summary: you had a few resolutions for your move back to gotham. fight crime, piss bruce off, and maybe try not dying in the process of avenging the memory of your best friend, jason todd. your plans get disrupted when a new vigilante, by the name of red hood, decides to make your life living hell by refusing to leave you alone and forcing you to be his partner in crime. what a jackass.
pairing: jason todd x reader
tw/content: childhood best friends to enemies?/forced partners to lovers, angst with happy ending, grief, yearning, hurt/comfort, kissing, hidden identities, past trauma references, language, mentions of violence/blood/gunshot injury/near-death.
“I don’t do partners.”
Red Hood has been finding you. Too easily. Not even a week since you’ve been back, since he cornered you in an alleyway where you had been snooping on information from a few loud-mouthed gangsters on the new tells of how crime hides its tracks, like rememorising a reconstructed street—when a stranger with a red helmet pressed a gun to your side.
“Careless.” He had remarked then, and the worst part was that he was right. You made sure to hide your footsteps since, the way Bruce used to teach you before you cut him off. Yet, that bastardly metallic helmet always found its way invading your sight, his leather-gloved hands somehow holding you in place.
Now, he’s offering to be what—partners in crime—like you’ve gone stupid just because you’ve been away for a few years? He’s been tracking you, but that didn’t mean you didn’t do your own digging on him since that first encounter.
He’s a lone wolf, a backstabber. He blackmailed Black Mask into a corner and snatched his territory like child's play, leaving the former rotting for his crimes. He spits threats as a conversation starter and isn’t afraid to use violence to back his barking teeth, and his objectives? Inconclusive.
You tell yourself there’s nothing he can get out of you, nothing that you haven’t wiped clean from your trails that he could use. For all he knows, you’re a newbie. A good for nothing.
“Even if it has to do with Jason Todd?”
Your blade is on him in an instant.
It digs into the material shielding his neck, but whether you could actually do it—turn your front into actual bloodshed, you don't know. You force your trembling fingers to stabilise the sharp edge of your blade, barely feeling anything other than your heartbeat hammering through your ribcage.
“How do you know that name?” Your voice comes out louder than intended, vulnerability pitched in all the ways you could not control.
“We all have our secrets.” He twists your old words against you, something you had uttered to him days ago, and not even his moderator can hide the mocking sneer in his voice.
“Willing to die for it?” You grit.
“Already have.” He remarks. Your brows furrow in confusion, and your lapse in focus is enough for him to twist your arm, slamming you against the wall and pinning you with your blade still clenched in your hand, but now out of reach.
“It’ll be in your best interest if we work together.” He squeezes your wrist tighter, jamming your palm from dropping the blade into your teeth. It’s like he knows your every move, and counters it before you can even think of doing it.
It should only reinforce how much of a danger he is, with his skills in combat to disarm you as quickly as he did—but there’s a familiarity in the steps that makes your head spin.
“Nothing good comes out of provoking the Bat alone.” He warns. “What you’ve been doing? You seriously think he wouldn’t notice?”
You scoff. “You don’t know him.”
“Don’t I?” He laughs coldly. “Don't make the mistake of assuming your past with Bruce guarantees you a soft spot, sweetheart."
Your entire body freezes. Nothing would have ever prepared you to hear Bruce's name. To know that he knows the old man's identity and yours—you've severely underestimated him. Jason’s name still repeats like a helpless mantra in the back of your mind, twisted into a robotic slick from the modulator.
He leans in, and even with that stupid helmet on, you can feel his pleasure thrumming at your silence. "Midnight tomorrow, Miller Harbour. I wouldn’t advise you to be late, partner.”
Miller Harbour reeks of strong salt and sewage. Your nose wrinkles, the sour smell somehow reaching your nose even from afar. The murky water barely reflects the intrusive lights that shine on the containers that surround you like a rusted maze.
He never told you how'd you find him, so clearly—your 'partnership' solely depends on his unyielding ability to find you no matter which part you were in the city.
You hear him before you see him, and that's only because he didn't bother hiding. He's on the phone, talking in low hushes, his modulator crackling as he approaches you, one hand shoved into the pocket of his leather jacket.
His casual demeanour pisses you off, like he can't even be bothered to arm his hand because you're no threat.
He stops in front of you, phone still raised to where his ear would be. "It's either your intel is right, or your wife finds a bullet in her head tonight." He says right before he ends the call.
Your eyes widen, disgust rippling through your features. "You'd do that?"
Stuffing the phone into his pocket, he carries himself easily despite your tone. "Would it make you feel better if I said I wouldn't?" He mocks.
Your eyes narrow. "I wouldn't believe you."
"How clever." He drawls, his hand beckoning you to follow. "And isn't it hypocritical of you to ask when you had a blade pressed against my neck yesterday?"
Your lips part, conflict jamming your response. He doesn't need to know that you wouldn't have done it, that you lack the guts. It'd only give him a greater advantage over you. He paces on without bothering to hear your response, and you huff, jogging to catch up with him. "What are we doing?"
"There's leaks of Scarecrow's shipment leaving at midnight. Unless you want the entire city on his fear toxin, we're infiltrating before it even gets close to the water supply."
"Sure you don't want it for yourself?" You accuse.
"Not my style." He remarks. "Prefer to deal with my enemies without all the screaming, it gets in the way of the job."
“What is your motive then? Something to prove to yourself?” Even your doubt echoes in your question, obviously expecting him to mock you, toss another vague statement that only proves the power imbalance between the two of you—but he doesn’t.
“Just cleaning up the streets.” He answers briskly. “Permanently.”
The word lingers like a point of difference, a kick at the other caped crusader.
“Have a problem with the Bat?” You dig.
“Don’t you?” There’s a wicked accusation in his voice, and when his helmet shifts to look at you, you feel pressure. An unspoken demand to state which side you stand on.
“What I think about the Bat is none of your concern.” It’s a small win, knowing he doesn’t know everything about you—relief that the fear of him being able to read your mind dampens a little at his question.
He's silent, long enough that you begin to wonder if your answer was the one he expected, or didn’t.
"What does this even have to do with Jason Todd?" You couldn't connect Scarecrow's antics to have anything to do with Jason, much less requiring your help. You couldn't even best him in a one-on-one, much less work alongside him.
He scoffs. "Nothing about tonight has to do with a dead boy buried twelve feet under."
Your frustration ticks, even more so at his brush-off over the mention of Jason. He was the one that used Jason's name against you, and now he's acting as if it didn't matter? Before you can push further, he replaces his focus with a sudden movement—two trucks leaving through the entrance point at the lower levels of the harbour, and his entire demeanour shifts.
“You take the one on the right, I’ll take the one on the left. Stop the truck before it leaves the harbour."
He's gone before you can ask any more questions, his silhouette disappearing down the ledge onto the truck’s roof. You curse, jumping down after him and landing on the second truck. The metal skids against your palms but you steady yourself, gripping onto the raised edge.
The driver's clearly heard the sound of your weight smashing against the truck, evident from the shouting below, and not a second after—bullets ripple through the roof. You curse, one hand letting go so you could move to the side, avoiding the bullets.
Your body topples to the side, and you slam against the driver's door, making direct eye contact with a straw mask. You've got to be kidding, they even bother with the same get-up?
Gritting your teeth, you lift yourself up halfway, and your boots slam against the glass. It shatters from the impact, and you fall roughly into the driver's seat. It's a mess of elbows, and the fumbling of your blade from your holster as you use the back-end, knocking it into the driver's skull.
His head lolls to the side, but you don't have time to think—grabbing onto the wheel and turning it sharply before the truck crashes into a container. Kicking his feet off the pedal, you slam onto the brakes.
The truck's wheels skid to a halt, and you instinctively squeeze your eyes shut when the truck slams into the container. You heave out a breath, shaking slightly as you open your eyes to a mostly in-tact truck, aside from the dent visible in the side of the door. You did it. You actually did it.
A knock at the window makes you flinch, and you snap your neck to see Red Hood waiting outside the door, hands over his hips—impatience brimming in his form. Your fury sparks in your gut again, but you clamp your lips shut as you unbuckle the driver, unlocking the door on the other side, and shoving the driver out.
He falls onto the ground with a loud thump, still unconscious as Hood hoists him up easily, dragging him over to where the other driver was and dropping him.
By the time you managed to shimmy your way out of the truck, Hood's already got a gun pressed over the forehead of the first driver, who looks worse for wear than the other, with sweat pooled at his forehead, blood running down his nose.
"Wait!" It tears out of you, afraid.
A flash of Bruce’s eyes crystalises in your mind, a perfect vision of his morals weighing down on you. Your fingers wrap around his gun, forcing it away. "What are you doing?" You snap.
"My job, sweetheart." He mocks.
"There's no need to—" Kill them. You can barely get it out, and you switch your words. "You haven't even gotten your information, what's the use in putting a bullet through their heads when you don't know where the shipment's supposed to go? You'd just delay Scarecrow's plan, not stop it."
"Oh, and let me guess." His voice hardens. " Once we put these two in jail, they'll break out—rush back to Scarecrow and help out in murdering innocent civilians. Is that your amazing idea?"
You hesitate, and for a moment, you feel like Bruce and—this conversation only makes you ill.
“You don’t have time to hesitate.” His voice grows in impatience, frustration clear over your incompetence. “They’re dirt on the streets, and it’s either you clean it up, or you’ll find someone’s face on the news—someone’s kid murdered, because you couldn’t pull the damn trigger!”
You can’t stop the flinch at his raised voice, even as your own glare hardens. “Then what makes you different from them? Deciding who gets to live and die?”
His cold laugh echoes through the night air. “It doesn’t. I just have the guts to admit that it takes that sacrifice to make the streets safer, to save another life.”
“By deciding to kill another.” You bite back.
“Yeah, cause keeping murderers alive worked out so well before.” He scoffs.
You freeze, cold anger taking over your panic. He didn't need to say who he was taking a dig at, it was enough from the mocking tone in his voice. "Fuck you, Hood."
"Yeah, I'm terrified." He says dryly, tucking his gun back into his holster. "Cause clearly, you're a real big threat, aren't you?"
You're tempted to launch yourself at him, hit him—anything to get him to shut up.
“You should take some time off the field if you think being soft around here works.” He mocks, two hands coming down to drag the two men by their collars. Walking over to the truck he's parked, he tosses them into the back seat. “Come find me when you come around.”
You’re ready to snap, tell him you wanted nothing to do with him in the first place, that he’s deranged for thinking you’d even want to find him and let yourself be dragged into his mess—but he tosses something your way and you instinctively catch it. Opening your palm, it’s a burner phone, identical to the one you saw him use when you arrived at the harbour.
When you look up, he’s gone. Left alone in the streets with shaking adrenaline tremoring through your hands, even if you don't know whether he'll follow through with what he said, the image still makes you feel sick.
Hood disappears from your life for two weeks. Enough for you to dare to try and fall asleep without the image of the two drivers appearing when you shut your eyes. To not smell the harbour, and hear the sound of his mocking tone when he dangled your morals in front of you like life and death is so easily decided.
Tonight's not one of those nights where you think sleep will come find you easily.
Your body's conditioned to almost wait—like he's bound to appear any minute even though he's never visited you at your apartment before. The burner phone is shoved somewhere in your wardrobe so you won't have to see it, even when you instinctively check to see if he's left any messages or missed calls when the thoughts get too loud at night.
You're starting to believe he's actually given up on you, seeing you as a weakling in his eyes. It shouldn't bother you, give you any feeling other than relief that he's potentially out of your life. Yet, somewhere deep inside, the guilt pools at the thought that if it came down to it, you might do the same thing as Bruce. Not pull the trigger, and someone ends up dead.
Like Jason.
A knock rams against your window. It's loud, measured with that same familiar brute force you've come to expect from the only person who'd find you at this hour.
You shouldn't have kicked off your sheets, or rush to the window where your oddly-sized sofa was pushed against. You unlock the window, pushing it up to meet the sight of the helmet that haunts your nightmares.
For a moment, he just stays there, bent over on your fire escape like he's in intense pain. Then, he snaps. "You going to move aside?"
“I thought you said I’d be the one to come find you.” You mock. You shouldn’t, not when he’s clearly pissed with a gun in his hand, but your nerves don’t trigger automatically at the sight of him. He doesn’t scare you, even though he should.
His other hand is gripping his side, blood soaking his glove when he hisses out through gritted teeth. “Toss me attitude later. Emergency kit now.”
You don’t question on how even though he’s known you for such a short time, he's desperate enough to come find your window. You don’t let yourself think about how he’s probably alone in this city, just like you, and bears that weight and who knows what other baggage that’s clearly twisted him into this displaced superiority complex.
You grab your kit, rushing back to see him laying against your brick wall, still near the window, and you hear the shifts of his delayed breathing, like he’s trying to still himself as much as possible to prevent further blood loss.
“An expert in bleeding out?” You taunt, laying the kit beside him as you automatically grab for the alcohol and cloth to clean the wound.
“Should’ve seen the other guy.” He tosses back, teeth clenched through his stubbornness.
It’s almost paradoxical, seeing the Red Hood so strangely human in the dim lighting of your apartment, bleeding out on your wooden floorboards and making jokes. Almost enough to make you forget why you’re pissed to see him, almost.
“How’d you find my apartment?” A silent question echoes your words through the tense atmosphere. How’d you find me every time?
“Tracker in the burner phone.” He answers casually as he pulls up his shirt, one hand outstretched for the alcohol—clearly expecting to do it himself. Not like anything illegal on that extent would phase him.
“And the other times?” You ignore his outstretched hand, dabbing the alcohol on the cloth. To prove that you're capable of something, you don't know. Your stubbornness had always only been rivalled by those worse than you. “Three.. two..”
Your count doesn't finish before you press the cloth onto his wound, and he hisses, a string of curses filling the room. “Every damn time.” He groans.
Your brows furrow, but maybe he’s talking about the pain. It’d be impossible for him to know you trick your counts.
“Like I said before.” He huffs as he adjusts to the sting of the alcohol. “I know your tells.”
“I hide them.” You bristle, offended as you grab for the needle, stringing the thread through.
His laugh echoes harshly against the brick walls, finding your words funny. “Not well enough.”
Your lips purse in displeasure, but he’s obviously right if he’s able to find you so easily. “Just because you can find me doesn’t mean it gives you permission to barge in.”
“Then why let me in?” He challenges.
You pause, hands losing the knot around the eye of the needle and you inhale sharply, trying again. “This is going to hurt.” You warn, one hand placed on his torso to keep him steady.
“You won’t believe how many people say that to me.” He jokes, seemingly amused. He's more talkative when he's injured.
“Given your charming personality, I can’t imagine why.” You mutter dryly.
When the needle point digs into his skin, he goes silent, fists clenching against the window sill. You don’t ask any more questions—you just get it over as quickly as you can.
He doesn’t leave immediately like you expect him to when you’re done. Instead, he lingers—a still statue near the window while you wash your blood-soaked hands. If it weren’t for the controlled breaths that prickled in frequency across the room, you would’ve thought he had passed out from exhaustion.
When you think you’ve let your hands run under the water long enough for it to be obvious you’re avoiding the elephant in the room, you force yourself back to the window and crouch to his eye level. His helmet tilts, analysing you—waiting.
You sigh. “Listen. If we’re really going to be partners, we need to set rules.”
He inhales, settling his head back on the wall, gazing at your ceiling. “Finally came to terms with it then? What crime-fighting actually is.”
“Only on the terms that you treat me as an equal. Not your lackey.” You frown, still recalling the way he tossed orders to you without asking for input.
You expect him to poke fun, mock you for your request. Yet, he doesn’t. He stares at the ceiling, before he grunts. “Alright.”
Your shoulders loosen in tension, and you settle in sitting properly across him, your elbows resting on your knees as you watch him.
"And you have to tell me why you mentioned Jason Todd." You weren't going down in this mess with him without a fight, not when Jason's name still haunts you through the echo of his moderator.
He laughs dryly. "Haven't catch on? It's not only him—don't you realise? He wasn't the Bat's only failure. The countless murders in the streets, left unpunished, forgotten without a mention in the news because it's expected that they'd have to pay the sacrifice of no one stepping up to do what's needed."
"And you're that person?" The pieces of his motive begin to click together—that he imagines himself as the one destined to wash out the rot in the city, all done by staining his hands with blood.
"Shouldn't only be me." His invitation lays there, and the understanding dawns on you on why he'd pick you. There are far more efficient fighters, cleverer than you and maybe even him. Yet, you sense a familiar bitterness in him you recognise in yourself—that same, quiet rage that drowns him, and chains him to this city.
It's a sinking ship, his mission—but maybe he thinks you'll see it too. Why it's worth trying.
“I know you’ll never tell me your full story.” You say. “But at least tell me what you’re aiming at, what we’re doing.”
He finally looks at you, and you feel it then, that same confidence of a dying man with nothing to lose that settles in his bones. “We’re rebuilding Gotham.”
Red Hood proves to be more brain than brawn, a paradox to your initial impression when he had a gun jammed to the side of your ribs. You knew he was clever, but as you worked side by side, watching first-hand how quickly his mind works is.. fascinating.
He’s been trained, to see not only a few steps ahead, but several. To have contingency plans, to have distrust built into his very veins, and to have his body move before he thinks.
Through his lens, Gotham looks worse than its ever been through your blurred memory. The corruption that simmers below every business, every front plastered on with fake smiles, and the blood that has dried on the steps to build empires.
Worse than that, you begin to see him in a different light too.
He's a brute, that lingers after every walk home from patrol, only leaving when you lock your door and windows.
He tosses you random weapons of a caliber much higher than you'd ever be able to afford, ones you highly suspect he stole or had manufactured for you, because he rarely uses blades in opt for his guns.
He grunts that you're too weak for crime-fighting, then drags you to a stall that sells food to even the most suspicious of individuals, owned by an old man that doesn't blink when Hood hands him cash and gives him plastic bags filled with boxed meals.
Sometimes, during your patrols together, he takes the longer routes from above, stopping on the rooftops of skyscrapers where Gotham shines in its rare beauty, where the lights blend together into its own sea of stars.
“So, why come back?” He asks once, crouched beside you as he eyes for any signs of crime in the Fashion District.
You pretend you don't understand. “To Gotham?”
He nods imperceptibly.
“Rent’s cheaper.” You shrug.
He huffs, amusement crackling even through his modulator. “Now that’s a load of bull.”
You snort, legs dangling over the ledge. Looking down at the city, where the bottom panes of the skyscrapers look more like specks of light than actual windows—you think back on the first day you arrived. So lost, so hungry to feel something again.
“How did you find out about Jason?” You ask instead.
His breath hitches faintly, just for the shortest second. If it had been a few weeks ago, you wouldn't have caught it. “I keep track of all the Bat’s failures.” He answers vaguely.
Your brows furrow. “Jason’s death was documented as a political incident.” Even the words sounded like a disgrace on your tongue. "There was no connections to the Bat."
He scoffs. “There’s nothing he can hide from me.”
“Bruce.” You mutter. “How do you know him?”
“That’s—” His head snaps to where sirens pass by Grant Park. His entire body language shifts, nothing phases him when he’s in work mode. “—for another time.”
He never continued that story. Bruce was a sensitive topic to him, and you could only assume he must’ve been bested by the Bat before, though the mystery of how he knows Bruce's well-hidden identity is another matter.
Instead, he tells you other stories. Of mountains up in the North, where he was trained before he crawled back to Gotham. Of how he had taken all of Black Mask’s physical cash when he took over his territory, but settled on a cheap apartment in the more dangerous parts of Crime Alley because it made it easier for him to hear the sirens.
When the occurrences of him finding himself back in your apartment start to blur into mere days in between, showing up injured from his own self-patrols that you didn’t follow, you let him stay. Small human choices, that you could only hope wouldn’t doom you—tie you to him and his downward spiral.
You begin to tell him stories too.
“Jason is—was my best friend.” You start.
His gaze flicks to you. It’s been two hours since he barged in through your window, one hour and forty-five minutes since you patched him up. He’s been on your couch since, gazing at your ceiling, watching headlights pass by your window, casting shadows of the window bars he installed for you. (“Don’t want to find my partner dead because of some shit windows.” He commented then when he showed up with boxes of equipment.)
“Is this the partner development where we start trauma dumping on each other?” He muses. “I‘m afraid it’ll have to be one-sided because I’m not sharing.”
You hit his shoulder, and he lets out a mock gasp of hurt. “You listening or not?” You scoff.
He settles, neck turned to focus on you. “I’m listening.”
You swallow, averting your gaze. “We were both stupid kids who had the misfortune of being born in Crime Alley. Typical Gotham luck.”
“He was so small then.” It was bittersweet, thinking of Jason's stunted height, how he had nothing much to eat—only inhaling cigarette smoke and finding leftovers to stall the hunger. “Stealing about anything he could so he’d have something to eat. I wasn’t much better, and it added on to his burden—trying to steal enough so we could both survive."
“Idiot went on about how he saw some fancy car, reckoned he’d earn us months worth of food just from the tires alone.” You laugh, but it sounds broken, tired. “Turns out it was the fucking Batmobile.”
“What an idiot.” He comments.
“Yeah.” Your eyes glaze over, and you blink quickly, clearing the moisture. “He was right though. When the Bat took us in—well, more the Bat wanted him and he demanded we were a package deal—we had more food than we could have ever dreamed of.”
“Then, the training started.” You recall, fists clenching. “I wasn’t as fast or strong, so he mostly taught me the ropes for self-defense, but Jason? He was good. Better than good, you’d think he was born for it. Had dreams of doing more, and the Bat saw that.”
“So—" Hood's voice drawls. "—he became the Bat’s next pawn.”
You shook your head. “They couldn’t have had more different dreams. Bruce—the Bat never lived on the streets. He knew of crime, he saw it happen. He didn’t live it.”
“He could only ever see it from the outside. He kept it that way, putting people in jail over and over again, not knowing—or refusing to see that the system was already broken from the inside.”
“He never had the guts.” He scoffs.
“Yeah, but Jason did.” You mutter. “He always did. Too much of it, and I guess you know how the rest of the story goes.”
“Went and got himself killed.” He finishes.
You hesitate, feeling your heart palpitating against your rib cage before you couldn't stand it any longer. “And I wasn’t there.”
When you turn to look at him, it feels like tearing open a healing wound. You feel the wetness pool at your lashes, threatening to fall. “What kind of shitty person lounges around in a billionaire’s mansion while their best friend was dying alone, scared? Calling for someone to save him?”
Whatever his viper tongue was made of, he gave you none of it. He watches, waits as you blink, looking away harshly when the tears start to fall.
He doesn’t speak, and you think he’s out of words when you feel his hand on your jaw. He grips it gently, forcing you to turn your head back to look at him. His gloves are off, had been since he came in, and the warmth of his fingers, the rough, scarred edges make him feel real.
“It’s not your fault.” His voice takes a stern hold over you, only reinforced by his grip.
You shake your head, but he holds you steady. His thumb comes up to wipe away a tear stain. “What could you have done?” He challenges. “You said it yourself. You barely knew self-defense, much less going against the bastard that killed him. You would’ve just gotten yourself killed.”
“Is it selfish?” You ask. “That I wanted to? That I’d prefer if I had been there? Knowing I wouldn’t be able to change his death.”
He’s silent, and you can only hear the soft cracks in his modulator from his breathing.
“When you had nothing but each other, of course you’d be selfish.” He answers. “Doesn’t mean it’s wrong just because others tell you it is.”
Somehow, he gets it. Gets you better than Bruce had when the two of you fought after it had happened. He’s a stranger, but you foolishly think he might mean more than that.
You swallow, and his head tilts slightly, watching the motion.
"Do you think he might've known?" Your voice trembles. "That I was thinking of him even in his last moments. That his memory still hasn't faded from this world because I would never let that happen?"
His hand still on your face, an anchor grounding you when it shouldn't give you that comforting weight—falters, but he doesn't let go. "You read like an open book." He says. "Your heart's easy to spot. If I could see that, then he would've known what he'd mattered to you. He would've thought of you in his last moments, and fought his best to get back to you."
In the cracks of everything that’s wrong with this, it feels oddly comforting to let him see you. To fall deeper into the unknown, to hope that laying your wounds right in the open doesn't trigger him to bite. Tears fall at the edges, and you don't blink this time—don't try to hide it.
"Why did you come back?" He asks again.
You look at him, seeing your own broken reflection reflected in his helmet. "Maybe I wanted to feel something again. To be selfish."
You feel his fingers tighten imperceptibly, a slight twitch at your words. His body leans almost instinctively, closer to you, shifting the weight of the moment—drumming a rush of blood through your veins in anticipation, and there’s a brief moment where you think he might actually take that damn helmet off, when a siren echoes from the outside. The moment shatters, and his hand freezes.
In a blink, he drops his hand as if the touch of your skin burnt him, and stands abruptly from the couch. “I have to go.” He rushes it out through his teeth, tugging at his jacket and grabbing his grappling gun.
You stare, feeling your heart go numb. Of course. You’re a fool, laying yourself vulnerable like that. Careless, just like he said when he first met you.
”Right.” You mutter weakly.
He looks back at you, hesitating. Whatever he thought, it wasn’t worth knowing because he was out of your window before you could even say goodbye.
The next visit, you feel his distance.
He doesn't toss you a lame joke, call you that dreaded, mocking 'sweetheart' you've come to expect, and maybe detest less over time. No, he's cold—professional.
"Penguin's set a trap." Straight to the point, it shouldn't gut you as much as it did. "We'll use Plan B." He continues on. "Come in from the third floor, it'll give us the advantage since he's barred the entrance and rooftop. He clearly expects us to choose the highest floor, so that's where he'll have the most of his henchman."
You nod briskly, your own guard built back up at the sight of his. "Anything else?"
He looks at you, and your question sours with every passing second of silence, like a plea for him to address the screaming issue laying underneath. "No." He breaks eye contact first, getting on his bike. "Let's not waste any more time."
You don't remember when Plan B obviously turned out to be the wrong choice. Only the adrenaline rush of actually making it out of this death trap kept your feet moving, hands fumbling for every door in the hopes that one would open and get the both of you out of gunfire range.
One finally works, and the door nearly topples with how both you and Hood's weight slams into it. He locks the door, but when you look around the room, there's no other exit. You'll have to go back out the way you came, which means running into all those henchmen.
“What the hell was that, Hood?” You snarl, barely able to see him through the dark, confined space. “I thought being partners meant giving a basic level of trust.”
He’s pacing, not even listening to a word you're saying, fury coiling his tense form as he strikes each step with a lack of precision that he always has, staggering, impulsive—angry. It was a complete shit-show, all because he didn’t let you take the shot at Penguin.
”Hood!” Finally, he stops.
“Trust.” He mutters, a deranged crack in his voice when he turns to you. “Was that what it was when you refused to listen to me when I told you to bail?”
“No, you thought I was tricking you.” A cold anger slithers its way into every accusation used against you, cornering you as he threads his heavy steps closer to you. “You thought I was making you leave so I could bargain with Penguin, force him to do my bidding, steal more territory for myself.”
“Tell me, partner.” He mocks. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
You grit your teeth, looking away from him. “You’ve given me no reason to trust you.” Every time you’ve given a piece of yourself to him, extended your vulnerability—he’s never given anything back.
“I saved your life.”
“Because there’s something you need from me.” You snap. “From the start, you knew who I was and my connections to the Bat. You used Jason's name to lure me into working for you. You have some twisted game you’re playing that I’m a fucking pawn in!”
“You think that’s what this is?” He growls, gripping you by your collar. Your hands come up to push his fingers off, but he only leans in closer till you can hear the heavy breathing beneath his helmet, the frustration radiating off of him.
“If I wanted you for your connections to Bruce.” He laughs coldly. “I would’ve strung you up a building from the first day to get him where I needed him.”
“I don’t need you.” He snarls, letting go of your collar, making you stumble in your step. “I have other ways of getting to the Bat that doesn’t require the trouble I get from you.”
”Then why make me your partner?”
He’s silent, even as you hear his modulator crack with every breath. He can’t answer you.
“I don’t know what you want from me.” You continue on, refusing to let him ice you out. “You don’t need me. Yet, you insist on digging your way into my life like you want to be in it. You can’t fool me.”
“You don’t linger in the home of someone you don’t need, long after the bleeding has stopped.” You accuse, stepping closer to him. “You don’t save someone you don’t need at the expense of the mission.”
Your fist comes up to dig into his chest, cementing your words with every push. “You let me in. That’s why you’re angry, and that’s why you keep me close even when you know you shouldn’t.”
Heavy breathing echoes through the abandoned room, only the slight cracks of his modulator distorting the tension stretched between. You see his fists clench, and you have half a mind to back off, realise it’s dangerous to provoke him when you still have no idea what he’s truly capable of, when you feel something shift.
His body stills, and even through the helmet, you feel his gaze pinned on you.
“Close your eyes.” He orders.
Your brows furrow.
“Just do it.” He snaps, impatient.
You close your eyes, brows clenched together—in fear, anticipation, and something you don’t dare name. Darkness envelops you and you hear the faint sound of a click. His hand comes up to cover your eyes, a safety measure.
“Still can’t trust me, huh?” You mock.
“Shut up.” His voice breaks, raw and un-filtered.
The sound of his voice breaks through all your defenses, leaving you paralysed—realisation kicking in that he’s taken off his helmet only when his lips crash into yours.
Hood's taken off his helmet.. and he’s kissing you.
You shouldn't let him, but none of your rational thoughts ever made sense when it came to him. He dug himself into your life, and somewhere through it all, you found yourself wanting him to show up. Again and again.
You kiss him back, and that only fuels him further, his lips claiming you as he grips the back your head with one hand, man-handling you in a way that empties your mind of anything but his touch.
There's a banging of doors, voices echoing louder and closer—and you hear his grunt of frustration when he pulls back, fingers still over your eyes as he grabs for his helmet. You hear a click, and when you open your eyes, your vision clears back onto his helmet.
"Did you just—" You stammer.
"And I really want to do it again." He breathes out, gaze still locked onto you. "Let's get the hell out of here. Together. We'll figure out Penguin's schemes when we're not in the center of his traps."
You nod hurriedly, almost in a daze, forcing yourself to snap out of it when he grabs for your hand, pulling you along to the exit.
When the door shoves open, all hell breaks loose.
There's firing of guns, and Hood practically uses himself as a shield as he pulls you behind him, running with one hand holding yours as fast as he can, past the firearms and henchman, towards where a window was at the end of the hallway. Plan E or F, you recall vaguely, but it definitely involved jumping out of a high window.
Your eyes flick behind—and you see it then, the new weapon Penguin's gotten a hold of, that has clearly pierced through tanks thicker than Hood's helmet, aimed at his back, right where his heart would be. The shot fires, and you don't think.
Pushing him to the side, the side of your stomach ripples in pain, and you scream. The blow sends you toppling to the ground. The pain is enough to make your vision flash white. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts.
Before you can process how bad the injury was, Hood's already gripping your fallen body, hoisting you into his arms. You grip onto his neck, eyes fluttering as he runs, colliding your body painfully against his hard chest plate when he crashes through the window.
You hear a crack, and your vision topples to the side when your head lolls and you see his helmet, cracked in the center. He curses, voice modulator distorted as one of his hands comes up quickly to detach the helmet. He shifts you up to avoid seeing his vulnerable face, and you see his helmet topple to the pavement as he runs, lost with the shattered glass.
Your head is pressed into the crook of his neck, preventing you from seeing what he looked like. Still, you can feel the press of his tousled hair against your cheek, the texture of it against your weakening fingers.
For a moment, in your delusion, it reminds you of when you used to caress Jason’s hair on the nights where he couldn’t sleep after a bad patrol or a fight with Bruce. You mumble something, incoherent syllables but it forms itself like a comforting mantra, muttering Jason’s name in a whisper.
You doubt he’d hear it, but you feel him tense against your body, the rigid push of his muscles as he passes another obstacle, nudging you closer to him in his movement.
”Stay awake, bird.” He orders, his real voice barking harshly against your skin. It’s rough, weathered from exhaustion and pain.
“Don’t-“ Your eyelids clamp shut from exhaustion, or blood loss—you can’t differentiate the nauseous pressure enveloping your senses, but you manage to get your words out. “Don’t call me that.”
It sounds strange on his tongue, like it came to him so easily, the same way it used to for Jason. The line keeps blurring, and you don't know why Hood reminds you of him. Maybe it's because of your love for Jason, bleeding into whatever you felt for Hood—it all clicks and fades together as your thoughts grow more sparse, the feeling of the cold sweat against your temple taking your attention instead.
“Hey—” His voice breaks when he calls you by your real name, softer than you’ve ever heard it. You like it, the deep, uneven edges that was muffled by the modulator, wishing you could listen to it over and over. “Don’t you die on me. You can’t. I won’t allow it.”
“Why?” You mutter, the word falling off your tongue loosely. “You said you didn’t need me, remember? You could find a better partner. One that doesn’t-”
You cough, feeling a splutter of iron cover the back of your teeth. You feel the frantic shake of his head, and you dig closer into the crook of his neck, finding comfort in his scent.
“I don’t want another partner.” His voice begs, uncontrollably raw. “Do you seriously think I can ever consider anyone else—it's always been you. I need you—so please.”
"Tell me I'm an idiot." He demands. "Fight with me. Just—don't you dare close your eyes."
His pleas grow more desperate when your eyelids fall shut but eventually, even his voice and the sound of his boots slamming into the ground fades—till nothing from the world reaches you.
"Hey, bird."
Jason's always been a blur in your dreams, and this one is no different. The green in his eyes are hazy, your faded memory obscuring the once clear spark he used to have.
"Hey, Jay." You can't bring yourself to look at him. Not when having to face him meant seeing his youthful face, trapped in the confinements of time, distilled and frozen while your own features are sunken, age and stress wearing out your own expression.
"You really out-did yourself this time, huh?" He mutters, glancing at your blood-soaked hands.
"Thought I'd give your method an approach." You joke, smile growing wry. "Still think it's more a 'you' thing than me. This vigilante work is tiring."
"I can tell." His voice echoes. "You look tired."
Your smile fades, and you don't dare look up from your hands, folded over your knees. "I'm sorry, Jay."
"What for?"
"I don't know." Your shoulders sag, feeling like you're forgetting something important. "I just miss you. I feel like I'm dragging your memory down with me when I should let you rest."
"You know you'd never drag me down, bird." He says, one hand coming around your shoulder, pulling you into his embrace. "I'm always here for you."
"Yeah?" Your voice cracks. "I miss my partner. The one who always knew what to say when things get scary. I—I think I'm really coming to see you this time."
"You've got a long way to go." He says knowingly. "You have a partner who's looking out for you."
Your brows furrow. "Hood." You realise.
He nods, and you feel his chin brush your shoulder. "You promised me you'd do whatever it takes to survive, remember?"
Right, that silly pinky promise made over stale sandwiches near the dumpsters in Crime Alley, before Bruce—when the world seemed much smaller and the tomorrow's mattered.
You swallow. "What if I'm not ready to do that? If it means letting you go?"
He laughs, reassuring even in his faint memory. "I'm not going anywhere. Just stay on the living side, bird. I'll protect you. Anywhere you go."
When your heavy eyelids force themselves open, a hazy vision of your apartment ceiling greets you. Your side greets you second with a painful soreness and a slight itch, making you hiss through your teeth when you sober up through the pain. “Hood?” You call out, hating how desperate you sound.
There’s no sound for a moment, and you’re terrified that you won’t be able to lift yourself out from bed to assess the damage done to your own body, when you hear the sound of boots thumping against the floorboards.
The door slams open and—Jason comes through.
Not Hood. Jason.
“Holy shit. I’m dead.” You gasp, even as your wound screams for you to not raise your voice. “I’m definitely dead—Jason.”
An intense amount of relief surges through his expression at the sight of you awake, but it quickly wipes off when you try to lift yourself from the bed.
“Stay down.” He orders, pushing your shoulders back down onto the pillows.
One of your hands reach out to grab onto his fingers, staring at him unblinkingly. You’ve never dreamt of him this clearly.
“I must be dead.” You repeat. “Or else you wouldn’t be here.”
“You’re alive.” He reassures you, his expression growing serious. “No thanks to yourself. What kind of idiot jumps in front of a gun?”
Your brows furrow. “But why—where’s Hood?”
He’s silent for a few seconds. “I thought—you called my name. When I was carrying you.”
You stare at him. At his face that’s lost its youth, bearing more scars than you remember. You replay the deeper timbre in his voice, how it differs to the cracks he used to have.
He’s right. You are an idiot.
“You’re Hood.” You whisper, and the fact only cements itself deeper at his expression paling.
“I thought you knew.” He says, pulling away slightly. “You called out to me. I thought you saw my face—that it was over.”
“You’re alive.” Your voice raises, almost hysterical. “You’ve been beside me this entire time, and you hid.”
He flinches at your accusation, but there’s nothing he can say to defend that. His eyes grow cold, and he looks away. “You’re wrong.”
“Jason.” You should feel happy that he’s alive but the disbelief that your best friend hid himself from you, let you believe he was truly gone carried a new sense of betrayal. “I mourned. You sat beside me and watched as I cried over you, the guilt I felt—and you said nothing. You let me believe you were gone while you re-entered my life as if it didn’t matter.”
“Because it’s the truth!” He snaps. “Your Jason is gone.”
You freeze, staring at him. “What?”
“He died under the rubble, when the bomb went off.” Jason continues. “His heart stopped. When I was reborn, I was barely myself. My mind was split and re-pieced together and nothing—nothing existed except for the feeling of death in every part of my body.”
”When I finally managed to remember who I was, what happened to me—” He rasps. “I crawled back to Gotham and found Bruce got a shiny, new replacement. And the Joker? Alive.”
“I buried everything in the past where it belonged.” He spits. “I started out as I always had, with nothing. I promised myself that at the very least, if Bruce had failed me—I wouldn't repeat his mistakes. I'd make the sacrifices he never dared to do."
Realisation settles like a slow poison. “So you erased it all, including me.”
You can barely process it, the thought of him nearly letting you believe he was dead for the rest of your life, while he remained in Gotham with a new identity, leaving you clueless.
His jaw clenches, and he looks away. “I was relieved when I heard you had left Gotham. I didn’t need distractions—to see your disappointment when you realised you’d never truly get me back.”
"Then why?" You move again, but he's near you in a flash, hands pushing you back down again before you hurt yourself. It kills you that he clearly still cares. "Why did you find me in that alleyway? Why did you force yourself back into my life if you didn't want to be near me?"
His eyes flicker, and for a moment—you see that fierce, little boy you knew. The one who was afraid you'd go hungry, who refused to rip his grip away from your wrist when he had forced Bruce to take you too. "You were careless." He utters, an echo into the past where he had run into you for the first time as Red Hood. When you had wondered why a stranger, a vigilante you'd never met before sounded so pissed about your skills.
"There was no one to tell you that. Bruce wouldn't be able to save you—not when he couldn't even protect me. You decided to come back, and take on crime like you knew how it worked, and I couldn't-"
You watch, wait as he struggles with his words. "I won't be like Bruce." He answers, a hardened resolve taking over as he looks at you with a vehement expression. "Never. I'd die before I let you fall to the same fate."
There it was. His deepest fear, still selflessly putting himself in danger even though he couldn't see it. Not being able to pull away even when he should, carrying that same beating heart under the new walls he's built. He was still your Jason, but if he wanted to believe it differently, you'd play along.
"So, you're not my Jason." You agree.
There's a flicker of relief, and hurt too that pools in his gaze. As if he wanted you to say it, but wasn't prepare to hear it from you.
"You're a jerk now, who decides what's best for other people." You continue on. "That has horrible fashion taste because a faceless helmet is obviously the best way to intimidate people."
He bristles. "Worked on you just fine."
Your fingers find his across the sheets, and he falls silent.
"So whether you're the Hood, or a new Jason." You pause. "What if I say I want you either way?"
His breathing stops. It's like you found that festering wound inside of him, and tore it straight out of his chest.
"That's what you're afraid of, isn't it?" You challenge. "That I'd be repulsed by you, and say I want nothing to do with you anymore. So you came back into my life—hiding behind a mask, thinking I would never figure it out. That you could have me without ruining my memories about you."
He swallows, averting your gaze—but you were having none of that. Not when you finally have him again.
"Look at me." You demand.
He inhales, lashes fluttering close as he prepares himself before looking at you openly. Broken. That's what you see first, your vision of him completely disheveled, with no armour, no biting remarks to protect him.
Yet, looking at him, you only saw the same boy you loved before he was torn out of your life. The same man you fell in love with all over again. Your Jason, the one you always ran back to no matter what.
"You're never allowed to leave me again." You start, your voice almost breaking. "I won't lose you, whichever version of you, I want it all. I don't care what you think, because you're mine and I'm yours so you can't leave-"
His expression hardens, and before you can think—fear that he'll pull away—he leans in and kisses you. It's rough, unsteady, but your hands wrap around him and pull him closer. You couldn't dare to let him go ever again.
"I'm not leaving." He rasps against your lips. "Not when I felt your blood on my hands, when I nearly lost you."
You shudder, a soft nod at his words as he kisses you again, softer but with a new form of desperation, and a hidden, quiet plea that you truly mean your words.
You pull away, stopping for breath when your wound starts to ache, hands coming up to lift your shirt, assessing the damage. It's heavily bandaged over a large part of your side, which should've hurt worse than it feels right now. "How—my emergency kit wouldn't fix an injury like this." You point out.
His expression darkens, and he sighs, looking at your wound with guilt swarming his pupils. "I contacted Bruce."
Your head snaps up. "You did what?"
He nods, his lips settling into a thin line. "I wasn't losing you. Not to something stupid like my pride. If I had to get down on my knees to the old man, I'd do it in a heartbeat."
"Jason." Your shock renders you incapable of doing anything else. Your eyes soften, and your hand lets the fabric go, letting your shirt hide the wound. "Thank you."
"You should be yelling at me." He muses, a heartbreaking expression displayed on his face. "I've been a shit partner. Put you in danger's way, and I couldn't even get you out unscathed."
"Hey." You stop him. "I told you that I—I hated myself for not being there, when the Joker killed you. I'd rather be with you in danger's way than anywhere else. I won’t go through that again. Even if it kills me.”
His expression falters, and he sighs, leaning in with his forehead pressed against yours. "Survival skills of a newborn. You're the worst partner I've ever had, bird."
Your lips quirk up. "Yeah, but you wouldn't want anybody else."
"Damn right." He shifts, placing a kiss over your nose. "Don't know what I was thinking, hiding from you like a coward. Not when I could have this instead."
"Between the two of us, I always felt you took the 'idiot' title more." You tease. “I’m still pissed you said you didn’t need me, you jerk. Tell me you regret it. Beg for my forgiveness—I might consider letting you off if you do it nicely.”
He rolls his eyes, a smile caught between his teeth before his gaze shifts again to your lips, swallowing. “You’re right. I’m the jerk, and the bastard that needs you more than air.” He murmurs, eyes flickering back up to you—and his gaze nearly consumes you whole. "I regret being a horrible liar, but I've always been your idiot, haven't I?"
Your lips quirk up into a smile. "Damn right."
At the echo of his words right back at him, his lips seal over yours again, a resolute sigh rumbling through his throat, and you think that finally—your partner has come back to you.
reblogs and comments are always appreciated! let me know your thoughts <333
Summary: After your apartment gets damaged in a kaiju attack, Superman keeps dropping by to check on you. Unaware there might be another reason for his visits, you meet Clark and fall hard. This sounds like it might be dark but it's not, we're going full rom-com vibes!
Word count: 12.8k I am possessed There are dividers (by the wonderful @saradika-graphics) splitting it into three if you prefer to read in parts.
Warnings: very suggestive but not explicit content, implied sex, mild peril and injury, swearing. Minors DNI!
One minute you’re heading to the couch to settle in after dinner, half of your mind planning for work the next day, the other half debating whether your building’s laundry room will be busier tomorrow or at the weekend, barely registering a large but rapid movement in your peripheral vision. The next minute, a heart-stoppingly loud boom of crashing glass and whining metal flings you against the back wall of your apartment.
You cry out in shock, instinctively flinging your arms up in front of your face. When you lower them, your open-plan living room is carpeted in crystal shards of glass, and your beloved floor-to-ceiling windows are gone, the iron frames now twisted, jagged bars, a persistent breeze whipping through the new, gaping hole where they used to be.
“What the fuck?” You mutter to yourself, heart trembling, still slumped on the floor where the shockwave dropped you. This was exactly the kind of thing that your parents had been worried would happen when you moved to Metropolis.
As you clamber unsteadily to your feet, a blue and red figure swoops into the gap that used to be your window. “Are you alright?” A deep, clear voice calls out, and you find yourself staring at Superman - the Superman - hovering just outside with a genuine look of concern.
“I - uh, I think so?” You haven’t really registered what’s happened yet, but you don’t feel any immediate pain, and you’re standing up okay.
His eyes dance over you, worry still creasing his brow, but just as he opens his mouth to speak you both hear the creaking cry of whatever giant monster has caused this damage, Superman twisting around to get a better look.
When he turns back to you, you wave your hand at him, your voice stronger now. “Go, go. I’m fine.”
He nods once, then zooms off towards the kaiju.
Shaking your head as much in astonishment as to clear the ringing in your ears, you assess yourself again for damage - a few cuts, surprisingly nothing too bad - then tiptoe over the debris to get a broom. Operating largely on autopilot, you sweep the shards into piles, keeping one eye on the skyline to watch the fight in case it comes closer again. When the floor is mostly clear, you fetch your first-aid kit and sink onto your couch - now on the other side of the room to where it was before - to check your cuts for splinters of glass.
By the time you’re convinced your wounds are clear, a final discordant wail signals that Superman has finished the fight, the monster thrashing gently as it’s carried off somewhere safer. Thankful that it won’t be coming back to destroy the rest of your home, you pack up your things and stand, only to be interrupted again by Superman, clearing his throat as he dangles in the air outside the hole that used to be your window.
“Excuse me, ma’am.”
“Oh. Hi.” It’s surreal seeing Superman up close, but you’ve already maxed out your shock capacity for the day.
“Are you sure you’re alright?”
“I - yeah, sure. Not too bad.”
“You look a little banged up,” the hero flies into your apartment, landing gently on the floor. “I can take you to a hospital, if you’d like?”
“Oh, that’s fine.” You wave a hand dismissively. “It’s just superficial, I’ll be alright.”
Superman steps closer, pointing at your forehead, his voice soft. “What about that?”
Frowning, you raise your hand to where he indicated, surprised when your fingers come away with a sticky coating of blood. “Oh.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to go to the hospital?” He asks, approaching you carefully.
“I don’t think it’s deep.” You answer, poking at your face, amazed you’re not feeling any pain. “Head injuries just bleed a lot.”
“They can also be serious.” Superman adds, with the authority of someone who’s seen a lot of wounded people.
“I think it’s fine.” You tell him casually, brandishing your first aid kit. “I have butterfly bandages in here, that’ll probably do.”
Superman watches as you root through the kit, managing to extract the steri-strips with your non-bloodied hand.
“May I?” He asks, reaching towards you.
You jolt back, giving Superman a startled look; surely he doesn’t personally patch up everyone who gets hurt when he has something to fight?
“Oh gosh, of course.” He mumbles, suddenly sounding a lot more human, glancing around then heading to your largely undamaged kitchen area and pointing at the sink. “Can I…?”
You nod, still not sure what’s happening. The sight of Superman in your kitchen, his red cloak swaying as he thoroughly washes his hands in your sink is making you think maybe you do have a brain injury.
He uses a nearby dish towel to dry off, then approaches you again,
“Okay,” he takes an antiseptic wipe from you and guides you to sit down, kneeling next to you and gently cleaning the cut on your forehead, wincing in empathy and apologising as he does.
You blink at him, still very confused and focusing only on holding still.
“You’re doing really well,” he tells you with a reassuring smile, picking up your hand and using the wipe to clean the last of your blood off your fingertips. “Now step two.”
He frowns in concentration as he opens the bandages and delicately applies them to your skin. “There, all done. I think you’re right about it not being too bad; it’s not deep and there’s no contusion. Just be sure to keep it clean and dry until it’s healed. Now, did you hit your head at all? Any dizziness, or confusion?”
“Only about,” you gesture at him, “all this. Is personal medical follow-up part of your regular hero duties?”
A natural smile spreads across Superman's face as he stands. “Well, usually people are quite happy to just go to the hospital. Everyone on the ground is being checked out by paramedics right now.”
“What about everyone else in the building? Are you going to go door-to-door checking on my neighbours?”
“Actually, there’s no need to - your apartment was the only one hit.”
You gawp at him. “Seriously?”
“I’m afraid so. At least that means there’s likely no structural damage to the building.”
You groan. “Well, at least there’s that.”
He chuckles, the sound low and resonant. “You’re sure you’re okay?”
“Yes. And thank you, by the way. For this,” you gesture at your forehead, “And for making sure I didn’t get squished by that thing.”
“No need to thank me, ma’am,” Superman’s professional voice is back as he straightens up, hands on his hips., “It’s my pleasure to keep the residents of Metropolis as un-squished as possible.”
You laugh, starting to feel more normal, if shaken, as he heads back the way he came in. “Do you have somewhere you can stay tonight?” He asks, turning before he takes off.
“Yes, don’t worry.”
“Good. Would you like me to take you there?”
“Like - by flying?”
Dimples emerge as he smiles again. “I can fly you, or I can take you downstairs and get you a cab. Depends on your tolerance for heights, although I suppose living up here, that’s probably not a problem for you.”
“True.” You’re aware living on the 17th floor isn’t for everyone - and it was another thing your parents weren’t happy about. “And as tempting as it is, I should check who has room for me before being literally dropped on someone’s doorstep.”
“I understand. Although I can assure you, ma’am, I wouldn’t drop you.” One last smile and Superman speeds off into the night, leaving you alone as the shock wears off and your injuries start to sting.
—
A week later, you’re back in your apartment, desperate for a proper night’s sleep in your own bed after crashing on your friend’s couch. Luckily your building, like every other high rise in Metropolis, has metahuman incident damage insurance, but even so it’ll be a while until it’s fully fixed. For now, you’ve tidied and rearranged, and if it wasn’t for the fluttering blue tarp where your window used to be, you could believe everything was back to normal.
When you start awake in the middle of the night, at first you think it’s just that you’re a lighter sleeper than before, jumpy since your living room got burst open by a kaiju - then you hear the unmistakable sound of tinkling glass. Grabbing the baseball bat you’ve kept handy for this reason, you creep out of the bedroom. You hadn’t thought anyone would be able to break in through the broken window given how high up it was, but when you enter the room you can make out a shadowy silhouette through the plastic.
Adrenaline pumping, you grip the bat tighter, holding your breath and moving as quietly as you can, before ripping the tarp open to surprise the intruder.
You’ve clearly managed it, because the man outside your window yelps right in your face, startling you enough to scream back, which makes him shout again, triggering the same again from you - until you recognise both the man and that he’s not climbed up here; he flew.
“Superman!? What the fuck?”
“Are you going to hit me?” He asks, staring at the baseball bat with alarm.
“No!” You don’t lower it, the tarp still flapping between you.
“What’s the bat for then!?”
“I was going to threaten to hit you!”
“Well, you’re doing that!”
You ignore his comment. “Why are you here?”
“I thought it would be empty!”
“Wh- that’s not an answer!” You yell. “And don’t you have superhearing? Didn’t you know I was here?”
“I wasn’t concentrating! I heard something but I thought it was one of the other apartments or-” he stops mid-sentence.
“Or?”
“Rats.”
You growl in annoyance.
He sighs. “Okay, yes, I’m sorry, I was out of line - can I come in? To explain?”
Frowning suspiciously, you silently step back to let him come in, but keep the bat up and ready.
Superman keeps his palms raised and facing you, as if trying to show he means no harm. “I was just looking to see if I could fix it.”
“Fix what?”
“Your window!” He gestures back at the tarp, as though that’s obvious.
You’re incredulous. “Seriously? Is growing glass one of your powers now?”
“No, but I have laser eyes. I thought I could melt the beams, maybe fuse them back together. That’s the part that takes time, getting replacement glass is easy.”
Your mouth falls open as you drop your arms, letting the baseball bat swing by your side. “You came here in the middle of the night to see if you could speed up my window being fixed?”
Superman shrugs. “It would have looked weird if I was hanging around in the day time.”
“It’s weird now!”
“I just - wanted to help.” He looks genuinely dejected, and you sigh, throwing the bat onto your couch as your adrenaline ebbs away.
“Well you scared the shit out of me.”
“I am sorry about that.” He apologises.
“I believe you,” you groan, rubbing your hands over your face, “I was just looking forward to my first uninterrupted night’s sleep in a week. And, again, this can’t be something you do for every damaged apartment in the city? You’d never do anything else. Although clearly you don’t sleep.”
“I do sleep, actually.”
“Me too, when possible.”
He winces. “Sorry again. But you can’t actually be back in here already? You can’t live somewhere with a missing wall.”
“I can and I will,” you tell him tiredly, crossing your arms defensively.
“But it’s not secure.”
“It’s not going to fall down. Like you said, there’s no structural damage, the insurance company confirmed it. And it’s not like it’s winter, it’s not cold.” You suddenly realise you’re standing in front of Superman wearing only skimpy pyjamas, but pride stops you reaching for a coverup. “The only risk is someone breaking in, which I thought was nearly impossible, and if they try - that’s what the bat is for.”
“They won’t need to break in, there’s a giant hole in the wall!” He points out.
“Now you’re just being pedantic.”
“I don’t like you staying here.”
“Objection noted. Now you can go.”
Superman huffs, his shoulders dropping. You can see him trying to think of another argument, but recognising your determined expression, he trudges back to the tarp. “I’m going to check in on you until the window’s fixed.” He tells you.
“You really don’t need to.”
“I do.”
You roll your eyes. “As long as it’s not the middle of the night next time.”
The ghost of a smile crosses his face, and he straightens into a more recognisable Superman pose. “Yes ma’am. Goodnight. Sleep well.” With that he steps out into the sky, leaving you open-mouthed.
—
The next evening as you’re chopping vegetables for dinner, there’s a suspicious rustle from the tarp, and a now familiar voice calls out. “Knock knock!”
You approach the window and pull back the sheeting. “You again.”
“Me again.” He confirms, eyes dropping to the knife in your hand. “And you with a weapon again.”
You shake your head, waving the knife as you return to the kitchen counter. “Unless you’re an ingredient in my stir-fry, this is not a threat to you.”
“It smells good,” Superman follows you, looking around as if checking for threats.
“Thanks.” You study him while his eyes are elsewhere. He said he’d return, but you don’t really understand why he’s back - although it’s an interesting quirk to your day, if nothing else. “Do you want some? Wait, do you eat?”
“I don’t need to,” he leans against the counter, watching you slice up spring onions, “But I like to.”
“Makes sense.”
He smiles. “How was your day?”
“No threats to my safety you need to be aware of.” You answer flippantly. “How was yours?”
“Good. Saved a dog that fell in the river out by Hobb’s Bay.”
“Can’t dogs swim?”
“Well, yes, but there are currents.”
“And probably a lot of chemicals up there.” You muse. “Wait, you washed before coming over here right? I don’t want toxic river ooze in my dinner.”
“I assure you, I am thoroughly disinfected.” He grins.
“Glad to hear it,” you brush off your hands and turn your full attention to Superman. “Well, duty done, you’ve checked that I’m safe and I am.”
A look flashes across his face at superspeed before you can read it and he straightens up with a nod. “Good. Yes. Enjoy the rest of your evening, ma’am.”
He whizzes out of your apartment before you can say another word.
—
Every night over the next week, some time between you getting home from work and turning in for bed, Superman stops by. Each time it seems like he’s happy to chat, even trying a little of your cooking if he’s there at the right time, but you’re constantly aware that he’s a man with a heavy sense of responsibility, so you always try to cut his visits short and send him on his way as quickly and politely as you can.
One evening - the first after a weekend night where you were out and he didn’t see you - you greet him covered in the explosive remnants of a blender malfunction. Trying and failing to hide his smile at the state you’re in, he insists on taking over with the cooking while you shower and change.
When you return, you work together side by side for a while, until a question burbles up in your mind that you’ve so far avoided asking, and you pause what you’re doing to stare at him. “What is this?”
He smiles brightly at you. “Well, this one is pasta, and you said this one-”
“No, this.” You gesture between you. “You stopping by to chat and help make dinner. Blender mishaps aren’t exactly the usual kind of emergency you deal with. I don’t get it.”
Superman’s face falls. “I’m - keeping an eye on you.” He turns to stir the pan, focussing on it intently and not meeting your eyes.
A boom in the distance echoes across the city, and you’re almost sure you see relief flash across his face before he makes his apologies and flies off to deal with it, leaving you behind more confused than ever.
—
As you step into the street to go to work the next morning, you’re startled by an unknown voice calling your name.
“Hi,” a slight woman with long dark hair rushes up to you, “you’re the person in 1705 right? The apartment that got damaged in the incident a couple weeks ago?”
“Uh - who are you?” You ask, not stopping.
“I’m Lois Lane, I’m a reporter at the Daily Planet.” Lois holds out her hand and you shake it as she falls into step with you. “Your building has metahuman incident damage insurance, right?”
“Yes,” you answer cautiously.
“But it’s still not fixed two weeks later?”
“Well, they -” you gesture back up to the patch of blue on the otherwise gleaming glass facade of the building.
“Hung up a sheet of plastic?” Lois finishes for you.
You grimace. “Yeah.”
“But I bet the claim was processed and accepted, right?”
You stop walking. “Yeah.”
Lois nods. “I’m writing a piece about mismanagement, corruption and embezzlement in the metahuman insurance industry. I’d love to hear about your experience.”
“This won’t affect my claim will it? I don’t want to piss off the insurance company, I can’t afford to fix it myself.”
“You’ll be entirely anonymous, and I can disguise the details so it’s not clear it’s you. I just need people to go on the record. And you’d be really helping future claimants - some people lose a lot more than just a window - you could be preventing families being needlessly homeless for months, sometimes more.”
“Okay.” You agree to an interview. The Daily Planet building isn’t far from your office, so you arrange to come by on your lunch break.
When you arrive, you’re given a visitor's pass and ushered straight to Lois’s desk, where she greets you enthusiastically and runs you through the consent forms. You can’t help but notice the messy haired guy at the desk opposite hers - who also seems to be sneaking glances at you through his thick-framed glasses.
“Who’s that?” You whisper to Lois, trying to be subtle as you indicate the other reporter.
She follows your head tilt. “Oh, that’s just Clark. So, which company is your building insured with?”
After a solid 45 minutes of rapid fire, in-depth questions, you’re exhausted and pretty hungry, but so sure that Lois is onto something that you’re glad you agreed to go on the record for her. However, the pause in questions is only because she can’t find a specific document she wants.
“Jimmy,” she calls out to the desk behind her, “did you move the file I had here?”
“No,” Jimmy answers, spinning around to face her, “I’m not interested in your boring insurance article.”
“There’s nothing boring about exposing shady business practices.”
“It could have been moved to the back, I think Steve was ‘tidying up’ around here earlier.”
“Damn it.” Lois sighs, getting up. “Sorry, I’ve just got to find this.”
“No problem.” You tell her, glad that the squeak of her chair just about hides the rumbling of your stomach. You check the clock on the wall, realising that you’re not going to have time to pick something up on your way back to work, and wishing you’d had breakfast that morning.
“Hi,” you turn at the deep voice to see Clark giving you a hesitant wave.
You smile back. “Hi.”
He scoots over to you on his chair. “Lois can be pretty intense, huh.”
“Yeah,” you agree. Clark’s even cuter up close, those glasses framing deep blue eyes, dimples popping up in his cheeks when he smiles. “She seems like a good reporter.”
“She is.” he tells you. “But she can get a bit obsessive about her stories - she might have forgotten that you’re here on your lunch break, right?”
You nod.
“Will you be able to get something after this? Or have you already eaten?”
“No and no.” You tell him honestly. “But it’s fine, this is clearly worth it.”
Clark raises a finger, “Or,” he spins back to his desk and grabs a paper bag, pushing back over to you with it. “You can have this. You’re not allergic to peanuts, are you?”
“No,” you smile, “but I’m not taking your lunch.”
“It’s fine,” he opens the bag and peers into it. “I’ve already eaten half. It’s just PB&J, and there was an apple in there too so it’s a bit squashed.” He passes it to you with one hand, pushing up his glasses with the other.
You start to refuse again, but your stomach grumbles loudly again, drowning out your words. Clark chuckles. “See, your body agrees with me.”
You laugh as well, accepting the bag. “Well, thank you.”
“And,” he holds up another finger, pedalling his chair back to his desk before hopping up - making you notice how tall he is - and nearly colliding with another reporter crossing the newsroom. A string of apologies leave him as he ducks and dodges across the floor, returning with a smile and a donut wrapped in a napkin.
“You should have time to eat this before Lois gets back.” He tells you, pressing it into your hand. “You probably need the sugar for her last burst of questions.” He grins, and your heart melts a little.
“Thank you,” you bite into the donut, a powdered ring that has smudges of multiple different colours of icing around it. “Do you get a box of these in the office every day?” You ask, wanting an excuse to keep him here talking to you.
“Not everyday. Sometimes someone’ll bring them in.” He pushes his glasses up again, and points at the coloured streaks on the donut. “You can tell I brought these in because I dropped them a couple times and they got a bit all over each other.”
Your smile widens. “Well, I love it. A little bit of everything is my favourite kind of donut.”
You see Lois coming back, and quickly finish eating, wiping your hands and fingers with the napkin and balling it up. Before you can find a trash can, Clark takes it from you, his fingers brushing yours in a way that feels warmly familiar.
“You better not be poaching my interviewee, Kent.” Lois tells him as she sits back down, document found.
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Ms Lane.” He grins at you a last time and heads back to his desk.
Lois notices the starry-eyed way you watch him sit down and run a hand through his dark curls, somehow messing them up even more. “Hey, I’m serious about him poaching you.” She says, drawing your attention back to her. “He’s always getting exclusive interviews with Superman, so he gets given a lot of the metahuman stories, but this is my baby.”
“Sure, of course.” You say, focusing back on her questions.
When you’re done, you practically have to run to get back to work, and still arrive a bit late. You’re grateful for the half lunch Clark gave you, and can’t help thinking of his hands making the slightly flattened sandwich as you eat it. He stays on your mind for the rest of the day, a dreamy expression spreading across your face every time you think of him.
The reporter’s dimpled smile is still lingering in your thoughts when Superman visits that evening.
“As you can see, I’m still uninvaded.” You tell him, grinning. You’d thought Superman might be a bit off - or not stop by at all - after the strange way his visit yesterday had ended, but he seems fine, and you’re more good-humoured than normal after meeting Clark. “How was your day?”
“Good. Surprising.” Superman tells you. “How about you?”
“Also good. Very good.” You move to the kitchen to start on dinner, almost a routine now when your nightly visitor arrives. “I ended up going to the Daily Planet, this reporter Lois Lane wanted to interview me about the window not being fixed.” You point at it with the cucumber you’ve just taken out of the fridge. “Apparently it’s a whole big thing with the insurance companies delaying repairs on purpose.”
“A hole big thing?” Superman smirks cheesily, nodding at the tarp he’s just flown through.
You groan and throw a tomato at him, which he catches before it can hit him, passing it back to you with an easy smile.
“Anyway, when her article gets published it might mean things get fixed faster and you don’t have to feel so guilty and keep checking in on people. But, more excitingly - I met the best guy today.” You beam at Superman. “He’s a reporter too, at the Daily Planet, and oh my god he might be the cutest guy I have ever met. He’s so sweet and kind too, I didn’t have time to get lunch, and he noticed that even though he’d literally never even spoken to me before, so he gave me his lunch and a donut.”
Superman’s eyebrows lift in surprise, and he goes very still - which you don’t notice, continuing to babble about Clark as you start chopping salad.
“And he’s so clumsy, it’s adorable, it’s like that thing in rom-coms where the woman’s always falling over? I never got why that would be attractive before, I thought it was just trying to make the hot actress seem relatable, but with him it’s like yes, please fall over and I’ll be the hero who catches you. Although he’s so tall, I probably wouldn’t be able to catch him, he’d just squash me, but oh god,” you almost growl, “what I would give to be squashed under him.”
“Oh, gosh.” Superman’s clearly taken aback.
You laugh guiltily. “Sorry, probably a bit of an overshare. Can’t believe I made Superman blush. But seriously, this guy. I feel like a teenager again, I haven’t crushed this hard on someone since - maybe ever? And perhaps it’s just been too long for me, but damn, I would climb Clark Kent like a tree.”
“Golly. Oh wow. Well.” Superman’s blinking rapidly, looking a little uncomfortable now. “I should go.”
“No, no, wait, sorry, I will stop now.” You laugh, then pause your food preparation, eyes widening in realisation. “Wait - you know him! Lois said he interviews you. What’s he like? He’s a good guy, right?”
“He’s nice, yeah.”
You gasp, a thought occurring to you. “Do you know if he’s single? Into women?”
Superman nods hesitantly. “Yes, he is. I think.”
“Could you - maybe - give him my number? I should have given it to him earlier but it was all a bit of a rush. And I was going to call Lois and see if she could pass it on to him, but it seemed a bit forward maybe, I don’t want him to know how crazy I am about him already.”
“No, of course not.”
“But since you stopped by anyway, maybe you could just - give him my number next time you see him? Please?”
Superman hesitates before agreeing with a quick nod. “Okay, yes. Since you feel so strongly about him.”
“Well, obviously don’t tell him that.” You roll your eyes with a grin as you scramble about for a pen and scrap of paper.
Superman swallows. “No, no. Obviously.”
“And none of the stuff about being squashed under him, or crushing like a teenager, or - any of it. Just, you know, I’m coolly intrigued. Interested in getting to know him more.”
“Coolly intrigued, got it.”
“Actually, tell him I want to take him out for lunch, to pay him back for giving me his today.” You hold out the piece of paper to Superman, then hesitate. “Wait - do you even have pockets in that?”
“I - well, I have-” He gestures vaguely to himself.
You wrinkle your nose. “Are you going to put it in your underpants?”
“They’re not underpants!” He exclaims. “They’re over, they’re over the rest of - and they’re trunks, I - just, never mind, I’ll put it in my belt.”
“Thank you, Superman.” You give him your sweetest smile.
“You’re welcome.” He tucks the piece of paper carefully into his yellow belt with a sigh. “Clark Kent is a very lucky man.”
“But he doesn’t know it yet.” You wag a finger at Superman. “I’m classy.”
“Yes you are.” Superman takes off without another word.
You’re delighted to get a call from Clark the next day, and you arrange to meet for lunch on Saturday. The few days until the weekend drag even more than usual, but when you’re finally on your way to meet, nerves bubble up inside you. It’s been a while since you had a date you were this excited about, and while Clark seems kind and friendly, he’s also a big-shot reporter for the most widely read and respected newspaper in the city - not to mention so attractive you hadn’t been able to stop your thoughts drifting to his blue eyes, curly hair and dimpled smile all week.
Thankfully, Clark immediately puts you at ease. He’s already seated when you arrive, and as you walk in his face lights up and he gives you a goofy wave so enthusiastic he sends his water glass flying. He’s still trying to mop up water and apologising profusely to everyone around when you reach him, and the combination of his clean-up attempts and awkward move to greet you result in him almost headbutting you. The earnest string of sorrys are still spilling from him as you sit down, smiling.
“Nervous?” You ask.
“A little.” He gives you a wonky grin, pushing his glasses up. “How could you tell?”
You laugh. “Just a hunch. And I’m a little nervous too.”
The rest of the meal goes much more smoothly, conversation flowing easily and your feelings growing steadily. You’re starting to feel grateful for the broken window that led to you meeting him - and having a way, via Superman, to contact him.
You insist on paying, as you’d suggested on the phone, to thank him for the sandwich he gave you earlier in the week, but Clark’s having none of it. However, in his rush to beat you to the card machine, he whips his card out of his wallet so strongly that it shoots into the air, sailing over the other tables and bouncing off the wall on the other side of the restaurant. The mortified look he gives you cracks you up, but you still manage to settle the bill while he rushes over to retrieve it.
“Since that lunch was worth significantly more than half a PB&J,” Clark says as he holds the door for you, “I think I owe you dessert. And we happen to be just one block from the park, where I know for a fact there’s a stand with the best ice cream in the city. If you’re free, that is?”
“The best ice cream in the city?” You tease, delighted to continue the date. “That’s a bold claim, Kent. I think I’ll have to see if you’re right.”
Turns out the frozen treat is perhaps the most delicious you’ve tasted - although whether that’s because of the ice cream itself or the man buying it for you is unclear. You’re fairly sure Clark’s having as good a time as you are, and you continue strolling through the park together long after you’ve finished your desserts.
When you pass by the old movie theatre, you point out the classics they’re currently showing.
“Which do you like better,” you ask, “Some Like It Hot or His Girl Friday?”
Clark tilts his head. “I’ve actually never seen His Girl Friday.”
“What? But you’re a journalist!”
He laughs. “I don’t think it’s on the recommended reading list at MU. But you’re right, it’s a terrible oversight on my part.”
“One which you’d like to correct?” You suggest, seeing there’s a screening of it starting soon.
Clark beams at you. “Oh, definitely. The sooner the better.”
You settle into your seats, popcorn nestled between you. You keep one hand free, open on your shared arm rest, and when Clark’s fingers nudge against yours before slowly intertwining, it’s suddenly a lot harder to focus on the movie.
Unfortunately, barely half an hour in, Clark fidgets in his seat and squeezes your hand. “I’ll be right back.” He whispers, sneaking out of the theatre in a comical hunch to avoid blocking anyone else’s view. You’re confused and a little saddened that he returns only ten minutes before the end of the movie.
He turns to you the second it’s over. “I’m so, so sorry. Something came up - a work thing - I wish I could have stayed, but I had to deal with it.” There's clear remorse in his eyes, and he’s looking even more rumpled than he had earlier, making you think he’d rushed back to you as fast as he could.
“That’s okay,” you tell him, “I know you have a demanding job. I guess news never really takes a break, huh?”
“Not really,” he smiles at you gratefully, playing with the edge of the empty popcorn bucket as you get up to leave. “And I understand if you want to leave things here, but - if you’d like - maybe I could make it up to you by buying you a drink, and you tell me what I missed in the movie?”
“I’d like that.” you answer honestly. “And you don’t need to feel too bad - I’ve had a lot worse behaviour on a first date than someone stepping out to deal with a work crisis.”
“That’s concerning.”
You fill Clark in on the rest of the plot as you make your way to the riverside bar he wants to take you to. When you reach the water you stop short, awed by the soft red glow of a beautiful sunset sparkling over the West River.
“Oh wow.”
“Here,” Clark puts a careful hand on your lower back and guides you to a wide viewpoint, and the two of you press up against the railing to watch the sun sink below the Metropolis skyline.
Clark notices immediately when a gust of wind makes you shiver. While you have a light jacket on, he only has a flannel over his t-shirt, but he starts pulling off the top layer for you regardless.
You stop him with a hand on his arm. “Thank you, but I don’t think that’ll do much. And you’ll freeze.”
Clark shrugs, “I run warm.”
“Well then,” you step in as close as you can. “You can be my windbreak.”
Smiling, Clark positions himself behind you, his arms either side of yours on the railing, tucking you against him to keep you warm.
A glow steals through you that has nothing to do with body heat, and you lean back into him, closing your eyes to bask in the perfection of the moment.
“Times like these I love living in Metropolis.” You tell him.
“Really?” You feel him smile against your cheek. “Because it looks like you’ve got your eyes shut.”
You open them with a guilty smile. “It’s not just the view.”
“No,” Clark gently kisses your cheek, sending sparks zipping through you, “but it is beautiful.”
You turn your face toward him to see him gazing at you adoringly through his glasses, his messy hair, broad shoulders and dimples limned by the last light of the sun. Your eyes drop to the curve of his mouth as his eyes trace the same path on you, and you raise up to him just as he leans down, the two of you pulled magnetically together.
Your lips meet in a first, tender kiss that lingers just long enough. You part for a second, only to press back in like waves on a beach, neither of you wanting to fully pull away. Clark smiles as he withdraws from you with a quick, soft third kiss, before settling himself behind you, his cheek resting against your head, arms tighter around you now.
The bliss that washes over you is unlike anything you’ve felt before.
You stay like that until the sun disappears behind the horizon, lights flickering on across the city, and make your way to the bar under the gentle glow of twilight and streetlights.
One drink turns into two, turns into you realising you’re hungry again, and ducking out of the bar to settle in a cosy restaurant a little further into the city.
Everything you eat tastes like the best you’ve ever had, and enticing tingles shoot through you every time your fingers tangle with Clark’s over the table. Utterly caught up in each other, you don’t realise how late it’s got until the staff politely let you know they’re closing up and you need to leave.
Clark apologises earnestly for keeping them, adding some extra bills to the tip for the inconvenience, but the knowing smiles the owner gives you makes you think they don’t mind too much.
Ever the gentleman, Clark asks to walk you home, and comes into your building, right up to your door. You wouldn’t normally sleep with someone on the first date, but today has been so perfect, and you’re so head over heels already, that a part of you desperately wants to invite him in. But you know Clark well enough now that you expect the politely old-fashioned reporter would say no if you offered, so you turn reluctantly to end the evening.
“I had an amazing time.”
He smiles back at you, glasses sliding down his nose. “Me too. And I’m sorry again about having to run off.”
“Don’t worry about it,” you assure him, “everything else more than made up for it.”
“Can I see you again?” He asks.
“Yes please.”
He grins goofily, one side of his mouth lifting before the other. “I’ll call you?”
You nod eagerly, eyes dropping to his lips.
Reading your hint, he steps closer, hand lifting to your face, fingers curling along your jaw and his thumb stroking your cheek as he ducks his head towards you.
The kiss is gentle again, but you tease his lips with your tongue as you slide your arms around him, and he groans softly. His other hand grips your hip as he delicately tugs on your lower lip, before pulling back with a sigh to rest his forehead against yours.
“Goodnight,” he says, voice husky, pressing a swift, chaste kiss to your lips.
“Goodnight,” you breathe back, repeating the action to him.
He stares into your eyes a moment longer before reluctantly stepping back, his mouth twisted in a half-smile. “Sleep well.” He adds softly, bobbing his head shyly as you unlock your door and step through.
“You too,” you tell him before you close it behind you.
Inside your apartment you let out a deep sigh and lean against the door, your eyes drifting shut as you relive the sensation of his mouth on yours, his hands holding you. You step forward slowly, calmly for a few beats, waiting long enough for Clark to have made it to the elevator, before flinging yourself onto the couch with a delighted squeal - unaware that Clark, with his superhearing, smiles widely as he hears you.
You’re so giddy from your day-long date that you don’t even notice there’s no visit from Superman that night.
—
When he swoops into your apartment the following evening, you’re still mooning over Clark, your face hurting from grinning to yourself all day.
You greet him in delight, and immediately thank him again for passing on your number. “We went out yesterday, and it was amazing.” You’re practically bouncing. “Maybe the best date ever? And he’s already called to set up the next one.”
“Hmm.” Superman walks past you to inspect your food prep. “What are you making?”
“Just avocado and eggs.”
“Breakfast for dinner.” He mutters.
“So, Clark.” Superman startles as you dart in front of him, beaming. “It was perfect, one of those dates that just keeps going because you never want it to end. At least I didn’t, and-”
Superman holds a hand up to stop you. “I don’t want to hear about your date with Clark.”
“Oh,” you’re taken aback. “Sorry, I - why not?”
“It’s just,” he shrugs, “not my business.”
You frown. Something else is going on here. “Wait,” your eyebrows lift as a thought occurs to you, “do you date?”
Superman freezes, his strong jaw locked, eyes flickering towards and away from you, and you know you’re onto something. “Sure, I date.” He says faux-casually, crossing his arms over his chest. “I mean, I’m busy, but - if I meet the right person.”
“And you’re fine to date - humans?”
“Yes, I date humans.” You can’t tell if he’s exasperated or amused. Maybe both. “How personal are these questions going to get?”
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to ask anything anatomical.” You answer with a smirk, being very careful to keep your eyes away from his red trunks. “So - you like Clark?”
“Sure, I-” he stops as your meaning hits him. “What!? I don’t like Clark! That’s ridiculous.”
“It’s okay!” You assure him. “I mean, it makes perfect sense. He’s great, and it explains why you were kind of weird about me going on about him the other day, and why you don’t want to hear about our date. And why he’s the only reporter you give interviews to!”
Superman splutters incoherently, shaking his head. “That is not-”
“It’s fine! I’m guessing he’s not into guys, otherwise why would he say no? Unless it’s an ethics thing, with him reporting on you.”
“Oh my goodness.”
“Listen,” you approach Superman and take his hands, looking into his worried eyes. “I won’t talk to you about Clark any more. And I really, really, appreciate you giving him my number when you must have felt a bit conflicted about it. You’re obviously a really good guy - if all the hero stuff wasn’t proof enough - and you will totally meet the right person for you one day. I’m sure of it.”
Superman stares at you openmouthed, no idea what to say to that.
—
After work a few days later, you meet Clark at the Metropolis Aquarium - a place you’d realised on your first date that neither of you had ever been to. You stroll around in the blue light, Clark shyly taking your hand and neither of you letting go for the rest of the visit. After a quick dinner at a nearby taco truck, Clark walks you home again, and although he politely declines your offer to come in, your goodbye kiss ends up as a heated make-out session against your front door, your hands tangling in his dark hair, his glasses steamed up and even more askew than normal.
He calls you as soon as he gets home to arrange the next date for Saturday.
Clark’s planned this one - a picnic in the park. He meets you at a deli with a picnic basket bumping against his side and a blanket tucked under his arm. You pick out the food you’ll share together and walk hand in hand to Centennial Park. The day seems almost too perfect - dappled sunlight on the path, a gentle breeze blowing as you set up. You lean against Clark and occasionally feed each other in a way you suspect but don’t care is cheesily insufferable to anyone watching.
Unfortunately, the perfection doesn’t last - you’ve not even finished the food when the wind picks up, blowing ominously dark clouds overhead.
“Is it going to rain?” You wonder aloud.
Clark scrunches his nose as he peers up at the sky. “The forecast said it wouldn’t.”
The words have barely left his mouth when a heavy drop lands on his glasses. You look at each. “Uh oh.”
You scramble to pack everything up as the late summer rain pelts down - Clark tries valiantly to protect you from the downpour, but you’re both drenched within minutes. Laughing and squealing, the two of you race for the shelter of a nearby gazebo.
You catch your breath once you’re under cover, shaking off the excess water as best you can.
“Golly.” Clark’s back is turned as he wipes his glasses clean, and when he turns around, you suck in a breath.
His white t-shirt is soaked through and clinging to every part of what you are now very aware is his amazingly muscular torso. Maybe it’s his general bumbling, clumsy demeanour, geeky intellectualism, or just that he’s never mentioned going to the gym, but you hadn’t expected him to be built like this.
“I’m sorry about this.” He starts, unaware that your rapid breaths aren’t from the sprint over. “I swear the forec-”
“I’m not sorry,” you interrupt, practically flinging yourself at him.
Despite his surprise, Clark responds instantly, wrapping his arms around you as you press against him and returning your kiss with an equal ferocity. You gasp into his mouth, sliding a hand under his shirt to feel the ridges and lines of his stomach. His moan is just audible above the pounding rain, and you can feel his need as he walks you back to press you against the strut of the gazebo, his hands sliding down your body, lifting you so you match his height.
Just as you’re wrapping your legs around him, a loud wolf-whistle makes Clark pull back - the next gazebo over is full of other people escaping the rain, who whoop and cheer at the two of you - some even applaud.
Chastened, Clark sets you down, the tips of his ears turning red.
“Sorry,” you say on a gasp, aware that your actions don’t really fit with Clark’s more reserved sensibilities.
The knowing smile he gives you is so hot you’re surprised you don’t start steaming where you stand. “I don’t think you are.”
You gulp, goosebumps erupting over your skin that have nothing to do with the turn in the weather. Clark’s eyes trail over you, taking in how your own clothes stick to your body, looking like he’s fully aware you’re not just wet from the rain.
He pulls you to him, but just to wrap you in his arms, making you grumble into his chest. He simply chuckles, giving a cheery wave to the people still watching from the other gazebo.
After twenty minutes of thunderous rain you’re starting to shiver despite Clark’s warmth, and the picnic blanket he’s swaddled you both in.
“I don’t think it’s going to stop any time soon.” You point out.
“No.” Clark agrees, his mouth pursed with worry. “My apartment’s not too far. We can change into something dry there - are you okay to make a run for it?”
You nod. “Let’s do it.”
By the time you make it to Clark’s you’re completely drenched again, the two of you dripping a trail all the way from the lobby into his apartment. You hover by the door, not wanting to make a mess in his surprisingly neat and tidy home. Clark, however, only takes off his shoes before disappearing inside, returning moments later with an empty laundry basket and a stack of clean clothes that he carefully holds away from his wet body.
“The bathroom’s through there,” he points with the hand holding the basket, “you can take a shower to warm up and then put these on. If you drop your wet things in here I’ll wash and dry them for you.”
“Don’t you need a shower too?” You ask coyly. “You could join me.”
Clark takes a deep breath, and you hear a creak from the basket as he unconsciously squeezes the handle tight. “I want to,” his voice is husky, “but you should just get warm.”
“You sure?” You can’t help trying again, certain you’ve never wanted someone so much. “I think you’d help me warm up.”
The groan that emerges from him doesn’t help tamp down your feelings. “Believe me, I would love to, but I…I -”
Seeing his struggle for words you stop him with a smile. “It’s okay. You don’t have to explain anything. I don’t want to rush you.”
Clark nods, his expression a mixture of gratefulness and regret.
Following Clark’s instructions you take a warm shower, revelling in the simple intimacy of using his products, trying and failing to not imagine him in here, naked. When you’re finished, and dressed in comfy sweats that smell like him, Clark takes his turn in the bathroom, then when you’re both clean and dry you spend the rest of the afternoon curled into his side in front of the TV, alternating between chats and steamy kisses that never go quite as far as you - and Clark from what you can feel against you - would like.
Other than your dates with Clark, the rest of your life continues as normal - the hole in your wall remains unfixed and Superman still drops by most nights, although his visits have been getting shorter, and you sense that your relationship with Clark is causing him some inner turmoil. You’ve told him he doesn’t need to keep stopping by, but unless you’re spending the evening with Clark, he always shows up.
One cloudy Tuesday, you’ve had the day from hell at work, and arrive home late enough that you hear Superman’s usual polite request to come in the second you’re through the door. You shout a yes, shut the door behind you, then drop your bag where you stand, head straight for your couch and faceplant onto it.
You hear Superman’s amused voice above you. “Bad day?”
Facedown and prone, you mumble something unintelligible into the cushions.
“What was that?”
You roll onto your side with a world-weary sigh. “I had the worst day. Work is horrible, I hate it. And I hate everyone.”
“Do you?” Superman cocks his head, one dimple appearing as he half-smiles at you indulgently.
“No.” You pout. “But today I do.”
“Can I help?”
“Not really,” you rub your hands over your face, “but thanks.”
Superman watches you for a moment longer, arms crossed. “You should call Clark.”
You drop your arms and stare up at Superman. “Why would I do that?”
“Because he’s your boyfriend.” He answers, like it’s obvious. “He can look after you.”
You sit up with a groan. “First of all, he’s not my boyfriend - we’ve barely known each other for two weeks and only gone on three dates, I can’t call him that yet. Second, I’m not exposing him to all-” you flap your hands at yourself, “-this.”
Superman frowns. “All what?”
“This! Me exhausted and needy and grumpy. I’m still trying to impress him. He has to think I’m cool, and fun and stuff.”
“I think he knows you’re cool and fun and stuff,” Superman tells you, “and I think he cares about you, and would want to make you feel better when you’re exhausted and grumpy, and be there for you when you’re needy.”
“And I think you have an idealised vision of what early relationships are like.”
“Call him.”
“Nope,” you slump back down and curl into a ball. “I’ve got through bad days on my own before, lying here and crying until it’s over, and I’ll do it again.”
“It’s endearing that you’re so stubborn about suffering alone, but call Clark! I know he’d want to be here for you.”
You’re face down again, so Superman can’t hear whatever you grumble in return. He sighs, exasperated, and a moment later you hear his footsteps walking away, the tarp flapping as he zooms off.
You’re unsure how much later it is when there’s a knock at the door. You ignore it until the third, equally polite knock, and frown as you lever yourself off the couch to answer it. When you open the door, there’s a slightly battered bunch of flowers and a sympathetically smiling Clark just behind them.
“Hi.” He passes you the flowers. “I heard you were having a tough day. Can I come in?”
“Uh,” you look down at yourself, clothes dishevelled and mascara smudged around your eyes, “I’m not really…”
“You look beautiful,” he kisses you, “and also like you might need a hug.”
His words crack something open in you, and you nod, afraid you’ll start crying if you speak. He steps over the threshold, nudging the door closed behind him, and wraps you in his arms.
You enjoy the embrace for a long moment, then mumble into his shoulder. “Did Superman call you?”
“Yes.”
“That’s not cool of him.”
“You’re not glad he did, now that I’m here?”
“No. I told him not to,” you pull back to look at Clark, “You’re being lovely, but I didn’t want to be a mess in front of you yet.”
“That’s silly.” Clark tells you, kissing the tip of your nose. “I like all of you. The messy you and the cool, fun, tidy you.”
You give him a watery smile. “I like all of you too, Clark.”
Falling back into the hug, you don’t notice the conflicted, guilty expression clouding Clark’s eyes.
—
Superman gracefully accepts your telling off the next night, and you two clear the air.
“I like that you’re not intimidated by me.” He comments.
“Why would I be intimidated by you?”
He raises an eyebrow. “I don’t know, maybe because I'm potentially the most powerful being on the planet?”
“Well, yeah,” you admit, “but you are wearing big red underpants-”
“They’re trunks! And they’re not under, they’re literally on the outside, they’re outerwear!”
Laughing, you stop his protests. “That’s only part of it. Also - I trust you. You’re so…good. You wouldn’t hurt a fly. You wouldn’t even hurt a fly’s feelings.”
“You think flies have feelings?”
“What I mean is, why would I be intimidated by someone who I’m certain won’t hurt me? Abilities don’t make someone intimidating, intentions do.”
“Hmm.” His expression is thoughtful, then turns teasing. “Is that why you’re scared of spiders?”
You point at him threateningly. “That spider was very big.”
“It wasn’t big-”
“It was massive!”
“It was this big.” Superman holds his fingers up, barely an inch apart.
“It was this big!” You both hands up, more than a foot apart, making Superman laugh. “And it had a weapon!”
“It did not have a weapon! Spiders in Metropolis are entirely harmless to humans.”
“Well, I think that one was carrying a knife.”
“It did not have a knife.” He smirks.
“It was a concealed knife.”
“Gosh. Well, in that case it was good that I was here then - to protect you from the knife-wielding spider.”
“Exactly.”
Superman’s laughter fades away and he gives you a long, measured look before walking towards you. “You don’t think I could be intimidating? If I wanted to be?”
“I-” Your words die on your tongue as Superman stands so close you can feel his breath, tilting his chin up and standing tall in a way that makes you very aware of his powerful height and build.
His voice deepens. “I can be intimidating.”
Something about his actions makes your skin heat, a heartbeat pulsing below your naval as your lips part on a shaky breath.
Superman’s eyebrow twitches and a sly smile spreads across his lips, “Interesting.”
“No, no.” You recover, shaking your head. “Not interesting. Not at all.”
“Is that reaction something I should let Clark know about? A hint, maybe, about your preferences?”
“No no no.” You put both hands on his chest and push, walking him backwards as he laughs. “Out the window with you.”
You can still hear him laughing after he lets you shove him out into the night.
—
Two weeks later, you’re cutting through the rush hour crowds as you walk the few blocks from your office to the Daily Planet building to meet Clark for another date. The two of you are spending almost every available moment together, and you’re so used to his erratic timekeeping that you’ve become a familiar face to the rest of the staff, often waiting in the lobby or the newsroom for Clark to reappear from whatever story he’s run off to chase.
Nino the security guard cheerfully waves you in with a wink, but this time, you don’t even have to step out of the revolving door before you see Clark barreling towards you with a puppyish smile. He squeezes into the same section you’re in, bumping noses as he kisses you hello, and seems to not notice the irritated grumbles of the other commuters as the nearly clogged door shudders to a slow shuffle.
The mechanism just about survives, and you’re both laughing by the time you spill out onto the sidewalk, Clark dropping his satchel but managing to keep a hold on you.
His coworkers emerge from the building in a much more orderly way.
“We take full credit for Clark being on time for you today,” Jimmy tells you, “even he can’t miss the monthly staff meeting.”
“He has before,” Lois adds drily.
“I always try to make it.” Clark objects.
“Clark’s just a time optimist,” you defend him, tucking into his side as closely as if you’re still stuck in the revolving door.
Lois rolls her eyes, despite her smile. “I’m not sure Perry sees that as a positive trait.”
The screech of brakes interrupts the chatter, and you all turn toward the road to see two men approach, hands concealed and hoods pulled low over their eyes.
“You’re Clark Kent?” One asks aggressively. “The reporter?”
Everyone else is instantly on edge, and you notice Nino approaching warily to see what’s happening, but Clark’s manners never fail him.
“Yes, I am.” He tells them pleasantly. “Can I help you with anything?”
“The one who always does interviews with Superman?” The other man asks.
A prickle of unease races over you. The others group closer to Clark protectively, and even he seems to sense the danger, putting an arm in front of you to carefully push you behind him.
“That’s me.” He answers evenly, wrinkling his nose to keep his glasses in place.
“I can handle this,” Nino announces, stepping forward.
“No, no, Nino, that’s fine.” Clark says, trying to dismiss the guard.
The first man reaches out to grab him, and without thinking, you jump in front of Clark.
Your body is moving faster than your brain, but you ignore Clark trying to tug you back.
“Clark’s just a reporter,” you tell the men, “he doesn’t actually know Superman. If that’s who you’re after you should talk to me, I’m friends with him.”
“What are you doing?” Clark hisses, trying to pull you behind him, but you stand your ground.
“Superman comes to my apartment every night.” You tell the strangers.
The men glance at each other, making a quick decision, then one shrugs and they grab for you instead.
“No!” Clark’s cry is strangled, and he tries to keep a tight hold on you, but you wriggle free.
“Go, call him,” you whisper, shoving him away from you as hard as you can.
Shock and hurt are visible on his face, but before Clark can do anything, Jimmy, Nino and Lois grab hold of him to stop him pursuing you, and you’re almost pulled off your feet as the attackers drag you away and bundle you into a windowless van.
The door slams as it slides shut, and a second later the engine starts with a roar, but before you even make it to the end of the block, there’s a crashing sound and the van stops instantly, the back jolting up into the air as though a heavy impact has slammed into the front of it. You hear the men shout out in panic, and you’re drenched in sudden daylight as the whole side door is ripped away. The next thing you know, you’re in Superman’s arms, flying away into the sky.
You’ve barely had time to marvel at the speed of your rescue when Superman lands on a rooftop, gently setting you down on your feet. He takes a few steps back, clenching his jaw. You notice his hair is more dishevelled than you’ve ever seen it, and he’s looking at you in a way he never has before.
“What were you thinking?!” He bursts out.
You blink rapidly. “What?” You’re astonished - Superman’s almost shouting at you.
“You put yourself in danger! You could have been hurt!”
“I was protecting Clark!” You protest.
He’s just about holding himself in check, but it’s clear Superman’s angry. “You don’t need to protect him!”
“I couldn’t just stand there!”
“Why not? That’s exactly what you should have done.”
“Why not?!” You’re fuming now, yelling back at him. “Because I care about him! I can’t let anything happen to him!”
“And I can’t let anything happen to you!” You’re staggered by the sheer force of Superman’s emotion, but you recover enough to keep arguing.
“And you didn’t! Clark knows how to contact you, I don’t - it would have taken you longer to get to him. This made sense!”
“No, it didn’t! It will never make sense for you to put yourself at risk!”
“I barely was!” You shout back, exasperated. “I was there for all of 30 seconds before you got to me. I’m fine! How long would it have taken for you to even know Clark was in trouble?”
“I-” Superman huffs, pacing back and forth like there’s more he wants to say but can’t. You watch in silence, not understanding what’s going on with him. Eventually he stills, shoulders slumping, breathing in a way that sounds startling like he’s on the verge of tears. He gathers himself and walks back to you.
“I’m sorry,” he says, sounding exhausted and surprisingly vulnerable. “I shouldn’t have shouted.”
“That’s okay.” You tell him quietly.
“I just - I was scared.” He admits, his voice breaking. “I care about you. I’m not mad at you.”
Something swells inside you at his words, but you ignore it and give him a small smile. “It seems like you’re a little mad at me.”
He smiles back sadly. “I’m not. I’m mad at myself.”
“Why?” You ask, baffled.
Superman hesitates, shaking his head. “I had to make a quick decision and I knew instantly that I made the wrong one.”
You frown. “What do you mean? Was there something else you should have been dealing with instead of getting me?”
“No, no.” He insists. His eyes drop to the ground and he adds softly, almost to himself, “I shouldn’t have let you go.”
There’s silence as you try to figure out what he means. Before you can ask, he takes a deep breath and straightens into his Superman stance. “You’ve been through a lot. I’m taking you home.”
He scoops you up into his arms, and you cling to his neck as he takes off into the sky.
To your surprise, instead of taking you back to your place, Superman flies you to Clark’s, drifting in through the window like he’s done it a million times, and depositing you carefully on the couch.
“I need to call Clark, let him know I’m okay.” You look around as though your bag, knocked off in the earlier struggle, will suddenly appear next to you.
“He knows.” Superman’s voice is strained, and he’s pacing back and forth like he can’t keep still.
“And that I’m here?”
Superman nods. “He knows.”
You frown. “Did you tell him you’d bring me here? How could you have had time to?”
He finally stills, looking at you with such a tortured expression that you immediately get to your feet and approach him.
“Are you alright?” You ask gently.
He huffs out a noise that’s almost a laugh. “You just got abducted, and you want to know if I’m alright?”
“Well to be honest, I seem to be dealing with it a lot better than you.” You try your best to catch his eye, but he’s avoiding your gaze. “Seriously, what’s wrong? You go through stuff like this every day.”
“Not like this.” He answers softly. “Not with you. And-” he sighs, seeming to make a decision, and straightens up, finally looking at you head on. “I need to tell you something. Something I should have told you a while ago - or, I wanted to tell you, but I couldn’t, or - felt like I shouldn’t. I don’t know.”
“Okay.” You’ve never seen Superman so rattled and unsure before.
“I - gosh. I don’t know how to say this.” He looks at you like you might give him a clue, chewing on the inside of his cheek, but you have no idea what’s going on.
“Maybe it’s easier to show you,” he mumbles, dashing out of the room at superspeed. When he returns seconds later, he’s wearing Clark’s clothes.
“What the-” you gape at him. There’s something very odd about seeing Superman in anything other than his red and blue suit, and something else tingling on the edges of your awareness that you can’t quite grasp.
“Maybe you should sit down.” Superman takes your arms and manoeuvres you back to the couch.
“You’re in Clark’s clothes.” You announce unnecessarily.
“I’m in my clothes.” Superman corrects.
“What? You share clothes with Clark?” You can’t comprehend what might be going on.
“We’re the same.” Superman answers simply. Then he takes Clark’s glasses out of a pocket and puts them on.
You feel a dizzying adjustment, like an image appearing out of nothing in a magic eye photo, and Clark is standing in front of you, looking at you with the same hesitant concern Superman was showing.
“Clark! What - wait what -” your mouth drops open even further. “You and Superman share a body?!”
He looks taken aback. “Share a - no. Well, sort of.”
“What is going on,” you mutter to yourself, wondering vaguely if you’re having a stroke.
“I’m Superman.” Clark announces clearly. “Clark is Superman. And Superman is Clark.”
You gawp at him as he takes the glasses off again, and something clunks into place in your mind. The man standing in front of you - he’s Clark. And he’s Superman.
“What the fuck! How did I not see this before?”
“It’s the glasses.” Clark/Superman explains apologetically. “They’re hypno-glasses. They stop people recognising me as Superman.”
“So you don’t really need glasses?”
A smile twitches at his lips at your question. “Not for seeing, no.”
“But,” you shake your head, trying to reconcile the two men you know as one, “Clark’s so clumsy. And Superman can literally fly. What’s - is that fake? The Clark bit?”
“No,” he assures you. “Nothing about me is fake. When I’m not being Superman I have to hide my strength, and sometimes I don’t get it quite right.”
“So when you’re home - this your home, wow, this is where Superman lives - you’re not clumsy?”
“Well, I still have to be careful around the furniture. But probably less clumsy, yes.”
“And you don’t wear the glasses?”
“I don’t wear the glasses.”
You’re still trying to get your head around it all. “And what should I call you?”
“Clark.” He answers. “Superman’s like a job title.”
“So it’s like code-switching.” You’re starting, just a little bit, to understand. “Like Clark’s one version of you, and Superman’s the other. They both show and hide different parts of you.”
Clark tilts his head. “Yes, I suppose so.”
“So why does Clark wear the disguise?”
“You think Superman should wear glasses?”
“Not glasses, but like - a mask or something. It’s what the other metahumans do.”
“I want Superman to be approachable,” Clark explains, adding with a half-smile, “same reason for the trunks.”
You actually laugh at this, starting to feel a bit less freaked out.
“And masks can scare people. They can seem like you’ve got something to hide.”
“But you do.”
“No. I have something to protect.” His eyes soften.
You nod slowly. “Your family.” Clark’s talked to you about Ma and Pa Kent, and his love for them has shone through in every word.
“And now you.”
There’s a silence as you stare at him in awe, drinking in the enormity of those three words.
“That’s why you were so upset today. I didn’t need to protect you, because you wouldn’t have been in danger.”
He nods, sadly. “But you were. And I can’t have you being connected to Superman - it puts you at risk.”
“Still, it’s not like you could have saved yourself. If they’d taken you, they could have worked out that you’re Superman.”
“I would have figured something out. Anything would have been better than them hurting you.”
There’s a pause as you take in the information.
“Is there anything else you want to ask?” Clark prompts. “And it doesn’t have to be right away-”
“If this hadn’t happened, were you ever going to tell me?”
“Yes.” This answer is firm and instant, and he crosses over to you, kneeling in front of you. “I was going to tell you when your window was fixed. I waited because I wanted to be able to keep checking in on you, and I couldn’t do that if you reacted badly. And I have to be careful who I tell. Besides you, the Justice Gang are the only people in Metropolis who know who I am.”
You believe him. “That’s a lot to trust me with. You’ve only known me six weeks, I could be a secret supervillain or something.”
Clark smiles. “I don’t think you are.”
“I could be though.”
“You could be,” he smiles at you so fondly you swear you feel your heart swell, “I guess I’m willing to take that risk. For you.”
You smile back at him dreamily, all the pieces of the last month and a half falling into place. “That’s why Superman didn’t want to hear about my dates with Clark.”
He nods. “It wouldn’t have been right. You might have been telling me things you wouldn’t want me to know.”
“I thought you had a crush on yourself!”
“Yeah, I thought that was an odd conclusion to jump to.” He muses. “Why not just think I had a crush on you? You’d obviously picked up on something before that.”
“Because I’m not going to assume Superman is into me!” You’re incredulous, then realise. “Oh my god, Superman’s into me.”
Clark smiles. “Very into you.”
“Wait - when I’d had a shitty day and Superman told me to call Clark - you said Clark was my boyfriend. You said you were my boyfriend.”
Clark shifts uncomfortably. “And you said it was too soon for that, and I respect that-”
You lean forward, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Did you want to be my boyfriend? Even back then?”
Delighted that you’re touching him, accepting him, Clark moves closer, his hands resting on your waist. “Yes. I’d really like to be your boyfriend. If that’s what you want? Even now?”
You beam at him so widely your nose crinkles. “Yes please.” You lean in to kiss him, then pull back with a start, horrified at a memory flashing into your mind. “Oh god. I said the horniest things to you about you. When I asked you to give you my number.”
Clark tries and fails to suppress a smirk. “You did.”
You groan. “That’s so embarrassing.”
“No,” he smiles, “I was already crazy about you.”
“What? Seriously?”
“Seriously.” Clark brushes a hand adoringly over your cheek. “I liked you when we first met. Then I really fell for you when you threatened me with a baseball bat.”
“Threatened to threaten you.” You correct.
“And every day since then I’ve liked you more.” His eyes are shining with affection. “Even before you met me as Clark, I was trying to figure out how I could ask you out. After your window was fixed.”
“Wow,” you breathe, leaning forward again to kiss him.
Clark bites back a small noise of frustration as you pull back again at the last second.
“Is this why you won’t sleep with me?” Your voice is a little louder than you intended. “We’ve been dating a month now and I know you know how much I want you.”
“It wouldn’t have been right!” He objects. “Not when you didn’t know everything. What if you’d spent the night with me as Clark and then you see Superman the next day and have no idea that he knows you like that.”
You pout. “Okay yes, that makes sense, and yes you were doing the right thing. But does this mean you already want to?”
Clark’s eyes darken deliciously. “Yes, I want to. I think you know I do.”
You smile slyly, sliding to the edge of the seat and parting your legs, lifting them over Clark’s where he’s crouched in front of you and locking them around his hips as you lean forward to finally kiss him.
His arms tighten around you as you slip your tongue into his mouth, filled with a rush of affection and lust for your bumbling, good-hearted superhero boyfriend.
“Are you sure,” he pants out between kisses, “you don’t - want to wait? Take in - what I’ve told you?”
You twine your fingers in his thick hair, rolling your hips against the hard bulge in his pants as you grin wickedly at him. “No, I don’t.”
Clark groans, easily picking you up and heading for the bedroom. “Yes, ma’am.”
—
Epilogue
Your window is finally being fixed, and you need to be out of your apartment for a few days while it’s being worked on. Clark happily offered for you to stay at his, and while you’re both still managing to go to work - and for him, be Superman - you spend almost every other moment wrapped up in each other in bed, and on the couch, and all over the rest of his apartment.
As a lazy evening bleeds into night, the two of you are lying in bed, naked and spent after multiple sessions pulling pleasure from each other’s bodies, with just one pancake break to refuel.
“You know,” you look up at Clark from where you’re lying in his arms, “I think I’m going to miss Superman dropping in on me every night.”
“You are?” Clark smiles at you indulgently. “Why’s that?”
“Well, it’s nice to not have to buzz you in,” you say thoughtfully, pressing soft kisses to his chest and arms, “and the costume’s pretty sexy.”
“It’s not a costume, it’s an outfit.”
“Even the underpants are growing on me.”
Clark growls playfully as he rolls on top of you. “The trunks.” He corrects.
“The trunks,” you accept, humming in delight as he trails kisses down your neck, “I mean, they kind of draw the eye.”
He pulls back, indignant. “They do not ‘draw the eye’.”
“Clark, they’re bright red.”
He pouts adorably, and you laugh, before trailing your fingers down his muscled torso. “And I mean, it’s clear that what’s under them is pretty impressive.”
Clark presses his body onto yours, sinking you into the mattress, trying to look annoyed despite the smile he can’t suppress. “I’m pretty sure it’s only you who’s looking there. I’m starting to think you’re a sex-crazed maniac.”
You gasp in fake outrage.
“Which I like about you.” He adds smoothly, leaning in to part your lips with his, your tongues tangling together.
As you pull back for air, you wrap your legs around his hips and flip him onto his back, sitting up on top of him in a way that makes him groan, his hands gripping your thighs.
You grin at him lasciviously. “And you know, as much as I love you as you, there is something really hot about having Superman underneath me like this.” You frown when you notice how Clark has stilled, his mouth slightly open, eyes softened with wonder. “What?”
His voice is reverent. “You love me.”
You clap your hands to your mouth in horror, as if you can force the words back in - you’ve felt it for a while, but you’ve not said that to each other yet, and it just slipped out. But as Clark sits up, one arm sliding around your waist and the other dancing up your spine, he’s beaming like he’s won the lottery. He kisses the back of each of your hands, then holds your gaze, his deep blue eyes swimming with emotion.
CW: reader has cracky ass joints, clark is nosy, reader is miserable and a lil negative, cryptic thoughts, reader has paranoia, gn reader, reader has a personality
Clark Kent x Reader
Summary: clark wants to help you with your joint pain.. the problem? you won't let him in.
crack-crack... crack
He didn't even mean to hear it, I mean- you were all the way across the office, typing away, minding your own business. Definitely not because you were desperately trying to finish your piece before Perry's fuckass deadline. Yikes. (you finish, you always do)
Alas, he heard it, and his head shot up, it definitely came from your desk. Your face was slightly scrunched up, as you looked down to your ankles, grumbling a quiet, "why did that one hurt?"
Clark couldn't say anything, because hearing something like that would require super-hearing.. which he does not have... It would be even more conspicuous because your desk was all the way on the other side of Lois's and closer to Cat's. So with a quiet sigh he turned back to his work.
It happened a concerning amount of times after that. It was like your knuckles reset every two minutes. (they didn't, but it sure as hell felt like it did) Each crack had Clark glancing over to make sure nothing broke.
He was finally able to mention it when you came over to hand him a piece of your writing. Your article happened to be an important piece for his article, which happens more often than you'd think among journalism. You placed a manilla folder on his desk before speaking,
"I figured you'd be able to use this in your piece."
Clark turned from his computer and looked up at you through his glasses somehow maintaining his golden retriever resting face, a kind and inviting look. One that you wouldn't fall for. 'He's too innocent, it's definitely calculated,' you'd think.
You idly cracked your knuckles as you awaited his response. Cracking them forward and backward, then cracking the joints just under your nails, and then you wring your hands. Each movement had your wrists and fingers cracking as you watched him examine the file.
His attention was taken from the file as he hears your cracks up and close. He looks up at you, those baby blues ever concerned, "do your joints always crack like that?" He questions softly, soft enough to make you sigh. He wasn't interrogating, but with you, any question is a personal attack on your life.
You wrinkle your nose at the question. 'Why does he care? Not like he's gonna do anything about it.' You think to yourself. "Uh, I guess they do." You answer carefully. Clark gives you a look- a mixture of concern, sympathy, and the need to do something more, swirling in those crystal blues. He wanted to help, but he knows you'd get irritated if he tried.
"Well thank you," he suddenly remembers and turns to you, "for the piece." He clarifies, gesturing to it with his huge hand, and he gives you that stupid smile- the one that makes your heart thump and decreases your sanity. You just hum in acknowledgement and turn on your heel, getting irritated already.
Maybe its the constant cracking, or the pain in your joints that occasionally comes to bite your ass that made you so irritable. Maybe it's how many times you've been stabbed in the back by someone you thought was nice. Either way, a smile is rare to come from you and trust is given to none. A lonely life that you lead with nobody in your corner but yourself.
That might be why Clark pisses you off so much. He's just so kind, and he's so kind it comes to a fault. It makes you feel a little more shitty because you know you're not that kind anymore- maybe he does genuinely want to help, it's not like you could find a reason for him to betray you. Either way, you prefer not to take that chance so it doesn't really matter to you if he is a rarity in humanity or not.
Maybe that's why Superman also rubs you the wrong way, as much as you respect him for his efforts, he has that same way of irritating you as Clark does.
They're kind-of similar, now that you think about it...
You stop yourself there, you can't waste time thinking about things you don't care about. You sit down at your desk and huff before checking the time and getting back to work. You're going to have the worst wrist pain later, the thought alone makes you close your eyes for a moment.
Stupid, stupid Clark Kent. You've decided he's trouble. Small town farm-boy trouble is what he is. He's annoying and he's going to hurt you when you let your guard down.
You choose to ignore those thoughts for sake of focusing on your work. Secondly, because you feel bad thinking about him like this, he hasn't really done anything to you that would warrant these thoughts.
Clark sees past your uncongenial nature, you don't hate him, you're just guarded. A little too guarded, but Clark is patient if not kind. He knows that deep down you like it when he's kind. Your heartbeat gives it away. Not that you know he knows, as far as you know, you're being slick with your little reactions.
You just need time, and time is what Clark can give you.
i was gonne make this a oneshot then decided the start was too shitty so now it needs multiple parts to become good writing
idk i hope this suffices i just wanted to post something- anything, perchance be nice with criticism <3
Summary: You’ve spent months falling for two men: Clark Kent and Superman. One soft but distant, the other larger-than-life and burning. But when a rooftop secret finally breaks, the truth hits harder than any fall—because they’re the same man, and he’s been in love with you from the start.
Word count: 16k
T/w: 18+, mdni, Friends to Lovers, Filthy Sweet Smut, Praise Kink, Oral Sex (f. receiving), Cowgirl Position, Clark getting jealous of himself, Clark Kent is So in Love It’s Embarrassing
The rooftop is cold this late, even in spring. The kind of cold that wraps around your ankles like smoke and settles in your bones, unnoticed until it’s already made a home there. The wind comes off the river with a low, lonely howl, threading its way between the buildings, tugging at your sleeves, chilling the tips of your ears.
The glow from the Daily Planet’s rotating globe above casts a soft gold halo over the rooftop, broken in places by rusted beams and pigeon-shadowed ledges. It makes everything look softer than it is. You sit near the edge with your knees pulled up, mug cupped between your palms, fingers curled tight around the chipped ceramic. The coffee is reheated, burnt, far too bitter. It sticks to your tongue like ash, but the warmth helps.
Your legs dangle over the ledge like a dare. The city hums below, alive and indifferent. Sirens scream in the distance. A car honks and doesn’t stop. Neon flickers against the glass of neighboring buildings. A billboard across the avenue cycles through three rotating ads, each brighter and more ridiculous than the last.
You close your eyes. Let your head tilt back. Let the noise blur. It’s been another long day, endless edits, typo corrections that weren’t yours, layout arguments you weren’t invited to fix but were expected to solve. And then, of course, there was him.
Clark Kent passed you in the hallway again this afternoon. Shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, tie slightly loosened. He smiled that sweet, bashful smile that always makes your chest feel too small and kept walking. Like nothing flickered. Like you didn’t want to stop him. Like he didn’t carry the weight of your attention in every step.
You sigh.
You stay late a lot these days. At first it was about deadlines. Then it became about space. Solitude. Stillness. Avoiding the sound of your neighbor’s latest “guy,” or the way your apartment echoes too much when you’re alone in it.
And then, somewhere along the way… he started showing up.
You don’t hear him land. It’s more like you feel it. The air shifts. The rooftop pressure dips like a storm rolling in, only calmer, warmer, like a held breath finally let go. Then the sound: a barely-there thud of boots on concrete, subtle enough to mistake for imagination if you weren’t already listening for him.
You open your eyes just as the wind stills and there he is.
He stands against the backdrop of the sky like he belongs to it. Silhouetted in starlight. Backlit by the city’s glow. Red cape stirring in the wind behind him, long and silent and soft like a sigh. The blue of his suit catches flecks of gold from the globe above, glinting like embers trapped under fabric.
He’s not smiling yet. Just watching you. That steady, unreadable expression he wears when he’s reading the wind. Reading you.
By all logic, you should be awestruck. He’s a myth made flesh, a force of nature walking on two legs, a god who could turn the Earth if he wanted to.
But he doesn’t look like a god. Not tonight.
He looks like a man who’s tired. Gentle. Steady. Someone who knows how to carry things without making you feel their weight.
“Long shift?” he asks, voice quiet. It’s always quiet with him. Low and smooth, with something careful threaded through it. Like he doesn’t want to break the stillness you’ve built.
You exhale, your breath curling visibly in the air between you. “The longest. The Planet rewrote the front page layout for the third time today. I think I’m legally married to my keyboard now.”
That makes him smile. Not the heroic, picture-perfect smile the world’s seen on the front page. This one’s smaller. Warmer. The kind that doesn’t ask for attention, just gives it.
He laughs under his breath, a sound so rare it always feels like it was meant for you.
You shift over on the ledge without thinking, and he moves just as naturally. Sits beside you with one knee bent up, the other hanging over the edge. The cape pools behind him like a banner at rest.
You don’t dare look too long, but you feel the heat of him beside you, unnatural in the cold. Like he carries the sun in his chest and lets you borrow some of it when you forget what warmth feels like.
“You always show up when I need someone to talk to,” you murmur, sipping your coffee.
He hums. “Just lucky timing.”
But when you glance over, you catch the way he’s looking at you, soft, focused, and unblinking. Like maybe he knew you’d be here. Like maybe he was already halfway across the sky and turned around when he heard your footsteps.
Like maybe he’s been listening for your heartbeat all night.
You pretend not to notice. Pretend not to care that his shoulder is inches from yours. That if you leaned just a little closer, you could rest your head against the emblem on his chest and hear the steady beat beneath it.
He looks back out over the city. You do too. The quiet settles between you, not empty, not awkward, just full. Full of all the things you don’t need to say out loud. All the truths you haven’t worked up the courage to voice yet.
It’s been a few months now. Of this. Of him. Of late nights turning into quiet rituals. He never stays too long. Never explains why he comes. But he listens. Always listens.
You’ve told him things you haven’t told anyone. About your childhood bedroom wallpaper. About the first article you ever published. About the funeral you didn’t cry at, and the birthday you still can’t bring yourself to celebrate.
He never interrupts. Never offers false wisdom. He just… stays. Present. Real. And that matters more than you can admit.
“I think I’m getting too used to this,” you whisper, barely above the wind.
He glances at you. One brow lifted. “Used to what?”
You smile, soft into the rim of your cup. “You. Dropping in like this. Talking to me like I’m not just some reporter who yells at politicians and gets coffee orders wrong.”
His head tilts. That unreadable look again. “You’re not just anything,” he says. “Especially not to me.”
The words fall heavy. Solid. You don’t know what to do with them. So you look at him. The sharp line of his jaw. The softness of his mouth. The way his eyes, those unearthly, unforgettable blue eyes, don’t look through you. They look at you like you’re real. Like you matter. Like you’re something he’s memorized from the inside out.
Your heart trips over itself.
You look away. You don’t know why he comes here. Or why he stays. But you’ve stopped questioning it. Because somewhere between deadline nights and rooftop coffees, between quiet smiles and colder hands brushing too close, you’ve found something here that you didn’t know you needed.
Something that feels like peace.
And for now…
That’s enough.
-
You don’t know what pulls the words from you tonight. Maybe it’s the stillness, how the rooftop seems to hold its breath when he arrives. Maybe it’s the way the wind dulls, the chaos of Metropolis softening at the edges, as if even the city knows to hush when Superman lands.
Or maybe it’s just him.
The way he listens. Not with the kind of vacant patience people use when they’re waiting for their turn to speak, but the real kind, the kind that makes you feel like your voice is the only sound left in the world worth hearing. Like what you say matters.
Your fingers tighten around your coffee cup, ceramic warm against your chilled palms. The bitter scent of burnt roast curls into your nose, the taste still lingering on your tongue like old pennies and late nights. You focus on the swirl of it, watching steam rise into the cold air, hoping it might offer you grace. Or courage.
“There’s this guy at work,” you say at last, voice soft, hesitant. Barely audible over the distant rush of traffic. “Someone I probably shouldn’t be thinking about this much.”
The words feel like they’ve been trapped in your chest for weeks. Maybe longer. You half expect them to get stuck in your throat, but they fall out too easily. Too real.
Superman’s head turns slightly toward you, just enough to catch the shift in his attention. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. He just waits, still as marble, quiet as snowfall. Only the flick of his cape in the breeze betrays that he’s anything more than stone.
“He’s sweet,” you murmur, tucking a knee beneath you, curling inward. “Kind of dorky. Like… charming in a way that shouldn’t work, but does. Nervous ordering lunch if there’s a line behind him. Stammers sometimes when he talks too fast.”
“Sounds charming,” he says with a soft huff beside you. More breath than laughter, but it’s there.
You let out a low groan and lift your coffee to hide behind it. “He’s impossible.”
“Oh?” he says, amusement warm in the single word.
“I flirt, and he just gives me this wide-eyed look like I’ve offered him a kidney. I complimented his tie once and he turned red all the way to his ears. Like I’d said something indecent.”
You shake your head, laughing into the rim of your mug. It’s easier to talk now, the thread pulled loose and unraveling.
“I brought him coffee every day for a week,” you say, voice quieter. “Put smiley faces on the lid. He said thank you. But not like, ‘thank you beautiful I love you so much’ thank you. It was more like I handed him his dry cleaning and he was thanking me.”
Superman’s lips twitch. Barely. But you catch it. The faintest hint of something, humor, maybe. Or fondness. Or something heavier under the surface.
“He blushes if I so much as stand too close,” you add, half into your cup. “I told him he looked handsome once and he looked like I’d just told him his fly was down in front of the White House press corps.”
“And what’s this mystery man’s name?” Superman asked you.
You pause. The steam from your cup rises, fogging the bottom of your lashes. You can feel the heat blooming in your cheeks before you even say it. Shame coils around your ribs, sharp and a little humiliating, but there’s no point holding it in now.
“…Clark Kent.” The name slips out like a secret. And maybe it is.
The rooftop shifts. Not the wind. Not the world. Him.
He stills beside you. Not visibly. Not obviously. But something settles in his spine. Like the air around him goes denser. Like gravity tugs harder on his frame. Like the whole night narrows.
“Ah,” he says.
Just that.
You glance at him, but his gaze is fixed out on the skyline, jaw set, expression unreadable. The light from the city paints his profile in gold and shadow, and you can’t quite make sense of the tension in it.
You start to regret saying anything. You forgot that Superman and Clark… they know each other. Clark’s the only guy in all of Metropolis to get an interview with Superman, afterall.
“And… he hasn’t made a move?” he asks, but his voice is different now. Quieter. Tighter. Like he’s holding back something sharp in his throat.
You give a small shake of your head. It’s meant to be light, casual, but it doesn’t land that way. Not with the ache behind your words.
“Nope. He probably doesn’t see me that way.” You force a laugh. “I’m background noise. The coworker who won’t shut up about punctuation and calls him out when he leaves his press badge in the copier.”
He doesn’t say anything. The silence stretches. Not uncomfortable, but heavy. Like the weight of something unspoken is pressing against both of your ribs.
You shift again. Tuck your hands tighter around your mug. Try not to look at him.
When he finally speaks, his voice is different. Lower. Rougher. “I think you’d be surprised.”
You blink. “What?”
His gaze hasn’t moved. His face still turned toward the skyline. But the edge of his voice has changed. It’s softer, yes, but more certain now. Like every word is deliberate. Measured. Carved from truth he’s not supposed to say aloud. “I think… he notices more than you realize.”
The wind brushes past your cheek. Your pulse kicks behind your collarbone.
You stare at him, searching his profile for something you can’t name. “I’ve worked beside him for two years,” you whisper. “He’s never looked at me like…” Like you do, is what you almost say. But you don’t. You can’t.
His throat moves as he swallows. His jaw clenches, subtle. Barely a flicker of tension in a face the world trusts. And you realize, suddenly, that he’s still not looking at you. Like if he does, something will give.
So you don’t push. Just sit beside him. The city below, alive and uncaring. The mug cooling in your hands. The scent of ozone and air and something warmer than either hanging between you.
And Superman, quiet and still beside you, breathes slow. Deep. Like he’s anchoring himself to the edge of something that might, if he isn’t careful, unravel him completely.
-
The next morning, Clark drops his coffee. It’s not the first time, but something about this one feels more tragic than usual. The lid pops clean off on impact, and a swirl of tan foam splashes in a perfect arc across the bullpen floor, darkening the tile and sending up a scent that’s almost comically specific: oat milk, cinnamon, and the quiet grief of wasted caffeine.
“Shoot,” he mutters, already kneeling to mop it up with a stack of napkins he must’ve grabbed on reflex from the breakroom.
You move without thinking, half-awake and still carrying your own coffee, already reaching into the mess beside him, crouched close enough to feel the residual heat coming off his skin.
Your hands brush and it’s like touching live wire. Just a flicker, skin on skin, the edge of your pinky against the side of his thumb, and he jolts, hands jerking back like you’ve burned him. The napkins flutter to the ground.
You blink at him.
He clears his throat, face already flooding with color, not just his cheeks, but his ears, the back of his neck, the hollow beneath his jaw. All glowing red, like the heat of your touch raced through him and caught fire on its way out.
“I-I’ve got it,” he stammers, not meeting your eyes. “Wouldn’t want you to ruin your shoes.”
You glance down at your boots. Scuffed, cracked, streaked with old ink from a long-forgotten protest assignment. You’d had to sprint through a barricade once in those boots. You’ve poured coffee into storm drains in them. You’ve climbed scaffolding. Sat cross-legged in back alleys. Run from gas canisters.
“Clark,” you say dryly, “they’re already ruined.”
But he doesn’t seem to hear you. Or he’s pretending not to. His attention is fully locked on the floor, hands sweeping in wide, erratic strokes like his whole sense of balance depends on fixing this one, dumb mistake.
You step back slowly. Your coffee cools in your hands as you watch him move. Something in your chest pulls. Tightens. Because he’s been like this all week. Not just awkward. Not just shy. This is different.
This is haunted. Quieter than usual. Smiling too long, like he forgets to stop. Laughing a beat too late, like he’s processing everything on a delay. Tripping over words he used to wield like second nature, like the language itself has turned to static in his mouth.
He’s dropped pens when you brushed past him. You called his name yesterday, just “Clark,” just a greeting, and his voice cracked so hard it drew a stare from Perry across the room. And twice now you’ve looked up to catch him watching you from across the bullpen. Not admiring. Not casual. Not distracted. Just watching. Pinned. Focused. Quietly wrecked. Like you were a flame he couldn’t afford to get closer to and couldn’t look away from.
And yet… he’s everywhere. Holding elevator doors. Pulling out your chair. Leaving an extra muffin, your favorite kind, on the edge of your desk with a Post-It that says “just in case.” Walking you to your car with that sweet, bashful smile, his hands shoved too deep into his pockets like he’s physically stopping himself from reaching for you.
It doesn’t make sense. You’d think he was avoiding you. You would think that if he weren’t in your orbit every day like he doesn’t know how to leave it. And you don’t understand it.
Not after last week. Not after the rooftop. Not after you told Superman, told him that Clark Kent barely knew you were alive. That he didn’t see you, not really. That your crush was doomed from the start.
But now? Now Clark looks like a man undone. Like he’s holding something in his chest so tight it’s splitting him open from the inside, and all he knows how to do is mop coffee and run away.
Maybe you should’ve kept your mouth shut. Maybe Superman said something to Clark. Because now, everything’s shifting.
You feel it in the way he lingers at the corner of your desk. In the way he fumbles over simple questions. In the way his gaze drops to your mouth mid-sentence before he curses himself for it and looks away.
Something’s unraveling.
Some invisible line between you, tugging tighter every time he glances at you like he’s terrified you’ll see what he’s hiding, and even more terrified that you won’t.
-
“Somebody’s flustered,” Jimmy singsongs, materializing behind your desk like the chaos goblin he is, grinning around two fingers full of instant photos and an open packet of jelly beans.
You blink up from your laptop, still trying to blink sleep out of your eyes from the late night. “What?”
He jerks his chin toward Clark’s desk, where the man in question is currently hunched over a spreadsheet like it personally insulted his intelligence. He’s squinting with such intensity, you’d think the cells were written in code.
“He nearly walked into the copier when you complimented his blazer,” Jimmy says, plunking the photos on your desk and popping a red jelly bean into his mouth. “That’s new, right? The blazer?”
You glance across the bullpen. Navy wool. Soft plaid. A perfect shoulder line and slightly-too-long sleeves that he keeps rolling up mid-morning. You’d said something innocent when he passed your desk earlier, Looks good on you, Kent. Real sharp. Just a kindness. Familiar, warm. Like always. And he’d flushed to the roots. Mumbled something that might’ve been thank you, dropped his papers, and nearly backed into the copier trying to get away.
You cringe a little. “Maybe I’m making him uncomfortable.”
Jimmy snorts so hard he nearly chokes on a jelly bean. “Oh yeah. Uncomfortable people always look like they’re one compliment away from asking for your hand in marriage.”
You shoot him a look.
He shrugs, utterly unbothered. “I’m just saying. If that boy looked at you any longer earlier, we’d have to slap a warning label on it. Caution: prolonged eye contact may lead to heart palpitations and poor balance.”
You roll your eyes and push his photos back toward him, but his words stick like burrs. Because it’s not just Jimmy.
Lois has been watching you. Watching him. Watching the space between you like it’s saying more than either of you are brave enough to.
She hasn’t said anything directly, Lois rarely does when it comes to other peoples business, but she’s started clearing her throat very pointedly whenever the two of you are in the same room. She’s also taken to referring to you as “Kent’s emotional support columnist,” which you’re not convinced HR would approve of.
And Clark… Clark’s unraveling. His smiles linger too long. His hands fumble around you. He hovers at your desk like he’s building up to something and then chickens out at the last second. Like he’s balancing on the edge of a confession he can’t let go of.
And meanwhile… the nights haven’t stopped. You still find yourself pulled to the rooftop. Coffee in hand. Laptop bag abandoned in a corner. Hair tangled by the wind. Shoulders stiff with the weight of another day trying not to stare at a man who looks at you like he doesn’t know how to stop. And he’s still there.
Superman. He doesn’t come every night but you always hope he will. He lands in silence, always behind you, always just far enough that you hear the wind shift before his boots touch down. The air changes when he arrives. It gets warmer. Quieter. Fuller.
He doesn’t speak at first. Never does. He waits until you do. Until your shoulders drop and your hands stop trembling from typing too much, caring too much, feeling too much. And then he folds into place beside you, a god rendered down into something human, into something yours. Not rehearsed. Not formal. Just… present. Like a ritual neither of you want to name.
You’ve started wondering if he looks forward to it the way you do. The stillness. The city stretched beneath you like a breathing thing. The wind tugging at his cape, the occasional flicker of sirens far below. Sometimes you wonder if you’d even know how to fall asleep without these nights. Lately, though… he’s been asking about Clark.
Not directly. Not enough to raise alarm. But there’s a shift. His silences are longer. His questions softer. Slipped in between sips of coffee and quiet laughter, between stories about Metropolis weirdos and the latest editorial disaster.
“Rough day?”
“Is he treating you well?”
“Has that punk said anything to you?”
You answer honestly. You always do.
Tonight, your mug is balanced precariously on the edge of the ledge beside you, both hands clasped around your knees. The wind threads through your hair. The chill touches the inside of your sleeves and curls behind your ears, but you barely notice it anymore.
“I don’t think he even sees me,” you say. Your voice is barely above a whisper, like if you say it too loud it’ll finally be true. “He looks at me like… like I’m glass. Like I’m going to break if he touches me. Or maybe like he’ll break if he does.”
Superman says nothing at first. Just watches the skyline with those quiet, unreadable eyes. The light from the globe behind you paints him in shifting golds and blues. His cape flutters. The night breathes around him like it belongs to him.
Below, the city pulses. You can hear the muted beat of club bass echoing through the alleys. A woman’s laugh rising somewhere in the distance. A radio playing soft from a cracked window a few floors down, some tired, romantic song about wanting someone who never looks your way.
He turns toward you slowly. “He’s never been good at letting people close,” he says, finally. His voice is low. Strained around the edges. “Sometimes he worries that if he opens the door… the whole house will fall down.”
You frown, studying him. “That sounds… oddly specific. You two must actually be friends, after all.”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just watches you. Eyes so blue they look painted. Like rain and lightning and old sky. There’s something burning in them tonight, something bright and breaking beneath the surface.
He swallows. Barely. “It’s not hard to recognize fear when you’ve lived in it,” he murmurs. “Even when it wears glasses.”
Your breath catches. But before you can say anything, before you can make sense of the words, or the look on his face, or the way your heart thunders suddenly in your ribs like a warning bell, he moves. Rises. One smooth motion. The wind catches his cape, lifting it like a banner. His silhouette darkens against the glow behind him.
“I’ll see you soon,” he says, voice soft. Warm. But weighted. And before you can respond, before your tongue can wrap around the questions you don’t yet know how to ask, he’s gone. Up. Away. Gone like he was never there at all.
You sit there long after the breeze settles. After the heat leaves the space he stood in. The sky blinks with planes and stars and satellites. The wind has teeth again. You feel small. And for the first time, you start to wonder if maybe Clark Kent has been looking at you this whole time.
You just didn’t know what you were looking at.
-
You’re colder than usual tonight. You hadn’t meant to stay this late. Just one last draft, one last paragraph, one last search for the perfect headline. You’d meant to go straight home, swing by the corner bodega, heat up leftovers, maybe fall asleep to something senseless on TV. Something that wouldn’t make you think of him.
But instead, your feet took you here. Just your bag slung over your shoulder, your thermos in hand, and that quiet, persistent tug in your chest that’s been pulling you to the roof more nights than not. You didn’t bring your coat. You never do when the air feels like this, biting, honest, but so alive. The wind is sharper than it was last week, slicing along your arms in cold ribbons, sneaking beneath the hem of your sleeves and lifting strands of your hair to whip across your cheeks.
You wrap your arms around yourself and lean against the edge of the rooftop wall. The city stretches out below silver and gold and humming. Neon reflections ripple in puddles on the street like melting stars. Cars honk. Voices blur. A siren cuts the night, two blocks over, and fades.
And then he’s there. The air stills. Pressure shifts. The rooftop tilts, not physically, but in your body. In your blood. You turn your head slightly, already knowing what you’ll find.
He’s landing behind you in silence, as he always does. The wind swirls at his heels. His cape flutters in a long, slow wave. The light from the Planet’s rotating globe skims across the high planes of his face, painting soft highlights in his hair and casting shadows down the hard set of his jaw.
He’s already walking toward you. His steps don’t make a sound. But your heart does.
His brows knit the moment he sees you properly, hair tousled, shoulders tense, arms crossed too tightly against your chest.
“You’re shivering,” he says, voice quiet and laced with concern.
You inhale through your nose. “I’m fine,” you lie, biting the inside of your cheek to stop your teeth from clicking. “Didn’t realize how cold it got.”
He doesn’t move at first. And then, his hands lift.
Your breath hitches as he reaches up to his collar with a slow, practiced ease, fingers sliding beneath the gold insignia at his shoulder to unclip the cape in a single, effortless motion. The weight of it drops all at once, a sweep of red that catches the wind like silk dipped in fire. The hem kisses the ground beside him as he steps closer.
You don’t move.
You’re not sure you can.
He takes one more step, and you can smell it before you feel it, the scent of him. Not cologne, not aftershave, just the strange, clean weight of sun-warmed metal and wind. Air after lightning. A kind of warmth that doesn’t belong to earthbound men.
Then, carefully, like you might startle, he drapes the cape around your shoulders. It’s heavy. So much heavier than it looks. Dense, heat-soaked fabric that settles against your back like gravity. Like memory. The inside is impossibly soft. Lined with something smooth and brushed, like worn-in velvet or sky-cured cotton. The warmth of it sinks straight through your skin, down to the aching hinge of your spine.
You look down at it, stunned. At him. He’s still close. Closer than usual. His boots barely a breath from yours. And that’s when his hand comes up, gentle, deliberate. Not rushed. Just his knuckles, brushing along your jaw.
A featherlight stroke, the back of his hand tucking the cape tighter beneath your chin, like he needs an excuse to linger. Like it matters to him that you feel protected. Covered. Kept.
Your breath catches in your throat and doesn’t come back because he’s never stood this close before. He’s taller than you remembered. Broader. The space between you contracts under the pressure of his presence. His chest nearly brushes yours with every breath, and each exhale from him is warm and steady, a living current wrapping around you like a second skin. Your pulse kicks hard against your ribs. You wonder if he can hear it even though you know he can.
Your chin tips up. Instinct or need, you’re not sure which. Maybe it’s both. And his eyes are already on you. Not politely. Not blankly. Burning.
And then his voice drops. “Does he know,” he asks, slow and low, “how lucky he is?”
Your lips part, breath escaping in a visible puff. “Who?”
His gaze doesn’t flicker. “The man you told me about.” There’s no game in his tone. No mask. Just that same deep gravity you’ve felt in him since the very first night he landed here, coatless and patient and endlessly kind.
“Clark?” you ask, your voice a thread of sound.
“Does he know what it means to have your attention?” He asks while nodding.
Your skin feels too tight. Too aware. The cape is clutched in your fingers now, bunched between your knuckles, and still it’s not enough to anchor you. You shake your head, barely. “He doesn’t seem to want it.”
And that truth, raw and quiet and far too vulnerable, lands between you with all the weight of gravity. A small confession. But sharp.
His throat works once. Then again. He swallows, visibly. His gaze travels from your eyes to your mouth, where it lingers a second too long before flickering back up to your eyes.
The air gets thick. Charged. Like a storm is about to break in the sky. Or inside him.
You think, for just one heartbeat, that he might kiss you. His lips part. But instead, his voice roughens, like the truth is scraping its way out.
“He wants it,” he says. “Believe me.”
You can barely breathe. He’s still watching you, like he can’t stop. Like your silence might fill in the answer he isn’t allowed to give. And you, wrapped in his cape, standing in his heat, breathing his air, don’t know what to do with your hands. Or your heart. So you say nothing. You just let the quiet stretch between you, trembling and hot and precarious, as if a single word would shatter it all.
And then he steps back. Not far. Just enough to release you from the grip of his proximity. Enough to leave the ache behind.
He doesn’t say goodbye. Just rises, slow and unhurried, into the sky. The wind tugs at his cape, lifting the edges from your shoulders, but you hold it tighter. And then he’s gone. Up. Away. Silent as ever.
And you stand there in the dark, wrapped in the scent of him, the warmth of him, the ache of him, wondering how long this can go on before the truth spills out of someone’s mouth and ruins everything. Or makes it real.
-
You realize it slowly. Not all at once. Not like a switch being flipped or a line being crossed. But in the spaces between sentences. In the hushed air between thoughts. In the moments where he doesn’t speak, just watches you with that carved-stone stillness, that impossibly patient calm that feels less like restraint and more like reverence.
You notice it in the way he lets silence breathe. Doesn’t fill it. Doesn’t try to solve it. Just lets it hang, heavy or light, whatever it needs to be.
And in the way he listens. Really listens. The kind of listening that feels like being held. Like your voice is something he doesn’t get anywhere else. Like your thoughts carry weight. Like your day matters. Like you do.
It doesn’t hit you all at once. It comes in waves. Realization blooming slowly under your skin like something long dormant waking up.
It sinks in one night when you’re talking about something stupid. Trivial. Work drama. An editorial you fought for, again. The way Perry’s notes clashed with the layout. The headline Lois rewrote over your shoulder with a red pen like a scalpel. You’re venting more than storytelling, sentences peppered with sarcasm, words tumbling loose because it’s late and you’re tired and he’s here.
You sit cross-legged on the rooftop ledge, shoulders hunched slightly from the wind, palms wrapped around a lukewarm thermos. Your legs have that faint ache from a long day, that tension that says you should’ve gone home hours ago. But he’s sitting beside you, and so you didn’t.
Superman is as still as ever. But not in a way that feels distant. It’s the stillness of someone utterly tuned in. Shoulders relaxed. Elbows resting loosely on his knees. Fingers curled near his thighs like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands unless they’re catching someone. Holding something.
His cape shifts when he breathes, deep, quiet, full-bodied breaths that move the air around you. The red fabric stirs in soft waves across the rooftop, occasionally brushing your ankle, like a heartbeat you’re not supposed to notice.
His mouth is curved into that private smile. The one you’ve never seen in photographs. The one he only wears with you.
He doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t offer advice. He just listens. Watches. Quiet and open and focused like you’re telling him the weather patterns of your heart and he doesn’t want to miss a single cloud.
And suddenly you’re hyper-aware of it. How much you’ve told him. Not just tonight. Not just recently. But over the weeks. The months. One late night at a time.
Your job. The daily grind. The politics. The moments you feel seen, and the ones you don’t. Your childhood. The wallpaper in your bedroom, the way your mom used to hum while folding laundry.
Your heartbreak. The one that gutted you quietly. The one you never tell anyone about because it wasn’t dramatic enough to justify the pain. Your favorite books. The one you reread every winter. The one you lied about liking just to impress someone. Your fears. Driving. Water. Getting close.
Your loves. Thunderstorms. Orange peels. Songs you’ll never admit make you cry. Clark. Sweet, dorky, utterly-unaware Clark.
You’ve told Superman everything.
And not once, not once, has he pulled back. Not once has he made you feel small. He doesn’t flinch when you speak. Doesn’t glance away. Doesn’t soften your edges to make you easier to digest.
Some nights, he says almost nothing at all. Just nods. Hums softly. Maybe says your name in that low, near-sacred way of his, like it’s a prayer he’s memorized. But he never leaves. He never looks bored. Or burdened.
He just stays.
And that matters more than you can explain. Because no one stays.
But he does. And now… you’re looking at him differently. Not like a symbol. Not like a god. Not like the man in the sky who breaks the sound barrier and holds tectonic plates steady with his hands.
But like a man who knows your laugh. Who remembers your favorite movie. Who lets you rant. Who makes space for your silences. Who carries your stories in his chest like they’re precious cargo. Who gave you his cape without thinking twice. Who touched your jaw like it meant something. Like you meant something.
And maybe that’s what unravels you. Not the fact that he’s Superman. But the fact that he feels more real to you than anyone else in your life. Not larger-than-life. Not untouchable. Just real. And right here. And that realization?
It’s starting to feel like falling.
-
The night is warm for early spring. The kind of warmth that clings not just to your skin, but to the air itself. Heavy and intimate, like a whispered secret. It seeps into your sleeves, wraps around your ankles, settles between your shoulder blades like a held breath. It makes your heart race without quite knowing why.
You’re sitting cross-legged on the ledge, the cape he gave you still draped over your lap. The fabric’s weight is familiar now, dense and soft and slightly creased where your fingers keep fisting in the hem. He hadn’t asked for it back. Just showed up with a different one. So, you haven’t offered to return it. It feels like something borrowed, yes, but more than that. Like something left.
Superman is beside you. Boots planted. Elbows resting on his thighs, back slightly hunched like he’s trying to make himself smaller. Like he doesn’t trust what might happen if he really let himself take up space next to you.
He’s closer than usual. Not touching, but not far. If you leaned the slightest bit to the left, your shoulder would brush his bicep. If you exhaled too sharply, your knee might nudge his. You keep your spine rigid.
You’re not looking at him. You can’t. Not when you know he’s watching you.
His gaze is a weight you’ve come to recognize. Not heavy. Not invasive. Just steady. Open. Unyielding. Like he’s trying to memorize you in case you vanish. Like you’re the only anchor he’s allowed to hold onto.
You take a breath. Your voice comes soft. Tucked between heartbeat and hesitation. “Sometimes I think,” you murmur, not looking at him, “if I met you first… things would be easier.”
The words come from somewhere low in your chest. Somewhere bruised and tender and aching with the question you don’t want answered. You don’t even know why you say them. You only know that they’re true. They hang there in the dark. Fragile. Bare. They make the space between you feel suddenly infinite.
You finally glance over. His eyes are already on you and he looks wrecked. Not in any way most people would notice. Not in any way he would ever allow. But you see it.
You know what it means when his jaw stills like that. When the cords in his neck draw tight. When his eyes dim like a stormcloud passing over the sun.
His breath catches. Just barely. Just enough. “You think,” he says, voice low and rough, “you didn’t?”
Your pulse stutters. You blink. Turn toward him fully, heart climbing into your throat. “What?”
His gaze drops for a second, to your mouth, then to your lap, where his cape is still clutched in your fists, and then rises again.
When his eyes meet yours, they are unshielded. Wide open. Pleading. Quiet. Raw. And suddenly, you realize how close he is.
His thigh presses against yours now, light but solid. His knee nudges the side of your folded legs, grounding you, like he’s trying to anchor you in place. And you can feel his warmth radiating outward in slow, low waves—the heat of him seeping into your skin, into your chest, into your pulse.
He burns.
And you’re burning too.
The rooftop goes still. The wind holds its breath. The world softens to nothing but sky and concrete and you and him.
You don’t know who leans in first. Maybe you both do. But suddenly, he’s closer. And so are you. Your noses nearly brushing. Your lips one breath apart.
You stop breathing. His eyes flick to your mouth. Your gaze falls to his. His exhale fans against your cheek, hot and steady. Everything stills.
“I—I should go,” you say, the words cracking in the back of your throat as you jerk back a fraction too fast. “I should… yeah. I’ve got work early.”
It’s a lie. You know it. He knows it. But you can’t stay here. Not when everything inside you is straining toward him like gravity. Not when you’re wrapped in his cape, bathed in his warmth, and trembling with the almost of it all.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t reach for you. Just sits there. Still. Burning. Quiet. He nods once. Slow. Like it costs him something. But his eyes don’t leave yours.And the look on his face? He looks like he wants to follow you. Like if he could just reach out and touch you again, the world might break open. Like he’s waiting, begging, for some rule to shatter so he can finally cross the distance he’s been holding back from all this time.
But he doesn’t speak.
So you stand. Your legs are shaky beneath you, but you manage. You hold his cape tighter around your shoulders like it’s armor, or a secret. And you walk away. Not because you want to. But because you do want to kiss him and you don’t know what it means yet.
Not when he’s Superman.
And not when the other man who you’ve wanted for months, the man who gives you bashful smiles and spills his coffee at work, sits across from you every day like he doesn’t already own your heart.
And then he says it. Quiet. Fractured. “I’m him,” he whispers. “I’m Clark.”
You stop breathing. You stumble. Not like a graceful backpedal. Not a clean retreat. You falter, feet catching on the uneven edge of the rooftop, where rough concrete meets rusted metal, and you reel. Your hand shoots out, catching yourself on the freezing ledge. Stone bites into your palm, rough and sharp. You barely feel it.
You’re too busy drowning. Because no—no, he can’t be. He can’t.
You look at him. At Superman. But it’s not just Superman anymore, is it?
It’s Clark.
The curve of his mouth. The way his shoulders hunch like he’s afraid he’s just ruined everything. The blue of his eyes, familiar, even now. Especially now. You know that look. You’ve seen it across desks, over cheap coffee, in elevators and quiet newsroom corners where his hands would twitch like he almost reached for you and then didn’t.
And now it’s him.
All along, it’s been him.
It’s like all the air’s been sucked from your lungs and replaced with something heavier. Something that won’t let go.
The night tilts around you. The city below blurs. Headlights streak like comets across streets that no longer feel tethered to the world. A horn honks in the distance. A siren wails. Somewhere, down there, life goes on. Unchanged. Unknowing.
But not here. Not in this moment. Not with him standing in front of you.
“No,” you whisper. It’s barely a sound. Barely a breath. The word scrapes up your throat like broken glass. Your fingers clutch the ledge behind you as if it might keep you from flying off the edge of everything you thought was true.
He’s still standing there. Not just Superman. Not just Clark.
Both.
The duality of it fractures something in you. His suit is still darkened from the flight, the blue and red dulled beneath smears of ash, streaks of soot, faint scuffs of battle left behind. His hair’s mussed from wind, curling slightly at his temple, a little out of place. Too human. Too familiar.
His chest rises and falls in slow, deliberate rhythm. Controlled. Heavy. Measured like he’s trying to keep the world steady by breathing for it.
But his face…his face is just him.
Clark.
Open. Quiet. Devastated.
“No,” you repeat, louder now, shakier. “No, you…Clark can’t. He wouldn’t lie like that.”
He flinches. It’s small, barely a twitch of the mouth, a pull at his brow, but you catch it. “I didn’t lie,” he says softly, the words fragile and frayed at the edges. “I just… couldn’t tell you.” His voice sounds like gravel and heartbreak. You can feel it sink into your chest.
Your heart’s thundering. Slamming against your ribs like it wants to escape. Your hands are trembling where they hang by your sides, fingers curling against your thighs as if you could hold yourself together if you just gripped hard enough. The cape he gave you what feels like forever ago rests over your shoulders. Too much now. Too heavy. Too warm. Too intimate. It feels like wearing the secret. Like being draped in all the things you didn’t see, couldn’t name, wouldn’t believe.
You don’t take it off. You don’t know how.
“I told you everything,” you say, and it tears out of your chest, raw and wounded. “I told you how I felt about him…about you. I trusted you.”
He doesn’t look away. His jaw tightens. His shoulders lock in place. But he doesn’t look away.
“I know.”
“I told you things I don’t even tell my friends,” you go on, voice rising. “I told you things I don’t admit to myself. And you just…” You shake your head, disbelief washing over your skin like a fever. “You sat there. You listened. And you let me think…”
His voice cuts in, low and sharp. Pained. “That you didn’t matter to me?” His eyes are bright with it now, wild with something barely restrained. “That I didn’t want you? I never wanted you to think that.”
“But you let me,” you whisper. The words fall out like grief. You don’t scream them. You don’t have to. Because the pain is in the quiet. In the way your voice breaks open around the edges like glass fracturing under heat. “Every time I told you how much I wanted him,” you say, softer now. “Every time I said he didn’t see me.”
His voice splinters. “I saw you,” he says. “Gosh, I saw everything.”
And you believe him. That’s the worst part. You believe him.
You take one step forward. Only one. The wind brushes against your back, cool where the cape has fallen open. Your voice is a knife now. Precise. Controlled. Made of something sharp and trembling. “How could you sit there every night and-,”
He doesn’t let you finish. “I just wanted to be yours,” he says. “As him, as me, I didn’t care! As long as I could be here with you.”
The silence after that is scorching. It wraps around your ankles like fire. It climbs your spine like a scream caught in your throat. It burns through every inch of space between you and doesn’t stop.
You can’t speak. You can’t move.
His hands hang at his sides, fingers twitching. Like he wants to reach for you. Like he wants to close the space, undo the damage, gather the broken pieces into something whole again. But he doesn’t. He just watches you, chest rising and falling, lips parted like he might still say more if you don’t run.
And you? You can’t run. But you can’t stay, either. Your whole body feels splintered. Rattling under the weight of everything you thought was real and everything that’s now changed.
He was there for every word. Every late night. Every secret. Every quiet ache you handed him under the guise of friendship. You thought you were speaking to someone else. Someone you trusted. But you were speaking to him. The other version. All of him, in some confusing way.
The wind picks up just as you turn your back on him. It lashes up from the edge of the building like a living thing, tearing across the rooftop with a howl that cuts straight through your sleeves and raises goosebumps along your skin. It grabs at the hem of the cape still wrapped around your shoulders. It smells like him. Like warmth and home and sunlit wind. Like the person you trusted with every soft part of yourself.
Clark.
Superman.
You can’t look at him. You can’t even breathe around the twist in your chest.
The rooftop blurs around the edges, gold light from the Planet’s globe warping against the swell of tears behind your eyes. The city spins beneath you, thousands of feet and faces and voices, but all you can feel is the pounding of your pulse. In your throat. In your ears. In your fingertips.
You don’t know where you’re going, only that you need to get away. That if you stay a second longer, you’ll either fall apart in front of him or worse, let him hold the pieces.
“Don’t,” he says. It isn’t loud. Isn’t commanding. But it slices through the wind like it’s cutting straight through bone.
Your steps falter.
“Please,” he says again, softer now, frayed at the edges like paper soaked through. “Don’t walk away.” There’s something in his voice, hoarse and unraveling, that hits a nerve you didn’t know was exposed.
Then his fingers brush your wrist. Not tightly. Not enough to stop you. Just a touch. A question.
Your breath hitches.
You freeze.
“You don’t get to ask me that,” you whisper, without turning around. Your voice shakes in your throat like glass. “Not after…”
“I know,” he says quietly. “I know.”
You spin, fury catching like a spark in dry grass, the cape snapping around you with the force of it. It wraps around your legs like it knows it doesn’t belong to you anymore. Or maybe it never did.
“You lied.”
“I didn’t,” he says immediately, his voice rising, not in anger, but desperation. “I never lied.”
“You let me talk to you,” you say, stepping forward, teeth clenched. “You let me sit next to you and tell you everything I felt, everything I wanted, and you just sat there and watched me.”
“I couldn’t-,”
“You could have.” You cut him off as the words rip out of you, jagged and breathless. “You chose not to.”
His shoulders hitch with the effort of his breathing. His fists curl, uncurl. The muscles in his jaw flex like he’s grinding the truth down between his molars.
“You think I didn’t want to tell you?” he snaps suddenly, sharp and exposed. “You think it didn’t kill me every time I saw the look in your eyes? Every time you hoped for something and I couldn’t give it to you?”
Your heart stutters. But the ache won’t let you relent. “Then why?” you demand. “Why wait? Why let me think Clark was this sweet, shy guy who would never want me, when the whole time, it was you? When Superman looked at me like he wanted me. When, fuck Clark, when you have wanted me as long as I’ve wanted you.”
His mouth opens, then closes. His chest heaves once, like the truth hurts too much to force out. “Because I was scared,” he says finally, shouting. “Because if you saw all of me, you’d leave. I thought if I kept that part hidden, just a little longer… I could keep you.”
You stare at him. You burn in anger. He thought you’d leave? After he always, always stayed for you?
The rooftop hums beneath your feet. The heat of him radiates in waves, too close and too far away all at once.
“I told you everything,” you whisper, stepping in close now, voice unsteady. “I told you what he…what you meant to me. And you didn’t say a word. You never left. Why would I leave you?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know.” He repeats, chest heaving. “I just know that I kept every word,” he says, voice cracking at the edges. “Every single one. Because they meant everything. Because you do.”
The silence that follows is so thick it aches in your ears. Your chest rises. Falls. Rises again. Somewhere below, the city keeps pulsing, car horns, distant sirens, a train echoing under concrete, but up here, it’s just the two of you. Just a rooftop and a mistake that doesn’t feel like a mistake anymore.
Your hands curl around the edge of the cape. You can feel his eyes on you, heavy, raw, reverent.
You whisper, almost against your will, “So every night I told you about him…”
“I was listening,” he says, voice ragged. “As both versions of me… who loves you.”
Your knees nearly buckle. He steps closer, slow like he’s worried you’ll vanish. The wind dies down again, or maybe it just stops touching you. Everything narrows. Your vision. Your world.
He’s the only thing in it now.
“You’re all I see,” he breathes. “Since the day you walked into the bullpen. You were arguing with Perry about a comma splice, and I remember thinking—God, she’s a spitfire. And then you looked at me. Not at Superman. Not through me. At me. Like I mattered.”
Tears crest at your waterline. You don’t stop them.
“I didn’t know how to handle that,” he goes on. “Because I’ve saved cities. I’ve faced gods and aliens. But nothing’s ever undone me like you.”
You step in. You don’t remember doing it. But suddenly you’re toe to toe. Close enough that his breath brushes your cheek. Close enough to see the freckles across his nose, the vulnerability in his eyes. The man inside the myth.
“You already had me,” you whisper. “You didn’t have to pretend to be two people to earn that.” He looks like he might break apart. “I still am yours,” you say.
And that’s all it takes. The air between you detonates. He surges forward and you meet him halfway, lips crashing together like two storms colliding. It’s not neat. It’s not careful. It’s need.
His hands are on your face instantly, cradling, reverent, thumbs sweeping your cheekbones. You fist the front of his suit like it’s the only thing tethering you to gravity. You gasp into his mouth and he drinks it down like it’s sacred.
His body crowds yours without overwhelming you. His thigh brushes yours, his arm snakes around your waist. The cape wraps around both of you like it remembers who it’s meant to protect.
“I thought you’d never,” you gasp between kisses.
“I couldn’t,” he pants, forehead pressed to yours. “Not until I knew you wanted…”
“I want you, Clark,” you say cutting him off, and it tears him in half. He groans, wrecked and low, and kisses you again. Deeper, hungrier. You feel it everywhere, like heat under your skin, like sparks running down your spine.
This isn’t just a kiss. This is a confession. This is every night you sat beside him, aching. Every touch you didn’t ask for. Every word you swallowed. This is the answer to the question you were too afraid to ask.
And he gives it to you with everything he is. He kisses you like you’re the only thing worth saving. Like no other world matters. And you kiss him like you finally believe it.
Because you do. Because he’s not just Superman. And not just Clark. He’s yours. And for the first time since this whole tangled, aching, breathless thing began, you let yourself want all of him.
The next kiss isn’t as gentle. It slams into you like a second confession, hot and unrestrained, a shattering thing made of teeth and tongue and all the silence you’ve held between you. It doesn’t ask. It claims. The kind of kiss you give when there’s no going back. When the dam finally bursts and all that longing surges out at once, tidal and wild and so, so overdue.
His hands are on your face before you can even blink, big and steady, palms spanning your cheeks, thumbs sweeping the corners of your mouth like he’s trying to memorize the curve. He tilts your chin up, reverent and aching, and then he kisses you deeper this time, like he needs to taste every breath you’ve ever used to say his name.
You gasp into him, and he doesn’t hesitate. He drinks it down like it’s sacred. Like he’s starving for it. For you. Like he’s been holding this want back so long it’s turned molten. There’s nothing shy in the way he kisses you now. No restraint. No hesitation. Only need, blistering and bright and alive in every touch of his mouth.
Your hands fist in the collar of his suit, desperate, clumsy, and aching. You drag him closer, grounding yourself in the heat of his body, the muscle beneath the impossible fabric. You can feel the taut stretch of his chest against yours, the flutter of his heartbeat too fast for a human man. You dig your nails into his shoulders just to feel something solid.
He groans when you do it, low and wrecked and surprised, like the sound’s been punched out of him. It jolts through you like lightning, crackling through every nerve ending. You catch his bottom lip between your teeth, just for a second. The breath he exhales is shattered.
The wind rises again, as if it feels the shift, tugging at the cape still tangled around your shoulders, snapping it wide like a sail as it lifts behind you. But it doesn’t feel heavy anymore. It doesn’t feel like a reminder of what you didn’t know. It feels like being chosen.
And then, he lifts you. Not roughly. Not even consciously. Just a subtle shift, his hands sliding to your thighs, hoisting you into his arms like you weigh nothing at all. His fingers find the bend behind your knees, curl around your body with effortless strength, and you wrap yourself around him without a second thought.
You cling to him like instinct. Like gravity no longer applies. One of his arms supports your weight as the other pulls you impossibly closer, and your chest collides with his, heart to heart, soul to soul. You feel everything now. The heat of him. The tremble in his breath. The tension in his body barely held in check.
And God, he’s warm. He radiates heat like a furnace, like the sun. It bleeds through the fabric, through your clothes, into your skin, curling deep in your belly. Your breath catches, shallow and unsteady, and he leans in to steal it again.
His lips move with yours, soft, then hard, then soft again, tipping into a rhythm that feels like home. His mouth finds your jaw. Then your neck. Then lower, open-mouthed and reverent. He trails heat down the column of your throat, and you shiver, clinging to his shoulders like your knees might give out if he wasn’t holding you already.
When his nose brushes under your ear, the sound he makes could level buildings. It’s wrecked. Unsteady. A groan dragged from somewhere deep, like kissing you is both a relief and a ruin.
“I love you,” he breathes against your skin, words shaped like worship. Like surrender. “In every name. In every form.”
The rooftop drops away beneath you in slow, gentle increments. A moment suspended between earth and stars. The skyline unfolds like a painting in motion, glittering and vast. You’re cradled against him, the wind swirling around your ankles, the city a blur of golden light and dizzying height, but all you see is him. His face. His eyes. The heartbreakingly earnest look carved into every line of him.
You rest your forehead against his. Close your eyes. Feel the press of his breath against your lips. He groans again this time quieter. Broken in a different way.
“I never wanted to keep it from you,” he says, and each word is a bruise, tender and aching. “I just… I didn’t want you to fall in love with the symbol instead of the man.”
You pull back just enough to look at him. The man you knew before you knew. The man who carried your coffee and read your work and smiled too long when you complimented his tie. The man who gave you his cape. Who listened to your secrets. Who never stopped showing up.
He’s both. He’s always been both. And you love him. All of him. So you smile, soft and aching and sure.
“Too late,” you whisper, fingers sliding into his hair. “I fell for both.”
His breath hitches. Then his mouth is back on yours, harder this time, wrecked and desperate and so alive. It’s not polished. It’s not controlled. It’s wild and tangled and almost clumsy, because neither of you can stop now. Because this is the moment everything changes.
He kisses you like a man finally let off the leash. Like he’s been holding back for months. Like kissing you is both a promise and an apology, a confession and a vow. And you kiss him back like you’ll never let him forget what it means to be wanted like this. Fully. Completely. Every impossible part of him.
Because you do. You want every name. Every version. Every inch. Every impossible heartbeat.
And finally you know he’s yours.
-
The wind wraps around you like a secret. It rushes past your ears, a low, thrumming hush, and you can barely hear anything beyond the pounding of your heart. He’s carrying you, arms locked beneath your thighs, your body cradled to his chest like something precious, fragile, and known. His warmth surrounds you, shields you from the cool bite of the atmosphere, and even though you’re climbing through the clouds, you’ve never felt safer.
You don’t look down. You look at him. At the way his jaw tightens with focus. The furrow of his brow. The set of his mouth, determined and tense, like he’s still holding his breath even now, even after everything.
And then you’re descending. The city lights blur past, amber and blue and gold. A flash of neon. A billboard. A train. A million lives moving just beneath your feet.
Then it’s quiet again. His boots touch down with barely a sound, just the faintest thud of contact, the shift of air as he slows, and suddenly you’re home. Not yours.
His.
You don’t notice it at first. You’re still clinging to him, your face tucked into the crook of his neck. But then he steps forward, gently sets you down, and your feet meet solid ground. And you realize you're in his apartment.
The windows are open, letting in the scent of spring, cool earth, rain-soaked pavement, the metallic tinge of the skyline at night. The curtains ripple softly. There’s a shelf to your left, lined with worn books and framed photos. A navy-blue couch. A single coffee mug left on the desk beside folded glasses.
This is Clark. This is where he lives. Where he wakes. Where he dreams. You’re standing in the middle of it, barefoot and stunned, wrapped in the cape of a man who isn’t supposed to exist this way, tangible, warm, and so painfully real.
And then he turns and pushes you back against the glass. You gasp, startled, breath stolen, as your spine meets the windowpane. It’s cool, shocking against your overheated skin, and your hands scramble for something to hold. But he’s already there, already pressing in. One arm braces against the glass beside your head. The other finds your waist. His body is heat and muscle and reverence, crowding you in until all you can feel is him.
His mouth is on yours before you can speak and it’s not like before. It’s deeper now. Hotter. Less desperation, more claiming. His lips part over yours with fevered intent, his tongue sweeping into your mouth like he wants to taste every breath you’ve taken without him. Your fingers find the collar of his suit and pull, and he groans into you, low and helpless, like the sound’s been trapped in his chest for too long.
Your hands shake as you work the suit off his shoulders. The fabric is cool and slick, too perfect for this world. It gives way beneath your fingers, sliding down to reveal the impossible lines of his body, smooth skin, golden and flushed. He shudders when your palms find his chest, and he kisses you harder, faster, like he needs this. Needs you.
Your shirt joins his suit on the floor. Then your pants. Your bra. His boots thud somewhere behind him as he kicks them free, then the last of his suit slips down, crumpling in a heap like the man inside it finally let go of the performance.
And now you’re both bare.
You stand there for a moment, staring. His chest rises and falls in tight, uneven pulls. His skin glows in the warm lamplight, all soft curves over hard muscle. His shoulders are broad, his thighs thick, his arms trembling slightly like he’s fighting himself from reaching for you too soon.
And his hair. Still mostly slicked back from the flight, but now…now it’s human. Disheveled. One single curl has fallen out of place, slipping down over his brow, and your throat closes around the sight.
He’s beautiful. Not because he’s Superman.
But because he’s Clark. Because he’s standing in front of you with reverence in his eyes and nothing left to hide.
He moves first. His hands find your waist, firm and warm and grounding. Then your back. Then your thighs, hoisting you into his arms again like it’s instinct. Your legs wrap around his hips. Your arms drape over his shoulders. He pins you to the glass again, skin to skin now, mouth trailing from your lips to your throat.
Your breath stutters when he presses closer, hips slotted between your thighs, his skin hot and flush with yours. You can feel the tremble in him now, subtle, buried under muscle and strength, but there. Not from fear.
From restraint.
His mouth drags along your neck, slow and open and reverent. “I thought I could be patient,” he murmurs, voice frayed. “But I don’t want to wait anymore.”
The confession sends a shiver racing down your spine. Your fingers thread into his hair, tugging lightly, and that one loose curl falls again, curling over your knuckles as you tilt his face toward yours.
“Then don’t,” you whisper.
That’s all it takes. He shifts, effortless and practiced, and suddenly you’re weightless again, your back sliding higher up the window, glass cool and unyielding behind your shoulder blades. You cling to him instinctively, thighs tightening around his hips, heart thrashing against your ribs like it’s trying to reach him before you do.
He exhales like a man drowning finally given air. “You feel like gravity,” he breathes. “You’re the only thing that’s ever kept me still.”
“Then fall,” you say as you bite your lip.
His eyes darken into something that reflects heat and ache and something dangerous, and he kisses you again, deeper now, tongue sweeping into your mouth like he’s starved for it. For you.
When he pulls back, just far enough to look at you, his gaze is wrecked. “Tell me you want this,” he says.
“God, I do,” you pant. “I always have.”
And it’s true. You don’t want the distance anymore. You don’t want the waiting, the almosts, the ache of not knowing. You want him like this. Right here. Right now. Skin to skin. Name to name. All of him.
So when he presses his forehead to yours and murmurs, “Then I’m yours,” the words brand themselves across your skin. And you believe him because he says it like a vow. Like something he’s waited his whole life to give.
He kisses you like the world is still ending. Like if he stops, it’ll splinter apart. Like nothing outside this window matters. Not the blinking cursor on your half-finished article, not the skyline pulsing with sirens and starlight, not even the cape still pooled at your feet like a red ripple of everything you thought you knew. Just his mouth. Just your body. Just the soft, unraveling sounds you keep making into the heat of his lips.
You’re breathless already. Drunk on him. And then he adjusts you. Not in a rush. Not rough or frantic. Just slow. Steady. Like a ceremony. Like he’s afraid to jostle something sacred.
His hands are under your thighs, spreading warmth that seeps into your bones, fingertips curled just enough to make your breath stutter. Your arms lock around his neck tighter and without hesitation, fingers tangled in his hair, cheek pressed to the side of his head, heart thudding wild and open against his.
He rises off the floor like he doesn’t even notice gravity anymore. You don’t, either. You’re floating, suspended in the hold of a man who could catch planes midair and stop bullets with his chest but chooses to hold you like you’re the most delicate thing in the world. His chest is a furnace, pressed tight against yours, every heartbeat pounding in slow, powerful rhythm beneath his skin. You can feel it. You can feel him. All of him.
The apartment blurs around the edges as the wind stirs gently, coiling around your ankles, brushing through your hair, pushing open the bedroom door like it, too, has been waiting for this. And then he lands. Soft. Like a promise.
His knees touch the edge of the mattress first. Then he lays you down, slow, reverent, arms still wrapped around you like he doesn’t want to let go yet. Like he needs the grounding of your body beneath his, your breath fluttering across his collarbone, the softness of your thighs caging his hips.
The sheets are cool against your back. His body is fire against your front and everything in you aches.
You feel undone just from being looked at like this.
The weight of his gaze as he hovers above you is unbearable and electric and necessary all at once, like sunlight held in place, golden and scorching and all-consuming. His eyes roam over your face, your chest, your parted lips, drinking you in with the slow hunger of a man who’s been starving for years.
His palms glide over your ribs, your hips, your thighs, long, unhurried strokes that leave sparks in their wake. Every touch is mapped with intention. Every inch of skin he brushes feels claimed. Worshiped. Like he’s been waiting his whole life to lay his hands on you and can’t quite believe he’s finally allowed.
And then his mouth. It moves like it knows exactly where to go. He starts at your collarbone, soft and lingering, then down the center of your chest in a line of kisses that feel like punctuation marks to every word he can’t say fast enough.
“Gosh,” he whispers, voice shaking, breath hot against your sternum, “you’re so beautiful.”
You shiver as your hands find his hair, thicker than it looks, soft at the roots but mussed now, wild from your fingers. One curl falls forward again, brushing your temple, and your heart aches with how human he looks like this.
“You don’t have to say that,” you murmur, but even you don’t believe it.
“I do,” he says, instantly. Fervently. His thumb drags across your cheekbone, reverent. “I need you to know what you are. What you’ve always been.” His voice is low. Wrecked. Like it’s crawling up from somewhere deep and fragile.
“I’ve watched you walk into the newsroom a hundred times,” he says, “with your chin up and your hands full and that look on your face like you’re two seconds from telling someone off, but your eyes…” He lowers his head. “You smiled at me once,” he says, mouth brushing your jaw. “That first week. You don’t remember it. But I do. I’ve never stopped.”
You arch into him, neck exposed, breath trembling. His lips drag lower.
“I memorized you,” he says, kissing down your throat. “In daylight. In shadows. In every storm and silence. You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to touch you like this.”
Your nails scrape down his back, over bare shoulder blades and taut muscle and the smooth dip of his spine. He gasps into your skin, voice stuttering like a skipped heartbeat.
“I used to come home and wonder how I’d survive another day pretending I didn’t want you.” He mouths at your shoulder, then lingers at the hollow between your collarbones.
“I used to dream about this,” he murmurs, each word hotter than the last, “but it never came close. You’re more than I ever let myself imagine.”
His hands slide lower, palms dragging along the underside of your thighs, up to your hips, splaying wide at your waist like he’s trying to memorize your shape by feel. You’re so aware of every inch of skin he touches, the press of his chest to yours, the strength in his arms braced on either side of your head.
And his voice breaks again, soft and desperate. “You don’t know what you do to me,” he says, breath falling into your mouth like a confession. “You undo me.”
And you do. You see it in every tremble. Every kiss. Every sound he makes. This isn’t just sex. It isn’t just release.
It’s ruin. And he wants it. He wants you.
All of you.
You don’t know how long you stay like that, spread out beneath him, bathed in the low golden hush of the bedside lamp, your fingers tangled in his hair and your breath rising in time with his.
He looks at you like he’s praying. Like he’s still not sure you’re real. Like every kiss is a test to see if you’ll disappear.
“Clark,” you whisper, brushing your fingers down the flushed slope of his cheek, across the trembling line of his jaw. His skin is fever-warm beneath your touch, soft in places, rough with stubble in others. Tangible. Human. Yours. “You’re allowed to want this.”
“I do,” he says, barely a breath. His lashes flutter, dark and damp, clinging together from sweat or tears or both. “I’ve wanted you for so long I don’t remember what it’s like not to.”
You wrap your legs around his waist, hips tilting up, subtle and slow, just enough for him to feel how wet you still are. His eyes flutter closed at the contact, a stuttered gasp catching in his throat. His arms shake slightly, trying to brace. Trying not to lose control.
“I used to touch myself,” you breathe, lips ghosting over his ear, “after you’d leave.”
His breath catches, sharp and wrecked.
Your teeth graze his earlobe. “After you flew off. After you walked me to my car, all shy and soft-spoken like you didn’t know exactly what you were doing to me.”
He makes a sound you’ve never heard before, half groan, half whimper, like the words are unraveling something deep in his chest. His hand tightens on your hip, and he lowers his head, pressing hot kisses down your collarbone to your breast.
“I imagined your hands,” you murmur, dragging your nails up the back of his neck, “your mouth. I thought about your voice while I came. Thought about how you’d sound if I let you hear me.”
“God,” he moans, mouth vibrating against your skin. His hand slips between your legs, slow and reverent, dragging through your slick. When two fingers push into you, you arch instantly, moaning loud enough to make the windows tremble.
“You’re soaked,” he says, voice thick with awe. “You’re so…baby, you’re perfect.”
“All for you,” you pant. “Only you.”
That breaks something in him. He kisses his way down your stomach, dragging his mouth over every inch of skin he can reach. His palms splay across your hips, holding you still, and then he’s burying himself between your thighs, tongue warm and slow, lapping through your folds with careful, aching need.
You cry out, high and shaking, fingers gripping his hair as your hips buck helplessly against his mouth. He groans in response, the sound vibrating against your clit, making your thighs tremble around his ears.
“You taste so good,” he breathes. “You sound so good.” He adds a third finger and you sob, eyes rolling back, body twisting. You grind against his mouth shamelessly, chasing the pressure, the heat, the rhythm. He’s moaning like it’s his own orgasm building, like your pleasure is unraveling him from the inside out.
“Clark, fuck. Baby, please.”
“Cum for me,” he murmurs. “Please. I need to feel you break.”
You splinter like glass in sunlight, clenching around his fingers, gasping his name again and again. He holds you through it, lips soft against your inner thigh, murmuring praise so low and full of want it sounds like worship.
When he finally climbs back up your body, you’re shaking, boneless, breathless, slick and ruined. You reach for him. Your hand wraps around his cock, hard and flushed and leaking against his stomach. He jolts at the touch, body going rigid above you.
“Wait. please.”
You stop. Look up. His cheeks are red. His lashes low. His hips twitch in your grip.
“I just,” he bites his lip. “I want you on top.” You blink. His hands slide to your waist, gentle. “I want to feel all of you,” he says softly. “I want to watch your face. I want,” his voice cracks “I want to be good for you.”
Something hot and tender curls in your stomach. You shift. Press a kiss to his jaw. Then his throat. And then, carefully, slowly, you roll him onto his back. He lets you. He exhales like it’s a blessing.
You straddle his hips, watching the way his chest rises, watching the way he looks at you like you’re everything he’s ever wanted. You reach down, guide him to your entrance. The head of his cock slides through your folds, wet and hot and aching.
“Is this what you dreamed about?” you whisper.
“Yes,” he breathes. “Yes, please.”
You sink down slowly. He groans, head thrown back, throat taut, hands flying to your hips like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.
You take him inch by inch, stretching around him, moaning at the fullness, at the way his eyes flutter and his chest arches and his lips part around a helpless sound.
“Oh, you feel,” he gasps. “You feel like…like home.”
You bottom out, sitting fully in his lap, your thighs bracketing his hips, his hands reverent on your skin. You haven’t even moved yet and already he looks wrecked. Because you’re everything he’s ever wanted, finally his, and there’s nothing left to hide.
You don’t move at first. You just sit there, straddling him, full, breathless, and trembling. Your thighs quiver where they press to his sides, your hands spread wide over the endless warmth of his chest. His heart pounds beneath your palms, thrumming like thunder, like a war drum in the silence between you. Too fast. Too strong. Too much for any man.
But not for him.
You know this heart. You’ve felt it before, soft against your shoulder during late-night walks, pulsing warm through the rooftop air when he stood too close. You’ve felt it through every brush of his hand, every quiet smile, every almost.
Now it’s yours.
And it’s racing.
Your lashes flutter as you look down at him—his eyes wide and glassy, flushed all the way to his ears, mouth parted like he’s still trying to breathe through the heat of being inside you.
You shift just slightly. Tighten around him. His body jolts, hips twitching up in pure reflex, a broken sound bursting from his lips like it was torn from his chest. His hands fly to your hips, fingers splaying wide, grounding himself in the feel of you.
“Baby,” he gasps, voice thick with awe, “please.”
You lean forward, chest brushing his, nose skimming along his cheek. “I could stay like this,” you whisper, lips grazing the corner of his mouth. “Just like this. Forever.”
He whimpers. A real, helpless, soft sound. It hits you low, makes your core throb where you hold him, pulsing around him like your body’s already begging for more. Your hands rise to cradle his jaw, and you kiss him slow. Deep. Languid. Your tongues slide together, hungry and slick, and you feel him tremble under you. His fingers grip tighter, possessive and sweet, reverent like he’s not sure he’s allowed to hold you like this, even now.
You start to move. Your hips roll slow, dragging over him with obscene friction, and his breath catches in a low, strangled moan. He’s thick inside you, stretching you open perfectly, his cock dragging along every nerve ending like it knows where you’re weakest. The base of him rubs right against your clit with every grind, his pubic bone nudging it just enough to make you shudder.
“Oh my god,” you whisper into his mouth, eyes fluttering closed.
His grip on you stutters. “You’re so warm,” he breathes, voice fraying at the edges. “So tight, so perfect.”
“You are,” you murmur, hips circling. “You feel so good, Clark. I’ve never…fuck, I’ve never felt anything like this.”
A groan cracks out of him, full-bodied and deep, like the sound was buried under years of restraint. He tilts his head back, jaw clenched, eyes glazed with disbelief.
“I can feel every inch of you,” you whisper, dragging your nails lightly down his chest. “You’re so deep… it’s like you’re under my skin.”
He cries out when you clench around him, and it’s not even intentional, it’s just how your body reacts to him. To his size. To the way he fills you completely, every stroke rubbing right up against the spot that makes your toes curl and your thighs tremble. His hands flex and slide up your back, down to your hips again, dragging you harder against him. The pressure builds with each deep grind, slow, dragging, and thick.
“You ride me so good,” he pants, wrecked. “Like you were made to do it. Like…like you knew.”
“I did,” you moan, nails sinking into his shoulders. “I knew. Every time you touched me. Every time you looked at me like I was something precious. I knew I could be so good for you if you’d just let me.”
He looks like he could cry. You keep rolling your hips, slow and deep and aching, chasing your high with the kind of devotion that feels holy. The friction against your clit is relentless now, dragging against the ridge of his body with every glide, heat blooming fast behind your ribs, down your spine, between your legs.
Your rhythm falters. You bite your lip and cry out his name.
His eyes fly open. “I’m here. I’m here, sweetheart. Let me feel it please.”
You break. Your whole body locks, back arching, nails clawing down his chest as your orgasm crashes through you. Your pussy clenches around him, soaking, pulsing, dragging another wrecked moan from his throat.
He grabs your hips, tight, trembling, and thrusts up into you. Hard. Again. And again.
He can’t stop. Won’t. Your thighs are still shaking, your body still fluttering around him, and he’s fucking up into you with open desperation now, hips snapping, cock pounding into you with each gasp of your name.
He’s not even trying to hold back. He’s completely undone. His head tips back, his neck straining, jaw slack.
“You feel so good,” he groans. “You’re perfect. You're everything. I can’t, oh gosh, I can’t.”
You lean down again, your chest pressed to his, lips at his ear. “Cum inside me,” you whisper, voice soaked in heat and need. “Fill me up, Clark. I want to feel you. Want all of it. Please.”
He shatters. His thrusts lose rhythm, stuttering, gasping, almost violent with how hard he jerks beneath you. He moans your name as he spills inside you, deep and hot, cock pulsing again and again as his arms crush you to his chest.
You cling to him, shaking, slick and overstimulated, every inch of you pulsing, his body buried inside you like it’s where he belongs.
His mouth finds your shoulder, your neck, your cheek, kissing, panting, whispering your name over and over like it’s a promise. And in that breathless silence after, nothing else matters. Because you’re still joined. Still trembling. Still his. And he’s yours. In every name. In every form.
You don’t move for a long, long time.
You just stay there, straddling him, body flushed and heavy, every inch of you slick with heat and sweat and the kind of intimacy that makes your chest ache. Your cheek rests against his chest, and beneath your ear, his heart is still racing, loud and erratic, faster than it should be, but steadying with every breath he takes.
The sheets are tangled beneath you. Warmth radiates off his skin. Your thighs still tremble from the way he touched you, how deeply he filled you, and his hands haven’t stopped moving. One spreads over the small of your back, thumb drawing slow, grounding circles. The other is cradled between your shoulder blades, fingers splayed wide, holding you like a precious, delicate thing he’s still scared to break.
His cock is still inside you. Not fully hard now, but not soft either, just there, nestled deep in the heat of your body, like he’s reluctant to let go. Like you both are. You’re sensitive. Wet. Tender and raw and sore in the best way. The way that says he’ll still be inside you long after you’ve pulled apart.
And God, you don’t want to move. Not yet. You hum softly against his chest, the sound barely audible over the soft rise and fall of his breathing. The golden light from the bedside lamp casts long shadows across the room, painting you both in honeyed warmth. The air smells like sweat and sex and skin. Familiar. Safe.
He shifts beneath you, just enough to press a kiss into your hairline. His lips linger. Stay.
“My girl,” he murmurs.
You smile sleepily, feeling more content than you have in years.
“I am yours,” you say softly, trailing your fingers over the broad line of his ribs, feeling the rise of each one beneath your palm. You press your hand flat over his heart and feel it jump beneath your touch. “You know that, right?”
“I know,” he says, his voice a whisper against your temple. “I think I’ve always known.”
You tip your chin slightly, kiss the underside of his jaw. “You’ve never said that before. My girl.”
He stills for a moment, then smiles, shy and crooked. “Felt right,” he admits. “Hearing you call me Clark while you were wrapped around me like that… I just,” he breaks off, breath catching. “You’re the only person outside my parents in this world who’s ever made me feel like I belong somewhere.”
Your heart clenches. You lift your head, look down at him. His face is flushed, hair mussed and curling, lips still kiss-swollen. The curl of his smile is dazed and boyish, eyes glassy with the remnants of pleasure. And beneath all that is hope. Fragile and shining.
“Clark Kent,” you murmur, brushing your nose against his. “You’re still inside me. You don’t have to sweet-talk me right now.”
He laughs, quiet and startled and disbelieving. “Can’t help it,” he says, wrapping his arms tighter around you, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head. “You’re here. You’re with me. I keep thinking I’m gonna wake up.”
“You won’t,” you promise. “I’m real. This is real.”
He swallows thickly. Nods. “I’m still not over it,” he says quietly.
“Over what?”
He hesitates. The hand on your spine pauses. “You’d come to me on the rooftop,” he says, his voice soft, “after everything. And you’d talk to me. About your day. About your coworkers. About how Jimmy kept stealing your snacks and Lois left you on read.”
You smile. “She always leaves me on read.”
“And I’d just sit there,” he continues, “listening to you, watching you, and all I could think was how jealous I was.”
You blink. Lift your head again. “Jealous?”
“Of me,” he says, sheepish. “Of Clark. I wanted to be the one you gave that smile to. The one you leaned against. The one who got to touch you without gloves.”
You stare at him Then burst out laughing.
He groans and hides his face in your neck. “Don’t laugh at me.”
“You were jealous of yourself?”
“I didn’t say it made sense,” he mutters, voice muffled against your skin.
“Oh my God,” you giggle, propping yourself up on your elbows so you can see his face. “Clark, that is-,”
“Don’t say it.”
“The most romantic and stupid thing I’ve ever heard.”
His cheeks are flushed. “I just…I wanted your attention like that. All of it. I wanted your mornings. Your evenings. Your jokes. Your voice. I wanted to be the one who made you laugh in the elevator and flushed when you got too close and…Golly, I wanted this.”
You study him. Let the smile fade into something softer, warmer. “You already had me,” you whisper. “I was already yours.”
His breath catches like it hurts.
You kiss him slow. Then start pressing long, melting kisses that leave him trembling beneath you. You press soft kisses to the corner of his mouth, then down his jaw, to the hollow beneath his ear, to the curve of his throat.
His breath stutters. His hands tighten on your waist. “What’re you doing?” he asks, voice rough.
“Leaving marks.” You suck gently at the side of his neck, slow and steady. His hips twitch beneath you and his cock stirs slightly inside you, still too soft for more, but warm and twitching with every brush of your mouth. “Since you were so jealous of yourself,” you murmur, “I figured I’d give you something else to be jealous of.”
He groans, low and wrecked. “You’re making fun of me.”
“No,” you whisper, kissing lower, “just making sure everyone knows who you belong to. Including you.”
You suck another mark onto the curve of his shoulder, deep and dark and possessive, and feel his breath hitch beneath you. His whole body is pliant now, muscles loose and ruined, chest rising in slow, shaky breaths.
His cock gives one last twitch inside you.
“You good down there?” you tease. “Or are you going to be jealous of your cock too?”
“Hush,” he groans into your shoulder, face bright red at your words.
“Or maybe the blanket because it’s on me, too?” You glance down. The cotton is bunched low around his hips, sticking to your thighs, damp and tangled.
“Sweetheart,” he warns. “You’re real cute when you try to give me guff.”
You laugh, quiet and smug, and settle against his chest again, your arms around his ribs, your head tucked beneath his chin. He holds you like he’ll never let go. And maybe he won’t. Because after a long pause, he exhales slow, and presses one last kiss to your temple.
“My girl,” he whispers. The words ripple through you like heat.
You press another kiss to the pulse at his throat and whisper what you’ve known for a long, long time.
“Yours.”
-
The breakroom smells like burnt toast and freshly ground coffee, too much char, not enough cream. The overhead fluorescents buzz faintly, cold and unforgiving, a little too bright for how wrecked you feel inside. There’s a smear of something sticky on the counter no one’s bothered to wipe up, and a half-eaten blueberry muffin sits abandoned near the sink.
You lean against the cabinets in your yesterday blouse, buttoned all the way up this time, tucked neatly into the waistband of your skirt, trying to fake normal with every careful inch of fabric. But your legs still ache faintly from being wrapped around him. Your throat’s a little sore from moaning his name. And your skin hums like it hasn’t fully come down from last night’s altitude.
Clark stands at the counter, frowning at the coffee machine like he’s trying to will it into compliance. His sleeves are rolled up, revealing strong forearms with the faintest bruising at the knuckles. His tie is crooked. His hair is damp from his morning shower, curling faintly at the nape of his neck, with one stubborn curl already starting to fall over his brow.
He’s still flushed. Still bashful. Still trying so hard not to look at you. And yet, he does. A lot.
You cross your arms loosely over your chest and watch him, your shoulder brushing the doorframe as you tilt your head.
“You’re really going to pretend everything’s normal?” you ask, lips tugging into the barest hint of a smile.
“I made coffee,” he says, quiet but hopeful, lifting the carafe like it’s some kind of peace offering. “I figured that’s… normal.”
“Clark.” You arch a brow and step forward, slow and teasing, until the hem of your skirt brushes his shin.
He stills. The air between you tightens. Sharpens. He turns to face you fully, mug still in one hand.
And there he is.
All of him.
Clark Kent. Superman. The man who pressed his mouth to your neck like it might save him. The man who made you come with his fingers buried deep, who whispered your name into your skin like he could make a home of it.
And somehow, impossibly, he still looks like the sweet, clumsy guy who brings extra muffins to the bullpen and blushes when you call him “Kent.”
You reach for the mug he’s holding, fingers brushing his. His hand is warm as always, but rougher than usual. You catch sight of the scrapes on his knuckles, red and fresh, a little dried blood along the cuticle. A mission. A fire. A fall. You’ll ask later. But for now, you just let your fingers linger a moment longer than necessary before taking the mug from his hand.
He watches you sip like he’s worried it’s too hot. Like the coffee might hurt you and he’ll never forgive himself if it does.
You lower the cup with a slow exhale. The taste is terrible, over-brewed, too bitter, but it makes your chest ache, anyway.
“How’d I miss it?” you murmur.
His brow furrows. “Miss what?”
You nudge him with your hip. Playful. Testing. “That you were Superman.”
He gives you a small, sheepish smile, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. “Guess I’m just a really good reporter.”
You shake your head and set the mug down beside the sink. “No,” you say, voice quiet but sure. “You’re a really good liar.”
Something flickers across his face. Guilt, regret, something heavier than either. His shoulders slope slightly. He looks down.
“I never wanted to lie,” he says softly. “I only ever wanted to keep you safe.”
Your heart catches. You step closer again, your hand rising to smooth his crooked tie. Your fingers brush the front of his shirt, warm from the heat of his chest beneath. He smells like soap and cedar and ozone.
“Clark,” you say gently, fingers settling at his collar. “I know.”
He finally looks at you, eyes wide and blue and full of something that hurts to hold.
You rise up on your toes and kiss his cheek, just beneath his eye, where the skin is soft and warm and still slightly flushed. The kiss lingers longer than it needs to. When you pull back, his eyes flutter closed for half a second like he’s anchoring the moment.
“You’re lucky I love you,” you whisper.
His throat works on a swallow. The flush deepens, rising high into his ears. He smiles small and wrecked and completely undone.
“I really am,” he says. Then, quieter still, he adds, “I’m so in love with you, it scares me.” The words hit somewhere deep. Behind your ribs. Beneath your skin.
You pick the coffee back up, sip again just to steady yourself, and glance at him over the rim. “Good,” you say, voice light. “Now you know how I felt all this time.”
He huffs a laugh, almost disbelieving. His hand finds your hip. Light. Tentative. Like he’s not sure he’s allowed to touch you in this setting but can’t help needing to.
You lean into it. Into him. He presses a kiss to your hairline. His thumb strokes lazy circles at your waist.
There’s a sound outside the breakroom, someone laughing, printers firing up, but none of it touches you. Not here. Not in this quiet corner of morning. Not with his lips brushing yours, slow and reverent, like he’s thanking you for something he doesn’t have words for yet. The coffee. The newsroom. The bruise on his knuckle and the blush in his cheeks.
This is Clark. Yours. And for the first time since all of this began, he’s letting himself be.
Summary: Clark and his incredibly accident prone girlfriend.
Pairing: David Corenswet!Clark Kent x Reader (gender isn’t specified). Established relationship!
Warnings: Mentions of injuries and a small, brief mention of blood.
requests are open!
You wouldn’t say you’re prone to accidents, accidents were prone to you. From small things like paper cuts or small burns with the straightener all the way to random things like birds flying into your face, you’ve had them all.
Clark never failed to be shocked at the ways you always managed to be injured. He found it surprising that Superman could protect the world from ripping apart but he could not stop you from stubbing your toe with the heel of your mary janes.
He started carrying Neosporin in his pockets, bandaids in the inside of his phone case and a full on bandage on his briefcase. He never knew.
Most of your injuries were minor, and sometimes even silly. You even joked with Clark about it sometimes.
“I’m like a cat. I always land on my feet and as much as you try to get rid of me, I always come back,” you’d say with a small laugh.
“That’s not even funny,” he would say only half seriously. Because you were like a cat sometimes.
He was at about to leave the Planet when he got your call.
“Hi baby,” he greeted. His voice soft, washing over you like honey. “I was just telling Lois about that cake you-“
You felt bad for interrupting him, you really did. “Clark, sweetie, are you coming home soon?”
“Why? What’s wrong baby?” you could hear him shuffling on the other side, immediately springing into action.
“Don’t be mad,” you knew he wouldn’t be, he never was. Even when you did the things he would tell you not to do, “I fell from the counter,” you blurted quickly. “Nothing’s broken so I don’t think I need 911 but I can’t move and it’s been like twenty minutes.”
“What?”
“I fell off the counter,” you mumble sheepishly. “I was cleaning over the cupboard and I guess I slipped? No one could see it coming seriously.”
Clark sighed on the other side of the call, “I could’ve. And I have actually”
You can recall every time he questioned your cleaning practices, telling you you’d fall one of these days. Of course you never did, except the one time he wasn’t home. Which made you look bad now.
“Did anything else fall with you?” He asks, genuinely curious.
You hum for a moment, “A flower vase.”
“Did it cut you?”
“No?”
His voice goes high and you can hear the sounds of the street, he was on his way. “What do you mean no-question-mark?”
“I don’t feel a cut, Clark. And I don’t see blood or anything,” you examine your legs quickly, making a mental note of all the glass around you. Missing a chunk of it. You look behind you and lo and behold, “Okay small cut in my elbow”
You hear the door slam open, which was a personal record for Clark.
“Define small,” he asks as he walks into the kitchen. Stepping over glass to get to you.
You lift your elbow to show it to him, “Just a scratch.” And you were right, it was barely bleeding.
“Okay,” he says, scooping you up and setting you on top of the counter.
He opens a cabinet and pulls out his big first aid kit, something he’d acquired only after he started dating you.
“Okay let’s take a look at that ankle,” he whispers.
Sometimes you wondered if during these times, when he was tending to you, he was just kinda talking to himself. Self soothing in a way.
He had a certain concentration look on his face, and you knew he was x-raying your ankle.
“So no broken bones,” he mumbled.
“I told you,” you mumble back. Making him shoot you a look that told you to not get cocky about this right now.
He directs his eyes back to your ankle, “It does seem a bit inflamed tho, does it hurt when I do this?” And you yelp when he moves your ankle around. “So yes.”
“Not that bad, you just caught me off guard” you front.
“Off guard or not, no weight on this ankle for a couple days.” He wraps your ankle in a bandage, moving to clean the scratch by your elbow. “Can you open one of those big band-aids for me?”
You hum and reach into his first aid kit, fishing for the band-aid he was asking for and opening it in one quick swoosh.
“Oh shit,” you mumble. Your finger already beginning to redden, paper cut.
Clark looks up at you with an incredulous look on his face, “You have got to be joking.”
you're feeling blue and a little imbalanced when compared to your boyfriend: amazing, well known writer by day and literally superman any other time. clark is more than happy to debate the topic with you.
warnings: self-conscious and self-doubting reader. soothing but also playful clark. reader is described as having long hair clark can run his fingers through. not proof read. mostly just like. fluff. pre-established relationship. ♥︎ 1.6k
"hey clark?" you ask, fingers twisting in fabric at the bottom of your - his - tee shirt, hanging well below your waist.
it's a sleepy saturday, nothing major bringing superman out onto the town, no news brining clark into a furious typing machine. instead, he's sitting on his couch, notebook in hand and laptop resting open next to his thigh.
he turns a page of the notepad slowly, pinched between his forefinger and his thumb, licking his lips and humming in acknowledgement.
"when're you going to get sick of me?" you ask, voice shy but firm.
you'd been ruminating again, always.
instead of catching it like he usually does, clark tilts his chin up for just a moment to fix a heart-ending grin at you. "never" he says, like you're teasing, and you suppose you could be - it's not a joking remark you've never made before.
"mm," you say, knowing he meant it with love as well as playfulness but still feeling that sense of discontent. of loneliness. "it's just," you hesitate, stepping closer and pressing your knee into the cushion of the couch. you want to crawl to him but his laptop is in the way.
he's working, you know. you should be more sensitive of it. being insensitive about things is not the way to make that "never" really happen.
"never's a long time," you finish, still wrinkling your shirt. your heart rate has picked up. you're reminding yourself that this is what he's asked you to do a million times - as for reassurance, let him know your doubts, let him say he loves you and loves you because he likes saying it, likes reminding you, likes to reassure you.
"and I mean it," he says, sounding slightly affronted. he looks up at you for a longer moment, taking you in, likely listening to your heart. "come here," he says, voice instantly softer, tossing his notepad onto his coffee table and lifting his laptop out of your way.
you do, walking over on your knees and laying with your cheek on his knee. you pull your legs to your chest and tilt your chin so you're looking up at him.
"my pretty girl, what has you down?" he asks, reaching over you to place his laptop on the ground and brushing your hair out of your face.
"just not feeling like I'm doing enough, y'know?" you shrug.
"what do you mean?" clark presses, hair twisting in your hair and tugging slightly. he smiles, a little bit of teeth on lip in that boyish way that you love, when you wrinkle your nose at him for it.
"just," you sigh, blowing the air out all at once and thinking it through in your head. this is what you like about being with clark - he doesn't baby you, he's just sweet. you work through things together, get to the root of issues and really work as a team.
it just sucks in moments like these where you have to be so completely bare and vulnerable.
you remind yourself he's done the same, countless times and in countless ways, and explain, "you're the one with a career, writing these amazing articles and already changing lives this way. and then you're superman? I just don't know how I match up, y'know? Like, I'm just figuring life out. I don't even really like my job that much. And, I don't know, I just feel like you could do better, someone more evenly matched to you."
"hm," clark hums, thinking. "debate it?" he asks after a moment.
you nod, rolling onto your back so you can watch him while he thinks.
'debates' - as you've both begun calling them - started when you and him would weigh the pros and cons of superman involving in political situations. weigh the pros and cons, really get everything out there in a way that lets clark step into superman while still hearing the thoughts of others. sometimes it's hard for him to separate out what he could do and what he should do.
slowly, it turned into a catch all. heated opinions on what to play for movie night? debate. who should do the dishes this time? debate. who's apartment would you stay at? debate. it was a way for you to prevent petty arguments.
and then, it shifted again. it became how you approached your more anxious feelings - and clark's, too, when the feeling arose for him as well.
"you comfortable with your beginning argument?' clark asks, chin tucked to his chest to stare at you fondly. his hand is still wrapped in your hair, but he's just letting it be for now.
you nod.
"okay. I won't state the obvious that I already think you're worth the moon. and that's coming from someone who could probably go get you a piece of the moon. I'll stick to logic - you're trying. you're job hunting, you help me with superman, and you help me with research for my articles all the time. honestly, all I'm seeing is the ways you've called me quote 'better' than you? you help me be."
"counterargument:" you say, "you were all of those things before me."
"but you've made me better at them," clark shrugs, "undoubtedly. you understand everything about all of those things with me and help guide me to grow. doesn't sound useless or like someone I could become 'sick' of."
"and I'm still where I was when we met. same job, same apartment, same everything. you were already too amazing for me - my turn my turn!" you insist, pointing your nose up at him and smooshing his nose when he tries to argue. he kisses the tip of your finger in response and nods. "and yeah, maybe I've helped you some from your point of view, but what about me?"
"first - I argue that nobody could be too amazing for you. you're absolutely amazing already. you care, so much, you fight for what you believe in, you put up with having a boyfriend who lives this dangerous secret life that means he constantly has to be considering the entire world on top of you. which brings me to my second point - isn't that a reflection on me? if I've grown due to your help and you feel like you haven't at all, doesn't that create a sort of imbalance? one where you're putting in all of the work, in your scenario, only for me to reap the benefits?" he's truly invested now, hand detangled and sitting straight, looking down at you with one eyebrow raised, hand clasping your wrist.
you mull that over for a moment, knowing he's wrong but unsure how to proceed. "that's not... hm." you roll your eyes when a grin starts to peek through his determined facade. "no, you've helped me grow."
you roll off of his lap and sit up next to him, legs tucked under you. he reclaims his hold on your wrist immediately, grounding himself to you. "I talk more openly about my feelings now, because of you," you say, gesturing between you two. "I'm a better partner in general. you helped me with that. and I started writing again because of you, too. I think that's a good thing. just because I don't have something massive like superman for you to help me on doesn't mean you haven't done your share of lifting here."
"see, now you've proved my argument," clark says, grinning and tugging you closer. you look at him, confused. "what I'm hearing is - you help me grow. help with superman. help with work and my life. and you let me help you - you just said you're getting better at working through your feelings, something you always said bothered you. you started writing again - a passion you admit you were sad to loose. my own personal biases aside from how perfect you are for me without anything to make you gather some weird sort of worth or value that we're trying to tally up here, I see someone that is perfectly balanced for me. therefore: when am I going to get sick of you? never, not as long as you're you."
you sniff, shift closer to him, tuck your head, and then your hair behind your ear. all tells that you know he's won the debate without saying you know he's won the debate.
fully aware that you need a minute, though, clark doesn't celebrate. yet.
"it's just hard to remember, sometimes, you know? you have to realize, objectively, having a boyfriend who saves the world while you work in corporate slop can sometimes feel off-kilter. not because of you, ever, but because of, like, how I feel about it."
"I get it, sweet girl, I get it," clark coos, pulling you onto his lap so you're facing him completely.
you can't help but notice how easily he does it - how easily he always does it, despite the amount of times he casually uses his strength around you.
he lets you cuddle into his chest for a warm minute before pulling you back and pushing your hair out of your face with fondness. "now, though, we have to think."
you look at him confused before rolling your eyes when a wide grin stretches across his handsome face, calling forth both dimples and brightening his blue eyes. All boyish, all self-confidence, and all shit-eating tease.
"That has to bring my debate tally up to what?" he pretends to think as you pretend to pull away. "242? 243? no, 242 sounds right."
he catches you before you can get off of his lap, laughably loudly and tugging your waist. he presses quick kisses against your temple as you groan and grumble.
this turned into more than I thought it would! enjoy and please consider leaving a reblog if you liked! reblogs keep my fics alive ♥︎
pairing: clark kent x fem!reader
rating: explicit (MINORS DNI; 18+)
word count: 19.7k
warnings: movie spoilers, fluff, angst, smut, switched pov's in second person, miscommunication, caretaking, disabled side character, banter, making out, public displays of affection, oral (fem. receiving), vaginal fingering, overstimulation, riding, intimacy maxing, unprotected sex (BC mentioned, no condom), nipple play, Clark curses once, arguments, panic attack, dry humping
summary: after ending things over a year ago, you and clark are back in each other's lives due to unforeseen circumstances. things are discovered.
author's note: this was heavily based off the song "Cutting My Fingers Off" by Turnover and their record Peripheral Vision. There is also a caretaking aspect that I used that is based closely to my life right now, so if you are a caretaker for a loved one, this is for you.
[AO3 Link]
Please read my pinned post before following me! Minors and ageless blogs will be blocked as this blog’s content is NSFW.
There is a sense of delirium in the way Clark’s body weakens.
Like a fly at the precipice of a zap trap, Clark can feel the poison seep under his skin, bubbling to the surface as it slowly courses through his system. Unlike a fly, however, he is all too aware how this ends if this continues.
He can’t fault Rex as his eyes linger on the baby across his glass cell. Even with his defenses shut down, he hears the baby’s fear; his tiny heart beating so hard and fast that Clark can’t believe it hasn’t overworked itself. Rex’s fear is also quite loud as it pulses through Clark’s ears, and he knows because it sounds the same as his own: the fear for others he can’t protect the longer the Kryptonite soaks up his energy.
It’s devastating and things look bleak. He shouldn’t think this way, he knows this, but the longer he lays here, the more his mind travels to better times: before being viewed as some sort of fearful God, before knowing his birth parents true intentions, before his responsibilities got in the way of the people he loves. It’s too much for his sickened brain to comprehend. He should be stronger than this, but even though he isn’t from Earth, he is as human as a human can get, which means falling into the past when things become too much.
His left hand, dark veins curling under his skin, goes to his right arm sleeve to gently roll it back. He hears the crinkle of the object he is desperate for, needing some kind of reminder of what the good things are, even if it comes with an aftermath of hurt. He drags it out from dampened skin, a shine glossing over the already glossy coat. His thumb smears the sweat away, his skin lingering a little too long on the smile that welcomes him every time this memory enters his psyche.
It was such an in the moment photo. You, in your cocktail dress meant for warmer days, deep in his arms as you smile from laughing. He remembers working to bury you under his coat to join his body heat, remembering how cold you kept saying you were. The picture is weathered from the treatment his suit gives it, so much so that he can no longer see the goosebumps on your skin, but he dares to never part with it. You are the heart on his sleeve; a reminder that love doesn’t fade.
He wishes things could’ve played out differently. He wishes he could’ve been more honest about who he was, but as he looks at the contrast of that moment during New Years to where he is at now, he is comforted knowing you are somewhere safe.
He hears about you from time to time from Lois, who still keeps in touch. She insists that he should reach out, that it would be good for him, but every time he goes to write a message, every time he is only a touch away from making himself known to you once more, he retreats. It is unlike him to back down from something he has already begun, but it goes to show that cowardice is a convincing master. So he just listens. He lets Lois tell him whatever she finds relevant, even when he doesn’t ask.
“Remember that book she’s been wanting to write? Well, she finally got a publishing company to back her! She said she would send us all personal copies. Maybe we can finally have a review for a book worth a damn.”
“I’m hungry. Did you want to get lunch? Weirdly I’ve been craving a tomato sandwich. I think it’s because of these heirloom tomatoes she grew. Look at this picture she sent me!”
“Clark, you have got to listen to this playlist she made. One because it is phenomenal and two it doesn’t have The Mighty Crabjoys on it.”
“You should message her. She asks about you. Boy, if only she knew.”
He wishes he would have told you he is Superman. He wishes you knew everything. He wishes he still had that choice.
He hears the platform before he sees it, so he weakly puts the polaroid, his heart, back under his sleeve. He brings his arm across this chest, hoping the mere closeness will slow the Kryptonite from making his veins darker and skin less bubbled.
✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧
Words, words, words. Oh, how you would like some. Who knew writer's block would be such a pain.
Writer’s block wasn’t something you found yourself dealing with often. Writing is your passion; your brain a fire pit that burns information to grow brighter. As the fire strengthens in heat and ember, the crisper your fingers move to type clever words and phrases. It can be overwhelming, but it is your utmost strength as a writer. That is, until the information thrown into the pit is nothing but icy, cold water, fraying your mind until you can’t think about anything but the smoke.
You can’t pinpoint the distraction to one thing. Being a caretaker for a loved one is never an easy feat, especially when it’s just you and that person is bed bound. Your grandma’s mobility stems from yours in how you adjust her, whether it be shifting her to a more comfortable position or getting her into her wheelchair. It’s been close to a year of this, and while you never minded taking care of her, you are aware of the pressure it brings. Your body is tired, therefore your mind is starting to receive the after effects.
But you can’t help but think there is more, especially with the state of the world; full of meaningless greed and apathy. The more you watch the news, a mistake every time you decide to turn on the TV, the more you feel hollowness. It makes matters worse when it seems the epicenter of so much destruction is happening in a place you used to call home, and knowing you have people there you worry for every day. Lois, God bless her, always keeps you in the loop to ensure you know everyone is safe, always making sure to add that Clark is okay too.
But you have eyes, and you saw what happened on TV a few days ago. Sometimes, it’s a little hard to believe unless you are there yourself, and at one point you had been.
The mouse blinks condescending, laughing at your struggle to create and it makes you roll your eyes with an annoyed sigh, leaning back into your chair with fingers digging into your eyes. You’ve been sitting here for hours in this limbo, and it’s now eleven at night. You used to be up for late night writing and research sessions when you worked at the Daily Planet. Not anymore, it seems.
Your phone starts ringing, the twinkling sound of your ringtone shimmering in the dim light of your room. You don’t need to see a name to see who it is; it’s become a common occurrence for Lois to call late at night for inspiration or casual chatter. She’s lucky you don’t sleep early with the birds.
You pick up your phone, sliding the screen open and bringing it up to your ear, a witty remark on your tongue. “Lois, I fear if you are calling for something inspiring, you are out of luck.”
“I need a favor.” She’s quick to respond. “Like an insanely big favor.”
There is a sense of urgency in her tone, yet there is a firm, calm collectiveness to it. Lois is usually pretty laid back, and while you have seen her have a presence strong enough to shut the whole bullpen up, you’ve never heard her like this. It makes your stomach twist.
“Lois, what’s wrong?”
“Are you still in Louisa?”
“Y-yes,” you stutter. “What’s happening, Lois? You’re kinda freaking me out.”
“I’m going to be there soon.” She overrides, ignoring your unsettled tone. “I’ll explain then. Just prepare yourself and I apologize in advance.”
“Lois! Wait-“
The line goes dead, and you sit there frozen, your mind going in all sorts of directions. ‘What is she doing coming to Virginia?’ You think. ‘How is she getting here? By car? No, I didn’t hear other cars. Plane? No, she can’t talk over the phone unless they hadn’t taken off. A train? Maybe? Did something happen in Metropolis? Is she in trouble?’
The rapidness of your thoughts freezes time, your eyes staring firmly at your screen. It isn’t until your peripherals catch a bright light through your window that you are thawing into action. You stand from your seat, a cluttering sound shaking your desk from the movement, and walk briskly out your bedroom to the back door of the house. The Virginia autumn breeze hits your skin, goosebumps making themselves known, and as you walk to the bright light, you see a figure coming out of some spherical apparatus. You see the dark hair, immediately knowing it’s Lois as she waves you down. You squint as you get closer, the light growing harsher on your eyes, but Lois’s features become more visible. To anyone else, she looks calm, but you know her too well: she’s worried.
“What is all this?” You ask, now in front of her. “Where did you even get this?”
“That’s not important,” Lois says eerily calm. “What’s important is what I’m about to ask of you.”
“Okay,” you draw in a breath, releasing as your next words fall. “Out with it then. You are making me anxious.”
“Yeah, okay, but I’m going to need some help. Help me lift him.”
Him?
“What?” You mutter under your breath, low enough for Lois not to hear. She’s in the pod by the time you enter, and instantly your heart stops, your eyes deceiving you.
“Oh my God,” you whisper. “Clark…”
Emotions are circling your head like ghosts, whispering the past in your ear to relive them in present time. It’s like a slideshow of every moment, the good, the bad, the sad, the best of times, flying behind your retinas. You hadn’t seen him in so long that seeing him like this, skin marred and almost sickly, has ingrained into your mind forever.
You sense Lois staring at you, but the tension from the reveal had lifted, confirmed by a sigh of relief heard from your side. “So, you knew. Clark never told me.”
“He doesn’t know I know,” you respond immediately, eyes not leaving him. You’re afraid he will disappear if you do. “What’s happened to him?”
“He has Kryptonite poisoning. He needs a place to lay low so he can recover. I was going to take him to his parents but this thing is quite… intuitive.”
You don’t respond. How can you respond? It has been so long.
Lois has moved in front of you, hands on your shoulders rubbing up and down. Her eyes are apologetic, lips rolling in like she is thinking. “I’m sorry to do this to you, but he’s in bad shape and your place is secluded. I know you still care about him, so I’m asking you to please look after him.”
You bite your lip, trying to calm the nerves firing in your body. You nod, looking past her back onto Clark. Your Clark.
But not really. Not anymore.
“I’m guessing the feds are after him?” You say with a shudder as you think about how bad things must’ve gotten.
“A lot has happened over the last few days. I’m sure you’ve seen the news.”
Oh, you have. It’s a way to keep tabs on him: to see him flourish as he lets his good intentions fly. It’s a way to see that what he is doing is for the betterment of Metropolis and maybe even the world. That’s the kind of guy Clark is to the core. To see how fast the media turned on him has you whiplashed but you can’t blame them. They fear what they don’t understand, but not you. You’ve always understood him, even when he thought you didn’t.
You wish he knew how much you understood his heart.
“So, what do we do with him? I think we can lug him out of here together.” Lois says, already rolling back her sleeves.
You sigh, moving up to where his legs end. “You can take the heavier half.”
You both manage to carry him out of the pod and into your home, huffing and puffing as you two basically throw him into your bed, the bed spring groaning loudly. ‘God, he is fucking heavy.’
Lois takes her leave, asking you to keep her updated as she continues to dig into Lex Luthor. You don’t ask questions, accepting that you will find out in due time. Besides, you have your work cut out for you.
You assess him. The dim light hides his condition slightly, the yellow toned shadows giving him cover. You crouch beside him, your hand grabbing his right hand lightly, not wanting to wake him. He still feels so warm; truly the embodiment of the sun.
God, you missed him so much, and yet you feel selfish for feeling as much. You ended things, yet your heart has never stopped longing for him. Lois would always keep tabs on him for you, and you were grateful. You wonder if he ever asked about you. You’ve considered reaching out but it felt wrong to do so. Why hurt him more? All you know is that in the morning, you both will have to confront each other: something you aren’t sure your heart is ready for.
You play with his sleeve, wondering if you have anything that would fit him, when you feel something beneath. Confused, you gently pull at what feels like plastic, only to be met with a photo that has seen better days. Your breath trembles, eyes glazing over as you look at the moment from a little less than two years ago. A moment where nothing was wrong, and everything was perfect.
It was the moment you two birthed Spring in the cold Delaware Winter.
✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧
Clark always enjoyed the New Years Eve festivities. It was always a time to celebrate the upcoming year, and this year he is attending a party the Daily Planet hosts. From what he’s been told, the catering is always a hit, the conversations flow, and it’s a time where being a journalist isn’t a main priority.
He was running late though: running towards the party as he fumbled with the buttons of his white dress shirt and his coat falling off his shoulders in his haste. He couldn’t have predicted that there would be a celestial entity trying to swallow up electricity from the Metropolis Energy Plant on New Years Eve, making him arrive only an hour before the New Year. He didn’t have to be a journalist tonight, but he will always be Superman. That is forever a 24/7 job.
He looks at his phone, seeing the texts he got from you, teasing in nature due to his tardiness.
New Message 9:30pm: You must be allergic to fun to run late to a NEW YEAR'S EVE PARTY!! Haha! Hope to see you soon?
New Message 10:12pm: You didn’t fall asleep on me, did you? Wakey, wakey, Clark!
New Message 10:30pm: Don’t make me kiss Jimmy for New Years. I won’t survive his fangirls :’)
That last message had Clark rushing. He knew you were joking, but the thought of your lips anywhere but on his own gives him the urgency to move fast. He sent you a text instantly to tell you he was on his way.
The two of you have been seeing each other for a few months. You and him had been circling around each other for a while until a late night research session led to him walking you home. A kiss on the cheek, a physiological response he had before realizing, leading to you kissing him as an answer. It was an unspoken thing, never fully confirmed to be official, even though he was exclusively with you. With the amount of time you two spend together, he can only assume the same applies to you.
Sometimes he can’t get over how someone as smart and beautiful as you wanted someone like him. He is a bit scatter brained, always going from one thing to the next without realizing, causing him to get clumsy and disoriented. You always told him it was endearing and charming, which he supposes is a win for tall, clumsy giants like him.
The building was in sight and he could see people outside mingling in the cold. They acknowledge him, telling him ‘Happy New Year’ as he responds in kind, walking through the doors. The party is lively: there is dancing, people socializing at the bar, people eating at the small standing tables. It makes him smile, seeing everyone enjoying one another.
His eyes scan the main lobby, looking for you amongst the sea of people, only to land on the dance floor to see you dancing with Lois. And good golly, he can feel his pupils grow bigger and his heart skip a few times as he takes you in.
You are glowing. As cliche as it sounds, the twinkly lights strung up around the room don't compare to how bright you are. Seeing you smiling, dancing without a care in the world, black cocktail dress riding up slightly with every twirl. Pretty black pumps accentuating your calves. You are a sight to behold, and the more he watches you, the more he wants to join you.
Like a moth to a flame, he draws closer, taking long strides to get into your vicinity. He sees you’ve caught sight of him, smiling fully with your teeth as you wave him over. He can’t help but walk faster, almost tripping in the process. Lucky for him, he made it just in time for you to grab his arm to steady him.
“You made it!” You exclaim. “With an hour to spare too!”
“What happened, Clark? Alarm didn’t go off again?” Lois jokes, nudging your shoulder with a laugh.
He feels the red creep up his neck, hand subconsciously going to rub the back of it. “Something like that.”
“Well,” he hears you start, arms wrapping around the arm at his side. “I’m glad you are here regardless, especially now that I don’t have to kiss Jimmy.”
“You know I would never put you through that.” He reassured, a smile tugging on his lips. “Besides, only I’m allowed to do that.”
“Is that right?” You tease. “Didn’t take you for the jealous type.”
“Not jealous,” Clark hums, pulling you into him. “Just know no one else can compare.”
“Oh God, you’ve turned him into a sick puppy,” Lois gags. “Cute but I’m going to go get a drink.”
You giggle into Clark’s chest, and gosh he loves the way you sound and feel against him. He tugs you a little closer, lips brushing against the top of your head as he rocks you back and forth. The music shifts, party music slowing down to something a little more laid back, and perfect for a slow dance.
You look up at him, and his hand goes up to your cheek, which is hot to the touch. He smirks, leaning down till his face is inches from yours. “You look so beautiful tonight. I can hardly handle it.”
You are rocking with him now, you two dancing under the yellow lights, a Jeff Buckley song playing in the background that Clark can’t name off the top of his head. It was romantic, and he loved that he could stay in this moment with you: admiring, adoring, longing.
“Yeah? I wore this just for you.” You say, biting your lip as your gaze settles on his.
“Did you now? I don’t know what I did to deserve such a sight.”
“Keep looking at me like that and you’ll be getting a lot more than just a look.”
Gosh, you are going to kill him.
“That’ll keep me on my toes,” he says, his hand grasping yours as his other settles on your lower back to keep him grounded.
“Well, someone needs to save you from your clumsiness.” You lean up, and place a kiss along his jaw. He swears he could collapse.
“Keep doing that and you’ll make me fall to my knees.”
“Is that a promise?” You hum against his throat, teeth nipping slightly at the skin.
Clark’s self-control is waning, and before he can react, you are already three steps ahead. You are pulling away from his body, hand staying secure in his as you drag him towards the doors leading outside. A laugh escapes his lips, exhilaration coursing through his veins as you pull him out into the cold, winter air. He knows it is getting close to midnight because a lot of people have migrated inside to toast.
He is pressed against the brick wall of the building, your body fitting against his with hands gripping his jaw. Your thumbs draw circles on the edges, lips close to his as you perch yourself on your tip toes. He is overwhelmed, breaths coming out in huffs with fingers digging into your hips. He knows it isn’t twelve, but he wants nothing more to pull you in and kiss the lipgloss off your lips and taste the vanilla perfume lingering on your skin.
“Can I kiss you?” He murmurs, forehead falling onto your own.
“You can’t wait till twelve?” Your hands travel until they are behind his neck. “Someone is impatient.”
“It’s hard to be patient when I have a gorgeous woman in my arms.” He hums, eyes becoming lidded.
“Ah, stop!” You laugh flushed, face burying itself into his chest. “Where did this confidence come from? You are making me dizzy.”
“Must be the festivities,” he says with a low chuckle rumbling from his lips, hands pulling you closer, if that’s even possible. “Also, I must be having a real affect with all these goosebumps on your arms.”
“It’s cold out here!”
“And you didn’t bring a coat.” He teases.
“No pain, no gain, Kent. The coats I own didn’t look right with this dress. Besides,” you place kisses up to his jaw, hot breath dancing along his ear. “I’ve got you to keep me warm.”
“Geez,” he laughs. “You really are trying to kill me.”
You are laughing with him, but then he hears the cheers from inside the building, ‘Happy New Year’ being chanted by the hundreds of people inside.
“Looks like you can kiss me now, baby.”
You didn’t have to tell him twice, bending down to meet your glossed lips, being soft in his movements to reacquaint himself after only a few hours of not kissing you. The taste of cherry seeps into his mouth, the artificial flavor melting on his tongue. Something about the combined taste of the gloss and you is addicting, so much so that he doesn’t care who sees the slightly lewd public display of affection. The fireworks in the distance are nothing compared to the fireworks setting off in his brain.
He can’t contain himself with how your fingers brush up into his hair, fisting the strands to draw him closer, like you want to melt into him. It makes him surge, arms wrapping around your middle to lift you, getting you leveled to him. His grip stays strong with one arm, letting one go free to hold the back of your head, anchoring you to him as he continues his ministrations on your lips. You squeal, legs kicking gently with arms grounding themselves into his back. He groans softly, adoring the way you react to him.
It isn’t until a bright flash goes off that you both simultaneously stop, heavy breaths creating cold smoke in the air. Clark turns his head to see Jimmy, smirking as he quickly airs out what looks to be a polaroid photo.
“I’m doing a story on New Year's traditions, and I think you two fit the New Year’s Kiss tradition quite well.”
Clark is stunned, setting you down gently and holding you until you have your balance. He hears you hum, curling into his side as you look at Jimmy. “I’m sure Perry will love seeing two of his best journalists making out for your column piece.”
Jimmy throws his head back, laughter filling the area as he shakes his head. “That would give me another story to cover. Two birds with one stone. Even though right now, I think I’m witnessing the beginning of the Birds and the Bees.”
“Jimmy!” You gawked.
“I’m kidding, I’m kidding!” His hands go up in surrender, walking over. “I actually just took this for you both. I thought a memory of tonight would be nice.”
Jimmy hands you the photo, and Clark glances down at it. It is still producing, but what he sees makes him smile. Seeing how you look in his arms, seeing the ease on your face when you kiss him. He is in awe at how you two look together, like everything is in its right place.
“I can’t believe I’m about to thank you for being a perv, but thanks for being a perv, Jimmy,” you say with eyes glued to the photo.
“Oh ha ha, very funny,” Jimmy says sarcastically. “Well, I’m going to go back in. You two coming inside?”
Clark feels you shiver beside him, and in an instant he opens his jacket and pulls you into it, wrapping it until most of your body is covered. You hum, pressing into him to soak up his warmth. Your eyes lift up to meet him, and immediately he reads what you are wanting. You want to go home. With him.
“I think we are going to head out. It’s a little cold out for this one.”
Another snap goes off, and Clark looks to see that Jimmy snapped another photo, repeating the motions of activating the picture.
“Here is a parting gift. Thought both of you would like one each so you don’t have to switch it off every week,” he shrugs, handing the photo to Clark. “You two get home safe. Happy New Year!”
Jimmy goes back inside, and the minute the door closes, you speak.
“Take me home, Clark”
The walk home blurs together. It is full of kisses, not so subtle touches, and silly banter that sends Clark into the stratosphere. Every time he is with you, it feels natural. He doesn’t necessarily have to hide himself, not like he usually does. He always worries his mannerisms will lead others to discover his identity, but with you it's different. He can let his guard down, and not worry that he is putting you in any kind of danger. Because he can be himself with you, you feel like home to him, even in the short amount of time you’ve been seeing each other.
You both arrived at your apartment building, heading up the stairs hand in hand. He can’t help himself when you go to unlock the door, hands resting on your hips rubbing circles with his thumbs. He hears your heart rate quicken, your breath becoming shallow as your hands twist the key and push the door open.
You both walk in, and once the door shuts, all of Clark’s inhibitions go out the window. He is on you in seconds, hoisting you up in his arms and landing you against the back of your front door. His mouth claims yours, a new found hunger in the way he moves against you. You suck on his tongue, coaxing deep noises from his chest, and then he feels you trying to push his coat off his broad shoulders.
He uses his hips to keep you up, his hard on pressing into your core, and teasingly takes his coat off. You groan at his pace, hands running down his arms to help push the material off before fisting his shirt and pulling him back in. His hands go to your thighs, moving up to push the black dress up until it scrunches up above your butt. His hands decide to rest there, moulding the flesh until his grip is firm enough to help you grind into him.
His lips move from your lips to your skin, eager to taste the delicious vanilla perfume that has mixed so well with your pheromones. He kisses along your neck, nipping and licking the delicate flesh one spot at a time. It has you releasing sounds he’s only heard in his wildest dreams, and it makes his pants grow tighter. He can’t believe he is the one causing you to act like this. He can’t get drunk, but he imagines this is what it must feel like: your noises becoming the alcohol that runs through his system.
“You taste so good, honey,” Clark moans into your neck. “Need to taste every inch of you. Need to suffocate in it.”
“Clark,” you gasp out, causing him to bite down a little harder to hear your voice go higher.
“Someone’s needy,” he murmurs, tongue soothing the love bite he has granted you. Something inside him hopes it still lingers there in the morning.
“If you don’t take me to bed right now, I swear to God,” you whine, head thudding against the door.
“Easy there,” he chuckles, hand going to the back of your head, clutching you so he can carry you to your room. “Don’t want you getting hurt.”
It takes seconds to get to your bed, laying you down carefully before standing at the edge. He goes to take his shirt off, only to stop when you push yourself up until you are on your knees for him.
“Let me take it off.”
So he lets you, watching your fingers remove each button diligently. The tone of the night has shifted into something more tender, the hunger simmering down. It’s agonizing but with how you are looking at him, like he is your whole world, makes him want to take care of you like you deserve.
The buttons are undone, and he takes it off, muscles flexing as he does. Your mouth is on his chest, kissing his pectorals while your hands run up and down his sides. He takes the opportunity to take your dress fully off, getting you to release him before reattaching as he flings it away.
He is becoming overwhelmed with how you touch him, sweet kisses laced with splendor landing all over his chest. Your hands are at his belt, unbuckling it along with the button and zipper of his black pants. It isn’t until you push the trousers down that his hands go to yours, his knee settling between your legs as he pushes you down onto the bed.
“I’m not done tasting you, sweetheart.” He kisses your sternum, smirking when he hears you huff.
“Well, maybe I wanna taste you too.”
“Not tonight, baby. With this being our first time together, I’m going to take care of you tonight.” He trails lower, nipping at your hipbones as he lifts your hips to remove your pretty black panties. “You can taste me another time.”
“Do you promise?” You ask innocently, and it makes his insides churn.
“Mhmm,” he hums, wrapping an arm around one of your legs and settling his free hand at your waist. “Now, let me enjoy this.”
He takes his time, his lips and tongue going everywhere except for where you need him. He wants to savor every last second of him pleasing you, getting you ready for him. He wants to prove to you he is a man that can satisfy his woman, read her wants and needs, and get her to the finish line. You’ve told him about previous lovers, how they never amounted to anything and never took you into consideration. But he was determined to show you how good you can feel with him, and he isn’t going to fail. He will never fail you.
You smell intoxicating, his mouth watering as he anticipates his own moves. He sees how your slit leaks, like it’s also waiting and craving for him to do something. The sight alone makes him cave, tongue rolling out to lick your clit slowly, causing your hips to bounce up with a shaky moan.
His hand holds your hip down, mouth getting his fill. His tongue alternates with his lips against your clit, sucking to bring you closer and licking to edge you on. He feels you twitch against him, hips shifting in a struggle to keep still. It makes him smile knowing you are feeling good.
The hand by your stomach trails up, reaching your bra only to yank the cups down until your breasts spill out. He grasps at your right one, squeezing it while giving a particularly hard suck to your clit, leading to a visceral reaction.
“Oh— fuck,” you cry out, back arching.
He pinches your nipple, a thrash of your hips as your answer, and it makes him grunt heavy into your cunt. He steadies your thigh so it stays on him before bringing his other hand to your entrance. He lets both his spit and your wetness coat his fingers before he slides one into you, rubbing against your walls to work you open.
“Clark—,” you draw out, sounding delirious.
“Mmm you look so pretty like this, sweetheart.” Clark adds another finger in, curling his fingers each time they enter your tight heat. He can tell you are close, seeing how your nerve endings are sparking up, ready for the dopamine release he is about to grant you. However, he doesn’t need to use his x-ray vision to tell with the way you are dripping down his fingers.
“I want you to look at me, honey,” Clark says against your slit. “I want to see you when you release on my fingers.”
He watches you nod, attempting to prop yourself on your elbows only to fall back when he adds a third finger. Something deep releases from you, a mix of frustration and pleasur. “Fuck— I can’t.”
Clark is fast to help you both out, hand releasing your breast to wrap his arm under your body, yanking you up until you're elevated from the pillows on your bed. His fingers are still going strong, working you to tears as he moves up to watch you with his forehead pressed against yours.
“I got you, sweetheart,” he murmurs, placing kisses against the apples of your cheeks.
“I’m so close, Clark— oh God,” you sob, releasing a louder one once he places his thumb on your clit.
“Let go for me, beautiful.” He steadies your head, fingers in your hair to keep your eyes on him. “Give it to me.”
Your body reacts to his command, your orgasm rushing against his fingers. He feels you spasming, and glancing down he sees the white fluid coating his fingers. His mouth waters, both from how you look falling apart for him and how much you are spilling onto his hand. An urge arises, and he can’t help but go back down between your legs, latching to your clit with vigor and lifting your hips off the bed.
A shrill wail bounces around the room. Your hands grab at his head, pushing and pulling like you can’t decide if the overstimulation is good for you. But Clark knows it is good; he knows by the way you only grow wetter at his ministrations. Hearing your cries and your babbling as he eats you alive is music to his hypertensive ears, and he doesn’t think he’ll ever get over it.
He lifts himself from you, easing his fingers out that glisten under the moonlight shining into your room. He slides them into his mouth, relishing in it as he watches you breathe heavy, eye lids lazy. With his fingers clean, he crawls back up to you, hands on your cheeks to draw you back into him.
“How are you holding up, sweet girl?”
“You are– wow,” you sigh with a laugh. Your hands mirror his, thumbs rubbing into the stubble of his jaw where there is a dampness. It is tender and he leans into the softness of your hand, turning his head to kiss the inside of it.
“Looks like I’ve taken the words right from your mouth,” Clark teases, leaning down to kiss your lips softly.
Your fingertips brush up towards his eyes, pushing his glasses up his nose. “I just can’t believe you ate me out with your glasses on. Thought they would get in the way.”
“O-oh, right,” Clark stutters, brain finally recognizing his glasses are still on. “I guess I like to make sure my world is crystal clear.”
“Oh, are you saying I’m your world?” You jest.
“Now you’re making me seem corny.”
“No,” you draw out, kissing the spot right above the bridge of his nose. “I think it’s very sweet, especially the way you talk me through it.”
He groans, loving the way you are praising him. “What can I say? You look so gorgeous when you fall apart by my hand.”
“Mmm, I bet I’d look even better above you.”
“Yeah?” He pulls back, thumbs rubbing against your lips, enamored with how pink and swollen they’ve gotten. “You want to ride me, sweetheart?”
“You’d let me?”
“I’d do anything you want, especially if it makes you more comfortable for our first time together.” And especially if it helps keep his glasses on.
“Oh-okay, then can you take your underwear off so I can see all of you? Please?”
Clark chuckles, moving off the bed. “Somebody’s impatient.” He stands up straight, thumbs hooked under the elastic to relinquish himself of his boxer briefs. His dick smacks heavy against his stomach, hard and drooling.
“Oh God…” he watches you turn on your side with hands on your face.
“What’s wrong?” Clark asks, snapping out of his horny haze to examine everything.
“You are fucking huge, Clark.”
“I mean, I guess I’m about average—”
“And you’re uncut!”
Clark gawks. “Is that a turn on for you?”
You turn back to him, patting the bed beside you. “How about you lay down and I’ll show you.”
Clark could pounce on you for how cute you’re being, but he restrains himself. He crawls back into bed to lay flat down, not before grabbing you to have you on top. You adjust on top of him as he kisses you, tongue swiping against your lower lip, begging for you to deepen the kiss. The moment your mouth opens for him, he feels your slit sit firmly on his cock. He groans into your mouth, hands holding the back of your head to keep himself together, your lips grounding him as you rock your hips back and forth.
Your bra is still on you, and Clark can’t have that. His hands go to the middle of your back where the clasp lays, and with ease unclasps it. His fingers trail up your arms, pushing the straps down until you are forced to release him to tear it off.
Your tongue is hot in his mouth, every grind of your hips sends a pulse through his cock. With every pulse, a moan is fed down his throat, and he swallows every one you grant him. When you pull away from his mouth, he can’t help but whine.
“Don’t worry, baby. It’s my turn to make you feel good.” Your fingers brush his lips, slick with spit.
He loves watching you like this. You are a determined person: always having a sense of control. He sees it in your work ethic, in the way you hold yourself. He loves that he gets the best of both worlds with you: one where you are shaking beneath him and one where you turn him into a complete mess. He doesn’t know what you’ll do, but he knows you will be his ruin.
He cannot wait to fall apart under your hand.
“I have a condom in my coat pocket.” He says in between kisses he places on your finger tips. “Did you want me to get it?”
“Oh wow, someone knew they were getting lucky tonight.”
“Well, I mean… I didn’t think, um, I mean not exactly—”
Your head is thrown back, laughing fully with your chest. “I’m just messing with you, you goof. Besides,” your hand wraps around his cock, stroking him enough to get him covered with your slick and his pre. “I’m on birth control, so you can cum inside me as much as you want.”
His face is so red. He feels the heat burning his skin at your words. “You cannot just say stuff like that.”
“Awe and why’s that?” You coo, lining him up to your entrance.
“You know exactly why— ah!”
His tip is engulfed, his cock slowly making its way into you. Your hands lay flat on his chest, steadying yourself so you can take the time you need to adjust. His head is thrown back into the pillows, where he smells you so clearly, and it’s driving him insane. He wants to watch you, but shoot, you feel too good. He knows he’s a goner.
“Clark…” He feels your fingertips on his chin, pushing down so he is made to look at you. “I looked at you when I came. You’re gonna do the same for me.”
You ease down a little bit more, and Clark is already losing it. Your walls hug him so well, a perfect fit between two people. He doesn’t know if it’s his abnormal origin or what but the way he is having to hold back is through sheer willpower. He’s had rendezvous affairs before but he has always felt in control: like he’s not going to slip up.
But this? You on top of him, basically sitting on him pelvis to pelvis now, oh he could break. It makes him sweat knowing he could rock into you at such a pace that it would catch you off guard. It would create suspicion and that scares him. His fear nags at him, but his adoration and love are stronger, reminding him that this is you. You trust him, and he’s grateful.
“What’s wrong, Clark? Why are you crying?”
“What?” His hand shoots to his face, a wetness under his eyes he didn’t suspect.
“We don’t have to do this, Clark. We can stop—“
“Don’t you dare stop,” he responds immediately. “You’re just incredible. I am the luckiest man in the world to have someone like you with me.”
He loves you. He hopes somewhere in there, you understand what he’s saying.
“Oh Clark,” you purr, leaning down until your face is over his. “Trust me when I say this: I’m the lucky one. I’ve never been so happy in my life.”
More tears fall, a smile growing big on his face when he feels the kisses on his lips: quick and full of little laughs. His laughs die in his throat, however, because when you start to rock your hips, up and down, they turn into prolonged groans.
You’re sitting back up, hands pressing down on his chest as you bounce on him, eyes never leaving his. It’s intense the way you look at him, causing him to look down between your legs to see his shaft entering you.
“You look so pretty, Clark.” You cooed at him, and he watched as you dropped harder into his lap. “I love how needy you are for me.”
“Please, baby— fuck!” Clark throws his head back, hands shooting to your hips like holding you to him will calm him down. Like it will hold him back from slamming into you.
You gasped. “Wow! What an honor that I can get certified gentleman Clark Kent to curse for me.”
“I’m sorry. I couldn’t— hmph! I couldn’t help it. You feel too good around me, honey.” He knows he’s babbling, his senses consuming him with everything that is you.
“It’s okay, my darling. It’s very hot when you lose yourself like this. It feels good, doesn’t it?”
Clark can only nod, your pace growing faster. He’s throbbing, and he wonders if you can feel it. You answer his question when a particular drop of your hips has you moaning out into the air, hips stilling for a second. He seizes this opportunity, using his elbows to push himself up until his back is pressed against the headboard. He yanks you back into him until you are sitting in his lap, and he makes it so your legs are wrapped around his waist.
“Come on, honey. You wanted to watch me fall apart, right? Let’s keep it going.”
He leans you back just a little, enough for his left hand to stay on the mattress to support you under his arm. His feet plant into it, and he rolls his hips back and forth slow and hard. Your hands are tugging hard at his hair, and he grunts low with every pull. Your tits are bouncing with every push, and they tempt him. Saliva produces intensely and giving into temptation, he ducks to latch onto your right nipple. He feels it pebble on his tongue as it curls and lathers it, only sucking harder when he wants to hear you more.
“Music to my ears,” he says with a pop, already going to the other to give it attention as he continues to make love to you.
“Jesus Christ,” you choke. “You are a menace.”
“And you are an enabler,” he laughs, lifting his head back to look at you.
“An enabler?!”
“Yeah with the way you got me cursing. You are a bad influence.”
“You said fuck once, Clark.”
He thrusts in harder at that, shaking a gasp from your lungs. “One too many.”
He doesn’t know what he expected, but next thing he knows he is back up against the headboard. Your knees are back beside his thighs, and you are going full force on him. The way you start to ride him, back arched in with hips slamming down on his cock, has his jaw slacked. He sees your hand grab at the headboard and the other goes to his throat. There is no pressure, but feeling it there makes Clark lightheaded.
“You know what I think, Clark?” You breathe against his ear. “I think you like that I’m a bad influence.”
His head falls forward on your shoulder, shuddering at how you are reading him.
“You love not being restrained, right? That sweet, gentleman from Kansas persona must be exhausting, yeah?”
His breathing is getting erratic, which isn’t commonplace for him. Granted, the way you make him feel isn’t.
“You know you can be however you need to be with me because I accept every part of you. I accept that you are Superman because I love you.”
His eyes shoot open, head shooting up. “Superman? What?”
He is freaking out. There is no way you know. He had been so good at hiding it, or at least he thought he did. What gave it away? Oh no, this is not how he wanted you to find out. He wanted to tell you personally. He wanted to have a moment of honesty when the time is right.
“Shhhh,” you hush softly, hands going to his face to soothe. “It’s okay, Clark. I’ve always known.”
“You,” he swallows. “You did?”
“Yes, and I need you to know that it doesn’t matter to me. It doesn’t change anything.”
The sentimental moment should not bring him closer to releasing, but it is. He is so close. So freaking close.
“You are mine, Clark. You’re my Clark no matter what. And I want you to let go for me.” He feels you place a kiss under his ear. “Let go for me, my darling. Please.”
He is so fucking gone. His ears are ringing. Static is running through his veins as he shakes. His mind is no longer in his control, not with the way he is pounding into you from below. It’s almost an out of body experience, except he is experiencing everything. His senses are blank, yet they are receiving every pleasurable shockwave. He has never felt anything like this, and he doesn’t want it to end.
But the strange thing is: it does end. The minute his eyes open, he isn’t in your apartment anymore. And the euphoric pleasure he was in is gone and replaced with an incredible ache that covers his entire body.
‘What was that?’ He thinks. He has dreamed that memory so many times, yet it has never ended that way before. It scared him, but that relief he had felt was still there. Even if it wasn’t real.
He doesn’t move for a second; just takes in everything he sees. There is a brown ceiling fan spinning slowly. There are two windows, one beside the dresser and the other to his direct left, blinds cracked to reveal shimmering sunlight. There is a dark wooden dresser in front of him with little knick knacks on top. There is a table beside it full of perfume bottles, a jewelry box, and a lamp. To his right, he sees a desk with papers and a laptop on it, weirdly familiar in the way it reminds him of his own desk at the Daily Planet. There is art on the walls, paintings mostly aside from a few posters and pictures. It isn’t until his eyes focus in on one of the picture frames that his heart stops, anxiety spiking.
He gets up slowly, the bed creaking with every movement. He walks over to the picture hung beside the bed, and what he sees shocks him. What he sees is you.
You are in your cap and gown, holding your diploma with that beautiful smile on your face. He looks at another one, and it is of you and Lois from Halloween last year. You two were dressed as Wayne and Garth from Wayne’s World. It had been a month since the break up. It was three months before you moved away.
He walks over to the desk, and even with the clutter he sees two picture frames. One was you when you were younger with your grandma on a bench swing. You were laughing, twisted around in her arms: a beautiful memory. He had met your grandma once when she came to visit Metropolis. It was apparent you two were very close, being the only family you had left, and she was so kind-hearted. It made sense she had been the one to raise you.
He moves on to the other photo and it isn’t until his eyes land on it that he feels a wave nausea course through him.
You had kept the other New Years Eve photo.
His shaking hand picks it up, eyes scanning it to ingrain it. He hadn’t seen this version of that night in so long, and he was sure you would have thrown it out. Why would you keep it?
Nothing makes sense. Why is he here and where is here exactly?
He hears footsteps coming from across the house and he panics. Does he lay back down and act asleep? Does he apologize for intruding? Does he sneak out the stupid window like some kind of teenager? He isn’t Clark Kent right now. He’s Superman. What can he even say?
It’s too late to act though because before he knows it the door opens and time stops all together. He feels like a deer caught inbetween the headlights, frozen in place because everything about this situation doesn’t feel real. Holding your picture in his Superman attire, staring back at the one person who always brought him back to earth. He’s surprised he hasn’t passed out from the weight.
You closed the door gently, eyes not leaving his. You look nervous and guarded, hands holding some clothes that he recognizes as his own. Some he probably let you borrow a while back. Clothes you didn’t throw away.
“You’re awake.”
“Yeah, well I-” he starts before swallowing his own saliva. “Ma’am I’m sorry to intrude. To be honest, I’m not quite sure how I got here. Forgive my—”
“It’s okay, Clark. I know it’s you.”
That shuts him up, eyes bulging out of his eye sockets. “What…”
“I’ve always known, so you don’t need to act weird.” You look away from him, walking towards the bed to set the clothes down. “You probably have questions, and I have some too. However, I’m sure you want to shower and change into something more comfortable.”
He’s speechless. What does he even say to that?
“I’m about to cook breakfast, so come to the kitchen when you’re ready. And one more thing.” You are looking back at him again, and he notices how tired you are. It worries him. “My grandma is here. Don’t worry about her as her eye sight isn’t the greatest. She won’t notice anything different.”
With that you shut the door with a soft click. He hears you patter down the hallway, and he doesn’t dare move. His thoughts are running a million miles per minute. He’s paralyzed because of you and your confession.
You are back in his orbit.
✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧
“Here you go, Grammie.”
“Oh…”
“What’s wrong?”
“I don’t like boiled eggs.”
“You liked the boiled eggs I made you last week.”
“Did I?”
“Sure did.”
“What about oatmeal? Do we have any oatmeal?”
“Um, yeah we do.”
“Can I have some oatmeal, darling? Please?”
“Yeah, no problem.”
You sigh as you walk into the kitchen, breakfast meant for your grandma now meant for you. You hate when she does that. You should expect it by now, but it still drives you crazy how she will switch up. In reality, it’s not that much of a problem; making oatmeal is super quick. But you also know she needs protein and other nutrients that aren’t just steel cut oats. On the other hand, eating is better than not eating at all
You grab the Quaker Oats box, prepping a bowl for the microwave before getting out some other products for flavor. You hear the door from the hallway open, the heavy patting of feet hitting the floor, and soon enough Clark is in your line of sight.
He looks good. You luckily had a couple of his flannels and gym shorts, having packed them by mistake when you moved. He had on the dark blue and brown flannel with light grey shorts. Not a perfect match, but better than him walking around in his boxers or whatever he wears under his suit.
Oh God, if he even wears any.
“Smells good,” he says, voice a little rough. “Oatmeal?”
“The oatmeal is for my grandma, but I made some, um, boiled eggs, sausage, and biscuits. There is also some yogurt and berries. I hope that’s okay?” You don’t know why you ask it like a question.
“Of course it is okay. I appreciate it.”
“Great, well, plates are up in that cabinet. Please take what you like.” As you finish your sentence, the microwave goes off, taking your attention away from him.
There is a silence between you two. You expected as such, but it wasn’t comfortable like it used to be. The air was tense and uncertain. It had been close to a year since you’d seen him, and a lot has happened. However, a small part of you wish it felt like it used to. Now, it feels like you two are strangers and it kills you inside.
You bring the apple brown cinnamon oatmeal to your grandma, making sure she is sat all the way up in her bed before eating. You tell her you’ll check in on her soon before shutting her door. You walk into the dining room where Clark is, seeing him looking out the window. You see he hasn’t touched his food, and see another plate set up with the food you cooked in the seat across from him. A small smile creeps onto your face. Still ever the gentleman.
“Thank you for making me a plate. That’s very kind of you.”
Clark looks at you and you see his eyes light up. “It is no trouble. You cooked.”
You nod before taking your seat, taking the time to enjoy your meal. It is quiet again, but it is a silence that is begging to be broken. Lucky for you, Clark has no problem with that.
“So, is this your house or is it your grandma’s?”
“It’s my grandma’s, but I did grow up here. The room you were in was my old room that I kinda made new when I moved back here.”
Clark hums. “So I’m guessing we are in Louisa right now?”
“We sure are,” you confirm. “It’s no Smallville, but there is a charm here I guess.”
“I’m sure it is nice,” Clark suggests. “I am curious as to how I got here though.”
“Hmm…” You lean back in your chair, arms folded. “What do you remember last?”
Clark swallows his food, setting his fork down to clasp his hands in front of him. You can tell he remembers, but doesn’t want to indulge. It makes you think he must’ve seen some horrific things.
“You don’t have to say anything you don’t want to say,” you reassure. “All I can say is Lois brought you here. I’m guessing she didn’t really know where to locate your parents, and she didn’t feel like she had the time to figure it out. So, she brought you here.”
“I must have been in pretty rough shape.”
“You had Kryptonite poisoning.”
He stays silent for a moment, eyes staring at the middle of the table. His jaw works like he wants to say something, but his mouth won’t open for the words to come out. There is conflict in his brow, and you wish you could get up and hug him. But you don’t. You stay glued in your seat patiently.
He closes his eyes, taking a deep breath through his nose before releasing through his mouth. His eyes open, and what you see is a vulnerable boy staring right back at you; a side of Clark you rarely ever saw.
“When did you find out I was Superman?”
“I’ve known for a while,” you start, taking a sip of your orange juice before continuing. “I found out on the morning of New Years.”
“How?”
“I had woken up, and when I went to get up I had noticed you still had your glasses on.” You look down at your hands, uneasy in how you were going to say this next part. “I didn’t want them to break, so I took them off while you were sleeping. I didn’t think much of it but then I saw your face without them and I felt like I had gone crazy because it wasn’t you, but it also was.”
There it is again: silence. God, you hate the fucking silence.
Clark’s voice chokes, and you wish it was because he had choked on his food but no. It’s from disbelief. You hate the sound of that more. “You’ve known for that long? You knew and didn’t say anything?”
“It’s not like you told me,” you try to reason. “I thought it would be better for me to wait until you were ready to tell me, but as time went on, it seemed less likely.”
Clark’s food remains untouched at this point, plate pushed to the side so there is a place to put his elbows. His face is in his hands, breath staggered like he’s having a hard time keeping oxygen down. You’ve never seen him like this before. Not even when you ended things.
“Clark, I—”
“Is that why you left?”
You are stunned. Out of all the things he could’ve asked, you didn’t expect him to ask that. Honestly, it kind of pissed you off.
“What? No, Clark. I didn’t leave because of your little secret.” You cringe at how harsh you sounded, but it couldn’t be helped. “I apologize if I never fully explained why I left, but not everything revolves around you.”
“It has everything to do with me!” He raises his voice. Not quite yelling, but emotions are running high. “It has everything to do with me when you end things with no explanation. ‘I have a lot going on’ is not a good answer.” He’s looking at you dead on, and the look on his face is so unlike him. It’s Clark, but it’s a side of him he never let you see: frustration, anguish, distress.
You want to tell him why. He’s going to see for himself soon enough, but there is a pettiness in your heart you can’t seem to get rid of. There is a stubbornness that knows he is right, yet refuses to accept it. You can admit you are at fault, but he isn’t innocent. This isn’t all on you.
“You say all this yet it’s not like you fought for me to stay in your life.” Your words are cold. “I didn’t ask you to, so I’m not angry. I’m not upset. I had my reasons, Clark. Also, by the way, just goes to show how much you trust me with how you told Lois and not me!”
“You think I would tell Lois?” He scoffs. “She confronted me because she connected the dots! I didn’t see a point in lying!”
“But you felt so comfortable hiding it from me? Isn’t that considered lying?” You shouldn’t be this heated but something in you is screaming. “When you cancel plans because ‘stuff’ came up? When you leave in the middle of the night? How dare you ask for an explanation from me when you never gave me one?”
Clark is getting up from the table, aggravation clear on his face. You’ve never had an argument like this. Even when this is not a screaming match, it feels worse: two emotionally constipated adults trying to one up each other rather than saying the silent part out loud. You thought things would be different after a year's time, but you were kidding yourself. How could things be different when nothing was solved to begin with?
Your phone rings, and you look to see your grandma is calling. You don’t answer, looking to the kitchen to see Clark doing the dishes. You couldn’t tell if he was doing them to relieve himself of the irritation, to be polite, or both. Knowing him, it’s probably the ladder.
You walk to your grandma’s room, opening to see her on the phone until she sees you. “What’s the commotion? Who’s here?”
“Oh, um,” you start, scratching your head. “Well, do you remember Clark?”
“Oh that handsome young man? Of course! I didn’t know you two were still together.”
Thanks for bringing it up, Grammie. Twist the knife a little deeper.
You shake your head. “He’s just visiting. He won’t be here long. Now, let's get you into your wheelchair for a little bit, yeah?”
She groans, causing you to roll your eyes. “I know you hate it but you need to get your back stronger so I can take you to appointments.”
“Who needs to go anywhere?” She sighs. “I’m quite content staying here.”
“I know you are, but since specialists won’t come here, we gotta get to them. You may think it’s ridiculous but I promise you’ll thank me later.”
She doesn’t respond and you are thankful. It’s exhausting having to explain her health to her, and you hate that it exhausts you. It aggravates you that her health coverage won’t cover certain home visits, and the ones they do cover are unreliable, cancelling appointment after appointment. You’ve tried going to see health professionals before but the transport costs an arm and a leg, plus your grandma couldn’t withstand the far drive into town. You wish you could do more for her. You wish you were stronger for her. You wish you had the mental capacity to have more patience.
You help her sit up, steadying her before grabbing the wheelchair, the gait belt, and the transfer board. You click the belt around her waist, lock the wheelchair breaks and double check that they are secure, and then place the transfer board under her bottom. You set your position, grabbing the belt and making sure you weren’t in the way of her feet.
“Okay, remember to just slide your hand along the board until it reaches the armrest. Once you grab it, pull yourself.”
She nods and on the count of three, you hold onto her as she slowly moves. You are holding a lot of her weight up, a constant fear that she will slip and you won’t have a good grip. It’s a lot on your body; one wrong move and your back goes out. It’s tiresome but it’s needed. The more you help her with this, the less you’ll have to do in time.
“Alright, good job. Almost there,” you say encouragingly.
“I’m slipping,” she huffs. “I’m going to fall.”
“I got you. I’m going to count to three and I want you to hold on to me, okay? I’m going to pull you the rest of the way.”
You count to three, and with a deep breath you heave her over into the wheelchair. You adjust her, moving her legs more in and then moving back to pull her more into the wheelchair.
“You okay? See that wasn’t so bad.” You try to sound convincing, but the elevated breathing didn’t help.
“Y-yeah, I guess.” Your grandma knows you are lying. She always does. “I just don’t like that you have to do this by yourself. I have the money to get a caretaker, darling. We should get one so you can have a break.”
“Yeah,” you exhale. “Maybe once you stop buying stuff from HSN”
“Okay, but what else am I supposed to do? I just lay here all day!” She exclaims, hands in the air.
“You do not. You just don’t want to do anything else, even if it’s good for you,” you say, trying to not get irritated. You take a deep breath, reigning yourself in. ‘Do not take it out on her,’ you think.
“Listen,” you sigh, hands on your hips. “Maybe once I get my book published, we can look into it. I understand what you’re saying, but finding a good caretaker takes time and the rates add up. I am making very little right now, so all we have is your income from retirement and social security to pay bills. Also, if we need to send you to the hospital again, heaven forbid, you need money for that. I am trying.”
“I know, darling,” she says, looking at her hands. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay, Grammie,” you say, feeling bad because you see how much it bothers her that her independence was stripped away. Now you both live in this dance of highs and lows, which you wish you had better control over. Because at the end of the day, this is your grandma and this isn’t her fault. It’s no one’s.
“Now,” you clap your hands, grabbing the remote off the rolling tray by the bed. “Did you want to watch some TV? We can go into the living room or if you want, you can stay and watch in here.”
Before she can answer, there is a soft knock from the door. You look to see Clark’s head slowly peaking in, hesitantly to assure no intrusion.
“Hey,” he clears his throat. “The dishes are washed and they are drying on the rack. I wrapped your food up too in case you want it later.”
Your heart speeds up at that. The thoughtfulness that is Clark Kent.
Clark steps in, walking towards your grandma with eyes wide and smile quirked. “And look at this young lady here.”
“Oh hi, Clark!” She says excitedly. “It’s so nice to see you. It’s been so long.”
You think back to when your grandma met Clark for the first time. She had come to visit for the holidays, and you introduced her to him. And they just talked, and talked, and talked. It warmed you so, seeing the two people you cared deeply for talking and laughing together. You recall the time Christmas music was playing in your living room, ‘Last Christmas’ by Wham! playing in the background, and Clark had started dancing with her around the living room. He was good to her, bringing so much life and light that it made your heart spin. It was the moment you knew he was the one, and that you loved him; that no man could ever compare to Clark Kent.
God, you’re gonna be sick.
“Darling?”
“Huh?” Shaken out of your daze, your eyes refocus. You see Clark has a chair pulled up, hands cradling your grandma’s.
“You should go lay down, darling. Rest a little bit. Clark and I have some catching up to do,” she chirps happily.
“Grammie, I know you are excited to see him, but he needs to—”
“I’ll be okay. Just leave the windows up. The sunlight is enough.”
Any frustration that Clark had earlier is gone, and a completely new face is there before you. One of understanding and tenderness that leaves you breathless. The one you’d see after a long day of work. The one you’d see when you close your eyes.
It’s love. It’s the look of love.
“Please,” he begs. “Get some rest.”
“Um… yeah. Yeah, okay. Can you wake me up in a little bit?”
“I got you, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart. You don’t know how much more you can take of him.
You make your retreat, walking into your room only to crash onto the bed. Your head feels fuzzy from the lack of sleep you’ve been getting lately, but the pillows that welcome you feel divine. But what makes you at ease, body responding as it relaxes, is how Clark’s scent trails up your nose. His scent has infused into your bedding, and it calms you until there is a lull. Sleep consumes you and he infiltrates your dreams.
✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧
Clark feels like a jerk. A big, buttheaded jerk.
He’s not a mind reader by any means, but he has instincts. When he is Superman, he is making decisions based on instinct: what will cause the least amount of damage? What will save the most people? It is second nature to him, so why couldn’t he use that to shut up and listen? Why did he have to jump to conclusions like a freaking idiot?
He felt the hurt the second he stood up to leave the conversation. He saw the way your shoulders slacked, how your heart rate thumped like crazy. He should’ve apologized at that moment, for making rash judgements, for raising his voice, but no. He had to double down.
He did the dishes, trying to take his mind off of things, but how could he? He is in your vicinity disrupting your life. It didn’t matter how focused he was on scrubbing the plates and putting the cups into the dishwasher. His mind would snap back to how you looked just then: discouraged, upset, sad. It makes him nauseous. And as he wraps your food up, seeing the barely touched plate sitting at the table, he can’t help but know you are right.
He did lie to you, even if it was to ensure your safety. After seeing what happened to Mali, someone who had simply offered his kindness, only reaffirms he was in the right to hide it from you. If someone like Lex knew of your existence and did something to harm you, he would never recover. Half of his heart would be gone forever. He never meant to make you feel like he strung you along with his vague excuses.
However, the devil’s advocate in him tells him he’d be able to save you, that he can protect you. He would die before he let anything happen to you. Clark doesn’t believe in killing, but if someone dared lay a finger on you, they’d regret it. If there is one thing he is selfish about, it is you. He loves you too much to let go.
So, why did he? Why didn’t he fight harder?
‘Oh, yeah. Because I’m a freaking idiot and a jerk.’
He closed the dishwasher, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel when he heard it: heartbeats, rapid in succession. He knew one was yours, but there was another. It was more elevated, panicky even. It threw Clark for a loop, not hearing any other commotion. So, like the journalist he is, he investigates.
The door in the hallway is cracked, and the pulses get stronger. He peaks, feeling slightly intrusive without trying to be, and the sight before him makes him sigh sadly.
He had only met your grandma once, and she is a lovely woman. Full of love, cheer, not a care in the world. It was something he saw in you, and it made sense you were cut from the same cloth. A wonderful woman raising another wonderful woman. It wasn’t that long ago, so seeing her now, legs contracted at the knees and struggling to get in the wheelchair with your help, shattered him.
It only worsens when he looks at you, struggling to help her. He sees what it is doing to your body, how it is creating tension in your muscles. It is no surprise you are tired, caretaking for another person. It makes him want to burst in there and help, but he stays in place. He can already hear the scolding he’d get if he interferes. For now, he watches, trying to put the puzzle pieces together.
Did you leave because your grandma became ill? Have you been taking care of her this whole time?
For the most part, your grandma seemed relatively healthy. Even without X-Ray vision, he sees she’s alert, knows what’s going on, and has some upper arm strength. He wonders what possibly could’ve brought her to this point? Was she worse off at one point? Has she improved any? All these questions run through Clark’s head, and while it is none of his business, he wants to understand.
So with that, he knocks on the door to let himself in and from then on it’s the start of a world of information. After talking with your grandma, he feels even more like a jerk than before.
After you’d gone to lay down, they didn’t get too much into anything. She had asked him how work was, if anything was new, why he was visiting, how long he was visiting for. White lies, of course, are what he had to lean on.
“Work has been great! They got me handling a lot of the press regarding Superman. They seem to think I understand him fairly well.” ‘Who knows Superman better than Superman himself?’
“I wasn’t feeling too well recently, but being away from Metropolis has helped!” ‘I had Kryptonite poisoning because some psycho doesn’t like me.’
“I came to see your granddaughter.” ‘Not on purpose, but I’m glad to see her again. I love her.’
“Probably not for long.” That’s the only thing that’s completely truthful because he’s Superman. The world needs him, and he can’t stay here forever. Even if he wants to.
Then, they got into her circumstances, which are your circumstances. All in all, it’s unfair. He hates how unfair life is to some people.
Your grandma has been bedbound for over a year. She got the flu, and was stuck in the hospital for two months. In that span of time, she lost her ability to walk. It was rehab to rehab after that until Medicare wouldn’t cover it anymore and she has been back home ever since. You’ve been taking care of her ever since.
“She works so hard, but I hate that she has to do this. I don’t want to be this way. I wish I could just get up and walk but I have a hard time sitting up on my own. I wish she would get some help. I have the money.”
Conversation streamed away after that, going into something more light hearted. She talked about the house, what your room used to look like, all the places you liked to hide when playing hide and seek. She talked about how you loved helping her in the garden, and cooking the veggies she would harvest for supper. She said one of her favorite memories was when you were four or five, you would beg for her to sing old nursery rhymes or tell old folk tales. It made him laugh, these stories.
“It’s strange because she is very much like my mom. The way she takes care of me, is stern yet patient. I took care of her, and now she takes care of me. I feel like her child. It’s funny how these things turn out.”
All he can think is how in love he is with you. An absolute heart of gold.
After what felt like hours of talking, he gets her into bed with ease. He insists on helping her anyway she needs, wanting you to rest more. So he does: he changes her, fixes her a tomato sandwich with the heirloom tomatoes you grew (Lois was right; they are stunning), adjusts her so she is sitting up properly. He gave the works.
It is late in the afternoon by the time he leaves your grandma’s room, the sun pouring through the windows warm and glowing. He walks to your room, and it is ajar. He peeks in and the sight of you asleep makes him soften. The sun is hitting you sweetly, basking you in a light that puts the Angels to shame. You look at ease, peaceful. He is sure you don’t get the sleep you need, so he is glad he gave you the chance to catch up.
He goes to sit on the edge of the bed, watching you sleep a little longer before he wakes you up. He takes you in, and he can’t help but bring his fingers to your hairline to smooth the baby hairs. He hasn’t touched you in so long, and it is electric the way your skin sends shockwaves through him. He takes a deep breath, following how you inhale and exhale, breathing along with you like it connects him to you somehow.
He sighs. “I’m sorry for not understanding before. For not telling you.”
You shift, eyes still closed and breathing regular. Your head draws closer to his touch, now cradled in the palm of his hand. He smiles warmly.
“I just hope you know that our time together wasn’t a waste for me, and that if I could rewind time, I would make sure you knew everything. I pushed you away without realizing, even with my good intentions, and in that I failed at showing how much I love you.” He is pouring his heart out, relief flowing from his body.
“You are the one that got away, but I hope you know I still love you. I will always love you.”
You shift again, but this time your eyes slowly start to open. You blink slowly, stretching like a house cat as you yawn deeply. You push yourself up on your elbows, glancing around until your eyes land on him.
You are so cute when you are sleepy. God help him.
“Hm, what time is it? How long have I been asleep?” You yawn again, rubbing your eyes in the process.
“It is almost five I believe.”
“What?!” You jolt. “Oh God! I need to check on Grammie I–”
“Hey, hey,” he holds you down with the weight of his hand on your thigh. “It’s okay. She is resting right now. She’s been changed and ate lunch.”
You are staring at him, eyes wide in disbelief. “You what? I– Clark you didn’t have to do that. You should've woken me up.”
“I wanted you to rest,” he says, squeezing your thigh reassuringly. “Being a caretaker for a loved one is a lot. You deserve a break.”
He can tell you are at a loss for words, eyes looking at where his hand is placed. “I don’t know what to say…”
“You don’t need to say anything. I got you, always.”
You look up at him and he sees your eyes are glossy, lip wobbling. It devastates him.
“It’s been a lot. When she first went into the hospital, I thought she wasn’t going to make it. They made it seem like she would need hospice care, and that scared me so bad. I wasn’t ready to let her go.”
“I know that must’ve been scary, especially going through it alone. But sweetheart, I need you to know that you don’t have to do this alone. Not while I’m around.”
Tears are streaming down your face, hands coming up to your face. You were hanging on the edge, teetering on pulling yourself up or letting go. It is when your shoulders start to shake that he gets closer, pulling you into him as you cry. He wraps his arms around you tightly, squeezing you carefully to add some pressure. Sobs wreck your body, arms wrapped around his neck gripping on like a lifeline.
“I’m sorry,” you choke out, more tears falling. “I– I didn’t want to add more stress. You were so bu– busy I didn’t want to bother you w– with it.”
His jaw locks, teeth grinding to keep himself together. “You have nothing to be sorry for. I’m sorry for not being honest. For making you think you couldn’t tell me anything. That was unfair of me.”
You are shaking your head violently against his shoulder, gasping for air like you couldn’t breathe.
You two stay like that for a while, him rubbing your back and rocking you back and forth to calm you down. Your sobs eventually turn to whimpers, small gasps coming out periodically that shutter your chest. He waits for you to speak, not wanting to break your concentration of peace.
“I’m okay,” you mutter into his flannel. “I think I needed that.”
“It’s always good to get a cry out,” he says in agreement, still rubbing your back.
“Yeah,” you sniffle, a chuckle coming right behind it. “I kinda feel like I’m floating.”
He laughs, pulling you away enough so he can see your face. His thumbs go to wipe under your eyes, soaking the salty residue into his skin. It’s the way you look vulnerable, cheeks stained from crying, eyes dry yet wet at the edges. It’s a vulnerability he hasn’t seen from you, and he’s happy it’s happening. It signifies change, the start of something new.
“I meant what I said,” he says earnestly. “You don’t have to do this alone. I’m here.”
“You know you can’t stay here forever though, Clark.”
He knows you’re right. He will have to leave. He doesn’t know what Lex’s next move is going to be or when Boravia’s next attack on Jarhanpur will happen, but he knows it’ll be soon. But for now, he can enjoy the time he gets with you. Enjoy it until the world decides to implode on itself once more.
✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧
There is a domesticity in the air for the rest of the day.
After the moment you and Clark shared, you had things to do. You told Clark he should continue to rest, but the man is stubborn like you, so there was no denying him.
Currently, you two are tending to the garden. The first frost has yet to come, and you wanted to prune and harvest some things for dinner. Clark was more than eager, and even though growing up he tended more to animals, he has a pretty good green thumb.
“I think it’s great you kept up with her garden,” Clark says joyously.
“Well, it beats driving over thirty minutes to the nearest grocery store. Besides, I have found it to be very therapeutic. I like watching things grow."
“Ma always told me gardening brings community.”
“Hmm, guess that’s why you are such a people person.”
You both laugh, and you turn to put some yellow squash in the weaved basket when you see Clark taking off his flannel. The squash falls from your hands, mouth ajar as you see his sun-kissed muscles flex. Golden hour is at its peak, and you watch how the sun makes him shimmer. You’re in awe of how beautiful he looks. An Angel sent to the Earth.
Which isn’t totally wrong.
“Your gawking is cute.”
You snap out of your haze, looking up to see him smirking down at you.
“It’s,” you pause. “It’s not even hot out.”
“I’m a thermos. I get hot. Gardening is very hard work you know,” he shrugs, but you can tell he is enjoying the act of making you squirm.
The fucker knows what he’s doing.
“You are a big meanie,” you moan. “You are using your gifts against me.”
He tosses in some regular tomatoes, leaning in close. “It’s not my fault your heart is telling me everything I need to know. She’s very loud.”
He stands up with a brush of his knees, eyes crinkling in success because Lord knows your heart is in overdrive. You know he is fistpumping in his head right now, yelling a ‘mission accomplished.
“We should pick some Zucchini. Very versatile.”
Smug bastard.
Once dusk starts to come in with its waves of dark blue in the sky, you both head inside. You let Clark shower, needing him to clear his sweaty model image so your brain can rest. Last thing you need is to feign over him in front of your own grandmother, and be teased about it later.
You cut the veggies, slicing and dicing as you set them all in their proper places. As you finish up, you hear the bathroom door open and the minute you turn around out of instinct, you wish you hadn’t.
Because while he isn’t sweaty anymore, he’s now glistening with water, the steam surrounding him in an aura. He had on the black sweats you luckily found in the back of your dresser, but the green and blue flannel you handed him was absent. The only thing covering his upper half is the towel wrapped around his shoulders.
At least he has some decency.
You turn back around, focusing on the task at hand, ignoring the weird pulsing happening in between your legs. “You better put that flannel on before I get my grandma out here. The last thing I need is for her to see you practically naked.”
“Oh, don’t worry. Ma raised me to be a gentleman. I need to at least take her out to dinner first.”
You burst out laughing, stopping what you’re doing to clutch your chest. “Oh, so does this count as taking her out to dinner?”
“Well…” He is right behind you, somehow getting closer without you realizing. “It could, but that would be far from appropriate. Not when there is another lady I’ve set my eyes on.”
You stop cutting again, your breathing coming in deep. You turn around, hands resting behind you on the edge of the counter. You get a good look at him, and see his hair is getting curly as it starts to dry, giving him that boyish look that charms people. His mouth is parted only a little with those pretty blue eyes half lidded. You see them shift down and up a couple times, undecided on where to stay before sticking with your own. Any comeback you had dies in your throat, never to return.
“O-oh!” You cough, covering any sort of effect he has on you. You know it’s a lost cause.
“You seem surprised,” Clark grins.
“I mean no,” you shake your head. “It just feels… I don’t know. Like…”
“Like it used to?”
It’s like you are in sync with each other’s feelings because he is right. The banter, the pull. It feels like old times, where there wasn’t a single care in the world. It was electric, and that feeling is coursing through your body. It is taking everything in you not to grab him by his neck and kiss him right then and there. With the way he is looking at you, you believe it is taking everything in him too.
“What are you thinking right now?” He whispers.
“What do you think I’m thinking?” You reply in rapid succession.
Clark cages you in with his arms, bracing them against the counter. “I’m afraid telepathy isn’t one of my abilities.”
“That’s a shame,” you huff.
“Tell me about it. Would’ve saved me a lot of trouble.”
You wonder how different things would be if you told him everything: your grandma getting sick, knowing his secret, the uncorking of emotions that you didn’t know how to deal with. If you had opened up about your fears, would you two still be together? If you were honest with yourself, would you have ended things in the first place?
You go to say something, words on the tip of your tongue, until your phone rings. Your shoulders become lax, and you pull your phone from your pocket only to see it is your grandma.
“She’s calling me.”
“Would you like me to check on her? I can get her into the wheelchair and get her in here,” Clark offers, his eyes having not left you once.
“You really don’t have to do that, Clark.”
“What did I tell you?” He asks rhetorically. “You don’t have to do this alone. Let me help you.”
You nod, speechless at how straightforward he’s being. “Okay, thank you.”
He smiles at that, leaning down till his face is a breath away from yours. “No need to thank me, sweetheart.” Then he places a brief, light kiss on your cheek.
He pushes off the counter, walking back towards the hallway, leaving you stunned with your hand pressing into your cheek.
“You better put a shirt on before you pick her up!” He laughs. Your chest flutters like crazy.
✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧
Dinner goes off without a hitch.
Everything is lively at the dinner table. Full of conversation, laughter, incredible amounts of joy. It gives you the same feeling of when you see photos or home movies of families eating together during the holidays. It gives you the same feeling of when you, Clark, and your grandma ate dinner together in your old Metropolis apartment. The atmosphere is light, warm, and extremely comforting.
While dinner was in the oven, Clark had brought your grandma out in her wheelchair, spinning her around with her squealing with laughter. He had put on the radio, an old-timey station playing Chuck Berry.
“Oh, I love Chuck Berry!” She had chimed, hand over her chest like she was reliving a different time in her life. “I met my husband dancing! We would go out on the weekends and dance and dance. Ugh, those were the days.”
“Sounds like this young lady wants to dance!” Clark had said, overexaggerating his midwestern draw, before spinning her around slowly, reenacting dances from the fifties.
“Oh gosh! You know that one?” Your grandma had asked, shocked.
“Ma and Pa raised me on this.”
“Well, they raised you right!”
When dinner was ready, he had lifted her into a dining room chair, helping her adjust. “How does this feel?”
“I haven’t sat in this chair in over a year. Kinda uncomfy though. Not used to the lack of cushioning these days.”
Clark had put a seat cushion under her.
Clark had brought a whole new vibe to the house, and it took everything in you not to get emotional. You often wished you had more energy to do things with her, get her to do something other than watch TV. Clark made it look so easy, the way he’s able to entertain, the way he’s able to get so personal. The thing is though, that’s just who Clark is: sweet, kind, and unabashedly selfless. Nothing can hold him down, even if people tried. He smiles, pushes through it knowing this too shall pass. He makes you want to be better. Maybe that’s why you fell in love with him in the first place.
Maybe that’s why you still love him.
You are currently showering, Clark having offered to do the dishes and get your grandma into bed. You let the steam soak into your skin, sighing as you relax under the hot stream. Your mind is in a strange state of peace, something you haven’t felt fully in a long time. ‘It’s nice to have some help’, you think. ‘Even if I don’t need it, it’s nice.’
It’s nice to have Clark back in your life.
But that’s the thing: he isn’t, not technically. Words have yet to be said, even though you feel them. You can’t get your hopes up because he is him and you are you. His life is dedicated to the world, while yours is dedicated to this chapter of your life. He says you’re not alone, but part of you knows that there will be times where you have to be. He will be off saving the world, and you will be here worrying if he’s okay like you’ve been for the last year.
It’s almost like today doesn’t change things, not definitively. You must accept that.
You get out of the shower, throwing on a ratty t-shirt and sweatpants. You do the normal nightly regiment, and then you head to your grandma’s room to finish getting her ready for bed. You knock on the door lightly, entering and beelining for the latex gloves.
“Oh, darling! It’s okay! Clark changed me!”
“Oh, okay,” you shrug, putting the gloves down. “I’m surprised you let a man you barely know change you.”
“Plenty of men have seen my butt from changing me.”
“Touché.”
“I do need my medicine though. He didn’t want to give me the wrong ones.”
“Smart of him,” you joke, grabbing a pill cup to put the pills in. You hand her the pills, watching her take them before downing them with water.
“Ah!” She exclaims. “Thank you, darling.”
“Of course, Grammie,” you smile. “Can I get you anything else before I head to bed?”
“I think I’m good…” she draws out, eyes steady on you, like she is reading you quietly.
“Is something on my face?” You joke, hands touching random spots.
“No, but… I guess I’m just happy. Tonight was just wonderful,” she smiles tiredly.
“I’m glad you had a good night with Clark, Grammie.” You meant it.
“Yes, I did, but it’s more than that. You didn’t just look happy, you were happy. I love when I get to see you like that.”
That makes you pause. “Wow, I must be very transparent.”
“I raised you, darling,” she reminds you. “It’s not hard to see when you are truly happy.”
You sit on the edge of the bed, taking her hands into yours, squeezing tight. “But I am happy. I am happy here with you. I get tired, sure, but that doesn’t mean I’m not happy.”
“It’s a different kind of happiness I see when you are with Clark,” she smiles, so bright it hurts. “You’re in love. It reminds me of how your papa would look at me. Clark looks at you the same way too. It’s clear to see.”
You look at your conjoined hands, glancing at the wedding band she still wears to this day, refusing to ever take it off. She would always tell you it was her promise to him that they will meet again. Love for her is everlasting, meaning even once she’s six feet under the ground, her love has no end. You always wanted a love like that, and the fact she is telling you this makes you wonder if that’s what you had with Clark. Have you always known, but have been too scared to see it?
“There’s no point in running from it,” she says, squeezing your hand to get the point across. “Love like that is rare, and it rarely comes back once you let it go. This is your chance.”
“How could things possibly work out, Grammie? He’s going to have to go back home to Metropolis. He has a life there.” You already know the answer, but you desire her wisdom.
“It’s simple.” One hand releases from your grasp, finger pointing to where your heart is. “Home is where the heart is.”
And she’s right. Clark’s always felt like home. He is home.
You tuck her in, kissing her forehead before making your exit. You go back into the kitchen to see if Clark was there, then the living room, but you don’t find him. You ponder for a moment, only to see the soft yellow light coming from your room, the door opened all the way. You head there, like he is calling to you, begging you to find him. You look in and there he is, holding up the same New Years’ photo you found in his sleeve, as well as the one protected in the picture frame.
“I still can’t believe you kept the photo,” he whispers, knowing you are present.
You step in, shutting the door behind you for a privacy you had regardless, and walk until you are a foot away. “Of course, I kept it. I love everything about that night.”
“Even Jimmy Olsen?”
“Especially Jimmy Olsen.”
Clark chuckles under his breath, eyes not leaving the photos, though you see his eyes twitching. “I think about it all the time, you know. How I got to show you how much I love you, how I got to take care of you. I dream about it and I relive the laughter and everything.”
You see his lips quiver, his grip get a little tighter. There is a battle raging inside him, and you aren’t sure who’s fighting who: him vs. him? Him vs. instinct? You aren’t sure, but you wish to calm it. You wish to calm him.
Your hand goes to his shoulder, squeezing him like it’s a comfort. “Clark…”
“I shouldn’t have given up on us so easily,” he grimaces. “I should’ve fought harder but like an idiot I let you go.”
“You shouldn’t beat yourself up on this. I ended things,” you say, trying to dispel his fear, but he shakes his head.
“You did, but I just accepted it. That’s the problem.”
“You were giving me space, Clark. You did what you thought was best.”
“Do you wish I fought though? Do you wish that I had fought for us?”
That stuns you, leaving you speechless. You never considered it a wish, a hope that Clark would’ve called your bluff. However, you think back to the times you’d stare at his back in the bullpen, hoping, praying, he would turn around to look at you. You think back to when you’d stare at your messages with him, wondering if you’ll see the thinking text bubbles appear. You think back to late nights on your balcony, looking out to see if he’d walk by, even if it wasn’t reasonable to.
You never remember being upset that he didn’t fight. You do remember being upset that he had moved on so quickly.
“I think…” you start, not sure where to go without striking a nerve. “I think I hated feeling invisible to you after that, which is selfish of me, I know. But there were times where I would look at you, hoping you’d notice, but you never did. It’s like you moved on so fast.”
He finally turns to look at you, eyes glassy, hands twitching. “You thought I had moved on?”
His expression is killing you, consuming you with a guilt that eats away at you. The vulnerability he is displaying makes him look so small, even with him towering over you. It’s the look of a child whose feelings are hurt, lip wobbly and face heated. It’s the face of a man who is heartbroken.
“I was miserable for months,” he whispers, eyes shutting so tight you see tears make their way out. “Being in the same room as you and not being able to hug you, kiss you, love you. It was too much for me to take.”
His eyes open back up, baby blues bright and weeping. “I was distracted for months because I noticed every little thing you did and I didn’t feel like I could congratulate your articles, comfort you when Perry was on you with due dates, just simply enjoy your presence. I was hurting.”
You hated seeing him this way. This is all your fault.
“I thought overtime we would start talking again, maybe get back to a place where I at least had you in my life. But then you moved away…” he chokes up, eyes shutting again with gritted teeth, like he was in physical pain.
“I understand now why you did, and I would never fault you for it. But it all happened so fast, and for the longest time I thought you couldn’t stand being near me.”
You were crying now. He’s the love of your life, and you’ve destroyed him. All because you didn’t want to face the music that things would change on their own, so you forced the change yourself.
“I— I…” he starts stuttering, breath coming in heaves. “I let you go and I shouldn’t have. I never wanted to let you go, and yet I did, like a coward.”
His hands are in his hair, the tight grip creating messy strands through his fingers. You could tell he was trying to bring himself down, but he was losing. You weren’t fairing any better, but he was pouring every ounce of what he’s been feeling for over a year. The more he went into panic mode, the closer you got to him. You were toe to toe.
“Losing you was like cutting my fingers off,” he says with a whimper, hand covering his mouth to try and hold it in.
The second those words fall from his lips, you are on him. Your arms wrap around his neck, pulling his head down to your chest. He breaks down, sobbing into your chest, his arms wrapping around you so tight it hurts but you don’t care. You’ll bear the pain for him. You love him. You will comfort him for as long as he lets you.
“I’m so sorry, Clark.” You kiss the top of his head, hands rubbing circles into his hunched over back. “You didn’t lose me, I promise.”
He only sobs harder, so hard you think his back will snap from the convulsions. It makes you rub circles with more pressure, kiss his head in multiples, your own tears melting into his hair. You want to say something, anything to let him know that the past is behind you two, but you stay silent. You just move to the side, dragging him with you slowly until you both are at your bed.
You both tumble down, your leg wrapping around his hip as you lay down. Clark’s head is buried in your chest, his sobs still coming in waves. Your hands lace into his hair, fingers massaging his scalp. Your breaths turn into hiccups, the tears slowly fading away. You use the opportunity to close your eyes, focusing on your breathing, giving you the opportunity to speak.
To tell him you’re sorry. To tell him this isn’t his fault. To tell him how much you love him.
“None of this is your fault, Clark,” you murmur. “You reacted like a normal person would. Even if I was upset then, I’m not upset now.”
His breathing gets shallower, a whimper here and there as he comes down. His hand is rubbing up and down your side with a pressure that makes you feel him through your shirt. He’s so warm, and it feels good to have him pressed against you, even with his tears soaking your shirt.
“You know, when Lois called me asking for a big favor, I didn’t expect this. Not one bit,” you chuckle softly. “There I was writing for my book, well trying to, and suddenly she called me late into the night. I thought she was going to talk my head off about an idea or rant about how Perry has been hounding her ass. But no, she called me to take care of you.”
“Did you really ask about me?” He says, muffled into your shirt. “Lois would tell me you would ask about me.”
You smile. “Of course I did. I never stopped caring about you. I never stopped loving you either.”
“Really?” he sniffles.
“Really, really.”
The hand rubbing your side slows, and you take the opportunity to take it in your own, interlacing the fingers until his big hand engulfs yours. He hums, bringing the conjoined hands to his mouth, pressing his lips against the back of yours. He lets them linger for a moment before he pulls both hands close to his chest, curling into you slightly.
“Tell me about the book you're writing,” he murmurs. “I want to know. Please.”
“It’s just a book on how journalism shapes history,” you sigh, looking at your desk full of notes and papers… ideas. “Nothing that fascinating.”
“You’re writing it.” He kisses your hand again. “Everything you write is fascinating.”
Your heart flutters, so much that you can’t help but place a kiss on his temple.
For the rest of the night, you tell him about your book, your thought process. Kisses littered on skin here and there until you both fell asleep in each other’s arms.
✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧
Clark doesn’t remember the last time he’s slept this good.
He doesn’t remember falling asleep. The emotional turmoil that roared through his body took a lot of his energy, making it impossible to stay awake. However, it was enough, and it’s because he is with you.
You lulled him to sleep, your voice soothing to his ears. There were times where he felt like he was dreaming, but was brought back to reality when he felt your kisses on his head or your hand rubbing his back underneath his flannel. It made his heart pulse, remembering where he was, and eventually it made him sleep easy. He hasn’t had difficulty sleeping for a long time but now that he remembers what it’s like to sleep with you, he doesn’t know if he can go through sleeping alone again.
He slowly comes to, the sunlight twinkling into the room. He’s guessing it’s still early in the morning with the way the sky looks outside your window. His eyes blink open, letting his senses pick up his surroundings. It all comes forward like an avalanche, his senses picking up your scent, your breathing, your skin. He peaks down, seeing you both adjusted during the night, and sees you lying in the crevice of his arm, snoring the morning away with your face squished against his chest.
It’s crazy how perfect you look against him, how comfortable you look. It’s strange how over 24 hours ago, he wasn’t in your world and now he is here with you cuddled into him. It feels like how things used to be. It feels like how he wants things to stay. It feels like home.
He is so proud of you. Even though he was emotionally exhausted last night, he remembers every word when you talked about your book: how excited you sounded as you continued. He’s glad you are pursuing something you’ve always wanted to try; something you want to flourish in. He knows you will because you are brilliant. You know how to draw people in with every word, no matter the content. It’s why you were so highly beloved as a Daily Planet writer. It’s obvious it will translate to the publishing world too.
He watches you wake up, a stretch running throughout your body that pushes you further into him. A sound akin to a cat vibrates from your throat, a Cheshire smile curling on your lips. All he can think about is how beautiful you look.
“Mmm, good morning,” you yawn, blinking tiredly at him with a lazy grin.
“Good morning,” he mirrors back. “Looks like someone got real cozy last night.”
“Oh hush,” you groan, settling back in. “You’re warm. I can’t help it.”
“You always did get cold very easily. Goosebumps always seem to make a name for themselves on your skin,” he teases, stroking your arm. “You even have goosebumps right now!”
“I don’t think the cold is what’s giving me the goosebumps,” you murmur, sleepy eyes looking up at him in crescents.
“Oh really?” He teases, not being able to help himself. “What could be causing them I wonder.”
“Well…” You push up on your elbow, head leaning into your hand. “Do you have any leads, Mr. Kent?”
“Hmm, I do have one lead,” he says, playing along. “Opposite of the cold.”
“Oh wow!” You chuckle. “You should tell me. I mean, it does involve me. I should be kept in the loop on these kinda things, right?”
There has always been a push and pull between the two of you, and it drives him mad. Especially now, when he has craved you for so long, it’s making him want to pounce. But he keeps his cool, wanting to savor the moment; wanting to savor the lightness.
“Sweetheart, I’m afraid I can’t tell you. But…” he smirks, his hand tilting your head to the side, his lips nearing your ear. “I can show you.”
He starts to place light kisses underneath your ear. They are subtle, gentle, restraining himself from being anything but, and it’s worth it in how you just sink into him. Your body chases it, making him pull you up against him until your face is leveled with his. He makes his way down your neck, mouth laving the scent of your body wash. His hand travels to the back of your neck, holding you in place as he makes his way to your throat. He feels the way your vocal chords vibrate against his tongue, making sounds that would drive him to his knees if he were to stand.
His free hand rubs up and down your side, fingers slipping under your shirt to feel your skin. The tips trail lightly, feeling the bumps raise from under your skin. He grins against your throat. “I think my theory is correct.”
“Yeah? I'm going to have to start calling you R.L. Stine with the way you're giving me goosebumps.”
That draws a laugh out of you both, Clark simmering it down as he nips at your jaw. Your laugh transforms, a high pitched whimper leaving your mouth.
“Gosh, I missed you like this,” Clark whispers low. “I’ve yearned for you for so long.”
“I missed you too,” you sigh breathlessly. “You have no idea.”
His ears perk, nipping more up your jaw until he’s back to your ear. “Tell me.” He nips at your ear lobe, causing your back to arch. “Tell me how you missed me.”
“I’m afraid…” you hum. “I can’t tell you.”
He feels your fingers in his hair, tugging his head up until he is face to face with yours. He grunts at the pressure, looking at you as your face contorts into something cunning that makes his pupils dilate.
Your lips ghost his, your breathing passing through him like oxygen, eyes not leaving his. “But I can show you.”
You didn’t hesitate. Your lips are on his and he groans the minute they touch. It’s desperate, ruthless; leaves no room for doubt. There is a hunger that’s consuming him, leaving him raw and opened at the seams. He can already tell he won’t ever get enough.
“Clark, baby…” you moan against his mouth. “Fuck, I love you.”
Your words make him needy, tongue playing with your lips before you grant him the pleasure. His hand under your shirt is up to where your chest is, gently cupping your breast and massaging the flesh. Your hips start to roll against his, rubbing against his cock, making him harden. It makes him feel wanted and needed.
“I love you so much, pretty girl,” he moans into your mouth. “I’m never letting you go again. Not for anything.”
“I don’t want you to,” you whine, thanks to a particularly hard thrust of Clark’s hips. It makes him smile.
“Good because I’m gonna take care of you.” His head moves back to your neck, settling there. “I will come home to you every day. Mark my words.”
“Clark…” Your hands pull his head back up, eyes looking at him dazed. “This life is comfortable, but far from glamorous. I can’t ask you to do that.”
“I could care less.” He kisses your lips fiercely, hoping it sticks to your brain before releasing again. “I would move the world for you. Coming home to you is nothing. Coming home to you is easy.”
“You mean that?” You say, the vulnerability lacking. You asked with sureness, like you know he is good for his word.
“I am never lying to you again. No secrets, so yes. I mean it with everything.”
You beam, a wetness welling in your eyes. A laugh bubbles from your throat, a tear falling with it. “I’m sorry. I’m just happy.”
He kisses your tears away, humming against your skin. “You’re it for me, honey.”
He continues, until he feels your hips roll again, making his eyes follow suit. He situates you fast, laying you out fully on your back. His hands move to pin yours above your head, keeping you in place so he can finish what you started. His hips roll hard into your clothed center, a gasp leaving you in response. He goes down to swallow your sounds, hands trailing away to his flannel to rip it off, until he hears your phone going off. You both groan simultaneously, with him falling to the side with his head in the pillow.
“I’m sorry,” you breathe. “I need to get her ready for the day anyways.”
He nods, working to calm down all the chemicals and blood that’s rushed to his cock. He sits up, shrugging the flannel back on fully as he watches you pick up your phone. There is a crease in your brow, confusion on your face.
“What?”
You look up at him, moving to show your phone. “It’s Lois.”
You moved to get up, answering the phone. “Lois?”
Clark watches you listen, watches your face get progressively more anxious.
“Are you sure?” You say, looking at him worried.
More talking ensues, with you nodding your head, saying “uh huh”, “okay I’ll tell him”, etc..
“He’ll be there soon. Yeah. Be safe, okay? Later.”
You hang up, eyes staring at your phone screen. Clark sees your heart beating a tad faster, physiological responses taking over that represent only one emotion: fear.
“You have to go, Clark.”
“What’s going on?” He moves to stand. “What did Lois say?”
“She said something about a riff,” you say, unsure. “I don’t know what she means, but she says you’d understand what I’m saying. She said Metropolis is in trouble because of it.”
Clark is shell-shocked, but your next words send him spiraling.
“Also, I got a notification from the Daily Planet news. Boravia is invading Janhanpur.”
“What?!”
You hand him the phone and he looks at the article, seeing that the Boravian military is at the Jarhanpur border, ready for a full scale invasion. How is this all happening so quickly, and at once? He needs to move fast, he knows he does.
And yet he is frozen.
For a day, he wasn’t Superman. He was Clark Kent, with the woman he is deeply in love with. For a day, he got to rekindle something that was lost. For a day, he got a glimpse of what life could be like. For a day, he forgot what it was like to bear the state of the world on his shoulders. He chose this life, believing that is his purpose, yet he stands here like a statue. Why didn’t he have more time?
He is brought out of his thoughts, feeling a warmth around his waist. He looks down to see you hugging him, the side of your face pressed against his chest. “You have to go, Clark.”
“I know,” he sighs, wrapping his arms around you. “Just unfortunate timing.”
You lift your head, a hand coming up to his cheek before lifting on your tip toes to kiss him gently. “We have plenty of time. Just keep your promise. Come back home to me.”
He kisses you back with the same tenderness, softness. “I will.”
“Now, go put on your stinky suit and do some good.”
He groans. “It hasn’t been washed, so it probably does stink.”
“Maybe that will ward any bad guys off,” you jest.
He grins, kissing you one last time before letting go. He rids himself of his clothes etched in your scent, putting on the suit until he is in full form. You both walk out together, hand in hand, the sun no longer golden but a bright yellow. The grass blows, the birds chirp, the wind howls. It truly feels like a perfect day. He hopes to have more days like this.
He flies off, saying final goodbyes with kisses on the face. He glances back, and for a brief moment he sees you waving at him, disappearing amongst the clouds. He looks forward, preparing for the worst as he makes his way to the city. He is ready to fight. He is ready to save. He is ready to defeat.
He is ready to have more perfect days under Virginia skies.
a/n: this was purely inspired by the fact i totally interpreted that final kiss in the film as clark just being so enraptured he didn't even notice he was flying tehe
Working at the Daily Planet, you - like everyone with eyes - are particularly enamoured with Clark Kent. A meteor and a spilled secret later, he shows you just how enamoured with you he is. spoiler-free, fem!reader, 7k, all fluff babey <3
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
You always hear him before you see him—though the ding of the elevator is a dead giveaway.
A glance at the clock tells you it’s 9:07am. Not the latest he's been, but it's definitely getting there.
"You're late, Kent."
"Sorry, sorry."
There's a smattering of murmured apologies being given out behind you, soft, fast footsteps, and then something is placed beside you. An iced latte rings the beginnings of a water-mark on your desk.
You look up, already smiling. "Please don't tell me you were late because you were getting me this."
Clark, ruffled and clutching his briefcase in one hand, balancing a tray of coffees in the other, pauses in his hurried motions. He looks down at you guiltily.
His mouth twists, a poor attempt to hold back a smile. You're thankful, if only for the fact you're particularly prone to your most foolish moments when Clark Kent smiles at you.
"Alright," he says. "I won't tell you."
Your eyes track him as he rounds the desk, slanting up his briefcase to deposit it. His response has only made you smile harder. You hide it behind a sip of your coffee.
Upon first taste, a pleased sigh escapes you. The drink is perfectly sweetened, creamy and icy-sweet. You have to force yourself not to chug half of it in one go.
The logo, forest green, printed across the front catches your attention.
Just to check, you glimpse at the other cups in Clark’s tray. He delivers one to Jimmy, his head buried in his laptop, and one to Lois, who hums her thanks. Another to Cat and one to Ron.
Each of their cups are a boring beige - which he’s gone out of his way for you specifically.
“You shouldn’t have,” You say, as Clark sits down opposite you at his desk, his hands finally free. He looks up, expression innocent, and his glasses slide an inch down his nose.
You twist the cup to face him, the only coffee from a different store than the others. “Really.”
Clark shrugs, nudging his glasses back up almost sheepishly. You can almost convince yourself that his ears are a shade pinker.
“It’s the one you like, isn’t it?” He gestures with a pen.
“That’s beside the point.”
“Is it?”
He’s being unbelievably genuine. As if, of course he’d go the extra distance for you.
“Yes, Clark,” You say, much less firmly than you’re hoping for. Your smile weakens it even more. “It is.”
A ping on your laptop saves you from having the sputter through your exact reasoning on why it’s beside the point.
You tend to it hastily, pointedly ignoring your hot coworkers expression. It’s not smugness — Clark could never be — but it’s something damn close.
He knows he’s right. You know he’s also sort of right too. He's perfectly allowed to do nice things for you. It’s just…
Clark Kent is a man who is too good to be true.
First of all, he’s nice. Awfully nice. Clark goes out of his way to help others.
He opens doors, is always the one with his arm out, holding the elevator, and he never minds the awkward wait for the last person to catch up.
He offers to carry bags, insisting even, then loads them over his arms like they weigh nothing.
You’ve seen him hail a cab for an old lady. He gets coffee for everyone around your corner of the bullpen. He’s nice.
And he seems to do it for the sake of being nice too.
Then there’s also the fact that… Well, you have eyes.
That is to say, he’s handsome. Tall, broad-shouldered, dark hair and light eyes. He’s double-take-on-the-street-handsome.
He’s a gentleman too, polite and never overstepping. In fact, sometimes you think he’s loud on purpose, rustling as he moves about so he never accidentally catches you off guard.
That combination— the kindness of his character and his attractive appearance —is killer to a girl like you.
And anyone with eyes and a brain, in your humble opinion.
It’s why you’re also 100% sure, without even asking, that he’s already snatched up and locked down.
A man like that, single? In Metropolis? Ha!
Nevermind that he’s never technically mentioned a partner. Clark’s on the reserved side. You know about the same as everyone else; a small town farm boy from Kansas turned big city journalist.
Though, he did mention he was looking after his cousin’s dog to you the other week—after he caught you scrolling the SPCA’s page. You wonder how many people he’s told that to.
Wordlessly, you glance up, peering over the dividers between desks.
Clark’s engaged in his work, as you should be, a furrow between his brows. Despite all that you’ve just outlined, despite him being your coworker, there’s still a tug. You can’t resist the daydream.
Besides, there’s no real harm in a sweet and secret work crush.
No harm other than to perhaps your own ego—which happens every time you catch yourself mooning over him like a muppet.
Nose twitching, you force your eyes down. A new email slides onto your screen, blinking its high priority at you. You sigh, resisting the urge to look back up. It’s a fun daydream, but you have work to do.
You take another sip of your coffee — and in doing so, miss the gaze that lingers on your lips.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Living in Metropolis, two things are a given for all citizens.
1. Some part of your life has been interrupted by intergalactic aliens and 2. You have an opinion on Superman.
These two things usually go hand-in-hand, often when the first thing crashes into your life, forcing the second.
Though, in your experience, most Metropolitans have a handful of words prepared on whether the metahuman is more menace or hero.
As a journalist yourself, you’re surprisingly middle of the road.
Alien attacks suck. Superman does his best to intervene, saving people first, buildings second. Fallout is mitigated, but ultimately inevitable.
You see more of it than usual. You’re the Daily Planet’s man on the ground — out in the fray, it’s generally your notes that veto whatever else is circulating around the news hubbub; Superman action included.
Of course, you’ve not quite managed to snag an interview with the man himself.
That is a Clark Kent exclusive, which infuriates you just a smidge. You suppose it’s good for Superman that Clark favours painting him in a good light.
Today, you’re not even out for a Superman-esque story — your tape-recorder, an old-school thing, whirs loudly on the table to get a quote from the Mayor’s office — but as you track the meteor heading straight for a skyscraper, you figure it’s just one of those days.
“Please excuse me,” You say, reaching out to pause your tape.
The man before you, focus stolen and solely on the incoming meteor through the window, doesn’t respond. His mouth has opened a fraction, in surprise.
You figure he’ll understand you stepping out.
The door chime announces your exit and you get a closer look at today’s threat.
The meteor is a concerning flaming purple colour. A trail, dark and murky, traces its path in the sky. If you strain your ears, you can hear it—a faint whistle, like a shriek picking up volume as it approaches.
You don’t bother taking notes. There’ll be footage streamed online within the minute.
Pocketing your tape-recorder, you straighten your jacket and try to map the trajectory. You squint.
If you had to bet money, you’d guess it’s heading straight for the Harmony block apartments on 7th St - if it’s not intercepted, that is.
Sniffing for the story, you tuck your hands in your pockets and begin to head in that direction.
Dotted throughout the street, people have begun to stop and stare, their worried mutters paired with pointed fingers. Cars screech to a halt and impatient drivers honk their unhappiness.
An odd apprehension tinges the air. A nervous hush settles down amongst the streets.
You wind through the crowds of people easily, keeping a close eye on the violet-coloured projectile. You don’t want to get too close. You’re not stupid — you just need to get close enough to scrape together the important details.
Regular ol’ meteor? Intergalactic version of a catapult flung towards Earth with intent to harm?
Your brows furrow in thought, mind whirring, as you sidestep a halted couple, murmuring your excuse me’s.
Without taking your eyes off the meteor, you fumble around to find your notepad in your bag, You hand bangs against your tape-recorder in your pocket, hitting record.
“Well, what is it?” An older lady remarks.
She’s too blind to see it properly you’d guess, evidenced by her thick-glasses and heavy squint. “Some sort of bird?”
“It’s definitely not a plane,” Someone else in the crowd mutters.
The shriek of the meteor gets louder, its burn transforming to an auburn colour as it tears through the atmosphere. You’re just a couple blocks away from Harmony apartments when you hear it, a familiar sonic boom! that sets you stumbling for a moment.
Something has taken flight.
Just in time as well. An awful crackling noise has pierced through the shrieking of the meteor. Shimmers of light, brighter than the flaming auburn, begin to reach out from within the rock like stretched out fingers.
It’s at this point you have the sense to stop walking toward it.
And as if on cue, the meteor fractures with a loud burst.
The structure crumbles, torn into a handful of pieces and they quickly careen out in various directions. They’re faster now, propelled by the delayed blast.
“Shit.” you say astutely.
There’s a funny thing about things falling right in your line of vision; they can appear to stop moving completely.
You watch, perplexed, as a large chunk of the meteor seems to hover in place, then rise up, then slowly, slowly it dawns on you that it’s rapidly growing in size. You realise with a spike of horror that it’s heading right for you.
“Shit.” you say again, more panicked this time.
This is not what you meant when you said you’re out in the fray. Feet backtracking, you stumble over yourself before realising going backward isn’t your best bet.
You course-correct, before finally realising you aren’t the only one in the crosshairs of this rogue rock.
Your head whips around, left to right. People are staring at the incoming meteor, but not enough have realised what you already had.
“Move,” you say, too quietly. People can’t seem to break their horrified stares. The strange roar of the meteor deafens as it gets closer.
“Move! Everybody move!”
Something in your voice overrides their frozen instincts. A frantic energy surges through the crowd around you, people beginning to move with haste, bleating their fear.
You swallow your relief as the space begins to clear out and you follow them closely, casting another glance around.
Your gaze catches.
A lone child stands in the middle of the rapidly clearing street, a little girl swathed in maroon and confusion. Her little face searches for the reason for the obvious distress washing over the street, despair beginning to sink in.
Limbs freezing, your eyes comb through the crowd desperately, hoping to spot a parent fighting their way back to them - to no avail.
Horror shoves up your throat at the thought of her alone, waiting, unaware of the danger. You move without thinking.
You manage all of one step, then there’s a blur of blue that stops you. Suddenly, the girl is right before you - and so is Superman.
“Hello.” He says politely.
“Hi.” you breathe.
He’s got one hand on the shoulder of the kid, who’s torn between the shock of travelling at super-speed and seeing Superman himself. Her distress has been wiped away by awe.
He looks back up at you. “I trust I can leave this little one with you til the danger is past?”
“Hi.” you say again, foolishly. Your face flames. “I mean- yes, you can.”
When you look back on this interaction, you’ll undoubtedly be beyond embarrassed. Sue you, you’ve never seen Superman up close before.
Superman smiles again, this time his perfect grin on display. He scans the street around you diligently, sweeping for danger.
“You did a terrific job clearing out the street.”
His focus locks onto the now much closer threat with a more serious expression. You secretly take the moment to appreciate the sharp line of his jaw.
“Now, I’ll be right back,” He assures, looking first at the kid, then up to you. You wonder if his curl just does that. “And then we can find this one’s parents together.”
And with a final friendly squeeze on the kid’s shoulder, he turns and launches into flight, heading right for the incoming meteor.
The next few minutes are a bit of daze after that. You snatch moments of the chaos in the sky as Superman juggles between the pieces of the meteor.
It’s unclear if the plan is to let them ground, but given their hideous continued shrieks, you’re rather relieved when he bats them back up into the atmosphere.
Huh, you think, almost amusedly; it’s almost like superpowered baseball.
Just as they had arrived, the pieces streak back up into the sky, their awful shrieks fading as they disappear from view. You spot a familiar blur tracing their paths. Keeping them out of airspace, no doubt.
The girl, who had taken your hand the moment you offered it, still holds it tightly.
“Is he coming back?”
You turn and smile down at her, stooping down to match her height. Truth is, you’re not sure - but Superman seems like a man of his word.
“He said he would be.” You hope that’s assurance enough. “What’s your name?”
“Maisie.” She tells you, smiling enough to show off a slight snaggle-tooth. Adorable.
“That’s a wonderful name,” You say genuinely. “Who were you with today? Who might be looking for you, hm?”
Somewhere across the city, an ambulance siren wails its cry. The crowds are dispersing from their panic, people getting back on track with the danger now averted. This is Metropolis, after all.
Maisie rattles off how she had been with her aunt, ‘cos it’s Tuesday and she spends every Tuesday with her aunt Tess, and they were on their way to get lunch at Alma’s, ‘cos they always get Alma’s on a Tuesday.
It’s a sandwich store only 2 blocks away. She points with a finger in the general direction.
“Hmm,” You hum, following her finger. “I bet if I was your aunt Tess, I would’ve gone to Alma’s to see if you were there. Do you think we should go see if she’s there?”
Maisie nods, her loose pigtails flying with the motion.
“But what about Superman?” She says before you can straighten up.
“Right here.”
You jump a little, having not heard his arrival. Superman at least has the decency to offer you a sheepish look as he steps up on the other side of Maisie, already offering her a hand.
“Alright there, Miss?” He asks her seriously. She openly gawps up at him and nods faintly, her mouth open.
He smiles. “Great.”
His eyes flick up to meet yours intently. “And you, Miss? I think I can handle getting Maisie here back to where she belongs, if you have somewhere else you need to be.”
Maisie’s petite head swings around to face you. She hasn’t let go of your hand. Or closed her mouth. You think she’s even more starstruck that Superman knows her name.
“Y’know, I think I’d like to see her back into safe hands if that’s alright?”
Something flits across Superman’s expression, but he still only smiles and nods. “Two chaperones are certainly better than one.”
So, the three of you walk the two blocks to Alma’s, with both of Maisie’s hands held the whole way. Aunt Tess is tearfully relieved at her safe return and when she blubbers her thank-you’s, you’re surprised when Superman redirects them to you.
“I had help today,” he says.
Between the sincere thankfulness from Aunt Tess and the warm look from Superman, it’s a challenge not to fluster too much.
Maisie waves goodbye to both of you, her little hands still going wildly as she rounds the corner out of sight — and you can’t help but chuckle.
“Thank you for taking good care of her,” says Superman.
You turn and blink, half-surprised he’s still here.
He surely must be busy with, like, …hero stuff, right? But still, he’s taking the time to thank you.
“Of course.” You say. The words stammer a bit as you’re taken aback by his sincerity.
You find he has a very intense gaze when it’s fixed solely on you.
“Not everyone would have stayed with her the whole time. Or stepped in to begin with.” He commends. “It was brave of you to put yourself in danger to help her, so thank you.”
Now you’re really stunned. You flounder for words and end up biting your tongue so nothing stupid comes out.
In the end, you just say, “Of course.” again.
That makes him smile again. Dimples press into his cheeks. It’s enough to threaten to make you swoon.
“Take care of yourself, y/n.” He nods to you, then steps back and readies himself to fly once more.
“Wait,” The sound of your name pulls you up short. “How do you know my name?”
“It’s, uh, on your case.” He nods to it.
Any other questions are swallowed up by the howl of the wind, air tunnelling around him loudly as he abruptly takes flight. He turns to a blur and you watch the sky, even when there’s nothing left to watch.
The street around you dims, softened, and then its noise filters back in slowly. Cars droning, traffic lights flicking, the murmur of conversation. You hadn’t realised how much all of that had quietened with Superman’s attention on you.
For a long moment, you’re simply stumped on how to feel.
If one’s things for sure, you have a much more concrete opinion on Superman than you did this morning — though nothing you can quite put a finger on.
Admiration? Maybe.
Something else twinges in there, unbidden.
You slip your hands into your pockets to mull it over, surprised when your hand bumps into something unexpected. Curling your fingers around it, you pull it out.
Still whirring away, your tape-recorder sits in the palm of your hand, record button blinking.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
“Take care of yourself, y/n.”
The tape clicks as it pauses, then revolves back with a scribbling sound.
“Take care of yourself, y/n.”
You hit pause, then hit rewind. Your finger hovers over the play button, contemplating if you’re really going to listen to this part of the tape over and over like a lovesick teenage girl.
You certainly feel like one. The tape must be wearing thin by this point.
Eyes screwing shut, you hit play.
“Take care of yourself, y/n.”
Hitting pause, you groan. You chuck the tape softly to the other end of the couch you’re draped across so you can’t be tempted to play it once more. Then you bury your face in your hands.
“This is getting pathetic.” you mumble to yourself.
The rogue meteor and your subsequent brush with Superman had occurred two whole days ago.
You’re rather thankful it had all gone down on a Friday. It has certainly given you ample time to waste. All of yesterday and today has been spent on that god forsaken tape and the graininess of Superman’s voice.
The audio was a little muffled, given the device had been pocketed away. There’s lots of rustling, louder than anything else, when you’d been running.
But your whole easy conversation with Maisie as she dawdled her way to Alma’s had been captured — including her a million questions for Superman, that he’d dutifully answered.
That’s not quite the part you’re stuck on though.
Sighing, you deflate into the couch. The image of his dimples, his smile, floats in. You have to mentally bat it away.
Man, why do you feel almost like you’re betraying your crush on Clark right now?
You drag your hands away and huff again at your own dramatics. There’s no betraying. Those crushes fall into the exact same box: unfathomable and impossible.
Sitting up, your eyes fall on the tape recorder. You regard it thoughtfully for a moment.
Beyond the selfish reasons you’ve been abusing the tape, there’s also the question of using it for an article. The idea has been circling your mind since Friday, since your first listen.
There’s a reason you’re the man on the ground. Sure, you can write but, well, you’re not quite top quality like Jimmy or Clark or Lois.
This one though, this tape, has you particularly inspired.
Plus, you’re not exactly jazzed at the idea of passing off the recording to one of your coworkers.
Jimmy? He’d probably latch onto your part in it all, some Superman-inspires-citizen-to-do-good angle. The thought makes your nose wrinkle - you don’t want to be the focal point.
Clark? Who already got Superman interviews? It’s hardly worth his time.
And Lois? No chance you’d turn the tape over to her. She’s so sharp, she’d probably notice the scratch in the audio from where you’ve paused and rewound — and then you’d never know peace.
Given your choices, or lack thereof, it really only leaves you with one last option.
Feeling more set than you have all weekend, you push up off the couch and retrieve your laptop. You settle it in your lap and get comfy, folding the screen up.
After a moment, you lean across and grab the tape recorder too, rewinding once more — this time from the very beginning.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
If someone were to describe you, you bet they'd say that today, you have a pep in your step. And screw it, maybe you do!
It's not every day that you get an article published in the Daily Planet, not with your more lackey-level job on the ground.
But it's more than that too. Not only is it published, but it's on the second page.
For some, that's all in a day's work. For you? It's nothing to sneeze at.
It's your most prolific article published to date in your whole year of working at the Daily Planet. You suppose you have some great inspiration to thank for that
And some of your coworkers are kind enough to take notice of your milestone.
Cat had squealed excitedly her congrats in the elevator earlier, whilst Jimmy had given you a nod of approval from across the bullpen. You're practically walking on air as you drop down into your seat.
For a change, Clark isn't late today.
Glimpsing the time, you watch him subtly out the corner of your eye as he spends the last few free minutes dropping a round of coffee.
The crush in you aches. You bury your yearning beneath your best attempt at looking busy, studying your computer screen.
It's broken instantly when Clark sits across from you and your eyes flit up at the movement.
He's already looking at you. With both hands on the cup, he holds your regular iced latte and presents it forward like a precious gift.
To you, it is. You wonder if it's written on your face, with how you can't bite back your smile.
"I'm sorry I can't get something better to celebrate with." He says as you relieve him of the cup. The condensation clings to your fingers, but you can only focus on the brush of his fingers.
"Celebrate?"
Clark's brow furrows. He regards you with a look that says you know what.
"It's only second page." You downplay.
Like you hadn't done a little dance when you got the email that Perry had greenlit it for the second page.
"Only?" Clark exclaims. If you didn't know better, you'd have no idea he'd copped multiple front page articles for the Planet. "C'mon, you must have some plans for a celebration."
If you're being honest, said plans included curling up on your couch and gorging yourself on Chinese food. Not quite a celebration, but still a treat for you.
"Not really." You admit honestly. The attention from him is making you bashful - and truthful.
Clark shakes his head at that. He plants his hands on the desk and leans forward, looking at you seriously over the rim of his glasses. "That just won't do. Let's do dinner."
After a moment, he seems to realise how pushy that might seem. Clearly (and thankfully), your glee is well-hidden as he retracts in a bit, sitting a bit straighter.
"I mean, that is- if you'd like. Would you?" He clears his throat. "Like to go to dinner?"
You have to wrestle to keep the grin from splitting on your face. Magically, you muster the calm to take a sip of your coffee, pretending to mull it over.
Across the desk, Clark pushes his glasses up his nose - almost nervously.
You get struck with the sudden thought that perhaps, crazily, your crush might not be as one-sided as you once thought.
"I meeean," You drag out the word as if you're still tossing it up. "I was pretty set on the #4 combo from Mr. Go's on my block."
Screw being a journalist, you should be an actor given the little twitch of Clark's brow. You don't let him stew for more than a moment.
"So, you could maybe join?" You offer, nearly holding your breath. "Come to mine?"
Your heart threatens to turn itself inside out from nerves. Somehow, Clark manages to sit up even straighter. He huffs out a breath, then he's grinning, dimples on show. He nods severely.
"To celebrate." He tacks on.
One of his hands has drifted up to fiddle with his tie, but you can't tell if it's tighten or loosen it.
"To celebrate." You agree with a nod. You have to press your lips together to contain your grin. It's a battle you're happy to lose.
And if you spend the rest of the day catching each other's eyes across the desk? That's your own damn business.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
"I can't believe I've never heard of this place before!"
You laugh around your forkful of noodles at Clark's earnest excitement. He's had his first bite of food, and it's quickly been followed by his second, third, and fourth.
He looks up at you from the other side of your couch, eyes wide. "This has gotta be, like, Metropolis' best kept secret."
You laugh again and press a finger to your lips. That makes Clark laugh and the sound makes you feel a bit drunk.
He looks devastatingly at home on your couch. His suit jacket had been shed during your walk from the Planet, his tie loosened and stashed in his bag when you sat down to tuck into your food.
Now he sits, his sleeves unbuttoned and rolled up. The top button or two of his dress shirt have been undone.
You're nearly undone with it.
This is nothing like the Clark you've gotten to know at work, proper and kept. Sitting in your space, he's casual. Relaxed. Domestic.
It's not a stretch to imagine doing this every night.
It's a particularly nice evening too — even the sunset had tinted the colour of love on your walk back to your apartment, reds fading to a blush pink. Clark had held all the food at his own insistence.
The evening is darker now. A coolness blankets your apartment, amber streetlights reaching through the windows. There's some show playing on your television, but it's on low, barely a murmur.
"Last wonton?" Clark says, holding out the box. "It is your celebration night, after all."
Right. It hasn't felt much like a celebration— mainly because it's been feeling like a date.
It occurs to you that that feeling might not be mutual. You spear the wonton with your fork to give you something to swallow the bad feeling that thought gives you.
You've barely started chewing when Clark starts moving, gathering the plates from your coffee table.
"You don't have tuh—" You protest through your mouthful before you think the better of it.
Clark's already waving you off. The plates quickly form a tall stack and he scoops them up with one hand with remarkable ease.
"Please," He smiles. "I’ve left you with your share.”
He nods to the one plate and one fork still in use in your lap. Then he’s winding his way through the doorway to your kitchen before you can protest further — as if he owns the place!
You chew furiously through your wonton. "Don't do them all before I can help!"
No response beyond a laugh that makes you feel a bit melty. You slow your jaw, enjoying the food, and savouring the swallow.
You sit for a moment, soaking in the moment built around you. He’s here, in your space, and he’s taking care of you - seemingly quite happy to do so.
You’re reaching dangerous levels of hope now.
The plate clinks as you stack the fork atop it, climbing to your feet. You trace Clark’s footsteps to the kitchen.
He’s running the sink, bubbles foaming up in little tufts. He’s already rolled his sleeves back further, exposing the strong muscles in his forearm. His hands hidden are beneath the water, soaking your blue sponge and when he wrings it out, it manages to look extra tiny in his grip.
You take a moment to send a prayer for strength. Or luck. Insane luck. You’ll take either.
Adding your plate to the pile beside the sink, you grab the Garfield tea-towel hanging over the rail and sidle up to take the place next to him.
Wordlessly, Clark lets the suds run off the first plate and then hands it over.
You steal a glimpse at his face. This close you could count his lashes. They kiss together at the end, courtesy of his warm smile.
Side by side, the two of you work in comfortable silence. When passing the next plate, his elbow bumps up your arm and he leaves it there, pressed up lightly against you.
“You know,” Clark says idly, speaking as he scrubs at a pair of forks. “I’ve actually wanted to, uh,” He clears his throat. “Find a way to ask you out to dinner for, well, a long time.”
It’s a miracle you manage not to drop the plate in your hands. That prayer worked fast. Somehow, you recover enough to tease.
“You mean to tell me you hijacked my celebration night for your own gain?”
Without missing a beat, Clark says, “Maybe I did.”
He's completely sincere, nudging his arm against yours again. He rinses off the last plate and this time, instead of handing it over, he plucks the tea-towel out of your hands and starts drying.
With nothing to do with your hands, you’re left to deal with the conversation. You do your best to grasp your courage tightly. You wonder if he'll notice if you pinch yourself, to check if this is real.
“A long time, huh?”
Leaning your hip up against the kitchen counter, you echo his earlier words. Clark’s watching you, something that looks an awful lot like hope in his eyes.
“I…” You start. Your voice is getting quieter as your courage slips away and you can’t quite meet his gaze anymore. “I mean, I- me too.”
You hope he won’t make you spell it out — that he knows what you mean with just those words.
But Clark has never been cruel and he isn’t now. He places the final plate down gently, the tea-towel beside it.
Then he steps closer to you, bracketing you against the counter. It forces your eyes up, because staring at the hollow of his throat is almost as maddening as meeting his expression.
Clark’s smiling, a warmness in his blue eyes you haven’t realised is reserved just for you, til right this moment. His dimples, you bemoan silently. He’s beyond handsome.
He has no right to look like that - to look at you like that.
“Would it be improper of me then,” He begins. “To hope we might do this again?”
You have the sudden urge to throw your arms around his neck and kiss him stupid. Your hands, which have moved to hold the bench for support, are shaking just a bit.
“Not improper at all.” It’s barely a whisper.
His eyes drop to your mouth and that alone makes you feel dizzy.
“Great,” Clark grins, matching your tone with a low murmur. “Because there’s this woman I work with…”
Slowly, he reaches up and gently tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear. The warmth of his hand feels like it’s scorching the side of your face. Your heart is in your throat - and in your head, your stomach, pulsing at the end of every fingertip.
“She’s incredible at what she does,” He continues, hand still hovering. “Beautiful too. And whip-smart—though, I’m beginning to question that, given she said yes to going out with the likes of me.”
That laugh startles out of you and it breaks Clark into a grin too. His eyes roam your face, as if he’s drinking in your joy.
He’s entirely too gorgeous. You have to grip the counter tighter to remain upright.
“Shut up.” you say weakly.
Clark’s eyebrows raise. “And a bit bossy too—”
“Shut up,” you say again, a little more breathlessly. “And kiss me, Clark.”
To his credit, Clark doesn’t waste a second.
The hand that had been hovering finds your neck, burying into your hair, while the other finds the edge of your waist.
He tugs you forward, lightly, but even so it’s enough to make you laugh in surprise - so when he presses his mouth to yours, you’re already smiling.
It makes the first kiss clumsy. You’re too smiley to kiss back properly. That apparently makes Clark smile too, his glasses pressing into the bridge of your nose before you break apart.
“That-” He breathes. “Gosh, sorry, I meant- that is, for it to be less,"
He struggles to pick the correct word. You guess for him.
"Improper?"
Clark laughs at that, his eyes shining with an ardent affection. It's enough to make you shiver in his hold. God, those eyes, that mouth.
"Yes, improper." He says, though he sounds utterly pleased. "Will you let me redeem myself?"
In answer, you finally let yourself give in to the urge that's been building. Fingers curling into the collar of his dress shirt, you have to press up on your toes, but Clark's already there, meeting you halfway.
He's tugging you in again, the hand on your waist tighter as he sweeps you up in a kiss that you'll be dreaming of for years.
Clark is an infuriatingly good kisser you're learning.
Plush lips against yours, your head spins. Through an impossible series of events, in your little kitchenette, you're being kissed by Clark Kent like there's no sweeter taste than your mouth.
Your hands slide up, arms winding around his neck, feeling as though you're floating on literal air.
And it's with that thought that the abrupt realisation that your feet are off the ground comes.
Perplexed, you draw back, blinking in your confusion. Has he lifted you up-?
It takes one glance to realise that yes, not only are your feet off the ground—but so are Clark's.
It gives you a violent shock, but instinct has you clinging closer to Clark as a startled yelp escapes you. Then you're on the ground again, so quick you'd think you imagined it, if not for the shock in your legs.
You scramble back in bewilderment, hands clambering for purchase on the counter.
"I-! That-! You can fly!" You exclaim, pointing at the ground where you had just levitated.
Clark starts to stammer. "I-I, it's not- listen, I can explain."
You stare at him, waiting, but Clark only smothers a hand over his mouth. He still looks terribly blushed from the kiss, cheeks pink and mouth undoubtedly the same. His glasses are askew.
Somehow, you know you're staring at a huge puzzle piece.
Screwing your eyes shut, you attempt to process the rolling rampage of thoughts streaming through your mind.
Clark Kent can fly!
Clark Kent kissed you! (Less important, but still a thought.)
Clark Kent is... not human?
Your eyes open again and Clark's still there, his hands now hanging off his neck. He looks terribly stressed, his own eyes screwed shut in thought.
"Okay, listen-" He says abruptly, eyes still closed.
"—No, wait," You interrupt, holding a hand up. You're nearly there, you know it. The realisation is so close you can almost taste it.
Who else do you know who can fly? Technically, there's more than a handful of meta-humans with the capability of flight — but squinting at your hot coworker crush, a particular one is coming to mind.
The moment you consider it, you know it to be true. You straighten up with an incredulous look - and Clark knows that you know.
Clark Kent is Superman! You kissed Clark Kent! You've kissed Superman!
"Oh, man." you say dazedly. Something compels your feet to move and mindlessly, you're walking to the couch. It sinks under you as you flop onto it, still reeling in your disbelief.
That would certainly explains the absences at work. Knowing your name, that day on the street. The same dimples you go crazy for. Now you've figured out the puzzle piece, you can't stop marvelling at how well it fits.
"y/n?" Clark has followed you from the kitchen, a wary look on his face, unsure what to make of your silence.
You blink, taking in the sight of him perched nervously on the other end of your second-hand couch and a delighted laugh is tickled out of you. "Of course, it's you."
Clark tenses up momentarily before he shifts to sit closer to you. "Okay, but, really, you have to listen—" He's pushing a hand across his face, knocking his glasses. Without thinking, he plucks them off his face.
Woah. So, that's why you hadn't picked it - given how when you look at Clark's face clearly, without his glasses, it's obviously Superman staring back at you.
Without much thought, you're clambering forward across the couch, closer, and taking his face between your palms. Clark watches you closely, still distracted with speaking - "—you can't tell anyone, I'm serious- What're you doing?"
You're tilting his face from side to side is what you're doing. "Of course," You say again, this time sounding a little more awed. "I mean, I wouldn't have picked it— it's the glasses, right? They have some sort of—"
Your sentence is cut off, Clark's hands reaching up to encircle your wrists. He holds your hands still and says you name once more, softer.
"You don't seem to be hearing me. Or," His eyes roam your face, searching for something. "You aren't really... responding how I thought you would. You can’t tell anyone."
His worry finally reaches you. You stop your near-frantic moment of revelations and breathe, feeling the concern in his words, shown on his face.
His brow is furrowed, eyes stormy. You can't stop looking at him. It's like you've never seen his face before.
"Do you really think I would?" You ask quietly.
Clark swallows, throat bobbing. After a moment, he answers honestly. "No. I don't think you would."
The truth of his statement sits in the air, blanketing the pair of you in something warmer, tasting of trust. You're looking at Superman —looking at Clark — and all you can think of is how it all makes sense. This, him, you—all of it.
Somewhere within you, the baby crush from Friday’s brush with Superman merges with your feelings for Clark. It fizzles in you, rushing through your veins. God, you like him so much.
"So,” You breathe. “What now?"
"What now?" Clark echoes. He's still holding your wrists, but his grip has softened. As if he's holding them to keep you close this time round. "I mean, I- well, if you still—that is to say... Dinner?"
He sputters through the sentence, landing clumsily on the last word. You're grinning before he's even finished.
"Dinner would be—" You pause for effect. "Super."
"Alright," Clark declares, shaking his head dramatically. "Date invitation revoked for that one. Are you kidding me? Already?"
He's released your wrists, getting to his feet and making a big show of it. Still, he's grinning and you're laughing, hopelessly enamoured. The laughter threads through your words.
"No take backsies."
“Alright, fine,” Clark huffs, crossing his arms. The bulge of his biceps draws your eye and this time, you let yourself look. You think you’ve earned it.
An unexplained question piques your mind.
“You didn’t mean to tell me.” You comment, tilting your head slightly. “Why did you fly?”
Whatever reaction you're expecting, it's not the glorious one that unfolds before your eyes. A blush paints Clark’s cheeks, but it doesn’t stop there. You can see it crawling down his neck, beneath his shirt. His ears are tinted red.
He scratches the back of his neck bashfully, avoiding eye contact. His voice has dropped in volume. “That’s… I… it happenswhenIgetexcited.”
“What?”
“It hasn’t happened for years!” The words suddenly burst out, Clark's hands held out. “It was more, like, when I was younger, yeah, if I got, like,” He begins to stammer. “Too excited, or- or happy, it would- just, oh gosh.”
He buries his face in his hands. You take a moment to process his words, brows rising to your hairline.
“Oh,” You sound pleased as punch. “Oh, okay, that’s just adorable.”
Clark straightens up, dragging his hands from his face and placing them on his hips. His face is still pinker than you’ve ever seen. He seems to accept his fate. “Thank you. I think?”
If he was still beside you on the couch, you think you wouldn't be able to resist kissing him once more. Instead, you lose the fight against your grin. You tuck up one leg and drape your arm across it, pressing your smile into your skin.
“You gonna have that under control in time for our next dinner?” You say.
Clark perks up at you words, as though he assumed the reason for his accidental flight might’ve scared you off. Like being excited could ever be bad.
“Yes.” He nods seriously. "Absolutely."
"Then," you say lightly, as though your heart isn’t pumping molten lava right now. You give a little shrug, aiming for nonchalant and fooling no-one. "It's a date."
Clark nods again, straightening up. He folds his arms, his posture serious, but you can still see it in his face - the joy. The excitement.
"It's a date." He agrees - and it sounds like the promise of much, much more than that.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
tagging sum lovelies i think might be interested <3 but no pressure @spideystevie @sanguineterrain @headkiss @brettsgoldstein @aarchimedes
You’ve been in love before, okay? And it’s… alright, you guess.
You’re sensitive. And you miss jokes, and you’re stuck wondering if it’s you who’s just not getting it. Love.
Enter Clark Kent — mutual friend recently turned boyfriend, sweetheart, and small-town farm boy. Also the man who’s making you question everything you know about love. Which isn’t a lot.
Better make a list.
[10k, fem!reader, no spoilers, one steamy scene & no other way to put this but you’re a weird girl <3 ]
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
It’s not that you haven’t had boyfriends before.
‘Cos you have. Well, kind of.
Technically, if you’re counting (and you are), there was Danny. He was your boyfriend from second grade, which lasted all of 2 days.
It was tough from the beginning. He hadn’t been appreciative of the myriad of bugs you tried to present him with over the 48 hours of your relationship. He also didn’t want to hold your hand.
The final straw came when he claimed that a pile of worms was gross, not romantic.
You still didn’t get that. But you figured if getting mud between your fingers wasn’t some notion of romance, then perhaps romance wasn’t for you.
And after that, it had been a long while.
Teenage years had slogged by. You got to watch as your friends got boyfriends—then got to wonder what bizarre magic it was that turned them into hopeless fools.
Lost to reason. Endeared by things you could never quite understand.
You had asked about it, just once. Your best friend at the time, Kelsey, had fixed you with a look and said, “You’re thinking about it too much. It’s just, like, love. You get it or you don’t.”
Kelsey and you hadn’t been friends for much longer. But you still remembered what she said for years to come.
It hadn’t been all that confidence inspiring, if you were being completely honest. Since then, you’ve been wondering if you’re just one of those people who are never going to ‘get it’.
There seems to be a lot of things that people get that you don’t.
It’s not been for lack of trying though. During your early twenties, there had been that awful three weeks where you had downloaded a dating app.
It had been tricky. It didn’t seem all that romantic either. How are you supposed to sum yourself up in a couple of photos? How are you supposed to read tone through a text?
Besides, no matter what you seemed to do, all the conversations led back to the discussion of sex. Which didn’t seem very fitting, considering it was called a dating app. Were hookups considered dates? A mystery to you.
But - and you remember this clearly - it had been the day you’d deleted the app, that you had run into Darren in the hall of your apartment complex.
By anyone else’s standards, Darren is the only boyfriend you’ve had.
Except for now — because now, you have Clark.
And yeah, like you said, it’s not like you haven’t had a boyfriend before. It’s just that somehow, with Clark now, you’re noticing things.
New things. Different things.
You and Darren had dated for the better part of a year. The break-up had been amicable — at least you think so.
Getting a read on Darren’s emotions was one of those things that never really clicked - though, ironically, you could tell that it was one of the things that annoyed him so.
It was one of quite a few things, apparently.
According to your friends, you and Darren had a ‘fairy-tale’ meeting. Bumping into each other in the elevator, his coffee spilling down your sleeve, his apology and insistence at making it up to you.
You’d agreed before you’d even really realised it was a date.
It was easy to get wrapped up in it, in him. Darren was certainly nice to look at. He had this swoopy blonde hair and nice green eyes that reminded you of seaweed. He didn’t seem to like it when you’d told him that though.
The first date had been at a dive-bar you’d never seen before, a grimey place called The Last Resort.
It flaunted crimson lighting and sticky vinyl seats. You’d been too overwhelmed and tried to stem it with a margarita - overshooting it a bit with the booze. You hadn’t expected it when Darren tried to kiss you.
It had been awkward, his lips not quite meeting yours, combined with the squeak of surprise you’d let out. But Darren insisted it was cute.
He’d walked you home (but then again, he did live in your building) and asked you at your door, tall and nearly intimidating in the space of your doorway, if you’d like to do it again. You’d barely had a second to think it over, to analyse any emotion of the night, before an answer stumbled out.
It’s, like, love. You get it or you don’t get it. The only haunt from your old best friend - the only reason you really wondered if you were missing something.
Something that made you want to get it, even if you weren’t entirely sure what it was.
You’d told Darren yes.
After a couple of weeks together, you were confident. Kelsey had been right. You got it now.
Darren was sweet. He took you out — though, those nights frequently ended up at The Last Resort. Eventually, you learned to like it with time.
He’d invite you over and cook you dinner — but sometimes he’d forget that he hadn’t been grocery shopping and would just order in.
He’d kiss you like no else had - because no one else really had - and you’d let him convince you to be late to work. He’s peel off your clothes in a rush of frenzied passion, as though he couldn’t make himself wait. Darren made you feel special.
Love. You had been in love.
Correction: you think you had been in love.
It must’ve been, you’ve since concluded. You can’t really think of any other reason that it lasted that long if it wasn’t love.
In fact, you hadn’t really questioned it until now. Hadn’t had any reason to.
Until Clark.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Clark’s apartment is fancier than yours.
It’s all high-rise and sleek surfaces, with big windows that stretch from the roof to the ground. You like how fast the elevator goes and how it makes your stomach swoop.
Clutching the strap of your bag, you watch the numbers climb as it reaches his level. The path to his apartment is memorised, even though, technically, you and Clark have only officially been seeing each other for a couple of weeks.
You have your prior friendship to thank for that. A friend of a friend, that’s how you two had met.
Lois Lane is a fantastic reporter and a good friend. She could ask the right questions, make you uncomfortable for the sake of finding out the truth, but she was never mean. You liked that. It was rare in people.
You two had been friends — though you hadn’t been sure if she would use that word — back in your college days.
It was an accidental reunion on the streets of Metropolis that had her dragging you along to some Daily Planet happy-hour drinks after work. There you’d met Ron, Steve, Cat, Jimmy, and Clark.
This is where people say the rest is history.
The elevator dings and rocks to a halt. You step out, counting the doors on the way to Clark’s apartment. His door, like all the others, is a lime-green you’re not fond of. Clark always smiles when he catches you wrinkling your nose at it.
It’s as you come to a pause before the familiar lime-green, do you realise you haven’t called ahead.
You hadn’t been thinking of that — just that you got off work early, had to run an errand on this side of town, and were right by Clark’s building entirely by accident. You’d only been thinking of seeing Clark.
Most people don’t like it when you show up unannounced, you’ve found.
You get it, you suppose. You get that way when someone comes into the kitchen when you’re cooking - or when you’re wearing your headphones and people won’t stop trying to talk to you. It makes you itch.
You don’t mind so much when people come by and visit you, mainly because it doesn’t happen all that often.
It might be your apartment; a quaint shoebox, especially compared to Clark’s.
But Clark insists that he likes your apartment more, calls it homier. Which is nice, because Darren only ever called it tiny.
And Darren really didn’t like it when you called by without telling him in advance.
The first time you had, after getting a surprise bonus at work, had been the first time he’d ever raised his voice at you.
You’d stood in the hallway the whole time, because Darren never even undid the chain to let you in, and felt slimy with guilt and confusion for days after.
Just as you’re envisioning all the ways this unexpected visit might result in a similar disaster, the door swings inward. There stands your boyfriend.
He’s smiling - a good sign for your predicament - and it’s a good-surprised kind of smile. Like finding something you’d thought you’d lost kind of surprise.
Clark opens his mouth to speak, but you beat him to it.
“Hi. I- I’m sorry, I— wait, how did you…? I didn’t knock.”
“Hi,” Clark says back, still so smiley. He has one hand still on the door, the other against the doorframe. He looks very pretty. “What are you sorry for? I thought I heard you come down the hall, so I thought I’d just check.”
You wonder if he’s done that when it hasn’t been you — the thought of his head poking out, searching the hall for you, makes your stomach feel like it does when the elevator goes too fast. In a good way.
You shrug your shoulders in explanation for your apology. “I didn’t call ahead.”
To that, Clark grins a little wider. He steps back and opens the door further, to invite you in. “I’m glad you didn’t. I love surprises.”
Something preens within you at the idea of being a nice surprise.
He’s clearly back from work early — or he’s working from home, but still decided to put on his work clothes. No glasses today either.
He’s wearing his usual slacks and smart dress shoes. His white button-up, though, has been replaced with a tight-fitting ringer t-shirt. It hugs his arms well, snug across his biceps, and it's tight across his chest.
If he asked you what you thought of it, you’d probably sputter something stupid. And sinful.
He doesn’t ask thankfully, he just ushers you inside politely. You step through the door you’ve been through countless times, toe off your shoes, and stop at the edge of the kitchen. Clark closes the door behind you and you wonder what protocol for this is.
This is a new part you’re still getting used to.
Normally, you’d take yourself to the couch, the usual corner seat you’ve unofficially reserved. But, now that you think about it, you haven’t actually been here since Clark dropped the g-word.
(He hadn’t actually asked to be his girlfriend in that manner of words. It had been much more poetic, flowers bought, a nervous and murmured ‘Please be mine?’ that you still thought about before bed.)
A hand touches your shoulder lightly and you turn towards it, to Clark, with a tentative smile.
This is where you’re unsure. Are you just allowed to kiss him? Whenever you want? Darren hadn’t been like that.
Kisses to say hello? It feels preposterous. You’ll never stop if given the chance.
“Hi,” Clark says again, and all thoughts of Darren evaporate. His hand shifts, tracing the line of your shoulder slowly up to your face.
Then, he answers your endless unvoiced questions for you, his hand cradling your jaw tenderly. You can feel the callouses on his fingers, feel the goosebumps you get in response.
Clark guides your chin up, you hold your breath, and he kisses you, soft.
You savour the moment by keeping your eyes closed a little longer, even when his lips have left yours.
Clark’s smiling again when your eyes flutter open, grinning enough to show teeth. You’re mirroring it without even realising, eyes creased and cheeks already aching.
You can’t believe it’s been a few weeks and it still feels like that when you kiss him.
It’s an effort not to get worried about when that will stop.
Clark removes his hand slowly, eyes still roaming your face, but eventually he relents. He takes a step further into the apartment.
You follow, wrapping one hand around your wrist to subtly feel for your pulse. It’s rocketing. No wonder you feel so lightheaded.
“How’d you end up on this side of town?” he asks, taking a seat on the couch.
You realise where his dress shirt is now, picked up between his fingers as he unwinds a spool of thread. There’s a button on the table, matching the others on the shirt.
You take a seat next to him. Close, but not so close to be clingy. Clingy isn’t good, you’ve learned.
You pull your legs up and rest your head on your knees, watching as he hunts for a needle on the table.
“Work let me leave early,” you say. Clark locates the needle with a quiet aha! “I had to return that book I got from the library. I don’t know if you remember, but they only had it at this particular branch.”
“I remember,” Clark says warmly, his eyes glancing up at you. “You finished that book already?”
He’s talking and trying to thread the needle at the same time. It’s not going well. The needle looks tiny in his hand. You take pity on him after the third try.
“Yeah, I — hey, let me have a go,” you cut yourself off, holding out your hand. Clark smiles guiltily, carefully passing over the needle and thread in your waiting hand.
In one quick motion, thread wet on your tongue, you push it through the needle. Instead of handing it back, you hold out your hand again - and Clark dutifully puts the button in your palm, handing over the shirt at the same time. You readjust, putting your knees to the side and folding your feet up beneath you.
“It was good, then?”
You hm, eyes fixed on the button as you prepare the thread, lining everything up. You glance up, meeting Clark’s eye, and realise he’s still asking about the book.
“Oh. It was okay, I guess,” you shrug a little.
You bite the needle between your teeth so you can align the button with both thumbs. “It had one of those three-day loans so, y’know, I had to read it in three days.”
It’s one of those little rules that make more sense to you than to anyone else. Darren hated them - and you hated that he called them senseless. It was the exact opposite!
“Well, of course,” is all Clark says. Another flash of your eyes up to his face tells you that, surprisingly, he’s not making fun of you. “I should get you to read some of my articles if you can read all that so quickly.”
For some reason, that makes your face burn. You focus on jabbing the needle through the fabric in precise motions to distract yourself.
“Why would you want me to do that?”
“Why not?” Clark responds. “I trust your opinion.”
The burn in your face gets worse. You pull the needle through for the final time and tug the thread taut til it snaps.
Just to check - and to give yourself a moment - you run your fingers over the button to check. Secure and neat.
“Here you go.” You pass it back. The needle and thread go back on the table.
Clark takes the shirt, but doesn’t move to do anything else. You lift your eyes to his face and realise he’s waiting for your answer.
“I don’t think I’d be very good at it.” You admit. He shrugs, as if to say maybe.
“We won’t know til you try,” he says. Then he kindly backs off, turning his attention to the shirt.
He does just as you had, running his fingers over the newly secured button, but with a much more enthusiastic reaction.
“Holy cow, this is—” He squints at it. “It’s so neat!”
Clark looks up at you, eyes somehow both wide and accusatory. “You didn’t tell me you could sew.”
Technically, you can’t. You can do little things like buttons and hems—but the way Clark’s smoothing his hands over the fabric, you’d think you’ve given him a brand new shirt, made from scratch.
You say sheepishly, “It’s just a button.”
Suddenly, the shirt is tossed to the side and Clark’s reaching for you - his large hands curl around your thighs, just above the knee, and he pulls you across the couch with a surprising strength. You slide forward, almost into his lap.
“Clark!” You laugh, hands on his collarbones to stop yourself from falling into his chest.
Your protest goes unnoticed - or ignored - as Clark’s hands move up, circling around your waist and pulling you even closer. You are in his lap now, with his big arms around you and his face so close. God, it’s a nice one, you can’t help but think.
He’s smiling at you and you have no idea what to do with your hands.
“Sorry,” Clark says, not sounding very apologetic at all. “It’s just, you’re so full of surprises. I love getting to learn new things about you.”
One hand on your back is tracing up and down lightly. You feel like you’ve accidentally swallowed a bag of pop rocks.
“A lot of people can sew.” You say. You shift a bit on his lap, hoping you aren’t making him uncomfortable and his hands loosen to let you do so - but the moment he realises you’re not moving off, he brings you in closer.
“I know,” he says, hand resuming its drift up and down your back. “A lot of people aren’t you though.”
His eyes roam your face, his mouth curled into a smile so sweet, it’s devastating.
Your hands at his collarbones finally unfurl as you let yourself relax a little more into him, pulse still racing. Your nerves never really leave around Clark.
“What are you thinking about?”
You’re not expecting the question - and answer more truthfully than usual. “How you still make me nervous.”
You expect Clark to laugh, but he doesn’t. His brows knit together, a sketch of concern on his face.
“In a good way?”
You weren’t before, but, abruptly, you’re concerned that Clark might think otherwise.
Darren certainly complained that all your annoyances came out of nowhere. History tells you you’re not the best communicator.
“Yes,” You nod severely. You’re clinging a little tighter to his neck now, worriedly. “It’s good. You’ve never made me bad-nervous.”
“Whew,” Clark says. “You’ve never made me bad-nervous either.”
You haven’t thought about that before. The idea of Clark being nervous is laughable.
Awkward? Yes. But he’s so sure in his ideas, in his motions. It’s why it surprised you that much more when he asked you on that first date.
Brow furrowed, you ask, “I don’t make you nervous, do I?”
In answer, Clark frees one of his hands and brings it between you. Gently, he places it atop one of your own, cradling it, and he drags it from his neck down to his chest.
He holds it over his heart.
“Feel that?”
You can, just lightly. There’s a thumping, but you can’t quite tell if it’s faster than usual - not unless you sit still for 15 seconds and count the beats.
“It would be much more efficient to feel the pulse on your neck.” You inform him.
Clark chuckles, smiling somewhat shyly. “That’s-well, uh, I mean, where’s the romance in that?”
Genuinely perplexed, your brow creases again. All of this is romantic to you - being in his lap, his hands on your back.
It certainly feels more intimate than any kind of cuddling you did with Darren—though, he self-proclaimed himself ‘not a cuddler’.
“Isn’t it?” You ask.
To test the theory, you slip your hand out from under Clark’s.
He lets you maneuver him, picking up his hand and moving his two front fingers together, up to your neck. You push them lightly against your jugular, knowing your rabbiting pulse must be thrumming against his fingers.
Clark looks at you, his eyes fixated on your hand still holding his, and swallows.
His ears have gotten redder. He lifts his gaze to your face, “I stand corrected.”
You release his hand with your own shy smile and before you can back out, you reach for his neck, two fingers out. He lets you, chin even shifting up to give you more space.
His skin is warm, with a little scratch from his shadow - he’ll be due for a shave soon. You haven’t gotten brave enough to tell him that you quite like stubble just yet.
Fingertips tracing, you find his pulse point.
Staring at the hollow of his throat, you don’t even need to count to 15 to feel his pulse is faster than normal. He’s not lying. You do make him nervous.
You’re not quite sure why it seemed so impossible until right this moment.
Flicking your gaze up to meet his, you find Clark already watching you. Like his ears, a lovely pink colour has dusted across the tops of his cheeks - it takes a second to realise it’s a blush. He’s blushing.
Clark clears his throat. His voice sounds raspier when he asks, “Believe me now?”
With his heartbeat against your fingers, you have no choice but to. Though the idea it’s just from two fingers is positivity delirious.
“I never said I didn’t.”
“No, you didn’t.” He agrees.
He straightens up on the couch, his hand on your lower back keeping you steady as his face dips closer to yours. You hold your breath instinctively - and swear you see the ghost of a smile cross his lips - then, he’s kissing you.
It’s short. He doesn’t linger, though the look in his eyes tells you he might want to.
Given you're on his lap, hand still pressed to his neck, you try to convince yourself it’s probably a good thing.
Just one kiss is enough to inspire more. There’s no other word than ravenous—which is highly concerning since you had never felt that way with Darren.
You shelve the thought of sinking your teeth into Clark’s shoulder far, far away.
And then mentally make a note to check and see if you’ve had any bites from rabid animals recently. That would at least explain the strange urges.
Clark breaks the silence, “Thank you for mending my shirt.”
He reaches for it, tugging it between your bodies. He thumbs over the newly fixed button, almost as if he’s marvelling at it.
His sincerity mystifies you. It’s like nothing you’re used to.
Having read a dozen articles on new relationships (your best attempt at research, inspired after your first date with Clark), you know definitively that bringing up an ex is the worst thing you can do.
It’s the first thing on the lists: THE TOP TEN THINGS WOMEN DO WRONG, as Cosmopolitan had titled it.
1: Bringing up their ex. Always bright red, meaning danger!
That’s how things work in nature at least, like poison dart-frogs. You know better than to lick a poison dart-frog and you apply the same knowledge here.
No bringing up exes. You don’t want to bring up your ex.
Worse, you don’t want Clark to bring up any exes.
But you can’t drop it - the thought caught in your mind like a fly that can’t find the open window, going round and round, louder and louder.
You got it. The love thing.
It had been an open and shut case with Darren, one that had left you mildly dissuaded from it in the future. Yeah, yeah, love, you’ve been in — but it had been like, sharing a sundae.
Except, you had a straw and Darren had a spoon - and the flavour was chocolate, which you didn’t like, and you only got some if it melted before Darren ate it all.
…Not your most astute metaphor, you’ll admit.
Point is, with Clark, you’re worried you were so focused on getting it, that you actually… didn’t.
Point is, if you were in love with Darren, then you have no idea what you’re doing with Clark.
Point is, that’s incredibly fucking scary.
You best start keeping notes.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
In your notebook, you write he thanked me for mending his shirt.
You’re not sure exactly what the list is yet.
Notes on the Clark Kent boyfriend experience? A step-by-step guide to the differences between boyfriends?
Neither of those seem right. You end up printing a ? at the top of the page and deem that sufficient. Then after a moment of consideration, you add the word love before it so it ends up reading: love ?
You read the first line you’ve written again. It’s the most concise way to sum up what had stuck out to you about that day — not the mending, but the sincerity in his thank you. The excitement over just a button.
If you didn’t know Clark to be so earnest, you’d think it might be one of those sarcastic jokes.
Sometimes, people play them on you — an exaggerated reaction that you’re supposed to know actually means the opposite.
But only sometimes. You’re not particularly good at cottoning on in the moment.
Luckily for you, Clark isn’t the sarcastic type. You like that he’s honest.
The first line in your notebook doesn’t stay lonely for long. The next time you add to your notebook, it’s your eighth official date together, just a few days after.
Clark had secured some swanky museum tickets, a perk offered from his job, as he told you over the phone. He’d called while still at work, the telephone lines ringing and an office murmur in the background.
It made you think he got the tickets and called you right away. Your stomach had done the elevator thing again, all swoopy and good-nervous.
The shelved thought of biting his shoulder made a fierce reappearance and you had to fight to focus on Clark’s words, not just his voice.
“They have a new butterfly exhibition, that’s what the tickets are for, and I thought of you. I thought we could, uh, go. My treat. I mean, obviously, I’ve already got the tickets…” He had trailed off awkwardly. It’s part of what makes you like him, his awkwardness. It’s so very Clark.
“What do you think?”
You answered candidly, “I love the museum.”
You hope the one he’s talking about has a mineral room.
“You do?” He’d sounded truly delighted to find that out. “That’s great, I—mean, me too. So we’ll go?”
You remember frowning at that, like he thought you might not want to - very much untrue. “Yes. I like going places with you.”
Following that had been a sharp inhale, then a stuttered cough, which made you pull the phone back with a cringe at the volume.
“Sorry, that was— something, my throat.” His voice had pitched up a bit. “So, tomorrow? Friday? It’ll be less busy, but we could do Saturday if you don’t want to go after work.”
“I like Friday.”
Then, far off, someone else’s voice had filtered through the phone. A coworker, jeering loudly enough for you to hear—“Clark, stop twirling the cord like you’re on the phone with your gir— oh my god, you are, aren’t you?”
“I have to go now.” Clark had said hastily, voice suddenly louder, like his mouth was closer to the receiver. “I’ll come by your place, Friday, 6pm. It’s an evening exhibit. Have a good day!”
Then the phone had hung up.
Then you were here, the next day, walking to the museum with Clark beside you.
This afternoon, you had been mulling over whether to call it a date or not.
Clark hadn’t actually said the words — it’s a date — not like how he had when he first asked you, over a month ago now. That had been clear.
This feels like murky ground. Do you still even call them dates after you start dating? Darren didn’t.
As you two walk, hand in hand, you decide to ask, “Is this a date?”
Clark jolts to a halt on the sidewalk and with your hands joined, you inadvertently come to a stop too. Perplexed, you look back at him, having to tilt your head up.
Fixed on you, his eyes are wide behind his glasses, something like concern pulling his brows together. It reminds you for all the world of a lost baby rabbit. His nose even twitches too.
You don’t like how upset he suddenly looks.
“What?” he says, sounding crushed. His fingers shift in yours. “I-I mean, I think so. I would- do you not think so?”
You also don’t like how his hand is loosening in yours, so you grip it tighter and shrug your shoulders. “I don’t know if you still call them dates once you start dating. You didn’t call it one. That’s why I asked.”
That makes Clark sigh loudly in relief. His shoulders, which have hiked up to his ears, sink down like a slowly deflating balloon.
He doesn’t look upset anymore, which is good. In fact, he’s looking at you much more intensely, a smile gracing his mouth.
He grips your hand back with the same fervor as before and starts you both walking again. “Yes, this is a date.”
You like that he answers your questions without poking fun at you for asking them.
You twist his hand over and start counting the freckles on the back absentmindedly.
“When is it a date and when is it just hanging out?”
You don’t look up, so you miss the affectionate glance Clark steals. He gives a hum in thought. He has 11 freckles on his left hand.
The museum peeks out, just up ahead. Something wilts in you. You wish you had another block to go, to keep walking with him. Then you could count the freckles on his other hand and see if they match.
“I think when you go out together, like this—” Clark finally answers, gesturing with your joined hands to the museum as you approach. “—it’s a date. Just you and I. I invited you out.”
“You invite me over,” you point out.
“True.” Clark smiles at you. “Maybe dates are the special occasions then.”
Your mouth twists. You don’t like that answer. Namely because it feels like a special occasion every time Clark calls, or invites you, or holds your hand, or kisses you.
“It’s always a special occasion,” you say pointedly, frowning a bit in your confusion. “You’re the special. Everything else is just an occasion.”
You’ve arrived at the doors to the museum. There’s a little line. Clark has the tickets in his pockets.
You pause slightly further back to let him retrieve them — you know you hate having to get things out in a rush — but he doesn’t reach for his pocket.
You glance up at him, concerned. He’s turned that brilliant shade of red again.
“Clark?”
“Hm?” He clears his throat, long lashes batting wildly as he blinks rapidly. You wonder if you should tell him you can’t blink away a blush - you know because you’ve tried.
“Tickets?” You ask a bit more weakly. Maybe he’s experienced a sudden change of heart about the museum - or you.
“Yes!” He exclaims, banishing that last thought swiftly. He shoves one hand in his pocket and pulls them out, brandishing them like a winning lottery ticket. “They’re here, I have them.”
The sign carved into stone, above the entrance way, reads METROPOLIS OBSERVATORY & SCIENCE CENTRE. It explains why it would be open for the evening - star-gazing is trickier during the daytime, you’d imagine.
Clark lets go of your hand to hand over the tickets, which get punched, handed back, and pocketed again. You make a note to ask for the keepsake later — you like things people often call junk.
He doesn’t reach for your hand again, instead resting his on the small of your back, ushering you through the doors.
The interior opens wide, with several paths splitting off from the entrance. There’s large, bright butterfly stickers on the ground leading to the right, accompanied by flourishing arrows. You can see into the beginning of the exhibit, people milling around already.
There’s also signs posted on a column, various arrows assigned to different paths. One reads Observatory, another Botanical Hall, and below it, Mineral Room, with a crystal decorated sign pointing to the left.
You perk up in interest and stop at the intersection of paths. “Can we see the mineral room, please?”
“The mineral…? You don’t want to see the butterflies?” Clark seems surprised.
That makes you pause, worried. You didn’t think about this — will he be upset if you say you want to look at rocks more than the butterflies?
You feel for your wrist, fingers pressing to your pulse. An old habit. You’re relieved to find your heartbeat steady.
Still, an old argument tickles at the back of your neck, Darren’s frustrated voice creeping in, and you force yourself not to physically bat the bad feeling away.
Biting your cheek, you realise you should’ve said something on the phone to begin with.
Now you’ve made Clark believe one thing, when you meant another. He invited you to see the butterflies. He didn’t mention going to the mineral room. You’re probably being demanding.
“If you want to,” you say as evenly as you can.
You’re not very believable. Clark sees straight through it, and even so, you’re not even aware that your body language gives you away, feet pointed to the left.
Never mind the fact you’re also a terrible liar - or the fact he can hear the skip in your heartbeat.
You wait for his sigh.
His hand on your back slips forward and he holds it out, palm up. You frown at it, then look up at him.
“I want to do what you want to do,” he says earnestly. “Let’s look at the minerals.”
He nudges his glasses up with his spare hand and his gaze holds such a softness that eye contact seems more unbearable than usual. The familiar burn in your face returns.
You look at your shoes—but not before you put your hand back in his.
You’re the only two in the mineral room, which is a treat all in itself. It’s quiet. You can keep Clark closer than usual.
He listens dutifully when you rattle off about pleochroism and birefringence — still keeping that intense warmth in his stare that you can’t handle for long. He doesn’t stop smiling the whole time. Neither do you, given the ache in your face.
By the carbonates, he kisses you, slow and sweet.
His glasses fog up and his blush makes an appearance. You feel like you’re having your own chemical reaction in your chest, fondness crystallising in the valves of your heart.
And when you ask if he minds that you didn’t get to see the butterflies at all, you believe him when he says not in the slightest.
You add, he asked me questions about rocks, to the list after he walks you home.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
After one particular morning, you add three lines in one go.
It had started the night before technically, when Clark had offered to come over to yours for the night. Tame enough overall, but… surprising.
Because, well, you were already at his apartment.
The thing is, you really like your own bed - though Clark’s is a close second.
And it’s just, you get finicky about these things —and last night, it had been the yoghurt you bought for tomorrow's breakfast, already in your fridge.
It makes you itch when you mess up the flow you have planned. But it didn’t mean you didn’t want to spend the night with Clark either.
Darren used to say you were punishing him when you went home like this. He’d never really believed you when you said there was nothing wrong — if there’s nothing wrong, then why are you going home?
Darren also didn’t like it when you were truthful. He said he did. Just be honest with me.
Yet, when you were — telling him his sheets were too scratchy, that his incense made your head too woozy, and his yoghurt brand was the one you hated — it always seemed to backfire. You told him anyway, because he asked.
One time, he’d called you a tease, spitting out the word. You didn’t get what you were teasing, but didn’t like how it felt either way.
To avoid this, you had made sure to set the precedent with Clark.
You stay over, but only with ample warning and a well-packed bag. You bring your own toothpaste, pillowcase, and a tiny Kermit that stays hidden in your bag - there for reassurance mainly. Clark never lights any smelly candles and his sheets are plenty soft enough for you.
Tonight, you find the precedent isn’t needed. Saturday night, a lazy afternoon spent together, and your boyfriend makes no protest beyond an adorable pout when you start to pack up to leave.
“I wish you could stay the night.” Clark murmurs.
It doesn’t sound like a guilt trip - it sounds like i miss you, before you’ve even gone.
He looks devastatingly comfy, relaxed beside you on the couch, lounging in his casual clothes. His hair is messier than usual.
You want to bury your hands in it, and let him kiss you over and over again, like he’s been prone to doing recently.
It’s becoming a serious hazard for your heart—so much, you’ve been thinking of informing your doctor. This much tachycardia can’t be healthy.
You remember it’s impolite to stare.
“I don’t have my things.” You remind him.
Clark twists his mouth, sighing a bit. “I know. I just like it when we sleep in the same bed.”
“I do too,” you say truthfully as you lace your shoes, moving slower than necessary. You glance back up.
Something in Clark’s open expression pulls the explanation off your tongue. “I just, it’s- I have my yoghurt. I got it for tomorrow.”
It sounds silly when you say it aloud. You try not to cringe so visibly.
“Wait, you’re going home just to go home?” Clark perks up, as if this is good news. “Not because you’re sick of me?”
Distress must show on your face because he hastily adds, “I’m kidding. I know you’re not.” Then, before you can worry about that too much, “Can I come with you? Spend the night?”
You haven’t even considered that he might want to.
“You’re already home, though.”
You realise that might sound like you don’t want him to and your hands clench up tightly.
Thankfully, Clark only shrugs and smiles, “Well, I was already going to walk you home.”
Relaxing, your hands unfurl. He’s being sincere. He wants to come over and spend the night - and he doesn’t mind if it’s at yours, instead of his.
Something in your chest aches tenderly and without thinking, you abandon your shoes and burst across the couch to Clark.
Surprised, he still catches you, arms cushioning your fall against him, but he isn’t prepared enough for your kiss. It catches him off guard and your teeth knock together from the force.
“Sorry,” you breathe, not that sorry at all. You’re gripping his shirt in your hands like you’re worried he might slip away — or worse, retract his offer to come over. “Yes, come over. I really want you to.”
Clark, still reeling from your kiss, looks a bit starry-eyed as he fixes his glasses that you’ve knocked askew.
But he’s smiling and he’s smiling at you. You can’t resist another kiss. You adore the little hum he makes in response.
It’s as though its set you off for the evening— Clark quickly packs a small bag, you kiss him; he grabs both your coats, you kiss him; he locks his door and you wrap yourself around his arm, pressing up on your tiptoes to kiss him.
He’s paying attention to locking the door and you can’t quite reach, so you kiss his jaw instead. Clark flushes hotly, but he’s still smiling. You still can’t believe he wants to come over.
It’s a highly uneffective way to travel, wrapped up in each other as you walk the blocks to your own apartment.
It’s a warmer night. The heat worsens when the doorman at your building clears his throat obnoxiously, making it clear your lovey dovey behaviour has an unwilling audience. It makes Clark fluster wildly, sputtering out a polite apology.
You drag him to the elevator in the midst of his, “My apologies, sir-!” so you can kiss him again, away from prying eyes.
Clark looks a little debauched against the elevator wall. You could probably roast marshmallows over his bright red face. His hands hover over your sides, flexing, but not touching.
“You—” He starts, a little out of breath. “What’s- I mean, I really don’t mind, but you’re, uh, well, eager tonight.”
“Bad?” Your voice dips into worry, fast.
“No!” Clark quickly amends. His hands finally find your waist, strong and sure, pulling you in before you even realise you’d been retracting. “It’s just a, uh, a bit of surprise.”
It’s true. To begin with, you were very shy with affection - your first kiss so sweet, Clark remembers your lips trembling.
Like how you hold your breath subconsciously every time he kisses you first. A tiny sharp inhale. Clark could write a full-length feature, worthy of the Daily Planet front page, on how much he adores it.
You remind him, “You like surprises.”
Clark softens at the memory you’re referring to, eyes shining in affection. “I do.”
“You like it when I surprise you?” You check.
“That I really like.” He’s grinning now, and he’s so handsome that you don’t know what to do with yourself. Kiss him? Bite him? Live in his dimples? He’s so nice to you in a way Darren never was.
The elevator dings, opening to your floor.
You tumble out together, with Clark still attempting to maintain a sense of manners. He straightens his rumpled coat with one hand, the other occupied by yours.
You lead him to your door, then through it.
Shoes toed off, you flip on the lights, then wince at their harshness. Clark slips off his shoes and gives your hand a squeeze before he drops it, moving past you. He knows the path to the myriad of lamps about your place.
As he turns them on, one by one, he has to duck to avoid the low-hanging living room light. It’s a relief to turn off the big overhead light.
“Let me put this in your room, alright?” he says, gesturing with his bag in hand, before disappearing into your bedroom.
Something compels you to follow and you watch as he turns on the lamp on your bedside too, coating the room in a soft amber. That now all-too familiar rabidness runs rampant beneath your skin.
“Clark?” Your soft voice catches his attention, and he turns, mid-way through shucking off his coat.
He told you once that you could ask him anything.
“Can you kiss me again?”
Something crosses his face, his eyes a little wider. He swallows, hard, and his motions falter momentarily. Finally, he wrangles his coat off and tosses it onto his bag and then he reaches for you.
“Y-Yeah, c’mere,” he says. In the same motion, you’re in his arms and he’s sat back on your sheets, pulling you both onto the bed. “Anything you want, honey.”
Still, he doesn’t move to kiss you just yet.
You’re adjusting yourself, getting comfortable in his lap, and you’re still wearing your coat. You move to shrug out of it and Clark helps, his hands guiding it off your shoulders.
It’s banished to sit with his coat. The whir of the air-conditioner unit permeates the air and you can feel the softness of your sheets where your knees meet the bed.
A hint of Clark’s cologne makes your nose twitch. It smells nice, musky and warm. It might be your new favourite scent.
You’re suddenly too nervous to look him in the eye, so you study the rest of his face. You’ve reddened his lips with your kisses, which you feel quite guilty about. Further up, you follow the line of his brow. You can’t resist tracing along one with your finger softly.
“You’ve got good eyebrows.” you say, closer to a whisper.
Clark’s grip on your waist tightens, so gentle that you’re not sure if he’s aware he’s done it. He swallows thickly and you remove your hand, moving it to rest over his throat.
“You think so?”
You can feel the timbre of his voice under your fingertips when he speaks and it makes you grin. You nod in response to his question too, finally brave enough to meet his gaze.
Blue eyes meet yours.
Then, sweeping your hair back from your face, he kisses you.
The first kiss is slow, easy. Like the kiss he gives you when saying hello. Your hands find their place around his neck, jittery and twitching in your excitement.
Clark’s hands on your waist shift, his arms wrapping around you like a hug. His next kiss, you sink into. You’re helpless to do anything but.
He dedicates himself to the curve of your mouth, memorising it with kiss after kiss after kiss.
It makes you feel dizzy. You clutch the collar of his shirt, a soft, sweet noise slipping out your throat.
It breaks the kiss. Clark exhales hard, his nose drawing a line down your cheek, along your jaw. He kisses as he goes, delicate little presses of affection.
He hovers at your neck, “May I?”
He sounds a bit wrecked, voice rougher and unlike himself. You nod, a minuscule motion, and clutch his collar tighter.
There's heat on your neck, a warning kiss bestowed. Then his lips begin to mouth softly at the warm skin of your neck, with what can only be described as a devoted reverence.
You melt in his lap.
Clark’s arms around you keep you close as your head tilts back, letting him in. His glasses nudge against your jaw as he teeth scrape your neck.
You’re so close to him—and yet not close enough. You want to crawl into his skin. You’re too worked up to know if that’s an appropriate thing to tell your boyfriend.
It’s no mind; with Clark’s lips on your neck, you’re not capable of any words.
You’re not capable of anything beyond these cute hiccuping gasps that will follow Clark for weeks. He feels insatiable, like a livewire. He’s attuned to everything you.
It’s why he pulls back, one hand stroking up your spine.
“You’re shaking,” he says, voice low.
You are—trembling slightly in his hold.
You hadn’t noticed, the same way you hadn’t clocked your own laboured breathing. It’s like you’re skipping a breath by accident, the way you do when you’re overwhelmed.
Unclenching your fingers from his crumpled collar, you put two fingers to your pulse point. It’s still warm from Clark’s mouth and beneath the skin, your pulse rabbits wildly.
“I-” Your mouth is unbearably dry. “I promise I’m enjoying it.”
Even your voice is shaky, though your assurance isn’t. You are, you are. You’re not shaking because you’re scared of this, of him. It's just a lot.
“I know.” Clark says calmly, though his eyes scour your face with a tinge of worry. His hand hasn’t ceased its soothing up and down your back. “I know, I—”
“It’s not you,” you say, desperate to steal the worry from him. “Well, it is you, but it’s not, like, you—that sounds stupid. It’s, uh, me, it’s a me thing. I— you haven’t done anything wrong, please.”
“Okay,” he says, which makes you feel better, because it means he believes you. “Neither have you. Believe me, I know what it’s like to feel like everything’s dialled to eleven.”
That is sort of what this feels like—like you’re a spring loaded too tightly.
The rich smell of his cologne, the taut feel of his firm shoulders, the heat of his beautiful mouth - all of it urges on that fervent feeling that skitters under your skin. You can’t process it all at once.
You close your eyes.
Despite how you really don’t want to, you draw back your hand from his neck, curling your nails so they bite into your palms. Clark’s hand against your spine pauses, pressed against your lower back. He holds it there, and waits, patient.
It doesn’t take long to ready yourself — only a few moments — and when you finger your pulse, it’s steadier. Eyes creasing open, you find Clark watching you closely.
The apology nearly falls off your tongue out of habit. Clark gets there first.
“Please don’t apologise,” He pleads.
His eyes scan across your face, looking for any other sign to worry, but it’s needless. He can hear your heartbeat, can follow the now steady rhythm of it.
He knows you - and more than that, he trusts you. He trusts you’ll tell him if something is wrong, even if sometimes you need a nudge. He doesn’t need any apologies for needing a moment.
Clark kisses the next apology out of your mouth and it dissolves on your tongue.
It’s chaste, this kiss. While he’s still close, breath fanning across your face, he murmurs, “Tell me if you need another one,” like this wasn’t even a hiccup to him.
You kiss him so fiercely, you bite his lip. Clark barely registers the twinge of pain, only the enthusiasm. He aches.
Without breaking the kiss, he leans back on your sheets, and tugs you down with him. His big hands slide to hold your hips, grip still gentle. The buzzing under your skin gets louder.
You pull back, hands still moving up, and you tentatively, carefully, slide his glasses from his face.
Clark lets you, hands unmoving from their place, his gaze still hopelessly fixed on you. His lashes are long, his eyes creased from his smile. He’s so handsome.
He looks in love, you think to yourself.
You bury the thought for later - and your hands in his hair, like you’ve been wanting to do all night.
You only need one other breather that night. One break from the sensations—when his long, careful fingers sink into you and have you whimpering into his neck, grasping his shoulders tightly. His breath shudders, but he talks you through it, patient and unwavering.
You fall asleep, sated, skin to skin, and dream of nothing.
In the morning, you’re roused by the smell of fresh coffee. The sheets beside you are empty and you follow suit.
Golden light paints the kitchen. Bathed in it, Clark looks sleep-rumpled and lovely.
You drink your coffee together, your ankles linked together beneath your table. It looks extra tiny with Clark’s large frame sitting at it.
He does the dishes, no asking or prompting from you, so perfectly midwestern of him. He only nearly drops one of your mugs when you kiss his shoulder blade in thank you.
You watch him, in between getting yourself dressed, and Clark blushes scarlet when you pass him with no pants on to retrieve something from your bag - which makes no sense, considering you were wearing much less the night before.
It’s almost like those days before he had asked you out—quick glances that make you both smile, eyes dancing away. You have to remind yourself you’re allowed to look now.
It’s easy. So easy, it’s scary.
The buried thought from last night rises to the surface. Whether you want it or not, Clark Kent is single-handedly rewriting every idea you ever had about love.
That old fear twinges in you— you get it or you don’t.
You decide you don’t mind if you were wrong with Darren, if it means you get it this time — get it and get to keep it.
When he’s gone, in your notebook, you write he came over to my place - which is almost too astute, but you know what it means.
It’s not about the yoghurt, or the bed, or anything else. It’s the complete simpleness of how it had panned out. You can’t stay the night and he wants to see you, so he makes the effort.
Below it, you write he likes doing the dishes.
Then, after a moment, you cross it out. Your brows knit together. No, it wasn’t that that was different to Darren. It takes another moment to put your finger on it.
You write he likes to help. With more thought, you tack on another word, so it reads he likes to help me.
The last one makes your face burn so much you nearly get too shy to put it down on paper. You write it all the same; he takes his time with me.
You really, really hope you get it this time.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The love list isn’t meant for to be seen by anyone’s eyes but your own.
And to be clear, he didn’t mean to see it.
Clark is not a snoop. He believes strongly that privacy is a human right that everyone deserves to have respected. Even amongst relationships, not every thought needs to be shared. Not every secret.
He still has his big blue secret, after all.
You have… this list.
He hadn’t meant to see it, truly. But given how you’d left your notebook open on your kitchen table, and how you knew he was here, it hadn’t clocked as something you might want to hide.
You disappear after letting him into your apartment and Clark can trace you to your bedroom, his hearing tuned to your heartbeat. In the evening kitchen air, your perfume lingers. Your notebook is left on the table, open.
And Clark just… glances at it.
He doesn’t even know what it is.
He’s not so presumptuous to think it’s about him to begin with — there are no names on the paper. But, given its title, if it’s about love, he quietly hopes it’s about him.
Though, there is a question mark attached. That feels less good.
Especially as he reads the line about rocks and questions, which is as telling as it gets - Clark is pretty sure he’s the only one taking you to museums and kissing you in the mineral rooms. He really hopes he is.
It’s as he skims over the line he takes his time with me and realises what that means, he knows he should really stop reading.
Unable to help it, his cheeks bloom bright red. But beneath his slight embarrassment, something glows proudly.
These are good things. He’s making you happy.
But… then, why the list?
“—did I tell you about how when I was going by Fran’s the other day, there was this shirt in the window- you know the shop across from—”
You stop speaking and walking in the same second.
Clark’s head snaps up and he watches your eyes dart between him and the notebook in rapid succession, hears your pulse tick up in pace. The embarrassment from earlier flourishes up again.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to- it was out.” He wasn’t sure before, but now he knows this wasn’t meant for his eyes. Gosh, he’s such a jerk. “I only glanced, I promise.”
He pulls at his collar, which suddenly feels too tight. You won’t meet his eye and Clark can see the tell-tale sign of your nervousness—your fingers pressing to your wrist, taking your pulse.
Awfulness coats over him. But despite that, you only give a shrug and murmur, “It’s okay. It’s not, like, bad. I was just- it was just to help me.”
Clark swallows. “Help you?”
You haven’t made a move to close the notebook or to approach him. He can still read the lines if he glances over - and he can’t ignore the itch to understand it. Help you with what?
You shrug again, now picking at your fingertips. You still won’t look at him.
“Just,” You exhale through your nose, a stressed sigh, and Clark wants to close the space between you. “When you… did something I didn’t get—or, just- like I know you’re not supposed to bring up exes, or- or compare, but it was only— Darren didn’t—”
You make a frustrated noise, hands clenching up tight, your sentence abandoned. Clark’s heart aches, more at your frustration than the mention of your last boyfriend, Darren.
He doesn’t know a lot. Has never met the guy. What he does know is that Lois wasn’t a huge fan, which meant he probably wasn’t the most stellar of partners. He trusts her judgement a lot.
Clark tries not to judge people he’s never met — but as your words sink in, when you did something I didn’t get, and he looks at the list again, something clicks.
he thanked me for mending his shirt, he came over to my place, he asked me questions about rocks.
They’re hardly impressive acts of love.
Clark likes to think he’s done a good job at wooing you, but none of what he’d consider the most romantic is on the list. None of the carefully crafted date ideas, none of the meticulously picked gifts.
It’s the little things. The quiet acts of love, of patience.
It’s evening, the sunset bleeding into the horizon, but Clark suddenly feels like he’s doused in yellow sun. Relief twines with his endearment, almost feverish with how it stirs up in his chest.
The next thought bleeds into fact with ease; he’s in love with you. Irrevocably. Entirely.
And with one final glimpse at your notebook, Clark knows exactly how to tell you.
For right now though, you’re still staring at the ground. Still picking at your fingertips in frustration, one ankle rolling to the side in a fidget.
You’re not worried about the list, he realises, you’re worried about him.
That just won’t do.
He crosses the room in two quick strides. It forces your head up in surprise and it’s the perfect opportunity to cup your face. Clark cradles your jaw, hears the inhale and smiles, before he kisses you.
He kisses you sweet, short. Then kisses, again and again. He can only hope he’s kissing away the frustration, the doubt, the unease.
There’s a brief moment where he worries he’s overwhelming you, your breath still stuttering between kisses — but your hands rise to hold his wrists, keeping him in place. He knows you well enough to know that means more, please.
He indulges you like it’s the easiest thing in the world. It is, to him.
You’re leaning into him and Clark takes the weight effortlessly. He’s messing up your lipstick undoubtedly, which he'll feel bad about later.
“We’ll be late if we stay much longer,” he says, reluctantly breaking the kiss.
You’re both breathing heavy. Clark studies the plush of your lip, while your eyes stay closed - which only makes you all that more endearing to him.
You’re a stickler for being on time though, so it’s so unlike you to respond with, “S’fine. It’s—”
You pivot mid-sentence, as if remembering what spurred his kisses on. “—the list. You didn’t think it was…?”
You don’t finish your sentence, trailing off stiltedly. Clark drops his next kiss to your hairline, his thumbs swatching along your cheeks with gentle ease.
“Think it’s what?” He hums, his next kiss on your nose. “I’m not thinking anything about it, because I wasn’t meant to see it and-” A kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Huh, what do you know? Its completely left my mind. What are we talking about?”
There’s a furrow in your brow for a moment before you catch on. Then your mouth curls into a shy smile and Clark knows he’s convinced you.
Your grip on his wrists tightens, an involuntary motion to get him closer. He complies, kissing you again. The pink of his cheeks might become permanent if he doesn’t calm down soon.
“C’mon,” He relents the closeness to step back, slipping his hands from your face. “We can still make it on time.”
Clark Kent, notoriously late for most things, except for your dates. He’s learning from you.
Fixing his glasses with a nudge, he gives you a moment to compose yourself, before he offers his hand. When you link it with his, he dotes you with a kiss upon it.
He figures that, to you, it’s the little things that really matter.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
When you return home and the notebook is where you left it, open to the love list, embarrassment wells within you.
You hadn’t meant for him to see it. It had been a mistake in your excitement, flustered just by him coming to meet you at your door.
He’d been a sweetheart about it all the same, but it doesn’t mean you can shake the fumble so easily.
Yet, at the same time, there had been something… different about Clark on the date that followed.
He’d seemed surer, more settled. Like something had been decided finally, and he could see the way forward.
Your coat finds a home on the peg by the door, your shoes slipped off.
Soft footsteps take you to the table and it’s as you go to fold your notebook closed, does it catch your eye.
There. Below the love list, there are two new lines, both in handwriting that isn’t your own. With a soft jolt, you recognise it as Clark’s.
Perplexed, you squint down at the paper.
He’s written, in his neat scrawl, he loves that you made this list.
Your heart pounds, that familiar fervor you associate with your boyfriend begins to coarse through your bloodstream. You bite your lip so hard it nearly bleeds—but you can hardly feel it. You’re goddamn untouchable right now.
Whether you got it with Darren didn’t matter. You realise now it never mattered. It’s you and Clark—and that is all you need.
Because, below his first line, Clark has written—he loves you.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
the notebook :’) bcos i love a lil graphic
tagging sum lovelies i think might be interested / replied to my snippet tehe <3 but no pressure! @spideystevie @sanguineterrain @brettsgoldstein @aarchimedes @strangerstilinski @djarinova @kissmxcheek @langaslefthairstrand
summary: you stumble when your grandfather dies. clark picks you up.
author's note: this was inspired by the fact that my grandpa died and i went to watch superman with my fiance. i haven't written since january though so please be nice <3
Clark misses the funeral.
He doesn’t mean to. The crisis of the day had taken too long, and regret flares deeper in his chest when he sees your hunched shoulders, your glazed over eyes and blank stare.
He’d have done anything to have been able to be the steady presence at your back, the well you could have drawn from to get you through.
“I'm sorry, sweetheart,” Clark says as he sits on the hard stone wall beside you, feet dragging the ground. “I so wanted to be here.”
Knowing his secret, you simply nod. “I know. It’s okay.”
“How did it go?”
It’s a stupid question, a flat one in the face of the magnitude of your loss, but it’s all he can think of.
“It was nice. Simple. I think he would have liked it.”
He nods. “I’m sure he would have.”
Your gaze is still locked on some unknown point in front of you. Clark wishes you’d look at him, wishes he could fly into your eyes like he flies around the world and brush the sadness away.
“He used my eulogy.”
“Yeah?”
Then, you look at him. Your face looks for all the world like a child’s–lost, looking for something–someone–that can’t be found.
You nod. “Yeah.”
“It was beautiful.”
You had let Clark see it. You shared your other pieces occasionally, but Clark was the only one who got to discuss your writing with you. It was an honor.
“Thank you,” you murmur, offhanded. “It doesn’t seem like it was my place.”
“Why?”
You shrug, look away from him and find that spot again “Who am I to sum up his life?”
Gently, Clark’s fingers curl under your chin, turn you to face him. “You were someone to him. Besides that, you did it wonderfully, with the skill of someone who knew him well.”
“I wanted to do right by him.”
“And you did. I promise.”
Your bottom lip quivers in the way it always does when you want desperately to cry. Clark knows you won’t let yourself fall apart–not here. That’s reserved for later, in the quiet dark, with Clark’s body curled around yours.
Another honor–to catch you when you fall. The honor of his life.
Instead, you simply hum. “I know.” Then, “I’ve been thinking it should feel like something else.” You pause, shake your head. “This unshakable man is gone and it just feels…like nothing. Shouldn’t it be more–I don’t know–dramatic?”
Clark shakes his head. “Not necessarily. Grief can feel differently for everyone.”
“I think I’m doing it wrong.”
“You’re not doing it wrong,” Clark says, voice sure. “It’s just new. Your feet aren’t under you yet. You’ll find your way through it.”
You nod. “He would expect it.”
“More than that,” Clark says, voice soft, “he would know you could do it. He would believe in you.”
He sees something in your eyes crack.
“I’m so sad he’s not in the world anymore,” you whisper. “It seems like he’s just off to the side, and we should all be waiting for him to come back. But, that’s not true. He’s just gone.” Your voice shakes, and it twists something deep inside Clark’s chest.
“I know, baby.”
You shake your head. “It’s this big untouchable thing that I can’t wrap my head around. I feel so silly.”
“Hey.” Clark’s hand squeezes your thigh. “You’re not silly.” He shrugs. “This is brand new, and it’s uncharted territory for you–grief always is. Some people feel it sharply, some feel it crushingly. And, some people, completely valid people, feel it like an emptiness, or an echo. That doesn’t make their grief any less painful–or their love any less real.”
“It doesn’t?”
Clark shakes his head. “He was so big for you–for everyone that knew him. It takes time for your heart to catch up to a loss like that. You don’t have to rush it. You just have to feel it as it comes.”
“I just wish he was here. I wish he hadn’t left.”
Clark nudges your shoulder with his own.
“Someone had to go first.”
“Hm?”
“Someone had to go first,” he repeats. “Your grandfather was the type of man to go ahead. He would have scouted the path and made a way for the rest of you." His hand finds yours, fingers interlocking with your own. “It isn’t much of a comfort, I know. But, knowing he’s out there somewhere? Just up ahead?” Clark shrugs. “I think it makes it a little less scary to keep going.”
Your head falls to his shoulder, rests against the crook of his neck. “It does,” you murmur. “Everything was less scary when he was around.”
“It’ll get easier, honey.” He nods, squeezes your hand. “I promise it will.”
“Thank you, Clark.” You squeeze it hand back. “Really.”
“Of course, sweetheart.” He leans over, presses a kiss to your head. “Any time you need to talk, I’ll always be there for you.”
You smile. He feels it in the slightest movement of your cheek against his shoulder. “I know.”
When he thinks about it, really, however many times he saves the world, the times he saves you are what mean the most to him.
He wraps an arm around your shoulders, holds you close to him, and the two of you watch the sun go down.
I don't even know what to say, I'm just speechless at how this hit me. This was extremely beautiful and gut wrenching. I'm sorry you had to go through this loss. Thank you for sharing it in this way.
