it had months since you and clark had broken up. months of mutual heartbreak and turmoil, whether either of you knew or not. little did you know, clark had been watching you for months now, even in your distance wanting to make sure you've been okay. miraculously, superman's there when you experience a little run-in with the wrong person at the wrong time. 2.7k
“are you still picking up the pieces? am i still worried 'bout you? why, yes, i am and i always will…be some protector.”
tags: holy angst, obviously pre-established relationship, clark yearns, miscommunication whoops, brief mention of reader having a sick relative, angsty argument flashback among other flashbacks, based on my fave role model song that i listened to on loop while writing
˚୨୧⋆｡ navi masterlist latest work
The pull was slow but steady. Unlike the rough of your relationship. It was perfect until it wasn’t; towards the end, both of you were just looking to keep your heads above water while holding onto each other at the same time. You slowly deteriorated together, tangled in a mess of lies and unbreakable tension. Until there was nothing left.
You feel it again, shuffling through your little shoebox of trinkets you’d collected in the timeline of your relationship.
Your framed photo of your name written in the clouds, courtesy of Clark. The fluffy ivory lettering adorned the blue of the skyline so prettily.
There was something so intimate about it just as much as it was broadcasted for the world to see. Like he was letting all of Metropolis know that he chose you. You remembered it all.
“Can we just stay like this?” You asked, resting your head on his shoulder, cozied up together, admiring his framed work.
“Always,” he said without hesitation, stroking and kissing your hair without anything but your closeness on his mind.
It had meant everything in the world to you at the time. Time and time again, Clark reminded you why you were drawn so strongly towards him. He was utterly magnetic and he was passionate in his love as he was gentle.
Even in your breakup he never showed you any kind of resentment. No matter how much of you he lost in the end he treated you like you were still whole, still together.
“I wish you weren’t him sometimes. You know, I signed up to be with Clark when we started dating. Just to find out there was a package deal I didn’t even know you were a part of,” You laughed humorlessly. It broke you to say as much as it broke him to hear it. It was just a jumble of nonsense you spewed following the ringing silence of his absence again.
It became more than just rescheduled dates and tables for two that only you occupied, watching the clock and awaiting his arrival while the orange hues of the evening sky turned pitch black. You’d gotten a call earlier that night from the hospital about your mother being kept overnight for in-patient care. You called Clark in tears, frantic and alone, needing him there with you while you cradled your sick mother’s hands in your own until you were ushered out by insistent nurses. Only to find he had other business to attend to.
You felt like you were in a poorly prioritized queue, at the back of the line behind the rest of the world. He was Superman before he was Clark and it caused an ache of resentment within you that you couldn’t learn to bite down.
“I’m so sorry, honey,” he pleaded tearfully. He was on his knees before you while you sat at the edge of your shared bed, that these days only you ever seemed to warm. “There are times I wish I didn’t have to be him either. I just want to be here, with you. Please, I’m not asking you to forgive me, but I need you to understand.”
“I can’t tell you to stop being Superman, Clark,” you say after thoughtfully gazing at him in silence. “And I won’t. I know people need you and that’s what hurts. Because I need you too, in a different way. And I can’t have one or the other. These days it’s getting hard to love both knowing that one of your identities is the reason why the other is failing me.” You regretted it as soon as you said it but you didn’t know how else you could.
You did love him, all of him. He was the same Clark, just with his kindness made to be his civic duty when he put the suit on. “But what I can do is leave. I can’t stop you from being who you are.” In an instant, you’re on your feet with only your bag slung over your shoulder.
“Sweetheart, please,” He begged, following after you with an exceeding stride.
He followed you out into the street, frantically looking everywhere around you when you disappeared into the abyss of the rain and the bustle of the city.
No matter how badly your words stung at him, he could never hurt you back in the same way. The sting of his constant tardiness spoke for itself, anyways.
You shuddered the sorrow of the memory away. Flipping through the mementos of the box, that long ago, meant something to you. Of them being a blue jay feather.
“Clark, let me down!” You screeched at him. Your grip on him was sturdy iron on his husky bicep, clinging onto him for dear life.
“You sure, sweetie? We just got up!” He’s grinning at you idiotically like your saucer-wide eyes aren’t pleading with him for level ground. “Please,” he softly said into your ear, prying your hands away from your eyes squeezed shut to clasp them into his.
“I promise I would never let you fall. I’ll never let you go.” You know he means it when he says it. You reluctantly nod and with that you’re soaring off, shrieking into his ear.
“Look,” he whispered, afloat next to a tree after zooming around the Metropolis skyline. “Clark,” you hissed worriedly. Three infant blue jays cozied up in nest perched firmly on a branch of the tree. A singular feather was left inside, likely left from their mama bird. Carefully, Clark inched a few of his large fingers into the nest, pinching the feather in between them and cooing at the younglings so as to not disturb them.
“A little memento of our first flight,” Clark hummed, handing it over to you.
You kissed him like this, this time sharing his dumb grin. Looking at each other like you were the only two people in the whole big city, some way above the entire skyline, floating higher and higher the deeper you kissed him.
You rummaged the box once more. Past the bandages and gauze you kept for him after an especially strenuous night, patching him back up although you knew he’d be right and anew in the morning. He came to you knowing this, just because you needed you. Need you more than the sun, he said. You weren’t his kryptonite, his ailing weakness. You were the glowing sun that healed him, that put him back together overnight. You rummaged further.
This time it was a soda tab. You were taken back to that quiet movie night in, tangled in your share of blankets that you’d later discard, choosing to get lost in each other’s warmth instead. Clark had a habit of completely removing the tabs every time he cracked open a fresh drink can. Something about the tabs bothering him when he drank.
“Clark,” you giggled, taking his discarded tab into your hands. “You know what this means?”
“It’s just a soda tab, no?” He scratched his head, wondering what he was missing.
You shook your head, scooting even closer to him, “This one has a little hole at where you pulled the tab,” you pointed, holding it up for you to see. “It means you get a kiss.”
You’re pulling him in before he can process or ask anything more, leaving the movie long-forgotten. It became your thing, for him to give you his tab sheepishly after opening his cans, expecting a kiss in return.
All it really took was reminiscing over those three trinkets to send you back to a time you wanted only to leave behind, to prompt you to shut away the box by the lid, and with it all the memories you once held dear to your heart.
“Babe,” a husky male voiced called over from the next room. “You ready?”
“Yeah, in a sec,” you hesitantly called back.
You’d been dating someone new for months past your breakup with Clark now. He was sure, stable, and he was just what you needed. Though you couldn’t relieve the better sense within you that l felt that something was missing.
You felt guilty sometimes, like you only needed him to fill the empty chasm Clark left within you. Like you were using him so as to not feel alone, the way you sometimes did when you were dating Clark.
He wasn’t unfazed the way you assumed he’d be in your breakup. You’d convinced yourself that because he seemed to turned a blind eye when you were in need of help to prioritize the whole rest of the city, that he’d do just fine on his own without you.
But his days seemed both restless and endless, consumed by the painful need for you back, like he was trying to trek his way out from tar he couldn’t stop from sinking into. He’d often called Ma just to fill the ache and drone of his days, and sought her advice knowing deep down there wasn’t much to do that could help him now.
“You’ve gotta get your sweet girl back, Clark. She needs you and you need her, too. Gotta tell her how ya feel,” she advised him sternly.
“She wants nothing to do with me, Ma. And she’s right for it. I messed up. It was too hard to be there for her when I was off doing heck knows what in the city. And I know the people need me, Ma. But she needed me, too. But I couldn’t.” He rubbed at his temples thoughtfully.
“She loves you, Clark. I know it. She’ll understand. It’s not too late,” She pressed. Hopeful. Certain. He almost wanted to lie to her, to reassure her that he’d go looking for someone new. Find another. Just to convince her that he wouldn’t let this darkness eat away at him. But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t.
And thus began Clark’s nightly patrols over your apartment. He watched you from afar, sat atop that place parallel to your own apartment allowing him a perfect view from its height of your whereabouts, each time you’d enter and exit.
At first he’d wanted to tell you exactly how he felt, his call with Ma only a few weeks following your breakup. But the courage couldn’t be mustered from deep within him.
He couldn’t forget your last conversation, and he feared that the resentment you felt was still fresh in your mind, that you wouldn’t give him so much as a moment’s explanation before you walked away from him again.
So his first cowardly attempt to approach you turned to watching your ins and outs, to and fro your apartment building, observing that you made it in safely. That was enough for him.
And surely enough, after a couple of months you were running into the lobby in a fit of giggles, swinging in by the hands of another man, hands that weren’t his. His heart sank in his broad chest. But he couldn’t bring himself to stop coming. There was some sense of incompletion from knowing he couldn’t be there to protect you if he stopped coming.
This night was like any other. You arrived half past the hour you clocked out from your shift at work. You checked your phone absentmindedly while entering the lobby, something Clark always warned you not to do. You disappeared for a short while before emerging again in more relaxed clothing, out to go pick up something to eat, he thought. This time with that man whose hands you seemed to lace yours into more and more frequently. Clark sighed to himself from his ledge on the building. Thinking, regretfully, about how it could’ve been him, on one of your nightly excursions, his hands you’d be swinging by in and out of the building.
Only, when you came back, you were alone. Must’ve left back to his place, Clark figured.
“Hey!” a clamorous voice called out to you, taking long strides in your direction.
You stopped in your tracks, turning around to see if there’d been someone you missed standing your way.
“You, miss,” he shouted, making you jump out of your skin. “What’re you doing out here all alone at night?”
“Just visiting a friend,” you lied sheepishly, unsure how to dodge his unprecedented company.
“How ‘bout you come down to my place instead?” He smiled a crooked, toothy grin that made your skin crawl. He advanced closer towards you menacingly. “I can pour you a drank and—,”
“Hey, buddy!” another voice roared over his, commanding. Familiar. “Do we have a problem?” A broad figure emerged from the shadows bordering the building’s dim side. Clark. Superman, blue suit, red trunks at all. But just your Clark, underneath it all.
“No, sir,” the stranger meekly replied, frozen in place.
“Then can you be on your way before we do have a problem?” Clark demanded, not missing a beat.
“No problem, sir,” he practically whispered them strode in the opposite direction before taking off into a run. Pathetic.
You watched the exchange in awe, then glanced each way around you to ensure you were alone.
“Clark,” you whispered, more like hissed hastily—“What’re you doing here?”
“I was…in the neighborhood,” he hesitated shyly.
“Clark, your apartment is halfway across town. It’s been quiet all night. Nothing for you to fight off,” you said, pointedly.
He stepped closer to you. His pupils were blown, his lips were parted with want, ajar with all the words he wanted to say hanging from his lips, unsure which he’d choose. He knew it was upon him to finally be honest.
“I’ve been watching you,” he scratched the back of his head, “Not like that. Just wanted to make sure you were okay. I still feel I’ve gotta protect you, you know.”
“Clark,” you said, fidgeting with your fingers. One of them gleaming with a sizable diamond hanging fit around it. Oh. “You don’t need to do that. It’s too late for all that. I’m sorry,” you said under your breath. Your last words hung in the air.
Even Clark, with all his brawn, couldn’t brace the weight of them. The confirmation that he wasn’t needed anymore—coupled with the sorry sight of your finger embellished so beautifully with that glittering ring of yours that shone so magically under the light of the setting sun.
I’m sorry, you wanted to repeat. More meaningfully this time. The first time you said it you meant it so as to say I’m sorry I never told you I forgive you. You began to really understand that it was his duty—more like his promise to the world—to come to the aid and rescue of humans in need. It wasn’t his responsibility, but the pure will of his heart to want to, to have to help them because he could. Because he was good.
That was the beauty of Clark, the beauty of Superman, that you had failed to see in the hurt of his constant unavailability. But you understood now, and there was a time after you’d already called it quits that you were willing to put it all aside. You’d wished you’d reached out. That’s what you were truly sorry for.
“Well, um. I hope you’re alright,” he said, gesturing to your ring and smiling timidly.
“I am.” You smiled a somber smile. Seeing him again seemed to open wounds you thought you’d long-closed. A pain you thought you retired. A familiar ache.
“I’d better get going,” you said after awhile, looking at your feet.
“I understand,” his voice cracked. He watched as you went.
You looked back, somber smile still intact. “Be well, Clark,” you called out in your steps. “Take care of yourself. The world needs you.”
I need you, he wanted to say. He only nodded and returned your smile with a sheepish one, watching you disappear, winding up and away to your apartment. Ignoring the croak of his throat when he opened up to say something, and the hurt that found its way back to his chest, watching you leave for a second time, heavy with the odes and apologies he’d wished he’d said to you.
summary: clark kent will do anything—anything—to get his woman back
contains: clark being a dork, and kind of pathetic, lots of grovelling, reader is kind of mean
— part one. part three. masterlist. original ask.
୨୧ Clark Kent was unraveling. it had only been three days since you had told him they were over, but it felt like years, very painful years. he couldn’t focus, he fumbled interviews, botched his notes, and spent half his time pushing his glasses up his nose while scanning the newsroom for a glimpse of you. every time you walked by without looking his heart sank a little bit lower.
he needed you back.
but he also knew why you’d ended things. you said it yourself, sharp and cutting: you’re such a pussy. the words had lodged themselves in his chest like shards of glass. he’d laid awake all night, staring at the ceiling, replaying your last conversation over and over until the words sounded funny in his head.
naturally, Clark was not determined to prove that he actually had a spine.
the problem was, Clark didn’t really know how to be… intimidating. he was polite down to his bones: his voice rarely rose beyond a gentle baritone, he apologized to people that bumped into him, he thought he was just being good, but if you said he was too soft, then…. well, he’d just have to toughen up.
the first attempt happened at the coffee machine. Lois was already there, pouring herself a cup, when Clark marched up beside her. she was standing directly in front of the little cabinet that he kept his personal mug in. so, he straightened his shoulders, cleared his throat and said (in what he thought was a firm, commanding tone):
“move.”
Lois turned to him, eyebrows knit together and a smile on her face in that sort of disbelief that made you laugh, “excuse me?”
Clark’s ears went red. he felt terrible. he panicked. “uh, i mean—move, please. if you don’t mind. please. thank you. sorry.” he grabbed his mug, fumbled it, nearly dropped it, poured it a little too full, and then managed to slosh hot coffee onto his sleeve.
you watched the whole thing unfold across the room, sipping your latte with raised eyebrows.
the second attempt was worse.
at lunch, one of the interns accidentally bumped into Clark, spilling salad dressing on his tie. normally, he would have smiled and reassured the kid, but this time, remembering your words, he puffed his chest out, squared his jaw, and said: “watch where you’re going.”
the intern—a tiny, big eyed girl—looked a little scared. Clark immediately backpedaled. “i’m sorry, oh gosh, i didn’t mean it like that.” he reached in his pocket and pulled out the napkin he had gotten with the scone he bought for lunch with his coffee, “here, take my napkin, i’ve got another, it’s okay.” he didn’t have another.
by the time he’d finished apologizing, the intern was awkwardly scurrying away, and Clark was napkinless with a glob of ranch on his tie.
but for all his pathetic attempts at bravado, Clark’s other tactics were sweeter. and harder for you to ignore.
he started showing up at your desk with little things: your favourite coffee order (which he’d memorized down to the syrup pumps since before you even started going out), a new pack of gum when you were chewing the last of yours, even a phone charger because he knew you always forgot yours. every time he’d placed something down on your desk, he’d hover nervously, glasses slipping, big hands awkward (and sometimes grossly stress-sweaty) at his sides.
“i just thought you might need this,” he’d mumble, “no pressure. just… yeah. okay.”
you’d roll your eyes but you never told him to stop.
at one point, you caught him following you around the office like a shadow, trailing a step behind as you carried a stack of files. finally, you turned, papers clutched to your chest, “why are you following me like a puppy, Kent?”
Clark’s face went crimson. he adjusted his tie, swallowing hard, and said, completely serious, “because puppies are loyal.”
you laughed right in his face. so hard you almost dropped those files. he was pathetic. absolutely pathetic. and yet… there was something about the sheer earnestness in his blue eyes, the way he was genuinely trying so hard, that made your heart squeeze even as you kept laughing at him.
for now though, you let him squirm. he deserved to grovel for a little longer.
୨୧ the daily planet newsroom was its usual chaos: phones ringing, the hum of printers, Perry White barking orders at someone from his office. Clark sat at his desk, glasses sliding down his nose as he tapped away at his keyboard, foot thumping rapidly on the wood flooring unknowingly because of some kind of deadline-induced anxiety.
you had perched yourself on the edge of your own desk, scrolling through your phone, pretending to be invested in tweaking captions for the planets instagram feed. in truth, you were watching. always. because Lois Lane was across the bullpen, and Lois Lane was dangerous.
gorgeous, self-assured, hair tousled in a way that suggested she didn’t style it that way but that the wind simply favoured women like her, Lois walked around like she owned the place. and lately, she’d been circling Clark: laughing a little too hard at his corny jokes, leaning a little too close while pretending to look over his shoulder at his computer screen, even brushing her hand against his chest and acting like it was some sort of casual gesture. you’d noticed everything.
and Clark, sweet, oblivious Clark hadn’t noticed any of it. or maybe he had and he was just too nice to stop it. either way, the sight of Lois leaning on Clark’s desk, hip casually against the edge, one hand resting on his shoulder as she pointed out something in his notebook made something unpleasant burn inside you. Lois laughed, low and warm and fuck, so pretty. it was the kind of laugh that held far more weight than the actual joke warranted, the kind of laugh that said: please, Clark, just rip my panties off and fuck me already! you rolled your eyes to no one.
Clark, ever oblivious, gave her a smile, dimples on display. he said something about being “not sure that’s my best angle, Lois.” as he adjusted his glasses. he didn’t even flinch at the way her hand lingered on his shoulder. you wanted to believe he thought it was nothing but collegial warmth, but you knew that Clark was smarter than that.
it was obvious to even the stupidest person: Lois was flirting.
you tried to just swallow it down, tried to remind yourself that Clark was yours, that he went home with you at the end of the day. but then Lois leaned in closer, so close that her glossy hair grazed his cheek, and Clark gave that bashful little laugh he only ever did when he was nervous around a pretty woman. something hot and sour twisted in your gut.
the day dragged on with you watching every interaction like a hawk. Lois found excuses to swing by Clark’s desk: asking about notes, asking about phrasing, asking about deadlines or if he wanted anything from the cafe when she did a little coffee run during her break. Clark answered her every. single. time. all in that patient voice.
it all came to a head at lunch. the office had quieted, most people out either chasing stories or a good sandwich. Clark had stepped into one of the smaller side offices because his computer had started acting up again, the kind with a glass door and a battered little filing cabinet. he was attempting to understand the old (but thankfully functioning) computer when Lois slipped in behind him.
you didn’t mean to follow, not consciously. i mean, you trusted Clark, he was nice, he was faithful, but something strong had you drifting towards the corridor, phone clutched tight in your hand like some kind of security blanket.
you caught sight of Lois through the pane of glass replacing one of the offices outer walls. she was too close to him, one hand lightly tugging at his sleeve. you froze. and listened.
“Clark,” she said, voice low like she was trying to hide it, “you’re… you’re really something, you know that?”
Clark blinked, a little nervous, “i—uh—i’m not sure what you mean Lois. I just—”
and then she leaned in. not forceful, not aggressive, but soft and tentative, the gesture of a woman reaching for a man she thought might meet her halfway.
Clark startled, eyes wide behind his glasses, “Lois!” he stammered, stepping back so fast that he walked right into the desk behind him. the old computer rattled; a pen fell to the floor; Clark’s face turned crimson. “i—i can’t—i’m sorry—” he stammered.
you had seen enough: Lois leaning in, Clark not moving soon enough, and “i’m sorry”?? not “get away from me i have a girlfriend!!” ugh. it was like he was saying he wanted her to fuck him but was sorry a girlfriend was in the way.
you didn’t remember walking back to your desk, you didn’t remember packing up your bag, all that was in your memory was Clark finding you half an hour later, breathless and anxious, glasses slipping down his nose as he caught you by the elevators.
he called your name, told you to wait in a confused but desperate voice, “please, just—what’s wrong?
did i do something?” you turned, expression sharp enough to cut. “you know what you did.”
“i,” he faltered, searching your face, “Lois— i mean, i— i stopped her, i swear.”
“you didn’t stop her fast enough,” you yelled, voice venomous. you adjusted the strap of your bag on your shoulder, “you’re not stupid, Clark. you know she’s been throwing herself at you for weeks. you obviously like the attention. or maybe you like her, is that it?”
his face fell, wounded, “no! no, baby—”
“don’t call me that Clark,” you interrupted. you could tell that hurt him.
“it’s not like that with Lois,” he continued, “i didn’t—i don’t want her. i want you! please, you have to believe me.”
you shook your head, lips pressed tight, “i can’t do this. not if you’re going to be such a— such a pussy! you can’t just let people treat you like that when you’re with me!”
he went pale. he reached for you but you pulled back from his touch like it burned. “please, don’t say that,” his voice shook, “don’t leave me, please.” and then it broke on that last word. but you’d already stepped into the elevator, arms crossed, heart pounding so loud you couldn’t even think.
the elevator slid shut between you, his devastated face the last thing you saw before those cold metal doors.
You might let Clark get away with too much because you know he needs a break. But a woman can only handle so much when she didn’t even want to date Superman in the first place.
Yeah I lowkey needed a cry but instead raw dogged this random angst shot of David’s Supes (because I’m fucking obssessed)
Warnings: uhh like one reference to suicidal thoughts, reader is super emotionally confused, Clark is sweet but super super dense, hurt no comfort, reader dumps supes but in a really too nice way even though she’s been through the ringer, Clark CANNOT process this and really the man is too shocked to speak, reader is way too nice even though Clark ditched her on her 30th birthday
Let me know if I should make a pt 2 because I’d probably be interested in doing so.
————————————————————————
There was something you could never admit to yourself even if you really wanted to.
You deserved better.
Way better than a beautiful meal that slowly turned cold because of the man who just couldn’t pull himself away from the world.
Especially today.
Honestly you couldn’t even be mad at Clark because he was out there saving people. Plural.
Stopping wars, holding buildings together so they wouldn’t play dominos after a villains tantrum- and probably kissing babies and kittens afterwards.
But damn it you were only human and you hadn’t wanted to date Superman.
You had fallen head over heels for Clark.
And now…..
You were sitting pretty for yourself-
because you knew he wouldn’t be home until sunrise at this point. You could still see explosions of light beaming infrequently on the city line.
Who knew that desperately chasing the tall clumsy loser of the Daily Planet would land you with a mandatory side of savior complex.
Clark was all you ever needed.
But you unknowingly signed up for big blue, who just so happened to have a terrible habit of making an appearance when he got too excited. (He accidentally floated the two of you about 5 feet in the air during your first kiss.)
You still tease him about it just to see his ears flush crimson.
Crimson like the dress you wore tonight. His favorite color.
So silly. Because it was YOUR birthday. You should’ve worn your favorite color. But you wanted to look nice for the man you fell for,
even if a small part of you had whispered when you bought it that he might miss out on seeing you in it.
Which was why the tags were still on it.
You’d take it back first thing in the morning.
Then buy yourself a damn espresso machine instead to make up for the emotional damage.
After slipping the dress off and leaving it in a pile on his bedroom floor, with an uncanny likeness to what you think the relationship felt like-
you decided you wanted to spend the night passion writing at your desk.
And there was no where better than the Daily Planet for that kind of outlet.
Plus it was only 10:45, you needed a walk so you wouldn’t do something impulsive.
Like wiping every trace of yourself from his apartment and disappearing so you wouldn’t have to actually ever talk to him about this.
But you knew that you would be cleaner and smoother about it than that. You were an adult and you could break off a relationship like an adult. Plus…you still loved him, and he deserved better than that.
You do grab the last pint of Clark’s favorite ice cream from the freezer on your way out though.
It wasn’t every day you turned 30.
You were allowed to be a little petty.
————————————————————————
Having taken a detour of the whole fucking city on your way to work, you didn’t end up getting there until midnight (ish).
The stars were surprisingly visible and the fresh air was addicting. Add on stolen ice cream, a cool rock you found in the park, and a never ending stream of tears you’ve been suppressing for the better half of 6 months and you’d call it a pretty damn good night of womanhood.
By the time you actually walk into the surreally quiet Daily Planet- you had lost any and all motivation to write.
Your heart was a sad pile of mush and your brain wasn’t faring much better.
Instead you shuffled back into the elevator and pressed the button for the top floor.
The city was stunning.
The breeze was calm.
And you didn’t mean to be morbid, but you thought it might be a nice place to die.
Or really- more like mourn a part of you that had died.
That was a safer way to put it. Because in a way it was true.
Tonight was sobering. Tonight you were grieving the more naive version of yourself who thought she could hold Clark Kent closer by holding on tighter. (And pretending like his every absence and bloodstain didn’t affect you)
That’s what you had been doing for almost a year and you were so tired of it.
Everything you had ever loved and let go of had claw marks. You were known you hold on until you couldn’t anymore.
And Clark was too sweet for you to scar up in that way. He had enough of that from his side gig of being Earth’s hero.
He couldn’t scar physically but emotionally….
He was a graveyard of all the people he couldn’t get to in time.
No. You had to let him go.
You were a grown woman and you knew now the timing of beginnings
And endings.
You were sick of causing yourself immeasurable amounts of pain by pretending everything was fine always.
Every absence. Every stain of blood in your apartment. Every late night of no shows and valid excuses.
You knew it couldn’t carry on. You felt a little sick, and maybe it was the ice cream, but in reality you knew.
You had to dump the love of your life.
Just as you allowed yourself to sit gently on the roof edge to sit quietly with that-
You heard it.
The gentle whip of wind that you had memorized for 12 months 8 weeks and 2 days
Part adoration, part trauma response.
It came with the territory if you didn’t want to have a heart attack everytime your boyfriend forgets your ears are dull and he shouldnt just spawn out of nowhere behind you.
But this time you knew HE knew you were aware of him.
Which was good. It’s meant he knew you needed to have the space to speak first.
“Hey Superman,”
It was more gentle than you had intended, but he let of a shaky breath like you had screamed it.
“Sweetheart.”
You didn’t turn around. The city lights were grounding.
“You seen my boyfriend around?”
You knew that struck something more tender when in a blink he was hovering in front of you. You both knew you hadn’t wanted to turn around to look him in the eyes.
He was so unfair.
And beautiful.
“He might be hiding,” he rasped. Even his hair looked deflated. “Seeing as he’s the worst boyfriend on Earth.”
You smiled at the ice cream pint that was perspiring onto your scrappy sweatpants.
Then the warmth of another round of tears followed behind.
Clark shed all pretense and scrambled towards you.
“Oh honey- oh gosh- baby I can’t” he choked
“I’m so sorry sweetheart- there’s no excuse I’m horrible-”
Your sharp bark of laughter interrupts him.
He froze. His hands not being able to decide if he deserved to comfort you or not.
You all the sudden couldn’t stop the laughter.
Or the tears.
You looked crazy, likely,
seeing as Clark was looking at you like
a.) he had been punched in the gut
b.) you were possibly broken
c.) there’s a chance he might have to stop you from throwing yourself off the building
“Oh Clark god you really just-“ another snort of laughter.
“You just really don’t get it do you?”
At that he looked like you had definitely just gut-punched him.
“I-I don’t understand sweetheart- I mean yes I know what I did and it’s terrible really- I’ll never forgive myself but- but I don’t really know why you’re laughing unless well you’re about to strangle me” he pauses “which I’d completely respect and I’ll let you try your hardest if you want but just-“ this time he looks at you in a spooked way.
“Let’s just- uh let’s talk about this away from the edge maybe?”
“Or even like inside the building would be nice.”
You let out a hum.
“Clark.”
He looks startled. Like he expected violence instead of you.
He murmurs your name in reply.
You stand and set down the empty pint then retreat to a safe distance away from the edge.
You see his shoulders fall a little. From relief maybe, or perhaps he now realizes something devastating is about to happen.
“I’m laughing like an insane asylum patient because of how unfair this all is.”
He shudders like he’s in pain.
“Gosh I know- I know and I’m so sorry I-“
“No Clark.”
He stops as you sigh. Then comes the frustration you were surprised hadn’t come sooner.
“You don’t - ughhh- it’s unfair because you’re NOT terrible!”
You lose any remaining composure as the pacing starts.
His feet touch the ground gently and he walks towards you hands out like he’s approaching a scared animal
“NO no you- don’t- just stay there okay because I need you to listen.”
He immediately halts and then just waits. Like a dog
An adorable 6,4 250 pound dog that’s being yelled at for possibly tearing up a couch or something.
You just start then. And the flood comes rushing.
“I can’t even be mad at you Clark because youre so much bigger than this- I can’t be upset and I haven’t let myself be upset for a year over anything like this because I refuse to be some self absorbed twig who thinks her birthday is more important than probably thousands of lives being saved.”
You breathe roughly.
“I’m human and I- well I just I have a breaking point you know and I can’t keep doing this thing where I pretend I don’t care about things like you not coming to dates, or- or coming home in shreds, or not texting me for days when you go to fucking Antarctica, or stranding me in the Air BnB YOU booked because you thought I wanted a vacation with you WHICH I DID but didn’t realize you FLYING us there would mean you’d up and leave me to get home myself while you got kicked around like a hacky sack in Metropolis!!”
Now most of your words were sobs.
Clark looked like he was dying. And honestly you felt like you were too.
“I love you Clark and I’m so sorry because you’re the best thing to ever happen to this earth- to ever happen to ME- but I can’t do this!”
“You’re amazing and I’m really not mad at you but I fell in love with Clark Kent not with Kal-El.”
And that.
That you really hadn’t meant to say.
But Clark, sweet as sugar and nicer than his Ma’s pie, just looks at you like you lost your whole family.
Devasted. But not for himself.
“I-“ his voice cracks.
He looks down but you can see the tears on his own cheeks.
“I didn’t know” he says so quietly.
“I didn’t want you to.” You hesitate.
“I’m sorry Clark. I didn’t- I wanted to support you, I didn’t want to burden or nag you but this-” you wave your hands around, “tonight was just- too much and I can’t do it.”
He looks up, all wet blue eyes and heartbreak.
But his gaze sharpens as your words land.
“You could never burden me.” He says your name to emphasize it.
“You’re my everything.”
Your anger, sadness, and whatever else mixed in just….floats away. All that’s left is a pit of emptiness at what comes next.
“I know Clark.” “So were you.”
The past tense isn’t lost on him. It causes him to crack a little bit.
The great composed glacier that is Superman, just crumbles.
But for your sake he does it quietly. Because he now knows you’ve been doing it for much longer.
Falling apart so silently that even his super senses could never pick up on it.
You finally chance closing the distance because it’s the last time you’ll have to be brave enough to do so.
You stand so close that you become entwined with his shadow. Then you gently reach up and kiss his cheek shakily.
“Stay in one piece Kent,” you say weakly.
An old inside joke from when he fell over his desk after asking you out.
It feels a little hallowed out now.
You know you don’t need to add the next part because he knows you’ve rather die than give him up but still
“I’ll never tell.”
You turn then before he says another word and keeps you wrapped up in all things Clark.
You tell yourself the faster you get out the less time it has to sink in and tear you apart.
————————————————————————
Despite being nearly invincible- Clark feels like the two hours of him just standing on the roof of the Daily Planet in pure shock and disbelief is some kind of psychological warfare created by Lex to kill him.
Because there’s no way in actual heck that he just lost you like that.
He stiffly reaches up to his chest to see if he still has a heartbeat- which is stupid- but necessary because he doesn’t feel ALIVE
And he’s so tired. Tired from the fight, from the panic of not finding you at home where he guiltily knew you’d be waiting, from calmly (freaking Taf out) flying over the whole city to locate your heartbeat, and then this.
You dropped a kryptonite bomb on him and then ran.
And before he could even process the loss, you’re gone.
Taking his heart with you.
Funny enough you were right about his not making it home until sunrise- but that’s only because he sits and disassociates on the roof of his day job until the sun reminds him he has to work in two hours.
Where he will have to see you sitting across the room, pretending he doesn’t exist.
Clark has never been into theology like most people were in Smallville.
But he knows now that hell is real.
Because he’s living it.
Ugh it’s trash but whatever it’s midnight and I’m sad so we ball. Tell me how or if I should continue<3
Summary: A sleepless night stirs memories of a fateful encounter, a battle fought with both fists and emotions. Loyalties blur as conflicting truths are offered—each carrying its own kind of danger. Old bonds refuse to fade, even when turned into weapons, and choices made in silence may prove more dangerous than any fight. (2.3K)
Warnings/Tags: Angst, Memory loss, Lex Luthor is a master manipulator, Clark is sick to his stomach, Lois asks the important questions, reader is being manipulated, reader has realizations, Clark can't help himself
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
The ceiling fan spun lazily above him, the blades whispering in the stillness. Clark lay flat on his back, staring into the dark. Sleep never came anymore. Not here. Not without you.
He shifted, arm brushing against the cold side of the bed. Your side. His chest ached at the silence it left behind.
And like a cruel trick, his mind dragged him back to that day.
The day you shouldn’t have been there.
The day you had been.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
He remembered the blast first—the way it had hurled him into the asphalt, the world tilting in fire and dust. His ears had rung, body refusing to move. Kryptonite in the mech’s core had left his veins burning.
And then—your voice.
“Superman—hey, don’t move—”
You’d dropped to your knees beside him, palms hovering like you were afraid to touch, but you did anyway. Your hand pressed to his shoulder, grounding him.
“Come on, you can’t stay down. People are watching.”
He’d opened his eyes—and found yours.
For a heartbeat, the battlefield faded. Smoke, sirens, chaos—it all blurred. All he saw was you.
He almost said your name aloud. Almost reached for you the way he had a hundred times when no one else was looking.
But then the crowd pressed closer. Reporters shouted. Phones flashed.
So instead, he rasped, “I’m fine. You need to get back—it’s not safe here.”
You’d nodded, though your eyes lingered on his like you could see through the cape. You turned to leave, but his hand—weak, trembling—caught your wrist for just a second.
He’d let go quickly, forcing his face back into the mask.
But the look you gave him—that mix of worry and recognition—still burned in his memory.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
Clark squeezed his eyes shut against the memory, throat tight. He should have pushed you away sooner. Should have been colder, less human. Should have made sure Lex never saw the crack in the armor.
Instead, he’d given himself away.
And you’d paid the price.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered into the empty dark, voice breaking.
The ceiling fan spun on. The bed stayed cold.
And the guilt weighed heavier than the world ever could.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
The room pulsed with the echo of your last strike. Sweat dampened your brow, your chest heaved with every breath, but the weighted target still stood, only slightly scorched.
You clenched your fists, teeth gritted. Again.
The hum built in your body as you pushed, reaching for the power the way Lex had taught you. But this time, the energy sputtered, flickering like a faulty light.
The target wobbled, barely dented.
From the observation deck above, Lex’s voice slid through the intercom. Calm. Controlled. Always calm.
“Sloppy,” he said. “Again.”
You braced, but when you tried—the force backfired. Pain lanced through your ribs, knocking the air from your lungs. You dropped to one knee, gasping.
“I don’t—” your voice broke. “I don’t understand. It worked yesterday. Why—why isn’t it working?”
For a long moment, silence. Then the soft click of polished shoes on metal stairs.
Lex descended, slow and deliberate, brandy glass absent this time. He reached you just as you forced yourself shakily to your feet.
“Why?” he repeated, voice lower now, more dangerous. “Because you’re hesitating.”
You blinked, heart pounding. “I’m not—I just…”
“You are,” he snapped, stepping closer. His calm veneer slipped, eyes flashing cold. “Every time you think of him, every time you let his words crawl into your head, you give him power. You let him weaken you.”
You flinched back at the sharpness in his tone. Lex rarely raised his voice.
“I just wanted to know—”
“Know what?” His jaw clenched, the mask slipping further. “If he was telling the truth? If maybe—just maybe—you had a life before me?”
Your throat tightened. His words cut closer than you wanted to admit.
Lex leaned in, lowering his voice to a hiss. “There is no before. There is only what he did to you—and how I saved you.”
The lights above flickered as your emotions spiraled, your form beginning to shimmer in and out of sight.
Lex’s eyes narrowed. For a second, something ugly flashed across his face—not patience, not charm. Something harder. Possessive.
“You want answers?” he said softly, dangerously. “The only answer you need is that he abandoned you. And without me, you’d still be rotting in the void. Dead. Forgotten.”
Your hands shook. “But why does it hurt when I think of him?” you whispered.
For just a heartbeat, his composure cracked. His mouth tightened, his nostrils flared—impatience, fear.
Then, just as quickly, he smoothed it away. A soft smile replaced the storm.
“Because trauma leaves scars,” he said gently, cupping your chin like a father—or a warden. “And he is the scar. I am the cure.”
You stared into his eyes, searching for the calm anchor he always gave you. It was there, but thinner now. Fragile.
And for the first time, you weren’t entirely sure if you believed him.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
The newsroom was unusually quiet. Only the hum of old fluorescent lights and the distant honking of traffic outside filled the silence.
Clark sat across from Lois at a desk littered with empty coffee cups and stacks of reports. His glasses hung loosely in his hand, his other hand rubbing the tension at the back of his neck.
“She’s alive,” he said finally, voice low. Heavy. “Lois, I—I saw her. It’s really her.”
Lois leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, eyes sharp behind her glasses. “And you’re sure it wasn’t just… what you wanted to see?”
Clark shook his head firmly. “No. I felt her. I know it was her.”
Lois studied him, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Okay. Then we have a bigger problem than we thought.”
Clark frowned. “Lois—”
“She’s dangerous, Clark. People are scared. The news feeds are calling her a phantom, a weapon. Superman can’t ignore that.”
His stomach turned at her words. “She’s not a weapon.”
“Maybe not to you,” Lois said gently but firmly. “But to everyone else? That’s all they see. A walking disaster. And if Luthor’s behind this—”
“He is,” Clark cut in, his voice low with certainty. “I know it.”
“Then he’s already won,” Lois countered. She leaned forward, eyes locked on his. “Because he’s made you hesitate. Clark, answer me honestly. If it comes down to it—if it’s her or the lives of thousands—”
“Lois, don’t.” His voice broke, sharper than he intended.
“You have to think about it,” she pressed, her voice softer now, almost pleading. “You always said Superman is supposed to be a symbol of hope. If you freeze in the middle of a fight because it’s her—if people die because of that hesitation—what does that say to the world? What does that say about Superman?”
Clark’s jaw tightened, his chest aching. The image of you—eyes full of confusion, hands trembling with power you didn’t fully control—burned in his mind.
“I can’t…” he whispered, shaking his head. “I can’t talk about her like that.”
Lois reached for his hand across the desk, but he pulled back before she could touch him. His chair scraped loudly as he stood.
“I have to go.”
“Clark—”
But he was already walking away, cape hidden beneath the suit, shoulders heavy as the weight of the question crushed down on him.
Could he kill you if it came down to it?
He didn’t want the answer.
Because deep down, he already knew it.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
The reinforced steel doors didn’t stand a chance. One second they stood like impenetrable sentinels; the next, they were nothing but twisted wreckage, smoke curling off molten edges where heat vision had sliced through.
Luthor didn’t flinch. He stood in the center of the lab, hands folded neatly behind his back, the bright overhead lights catching the gleam of his cufflinks.
“Superman,” he greeted smoothly, as though the Man of Steel hadn’t just demolished a door worth more than most Metropolis apartments. “To what do I owe the pleasure? You’re usually so… civilized.”
Clark’s boots hit the polished floor with heavy purpose, his cape swaying like a red warning flag. “Where is she?” His voice was low, dangerous, every syllable weighed down with restrained fury.
Luthor smiled faintly, tilting his head. “I assume you mean the little ghost? The one you’ve been chasing all over the city like a lovesick fool?”
Clark’s fists clenched. “I’m not asking again, Lex.”
“Oh, you’ll ask again,” Luthor replied, strolling casually toward a glowing console, as if Superman’s glare didn’t feel like a death sentence. “You see, you don’t really want me to answer. Because deep down, you’re afraid of the truth. Afraid she’s not the person you remember… or worse, that she is.”
Clark’s patience snapped. He closed the distance in a blur, seizing Luthor by the front of his suit and slamming him against the reinforced wall hard enough to rattle the light fixtures.
“I won’t warn you again,” Clark growled, his face inches from Luthor’s. “If you’ve hurt her—”
“Hurt her?” Luthor’s smirk widened. “Superman, I’ve given her purpose. I’ve shown her what she’s capable of. You kept her small, weak, chained to your version of morality. Me? I—”
Before he could finish, Clark’s grip tightened. The lab’s alarms wailed as sensors detected the spike in heat radiating off Superman’s body.
“This is your last chance,” Clark warned. “Where. Is. She?”
Luthor’s eyes glittered with something between amusement and calculation. “Why don’t you ask her yourself?”
A blur slammed into Clark from the side with enough force to send him skidding across the floor, crashing through a lab bench in a shower of glass and sparks.
When the debris settled, Superman lifted his head—his gaze locking with yours.
And everything stopped.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
You didn’t give him a second to recover.
The moment he looked up, you were already on him—fist colliding with his jaw hard enough to send him stumbling backward. His cape snapped through the air as he steadied himself, eyes narrowing in a way that made your chest tighten for reasons you didn’t want to think about.
“Still holding back?” you taunted, circling him.
“You don’t want me to stop holding back,” he warned, but you could hear the strain in his voice.
Your only answer was a quick feint, then a burst of telekinetic force that sent him crashing into a row of steel support beams. The metal bent around him, but he was already moving, blurring toward you with a speed that made the world shrink to nothing but him.
You traded blows—his heavy, controlled, and deliberately restrained; yours fast, unpredictable, and merciless. Each impact sent shockwaves through the floor, each clash ringing like thunder through the lab.
Still… he never hit you as hard as you knew he could.
You caught him in the ribs once—heard his breath catch—but the next moment he had your wrist, twisting you down into the floor. You flipped out of it, barely, only for him to slam you into a reinforced column.
“Stop!” he barked, and for a second, you almost did. Almost.
But the fight burned too hot in your blood.
You launched at him again, but this time he was ready. He caught your forearm mid-swing, used your own momentum to twist you down, and in a blur, you were on your back with his weight pinning you, his hands braced on either side of your head.
You froze—not because you couldn’t move, but because of the look in his eyes. That raw, aching mix of recognition and disbelief.
He didn’t strike. Didn’t even tighten his hold. Instead, his gaze swept over your face like he was memorizing every detail, as if he thought you might vanish if he blinked.
“You’re real,” he breathed, so softly it was almost to himself.
Before you could respond, you felt something slip into your palm—a folded piece of paper, pressed there with careful precision.
And then he was gone.
One gust of wind, the faint crack of air pressure, and the space above you was empty.
You sat up slowly, staring at the paper in your hand, your heartbeat hammering in your ears.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
The doors slid shut behind you, sealing off the corridor where the fight had left scorch marks and warped metal. You were still breathing hard, sweat cooling on your skin, when Luthor emerged from the shadows of the observation deck above.
“Well,” he drawled, slow clapping as he descended the stairs, “that was… adequate.”
Adequate.
You’d just gone toe-to-toe with Superman, and he was acting like you’d barely passed a pop quiz.
“Your form was sloppy in the final minute,” he continued, stepping into your space with a clinical smile. “You let him get too close. I told you—close range is his game. If he hadn’t been holding back—” He stopped, letting the implication hang heavy.
“I know,” you muttered.
“Oh, I’m sure you think you do,” he said, voice dipping into something syrupy, a teacher correcting a bright but hopeless student. “But you can’t afford sentiment in the field. He is not your friend. He is not your savior. He is the reason you were left in the void.”
You nodded, but his words slid over you differently this time—like water over stone that was beginning to crack.
Luthor’s gaze lingered, as if searching for something in your expression. Whatever he saw must have satisfied him, because his smirk sharpened. “Rest. Tomorrow, we dissect every mistake you made. If you survive him again, maybe I’ll start calling you… impressive.”
With that, he left, the echo of his footsteps disappearing into the hum of the facility.
Alone now, you finally unclenched your fist.
The paper Superman had given you was warm from your grip, crumpled from the fight. You smoothed it out on your thigh, revealing a single line in clean, blocky handwriting:
344 Clinton Street — Midnight.
You stared at it for a long time.
Every lesson Luthor had drilled into you screamed to hand it over. To tell him immediately. To let him decide what to do with the information.
But… you didn’t.
Instead, you folded the paper again, slipped it deep into your boot, and told yourself it was only because you weren’t sure what it meant yet.
Summary: After a haunting encounter, unsettling memories stir within you—memories that challenge everything you’ve been told. As you confront the truths and doubts entwined in your past, the lines between friend and foe blur, leaving you questioning who to trust and what to believe. (2.7k)
Warnings/Tags: Angst, Memory loss, Lex Luthor is a master manipulator, Clark Kent is love sick, reader is caught in something bigger then herself, superpowers, emotional manipulation.
Authors Note: Hey y'all this is part 2. I may do a mini series but for sure one more chapter. I tagged each person who asked to be tagged on my last post but if you want to be added for the next one just lmk.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
The first thing you heard was the beep.
Slow, steady. A sound that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.
Your eyes fluttered open against harsh fluorescent light. The ceiling was metal. Cold. Unfamiliar.
You didn’t know where you were.
You didn’t know who you were.
Your chest rose in a ragged breath, and with it came a vibration that rattled the pod around you. The air itself seemed to hum, low and dangerous, like something inside you was trying to claw its way out.
“Subject’s conscious,” a voice said above you.
You tried to sit up, but straps dug into your arms and legs. Panic surged—and the air rippled around you.
For a second, your vision fractured. You looked down at your hands—only they weren’t there.
Your breath caught.
“Vitals spiking,” the second attendant said, fingers flying across a data pad. “We’ve got instability—phase displacement at thirty percent and climbing.”
You gasped, trembling as you tried to see yourself again. One second your hands were there, pale and shaking. The next—they flickered out, gone, like you’d blinked them away. The room shuddered with each disappearance.
“What’s happening to me?” you whispered. Your own voice sounded foreign, raw.
No one answered.
The attendants moved faster. Syringes prepped. Machines recalibrated. You thrashed against the restraints, and the pod itself began to shake. Metal groaned. Lights flickered.
You didn’t know your name. You didn’t know why you were here. But you knew one thing: you weren’t safe.
“Sedation protocol now,” one snapped.
“No—wait, I—please!”
Your words cut off as the needle bit your arm. Cool fire raced through your veins. The world dulled, edges softening. The vibrations slowed.
But not before you saw it—just for a second. A flash in your mind. A pair of eyes, wide and full of tears. Green fields behind them. A hand reaching for you.
And then—darkness.
One attendant checked your vitals as they leveled. The other lifted a secure comm link.
“Subject 17 regained consciousness,” they said quietly. “Abilities manifesting ahead of schedule. Memory remains unrecovered. Recommend immediate escalation.”
Static hissed on the line. Then a calm, cold voice replied:
“Keep her under. I’m on my way.”
The call ended.
And the room went still again—except for the faint, restless flicker as your body wavered in and out of sight beneath the sedation.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
Metropolis looked the same. It always did after a battle. Buildings rebuilt, streets scrubbed, lives stitched back together as if nothing had happened.
But Clark knew better.
He walked the crowded sidewalks in his glasses, a coffee in one hand, a newspaper tucked under his arm. Just Clark Kent. Just another face in the crowd.
At least—that’s what he told himself.
Until he saw you.
Across the street, hair catching in the wind, laughing at something a friend said. He froze. His chest seized, the paper slipping slightly in his hand.
But when the crowd shifted—you were gone.
He swallowed hard, forced himself forward. Just his mind. Just grief.
He reached the Daily Planet lobby. The elevator doors slid open, and for a breathless second—there you were inside. Turning to face him, eyes warm, the ghost of your smile blooming like sunrise.
“Y/N—” he whispered before he could stop himself.
Then the image flickered. Just a stranger, startled by the man speaking her name.
Clark muttered an apology, ducking his head as the elevator climbed. His pulse thundered.
By the time he reached the bullpen, he’d managed to school his face into neutrality. Lois was already at her desk, typing furiously. Perry barked about deadlines. Phones rang. The world moved on.
But he couldn’t.
Because when he sat at his desk, he saw you leaning against it. Not smiling this time—just watching him. Quiet. Eyes searching.
He blinked. And the chair across from him was empty.
Clark pressed a hand hard to his temple, glasses slipping slightly. He forced himself to focus on the blank page before him, the cursor blinking like a taunt. But every time he tried to string words together, your voice echoed in his head.
Clark. Don’t tell him anything.
The bullpen noise dulled, faded, until all he could hear was you. The memory of your hand brushing his cheek. The phantom warmth of your laughter.
He shoved back from his desk suddenly, chair wheels screeching against the floor. Lois glanced up, brow furrowing.
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” he lied. His throat felt raw. “Just—need some air.”
He walked out, through the lobby, onto the street. The sunlight felt too harsh. Every face in the crowd could’ve been yours if he looked quickly enough.
And he did. Again and again. Hoping. Torturing himself.
Because every time he blinked, you were there.
And every time his eyes opened, you were gone.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
The training room smelled of ozone and steel. Your breaths came in sharp bursts as you stood in the center, fists clenched, the ground faintly trembling beneath your feet from the power you still didn’t fully understand.
“Again,” Lex’s voice commanded from the observation platform above. Smooth. Patient. Always patient—with you.
You obeyed without hesitation, thrusting your hand toward the weighted target. The room vibrated, the air bending. The target flickered out of view, then slammed back into the far wall with a resounding crash.
Your chest heaved, a mixture of pride and exhaustion warming your limbs.
“Good,” Lex said, stepping down the stairs with slow, measured steps. He always moved like a man who never feared being attacked. You’d never question why.
He came close enough that you could see the faint smile curving his lips. “Y/N,” he said—your name, the only one you knew now, the one he gave you. “Do you feel it? The control? The progress you’ve made?”
“Yes,” you whispered, a small flicker of relief lighting in your chest when he nodded approvingly. You lived for those nods. For the rare, soft praise.
“Do you remember the day I found you?” he asked, voice low, conspiratorial.
You tried, brow furrowing. You remembered nothing before waking in that sterile pod. Only fragments of fear. The sound of your own screams. Shadows of pain. And then—Lex’s voice. Gentle. Reassuring.
“I saved you,” he reminded, stepping closer. His hand brushed your shoulder, grounding you. “From the void. From being lost forever. I gave you a life when no one else wanted you.”
You nodded. He was right. He was always right.
“Then you must trust me when I tell you the truth,” Lex continued. He gestured to the giant screen on the far wall. With a flicker, the image appeared: Superman. Hovering above Metropolis. The people below reaching for him like he was some god.
Your stomach twisted. You didn’t know why.
“This,” Lex said softly, almost like he was letting you in on a secret, “is the man responsible for your suffering. The reason you were cast aside. The reason you were broken.”
You stared at the screen. At the cape. At the symbol. Something flickered deep in your chest—recognition? Ache? It hurt to look too long.
“He’ll tell you lies,” Lex continued, his voice threading into your mind like silk. “He’ll try to turn you against me. But you can’t let him. You know better. You know who’s been here, who’s cared for you, who’s given you purpose.”
You swallowed hard, eyes still fixed on the man in red and blue. “He… he looks—”
“Dangerous,” Lex finished for you, firm. “Because he is. He wants to control this world, to use his power unchecked. But we—we can stop him. Together.”
You turned to him slowly, searching his face. The man who saved you. The man who told you who you were.
And in that moment, you believed him.
“What do you want me to do?” you asked softly.
Lex smiled, satisfied. “Exactly what you’ve been training for.”
Behind him, the screen froze on Superman’s face.
You stared into those eyes, something in your chest tightening, almost breaking.
But you said nothing.
Because who were you to disagree?
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
The bedroom was quiet.
Too quiet.
The sheets were untouched on one side—your side. The dent in the pillow had long since faded, but Clark still saw it. Felt it. Like a scar in the air.
He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, head bowed. Dressed down in a T-shirt and sweatpants, no cape, no glasses. Just a man. Just a man haunted by silence.
The moonlight spilled in through the window, silvering the room in a way that should’ve felt peaceful. It didn’t. It felt like a graveyard.
He hadn’t slept in the bed since the day they pulled him out of that dimension. Since the moment Lois told him there was no body—just echoes in the void and a drop too far to survive.
He’d tried. God, he’d tried. Laid down once. Let his hand drift over to your side.
But the cold hit him harder than kryptonite ever could.
Now the bed just sat there. Made. Undisturbed. A monument to failure.
I promised I’d protect you.
He could still hear your voice, could still see the way you looked at him that day in the cell—don’t answer him, Clark. No matter what.
He had.
And you were gone.
The apartment was still and dark when the sound broke through—
"—breaking news out of Metropolis—"
Clark blinked and turned toward the TV, still glowing dimly from the muted news stream he never really turned off anymore. He grabbed the remote and unmuted it, leaning forward.
The screen showed chaos: overturned cars, shattered windows, smoke rising into the sky. Civilians ran. Police struggled to create a perimeter.
And at the center of it all—
A figure cloaked in distortion. Their body flickering in and out of view, wrapped in raw telekinetic energy. Faces blurred by phase-shifting. Voice scrambled on every mic.
But the power—he could feel it through the screen.
The vibration in the pavement. The psychic tension in the air.
The anchor in his chest lurched.
His breath caught in his throat.
The camera zoomed too far, the distortion broke for half a second—
And his heart stopped.
A flicker of your face.
Your eyes.
Empty. Unknowing.
The villain vanished in the next blink, phasing out mid-stride, reappearing across the block. A wave of force sent debris flying.
The reporter ducked, and the feed cut out.
Clark didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe.
His eyes stayed locked on the frozen screen.
His chest burned.
“…Y/N?” he whispered, voice raw.
He stood slowly. His cape was folded across the chair in the corner, still untouched from yesterday. The bed behind him remained cold and empty.
But the ache inside him—suddenly, it was different.
Less grief.
More fire.
Because if there was even a chance that it was you—
Then you weren’t lost.You were waiting to be found.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
The sky was thick with smoke when Clark descended, cape whipping behind him. He landed in the middle of the wreckage, eyes scanning the chaos. Cars smoldered. Glass crunched under his boots. Civilians cowered behind toppled barricades.
And then—he felt it.
The vibration in the air.
That pull.
He turned just as a figure flickered into view—half-there, half-not, like reality itself wasn’t sure how to hold her.
“Stop!” he called, voice booming across the street. “You’re hurting people. You don’t have to do this.”
Her head snapped toward him. For a fleeting second, the distortion broke, and Clark’s breath caught.
You.
It was you.
Your eyes locked on his, but instead of recognition, there was only raw hurt—rage carved into the face he’d dreamed of every night since losing you.
“Don’t come closer!” your voice cracked with static, like two channels playing at once.
“Y/N…Baby…” His throat tightened. “It’s me. Clark. You know me.”
You flinched like the name was a blade.
“Don’t call me that! That’s not who I am!” The ground beneath you shuddered, cracks splitting the asphalt as your powers flared. “Lex told me everything—you’re the reason I was left to die. You’re the reason I had to become this.”
Clark staggered back a step, not from the blast of force that rippled from your body, but from the words.
“That’s not true,” he said, softer now, stepping forward despite the pressure rattling the air. “Lex lied to you. He’s using you. Please—just listen to me.”
But you didn’t. You lunged.
The world blurred as you phased, appearing behind him, striking with a telekinetic shove that sent him crashing through a crumbled storefront. He rose, coughing dust, heart splintering.
“I don’t want to fight you,” he pleaded.
“Then stop standing in my way!” you roared, unleashing another wave.
Clark had no choice—he braced and countered with controlled bursts of force to redirect your energy away from fleeing civilians. Each clash tore through the street, sparks of light and shadow colliding in brutal harmony.
Finally, he caught your wrist mid-phase, his other hand gently cupping the back of your head.
“Please,” he whispered, desperate, “look at me. It’s me. I love you.”
For a split second—just one—you froze. Your eyes softened, confusion flickering beneath the storm.
Then the distortion surged again, and you slipped from his grip, vanishing in a shimmer of fractured light.
Clark spun, searching the smoke.
“Y/N!” His shout cracked the air.
But you were gone.
Only silence remained, save for the groan of broken steel and the distant cries of the wounded.
Clark dropped to his knees in the debris, chest heaving, his hand still trembling where he’d held you.
She was alive.
She was here.
And she believed he was her enemy.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as you stumbled down the long corridor, boots scuffing against polished steel. Your hands wouldn’t stop trembling, your chest still ached from the echo of his grip. His voice.
Please. Look at me. I love you.
You shook your head, swallowing hard, but the words wouldn’t leave. They clung like shadows you couldn’t phase away.
By the time you reached the control chamber, Lex was waiting. He stood by the central console, immaculate in a tailored suit, a glass of brandy in one hand. Calm. Always calm.
“Ah,” he said smoothly, not looking up right away. “The prodigal returns. You had him, and yet—you didn’t finish it.”
“I—” You faltered, fingers curling against your palms. “Something happened.”
Now he looked at you. Patient, curious. “Go on.”
Your breath hitched. “When I saw him… it was like… like I knew him. Not from what you told me. From… before.”
Lex’s smile didn’t falter, but a flicker passed through his eyes. Quick. Sharp.
“Before?” he repeated, setting down the glass. He walked toward you with measured steps, the way one approaches a cornered animal. “You’ve been through trauma, Y/N. Flashes of false memory are common. That alien wants you to believe you knew him, so you’ll hesitate. And you did.”
“But…” You forced the word out. “He said my name. Like it meant something. And when he looked at me, it—”
“It’s a trick,” Lex cut in, firmer now, though his tone remained velvet-smooth. “He’s had years to perfect that act. The smile, the voice, the pity. All of it designed to disarm.”
You searched his face, desperate for certainty, for the anchor he always gave you. But doubt gnawed at your chest.
“If he’s lying…” you whispered, “then why does it hurt to hear him?”
For the first time since you’d known him, Lex’s expression slipped. Just a flicker—impatience, maybe fear—but it was gone as quickly as it came.
“Because he left you,” he said, stepping closer, lowering his voice as though telling you a sacred truth. “Because somewhere deep down, you remember what he did. He let you fall. He chose himself. And I—” he gestured to the room around you, to the very air you breathed—“I saved you. I gave you life when he condemned you to death.”
Your breath stuttered.
His hand touched your shoulder, grounding, heavy. “Do you trust me?”
You hesitated. Just a beat. Then nodded.
“Yes.”
He smiled again, calm restored, and gave your shoulder a reassuring squeeze.
“Good. Hold on to that. The rest is noise. You know who your enemy is.”
But later, lying in the sterile quiet of your quarters, you replayed the moment again—his hand on yours, the look in his eyes when he whispered I love you.
And for the first time, you weren’t entirely sure who the enemy really was.
Summary: When Lex Luthor traps Superman in a kryptonite-laced prison, he exploits a hidden connection—an ordinary woman who once helped him to his feet. She becomes the perfect bait. But when she falls, everything Clark Kent thought he could endure shatters. (3.3k)
Warnings: Death, Angst, Major Character Death, Lex Luthor is an Ass, Depressed Clark, CoWorkers to Lovers, ending can be interpreted in any way you want, Clark Kent really cannot catch a break
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
The glass glistened with that green-tinted glow that made Clark Kent—no, Superman—convulse on the cell floor. The glow wasn’t just from the walls. It was from him—from Metamorpho, his twisted, unwilling jailer.
Lex Luthor stood just beyond the reinforced barrier, smirking like a child pulling wings off a butterfly. And in front of him—on a precariously floating, narrow platform suspended over nothingness—stood you.
You were bruised, shaking, and barefoot. A single spotlight cast you in a surreal glow, your arms bound behind your back, your hair a mess of tangles and dust. But your eyes—your eyes found Clark’s even through the thick, humming glass, even past the blur of his pain.
Lex raised the revolver.
“Round two,” he purred.
Clark’s body jerked on the floor again. Kryptonite radiation pulsed from Metamorpho’s extended hand, twisted into a grotesque sculpture of shimmering, sickening green crystal. Clark couldn’t even kneel. He could barely breathe.
“No! Stop!” he wheezed, blood on his teeth.
You didn’t even flinch as the barrel was pressed to your temple.
“To everyone else she’s no one,” Lex said, cocking the hammer casually. “But I saw her help you up after that explosion in Metropolis last fall. Ran to you when the dust hadn’t even settled. There’s something there. Maybe just a bleeding heart civilian. But something. So let’s test it.”
You didn’t blink. You didn’t beg.
Instead, you spoke. Calmly. Quietly. And with the kind of conviction that cracked through Clark’s bones deeper than the Kryptonite ever could.
“Don’t tell him anything.”
He could barely lift his head. But he still managed to rasp, “Please don’t hurt her—”
“Don’t you dare,” you interrupted, glaring at him, not at Lex. “If you say anything, you know what he’ll do. It won’t stop.”
Luthor’s smile curled wider. “Feisty. I like that. Adds stakes.”
Click.
Empty chamber.
Clark choked on the rush of relief—but it was brief. Too brief.
Lex spun the chamber again. Raised the gun. Leaned in. “Say it. Just one answer. Who raised you? Who protected you?”
“No,” you whispered.
“Don’t.”
Then—
BANG.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
It had started with coffee.
Clark always got in early—before Lois, before Perry, before the rush of phones ringing and heels clattering across the Daily Planet’s marble floors. He said it helped him think. That it gave him a chance to read the morning papers in peace before the city screamed to life.
But you were always already there.
Not because you loved early mornings. God, no. You were not that kind of person. But you were new. A fresh hire. Low on the totem pole. Which meant coffee runs, mail sorting, double-checking appointment schedules, and doing your best not to get swallowed by the whirlwind of real journalists and real stories.
Your third day, you spilled half a tray of lattes all over Clark Kent’s chest.
You gasped. Nearly dropped the rest. His dress shirt bloomed with deep brown splashes, and you stammered every apology you could find in your panic-stricken brain.
But Clark… he just looked down, blinked, and then smiled like you’d handed him a flower.
“It’s okay,” he said, voice gentle and low. “I never liked this shirt anyway.”
You didn’t know it then, but you fell a little bit in love with him that moment.
After that, things changed.
He started showing up earlier. Not just early—your kind of early. Right as the lights buzzed on and the Planet’s silence still held. Sometimes he’d beat you to the coffee machine and hand you a cup without asking how you took it—because he already knew.
He carried trays with you when the order was too big for your arms. Walked you to the elevator. Helped you with the mail even though it wasn’t his job.
He never asked for anything in return.
He’d just smile—that soft, lopsided smile—and ask how your day was. Or if you’d read the story Lois wrote about the mayor. Or if you were adjusting okay.
You found yourself talking more. Laughing. Leaning toward him like your heart was trying to sneak out before your mouth caught up.
You liked him before you knew what he was. Before you noticed the way he always disappeared during big disasters. Before you saw the flash of red and blue in the corner of your eye when the newsroom screens filled with chaos and capes.
You liked Clark.
You loved him before he ever told you the truth.
The night he did—nervous, sweaty, glasses off and vulnerability hanging around him like a second cape—you didn’t run. You didn’t scream. You didn’t flinch when he said the name “Superman” like it was a curse, like it might scare you away.
Instead, you reached for his hand.
“I know.”
And you did. Somewhere deep down, you always had.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
The bullet tore through your skull with a sickening pop that echoed in the pocket dimension like a firecracker in a cathedral.
Your body snapped backwards from the force and teetered—then toppled off the edge of the platform.
Clark screamed.
It wasn’t human. It was something raw and wounded and broken. A primal noise that came from a throat scorched by Kryptonite and a heart that had just been shattered like crystal under a boot.
“NO!”
He dragged himself toward the glass, fingers leaving bloody streaks across the floor. Metamorpho flinched but held position, face twisted in sorrow even as his arm remained extended. He wasn’t doing this by choice. Lex had made sure of that.
“Didn’t even make it to round five,” Lex sighed. “Shame. I was hoping to see how far you’d bend. Oh well.”
Clark’s fists slammed uselessly against the floor. He couldn’t fly. He couldn’t lift. He couldn’t even see where you’d fallen. The abyss had no bottom. Only darkness.
Only absence.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
The screen door creaked behind you as Clark stepped out onto the porch, his hand warm against the small of your back. Sunlight stretched long over the fields, painting the world in amber. The air smelled like corn husks and something sweet—pie, maybe—wafting from the open windows.
You tried not to fidget.
Clark must’ve felt it, because his thumb brushed a slow, steady circle into your spine. “You okay?”
You smiled, a little stiff. “Just trying not to make a fool of myself in front of the people who raised Superman.”
He laughed softly, the kind that made your heart skip. “They’re just Ma and Pa. Trust me, you’ve already won them over.”
“You said that, but all I’ve done so far is nervously compliment your mom’s doorknob.”
Clark grinned, eyes sparkling. “It is a very polite doorknob.”
Before you could respond, the door swung open again.
“Clark Joseph Kent, are you planning to keep her out here all day like a porch cat, or are you going to let her come in and eat?”
Martha Kent stood with a flour-dusted apron and hands on her hips, but her eyes were kind. Warm. The same kind of kind that made you forget your nerves for a second.
“I—I’m sorry, ma’am,” you said quickly, stepping forward.
“Oh, don’t you dare call me ma’am. I’m Martha. And you must be the one who finally taught my boy how to smile without tripping over his own feet.”
You blinked. “That obvious?”
Jonathan Kent appeared beside her, taller than you expected, quiet eyes that studied without judging. He offered you a hand, firm and sure.
“Heard a lot about you,” he said simply. “Welcome to the farm.”
Inside, the kitchen was cozy, worn in the way that only a lived-in home could be. There were faded curtains and photos on the fridge. A crack in the tile near the sink that looked like it had a story behind it. And in the middle of the table, a lattice-top apple pie still steaming.
As you sat, Martha was already serving generous slices, scolding Clark for trying to steal a bite early, and asking you about the Planet, your hometown, your favorite kind of pie—all in one breath.
And you answered. You laughed. The nerves faded, slow but sure, under the glow of this place.
Clark watched you from across the table, chin in his hand, eyes soft. Barely listening to the words anymore.
He saw you wiping pie crust off your lips and laughing at one of Pa’s dry remarks. Saw you cradling the mug of cider like it was the most comforting thing you’d ever held. Saw the sunlight hit your hair and catch in your smile.
He didn’t know the exact moment it happened.
Only that it did.
Right there, somewhere between your second helping of pie and the way you reached over to nudge his hand without even thinking.
He knew.
He wanted to marry you.
Not someday. Not maybe. Not when the world was finally safe or when his double life quieted down.
Now.
He wanted to wake up beside you on mornings like this. To bring you here every fall. To have you part of these quiet afternoons that made him feel whole.
His mother noticed the way he was looking at you. She always did.
And when you went to help her in the kitchen, she gave him a smirk over your shoulder.
“Well,” she said under her breath, “I hope you bought that ring.”
Clark’s ears turned red.
But his smile didn’t fade.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
Something cracked.
Not the glass.
Him.
Clark’s body stopped convulsing. The violent tremors ceased, replaced by an eerie stillness. His breathing—shallow and ragged moments before—slowed to deliberate, pained gasps. His face was pale, slick with sweat and blood, but his eyes…
His eyes were fixed on Metamorpho.
Not with anger. Not with blame. But with something ancient and terrible and holy: resolve.
“Get rid of it,” he rasped. His voice was low, raw, graveled by pain. “Please.”
The metahuman was shaking, his crystalline arm still glowing green, a tortured conduit for the Kryptonite poisoning Clark from the inside out. Tears clung to the corners of Metamorpho’s eyes.
“You don’t know what he’s capable of—”
“I do.” Clark’s voice broke. His fist clenched weakly against the floor. “I just watched him put a bullet through the woman I love. I do.”
The cell crackled with tension. Green light shimmered around them like smoke.
Clark’s body was failing. The Kryptonite was leeching everything from him—his strength, his breath, his soul.
But he still looked Metamorpho in the eye and said, “You have to trust me. Get rid of it.”
Metamorpho’s lip quivered. He looked past the cell, to where his baby boy squirmed inside the transparent pod—eyes closed, unaware of the danger.
Then—he made his choice.
With a roar of pain and effort, he shifted. His arm changed, the green crystal retracting, melting, reshaping into neutral matter. The radiation vanished.
Clark collapsed fully, coughing, unable to move. Still too weak. Still poisoned.
“No, no, no!” Metamorpho gasped, panic rising. “You said—you said you’d be able to—!”
“Yellow sun,” Clark whispered, eyes fluttering, “make a sun.”
“What?”
“A sun. I just need… sunlight.”
Metamorpho’s eyes widened. Then he closed them—and changed.
The chemicals in his blood twisted. The minerals under his skin liquefied and recombined. His arm reformed—not into Kryptonite this time, but into a burning orb of concentrated solar radiation. It hovered above his palm like a miniature sun—bright, golden, warm.
Clark inhaled like it was oxygen.
The effect was slow, but unstoppable. His skin regained color. His breathing steadied. His pulse surged. Light kissed his face and lit the furnace behind his ribs. His body, wrecked and broken, began to knit itself back together at the molecular level.
Then he stood. And the glass shattered.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
It was supposed to be perfect.
Clark had timed the sunset down to the second. The city skyline glittered beneath a soft purple haze, the wind just enough to tousle your hair in that movie-moment kind of way. He had chosen the rooftop carefully—not too high, not too flashy. Just… quiet. Private. Yours.
The ring box was in his coat pocket. He kept tapping it like he thought it might disappear. His speech? Rehearsed a hundred times, under his breath, in front of the mirror, even once while flying halfway across the hemisphere to clear his head.
But things didn’t go as planned.
First, the elevator broke.
Then, the light drizzle that the forecast promised wouldn’t happen… happened. And not a cute drizzle either. It was an angry, sideways rain that came in fast and cold.
Then—you tripped on a loose tile and face-planted into his chest, laughing so hard you snorted.
And by the time you both scrambled under the overhang, soaked and breathless, Clark realized… there was no recovering the “perfect moment.”
You were wiping water from your face with your sleeve, your nose red, your makeup smudged, your hair clinging to your cheek like ivy.
And he had never seen you more beautiful.
“Okay,” you huffed, laughing, “you dragged me up here, wouldn’t tell me why, and now it’s raining horizontally. Was this some kind of weather report field trip?”
Clark opened his mouth. Closed it. Then sighed, pulling the box out with hands still trembling.
You froze. Your breath hitched.
“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” he admitted, voice low, barely audible over the rain. “I had this whole thing planned. I was going to say the right words. Give you this long speech about how the moment I met you, my whole world shifted. How every time you say my name, it’s like I remember who I am. And how—I’m not Superman without you.”
Your eyes welled up.
“I was going to tell you how scared I was to let you in. How scared I still am sometimes,” he said, stepping closer, raindrops trailing down his neck. “But how I’d do it a thousand times over if it meant I got to come home to you.”
He dropped to one knee in a puddle, laughing at himself and shaking his head. “God, this is not how I pictured this.”
You dropped to your knees in front of him before he could even finish opening the box, cupping his soaked face in your hands.
“I don’t care if it’s raining,” you whispered, tears and raindrops indistinguishable now. “I don’t care if you say a single word. I’ve known I was going to say yes since you offered to carry my tray of coffee three years ago.”
Clark’s breath caught. He blinked, stunned.
“You… yes?”
You kissed him, hard and messy and full of laughter.
“Yes.”
He laughed into your mouth, the kind of laugh that sounded like joy breaking open. He didn’t even remember slipping the ring onto your finger—only that it fit, and your hand was in his, and nothing else mattered.
Rain poured down on both of you, but the world had never felt warmer.
Not perfect.
Just real.
And somehow, even better.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
The first thing Clark registered was the ticking of the old wall clock.
Then the creak of the floorboards outside his room. The soft rustle of leaves brushing against the farmhouse window.
And then—pain. Not sharp, not hot—just heavy. Everywhere. Like his bones were lead and his skin still hummed with leftover radiation. Kryptonite always left a stain, even after it was gone.
He opened his eyes slowly, staring up at the familiar ceiling—the one he used to fall asleep under as a boy after too much pie or too much homework.
The bedroom hadn’t changed. Same faded wallpaper. Same shelf of high school trophies he’d never cared about. Same hand-stitched quilt his mom had made years ago.
But he had changed. And everything else had, too.
You were gone.
That truth hit like a tidal wave.
Clark sat up fast—too fast. The world tilted. His vision blurred. His hands gripped the quilt like it could anchor him to the present. But the image of you falling—the sound of the gunshot—the silence that followed—it all came rushing back.
“No—” he whispered, his breath catching. “No, no, no, no—”
He folded forward, elbows on his knees, chest heaving.
He’d failed.
He’d promised you—he’d promised everyone—that no one would ever die because of him again.
But you were gone. Because of him. Because of what he was. Because someone used his heart against him—and he couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t save you.
Tears burned hot behind his eyes, and he let them fall, too tired to hold them back.
The door creaked open softly.
“Clark?”
Martha’s voice.
Soft. Tired. Like she’d been crying too.
He didn’t answer. He couldn’t.
She came to him quietly, like she always had. She sat beside him on the edge of the bed and didn’t say anything for a long moment. Just put her hand on his back and rubbed slow circles.
Like he was five again, after a nightmare.
Like he hadn’t just come back from the edge of hell.
“You’re safe now,” she whispered.
“I wasn’t fast enough,” he rasped, the words breaking as they came out. “I couldn’t stop him. I couldn’t move. She—Mom, she died because of me.”
Martha didn’t correct him. Didn’t offer empty hope or try to rationalize what couldn’t be fixed.
She just reached up and cupped his face with one gentle hand, guiding his gaze to hers.
Her eyes were glassy but steady. Strong.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she murmured. “The world asks so much of you. Too much. And you give all of it, every time. But you’re still human where it counts. You loved her. And you lost her. And that’s not your fault.”
“I should’ve stopped it,” he whispered. “I should’ve—”
“You did everything you could.”
He shook his head, but she pressed her forehead gently to his.
“You loved her enough to break yourself trying. And I know she knew that.”
Clark’s shoulders trembled. His breath hitched again. She wrapped her arms around him, and he collapsed into them like a boy—not a god, not a symbol, not a savior.
Just a son.
Just a man grieving the woman he wanted to spend his life with.
Martha held him as the sun rose, her heartbeat slow and steady against his ear.
The world would demand more of him tomorrow.
But for now—just for now—he was allowed to break..
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
The hum of machines was the only sound in the chamber.
Not voices. Not alarms. Just the steady beep of vitals. The hiss of ventilators. The occasional flicker of overhead lights straining against the weight of secrecy.
The room was cold. Sterile. Buried beneath meters of reinforced steel and redacted blueprints.
Two figures moved around the pod in silence. Clad in gray uniforms, their faces masked and unmarked, they worked with precision—syringes, data pads, gene scanners. Their movements were practiced. Familiar. Loyal.
Inside the containment pod lay a figure.
Unconscious. Drifting.
Wrapped in soft restraints, medical leads tracing every heartbeat, every neural flicker. Breathing shallow, but steady. Skin pale. Lips faintly blue. Clothes replaced with hospital-grade fabric.
Hair still damp.
Still dusted with ash.
Still stained with blood.
“Recovery is ahead of projections,” one technician noted flatly, voice synthesized and low. “Spinal damage appears to be resolving under cellular regeneration. No neurological collapse detected.”
“She should be dead,” the other murmured, staring at the bruises blooming like ink beneath the skin. “The fall should’ve been fatal.”
“But it wasn’t.”
A moment passed. One of them entered a new sequence into the console. On the monitor above the pod, vitals shifted. Slightly. But unmistakably.
A spike.
“Did you see that?”
Another beep. Louder this time.
Then a shiver.
The body in the pod jerked—just once. Barely noticeable.
A finger twitched. A knee shifted.
“She’s waking up,” one said.
“No,” the other replied. “Not yet. She’s still… somewhere else.”
The lights above dimmed as the equipment recalibrated to the surge.
The screen flashed:
SUBJECT 17 — STATUS: UNSTABLE
ORIGIN: VOID RECOVERY POINT 03A
GENETIC MATCH — UNKNOWN MUTATION PATTERN
PROJECT: REVENANT CONTINGENCY
“Luthor may be gone,” the first technician said, closing the pod’s seal. “But the work continues.”
They stepped back. The figure inside stirred again—this time more violently. A heartbeat jumped. Eyes almost opened.
Idk if you’re still taking reqs but I need Clark x reader angst hurt comfort BAD im gnawing at the bars of my enclosure
you asked for angst so i’m delivering…. be aware i take angst very seriously though. 🙂
clark kent x terminally ill reader
angst, death, terminal illness
⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔
ᥫ᭡ You died in the spring.
The air was soft, warm with the promise of life, but inside your body, everything was wilting. Clark knew. God, he knew. He heard it before any doctor did—the irregularity in your heartbeat, the subtle change in your breathing as you slept next to him. But he said nothing. He didn’t want it to be real.
You found out anyway, of course.
Stage four. Terminal. Six months at best.
You didn’t cry when the doctor told you. You only turned your head and looked out the window, your voice quiet.
“Don’t tell Clark yet. Please.”
⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔
He knew the moment you stepped into the apartment that night. Your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes, and your heartbeat—he could feel it weakening in ways the average man never could.
But he said nothing.
He didn’t want to break the illusion of peace.
So he kissed you softly, made your favorite meal, and held you a little tighter that night. He didn’t sleep. He just watched you. Memorized the curve of your face, the way you clutched the blanket, the slight crease between your brows. The tiniest sounds of your breath.
He counted them.
One. Two. Three.
And wondered when they would stop.
⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔
You told him two weeks later.
He didn’t say a word at first. He sat very still, as if the smallest movement might shatter him entirely. The silence stretched between you like a chasm.
Then he whispered, “No.”
“Clark—”
“No,” he said again, louder this time. His hands trembled. “No. There are treatments, doctors, I can fly you anywhere in the world. I can take you to the Fortress—Jor-El might know something—”
“Clark,” you said gently, placing your hand over his. “There’s nothing anyone can do.”
He pulled away from you like your touch burned him. “That’s not true. I’m Superman. I can—there has to be—”
“Clark.” Your voice cracked, and your eyes filled with tears, even though you swore you wouldn’t cry. “You can’t save me.”
Those words broke him.
He dropped to his knees in front of you, burying his face in your lap like a child, sobs ripping through his chest, violent and raw. You ran your fingers through his hair, your own tears falling silently, blending with his.
“I’m not ready,” he said through gasps. “I can’t—please, don’t leave me.”
“I don’t want to go,” you whispered. “But I’d rather have less time with you than a lifetime without you.”
⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔
You never saw the Fortress.
You refused to leave Metropolis. You wanted to spend your final days in your tiny apartment, with creaky floorboards and flickering lights and the smell of Clark’s aftershave clinging to the pillows.
He stopped going on missions.
He told the League he needed time. They understood, of course. But they didn’t see the way he curled up next to you on the couch every night, reading aloud until your body gave out and you fell asleep mid-sentence.
He never finished those books.
He said it would feel like an ending.
⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔
You lost your voice first.
Then your strength.
Then your ability to walk.
Clark carried you everywhere, even though you insisted he didn’t need to. You laughed weakly every time he lifted you like you weighed nothing, like he hadn’t been fighting for weeks to pretend the weight of the world wasn’t already dragging him to his knees.
When you started coughing up blood, he broke the bathroom mirror with his bare hand.
That was the only time you saw him angry.
And when he knelt beside you, wrapping a towel around your shaking body, he whispered, “If I had to choose between saving you or saving the world… I’d choose you. Every time.”
You didn’t scold him for it.
You just cried.
⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔
On the final night, there were no words left.
You were too weak to speak, but your hand curled in his shirt like it always did when you wanted him close. He laid beside you, fully clothed, face pressed into the pillow near yours, silent tears soaking the fabric.
“I love you,” he mouthed.
You smiled. Barely. Your eyes were glassy, distant.
But you mouthed it back.
And in the early hours of the morning, with the city waking and the sun creeping through the blinds in golden stripes—
—you took your last breath.
Clark felt it. He felt it like a star collapsing in his chest. A silence deeper than space. An earthquake under skin. He didn’t move. He didn’t scream.
He just laid there, unmoving, arms wrapped around a body that wasn’t yours anymore, whispering your name like it might bring you back.
⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔
The world mourned with him.
Not publicly—no one but the League even knew. But when he returned to the sky weeks later, silent and colder, something shifted. Superman saved people, but he didn’t smile anymore. He stopped speaking to reporters. He stopped cracking jokes with Barry. He flew slower. Like gravity had doubled.
At night, Clark Kent returned to your apartment, untouched. Dust gathered. Flowers wilted. Dishes sat where you last left them.
He still read aloud sometimes.
Books you never got to finish.
And in the silence that followed each chapter, he’d whisper, “I love you.”
This absolute masterclass in acting from Emma D’arcy as Rhaenyra realizes Jace’s gone, the way you see her go thru the stages of grief in a matter of seconds, incredible performance. One of the best actors of our generation. He may have been naive and rash, but that was her baby.
- sworn protector!gwayne hightower x targaryen!reader
synopsis. You drink wine that someone mixed with something that makes you desire touch more than all else. Touch from someone particular. You need his touch, or you’ll die. Luckily, your sister—the queen—can be quite the matchmaker.
contents. SMUT, no war au (rhaenyra is queen), reader is a targaryen princess and rhaenyra's younger sister, gwayne is her sworn protector, reader has fem anatomy and is addressed as a princess, sex pollen/fuck or die, mentions of suicide, oral (f!recieving), loss of virginity, unprotected sex, p in v, finger sucking, slight praise kink, not proofread
Your body burns.
No, it feels more like if your body was actually truly burning in a fire, perhaps from that of your dragon, as if you’d told it to rain flames upon you. You may consider that option if it comes down to it. If someone didn’t touch you soon, you were going to explode.
Instead you were writhing and squirming on your bed in front of your own sister—the queen—and you would much rather be dead. She looks at you with that callous smirk, as if she thinks she knows something. Something you don’t want to tell the maesters.
“Is it poison?” she questions Grand Maester Gerardys, her arms crossed on her chest.
He nods. “It seems as so. We believe it is from the wine she drank at supper.”
“Can’t you open a window?!” you yell with a cracking voice.
Silence fills the room after the outburst. Both Rhaenyra and Gerardys glance over. You do the same once you see a smile fall over her face, one she fails to bite back.
The windows are open.
“All of the windows are open, princess,” Gerardys mumbles.
“Yes, I can see that now, thank you.” Your head falls back onto the pillow, allowing your dampened hair to reconnect with your sweaty nape and back. “Will I die tonight, Gerardys?” you question, almost joking.
“No, no, princess,” he says. “Not tonight.”
Your head shoots back up from its resting position. Rhaenyra is already looking at him, any sign of her former coyness erased from her features.
“It seems the poison was mixed with the wine,” he begins. “Therefore, unless the culprit is found, it will be quite difficult to tell whatever was infused in the drink. And given your symptoms, unless somehow magically cured, there is not much I can do.”
“Not much you can do?” Rhaenyra exclaims, her arms now at her side.
Gerardys lowers his voice and steps closer to her. “Not unless you would like me to find a maegi.”
She takes one look over at you. You look full of fear, full of suffering, but most of all—full of regret. “That wont be necessary,” she mutters. “If you’ll let me speak to my sister alone?”
“Of course, your grace.” He leaves the room. Rhaenyra watches him go, not looking back until the door swings back shut.
She makes her way to your bedside so swiftly it was as if she was running. The screech of the chair she pulls to sit on hurts your ears more than any of the conversation you had just been put through. You wish your protector was here instead. He would be able to help you. He would have to help you.
“Tell me,” she commands, already leaning forward, her hands folded in her lap.
You lift your body off the sheets, but they stick to you as you rise. “Tell you what?”
“Don’t play the fool. You know what I’m referring to,”
“I don’t.”
“You do.”
“I don’t, Your Grace.”
She scoffs out a laugh after that. Two of her fingers settle on the bridge of her nose. “Your condition is of your own volition. If you tell me what you drank, it will be easier for me to find a solution.”
You look at her. She isn’t smiling. There’s no hidden agenda beneath her stoic expression, none of the small facial cues you spent your childhood learning to decipher. She truly wants to help you.
And your body feels like it could give out at any moment. No, you want it to give out at any moment. You’re starting to feel nauseous.
You’ll do about anything to stop whatever you did to yourself.
You exhale a heavy breath. “You mustn’t tell anyone what I did.”
Rhaenyra lets herself crack a smile. “Gods, sister, what did you do?”
“I am unwed. Undesired,” you mumble. “I thought it clever to…”
“To what?” Rhaenyra presses, leaning closer.
You sigh and cover your face with your hands. You mutter something so quiet you don’t even hear it in your own ears.
“What did you say?” she asks softly.
“I had a potion brewed.”
Rhaenyra lets out a sharp breath through her nose. “Oh, Gods, sister—“
“You don’t understand! The Realm’s Delight, the most beautiful maiden in all of the Seven Kingdoms—you could have anyone and anything you desire!” you argue. “It isn’t the same for me. Even if it were, I don’t get to choose—”
“I’ve heard enough.” You finally remove your hands from your face, both now sheen with a layer of sweat as is the rest of your body. Rhaenyra is now standing at the edge of your bed, pacing back and forth. “When you had the potion brewed, did the alchemist tell you of any cure?”
“No…” you mumble.
“Well.” Rhaenyra sighs. She gazes over at you, but avoids your own. “I can presume what it is.”
You know what remains unsaid. It is torturous enough for your own sister to know of the humiliation you’ve brought upon yourself. For her, the queen, to be made uncomfortable by the revelation? You get a sudden urge to throw yourself from the highest point of the Red Keep. It would cure all of the emotions swirling in your head.
The writhing starts all over again. The feeling makes you want to crawl out of your own body. In your peripheral, you can see Rhaenyra stop moving. She faces forward to look at you as you thrash around the mattress.
“I know what must be done,” she says. And she leaves the room.
You are left alone in your torture. Now seems about the best time to consider your future. You could jump from the window. It would be quick. You’d be remembered as tragic. Never wed, without children, lonely, jumped from her bedroom window after being poisoned—Rhaenyra would spread the word of poison. She wouldn’t subject the public to the truth.
You suck in a breath as you rise from the bed, dragging your feet to the window. The air fanning on your face makes you hopeful for about fives seconds before the sun finally catches on your skin and shines over the moisture on your skin.
The ache in your body almost certifies that you wouldn’t be able to hoist yourself onto the windowsill without some help.
Maybe your protector would help you. You could say you need more air. He certainly wouldn’t help cure your self-inflicted debilitation—he is too honorable. No—he’s too insistent on protecting your honor to do anything to you.
The door swings open again.
Rhaenyra enters first. You watch her panic once she does not immediately spot you on the bed, then watch her settle once she finds you by the window. There is someone behind her.
The person unveils themself from the shadows.
It is your sworn shield and protector. Ser Gwayne Hightower.
He steps into the room, and it is like your legs turn to water. He notices this, and dashes across the room to wrap his arms around your waist, stabilizing you. Once you are brought back to your feet, you let out a moan. It is almost embarrassing, but you couldn’t care less now.
Gwayne is touching you. Sometimes, the Gods do work in your favor. You slowly look up at him. He is already staring down at you, concerned at your condition, of course—and probably confused as to why you just moaned when he touched you—and you place a hand on his shoulder. Your other arm wraps around his bicep.
“I shall leave you to it.” Rhaenyra is out of the room with a slam of the door before you can look over to acknowledge her. When you look back, Gwayne still has his gaze fixed on you.
The contact you share feels truly breathtaking, perhaps because it is. It does feel quite hard to take in any air. You find your body inching closer to his, desperate for closer proximity. You feel your nipples, hard under your smallclothes, brush against his gambeson. You let your head fall onto his sternum, and it is then that you realize what you are doing, and immediately push away.
You stumble back to the bed, sitting on its edge, and shame washes over you. Gwayne hasn’t moved from his spot by the window. He still stares at you, however.
“My princess.” He steps closer. You hold up a finger as if to tell him to stop, and he does. “I cannot bear to see you in this condition. I only wish to help.”
“Help with what?” you breathe.
He remains silent.
“What exactly did Rhaenyra tell you?” you question.
Silence.
“Tell me. I command it.”
His gaze shifts to the ground. “Her Grace informed me of your condition.”
“You already knew of my condition. What else did she tell you?”
He looks back up at you. “She revealed to me the nature of your condition. What exactly brought it on.”
“Gods,” you mutter under your breath and squeeze your eyes shut. This cannot be real.
“How it can be cured,” he adds.
Your brows tighten. You hope that when you open your eyes again, he will be gone, and this will all have been a figment of your imagination.
When you do so, you find that this is the realest he has ever been. Ser Gwayne of House Hightower, in all his glory. He glistens in the flare of the sun. His hair, usually a light brown, shimmers auburn in the light. It looks similar to his sister’s in a certain light.
You can see the resemblance, him and his father. You would rather not, but it is there. He is certainly more alluring.
“I want to help you.” He takes a single step closer. “I need to help you.”
Your head is cocked to the side, though only out of exhaustion. It feels to heavy to carry yourself.
“When you swore yourself as my protector, I vowed that I would ask no service of you that might bring you dishonor. What do you reckon this is?” you scoff out a laugh, feeling the whole situation truly ironic.
“It would not bring me dishonor if nobody discovers it.” His voice is low. He closes the window, then moves to close the other. “In fact, I swore first to protect you from any and all harm. I believe that prevails over bringing me dishonor.” You watch him then as he travels to the door. The lock clicks shut, and the sound of it travels to your core.
Not only is he able, he is willing.
He turns back to you, and you lock eyes. His brows are turned upwards at the corners—it is true, desperate concern etched onto his face. You can only imagine how disheveled you look.
You sigh, but it comes out as more of a moan, and let your head hang low.
Gwayne is across the room in a moment, kneeling down in front of you. He removes the gloves from his hands, settling them on the ground beside him, and then places his hands on your clothed thighs. The contact draws the linens slightly upwards. How you wish he would just slide them all the way up and just kiss your cun—
You close your eyes and draw in a long breath.
“Tell me what you need,” he purrs. Your eyes shoot back open, and his hands move to hold your hips. “I am yours.”
You want to. Gods, who are you kidding? You need to tell him, because he will do it, but you can’t. The words freeze on your tongue. Where do you even start?
But he is knelt before you, almost pathetic in his attempt at a remedy, so eager on helping you.
Why must you tell him?
You grab the cloth at your thighs and curl your fingers enough times until it is bunched up near your crotch. All that prevents him from laying eyes on your bare cunt is closed legs. You let them spread, gruelingly slow, pushing Gwayne’s hands from your hips in the process.
He does not look away from your face. “Tell me. Please,” he whimpers, letting his fingers graze the sides of your thighs.
You stammer, and squirm once more. “I need you to touch me,” you declare.
Gwayne nods once. “As you wish.”
And he hoists your legs over his shoulders and his face inches closer and closer to your core until his lips latch onto your clit. And finally, for once since drinking the stupid wine, you feel bliss. You’ve never felt something like this before.
It surges through your body and your entire body twitches violently. Gwayne lifts his arms up and grips your hips back again, using the hold to tug your cunt farther into his mouth. He eats you like a man starved.
You did not realize of the noises you were making until you nearly screamed, letting your head fall back. Your hands snake into his hair, pulling his head closer to your core.
He releases your clit from his lips. “Tastes so good—my princess—” his words fan over your damp slit, and he leans down to lick a thick stripe from bottom to top, collecting your arousal into onto his tongue. He swallows it with a loud gulp.
Your breath catches in your throat.
Gwayne continues his assault on your clit, sucking down hard. Your hips roll toward the allure of his lips. You are panting and gasping, hand bunching up his hair into your fist.
Heat flows through your entire body. It is a mix of the feeling you felt upon drinking that curséd wine and something incredible. True, pure ecstasy. You feel the blood of the dragon in you now. You understand it.
An unfamiliar ache begins to tighten in your lower stomach as he persists in lapping at your cunt. Nothing in your life has ever felt so good. You wonder if this is the true effect of the wine, or if it is just because it is your first time—you cannot really think about anything else. His tongue flattens and rolls against your clit and you choke on a moan.
Your muscles tense, your toes curl, and your heels dig into his back. His tongue presses and prods against you and he can feel it coming, the way your thighs tighten around him and shake and spasm.
Shudders wrack your body as you cum. He does not stop even when you do, even when your moans crescendo, his tongue still relentlessly ravishes your cunt even after you fall back onto the bed.
Finally, he lets go of your core with a wet pop.
It is then that you realize the burn has subsided. Relief washes over you momentarily.
But it returns as quickly as it went away. It flows through your body and you feel desperate for him once again.
He crawls up your body, caging you in between his arms, searching for something beneath your fucked-out expression.
“It isn’t enough—” you declare, your breath labored.
“What do you require?” Gwayne rasps, using a hand to brush your hair off of your forehead. His touch wavers in concern when he realizes the scorch of your skin.
“I need—” you paw at his clothed cock. “Your—”
“My what?” he pants.
“I need you inside,” you mutter.
Without a word, he begins shedding his garments. You were simply too dazed to admire it. Perhaps if there is a next time—Gods you hope there is a next time—you’ll get to do exactly that.
He is crawling back over you in an instant, his body bare. You run your hands up his chest, dragging the ball of your hand over his sternum. His cock hits your pelvis.
Your smallclothes, practically wet at this point, Gwayne lifts slightly at your waist. “Would you like me to take this off?” he asks.
You nod lazily.
He shimmies the linen up your body. “Sit up for a moment, sweet girl,” he instructs, and you obey.
They are finally, finally off, discarded somewhere across the room, and it feels much better being exposed than you expected it to be. There is no insecurity when you are with him. He just wants to help.
He grabs a pillow from off the head of the bed, lifting your hips up with a swift sleight of hand and shoving it under. “For your comfort,” he clarifies.
His hand comes up to cradle your cheek, his elbow resting beside your shoulder, as his other hand reaches down to grip his cock.
You look into his eyes, trying to search for anything past pure devotion and adoration for what he sees before him, and failing. Your lips falter as they reach up to lock with his. He meets you halfway.
Your hand tangles in his hair, pressing his head down harder onto your wet lips. The kiss is unpracticed and messy. Has he done this before? With anyone else, you mean. You should ask once you finish.
Gwayne enters you in a slow thrust, inhaling the noise you make into his mouth. His hand, the one that was cradling your cheek, finds itself on the nape of your neck.
His lips depart from your own, and he presses his forehead against yours, looking down to watch his cock sink into your cunt. He withdraws and sinks in once more, just to see it again. And again. And again. Slowly, slowly, slowly, the torturous drag of his length into you.
Your lips are parted, throat singing moans so frequent you’d think you were performing for him. You know you are being too loud. It feels impossible to be anything but.
Those gorgeous blue eyes of his find their way back to yours. "Oh—fuck, look at you," he praises, no longer needing the arm that guided his cock into you to guide his cock into you, so he raises it up to your mouth.
His thumb glides over your teeth, and then pushes past them. You wrap a hand around his wrist and suck on the digit. Up and down, up and down, as if it were his cock. He almost freezes inside of you.
Your hand slides up his, grabbing his pointer and middle-finger, swapping his thumb out for them. You do the same to them, bobbing your head up and down, moaning around them, and Gwayne fucking whimpers.
He resumes his movements. His cock throbs, your walls wrapping around him, sucking him in like you were made for him—or more so he was made for you, because he was. He is your man. He will be your man until the day he dies.
His fingers leave your mouth, and your saliva connects to the pads of them. He takes them into his own mouth momentarily.
Your fingers dig into his shoulders, pulling his body down to connect to yours. His hand snakes between you, gripping your hardened nipple, earning a gasp from you.
“I’m yours, my princess,” he murmurs, drunk-like. “I’m yours.” And he presses his lips all down your neck, the trail all wet and sloppy.
You’re clenching around him, body spasming from under his caging hold. You feel close to a similar sort of climax that you felt only once before, just then when his head was between your legs. With each slap of his skin against yours, you are screaming. He mutters things, most you can’t quite catch, but they’re all something like that’s it, sweet girl, and let it out, my princess.
He uses his forearm to rise from the skin-to-skin contact you had forced him into. His fingers, desperate yet nimble, work themselves to the small of your back. The contact releases your skin from the suction of the pillowcase, and he lifts your hips up more with his arm now wrapped around them.
His pace quickens. You glance down, and nearly sob at the sight of him disappearing inside you.
“Gwayne?” you look back up at him. Again, he is already staring back at you, ready and willing to fulfill your every need.
“Yes, my princess?” he heaves.
“Kiss me.”
As you wish, is he would have said, if it weren’t for him immediately giving in to your wish. He kisses like he is eating you. Messy. His spit somehow finds itself all around your mouth. You don't notice that you do the same to him.
Your orgasm slams into you. It is a violent punch that knocks the wind out of you—you think you see the Stranger reaching out to you—then you feel Gwayne slow his movements and a thick liquid coat your insides. You babble incomprehensible speech as you ride it out.
“Fuck—” you hear him mutter, and pull out quickly. He runs a finger up your slit, not considering the fact that you were still beyond sensitive—you jerk back at his touch, still trying to catch your breath.
It was like all air was running from you. It probably was. You violently pushed it back out with every small inhale of it.
You finally come to, and realize he has been repeating the words fuck, fuck, fuck, since he pulled out.
“What’s wrong?” you raise a hand to hold his cheek, bringing his attention back to you.
“You don’t—” he pauses. And he sighs, squeezing his eyes shut. “I wasn’t supposed to cum inside.”
You’re still confused. “What’s the problem?”
“That is how you get pregnant.” He lets out one last heavy sigh and then falls onto his back beside you.
You turn onto your side, resting your head on one of the arms he lies beneath your shoulder, and bringing a hand up to place it on his chest. His is still rising and falling as rapidly as yours is.
Your fingers trace your name onto his chest. He is none-the-wiser, but you still smirk at the action. Your man.
“Will you ask the maesters to brew me moon tea?” you mumble.
He brings his other hand to hold yours. “As you wish.”
You chuckle breathily.
“Are you—are you cured?” he says, playing with your fingers.
“I suppose so.” You sigh. The need for him no longer thrums through you in the way that it did before.
Now you want him in a different way. A normal, human, potionless way. The way you wanted him before you drank that wine—you thought it would make you seductive enough for him. It certainly worked, you assume.
In less than a minute, you’re beneath him again, his fingers pumping in and out of you.
a collection of fics i’ve read and thoroughly enjoyed all in one spot. read each warning before diving in and please give writers some appreciation for all their hard work by reblogging and/or commenting! ꨄ
sex pollen I @dearwalker I S I When Clark gets poisoned with sex pollen, he tries everything in his power to stay away from you. Until he ends up crashing into your living room, and you have a god on his knees, with your name in his mouth and your body at his will.
don’t want you like a best friend I @se7entyrell I F + S I the one in which jimmy olsen is tired of watching you and clark dance around your feelings, and decides to do something about it, aka the one where clark fucks you at a daily planet gala.
honey i love you, that’s all she wrote I @/se7entyrell I F I The one in which Clark Kent has a wife and daughter that give the word home a whole new meaning.
blurb pt2 pt3 I deactivated I F I Superman is dating someone pink and Clark Kent totally isn't jealous.
blurb I deactivated I F I Your first time meeting krypto had Clark worried, to say the least.
clark kent and the lavender skirt I @luveline I F I You like to rush things. Clark takes things slow until he can’t anymore. (Or, you attempt to seduce your coworker in a series of little skirts, and while Clark falls in love with all of you, the skirts don’t hurt.)
time lost in a warm lap I @/luveline I F + ~S I Clark stays the night for the first time.
cute panties I @/luveline I F + ~S
request I @ddejavvu I ~S
request I @/ddejavvu I F
gold rush I @goldenlikedayl1ght I A + F I your boyfriend's dog gives you a concussion and it's not even the worst part of your week.
business of flirting I @fluentmoviequoter I F I You flirt with Clark Kent every time he comes into your coffee shop. When he finally realizes you do it for more reason than watching him shy away from you, he realizes you're not so different.
baby, it’s you! I @bodhiscurls I A + F I clark kent finally works up the courage to ask you to dinner; only to run behind on work with lois and completely stand you up. it's fine, you're three glasses of wine in and ready to rant at your friend lois' door, only to find the cause of tonight's rage sitting there on her sofa. now, clark has to find a way to tell you the truth; that this is all a misunderstanding and it's only ever been you. it will always be you.
where do we go now? I @/bodhiscurls I A I you don't know where he disappears to- there's always excuses: he's caught up at work, stuck in traffic, some stupid alien attack cut him up on his commute. but now more than ever when you need him to show up at a family dinner where you planned to introduce him to your parents, he still comes in pieces and enough is enough.
you and i- we’re in this for life I @/bodhiscurls I A + F I it's your wedding day, you've dreamed of this for moment for months to finally marry the love of your life so why does it feel like you just can't breathe. it's the shoes, the dress, the people you don't even know waiting for you outside- good thing clark doesn't believe in it being bad luck to see the bride before the wedding- he has the best luck in the world to be marrying you.
you are in love I @/bodhiscurls I F I all the chances clark has to confess his feelings for you never feels like the right time; that's until you're gone out of town for a work trip and he can't deny how his soul yearns for yours in a way he can no longer hold it together, even if it means declaring it in a sea of people at baggage claims.
nonsense I @xxepherr I F I in which clark kent thinks he's the one keeping a superhero secret in your relationship, but really, it's you.
here comes the sun I @/xxepherr I F I after years of searching, you finally make the move to scouring the next city over — metropolis. it turns out all the answers you needed were hidden there all along.
fortress I @charmedntruer I F I tasked to take clark to the safest possible place he can recover from the pocket universe, you come to a few new revelations of your own upon seeing where clark was raised in the countryside.
starboy I @buckysfaveplum I H/C I recovering from kryptonite poisoning back home in Kansas leaves your relationship with Clark a bit confused. you’ve always been his rock- his best friend. but now, back on the farm, maybe there was always something more
krypto, take me home I @/buckysfaveplum I C I when Clark can’t make it to the fortress, Krypto brings him to you
groupie I @/buckysfaveplum I F I he’s your punkrocker. your star. but sometimes you wonder if you’re just a groupie, if he sees you the same
tell-tale heart I @/buckysfaveplum I F I clark can't help but indulge when he hears how fast your heartbeat gets around him
drabble I @hearts4hughes I F I trying to give clark a hickey
phases to love I @/hearts4hughes I A + F
table for two I @/hearts4hughes I A
request I @/hearts4hughes I F
drabble I @polkaglock I F I no one laughs at clark’s jokes but you
stood up I @shadybinature I A + S I Superman has to save the world, so Clark Kent stands you up....again.
where the leashes tangle I @writing-for-marvel I F I While walking Krypto, Clark ends up entangled with you and your puppy.
blurb I @milkbean69 I S I leaked sextape
jealous of jimmy I @plaidcowboy I F I clark becomes upset and a little insecure about the fact that you and jimmy have been so close recently, but thankfully you’re there to reassure him that he still has his chance with you!
clingy clark I @/plaidcowboy I C I after insecurely taking advice from jimmy and spending hours online, clark distances himself from you. scared he might’ve overwhelmed you with his clinginess. all for a crying clark to come back home to you.
where superman ends and clark begins I @/plaidcowboy I A I you and clark had just had one of the worst fights, leaving you to question whether there’s still room for your relationship, and clark to juggle the weight of being both superman and himself.
meeting ma and pa kent I @/plaidcowboy I F I after dating for a little under a year, clark finally brings you to smallville to meet his parents.
clark kent hcs I @fear-is-truth I F
boy meets girl I @/fear-is-truth I F I when your dog breaks free mid-kaiju attack, chasing after her lands you straight into superman’s arms.
wayne strategies I @athenalvss I F I In revenge against your brother, you went to work in Metropolis and perhaps your brother's league partner makes you put into action the Wayne strategies to have the person you want.
drabble I @cherrysinner I F I having clark be mean to you in front of his parents.
anti-bullying assembly I @/cherrysinner I F I when your school's principal catches you on the phone with superman, not realizing it's your husband, you come up with an excuse as to why you were on the phone with him.
i saw mom kissing superman I @/cherrysinner I A + F I your daughter accidentally catches you with your lips locked with superman and thinks you're cheating on her father.
a small(ville) proposal I @/cherrysinner I F I your boyfriend can't figure out how he wants to propose to you, until jimmy gives him an idea.
underneath the covers I @yeiowrites I F + S I freshman year of college has you going insane. good thing clark has a knack for knowing exactly when to sweep you off your feet, way before any unwanted crashouts happen.
on the record I @kingkat12 I F + S I finally, you get that interview with Superman that could make or break your career-- however, it will be done his way, or no way.
night’s so blue I @suprsnupi I F I it's rare for two reporters to be assigned to the same movie. how convenient that you already have a good relationship with clark. or, this is too good to be true. it isn't a set-up, right?
unfold your love pt2 I @/suprsnupi I F I jimmy olsen and the mystery of two idiots who are definitely not in love
you can see it with the lights out I @/suprsnupi I F
poisonivy!reader hcs pt2 I @poge-life I F
my hero pt2 I @sugarhoneyylovee I F + A I an office romance sounds good in theory but what happens when it goes according to theory?
tornado warnings I @thatfoxygrl I F
couldn’t make it any harder I @/thatfoxygrl I A + F I when you're known around school for being avoidant, clark wonders if theres any truth to the rumors and challenges himself to break down your walls and get to know the real you
silver springs I @/thatfoxygrl I A I you and clark had a unique relationship, one you've never doubted until one day the lies become too much and the secrets – including the reason he's so infatuated with his ex-girlfriend, lois lane – all come crashing down.
journalist!reader I @killishin I F
stop avoiding me I @/killishin I F
kissing clark kent I @sunsburns I F
rivals to lovers pt2 pt3 pt4 pt5 pt6 pt7 pt8 pt9 pt10 pt11 pt12 I @messylxve I F + HC
a lesson in trust falling I deactviated I F I you’re not fond of flying — thankfully, your boyfriend is superman.
places we were made I @codenamefalcon I F I Smallville will always be Clark’s home. It was where he was raised. It was where his parents were. It was where you were. During one week long visit, he finally decides to brave the leap from friendship to something more with you, but something gets in the way. Fortunately for Clark, he’s dedicated to proving just how much you mean to him, and you’re a sucker for a trip down memory lane.
all makes sense I @musingsofheaven I S I The obsession of other interns had with him never made sense. Not until one night… drinks turned into something more. It’s so good that it makes all those promises to never be one of the girls giggling over Clark Kent feel ridiculous. But now it makes sense. God, now it does.
the sound of my voice (will haunt you) I @orobaxis I A
bring me sunshine I @eupheme I S
eyes like pretty lights I @fawnindawn I F I surprising clark with a visit at the daily planet, it sparks memories of the past and how some things never change, especially clark's eyes that still shine like pretty lights only for you. seeing your best friend in metropolis after so long, it might be hard for you to leave him again- especially when he doesn't want you to.
till i lose it I @/fawnindawn I A + F I Clark finds himself feeling jealous for the first time when you get assigned on a case with Jimmy Olsen, and start spending more time with the photojournalist instead of him.
bad friend pt2 I @twiceasbright I A + F I your best friend asks you to set her up with clark kent, who's your work crush. despite your feelings for him, you agree- for the sake of your friend. but things go awry when you panic and end up accidentally asking him out yourself. now you have to find a way to fix it before things go too far.
no strings attached… unless? I @kryptoclark I A + F + S I what was supposed to be a simple no-strings hookup between best friends turns complicated when feelings inevitably get involved. huh. who would've thought?
who’s calling my phone? I @prettypeeling I F I clark has a crush on the daily planet's receptionist.
cemetery girl pt2 I @vaamppiraa I A I in which you and clark are married, but after an accident, you lose your memory
you deserve it I @blank-potato I S I Clark has a tough day so you decide to make him feel better. You both just hope your neighbours don't kill you with how loud the two of you tend to get.
hit me hard and soft I @sceletaflores I S
locked out I @thatcorporategirlie I F I You find yourself locked out of your apartment, so your very attractive neighbor Clark offers you to hang out at his and eat some pizza until your friend arrives with your spare key.
big blue softy I @starryevermore I C I you have a minor surgery and clark is more than happy to take care of you.
meet the kents I @isaadore I F I clark takes you home to meet his parents and spends the entire trip being an embarrassing, love-sick puppy.
unmasked I @sunsherbet I A + C I In which you want your boyfriend, not superman, to save you
one-shot I @p3terparker I F I you confess your feelings for clark, not knowing he’s listening to everything you’re saying.
benny and the jets I @snooperzz I A + C I After the reader/oc tries and fails to get back into the dating scene, Clark Kent swoops in to save the day.
technical difficulties I @hauntedhowlett-writes I S I As an IT specialist for The Daily Planet, you’re no stranger to Clark Kent’s struggles with technology. When he calls you on your personal phone with an after hours emergency, of course you’re willing to help him out. He shows his gratitude in an interesting way.
you make me wanna make you fall in love I @cerisereids I A + F I You’re the new assistant at the Daily Planet. Your job is to run errands, get coffees, and not fall in love with the handsome man in glasses.
summary: after Clark breaks your trust, he knows it's a long road to forgiveness. He just hopes that it isn't too late, and that the road doesn't stretch on for longer than he can bear – but then again, you weren't a pushover, and he may have pushed his luck a bit too far this time. (silver springs part 2)
word count: 10k
contents: fem!reader, angst, mentions of emotional cheating, crying, lying, heartbreak, longing, cursing, drinking, parties, readers birthday passes (but no specific date), kissing, mentions of neglectful parents, scorned reader, awful and uneducated men (not Clark), bad dates, illusions to sex, Lois Lane is an angel, some fluff, forgiveness, semi-happy ending
a/n: bet you all thought I was dead in a ditch somewhere!! I'm so happy to announce part 2 of Silver Springs, based on Landslide by Fleetwood Mac. I'm so sorry I made you all wait so long for it, I hope it's not too much of a disappointing ending, and thank you all so much for the support!!
The cold metal frame between your fingers feels like ice gnawing through frail skin tissue as you stare at it with vacant eyes. You hated this photo – your hair was frizzy, and your smile wasn’t quite right because the person taking the photo forgot to warn you before she clicked the capture button on Clark's old digital camera.
He had taken you to the Metropolis Bay aquarium, insisting that you get over your fear of deep water by letting him take you out. “Once you see all of the cool stuff that lives in it, it won't seem so scary anymore,” he promised, hand clasped around your wrist gently as he looked at you with pleading eyes, the tickets already sitting in his cart as you both lounged on the couch on some odd Saturday night.
He’d never admit it, but the main reason he wanted to go was so that he could look tough in front of you, like some sort of avid protector – as if he wasn’t already a 6’4 giant who always made sure you were walking on the inside of the sidewalk, because god forbid something happened to you.
One of the workers had taken the photo of you and Clark in front of the sea lion exhibit – you were crushed against his side tightly as his arms wrapped themselves around you, his bright eyes looking down at you with the same soft sentiment you were always rewarded.
You still remember wincing when you saw the photo printed out and sitting on your coffee table the next day – making it a point to huff at everything you hated about it while Clark frowned from behind you. He loved that photo of you, said it was one of his favorites because you looked real – all soft smiles and squealing laughter instead of perfectly practiced poses and angles.
You had woken up the very next morning to some god awful hammering in your living room, the sound reverberating around your thin walls like a jackhammer to the skull. Dragging yourself out of your warm fleece sheets at 8:03 am, you found none other than Clark with a hammer and nail in hand, massacring your previously pristine wall.
“I guess I won’t be getting that deposit back, huh?” you muse, arms crossed over your chest, the large t-shirt you went to bed in enveloping you. It was one of Clark's old Smallville high ones that he conveniently left at your place after he caught you wearing one of his Mighty CrabJoy ones when he first spent the night.
He turned around, a hint of sheepishness climbing onto his face as he finished hanging that same photo on your living room wall, conveniently placed just out of your reach so you couldn't take it down – now complete with a metal nautical-themed frame that made you shake your head in laughter.
Because as much as you hated that picture, you loved Clark – Clark who always knew how to make you smile, make you feel better – or at least he used to.
Maybe that's why you’re now balancing on one of your old kitchen chairs, a hammer in one hand and the picture in the other as you work the nail out of the eggshell-painted wall. Sure, you could always put a different photo in that spot, one you actually liked, but it felt wrong now – like that place would always belong to something else.
When you finally dig out the nail, you toss it into a small cup full of other identical ones, climbing off of the chair carefully in the process. You drop the photo, frame and all, into a cardboard box that sits a few feet away, full to the brim with photos, cards, tickets, and even a napkin that Clark once wrote a goodbye message on one morning when he had to leave early and didn’t want to wake you.
Every memory that was haunting you like a ghost for the past two weeks now confined to a small, fragile box you pulled out of your closet a few hours ago. Your once fully decorated and lively living room now an empty shell of what it used to be, littered with holes of what used to be a symphony of laughter and love – maybe it would be ironic if you’d let yourself think about it for more than half a second, but you don't.
You feel tears pulling in front of your eyes, your tongue pressing harshly against your teeth, willing them back as you reach for your glass of wine that sits on the mantle of your fireplace. Taking a large gulp, you stare off into your open window. The shiny golden streetlamps refracting across your dark living room, the air stale.
You don't even notice the tears falling until one hits your arm, jolting you out of your reminiscence like acid rain. You take one more look around your living room before you retreat to your bedroom, not looking back as you shut the door behind you.
I took my love, I took it down.
This was a new low, even for you – not that Cat would actually say that, but the look she was giving you spoke volumes, as she took in your appearance with quirked brows and crossed arms, standing at the front door of your apartment.
You look up at her, a hint of guilt smeared across your face as she takes in your devastating appearance, which consists of some old, grey yoga pants and a pink sweater that hangs off your shoulder unflatteringly as you peer up at her tiredly.
“You told me you weren't sulking- I knew I shouldn’t have believed you!” she accuses, her heels clicking as she pushes past you and into your apartment, freezing at the empty, hole-ridden walls. “Oh, hun,” she frowns quietly, turning to look at you as you stare bullets into the floor.
“Yeah?” you whisper, biting the inside of your cheek harshly to push back blearing tears that make their way to the forefront of your retinas. She takes a slow, cautious step towards you, a sad smile on her face “I know it’s hard, but this could be a good thing,” she murmurs, reaching out to rub your back softly as she looks between you and your apartment.
“But just in case, I think we should get you out of here for a bit” she adds, steering you towards your room like a sheep dog. You dig your heels into the floorboards, shaking your head, “I dont think so, I just want to spend the day inside-” “you’ve spent the past week inside. That's all you do now. Wake up, go to work, go home, sleep – you need to get out of here” she insists, pushing you towards your room with the strength of a small cat – making you crack a smile.
“Okay, well where are we going?” you huff, a reluctant smile on your face as Cat tears through your closet in search for, in her words, ‘the perfect mix of sexy and casual’ before finally landing on a pair of bootcut jeans and a black halter top with lace detailing that showed off way more cleavage than you’d prefer.
“Let me worry about that, go shower” she urges with a glint in her eye that you’re not so sure you should trust, but if you know anything about Cat, it’s that she is completely and utterly unwilling to let anything go, no matter how much you push.
And so, you drag yourself to the shower, scrubbing off the despair and depression you’ve been sitting in for days now, before you head back to your room – Cat having made herself at home at your desk as she scrolls through her Tinder account.
You get ready in record time, partially because Cat is rushing you and partially because you don't really care how you look at this point, mind wandering off to the list of things you had to do as a result of the ongoing physical and emotional neglect of your everyday life.
Grocery shopping, buying new work shoes, and oh yeah, buying new wall decor.
By the time you finish getting ready, it’s 2:00 pm – there’s still plenty of day left, and maybe you’d even have time to get your errands done after Cat’s activity.
“Okay, will you tell me where we’re going now?” you hum as you slip on some black leather kitten heels and reach out for your vintage Juicy bag – your previous and beloved Coach bag sitting in the back of your closet where it can't taunt you with bitter recollections.
“Nope” she muses as she grabs your wrist and drags you out of your apartment, a slick smile on her face as you two make it down the old, creaky elevator of your apartment complex and onto the street full of people. It was a Saturday, meaning there was no shortage of locals and tourists walking the streets of downtown Metropolis.
You make it two blocks away, Cat droning on about some guy she met up with who ended up owning seven cats. “And that's why you can’t trust dating apps,” she huffs, hands thrown up in frustration as she recalls her last date gone wrong. “But enough about that, because we’re finally here!” she smiles, her manicured hands waving dramatically in front of a small coffee cart nestled at the edge of Metropolis park, a few sets of wired chairs and tables surrounding the area.
“And we are here because?” you laugh, looking onto the large park to find children playing, dogs running, and old couples going on walks around the lush green oasis surrounded by a multitude of skyscrapers.
“Because you need fresh air and a clear perspective,” she laughs, but you can tell there’s something hidden underneath – altruism, maybe, some frustration in there too.
You can’t deny it’s beautiful, the long willow trees blowing off with the wind like curlicues, and the infectious laughter of children like a reminder that life still goes on, that hearts still beat, even when broken. You don't come here much; you’ve been a few times with Clark, but you usually keep within the city, smushed between the tall concrete buildings that hold you like vice. It feels safer that way, somehow.
You don't even notice Cat ordering your drinks until she pulls you away to find a table sat in the grass. It's a mosaic made out of colorful stained glass and white plaster with flecks of gold glitter shimmering through, and when you stare at it for too long it becomes a stark reminder of how it felt to be young and full of dreams, like the world was some colorful gameboard that you could make all your own.
You lost sight of that idea when you turned fifteen, burdened by the realities of neglectful parents and a life with constant bills to pay.
Clark never lost sight of it, though; he always believed that life, and the people in it, were supremely beautiful. That real beauty didn’t come from perfection, but from what people made with their love and passion in a messy mix of freedom and creativity.
“You’re thinking about him again, aren’t you?” Cat hums, a sad but knowing smile on her face as she looks at you curiously, “What happened between you two?” she asks, for the millionth time, and you give her the same runaround answer you always do.
“He wasn’t who I thought he was.” You couldn’t tell her the truth, but you couldn’t lie to her either, so you settled for half-truths – fragments of reality intertwined with fictitious stories that made your chest ache.
“Well, I didn’t bring you out here to talk about Clark,” she hums, lifting her flat white up to her mouth knowingly. When did the drinks get here?
“I brought you here because you’re in need of perspective. Real perspective that can’t be found from the inside of your apartment walls." she huffs, "So tell me, what do you see?” she asks, gesturing around her like some blase therapist.
“I see people, Cat. A lot of people.” you huff softly, hands tapping rhythmically on your metal chair as she sighs, shaking her head. She gives you a bored look as she scoots her chair next to yours. “You’re not even trying. You wanna know what I see?” and before you can respond, she’s already talking.
“I see a mother, and children, and elderly couples walking together hand in hand, who probably have more experiences in life than anyone else around – including both you and me."
"I see people who are, or have been in, the same place as you and moved on from it because growing is a part of life.” she’s looking at you now.
“It’s hard, and it’s messy, but it’s yours at the end of the day. And this situation that you’re in is not the end of it – maybe a chapter’s closed, and maybe it’s hard to let go, but if you really want to, then you will over time.”
You stare off into a grassy patch a few meters away where an old couple sits under the shade of a tree, sunlight cascading down through the weaving branches as they talk, smile, and laugh.
“And if I can’t? Let it go, that is” you whisper, eyes glossed over slightly as you drink in the sight, catching the way the elderly man brushes a stray hair away from his lover's face in tender adoration.
“Then maybe it never really closed in the first place,” she murmurs, staring at you with a soft smile, before snapping you out of the scene you’re but a mere spectator of. “But you won't know that until you try something new. This shell of a life you’re living, I don't want that for you. And Clark may have done something fucked up, but we both know he wouldn’t want that either.” she finishes, arm wrapped around your shoulder as she leans her head on you, a sad smile resting on her lips as you nod in reluctant agreement.
“Then how do I move forward?” you murmur, and she smiles that same smile she always does, the one so full of hope and knowing that it makes you question her grasp on reality.
“Only you know how to do that, because it’s unique to you. But if and when the time come’s you’ll know.” she hums, and you just nod silently, because you can’t promise yourself that if you speak, you won’t cry – and you’re tired of crying.
You two sit in comfortable silence for about five minutes when the scene you’ve become privy to watching turns into something else – children stop their games of tag as they look up to the skies in carefree fascination.
You follow the eyes of one little girl as she drops a soccer ball from between her fingers, mouth agape as she stares up into the sky. You feel your heart clench at the sight, your knuckles gripping the wire rungs of your chair harshly, because up in the sky is your name spelled out in clouds.
You hear Cat gasp as she follows your line of sight upwards, “oh my god” she manages to choke out, but you can’t tear your eyes away from the spectacle in the sky, especially not when you see Superman fly by the last letter. You feel sick.
“We should get going,” you murmur to Cat, ripping your eyes away as you grab your purse from the back of your chair and stand up quickly. “What? Are you- are you kidding? Superman just spelled your name out in clouds, and you wanna leave?”
“It was probably Clark’s doing,” you mutter, “Y’know how he and Superman are friends.” you huff, eyes rolling as you shove your phone into your purse, refusing to look at Cat's gobsmacked face. “Yeah, but I just thought they were like colleagues – like him and Lois” bad choice of words.
“I have some errands to run, do you wanna come?” you murmur, deflecting, and Cats smart enough to realize when she’s said something she shouldn’t have.
“Maybe you should go alone, give yourself some time to think,” she hums, practically pleading with you to see the sign that's right in front of you. Whatever Clark did, he’s clearly sorry. But sorry doesn’t cut it, not anymore.
And so you don't look up, and you don't turn around. You leave with your pride and your dignity clutched tightly to your chest as you make your way towards the shoe store – maybe you’d buy a pair of Louboutins to go with your new apartment decor. You deserved something nice.
Oh, mirror in the sky, what is love?
You’re proofreading this article for the sixth time, and it doesn’t sound any better than the first time you’ve revised it. There’s something missing, but it’s one of those little things that you don't see right away, you sort of just feel it. Maybe that's why you make your way over to the coffee machine for your third refill of the day, an earsplitting headache radiating through your skull.
The first cup was to get you caffeinated enough to actually wake up on time, having spent the entirety of yesterday shopping, and the second cup was to enhance your energy enough to appear perky even in your new shoes, which are currently tearing your feet to shreds.
The third one, you pray, will be sufficient enough to draw your attention to the issue at hand by the end of the day – the last thing you needed was a late work day when all you wanted to do was crawl up into a ball and rot.
You’re pouring some hot coffee into one of the old paper cups at the coffee station – the same ones that burn your fingers and break after an hour of use, but you hardly have time to go out and buy an actually decent coffee from the cafe down the street, so you settle.
It’s not so bad, however, when you see Jimmy walk over – that same playful smile on his face as he stands next to you, preparing his own cup. “How many are you on today?” he laughs, and you smirk, “Three, you?” “Ha, six”
You roll your eyes, a reluctant smile worming its way across your lips. You didn’t see Jimmy as much anymore; he wasn't just a desk away now that you’ve switched your desk with Cat's to escape being next to Clark – bless her generous heart.
“Yes, well, I’ll be the one with the last laugh when you contract heart palpitations from caffeine overdose,” you smirk, taking a sip of your drink as you eye him playfully.
He lets out a choked laugh, shoving your shoulder gently as he leans against the wall “What did I do to deserve all this hostility? Between you and Clark, I-” he begins to drone, but you stop listening when he mentions Clark. Like a switch in your brain, you pivot, because that's what you do in situations like these.
“Well, good to know it’s not just me seeing it. He’s so crabby lately,” Lois pipes in as she squeezes between you and Jimmy with a small apology, causing you to freeze, your fingers now strangely numb and your eyes flitting around the newsroom in a panic.
What are you supposed to do? You can’t just walk away, that's rude. You wonder briefly if she knows – if she’s playing dumb about the whole thing because of Jimmy, or if this is actually the one thing Clark hasn't told her. Unlikely.
You didn't actually tell anyone that the breakup was because of Lois, because at its core, it wasn't. It wasn’t her fault that Clark confided in her instead of you, and it’s not her fault you felt insecure about their friendship. Though the way she looks at you, a mix of confusion and guilt laced across her face, you figure she may have figured it out. She was the best journalist at The Daily Planet for a reason.
You tune out the rest of their conversation as you bid them both a quiet goodbye and dip out of there as quietly as possible, though nothing's very quiet with your new shoes, which seem to draw attention to you by the clacking sound alone. Maybe you should go back to your old ones, they were worn in and familar– no.
You stop yourself, the reminder that change is good – or at least healthy – fresh in your mind as you steel yourself with determination and make your way over to your desk.
You're not shocked to find a cinnamon muffin sat on it, still warm like a fresh taunt that your space is never really private, never really just yours.
It’s been over two weeks of fresh pastries and coffee sat at your desk when you weren't looking, the flowers having finally stopped showing up at your apartment a week ago after Clark saw you throwing them out with blurry vision and tear-streaked cheeks.
Usually, you throw it out, or if you’re really hungry, you’ll pretend to throw it out while actually taking it to the supply closet where you’d devour it in comfortable privacy. But you’re not hungry right now, so you award yourself the full-fledged satisfaction of tossing out the pastry right in front of Clark, who you’re sure is watching you between the divider walls of the bullpen.
Superman has x-ray vision, right? You think you’ve read that somewhere…
You wonder if he’s going to take the hint, give it up, and let it all go – but then again, you guess he’s never been particularly good at that.
You busy yourself with drawing up some mock-ups for Perry, your beat was long since finished, and you could use the brownie points if you were going to take a vacation anytime soon.
You’re bringing the last drafts to his office when the air turns thick with familiarity, an aching feeling fleeting your chest as you take a slow turn and look down the previously empty hallway.
Clark stands a few feet behind you, a nervous look on his face as he looks at you – almost as if he didn’t fully think through the implications of following you. Typical. “What do you want?” you whisper, eyes sharp as you take in his appearance – his ever crooked tie that you used to fix in the morning clinging to his chest, and the scruffy head of hair that hangs by his eyes looking worse for wear.
“I wanted to talk– I’ve been trying to reach you, but it hasn’t exactly been working out like I planned." He murmurs. “Well, if you’re trying to reach someone and they’re avoiding you, then there's a good chance they don't want to see you” you mutter plainly, shaking your head in agitation.
“I have to get these to Perry.” you say finally, turning on your heel before you hear his voice cut in. “Wait! Please, just wait,” he murmurs, pained, one hand outstretched in an attempt to stop you without overstepping.
“Why? So you can lie to me some more? Or so that you can make me feel crazy about it?” you hiss, taking a step back. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry- I know I messed up, that I ruined everything, but I never meant to-” “Well it’s not about what you meant to do, Clark, it’s about what you did.”
“Please, let me try to make it up to you, honey” he whispers, hand coming to rub across his forehead anxiously. You cross your arms over your chest before letting out a final exhale.
“You know, maybe if you hadn’t lied to me for months, things could be different – but you did. You chose to keep things from me because it was easier than letting me in. I mean, what did you think, Clark? That if I knew I was gonna go around and tell everyone?” you scoff.
“God, Clark, I thought that you were the one person who knew me better than anyone, but now it's clear that you never really knew me at all. Because if you did, then you would’ve known that I would've supported you, been there for you.” You mutter, voice raised slightly as you bite the inside of your cheek, taking him in one last time before you disappear around the corner towards Perry's office.
Can the child within my heart rise above?
You’d already eaten half of the bread that sat idly in the metal wire basket, and Jack was still droning on about the financing secrets of Capitol Hill. You were going to kill Jimmy.
After another week of sulking, Jimmy and Cat devised their own plan to get you out of your head – and your apartment, which seemed to be the only place you go anymore, according to them. “He’s got a great job, I’m talking super loaded! I’m telling you, just go on one date and see how it goes. What's the worst that could happen?” You can still hear Jimmy's pleading in your ear like a metronome.
“So, anyway, I was telling General Flag to reallocate and supply other funding towards our Boravian allies to appease the arms investors.” “Other money?” you can’t help but choke out a scoff, eyebrows quirked as you cut him off, a sour look on your face as you process his words.
“The Boravian government doesn’t need more money; it needs regulations. It needs to halt the destruction it’s imposing on innocent people. Destruction, which, by the way, violates over a dozen international peace treaties and human rights laws – and where is this ‘other money’ supposed to come from anyway?” you gawk at his complete disregard for, in your opinion, common sense and human decency.
He shoots you an incredulous look, as if you were the person who said something absurd before he continues. “Well, there are plenty of federally funded programs that don’t make sense to keep funding, especially when the returns don’t fit the federal budget,” he defends, and you’re doing everything in your power not to toss your drink in his face.
“Like the US Military budget? I agree-” you supply before you’re cut off by a laugh that makes your ears ring and your eyes twitch. “Whoa, sweetheart, I think you’re a bit lost here. The military budget is exactly as it should be, arms development is a goldmine for investors. I was thinking more of local programs that drain federal grants and subsidies with little to no rewards – the children's reading program in Gotham, for one-” you let out a shrill laugh at that, slapping your hand over your mouth before you can stop yourself.
“You mean to tell me that you’d rather funnel more money into weapons of war while children struggle with literacy rates in some of the most run-down and impoverished areas in the country for the sake of financial returns?” you laugh, but it’s clear to you both that nothing is remotely funny about the conversation.
“Listen, honey, if we offset costs within our government now and get a remittance payout later, it’s better for us here-” “a payout?” you scoff, a look of utter disbelief plastered on your face as you reach for your purse on instinct.
“It’s always about a payout with you people, isn’t it?” you mutter, as you rifle through your purse to find your phone, already dialing the number of a taxi as you stand up out of your chair, the metal scraping across the wooden floor obnoxiously in the dimly lit restaurant.
You don’t even give him a chance to say anything else before you grab your half-drunk cosmopolitan, gulping the rest of it down before setting it back onto the table and walking out without so much as a second glance.
You’re a few blocks down the sidewalk, the chill air caressing your exposed arms as you open up your text messages with Jimmy, ‘your friend is a dick btw’ is the only message you send before you’re colliding with someone.
“Oh god, I am so sorry!” you murmur, taking an apologetic step back as you look up to see Lois. “No, no! It was my fault, I was on my phone,” she murmurs, a half-tense and half-apolgetic smile on her face as she takes in your appearance.
“Rough night?” she points out, the look on your face a telltale sign of your increasingly horrible night. Perceptive as ever. “You have no idea,” you laugh nervously, nodding your head as you fiddle with your denim skirt.
“You wanna talk about it?” she asks, uncharacteristically quiet – in the months you’ve known Lois Lane, she has never once been quiet. Maybe it’s because she knows what happened between you and Clark, that your desks now sit meters away from where they used to, and that you don't talk anymore. Or maybe it’s because she feels partially responsible. You hope it’s not the latter.
“Just Jimmy's wonderful matchmaking skills put to use,” you laugh sarcastically, heels tapping nervously on the worn concrete as you mentally berate yourself. Lois lets out a huffed laugh as she looks at you like you’ve suddenly grown three heads “You took love advice from Jimmy Olsen?”
You wince as you run your hands down your face. “Not my proudest moment, but between us, I think he and Cat were sick of my moping,” you tease, and the once light air turns stale in an instant.
“Still not talking to Clark?” she supplies, and it’s in this moment that you remember why Lois is such an incredible journalist – she doesn’t pull any punches.
“Yeah, that ship has sailed,” you murmur tersely, and she winces at her carelessness. “Yeah, uh, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that,” she mutters, “I’m not really good at the whole friendship thing, so I’m sorry if I overstep, but-” “It’s okay, Lois, really” you whisper, but she whips her head seldomly.
“No, it’s not. Don’t get me wrong, Clark's an idiot for lying to you about all of it, but it was my fault, too. He’s the only person who didn’t run screaming when he saw all of my flaws. It’s hard to let that go sometimes, even if there are no romantic feelings there anymore,” she adds, chewing on her bottom lip contemplatively, and you feel your heart ache.
“Well, between us, I’m pretty sure Clark would pick you in a heartbeat-” you murmur before you're cut off, “What? No, you've got it all wrong. Clark is obsessed with you – believe me, Jimmy and I have made fun of him for it multiple times. Whenever he’s not with you, you’re all he talks about.”
“Me and him, we’re too different. But when he talks about you, it’s like the sun shines down on him every time he says your name,” she laughs, but the look in her eye is as perceptive as ever. Like she has some sort of agenda you haven't figured out yet
“Just, maybe try to hear him out. He’s ridiculous and silly and an absolute train wreck, but he means well. And I promise, I’ll back off-” there it is.
“Lois” you murmur, cutting off her rambling with a small smile “None of this is your fault.” you say slowly, emphasizing your words in a way you can only pray she takes to heart. This may very well be the first time you’ve ever seen the Lois Lane so vulnerable, nervous.
This wasn’t the confident, ingenious woman you’ve been surrounded by for months now. This is someone who reminds you a bit of yourself, and maybe that's why you can’t stop yourself from holding back what you say next.
“Lois, would you wanna come to my birthday thing next week? Cat's throwing it” you murmur, cheeks heating ever so slightly at the implication of your words. Birthday thing? Really? ‘Party’ seemed so childish, but maybe you should’ve just-
“Yeah. Yeah, that sounds like fun. Thanks,” she nods, smiling gently as you force back a small smile of your own. Maybe the night wasn’t a total loss.
Well, I've been afraid of changing cause I've built my life around you.
Dimensional Imps were not particularly hard creatures to subdue, but they made a heck of a mess, which would undoubtedly be included in Superman's next review by every newspaper and talk show in Metropolis in the upcoming weeks.
Supermans catastrophe causes fifteen million in property damages, is he really the hero Metropolis needs? He could hear the headlines now, and no matter how many incredible things he mentions in his article, the online chatter would always win out.
But, in spite of all of that noise, drowning it out like a waterlogged speaker, is something Clark couldn’t imagine trading for anything – love.
Especially from children, who look at him like he hung the stars each time they watch him in action, running up to him with bright cherub faces and eyes full of hope the second his feet touch the ground.
It very well may be his favorite part of the job, bringing hope and light to those who need it most, who need someone – or rather something – to believe in. Clark relishes in being that for people, he always has. Maybe it’s because it means that he isn’t so different from everyone else, from humanity.
Maybe thats why he can’t help the way his face lights up when a little girl comes running into his arms, a little girl that looks shockingly enough like you – same hair he loved to press his face against in the middle of the night when you two would tangle limbs in your silken sheets, the same eyes he’s committed to memory after having stared into them so many times in adoration.
He feels three other children run up to him, hugging his legs with their little hands as their parents take pictures and smile. There’s a cacophony of praise and thanks emanating his way, but he can’t tear his eyes off of the little girl in his arms.
It makes him painfully wonder if in the event that the two of you had children, a family, if they would look like you. Selfishly, he hopes so, clinging onto the bare thread of desperation as he imagines a life with you – never mind the complexities that may come with raising a half-human half-kryptonian child, of course.
Not that you would ever want that after what had happened – not that he could blame you in the slightest. Because no matter how many apology muffins and flowers he left, no matter how many grand gestures he performed, nothing could erase the look on your face after you’d found out he’d been lying to you for months.
He supposes he should let the dream die – the one of you two and your white picket fence, children giggling and running across a couple of acres of land that were wholly your own.
The one of pancakes every morning and baby bottles drying next to the sink, warm smiles and soft lullabies that echo through wooden floorboards, and soft lighting that highlights the wear of both of your faces after years of love and devotion.
He should let it go. He needs to let it go, respect your decision. You don’t want to see him, and he could hardly blame you. But when he looks over at the girl in his arms, clinging to him like he’s some sort of hero, he can’t help but force himself to try.
But time makes you bolder, even children get older,
Cat had bought the gaudiest cake you’d ever seen – five tiers of hot pink Italian buttercream piped into intricate leopard print with black ruffles along the border, and of course, edible glitter. You nearly choked out a laugh the first time you saw it. It was very… retro.
Not that you minded, Cat was generous enough to plan the whole party for you, and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t love the theme. Your apartment was now decked out with hot pink streamers, cheetah print balloons, and glitter confetti scattered across your apartment floor. Something you’d undoubtedly wait until the last minute to sweep up.
Cat had locked you in your room to get ready with nothing but a pack of white cheddar goldfish and your ever-waning sanity for over four hours while she decorated the apartment. You had never felt so grateful than when she finally flung the door open with a bright smile and a bandage dress covered in glitter.
You stepped out in a baby pink mini dress, the silk gliding across your skin as you adjust the bow sitting at your waist. “Oh you look hot,” she gushes, ushering you out of your sanctuary and into the living room – your cake glaringly evident of the theme as it sits on your pristine countertops.
“Wow, Cat, you shouldn’t have” you murmur, voice carrying a touch of awe as you look across your apartment. Your once empty walls now covered in streamers and leopard print wall decals, it almost makes you forget the memories that fester beneath the white paint and glitter.
“Well no, I absolutely did. That's what best friends do” she laughs, rolling her eyes as she takes you through the apartment, showing off every detail before the first knock comes. You feel yourself stop in your tracks as Cat rushes towards the door with a squeal.
You don't know why you’re so nervous – you know one thing for sure, and it’s that it is certainly not Clark behind the door. The knock was too weak, and there was no way Cat would invite him here, he probably wouldn't have even shown up if she did, and-
“Where’s the birthday girl?” you hear Jimmy’s familiar voice call out. Right, of course it was Jimmy. So why were you so disappointed?
You don’t have time to dwell on it for long, Jimmy's arm wrapping itself around you and pulling you into a bone-crushing hug a few seconds later. “I see Cat has been busy” he muses, eyes darting around the apartment with reluctant appreciation.
“Can it, Jimmy.” she huffs, smacking him over the head with an eyeroll. “Or else I’m inviting Eve over,” she hums, causing you to stifle a laugh. “I truly don’t know what she sees in you Jimmy” you muse, eyebrows quirked as he stands there defensively.
“And to think I even brought you a present,” he mutters, drawing your attention to the pink wrapped box that now sits idly next to the gift Cat had brought – as if she hadn’t already done enough.
“Well it is my birthday Jimmy, but thank you so much for taking time out of your busy schedule to celebrate someone who’s not one of the many girls you keep in your rotation,” you say dryly, making your way over to the martini station Cat had set up on your kitchen counter.
“You’re welcome,” he smiles brightly, sarcasm evident in his voice as Cat joins you. You’re in the middle of mixing up an espresso martini when you hear another knock, this time Jimmy waltzes over to get it.
It’s a few more girls from the office – truthfully, you didn’t know them all that well, but only having three people at your party felt a bit sad, according to Cat.
Samantha takes over the martini station with a smile, and you make your way towards the snack table, picking up some chips and shoving them in your mouth discreetly to avoid any unnecessary conversation with someone you hardly knew.
The real event comes, however, ten minutes later with a light, calculated knock on the door – there was only one person who hadn't arrived yet. “I got it” you shout, rushing towards the door, a nervous smile on your face as you open it to reveal a very spooked Lois Lane.
“Hey Lois, come on in” you smile, moving out of the way as she enters, a small purple box in hand as she looks around the apartment. “Interesting decor” she muses as she sets her gift next to the others.
“Cat went all out” you laugh, “and you really didn’t have to get me anything, that’s not why I invited you” you smile, nerves buzzing across your skin like lightning. You didn’t know how to do this, what to say, and you had a distinct feeling she didn’t either.
“You wanna get a drink?” you murmur, and a knowing smile breaks out across her face as she leans in “Well what do you have?”
Two hours pass by, and you’re sure that you and Lois are the drunkest pair at the party. Two cosmos and one – very strong – espresso martini later, you’re both in a fit of giggles about office gossip, which Cat had so dutifully supplied.
“Oh god, and have you heard the bull Steve spews across the office?” she shrieks, her head thrown back in laughter. “Oh god, I know – can you believe he wanted my column cut to double his sports interview – like, learn to edit.” you huff, a wry smirk on both of your faces. This was nice.
“Man, I hate that guy. You should hear the shit he harasses Clark with,” Jimmy cuts in, a knowing look on his face as he eases his way into the conversation. You should’ve known he would find a way to bring him up.
Jimmy may be both your and Clark's friend, but he’s had enough of Clark's kicked puppy routine to last a lifetime, and wanted nothing more than for the two of you to work it out.
You, Lois, and Cat roll your eyes at him “Please tell me what relevance Clark has right now?” Cat digs, eyes glaring daggers at him as she downs another vodka martini.
“It's fine Cat” you hum, a reluctant smile on your face as you shake your head “Steve’s a dick to everyone, that's something we can all agree on” you muse as you take the last gulp of your drink, a wave of awkwardness washing over the room.
Like the saint she is, Cat immediately springs into action “Well then, time for cake and presents,” she shouts, manicured hands clapping together as she rallies everyone into the kitchen. You sat at the head of your dining table, your cake in front of you as Cat lights the candles with her hot pink lighter.
Between the candle smoke stinging your eyes and the numerous phone flashlights pointed your way, you’re shocked you can see anything at all besides splotches.
But by the end of their very pitchy rendition of Happy Birthday, you’re blowing out the candles with only one thing in mind: what was Clark doing right now?
And I'm getting older too.
The next day at work, you have a killer hangover that only Lois understands as you enter the bullpen together in comfortable silence. Cat and Jimmy are already quietly bickering from their desks, and as you make your way over to yours, you freeze at the blue and gold wrapped box that sits idly on top.
You don't need to check the tag to know who it’s from – the wrapping paper is crinkled from inexperienced handywork, and it smells faintly of the familiar cologne that used to invade your senses every time you crossed your apartment.
You can feel Clark's eyes on you without even looking up. You take a slow, cautious step towards your desk, a mix of dread and nerves climbing its way through your body, into your veins, and infiltrating your lungs like some sort of anesthesia.
You knew that whatever the box contained, it was going to hit you like a suckerpunch to the heart. This wasn’t just some muffin or coffee you could throw away to make a point.
There were no impersonal gifts when it came to Clark Kent – he remembered the little things, and a part of you felt like you owed it not just to him, but to the relationship you two once shared, to at least open it. Way to rub salt in the wound.
When you take an idle seat at your desk, you can’t bring yourself to do anything other than stare at the pretty blue packaging. That is, until you hear the familiar footsteps of Loubitons clacking across the tile floor. Cat.
If she saw the gift you know she’d force you to open it right then and there, and while well-intentioned, that was the last thing you needed when you had a deadline to meet by the end of the day.
So, you did what anyone would do: you tossed it onto the floor and shoved it up against the corner wall of your cubicle with your heeled foot. Hopefully it wasn't fragile.
“Hey, sorry to keep hassling you, but I needed to get away from Steve for like five minutes. He and Jimmy are arguing about margins. again.” she huffs as she takes a seat on your desk, “I mean, how many things can men argue about? It’s exhausting-” she drones on, but you lose interest quickly.
All you can focus on is the gift that sits under your desk like a bomb getting ready to explode, the tip of your heel brushing it each time you swivel in your office chair like a fresh taunt. Your only savior is Lois as she walks up to you, a pen in her mouth as she shoves some papers onto your desk swiftly.
Cat, snapping out of her stupor, can’t help but lean down with wide eyes, scanning the documents along with you. “Ohh, what do we have here, more Lex drama?” she hums gleefully. “Yeah, if you consider multiple Environmental regulations and International fossil fuel treaty violations ‘drama,’” Lois hums amusedly.
“Figured you could use these on your next piece. I found them when I was combing through stuff for my International Affairs beat,” she smiles, and a part of you can’t help the way your heart warms at the gesture.
“Thanks Lois, this’ll be great traffic for the Environmental page – stories on sequestrating Carbon through concrete are getting a little old” you muse. The box resting at your feet, which had been responsible for your tachycardic heart rate for the past thirty minutes, now long forgotten.
She offers you a knowing look before retreating to her desk, leaving only you and Cat to bask in the warm sunlight shedding itself across your desk. You and Cat work in silence, as you so often do – her writing markups on some print for Perry, while you scour through sources on your computer – for the next few hours.
That is until the work day comes to a close, and you’re packing up your purse with take-home files, extra prints, and a shiny box that's been sat under your desk for over seven hours now. The bullpen is empty save for a few interns, Cat having ditched you about an hour ago for some date.
The subway ride back home is dull, but the box burning a hole in your purse makes it feel exruciatingly long. Your apartment, which still has the decorations from the night prior, feel eerie when you enter – like some old abandoned Party City that lost its luster. You mentally table the issue for tomorrow as you take a slow seat on your couch, your heels long discarded next to your front door.
You can practically feel your lungs rattle as you steady yourself, fingertips pulling the box out of your purse shakily and setting it onto your lap. You debate on leaving it on the table and coming back to it later, but Cat’s voice rings in your head like a warning “dont be a little bitch, just open it.”
So, with surgical level precision, you tug the gold ribbon on top gently, watching as the bow is undone and cascades down the sides of the box. As you lift the lid of the box off, your heart catches in your throat when you scan the contents inside.
The first item you pick up is a stack of photos held together with a piece of blue ribbon. You bite the inside of your cheek as you slide the first picture out – it’s you at the holiday work party from last year, the one Clark took you to. You’re wearing a frilly red dress with a candy cane hairpin you found at some vintage store, a glass of champagne in your hand as you laugh with Cat about something or other. When did he take this?
The next one is you again, but this time it’s of you working on a 5,000-piece puzzle you and Clark completed a few months ago as one of your date nights. You're in your favorite pair of silk pajamas, hair an absolute mess, but the smile on your face is as bright as ever as you search through the pieces looking for a stubborn corner.
The next one is of you at the arcade, another date Clark convinced you to go on after you vetoed bowling, the words “I’ll do a lot of things, Clark, wearing old bowling shoes on a date is not one of them.” leaving your lips the moment he suggested it, much to Clark's dismay.
You’re clutching the small stuffed bear that Clark won you at one of the strength games, your eyes closed in excitement as you nearly squeeze the stuffing out of the poor thing. It was a light brown color and had a tie – you initially named it Clarkie before he vetoed that, and you both settled on Pudding.
You don't notice the way tears well up in your eyes as you pull out another picture frantically, like a woman starved.
This one is of you at Delphines the first time you and Clark had ever gone together after a long day of shopping – well, you dragging Clark shopping.
You’re sitting in the corner booth directly across from him as your spoon makes its way to your mouth, the sun filtering in from the window making your hair shine and your eyes sparkle as you look up at him.
There have to be at least twenty more just like it in the stack, taken over various dates the two of you had shared – mini golfing, ice skating, painting in the park, picnics on the beach.
You tear through them in record time, analyzing every detail like a mad woman before you land on the last one. You feel your heart squeeze at the achingly familiar sight.
Because the last one is the photo of you at the Metroplois Bay aquarium, Clark having clipped himself out in an attempt to be respectful, but it just serves as a reminder that something's missing. You set the photos on the coffee table, heart heavy as you pull out the last item in the box. A letter.
You open it with shaking hands, as you begin to read.
My dearest,
I wish you saw yourself the way that I see you, because I doubt there could be anything more beautiful in this universe and the next. Here are some photos that I took during each of our dates – each perfectly captured to show you exactly how I view you, perfectly imperfect. Back when the only strain on our relationship was whether or not you liked the angle of the photo, or how your hair looked that day. Though, truth be told, there was never a moment that passed where I didn’t truly believe you were the most beautiful being on any earth. Hopefully these photos can show you that, show you how I saw you – how I will always see you.
I know you think that I don’t know you at all, but that couldn’t be further from the truth.
You once asked me if I thought that you would tell someone my identity if you’d found out sooner. I didn’t. I didn’t tell you because I knew that if I had, my biggest fear could come true. That the danger you would face wouldn’t just be that of people who seek to expose me, but of your own selflessness.
It's because I know you that I know you would jump face-first into danger if it meant aiding and abetting me, which is something I just couldn’t live with. Your loyalty is something fierce, and loving you is the greatest joy of my life, but with that comes my unequivocal desire to protect you, in any form that may take.
And I know now that it’s too late, that I've violated your trust, and that maybe you view this all as a waste – but I wouldn’t change a second of it because it led me to you. And I will always be a firm believer that loving someone is never a waste.
Yours always, Clark.
You feel the letter slip between your shaking fingers as tears drip down your cheeks, your head dropping into your hands with shuddered breaths.
Oh, take my love, take it down
Clark doesn't know where he’s going when he starts flying, but he ends up at the same place he usually does. He can hear Kryptos' incessant barking from miles away, and the icy chill across his skin is a familiar reminder that he’s at least somewhere familiar.
He lands at the base of the fortress, hair askew after a long day of work – or at least a long day of watching you from a distance while pretending to do work. Semantics and all.
He only stands at the base of the door for a few moments before he sees the sun creeping up from the horizon like a halo.
The glint on the ice is practically blinding, but there’s something tempting about it that propels him in the direction of some glaciered hills to the West. The crunch of ice beneath his boots is a reminder that he doesn’t feel in control of his body as he makes his way towards the pristine basin of ice and snow.
He studies it for a moment, the mix of slick ice and sunlight a culmination of what seems to be a mirror, but it’s not him he sees staring back, it's you. Or at least a memory of you.
You’re standing in your pajamas in your kitchen, a whisk in hand as you dance around your kitchen on some odd morning when you’d promised to make him pancakes if he spent the night.
He vaguely remembers including a photo from that day in your birthday gift – he wonders if you’d opened it yet.
By the time he tears his eyes away, like some haunting dream, your face appears on the glacier opposite him again, but this time you’re taking a nap on your couch, and he’s looking in on you from your apartment window during patrol.
He remembers that day, you’d spent four extra hours working on your affordable housing article so that Perry would be able to get it out by the end of the week, just in time for the City Council meeting.
Clark tears his eyes away, but the painful, mocking truth is that no matter where Clark turns, runs, or flies, he knows in his bones that he won’t be able to escape the technicolor images of you staring back at him. The memories of the life you two shared, which seems so far away now.
But then again, Clark was always a hopeless romantic, which is maybe why after ten minutes of trying to outrun the memory of you across the Arctic, he decides to plead his case one last time.
And if you see my reflection in the snow-covered hills, well, the landslide bring it down
Your legs dangle on the edge of your building's rooftop deck as you watch people walk up and down the dimly lit street near your apartment complex. Your pink fuzzy slippers are protecting your feet from the chill outside air, but your thin grey sweater is hardly doing a good enough job as you wrap your arms around yourself and exhale shakily.
The tears on your cheeks have just dried, and the photos still sit idly on your coffee table awaiting your return like a painful taunt from some schoolyard bully. You thought the fresh air would clear your head, make the pain radiating through your chest dim slightly – you were wrong.
You just feel tired, and lonely, and like you miss someone you’ve pushed so far away that there may be no turning back now.
You’re still upset at Clark, maybe a part of you always would be, but an even bigger part of you still loved him, and maybe that was worth something too.
You’re so lost in your own lovesick psychosis that you don’t hear the familiar woosh of Metropolis’ favorite hero as he touches down behind you. It's the scuff of his boots and the lingering drips of water by his cape that shock you out of your system as you scramble up and away from the edge, taking in his appearance.
He’s still in his suit, no glasses, a single windswept curl hanging by his eyes in a way you’re still unused to seeing in person, but his eyes – his eyes are still the same.
“I’m sorry for showing up unannounced, but I had to see you” he pleads, his breathing laboured as he takes in your appearance. You bite the inside of your cheek as you step a fraction of an inch closer to him “I got your present”.
It’s impossible not to notice the way his eyes light up at your words as he waits for you to continue. “I know why you did it now,” you offer quietly, “but it doesn’t make it hurt any less,” you whisper finally.
Clark nods solemnly as he twists his fingers together nervously, a habit he thinks he’s adopted from you. “I know, honey, I messed up bad and I’m still so sorry – been beating myself up about it this whole time if it's any consolation,” he offers, and you can't help but crack a smile.
“Maybe a little” you chuckle reluctantly before looking up at him, “why did you come by?” you murmur curiously, but there’s no mistaking the longing in your eyes.
He takes a small step forward, “I came because no matter where I go, I can’t escape you” he admits, nervously.
“I see you everywhere I go, I miss you every night before I go to bed, and every morning when I wake up. I think of you whenever I hear that Steve Nicks song playing on the radio on my way to work-”
“It’s Fleetwood Mac, technically,” you cut in softly, and he lets out an exhausted laugh, “and I miss the way you’d correct me, even mid-sentence when I’m trying to declare how utterly in love with you I am” he adds, and just like that, the tears spring back to your eyes like they’d never left.
The moment Clark notices, he feels his heart stutter, a frown overtaking him, “and now I’m just making it worse all over again. I’m sorry, hon, I really am. I should’ve given you time, more space, like you asked” he frets, but you just shake your head and wipe your face harshly.
“I’ve missed you too, Clark, more than you even know” you murmur wetly, and he can’t stop his body from moving on autopilot towards you – and you can’t either when the way his arms envelop you feel like being home after a long time away.
“I’m sorry I was stubborn” you admit, but he just shakes his head and he shushes you “No, I’m sorry for not being honest, it won't happen again” he promises, like a last-ditch effort pleading for you to give him a second chance.
“You weren't wrong, though. If I had known, I would’ve put myself in some sort of danger if it meant helping you. I still will.” You admit.
“But I think that may be something we both need to work on,” you murmur half-jokingly, and you’d be lying if you said you didn't feel the way Clark's arms tightened around you ever so slightly, your feet lifting off the ground as he takes in the familiar smell of your shampoo and laundry detergent.
“I think that's manageable. As long as we do it together,” Clark murmurs softly, his hand rubbing across the back of your neck as he pulls away to look at you, eyes shining with some mixture of fondness and yearning.
“Together seems like a good plan,” you agree breathily, before pausing, "I'm still so pissed at you, though," you point out softly, Clark's face breaking out into a sheepish smile.
"I guess I'll just have to make it up to you then," he murmurs before leaning forward, his cool lips meeting yours as you bask in this moment. Because for the first time in nearly a month, you feel like you have your life back, and you’re not letting it go.
Not when things get messy or complicated, and especially not when you realize you're floating twenty feet in the air as you and Clark break away from the kiss with heated cheeks and soft smiles, because truth be told, you couldn’t think of a better view.
Oh-ohh, the landslide bring it down.
some people asked me to tag them: @ilivboi @aesthetic-lyss @saltedcoffeescotch :)
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