ofstoriesandstardust @ofstoriesandstardust - Tumblr Blog

the love habit

You've never met Superman before.

You can't say you really want to — because meeting him probably means you're in some kind of trouble. You try your best to keep out of trouble.

But when trouble finds you all on its own, you end up getting your first close-encounter with Metropolis' most beloved hero.

And he's... nice. Really rather friendly.

In fact, so friendly, you're worried you might have to let him know that you do, in fact, already have a boyfriend.

(Or: Clark debates whether to divulge his big, blue secret - until he has no choice.)

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

sequel to the love list & third part in the series :)

[ 17k, established relationship, fem!reader (and she is, as always, intended to be a bit strange :D) nsft as it gets steamy towards the end, so heed this warning! ]

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

You’re not sure what it is about Metropolis, but a lot of not very bright people seem to live here.

Plenty of bright people too! You knew your fair share of them, of course, but there appeared to be a disconnect in some people’s brains that you couldn’t quite puzzle out.

You see, some people, when there’s danger — they head towards it, instead of away.

You suppose it’s probably because of Superman.

A lot of people like him. Like, like him a lot. You’ve heard there’s even a Twitter account set up just to post live updates about his whereabouts.

People take photos pretty much constantly - though most just manage to capture a blue blur. They film with their phones during fights, creeping closer to dangerous situations just for a better view. A thousand images that make up a mosaic of Metropolis’ biggest hero.

You certainly aren’t one of those silly people.

You know that danger = run. In the other direction.

You’re fairly certain everyone had that taught to them as a child, but maybe that’s being presumptuous. Not everyone has had the same upbringing as you.

Or, maybe, Superman is the exception to that rule.

Though, you swear you’d read his statement in one of Clark’s articles, asking that people avoid active danger zones. Cited civilian injury rates, the estimated cost to the city, and everything.

Do people not read Clark’s articles? You like to think they’re pretty good. You’re definitely not biased just because Clark is your boyfriend.

(You are, a bit.)

Perhaps, it was just another thing that you couldn’t get. That the sight of Superman was enough to warrant putting yourself in danger for.

Either way, whatever the true reason was, you’ve chalked it up to brightness. Or rather, a lack thereof in Metropolis’ population.

It also means you’re probably one of the only people in the city who hasn’t actually laid eyes on the hero.

Sure, you know what he looks like… you think.

Blue suit, red cape, occasionally with a dog.

(That makes him quite a bit more trustworthy in your opinion —but you need to see him with a cat to know for sure.)

And you’re quite alright with that - with not seeing him. Because, to be honest, if you do see him, it probably means you’re in a bit of trouble.

Like—“Don’t run, don’t scream, and we won’t have any trouble.”

Like now.

You freeze on the staircase leading out of your work, hand still on the railing, a little perturbed. You’re sure you don’t know the woman who was coming up the stairs, opposite you.

Her words take a second longer to process. It’s in part due to tiredness and in part due to the noise-cancelling headphones you’re wearing.

So much so that you actually push back the headphones and say, “Huh?” before you realise what she’s said.

Ah, you’re being mugged.

A glint of the knife in her hand confirms it. Well, wielding a knife at you is a more apt description.

You blink at her, dead-tired, and wonder what the hell you’re supposed to do in this situation.

“Good,” The woman flashes you a smile, faux and worse than some of your own masked smiles. She gestures with her free hand towards your bag. “Your wallet.”

You blink again, finally some instinct kicking in to raise your heartbeat and get fear running through your veins. You grip your bag tighter and blink violently again.

Oh. You don’t want to get stabbed. You imagine it would hurt very, very, very much.

What did Clark say to do again?

Your poor boyfriend, despite his size, seems to be the pick of the litter for mugging. That’s why he comes home with cuts and bruises from time to time.

If someone threatens you, just go along with what they’re asking, okay? He’d told you, blue eyes serious. If you do, they won’t hurt you.

You listen to him because he’s survived enough muggings, so he must know what he’s talking about.

Knowing exactly where it is in your bag, your hand dives in— and stops when the woman threatens the knife again.

“Slowly!” She barks, her wild eyes darting between your hand and your bag frantically.

You eye the knife warily, pulse still skyrocketing. Then you wrinkle your nose, because it’s never nice to be shouted at, especially by someone robbing you.

Besides, she didn’t specify any speeds to begin with.

It’s hardly fair. You’ve never been mugged before.

“Okay,” You say timidly, so she knows you’re listening. “I’m moving slowly.”

Doing as she says, you move at a much, much slower pace. You’re not exactly sure what she thinks you might pull out of the bag that could constitute a weapon.

Your notebook wouldn’t stand much of a chance against a knife. Not that you would sacrifice it. Your water bottle, maybe?

“Not that slow,” The woman growls when it’s been a few seconds and you still haven’t retrieved your wallet. “Are you stupid?”

That one stings a bit, with a tinge of frustration. Have you encountered the most indecisive mugger in all of Metropolis?

You swallow back your fear with a shaky inhale. Then wonder if she’s mugged Clark before.

With a shake of your head to answer her question, you pull your wallet out at a regular pace — then hold it out to her. “There isn’t very much money in it,” you tell her truthfully.

Ignoring you, she gestures flinchingly to the ground with her knife.

You follow the motion, then follow her instructions and open your fingers, letting the wallet drop. It bounces once and lands just a couple of inches from your feet.

“Oh, you are stupid.” She hisses, beginning to advance forward, knife still wielded chest high.

You watch her, wide-eyed, breathing coming heavier as your own feet shuffle back, panic spiking. You’re probably going to get stabbed now.

Every first-aid thought you can recall rushes to the front of your mind, furiously trying to remember the acronym for RED to deal with surface wounds.

If she stabs you, you’ll keep it in, you think bravely.

The woman bends down and snatches your wallet up, her knife trained on you the whole time—

“I don’t think that belongs to you.”

There’s a third person in the stairwell with you.

The mugger stumbles back, whipping around with a ferocity that makes your heart a bit weak. She certainly has no qualms about slicing people up with her knife.

You can’t tell where the other person is, same as your attacker. You watch, eyes still wide, as she looks left, right, but there appears to be no one else with you.

Her gaze slices back around to face you, and the knife follows, raised again, trembling this time. “I don’t know how you’re doing that, but—”

“I said,” the voice repeats, sounding nearer. “I don’t think that belongs to you.”

You’re caught between floors. The library you work in sits within a high-rise building, closer to ground-level. There are several stories above you, a roundabout staircase weaving its way up to each floor, but most everyone uses the elevator.

You’d been the last one out of the library. Unless it’s someone from many stories above…?

You both locate the new voice at the same time.

It’s somewhat satisfying to hear the choked noise your mugger makes as Superman drifts down the spiral in the middle of the stairwell.

Funny how the first thought in your mind is how this opportunity is probably being wasted on you.

Sure, you’re being mugged—but apparently getting a save from Superman is a pretty coveted thing, according to the internet. Looking at him now, you guess you can see the appeal.

He’s pretty. You mean, he’s not as pretty as Clark, but, yeah, on paper, you get it.

He’s tall, he’s strong, he’s come to your rescue.

He lands without flourish, his eyes scanning across the situation with a furrowed brow. Then his eyes land on you and he does a sort of double take.

Whatever it is, he focuses instead on the woman before you, one hand held out placatingly.

He doesn’t appear to blanch in the face of the knife. You wonder if super-bravery is one of his powers.

“Ma’am,” he says calmly. “I understand that it’s hard conditions that tend to drive people to commit these crimes. I also choose to believe that you don’t want to do this.”

There’s a tense moment, then, surprisingly, the woman nods tersely. The knife is still shaking in her hand, slowly lowering.

“Alright,” Superman says, offering a comforting smile now. “What is it you need?”

The knife is completely lowered now; the woman transformed from her angry state just a moment ago. Suddenly, she’s skittish. Embarrassed.

“Money,” she murmurs. Then, louder, with a gesture of your wallet, “I need money.”

Superman nods, no ounce of judgement on his face.

“Alright,” he says again. “You don’t need to take it from others, though. There are resources for when you’re in crisis. People who can help. Tonight, I hope I can be one of them.”

He reaches back, one hand searching beneath his cape. When he pulls his hand forward, there are several crisp bills in his grip.

The woman eyes it widely.

She looks up at him as though she can’t believe he’s serious. You suppose that’s understandable - how many superheroes carry cash?

He offers it out.

You realise at the same moment that the woman does that in order to take the money, she needs a free hand.

She glances down at the knife, then your wallet — then tosses the latter at your feet.

It lands with a loud slam in the empty stairwell, making you twitch violently. Superman’s eyes dart to you, a quick furrow to his brows. It’s wiped away in the next second.

The woman steps out, reaching for the cash - but when she pulls, it doesn’t budge.

You watch closely as her gaze rolls up apprehensively to look up at Superman. There’s a tinge of nervousness to her expression now.

“I give you this—” He’s still calm as ever. He should seriously consider being a hostage negotiator, you think. You’d be much worse in this situation. He bargains, “You give me the knife.”

He tilts his head, nodding to the knife still in her grip, wavering at her side. A strand of hair falls over his forehead, curled and the colour of coal.

Again, a little bit of you gets it. He’s handsome.

Not that you’d choose to be mugged again. Or run into danger to see him.

The woman nods again, still tense.

It’s a quick transaction — she holds the knife up, non-threatening this time, and Superman releases the grip on the cash as she hands it over. He grabs the knife by the blade with seemingly no problem.

Then the interaction is done.

With the likeness of a rodent who’s narrowly escaped a trap, your mugger quickly scurries away, down the stairs and out the door you were supposed to be out of 15 minutes ago.

You watch her go, still tensed up, your heart rate still far too near tachycardia for your liking. You can’t tell if you’ve under- or over-reacted in this situation.

The door slams loudly behind her, and you flinch in surprise. You hate loud noises enough as it is.

The slam echoes up the stairwell, empty now, except for you.

And Superman, of course.

“I believe this,” Superman breaks the silence with ease, shortening the distance between you to retrieve your wallet from the ground. “Belongs to you.”

The knife has been hidden away already, as you can’t see it anywhere. When you look up at his face, he’s smiling at you, a softened and comforting expression.

His hand holds your wallet, a well-worn purple butterfly one that your mother has been begging you to throw out for years. It looks small in his grip.

You take it. Nod and make your best attempt at eye-contact, which is barely a glance up, then down.

You say, “Thank you,” but it comes out much quieter than you’d like.

Are you supposed to say goodbye before you leave?

It would feel impolite not to. There’s a good chance he just saved your life. Or at the very least, keep you from getting stabbed.

Should you give him some money?

He did sort of just pay to keep you stab-free.

But finder’s fee is a thing, right?

But, well, your wallet wasn’t actually lost. In fact, you knew exactly where it was the whole time.

Too many questions. You don’t have any answers. Unknowingly, Superman adds another to the mix.

“Are you okay?” He says, taking another step forward, bringing you closer. “Are you hurt at all?”

Fingers flexing on your wallet, you swallow heavily and force yourself to meet his gaze.

There’s a furrow in his brow that looks like concern. Combined with his closeness, the interaction feels oddly… intimate.

“Yes,” you say in response to his first question.

Alarm flashes over Superman’s face. “You are hurt?” He questions, blue eyes already scanning over your body for the apparent injuries.

“No,” you remedy, with a shake of your head. “You asked if I was okay. I am. She didn’t stab me.”

“Oh,” Superman deflates in relief, enough to drop his shoulders a few inches. You’re not sure if this is his usual memo, but you’re a bit taken aback by how much he seems to care.

A different question niggles at you. You ask it before you can think the better of it.

“You carry cash?”

Something close to surprise ripples across his face before it settles into a smile. You spot the dimples on his cheeks, and it makes you think of Clark.

“Sometimes I get hungry,” Superman says, as if admitting a guilty secret. “Can’t exactly use a card to pay, can I?”

You blink at him for a moment before — ah, yes, secret identity.

A card would have been connected to a name. Would a bank let him open an account as Superman? You haven’t thought about that before.

You nod, a little unenthusiastically, because, with the danger gone, what little energy you have is being sapped from you.

“I’m—” You wave at the door with your wallet—remembering mid-way that you still need to put it away (you don’t want to get mugged again).

You bury it away in your bag before you forget, head ducked, before looking back up at Superman.

“Um.”

Wow, no one mentioned the awkward part at the end of being saved.

The one where Superman lingers closely, an expression you can’t puzzle out on his face, and the journey back home you still have to make.

“Thank you. I have to go now.”

Then, before he can catch you with another question, you turn and head down the stairs, feet pitter-pattering rapidly.

Maybe that’s rude - or maybe he’s used to people asking for a selfie, which you really don’t want to have to explain that you’re okay without if he offers. The cringe at the mere thought of that awkwardness is enough to make your skin crawl.

You’re out onto the street in record time.

The streetlights are a little brighter. You’ve missed your usual train. Frustration irks in the back of your throat.

Shaking it off as best you can, you stride fast towards the subway station. In your back pocket, your phone buzzes with a text.

You’ve set it to only do that for important people, so it pulls you up to a stop. You fish out the device, squinting at the screen.

Clark (Lois’ Co-worker): Hey :) I miss you, can I come see you tonight?

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Clark always knocks with a special pattern, so you know it’s him, before you even open the door.

Tonight, when you hear it, it sounds a lot like relief.

You don’t move from your spot on the couch — where you’ve been since you got home — because Clark has a key to let himself in.

A moment later you hear it, his key jiggling into the lock. It clicks with its unlock. The door opens and your boyfriend follows in.

“y/n?” His voice wraps around the corner to find you in the living room. “Knock-knock.”

He comes round the corner of your front entrance into the living room in a manner of steps. Your apartment has a small front entrance. And a small everything else too.

He spots you, seems to melt a little, and a smile spreads across his face.

“There you are.” He sighs, the sound laced with relief. As if maybe you wouldn’t be here, even though you said you would.

He’s wearing his work clothes still, but one of the buttons of his dress-shirt —the one you sewed back on— has been put in the wrong hole. You wonder if it’s been like that all day. He nudges his glasses up his nose.

“Hi,” you say. You haven’t moved, but you’re already beginning to smile. “Why do you say knock-knock when you’ve already knocked?”

Clark grins wider at your question, rounding the couch and moving to sit next to you.

He pauses when he notices the boots still on your feet, and instead, he kneels beside you.

He’s going to take your shoes off for you, you realise with an ache of love.

“To be polite, I guess,” He answers you, flashing you another smile. He beckons your foot forward, and when you shift it slightly, he begins the task of undoing the laces for you. “Let's you know that it’s me who’s coming in.”

“That’s what the knock is for, isn’t it?”

Finished, he pulls on the boot, and you give your ankle a little wiggle to help him. It slides off.

He starts on the next, giving a little shrug. “Yeah, but still, it’s nice to do. Maybe you didn’t hear the knock.”

He tugs the other one off, and when it comes free, you slump a little further into the couch, happy to have one less thing touching you. Clark notices, as always.

“Rough day, huh?” He says sympathetically, pairing your boots together. “Give me a quick sec.”

He rises to his feet, your shoes in hand, and quickly deposits them at the door. This time, when he’s back, he finds a spot on the couch next to you. Close, but not touching.

“Alright for a kiss?” He asks.

It’s one of the things you and Clark do to make sure he’s not overwhelming you. Particularly after tiring days—much like today.

But a lot of your usual boundaries break down for Clark. Because he waits. Because he asks.

You nod, because yeah, a kiss sounds like something you need right now. “Yes, please.”

Clark smiles again, dimples appearing, and he leans in slowly, his hand finding the curve of your jaw. He waits for the adorable hitch in your breath.

Kisses from Clark are a bit like coffee to your system.

His lips are warm. The feeling it gives you perks you up. You sink into him, letting him sap some of your tiredness.

You don’t even realise how much you’ve let yourself rest on him until he’s pulled back and you’re still leaning into his hand. He doesn’t make a move to pull it back though, so you figure it’s alright to rest here a little longer.

“Rough day?” He asks again, a little quieter this time. His thumb swathes across your cheek dotingly.

You nod with a sigh, and it moves his hand in time with you.

While he’s still close, Clark dots a kiss on your hairline, soft as sunlight. He keeps his tone low as he murmurs, “Want to tell me about it?”

You cast your eyes downward, thinking back to the stairwell. It had been scary, but ultimately you’d been okay.

Really, you’re most miffed about the change in routine.

It’s evidently not safe to take the stairs anymore, but you don’t want to have to start taking the elevator now.

The one at your work was old. It creaked and juddered terribly before it got to any floor. It wasn’t anything like the nice one in Clark’s apartment building.

Pulling back from Clark’s gentle hold, you let yourself slump back against the couch instead. Clark follows suit, matching your position, his head leaned up against the back of your couch. His hair looks particularly tousled tonight, you note.

“I have to start taking the elevator at work.” You say.

Clark blinks, bewilderment passing across his face so fast you almost don’t catch it.

“Oh,” He says, unable to keep the surprise out of his voice. A moment later it’s replaced with his usual compassion. “Oh, honey, I’m sorry. Did something happen?”

You give a little shrug. “Not really. Like, nothing technically.”

That makes Clark squint just for a moment, thinking hard on your words. He chooses his next carefully.

“Did something… almost happen?”

Which, well, yeah, a lot of things almost happen every day.

It feels like a vague question, but you know Clark isn’t prone to asking those. Even so, you shrug again, unsure how to answer that correctly.

Instead, you tell him, “I met Superman today.”

That makes him sit up a bit straighter.

“What?” He says. “Why? I mean, what happened?”

You shrug again. You’re shrugging a lot tonight, maybe because you’re not quite sure how to put it.

You were almost mugged? You were in the middle of getting mugged when Superman stepped in and said, ‘Hey, mug me instead’?

“A lady at work had a knife,” you say candidly. Then you hear the words and quickly correct yourself, “Not a lady from work. She was just at my work. In the building.”

Clark frowns, thick brows knitting together in the middle. “A knife? Was anyone hurt? What did she want?”

He’s usually better at not asking so many questions in one go, but you forgive him this time. If anyone showed up at his work with a knife, you’d be pretty worried too.

He sounds pretty panicked as well, his voice a little more strained than usual, discomfort obvious on his face.

A bit of your stress must show on your face, because Clark’s suddenly filled with apologies: “Sorry, I’m sorry, I don’t mean to ask so many questions or overwhelm you, honey. I just — I’m surprised you didn’t call or text me about this.”

For the nth time, you shrug again.

“Technically nothing actually happened. She just tried to mug me.”

“She tried to mug you?” Clark repeats, brows raised. His voice is pitched up a bit, which isn’t like him. He breaks eye contact, staring at your coffee table with a strange intensity. “Gosh…”

Tracking your eyes to the coffee table, you check to see if there is something specific that’s caught his eyes. Finding nothing, you nod to answer his question.

“Which, I tried to tell her I don’t have much money, but she didn’t care.” You frown, recalling the interaction. “She was quite mean, too.”

That makes Clark frown too. He nudges his glasses up again.

“So, I have to start taking the elevator now. So, bad day.” You explain, with a put-out pout, already sighing at the thought. “It’s like a superpower that you knew to ask to come over tonight.”

That makes Clark laugh for some reason, a loud barked-out noise that he clamps down immediately after he makes.

“That,” He says, adjusting his glasses once more. “Ha, well, I actually wanna ask that every night. Just got lucky, I guess.”

His eyes widen. “Not that you getting mugged was in any way lucky! Just, y’know, lucky that I… happened to text.”

He’s nodding along so much, you feel you should nod too.

It feels nice to know he wants to spend every night with you - and nicer that he knows you need some nights by yourself. Tonight isn’t one of those.

“What did you think of, uh, Superman?” Clark asks after a moment. He’s stopped fidgeting with his glasses, but his fingers toy with his tie, giving away his nerves.

It’s sweet. Clark has always been a sweetheart. You also know he and Superman are sort of friends. As you’ve learned over the years, that probably means he wants you to like him too.

“He was… nice.” You say, making sure you’re not too honest.

He had been nice. He’d also been… well, a bit too nice for a stranger. Stood a little too close. Was that wrong of you to judge when he’d saved your life?

You decide that if he’s Clark’s friend, you won’t speak ill of him.

“Nice,” Clark echoes, nodding enthusiastically. “That’s good, right? I noticed you, uh, don’t have much to say about him. Not like a lot of Metropolis.”

You’re not sure if that’s a compliment or not.

“He’s… Superman,” you say with another little shrug. “I don’t think he cares too much about what I think of him. He’s busy saving the world.”

Something in your words must be funny because Clark’s grinning again, his fingers no longer fidgeting with his tie. Instead, he reaches for the knot of it, beginning to loosen it.

“I’ve got a feeling he cares,” Clark says, blue eyes bright. “He cares what everyone thinks. But Superman-Schmuperman, enough about him. Have you eaten yet?”

The way he says schmuperman is enough to make you giggle. Clark gets that besotted look in his eyes that you just adore. You shake your head to tell him no, you haven’t eaten yet.

He makes breakfast for dinner for the both of you.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

You do take the elevator when you head back to work the next day.

It creaks and it judders in that terrible way, but it delivers on its intended purpose and gets you to your floor. Does the same on your way home.

It’s a new normal that you’re gritting your teeth to come to terms with.

Except, surprisingly, apparently not.

Because come Friday morning, there’s a sign taped over the doors with a big arrow directing people to the stairs.

And when you enter the stairwell, you’re far from the only one taking the stairs.

“What happened to the elevator?” You ask one of your coworkers, the first words out of your mouth when you get behind the desk.

It’s Sandra, a nicer older lady who wears perfume a bit too strong for your sensitive nose. But she never yells when you wear your headphones on quiet shifts, so you decide you like her.

“Oh, didn’t you hear?” She says, eyes glittering. Sandra also loves gossip - which is a good and bad thing. Today, it’s good.

You shake your head. Sandra’s eyes shine brighter.

“Some big-shot reporter at the Daily Planet published a scathing review on how poorly kept up to code the elevators in Metropolis are. Name-dropped our building. Big advocate for us less-than-able folks.” She taps her leg, the one with the bad knee, and grins.

“Body-corp had to step in. The whole thing is being replaced.”

You feel your eyebrows raise, surprise parting your lips. You have a feeling you already know who wrote that article.

“That’s good news. Do you still have the article up?”

She nods, then waves you closer, behind her cubby at the main front desk. Her monitor has a dozen different tabs open, but like you, Sandra seems to know exactly where everything is.

She clicks her mouse, and the screen reloads.

A Daily Planet-style article fills the pixels, with the familiar globe spinning on its axis in the corner. Your eyes search, and even though you’re half-expecting it, your heart still lurches.

There, the byline.

Written by Clark Kent.

Which—oh. It never stops being unexpected, the ways in which he loves you.

Your knuckles rise to your sternum without thought, pressing in to try to calm yourself.

“That’s really good news.” You say, smile a bit wobbly. The strong dose of affection passes after a moment, and you speak a little clearer, “I hated the old elevator.”

“I know you did,” Sandra hums knowingly. “Don’t you have a boyfriend at the Planet?”

You smile because it’s nice to know other people are paying attention to you as well as those who are supposed to. Even simply co-workers.

“Yeah,” you say, pressing your knuckles harder again, just in case another wave threatens you. “Uh, yeah, I do. That’s him.”

“Oh!” Sandra lights up at that news - and you briefly wonder if it’s a mistake to have told her. But she smiles sweetly, goes to put her hand on your arm and then seems to think the better of it.

“That’s wonderful. He seems like a good egg.”

You’re not quite sure what she means by that, but it sounds like a good thing. Smiling, you give a little nod.

“Yes. He’s… very nice to me,” you say, almost bashfully. “I love him a lot.”

“How sweet,” says Sandra, though she’s already turned her attention back to the screen. You see her mouse move, drifting up to Clark’s name, blue and linked. She left-clicks with a satisfying click!

That feels like your cue to leave. Quietly, you readjust the bag on your shoulder, treading past Sandra and her oogling stare, now zooming in on your boyfriend’s work identification photo. Guess that's what you get for telling her.

You just catch the last of her words as you turn into the backroom.

“Well, he’s nice to look at, but he’s no Superman…”

You smile to yourself, think of your darling Clark, and quietly disagree.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Post-attempted mugging, you like to think you have a pretty uneventful week.

Beyond the elevator replacement, which started kicking in on Friday, nothing much happens that you would warrant calling an ‘event’.

Well, nothing that affects you in particular.

A kaiju finds its way into uptown. Superman and Justice Gang fight it off.

You, as always, don’t join the swathes of foolish people who run towards the dangerous sounds of battle.

It all goes down on a Sunday, the day you always go over to Clark’s to make dinner with him. Thankfully, his apartment isn’t affected, and the battle is all wrapped up by the time you'd planned to head over there.

The elevator makes your stomach swoop, as always, and you nearly knock the fresh chives in your bag loose by accident. You silently hope you picked a good enough cauliflower for tonight’s dish.

At his lime-green door, you rap your special knock — then, after a moment, let yourself in with a key.

This is usually where you’re greeted.

Tonight… You stand in the entranceway of Clark’s apartment, and he doesn’t come to meet you. So you strain your ears. There’s water running.

Wandering further in, you deposit the bag of groceries atop the countertop and pause, head tilted. The kitchen looks clean. Nothing’s been started, not even a chopping board out on the bench.

It’s odd behaviour for Clark.

You follow the sound of running water to the bathroom, walking slowly.

You’ve been here countless times, but without Clark greeting you, it feels wrong to stroll around as if you own the place. You don't call out — though you probably should, as it might help you locate him.

“Honey.”

You jump, even though he’s spoken softly. You turn to where the noise came from. Head poked around the bathroom door, Clark looks… a little worse for wear.

There’s a cut on the bridge of his nose and his left eye has definitely taken a punch, evidenced by the yellowed skin around it. He’s breathing a little heavily.

“Hi,” he says. “I know. Looks worse than it is, promise.”

It does look bad, you agree. But he smiles so brightly that you can’t imagine he’s not telling the truth.

“What happened?” You ask worriedly, especially as Clark cringes at the question. “Did you get mugged again?”

Something relaxes in Clark’s face, and you think it might be understanding. He nods ruefully. The bright smile is back on his face in an instant.

“Did you find a good cauliflower?”

You blink, surprised by the change in topic. Though, he had complimented you in the past on your particular penchant for picking perfect produce.

Maybe he likes this dish you make — cauliflower steaks — a little more than he'd let on. He's impossible to get an opinion out of sometimes; you maintain that anything you make does not qualify as a favourite food.

“I did.” You nod. “It’s in the kitchen.”

Somehow, you can’t leave without offering help. “Do you need any help? I can find the arnica, or—”

A shake of Clark’s head cuts you off, his handsome smile still at full beam. “No, no, I’m almost done. Had, uh, had some arnica already. Just give me a minute in here, and I’ll meet you in the kitchen, okay?”

Six minutes would’ve been a more accurate time estimate.

You try not to hold it against him, especially considering he's obviously had a bad day already.

You manage to mince five cloves of garlic, then wait, because you like cooking with Clark, then begin chopping the chives before he appears in the kitchen.

“All better,” he says, sidling up behind you, hands reaching out to gently rest on your waist.

You put down the knife and turn in his arms, eyeing up the new improvements.

The bridge of his nose is now sporting a light pink bandaid. The bruising on his eye already looks better — which makes you think it was just the lighting of the bathroom making it look as bad as it did.

“Was it a woman?” You ask.

“Wha— what?” Clark trips over the word.

“Your mugger. Were they a woman?”

You want to know if it was the same one who tried to take your wallet. Though, she had a knife, and Clark looks like he got punched. Unlikely to be the same perpetrator.

“Uuuh,” He draws out the sound, thinking it over, even as his hands on your waist pull you in closer. His body presses against yours, warm and firm. “I don’t think so. If I had to guess, I’d say… gender non-conforming?”

His earnest choice of words makes you smile. You reach up, hands carefully finding a resting place cradling his jaw. "Progressive," you say as a joke.

Clark laughs, and you feel his hands around your waist give an affectionate squeeze.

He leans in and kisses you quick, a hello — and you pat yourself on the back for only giving a little bit of a strangled inhale in response.

"Did Superman save you too?"

The second after you ask the question, you feel a bit silly. Superman has been uptown all day, flying around and doing whatever it is he does to fight against kaiju's. He probably couldn't have—

"Uh, yeah." Clark says after a moment, nodding. One of his eyebrows twitches strangely. "Yeah, he did."

He looks a tad apprehensive, mouth pursed, eyes not quite meeting yours.

You deduce that the mugging, as you're now familiar with, is probably not something he wants to talk about. Feeling a tad guilty, you change the subject.

"I'm worried people aren't reading your articles."

You say this as you release his face, and Clark's hands instinctively loosen their hold to let you turn back to the countertop.

Someone has to keep cooking, and you've already been sidetracked once tonight. There's not a schedule or a time limit, but there kind of is to you.

Besides, you know it has to be you keeping dinner on track.

You're pretty sure if it weren't for your insistence, Clark wouldn't mind spending all his evenings wrapping you up in his arms, doling out kisses galore.

The thought makes your face burn. You focus on your grip on the knife; instead of the vibration of Clark's surprised laugh you can feel against your back, resuming your chopping.

"You're…? Sweet girl, why are you worried about that?"

Hearing him call you something as nice as sweet girl makes you feel as though you've swallowed a firework.

It burns all the way down, hot and bright, and finds a home behind your ribs. It takes a long moment to compose yourself, hand-halted, and a bite to the inside of your cheek to do so. After a moment, you start chopping again, a little slower this time.

His surprise has made you second-guess the logic you've followed.

Maybe he'll think you're being daft. (He wouldn't). Maybe he'll entertain your theories just because he loves you. (He would). You um and ah over whether to tell him.

Clark hasn't put his arms back around you, which you're thankful for because it's distracting and it makes it harder to chop.

He's instead stepped to the side, leaning against the bench to stay close.

You finish with the chives, put down the knife and reach out, the counter digging into your stomach slightly as you pull the bag of groceries closer. You decide to tell him.

"Well, the kaiju today," you begin.

You pull out the cauliflower, handling it with two hands. It's hefty, nearly the size of your head — but it wasn't pay by weight, so it's a steal you're proud of. The market usually yields well.

"Good cauliflower," Clark compliments. You brighten up at the words. His gaze softens, his smile a little fonder.

"The kaiju, please continue."

"Right," you nod. "I was on 14th Street when it, like, arrived. So, pretty close. Maybe like four or five blocks? But I've noticed this — and this is why I'm worried that people might not be reading your articles — because you wrote that Superman piece, where you interviewed him and asked about civilian safety?"

The end of your sentence goes up a bit, becoming an unintended question. You glance over at your boyfriend, reassured when he nods to say you're correct.

You make the first slice into the cauliflower, splitting it right down the middle.

"And I remember it because you asked me to proofread that one, though I remember a lot of your articles too, but this one had that really helpful statistic about the likelihood of civilian injury rates increasing or decreasing based on civilian responses."

Carving out the 'steaks' takes a little more focus, so you stick out your tongue and halt talking for a moment. Clark makes himself useful, disappearing from your side to dive into his cabinets.

"Keep talking, I'm listening," he assures you.

"Well," you continue, "you remember the five categories?" You feel yourself over-explaining his own article to him and wince. "Sorry, you wrote the article, you know. Sorry."

Cumin, coriander, salt, and pepper find their way to the bench beside you, little glass jars glinting beneath the lights. "No need to apologise."

"Okay," you say. If Clark says it, it must be true — he's the most truthful person you know. Maybe besides yourself.

"The category, the reckless one? I can't remember the number it turned out to be exactly, but it was high. Do you remember?"

Clark has pulled one of the oven trays out and placed it beside you on the countertop, preparing to place your meticulously sliced 'steaks' on it.

A sunny-coloured oil has been drizzled along the bottom, greasing it up. You hear the whir of the oven somewhere to the side, behind you, beginning to preheat.

"Yeah, yeah," Clark says, back to his spot beside you, prodding his glasses up with a knuckle. You hope they don't hurt the cut on his nose.

"The likelihood of civilian injury increases to 70% if they exhibit reckless behaviour during an active emergency." He rattles off the statistic easily.

"Exactly," you say.

Where did this conversation start again? Your brain jumps around, trying to find it — cauliflower, mugging, Superman.

"Right," you pick up the thought. "But when I was out there today, a lot of people started going towards the kaiju. But I remember in that interview, Superman said he wanted people to do the opposite."

You realise you're still holding the knife, but there's nothing left to chop.

You place it down on the board, twisting and leaning your hip up against the counter.

Clark's tall — tall enough you have to lift your chin to look at him properly. You let your gaze roam over his face attentively.

He's so handsome. He's always handsome, and you love seeing him in his suit and tie, but dressed casually, like he is today, is a treat.

He's in loose jeans, wearing a quarter-zip jumper. You can see his white t-shirt beneath it.

His hair is tousled and loose, barely dried from the shower he must've taken earlier.

He's still smiling at you, now half amusement, half something else. His dimples beg to be kissed. You're barely restraining yourself.

You wonder if the look in his eyes is what novels would describe as starry-eyed. Either way, it undoes you in a quiet, gentle way.

"That's why you're worried?" He questions.

One of his hands snakes forward to find the curve of your neck again, cupping your face gently. It's as though he does it without thought, like his hands have a mind of their own and they're all about touching some part of you.

You feel your heart rate go up at the touch. Then you see Clark's smile widen a little — though the two can't be connected.

"Yes. Why would people go towards danger?"

Clark's thumb begins its familiar swatch across your cheek, one of his favourite motions. He tilts his head a little, giving your question some thought.

"I think some people want to see Superman."

"They'd get in danger for that?"

"Apparently," he shrugs, looking suddenly bashful. "It's good to hear that you wouldn't, honey. And to hear you're concerned about who's reading my articles, but trust me, if people weren't, Perry would've had my… backside some time ago."

That's true. While the logic you followed to assume people might not be reading Clark's work is somewhat sound, the truth of his boss is a far stronger point of reason.

You've met Perry just once. He's very to the point. You weren't fond of the smell of the cigar he carried around with him.

He'd taken a look at you, the one time you'd dropped off lunch to Clark after he'd forgotten it and raised his brows, turned to your boyfriend, and said, "Well done, Kent."

It had taken a minute before you realised he had been referring to you when he said that — which led to you fleeing the scene with haste.

Clark had made up for it with dozens of kisses later that evening.

As Clark begins seasoning the 'steaks', pushing his sleeves back to reveal toned forearms, you ponder over his words.

Ponder the idea that Superman was worth running towards danger for.

You think back to your interaction with the hero and puzzle over it, but it's not something you can seem to make sense of.

You can't think of anyone you'd do that for.

Turning back to face the countertop to help Clark, falling into that Sunday-evening rhythm, you sneak a look at him out of the corner of your eye.

He catches you and pokes out his tongue, nudging you softly with his elbow.

You laugh, such a common sound in his kitchen, and think: yeah, maybe for him.

For Clark, it would be worth running towards the danger.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Your uneventful luck runs out.

It runs out rather quickly too. It hasn't even been a month since the mugging - or mugging attempt, you should say - when something happens on the subway.

Living in Metropolis, there's a sort of intuition one gains for otherworldly interference.

Like knowing when your subway car screeches to a halt as though someone's pulled the emergency brake, it is not for maintenance reasons.

It happens jarringly.

Which, well, there isn't exactly a non-jarring way to pull the emergency brake, but it's the word that springs to mind when it happens.

The lights overhead flicker once, twice.

Then, with a most awful screech that dives under your skin, it is as though the whole subway car slides to the left.

It doesn't.

Actually, you and every other person within the subway car are the ones who move.

The half-car full of people gets shoved suddenly to the right, the force of the abrupt braking enough to knock everyone off balance. Distressed noises go up all around.

You're sitting down, on one of the edge seats, but it doesn't stop you from getting banged around.

The unanticipated halt mobilises you, pushing you harshly into one of the handrails.

You collide forcefully, not prepared enough to stop your head from snapping against the pole.

It's your forehead, right above your left eyebrow, that takes the brunt of it.

Pain radiates. It splinters across your forehead with an agonising throb, causing you to yelp in response. You clutch the pole tightly, just in case the subway car plans to throw you around again.

The lady who's sat next to you has slid over in the commotion too, ending up pressed up against your side.

She wiggles back as soon as she gains her balance, which you're thankful for, but she's focusing on you too closely for comfort.

On your forehead, more specifically.

"Shit, kid," she says worriedly, mouth downturned. "You're bleeding."

After she says it, you can feel that she's right. There's a warmness to the pain on your head that's dipping dangerously close to light-headed.

Your fingers reach up, grazing the wound—and the pain burns hot again, fiercer this time. You wince, regretting touching it.

You bring your hand down. Scarlet paints the tips of your fingers.

The lights flicker again.

Then go out for good.

It's as though you've inhaled a mouthful of smoky panic. You're not the only one, the distressed sounds of the car climbing in volume.

"What's happening!?"

"Someone's pulled the emergency brake!"

Several torches click on, phones held up to cast the subway car into moving, white lights. Shadows jump across the walls, tall and pointed.

"What? Why!?"

"Yeah, why would someone do that?"

"How the hell are we supposed to know that, dipshit!?"

You shrink down in your seat, overwhelm crowding in on you rapidly. The subway car seems suddenly far too cramped.

Is this car smaller than usual? The loud noise is enough to make you tick — having to consider what may have caused the delay in transport begins to pick at your stitching.

You try to take a deep breath, finding it too shallow.

No, it's fine. It's fine. You're travelling home, and you'll be late, but just by a little.

It's fine. You can still be on schedule. Clark won't mind if you're late.

Clark!

You remember your plans with him tonight with a sinking feeling. You fish out your phone, already drafting the text to tell him you're going to be late, but the sight on your screen stops you.

No bars. You're in a dead zone.

Cool. That's fine. No, really, it is, you tell yourself. If it had been Darren, maybe, yeah, a little worrying would be warranted.

But Clark would understand. He's late himself from time to time.

Your fingers clench tightly around your phone as you force yourself to take another deep breath.

There's an unnerving crackle over the PA of the subway, and as your eyes adjust to the dark, you see every face in the subway car tilt upwards, listening.

"Good evening, passengers on the green line." A voice filters through, the words buzzy and distorted. "We apologise for the abrupt stop. A bank on Meridian Avenue is currently undergoing a robbery, in which explosives were used to access the vault."

It's less shouting and more murmurs that ripple through the crowd, passed from one person to another. Anxiety festers, a well opening within your chest.

You exchange a glance with the woman beside you, your eyebrows creased in concern.

You regret it when your head gives another blazing-hot throb of pain in retaliation.

The subway, which had been slowly drifting, finally reaches a standstill with one final shudder.

"As you may or may not know, the green line passes directly beneath Meridian Avenue for several blocks, including beneath the bank in question. Due to the use of explosives, it is highly unsafe for any trains to continue on their route."

Unease seems to evaporate in the subway in an instant, replaced with a grumbling annoyance — as if everyone can predict what's coming next. You cling tighter to the pole for stability.

"The fire department has been contacted for your extraction, and they are on their way. Sit tight folks; we're hoping to have you out by the end of the hour."

A loud, synchronised groan erupts from the passengers. You glance down at your phone, checking the time, and grimace. It's 5.09pm.

"We'll keep you updated if anything changes, and we apologise again for the inconvenience to your day."

Then with a fumbling click, the PA disconnects and goes silent.

The subway car, comparatively, does not. Several voices burst out at the same time.

"Oh my god, so we're stuck here?"

"I can't be here, I have an appointment!"

"Lady, we all have places to be, okay?"

"The fire brigade? Can't they call in Superman?"

"He's probably fighting the robbery, idiot."

You don't much like the continued outburst, nor the idea of being here for the better part of an hour.

The lady beside you, in scrubs, you now realise as your eyes fully adjust to the dark, seems to be in agreement. She's muttering under her breath, annoyance evident in her tone.

She catches your gaze — making you feel guilty for watching her — but, surprisingly, she seems to perk up. You realise after a moment it's because you've provided her with a task.

"Let me get something for your head," she offers, diving into her purse before you can answer. "I always keep a little first-aid kit with me."

The kit she pulls out you wouldn't describe as little.

It's the size of a lunchbox, tin and has a graphic of Superman on the outside, blue, red, and gold.

She pulls it out onto her lap, unclipping the latch and flipping back the lid. Inside boasts several bandages, wipes, and bottles with labels you can't read in the low light.

She pulls out a wipe and holds it up, facing you. You blink, then realise she wants to wipe the blood from your face.

"That alright?" She asks, gesturing with the wipe.

The task is distracting you too, you realise. Feeling a bit awkward, yet thankful she's helping, you nod tentatively.

It stings like all-fire — enough to draw a hiss up your throat. The woman makes a sympathetic tut, but she's good at her job because she doesn't let it deter her.

Sterile alcohol mixes with your blood, slowly clearing it away and bringing a blistering agony to the surface at the same time. You grimace, eyes screwing shut, which only serves to agitate it more.

She makes quick work of it. You try not to look at the concerning shade of pink the white wipe turns, sullen with your blood, and watch her dig around in her kit again.

"Shine that over here, will you?" She says to the person on the other side of her - a young-looking man with a nervous disposition - and he obliges hastily, looking rather relieved to have a task as well.

A rustle of plastic as she digs around. A bandage or two between her dexterous fingers.

"Is it a bad cut?" You ask mousily.

"It's not too bad," she tells you, glancing over with a kind smile. "Just bled a lot because it's on your head. It's a little thing."

Another blister of pain rises to the surface when she presses the first bandage to your forehead, nimble fingers warm and calloused. The bandages are small and white, which you recognise as butterfly stitches.

That makes you panic a little more, but you trust in her words. She is wearing scrubs after all.

(It occurs to you that, technically, anyone can choose to wear scrubs. A glance at her clipped Metropolis Central Medical ID makes you feel better again.)

"There." She gives it one final press, making sure everything's in place. "Just to keep it closed so it doesn't keep bleeding. You got someone to check on it later, hm? I know it can be difficult putting bandages on yourself. Probably a good idea to change them sometime tomorrow."

"Yeah," The knowledge of Clark's worrisome state when he sees the state of you is enough to make you smile, still a bit shaky. "My boyfriend can help me. Thank you."

"Don't worry about it, kid."

She sets about packing her first-aid kit back up, moving slowly and precisely. You suppose she has no real reason to hurry— not with the expected 50-minute wait time.

You lapse into silence, the pain in your forehead dulling down to a quiet throb as you fold your hands up tightly in your lap.

Silence, you notice, has become contagious within the subway car.

Voices that had shouted now became muted, murmured, low and whispery. Like you're all hidden beneath a thick blanket together. One thick, concrete blanket that separates you from the bustling world above.

One minute slips into two, then five, then twenty.

You can only wait.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

There's never a day where Clark doesn't love being Superman.

He's serious. It's never a chore, never feels like a job. Some days the responsibility of doing what he can to help Metropolis, to step up and fight the battles others can't — well, it's hard not to get a little chummy over the immense honour.

Then some days it gets… a little tedious.

Not tedious in a spiteful way! More in a tiresome way.

Like, for his sake and for everyone else's, it would be nice to go more than 48 hours without criminal activity being inflicted on the city.

But there's no rest for the wicked, or so they say.

Which means, if you squint and read the fine print beneath that, no rest for Superman.

Today's villain of the week was a pack of thieves with the very original idea of robbing a bank.

There's no crime that Clark likes, but these cases he dislikes more than most.

He's been around this block enough to know the stories that will unspool in the interrogation room — raised rent, medical bills, one bad accident that dries up years' worth of savings in a single afternoon.

It's tough — one of the tougher injustices that he knows he can't fight with the cape on.

It all adds up, though. Tonight's foiled robbery marks another case in Clark's latest project at the Daily Planet, investigating the wealth disparity and the links to money-motivated crime.

As Superman, Clark's had enough run-ins with this kind of crime that he could probably estimate an accurate percentage in his sleep by now.

Unfortunately, an eyeballed number from a superhero with a secret identity doesn't fly with Perry.

So it's still a work-in-progress kind of project — and it stays shelved until people are out of danger.

For the most part, they are.

It's not imminent, but perhaps the only danger the passengers of the green line subway are potentially subject to at the moment is boredom.

Clark had tuned his ears in to a police scanner as soon as trouble started kicking up, ensuring there weren't any civilians being sent closer to the danger zone without knowing.

He'd advised the officers on the scene to send firefighters in for the people on the subway, but now, staring down at the dark, winding tunnel of the subway tracks, he knows he's beaten them here.

He sighs heartily.

It's not their fault — public funding, job cuts, the works.

Yet, at the same time, he wonders how he might explain to you why he's so late coming over tonight.

Maybe he should send you a text now — but that feels a little selfish with so many people still stuck, waiting for help.

Besides, he's since learned that flying with a phone is a recipe for disaster. His phone is tucked away in his work clothes, hidden on a rooftop somewhere — but he could reach it in a split second.

He peers down the tunnel again, X-ray vision peeling back the darkness. A scattering of human bodies present, just over 200 feet away, caged in by metal.

It's a short flight to find the first carriage.

"Man, this shit sucks," he hears a man inside say, slumped on the ground and leaning up against the seats. "Where's Superman when you need the guy, huh?"

"Did someone say Superman?"

It's as good an entrance as any — and it actually gets a few inhabitants within the subway car to perk up — but Clark can admit it's not his best.

Face forming a sheepish expression, he sucks his teeth.

"Golly, not my best. My apologies, folks." He says it all as he scans over the crowd, flicking in and out of X-ray vision, hunting for serious injury. Coming up with none, he smiles, genuinely relieved. "Now, who'd like to get out of here?"

This inspires a more merry response from the despondent crowd of people — enough that the grimy window between carriages fills up with new faces, eager to know what's causing the ruckus.

It's quick-fire from then on.

Word gets passed down, chatter and shouts of 'It's Superman!' that get the remaining passengers crowding forward into the first carriage.

Clark tries to keep it quick for everyone's sake. A brief introduction ("Hi, I don't believe we've met before; I'm Superman"), then an explanation that he can fly them ("It will be windy, and I will have to hold you - but perfectly safe"), or they can wait for the fire brigade if they would rather not fly ("You can't be on the tracks, ma'am; they're electrified").

So far, everyone's opted in for flying.

It's not slow per se, but it does take time—humans are much more fragile than Kryptonians. He can't exactly fly at his usual top speed.

But bit by bit, the crowd dwindles down until there's no one in the line to be rescued that he recognises from the initial first carriage.

He surveys the length of it, tallying up how long it might take to move them all.

The minutes stack up. The length of time between now and getting home to you is feeling immeasurably too long.

He tries not to worry about how late he is. It's futile.

He pictures his abandoned phone in the pockets of his slacks, buzzing and ringing, going unanswered. Then he pictures you on the other end, your retro landline pressed to your ear, worrying your bottom lip between your teeth in the adorable way you do.

You're good at lots of things. Unfortunately, worrying about Clark is one of them.

He sighs silently to himself. His worry doesn't speed up this darn unfortunate situation that these folks are trapped in. It does lend him some more food for the thought of telling you his big blue secret.

For now though— "Hi there, I'm Superman, in case we haven't—"

"—we have."

The familiar voice finally snaps Clark out of his distracted trance, and he turns with a haste that surely gives him away. His furrowed brows and concerned face are no help either.

Because it's you. Here. On the trapped subway, waiting in line like all these other passengers.

With a bandage on your forehead that you definitely didn't have this morning.

Several thoughts clamber over each other, each vying for Clark's attention. You're here—which means you're not waiting for him, thankfully—but you're hurt—and how do you keep getting into these situations?

He, intelligently, opts for simply staring at you and saying nothing.

"We have met." You clarify, suddenly looking a bit more awkward. "You stopped that mugger for me."

Right! Right. Because you have met Superman before, when he'd had to intervene at your work, just earlier this month.

He opens his mouth, but the strangeness of it all halts his words.

It's just… It's been months since he's seen you look at him this way.

Obviously, given he's a stranger to you as Superman — but it's a reality check like nothing else.

The way your shoulders curl in. The tightness of your mouth. You make yourself smaller, and the eye-contact you do give looks far more painful than usual.

He hadn't realised, not until right now, just how much closer you'd grown—how you usually gravitate towards him.

You glow and grin, you nudge him, touch him, you laugh like it's the easiest thing. It's apparent now, the stark difference when compared to that very first day on the train.

Except, there seems to be an extra frostiness to your character right now. Probably something to do with being stuck in a subway car for an hour or so.

Only when you shuffle on your feet, an awkward motion, does Clark realise he still hasn't said anything.

"Yes," Clark breathes, and immediately he clocks his tone as too relieved — too fond for a stranger. He clears his throat, nodding with purpose. "Yes, yes, I can recall. At the library."

You nod to confirm, expression still tight and your gaze still averted.

The question wrestles out of Clark's mouth before he can stop himself: "Is your head alright?"

There are two little bandaids on it, but there's still a bit of dried blood in your eyebrow. Concern swims up to the surface, pooling in Clark's heart, urged on by his feelings for you.

You're not accident-prone enough for this to be a common sight. The sight of your blood inspires a protectiveness he struggles to curb.

You touch your forehead gingerly, brows pinching together in pain. "Yes. That's what the bandaid is for."

Your bluntness nearly makes him laugh, like it does when you're home together.

He squashes it for a smile, for the sake of not making Superman any stranger to you. If he laughs, you'll probably think he's laughing at you.

"Alright, I'm going to have to pick you up now, if that's alright?"

You nod stiffly. Clark does a motion he's done a thousand times before— one hand around your waist, another behind your knees.

He reminds himself to treat you as a stranger, keeping his hands polite, even as they beg him to pull you in closer.

It's one of the oddest flights of Clark's life. You're stiff as a board in his grip, actively leaning away from his chest in a way that can't be comfortable.

When he reaches the platform, where people are still milling about, waiting for others from the train, he can't help checking in again.

It's with a gentleness he sets you down, the words already out of his mouth, "Are you sure you're alright?"

He expects another brush-off - that's what most civilians do, frazzled from whatever situation he's happened to save them from - but he certainly does not expect— "I have a boyfriend."

Clark blinks down at you, your standoffish posture.

He notices the step back you'd already taken and your clenched hands at your side — the same thing you do when you're working yourself up to tell a waiter your food is wrong.

And—oh.

Your standoffishness is cast into a new light suddenly, which is that you can perceive his fondness — which in itself is a feat, considering how long it took for you to get together in the beginning.

But you can tell — somehow, somewhere under the suit, beneath the hero name, some part of you intrinsically recognises him.

Knows what he sounds like trying to keep the affection from his voice, knows the ways in which Clark Kent loves.

It had been a journey to convince you of it the first time around, and now, you can't unlearn it.

You can see it, even if you don't know why.

Clark smiles, throat a little thicker with the knowledge that he's very, very well loved. "He's a very lucky man," he says, completely genuine.

You nod assertively. "He is. And me, I'm lucky too."

You seem relieved by the change in his tone, that he isn't upset with you for being unavailable. "Thank you for rescuing me. And him — you've done it a couple of times, I think. He's quite muggable, apparently."

You nod, a little jerkily, and Clark can't help but grin this time. He knows he should get back to the subway - especially with other civilians waiting on him.

He can't resist one last word, "You're welcome. Please be nice to your boyfriend if he's home late, okay? It's been a hectic day for everyone today."

You give him a strange look, eyes narrowed like you don't comprehend why he's given you advice.

Maybe you're even piecing it together, connecting the blue dots that lead to his secret. He decides that, after today, he doesn't mind the idea at all.

"Okay," you say hesitantly.

"Okay," Clark echoes, with a professional Superman nod. "I love you."

It's pure instinct that pulls from the words off his tongue - a habit that he's never broken since he first found that list, all those months ago.

Now, he'd been so caught up in his gooey thoughts of your loyalty that he didn't even consider— he hadn't thought—

Uh oh. Your face says it all. Utter surprise and that same awkwardness creeping back in, your hands clenching back up.

Damage control, quick!

"And I love you!" He says, quickly turning and pointing to another person on the subway platform. They look surprised, perking up, pointing one finger to their chest as if to say Who, me?

"And you!" Clark can't stop now; he's probably overdoing it, but your hands are still clenched up.

He gestures a bit too wildly to the rest of the crowd, who have, humiliatingly, all started paying rapt attention. "I love… all citizens of Metropolis!"

He spots the glint of a phone camera in someone's hand.

Oh, cheese and crackers, he thinks to himself in dismay — already imagining how Justice Gang will have a field day with this video.

Gosh, even his damage control needs damage control. With a stilted and awkward nod, Clark remembers he does actually have a job to finish here—taking a few steps back and taking flight back through the subway tunnel.

Wind rushing past his noticeably warmer ears, Clark doesn't doubt it'll be an interesting conversation with you tonight.

Regardless, with one final glance over his shoulder, he can't help but think of it as the final sign he needs.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

It takes you until you're at least halfway home, stopping right in the middle of the sidewalk, to remember that you should text Clark.

The love confession from Superman, the subway stopping—either could be responsible for providing a rampant distraction. You're really late now, without any forewarning.

You hope he's at least let himself in and made himself comfy in your space while he waits.

Though, you should text him about what happened on the subway.

It had worried him so much last time, not knowing about the mugging - not that he seemed annoyed with you, thankfully. You pull out your phone and narrowly avoid getting shoulder-checked by a stranger, stepping to the side just in time.

You're still sort of frazzled, so the stranger's rudeness manages to bounce right off you for once.

You're staring at your phone, eyes a bit glazed, when a text slides onto the screen. You blink, focus, and it takes another second to comprehend the words.

Clark (Lois' Co-worker): I got held up at work, sorry! Still coming over :) See you soon! I hope everything's okay with you.

It's a relief. You're not sure when he sent the text, it says delivered just now, but at least he was late too.

Acutely, you realise you'd actually have been quite miffed if there was no update from Clark, given how off schedule you are.

Which, well, that in itself was surprising—Darren had never cared about your lack of updates. Or rather, he seemed quite happy to never bother to give you any.

Obviously, it had taken some time to adapt to Clark's nature - where caring is as easy as breathing.

And now it's not him that surprises you; it's your own expectations.

The want to know there was someone waiting on the other side of the line, prepared to leave the light on for you.

It's… a nice feeling, knowing that you expect it now. Knowing that it's what you deserve.

You send off a text, short and to the point, and find yourself rushing a little faster back to your apartment.

Lights on, shoes off, coat off, lamps on, big-lights off. You go through the motions of getting yourself comfortable in your home, and it soothes your hackles the way only routine can.

You just get around to taking a peek into the fridge, though your appetite is missing, when there's a familiar knocking pattern on your door.

You know he has a key — you meet him at the door anyway.

"Hi honey," He's talking before he's even in the door, all rushing and flustered in a way he often isn't. "I'm real sorry I'm late—"

"Clark," you interrupt. In an uncharacteristic move, you're reaching out first, your hands resting on his arms, pulling him in so you can be nearer. "It's okay. I just got home too. We're both late today."

The door snicks shut behind him, and Clark matches your touchiness with ardour.

His hands slide along your arms to sit on your lower back. They're so warm. You tilt your chin up and think of how lucky you really are that he keeps coming around to see you.

"I'm still sorry, I—" He's talking as he slips his shoes off, til he notices the bandage on your forehead, eyebrows creasing. "What happened to your head?"

"I hit it," you explain. "On the subway. It stopped a bit fast."

Clark looks relieved at that. His shoulders fall, but his hands on your back tighten, tugging you in a little closer. You scuff your foot and step on his accidentally. He doesn't appear to mind.

"Didn't you get my text?" You ask.

He shakes his head. "My phone died, and I had to stay late at work but, all day, I had a bad feeling that you were in trouble."

He's not smiling like he usually is when he looks at you. His concern is still there, pulling down the edges of his mouth, changing his handsome face.

"I'm okay," you assure him, hands shifting up, sliding up to loop around his neck.

One of his hands shifts up, delicately drifting over the bandages, but not quite touching.

"You are?"

He's frowning at the wound as though he can heal it through sheer sympathy.

"I am," you say.

"You're sure?"

You can't help but smile, because usually you're the one double-checking everything. Your smile seems to settle something in Clark because it's what gets him to relax, a relieved but tired-sounding sigh escaping him.

His eyes soften on you, lashes kissing together at the ends, a sheepish smile pulling on his pink lips.

"I'm sorry to fuss. I get it from my Pa." He leans in and kisses just beside the split skin of your forehead, a quick peck.

You shrug in his hold, suddenly feeling a bit shy. "I like the fussing, I think. When it's you."

"Yeah?" Clark says, eyes brighter. "Good. Great. I love fussing over you. Did you eat?"

You shake your head. "No, but a lady on the subway gave me a muesli bar, so I'm not too hungry."

"I can make you something later, if you like." He says, easy as pie. "What about the subway? Want to tell me about what happened?"

You don't, you've decided. Now that he's here, in your arms, a part of you that doesn't arise all that often has awoken.

You shake your head, still smiling, and push up on your toes. "I just want you to kiss me."

This time, it's Clark who takes a little inhale before your lips reach his. His surprise gets muffled against your lips, but there's no part of you that can doubt his enthusiasm when he kisses back, arms tightening around your back, pulling you ever closer.

"Kiss you?" He murmurs against your lips, his smile melting into a grin. "Absolutely, ma'am."

It's like a floodgate opens. Clark's hands shift down, gifting a squeeze to your hips before— there's sudden motion, and you squeak against his lips as you're abruptly hoisted up into his arms without warning.

He carries you like you weigh nothing, strong hands gripping your thighs, bracketing you against him. The show of strength - the display of desire - sends something white-hot down your spine. You're on the same wavelength tonight, you can tell.

And he does it all without breaking the kiss.

Clark is devastatingly good at kissing you.

He kisses, kisses, kisses your mouth, like it's all that he wants, like he's envious of everything else your lips have touched.

It feels a bit unfair, you decide, that he just seems to know how to flip every switch to turn you on. Something warmer is definitely pumping through your blood, feeding itself on Clark's insatiable kisses.

But his adeptness, paired with how fervently he kisses you, strikes a sudden, uncomfortable thought in you.

The thought that he may have been holding back—for your sake.

You know couples tend to have sex a little earlier on. Some people even have sex with people they barely know. You're not one of those people.

Clark is also pretty good at not assuming. What you do or don't want— you like that he just asks.

But, still, there's some beaten-in worry from past experience. Where people get to know you and all your finicky ways, they start assuming what you want, without ever just asking.

It starts as care. It always ends as overshadowing.

Pulling back from the kiss, you ask outright, "Does it bother you that we haven't had sex yet?"

Because it's true. In the eyes of the law, if you had to pick a standard, you and Clark have fooled around but done nothing more.

In medieval times, you'd likely have brought shame on your family for not consummating the marriage.

(Not that you and Clark are married at all, in any way - though the thought brings a hot flush to your face. He'd be a very good husband.)

Clark comes to a stop, still holding you up effortlessly. His cheeks splotch a jammy colour, his expression coloured with surprise. "Wha— we've- I mean, we've had sex." He seems unsure, as if your question has perplexed him. "Haven't we?"

"I mean penetrative sex." You clarify.

Clark blinks, still holding you halfway through the doorway. His glasses are slipping down his nose and you slip your hand up to press them back up. You leave it there, cupped on his cheek.

"No," he says easily, his eyes searching yours. His brows pinch together. "No, it doesn't bother me. Does it bother you?"

You shrug.

He asks, "Do you want to?"

You find it a peculiar question.

"Do I want it to bother me?"

"No," Clark laughs - not at you, never at you - back to that ever-endeared smile you think might be reserved only for you. "Do you want to, uh, well…"

It's somewhat amusing to see Clark fumble for the right words, the pinkness of his cheeks reaching up to his ears.

"Is that something you'd want?" He says finally, cheeks still the colour of strawberries, but something more set in his expression. "I don't mean to be forward, especially if this isn't something you're interested in, but I… I would like to."

You feel like you don't think about sex as much as the average person. Well, there's thinking about it, and then there's having it.

It had been one of the points of strife in your last relationship. You've been trying hard not to measure yourself against other standards — trying especially hard not to compare it to the one and only other person you've slept with, Darren.

Clark is different. He's proven that a thousand times. You'd quite like to know what that kind of sex is like with him.

Given everything else you've tried, each and every lusty feeling Clark's managed to draw out from you with just his fingers, you can't imagine it will be anything other than maddeningly good.

"I think so, yes." You say decisively.

After a moment, with Clark still unmoving, you realise you've forgotten your manners. "Please." You tack on.

He's still as pink as ever in the face, but your politeness seems to knock him out of his train of thought.

There's a moment where his gaze roams your face with ardent affection — then he's leaning in again, mouth finding yours, a kiss that sets your stomach stirring.

"Yeah," he murmurs. "I can - we can, of course, honey. No need to say please."

His feet finally begin to wander, this time towards your bedroom.

You let yourself fall into his kisses, let him carry you to bed, let him kneel upon it and lay you back like you're a princess in a fairy-tale. You feel like one, being carried around in his burly arms.

He begins to kiss your neck. It tickles, so you giggle.

You might not quite fit as a princess in your mind, but Clark is definitely a righteous knight.

"What?" Clark asks, pulling back from your neck, eyes shining brightly.

"You're like a knight." you tell him, reaching up to bury your fingers into his hair. "I bet you'd look really good with a sword."

Clark laughs, the sound like spun-gold, and catches one of your hands trailing through his hair. He plants a kiss on the palm of your hand. "Sweetheart, you sound delirious." Another kiss, this time to your knuckles. "I love it. I love you. I'll be your knight."

You really like that idea. He's already so good at being devoted to you that you're not really sure what would change.

"I love you too. Please keep kissing me." You say, a little breathier than before.

Clark obliges, more than willingly.

Together, you fall into the familiar dance, heated and close, lips chafing as the kisses come easily.

All the while, you can feel it—the drizzle of something hotter pooling low in your gut. The buzz under your skin. The rabidness that rears up in response to being kissed so readily, so hungrily.

It's a kiss-fest.

And your neck must be a feast— is what you would be thinking if there was any comprehensible thought in your mind, with Clark's mouth on your pulse point.

He’s so good at what he does — so good at knowing just what you like.

He kisses messily, licks gently, and nibbles teasingly, and you give up a myriad of gaspy-sounding noises in response.

His hands move in small motions.

One hand stays planted on your waist, his fingers caressing in small, baby circles. Stable. Reliant.

His other hand is more exploratory. His thumb dips beneath the fabric of your shirt, drawing a slow, skirting line across the skin of your stomach. It feels like molten lava. The blood beneath his touch sings gloriously.

You shudder and clutch his back — enough to make him pause.

"Okay?" His voice is lower, his breath a bit more ragged. It never takes much for him to get like this, you've found. "Need a breather?"

You shake your head, because the last thing you want him to do is stop. There's a heat gathering between your thighs you desperately would like some relief for.

"No," you say, but it's a bit shaky.

He takes your word for it - which is still so nice. He trusts you to know yourself, even when you're unsure yourself.

But this part isn't new to either of you. Clark leaves your neck riddled with lovebites until he coaxes your shirt off you, after asking ever-so politely in a rasp that only adds to your growing lust.

He doesn't near the clip of your bra — you've told him you feel a bit sexier when it stays on — but still drags his fingers across the seam of the cups, his eyes darker, with a hum, "You're so pretty, honey."

The sheets are soft against the bare skin of your back. The sounds in the room are sweet, heavy.

Your low-light lamp paints the ceiling golden. Clark's hands are focused on the edges of your pants, fingers curling in only slightly.

It's a rhythm you know well. This lead-up, this push and pull, where you and Clark reduce each other to kiss-flustered messes in your bed.

The fact that this desire is a well-known feeling now makes you feel so damn sweet on Clark, so in love, you want to bury your face in your pillow. It's the same firework feeling as when he called you sweet girl.

You feel your hands on his back begin to tremble, so you tip your head to the side and press your face firmly into the comforter.

You don't want Clark to take it the wrong way, even if you've done this before.

You don't want this to be the time it's too much for him - not when you'd asked him. You try to swallow down the big emotion as subtly as you can.

Clark notices — because he always notices.

His mouth is pressed to the hollow of your throat, and you feel it pause, then feel him shift up, face to face with you. "Honey?"

"M'okay," you tell him honestly. You squeeze your eyes shut tight to try to control that buzzing rabidness that's running rampant beneath your skin.

You can't tell if it's making you uncomfortable, just that it's a lot - but you still know that you really don't want Clark to stop.

Especially when you move, shifting one leg up to press against his hip and feel the hard shape of him against you. A heady warmth throbs between your thighs. God, he's so hot and nice, and he's all yours.

"Just-" It comes out jittery, the word barely beating your sharp inhale.

Your eyes are still closed to keep the sensations at a minimum. Clark, lovingly, stays as still as he can for you.

"Just, it's like, being wound up. It's good. You make me feel good, just it's," A jagged exhale now. "A lot. I haven't felt it - like, it hasn't always been this way for me. I'm worried."

You finally open your eyes, and Clark's above you, his dark hair messier than usual. He's still pink in the face, dimples showing, blue eyes fixed on you.

"You're worried?" He asks sincerely.

"Yes."

A beat, his smile a little less now. "About what?"

You try to consolidate it all down into one sentence. A car whirs by outside, a kiss of wind brushing past your window.

Your hands slip forward, one holding his neck, to feel for his pulse. The drum of it grounds you.

"That it's not going to be good," you eventually say. Then, the more truthful answer. "That I'm not going to be good at it. With you."

Clark studies you for a moment, his maddening dimples disappearing as he thinks it over seriously.

There are no rushed assurances. You're thankful for that — people don't tend to mean those as much.

"Do you trust me?" He asks. "To be honest with you?"

He swallows thickly as he says it but holds his attention on you strong. You're so used to feeling unnerved by eye-contact, but Clark's gaze is like the buttery warmth of the sun. You glow beneath it.

"I do." You say. "You don't lie to me."

You watch Clark's throat as it bobs with another swallow. "Right. Well, then you know I mean it when I say there isn't anything you can do wrong."

Another car engine drones by on the street. His words take another second to sink in.

There isn't anything you can do wrong.

It's such a sentiment, such a wholly encompassing love he offers you, that you struggle to comprehend it. Surely, he can't mean…?

You're so used to it being a problem somewhere. Your different ways, your particular needs — it's always a thing.

You didn't realise you've still been waiting for it to crop up between you and Clark.

There has to be something he can't handle. Something you do wrong — because you always do something wrong.

You have to double-check. "Nothing?"

Clark shakes his head with vehemence, curls flying. He grins, dimples back on display, and gives another squeeze of your middle. "Honey, everything you do is right."

He says it like an oath. Now that's a goddamn sentiment.

One that feels less like a firework and more like a shooting star to your system. Bright, burning hot, right into your sternum. You choke on your next inhale, hoping you aren't making some ugly emotional face.

You can't really put into words what it means to hear it. You try your best.

"That's," you bite your lip, hard. "That's really nice." Despite how you try, you still sound a bit teary.

"Oh, sweet girl," Clark crowds in close, peppering kisses across your face.

He doesn't kiss you on the lips, like he can sense you need the oxygen. One dots your forehead, then your temple. His care only feeds your craving for him.

It takes a second to compose yourself enough to ask him, the words still a bit shaky when you ask, "Can we keep having sex even though I almost cried, please?"

Clark pulls back, expression earnest. "Absolutely."

He kisses you now, like he's sealing the promise.

You hum into his mouth, letting him taste the gasp in your throat when his fingers find your waistline again, deftly working open the button of your jeans.

You don't want him to stop kissing you, but it's impossible to wrangle your jeans off without it.

He works them off your ankles and then looks back up at you, warm hands resting on your calves. "Do you want to keep your socks on?"

"Yes, please."

"Okay, honey." He grins again, like every word out your mouth is endearing.

He begins working on the buttons of his work shirt, getting them off much faster than you have in the past. You get too excited to focus on such little motions.

He sheds the button-up and it makes a pale pool on your bedroom floor. He's wearing a white undershirt beneath it - that's quickly removed too.

His arms shift up, reaching behind his neck to pull it over his head. His biceps bulge. The sight of Clark's chest, tan as the rest of him, broad, and made up of pillowy muscles you know are good for sleeping on, inspires a feverish heat in you.

God, you're the luckiest girl in all of Metropolis.

You watch him, feeling like the whole world is soaked in honey, everything sweet and golden and good.

There's more kissing. Clark is so very attuned to you; it's like he can sense the tides of your desire as it washes in and out.

Too much time spent on removing clothing, however necessary, and you get finicky and worried. Kisses soothe it all away.

You're holding his shoulders, toned and strong. The cords of his muscles shift under your palms. You have the delirious urge to bite him — or give him a hickey right between the pecs, where the trail of hair begins.

He's so handsome. You love his arms, his chest, his stomach. You give thought to calling off the sex so you can spend the evening kissing every inch of him instead.

Clark discards that thought for you with a touch of his fingers.

He eases you into sex gently, deft fingers drawing a warm line up the inside of your thigh. When he reaches the apex, his fingers give a soft rub through your underwear, just the right pressure.

You burn hotly, lust brushing at the fringes of your nerves, and try not to squirm too much.

"Clark," you murmur his name — it's half a sigh of relief, half a plea for more.

"I got you, honey," he says easily, increasing the pressure, his thumb angled more precisely. His breath fans across your stomach. "M'just going slow, making sure it's gonna be good, yeah?"

The cotton between your legs grows stickier, and you can't resist shifting around. You're still not used to this - to it being this good.

He makes you feel unwound. You're not used to being so unstitched around anyone else. But it's Clark, so you trust him.

"Okay," you say breathily. "I love you."

Clark smiles— not that you can see it with your eyes closed — but you feel it against the skin of your stomach. He kisses your navel. "I love you too."

He works you open with his fingers, slow and gentle, with that coo in his voice that keeps you tethered to reality.

You can feel the sweat on your lower back, the tightness in your chest, but it's all overshadowed by the drool of pleasure that's aching through your core.

The air is heavy, swirling with the scent of lovers, imbued with the little noises that escape you.

Clark knows they'll haunt his dreams; the hiccupy gasps, the breathy groans. The sound of his name in your mouth, soaked with pleasure, makes him a little light-headed with how fast his blood rushes south.

At some point, Clark loses his pants, though if you tilt your head, you can spot them at the edge of the bed. He's wearing plaid boxers. There's a trail of hair on his stomach, leading down into them.

The quavering feeling returns, the tremble to your body that isn't so much to do with pleasure.

Clark checks in, blue eyes focused on your face, both hands stilled where they hold your hips. His fingers are still slick, and they feel cool against your blazing skin.

"You're doing good," he tells you, low and gentle. "Take your time, sweetheart."

You take a deep, staggering breath and nod to let him know you hear him. Your hair scrunches against the sheets.

It helps too. You can feel every tingle upon the surface of your skin, but you're trying to think that isn't a bad thing.

He's told you that you're doing good — he told you that everything you do is right.

The overwhelm you feel, the breathers you take — it doesn't have to be good or bad; it just is.

He loves you all the same.

It's a different sensation when he eases himself in to you, fire zinging up your spine. An ache like no other settles between your hips.

But there's something new in Clark too, a furrow in his brow, his bottom lip trapped behind his teeth. His chest heaves, and desire-drenched sounds drag from his lips, a beautiful low moan.

This is different. It's not him taking care of you. It's you together, taking care of each other.

Your back arches off the bed, chest pushed out, as he buries himself in you at a slow, sensual pace.

The shooting star feeling remains in your chest, driving your hands to wander fervently — you cup his face, stroke his neck, coax him down and finally give in to the urge to bite his shoulder.

Clark groans, a deep sultry sound that begs you to widen your legs. You whisper to eachother, admissions of love, pleases, and thank-you's too.

When it's over, the room smells like sex. It's humid in a way it wasn't before.

There's a satisfaction that's bone-deep, a happiness that wriggles through your veins and comes out in the form of a very content sigh.

Clark is much the same, his face half pressed into your pillow, back still rising and falling with his breaths. He's smiling, but he looks a bit tired.

You comb your fingers through his hair because you can't stand to not be touching him right now.

People talk of soulmates, and you think that, given the probability of that being true, combined with the statistics on finding them with all the billions of people on Earth, it's probably a bit of hogwash.

Well, you did think that. Whether or not they exist, found or made, there's some part of Clark you think might be made just right for you.

Fate, as he first proposed to you. It feels like the only explanation for this — for Clark. For the easiness in which everything comes with him.

Your nightstand clock tells you it's late, evidenced by the darkness outside too.

It's been a long day. You stroke through Clark's curls, his eyes resting closed, and the orgasm loosens your tongue. You feel compelled to tell him what happened earlier today. You don't like to keep secrets.

"Clark," you say, smiling when he makes a little mhm? in response, peeking open an eye. "Superman said 'I love you' to me today."

That gets his attention. Both eyes open, blinking at you across the bed. He pushes up, resting his head in his hand, then clears his throat.

"Oh," he says. "Well, actually, about that." He looks as though he's steeling himself, and a tinge of worry feathers through you.

But then Clark says, "The thing is… Superman didn't say I love you; I did."

You blink at him. The words don't comprehend. You know what you heard today.

"What?" You ask, genuinely confused.

He seems to realise a mistake he's made. "Crumbs. Sorry, I'm not trying to be elusive. I'm trying to tell you that I'm, uh, …I'm Superman."

You still can't understand.

You can hear the words, can understand what they mean individually, but you don't get what he's trying to tell you.

"I don't understand," you say, pressing yourself up to sitting. This feels serious.

"I'm Superman," Clark repeats gently, not rushing or annoyed. It's you instead who is getting frustrated, because saying it the same exact way isn't helping you.

"Clark," you say, voice a bit thin. "I don't understand what you're saying. Please don't just repeat yourself."

He matches your position, sitting up to face you, sheets pooling at his waist. He reaches out, a caring touch on your knee. "Superman, the superhero that flies around, saves the city, blue suit, red cape?"

You nod, following so far.

"It's me. I'm him." He says with an exhaled breath. "I'm not from Earth. I have abilities that humans don't. I spend my spare time trying to help people as best I can — which is why Superman said 'I love you' to you."

The touch on your knee rises, fingertips brushing your cheek delicately. "Because he's me. And I love you."

He chuckles a little bashfully, his eyes dancing away for a moment, his hand dropping. "And sometimes, saying it is too much of a habit to realise you still don't know this about me."

You blink, and this time, the explanation strings together in a way that makes sense.

The revelation sinks its teeth in. Clark, your beautiful, doting boyfriend, is also Superman.

Superman is Clark. Superman is your boyfriend. You're… dating Superman.

Another owlish blink. You can't help but think of all his articles.

"You interviewed him. You interviewed... yourself?"

Clark's expression turns sheepish. "Yes, I have. I- I do."

He knows to let it sit. Let you turn the new information over in your mind, shaping it into new questions and discoveries. He's Superman.

You think back to all the encounters over the last month — the almost mugging, the unexpected closeness, the way he seemed to know that you'd had a bad day. Because he did know.

"It's why you're late." You say, not a question.

For some reason, that makes Clark blush, as though he's embarrassed by his rudeness. "Most of the time, yes."

"How come you don't look like him?"

Clark reaches back to your bedside table, where he's deposited his glasses in the rush of getting undressed.

"These. They have some hypno technology, so my face looks quite different to people when I'm wearing them. Since I don't always wear them when I'm with you, you know what I actually look like but,"

He peers at you through his lashes, a kind smile on his face. "I just don't think you were looking for it."

You're not the suspicious kind, he means. You take things as they are.

Side by side, with the explanation before you, it makes sense. Superman has always looked a little like Clark. Or Clark has always looked a bit like Superman.

"You don't lie to me," you say in explanation.

Somehow, this doesn't feel like a lie either — or like you've been deceived.

You're well acquainted with putting on a new persona when you're at work, a more polished, smiley version of yourself that makes your jaw sore from holding it stiffly all day. It's a mask. This… This feels like the same thing.

Some things can't be done as Clark.

Some things have to be Superman.

And now he wants you to know — to have — both.

You twist your fingers into the sheets of your bed tightly, hoping it'll help you think.

"And I'm sorry that I had to, honey," Clark apologises sincerely, placing the glasses on the blankets between you.

He does appear to be troubled by the thought of keeping this from you. "I didn't like keeping secrets from you. You're so good at keeping out of danger, it was easy to keep this part of my life hidden from you."

You mull over his words, trying hard to analyse the emotions stirring up within your chest.

There's no rulebook or blog-post you can convene with to know how to feel about it. You're not sure you feel much of anything, other than a dim surprise. It just… makes sense.

Truthfully, if you had found out when you met Clark, it might have been too much.

Clark was already such a surprise — that he came around to see you, that he kept coming around. Someone that kind, that handsome, wanting to make the effort for you.

He'd been just Clark then.

If he'd been Superman too, beloved hero of Metropolis, coming around to deliver you freshly-baked goods and kisses, maybe you'd have been scared off. Maybe not. Somehow, you're only glad you don't have to know how to feel about that.

You just have to know what you feel now.

A different question jumps off your tongue.

"What does flying feel like?"

Clark's expression gives away his astonishment, a wide-eyed blink that melts into a genuine smile.

"It's, uh, it's very fun. It's like," His mouth twists as he considers it, before he shakes his head. "It's like nothing else. My parents had to give me strict rules about flying around the house growing up, I love it that much."

His parents. For some reason, you hadn't expected them to know.

Then you feel a bit silly — Superman has always been open about how he came to be here, on Earth. Someone had to have raised him.

You think of the photo Clark keeps on his work desk — or the one in his wallet, next to the photo of you — of Ma and Pa Kent.

The thought of baby Clark whizzing about the farmhouse he described growing up in is a delightful thought.

Untwisting your fingers from the sheets, you glance down and ask, "Why now?"

This is the first question to make him sigh.

You lift your gaze, watching as he rubs a hand across his face wearily, "Because I messed up. I didn't mean to give you such a strange encounter with Superman, but I also don't want to lie to you any more than I already have."

He shifts in the bed, shuffling closer till his knees press against yours.

He reaches for your hands, no longer toying with the sheets but still amongst the covers. He holds them tenderly, cradled in his.

"And I didn't tell you earlier for lots of reasons. It's not safe, for one." His thumbs trace over the backs of your hands, his face open, eyes a shade of blue you feel you haven't seen before. Maybe it's because you're seeing him, seeing all of him, for the first time.

"But the main reason is that I like… I love who I get to be with you.

"I'm just Clark," he says, the words softer than sweetness. "I'm just your boyfriend. I have to make a lot of hard decisions, every day, as Superman. With you, it's… it's just what makes you happy. And that's an easy decision, every time."

At some point, you've clutched his hands back. There's that same stupid sharpness back in your chest, stinging your eyes with the promise of tears.

He just wants to make you happy. Like it's a relief to come home to you, at the end of a hard day saving the world.

Like, you just might be his respite.

You try press the sharp feeling back, but you can tell he knows. He always seems to just know.

He doesn't interfere, just strokes his thumbs along the back of your hands again — and is ready for it when you burst forward into him.

His arms are around you, holding you tight, and your face tucks away into his neck.

"Okay," you say, sniffling through the word - because how else can you respond to something that magnanimous? You're the relief of a man who has the weight of the world on his shoulders. "Okay."

"Okay?" Clark echoes, the word threaded with a slight amusement. "You'll allow it?" He jests.

But you nod in response all the same. He sits back, leaning into your mountain of pillows, and takes you with him, all bundled up in his arms.

You're leaning into his chest, skin to skin, and the contentedness within you hasn't shifted. Hasn't balked at the face of his secret.

"I love you." You whisper - and feel Clark's arms tighten in response. "Thank you for telling me."

"I love you." He mirrors, pressing a long, firm kiss into your hair. He murmurs into it, unwilling to give up any distance between you. "Do you have any questions?"

"Plenty." You say automatically, dead serious — and you jostle on his chest as Clark laughs at that, because, really, he should expect this from you. "So many. I can't believe I'm dating an alien."

"I'm not sure if I should apologise…?" He says, amused.

"No," You press a kiss to his chest, above where his heart is, mumbling against his skin. "That came out bad. I don't mean it in a bad way. Sorry."

"Don't be." He kisses your head again, and sleepiness hangs above you, drawing nearer.

He's so warm. He's like a space heater. You laugh tiredly to yourself because - yeah, he literally is.

He tells you, "I'll answer any question you have."

You're melting into him, cocooned in his arms, tucked away from the world.

Still, you can hear it — another drone of a car engine, the chatter of people on the street, the honk of a faraway driver. Close, but unable to touch this bubble you and Clark exist in.

"Anything?" You ask.

It comes out as a sleepy whisper.

You feel, more than hear, the hum Clark gives in return. He draws a long, soothing stroke over your back, his hand warm.

You think of the question you want answered most.

"Will you stay the night, please?"

You don't really need to ask—he stays most nights now—but it's a habit.

There's a concerning moment where you hear the wobbly inhale Clark takes—but then you can feel his smile pressed into your hairline. You picture his dimples.

You feel him shift, one arm leave you, and the click of your lamp.

The amber saps away, and darkness blankets the both of you, wrapping you up.

"Of course, honey," he murmurs, like there's only one answer he could give. In his arms, you realise you're the safest person on the whole planet.

Huh, you think tiredly, as sleep drapes over you, gentle and warm. Guess you aren't so different from all those other citizens of Metropolis, after all.

They follow Superman into danger.

You suppose, in some ways, so would you.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

if you made it this damn far, kudos!! thank u for reading mammoth of a fic <3 i hope you enjoyed it and if you so felt inspired, i hope you wouldn't mind letting me know what you think! :)

special thanks to my beloved citrine @citrinesparkles for being an open ear, grease for writers block, many ideas contributor and cheerleader extraordinaire

some usual moots as well <3 as always, no pressure friends ! @spideystevie @sanguineterrain @headkiss @djarinova

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