hands to his face, cradling him the way he always cradles you, thumbs brushing his cheeks. Your heart feels too full, like it might burst if you don’t say this out loud.
“I don’t need proof,” you say softly. “But I’m really glad I have it.”
He smiles then.
Wide. Radiant. Hopelessly, undeniably in love.
And in that moment—standing barefoot in a half-unpacked apartment, surrounded by boxes and cardboard and the life you’re still building—you know.
Even without a ring.
Without a question asked out loud.
SUMMARY: if asked, Clark definitely wouldn't pick a quick trip to the Metropolis' Aquarium as the place to go on his — very rare — day off. That is, until he met the Aquarium's mermaid.
PAIRING: Corenswet!Clark Kent x black reader
A/N: Happy new years eve!!! My sister read the cards for me yesterday and it told me to take a leap of faith and start writing again, so this is me trying :D. Just to make it known to everyone: english is not my first language, so excuse any mistake or repetitions on my discourse, it's been a while. Also, I have never, ever, read anything comic related, so this is 100% based on Sup's new movie. Hope you like it :D
If Clark Kent had any say on that, a quick trip to Metropolis' Aquarium wasn't on his list of places to go on my day off.
And not for any particular reason; Clark loved animals — he was raised in a farm, so of course he did —, and as a child, the Smallvile Aquarium was one of his favorite places to go. The varied species of fish, the beautiful jellyfishes and, his personal favorite, the penguins were enough to distract him on his distraught moments growing up, when he was still discovering the extension of his powers. And while those days were far away in his past, sometimes he still found himself longing for those quiet moments at the aquarium with his parents, pointing at the glass with the innocent astonishment of a child.
Today he wasn't there as a child.
"Can you please remind me why we're here today?" Clark asked, clumsy moving his broad shoulders to keep from hitting someone, only to bump into another passerby, "I'm sorry" he pleaded, moving ahead without so much at taking a glance at whoever it was. It was useless, anyway: for someone whose daily job was to protect the city, he was not very coordinated, "Jimmy?".
Jimmy Olsen barely gave him a look as he moved expertly through the crowd, as if he knew that place by heart. Which, Clark conceded, wasn't that hard, considering his work colleague had been talking about this specific event for a while now. By his side, with hands on her pockets and looking as unbothered as ever, Lois Lane trudged silenty (which was, admittedly, a miracle considering Clark suspected she had a lot of thoughts about their impromptu trip), stopping every once in a while to read the small plaques boltered beside the enourmous glasses that housed the animals.
Jimmy didn't bother to answer Clark's question, probably because he was aware Clark knew exactly why they were there: the mermaid.
The Daily Prophet usually wouldn't cover news unrelated to anything that wasn't political, sports-related (where Clark used to write before he became Superman's number one journalist) or Superman related; but Perry White was spineless and very good at holding grudges, so when Jimmy made a less-than-superb job at writing an article, their boss was quick to send him to what (Clark deduced) should've been a punishment: covering the aquarium's new attraction, the mermaid.
Problem being: Jimmy didn't see it too much as a problem once he was back at the Planet, a grim from ear to ear as he explained the, as he posed it, "out of body experience" he'd been through.
"She's a mermaid, man!" he was sitting on Clark's desk, his eyes wandering into the unknown as he spoke with a dreamy rasp on his voice, "I mean, not a real mermaid, she's a human wearing mermaid tails and making acrobats under water. And she's... she's...".
"She's what, Olsen?" Lois asked, deciding it was pointless to pretend she wasn't listening to whatever he had to say, "Good? Bad?".
"You've got to see it for yourselves!" he replied instead, and Clark didn't have to look at Lois to know she was rolling her eyes, "Seriously, Lois! The girl is amazing. I thought this article would be shit, but hell no. I've gotta go back and see her again".
"Well, then" Lois clicked her tongue, "Clark and I will go with you next time, just to make sure you still can do your job right".
And there they were: a trio of reporters wandering on the aquarium on their day off, just to humour their possibly smitten friend. Because of a mermaid.
"Here we are!" Jimmy bellowed, opening up his arms in front of a glass pool similar to any other there, except this one was empty, "The mermaid's house".
"Hm" Lois crossed her arms in front of her body, and while she tried not to give it away, Clark was sure she was at least a bit impressed over the magnitude of that human aquarium. Clark was, too; while his kriptonian genetic gave him what it took to be under water for a while without having to breathe, he questioned himself how long a human person could do the same, "What's her name, again?".
"Whose name?" Jimmy asked, distractedly.
"The mermaid, Jimmy!" Lois replied, sighing heavily at their friend's antics, "Who else?".
"Oh!" Jimmy gulped, his face flushing slightly red. With a snort, Clark pushed his glasses up his nose, moving silently to the end of the aquarium, looking for a plaque similar to the others Lois had read, "Well, I don't know. Her stage name is mermaid, and I only had to talk about the show, so it wasn't necessary".
"So you didn't ask your crush's name?".
"I don't have a crush on her, I—".
Clark was fairly sure that talk was still going on around him, but he ignored it as he read the bronze letters that identified the presentation, "Meet the mermaid" he read in a low tone, aware that none of his companions would play attention, too entwined on their discussion, "Saved from captivity, the mermaid was brought to the aquarium to be kept safe in human land, after her kingdom was destroyed...".
"You'd think they'd come up with a better story. Y'know, so kids would be really convinced".
As someone who had super-human hearing, Clark was sure his ears had gone beet-red at the surprise coming from the scare this new voice had given him. He was quick to straighten up his pose, keeping his glasses from slipping out of his face.
"Oh, I'm sorry" you smiled at him, your nose scrunching in a way Clark could only describe as sweet, "Didn't wanna startle you".
Here's the thing about Clark: while Lois, the only person to really know his secret (which made her absolutely loathe whatever he wrote, but surprisingly never jeopardized their friendship) thought that Clark's dork side was just a disguise we wore to keep his double-identity safe, he knew it wasn't a facet — he was a big, burly man; his equilibrium was severely affected (for unknown reasons), the glasses he wore, though not real, seemed to keep him from seeing people walking around him on the streets, and he was, for lack of a better word, a complete dork. That wasn't something he perfected throughout his life, but rather something he already was.
So, whenever a pretty woman approached him (which didn't happen much, at least not that he noticed), it took him a second to understand what was happening, and what was behind that exchange.
With you, he was going through the same exact thing.
You were a beautiful woman. Astonishing, really. If Clark had been a better journalist, he probably would've been able to think about a lot of other words that could describe the woman in front of him, but he wasn't; his mouth agape, Clark took you in from head to toe: your purple braided hair with curled ends, rather than a full-on braid; your chestnut eyes that sparkled with a side of mischief; your full-lips with no lipstick on (actually, you wore no make-up at all); and the coat you wore that covered whatever clothes you wore under it. He thought about asking if you weren't feeling hot considering it was summer, but maybe he had been scrutinizing you for too long, and he didn't want to be a dork and a creep.
So he looked back up at your face, and your smile was still there, though one of your brows had gone up in a question that could either be "won't you answer me?" or "should I call the cops?". Yeah, maybe you should.
"Hmm, uh..." Clark cleared his throat, running his hand through his (already) messy hair, "Sorry, what did you say?".
Your smile broadened at his words, and Clark felt strangely happy at that. He knew he could make people laugh — his parents laughed at his jokes all the time, and his coworkers sometimes enjoyed his jokes (ok, Jimmy and Cat, Lois would never). This, however, was way more fulfilling than that, and he had no idea why.
"That this story should be more convincing" you repeated yourself, moving closer to his side so you both could stare at the plaque, "I mean, saved from captivity because her kingdom was destroyed? I kinda wished they just said they paid Ariel to make a few shows and then go back to her happily ever after with her prince, but who am I, right?".
Clark hummed, "I like your idea".
"Oh, thank you!" you patted him on the arm, and Clark felt goosebumps ran up his spine at the mere touch. God, this was embarassing — he was wearing a shirt, for God's sake! How come he got bumps from being touched on tissue? "I'm a storyteller, so I appreaciate it".
"You write?".
Your nod was vigorous and happy, and Clark knew by the quick pace of your beating heart (that he started to notice only now) that you were happy because he asked that, "Yeah! I wrote a book, it didn't sell well, though. How about you?".
"I've never wrote a book".
You laughed, "It would be a coincidence if you had, but I'm asking what you do for a living", Clark saw when you squinted your eyes toward him, and the way he adjusted his glasses was pure instinct rather than necessity: it was both something he did when he was nervous and something he did whenever he thought someone could discover his secret, "I think your familiar".
"I work at the Daily Prophet" he replied quickly, maybe too quickly, considering the way you flinched when he offered his hand for you to shake, "I'm Clark. Kent".
"Oh, yeah! The guy with the Superman interviews!" you said, snapping your fingers at the realization, "Yeah, that's right! There was a picture of you in the newspaper once, that's where I know you from".
Clark felt his relief slipping through his fingers at the mention of that picture; it had been an elaborated prank orchestrated by Jimmy and Lois when he joined the Planet — to print a picture of Clark beside his first collumn. The picture wasn't baffling in any way, and it was the office's joke for a while; when he sent the article to his parents, he purposefuly removed the picture from it, even though he knew they'd never make fun of him: the rest of Smallville certainly would.
"Hm, yeah" Clark rubbed the back of his neck as he nodded, suddenly looking for a way out of that conversation. Of course, he thought, of course she would've seen that picture. He was just that lucky, "Yeah, that was me".
"It was adorable" you replied with a gentle smile on your lips, tilting your head to the side in curiosity, "Are you here for the show? It's mostly a number for kids, are you here with one?".
Clark looked over your shoulders at his companions — Lois and Jimmy were still discussing over something, though their eyes sometimes traveled to where you both stood, curiosity all over their faces. Jimmy seemed eager to come in your direction, but Louis, petite as she was, but still stronger than Jimmy, kept him anchored on his place.
"Kinda" he replied with a shrug, "A friend came once and wanted to come again, so another friend said I'd come to, and now here we are".
"Here you are" you repeated, humored, "And how many friends you have?".
"Counting my parents?" Clark said before he could stop himself. It was incredible how he was always able to embarass himself even more than usual, "Six, I think. Some friends back in my hometown, but we don't talk as much..." he scrunched his nose. No, it wasn't true. While he had trouble keeping up with their antics, he still considered the Justice Gang his friends, despite this terrible name, "Ten. I've got ten friends".
"Adorable".
Not too good with words was a more accurate description, but Clark would go with adorable.
"How about..."
"Ladies and gentlemen. The mermaid show will start in five minutes. Please, take your seats and enjoy the show!".
"Kent!" Lois screamed from where she and Jimmy still stood, not pretending not to watch your interaction anymore, "Let's go!".
Clark observed your braids move as you looked over your shoulders, your eyes meeting the duo that expected him. Your eyes widened, and Clark noticed it was a look of recognition — you knew of his friends, and seemed to be pleasantly surprised at their presence, since you wiggled your fingers in a greeting gesture.
"I'm coming!" Clark said, looking down at you with a shy smile on his face, "Are you gonna watch the show?".
"Kinda" you replied, "I'll be backstage. Maybe we can talk after the show, what do you think?".
This time, Clark knew the heart that was beating was his, not yours. It was a terrible side effect of his least-kryptonian trait: he was a loverboy, very adept to love at first sight. Not that he loved loved you, but he was rather infatuated with your boldness.
And he'd love to see you again.
"Kent!" Lois called out again, pointing at the seats Jimmy seemed to be keeping from a family with a kid. He scrunched his nose, thinking about how rude that was — there was a child! —, but only waved for them to go along without him. Lois just rolled her eyes, turning her back on you immediately, bothered at Clark's antics.
"You should go with them" you commented, pointing at the direction Clark guessed was the backstage of the show, "I guess fate will tell us if we're gonna see again. See ya, Clark".
Clark, a dork as he was, couldn't say anything else as he watched you walk backstage, your purple braids swooshing with every single step you took. He sighed, his shoulders hunching forward and head falling in shame as he pondered how idiot he was sometimes.
Cat Grant was right: there was no game in Clark's bones. He was a Kansas boy, and he'd die alone.
"Did you at least got her number?" Lois asked as Clark sat down between her and Jimmy. Lois was a control freak (though Clark would never say this in her face) and usually wanted to sit closer to the exits; Jimmy, care-free as he was, was happy to seat wherever, since he was comfortable and could get what he wanted: a good time. Clark just sat whenever was available after the two were seated — he was the balance between that small group of friends, even though they got into his nerves more than not. Like now, "Kent, did you get her name?".
"No" he confessed, noticing that he should have asked your name. How was he supposed to see you again if the only thing he knew about you was that you worked at the aquarium? Showing up unannounced would be creepy, wouldn't it?
Clark looked at Jimmy on his side, seating on the edge of the chair as he waited for the show to begin. Maybe it wouldn't be that creepy, after all, considering his friend seemed to have a crush on the star of the show and was here again. Which reminded him...
"Jimmy" Clark started, "Did you know the girl I was tal—"
First, Clark thought it was a coincidence when Kiss The Girl started blasting on the speakers, but the message was clear: the show was starting. He laughed when Jimmy shushed him, but sat straight on the chair, watching as the lights appeared inside the human-sized aquarium they were observing early...
Until a splash was heard, and he saw...
You.
Your purple hair was floating on the water, and so were you. Instead of feet, you wore a beautiful, shiny purple tail that resembled too much that of a mermaid. It seemed real, even if Clark knew it was impossible that was real...
... wasn't it?
"Behold!" the feminine voice that had previously warned about the start of the show spoke again, and Clark jumped in his place at the surprise, "The mermaid!".
Your eyes met Clark's, and your smile was broad, mischievous, as you murmured your next words, "I'll be your mermaid... today".
Clark knew that those words were part of a play, the story of a mermaid that was captive at her own kingdom but, at that moment, he believed those words were meant only for him.
And maybe you were right: fate would bring us together again. Soon.
