Summary: Superman keeps finding the woman he loves in the middle of disasters because you refuse to run from danger.
Word count: 7k+
Warnings: fluff, mention of injuries, buildings collapsing, rushed ending
A/N:
English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.
Happy reading xxx
I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.
The first thing Clark noticed in every room he walked into was you.
Always you.
Not the headline Perry White was shouting about across the newsroom. Not the stack of reports waiting on his desk that he was definitely supposed to finish before noon. Not even the distant tremor that rippled faintly through the pavement outside the Daily Planet building, the kind of vibration that most people would never feel but that Clark immediately recognized as the early sign of something going very wrong somewhere in the city.
No.
The first thing he noticed was you.
You sat two desks away in the bullpen, half curled into your chair like you had been there for hours. One leg was tucked underneath you, the other lazily hooked around the chair leg, your posture completely indifferent to the concept of ergonomics.
Your pen rested between your teeth as you read through your notes, chewing on the plastic cap with quiet concentration. Papers were spread around you in the organized chaos that only made sense to you, highlighters scattered like colorful landmines across your desk.
Clark had walked into the newsroom a dozen times already.
And every single time, his eyes had found you first.
It was automatic now. Instinctive. Like breathing.
He loved everything about you.
Everything.
Clark loved the way you ate lunch like it was a small ceremony that had to be done correctly. The way you carefully unwrapped your burger before even touching the fries. The way you separated everything on the tray with almost surgical precision, as if the fries and the burger would start a territorial dispute if they came too close to each other.
The first time he had pointed it out, you had looked genuinely offended.
"They get soggy if you mix them."
Clark had nodded very seriously, like this was an entirely reasonable explanation, even though the logic behind it still baffled him.
He loved the way you walked.
You moved through the newsroom like you were always slightly ahead of the world, like your brain had already decided where you were going five minutes before your body caught up. It meant you walked just a little too fast for everyone else, weaving around desks and chairs with effortless momentum while other reporters scrambled to keep up with you.
Clark often slowed his pace just to watch you move ahead of him.
You talked with your hands constantly.
When you were passionate about something, your whole body seemed to join the conversation. Your fingers sliced through the air as you argued your points, your eyebrows lifting, your head tilting, your shoulders leaning forward as if the sheer force of your enthusiasm might push your argument into someone else's brain.
Clark had once watched you passionately explain to Jimmy why Gotham pizza was objectively inferior to Metropolis pizza for nearly ten minutes.
Jimmy had tried to argue back.
He had failed spectacularly.
Clark had sat nearby pretending to work while quietly enjoying every second of it.
He loved the tiny crease that appeared between your brows when you concentrated.
A faint line formed as you reread a paragraph in your notebook. Your pen tapped lightly against your lip while you thought.
Clark knew that crease better than he knew most people.
It appeared when you were writing something important.
Or when you were annoyed.
Or when someone said something particularly stupid in a meeting.
He loved the way you hummed under your breath when you wrote.
You never seemed to realize you were doing it. The sound was barely audible, a quiet melody that slipped out of you when your thoughts were moving faster than your hands could keep up with.
Clark could hear it from across the room.
He could hear your heartbeat too, steady and familiar among the hundreds of other heartbeats in the building.
If he listened closely enough, he could map your entire presence in the room without ever looking.
But he always looked anyway.
Because he loved the way you existed.
It was such a strange thought, he knew.
But it was true.
Clark loved the small things about you that no one else seemed to notice.
The way your nose wrinkled slightly when you laughed too hard.
The way you absentmindedly twirled the end of your pen when you were thinking.
The way you always stole the last donut from the break room but somehow convinced everyone it had been Jimmy.
You filled every space you stepped into with something warm and bright and stubbornly alive.
If Clark had been completely honest with himself, there was not a single thing about you that he would have changed.
Not one.
Except for one thing.
Your stubbornness.
Clark Kent was the strongest man on Earth.
That was not arrogance. It was simply fact.
He could lift buildings. He could stop speeding trains with his bare hands. He could hear disasters unfolding from miles away and cross the city in seconds to stop them.
But somehow, impossibly, you were still the most immovable force he had ever encountered.
Your stubbornness was legendary.
When you decided something needed to be done, it was done.
Logic, caution, and sometimes even basic self preservation had very little influence over your decision making process.
Especially when someone was in danger.
Clark had asked you to stay out of trouble more times than he could count.
You had never once listened.
And the frustrating part was that he understood exactly why.
Your heart was bigger than your sense of fear.
It meant that if there was a child trapped somewhere, you would be there trying to help before anyone else even thought to move.
If someone needed pulling out of rubble, you were already climbing into the wreckage.
If danger existed, you ran straight toward it.
Clark had saved the world more times than most people could imagine.
But you were the only person he knew who would argue with him about how to do it.
Which was exactly why he had been standing on the edge of the Daily Planet rooftop with his jaw clenched so tightly it was beginning to ache.
From above, the city looked like a wound.
Three blocks of downtown Metropolis had been carved open by the rampage of something large, angry, and very much not from Earth. Asphalt had been ripped apart like paper. Several cars had been overturned and tossed aside as if they had weighed nothing. A storefront window down the street still crackled faintly with leftover heat vision burns from when Clark had forced the creature away from a group of trapped pedestrians.
Smoke curled upward into the sky in lazy gray spirals.
Sirens screamed from every direction.
Police cruisers were arriving. Fire trucks were pushing through traffic. Ambulances lined the street like a chain of flashing red lights.
Clark had stopped the alien creature less than two minutes ago.
It had taken him roughly twelve seconds.
It had taken the city much longer to recover.
He stood there for a moment, scanning the area with the quiet focus that had become second nature. He listened for heartbeats. For panicked breathing. For the subtle sounds of shifting rubble that might indicate someone trapped underneath.
Everything was controlled now.
First responders were moving through the wreckage.
People were being evacuated.
No immediate threats remained.
Clark should have felt relief.
Instead he felt something else.
Because right in the middle of all the chaos, over the wail of sirens and the crackle of radios and the distant hum of emergency vehicles, Clark heard a voice that made his stomach drop.
"Oh my god, hold still, sweetie. It's okay. It's okay, I promise."
Clark closed his eyes.
He did not even need to look.
Of course.
Of course you were there.
He would have bet his entire savings account on it.
Two seconds later Superman landed in the street with a gust of wind strong enough to scatter loose papers across the pavement. The impact sent a small shockwave rippling outward that rattled broken glass along the sidewalk.
Several people gasped.
Someone shouted his name.
Clark barely noticed.
The creature was already gone. He had dealt with it moments earlier, launching it high enough into the atmosphere that it would not be returning any time soon.
What remained was the aftermath.
Overturned vehicles.
Cracked asphalt that split through the street like lightning.
Shattered windows.
And civilians scattered across the scene, some injured, others helping pull people free from the wreckage while first responders rushed to stabilize the area.
Clark's eyes moved across the scene quickly.
Paramedics treating a man with a broken arm.
Two firefighters cutting through a bent street sign to free someone pinned beneath it.
A group of police officers directing traffic away from the destruction.
And then he saw you.
Of course he did.
You were crouched beside a crushed sedan near the curb.
The car had clearly taken the brunt of the creature's rampage. The entire front half of the vehicle had been compressed inward, the hood folded like crushed foil, the windshield spiderwebbed with cracks. The frame had bent dangerously toward the passenger side, creating a pocket of space that was currently the only thing keeping the vehicle from collapsing entirely.
Inside the car, a child was crying.
And you, apparently, had decided that the correct response to this situation was to climb halfway inside it.
Clark pinched the bridge of his nose.
"You have got to be kidding me," he muttered under his breath.
Your knees were on the pavement, your upper body leaning through the broken window as you tried to reach the child inside.
"It's okay," you were saying gently. "I'm right here. You're doing great. Just hold still."
The car creaked faintly.
Clark could hear the stress fractures in the metal frame shifting under the pressure of the weight.
One wrong movement and the entire thing would collapse.
And you were inside it.
Clark felt a headache forming.
You did not notice him until his shadow fell over you.
You looked up.
Your hair was half falling out of the clip you had thrown it into that morning. Dust smudged across your cheek and the shoulder of your jacket. There was a small cut on your knuckle that was already beginning to dry.
You blinked at him like this was a completely normal interaction.
"Oh," you said casually. "Hey."
Clark stared at you.
There were dozens of civilians around them now.
Phones were out.
Several people were filming.
A police officer was standing nearby with the slightly stunned expression of someone witnessing a very strange interaction.
Clark took a slow breath.
His voice, when he spoke, was calm.
Public calm.
The kind of calm Superman used when he was very deliberately not allowing himself to sound like he was about five seconds away from losing his patience.
"Ma'am," he said evenly, "that vehicle is structurally unstable. That could have been extremely dangerous."
You blinked up at him.
Then you glanced back inside the car.
"Yeah," you said, like this was a minor inconvenience, "well, the kid's leg is stuck."
Clark exhaled slowly through his nose.
"You should step back."
You squinted at him slightly.
"You could help."
Clark nodded.
"I am helping."
You gestured vaguely at the situation.
"You are standing."
Clark's eye twitched.
Behind him, one of the firefighters made a very suspicious coughing noise that sounded an awful lot like someone trying not to laugh.
Clark ignored him.
He crouched down beside you and placed one hand carefully against the twisted metal frame of the car.
The entire vehicle weighed less to him than a grocery bag.
He lifted it slowly, deliberately, making sure not to shift the frame too quickly.
The car rose several inches off the pavement like it was made of cardboard.
You immediately leaned farther inside.
"Okay buddy," you said gently to the child. "We're gonna slide you out, alright? You're doing amazing."
The kid sniffled but nodded.
Clark held the entire vehicle suspended with one arm while you carefully freed the child's trapped leg and helped him crawl out through the broken window.
The moment the child was clear, Clark gently lowered the crushed metal back onto the pavement.
Paramedics rushed over immediately, taking the child into their care.
The kid, however, did not want to let go of your hand.
You smiled softly and squeezed his fingers reassuringly before the paramedics gently guided him toward the ambulance.
Clark watched the whole exchange.
And despite himself, some of the tension in his chest loosened.
You were always like this.
You walked straight into danger without hesitation if someone needed help.
It was one of the things he loved most about you.
It was also the thing that terrified him the most.
You stood up and brushed dust from your clothes like this had been a completely normal part of your day.
Clark folded his arms.
"Ma'am," he said again, slightly tighter this time, "next time you should leave situations like this to trained professionals."
Your eyes narrowed immediately.
"Excuse me?"
"You could have been seriously injured."
You shrugged.
"I was careful."
Clark stared at you.
"You were inside a collapsing car."
"I had it handled."
Clark felt his jaw tighten.
A small crowd had started to gather nearby.
Several people were watching the conversation with open curiosity.
Someone whispered, "Is this happening right now?"
Clark forced the polite Superman voice again.
"It is my responsibility to keep civilians safe."
You folded your arms.
"And it is my responsibility not to ignore a kid trapped in a car."
Clark leaned slightly closer.
His voice lowered, just enough that the people filming might not catch the exact tone behind it.
"You are not invincible."
You looked him dead in the eye.
"You are."
There was a long pause.
Someone in the background whispered loudly, "Is she arguing with Superman?"
Another voice said, "I think she's winning."
Clark inhaled slowly.
Very slowly.
"Please," he said tightly, "step away from dangerous areas in the future."
You gave him a look.
Clark knew that look better than he knew his own reflection.
The look meant absolutely not.
The look meant you had already decided he was wrong.
Then, without another word, you grabbed your bag off the pavement and walked toward the ambulance area like the conversation had concluded exactly the way you wanted it to.
Clark watched you go.
Several firefighters were now openly grinning.
One of them muttered, "Good luck with that, Superman."
Clark groaned internally.
This was not over.
Not even remotely close.
Three hours later, Clark opened the apartment door.
He already knew what he would find before he stepped inside.
Your heartbeat had been in the apartment for the last forty-seven minutes.
He had heard it the entire flight home.
Still, when the door swung open and he stepped into the quiet warmth of the apartment, the sight in front of him somehow still managed to make his eye twitch.
You were already inside.
Of course you were.
You sat at the kitchen counter like the events of the afternoon had been nothing more than a mildly interesting inconvenience.
Your legs swung lazily from the stool while you ate cereal straight from the box, one hand buried inside it while the other held your phone. A half-full glass of milk sat beside you, completely ignored, because apparently pouring cereal into a bowl had been too much effort for the evening.
Clark slowly closed the door behind him.
Very slowly.
The soft click echoed through the apartment.
"Hi," you said casually, not even looking up from the cereal box.
Clark just stood there.
For a moment he didn't move at all.
His glasses were slightly crooked from how fast he had flown back across the city before changing into his civilian clothes. His hair was still wind-tossed, refusing to settle properly no matter how many times he had tried to smooth it down before coming upstairs. His tie hung loosely around his neck, half undone, the knot sitting somewhere near the middle of his chest like it had simply given up.
He looked like a man who had stopped an alien monster, saved a dozen civilians, and then flown home in record time to lecture someone.
You finally glanced up at him.
It took exactly half a second for you to read his face.
Your shoulders sagged slightly.
"Oh boy."
Clark walked forward slowly.
He dropped his keys onto the counter with a quiet clink.
Then he looked at you.
Really looked at you.
Dust still clung faintly to the sleeve of your jacket. There was a faint bruise beginning to form on your forearm that definitely had not been there that morning. The small cut on your knuckle had dried into a thin red line.
Clark felt his jaw tighten.
"Do you have any idea," he began slowly, carefully, like he was trying very hard to keep his voice from rising, "how dangerous that was?"
You reached into the cereal box again.
You pulled out another handful of cereal.
Then you popped it into your mouth and chewed thoughtfully before answering.
"I mean," you said after swallowing, "technically you got there before the car collapsed."
Clark stared at you.
The silence stretched.
"That," Clark said slowly, "is not the point."
You shrugged like the concept itself was debatable.
"The kid is fine."
Clark dragged a hand down his face.
"You could have been crushed."
You tilted your head slightly.
"But I wasn't."
"You could have been."
"But I wasn't."
Clark pointed at you.
"This," he said, gesturing emphatically, "this right here is exactly the problem."
You grinned slightly.
Clark groaned and began pacing the kitchen like a man attempting to burn off frustration through sheer movement.
"I swear," he muttered, running a hand through his hair again, "you are like a magnet for danger."
You leaned back on the stool.
"I work in journalism."
Clark spun around.
"You climbed inside a collapsing car."
"There was a kid."
"There are always kids!" Clark said helplessly, throwing his hands in the air.
You softened slightly at that.
Your fingers stopped digging through the cereal box.
Your voice, when you spoke again, was quieter.
"I couldn't just leave him."
Clark stopped pacing.
The words settled between you.
That was the thing.
That was always the thing.
Your heart.
It had always been the problem.
Not because it was wrong.
Because it was too big.
You would never walk away from someone who needed help. It wasn't in you.
Clark sighed slowly and leaned against the counter across from you, folding his arms.
"I know why you do it."
You tilted your head at him.
"But?"
Clark hesitated.
Then he looked at you fully.
"But you scare the crap out of me."
Your expression shifted immediately.
The teasing light in your eyes faded.
Clark looked down at the counter for a moment before continuing.
His voice was quieter now.
More honest.
"I hear everything in this city," he said softly.
He tapped his fingers lightly against the counter.
"Every accident. Every scream. Every collapsing building."
You watched him carefully.
Clark met your eyes again.
"And then I hear you in the middle of it."
Your throat moved slightly as you swallowed.
Clark continued, his voice rougher now.
"You don't run away from danger."
You gave a small, sheepish shrug.
Clark sighed.
"You run toward it."
You looked down at the cereal box in your hands.
Your voice was quiet.
"Someone has to."
Clark pushed himself away from the counter and stepped closer.
Without a word, he gently took the cereal box out of your hands and set it on the counter.
"You don't."
Your eyes flicked back up to his.
"You already save people," Clark said quietly. "Every day."
You frowned slightly.
"With your stories," he continued. "With your voice. You hold people accountable. You expose things that would stay hidden if you didn't write about them."
His expression softened.
"You already make the world better."
You studied his face for a long moment.
Then you muttered quietly, almost stubbornly,
"Still helping."
Clark groaned and dropped his forehead against the counter.
The dull thud echoed through the kitchen.
"You are impossible."
You laughed.
And Clark hated how much he loved that laugh.
It was warm and bright and completely unapologetic.
He lifted his head and looked at you again.
The frustration in his face had softened now into something gentler.
Still exasperated.
Still tired.
Still deeply, hopelessly in love.
"I love everything about you," he said.
You blinked.
Clark sighed.
"Everything."
A small smile tugged at your mouth.
"But?"
Clark pointed at you again.
"The stubbornness."
You grinned.
Clark shook his head slowly.
"I am going to be giving this speech for the rest of eternity, aren't I?"
You slid off the stool and stepped toward him.
Before he could react, you wrapped your arms around his waist and pressed your face against his chest.
Clark melted instantly.
His arms came around you without hesitation, holding you tightly against him.
"You love me," you mumbled into his shirt.
Clark sighed deeply and rested his chin on top of your head.
"Unfortunately."
You laughed again.
Clark pressed a soft kiss into your hair.
Quietly, almost like he was saying it to himself more than to you, he added,
"But I really do wish you'd run away from monsters."
You leaned back just enough to look up at him.
Your eyes were bright.
"No promises."
Clark closed his eyes.
He sighed.
"Of course not."
The accident happened two days later.
Tuesday morning.
Clark had been sitting at his desk at the Daily Planet with the deeply familiar expression of a man attempting to write something he did not care about in the slightest.
His computer screen glowed in front of him, displaying the exact same sentence it had displayed for the last fifteen minutes.
"City council officials discussed the proposed budget allocation for next year's infrastructure improvements..."
Clark stared at it.
He reread it.
He sighed.
Then he deleted it.
He started again.
"During Tuesday's meeting, members of the Metropolis city council..."
Clark stared again.
He sighed again.
Then he deleted that one too.
For the third time.
Three paragraphs.
Three deletions.
At this point he was pretty sure the article was actively resisting being written.
Across the bullpen, your desk sat empty.
Which was already suspicious.
You were supposed to be there. You had texted him earlier that morning saying you were running late, which was not unusual. You had also added something about coffee and traffic and a bagel emergency, which Clark had not fully understood but had accepted as a valid explanation.
Still.
The empty chair bothered him.
Clark leaned back in his seat slightly and rubbed his eyes.
Around him, the newsroom buzzed with the usual chaos.
Phones rang.
Jimmy was laughing too loudly at something on his screen.
Perry was already shouting at someone about deadlines.
Lois was typing with the aggressive speed of someone determined to destroy her keyboard before lunchtime.
Clark tried to focus again.
He placed his hands back on the keyboard.
He typed another sentence.
Then his hearing caught something.
Metal screeching.
Clark's head lifted slightly.
The sound came from somewhere downtown.
Brakes screaming.
A truck horn blaring far too long.
Clark went still.
Three blocks away.
His hearing sharpened automatically.
The sounds rushed in clearer.
A delivery truck engine roaring out of control.
The driver shouting something panicked.
Pedestrians yelling.
Running footsteps.
Then the violent, unmistakable crunch of metal as the truck slammed sideways into something.
Glass shattered.
Car alarms started screaming.
Clark was already halfway out of his chair when he heard it.
Your voice.
Clear as day.
"Hey! Hey, can you hear me?"
Clark froze.
He had literally talked about this.
Two days ago.
Two.
Days.
Clark inhaled slowly.
Then he stood up.
Across the room, Lois glanced up.
"You okay, Smallville?"
Clark adjusted his glasses with forced calm.
"Just remembered something I forgot to file," he said.
Lois squinted at him.
"You forgot something you were filing?"
Clark nodded.
"Very important paperwork."
Lois narrowed her eyes further.
Clark smiled awkwardly.
Then he walked quickly toward the stairwell.
The moment the door closed behind him, Clark vanished.
Three seconds later Superman landed in the middle of the intersection.
The impact cracked the pavement beneath his boots and sent a gust of wind rushing down the street.
People gasped.
Several phones immediately lifted into the air.
The truck had ended up halfway on the sidewalk.
Its front bumper had wrapped itself around a streetlight like an unfortunate metal hug. The hood was crushed inward, steam rising from the engine.
A parked car had taken the worst of the hit and now looked like it had been folded in half.
A small crowd had gathered at a cautious distance.
And right beside the passenger door of the truck, someone was kneeling on the pavement.
Clark didn't even need to look closely.
You were halfway inside the truck through the open passenger door.
One knee on the seat.
One foot still on the sidewalk.
You were trying to help the driver, who looked dazed and extremely confused, unbuckle his seatbelt.
"Okay, okay," you were saying gently. "You're good. Just stay with me. I'm gonna get this off you."
The driver blinked at you.
"I think I hit a mailbox," he said weakly.
"You hit a streetlight."
"Oh."
Clark landed beside the truck with a heavy thud.
The ground shook slightly.
Several people cheered.
Someone shouted, "Superman!"
You glanced over your shoulder.
"Oh," you said casually.
Clark stared at you.
"Oh. Hey again."
Clark continued staring.
"You," he said slowly, "were supposed to be at work."
You gestured vaguely at the wrecked truck.
"I took a quick field trip."
Clark rubbed his face.
Inside the truck, the driver looked between the two of you.
Then he squinted.
"Wait," the driver said slowly. "You guys know each other?"
You froze.
Clark froze.
The driver pointed vaguely between the two of you.
"Because this feels like a very specific kind of arguing."
You smiled nervously.
Clark cleared his throat.
"We have crossed paths," Clark said stiffly.
The driver nodded thoughtfully.
"Ah."
You finished unbuckling the seatbelt and helped the driver shift carefully toward the door.
Clark reached out and effortlessly lifted the entire front end of the truck upright so the frame stopped leaning dangerously against the streetlight.
The driver stared.
"Oh."
Then he looked at you again.
"You call him often?"
You shook your head quickly.
"No."
Clark sighed.
The driver looked between you both again.
"So you just happen to show up whenever she gets into trouble?"
Clark pointed at you.
"Exactly."
You crossed your arms.
"I was helping."
Clark gestured broadly at the wreckage.
"You were climbing into a crashed truck."
"He was stuck!"
Clark stared at you.
The driver slowly climbed out of the truck and leaned against the door.
Then he nodded thoughtfully.
"I feel like this argument has happened before."
Clark and you both spoke at the same time.
"Yes."
The driver nodded again.
"Yeah. I thought so."
The third time happened a week later.
Clark had almost started to believe you might actually try to be careful.
Almost.
It was early evening, the sky over Metropolis washed in deep oranges and fading gold as the sun dipped behind the skyline. Clark had been two neighborhoods away, high above the city, listening in the way he often did when he wasnât actively responding to something.
The city had its own rhythm.
Millions of heartbeats. Conversations spilling out of apartment windows. The distant rumble of traffic. Music drifting from rooftop bars. The quiet hum of a thousand ordinary lives unfolding at once.
Clark could separate those sounds the way someone might sort through radio stations.
Most of the time, everything blended into background noise.
But sometimes something cut through it.
That evening, it had been the fire alarms.
A piercing mechanical wail echoed through several blocks, loud enough that Clarkâs attention snapped toward it immediately.
Then came the crackling.
Fire had a very distinct sound when it started to spread. It snapped and hissed as it fed on wood, drywall, furniture, anything it could reach. Clark heard the flames licking through the walls of a small apartment building, the structure groaning faintly under the sudden heat.
People were shouting.
Doors were slamming open.
Someone screamed down a hallway, telling everyone to get out.
Clark moved before the thought even finished forming.
In less than a second he was airborne, cape snapping behind him as he cut through the evening air.
From above, he spotted the building almost immediately.
It was small, three stories at most, tucked between two older brick structures on a quiet street. Smoke poured from the upper floor windows in thick black waves, curling into the sky like dark storm clouds.
Flames flickered behind the glass of several apartments.
Residents were spilling out onto the sidewalk below in clusters, some barefoot, some clutching phones or pets or hastily grabbed bags.
Fire trucks had already been dispatched.
Clark could hear their sirens approaching from several blocks away.
Then he heard something else.
Your voice.
Clarkâs stomach dropped.
Through the chaos of shouting neighbors, crackling flames, and blaring alarms, your voice carried clearly through the second floor hallway.
âThereâs still someone upstairs!â
Clark actually faltered midair.
Of course.
Of course you were inside.
He didnât even know how you kept managing this.
Clark pushed forward faster, blasting through the smoke-filled air toward the second floor.
The window shattered inward as he entered.
Glass scattered across the apartment floor, blown aside by the force of his arrival.
Smoke filled the hallway so thick it hung like a gray curtain, turning the entire floor into a hazy maze of flickering orange light and shifting shadows.
Clarkâs vision cut through it easily.
He saw you immediately.
You stood halfway down the hallway, your arm wrapped firmly around the shoulders of an elderly woman who looked both terrified and dangerously unsteady on her feet.
The womanâs gray hair had partially fallen loose from its bun. Her slippers dragged against the carpet as she struggled to keep up, one hand clutching your sleeve tightly.
âAlmost there,â you were telling her gently, your voice hoarse from the smoke. âJust a little farther.â
Flames licked along the ceiling at the far end of the hallway, spreading fast.
Clark landed directly in front of you.
The floorboards rattled under the impact.
You looked up.
Your entire face changed the moment you saw him.
Relief washed over you instantly, your shoulders sagging slightly like the weight of the situation had finally lifted.
âOh good,â you said breathlessly. âYouâre here.â
Clark stared at you.
For a moment he didnât even speak.
You were covered in soot. Smoke had darkened the edges of your sleeves and streaked across your cheek. Your hair had completely escaped whatever attempt you had made to tie it back that morning.
Your eyes were watering from the smoke.
And you were standing inside a burning building.
Again.
Clark finally managed to say the only thing that came to mind.
âWhy are you here.â
You coughed slightly, waving a hand through the smoke.
âI was interviewing someone in the building.â
Clark stared at you.
âYou were interviewing someone.â
You nodded weakly.
âIt was about a rent dispute.â
Clark blinked.
A piece of flaming ceiling panel crashed down somewhere behind you.
The fire was spreading faster.
Clark didnât argue.
He simply stepped forward, one arm wrapping around your waist while the other scooped the elderly woman up with careful ease.
Both of you gasped slightly as the floor vanished beneath your feet.
In the next second Clark launched through the same window he had entered.
The cool night air rushed over you as you burst out of the smoke cloud and into the open sky.
Several people on the street below gasped and pointed.
Clark landed gently on the pavement beside the growing cluster of fire trucks.
Paramedics rushed forward immediately, taking the elderly woman from Clarkâs arms and guiding her toward an ambulance for oxygen.
You stumbled slightly when Clark set you down.
A paramedic immediately approached you with concern.
âMaâam, were you inside the building?â
You waved him off quickly.
âIâm totally fine.â
The paramedic looked skeptical.
âYou were inside a structure fire.â
âIâm totally fine,â you repeated.
He tried to check your arm.
You pulled it back.
âSeriously. Iâm fine.â
Across the street, Clark stood with his arms folded.
His cape shifted slightly in the evening breeze.
His expression was not pleased.
You could feel it without even looking.
So you didnât look.
You focused very intensely on the paramedic checking your oxygen levels.
Clark watched the entire exchange from across the street.
Your heartbeat was still slightly elevated.
Your lungs were irritated from smoke inhalation.
Your hands were shaking faintly.
And you were insisting to a trained medical professional that you were completely fine.
Clark dragged a hand down his face.
You still refused to look at him.
One of the firefighters walked past Clark and glanced toward you.
Then he looked at Superman.
Then back at you.
Then back at Superman again.
ââŠyou know her?â the firefighter asked.
Clark sighed.
"Unfortunately."
Clark had been standing in Perry Whiteâs office when it started.
Perry was pacing behind his desk in the way he did when he was delivering one of his famous lectures about journalistic integrity, deadlines, and the apparent inability of reporters to turn in stories before the universe ended.
Clark stood near the desk with a notebook in hand, glasses sitting neatly on his nose, nodding every few seconds like he was listening very carefully.
âDeadlines are not suggestions, Kent,â Perry was saying, stabbing a finger toward a stack of paperwork on his desk. âWhen I say noon, I mean noon. Not noon-ish. Not sometime before dinner. Noon.â
Clark nodded again.
âYes, sir.â
In reality, Clark had not heard the last three sentences.
Because four miles away, something had exploded.
The sound reached him first.
A deep, violent boom that rattled windows across several blocks. The kind of sound Clark recognized immediately as a gas explosion.
Then came the secondary sounds.
Concrete cracking.
Metal twisting.
The awful groaning noise of a building losing its structural integrity.
And beneath all of that, chaos.
People screaming.
Car alarms blaring.
Sirens already starting in the distance.
Clarkâs focus sharpened instantly.
He could hear the building collapsing inward, sections of flooring giving way one after another in a domino effect.
Dust and debris poured into the air.
And somewhere inside that collapsing structure was a heartbeat he would recognize anywhere.
Yours.
Clark went perfectly still.
Your heartbeat was faster than normal.
Uneven.
Adrenaline.
You were moving through the rubble.
Talking to someone.
Clark didnât even hear Perry finish his sentence.
He simply turned and walked out of the office.
âClark?â Perry called after him.
Clark didnât answer.
He moved through the bullpen quickly, pushing open the stairwell door and disappearing down the stairs before anyone could question him.
Thirty seconds later Superman dropped out of the sky.
The building had partially caved in.
It was an older commercial structure, three stories tall, the kind of place that housed small offices and construction storage spaces. The explosion had blown out most of the first floor walls and caused the front section of the building to collapse inward like a broken jaw.
Dust filled the air so thick it turned the entire street gray.
Chunks of concrete littered the ground.
Twisted metal beams stuck out of the rubble like exposed bones.
People stood behind police tape, shouting names, crying, pointing toward the wreckage.
Construction workers in hard hats were trying to pull debris aside with their bare hands while they waited for emergency crews.
Clark landed hard in the middle of it all.
The ground shook beneath his boots.
A fresh cloud of dust rolled outward from the impact.
He scanned the wreckage immediately.
Heartbeats.
He counted them automatically.
Several injured.
One unconscious.
Two trapped beneath debris.
And one very familiar heartbeat moving somewhere near the center of the collapsed structure.
Clark pushed through the rubble in three strides.
And then he saw you.
Right in the middle of it.
Of course.
You were kneeling beside a construction worker who had clearly been caught in the collapse. One of the steel support beams had fallen across his leg, pinning him beneath it.
The man was pale, breathing hard, one hand gripping your sleeve while you tried to keep him calm.
âOkay, okay,â you were saying gently. âStay with me. Someoneâs coming.â
Your voice sounded strained.
Clarkâs eyes dropped immediately to your arm.
Blood.
Not a lot, but enough to make his stomach tighten.
Your sleeve had been torn open at the shoulder, and a long scrape ran down your arm, already darkening with dried dust and blood.
Your hair was coated in gray debris.
Your cheek had a faint bruise forming along the bone.
Clark felt something sharp twist in his chest.
Then he landed beside you.
The impact rattled the loose debris around you.
Your head snapped up.
For half a second your face lit up with pure relief.
Then your expression shifted.
âOh.â
Clark stared at you.
You winced slightly.
âHi.â
Clark didnât say anything at first.
His eyes flicked briefly over your injuries again.
The scrape.
The bruise.
The way your left hand was shaking slightly from the adrenaline.
Clark forced his face back into the calm, neutral expression Superman always wore.
He crouched beside the trapped construction worker and placed one hand under the steel beam.
The metal groaned faintly as Clark lifted it like it weighed nothing.
âCareful,â Clark said, his voice steady and controlled.
You immediately moved.
Despite the fact that your arm was clearly hurting, you shifted forward and carefully helped the construction worker drag his leg free from beneath the beam.
The man cried out in pain but managed to pull himself out as Clark held the beam suspended.
The moment the man was clear, Clark set the steel down gently.
Paramedics rushed forward almost immediately, lifting the injured worker onto a stretcher.
You stayed crouched for a second longer, catching your breath.
Then you slowly stood.
Clark straightened too.
Dust swirled around him, cape shifting in the wind.
He crossed his arms.
And for a moment he simply looked at you.
From an outsiderâs perspective, Superman looked calm.
Composed.
Authoritative.
From your perspective, he looked like someone preparing to give a lecture.
You slowly took a step backward.
Clark pointed at you.
âYou.â
You froze.
Clark inhaled slowly.
Very slowly.
âHow,â he began.
He paused.
Then tried again.
âHow do you keep doing this.â
You raised both hands slightly in surrender.
âIn my defense,â you said carefully, âthis one exploded around me.â
Clark closed his eyes for a brief moment.
Then he pointed again.
âI told you to stay away from dangerous situations.â
âI wasnât looking for it!â
âYou were inside a collapsing building!â
You gestured around the wreckage.
âYou were inside a collapsing building too!â
Clark opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
âThat,â he said finally, gesturing toward himself, âis different.â
You tilted your head.
âHow.â
Clark gestured at the giant red S on his chest.
âIâm Superman.â
You shrugged.
âYou showed up.â
Clark stared at you like you had just explained gravity incorrectly.
âYou cannot rely on me showing up.â
âYou always do.â
Clark went very still.
The words hung between you.
Your voice softened slightly as you stepped a little closer.
âI know you hear everything.â
Clark looked down at you.
Your eyes were tired now, but steady.
âAnd I know,â you continued gently, âthat if someone needs help⊠you will come.â
Clark sighed quietly.
You reached up and brushed some dust off his shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world to casually tidy Superman after a disaster.
âYou worry too much,â you said softly.
Clark looked at you.
Then he said very quietly,
âYou donât worry enough.â
You smiled.
Clark groaned.
Because he already knew.
This argument was not ending here.
It would happen again.
And again.
And again.
For the rest of his life.
And every single time he heard your voice in the middle of danger, Clark Kentâs heart would still stop.
But he would always come.
Every time.
Clark had barely finished the thought when his eyes flicked back to your arm.
You were trying very hard to act like nothing was wrong.
Clark knew that trick. You did it every time you got hurt. A casual shrug. A small smile. That very convincing âIâm fineâ voice that fooled absolutely no one who actually knew you.
Except right now he was Superman.
And Superman was not supposed to know you.
Which meant he had to do this carefully.
Your sleeve was torn open from shoulder to elbow. Dust and dried gray debris clung to the scrape along your arm, but Clark could still see the thin line of red where the skin had broken. It wasnât life threatening. It wasnât even serious.
But it was enough.
Enough to make his chest tighten.
Enough to make the protective part of him wake up again.
You were still standing there like the conversation had been about the weather instead of the fact that you had just been inside a building that exploded.
Clark exhaled quietly.
Then he turned his head slightly toward the emergency crews moving around the site.
âParamedic,â he called.
His voice carried easily over the chaos.
One of the paramedics, a woman kneeling beside a stretcher a few yards away, looked up immediately. When she saw who had called, she stood and hurried over, medical bag swinging against her hip.
âYes, Superman?â
Clark stepped slightly to the side, gesturing toward you.
âThis civilian was inside the collapse,â he said calmly.
You blinked.
âHeyââ
Clark continued like you had not spoken.
âShe needs to be checked for injuries.â
You stared at him.
The paramedic immediately shifted into professional mode, already reaching for gloves.
âOf course.â
âIâm fine,â you said quickly.
Clark folded his arms.
The paramedic gently reached for your injured arm.
âLetâs just take a quick look.â
âItâs just a scratch,â you insisted.
Clark raised one eyebrow slightly.
You noticed.
Your eyes narrowed.
âOh you have got to be kidding me,â you muttered.
The paramedic carefully rolled your sleeve back the rest of the way. The scrape was longer than it had looked through the dust. It ran down the side of your arm, red and irritated from debris.
âDid you hit something?â she asked.
âA wall,â you admitted.
Clarkâs jaw tightened.
The paramedic cleaned the scrape gently with antiseptic.
You winced.
Clark noticed that too.
âAny dizziness?â she asked.
âNo.â
âHeadache?â
âNo.â
âYou were exposed to the explosion?â
âI was down the hall.â
Clark spoke again, voice calm but firm.
âShe was also inside the structure during partial collapse.â
You shot him a look.
âThank you,â you muttered.
The paramedic gave you a small sympathetic smile.
âSupermanâs very thorough.â
You huffed.
âYeah, I noticed.â
Clark pretended not to hear that.
The paramedic finished cleaning the scrape and wrapped a small bandage around your arm.
âThere we go,â she said. âYouâre lucky. Couldâve been worse.â
Clark silently agreed with that statement.
Very strongly.
The paramedic stepped back.
âYou should still take it easy tonight,â she added. âAnd maybe avoid collapsing buildings for a bit.â
You nodded politely.
âIâll keep that in mind.â
Clark made a soft noise under his breath.
You looked up at him again.
He was still standing there, arms crossed, cape shifting slightly in the dusty breeze, watching you with the very unmistakable expression of someone who absolutely did not believe you would follow that advice.
You pointed at him.
âI was helping someone.â
Clark replied calmly.
âYou were injured.â
âItâs a scratch.â
âYou were inside an explosion.â
Clark inhaled slowly.
Several nearby firefighters had stopped working and were now openly watching the exchange like it was a form of entertainment.
You dusted your hands off and grabbed your bag from the rubble beside you.
âWell,â you said brightly, âthanks for the assist.â
Clark stared at you.
You took a few steps backward.
Then a few more.
Clark did not move.
You pointed a finger at him.
âIâm leaving.â
Clark said nothing.
You turned and began walking toward the police tape.
Clark waited exactly three seconds.
Then he called after you.
âMaâam.â
You stopped.
Very slowly you turned around.
Clarkâs voice was calm.
But the tone underneath it was unmistakable.
âTry,â he said carefully, âto stay out of dangerous situations.â
You stared at him.
Then you smiled.
âCanât promise anything.â
Clark closed his eyes briefly.
Around them, the firefighters burst out laughing again.
summary: drunk!clark is the cutest. that's it. just fluff and nothing else. 900 words.
In retrospect, you shouldâve never let Clark out of your sightâ especially not on one of those days where he was not in the best of his senses.
Two minutes. You were gone for two minutes and Clark was downing an amber-colored drink, egged on by an equally drunk Guy who was yelling, "CHUG! CHUG! CHUG!"
"You smell sooo amazing," Clark slurred as you slid your hands across his waist, trying your best to hoist him up from his seat on the sofa. Considering his massive frame, it wasn't the brightest idea.
A de-powered Clark, high from a recent trip to a red-sun system and a bottle of straight rum, was a dangerous combination for your lower back.
Clark could barely stand upright as you hauled him toward the elevator. The party noise was a roar, and Clark wouldn't stop mumbling gibberish into your hair. Though, you had to admit, seeing the usually calm and composed hero become a bumbling, starry-eyed fool was terribly entertaining.
The elevator dinged, and you steered him inside. Clark stumbled, his heavy arm draped over your shoulders like a lead weight, but his grip didn't let you fall. He beamed at you, his glasses sitting crooked on his nose.
"I wish I could take you home," Clark murmured as the doors shut, muffling the music. "Iâm sâsorry if thatâs very direct."
You only smiled fondly, pressing the button for the fourth floor.
"Wait... where are we going?" he asked suddenly, trying to wriggle away. In his inebriated state, even without his powers, he was a lot of man to manage, but he was surprisingly docile when you reached up to comb your hand through his dark hair. Clark let out a long, shuddering sigh at the touch.
"Hey, hey, calm down. Weâre going to our room," you assured him.
"Our room? Isnât that a little... scandalous?" he whistled, leaning back against the mirrored wall.
Even in the dull light of the elevator, he looked so stunningly handsome it took your breath away. He reached out, caressing your cheek with a gentleness that remained even when his brain was foggy. His gaze flickered to your lips before he leaned in, his forehead resting against yours.
"Can I pleaseee kiss you, miss?"
"Clark..." you chided, playfully shoving his chest. You wouldâve loved nothing more, but in this state of his, you would never take advantage. Because, you knew he'd do the same if the roles were reversed.
Clark frowned, that adorable little scrunch appearing between his brows. "...Isn't this where you and I have hot elevator sex?" he asked, eyebrows knitted in utter confusion, blue eyes large and curious.
It was maddeningly difficult to keep a straight face.
"As much as Iâd love to jump your bones, big guy, no," you answered, dragging him out into the hallway when the doors finally opened.
Clarkâs frown deepened as he struggled to keep his balance, nearly pinning you against the door to your hotel room with his sheer bulk.
"Why? Please don't tell me you're taken, miss. It would break my heart," he mused, pouting like a giant toddler.
You had to physically restrain yourself from kissing the big doofus right then and there. Instead, you nudged the door to your bedroom open, prompting a merry hoot from him.
"Come on," you said, maneuvering him toward the king-sized bed. "Letâs sleep this off."
Clark sat down on the silken sheets, eyes struggling to stay open. When you moved to undo the buttons of his shirt, he didn't resist; he just stared at you with a look of pure awe.
"You have the most beautiful eyes ever," he mused.
"I know," you retorted, pressing a chaste kiss to the top of his head. Clark was smiling giddily nowâ that picture-perfect dimpled smileâ and you didn't want to get rid of the floaty feeling in your chest. You rarely saw him this carefree, devoid of the weight of the world.
He patted the mattress, beckoning you over. You obliged, sitting beside him as he flopped back onto the pillows.
"I bet weâd make gorgeous, powerful babies," he said as a matter of factly, lips curled into a lazy grin. "Itâs a shame youâre taken."
You let out a huff of laughter, shaking your head. "Weâre married, you giant dork."
Clark gasped, his eyes widening. Anymore, and they would've popped right out of their sockets. "What?! Really? Thatâs wonderful!"
He sat up abruptly, then swayed, his body fighting his alcohol-addled brain. You thought heâd finally dozed off when his head lolled, body falling back onto the bed, but he shook himself awake a second later.
"Thennn..." he drawled, blinking rapidly as he processed the good news. "When will we have the babies?"
You burst out laughing, the sound echoing in the quiet room. You leaned over to pull the covers up to his chin, tucking him in while he watched you with a drunken devotion.
"Maybe when you can walk in a straight line without falling over," you whispered, brushing a stray curl off his forehead.
Clark let out a contented hum, his eyes finally fluttering shut for good. "That's fair..." he mumbled into the pillow, his voice thick with sleep. "But for the record... I'm really, really glad... I'm the guy who got to marry you."
He was snoring softly within seconds, leaving you alone with a grin and a story heâd definitely be hearing about over breakfast, with a sobering doze of the yellow sun.
pairing David!Clark Kent x JournalistWife!reader
summary After a day spent teasing Clark across the bullpen, one last stop in the archives room proves to be a very bad idea. Or a very good one. An inevitable one.
tags pwp, 18+, MDNI, smuuuut, hot n heavy make out, fingering, brief oral (f receiving as always), creampie, mild manhandling, overstim, workplace fucking, Yearning&Horny!Clark, the skirt and stockings stay on
wc 4.75k
trying to get my sparkle back, inspired by this photoset because boy. could not bring myself to edit this. pretend there is life to this and that this made sense. wanted clark to bang me on a table after-hours, HR look away
Mrs. Kent Diaries
The evening sun filtered through the Daily Planetâs tall windows, laying long bars of gold across empty desks. Your and Clarkâs computers were the last pools of artificial light, stubborn little claims against the dayâs end.Â
By the time you saved your latest draft, the janitorâs cart and the fluorescent hum overhead had become the loudest things in the room.
You sat back with a long exhale and flexed your fingers, feeling the aftershock of typing through your wrists. Your shoulders ached. The base of your neck throbbed. Your eyes burned from too many hours spent squinting at quotes, budgets, and the kind of bureaucratic evasiveness that only made you more certain you were right.
Across the bullpen, Clark was apparently proofreading a digital layout sheet.Â
Heâd been at it for the better part of an hour, one thumb drumming against his desk, glasses slipping too far down his nose and not caring enough to push them back up. Every so often, his attention would drift to you with all the subtlety of sunlight through open blinds.
Then he would glance back down at the screen as though he might still salvage the illusion of productivity.
It had been like that all day.
It started that morning while getting ready together. You stood in front of the mirror, smoothing your hands down the line of your new skirt you had bought for no reason other than the fact that it made you feel damn good. The perfume had been new, too. Expensive. Indulgence, one little polished necessity in a job that so often required blood in the water.Â
Naturally, you had not put either of them on with the intention of ruining your husbandâs entire day.
Not consciously, anyway.
Still, youâd caught Clarkâs reflection in the mirror, his toothbrush frozen in hand while he watched you, lingering on that small patch of skin just below your ear that he was always kissing when he passed behind you or fucked you from the back.
âYou smellâŠâ heâd trailed off, his voice still unused from sleep.Â
You met his eyes in the mirror. âI smellâŠ?â
His eyes had lifted to yours in the mirror, very much awake now. âGood, sweetheart. Look beautiful, too.â
That had been all.
The warmth in his voice followed you into the rest of the day somehow, something you kept feeding with every polite interaction.
It was nourished in the space between your desks, quiet and constant. In the way he kept finding reasons to stand at your elbow. In the heat of him at your back when he leaned in to âborrowâ a pen from your desk despite having one clipped into breast pocket. In the deliberate care when he set a fresh coffee on your desk, his fingers brushing along your shoulder in passing.
In the glances â God, the glances â that landed not with the casual appreciation of a man noticing his wife looking nice, but the distinctly more dangerous attention of a husband trying very hard to remember he was in public. At work, no less.
And because you were only human, and Clark was your husband, and because it was a thrill to do this to him you had not exactly helped.
You crossed and uncrossed your legs slowly under your desk. Leaned forward just enough to give him a glimpse of the lace edging of your bra when your blouse gaped slightly during lunch, and the expression that crossed his face over his salad had nearly lost your own train of thought.
Clark was so beautiful when he was trying to behave.
More to the point, you knew exactly what he looked like when that effort was beginning to fail.
Now, in the hollow silence and the encroaching darkness from the setting sun, the tension ripened into something palpable.Â
You stood, the chair rolling back with a soft screech that made Clark look up immediately.
âOkay, Iâm tapped out,â you announced, stretching. âJust need to pull that old Metropolis Water Board file from two years ago before we go. The source list should still be in archives someââ
Clark was on his feet before you finished the sentence. âIâll help you.â
âBabe.âÂ
He was already rounding his desk. âWhat?â
âYou don't know where anything is in archives.â
âWhat? Thatâs not true.â
âClark.â
âOkay,â he admitted, coming closer anyway, so transparently eager it made you laugh. âI donât know where most of anything is in archives, but Iâm still coming with you.â
He held his hand out for yours as if that settled it. Which, with him, it usually did.
You slipped your fingers through his, and that soft expression on his face made your heart flutter. Sometimes, you had no idea what to do with the fact that this man, this extraordinary, impossible man, could look at you like holding your hand was the best part of his day.
The walk to the archives room was a study in charged silence.Â
Most of the lights had been cut for the night. What was left came in patches â the dim wash from the bullpen behind you, the red blink of an EXIT sign ahead, the low institutional gloom of a building trying to sleep for the night.
Your heels click-clacked a neat, sharp rhythm on the polished linoleum, a counterpoint to Clarkâs near-silent tread of his longer strides and occasionally whisper of fabric when his trouser leg brushed your calves on a final turn.
Swiping your badge, you unlocked the archives room. The door groaned on its hinges as Clark pushed it open.
The air inside felt immediately different from the hallwayâcolder by a few degrees, dustier, carrying the brittle, papery scent of things left undisturbed too long. You flicked the light switch; a few overhead lights sputtered to life, casting a weak, yellowed glow over the room. Floor-to-ceiling metal shelves crammed with bankers boxes and bound volumes of old newspapers lined the walls, cutting the space into narrow, canyon-like aisles.
âHm. Maybe I shouldâve saved this for tomorrow,â you muttered, more to yourself, reluctantly turning into the nearest aisle to see the job through anyway.
Clark didnât answer.
You noticed that instantly. Clark was rarely this quiet with you. Usually, he filled silences with a passing thought, a joke under his breath, interest in your notes, always some soft domestic thing carried with him even into the office. Here, there was only the faint scuff of his shoes trailing behind you and the steady sense of his attention pinned squarely between your shoulder blades.
Sighing and tipping your face up toward the faded labels, you blinked against the strain that had settled behind your eyes hours ago.Â
Without much thought â or patience â you stepped onto the bottom shelf brace for leverage and reached up for a grey archive box just within armâs reach, sore fingers curling over the cardboard lipâ
âbut then you felt it.
A solid, undeniable presence directly behind you, close enough to lift the fine hairs at your arms before contact ever could.
You startled so badly your heel slipped on the metal rung, the box tipping with you. The next thing you knew, you were pitching backward into the solid wall of your husbandâs chest. His hands closed around your waist immediately, catching you before the stumble could become anything worse. A mess of dust, loose papers, and folders fanned out at your feet, punctuated with a heavy thump that echoed through the room.
âOh shitââ
âSweetheart!â His voice came quick and concerned, half-muffled by the fact that his face had dipped instinctively toward your neck. âAre you okay? Does anything hurt?â
âNo, Iâm good,â you squeaked, heart still climbing its way back down from your throat. You felt him take one slow breath where you had spritzed your perfume that morning and swallowed. âJust startled. Iâm okay.â
Clarkâs hands lingered at your waist, as if apologizing and confirming that you really meant it. Then he eased you upright, gave you one last searching look, and dropped into a crouch to start gathering the scattered papers because of course he would.
You stood there for a second longer than necessary, watching him straighten bent corners, stack pages neatly, brush dust from the top sheet with the side of his hand before setting it aside. Even now, even visibly distracted, he handled everything with that same care.
Then, because he glanced up at you at the right wrong moment and because you were not made of stronger stuff than anyone else blessed with a husband who looked like that, you toyed with the hem of your skirt.Â
Just a thoughtless-looking little adjustment. A smoothing, innocent motion that drew his attention anyway.
Your other hand slipped into his hair, fingertips passing through the soft dark strands at his crown as you spoke, easy and teasing, âYou know, for someone who volunteered to help, that whole shelf situation couldâve been avoided.â
From where he knelt, Clark tipped his head back to look at you, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly.
âIâd have to disagree,â he shuffled a few more folders into a neat pile. âSeems like seeking out troubleâs been the pattern all day.â
âOh, really?â You shifted, and your skirt rode a touch higher against your thighs. âThatâs a bold accusation, Mr. Kent.â
A faint rosy flush began to gather high across his cheeks, his eyes flicking down before he could stop them. To your knees. Your thighs. The neat line of your skirt. Something in his face gave. A fine, visible crack through all that Martha-Kent-taught self-control.
Clark stood to his full height with a quiet exhale, one hand full of loose papers. He set them on the shelf beside you slowly and carefully, as though buying himself a second. Then he stepped in close and braced one arm against the metal beside your head, caging you in.Â
âWell, Mrs. Kent,â his gaze seared into yours and made your pulse skip. âYou have been making my life difficult since breakfast.â
Pressing a hand to your chest, your jaw dropped, feigning offence with very little effort to sell it. âOh my God, your life?â
âMy concentration,â he corrected helplessly, eyeing the line of your throat and down to the peak of your cleavage before returning to your face. âMy professionalism. Honeyââ He exhaled once. âMy general ability to act like I have one coherent thought in my head that isnât you.â
That made you laugh, loud, delighted, and reckless, because here was your husband, Pulitzer winner, Kansas gentleman, Superman, standing in a cramped, stuffy aisle looking one breath away from total collapse.
âDamn,â you mock-sympathized, biting the inside of your cheek to rein in your grin. âThat bad, huh?â
âThat bad.â
You tilted your head. âThen I suppose youâve only yourself to blame.â
That finally pulled a real reaction out of him. A quiet, argumentative huff, but it vanished almost immediately under the weight of the look he gave you next.
It belonged to your apartment on slow Sunday mornings. To your kitchen when he passed behind you with a hand at your waist. To nights when he was tired enough to drop his forehead to your shoulder before speaking. Warmth, wanting, affection so deep.
His hand lifted, and for one second, you thought he might touch your face.
Instead, his thumb brushed the inside of your wrist, the one still pressed to your chest, sweeping away a streak of dust from the fallen box. It was such a small gesture. Such an unmistakably tender Clark gesture.
âClark,â you whispered, and this time the tease in your voice dissolved completely.
His eyes searched your face. Still waiting. Still giving you the chance to step around him, to pick up a file, to tease him once more, and walk back into the hallway like neither of you had spent the entire day edging toward this.
You didnât do any of that.Â
Instead, you lifted your chin just slightly.Â
A silent invitation that Clark eagerly accepted.Â
He kissed you the way he always loved youâfirm, deep, with a focused intensity that made your knees weak. His mouth moved over yours with the surety of long practice, of years spent learning exactly how you liked to be kissed, exactly how long to linger before deepening it, exactly what kind of pressure made you melt into him.
Your answer was just as certain, your hands coming up to fist in the soft cotton of his shirt at his chest, pulling him down until the narrow strip of air between you disappeared.
One of his hands left the shelf to cradle the back of your neck, fingers massaging the dayâs tension away and holding you steady in his exploration. The other slid from your wrist to your waist, his broad hand spanning your side, thumb pressing just above your hip.
The textures of the room imprinted themselves on your sensesâthe cool metal of the shelf against your back. Dust in the air. The faint papery smell of old files. Clarkâs aftershave, softened by the long day and tangled with coffee and your perfume. Somewhere above you, the lights buzzed faintly. Closer still, you could hear the way his breathing had changed.
Your hands moved, one sliding up to clutch at the back of his neck, feeling the powerful muscles corded tight with tension. The other toyed with his tie, pulling it completely loose. The fabric slipped free, your fingers going to the open collar of his shirt, feeling the frantic beat of his pulse under your palm.
Clark broke the kiss just far enough to breathe, forehead dipping toward yours. His glasses had gone slightly crooked, the lenses faitnly fogged. You straightening his glasses on instinct, smiling up at him.
âSee, trouble,â he winked, grinning back as his hand on your waist slid to the curve of your ass.Â
His fingers dug in, pulling you firmly against his hard, thick arousal straining against the front of his trousers. It pressing insistently against your lower belly, and a soft, desperate gasp escaped your throat.Â
âNuh-uh,â you protested weakly. âS-seems like youâre the one making trouble here!â
That drew a light laugh from him as he guided you backward without a shred of resistance. The backs of your thighs hit the edge of an old worktable. Papers and folders were nudged aside with a sweep of his arm, some fluttering to the floor. Then his hands were back on your waist, lifting you with an effortless strength that your insides melt.
The wood felt cool through your stockings.Â
Clark stepped between your knees guiding them apart to make room for himself. Your skirt rode up, exposingthe lace tops of your stockings and a teasing glimpse of your lace panties. His eyes drank in the sight, his gaze so hot you felt scorched.
He leaned in, capturing you in a searing kiss, one hand coming up to cup your jaw. His other palm massaged your exposed inner thigh, trailing upward, fingers tracing the edge of your panties.
âH-hey!â you gasped against his lips, arching into his touch.
âI know, sweetheart,â he cooed shakily. âI know. Let me⊠just wanna feel you.â
You reached for his jaw, thumb brushing the faint stubble. âT-that bad?â
âWorse.âÂ
Oh, Clark, honest as ever. The answer pulled a pleased and helpless sigh from you. âYou poor thing.â
His fingers tugged the fabric to the side, the slick heat greeting his touch with a soft, audible squelch.Â
âGosh,â he groaned. âCouldnât wait for home either?â
Shaking your head, your eyes fluttered shut as his thumb pressed down on your sensitive nub while two of his fingers slid lower, gathering slick between your folds. He teased, finger spreading your own arousal over your swollen lips.
Two long, thick digits finally pushed deep inside you with a smooth, wet glide. You cried out softly, your hips jerking off the table. Curling his fingers, Clark found that perfect spot inside you with infuriating ease, and set a slow, relentless rhythm.Â
In⊠outâŠInâŠoutâŠ.The steady shlick-shlick-shlick filthy, wet, and sloppy.
âFeel good?â he breathed against your skin, his own in ragged pants. You clutched at his shoulders, nails digging into the fabric of his shirt. Little moans escaped with every thrust. âI know, hon. Youâre doing so well for me. So beautiful like this.â
The praise hit just as hard as the expert curl of his fingers, You could feel the coil of your orgasm tightening behind your navel, and you were sure Clark felt it, too.
Given from the way he kissed your temple. Your cheek. The side of your lips. Ending on your forehead, all tender things you loved while he made a mess of you. His thumb continued to massage your clit in quick circles, the dual sensations tipping you higher, faster.Â
Soon you were babbling, a stream of desperate filthy words.Â
His gazed down where his fingers disappeared into you. âC-close?â
You nodded, unable to do much more than that.
Without breaking momentum, he ducked his head beneath your skirt and felt a lick up your clit, and the sensation of a third finger being added. It stretched you wider, thrusts grew faster, and the delicious burn almost sent you off the table.
âHoly shit! AhâahâC-Clark! Just like that, feels so goodââ
âThat right, hon? Gonna come?â he urged, muffled as he sucked and lapped your clit. âLet me feel you.â
It was too much.
The stretch, the friction, the filthy, wet sounds from a familar tongue lapping your cunt, your husbandâs whispered tender praise. Your back arched as a series of long-drawn moans escaped your throat as your orgasm finally ripped through you. Your thighs drew in together as your walls gripped and fluttered around his fingers, hips rutting rhythmically as wave after wave of blinding pleasure washed over you.Â
Clark easily held your thighs apart and kept his fingers inside you, moving them slowly, gently, as you trembled through the aftershocks. The overstimulation was intense, a mix of unbearable sensitivity and lingering pleasure that made you squirm and cry.Â
âShh, Iâve got you,â he soothed, coming back up to you to swallow your moans in open, lingering kisses. You tasted yourself on his tongue when you kissed him back, and the intimacy of it sent another shiver through your already overworked body.
As you came down from your hgih, panting and boneless, your hand slipped between your bodies. You palmed him through his slacks, feeling the rigid length of his cock, the damp spot of precum already staining the fine fabric. He exhaled, his hips bucking involuntarily into your touch.
âPlease,â you whispered, still a little dazed. âBaby, I need more.â
He looked into your eyes, his own blown wide, his glasses slipped low again, faintly fogged at the edges.
âNow?â he asked after clearing his throat, a final, shaky check-in. âHere? Like this?â
âMmhmm.â You swallowed, then cleared your throat, âItâs bad.â
"How bad?â
A weak laugh escaped you. â'I'd drop dead right here if you don't fuck me' bad, Kent.â
In moments like this, Clark was never a man who needed much encouragement where you were concerned.
With frantic, clumsy hands, he undid his belt and the button of his trousers, fumbling once, breath catching when your hand brushed him again, muttering something soft and under his breath that sounded like, âHon, youâre not helping.â
You smiled, dopey and fond all at once.
By the time he pushed his slacks and briefs down just enough to free his cock, he was breathing harder than before, cheeks faintly flushed. You glanced down in anticipation and your mouth instinctively parted.
It stood out proudly heavy and full and utterly demanding. You reached for it, wrapping your fingers around the hot, silken-steel length, and he groaned, his head falling forward.
âDonât do that either,â he warned, and it would have been more convincing if hisvoice had not crack halfway through.
âDo what? Admire the most handsome man Iâve laid my eyes on? Who also happens to be my husband?â
âExactly,â he stressed hoarsely. âNot⊠not gonna last if you do that.â
You didn't apologize.
Instead, you hooked your trembling hands behind your stocking-clad knees and pulled them up, opening yourself wider for him.Â
âCâmere,â you whispered, crooking a finger in a âcome-hitherâ motion.
Clark braced one hand against your hip, bunching the fabric of your skirt, while the other guided himself to your entrance. The broad, wet tip of his cock nudging against your soaked, sensitive folds.Â
He teased slowly, dragging the crown up and down your slickness, smearing your combined wetness over your clit and lips. He eased away, then back again, easing through the slick warmth heâd already drawn from you until the friction had your whole body tightening in anticipation.Â
You could have cried from it, from how unfair it was, how deliberate, how clearly he knew exactly what he was doing to you.
âClark,â you hissed, half plea, half warning. âStop messing around!âÂ
His forehead dipped briefly to yours, grinning at you teasingly. âIâm not messing around!â
âYes, you are!â you argued, slowly lowered your legs, nudging your skirt back down. âIf this is you getting back at me about today, then maybe we shouldnâtââ
âHold on,â he kissed your pout away with a quiet laugh, already reaching to draw your knees back up. âI'm sorry. Just wanna take my time with you.â
Then he leaned back just enough to look at you properly.
That was what always undid you most. Even now, half out of his mind, he wanted your eyes. Your attention. To have yoy feel his gaze as equally intense, loving, and utterly consumed.Â
âGosh, like I said: trouble.â
He pushed forward for real, and stretch drove the fight right out of you. You scrambled to grip his forearms, your mouth falling open as your body gave way around his cock by aching degrees. Clark went still almost immediately.
âOkay?â he murmured, his thumb stroking your hip, watching your face with such concentrated care.
âY-yeah, want m-more,â you begged. Then, needier, âGive me more, baby.â
Clark withdrew an inch, then pushed back in, sinking another inch deeper. The slow, gentle penetration was agonizing. You could feel every adjustment as he filled you, stretching you wider, deeper. The wet, sucking sounds grew louder. Each shallow thrust scooped more of your slickness out, making the slide easier, wetter.Â
He kept going, little by little, his eyes locked on yours, watching every flicker of pleasure and discomfort on your face. When he was finally fully sheathed, his hips flush against yours, his balls tight against your ass, you both let out a shuddering, simultaneous breath.Â
Partly from the intimacy of it, with the fact that no matter how many times you had done this, there was still always that moment of stunned adjustment where your bodies had to remember how to belong to each other again.
âI love you,â Clark said first, because of course he did. Because apparently that had to be the first thing out of his mouth while he was buried deep inside you in the Daily Planet archives. âGosh, you feelâ hon, you feel just like heaven.â
You laughed softly, though it came out more like a broken exhale. âThatâs one word for it.â
He kissed you for that â quick, helpless, fond â then began to move.
It started as a slow, deep rocking of his hips, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in to the hilt. The drag of his thick cock along your inner walls lighting up every nerve ending. Your hands flew to his back, clutching at his shirt, feeling the powerful muscles of his shoulders and back tense under the fabric.
Your frantic pawing spurred him. His thrusts became harder, deeper, driving you back against the table with each powerful surge. The table scraped against the floor with a rhythmic thump-thump-thump. His hand left your hip to settle in your hair, gently but firmly tilting your head back to expose your throat to his hungry mouth. You yelped as he kissed and sucked at the skin there, surely leaving marks.
âT-too much?â he asked immediately, words strained enough to suggest he was asking through gritted teeth.
You tightened your legs around him, intentionally clenching your cunt. âN-no, never.â
He grunted, and filthy and loving praise spilled out in fragments.
âYou're so beautiful. Love when you drive me crazy.â
âSheâs mine. All mine. Squeezing me so tight.
"Sheâs so pretty, just like you.â
âThatâs it, my wife.â
You were coiling tight again, the overstimulation from your first orgasm blending with the deep, penetrating fullness to create a pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. You were moaning and crying out with every thrust, and he swallowed the sounds with his kisses.
âClark, fuck, you feel so good,â you sobbed, your legs wrapping around his waist, your heels digging into his ass, trying to pull him even deeper. âIâm gonnaâ baby, Iâm gonna come againââ
âIâI know,â He pulled back just enough to look at you, glasses crooked, face flushed, mouth parted. âI feel it. Iâm right there with you. Iâm right⊠there.â
The rhythm was as gone as you felt, with hard thrusts becoming punishing, slamming into you with a force that rattled the table. The motioned pulled a helpless sob from your throat, kissed away at once.Â
Your second orgasm exploded through you, stronger than the first.Â
Body going taut, back bowing off the table, your mouth opening on Clarkâs name as your pussy convulsed around his driving cock in helpless, milking pulses.Â
The sensation of your tight walls clamping down on his cock was the final trigger.
With a choked swear, Clark buried himself deep and came.Â
The force of his release made his whole body go rigid for a beat. Then his hips gave one more unsteady thrust, and another smaller one after it, like his body was still trying to chase the feeling of emptying himself. The warmth of his spend filled you, a shocking, intimate heat no matter how many times youâd shared it.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of your ragged breathing. He stayed inside you, his weight settling partially on you, his face buried in the curve of your neck where your perfume still lingered faintly beneath sweat and the dusty smell of the room. You could feel his heart against your chest, a thundering echo of your own.
Then, a sound. Voices.Â
Muffled, distant, but unmistakable. One of the janitors, maybe, starting their rounds.
Clark went utterly still. Every muscle in his body locked tight, a statue of tension. You felt itâthe instant shift from spent lover to hyper-alert protector. His head lifted, eyes, still glazed with bliss, fixed on the door.Â
He didnât move, didnât pull out. He just⊠listened.
Eventually, the voices passed. A cart wheel squeaked quietly against the tile. A garbled conversation faded away. Then nothing.
The pause, the spike of adrenaline, seemed to ignite one last, slow burn in both of you.Â
Clark let out a long, shaky breath, the air warm against your sweat-dampened skin, and began to move again. Just a slow, gentle roll of his hips, still buried deep within you. The sensation was overwhelming, a tender claiming in the aftermath.
âClark!â you whimpered, oversensitive and full of him.
âIâm done, Iâm done,â he promised, apology and affection folded together.Â
Kisses were scattered along your throat, as if in apology for that too, before he leaned back and eased out of you. A trail of his release followed, warm and wet against your thighs, soaking into your ruined panties, skirt, and stockings.Â
Clark took a moment to look at you againâsprawled across the old table, skirt wrinkled up around your waist, blouse disheveled, lips kiss-swollen, blinking up at him with his marks already blooming on your throat.
A look of awed, affectionate wonder softened his features, as if no amount of time or marriage or shared domestic routine had made him any less startled by the fact that he got to have this with you.
Very gently, he tugged your skirt back into place.
Palms smoothed the fabric over your trembling thighs, rose tenderly to adjusted your blouse, fingers deftly buttoning a few buttons that had come loose along the way.
Next, Clark put himself back together with quick, practiced movements â tucking his softening cock away, dusting his trousers, fastening his belt, and dragging a hand through his hair only to make things worse. He retrieved his tie from the floor and looped it back around his collar without bothering to straighten it properly.
Then he came back to you immediately to cradle your face. With his thumb, he wiped a smudge of dust from your cheekbone, then leaned down to kiss youâ softly, sweetly this time. It was a kiss of profound tenderness, a world away from the desperate passion of moments before.
âYou,â he whispered against your lips, full of disbelieving fondness, âare going to be the death of me, you know that?â
You managed a weak, breathless laugh, and held your hand up. âThat bad, Kent?â
âThe worst.âÂ
âEh, call me the devil then.â
Laughing under his breath, Clark held your hand and helped you slide off the table. âSweetheart, if this is what the devil feels like, Iâm in serious trouble. Donât tell Ma.â
You laughed harder at that than your body appreciated, and the sharp little ache that followed made you wince, which didnât go unnoticed.
âHey, easy.â One stong arm circled your waist as you sat up, then slide carefully off the table. Your legs almost buckled, a vivid, aching reminder of what had just happened with every step.
âThere you are,â he said softly. âIâve got you.â
The archive box sat where it had been abandoned, half-open, papers and files still slanted everywhere in the aftermath of your disastrous attempt at reaching it.
Clark glanced toward it, then back at you, and something amused flickered across his face.
âHang on.â
He crossed the aisle in three steps, crouched, rifled briefly through the mess with the sort of efficient certainty that suggested he had, in fact, been paying more attention than he let on, and came up with a faded manila folder.
He held it out with a little flourish. âMetropolis Water Board file? Can't forget what brought us here in the first place.â
You took it from him, absurdly aware of how normal the folder felt in your hands compared to everything else that transpired.
âGee,â you nudged his side, rolling your eyes. âThanks. Couldnât have found this without you.â
"Hey," he snorted. "Told you I'd be helpful."
You made an affronted sound that only made him grin wider.
Together, you slipped out of the archives room and back into the dim newsroom, both of you trying with equal lack of success to look as though nothing had happened.
Every step reminded otherwise â the lingering warmth of him, the ache between your thighs, the way your skin still felt too hot. Your hair was a mess. Your mouth still tingled. The marks at your throat were beginning to darken, and you could feel heat rush to your face every time you thought about how little distance there really had been between that table and the hallway outside.
Clark walked beside you, no less compromised. Though he looked calmer now, there was still something unmistakably dazed about him, like part of him was back there in the archives with you, still trying to recover.
At your desk, you tucked the folder away for tomorrow with as much dignity as you could manage under the circumstances, and gathered your belongings.Â
Clarkâs hand found the small of your back again, thumb brushing slowly over the line of your spine before absentmindedly fiddling the tiny zipper at the back of your skirt.Â
You turned your head enough to look at him over your shoulder.
âCan I help you, tiger?â you raised an amused brow.
His thumb froze over the zipper, then flattened briefly at the base of your spine once more.
âItâs nothing,â he shrugged, though his tone gave him away immediately. âJust thinking.â
âOh, thatâs dangerous. About what?â
"That for the record,â he leaned in, âI donât think the devilâs ever touched anything the way you do.â
You went still, lips parting.
Clark affectionately pressed one last kiss to the corner of your swollen mouth, reached for your bag, then for your hand like this was any other evening, and not one you were both going to carry home to bed and into the following days.
.
Thank you for reading! Likes, comments, and reblogs FROM THE ORIGINAL POST are forever appreciated. Keeps me motivated!
âŠClark Masterlist - Read on aO3! - Main MasterlistâŠ
âŠpairing: Clark Kent x fem!readerâŠ
âŠsummary: There are very few people in the world that Clark truly, deeply, does not like. And you get on his nerves more than anyone else. But hate and love are very close emotions, aren't they?âŠ
âŠwarnings/tags: enemies to lovers, secret identity shenanigans, emotional angst, fluff, shenanigans, hella smut, lots of porn in this plot (emotional sex, dumbification, dirty talk, inexperinced/sensitive reader, finger sucking, clark gets nasty, body worship, overstimulation, fingering, oral f!recieving, begging, praise kink, squirting, big dick clark, he fucks like a machine, breeding kink), no use of y/n, no descrption of readerâŠ
âŠwc: 13.7kâŠ
âŠauthor's note: rewatched Bridgerton season 2 and had to enemies to lovers about it. Enjoy! Request from bestie @lilithxlmâŠ
Clark doesnât judge people. Not really.
He was raised better than that. He knows better than that. There are all kinds of things that can affect why someone is grumpy, angry, or acting poorly.
And maybe he judges actions sometimes, but good people do bad things, and annoying things, and dumb things. Kara does dumb things all, and Clark still loves her. Sheâs still a good person. Even Luthor has something in him, that Clark finds redeemable. Heâs very proud of being bald, and he has a passion for his work. Thatâs two, whole things.
Clarkâs never met someone he couldnât find anything good in. Sometimes it is⊠Work. To find the thing. But itâs always there, and that just means the work was worth it.
Then he met you.
You must have something. Everyone has something. But it is impossible to find that something, when youâre always launching LuthorCorp missiles at him and threatening him with lab grown kryptonite. Clark didnât even know that stuff could be grown in a lab, until he landed down in your labs for some run-of-the-mill standoff, and found himself face to face with your pretty eyes, and a gun, loaded with kryptonite bullets.
Not that youâre pretty. Youâve got objectively nice features, and Clark is far from blind, but beauty does not speak to character.
Not that youâre beautiful, either. And even if you are, itâs rotted away by whatever is on the inside. Whatever runs so deep, he canât find that tiny blossom of good, no matter how hard he tries.
âYou donât want to do this.â Heâd told you, that day in the lab.
When youâd smiled, it had reminded Clark of the wolves that used to hunt Ma and Paâs sheep. The ones that hadnât been afraid of him, and had gnashed and snarled until he dropped them miles away from the farm.
âYou donât know anything,â youâd drawled. âAbout what I want to do.â
That had seemed fair. He really didnât. âThere would be a death on your conscious-â
âThis wouldnât kill you, you fucking pussy.â Youâd rolled your eyes, and Clark had blinked.
âThat language doesnât seem necessary-â
âOh, Iâm sorry, boy scout.â Youâd smirked. âIt wouldnât kill you, you flying, caped, monkey-squirrel, sweet baby of justice.â
âI-â That had been strangely hurtful. âIâm just here to turn off Luthorâs reactor, okay-â
âItâs not Luthorâs reactor.â Youâd snapped. âItâs mine.â
âI hate to break it to you, but it kind of says Luthor on the side-â
âIâm well aware of what it says.â Your lip had curled, and Clark had tilted his head.
âYou know, this thing is probably going to blow and take out the whole city.â
Youâd scoffed. âNo, it wonât.â
âI have friends who are professionals in this kind of thing, they say it will.â
âYour friends are wrong.â
Clark had shrugged. âMaybe youâre wrong.â
âIâm never wrong.â Youâd raised your chin, and his lips had twitched slightly. He towered over youâhe towered over everyoneâbut watching you trying to be taller was like some puffed up, feral cat. Heâd pick you up with one hand and not even blink.
Not that heâd try to pick you up. You were a lady, and a human.
Although lady was by the loosest definition.
âEveryone is wrong sometimes,â heâd said gently, and you shrugged.
âIâm not everyone.â
âThereâs nothing wrong with being like other people-â
This had been deeply frustrating. âOkay, just- Look, I really need to turn off your reactor-â
âAnd Iâm really going to shoot you if you do that.â
Clark had rubbed a hand over his face. âI mean- Iâm really asking you not to-â
âThatâs not how shooting someone works. This,â youâd waved your gun. âIsnât a mutually consenting act.â
âItâs- Youâre going to kill thousands of people! Let me-â
âNo.â Youâd hissed when he took a step forward. âItâs perfectly safe, and youâre not touching it.â
âIf it was perfectly safe, would Lex Luthor have funded it?â Clark had challenged, hoping he didnât sound as desperate as he felt. âWould he have really taken a chance on something thatâs actually going to help people besides himself?â
Your eyes had narrowed, and for a brief second, Clark had thought heâd gotten through to you. It had been a glorious second. Heâd decided that you really were pretty, and beautiful, and all the other adjectives to describe someone who had a face like the moon.
Then youâd shot him. Point blank in the chest.
Clark had been shot a lot before. Heâd been exposed to kryptonite a lot before, as well.
That had maybe been the first time heâd thought he was dying. When heâd woken up, Gary told him heâd been groaning a womanâs name in his sleep.
Your name.
Clark had decided he didnât like you. Maybe you werenât a bad personâhe was clinging to the idea that deep, deep, deep down youâd shot him because you were being blackmailed, or were deep undercover, or Lex had you under some kind of mind controlâbut Clark didnât like you. It wasnât even the shooting thing. It was something deeply you, that wiggled into him like a worm in an apple, and made his blood pressure rise at the sound of your name.
And youâd been right. The reactor hadnât blown up. But that was luck from a very thin draw.
Next time, Clark would stop you. Then heâd tie you to a chair and have a very long, in-depth conversation where he figured out something to like about you, then everyone could move on.
Lois has a new informant. She wonât say who it is, no matter how much Clark causally pokes.
âConfidentiality, Kent, you know I canât tell you.â
âYeah, but- Itâs me. You know me, Lois, Iâm not going to tell anyone-â
âIt doesnât matter that itâs you.â Lois sighes, giving him a pointed look. âI promised her Iâd keep it between us, and that doesnât mean turning right around and telling anyone. I worked really hard to get her to trust me. Iâm not blowing that for anyone.â
Clark raises his brows. âSo itâs a woman?â
âI- Yes. But that,â she points a finger sternly, giving Clark a firm glare. âIs all you get.â
âWell, do you at least really trust her?â He braces his hands on his hips. âIf sheâs informing you on Lex Luthor, that means sheâs close, and- You know I think anyone can change, but you should always be careful with Luthorâs people.â
You.
Clark is thinking, very specifically, of you.
Because nobody moved on, and Clark has not stopped you.
If anything, heâs found more and more reasons to dislike you. And Lois insists her new informant is reliable, but now Clark is also worried that youâre going to find this mystery woman, and do something to her. Youâre everywhere like that. He thinks you might be more dangerous than Luthor.
And you were always hovering somewhere behind Lex now, pretty and sharp-tongued and annoying. Clark couldnât fight Lex when you were always just there watching. It felt like you were judging him, which he didnât care about, but he still didnât like.
Every time he slipped up in a fight, he could see you in the corner of his eyes, tilting your head like you were about to dissect him. If he was trading remarks during a fight and you were there, it was always impossible to find something smoother and more confident than whatever slipped like music from your lips. When it was your invention he was on, heâd started bringing back up in case you tried to shoot him again, but insteadâin a much more inconvenient fashionâyouâd decided to find a new way to evade him, every single time.
âYouâre five minutes late.â Youâd drawled a few months ago, not looking up from your desk as Clark and Guy landed in your lab.
Usually, by now, Clark had put a villain through at least three lab rebuilds. He liked seeing what they did with the new place, how theyâd improved on it from the old one that heâd either wrecked in a fight, or gotten them kicked out of for committing a multitude of crimes.
Youâve had the same lab, the whole time. He was getting sick of its soft colored walls and clean floors, of all the strange clutter you kept between parts on the desk. It was mocking him.
âI didnât know we were on a timer,â he said your name, and you hummed.
âYou donât know a lot of things, Superman. And I doubt Guy Gardener is going to help you fill in the gaps.â
Next to him, Guy had scowled. âHow the hell did you know-â
âI have security, you know.â Youâd spun in your chair, giving them a flat look. âAnd youâre the only one he hasnât tried to use yet.â
Youâd smiled, and it had been all full-lipped and sweet. Your hair had fallen a little over your face. You never smiled at Clark like that.
Heâd felt kind of sick. You smiling just seemed to have that effect on him.
âI think you know why Iâm here-â
âOf course I know why youâre here.â Youâd cut Clark off with an insulted glare. âAnd you know what Iâm going to say, and we both know how this is going to end. We can catch up first, if you want. Iâve been getting really into baking, since we last caught up.â Youâd spun in your chair, and now you were smiling at Clark, but it was colder. Mocking. âMy friend is having a baby, so Iâm making cookies.â
Guy had frowned. âFor⊠A newborn baby?â
âFor her, dumbass.â
Heâd blinked. âWow, youâre- Mean.â Guy had grinned, and Clark remembered why heâd decided to bring him last. âI like it. Question, what are your superpowers again, and do they come out in any weird sex ways.â
Youâd snorted. âNo.â
âNo, no superpowers, or no sex stuff-â
âYes.â
Guy had frowned, looking down at his outfit like that was why he might be getting rejected. Clark had cleared his throat, saying your name in the way he always forced himself to. Gentle. Like he was talking to a rabid animal.
âWeâre going to take the code to the beacon, now-â
âSupes.â Youâd sighed, kicking your feet lazily. âYou donât need to do the whole thing anymore. Itâs just me.â Youâd smiled. âCome fight, and lose.â
Clarkâs jaw had ticked. You said it so goddamn confidently, and once again, you were right.
He and Guy had given it their all, but youâd been ready. You were always ready, and always smiling, and always right, and it made Clark want to beat his own head against a wall.
âBye!â Youâd waved cheerfully when heâd retreated, beaming all bright and pretty. âYouâll get me next time, big guy!â
There had been a fever like feeling in his body, when heâd flown away. You hadnât even shot him this time.
âWhatâs that girlâs deal.â Guy had grumbled while they patched up, scowling at the air. Heâd gotten the worst of it.
âI donât know. She just⊠Showed up one day.â
And like a weed, he hasnât been able to get rid of you since.
It was driving him out of his mind.
Clark was running out of people to back him up. He was getting more and more distracted by your presence, and he was starting to recognize your smell. There was this cinnamon-apple candle you lit to stem off the chemical lab smell, and you used a similar kind of perfume, and every time he smelled it that fever returned. It got to the point that heâd smell the air for you like a dog, the second he touched down in a fight.
Heâs worried itâs turning into an obsession. He even asked Luthor about you. About where you came from, why he hired you, anything to help him understand exactly what made you so⊠you.
âWhy, Superman?â Luthor had smirked. âYou like something youâre seeing? Because let me tell you, sheâs more than worth the purchase, if youâve got the money. Or you could just pick her up and carry her off, like the ogre brute that you are-â
Clark had knocked him out. He wasnât going to entertain that.
But he still started watching closer, the way you and Luthor interacted. It was more than boss and employee. You smiled at him. Heâd defend you in a fight, which was never a good sign.
Clark didnât think heâd ever felt sicker, than when he pictured you and Luthor.
Together.
You smiling at him. Quipping at him without any venom or mockery in your voice. Tossing your air and batting your eyelashes, and-
He actually had no idea how youâd flirt. Clark pictured it something similar to a predator corning prey, but there was no bigger apex in this ecosystem than Luthor himself.
That was what Jimmy called a power couple.
Clark didnât like it.
He didnât like that, like that weed, no matter how he tried to pick away his thoughts of you they always grew back. You were stuck to him like a plaque, like a moss, like a parasite. You took his attention, his energy, a lot of his pride, every time you knocked him down without lifting one finger, your hair never even getting messed up in the fight.
Clark doesnât like you.
He thinks he might hate you. Heâs never really hated someone before, and he doesnât like that either.
But heâs trying, so hard, to find something for you. And thereâs nothing.
And he hates you even more, for that. For shaking him, and everything he knows. For getting such an iron hold on him without trying, digging your fingers in and leaving marks so deep, they donât even fade when he doesnât see you for months.
He hates that he still looks for you in those months. That itâs not relief when youâre gone, but something cool and light in his chest when youâre back. He tries to ignore it, just like he tries to ignore the fever. Theyâre not useful feelings, in dealing with the everything about you. He thinks theyâre just byproducts of the hate, because he never feels them with anyone else.
Clarkâs a grown man. He thought heâd felt most things.
And now youâre here.
And heâs really never hated anyone more.
âKent.â Lois taps his desk, her voice a hushed whisper. âI need a favor.â
Clark looks up from his desk with a frown. Lois doesnât ask for favors a lot. Lois doesnât ask for anything a lot. âWhatâs wrong?â
âRemember that informant Iâve been working with? The one who helped me break the piece about LuthorCorp and the animal experimentation?â
Clark nods. He remembers that clearly. Just as clearly as he remembers your lab, and all the super-powered bears that attacked him in your defense.
âWell, she told me she thinks Luthor is onto her. And I know heâs onto me.â Lois sighs, glancing over her shoulder. âIâve had someone following me all week. My phone isnât bugged, but I never let it leave my pocket, and- I checked my laptop. Someone installed a malware, itâs been downloading my emails to an off-bank server.â
Clarkâs hands curl on his keyboard. âYou think theyâve gotten to your woman-â
âNo. Sheâs smart.â Lois frowns. âSheâs been using some kind of extra-burner email? I donât know. She explained it, I didnât really follow. Youâll see.â
âOkay, thatâs good.â Clark pauses. âIâll see?â
âYeah. Thatâs the favor.â Lois pats his shoulder. âYouâre taking over for me.â
âLois, I-â
âLook, sheâs got a lot of information. I canât tell you anything specific, but this is the best source Iâve gotten, maybe ever. Iâm not losing her.â
âWell, you and I- Weâre different.â Clark leans back in his chair with a pleading expression. Itâs not that he doesnât want to help. Heâs just worked with Loisâ informants before, and theyâre all very disappointed heâs not Lois. âDid you ask her, if sheâd be fine with me taking over-â
âOh, I told her everything. And donât worry.â Lois smiles. âSheâll go easy on you.â
âEasy?â Clark laughs nervously, adjusting his glasses. âI mean, Itâs just a meeting, right?â
âSure, buddy. Just a meeting.â
Lois is good at a lot of things. She isnât good at being reassuring.Â
But Clark canât say no. Not to her. Not when itâs something thatâs going to help people.
Heâll meet the informant. Maybe sheâll be able to help him take down Luthor for good.
And, a tiny, bitter little voice crows from the back of his head, maybe sheâll be able to help him take you down.
Clark needs to stop predicting things. Heâs bad at it.
He walks into the library at noon on a Wednesday, just like Lois told him to. He sits in the romance section, his posture straight, his expression perfectly approachable as he scans politely over the titles on the shelf. His One Desire. Her Sin. The Roses In Lace. Lost at Sea. Found at Sea. Lost in Him. Found in Him. There seems to be a pattern, and he wonders about the overlap between stories. The informant is running late. Maybe she decided she didnât want to work with him. Clarkâs never loved these romances, but there must be some appeal to them if theyâre so popular. Reading is always good for you, andâas he takes one of the books off the shelfâhe decides there isnât really a better way to kill the time.
Itâs a bit of a drudge. The prose is lacking, and the two characters seem to have less chemistry than the cows back home. Clark re-reads a few sentences over and overâthe word cock is used quite a lot, and itâs starting to sound fake in his headâand the positions theyâre getting into canât be physically sound. Maybe heâs imagining them wrong.
âYouâre amazing.â She whispers, her lips tinkering over the soft, meaty flesh of his ear.
This man must have big ears. And Clark pauses, because thereâs a faint smell of vanilla and apple, and it makes him look up with a frown.
He must be imagining things. Or maybe his brain just associates you with meaty ears. Brains are strange like that. And you are haunting every facet of his life.
âI want you.â He growled. âYou are the sexiest thing Iâve ever fucking seen. My whore.â
Clarkâs frown deepens. He doesnât think this book is for him.
âThat one is bad.â
Clark looks up from the book, and his jaw drops.
Youâre standing across the table from him, your head tilted slightly, eyes locked onto his.
âThe sequel is better.â You hum, pulling out a chair. Sitting down. âI think the author really took the criticism of this one into consideration. She stopped using the word meaty so much.â
Clark blinks like an idiot. He doesnât think heâs ever actually been this close to you before. Youâre wearing normal-people clothing, instead of a lab coat with the LuthorCorp brand logo. Youâve got sunglasses on the top of your head, and your face is open and relaxed, but that might just be your inherent smugness.
Whatever perfume you use is suffocating him. Clogging his thoughts, smoking out everything but the ringing song of your name.
âAre you the bird?â You ask him, still tilting your head, and itâs kind of like how you look at him during fights.
You know. A loud alarm blares in his head. You know heâs Superman.
Clark laughs weakly, adjusting his glass. âI- Uh- Iâm a human man.â
Why the fuck would he say it like that. He never says it like that. Heâs been lying about his identity his whole life, and heâs never been such a fool to call himself a âhuman manâ-
âCongratulations?â You look like youâre trying not to laugh, and Clark feels his face heat.
Thereâs the fever again. Your attention is searing, and itâs winding his muscles so tight his hand has to curl into a fist on his knee. Maybe itâs your perfume. Maybe itâs some kind of secret pheromone.
âAre you, um-â He looks around the empty shelves. âAre you looking for something?â
You tilt your head again. Clark swallows.
âI, uh- I can help you find it.â
âNo.â You lean forward, and Clark is frozen in his seat. âI think I found it myself.â
Oh.
No.
The bird. Lois told him her informant would ask for the bird, and heâd have to say he was still growing wings. He remembers the conversation clearly. He even told Lois he thought that was a little convoluted, and sheâd laughed.
But now youâre in front of him. And you always make hisâincredibly controlledâthoughts all scrambled and messy.
He adjusts his glasses again, clearing his throat. âIâm not a bird.â He says slowly. âIâm still growing wings?â
You smile.
And thatâs not the smile heâs seen on you in the lab, or the saccharine, almost siren-like one you gave Guy.
Itâs real. Itâs a real smile, that makes your eyes shine like stars. The light pours out over you, and you look even more beautiful than before, and Clark didnât think that was possible.
He didnât think heâd find himself leaning forward, instead of away. His body drawing itself forward like a boulder being dragged out to sea. Heâs not a movable man. Heâs trained himself to think and restrain his every movement, every craven or hungry desire, for the safety of everyone around him.
But you smile.
And he canât do anything but move.
âIâm Clark Kent.â He sticks out a hand, and you glance down with an unreadable glint in your eyes.
âClark Kent.â You echo, and he nods.
âSorry Iâm not Lois.â
You smile again, at that. It sends a rush through Clark like a drug.
âIâm not.â
You take Clarkâs hand. Heâd always thought your skin would be cold and scaly, like a crocodile.
Itâs warm. Soft and warm, your fingers brushing over his wrist. His head spins, and he swallows on his own, bubbling, confusing thoughts. Theyâre more bursts of emotion. Sparks youâre making fly through his body, and a sticky feeling over his heart that oozes like honey.
You say your name, and Clark bites down an I know.
I know you. Youâre the bane of my existence, and I think you mightâve put Lois under a spell. Youâre putting me under one now. Let me go, because I know what you are.
Heâs so sure, that he knows what you are.
But you settle into the seat, and smile again, and Clark doesnât think he knows anything at all.
The first interview goes well, if not a little awkward. Clark stumbles over his words, and finds himself staring at you a little longer than normal. Worse, you donât seem fazed by it, just smiling right back and batting your eyelashes like some kind of doe he knows is made of teeth.
Thatâs the truly confusing part. Clark knows you. He thinks he knows you. He was pretty sure, that he knew you.
And the woman sitting across from him at the table is not you. Â
âHowâd you meet Lois?â He asks casually, as youâre wrapping up. Itâs a reasonable question. Naturally curious for anyone, not just Clark, who might have a pit growing in his stomach, that can only be fed by knowing more about you. âI mean- Iâve seen you on the news. Youâre close with Luthor. She said she had an informant-â
âDidnât think it would be me?â You smile again, and he coughs.
âDidnât think it would be anyone close to him.â
âWell.â You shrug, sliding your sunglass back over your brow. âClose is a very strong word.â
You donât offer him more than that. He doesnât get a chance to ask.
When you leave, he stands in the romance section for about three minutes, trying to figure out what just happened. Trying to make sense of a world thatâs flipped, and constant in his life being changed.
He hates you. Itâs been about a year and a half since you showed up, and Clark has become very certain in the fact that he doesnât hate anyone, expect for you. Lois would call that an exception that proves the rule.
And suddenly, youâre splitting the rule clean down the middle, with a single smile.
When he gets back to the Daily Planet, he relays almost everything that happened to Lois. He leaves out how heâd stared, and how pretty your eyelashes were, and how when you laugh for real itâs a musical sound. Like a bird, ringing through the air and calling everything else in response. Clark swore he felt a dizzying cloud form in his chest, when he heard your real laugh.
But thatâs not something Lois needs to know, so he doesnât tell her. He doesnât tell anyone.
He just thinks about it. Over, and over, and over again. He put your next meeting on the calendar. He stares at the date, and finds that pit in his stomach trying to gnaw at time. To get you closer again.
When the day comes, he goes early with an extra coffee in hand. He decides heâs trying to test how much you really trust him. Most villains never accept food or drink from anyone. Theyâre too paranoid.
The first part of his plan goes wrong when youâre there first. Waiting at the same table as before, reading one of the romance books off the shelf. You donât look up, when Clark sits across from you.
His foot bumps yours, under the table. He forces himself to ignore how the small touch shakes him like lightning.
âYouâre early.â You say, and he smiles.
âWeâre here at the same time.â
âI know.â You glare at him over your book. âAnd Iâm early. But Iâm always early.â
âYou were late last time.â
âI was testing you last time.â You shrug. âI wanted to see if youâd give up, and leave.â
Clark blinks. Heâd suspected that. It had been another part of his plan, to try and make you admit that everything you do is calculated and crude in some way.
He really hadnât expected you to just⊠admit it.
âDid I pass the test?â He asks, a little stupidly. You finally set the book down, and smile.
 âI donât know yet.â
âOh.â He swallows. âCan I ask what my grade is right now? If Iâm still being tested?â
Your smile widens. Itâs an enchanting sigh. âIâm still here, arenât I?â
âYeah. You are.â
Clark wishes he knew what that meant.
He wishes his own plan was better, too. He offers you the coffee, and you take it, but maybe you just like free coffee. He did get it from the fairly expensive place down the street.
Your fingers brush, when you take the cup from his hands. Itâs worse than the foot. Heâs almost stunned for a second, his eyes locked onto you like youâre a magnet.
He learns nothing. Youâre just as restrained and open as the first time, when he finally remembers heâs supposed to be interviewing you. He asks about Luthorâs plans down at the harbor, and you tell him about the deep-sea mining and threat to the environment. He asks if Luthor knows about the risks. You laugh, and itâs a little dry, but still one of the most beautiful sounds heâs ever heard.
âYou think he cares?â
Clark knows he doesnât. Heâs just surprised you know, too.
âWell,â he clicks the recorder off, and you raise your brows. âYou do work for him. You know him better than I do.â
âHm.â You take a long sip of your coffee. âI donât think thatâs true.â
âIt has to be, doesnât it?â
âMaybe. But I donât think it is.â
Itâs good to know that, even when youâre being nice, youâre still infuriating. âYouâre the closest member of his inner circle.â Clark argues. âYou have to at least know a little about him. I only interview him.â
âYou interview me. And Superman. Do you not know us?â
Clark swallows. âI know Superman. But- We work closer on things.â
âThings?â
âYeah. I canât say anything else.â He sits up a little. âSuperhero business.â
You just give him another strange look. âDoes he ever talk about me?â
Clark blinks. He thought you just forgot he existed, every time he flew away. âUh- No?â Heâs worried if he talks about you once, heâs never going to shut up. âWhy? Do you- What do you think of him?â
âOf Superman?â
Clark nods, and he has to drag himself back from leaning over the table. He doesnât know why heâd let himself ask that. But itâs too late to take it back.
âI work for Lex Luthor.â You shrug, turning your coffee in your hands. âOpinion is a luxury Iâm not afforded.â
He frowns. âEveryone gets an opinion. You can have it privately, but you still must have one.â You must think of me too.
âMaybe I do.â
âSo you do.â
âMaybe.â
âYou can tell me, if you agree with Luthor that heâs a- a plague sent to destroy humanity-â
âI donât think that.â Your voice is suddenly harsh, and Clark blinks.
âThen what do you think?â
You tilt your head at him, pulling your lower lip between your teeth. Clark snaps a pencil between his fingers.
Your gaze drops down to the fractured pieces, and you smile again. Clark realizes his breathing is shallow, becauseâfor reasons heâd rather not thing aboutâthis matters. You matter.
âI think heâs good man.â You say slowly. âAnd I think heâs a hopeful fool, and- Dangerous. To me.â
Clark swallows. He canât think of anything to say, so he just nods, and goes back to his pre-planned questions.
He thinks about your answer, for the rest of the week. It plays over and over in his mind, and he writes it on scraps of paper at his desk. It should make more sense. He should be able to let it go.
But itâs a part of you. And Clarkâs never been good at letting you go at all.
Clarkâs dependent on the pheromone theory now. Because if youâre just like thisâif you just consume his thoughts and follow him into his dreams, all on your ownâhe thinks he might be screwed.
Heâs screwed.
Clark counts down the days until you meet, and tries to talk to you as much as he possibly can when youâre there. He wants to understand, how you can be the impossibly enchanting woman across from him at the table, and the crude shell of a person who hovers behind Luthor at every press event and meeting.
The woman you are here is good. Amazing. Still made of some barbed wire, but Clarkâs getting better at weaving through it. And itâs not even that heâs uncovering that rot heâd always thought you to be made of. Youâre just⊠Not made of it. Not here.
Here, youâre made of flowers and honey and soft, summer fire. Here, Clark can picture you laughing with wind in your hair, teasing him without any venom all the time. He likes everything he learns about you here.
He doesnât understand how youâre the same person.
âDo you like these books?â He asks, nodding to the shelves of romance, and you shrug.
âSo what if I do?â
âNothing. Everyone- They can like whatever they want. I just⊠Didnât peg you to enjoy The Summer of Sin.â
Your face relaxes slightly. âWhy not? Do I not look like a romantic?â
Clark swallows. He thinks you look like everything. He barely knows better than to say it. âIâve imagined youâre more of a nonfiction enjoyer.â He settles on smoothly.
Thereâs a glint in your eyes. He knows immediately heâs made a mistake.
âYouâve imagined me?â
All the time. Most of his thoughts circle around you, and itâs even worse than before. Clarkâs found himself memorizing every detail about you he can scrape, weaving them together like a gorgeous, puzzled tapestry of a woman he knows heâs obsessed with. Thereâs no use fighting it anymore, when he wakes up and wonders what youâre doing. When he wanders through the day seeing you in every ray of sunlight through the windows and longer shadow on the floor.
Heâs hoped, at some point, that heâd find the string of you that unravels the whole thing. That tells him he was right the first time, and youâre no work of art. Just so shiny heâd been blinded, and everything heâd thought the first time had been right.
But that string isnât coming. And the more Clark learns about you, the more every color heâd painted you with become inverted.
Youâre not shiny up close. Youâre just⊠Glorious. Like water catching on the ocean, exposing the glittering rocks and life below.
âI- I donât- Not in- I think about you, yes, but-â
âWhat do you think about me?â
Clarkâs face must be burning red. He really wishes youâd stop looking at him. âA lot of things.â
That unreadable look flashes over your features. âAre they good?â
Thereâs something oddly heavy, in your voice. Clark can almost feel it in his hands, fluttering and delicate.
âMostly. Yes.â He tries to offer you a smile. âBut you are strange.â
You scowl. âI am not strange-â
âYou like romance books-â
âWhich is very normal.â You raise your chin, and Clark grins. It gets cuter every time. âTheyâre fun, Clark. Sometimes, you just need fun.â
âWhatâs fun about them?â He really wants to know. He wants to understand you.
âI- I donât know.â You glare down at your hands. âItâs escapism. You get to imagine that youâre a princess or something, instead of- Just another fucking person.â
Clark frowns. âI donât think youâre just another person.â
You snort. âYeah. I know.â
âIâm serious, you- Youâre a genius-â
âIâm tired.â You say firmly, and Clark realizes that you are.
There are bags under your eyes, almost perfectly covered by concealer. Your lips arenât chapped, but thereâs a little puff on the lower one from chewing, and your shoulders slumps. He doesnât know how he never noticed before.
Maybe you just never showed him. Never let him see.
âI know,â you speak slowly, not looking him fully in the eyes. âThat these books are stupid. But I like them. They- They help.â
âHelp? With-â
âEverything.â
âOh.â He swallows. âI could help. If you ever- Needed it. With anything.â
And he means it. He really would.
You smile at him, and he wants to ask if you think about him too. Not Supermanâa hopeful fool, dangerous to meâbut just Clark.
Instead, he just smiles back, and reveals in the way he sees your gaze relax. Â
He likes you like this. Youâre really not that different, when he thinks about it, and he doesnât understand how he was ever so wrong.
Clark is beginning to give up on understanding.
He just wants to know you.
Heâs back in your lab, for the first time since he took over for Lois. Itâs about the docks, and the deep-sea mining, and the pump that you told himâtold Clark, at leastâwas going to be put in the water. Jimmy found out that the pump was going to be filling the bay with a toxic chemical thatâs been compared to a truth serum.
Clark canât understand why youâd tell him, if it was your design.
And he doesnât understand why youâre just lying on the floor of your lab, scrolling on your phone when he arrives.
He clears his throat, and you sigh, craning your neck to frown at him.
âYouâre here.â
âYou and Luthor are going to pump the water with chemicals that will alter the free will of the people in Metropolis.â Heâd been rehearsing, on the flight over. Heâs trying to sound more heroic, and not dwelling on why. âHand over the pump, and we can do this the easy way.â
Your lips twitch. âYou mean the way where I kick your ass, and then walk away untouched.â
âI donât know if you kick my-â
âYes, I would.â
Yes, you would. âJust- Tell me where the pump is, please.â
âOh, thereâs no pump.â
Clark blinks. âWhat.â
âI donât have a pump. I made that up.â
âWha- Why would you do that-â
âI was testing something.â You shrug, patting the floor next to you. âSit down.â
Clark squints at the floor next to you. Thereâs nothing under it. When he looks at the ceiling, thereâs nothing there either. Youâre just⊠Asking him to sit down.
He pulls his cape behind him, and sits with his legs crossed at your side. You flop back down, your knees pulling up and your arms around your stomach. Clark doesnât expect the silence to last so long. Heâs not sure what to do with his hands, especially as they start to itch. Something about you is magnetic. Thereâs a wrinkle in your brow he wants to soothe with his thumb, but that might end with him getting shot again-
Your eyes suddenly lock onto his, and Clark swallows. In the low light, they glow like gemstones. He thinks he could get lost in them, if he was allowed to. Even if he wasnât really sure what heâd been diving into, heâs come to find that you donât exactly fall into predictably.
He likes trying.
Clark thinks he might want to learn everything about you, until heâs the only person in the world who understands.
âHi.â You whisper, your eyes still locked onto his.
Your voice is softer than heâs ever heard it before. Itâs unsettling, like silence before a storm.
âAre you alright?â He asks kindly, and your eyes narrow.
âShould I not be?â
âI donât know. Thatâs kind of why Iâm asking.â
He tries to smile at you, welcoming and warm. Your lips twitch. Thatâs better than nothing.
Even if you sigh, and look back up to the ceiling. Leaving Clark leaning a little forward, wondering if itâs wrong to lean closer, and try to drag your attention back.
âIs there something you need help with?â He offers, and you let out a soft, huffing laugh.
âNo. Not that you can help with.â
He frowns. âI donât know. I- Iâm actually pretty good.â He clears his throat. âAt helping with things. Itâs my job, in case you didnât know.â
You laugh, and this time itâs a little louder. âYou know what, I think Iâve heard.â
âYou think?â
âI watch the news.â
âAh.â Clark tries to read further into your expression. He doesnât think heâs very good at it. âAnd what do you think, when youâre watching the news?â
âOf you?â Youâre looking at him again. He sits up. He doesnât want you to look away.
Clark nods. âI, um- I know they do a lot of pieces on me.â He clears his throat. âI read the Daily Planet.â
âOh, you read it?â
âIâm not a big TV person.â He shrugs lamely, and you laugh again.
âSure.â
The silence lingers, but itâs not uncomfortable. Just⊠Odd. Clark doesnât think heâd ever been in your lab this long without suffering an injury. Itâs kind of nice. When he looks up at the ceiling, he realizes there are stars painted all over the tiles. That must be new. He wouldâve seen it before, if it wasnât-
âI had a bit of an⊠episode.â You murmur, and he thinks you might be reading his mind. âLast night. I started doing that, and couldnât stop, and nowâŠâ
You trail off, and Clark takes a deep breath through his nose. He can only smell you, and that intoxicating perfume. âYou air out the paint already?â
âI used a spray.â
âThat you⊠invented?â
You smile. âThat I bought from Costco.â
âOh.â Heâs making himself an idiot again. âI didnât know you could paint.â
âI donât anymore.â Youâre silent for another moment, and Clark tracks your every breath. âYou know, youâre from there.â
You point at the ceiling, and Clark cranes his neck to see the sky. Youâre pointing to a cluster of stars a few tiles over, and it takes him a second to understand what you mean. You didnât just paint the sky.
You mapped it. The constellations, accurate to the clear nights in Kansas he remembers so well.
And it feels like you mapped a part of him.
Clark looks down at you, and finds you watching him silently. He lays down slowly, just so your shoulders are brushing. When he offers you another smile, you return it.
He looks back to the sky, and lets himself exhale.
Youâre not going to attack him, and heâs not going to ask why.
Heâs just going to lie here, and watch the unmoving stars.
âI wanted to be an alien when I was a kid.â
Your words are sudden. As far as Clark had known, youâd been talking about LuthorCorp coverups. âHuh?â
âWhen I was like, five.â You cross your arms, leaning back in your chair. âI wanted to be an alien.â
âOh.â Clark blinks. âWhy?â
âBecause I wanted to be something.â
âYou are something.â
âWell, I wanted to be more.â
âWhat, an evil scientist?â
You go silent, and Clark wants to kick himself. That was rude, heâs never rude like that, you just- You do something to him. You make his brain fuzzy and his manners fade, clinging with sunken claws for control of his tongue and hands. Heâs been thinking about touching you a lot. About grazing his hand over the small of your back when you walked by, or hugging you before you leave, to see how youâd fit in his arms.
He thinks youâd fit well. That whatever is making you tired and sad, heâd be able to wrap over you and fend it away. Heâd keep you afloat like a lifejacket.
If you dragged him down with you, he might let you do that too.
He doesnât think you would. Right now, youâre staring at your hand, lips pressed in a tight line, and Clark feels like a jerk.
âI- I didnât mean-â
âItâs okay.â
âNo, Iâm sorry-â
âItâs fine.â You snap, and Clark swallows. âIâm fine.â
âYou, um- You kind of donât sound fine.â
âWell, I am.â
Clark doesnât know how to push against you. He has all the strength in the world, but youâre the most immovable things heâs ever seen. âOkay.â
âOkay.â
Youâre silent again, and Clark adjusts his glasses. Lois is going to kill him, if he just ruined this. And he wonât even fight back. Heâd deserve it, for making you look so sad.
âIâm not evil.â You mutter, and Clark sits up.
âI know-â
âBut Iâm not-â You shake your head, still looking at your hands. âIâm not you.â
Clark frowns. He doesnât understand what that means. âI mean⊠Yeah. Youâre not Lois either. Or Luthor.â
You laugh, but itâs not full. Itâs that hollow laugh you use, when Clark doesnât understand something. âNo. I mean- Yes, but thatâs not what I meant.â
âWhat did you mean?â He asks quickly.
You stare at him. For a long, long moment, youâre looking right at Clark, and heâd swear the world stopped spinning if he didnât feel the ground slipping from under his feet as his body tries to crash, face-first, into yours.
âI donât know.â You say softly. âBut- I wanted to be an alien.â
The words are supposed to mean something to him. He can hear it, ringing in your tone.
But either heâs not smart enough to understand, or youâre too smart, and youâve dumbed it down for him so much it means nothing anymore.
âI didnât want to be an alien.â He says carefully, trying to test the waters. âBut- I wanted to be a farmer. Like my parents.â
You tilt your head at him, and Clark clears his throat.
âI think youâd be a good farmer. Youâd like the sky. The quiet. You- Youâd like it.â
He doesnât think youâd like the bugs or the mud, but he doesnât say that. Thatâs not important.
All that matters is your small smile, and the way you relax again.
And Clark thinks this really might be something big. Bigger than just an obsession.
He feels his whole world ease, when you smile. And he thinks it might be love.
He goes to your lab, for no good reason. Thereâs nothing for him to fight you about, no false plans to investigate. He just wants to see you, and he thinks he might be welcome.
He still hovers outside the window for five minutes, just to talk himself into it. Last time might have been a fluke, and heâs about to get shot again.
Clark decides that itâs worth the risk.
âWhy were you outside for so long?â Youâre lying on the floor again, and Clark sighs.
âCameras?â
âMhm.â
He smiles to himself, sitting at your side. âI was trying to figure out if youâd try to kill me again, if I came inside.â
You scoff. âI have never tried to kill you.â
âI have injuries that say different-â
âIf I wanted to kill you, youâd be dead.â You look right at Clark as you say it, and he balls his hand into a fist.
He wants to trace the line of your teasing smile. He wants to memorize it.
Itâs one of the last things he has to memorize about you. The most forbidden thing.
And he wants it more than anything.
âI believe that.â He says, and your smile widens.
âThank you.â
âYouâre welcome.â Clark lies down, and you turn your head to hold his gaze.
Your breath is warm, fanning over his face. Your hands are crossed over your stomach, and there are tiny little divets in your face that Clark is only able to really notice this close. Your eyes are a little uneven, and your teeth a little crooked, and itâs all perfect.
âCan I ask you something?â You breathe, and he nods without thinking.
âAnything.â
You hum, fidgeting with your fingers as you look back up to the ceiling. âWhat do you think of me?â
Itâs not what Clark expects, but you have such a habit of stunning him, heâs learned to recover fast. Clark clears his throat, watching your profile like if he stares enough, heâll close his eyes and see you clearer than he does in his dreams.
âYou donât have to answer-â
âI think youâre a good person.â Clark murmurs, and you look back to him with wide eyes. âAnd I think youâre angry, and you should be, but- I think youâre a threat.â
âA threat?â Your brow furrows, and Clark shakes his head.
âTo you.â
âYou think Iâm a threat to myself-â
âAnd to me.â
âI- But not anyone else?â
Clark shakes his head. âNo. Not to anyone else.â
You laugh that hollow sound, and look back to the ceiling. âSomeone once told me I was evil.â
Clark cringes. âHe was an idiot-â
âHe was right.â
You look to him, and thereâs something so sad and heavy in your eyes, Clark is sure the only way to get rid of it is to burn it away.Â
But all he can do is shake his head. âNo. He wasnât.â
âIâm a threat to you.â
âI know.â
âYouâre Superman.â
âIâm aware.â
That gets a tiny smile. âHistorically, threats to Superman are evil.â
Clark pretends to consider your words for a second, even though he already knows his answer.
âThere are different ways to be a threat. Thereâs offensive, and defensive, and- Distractions.â
âIs that what I am? A distraction?â
Clark lets himself smile at that. You have no idea.
âIâm here, arenât I.â
You laugh softly, your eyes still not leaving his.
âI read a romance book last week,â he adds, trying to get you to understand without spooking you away.
âDid you like it.â
âIt was enlightening.â
âWhat,â you snort. âAbout sex?â
âNo.â He snorts. âIâm- I know about that.â
âYouâre a boy scout, Supes, itâs not insane-â
âI have everything humans do.â He gives you an amused look, and suddenly, youâre silent, your eyes shining in the dark.
âYeah?â Your voice is barely a breath, and Clark shrugs.
âYep. There were just some things in that book I donât think anyone can do. Or- I guess, but it would take a lot of work. And most human men donât have that stamina.â
Heâs expecting a little, smart remark of and what, you do? But youâre just silent. Gaping at him, your face softly flushed. Clark isnât sure what he did.
But he likes how relaxed you look. If itâs because of his conversation, heâs more than happy to offer more.
âI might read another, if you have any recommendations.â
âReally?â
He nods. âI didnât like it a whole lot, it was very⊠explicit. But Iâd read another.â
He doesnât say for you.
But with the way your eyes widen slightly, he thinks you understand just fine.
âIâll bring you some on Wednesday.â You whisper, and Clark grins. Gifts. Thatâs progress.
Itâs only hours later, when heâs alone in his apartment, that he realizes what he said.
How, just like always, you scrambled him. You blurred lines.
Superman doesnât know about the romance books. Clark does. But he just slipped into you like always.
Clark doesnât swear, expect under two circumstances.
Sex, and when heâs really fucked up.
And when he realizes heâs all but told you heâs superman, thereâs only one thing he can think.
Shit.
Youâre not there, the next day.
Clark goes to the usual section, and youâre not there waiting for him. He waits until the librarians start to look at him weird, then he sends you a short, worried email, and leaves.
You donât respond. Heâs checking every five minutes, and the hours creep slowly as he refreshes, over and over and over, hoping this time heâll just get a sign that youâre alive.
He doesnât think youâd turn him over to Luthor. Youâve been working against Luthor for a while, with Lois, and even if you wanted toâwhich you wouldnâtâyouâd have to admit that youâd been meeting him as Clark, and letting him into your lab.
Or you could just lie. Youâre quite a good liar.
No.
You wouldnât tell Luthor.
Clark still feels like his skin his trying to crawl off his body, the longer he waits. He considers asking Lois if you ever stood her up, but he already knows the answer.
You know. You know.
And now, youâre gone.
Clark drags his feet home. Heâd flown to your lab after leaving the Daily Planet, and you werenât in your lab, or any of the LuthorCorp building. Some part of him should be glad, if you just picked up and ran. Maybe you can find a farm, far away from Luthor, and live a nice, quiet life.
But most of him just misses you. And is worried, and wants you to come back. It would be creepy, to scour the whole planet to try and find you. And it would probably take a few days, if heâs really looking. But he could do it.
Heâs trying to remember how much PTO he has banked, when he climbs the stairs to his apartment. You canât have gone that far, unless you used a portal. Then you could be anywhere. If youâre on another planet, thatâs going to take weeks, and if youâre in another galaxy that might be months-
Youâre on the couch.
Clark opens his door, and finds you on his couch.
You smile at him, like you didnât just break into his apartment. âHi.â
âI- What are you-â
âI didnât want to show up at the Daily Planet. Would have been asking for open fire.â
âAsking for- What the heck are you talking about-â
You pull up your oddly dirty shirt, and Clark feels his bones get heavy and cold. Thereâs a pattern of deep, purpling bruises all over your stomach.
Youâre hurt. Heâd been so stupefied by your presence, he somehow hadnât noticed you were hurt.
His bag slips from his hand, as he rushes to your side. You wince, hissing through your teeth when his fingers graze one of the marks, and Clark swallows down his blurred anger and panic.
âYou- Who-â
âLuthor.â You mutter. âTurns out he also has cameras.â
Clarkâs gaze shoots up, and he finds you already watching him. âAnd he did this.â
âHe got angry I wouldnât tell him who Superman is.â You say flatly. âWhen we were clearly so cozy.â
His hands fist. If he went now, heâd be back within ten minutes, and Luthor would be chained to the top of the Eiffel tower, his bald head freezing off.
But youâre in front of him now. And thatâs what needs to matter.
âOkay. We- We need to get you in a bath. I have a bath.â
âWow, arenât we fancy.â
He gives you a flat look. âDonât sass me. I can leave you on the couch, you know.â
You tilt your head at him, and smile. âNo, you wonât.â
Clark stands up, braces his hands on his hips, and glares at you. You glare right back, and he doesnât know why he thought heâd ever possibly win this.
He groans, ducks down, and picks you up. You smile at him, and he sighs.
âI know. Donât- You donât have to say it.â
Your smile just widens, and Clark thinks he can lose a lot of fights, if they make you smile.
While you take the bath, he waits in his kitchen. Youâre going to need to ice that, but he doesnât actually have ice packs. Heâs never needed them.
He flies up a little north to get them. Youâll be fine on your own for five minutes, and he doesnât want to accidentally get you ice that melts too fast, or isnât cold enough, or anything less acceptable than you deserve.
Itâs a welcome distraction, too. From thoughts of you, in his bathtub. Naked and breathing slowly, your thighs pressed together underwater, or spread wide, baring you up to be seen-
Clark sticks his face in the snow. This is the last bit of control heâs managed to keep, the last leash heâs still on. He wonât let it slip now.
Youâre wrapped in a towel on the couch, when he gets back. Clark frowns, and opens his mouth.
âIâm not made of glass.â You snap before he can speak, and he sighs.
âI know, but you are injured. Itâs not good to put extra strain, when your body is already trying to recover-â
âAre you a doctor now, too?â
Clark stares at your scowl, and it slides off in a second. You look back to your hands, your voice turning into that smaller one he doesnât think you use with anyone else.
âSorry.â
âItâs okay, youâve had a long day-â
âNo. I- I was- Iâm sorry.â You glare at him again, like youâre challenging him to try and refuse the apology again.
He wouldnât dare.
âOkay.â He approaches you slowly, holding up his makeshift ice. âI- I got this for you.â
You frown at him. âA wet hand?â
Clark follows your gaze, and groans. Heâd spent too long staring at you, and forgotten to wrap it in cloth. The ice melted.
âAlright, Iâll just go get more-â
âDonât you have frost breath.â
Oh. He does.
But he wishes he protested more about that being a bad idea. It means he has to kneel down in front of you, very carefully open up your towel, and pretend he canât see the underside of your breast as he blows on your stomach. Your whole body twitches under his hands, pinning you gently to the couch.
Heâs still in control.
âHowâd you know where I live?â He asks between breaths, and you grunt.
âI looked it up the day after we met.â
Clark looks up at you in surprise. âWhat? Did you do that with Lois-â
âNo. Lois isnât Superman.â
His fingers curl on your sides, and you blink at him with an oddly soft shine in your eyes.
The day you met. The day.
âYouâve-â
âYeah.â
âBut- I was wearing the glasses-â
âI know.â You smirk. âHow ever did I figure it out.â
Clark rubs a hand over his face. âNo, you donât understand, they have this- Itâs like a magic trick, thatâs literally supposed to be impossible.â
âShit.â You laugh weakly, your body curving from the pain. âI think you should ask for a refund.â
Clark chuckles, pinning you a little tight to the couch. He doesnât want you to be able to move too much. You might get more hurt.
âWas it something I said?â He asks, and you shake your head.
âI- I just knew, okay? Thatâs it. It doesnât have to be a big thing.â
Clark thinks it does have to be a big thing. It should be a huge thing, that youâve known the whole time, and just⊠said nothing.
But youâre still injured. And Luthor might be looking for you.
So he just sighs again and blows on your stomach. Your back arches into him, this time. If he couldnât see the flutter of your eyes and ripple of your body under his handsâclearly trying to react as little as possibleâheâd think you were torturing him on purpose.
âYou should stay here.â He mutters. âUntil itâs safe.â
You scoff. âNo. Iâm not doing that.â
Clark frowns. âLuthor isnât going to let up until he finds you-â
âI can disappear-â
âNot right now. Not like this.â He grazes his thumb over your bare skin, and a noise awfully close to a moan escapes your lips.
âClark, fuck-â Your head tips back, your hand shooting into his hair, and that was a really bad idea.
Your moan might be the most addictive sound heâs ever heard. Thatâs a selfish thing for his focus to be, right now.
âYouâre staying here.â He says firmly, then pauses. âOr- Lois can take you. If that would be more comfortable.â
He doesnât want it to be. He wants you here, where he can keep you safe himself, and talk to you all the time. But itâs not about him.Â
âNo.â You snap. âIâll go in the morning-â
âIâm not letting you do that.â
âOh, youâre not letting me-â
âIâm not just- Just going to sit here and let you walk out, only to find out that Luthor grabbed you and now I have to go save you!â Clarkâs voice is rising, but you donât balk. You just roll your eyes, and lean your head back on the sofa.
âPlease. You- You donât have to do that.â
âDo what? Stop you from getting yourself hurt?! You work with Luthor, you know what heâs capable of-â
âYou know what Iâm capable of.â You hiss, and Clark shakes his head.
âAnd I know youâre a better person than he is, you wonât go to the same- The same insane extremes-â
âWonât I? You said it, you said Iâm an evil scientist-â
âYou know I didnât mean that-â
âDonât I?â
âYes, you do-â
âDo I-â
âStop doing that!â Clark shouts, and your mouth snaps shut.
He doesnât know when, but heâd risen up on his knees. Your faces are only inches apart, your eyes wide and lips parted, and for once Clarkâs got you completely quiet. He grabs your knee lightly. He doesnât want you to go away.Â
âYou are infuriating.â He mutters, holding your gaze. âAnd confusing, and I- I donât understand howsomeone so⊠So-â He shakes his head. âSo you ended up with someone like Luthor. But I know that youâre not evil. And I know that Lex- He doesnât forgive grievances. He wonât just let you go, and Iâm not letting you get hurt.â
You stare at him for another handful of minutes. When you speak again, your voice is small. âWhy?â
âWhy?â
âWhy would you care.â You whisper. âI- I know what Iâve done-â
âIt was never really you-â
âThen what I helped do, and I- I was just young, and stupid, and I didnât have a lot of choices and he listened but- I still-â You reach up, grabbing the collar of his shirt. Like heâs the last thing you have to hold onto in the world. âYou stopped. You stopped asking me to stop, and you- I thought you gave up.â
Clarkâs lips twitch despite himself. In way, he had given up.
Heâd stop trying to convince himself there was anything about you that needed to be fixed.
âYouâre not exactly a moveable person,â he mutters your name, leaning a little closer. âAnd I- I guess I just decided I didnât care.â
âYou didnât care-â
âWhat you were doing. Or- Why. I trusted you.â Clark swallows. Your noses are bumping, and your skin is warm under his hands. âAnd I want to help. Let me help.â
You stare at him, and for a second, he thinks youâre going to try and pull away. So he says the only thing heâs been able to think of you, letting it fall from his lips with ease.
âI love you.â Clark strokes his thumb over that furrow in your brow, and your breath hitches. âPlease. Let me help.â
Silence lingers again. Itâs the loudest heâs ever heard.
And this time, you donât break it.
You just nod.
Your eyes fall to Clarkâs lips, then dart back up. Your breathing is coming shallow, and your skin is getting warmer. Clarkâs drowning in you, in being this close, and then he smells it.
Need.
You need him, and he wants to give. To show you that something can be soft, that youâre worthy of every bit of care he has to offer. He leans in, just enough to brush his lips over yours.
You open for him in a second, a moan falling from your lips.
And Clark lets everything in him snap.
He surges up. Grabs your jaw to keep you steady, and kisses you with everything heâs let wind up inside him for months. His lips move against yours in a smooth rhythm, his tongue tracing over the line of your teeth before pressing down your throat. He canât find himself to have enough of you, doesnât think there can be enough. You taste a little salty, and your moans are soft and loud, and itâs just as addictive as the rest of you.
Clark presses over you, careful that his weight doesnât crush you. You tip your head even further back, until your eyes are fluttering whenever he pulls away to catch the shortest breath. The kisses are sloppy, like neither of you can bear to pull apart for a second. His hand on your thigh wanders up, tracing over soft, hidden skin under your towel, and you shiver. For a second heâs ready to pull back, check that heâs not hurting you more, but youâre kissing him with the same desperate fervor as before. You let out a sweet little gasp when Clark squeezes your thigh, and his lips twitch.
You like.
You like this plenty.
Clark tips your head a little to the side, dragging his lips down your throat, letting his hand knead against your skin. Youâre reactive, every light touch making your whole body shake. Clark has to bite down a groan, as the smell of your arousal starts to flood his senses. He nips under your neck, and a breathy whine leaves your lips, one hand shooting into his hair.
âClark- Oh- Oh my god-â
âI know.â He mutters, sucking on the small hurt. âYou got no idea, how long I wanted this. Thought I was going crazy, sweetheart, you have no idea-â
You make a mumbled sound, pulling on his hair, and Clark glances up to find you staring at him with shining, doe-like eyes. It knocks the air out of him, and thatâs not supposed to be possible.
But you defy a lot of things, for him. Whatâs just one more?
âYou,â he drops his brow against yours, and your hands press flat on his chest. âYou are beautiful.â
Your lower lip wobbles, and Clark kisses you slowly. Lazily. Heâs got you, pliable and wanting below him. If heâs taking anything heâs offered, heâs doing it for you, not to you.
And it pays off immediately, when you start to work yourself up. Your kisses turn frenzied, your hips rolling up into his hand, and Clarkâs fingers brush against wetness, dribbling down your thighs. He groans against your lips, and is rewarded with another high, breathless plea.
âWant you.â He mutters, keeping his hand firmly planted down, closer to your knee. âIâll be gentle, swear it, just- Want you-â
You nod, your mouth slack, and Clark pulls up with a small frown.
His hand on your head drags down to cup your jaw, his thumb tracing over your swollen lips. They hang open, and he has a feeling if he pressed his thumb forwards, youâd take it with shiny eyes and a moan.
But youâre just staring at him. All your bravado is gone, and youâre just blinking at Clark with a glazed, lustful expression.
âCan you say you want this?â He rasps, pressing his brow lightly over yours. âTell me, baby. I can give you anything, but- You gotta tell me.â
You nod again, and Clark gently taps your lips.
âWords.â
âYes.â You whisper, your fingers digging against his skin. âClark, please, yes. I- I want you, want you so bad, please-â
Clark kisses you again, a little worried if he lets you keep going, youâre not going to be able to stop. You moan happily against his lips, and whine when he pulls away again.
He presses his brow back against yours, and lets his gaze drag slowly down your body. The towel has fully fallen away, exposing you to the room, and he thinks heâd be drooling, if he had a little less self-control.
âHolyâŠâ He drags one hand slowly down your bare side, feeling the blood rush into his cock. âFuck, baby, youâre- Youâre amazing.â
Clark expects a teasing response, about the swearing. Instead he only gets silence, and when he glances back up, youâre staring at him with the widest, most flustered expression heâs ever seen. He squeezes your waist, and your hand flies up to cup his cheek. Clark smiles, and kisses the inside of your wrist, watching your breath catch from such a small touch.
Just to test, he moves his hand from your thigh to just under your breast, cupping your ribs and letting his thumb graze over your nipple. The reaction is immediate. You shudder, eyes batting and a long, musical whine filling the room.
Clark raises his brows, and your flush deepens, your eyes darting away. He canât have that.
He mutters your name gently, and you shake your head, still avoiding his gaze.
âI- Iâm fine-â
âYou donât look it.â He says, rising fully up so no matter where you try to look, youâre going to see him. âSweetheart, I need you all into this-â
âI am all- You know-â
âI donât. And youâre not looking at me.â
You sigh, dragging your face back, but keeping your eyes squeezed shut. Clark frowns, worried that your injuries are worse than he thought, and youâre trying to push through it for his sake when he should be taking care of you and letting you rest-
âIâm notâŠâ You take a heavy breath, your nose scrunched in the most adorable way heâs ever seen.
Clark says your name, and you shake your head, your arms wrapping around your stomach.
âI donât do this.â You blurt, body curling into the cushion. âI donât- I- Sex isnât- I have a job.â
He blinks at you. âI⊠Also have a job-â
âYou have a life.â You cut him off with a mumble. âI- I work. And I go home. And I look at the internet, then I work again, and I- I donât- This.â You gesture between your bodies. âI donât do this.â
Clark stares at you for a second. Your flustered, embarrassed expression, your heartbeat pounding in his ears. âDo you⊠Want to-â
âYes.â Your eyes shoot open, pleading on his. âBut- I just-â
You shake your head, looking back to some random spot on his shoulder.
âIâm not- Iâm not good at it.â Your voice is small. âAnd youâre- Youâre-â
Just to test something, Clark squeezes under your ribs again. A loud moan falls from your lips, your eyes wide on his as your whole body grinds up in response to the touch.
âClarkâŠâ You whine, and he grins, ducking down to kiss you, slow and soft.
You melt right into him, another pretty sound escaping when he moves his full hand to palm at your breast.
âOh- Oh my-â
âIâve got you.â He kisses away your flustered pleas. âI can take care of it, baby, you donât need to do anything.â
Your nose scrunches again, and Clark thinks youâd protest if you werenât already so dazed from light touches.
He needs to work you up as much as heâs allowed. Needs to see what youâre like when youâre nothing but putty in his hands, because he loves your smart mouth, but he also loves the softness that only he gets to see.
This part of you, molten and writhing as the kisses grow more intense, is all Clarkâs.
He drops one hand, keeping the other firmly planted on your breast, and starts to tease over your soaked folds. You arch into him, and he presses back down gently, giving you a stern look.
âIâve got it.â
âClark-â
He kisses your neck and you moan, your fingers tangling in his hair.
âLet me, baby.â He mutters against your skin, his thumb dragging over your clit. âPlease.â
You nod, your body already going limp under his hands, and he grins.
Clark starts to kiss down your body, letting his hand against your core slowly work you up.
âYouâre soaked.â He open-mouth kisses your neglected breast, petting your pussy with two fingers, letting them dip into your fluttering entrance with every touch. âYou like me this much, sweetheart. âCause I know how much I like you.â
He slaps your cunt lightly, and grins at the loud whine of delight that tears from your lips.
âThere you go.â He slides two fingers slowly inside you, biting back a groan at how easy they go in, your walls fluttering around him. âThatâs it.â He licks your nipple, scissoring his fingers slowly, stretching you open. âThatâs a good girl, takinâ it so good for me.â
Oh, you like that. Your clench tight around him, dripping down his fingers, and Clark groans against your skin. Just the smell of your need is intoxicating, he needs to taste you or he thinks he might go mad.
âLookinâ so pretty for me, sweet girl.â He kisses down your stomach, careful of your injuries. âShit, your pussy is tight, bet itâs gonna feel so good âround my cock-â
You moan loudly, and Clark grins, tongue tracing over your hip bone as his fingers drag over your walls, looking for that gummy spot thatâs going to give him what he wants. He finds it fast, and marvels in the way your whole body trembles, your fingers pulling weakly at his hair like youâre not sure what to do with the pleasure heâs giving you.
He watching your mouth hang open, as he crooks his fingers and starts to rub inside of you. Another lewd sound falls from your lips, and itâs the best thing Clarkâs ever heard. He kisses the inside of your thigh, then the opposite thigh, then right over your clit. He keeps himself feather light and teasing, watching your body quiver with anticipation. He presses hard inside you, hovering his lips right over the little button, and grins.
âRelax for me, baby.â He orders, and you whine, but try. Clark can see how much youâre trying, but heâs already wound you up too much.
âI need- Clark-â
âI know. Iâve got you.â He uses his free hand to pull your pussy lips over from your clit, exposing the swollen nerves fully.
He blows on it once, starting to rub his fingers furiously inside you, and thatâs all it takes.
The sight of you coming might be the best thing heâs ever seen. Youâre gorgeous, shaking and writhing above him, the sound leaving you sounding like a siren call, his name the only word possible to make out between your moans. He needs more. He needs all of it.
Clark starts to lick your clit, light and fast, and your orgasm drags on. You wonât stop spasming around his fingers, still working you open, and your eyes get impossibly wide as you realize what heâs doing.
âClark- Fuck- Oh-â Your head throws back, your thighs wrapping tight around his head. âOh- Oh- Oh my god-â
He doesnât need to come up for air. He doesnât need air anymore, not when he has this. He shoves his face fully into your pussy, starting to pump his fingers in time with the work of his tongue, and in no time your thighs are trembling, your body limp from the second orgasm he drags out. Youâre gushing all over his face, your pussy so oversensitive that when he pulls out and just traces his fingers over your hole, your body arches like heâs fucking you into the couch.
Youâre more than ready for him, but he still takes his time. He was right. You taste better than you smell, and he thinks he could get drunk on it. Clark drags his tongue down to your entrance, letting himself lap up your release with a loud moan. Heâs so hard it hurts, and youâre so perfect, he might be about to blow it in his pants.
Itâs an effort, but he pushes himself back up over you. Youâre blinking at him all doe-eyed again, and he smiles. When he leans down to kiss you, youâre somehow more desperate than before.
âThat good?â He asks softly, and you nod.
âSo good.â You moan. âSo- Oh my god-â
Clarkâs fumbling with his belt buckle as you scratch at his chest, and you whimper against his lips as he drags the head of his cock against your puffy pussy. He marvels at the way youâre already trying to relax, your hips angling up to invite him in.
âYou that desperate for some cock, baby?â He teases gently, and you nod like a bobblehead. âYou want me to fill this pussy up, fuck you âtill you canât walk?â
âFuck,â you breathe out, your head tipping back like you donât even have the strength to keep it up. âClark- I- I-â
He kisses you deeply, muttering against your lips. âSay it. Say you want me, sweetheart, beg for me-â
âClark-â
âYou can do it,â he taps the head of him against your clit, and you squeak. âYouâre so smart, you know how to say please-â
âPlease.â You breathe, your eyes glossy, voice barely a breath.. âPlease, please, fuck- please, I love you, I need you so bad-â
Clark slams over you, his head getting clouded as it absorbs your words. You love him. You love him.
Heâd give you the world.
âGood girl.â He grunts, just to see you get all pretty and flustered about it, even as his dick grinds against your drenched cunt. âThatâs my good girl, love you so much- You- Fuck- You have no idea-â
And he feels a swell of pride, at how well youâre reacting just to his words. Youâre restless below him, not taking anything but just silently begging, and heâs going to give you it all.
âLie down,â he kisses you lightly, guiding you onto your back in the cushions, hiking one leg up over his shoulder and pressing the other back into your chest. You pussy is on full display, letting his rub it gently as you settle into the folded position. He looks up to find you gaping at his cock, and he grins.
âYou- Youâre-â
âI know.â He clears his throat. He tries not to think about it. Itâs far from the most important thing about him. âIâm gonna be gentle-â
âI- I donât know- I donât think I can take it-â
âYeah, you can.â He leans down, kissing you sweetly. âYou will.â
You whine doubtfully, but Clark knows what heâs doing. He keeps his lips working against yours, his thumb rubbing your clit slowly as he starts to slowly push himself inside. Your mouth falls into a pretty little O, and he chuckles, kissing the corner of your mouth.
âI know.â He coos, rubbing a little firmer. âYouâre doinâ so good for me, sweet girl, taking me-â He bites back a groan as you wrap around him, warm and gummy and perfect. âYouâre takinâ me so well, youâve got it, almost there.â
You moan beneath him, and the sound vibrates around Clarkâs dick. He has to bite his tongue, to stop himself from coming right there. Heâs really not sure how long heâs going to last, but nobody can blame him.
Not with you, cockdrunk and gaping under him. He lets you adjust, when he bottoms out, and your breathing is shallow and breathy in his ear. He coos the best praise he can, while also trying to drag himself back under control.
When he rises up, dragging his hips slowly back, your arms wrap around his neck, and he groans.
âYou feel so good.â He groans. âSo fuckinâ good, I- Jesus.â
He pushes forward again, and you look up at him like heâs more than a god. More than the hero.
You look at him like heâs the sun itself, and heâs shining just for you.
He thinks he is.
So again, he lets himself snap.
Clark starts his pace slow and lazy, making sure heâs angled to drag over your g-spot with every thrust. He keeps his voice low, kissing all over your face, helping you through it.
âThatâs it.â He mutters. âThatâs a good girl, all pretty and dumb for me, youâre letting it feel good, arenât you sweetheart?â He taps your cheek, pressing forward a little harder, and grins at your whimper. âCome on, youâre so good at telling me what youâre thinking-â
âMore.â You breathe out, and Clark swallows. âMore, Clark, more-â
âYes, maâam.â He grunts, slamming his lips over yours, and maybe another time heâll be able to find it in him to tease you.
Today, he just needs to give.
He picks up pace without any further warning, and finds his own words slipping away fast. You squeeze around him, every time he bullies that soft spot inside of you, and the sound of your breathless gasps mixed with his cock slamming in and out of your cunt is almost too much for him to bear. He busies himself with kissing you everywhere he can reach, letting his hands wander to memorize every spot that makes you arch further into him, making the angle deeper, until heâs pressing against your cervix.
âShit,â he groans, pressing his face deep into your neck. âGonna cum, baby, need- Where do you-â
You donât answer with words. You lock your arms around him tighter, rolling your hips up and keeping him thrusting, shallow and rough, against you. Heâd laugh if his head wasnât fogged with your touch, your body moving so well against his.
Clark pushes his hand between your bodies, rubbing your clit back and forth as fast as he can. You shriek, overwhelmed by the sensation, and try to crawl away, but Clark pulls you tight into his chest.
âCanât- Canât take another-â
âYes, you can.â He grunts, kissing your open mouth. âYou can do it, baby, do it for me, come on-â
You cum with a scream of his name, and Clark feels something hot and wet flooding over his dick, as you contract tight around him. Youâre squirting, gushing over his cock, and it drives him right over the edge. He feels himself snap, his balls slapping against your ass as he fucks into your through his release, your name falling from his lips like a prayer.
When heâs done, youâre trembling beneath him, your lips brushing over his jaw like youâre trying to kiss him, but donât have enough strength. Clark takes over for you, turning his lips to capture yours in a lazy, loving kiss.
He grabs his shirt off the floor, along with a blanket tossed onto the coffee table, and uses them to cover you while he gets a cloth to clean you up with. Youâre limp on the couch, staring at the ceiling with a dazed smile, and Clark feels that pride blooming back in his chest, knowing he made you feel so good. You donât fight it, when he dabs away your mixed releases, then pulls you into his arms. Brings you to the bathroom, waiting patiently while you pee before carrying you to bed.
If you need, heâll sleep on the couch. But youâre getting the bed.
You sit in his lap, face pressed into his neck, and he drags his hand up and down your spine. Youâre so soft, and his.
Like this, you get to just be his.
âYou really love me?â You breathe against his ear, and he nods.
âYeah. A whole lot, actually.â He pauses, then mutters, âAnd you-â
âReally.â You tilt your head, giving him a tiny smile. âSo much.â
He chuckles, kissing you gently again. Heâs never going to get tired of it. Never going to get tired of you.
âStay here.â He mutters against your lips. âWith me. If- If you want to, of course-â
âI do.â You breathe. âI want to.â
Clark leans back, cradling your face in his hand. âReally.â
You nod nervously, and he grins.
You smile back, tentative but real, and Clark presses back down into a kiss.
He doesnât think thereâs anything thatâs quite as good as this.
As good as you, content and happy in his arms.
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đđđđđđđđ â· Clark Kent only wanted pasta. A quiet night. Something simple and human after a long day at the Daily Planet. What he didnât expect was a tiny pair of arms latching onto his leg in the pasta aisleâand certainly not the anxious, breathtakingly pretty mother heâd meet moments later.
đđđđđđđ â· clark kent x single mom!reader
đđđđđ đđđ â· domestic fluff. lost child (brief, quickly resolved). gentle giant energy. small town manners. bashful clark. meet cute in a grocery store. child being unintentionally embarrassing. soft compliments. mutual attraction. hopeful undertones.
đđđ đđđđđđđ â· lost in the store.
Clark had left the Daily Planet with the vague, pleasant certainty that he wanted pasta for dinnerâa simple, grounding sort of meal after a day that had involved three interviews, one narrowly avoided newsroom coffee disaster, and an editorial meeting that had run twenty minutes longer than anyoneâs patience. It was the kind of craving that felt reassuringly human. Unfortunately, upon opening his kitchen cabinets with mild domestic optimism, he had discovered exactly nothing of use. No pasta. No sauce. Not even the emergency box of spaghetti he was fairly sure heâd bought last week.
Hence the grocery store.
Now he stood in the pasta aisle beneath the warm fluorescent glow, broad shoulders slightly hunched in that careful, habitual way of his, as though perpetually trying to take up less space than he actually did. A faint pop song filtered through the overhead speakersâsomething upbeat and syntheticâand Clark found himself absently humming along under his breath, one large hand loosely holding a bag of shells while the other hovered near a bag of farfalle. His glasses sat neatly on his nose, and his expression carried the mild, earnest concentration of a man treating pasta selection with perhaps more gravity than strictly necessary.
He was, for the record, leaning toward the farfalle. They held sauce better.
While he stood there, however, staring at the two options as though they might reveal their culinary merits under sufficient scrutiny, he felt it.
Small. Warm. And very much attached to his leg.
Clarkâs entire posture shifted in that subtle, instinctive way that came from years of living carefully in a world built of breakable things. His muscles went still without going tense, his balance adjusted automatically, and his gaze dropped almost immediatelyâgentle, curious, and alert all at once.
A very small human had, apparently, claimed him.
Tiny arms were wrapped with impressive determination around his trouser leg, the grip firm in the way of someone who had made a decision and saw no reason whatsoever to reconsider it. Clark blinked once behind his glasses, the corners of his mouth already softening as he looked down.
She was littleâno older than four, maybe fiveâwith enormous glassy eyes set on a round face that was doing a valiant but failing job of holding itself together. Her lower lip trembled just slightly, the telltale sign of a child fighting very hard not to cry in public. She stared up at him with fragile, hopeful intensity, as though she had assessed the entire grocery store and, for reasons known only to her, selected Clark Kent as the safest harbor in the building.
Clarkâs chest did that familiar, quiet ache it always did when confronted with small, worried humans.
âWell hello there,â he said gently, his voice immediately dropping into that warm, careful register that could calm frightened witnesses and nervous interviewees alike. His smile was soft, reassuring without being overwhelming, the kind that said you are safe here without making a production of it.
âHi mister,â the girl sniffled, her voice wobbling like a loose wheel. Her grip on his leg tightened just a fraction. âCan you help me find my mommy?â
There it wasâthat small, earnest pleaâand Clark didnât hesitate for even half a heartbeat.
âOf course I can,â he assured her, the words quiet but certain, carrying the easy confidence of someone who had, on more than one occasion, located far more difficult things than a missing parent in a grocery store. His expression softened further as he crouched carefully down onto one knee, moving slowly so he wouldnât startle her or accidentally dislodge her determined hold before she was ready to let go.
Up close, her eyes looked even shinier.
âWhatâs your name?â he asked gently.
âElle,â she said, voice still trembling at the edges.
âWell, Elle,â Clark replied, and there was something deeply sincere in the way he said itâlike her name mattered very muchââthat was a very brave thing you just did. Finding someone and asking for help.â He offered his hand then, large and steady, palm open in quiet invitation. âIâm Clark. And weâre going to find your mom together, okay?â
She hesitatedâbut only for a second.
Then her small fingers slid into his hand.
The trust in that simple gesture landed with surprising weight, settling somewhere deep and familiar in Clarkâs chest. He closed his hand around hers with the utmost care, his touch feather-light despite the size of him, as though she were made of spun glass and morning light.
âCan you tell me what she looks like?â he asked, tone calm and attentive, already gently scanning the ambient sounds of the store without appearing to do so.
Elle sniffed again, thinking very hard. âSheâs⊠sheâs pretty,â she said earnestly.
Clarkâs mouth twitched.
âAnd she has nice hair,â Elle continued with great seriousness. âAnd she has my juice.â
For just one brief, human moment, Clark Kentâmild-mannered reporterâfound himself completely and utterly outmatched by the most sincerely unhelpful description he had received all week.
But if anything, his smile only softened, warmth brightening his eyes behind the lenses.
âWell,â he said gently, patient amusement threading through his voice like sunlight through lace, âthatâs actually a very good start, Miss Elle.â He rose smoothly to his full height, still holding her hand with careful steadiness. âWhy donât we go take a look together? I have a feeling your mom is probably looking just as hard for you.â
And if his attention was already quietly expandingâears tuned for rising panic, heartbeat shifts, the subtle spike of a worried voice somewhere across the store. Well.
That was just Clark being Clark.
Clark guided Elle gently out of the pasta aisle, his long stride carefully shortened to match her small, determined steps. He kept his hand loosely wrapped around hersâsupportive without being restrictiveâwhile his attention stretched outward in that quiet, habitual way of his. To anyone watching, he was simply a polite man helping a lost child. Inside, though, Clark was already doing what he always did: listening, observing, cataloguing.
The grocery store moved around them in soft, ordinary chaos. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead. A cart wheel squeaked somewhere behind them. He noted an elderly couple near the bakery engaged in what appeared to be a long-standing and deeply passionate disagreement about multigrain versus sourdough. A few aisles over, a small boy sat triumphantly in a trolley seat, face enthusiastically redecorated with blue cupcake frosting while his exhausted guardian scrolled her phone in blissful ignorance.
No immediate signs of maternal distress.
Clarkâs brow furrowed just slightlyânot worry yet, but attentive considerationâas he guided Elle around the corner toward the cereal section.
And then he saw her.
Ah.
Well.
Elle had not, in fact, exaggerated with the âprettyâ part.
Near the brightly colored wall of cereal boxes stood a woman whose entire posture radiated barely-contained panic. Her gaze darted rapidly from aisle to aisle, breath coming just a little too fast, one hand clutching the strap of her purse while the other heldâClark noted with quiet reliefâa small juice box. Her expression carried that particular, heart-tightening fear that only appeared when a parent lost sight of their child, even for a moment.
Clarkâs shoulders eased almost imperceptibly.
Target located.
Before he could even gently steer Elle forwardâ
âMommy!â Elle gasped.
The word burst out of her like a firecracker, and in the next instant she was slipping her hand free from Clarkâs and bolting forward on quick little legs.
The womanâs head snapped up.
âElleâ!â
She dropped immediately into a crouch just in time to catch the small missile of her daughter, wrapping her arms around the girl in a fierce, almost trembling embrace. The sound she let out was half sigh, half shaky exhale of pure relief.
âOh, Elle,â she breathed, pulling back just enough to inspect her daughter with quick, careful hands, scanning for injuries thatâClark knewâwerenât there. Her palms came up to cup the little girlâs cheeks, thumbs brushing gently under watery eyes. âI told you not to wander off, baby.â
âIâm sorry, mommy,â Elle mumbled, remorseful.
âItâs okay,â the woman softened immediately, pressing a quick kiss to her daughterâs hair. âIâm just glad youâre okay baby. You scared me.â
Clark hung back a respectful distance, hands settling loosely at his sides, posture relaxed but attentive. His expression carried that warm, unobtrusive kindness that so often made people trust him without quite knowing why.
âThe nice man helped me,â Elle announced proudly, already recovering now that juice and mother were both present.
She turned and pointed directly at Clark.
The woman followed her gesture and visibly paused.
Which, to be fair, was not uncommon.
Clark Kent was, objectively speaking, a very large man.
He stood there now in the cereal aisle looking both unmistakably solid and disarmingly gentle, his glasses slightly slipping down the bridge of his nose, a soft, almost sheepish smile already in place like he was mildly embarrassed to be perceived at all.
Recognition flickered across her featuresânot of who he was, but of what he was.
Safe.
âOhââ she breathed, relief shifting fully into gratitude as she stood up. âThank you so much.â
Clark immediately shook his head, one broad hand lifting in easy dismissal of the praise. âItâs really no trouble,â he said warmly, voice modest in that distinctly Midwestern way that suggested he genuinely meant it.
She exhaled, some of the remaining tension finally leaving her shoulders. âI looked away for two seconds and then she was gone,â she admitted, one hand still resting protectively on Elleâs back. âAnd we just moved here, so I donât even know this store yet.â
There was a familiar understanding in Clarkâs eyes at thatâsomething soft and deeply empathetic.
âItâs okay,â he reassured gently. âReally. We all get a little lost sometimes.â
His gaze dipped briefly to Elle, who was now very contentedly sipping her recovered juice box like the last five minutes had not involved emotional turmoil. The sight tugged another quiet smile from him.
âI hope Metropolis is treating you wellâŠ?â he added politely, tone open and easy.
âY/n,â she supplied with a small returning smile. âAnd it is, actually.â
âIâm glad to hear that,â Clark nodded, sincerity clear in the gentle crease of his expression.
Then, after the briefest pauseâbecause his mother had raised him rightâhe extended one large hand toward her.
âIâm Clark,â he said with that warm, slightly bashful smile that had disarmed more people than he would ever realize.
Y/nâs gaze flicked briefly to his handânoticeably larger than hersâbefore she placed her palm in his grasp.
âNice to meet you, Clark,â she said, her smile soft but genuine as her fingers curled lightly around his.
Clark, as always, was exceedingly careful with his strength.
And for just a moment, standing there in the cereal aisle with fluorescent lights humming overhead and a small girl happily reunited with her juice, the whole world felt⊠pleasantly, wonderfully ordinary.
âI told you my mommy is pretty,â Elle announced, with the triumphant certainty of someone who had just proven a long-standing point beyond all reasonable doubt.
The words rang out through the cereal aisleâbright, unapologetic, and entirely unfiltered.
Y/n froze.
There was a split second in which her eyes widened just slightly before a warm flush crept steadily up her neck and into her cheeks. She turned toward her daughter with that precise, hushed tone mothers everywhere perfected through sheer necessity.
âElle,â she murmured, equal parts warning and embarrassment.
Clark, meanwhile, felt the statement land squarely in his chest.
And then he laughed.
It wasnât loud, nor was it theatrical. It was warm. Deep. The kind of quiet, rolling chuckle that seemed to rise from somewhere solid and steady within him. The sound carried no mockery, no egoâonly genuine amusement. His broad shoulders shifted as he let out the breath, and one large hand came up instinctively to rub at the back of his neck, fingers brushing through dark curls in a gesture so purely, hopelessly Clark Kent that it might as well have been written into his bones.
He ducked his head just slightly, the fluorescent light catching on the lenses of his glasses before he nudged them back into place with a careful finger.
âWell,â he said, voice gentle and just a touch bashful, blue eyes crinkling faintly at the corners as they lifted again, âI definitely agree.â
The sincerity in his tone made it impossible for the compliment to feel flippant. He wasnât flirtingâat least not intentionally. He was simply stating a fact as he saw it, with the open honesty of a Kansas farm boy who had never quite mastered the art of strategic charm.
Y/n blinked.
For a moment, she seemed unsure whether to laugh or sink directly into the cereal display.
âThank you,â she managed finally, her smile tugging shyly at the corner of her mouth despite herself. âYou donât have to encourage her.â
âOh, I donât mind,â Clark replied quickly, hands lifting in harmless surrender before settling back at his sides. âI grew up in a small town. Compliments were usually delivered at full volume in the middle of church.â
The imageâsweet, earnest Clark Kent being loudly praised by well-meaning neighbors in pewsâfelt entirely plausible.
Elle, blissfully unaware of social nuance, nodded enthusiastically. âMommy has sparkly hair in the sun.â
Clarkâs expression softened even further at that, something warm flickering behind his glasses. He glanced at Y/n againâbriefly, respectfullyâand then back to Elle.
âWell,â he said thoughtfully, lowering himself just slightly so he wasnât towering quite so much over them, âI think youâre very lucky to have such a nice mommy.â
âI know,â Elle replied, completely serious.
The simplicity of it tugged at something deep and steady in Clarkâs chestâthe part of him that believed, stubbornly and fiercely, in goodness. In family. In people doing their best.
Y/n let out a small breath that was half laugh, half residual nerves finally easing. âSheâs very⊠observant.â
âThatâs a wonderful quality,â Clark said immediately, earnest as ever. âWorld could use more people who notice the good things.â
There it was againâthat unshakeable optimism. Not naĂŻve, not blind. Just deliberate. Chosen.
A comfortable quiet settled between them, broken only by the faint rustle of cereal boxes and the distant squeak of a cart wheel. Clark became acutely aware of the fact that he was still holding a bag of farfalle in one hand, having never returned it to the shelf after the initial leg-clinging incident.
He cleared his throat lightly, glancing down at it with sheepish realization. âI should probably finish my very important pasta decision,â he admitted, tone lightly self-deprecating. âShells are putting up a strong argument.â
Y/n laughed properly this time, the sound brighter, less strained.
âFarfalle,â she said without hesitation. âThey hold sauce better.â
Clarkâs eyebrows lifted behind his glasses, impressed. âThatâs exactly what I was thinking.â
âSee?â Elle chimed in. âMommyâs smart and pretty.â
Clarkâs laughter returned, softer now but unmistakably pleased. âHard to argue with that.â
There was something disarmingly gentle about him in that momentâthis massive, broad-shouldered man standing in a cereal aisle, smiling like the world had just handed him something precious instead of simply a small, chaotic interaction in a grocery store.
âWell,â he said finally, taking a small step backward so as not to crowd them, âIâm really glad you two found each other.â
And though his tone was light, there was something quietly sincere beneath itâsomething that suggested he meant more than just the last five minutes.
Y/n seemed to hear it too.
âThank you again, Clark,â she said softly.
He offered one last warm smile, the kind that reached his eyes fully this time. âAnytime,â he replied.
The morning light filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long shadows across the sleek glass table. You were ten minutes early, as usual, though today, there was a heaviness in the air, something you couldn't quite shake. You sat down in your usual spot, two chairs away from Bruce, your eyes scanning the room. You weren't sure what it wasâthe cold air, the way the light hit the table just so, or maybe it was the faint memory of the night beforeâbut you couldn't quite settle into your usual calm.
You were off. He was off. Both of you pretending the space between you was just business as usual. But it wasn't. It couldn't be.
The door opened, and Bruce walked in, his expression unreadable, as usual. His eyes flicked to you for a brief moment before he took his seat at the head of the table. The rest of the board filtered in, chattering among themselves, but neither you nor Bruce acknowledged the others.
There was no greeting today, no polite exchange of words like normal. Just a heavy, charged silence that hung in the air.
You kept your gaze fixed on the table in front of you, avoiding his. But you could feel him. The way his presence filled the room, like he was still there with you, carrying the weight of last night's unspoken words. You could feel the tension between you both, pulsing just beneath the surface. You weren't the only one trying to pretend it wasn't there.
Jenna from Legal cleared her throat, her voice pulling you back to the present. "Shall we begin?"
Bruce nodded, but his eyes flicked to you once more, that lingering, unreadable gaze. You refused to meet it. It was too much. Too real. And you were still trying to make sense of what had happened.
The meeting began, the usual discussions about quarterly profits and new initiatives, but the words felt like background noise. You could hardly focus. You were acutely aware of Bruce, of his gaze occasionally darting to you, only for you to look away at the last second.
Minutes dragged on. No one seemed to notice the subtle shift in the air. But you did. You could feel the eyes on you, Bruce's too, his focus a little too intense for comfort. And it made you restless.
The topic shifted to an upcoming charity eventâone that Wayne Enterprises was hosting in a few weeks. You had little interest in the logistics of it, but Bruce was listening intently, as always. The rest of the board members launched into their usual rehearsed suggestions, their voices rising and falling in a monotonous rhythm that made your eyes want to glaze over.
Then, the question came. A simple one, directed at you.
"Mr. Swanson, your thoughts on the branding for this event?" Jenna asked, her tone polite but pointed. She knew exactly how to make you speak without making it seem like a demand.
You blinked, pulled back into the conversation. You glanced up at her, then at Bruce.
His eyes were on you, as always. That familiar intensity. But today, it felt different. There was a faint trace of something unreadable in his gaze, something more than just business. Something personal.
You cleared your throat and gave your usual detached reply, the words slipping from your mouth like they were rehearsed. "It needs to be more authentic," you said, your voice smooth, even. "We don't need another cookie-cutter gala. Gotham doesn't need to see Wayne Enterprises as a white knight. We need them to see us as a part of the city's blood, its truth. We need to stop pretending we're above it all."
Your words hung in the air, heavier than you expected. You could feel Bruce's eyes on you, but you refused to let him see how it was affecting you. You couldn't let him know how vulnerable you felt after last night. You couldn't afford to.
"Authentic," Bruce repeated, his voice tight. "Interesting take, Swanson."
The subtle shift in his tone didn't go unnoticed. You could feel his gaze intensify, like he was searching for something in you. But you didn't give it to him. You held your ground, eyes unwavering.
The rest of the meeting passed in a blur. You gave your opinions, as usual, but it felt like you were just going through the motions. Everything felt like a distraction from what had happened. From him.
When the meeting finally wrapped up, you stood to leave, avoiding Bruce's gaze completely. He stood at the same time, his presence still a silent weight in the room.
"Swanson," Bruce said, his voice quieter than before, just as you were about to turn. The sound of his voice made your chest tighten.
You froze. "What?"
His gaze was steady, though his jaw was tight, as though he was weighing something carefully in his mind. "About last night..."
You felt your stomach drop. Your mouth went dry. You didn't want to hear it. You didn't want him to talk about it.
"Don't," you muttered, your words clipped, as you turned away and walked toward the door. "It doesn't matter."
Bruce was silent for a long moment. The tension hung in the air between you both like a live wire, but you didn't look back. You couldn't.
àŒ¶âąââàšà§âââąàŒ¶
Wayne Manor, 9:00pm.
Later that night, Bruce sat in his study, surrounded by screens, his focus once again on the chaos of Gotham. But his thoughts kept drifting. Back to the meeting. Back to you.
He couldn't help it. He couldn't erase the feeling from his mindâhow close he'd been to reaching you, how easy it had been to get lost in that brief moment when everything felt just a little bit real.
But then, you'd shut him out again.
He stood, pushing his chair back, frustration simmering beneath his calm demeanor. He wasn't used to this. He wasn't used to being ignored, to having someone retreat when he tried to reach them.
He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply.
He couldn't push you. He knew that. You weren't like anyone else. But damn it, this wasn't supposed to be easy. It never had been.
àŒ¶âąââàšà§âââąàŒ¶
Swanson's Penthouse, 10:05pm.
You sat in your penthouse, leaning back in the leather chair, your phone buzzing from the desk. Another text.
You reached for it, already knowing who it was.
"Swanson," the message read. Simple. Direct. But it felt different tonight.
You stared at the screen for a long moment before you typed your response. It was quick, almost mechanical.
"Not tonight."
Your thumb hovered over the send button. You knew that was a lie. You knew it wasn't just about tonight. It was about every night. Every moment you couldn't pull away from him. From this.
You hit send.
And for the first time in a long time, you wondered if the fight was worth it anymore.
àŒ¶âąââàšà§âââąàŒ¶
Wayne Manor, 10:30pm.
It was empty for now, just the faint click of the door shutting in the study. Silence settled in, heavy and absolute, broken only by the muted hum of Gotham's light rain pattering on the glass.
Bruce stayed seated for a few moments, his hands folded neatly in front of him, though his composure was an act. His jaw was tight. His pulse, annoyingly quick.
He should have been reviewing numbers, thinking about infrastructure, memorizing the details of an upcoming merger. Instead, his thoughts looped back to you. Always back to you.
The way you hadn't looked at him during the meeting. Well, barely. You kept avoiding his gaze. Not even when you spoke, your voice cutting through the stale corporate chatter like steel through silk. You'd dismissed him at the end with that single wordâdon'tâand walked away as though he hadn't meant a damn thing.
But that wasn't true.
Bruce knew what he'd felt. That moment in your penthouseâwhen everything had gone quiet, when your mask of control had cracked for the barest second. The kiss hadn't been planned. It hadn't even been wise. It had been instinct, drawn out of him like a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
And you hadn't pulled away.
Not at first.
Your lips had pressed back against his, calm at first, deliberateâthen gone just a second later, but long enough for him to feel it. And then you'd broken it, leaving him standing there with the taste of you still in his mouth and a silence too sharp to ignore.
He'd spent the hours after telling himself he'd imagined itâthat you'd only let him because it was easier than making a scene. That maybe you'd only wanted to see what Bruce Wayne would do if you let his composure slip.
But then why did you linger? Why hadn't you cut ties completely?
Now, in the aftermath of the meeting, Bruce sat there replaying the fragments, and the question pressed harder than he wanted to admit:
Did you not feel it?
Did you think it was meaningless?
The thought clawed at him. Because Bruce Wayne had kissed women and men beforeâplenty of them, some of them more dangerous than youâand it had always been simple. Transactional. Smoke and mirrors for the world to watch. Even Selina, with all her sharp edges and familiar ache, was a rhythm he understood.
But with you?
It hadn't been simple.
It hadn't been controlled.
It had been real, and that terrified him.
àŒ¶âąââàšà§âââąàŒ¶
Bruce dragged a hand over his mouth, exhaling slowly. He couldn't afford this. Not now. Not when the city was balanced on the edge of another spiral. Not when the man behind that scalpel-sharp voice and calculating silence could be the very same shadow he'd been tracking for months.
And yetâhe couldn't shake the weight of your eyes, your voice, your refusal to even look at him today.
He wasn't used to being ignored.
He wasn't used to wanting not to be.
The memory of your kiss haunted him, and the silence you'd left him with was somehow worse.
summary: ever the lovergirl, you've never been able to resist clark kent, your sweet & dorky coffee shop regular. everyone tells you to either make a move or let go. but when the world fades away, itâs your best friend kal-el you turn to; your confidant, your rock. your heartâs secret is safe with superman⊠or so you believe.
clark kent x fem ! reader
themes: fluff, you have no idea that superman is clark, funny, you're bold and dramatic in a very cute way, pining, mutual interest but again you have no idea, clark is a sneaky, lovesick man. enjoy! x
one | two
Your coffee is too hot, too bitter. One earphone is lagging very slightly behind the other. There's a pounding in your left temple, Kal-El has yet to let you know if he survived this morning's brutal alien attack at the bridge and of course, your favourite regular failed to make an appearance today.
Today is just the gift that keeps on giving.
A sigh leaves perfectly glossed lips- yours, with a hint of slight shimmer, that faint red that always has Clark Kent looking at you a bit longer than he should. You slathered a thick coat of it on this morning; puckering slightly in the mirror, giddy at the thought of his flushed cheeks and stammer.
"You look... uh, really good today." you imagined him saying. You swooned at the thought of his smile, that farmboy curl that never failed to sweep you off your feet. "Beautiful. You look beautiful." big hand wrapped around his order, broad like the rest of him.
And you imagined yourself giggling back; one manicured hand poised strategically in front of the gloss like it was a privilege for him to see. Even when you smelled like Arabica and five different milk alternatives. Even when your hair was knotted into a careless bun, and you hadn't a single clue what day it even was.
Somehow, Clark had a way of making you feel nothing short of gorgeous.
"Then why haven't you asked me out yet?" you dreamt about asking him that too, watching his eyes go all wide and sparkly, stunned by your boldness.
You thought about the different ways you could bring it up, maybe take the leap yourself;
"The usual? Black, extra hot, one ice cube? I'll throw in my phone number too, for good luck."
"Morning, Kansas! Got your order right here. Doing anything after work today?"
"Hi, Clark. What can I get for you today? Large black coffee? I know you usually don't take sugar, but I'm free tonight and I've been told I'm quite sweet after a couple drinks..."
Stupid. So, so silly and so, so stupid. You hit the steam wand with an exasperated sigh.
Your friends call you obsessive. Kal refrains from using such harsh words, but you know he's thinking the same; his eyes never lose that amused sparkle, no matter how harshly you smack him on the arm.
A few of your coworkers find it cute. Once, Lorna dug a sharp elbow into your arm the second Clark walked into the building, silently swapping out her role at the tillpoint to let you have your brief, passionate, five-minute interaction.
"Go get him, beauty." she coaxed.
But you refrained from thanking her, not wanting to accept it for what it was; that you were totally, helplessly, irritatingly, crushing on a coffee shop regular.
"It's a right of passage." Claire said ominously.
"It's not that bad," someone else quipped.
"It's pathetic." Michael patted you on the shoulder once, pursed lips clamped in place to stop himself from spewing out any more hurt. "You've got it bad, kid."
"It's sweet!" Lorna cried, "I think it's adorable. Oh, you guys. Let her have her fun."
You thanked them all with a grimace and a swift exit to the back, clammy hands wiped down the sides of your milk-stained apron.
Clark comes in every day.
Typically. His routine is simple; easy-going for a man so chronically late and so unapologetic about it.
You're always there to greet him, all smiles and nonchalance and small-talk that you have to fight to keep under wraps.
"Front page, again," you'd grinned once, revelling in the way his cheeks reddened as you swilled oat milk around a jug. "Very well deserved, Mr Kent."
"You read 'em?" he asked you shyly.
"How could I not?"
"I don't know. You seem like a busy girl,"
"Never too busy for an article on Superman." you joked. You made a mental note to never replay the full conversation to Kal, ever; his ego simply didn't need that boost.
He cracked a small smile, slipping his faded leather wallet back into his slacks pocket with ease. You couldnât help but take note of the little planet emblem on the front, the scuffed gold detailing on the corners.
Because for some reason, when it came to Clark, you noticed everything.
"Means a lot. Thank you," he sipped his drink, eyes relaxing at the taste, "This is great. Really great. I- you... you've got talent,"
"If you can count squeezing water through some beans as talent, then sure," you giggled. He laughed with you. "But thanks. Have a good day, Clark."
"And you, sweetheart."
He raised his coffee cup to bid you farewell, and you almost collapsed backwards into Claire.
"Easy, girl." she'd said warily. You apologised though you didn't mean it, and she told you to take five to compose yourself.
So, compose yourself you did.
You went out to the back, fingers already itching to make the call. You hit your most frequently used number and waited impatiently; teeth gnawing on your bottom lip in a way concerning to the twenty-dollar lip balm slathered across it.
Eventually, he picked up.
"Hel-"
"Kal. You need to come get me and fly me to Missouri."
No warning, no greeting. Neither was needed. Metropolis' sweetheart knew you well enough for neither to be necessary.
On the other line, Superman paused.
And then, he burst out laughing.
"Kal!" you stomped your foot, though he couldn't see you and was probably very busy, because you could hear the hustle and bustle of a large crowd in the background. Was he walking? "I'm being serious. I don't even know where Missouri is, but you need to take me there and leave me there,"
"Now, hang on just a moment," he chuckled. You burned holes into the pastry oven in front of you. "What's happened now?"
"Why do you assume something happened?"
"You sound like you're going to pass out,"
"No. I sound like I need to take a super long vacation to some city I've never been to,"
"Missouri is a state."
"Oh, my god. I'm calling Kara." you warned, taking the phone away from your ear and tapping it around to prove a point. You could hear him apologise in between laughs, urging you to bring the phone back.
When you finally did, the bustle behind him had quietened. You snapped, jokingly, "What do you want?"
"You called me, little lady."
"Because I am going through a crisis," you cried dramatically, before pausing and lowering your tone, "He came in again, Kal."
"Oh," you could envision his grin now; amused, as well as slightly bewildered. "Ah. The reporter.â
"He called me sweetheart. And I think I said something about squeezing a wet bean? God, I don't even know,"
"You said that?"
"I said that. So, are we going to Missouri or not?"
Ever so level-headed, Kal-El ignored your somewhat childish plea, instead focusing on the bigger picture with another heroic chuckle. "Isn't this what you wanted?"
"What? To tell Clark Kent that I squeeze my bean to the thought of him?"
"Woah. Think we missed a couple chapters there."
"Well, I might as well have," you folded your arms, leaning against the fridge and staring absentmindedly at the notes that scattered it. "You should have heard me. I think my voice went up four notches and my mouth still hurts from smiling."
Not missing a beat, Kal said, "He probably thought it was cute."
"You think?"
"Sure."
You groaned. Superman laughed again. Then, Claire popped her head through the doorway and very patiently beckoned you back outside.
"I'll call you later, Kal."
"Look forward to it."
And that was that. You slid your phone into your back pocket mindlessly, ready to tackle the fifteen backed-up orders that appeared out of nowhere during your not-so-short break.
The day flew by in a blur of spilled coffee beans and burnt milk. You tried very hatd to busy yourself with other things; orders, deliveries, stock-take. Anything to keep your mind off of the man in the too-big blazer that had yet to show you the least bit of interest.
You ended up being very grateful for the one person in your life that could tolerate your miniature spirals about the opposite sex. The one man on planet Earth that was far too kind to be disgusted, too noble to be embarrassed for you.
Your sinful thoughts of Clark shifted; forming into something much sweeter, as you thought of Kal-El and the bewilderment that came from just knowing him.
Your friendship with the last son of Krypton began... oddly.
Unusual, to say the least.
He saved you from a burning building one time. Okay, maybe not from the burning building itself- he saved you from your apartment block that stood directly across the one that was actually burning, at risk for being crashed into; absolutely perplexed when he found you sat cross legged in a your bedroom, eyes closed, the baffling epitome of ill-timed meditation.
You'd shrugged when he asked you why you didn't evacuate when the sirens went off; squirmed out of his grasp when he attempted to hoist you upwards. Sirens deafened you both, loud and shrill and persistent.
"Ma'am-"
"It's my time, Superman." you'd said solemnly, turning your face to the ceiling in a way that threw him, "I've lived a good life."
"It's... the building next door, miss." he deadpanned.
You ignored him.
"âŠLeave me be."
Kal just paused. Raised an eyebrow. Then eventually, he sighed, and with no word of warning- scooped you up and flew you to safety in less than six seconds.
You slapped him in the arm when he finally put you down, glared even harder when he stuttered apologies about how he had to, he couldn't just leave you there.
Eventually, you let up with a distracted pause; tilting your head to the side before gallantly stating, "You're a lot prettier than in the tweets."
That was the first time you ever made Superman laugh, and he's been coming back to laugh ever since.
At first, he came to visit under the guise of simply checking in on you. But it snowballed after that, random check-ins turning into unprompted nightly traditions.
He'd land on your fire escape at precisely 11:07pm every evening, suit scuffed, mind battered from a day of patrolling and doing lawful good. You'd offer him a tea or coffee, and it would always be in that chipped red and blue mug you were gifted years ago and somehow just never got rid of.
Naturally, the mug became his; never to be touched by any of your other friends or guests. It seemed like the more it was used, the closer you became.
"How was your day today?" his fingers would wrap around it gratefully, the colours of his suit camouflaging against the drink.
"It was good. Got my nails done and bought a new lip balm. Wanna see?"
"Sure."
It was different, how it began. Even weirder the way it continued.
Because for an invincible superhero that the whole world relied on, Kal-El wasn't some stuck-up, government clone that lived to serve and nothing else. He was a person. Human in the ways that mattered, even if his biology didn't agree.
He had a dog- a foster situation, he called it. He liked flying through the air and making shapes with the clouds. He hated when you swore, saying that the word fuck was both overused and crass. He loved breakfast, falling in love with it even more when you'd shown him that it could also be a contender for dinner, too.
"This is amazing." he'd said once, mouth full of bacon and eggs and hashbrowns. His entire figure swamped your cosy little kitchen stool, cape brushing languidly against the ground.
You just laughed, wiping a smidge of ketchup from his face as he blushed profusely and fought to look away.
"You're getting it all over you."
"Sorry." he mumbled, words slurred through a mouth of grease and goodness.
But, of course, there were certain things you didn't know about him. Couldn't know. He'd explained it to you over and over and over again, your persistence making him smile but ultimately, was also causing his heart to break.
"It wouldn't be safe for you to know." he always said, softly, gently, as though he didnât believe you could take it.
And you- though stubborn to the core and relentless to no degree- somehow understood the severity of that alone.
It still didn't stop you from trying to get it out of him, though.
"Do you have a day job?"
Kal-El squirmed uncomfortably, "No."
"Do you have an alter ego?"
"...No."
"Do you think me and your alter ego would be friends?"
His eyes softened then. Your eyebrows quipped. "...Yes. If I had one."
You learned very quickly that Kal-El didn't have many friends.
It didn't surprise you. Every photo of him standing next to the Justice Gang looked edited; every headline of his solo. He told you stories of the people he'd saved, how he remembered their faces and how their heartbeats raced, but could never quite stick around long enough to find out more.
It was bitterly unfair, you noted, how someone so good could be so alone.
After a couple of months, you found out that he lived somewhere in the Antarctic. A freezing cold spire coded to his DNA was what he called home, had always called home, one filled with working robots and the occasional super-dog.
"I'll take you there sometime." he'd promised.
But here, in Metropolis, Kal housed a spacious penthouse with floor to ceiling windows. You'd been there more than a handful of times now; always through the window and never through the lobby. You didnât even know what his building looked like, wouldnât be able to pick it out of a line up.
But it was really one of the only few places you could go where the threat of being taped and posted all over the internet didn't loom; as long as you promised not to tell anybody.
That, he was quite stern about. He claimed it was more for your protection than it was to keep himself hidden- I can move anywhere, anytime. You can't.
It had you asking him where his deep trust in you came from, though you couldnât deny the way it filled your chest with warmth. Even you had to admit- you weren't exactly the quietest, calmest, most reserved person to ever grace his life.
But Kal just chuckled. His shoulders nudged yours, smile boyish and shy, "I'm a pretty good judge of character." and that was that.
Your friends and co-workers knew him simply as your friend Cal. C instead of a K, so no-one had the chance to piece it together. They never saw him, just heard about him through stories you dulled down for the sake of secrecy.
If Superman flew you over the stratosphere the other day before taking you back to his apartment, your favourite hot chocolate already on the counter, then Cal drove you around on Monday to test out his new car, and you had drinks at his place before he took you back home.
It was all very calculated. But you supposed it had to be; being Superman's best friend was never going to be easy. Not even when he did everything he could to keep you safe, including (but not limited to) answering even the stupidest of phone calls, where all you did was gush and cry and freak out about the infamous Clark Kent.
You remembered the day you saw him for the first time.
It was the Monday after a painful weekend. Most of Sunday was spent face-down in your pillow, mumbling about how life wasn't fair and you were probably going to be a single old hag until the day came that you finally died.
On your phone, Kal-el was rolling his eyes; giving you a sweet, lopsided grin as he told you to stop being so dramatic.
"You're not going to die old and alone," he'd said amusedly, throwing a ball for Krypto to fetch and destroy somewhere in the Antarctic. "Your person will come. Just⊠gotta be patient."
You asked when, voice muffled. He just told you to wait.
And then, like the world had heard your silent pleas and Kal's contained agitation, Clark Kent stumbled into your life (and cafe) the very next day.
All sweet and shy and knocking into coats that hung off of the backs of chairs, apologising profusely like they had brains and hearts that beat. His curls, unruly as always, flopped comically over his forehead; the crook of his glasses taking your breath away with every slight, nervous scrunch of his nose.
He was the most beautiful man you had ever seen- familiar in a way you couldn't place, yet so unlike anyone else you'd ever met before.
You couldn't look away, no matter how hard you tried. Whether it was love at first sight or just pure, unfiltered obsession- you weren't too sure.
"Hey... hi. Please may I get a coffee?" he'd asked.
"Hi, hey. Which coffee can I get you?"
The tips of his ears reddened. Your stomach fluttered in agony. "Just a black coffee, please." then, he paused, eyes flickering from the menu to the far too large top hanging off your frame, "I like your shirt."
You thanked him, quietly finding it hilarious that the top you'd worn to work that day actually belonged to your dear friend Superman. Yet another thing you weren't willing to tell him, in fear of his already too big ego inflating even more.
You made Clark's black coffee. His fingers brushed against yours as he took it, gaze lingering a beat too long. Then, you called Kal and got sent to voicemail immediately after; leaving him a very passionate message about the man you were pretty sure was the love of your life.
Clark came in every day since.
Apart from today.
"Don't be so sad, sweets," Lorna nudges a bag of opened candy your way, brows quirking up with the movement. "He probably just got held up somewhere."
It's laughable. Pathetic. You shouldn't be this sad, this ridiculous, over someone you donât even know, but you canât help it.
You feel everything tenfold, and the droop in your expression is unmistakable- even when Michael taps you gingerly on the shoulder; knowing brow quirked, something square and leather clutched in his free hand.
A wallet.
With little gold detailing pinching the corners, and a tiny little planet stamped on the front.
Your world stops spinning, and you fall within the split-second of static as Michael hands it to you like itâs a personal gift from the Gods.
âNo wonder your boy couldnât make it today,â he grumbles. Your entire body goes cold with anticipation, âProbably spent all day looking for that thing- Claire found it wedged between the seats. Do with that what you must.â
And that's how, a full five days later, you find yourself buzzing into a swanky looking apartment building; Clarkâs wallet clutched tight in one hand, a boiling hot black coffee in the other.
You feel weird. You feel intrusive. On the way here, you decided that if you were ever to be asked what fictional character you relate to the most, it would be the delusional, disgusting Joe Goldberg.
âJust do it, dear God,â Michael had groaned, flinging it towards you with two tattooed fingertips pressed against his temples, âI canât take this anymore. Take it back and stop moping.â
You thought about swinging by the Planet and dropping it off there. But questions would be asked, eyebrows would be raised, and you didnât really want to step into Clarkâs place of work smelling like milk and tea and coffee granules- so, you opted for the next best thing instead.
You took his driving license out. Jotted down his address. Then, before anyone could convince you not to, you made your way straight there.
The woman at the shiny desk tells you that Clarkâs apartment is on the very top floor.
In all honesty, that surprises you. You werenât too sure how much journalists made, but the sum must be great for him to be able to live in such a fancy building. Most of the walls are made of glass, and the doorman even tilted his hat towards you when you stepped inside.
The elevator ride to the top is quick. You canât remember the last time you were ever up this high- not unless you can count the nights spent zipping through the empty Metropolis air with Superman holding you close.
The thought of Kal-El makes you smile, but a pang of guilt also hits your chest at the lie you told him today. Heâd asked you if you were free to come over, and you simply couldnât find it in you to tell him the truth- that you were blowing him off to find Clark.
âIâve got my mug and yours, and I even bought those little marshmallows you like,â Kal had said, very triumphantly, over the phone. Youâd been busy stacking the dishwasher at the time to feel the full weight of guilt, but you were definitely feeling it now. âThought we could watch that film you were talking about the other day. What was it called, againâŠ?â
âI am so sorry, Kal,â you mumbled, wiping your soapy hands on your apron as you struggled to close the washer, âIâve, uh⊠got plans. Tonight.â
âTonight?â
âMhm.â
âOh.â Although he tried to hide it, you could sense the disappointment in his voice from a mile away. âOh, well- thatâs alright. Will you be safe tonight? Wherever youâre going?â
You cracked a small smile, nodding to nobody but yourself. âOf course,â
âAnd youâll call me if you need anything?â his voice lowered then, one filled with a silent plea for you to promise.
You nodded again, âAlways.â
âAlright, then. See you soon?â
Your smile widened. There was something about how much Kal treasured you that hit something deep within your chest; blossoming a far-too familiar feeling that you had to force straight back down.
âSee you soon, Superman.â
A steady ding sounds your arrival, ripping you out of the early memory with ease.
The top floor of Clarkâs apartment building looks eerily familiar.
You pause the second you step out of the elevator; brows falling into a furrow, lips pursed. The once slightly-warm coffee in your hand is now threatening to burn a hole through your palm, and you just canât shake the feeling that youâve been here before.
But thatâs stupid. Because you havenât. And nobody in their right mind- not even you, in all of your whimsy and caffeine-fuelled delirium- would ever dare be deluded by that fact.
The hallway is quiet. Plush carpet, low lighting, floor-to-ceiling windows lining one side like a gallery of stars.
Thatâs what stops you. Completely.
Metropolis stretches out beneath the glass in a way that steals the breath straight from your lungs- all glittering veins of light and distant sirens, the river a dark ribbon cutting through the city. You drift closer before you can stop yourself, forehead nearly brushing the cool pane.
Youâve seen this view.
Not like this- not standing, no- but youâve seen it. From higher, from warmer air, from the safe circle of an arm at your waist as the city unfolded below you like something made just for the two of you.
Your chest tightens, but you canât place it. So you shake your head as if that alone might dislodge the feeling.
This is ridiculous. Clark Kent does not share a penthouse view with Superman. And if he did, then Kal would be cruel- truly cruel- not to tell you that the man you were probably falling in love with lived just next door.
Still, your fingers curl a little tighter around the coffee cup.
You force yourself away from the window and down the hall, counting your steps until you reach the door at the very end. Itâs unassuming and plain, a dark wood coated in a glossy finish, handle a deep metal blue. Clarkâs name is neatly printed on a label beneath the peephole, and your eyes rake over it hesitantly.
You lift your hand to knock, ready to either take the leap or embarrass yourself completely- but the door swings wide open before your knuckles ever have the chance to make contact.
"Oh-"
An apology tangles itself up in your throat as the man in front of you fills the doorway. Your restless eyes fight, wearily, to tear themselves away from the attractive ridges of his body.
Smart dress shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms. Those delicious slacks that cling to him just right. A press badge swings, still clipped at his waist, crooked like heâd forgotten it was there entirely.
His tie hangs loose, collar open- stance just a little too assertive to be Clark, a little too relaxed to be anyone else.
âHi,â you breathe, relief washing through you so fast it almost makes you dizzy. Your eyes don't meet his. Your fingers fumble for his wallet in your pocket, your body ablaze underneath his stunned stare as you look anywhere but him, "Clark. Sorry, I-"
It takes a second longer than it should.
You look up, meeting his gaze halfway- and the double take is so quick, your neck clicks with the movement.
Time freezes. You almost choke on an inhale.
Because something is missing.
Something isn't right.
No glasses.
And the person looking right back at you isnât the same person you thought youâd see tonight.
His eyes meet yours, blue and open and devastatingly familiar. The tilt of his head, the softness in his expression as recognition dawns- not confusion, not surprise, but something bordering on the painful edge of realisation.
A breath catches in your throat.
He says your name- softly, gently, as if not to startle you. But you're not paying attention, because your focus is on something else.
In his right hand, he clutches a mug.
Familiar, bright- formally yours.
Red and blue ceramic.
Drank from through laughter, sipped through conversation, put through endlesss nights spent at his and evenings spent at yours. Itâs either unmistakable, or itâs uncanny.
Whatever it is, itâs slightly chipped on the rim.
Steam curls from it gently, the scent of hot chocolate filling the air between you. On top of the drink- floating in a neat little cluster of sugar and gelatin- are those little white marshmallows that you like best.
The world seems to tilt on its axis. Your fingers go numb.
And suddenly, a weight vanishes from your hand, the full coffee cup clattering at your feet; a warm overspill that stains your shoes a dark brown hue.
And Kal-El- Clark- moves without thinking.
His eyes are wide as he reaches for you, desperately, one step forward causing you to take three steps back.
His free hand reaches out.
But youâre already gone; turning sharply and bolting down the hall, heart racing, thoughts fracturing with every step, his broken voice swallowed by the echo of your footsteps.
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