warning: kinda sad ANGST, Simon losses you :( , ooc kinda?? But he's soft for you only, trust me bro
This was kinda inspired by that one part in the comics where our poor, Si holds his mums skull, n he jus'... Kinda nuzzles into it. I dunno it just bought on some sad feeling, mkay...
Simon who slightly raises the cup of tea he's drinking each time he has one, just to let you know he's relaxing. Or trying his best too, at least. Doesn't know what he'll do if he worried you from beyond the grave. Sometimes he looks at all the belongings you left behind. Saying how they probably miss you, but not nearly as much as he does.
Unlike some, Simon uses your things. He doesn't want the house to go through the pain of loosing you too. So he drinks from your mug, and sits on your chair. Reads your favorite books, but never takes out the book marks in case you want to continue reading them. He also completes your bucket list for you, and even though he's the one doing them he always whispers 'good job, to the wind, hoping they'll carry the messenge to you.
Simon who speaks to your framed pictures. He remembers each, and every memory behind them. "Bet your happy... Now it'll always be my turn to grab the 'bloody groceries.." he jests. He hopes that one made you laugh. Knowing you, you would've. It's a mystery how you always laughed at his lame jokes. Though your laugh's always been better than the awful punchlines.
Simon who passes by that cafe you bugged him to go with you to, and he feels his throat go dry. He never got to take you there because of a sudden call from Price, telling him about an urgent, albeit sudden, mission. He definitely regrets not taking you out on dates more often. There's so many shops opening that he knows you would've loved to see.
Simon who's heart breaks at how quickly the world turns without you. Everything's moving so quickly, leaving him behind like it's already moved on, and he hates it. He hates how there's less clothes to fold now. Food is served, but only for one. The taste of it is flavorless, and dry. It's times like these, that he wishes he should have took the time and learn your recipes.
But what's worse, is that your side of the bed is cold. And it'll remain that way forever. At times he'll reach for you absentmindedly. Nightmares about war traded for dreams about you, but during those dreamless nights where sleep doesn't visit he'll stroke your pillow the same way he'd do to keep your hair out of your face, and pull the covers over the empty space you once occupied. He wonders if it's cold where you are right now. But just know that he's always willing to warm you up if ever you come back.
Simon who...
Stands at the doorway. Bag slinged over his shoulder, full of everything he needs and more for deployment. He knows he can't leave without properly saying goodbye, so he fishes out his wallet, and digs out a picture of you. He holds it up to his face, and it's funny. How you're not even staring at the camera when the photo was taken. No, you were staring at him. This one's always been his favorite. So he clears his throat, and wishes you don't hear the slight shake in his tone.
"..By now you would've told me to be careful.. And I will, by the way. But, m' sorry for all the times I didn't...'
....
" I have to go now. Don't need them gettin' on my ass for 'being late.. so.."
....
"..You just rest now, ok, love? There's nothing else for you to worry about' anymore. I love you, always. Wish me, and the boys luck, yeah?.."
He gives a light kiss to your photo, and it's as if you're with him when he steps outside the door..
a/n: This was a challenge to write, and I don't know what to feel about the results. I'm just polishing my english, I guess. M'not good at writing angst, you can probably tell, also my grammar feels off on this one, again. English isn't my first language, sorry. So please correct me on any mistakes I've made! But putting all that aside, I hope you like this more than I do! And, always remember that you are loved, and cared for! Have an amazing day, my darlings!
Summary: Your boyfriend will lose you soon, if he doesn’t make a move.
Tags: implied smut, fluff, light-hearted angst, established relationship, insecure!reader, making out, nerding out
Notes: this fic is very much inspired by my favourite track off sabrina carpenter’s new album, and in that vein i have kept it short n’ sweet, but i am open to writing a pt 2 if that’s smth people are interested in :) also just love writing a bit of hurt/comfort so.. enjoy! gif by tumblr user newavengers
By almost every measurement, Clark Kent is a wonderful boyfriend.
He asked you to be his three months ago, properly, after taking you on several dates, all meticulously planned by him. He seemed to know your every desire before you did, always popping up with a coffee when you needed an afternoon pick-me-up, flowers when you’re feeling down, hand written love notes on busy mornings. He texted you good morning and good night, walked you home every evening despite living three train transfers away from your apartment, parting from you with a quick kiss and a lovesick smile.
It was the best you’d ever been treated, by the most handsome man you’d ever seen. It still took your breath away, looking up at him, so tall, impossibly broad, limbs thick with muscles that spoke of years of hard labour on a farm instead of lifting at the gym. His hand completely covering yours while you both held onto the train hand rail, pressed together by the crowd, his kind eyes gazing into yours, the strong slope of his nose. You don’t think you’ve ever been more attracted to somebody.
It’s really too bad he doesn’t feel the same way.
Despite months of being his girlfriend, and months of steady dating before that, he hasn’t so much as let his hands wander below your waist. You’re limited to chaste touches, hugs that never seem to last long enough. You’ve gotten him to come up to your apartment a couple times, only ever on nights where you don’t have work the next day because he “doesn’t want to keep you up too late”, and even then, all you do is sit together and talk, maybe watch a movie, which he always lets you pick. And it’s not that you don’t enjoy spending time with him, you do, but really, if you hadn’t explicitly asked you to be his girlfriend, you’d think maybe he just wanted to be very good friends.
Honestly, you feel like some sort of pervert every time he kisses you, tugging him down by his collar, trying to make the kiss last just a little longer before he pulls away. Sometimes, you can’t even stop the quiet, disappointed whine that escapes you when you part, disguising it quickly with a smile and pretending you’re not already warm and wet between your legs for him.
And you know you’re not the prettiest woman in the world, hell, you don’t even think you’re the prettiest woman in the office. You were genuinely surprised when Clark first asked you out, having been completely convinced that he was into your partner-in-crime, Lois. It would make perfect sense: they collaborated a lot more often on articles, he always said how much he admired her as a journalist. Her confidence was palpable just from her strut, and she’s obviously beautiful, and they just- fit, in a way you wish you did with him.
You try not to think about that too often, remind yourself that there would be no reason for him to ask you out if he wasn’t attracted to you, but the days go on without so much as a heated look from him and you’re starting to get a little… frustrated, in more ways than one. Before he ever kissed you, you’d spend nights with a hand slipped under your waistband, bringing yourself over the edge multiple times at the thought of it being his fingers filling you instead, so being pent-up sexually was really nothing new for you.
But with every passing day you find yourself getting more and more frustrated with him, every compliment starting to become little more than a sweet nothing to your ears. For every note left on your desk waxing poetic about your beauty, there was another night of him shying away from your heel rubbing against his thigh under the dinner table, another Hay’s Code-approved kiss to send you off.
You try to be excited for your date tonight, despite the way your eye twitches at the sight of Clark making his way to your desk, balancing a bouquet of your favourite flowers and an iced latte for you in his arms.
“Good morning, beautiful,” He greets you, placing a quick kiss on your forehead and, okay, that does still make you swoon. The flowers he hands you are gorgeous, though you’ll have to buy a new vase for them, as all the ones you own are occupied with even more flowers from Clark. You don’t know where he buys your coffee, but it’s always made the exact way you like, so delicious it brightens your mood immediately.
“Are we still on for tonight?” You ask, trailing your hand down his arm, and he gives you that bright, dimpled grin, like you’ve made his whole day just by speaking to him.
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world, honey.” And then he’s off to his own desk on the other side of the bullpen.
That’s it. No lingering gaze on the skirt you’re risking an HR violation to wear, or your glossed-up lips. You deflate a bit in your seat, sipping on your coffee for some semblance of comfort, willing yourself to focus on the opinion piece you’re supposed to be editing instead of wallowing about your confusing boyfriend.
You go through the motions of the rest of your day, fighting through the “waiting mode” fog your brain gets stuck in whenever you have plans later in the day, until it’s time to rush home and primp for your date. You find your planned outfit still hung up in your closet, washed and steamed and meticulously stored so none of the fabric would crease, and if you told Lois just how insane you get about your routines in the days leading up to a date she’d probably laugh and tell you to “just chill out” about it. But you can’t. The thought of being around him, being close to him, makes you freak out a bit, that fluttering feeling filling your stomach every time you think about it, and then you end up pouring all that nervous energy into preparing and planning because that’s all you can do with it.
That instinct, to outline and checklist and calendar your way through every uncertainty in life, has gotten you this far, a columnist at one of the most prestigious papers in the whole damn country. You’re hoping it can get you into your own boyfriend’s pants, too.
Admittedly, you get a bit distracted from your objective as soon as you step into the museum he’s brought you to; a special occasion, the Natural History Museum opening its doors until midnight for people to explore after-hours. You get embarrassingly wrapped up in the marine mammals exhibit, spouting facts and deeper explanations about manatees and whales and sea lions, leftover knowledge from a piece you did on habitat conservation efforts and beached whales, but to Clark’s credit, his eyes never gloss over, listening intently and asking you questions to keep you going instead of begging you to shut up like a previous ex might.
You’re similarly engaged when you get to the outer space exhibit, watching his eyes light up as he tells you everything he knows about the solar system, which is a lot.
“Yeah, I uh- was very interested in space as a kid.” He admits, his cheeks tinged pink.
“Oh? Did you want to be an astronaut?” You ask.
“Something like that.”
You get dinner in the cafe, loading your plates with animal-themed food – dinosaur-shaped brownies, fried potatoes configured into vaguely turtle-shaped wedges, margherita pizza with tomatoes decorated like ladybugs – adorable and shamefully delicious, but with the way he shovels it down like he hasn’t eaten in days, you don’t feel too embarrassed about enjoying it.
He walks you home at a sensible hour, like always, and won’t even let you pay your own subway fare. You chat about the special exhibition on sharks during the ride, then about the articles you’re both working on from the train station to your building’s front steps, and isn’t until you’re standing under the street light that it occurs to you he still hasn’t made a move. Despite all your planning, you haven’t managed to elicit even a wandering eye down your top.
“I love the dress you wore tonight,” Here he goes, his routine shower of compliments that ultimately lead to nothing.
“Oh? You do?” You mutter.
“Is it new?”
“No, I just haven’t worn it before.” He’s undeterred by your dry answers, going on about what a nice time he had, how happy he is that you’re his, kissing the back of your hand before leaning in to finally give you a taste of what you want.
His lips press sweetly against yours, your mouths moving together with just reserved hunger, his hands staying in their modest position on your waist and never moving an inch lower, and then he’s pulling away. You chase after him, tilting your head to follow his lips, in vain, because his lips leave yours whether you like it or not. Then-
“Clark, I don’t think this is going to work.”
The way his face falls immediately, confusion overtaking his eyes, almost makes you regret the way you blurt it out, but fuelled by months of built-up sexual frustration, you press on.
“Wh- what?”
“I just don’t think I can be with somebody who’s not attracted to me.” You tell him, trying to sound blunt and detached, but your vexation comes through in the shrill of your voice.
“What are you-”
“Honestly, I’m not even sure why you asked me out, I mean, if this was all just a game to you-”
“No! I- now you’re being unfair, honey, o-of course I’m attracted to you.”
“Then why don’t you want to fuck me?!” If you had any good sense about you, you’d be more embarrassed about your forwardness, more concerned about your neighbours hearing you, but right now all you’re focused on is that this is the most riled-up you’ve ever seen him – you wish he had half this level of passion for trying to seduce you.
He stutters over his words for a bit, flushed bright red at your implication, and then he turns away from you, his hand coming up to run through his hair, tugging at his curls in frustration. You take that as your answer.
“I’m sorry you wasted your time,” You throw out bitterly, rifling through your bag for your keys while you move to climb the stairs up to your front door. A hand on your wrist stops you.
“No, sweetheart, just let me explain, please.”
You acquiesce to his plea, partly because you want an explanation, and you know without one you’ll probably cry yourself to sleep every night for a month wondering what his gambit was, why he would string you along like he has.
“I do. I-I want you, more than you know, honey,” You let him guide you back into his arms, his hands finding purchase on your hips this time, leaning closer to you than he ever has before. “Think you’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. I think about you all the time, at night, before I go to sleep-”
He cuts himself off with a gulp, too embarrassed to go on. Instead he grabs your hand, moving it so your palm is flat over his chest, right where his heart is. And you feel it, the beating in his chest, fast and strong. Honestly, if you didn’t know any better you’d say he needs a doctor, the way it skips beats and pulses unevenly, unnaturally under your hand-
“That’s what you do to me.” He says, blue eyes looking deeply into yours, earnest and adoring.
“Then why don’t you say anything?” Your tone is less demanding this time, your lips tilting into a pout.
“Because I’m scared.” He admits. “I don’t wanna freak you out, or scare you off, or make you feel- I don’t know- disrespected-”
You’ve slid your hand away from his chest, up to his collar, and tugged on it so he’s forced to bend down to meet you as your lips come back together, and finally he matches your desire. He presses back, urgent and needy, never pulling away for more than a millisecond before he’s back on you. You let him usher you up the stairs, slowly, a hand firm on your lower back to make sure you don’t fall until he’s got you pressed up against your front door.
Your leg comes up to wrap around his waist, your hips meeting his in a slow, subtle grind, and he groans into your mouth. He pulls away from your lips only to press kisses down your jawline, then your neck.
“‘M sorry, baby,” He mutters against your skin. “I don’t know why I waited so long to touch you.”
“Don’t be sorry, Clark.” You reply, running a hand through his curls. “Just come upstairs.”
i know this is an extremely basic baby’s first feminism observation but it does genuinely drive me crazy how for the most part stories about men are presumed to be universal and stories about women are About Women
summary: in which Clark becomes very familiar with your voicemail after choosing work and Lois, once again. when you finally call, he’ll drop everything for you.
content: fluff and then just hurt with little to no comfort or resolution :/ feeling less than and like a second choice (story of my life!), clark basically begging bc he loves you obvi, sorry im an absolute sucker for angst
———————————————————————————————
present day.
“hey - you know who it is, and you know what to do.” beeeeeep.
he’d gotten used to hearing it. he could recite your voicemail from memory, the amount of times he got it when he’d call.
after the first couple dozen calls, they became less frequent until they shrank down to zero. you weren’t going to pick up. he knew that, but some small part of him thought maybe, just maybe, he’d hear the line click and your breathing on the other end.
he missed you, so much, and it was his fault you were gone.
———————————————————————————————
2 months ago.
you stare at the string of texts - as if your glare could alter reality.
made those cupcakes you love, can’t wait to see you! really missed you today ☹️
i missed you more, pretty girl. I’ll be home soon.❤️
part of you had just been waiting for it to happen again. another night - some baked good getting staler by the minute propped up on a pretty plate, awaiting Clark’s arrival. the frosting on the cupcakes looked sadder each hour that passed where Clark didn’t walk through the door. you knew where he was, who he was with, and what he was doing.
you can’t get mad at him for doing his job. it’s who he’s with, and when that person happens to need him, that bothers you. you’ll never get used to the feeling of your stomach dropping when you check find my friends, and their locations are directly next to one another at the office.
you think you’re numb to the situation. that it shouldn’t be a suprise anymore. you don’t cry - yet. all you do is sigh, pick yourself up, and crawl into bed. tears fall, but not for him, for you.
———————————————————————————————
The last text he sent was at 7:30. you asking where he was sent at 8:00. It’s almost midnight when you hear the front door creak open. you don’t get up to greet him. instead you close your eyes, resuming your curled up on your side position under the sheets.
when your bedroom door pries open, you still don’t open your eyes. you hear him pad across the hardwood, landing on his side of the bed.
he peels back the covers, gently crawling into the bed next to you. you feel the weight in the bed shift, but don’t move a muscle. he leans over, kissing your exposed shoulder and down your bicep. you softly stir on instinct, halting your movements as quickly as they started.
“‘m so sorry, baby,” he whispers between pecks. “caught up at work again - perry has been on us this week.” he attempts to joke.
you don’t roll over, you don’t shift, you only softly reply, “i can’t keep coming in second.”
his brow furrows, pulling back. “what do you mean, honey?”
“Were you with Lois?”
the silence is deafening. and it’s all you need to hear. it’s a moment before he speaks up again.
“yeah, uh - i was. why?”
“i don’t think we should see each other anymore.” you mutter, voice hoarse - evidence of the sobs that wrecked you not even an hour prior.
time stops for clark. a tear you didn’t realize had been forming slides across the bridge of your nose.
“what?” his voice is no longer a whisper. “why? baby-“ his hand is on your arm, prompting you to turn to him, but you don’t. not looking at him makes it easier. you can’t cave, you can’t keep doing this to yourself. letting him do it to you. he pauses, pieces falling into place in his mind. “because- cause of Lois? baby, we were working, I promise-“
“I know,” you interrupt. “your work is important to you. you should focus on that.”
“no, baby - no. stop it,” he’s lightly shaking your arm, begging you to just look at him. “baby - can you just look at me? please?” nothing.
“Lois, too - you can have the best of both worlds without worrying about how to make time for me.”
he’s panicking now. you’re right next to him, but he can physically feel you slipping further and further away. he’s trying to grab you, pull you back in, but your slipping through his fingers like sand.
“honey, what are you even saying? i love you, more than anything, you’re the most important thing to me.”
“it doesn’t feel like it.”
“then I’ll do better. you’re the best thing that ever happened to me, and I’m so sorry for making you feel like you weren’t. I love you so much, don’t wanna lose you,” his voice is breaking. you fight every urge to turn around and comfort him.
“you started losing me the first time you didn’t show.”
he thinks he’s going to be sick. your words hit him like a punch to the gut. all those missed dates, all those late nights - they come flooding back to him. he can just see you, alone in the apartment, glancing at the door every few minutes for him to come in, and it never happens. how could he do this? what has he done? is he losing you forever? all these thoughts are running through his head - all he knows for sure is it is no one’s fault but his.
before he can say anything, before he can keep begging for you to listen to him, that he loves you, that he’d never intentionally make you feel like less than you are to him, you speak up once more, with a finality in your voice that breaks his heart into even smaller pieces than it already had.
“leave your key in the morning. goodnight, clark.”
he lies awake that night, listening to your breathing, unsure if he’ll ever fall asleep to that lullaby again. in the morning, with tears in his eyes and a heavy heart, he slips out the door. you choke on sobs when you hear the door close on your lives together.
———————————————————————————————
present day.
you shouldn’t call him. you owe yourself that. yet you can’t ignore the pull you feel towards him when something goes wrong - after the day you had, you yearn for just a glimpse of the comfort he always gave you before. fuck it.
the tone only drones once before it clicks, and Clark’s voice comes through the speaker.
“hello?”
“hey,” you breathe. there’s a beat where neither of you speak, silence killing you softly. “I, um- sorry, I shouldn’t have bothered you - I just didn’t know who else to call,” he hears you sniffle on the end of the line, perking up as alarms sound in his mind.
“no, swee-,” he stops himself before he can fully call you sweetheart. he bites his lip prevent him from further embarrassment. he can’t call you that anymore, but it was once so natural. like instinct. you catch it too, more warmth growing in your tummy at the slip up than you’d like. “no. y’re not bothering me. ever. what’s going on?”
“can you just- can you come here?” you squeeze your eyes shut, bracing for an impact that wouldn’t possibly come. he would come. any time you call, he’d come - no questions asked.
he’s caught off guard, making few sputtered starts of sentences. he manages to set himself straight, speaking an eager (but not too eager), “of course i can. im wrapping up in the office, be there in 15?”
“yeah, no rush. thank you, clarkie.”
he smiles at the nickname. “always. whenever you need me.”
he was going to fix this - with hopes that he’d never have to hear your voicemail again.
———————————————————————————————
a/n: still not over the love on my last fic, thank you 🥹
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬! caught fucking and neither of you stop, sugar baby!reader, ceo au, light exhibitionism, light voyeurism, degradation/praise, impact play with a belt, choking with a belt, handjob, face fucking, satoru stick his thumb in your ass, cream pie, pain kink, collar and leash (they make one with the belt)
𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧! Ceo!satoru gets caught fucking his sugar baby at work but he doesn't stop
The heavy door of Satoru’s office automatically slides open with a small click. On the other side is a beautiful man in a black suit with angular dark brown eyes and long black hair.
His smooth, gentle voice contrasts his cocky smirk. “Thought I drop by for a surprise visit, didn't expect to be the one surprised.”Walking into Satoru’s office, loosening his tie and unbuttoning his shirt. “Suguru Geto.” Standing in front of you giving you an eyeful of the outline of his thick cock.
Your pussy sinfully clenches, you want them both. Looking up at Suguru pleading with Satoru, “Don’t stop! Don't stop! Nnn feels ‘s fuckin’ good.” Your messy cunt lewdly squelches, fluttering around Satoru.
Satoru’s long, veiny cock is making a mess out of your cunt. You’re dripping down your thighs as he wrecks your cunt with quick hard thrusts. Filling you with intense body-tingling pleasure making your knees weak.
It’s hot the way Satoru grunts, “Fuckin’ cumslut,” Clenching Satoru, biting your lip when he needy whines. “Her cunt got wetter, you like it when he watch huh?” Sharply smacking your ass, making your cheek jiggle. You cry as sweet hot pain spreads from your cheeks to your needy cunt. -
Suguru unbuckles and tugs on his black leather belt. Biting your lip when he loops it, holding it out to Satoru. “Use my belt on her slutty ass. We can see how long it takes for her cheeks red.” You fondle Suguru’s hard cock through his pants. His cock is so heavy and thick, his balls are large.
Satoru slowly drags the leather belt along your cheek. Anticipation builds, “Best pussy sleeve I’ve paid for. Don’t fuck her mouth yet, I wanna hear her crying.” Gliding his cock out.
Smack! Smack! Smack! The desk keeps you from running away from the fourth.
Satoru groans, “Stupid whores like you get their asses spanked for being dirty cock loving sluts, say it!.” Jerking forward with each sharp belt crack, clutching the desk.
You pathetically whine, “Stupid whores get like me get their asses spanked for being dirty cock loving slut! I love having my ass spanked! Nnn love being your slut.”
Another click of the sliding doors. “Damn choke her out with it too while you at it.” A handsome man dressed less formally in white collar and black slacks. Short black hair hangs in his dark ocean blue eyes. His lips have a defining scar.
Satoru informs, “The meeting is delayed by an incoming flight.” Your cheek is warm with sweet white hot throbbing pain. The desk is the only thing keeping you up. “Brat,” Smack! “Here is helping me release a little stress.” Satoru massages your aching cheek, dragging the belt along your spine to your other cheek.
Looping the belt around your neck, lifting your head up, and choking you. “Her mouth is free to use.” Satoru lines himself up, swiping his head between your wet lips. Rutting his cock in with a harsh thrust of his hips and a loud smack of skin.
Suguru undoes and pushes down his pants with his underwear. His cock is beautiful, pale with a soft tan at his cockhead. There are two thick puffy veins close together. You want to choke, suck and gag on Suguru's fat dick.
Opening your mouth for Suguru, Satoru squeezes the belt around your neck. You hear the clank of a belt hitting the floor. A rough hand grabs your wrist, and he spits on your hand wrapping your fingers around his cock. Thicker than Suguru, swirling your hand stroking his cock.
Satoru spreads your cheek apart with one hand. Spitting on your other hole, swirling his thumb then sliding it in. "Since you got here late you can have the glory hole after Suguru." It's all going to your messy cunt. You’re hoping all three of them cum in your cunt or ass leaving a mess to drip down your thighs when you head home.
Clenching Satoru's cock, gagging on Suguru's, stoking Toji. You're a mindless, cock hungry mess with spit dripping down your chin. Slick trickles down your thighs smearing onto Satoru's balls when they hit your clit.
Tears drip down your cheeks, Suguru buries his cock in your throat. Your cunt clenches Satotu with each gag.
Suguru croons "Awww she's crying!" Sliding his cock out, you gasp for air but nothing. Toji slides your hand off his cock when Suguru steps aside. Toji smacks his heavy cock against your cheek smearing your tears. Before he fucks your mouth in slow deep thrusts.
You’re lying limp, trembling on Satoru's rocking desk. Your lungs are screaming for air. Toji's warm cock dragging along your wet tongue. Stuffing his head into your tight throat with a rough grunt.
Satoru holds your cheek with his thumb in your ass. “Fuck! I love using her like this! She’s the perfect pussy sleeve.” Loosening the belt around your throat as Toji pulls his cock out giving you a moment to breathe.
Holding your hand out for Suguru’s cock, still wet with spit. Slowly sliding and swirling your hand along his cock. Staying close to his sensitive head, swiping your thumb every so often to smear his pre-cum. -
Suguru asks “Do you think she will be ready for round two when we finish work?" Following it with a breathy moan when you pump your fist faster.
Cupping Toji’s balls take his cock in your mouth looking up at him. Your back is arched, cheeks jiggling. Satoru sneers "Look at her, she a greedy cock hungry whore, course she is." Toji gags you with his cock the spasming of your cunt has Satoru moaning. He keeps pace steady whilst fucking you harder, bullying your sore cunt
The soft twitching of his cock and the pulsing of his veins with his thumb inside your ass gets you closer. It's his hot thick cum spilling inside you that makes your squelching cunt cum.
Satoru tugs the belt wrapped around your neck like a collar with a short leash fucking his cum deep into you. Smearing some of it cum with sloppy slow thrusts.
Satoru's hips smack your ass one last time before he bottoms out. Stuffing in some of the cum that follows his cock back in with his fingers. "She'll be at the door kneeling in lingerie waiting to be fucked like the whore she is, won’t you." Thick cum dripping from your cunt as Suguru takes his place.
you're not the most innocent girl on campus, and everyone knows it - and when you overhear bucky's friends talking shit, you can't help but wonder if you deserve to be with him.
warning: frat!bucky x f!reader, mature themes, slut shaming, insecure!reader, angst, physical violence, protective!bucky, hurt/comfort, fluff.
a/n: this isn't the super long tower fic i've promised you or even the fwb!bucky i mentioned but instead a secret third thing.
this is dedicated to shawn mendes. i don't care much for you or your music, shawn, but my friend dragged me to your concert and. you brought niall fucking horan out and i genuinely couldn't stop crying so. thanks for that experience and this is named after and slightly inspired by your song bad reputation
The beat is so loud you feel it in your chest, banging and throbbing and making your whole body shake. You've been drinking, but not too much - you still want to be able to go home with Bucky later on.
Just as you think about him, you see him, standing on the other side of the room. Steve's saying something to him but he doesn't seem to be listening, just staring as you dance with your friends. This is new for you. He isn't just looking at you with lust. It's deeper than that.
"He's so in love with you!" Jane yells over the music as she grins at you. "Can you guys get married, already?"
You snort at her suggestion, not allowing your subconscious to take her seriously for even a second. You're not exactly the type to be in a real relationship, but after a few weeks of sleeping together, you and Bucky realized you wanted more. He's not your boyfriend, by any means, but you're seeing each other, and for the first time in your life, you can imagine falling in love.
"I literally don't recognize you," Belle adds with disbelief. "Like, who are you? Since when are you a lover girl, hello?"
"Chill out, you guys," You say with an eye-roll. "You've both dated plenty of people; you don't see me overreacting about it."
"Yeah, 'cause you never date, like, ever!" Belle replies. "I was beginning to think you were incapable of feelings."
"Ouch!" You yell, just as Bucky and Steve make their way over to you. While Steve shmoozes Belle and Jane, you grin up at Bucky who wraps his arm around your shoulder.
"Having fun?" He asks, bringing his lips to your ear.
"Tons," You reply. "You?"
"Always fun watching you," He says with a smirk. "Let me know when you're ready to go."
"Not yet," You say, pulling his shirt. "I've still got some dance left in me."
"No rush, baby," He mumbles, moving his hand down to your waist which he rubs. "I'm gonna go outside for a smoke."
"Might join you in a bit," You tell him.
With that, Bucky leans down and kisses you, holding your body against his.
If it wasn't so enjoyable kissing him, you'd pull away as soon as Belle and Jane started screaming, but instead you stick your tongue down his throat while they cheer you on.
He pulls away with a smug grin while you just roll your eyes. "Love the enthusiasm, guys," He says to Belle and Jane before giving your ass a squeeze and making his way to the kitchen with Steve.
Before the girls can gush, you give them a glare. "I don't wanna hear it," You say sternly.
It looks like it physically pains them not to scream about how cute you and Bucky are together, but they manage to hold it in. The three of you continue dancing and drinking, until it gets to that point of the night where you'd appreciate nothing more than your warm bed.
You tell the girls you're planning to find Bucky and leave before you wander through the house, assuming he's come back inside by now. It isn't as big as the frat house Bucky lives in, but it's still just as confusing to navigate when you're half drunk and the only source of light are strings of tiny LED bulbs on the ceilings.
When you spot Jared, one of Bucky's frat brothers, head into a side room, you make your way over, thinking Bucky is likely in there with his friends. Just as you're about to walk in, though, you hear your name being said, and you can't help but eavesdrop.
"Y/N, though? Seriously?" One of them says, and it sounds like Devon. Though their voices are slightly muffled, you can still tell who's talking.
"I don't know, man, he seems to really like her," Jack chimes in.
They're talking about you and Bucky.
"That's fucking crazy," Jared says while laughing heartily. "I mean, this is Y/N we're talking about here."
"Since when does Bucky go for girls like that, though?" Hunter asks incredulously. "Like, out of fucking nowhere, too."
"I thought he just fucked her that first time to see what all the hype was about," Mason says with a snort.
"Yeah, then the idiot fell in love," Devon replies.
"How the fuck do you catch feelings for someone who's fucked all your friends?"
You feel sick to your stomach.
The boys burst into laughter, and you could swear you even hear some high-fives.
"Nah, Bucky's fucked it," Jack says between laughs. "He's giving a whore the girlfriend treatment. He's lost his damn mind. The bitch is ran-through."
"Man, I'm sure I've still got videos from when I fucked her."
With that, you spin on your heel and speed away, your heart pounding so hard you think it might burst out of your chest. And you're not sure you'd mind if it did.
In desperate need of a drink, you make your way to the kitchen. When you get there, though, all you can do is stand at the island, numb. There are a few people taking up space, including Steve who's standing by the back door, talking to a girl.
"Woah, are you high?" Brock asks you with a smug look on his face. "You look fucked."
"Go away," You can just about find the energy to whisper.
"Aw, don't be like that," He whines, snaking his arm around your waist. "C'mon, you used to be fun, before Barnes locked you down. Wanna go find somewhere quiet?"
"No, thank you," You grumble through gritted teeth before pulling out of his grip and storming out the back door, past Steve who looks concerned when he sees the look on your face, and then confused when he sees Brock hot on your trail.
The fresh air feels soothing on your face as you step out into the yard, finding a quiet spot by the fence that's untouched by anyone's vape smoke.
"Y/N, come on," Brock calls out as he strides over, holding out his arms. "You can't seriously be avoiding me because of Barnes."
"It's not because of him; it's because I don't want anything to do with you," You reply curtly.
He sighs, resting a hand on the fence and lowering his voice. "I'm sorry, okay? Can you blame me for wanting you?" He asks, softening his voice. "You were the best fuck I ever had. Just gimme one more."
Meanwhile, Steve's also ventured out into the garden, and he makes his way to Bucky who hasn't yet seen you. Steve nudges his side before nodding towards you. "Hey," He begins. "What's going on over there?"
Bucky frowns, looking around the garden before his eyes land on you. And, more importantly, on Brock, who's getting a little close for comfort. You look obviously agitated, so Bucky hands Steve his beer before walking over.
"No means no, Brock," You spit. "I'm not in the fucking mood for your bullshit tonight."
"Since when were you such a fucking tease?" He asks with a frown, all the softness gone from his voice. "The good girl act doesn't suit you, babe, especially not in that tiny skirt. How about I take you to my car and you suck my cock, for old time's sake?" With that, he grabs your arm and pulls you closer, and before you get the chance to kick him in the balls, Bucky appears, and he's instantly grabbing Brock and punching him square in the jaw. In shock, you stand back as Bucky throws Brock to the ground and pummels him mercilessly.
Steve runs over and grabs Bucky's shoulders, pulling him off of Brock. "Alright, alright, I think that's enough," Steve says sternly, while Brock lays whimpering on the ground with a bloody face and what looks to be a broken nose.
"Fuck," You whisper, running your hands through your hair.
Though Bucky still doesn't look satisfied, one look at you makes his eyes soften, and he quickly makes his way to you. "C'mon, let's go," He says, taking your hand and walking you over to his car which is parked across the street.
Once you're both in the car, you sit in a short silence. The words his friends said race through your mind on repeat. Embarrassment and shame is all you can feel.
"Are you okay?" Bucky finally asks, breaking the silence.
You nod. "Thank you for doing that," You utter.
"Are you kidding? I've been waiting years for an excuse to beat that asshole up," He tells you, turning to you with a small grin.
Unable to find it in you to return his smile, you look down. "You shouldn't have had to do that. I'm sorry," You mumble, pulling on the hem of your skirt.
"The fuck do you have to be sorry for?" He asks with a frown.
You shake your head, still unable to make eye contact with him. Your voice is low, unenergised, defeated. "I... I'm not exactly a blank canvas, Buck. I'm not some innocent, pure, untouched thing. The past doesn't just cancel out now that I'm with you, it... it'll always be a part of me," You say, fiddling with the leather on the gear stick.
"Hey, now," Bucky begins, placing his hand on top of yours. "I already know full well you're the only person whose body count could rival mine."
You snort, looking up at him.
"I'm not pure or innocent either, so why would I ever expect or demand you to be?" He asks you, his brows furrowing. "I like you a lot, Y/N. I couldn't give a fuck about your past."
You wince, feeling your eyes start to sting. "I- I've slept with your friends," You remind him.
"And? I'm pretty sure I fooled around with Belle in freshman year," He retorts with a shrug.
"It's not the same," You claim, shaking your head.
"Why isn't it?" He challenges you, squeezing your hand.
The tears gathering in your eyes finally spill over.
Bucky cups your face, concern in his eyes as he strokes your cheeks with his thumbs. "What's wrong, baby? Where's this coming from, hmm? We both know we've been around in the past."
With a sniffle, you look away from his eyes. "I... I overheard your friends talking," You tell him, feeling your stomach flip.
"Saying what?" Bucky asks lowly, his face falling.
"Uh, I was looking for you just now," You begin. "I heard them talking about me, and I got curious so I listened. They were... saying I'm not your usual type, questioning why you're with me when you know what I'm like, and..." You trail off, not sure if you can repeat the rest.
"And?" Bucky presses, one of his hands moving to the back of your neck which he gently holds.
Deciding it's best to keep the gory details to yourself, you shake your head. "Nothing," You mumble, hoping he'll drop it but knowing better than to expect he will.
"Tell me," Bucky insists lowly.
"I don't wanna say it," You whisper. "Don't want you to hear it."
"Whatever it is, I promise you it will have no impact on my feelings for you," He tells you firmly. "Tell me exactly what they said."
So, you do. Wincing and cringing, you tell him the exact words they used, unable to look at his face to see his reaction.
You stare out the windscreen, at the dark sky, letting Bucky process what you've told him in silence. You feel awful. What if he agrees with them? What if he realizes they're right and he doesn't want anything to do with you?
His right hand is still around the back of your neck, the other is clenched into a fist on his thigh. After a gut-wrenching minute, he finally speaks.
"Was Steve in that room?" He asks, his voice gravelly.
"No," You answer quickly. "Steve- I saw him straight after in the kitchen."
Bucky nods. Then he opens the door and leaves the car.
You race to jump out the car and rush around it, following him back towards the house. "Bucky, stop!" You call out desperately. The last thing you want is for him to get into another fight.
He continues walking, ignoring you.
"Come back, Bucky!" You yell, getting the attention of a few people in the backyard. "If you respect me at all, you will stop, right now."
That finally gets him to stand still. He turns to you while you catch up to him, pure rage on his face.
"Please don't say anything to them," You beseech him, feeling nauseous again.
His eyes are dark. "I don't plan on saying much," He utters.
"Bucky, please, you've been in enough fights for one night," You say, feeling your eyes sting for the second time tonight. "Please."
He says nothing, hands still in fists at his side.
You take in a shaky breath, your voice no louder than a whimper. "I just... I just wanna go home. I don't wanna be here anymore," You manage to get out before the tears begin to stream.
Bucky lets out a sigh, his features softening as he takes a few steps closer to you and wipes your wet cheeks. "Okay. Okay, baby, let's go home," He says gently, and you know it's taking all his will-power not to storm into the house.
In relief, you nod. "Thank you," You whisper, taking his hand in yours.
He swallows, before glancing back. "Let me just go get my phone from Steve," He says casually, but you're not buying it.
You give him a flat look.
"Seriously, he has my phone," Bucky insists, and you know he isn't lying about that. "Look, he's only in the kitchen. I'll be in and out in fifteen seconds."
Taking in a deep breath, you release his hand. "If you see any of them, please don't say or do anything," You say sternly.
"Okay," He replies, taking your hand back and kissing it.
"Promise?" You question with a raised brow.
He lets out a soft laugh. "I promise. Now, get back in the car, and I'll be back before you can even put your seatbelt on," Bucky claims, giving your hand one last kiss before turning to the house.
Six minutes pass before he re-enters the car.
He sits down and starts the car without a word. His knuckles are even more bruised than before.
You turn to face him with an expectant look. He doesn't look at you. You release a sigh, and place your hand on top of his on the gear stick. "Take me home, Bucky," You mumble.
Leaning across to you, he gently kisses your lips, before doing exactly that.
bucky masterlist
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SUMMARY: Clark knew he was going to put a ring on your finger the day he met you, but when he slips up and lets the entire world know that Superman is off the market, things get a little more... interesting.
WARNINGS: None
W/C: 1.4k
There are some things in life that you just know, which rang true the moment Clark Kent met you. Watching you walk into the Daily Planet bullpen with Lois, arms moving animatedly as you spoke with a smile on your face, he knew in that moment that he was going to marry you someday.
Of course, he took his time getting there, but he was prepared to wait for you. He was nothing if not a gentleman, politely introducing himself before finding any excuse to talk to you. He would bring you coffee in the mornings, figuring out how you liked it and doing his best to make sure it was right. If you stayed late at the office to finish up an article, Clark would be staying behind too. He would walk you to your door when you finally headed home, making sure you were safely inside and pretending that he couldn't hear the way your heart skipped a beat when he kissed your cheek goodnight.
He was awkward, though. Superman was approachable, talkative, open to conversation with strangers he had just met, but Clark was a bumbling, stuttering, nervous mess when it came to you. It took Lois spelling it out for him, saying in no uncertain terms that you liked him, for Clark to finally ask you out on a date.
And the rest, as they say, was history.
Clark married you a few years after that first date, in a small ceremony held on his family's farm. You walked down the aisle, radiant in your wedding dress, all smiles as you practically floated towards him. Clark knew how it felt to fly, but in that moment he felt utterly weightless watching you approach. His eyes had clouded with tears and Lois elbowed Jimmy rather harshly in the ribs when he couldn't contain his laughter.
You and Clark didn't care, though.
All that mattered was those soft-spoken vows, the way his hand held yours so delicately, keeping you close until he could finally kiss you as his wife.
There was no doubt in anybody's mind that Clark was in the running for Husband of the Year. Any excuse he could find to bring you up, he would be proudly calling you my wife. If you got the front page with an article, he would boast about it as if it was his own achievement. Something as mundane as cooking a dinner for the two of you? He'd be showing Jimmy and Lois a picture and declaring that his wife could be a world-renowned chef. You'd be somewhere to the side, blushing with your face hidden in your hands because you could tie your shoelaces and Clark would find some way to sing your praises.
He wore his wedding ring like it was the greatest prize he'd ever won. Every day, he looked at you and thanked the stars that they'd sent you his way that day. Somewhere, the fates had aligned and created you both from the same stardust, bonding you together in ways that were cosmic and inevitable.
Clark Kent was happily married and would shout it from the rooftops for anybody to hear, but Superman? As far as the world knew, he was a lone wolf.
Whenever Clark had Superman business to tend to, he would leave his wedding ring with you. He knew that you sometimes got anxious watching him head off to face whatever danger threatened the city that day, so he left his ring as a promise to you.
He would be back.
Whatever it took, he would come back for that ring, because there was nothing in this universe that would stand between Clark Kent and coming home to you every night.
So you would wait, watching the newsfeed of Superman fighting the most recent invader, rolling Clark's ring between your thumb and forefinger absentmindedly.
But even heroes slip up sometimes and the day Clark forgot to leave his wedding ring behind, you can bet the entire world had something to say about it.
It started with a blurry picture, taken by someone after Superman landed in the crowd and greeted people like they were his longtime friends. Although it was unfocused, it was obvious that he was wearing a wedding ring and the moment you saw it flash up on your newsfeed, your eyes had widened.
He was trending almost immediately, different angles of his left hand and an internet ablaze with speculation over who Superman's mystery man or woman could be.
"Y/N," Lois said, snapping you out of your deep-dive through the articles already spawning online. "Weigh in on this. You think Superman's married?"
"Oh, come on," Jimmy said, leaning back in his chair dramatically. "He was wearing a ring. Clear as day. He's obviously married."
You turned in your chair, shrugging. "I don't know. I guess it's a possibility. I mean, what do we even know about the guy?"
"That's such a boring, objective answer," Jimmy said, rolling his eyes. "The reporter in you is showing."
You flipped him off and went back to your computer, eyeing Clark's desk opposite yours. Ever since you started at the Planet, your desks had faced one another and you always questioned whether Chief Perry had made it that way on purpose. Not that you minded, because it gave you an excuse to stare at Clark's pretty face all day, but right now he was missing.
Unsurprising, considering he was just seen not twenty minutes ago in a park downtown.
You didn't have it in you to be mad at him for his mistake, but you couldn't help but wonder what the ramifications of this would be. Superman would be under more scrutiny than ever, with people prying into his personal business like they had a right to know everything about him. How long would it be before somebody figured it out? How would that affect Clark?
Speaking of the devil, he returned to the bullpen with flushed cheeks, windswept hair and his tie loosened around his neck. You shook your head at him as he approached you, an iced coffee in one hand and his briefcase in the other. Placing the latter down first, he bypassed his desk and approached yours, leaning down to greet you with a kiss while he slid the coffee onto your desk.
"Hi," he mumbled against your lips.
"You're trending." You reached for his tie and adjusted it, keeping him hunched over your desk as you watched his eyebrows furrow in confusion. With a sly grin, you turned your gaze to your computer screen, feeling Clark's eyes follow you to the blurry picture of him and his very obvious wedding ring.
"Oh," he said softly, a look of panic flashing across his face as he looked down at his left hand, where his wedding ring was still on his finger.
You couldn't help your smile. "There's worse things to trend for."
Clark straightened up when you released his tie, his cheeks reddening further as he leaned against your desk. "I'm sorry-"
"You don't have to apologise," you told him, resting a hand on his knee. "Just promise me you'll say good things about me when people ask."
Clark leaned down to kiss you again, ignoring the mocking gags from Jimmy across the room. When he pulled away, he looked at you with blown pupils that reflected just how much he loved you. It was the same way he looked at you the day you got married, every day before that and every day since.
"I have nothing but good things to say about you."
Superman went on the record the next time he did an interview with Clark Kent to say that he was happily married to a woman that brightened up his entire world. He asked for privacy in his personal life and although the internet unanimously agreed to give him that, it did not stop the onslaught of comments about how his eyes lit up when he talked about his wife during a recent public appearance.
You had laid in bed with Clark, scrolling through the endless flood of support for Superman and his wife, smiling despite yourself. When you got married, Clark promised you that he would do his best not to let his life as Superman interfere with the life the two of you were building. That was a whispered promise for only you when you were wrapped in one another's arms after the guests had all gone home.
Watching the world learn what you'd known all along, that the man currently wrapped around your body without a care in the world was the biggest loverboy in the universe, was enough to warm your heart.
"I don't mind them knowing that you're married," you mused, lifting your head from where it had been resting on Clark's chest. "But if you name-drop me it's going to cause an absolute scene at work for poor Clark Kent."
summary. clark had his proposal all planned out right to the minute detail - however, superman also has his own problems to deal with, so when he plans to push his date night with you to the day after, he thinks everything will still go as planned (until it doesn’t).
content warnings. reader wears a dress, grammatical errors, etc.
word count. ~2.4k
note. based off of this drabble here. also, i mention the justice league once, but give me a break ok?
Tonight was supposed to be THE night. The night where he takes you up in his arms, spins you around, sets you down gently, gets on one knee while he acts like he needs to tie his shoe (he doesn’t actually need to tie it), pull out the small, velvet box in your favorite color, snap it open with gentle fingers, and ask that million dollar question that he has been dying to ask you ever since he saw you trip over your own feet, laugh at yourself, and said to him on your first day on the job “sorry for falling for you, can’t promise it won’t happen again.” He knew he was done for right then and there.
He had the proposal all planned out for tonight too. Everything was literally set and ready to go. He had reservations set at that one restaurant you both like and where he had taken you on your very first date together where you witnessed him spilling sauce on his white button-up. He had his underwear picked out (he called them his lucky undies and he may or may not have worn them when he first asked you out). The socks he would wear and he would swear he wasn’t being superstitious as they would most definitely match the color of your dress along with the tie he was planning to put around his neck. Speaking of the tie, it took him three weeks to pick out. No, he was not overreacting – he wanted to look his best for you when he proposed. There was nothing wrong with that! Did he go to a psychic and waste a bunch of money for a reading just to know what his lucky color was? No, of course not – psshhh – who would do that? Not him- definitely not him-
Annnnnnd, his thoughts would of course come crashing and burning when Superman business popped up out of nowhere. Was he seriously considering asking someone from the Justice League to come and take care of it? Oh, absolutely. But in the end, he knew he couldn’t stop himself from saving people.
And you, oh how he loved you, you understood when he called to cancel. He kept telling himself that pushing his proposal back a few days wasn’t going to kill him or ruin the surprise any less. You didn’t know about it, he was able to keep his secret and how dopey his smile got every time he thumbed the velvet box that he kept around in his pants pocket, and there will always be a tomorrow. And he was determined.
However, something else seemed to just wrench itself into Clark’s plans. Something he didn’t exactly plan for…
“Tonight,” he said, his arms wrapped around you as he seemed to engulf you in the biggest of bear hugs he could imagine.
“Tonight,” you repeated, you matched his smile when you hooked your index fingers on his belt loops and tugged him impossibly closer, your lips gently grazing his jaw, “I’m glad they let you move the reservation.”
“Me too,” he said – they didn’t let him move the reservation – he had to cancel and make a new one, “tonight it’s just going to be us, a nice dinner, and maybe even a walk if you’re feeling up to it.”
“I’m up for anything as long as it’s with you, now bend down so I can kiss your lips.”
Always straight to the point, he thought as he did as he was asked. Though, just as his lips grazed your own, his alarm went off causing him to sigh lightly, almost longingly. And when it became obvious that he was contemplating on whether or not to just kiss you or rush to work, you decided to just peck his lips once, twice, and a third time for good measure before your letting his belt loops go and pushing him backwards, “you need to get to work and I need to enjoy my day off.”
“Wouldn’t a day off with me be even better,” he teased as he turned to grab the door handle.
“I wish,” you fire back, “but you know how Perry gets when the both of us take off at the same time.”
The last time you both did that… was pretty hectic. Louis could hold down the forte, but it was better when the three of you were working together.
“You’re right about that- as always,” he opened the door and looked at you again, “tonight, right.”
“Tonight.”
When the door shut behind him and you locked it up tight, you took a moment to gather your thoughts. Truthfully, you really really wanted to go on that date with Clark. You really did. But you also know that he had his job as Superman to worry about to, and you really didn’t want to put him on the spot of forcing him to go on one silly date. Besides, it was just as he said; tonight.
You basically skipped towards your bedroom and threw the closet door opened. Your eyes immediately landing on the dress that you knew you just had to wear. Reaching for it, you ran your fingers along the expensive fabric. It was the first dress you wore to your very first date with Clark. It had been awhile since you wore it, so you figured now was a good a time as any to throw it on since Clark was taking you back to that very restaurant. Of course, you did tell him you were wearing the black dress you had bought awhile ago, so you wondered how he would react to seeing this one…
“Wait! That’s actually a good idea!”
You went to your nightstand by your bed and grabbed your phone off the charger and quickly unlocked it to go to your messages.
“I should so ask him to just meet me at the restaurant, that way he won’t know what I’m wearing till-“
RING RING RING
You jumped a little, your hands fumbling as you almost dropped your phone when an unknown caller ID popped up. Rolling your eyes and preparing yourself for a scam call you answered.
“Hello?”
“Hi! This is Macy, I work at the restaurant you got reservations for last night. I’m really sorry, but I had to switch shifts at the last minute. I feel bad for not telling Mr. Kent, but I made sure to tell the person who did get my shift to be prepared. So, I just have to know, did you say yes?”
“E- excuse me?”
“You know, when he proposed last night. Did you say yes? I’m a sucker for these things and took a peek at the guest list to get your phone number. I’m really sorry about that, but-“
You hung up the phone. Eyes wide. Lips parted. Your heart thundering loud in your chest. It felt like you forgot how to breathe.
Clark was going to propose last night?!
You tossed your phone towards your bed, it bounced off and hit the carpeted floor with a quiet dull thud, but you paid no mind to it. Your feet were already carrying you as you started to pace around your room in circles.
Propose?!
Married to Clark?!
As your thoughts raced, it honestly began to feel like you could hear wedding bells off in the distance. Marrying Clark would be a dream come true. In fact, by your first date you were already doodling that stupid heart thing where you put his name and your name together with a little plus sign. But still, to think that he felt the same. That he wanted to be with you. That-
You paused.
He was taking you back to that restaurant tonight. He has his clothes laid out. His underwear and tie out in the open. His suit was newly pressed. His shoes recently shined. He was going to propose. He had everything planned out right to the last, minute detail.
And some girl named Macy who loved romcoms just ruined the surprise.
You honest to god felt like falling to your knees and cursing the sky.
Should you tell him that you knew about the proposal? Warn him even? Blackmail Macy for doing such an outrageous thing?
“I can’t do that… not to Clark.”
Knowing Clark, you knew that telling him that you know about the proposal would devastate him. His lips would do that little downturn that they do when he hears something sad and then you would probably start crying since he would look like big, kicked puppy. God, you couldn’t do that to him. Not to Clark.
“Ok, ok,” you breathed as you tried to calm yourself down and get your bearings, “it’s not ruined. Nothing is ruined. I will simply keep my mouth shut, act surprised, and then-,” that dopey little grin of yours was quick to etch itself across your face, “then I’ll say yes,” you squealed a little at the admission as you danced about your bedroom.
With new vigor and gameplan, you went over to your phone and picked it up off the floor and went to your calls before hitting the unknown number in order to call Macy back. She picked up almost immediately.
“Alright Macy, just so we’re both clear, an emergency on our end popped up too so he wasn’t able to propose, but we’re coming to the restaurant tonight, so you better not say anything when we get there.”
“Ma’am, yes ma’am! But … I just have to know… will you say yes?”
“Guess you’ll just have to wait and see.”
You didn’t wait for her response as you hung up on her again. Your nerves were on overdrive and your brain couldn’t stop running. You honestly couldn’t wait till that clock struck five and Clark would come racing back to you so you both could go to the restaurant.
You threw yourself onto your bed, your phone clutched to your chest as you kicked your feet like a high school in love.
Clark’s going to propose tonight!
And just as you thought, you really were giddy for the rest of the day. You could not sit still at all. In fact, you were long ready for your date with Clark, even before he got back to your shared apartment. Because the moment he opened the door and called out for you, he froze mid-step. His mouth hung open a little and his eyes seemed to rake you up and down as he took you in.
“Isn’t that-“
“You bet.”
You did a little twirl for him as he closed the door behind him A soft click echoing in the apartment as he set his things down.
“I didn’t even know you still had that,” he did, he just didn’t know when you would bless him with wearing it again.
“You like?”
“Like it?”
When he walked over to you and fitted his hands on your waist, he couldn’t find himself to stop staring at you; couldn’t bring himself to tear his eyes off you for even a second, “I love it.”
It took a lot of effort for him to not convince you to just let him take it off of you as you basically herded him towards the bedroom to get him to change. Your thoughts solely on the restaurant.
Did you want him to propose to you. Oh, absolutely you do. But you also want to have this date with him too. Mainly because it really did feel like you were competing with the entirety of Metropolis for his attention at times.
“Your definitely eager, where’s the fire?”
“Knowing Metropolis, the fire will be at the local fireworks storage house when you get your shoes on.”
“Very funny,” he quipped when he bent down to tie his laces, and when he sat up and you looked at him it was like something clicked in place for you. You really couldn’t lie to him. Especially when he never lied to you. (Yeah, when you asked if he was Superman or not, he folded instantaneously. Almost like a house of cards really.)
“Clark.”
You called out to him as you walked up to where he was sitting on the couch.
“Hmm?”
He looked up at you as you went in front of him and nudged his legs open by bumping his knees with yours. He happily obliged as you wedged yourself between his thighs and you couldn’t resist when you lifted your hands to gently run your fingers in his hair and pull him in so his cheek was resting against your stomach.
“What’s wrong?”
The question was soft when it fell from his lips. Soft in a way that you loved. Soft in a way that made you want to cry when you remembered him asking you the same thing when you first met him as Superman he was holding a giant, stone pillar up so it wouldn’t crush you.
You let your fingers card through his curls.
“I thought about not telling you, I even prepared myself to keep the secret till I would find myself on my deathbed.”
You could feel him tense when he wrapped his arms around your thighs to hug you, but he didn’t interrupt so you kept going.
“I was so happy about it too, I couldn’t stop jumping around my room just thinking about what was going to happen, but when I look at you… I just…”
You closed your eyes and gathered your thoughts. You took a moment to find the right words, “earlier today, a girl who worked at the restaurant called and said she had to switch shifts last night and wanted to know what my answer was.”
You let him pull away from you a little and tilt his head up as you looked down at him and moved your hands out of his hair so you could cup his cheeks.
“I’m always so eager and wanting to just rush forward without thinking, but then you show up and you always manage to ground me, and I really couldn’t lie to you or act surprise, and I’m pretty sure you would be able to tell anyway since I am a terrible actor… especially considering how well I faired against that undercover cop that one time.”
“What did you tell her?”
You could feel his hands shake when he moved his hands to hold onto your waist, but he refused to move from his spot on the couch, as if the anticipation alone was rooting him in place. And you didn’t let his question hang in the air for long, but you weren’t going to answer it out right either. Though…
“I guess you’ll just have to ask me to see.”
You had a feeling that he already knew the answer.
synopsis. when your dog breaks free mid-kaiju attack, chasing after her lands you straight into superman’s arms. contains. (mild) movie spoilers ‧ fem!reader ‧ fluff ‧ wc 984 note. not proofread + english is not my first language
YOU HADN’T NOTICED THE SIRENS LONG AFTER THEY BEGAN. headphones in, a podcast playing. by the time you looked up, half the street had emptied. a plastic bag whirled through the air, then flattened abruptly against a fire hydrant. you pulled out one earbud and caught the sound your dog made: a single yip, then a series of low growls, rising from the depths of her tiny throat.
a tremor passed underfoot. you turned your head—what the fuck. the intersection warped. parked cars jolted against their brakes. the creature emerged seconds later. reptilian, ash-colored, its bulk distorted the skyline as it turned into the avenue. muscle over scale, some aberrant cross between axolotl and godzilla. it stepped on a sedan like wet cardboard.
debris rained from rooftops, flung loose by the impact tremors. then the building across the street imploded. the storefront burst outward in a spray of glass, smoke, fragments of signage. action movie type of shit happening in real life.
startled, your grip slackened. the leash slipped through your fingers. you screamed her name, sprinting after the sharp scrape of nails on pavement. she was already halfway down the block, zigzagging through flaming wreckage like she thought she could fend off the monster by yapping her dumb little head off. a man nearby shouted for you to get inside.
but that was your baby.
the sound of concrete shearing from steel ruptured the air, but your eyes stayed locked on her. she’d skidded to a halt beneath a mailbox. you lunged, scooping her up, cradling her head to your shoulder. the sky darkened. a shower of rubble descended. you closed your eyes and braced for death. then—a compression at your waist, a sudden upward lurch. everything beneath your feet vanished.
you came to on what felt like a rooftop. you sank to your knees, still clutching fur. she stirred against you, warm tongue swiping your wrist. her heart raced beneath your palm, erratic but it was beating.
he crouched nearby, cape settling at his boots in a pool of ash and crimson silk.
superman.
your idiot dog wriggled from your grasp, scrambled up his leg, and stuck her nose under his chin. then she licked him. he laughed in genuine delight. one hand lifted to cradle her skull, thumb rubbing behind her ear.
then his attention turned to you.
“you alright, miss?”
you nodded, although your neck felt fused in place. something exploded behind you; you flinched. his gaze shifted upward, tracking the slow ascent of smoke from the ruins below.
“stay put awhile. and try to keep your friend here out of trouble.”
and then he disappeared into the sky in a streak of red and blue.
-
three weeks later, normalcy had resumed in the city (though your nerves hadn’t quite followed suit.) scaffolding clung to half-demolished façades, and street vendors kept portable radios crackling with updates no one fully trusted. your pet dog, however, had re-acclimated with ease.
one moment she was trotting dutifully at your side—then, without preamble, she surged forward, tore the handle from your grip, and left a stinging welt into your palm.
note to self: replace that goddamn leash.
sidestepping briefcases and excusing yourself through the crowd, you chased after her, calling her name. the scene felt familiar, though marginally less life-threatening than the last. this time, no giant monster—only the humiliation of your dog launching herself headlong into a stranger’s legs outside the revolving doors of the daily planet.
he absorbed the tiny impact without so much as a stumble. then he crouched and she bounded into his lap. you reached them seconds later, bent at the waist and panting. “i’m so sorry—” inhale, “—she’s never—” exhale, “—i mean, not usually—no idea what got into her—”
“it’s alright,” the stranger replied, placidly. he passed you the leash gently, like he didn’t want to jostle her. “she’s very sweet, no harm done.”
you blinked. he scratched behind her ears and she pressed her head into his palm like a little traitor. weird. she hated men. barked at delivery guys. barely tolerated your brother. but she was practically in love with this one.
and really, you couldn’t blame her.
thick, dark curls fell across his forehead, softening the symmetry of his face. his nose was straight, tapering clean at the tip; lips full and the upper part shaped in a bow. a strong jaw balanced the boyish look, but it was the eyes that disarmed you—bright blue, jarringly vivid, as if someone had dialled the saturation to the max.
he smiled, showcasing dimples. christ.
“have we met?” the question slipped out before you could vet it. he adjusted his glasses with a forefinger as he took a long look at you. then shook his head, sheepish.
“i… don’t think so.”
your dog rolled onto her back and offered her belly. he laughed softly and obliged, rubbing her stomach with both hands.
“you live around here?” he asked.
“yeah. few blocks down.”
“you want to grab coffee sometime?”
his tone was gentle, a little hopeful, and made it difficult to refuse. truthfully, the hopeless romantic in you had already started playing out the version where he asked for your number—drafting down every single detail of the encounter into the margins of your next diary entry.
you handed him your phone and took his in exchange. he entered the digits slowly, double-checked them out loud. your dog sneezed against his ankle. he smiled again, gave her one last pat.
“see you around,” and he turned away, walking off like none of it had been the slightest bit strange. your dog let out a soft whine and looked after him, ears perked, tail twitching.
realising you hadn’t even caught the stranger’s name before agreeing to a coffee date, you glanced down at your screen.
clark kent.
𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐑-𝐈𝐒-𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐓𝐇 2025 — all rights reserved. do not modify, repost, translate, or plagiarise my content. ꕀ
weather or not! || clark kent x reader
'oh, the humanity!' pt 2 (but could 100% be read as stand-alone)
clark offers to walk you home during a downpour, but between a tiny umbrella, drenched clothes, and a few lingering touches, the rain isn’t the only thing making your heart race
pairing: clark kent x bubbly!reader
warnings: none! reader confides to superman about clark, again, lots of rain-soaked flirting, mutual pining, and some soft physical closeness. reader wears heels and is notably shorter than clark!! this is a continuation/part two but can also pretty much be read as a standalone, if you'd like :)
“So,” you say, legs swinging off of the side of the roof you’re perched on. It sort of makes your stomach swoop to think of sitting so high but considering who is sitting next to you, you’re forcing yourself not to worry. Too much. “That’s kind of where I’m at. Like, sometimes he flirts or makes me think it’s reciprocated, sometimes though I wonder if that’s just his, like, home-grown charm, you know?”
Superman is stone-still next to you, staring out over the city and not answering.
“Sorry, I know you’re not here for love advice. You’re just also the one who kind of hinted that maybe something was there? Well, no, you basically threw it into my face, but Clark’s still been Clark – sweet and caring, yes, but that way with everyone. And I thought I was throwing hints left and right. I’ve worn blue, like, seven days in a row because he said he likes the color on me. I’ve had lunch – with a very strategic banana – with him every day! Which, I’ll admit, is typical, but I’ve made a point to ask him, you know?”
You bite your lip, trying to breathe and remind yourself who is sitting next to you. Self-councious for a moment, you tug the bottom of your skirt down and press your hands into your knees to stop the kicking. You’re being a lot – you’re aware you can be a lot! Usually you think that if people don’t like chatty, happy you, then they can just leave! But this is Superman. Literally Superman. One of the most coveted sources around and you have him sitting on a random city skyscraper asking for love advice.
Granted, you’d just finished a rather thorough interview with him about a recent battle with an unknown monster in the city, but still. Decorum. Manners. Some sense of social awareness. All of the things your mom once tried to pound into your head.
Out of the corner of your eye, like you would scare him by turning your head, you watch Superman. Take in his raked back hair, inky black. His cut jaw, slightly tensed as if he’s holding his teeth hard together. Actually, you think, brows furrowing slightly, he looks a little more than tense.
You assumed he was so still next to you because he was feeling awkward – who wants to hear about some strangers love life? You chalked it up to common social feign of not caring. Obviously he has some sort of stake in the game, he was the one who mentioned it in the first place, but now you’re curious.
You take the initiative to turn toward him more, heart pounding rapidly and suddenly as you twist slightly on the roofs edge to do so. Ensuring your steady in your seat, you tilt toward the man next to you and watch him for a moment.
His hands are pressed into fitsts on his thighs, arms rigid. Superman always stood with an extreme posture, strong and true. Now, though, it feels forced. Frozen in place. You’re not sure if he’s breathing, though you do know he can go hours without it.
You rake your eyes over him, a sense of knowing pooling in your gut. Your years of journalism have taught you how to do this well – how to take someones posture and response to questions you’re asking and figure out which following questions will get the real story out of someone.
“Off the record, just as a reminder,” you start. The sudden sound of your voice seems to have snapped Superman somewhat out of his trance and he turns his head to look at you, eyes just this side of unreadable. “Who is it?”
Superman tilts his head in question, arms coming up to cross over his chest. His usual pose, sure, but also a little defensive. He’s protecting himself from something. “What?”
“Who are you thinking about while I sit here and drone on about my comparatively boring office not-quite-romance?” You scoot further from the edge, still conscious of its presence and fight to not look down.
You kind of hate Superman for picking this meet up location but it’s fine. It’s fodder you can use to pad your article tomorrow with some sense of humor, as you love to do.
“I wasn’t?” Superman replies, head still tilted. He looks like a dog, you think, and fail to fight back a laugh at the thought. “What?”
“No, sorry, the laugh was unrelated. You just reminded me so much of him for a second, you both act like cute, confused puppies when you’re thinking.” You press your palm into your mouth, biting back your smile.
You miss the way Superman freezes as you make the connection of mannerisms.
“Anyway,” you press forward, waving off the thought with a careless flick of your wrist, “this is all off the record. I don’t know you or her, likely, in any way that it should really matter. And, I promise, despite all of the rambling, I’m a really good listener. Been told I give good advise, too, so go on.” You try to give him a reassuring smile and edge away from the drop off of the side of the building more, now sitting so your leg is completely unbent from how far you’ve pushed yourself away.
“I’m sure you do,” Superman mumbles, eyes watching you curiously for a moment, deep in thought. You let him, watching him back with your best placating smile.
Honestly, you’re curious about who could get the oh-so cheery Superman so pensive like this.
“Do you want to move away from the edge?” He asks instead of answering, hopping up and offering his hand.
“Oh, yes, actually, I really do.” You don’t take his hand, though, opting to scooch away from the edge. “I’m kind of terrified that if I stood up like that,” you say, gesturing to him while you reach down to brush roof-gravel off of your legs and adjust your skirt, “I would be done-zo and it’s bye-bye to your favrotie reporter.”
“I wouldn’t let that happen,” Superman says, affronted. You giggle.
“I know, that’s what he call a joke. Hence the word ‘done-zo’ – who says that just, like, naturally?” You opt to lean against the wall surrounding the roof, feeling much more secure now that your feet are on solid ground.
“Me, probably,” Superman muses. You smile to yourself, watching him press his hands into his hair and ensure it’s still slicked back.
You’re getting used to him, slowly, if that’s possible. Superman, The Superman, standing in front of you and having noticeable and trackable human mannerisms. You itch to ask him about his life, what goes on when the crime fighting is over. Is he lonely? The thought makes you sad: someone who brings comfort to thousands shaking up alone in some random apartment at the end of a long day literally saving the world.
You shake off the thought, back to the topic at hand. “So, you were about to tell me: who is she?”
“Was I?” Superman asks, and it comes out on the back of a chuckle.
“You were,” you press.
“She’s…great, actually. I can’t say much,” he warns, giving you a meaningful look. You raise your hands in a placating measure before gesturing for him to go on. “She’s just someone I met and got used to, over time. Her being in my life felt like such a change in routine, at first. She was so her and so unapologetic about it. And I thought, wow how can I ever get used to such a vibrant person near? And then I did. Turns out, actually,” he chuckles, low. You smile, just for yourself, at the sound. It’s so warm and natural and safe-sounding to hear. “she’s just like anyone else. Weird, I know, coming from me.
“She became a part of my routine. And, yeah, she’s bright and lively but also sweet and gentle when she wants. And, yeah, I just wonder if part of me got so used to that routine,” he cuts himself off, jaw locking in some sort of determination. His face sets, suddenly, as he looks over your shoulder. “My advice? For your guy? Give him more time, maybe he’ll come around – have some faith.”
He gives you a smile, poster worthy and media trained. You can see instantly how it’s different than his natural ones and something ticks in response to that in the back of your mind. “Thank you. I’m assuming it’s time to go? Gotta jet?” You ask, joking. It’s paired with an awkward smile and sort of small, mock superhero pose to break the tension. You immediately cringe a little at yourself but are rewarded by another homey chuckle so you chalk that up as a win.
“Yes, I do. But you know how to reach me, I’m always up for an interview with, quoting you here, my favorite reporter.”
“Oh,” you scoff, pushing away from the wall you’re leaning against and collecting your bag, “we both know that’s Clark. My charm hasn’t had quite enough time to set in. Trust that it will, though!”
“I do,” Superman says, shaking his head at you and beginning to float up.
-
The newsroom is lovely – blue light from outside trickling through the windows in hazy trails, masked by the rain. Low lights left on peoples desks illuminating the space in a gentle glow (the overhead ones were shut off hours ago). The hum of a few computers left on and a few stragglers still typing or scribbling on notebook paper. Lois is bent over her voice recorder, headphones plugged in, furiously scribbling her transcript down with her favorite blue pen in a worn notebook, as is her usual routine.
You’ve long since gotten over the weird sense of competition every new news writer feels, battling over who stays the longest in the office. Late nights seem to shout: I have the most important work here! I have the best story, the best source, the headline article, right here!
Now, though, you’re fully aware that that’s a misconception every baby writer grows out of. Actually, you’d quite like to go home. You’ve a cat and a crockpot meal waiting for you, plus a warm couch and a podcast to catch up on. With a frustrated huff, you check your phone again for the time, switching to the weather app.
The main thing keeping you from your glorious, comfortable, oh-so-lovely apartment? The pouring rain. The sudden storm that swept through on the tail of some elemental meta-human causing a ruckus downtown. You were actually tasked with documenting the event and the mostly-finished article blinks up at you on your laptop screen. You want to finish it at hime, in bed, with your makeup off and hair wrapped in a towel, not in the tight pony tail you deemed cute this morning but is now causing a pulsing behind your ears.
At this rate, your chicken is going to dry up inside of the pot. With a determined glance out of the window, you snap closed your laptop and shove it into your bag. Your thin bag, one of the cute trendy totes you bought online after seeing a million videos.
After some consideration, and several glares at the window, currently being pounded with rain, you take the jacket off of the back of your chair and begin wrapping it around your laptop before shoving it back into your bag.
Great – now you’ll just be walking aroubnd with an oddly shaped bag. Hopefully nobody sends a suspicious-bomb report out on you.
Staring morously down at your cute heels that are doomed to be ruined by the wet streets, you stand up and switch off the salt rock lamp on your desk.
Clark looks up at the sound, automatic smile tilting confused when he sees you.
“Where’s your jacket?” He asks, jumping up and shoving his own laptop into his sensible, leather, zippable, stupidly-probably-waterproof bag.
“Wrapped around my computer,” you say, putting on a play roll of your eyes as you lift the bag. You tone it as a joke, certain nobody else needs to share your ire of the weather. The bad day is yours, certainly there’s no reason to share it. “It’s a shorter walk home then taking transport, just means a fifteen minute walk in the sudden flash.”
“Oh,” Clark answers, biting his lip and obviously thinking for a moment. “I think I have,” he hums, cutting himself off and spinning around in a slow circle, twisting so he has to hop over his own foot. “Yeah! I have an umbrella – I’ll walk you.”
Clark looks thrilled, holding his cheap little umbrella up to you with a little wave.
“Clark, silly boy,” you tease, already fully aware that there’s certainly no way you’re now leaving this office unless it’s under the cover of the flimsy thing, “you’re place is another fifteen minute walk past mine – it makes more sense for you to take the bus.”
Clark shrugs, setting his bag down and beginning to shrugs out of his suit jacket. “Not if it means you’ll have to walk in the rain. All by yourself, at that.”
“If you say you,” you conced.
“That’s all? No fight from you today?” Clark asks, looking up from retrieving his bag in surprise.
“You’re a big boy,” you say, letting the slightlest hint of flirt leak into your voice, smiling up at him sweetly, “I trust you to make your own decisions. Plus, I’m not really in a position where I want to say no, you know? Moreso was being polite. But, yes, please take me home under yout teeny umbrella. One wet shoulder is better than a fully soaked me.”
Clark turns a little pink in the cheeks under the direct focus of one of your sweet smiles. It’s been happening more, lately, since your talk with Superman. It’s only been a few days, but you’ve certainly noticed Clark reacting much more than before.
The day after you’d gotten back from your interview, you’d come into the office and greeted Clark with your usual, “hey, handsome! What’s the news?” – a cheeky joke you’ve had with him for ages. But, unusual, he’d jerked his head up at you, eyes wide, and blushed and stuttered through his hello. It’d taken him a few more tries to get back into your playful routine, but by lunch he’d been back to normal.
Well, the new normal where sometimes your teases would get the usual quippy reply and other times you’d get an endeeringly genuine smile from him, a hand at the back of his neck, peering over his glasses and asking, “you really think so?” or something of the sort. It was maddening, how downright adorable this man could be.
This is the Clark you’re faced with now as he offers you his suit jacket, smiling so sweetly and gently in a way that lets you know it’s just for you. He has to tilt his head down and his curls nearly fall over his eyes as he does so, his glasses slipping just a little down his strong nose. You’re caught by the dimples, as you sometimes are, as they come in full force against you.
“For your wet shoulder,” he says, pressing it into your hands.
You’re a little stunned, wondering if Clark knows just how powerful that little smile and head dip combo is when put to use, so you take the jacket and stand dumbly for a minute as he walks past you.
“Wait, wait,” you say, jumping to chase after him, “but you’re going to get wet!”
He’s at the doors when you catch up, damn those stupid long legs, and he shrugs, hands in his pockets and bag slung over his shoulder.
“Like you said, I’m a big boy. Nothing I can’t handle.”
You look at him, a baffled laugh coming out under a breath. “Well, okay then.”
You sling the jacket over your shoulders, laughing a little more when you realize the sleeves come far past your hands and the hem to your knees. Clark snorts, a genuine sound that has you looking up in amusement only to see it mirrored.
“Sorry, it’s just,” he’s grinning, reaching forward to grab your arm and begin rolling up the sleeve for you. You let him do the other without saying a word, just watching him work carefully at the task, making each fold even and neat. “There, you’re back to functional.” He gives your wrist a brief squeeze, big hands warm and fully encircirling your arm.
“Thank you,” you say, voice warm without you meaning it to be. It’s just that he does this, sometimes. Sweet, small acts showing he cares for you in a way beyond a work crush and into something more. Something gentle that keeps alive this little fire in you burning with the question of if this could grow into more.
“Of course,” he says off-handed, unaware of how he truly affects you under the teasing jokes and casual flirting. “You ready?” He asks, opening the umbrella and holding a hand on the door.
You shrug. “Sure, handsome, go for it.”
You’ve both failed to consider a few things that become obvious as you begin your trek to your apartment. One – Clark is significantly taller then you, making the umbrella awkward to use and nearly useless. Two – the umbrella is truly very tiny. You’re unsure if you could even use it comfortably alone – how in the world did Clark think he could fit under it, even? – nonetheless together.
You can’t help but laugh as you tumble down the sidewalk, soaked and clutching your bag to your chest under Clark’s jacket.
Clark wraps an arm around you and tuggs you to his side, all warm and firmness that you can’t even focus on over the ridiculisouness of the situation.
“I’m glad you’re enjoying this,” Clark comments, sneaking small glances down at you between surveying your surroundings and deftly directing you around large puddles and away from the street. “You looked like you were going to walk out to your death earlier, I was afraid you were petrified of the rain or something.”
“No, no, just a little grumpy is all,” you admit, rubbing your nose with the back of your hand to catch a droplet and grinning up at Clark. “You’ve fixed that though, as usual.”
“Have I?” Clark asks, sending a shocked but pleased look down at you. Before you can respond or he elaborate, though, the sky roars in sudden thunder and the skies truly open.
Before had been a steady downpour, sure, but nothing insane. This is a rampant beating of water that drenches in it’s path. Floodgates open, akin to someone dumping a full bucket of water over your heads.
“Oh, oh gosh!” Clark calls, reaching around you more firmly to catch you as you trip over your heels.
“Hah!” You burst out, caught in a fit of giggles, “I love when you say gosh, it’s so endearing.” You’re truly caught in the storm of it now, pun not forgiven in your current state, overcome with the giggles and unable to keep the comment in.
“That’s nice, sweetheart, but we’ve got to,” Clark sighs, tugging you into his warmth. You realize with the sensation that you’ve begun to shake with the chill of the rain – something Clark has likely picked up on if the way his hand is now dragging up and down your arm is any indication. “Here.” Clark drags you to a small enclave, tilting the umbrella to give you some reprieve from the rain.
It works and you’re given a dry spot, if only for a minute, to look at each other.
Clark’s white undershirt is plastered to his skin, revealing a toned body that you’ve caught outlines of where and there but are truly distracted by now. I mean, you knew Clark was strong before, but this? This is beyond what you expected.
Embarrassed and not wanting to be caught oogling his delicious pecks and seriously biteable arms, you dart your eyes up to his face and have to stop a coo from leaving you.
He looks like a drenched poodle, hair stuck to his forehead and glasses fogged. You’ve the urge to take them off of his face and clean them but there’s not a dry scrap around to do so. You opt for reaching up, tilting on your toes to do so, and gently pushing his hair to the side and brushing the edge of your sleeve against the lenses of his glasses, clearing his way a little.
He’s sweet like this, watching you do as you please to him, an arm still encased around your waist. You could kiss him, you think, and you’re fairly sure he’d reciprocate. He’s right there, bending ever so slightly to make your reaching his face a reality. You’re on your toes, tucked under an umbrella, swept away in his arms.
You can’t quite fight the urge, despite the way your brain tells you to slow down! Stop! Don’t risk loosing him, not by rushing, not by assuming! So you quickly use your hand cupped on the back of his neck to tug him down and yourself up to press your lips to his cheek.
You slip back down to your heels, patting him once on the shoulder as you do so. You’re a little embarrassed and a lot shy, despite the pleased pink that shrouds Clark’s face and the way he’s looking at you, eager and elated, so you tilt your head to survey the surrounding street.
“Quite the pickle we’re in,” you comment, watching as rainwater collects and surges through the street. Nobody is out, those sane sane people, and you’re still a little ways away from your apartment.
“Yeah, right,” Clark clears his throat, blinking several times. “Well, I was going to suggest we run, but there’s the issue of your shoes.”
You both stare down at your soggy heels, very impractical for running but also very cute and very fitting for sitting at your desk and writing your pieces.
“I could take them off, run barefoot?” You offer, about to bend down and do so.
“Or,” Clark stops you by pulling his arm tighter around your waist. Your tummy flutters at the movement. “I could carry you?”
“Carry me?” You ask, confused for a moment. “You don’t have to do that.”
Clark sends you a look, exasperated, calling you silly girl like he sometimes does. “Sweetheart,” there it is again, that petname and responding flutter in your throat, “you know I don’t mind. Plus, I don’t really trust you to not fall on your face.”
He has the good sense to look apologetic as he says it but you still huff in disbelief.
“I totally would not fall. Probably would beat you to my place, that’s what you’re afraid of!” You say, all bravado as you tilt your nose in the hair. “But, I’ll take you up on the offer,” you finish after a moment, voice several notches lower and shyer. “Just because I don’t want to run across the street barefoot! It’s gross,” you insist.
“Uh-huh, okay,” Clark chuckles, something bright in his eyes. “You ready, then?”
“Want me to climb on your back?”
Clark’s chuckle turns into a bright laugh as he shakes his head and closes the umbrella, securing it in his bag. “Okay?” He asks, bending to scoop your legs but waiting for your nod before picking you up.
He carrys you easily as he begins a moderately fast jog through the streets, your squeals trailing behind you as you giggle in his arms. It’s sort of like flying, you think, with how high you feel, your full heart brimming with affectin and the joy of simply being picked up and carried.
You arrive at your apartment fairly quickly and absolutely drenched, both dripping to the bone. Clark setting you down is a gentle heartbreak, a loss of his touch after the last fifteen minutes under and in his arms.
You shiver, pulling your sopping hair from your neck before digging in your bag to find your key. “I hope our computers are okay,” you mumble, finding the key and unlocking your door. “Come in, come in, I’m sure you’re freezing.”
“Yeah, okay,” Clark says, a little belated, kicking off his soggy shoes to step inside.
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yearning!clark kent x journalist!reader note: finally finished this! it’s been in my drafts for the longest time! word count: 800
clark kent was not subtle. he liked to think he was. liked to imagine that the glances he stole went unnoticed, that the coffee he brought you each morning was casual and not, in fact, the result of memorizing your order down to the preferred oat milk brand and how long you let it sit before drinking it. but clark kent was not subtle. not when it came to you.
he knew it the moment he caught himself rewashing a mug because you’d once said dish soap left a weird taste. knew it when he passed three bakeries just to pick up that stupid muffin you liked—the one with the sugared top and the soft middle. he’d watch you eat it some mornings, all gentle and slow, brushing crumbs off the skirt that drove clark crazy. yeah, he was down bad.
this morning was no different. he stood in front of your desk with the muffin in hand, not because you’d asked, not because it was a holiday or your birthday. but because he couldn’t not. the idea of you walking into the bullpen, all bleary eyed and brilliant, and finding nothing waiting…well, that was unthinkable.
“you’re early,” you said, slipping your coat off, voice still husky from sleep. it went straight to his chest, settling there like a permanent ache. your lips curl into a sickly sweet smile. his knees dare to buckle.
“so are you,” he replied, soft and sheepish. his fingers tightened around the wax paper. “i, uh, brought you something.” his cheeks were a shade darker and it was becoming harder and harder to maintain eye contact with you (he has a record of twenty seconds without breaking eye contact with you).
you raised a brow. took the muffin from him with a small smile that could flatten cities. “again?” you examined the small, pink bag. it was from your favorite bakery—the one you mentioned you loved in passing. although, nothing was mentioned casually when it came to clark.
“couldn’t help myself.” he looked away, ears pink. lois snickers from behind somewhere, hitting jimmy with a newspaper, and pointing at clark. clark ignores it. if anything, it makes his blush grow even deeper.
you sat down with a small sigh, pulling your laptop toward you. “you know, if you keep doing this, i’m gonna start thinking you like me or something.” your gaze moves past clark and onto lois and jimmy who are currently making kissing noises and suggestive hand gestures. you suppress a light chuckle.
clark tried not to short-circuit. he shoved his hands into his pockets and smiled—bashful, boyish, unmistakably yours. “i don’t-” he blurts out. “wait, i do like you—not like that,” beads of sweat form at the nape of his neck. “well, unless you want me to—because then i’d like you like that-”
you press your hands to his arm, cutting off his rambling. “clark, i was just joking.” amusement dances between your eyes. he huffs and nods, scratching through his mop of curls.
“yeah, of course.” but he doesn’t move. he just stands there, sheepish and still, like he’s waiting for the floor to open up and swallow him. your fingers linger on his sleeve a second longer than they should—soft fabric, firm bicep—and when you pull away, he swears he can feel the shape of your touch like it’s burned into him.
you turn back to your screen, but your smile doesn’t fade. it lingers there and he catches it. he watches the way you tuck your hair behind your ear, how you bite the edge of your lip to keep the grin from spreading too far. like you’re holding something back. he exhales. suddenly, he’s a little dazed and a lot lovesick. “happy wednesday,” he mumbles, already backing away, walking straight into the corner of your desk. the impact makes your water bottle clatter and jimmy outright cackles from across the floor. clark winces, clears his throat, tries again. “i mean—i hope it’s a good one. your day. the whole thing.”
you shoot him a look—eyebrows raised, lips twitching like you’re trying not to laugh—and he wants to bury himself in a pile of lead and never come out. “thanks, clark,” you say sweetly, like he didn’t just detonate a minor disaster in front of everyone. “it already is.”
he nods too many times, trips over a chair leg, and practically flees back to his desk—where lois is sipping her coffee with a smirk so smug it could rival god. “if you ever do manage to ask her out,” she mutters, “i’ll start believing in miracles.”
he groans and drops his head to his desk. “i was so normal until she walked in.”
You might let Clark get away with too much because you know he needs a break. But a woman can only handle so much when she didn’t even want to date Superman in the first place.
Yeah I lowkey needed a cry but instead raw dogged this random angst shot of David’s Supes (because I’m fucking obssessed)
Warnings: uhh like one reference to suicidal thoughts, reader is super emotionally confused, Clark is sweet but super super dense, hurt no comfort, reader dumps supes but in a really too nice way even though she’s been through the ringer, Clark CANNOT process this and really the man is too shocked to speak, reader is way too nice even though Clark ditched her on her 30th birthday
Let me know if I should make a pt 2 because I’d probably be interested in doing so.
————————————————————————
There was something you could never admit to yourself even if you really wanted to.
You deserved better.
Way better than a beautiful meal that slowly turned cold because of the man who just couldn’t pull himself away from the world.
Especially today.
Honestly you couldn’t even be mad at Clark because he was out there saving people. Plural.
Stopping wars, holding buildings together so they wouldn’t play dominos after a villains tantrum- and probably kissing babies and kittens afterwards.
But damn it you were only human and you hadn’t wanted to date Superman.
You had fallen head over heels for Clark.
And now…..
You were sitting pretty for yourself-
because you knew he wouldn’t be home until sunrise at this point. You could still see explosions of light beaming infrequently on the city line.
Who knew that desperately chasing the tall clumsy loser of the Daily Planet would land you with a mandatory side of savior complex.
Clark was all you had ever wanted and Superman wasn’t even in the credits.
But you unknowingly signed up for big blue, who just so happened to have a terrible habit of making an appearance when he got too excited. (Clark accidentally floated the two of you about 5 feet in the air during your first kiss.)
You still tease him about it just to see his ears flush crimson.
Crimson like the dress you wore tonight. His favorite color.
So silly. Because it was YOUR birthday. You should’ve worn your favorite color. But you wanted to look nice for the man you fell for,
even if a small part of you had whispered when you bought it that he might miss out on seeing you in it.
Which was why the tags were still on it.
You’d take it back first thing in the morning.
Then buy yourself a damn espresso machine instead to make up for the emotional damage.
After slipping the dress off and leaving it in a pile on his bedroom floor, with an uncanny likeness to what you think your relationship looked like-
you decided you wanted to spend the night passion writing at your desk.
And there was no where better than the Daily Planet for that kind of outlet.
Plus it was only 10:45, you needed a walk so you wouldn’t do something impulsive.
Like wiping every trace of yourself from his apartment Men in Black style and then disappearing so you wouldn’t have to actually ever talk to him about this.
But you knew that you would be cleaner and smoother about it than that. You were an adult and you could break off a relationship like an adult. Plus…you still loved him, and he deserved better than that.
You do grab the last pint of Clark’s favorite ice cream from the freezer on your way out though.
It wasn’t every day you turned 30.
You were allowed to be a little petty.
————————————————————————
Having taken a detour of the whole fucking city on your way to work, you didn’t end up getting there until midnight (ish).
The stars were surprisingly visible and the fresh air was addicting. Add on stolen ice cream, a cool rock you found in the park, and a never ending stream of tears you’ve been suppressing for the better half of 6 months and you’d call it a pretty damn good night of womanhood.
By the time you actually walk into the surreally quiet Daily Planet- you had lost any and all motivation to write.
Your heart was a sad pile of mush and your brain wasn’t faring much better.
Instead you shuffled back into the elevator and pressed the button for the top floor.
The city was stunning.
The breeze was calm.
And you didn’t mean to be morbid, but you thought it might be a nice place to die.
Or really- more like mourn a part of you that had died.
That was a safer way to put it. Because in a way it was true.
Tonight was sobering. Tonight you were grieving the more naive version of yourself who thought she could hold Clark Kent closer by holding on tighter. (And pretending like his every absence and bloodstain didn’t affect you)
That’s what you had been doing for almost a year and you were so tired of it.
Everything you had ever loved and let go of had claw marks. You were known to hold on until you couldn’t anymore.
And Clark was too sweet for you to scar up in that way. He had enough of that from his side gig of being Earth’s #1
Sure he couldn’t scar physically but emotionally….
He was a graveyard of all the people he couldn’t get to in time.
No. You had to let him go.
For both of your sakes.
You were a grown woman and you knew now the timing of beginnings
And endings.
You were sick of causing yourself immeasurable amounts of pain by pretending everything was always fine.
Like you said-Every absence. Every stain of blood in your apartment. Every late night of no shows and valid excuses.
You knew it couldn’t carry on. You felt a little sick, and maybe it was the ice cream, but in reality you knew.
You had to dump the love of your life.
And of course it had to be you because- well Clark would never.
Just as you allowed yourself to sit gently on the roof edge to sit quietly with that-
You heard it.
The gentle whip of wind that you had memorized for 12 months 8 weeks and 2 days
Part adoration, part trauma response.
It came with the territory if you didn’t want to have a heart attack everytime your boyfriend forgets your ears are dull and he shouldnt just spawn out of nowhere behind you.
But this time you knew HE knew you were aware of him.
Which was good. It’s meant he knew you needed to have the space to speak first.
“Hey Superman,”
It was more gentle than you had intended, but he let of a shaky breath like you had screamed it.
“Sweetheart.”
You didn’t turn around. The city lights were grounding.
“You seen my boyfriend around?”
You knew that struck something more tender when in a blink he was hovering in front of you. You both knew you hadn’t wanted to turn around to look him in the eyes.
He was so unfair.
And beautiful.
“He might be hiding,” he rasped. Even his hair looked deflated. “Seeing as he’s the worst boyfriend on Earth.”
You smiled at the ice cream pint that was perspiring onto your scrappy sweatpants.
Then the warmth of another round of tears followed behind.
Clark shed all pretense and scrambled towards you.
“Oh honey- oh gosh- baby I can’t” he choked
“I’m so sorry sweetheart- there’s no excuse I’m horrible-”
Your sharp bark of laughter interrupts him.
He froze. His hands not being able to decide if he deserved to comfort you or not.
You all the sudden couldn’t stop the laughter.
Or the tears.
You looked crazy, likely,
seeing as Clark was looking at you like
a.) he had been punched in the gut
b.) you were possibly broken
c.) there’s a chance he might have to stop you from throwing yourself off the building
“Oh Clark god you really just-“ another snort of laughter.
“You just really don’t get it do you?”
At that he looked like you had definitely just gut-punched him.
“I-I don’t understand sweetheart- I mean yes I know what I did and it’s terrible really- I’ll never forgive myself but- but I don’t really know why you’re laughing unless well you’re about to strangle me” he pauses “which I’d completely respect and I’ll let you try your hardest if you want but just-“ this time he looks at you in a spooked way.
“Let’s just- uh let’s talk about this away from the edge maybe?”
“Or even like inside the building would be nice.”
You let out a hum.
“Clark.”
He looks startled. Like he expected violence instead of you.
He murmurs your name in reply.
You stand and set down the empty pint then retreat to a safe distance away from the edge.
You see his shoulders fall a little. From relief maybe, or perhaps he now realizes something devastating is about to happen.
“I’m laughing like an insane asylum patient because of how unfair this all is.”
He shudders like he’s in pain.
“Gosh I know- I know and I’m so sorry I-“
“No Clark.”
He stops as you sigh. Then comes the frustration you were surprised hadn’t come sooner.
“You don’t - ughhh- it’s unfair because you’re NOT terrible!”
You lose any remaining composure as the pacing starts.
His feet touch the ground gently and he walks towards you hands out like he’s approaching a scared animal
“NO no you- don’t- just stay there okay because I need you to listen.”
He immediately halts and then just waits. Like a dog
An adorable 6,4 250 pound dog that’s being yelled at for possibly tearing up a couch or something.
You just start then. And the flood comes rushing.
“I can’t even be mad at you Clark because youre so much bigger than this- I can’t be upset and I haven’t let myself be upset for a year over anything like this because I refuse to be some self absorbed twig who thinks her birthday is more important than probably thousands of lives being saved.”
You breathe roughly.
“I’m human and I- well I just I have a breaking point you know and I can’t keep doing this thing where I pretend I don’t care about things like you not coming to dates, or- or coming home in shreds, or not texting me for days when you go to fucking Antarctica, or stranding me in the Air BnB YOU booked because you thought I wanted a vacation with you WHICH I DID but didn’t realize you FLYING us there would mean you’d up and leave me to get home myself while you got kicked around like a hacky sack in Metropolis!!”
Now most of your words were sobs.
Clark looked like he was dying. And honestly you felt like you were too.
“I love you Clark and I’m so sorry because you’re the best thing to ever happen to this earth- to ever happen to ME- but I can’t do this!”
“You’re amazing and I’m really not mad at you but I fell in love with Clark Kent not with Kal-El.”
And that.
That you really hadn’t meant to say.
But Clark, sweet as sugar and nicer than his Ma’s pie, just looks at you like you lost your whole family.
Devasted. But not for himself.
“I-“ his voice cracks.
He looks down but you can see the tears on his own cheeks.
“I didn’t know” he says so quietly.
“I didn’t want you to.” You hesitate.
“I’m sorry Clark. I didn’t- I wanted to support you, I didn’t want to burden or nag you but this-” you wave your hands around, “tonight was just- too much and I can’t do it.”
He looks up, all wet blue eyes and heartbreak.
But his gaze sharpens as your words land.
“You could never burden me.” He says your name to emphasize it.
“You’re my everything.”
Your anger, sadness, and whatever else mixed in just….floats away. All that’s left is a pit of emptiness at what comes next.
“I know Clark.” “So were you.”
The past tense isn’t lost on him. It causes him to crack a little bit.
The great composed glacier that is Superman, just crumbles.
But for your sake he does it quietly. Because he now knows you’ve been doing it for much longer.
Falling apart so silently that even his super senses could never pick up on it.
You finally chance closing the distance because it’s the last time you’ll have to be brave enough to do so.
You stand so close that you become entwined with his shadow. Then you gently reach up and kiss his cheek shakily.
“Stay in one piece Kent,” you say weakly.
An old inside joke from when he fell over his desk after asking you out.
It feels a little hallowed out now.
You know you don’t need to add the next part because he knows you’ve rather die than give him up but still
“I’ll never tell.”
You turn then before he says another word and keeps you wrapped up in all things Clark.
You tell yourself the faster you get out the less time it has to sink in and tear you apart.
————————————————————————
Despite being nearly invincible- Clark feels like the two hours of him just standing on the roof of the Daily Planet in pure shock and disbelief is some kind of psychological warfare created by Lex to kill him.
Because there’s no way in actual heck that he just lost you like that.
He stiffly reaches up to his chest to see if he still has a heartbeat- which is stupid- but necessary because he doesn’t feel ALIVE
And he’s so tired. Tired from the fight, from the panic of not finding you at home where he guiltily knew you’d be waiting, from calmly (freaking TF out) flying over the whole city to locate your heartbeat, and then this.
You dropped a kryptonite bomb on him and then ran.
And before he could even process the loss, you’re gone.
Taking his heart with you.
Funny enough you were right about his not making it home until sunrise- but that’s only because he sits and disassociates on the roof of his day job until the sun reminds him he has to work in two hours.
Where he will have to see you sitting across the room, pretending he doesn’t exist.
Clark has never been into theology like most people were in Smallville.
But he knows now that hell is real.
Because he’s living it.
Ugh it’s trash but whatever it’s midnight and I’m sad so we ball. Tell me how or if I should continue<3
Summary: Clark stands you up on your first date. It turns out he has a pretty decent explanation.
A/N: First fic in 3 years!! And about a DC character no less! The things I do for tall brunette lover boys <3
Warnings: Getting stood up, hurt/comfort, 24 hour clock mention, cursing, food mention, (extremely minor) injury mention, use of y/n, reader is described as having hair. Girl discovers how to use em dash.
Word Count: 8.2k
Pairing: Clark Kent x fem!reader
*
The skin of your legs sticks to the pleather upholstery of your chair as you bounce your leg. Face up on the table beside your empty glass, your phone displays the time.
19:37
Your messages and missed calls remain unanswered. He was late. That's what you repeated to yourself, Clark Kent would not have stood you up. Not Clark Kent, who stuttered and stumbled his way through asking you to dinner, a red flush creeping up from his collar. He’d even double and triple checked you were still up for your date as you walked out of the office together on Friday night, a mere 24 hours ago. Clark Kent would not stand you up… so why was he almost an hour late?
If this was any other man, you would have cut your losses after 5 minutes and no text back. But you were so stunned, so ultimately blindsided by the possibility that the Clark Kent could (and has) forgotten about your date. This is what you get for putting him on a pedestal.
Men, you think. Only it comes out more morose than scathing.
You joined the Daily Planet years ago, fresh from university and desperate to make a change. Your passion in science communication was stunted by an underwhelming lack of reader interest. You managed to put out a few columns here and there, but mainly you worked with Lois, Clark and Jimmy, getting swept up into the seedy dealings of the Metropolis’ rich and powerful. You’d spent many days and nights hunched over desks littered with notebooks, half-written memos on sticky notes, and letters from legal representatives. Corruption paid the bills in this city, as did writing about it.
That was until scientific misinformation about healthcare from capitalistic pharmaceutical companies became increasingly prevalent and public demand for fact rather than fiction rose—you were happy to rise to the challenge. Now your days are spent knee-deep in scientific journals, scoffing at social media rants about vaccines and having to bite your tongue in the bullpen when one of the sports journalists starts spouting off his questionable opinions on women's healthcare. The cease and desist letters didn’t stop though, only signed by a different set of lawyers now. That’s the one constant about your job you suppose—shitty coffee, red pens and threatened legal action.
“It’s how you know you’re doing a good job.” Clark had reassured you once, heavy hand on your shoulder, an unusually bold move of affection from him. Thumb brushing over your satin blouse, once, twice, three times before he squeezed softly, taking your dazed expression for dismay at the thick paper envelope that sat on your desk. “What you’re doing is important.” He said, quieter but with an unwavering surety in his voice, like there was no argument about it.
You wrote that article in record time, lawyers be damned.
When you first met Clark, you honestly thought he didn’t like you. He was quiet—polite—but quiet. He would chat happily to Jimmy, listen intently to Lois’ rants about a suspicious politician, chiming in with supporting observations where necessary, but with you it was like he short-circuited whenever you were near. Minimal eye contact, stuttering, he’d almost go out of his way to make sure there was never a situation where the two of you were alone together. It hurt, sure, but you figured he was just shy and hadn’t warmed up to you.
Thankfully, he did warm up to you. It had all started with a tentatively placed coffee on your desk, your usual order from your favourite cafe nonetheless. You stuttered out a thank you which he politely brushed off, sitting down at his desk, his mouth twisting in a way that made you realise he was trying not to grin. You had stared at your desktop in disbelief as you sipped your coffee. From then on things between you two progressed. Clark often found an excuse to hover near your desk, either to get your opinion on an article idea he wanted to pitch or offering to proofread your piece before it’s sent to the copy editor, even just to ask about what you did on the weekend. If you had an issue with the printer jamming, he was always the first one up to help you tackle it. He’d take an interest in whichever published paper you were reading, listening to you intently as you explained the theory behind certain medications, unafraid to ask if he didn’t understand—a quality you found pleasantly refreshing after spending your college experience surrounded by boys who constantly tried to prove themselves as smarter than you. You learnt very quickly that Clark was a dorky sweetheart who’d grown far taller than was sustainable. Who, to your delight, seemed to enjoy your company just as much as you enjoyed his.
When the waitress loops back round to you, a poorly hidden look of sympathy on her face you decide to call it quits.
Your phone buzzes on the table. You hold your breath in anticipation.
Lois Lane: Superman sighting on fourth street. Aliens. Eye witnesses. You wanna come?
You sigh. The waitress, seemingly also holding out hope, grimaces, which is admirably her first slip of the night.
“Just the bill, please.”
You swipe your card, tip graciously, duck your chin as you leave. You’ll wait until your apartment door is locked before you have a full-scale pity party, but you may have wiped a tear or two from your cheeks on your walk.
Lois, thankfully, stands where you agreed to meet. “Oh.. wow. Hot date?” She nudges your arm, giving you an approving up and down. You can’t wait to see this alien and fling yourself into its path. Your aspiration for a quick end to the conversation must show on your face, as Lois grimaces. “Ah, do you want to pretend it didn’t happen?”
You snort, “Technically it didn’t.” You keep your eyes ahead, walking towards where the sky pulses with red and blue beams of light. It doesn’t mean you can’t feel Lois’ eyes on you, assessing, trying to figure out how far is too far in terms of questioning your poor friend who has clearly not had a great night. Investigative journalists, you think. Deciding you can’t emotionally take an interrogation, you throw her a bone. “He didn’t show.”
“Sorry.” Lois doesn’t have any follow up questions. You’re sure she does, but none she deems tactful to ask.
“So, what’s the game plan?”
“Superman’s currently occupied with the second alien in under an hour, so see if we can get anything from eye witnesses, ideally someone will have seen where that thing came from. It’s a long shot but if we can find anything that ties this to LexCorp it’d fit nicely into my piece.” You nod as the noise from fleeing civilians grows louder. You can’t be far away from the barricades now. Tremors from the fight ripple through the ground beneath your heels, your bracelets clink as the impact travels up your arms. You clench your jaw through the natural panic and the rising ire at your situation—an evening of being wined and dined has devolved into you willingly heading towards an intergalactic battle, chasing a lead for a story you’re not even writing. Fan-fucking-tastic.
“I think you have a better chance of flagging Superman down for an interview than you do pinning this to Lex Luthor, Lois. We both know he doesn’t cut corners when it comes to covering his ass.”
Lois huffs a laugh, narrowly dodging a street vendor rushing away from the conflict, you watch him flee over your shoulder, smart thinking. “Yes, well we all know he’ll be too busy giving Clark an exclusive play-by-play of events to make time for the likes of little old me.”
The cacophony from the alien ricocheting between adjacent skyscrapers distracts Lois from the way you freeze at the mention of his name, making you thankful for the decreasing distance between the two of you and the fight. As you get closer, you begin to make out the grotesque appearance of the creature, it struggles to look formidable. It almost reminds you of a chewed up tennis ball a dog would drop at your feet, slobber and all. The gratitude you feel is short lived because, as you approach the police barricade, it becomes quickly apparent that A) the space creature-thing smells worse than it looks, which is no small feat, and B) any and all eyewitnesses have left the scene. Cause and effect. The only people remaining are a few queasy-looking cops, Lois, yourself and a few onlookers with apparently iron stomachs. As the stench hits the back of your nose, you’re instantly glad you didn’t eat anything at the restaurant - a silver lining if you will. If this thing was engineered, whatever expense was saved on the appearance of the creature doesn’t appear to have been spent on its attacking ability. An unfortunate combination of bad looks, horrendous smell and even worse fighting prowess—you almost feel bad. Superman seems to be making quick work of it, each hit is purposeful and on-target, albeit with more vehemence than usual.
“He seems… aggressive?” Lois says, muffled by the sleeve she's using to cover her mouth and nose.
“Can you blame him? If I had to smell that up close I’d want this over with as soon as possible.”
“Do you think he has a super sense of smell?”
“For his sake I hope not.”
Further up the street, fifty metres in the air, blue and red blurs as the hits increase in speed. With one final blow the creature falls to the street, rendered unconscious. A puddle of…drool? steady growing outwards from where it lays. When the two of you look back up to the sky, the hero of the hour has disappeared. A still silence surrounds the street.
“Well, that was a bust. Sorry for dragging you along.”
You shrug, looking around as a few stragglers begin to creep out of store-fronts, assessing the danger before stepping out into the street, heading back to wherever they were going. You see a couple, the man helping a woman over a piece of debris in the doorway, hand-in-hand as they walk down the street. You swallow back the burn in your throat and turn to Lois.
“It’s okay, not like I was having a good time before.” You attempt a lighthearted tone, but your ears and Lois’ face confirm it missed the mark by a mile. “Anyway, I was…” You trail off as Lois’ attention is suddenly snatched by something over your shoulder.
Not something—someone—you realise as you turn.
In front of you stands Superman.
The Superman.
For an awkward 5 seconds, no one speaks. Even Lois, who has all but begged Clark to be put in contact with superman, is speechless.
“Hello, are you two okay?”
Nodding in near perfect synchrony, you’re sure you and Lois are quite the sight. A subtle look of amusement flashes across Superman’s face before his eyes land on you. Humour fades into something more earnest.
“You look lovely.”
…Oh?
Taken aback by the sincerity in his voice, you flounder. Your poor heart has only just begun to pick itself back up and is wholly unprepared to handle whatever this is. You manage eye contact and a small but genuine smile.
“Thank you.”
He nods. He doesn’t leave, he looks like he’s thinking of something to say. It’s a strange sight, a man who moves with such purpose and determination, looking unsure.
“You’re journalists, right? From the Daily Planet?”
This turns out to be what is needed to reset Lois.
“We are, yes. We work with your friend, Clark.”
You look down at your shoes, the momentary distraction from what happened earlier in the evening is shattered. On Monday, you’ll see him at work. Hell, you’re standing next to Superman in the aftermath of a fight, Clark’s probably on his way here now. You can’t help but look around in a fleeting panic, there’s only a handful of people lingering, none of which have tousled dark hair, no one with a pair of glasses that seem incessant on slipping down the bridge of their nose, no one’s a hulking 6’4” whilst somehow never making you feel small. You look back down at your shoes and blink, hard. Good god, you need to get a grip.
When you look back up it’s directly into the eyes of superman. The intensity of an ice blue stare brings you back to the present.
“I’d be more than happy to do an interview, if you’d like?”
Your eyebrows raise and you turn to Lois. Much to your surprise, she’s not taking his hand off for the opportunity. Lois shakes her head and nudges you. It takes you a second, and a glance at the man before you to realise he’s asking you. Not only asking, the way he’s looking at you is almost imploring. The offer should be too good to pass up—it is too good to pass up. But you’re so tired of reading things wrong, your confidence has been decimated and then some, your dignity can’t take another hit for at least a month. You really, really, really want to crawl into bed and go to sleep.
So, pushing down every journalistic instinct that screams against it, you decline.
“Oh, if you want a piece written, Lois is the one you want. I’m uh- I’m a bit rusty on the superhero stuff.”
He looks genuinely crestfallen for a brief moment, before he nods. You can’t shake the feeling of his gaze on you. The way he’s looking at you is not usually how a normal person looks at someone they’ve just met—at least you personally would never look at a stranger with this much awed fondness. You’ll admit you looked pretty in the mirror before you left earlier, but pretty enough for superman to look at you like this? Maybe he just thinks you look familiar. Or maybe it’s more of a thing among meta-humans.
“If it’s okay with you, I’m going to head back home.” You tell Lois. You’d stay, obviously, if she wanted you too. Leaving her alone with a man you’ve both never met is not a move you’d normally pull, especially when said man is wearing his underwear over his trousers. However, she’s got a look on her face that makes you feel a bit guilty that you’re leaving Superman alone with her—Lois has an incredible talent at making an interviewee squirm with her relentless questioning. You worry not that even superman will be immune to her interrogation tactics. You’ve been on the receiving end of Lois when she gains momentum (read: the missing mug incident—it was Steve) and it's no laughing matter. Poor guy.
“You sure?”
“Yeah, I just- I think the sooner this day’s over the better y’know.” Lois smiles softly in understanding. She squeezes your arm.
“You’ll be safe getting back, yeah? Text me when you get home.”
“Of course, let me know when you get back too.” You take one last look at Superman who is still watching you, an expression you can’t decipher on his face. You say a quick goodbye and start your walk home, Lois sending you a wave and a wink. At least you have some motivation not to call in sick on Monday—you can’t wait to hear that recording.
*
Monday comes around unpleasantly fast. Your phone has been switched off since you received Lois’ “I’m home!” text on Saturday. Opting to spend Sunday with every intention to bury your head in the sand for as long as possible, a big fan of delaying the inevitable.
Your commute is uneventful—no superman-related delays on public transport, an empty seat next to you on the bus (essentially gold dust during Metropolis rush hour), the forecasted rain blissfully holds off until you’re within touching distance of the entrance. Despite Clark being chronically late, you still watch the lobby door nervously as you wait for the elevator doors to shut. The last thing you need is to be trapped in a metal box with that man. You breathe a sigh of relief as the doors close without incident. So far so good.
Unfortunately, everything derails the second you step out into the Daily Planet bullpen. Despite being infamous for never being on time, Clark Kent stands by his desk nervously, muttering to himself whilst straightening his tie and brushing his hands over the material of his suit jacket. His head snaps up as you walk to your desk. You both freeze. The two of you look like deer in headlights, only on opposite sides of the road.
He clears his throat. “Y/N, I-”
“Hey, Y/N!” Grateful for any escape route, you whip around to see Lois racing towards you. “I’m transcribing the Superman interview, d’you wanna listen?” Truthfully, Lois could be offering you the chance to scrub the sidewalk and you’d take it.
Quickly leaving your bag and coat at your desk, making a great effort to not spare Clark any attention, you hightail it after Lois as she motions for you to follow.
“Did you make the man cry?”
Lois snorts. “That was one time, and no he didn’t cry. To be honest after you left he didn’t seem too keen on sticking around. Kinda antsy.”
“Really? Clark always seems to get a decent amount of information from him.” You follow her into an empty conference room, the recording already loaded on her laptop.
“That’s what surprised me. Maybe Clark has a technique of getting him to talk that we don’t know about, might be worth asking.” You hum in agreement despite having absolutely no intention of doing such a thing. “But if you ask me…I think it's because Superman wanted you to do the interview, not me.”
You roll your eyes. “Lois, you know that’s absurd. He wouldn’t know enough about our writing styles-”
This time it’s Lois that rolls her eyes. “I don’t think it had anything to do with writing styles.” At your oblivious expression she shakes her head at you, a sly grin on her face. “You should’ve seen the way he was looking at you. I’m telling you, that man looked like he was one second from dropping to his knees.” You splutter. Before you can respond, you’re stopped by a tentative knock at the door.
“Come in.” Clark Kent peers around the door, a flush across his cheeks. After spotting you, he opens the door fully. His eyes lock onto yours, the man who once would immediately look away when you met each other's eyes long gone. Whoever this is seems intent on not letting you out of his sight.
“I was wondering if I could speak with you? Alone?” You pause. It’s sickening, really, the way your immediate reaction is to nod and follow him blindly. You have to remind yourself that he had the chance to speak with you, alone, on Saturday night. But even with him right in front of you, it’s still difficult to put his face to all that hurt.
“Can it wait? We’re kinda in the middle of something.”
“Oh no it’s fine, she’s all yours, Clark.”
“Lois-” Too late, she's already shutting her laptop and sliding off her chair.
“There were no tears, promise. Not even a little bit of squirming. You’re not missing out on anything here.”
“But, Lois-” She slips past Clark, still in the doorframe, and disappears down the corridor. You sit in shocked betrayal.
Clark pushes his glasses up his nose - a nervous tick or a necessity you’re not too sure. He closes the door. The only noise in the room is the rhythmic ticking from the clock hanging on the wall. You look down at your hands, fiddling with the hem of your skirt.
“I’m- I’m so sorry.” To his credit, he sounds genuinely remorseful. You don’t think you have it in you to look at him. You don’t know what a contrite Clark Kent looks like, but you have a gut feeling that it would be potentially life-ruining. In the interest of self-preservation, you don’t look up. Clark, filled with an increased sense of desperation, makes his way towards you. He hesitantly pulls out the chair next to you and weighs up his options when you stiffen. After a brief second he decides sitting is still better than towering over you. As the chair squeaks under his weight, you find your voice.
“Did you forget?”
“No, of course not. I- I was looking forward to it the whole week.” He sounds wounded at the accusation, which only makes you more frustrated.
“You didn’t even text, I called you, and you couldn’t even-” You shake your head and look directly at the fluorescent ceiling light, hoping the searing burn will distract from the tears welling along your waterline.
“I can’t tell you how sorry I am, I swear. I was on my way to the restaurant and… something came up.”
You laugh, it’s pitiful and humourless. Out of all the excuses in the book, that’s the best he can do?
“Something came up?” You say sardonically. When you finally look at him, you can’t tell if he flinches at your teary eyes or the poorly concealed ire in your voice. You’ve never spoken to him with anything other than kindness or good humour before—you’ve never had a reason to. This is unfamiliar ground for both of you.
“Y-yes, I… I’m so sorry.” He looks at you with a heart-stopping hurt. Behind his glasses, you think he’s about to cry.
“You’re going to have to do a bit better than that, Clark. What could possibly be so urgent, that you had to abandon our dinner plans without even sending a text? I sat there, alone, for almost 40 minutes, like an- an idiot! And you couldn’t even spare ten seconds to let me know you weren’t going to make it?
His face twists, an internal debate going on in his head that you’re not privy to. He looks at you, really looks at you. You can see the moment he comes to a decision, his shoulders slump impossibly further and his eyes squeeze shut before he looks at you, resigned. You brace yourself for the impending let-down.
“I can’t…” He sighs, shaking his head. “I can’t tell you. I’m really sorry, Y/N.”
You search his face for any sign that he’ll change his mind, but his face remains the same—pained, but resolute. You push up to stand, all thoughts but one blurring—you need to leave this room. A shaky hand reaches to wipe away a tear rolling down your face. You take one unsteady step, then another until you reach the door.
“For future reference, Clark, there are much kinder ways to let someone know you’re not interested, instead of leaving them to figure it out for themselves.”
Clark feels physically sick as you shut the door behind you, leaving him sat in the aftermath of your words. His instinct to immediately refute the possibility that he doesn’t like you, dies on his tongue—because how could you not think that? As you pointed out, he invited you to dinner and didn't show, he didn’t even give you the courtesy of letting you know he was going to be late. If he was in your shoes, he would come to the exact same conclusion. The months of building up to asking you out unfortunately means nothing if he can’t even show up to the date. The way you looked at him, as if you expected more, as if you never thought he would be the one to cause such pain, has burned into the back of his retinas—he sees it even as he drops his head into his hands, scrunching his eyes shut. He wishes he could replace it with the image of you dressed up on that night. You looked gorgeous, pretty in your shiny jewellery and a dress he hadn't been lucky enough to see you wear before.
Clark was a firm believer that a relationship can never be built on lies—a lesson Pa had instilled in him during his teenage years. He knows if he wants something meaningful with you (and he does, he really does) the superman conversation is one that will have to be had sooner rather than later—that is, if by some miracle he hasn’t ruined any chance he had to get to know you in that way. But he doesn’t think it’s fair to use it as an excuse—this isn’t how he wanted to tell you. Your feelings are understandably hurt and whilst there was a glaring reason as to why he didn’t show, he still got too caught up in the motions to send you a quick text. He’s admittedly not above blame, so he won’t use superman to get him out of a corner he’s backed himself into.
The soft sound of your sniffles hit his ears—he rips his glasses off to scrub a hand over his eyes. He’s made you cry. Super-hearing is a tool he can dial down when needed, but Clark doesn’t try. He sits there and tortures himself with the muffled whimpers from the upset he caused. He figures it’s the least he deserves.
*
After taking some time in the bathroom to compose yourself, you return to your desk. You keep your gaze steadfast on the screen of your desktop for the rest of the day. No matter how often you feel Clark’s eyes flicker towards you, you don’t let your eyes stray from your desk.
For the rest of the week you feel like you’re constantly expecting Clark to corner you again. You don’t linger in corridors, you don’t spend more time next to the printer than you absolutely have to. Every morning he shuffles in, bouncing his shin off Jimmy’s desk chair, perilously balancing a tray of coffees, stacks of papers, and his briefcase. He always sets your coffee down with the utmost care, as if he’s terrified he’ll spill it onto your neatly stacked papers (an entirely plausible scenario, in his defence). You’re determined to be professional, so you say a polite "thank you". He looks as if he wants to say something but decides against it as you turn back to your work. Behind your back, Jimmy shakes his head, Clark waves him off.
*
Saturday night—an entire week since the Incident. You’re curled up on your couch finishing off a nice, yet deceitful, one-pot meal (you can count at least three from where you’re sat). A movie you’ve seen before plays idly on the TV, but you catch your focus straying back to the events of last week every five minutes. Saturday nights are something you look forward to the entire work week and it’s starting to grate that you can’t settle. Sighing loudly, you drag your hands over your face. Without thinking, you flick the TV off, stand up and grab your bag, pulling on your coat and shoes before leaving your apartment.
Distant rumbling a few blocks down and a quick look at your phone notifications is all you need to confirm that superman’s saving the city once again. Only this time you’re walking away from the fight. When you arrive at the office it's peaceful—no hubbub, no news livestream, no telephones ringing—so different from the day-to-day that it feels almost surreal. The novelty of being there at night is a guilty pleasure. You turn on a few desk lamps in order to get enough light without having to turn on the dreaded fluorescents, and make yourself comfortable at your desk.
For a span of almost an hour, you manage to get a productive start on your newest piece—a deep dive into the health consequences of inadequate sanitation caused by the mayor's neglect of the rundown neighbourhoods of Metropolis. Eventually, your fingertips slow over the keyboard as your bout of inspiration wanes. You stare at the blinking text cursor as you try to rack your brain for any ideas on things to add. That’s one of the downfalls of trying to work at night, there’s no one around to bounce ideas off of. After a failed attempt at reinvigorating your focus with some online games, you figure a walk around the office couldn’t hurt.
Once you’ve trailed aimlessly for twenty minutes or so, and nosed around the supply closet to see if there’s anything worth nabbing for your desk (there wasn't), you idle back to the bullpen.
You freeze.
Superman is standing at Clark’s desk.
“What the fuck?” You whisper under your breath.
He whips around, startled. A piece of paper flutters to the floor by his red boot. You blink at each other from across the bullpen before he straightens up to his full height, broad shoulders squaring.
“Hello.”
“...Hi?” You glance between him and Clark’s desk, papers in a state of disarray from where he’d been rifling through them. “What are you doing?” It comes out more as a squeak than a question, so much for being a journalist.
“Oh,” He looks behind him to the desk as if he’ll find a suitable answer there. “I was looking for something.”
You nod hesitantly. “Is Superman breaking and entering these days?” A weak attempt at a joke that you instantly regret. Because, if for some reason he has gone rogue, in what world are you able to take on superman? You give him a once over in the suit—you’re not sure any human would be able to take on superman. Mortifyingly, he catches you looking. You wish the ground would swallow you up as he raises an eyebrow slightly, a small smirk on his face. He chuckles lightly at your nervous questioning.
“I wouldn’t call this breaking and entering, I-.” He pauses, his eyes lingering on you as he thinks through his options. “The journalist, Clark Kent, mentioned something about a link between LexCorp and a new development in the suicide slum—he thought it may have been used to stash weapons, or house something illicit.” His eyebrows pull together in concentration. “Something caught my eye earlier, when I was fighting the kaiju, and I wanted to see if he’d found out anything about it.”
You didn’t know Clark was investigating something in the underbelly of metropolis, nevermind a dodgy dealing in the suicide slum. Is that where he disappears off to? You can’t picture Clark in those streets, a bumbling dork (said with nothing but love), wonky glasses, suit and tie—it’s a wonder he hasn’t been mugged. Eager to have something to do and quietly curious to see what Clark has been getting himself into, you nod at the remaining stack of files.
“I can help you look, if you’d like?” He looks appreciative of your offer, but hesitates to accept.
“Oh, I wouldn’t want to interrupt your..” He trails off as he looks towards your desk where you monitor sits, a more genuine look of humour appears on his face. You follow his gaze and curse loudly in your head—FreeSudoku is displayed at a dazzling brightness on the screen, on a maximised tab nonetheless. The serious journalist image you were aiming for dissipates into thin air in seconds—falling victim to a partially filled 9x9 grid. He’s kind enough to bite back his toothy smile when he looks back at you, but it appears that dimples are a little harder to conceal.
“It’s okay, I've got plenty of time before the deadline.” You wander towards Clark’s desk, quickly pressing the standby button on your monitor as you pass. “I don’t normally come in at night. I just- I, uh… needed the distraction.” He pauses at this, regarding you with a look you don’t have time to analyse before he turns to grab half of the stacked files. Your fingertips graze his hand as you take the manila folders from him. You’re about to go back to your desk but Superman has other ideas, clearing space on the bench adjacent to Clark’s and pulling out the nearest desk chair, also Clark’s, for you to sit in.
There’s a comfortable silence between you, filled only by the shushing of the pages as you scour through the headlines, pull quotes and everything in between. It’s heart-warmingly similar to the nights you, Lois and Clark would stay late when a deadline was fast approaching—surviving off of nothing but takeout, the dregs from the coffee pot, and hope that a hive-mind approach would be the key to finally piecing together conflicting tip-offs and witness statements.
You’re not confident in what you’re supposed to be looking for, but you’re determined to impress. What you lack in direction, you make up for in tenacity. You feel the familiar rush when you notice a small insignia, almost indistinguishable, in the corner of a photograph in the article you’re holding. Something to disregard, except you’d seen the exact same insignia earlier. Flicking through the pile of read articles you finally find the one you’re looking for. You compare the two badges—identical. There’s an inkling in the back of your mind, one which years of investigative journalism has taught you to trust, that makes you grab the remaining stack of unread articles and tear through them. You grin as you find one after the other—articles, all about unexplained and unsolvable crimes in the suicide slum. Granted, not an uncommon occurrence, but the presence of two L’s encased in a square in at least one image per article is unusual. Spray painted on a wall, tattooed on someone’s arm, a sticker plastered on a streetlight—easy to miss, but a clear message for those who know to look for it.
Superman’s thigh bumps your chair, subsequently bringing your attention back to him.
“You got something?” You nod eagerly and spread the articles in question out for his convenience.
“Here, see this logo? It appears in almost every article to do with crimes in the suicide slum. Only it’s never mentioned because it’s never noticed.”
Superman leans over you, one hand braced on the desk, the other on the back of your chair. Your eyes dart from his forearms to his clenched jawline then swiftly back to the articles in an attempt to calm yourself. The hand leaves the back of your chair to grab the nearest page, he stands tall as he brings it closer to his face to get a better look.
“Yes! This is the insignia that was branded on the kaiju's back.” He shows it to you enthusiastically, as if you hadn't just been searching for it.
“So whatever’s going on down there is linked to wherever the…kaiju came from?” He’s started to pace now, deep in thought but nods along with your pointing-out-the-obvious anyway. You watch him as he turns things over in his head. He eventually comes to a stop. You’re feeling far too inquisitive to sit quiet for much longer.
“What are you going to do about it?”
“Nothing tonight. I’ll have to scout it out first, try and get more information on what the badge means.” You nod along, a glint of a name plate catches your eye.
“You should tell Clark.” He blinks. “You’ll probably be due an interview soon—you should definitely tell him about the insignia in the articles, and now its connection to the kaiju.”
He swallows and nods. “I will, but I imagine you’ll see him first.”
“And exactly how do I explain that I know it was branded on an alien?”
“You interviewed Superman?”
“You think he’ll take that well? With you two being exclusive and all?” You tease, revelling in the reluctantly amused eye roll you get in return. He ducks his head, and for the first time you notice a cut near his hairline.
“Are you hurt? He raises his head, looking puzzled. The earlier events of the evening must come flooding back as he raises a hand to poke at the abrasion.
“Oh, no. Really it’s nothing.” He tries to disregard your concern but to no avail, you’re already on your feet.
“It’s alright I have…” You rifle through the bottom drawer of your desk before you pull out a small first aid kit—nothing too fancy, but enough to patch up a scrape here and there. “This. If you’ve been near that alien-thing you never know what germs might have gotten into it. The last thing Superman needs is an infected wound.” You open the box open where you were previously, and pull out an alcohol wipe. Superman is standing so close to you that your elbow brushes against his firm torso as you tear the packet open.
“You’re going to have to sit if I have any chance of reaching that.”
In an uncharacteristic show of false confidence, you stare up at him expectantly as he looks down at you. You wait for an argument, but he relents suspiciously easily, easing himself into Clark’s desk chair. You wonder if there’s more to his injuries than he’s letting on.
“You sure it’s just this?”
He nods affirmatively. You notice, with a burn in the pit of your stomach, that he shifts to spread his legs further apart, a silent invitation for you to stand between them. He watches you closely as you take a step forward, your heart jumping as his muscled thigh brushes yours. You take his face into your hands, tenderly, and begin carefully cleansing the wound. After a second, he leans into it, eyes dropping closed followed by a long, drawn sigh easing from him along with the remaining tension in his shoulders. Your previous notions about superman blur at the edges as he softens under your tentative ministrations. Does he have a family? Does he have anyone looking out for him? Someone to hug? Under careful consideration, it dawns that he is more likely to be on the receiving end of touches meant to harm than those with the sole purpose of comfort. You resist the startling urge to kiss his cheeks—coddling the universe's strongest superhero is probably a futile venture. Or at least you thought it was, only he suddenly appears alarmingly human. This monolith of a man squeezed into a too-small desk chair, who can shoot lasers from his eyes, one-two punch a foe back to whatever planet they strayed from, practically melts under your gentle touches.
If he notices you take a bit longer than necessary to disinfect a surface wound, he doesn’t mention it— he seems more than content to keep your hand on his cheek, fingers grazing his jawline. When you stop, unable to pretend there's more to clean, his eyes slowly open to meet yours. Again, almost a mirror image of the way he looked at you when you first met, with so much familiarity and intimacy that you struggle to put it down to coincidence. It’s far more than a fleeting appreciation for how you look, you’ve seen men who stumble after Cat—the double takes, the agape jaws, a poorly concealed heat behind their eyes—but this is different, this is more. This man must know you.
Letting your lingering hand drop from his face, you tuck the wipe back into its packet. You immediately miss the warm bracket of his thighs pressed against yours as you step back to discard the wipe in the small pedal bin under your desk. His warm gaze tracks each movement, drinking you in. The persistent questions bouncing around in your mind—where could he possibly know you from?—become uncomfortably loud. As if he can hear your thoughts—shit, can he mindread too?—he shifts in his chair, only to wince as something in his side tinges.
“I’ll get you a glass of water.” You’re halfway across the bullpen before he can begin to protest.
The breakroom fridge buzzes in the corner, a small noise you can never hear during the day. You let the water trickle down your hand as you wait for it to run cold. Naturally, your hand drifts towards Clark’s mug before you even realise what you’re doing. You course correct, take your mug from where it’s tucked beside Clark’s—a gag gift from Lois, Jimmy and Clark when you got your first front page. An exposé that had earned itself the title of cover story, despite Clark’s newest superman exclusive running that day—MetroPharma had been selling a glorified placebo to healthcare providers across the city and beyond, claiming it would provide an array of medicinal benefits. You’d toiled for months in order to make sure you landed the hit, working yourself to the bone to ensure no stone was left unturned, and that no rectification was made without supporting, reputable sources. You’d been nominated for a Pulitzer. A mug emblazoned with Science Investi-gator, and a ceramic alligator adorned with glasses and a lab coat modelled as the handle, was sat waiting on your desk the morning the story broke. The entire bullpen had wished you congratulations—even Perry, who was swamped with phone calls from MetroPharma’s legal team, had given you a proud nod when you peeked your head into his office. Clark had hugged you so enthusiastically your feet had left the ground. The smile didn’t leave your face the entire day. The joys of having a work crush.
You linger on that memory as you fill your mug under the tap.
When you make your way back to the bullpen, Superman is back on his feet, hunched over Clark’s desk as he pores over the papers spread across the hardwood. Your stomach drops to your feet—you’re grateful that you have two hands on your cup or that would’ve joined your stomach—because just for a split second it’s not Superman standing there, it’s Clark.
You’ve never noticed how the broadness of Superman's shoulders is the exact same as Clark’s. Or how, tussled from his previous fight, Superman's hair is identical to how Clark’s looks when he rushes in late. Could it be?
Superman(?) turns towards you, somehow made aware of your presence. He smiles at you, slightly bemused. “Are you okay over there?”
You nod, then have to manually put one foot in front of another to walk towards him. With each step, it feels like another piece of a puzzle slides into place. Clark, who is the only journalist to interview Superman. Clark, who is never around when all hell breaks loose. Clark, who swears he doesn’t live in the gym but is built like a greek god. Clark, who is never seen without his glasses. Clark, who stood you up at the exact time when superman was occupied with an alien three blocks down.
Oh god.
You’re close to him now, your heart beat loud in your ears. Your eyes dart around his face, scrutinising, desperate to find any similarities. It’s the same rush you get when you’re chasing a lead—when you know a breakthrough is in reach but you just need a final push to get there.
Superman double takes as he catches the expression on your face and pales. From your look alone, he knows you know. And a man who stands tall, a man who rarely falters, begins to fidget nervously.
That’s what does it.
The final piece clicks.
Clark Kent is standing in front of you.
“Clark?” It’s barely even a whisper. You’re petrified to be wrong, scared to be right. He reacts as if you’ve screamed it, flinching back.
“W- what do you…” He trails off as he sees the look on your face, a mix of confusion, desperation and shock. Clark is tired of having to lie to you. “I’m sorry.” He hesitantly steps towards you, like he’s unsure if he’s allowed but can’t help himself. You feel that pull too, it's what keeps you rooted in place.
“When you didn’t show, at the restaurant-” He nods urgently.
“I wanted to be there. I can’t tell you how badly I wanted to be there. I bought you flowers, I- I’m so sorry, honey.”
The pet name and the tenderness he delivers it with breaks your shock. You feel tears creeping along your waterline.
“You were right, I should’ve texted you. I was too caught up in trying to wrap it up as quickly as I could that I- gosh, please don’t cry.”
You’re still staring at him, he reaches out and, when you show no signs of pulling away, wipes your tears away with a level of care that causes a fresh wave of tears to join them.
“I thought you didn’t like me.” Clark can’t handle the gut wrenching vulnerability in your tone, or the slight wobble of your voice. He swiftly takes your mug from between your trembling hands and places it on the desk—his desk—then wraps his arms around you and tugs you towards him. You sniffle and hug him back as a large hand comes to cup the back of your head, tucking your face into his neck as he stoops down to press his nose against your hair. His other hand tightens around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer to him.
“It would never be because of that. I really like you, and I’m sorry that I made you doubt that.” You slowly lean back to wipe the wetness off your cheeks, a warm sticky feeling settles in your chest when Clark doesn’t pull away from you, keeping you enveloped between his solid arms and even sturdier torso. You meet his eyes and smile softly. He visibly melts, affection and adoration almost tangible as his eyelashes touch. Clark slowly drops his forehead to rest against yours.
“You looked beautiful in your dress.” His gaze traverses your face with enough dedication you swear he’s trying to memorise every feature. He gently strokes his thumb from your cheek to your hairline, tracing the path with his eyes. “You always look beautiful.”
“I can’t believe you’re superman.”
“How did you figure it out?”
“Superman suddenly looked like Clark…and the whole interview exclusivity thing doesn’t help.”
He frowns lightly, lips forming an endearing pout. “I offered you an interview, I gave Lois an interview.”
You smile up at him. “Lois said Superman was a bit reluctant to share any information though, not quite the same in-depth report you get.”
He shrugs, “Well, we’ll be sharing a byline for this piece. If you’d like? Technically you got the in-depth report from Superman for this one.”
“It’s your article, Clark. You did all the research.”
“And you made the connection.”
You both stare at each other, honeyed with affection. Clark squeezes you gently.
“Would you like to go to dinner with me, please?”
You tilt your head, a semi-teasing grin on your face. “That depends, are you going to turn up?”
“There’s nothing in this universe that could stop me, I promise you.”
Emboldened by his unguarded eagerness, you dare to relish in the adoration of a handsome man. “I’ll wear that dress again.” An elated grin lights up his entire face, accompanied by dimples that beg to be traced with your fingertips—you grant yourself the pleasure, and Clark’s happiness turns enamoured.
“I can’t wait.”
You can’t help the happy sigh that slips from your mouth. Clark’s eyes flicker to your lips, then quickly back to your eyes when he catches himself—you have the small joy of watching a pink flush spread across the apples of his cheeks.
“Clark,” you say softly. “Kiss me?”
He looks stunned for a second before his brain catches up. A large hand raises back up to your cheek, thumb softly brushing across the skin it touches. Clark leans in slowly, giving you the chance to back out, like he can’t believe he’s been given permission. You close your eyes and he closes the gap. The kiss starts off slow, with a tentative press of his lips to yours before you slip a hand around the back of his neck, fingers weaving into the soft curls that lie there. With your hand in his hair, Clark unravels. His other hand snaking around you to rest on your back, pulling you closer to him as he deepens the kiss. Your teeth clack and you remember you require air to breathe. Reluctantly, Clark pulls back just enough so he can see your face.
“I still have your flowers at my apartment, if you’d like to come home with me?” You raise your eyebrows in shock that he kept the flowers—Clark misinterprets this and flusters. “I swear that wasn’t a line I-“ His soon-to-be rambles are cut off by your laughter.
“I know, Clark. I was just…you kept the flowers?”
“They’re on my coffee table, I hoped I’d be able to give them to you before they wilted, I got your favourites.” You smile at the sentiment, reaching up to squeeze his hand that still cups your face.
“I’d love that. Let me grab my bag.”
As you hurry to pack your bag you share giddy glances with Clark as he hastily tries to tidy his desk, lest your coworkers think it’s been ransacked when they arrive on Monday morning (no doubt before Clark).
You pause, an abrupt realisation hits you. “Wait, are we flying there?”
summary: clark misses out on your relationship because of his superman duties. it puts a rift between you. based on this request by… it won’t let me tag you in sorry 😭 (angst, fluff)
word count: ~4.5k ….. i don’t know how or why
warnings: angst, reader cries
notes: i got carried away somehow. i’ve literally never written a oneshot so long, i don’t even know what is in this. it’s like i blacked out. i hope you enjoy it and i did it justice
Every road seemed to lead to here. Waiting, worrying, wondering. Both sides were growing tired. Clark found himself stretched thin trying to keep up with the needs of an entire world. You never asked him to not be what the world needed and you never would. People needed help, Superman needed to be there.
The conversation had come up before, flowing like water that was forming a canyon. Slow, intentional, irreparable. You wholeheartedly understood that he had a duty to the world, and Clark entirely knew that that duty didn’t make his absence from your relationship any easier to handle. It hurt him too.
Clark typically prided himself on his attentiveness in your relationship. He knew you inside and out. Every beauty mark, scar, and dimple was laid out in the map of his mind. His hands knew the precise path they needed to travel to hit every reactionary point from your neck to your thighs without so much as a glimpse in their wake. He knew what made you smile, what made you laugh, what made you cry. Maybe that just made this all harder. He knew you so well but still seemed to be losing you. Or, you were losing him?
So gradually seeing less and less of one another made it harder to notice that it was happening at all. But you felt it in a number of ways, with parts of your life empty just like they had been before you ever met. Initially, one glance at Clark had changed your entire life. Your every thought was consumed by him. His laugh, his social awkwardness, his smile and the dimples that accompanied it. You wanted nothing more than to show him everything you saw within him.
Now here you were, sitting alone waiting for a man that could never truly be just yours. Sitting around stewing about him being late felt selfish. He was off saving the world, how could you be mad about that?
You weren’t angry. Even though you were sitting at the kitchen table, leg bouncing, bottom lip between your teeth as you peeled skin off it. The vacant open window had your eyes glued to it as the only viewer for the last several hours. That window was never to be shut when he was out, you made sure of it. He needed to make it home safe.
This was a new routine that you’d grown all too accustomed to. It was your only routine with Clark that you didn’t love, actually. It always went like… getting ready for an outing together, all smiles and gentle adjustments of one another’s wardrobes. And then, with a tilt of his head, Superman would hear a call for help from across the world or down the street.
Next thing you knew, you were waiting all dressed up with nowhere to go until hours would pass and reality would hit that he wouldn’t be home in time. Clark hardly had time for work at the moment, Perry on his case about being late or leaving early far too often. This, of course, meant that he lacked time for his personal life too.
You love Clark, and he loves you. But you hardly saw one another anymore. What was a relationship where you never spoke? There was nothing to even say. He had to go, and you entirely understood. Even tonight, on your anniversary.
“I promise I will be right back. This could be really serious.” Clark still felt it necessary to defend.
“It’s okay, go. Take your time, save lives.” You gave a reassuring smile and squeezed his hand.
There was a very slight reluctance he faced when changing into the Superman suit. He hated leaving you, especially tonight. He could feel the way you were drifting, on opposite sides of the canyon forming in your relationship.
At some point in the night, you had fallen asleep leaning on the table. When you woke up the sun was rising and you were still dressed to the nines. Though, your hair had gotten frizzy. Still no Clark, so now all you had was an aching back, racing mind, and a mess of hair.
Giving in to the waiting period, you went ahead and changed into something more comfortable. There was no chance you were going on any date when he got back. He would be too tired, and honestly so would you.
One hand rubbing your eyes, the other reaching for your favorite mug. You were trying to make yourself busy so you could stay awake. Superman may be impenetrable, but you always worried for him. The window stayed open to help ease your concerns. It was one less obstacle in his path home.
Thankfully, just moments later, worry lifted from your shoulders as you heard the window sliding shut in the other room. He was home.
“Clark?” Your hand fell from your face, leaning around the doorway to actually lay eyes on him and make sure that he was safe.
The small smile on his lips told it all. He looked exhausted. Although the Man of Steel wasn’t easily battered, bruised, or cut up, it was still evident that he didn’t have an easy fight. And yet, he smiled for you. Always.
“Yeah, it’s me.” His voice was quiet, and his shoulders slumped. His smile didn’t falter, but he had noticed your outfit and hair. “You changed. I'm sorry I wasn’t back sooner.”
Your heart pangs, knowing that, even when fighting some otherworldly being, Clark was worrying over you last night. About how you got dressed up for your anniversary for him to have to go. About making you sad, or angry, or frustrated because he wasn’t there. About failing to live up to the promise he’d given that was never realistic for his lifestyle. A promise you had put zero pressure on, and he had put it all on.
“You didn’t stay up, did you?” His eyebrows furrowed, wasting no time to fuss over you.
“Just a little while.” You give a smile, failing to convince him that was true. You duck back into the kitchen and grab another mug— his favorite this time. “I’ll make some hot chocolate while you shower.”
Hanging his head, he noticed everything you hadn’t done. No running over for a quick hug and kiss before checking over every inch of him. No draping your arms over his shoulders as he held on to you and filled you in on everything that happened. No wrapping your legs around his waist as he carried you to the bathroom, where you’d both shower and you’d insist on washing his hair. Things that used to be a given, a reliable routine. They had begun to fade out just a handful of weeks ago.
But you had still left a light on for him, and the window was open to assure his return. And you had waited up. Even if he didn’t like you staying up waiting for him, he knew that it meant you cared. Things were changing, not ending. That’s what he had been telling himself. There were only so many times he could show up late to the party and there still be a celebration.
“I’m sorry,” he said it again. His boots were quiet beneath his steps.
He always made himself smaller when he got home from saving the world. The way his cape flowed within the walls of his own apartment made him feel pretentious. Like he was flashy, putting on a show for people that weren’t even around. It was the last thing he ever wanted to do or be, even if people were watching.
“Not that it makes up for me not being here, but I was in—“
“Surat,” you finish for him. You placed the small, blue pot on the stove and poured milk in it to heat. “I saw on the news. That creature was massive.”
It was a pretty generic response, and Clark would’ve used to brush it off as you were tired. But he was starting to read things differently now. He had to, since meanings were changing.
His hand rested on the small of your back to make it known he was right behind you. “Small talk.”
You glance at him as the stovetop flickers on. His hand felt heavier than you knew it really was, your mind playing tricks to make your guilt eat you alive. “What?”
“You’re making small talk.” He references, “That creature was massive, it’s generic. You’re upset.”
Eyes closed, you tried your best to avoid the conversation. Your brain was so busy that you weren’t sure what would come out if you did talk. “I’m fine, Clark.”
“I missed our anniversary, and that’s not fine.” He stood in front of you, hands rubbing your arms up and down. “I know I can’t make up for it, but I’ll do everything I can for you. I’ll get you anything you want.”
He hated when you couldn’t look at him. He knew that it wasn’t about him, that it was an avoidance of a deeper issue, but it felt like it was earned. Like he knew exactly what he’d done wrong, and of course he didn’t deserve your gaze.
“I just wanted you.” Your words could be read in a number of ways this time.
His fingers drag across your jawline, swooping hair from your face and giving him a clear view of your hiding face. He whispers, “I’m here now.”
Your eyes open, though not quite ready to look into his. Instead, you take hold of his hand and turn it facing upwards. Your other hand lightly traces over the lines of his palm, a simple action you often did to ground the both of you after his excursions.
“I don't wanna fight, Clark.” The thought weighed heavy on your mind.
“Fight?” His tone tried keeping things light, having found hope in the tracing of his palm. “Who said anything about a fight?”
“It’s the only thing we’ve done the last few times you’ve come back from these things.” Your fingers lay flat on his hand now.
Fighting didn’t have to mean a screaming match, throwing things across the room and wishing the worst on one another. There was never a fight like that between the two of you, and there never would be.
No. Instead, your fights looked like silences. Like avoiding one another, and having the same discussion on repeat about things not working, but having hope that it’d play out alright. The record of your relationship wasn’t just stuck on a loop, it was scratched and beginning to wear down.
“So we won’t fight.” He shrugged, eyes still trying to capture yours. “I’ll shower, we’ll drink coco, then get some sleep. In a little while we can talk, set up some plans for the evening. I’m all yours today.”
His lips found yours in a few gentle pecks, and your lips returned the kisses without any consciousness. To be fair, you were both incredibly tired and feeling a high need for one another. What was new the last few weeks?
“I don’t wanna sleep.” But, god, you were so tired. Your eyes were stinging, and you prayed it was for any number of reasons but what it actually was. Tears welling in your eyes.
“Hey,” Clark soothed immediately, thumb pressed to your cheek. “Hey, talk to me. Okay, we don’t have to sleep. What do you want to do? You wanna talk? Or we could have the drinks, just relax for a little while?”
You hated that you were starting to cry, and you couldn’t pretend you didn’t perfectly understand why it was happening. There was an overwhelming, looming hurt in you. For weeks you’ve waited around for Clark to come home. You missed him.
“Until you have to go again.” It felt childish. Tears rolled down your cheeks, there was no stopping it.
Clark couldn’t say anything to go against that. You didn’t want him to, and he didn’t see the point.
“I hate it too,” his thumb swiped away the tears. He knew that it was an issue but he was avoiding confronting how bad it was. Look where it led him.
“I can’t do it anymore.” You mutter, looking down at his hand in yours again.
His other hand still held your face, trying to keep up with cleaning off your tears. He wanted to wipe it all away, if only it were so simple. But he froze with your words.
“What?” He knew exactly what you said and what that meant.
“I’m really trying,” your voice was much more shaky than you would like. “You’re doing such a good thing, and I know it’s not about me, but I don’t know that I can keep this up.”
Being too much of an optimist bit him in the ass from time to time. Clark felt his own absence in the relationship, so he couldn’t even begin to imagine how deeply you must’ve felt it. But it was temporary, just while he figured out how to balance Superman, work, and his personal life.
“I’ll figure it out.” He was already trying to reason through it. “This is new, you know? And I haven’t been fair to you, I know that.”
“You’ve been entirely fair.” You wouldn’t let him take from the importance of what he’d been doing. “People would die without Superman, a date with me isn’t worth that.”
“But it matters. I’ve missed too much.” His fingers closed around your hand.
“Aren’t you tired?” You look up at him, already knowing the answer.
He was doing too much as it was. If it was possible for him to give you more time, he already would’ve. You knew that he was running on empty, and that his new position in the world was far more important than a date with you. It was the truth in your mind.
“I’ll find a way.” His eyes are looking away now, searching the floor like it would have the answers. “I’ll set a time where, no matter what, I’m spending time with you.”
“Oh, you’re going to start scheduling when the bad things will happen?” Your eyebrows furrow together.
“That’s not…” he sighs and squeezes his eyes shut. He knew where this was leading.
“I know you’ve run through every possibility, so have I. But you can’t predict when these things will happen, and our schedules just don’t align.” You didn’t want to be a downer, but it was past time to be real. Clark didn’t even have a consistent schedule to align with.
“But they will, eventually.” Both of his hands are on your one, giving it a shake. He couldn’t let go. “I’m figuring it out, it’ll take time.”
“I don’t have more time to give, Clark!” You let out an exasperated laugh. “I can’t just keep sitting around waiting for you to show, twiddling my thumbs and acting like a selfish baby because you’re off literally saving lives.”
“Don’t call yourself that,” his head dipped down, making your eyes connect.
“But it’s exactly what I am right now, and I can’t stand it. Do you get how shitty it feels of me? To be upset because my boyfriend is too busy saving people to be around me?” Your hand slips out of his, arms crossing over your chest for a self soothing hug.
Clark was right in front of you, not only capable of soothing but wishing that you’d let him. Would it be overbearing? He was afraid to do too much, to push you even further and cause something to snap.
He wasn’t going to fight you about how you felt, he couldn’t. Who was he to police someone’s thoughts and tell them whether they could or couldn’t feel a certain way? But it terrified him of what you were insinuating.
“What can I do to help you?” He ran a hand through his hair. He needed his hands to stay busy if they were going to stay off you.
Saying you couldn’t believe that he was still just trying to help you would’ve been a lie. This entire thing was centered around this ‘issue’, if it could be called that.
“Just slow down.” You reply with a shrug. “Maybe we need a break so you can focus on taking care of yourself.”
“No,” his response is quiet but quick. His top lip was between his teeth, head slowly shaking in disagreement.
“You need time, you said it yourself.” You hated the words you were saying.
“Not like that!” He looked up from the floor. He’d forgotten you were turned from him, denying him the attention he so desperately sought from you.
“Then what?” You ask.
“Time.” His hands gesture vaguely.
“But what does time mean to you?” You inhale a deep breath.
“Just,” his hands picked up his cape, thumbs rubbing into the fabric seeking a similar sensation to when you held his hand earlier. “Just time, with you, to figure out how to balance everything.”
He knew you had nothing to offer in figuring that schedule out. He himself didn’t know where to begin, let alone someone with absolutely zero experience in the area.
“I think we need to consider a break.” Your voice was so quiet he nearly couldn’t hear. Why couldn’t you stand behind it in confidence if it was how you felt? “I mean, can we even be considered a couple right now?” Your hands go to rub your temples, tension causing the start of a headache.
“Yes!” He practically cries, dropping his cape as he focuses on the conversation much more. “Yes, we can. We… We’re living together, we just had a date a couple days ago.”
“That was over a week ago.” Your correction points out his lack of time awareness as of late. You weren’t complaining, just stating.
“Okay, well, we spend every night together at least.” There was something to hold on to here, he knew it.
“That’s if we can stand to stay awake, for maybe an hour each night.” You had a rebuttal for each thing it seemed.
“I love you.” He says plain and simple. “And you love me, so we absolutely are a couple.”
“It’s not that simple.” You murmur.
“Well, it is for me.” He was beginning to feel frustrated.
Didn’t you see it? The way he loved you, the way he needed you?
The milk on the stove had begun to boil, pulling both of your attention to it. Each of you just watched it for a moment, both petrified of what might happen if you make a move. Eventually, Clark came forward and moved the pot, shutting off the stove.
His hands rested on the countertop, eyes closing and head hanging. You watched him for a moment. You knew his head was reeling with what to do, because yours was too. There didn’t seem to be a right answer and you both had your own opinions of what to do next.
“We need sleep.” You at least tried to be reasonable. “You haven’t slept in, what? 30 hours?”
“I don’t care.” His head lifted. “We need to talk, I don’t want to treat this like it’s nothing. This isn’t a save for later conversation.”
Plus, who knew when ‘later’ would be for him again, if anything were to come up. It was just getting to that point, though. You could tell you were going to continue talking in cycles.
“I’m going to bed.” You say, body turning to make your way to the bedroom.
“Wait,” he sighed and followed right on your trail. The goddamn cape swooping behind him was starting to get on his nerves. “Sweetheart, wait, please.”
His voice was begging, pleading you to just talk. He didn’t want to brush off something that was very much an issue. So much so that it had brought you to tears. He couldn’t let that slide.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, you know you can’t just ignore it anymore. Your mind was only half working, running on maybe an hour's worth of that shitty kitchen table nap from earlier and stressing over how things would unfold.
Clark’s heart clenches when you sit, glad that you’re giving him an opportunity. He steps between your legs so he could be a part of your process here. His fingertips ghost over your shoulder, so deeply craving to touch you and get some sense that things might play out for the better.
“I don’t want a break.” He was tracing circles over your shirt. “We’ve had so much distance already and I can’t stand it. Even just tonight, it drove me nuts that I didn’t get a welcome home kiss, or even a hug.” He was going to start rambling if you let him. “Not that you have to do it, and I’m glad you didn’t if it wasn’t what you were feeling, I just…”
Your eyes are off to the side, too afraid to look into his. He couldn’t let it go this time, he needed to be seen by you.
Zero hesitation, he goes down on his knees, placing himself between your legs. His hands rest on each of your knees, gently massaging them to get your attention. It wasn’t fair. It definitely got you to look at him.
He is looking up at you through his lashes with his big, sad, blue eyes as he whispers. “There you are.”
Jesus, he had tears too.
He couldn’t help it. His heart felt for you before you ever said a word tonight. He knew. That sadness and fear that had seared your heart with a most unwelcome pain had been burnt into him too.
Distance felt like a need at the moment. You hated to see him cry, and hated even more that he still looked absolutely stunning while doing it. And, it was so easy to be lulled by his touch, whether he meant for that or not. And he definitely meant for it right now. You had every right to feel any and every emotion, and he did everything he could to support you through. But it was in his nature to just comfort you. He couldn’t stand seeing you hurt.
You couldn’t look away now, even if you wanted to. “It’s so selfish of me.” Tears fell again.
“It’s selfish of me,” he began to reframe it. His hand reached up, back of his fingers swiping tears before they made it even an inch down your cheek. “To expect you to stick around. To put up with it and wait it out. And for what? Look at me. At the end of the day I have nothing more or less to offer really.”
Oh, you were looking. His eyes were puffy and red. The only other time you’d seen him cry like this was when you watched one too many Pixar movies together and his reality became a little too suspended.
Head shaking in disagreement, you sniffled and wiped your eyes with your sleeve. “That doesn’t even make sense. You’re so good, Clark. Of course I want to stick around.”
“And you aren’t?” This he would fight you on, to the grave.
Clark had been told about his tendency to put people on pedestals, and he’d been told he does it the worst with you. He didn’t care, you deserved to be there. Everything about you screamed perfection in his ears.
You were so human, having your quirks and hobbies. You had strong opinions about little things, and even stronger about big things. He’d heard all the time about how he was a hero, how no one could compare to being a hero like Superman. They didn’t understand.
You were the very air he breathed. You were what kept him going as he continued to run on empty. You were the reason the world still had Superman, they just didn’t know it.
“So we’re selfish for wanting each other.” He shrugs dramatically, hand sliding from your cheek, to your neck, to your arm. “But I want you, sweetheart. And I’m not just going to walk away.”
Both of his hands held onto your waist, hands smoothing over your shirt as they wrapped around to your back. His lips kissed your left thigh, then right. God, he hadn’t gotten to really hold you in far too long.
Your hands went to his forearms, just feeling his movements with him. You didn’t want him to go anymore, never really did. “I won’t let you sacrifice Superman for me.”
He grins, kissing your stomach and rubbing his hands higher up your back. “I’m counting on that. Someone’s gotta peel me off you every so often.”
You chuckle, not really grasping how much he meant it. If it wasn’t for Superman and the Daily Planet, Clark would spend every waking moment just like this. Bodies entangled, worshipping every piece of you.
“I’ve neglected you.” He murmured softly, kissing between your collar bones before resting his cheek there.
You’d laid together with his head on your chest plenty of times. But there was never a moment quite like this, with him at your feet and seemingly trying to be absorbed by you. Some deep part of him wished you could be stuck together this way for eternity. Like statues carved to love one another until they crumbled apart through the tests of time.
As much as he made the moment about comforting you, you knew it was equally about him. It was about your shared relationship, and he was the one that had to run around trying to maintain any and every relationship he had. He was tired.
Your hands move, fingers lightly scratching his scalp and holding his head to your chest. The beat of your heart had calmed down, and he felt each pump against his cheek. The point was made. Neither of you were going anywhere.
He hummed in response to your nails, lifting his head and placing another kiss on your chest. One of his hands cupped your cheek, the other roaming along your ribs now. You were moving together again, figuring out one another’s patterns just the same.
Your head leaned down, and his came forward to meet one another for a slow, intentional kiss. That string connecting your hearts had loosened up, allowing you both to breathe again. You met for another kiss, his tongue grazing your lips.
Soon, he began to stand from the floor, holding your body to support you as he laid you down on the bed. He was hovered above you, one hand holding him up. The cape from his suit hung over him, somewhat caving you in.
You laughed against his lips, tugging gently on the cape at his shoulder. “I still like the cape.”
“It’s coming off.” He groaned, annoyed by the fabric once more for pulling your attention away.
personally, i think breakfast for breakfast could be seen as part two if you squint… might do a true part 2 for it tho but this was getting long
after an arguement with your boyfriend, clark kent does the unthinkable. he doesn't come home, doesn't kiss you goodbye and doesn't return until its midnight and you've fallen asleep on your sofa. good job, clark still has the goodnight kiss to redeem himself.
clark kent x fem! reader
themes: accusation of cheating, lack of trust in this relationship (on both ways- also wrong, reader and clark are just miscommunicating idiots) jealous clark, angst, mainly angst, but fluff ending! (inspired by this request)
masterlist.
it starts with a sandwich- well, two of them.
jimmy had caught you standing in line at the cafe, smiled a sweet tune and before you could stop him, his phone had pinged with that familiar apple pay notification that caused you to awkwardly blush, thank him appropriately and then proceed to run away.
you were just on a quick lunch break, heading out to pick up something for you and clark when your co-worker cornered you. jimmy is nice, he's friendly- a little bit weird sometimes but you've never felt afraid of him- this little crush he has on you just seems very sweet and that's all it is. a little crush.
and all seems well enough when you return back to the daily planet. you find clark still hunched in the same position you left him in, head buried into the glare of the computer screen. and when he feels your fingers run through his hair, tugging at the sensitive spots he loves, he lifts his head upwards and shoots you a look of pure adoration and it melts right through you.
"hey baby," he murmurs fondly, and from where you're perched up on the side of his desk, he drags you straight into his lap. you've never been big on pda but something about clark kent- your 6'4, 200lb hot nerd of a boyfriend has you doing a lot of things you usually wouldn't do. you lean into his embrace for a second before placing your hands on his chest, patting him gently.
"come on, munch time- you need to get something in you or you'll crash out," and you make work of unwrapping his sandwich. and when he sends you that lazy smirk, like he's biting back his laughter at his own joke, your eyes widen and clamp his mouth shut with a hand over it swiftly.
"do not," you whisper, blushing a violent red, "say what i think you're about to say," and he muffles an innuendo against the back of your fingertips before pressing a kiss to the hand smothering him. you let go when it looks like he's going to behave himself and make a move to stand.
"eat," you pat his shoulders gently, "i'll swing by when you're done," and he furrows his brows, gripping your waist and drawing you to him.
"stay," he mumbles into your stomach, hugging you as he's still seated in his chair. you slide your fingers through the soft curls of his hair again and he leans back, sighing in bliss.
your sweet sweet moment is cut in half- literally sliced when the voice of jimmy olsen grates at your ears and you wince as you feel your boyfriend tense below you.
"hey kent! you should join us next time, enjoy the sandwiches- my treat!" he hollers as he strolls past clark's desk, sending you the biggest grin you've ever seen stretched on his small face and you groan. when he disappears from view, you open your eyes at clark, hoping to find a teasing grin but there's nothing there. literally nothing, just a glare of pure steel focused on the mark where jimmy has left, scorching the spot with a burning disdain.
"clark," you start slowly, grabbing his chin to face you upwards again. he looks away begrudgingly and into your nervous eyes. "we've been over this, jimmy is a friend- our friend!" and part of you feels annoyed that this isn't the first time you've had to remind him.
"friend is a stretch, i hate the way he looks at you," he grumbles, swiftly moving the sandwich with his pen- not even his finger as though it would kill him to touch it- and straight into the bin. a startled gasp leaves you as your eyes widen in shock at the outright revenge and you tap his chest lightly.
"clark!"
"what?" he stares at you and you cross your arms in a protective stance.
"jimmy is just a friend- we've been over this!" you whisper exasperated, aware that you're still at work and in public.
"he's a boy," clark rolls his eyes, "and he looks at you like i look at you," he growls with a pointed glare. you scoff, it's just a crush! a silly crush jimmy olsen has that you liken to a puppy love, knowing damn well that no one on planet earth would dare make a move on you with your absolute hulk of a boyfriend by your side.
"i don't get this way about lois and you spend a lot of your time with her," you counteract, you've abandoned that bit of jealousy long ago but in this moment, right here and now it feels only right to throw something back in his face- give you some bit of stance to face clark on with.
"that's different- you love lois!" you do, she's one of your best friends and an incredible journalist.
"and you like jimmy-"
"no i don't- i tolerate him and he's a fucking loser if he thinks he's got a shot with you, so no."
"clark," you moan, this all feels really childish and a waste of your short unpaid lunch break that could spend just eating a sandwich and kissing your boyfriend silly, "are you really jealous right now?"
"no," and he's stubborn with it, "i just think he's disrespectful like i'm right fucking here," he rolls his eyes, and when you take a step back out of his hold, he doesn't exactly reach for you- which hurts even more.
"clark, we've been over this and i'm getting real sick of repeating myself, there's nothing between us," you complain, "do you not trust me?" it's a light-hearted remark, sarcastic as it leaves your lips but you wish you could take it back once you see your boyfriend's reaction- or lack of thereof
he stills, frozen in his seat. it takes him a beat longer to reply but that beat is all you need to scoff, you detach yourself from him completely, mouth gaping open. "you really don't fucking trust me?" and it's a little louder than you'd like as the betrayal drums along your chest, matching the erratic beat on your heat and pounding in your head. there's just too much going on, too much to feel.
you're sure you've caught a few stares because clark is up in a second, gripping your wrist as he leads you to the privacy of the stairwell. you snatch your wrist back when the door slams and face him with a quiet fury, "oh my god, you've got some fucking nerve, huh?" you spit back, the anger at not being trusted pound in your veins.
"what?" he raises his voice back, he's tried to contain himself but it's too late- the stress of this article, the slimy look jimmy olsen sends your way and the betrayed glare you slice him with is overstimulating, he's loosing control.
"you don't trust me, i fucking knew it," you heave a heavy breath to yourself and his nostrils flare out air in annoyance. you've not let him speak this entire time but maybe that's the problem- he's not exactly composed himself to reassure you that this has all just spiralled out of control. but the fire you spit carries a heavier heat and clark detects this immediately.
"that sounds like you've got something to get off your chest, go on," he pushes, "lay it on me huh?" and you scoff at how big of a delusional idiot he's being, careless of your feelings and how he makes you feel so small, like you're the one with the problem. and the thing is, you can meet his fire immediately, if clark kent wants a problem- oh boy, you'll give him a problem.
you take the steps to close the distance, your fury fighting in the air as it wraps around him whole. you don't mean to increase the intensity but you need to make sure that this next sentence hits his ears and his ears alone,
"then why'd you tell lois about superman before me?" and its thundering how his heart roars in a panic.
"what?" he breathes, and you nod in fierce determination.
"you heard me," you return without skipping a beat, "you can accuse me of cosying up to jimmy- a baseless accusation by the way- for a good journalist that you are, you are a fucking idiot," you roll your eyes, "but lets talk about trust huh, why did lois know before me?"
"because she was smart enough to figure it out! we've been over this!" his restrained shout is met with a click of your tongue as you take a step back, sizing him up with a look. its also an echo of your earlier defense- you've been over the jimmy crush saga plenty and clark still worms it back up
"are you saying i'm not smart enough?" you drawl, annoyance bubbling in you and burning you whole. "first i give some loser the time of the day and now i'm too dumb, you're really winning boyfriend of the year, kent," and it should stop him at how you've addressed him by his surname. he's never been kent, he's always been clark- your clark.
but he's stubborn as he is tall and pushes back, cornering you into the wall, "you are twisting my words," he hisses, "and it's not like i wasn't going to tell you eventually."
you place a hand on his chest, not lovingly like you usually do but to stop him. you're not about to be backed up against the wall for a fight you did not start.
"and how was i supposed to know that?" you speak, "am i supposed to just what-" and the glint in your eyes is murderous, "trust you?" you squint and clark knows there's no way out of this for now.
he stands, feet apart holding his head high, and you scoff knowing you're the one who's going to have to break, to level this or you won't come out of this alive.
"look," you breathe but he still hasn't looked at you, "we're going to go back inside, we're going to carry on our day like the professional working colleagues that we are, then we are going to go home and you're going to tell me what the fuck is really going on, because this has spiralled out of control," you wait to hear clark's stoic murmur of approval, like he usually does when you reach the height of an arguement but it doesn't come.
"clark?" you pull him out of his thoughts and force him to look at you. "look honey, i'm sorry, i've said some nasty things in the moment and i know we've been over the lois drama- i shouldn't have brought it up again," and it's true, part of you is over it- you argued over it back months ago where you didn't take clark back after weeks of grovelling. it was petty you know, but you just needed some ammunition with all the jimmy nonsense he was gunning at you.
your phone lights up with an alarm, signalling the end of your lunch break and your stomach cries at the wasted time which you've not even had the chance to eat yet. "listen baby, we'll talk about this at home, yeah?" when you realise he's not going to give you a reply other than a singular nod, you plant a kiss on his cheek, heading back onto the floor and straight to your desk.
you don't miss the small smile lois lane sends your way and you return it back. this isn't her fault in the slightest and she's been nothing but the best of friends to both you and clark. you almost hate yourself the tiniest for dragging her into that ugly arguement in the stairwell, but being accused by your boyfriend after dating him for an entire year for being untruthful wasn't exactly on the board for your tuesday lunch time plans.
the rest of the day ends in a blur, you focus on your article and at how your grumpy lover sits a few desks away, hardly looking in your direction. five o'clock hits and you get ready to pack up all your things in your bag, the still packaged sandwich from earlier sits there like a painful reminder and you stick it in the small fridge under your desk for tomorrow's lunch. in this economy, you're not about to lose your boyfriend and your lunch, god what a wreck.
and when you walk past your boyfriend's desk you're met with pure emptiness. your tote slouches in a growing fatigue on your shoulder, already carrying the weight of tonight and then your eyes settle on a yellow post it, blinding in your vision.
"needed some space. you take the car, drive safe."
and you scoff, crumple it up between your fists and dump it in his bin alongside the pesto and mozzerella sandwich from earlier. the keys are hidden in his top drawer and you snatch them in a wave of annoyance- less anger than before and make your way to the parking lot.
the drive home feels a lot slower without your boyfriend humming along to the songs, interlocking your hands across the control panel and telling you off handed comments about his day. you sit in silence, unbothered to connect your phone to the bluetooth mode and just drive and drive and drive.
you don't go home immediately, choosing to clear your head and his fuel tank before you land at your apartment door.
it's seven pm and the house is untouched, you got off work two hours ago and there's still no sign of clark. as soon as you've set foot through the door you drop your tote to the floor and shrug off your coat, letting it land wherever next to your bag before dragging yourself to the sofa.
there's no messages on your phone, no inkling of where your other half is and it hurts you. this is classic clark behaviour, clark who runs away when things get hard and he doesn't know what to do- the only difference is, and you feel it with every tick of the clock hands that warn your ears, he's never not come home like this.
seven pm turns to eight pm and then to nine, and somewhere along the lines where you try to sit up and wait for him, sleep decides to take you in an easier feat and when you close your eyes, clark is still the one you see and call home.
. . .
you don't hear the turn of locks, or even the soft sound of shoes shuffling at the door. sleep has been kind on you and taken the exhausation out of your system, gently lulling you to a clearer conscious and its only when your airborne you begin to stir.
"clark?" you murmur, the sleep heavy in your voice it kind of comes out as a grunt.
"hi, honey," he whispers, careful not to be too loud. his body is warm against yours, he carries you like a baby, your head is up against his chest as your legs have wrapped around his waist. one of his arms comes across your back and the other just at the back of your thighs. your body could remember every single sensation he's ever sent you by heart, that you relax into his touch, melt into the warmth because in his arms you've never felt safer.
he takes you into your bedroom and lies you on top of the bed, onto your side before he leaves to change and joins you on the other side. the lights are off, and there's something unresolved in the air- clark hoped to apologise tonight for being the biggest idiot on the planet but seeing you asleep on the sofa? waiting for him? god he deserves longer to wallow in his regret and pity.
"clark?" you call out for him in a mumble and he softens, guilt filling his blood in every vessel, pumping like its trying to break free.
"babydoll, i'm sorry," he breathes, the apology lingers in the air before you speak again, slightly more awake but still tired.
"you didn't come home," you whisper, rolling over to face him, "you've never done that before," and the silence that follows is thick. he reaches out to brush a rogue tendril of hair out from your face and behind your ear. your mouth parts open at the touch, a look of sadness wavering over your features and he closes his eyes, wincing.
"i needed some space," he starts and you interrupt him.
"you couldn't have called? or texted? or passed by my desk and just let me know? i'm your girlfriend clark, if you need space you can just trust me to respect it," and its that damn finnicky word all over again. trust. clark does trust you more than anything, than anyone, he was just a gigantic jealous idiot who let his mouth run quicker than his brain could catch up and reprimand him.
" you're right," he speaks low, "you're right. i should've let you known but a large part of me was fucking embarrassed of how i acted. i'm ashamed i even implied the worst of you," he closes his eyes, hiding from his earlier regret, "i do trust you, with my whole life i just- oh god, i'm just a dick and i'm sorry, i'm sorry for even raising my voice at you earlier god, who does that? and the jimmy thing was immature, i know you'd never be dishonest with me i just got wrapped up in it and unfairly took it out on you," somewhere during his spiel, you've lifted a hand to his cheek, cupping it softly.
"thank you for being honest with me now," you mumble and he takes the cue to move closer to you, bodies almost touching.
"and you have every right to still bring up lois- if it bothers you still, we can talk through it again and again if that's what you need then that's something i'll keep being sorry for," his reply is earnest, he mustve practised it on the way home, you think and you nod slowly, sleep creeping in on you.
"clark honey, couples fight-"
"i don't want to," he counteracts immediately and you just start groaning until he gets the hint to stop speaking and let you finish.
"i said couples fight," you repeat yourself firmly, "i said some mean things to, like i didn't mean to call you an idiot but i did, so i'm sorry-"
"i believe you called me a fucking idiot," he teases and you level him with a stony look.
"okay wise guy, you also tried to call me a cheater,"
"which i apologise profusely for, it was incredibly disgusting of me to even insinuate that-"
"and then i forgive you," you lazily return, "we'll talk more on this tomorrow i'm tired, clark."
"okay," he surrenders, he can wait for the morning to come and make it up to you properly, apologise and grovel when you're alert enough to understand the weight he's trying to lift from you. "you know that i do trust you though right? i didn't mean-"
"clark," you whine, throwing your leg over his and borderline climbing on him, using him as your pillow and trying to find a good spot for you to fall back asleep. "i know that and i said we'll talk about this tomorrow, go to sleep," you beg.
he lands a kiss to your temple and murmurs a goodnight and you pause with a frown.
"kiss me goodnight properly," you moan and he does, letting his lips press to yours a moment longer than usual, melting in all the words he doesn't know to formulate but hopes you can feel it burn through him and you hum in approval.
you nestle into his hold, he wraps you up tighter, putting you in your favourite position which is having your ear pressed up against his heartbeat as your body rises and falls with the soft breaths of his chest. he thinks you've finally fallen back asleep again before he lets out a final sigh, but then you're mumbling- to yourself more likely and clark tries to bite back the laugh this time.
"jimmy olsen, you know," and it comes out as a sleep filled, drooling mumbling scoff, "couldn't have at least given me more credit and said bruce wayne." the chuckles escape him and he knows you're not even going to remember that you believe you could've bagged batman tomorrow- but hey, you managed to get superman on his knees so there's real strong potential.
tomorrow comes and clark is going to do everything he can to make it up to you, and that includes secretly killing jimmy olsen before breakfast.
riya saying hi: hii 🥺 my sole purpose in life feels like its to provide clark angst and when its requested- i fear i may have to step up and prove myself LOL anyways, i hope you enjoyed this, it was based off a request i linked at the top if you want a little more context. to op, i hope this is similar to how you expected it- again, i don't really take requests i get nervous and overthink everything and think im a piece of shit, but i did like this idea so didn't mind it. hope you liked & as always please let me know what you think! if you ever wanna say hi, come say hi- my inbox is always open! except to those loser anons who correct my grammar and try and remind me to include "x reader" as a tag; here's your reminder to actually check my tags because i do!!! get off my page!!! ugh sorry for the rant, enjoy the clark! because i dont actually have anything planned for him next so who knows where the wind will take me, love ya!!! xxx
