Hiiii would die if you could write Clark Kent x Demi god?? Like maybe the daughter of Zeus or something and they start dating and she gets really upset and he abilities come out before she can tell him that she’s a demi god?
𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀: 𝖼𝗅𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝗄𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗑 𝖽𝖾𝗆𝗂𝗀𝗈𝖽!𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋
𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌/𝗍𝖺𝗀𝗌: 𝖿𝗅𝗎𝖿𝖿, 𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗌𝗍, 𝗇𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗃𝗈𝗋 𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗋𝗌!
𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗍: 2.8𝗄
𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗋'𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝖾: 𝗁𝗈𝗉𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖾𝗇𝗃𝗈𝗒 <3
The rain over Metropolis had been nothing more than a persistent drizzle when you'd walked into Clark's apartment two hours ago. Now, it was a full-throated downpour, hammering against the windows like a warning.
Lightning was flashing, the winds picking up faster in an intense thunderstorm no meteorologist had forecasted for today.
You should have known better than to let it get this far.
You were usually very good at compartmentalizing that side of you. The side that let your emotions take over your actions and cause all hell to break loose. But right now, your heart was hammering incessantly, your rage simmering hotter and hotter, and it was boiling over.
Clark had no idea, of course, that this sudden pop-up storm was essentially all his fault.
He was currently rushing around shutting all the windows that he had left open earlier in the day for sunlight, muttering under his breath. You were almost certain that he was taking longer on purpose so that he didn't have to come back and finish this pointless argument you were having right now.
You half-wanted to use your own mind to shut the windows yourself and bring him back here in front of you.
But you couldn't, unless you wanted to explain yourself. Something you were not ready to do. Which, ironically enough, was the cause of this whole argument in the first place.
You were hiding something, and Clark knew it.
But unfortunately for the both of you, you just weren't ready to reveal that part of yourself, even if Clark had already revealed that part of him.
You clenched your hands into tight fists, forcing yourself to take deep inhales to calm your mind and clear the raging storm outside. But for some reason your usual tactics weren't working, and every time you thought back to why you were feeling this way, you got upset all over again.
Clark eventually found his way back to your side, taking the open seat he was in previously on the opposite side of the couch. You noticed the slight space he left next to you and cursed yourself internally.
Of course he's keeping distance, you thought bitterly. You've been snapping at him for an hour over nothing.
You just wanted to get this argument over with already so that you could kiss and make up and lay in his arms all evening like you originally planned to do. But it seemed fate had other plans because Clark was determined to get to the bottom of things. Curse the gods and their timing.
"Honey, I'm not trying to accuse you or attack you, or make you feel bad. I just know something is off and I want to help you in any way I can. But you keep pushing me away."
You take a deep breath, but it comes out uneven anyway.
"I'm not pushing you away," you say, too quickly, too defensively. Your voice cracks at the edges, and you hate that he notices.
Clark's expression softens, but he doesn't move any closer. "You are," he says gently. "You've been… different lately. And every time I ask, you shut me out. I don't—" He exhales, running a hand through his hair. "I don't want to be someone you can't trust."
The words hit harder than they should. Because that's not it. That's never been it.
"I do trust you," you insist, your fingers digging into your sleeves, grounding yourself in the fabric, in something normal. You take another breath. "Trust me, this isn't about you."
"Then what is it about? Because it's affecting you, and it's affecting me… baby, please, how can I help?" he asks, quieter now.
You shake your head immediately. You feel yourself getting anxious and irrationally angry. Why can't he just drop it? Why does he have to be so insistent and caring and loving? Ugh.
"I can't," you say simply instead.
Another crack of thunder splits the sky, loud enough to rattle the windows. The lights flicker. The air feels heavier, charged, pressing in on your lungs. Clark glances toward the window, brows furrowing.
"Gosh, that's… weird. Isn't this strange? This storm came out of nowhere. There wasn't supposed to be—"
You knew his Superman brain was probably now jumping to all kinds of conclusions and potential threats.
"Just drop it, Clark," you snap. "This isn't going anywhere."
The moment the words leave your mouth, regret floods in. His jaw tightens.
"I'm not going to drop it," he says, firmer now. "Not when you're clearly upset and refusing to tell me why."
"I said it's not about you!"
"Then let me in!" His voice rises for the first time—not loud, but desperate. "I can't help if you won't let me—"
"I don't need your help!"
Lightning flashes again, blinding this time, illuminating the entire room in stark white. The thunder follows instantly, deafening. The windows rattle violently. Clark freezes.
Slowly, his gaze drifts back to you. He tilts his head, curiously.
Your heart starts pounding and your palms get sweaty and of course he notices.
And you realize, with a sinking, horrified clarity, that it's happening. The one thing you've tried desperately to avoid.
Everything was spiraling too quickly.
The air around you is alive. You can feel it crackling against your skin, raising the fine hairs on your arms. The lamp beside the couch flickers once, twice, then pops—glass tinkling to the floor. Across the room, Clark's television screen glitches and dies. The storm outside isn't letting up. If anything, it's getting worse, the wind howling like something wounded.
Clark isn't looking at the destruction, though. He's looking at you.
No. No, no, no. Fuck!
This wasn't supposed to happen like this.
You force your hands to unclench, but faint sparks flicker across your skin anyway, dancing between your fingertips like restless fireflies. The overhead light pulses now, syncing with the frantic beat of your pulse.
"Nothing, it's nothing," you breathe, even as the lie falls apart in real time. Did he even ask you anything? Gods, you were losing it, bad. "It's just the storm—"
Concern is written all over Clark's face as he glances back outside, then back to you. He's looking at you the way he does when something doesn't add up. When he's piecing together a story.
And he's so, so good at that.
"...You're causing it," he says.
It's not a question. You realize that with a jolt of ice-cold terror. He knows. Your throat closes up.
You shake your head, stepping back instinctively, like distance might undo what's already unraveling. "I didn't mean to— I can't—"
The wind howls outside, fierce and sudden. Papers scatter across the room. The door rattles in its frame.
"Hey, hey, honey," Clark says immediately, hands raised in reassurance. He takes a cautious step forward. "It's okay. Just—just breathe, alright? You're scaring yourself."
"I know!" Your voice breaks, something raw and panicked tearing through it. Curse him for still trying to calm you down, even when he didn't understand what exactly was happening.
"Baby, your eyes…"
You lift a trembling hand to your face, but you already know what you'll find. You've seen this before—in mirrors, in rain puddles, in the split second before you manage to shove it all back down. Your eyes aren't yours right now. They're glowing. A faint, storm-silver light bleeding out from your irises, the mark of your father written across your face like a brand.
"I can explain," you whisper, even though you can't. Even though the words have lodged themselves in your throat like broken glass.
Clark approaches slowly, like you're something that might shatter. Or something that might explode. You wouldn't blame him for either assumption.
"Shh," he murmurs, voice low and steady in a way that makes your chest ache. "You don't have to explain all at once. Take a deep breath for me, please."
Another flash of lightning cuts across the sky, and the answering thunder shakes the entire building. You flinch, shoulders tensing, power surging instinctively in response. You try to do as he says, inhaling shakily.
The floorboards creak under your feet.
"I do," you choke out. "I do, because if I don't, you're going to—" Your voice breaks, breath stuttering. "You're going to look at me differently."
"I'm already looking at you," Clark says softly, before adding. "You're beautiful."
That almost makes it worse. You feel sick, even though you know he doesn't mean it like anything other than a compliment.
Your hands curl tighter, electricity snapping between your fingers. You try to force it down, to smother it the way you always do, but it's slipping, spilling through the cracks of your control.
"I'm not—" you start, then stop, shaking your head hard. "I'm not normal, Clark."
"I know," he says gently, and there's a faint curl of his lips. "I'm not exactly… normal either," he adds, a hint of humor threading through his voice.
"That's not the same!" you snap, louder than you mean to. The windows rattle violently in response. "You—you're good. You're… you're him. Superman. You save people, you—everyone looks at you and sees hope and—and—"
"And you think they wouldn't look at you the same way?" he asks.
A hollow laugh rips out of you. "No. They don't."
The storm surges, as if agreeing.
"I've seen what people do when they find out," you continue, the words tumbling out now, years of fear and hurt cracking open all at once.
"They don't see me. They see what I can give them. What I can fix. What I can destroy. I only destroy, Clark." Your voice drops as it cracks. "Or they get scared. And they leave. It happens every time."
Your eyes burn.
"So I don't tell anyone," you admit, lips trembling. "I try so hard to be human, Clark. I try so hard to just be… enough without it."
The admission hangs heavy between you.
"And I didn't tell you," you finish, getting it all out, "because I couldn't stand the idea of you seeing me like that too and choosing to leave. And things are getting serious now, and I'm obviously falling in love with you, and gods, I'm so scared. I didn't even realize I was pushing you away. I just figured it was better this way, to keep us both safe."
For a moment, there's only the storm. Then Clark closes the distance.
You tense immediately, instinct screaming at you to step back, but his hands find yours before you can. The sparks jump to his skin. He doesn't let go. If anything, he holds you tighter.
"Hey," he says again, softer this time, grounding. "Look at me."
You hesitate. Then you do. You release a long breath.
"You really think this is the part that changes things?" he asks quietly.
Your throat tightens. "It should. It usually does."
"It doesn't. It's not going to."
The words land with a strange kind of weight. Clark's grip on your hands tightens just slightly, enough to remind you he's there when he feels your brain spiraling.
"You're still you," he says. "The person who overthinks everything. Who insists on doing things the hard way because it 'feels right.'" A small, fond smile tugs at his lips. "Who gets stubborn over the tiniest arguments."
A shaky breath leaves you, almost a laugh.
"And I'm obviously hopelessly in love with you too." Clark repeats your words back.
"You didn't tell me," he continues, "and yeah, that hurts a little. Not because of what you are." His thumb brushes lightly over your knuckles, then your face. "But because you thought you had to hide from me."
Your eyes sting.
"I wasn't hiding from you," you whisper. "I was trying to protect what we had."
Clark tilts his head slightly. "By shutting me out?"
You wince. "...Yeah. That part didn't really work out."
He huffs a quiet laugh at that, something warm breaking through the tension.
"No," he agrees gently. "It didn't."
Another rumble of thunder rolls overhead—but distant now. Fading. You swallow hard.
"I'm… a demigod," You say finally, the words fragile but real as they leave you. "My father is—" You hesitate, shame flickering across your face. "It's Zeus."
You brace yourself, shutting your eyes quickly to avoid the look on his face.
Clark just places a soft kiss to your forehead. Then your temple, then your cheeks, and lastly your lips before your eyes are fluttering back open again, relishing in his touch.
"Okay," He says.
You blink. "Okay?"
"Well," he shrugs lightly, a small smile returning, "It explains the lightning."
Despite the lasting remnants of panic, you let out a startled, breathy laugh. It feels like something unclenches in your chest.
"You're not… scared of me?" You ask, quieter now.
Clark shakes his head. "I've seen a lot of things," he says simply. "You're not one of the things I'm afraid of."
The storm softens further, rain easing against the windows.
"I'm sorry," you murmur, guilt creeping back in now that the panic is fading. "For not telling you. For snapping. For—" you gesture vaguely to the destroyed living room, the storm, yourself. "All of this."
Clark looks at the cracked floor, the blown-out lamp, the dead television, and then back at you. His smile turns gentle, almost teasing.
"You know," he says, "most girlfriends just apologize with flowers or baked cookies."
A wet laugh escapes you. "I'll buy you a new TV."
He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering on your cheek. "I'm kidding. I don't care about any of it. I care that you're okay."
"I'm getting there," you admit.
"Good." He presses another kiss to your forehead. "Then let's get you somewhere more comfortable. You look exhausted."
You don't argue. The adrenaline is fading, leaving behind a bone-deep weariness that makes your limbs feel heavy. Something you always feel after wielding too much. Clark loops an arm around your waist, guiding you past the wreckage and toward his bedroom.
The room is dim, lit only by the soft glow of the city through the window. The storm has calmed to a gentle rain now, a soothing rhythm against the glass. Clark pulls back the blankets and eases you onto the bed like you're something precious.
"Scoot," he murmurs.
You shuffle over, and he climbs in beside you, gathering you against his chest. His arms wrap around you—solid, warm, impossibly safe. You press your face into the crook of his neck and breathe him in.
"I'm still mad at you," you mumble against his skin.
"Mad at me?" He says sarcastically, "What did I do?"
"You made me fall in love with you. And now I can't even be properly angsty about my secret demigod identity because you're too nice."
Clark laughs softly, the vibration rumbling through his chest. "That's the worst apology I've ever received."
"It's not an apology. It's a complaint." You tilt your head up to look at him. His glasses are gone, his dark hair falling messily across his forehead. "A very valid complaint."
He hums thoughtfully, tracing idle patterns on your back, gazing in your back to normal eyes. "Noted. I'll try to be meaner."
"Don't you dare."
Another laugh. He tucks you closer, chin resting on top of your head. The rain outside has softened to a whisper, the thunder nothing more than a distant memory. You can feel your pulse finally settling, the electricity in your blood quieting to a low hum.
"So," Clark says after a long, comfortable silence. "Zeus."
"Please don't."
"I'm just saying, if he ever shows up to give me the 'If you hurt my daughter' speech, what am I supposed to do? Shake his hand? Bow? I've never met a god before"
You groan and bury your face in his chest, even though you know he's only trying to cheer you up with his teasing. "I will throw lightning at you."
"See, that's exactly what I'm talking about. Most girlfriends throw pillows."
"You're impossible."
"And you're a demigod who shorted out my entire apartment." He presses a kiss to the top of your head. "We're a match made in—" He pauses, reconsidering. "Well. Maybe not heaven. But somewhere."
You lift your head just enough to glare at him. He grins down at you, all boyish charm and warm affection, and you hate how much you love him.
"I'm going to electrocute you in your sleep."
"No, you're not."
"You don't know that."
"I do, actually." He cups your face in his hands, thumbs brushing your cheekbones. "Because you love me. And also because I'm pretty sure I'm immune."
"You're not immune."
"Wanna test that theory?"
You stare at him. He stares back, utterly unrepentant.
"I hate you," you say.
"Love you too, baby." He kisses the tip of your nose. "Now go to sleep. You've had a big day of revealing your secret divine heritage and destroying my living room."
You want to argue, but your eyes are already heavy. The warmth of him, the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear, the soft rhythm of the rain—it all pulls you under.
"Clark?" you whisper, drowsy.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you."
His arms tighten around you. "Always."
The last thing you feel before sleep takes you is his lips pressing gently to your hair, and the quiet rumble of his voice as he murmurs something you're too far gone to hear.
But you feel it anyway.
Safe.
━━━━━━━
author's note: if you guys want more clark kent x demigod!reader, check out my drabbles for them. as always thanks for reading, requests are open, and checkout my masterlist for more!
⟢ ── only child. cancer. velvet & pearls. jeff buckley. old soul. antique collector. secondhand books. new orleans native. makeup. tarot cards. red wine. typewriter. balcony gardens. moonlight swims. chronic daydreamer. “pinky promise?”
⟢ ── soulmates. fastburn.
SOULMATE!READER ...
is waiting.
has been waiting, actually, for as long as she can remember.
not the impatient kind of waiting. no, hers is a bit quieter. softer. the kind of waiting that one does when they are sure that something grand and life changing will happen to them.
she pours coffee and feels it. walks through the French Quarter at dawn, the streets still wet from the night before, and feels it. sits on her balcony with a glass of red wine, the moon hanging low and heavy over the Mississippi, and feels it.
something is coming.
someone.
(hopefully).
her grandmother used to tell her stories about the old magic about soulmates, about bonds that transcend lifetimes, about the way the universe sometimes reaches down and decides that two people are simply meant to find each other.
you'll know, she'd say, her weathered hands cupping your face, her eyes gone soft and distant. you'll know because the world will go quiet. and then it will start singing.
you'd believed her, once. when you were small and the world still made sense and you had dreams of this mystery man. back when magic was something that lived in fairy tales and your grandmother's voice.
but then she died, and the years passed, and the dreams stopped happening, and the humming beneath your skin became something you learned to ignore.
you built a life instead.
a small one, maybe. a quiet one. but yours nonetheless.
your café sits on a corner in the Garden District, all exposed brick and mismatched furniture, books stacked on every available surface, fresh flowers on every table. it's the kind of place that people stumble into and never quite want to leave. you open it every morning before the sun is fully up, brew coffee that tastes like chicory and honey and play jazz so old it sounds like it was pressed onto vinyl by ghosts.
you know your regulars by name. you know which ones need silence and which ones need to talk. you know how to read a room the way other people read books. you have multiple friends you love.
you are, by all accounts, content.
you have new orleans after all, which is its own kind of magic.
you have learned to love this city the way you imagine you might love a person. completely, despite its flaws, in a way that makes leaving unthinkable.
you have learned to stop waiting.
or so you tell yourself.
because the truth is, you still catch yourself looking. scanning crowds on busy afternoons, searching faces in the flickering light of a jazz club, holding your breath every time someone new walks through the café door. you still feel the pull of something you can't name, something that tugs at your chest like a tide, something that whispers not yet but soon.
you still believe, even when you tell yourself you don't.
and then one day, he walks in.
and the world goes quiet.
the jazz fades. the rain outside mutes to a hush.
he's tall. dark hair, sharp suit, devilishly handsome. his eyes find yours immediately, like he knew exactly where to look, like he's been looking for a very, very long time.
and you know.
you know more than anything you’ve ever known before that he’s the one.
and eventually, you fall in love with him the way you fell in love with new orleans. slowly, then all at once, in a way that makes leaving him unthinkable.
you fall in love with him because he's been waiting too.
and he was absolutely, without a doubt, worth the wait.
author's note —hellooo! i need to help revive the originals + vampire diaries fandom on here, so hope you are hype for this series! feel free to send requests for soulmate!reader and i will get to them as soon as possible. check out this series as well as my other works on my masterlist! much love, & i hope you enjoy!
MERMAID!READER ... who meets Clark after she washes up on shore, naked and tangled in fishing nets and barely conscious. He finds her lying in the surf, gasping for air on unsteady, unfamiliar legs that tremble beneath her like a baby deer.
MERMAID!READER ... who gets taken in by Clark and taught the ways of the human world. He shows her how to use silverware, explains what cars are, and patiently holds her hand when the sounds of the city overwhelm her. He never once asks where she came from, just lets her discover things at her own pace — though he does have to stop you from trying to eat the decorative soaps twice.
MERMAID!READER ... who finds that if she gets splashed by water, she only has about fifteen seconds before her shimmery tail shoots out, scales glittering like crushed gemstones. The first time it happens in his apartment, she knocks over a lamp in her panic. Clark just calmly helps her dry until she can transform back, never mentioning the broken glass he swept up afterward.
MERMAID!READER ... who falls deeply for Clark and finds that he's falling for her enchantments as well. She doesn't mean to weave magic into her laughter, and definitely doesn't realize her voice carries the pull of the tide when she says his name. But he's caught in her anyway, drowning willingly, and when she shyly admits she's never felt this way about a human before, he kisses her like he's been holding his breath underwater for months.
MERMAID!READER ... who loves to drag Clark to the pool or beach any chance she gets. Clark has to remind her that others can't see her with her tail, his hands catching her waist just as she's about to dive into the water. He ends up taking her somewhere more secluded instead. Usually a hidden cove he found on Superman patrol, or a private lake in Kansas, where she can swim freely while he watches from the shore with a soft, helpless smile.
MERMAID!READER ... who has a strong appetite for seafood. It's all she eats really—raw oysters, salmon, tuna, crab legs she cracks open with disturbing efficiency. Clark is more than happy to indulge her diet, learning to prepare a dozen different kinds of fish just to see the way her eyes light up. He pretends not to notice when she gets a little too enthusiastic about the live lobster tank at the grocery store.
MERMAID!READER ... who has the most angelic voice he's ever heard. She hums while she cooks, sings softly when she thinks he's asleep, and sometimes, when the moon is right, she calls to the ocean from his balcony.
MERMAID!READER ... who gets affected by full moons and finds herself drawn to her grotto each time, but Clark helps restrain the pull that often has her acting loopy.
MERMAID!READER ... who is about as close to being drunk as it gets when the full moon is out. She talks about silly things—whether fish dream, what clouds taste like, if Clark would still love her if she turned into a sea cucumber. She has a habit of trying to run away, usually toward the nearest body of water, which means Clark has to scoop her up mid-sprint more than once. She's clumsy, knocking into furniture and tangling her feet, but she's also ridiculously adorable, pressing cold hands to his face and telling him he has "very nice bone structure" with absolute seriousness. He falls in love with her a little more every time.
MERMAID!READER ... who discovers that Clark has superpowers that make him not human too. She loves to watch him fly and sprint and giggles that melodic sound every time he indulges her with his powers.
MERMAID!READER ... who also discovers that Clark's x-ray vision works on her transformation. He doesn't tell her at first — he doesn't know how to explain that he can see the way her bones shift, the way her spine lengthens, the way her legs fuse into something impossibly elegant. But once, when she accidentally spilled water on herself and ended up changing in front of him, he made a choked-up sound. She catches him staring, pupils blown wide, and realizes he's been watching her inside. She should be unnerved. Instead, she pulls him closer, lets him trace the lines of her scales with his fingers while she transforms slowly now, deliberately, giving him something no other creature has ever seen.
MERMAID!READER ... who cries actual pearls when Clark has to leave for any Justice League mission that takes him away during her moon cycle. He finds her curled in the bathtub—his tub, the one she's claimed as her own—with tiny iridescent spheres scattered across the porcelain, her shoulders shaking. Clark's used to this by now, and he always strips down, climbs in behind her, and holds her through the worst of it. She presses the pearls into his palm one by one, still sniffling, and tells him they're protection. “Wear them,” you whisper. "Come back to me and don't be long." He keeps them in his suit from that day forward, and every time he takes a hit, he thinks he feels them warm against his chest.
MERMAID!READER ... whose first time with Clark happens at their private cove spot under the moonlight, the tide creeping closer with every wave. He laid her back on the blanket, the moon painting her silver, and worshipped every inch of her like she was something sacred. When he finally pushed inside, slow and careful, she gasped and her legs trembled, and for a moment she thought she'd transform, but Clark held her through it, forehead pressed to hers, whispering how beautiful she was, how perfect. She came apart beneath him with a sound that made the waves crash harder against the shore.
MERMAID!READER ... who likes to ride Clark's thigh when your too sensitive for anything else. She crawls into his lap, and presses her slick cunt against the hard muscle of his thigh. He watches her with dark, heavy-lidded eyes, his hands gentle on her hips as she rocks against him, chasing something slower this time. She likes that he lets her set the pace. Likes that he doesn't rush her even when his cock is straining against his stomach. When she finally comes, shaking and quiet, she buries her face in his neck and murmurs something in Old Mer that she refuses to translate. He figures it out later anyway. It means mine.
MERMAID!READER ... who begs Clark to take her from behind while she's fully transformed, her tail splayed across the wet rocks of their cove. She's always careful on land, but here she can let go. He pushes into her slowly, his hands braced on either side of her hips, and watches the way her scales ripple with each thrust, shimmering. Her voice echoes off the cove walls, high and melodic, and when she comes, the water around them surges, waves crashing against the entrance. Clark follows seconds later, buried so deep he feels like he might never find his way out.
MERMAID!READER ... who learns that her voice has other uses besides singing. The first time Clark goes down on her, she's a mess of incoherent sounds, gasps, whimpers, broken little moans that seem to make the room vibrate. But when he finds that spot inside her with his tongue, a true siren's keen tears from her throat, high and clear and carrying. Clark freezes, looking up at her with wide eyes, his lips slick. “Did you just—” She claps a hand over her mouth, face burning. “Sorry. I'm sorry. I can't always—” He grins, slow and devastating, and dips his head back down. “Do it again,” he murmurs against her, and she absolutely does.
MERMAID!READER ... who discovers that full moons affect her in other ways too. She's not just loopy, she's insatiable. The third full moon after they become lovers, she wakes Clark at 2 AM by straddling him, her skin fever-hot, pupils blown wide. “Need you,” you slur, already grinding against him. “Please, Clark, I need—” He's inside her before she finishes the sentence, hands gripping her hips as she rides him with a desperation that borders on feral. She comes three times before the moon passes its apex, and Clark has to physically restrain her from a fourth when her legs give out and she can barely keep her eyes open. “Tomorrow,” he promises, kissing her sweat-damp forehead. She pouts but curls into him anyway, asleep within seconds. He watches the moon set through the window and thinks he might be the luckiest man alive.
One, because you were 97% sure that you were the other woman.
And two, you didn’t care.
You know how bad it sounds, and never in a million years would you have imagined that this would be your situation. You had always prided yourself on having a strong moral compass. Yet, here you were, its needle spinning wildly and hopelessly lost in the magnetic field of Clark Kent.
You ran into him for the first time while you were working.
The cute little flower shop on the corner near the Daily Planet.
He had come in a rush, looking annoyingly handsome, even as he ran in, tuxedo large and twisted, glasses half falling off his face the bell above the door signalled his entrance.
And you were stupidly, hopelessly enamored from that very first moment.
“Hi,” you managed, your voice coming out softer than you intended.
He blinked, still taking in the explosion of color around him as if he'd stumbled into another dimension. “Hey,” he said, dazed.
“Anything I can help you with?”
“Yeah.” He ran a hand through dark, disheveled hair, making it worse. “Can I get your prettiest bouquet of flowers?” He added quickly, almost desperately, “But not roses.”
You nodded, emerging from behind the counter while internally cursing the thick canvas apron stamped with your shop's logo. It completely covered your carefully chosen outfit—a polka-dot skirt and matching top that you'd thought was so cute this morning. Now he'd never see it.
“Of course, follow me,” you said, leading him through the narrow aisles. You could feel his large presence behind you, filling the small space in a way that made your skin tingle.
“We have tons of options. These over here have lilies and baby's breath—very classic,” You gestured to buckets of poppies. “These are poppies, which are in season right now.” You stopped at your favorite display. “And these… These are my personal favorites. Peonies.”
He didn't respond. You glanced back to find him not looking at the flowers at all, but at you, with an expression you couldn’t quite read but made your breath catch all the same.
You cleared your throat. “Are you shopping for a specific someone, by chance?”
That seemed to snap him out of it. He blinked, color rising along his neck.
“Yeah,” he said, and your heart—stupid, traitorous thing—sank before he even finished. “For my girlfriend. Or, not yet, but hopefully tonight. With flowers. I just know she isn't a fan of roses.”
Of course, you thought, plastering on a smile while something small and hopeful curled up and died inside you.
Of course a man like this is taken. Why wouldn't he be?
You sucked in your teeth, refusing to let the disappointment show. “I think she'll love these.” You reached for an assortment of peonies in deep burgundy and soft peach, arranging them with practiced hands. “An assorted ray of peonies, and I'll throw some tulips and baby breath in there as well.”
He watched your hands work, that intense focus returned. “Yeah,” he said softly. “These are perfect actually. Thank you,” He reached for his wallet. “How much?”
“Don't worry about it,” you heard yourself say, stupidly, recklessly. “It's on the house.”
He blinked. “What? No, I can't—”
“Consider it a good luck charm." You thrust the bouquet toward him before you could take it back. “I hope things go well with your soon-to-be girlfriend.”
He took the flowers carefully, reverently, as if they were made of glass. That crooked smile returned.
“Thank you,” he said again, and his voice was so warm, so genuine, that it hurt. “Really. I'm Clark, by the way.”
You offered your name and he repeated it back to himself, like he was tasting it, like he wanted to remember it. “I'll be back.”
And then he was gone, the bell chiming his exit, leaving you alone with the scent of flowers and the echo of your own foolishness.
He came back exactly one month later.
The bell chimed and there he was, no tuxedo this time, just a simple button-down and those same kind eyes behind those same glasses. He looked just as handsome as you remembered. More, maybe. The memory hadn't done him justice.
“You're back,” you said dumbly, because apparently your brain stopped functioning in his presence.
He grinned, that crooked masterpiece. “Yeah. Your flowers were perfect.” He leaned against the counter, easy and warm.
“She said yes. Well. She said yes months ago, technically, but your flowers helped with the date part. Now I have a girlfriend. Officially. For a month, anyway." He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly shy and rambling. “I was hoping you could help me find something for our one-month?”
You ignored the tiny, vicious twist in your chest. “Of course,” you said brightly. “One-month anniversary. That's exciting. Let's see. Maybe garden roses—” You caught yourself. “Right, no roses. Peonies again?”
He laughed, a low, warm sound. “She loved the peonies. Let's do peonies.”
So you wrapped peonies for his one-month anniversary.
And for his two-month, you helped him choose a mix of dahlias and snapdragons.
For three months, you suggested sunflowers, because they were bold and bright and perfectly bloomed in season.
By six months, you were starting to feel genuinely pathetic. You still looked forward to his visits with an eagerness that bordered on embarrassing. You still dressed a little cuter on days you suspected he might come, around that monthly anniversary mark. You still replayed every conversation after he left, searching for hidden meanings in throwaway comments.
He had a girlfriend. A real one. A six month-and-counting, anniversary-celebrating, flowers-deserving girlfriend. You had no right to hope for anything.
But that didn't mean you couldn't be as delusional as you pleased in the privacy of your own heart.
Especially around nine months, when seemingly something shifted.
Clark started coming in more often. Not just for anniversaries anymore, but for “apology flowers”—he'd been working late, he explained, missing dinners, being distracted. He needed something that said “I'm sorry” without saying “I'll keep doing this.”
You helped him choose white tulips for sincerity, then lavender for devotion, delicate sprays of baby's breath to soften the message.
He started lingering after the purchases, you noticed. Leaning against your counter, asking about your day. About the books you were reading, the music you were listening to, the small ordinary details of your life that he seemed genuinely interested in.
At ten months, he stayed for forty-five minutes after buying a single stem of orchid for his desk. You talked about everything and nothing—his job at the Daily Planet, your dream of opening a second shop, the way the light hit the buildings at golden hour.
Clark started mentioning her less.
At first you barely noticed. Then you realized, with a jolt, that you couldn't remember the last time he'd said her name. Clark talked about work, about his parents in Smallville, about a story he was chasing involving corrupt contractors and substandard building materials.
But the girlfriend who had once been the reason for every visit had faded into the background, an absence you were too afraid to question.
So you didn't. You selfishly, desperately, let yourself hope.
And as 12 months rolled around, after a year of knowing him—a year of flower purchases and lingering conversations and a connection that felt, to your starving heart, like something real—you could wholeheartedly say that Clark Kent was your friend.
He came in very often now. Sometimes not even to buy flowers. He'd appear in your doorway with two cups of coffee from the vendor outside the Daily Planet, claiming he had a spare, and he'd sit on the little stool behind your counter while you arranged stems and wrapped bouquets and tried not to stare at the way his smile crinkled the corners of his eyes.
He talked to you about everything. His fears about his career. Which made no sense sometimes, especially when we would start talking about saving others. You didn’t think journalists saved that many people?
But, hey, what did you know?
He went on the occasional tangent about his childhood, the weight of expectations he carried without ever quite explaining what those expectations were.
You talked to him about your own dreams and doubts. About the loneliness of running a small business, the ache of watching friends marry and move away, the secret fear that you'd end up alone with nothing but flowers for company.
He listened. God, he listened. With his whole body, his whole attention, as if nothing in the world mattered more than whatever small thing you were saying.
You were in love with him. Deeply, hopelessly, irreversibly in love with him.
And you still didn't know if he was truly available.
Clark never said explicitly they'd broken up. In your lovesick, desperate mind, you'd convinced yourself that reading between the lines was appropriate. That the absence of her name meant the absence of her. That the way he looked at you meant something more than friendship.
But he never said it. And you were too afraid to ask.
So when he'd shown up at your shop near closing time with that familiar tentative smile, asking if you'd eaten yet, and you hadn't, you let yourself believe that this was it. This was finally it, after the longest year of your life.
Clark suggested a place around the corner, a small Italian restaurant with red-checkered tablecloths and candles in wine bottles.
The entire walk over you felt the tension in the air. Your hands would brush occasionally as you bumped into each other, you would giggle when you made eye contact at the same time.
There was no possible way his girlfriend was still in the picture. No way that this was just a casual friend's outing.
Even the conversation flowed easier than it ever had, fueled by cheap red wine and pasta and the intimacy of dim lighting. When the check came, he reached for it before you could, his fingers brushing yours in a way that lingered just a heartbeat too long.
“I've got it,” he said, his voice low.
“You always get it.”
“And I always will.”
That phrase echoed in your head for the rest of the night. The weight of it pressed against your ribs, warm and dangerous and exactly what you'd been starving for.
He walked you back to your apartment, the city buzzing softly around you, streetlights casting long shadows that made him look taller somehow. Broader. Like he was taking up more space in your world than he had any right to.
You stopped outside your building, fumbling with your keys, suddenly nervous in a way you hadn't been with him in months.
“Tonight was nice,” you said, aiming for casual, landing somewhere around breathless.
“Yeah.” He stepped closer. Close enough that you could smell whatever clean, simple soap he used and his intoxicating cologne. Close enough that you could see the flecks of gold in his irises, the way his glasses had slid slightly down his nose. “Really nice.”
Your heart was a caged animal in your chest.
Maybe you weren't as delusional as you thought...
He reached up, slowly, giving you every chance to pull away, and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingertips grazed your cheek, your jaw, your—
“Clark,” you whispered, and it came out like a question you were afraid to finish.
His eyes dropped to your mouth. “Can I—”
You kissed him first.
It was clumsy and desperate and perfect. His hands found your waist, pulling you against him like he'd been waiting to do it for months. Maybe he had. Maybe you both had. His lips were soft, insistent, and when you parted for air, he rested his forehead against yours, breathing hard.
“I've wanted to do that for a while,” he admitted, and something in your chest cracked open, spilling light through all the dark corners you'd been keeping it in.
You laughed, a wet, shaky thing. You felt the adrenaline and dopamine coursing through your veins and you wondered briefly if you were dreaming.
“Then why didn't you?”
He was quiet for a moment, thumb tracing absent patterns on your hip. “I wasn't sure if you— I just didn't want to make things complicated.”
“Complicated,” you repeated, and the word tasted strange in your mouth. But you swallowed it down, because he was here, holding you, looking at you like you were something precious. “It doesn't have to be complicated.”
He kissed you again, slower this time, like he was memorizing the shape of you.
You invited him up.
Somehow, some way, clothes were discarded haphazardly as you made your way to the bedroom, leaving a trail of fabric and anticipation in your wake. His shirt hit the hallway floor, your top draped over the doorknob.
By the time your knees hit the edge of the mattress, you were both down to bare skin and pulsing desire.
Clark paused above you, one arm braced against the headboard, the other pressed flat beside your hip. He was all broad shoulders and warm planes, the dim streetlight filtering through your curtains catching on the hard lines of his chest, the soft give of his stomach, the way his breath came shallow and uneven.
“You're sure?” he asked, and his voice was wrecked, rough at the edges.
You reached up, pulled him down by the back of his neck, and kissed him instead of answering.
You were never more sure of anything in your life. You absolutely wanted Clark Kent.
He came willingly, his body covering yours, the weight of him pressing you into the mattress in a way that made your mind go blissfully blank. His skin was hot against yours, his hands mapping the curve of your waist, the dip of your spine, the soft skin of your inner thigh where his fingers trailed slow and teasing.
You gasped against his mouth, and he swallowed the sound like he was starving for it.
“Clark,” you breathed, and his name had never sounded like this before—so desperate and hot.
He kissed down your throat, your collarbone, the place where your pulse beat wild and frantic. His lips were soft, his stubble rough, the contrast sending shivers across your skin. When his mouth found the swell of your breast, you arched into him, fingers tangling in his dark hair, pulling him closer, needing him closer.
“You have no idea,” he murmured against your skin, “How long I've wanted this.”
“Then show me.”
He lifted his head, eyes dark behind his glasses—he'd forgotten to take them off, you realized, and something about that, about the way they sat crooked on his face while the rest of him was undone, made the heat between your legs ache.
Clark kissed you again, deeper this time, and you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, closer, until there was nothing between you but the space where your breath mingled and the quiet sounds you were both trying and failing to contain.
When he finally thrust inside you, it was slow. Deliberate. Like he was trying to make it last, trying to memorize every second, every sound, every way your body responded to his.
Your nails dug into his shoulders, your heels pressed into the backs of his thighs, and you let yourself feel it—all of it. The stretch from his large dick, the burn, the way he filled you so completely that for a moment, just a moment, nothing else existed.
Just him. Just this.
He moved with a rhythm that was equal parts careful and hungry, one hand braced beside your head, the other gripping your thigh, holding you open for him. His forehead dropped to yours, his breath hot and uneven against your mouth, and when you opened your eyes, he was watching you.
Like you were the only thing in the room worth seeing. You almost came on the spot.
“You feel—” he started, but the words broke apart, swallowed by a groan when you clenched around him. His hips stuttered, just for a second, and the control he'd been holding so carefully started to slip.
You reached up, cupped his face, felt the sharp line of his jaw, the stubble rough against your palm, the way his lips parted when you pulled him down for a kiss.
Clark moaned into your mouth, and then he was moving faster, harder, driving into you with a purpose that made the headboard knock against the wall and your vision go hazy at the edges.
You met him thrust for thrust, your bodies finding a perfect rhythm. His hand slid from your thigh to your hip to the space between your legs, his thumb finding the spot that made you cry out, and the sound seemed to undo something in him.
“That's it,” he breathed, voice ragged. “There she is,”
You bit your lip, tried to muffle the sounds climbing up your throat, but he pulled your bottom lip free with his thumb, shook his head slowly, eyes never leaving yours.
“Don't. I want to hear you.”
And maybe it was the way he said it, soft and commanding all at once. Maybe it was the way he was looking at you, or maybe it was just that you'd been wanting this, wanting him for so long that had you finally coming undone.
The sound that came out of you was raw, unfiltered, and it seemed to unleash something in him too. He dropped his forehead to yours, breathing hard, hips driving into you with a urgency that built and built until the world narrowed to just the slide of skin, the press of his mouth against your throat, the way he said your name like a prayer and a curse all at once.
You came first, the orgasm crashing through you without warning, your body clenching around him, your hands gripping his shoulders like he was the only solid thing in the world.
He followed moments later, burying his face in your neck, a low groan vibrating against your skin as he shuddered through it, spilling into you with a desperation that made your chest ache.
For a long moment, neither of you moved.
His weight pressed you into the mattress, warm and solid and real. His breathing was still uneven, matching yours, and you could feel his heartbeat against your chest, fast and hard, slowing gradually into something steadier.
You stared at the ceiling, your fingers tracing absent patterns on his back, and tried not to think.
That was the first time.
And the weeks that followed after that were a blur of the best and most confusing moments of your life.
Clark came to your apartment more nights than he didn't. He left clothes in your closet, a toothbrush in your bathroom, a copy of the Daily Planet on your coffee table with his byline circled in red pen. He cooked breakfast on weekends, pancakes from a recipe his Ma had taught him and you'd sit on the counter watching him, legs swinging, feeling like maybe, finally, you'd landed somewhere safe.
With him, with Clark.
But there were cracks in it. Things you noticed and smoothed over because looking too closely meant seeing what was underneath.
Clark never stayed the whole night. He'd kiss your forehead at 5 AM, murmur something about a deadline or early shift, and slip out before the sun fully rose.
He never took you out on ‘real dates,’ never brought you to his fancy work events, never invited you to meet the friends he sometimes mentioned. You only ever saw Clark when you were at work or when he was in your bed.
He called you at odd hours, too, his voice tight and distracted, asking if you were alone, if he could come over, if you needed anything from the store on his way. And he usually brought it, no questions asked.
Clark never brought you flowers though.
It was a random observation you made one day.
And maybe you were reading too much into it, but he did get his other girlfriend flowers when he was trying to get her to be his officially. And you literally worked at a flower shop, so of course he knew that you liked them. And you knew for a fact that he knew what your favorite flowers were too with how much you mentioned them.
So why hadn’t he bought you any? Why wasn’t he trying to make you his girl, officially? What was this arrangement you had gotten yourself into?
A part of you knew why. Deep down at least. You told yourself it was fine anyways. Clark was a person. He'd needed to take things slow, you convinced yourself.
Two months of this passed.
Two months of his body tangled with yours, his voice in your ear, his heart—you thought—slowly opening to you.
But you never asked where he went when he left your bed at dawn. You never asked why his phone screen faced down when he set it on your nightstand. You never asked about her. The girlfriend who had once been the reason for every flower purchase, whose name you hadn't heard in so long you'd convinced yourself she'd been a ghost this whole time.
You took what you could get. And you told yourself that was enough.
Month three of this confusing situationship arrived sooner than you expected.
Clark had texted earlier saying he'd come by after work, that he had something he wanted to talk about. You'd spent the afternoon cleaning, changing the sheets, arranging a bouquet for your living room table, even cooking a light meal.
He showed up later than usual. His hair was a mess, his tie loose, and there was a tightness around his eyes that you'd learned to recognize as stress.
You kissed him hello. He kissed you back, but his mouth was distracted.
“What's going on?” you asked, leading him to the couch. “You said you wanted to talk.”
He sat down heavily, running both hands through his hair. For a long moment, he just stared at your table, the flowers you'd arranged, at the newspaper with his article on page four, at the small stack of mail you had out.
“I should have told you sooner,” he said finally. “I've been… I've been a coward.”
The word landed in your chest like a stone dropped in still water. Rippling. Spreading.
“Clark.”
He looked at you then, and there was something in his expression you'd never seen before. Not guilt. Something deeper. Shame.
“Remember when we first met? The flowers I bought?”
You nodded slowly, though your throat had started to tighten and your hands were getting sweaty.
“They were for my girlfriend. I told you that. You knew that,” He paused. “Well, she's still my girlfriend.”
The words didn't make sense at first. They bounced off your brain like stones off glass, refusing to penetrate.
“What?”
“She's been abroad. For work. In London. She was supposed to come back earlier but it kept getting extended, and I—” He broke off, jaw working. “I didn't mean for this to happen. Any of it. I just kept telling myself it was temporary. That when she came back, I'd… but I couldn't. I couldn't stop coming to you.”
Your hands were cold. Your whole body was cold, like someone had opened a window in the middle of winter and let all the heat out.
“She's coming back,” you said. Not a question.
“Next week.”
You stared at him. At this man you'd given a year of your life to, who'd slept in your bed, cooked you pancakes, kissed you like you were the only woman in the world.
He was in a temporary long distance relationship the whole time.
“Next week,” you repeated, and your voice sounded strange, even to yourself. Distant. Like it was coming from somewhere outside your body.
“I'm so sorry.” He reached for your hand. You let him take it, numb, watching his fingers wrap around yours. “I should have told you. I should have been honest from the start. I just— I didn't want to lose you.”
You pulled your hand back. Gently, maybe too gently, because he looked almost relieved, like he thought this was going to be easier than he'd braced for.
“I need you to leave,” you said.
“Please, just let me explain—”
“You just did.” You stood up, arms wrapped around yourself, suddenly desperate to be alone. “You explained. She's coming back. You're her boyfriend. I'm— I don't know what I am. But I need you to leave so I can figure that out.”
He stood too, towering over you, and for a moment you thought he might argue. Instead, his face crumpled. “I care about you,” he said, low and rough. “That's not nothing. What we have—”
“What do we have, Clark?” Your voice cracked. “What exactly would you call it?”
He didn't answer. Couldn't answer. And somehow that was worse than anything he could have said.
When the door closed behind him, you stood in the middle of your apartment for a long time, not moving, not crying, just… waiting. For what, you didn't know. For the numbness to wear off. For the anger to come. For some version of yourself to emerge who knew what to do with the wreckage he'd left behind.
But nothing happened. At least not until 3 AM, when you were curled on your bathroom floor, the cold tile pressing against your cheek, and you couldn't remember exactly how you'd gotten there. The sobs came in waves, ugly and animal, tearing out of you with a force that left you gasping.
You thought about every time you'd told yourself it was fine. Every time you'd ignored the voice in your head that said ask, ask, ask. Every piece of yourself you'd handed over without ever once asking for the truth.
You were the other woman.
You had been for months. And before that, you'd been something worse—a friend who'd let herself fall in love with someone else's boyfriend.
The worst part, you realized as the sobs finally quieted, was that you'd known. Some part of you had always known. And you'd chosen this anyway.
You were an awful person.
You didn't text him. Didn't call. For three days, you went to work, came home, stared at the ceiling, and tried to remember who you were before Clark Kent walked into your shop with his crooked smile and his impossible eyes.
On the fourth day, he showed up.
The bell above the door chimed and there he was, looking wrecked in a way that made something vicious and satisfied curl in your chest. Dark circles under his eyes. Unshaven. His shirt wrinkled like he'd slept in it.
“I know you don't want to see me,” he said before you could speak. “I just needed to—” He stopped, swallowed. “I needed to see if you were okay.”
You should have been angry. You were angry, somewhere deep down. And you hated Clark, without a doubt.
But you hated yourself even more. Because whatever guilt and shame he felt, you felt it too, probably even more than him. And yet, looking at him now, standing in your doorway like a man coming home to a house that wasn't his anymore, you felt something else too. Something that had been there since the first moment you saw him, stubborn and so, so stupid and apparently indestructible.
“I'm okay,” you said. It wasn't entirely a lie. You had started to believe it anyway.
He exhaled, a shaky release of breath. “I'm so sorry.”
“You said that already.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.” You did. You'd always known he meant it, and somehow that made it worse. A man who didn't care would have been easier to hate. “She's back?”
Clark nodded slowly. “She got in yesterday.”
You waited for the sharp edge of that, the jealousy or grief or fury. Instead, you just felt tired. Hollowed out, maybe.
“Clark.” You stepped out from behind the counter, closing the distance between you. “I'm not going to pretend it's okay. What you did, what we did, for months, that wasn't fair to anyone. Her, me, you.”
He flinched. “I know.”
“But I also know,” you continued, and the words came easier than you thought they would, like they'd been waiting in your chest for days, arranging themselves into something true, “that I don't want to lose you either.”
His head snapped up.
“Not like that.” You held up a hand before he could move toward you. “Not— not that. I can't do that. You have a girlfriend. I can't be the person you come to when you're not with her. I can't.”
“Then what?” His voice cracked. “What are you saying?”
You took a breath. “I'm saying I want you in my life. As my friend. The way we were before. Before the—” You gestured vaguely, unable to say it out loud. “I miss that. I miss you. And I think maybe you miss that too.”
He stared at you for a long moment, something shifting behind his eyes. Grief, maybe. Or relief. It was hard to tell. You were giving him a way in, a way to keep each other in your lives.
“I miss it,” he said quietly, taking his chance. “I miss you.”
“Then be my friend, Clark.” You stepped back, putting distance between you, giving the words room to breathe. “Be honest with me. Tell me about your day. Bring me coffee. Sit on my counter while I arrange flowers. But don't—” Your voice caught, just for a second. “Don't come to my bed. Don't kiss me. Don't make me complicit in something I can't live with.”
He was quiet for a long time. The bell above the door was silent. The whole street seemed to hold its breath.
“Okay,” he said finally. The word was heavy, weighted with everything he was giving up, but underneath it, something else. Gratitude, maybe. Or hope. “Okay.”
Unfortunately for everyone, that didn’t last long.
Six months had passed since that conversation.
Clark still came to the shop most days, coffee in hand, and sat on his stool behind the counter. He mentioned her sometimes—Lois, her name was Lois—in ways that were careful and deliberate, never hiding her but never lingering on her either.
You listened. You laughed at his jokes, teased him about his tendency to disappear mid-conversation when he got a call from work, watched him eat the sandwiches you guys would get when he forgot lunch again.
It hurt, sometimes.
When he'd glance at his phone and smile at a text you knew wasn't from you. When he'd leave a little early because he had dinner plans. When you'd catch yourself wondering what it would be like if things had been different.
But mostly, it was good. Better than you'd expected. Because you'd meant what you said.
You missed him. And having him as a friend, flawed and complicated and yours in a way that didn't require you to be someone's secret, was better than not having him at all.
One afternoon in early autumn, Clark came in later than usual. The light was golden, slanting through the windows and setting the flower displays ablaze with color. He looked tired but happy, his tie undone, his shirtsleeves rolled up.
“You're late,” you said, not looking up from the arrangement you were working on.
“I know. Busy day.” He slid onto his stool, watching your hands move through the stems. “How was yours?”
“Good. Got a new shipment of peonies. They're beautiful.” You paused, something occurring to you. “Wait, weren't you supposed to be at some award ceremony tonight? You mentioned it last week.”
He shrugged, but there was a softness around his mouth that made you look closer. “I didn't go.”
“Why not?”
He was quiet for a moment. Then, “Lois won. Some big journalism award. She wanted me there, but I…” He trailed off, looking at you with an expression you couldn't quite read. “I wanted to be here.”
Your hands stilled. The flowers hung between you, half-arranged, the stems dripping water onto the counter.
“Clark.”
“I know,” he said quickly. “I know. We said— I'm not asking for anything. I just…” He exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “You're my friend. You're my best friend, actually. And I didn't want to spend tonight pretending I wasn't thinking about you.”
Your heart, that stubborn, stupid thing, clenched in your chest again.
“You shouldn't say things like that,” you said quietly.
“I know.”
“You have a girlfriend.”
“I know.”
“And I'm not—” You stopped, swallowed. “I can't be that person again.”
“I'm not asking you to.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and when he looked at you, there was nothing in his expression but honesty. “I'm just telling you the truth. Because you asked me to be honest with you. And the truth is, I think about you all the time. I come here every day because I want to be where you are. And I know that's not fair. I know I don't have the right to feel this way. But I can't stop.”
You stared at him. At this impossible, infuriating, wonderful man who had walked into your life and never really left.
“You're an idiot,” you said finally.
He laughed, surprised. “What?”
“You're an idiot, Clark Kent.” You set down the flowers, wiping your hands on your apron. “You have a girlfriend who won some big journalism award, who's probably incredible, who's been with you for years. And you're here. Telling me you think about me all the time.” You shook your head, but there was no heat in it. Just exhaustion. Just love, stubborn and foolish. “What am I supposed to do with that?”
He opened his mouth, closed it. “I don't know.”
“Me neither.”
The silence stretched between you, not uncomfortable, but present nonetheless. The way silence could be when two people knew each other well enough not to fill it with noise.
His eyes flickered down to your mouth.
“I know,” he said again, finally breaking the silence, and his voice had gone low, rough, like the words were being pulled from somewhere deep in his chest. “I know I shouldn't be here. I know I don't get to do this. I know I'm not— I'm not asking for anything. I just—”
He stopped. His hands were at his sides, clenched into fists, like he was physically holding himself back as his body got closer to yours.
You should have stepped away. Should have put the counter between you, should have told him to leave, should have been the person you kept telling yourself and him you wanted to be.
Instead, you set the peonies down.
Clark exhaled, shaky. Taking that motion as a sign to keep going. “Every time I'm with her, I'm thinking about coming here. Because I lied to myself for months that I could be your friend and just— just be only your friend, and I can't. I can't.”
Your heart was pounding so hard you could feel it in your throat.
“You said you weren't asking for anything.”
“I'm not.” He stepped even closer. Close enough that you could feel the heat coming off him, smell that clean soap and delicious cologne. “I'm not asking. I'm just— I'm telling you. Because I promised I'd be honest. And I can't keep showing up here pretending I don't want to—”
He didn't finish. Couldn't. Because you'd already closed the distance.
The kiss was nothing like the first one.
That one had been softer, more tentative. This one was desperate. Messy. Full of pent up desire. His hands came up to your face, cupping your jaw like you were something precious, something he was terrified of breaking, and then his fingers slid into your hair and he was pulling you closer, closer, until your back hit the counter and there was no space left between you.
He kissed like a man starving. Like he'd been holding himself back for months and the dam had finally cracked. His mouth was hot and insistent, slanting over yours, and when you gasped against his lips, he made a sound, low, broken, that sent heat straight through your chest.
Your hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him down, pulling him in, and he came willingly, one hand sliding down to your waist, the other still tangled in your hair. He kissed you like he was trying to memorize the shape of your mouth, like he was trying to make up for every moment for the past months he'd spent pretending he didn't want this.
You broke apart for air, foreheads pressed together, both of you breathing hard.
“Clark,” you whispered, and his name tasted different now. Heavier. More dangerous.
“I know,” he said, and his voice was wrecked. “I know.”
But he didn't stop. He kissed you again, softer this time. His thumb traced the line of your jaw, your cheekbone, the corner of your mouth. He was memorizing you. Committing you to memory.
“I can't—” you started, but the words died when his lips found the spot just below your ear.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmured against your skin. “Tell me to go. I will. If that's what you want, I'll go.”
You closed your eyes. Your hands were still tangled in his shirt, holding him there, holding him close.
“Is that what you want?” he asked, pulling back just enough to look at you.
You looked at him. At this man who had walked into your shop with a crooked smile and an impossible request, who had spent a year becoming your friend, your confidant, your everything, who had held you and kissed you and then told you he belonged to someone else.
You should want him to go.
“No,” you said.
Something in his expression shifted. Cracked open. And then he was kissing you again, and you were kissing him back, and somewhere in the back of your mind a voice was screaming that this was wrong, that you'd made a promise, that she was waiting for him somewhere and he was here, with you, hands shaking as they pressed against your skin.
But the voice was quiet. Smaller than it should have been. And when he lifted you onto the counter and stepped between your legs, you let him. When he pulled back, breathing hard, pupils blown wide, you pulled him back in.
“I can't be your friend,” he said against your lips. “I tried. I tried so hard.”
“I know.”
“This isn't— I'm not asking you to be okay with this. I'm not asking you to be something you're not. I'm just—” He pressed his forehead to yours, eyes squeezed shut. “I'm not strong enough to stay away from you. I've tried. And I keep coming back. I keep— I can't—”
You kissed him quietly. Because you understood. Because you'd been telling yourself for months that you could be his friend, that you could watch him leave early for dinner with her, that you could smile when his phone lit up with her name. And you'd been lying.
“I know,” you said. “I know.”
He kissed you again, savoring something he knew he shouldn't have. His hands slid to your waist, fingers digging in just enough to leave marks you'd find later, and you let him, because you wanted the proof. You wanted to know this was real.
“Stay,” you said, and it wasn't a question.
Clark looked at you for a long moment. There was something in his eyes, that shame, maybe, or the ghost of it, buried under something he didn't have a name for.
“Yeah,” he said, and his voice was rough. “Okay.”
You closed the shop that night earlier than you should’ve.
You didn't think about the fact that he was supposed to be somewhere else, with someone else, that he'd chosen to come here instead. And you definitely didn't think about how this wouldn't be the last time.
Instead, you let him lead you upstairs, let him press you against the door of your apartment the second it closed behind you, let him kiss you like you were the only thing in the world that made sense.
And when Clark pulled back, just for a second, to look at you, hair mussed, chest heaving, you saw something in his expression that you'd been waiting for since the first moment he walked into your shop.
Not love. You weren't sure he was capable of giving you that, not the way you wanted it, not with her still in the picture.
But want. Desperate, undeniable want.
It wasn't enough. You knew it wasn't enough. But you took it anyway.
Because you were an awful person, and you knew this for two reasons.
One, because you were 100% sure that you were the other woman.
ari please tell me you're making a series of crash landing with clark x kryptonian!reader 🙏🙏
it's such a good story and you write so well, i desperately need a part two!!
(p.s. - i love your writing, take as much time as you need to post, i just wanted to let you know how much i enjoy your work and that you always leave us wanting more <33)
- 🙏
HIII,
yess i am working on it right now!! please feel free to let me know what y'all would like to see in part 2.
requests are back open, i will try to get to them as I can.
You wanted to repeatedly bang your head against the wall.
Looking down in your arms, your son’s face was a furious, scrunched knot of need. His mouth, latched onto nothing, slid off your skin with a wet, frustrated smack, and a fresh, ear-splitting wail erupted from his lungs.
You had been at this for what felt like hours, and you were growing irritated.
“Just take it,” you begged, your voice hoarse from the last three attempts. Your breasts ached, heavy and useless. You repositioned him, supporting his neck, trying to guide him. He jerked his head away, screaming, tiny fists flailing, batting at you as if you were the source of all his agony.
A familiar, venomous tide rose in your chest. It started as a heat behind your eyes, then spread, a black, oily slick coating every thought.
Fucking latch already.
He wouldn’t. He screamed louder, his face purpling. You felt the scream in your teeth, in the marrow of your bones. You were a failure. Your body, which had grown him, was failing him now.
But the failure curdled, instantly, into something uglier. Hatred.
Why can’t you just cooperate? Just do this one simple thing. Why are you doing this to me?
The thoughts kept slithering in. You tried to bat it away, but it was followed by another, more vivid. An image of doing something, anything, to make the intolerable sound stop because it felt like if the screaming didn't stop, your skull would simply fracture.
You suddenly had a strong intrusive desire to smother him with a pillow.
Yeah, that would get him to shut the fuck up.
The impulse was so physical your arms trembled with the effort of restraining it. You glared daggers into your son's face, imagining the silence that would follow if you did it.
You half-glanced at the pillow off to the side, thinking about how easy it would be. And it wouldn’t take long eithe—
You froze.
Did you really just think that? Did you really just contemplate doing that to your baby?
Horror washed over you, icy and nauseating. You looked at his perfect, furious face, the soft swirl of hair on his crown, and you saw your own terrifying reflection in the potential of your hands.
I could hurt him.
The realization was a bucket of freezing water. It broke the spell of rage for one clear, petrifying second. You had to put him down. Now.
You stood up so fast the room tilted. You didn't even bother trying to soothe him. You just crossed the three steps to the white bassinet and placed him inside, on his back, his limbs still flailing in protest. You didn't tuck the blanket around him. You just stepped back.
“There,” you said flatly to the screaming baby. “Just fucking cry then.”
You turned your back and readjusted your shirt. The sound was marginally muffled. It was now a problem contained in a basket, not in your arms. Your arms felt empty and buzzing. You stood in the middle of the nursery, shaking, listening to him.
A small sound at the door interrupted your thoughts. You turned.
Your three year old daughter, Jane, stood there, her favourite stuffed rabbit dangling from one hand. Her big, Steve-brown eyes were wide, flicking from you to the screaming bassinet and back.
“Mama?” she said, her voice small. “Why is baby Ben screaming?”
“Cause he’s being a brat,” you spat. You hardly even recognized your own voice.
Jane toddles over to the bassinet and peers inside, reaching out for his hand. Your daughter, ever so protective of her baby brother, watches his face as he screams incessantly.
She takes note of how his mouth keeps opening and closing repeatedly, a sign that you taught her meant he was hungry.
“No, Mama, Ben is sad because he’s hungry. Look. He’s doing the thing.”
“I know,” you said, not even sparing a glance.
She looks back up at you, confused on why you were letting him cry if you knew he was hungry.
“Mama—”
“What do you want, Jane?! Why’d you come over here?” You shout at her.
Jane stepped back, scared. You never yell at her.
She hesitates, before saying, “I'm thirsty. Can I have apple juice?”
You took a deep breath. Of all the things and of all the times, she had to ask this now.
You had said no to juice an hour ago. You’d given her water. The request, on top of the screaming, was the final straw for you.
“No!” The word erupted, sharp and far too loud. “You cannot have juice! I already said no! You can have water! Or nothing! Just… be quiet! Just for five minutes, please, just be QUIET and GO AWAY!”
Jane’s face crumpled. A sob hiccupped out of her, and she turned and ran, the rabbit bouncing behind her.
You stood, frozen, the echo of your own shout ringing in your ears, harmonizing with Ben's relentless cries.
Well, you have really done it now. You’ve become a source of terror for your daughter, and have neglected your son.
The energy to care left you. Your legs gave out.
You slid down the wall in the corner of the room opposite of Ben’s bassinet. You pulled your knees to your chest, wrapped your arms around your shins, and made yourself as small as possible.
From here, you could see just over the edge of the bassinet. You could see Ben's little feet still kicking the air in furious protest. The sound was slightly dulled by the distance and the roaring in your own ears.
You sat there, a statue of defeat, and let the sounds wash over you.
Ben's hungry, angry screams that just wouldn’t stop. The soft, confused, lonely crying of your three-year-old. She was probably still clutching her rabbit, hiding behind the sofa, wondering what she had done to make her mother so mean.
You pressed your forehead hard against your knees. You wanted to disappear. To melt into the wall and become nothing.
You hated everything in that moment.
You hated Ben for his neediness, for breaking you. You hated Jane for her innocence. You hated yourself for not understanding why you felt like this. And you hated Steve for being gone, for having a life outside these four walls, and leaving you to deal with all of this.
So you just stayed, and sat, and did nothing.
Hours passed.
You still hadn’t moved.
Steve’s car pulled into the driveway.
The first thing he noticed was the noise.
The house was supposed to be full of noise. The happy kind. The kind Steve had always dreamed of.
Instead, the silence that greeted him when he pushed the front door open was a thick, suffocating wool, punctured only by a thin, shrill wail from upstairs.
He dropped his Hawkins Little League duffel bag by the door, the thud too loud. “Baby? I'm home!” he called, forcing the usual cheer into his voice. No answering call. No pattering of small feet.
Then he saw her. Jane, his sweet pea, was sitting in the living room, or should he say hiding behind the couch clutching her rabbit.
Her face was streaked with dried tears and fresh ones, her lower lip trembling. When she saw him, a sob broke loose, and she scrambled up, running to him with her arms outstretched.
“Daddy!”
He swept her up, her small body shuddering against his chest. “Whoa, sweet pea, what's wrong? Why are you hiding back there? Where's Mama?”
Jane cried into his neck, her words muffled and wet. “Mama's mad at me. Sh-she was mean to me. Baby Ben is crying and screaming because he’s hungry and Mama won't make it stop. She yelled, Daddy. She yelled at me.”
Ice flooded Steve's veins. He set her down gently, crouching to her level. “She yelled at you?”
“I–I asked for apple juice,” Jane whispered guilty, her big eyes wide with a fear he’d never seen in them before. Fear of you. “And she… she shouted 'Go away!' It was loud, Daddy.”
Steve’s heart began a frantic, hammering rhythm against his ribs. He kissed her forehead. “Okay. Okay, you stay right here, honey. I'm gonna go check on Mama and Ben. You play with your rabbit, alright? Daddy's here, it’s okay.”
He took the stairs two at a time, he heard Ben’s cry growing sharper and louder. It was the hungry cry, the one that usually had you rushing, all soft smiles and soothing murmurs. But the door to the nursery was open, and the scene inside stopped him dead in the doorway.
You were sitting on the floor in the far corner, knees drawn to your chest, back against the wall. You weren't looking at the bassinet where your two-month-old son flailed, his face red and screwed up in anguish.
You were staring straight at the baby, but not with your usual motherly concern.
Your jaw was clenched so tight he could see the muscle jumping, your hands were fisted in your hair, and your eyes… your eyes were empty and full of fire all at once.
“Hey…” Steve said softly, stepping into the room trying to gauge the situation.
The smell of sour milk and a damp diaper hung in the air. He went straight to the bassinet, his fatherly instincts on autopilot. He lifted Ben, the baby’s cries intensifying at the movement, his tiny mouth searching, rooting futilely against Steve’s shirt. “Whoa, buddy, shhh, it's okay. Daddy's got you.”
He turned to you now, bouncing Ben gently. “What's going on? Jane says you yelled at her. And that you’re not feeding Ben? Has he been crying like this for long?”
You didn't answer. You just kept staring at the spot where Ben had been, your rage now seemingly directed at the empty bassinet.
“Hey,” Steve said, sharper now. “Baby, talk to me. What happened? What’s going on? Did he not latch again?”
The words, when they finally came, were spat out, venomous and low. “He won't take it. He just screams and pushes and screams. And I'm so tired of it. I'm so goddamn tired, Steve.”
Steve was beyond worried for you. He had never seen you like this.
“I know you're tired,” he said, moving closer, trying to bridge the terrifying distance in the room. “Let me change him, and you can try again, or we can make a bottle—”
“I don't want to try again!” you exploded, your voice cracking. You surged to your feet, and Steve took an involuntary step back, clutching Ben closer. “I don't want to hold him! I look at him and I… I want to scream. I want to smother him until he just… stops. I wanted to smash my own head in just to not hear it anymore!"
The confession hung in the air, ugly and terrible. Ben screamed louder, as if he understood. Steve felt the blood drain from his face and clutched him tighter.
“Don't say that. Y-you don't mean that.”
“But I do!” you shouted, tears of fury springing to your eyes. “I mean it! I felt it! And I hate myself for it, but I hate him more for making me feel it! And I hate her for needing juice and asking a million questions, and I hate you most of all!"
Steve flinched as if struck. He knows you're frustrated right now and didn’t want to add fuel to the fire so he just swallowed his words.
“Baby, I’m sorry, for whatever I did, but I swear I came home as soon as practice was over and Jane was upset—”
You interrupted his rambling.
“No! You don’t get it! This is your fault. You! With your perfect little family dreams!” you roared, all the pent-up, sleepless, touched-out agony of the last months erupting like a volcano. “Your 'six little nuggets'! Your big, happy, noisy house! This was your dream, Steve! Not mine! I never wanted this!”
Steve stared at you, his mouth agape. Ben's cries continued ringing out.
“That's not true,” he stammered, his brain reeling. “You… you were happy. You wanted Jane. You were thrilled when we found out about Ben. You said you wanted a house full of kids, just like I did.”
“I was lying!” you screamed, a blatant lie, but you couldn’t care less in the moment. “Or I was fooling myself! I did it for you! Because you looked at me with those big, hopeful eyes and talked about mini-vans and teaching them to swim, and it was easier to want what you wanted than to admit I was terrified! That maybe I didn't want any! That one felt like more than enough!”
Each word was a knife, twisting. He remembered your joy, the way you’d cried happy tears holding Jane for the first time, the way you’d placed his hand on your swelling stomach with Ben.
It couldn't all have been a lie. It couldn't all be a performance.
“You're my wife,” he said, his voice rough with confusion and hurt. “We are a team. We decided this together.”
“We decided nothing!” you fired back, pacing now, a caged animal. You had no reason for your words, except that you wanted them to hurt. For him to feel a fraction of the rage you did.
“You decided! You pushed and you dreamed and you painted this beautiful picture, and I just… I stepped into the frame! And now I'm stuck here! I'm drowning, Steve! And you just get to put on your stupid coach's whistle and go off to play baseball for hours where no one is clawing at you or screaming at you or draining the life out of you! You get to leave! I never get to leave!"
“Baby, you know I would stay if I could. I’m working to provide for this family you supposedly never wanted!” he shot back, his own anger rising to meet yours.
“Provide what?” you laughed, a hollow, broken sound. “A house I can't keep clean? Children I can't even fucking take care of correctly. I don't want your provision, Steve! I want my old self back! I want to sleep for a thousand years and wake up and not be touched or needed by anyone!”
“Then why didn't you say something?” he yelled, bouncing his arms more vigorously, the baby's cries becoming hiccuping shudders of exhaustion. “Before Jane? Before Ben? Why did you let us get here?”
“BECAUSE I DIDN'T KNOW!” The raw scream tore from your throat. “I didn't know it would feel like this! Like my skin is too tight and my brain is full of static and every cry is a drill in my skull! I didn't know I could look at my own baby and feel nothing but this… this black, awful rage! I hate him, Steve! I hate our son! And I hate you for making me a mother!”
Those final words echoed. Steve stood frozen.
Still in the way a person gets when something fragile shatters inside them and they’re terrified that one wrong move will make it worse.
Ben’s cries tapered off into weak, exhausted whimpers against his chest, his tiny body finally giving in to fatigue. Steve swayed automatically, one hand cupping the back of his son’s head, the other now gripping the edge of the dresser hard enough that his knuckles went white.
You stood there, chest heaving, eyes wild, like you’d just emptied every ugly thought you’d been hoarding straight into the air between you. Now that they were out, they didn’t feel victorious.
“I don’t believe you,” Steve said quietly.
“Of course you don’t. You-”
“No,” he said, voice firmer now. “I don’t believe that you hate him. Or Jane. Or me. I believe you’re sick.”
He understood clearly now. He’d read about it before. Briefly, before you both decided to have kids.
Postpartum depression.
The woman before him was twisted by a pain he couldn't comprehend. The love of his life, the mother of his children, was looking at him with pure hatred.
Postpartum rage.
His voice dropped to a whisper, thinking about how to say this gently. Arguing back and forth would do nothing for you. “Baby, I think we should re-visit Dr. Adams again, yeah? Talk to her about what you're feeling.”
Even though Steve was being sweet and coming from a place of love, his words only irritated you.
“Oh, I need help?” you sneered, the self-loathing turning outward again. “You finally noticed? The woman locked in the house all day, leaking milk and tears, might need help? What a revelation, Steve.”
“I’m not saying it like that,” he said quickly. “I’m saying—”
“You’re saying I’m broken,” you snapped. “That I’m defective. That you need to take me in and have someone else tell me I’m failing.”
“No,” he said, shaking his head hard. “I’m saying you’re hurting. And I can’t fix this by pretending it isn’t happening.”
“So what, you take the kids and I get locked away? Is that the plan?”
“That’s not—Jesus, baby—” His voice cracked. He adjusted Ben instinctively as the baby let out a tired whimper. “I’m scared. Okay? I walked into this house and Jane was hiding like she was afraid of her own mother. Ben’s been crying so long he’s hoarse. And you’re sitting on the floor looking at him like you don’t recognize him. That scares me.”
You stay quiet.
Steve stared at you for a long moment, eyes shining. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter. Steadier.
“I’m not afraid of you,” he said. “I’m afraid for you.”
Your throat tightened despite yourself and you felt yourself cracking.
“I don’t trust myself,” you whispered finally. “I don’t trust my hands. Or my thoughts. I put him down because I was scared of what I might do if I didn’t. I wanted to hurt him. What kind of monster does that?”
“You did the right thing,” he said immediately. “You protected him.”
You shook your head, tears finally spilling. “Babies aren’t supposed to need protection from their own mothers.”
Steve carefully placed the now-sleeping Ben, exhausted from crying, back in the bassinet. Then he crossed the room and slowly, carefully, sank to the floor beside you. You flinched, turning your face away.
“Baby, you're not a monster," he said, his voice thick. "You're just not feeling well right now, and that’s okay.”
“I just want it to stop. I don't want to hate you. I don't want to hate my own children. And I don’t want them to hate me.”
Tentatively, he reached out and touched your shoulder. You didn't shrug him off. You trembled under his hand.
“They won’t hate you,” he said softly.
“Jane already does. You saw her. She was scared of me.”
“She was scared because she didn’t understand,” he replied gently. “And because you’re her mom, and when moms hurt, it feels like the whole world’s breaking. But that doesn’t mean she stopped loving you. It means she needs you to get better.”
“I yelled at her,” you said again, quieter now. “She was just thirsty. She didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I know,” Steve said. “And when you’re ready, you’ll tell her that. You’ll say you’re sorry. And she’ll forgive you faster than you think.”
You wiped at your face with the heel of your hand. “I don’t deserve that.”
“No,” he agreed softly. “You don’t deserve this either. But here we are.”
He shifted, then gently tugged you toward him. This time, you didn’t resist. You collapsed against his chest, fingers clutching the fabric of his shirt like you were afraid he might disappear if you let go.
“I miss myself,” you sobbed. “I miss liking my life. I miss feeling love instead of this… I look at you and I know I love you, but everything feels so far away.”
Steve wrapped both arms around you, as if that would stop you from hearing his own heart break.
“She’s still in there,” he murmured into your hair. “I swear to you. This isn’t the real you talking. This is something cruel sitting on your chest, telling you lies.”
You cried harder at that, grief pouring out of you now that the rage had finally burned itself down.
“I don’t want to be alone with them like this anymore,” you admitted.
“Then you won’t be alone,” he said immediately. “We’ll get help. You don’t have to earn rest by suffering.”
You pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes red and swollen. “Are you mad at me? Do you hate me for being mean to your kids?”
Steve’s face crumpled.
“I’m devastated that you’ve been hurting like this,” he said truthfully. “And I wish you told me sooner, the second you felt like this. But I’m not mad. And I’m not leaving and I definitely don't hate you.”
“I’m sorry. I'm so sorry. You were so happy,” you mumbled into his shirt. “The perfect father with his perfect dream. I didn't want to be the thing that shattered it.”
“My dream is you. It's always been you. You and me. If kids are part of that, it's only because they're ours. But if they're hurting you… if this is hurting you… then the dream is broken already. And we need to help you first.”
You searched his face, like you were bracing for the other shoe to drop.
It never did.
Steve nodded to himself, “First, tomorrow, you're calling Dr. Adams And if she can't help, we call someone else. And we keep calling until we find the right help. No arguments.”
You nodded weakly against him.
“And I'm taking a leave of absence from coaching,” he said, feeling the decision solidify as he said it.
“You can't,” you protested, but it was feeble.
“I can and I will. The league will understand. My family needs me. You need me.”
“I do love them,” you whispered, so quiet he almost missed it. “I swear I do, underneath it all. It's just… there's this layer of tar over everything. And sometimes it feels too thick to scrape off.”
“We'll scrape it off together,” he promised. “One day at a time. And if you can't hold him, I'll hold him. If you can't talk to her, I'll talk to her. And if you need to sit in a quiet, dark room for three hours, that's what you'll do. No guilt. Okay?”
You nodded, letting everything sink in. Slowly, you turned your head to look at the bassinet. At your baby boy who had been crying and hungry for hours because of you.
Guilt slammed into you hard.
“He’s hungry,” you whispered, voice wrecked. “I left him hungry.”
Steve followed your gaze.
“Come on,” he said quietly. “Jane’s downstairs. She’s been waiting.”
Your stomach twisted. “I don’t think I can—”
“I’ll be right there,” he promised. “Every word.”
He guided you down the stairs slowly, like you might shatter if rushed. Jane sat curled on the couch, rabbit clutched to her chest, eyes snapping up the second she heard your footsteps. Fear flickered there again—and it nearly sent you retreating.
But Steve squeezed your hand.
You knelt in front of her, your knees hitting the carpet hard.
“Hi, baby,” you whispered.
She didn’t move. Didn’t smile. Just stared.
“I’m so sorry,” you said, tears slipping free. “Mama yelled. That wasn’t okay. You didn’t do anything wrong. I was wrong.”
Her lower lip wobbled.
“You mad at me?” she asked, voice barely a sound.
Your heart broke clean in two.
“No,” you sobbed. “Never. I was just feeling a bit sad, and I said something scary. But I love you. I love you so much.”
She hesitated—then launched herself into your arms. You wrapped around her instinctively, burying your face in her hair, breathing her in like oxygen.
“I was thirsty,” she murmured.
“I know,” you said, laughing weakly through tears. “Daddy’s gonna get you apple juice right now. All the apple juice you want.”
Steve was already moving toward the kitchen.
When he came back, Jane was perched between you on the couch, juice box now in hand, as he held a warm bottle for Ben.
He paused at the foot of the stairs, glancing back at you like he was asking permission without words.
“I’m gonna go get Ben,” Steve said softly. “Okay?”
Your arms tightened around Jane, fingers threading through her hair. You nodded once, unable to trust your voice.
He took the steps quietly, and for a moment it was just you and your daughter and the hum of the refrigerator. Jane sipped her juice, calm now, her small body warm and solid against your side.
Steve came back down a minute later, Ben cradled against his shoulder. He sat down beside you, close enough that your knees touched, and shifted Ben into the crook of his arm. The bottle slid easily into his mouth. He latched instantly, greedily, tiny hands flexing as he ate.
The sound of it— his soft sucking and little sighs was almost worse than the screaming had been.
You stared at him, your stomach hollowing out. “I’m sorry,” you whispered again, uselessly.
Steve didn’t look at you. He just watched his son eat, thumb brushing over his tiny knuckles. “Don’t apologize, you’re okay, we're okay.”
Jane leaned forward, peering at her brother. “He was really sad,” she said seriously.
“I know,” you said. “I should’ve helped him.”
Steve glanced at you then.
“You’re helping now,” he said honestly.
You weren’t sure that was true, but you didn’t argue.
Ben finished the bottle and went slack with sleep again, milk-drunk and heavy. Steve burped him gently, then rested his head against his chest.
Jane yawned, curling into your side. “Can Mama tuck me into bed tonight?”
You hesitated. The doubt rose fast and sharp. What if I mess it up again? What if I scare her?
Steve answered for you, voice gentle. “If it's okay with her.”
You eventually took a deep breath and smiled down at her, with a nod. You’d do anything at this point to make her feel comfortable with you again.
Jane smiled, satisfied, already half-asleep.
Steve shifted, careful not to wake Ben, and pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “We’ll take it slow,” he murmured.
Slow. You could do slow.
You carried a sleeping Jane up the stairs, her head a heavy, trusting weight on your shoulder. You laid her down on her small bed, pulling the covers up to her chin. She blinked sleepily up at you as you began to leave, her rabbit tucked under her arm.
“Mama?” she whispered.
“Yes, baby?”
“Are you still sad?”
The question was a tiny knife, precise and clean. You smoothed her hair back from her forehead. “A little,” you admitted, because lying to her now felt like another kind of failure. “But I’m going to get help to feel better. So the sadness doesn’t get so big anymore.”
She considered this, her brow furrowing in a way that was so like Steve’s it made your chest ache.
“Okay,” she said, simple and final. Then her eyes drifted shut, and she was asleep again, her breath evening out into the soft rhythm of dreams.
You stayed there for a long moment, kneeling beside her bed, watching her sleep.
You pressed a kiss to her forehead, so light it was almost just a breath. “I love you,” you whispered to the sleeping room. Then you turned out the fairy lights and crept into the hall.
Steve was in your bedroom, placing a deeply asleep Ben into the bassinet that was by your bedside. When he turned and saw you in the doorway, he offered a tired, soft smile. He looked like he’d aged a year in a day.
You walked over to the bassinet and looked down at your son. Steve came up behind you, his hands resting on your shoulders. You leaned back into him, letting his solid warmth take some of your weight.
“I’ll call in the morning,” you said, the promise hanging between you.
“I know,” he said.
You turned in his arms, facing him. You reached up and touched his cheek, the stubble rough under your fingertips. “Thank you,” you whispered sadly.
He captured your hand, pressing a kiss to your palm. “Always.”
You got into bed, and Steve slid in beside you, pulling you close so your back was against his chest, his arm a heavy, comforting weight around your waist.
You lay there in the quiet dark, as that one word held the rest of the night, and all the hard days to come.
“Steve hears that all the time and he goes in anyway, don’t you Steve?”
Robin’s words had yet to leave your mind since she said them in front of everyone at the WSQK station.
You know Robin meant well, a harmless, funny sex joke. A throwaway line meant to lighten the suffocating mood as you all faced yet another apocalypse due to Vecna. Unfortunately for you, it just made the already existing pit of anxiety in your stomach grow tenfold.
Your relationship with Steve was new enough as is.
Hell, you didn't even know what you were really doing here with these people who were trying to save the world anyways. The knowing, slightly suggestive looks that had flickered between everyone after Robin’s joke only solidified that feeling, making you want to shrink into the floorboards.
Steve instantly shot Robin a pointed, silencing look and genuinely asked, “What the hell is wrong with you?”
He turned to you after, sensing you retreat further into the seat behind him. He placed a soft kiss to the side of your head and rubbed your arm lovingly hoping to ease you a bit..
But the damage was done.
That queasy feeling lodged itself somewhere deep in your chest and refused to leave.
It had been three days since then. Three days of Steve’s warm hand finding yours, of his comforting presence on your couch, of his soft kisses goodnight at your door.
And three days of you quietly, systematically, building a wall.
Not intentionally. Never intentionally.
You still kissed him, still leaned into him when he wrapped an arm around your shoulders, still loved him—god, you loved him—but everything stopped short. Kisses didn’t linger for more than three seconds. Hands didn’t wander. The moment it felt like it could lead somewhere, your chest tightened and you pulled away.
You were in his bed now, at his house, a rare moment of peace stolen in the midst of the ever-looming dread of whatever was happening in Hawkins. His arm was around you, a rerun of your favorite show playing and casting a blue glow over the room. He was tracing idle patterns on your shoulder with his thumb.
Your mind couldn’t help but wander.
Steve was your first real boyfriend. Your first everything. And you were… you were a virgin. It wasn’t a secret, not really. Steve knew. He’d never pushed, never made you feel anything less than adored.
You were both content with the slow and sweet pace you had set and just relished as much as you could in the dizzying newness of falling in love.
But now Robin’s comment had dragged the unspoken into the harsh light.
You knew of his past, ‘King Steve.’
You also didn’t really care at the time, but now. Now, it made your own inexperience feel like a gaping chasm between you. What if you were terrible? What if he was bored?
And god was he actually that big?
Your breath hitched, a tiny, involuntary sound.
Steve’s thumb stilled. “You okay?”
“Mhm,” you hummed, too quickly, nestling closer as if to prove it. You tilted your face up for a kiss, a peace offering to your own paranoid thoughts.
He met you halfway, his lips soft and familiar. It started like all your kisses did, sweet, a little hesitant on your part. But then Steve, maybe sensing your need for reassurance, deepened it slightly. His hand came up to cup your jaw, his tongue swiping gently against your lower lip.
A jolt of panic shot through you. You froze. Then you pulled back, breaking the kiss after only a few seconds, turning your face into his chest.
You felt him go still. The hand on your jaw dropped. The arm around you tensed. The laugh track from the TV sounded cruel and mocking.
“Baby, can we talk about this?” Steve’s voice was low, carefully neutral.
“About what?” you mumbled into his t-shirt, playing dumb. Your heart was a frantic bird against your ribs.
“You know what. What Robin said. I know it got into your head. You’ve been acting weird ever since.”
“I’m not acting weird.” The protest was weak, even to your own ears.
Steve shifted, pulling back just enough so he could see your face. In the flickering light, his expression was painfully earnest, etched with a concern that made you want to cry. He nodded slowly. “Okay then.”
He leaned in and kissed you again. It was a test, and you both knew it. He poured everything into it—all the affection, the worry, the sheer Steve-ness of him. It was the kind of kiss that usually made your toes curl, that made the world shrink to just the two of you.
But still, after three seconds you pulled away.
A small, distressed noise escaped you, and you physically untangled yourself, pushing back against his chest.
“See,” Steve said, and the hurt in his voice was evident. He sat there, running a hand through his perfect hair, making it endearingly messy.
“You are being weird. You hardly want to touch me now, you pull away, and I just… fuck.” He let out a shaky breath. “I don’t want it to be like this. Not with everything going on. I mean, you heard them in there. Shit’s probably gonna hit the fan any day now. I don’t want things to be weird between you and me when it does.”
He looked at you, his brown eyes wide and vulnerable. “I love you, baby. You know that, right?”
“I know, Steve, I love you too,” you whispered, tears finally spilling over. “Robin just got in my head a bit. I’m… I’m scared.”
“Of me?” He looked horrified.
“No! Well, kind of. Not you, per se..” You swiped at your cheeks, frustrated. “Of um… of that.”
You gestured downwards.
Oh, Steve thought.
You could see it register in his brain but you continued anyway.
“You know I’ve never done this before. So it kind of freaked me out. Robin being right, that yo-you’re big. Too big. What if it doesn’t fit or what if—” The words tumbled out quickly before you could stop them.
“Oh,” he breathed. He reached for you slowly, stopping just short, giving you the space to pull away if you wanted. “Hey. Hey, it’s okay.”
You shook your head, voice barely there. “Sorry, I’m being stupid—”
“No, no you’re not stupid.” Steve interrupted your rambling firmly, “Firstly, Robin’s an idiot, who shouldn’t have said that. And second, we don't have to do anything. Ever. I mean that. If the idea of me... down there... is scary, we don't have to do anything about it until you're ready.
“But I am ready,” you whispered, the confession torn from you. “I want you. I'm just... intimidated. By the... logistics.”
A soft, genuine smile touched his lips.
“Logistics, huh,” He squeezed your hand. "We can make it a little less intimidating. If you want.”
You blinked. “How?”
“Get you used to it. So it's not some big, scary uh, thing. It's just... a part of me.” His cheeks went faintly pink, but his gaze was steady on your eyes.
“You could... touch me. Just to see. No pressure or expectations. We don't even have to take our clothes all the way off. Just so you know what you're dealing with. So it's not so scary in your head.”
The offer was so vulnerable, so utterly Steve—turning his own body into a teaching tool to ease your fear—that your heart squeezed.
“Okay,” you breathed, your voice barely audible.
He nodded, his eyes soft. “Okay. You lead, alright? Whatever you want.”
With trembling fingers, you reached for the waistband of his sweatpants. He lifted his hips slightly to help you, his movements careful and non-threatening. You pushed the soft fabric down, your eyes widening as he sprang free.
Up close, the reality of him was even more…daunting. And Robin was 100% right. Steve was huge. Thick and heavy, already half-hard just from the intimacy of the moment. You stared, a mix of awe and that old fear swirling in your gut.
“You can touch it,” he murmured encouragingly, his voice a low rasp. “It's just skin. It's just me.”
Hesitantly, you wrapped your fingers around the base. He was warm, the skin surprisingly soft and velvety over the rigid core of him. You gave a tentative stroke, and he hissed in a sharp breath, his stomach muscles clenching.
“Sorry!” you yelped, pulling your hand back.
“Don't be sorry,” he gasped, a breathless laugh escaping him. “That's uh... that's the point. It's sensitive. It's okay. You're not gonna break it, I promise.” He guided your hand back, covering it with his own for a moment before letting go. “See? It's just a part of me. It reacts to you. That's all.”
Emboldened, you explored him, your touch growing surer. You learned the weight of him in your palm, the way the head swelled under your thumb, the way his breathing hitched when you traced a certain vein. The fear began to recede, replaced by a fascinated curiosity.
And Steve was just as patient as he promised, letting you learn him and touch him so intimately.
“See?” he whispered after a few minutes, his voice strained. “Not so scary when it's just us, right?”
You shook your head, a real smile touching your lips for the first time in days. “No, not so scary.”
He leaned in and kissed you then, deep and slow and full of a promise that had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with trust. When he pulled back, his forehead resting against yours, his eyes were serious. “We can stop right here. This is already more than enough.”
You looked from his earnest face down to where your hand still rested on him, feeling the throbbing heat of him. The anxiety was a quiet hum now, the love, the want, now that was louder.
“I don't want to stop,” you said, and you meant it.
Steve shakes his head, reaching for his pants, “Baby—”
“Steve.” you cut him off sharply, the heat between your legs getting warmer. You needed this and you were ready. “Please. I’m sure.”
“Okay, if you’re completely sure,” Steve starts, but you interrupt again.
“I am.”
“Okay, alright,” Steve says, as if he's talking himself up now. He pulls your body closer to him and places a deep kiss on your lips.
Steve stayed true to his word. He talked you through everything making sure nothing was intimidating, his voice a low, soothing rasp in the quiet room.
“Just gonna take this off, okay?” he murmured, fingers at the hem of your shirt. You nodded, lifting your arms, and he peeled it away, his eyes drinking you in a way that made you feel beautiful, not exposed. “God, you’re gorgeous.”
His own clothes followed, and your breath caught. You’d seen him without a shirt before, but this was different. In the dim light, he was all lean muscle and smooth skin, broad and solid. Hot. A fresh flutter of anxiety arose.
Steve saw it. He just kissed your shoulder, his hand splaying over your stomach. “It’s just me,” he whispered. “We’ll go so slow, I promise. You set the pace, remember.”
You nodded, ready.
He touched you like you were made of spun glass, his hands and mouth mapping your body, learning what made you gasp and arch off the mattress. Steve used his fingers first, making sure to take extra care stretching you gently, watching your face intently for any sign of discomfort.
As comfortable with him as you might be now, that still didn’t take away from the fact that he was still going to have to put it in, and you needed to be prepped properly. So he fingered you expertly, making sure to work his way up to three fingers so that he knew you were ready to take him.
“You’re doing so good,” he praised, kissing your temple. “So perfect for me.”
Steve made you come on his hand and then in his mouth, making sure you were absolutely soaked before he settled between your legs. He was propped on his elbows, his face close to yours. The tip of him pressed against you, and you both froze.
“Okay?” he asked, his voice strained with the effort of holding still.
You nodded, wrapping your arms around his neck, anchoring yourself. You took a deep breath. “Okay.”
He began to push forward, an inch of impossible, burning fullness. You stiffened, a small gasp escaping, clenching instinctively.
He stopped immediately. “Too much?”
“Just uh… a lot,” you panted, then got worried. “You sure it'll fit?”
“It will, baby,” Steve assured you with a gentle kiss. “I know, I know, just breathe for me.”
He dropped his forehead against yours, his own breathing ragged. He didn’t move, letting you adjust and relax your muscles, peppering your face with soft kisses. “Tell me when.”
You focused on his eyes, on the love and patience shining there. You focused on the feeling of him, a stretch that was slowly growing. You shifted your hips, experimentally.
A groan ripped from Steve’s throat. “Fuck…”
“More,” you whispered. “Please, Steve.”
He obeyed, sinking another inch, then another, in a slow, relentless glide that stole the air from your lungs. The feeling of being filled, utterly and completely, was overwhelming.
He was so big, stretching you to a limit you couldn’t have imagined, but the burn was edged with a piercing pleasure that grew with every millimeter he sunk into you.
His large dick, forced your walls open, stretching you out for the first time nice and wide.
Steve bites his lip hard to keep himself from sinking into you too fast. Your squelching cunt makes it difficult to restrain himself, especially because it makes an obscene sound with every inch he pushes into you.
The whole time, your muscles can’t help but flutter and try to suck him deeper while also trying to reject his prominent bulge from splitting you open.
“That’s it,” he coaxed, his body trembling with restraint. “You’re taking me so good. So perfect. All of it, baby, just like that.”
Steve must’ve spent at least twenty minutes just feeding you his dick slowly, all at your own, agonizingly slow pace. You could feel the veins and thick head that were just in your hands molding you to fit him inside.
At the halfway mark, you look up at him, with large teary eyes. “Steve.”
“Yeah, baby.”
“Can you just put it all the way in?”
“You sure?” he asks.
“Yeah, I just want it over with. Please.”
“Alright, I can do that for you sweetheart. Take a deep breath for me, okay.”
You nod rapidly, not wanting to look and turning your head to the side. Steve takes that as an opportunity to latch on to your exposed neck, sucking hard to distract you from the stretch you were about to feel.
You count to three in your head, then inhale deeply. Before you can even finish taking a full breath, Steve sinks the rest of the way in.
“Mmph fuck.” you cry out at the pain, “God, Steve.”
“You okay, still with me?”
You didn’t really think you were.
The first half felt like nothing in comparison to this half. Steve only seemed to get bigger as he got closer to his base and god did you feel it. His warm body now pressed to yours completely, feeling the shared and growing stickiness between you two.
You felt a little dizzy at the feeling. Steve stilled again, letting you feel the fullness and getting readjusted to his length. “Look at that?” he whispered, his voice raw. “My girl taking me so well. See, nothing to be worried about. You were made for me, baby.”
He began to move then, with a rhythm that was gentle and painfully slow at first, then growing more confident as your body welcomed him, opening up, meeting his thrusts with tiny movements of your own.
The earlier fear was gone, completely burned away by the heat he thrusted into your core. He was everywhere—his scent, his sweat, his whispered praises in your ear, the solid wall of his chest against yours.
“Steve,” you gasped, your fingers digging into the taut muscles of his back.
“I know, baby, I know,” he repeated, his rhythm faltering for a second as he fought for control. “You’re so tight, so perfect. Gonna make me lose it.”
“Don’t stop,” you pleaded, arching into him. The coil of pleasure in your lower belly was winding tighter, a pressure building that was both terrifying and exhilarating.
“Not gonna stop,” he promised, his voice gravelly with strain. He shifted slightly, angling his hips, and the next thrust sent a shockwave of pure, white-hot pleasure through you. You cried out, your vision blurring at the edges.
“There?” he breathed, doing it again. “That the spot?”
You could only nod, words stolen by the sensation. He focused on that angle, his movements becoming more purposeful, driving you relentlessly towards the edge. His own breathing grew more ragged, his thrusts losing a fraction of their perfect control.
“Come for me,” he urged, his lips brushing your ear. “Let go. I’ve got you. I’m right here.”
It was the permission you didn’t know you needed. Your body seized, a silent scream caught in your throat as pleasure radiated out from your core. Your walls clamped down on him in a series of frantic, fluttering pulses, milking him deeply.
The sensation was too much for Steve. With a ragged, broken groan of your name, he buried his face in your neck and followed you over, his own release pumping into you in hot, pulsing waves. His hips jerked through the last few, shallow thrusts before he stilled, collapsing heavily against you.
For a long time, there was only the sound of your ragged breathing mingling in the quiet room, the frantic beat of his heart against your chest slowly returning to normal. He was still inside you, softening now.
Finally, Steve stirred, pressing a soft, damp kiss to your shoulder before carefully pulling out. You winced at the sudden emptiness, a faint, oversensitive ache settling in.
He immediately gathered you against him, tucking your head under his chin, his arms wrapping around you in a secure, possessive hold.
“You still doing okay?” he murmured.
You were more than okay. You were boneless, spent, a little sore and very cockdrunk, but utterly, completely at peace.
You tilted your head back to look at him. In the dim light, his hair was a wreck, his face flushed, his lips swollen from kissing. He looked utterly debauched and more beautiful than you’d ever seen him. A soft, sated smile played on his lips.
“Better than okay,” you whispered, your voice hoarse. You reached up, tracing the line of his jaw. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me,” He caught your hand, pressing a kiss to your palm. “Let me go get you cleaned up, I’ll be right back.”
He slipped from the bed, moving with grace. You watched him pad naked to the connected bathroom, the sight of his strong back and the easy confidence in his movements sending a warm, drowsy aftershock through you. You heard the soft rush of water in the sink.
He returned a moment later with a warm, damp washcloth. His expression was soft, focused entirely on you. “Just gonna make you more comfortable,” he murmured, sitting on the edge of the bed.
Steve was gentle, so incredibly gentle, as he wiped the cooling sweat and combined release from your stomach and thighs. He was methodical, folding the cloth to a clean section.
But then you saw his hand pause, his brows drawing together for a fraction of a second. His eyes flicked down to the cloth, then quickly back to your face, a mask of calm slipping over his features a little too fast.
He tried to subtly turn the cloth over, to hide the side he’d been using.
But you’d already seen it. A vivid smudge of red against the pale cloth.
Your breath caught. A cold spike of panic shot through the warm haze of your afterglow. Blood. You’d known it could happen, logically, but seeing it… it made everything feel suddenly real and intense. Not to mention taking someone that big for your first time. What if he accidentally ripped you apart?
“Steve—”
Steve saw the shift in your eyes and immediately dropped the cloth onto the nightstand and cupped your face with both hands, his thumbs stroking your cheeks.
“Hey, look at me, baby,” he said, his voice low and firm, anchoring you. “It's okay. It's completely normal. It doesn't mean anything is wrong. It's just a little bit. It's okay.”
Steve searched your face, his gaze unwavering. “Does anything hurt more than it should? Are you okay?”
You relaxed a bit, shifting your gaze and trying to take a mental inventory. There was a deep, pleasant ache, a feeling of being thoroughly used in the best way, and a sting where he’d been. Sharp, but not too alarming. Just the evidence of his size and your obvious newness.
You shook your head. “No. No, I'm okay. A bit sore. Just… seeing it surprised me.”
He nodded, understanding. He leaned forward and kissed your forehead, a slow, lingering press of his lips. “I know. It's a lot. But you're okay. I've got you.”
He finished cleaning you up quickly, disposing of the cloth, then helped you sit up. “C'mon, let's get you to the bathroom. It'll help.”
Steve slid an arm around your waist, supporting your weight as you stood on wobbly legs, and walked you there. He waited just outside the door, giving you privacy but staying close enough that you could call out if you needed him. When you were done, he was there, helping dress you in PJs, which swallowed you whole, smelling like his soap and his skin.
Steve led you back to bed, which he’d already straightened, pulling back the covers. He guided you in, then climbed in beside you, immediately drawing you into his chest.
You arranged your limbs around him, tucking your head under his chin, his arms a solid band around you.
Steve placed soft, sleepy loving kisses to you, and you felt your body getting more heavy with exhaustion, your mind drifting on the edge of sleep.
Just before you slipped under, a thought, clear and undeniable, floated to the surface of your drowsy mind. You nuzzled closer, your lips brushing the skin of his chest.
“Steve?” you whispered, your voice slurred with sleep.
“Hmm?” he hummed, already half-gone.
A sleepy, utterly genuine smile curved your lips against his skin. “You're fucking huge.”
A silent shudder of laughter went through him. You felt the grin spread across his face even though you couldn't see it. He tightened his arms around you, pressing a smiling kiss into your hair.
“Yeah, baby,” he murmured, his voice thick with sleep and smug, fond satisfaction. “I know.”
HIIII! I have been OBSESSED with your fics and youŕe the best when it comes to out king, CLARK KENT.
Anyways, I was wondering if you could write one where Clark and fem!reader have been dating for a while but he wants to meet her parents. She doesn know hes superman btw. SO shes like ¨sure¨ and it turns out her dad is LEX LUTHOR. and yeah thatś the request...I LOVE YOUUUUUUU AND YOUR AMAZING WRITING!
The diamond collar on Lola sparkled under the chandelier light as she yipped, a tiny, irate sound that echoed throughout your penthouse. You sighed, scooping your dog, a gorgeous Yorkie, up and nuzzling her silky head. “Hush, baby. Mama’s almost ready.”
You were, in fact, more than ready.
Hair in perfect, glossy waves, a dress that cost more than most people’s cars, and a light spritz of a French perfume that smelled like money and orchids. Tonight was a big deal. Clark was coming over, and then you were both going to meet your father for dinner.
Clark. Your heart did a silly little flip.
He's not like anyone else in your world. He works at a news company, for heaven’s sake. He wears corduroy and glasses that were definitely not designer, and he's got that adorable crinkle between his brows when he was concentrating.
He is solid, and kind, and very hot and he listened to you talk about Lola’s grooming regimen like it was the most important thing in the world. (It is) He makes you feel… real. Not just like a walking trust fund with a nice handbag.
You are in love with him, and so the next natural step, was meeting your family.
The doorbell chimed its elegant tone. You floated to the door, Lola tucked under your arm like a furry accessory.
Clark stood there, holding a modest bouquet of daisies and looking endearingly nervous in a slightly-too-big suit. His smile was as bright as the sun.
“You look… wow,” he breathed, his cheeks flushing.
“You clean up nice too,” you teased, accepting the flowers and kissing his cheek. “Ready for the big dinner?”
He followed you inside, his eyes never really getting used to the modern opulence of your living room—all chrome, glass, and priceless art that you barely glanced at.
“Yeah, you said he was protective. I can handle protective. I grew up on a farm. I’ve faced down angry bulls.”
You giggled, setting Lola down. The dog immediately began sniffing Clark’s shoes.
“Daddy’s more of a strategic predator than a bull. Just… don’t take it personally if he’s a bit intense. He’s just very invested in my happiness. My last two boyfriends, Sebastian and that polo player… whose name I can't remember. Anyway, they just sort of… vanished after we broke up. Moved to other continents, I think. Daddy helped them find new opportunities.” You said it airily, checking your reflection in a mirrored wall. “He really doesn’t like seeing me upset.”
Clark had gone very still, his intuition screaming a silent alarm. What could you possibly mean by that?
“Vanished?”
“Poof!” you said, turning back to him with a bright smile. “Gone. So be nice to me, okay?” It was a joke. Mostly.
Clark forced a laugh, but the seed of dread was planted. “Ready to go?”
The restaurant was stunning. It was the kind where the hostess had a better pension plan than the President. You were led to a private, sound-dampened room overlooking the city. And there, standing by the window, silhouetted against the glittering skyline of Metropolis, was your father.
He turned, a slow, calculated movement. A smile spread across his face, one that didn’t touch his cold, intelligent eyes. “Darling. You look radiant.”
“Daddy!” You floated over and accepted a kiss on the cheek. “This is Clark. Clark Kent. Clark, this is my father, Lex.”
Time stopped completely for Clark.
His head spun, palms sweaty, and heart plummeting straight to the ground.
No, no way. This couldn’t be real.
Clark tried to discreetly pinch himself to wake himself up from what was surely a nightmare.
But even after the sharp pinch, the image didn’t fade. He was still here. The world narrowed to the bald head, the sharp cheekbones, the piercing gaze that had plotted the demise of Superman a hundred times over.
Lex Luthor.
Your father was Lex Luthor. The man who had tried to kill him more times than he could count, who had built warsuits and cloned monsters, who saw humanity as a petri dish and Superman as its most pressing contaminant.
And he was dating his daughter.
Clark did his best to act normal. He wiped his palms, and extended his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Luthor.”
It really wasn’t. The opposite really. Clark wanted to dip his hand in bleach.
Lex’s grip was firm, testing. His eyes scanned Clark—the cheap suit, the humble posture, the glasses. “Clark Kent. From the Daily Planet. I’ve read some of your pieces. You write quite a bit about Superman, don’t you?”
Clark gulped harshly, forcing himself to nod. He couldn’t do this. There was no way he would be able to resist not strangling the man in front of him. Not to mention, already bringing up Superman in the first two minutes of meeting.
“Clark has a great eye for the human interest stories,” you chimed in, blissfully unaware of the tension radiating from Clark. “He’s very compassionate.”
“How… admirable,” Lex practically spat, gesturing to the table. “Shall we?”
Dinner was a exquisite form of torture. For you, it was lovely. The food was perfect, the wine was a $10,000 bottle your father didn’t even comment on. You chatted about an upcoming gala, about Lola’s new personalized bed, about the dreadful traffic on the way over.
For Clark, it was a high-wire act over a pit of Kryptonite. Every question from Lex felt like an interrogation.
“So, Clark, what does your family do?” Lex asked, slicing into his steak, as if he cared in the slightest.
“They’re farmers, sir. In Kansas.” God, he was going to be sick. Why did he tell him that. If only he knew who he was talking to.
“Salt of the earth. And what do they think of you courting a woman from such a… different world?”
“They trust my judgment,” Clark said, meeting Lex’s gaze evenly behind his glasses. “They taught me to value character above pedigree.”
Lex’s smile was thin. “A quaint notion. Character can be so… malleable, don’t you find? One man’s hero is another’s villain.”
His eyes lingered on Clark just a beat too long.
You kicked Clark gently under the table with a whispered, “Told you he’s intense,” missing the deadly subtext entirely.
Clark laughed, a strained sound. “I suppose it’s all about perspective, sir.”
The conversation moved on, but Clark’s mind couldn’t stop reeling. His daughter. She’s Lex Luthor’s daughter. The man who believed Superman was a existential threat to human autonomy was the father of the woman who laughed at his dumb jokes and whose Yorkie had peed on his sneaker once.
The cognitive dissonance was mind-spinning.
He watched you throughout the meal. Your genuine warmth, your charm, the way you were utterly, completely oblivious to the darkness that was your father.
You weren’t like him at all. You were a sunflower growing in a field of poisoned soil. Beautiful, innocent, and tragically out of place.
He almost felt stupid for not picking up all the signs. He’d known you were wealthy, of course. The penthouse, the clothes, the way you talked about summers in Monaco as if everyone went.
But ‘wealthy’ in Metropolis covered a wide range, from tech billionaires to old-money industrialists. He’d never pressed for details, and you, in your blissful self-absorption, had never thought to offer the most critical one: your last name was Luthor.
This was bad. Very, very bad.
And he was lying to you. Every day. He had yet to tell you about Superman, but now he definitely couldn’t. Not when you’d go telling your father and outing his secret identity.
His double life had just become infinitely more complex.
The dinner finally ended with stiff pleasantries. Lex kissed your cheek whispering something in your ear about him. “Do call me tomorrow.” His final look at Clark was a silent, unmistakable warning: I am watching you.
The car ride back to your building was quiet. You nestled against Clark’s shoulder. “See? That went well! He didn’t have you thrown out or anything. I think he liked you!”
Clark’s arm around you felt like a lead weight. He kissed your hair, inhaling the scent of your stupidly expensive perfume, and felt his heart crack.
Inside your penthouse, Lola danced around your heels. You kicked off your shoes, sighing. “Want a drink? Daddy sent over a bottle of that cognac he likes, the one that’s older than I am.”
“We need to talk, baby.”
Clark’s voice was quiet, strained.
He had no idea what he was doing. Why was he speaking? It seemed he had no control over his words. Surely, he would regret this.
You turned, the smile still on your face. “Uh oh. That sounds serious. Did the beef Wellington not agree with you? I told him to get the—”
“It’s not the food.” Clark walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, staring out at the city he protected. His reflection in the glass looked haunted. “We… we can’t do this anymore.”
The words hung in the air, nonsensical. You blinked. “Can’t do what? Have cognac? Okay, we can have tea—”
“We can’t date. We have to break up.”
Silence. Lola whined, sensing the shift in the atmosphere.
Your carefully composed face crumbled into pure, uncomprehending confusion. “What? Why? Clark, the dinner… it went fine. Really well actually. Was it something Daddy said? Because he’s like that with everyone, I told you, he’s just protective, he doesn’t mean—”
“It’s not about what he said,” Clark interrupted, turning to face you. The pain in his eyes was raw, terrifying. “It’s about who he is. And who I am.”
You were so lost now.
“Who you are? You’re Clark, duh. My boyfriend. You’re a good man who brings me daisies and lets my dog terrorize you. What does my dad being a CEO have to do with that?”
He took off his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose. You had never seen him before without his glasses, or maybe you had, you can't remember. Either way, when he looked up, his gaze was different.
The humble slump was gone from his shoulders. He seemed… taller and was his face changing?
“It’s not about him being a CEO, baby.”
“Then what?” you pleaded, tears starting to well in your eyes. You’ve never been broken up with before, always the other way around, so this was all becoming a bit too real. “Just tell me! Is it… is it me? Am I too much? Too spoiled? I can change, I can—”
“You are perfect,” he said, and the agony in his voice stopped your tears cold. “You are bright and warm and you have no idea how the world really works. And that’s a gift. A gift I can’t… I can’t be the one to shatter.”
“You’re not making any sense!” you cried out, frustration overriding the hurt.
Yeah, he wasn't even making sense to himself.
He took a deep, shuddering breath. Okay. He was really doing this. Just spit it out. No point in lying to you anymore. Not about this.
“Your father… Lex Luthor… he’s not a good person. He’s one of the most dangerous men on the planet. He’s a criminal. He’s tried to kill…” Clark paused, steeling himself. “He’s tried to kill Superman. Repeatedly.”
You stared at him. And then you laughed. A high, brittle, shocked sound. “What? Killing Superman? Is that what this is about? You can’t get caught up in the tabloids, baby. Is this from a story at the Planet? Because if you keep reading crazy conspiracy theories—”
“It’s not a theory,” Clark said, his voice dropping, becoming unnervingly calm. “I know it for a fact.”
“How? How could you possibly know that?”
He looked at you, his beautiful, silly, oblivious girlfriend, in her palace in the sky. He thought of your laugh, your trust, the way you saw good in everything.
He was about to destroy it all. Was this even the right thing to do anymore? He had no idea, but there was no going back now.
“Because I’m Superman.”
You just stared at him. At Clark. Your Clark. “That’s not funny,” you whispered.
“It’s not a joke.” He looked pained, but his gaze was unwavering. “The glasses, the job… it’s a disguise. So I can live a normal life. So I can help people as Clark, too. I never meant for this to happen. I never meant to fall for you.”
Your mind, usually occupied with social calendars and fashion lines, short-circuited. Superman. The man in the sky. The superhero your father despised. That was… Clark? Your boyfriend who burned toast and got flustered when you bought him expensive gifts?
Pieces began to click into place with horrifying clarity as you stared at him harder. His unnatural strength when he’d casually lifted your grand piano to retrieve Lola’s toy. His constant disappearances when “news broke.” The way he always seemed to know things he shouldn’t.
“Oh, my god,” you breathed, stumbling back a step. “It’s true.”
He nodded, a solemn confirmation.
The initial shock began to curdle into something else. Betrayal? Anger? You were so conflicted on what to think. Of course you had heard your fathers nonsensical ramblings on Superman before. But you hardly cared. It didn't affect you.
But now?
Now your own boyfriend was standing in front of you telling you that he is your father's sworn enemy.
“All this time… you’ve been lying to me. Clark, why? Was this— are we even a real couple? Were you just using me to get to him or something?”
“No, all of it was real! It is real. And I had no idea, baby, I would never, ever, do that to you.” he insisted, taking a step toward you. “The way I feel about you, that’s the most real thing in my life. That’s why this is impossible!”
“Why?” you press. “Because my dad doesn’t like Superman? So what! I don’t care about that! I care about us!”
“You should care!” he fired back, his own frustration breaking through his calm, startling you a bit. You have never seen him like this before.
“Your father is my greatest enemy! He believes Superman is a threat to all humanity! He hates me! He would see me dead if he could! And you… you’re his daughter. His only family. His weakness.”
He saw the flinch at the word ‘weakness,’ but he pressed on, his voice softening into despair.
“Don’t you see? I can’t put you in that position. Sooner or later, he will find out. And what then, baby? What does he do? Does he try to use you to get to me? Does he see you as a traitor? Do I have to fight the father of the woman I love?”
The image was too terrible, too vast for your small world to contain. You thought of your father’s cold, calculating eyes at dinner. The way his “protective” nature had led to ex-boyfriends disappearing to new “opportunities.”
What would he do if he saw Clark as a true threat? Not just an unsuitable boyfriend, but Superman?
“He wouldn’t…” you began, but the conviction wasn’t there. You didn’t really know your father’s business. You’d never wanted to know. The ugly, public battles with Superman were just noise to you, background static to your privileged life.
“He would,” Clark said with terrible certainty. “And I can’t ask you to choose. I won’t. Because you would have to choose. Between the man who raised you, your family, your entire world… and me. It’s not a fair choice. It’s a cruel one. And I refuse to be the one who makes you make it.”
The tears were flowing freely now, ruining your perfect makeup. “So you’re choosing for me? You’re just… leaving me?”
“No. No, never, I just, I don’t know what to do. I’m trying to protect you. This… this is the only way I know how to love you right now. By letting you go until I figure things out.”
He moved then, a blur of motion that was so fast and undeniably Superman, as he headed towards the door hoping to leave before he lost the courage to do so. “I’m so sorry.”
But as the door began to close, something inside you snapped into place. It was a clarity you’d never felt before. He was choosing to leave to protect you. But what about what you wanted? What about your choice?
“Clark, wait!”
The door froze, not even an inch open. He could have been gone. But he’d stopped.
You wiped your cheeks with the backs of your hands, a messy, unglamorous gesture. “You don’t get to make this choice for me.”
He turned slowly, his face a mask of anguish. “Baby, you don’t understand the danger—”
“I understand enough!” you said, your voice shaking but firm. “I understand that my father is a powerful, scary man who hates Superman. And I understand that you… you’re Clark. And you’re him. You’re the man who saves the city. And you’re telling me I have to choose.”
You took a shaky breath, your heart hammering against your ribs. “So I choose.”
Clark shook his head, a desperate denial already forming on his lips. “Don’t—”
“I choose you.”
The three words seemed to suck all the sound out of the room. Clark stood perfectly still, as if he’d been turned to stone.
“What?” The word was a broken whisper.
“I choose you, Clark.” You took a step toward him, then another. “My father… he gave me everything. Except for a choice. My life, my friends, my boyfriends… it’s all been part of his world. You’re the first thing that’s ever been mine. And I’m not letting him take you away from me. Not even if he is my dad and he hates your superhero alter ego.”
Clark’s composure shattered. He crossed the room in a heartbeat, but his movements were slow, human, as he gathered you into his arms.
“Do you understand what you're saying right now?”
You nod. Clark gulps. He buries his face in your hair, his broad shoulders shaking.
“Okay. Okay, I’m sorry,” he choked out, over and over. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to hurt you and I definitely don't want to leave you. I thought it was the only way. I just, I don't know. I don't know how to do this.”
You held him tightly, your fingers digging into the fabric of his suit. “It’s okay,” you murmured. “It’s okay.”
“It’s not,” he wept. “I lied to you. For months.”
You pulled back just enough to cup his face, forcing him to look at you. His glasses were gone, so you could see his blue eyes swimming in tears perfectlu. “Clark. I live in a world built on lies. Your lie… yours was to protect people. To protect me. I get it. I’m flattered honestly.”
He searched your face, looking for the hesitation, the fear, the judgment he was sure would come. He found only a fierce, stubborn certainty.
“You should hate me,” he whispered. “Why don’t you hate me. Your father does.”
“I could never hate you,” you said simply. “And I’m not my father. I love you.”
“I love you too. So much it terrifies me.”
You held each other for a long time, in the quiet of the penthouse, with only Lola’s curious snuffling at your feet. Finally, the storm of his grief began to subside. He leaned back, wiping his eyes with a slightly embarrassed laugh. “Sorry, gosh, I’m a mess.”
“You’re my mess,” you said, smiling through your own tear-streaked makeup. You reached up and smoothed his hair. “So… what now, Superman?”
The name sounded strange in your voice, but not wrong and he liked it more than he cared to admit.
Clark took another deep, steadying breath. “Now… we’re in the impossible situation I was talking about. Your father can’t know. He can never know who I am. It’s not just about us. If he found out… the things he could do, the people he could hurt to get to me…”
“I know,” you said, your voice firm. “Your secret is safe with me.”
Clark gave you a pointed look. You couldn’t hold a secret for the life of you. You were always running to tell him all the gossip and ‘tea’ that you’ve overheard.
Maybe he didn’t think this all the way through.
“Baby, are you sure? This is serious stuff. You don’t have to do this. You could, I don't know—”
You took his hands and interrupted his rambles.
“I want to,” you said, and it was the truest thing you’d ever said. “I want to keep your secret. Because you’re not asking me to. Because you gave me a choice. Because you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, Clark. You listen to me. You see me. You make me laugh. You make me feel safe. And you’re literally a superhero,” you added, a giggle bubbling up through the emotional exhaustion. “How could I not do this for you?”
A real smile, weak but genuine, finally touched his lips. He leaned his forehead against yours. “I don’t deserve you.”
“Too bad,” you whispered, kissing him softly. “You’re stuck with me.”
The kiss was salty with tears but sweet with promise.
You kissed him a few more times and finally coaxed him to relax and curl up with you on your massive sofa, Lola curling asleep on his lap.
“It’s going to be hard,” Clark said quietly, his fingers tracing patterns on your arm. “There will be lies. To him. I’ll have to disappear sometimes. You’ll have to pretend you don’t know why.”
“I can pretend,” you said, with more confidence than you felt. You’d been pretending your whole life—pretending you didn’t notice the fear in people’s eyes when they spoke to your father, pretending his business was all boring board meetings, pretending you were happy in your gilded cage. Pretending for Clark, for this, would be different. It would be for something real.
“And if he ever suspects… if he ever tries to use you…” Clark’s voice hardened, a hint of Superman entering it.
“Then we’ll deal with it,” you said, cutting him off. You snuggled closer. “Together. You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”
He chuckled, the sound warm and rich in the quiet room. He kissed the top of your head. “I don’t want to get rid of you. Ever.”
For the first time all night, a true sense of peace settled over you. You would have to lie to your father every day. You would live with a secret that could detonate your world. But you were choosing it. You were choosing him.
You looked up at Clark and you smiled, climbing to straddle his lap and pushing Lola away. “Sooo… does this mean I get a ride sometime?”
He laughed, a real, full-bodied laugh, softly kissing your nose. “Flying is strictly off-limits for civilian recreation. Safety protocol.”
You pouted, but the sparkle in your eyes gave you away. “You’re no fun, Superman.”
“I’ll make it up to you,” he promised, his voice dropping to a low, intimate murmur. “Starting right now.”
And as he kissed you again, under the cold, beautiful lights of your penthouse, you knew you’d made the right choice.
𑁍ࠬܓ ── middle sister. taurus. ribbons & florals. madonna. lover. sarcastic. bookstore. cali girl. film cameras. surfboards. converse. walkman. red. love letters. polaroids. clumsy. coca-cola. early bird. “fuck this!”
𑁍ࠬܓ ── friends to lovers. semi-fastburn.
MAYFIELD!READER . . .
is a sweetheart.
which is surprising really because her siblings would have you convinced otherwise. don't get it wrong, you love your siblings, but they give you a horrible rep. they thrive in the thrill and chaos that Hawkins seems to constantly churn out.
Max, with her uncanny ability to be in the middle of trouble with her danger-magnet friends. and your stepbrother Billy, who is the trouble, a storm of leather and pent-up rage looking for a place to go.
but you?
you were different.
you didn't belong in Hawkins.
you were meant for sun-bleached wood and salt air, for the steady, endless rhythm of the Pacific, not the eerie, stagnant quiet of the Midwest. your heart was built for California dreamin’. not whatever, this is.
but that wasn't to say you couldn't grow to love all that Hawkins seemed to offer.
or perhaps you should say, grow to love someone in it.
Jonathan Byers.
a boy who felt just as out of place as you did.
he seemingly understood exactly how your heart beat because his beat the same. which made it all too easy to fall head over heels for the eldest Byers boy.
the one who noticed all the little things about you.
the way you constantly have a book open, or music playing in your ears. or how you tucked your hair behind your ear when you were nervous. the quiet way he learned the exact number of freckles you had just from staring at your face. not to mention, the look you got before you laughed that had him mesmerized or how your body fit against his like it had always known where to go.
with Jonathan, love was simple. it's steady, and warm, and oh so real.
sometimes you’d catch him looking at you like that—like you were the center of his world—and you’d think, oh. this is it. this is what it feels like to belong.
hawkins still wasn’t home. probably never would be.
but Jonathan Byers was.
and somehow, that was more than enough.
author's note — hii!! i am so happy to introduce mayfield!reader. i needed to release this from the drafts after vol 2 came out and the suffer brothers decided that jancy wasn't endgame. im so maternal over jonathan like thats my literal baby. anyways, check out this series as well as my other works on my masterlist! much love, & i hope you enjoy!
would love a whole series of kryptonian reader x clark 🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼
OMGG!! yess okok. i am so happy people like this story, it's my favorite one. i am going to make a part two for it, and then if people have requests for kryptonian reader, i'll write them! so glad you enjoyed <333
for those who haven't read already:
kryptonian reader x clark kent story
also, i am getting to everyone's requests slowly but surely, thanks to you guys for being patient <333
so happy to see that you write for eddie! would you be willing to write an idea i have? similar to robin, reader works at the radio station and dedicates a song to their partner (eddie) but with sexual innuendoes? the teasing banter would be so fun, “i can’t be with you right now but i’m always thinking about you…” or some shit like that. for the song i thought about like a virgin or i touch myself (ignoring period accuracy) but that’s totally up to you. 🖤🖤🖤
The air in the WSQK booth was thick with the smell of cheap coffee and static. Robin spun idly in the creaky chair next to you, while Steve slumped on the couch off to the side.
You had a stack of request cards fanned in your hand, mindlessly sorting them into piles. The ‘definitely’ pile was significantly smaller than the ‘no way in hell’ pile. Most were from lovesick listeners wanting to play a song for their partner.
You had grown bored. Nothing exciting was happening, no new updates to trade with Robin and Steve. You were just anxiously waiting for this dreaded shift to be over so you could go hang out at Eddie’s place.
Suddenly, an idea popped into your head. An idea for a request for your partner, who was surely listening to the radio while practicing with his guitar. He always had the radio on when you were working, just for the off chance he could hear your voice cutting through.
A slow, mischievous smile spread across your face. You plucked a fresh request card from the box and uncapped a pen.
Robin noticed your sudden focus. “Ooh, what’s that look? You got a request idea?”
“Mhm,” you hummed, your pen flying across the small rectangle of paper. You wrote with a flourish, leaning into every bit of theatrical, love-struck cheese you could muster. When you were done, you slid the card across the console to her.
Robin picked it up, her eyes scanning the lines. Her eyebrows shot up. “Okay, so I love you, but I am 100% not reading this. Also, I’m pretty sure this is, I don’t know, not allowed.”
“Oh, come on, Robin. It’s not like anyone is really paying attention right now.”
Steve dragged himself off the couch with a groan, his curiosity getting the better of him. “What does it say? Can’t be too bad if princess over here wrote it.”
You took offense to that. “Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?”
Robin shook her head and handed the card over. “See for yourself.”
Steve took the card, read the first line, and let out a whistle that was equal parts impressed and horrified.
“Whoa. Okay. I stand corrected. This is… dirty. In a… poetic way?” He squinted at the card.
He looked from the card to you, his expression a perfect blend of disgust and reluctant amusement. “And the song request is… ‘I Touch Myself’? By the Divinyls? Seriously?”
You batted your eyelashes innocently. “It's a classic, Steve. About longing. And devotion.”
Robin was cackling, having stolen the card back. “It's about devotion all right. I changed my mind. This is genius. We have to play it.”
Steve ran a hand through his hair, the responsible part of him warring with the part that loved chaos. “If we get a single complaint about corrupting the youth of Hawkins—”
“—We'll blame it on static interference from the Upside Down,” Robin finished smoothly, already cueing up the record with a deft hand. “It's a public service, really. Spicing up this town's tragically vanilla love life. Besides,” she added, nodding toward you, “look at her. She's practically vibrating. It's cute.”
You were vibrating.
A giddy, nervous energy fizzed in your veins as Robin adjusted her headset, a wicked grin on her face. She waits for a pre-recorded track to fizzle out, then presses the red button that signals that they were on-air.
“Alright Hawkins, we’ve got a special request tonight.” Robin announced cheekily, “This one goes out to a certain local musician. From his and I quote, ‘favorite groupie, currently trapped in a tower of boring responsibility, but thinking of you always.’”
You felt your cheeks heat up.
Robin continued, her tone becoming even more playful. “The message reads: ‘I know you’re out there, probably listening in your… lair, … practicing your fingerwork with your guitar. I can’t be there to provide inspiration in person, so let this song do the touching for me. Hope this summons the right mood and I can’t wait to see you later. Love, your dedicated groupie.”
Steve made a retching sound from the couch. You threw a crumpled request card at him.
Robin finished, “This is 'I Touch Myself'!”
The moment the first, cheeky guitar riff blasted through the booth speakers and out across Hawkins, you burst into helpless, silent laughter. Robin gave you a triumphant thumbs-up.
In the comfort of his trailer, Eddie Munson was, in fact, practicing. His guitar was across his lap, a complicated Metallica riff half-formed under his fingers. The radio providing small background noise.
He heard Robin's intro, his fingers pausing on the strings.
“… A certain local musician. From his… quote… ‘favorite groupie”
Eddie instantly froze, knowing exactly who was behind this. A slow smile tugged at his lips as he turned the volume up. Then he heard the dedication read in your words. Your words, spoken in Robin’s playful lilt, echoed in the quiet trailer.
‘…thinking of you always…’ ‘…practicing your fingerwork…’ ‘…let this song do the touching for me…’
He let out a low chuckle, shaking his head.
The glorious audacity of it—you, on public radio, dedicating this song, with that message, to him—it was the most perfect, most you thing he could imagine.
Springing into action, Eddie placed his guitar off to the side and ran over to the phone. He quickly dialed the radio station's number. The number he only had memorized because of all the times he called you there while you were working.
The phone’s loud shrill ringing cut through the silence of the station, all three of you shared a look. Smiling softly, you had an idea on who that could be.
Steve nodded towards it, “That’s all you.”
You rushed over to the phone, answering it before the ringing could stop.
“Hello.”
“Hi princess,” Eddie’s voice rang through, smooth and deep.
You flushed immediately, “Hi Eddie.”
You spared a look back at Robin and Steve who were watching you intently to see who was on the other line.
You turned your back to them, lowering your voice. “You heard?”
“All of Hawkins heard, sweetheart,” he said, and you could hear the wide grin in his voice. “I think old Mrs. Fletcher down the street just had a heart attack. And my neighbors definitely turned their radio up. Loud.”
You bit your lip, a thrill shooting down your spine. “Good. Mission accomplished.”
“Oh, your mission is far from accomplished,” his tone dropped. “In fact, you just started a whole new campaign. And I’m drafting the rules right now. Rule one: the instigator has to face consequences. Personally.”
“And what are the consequences?” you breathed, your free hand gripping the edge of the console.
“You’ll find out soon enough.” His voice was a velvet-lined threat. “You’ve got thirty minutes left on your shift, right?”
“About that, yeah.”
Give or take another hour, but you didn’t add that last part.
“Good. Clock out. Get in your car. Come home. Now.” It wasn’t a request.
“Or what?” you teased, though your heart was hammering against your ribs.
The line was quiet for a beat. When he spoke again, the playful edge was gone, replaced by a low, serious intensity that made your knees feel weak.
“Or I come down there. And I walk right into that booth, in front of Robin and Steve and whoever else is listening, and I show you exactly what happens when you tease me on public airwaves. And trust me, princess, it won’t be pretty. You’ll be begging to let me touch you. Fuck you’ll be begging to touch yourself. And I can guarantee you won’t be leaving that booth for a long, long time.”
The image he painted left a hot ache blooming low in your stomach. You had to squeeze your thighs together.
“You wouldn’t,” you whispered, but it sounded more like a plea.
“Try me.” Eddie shoots back. “Thirty minutes. Don’t make me come get you. I’m… preoccupied. Thinking about my fingerwork. And inspiration. And all the things I’m going to do to you the second you walk through my door.”
A whimper escaped you before you could stop it. You were throbbing, a relentless pulse of want that made it hard to stand still.
“I have to go,” you managed to say, your voice trembling.
“Twenty-nine minutes,” he replied, his voice softening back into that warm, familiar rasp. “Drive safe. But drive fast.”
The line went dead.
You stood there for a second, the phone clutched in your hand, your entire body buzzing with the aftermath of his voice. Your cheeks were on fire. You were utterly, completely flustered.
Slowly, you hung up the phone. You took a deep, steadying breath that did absolutely nothing to steady you. Then you turned around.
Robin and Steve were staring at you. Robin’s eyebrows were nearly in her hairline. Steve just looked vaguely concerned.
“Sooo?” Robin asked, dragging out the word, ready to tease you. “Was it a fan? A complaint? A marriage proposal?”
You walked over to the console on legs that didn’t quite feel like your own. You picked up your bag, slung it over your shoulder, and grabbed your jacket.
“I have to go,” you said, echoing your words to Eddie.
“What? There’s still like an hour left!” Steve protested, sitting up straight.
“You two can handle it,” you said, already moving toward the door. You looked at Robin, who was grinning like the Cheshire Cat. “Play some… I don’t know. Madonna. The Smiths.”
“But the people—” Steve started.
“—Will survive,” you finished, your hand on the doorknob. You flashed them what you hoped was a convincing smile, though you were sure you just looked delirious. “Family emergency. Of a… personal nature.”
“Uh huh,” Robin said, nodding sagely. “A personal emergency. Requiring a certain Munson, I presume?”
You didn’t answer. You just pulled the door open, the cool hallway air a shock against your heated skin.
“Tell Eddie we said hi!” Robin called after you, her laughter following you out.
You didn’t look back. You were already gone, the station fading behind you, replaced by the frantic beat of your own heart and the silent, screaming countdown in your head.
pls pls i have read soo much of clark breaking up with reader ang choosing lois over her over and over againnn... how about roles reversed instead hehehe...to cure my broken heart smh 🫶🏼
Falling out of love was the hardest thing you’ve ever done.
Mainly because you didn’t want to.
Clark Kent has been the love of your life for the past five years. Five amazing years. Your relationship with him is the one thing you can honestly say you’re proud of. He was the sun and you were the stars. The peanut butter to his jelly. The yin to his yang.
The point is, you two were everything. The dream relationship.
Which is why your feelings had you so very confused.
You’d wake up in the morning, Clark’s arm a familiar, heavy weight around your waist, his breath warm against your neck. The sun would be cutting through the blinds, and you’d lie there, waiting. Waiting for the little flip in your stomach, the soft, giddiness that had lived in your chest for years. It used to greet you every morning like a faithful pet. Now, there was just… quiet. A hollow, echoing quiet where the love had been.
It made no sense. Clark was Clark. He was perfect. He is perfect.
He brought you coffee in your favorite mug without being asked. He remembered your mother’s birthday. He rubbed your feet after your long shifts at the hospital without complaint. He’d fly to Paris and back in a night to get you the pastries you’d mentioned missing. He listened, truly listened, with his whole being.
Hell, he was Superman for crying out loud, and he’d chosen you.
And yet, your heart had packed its bags and were tiptoeing towards the door.
Maybe it started with the silence.
The silence between you had started to grow, but nothing crazy. An amount that was perfectly suitable for two people who had been together for 5+ years. But still, your heart fluttered less and less.
And then there was Elijah.
Dr. Elijah Vance was a cardio-thoracic surgeon who joined your department six months ago. He was brilliant, sharp-witted, and had a calm, grounded energy that was the complete opposite of Clark. Where Clark was all open skies, Elijah was steady earth. He was just… human.
You weren’t a cheater. Never.
The thought of betraying kind-hearted Clark made you physically ill. So you told yourself Elijah was just a friend. A good friend. You talked about difficult cases, about hospital politics, about the terrible coffee in the cafeteria. He made you laugh with a dry, cynical humor that was different from Clark’s warm chuckles.
You started staying later at work sometimes. “Running later than usual” you’d text Clark. “Don’t wait up.” And he wouldn’t. He’d just text back, “Okay, sweetheart. Be safe. I love you.”
The guilt was a lead blanket even though you technically hadn’t done anything wrong. Spending time with a friend was hardly a crime.
It’s just that Elijah looked at you like you were a fascinating puzzle to be solved, not a sun to be orbited. With Clark, you were his center. With Elijah, you felt like you were on equal footing.
It wasn’t better by any means. It was just… different. And your restless heart latched onto different.
But god, you didn’t want it to.
You didn’t want this feeling, this slow, cold seep of dissatisfaction to ruin the best thing you’d ever had. You tried to drown it out. You really had.
You planned romantic dates, you initiated sex more often, you made a point of telling Clark you loved him every single day. He’d light up each time with such happiness on his face that it felt like a knife to the gut.
But even so, even with all your protests to your heart, you still had started pulling away.
Small things, at first. You stopped telling him the little, boring details of your day. You started sleeping on your side of the bed more, creating a canyon of cold sheets between you.
You hardly noticed, especially with all the ways you were actively trying to keep your feelings afloat.
But Clark did. Of course he did. His super-senses probably picked up the change in your heartbeat before you even realized it yourself.
He tried to fix it. He planned a weekend vacation to the cabin. He cooked your favorite meal. He asked, with heartbreaking earnestness, “Are we okay? Did I do something?”
And you’d lie, your throat tight. “We’re fine, Clark. You didn’t do anything. You’re perfect.”
The words tasted like ash. He was perfect. That was the problem. You were breaking something flawless, and you had no good reason except for your stupid, stupid heart.
The day you finally decided to end it, the sky over Metropolis was a flawless, cloudless blue.
You sat him down on the couch, the same couch where you’d curled up for countless movie nights, where he’d held you after bad dreams. Clark looked at you, his blue eyes wide and pre-emptively wounded. He knew.
“Clark,” you began, your voice trembling. “I need to talk to you.”
“Okay,” he said softly, his hands resting on his knees, perfectly still.
You gave him the speech you’d rehearsed in the shower, in the car, in the empty hospital stairwell. It was about you. About changing. About needing something… different. You stressed it wasn’t him. He was wonderful. He was the best man you’d ever known. You would always care for him. But the love… the romantic love at least… it had changed. It had faded.
You watched the words land. His broad shoulders slumped. The light in his eyes, that constant, gentle sunbeam, guttered and went out.
“I see,” he said, his voice hollow. “Is there… someone else?”
“No. God, no, Clark. It’s not that. It’s me. I just… I’m not the same person I was all those years ago.”
He nodded slowly, accepting it. Clark, the most understanding man you'd known, he was letting you go. “If this is what you need,” he whispered, the words scraping out of him. “I… I want you to be happy.”
You smiled sadly.
That was it.
You packed a bag, your hands shaking so badly you could barely zip it. He didn’t help. He just stood in the doorway of your shared bedroom clearly deep in thought, watching you take pieces of your shared life and shove them into a suitcase.
When you walked out the door, you didn’t look back. If you had, you would have seen Clark’s heart breaking into so many tiny fragments it could never be repaired.
His worst fear had come true — he lost you.
The second the door clicked shut, Clark broke.
The silence was horrific. He could hear the entire city—the sirens, the laughter, the arguments, the heartbeats—but the one heartbeat he craved, the one that had synced with his own for half a decade, was moving away, getting into a cab, fading into the Metropolis noise.
He was Superman. He had faced monsters, aliens, and world-ending threats. None of them had the power to eviscerate him like this. Like you. This was an internal wound, and there was no super-healing for a broken heart.
He spiraled.
He went to work at the Daily Planet, moving through the bullpen like a ghost. The cheerful chaos of the newsroom, which he usually loved, felt like an assault. Everyone moved around him but he couldn’t. Clark just sat at his desk, staring at a blank screen.
“Clark, you look like you’ve seen a ghost. What’s happening right now?” Lois questioned one afternoon, mildly concerned for this behavior. She had never seen him so depressed before.
Clark looked up, his glasses doing little to hide the despair in his eyes. Might as well tell them. “My… my girl. We… she ended it.”
The words felt foreign and toxic in his mouth. The small circle of people nearby, Lois, Jimmy, a few other reporters went quiet. The clatter of keyboards stopped.
“What?” Lois said, her sharp voice softened with disbelief. “No, why? You guys are… you’re you. You’re the couple. The ‘will they ever just get married already?’ couple.”
Jimmy’s face fell. “Oh, man, Clark. I’m so sorry. I… I never would’ve expected that.”
That was the consensus. Shock. They were all shocked.
Because you and Clark were a fact of life. As constant as the sunrise. The idea that you weren’t together anymore was simply inconceivable.
Their shock somehow made it worse. It only confirmed the enormity of what he’d lost. He hadn’t just lost a girlfriend. He’d lost his whole future. A life with you. The one person who knew all of him and had chosen to stay.
They tried to help, but it was all useless.
Jimmy and Lois would drag Clark out to bars and parties in hopes of getting him plastered enough to forget about you, but it never worked.
No amount of alcohol or drugs would be enough to forget you anyways.
He’d fly at night, not to patrol, but just to move. To feel the cold, thin air choke him. He’d hover above the city, listening. It was a form of self-torture, but he couldn’t stop. He’d tune his hearing, filtering through millions of sounds, searching for one.
And he’d find it. Your heartbeat. Your laugh.
He’d listen to it, for as long as he could, before he finally went back to his empty apartment and repeated the same miserable cycle again the next day.
It was four months later when he saw you again. In the grocery store.
And you weren’t alone. That was the first time he saw you with Elijah. Clark was in the frozen food aisle, holding a sad-looking dinner-for-one, when he heard your voice. It was that particular laugh you had—lighter, freer than the one you’d had with him in recent months. He turned, slowly.
There you were. By the fresh produce. You were holding a mango, saying something to the man beside you. Elijah. He was tall, handsome in a clean-cut, scholarly way. He took the mango from your hand, weighed it, said something that made you smile and bump your shoulder against his.
Clark stood frozen, a statue of grief in the frozen food section. He watched you pick out vegetables together. He watched Elijah push the cart. He watched how you walked, a careful, conscious inch apart, but the energy between you was a visible thing.
Worse? He saw the way Elijah looked at you. The way he had. With so much admiration and love. He also saw the way you looked back. There was no guilt on your face. Just… happiness. A quiet, simple happiness he hadn’t seen you wear in a long, long time.
The pain was so acute he thought his heat vision might flare uncontrollably and hurt someone. He put the frozen dinner back and left the store as quickly as he could.
Unfortunately for Clark, that wasn’t the last time he saw you with Elijah. It happened again at a coffee shop near the hospital. Clark was getting a miserable cup of takeaway, trying to shake off a sleepless night, when you walked in with Elijah. You were in scrubs. You must have been on a break. He stood in the corner, invisible in his plainness, and watched you order.
You already knew Elijah’s order. “Large black coffee, extra shot, for this masochist,” you said, grinning at Elijah, who rolled his eyes fondly.
Clark knew your coffee order by heart. A medium oat milk latte with vanilla, not too hot. He knew you hated the sound of the blender. He knew you liked the corner seat by the window. He knew everything about you, and it was all useless now.
You took your drinks and sat at that very corner table. You talked, heads close together. Elijah reached out and brushed a crumb from the corner of your mouth. You didn’t flinch. You smiled.
Clark left before his cup was ready.
The worst of it, the most exquisite torture that he kept bringing on himself, was the constant listening.
He really knew better. Knew that it was wrong and an invasion of your privacy, but gosh, he just couldn’t help it.
Some nights, when the loneliness was too much of a physical ache in his chest, he’d fly to your new apartment building. He’d land silently on the roof across the street, and he’d just… listen.
He’d hear the domestic sounds of your new life. The clatter of pans as you cooked dinner together. The low murmur of the TV. Your laughter—real, happy laughter. He heard you talk about your surgeries, your colleagues, your plans for the weekend. He heard Elijah call you “sweetheart” once, and Clark had to clutch the rooftop ledge, the concrete cracking under his fingertips.
He heard the quiet. The comfortable, easy quiet that he and you had lost. He heard it in the spaces between your words with Elijah.
One night, Clark heard something else. It was late. The city sounds had dulled to a hum. Your voices were softer, intimate. He heard the rustle of clothing, a sigh, the creak of a bedframe. Then he heard your voice, breathless and sweet, moaning a name.
It wasn’t his.
Clark shot into the sky so fast after that he broke the sound barrier, a sonic boom of pure anguish and despair ripping over Metropolis.
He flew to the fortress, to the silent, frigid Arctic, and screamed until the glaciers trembled. He pounded his fists against the unyielding crystal walls, but no matter how much he screamed and fought, Clark couldn’t pound out the sound of your voice, so happy without him.
He contemplated, more than once, going to your door. Not as Superman. Just as Clark. To knock. To ask why. To beg.
What did I do? Tell me what I did, and I’ll fix it. I’ll change. I can be different. I can be human, if that’s what you need. Just come home.
But he didn’t. Because you had looked him in the eye and told him it wasn’t him. It was you. And Clark Kent, raised on decency and respect, believed in your right to choose. Even if that choice was destroying him.
So he stood in the shadows, on rooftops, in the aisles of grocery stores, and he watched. He watched you live a life where you were happy, where you were loved, where you didn’t need a hero like him.
And he, the strongest man on Earth, felt himself crumbling to dust, carried away by the wind of your moving on, leaving nothing behind but the silent, echoing space where your love used to live.
━━━━━━━
author's note: this was so hard to write because i would never do clark like this. as always, thanks for reading, requests are open, and checkout my masterlist for more!
POPSTAR!READER... who insists Clark comes to all your album cover photoshoots. He stands awkwardly at the edge of the set, holding your iced coffee, while you dance and pose in a stunning outfit. During a break, you drag him into the frame demanding he “takes one with you,” pressing your personal polaroid camera to your assistant. The moment it prints, you tuck the photo into his shirt pocket, pat his chest twice, and leave a bright lipstick stain on his cheek with a kiss. He doesn’t wash his face for the rest of the day.
POPSTAR!READER... that takes the whole ‘private but not secret’ thing very seriously. You never show Clark’s face in any pictures or videos, but you love to post him to remind people that one, you have not broken up and two, you have the sexiest man they have ‘never’ seen.
POPSTAR!READER... who begs Clark Kent to be the leading man in your new music video. Clark will do practically anything to make you happy, but this is just completely out of his league, even with your encouragement that all he has to do is stand there and look hot. You compromise and get him to make Tik Toks with you instead!
POPSTAR!READER... that gets Clark to do all the couple trends with you on Tik Tok. Have him scoop you up with one arm while walking down the street. Done. Eat sushi off his flexed bicep. Easy. Pretending to be strangers that bump into each other only to make out passionately. Perfect.
POPSTAR!READER... who falls asleep on a video call with Clark while struggling to write a song. You woke up hours later to find him still there, typing quietly, having stayed on just to keep you company. On your shared screen was a new document. He’d written a single, perfect verse for you.
POPSTAR!READER... who uses Clark as your personal, human weighted blanket and masseuse. You’ll lie fully on top of him on the couch, face buried in his neck, while his strong hands work the tension from your shoulders and back. He never complains, just holds you, his chin resting on your head.
POPSTAR!READER... that ensures Clark is at every one of your shows. From his VIP seat, his dimples appear every time you sing a lyric you wrote about him.
POPSTAR!READER... who makes Clark your official tour ‘good luck charm.’ Anytime he can’t make it, he has to video call you fifteen minutes before the show, no matter where in the world he is. You’ve seen the inside of the Daily Planet bullpen, him in Kansas with his family, and even a few times flying around as Superman. He never misses a call.
POPSTAR!READER... that has a tour segment where you “arrest” the hottest fan in the crowd with pink fuzzy handcuffs. When performing in Metropolis, you make sure that that lucky someone is Clark. He blushes furiously the whole time you flirt with him and saves those cuffs to use on you later that night.
POPSTAR!READER... who has a concert bit where you theatrically recreate a sex position on stage. Before the Metropolis show, you promised Clark that the position you chose would be the one you get to recreate later that night. You picked the freakiest one possible, just to watch his eyes go wide.
POPSTAR!READER... loves to indulge Clark’s simple requests. “Sing something for me,” he’ll murmur, pulling you closer to him in bed. You roll your eyes, pretending it’s a chore, but you always lean in and sing a few bars of whatever’s in your heart. You do it just to feel him go still hear and the whispered, “So beautiful,” that follows.
POPSTAR!READER... that secretly loves when Clark gets demanding in bed. Outside the bedroom, he’s a gentle giant. But here, with his hands on your hips and his voice a low growl in your ear—“Let me hear that pretty voice of yours”—it makes you shiver. You pout, putting up a fight, biting your lip to stay quiet. But one deep, purposeful thrust has a melodic moan tearing from your throat, high and clear. He chuckles, the sound vibrating through you, and whispers, “There it is. Perfect.”
POPSTAR!READER... that sneaks Clark backstage for a quickie before a show. He quickly has you pressed against the dressing room mirror, your sequined costume shoved up and around your waist, his pants around his ankles. He’s agonizingly quiet, but his hands tremble as he holds your hips and pounds into you roughly. The squelching of your dripping pussy only encourages him to make you finish faster. He finishes inside you, and sends you on stage knowing that you are stuffed with him and the reason you are walking sideways is because he just fucked you dumb.
POPSTAR!READER... who loves spending all her downtime with Clark. Vacations, award show afterparties, lazy Sundays—your ideal scenario is him within arm’s reach.
POPSTAR!READER... that mentions Clark in all your press interviews, especially when asked about inspiration for new love songs. “My boyfriend! He is my literal superhero and inspires me everyday.”
Can request a Clark Kent x fem!kryptonian!reader where her escape pod that she was in crash lands on earth so clark has to help her and he teaches her how to get accustomed to earth culture but they end up falling in love and have sex because this man is very pent up and deserves to let loose on some pussy that can handle him haha
It had happened so fast that he almost missed it. The sky above Metropolis cracking open like it was tearing in two. Luckily, he just so happened to be doing his daily patrols when he heard the deafening sound of something fast whizzing through the atmosphere.
Wasting no time, Superman shot after it, a blue and red streak against the deepening dusk, catching up just as it plunged into an open field just outside the city. What he originally thought to be some type of meteor or asteroid, turned out to be neither.
It was a pod. And it had carved a deep, smoking trench into the earth.
Superman eyed it suspiciously, not knowing if it was some type of threat to be wary of. Using his X-ray vision, he peered through the hull. His breath caught. Inside, curled in a protective, fetal position, was a woman. You.
You were clad in a simple, grey suit of some flexible material, skin pale under a layer of crystalline dust. And you were alive. A heartbeat, slow and strong, echoed in his ears.
Being ever so careful, he pried the hatch open. A hiss of equalizing pressure, a waft of sterile, recycled air, and then silence.
Your eyes fluttered open instantly. They were large and doe-eyed and they fixed on him with a confused daze.
A man?
It was the last thing you were expecting to see peering into your pod right as it opened.
He was an interesting man too. He was large and muscled, but was wearing odd garments.
A blue and red one piece? With an S? And was that a cape?
You glanced him up and down once more.
Strange.
You searched past him though, taking in the surroundings of the environment. Your pod was meant to take you back to your home planet, Krypton.
But this looked nothing like it. Nothing like how you imagined it from the stories you were told. Where were you?
Deciding to get answers, you push out of the pod. Your limbs are slightly weak from their cramped positioning for so long and your knees buckled the second you placed both feet on the ground.
“Woah, hey, hey take it easy,” the man says to you, catching you before you fall completely.
Okay, clearly not a threat, he deduces. What was a random woman doing being sent here like this?
You cocked your head to the side at his unfamiliar words, still gripping onto his forearms for stability. Once you regained balance, you took a few steps back away from the man and his scrutinizing gaze.
You turned from him and started to walk away, hoping to search for answers, for Kryptonians, or for normal looking people who could help you figure out where you were and why your escape pod didn’t take you back to your planet.
You didn’t make it very far when the man appeared by your side again.
“Hi, I’m sorry if I scared you earlier. I didn’t mean to. Ar-are you hurt? Do you need help?”
You stopped, and turned to face him again.
His dialect was different. You could not understand much at all. You stared at him in silence. Your mind was working overtime, trying to sort meaning from sound. You understood pieces—tone & emotion—but the words themselves felt slippery, like trying to hold water in your hands.
You decide to speak for the first time, and tell him your name.
His eyes widen and he nods in understanding, then points to himself. “I’m… Superman. No, no- just Clark. You can call me Clark.”
Clark. You repeat the name over in your head until you think you can mimic him perfectly. “Cl-ark. Clark.”
“Yes, exactly,” Clark nods triumphantly. “Do you need help? Where are you coming from?”
You scrunched your brows in confusion, and shook your head. Clark must’ve sensed that you didn’t understand a word of what he was saying.
“Gosh, um. This is Earth. Planet Earth. Is this where you are supposed to be?”
Clark scolds himself again. Obviously you wouldn’t understand that either. He was wracking his brain now. He knew most languages from Earth, but not many from different planets.
But a flicker of recognition flashed in your eyes. Planet Earth. Planet? That sounded familiar. Did he mean Plenetia? But Earth was wrong. You were supposed to be on Plenetia Krypton. Not Plenetia Earth.
You shake your head again and say instead, “Krypton.”
Clark freezes instantly and his eyes widen. Krypton. You were from Krypton? That was impossible. Him and his cousin Kara were the only survivors he knew of.
“Krypton? You are Kryptonian?” Clark speaks back to you in Kryptonian.
Your eyes light up, and you nod rapidly. He understands you!
“Yes! I am from Planet Krypton. My pod was sent to another planet to keep me safe when I was a baby. That planet has gotten destroyed, so I was sent back to my home planet, hoping that the threat was gone and it was safe for my return.” You recite in perfect Kryptonian.
Now it was Clark’s turn to be confused. He didn’t know that much Kryptonian truth be told.
Only enough to pick up bits and pieces, and from his understanding, you thought that that’s where your pod was headed. To Krypton. Which no longer exists.
Which meant you didn’t know that Krypton had been destroyed.
Clark’s breath caught painfully in his chest.
For a moment, he didn’t speak. He just stared at you, standing there in the grass beneath an Earth sky that had once felt just as foreign to him. Your words echoed in his mind, each one heavier than the last.
His hands curled into fists at his sides. How was he supposed to tell you?
How was he supposed to tell this woman he just met, a Kryptonian like him, that you had no home to go back to.
It had taken time for Clark to come to terms with the fact that there was no one like him here, and that was with the recordings salvaged from his own pod. You had nothing.
Or at least he didn't think so.
He glanced between your damaged pod and then back to you.
Deciding to check for you, Clark quickly dashes off to search your pod for a recording, or anything from anyone that might’ve been sent along with you that could help him understand more about you. He almost came up short until he found a small recording plug in the side compartment.
Eyeing it for a moment, Clark took it, and pocketed it. Maybe once he gets you settled in, he can take it to the fortress and play it for you.
As he rushed back to where you stood, baffled at his sudden departure and lack of response, Clark came to a decision.
He wouldn’t tell you about Krypton. At least not yet.
“Sorry,” Clark said, a little breathless, forcing a small smile onto his face. “I just—I needed to check something.”
You studied him carefully. His expression was calm, but his eyes weren’t. There was something there. Something familiar. Loss, maybe. You didn’t have the words for it yet, but you recognized the feeling.
“You understand me,” you said again in Kryptonian, needing reassurance. “You are Kryptonian.”
Clark nodded. “Yes. I am.”
That fact alone steadied you. You weren’t alone on this planet. Not completely. Maybe he could help you find your family and get back to your planet.
“You’ve been through a lot,” he said, switching back to English, then catching himself. He slowed, gestured gently with his hands, and tried again. “You… are safe. Here.”
You didn’t fully understand the words, but you understood him. His voice was soft and sweet. You wrapped your arms around yourself for comfort. The air felt different here. The sun was setting, painting the sky in colors you’d never seen before, and its warmth made you feel oddly good.
“I can take you with me. Give you a place to stay, while we figure out some answers and fix your pod for you to go back to Krypton.”
You tilted your head.
“Shoot right,” Clark mumbles, then switches to his poor Kryptonian, “I'll take you with me, to my home. I'll help you get home, to Krypton.”
You nod in understanding, grateful that you had found this Clark, who was willing to give you shelter and assistance back to Krypton.
Clark watched your face light up as you pieced together his words.
Gosh, he suddenly felt like a total jerk. He is a total jerk. Giving you false hope like this, knowing you had no home to go back to.
But what else could he do?
He barely knew Kryptonian himself and didn’t know whatever other languages you spoke. You also just endured a long journey, no doubt. Telling you this news right now would be nothing but cruel.
You were oblivious to his inner turmoil and took his outstretched hand to follow him, trusting that Clark would guide the way.
━━━━━━━
The first few days on Earth were… unusual.
Clark took you to his apartment in Metropolis. He figured it was safer than the Fortress, at least until you were more stable. Less overwhelmed.
Also, selfishly, he didn’t want you to get any answers just yet.
Not when it could help you leave him in search of another planet. Not when you were another Kryptonian that literally fell right from the sky that he still had the chance to get to know.
You sat on his couch hesitantly.
Everything in his apartment fascinated you. The lights. The windows. The way the refrigerator hummed softly like it was alive. You followed him everywhere with wide eyes, silent as a shadow.
Clark noticed.
“You can sit wherever you want,” he said gently, gesturing to the living room. “You live here now.”
You tilted your head, and mimicked his English words. “Live… here?”
“Yes,” he said in Kryptonian, smiling. “With me.”
Your chest warmed at that.
You had so many questions, but language was still hard. Earth language came easily to him, but not to you. And Kryptonian came easily to you, but not to him.
But Clark was patient.
Very patient.
He started with the basics, pointing to objects and saying their names.
“Table,” he'd say, tapping the dark wood.
“Spoon.”
“Window.”
You repeated them, your accent thick but your determination clear. He would smile, a soft crinkle at the corners of his eyes that made you want to learn faster, just to see it again.
One afternoon, he brought home a small, flat device. “This is a tablet,” he explained. “It can show you… pictures. Stories. It can help you learn.”
He pulled up a children's program—simple animations with bright colors and slow, clear speech. You were mesmerized by the technology. You pointed at the screen. “Bird?”
“Yes, bird,” Clark said, delighted. “And tree. And sky.”
You watched for hours, absorbing the language in a way that felt more natural. You began to string English sentences together.
“Clark is making food?” you'd ask, peering into the kitchen.
“Yes, I am making food,” he'd answer, grinning at your language improvement. “Are you hungry?”
“Yes. I am hungry.”
You learned that things here were fragile. You broke a glass simply by picking it up, your fingers closing with a strength meant for a different gravity. You froze, staring at the sparkling pieces on the floor, a hot shame rising in your chest.
Clark didn't scold you though. He didn't even look surprised. He simply fetched a broom and dustpan.
“It's okay,” he said, kneeling. “You have to be… gentle. Like this.” He demonstrated, picking up a surviving glass with exaggerated care. “Just a little pressure.”
You practiced on everything—doorknobs, light switches, the pages of the books he gave you. You learned to move through his world with more softness than you were used to, a constant mental effort that was exhausting but necessary.
The sun here was your greatest surprise. On your planet, Caelis, the light had been a cool, blue-white. Earth’s yellow sun poured energy into your cells like a floodgate opening. You felt stronger, faster, your senses stretching out further every day, strengthening you by the second.
It was an adjustment though. Getting so many senses back at once.
It was overwhelming, and you often found yourself retreating to the quietest corner of the couch, hands pressed over your ears, until Clark would sit beside you and talk in a low, steady voice, pulling your focus back to him.
He taught you how to wear human clothes, carefully explaining each piece. You stared at jeans like they were a trash bag.
“They’re… squeezing me,” you said unsure, but it seemed like the right word.
He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, or tight. Humans like them that way. You’ll get used to it.”
You frowned.
Clark also taught you how to eat human food, with a fork and a knife. You actually liked the ritual. Sitting at the table. With Clark. Holding a mug of something warm and sharing a meal.
“This is tea,” Clark said, sliding the cup toward you.
You sniffed it suspiciously. “Leaves.”
“It is leaves.”
“…Why?” you asked.
He smiled. “You ask that a lot.”
You thought about it. “Why is a good question.”
Clark laughed, full and warm, and something inside you fluttered.
At night however, you couldn’t sleep. The sky reminded you the most of Caelis at that time. You didn’t wanna miss it, even for something as necessary as sleep. You wondered if your foster family there survived. If they managed to escape like you. You hoped that they did, they were lovely people.
Not to mention, the other questions you couldn't yet ask that would swirl in your mind. You'd stare out the window at the unfamiliar constellations.
When will my pod be fixed? When can I go home?
You trusted Clark.
He was helping you. But a deep, restless ache for Krypton, for the family you only knew from stories stirred constantly.
You noticed he never mentioned it.
When you tentatively brought up ‘Krypton’ or ‘pod,’ his warm expression would become carefully neutral, and he'd gently steer the conversation to something else like a new Earth food to try, or word to learn, or a park he thought you might like to see.
One evening, you had a breakthrough though. You were helping him dry dishes, and you gathered your courage. “Clark… you are Kryptonian. Yes?”
He stilled, the dish towel in his hands. “Yes.”
“Why… you are here? On Earth?”
He was quiet for a long moment, looking out the window at the city lights. “My pod came here, too. A long time ago. I was a baby.”
“You did not go back?” you asked, confusion knitting your brow.
He turned to you, and in his blue eyes, you saw that same heavy look from the field. The look of loss. “No,” he said softly. “I did not go back.”
You noticed the change in his emotion. “You are sad?”
“No, I am not sad. I’m okay.” Clark said simply enough for you to understand.
You still had more questions though. “Why do humans lie?”
Clark froze, suddenly worried he was caught somehow. “Lie how?”
“They say they are ‘fine,’ but they are not fine. They say they are ‘not sad’ but they are.”
He sighed. You were a fast learner, he’ll give you that. “Yeah… we do that a lot.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re scared,” Clark said honestly.
You processed that quietly. You thought about what could possibly be making Clark scared enough to lie and say he was ok and not sad when he clearly wasn’t.
You brushed it off for now.
You started to follow Clark on walks, learning how to exist in public society once you knew a decent amount of English. How to cross streets and what money was and why people stared when you tried to lift cars without thinking.
“Try not to do that,” he said gently after you accidentally started to pick up a parked taxi.
“It was in my way,” you said, confused.
“I know. But humans can’t do that. They aren’t strong like we are, remember?”
You nodded solemnly. At least back on Caelis you could use your abilities with no shame or hiding. You also missed flying, but Clark said it was not safe to do, especially because you aren’t a ‘superhero’ like him. People would be ‘suspicious’ he said.
The weeks continued to pass.
You learned how to smile at strangers. How to order food. How to say “thank you” and “sorry” at appropriate times. You learned that Earth had many holidays, most of which made no sense.
“Why is there a day for thanks?” you asked.
“It’s about gratitude,” Clark said.
You paused, thinking hard. “I am grateful for you.”
He froze.
“Oh,” he said softly, heart pounding. “I’m… grateful for you too.”
You didn’t understand why his ears turned red.
After three months of living with Clark, you could say that you were accustomed to Earth. Learning everything about his planet was fascinating.
You had routines now. Mornings where Clark made tea you didn’t drink but liked to smell. Afternoons where you practiced English while he worked. You would voice out challenging words for him to correct you on.
“Ruh-ral?”
“Rural.” Clark corrected back, “It means the countryside.”
You nodded and pressed next on your tablet. “Naw-zee-us.”
“Nauseous. Like when you are sick.”
“English is hard,” you huffed.
“You are getting much better. Keep practicing.”
Evenings where you sat together on the couch, close but not touching, watching whatever humans watched on the glowing screen.
But there was something that never left you. This was not where you were supposed to be. Clark might enjoy Earth, but to you, this was simply a stop through.
The questions came back stronger the more you learned. The more stable you felt, the harder it became to ignore the ache.
“Clark,” you said quietly. “When… will we fix my pod?”
His page stilled. “Soon,” he said automatically.
You frowned. “You said soon before.”
He looked at you then, really looked at you, and you saw it—that fear again.
“You promised,” you added, “You said you help me go to Krypton.”
Clark closed the book slowly. “You’re right,” he said. “I did.”
“So when is soon? 1 day? 1 year? 5 years?”
“Soon is very soon.” And then he got up and walked away, leaving you frustrated and anxious.
Luckily, soon indeed meant very, very soon and the next day, he took you somewhere new. He even let you fly with him (at night) to the place he called, ‘The Fortress of Solitude.’
When you arrived, ice rose in sharp, crystalline towers, revealing the breathtaking structure. The robots inside greeted you warmly, voices calm and reassuring. They spoke Kryptonian fluently—better than Clark ever could. You felt a rush of relief and began to speak to them.
“They help me fix my pod?” you asked hopefully, turning back to Clark.
Clark hesitated. Then nodded. “Yes, they will help you.”
The robots examined the pod schematics, projected glowing symbols into the air, and spoke gently.
“The pod can be repaired,” one said to you in Kryptonian. “However, reconstruction will take time.”
“How long?” you asked.
“One Earth year.”
You blinked. That was… short. Only 365 days.
“A year?” you repeated, surprised but pleased. “That is not long.”
Clark exhaled quietly beside you. To him, a year felt enormous.
But to you, a Caelian year had been nearly three times as long. A year here felt manageable. Almost comforting.
“I can wait,” you said, turning to Clark with a small smile. “I will stay with you.”
Clark’s chest tightened.
What you didn’t know—what you couldn’t know—was that he had already been here. Already spoken to the robots. Already asked them to delay. To lie. To let you believe that there was still hope.
To give him time. Time to figure out how to break the news to you.
Clark ushered you to one side of the fortress, where there was a big screen. “I want to show you something. It’s from my parents. They sent it along with me when I was a baby.”
You nodded eagerly.
You watched the screen come alive and saw two beautiful figures. They spoke in Kryptonian of how much they loved and missed Clark until it glitched out and finished. You didn’t see much more.
“Where’s the rest of it?” you asked in Kryptonian.
Clark scratched the back of his head sheepishly.
“It got ruined when I landed.” Not a total lie.
But Clark did ask the robots to stop the recording shorter than the true length. The part where they mentioned how their home was destroyed was completely cut out.
Not that you knew that.
“Oh that was beautiful, though Clark. They are beautiful people. Maybe when my pod is fixed you can come with me and visit them sometime. I’m sure they’d love that.”
You spoke fast again, Clark not quite keeping up with all of the words, but if you said what he thinks you did, then yeah, he really is the biggest jerk in the entire universe.
Because now you thought his parents were alive too. Clark faltered for just a fraction of a second before he forced a smile onto his face.
“Yeah, yeah,” Clark swallowed deeply, “You ready to go?”
“Yes.” You said your goodbyes to Clark’s friendly robots, making sure they knew how grateful you were for them helping you get back home. Clark waited up at the front for you, and you basically jumped into his arms.
Your excitement only made him feel worse about the whole thing.
He would tell you.
Soon.
Very soon. Once he could figure out the right way.
When you both landed back at his apartment, you were already eagerly bouncing. “When can we go back? I like your robots, they speak Kryptonian well.”
Clark pretended not to understand you since you spoke in Kryptonian. But you couldn’t help it, you were too excited and did not want to struggle through forming English words at the moment. You pouted.
“Clark,” you dragged.
He didn’t budge. Partly because he really did want you to practice your English, but mainly because he hated himself for what he was doing to you. And speaking about it made him want to fly and bury himself in a mountain for years.
“Fine,” you rolled your eyes and switched back to English. “When will we go back to your Fortress? Good?”
“Yes, very good, and we’ll go back soon.” Clark noticed your raised brow and then added, “Next week?”
You beamed, then threw yourself in his arms for an embrace. When you finally let go, you told him goodnight, then retired to the spare room you’ve been staying in.
Clark sighed deeply and sat on the couch, rubbing his eyelids harshly. He knew that everything would change from this point on.
One year.
That’s all he had. So he would have to make the most of it.
━━━━━━━
The days had started to slip into weeks. Weeks into months. The year-long countdown was in full effect.
With the pod being repaired by the robots, a new strange peace settled over you. The constant ache for home had disappeared. You had 365 days to experience Earth, to learn from Clark, to prepare for your journey.
It made you bold.
You started at the library as a volunteer.
After days of begging Clark to let you get a real job like him, he finally gave in. He was very against the idea as a whole. He’d rather you stay in the apartment, where your abilities and your speech wouldn’t raise any alarm bells in passerbys.
But you argued that you grew restless of the same walls and wanted to make the most of your last year on Earth. So you compromised, and Clark let you volunteer at a place of your choosing.
You didn’t really know many places to begin with, but the library was a word from your English programs on your tablet, and you enjoyed reading (or trying to read) the books Clark gave you.
Thus, the library.
Plus, your super-speed made re-shelving a breeze, though you had to consciously slow your movements to a human pace, like Clark said. Your co-workers found you charming, with your intense focus and strange speech. They adored you.
You learned things even faster by interacting with others in public too. Like certain thoughts shouldn’t be said out loud, things you would normally say to Clark.
Your speech improved because in your downtime you would read through the dictionaries to learn at least three new words to share with Clark.
That was also one of your new favorite parts of the day.
Because you saw Clark less than you normally did, sharing your day with him felt extra special. At dinner, you would tell him about the people at the library and your new words, and he would listen enthusiastically with a warm face that made your stomach stir.
Today, you two were eating breakfast for dinner. Clark said it was basically Earth tradition for humans to have breakfast foods for dinner at least once a week.
“So, how was the library today?” Clark asked.
“It was okay. Very little— I mean, very few people came. I had lots of time to read,” you said proudly. “Do you want to know the new words I learned?”
Clark smiled around a mouthful of eggs. “Always.”
You straightened in your chair like this was a presentation. “Okay. First: nostalgia. It means missing something that is gone, but in a… warm way. Not painful. ”
Clark’s smile faltered, just a touch. “That’s a good one.”
“Second,” you continued. “Subtext. It means what people mean, but do not say.”
Clark nearly choked on his coffee. “Yeah. That one’s… important.”
“And third,” you finished, pleased, “Intimacy.”
Clark went very still.
You frowned slightly. “The book said it is closeness. Emotional closeness. Sometimes physical closeness. It said it can be built over time.”
You tilted your head. “Clark, I think we have that.”
The air shifted. Clark set his mug down slowly.
You added on, “We are closer because you saved me. And we are both from Krypton, of course.”
“Right, yes. Those are really good words.”
“And you? How was the Daily Planet.”
Clark smiled at how you always referred to his work as the Daily Planet. “It was okay. Both Jimmy and Lois were gone, chasing a lead. Perry yelled at me. But Cat brought doughnuts for everyone.”
“Those are the circles right? With the hole in the center?” you asked for clarification.
“Yes.”
You nodded. “I like those.”
Clark chuckled, “Yeah they are pretty good.” The sound was warm and easy, and something inside your chest fluttered. You noticed that feeling more these days.
Little things would set it off—the way he leaned his elbows on the table, the way he listened like nothing you said was ever unimportant, the way his eyes softened whenever they landed on you.
You finished your food and carried your plate to the sink, carefully.
Clark watched you from the table, his heart doing something stupid and fast. A year, he reminded himself. Don’t forget that.
But it was hard to remember when nights like this felt so normal. When all he could think about most days was you.
Clark's friends at the Daily Planet began to notice the change in him, too. The perpetual worry that often furrowed his brow had softened. He laughed more easily at Jimmy’s jokes. He didn't work quite as late.
Lois was the first to pounce. She cornered him at his desk, leaning in with that reporter's glint in her eye. "Okay, Smallville. Spill. You're humming. You, Clark Kent, are humming. Is it the 'friend from Switzerland'? The new mysterious roommate?"
Clark adjusted his glasses, a faint blush creeping up his neck. “Yes, … she's adjusting well. She's… amazing, actually.”
“Amazing,” Lois repeated, drawing out the word. “As in 'amazing cook' or 'amazing to come home to'?”
“Lois,” he sighed, but he was smiling. A real, unreserved smile that told her everything she needed to know.
“Alright, alright, just don’t screw it up.” Lois put her hands up.
Clark's mouth went dry. He didn’t answer.
Because he already had.
He screws up everyday that he continues to let the lie drag on. And he tried. He really honestly tried to tell you, but something always came up, whether that be work or Superman responsibilities.
So rather than just confessing, Clark did the opposite and tried to make up for his ongoing lies by easing his own conscience and essentially spoiling you.
He would bring you a new fresh batch of flowers every week, since you said that they reminded you of the ones that grew back on Caelis. He would shower you in attention, giving you everything you wanted and more.
It helped, but in a way, also made it worse.
His feelings for you only deepened with each passing day.
And with them came the touches.
They were accidental at first. Easy to dismiss.
His hand brushing yours when he passed you a tea mug. Fingers lingering just a second too long before pulling away, like he’d been burned. Your shoulder bumping into his when you sat together on the couch, neither of you moving to correct it. The way he’d guide you through crowded sidewalks with a gentle palm at the small of your back, touch feather-light but steady.
You noticed all of it.
You noticed how his heartbeat changed when you were close. How his breath hitched when you leaned in to show him a new word on your tablet. How he always, always, waited for you to move first.
So you did.
One evening, while he was helping you with pronunciation, you leaned closer than necessary.
“Com-fort,” you said slowly.
“Comfort,” he corrected, voice low.
You tried again. “Comfort.”
“Perfect.”
You smiled, pleased, and without thinking, rested your hand on his forearm. It felt solid. Warm. Safe. Good. His muscles tensed beneath your fingers, but he didn’t pull away.
Instead, he looked at you, deep into those beautiful eyes that he found captivating the moment he met you.
The room felt quieter suddenly.
“Is this… okay?” you asked, echoing a question you’d learned was important here.
Clark swallowed. “Yeah,” he said softly. “It’s okay.”
So you kept doing it.
You’d sit closer on the couch, your knee touching his. Sometimes your head would tilt toward his shoulder when you were tired, just barely brushing. The first time you fell asleep there, curled into his side without realizing it, Clark didn’t move for over an hour. He just sat there, heart pounding, afraid that if he breathed too hard you’d disappear.
He started tucking blankets around you when you slept. Adjusting pillows. Letting his thumb brush your knuckles when he thought you were already dreaming.
You were not.
You learned what his touch meant before you learned the word for it. And you liked it. Touching Clark. Feeling his warmth. It felt as though you two were made for each other in those moments.
━━━━━━━
Time passed like this. Soft and domestic.
The closer you grew, the harder it became for Clark to remember the end date hanging over everything. Less than a year now. Less than a year until the truth shattered this fragile, beautiful thing he was selfishly letting exist.
One evening, you stood by the window, watching rain streak down the glass. You liked rain. Clark said it made humans nostalgic.
“That word again,” you said thoughtfully. “I think… I feel that.”
“For what?” he asked, coming to stand beside you.
You turned to him. “For things that are happening now. Is that weird?”
Clark’s chest tightened. “No, it’s not weird at all. A lot of people feel that.”
“Humans are strange,” you decided.
He smiled. “Yeah. We are.”
“But I'm starting to really like them,” you added with a soft smile to Clark.
Thunder rumbled softly outside. You startled. There was no rain or thunder back on Caelis, so you hadn’t expected that. Clark reached out without thinking, resting a hand on your arm.
You didn’t pull away. Instead, you turned fully toward him.
“You do that,” you said quietly.
“Do what?”
“You touch me,” you said, not accusing. “When I am scared. Or tired. Or quiet.”
Clark froze, then slowly lowered his hand, like he thought he’d crossed a line. “I’m sorry, I—”
“I like it,” you said quickly.
He looked at you, eyes searching. “You’re sure?”
“It feels like… comfort.” You said with a glint in your eye, knowing you used the word correctly.
His hand rose again, hesitant, and this time you covered it with your own. The contact sent a shock through both of you. Clark’s breath caught. Yours did too.
You stepped closer. Close enough that you could feel the warmth of him and the way his presence filled the space.
“This,” you said softly, “is intimacy, yes?”
Clark laughed under his breath, a little shaky. “Yeah. This is definitely intimacy.”
You tilted your head, studying his face. His eyes. His mouth. His lips.
“Humans kiss,” you said slowly, carefully. “When they feel this.”
Clark’s heart slammed into his ribs. “They do,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “But only if they both want to.”
You didn’t answer with words.
You leaned in—slow, giving him time to stop you. Your forehead brushed his. Your breath mingled with his. You paused there, waiting.
Clark closed the distance, one hand cupping the side of your face softly as he did so. The kiss was gentle. Passionate. Everything you imagined it would be. His lips were warm, soft, lingering just long enough to make your head spin.
He pulled back for just a second, checking to make sure you were okay, the smile stretching on your face giving him all the confirmation he needed to continue. His hands gently slid down the side of your face to your neck as he leaned back in again.
After what felt like a lifetime, you pulled back, your eyes wide as you caught your breath.
“Oh,” you breathed.
Clark smiled, breathless. “Yeah.”
You touched your fingers to your lips, then to his, curious. “That is… very intimate.”
He laughed quietly. “It is.”
You leaned into him after that, resting your head against his chest. Clark wrapped his arms around you slowly, carefully, like he was holding his entire universe together.
Outside, the rain kept falling, but inside Clark held you and wondered how much longer he could let himself pretend this wasn’t already love—and how badly it was going to hurt when the truth finally came out.
━━━━━━━
“Date.” Clark tells you, as he secures his work tie “That’s your word for the day.”
“Clark, I learned what a date is. It's the day, the month, and the—”
“No, no, that is only one of the meanings. There is another.”
“What is the other?”
“That is for you to figure out today while I’m gone. And when you find out what it is, I want you to know that we have one. Tonight at 8 PM sharp, so be ready.”
“Okay but what is—”
Clark shuts you up with a kiss. You melt into it before you realize that he distracted you. Ever since your first kiss with him, it seems like it's something that you can’t stop doing.
You kiss him before he leaves for work, he kisses you when you come back from the library. You kiss him before bed. You simply can’t get enough.
“I’ll see you tonight,” he says, interrupting your thoughts and already halfway out the door, before it slams shut.
You stand there for a moment, stunned, fingers pressed to your mouth where he kissed you. Then you smile wide and bright in a daze.
“A date,” you murmur to yourself curiously.
You take your tablet with you to the couch, curiosity buzzing. You type the word in, careful with the spelling. You read the first definition that pops up.
Date (noun):
A social or romantic appointment.
An outing between two people who are interested in each other.
You blink.
Interested in each other. Romantic appointment.
You scroll.
Dinner. Dressing nicely. Conversation. Laughter. Holding hands. Sometimes kissing. Sometimes Sex. Sex? You were unfamiliar with that last word.
But you disregard it for the moment. Because this—this is what Clark meant.
A date.
You spend the rest of the day preparing for the date. You watch videos on everything ‘first date’ related.
You search your closet for something perfect to wear. Seeing as most of your clothes were picked out by Clark, you hope that he will like whatever you decide on. Which happens to be a never before worn black dress in the back of your closet.
Secretly, you wonder if he bought this dress with the hope of taking you out on a date in the future in mind. But you brush that silly thought off after a few moments.
By exactly 7:58 PM, you’re seated on the couch, posture perfect, heart racing.
At 8:00 PM sharp, the door opens.
Clark steps inside and stops.
For a moment, he just stares. You stand giving him a twirl so he can see the dress you chose.
“Is this acceptable for a… date?”
He swallows. Hard. “Yeah,” he manages. “It’s… more than acceptable. You look beautiful.”
You blush at the compliment and walk over to him. A part of you wonders if it's too soon to kiss him, but you decide that you really, really want to kiss him, so you do it anyway.
He meets you halfway, his arms coming around your waist as your lips find his. When you pull back, you’re both breathing a little harder.
“That was a good start to the date,” you say, a little breathless.
Clark laughs, a warm, rich sound that vibrates through you. “A very good start. Ready to go?”
Clark takes you to a small, quiet Italian restaurant tucked away on a side street. It’s nothing like the loud, bright places you’ve seen on his screen. It’s all warm wood, soft candlelight, and the smell of garlic and baking bread. A man in a black apron greets Clark by name and leads you to a secluded corner booth.
“How do you know this place?” you whisper as you slide in.
“I saved the owner’s son from a car accident a few years back,” Clark murmurs back, his voice low. “He insists I come by. The food is incredible.”
You trust him. He orders for both of you, speaking in smooth, confident Italian that surprises you. Perfect Italian but terrible Kryptonian.
The food arrives shortly after. Plates of steaming pasta, glistening with sauce, a salad with vibrant colors, bread that’s crusty on the outside and impossibly soft within.
You watch Clark, mimicking which fork he uses, how he twines the pasta. The flavors are rich and tasty, and you make a small, delighted noise with your first bite.
Clark’s eyes crinkle at the corners, his lips curving into a lopsided grin. “Good?”
“Incredible,” you say, and you mean it in every sense—the food, the candlelight, the way he’s looking at you.
While you eat, he tells you stories about growing up in Kansas, about his parents, about his Kryptonian cousin, Kara, who is on different planets right now.
In return, you tell him more about Caelis. How beautiful it was, how there was no society like here on Earth. How everything was natural, no technology. Everyone was simply friendly and could do as they pleased, so long as it was safe.
When the plates are cleared and a decadent slice of tiramisu is placed between you, you feel another flutter inside.
“This is my first ever date,” you tell him shyly, grabbing a dessert spoon.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you repeat, “People don’t really date on Caelis. They just find a partner, and they coexist like that until they die. I wonder how it is on Krypton. How your parents found each other? How did mine?”
Clark goes stiff at that.
He manages to muster a weak smile, then changes the subject, “I have one more surprise.”
He pays the bill despite the owner’s protests, and then you’re walking back through the cool Metropolis night, his hand finding yours, fingers lacing together.
Clark leads you to a rooftop garden you’ve never seen, high above the city. It’s set up beautifully with twinkling fairy lights strung between potted flowers that remind you of Caelis, a blanket laid out, and a breathtaking view of the skyline.
“Clark,” you breathe, turning to him, struggling to find the right words. “This is… beautiful.”
“I come here sometimes. To think.” He guides you to the blanket, sitting beside you. “I wanted to share it with you.”
You look at him, the city lights reflecting in his blue eyes. Everything that lead you here suddenly all seems worth it. There is only this moment, this man, this feeling swelling in your chest and you think you might burst with it.
“Clark,” you say, your voice barely a whisper, but holding lots of truth. “I think I am falling in love with you.”
Clark doesn’t answer right away.
For a terrifying second, you think you’ve said something wrong. A word you misused. A feeling you weren’t supposed to name yet.
Then he exhales, slow and shaky, like he’s been holding his breath for months.
He reaches for you, carefully, as if you might disappear if he moves too fast. His large hands frame your face, thumbs warm against your cheeks.
“You don’t—you shouldn’t say words like that unless you mean them,” he murmurs.
You nod. “I mean it.”
His forehead presses to yours, giving him the strength to say his next words.
“I’ve been in love with you,” he admits quietly, voice rough, “for a very long time now.”
Your chest tightens. “Then why do you look so sad?”
Because I’m lying to you, he thinks. Because I’m going to lose you and its all going to be my fault.
But he doesn’t say any of that. Instead, he kisses you.
It tastes like tiramisu, and love confessions and feels like a desperate, aching hope. It’s deep and slow, a silent apology and a prayer all at once. When he finally pulls back, he doesn't let go.
“Because,” he whispers into the tiny space between you, “loving someone this much is terrifying. Especially because you never, ever want to hurt them.”
You slide your hands up his chest, feeling the frantic beat of his heart beneath your palms. “You don’t hurt me, Clark. You could never hurt me, you saved me, remember?”
Clark closes his eyes, wincing as a shadow of pain flickers across his face before he masks it with another tender kiss. “Come on,” he says, his voice husky. “Let's go home.”
━━━━━━━
Back at the apartment, the night settles softly around you. Clark hangs up your coat, and before either of you can say anything else, you’re back in each other’s arms on the couch—kissing, touching, breathing each other in like you’re afraid the moment will vanish if you stop.
Eventually, your eyes drift closed as you are cuddled up against his chest, but you’re not asleep. Not tired. Your mind is busy, circling back to the things you read earlier. The words. The meanings.
There’s still one you don’t fully understand.
“Clark?” you murmur.
“Hm?” he whispers, arms tightening around you. “You okay?”
“Yes,” you say. “But there is a word I’m still confused on. From when I was looking up what dates are.”
“Okay. What word?”
You hesitate, then say it carefully. “Sex.”
Clark stiffens immediately. You feel it, every muscle going tense beneath you.
He doesn’t pull away, though. Instead, he takes a slow breath, steadying himself. “Gosh, that’s… umm.”
“Online it said that many people do it after dates,” This was your first date and you didn’t want to leave out any important parts, “Did we do sex?”
“No, sweetheart. We di-didn’t. That’s… that’s something different.”
“But the internet said it’s part of a relationship,” you persist, your voice muffled against the soft cotton of his shirt. “And we are in a relationship now, aren’t we?”
“We are,” he says, the words thick with conviction. “Of course we are. But sex, it’s um…”
Clark trailed off unsure how to explain this to you. He wishes that it would click, that you would be able to piece together the word in your own Caelian or Kryptonian language without him having to explain to you.
And after watching Clark struggle for a few minutes it seems you do. “Oh. Lira.”
“Lira?” Clark repeats.
“Back on Caelis, it is what describes the act that joins two people who have chosen each other,” you finish softly, and add. “Intimacy. That is what sex is right? Lira.”
“Yeah. That… that sounds about right.”
The two of you are quiet for a long moment after that. You break the silence first.
“Clark?”
“Yes.” He gulps because he already knows what you will say next.
“I um, I want lira.” You clear your throat, “I want to have sex with you.”
He is silent for so long that you wonder if you’ve made another terrible mistake, misapplied another word.
“Sweetheart…” he finally says, his voice a scrape of sound. He shifts, gently urging you to sit up so he can look at you. His eyes are wide, pools of blue and he holds your face steady in his hand.
“You’re saying that because you think it’s what comes next. Because you read it.”
“No,” you insist, reaching for his other hand, holding it tightly. “I’m saying it because I want to. I like when you kiss me and when you hold me. And I want… more of that. All of that. All of you.”
Clark’s breath shudders out of him.
He would be absolutely lying if he said, he didn’t want this with you right now. In fact just the conversation is already working him up, making him feel hotter under your touch.
But this would be crossing a line you couldn't come back from.
If he lets this happen—if he crosses this line—he is responsible. For everything. For the imbalance between you. For the truth he is still hiding. But gosh, your sweet eyes staring back at him makes it difficult to think of anything else.
So he brings your joined hands up, pressing them gently to his chest, right over his heart so you can feel how hard it’s racing. “I need you to understand something first,” he says quietly. “More than anything.”
You nod, eyes never leaving his.
“I want you,” he admits. “I’ve wanted you. But wanting isn’t enough. I need to know that you understand what you’re choosing. That you’re choosing it because you want it, not because you think you owe me. Not because the internet said it’s what people do.”
“I know,” you say immediately. “On Caelis, Lira is never owed. It is only given.” You squeeze his hand. “I am giving it. I choose you.”
That does something to him. You feel the way his shoulders sag, the way his eyes shine, the way something heavy finally loosens in his chest.
“Okay,” he whispers. “Okay.” Definitely going to hell, Clark thinks as he leans forward, his forehead against yours, breathing you in.
His hand cups your cheek again, the same familiar touch that started all of this—comfort first, always. He kisses you passionately.
When he pulls back, his thumb brushes under your eye. “Still want this?”
You don’t hesitate. “Yes.”
“Then,” he murmurs, pressing one last gentle kiss to your lips, “Come here.”
Clark pulls you onto his lap in one fluid motion, positioning you perfectly to feel the growing bulge between his legs. He presses you down onto it, moving your hips so you can grind down on him.
The friction makes you gasp, never having felt anything like it. But it feels so good so you rock against him, chasing the sensation, and he makes a choked sound. His lips find yours again hungry and open-mouthed.
"You feel that?" he murmurs against your skin, his voice thick. "That's what you do to me sweetheart. Every time you look at me. Every time you say my name."
The words went straight to your core, causing a strong pulsing sensation that startles you. You whimper, grinding down harder, needing to soothe the new, delicious ache.
“Feel good?” Clark asks at your reaction, bucking up to meet your hips.
You nod quickly. You’ve heard people talk about Lira back on Caelis, describing it as one of the best sensations ever. You were starting to see what they meant. This was the best feeling.
Deep in your thoughts, you don’t feel Clark’s hand moving from your waist down to between your legs, cupping your clothed cunt under your now ruched dress. His large palm over your dampening center has you instinctively wanting to shut your legs.
But Clark doesn’t withdraw. Instead he squeezes tighter, while holding deep eye contact.
“Have you ever been touched here before, sweetheart?”
You stare back into his blue eyes as you give him a weak shake of your head. “No.”
Clark hums, satisfied at that and applies more pressure. You grind down into his palm needing more.
Clark, ever so in-tune with your body, notices. Wrapping his free arm around your waist, and leaving the other hand between your legs, he uses his super speed to move you both from the couch to the bedroom.
Wasting no further time, he removed his own shirt and hiked your dress up, revealing your bra-less chest.
The air in the room felt cool against your now exposed skin, but the heat from his gaze was enough to warm you up again.
For a moment, Clark just looked. Soaking in your body. Then slowly he lowered his head and kissed the space between your breasts. His lips were soft and warm. He kissed his way to one breast, taking his time. He circled your hardened nipple with his tongue before finally taking it into his mouth.
You gasped, arching off the bed. The sensation was incredible. A sharp, sweet pleasure that had you getting more and more soaked.
Clark suckled gently, his tongue flicking over the peak, while his other hand came up to cradle your other breast, his thumb rubbing over that nipple in slow, steady circles, squeezing it tight occasionally.
The dual sensation had you overwhelmed. You tangle your hands in his curls, holding him to you. When he was satisfied, he switched sides, giving the same attention to your other breast.
While his mouth worked, his hand began to wander again. It slid down your stomach, tracing the lines of your muscles. He paused at the waistband of your panties, his fingers dipping just beneath the fabric.
He pulled his mouth away from your breast, his breathing ragged.
“Can I?” he asked, his voice rough.
“Yes,” you whispered. “Please.”
He hooked his fingers in your panties and drew them down your legs, tossing them aside and removed your dress over your head. Now you were completely bare before him. His eyes darkened, roaming over every inch of you. The intensity of his gaze made you feel both exposed and cherished.
Clark settled between your legs, but instead of moving forward, he leaned down and kissed your inner thigh. His lips were plush, his stubble a gentle scratch. He kissed his way up, slowly, maddeningly slowly, until his breath was warm against your most intimate place.
You held your breath, anticipation coiling tight in your belly. You felt him look up at you from between your legs and give you a lustful smile.
He didn’t use his tongue right away. First, he just nuzzled you, his nose brushing against your sensitive folds. He inhaled deeply, and the sound he made was one of pure hunger. Your scent was particularly enticing, and he wondered if it had to do with your Kryptonian nature calling you to him.
“Clark,” you whined, your hips lifting off the bed of their own accord.
“Shh,” he soothed, placing a firm hand on your hip to still you and push you back down.
Only once you stopped squirming did he finally taste you. The first swipe of his tongue was a flat, broad stroke from bottom to top. It was so much, so intense, that you cried out. Your back arched, and your fingers clenched in the sheets.
He did it again, and again, establishing a slow, languid rhythm. He explored you with his tongue, learning what made you gasp, what made you writhe. He circled your clit, then sucked it gently into his mouth.
“Clark, please,” you begged, not even sure what you were asking for.
But Clark knew, and she shoved his tongue deep into your hole, flicking it expertly inside you.
He hummed against you, the vibration sending a fresh wave of pleasure through you. Then he added his fingers. One finger, slick with your arousal, pressed against your entrance. He pushed inside, slowly, giving you time to adjust.
You were very tight, definitely needing to be stretched out, but so wet, and he slid in knuckle deep with a groan.
He began to move his finger in and out, a steady rhythm that matched the strokes of his tongue. The pressure inside you, the flicking of his tongue on your clit, it was too much and not enough all at once.
“More,” you pleaded, your voice broken. “Please, Clark, I need more.”
He added a second finger, stretching you further. The burn was brief, quickly swallowed by a deep, filling pleasure. He moved with care, gentle and patient as he worked your body.
Still, you weren’t satisfied, and he could tell. Clark paused thoughtfully. Most women could hardly take two of his fingers without feeling overly worked. But you, you still couldn’t get enough.
Clearly able to handle more than regular humans, Clark inserts two more fingers, stretching you out beautifully. He watched as your face scrunched up into a pretty moan, eyes rolled back.
“Gosh, yes Clark,” you whimper, “Much better. Move, please.”
He curled all four of his large fingers inside you, searching, and when he found that spot, you saw stars.
A moan tore from your throat. Your entire body seizing in pleasure. Clark fingered you through it, your first orgasm of the night, his tongue and fingers relentless, until you were sobbing, completely overwhelmed by the sensation.
He gentled his touch, his movements becoming softer, letting you come down slowly. He kissed your inner thighs, your stomach, as you trembled beneath him.
When you could breathe again, you looked at him. His lips were glistening, his eyes blown black with desire. He looked wrecked, and you had done that to him.
“Clark,” you whispered, reaching for him. “That was good. I’m enjoying this. Having sex with you.”
“Oh hon, we haven’t even really started,” Clark chuckled, his tone somewhat condescending.
He withdrew his fingers, making you gasp at the sudden emptiness, and brought them to his mouth, tasting you with a groan of pure appreciation. The sight made you flush and your pussy throb even harder.
Clark shifted his weight, settling fully between your trembling thighs. The length of him, still confined in his pants, pressed insistently against your slick heat, promising so much more. You could feel the size of him, even through the fabric, and a fresh pulse of desire, mixed with a flicker of nervous awe, shot through you.
“Still with me?” he murmured, his voice a low rumble. He brushed the damp hair from your forehead, his touch infinitely tender.
“Yes,” you breathed. “I just… you’re so…”
“I know,” he said, understanding instantly. He kissed you, a hot sweaty kiss that tasted of you and him. Clark rocked his hips, a grinding motion that had you seeing stars again.
“You think you’re ready for it?” He asks you.
“Yes, gosh, yes!”
Clark shakes his head, and scoots back releasing the friction he had on your body. “No, I don't think you are sweetheart.”
“Clark,” you cry out, upset.
You found yourself growing frustrated. Why is he not giving you what you want? He always gives you what you want. Your eyes start to well. He was being mean.
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“Please.” Your bottom lip wobbled, and for a moment, Clark almost gave in. “Stop teasing me.”
But he didn’t.
Instead, he shoved his whole hand back into your pussy. Deeper than before and harder.
Your eyes flew wide, a sharp cry tearing from your throat that was equal parts shock and overwhelming, sudden pleasure. The sensation of being filled so completely, so abruptly, stole the breath from your lungs.
Your body twisted, your hands flying to his wrist, not to push him away, but to hold on as the world dissolved into a white-hot point of sensation.
“There,” he breathed, his own chest heaving as he watched you come utterly undone around his hand. “That’s what you need first. You have to be ready, sweetheart. Really ready. For me.”
He began to move his hand, a fast, deliberate pistoning that stretched you to a breathtaking, almost impossible degree. The friction was exquisite, a deep, internal massage that had your toes curling and your vision spotting. You were so sensitive from your first climax, and this was pushing you swiftly, mercilessly toward another.
“See?” he murmured, his voice thick with a possessive awe. He leaned down, capturing your lips in a searing kiss, swallowing your desperate moans. “You take me so well. But you’re still so tight.” He curled his fingers inside you, pressing ruthlessly against that magical spot, and you shattered.
You sobbed his name, your walls clenching rhythmically around his embedded hand.
He gentled his movements, letting you ride the wave, soothing you with whispered praises against your sweat-damp skin. “Good job, hon. Just like that.”
When the last tremors subsided, he carefully withdrew his hand. You felt utterly open, utterly spent, and yet thrumming with a need that felt bottomless.
Clark stared down at your glistening face, his eyes never leaving yours as he unfastened his pants. He pushed them and his boxers down to free himself.
You couldn’t help but stare. He was… magnificent. Thick and long and flushed with need. A bead of moisture glistened at the tip. You reached out, driven by a sudden, curious need to touch.
Your fingers barely grazed the velvety skin when his hand shot out, wrapping gently but firmly around your wrist. He guided your hand away, bringing it to his lips to press a kiss to your palm.
You understand what it meant. He was to be doing all the touches tonight.
He positioned himself over you, the thick head of his cock nudging against your soaked entrance. For a moment, he just stayed there, letting you feel the size of him, the heat. His breath came in short, ragged bursts. You could see the strain in his neck, the corded muscles of his arms as he held himself back.
You felt a sudden spike of nervousness. It looked... like a lot and you've never done this before. He saw it flash in your eyes.
"I'll be gentle—" he started, but you stopped him. No. You wanted this.
“Clark,” you say, “I am Kryptonian, just like you. I can handle it.” You pulled his head down, your lips brushing his ear. “I need it.”
A shudder wracked his entire frame.
Clark swore that nothing in his life could amount to this. To those words. He finally found his perfect person. Someone who could withstand his strength and speed because you were the same.
All those years of holding back, of being so pent up— well they were about to be unleashed into your poor pussy.
He pushed in, burying himself inside you in one long, deep stroke.
“Mmph,” you whined, feeling him all the way to the hilt, his balls rubbing on your clit perfectly.
“Oh... gosh,” he choked out, his hips stuttering. “You... you’re perfect. So tight, so soft. Sweetheart, you’re made for me.”
And he wasn't wrong. Your Kryptonian anatomies aligned with an impossible precision. He filled you completely, a stretching, filling pressure that showed with an outline of him in your stomach.
Clark began to move. Slowly at first, shallow pulls that made you both whimper. He was watching your face, checking, always checking. Your eyes were dark, your lips parted on a silent cry, your nails digging into the thick muscles of his shoulders.
“More,” you demanded, your legs wrapping around his waist, locking him to you. “Clark, more.”
You knew that he was trying his best to be careful with you, but you were not a fragile human, and you needed to be fucked like the Kryptonian you are.
He didn’t need to be told twice.
He pulled back almost all the way and slammed back in, a hard, driving thrust that knocked a sharp cry from your lungs and lifted you up the bed. The headboard cracked against the wall.
“Yes,” he hissed, the sound vicious with relief. “Take it. Take all of me.”
He set a punishing rhythm, his hips pistoning, driving into you with a force that would have shattered a human pelvis.
The bedframe groaned in protest with every impact. Each thrust sending you into a fucked-out state of pure bliss.
Clark leaned down, capturing your mouth in a messy, biting kiss. His hands were everywhere—gripping your hips hard enough to leave faint, blooming bruises that would fade in minutes, palming your breasts, thumbing your nipples, rubbing your clit. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply, groaning into your skin.
“Gosh sweetheart,” he mumbled, licking a stripe up your throat. “You smell so good. Driving me insane. Makes me want to… want to…”
Clark didn’t finish the thought, but his thrusts became more erratic, more possessive. He shifted his angle slightly, and on the next deep drive, he hit a spot that made you see stars. You screamed, your hips lifting away.
“There she is,” he growled, finding your spot. He hit it again. And again. And again. “Let me feel you. Show me how good I make you feel.”
The command, the filthy praise, the rough pounding—it was perfect. Exactly what you needed. Your climax tore through you and you clenched around him, milking his length, and his rhythm stuttered as he let go of his release.
When the waves of pleasure finally receded, you felt boneless, gasping. But Clark was far from done.
Besides, you had the stamina to keep up. Just as quickly as that orgasm came, it went. And you needed another.
“We’re not even close to being finished hon,” he promised you. You wanted some sex. He'll give it to you. Anything you asked for.
In one swift motion, he flipped you over onto your stomach. He pulled your hips up, arching your back, pressing your face into the pillows. He draped himself over your back, his chest hot against your spine, and sank into you from behind.
The angle allowed him to drill into you with even more power, pounding you deeper into the bed. The sound of skin on skin, of his groans and your muffled cries, filled the room. The bed’s protests grew louder.
You couldn’t form words to speak even if you wanted to. All you could do was sob into the pillow and push back against him, meeting his thrusts.
He fucked you like that for what felt like an eternity, in that raw, vulnerable position, until your thighs were shaking and your pleas were a broken, continuous stream. Just when you thought you couldn’t take another second, he pulled out, letting your release and wetness drip down your legs.
You made a sound at the sudden loss, but before it could fully form, his arms were around you, lifting you from the bed.
“Hold on,” he whispered, and then the world tipped.
You were flying? Or he was. He held you cradled against his chest, your legs still wrapped around him, and he was inside you as he rose into the air.
“Clark!” you shrieked, clinging to him, not expecting that.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured, kissing you hungrily as he hovered. He began to move again, shallow, grinding thrusts made possible by the gravity. It was intimate and impossibly erotic, your bodies joined in the air like such.
He floated you both back down, not to the bed, but pressing you against the nearest wall. The cool plaster was a shock against your heated back. He pinned you there, using the wall for leverage, lifting one of your legs, and slammed back into you with renewed frenzy.
The wall cracked underneath the pressure of your two strong bodies. But Clark’s rough pace didn’t falter for a second. Clark reached up, brushing your damp hair out of your face.
He tilted your chin up to meet his eyes. Those gorgeous eyes that he loved so much were filled to the brim with tears that kept spilling down with each hard hit of his cock in your body.
Clark groaned at the sight, fucking you even harder if that was possible.
“Oh Clark,” your eyes roll.
“Yeah,” He moaned, “Gonna fill you up so good, sweetheart. You’re gonna be all mine. You want that?”
You nod rapidly. You would want nothing more honestly.
“Need words, princess.”
“Yes, Clark, please.”
At that confirmation, Clark switched your position back to the bed. He pulled your legs up and over his shoulder, then shoved your knees to your chest to have you in the perfect mating press.
He rammed into you hard, the position forcing you to look directly at his handsome face as he ruined you. All you could feel was his cock splitting you open, thick and veiny and so long it felt like heaven every time he bottomed out.
Clark let his teeth graze your calf as the wet, sloppy sounds of your pussy squelching obscenely fill his ears.
You carried on like that for so long, the bedframe finally groaned and splintered beneath you, unable to withstand the force of two Kryptonians joined in passion.
Neither of you notice. Or care.
The longer you two went at, the more it seemed that his scent would fill your senses. He buried his face in the curve of your neck, inhaling deeply, groaning as your own scent enveloped him.
You both felt it building simultaneously, a sensation different from the many orgasms released through the night.
No this was something new altogether.
A need to be claimed, to be marked, to be so utterly his that nothing could ever separate you. You tightened around him, clenching down so hard that he couldn’t pull out if he wanted to.
Clark leans down, right onto the sensitive point where your neck meets your collarbone.
His lips are hot, his breath ragged over it, raising goosebumps. A possessiveness surges inside him that has him practically growling against your skin. You mewl under his touch, begging for him to touch the warm area.
Clark's teeth graze over the spot. Then he latches onto it - kissing, sucking, biting, whatever feels right.
For you, the feeling is everything.
Pure ecstasy shoots from that point, down your spine, and explodes in your core. Your back arches off the ruined bed, a scream ripping from your throat. A flood gushes from you, soaking him, the sheets, and leaves you shaking, your vision spotting.
For Clark, the sensation of your body convulsing around him, the scent of your climax mixed with the faint, coppery taste of your blood on his lips, is his undoing.
Clark buries himself as deep as he can and lets go. His release shoots out in endless hot ropes of cum. He collapses over you, his body heavy and warm.
For a long time, there is only the sound of ragged breathing and the frantic beating of two hearts slowly finding their rhythm again.
Gently, Clark pulls out and rolls to the side, gathering you immediately against his chest. You’re both slick and spent, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He just holds you, one hand stroking your hair, the other splayed possessively over the small of your back.
After a few minutes, he presses a kiss to your forehead. “Stay here.”
He returns a moment later with a warm, damp cloth. Softly, with a tenderness that contrasts wildly with the roughness of the minutes prior, he cleans you. He wipes the sweat from your brow and hairline and the evidence of your combined release on your thighs.
He stops for a second to examine your pussy before coming up, spreading your swollen lips apart. You squirm a bit at the unintentional overstimulation. “M'sorry sweetheart, just taking a quick look.”
Clark looks inside you and can see his release coating your walls, a sight that make him swell. Then using his x-ray vision, he takes a closer look at your muscles and walls. He can see exactly where he broke you in. “Oh yeah, perfect. She's nice and open f'me.”
His crudeness has you breathing harder. Clark plants a soft kiss to your puffy folds and comes back up to your face. He peppers your cheeks and neck with soft kisses and then brings the cloth up to finish cleaning you up.
When the cloth passes over the tender mark on your collarbone, you flinch. Clark stills.
“Did I hurt you?” His voice is raw with instant regret.
“No, you could never hurt me,” you whisper, your own voice hoarse. You reach up, your fingers finding the raised, slightly heated skin. It feels… different. You didn’t know how to explain.
Clark’s expression softens. He finishes cleaning you, then disposes of the cloth and returns to bed, pulling the less-damaged comforter over you both. He wraps himself around you, tucking your head under his chin.
“Talk to me,” he murmurs into your hair.
“That was a lot,” you say truthfully, now that it was all over.
“Too much,” Clark asks fearfully.
“No, no. I enjoyed it. I’d like to do it again sometime.” you admit shyly.
Clark chuckles at that. “Yeah we can do that again sweetheart. Let’s move to the spare room, okay? This bed is broken, I don’t want you to get hurt.”
Now it was your time to chuckle, also looking at the broken wall and torn pillows. You two destroyed his bedroom. “Okay.”
You follow him out of his room and into your spare room, both of you climbing into the cool, clean sheets. Clark pulls you back into his arms, and you melt against him. You trace the lines of his chest and arms absentmindedly. A comfortable silence stretches when suddenly you remember something.
“Clark?”
“Hmm?”
You tilt your head back to see his face in the moonlight filtering through the blinds. “On Caelis, it is customary to say this phrase to someone you love. Sael’ka varin.”
“Sael’ka varin.” Clark repeats, “What does it mean?”
“Well, it translates closest to ‘my soul recognizes yours.’”
Clark goes very still and swallows thickly. He understands the weight of what you’ve offered, what you've given him tonight. He wants to make sure you know he feels the same. So, he leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.
“My soul,” he whispers in Kryptonian, “has been completely yours, long before I ever understood what it meant to give it. You have my whole heart, sweetheart.”
Tears well up in your eyes. It’s the most beautiful thing anyone has ever said to you. You don’t have the words in any language to match it. So you show him, curling into him, your leg sliding over his, fitting yourself against him as if the very atoms of your being were designed to align with his.
That night, you drift into the first true, peaceful sleep you’ve known since arriving on this strange planet.
━━━━━━━
When you wake the next morning, Clark’s side is empty, but you can hear him moving and cooking in the kitchen. You smile, the scent of coffee and sizzling bacon mingling with the lingering, musky scent of him on the sheets.
You stretch, feeling wonderfully sore in places you didn't know could be sore, a pleasant ache that serves as a constant reminder of the night before.
But beneath that, something else feels different. Off. It’s a strong pull, a deep yearning that centers directly on the man in the next room. You’ve always felt drawn to Clark, but this is much more intense. It’s not just attraction, it feels more like a biological and cellular-level need to be near him, to touch him, to have his scent and his warmth surrounding you.
So you pad out of the bedroom, the sight of him at the stove in sweatpants and a t-shirt, his hair still damp from a shower, making your chest warm.
You walk up to him wrapping your arms around his waist from behind and press your face into the solid warmth of his back. You inhale deeply, the scent of his soap, his skin, something uniquely Clark flooding your senses and easing all tension.
He goes still for a second, then relaxes, a soft chuckle rumbling through him. "Morning, sweetheart," he says, turning his face to press a kiss to your temple. “Sleep okay?”
“Better than ever,” you murmur, reluctant to let go. “I missed you.”
“Yeah, It's only been like twenty minutes,” he teases gently, flipping a pancake.
“It felt longer.” And it had. The moment you'd opened your eyes to an empty bed, a small panic had fluttered in your chest.
He must hear the thread of sincerity in your voice because he turns the burner off and turns in your arms, his own coming around you. He looks down at you, his eyes soft, searching. “Everything okay?”
You nod, rising on your toes to kiss him. “Everything is perfect. I just… like being close to you.”
A beautiful, warm smile spreads across his face. “I like it too,” he whispers against your lips before deepening the kiss. “Now go shower. Breakfast will be ready when you’re done.”
In the shower, the hot water soothes your muscles. You lather the soap, your hands roaming your body, and your fingers brush over the mark on your collarbone. You pause. You can feel the raised skin without even looking. You angle yourself under the spray and glance down. It’s a deep, vivid reddish-purple.
A flicker of unease passes through you. You’ve gotten small bruises before, from bumping into things in your new, unfamiliar world. They’ve always faded at most within an hour, your Kryptonian healing under Earth’s yellow sun making you remarkably resilient.
This mark, born from Clark’s passion last night, is different. It hasn't faded at all. It looks as fresh as when he made it.
You dismiss it. Maybe it's deeper. Maybe the intensity of the moment, the force of his… love… left a more lasting impression. Yeah, that was it. Maybe your body is just processing the newness of everything. The thought sends a thrill through you, a strange pride.
You finish your shower and join him at the small kitchen table. He poured you orange juice, sliding a plate of perfect pancakes and crispy bacon in front of you. The whole time, you can’t stop touching him. Your foot finds his under the table. Your hand rests on his forearm as he passes the syrup.
Halfway through breakfast, you can’t ignore the mark any longer. It feels warm and persistent. You touch it lightly.
“Clark?”
“Hm?” He looks up from his coffee, his gaze immediately dropping to where your fingers rest.
“This mark… from last night. It hasn’t faded at all. Isn’t that strange? My bruises never last this long.”
All the softness leaves his face, replaced by a sudden, sharp focus. He sets his mug down carefully. “Let me see.”
You tilt your head, offering him a clearer view. He leans in, his brow furrowed. His fingertips brush over the discolored skin. A jolt shoots from the mark straight to your core, making you gasp softly.
Clark pulls his hand back, his eyes wide with alarm. “Oh, did that hurt?”
“No,” you say quickly, your voice breathy and face hot, before you added, “It just… felt like last night. A lot.”
His concern doesn’t go away. He studies the mark, his jaw tight.
“It should have faded,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. “Even a… a passionate mark. Under the yellow sun, our cells regenerate too quickly for something like this to stay.”
“Maybe because it was you?” you offer, trying to lighten the sudden heavy mood. “Maybe my body just wants to keep it.”
He doesn’t smile at your attempt, like you thought he would. Instead, he leans in and presses his lips to the mark, a kiss so soft it’s barely even there. But the restless, needy feeling that had been buzzing under your skin since you woke up quiets instantly, soothed by his touch.
He pulls back, his eyes still shadowed. “I don’t know,” he admits, his thumb stroking the skin just beside the mark. “But I’ll look into it. I promise.” He forces a smile. “Don’t worry, okay? Just… let me know if it starts to feel painful or strange in any other way.”
You nod, the anxiety quelled by his kiss and his promise. For the rest of breakfast, you’re at ease again, basking in the simple joy of being with him.
But when he leaves for the Daily Planet, the restlessness returns with a vengeance.
It’s a Monday, and the library is closed. The apartment feels vast and empty. You try to distract yourself with your tablet, browsing human social media, looking up new words, but your mind wanders. You check the time. 9:48 AM. He won’t be back for at least eight hours.
The need to be near him continues to grow into a physical ache, a hollow feeling in your stomach that has nothing to do with hunger. You find yourself holding the shirt he wore last night, burying your face in it, his scent a temporary, pathetic substitute for his presence.
You count minutes. You watch the clock. You feel ridiculous, clingy, but you can’t help it. You tell yourself it’s a side effect of the new intimacy, a perfectly normal emotional codependence after such a powerful bonding experience.
When the key finally turns in the lock just after 6 PM, you’re on your feet before the door fully opens. You practically launch yourself at him, your arms wrapping around his neck.
“Woah, hey, honey!” he laughs, staggering back a step, his work bag dropping with a thud. He catches you easily, his arms coming around you, holding you tight. “Missed me that much, huh?”
“Yes,” you breathe into his neck, inhaling him. The restless static in your veins finally stills. “I missed you so much, Clark.”
“Yeah,” he murmurs, his hand cradling the back of your head. “I missed you too. Felt like the longest day.” He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes warm. “What’d you do all day?”
You shrug, reluctant to admit you’d done little more than pine for him. “Nothing. The library was closed. Snooped around online. Learned three new words.”
“Oh yeah? Which ones?”
“Aftermath, deception, and kaleidoscope.” You list them off, but your heart isn’t in it.
You’re just happy he’s home. You make dinner together, your hip brushing his as you move around the kitchen, your hand constantly finding his arm, his shoulder, the small of his back. He seems to crave the contact just as much, his touches lingering, his kisses frequent and sweet.
The pattern repeats itself over the next few weeks. The desperate clinginess doesn’t fade. It intensifies. Each morning you wake with a sharp yearning that only eases when you’re in his arms kissing him. At the library, shelving books, you find yourself very distracted, your thoughts orbiting him.
Your fingers drift to the mark on your collarbone, which remains stubbornly vivid, a brand against your skin. Touching it brings a flash of him, of his scent, of the feeling of his teeth, which both comforts and unsettles you.
And then, a new, colder fear begins to creep in, cutting through the fog of needy affection.
Your time on Earth is running short.
In less than a week, your pod will be ready. The original plan you agreed to, was for you to climb back inside and return to Krypton.
The thought now makes you feel queasy.
It sends pure panic through your system that you have to stop walking, and lean against a library bookshelf for support. Leave Clark? The very idea feels like someone is trying to tear your soul in two.
That’s when the idea blooms, desperate and hopeful: He could come with you!
The thought takes root and grows rapidly. He’s from Krypton too. He has his parents there. He could come! You could explore your homeworld together. It’s perfect. It solves everything.
But first, you need to understand what’s happening to you. This obsession and mark that won’t heal… it’s not normal.
Only then, when you have everything figured out, can you tell him of your amazing idea!
Besides, Clark has been increasingly preoccupied anyways, called away more frequently by Superman duties—a disaster in Asia, a sinking ship in the Atlantic. The absences, though never long, feel like small eternities, leaving you agitated and anxious.
He’s worried too; you see it in the lines around his eyes when he thinks you’re not looking, in the way he studies your mark with deepening concern but offers no real answers.
You need answers now though. You don’t think you’ll be able to stand another day of not knowing.
So, you decide to go to the only source you know. The Fortress of Solitude holds all of Krypton’s knowledge. They would know.
You wait for a day when Clark is at the Daily Planet. You take a single, curly black hair from his comb, for the Fortress’s systems to recognize you as his DNA. Then you shoot up into the sky, flying the same path he took you many times before.
You call out as you enter the main chamber, your voice echoing. “Hello?”
No answer. The usual robotic steward, Gary, is nowhere to be seen. You venture deeper, drawn by the sound of low, mechanical chatter. You peek around a crystal pillar into a secondary monitoring room.
Two robots, their backs to you, are hovering before a large, shimmering screen display. They are speaking English, but a rapid, clicking dialect you can just barely follow. But you know from their tone that they are gossiping.
“—he still hasn’t informed her,” one says, its visual sensor focused on the screen.
“Superman’s directive to us was to repair the pod, not manage any emotional fallout,” the other replies.
Your blood runs cold. Were they talking about you? You strain to see what they’re watching. The hologram resolves into a video.
Two gorgeous figures appear, a couple holding a baby. They look younger, dressed in Kryptonian robes. They are standing in a sleek, metallic room.
You’re not sure how, an intuition perhaps, but you know instantly who they are.
Your parents.
And in their arms, you.
“Our dearest child,” your father speaks, his voice heavy. “The destruction of our beloved planet becomes increasingly likely to occur. We have arranged to have you taken to a nearby planet for your safety. If all goes well you shall return to us in no longer than a year’s time.”
Your mother smiles solemnly, and starts, “My love, you will be safe on Caelis. Their star is stable, their people peaceful and they await your arrival ready to teach you everything of Kryptonian and Caelian knowledge. We are making this message in case all does not go to plan. If you are watching this means that is so.”
Your heart sinks.
“If Krypton is to be destroyed, we take comfort in knowing you are safe and cared for. You carry our love. You will be strong, and you will do great things. Be brave, and curious, fall in love, and try new things. Our beloved, you are forever in our hearts. As the Caelians will teach you, Sael’ka varin. We love you.”
The screen freezes, then dissolves.
You don’t even realize you started crying. Where did that message come from? Why is it playing in Clark’s fortress? Your mind spins, unable to process anything.
‘If you are watching this means that is so.’
Did that mean Krypton was actually destroyed? No, that couldn’t be. Your pod was set to return there after Caelis was destroyed. Clark was trying to help you go back there. He would know if the planet still existed or not. He would’ve told you long ago. Wouldn’t he?
Your mark burns suddenly at the thought of Clark, causing you to reach up and rub it.
The robots speak up again, “The pod is fully repaired and recalibrated. All systems are optimal. She could depart within the hour.”
“And yet, Superman still delays. He requests ‘more time.’ Superman has not told the female that Krypton is destroyed. He has not told her there is no home to return to.”
The world tilts on its axis. The ice of the fortress seeps into your bones, colder than the void of space.
Krypton really is gone. The robots confirmed it themselves.
They’re all gone.
You feel sick, bile threatening to rise up your throat. Yet that wasn’t even the worst part. The worst part was that Clark knew this all along.
He knew.
He knew.
A sound, a choked gasp, escapes you. Both robots whirl around, their sensors glowing brightly.
“Intruder— Guest identified as Clark’s female kryptonian,” one states, gliding forward. “We were not aware of your arrival.”
You step out from behind the pillar, your legs trembling. “What,” you say, your voice a hollow rasp. “What did you say? Just now?”
The robots exchange a look, a silent communication. “We are not authorized to disclose you with any information that is not regarding your pod,” it says carefully.
“Tell me everything.” Your eyes glowed red with heat vision, threatening to burn this entire place down. “Now.”
They seem to get the hint.
In cold, precise detail, they confirm it. They confirm everything. Krypton’s explosion. Your parent’s recording plug that Clark took from your pod. All the lies Clark told you since that day.
Clark.
Your Clark, who welcomed you, taught you, loved you… and lied to you. Every day. With every smile, every touch, every promise to help you return “home.”
Home to a place that could never exist.
The pain is extreme, collapsing your chest into a black hole. You feel adrift all over again, but this time, there is no Clark to anchor you.
He is the storm.
Numb, you hear yourself ask one question. “The mark on my collarbone. The one from him. Do you know why it hasn’t healed?”
The robots scan you. A beam of light passes over the mark. Their optic sensors dim slightly.
“The mark bears traces of concentrated bioactive enzymes and pheromones unique to Superman. It is not a simple injury. It is a… bonding mark. A physiological imprint, triggered during procreative-level intimacy under a yellow sun. It signifies a deep, biologically recognized pair-bond. For Kryptonians, such marks are rare and permanent. A claim.”
A claim. A permanent brand on your skin.
The words echo in the hollowed-out cavern of your mind. He didn’t just lie. Clark claimed you. He anchored you to him and to this Earth with a bond you didn’t understand, while knowing he was never sending you away.
You thank the robots, and then you are gone. The flight back to Metropolis was fast and cold.
Your mind raced incessantly. The needy clinginess you’d felt now makes horrific, perfect sense.
You beat him back to the apartment. You stand in the middle of the living room pacing. The place that had come to feel like home on Earth, now feels like a beautifully constructed prison.
You wait for him to come back. You will confront him and he will listen and then—then you did not know.
Leave? That part was still to be determined.
After what seems like forever, you hear him entering the building, taking the elevator, walking the steps to the door. The key turns. The door opens. He walks in, smiling, a bag of groceries in his arm.
“Hey, sweetheart, I got—”
He stops when he sees your face. The smile dies. Concern etches across his features.
“Is everything okay? What’s wrong?”
“You knew.”
Clark’s heart drops all the way to the ground. The door shuts behind him with a hollow thud. He sucks in a sharp breath.
Did you know? How did you find out? Gosh, he's not ready for this to happen right now. Not yet. He still had a few more days.
Maybe this was something else, something completely different. Maybe it wasn't that. But one look at your pointed glare, crossed arms, and rapidly beating heart, confirmed it. You were angry. Which only meant one thing.
“Knew what?”
“Do not play dumb.”
“Sweetheart I—”
“You knew this whole time that Krypton does not exist,” You say, your voice shaking. “That it’s gone. That my parents are dead.”
He pales, the bag of groceries slipping from his grasp, fruit rolling across the floor. “Who told you that?” he steps forward.
“I heard your robots,” you spit out. “At the Fortress. Playing the recording of my parents. The one that you stole and kept from me. And they were talking about the destruction. Your robots were talking about how you haven’t told me.” You take a step closer to him, the movement jerky.
“You lied. This whole time, you lied to me. Every time you say ‘you’ll help’ or ‘soon’ … it was all a lie!”
“I was trying to protect you! You were so lost and scared when you first got here… I wanted to give you time to heal, to find your feet here, before burdening you with that kind of pain!”
Your hands shake violently. Tears spill, hot and uncontrollable.
“My pain?” you scream,. “You don’t get to decide what I can handle! You don’t get to hide my own history from me! My family! My planet! You let me dream of a home that’s been dust for decades! You let me talk about visiting my parents, even your parents, while you knew they were ashes!”
“I never meant to hurt you.”
“You did hurt me. This whole time you’ve been hurting me.”
Tears are streaming down your face now. Short shallow gasps escape you as you hyperventilate.
“A—and then you touch me, and kiss me, and I—I give you lira. You are a monster, Clark. I hate you.”
He reaches for you. “Please, just let me explain—“
You slap his hand away, the contact feeling like a burn. “And this!” you shout, yanking the collar of your shirt down to expose the vivid mark.
“You marked me! Your robots told me what it is. A Kryptonian bonding mark. Permanent. Did you know? Did you know when you were doing it that you were branding me? That I would carry this forever, while you were ‘planning’ to send me back to a dead planet?”
The look on his face is your answer.
He didn’t know. Not consciously. But that somehow makes it worse. It means his very biology, his deepest, most primal self, claimed you while his conscious mind was deceiving you. Deception.
“I… I didn’t… I’ve never…” Clark stammers, utterly shattered.
“I don’t care!” you shout. “I will always be yours? Well, I do not want to be! I want nothing to do with you! Nothing to do with your lies, or your pity, or your claim, or this Earth!”
You push past him, heading for the door.
“Sweetheart, wait! Where are you going? Please, don’t go!” He’s begging now, tears in his own eyes.
“Away from you,” you say, the words final and cold. You wrench the door open.
“I love you!” he cries out, the words a desperate, last attempt to try and explain himself.
You pause on the threshold, your back to him.
“Then why? Why did you do this to me? Why didn’t you treat me like someone you loved,” you ask softly, drained from yelling. “Why didn't you tell me?”
“I—I don’t know. I tried. I really did, you have to believe me. It was just so hard once we—”
“Clark.”
You stop him before he can continue. Hearing his explanations would only make it worse right now. Nothing he could say would justify this anyways.
“As much as you may like to treat me like one, I am not a child who needs to be protected from the truth.”
And with that final statement. You walk out, slamming the door behind you. The click of the latch is the loudest sound you’ve ever heard.
You don’t get far.
You make it to the stairwell, your legs trembling violently causing you to grip the cold metal railing. You sink onto the concrete steps, the fight draining out of you, leaving only a hollow, echoing agony.
You can hear him inside. Not with your enhanced hearing, you aren’t focusing that well, but because he isn’t being quiet. Clark tries and fails to hold off choked-up sobs that carry through the door.
You should leave.
You should run as far and as fast as you can. But you have no idea where to go. So you walk aimlessly a while. You sit on a park bench until the sky turns purple, then black.
Eventually, you check into a motel on the edge of the city with the little cash Clark had given you for emergencies. The room is cold, the bed hard. The mark on your collarbone throbs with a dull, persistent ache.
It almost feels like a torture device.
Every cell in your body screams to go back, to find him, to bury yourself in his scent and his warmth and kiss and makeup. The bond, now that you know what it is, feels like a leash, yanking mercilessly on your heart. You fight it.
You curl into a ball on the scratchy motel blanket, sobbing until you’re empty. You think of your parents’ faces, their love, their sacrifice. You think of Clark’s face, his lies.
You can't help but cry.
You cry for Caelis, the only planet you’ve ever really known, destroyed. You cry for Krypton, your true home that you never got the chance to know. Also destroyed. You even cry for Earth, the planet that you were starting to love because of Clark. Completely destroyed.
The pain is all-consuming.
But worse than the pain is the need. The restless, anxious, clawing need that only he can soothe. It’s an awful withdrawal, agonizing and relentless.
You don’t sleep. You don’t eat. You just hurt, inside and out, torn between a betrayal that shattered your world and a bond that insists Clark is your world.
You last two days like this.
As the third night approaches, you can’t bear it anymore. The motel room walls are closing in. The silence is screaming. The mark is burning.
There’s only one thing you can do.
You find yourself standing outside the familiar apartment door again. It’s late. You raise a trembling hand, then drop it again. You don’t knock. You just stand there, defeated, your forehead resting against the cool wood.
You don’t know how long you’re there before the door opens inward.
You step back to take in Clark’s appearance, which is albeit not much better than yours.
Shadows like bruises have formed under his red-rimmed eyes, hair completely disheveled, and he is still in the same clothes from that day. He hasn’t slept either. He’s been waiting. Hoping.
Clark looks at you, his breath catching. He opens his mouth, unable to muster anything but a pathetic, “Hi.”
"Can I come in?"
━━━━━━━
author's note: i'm dead guys everything i touch turns to angst, this was NOT a sad request lmaoo. anywho, its canon that reader doesn't know curse words yet because clark hasn't taught her. also hella buzzcut season vibes.
as always, my requests are open and check out my masterlist for more of my works!! much love <33
Usually, the air still buzzed with giggles and the echo of tiny shoes and small children. But right now, it was hollow, echoing silence. The last tiny backpack had been claimed, the last sticky handprint wiped from the glass door. The only sounds were the soft hum of the overhead lights and the gentle, sucking from the bottle in eight-month-old Theo’s mouth.
You held him in the rocking chair in the quiet nursery, your usual serene smile feeling stiff on your face. All the kids had been picked up already. Except Theo.
His mother, Mara, was never late. She was a clockwork single mom, always five minutes early at the same time every day. Her warm smile was tired but present as she scooped up her son at 7 PM sharp, asking about how he did that day. Ten minutes late was unusual. Twenty minutes, with no call or text, sent a cold trickle of dread down your spine.
You’d tried her cell. It rang to voicemail. You tried again. Nothing. Another twenty minutes came and went, and still, nothing.
Theo, usually a calm, observant baby, seemed to absorb your anxiety. He finished his bottle and instead of drifting into a post-meal doze, he began to fuss. Little whimpers escaped him, his brow furrowing as he pushed against your shoulder.
“Shh, sweet pea,” you murmured, standing to pace the small room, patting his back. “Mama’s just running late. Traffic, maybe.”
But your own heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. Something happened, you could feel it. The catastrophic thoughts swarmed in, running through every worst case scenario while trying to remain optimistic.
Theo’s whimpers escalated into full-bodied, hiccupping sobs. It wasn’t a tired cry, or a hungry cry. It was a scared, missing-his-mom cry, and it shattered you. You held him close, rocking fiercely, whispering nonsense comforts you didn’t feel. “It’s okay, Theo. It’s okay. She’s coming soon. She loves you so much.”
You were near tears yourself when your phone, abandoned on the changing table, finally blared to life. An unknown number. Your heart plummeted straight through the floor.
“Hello?” you answered, your voice thin.
The sound on the other end was a choked, hysterical sob. “H-Hi, it’s Mara. God I’m so sorry, I’m so, so sorry—”
“Mara! What’s wrong? Are you okay?” You clutched Theo tighter, as if you could shield him from the panic in his mother’s voice.
“Car accident… a truck ran a red light… they’re taking me to the ER. My arm… I think it’s broken, maybe my ribs…” She was gasping, the words tumbling out between sharp cries of pain.
“Theo… I have no one. My mom is in the next town over, she won’t get here until tomorrow afternoon. Please, is there any way… any way you could keep him tonight? I’ll pay you double, triple, anything, just please—”
“Mara, stop.” You interrupted her ramble. “Breathe. Theo is right here, he’s safe, he’s perfect. You don’t worry about a single thing. I’ve got him for as long as you need. You just focus on letting the doctors fix you up.”
A ragged sob of relief answered you. “Thank you. Oh, God, thank you. You’re the best. His uh- overnight bag is in his cubby, the blue one. Extra formula in…”
“I know where everything is. I’ve got it. Text me when you can, okay? No rush and I’m sorry this happened to you.”
You hung up, pressing a long kiss to Theo’s tear-dampened temple. His cries had quieted to shaky hiccups, soothed by the familiar sound of his moms voice through the speaker.
“It’s going to be okay,” you whispered, this time believing it. “Mama’s hurt, but she’s going to be just fine. And you’re coming on a little adventure with me.”
You packed Theo’s blue dinosaur bag with efficiency: pajamas, his favorite stuffed lamb, a full pack of diapers, pre-measured formula. You locked up The Honeycomb, a strange feeling settling over you as you buckled a spare car seat into your backseat—a car that had never held a child’s seat before.
The drive to your apartment was quiet. Theo, exhausted from his worried crying, fell asleep almost instantly, his head lolling to the side. In the rearview mirror, you could see the sweep of his long lashes against his cheeks.
You cursed yourself for the thoughts that were starting to form right now. The timing of the situation could not be more awful. But unfortunately the baby fever was a constant in your life, working with children all day only amplified it. Now, with a sleeping baby in your backseat, the dream crystallized with startling clarity. You imagined a car seat that stayed in the car. Tiny shoes by the door next to Carmy’s battered Chucks. The sound of little feet pattering on these hardwood floors. Carmy, tired and soft after a long service, holding a child with his eyes, his nose, your smile… The image was so clear. You forced yourself to shove it down, a blush heating your cheeks. One crisis at a time.
Arriving at your place, you got to work transforming and baby-proofing the living room for the night. The plush faux-fur rug became a play mat. You made a makeshift bassinet lined with soft blankets.
You gave Theo a quick warm bath and changed him into his soft white onesie pajamas. You were extremely thankful he wasn’t fussing too much anymore. Instead he was just blinking up at you, calm and trying to take in his new environment, grabbing your finger with a surprisingly strong grip.
When he was clean and changed, you decided to show him around, as if he cared or knew what you were saying.
It was a good way to distract him, and when else would you have a cute baby at your place.
“Welcome to my home, buddy,” you whispered while walking him around and stopping in the kitchen.
Today was one of those days where Carmy left after you did, and it seems like he was testing some new recipe in the morning and forgot to put away a few of the dishes. Theo tried to reach out for the pots and pans. “I know, I know, don’t mind that. The chef who lives here is kinda messy sometimes. But it's ok because he’s a great cook and I love him.”
Theo just babbled and slobbered on his fist.
You continued to show him around, you played peek-a-boo until he tired of giggling, gave him another bottle, and watched him crawl all over the place.
You thought about calling Carmy, telling him about the situation with Theo. But then you pictured him at The Bear, his brow furrowed in concentration, calling out orders. Busy. You knew the kind of night it was—the new menu launch he’d been stressing over for weeks. Your calls would be a distraction. He’d worry too much and you couldn’t let him do that. Not for this.
So, you decided against it. He’d be back soon enough anyways.
Theo finally fell into a deep sleep around 10 PM, curled in your arms, before you placed him in his bassinet, his lamb clutched to his chest. You sat on the couch, scrolling through text updates from Mara’s mom on your phone, the soft blue light the only illumination.
Carmy eventually stumbled through the door around 1 AM. The smell of the kitchen clung to him like a second skin. All he wanted was a shower, and then you, warm and soft in the bed.
He noticed the soft light from the living room and winced. Shit. She fell asleep on the couch waiting up. Guilt, his constant companion, tapped him on the shoulder.
He toed off his shoes, moving quietly so as not to wake you. He padded into the living room, already softening his posture, ready to gather you up.
He froze.
You were awake. Laying on the couch, a book in your lap. And you were not alone.
Next to you, in a bassinet of all things, was a baby. A sleeping, actual baby, swaddled in a blanket covered in the signature Honeycomb cartoon bees.
Carmy’s brain, fried from the night, simply shortciruited. He stared. The baby. The bassinet. You, in your softest sweats, looking up at him with a smile that was both tired and incandescent.
“Hey,” you whispered.
“Uh,” he managed, his voice a dry croak. He blinked, hard, as if the image would reset. “Hey.”
“Long night?” you asked, marking your page and setting the book aside.
“I… yeah.” He took a hesitant step closer, his eyes glued to the tiny sleeping form. “You… you have a… a baby.”
You nodded, the one that always unraveled the knots in his shoulders. “This is Theo. Mara’s son. She was in a car accident this afternoon. She’s doing better, but had to have emergency surgery. There was no one to get him so I’m watching him for the night. Is that okay?”
“Theo,” Carmy repeated dumbly. He inched closer, his chef’s mind, so used to assessing, categorizing, trying to process this new, fragile variable. He hadn’t been around a baby in a while. “Yeah, yeah that’s fine.”
He stood there for another moment, just staring, the wheels turning slowly in his exhausted head. The scene was so domestic, so calm, it felt like a separate universe from the one he’d just left. “I’m… I’m gonna go shower,” he finally said, his voice still rough. “I reek of the kitchen.”
You smiled. “Go shower. We’ll be here.”
He disappeared down the hall, not without placing a kiss on your lips first, and you listened to the familiar sounds of him moving through the apartment: the creak of the bathroom door, the rush of water, the faint clatter of him dropping his work clothes in the hamper. When he emerged twenty minutes later, he was in soft grey sweatpants and an old, faded t-shirt, his hair damp and curling at the nape of his neck. He looked younger, softer. More like yours.
He padded back into the living room and sank onto the couch beside you, his body melting into the cushions with a heavy sigh. He didn’t say anything at first, just leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Then, without looking, his hand found yours on the couch between you, his fingers threading through yours and he pulled your body against him. His thumb began to trace absent-minded circles on your knuckle.
“You eat?” he asked, his eyes still closed.
“I had a sandwich earlier. You?”
“Tasted everything. Didn’t eat much.” A pause. “You want me to make you something?”
You squeezed his hand. “I’m okay. Tell me about the menu. How’d it go?”
He let out a long breath, and you could feel the tension returning to his shoulders. “It went. The short rib is maybe overworked. The critic from the Tribune was there. Sat at table four. I saw him take one bite of the scallop crudo, make a face, and write something down.”
“His loss,” you murmured, shifting closer so your side was pressed against his. “The crudo is perfect.”
“It’s fine,” he corrected automatically, the chef self-criticism kicking in. But he leaned into your touch, his head tilting to rest against yours. “It’s… it’s fine, definitely missing something though.”
“You say that every time. It’s not.”
He huffed a small, almost-laugh against your hair. “You’re biased.”
“I have excellent taste,” you countered softly. “In food and in men.”
That earned a real, quiet chuckle. He lifted your joined hands and pressed a kiss to the back of yours. You two sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the only sounds being your breathing and the soft, rhythmic sigh of the sleeping baby a few feet away.
“What’re you reading?” he asked finally, nodding toward the book on the coffee table.
“A novel about a beekeeper in Montana.”
“Of course you are,” he said, but his tone was fond, not mocking. “Is it good?”
“It’s interesting. I like it.”
He hummed in response, his eyes drifting shut again. It was in these moments together that you felt the enormity of your love for him.
A soft, fussing sound came from the bassinet. Theo was stirring, his little face scrunching up as he woke in an unfamiliar place.
You were moving before the first full cry could form. In one smooth motion, you untangled your hand and body from Carmy’s and crossed to the basket. “Hey, sweet boy,” you cooed, your voice dropping to that melodic, soothing register you used at the daycare. “Shh, you’re okay. You’re safe.”
You lifted him, blanket and all, and cradled him against your chest, instinctively swaying from side to side. His fussing subsided into a confused grumble. You walked a slow circle around the living room rug, rubbing his back, whispering nonsense about the moon and the stars and the nice chef sleeping on the couch.
Carmy watched. He didn’t move from his spot, but his tired eyes were wide open now, following your every movement, watching the way your entire being seemed to soften and focus entirely on this tiny, fragile life.
When Theo’s eyes drifted shut again, you kept swaying for another minute, ensuring he was deeply asleep before carefully sitting down on the couch with Carmy again, Theo still secure in your arms.
You turned, and your eyes met Carmy’s. He was already looking at you.
“You’re so good with him. With all of them.” he mumbled softly, “Just… taking him in. Handling it.”
A warm blush spread across your cheeks at the compliment. “It’s my job.”
“It’s not just a job, that’s all you, honey, ” he said, and it wasn’t an argument, just a statement of fact. You don’t say anything to that, not quite able to form words.
“Do you want to hold him?” you asked softly instead.
No. Absolutely fucking not. The rational part of Carmy’s brain screamed it. But you were looking at him with those eyes, and the baby was right there, and something in his chest gave a strange, tight tug.
He gave a jerky, nervous nod. “You wanna… you think he’d let me? Without waking up?”
Your heart did a funny little flip. “I think he would. You’re very warm. Babies like that.”
Slowly, Carmy pushed himself up from the couch into a better sitting position. He approached with lots of caution, slightly shaky, but you guided him, then gently transferred the warm, sleeping bundle into his arms, positioning his hands just so.
“Support his head,” you whispered.
Theo snuffled, nuzzling into the soft fabric of Carmy’s t-shirt, but didn’t wake. Carmy looked down, his entire being focused on the weight in his arms. He held his breath for so long you thought he might pass out.
“Breathe, Chef,” you whispered playfully, softly nudging him.
He let out a shuddering exhale. He looked from Theo’s peaceful face to yours. Then, his gaze fixed back on the baby, he asked the question so quietly you almost didn’t hear it.
“Is this uh… is this something you want? Someday?”
You didn’t have to think. The answer had been living in your bones for years. “Yes,” you whispered back, your voice just as soft. “More than anything.”
Carmy nodded slowly, as if he’d expected that. He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
“I… I think about it. Sometimes. And it… it terrifies me.”
“What does?” you asked, though you thought you knew.
“The idea of… of being responsible for that. For a person. You know my family, we’r-we’re not…” He trailed off, the old ghosts flickering in his eyes. “Mikey tried so hard, and he still… I just have all this… this noise in my head. All the time. What if I pass that on?”
You reached up and placed your hand over his, where it cradled Theo’s head. You could feel the fine tremor running through him. “Carmy,” you said, your voice firm but gentle. “Look at me.”
He dragged his eyes away from the baby to meet yours.
“The fact that you’re scared means you’d be good at it. The bad ones aren’t scared. They don’t think about it. You care so much. That’s why you’re terrified. And that’s exactly why you’d be an incredible father.” You paused, then added, “In the future.”
Carmy smiled, and swallowed a gulp. He looked back down at Theo, his thumb making a barely-there stroke over the baby’s downy hair.
“I wouldn’t want to fuck it up,” he breathed, the confession leaving him in a rush.
“You wouldn’t,” you promised.
The tension in his shoulders eased, just a fraction. He leaned his head back against the couch cushion, holding Theo close, and just breathed. It was almost therapeutic for him, holding the boy, and you could tell.
So you stayed there beside him, watching his profile in the lamplight, the way his lashes cast shadows on his cheeks, the absolute focus he gave to the sleeping baby. After a long while, Theo let out a tiny, sleepy sigh.
“Think he’s out for the count,” you whispered.
Carmy nodded. “Yeah.”
“You ready for bed?” you asked, your own exhaustion starting to pull at your bones.
“Yeah,” he said, his voice gravelly. Carefully, he leaned forward and transferred Theo back into your waiting arms. The baby didn’t even stir. “He’s a good sleeper.”
“He’s had a long day,” you murmured, standing up. “Can you bring the bassinet into our room? I don’t want him waking up alone in the living room.”
Carmy didn’t hesitate. He picked up the bassinet and followed you down the short hall to your bedroom. He placed it on your side of the bed, within easy reach.
You laid Theo down, tucking the bee blanket snugly around him. He made a soft, snuffling sound and turned his head, his fist curling near his face. You watched him for a second, ensuring his peace, before turning to your own routine.
Carmy was already climbing into bed, the sheets rustling softly. You changed into your own sleep shirt, washed your face, and slipped in beside him. The second your body hit the mattress, the full weight of the day crashed over you. A small, shaky sigh escaped your lips.
Instantly, Carmy’s arms were around you. He pulled you back against his chest, your spine aligning with his torso, his knees tucking behind yours. He was a solid wall of warmth at your back, his chin resting on the top of your head. One hand splayed possessively over your stomach, the other came up to brush your hair away from your neck.
“Okay?” he murmured into your hair, his breath a warm caress.
“Mhm,” you hummed, sinking into him. “Just tired. It was a lot.”
“I know.” He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the crown of your head. “You’re amazing.”
You turned your head slightly, nuzzling into the pillow so you could see his face in the sliver of moonlight from the window.
He leaned in and kissed you. When he pulled away, he didn’t go far, resting his forehead against yours.
“I love you, honey,” he whispered, the nickname a soft vibration between you.
You brought a hand up to cup his jaw, your thumb stroking the stubble along his cheek. “I love you too, Carmy. So much.”
He kissed you again, even softer this time, just a brush of his lips against yours. Then he tucked your head back under his chin, his arms tightening around you and in the quiet dark, you both drifted toward sleep.
you suppose it’s just the blessing—and burden—of being the first-born Sinclair daughter. you were spoiled and used to everything going your way.
sue you!
so when Hawkins literally started falling apart, well, you were less than thrilled.
especially when that meant getting wrapped up with your little brother's friends to help them, quote-on-quote, save the world.
i mean, you had a perfectly established routine already!
wake up, breakfast with your friends, work at the thrift shop, dinner & cigs, late night vhs, & sleep.
not to mention your already perfectly planned out future.
go to college, become a fashion entrepreneur, find a hot boyfriend —none of the pathetic guys who try to flirt with you while you're on the clock — get married, have three perfect babies, and live the perfect happily ever after.
fighting demogorgons was 100% nowhere near that list.
but here’s the thing about being the oldest: your peace is the first sacrifice on the family altar. when lucas showed up at your bedroom door with that face, your routine was already as good as dead.
so you do what any good big sister would do.
you help.
because as much as you hate those little shits, you also would be devastated if they ended up dead. so, yeah, that's how you became their unofficial-official babysitter.
well, you and steve harrington of course.
and what a pair you two are.
king steve and the spoiled sinclair princess.
you two got along great!
well only if you considered bickering like a married couple, flirting relentlessly with each other, and literally killing for one another, great.
but, at the end of the day, what are friends for, right?
you're supposed to know what drives them up the wall, and what makes them laugh and hell, even cry. holding hands, and sharing hugs are what good friends do! calling each other “babe” and “sweetheart,” those are just nicknames of course. all friends have them. and a cheek kiss after almost being killed isn't that deep anyways!
sure, he’s got that stupidly perfect hair, that easy grin, the way he looks at you like you’re something he wants to keep. but you’re immune to that.
obviously.
you’ve known him like forever now. you’ve seen him bleed, panic, and complain about babysitting like it’s a crime. there’s absolutely nothing romantic about that.
it’s just proximity. too much time spent together. like the late nights spent in the same rooms, knees knocking and sharing cigarettes. it’s arguing over who’s driving (not you—apparently you’re a “hazard”), over who’s watching the kids, over who almost got killed this time. it’s steve handing you his jacket without asking. it’s you fixing his collar, smudging your lipgloss on his cheek, pretending you don’t notice the way his breath stutters every time.
friends do that.
friends stand back-to-back with matching weapons in hand. friends learn each other’s tells, memorize scars, and instinctively reach out in the dark. friends don’t let monsters—or people—get too close to what’s theirs.
and you’re not in love with steve harrington.
you’re just a hopeless romantic with a bad habit of mistaking (very) minor crushes for something more.
still… if the world keeps ending, and if you keep surviving it together —well.
who knows.
maybe you might be falling for steve harrington.
author's note — hii!! i hope you are as excited for this series as me! i see so many henderson & hopper readers, but never sinclair so i decided to take one for the team. you're welcome. feel free to send requests for sinclair!reader and i will get to them as soon as possible. check out this series as well as my other works on my masterlist! much love, & i hope you enjoy!
