all works are cross posted on ao3 (ripoutmyinsides)
hannibal (2013):
- permanent chill (will graham x fem!reader) 18+
criminal minds:
- nothing to see here yet…
harry potter:
- nothing to see here yet…
ncis (2003):
- nothing to see here yet…
bones (2005):
- nothing to see here yet…
superman (2025)
- nothing to see here yet…
smallville (2001)
- nothing to see here yet…
full fics:
- toujours pur, pas pour toi (spencer reid x fem!oc)
celeste ophelia black & spencer walter reid. bound by fate & brought together by the actions of one man who would kill both of them if he lived to see it.
kinktober | dc masterlist | navigation | masterlist
true kryptonian! clark kent's whole body feels unreal when you're underneath him. he towers over you, broad and heavy at well over six foot, with shoulders and a chest so wide they block out your view of the room when he leans over you. his frame is thick and dense with muscle, built from something far beyond human genetics.
his thighs are huge, hard and beefy, spreading you open with just the pressure of them bracketing your hips, and his hands- one can cover both your wrists... or your throat, or your hip without effort.
and his cock... it's massive. heavy, too. when he's hard for you (which is nearly instant, almost frightening in how quickly his body reacts to you, your scent, your touch), his length is nearly matches that of your forearm, thick the whole way down to a neat patch of hair at the base. he's wide enough that your hole has to fight to open around him.
true kryptonian! clark who's genital anatomy is not even similar to a human male's. he gets hard for you - his sweet human mate with that delicious, mouthwatering scent - concerningly fast. sometimes you get a little overwhelmed by how many times he needs to fill you.
when he pushes his cock into you, you go stiff at the sheer girth of him, enough to stretch you out obscenely. you're so tight around him and your walls grip down on him each time he pulls back. the crown of his cock is broad and flared; made to lock against you once he's inside, and his shaft isn't smooth. ridges run along the length, faintly glowing under the skin and pulse erratically.
the markings on his shaft vibrate when he gets worked up. they're placed perfectly to drag against your walls and stimulate you, and when you squeeze him the whole thing lights brighter. his body reacts to yours like it has a mind of it's own. he's meant to be inside your plush hole.
and then there are the spines, tiny catches along the underside, not sharp but textured, barbed just enough that once he thrusts in deep you feel them catch when he tries to pull out. soft little tugs that keeps him buried even when he's trying to be gentle. you realize quickly he's not built to pull out until he comes inside you enough to ensure it'll take. it's biology. his species is meant to create huge batches of offspring, and even if you can't get pregnant, his cock locks inside you to make the attempt anyway.
clark's body has been evolved to hold you open and stretched around him until he's satisfied. every time he shifts, those spines press and rake softly over your inner walls, forcing your body to clench tighter around him, milking him deeper. every push has that broad flared head stretching you wide, scraping perfectly, every ridge buzzing. you swear you can feel the vibrations move in patterns to hit the most sensitive spots in you. the markings that streak up his shaft glow brighter the wetter you get, and he watches how you're sucking him in with avid fascination, eyes hazy.
Summary: Where do babies come from? Well, when a Kryptonian and a Human love each other very much...
AKA
You find out Clark can get pregnant.
Wc: 6.1k
Tags: Implied mpreg, top!reader, bottom!Clark, alien anatomy, blowjobs, pegging, sex toys, synthetic cum, praise kink, marriage promises as dirty talk, established relationship, you're both dorks who haven't done this before so yippee, no use of y/n, reader is afab but nothing really descriptive sooo, no gendered pronouns used
A/n: When I said I wanna get this man pregnant I wasn't lying. Idk if this counts as a/b/o bc it's not rlly that, but I did barrow the slick aspect bc I care ab biological accuracy ☝️🤓 if you see any spelling/grammar mistakes no you didn't.
Clark was in a good mood. A fantastic mood even.
You had made extra cinnamon rolls the night before, so he had something sweet to eat with his morning coffee. He saw a cute baby on the metro, and she smiled when he waved at her, all gummy and wide. He was early to work for once, and was able to make it past Steve’s desk unscathed from semi-rude and woefully underthought insults.
Cat had called his tie “fashion forward” because of the little blue bows that dotted it, and he got to tell her gleefully that “my partner actually picked it out for me”. It was Perry White’s birthday, so lunch was catered for the staff, and it was from a good restaurant. One where the sandwiches actually had toppings you wanted, and were bursting from the wax paper they came delivered in.
The sun was warm on his face as he made his way home. He gave some money to his favorite busker who always played classical music on his violin, and one of the aunties at the local fruit stand gave him a bag of oranges for free, just because he had a “kind face”.
His cheeks practically hurt from all the smiling he had done by the time he got home. He could already hear you shuffling about inside, and he couldn’t wait to sit next to you on the couch and relax while watching a show together. The apartment was nice and warm when he got in, dropping his keys into the dish by the door with a clatter. Dress shoes abandoned, he worked to undo the buttons on his coat, calling your name softly.
“I’m home! You know, I was thinking we could try some of that tea you bought the other day,” His coat slung over the rack, he rounded the corner into the living room, rustling through the bag of oranges, “A nice lady gave these to me, and I really think they would pair well together.”
You looked up at him from across the room, situated on the couch with your legs pulled tight to your chest, chin resting on your knees. Your phone was brightly lit, and held way too close to your face. Speaking of…
The smile you had on was one of thinly veiled amusement. The apples of your cheeks are full, the lines of your brows soft. Borderline mischievous. Clark’s movements slowed- like you were a grizzly bear and he was trying to decide whether he should play dead or run.
“What.”
“What? I didn’t say anything,” You chirped, falling back onto the couch and pulling your phone close to your chest.
Clark crossed his arms.
Your grin grew impossibly wide, turning onto your side to a better look at him. “Just, you know, scrolling through twitter.”
“You know that stuff isn’t good for you!” Clark chided, moving into the kitchen so he could turn on the kettle. “It’s all so negative. Everyone’s so mean.”
He could hear you laugh again, throw blankets from the couch rustling as you got up to join him. You leaned against the pillar separating the rooms as Clark grabbed two mugs from the rack. A quick glance told him you still had your phone cradled close to your face. “Oh c’mon there’s some really interesting stuff on here…” He could practically feel the amusement dripping off of your words. Dumping the oranges into the sink, he turned on the tap to wash them, peeling away the stickers as he went. “...Like how, apparently, both sexes of Kryptonians can get pregnant.”
The orange slipped from his grasp with a splash of water, soaking the counter as well as the front of his dress shirt. You burst out laughter, hurrying to grab him a hand towel.
Clark's ears always flushed first, the tips a bright red by the time you handed the towel over. “I- How… I just-” He stumbled, taking off his glasses and shoving them onto the counter after thoroughly drying it off.
He was so cute when he was flustered, even if it was just off of some baseless internet rumour-
“I mean… How do they even know that? There are only two of us left-”
Hold up. Pause.
Your laugh was instantly wiped from your face, a look of sheer bewilderment replacing it as Clark stumbled through his words.
“-I mean, obviously I have archives of it, from what was sent over with me… in the pod and stuff. Not everything! Of course, just the basics, you know-”
“Clark Joseph Kent,” You said slowly, like this was all an elaborate prank being pulled on you by your beautiful boyfriend and the evils of twitter. But it couldn’t be, Clark could barely stand to open the damn app. “Is twitter right?”
He’s made a mistake. Clark recognizes that instantly. He tries to go back to washing the oranges and making you tea, but he knows it’s a moot point. You’re at his side now, phone entirely discarded on the countertop, looking at his profile as he really, really tries to ignore you.
“Can you get pregnant?”
“It just makes more evolutionary sense for both sexes-”
“Oh my god!” You’re getting fucking yolked right now. Whipping your head around the kitchen, you wait for the camera crews to start barreling in. “Really? Really?” You say incredulously, hands running down your face in pure disbelief.
Clark shakes his head, hands held out wide as if to say ‘Is this my life?’ “I didn’t think it would be that big of a deal!”
“So why wouldn’t you tell me? Oh my god, I found out my boyfriend can get pregnant through fucking twitter-”
The oranges were finally discarded, because apparently this was how tonight was going. Clark watched, face flushed and hands shaking, as you zipped towards your phone. Luckily Clark was closer. “You are not posting about this-”
“That wasn’t what I was going to do!” You insisted, bent at the waist over the counter, laughter bubbling out of your lips, tears edging your lashline. “I was just gonna see if anything else they’re saying online is right!”
Luckily, one of the few things Clark knew how to do with a phone was turn it off. Cloistering you against the fridge, he shoves the phone on top of it, hidden just out of reach. You buried your face in Clark's chest, muffled laughs still wracking your frame. You smelled nice, and you were warm- so all wasn’t totally lost. You mumbled an apology into him, and he sighed.
“But for real,” You asked, laughter finally subsiding, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Well for starters, you just laughed so hard you cried,” Clark said, thumb gently wiping away errant tears from your flushed cheeks, “And I guess it just… isn’t really important?”
You gasp, affronted, and pull away to rest your hands on Clark’s trim waist, turning him side to side, “Not important? I wanna know everything about you- like, where would the baby even go?”
Clark tried to ignore your wandering hands, trying to ignore the fact that he’s practically hardwired to your touch that was travelling dangerously low, “Well we weren’t like the main ones getting pregnant, it was just something we could do-” He gingerly grabs your wrist before you can start tugging his damp shirt from the waist band of his pants. You let out a noise of discontent as he lifts you up onto the counter, trying to distract you with a flurry of kisses across your face, “-Anyways, It’s not like you could really… get me pregnant.”
You pull away, and Clark has made his second mistake of the evening.
“We could test it out.” You say, running your hands up to his face, cupping his cheeks gently. Clark lets out a low chuckle, letting you manhandle him, tilting his head like you would a particularly adorable puppy.
“It wouldn’t work-”
Your hands shifted to the back of his head, threading through the dark curls situated there, and pulled him in. Close enough for him to feel the amused huff you let out fan across his lips. “C’mon Clark,” A chaste kiss, “You won’t even let me try to get you pregnant?”
Clark smacked his lips, mouth suddenly dry, face hot and dazed. He tried so hard to be better than his instincts, but he could smell you- all bothered, wriggling beneath him- which made him kind of feel like a creep. Ironic, considering you were trying to convince him to… get pregnant.
Which totally wouldn’t work. And totally wasn’t confusing him at all because it was kind of getting him hot right now?
His voice pitched up in the way it always does when he’s semi-embarrassed about his response, a shaky “I guess…” earning him a proper kiss. One that’s messy and desperate in a way that makes him a little weak in the knees, pressing closer into you as your thighs clench around his waist. Your tongue barely creeps into his mouth, a teasing lick at the edge of his teeth before you retreat entirely, pulling away with a lewd sound. Clark tries to follow you, but a sharp tug reminds him your hands are still firmly wound in his curls.
And then you jumped off the counter, padding away back into the living room.
“Wait- Hold on, where are you going?” Clark protested, awkwardly readjusting himself in his slacks. You turned around, still walking backwards towards your shared bedroom.
“You wanna make a baby in our kitchen? Freak.”
You love being rough with Clark. He just makes the cutest noises whenever you pull his hair too hard, shove his head around as he goes down on you, sink your teeth into his skin and claw your nails down his arms. It’s even better because you know you can do all this without physically hurting him. Though, sometimes you wish the marks you left would stay just a little longer, long enough for him to have to stutter out some lame excuse to his coworkers.
Clark loved it too. You knew he did, because every time you shoved him around, into bathroom stalls in restaurants, the perpetually empty fax room because no one sends faxes anymore, and any wall that seemed even remotely sturdy enough, he got hard as a fucking rock, all wide eyed and flushed.
Your bed, the third one this year, creaked loudly as you shoved him onto it, straddling his hips in an instant. A sharp gasp escaped his lips as you grabbed his jaw, tilting it to the side to gain access to the soft spot beneath his ear- it was always deliciously sensitive, the easiest place on him to bruise. Teeth sinking into flesh, the hand not holding him in place slipped down his chest, working on the buttons to his shirt. Clark shuddered as your cold hand finally made contact with his skin, pushing his undershirt up once his button up fell open.
You were so overwhelming- when you both got going it was like all Clark could notice was you. Your breath, your heartbeat, the thrush of your blood in your veins. He could smell the sweat clinging to your body, sweet and familiar, because you both used the same shampoo. Could taste you on his tongue, overwhelming and addictive. His hands, soft yet strong, made their way under your sleep shirt, gripping the flesh of your hips as he tried to pull you closer- flush against his body in a way that was getting pathetically needy.
He groaned into the air of the room as your mouth abandoned the spot beneath his ear, trailing down his neck to his collarbone- he wanted more. Any longer, and he was sure he’d break the zipper on his slacks. “How are we- ngh- how do you wanna do it?” Clark pulled your head back, almost immediately missing the stickiness of your tongue on him.
Your pupils were blown wide, scanning him in his entirety before licking your lips. Considering something. “I… bought something. For us to try- you can say no if you want.”
“Show me?” Clark asked, kissing your cheek, skin hot beneath his lips.
Extricating yourself from him was almost impossible. But you found yourself rushing towards the closet in a way that you would call unsexy- if only you weren’t so dazed. A box was hidden in the back, disguised amongst your shoes. “I bought this like… kind of a while ago?” You said sheepishly, bringing it back to your bed. Clark had an inkling of what could be inside, if only because of the embossed sex toy logo on the very top. “I chickened out before I could suggest it though.”
“You can always tell me if you wanna try something.” Clark said, his sincerity only embellished by the giant tent he was pitching. You laughed softly, pulling the lid off the box and tilting it towards him. Clark considered the strap on for a moment. The silicon a midnight blue against the black velvet of the box. “It’s a little big, don’t you think?”
“I made sure it was smaller than you,” You rolled your eyes, taking it out of the box along with the harness, “You saying I’m better at taking it?”
Clark ran his hands down his face, smushing his palm against his mouth in a way that muffled his words. “I mean… definitely, you are.” It’s like an ache in his stomach, though, looking at your expectant eyes. Is this how you feel? All heavy down there? He wants to… “But yeah, let’s, uhm, we can do it this way.”
Your teeth mash against his in a sloppy kiss that you hope conveys how happy you are. Again, like in the kitchen, only a brief slip of tongue that leaves him wanting, chasing. “You wanna get undressed for me then, while I put this on?” Clark doesn’t really trust himself to speak, only nodding his head forcefully as he turns away and strips himself of his clothes. There’s a clinking noise, reminiscent of a belt, from behind him as you busy yourself. Then the slide of a drawer. Right, lube. Should he tell you that…
He’s not sure he can verbalize that either. Clark feels like he’s on fire, and wonders if it’s unreasonable to turn on the AC during winter, turning around to finally face you. You’re, fortunately, not looking at him quite yet, instead fussing over the straps and making sure everything is secure. You’re kneeling on the edge of the bed, and the sight feels like something he’s blessed to see. Because you’re stunning, and you’re all his, and… some more instinctual part of his brain seems to be clouding his judgment, something that’s screaming about the… the baby you’re gonna give him. His legs, independent of his rational mind, carry him to the edge of the bed and deposits himself at your feet.
That breaks you out of your worry, a smile beaming down at him as your hand comes up to ruffle his hair, “You ready, baby?”
It’s not really an answer, pulling apart your thighs and kissing them to the base of your strap, but it’s all Clark can manage. “I wanna…” You shudder beneath him, legs instinctively drawing in as he licks around the elephant in the room. “...like how you do it?”
“Oh,” You coo, grip tightening in his hair, “You wanna suck me off?” His big arms cage your hips against the bed, and your leg hinges against his waist, pulling him closer until his cock can rut against the bed sheets. “Want me to teach you?”
Clark nods, but he kind of has an idea of what to do. You’ve gone down on him enough times that he knows what feels good, even if you can’t technically feel it. He knows what makes you look pretty. You guide his head regardless, and he sticks his tongue out to gingerly lick the tip of you, eager but unsure if it’s right.
You can’t feel it- but you can feel it. Know what his tongue feels like, how warm and soft and wet it is. Thumb stroking against his cheek in encouragement, Clark suckles it into his mouth fully, eyes lidded in concentration. It tastes like plastic, but if he tries he can almost imagine the taste of your sweat, how sweet you are, how warm you are. He lets you push his head down further, just enough to sit on the back of his tongue. There’s more left to take, but you don’t rush it, just let your pretty boyfriend sit on his knees and suck you off in a way that feels right for him.
Clark gulps around it, saliva pooling on his tongue, slicking up the toy. He lets it sink in a bit further, enough to make the back of his throat tickle, before pulling all the way off, spit stringing him to the tip, before he goes back to kiss the side. Your voice is like honey, “Doin’ really well for me, Clark,” If he could get drunk, he imagines it would feel like this. Like you beneath his hands, making sure he feels loved. “I’m so lucky, you know that?” You let the toy press against his lips, before it slips against his cheek, a smear of saliva along its path.
He takes you again, bobbing his head in a way that seems tentative. He tries to look up at you, eyes round and glossy, unfairly thick lashes slightly damp. Clark’s curls, normally gelled, lay heavy against his forehead, your fingers pushing them away, leaving your hand on his head as an anchor. Slowly, like a request, you cant your hips upwards.
Clark hums around you, his own hips rutting against the duvet- in tandem with your gentle thrusts. He tries to memorize this. He’s seen almost every facet of you in your time together, every little piece that comes together to form what you even are, but this is a side of you that he’s never experienced. He’s pretty sure no one has. It makes him feel even warmer, energy buzzing like a current beneath his skin, makes him feel good. His tender tip catches against a fold in the duvet cover, pre smearing against the fabric, trying to keep up with the pace you’ve set. It’s almost maddening, the stimulation, and from this alone he can feel that tension winding up in his stomach.
He finds himself closing his eyes, letting you use him until his impending orgasm- but you have this sixth sense about you. You know when he’s about to fall over that ledge, and just like that, you pull yourself from his mouth, leaving his jaw slack and empty.
Before he can protest, voice horse, you grab his arms and pull him onto the bed, the frame squeaking beneath your weight. “I think we’re getting carried away,” You laugh, thumb tracing his bottom lip, swollen and wet. “You still wanna do this?”
Clark has always been honest to a fault. You think the only lie he’s ever really kept well was Superman. “Yes- want it, want it real bad.” His hands are all over you, pushing you down onto your back like he was the one in control. You remedy that quickly, pushing his hips and rolling the both of you over. You can practically see the cogs turning in his head as it hits the pillows.
You wipe the self-satisfied grin off your face, trying to give off the aura of someone who knew what they were doing. Because watching porn wasn’t really the greatest starting point. You shuffle down, knees rustling the sheets, hands warm on Clark's thighs as you spread them open for you. “I want you to tell me if anything hurts, ok? I’ll stop immediately.” Clark’s little laugh was immediately speared by a moan, your thumb brushing the base of his cock, right above his balls. You push a little, your ring finger joining to encircle him. A small, dry tug undoes him quickly. “Need you to be serious.”
“I am!” Clark insists, hips jolting at your touch. You let him buck up a few times before taking your hand away, caressing the inside of his thigh, all muscle and warmth and… wet?
Your gaze shoots down, every jolt and twitch of Clark’s hips show that he’s fucking wet. And if you think about it for like, more than two seconds, that kind of makes sense? Because other people who can get pregnant self-lubricate but, like…
Your finger nudges at his hole, and slides right across it, gathering the wetness onto your fingers. Holding them up to the dim light of your bedroom, and letting it string as you pull them apart. Brows furrowed, you looked at your boyfriend, and his sheepish “oops, you caught me” kind of look that just made the whole situation worse. He’s so lucky he’s kind of the most beautiful person on the planet, because you had unnecessarily spent thirty American Dollars on lube that you didn’t even need. You even got the strawberry flavored one! Because he liked strawberries!
Love had made you a fool.
There’s a lewd squelch as you bully one of your fingers into him, “When you’re a little more coherent, we’re going to have a loooooong talk about why you feel the need to hide things from me.”
Clark nods his head, eyes screwed shut in pleasure as you prep him. Another finger joins the first quickly enough, curling every which way trying to find the best angle within. But that’s not good enough for you, crowding his legs over your own as your free hand grabs his jaw, “Use your words, Kent.”
“Yeah-” He pants out, “-Yes.”
Your fingers finally find that spot, the spot. The one that makes him buck up so wildly you almost lose your balance. Pre-cum oozes from the tip of his cock, smearing over the bottom of his tummy. “Right there-” He asks, hand coming up to muffle his moans. You could never stay mad at him long.
The room fills with sounds that you’d be embarrassed for your neighbors to hear, which unfortunately they probably do. Sorry to them. You can’t stop though, pulling each and every moan and whine and whimper from your boyfriend as you loosen him up for you. Without much effort, you can slip a third finger in, trying not to disrupt your rhythm. Clark always tries to last longer than he really can, and you can tell he’s getting close by the twitch in his brow, and the way he tries to rub the tears from his eyes. “You can cum if you want to baby,” You encouraged, holding your fingers in place against his prostate, just pure pressure.
Clark nods his head fervently, “No- I wanna save it.”
“It’s ok,” You say again, finally thrusting your fingers in again, faster, harder, “I’ll just make you cum again, you can do that for me, right?”
He clenches tight around your fingers, head hitting the bedboard with a sharp crack, one that would make you concerned if it were literally anyone else. But it’s Clark, your boyfriend who can hold a high rise above his head, your boyfriend who could fly around the Earth in the time it would take you to change into your pajamas, your boyfriend who could hold his breath for over an hour (well that one was impressive for entirely selfish reasons). Clark, your boyfriend who was cumming around your fingers, your boyfriend who was about to let you fuck him into the mattress because you were a pervert, your boyfriend who you were gonna give a baby to.
Ropes of cum coated Clark’s chest and stomach, the sticky fluid running down between his abs and pooling in his belly button. You let him catch his breath for a few seconds, watching pridefully as his chest heaved. A gentle kiss broke him out of his daze. Clark wrapped his arms around your neck, pulling you in for another one the moment you disconnected from each other. Softly, so only he could hear, you asked, “What position do you wanna be in?”
“On my back, I need to look at you.” Like it wasn’t even a question. Your heart swelled, unable to handle just how cute and sincere he could be, ducking down into his neck to lave over the very first spot you made, still sensitive. “Can we… start slow?”
You lined yourself up to his entrance, hole still wet and ready, “Yeah,” you pushed yourself in, the tip popping just past the ring of muscle, “ ‘course baby, anything you need.”
Staying just like that, you let Clark decide when he was ready for more of you, instead taking in the view. Hands come up to squeeze his hips reassuringly. Clark, of course, was built, there was no doubt about that, but he was still soft, a cute layer of fat insulating every bit of muscle. Something to grab onto a little. Gently, Clark leans up, hand finding the back of your head to meet his kiss half way. He kisses you as softly as he wants while he gets comfortable, ignoring the itch in your own skin at your need to move.
You couldn’t feel anything, but it was like phantom pleasure. Just imagining how it felt, and being able to see how Clark was reacting to you was enough to get antsy, resisting the urge to thrust deeper into him. But he was always so gentle and abiding with you, so he deserved that in kind.
It was only when Clark broke your kiss, one tiny peck to the corner of your mouth, did he mumble “You can move a lil’ more now.” To which you gladly obliged. He flopped back down onto the mattress, wiping his sweaty curls from his eyes as they drank up the view of your conjoined bodies. Was this how you felt when he was inside you? Clark shifted his legs a little wider, muscles straining to allow you more room. He was so wet that it didn’t hurt- but there was an ache, right in his center. One that only grew as you slid further and further in. One that felt like only you could solve it.
His dick stayed hard through all of this, twitching against his abs as his back arched a little, getting comfortable with something inside of him. Clark was used to all types of extreme temperatures, the arctic cold of the fortress, the smoking heat of burning buildings, the wet humidity of Kansas summers. But the way you were looking at him, blurred and excited and lovingly, felt like he was about to melt from the inside out.
You had finally slid all the way home, your hips sitting flush with Clarks. It was intoxicating. Your soft hand moves to encase the bottom of Clark’s dick, giving it a quick tug in time with the roll of your hips- experimental, not exactly moving. The man below you full-body shuddered, something low and stuttered leaving his mouth as a moan. That was a good sign. “Can I move?”
“Please.”
You gathered Clark’s legs, one for each arm, and leaned in. The first thrust is slow, but hard, watching as blown-wide pupils hide behind lidded eyes, Clark struggles to keep his composure. He was always a bit sensitive. The second thrust is quick and shallow, and you revel in the way his eyes snap shut and his mouth falls open. You decide to alternate, not quite sure which reaction you like the most.
Clark can feel your sweat dripping down onto him, the room muggy as you panted softly out your mouth, brow furrowed in concentration as you found your rhythm. It was so different feeling something inside of him, and a part of his mind preened at the attention, like this was something that Clark had been neglecting all this time. It’s mind-numbingly good, and all Clark can think about is you, you, you. Arms wrapped tightly around your shoulders, he pulls your body down, chests flush together as he buries his face in your neck, tongue working against the area under your ear. A matching mark to his.
He can feel your laugh, breathy, against his skin, falling off into a moan.
“You feel good- makin’ me feel so good,” He mumbles, kisses placed between his words.
The encouragement drives you to go faster, trying once again to find that spot within him. “ ‘m glad,” You say, sincere, hands groping along his sides until they find his chest, fingers sinking into the plush of him.
You pull away ever so slightly, just to down again and let your foreheads connect, breath mingling, staccato and varied along with the effort. The ache in your hips means nothing as your lips connect again in a mash of teeth and tongue, pawing at one another like it was both the first and last time. “Thank you- means everything to get to do this with you-”
Clark’s arms and legs feel heavy, every effort that screams at him to just go limp and give in, instead he hooks them around you, legs pulling you closer in. His cock is trapped against the soft skin of your tummy, humped back and forth, smearing fresh pre and last rounds spend between your bodies in a way that only slicked his thrusts further. “ I love you-”
“Love you too- love you sooooo much that I’m gonna give you a baby, alright?”
It’s involuntary, the way he spasms at those words, locking your hips even closer to his, responding to your grinding hips with his own. He shut his eyes tight- trying not to come so soon. “Yeah- want a baby, your baby-”
You kiss his temple, then his hairline, “Don’t worry, I’ll give it to you. Make you a mama, right?”
“Please,” You thread your fingers with his, your nail crossing over his ring finger.
The slap of your skin, the squelch of your bodies, is lewd beyond comparison. The headboard of your bed, cracked from earlier, is only breaking further as it jolts against the wall. You squeeze Clark’s hand tighter, “Gotta get married too- make you an honest man Clark. Be my lil’ husband-”
“Oh gosh- gonna get married?”
“Yep, get us rings, and we’ll have a baby- one big family.” Clark isn’t really sure he can last much longer, and he’s sure you won’t either, the way your thrusts keep falling out of time, tired with exertion. You’re pushing his hair out of his face again, his stubborn curls slicked back, just looking at his face in a way that makes him feel like he’s the only one on Earth.
You give him one last kid to the nose before pulling back, hands trailing down his sticky skin to grab firmly onto his hips, thumbs tracing the area just below his navel.
“Gonna put a baby right here, mkay mama?”
Clark nods furiously, the wave of his orgasm building up to a crescendo, ready to crash any moment.
“Words-”
“I want a baby, want you to full me up- want you to get me pregnant-”
You can feel yourself getting close too- it’s almost romantic, loving someone so much that just seeing them this way can make you cum. Something to add to Clark’s never-ending list of skills. There’s a syringe on the other side of your harness, one of your hands reaching back to thumb over the button- the other envelopes the top of Clark's cock, pressing your thumb into his slit and angling him up. His tip’s practically oozing, coating your fingers in sticky pre, the same coating the bottom of your stomach, that helps your hand glide up and down in quick succession.
Clark’s moan is almost strangled, voice cracking in a way you’ve never heard before. So cute and private and yours. “I’m gonna- oh golly- I’m-”
“Me too-”
“Really?-”
He says it with stars in his eyes, and you groan, speeding up to a pace that you definitely can’t sustain for much longer, but it doesn’t matter because-
Clark shudders beneath you, eyes screwing shut with pleasure, mouth dropping open to the cutest little “O”. His hair falls back down onto his face, and he cums. More than he ever has before, mixing with the first round splattered across his chest, some even getting up onto his chin before it drips down into his clavicle. It’s downright obscene. And then Clark feels something different.
Something warm, and wet.
Something new inside him- flooding into him, so good that he cums again. It’s like synapses popping in his brain, like floating, and crashing, and rising back up again. Clark thinks he might be drooling a bit, but he can’t find it within himself to wipe it away- not when he feels so good.
You timed it just right. Your nails brushed against the now empty container hidden behind you, legs shaking as you grabbed Clark's hips for the last time, pushing all the way in and grinding there for a moment as your own orgasm washed over you like a wave. It’s followed by a pathetic little half-thrust, and you’re kind of in awe that Clark can last multiple rounds doing this. Being Superman might help a little, but still.
It actually takes you a few seconds to catch your breath, wiping the sweat from your face because holy shit this room has gotten hot. Given by the far-away look Clark’s got in his eyes, it might take him a few more seconds to come too. For the umpteenth time tonight, you swipe his hair from his face and press a kiss to his temple, which you can feel him smile for. Slow at you might, pulling out of him is still something that draws a hiss.
“Sensitive-”
“I know,” You placate, rubbing your thumbs over his hip bones in a way you hope is comforting, “Gonna get you cleaned up, mkay? Gonna take care of you.”
Clarks huffs in acknowledgement, head flopping to the side as you get up. He tries to stifle a laugh at your attempts to get out of the harness, and you only give him a half-baked glare. The ceiling fan isn’t on, mocking him and his sweatiness. He knows the remote is just on the nightstand- but he suddenly can’t bring himself to move. Was this how you felt after? Limp and heavy and sore and satiated? He could still feel the residual pleasure holding on in his limbs, a welcome reminder. The faucet in the bathroom creaked on, and you soon returned, somewhat damp from wiping down your face and neck, with a clean, wet hand towel.
The moment the cold water hit his face he preened, leaning into your touch as you gently wiped the sweat and cum from his face and neck. “Love you.” He said softly.
You smile, searching across the bed to lace your fingers with his and squeeze before letting go, moving the cloth lower to wipe at his stomach and legs, “I love you too.”
“I love you more-”
“-We are not doing this game right now,” You laugh. The moment you're satisfied, the cloth goes in the hamper. Like you can read his mind, you reach for the remote for the fan, clicking it onto the highest setting before crawling into bed next to him. Clark finds just enough strength to draw you into his chest, resting his cheek on top of your head, pulling the covers up. It could be a million degrees and he would still cuddle you to sleep. “...You liked that, right?”
Clark definitely felt like there was more to him then even he knew at this point. Because he never really expected to… like what had happened tonight as much as he did. Sure, some of it could be chalked up to biology, but it was mostly the act of doing it with you that made it all… pleasurable, exciting, something that he… “I think I’d like to do it again- that is, if you’re up for it?”
His skin was soft as you pressed a kiss to his collarbone before looking up at him, “I think I need to, like, train or something. I have no clue how you last that long.” Clark laughs, energized just enough to roll you both onto your back, laying his weight on you like a blanket. Your hand slaps playfully at his back before resting on his shoulder blade.
“It’s ‘cause I’m Superman,” Clark supplies unhelpfully, kissing at your cheeks, “And ‘cause I love you.” You push his face away to look into his eyes, dark blue and soulful and perfect. And you love this man, so much that you want to pour it into him, let him feel it. But you’re way too tired for that, and settle for a kiss instead.
I love your writing SOO MUCH (especially the superman fics)!
Could you please write an angsty one for clark where you guys are together, but he doesn't know that you actually have a twin sister! You guys are very estranged and you don't really talk or get along with one another. The tension comes from growing up and everyone always preferring her to you (she's stolen old boyfriends from you, always belittles you, and even constantly reminds you that she's the 'better twin') Something happens where she ends up at your flat needing a place to stay and you reluctantly let her stay for a couple of days. Unfourtunately, her and Clark become super close to the point where they are always hanging out, leaving you behind. Of course, Clark doesn't think anything of it, until you mention something. Thank you!
firstly, THANK YOU SO MUCHHHHH IT MEANS A LOT TO ME <3333333 secondly, i forking loved this idea!!! started cooking it as soon as i could, so i hope you like it 🍳🧡
the princess and the pauper
you avoid talking about your family at all costs, and clark is aware that it's a banned topic, though it secretly bothers him that you won't introduce him. that's why seeing your evil twin sister at your apartment one day was an important relationship milestone for him, and he took it upon himself to befriend her and make you happy by showing you he can belong in your family. but, of course, it went badly, you know? like everything louise touches. like she planned.
pairing: clark kent x fem!reader
4.4K words
ⓘ established relationship, reader has an identical twin, awful family dynamics mentioned, all those family related "am i the asshole" reddit stories with someone doing minecraft parcour in the background have prepared me for this moment, hurt/comfort, itty bitty little bit of a lot of angst, oblivious!clark, my sweet boy who always thinks the best of people, reader is a literature nerd and makes lots of references to insult her sister, i noticed halfway through that reader was giving captain holt hating wuntch (from brooklyn 99) and just embraced it, reader's sister brings her flashbacks from the fall of babylon, bullying mentioned, golden child!sister, i call her names, and use big bad words, breaking up (for like 5 seconds), making up, and making out, i hope your name isn't louise bc that's what i name reader's twin:(, no use of y/n
࣪ ִֶָ☾. are you shining just for me? (assorted masterlist?
࣪ ִֶָ☾. mila's anthology (main masterlist)
You think that no amount of rest could make up for the hell of a day you had: bad days keep getting worse and worse because peace is, unfortunately, an illusion.
“Sis!”
Your face fell at the sound. That high-pitched demon shriek is all too familiar; familiar like a dirty mirror full of dust, which is also a portal to the other side where all the evil spirits get ready to haunt the first poor soul that is at the wrong place at the wrong time. Like yours.
“I must've been, like, Cruella de Vil in my other life,” You scoffed and turned around to see Louise the Mistress of All Evil standing in your building's lobby. Wait! But not Angelina Jolie's; maybe the most accurate comparison would be Perrault's Wicked fairy from the original tale because she is way worse. Actually, Maleficent would ask your sister for inspiration on how to be the most awful being ever, and maybe even create a Pinterest board with Louise's ideas if she's contemporary enough.
Or maybe Louise is just a bitch.
“I am so happy to see you,” She smirked, arrogant and fake like everything she represents.
“Yeah? To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I thought it'd be nice to spend some time with you here. I needed some fresh air.”
“And you chose Metropolis and its air quality for fresh air?”
“Smarta-” she began but stopped her mouth just in time so as to not insult you. “I meant a different air.”
You scoffed. “Look, if you're here to grab dinner or something, I can't right now. Maybe lunch tomorrow?”
“I came to stay with you, duh.”
And the world fell on your shoulders at that one sentence.
Well, well, if it isn't the consequences of what you did to those puppies, Cruella. So long, Hell Hall.
“Can't you stay at a hotel or something?”
“Mom said I could stay with you,” Louise shrugged.
“That's funny since mom didn't ask me anything,”
“She's our mother, she shouldn't have to ask,”
“Considering we haven't spoken in six years, I'd say she should, but it's whatever,” You exhaled tiredly. “Not like any of you cares.”
She hid her annoyance with a sigh. “So? Where's your apartment?”
“How long are you staying?”
“Two weeks tops, I'll be out of your hair before you know it.”
Obviously out of your hair because she is like lice.
“Okay, let's go,” you agreed, immediately knowing you would regret it because that's how it always ends with Louise: in regret.
She is the kind to bite the hand that feeds her.
You will just have to be careful: hide any valuable items, keep whatever source with your information close to you at all times, bedroom door stays locked, don't speak about your personal life, don't introduce her to anybody, and, most importantly, keep Clark as far from Louise as possible.
One would question: why is that? The answer dates back to the day you were born.
Your parents were infatuated with you and your identical twin to be the same. Same outfits, same hairstyle, same bedroom, same classes, same friends, same treatment, same everything.
The only reason why you don't have the same name is because each of you was named after one of your late grandmas. If you think about it, though, that's still something in which you're the same.
The issue started in fourth grade when Louise swore she was being bullied and your parents insisted on changing you two to another school. While you had many friends, she didn't have any of her own, and yours only hung out with her because your parents used to say you wouldn't go anywhere without your sister. However, she never liked the games you and your friends would play and threw tantrums whenever you decided not to accommodate her. Louise always wanting to control everything —including trying to make you like the same things as her— caused your friends to dislike her and exclude her, which she hated.
Soon, you were studying somewhere else and had lost contact with your friends because ‘no real friend of yours would mistreat your sister’.
You started resenting her and avoiding her for that reason, so it wasn't surprising when she decided she would be her own person and, as your parents had noticed your apathy towards Louise, she instantly became their poor daughter who is always a victim and can do no wrong. Without thinking twice, she took advantage of it and decided that if the twins wouldn't be the same anymore, then one of you had to be better.
And that would be her at all costs.
Louise is narcissistic. She tends to others and fakes kindness so they think of her as a good person, all the while her micro aggressions toward you go on and on. Louise gives water to the visitors? You are too busy with your own things that you don't even care about being hospitable. Louise helps your younger cousins with their homework? You are slow-witted and useless. Thus, while she is sweet, intelligent, considerate, and kind, you are thoughtless and impolite.
All your life, it has been easier for you to make friends: out in the wild, you're more welcoming, genuine, and caring. On the other hand, Louise is contemptuous, entitled, and arrogant. The only ones who want to be her friends are those who are equally as awful as her—if not worse—, fake, and don't think as highly of her as she feels they should. She knows they're bad friends. She knows the only way she can get them to like her is by being mean and lying about how much money she has in her pocket. Raising twins isn't very easy on the wallet, meaning you weren't precisely rich unlike the popular kids Louise used to befriend. You never struggled much, but couldn't afford luxuries like her friends either.
She balances it with being even more of a bitch than her friends. Louise has done so by messing with you most specifically.
You have lost count of how many boyfriends or crushes she's stolen from you, of how many friends you have lost to her fake rumors, and of how much damage to your reputation she has caused. And, as you were so awful, of course your boyfriends would prefer her over you, clearly your crushes would like her better, and obviously your friends are right for distancing themselves from you. That's what everyone thinks.
She is the princess and you are the pauper but make it so the princess is a cunt.
So, Metropolis University was your salvation.
Once you graduated from high school, you moved and, slowly but surely, managed to limit contact with your parents and sister.
And you met Clark.
He was a year above you and the love of your life from the moment you first saw him.
You befriended him quickly the moment you met him at some frat party you were invited to and stayed friends for a long time—best friends at that.
Clark graduated, got a job at the Daily Planet, and then helped you find a job there as well.
Last year, he finally had the guts to confess, and you started dating.
Of course your family is something he has wanted to talk about for some time. You know his parents, they adore you and you adore them, too, but he knows nothing about yours, only that you would change topics drastically and avoid speaking about them, or downright tell him you don't want to talk about them.
And so the journey began.
No taking Clark's calls at your place, telling him not to pick you up, refusing whenever he mentioned walking you home, and asking him not to go to your place without asking first. It would be only two weeks and everything would go back to normal; it is a sacrifice you have to make in order to protect your relationship.
Which worked until a particularly difficult day: Louise ate some pastries Clark had given you the previous day and you got upset with her and argued; your mother called on your way to work because your sister had told her you were an anti-social and decided to scold you for around an hour, that being your first interaction in what felt like a lifetime; you had missed a deadline for an article and the editorial section had to be changed for another one, one not yours. Thankfully, Clark was there to save the day and submitted his before it was due and you got into much more trouble. You left the lunch you had prepared for the day in your kitchen, and the bathroom was never completely empty so you couldn't cry.
But TGIF, right?
So, right after work and being the sweet, perfect boyfriend that he is, Clark went to buy you flowers and bring you food from your favorite restaurant, maybe help you relieve some stress the way only he can, but, instead of seeing you when he opened the door, he found the same face and body as yours, the only difference being a beauty mark you lacked and the way she wears her hair.
“Uh, hello…?”
Louise smirked slightly, immediately catching on to the situation. “Hi, I'm Louise.”
“Hi, Louise. I'm Clark,” He frowned in confusion when she approached him to shake his hand. “And you are…?”
“I take my sister hasn't told you about me,”
You got out of the shower and finally heard Clark's voice, making you run out of your room to see him.
“Clark,” You breathed. “Hi, what… what are you doing here?”
“I came to see you,” he replied. “Just wanted to check on you and, well, bring you a few things. I didn't-”
“Thanks, that's very kind of you. See you tomo-”
“You're a twin?”
“Wait, are you two dating?” Louise tilted her head, index finger dancing in a motion that joined you and Clark.
“Yes,”
“No,” you denied.
His expression changed completely when you said so, but he didn't say anything.
Louise, mischievous, questioned you again. “Yes or no?”
“Yes,” You pressed your lips together. “Anyway, Clark was just about to leave.”
“But he just got here,” she noted, defiant. “I'd love to get to know your boyfriend.”
“Thanks, Louise, but I guess it's better if I leave,” He smiled softly and nodded at you. “It's nice to meet you. Good night to the both of you.”
And he left.
Your sister huffed a laugh. “Now you're embarrassed of your boyfriend?”
“Go fuck yourself, Louise.”
You: I'm sorry about last night
You: She gets the worse of me
You: Breakfast tonight at my place?
You: See what I did?
You: Breakfast at night because it's breakfast for dinner
Superboyfriend 💗: It's okay
Superboyfriend 💗: I'm not sure if I can, but I'll try my best
You: Just say no, Clark
You: I know what it means when you're like that, so just make a choice and tell me
Superboyfriend 💗: I'll be there
You sighed tiredly, sick of Louise always doing something to ruin your life.
Clark is definitely the best thing you have ever had, and losing him, too, would probably send you to a psych ward. Or to jail with first-degree murder charges.
Okay, that is a hyperbole, but the sentiment is much of a muchness.
The reason you invited Clark over is because Louise said she is going to get to know the city better by herself and hang out. The universe blessed you with that.
However, things don't go very well for you since you did awful things to puppies, Cruella.
Clark had made it to your place indeed, things a little tense if anything. Though, when he was in front of you and barely hugged you back, you noticed how much you had fucked it all up already.
You remembered how she always wins.
And you knew you couldn't tell Clark the truth; that would make him think you don't trust him, and you can't have that.
You can't lose him, too.
While you thought about how much you needed him and before the hug ended, Louise was back in your place with a big smile aimed at Clark.
“I thought you'd be-”
“Longer? No, I changed my mind,” She shrugged. “Like godsent, right? Because now I can get to know your boyfriend.”
You pressed your lips together. “I only made dinner for two.”
“It's okay, Sis. We can share yours.”
“You can have mine if you want,” Clark offered, and you felt your heart drop to your stomach, because of course he would do that. Doesn't mean it didn't hurt you that he would give up what you made for him with so much love. He must think you would do that for her and that you would be so happy about it.
“You're such a gentleman, Clark!”
God, you hate her.
You had to put up with Louise being the sweetest, kindest, funniest person in the room while you became the Grumpy Bear on his worst day.
Either way, you dissociated the entire evening and focused on not crying instead of on the lively conversation. You didn't even realize that they had exchanged numbers.
Clark is just proud of himself because he is convinced it would make you happy for him to get along with She-Scar from The Lion King.
Louise would totally throw you off a cliff to be stomped by a stampede of wildebeests. And probably involve your future kid in her evil shenanigans.
Hey, focus.
The next day, the Wicked Witch of the West —the one from the original novel, by the way— wasn't there. Morning, noon, night, and you didn't have to deal with her. You thanked the heavens for it, rejoicing in the most peace you have had since she stepped into your life once again with no explanation at all, until…
They were all giggles and jokes as Clark used his key to open the door. You left the kitchen to receive them, a kind of anger in your eyes you didn't know you had in yourself.
“Hi, Sis!” Louise exclaimed when she crossed the threshold. “What a day we've had.”
“Hi, honey,” Clark approached to give you a kiss, but you took a step back, leaving him wearing a confused frown. “Are you alright?”
“Pack up your things,” you ordered, expression firm, tense, mad at your sister. “And I don't wanna hear a thing, Louise. You can sleep under a bridge for all I care, but I want you out of here right this fucking second.”
Flabbergasted was an understatement for Clark's reaction.
“Hey, what's going on? We were just-”
“Just what, Clark? Out and about behind my back?” you questioned and turned around to face Louise before he could say anything. “If you don't pack up your things right this second, I'm gonna throw your shit off the balcony and I'm not even joking.”
“Calm down, nothing happened-”
“Of course nothing happened, I know him! And God help me, Louise, if you don't get the fuck out of my place right this instant, your ghost will have to haunt my ass in jail.”
“You can't just kick me out!”
“I pay for rent here, I could lock you out on the balcony if I wanted to!”
“Gosh. Louise, you can-” Clark sighed, giving you a disappointed look. “You can stay at my place if you feel comfortable, it's alright.”
You let out a bitter laugh, seeing right through your sister's fake innocence. “Great.”
“I wouldn't like to bother you,”
“It's no bother, let me help-”
“I am not gonna watch this shit,” You scoffed. “If I find out she slept at your place, Clark, it's over between us. You will not see me ever again.”
“Wait, what on Earth is happening with you?” he questioned, his voice raised for the first time ever in your relationship. “You're acting insane!”
Your face changed to complete bafflement while Louise's had a smug smirk, the kind one might miss if it weren't for how well you know how goodness looks on lips just like yours.
“Excuse me?”
Clark noticed he had messed up immediately, so he just retreated. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, I-”
“The two of you are gonna get out of my place,” you began, trying to hide your trembling lip. “And if you wanna fuck him like you always do, proceed by all means. He's available.”
Instead of allowing any response, you went to your bedroom and locked yourself in.
You cried until you fell asleep, his soft knocks on your door like a lullaby you weren't entertaining.
The next morning, you opened your eyes with difficulty because of how puffy they were, with your face tired and a little swollen. You felt your whole body ache for the position you slept in, not to mention the emptiness in your chest. You could feel it physically, like a hole where your heart is supposed to be…, as if your body knew no one is there to make sure blood courses through your veins.
You feel dead.
You have been broken-hearted before, usually courtesy of Louise, but this… this was a whole other feeling.
Like nothing is of use. Like you had planned your future in the shape of Clark Joseph Kent and he just isn't there anymore, so what future are you supposed to have now? What will be of you now that you lost the one person in your life that showed you you're deserving of love? What now?
It hurt like hell.
But life goes on, right? Well, what if it just doesn't? What if you look at yourself in the mirror and the bags under your eyes remind you of what you no longer have? What if you never find a better brand of toothbrush after he show you this perfect one, making you think of him as the first thing you do every single day from now on? What if, when you wash your face, you can still feel the ghost of him hugging you from behind forever? What if this is what the rest of your life is going to be like? What if you open the door and— thud.
“Golly,” He groaned at the sudden fall as he had slept last night with his back on your door.
“What are you doing here?”
Clark stood quickly, body sore but more awake than ever. “Hey.”
The higher pitch of his voice almost made you fold.
“Why are you here again?”
“Again? I never left.”
“You slept here? On the floor? Against the door?”
“If I say I slept on the couch would it sound less pathetic?”
You shook your head. “Clark, uh… you know where your stuff is. You can get changed and take your things with you.”
“Come on, don't do this,”
“Did she leave?”
“Yeah, she packed her stuff and left,”
“Good,” You nodded. “If you were wondering why there are children singing Hallelujah on the streets, that's why.”
He suppressed a chuckle. “Don’t make me laugh, we need to talk.”
“Wasn't trying to be funny, just stating a fact,” you replied, sarcastic. “Anyway, talk fast.”
“Alright. Look, I thought it would make you happy that I got along with Louise,” Clark began. “I thought you were embarrassed of me so I just wanted to prove to you that I could be part of your family, too.”
Your expression softened. “I love you more than anything, Clark. I would never be embarrassed of you.”
“I heard her say it when I left that night. She even told me later.”
“And you believed her over me? Do you think that's who I am?”
“Well, you didn't do a very good job at reassuring me, to be fair.”
“Yeah, I didn't,” you agreed and sighed, tired, too faded to fight but not as much as to not let him in. “I sucked as a girlfriend and I'm sorry for that.”
“It's fine,” Clark nodded and hugged you. “Look, I love you, okay? In my life, I want nothing but you, so I need us to be on the same page.”
You nodded. “Okay.”
“Okay. Tell me how I messed up.”
“By being with her behind my back and calling me insane,”
“I am sorry for doing that. I didn't read the room very well and should've asked you before hanging out with some girl I don't know,” Clark lifted your head by the chin and kissed your forehead sweetly. “And I wasn't meaning to call you that, it just slipped. I don't think you're insane and, even if I did, I shouldn't have called you that. Especially in front of your sister, okay? Do you forgive me?”
“Yeah,”
“What can I do to make it up to you?”
“Well, would you fly her to the sun for me?”
Clark exhaled loudly. “I can't help but feel like maybe this never had anything to do with me.”
“You inserted yourself in it as soon as you decided to befriend Cerberus and her three faces,” You shrugged, and he tried not to laugh at your comment.
“I need to know all the ways you've called your sister until now, but first why?”
“We just don't get along, okay? No need to revisit that, thank you very much.”
“Uh, yes need to revisit that,” He widened his eyes to emphasize his curiosity.
You pressed your lips together. “If I tell you, would you promise to forgive me for being an awful girlfriend, hiding you things, and not trusting you?”
“You're not an awful girlfriend, we just… had a rough couple days,” Clark rubbed your back softly. “But I forgive you for everything. Now, tell me.”
“Do I really have to?”
“Look, I understand if it hurts, so… just help me understand why you hate her. No need to go into specifics if you don't feel comfortable doing so,” He kissed your hair one last time. “But first I gotta brush my teeth. You don't like kissing with morning breath.”
You smiled. “Alright.”
Clark walked to the bathroom in your room with his hand on your lower back to guide you in. Then, he started his morning routine while you lied on your bed and started talking.
“Louise and I were raised to be the same person, which was okay until I developed a sense of identity and realized I was a whole other person outside of that bubble. She's always thought she's entitled to have everyone's attention and princess treatment, which made her very difficult to be around. She couldn't make friends while I could, so she made it her mission to be the ‘better twin’ or something. She would steal my boyfriends, spread rumors about me to get my friends to distance themselves from me, make everyone think I'm awful and she's great, and basically bully me with the popular kids she befriended by being a Regina George wannabe and lying about having money.”
“She kind of came onto me once, but I just shrugged it off…” he commented and sat beside you on the bed. “I didn't want to cause conflict and hoped I was imagining things.”
“What did Ursula from Friends do to you, Clark?”
He snickered softly and lied down. “After lunch, Ursula from ‘should-I-know-who-her-friends-are-?’ insisted on going to the movies and she was a bit touchy and started telling me some story about a trip to Europe.”
“When she was backpacking in Western Europe, by chance?”
He nodded, stroking your hair. “Yeah, it sounded like a good story until I felt the urge to pretend I got a text from my boss.”
“That's the synonym of fuck me to oblivion,” You smirked. “It goes like this.”
“I'm listening,”
“Did I ever tell you about when I was backpacking through Western Europe?”
“Uh, not really. Enlighten me.”
You wrinkled your nose and started tracing the silhouette of his features with your fingers. “I was just outside of Barcelona, hiking in the foothills of Mount Tibidabo…”
Clark hummed, hands finding your waist underneath his shirt you had officially made yours.
“I was at the end of this path and… I came to a clearing, and there was this lake. Very secluded, and there were tall trees all around,” you spoke in a smokey whisper, tone that caught his attention entirely. To be fair, he always has all his senses focused on you when you're together, very few times failing at that—but with valid excuses whenever he does so. Like when you were talking like that and looking at him like this, so… inviting. “It was dead silent, gorgeous. And, across the lake, I saw a beautiful woman bathing herself, but she was crying…”
At your silence and holding gaze, he frowned softly, waiting for you to continue.
“Did you ever find out why she was crying?”
You hummed, close enough so your noses would brush. “Didn't Louise get to that part?”
“I lost track of her words at Tibidabo when I started wondering if it was a real mountain,”
“It's a hill,” You cleared, lips ghosting over his. “There's an amusement park there, and a church named the Sagrat Cor that has a statue of Jesus on top.”
“Yeah?”
“It took them almost sixty years to build it,” you added, already feeling his grasp tightening on your hips. “But, you know? The construction of the Sagrada Familia Church, which is also in Barcelona, started on the early 1880s and it isn't even finished yet. I think it was worth it. They're both absolutely beautiful, an ode to Romanticism in times of Modernism and even later. A complete contra- uhm!”
Clark kissed you deeply, silencing your fact-rant. You smiled into the kiss, making him smile, too. “Gosh, you're so smart.”
“The story worked,” you noted, kissing him again.
“I'm gonna make up one… it'll take place in South America,” he announced, making space between you and him. “Did I ever tell you about the time I went to the Ciudad Perdida?”
You hid a laugh. “I told you about that place. Be original, Kent.”
“Uh, it's in the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta, and it takes days to get there,” He closed his ears to your protests and continued. “I met so many people, saw wonderful views, but something unbelievable happened…”
Going with it, you entertained him by making questions. “Is that so? What happened?”
“I fell and passed out for what they told me were ten minutes but, for me, it was like an hour,” Clark pecked your lips. “I saw someone's face. A gorgeous woman, she looked so perfect… She said…”
“What did she say?” you asked.
“She said you had to kiss me or else your evil twin would-”
You snorted and smacked his arm. “Shut up, Clark!”
“What? That's what happened!” He defended himself, higher-pitch tone on, and laughed.
“Stop it!”
Clark chuckled. “I love you. I'm sorry for these awful days.”
summary: you've been best friends with clark since high school, but moving to metropolis—and crashing at his apartment until you get a job and find your own place—is stirring up old feelings you thought you'd buried for good. so you accept the only job offer you've gotten... at luthorcorp, which somehow turns into a date with lex luthor, and you're left praying for someone super to swoop in and save you.
notes: i wouldn't even blame you if you didn't want to read this, because what do you mean that's the word count??? obsessed with this man, this whole world (bc peacemaker too, holy shit), is an understatement... curse you james gunn for creating something i care so fricken deeply about!!! anyway, my read-through of this was harsh (idk if i'm being too hard on myself or if it just sucks) but there's like 5k(ish) of smut at the end! so... enjoy? i'm sorry? please let me know how it makes you feel?
warnings: swearing (obviously not clark), mention of alcohol, italics, some jealousy, a little arguing, lex is a bit creepy and forceful, lots of yearning (like, so much), and SMUT (making out, fingering, unprotected p in v, clark is huge, and clark also breaks something) 18+ ONLY MDNI!!!
word count: 28161
“You got a job where?”
You flop onto the couch with a sigh. “Clark, I really don’t want to have this conversation.”
“Too bad.” He folds his arms across his chest, his white shirt pulling taut over his biceps. “We’re having it—at least until you admit that this is a bad decision.”
“It’s the only job offer I’ve had since moving to Metropolis,” you fire back.
His brows lift. “Yeah, and don’t you wonder why that might be?”
You frown. “Okay—either that’s an insult to my employability, or you’re implying that Lex Luthor has somehow figured out I know Superman. But either way? Your argument is invalid.”
“How is me wanting to protect my secret identity invalid?” he snaps, eyes wide.
Your lips twitch despite yourself, because Clark’s sudden tone doesn’t offend you—it amuses you. He isn’t really angry, not with you. He’s just… Clark. Passionate. Overprotective. Quick to heat and easy to bait. You know him. You’ve known him since high school, ever since the day he miraculously saved you from something he could never quite explain.
And you knew this fight was coming the second you accepted the LuthorCorp job—you just didn’t expect him to get so worked up so fast.
“I’m not working with Lex Luthor,” you say. “I’m working for LuthorCorp, and it's an entry-level position. I’ll probably never even see him, let alone speak to him. I can promise you that he doesn’t, and never will, know who I am.”
He exhales hard, shoulders sagging. “You can’t promise that.”
“Clark,” you sigh, “it’s a good job. And it’ll look great on my resume, which means I can get a better job after this. But right now, I just need an income so I can find an apartment and stop crashing on your couch.”
His gaze flicks to the dark blue cushions beneath you, brow furrowing. “You’re not sleeping on the couch—you’re in the spare room.”
You roll your eyes. “It was metaphorical, you dork.”
His head tilts. “Oh.”
“Look,” you say, pushing off the couch, “I promise I’ll be careful. I’ll keep to myself, I’ll be discreet, and I won’t breathe a word about being best friends with Superman. Not even about that one time he let me try on the suit.”
Clark’s jaw tenses—not with irritation, but because he’s biting back a smile. You can tell. His lips press tight, his dimples crease, and there’s that little sparkle in his eyes that never fails to make your stomach flip.
“Funny,” he mutters, the corner of his mouth twitching.
You grin. “I like to think so.”
“Why can’t I just get you a job at the Daily Planet?” he asks.
You give him the look—the one you always give him when he brings this up. “Because I’m not a reporter. And I’m not going to spend my days slinging coffee for over-caffeinated, over-critical journalists.”
“You’d rather work for an evil billionaire?”
“Don’t we all work for evil billionaires?”
He narrows his eyes, brows knitting as he adjusts his folded arms—forearms flexing beneath rolled sleeves. And it’s painfully distracting, but Clark Kent is much too naive to realise what he does to you.
You drag your eyes back up to his face—which is no less stupidly distracting—and fold your own arms, mirroring him. “So, what’s for dinner?”
His frown deepens. “We’re not done talking about this.”
You roll your eyes again. “Yes, we are, Clark. I already accepted the job and signed the contract.” You give him your best levelling stare, even though you’re practically breaking your neck just to meet his gaze. “I start Monday.”
“Monday?”
“Yep,” you say with a nod. “And I’ve got two apartment viewings later in the week. Wanna come?”
His expression slips, the scowl softening into something uncertain. “That’s… quick.”
You step around him toward the kitchen. “Well, yeah. Don’t act like you’re not dying to have your privacy back,” you call over your shoulder.
His footsteps follow yours as you stop at the fridge and yank the door open, ducking down to see right to the back of the shelves—as if food might magically appear, even though Clark always eats his way through the week’s groceries by Friday night.
“I’m not,” he says quietly. “I mean, not really. I like having you around.”
It takes you all of three seconds to decide takeout is the only option.
“Don’t lie.” You shut the fridge and turn to face him, fishing your phone from your back pocket. “There’s a big difference between enjoying someone’s company and wanting to live with them—and you, farm boy, do not want to live with me. At least not full time.”
He frowns again, placing both palms flat on the kitchen island as he leans forward. “I don’t see what the big deal is. We haven’t had any… problems so far.”
You lean back against the opposite counter, needing a little space between you and your best friend’s stupid forearms. And those stupidly large hands. And that stupidly adorable little frown he gets when he’s trying to win an argument without getting too impassioned.
“That’s because we both know it’s temporary. And neither of us has tried to bring someone home,” you say, eyes locked on your phone as you flip between food delivery apps.
“Bring someone home?” he echoes.
You nod, still scrolling. “Yeah. Like a date or a hookup or something.”
“A hookup?”
“Yes, Clark, a hookup,” you mutter. “You know—sex? The thing two consenting adults do when they’re horny or frustrated or bored.”
There’s a beat of silence, the air between you thickening with something unfamiliar. Then—
“Bored?”
“Oh my God,” you sigh, eyes wide as your head snaps up. “Bored, yes. Don’t tell me you’ve never had sex or—I don’t know—jerked off out of boredom?”
Pink blooms across his cheeks. “Well, I—uh—I mean… no? Not really. I don’t really… do that.”
You still, eyes narrowing. “You don’t do what?”
He shrugs. “Jerk off… much.”
“Much?” you echo, curiosity getting the better of you.
You don’t really want to have this conversation—God knows you don’t need any more spank bank material when it comes to your best friend—but you just can’t help yourself. Whether it was Clark or anyone else, you’d press. You’re just inquisitive. Some might say nosy.
And horny. Yeah, definitely horny. It’s been a while.
His brows lift. “What? You want the weekly average, or—?”
“No,” you cut in quickly. “I don’t. Sorry. We probably shouldn’t have this conversation.”
Your eyes drop back to your phone screen as you try to will away the heat creeping into your cheeks. It’s ridiculous, really, how a man you’ve known for more than half your life can still make you feel like a nervous, blushing teenager without even trying.
“Why not?” he asks, all innocence and naivety.
You snort. “Because my sex life is non-existent, and I’d rather not be reminded of that.”
You keep your head bowed, thumb swiping too fast for you to register any of the takeout options—but you’re not really looking. You’re just focusing on steadying your pulse and ignoring the burn of Clark’s stare from across the island.
Then, after a taut few seconds that feel like an eternity, he clears his throat.
“You know,” he says slowly, voice dropping, “if you needed someone to—”
“It’s fine,” you blurt, too fast. “I don’t want to talk about it. I’m fine, I promise.”
“Oh.” His eyes widen just slightly, and he takes a half-step back. “Yeah, talk. That’s—uh—that’s what I was going to say. But if you don’t want to, it’s—it’s fine. But I’m here… if you do.”
You nod, pressing your lips together tightly to stop yourself from saying anything else stupid. Because even though you’re pretty sure this moment couldn’t get any more awkward than it already is, you know better than to underestimate yourself.
“I’m gonna shower,” he says suddenly, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Okay,” you mutter. “I’ll order—um, burgers?”
He nods. “Yep. Burgers.”
You drop your gaze back to your phone as he turns and disappears down the hall. His bedroom door creaks open, and just before it clicks shut, you call out, “And this is exactly why I need to find my own apartment.”
-
“And this is your office,” Dennis from middle management says.
It’s not an office. It’s a desk—a cubicle, to be precise. Smack in the middle of an open-concept space that looks like it was designed by an evil genius with too much money and a vendetta against every colour except grey.
So yeah. Makes sense.
“Thanks,” you murmur, setting your bag down on the desk.
“We fired up your laptop yesterday and got everything set up for you,” he says, leaning against the steel-grey partition. “You should’ve had all your passwords sent to your personal email, so just log in and jump into your work email—there you’ll find a few links for company inductions and whatnot.”
You nod. “Sounds great. I’ll start there.”
He gives you a toothy smile, and your gaze catches on a little something green stuck between his incisors. “If you need anything at all, let me know. Otherwise, Katie—one of our other analysts—will pop by after lunch to show you some things.”
You nod again. “Thanks, Dennis.”
His gaze lingers a beat too long, just enough to make you squirm, before he turns sharply and stalks back through the office.
With a heavy breath, you drop into your new desk chair and flip open the laptop in front of you. It’s hooked up to one of those big curved monitors, which flickers to life instantly. You pull out your phone, check your emails, log into the laptop, and wait for it to load.
Then your phone vibrates on the desk.
CLARK: Please call me if you need me. Good luck.
You didn’t see him this morning. You were so worried about missing the train and being late that you left forty-five minutes earlier than you needed to. Clark was still asleep when you crept out of the apartment—which was probably for the best. You’d spent the entire weekend arguing about whether this job was a good idea, and you weren’t in the mood to rehash it right before your first day.
You quickly type out a response:
Call you as in phone you, or scream for help and hope someone super shows up?
He responds almost immediately.
CLARK: Hilarious.
You simply send back a winky-face emoji, then tuck your phone into your bag. The last thing you need is to get caught on your phone before you’ve even made it through day one.
The morning passes in a blur of menial HR tasks and mandatory videos about occupational health and safety. After lunch—which you spend alone in the breakroom, since apparently no one here actually takes a break—Katie shows up. She drops into the seat beside you and runs you through a few different tasks you’ll be responsible for.
The work isn’t hard, not really, it’s just data crunching—but you’re still nervous. You don’t know the software systems that well yet, and you feel a little like a toddler trying to jam square blocks into circular holes.
By four p.m., you’re wrecked. It’s not just the learning new things, it’s the socialising too. Meeting new people is draining, especially in the corporate world where you have to appear professional and composed. Which is definitely not how you’re feeling as you drag your feet through the lobby of the LuthorCorp building.
You’re just about to step out onto the street when you recognise an obnoxiously tall—and broad—curly-haired figure waiting outside.
You walk up behind him. “Clark?”
He spins around, blue eyes shining behind those dorky glasses. “Hey. How was your first day?”
Your brows pinch. “It... it was fine, but—what are you doing here?”
He shrugs. “Couldn’t let my girl walk home from her first day all alone.”
Your pulse skips, but you mask it with a short, unladylike snort. “Your girl? What is this, the 1940s?”
He blinks, cheeks flushing pink as he scratches the back of his neck. “I—uh—no, I didn’t mean it like—I just meant—”
“It’s fine, Kent.” You pat his arm, biting back a grin. “Come on, let’s go home. I’m exhausted.”
You both start in the direction of Clark’s apartment, weaving through the tide of evening commuters hurrying along the sidewalk. You’d originally planned to catch the train home, but since you have nowhere you need to be—and Clark’s keeping you company—you’re not averse to walking.
“So,” you say, shoving your hands deeper into your coat pockets, “how was your day, Mr. Journalist?”
He shrugs. “Oh, you know. The usual. Writing, editing, coffee… saving a bus full of school kids when it lost its brakes at the end of West Frank Lane.”
You arch a brow, lips twitching. “In that order?”
He grins, those stupid dimples making your heart stutter. “Yeah. In that order.”
“Impressive.” You nod slowly. “And you still had time to wait outside my building like a total stalker?”
His smile falters, a small frown creasing between his brows. “I’m not being a stalker. I just wanted to make sure you got home safely.”
You roll your eyes. “Clark, it’s midtown, not Gotham.”
“I don’t care,” he says firmly. “I’d rather be sure.”
You watch him for a beat, tracing the slope of his nose and the curve of his lips—letting yourself wonder, just for a moment, what they might taste like. Then you shake your head, huff a soft half-laugh, and drop your gaze to your shoes.
There’s no point arguing with Clark when he gets like this—unyielding in his need to protect. You’re never sure if it’s Kryptonian instinct or just because it’s you, but either way, he’s immovable. If the weight of the world on his shoulders isn’t enough, he’s also decided that your safety his personal responsibility. And no matter how many times you tell him it isn't, he never listens.
So you continue walking in companionable silence—arms brushing now and then, trading sidelong glances, murmuring apologies as the sidewalk crowds around you. It isn’t long before you’re crossing the lobby of Clark’s apartment building, stepping into the lift, then waiting beside him while he fumbles with his keys.
When he finally gets the door open, he braces it with one arm and gestures for you to go first—as he always does. And, as always, you don’t bother arguing.
You step inside, drop your bag, and before you can even think about shrugging out of your coat, his hands are there. His fingers curl around the collar, gentle but certain, his body warm at your back as he eases the fabric from your shoulders. The heat of him surrounds you, his scent settling in your head until you almost forget to breathe. For a split second you nearly lean into it, nearly let yourself sink back against him—but then the coat is gone, and so is he.
You stand frozen, pulse stuttering, skin prickling, silently cursing Martha Kent for raising a man who could turn basic manners into pure torture.
“You okay?” Clark asks, voice low and much too close.
“Mhm,” you manage, clearing your throat before you force yourself a few steps further into the apartment.
You hear the rustle of his own jacket and the thunk of his satchel hitting the floor, but you still don’t turn around. You keep moving into the kitchen until your palms find the cool marble of the countertop, grounding yourself with the reminder that Clark is your best friend. Nothing more.
“Want me to cook tonight?” he asks, stepping in after you.
You glance up, brows raised. “So... pancakes?”
His eyes narrow, arms folding across his chest in that stupidly distracting way. “I can cook more than just pancakes.”
“Scrambled eggs, then?”
His mouth twitches, like he’s trying not to laugh. “I can cook more than just breakfast food.”
You shrug, a small smirk tugging at your lips. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”
“Alright, then.” He uncrosses his arms and starts rolling up his sleeves. “I’ll prove it. What’ve we got?”
You step aside as he rounds the kitchen island and pulls the fridge door open. He has to crouch down to see inside, which makes his slacks go taught over his ass and around his thighs—and God, it’s hard not to stare.
“What about... spaghetti bolognese?” he asks.
You clear your throat, dragging your eyes away from him. “Do we have any spaghetti?”
You turn toward the back cupboards and pull open the top one where you know Clark usually keeps dry goods. On the highest shelf, you spot a tall jar of spaghetti—so you stretch up onto your toes and reach for it. Your fingertips brush the glass, but the jar wobbles just out of reach.
“Here, let me,” Clark murmurs, suddenly behind you.
Before you can protest, he steps closer—closer than he ever should—trapping you against the counter. His chest presses firmly against your back, the breadth of him overwhelming, solid and hot and unmovable. The counter digs into your stomach as he leans in, arms reaching around you, chin brushing the crown of your head.
Every shift of his body makes your nerves spark. The heat of him, the faint scent of him flooding your senses, the unmistakable press of something half-hard against your ass—it’s enough to steal your breath. You swallow hard, pulse hammering, the edge of the counter biting into you with delicious insistence. You want to push back, to wriggle your hips, to turn around and do something reckless—but you don’t. You can’t.
Because Clark is just being Clark. Your best friend. A considerate man. Painfully oblivious to how easily he undoes you. Utterly blind to how intimate this is.
“Got it,” he says, tilting the jar down within your reach.
But you don’t move. You can’t. And he doesn’t either—still pressed against you, radiating warmth, crowding every inch of your body until the jar might as well not exist. You force your hand up, fingertips brushing the glass, but your body is wired too tight, heartbeat roaring in your ears.
“Thanks,” you manage, barely more than a breath—and finally, finally, he steps back.
You draw a sharp, shuddering breath, and set the jar on the counter. Then, with shaking hands, you grip the cool marble in another lame attempt to ground yourself before you fall apart.
“Is there any red wine you’re willing to sacrifice,” Clark asks, already rummaging through the fridge, “or do I need to run down to the store and get a cheap bottle?”
He’s completely unaffected. Totally oblivious. His focus fixed on tomatoes and herbs and not at all on the way he just pressed you into the counter like he owned you.
“Uh, yeah,” you mutter, stumbling back. “It’s fine, use anything.”
He pauses, glancing at you with a small, curious frown. “You okay?”
You nod, too quickly. “Yep. Yeah. I’m good. Just—uh, gonna go shower.”
You rush out of the kitchen and down the hall before he can respond, slamming the bathroom door shut and falling back against it. Your skin still tingles with his warmth, your pulse still racing as you let your head fall back against the wood with a soft thud.
You haven’t felt this wired around Clark since high school. Not since those early years when every smile felt like it might mean something more—before reality set in and you realised he’d never see you as anything more than a friend. A best friend. Which has always been enough. More than enough.
At least, that’s what you tell yourself. Because sure, he’s stupidly attractive. Sure, he’s so kind it borders on infuriating. And sure, there are nights when your brain takes a nosedive into fantasies you’ll never admit out loud—the kind where you’re on your knees for him, gagging and gasping until you’re wrecked. But that’s all they are—fantasies, sparked by the fact that he’s unfairly good-looking and one of the only decent men left on the planet. Which is hilarious, considering he isn’t even from this planet.
The truth is, you’re happy being his friend. You really are. You just wish he knew boundaries. That he wasn’t so close, so gentle, so thoughtful in ways that blur lines he doesn’t even notice he’s crossing. Because Clark Kent may be the sweetest man alive, but he is also painfully, dangerously oblivious.
And that is exactly why you need to find your own apartment. Immediately.
- Clark -
“Alright, what’s wrong?” Jimmy asks, leaning a hip against Clark’s desk.
Clark glances up. “Hm? Me?”
Jimmy rolls his eyes. “Yes, you. You were moody all yesterday, and I figured Perry must’ve shredded your article. But considering that article is on the front page today and you’re still sulking, I’m thinking it’s something else.”
Clark frowns. “Oh—uh, nope. I’m fine. Just… don’t feel great.”
Jimmy arches a brow, his sharp green eyes seeing straight through the lie. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with your super-hot best friend who’s been crashing on your couch, would it?”
Clark spins his chair to face him fully, frown deepening. “She’s not on the couch—she’s in the spare room.”
“Sure she is,” Steve quips as he strolls past, smirking.
Both Clark and Jimmy shoot him a glare before turning back to each other.
“Anyway,” Jimmy says, shaking his head. “What’d she do?”
Clark exhales hard and leans back in his chair. “She got a job.”
Jimmy blinks, confusion flickering across his face. “That’s… a good thing? You said she’d been looking for ages.”
“At LuthorCorp,” Clark mutters.
“Ohhh.” Jimmy nods slowly. “She’s working for the evil Lex Luthor.”
“Jimmy!” Lois snaps, swivelling around in her chair. “You can’t say that—not here, at least. There might be whispers about Luthor, but there’s no solid proof. And as an ethical reporter, you stick to fact.”
“Come on, Lois,” Clark says. “He’s creepy. Everyone can see it.”
She folds her arms, giving him a flat stare. “He’s a billionaire with a private weapons company. That alone makes him look shady. But without real evidence, you can't call him evil.”
“Always the diplomat,” Jimmy sighs, shaking his head.
Lois rolls her eyes. “Look, Clark, not every shadow you see is a threat. LuthorCorp might have skeletons in the closet, but it’s still a powerhouse employer. For her, this isn’t danger—it’s opportunity.”
Clark wants to bite back. He wants to tell them that Luthor has it out for Superman—and that alone should be enough of a red flag. Because who hates someone who’s just trying to help people? Sure, Clark might be biased on the subject, but history shows the same pattern over and over. Wealth, obsession with control, and hatred of what gives others hope—that’s not just ambition. That’s dangerous. And Clark knows Lex Luthor is dangerous.
But he can’t exactly say that in the middle of the bullpen without raising a thousand questions. So, with a quiet exhale, he spins his chair back toward his computer screen.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “I guess you’re right.”
“Look on the bright side,” Jimmy says. “Her having a job means she can find her own apartment.”
“How is that the bright side?” Cat asks, popping up beside him. “Isn’t he like... in love with her?”
Jimmy chuckles. “Well, yeah, but living with someone you’re in love with but not with would be torture.”
Clark glances back at them. “I don’t mind living with her. It’s... nice, actually.”
Jimmy raises a brow. “Really? Doing the whole domestic routine isn’t killing you?”
“We’re not doing a domestic routine,” Clark insists, swivelling his chair around again.
Jimmy scoffs. “Right. So you’re not cooking together every night? Not grocery shopping together? Not watching movies together on the couch?”
Clark winces. “Okay, yes, but that doesn’t mean—”
“Dude,” Jimmy says flatly, “you’re her stand-in boyfriend. That’s what this is.”
Clark’s shoulders stiffen. “No it isn’t.”
Jimmy doesn’t bother arguing—he just lifts both brows and stares.
“Okay, fine,” Clark mutters. “But it’s not exactly easy to get out of a friendzone you’ve been stuck in since high school.”
“Ooh.” Cat grimaces. “Since high school?”
Clark sighs, leaning into his chair and tipping his head back to stare at the ceiling. “I really don’t want to have this conversation at work.”
“So you’ve been flirting with her?” Jimmy presses, completely unbothered.
“Yes,” Clark sighs.
“How?”
Clark lowers his gaze, frowning. “How what?”
“How have you been flirting?”
He hesitates, frown deepening as he searches for examples—any examples. “I always tell her she looks nice,” he says, trying not to cringe at how lame it sounds. “And I make fresh coffee every morning. But... she gets up before me now, so that doesn’t really—”
“That’s just being considerate,” Jimmy cuts in, brows raised like he’s waiting for a real answer.
Clark clears his throat, straightening in his chair. “Sometimes I… uh… give her my jacket.”
“You mean... when she’s cold?” Jimmy asks, deadpan. “That’s called not being a jerk.”
Clark pushes his glasses further up his nose. “Well... whenever she’s stressed out or had a bad day, I pick up her favourite snacks.”
Jimmy rolls his eyes. “That’s what friends do, Clark.”
Cat giggles. “Yeah, I bought Jimmy a muffin last week after Perry yelled at him, and I’m pretty sure I wasn’t trying to confess my undying love.”
Jimmy gasps, smacking a hand to his chest in mock hurt. “Wow. And here I thought you were finally making your move.”
Cat just shakes her head, still laughing as she looks back at Clark. “Alright, Casanova. What other swoon-worthy moves have you got?”
Clark glances aside, mouth twisting in thought. “I—uh... I walked her home yesterday.”
“Congratulations.” Jimmy smirks. “You’re a golden retriever.”
“A very loyal one,” Cat adds, grinning.
Clark lets out a long exhale, squeezing his eyes shut and leaning back in his chair until it tilts with a soft creak. This is great. Just perfect. What better way to spend his Tuesday morning than humiliating himself in front of his coworkers, parading his pathetic excuses for flirting like they’re something worth bragging about.
Snacks. Coffee. Walking you home. That isn’t flirting. That’s just being decent. That’s being a good friend—or at least, that’s what it should mean. But in his case? He’s not sure he counts as a good friend at all. Not with all the things he hides. The things he does that cross the lines of friendship, and he doesn’t know how to stop.
Like the way he studies you when you’re not looking, as if memorising your body might keep him from losing his mind. The twitch of his hand whenever it brushes yours, fighting the urge to hold on, to pull you closer. And the nights—those are the worst—where he winds up with your name breaking from his lips, his hand moving to the thought of your mouth, your skin, your body.
That isn’t friendship, and it sure as hell isn’t flirting. It’s something else entirely—and Clark hates how badly he needs it.
“I’m terrible at this,” he mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses.
“Oh, honey,” Cat sighs. “Not terrible, just—”
“Horrible?” Jimmy offers.
Cat shoots him a scowl. “No. I was going to say—”
“Awful?” Jimmy cuts in again.
“No,” Cat mutters through her teeth. “He’s just—”
“Appalling?” Jimmy says, unabashed.
Cat stomps her foot, glaring at him. “What are you, a thesaurus?!”
Clark drops his hand, giving them both a flat look. “Are you two done?”
Jimmy shrugs. “Look, all I’m saying is that you need to stop hiding behind the ‘nice guy’ stuff and actually say something.”
Clark frowns, shoulders tightening. “Like what?”
Jimmy leans in, lowering his voice like it’s a secret. “I don’t know, maybe try ‘I like you’? Or—here’s a wild thought—just ask her out.”
Cat crosses her arms with a smug grin. “See? Not rocket science.”
“Right,” Clark says, brows knitting tighter. “So you’re suggesting I risk over a decade of friendship by being totally direct?”
Jimmy tilts his head. “Either that, or keep up the world’s slowest flirting campaign hoping she’ll eventually notice. Which, let’s be honest, she won’t, because I’m not convinced you even know what flirting is.”
“Then eventually,” Cat cuts in, twirling a lock of hair around her finger, “she’ll meet some tall, confident guy who actually makes a move. Next thing you know, you’re stuck in the front row of their wedding, watching her marry someone that isn’t you while you quietly imagine being the one holding her hands.”
“Or worse,” Lois pipes up, spinning around in her chair, “you’ll be the maid of honour.”
Jimmy snorts, Cat giggles, and Clark shoots Lois a scowl.
“I appreciate the advice,” he says tightly, “but it’s really not that simple.”
“Come on, Clark,” Cat sighs. “Have a little confidence—you’re a great guy. And just because she hasn’t thought of you romantically before doesn’t mean she never will. Ask her out, and maybe she’ll realise she’s been into you this whole time too.”
Clark scoffs. “Yeah, I doubt that.”
“Just do what I do, Kent,” Steve says, stopping beside Clark’s desk with his World’s Best Grandma mug in hand. “Ask yourself: W-W-S-D.”
Every pair of eyes turns toward him, blinking. No one speaks.
Steve rolls his eyes like it’s obvious. “What would Superman do?”
Clark wants to laugh, but he can’t—so instead, he just shakes his head and swivels back to face his computer. “Thanks, Steve. I’ll keep that in mind,” he mutters.
“Please tell me that’s not actually your motto,” Jimmy says, staring at Steve in disbelief. “Because Superman is literally super and you’re—well, you’re not. There are a lot of things Superman would and could do that you absolutely should not be doing.”
Steve shrugs. “It’s metaphorical.”
Jimmy narrows his eyes. “So... metaphorically, what would Superman do?”
“Exactly,” Steve says.
Cat exhales hard. “Okay, I’m done.”
“Yeah,” Jimmy mutters. “I’m going back to work.”
Steve just shrugs again before turning back to his desk, and eventually the bullpen settles—the chatter fading into the usual clatter of keyboards and ringing phones. Clark keeps his eyes fixed on his screen, fingers moving fast even though he’s not entirely sure what he’s typing—or which article he’s supposed to be writing.
His mind is stuck on you, because of course it is. It always is. And now, thanks to Steve, he can’t stop circling back to that stupid question: what would Superman do? If he were only Superman—if he didn’t also have to be Clark Kent, the mild-mannered, bumbling journalist—would things be different? Would he be brave enough to tell you how he really feels? Would you look at him the way he’s dreamed about for years? Would you actually want him?
Surely not. Right? You already know he’s Superman, so if that was the thing that would win you over, you’d already be interested by now. Unless it’s Clark Kent that ruins it for you. Maybe the clumsy, glasses-wearing, small-town reporter is the part you can’t stomach. Maybe if he could shed that skin, if he was just Superman, you might actually see him differently.
The thought gnaws at him all day. He spends hours trying to remember the last guy you dated—any of them, really—as if lining himself up against the ghosts of your boyfriends will somehow give him answers. But the truth is, he can’t even recall their faces. Not properly, at least. It’s not that they didn’t exist—Clark knows they did, because he remembers the jealousy burning through him each time—but they were always short-lived, always forgettable. And if he’s being honest, you’d never really looked at them like you were in love. But still, it hadn’t stopped him from hating every second of it.
Then, when he’s not dredging up old jealousy, he’s tearing himself apart over the past few weeks. Every lame excuse for flirting. Every time he lingered too long. Every moment he thought maybe—just maybe—you were blushing for him, only to convince himself it was politeness, or embarrassment, anything but interest. And last night—God, last night—that reckless moment in the kitchen when he’d cornered you against the counter. Because some selfish, desperate part of him had needed to be close, had fed him the lie that it was innocent, that he was only being helpful.
But it hadn’t been innocent. Not even close. Because now, all he can think about is the way you’d felt against him—the press of your body, the heat of your skin—and every time the memory hits, it coils low in his stomach and makes his slacks feel uncomfortably tight.
And that’s when the fear kicks in. Because he knows this isn’t harmless anymore. It’s not sweet or shy or the safe kind of crush he’s been hiding behind for years. It’s sharper, darker, needier than he ever meant it to be. He catches himself imagining what it would be like to pin you there again, only this time not pulling away. To lean in until your back arched against the counter, until you had no choice but to feel everything he’s been holding back.
The thought terrifies him. Because Superman isn’t supposed to think like that. Superman isn’t supposed to want like that.
Clark squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, forcing his fingers to keep hammering at the keys, praying the noise of the bullpen will drown out the one thing he can’t escape—how badly he wants you, and how much harder it's getting to keep pretending it’s just friendship.
- You -
By your third week at LuthorCorp, everything is starting to feel a little less intimidating and a little more manageable. You’re no longer bugging Katie with questions every five minutes—even though she’s been nothing but patient—and you finally feel comfortable enough to wear your headphones throughout the day, drowning out the deafening silence of the office around you.
You’ve also got your swipe card on a retractable clip hooked to your pants now, which means no more embarrassing trips to security after forgetting it at your desk during lunch.
And the job itself? Almost too easy. You work independently, at your own pace, and you don’t go home thinking about it. There’s the occasional anomaly, but whenever something odd pops up, you just forward it to one of the senior analysts and move on. It couldn’t be a more perfect opportunity. One year in a role like this at a place like LuthorCorp, and the world is yours—metaphorically, at least.
Everything is looking up. You’ve even submitted applications for a couple of cozy studio apartments within walking distance from work. It’s almost as if moving to Metropolis wasn’t a huge mistake after all—just a little rough at first. But now that you’ve found your footing, everything is finally falling into place. Almost perfectly.
Almost.
Because then there’s Clark.
Clark, who stopped nagging you about your new job after the second day—and promptly started acting like the weirdest version of himself you’ve ever seen. And you’ve known Clark a long time. You’ve seen plenty of weirdness. But this? This is different.
At first, he was distant. He stopped hanging out with you after work, insisting he was too tired to watch a movie, or that he wasn’t in the mood to cook dinner together. He started working later, making up excuses about deadlines or Superman business that you knew were bullshit because there was nothing on the news. He still smiled though, still asked how your day was, but it was clipped—like he was rationing his words, careful not to give too much away. Careful not to let you think he cared.
But then came the chatter. It wasn’t his usual thoughtful questions or funny anecdotes from the newsroom, but a nervous stream of words that never seemed to go anywhere. He’d ramble about the weather, or about the burnt breakroom coffee, or about some article he wasn’t even sure was worth writing. His voice filled the space between you, too fast and too full, while all you could do was nod along and wonder if a person's moods could give you whiplash.
And now? Now he’s gone strange in a whole new way—he’s quiet, but not the good kind. He’s all spacey. Distracted. You caught him staring at you across the couch last night like he was a million miles away, only for him to blink and fumble an excuse about being tired. And just this morning, he forgot what he was saying mid-sentence, losing his train of thought halfway through asking you a question about your day.
It’s like there’s something pressing on him, something he isn’t telling you, and the more you notice it, the heavier it feels hanging between you—making it almost impossible for you to focus on anything else.
“And this is our newest recruit.” Dennis’ voice pulls you out of your thoughts, and you quickly shove your headphones off your ears, spinning around in your chair.
Your stomach drops the moment you see the man standing beside him.
“Dennis,” Lex Luthor says, his voice low and measured, a hint of menace hidden beneath the calm. “What have I told you about notifying me of new employees?”
His suit is perfectly pressed, his shoes so polished the overhead lights bounce off them, and there’s a faint smile tugging at his mouth—like he knows something you don’t. His presence feels like a spotlight has swung onto your desk, making your gut twist with nausea.
Dennis blinks, flustered. “Uh… that HR handles orientation?”
Lex’s smile widens just a fraction. “No. I’ve told you—I insist on meeting them.” His gaze drops, then moves back up slowly, lingering just long enough to make you squirm. “I like to know the people who join my family.”
Dennis laughs nervously, clearly unsure if Lex is joking. “Right, of course. Uh, this is—”
“I know who she is,” Lex cuts in smoothly, extending a hand toward you. “I always make it my business to know.”
You rise quickly, taking his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr—”
“Call me Lex,” he says, leaning in ever so slightly. “And the pleasure... is all mine.”
A cold shiver zips down your spine. You pull your hand back and shove it into the pocket of your pants, masking your discomfort with an overly bright smile and a small, awkward laugh.
Lex studies you a moment longer—just looks at you. The discomfort grows as every second ticks by, and even Dennis looks bewildered by whatever the hell is happening. Seconds stretch until it feels like a full minute before Lex finally blinks, and if that alone isn’t a red flag, you don’t know what is.
“Well, then,” he says at last, clasping his hands together. “Unfortunately, I must keep moving.”
You nod once, forcing your mouth into a polite smile that feels far too tight on your face.
“Dennis.” Lex turns to him, brows raised. “Keep moving.”
“Oh—right, yes.” Dennis gives you a quick nod before turning toward the elevator. “This way, Mr. Luthor.”
Lex’s gaze lingers on you for just a beat longer before he follows. The second the doors slide shut behind them, you exhale hard, releasing a breath you hadn’t even realised you were holding. You drop back into your chair, hands gripping your knees as you try to breathe past the nausea clawing at the back of your throat.
You’ve never felt so uncomfortable by someone’s presence alone. There’s something deeply unsettling about Lex Luthor. Something you can’t trust. Something that makes you skin crawl. And for the first time, you’re starting to wonder if Clark might be right.
Which is exactly why you don’t tell him you met the billionaire CEO. Not even when he asks how your day was, or if anything exciting happened, or why you seem a little more tense than usual. You shrug it off with an excuse about being tired and take yourself off to bed early, hoping the rest of the week won’t be as unsettling as today.
But it only gets worse.
Because Lex makes a point of stopping by your desk every single day.
On Tuesday, he asks how you’re settling in—if you need anything, if your team is being supportive enough. On Wednesday, he asks if you’re comfortable where you’re sitting, if you’d prefer to be by a window, or if you’d like a bigger desk. On Thursday, he asks about your workload, how you’re managing, how you see yourself moving forward with the company.
You don’t have the guts to tell him you don’t plan on staying for long—especially not now that he seems to have made you his new pet project.
By Friday, the rest of the office has definitely noticed his interest. A few seem unfazed, others a little jealous, but only Katie bothers to ask if you’re okay. She says she’s noticed he can be a little odd sometimes. Apparently, his last girlfriend worked in the Information Technology department, and Lex would visit her every day before they officially started dating. But when they broke up, she just… disappeared.
“We didn’t really expect her to keep working here after they split,” Katie explains, perched on the edge of your desk, “but no one’s heard from her since. It’s been, like—” She cuts off, eyes darting toward the elevator. “Shit, here he comes.”
She slips off your desk, flashes you a tight smile, and hurries back to her own cubicle.
You hear him before you see him—his shoes clicking sharp against the polished concrete floor, each step making your pulse climb higher, tighter, until he stops right beside your desk.
You glance up, forcing a polite smile. “Good morning, Mr. Luthor.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, but it isn't quite a smile. His gaze drags over you instead, slow and assessing, as if your posture alone might give you away.
“How many times must I ask you to call me Lex?”
Heat floods your face, betraying your unease as it coils low in your stomach.
“At least one more?” you offer, hoping he’ll take it lightly.
Relief flickers through you when the faintest smile touches his lips.
“Then please,” he says, stepping closer, lowering his voice, “call me Lex.”
You nod once, lips pressed tight, heart hammering against your ribs. You don’t even know why he unsettles you this much. He hasn’t touched you, hasn’t crossed a boundary outright, hasn’t asked anything you could point to as inappropriate. It’s just something in the way he watches you—steady, predatory, like you’re already marked. The next name on the list. The next girl to date him. The next girl to disappear.
“Do you have any plans for the weekend?” he asks, brows lifting.
You shift in your chair, buying a breath as you scramble for something—anything. “Just the usual,” you reply. “Chores, errands, hanging out with my roommate.”
Clark isn't technically your roommate—perhaps temporary roommate would be more accurate—but something instinctive makes you emphasise it. Something in your gut insists on letting Lex know you don’t live alone.
“Roommate?” he repeats, interest sharpening.
You nod. “Yeah. I’ve known him since high school.”
His jaw ticks, and you don't miss it—satisfaction curling in your chest. You know Clark will protect you no matter what—you don’t need to drop his name like a shield. But it feels good to do it anyway. And you’d much rather attempt to deter Lex yourself than have to admit Clark was right all along.
“What about next weekend?” Lex asks.
“Much the same,” you reply quickly, wringing your hands in your lap.
The corner of his mouth lifts in a smirk. “Surely your roommate won’t mind me stealing you for one night, then?”
Your stomach knots, twisting with nausea and panic and the sharp regret of not listening to Clark.
“One night?” you echo, your voice unsteady.
Lex nods. “The LuthorCorp gala.”
“Oh,” you mutter. “I—I thought lower-level employees weren’t—”
“I’m not inviting you as an employee,” he cuts in smoothly, voice dropping lower. “I’m inviting you as my date.”
You blink at him, stunned. “Date?”
“Mhm.” He nods again, smirk curling higher. “I'll take that as a yes.”
He slips his hands into his pockets and turns away, all purpose and pride, not a single shred of doubt in his stride. The elevator doors slide open as if on cue, and only once he’s inside does he glance back—smirk still etched into his face, cocky and unsettling, like he already knows he’s won.
You don’t move even once the doors slide shut. You don’t breathe. You can’t even think. You just sit there, sweaty palms pressed hard to your thighs, heart hammering, the taste of bile sharp at the back of your tongue.
You know you don’t have a choice. You should, but you don’t. And if you told anyone—if you told Katie or your mom, or God forbid, Clark—they might even insist that you do have a choice. They’d tell you to say no, to stand your ground, to quit your job and walk away. But deep down, you know better. You felt it in the way Lex spoke—there was no room for rejection. He didn’t even wait for your answer. He decided for you, and maybe that was always how this was going to go. Because Lex Luthor has chosen you. Chosen you to be the next girl. The next name. The next mystery disappearance. And you’re not sure you have much of a choice about that either.
The rest of the day is a blur of nausea and dread. You can’t shake the clammy sweat clinging to your skin, the knot twisting tighter and tighter in your gut. Every time the elevator pings, your pulse spikes, breath hitching in your throat as you brace for him to come back. You don’t put your headphones back on—you can’t, not with your nerves stretched this thin. You need to hear every sound, every step in the hall, every voice drifting over the cubicle walls.
You think about texting Clark more than once. Your phone burns like a weight in your pocket, and it would be so easy—just one message, and he’d come running. He’d drop everything. But you can’t do that. You can’t be that selfish, and besides… what would you even say? As far as Clark knows, you haven’t even met Lex Luthor. How are you supposed to explain that not only have you met him, but you’ve somehow ended up as his date to the illustrious LuthorCorp gala?
And honestly? You don’t want to tell him. You don’t want to see him worry, or worse—watch him freak out and do something reckless. And above all else, you don’t want to admit that he was right. Not just because you’re stubborn, but because the guilt is gnawing at you. You brushed him off, laughed at his warning, and now here you are—trapped in a situation that makes your skin crawl, a situation you might have avoided if you’d just fucking listened.
Lunch passes without you moving from your chair. You’re not hungry, not when your stomach is a roiling mess, and your limbs feel too shaky to trust. So you just sit. Sit and wait and watch the clock drag its way across the afternoon. Every tick feels louder than the last, every minute stretched into something unbearable.
By the time four p.m. finally rolls around, you’re so wound that up you almost jump when Katie’s voice cuts through the hum of the office. She calls a quick goodbye over her shoulder, casual and warm, while you just blink up at her, yanked sharply back into the present.
Clark is already home when you get there—in the kitchen cooking something that smells suspiciously like pancakes. You drop your bag, shed your coat, and walk slowly through the apartment with your eyes downcast, your mind still reeling from the day.
“Hey,” Clark says, followed by the gentle clatter of the spatula against the pan. “How was your day?”
When you glance up, he’s already watching you. Leaning back against the counter, arms folded across his chest, sleeves rolled to his forearms, top buttons undone like he doesn’t realise how good it looks. His glasses sit tucked into his breast pocket, glinting under the light, and his dark curls fall over his forehead in that maddeningly effortless way. There’s a half-smile tugging at his lips, dimples just barely creased—the kind of smile that feels like it’s meant only for you.
“Hi,” you murmur, heat rising to your cheeks—but this time it’s not from unease, it’s the dangerous effect Clark Kent always seems to have on you. “It was... okay.”
He lifts a brow. “Okay?”
You let out a heavy breath, shoulders sagging. “It was a bit weird.”
He takes a half-step toward you, brow furrowing. “Weird how? Are you—”
“I’m fine, Clark,” you cut in gently, leaning a hip against the island counter. “I just—” You stop yourself, guilt and nerves tangling in your chest as you weigh whether or not to tell him the truth.
“You don’t seem fine,” he says, shifting his shoulders
Maybe half the truth will work.
“I got asked out at work today,” you blurt, the words spilling out quickly.
His jaw tightens, subtle but unmistakable, and he shifts his stance—arms folding a little tighter across his chest. “That’s... interesting.”
“Yeah,” you murmur, eyes dropping to trace the patterns in the marble countertop. “I said yes—kind of—but I don’t really want to go.”
When you glance back up, his expression has darkened. You know that look. It’s the one he wears right before he does something wildly overprotective. The look that says he’d do anything to keep you safe.
“Why don’t you want to go?” he asks, his voice unusually light—not at all what you were expecting.
You blink. “What?”
He shrugs, but it’s stiff, careful. “What’s the harm in going on a date? You said yes, so obviously part of you wanted to—”
“I didn’t technically say yes,” you cut in, frowning. “He didn’t really give me a chance to respond. He just... told me he was taking my silence as a yes.”
Clark’s nostrils flare, betraying the calm mask he’s forcing into place. “He didn’t let you respond?”
You shake your head. “No. He was very... firm.”
Clark stills, and for a moment you’re not even sure he’s breathing. His shoulders are tight, his hands fisted where they’re tucked under his arms, but his face is composed—annoyingly calm. Too calm. Almost like he’s holding back on purpose. Like he doesn’t want you to see what this conversation is actually doing to him.
Which is strange, because Clark has never hesitated to be protective before. You’re used to it—it’s part of who he is. But now? Right now, when it matters? This is the moment he chooses to smother it down. To let you dangle in uncertainty. To act like going on a date you never wanted isn’t reckless. And he doesn’t even know who the date is with.
He clears his throat, turning stiffly back to the stove and picking up the spatula. “Why don’t you just tell him you’re not interested?”
You hesitate, rolling your lips as you search for a way to answer without giving away the whole truth. “That might not end very well.”
The muscles in his back twitch beneath his shirt, but he doesn’t turn around. “Why not?”
“Well,” you murmur, “he’s kind of like... my boss.”
That gets him—and he whips back around, brows shooting up. “Your boss?”
“Kind of,” you say again—because technically, Lex isn’t your direct manager.
“So this guy is abusing his position to pressure you into a date?”
You shrug sheepishly. “I guess you could say that.”
Clark frowns, jaw working as if he's biting back the words he really wants to say. “Then go to HR.”
You roll your eyes. “And tell them what, exactly? That my boss asked me on a date and didn’t give me a chance to say no? They’ll just tell me what you told me—to tell him I’m not interested. Or they’ll make a bigger deal about it, and you think that’ll go well?”
His eyes flash. “It’s harassment.”
“It’s complicated,” you counter, brows drawn stubbornly.
Clark studies you for a moment, head tilting slightly, like he’s trying to piece together the parts you’re not tell him. His gaze lingers so long it makes your skin prickle, and you’re not sure if you want him to push harder or to back off.
“Complicated,” he repeats, voice low. “That doesn’t sound like you. Usually you tell me everything.”
Guilt twists sharp in your chest, because yeah—usually you do tell him everything. But it’s not like he’s been a shining example of honesty these past few weeks either. He’s been weird and distant and overcompensating for something he clearly isn’t telling you.
Your chin tips up before you can stop yourself. “Don’t you usually tell me everything too?”
His brow furrows. “What do you mean?”
“Come on, Clark,” you sigh, frustration creeping into your tone—born of nerves and guilt and the way he’s looking at you right now, like he’s already halfway to seeing through you. “You’ve been all weird the past few weeks. Acting distant, then suddenly switching it up like you’re trying to give me emotional whiplash. It’s almost like you’re keeping something from me. So why don’t you explain that?”
His lips part, then close again. For a moment, he looks caught off guard—like you’ve hit too close to something he wasn’t prepared to defend.
You step closer without meaning to, heat rising in your chest. “You don’t get to stand there acting like I’m the one holding back when that’s all you’ve been doing for weeks now.”
His jaw tightens, and the air between you sharpens. He leans forward just slightly, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off him. “It’s not the same.”
“Isn’t it?”
Your heart hammers in your throat, but you don’t back down. You stare at him, unblinking, right at those impossibly blue eyes that haunt your dreams and fill your filthiest fantasies. He’s so much taller, so much broader, and the kitchen suddenly feels far too small for all the tension building hot and heavy between you.
His gaze drops—just for a second—to your mouth. And then he shifts closer, the distance between you narrowing to a single heartbeat.
Your breath catches. Your pulse hums. You should step back, say something, shatter this moment before something happens that neither of you are ready for. But your body doesn’t listen. Instead, it leans in—like Clark is the sun and you’re helpless in his orbit.
His tongue flicks across his bottom lip, and your skin sparks with anticipation. You can almost swear he’s about to close the distance, to finally give in.
But then—
Beep! Beep! Beep!
The smoke alarm blares through the apartment, yanking you both back to reality. Clark straightens abruptly, clearing his throat as he turns to the stove where something is hissing dangerously in the pan. You stumble back a step, chest tight, dragging in a shaky breath as if you’d just been ripped from a dream too good to be true.
“I’m—um—” You swallow hard, willing your voice to steady. “I’m gonna shower.”
Then you turn sharply and hurry out of the kitchen, down the hall to the bathroom. The door slams shut behind you and you fall back against it, lungs heaving like you’ve just run a marathon. You let your head thump against the wood, and a quiet, humourless laugh slips past your lips. It’s déjà vu. Just like that night a few weeks ago—when you’d done this exact same thing. Run to the bathroom, pressed yourself against the door, and berated yourself for the thoughts you couldn’t control. Thoughts you had no business having about your best friend.
Because Clark has always been nice. Too kind, too thoughtful, too protective. And at first, back in high school, it was so easy to mistake that for something else. The way he carried your books without asking, walked you home every day, noticed when you changed your hair or wore a new perfume. The way he cheered you on like you were the only person in the world who mattered. You thought maybe it meant that he felt what you felt. But of course, he was just Clark—good, polite Clark Kent who sees the best in everyone and just wants to help. You convinced yourself he could never see you as more than a friend—you had to—and shoved it all down. You dated other people, lived your life, told yourself you were fine with just being friends. Best friends. And when he left for Metropolis, you decided it was for the best.
Except now you’re here. And now you don’t know what to think.
Because Clark is still kind, still thoughtful, still protective. But it feels different. It feels heavier. Hotter. Like there’s something behind it all that he’s not saying. And when he gets close—so close you can feel his warmth, smell the clean, addictive scent of him—it doesn’t feel like friendship at all. It feels dangerous. Like standing on the edge of something you’ve spent years convincing yourself wasn’t real.
Your stomach flips violently, and you bury your face in your hands with a groan.
You thought moving to Metropolis would be simple. Fun. You’d get a good job, live your best life, and be close to your best friend again. You didn’t expect it to be easy, but you definitely didn’t expect to be coerced into dating a billionaire CEO while simultaneously wondering if Clark Kent—your Clark Kent—wants you as more than a friend.
Surely not.
Right?
You exhale hard, fighting the urge to scream. You just need to stop overthinking. Or maybe stop thinking at all. Because Clark isn’t the problem right now.
The problem is figuring out how the hell you’re going to get out of your date with Lex Luthor.
-
The rest of the weekend is… strange. Whatever suspicions you had about Clark’s feelings die fast on Friday night, when he eats burnt pancakes alone in the kitchen before heading straight to bed—without so much as a mumbled goodnight.
By the time you drag yourself out of bed on Saturday morning, he’s already gone. Suit on, symbol bright, off to save some squirrels… or maybe the people trapped in the burning apartment building down near Bakerline, which you only know about from the morning news.
He doesn’t come home after that. You assume he went straight to his fortress to sunbake and argue with robots—because apparently their company is preferable to yours.
You don’t see him again until Saturday night—when you step out of the bathroom after a particularly steamy shower and nearly jump at the sight of him on the couch, still in his suit. It always makes you want to laugh when you see Superman in such a mundane setting—but Clark doesn’t even give you a proper look before standing, brushing past you, and slamming the bathroom door.
That pisses you off. So you spend the next half an hour pacing the kitchen, rehearsing every version of the confrontation you’re going to have. But when you finally hear his bedroom door creak open and you march into the living room, ready to let him have it, the TV steals your attention.
The nightly news. A segment about LuthorCorp’s upcoming gala.
And just like that, every carefully practiced word dies hot on your tongue.
So you sit instead, stiff and silent. The rest of the night crawls by in awkward fragments of conversation until you both give up and head to bed early.
Sunday passes in much the same way—hollow, stilted, nothing fixed.
By Monday morning, you’re more nerves than human. You can’t even decide what to obsess over first—whatever’s happening between you and Clark, or your fast-approaching date with Lex Luthor.
“You look terrible,” Katie says, leaning against the partition of your cubicle.
You give her a flat look. “Thanks.”
“Did you sleep at all over the weekend?”
“I tried,” you mutter, turning your gaze back to your screen.
Silence settles for a beat, but Katie doesn’t budge—you can feel her stare pressing harder with every passing second.
You look back at her, brows raised. “Yes, Katie?”
Her eyes brighten instantly. “You’re Mr. Luthor’s date to the gala, aren’t you?”
Your stomach drops. “How do you know that?”
“Apparently Dennis overheard Mr. Luthor telling one of his assistants, Erin, to add another seat with your name at the main table. Then Dennis told Jim, who told Cathie, who told Renee—who I overheard telling Tanner in the breakroom,” she explains in a single breath.
You drop your elbows on your desk and press your face into your hands, like you can somehow hide there. “Oh my God, what have I done?”
Katie hesitates, then leans in a little. “So... I’m guessing you’re not overly excited about it?”
“No,” you mumble through your palms. “I didn’t have a choice.”
She snorts, but there’s no humour in it. “Sounds about right. It was the same with Izzy—once he decided he wanted her, that was it. And when he was done, she just—”
“Disappeared,” you cut in, dropping your hands. “Yeah, I know. I don’t need the reminder. But if you’ve got any tips for getting me out of this mess, I’d love to hear them.”
Katie grimaces. “I wish I did... but it’s not like you can just go to HR.”
You blow out a sharp breath. “There has to be something. Some government agency, someone who can actually do something.”
“You want to sue Lex Luthor?” Katie asks, lowering her voice, brows arching. “Yeah, that’ll end well.”
You spin your chair to face her fully. “Well, what am I supposed to do?”
She shrugs. “I don’t think there’s anything you can do.”
You tip your head back, squeezing your eyes shut and pinching the bridge of your nose—wishing you could go back in time, listen to Clark, and never have taken this stupid job. You should’ve just said yes to his offer at the Daily Planet. Slinging coffee for over-caffeinated journalists sounds pretty good right about now.
“Unless you happen to know Superman,” Katie says with a laugh. “He’s probably the only one who could get you out of this mess.”
Your pulse jumps, stomach flipping with nausea that crawls up your throat—but you swallow it down, forcing an awkward laugh as you swivel back to your screen.
“Yeah,” you scoff. “Superman. Right. Like he doesn’t have bigger things to worry about.”
Katie tilts her head. “You never know. He seems to like protecting the little guys.”
You frown. “And I’m the little guy?”
“In this situation?” she says, brows lifting. “Yeah. You are. Lex Luthor has you under his thumb. If I were you, I’d be out on the street looking for trouble, hoping for a glimpse of red and—” She cuts herself off, eyes flicking toward the elevator. “Shit. Speak of the devil.”
She doesn’t even bother to smile this time—she just shoots you a look twisted with pity before hurrying back to her desk, leaving you alone with the sharp click of Lex Luthor’s polished shoes drawing closer.
“Good afternoon.”
You glance at the clock in the corner of your screen—twelve p.m. exactly.
You turn to him with a tight smile. “Afternoon, Lex.”
“I won’t be around much this week,” he says, matter-of-fact, as if you’re owed an explanation for his absence. “There are things I need to arrange before the weekend.”
You nod, unsure what else to do.
“I’ll text you the details Friday night. Wear something elegant—there’ll be cameras.”
It’s not a request. It’s a directive. Delivered with that slight smirk that makes your stomach twist.
You nod again, swallowing hard. “Can’t wait.”
It doesn’t sound genuine, but apparently it’s enough. His smirk tilts a little higher, he gives you a single nod, and then he’s gone—his polished shoes clicking toward the elevator. The office stirs with murmurs—the most noise you’ve heard since you started—but all you can hear is your pulse. Like a war drum, pounding in your ears. A rhythm of warning.
Your chest tightens, lungs aching, head spinning. You need air. Space. Time to figure out how you’re supposed to explain to Clark just how monumental a mess you’ve made.
You sit at your desk for a few minutes, trying to breathe through the nausea. The whispers around you grow louder, murmurs rising into full-volume conversation, but you can’t make sense of any of it. You’re too focused on keeping your breakfast down and yourself upright.
Eventually, you can’t stand it anymore. You slip on your headphones, grab your jacket, and head for the elevator. Once you step inside, you start scrolling for a song, glancing up just before the doors slide shut to catch sight of the office—half your coworkers are standing by the tall windows, their faces a mix of shock and amusement.
You frown, curious, but don’t lift a hand to stop the doors from closing. Whatever’s got their attention—a car accident, a street performer, maybe even a tourist from Gotham—it’s not enough to keep you from your walk.
By the time you reach the lobby, your music is queued and the volume is up. You nod at the security desk as you pass, then step out onto the street, glancing quickly both ways. You can’t see anything out of place—there’s no flipped car on fire or Arkham escapee running rampant. It is oddly quiet. Almost suspiciously quiet. But without any immediate danger, you remain undeterred. You need coffee and fresh air, and then maybe you’ll be able to figure out how to tell Clark everything you’ve been keeping to yourself.
He’s going to be mad, no doubt. But you can deal with angry Clark. Angry Clark is easy. It’s the disappointed, I-told-you-so kind of Clark Kent that you can’t stand. Not only because you hate being wrong, but because it always pulls him closer. Too close. Close enough that you can feel his eyes on you, hear that soft edge in his voice, close enough that it makes it impossible to forget what you’ve been trying to bury for years.
And that’s the problem. You can’t be that close to him. Not when you’re just friends. Not when every brush of his hand, every look that lingers a second too long makes your chest ache with wanting more than you’re allowed to have.
But he doesn’t make it easy. He never has. Not when he gets all stiff and stuffy about your dates, or when he insists on patching you up every time you trip over your own two feet—hovering in so close you can feel his breath while he presses an ice pack to your skin. He doesn’t mean anything by it. You know that. He’s just Clark—good, dependable Clark. But God, it feels like more. It feels dangerous.
Clark Kent is dangerous—to your health, your heart, your goddamn head.
Because what right does he have to be angry with you, anyway? What right does he have after that almost kiss—a kiss he leaned into just as much as you did—to be angry?
At least… you think he’s angry. You don’t actually know. You haven’t said more than a few clipped words to each other since Friday night. Since he got annoyed at you for holding things back. Since he got defensive when you pointed out how weird he’s been. Since he leaned in, gaze dropping to your lips, and almost—
The world lurches, and suddenly you’re not on the ground anymore. The pavement drops away beneath your feet and before you can even think to panic, you’re in the air.
You don’t need to open your eyes to know who it is—the scent, the warmth, the sheer unshakable solidity of him. It’s Clark. Superman. Both, really.
Your breath hitches and your arms curl tighter around his neck, face buried in his shoulder. His hold shifts, steady and secure, one arm strong beneath your knees and the other locked at your back, pulling you closer. It should feel terrifying—the wind rushing, the city spinning smaller and smaller below you—but all you can focus on is him. The warmth of him. The way his body feels against yours. The subtle squeeze of his arms when you cling tighter.
Your heart is pounding so hard it feels like it might shake you apart, but not from fear. From this. From him. From the fact that you’ve barely spoken in weeks and suddenly you’re here, wrapped around him like he belongs to you. Like you’ve been starving and only just realised what for.
And maybe that’s the scariest part—not the sky, not the impossible height—but the way your chest aches with the truth you’ve been too afraid to admit. That you don’t just miss him. You need him.
Your feet find solid ground before you’re ready, and it takes you a second too long to loosen your grip. But when you finally stumble back, breathless, he doesn’t let go completely. His hand stays warm at your waist, thumb brushing your ribs—and you know it’s only meant to steady you, but right now, it feels like so much more.
“What are you doing?” he asks, voice low, eyes searching yours.
You blink fast, glancing around the tight alleyway you’re now standing in. There are still people moving—running, actually—out on the street, so you know you can’t risk being too familiar.
“I—I’m on my lunch break, Superman,” you say, taking another unsteady step back. “What are you doing?”
He stares at you, eyes wide. “I’m… saving people. What does it look like?”
You frown. “From what?”
“Really?” he snaps, one arm gesturing wide with exasperation.
You glance toward the street, spotting a few panicked civilians rushing past—but nothing else. Your frown deepens, head tipping curiously, until Clark crooks a finger beneath your chin and tilts it up.
The sight makes your breath catch—dozens of mechanical insect-looking-things sweeping across the sky, metal bodies glinting, eyes glowing red. Their stingers look like spears, and their open jaws spark with beams of light as they chase fleeing pedestrians below.
“Oh shit,” you mutter. “What are those?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.” His eyes narrow at the swarm before cutting back to you. “Why would you even leave your building?”
You scratch the back of your neck, glancing aside. “I—uh, I didn’t see them.”
“Didn’t see them?” he echoes, tone sharp. “You didn’t notice the one flying straight at you?”
You shrug, sheepish. “I was just… walking. Listening to music.”
He exhales hard, tipping his head back and dragging a hand down his face. “How many times do I have to tell you—” he cuts himself short, eyes darting toward the street. “—tell the citizens of Metropolis to be careful.”
You roll your eyes. “Come on, Superman. I’m fine.”
He gives you a flat look. “You’re not fine. You’re reckless.”
You bite back a smile. “And you’re a little overdramatic.”
A flash of green streaks overhead, and you glance up just in time to see two members of the Justice Gang cutting across the sky.
“Looks like you’ve got backup,” you say.
Clark looks up, his mouth parting to reply—but then he freezes. His expression hardens, eyes narrowing at something way above your head.
You whip around. “What is it?”
“One of the insect-things,” he says quietly. “It’s hovering.”
You feel him step in close behind you, his body pressing against your back as one arm slowly winds around your waist. The warmth of him seeps through your jacket, your pulse stuttering at the contact. You lean back without thinking, letting him hold you, giving in to the want that flares in your chest.
“Why isn’t it attacking us?” you whisper.
His arm tightens, fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt. “I don’t know,” he murmurs. “But I’m getting you back to work.”
Before you can protest, he spins you around. Your hands land on his chest and for one stolen moment you catch a glimpse of that soft Clark Kent smile—before the ground disappears beneath you all over again.
- Clark -
Clark dreams about you that night, which isn’t unusual. What is unusual is the dream itself.
He dreams about flying with you—holding you close, your arms wrapped around his neck, clinging like he’s the only thing tethering you to this world as the city disappears below.
He dreams it again the next night. And the next. For three nights in a row, he dreams of you in his arms, cutting through the sky above Metropolis.
But the fourth night is a little different. On the fourth night, lying in bed, Clark can’t stop thinking about how you’d looked sitting on his couch wearing one of his old shirts, smiling faintly at a movie he wasn’t paying any attention to. He couldn’t. Because all he could see was you—perfect and impossibly close, but still untouchable.
And the image of you presses so hard into his mind he can’t sleep. He can’t think of anything but you—your scent, the shape your lips make when you say his name, the memory of your body pressed warm against his chest.
Eventually he gives in. His hand slips beneath the waistband of his sleep shorts, wrapping around himself—already hard and aching from nothing but the thought of you—and he strokes himself until he’s shuddering. Until he’s coming quietly beneath the covers, muffling his moans against his arm, shame burning through his chest because you’re just one thin wall away. Oblivious. Probably sleeping.
And that night he doesn’t just dream of flying with you. He dreams of having you. Really having you. In his bed. On the couch. Bent over the kitchen counter. And—God help him—even in the sky. The risk, the rush, the idea of giving you something no one else ever could.
The dream jerks him awake, heart pounding, skin hot, cock straining against his shorts. And he knows he can’t face you that morning, so he stays in bed, breathing through the want clawing at his chest, refusing to touch himself the way he had the night before.
He listens to you get ready for work, every sound a reminder of how close you are, how much he wants you. And all the while he curses himself—not just for being weak, not just for wanting you—but for betraying the one thing he’s supposed to be. Your friend.
Because Clark knows something has shifted. That something between you is different now, and it’s his fault. He knows it. He just doesn’t know how to fix it—or if it even can be fixed. Because lately, every word, every glance feels loaded, like he’s standing on a wire stretched too thin.
And ever since he opened his big mouth at work and let Jimmy get in his head—let all of them get in his head—he hasn’t known how to act around you. He doesn’t know if he should pull closer or step back, doesn’t know what’s safe anymore. Which is probably why you’ve been keeping things from him. Why you’ve got a date this weekend and he can’t do a damn thing about it.
“Hey.”
Clark almost startles at the sound of your voice. He hasn’t seen you since he got home—he heard the shower running and decided to busy himself in the kitchen after rummaging through the fridge for something for dinner.
Still standing at the stove, he glances over his shoulder. “Hey, are you—” The words die in his throat, breath catching.
You’re wearing the same shirt—his shirt—as last night. It drowns you, hem brushing your thighs and covering the tiny shorts he knows are hidden beneath. The only difference? Tonight you’ve got long white socks pulled up over your knees. And God, Clark is trying to be respectful—he really is. He was raised to be good, polite, proper. But the sight of you in those socks is only making him wonder what they’d look like draped over his shoulders while he—
“Am I what?” you ask, brows raised.
Clark clears his throat, dragging his eyes away from your legs. “Are—um, are you hungry?”
You lift one shoulder. “A little. What’re you making?”
He looks down at the pan on the stove. Right, dinner. Food. Chicken… maybe? He can’t remember. All he can think about is the way you look right now, standing just a few feet away from him.
“Um, chicken… something,” he mutters, keeping his head down.
You step closer—he can feel it—but he doesn’t turn around.
“Chicken something?” you echo.
He doesn’t reply—he just frowns at whatever’s sizzling in front of him, resisting the urge to turn around and do something he can’t take back. He hears you shuffle, open the fridge, pop open a can, then set it quietly on the counter. You don’t retreat to the living room. You stay. Waiting. And it shouldn’t feel this tense, the air shouldn’t be this thick. It’s just you and him—it’s always been you and him—but now there’s something else.
“So,” Clark says at last, keeping his voice level, casual. “Still going on that date this weekend?”
You hesitate—and even though he refuses to turn around, he can practically see the way you’re worrying at your bottom lip.
“Yeah,” you reply softly. “Still going.”
Clark’s stomach knots, jealousy twisting tight in his gut. “Thought you didn’t like the guy.”
“I don’t,” you blurt. “I mean, I don’t think I do, but—”
“It’s complicated?” Clark offers, finally turning around.
You give him a flat look—but it’s not quite like the usual deadpan stare you pull when you’re annoyed. This one’s different. Guarded. Layered. Like you’re trying to cover up something that’s getting harder and harder to hide.
Clark doesn’t press, though. He opens a cupboard and pulls out two plates, serving up the grilled chicken and stir-fried vegetables he’d so easily forgotten about earlier—thanks to your damn socks. Then he slides one plate toward you and grabs two forks and two knives from the top drawer beside the sink.
“Thanks,” you murmur. “Smells good.”
He nods, smiling softly, wishing he knew how to break whatever awkward curse has suddenly fallen upon you both. Maybe it’s because you’re holding something back from each other, for the first time in years. Maybe it’s because he’s crossed too many lines, let too much of what he truly feels bleed through. Or maybe it’s worse—maybe your feelings have changed entirely. Maybe you don’t want to be this close anymore. Maybe every little thing that used to feel easy between you is starting to feel too heavy. Too much. And it’s all his fault.
“Hey Clark,” you say softly, eyes fixed on your dinner. “Can I ask you something?”
Clark tilts his head, brow furrowing just slightly. “Of course.”
You roll your lips and stab a piece of broccoli, obviously buying time by pushing the food around on your plate. “On Saturday night,” you mutter, gaze still downcast, “if I call you, or—or text you, will you—”
“Yes,” he cuts in, voice firm. “I’ll be there. Whatever you need, I’m there.”
When you glance up, your gaze softens, eyes wide with a quiet ache that Clark can’t quite place. Your mouth pulls down just slightly at the corners, and his heart stutters. It’s that look. The one you wear when you can’t quite find the right words to say. The one that could make him say, do, be anything you needed him to.
“And,” you whisper, voice low and unsure, “you won’t be angry?”
He rears back a little, brows drawing tight. “Angry? Why would I be angry?”
You shift your weight, still stabbing at the food on your plate without yet eating anything. For a second, it looks like you’re about to say something—your lips part, breath hitching—but then you press your mouth shut and shake your head.
“It’s nothing,” you say instead, lifting your fork halfway to your lips. “Just… I don’t want you to be mad if—”
“I won’t be mad.” He leans forward, palm pressed flat against the counter. “I promise. Whatever it is, whatever you need me for—I won’t be angry.”
You nod, but you don’t seem convinced. Your shoulders are still tight, your eyes looking anywhere but at Clark, and you’re gripping your fork so tight your knuckles are white.
He doesn’t know what else he could say to make you believe him. All he knows is that there’s nothing you could do that would ever make him angry. Even when you’re reckless, even when you throw yourself into danger, he’s not mad—he’s scared. Worried. Protective. And maybe he doesn’t have much of a right to that last one, but he can’t help it. He’s always been protective of you, and he knows that won’t ever change.
Dinner passes in relative silence, broken only by the soft clink of cutlery or the occasional muttered word that feels heavier than it should. When you’re both finished, you offer to wash up, but Clark waves you off and tells you to go queue up a movie.
At the sink, he scrubs a little harder than necessary, accidentally cracking one of the plates with the pressure of his grip. He sighs, frustrated, but doesn’t stop. He can’t. Because his chest feels too tight, his pulse is rushing in his ears, and his throat is thick with all the questions he’s biting back. Like... who’s the guy? Why are you so worried? It’s not like you haven’t gone on dates before—dates you weren’t excited about, dates you later laughed about with Clark. But this? This is different. It’s written all over you, in every nervous glance, every deflection. And it’s killing him not to know why. Killing him that you can’t just tell him. Killing him that you can’t—or won’t—just cancel it.
You only make it through half the movie before heading to bed, claiming you need to be up early for work. Clark follows a few minutes later, but sleep doesn’t come easy. He tosses and turns almost all night, listening through the wall for the steady cadence of your breathing, the rhythm of your heart—like the creep he is.
By the time the sunlight cuts through his curtains, he’s pretty sure he’s had no more than two hours of sleep. Total. Then just like yesterday, he listens to you get ready and leave for work before finally dragging himself out of bed. He goes through the motions—shower, coffee, breakfast, the whole dull routine—barely conscious of anything until he’s stepping out of the elevator onto the top floor of the Daily Planet.
“Hello sunshine,” Jimmy beams, leaning back in his chair with his feet propped on his desk. “Don’t you look chipper this fine Friday morning.”
Clark shoots him a look—half scowl, half warning.
Jimmy drops his feet and leans forward, elbows braced on his knees. “Yikes. What’s got your panties in a bunch?”
“I think you mean who,” Lois says, spinning around with a smirk. “And my money’s on the super-hot best friend who’s still crashing on his couch.”
Clark drops into his chair and powers up his computer, keeping his back to them. “I don’t really want to talk about it.”
Jimmy chuckles. “Come on, man. We’re here for you. Whatever it is—”
“She’s got a date,” Clark blurts, swivelling to face them. “Tomorrow night.”
Jimmy’s brows shoot up. “Oh.”
“Ouch,” Lois mutters.
Cat pops up at her desk, eyes wide. “Oh, Clark. Honey, I’m so sorry.”
Clark shrugs, trying to feign nonchalance even though his shoulders are locked tight. “It’s fine. Really. I’m not upset.”
Lois snorts. “Really? That’s your ‘I’m totally fine’ face?”
“Who’s the guy?” Jimmy asks, blunt as ever.
“Don’t know,” Clark mutters. “She didn’t say.”
Cat steps forward, hands on her hips, brows drawn. “Wait—like, you didn’t ask, or she refused to tell you?”
Clark turns back to his desk, pretending to busy himself with the stack of papers there. “Well, I didn’t exactly ask, but she said it was… complicated.”
“Complicated?” Jimmy echoes, scooting forward in his chair. “Complicated, how?”
Clark gives him a flat look. “If I knew, I probably wouldn’t be this annoyed about it.”
“So you are upset?” Lois asks, one brow arched, smirk still firmly in place.
“Not upset.” Clark frowns, turning toward her. “Just… uncomfortable.”
Lois tilts her head. “Right. So you’re uncomfortable about her going on a date—not because you’re jealous—but because you don’t know who the guy is or why she’s calling it complicated?”
Clark nods. “Exactly.”
“Why would she need to tell you who it is?” Cat cuts in. “I mean, unless it’s someone she knows you wouldn’t approve of. But even then, it’s not like she needs your approval.”
“She doesn’t,” Clark says quickly. “I just—” He shifts awkwardly in his chair. “I just want to know what’s complicated about it. Because honestly, she didn’t really seem like she even wanted to go.”
Cat frowns. “Wait, so she’s being... forced into it?”
“I don’t know,” Clark sighs, scrubbing a hand along his jaw. “Maybe. All she said was that the guy’s kind of like her boss, and she can’t go to HR because it wouldn’t end well.”
“That sounds like harassment,” Lois mutters.
Jimmy nods. “Yeah, that’s messed up.”
“I know.” Clark pushes his glasses higher on his nose. “But she doesn’t want my help, so I don’t know what to do.”
“You don’t do anything,” Cat says, arms folded. “You just be her friend. Be there when she needs you. She’ll ask for help if it comes to that.”
“Exactly,” Lois adds. “And if she calls you Saturday night, you go. No matter what.”
Jimmy frowns. “But Saturday night is—”
“That doesn’t matter,” Cat cuts in, shooting him a look.
“Yeah,” Clark mutters, turning back to his computer screen. “Be her friend.”
The edge in his voice lingers even as silence settles over the bullpen, the usual sounds of the newsroom swelling to fill the space. Cat’s heels click as she returns to her desk, Lois spins back around, and Jimmy lets out a long sigh.
He rolls his chair further forward, dropping his voice low. “Hey, man—you never know. If you’re her knight in shining armour on Saturday night, she might—I don’t know—start seeing you differently.”
Clark huffs a laugh. “Yeah. Maybe.”
“You just gotta ask yourself,” Jimmy adds, his grin audible. “What would Superman do?”
Clark throws an unamused look over his shoulder, even though the corner of his mouth betrays him with the slightest twitch. Jimmy just winks, chuckling quietly, and scoots back to his desk.
Clark knows he’s only making fun of what Steve said the other week—that dumb phrase that somehow stuck. That somehow became a running joke in the bullpen, tossed around whenever someone says they're unsure or confused.
Except when Steve says it. Steve really means it when he says it.
But little do they all know just how much those words have come to haunt Clark. Because every time he sees you—every time he thinks about all the almosts that hang unspoken between you—that question echoes through his mind, relentless. What would Superman do?
Would he have kissed you that night in the kitchen, when you looked at him like he was the only person that mattered? Would he tell you not to go on that date, stop you before you slipped further away? Would he cut through all the fear and excuses, and finally say the one truth Clark has always been too scared to confess?
He hates to admit it, but the cape gives him courage. The suit, the symbol, the very idea of Superman—it makes him feel larger than himself. And when he’s flying above the city, wind roaring in his ears and adrenaline like lightning his veins, he feels unstoppable. He is unstoppable. Almost. Until it comes to you.
Because you can undo him with a smile. With a laugh that tangles in his chest. With the way you say his name, soft and sure, like it was always meant to live on your tongue.
And the worst part—the scariest part?
Not even Superman is invulnerable to you.
The rest of the day passes by in a blur of word counts, lukewarm coffee, and Jimmy’s occasional attempts at banter. Clark keeps his head down, pretending to be focused, but he just can’t stop his thoughts from drifting. To you. What you’re doing. Who you’re with. Whether, by some miracle, you’re thinking of him too. He knows it’s doubtful—but a man can dream.
By the time four o’clock rolls around, he’s more than ready to leave. He doesn’t even care that he’s the first in the bullpen to pack up. It’s Friday, and it’s not like staying back would mean getting any real work done. He hasn’t gotten much done all day. All week, if he’s being honest.
“You clocking off already?” Jimmy asks, leaning back in his chair.
Clark nods, draping his jacket over his arm. “Yeah. I don’t have anything due, so I figured I’d get out early.”
“Lucky you,” Lois mutters dryly, not even glancing over her shoulder.
Jimmy chuckles. “Sucks being the boss’ favourite, doesn’t it, Lane?”
She snorts. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
Jimmy’s grin falters, and Cat giggles from the other side of the partition.
“Do you see how mean she is to me?” Jimmy says to Clark, gesturing toward Lois’ desk.
Clark shrugs. “She’s not wrong, though.”
Jimmy frowns, indignant, but Clark just smiles and slings his bag over his shoulder.
“See you tomorrow.”
Cat’s head pops up over the partition. “You still wanted to rideshare, right?”
“Of course.” Clark tucks his chair under his desk. “Just text me when you’ve left Jimmy’s.”
Lois scoffs. “We’re going to text you well before that. You’re not making us late, Kent.”
Clark rolls his eyes. “I won’t be late. Promise.”
She doesn’t reply—she just shakes her head and lifts a hand in a lazy wave, eyes still glued to her screen. Jimmy smiles, nods once, and wheels back toward his desk, while Cat grins before dropping back down behind the partition.
Clark takes his time heading home, in no rush since he already knows you won’t be there. You’d texted earlier to say you were going shopping after work, looking for something to wear on your date tomorrow night. He’s pretty sure you’d mentioned it earlier in the week too, but he’s been working hard at repressing everything you tell him about this stupid date.
At least he won’t be stuck at home alone tomorrow night, worrying about you. Resisting the urge to fly out and find you, just to make sure you’re safe. Not that he actually wants to be working on a Saturday night, but at least it’ll be a distraction. Hopefully. If he can keep his mind on the job instead of on you—and whoever this guy is.
God, Clark can’t wait until Sunday. When this whole thing is over and maybe—just maybe—you can both go back to normal. No more secrets. No more complications. Just you and him. And maybe, if he’s brave enough, he’ll finally kiss you. Or at the very least, tell you how he feels.
It’s unlikely, but... maybe.
-
“Why does Clark get the front seat?” Jimmy mutters, squirming between Lois and Cat in the back. “I’m gonna be all wrinkled by the time we get there.”
Cat rolls her eyes. “Clark barely fits in the car, let alone between two people in the backseat.”
“Stop fidgeting,” Lois snaps. “You’re sitting on my dress.”
“I can’t breathe,” Jimmy gasps, overly dramatic.
Clark wants to laugh—he knows he should. Cat is giggling, and even Lois is fighting a smile. But he can’t quite bring himself to join in. Not when his eyes are fixed on his phone—on the last message you sent.
I know you’re at a work thing but just letting you know my location is on. Have fun tonight. I’ll let you know when I’m on my way home.
That’s how complicated this date is. Complicated enough that you’ve turned your location on, just in case Clark needs to find you. The thought makes his stomach twist with unease—knowing you’re spending the night with someone you don’t trust, someone who makes you feel like you need a safety net.
He has half a mind to ditch this event entirely and go find you. Just to be close. Just in case. But he can’t. He can’t be that reckless—or that obvious—no matter how much he wants to be. He has to trust you. And trust himself enough to believe that if something does happen, he’ll be fast enough to get to you.
“Uh, sir. We’ve arrived.”
Clark’s head snaps toward the driver—and in his periphery, he realises the backseat is already empty.
“Oh, sorry,” he mutters, fumbling with his seatbelt. “Thanks for the—uh, the ride.”
He slips out of the car, quietly cringing at how awkward he just made that moment. A few steps ahead, Cat, Jimmy, and Lois are waiting. Lois is helping Jimmy straighten his tie, and Cat is reapplying lip gloss using her phone camera.
“Here,” Lois says, pulling a bunch of lanyards from her purse. “Our press passes.”
Clark takes one and slips it over his head. Then he tucks his phone into his jacket pocket, pushes his glasses higher up his nose, and finally turns to face the enormous, lit-up building in front of them.
There’s a red carpet, velvet rope, and more burly security guards than he can count. A few feet from the main entrance there’s a metal barricade holding back the paparazzi, cameras flashing as they shout for guests to look their way.
Clark takes a steadying breath and looks up—at the massive banner draped across the entryway arch.
THE LUTHORCORP VISIONARY GALA
His stomach sinks. Heat prickles his skin. Something about tonight feels wrong. And it's not just the fact that you’re God knows where with some sketchy date—it's something else. Something bigger. Something that has the suit beneath Clark’s tux starting to itch.
“You ready?” Lois asks, her eyes sharp with curiosity
Clark swallows hard. “Yeah—yep. Let’s go.”
They make it halfway up the carpet before a guard checks their passes and ushers them through the doors, directing them down a long hallway toward the press entrance. The building itself is already grand, but the lavish decorations push it into the realm of impossible wealth.
Their footsteps echo against the marble floor as they move. Security guards stand posted every few feet, each one as stern and unyielding as the last—even though Clark still has a few inches on most of them. Finally, at the end of the hall, they’re escorted through a set of polished mahogany doors into the grand hall—an even more extravagant sight than the foyer.
The room is drenched in black and gold, soft light glowing down from draped ceilings. There are huge bouquets of flowers in the middle of each table, with tall candles flickering dangerously close beside them. Two bars stretch along each side of the room, sleek and shining, their shelves stacked high with dozens of glittering, multicoloured bottles. And at the very front, just before the dancefloor, is a glossy black stage with a glass podium gleaming at its centre.
“Holy shit,” Jimmy mutters, head tipped back as he stares up at the room. “Luthor must be rolling in it.”
Lois stops beside one of the tables, peering at the little place cards. “This is us.”
They each find their seats and settle in, while their table—and the ones around it—quickly fill with other journalists and reporters. The press area is raised slightly above the rest of the gala, offering a clear view of the entrance, the dancefloor, and the main stage.
After a few minutes, Jimmy and Cat wander off toward the bar, and Lois starts murmuring quick notes into her voice recorder. Clark takes the moment to sit back and slip his phone out of his jacket pocket. He opens the location app and taps your contact, watching as the little blue dot pulses on the screen. It flickers, skittering around Metropolis until—finally—it stops.
On the street behind this building.
Clark frowns. He hadn’t asked where you were going—and he realises now that he probably should have. It’s not that strange for your date to be somewhere nearby; this is the heart of Metropolis, after all. But right behind this building? That feels almost too convenient.
His pulse eases, the nausea in his stomach settling at the thought of you being so close. Maybe you picked the restaurant. Maybe you wanted to stay near where Clark would be, just in case.
But… Clark doesn’t remember ever telling you what his ‘work thing’ was. It’s not like the two of you have talked much these past few weeks. And you never asked.
So maybe it’s just a coincidence. Either way, Clark is relieved. Maybe he’ll be able to sneak away at some point in the night and check on you. Not in a creepy stalker way—just to make sure you’re safe. Just to be sure you don’t need saving. Even though, deep down, he’d really, really like to be the one to save you tonight.
“Where’s Luthor?” Jimmy asks as he returns to the table with a drink in each hand. “I couldn’t see him.”
Lois clicks off her recorder. “He’ll be the last to arrive. There’ll be an announcement—we’ll all stand. It’s a whole thing.”
Jimmy frowns. “An announcement?”
“Yes,” Lois says, firm and a little exasperated. “Steve Caldwell’s hosting tonight. He does most of Luthor’s events. He’s a good emcee, but he hates the press, so don’t expect any interviews.”
Cat squints at the stage. “Is that him—the guy with the bad toupee?”
Lois nods. “Yeah, that’s him. And it looks like he’s about to take the stage.”
Slowly, the chatter in the hall fades to hushed murmurs. Guests lingering at the bar or on the dancefloor start shuffling back to their tables, and the security guards shift into place—sharp, silent, eyes scanning the edges of the room.
Servers quicken their pace through the maze of tables before disappearing into the kitchen or behind the bars. Clark hears the soft, ominous click of all the doors falling shut—every one except the main entrance, which stays wide open, waiting for the grand arrival of Lex Luthor.
Clark feels it in his chest—the faint but undeniable pull of anticipation, like the whole room is holding its breath, waiting for the signal.
“Ladies and gentlemen.” Steve Caldwell’s voice cuts through the hush, smooth and professional. “Welcome to the annual LuthorCorp Visionary Gala. Tonight, we celebrate innovation, leadership, and the people making a difference in our world. We have a very special evening planned, but before we get started...”
He pauses, glancing toward the side of the stage—waiting for a nod, a signal.
Clark’s phone buzzes in his jacket pocket.
“Would you please stand and join me in welcoming—” Steve continues, and everyone rises from their seats— the rustle of fabric and scrape of chairs louder than it should be.
Clark slips his phone out, glancing at it quickly to see the text—from you:
Clark, I fucked up.
His stomach drops.
“Our host,” Steve announces, orchestral music swelling through the hall, “a visionary in every sense of the word—Mr. Lex Luthor!”
Lex strides through the main doors, and the room erupts in applause.
Clark’s chest tightens as he hurriedly types a response to you:
Are you okay?
Lois nudges her elbow into his side—and he looks up, brow furrowed. Her eyes are wide as she tilts her head toward the centre of the room, silently urging Clark to pay attention.
He draws a shaky breath and glances down at where Lex is standing—in the middle of the floor, arms raised, grinning like some evil mastermind who just saw his nefarious scheme come to fruition. He turns in a slow circle, basking in the attention, cameras flashing as he pauses here and there before finally facing the entrance again.
Clark’s phone buzzes. He quickly checks it—another text from you.
This is so much worse than I thought it’d be.
His lungs seize.
“Clark,” Lois hisses. “Put your damn phone down.”
“But it’s—”
“Thirty seconds, Clark. Then you can go if you have to.”
He bites his tongue and does as he’s told, slipping the phone back into his pocket. It feels like he’s just been struck by lightning—three thousand volts surging through his veins—and yet he’s expected to stand still and clap politely.
His gaze finds Lex again—and time slows.
Lex lifts an arm, hand outstretched toward the main doors. A figure appears, a woman, blurred by camera flashes. Her dress glitters, her heels click—loud and ominous in Clark’s ears. She steps toward Lex, hand reaching for his.
Clark cranes his neck, the tang of panic sharp at the back of his tongue. He needs this moment to be over. He needs to get to you, to make sure you’re okay. But everything is moving so slowly—too slowly—as if the whole world is grinding to a halt, just for this moment right here.
Then—
“Oh fuck!” Jimmy blurts, eyes wide as his head whips toward Clark. “That’s—”
“Jimmy!” Lois snaps.
He turns to her, his face pale with shock. “But it’s—”
Cat gasps. “Oh my God. It’s her.”
It doesn’t register at first—doesn’t make sense. That’s not you. You’re on a date. The date you’ve been dreading for weeks, the one you said was too complicated to cancel. But then the spotlight widens, encompassing both you and Lex—and you smile. Soft and unsure, but it’s there. It’s familiar. It’s you.
Clark’s stomach flips. His heart stutters.
You’ve always been beautiful. Always. But here, under that spotlight, with that smile on your lips and that glittering dress hugging every curve—God, Clark’s sure he’s about to pass out. From shock, jealousy, you. All of it at once. He can’t breathe. Can’t think.
When your fingers slip into Lex’s, the breath catches hard in his lungs. His chest feels too tight. His heart too large. His limbs heavy, numb.
It’s a physical ache, a hollow-throated, rib-crushing pain. The kind that makes him want to look away—but he can’t. He can’t stop watching, because you’re there, and Lex is there, and he knows that in this moment, surrounded by people, there’s absolutely nothing he can do but watch.
- You -
“Well done,” Lex murmurs in your ear, his breath warm against your bare neck. “You did excellently.”
You’re not sure how—you’re pretty sure you blacked out—but you made it across the hall without falling over or fainting. And now you’re standing beside the stage—knees weak, sweat prickling the back of your neck, forcing a smile as Lex kisses the back of your hand and steps up toward the glass podium.
The crowd is a blur of applause and praise, white noise in the back of your mind as you focus on keeping yourself upright. The edges of your vision blur. Your chest is tight. Your stomach feels like someone’s turned it inside out, like you’re going to be sick. You can’t even catch a full breath. Every laugh, every clink of glass, every flash of a camera is wrong. Everything is wrong.
You can feel the panic rising—hot in your throat, clawing at your lungs. Your hands are shaking, but you don’t dare draw attention. You should’ve been prepared for this. You should’ve known. You should’ve said no—done something, anything.
You should have told Clark.
“Miss?”
Your head snaps toward the security guard now standing beside you. He isn’t touching you, but one arm hovers near your waist while the other gestures toward a table. It’s a little smaller than the rest in the hall, fewer place settings, but the centrepiece of flowers is—somehow—even more elaborate.
“Thank you,” you mutter, voice sticking in your throat.
You step toward the table slowly, not trusting your shaky legs. The guard—one of Lex’s personal protection, you’re guessing—pulls a chair out for you, and you all but fall into it. You manage a tight smile, and he nods before returning to his post beside the stage.
Lex is at the podium, his voice smooth and practiced as it carries through the hall—but you can’t make out a word. It’s all just noise beneath the thunder of your pulse in your ears and the thoughts in your head screaming at you to get out of here.
You open your purse and pull out your phone, swiping the brightness down low before bringing up your texts with Clark. He hasn’t replied to your last one, but you know he’s at a work event. Maybe he’s just busy. Caught up.
Maybe you shouldn’t be bugging him right now. It’s not like this is really an emergency. You’re safe—or at least, you think you are. Lex might be creepy, but what’s he going to do in front of all these people? You’re just uncomfortable, that’s all. And you don’t need to make it Clark’s problem unless there really is something wrong.
You draw a shaky breath and type out another text:
Sorry, that was dramatic. I’m just a bit overwhelmed, but I’m okay. I’m safe. Hope you’re having fun at your work thing.
You hit send and stare at the screen for a few seconds. The little bubble with the dots pops up—he’s typing—but then it disappears. You wait. But it doesn’t pop up again.
Your heart lodges in your throat. He’s... ignoring you? Surely not. Right? Why would he? No—he’s just busy. He’s working, and you just told him you were safe. There’s no reason for him to text back. If you need him, he’ll be there. You know that. But you’re fine right now. You just need to calm down and focus.
Focus on your plan to prove to Lex Luthor that you’re not his next victim—sorry, girlfriend.
It’s simple, really. All you have to do is turn him off without pissing him off. Make him realise you don’t fit into his world. That he doesn’t actually want you. But without pushing hard enough to make him angry—or end up like the women who came before you.
On stage, Lex is in his element, talking through a presentation about what’s next for LuthorCorp. He’s confident, charismatic, commanding the hall of hundreds like he was born for this—for persuasion, for power, for aggrandising himself.
You sit quietly, hands knotted in your lap, focusing on your breathing. You angle your head slightly away from the stage, keeping your gaze on the crowd, on the servers weaving between tables. Anything to avoid meeting his eyes if they look this way.
The main floor is filled with wealthy guests, sponsors, stakeholders—people who look like they’ve never worried about anything but money. A few faces you recognise, most you don’t. Toward the back, behind a red velvet rope guarded by security, sits a raised section of tables. You squint, trying to make out who’s there—some extra-special VIPs, maybe—but the dim light and camera flashes blur your vision.
You turn to the woman sitting beside you—someone Lex had introduced in the limo, his publicist maybe—but you’ve already forgotten her name.
“What’s that section back there?” you whisper, nodding toward the far side of the hall. “Is that, like... the mayor or something?”
Her eyes flick toward the roped-off area. “Press. They’re not allowed to mingle, but after dinner Lex and a few sponsors will go over for short interviews or statements.”
You frown. “Why can’t they mingle?”
She gives you a flat look. “They’re press. No one wants them sniffing around our guests or overhearing something salacious.”
“Oh.”
You sit up straighter, gaze still fixed on the press area, squinting as if you might actually make out a face from this distance. Not that you’d even know anyone there. Maybe Cindy from the seven o’clock news—Clark usually has it on while you eat dinner.
After what feels like another hour of Lex preaching about drones, robotics, and some new frequency he’s discovered that can manipulate something—you’re not really paying attention—he finally wraps up and hands back to the emcee.
While Steve thanks Lex and runs through the rest of the evening, Lex works the room. He stops at a few tables near yours, greeting guests you assume are important, schmoozing until Steve announces that dinner is being served. Then he returns, drops into the chair beside you, and grins like a man who just won the lottery. Not that Lex Luthor needs to win the lottery.
“How are you?” he asks, laying his napkin across his lap.
Servers emerge from the kitchen with trays of food, serving your table first—because of course.
“I’m good,” you lie, forcing a smile.
He smirks. “Good. And what did you think of the presentation?”
“Loved it.” You smile wider, faker. “You’re really good at that whole public speaking thing.”
He chuckles softly—patronisingly, somehow—as if you’re a child that amuses him. “Yes,” he says. “I am.”
You try not to cringe, pressing your lips together so tightly you’re almost sure you look constipated, but Lex doesn’t notice—he’s already distracted by the steak set in front of him. Your stomach twists at the sight. It doesn’t look bad—it actually smells good—but you’re not hungry. Not even a little. All you feel is a nauseating ache where your appetite should be, and it has nothing to do with the food.
You miss Clark. You’ve been missing him ever since things got weird a few weeks ago. Since your first day at LuthorCorp, since that night in the kitchen when he pressed up behind you, and everything that used to be easy between you got complicated. Strained. Confusing.
You wish you’d had the guts to confront him, to ask him what the hell had changed. You wish you’d told him about tonight, about what your date really was, before it ever happened. Maybe then you wouldn’t be sitting here, smiling while your insides twist with regret.
Because right now you don’t just want Clark nearby; you need him. You need the stupid, steady comfort of him, the way being around him makes all the noise dull. You need someone who would notice you were breathing wrong and take you home without a second thought.
Right now, Clark Kent is the only thing you need.
“So,” Lex says, voice low, eyes still on his steak. “How do you know Superman?”
You choke, breath catching, cutlery clattering against your plate. He glances at you from the corner of his eye as he lifts a forkful of food to his mouth, impassive, unbothered. Just waiting.
You swallow hard. “Superman? Like—the caped guy?”
Lex nods, his mouth twisted into that slight smirk that makes your skin crawl.
“Well, I—um, I’ve seen him on the news,” you say, forcing your voice steady. “I wouldn’t say I know him, though. I know of him.”
Lex chews slowly, thoughtfully, his gaze drifting lazily around the table. Then he swallows, and turns back to you, his expression a practiced mask of composure.
“That so?” he asks, head tilting just slightly. “Didn’t he save you the other day—when those drones attacked the city?”
Your pulse spikes and your skin flushes with heat, your mind scrambling for an excuse. “Oh—right. Yeah, he did. I guess I forgot about that.”
Your brows pinch, just slightly, and you blink down at your plate. You don’t remember seeing Lex—or anyone from work—that day on the street, when you were standing in the alley with Clark. In fact, you’re pretty sure Superman flew you a considerable distance away from the LuthorCorp building. How could Lex have seen you? Unless he caught the split second when Clark picked you up.
“You forgot?” Lex echoes, brows raised. “Forgot that you were attacked by drones, saved by Superman, and flown halfway across Metropolis and back?”
Halfway across Metropolis? So he does know about the alley.
You shrug, doing your best to seem casual. “Yeah, I mean—fear repression or something, maybe? It was pretty scary.”
Lex’s eyes narrow. His smirk is gone now, but his mouth twitches at the corner—the only sign that he’s irritated, that he doesn’t believe you.
You keep your gaze fixed on your dinner, your expression blank as you slice into the chicken breast—even though your heart is pounding hard enough to rattle your entire body.
“You see,” Lex says, leaning closer, voice dropping lower, “at first, I just thought you were… attractive. I thought you’d look good on my arm. But then—” He pauses to stab his fork into his steak. “But then I saw you with the Kryptonian that day, in the alley, pretending you didn’t know each other.”
“We don’t,” you cut in, firm.
Lex huffs a sharp breath through his nose, his frustration cracking through the practiced calm. “Please don’t think me stupid. I’m not stupid. I saw the way you spoke to each other—it was familiar. And the way he… held you.”
You drop your cutlery onto the plate and finally look at him. “How do you know all this? Did you see us?”
His brows lift. “So you admit it?”
“There’s nothing to admit.” You sit up straighter. “He saved me, and we had a brief conversation. That’s all.”
He goes still, just watching you, studying your expression, your posture, the way you meet his eyes without flinching—even while every alarm bell in your head screams at you to run. But if you weren’t sitting, your knees would’ve already buckled. You’ve never been asked outright if you know Superman. Sure, you’ve had to cover a few times when Clark vanished or slipped up by doing something no normal man could. But this? You’ve never had to lie like this before. And you can’t tell if Lex is even buying it.
“You never answered me,” you say, eyes dropping to the untouched food on your plate. “How did you know—”
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Steve says into the mic, his voice cutting through the buzz of conversation. “Please continue to enjoy your meal while the Metropolitan Jazz Ensemble take the stage. There’ll be a short break before dessert—meanwhile, you’re invited to mingle and network. For our friends in the press, Mr. Luthor will be available for interviews and a brief statement shortly.”
When you look back, Lex’s plate is empty. He’s smiling now—not broad, just that clipped, knowing smile people use when they’re hiding something.
“Mr. Luthor,” the woman on your other side says, “we need to get ready.”
Lex dabs at the corner of his mouth with his napkin and meets your eyes. “You’ll join me—won’t you?” he asks, as if you have a choice.
You don’t bother forcing a smile; you just nod and shove your chair back. Lex and the woman—Annette, you think—stand with you and begin speaking in hushed tones about what he can and can’t say to the press. You use the brief distraction to step aside and slip your phone out of your purse—but still, nothing. No text. No call. Radio silence.
Panic rises in your chest, hot and sharp behind your ribs, because for the first time in a long time you feel painfully, utterly alone. Like maybe you don’t have a guardian angel watching over you. Maybe you really are on your own. Maybe you’re just stupid. And maybe… you’re in danger.
“Ready?” Lex holds out a hand, palm up, sharp eyes narrowed at you.
You swallow hard and place your hand in his—because you know it’s not an option. “As I’ll ever be.”
Your heart feels like it’s beating in your throat. You feel sick, like your stomach is trying to claw its way up your chest, desperate to escape. You’re not even sure how you’re still moving, still standing, still breathing. All you want to do is turn and run, but you can’t. Because Lex Luthor’s grip is too tight, there are too many people, and you’re too deep in this mess to get out now.
The room is a blur until you reached the roped off section of press where Lex pauses, tilting his head politely toward a few photographers and letting them snap a quick series of shots. There are journalists lined up along the inside of the rope, recorders ready, notepads in hand. Lex nods toward one and the questions start rolling—easy, rehearsed stuff about LuthorCorp’s latest innovations. He answers smoothly, voice even, charming, dismissive. You keep your eyes down, or across the room, anywhere but at Lex or the reporter he’s talking to. You don’t want to be introduced or questioned; you’d rather be swallowed whole by the room itself and spared from every pair of watching eyes.
With each brief interview, your heart beats a little faster. You step forward, staying close to Lex—not holding his hand anymore, but still caught at his side, stuck there like a shadow. You try to focus on breathing, on staying calm, on anything but the foreboding ache pulsing behind your ribs.
But then—
“Mr. Luthor, Lois Lane, Daily Planet.”
Daily Planet.
You freeze. Time stretches thin. Every camera flash, every murmured question, every clink of glass slows down. You feel like you’re floating just behind your own eyes, your chest tightening so sharply it’s hard to breathe.
When your gaze flicks up, you see Lois Lane. You've met her before. She works with—
Clark.
You gasp, but it catches in your throat. You can’t move. Can’t breathe. Can’t think. Because he’s here. Clark Kent is here. At the gala. Just a few steps behind the woman interviewing Lex. Separated from you by nothing but a flimsy rope. A rope you could step over, duck under, break through—just to get to him. To get to the only person you want right now—the only one you need.
And—he’s beautiful. He’s always beautiful. But here, in that suit, glasses sliding down his nose, curls falling over his forehead—God, you’ve never seen a more beautiful sight. Because Clark—your Clark—is here. Here when you need him, where you need him, and—fuck, now he knows. He knows everything. He’s seeing it. And he looks... hurt.
Your hands tremble at your sides, slick with sweat. You don’t know what to do. You want to run to him, beg him to get you out of here, but you can’t. There are too many people, too many cameras. And Lex is holding your wrist now—not your hand, your wrist. His grip is tight, almost painful, keeping you pinned at his side.
“Thank you, Mr. Luthor,” Lois says, stepping back.
You’re still looking at Clark. He’s still looking at you. Neither of you has moved. He’s just... standing there, chest rising and falling too fast. You can vaguely make out the man beside him, short with brown hair, trying to draw his attention—but Clark doesn’t budge.
“That’s enough press,” Lex says, his voice low and too close to your ear. “We’re leaving.”
He tugs sharply on your arm, and you stumble, barely catching yourself before you fall. He pulls you across the hall, and you glance back over your shoulder, desperate not to lose sight of your lifeline. But halfway to the table, you do. Even when you squint, he’s gone.
Back at the table, Lex nods at one of his security guards. “Watch her. Don’t let her leave.”
Your heart hammers harder—if that’s even possible—and dread sinks low and heavy in your stomach. What have you done?
Everything blurs. Chatter turns to white noise, the room around you dissolving into colours and patterns. You can’t make out anything, can’t feel your arms or legs. All you can feel is your heart pounding against your ribs and your shallow breath coming too fast, too thin.
Lex’s voice through the mic is a distant echo—something about unforeseen circumstances, something about sponsors, something about goodnight. Then applause, and he’s by your side again.
He grabs your hand and starts walking, dragging you into step. Security guards flank you, steering you toward the main doors while the clapping swells around you. You crane your neck, searching the press area—but it’s too much. The lights, the cameras, the sea of people. You can’t find Clark in the chaos. And before you can even get your bearings, you’re being shoved into the backseat of a limo.
The door slams—and the chaos stops.
Silence.
You squeeze your eyes shut and draw a shaky breath, tipping your head back against the headrest. Your ears ring. Your lungs seize. Everything—your body, your thoughts, the air in the car—feels suddenly too heavy. Like you’re going to suffocate.
Then Lex’s voice slices through the silence. “Who’s Clark?”
You open your eyes. “What?”
“Clark,” he repeats, expression flat. “You said his name when I was talking to that Daily Planet reporter.”
You blink. “I—I did?”
His eyes narrow. “Were you talking about Clark Kent? That reporter who’s always interviewing Superman. Is that how you know him?”
“Know who?”
“Superman!” he snaps, anger finally boiling over. “That piece of shit alien that thinks he runs this city!”
You flinch, body instinctively angling toward the door, away from him. He doesn't care though—he barely even notices. He just chuckles—low and amused, the sound turning a little deranged.
“I thought you’d be a good choice,” he says, almost wistfully, as if you’ve disappointed him “Quiet, compliant, a good accessory. But you just had to go and ruin it.”
Panic surges through you as your fingers close around the door handle, hands trembling. And for one sick second, you wonder how badly it would hurt to throw yourself out of the car.
“Although, I suppose I should be thanking you.” He settles back in his seat, smug. “You’re about to bring me something I want.”
You frown, leaning into the door until its hard edges dig into your side. “Something you want?”
He smiles properly for the first time since you met him—and it’s the most unnerving thing you’ve ever seen. “Yes. You’re going to deliver Superman to me. Because I have no doubt Clark Kent will tell the Kryptonian you’re in trouble. And he’ll come.”
Your grip on the handle tightens. “But I’m not in trouble.”
Lex chuckles again, low and knowing. “Not yet.”
“Well... what if it doesn’t work?” you ask. “What if he doesn’t come to save me?”
Lex’s expression darkens. “Oh, he will. I saw the way he looked at you—and the way you looked at him. That was more than just familiarity. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s already on his way—before I even have time to put you in real danger.”
Your breath stutters, chest tight, panic and regret tangling until you can’t tell one from the other. You squeeze the handle until your knuckles go white, about to yank the door open when the car shudders to a sudden stop. Both you and Lex fall forward, catching yourselves on whatever you can grab.
“What’s going on?” Lex snaps, glaring through the partition at the driver.
“There’s an accident up ahead,” the driver says. “Traffic’s completely stopped.”
This is your chance.
“Then go around it,” Lex orders sharply. “Mount the damn curb for all I care.”
Before you can second-guess yourself—before Lex can even glance back—you fling the door open and jump out. You don’t hesitate. You don’t think. You just run.
With the length of your dress fisted in one hand, you weave between cars. Horns blare, voices shout, the low rumble of traffic thrums from an adjacent road—but all you can hear is your pulse hammering in your ears.
Your shoes slam against the pavement when you finally hit the sidewalk, and you thank God you didn’t wear heels tonight. Every step feels too heavy, too slow, but you push harder. There aren’t many people to dodge, but the ones you do rush past give you startled looks—some call out, some curse at you to watch where you’re going. But you don’t care. All that matters is distance. Distance between you and the car. Between you and him. Between you and Lex Luthor.
You swing around the next corner, refusing to look back. You don’t know where you are—you only know you have to keep moving. Keep running. Even as your lungs burn. Even as your knees threaten to give out beneath you.
You know you must look insane—sprinting through Metropolis in a sparkly dress, panting like you haven’t done cardio in ten years. But none of that matters. All you can think about is your next move—where to go, how to keep Lex from catching you.
Maybe a police station. Maybe a fire station. Maybe a public bathroom you can lock yourself inside and call for help. Or Clark. You could call Clark. But the look on his face when he saw you with Lex keeps replaying in your mind, and you’re not even sure he’d answer.
You lied to him. For weeks. You pushed him away, refused his help, told him it was too complicated. But it would have been so much simpler if you’d just been honest. About everything. Not just the crappy new job and the creepy boss, but all of it. The years. The wanting. The love you’ve tried so hard to choke down. Every time you looked at him and knew, deep in your bones, that no one else would ever compare.
It doesn’t matter if he doesn’t feel the same. You just want to tell him. To talk to him. To be his best friend again and stop hiding behind excuses. You want to tell him everything—even if it breaks you.
You stop at the top of a set of stairs, gasping for air—and only then do you realise you’re crying. Your vision blurs with tears, your cheeks are wet, your throat is tight. You clutch the handrail, dragging in a deep, rattling breath. You don’t have a choice. You have to keep running. You have to keep going until you’re—
The world lurches. Your stomach swoops. And suddenly you're not on the ground anymore.
You’re in his arms.
You’re safe.
Thousands of feet above Metropolis, you’re finally safe. You squeeze your eyes shut, your tears turned cold by the rush of wind. He’s holding you so tightly you don’t even need to hold him back—but you do. You wrap your arms around his neck, one hand pressed to the base of it, the other slipping into his hair at the nape.
The noise of the city fades as you fly higher, further—away from the wreckage you left behind. You press your ear to his chest, letting the steady rhythm of his heart guide your own, each beat a reminder to breathe. And by the time something solid touches your feet, it feels like breaking the surface after being held under too long. Like you can finally breathe for the first time all night.
For a moment, you both just stand there. His hold loosens but doesn’t fall away. You keep your eyes shut, your cheek pressed to his chest, waiting for your pulse to settle.
After what feels like forever—and somehow still not long enough—he pulls back. His fingers curl around your wrists, gentling unwinding your arms from his neck, and then he steps away. The sudden absence of his warmth makes you shiver, and you only then do you open your eyes to see that you’re standing on the balcony of his apartment.
You look up at him, fresh tears blurring your vision, but he’s already turning away. He doesn’t even glance back as he steps inside, boots heavy against the floor.
“Clark—” you try, but your throat is too dry, too tight.
You follow him, swiping away your tears with the back of your hand, feeling like a complete mess. He’s standing at the kitchen island with his back to you, both palms braced against the counter, head bowed. He’s completely still except for the slow rise and fall of his shoulders.
You swallow hard. “Clark, please. Can we—”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
You bunch your dress in both fists and take a step closer, voice wavering. “You don’t have to talk. Please—just let me explain.”
He turns around, his expression tight, shoulders rigid. “You don’t have to explain anything. If you want to date Luthor, then—”
“I don’t,” you cut in, too fast, too desperate. “I don’t. I really, really don’t. But I couldn’t say no. I couldn’t go to HR. I couldn’t tell anyone.”
“You could’ve told me,” he says, his voice low and rough, his eyes wide with hurt.
Your chest tightens. “I know—and I wish I did. I just... I was too scared.”
He blinks at you, just once, confusion and something close to heartbreak flickering across his face. “Scared?”
“Not of you,” you say quickly. “Just... scared.” Your heart feels like it's in your throat, your pulse spiking again—but this time it’s not panic, it’s something else entirely. “I was scared of Luthor. Scared of what people would think. But mostly I was scared of… of needing you.”
His expression falters. His mouth opens, then closes. His brows draw together, jaw working, as if the words are trying to force their way and he won’t let them. You can’t tell if he’s angry or just hurt. Probably both. But there’s something else too—something sharp and barely restrained beneath his careful composure.
You take a shallow, shaky breath. “I—I’m scared of how much I need you,” you say, voice catching. “These past few weeks have been hell. Not talking to you—not being honest—has been killing me. I don’t want any more secrets. I need you, Clark. Despite everything, I need you.”
Your words tumble out faster than you can control, frantic and raw. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to make this weird, I just… I don’t want to lie anymore. I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll get off your couch—I'll find my own apartment. And I know you want me to find a new job—I’ll do it, I swear. I just—”
“You have no idea what I want,” he cuts in, sharp and low—the tension breaking through his voice.
“Then tell me,” you plead, stepping closer. “Because I am so sick of guessing and pretending. I don’t know why it’s been so hard lately, I don’t know what changed, but I want to fix it.”
“I can’t.” He folds his arms, gaze dropping to the floor. “I can’t tell you.”
“Why not?”
His eyes flick up, impossibly blue and shimmering with something you don’t recognise. “Because then everything changes.”
“Everything has changed, Clark!” you exclaim, a little louder than you mean to. “We haven’t talked properly in weeks. I don't even know how to act around you anymore. One minute you're pressing up against me in the kitchen, and then the next you’re completely ignoring me? And then the other night—” The words catch in your throat, and you swallow hard. “The other night we nearly fucking kissed, and we just—what? Forget that it ever happened? We don’t even try to talk about it?”
“I can’t,” he says again, tightening his folded arms.
You hold his gaze, heart hammering, feeling how close he is to the edge. There’s a flicker in his expression, a crack in the armour—something that betrays him, something that says he’s close to confessing the truth—and you’re determined to hear it.
“Why not?” you press again, voice firm, pulse rising.
“Because,” he says, his jaw tight, “I can’t risk this.”
You frown. “Risk what?”
“This,” he snaps, frustration spilling over as he gestures between the two of you. “Us. Everything. I can’t risk losing you to be selfish.”
You step closer again, closing the distance until only a few feet separate you. “It’s not being selfish, Clark. I’m asking you. I want you to tell me. I—”
“You!” he explodes, voice rough and a little strained. “I want you!”
Your chest seizes. Your knees feel weak. Your stomach twists like you just fell from a cliff and landed in the middle of your own heartbeat. Every nerve is humming, every inch of you suddenly alive.
You can hardly breathe, but you don’t care. All that matters is him—and the way he's looking at you. The way his eyes are locked on you, raw and unguarded and so achingly, unmistakably Clark.
He steps in, swallowing the distance between you in a single breath. “Are you happy now?”
You shake your head slowly, softly, eyes pleading as you look up at him. His chest rises and falls too fast, his gaze restless, searching your face for any sign he’s crossed a line he can’t return from.
And then he leans in, close enough for your breath to catch, his voice dropping lower. “Are you still scared?”
You shake your head, swallowing hard, willing him to keep going. Keep crossing the line. Fuck the line. You don’t want boundaries—you want him.
“What about now?” he asks, lifting both hands to cup your face—his palms pressing softly against your cheeks, like he’s afraid to touch something so precious.
You exhale softly, tilting your head into his hand, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. “No.”
When you open them again, he’s even closer, his lips barely a breath from yours. Your pulse hammers in your ears, your stomach twists, your knees tremble. You’re frozen and undone all at once, balanced on the edge of something inevitable, something that could shatter you.
His thumb strokes your cheek, warm breath ghosting across your lips. “Even now?”
“Even now,” you breathe, heart racing, the words tumbling out like a confession. “Clark... please.”
He swallows hard, jaw tight. The air between you crackles, charged and electric. His lips part, like he’s about to say something else—but nothing comes. His eyes lock on yours, searching, his tongue darting across his bottom lip as if he’s holding back the last of his restraint.
You hold your breath.
Then he kisses you.
And the entire world falls away.
It’s like stars colliding, like gravity itself has finally given in. You taste him, feel him, the heat of his mouth and the solid weight of his hands cradling your face, anchoring you even as everything else disappears. His lips fit against yours like they were always meant to, urgent and reverent all at once.
Your hands clutch at his chest, fingertips pressing into the symbol, desperate for something to hold on to as you push up onto your toes, straining closer, needing more. Every year of restraint, every stolen glance, every unspoken word—they all break free in this one breathless, unstoppable moment.
The kiss deepens fast—too fast—and not fast enough. His mouth moves against yours with a hunger that’s been caged for far too long, each pull and press sending shivers down your spine. His thumbs sweep across your cheeks, firm now, not careful, holding you like he’s terrified you might slip away.
You gasp into him, and he takes the sound, swallowing it, his lips parting as his tongue grazes yours—tentative for half a second, then greedy, desperate, claiming. The taste of him floods you, dizzying, addictive, and you chase it, pressing harder, tilting your head to meet him deeper.
Your fingers curl into the fabric of his suit, bunching tight over the emblem as though it could anchor you. He’s solid under your touch, impossibly strong, but the way he kisses you—messy, breathless, almost frantic—makes him feel human, undone.
His breath mingles with yours, hot and uneven, and when his teeth catch your bottom lip, a sharp little spark shoots through you, straight down your spine. You shudder against him, and his answering groan rumbles through his chest, vibrating beneath your palms, making you ache everywhere you’ve been starving for him.
There’s no space left, no thought, no restraint—just him. His mouth, his hands, his body pulling you closer and closer until you’re certain nothing could ever pull you apart again.
But then your lungs start to burn, your head spins, and you’re almost certain you’re about to pass out. So you break apart, not far—only because breathing becomes absolutely necessary. And even as you gasp for air, your mouths still drag against each other, unwilling to fully let go. Your lips are swollen, tingling, slick with spit, and you can still taste him as the air between you rushes in sharp and shallow.
His forehead drops to yours, both of you panting, breaths colliding in the narrow space you refuse to widen. His hands are still on your face, thumbs trembling faintly as if he can’t decide whether to pull you closer again or finally let go.
You can’t stop staring at him. His eyes are wild, pupils blown wide, mouth parted like he’s fighting for words he can’t find. He looks half-crazed, undone in a way you’ve never seen—like holding himself back all these years has finally cracked something open.
Your chest heaves, your pulse a frantic drum, and still the urge claws at you, deeper than hunger, more dangerous than air. You want to drag him back down, to taste him until you forget your own name. And by the way his gaze drops to your mouth, the way his breath hitches, you know he wants the same.
“I want you too,” you gasp between ragged breaths. “I want all of you, Clark. I want everything.”
That’s all it takes. His hands find your waist, rougher now, fingers curling into the glittering fabric as his mouth claims yours again—hungry, relentless, burning with everything he’s held back too long. In one fluid motion he turns you, pressing you against the kitchen counter, the edge biting into your lower back as a shiver rips through you, every nerve sparking to life.
He presses into you, hips nudging closer until you feel the solid heat of him everywhere. His mouth never leaves yours, his hands restless, greedy—grasping, squeezing, mapping you out like he needs your shape branded into his palms. You melt against him, fingers clawing into his shoulders as your knees threaten to give.
Then his hands slide lower, gripping the curve of your ass, and he mutters against your mouth, rough and breathless, “Up.”
You barely have to move—he lifts you like you weigh nothing, setting you on the counter and shoving your dress higher, his body sliding between your legs like he was always meant to be there.
“You have no idea—” he pants, his mouth still hot on yours, “—no idea what you do to me.”
His lips trail across your jaw, down your throat, leaving a path of open-mouthed kisses as you tilt your head back, offering him more.
“When I saw you tonight,” he mumbles against your skin, his breath ragged, “I nearly lost it.”
You arch into him, a soft moan slipping free as he sucks a mark just above your pulse. The sound drags a groan from his chest, low and rough, and his hands leave your hips, sliding up your spine, fumbling for the zipper of your dress.
You want to help him—you want to straighten, to hold still, to give him what he’s reaching for—but you can’t. You can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but drown in the heat of him. Your heart is pounding, deafening, your skin lit up everywhere he touches, a knot of need twisting tighter and tighter in your belly.
His mouth finds its way back up—your neck, your jaw—before catching your lips again in a bruising kiss. Your hands slip from his shoulders into his hair, fingers threading through the curls with just enough pull to drag a sigh from his throat, hot against your mouth.
“I hate this dress,” he mutters against your lips. “I mean—I love it, but I hate it.”
Through the haze of want, you realise he means how difficult the zipper is. If you were with anyone else, you might’ve thought of it sooner, but you’re not. You’re with Clark—and he’s making you stupid.
“Rip it,” you breathe.
He pulls back just enough to search your face, his breath still ghosting over your lips. “You sure?”
You nod, pulse hammering. “Get me out of this fucking thing.”
His expression flickers, and the corner of his mouth curves. “But you look so good in it.”
You can’t help the way your lips twitch, a small smile breaking through. “Are you flirting with me, Kent?”
He huffs a quiet laugh, eyes dark and bright all at once. “Have been for years, but thanks for noticing.”
Then he tears the dress. The sound of it ripping splits through the air, sharp and final, and the dress falls apart around you. For a split second, everything stills—his chest heaving, his eyes locked on yours—everything between you strung so tight it could snap.
The smiles slip from your faces, replaced with something heavier, hungrier, and the weight of it all crashes over you—the line you’re about to cross, the way nothing will ever be the same after this.
Clark draws an unsteady breath. “Are you sure about this?”
Your hands drift from his hair to cradle his jaw, thumbs brushing the creases where his dimples hide. “Clark,” you whisper, voice shaking as your throat tightens, “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”
The look he gives you is devastating. It slams into you like heat and tenderness colliding, the kind of gaze that leaves you breathless because you can feel it—his need, his love—written in every line of his face. Your chest aches with it, your pulse racing to match his.
“I’m in love with you,” you blurt, the words spilling out before you can stop them.
His breath stutters—loud, uneven—and for a single, panicked second you think you’ve broken something you can’t fix.
But then his eyes light up, impossibly bright, and his smile spreads—slow, wide, completely unrestrained. His dimples crease, cutting deep enough to make your chest ache, and suddenly he’s glowing. Like you’ve just handed him the one thing he’s been waiting his whole life to hear, and he can’t quite believe it’s real.
He’s looking at you like you’re everything, like the rest of the world has vanished and all that’s left is this room, this moment, you and him. The sight makes you dizzy, swooning, your pulse hammering as that unguarded joy washes over you. It’s unfair—the grin, the dimples, the way his eyes hold nothing back—and somehow it makes you love him even more.
Before he can speak, you surge forward, capturing his mouth again, swallowing his smile, his soft laughter. His hands fumble at your dress as he kisses you, pushing it down over your shoulders, tearing a little more until the fabric finally slips free and falls to the floor.
Clark stills, just for a heartbeat, then eases back a step to look at you. His cheeks are flushed, his chest rising hard and fast, lips red and swollen. When he speaks, his voice cracks under the weight of it. “You—” he swallows, eyes raking over you like he can’t take you in fast enough, “—you’re so beautiful.”
Your heart stutters, breath hitching. Superman—the Superman, cape and all—is standing in front of you, lips bruised, desire blatant in the tight stretch of his trunks, telling you that you’re beautiful—half-naked, trembling, aching, and beautiful.
“Clark,” you pant, leaning back on the counter with both hands. “Please, just—”
You don’t finish. He crashes back into you—lips, tongue, teeth—devouring you like a man starved. His hands spread wide across your back, dragging you flush against him as his hips roll forward, slow, deliberate, devastating.
You gasp into his mouth, the friction sparking down your spine, straight to the heat pooling low in your belly. You’re already wet, the thin fabric of your panties clinging to you, and it’s unbearable. You shift closer on the counter, thighs spreading, desperate to feel more of him, the hard line of him straining beneath the suit.
He grinds forward again with a low, guttural groan. You swallow the sound eagerly, smiling against his lips before catching his bottom one between your teeth and tugging—just enough to make him break, to drag another raw, strangled noise from his throat. And then—
Snap.
Your bra gives way, the straps slipping loose, and his hands are on you immediately—big, warm, rough in all the right ways. He rolls your nipples between his fingers and you can’t stop the sound that leaves you, a soft, desperate whimper torn from somewhere deep.
He sighs against your lips, the sound ragged. “You’re gonna drive me insane.”
You rut your hips forward, grinding against him, and he almost chokes on his breath.
“Touch me,” you gasp, voice raw, desperate. “Please, Clark—touch me.”
A low, guttural sound rumbles in his chest, vibrating through you as his mouth claims yours again—harder, hungrier, like he’s losing the battle to hold anything back. One hand abandons your breast, sliding down the curve of your body in a slow, searing drag that leaves fire in its wake, until it settles at the top of your thigh. His fingers flex there, possessive, before urging your legs open wider.
You obey without hesitation, shifting your hips, spreading yourself for him.
“Good girl,” he murmurs against your skin, voice like gravel, lips brushing along your jaw.
Your lungs seize. Your heart lurches, stuttering into a dangerous rhythm. You know he doesn’t mean it the way it sounds—you know he’s just acknowledging your compliance, that he isn’t even trying—but God, how can he say something like that and not expect you to fall apart on the spot?
He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes burning with curiosity and hunger. “You okay?”
You manage a swallow, a small nod. “Y—yeah, sorry. I’m just—” The words break off in a strangled gasp when he presses two fingers against your clothed cunt, firm and deliberate. “F—fuck.”
He chuckles softly, lips finding yours to swallow the sound as his fingers brush again, coaxing another. This time he presses harder, dragging the damp fabric against you, while his other hand shifts from one breast to the other—rolling each nipple until your back arches helplessly.
Then, slow—too slow—his fingers hook your panties aside, grazing over your slick heat. Your whole body jolts. “Clark,” you choke on his name, breath breaking. “Oh—God.”
He smiles against your mouth, kissing you like he can’t stop, urgent and reverent all at once as his fingers move lower. One slips between your folds, sliding easily through the wetness that’s already dripping onto the counter, and then—he finds you. He presses one finger right where you ache, right at your entrance.
You groan into his mouth, hands tangling in his hair, gripping hard as he pushes in. The intrusion is delicious. Your thighs tremble, your lungs forget how to work, and the only thing that exists is him—his hands, his mouth, his body caging you against the counter like he was made for this moment.
“You’re so…” his voice rasps against your lips, breaking on the words, “so wet.”
Those filthy words in that deep voice—the same voice that usually trips over ‘golly’ and ‘gosh’ like they’re real curse words—have your mind reeling. You can hardly believe that it’s the same the man standing in front of you, touching you like this, making your thighs slick with arousal in a way no one else ever could.
“And you’re perfect,” he murmurs—just as he slides a second finger into you.
The whine that leaves your lips is needy, raw. You tip your head back, eyes squeezed shut as pleasure surges through every nerve in your body. You’ve never felt like this before—never been this turned on, this desperate, this undone. But God, you don’t care. You don’t care about anything except Clark. Your Clark.
He takes advantage of the way you’re baring yourself, chest pressed forward, throat stretched for him. His lips trail down the curve of your neck, lighting fires in their wake, before finding your collarbone. He sucks a mark into your skin, groaning low as he soothes it with his tongue, then slips lower still—mouth closing hot and hungry around your nipple.
You gasp, clutching at his curls, tugging hard enough that any other man would flinch. But this is Clark—and he just moans against your breast, the sound vibrating straight through you, making your body shudder.
His fingers work inside you at a maddening pace—thrusting, curling, coaxing. Every deliberate press makes you whimper, each movement more precise than the last, like he’s memorising the map of your body, like he’s learning exactly how to take you apart. And then his thumb finds your clit, circling slow, achingly slow, until your hips buck up into his hand with a strangled cry.
He tortures you like this for what feels like forever—his mouth roaming, sucking at your nipples, dragging up your throat, finding your lips only to abandon them for your collarbone again. Every soft lick, every sharp nip has you keening, undone by the way he devours you and yet holds back all at once. His fingers never falter—steady, relentless, never quickening, never easing—until you’re nothing but a writhing, sweating mess, panting his name like a prayer.
“Clark,” you whine, voice ragged. “Clark—please. I need—I need you. I want you.”
Your hand slips from his hair, trembling as it slides down the strong line of his neck, over the hard plane of his chest, until it stops at the bright red trunks. Your palm presses against the thick, heavy outline of him straining beneath the suit, and the heat of him makes your head spin.
He chokes on his breath, hips stuttering into your touch like he can’t help it.
“Sweetheart,” he groans against your neck, lips dragging over the sensitive skin, “‘m not gonna fit in here.”
And then, as if to prove it, he slides a third finger into you. The stretch is sharp, toe-curling, and you gasp—loud and unrestrained—the sound catching rough in your chest.
“Please,” you beg, your voice cracking with desperation. “Please try.”
A strangled sound rips from him before his mouth presses back onto yours, teeth and tongue and heat. His fingers thrust harder now, deeper, rougher, his wrist twisting as he spreads you wide, stretching you to take him. His other hand leaves your breast, skimming down your body until it grips your thigh, pushing it open as far as it will go. He drives his fingers into you again, and you cry into his mouth, shuddering with every merciless stroke.
You try to make yourself relax, to let your body open, even as every muscle aches to hold him tighter, to cling and never let go. His mouth drags hot and messy against yours, and you force yourself to breathe through it—because you’ve never wanted anything more than this man, and you know you never will.
Your hand slides lower, pressing against the thick line of him beneath his suit, and his hips snap forward instantly, chasing your touch like instinct. He’s hard, heavy, almost impossibly big, and the sheer size of him only makes your pulse race harder. You’re not worried. Or scared. You just need him inside you. Now.
“How does this thing—” you mutter, fumbling blindly at the fabric, fingers searching for a seam, a zipper, anything you can tug open. You’ve never thought about how he gets in and out of the suit before, but right now it feels like the most urgent question in the world.
He chuckles low and ragged against your mouth, his hands moving to help, and the second he pulls away your body clenches around nothing, a needy whimper tearing out of you before you can stop it.’
You don’t watch exactly what he does—you just hear the soft pop of fastenings, the hush of a zipper, the rustle of fabric. And when you look properly, you see him—skin bare, every line and plane of him lit and real. He’s perfect and honest and utterly exposed, and the sight of him takes your breath away.
He steps back into you, heat radiating off him, the bare weight of his body pressing flush against yours. You reach for him like you’ll drown without the contact, and he answers in kind—touch for touch, breath for breath—until the world narrows to skin, to heat, to the pounding thud of two hearts finally syncing.
“Clark—” you gasp, eyes drinking him in—alabaster skin stretched over thick muscle, broad shoulders you’ve clung to a hundred times, and between his legs… God. He’s so big it makes your mouth water. “You’re so—”
He silences you with a kiss, lips crashing back to yours, cheeks flushed pink as though he’s embarrassed by the force of his own want. His hands grip your thighs, spreading you wide again, fingers biting into your flesh like he’s anchoring himself, like he’s seconds away from losing control.
And then you feel it—the blunt, hot head of him sliding against your folds, catching on the slick heat there. The sensation tears a shudder out of you, your body trembling with raw need. Wetness pools beneath you, smearing over your thighs, dripping onto the counter. Every nerve ending screams for more, for all of him, even if it splits you in two.
“Please,” you breathe, the word almost a sob. “I need you.”
His groan is low and guttural, torn from deep in his chest as he begins to press in. You gasp when the tip breaches your entrance—thick, hot, stretching you already past what you thought possible.
“Oh, fuck,” you whimper, clutching at his shoulders. “You’re so—”
“I’ve got you,” he rasps, breath breaking. “We’ll go slow. Tell me if—”
You crush your mouth to his, silencing him with a kiss, fingers fisting in his curls. You cling, holding him close, letting him drink down every ragged noise spilling out of you.
He’s so big you feel dizzy, lightheaded, like your body can’t possibly take him. Some frantic part of your mind swears it has to be an alien thing, because no man—no human—could ever fill you like this.
Your chest heaves against his, hot, messy kisses pulling you through the sharp, searing stretch as he pushes you open inch by inch. You shift—thighs spreading wider, hips tilting, back arching—trying to make space for him. But after a few agonising inches, he stills.
“Lay back,” he pants against your lips, his breath mingling with yours.
One broad hand presses gently against your sternum, the other steadying your back as he lowers you. The cold marble bites into your overheated skin and you hiss, but he leans down instantly, pressing a soft kiss to your stomach. “Sorry,” he murmurs, voice rough, threaded with restraint.
When you’re flat against the counter, the stone slowly warming beneath your skin, you lift your gaze. He’s standing over you, chest rising hard and fast, his cock barely halfway inside—and from the look on his face, he’s hanging on by the thinnest shred of control.
You don’t mean to, but your body clenches around him, greedy, aching. The sight of him like this—beautiful, bare, wrecked and still so careful with you—makes your heart squeeze even as your body burns with need.
“I love you,” he murmurs, voice almost too soft as his hands stroke your sides. “I—I’ve—” his breath stutters, eyes locking on yours, wide and sincere. “I’ve never… never wanted anyone like this… like you. All of you. Forever.”
Your breath catches. Your chest aches, head spinning, and you want to cry—you think maybe you already are, sweat and tears gathering at your temples as you stare up at this impossible, perfect man. Then he moves again, pressing forward, urging you open, stretching you until your vision goes hazy and all you can do is arch your back and whimper.
He rocks deeper, slow—so unbearably slow—your body struggling to adjust around him. The angle helps, your hips tilting as his big hands guide your thighs higher, wider, coaxing you to take more of him. You breathe through the sharpness, every nerve pulled tight with need.
You can’t stop staring. Even through the haze and dizziness, you can’t tear your eyes from him—so big, so perfect, so fucking undone as he holds himself back for you. Your gaze drifts over the slope of his nose, the curve of his swollen lips, down the hard planes of his chest and stomach until it catches on the dark hair leading down to where you’re joined.
You drink him in shamelessly, memorising every detail like he’s the map to your salvation. He consumes you—body, mind, soul—and your chest aches with the sheer force of love clawing inside you. You try to remind yourself that it’s real, that you get to keep this, but it still feels impossible.
And then—he stills. His breath catches, eyes dragging up from where he’s watching himself sink into you until they lock on yours.
“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice ragged, “you did it.”
Your lashes flutter, lungs burning as you force yourself to hold his gaze. “Then what are you waiting for?”
Something dark flickers across his face, a tremor of restraint snapping thin. “Are you sure?”
You want to roll your eyes, but you’re too far gone, too desperate. Your back arches, hands sliding up to palm your breasts, fingers pinching your nipples as you breathe his name like a plea. “Clark. Please—fuck me.”
And that’s it. Whatever thread of control he had left snaps.
He moves—not smooth, but jagged—like he’s still trying to hold himself back, still trying not to break you even as instinct claws through him. He slides out just an inch before his hips snap forward, and the jolt rips a cry from you. The sting of the stretch fades quick, drowned out by the white-hot pleasure that tears through your body.
Your fingers twist your nipples again, your back arching, gasps falling from your lips as he fucks into you with slow, jolting thrusts—each one a battle against losing himself completely. But the way his breath stutters says he’s already right there, shaking, flushed, curls mussed and wild as his eyes devour every inch of you like he’s starving.
“Harder,” you beg, head tipping back. “Clark—please, I can take it.”
He shudders—like the air’s been ripped from his lungs—and then he pulls almost all the way out, only to drive back in with a brutal snap of his hips that makes you cry out. And he doesn’t stop. He thrusts into you like it’s instinct, like it’s prayer, like he’s been holding this back for too long and just can’t anymore.
“Sweetheart—” he chokes, leaning over you, his forehead pressing to yours as his hips piston into you, rough now, relentless. “You feel so good.”
His hands don’t stop moving—sliding up your ribs, cradling your breast, gripping your hip tight enough to leave marks. And all you can do is take it. Take him. Let him love you like this—with every shattered breath, every desperate thrust, every reverent inch of him finally, finally letting go.
He’s so big you feel each thrust all the way up into your chest, almost choking you with how full you are. It’s perfect. He’s everywhere—surrounding you, filling you, driving you into the cold stone until you know you’ll bruise, and you don’t care.
His mouth finds yours again—hungry, open, teeth and tongue and need—but there’s nothing rushed in it. Even now, even like this, he tastes you like you’re precious, like you’re some kind of miracle he can’t stop worshipping.
You cling to him, fingers tangled in his curls, legs hooking around his hips so tight you might as well be part of him. “Clark,” you pant. “You’re gonna make me—”
“I know,” he whispers, breath hot against your lips. “Me too.”
He kisses you once more—hard, hot, desperate—before pulling back, standing upright again. One hand stays at your breast, kneading gently, while the other slips between your thighs. His fingers find your clit instantly, circling, pressing with just the right amount pressure to rip a choked moan from your throat.
Your eyes squeeze shut—you can’t hold them open anymore. You’re too close, too tightly wound, your body a live wire about to snap. Your hands tangle in your own hair, tugging, as your body writhes beneath him until his palm leaves your breast and presses flat to your abdomen, pinning you down to the counter to keep you still.
“I’ve got you,” he rasps, voice low and wrecked.
Then his hand slips lower, just enough to press into your belly—and you feel it. Feel him. Thick and deep inside you. The pressure borders on pain, sharp and overwhelming, but it’s so perfect you scream his name.
Your back arches, legs trembling violently, hips chasing every brutal thrust. His cock hits that spot again and again, unrelenting, and his fingers on your clit don’t stop—slick and ruthless—and that’s all it takes.
You shatter around him, crying out loud enough to echo, body breaking apart as pleasure rips through you. Your legs quake, your fingers knot hard in your hair, trying to hold yourself together as wave after wave crashes down. He feels it—feels you clenching, fluttering, dragging him deeper—and it unravels him completely.
His thrusts falter, losing rhythm. His grip tightens—one hand bruising your hip, the other braced on the counter’s edge—as he tries, uselessly, to hold on.
You force your eyes open just in time to see it.
His mouth falls open, a breathless moan tearing from his chest. His bright blue eyes flare molten red for a heartbeat before he squeezes them shut, head thrown back, and a raw, guttural sound bursts from him as he comes. Hot and deep inside you, again and again, until his whole body shakes with it.
And then—
Crack.
The counter shifts beneath you, just slightly, but enough to still you both. Panting, dazed, still shuddering in the aftershocks, you meet each other’s eyes. For a moment you just stare, disbelief and dopey grins tugging at your mouths.
“Did you just—” you breathe, voice ragged, “—break the counter?”
His eyes drop to where his hand had been braced, and sure enough—a jagged crack splits the kitchen island clean in two.
You sit up, head swimming, and he wraps an arm around you to steady you. He’s still inside you, still pulsing a little, still impossibly thick and somehow still hard.
For a beat you both just stare at the ruined countertop.
“That’s gonna be expensive,” you say, because of course that’s what you’re thinking about right now—right after getting your brains fucked out by your best friend… who you’re also in love with.
Clark chuckles, low and breathless, and presses a soft kiss to the side of your head. “Yeah. It is.”
Then he scoops you up, arms sliding under you, and you squeal as your legs clamp around his waist and your arms loop tight around his neck. You feel him twitch inside you and the knot in your belly tightens again—already ridiculous and ready for round two.
“Maybe I need a roommate,” he says, flashing that grin that still makes your heart skip. “You know, help pay rent. Save money.”
You grin back—wide and cheesy—because holy shit, he’s so beautiful. So perfect. So impossibly Clark, and he’s yours. He loves you, you love him, and right now that’s everything.
“Is that you officially asking me to move in with you, farm boy?” you ask, brow raised as he strides through the apartment carrying you like you weigh nothing.
He laughs again and kicks the bedroom door open, turning toward the bed. “Was I not clear enough?”
You yelp when he drops you onto the mattress, the sudden loss of him inside you jarring. You bounce once, then he’s covering you with his warm, naked body and the world tilts. Your heart squeezes, your stomach flips, your whole body hums with giddy, ridiculous love.
“Let me be clearer,” he murmurs, voice low and a touch dark, as he trails slow, lazy kisses down your jaw and along your neck.
You arch into him, desperate for his touch, his skin. For everything and all of him.
“You know,” you gasp, breathless, the words catching as his mouth moves lower, “I’m pretty sure I’m out of a job, so I’m not sure if—”
Your breath catches as his mouth closes around your nipple, a soft nip soothed instantly by his tongue. You can feel his grin against your skin, those kiss-swollen lips curved into that boyish smile that makes your heart do somersaults.
“I said,” he murmurs, lips dragging lower, scattering goosebumps down your stomach, “let me be clear—I’m not letting you leave this apartment.” He pauses to suck a kiss just above your pelvis, the sound wet and obscene, making you clench around nothing. “Ever.”
Then he dips lower, and your lungs seize. Your thighs tremble. Your hands twist in the sheets as his mouth finally finds you, and the world shatters all over again.
And you know, in the deepest, hungriest part of yourself, that from this night on, there’s no going back—Clark Kent is yours, and every touch, every kiss, every gasp of him will leave you undone for the rest of your life.
bee i don’t know what it is but your fics are literally an addiction for me at this point. i can’t get enough. the way you write transports me to another dimension. the way i can feel all the emotions— anxiety, turmoil, love, etc — from your words is beautiful. i can never get enough. i absolutely loved this story as much as i love you bee 🩵🩵
✨ Note ✨
I’m back with a new short series—slightly angsty (you know that’s my strong suit). I really hope you enjoy it, and I can’t wait to read your thoughts in the comments! 💭
Just a little reminder: I read all of your requests. Some are already scheduled, others are still in the works, but trust me—I always see and take every single one of them into account. Thank you for being here and sharing this space with me. 🖤
Clark Kent x female reader
Synopsis: Clark Kent never imagined his friends would insist on spending their vacation in Smallville. But when the group road trip ends with you falling asleep on his shoulder, and his parents welcoming you as if you already belonged there, Clark realizes the risk he faces isn’t just keeping his secret safe—it’s hiding how deeply he has fallen for you.
Warnings: fluff, shy!reader, mentions of family dynamics, found family, light angst, comfort, slow burn
WC: 5,900 words approx.
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Clark walked briskly down the crowded sidewalk, trying not to bump into the people rushing past him. He carried his briefcase on one arm, firmly held, while in the other hand he balanced two coffee cups that released a strong, sweet aroma. The heat of the liquid seeped through the cardboard, reminding him he had to arrive without spilling them. Every so often, he tilted his arm slightly so no one would hit him, murmuring “Excuse me,” “Sorry,” or “Thank you” with the kind of courtesy that seemed natural to him, always paired with a brief but genuine smile.
When he stepped through the building’s doors, the street noise faded behind him, replaced by the echo of footsteps, the murmur of elevators, and the scent of paper and ink that filled the newsroom. He greeted the receptionist with a “Good morning” and headed straight for the elevator. As soon as he reached the Daily Planet floor, the first thing he did was search for you. He found you right away: sitting at your desk, leaning over some documents, with Lois and Jimmy beside you. They were chatting animatedly about something you couldn’t quite hear, and you, with your furrowed brow, could barely concentrate.
Clark approached carefully. His eyes instantly caught the exhaustion etched across your face: the dark circles, your slouched posture, and the way you dragged your feet back to your desk. Lois and Jimmy didn’t look much better; all three of you had gone days without rest, and the lack of sleep hung heavily in the air.
Clark set a cup down in front of you.
“Cappuccino,” he said softly, almost as if offering you a cure.
Your expression relaxed immediately, and a smile lit up your face.
“Always saving my day, Kent,” you whispered, taking the cup with both hands and sipping the first mouthful with relief. Then you nodded toward Lois and Jimmy, still lost in conversation. “They’re waiting for you.”
Clark raised a brow and dropped into his chair, patiently straightening his ties—he always carried a spare one.
“And what exactly are they waiting for me for?”
You lowered your coffee and leaned a little closer, as if sharing a secret.
“Because they’ve lost their minds. Lois has had so much caffeine she’s basically a rocket, and Jimmy hasn’t eaten a thing. They’re frantic, desperate… searching for a vacation spot.”
Before Clark could answer, Lois’s voice thundered from behind you:
“Clark Kent, spin that damn chair!”
She couldn’t stand waiting, especially when her anxiety mixed with impatience. And although she never dared touch Clark, with you she did; without asking, she pushed your chair and dragged you into the little circle they had formed. Clark chuckled and followed, resting his arms on the back of his chair as he settled in with the others.
The four of you sat face-to-face, surrounded by folders, papers, and half-empty coffee cups. You looked at them with a resigned air.
“Looks like we’re about to summon someone,” you joked, noting how they had arranged themselves like in some sort of ritual.
“Not someone, a place,” Lois corrected, speaking so fast she was almost unintelligible. “Perry already approved our vacation time, and if we get to that day without a concrete plan, we won’t rest. And I need to rest.”
Her intensity pulled a laugh out of you that you quickly hid behind your coffee cup. You glanced at Clark from the corner of your eye, silently mouthing: “Crazy.”
He held your gaze for a moment and, though he tried to resist, ended up smiling too.
The four of you had met thanks to work, in that newsroom that had become a second home. You were the last to join Clark’s team, and perhaps for that reason you spent more time with him: revising notes, covering for each other in last-minute deadlines, and little by little, that trust grew naturally. With Jimmy and his charming clumsiness, genuine affection also developed; in fact, he and Clark had earned a place very few men held in your life: they were people you truly trusted. And Lois—well, Lois was your favorite person. The two of you were inseparable, as if the newsroom felt incomplete whenever one of you wasn’t there.
Jimmy flipped through a list of options Lois had scribbled in a notebook with exaggerated seriousness.
“Maybe Florida,” he suggested suddenly, leaning back and raising his hand as if he were already sunbathing on a lounge chair. “Beach, sun, fun.”
“Florida?” Lois repeated with a scoff, snatching the notebook from his hands. “That’s at the bottom of the list, Jimmy. The heat there is unbearable.” She shook her head hard, as if the idea was a personal insult.
Clark, who had only been listening until then, murmured timidly:
“Las Vegas?”
You whipped your head toward him and shook it firmly.
“Definitely not.”
Lois burst into sarcastic laughter.
“Yeah, sure. Perfect. Go to a place where nobody sleeps, spend money we don’t have, and come back even more exhausted than when we left.” She rolled her eyes, though a smile tugged at her lips.
You couldn’t help smiling too and gave Clark a playful nudge on the arm.
“Hey, leave little Smallville alone.”
Lois snapped her fingers, delighted with the thought.
“That’s it! Smallville. We should see where Clark comes from!” She spread her arms as if she had just discovered the ideal destination.
Jimmy nodded enthusiastically.
“Not bad… sounds peaceful.”
Clark looked up in surprise, his face caught between amusement and discomfort.
“Do you really think that’s a good idea?”
You looked him straight in the eye, raising a brow.
“Is it, Clark?”
He shrugged, though a smile brightened his eyes.
“We wouldn’t spend on rent. My parents could host us without any problem.”
“That’s what I’m saying!” Lois lifted the notebook as if jotting down a victory.
“Hey, he has to ask them first,” you added, folding your arms.
Clark didn’t hesitate.
“They’ll say yes, I know it. The countryside is perfect: no noise, no traffic, just nature.”
His enthusiasm was so sincere that, for a moment, you could picture it: green fields stretching endlessly, a vast sky unbroken by skyscrapers, and air so clean it felt like another world compared to the city.
“And what would we do there?” Jimmy asked wryly. “Compete to see who harvests fastest?”
The remark sent you into a fit of laughter. Clark turned to Jimmy with a playful look, and you answered:
“Rest, Olsen. That’s what vacations are for.”
For the first time in the entire conversation, Lois didn’t argue. She leaned against the table, smiling in satisfaction.
“Then it’s settled. Smallville.”
And so it was that, the following week, they all ended up crammed into Jimmy’s car. He had insisted on driving, Lois claimed the passenger seat as if it were her birthright, and you wound up in the back next to Clark.
The part “next to Clark” sounded better than it actually was: he was pressed against the window, and you were stuck in the middle because on the other side were enormous suitcases—almost all of them Jimmy’s. The space was so tight that your knees brushed Clark’s every time the car hit a bump.
Jimmy glanced at his phone with the map open as he drove, moving his lips as if narrating the trip live.
“Aha… six and a half hours if there’s no traffic. Perfect!” he announced with a cheerfulness no one else shared.
“Perfect?” Lois repeated, turning toward him. “Jimmy, six and a half hours of listening to you sing in the car doesn’t sound like a vacation.”
Clark let out a chuckle and leaned slightly toward you, as if sharing a secret.
“What Lois doesn’t know is that Jimmy only knows two songs all the way through.”
“Hey!” Jimmy protested from behind the wheel.
“It’s true,” you added, laughing. “One’s by Elvis and the other’s by the Beatles.”
Jimmy opened his mouth, feigning indignation, but soon grinned.
“Well, then I’ll sing those two… for six hours straight.”
“If you do, I’ll kick you out of the car myself,” Lois threatened, though she sounded more amused than annoyed.
The rattle of the car and the accumulated fatigue finally got the best of you. Your eyelids closed, and before you knew it, your head had tilted onto Clark’s shoulder. He tensed immediately, startled, but soon relaxed. The warmth of your cheek against his shirt sent a wave through his whole body, and once he accepted it, his lips curved into a shy smile. His cheeks flushed, and though he tried to stay calm, he felt like a teenager who had just been granted a wish he never dared to say out loud.
“Comfortable back there, Clark?” Lois asked from the front seat, catching his reflection in the rearview mirror with a mischievous smile.
Clark cleared his throat, uneasy.
“I’m not…” he mumbled, worried you might hear even in your sleep.
Jimmy didn’t miss the chance to jump in.
“She’s blind to that kind of thing.”
“Completely,” Lois finished, and the two burst out laughing while Clark struggled to keep his composure.
They didn’t notice, but Clark’s eyes opened a little wider, his mind tangled. God… he hadn’t really thought about what it meant to take you to his parents’ house. He talked about you so much in every call, in every letter, that it was impossible for them not to know you already through his words. Martha had grown used to hearing your name as if it were part of her daily routine. And Jonathan, always curious, ended up asking: “And how’s the young lady?” every time Clark called. There wasn’t a day he didn’t mention you, and in that moment, he realized he had dug his own trap: taking you to Smallville meant exposing the secret he had kept to himself until now… that he was in love with you.
When Martha heard about the idea of the trip, she hadn’t hesitated for a second. She accepted immediately, with the warmth that defined her. She hadn’t even needed Clark to remind her that you would be coming along; in truth, both she and Jonathan wanted to meet you in person, to put a face to the woman their son spoke of with such devotion.
The sun was beginning to set when you opened your eyes, groggy from sleep. You straightened up, grabbed an orange soda Jimmy had bought at a gas station, and looked out the window. The scenery had completely changed: no more skyscrapers or endless traffic lights, but open fields stretching as far as the eye could see.
“Are we there yet?” you asked sleepily, stretching your arms with a long sigh.
Clark glanced at you sideways, with that gentle smile he seemed to save just for you.
“Almost.”
When the car turned onto a dirt road, you saw it. Clark’s house appeared before you like something out of an old postcard: a simple wooden structure, its colors weathered by the years but still full of life. The white of the façade looked aged, but instead of lessening its charm, it gave it a welcoming air. A bench painted the same color sat by the entrance, surrounded by flowerpots that added a fresh, homely touch.
You sighed as you looked at it. It was a modest place, but it radiated peace. Home. That was the thought that came immediately to mind. So Clark, you thought tenderly.
Lois got out of the car, stretching her legs as if she’d just finished a marathon.
“Finally! One more minute and I’d have killed someone.”
Jimmy lowered the volume of the music that had been playing for the last two hours and shook his hair.
“Come on, admit it—the trip was good thanks to my driving.”
“You’re here, Jonathan!” came Martha’s warm voice from the wooden door as it creaked open.
You turned your head curiously at the same time as Lois and Jimmy. The golden light of dusk lit up the woman’s figure, making her seem even more inviting.
“Hi, Ma,” Clark said naturally, almost forgetting his friends were watching. He strode over and wrapped her in a hug that seemed to erase the weariness of the trip. Then he greeted his father, who welcomed him with a firm pat on the back.
The scene caught you off guard. A light smile appeared on your lips, though you couldn’t avoid a pang of nostalgia. You had never received something like that, not even as a child. That kind of family warmth seemed like a luxury others had by default, one you could only admire from the outside. Still, seeing Clark in that setting struck you as tender; he, so tall and serious in the city, transformed into a grateful son in seconds. Some people are luckier in life than others, you thought, swallowing softly.
When Clark turned to you all, ready to make introductions, Martha interrupted with a sharp, knowing look that darted from Lois to you. You blinked, confused, and almost instinctively hid behind Jimmy and Lois, as if they could shield you.
“She’s the one, isn’t she, Clark?” Martha whispered, her eyes sparkling with complicity.
You didn’t realize she meant you, so you looked around, bewildered.
Clark cleared his throat, uncomfortable but steady.
“Mom, Dad… let me introduce my friends. This is Jimmy Olsen.”
“Pleasure,” Jimmy said, extending his hand. Martha greeted him with a warm smile, and Jonathan nodded approvingly.
“This is Lois Lane,” Clark continued, and Jonathan shook her hand firmly while Lois responded with her confident smile.
Finally, Clark said your name. When his parents laid eyes on you, it felt like the ground shrank beneath your feet. You blushed helplessly and nervously extended your hand.
“Nice to meet you…”
Martha ignored the gesture completely. Instead, she stepped forward and wrapped you in a warm embrace, holding you tightly against her chest.
“Oh, how lovely you are!” she exclaimed with enthusiasm.
Your eyes widened like saucers. You glanced sideways at Lois and Jimmy for support, but they had already turned their faces away, biting their lips to keep from bursting out laughing.
Clark had mentioned more than once that you weren’t a fan of physical contact, but this… well, this was Martha. Clark’s mother, who hugged him as if he were still her little boy, and now with you, she couldn’t contain the same tenderness.
Rigid, you managed to lift a hand and give her a couple of pats on the back, more out of respect than anything else.
“Thank you…” you murmured awkwardly, forcing a smile.
Jonathan, noticing the tension, intervened in a calm voice.
“Forgive Martha. She loves hugging the people Clark cares about… and now, of course, those who care about him.” He extended his hand toward Lois and Jimmy as a gesture of inclusion.
You nodded silently, trying to regain your composure, and stepped back, your cheeks still burning.
“Let them in, Clark!” said Martha, looking at her son with that hostess energy that admitted no refusal. “Don’t leave them at the door, we already prepared the rooms so they’ll be comfortable.”
“Thank you so much, Mrs. Kent. I’m sorry to intrude on your home,” Jimmy stepped forward, always polite, entering with a nervous smile.
“It’s no intrusion, young man,” Martha replied, adjusting her apron. “The house is happier with guests.”
Each one began unloading their luggage from the car. Lois, practical as always, carried a medium suitcase full of clothes but neatly organized; Jimmy, on the other hand, seemed to have packed for a month-long trip and struggled to pull his huge bags from the back seat. Clark carried only a backpack on his shoulder; after all, most of his clothes were already in Smallville.
When he noticed your suitcase, small in comparison, he picked it up immediately and naturally.
“It’s not necessary, Clark,” you said quietly, glancing at him and then at his parents watching from the porch. “What will they think? That we mistreat their ‘cocoon’?” you added mockingly, raising your eyebrows.
Clark smiled, that shy and charming smile that always appeared when you were near.
“Trust me, my mom would scold me if she saw me not helping.”
You couldn’t argue; you nodded silently and let him carry your suitcase.
The group entered the house. The inside was as warm as you had imagined: a living room with polished wooden furniture, lace curtains letting in soft light, and framed photographs showing family memories—Clark as a child with crooked teeth, Clark as a teenager in a football uniform, Clark with his parents in different seasons of the year. The smell of freshly baked bread filled the air, mixed with a faint aroma of apple and cinnamon.
Martha walked a few steps ahead, but when she noticed you lagging behind, she slowed and walked at your side. Her presence was kind, but at the same time uncomfortable; not because you disliked her, but because the warmth of people like her or Clark was hard for you to grasp. You weren’t quite sure how to react.
“Here’s yours, dear,” Martha said, stopping in front of a white wooden door.
You froze for a second, a little surprised by the gesture.
“Oh… thank you,” you replied, offering a timid smile.
Martha opened the door and pointed inside: a simple room with a bed covered by a quilt of small flowers, a nightstand with a lamp, and a rug that creaked softly underfoot.
“I placed it next to the bathroom, because I know you’re afraid of walking at night,” she added without hesitation.
Your eyes widened in shock. Slowly, you turned toward Clark, who stood right beside you, visibly blushing.
“Mom…” he muttered, like a child caught in mischief.
“Show her everything, Clark.” Martha patted his shoulder affectionately before turning away. “And right across from you is your room, sweetheart.” With that, she left with Jonathan to continue helping Lois and Jimmy.
You stood frozen in the doorway, hands crossed in front of you, glaring at Clark suspiciously.
“Tell me you haven’t told her something bad about me,” you whispered, narrowing your eyes.
Clark avoided your gaze, pretending to inspect the ceiling as if something interesting were there.
“She knows a few things about everyone,” he replied nervously.
“Bad things?” you pressed, taking a step closer.
He shook his head, and a calm smile spread across his lips.
“Nothing bad. Just… things that would make her like you faster.” His sincerity caught you off guard.
Then, with the patience that defined him, he pointed to the hallway.
“The bathroom is here, right next to you. You can leave the hall light on at night, it’s fine. I asked Mom to remove the mirrors since I know they make you uncomfortable, and the window doesn’t open to the fields; it’s covered with a thick curtain, plus it has bars and locks from the inside.”
You stared at him silently for a moment, processing the detail with which he had gone out of his way to remember everything. Part of you wanted to joke, another could only feel a strange warmth in your chest.
“Thank you,” you finally murmured, lowering your voice.
Clark nodded, satisfied, as if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. And that smile—the one he only showed when he was sure he had made you feel a little calmer—stayed with you.
He left you in your room, letting you settle your things in peace. He made sure you knew how to turn on the lamp and where the drawer key was in case you wanted to store your more personal belongings. Then, with a shy smile, he said goodbye:
“If you need anything… just knock.”
“Of course, Clark,” you replied, still a little embarrassed about the earlier conversation with Martha, but grateful for how attentive he was.
You closed the door and took a deep breath, looking around the room which, though not yours, already felt a little less strange thanks to the details he had prepared.
Meanwhile, Lois and Jimmy were also settling into their rooms. Lois arranged her things with military precision, hanging a couple of blouses and placing her notebook on the nightstand; Jimmy, in contrast, had already opened a suitcase and dumped half a mountain of clothes onto the floor.
Clark went back down to the kitchen. The smell of fresh bread and hot soup greeted him like a familiar caress. Martha and Jonathan were there, standing, exchanging complicit glances while waiting for him. When Clark sat at the table, they did too, leaning toward him as if plotting a conspiracy.
“What a lovely girl, Clark,” Martha said softly, with a maternal smile.
“She clearly respects everything, even the quietness of the house,” added Jonathan, resting his arms on the table.
Clark lowered his gaze to his empty plate, nervously moving his fingers.
“Don’t be so obvious,” he muttered. “You might scare her away.”
Martha stroked his hand tenderly.
“We won’t be obvious, sweetheart. We’re just happy to see you like this. My boy… you look so happy with her.”
Clark pressed his lips together, unable to hide the sparkle in his eyes.
“I am,” he admitted in a whisper. “But I already told you… she’s not interested in relationships. I don’t want her to… stop being my friend.”
Jonathan watched him with the seriousness of a father who knew his son well.
“If you don’t try, you’ll never know if she might give you a chance.”
Silence settled in the kitchen. Clark looked toward the window, where the last light of sunset bathed the fields. He knew his father was right, but he also knew your story too well.
You didn’t know it, but Lois and Jimmy, over time, had told him fragments of your life that explained your way of being. And what he hadn’t heard from their lips, he had noticed in every gesture of yours: that way of protecting yourself, of building walls, of running when someone got too close.
Clark thought of you with a knot in his chest. You weren’t like Lois, who enjoyed the thrill of every romance, nor like Jimmy, who always fell fast. For you, love was a minefield. You knew there was always a betrayal hidden somewhere. You had learned it by watching your parents: a mother who never knew how to give you affection, who repeated how much she hated you; an absent father whose presence was barely a shadow. You grew up in a home without hugs, without sweet words, without anyone looking at you with pride.
And that’s why, whenever someone showed you interest, you pulled away. It was easier to escape than risk repeating your mother’s story: a broken marriage, love turned into pain. You had promised yourself: if you could avoid suffering, you would.
Clark understood. That’s why he hadn’t taken a single step beyond friendship. He didn’t want you to run from him, he didn’t want to lose the laughter you shared with Lois, or the trust with which you confided your fears in a low voice. He knew your way of showing affection wasn’t through hugs or caresses. You hated physical contact because you had never known it in a healthy way; no one had ever taught you.
Jonathan broke the silence with a firm voice.
“Son, you can’t always protect yourself from the ‘what ifs.’ Sometimes you have to take a risk.”
Clark looked at him seriously.
“What if I lose her, Dad? What if I try to tell her what I feel and she… walks away forever?”
Martha watched him tenderly, her eyes full of understanding.
“Then at least you’ll have been honest. You can’t live with your heart locked away forever, Clark. She needs it more than you think, even if she doesn’t realize it yet.”
Clark sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He didn’t answer. Deep down, he knew: you were afraid of love, but he was willing to be patient. He only hoped that time would be on his side.
You woke up after a heavy sleep, the kind that only comes when the body is exhausted. Darkness filtered through the window, and the murmur of the countryside was different from that of the city: crickets, the wind creaking against the branches, and a silence so deep it seemed to embrace you. You stretched slowly and, with soft steps, left the room. You imagined everyone was still asleep after the long trip, but when you went down the stairs, the kitchen light surprised you.
There was Martha, wearing her apron, chopping vegetables on the wooden table. The aroma of spices filled the air. When she heard you, she looked up and gave you a warm smile.
"Mrs. Kent, it can’t be…" you said shyly, your cheeks burning. "You preparing dinner while we’re still sleeping."
Martha laughed softly, shaking her head.
"Don’t worry, dear. It’s nothing bad. You’re Clark’s friends… and he always talks about you."
"Let me help you," you said quickly, stepping closer.
She nodded with pleasure and handed you a plate of ham.
"In small strips, please."
You nodded and stood beside her, focused on cutting. The atmosphere was calm, almost intimate, until you noticed Martha watching you from the corner of her eye. That look you recognized: the same eyes shifting discreetly, the same play of lips, the same held breath Clark had whenever he wanted to ask you something important and didn’t know how to start.
"How long have you been friends with Clark?" she finally asked, her casual tone fooling no one.
You smiled, lowering your gaze to the cutting board.
"He joined the Daily Planet almost at the same time I did… about a week later, if I remember correctly. I guess he was the one I relied on the most. We were the new ones." You paused for a moment and looked up. "So… about a year, more or less."
"Oh… so you know him well," Martha replied, as if connecting puzzle pieces.
"So it seems," you said with a half-smile.
There was a brief silence before Martha asked the blunt question:
"And do you know if Clark is seeing anyone?"
Her frankness caught you off guard. You blinked, unsure how to respond.
"I don’t know…" you finally admitted, shrugging.
Martha smiled subtly, as if she had expected that answer.
"I thought maybe you or the other young woman might have something with my Clark. He’s a good man."
You took a deep breath before answering.
"We’re friends." Your voice was firm, though softened by a sincere smile. "But yes, he’s a good man. I don’t deny someone will show up."
"And you two never… felt anything more than friendship?" she insisted, with that motherly tone that left no escape. "You’re a small group, sometimes those things happen."
You shook your head gently, with a serene smile.
"Clark deserves someone better than me. Maybe… like Lois," you joked, trying to take weight off the conversation.
But Martha didn’t laugh. Her face darkened slightly, with a sadness you couldn’t ignore.
"Oh, don’t worry," you said quickly, raising your hands. "I don’t put myself down. I just… have other interests than falling in love."
You bit your lip. You were expecting a lecture; after all, Clark had already tried to convince you more than once not to close your heart. You didn’t want to hear the same words again.
"Love isn’t bad, dear," Martha said softly, slicing lettuce without taking her eyes off you.
Your hands froze for a second over the knife. Those words… you had heard them before, from another voice, in another moment. Clark had repeated them when you argued about your fears, when you confessed that love was a broken chain in your life.
And now you were in front of his mother, who spoke to you with the same tone full of faith and tenderness.
"It’s destructive too, if it’s not given the right way," you replied, locking your gaze on hers.
Martha studied you carefully, as if she could see beyond your words, as if she was deciphering the wounds you carried. She was about to say something else when the kitchen door slowly opened.
The sound made both of you turn your heads.
In the doorway stood Clark. He was wearing worn jeans, brown boots with a trace of dirt, a simple white shirt, and a checkered red-and-white overshirt. His hair was a little messy, strands stuck to his forehead with sweat. His face was streaked with dust, probably from helping on the farm. Yet his eyes lit up the moment they saw you.
"We were at the farm," Jonathan explained as he came in behind him, brushing his hands as if still carrying the work. Then he looked at you with a slight bow. "Miss."
You smiled politely, inclining your head a little. Meanwhile, Martha nodded in satisfaction.
"Of course, dinner’s almost ready. Clark, your friend is good in the kitchen," she said proudly.
Clark raised an eyebrow curiously.
"Really?"
"I learned to cut ham," you replied with irony, holding up a strip between your fingers.
Clark chuckled softly, nodding as if it were a huge accomplishment. He was about to come closer, but Martha lifted an accusing finger at both him and his father.
"No, no. Both of you go change first. I don’t want dirt on my table!"
The seriousness in her voice made you laugh. Clark rolled his eyes, obedient, while Jonathan muttered, "We’re going, we’re going," with resignation.
Suddenly, the kitchen lights flickered with an electric buzz. The bulb blinked twice before stabilizing. You instantly looked up, swallowing hard.
Martha kept calmly chopping vegetables, and Jonathan just snorted.
"The power’s acting up again," he said without concern.
You tried to smile, faking calm, but your stomach tightened. Old houses and blackouts always put you on edge.
"Go on, dear, leave it. I’ll finish here. Clark, go with her to wake up your friends," Martha ordered, pointing toward the hallway.
You nodded gratefully. You walked with Clark to the stairs, when suddenly a loud bang echoed: the front door swung wide open, pushed by a sudden gust of wind. Cold air swept into the house, making the curtains whip violently.
You jumped and immediately hid behind Clark, clutching the sleeve of his shirt with both hands. He froze in place. He knew perfectly well how much you hated anything that felt like a horror movie.
And then the worst happened: the lights went out completely. The house was plunged into darkness, lit only by the faint glow of the moon seeping through the window.
"Clark…" you whispered in a trembling voice, pressing yourself against his back, squeezing your eyes shut.
He didn’t move; his body was a firm wall in front of you.
"It’s normal here," he whispered calmly.
"Don’t tell me that…" you replied with nervous irony, barely opening your eyes. You could only make out his silhouette.
He slowly turned toward you. The closeness made your breath catch. His voice was soft, steady:
"Easy."
You nodded, but your fingers stayed tight on his arm, as if letting go were unthinkable.
A few seconds later, the light returned with an electric snap. The bulb shone brightly above you. You were so close to Clark you could see the curve of his lips, the faint flush on his cheeks, and that gaze that seemed to hold you more firmly than the light itself.
From the kitchen, Martha had seen it. She didn’t say anything, only smiled tenderly. Maybe Clark had never said it out loud, but it was obvious: you were the only person he allowed that close… and the most surprising thing was that you let him. Even if you didn’t admit it, Clark was your refuge.
You sighed, letting the air leave your lungs slowly. Discreetly, you stepped back and looked at the bulb, as if your whole attention was on it.
"It’s stable now…" you murmured.
Clark didn’t reply; he only watched you patiently.
"Let’s go," you finally said, regaining some composure.
He nodded, smiling calmly.
You went up to the second floor with Clark behind you. The first door was Lois’s. You knocked softly before opening.
"Lane, get up, dinner’s ready," you announced as you turned on the light.
Lois groaned half-asleep, burying her face in the pillow.
"Five more minutes…"
Clark smiled with amusement, leaning against the doorframe. You crossed your arms.
"Five more minutes and Martha will come get you herself. Trust me, you don’t want that."
Lois huffed, but eventually sat up, messy-haired and grumpy.
"Fine, fine."
You then went to Jimmy’s room. You opened the door without warning, grabbed a pillow from the bed, and slammed it against him.
"Olsen, wake up!"
Jimmy jumped, his hair disheveled.
"What… what the hell?!"
You smacked him with the pillow again, and Clark burst into laughter behind you.
"Done," you said, calmly putting the pillow back.
"One day I’ll get my revenge," Jimmy grumbled, but his smile gave him away.
Dinner was a true feast. Martha had prepared roasted chicken, homemade bread, fresh salads, and an apple pie that filled the whole house with its sweet aroma. Jonathan poured lemonade while Lois tried to "help" in the kitchen, though in reality she only picked at pieces of bread. Jimmy didn’t stop praising the food with every bite.
"Mrs. Kent, if you adopt me, I promise I’ll wash the dishes every day," he said with his mouth full.
Everyone laughed. Martha, amused and flattered, patted his shoulder.
"I’ll think about it, Jimmy."
Clark watched you in silence while talking with his father about that year’s harvest. He did it from the corner of his eye, discreetly, as if afraid you would notice his constant attention. He saw how uneasy you felt when Martha served more food on your plate than you asked for, filling the table with homemade generosity. He also noticed your slight stiffness when Jonathan made light jokes about "Clark’s special friends," as if you weren’t sure how to react.
But at the same time, he also saw something different: that spark in your eyes when Jimmy made one of his silly remarks and everyone ended up laughing. A genuine spark, of surprise, as if you weren’t used to laughter filling a table.
Martha placed more bread in the center and leaned toward you.
"Eat peacefully, dear. No one goes hungry here."
"Thank you…" you said softly, lowering your gaze to your plate. You bit your lip with a lump in your throat.
You couldn’t help it: that scene, the full table, the voices overlapping, the warmth in every gesture… it all felt almost unreal. You had never had a family dinner like this. You had never had someone serve you food with tenderness or ask how your day had gone. And being there, surrounded by that homely normality, made you emotional.
You rested your hands on your lap so no one would notice your fingers tightening. Don’t cry, not here, you told yourself.
That’s when you looked up and found him. Clark was already watching you. He didn’t say anything, didn’t make any big gesture. He just held your gaze with that calmness that always seemed to promise you safety.
Your lips curved slightly, a small, timid smile that appeared before you could control it. Clark, in response, let his eyes soften and a similar faint smile appeared on his lips, as if silently thanking you for sharing that moment.
Jonathan, busy telling a farm anecdote, didn’t notice. Lois and Jimmy were too absorbed in arguing about what they would do the next day. But Martha, from the other end of the table, caught it. And in her mother’s heart she knew something was happening, even if you two weren’t brave enough to admit it yet.
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Este trabajo es mío. Queda estrictamente prohibida su copia o traducción. Cualquier problema debe notificármelo directamente. Gracias.
Summary: You and Clark discovered that there was another universe where you two ended up together. That universe did not exist anymore.
Dad!Clark Kent x Fem!Reader
tags: MAJOR CHARACTER DEATHS, injustice!superman, scorched earth, this is NOT our clark kent
more kent family adventures here!
this fic is related to The Chaos of Stars, but reading it is not required
The Watchtower was quiet, too quiet for your liking. Even Leia had stilled in your arms, big eyes roaming the gleaming metal walls of the Justice League’s orbital base. Tonight, she seemed to sense the weight of the silence pressing in around the table where the League had gathered.
Batman’s voice broke it first. “Clark, Y/N… we’ve looked into the multiversal records.” His cowl shadowed most of his expression, but there was something guarded there, a tension he wasn’t revealing. “Across nearly every timeline, every reality… the two of you don’t end up together.”
Mr. Terrific leaned forward, fiddling with the edge of the table. “Except… there was one. One universe where you did end up together. Same you. Same Clark.” He glanced at Batman, then away. “But… it’s complicated.”
Clark’s brow furrowed, confusion and curiosity flashing across his face. “Complicated how?”
No one answered right away. Wonder Woman’s gaze softened as she looked at you, then Leia. “We didn’t want to bring it up until we were certain. Because… seeing it might not be what you expect.”
Clark tilted his head, eyes narrowing. “If there’s a universe where we found each other, I want to see it. I need to. You’re saying this exists. Show me.”
The silence that followed was thicker than before, filled with the hum of the Watchtower’s systems.
Finally, Batman spoke again, flat but firm. “That’s not a good idea.”
Clark frowned, frustration simmering in his chest. “Why not?”
“Because,” Batman’s eyes cut to you, then to Leia, “the universe where you ended up together isn’t the kind of world you want to visit.”
You felt your stomach twist. “What do you mean?”
Batman crossed his arms, his voice grim. “It’s not just about who’s with who. That universe… something went wrong. Something big. And from what we’ve seen, it may have everything to do with the two of you.”
Clark straightened in his chair, his hand gripping yours tighter, as if the very idea of losing you, even in another universe, was unacceptable. “Then I have to know.”
His voice was calm, but it carried that steel edge only Superman could summon.
The other League members exchanged uneasy glances. It was clear they weren’t hiding this out of malice, but out of fear of what seeing that world would do to you both.
And as Leia stirred in your arms, letting out a soft, sleepy coo, you couldn’t help but feel the unspoken weight behind all their hesitations.
Whatever had happened in that other universe… it was tied to your love story.
-
The Watchtower’s air felt thinner after Batman’s words.
“Destroyed?” Clark repeated, his voice sharp, clipped. He leaned forward, his free hand braced on the table. “What do you mean destroyed?”
Batman’s jaw tightened. “Exactly what I said. That universe no longer exists. Its Earth… gone. Its people, its sky, its stars. Nothing remains.” He looked at you then, his gaze heavy and deliberate. “Except for a message. A file.”
Your pulse jumped. Leia whimpered in your arms, sensing your unease. You rocked her gently, trying to calm both her and yourself. “A file?”
Batman gave a short nod. “Their Batman sent it out, a failsafe of sorts. Broadcast through the lattice of the multiverse to… us. To every Batman across every reality. A warning.”
Clark’s grip on your hand was unshakable now, his jaw set in steel. “And you’ve seen it?”
“I have.” Batman’s tone carried no hesitation, though something unreadable flickered in his eyes. “So has Diana.”
Wonder Woman folded her hands on the table, her golden bracers catching the light. “It is not an easy thing to witness. It was meant for those who could… carry the burden.” Her gaze softened at you. “For those who have everything to lose, it is dangerous.”
“Dangerous?” Clark repeated, almost incredulous. “You’re telling us there’s a universe where Y/N and I ended up together, and it ended in obliteration, and you expect us to turn our backs on that knowledge?”
“Clark.” Diana’s voice was calm but firm. “You have your world. You have your daughter.” She looked at Leia, who was gnawing sleepily on her fist. “Knowing what befell another version of you may not protect this one. It may only haunt it.”
For a moment, you wanted to agree. To let this end here, with the unknown. But a gnawing fear was already seeded in your chest. What if there was something in that message that mattered? Something you needed to know?
Clark turned to you, his face etched with conflict. “If there’s even a chance it could help us…help protect you, protect Leia…we have to see it.”
You met his gaze, heart thundering. He wasn’t asking as Superman. He was asking as your husband, the father of your child. And you knew your answer before your lips parted.
“Then we’ll watch it.”
Batman’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn’t argue. He only tapped a control on the console in front of him. The lights dimmed. A screen descended silently from the ceiling.
For a long moment, the blackness of the display was all there was. Then it flickered to life, static giving way to the grim, lined face of another Batman. His cowl was cracked, his cape torn, his voice low and urgent.
“If you’re seeing this…” the alternate Batman began, “…then my world is already gone. And yours may not be far behind.”
Your breath caught, and you felt Clark’s hand tighten around yours like a vow.
-
The static buzzed, and the video shifted.
This time, the grain of the footage was sharper, as if burned into whatever recording devices were still functioning in that broken universe. The alternate Batman’s voice was quieter now, as though weighed down by what he knew was about to be shown.
“It wasn’t quick,” he said.
The screen showed a warehouse. Rusted beams, broken glass, and the Joker’s unmistakable laugh echoing through the darkness. The camera angle was jagged, but you could see your other self tied to a chair. Your hair hung in damp strands against your face, your arms bound behind you. Beside you, in a small, cracked crib, was Leia.
Your throat closed. Even though it wasn’t your Leia, it was close enough. It hurt to think of what possibly happened.
The door burst open. A blur of red and blue. The alternate Clark. His face was wild, frantic, desperate. He was too late, and somehow you knew it before the footage confirmed it.
“NO!” His roar shook the walls, but it was a second too late.
The Joker was there, standing between him and you. His hand dripped crimson, the knife gleaming in the flickering light. He gestured at you like a magician unveiling a trick. You were slumped forward, lifeless. Blood streaked down your dress.
And beside you…Leia was silent. Too silent.
The alternate Superman staggered forward, his knees nearly buckling as he dropped beside you. His hands trembled violently as he untied your restraints, as if sheer willpower could undo what had been done. He cradled your face, pressed his ear to your lips, tried to breathe life back into you with words choked in agony.
“Please. Please, don’t...don’t leave me. Y/N—” His voice cracked, raw and unrecognizable.
Then he turned to the crib. He lifted the tiny body into his arms, holding it to his chest, rocking as though rocking could fix it, could erase it. His sobs tore through the speakers, guttural and broken.
Behind him, the Joker doubled over in laughter. “Oh, Supes, you should’ve seen the look on your face. Priceless! Absolutely priceless! The girl…your girl! The little star in your sky?” He mimed an explosion with his hands, cackling. “Gone. Just like that. Because I can.”
Superman’s shoulders stiffened. Slowly, he stood, cradling Leia’s body in one arm, turning toward the Joker. His face was no longer grief, it was something else. Empty. Cold.
The Joker’s laughter faltered for the first time. “Oh… ohhh, that’s the look I like. Come on, big guy. Show me what happens when the strongest man alive breaks.”
The footage jumped, but you didn’t need to see the rest. The sound was enough—the wet, meaty crack of bone, the sudden end to laughter, the roar that followed.
Batman’s voice cut back in, gravel rasping against the silence. “That was the moment. The instant Clark Kent died with his family. What rose after was not a man. It was wrath incarnate. My world never recovered.”
The screen froze on the image of the alternate Superman, his cape torn, his hands bloody, standing in the ruins of the warehouse with your body in one arm and Leia in the other. His eyes glowed red, but there was no heat. Only unending grief.
-
The world fell away the moment Clark burst through the warehouse doors.
He had been faster than sound, faster than light…yet somehow, impossibly, too slow. The acrid stench of smoke and gasoline hit him first, the dim glow of a single flickering bulb casting shadows that clawed at the walls. Then came the sound—Joker’s laugh, high and unhinged, cutting through the dark like broken glass.
But the sight that greeted him froze his heart in his chest.
You were there, tied to a chair, your head slumped forward. Your dress was stained deep red, the cruel cut of a knife visible even from where he stood. Your skin was pale, your chest unmoving.
Beside you, in a cracked crib, was Leia. Still. Silent.
“No…” His voice cracked, raw and strangled. His knees buckled beneath him as he staggered forward. His hands shook as he reached for you, untying the bonds with clumsy, desperate fingers. He lifted your face, pressing his ear to your lips, his mouth to yours, begging for breath that wasn’t there.
“Please…please, no. Y/N, wake up, please. Don’t do this to me. Not you, not you… I can fix this…I can—”
His words blurred into sobs, the kind that tore themselves from the deepest part of him. The kind that didn’t sound like Superman, or Clark Kent, or any man at all. It was the howl of a soul being torn in half.
He turned to Leia next, scooping her into his arms, rocking her the way he always did when she fussed, whispering her name through broken gasps. But she was cold. Still. He pressed his lips to her forehead, to her tiny fingers, willing warmth back into her, begging the universe to take him instead.
“Not her. Please, not her too.” His knees buckled, and he collapsed onto the floor, both of you held tight against him. His sobs echoed through the warehouse, primal and unrelenting. “You’re my world. You’re my whole world. You can’t… you can’t be gone.”
At the sound of the Joker’s voice, Clark froze. The sobs in his chest transformed into something deeper, darker. His breath came in short, ragged bursts. His arms tightened around you and Leia as though he could fuse your souls back into his by sheer will.
Something in Clark snapped. His grief boiled into rage so absolute it stripped away every ounce of restraint he had ever carried.
He lowered your body and Leia’s gently, reverently, onto the ground, as though tucking you into bed. He pressed a kiss to your forehead, to Leia’s tiny cheek, his tears falling onto both of you. Then he rose.
The Joker’s smile faltered when he saw his eyes.
There was no time for another word. Superman was on him in a blink, his hand punching straight through Joker’s chest with a sickening crack. The laughter stopped, cut off mid-breath. Blood stained Clark’s fist as he held the man aloft, the shock frozen on Joker’s painted face.
He squeezed, and the Joker’s body went limp.
The warehouse fell silent. The only sound left was Clark’s ragged breathing as he let the body fall with a dull thud. He turned back to you and Leia, falling to his knees once more, gathering you both into his arms. He rocked you gently, whispering broken promises into the void.
“I’ll never let go. I’ll never stop loving you. If the world won’t give me justice, then I’ll take it myself.” His eyes glowed red again, searing with grief and fury. “They’ll all pay. Every last one of them.”
And in that moment, as he cradled his wife and daughter’s lifeless bodies in the ruins of that warehouse, Clark Kent died. What rose in his place was something else entirely—something the world would never be able to contain.
-
The footage shifted.
It showed the alternate Superman hovering above a city skyline you barely recognized. It was Metropolis, but broken. Smoke rose from collapsed towers, ash drifted like snow. His cape was shredded, his hair disheveled, his hands clenched at his sides. His eyes glowed an unearthly, unblinking red.
Batman’s voice narrated over the footage. “After that night, there was no going back. He declared war—not on crime, not on corruption, but on choice. He started with the Joker.”
The footage changed to show the Joker’s body, limp and mangled, displayed in Gotham’s streets. Citizens recoiled in horror. The next footage was of Lex Luthor, bound in twisted steel girders, screaming as Superman dropped him at the steps of the United Nations. “There will be no more villains,” the alternate Clark thundered to the cameras. “I will end them all.”
Belle Reve and Arkham Asylum, engulfed in flames. Guards fled while Superman flew through its wreckage, dragging criminals out one by one. The screen flickered, and you saw Two-Face, Scarecrow, Poison Ivy, all lying unconscious, beaten into submission.
Then, more chillingly, you saw him hovering above Gotham’s rooftops, his eyes sweeping the city. “No more trials. No more games. I decide.”
Your chest tightened as the video shifted again—Wonder Woman of that universe stood at his side, her sword drawn, as they enforced “order” with unyielding violence. Heroes who resisted—Green Arrow, Hawkgirl—fell in battle, their bodies dragged off-screen.
“Not all stood with him,” Batman’s voice continued. “But enough did. They believed his grief gave him clarity. That the only way to save the world was to rule it.”
The footage cut to an international broadcast. The alternate Superman floated before a sea of microphones, his voice echoing across the globe.
“There will be no more wars. No more dictators. No more corruption. You will obey, or you will fall.”
Soldiers dropped their weapons at his feet. Leaders bowed their heads. Entire nations surrendered without a fight.
The screen shifted again: the Daily Planet, its globe in ruins. Lois Lane tried to speak out on a broadcast, calling his reign tyranny. The footage cut violently, her body dragged away by armored soldiers marked with Superman’s crest.
Your Clark, sitting beside you, had gone rigid. His face was pale, his jaw locked tight. He held Leia’s tiny hand as if she were his only tether to sanity.
Batman’s narration dropped lower, heavier. “He eliminated villains first. Then dissenters. Then anyone who dared to question his rule. Grief had hollowed him out. What was left was something my world could not survive.”
The screen filled with another haunting image: Superman, hovering in orbit, his eyes glowing like twin suns. Beneath him, the Earth smoldered with scars, oceans boiling at the edges.
“From protector to dictator,” Batman’s voice finished. “From symbol to sovereign. Clark’s love for his wife and daughter became the world’s undoing. If they fall, he falls. And when he falls… there is no one alive who can stop him.”
-
The footage changed again, this time showing a recording from Batman’s cowl.
Metropolis had changed.
The once-bustling streets were quiet now, heavy with fear. Patrol drones hovered overhead like carrion birds, their red eyes scanning every corner.
But the heart of the city was dominated by two colossal shrines. Gleaming towers of crystal and steel rose above the ruins of Centennial Park, shimmering with an alien light. They were beautiful…painfully beautiful. Each one etched with Kryptonian symbols that spelled your name and Leia’s, your likeness and hers carved with such precision that passersby often stopped to weep. At night, they glowed so brightly it looked as though two new stars had fallen onto the earth.
“Clark.”
The Kryptonian didn’t turn. His voice was low, thick, the words edged with exhaustion. “I wondered when you’d come.”
Bruce stopped several feet away. “I had to. The others… they’re scared of you. They should be. You’ve crossed a line you can’t come back from.”
Clark finally turned, his eyes bloodshot, his face gaunt. There was no trace of the farmboy, no trace of the reporter who once laughed freely in the bullpen of the Daily Planet. Only a hollow man who had seen the worst and could not let it go.
“You talk about lines, Bruce. But what would you know about this?” His voice cracked. “About holding them…holding her—” he gestured to your shrine, his hand shaking, “and realizing you’ll never hear her laugh again? About cradling your daughter and feeling her grow cold in your arms?”
Bruce’s jaw tightened. He said nothing.
Clark stepped closer, his voice rising. “You’ve lost parents. I’ve lost a planet. But this… this was different. This was my world. My wife. My baby girl. And they died screaming for me.” His voice broke into a ragged sob, tears spilling down his cheeks. “I was too slow, Bruce. Superman was too slow.”
Bruce’s silence only deepened the ache in the air. He wanted to say something. I’m sorry. I can’t imagine it. I wish it hadn’t been you. But words felt useless in the face of grief that vast.
Clark turned back to the shrine, pressing his forehead against the cold crystal. “Every night, I come here. I talk to them. I tell Leia how big she’d be by now. I tell Y/N how much I miss her voice. I hear them in my dreams, Bruce. And when I wake up, I remember they’re gone.”
The silence stretched, heavy, suffocating.
Finally, Bruce spoke. “I don’t doubt your pain, Clark. I don’t even doubt your love. But this—” he gestured to the drones above, the militarized streets, the fear etched into the city, “this isn’t them. This isn’t what they would have wanted.”
Clark’s shoulders tensed. Slowly, he turned, eyes glowing faintly red. “Don’t tell me what they would have wanted.”
Bruce met his gaze, unwavering. “They would have wanted you to be the man they loved. Not this tyrant. Not this executioner. If you keep going down this path, Clark, the man Y/N married… the father Leia loved… he’s gone.”
The words hit like a hammer, but Clark didn’t flinch. His grief had hardened too much for persuasion. Still, his lips trembled as he whispered, “Maybe he already is.”
For a moment, Bruce almost thought he saw it, the farmboy, the friend, the man who used to laugh at bad puns and scribble notes in the Planet’s margins. But it flickered, and then it was gone.
Clark’s eyes returned to the shrine. In his hand, Leia’s pacifier. He lifted it, holding it in front of the crystal, as though offering it to the memory etched there. “The world let them die. I won’t forgive it. I won’t let it happen again.”
Bruce’s fists clenched at his sides. He knew then: there would be no turning him back. Not here. Not now.
And as he turned to leave, the shadows of the shrines looming behind him, Bruce realized the worst truth of all. Clark wasn’t ruling out of ambition, or hunger, or pride.
He was ruling out of grief. Out of love so broken it had curdled into despair.
And that made him more dangerous than anything Bruce had ever faced.
-
“Some of us resisted. We couldn’t allow him to rule unchecked. We formed an insurgency—heroes, civilians, even former villains who’d rather die free than live under his reign. I led them. I had to. Because no one else could stand against him.”
The screen cut to battles in ruined cities: ragtag groups of rebels clashing with armored troops bearing Superman’s crest. Familiar faces flashed by: Green Lantern, scarred and weary, leading a small squad; Black Canary screaming her sonic cry against endless waves of enforcers; Cyborg caught between sides, torn by loyalty and survival.
Then came the turning point. The insurgency struck Metropolis, hoping to take Superman by surprise. The footage showed explosions in the night sky, gunfire rattling through the broken streets, Batman’s team storming through shadows. For a moment, it looked like rebellion might actually succeed.
Until he appeared.
Superman descended like a comet, the ground splitting beneath him. His cape snapped in the wind, his eyes twin furnaces of fury. He tore through resistance fighters as if they were paper. Buildings collapsed with a flick of his wrist. The cries of the insurgency were drowned out in fire.
Batman’s narration grew quieter, almost pained. “We thought he was trying to preserve his order. But we were wrong. He wasn’t building a world anymore. He was tearing it down.”
The footage shifted. Superman stood in the heart of the burning city, bodies around him, his chest heaving. His voice boomed across the chaos, captured by half-broken comms systems.
“This world was theirs.” He gestured at the forms of you and Leia, your doubles, preserved in crystalline memorials he had erected like shrines. His voice cracked. “My world. Without them, it isn’t worth saving.”
His eyes flared red, blinding.
The screen became a blur of devastation: oceans boiling, mountains shattering, skies burning crimson. Heroes and civilians alike screamed as the planet itself fractured under his wrath. The insurgency—Batman’s last, desperate gamble—was obliterated in an instant.
The final image was haunting. From space, the Earth cracked apart like glass, fire consuming it from within. And through the rubble, Superman floated alone, his cape tattered, his body lit by the flames of the world he had destroyed. His voice, broken, carried through the static one last time:
“If I can’t have them… no one can have anything.”
The screen went black.
In the Watchtower, silence followed, suffocating and endless. No one breathed. No one dared.
Clark sat motionless, staring at the blank screen, his reflection pale in the dark glass. His grip around your hand and Leia was iron, as if you might vanish if he let go.
Batman finally spoke, his voice low but deliberate. “That is why we hesitated. That is why we fear.” His eyes flicked to you and the sleeping child in your arms. “You are his strength. But you are also his weakness. If you are lost… our Superman could become that.”
Clark’s head turned slowly, his voice a hoarse whisper. “I would never.”
But even as he said it, the shadow of that other universe lingered.
And for the first time since you had known him, you could see it too: how thin the line might be, between your Clark, your husband… and the god who destroyed his world in another life.
-
The Watchtower had never felt colder.
Even after the Justice League dispersed, the weight of the footage lingered like a phantom. Clark barely spoke as you and he made your way home, Leia sleeping peacefully against your chest, unaware of the storm that had shaken her parents. His silence was not the usual calm you loved in him. This was heavy, shadowed, as though every breath was an effort.
Later that night, in the quiet of your bedroom, you found him sitting by the window. His glasses were discarded on the table. He stared out at the stars, unmoving.
You set Leia in her crib, tucking her beneath her blanket, then crossed to him. For a moment, you only stood at his side, letting the silence stretch. His shoulders were hunched, and when you rested your hand on them, he flinched, not from your touch, but from his own thoughts.
“Clark,” you whispered.
His eyes flicked to you, and for a second, you saw the fire he’d kept hidden behind that stoic face. “What if they’re right?” His voice was rough, frayed around the edges. “What if I’m one tragedy away from becoming him? From burning everything I’ve sworn to protect?”
You knelt in front of him, taking his hands in yours. His fingers were trembling, and that alone nearly broke you. “You are not him,” you said firmly, looking straight into those stormy blue eyes. “Do you hear me, Clark? You are not him.”
He shook his head, the muscles in his jaw tightening. “He thought the same. He loved her, he loved their daughter, just as much as I love you and Leia. And when they were gone, it destroyed him. It—” His breath hitched, his voice faltering. “What if I couldn’t stop myself either? What if—”
You pressed your palm to his cheek, forcing him to stop spiraling. His skin was warm, his eyes glassy. “Listen to me. You are not defined by your strength, Clark. You’re defined by your heart. That other Superman… he let his grief consume him. But you? You’ve faced loss before. You’ve lost your world, your people, and still you’ve chosen kindness every single time.”
His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. You leaned closer, your forehead brushing his. “You are more human than you realize. You let yourself love, you let yourself hurt, but you rise above it. You don’t drown in it.”
Clark closed his eyes, his hands coming up to cradle your face as though anchoring himself. “I couldn’t live without you. Or Leia. If anything ever happened—”
“Nothing will,” you cut him off gently but firmly. “Nothing will happen to us. You’ve dedicated your life to protecting this world...you think you can’t protect your own family?” You smiled faintly, brushing away the tear that had slipped down his cheek. “You’ve already gone above and beyond for us, Clark. Every late-night bottle, every time you hold Leia until she falls asleep, every time you check the locks twice before bed, you’ve already proven you’d burn the world down to keep us safe. The difference is, you’d never let it come to that. Because you know better. Because you are better.”
His breathing steadied under your words, the iron grip of fear loosening. He pulled you into his lap suddenly, wrapping his arms around you with such intensity it was almost crushing. You held him back just as fiercely, feeling the tremor in his chest, the need in his embrace.
“You are my heart,” he whispered into your hair. “You and Leia. You’re everything. I don’t know what I did to deserve this, but I swear I’ll never fail you. Not the way he did. Not ever.”
You pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, your thumbs brushing his cheeks. “You won’t. Because you already know the cost. And because you’re not alone, Clark. You have me. You have Leia. You have the League, even if they don’t always understand. You don’t carry this weight by yourself anymore.”
He leaned into your touch, his eyes softening, the fire in them tempered by something gentler. Faith. “You always know what to say.”
“That’s because I know you better than anyone,” you said, a smile tugging at your lips. “You’re not a god, Clark. You’re a man who chooses, every single day, to be good. That’s the difference. That’s what makes you stronger than any version of yourself.”
Leia stirred in her crib then, letting out a soft coo. Clark glanced over, his expression breaking into something tender, almost fragile. He rose with you still in his arms and crossed to her, gazing down at your daughter as though she was the anchor keeping him tethered to the Earth.
“She deserves a father she can be proud of,” he murmured.
“And she has one,” you replied without hesitation. “The best one.”
He kissed your temple, holding you close as you both looked down at Leia. “Then no matter what happens, I’ll keep choosing to be him. For you. For her. For us.”
In the quiet glow of your living room, with the shadow of a destroyed universe still lingering in your minds, you held onto the certainty that this Clark—your Clark—would never break the way the other had. Because love, for him, wasn’t a weakness. It was the reason he transcended everything else.
-
His fists clenched at his sides, the weight of his decision pressing down like chains. He had scorched the world in the name of justice, in the name of love, but it had never been enough. Nothing had filled the hollow where you and Leia should have been.
He closed his eyes.
And there you were.
You, alive, smiling as you leaned over the counter in your kitchen, flour on your cheek from baking with him. Leia in your arms, cooing, reaching her tiny fingers toward him. The memory was so vivid he almost reached back, almost believed he could step into it and never leave.
Then another memory: Leia’s laugh the first time he made silly faces at her. You smiling so brightly he thought he could live on that light alone.
Then the quiet nights. You curled against his chest, Leia asleep in the crib beside the bed, your hand finding his in the dark. Whispering that no matter what came, no matter who he was to the world, to you he was just Clark. Just yours.
The grief, the rage, the endless ache… for a single, fleeting moment, it all lifted. In its place was peace. A peace so deep it stole his breath.
Tears spilled from the corners of his closed eyes as the glow built in his palms, the heat of his power thrumming in his bones. He smiled through it, broken but soft, as though you were right there, watching him.
In those last seconds, as the world tore itself apart, all he felt was the touch of your lips, Leia’s small fingers curling around his thumb. All he saw was the family he lost, alive in his mind, smiling at him with love that no cruelty could ever erase.
summary: clark has the perfect plan to get to know the love of his life. it consists of eight dates, eight carefully crafted steps, and if all goes well, a happily-ever-after. but when jimmy sets him up on a blind date with you, sticking to the plan turns out to be a lot harder than he thought.
word count: 21k (i’m so sorry… the plot was plotting)
warnings/tags: 18+ mdni, tooth-rooting fluff, comfort, banter, slight angst if you squint, strangers to lovers, idiots in love, slow-burnish, clark’s pov, teacher!reader, reader’s in her late 20s, reader is shorter than clark, reader is skeptical of superman, kissing, cursing, introspection, miscommunication, fingering (f receiving), oral (f and m receiving), multiple orgasms, doggy style, missionary, unprotected p in v, creampie.
a/n: i’ll admit i went a little off the rails diving into clark’s head and writing from his pov. i really took my free will to the next level, but i hope i managed to capture him and his essence. special mention to @sai-int for helping me edit this fic!!! she was so supportive and kind, and made me feel like a professional writer <3 dear angel: you’re a mastermind, and i’m beyond grateful you took the time to engage with my work!!! and thank you all for reading :) likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated!!!
Over the years, experience has taught Clark that whenever Jimmy labels one of his ideas as brilliant, it’s usually the complete opposite.
Which is why, the moment he approaches his desk first thing in the morning, Clark’s already saying, “No. Thank you.”
“Hello to you, too,” Jimmy notes, rolling his eyes and watching as Clark drops into his chair, adjusting his tie. “You haven’t even heard what I was going to say.”
“I don’t need to, because I have the feeling it involves me in some type of way.”
“Well, aren't you smart?”
“If smart means being your friend long enough to know you, then yes.”
Spreading his arms wide, Jimmy smiles as if he were a kid about to ask for a pony. “Come on, Kent! You’re going to love this brilliant idea I had yesterday.”
Were there a hidden camera in the office, Clark would be staring straight into it right now, like they do in The Office. Instead, he just glances at Jimmy while unpacking his bag. “Your brilliant ideas are never to be trusted.”
“Now why would you say that?”
“It’s just that you always find a way to put me in the thick of it.”
“That’s not true. Name at least one time something like that happened.” As Clark inhales to list a dozen examples, Jimmy stops him by holding up a finger. “Never mind. But you have to trust me on this one!”
Clark blows out his cheeks, peering up at him over his glasses. “Alright. What is it?”
“So there’s this girl—”
“Here we go again.”
“—which is totally your type.”
“You said that last time.”
“But this time I mean it.”
“You said that the time before last time.”
“Well, I’m not perfect, you know? Neither am I a certified matchmaker. This is a hobby, which I do out of pure affection for you.”
“I don’t recall ever asking you to do this.”
Jimmy shrugs, inspecting the coffee Clark had set on his desk as if it belonged to him. “Technically, you did. You said, and I quote: Oh, it’d be nice to have somebody. I’m all alone. I’m miserable.” He drops his voice into a deep imitation of Clark’s, hunching his shoulders in an exaggerated way.
For the record, he hadn’t exactly said it like that. Jimmy just loves being dramatic.
Clark clenches his jaw the moment Jimmy lifts the cup closer to his mouth. “Buddy, that’s mine,” he mutters, though he makes no move to snatch it back.
Completely unbothered, Jimmy takes a trial sip, smacking his lips together as he drifts his eyes shut. “God bless caffeine.”
Clark sighs, leaning back in his chair. “Just because you heard me saying it once doesn’t mean I was explicitly asking you to get me a girlfriend.”
“I still wanna do it,” Jimmy argues. “I’m telling you, that girl’s out there, and it’s my duty as your best friend to find her.”
That last bit has Clark shaking his head. When put that way, what he wants sounds stupid, even childish. The whole relationship thing, falling in love. The white picket fence and the late nights in.
It had been around the time Jimmy introduced his current girlfriend, Molly, to both Lois and him that Clark found it all so endearing he actually snorted and patted his friend on the back.
They were at a bar, drinking with the ease of a Friday night, and despite not being able to get wasted, he felt tingly all over. Perhaps it was because the mere image of love was standing right in front of him, this time personified in a couple he knew.
“It must be nice to be in a relationship,” he had mused, without meaning to say it out loud. It was meant to stay a thought, but it had slipped past his lips, and immediately three pairs of unrelenting eyes were scrutinizing him. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to ruin the mood. I’m really happy for you guys.”
Lois, it seemed, had only heard the first part. “You want to date?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“And here I thought you weren’t the dating type,” Jimmy said, raising his eyebrows and taking another sip of beer. “I mean, you never have any free time outside of work. You’re constantly in a rush. In fact, I’m surprised you’re even here tonight. How would you even manage to fit in a girlfriend with your schedule?”
In moments like those, Clark wished alcohol would have an effect on him. “I’d figure it out. But of course I’d like to be with someone.”
If other people could have it, why couldn’t he? In his mind, he deserved it as much as anyone else. Though again, he wasn’t like anyone else. He wasn’t even a person to begin with. He might look like one, but his DNA was far from normal.
As obnoxious as Jimmy was, and still is to this day, once he got something in his head, it was as good as done. “Babe, don’t you have, like, a hundred friends who are single?” he asked Molly, intertwining their fingers, and she pursed her lips, thinking.
Molly ran a hand through her long red hair, toying with a specific strand. “A great deal.”
Jimmy’s gaze slid back to Clark, a smirk plastered across his features. “Then consider it done, mister. You may start calling me Cupid from now on.”
Fueled by desperation and maybe a little fear, Clark almost choked on his own saliva. “You don’t have to—”
“I want to! It’ll be fun.” Jimmy clapped a hand on Clark’s shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze. “You leave it to me, and I’ll set you up with the love of your life.”
That night, promises were made, and days later, Jimmy had put together a PowerPoint presentation, each slide featuring a different woman, along with her job and hobbies.
In the end, Clark ended up going out with several of Molly’s friends and work colleagues. One would think that, with this much help, he would’ve had better luck, but none of those dates were of his liking.
The ones at the forefront of his memory were the following:
Alexandra: sweet, but her ex-boyfriend had cheated on her just two weeks before their date, and she was still in love with him. He spent the entire evening listening to her cry and handing her tissue after tissue. They decided to stay friends.
Casey: tried to convince him to take off his glasses, insisting that they looked ‘unconventional’. She said she often wondered why natural selection didn’t eliminate poor eyesight before glasses were inverted. He faked a call from his mother twenty minutes in and ran to his apartment.
Emma: claimed Superman was a government-made hologram designed to control and terrorize human beings. He didn’t stick around to hear the rest of her theory.
Not just finding someone, but actually connecting with them, was becoming harder than he’d thought. Jimmy often tells him he’s too particular when it comes to meeting new people, although Clark doesn’t consider being meticulous a flaw.
Years ago, he’d come up with what he believed was the perfect plan to get to know someone. It consisted of eight dates, eight carefully crafted steps.
Dates 1 and 2: Minimal physical contact. A handshake or a kiss on the cheek at most, but a first kiss that soon was off the table.
Dates 3 to 5: A real kiss was allowed, but nothing more. Hugging was fine. Still in the getting-to-know-her stage. Visiting each other’s apartments was too risky, though small gestures were encouraged. Conversations could start leaning toward future relationship prospects.
Dates 6 to 8: Resist the temptation to go further. Make sure the other person was as invested as he was. If all is still going well by the eighth date, tell her the truth, and hopefully think about marriage someday.
The problem is that Clark has never made it past the first date with any of Molly’s friends, and it’s starting to get on his nerves. How difficult could it be to find someone even a little like him?
Jimmy snaps his fingers in front of his face. “Earth to Clark. Where’d you go?”
“Sorry,” Clark says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I can’t believe I’m even considering this.”
“I can always create you a Hinge account—”
“We’re definitely not doing that.”
Jimmy raises his hands in mock surrender. “Alright. But please, you need to trust me on this one. I have a really good feeling about this girl.”
Clark’s expression sours, going poker-faced. “Is it because she’s the last option you have?”
Jimmy clutches his chest, pretending to get offended. “You always think so badly of me.”
Scowling, Clark sighs for the hundredth time this morning, and the clock hasn’t even struck nine-thirty yet. “Can I at least see a picture of her?”
“Nope. It’s a blind date. Exciting, right?”
A crease forms between Clark’s brows. “You can’t be serious. How am I supposed to recognize her if I don’t know what she looks like?”
“That sounds like a you problem,” Jimmy replies, giving a dismissive wave of his hand. “Does tonight work for you?”
“Well—”
“Perfect. I’m so glad you’re not busy saving the world or whatever. I’ll text you the details. And hey, if everything goes according to plan, maybe you can even tell her about… the thing.”
Clark hooks two fingers into Jimmy’s sleeve, tugging until he’s leaning down so they’re eye-to-eye level. “We said we wouldn’t talk about the thing at the office.”
“I know. I just still can’t believe it! You’re Sup—”
“—Super committed to my job? Yup. Love it. I’m a big fan of newspapers,” Clark interrupts, his voice an octave too high.
Across the bullpen, Lois asks, “What are you two whispering about over there?”
“Someone’s got another date lined up!” Jimmy chirps, now popping around behind Clark to give his chair a spin.
“Poor thing,” Lois says, crossing her arms over her chest. “I thought you were done with those.”
“Me too,” Clark mumbles, palming his cheek flusterdly.
Grinning, Jimmy adds, “I could help you next time, Lois.”
“I’d rather die alone, but thank you.” At that, she strides off, and Jimmy’s mouth downturns, resembling something that looks a lot like a pout.
Before strolling off toward his desk, he gives Clark one final glance. “Just imagine the double dates we’ll go on, CK!”
Clark forces a smile to appease his friend.
Perhaps being single wasn’t the worst fate after all.
While getting ready, he finds himself torn between restless anxiety and utter resignation. It’s a strange combination, to say the least. Both feelings coexist tensely inside him, neither winning out over the other.
You’re ten minutes late to the date, which isn’t much, not really. After pacing the block twice, he’d arrived half an hour early to the restaurant Jimmy sent the location of, hoping nothing in the world would go wrong and force him to abandon the establishment and leap up into the air.
Already, he’s read the menu more times than he can count, memorizing each dish with its ingredients and price. He knows the chicken parmigiana comes with a chicken breast that can be topped with mozzarella, Parmesan, or provolone, and that the garnish—
“Clark?”
His head snaps up from the menu, and he sees you standing there with an apologetic smile, holding out your hand in greeting.
“Hey,” he says, standing so fast his chair nearly tips. He grips your hand, enveloping it, and swallows like his throat has gone dry, suddenly parched. “I’m—Yes. Hi. Hello.”
Golly.
He’s temporarily lost the ability to speak coherently. No longer does he know which letters go together to form the words he wants to say. It’s beyond incredible, the effect your beauty has on him.
You tilt your head, studying him before giving him your name. “Jimmy said I should look for a guy who looks tall even when he’s sitting, but you’re way taller than I expected.” Your nose wrinkles immediately after hearing yourself. “That sounded weird, didn’t it? Sorry. I swear it sounded less awkward in my head.”
A nervous laugh escapes his throat. “It’s alright. I’ve been mistaken for Bigfoot a handful of times now.”
Usually, when he jokes, the response he receives is no more than a polite chuckle. He’s convinced he has no sense of timing, no instinct for delivery, but now you’re genuinely laughing at what he’s just said. It feels authentic, and for him, that’s unbelievable.
Then he realizes he still hasn’t let go of your hand. He drops it like it burns, wiping his palms on his black slacks as he sits again, silently chiding himself for how much he’s sweating.
“I’m so sorry I arrived a bit late. I couldn’t find a place to park.” You hang your purse from the back of the chair as you sit, the corner of your mouth quirking up. “Did I make you wait too long?”
Clearing his throat, he lifts the menu and waves it awkwardly. “I, uh, had plenty of time to learn all the dishes.”
“Then I suppose you’ll have no problems ordering for me.”
He’s left flabbergasted. “But—How?”
“I like almost everything, that’s why it always takes me forever to choose. Trust me, you do not want to be stuck here with me until closing,” you explain, lifting your shoulder in a half shrug.
A distorted echo of his own conscience cuts through his thoughts: who says I wouldn't want that?
Soon you’re talking, the conversation unspooling. You tell him you’ve known Molly since primary school, and that when she initially asked if you wanted to go on a date with one of Jimmy’s friends, you turned it down.
“—So I thought I’d try to navigate the dating world on my own, but months passed without much success and I lost motivation.” You lace your fingers together, setting them neatly on the table. “Then Molly asked to meet, and this time she brought Jimmy, and… well, here I am.”
“I’m glad you didn’t lose all your hope,” he rejoins before realizing the hidden meaning of his words. He steers away from that subject. “Jimmy’s a pretty… chatty guy, don’t you think?”
“He’s great! Plus, I’ve never seen Molly this happy.”
“You’re right. They look good together.”
“And he talked a lot about you. Said some very nice things.”
“Does that mean you know more about me than I know about you?”
“Maybe.” Your eyes wander around the room before returning to his. “Besides, he paid me to be here, so this date better be a success.”
His expression falls. There’s a sudden tightness that creeps into his chest, and he can’t help but blink owlishly. “Wait, did… did Jimmy actually pay you?”
“I’m kidding!” you clarify, stumbling over your words as you lean forward, your knuckles brushing his across the table. His shoulders loosen, and he exhales. You continue with a soft chuckle. “That was my best attempt at breaking the ice. I don’t think I’ll ever be good at jokes.”
“I’m no better. Want proof?”
“Go on.”
“Why are colds bad criminals?”
You lift your brows. “Why?”
“Because they’re easy to catch.”
Propping your chin on your hand, you shake your head with a crooked smile. “That was… terrible.”
“Oh come on, you could at least pretend it was funny.” Clark laughs.
“And lie to you? Never.”
“You’ve crushed my dreams of following my true passion.”
“… Which is?”
“Pursuing a career in comedy, obviously.”
You’re laughing. Again. He thinks he’s never managed to make someone laugh this much in such a short span.
Once the laughter dies down, you offer up another question: “So, you work at the Daily Planet, right?”
He nods. “Mostly reporting. Some articles and interviews as well—”
At that moment, a waitress interrupts before he can continue, carrying a notepad in her hands. After she finishes listing off tonight’s specials, he blurts out both orders: the same dish, because panic takes over. He then asks you to choose the drinks; you settle on water, and he echoes your choice without thinking.
Once the waitress is gone, you continue your thought. “I’ve read some of your pieces—Some of the interviews with Superman, for instance.”
“Oh.” He hums, with an air of shock.
“Sorry. You’re probably tired of people bringing him up.”
His pulse quickens in the blink of an eye. “No, not at all. It’s just that I sometimes forget people are meant to read what I write, you know? It still amazes me.”
“Well, you’ve got an avid reader here.” Your lips curve knowingly. “So… is he cool? Nice? Or does he think too highly of himself?”
That last part catches him off guard. He fumbles with the napkin in his lap, mindlessly tearing it into smaller pieces. “What makes you think that?”
You ponder, wrinkling your nose. “Well, when someone has that much power, it’d be easy to slide into arrogance.”
His voice, when it comes, is so subdued that he can barely hear it. “I believe he takes what he does very seriously. I wouldn’t say he’s arrogant.”
You rest your chin on your palm, studying him. “He’s not so fond of the media, though, right?”
“That’s because some have chosen to distort his image.”
“I see you’re a Superman apologist,” you tease, tapping the table with two fingers. “So tell me: if he’s not exactly approachable, then how did you manage to land all those interviews with him?”
In situations like these, Clark realizes he’s been taking air for granted. How do you know which buttons to push to make him sweat?
“I just…. happen to be in the right place at the right time. That’s all.”
You give him a lopsided grin. “Don’t be so modest! Give yourself some credit. You’ve given him a voice no one else has. I think it’s admirable.”
There’s a fleeting moment when he falls silent, partly blinded by your radiance. He feels as though he can’t look at you properly while speaking, as if he’s staring straight into the Yellow Sun.
It seems almost unreal that you’re here, sitting across from him, breathing the same air, your shoes only inches away from his under the table.
You’re beautiful. And he’s petrified of making the wrong move—of saying the wrong thing and scaring you off forever.
“I wouldn’t say we’re friends or anything like that,” he adds after a beat. “It’s strictly professional. He wants others to hear his side of things, too.”
He isn’t too sure what he just said, too stuck on the fact that he could really be falling for you after knowing you for less than half an hour. It sounds absurd—Gosh, it is absurd. That he knows for sure.
But what role does absurdity play when it comes to love? Aren’t those the very things that can’t be logically explained? The unreasonable acts?
Stick. To. The. Plan. You big poet.
Cutting off Clark’s mental spiral, the waitress timely returns with both of your drinks, placing them carefully on the table. He takes a sip, the water cold and numbing against his throat, though it does nothing for the heat rising in his cheeks.
He sets the glass down. “Anyway, enough about me. Tell me something about yourself.”
“I teach,” you say, your tone softening. “Primary and high school. For my older students, I focus mostly on literature.”
“That sounds like a lot of responsibility.”
Your eyes brighten a little. “It is. It can be incredibly exhausting at times, but I wouldn't change it for anything in the world. Teaching is my calling, you know? What I’m meant to do.”
His lips quirk before he even speaks. “Should I confess then that I haven’t read a fiction book in years?”
“How are you still going on with your life?” You jest, taking a sip of your water.
“I manage just fine.”
“Lucky you, I can recommend you something whenever you want.” It’s like you’re half hoping for a denial, because then you clarify, “Not like I’m forcing you or anything. Not everybody enjoys reading. I’m only saying that if you’re interested—”
Jimmy won’t believe it, Clark thinks, that he set him up with someone who overthinks their words just as much as he does.
His heart sings as he answers, “That’d be nice.”
While you eat, Clark starts memorizing all these details that you mention, storing them in the back of his head:
You’ve trained yourself not to curse, thanks to all the hours spent surrounded by children, though every once in a while a bad word sneaks out, especially when you stub your little toe on the edge of your bed.
He learns that you’re not much of a drinker. You’ll take a gin and tonic every now and then, but you refuse to accept beer, wine, or anything too sugary.
As a kid, you dreamed of being a librarian, and you even worked in one through college.
When the check is paid and his cheeks ache from smiling more than he has in weeks, he insists on holding the door open for you as you step outside.
The moment he turns back, you’re holding your phone out toward him.
“I’d really like to see you again, if you want to,” you murmur, fluttering your eyelashes with a hopeful grin on your lips. “Think you can—Would you give me your number?”
His mouth hangs agape briefly before he shuts it tightly. His eyes gloss over you once more. “I’d love that. Of course. I mean, you’re great, and I think—”
A giggle escapes you as you perceive him to be just as nervous as you are, and you give the device a playful shove back into his chest.
He takes it, pressing each number with practiced delicacy while trying not to waste the little time you had left. He hands the phone back, rocking on his heels, searching for the right thing to do with his hands.
“It was a good first date,” he admits at last.
The silence between you deepens, and then you say, “I’m glad I accepted Jimmy’s offer.”
“He’ll be all over me at work tomorrow.”
You beam at him, your eyes crinkling at the corners. “Tell him I said hi.”
“I will.”
Even so, there’s a part of Clark that doesn’t want to leave. He wants to know more about you, despite having already memorized all those little details you shared throughout the night.
You both have responsibilities, and he knows he can’t ask for too much when you’ve only just met, but he would stay up all night if it meant spending just a little more time with you.
God, he’s already in so deep.
You tighten your grip on your purse strap, slinging it over your shoulder. “Okay, then… bye. I guess I’ll see you around.”
You shift closer, rising on your toes, and judging by the way you’re tilting your head, he’s pretty sure you’re planning on kissing him on the cheek.
He suddenly remembers his plan, panic kicking in before common sense, his hand shoots forward to hold yours, stopping you.
Startled, you slip your hand into his, saying, “A true gentleman.” You give it a firm shake. “Noted.”
“Sorry, I just—”
“Don’t worry.” You offer him another one of your earth-shattering smiles. “Goodnight, Clark.”
He waves, and so do you, but neither of you moves right away. He gestures toward the sidewalk. “I’ll go first.”
You take two steps backward. “Yup. Fine.”
Needless to say, when he’s a block away and risks glancing over his shoulder, he finds you already looking back at him.
“I need all the details!”
“Jimmy, I swear to God—”
“You’re entitled to tell me! I was the one who set you up!”
Clark shushes him, pressing a hand over his mouth. They’re right by the printers, and he flashes an innocent smile at a woman passing by on her way to the break room, concern flickering in her eyes.
“Stop yelling, man!” Clark hisses, his gaze boring into Jimmy’s as he all but slaps his large hand over his mouth. “You’re scaring people, and you have—What the hay, dude?!”
Clark yanks his hand back, staring at his palm in disgust. His skin is wet and sticky.
“Did you just lick me?” Clark grimaces, wiping the saliva on Jimmy’s shirt. “How old are you? Three?”
“I will not be silenced.”
“You’re gross.”
“And I’ll continue to be if you don’t tell me how it went last night,” Jimmy presses excitedly, giving a light punch to Clark’s chest.
Clark sighs, looking around to make sure no one’s eavesdropping their conversation. “I already told you it was fine. What else do you want to know?”
“Did you kiss?”
“What?! No!” Now Clark’s the one yelling.
“Relax. It’s not like I asked if you two reenacted the Kama Sutra.”
A rush of heat prickles at the back of Clark’s neck. The newsroom feels stifling, and he tugs at his collar, aiming to keep his voice even. “Why are you more… unfiltered than usual?”
“Kissing isn’t a sin, pal. Stop treating it as if it were,” Jimmy explains, and with a shake of his head, he drifts toward the coffee machine, leaving Clark even more confused.
He quickly follows after him. “But it’s too early for a kiss. We’ve only been on one date.”
Steam curls from the machine as Jimmy fills his cup. The vapor fogs Clark’s glasses, blurring his vision for a second.
“You notice how you're trying to control the situation? It’s like you want to structure every single thing,” Jimmy says, stirring in sugar, clinking a spoon against the ceramic. “You need to just let it flow. See where it takes you. Forget about that stupid eight-dates thing.”
Taken aback, Clark’s brows snap together. “I don’t ‘go with the flow’. And my plan’s not stupid. I just… put a lot of thought into it,” Clark laments.
“How many times did you shake her hand last night? Five?”
“In my defense, she did it first.”
“Oh! Fantastic. Looks like I’ve found someone who matches your freakiness.”
Clark opens his mouth to argue, but the unexpected buzz in his pocket derails his train of thought. As his heart hammers, he fishes out his phone. His lock screen lights up with a new message from an unknown number.
He can’t help the way his lips twitch upward, betraying him. He’s been waiting all morning for this.
Jimmy leans in, trying to angle the screen toward himself. “Oh, man. Is it her? Tell me it’s her.”
Clark pivots the phone away trying to use his size to his advantage, but Jimmy cranes his neck anyway, squinting at the text that’s popped up:
I really hope you didn’t give me a fake number last night.
Clark’s thumb hovers over the screen, debating his next reply. Out of the corner of his eye, Jimmy remains grinning next to him, taking a long sip of coffee before nearly hollering, “Remember that sexting in public is gross!”
He walks away after that, and a few heads turn in Clark’s direction as he jerks upright, almost dropping the device. “He’s joking, obviously,” he sputters, his head bent. “I’d never do that. You’re all… safe.”
Retreating to his desk, he sinks into his chair, hiding his face behind the glow of his phone screen. He creates a new contact under your name.
Clark: What kind of person do you think I am?
The typing dots appear right after.
You: I barely know you. Why should I trust you?
Clark: I can’t think of any good reason right now.
You: Well, if you want to prove your identity, tell me the color of the jacket I wore yesterday.
Clark: It was blue… and you paired it with a black sweater and a pretty pair of earrings.
You: Your eyes do work wonders.
Clark: It’s the glasses. They take all the credit.
You: But is your memory always this good?
Clark: Only on important occasions.
Your second date comes a few days later at a bookshop café you’ve been meaning to try. Clark’s determined to leave with at least one book under his arm, and after debating his choices with you, he ends up choosing Atonement.
Turns out you don’t talk much. You mostly read, and yet the silence between you feels natural, almost familiar. Most people don’t consider Clark’s quiet nature much of a virtue, but he’s never seen it that way.
He thinks back to his parents on the Kent farm, sitting side by side on the porch. They wouldn’t speak, only stare at the horizon, steady and unflinching.
He wonders if this is how they felt when they were younger, or how they still feel after so many years of being together.
It’s too soon, and he knows it. Still, the thought lingers, stubborn as ever: if that kind of comfort was supposed to take years, why is he already finding it with you?
As with most things in life, Clark has always believed that something very good is inevitably followed by something very bad. After the date, a thousand excuses run through his head, all the things you could say to ghost him.
I don’t think we really connected. Maybe we could just stay friends.
Actually, I’m not single. I have a boyfriend and two dogs in another city, waiting for me to come home.
You’re kind of boring, your relationship with Superman is concerning, and I never want to see you again.
All his doubts fade the moment you text him before going to bed, reminding him to send you his thoughts after finishing each chapter of the book.
The third date happens almost a week later, when both of you finally manage to carve out the time. You’d mentioned a certain movie you’d been wanting to see, and now that it had finally hit theaters, Clark wasn’t wasting the chance.
You’ve taken your seats in the designated theater. The movie, Materialists, won’t start for another ten minutes. You’re devouring the popcorn he bought, tossing kernel after kernel into your mouth, while he steals a handful whenever you pause.
“I didn’t know you liked popcorn so much,” he says, laughing softly at the way you pop them into your mouth.
“I love it, but I’m starving, too.”
“Guess you’ll have to survive on popcorn for now.” He stretches his legs, sinking deeper into the seat. “By the way, what’s this movie about?”
He can't tell you that he got these tickets online while he was in Europe just a few hours ago, and that's why he didn't have time to read the plot.
“A love triangle,” you explain, crossing one leg over the other. “I hope it’s good. I’ve heard all kinds of opinions.”
It starts off promising. When Pedro Pascal’s character, Harry, flirts with Dakota Johnson’s Lucy at the wedding, he spares you a quick glance, noticing how your gaze is fixed on the screen. You partially cover your face each time they get too close.
About halfway through the film, there’s a scene where Harry and Lucy start making out in his apartment. It’s heated, and now Clark finds himself picturing doing the same with you, which isn’t helpful at all.
The safest distraction, he decides, is eating. He dips his hand between the two seats, where the bucket of popcorn should be wedged.
Except it isn’t there anymore. Somehow, in that moment, it’s gone, and instead of buttery kernels, his hand brushes against yours.
Driven by reflex, you jerk it away, nearly jumping in place. Clark turns to you, and an expression of perplexity settles on your features. A thousand thoughts race through his mind.
He wants to say he’s sorry, that he didn’t mean to be so forward, that he was only reaching for the popcorn to derail thoughts of which you were the protagonist.
What he doesn’t know, because that would require slipping inside your head, is that you’re forcing yourself not to turn and stare at him. Every so often your control falters, and you steal a glance from the corner of your eye, grateful for the excuse of being seated so you can drink in his profile unnoticed.
His nose, the soft fullness of his lips, the line of his chin. The way his glasses slip down and he pushes them back up, how the flickering scenes from the film ripple across the glass in short fragments.
He’s everything you ever wanted, and more. Your friends would probably tell you you’re rushing, that you should be more objective, keep a cool head. But nothing feels cool beside Clark. Your emotions turn visceral, heat rises under your skin, and logic abandons you exactly when you need it most.
From then on, it all happens in slow motion.
Your hand goes back to the armrest, palm tilted upward, as though waiting for something from his side. He notices the faint creases of your skin, the twitch of your wrist as you squirm.
The most primal part of him aches to grab your face and kiss you until you’re breathless. But that’s not something he can do, something he should do. It doesn’t go according to the plan.
Instead, he makes the choice to take your hand deliberately. He intertwines his fingers with yours, no inch of skin apart. Warmth radiates from you, seeping into him where you’re joined as his thumb brushes along your knuckles.
There’s a moment when the movie fades into background noise for him, and he can’t help catching every small disruption in the theater. A woman a few rows down chewing with her mouth open. A young couple kissing like the world’s about to end. A phone that buzzes and refuses to be ignored.
And yet, the sound he picks out most clearly is your heartbeat as it drowns out the rest. It echoes in his ears so loud, so frantic, that he feels as if it belongs to him.
Clark tests his luck, as though this were an experiment, and squeezes your hand. The effect is immediate; your pulse stumbles, skips, and the rush of it startles him enough that his knee jerks, knocking into the seat in front and making a stranger yelp.
The man turns around in an instant, forehead wrinkled in annoyance. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Clark swallows hard. He hadn’t meant to hit him that hard. “I’m so sorry. I think I got a cramp,” he whispers, hoping that he’ll take pity on him.
All he gets in response is a grunt, which sounds like a curse, but he couldn’t care less.
He hasn’t been this buried in work in months. If he had to lay the blame on someone, he’d have to call it quits and tell Superman he’s not doing any more interviews.
In other words: no more referring to himself in the third-person.
Defending himself against every critic and headline is one thing, but doing it disguised as a reporter is entirely different.
He’s afraid the people who read his articles will eventually start thinking he’s losing his objectivity. But given the circumstances, and since Lex Luthor appears to be on every TV program calling Superman a filthy martian, it’s not like Clark can stay silent.
His stomach’s been growling for the past hour. It’s officially lunchtime. He should put something in his body before hunger drives him to slam his keyboard against his desk, though the thought of abandoning the draft in front of him makes him itch.
Good gosh. Perhaps he should start writing under a pseudonym.
When he checks his phone, there’s a message from you. You’ve got a long break between classes, and you’re thinking of grabbing lunch. The mere thought of food makes him fantasize about gnawing on anything remotely edible.
Clark: Think I’ll just skip lunch today. There’s so much I have to get done.
He sends the text without waiting for a reply, sets the phone down beside his computer, and goes back to work.
From behind his back, a hand waves a Pop-Tart in his direction, waggling it. A theatrical voice murmurs, “Eat me.”
Clark lets out a laugh, swiveling just enough to see Steve smirking as he leans on the edge of his desk.
“I’m serious. Take it. You look like you need it more than me.”
“It’s fine, I’ll just eat later,” Clark retorts, rubbing at his temples and sinking back into his chair.
Narrowing his eyes, Steve says, “You look stressed.”
“Well, I most certainly am.”
“Is it about all the hate your little friend’s been receiving lately?”
On any other occasion, were he not this tired, he’d have corrected him, insisting they’re not friends. But today, he lets it slide. “It’s draining. Collecting all this information and then—having to ask—”
His own sigh cuts him off. There’s a weight pressing on his chest he can’t shake, and he peers up to stare at Steve.
Steve bites into the Pop-Tart, chewing it with a thoughtful expression. “I wonder if this is the end of Superman.”
Clark tries to keep his voice level. He really does. “What?”
“I mean, he’s constantly being criticized. Sure, most people still like him, think he’s great, but—”
“He’s not gonna stop helping others just because there’s some… bald guy on TV who lives to antagonize him. His entire purpose on earth is to be helpful. It’s what drives him. It’s—He’s not giving up.”
Startled, Steve tilts his head. “Did he tell you all that?”
Clark stammers, “He didn’t, but I—I know that’s what he’d say if I were to ask him.”
After that, Steve appears to have decided to drop the subject, finishing what’s left of his snack. Clark assumes that’s the end of their conversation, which had been long enough to exasperate him anyway, even though he considers himself to be patient.
But then—
“So… I’ve heard you’re going out with this girl.”
“You mean Jimmy told you.”
Steve shrugs. “Same thing in my book. When are you seeing her again?”
Clark stiffens, stretching his arm to grab a pen and rhythmically clicking the end of it. “I don’t know. We’ve both been busy the last few days.”
You? Busy teaching, preparing lessons, and correcting assignments.
Him? Busy juggling two lives. When he tells you he’s exhausted and heading to bed early, it’s often a lie. Later, you’ll catch him on TV, throwing himself at some gigantic creature, and text him a picture of the screen: Unlike you, your friend’s not getting much sleep tonight.
“Got a picture of her?” Steve asks out of nowhere.
Studying him for a moment, Clark draws his brows together. “I’m not showing you—”
“Kent,” a voice cuts through, calling his attention. Nino, the security guard from the entrance, stands a few meters away, and he looks irritated to have been sent upstairs. “There’s someone waiting for you outside.”
That’s weird. “For… me? Are you sure?”
“It’s a girl. Says she’s looking for Clark Kent.” The man’s voice thickens with annoyance. “As far as I know, you’re the only Clark Kent in the entire building, so unless you’ve got a secret twin brother or something—”
Clark’s already rising to his feet before the guard finishes. “Alright, alright. I’m coming.”
He doesn’t expect to see your face when the doors open and the rush of cooler air spills in. His heart jolts inside his chest as he steps toward you, and that’s when it hits him.
He had actually missed you more than he realized. What stage of the plan was he in now?
“What—I don’t—You’re here?”
“I texted you, but you weren’t answering, so I figured I’d just… drop by,” you begin, slightly breathless. “You said you were skipping lunch, and I brought you food, and—”
Looking down, he catches a glimpse of the paper bag you’re clutching. The smell alone makes his stomach rumble in betrayal. “You didn’t have to.”
“I was getting something for myself as well.”
“But—”
You take one step closer, a grin tugging at your lips. “Aren’t you hungry?”
“Don’t play that card with me. You know I am.”
That makes you laugh. “Then take this, and tell me if you like it.” You press the bag into his hands, and your fingers brush against his. Neither of you pull away. “It’s a sandwich and fries. I got myself the same thing, so I’m counting on it being good.”
I missed you. I missed you. I missed you. I missed—
“I’m sorry I didn’t check my phone. I just… there’s a lot going on at the moment.” His pinky hooks against yours, and you glance down for an instant. “I wasn’t avoiding you or anything.”
Nodding your head, your eyes twinkle with something he can’t describe. “I know. I didn’t think that, and I—”
You quiet down when a crowd of people interrupts your moment, the murmur of voices overlapping, making you grimace.
“I'd better be going,” you say, jerking your thumb toward the street. “My next class starts in about half an hour, so—”
“Makes sense,” Clark answers, though his words don’t match the way his throat tightens, wishing he could disappear into the crowd with you instead. He massages the back of his neck, scanning the sidewalk like he’ll lose you if he looks away. “I’ll head back inside.”
You sigh, shoving your hands into your pockets. “And I’ll go back to dealing with eight-year-olds.”
Would now be a good time to ask when he can see you again? The thought burns on his tongue, when—
“Kent, are you coming in?” Nino’s holding the glass door open with one hand, and he seems to be seconds away from letting it slam shut.
“Right. Sorry,” Clark murmurs, clearing his throat. “Yeah—Bye.”
He lingers until you vanish from sight before stepping back inside. The moment Jimmy spots the bag, he’s immediately smirking, but Clark walks straight past him, setting it beside his keyboard and reaching for his phone.
You: Want me to grab you something? I’m nearby anyway.
You: Hello?
You: Well, now I’m just getting you food.
You: Would it be weird if I dropped it off at your office?
You: I’m trusting my instinct.
All the while he eats the sandwich, he can’t stop beating himself up for not telling you how much he’d been wanting to see you. He rubs his fingers together, the salt of the fries clinging to his skin, and he gets the best idea he’s had in weeks.
There’s a chance Perry will scold him for leaving earlier than he should, but he’s willing to take the risk.
Hours later, he finds himself at a florist's, buying you flowers. He waits outside your work longer than he expected, watching as each child is picked up one by one.
Eventually, as the last of your students leaves, he watches as you descend the steps. Your face lights up as you catch sight of him.
“Clark?” You’re smiling now, walking faster. Your eyebrows shoot up to your hairline when you notice he’s hiding something behind his back. “What is it?”
You reach out, but he dodges. “Easy there.” He thinks about teasing you a little longer, but the way you’re looking at him makes him weak in the knees, and he brings the flowers out from behind him. “This is my way of thanking you for today’s lunch.”
“Oh my God!” you squeak, taking them into your hands. You bury your face in them, smiling wider. “These are so pretty! Thank you, thank you, thank—”
Before he can react, your arms loop around his neck. Your chest collides with his, and he stumbles back, losing his balance for a brief moment. He circles your waist, lifting you off the ground. You laugh against his ear, the flowers brushing the back of his neck, while his nose sinks into your hair as he breathes in.
How is he supposed to go slow when being with you feels like a dream?
That’s it. He’s gone. Completely head over heels for you. You could do anything to him, tear him apart and piece him back together, and he wouldn’t even try to stop you. He can’t understand how someone who was a stranger just weeks ago can now make him feel a hundred different things at once.
A month ago, if he’d seen you on the street, he would’ve glanced twice and kept walking.
Today, he’s terrified of losing sight of you.
The hug lasts only seconds, but for him, it stretches into years. As he sets you down, he notices how close you are.
His breath comes unevenly as you curl your fingers into his tie. You’re staring at him, deeply, though you make no move, and he offers you a crooked smile.
“I take it you liked the flowers?” he asks, his voice pitched a little higher than usual.
Your answer doesn’t come in words, but in a kiss.
Your lips fit against his perfectly. The kiss is sweet, fleeting, and gentle. You pull away, and he follows your mouth instinctively. You throw your head back, laughing, so that he’s met with your cheek instead.
He noses your skin, eyes fluttering shut. “Are you free tonight?”
For the sake of his sanity, he counts both encounters as the fourth date.
Tonight, you’re having your fifth date. This event marks the end of stage two of his plan.
Everything feels like it’s moving too fast. He has to remind himself that sex is absolutely off the table for a fifth date, even if he’s stepping into your apartment for the first time.
“It won’t happen.” He’s talking to his own reflection now as he fixes his hair in the mirror. “You’re strong. You’re… committed to the plan.” Tapping his finger into the glass for emphasis, he says, “Stick to it. Think about the final outcome.”
This plan wasn’t something he came up with overnight. Its roots go back to when he was sixteen, when his friends first started dating and fumbling through romance—a life he thought was reserved for everyone but him.
Clark believed he was a danger to others if he wasn’t careful. For the longest time, he smothered every feeling that even brushed against love, locking it away before it could grow. He was afraid of hurting someone.
He never quite stopped feeling like an infant in the body of a man, learning his limits piece by piece. He knows he has two arms and two legs, two eyes and a mouth. He knows that when he grips something, it stays there.
But then there are the gifts. The strength, the senses, the heat in his blood; powers he never asked for, but could never escape. With Ma and Pa’s help, he learned how to live with them, though the process was frustrating, sometimes terrifying.
At the age of seventeen, he didn't know what was destined for him. He was just a boy who wanted to hold a girl’s hand without worrying about burning holes in the ground with his heat vision.
He always knew his life would be complicated. He knew finding someone who could stand beside him, someone willing to accept his calling, would be nearly impossible.
That’s why he couldn’t just let things happen. He didn’t trust fate. He didn’t want to wait for love to stumble across him by chance. He had to find it, not wait around for fate to find it for him.
His phone rings, pulling him from his thoughts, and he realizes he’s been standing in the bathroom for almost five minutes. He accepts the call without checking the screen.
“Hello?”
“Well if it isn’t my favorite lovebird. How are you doing?”
“Jimmy, I’m leaving in ten minutes. Be quick.”
“Are you nervous?”
He is, but Jimmy doesn’t need to know that. “Why would I be?”
“You’re finally getting laid!”
Clark stops buttoning up his shirt. “Wait. What? Why are you even saying this?”
“Because—aren’t you going to her place?”
“Yeah. And?”
“Well, do the math, dude!”
“You’re trespassing all my limits. Please, Jimmy.”
“Look, it’ll do you good. Even Superman needs to copulate sometimes.”
“Copulate?! I don’t—That’s it. Goodbye, Jimmy.”
The state in which he arrives at your apartment is far from what he’d hoped. Hair toussled, cheeks pink with windburn.
His hand trembles slightly as he knocks, checking his phone for the fifth time to confirm the hour. He’s not early, nor is he late, but right on schedule.
He’s really doing this, standing outside the apartment of the girl he fancies. He tells himself it’s simple: come in, talk, share dinner, leave within the span of two hours. Easy-peasy.
Only nothing about this feels ordinary. One single line of his plan won’t leave him alone, and it flashes every time he closes his eyes: visiting each other’s apartments was too risky. Now, with his pulse racing and nerves gathering tight in his chest, he knows exactly why he wrote that.
Dear Clark from the past: you were wise beyond your years.
When you finally open the door and invite him in, he has to remind his lungs how to work, forcing in a breath. Crossing the threshold feels less like walking into a room and more like stepping into uncharted territory.
His eyes roam over the portraits on the wall, the small decorations, the ceramic sculpture of a dog perched on a shelf. It hits him only then how desperately he’s been avoiding your gaze.
“You have a really nice place,” he murmurs at last, forcing himself to turn back. It would feel wrong not to.
You surprise him with takeout from a place he’d mentioned once in passing. They sell these wraps you can customize to your liking, and he doesn’t remember ever telling you his exact dream order, but you’ve nailed it anyway.
His has pulled beef, cheese, and a rich dressing that overshadows every other flavor. Salsa slips from the edge of the wrap, trickling down his chin as he takes a big mouthful, and you laugh, cheeks full, still chewing.
“What?” he asks, the word muffled, and it’s almost as if he’d momentarily forgotten the first rule of table manners his parents had taught him. He wipes the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, a clumsy but effective maneuver to deal with the greasy mess on his fingers.
You sip your water, pressing a napkin to your lips. “Since when are wraps so messy to eat?”
“Mine’s about to explode, but it’s worth it,” he replies, and you nod.
You lean back in your seat, scratching your chin in thought. “Hey, remember the other day you said you were staying late at the office?”
Clark hums, his eyes fixed on his wrap. Better to stay absorbed in his food than risk betraying the truth. That he hadn’t spent his Wednesday night typing, rereading the same sentences until they blurred into nonsense.
“Did you manage to finish that article?” you ask, now resigned to using a knife and fork instead of wrestling with your wrap.
“Oh, yeah. I just… had to check some minor details with… my source,” he says, hoping the conversation won’t make the food turn in his stomach.
Lifting your fork, you point it at him. “Let me guess. Does his name start with an S and end with -man?” He doesn’t bother answering, because it isn’t necessary. “Don’t even say it. I already knew I was a mastermind.”
“He told me all about his fight with the Kaiju,” Clark tries.
You chew slowly on a carrot, thoughtful. Your gaze narrows on him. “Do you agree with everything he does?”
Clark nearly bites his tongue. “What—what do you mean?”
“When you’re writing about him, quoting him, making references to all his rescues, don’t you ever feel like… maybe your opinion might differ from what he did? That you might disagree with his actions?”
Why did it feel like tonight you were the journalist and he was the one on the record?
“I get what you’re saying,” Clark answers, straightening in his chair. “But yeah, I agree with what he does.”
You arch your brows. “With every single thing? Really?”
“I wouldn’t interview him if I didn’t.”
“I don’t believe you.” Your tone is teasing, playful, but under it runs a thread of sharp skepticism. “There’s gotta be something about him you don’t like.”
Clark pretends to think, then shakes his head. “Not that I can remember.”
You ball up your napkin and toss it at him, laughing. “Come on!”
“What?” He catches it and tosses it back with no real effort. “I’m being honest. He gets me exclusives, front page spots. What’s not to like about that?”
You click your tongue and wave him off. “See? You’re biased. You’re not thinking straight. If you were, you’d find something unlikeable. Everyone has flaws.”
Clark attempts to shift the focus of the conversation. “So does that mean I’ve got something you don’t like about me?”
You bite your lip, glance up at the ceiling as though calculating. “You could say that.”
His interest sparks immediately. “What is it? Now I have to know.” He scrapes his chair across the floor until he’s sitting at your side, facing you directly. “You’re not getting out of this.”
“I’m not roasting you for free!”
“I’m literally asking you to!”
“Clark—”
“I’ll just keep going until you break,” he teases, leaning in closer. “You’ll get tired of me eventually.”
With him this near, your eyes betray you, flicking from his gaze to his mouth before you catch yourself. Clark notices. Of course he notices. He watches as you squint, weighing whether or not to give in to his persistence.
Finally, you decide to, because the next thing you say is: “You never question him, not even once.”
He had been waiting for you to say something untrue, something easy to laugh off. But your words catch him off guard. He leans back slightly, needing that extra inch of distance to really look at you.
Your gaze softens as if you regret pushing too far. Rising from your seat, you gather both your plates and glasses. “I’m sorry. I was just—I was joking. You know I’m terrible at that, right?”
You’re trying to dissolve the tension, to make it vanish into the clatter of dishes. He can’t blame you for it.
“Yeah, now I remember,” he says quietly, watching the curve of your shoulders as you walk toward the kitchen. “Please, never give up teaching.”
He trails after you. You’re at the counter, cutting squares of the brownie you baked earlier. You take the first bite, humming at the rich taste as your foot taps the floor, and he can’t stop watching the way your face relaxes with delight.
“Good?” he asks, folding his arms. Despite your recent exchange, he can’t avoid getting lost in your beauty.
It’s a fact that you always look pretty, but tonight there’s something different he can’t quite place. Maybe it has to do with the way you carry yourself, more at ease, a little less preoccupied.
You’re glowing, and it has nothing to do with a physical change, but with something harder to name, something more intimate.
You answer his question with a small, “You have to try it,” and then you’re holding out a piece to him, the same one you’d bitten into seconds ago.
His eyes flick to yours, then down to the brownie, then to your fingers, and back to you.
“Come on,” you insist, swaying the piece a little. Your tongue darts out to lick the chocolate at the corner of your mouth. “I swear it’s not poisoned.”
This is the end of him. Who would’ve thought, out of all possible scenarios, that he’d die right here in your apartment?
He inches forward a little, carefully biting into the brownie, hyper-aware of how close his teeth are to your fingers. He braces for you to look away, to break the tension, but you don’t, and neither does he. His gaze stays locked on yours as he literally eats from your hand.
Don’t get hard. Please, just don’t.
“It’s… delicious,” he manages after a beat, clearing his throat. “Can you make, like, a whole batch for me?”
Rolling your eyes, you say, “Sure.” You finish the last bite yourself, brushing crumbs from your fingertips. Then your brows knit together, like a thought just struck you. “By the way, how’s Atonement going? You like it so far?”
He scrambles in his mind for the last place he left off. “I reached the part where Robbie and Cecilia are… well, you know.”
“You mean the library scene?”
“Yeah.”
“They recreated it so well in the movie. I still remember it to this day.”
“I had no idea there was a movie.”
“It’s from 2007. We should watch it someday… or perhaps tonight?”
There’s no way he’s surviving you, not with the way you’re looking at him now, the way you’re leaning back. You tilt your head to the side, the movement shifting your shirt just enough to reveal the faintest strip of skin. His breath catches before he can stop it.
Your lips part slightly, as though you’re about to speak, but the silence stretched instead.
“Darn it,” he mutters under his breath, and he’s sure you’re about to ask what he said, but you never get the chance, because he cups your face and kisses you.
His mouth crushes onto yours, and it takes you a few startled seconds to catch up before you melt into it, fingers clawing at the collar of his shirt to drag him closer. You climb higher, nails raking against the sensitive skin at his nape, and he shudders under your touch.
Without drawing away, he makes a sudden movement and lifts you onto the counter. Your lips break apart for just a gasp, and you’re immediately tugging him back down, kissing him harder.
As your tongue slides against his, a moan dies on his throat, caressing your hips through layers of fabric. He can even taste the chocolate from the brownie you both just shared.
Your legs part instinctively, and he looms forward, fitting himself between your thighs. You feel the unmistakable hardness against you, and the sound that escapes you is closer to a whine. Hooking your ankles around him, you lock him there, grinding just enough to drive him nuts.
Any other man in his shoes would be floating. Ecstatic. But he isn’t, not fully, because beneath the fever of it all lies the stinging edge of guilt.
He’d sworn to himself he wasn’t here for this, that it was too soon. He’d promised. Yet what you two are doing couldn’t be further from just talking.
The back of your head bumps against the cabinet, making you wince, and instantly he adjusts, pulling you tighter into him, angling your body until you’re practically perched on top of him.
His senses are overstimulated, beyond heightened. He swears he can hear the rush of blood in your veins, the frenzied beat of your pulse. Outside, cars pass, sirens wail, horns blare. Tires screech against concrete, and voices rise and fall.
He presses his hand more firmly to your skin, needing to feel the weight of flesh beneath his palm to remind himself that this, what he’s living right now, is real.
He’s here with you, though at the same time he feels like he's everywhere all at once.
The moment your hand slides even an inch lower, this will all be over too fast. He can’t stay still. He can’t think, because doing so would mean putting a stop to this madness. And the truth is, he doesn’t want to. He knows he made a vow to himself, but—
Your phone starts ringing somewhere down the hall. Your room, or maybe the bathroom. Once his ears catch it, it’s not like he can unhear it. That insistent sound drills through everything.
His hands freeze at your sides, his voice coming out rough. “I think your phone’s… ringing.”
Between kisses, you reply, “I don’t care.”
“What if it’s important?”
“I’m sure it’s not.”
“But what if it is?”
Finally, you break away, drawing in a long breath. His lips chase yours for just one last kiss before he moves aside to let you slip down from the counter.
Clark takes a step back. The second you’re gone, he’s leaning back against the wall, his head thudding against it. He drags in a shaky breath, noticing how fogged his glasses are, and then his eyes peer down at the front of his tented pants.
In a rush, he drops onto the couch, grabbing the nearest cushion to shield his lap, shifting uncomfortably as he adjusts beneath it. Even though his cheeks feel warm, the guilt burns worse than the ache.
You come back with your phone in hand, shrugging, and you drop it onto the table. “Wrong number. Told you it wasn’t important.”
Sinking onto the couch beside him, your gaze flickers down before you can help.
He drags a hand over his face, desperate to find a way out from your unrelenting stare without having to meet it. “Please, just ignore it. It’ll go down. Eventually.”
“Clark, it’s normal.”
“That doesn’t make it any less mortifying.”
“I actually feel flattered.”
Silence envelops you both. He can feel himself relaxing.
Then you speak again. “I’m sorry. Was that too much?”
His head jerks toward you. “What do you mean?”
“Like… the kissing. I feel like I got carried away.”
“I didn’t think you were too much. I—I liked it,” he admits, scratching the side of his nose. “I think you were able to see that clear as day.”
That has you exhaling a breathy laugh, and he tries to shake off the discomfort weighing down on him.
There’s a question he knows he should wait to ask you. It's been playing in his mind, formulating itself at odd hours of the day. Normally, he's able to suppress it, to file it away in a mental junk drawer, but he must be too affected to tell right from wrong.
“Are you seeing someone else?”
“No,” you answer quickly, a puzzled frown on your face. “… Are you?”
“No.” He also shakes his head to make his answer more emphatic. “But would you want to? See other people?”
“Oh, no.” You keep quiet for a moment, your lips pressed into a thin line. “Why are you me asking this? Do you want to?”
He snorts. “Gosh, no.”
“It’s always a possibility.”
“Trust me, it isn’t.”
“You could want to explore other connections.”
“Are we on Love Island?”
“You get what I’m trying to say.”
In fact, he does. Sliding the cushion back where it belongs, he turns to face you. “I like where this is going.”
What he’d meant to say was: I like you. He only reformulated it at the very last second.
The next time you kiss him, it’s different. Slower, softer as your nose brushes his, and he wonders if he’s still in control of the plan.
You wake up with the flu on the day you were supposed to have your sixth date.
You: I must’ve gotten it from one of my students.
You: I feel like crap. I’m so sorry, I really wanted to see you :(
Clark leaves the sentence he was typing half-written, fingers abandoning the keys. He pushes his chair away from the desk with his feet, staring at his reflection on the phone. The white glow of the computer screen casts shadows across his jaw and under his eyes.
Clark: At least let me cook for you.
You: Nooooooo!!!
You: I don’t want you to get sick.
He wishes he could tell you that you're not passing him any germs; not today, not ever.
Clark: I won’t stay for too long.
Clark: I know a soup recipe my mother taught me. I haven't made it in a long time.
That should be enough to soften you.
You: Alright…
When night comes around, he’s in your kitchen, chopping vegetables on a wooden board. The TV hums faintly in the background, interrupted every so often by the sharp sound of you blowing your nose.
The soup is simple, just as it’s always been. His Ma used to make it for him whenever he was sulking as a boy, a cure for bad moods as much as for colds. He only hoped his came close.
Steam curls upward as the vegetables start getting tender, and he keeps one eye on the pot while stirring. You’re standing beside him, watching the procedure.
“I’m sure it smells great,” you mumble, congested. “I mean, I wouldn’t know, but it looks like it does.”
Clark lowers the heat, sets the spoon down. His thumb grazes your cheek before he pulls you into his chest, whispering, “Come here.”
You let out a disapproving sound, but your body doesn’t offer any resistance as he hugs you. “You’re going to end up catching what I have.”
“No, I’m not.”
“That’s how contagious illnesses work.”
“Turns out I’m the exception.”
His arms wrap around your shoulders, palm smoothing circles into your back. You lace your fingers behind his waist, muffling your face against his shirt with a pleased noise.
“You’re so warm,” you say groggily, like you might fall asleep standing there. He kisses your forehead and goes back to stirring with one hand, not letting you go.
Later, after you’ve eaten and declared that the soup made your stomach feel simultaneously more full and leagues better, you put on a random movie to pass the time. Clark actually tries to follow the plot, but you don’t.
Your attention keeps drifting toward him, more interested in the man sitting beside you than in the film.
“You never take them off?”
“Take what off?”
You say it like it’s obvious. “Your glasses.”
Subtly, he adjusts them out of pure instinct. “I can’t see much without them.”
“Have you ever tried contacts?”
“Oh, no. My eyes are too sensitive for that.”
“Everybody’s eyes are, in fact, sensitive.”
“I can’t handle them,” he insists, shrugging. “They feel weird.”
Another minute passes without you uttering a word.
But you won’t drop it. “Can I try them on?”
“Some other day. They’ll make your headache worse.”
Blowing out your cheeks, you hug a cushion to your chest, propping your chin on it. “You keep talking to me like I’m a child.”
He picks up the remote to pause the movie. “I’m just answering your many questions.”
“Curiosity is one of my best traits.”
“I know.”
“Which is why I keep wondering why I’ve never seen you without your glasses.”
“Because I wouldn’t be able to make out your gorgeous face without them.”
“Touché.” You lean against his shoulder, stifling a yawn. “Let’s save this debate for another night.”
“Want to call it a day?”
“No, I can stay up for a little longer.”
Your eyelids end up betraying you ten minutes later, fluttering shut as your head tips against him, your body pressed firmly into his side.
By the time the credits roll, you’re fast asleep. He takes a slow breath, carefully gathering your frame in his arms, and you stir just enough to mumble something about being fine, but you don’t fight him when he carries you to bed.
Clark sets you down gently, covering you with the blanket, smoothing it over you and tucking it along your shoulders. You sink deeper into it with a soft sigh.
“Clark?”
“Tell me.”
“There’s a spare set of keys on my nightstand—”
He freezes. A key? Sixth date. Sixth. Date. What does this mean?
“—so you can lock the door on your way out. I don’t want to get up anymore.”
Sinking to his knees, he lingers at your bedside for a moment. His hand hovers before caressing your cheek, and then he gives a feather-light kiss to your forehead.
You try to hide from his gaze, but it’s nearly impossible. You bury your face into the pillow. “Stop looking at me like that.”
Clark can’t help the smile tugging at his lips. “Like what?”
“Like I’m dying and you don’t have the cure,” you mutter, peeking through one eye. “I know I look bad, but don’t make it so obvious.”
His brows knit in concern. “You don’t look bad at all.”
Attempting to shove him away, you lift a hand from under the sheets to push at his chest, though he doesn’t budge an inch. “Oh, you’re too sweet.”
“I mean it,” he says, voice steady, eyes holding yours. “You’re beautiful. Can’t you see it?”
The certainty in his words makes your smile falter. You don’t miss the confidence in the way he stares at you, the weight behind his honesty. In a sudden urge of truth, perhaps fueled by your discomfort, you ask him, “Where have you been all my life?”
He can’t think of anything clever to say, because he’s afraid of making a false move.
“Why don’t you try to get some sleep, huh?” His lips brush your forehead again, this time scattering delicate pecks across your skin. “I’ll call you in the morning to check on you.”
You nod, surrendering to exhaustion, your eyes fluttering shut as your body relaxes. “Don’t forget to call me,” you whisper, rolling onto your side to fully face him, curling against the sheets.
He huffs out a quiet laugh. “I promise I won’t.”
When he rises, he stills, watching you without realizing it. Your face has softened into pure calm, the rise and fall of your chest unchanging, your lips parted in a quiet breath. The sight disarms him.
“What are you doing, giving me your keys?” he whispers into the room, as if someone might answer.
He finds them right after that, not daring to make noise, and only exhales once he’s outside your apartment, the door clicking shut behind him.
His first loss shouldn’t look like this.
As he plummets from the sky, body tossed by the Hammer of Boravia as if he were nothing but a ragdoll, Clark tries to frame the fall as a lesson.
All heroes who wear capes face a moment they don’t win. They fall, they falter, but they always get back on their feet.
Sooner or later, that would happen to him, too. Just not now.
He’s driven into the ground once more. He can’t stop it this time, can’t even shift the angle, so he braces himself for whatever comes. His back collides with the pavement, and it shatters beneath him.
The debris pulverizes into dust, thickening the air, and it scrapes his lungs as he breathes. He’s got a rib, maybe two, fractured. He’ll have to check at the Fortress.
All around, screams erupt and people scatter. He’s 99% sure no one got caught under him. A burst pipe sprays water across one side of his suit, and as flexes his wrist, he tries to mask the pain and fails in the process.
Tiny voices start murmuring all sorts of things. Even tinier shadows edge closer.
“Is he dead?”
“He can’t die, you dummy.”
“My dad said he could beat him up.”
A little girl points straight at him, her tone squeaky with awe. “ARE YOU THE REAL SUPERMAN?”
Blinking slowly, Clark realizes they’re all wearing the same clothes.
It’s a school uniform.
He crashed outside a school. Fantastic.
“Kids? What did I say about not overwhelming him back in the classroom?”
Is that your voice? Maybe he’d hit his head harder than he thought.
“But Miss—”
“No buts. Move a bit further away. Give him some air.”
Oh, God. It’s definitely you.
He attempts to sit, but the pain rips through his ribs, pulling a wheeze from his chest. His vision steadies in flashes, until finally, there you are, standing at the edge of the crater, eyes wide.
From high above, the Hammer’s deep voice pours into Clark’s ears, saturating him.
The United States will continue to feel the wrath of the Hammer of Boravia…
“Are you okay?” Your soft voice cuts through the chaos. You descend through the debris, your focus seemingly fixed on helping him. Even though the crowd swells around the scene, you’re the only one moving. “Can you stand up?”
When he looks up, the sights hit him. Dozens of phones are raised, their lenses all aimed at him. Clark swallows, hearing the strain in his own voice when he manages, “Ma’am, you’ve got to get out of here. It’s not safe.”
You shake your head, determined, and you offer him your hand. He takes it, barely, and with your help he staggers upright, your shoulder slipping under his arm for support.
The absurdity of it all. You've been in this exact position before, only last time he wasn't wearing the suit.
The Hammer speaks again, hovering high above, his voice reverberating across the city. “This is your last warning,” he roars, vanishing into the sky, leaving the street shaking.
Clark's instincts urge him to follow him, to continue the fight. But he’s too weak, and as he intends to move, he collapses again, groaning as if his entire body’s crumbling with every effort.
“Don’t force yourself right now,” you scold, slipping an arm under his to steady him. “You can’t… fly in these conditions.”
Of all the people to see him like this, it had to be you. His luck is unbelievable.
The crowd begins to thin, and by the time you help him to a bench, fewer eyes linger. The city seems eager to swallow the moment whole and move on.
Another ordinary day in Metropolis.
He presses a trembling hand to his side, each breath stabbing his ribs as they expand. You stand in front of him, arms folded, watching him closely without taking a seat.
He needs to recover fast, but his strength keeps slipping away.
“So… Superman in the flesh,” you say, tilting your head. “Funny thing. I know someone who knows you.”
“You’ll… have to be more specific than that,” he murmurs, keeping his gaze low, afraid the dizziness will swallow him if he looks up.
“Clark Kent,” you reply, tipping your chin up. “He’s my—well, it doesn’t matter.”
That makes him tense, pulling himself upright despite the pain. “Your… what?”
“We’re seeing—” You stop, narrowing your eyes. “Wait. Why do you care?”
If he weren’t certain the laugh would tear his ribs apart, he’d laugh at the absurdity of it all.
He ignores your question, his gaze drifting past you to the school. Children are filing back into their classrooms. “I wouldn’t want to take up more of your time,” he says quietly. “Your students must be asking for you.”
You follow his line of sight, then back to him, your brows knitting. “I don’t know if you’ll find this disrespectful, but—maybe you shouldn’t have done that thing in Jarhanpur.”
It’s the last thing he needs. Pain gnaws at his body, but the sharper sting comes from hearing you dissect his choices to his face.
He pushes himself up, almost limping, his hand dragging across his shoulder. “Thank you for the constructive criticism, ma’am. But I have to go now.” His eyes catch yours for just a beat. “Stay safe.”
Then he’s gone, vanishing into the sky.
When he checks his phone hours later, he finds a message from you waiting for him.
You: I think now I’ve got beef with Superman. Call me?
Clark gets Jimmy a last-minute birthday gift. A dumb, cheap disposable camera despite the fact that he has tons. But it's the thought that counts, right?
Yeah, blame him. He’s definitely not getting the best-friend-of-the-year award. He had almost forgotten about the whole event, until Jimmy approached him at work that Friday before they parted ways.
“See you later!” Jimmy had said, and Clark had stood there, his eyes locked with his friend’s for a solid half-minute, trying to understand why they’d be seeing each other in just a few hours.
Right. The party.
Clark had forced a smile. “Sure.”
The party’s at the bar where Molly works. This is her night off, but she still manages to score him a huge discount, which is the only reason Jimmy’s picked this place.
The bar’s already buzzing by the time Clark slips inside. He spots Jimmy instantly, his laughter carrying above the noise. Clark shoulders his way through the crowd, tapping him on the back. “Hey, buddy.”
Jimmy turns, face lit up red by the neon bar lights. His grin grows even wider when he sees Clark. “Man, you came! I wasn’t sure—”
“Of course I came. Got you something, but don’t open it yet.”
Jimmy nods, taking the small ‘Happy Birthday’ bag from Clark’s hands. Molly drifts by and he loops an arm around her waist. “Babe, can you put this with the other gifts?”
She says something Clark doesn’t quite catch. A guy nearly barrels into him, waving a tray of free shots. Clark thanks him but refuses to grab one, stepping aside.
For a fleeting second, he thinks Jimmy and Molly are staring at him, but then he realizes their gaze is aimed past his frame. “What is it?” he asks.
He follows their line of sight, and there you are, standing in the doorway.
Jimmy slings an arm around his neck. There’s sweat trickling down the sides of his face. “I know it’s not your birthday, but I also got you a gift,” he murmurs into Clark’s ear. Meanwhile, Clark can’t stop staring at you, waiting for your eyes to find his. “It just arrived.”
It takes you a full minute to reach them, murmuring apologies to the people you brush against. You’re wearing a denim skirt and a long-sleeve top. He reminds himself not to stare too long, not to look at you as if no one else exists.
Clark’s been having a problem. Actually, he has many, scattered across cities, countries—even galaxies. He’s had them for many years now.
But lately, one specific problem has been bugging him, and it’s solely your fault.
Ever since you kissed for the first time, he hasn’t stopped thinking about it—dreaming about the feeling of your lips on his, the taste of you on his tongue, waking up hard and aching. Nearly every morning, still half-lost in a dream, he finds himself rutting into the mattress, moaning your name.
The worst moments are when his phone lights up with your messages. Sometimes you’re up before him, and you send him voice recordings, your voice still thick with sleep. He places the phone on the cold pillow beside him, turns the volume up, and pretends he isn’t waking up to an empty bed.
When he says it out loud, in the privacy of his head, it sounds pathetic. Creepy, even.
And then he texts back, Good morning! Hope you have a wonderful day at work! You’d never guess that just minutes before, he’d been in the shower, stroking himself to the thought of you.
It’s become a ritual now: open his eyes, get out of bed, jerk off, shower, Daily Planet.
At present, you give him a quick hug, and you seem shy, almost hesitant. He understands the feeling, since it’s the same one running through him. The first time you’re together in front of mutual friends. The very friends who set you up.
“I didn’t know you were coming.”
“It was a surprise,” you reply, a delighted smile breaking across your face. Your eyes crinkle at the corners with a playful sparkle. “Are you surprised?”
Your smile is so contagious it gets to him. “Very much surprised, yeah.”
He hasn’t seen you since that morning, since the fight he lost against the Hammer of Boravia. That day he wasn’t Clark for you; he wore another name, another face, a cape heavy on his back.
The urge to kiss you rises fast, blocking out everything else. He lowers his head, holds his breath—
But before he can, Molly tugs at your shoulder.
Clark steps back and watches the two of you lean in, whispering. You glance at him as she points toward the bar, mouthing a sorry.
“You mind if I steal her for a bit?” Molly asks.
He shakes his head, and you catch the small gesture he makes.
With a beer in hand, he engages in small talk with half the bar. He ends up the listener, executing a series of practiced moves, because his body may be there, keeping him present in appearance only, but his mind and heart are elsewhere.
He nods at the right moments, shakes his head in disbelief when needed, parts his lips when the other person’s excitement spikes. Even mutters “Jeez, that’s tough” if the story calls for sympathy.
He slips away from one of Jimmy’s cousins, who probably managed to utter a hundred words per minute, and paces through the crowd. He expects to find you with Molly, but instead you’re alone in a booth, circling the rim of your glass with your finger.
He takes the opportunity and slides in beside you. “Did it hurt?”
You squint at him. “What?”
“When you fell from heaven, did it hurt?”
That elicits a low chuckle from you. “You’re real smooth.”
His shoulder brushes yours as he leans closer. “You having a good time so far?”
“Yeah,” you breathe into his ear, raising your voice over the music. “Even better now that you’re here.”
He doesn’t miss the way your gaze flicks to his lips. He tilts his head, breath grazing your cheek, lashes fluttering—
Someone clears their throat, and you pull away.
Lois slides into the seat opposite. “Kent, I see you’ve decided to invade female territory.”
Under the table, his knee knocks yours. “It’s not my fault you left her alone, Lois. What else was I supposed to do?”
“I didn’t leave her alone! I was just getting more of this,” she says, lifting her drink and taking a sip of it. “So, where were we? Oh, yes! Superman.”
Clark nearly chokes, coughing hard. You rub his back, concerned. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” he rasps. “Just choked on my saliva.”
“You should see how flustered Clark gets at work whenever we talk about his most beloved friend.” Lois beams at you, setting her palms down flat on the table.
You let out a quiet laugh. “Oh, I can imagine.”
“He gets pretty defensive,” she presses.
He lifts a finger, calling her attention. “I don’t.”
“You totally do.”
“I just give my opinion,” he counters, raising his brows. “It’s literally our job.”
Lois rolls her eyes, her hair flicking over her shoulder. “Don’t do that. You’re changing the topic.”
“I’m not—”
“What do you think about what Superman’s been doing lately” Lois turns to you, the corners of her mouth quirking up, turning the spotlight on you.
You toy with your glass, your expression dull. “I guess some things could’ve been avoided if done differently.”
“Like what?” Lois inquires, leaning forward.
“The fight with The Hammer of Boravia. Entering a country without first getting permission.”
Clark downs the last of his beer in a single motion. He needs to do something with his hands. At his sides they feel strange, unfamiliar, like they’d only just been stitched onto him a moment ago.
Lois reclines in her seat, crossing her arms over her chest, a smug smile stretching on her features. “This is what I was talking about! He’s dying on the inside.”
“Don’t you think he had… fair motives?” he turns to you, gesturing too broadly. “It’s not like he thought it would make things worse.”
“Well, then maybe he should think twice before acting,” you reply, straightening. “I’m not one of those people that think he’s being dishonest. I believe he wants to do good, but he interfered with international affairs. He knew the authorities weren’t going to give him a medal for it.”
“But he was stopping a war,” Clark insists, his voice tighter than he means it to be.
“I’m not saying what he did was wrong, Clark. Regardless of his intentions, he should reflect on his actions no matter what they are. Everything he does ripples across the planet,” you continue to explain, your eyes locked on his. “He might be morally right, but he has to know any intervention he makes on another country will be questioned.”
A sickness twists in his stomach. Between the thrum of music, the clatter of glasses, the press of bodies, and voices overlapping like static, a dizziness blooms at the base of his skull.
At that moment, Lois cuts through. “He crashed outside a school the other day, didn’t he?”
Your head snaps in her direction. “I work there.”
“And how was he? Got his ass kicked?”
“Excuse me,” Clark begins, adjusting his glasses, “but he didn’t completely get his ass kicked.”
“He was pretty hurt,” you argue, your nose crinkling. “I saw him. I helped him get up.”
As if sent from God above, Jimmy bursts into the booth wearing a birthday hat crooked over his hair. “Okay, enough chatting. Less than thirty seconds until my birthday. Dance floor, now!”
Lois trails after him when he disappears back into the crowd, but you stay seated, and so does Clark.
The countdown begins in the background. His chest is tight, and it would be an outright lie to pretend the conversation hasn’t rattled him. He sizes you up. “I didn’t know you hated Superman.”
You exhale a long breath. “When did I say that? Honestly, what part of what I just said gave you that impression?”
“You took the opportunity to rip him apart.”
10…
“I’m being critical, Clark. We all need to be—even you.”
9…
He can’t control the way his face twists with each passing second. He must be watching you without a shred of remorse, because then you’re saying, “Can we talk like adults without you looking at me like I’ve murdered someone?”
8…
He averts his gaze. Holds his tongue.
7…
You catch your lower lip between your teeth. “Are we really fighting over this—”
6…
“—over Superman?”
5…
“Clark, will you please look at me?”
4…
He does, but stays silent.
3…
“Why do you care so much about what I think of him?”
2…
His tongue feels heavy in his mouth as he intends to speak. “I—I don’t—Can we—”
1…
The look on your face is beyond devastating.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, JIMMY!
The bar explodes with cheers. Lights dim, the room falling almost entirely into shadow. Even in the half-dark, Clark notices the tight line of your jaw, how tense it is. You don’t meet his eyes when you ask to slide out of the booth to go congratulate Jimmy.
When he rises, it’s slow, like his muscles are made of lead. His legs feel numb, his fingertips burning. He watches you cross the room, sees you touch Jimmy’s back before hugging him briefly.
Molly arrives and folds you into a hug too. You shake your head, adjusting the strap of your bag. A moment later you step back, and Molly turns her attention to Jimmy, arms looping around his neck, pressing a kiss to his lips.
Clark realizes you take that as your exit. You’re leaving without even glancing back at him. Panic flares, and he strides toward Jimmy, interrupting a conversation to pull him into a hug.
“Happy birthday,” he murmurs as he pulls away.
Jimmy smiles, though not fully. “Thanks, man. I appr—”
“I got you a disposable camera, hope you like it, happy birthday!”
Clark rushes out of the bar, nearly stumbling onto the sidewalk in his haste. He scans both sides of the street and spots you nearly at the end of the block.
“Wait!” he shouts.
You turn, startled. “I’m heading home,” you say. Your apartment is only four blocks away.
“Let me walk you.”
It isn’t necessary. He knows you’ll be fine. The streets on a Friday night are crowded, buzzing with life. But the most profound part of his being needs it. He needs it.
You hold your hand up. “Don’t—just don’t,” you say, frowning. “It’s no use.”
“Please, let me.”
“I’m tired.” You rub your eyes, letting out a shaky breath. “I should—My head’s a mess right now.”
He takes a step forward. You’re still too far away. “I just want to make sure you get home safe,” he says, opening his heart to you. “You can kick me out later, but—just let me do this one thing.”
You tilt your head back toward the sky as if searching the stars for an answer. It takes you some time, but you end up sighing, giving a small nod. He jogs up to you, and together you start down the street toward your building.
When you slip the keys into the lock, you ask if he wants to come in for a minute. It goes without saying it won’t be a minute. It won’t be two, not even five.
A sixth sense isn’t among his powers, but he knows that once he steps inside, once he breathes the air of your home and the door clicks softly shut behind him, it will be almost impossible to leave.
The first thing you do is toss your purse onto the counter. He doesn’t move past the doorway. He just stands there in silence, coat still on. His eyes follow you as you turn your back on him, and then you spin around, forcing the confrontation.
“What was that back in the bar?”
The question cuts straight through him. Clark had improvised answers before: quick excuses about why he stayed late at the office, why he never took off his glasses, why Superman, of all people, chose to grant interviews only to a soft-spoken reporter like him.
Yet this is different. What’s about to happen feels inexplicable, and has no easy exit.
“I got carried away,” he finally says, burying his hands in his pockets to prevent you from seeing how hard his skin is burning, knuckles white from balling his fists too tight.
“Oh, really? I hadn’t noticed.”
“Don’t do that.”
“What exactly don’t you want me to do, Clark?” You take a step closer. Your lips are trembling, he notices that. “I don’t know what happened there. I don’t know what got you so… defensive all of a sudden.”
In his mind, he compares this moment to the first time he ever saw you. Maybe you were standing at the same distance back at the restaurant Jimmy had picked that night. Maybe you were even wearing the same shoes you have on now.
But everything feels different tonight. He can’t deny it, can’t cover it up with anything.
“I was asked for my opinion, and I gave it, and then you suddenly changed completely. You’re stiff, you didn’t talk to me. You didn’t even look at me.”
Clark struggles to meet your eyes. Every time he does, he sees the lie he’s been weaving for nearly two months.
“Even still, you won’t look at me.”
He knows he’s here to talk. You want answers; you deserve them. But even though he understands that, sees it as rational and appropriate, it doesn’t mean his body comprehends it the same way his mind does.
You continue, each of your words is punctuated by a wild movement of your hands. “Why does it bother you that I don’t agree with every single thing he’s done?” Your mouth opens and closes before you find your voice again. “Last time I checked, I was dating you, not him.”
There are a million clever things he could say, but the only thing that comes out is: “The Boravian government isn’t well intentioned.”
A humorless laugh bursts out of you, almost leaving you breathless. “You’re unbelievable,” you mutter, rubbing your temples. “Did he tell you that?”
“Yes. I asked him.”
“That’s right. You seem to have unlimited access to his knowledge.”
“What are you implying?”
“Does he pay you for the interviews?”
The question made his head snap back, as if dislocated. “You think Superman’s bribing me?”
“I don’t know! You’re just so—loyal to him!”
“He’s not a bad person.”
“Nobody’s said that, Clark! You’re putting words in my mouth. All I said is that he should’ve considered the consequences of his actions.”
“You believe he had the time for that while trying to save a whole country?”
“Why don’t we call him and ask, huh? Do you have his number? Does he own a phone? Does he—”
“People were going to die!” Clark’s shout rips through the room, his throat raw with the effort. Heat surges through his veins, rushing outward until every nerve is thrumming. He feels both more alive than ever and completely paralyzed.
You take a step back, stunned. His voice still echoes in the room, and shame rises in his chest. He’s never known where his breaking point was until now.
“Okay,” you say slowly, steadying yourself. “What is it that you’re not telling me?”
Should he leave? Vanish? Hand back the spare key you offered him one late night?
You continue to stare at him. “There’s something more to this. I know there is.”
It’s over. He can’t undo what just happened, so why not risk the last chance he has with you?
His fingers close around the edge of his glasses, pulling them from his face. At first, you don’t register what’s happening, until your hand flies to the wall, bracing yourself.
“Holy fuck.”
It’s the first time he’s heard you curse.
You blink furiously, chest tightening with every breath. No sound comes out at first.
“You—What? This… this whole time, you—WHAT?!”
“Please, don’t freak out.”
“I’m not freaking out. I’m fine,” you snap between gritted teeth, though your expression betrays you. “I only had one drink.”
“I know.”
“I’m not drunk,” you insist.
“I know,” he repeats, softer this time.
Your eyes don’t leave him, even as your breathing slows. “You look… different. How?”
He holds up the glasses between you. “They’re called hypnoglasses. They—they alter the way people see me.”
You swallow hard after a while, brow furrowed, like you’re working out impossible math in your head. “Were you going to tell me, or are you doing it out of—what, guilt?”
“It was supposed to happen after our eighth date.”
You stop dead in your tracks. “Excuse me, eighth date? Have you been… counting them?”
Something good was supposed to happen tonight. That’s what he’d thought initially.
He feels stupid as soon as the words leave him. “That—You didn’t have to know that.”
“Why after the eighth date? Why only eight?”
“I don’t know! I like even numbers.”
“Clark, I swear—”
“I thought if we got that far, then… then it meant you really liked me,” he mumbles, heart clenching in his chest. “That you liked me as Clark. And then—well.”
Now it’s your turn to be speechless. He pushes forward anyway.
“I care about what you say about Superman because I’m him. I’m sensitive. I speak before I think. I took matters into my own hands because I believed it was the right thing to do, and I don’t regret it. I wasn’t representing anyone except myself.”
His voice softens, almost breaking.
“And for the record, I like you. A lot. I know I’ve never said it out loud, and I know that it’s late for a confession like that, but I think you deserve to hear it.”
He’s afraid you might slide down the wall, that everything he’s said has been too much. That tonight has shifted something in you. He tells himself he’s half-ready to face another loss, and though it wouldn’t be fought with fists, it would still break him all the same.
“Please, just—just tell me you want me to leave and I’ll go.”
“I don’t want that.”
Perhaps he’s heard you wrong. “What?”
“I said I don’t want you to go.”
He can’t answer in any form other than monosyllables. “Why not?”
You gather your courage and step closer, tilting your chin to meet his eyes. “You have to be more careful. I know you’re—bulletproof, but you still need to take care of yourself. Take care of what you do. Think things through.”
“I seriously don’t understand—“
“What I’m trying to say is that—that I like you, too.” You cut him off, voice rising just a little. Those four words undo him. “I—I really do.”
“Even after all this?”
“I guess I’m really stubborn.”
“So… you don’t want me to go?”
“No.”
“You don’t hate me?”
You touch his forearm gently. “I’d never be able to hate you.”
“You don’t hate… Superman?”
“We may not see eye to eye on everything, but that shouldn’t be an issue,” you counter. “We’re both adults. We can deal with it.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
Holding his gaze, you whisper, “No. I don’t hate him, and I don’t hate you.”
Clark pulls you into his arms, tucking his chin near your neck. He hugs you with unguarded enthusiasm, your hands stroking small circles along his back. He breathes in your perfume, closing his eyes briefly, as if he could keep you there forever.
“You know what I would hate?”
“What?” His answer is muffled against your shoulder.
“Not knowing more about your dating plan.”
He draws back just enough, still holding you close, your faces inches apart. “Forget about it.”
“Impossible.”
“It’s—not worth it. Trust me.”
“Please, tell me.”
“You’re gonna make fun of me.”
You narrow your eyes, lips curving into a pout. “I promise I won’t.”
For an instant, Clark thinks about changing the subject, but he gives in.
“It consists of eight dates. Divided into three parts—” He cuts himself off when your lips quiver, fighting a smile. “That’s not fair! You’re already laughing.”
You have to bite your lip to stifle your grin. “I’m sorry. It’s just that—you had it all planned. It’s cute.” Your hands slide up to link behind his neck, and a flush creeps across his cheeks. “Okay. You may continue.”
He clears his throat. “Right now, if we count tonight as our seventh date—”
“Are you sure you want to count our first argument as a date?”
“—we’d be in the last stage,” Clark finishes. “Then one more date. After that, if everything went well, I’d tell you the truth, but I—I got ahead of myself. For obvious reasons, of course.”
“Does each stage have… its own conditions?”
“Sort of.”
“Is not touching me one of them?”
“S-sorry?” he stutters, ears going red.
“It’s just that your plan sounds a lot like a chastity one.”
Clark sputters, looking down. “I mean—I never specified such a thing. It’s not prohibited, but—No, I wouldn’t say engaging in that kind of activity was written into the actual plan.”
You hum thoughtfully, nodding. “And would you like it to stay that way?”
“I’m the one who made it, right? So… theoretically… I’m allowed to make a few changes here and there.”
“How interesting.”
His thumb grazes the strip of bare skin between your top and your skirt. “It depends on what you want to do tonight.”
Your chest rises with expectation. You wet your lips, and Clark sees how your pupils expand until they nearly eclipse the rest of your iris’, as if the Yellow Sun had been replaced by an overwhelming moon. “I want it all.”
A tempered heat begins spreading through his limbs. “All as in… all of it?”
“Why don’t you start by kissing me first,” you murmur, rising onto your tiptoes to hover your mouth over his, “and then we just… see it as we go?”
Clark nods as though you’ve given him a concrete assignment that he must now accomplish.
And suddenly, he has a goal.
This is really happening. He knows it doesn’t exactly fit the plan he drafted for himself. If he were following it, he’d wait. But circumstances have shifted.
Again and again, life has pulled the ground out from beneath his careful steps, and strangely enough, he can’t complain.
It’s hard enough to control his own feelings, but trying to rein in someone else’s is nearly impossible. And he can see it, that you want this as much as he does. There’s a yearning, something raw and real, sparking between you.
Maybe Jimmy was right. Maybe he should… go with the flow. At least for once.
RIP Clark Kent’s dating plan. You were a loyal ally through all these years of restraint and abstinence, but your time is up.
Clark kisses you, slowly at first. His hands find your waist, pulling you closer, and the way you kiss him back sends a deep shudder through him. At some point, his glasses slip from his pocket and clatter to the floor, but he hardly notices.
The sweetness doesn’t last. That first careful kiss soon spirals into something more frantic. You tug at his hair, drawing involuntary sounds from him each time your mouths break apart by the barest inch. Like magnets, you find each other again and again, tongues clashing, your teeth knocking into his.
He’s already hard. It hasn’t been long, barely anything at all, and yet his body is betraying him with a raging boner. Every time you brush against him, he shifts his hips back, desperate not to let you feel it. He doesn’t want to push too far or make you uncomfortable.
But you notice, and before you can speak, he blurts out, “I’m sorry. It’s just—you’re… so pretty, and I’m—”
Your lips are swollen, flushed from kissing. “You shouldn’t apologize for being aroused,” you say, the corner of your mouth lifting in a brief smile. “Besides, you’re not the only one.”
You pull away just enough to unbutton your skirt, sliding it down the length of your legs. He stares, entranced, before shrugging off his jacket and tossing it aside with his glasses.
Eyes locked on his, you take his large hand and guide it between your thighs, pressing it lower until he cups you. Even through the lace of your black thong, he feels it: the undeniable slickness clinging to his fingers. You’re wet.
No, scratch that—you’re beyond wet.
His breath hitches at the scent of you. You gasp when his fingertips trace your folds over the thin fabric. “See?” you manage, your voice trembling despite your attempt at calm. “I’m just as—as affected as you are.”
Something in that moment snaps him out of restraint; it’s as if a hand has struck his cheek, jolting him awake.
He devours your mouth this time, pushing you backward until your shoulders hit the wall. His strong thigh wedges between yours, prying them apart and holding you there.
One hand braces the wall beside your head, while the other hooks your underwear aside. He’s transfixed by the sight of you: glistening and inviting in equal quantities.
His fingers skim you at first, his knuckles grazing your stomach as he lifts your top. His mouth wanders down your throat, and you throw your head back, hips canting up instinctively. “Clark—please—”
You sound so sweet, so needy, that he can’t make you wait any longer. He pushes a finger inside, achingly slow, your slick guiding him deeper. You’re tight and warm, and he swears he can feel the pulse of your heartbeat.
You moan, and the sound elicits a groan from him, his mouth ghosting over your jaw as he curls his finger inside you.
“Shit,” you mutter, eyes squeezed shut, hands fluttering helplessly with nowhere to hold on. Not that you could fall, because Clark’s holding you as though the world itself depends on it. He pumps his finger a few more times before easing it out of you, instead focusing on rubbing your clit with earnestness.
He captures your lips again, angling your face with a firm hand on your chin to deepen the kiss. All the while, his ministrations on your clit don’t falter, and you can’t help but whimper.
“You’re—God, you’re killing me with these sounds,” he rasps. You melt against the wall, chest heaving, and he inhales unsteadily, peering down at where his hand moves against you. “I’ve been dreaming about this. About you. I can’t—believe you’re mine.”
He fears that last word carries more meaning than it should, but it’s the only truth he knows. He wants to be yours as wholly as you are his; he wants to give you his time, to learn every last detail of who you are.
You nod as best you can, your fist curling into his shirt. “I’m—I’m yours,” you coo, voice thick with desire. Between kisses, you add, “And… you’re… mine.”
Another moan bubbles up in your throat as he sinks two of his fingers into your heat, stretching you even further. The wet sounds each time he draws them back and forth captivate him.
“Are you close?” he asks, though he already knows, but you still whine in agreement. “Oh, I know. You're shaking so bad. You wanna come?” Your nails rake over his arms, clutching at him. “Alright. I got you.”
He works you toward your peak, and moments later, you break, coming around his fingers. Your thighs clamp around his hand, hips twitching with aftershocks. His own moan muffles against your cheek as he peppers it with sloppy kisses, drinking in every one of your mewls.
When you come back to your senses, you kiss him languidly, your tongue sliding against his. “That was… amazing,” you breathe into his mouth, giggling as you attempt to catch your breath. You tangle your fingers in his hair. “I want to touch you.”
He stills. Clark carries so much pent-up tension that it might work against him. He’s pretty certain that the moment you put your hand on him, he’ll finish embarrassingly fast, and he can’t let that happen.
So instead, he drops to his knees.
Your brows lift in surprise. There are beads of sweat clinging to your temples, and Clark parts your thighs with his hands, positioning himself between them. Your cunt, still dripping, is right before him.
He hears you swallow, suddenly shy with him this close to such an intimate part of you. “You don’t have to—”
“But I want to taste you.” His thumbs spread your folds as his mouth waters, and his gaze flicks upward, asking for permission. “Can I?”
You nod frantically, panting, and he settles in. His tongue slides into your entrance, savoring you, before laving over your folds. He closes his mouth around your clit and sucks with intent, and you can’t keep watching him. It’s too much.
“So—fucking good,” you stutter, threading your fingers in his black curls. Your hips rut instinctively against his face, chasing the friction when he eases back a little. “I don’t—I don’t even want to know where you learned all this.”
Clark slips his digits back inside you, plunging them to the hilt. He’s not used to this loss of control, this need to consume, but he doesn’t know how else to do this. If he stops, he fears you’ll vanish, leaving him to wake from the same cruel dream where he’s helplessly humping his mattress.
“You taste like heaven,” he purrs, pulling back with a string of slick connecting his mouth to your pussy. His hand slides higher, palming your breast through your bra. It’s as if the rawest part of him, which is usually buried beneath restraint, has broken loose, and now he only craves more.
“Please, don’t stop.” Your voice is barely a whisper. Your eyes are teary, and for a moment he worries, but then you look at him, pleading. “Keep—keep going, just like that—”
Your flesh is soft beneath his grip, and he squeezes your thigh, grounding you as his fingers piston in and out of you. His tongue draws the same pattern again and again over your nub, and he can feel your whole frame trembling.
As you experience your second orgasm of the night, you don’t make a sound. Your knees buckle, and Clark has to press you against the wall to keep you upright.
With broad strokes, he continues to drink from the nectar between your thighs, enamored with the taste, the scent, the feel of you.
He lets go only when you tap his shoulder, your eyes half-lidded. He rises, making sure to steady you with a hand at your waist. You cradle his face, wiping the spit running down his chin.
You kiss him, softer than before, standing on top of his shoes. “Why are you still wearing clothes?” you ask, your hand slipping down to tug at his belt. You unbuckle it as you lead him toward your bedroom, and he follows without a word.
He sits at the edge of your bed, touching you wherever he can while you undress him. You pop each button of his shirt with ease, taking your time, leaving a kiss here and there before trailing lower. Your fingers caress his chest, and your gaze meets his.
Your voice carries a strained edge when you speak. “Clark?”
“Yeah?”
You’re looking at him with so much affection he could cry on the spot.
“I—I think—” The words die on your tongue, and after a beat you say. “I’ve never seen anyone as beautiful as you.”
His heart stings. For a moment, he’d thought you were going to say those three words he’s been biting back.
Nevertheless, his lips cover yours gently, smiling. “Oh, I have.”
“Yeah? Who is it?”
The answer is simple. “You.”
You stifle a laugh. “That’s very cheesy,” you murmur, kissing him shortly. Your fingers unbutton his pants, lowering the zipper, your eyes searching his. “I want to take care of you.”
He draws back a little, takes a deep breath. Again, he’s nervous, as though you aren’t both already half-naked. “There’s something I need to tell you.” You hum in encouragement, and he clears his throat. “Well, I—Gosh, I don’t know how to say this.”
“Just… say it however it comes.”
“I’m not going to last long,” he admits, heat prickling at the back of his neck. You blink, brows furrowing. “I’m not being modest or anything. I—I just know it. I know my… body.”
You take a moment to think. “And what’s the problem with that?”
“Well, it’s certainly not… what you’d expect from me.”
You shake your head. “You’re overthinking it.”
He swallows, lifting his hips so you can tug his pants down. You sink to your knees on the carpet, kissing him again, your nails scraping lightly at the skin just above the waistband of his boxers.
“I don’t care how long you last.” You lick into his mouth, swallowing his whimper. “I just want you to feel good. That’s all.”
Pressing his forehead against yours before straightening, he observes as you push his boxers down. His cock springs free, unashamed, like every other time he’s thought of you alone in his apartment.
The only difference tonight is that it isn’t his hand that grabs it, but yours.
You stroke him once, tentative, studying every vein. Your mouth hovers over the tip before your tongue darts out to taste a bead of precum, moaning at the taste. Clark fists the sheets beneath him, peering up at the ceiling.
“Hey,” you whisper, urging him to look at you. Your hand glides up and down his length, and you chuckle. “Eyes here.”
Clark plants both hands on the mattress, leaning back, his gaze locked on yours.
“That’s it,” you coo, flattening your tongue along his shaft as your hand works him. “Is this okay?”
“Feels… nice,” he manages, attempting to come up with coherent sentences. “It feels—Oh, Jesus.”
His tip disappears behind your lips, and you suck dutifully, making his thighs twitch. He tries to even his breath, but it comes in rapid exhales.
As you hollow your cheeks, he slides a hand down, feeling the outline of himself through your skin. A choked moan rumbles in his chest when you take more of him, your throat tightening around his length. Seconds later you pull back, eyes watery, stroking what you can’t fit into your mouth.
The knot in his lower stomach is becoming unbearable. At times, his knee jerks with small motions. He can’t remain still, about anything but you and the hot paradise of your mouth.
His eyes flutter shut for an instant, and then you pinch the skin above his navel, startling him back, almost tickling him. You bob your head, trying to keep eye contact, but even you have to take a break sometimes from the intensity.
That’s when your free hand slips between your legs, pleasuring yourself too.
“Oh, baby,” he groans, barely registering the pet name. It only spurs you on, and a little saliva begins to drip from your lips, sliding down the side of his shaft, making a mess in his trimmed hair.
And now he’s close. So close he could come any second. He drags a palm over his face, holding his breath, and—
The pleasure disappears. He blinks once, twice, unsure if he’s lost what was left of his sanity or if you’re having fun edging him.
Sort of breathless, you sit back on your knees, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, and it only takes one look at you for him to know exactly what you’re thinking.
For a moment, he swears he blacks out. He feels as if he’s outside himself, disoriented, like a runner who has to reach the finish line at all costs. Except here, the goal waits between your thighs.
Then the haze clears, and he’s back in the bedroom with you. You’re on all fours before him, back arched, presenting yourself. His hands knead the flesh of your ass, and he gnaws at his bottom lip before the urge overpowers him.
He bends, tongue sliding through your slit and tracing it along your folds, tasting you until your voice breaks, pleading for more.
At long last, the moment of truth has arrived. He fists himself, lines up, and notches his tip at your entrance, slowly pressing in.
Don’t come. Don’t come. Don’t—
“Fuck,” you keen, wriggling your hips, quivering. “You’re—you’re splitting me in half.”
“Don’t… try to rush it.” He pulls back a little to push in again, then pushes deeper, growling through clenched teeth. “It’s gonna take a while, sweetheart.”
He doesn’t miss the way you clench around him. His knees buckle and he has to steady himself with a bruising grip on your waist.
“You like that, don’t you? You like it when I call you those names?” Clark asks, voice rough, desire thick in his throat. “That’s why you’re clamping down on me?”
He watches as you nod, the gesture nearly imperceptible. “Please, move.”
Swallowing the lump in his throat, he blurts, “Can’t. You’re—really tight.”
“I wanna feel you,” you retort, your hand groping back, searching for his thigh. Your neck twists so he can cast you a glance: you look already wrecked, mascara smudged under your eyes, lips swollen and parted. “It’s okay. You won’t hurt me. I can take it.”
He knows you can. He repeats it all along as he continues to feed you his cock, storing all the noises you make and the responses you have to his touch in his memory.
Once he bottoms out and can’t go any further, when his balls are flushed firmly against your cheeks, he pulls out until only the tip remains, and slams back inside.
The sound alone is pornographic. Your inner walls stretch to adjust to his size, welcoming him in, and you mutter something about feeling him in your stomach.
“Y-you hear that?” Clark asks, voice breaking. To prove his point, he rolls his hips, the obscene squelch filling the void. He does it again, and again, each thrust making your breath hitch. “She’s crying for me. Wants me to keep her full.”
With a whine, your arms finally give out, and your face sinks into the pillow. That change in angle drives him mad. Clark spreads your cheeks wide, watching the way he disappears into you as he ruts harder into you. He pounds against your sweet spot, the room echoing with the lewd slap of skin meeting skin.
Chest flush to your back, he buries himself even deeper, one arm curling around your breasts to pull you upright as he jackhammers into you, giving you no chance to recover before he’s plunging forward again.
“C-Clark, oh my God,” you wail, clutching at him, trying to turn your face to catch his eyes. “You’re fucking big, you’re—you’re everywhere.”
He licks a stripe along your shoulder blades, tasting salt, and then drags his mouth along your damp skin. “You feel so good, baby. So good, so warm—I never wanna leave you.”
His own pace is killing him. It’s too fast, too deep, too erratic, but he can’t stop. He’s far too caught up in the moment to think of a way to make it last. His body, acting on instinct, moves on its own, leaving him behind.
You’ve told him before that you’re on the pill, that it’s safe, but he still needs to hear it again.
“I’m—I’m close,” he whimpers into your ear, twitching, working every muscle he has. “Can I—I’m just—Please, let me. I’m sorry, I’ll make it up to you, but p-please.”
“Come inside me,” you breathe, arching your back. “I want it. You can let go.”
And with your permission, he does, spilling inside you. His hips falter, driving in short thrusts as he spills inside you, pumping his release deeper with each spasm.
His heart hammers like it’s going to burst free from his chest, tearing out of his ribs, beating hard against your spine as he clings to you. He chokes on a sob against your nape, mouthing at your hair, feeling a surge of blood rushing through him.
Your body lies flat against the mattress, his last brain cells fighting not to crush you with his full weight. He braces himself on his forearms, the fire in his abdomen slowly ebbing.
He thinks he’s spent, but then another hot spurt escapes him, and he tightens his grip on the sheets.
Your walls flutter around him, and you crack one eye open, trying to glance back. “How are you still—”
“I have no idea,” he replies, nosing your cheek. “There’s probably a Kryptonian anatomy book somewhere that could explain it.”
You chuckle, exhaling as your body softens beneath him, getting comfortable. Maybe you think that’s it, that the two of you will collapse into bed, or shower, or do anything other than keep going at it.
But Clark gets hard… again. He never fully softened in the first place. Now, buried deep inside you, he feels himself swelling again, his length hardening back to steel.
After a couple seconds, you notice it. “Are you—are you hard again?”
“Looks like it,” he husks, hips shifting before he even realizes it. “Feels even better now.”
He’s still sensitive from his first orgasm. He can hardly believe either of you are ready for more, but his body isn’t listening.
You wince when he pulls out, clenching around nothing. You try to push yourself up, but your arms refuse. “What are you doing? I wanted you to stay.”
No answer. Just pure silence.
You twist your neck, brows knitted. “Clark? Is something wrong?”
He’s too entranced by the sight in front of him. His essence leaks out of you, and he surges forward to glide his fingers through the mess, gathering it to smear it along your folds. You moan low in your throat as he pushes it back into your hole, your body greedily swallowing two of his fingers.
“You’re—much kinkier than I thought,” you mewl, and then he presses his arousal flush against your lower back, making you chuckle. “Second round?”
He hums, kissing your neck, then your jaw. In one swift motion, he flips you onto your back, pinning you to the mattress. His lips claim yours as his palms slide down to your breasts, rolling your nipples between his fingers before replacing his touch with his tongue, lavishing attention on each hardened peak in turn.
You rake your nails against his scalp, squirming beneath him. He kisses his way back up to your mouth, biting at your lips.
“I can see you better this way,” he rasps, rubbing the head of his cock through your folds, sighing when he catches your entrance. “You’ll tell me if it hurts?”
Looping your arms around his neck, you tug him closer, kissing him shortly. “I will.”
This position grants him the privilege of watching your eyes widen as he sinks into you, inch by inch, until you’re filled to the brim again. Your nostrils flare, your mouth falling open in silent pleasure. His forehead drops to yours and his eyes roll back, high on the sensation.
He braces both arms on either side of your face, and you lock your ankles at the base of his spine, urging him on. Clark starts a slower rhythm this time, his only focus now to pull you apart.
His balls swing and impact rhythmically against the curve of your ass. You tilt your pelvis on each of his thrusts to help him reach deeper, telling him to go faster, harder.
“You’re so beautiful,” he chants between ragged breaths, whatever thought crosses his mind spilling out unchecked. You’re pinned beneath him, his sheer size overwhelming, like he could consume you whole without much effort. You tilt your head back, turning to putty. “I’d do anything for you. Just say the word and—and I will.”
His eyes fall closed as he inhales deeply, only reopening them once he’s expelled the breath.
“I love you,” he confesses then, voice wrecked, each word punctuated by a jerk of his hips. Any sort of reaction involving coherent speech appears to be beyond you. You just take what he’s giving you, your tits swaying as he pounds into you.
“C-clark, I—” You can’t finish your thought. He can almost see the gears turning in your head, how your face scrunches in ecstasy and the words tangle in your throat. “I—”
“It’s okay. You don’t have to say it back just because I did,” he answers, sneaking a hand between your bodies to rub at your clit, circling it with precision. “I just wanted you to know it. I can wait.”
Your breathing staggers. You grab his face to kiss him, tangling your tongue with his. His gaze flicks between your blissed expression and the place where your bodies meet. His own orgasm creeps closer, though he’s determined to wait until you’re there with him.
The headboard keeps rocking against the wall, and you’re murmuring his name like it's the only word you remember of the English language. By the look on your face, he knows you’re close, that you just need a little more pressure for the knot in your stomach to snap.
“I’m gonna get you there, don’t worry,” he promises, rutting harder into you, never letting up on your clit.
“I—I’m so close,” you whine, sucking in a sharp breath, your thighs tightening around his frame. “Don’t stop.”
“Never,” he pants, holding himself on the edge of the precipice. “I’m right here, honey. I’ve got you.”
You come with a cry, shockwaves wracking your body as your walls clamp and flutter around him. Clark follows instantly, shuddering as he spills deep inside you for the second time, his whimpers muffled by your neck.
He doesn’t pull out until he’s sure you’ve milked every last drop. When he finally does, it’s reluctant, wishing there could be a way to live his whole life buried inside you without facing any consequence. He drops onto the mattress at your side, tugging you into his chest.
To his surprise, he actually feels tired. He’s sticky, sweaty, and madly in love with you.
Wait. He told you he loved you while still inside of you.
Romanticism isn’t dead, ladies and gentlemen, because Clark Joseph Kent is the living proof of it.
Your hand traces absent shapes on his chest, your breath warm near his ear. “I think we need to shower.”
“Yeah,” Clark mutters, staring up at the ceiling. “With holy water.”
You both laugh at that, and he holds you closer, stroking up and down your arm. After a while, he realizes you’re not tracing nonsense on his skin.
You’re writing the same letters, over and over.
I. L. O. V. E. Y. O. U. T. O. O.
“Oh,” he breathes, capturing your fingers and tilting your chin until you’re looking at him. Your lashes flutter, your face glowing with a pleased expression. He can’t stop the smile pulling at his lips. “Really?”
“Yes.” You kiss him softly, brushing your nose against his. “I love you, Clark.”
He seals his mouth with yours. “I think we should start saving to gift Jimmy and Molly a trip somewhere nice.”
“That’s your way of saying thank you for setting us up?”
“Exactly.” He gives you another peck. “I’d suggest preparing yourself for the double dates. I’ve already made my peace with the idea.”
The mere thought doesn’t unsettle you in the least. If anything, it only widens your smile, and your eyes crinkle at the corners.
Clark’s duty on Earth had always been clear. He came from a distant planet called Krypton, and despite the circumstances, his life’s purpose was to serve humanity, to make the world a better place.
What he never expected was that, beyond that destiny, he would find someone who would make his time on Earth feel greater than any calling ever could.
Over the years, experience had taught Clark that whenever Jimmy labeled one of his ideas as brilliant, sometimes… he was right.
✮ you straddled Clark’s hips, thighs tight around his waist, the weight of your body pressing him down into the mattress. he was already a mess beneath you, broad chest heaving, dark hair sticking to his damp forehead, his cock flushed an angry-red against his stomach.
you had been teasing him for what felt like hours; kissing his throat, grinding just enough against him to make him leak, letting your nails drag faint red lines across his skin. but now you wanted something else.
your palm slid up his chest, flattening over the pounding rhythm of his heart. you felt it hammering under his skin, that unsteady beat that betrayed how much he wanted this, how much he wanted you.
“Clark,” you said, tilting your head so your hair brushed his cheek, “do you trust me?”
his breath hitched, big hands curling around your hips. he nodded quickly, almost desperate, “y-yes. i do— of course.”
your smile turned slow, predatory, “good boy.”
your hand slid higher, curling under his jaw. you felt him swallow hard, felt the muscles of his throat shift under the touch. then you pressed— just lightly, testing, the curve of your hand against his windpipe. Clark’s entire body jolted. his cock twitched, a thick bead of precum leaking down his shaft. his wide blue eyes fluttered shut for a second, a low sound vibrating in his chest.
“already?” you teased, noticing the almost immediate change in his demeanour—and the slick line of precum on his skin—and you squeezed a little harder. “you’re pathetic… you get hard from everything.”
a broken, half embarrassed moan escaped him. his cock strained upwards, pulsing with each beat of his heart.
you leaned in closer, lips grazing the shell of his ear, “breathe for me baby. when i let you.”
and you tightened your grip.
not too much; just enough to press against his throat, enough to make his breath catch, enough that he had to fight for each inhale. the effect was instant. his hips bucked up against you, cock sliding hot and slick against your thigh as a strangled groan spilled from his mouth and you felt the vibration against your palm.
“you like that? you like it when i take the air right out of you?”
he tried to answer, but the sound barely came out. his eyes watered, his lips parting around a gasp that didn’t come.
you loosened your grip suddenly and he sucked in a desperate gulp of air, chest arching upward, cock jerking against his stomach.
and then you cut it off again.
Clark’s moan this time was absolutely wrecked, high pitched for a man his size, almost a sob, something you would have found laughable if you weren’t so entranced by the beautiful blush that had spread across his cheeks since the start of this all. his thighs trembled under you, his hands holding onto your naked hips so hard it was sure to leave a mark by morning. spit slicked his lips, his face flushed.
you moved your body up and rocked your hips deliberately against him, dragging your cunt over the thick length of his cock. wetness smeared down his shaft, mixing with the endless leak of precum from his swollen tip.
“messy boy,” you murmured, grip steady on his throat, “can’t even breathe without leaking all over yourself.”
his cock was throbbing violently now, every vein standing out, precum spilling down to his balls. his stomach clenched, his body fighting between panic and pure, dizzying arousal.
“cum for me,” you ordered, pressing down harder, nails biting into his skin, “cum while i choke you baby, show me how filthy you are.”
his body convulsed beneath you as the words hit him, hips jerking up uncontrollably. with a broken, strangled sound, he came, thick and hot and all across his abs. pulse after pulse, he kept spilling, body arching helplessly against you as you held him right on the edge of breathlessness. finally, when his eyes had gone glassy and tears clung to his lashes, you let go. he gasped hard, sucking in air like he’d been drowning, his entire body shuddering from relief.
you stroked his cheek, “good boy, you did so good for me.”
Clark could only nod weakly, cum already drying on his sweaty body, cock still twitching and tears bright in his eyes.
♡ summary: your boyfriend can't figure out how he wants to propose to you, until jimmy gives him an idea.
♡ warnings / tags: absolute fluff! clark being clueless. wc: 1.4k
♡ author's note: repost <3
the little black velvet box had been sitting inside the drawer of clark's nightstand for three months now.
you'd been living together for six months now, and every morning when he woke up to the sight of your beautiful, sleeping face, a hint of a smile on your face and soft snores leaving your lips made him all the more sure that you were the person he wanted to spend the rest of his life with.
clark had initially thought that choosing a ring you'd like would be the most difficult part, but no, that was quite easy, really. the moment he walked into the jewelry store and looked down at the display, his blue eyes were drawn to one ring in particular, and it was as if it was screaming your name.
the most difficult part was trying to figure out how he was going to do it.
maybe he'd take you out to a nice restaurant, and ask them to put it in a slice of cake for you. but what if you swallowed it? even more, who wants to put on a ring that's sticky and has bits of cake residue in the space between the prongs and the rock. no. a champagne glass? no, more stickiness. sticky = bad.
asking at home didn't feel special enough. you're both there every day. going away on a trip would be so expensive, especially since he was saving up for your wedding.
at the beach? no, so much sand. what if you wear heels and you have sand inbetween your toes that feels uncomfortable? clark doesn't want you to feel uncomfortable while he's proposing to you.
clark groaned, throwing his head back with an exasperated sigh. catching jimmy's attention. "dude, what are you angsting about over here?" the man rolled his chair closer to clark's.
clark cleared his throat, pushing his glasses as he straightened up, "nothing." "come on. spit it out."
"fine." clark let out a sigh, "i'm... trying to figure out where and how to propose to my girlfriend." "take her to a nice restaurant, maybe take a walk on the beach and pop the question."
clark looked at jimmy as if jimmy could read minds to figure as to what he didn't want to do, cringing. "no, no restaurants, and no beaches." jimmy let out a soft chuckle, rolling back to his own workstation, "whatever. while you're spending the weekend agonizing over how to propose to your girl, i'm gonna be visiting my folks."
it was as if a lightbulb was lit over clark's head when jimmy said the word 'folks'. smallville.
"all done!" you sighed contentedly, stuffing the tests you'd been grading in your bag that you moved into your leg room, turning to clark with a smile on your lips as your boyfriend drove, "are we there yet?" "ten more minutes, sweetheart. did anyone get an A?" he chuckled softly.
"three people did. i'm really happy we get to see your family again." you drummed the lid of your tupperware container, filled with chocolate chip cookies, "i'm determined to get ma to ask me my recipe for these bad boys." "is that the only reason?" your boyfriend looked to you with raised brows before turning his eyes back on the road, "well, i am also excited to go see the flower field we went to when you first brought me home. remember that, clark?"
clark smiled to himself, "of course i do."
it wasn't long until you arrived at the kent farm, martha and jonathan standing at the steps in front of their house, waving at you two with wide smiles on their faces.
as soon as you'd gotten out of the car and walked up to them, martha pulled you into a tight hug, making you let out a soft chuckle. when the woman pulled away, she kept her hands connected to your arms, "have you been eatin' properly? you don't look like you have, sweetheart."
"i have, ma." you chuckled softly, "your son makes sure i do." "he better." martha smiled, turning to her son and pulling him into a hug just as tight as the one she gave you.
you spent the evening playing card games, martha somehow beating all of you like she was vegas-born, then having martha's famous casserole that your boyfriend loved more than anything, maybe even more than you, for dinner, and then with martha showing baby pictures of clark that made his cheeks turn red and try to get the photo book out of her hands.
but when the sun was starting to set, your boyfriend turned to you as you were in the middle of discussing desperate housewives with his mother, squeezing the hand you forgot he'd been holding.
"should we go for a walk?"
"but we were just getting to the part-"
"to the flower field."
when clark said those words, you turned to martha as if asking for permission, the woman letting out a chuckle, the older woman acting as if she didn't know what her son was planning, "go ahead, darling."
"alright, kent." you turned to clark, the two of you getting up off the couch, "let's go."
you let go of clark's hand once you got to the flower field, bending down to sniff the flowers, and when you straightened your back and looked around, it felt like the flowers enveloped you. "god, it's so beautiful."
"it is." clark said, not looking at anything but the back of your head as you walked closer to the flower field. "i'm gonna take a video of this."
clark let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head, and as you pulled out your phone and went to the camera, starting to film the array of flowers, unaware of your boyfriend getting on his knee right behind you.
"sweetheart?" "shush, clark. i want this to be captured." "sweetheart, turn around."
you let out an exasperated sigh as you turned to face clark, "wh-"
your sentence was interrupted by the sight of your boyfriend being down on one knee with a ring box in his hand, your phone falling to the ground without you even realizing.
clark let out a soft chuckle, saying your full name and taking in a deep breath before continuing his speech, "will you marry me?"
you'd never been speechless before. but as you looked between clark and the ring on his hand, it was like every english word in your mind was nonexistent.
all you could do was rush to him, bending down to kiss him, clark holding onto your waist tightly.
it felt as if the entire world around you was spinning, like maybe clark somehow had made it spin even faster than it usually does, his lips warm and inviting, as if telling you to never let him go, as if you two were one and the same.
both of you were out of breath when you pulled away from one another, similar smiles on your faces, "so, will you?" he asked, making you chuckle, "i will. in this life and every other life after this."
what you two didn't realize was that you'd both floated into the air, nearly at the level of the kent farm roof.
BONUS:
as soon as you and clark rushed into the house, martha and jonathan were out of their seats, their eyes on the entrance to the living room where you two walked into with smiles on your face.
"we're getting married." clark announced, his parents rushing to you two, both of them congratulating you, ma telling clark how she knew the moment she saw you that you'd be the one, and in turn telling you how she'd give you the recipe to her casserole as soon as you two were married.
but when the older couple went off to find the champagne they'd bought as soon as clark told them his plan, you turned to your now fiancé with pursed lips, "i love your parents, but i wish we could enjoy our engagement night somewhere we could properly celebrate it later on."
clark chuckled, pressing a soft kiss on the top of your head, "what if i told you... that i booked a room at a bed and breakfast ten minutes away just for us?" "you didn't!" "well, it was also in case you said no and wanted to be apart from me." clark's words made you roll your eyes, "in what world would i say no?"
…and neither of you thought about the phone that was now lost on the kent farm flower field still recording
word count: 11.3k (oops) ▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||။၊|• Unknown / Nth, Hozier
genre: strangers to lovers, fluff, angst, smut (in that order)
warnings: not beta read we die like real men, reader is an author, slowwwww burn, kissing/making out, oral (r!receiving), fingering, handjob, tit sucking (its clark cmon), allusions to masturbation, kinda sub!clark and sub!reader (sue me), it's all soft sex honestly I promise I'll write something freakier at some point
summary: Funny how true colours shine in darkness and in secrecy. You spent most of life keeping people away in fear of another striking betrayal. Clark makes you doubt the stability of your morals.
Author’s note: My longest fic yet! It felt appropriate to give Clark a sweet little slowburn. I wish I could make this gender neutral but I don't know how to approach intimacy while staying neutral, sorry gng.
The hem of your jeans is wet. Your sweater is unraveling at the right sleeve. Your t-shirt is wrinkled and the dorky literary joke makes you feel unprofessional. You can still taste coffee on your lips behind your lipbalm. Your jacket is falling apart, smells of someone else, makes you look like a less impressive Sam Winchester. And most importantly, you forget to breathe, looking at the impressive building that houses the Daily Planet.
Lois, a great friend, but always knee deep in work, had gotten you a chance to publish your stories amongst all the increasingly important articles in the newspaper, and you don’t know what you’ve done to deserve this. Chances like this don’t come twice in life.
She’d slipped you the news in those few moments of reprieve you managed to get in your small apartment, at ungodly hours of the night. You’d been so tired you hadn't believed her at first.
But it was true. So very true.
Lois forgot one very specific thing when she got you a meeting with Perry White though, and that was your less than proficient people skills. According to her, the meeting was routine, and you were sure to get what you wanted, but still, you felt it in you that you were capable of messing this up.
So on this frigid Monday morning, you were standing there like an idiot, gripping a cup of coffee that had long since gone cold, hesitating to go inside. Was it all worth the possible humiliation of tripping over your words in front of the Perry White? If it meant actually getting your work out there, maybe it was.
Maybe you could actually do this.
Or maybe you were seconds away from passing out.
After almost getting doused in water by a car speeding by, and getting bumped into by four very disgruntled individuals, your numb fingers finally convince you to step into the lobby.
Right on time, as you usually are. Never early, never late.
Lois is waiting for you in the lobby, looking bored and stressed simultaneously, if that was even possible, though honestly that woman made anything feel possible. She’s prodigal in your eyes, the one that had actually made it out of the two of you. She begs to differ obviously, thinks your flimsy excuse for a literary career compares to hers, and though you’re not convinced, you tend to believe her. And you love her to death.
When she spots you, she quickly makes her way across the room, skillfully weaving through the bustling crowd of people that have places to be. You feel like an intruder in this odd ecosystem.
“You made it!”
“Well, obviously… Did you think I’d bail?”
“It’s not below you, honestly.”
“Hey!” You shove her shoulder playfully, not actually offended but playing the part. “You wound me, Lois.”
“Don’t take it personally, but you have the brain of a skittish cat. Honestly, I don’t know how you survive.”
“I do not have the brain of a cat!”
“A very cute skittish cat, if that’s any consolation. The kind of cat you want to hug but it always disappears before you have the chance to.”
“Okay, enough with the terrible cat analogy Lois, we’re getting off track.”
“Right, sorry.” She clears her throat. “Come upstairs, we can have bad coffee and I’ll show you around before the meeting.”
You follow her wordlessly, letting yourself get dragged across the atrium. The elevator ride is quiet, boxed in with a group of strangers, and when the doors open to your floor, you walk out like you haven’t had fresh air in years.
Well. Not quite fresh air, you notice. It smells of printer ink and burnt coffee, and the entire floor seems to be buzzing with nervous energy and the hum of computers.
“Welcome to my realm,” Lois says, “it sucks ass.”
You smile gently, looking around.
The room is grand, high ceiling and golden details, it fits with the prestige of the institution that has become the Daily Planet. Steps and voices echo and bounce against the walls, nothing remains unseen, everything is out in the open. Desks are spread out evenly around the room, each one made special by its occupant, with trinkets and photographs and badly drawn houses you assume (and hope) were made by children. It’s by no means cozy, all grandeur and messy elegance and you’re reminded once again of why you don’t work in places like this, even if you’d probably live a significantly better life if you did. In the golden summer light, the room would probably be a golden beacon of knowledge and influence, but right now, the meek November sunlight streams in through the window, grey and cold, painting everything dull and tired. Outside, below, the city pulses with life, stretching out as far as the eye can see on such a cloudy day.
Lois barely gives you time to readjust before she leads you deeper into the thrumming heart of the building, people dashing around carrying photographs and rough drafts and so much coffee. You can only imagine that’s how the place is still running.
You still feel out of place, awkward and looking like a lost child amidst all these journalists with a clear purpose. You’re just there because fate (and Lois) decided you deserved an opportunity.
“Sit here.” She gestures at a desk you could only assume is hers, and you sit, dropping your bag beside your feet. “I’ll be right back, I have something to take care of.”
“Hey no-”
“I’ll bring back some coffee!” she calls back, already moving away. You visibly deflate, turning the swivel chair to face the desk. Her computer is off, but the surface of the table is littered with sticky notes and pages ripped out of notebooks. You take the liberty to read a few excerpts, marveling at the biting and precise tone you remember oh so well. She really is made for this job, no wonder she’s so good at it. Taped to the tissue box (of all places) is a picture of the two of you from the previous year, when she’d somehow convinced you to go sledding at 2am, sharing a bottle of wine at the top of the hill, eventually giggling uncontrollably at the stupidest things. It’s a memory you cherish, and you’re glad to see she does too.
Taped right next to it is a picture of her with her coworkers, you vaguely remember hearing about them a few times but for the life of you, you can’t bring yourself to remember any of their names.
You feel increasingly out of place without Lois by your side, it feels like you have no real reason to be here, even though you know you do. It’s not that you think yourself below the journalists, or above them for that matter, the Daily Planet just doesn’t feel like a place you should be. It’s a sharp, spiky feeling that’s lived in your chest for as long as you can remember, stabbing at your ribs and skin, whispering doubt into your ears, and as much as you’d like to reason yourself, tell yourself it’s going to be okay, the buzzing in your ears gets louder, completely unrelated to the hum of laptops and hushed conversations going on around you. Just as you’re about to stand up and find a way out of here, or just go hide in the bathroom, you hear a soft voice behind you that pulls you straight back to where you’re sitting.
You straighten your back, turning around to find an absolute giant of a man standing in front of you.
Dear god. This was the last thing you expected, the last thing you wanted. You recognized his face from the photograph on Lois’s desk, somehow all softness despite his size.
He’s tall, so unbelievably tall, and he clearly has the strength to go with it, all broad, wide expanses covered by a struggling white button up and a wool blazer. He’s put together… somewhat, like a bottled mess, anxious and bumbling. His face is calm, dusted pink from the wind outside, hair a contained mess, and both his glasses and tie are askew. His blue eyes look like a summer sky, and a nervous spark shines amidst the azure. His eyebrows are scrunched up in confusion, looking at you like you’d just fallen out of the sky and straight into his coworker’s chair. Which, granted, you kinda have. You speak first:
“I’m sorry um… Lois’ll be right back.”
“Oh. Alright. Can I ask who you are?”
“I’m a friend of hers, she’s um… helping me get on my feet.” You say your name quietly, tentatively. The man smiles, stretching out a hand to shake yours, and you take it. His grasp engulfs your hand, holding it steady.
“I’m Clark Kent, I work-”
“I see you two met!” Lois’s voice cuts through the haze as she walks closer, pushing a cup of something that somewhat resembles coffee into your hands.
“I’ve been meaning to introduce you two. This is Clark, remember? I’ve told you about him before.”
You nod dumbly, searching through your mind for anything about Clark, but it comes back blank. You feel like an idiot. You completely miss Lois introducing you as some great writer, completely miss Clark’s question.
“Hm?”
“I asked what you like to write,” he repeats, speaking slowly and so softly you almost miss it.
“Oh. All sorts of things really. Sticking to a single format isn’t something I like to do.”
“This one’s a real prodigy, I’m telling you,” Lois says, still singing you praises.
“I’m sure. I can’t wait to read your stuff.” You offer a meek smile as you watch Clark walk away, simultaneously bumping into the corner of his desk and dropping his notepad. Twice.
Lois looks at him fondly, then turns back to you.
“Isn’t he the sweetest?”
“Sure, yeah… I’ll take your word for it.”
She throws you a smile you struggle to decrypt before pulling you to your feet.
“You’re gonna be late, cmon.”
You feel tiny in your chair, in Perry White’s imposing office, but the meeting goes swiftly and much to your pleasure, it goes well. He asks short, smart questions, encouraging you to talk despite your reserved attitude, and when you slide a draft of your latest short story across his desk, he takes it without hesitating. He takes your email address too, promising to write as soon as he’d finished reading, and offering to come by the next day with some finished projects. It all feels too good to be true, euphoric bubbles brewing in your belly, and when you walk out of there, dopey grin plastered on your face, Lois doesn’t have to ask.
“I’m getting published!.. Oh my god, I’m getting published.”
“This deserves a celebration,” she offers. You completely ignore her, too wrapped up in your joy.
“Lois, my dearest Lois, I don’t know what favor your boss owes you but ohmygodthankyou…”
As you prattle off about your infinite gratitude, Lois guides you back to her desk, pulling an extra chair up next to hers and forcing you to sit. She sits in front of you, grasps your shoulder, and your voice finally dies down.
“This feels like an intervention, Lois,” you saw, frowning.
“It is. We’re going out tonight, whether you want to or not.”
“You can’t make me.”
“I’m not making you do anything. I’m convincing you with very valid arguments,” she retorts, grinning. “You’re finally getting your work out, I’m not letting you spend tonight alone! You’re one of us now.”
You grimace like she’s just insulted you.
“For your information, I was planning on spending the night with Bridget Jones, but hey, I’m sure spending it with you might be better.”
She laughs loudly, nobody bothers to turn around and look. Your shoulders relax a little.
“I’m taking you out, and you’re meeting the team. Officially.”
“The team?”
“Well, yes smartass. You basically work here now, you deserve to get to know everyone.”
And she looks so convinced of her righteousness that you don’t have the heart to say no. You simply nod, scrawl down the address of the bar on your inner wrist and leave with a kiss pressed to your cheek.
You don’t notice a clear blue gaze following you as you walk out.
You don’t notice a small smile when you relax at the sight of the empty elevator.
You definitely don’t notice a pinkish blush, definitely not cold induced, when Lois tells Clark he should come tonight, that you and him would definitely get along.
You’re positively frozen. Not even in the enjoyable way that smells of impending hot drinks and pine needles, that you know will be chased away when you walk inside. No, you’re chilled to the bone, even though you’re decked out in weather appropriate clothes. A nervous shiver runs down your spine, peels back your skin, lets the frigid air in.
You’re uneasy, shifting your weight repeatedly from one foot to another, staring at the bar across the street where you know Lois is waiting.
You’re late. Not that late, sure, but walking out of the house to come here was a challenge, because you knew sitting in there would be not only Lois, but her friends, people so different from you, so radically distinct from what you were used to.
A bus rushes in front of you and you catch a glimpse of your reflection in the dark glass.
You’re scared. You don’t like admitting it but you’re terrified. New people, new beginnings, new places, same old you.
Eventually, you work up the guts to cross the street and walk inside, immediately engulfed in noise and stifling heat. You spot Lois immediately, sitting in a booth with a few other people, one of which you recognize as Clark. Your heart does a traitorous backflip when he smiles and waves you over, and the clean, neutral face you had so far managed to keep up threatens to slip.
You blame the heaters working overtime for the flush on your cheeks and neck, and you walk closer, mentally counting the steps it takes you to reach the table.
They’re all mostly still in their work clothes, though Lois seems to have lost the vest at some point, blouse untucked, and Clark ditched his blazer, shirt sleeves rolled up on his forearms.
You have to remind yourself to breathe.
Lois greets you enthusiastically, meeting you halfway and introducing you to everyone.
“This is Jimmy, Cat, Steve, and of course you met Clark this morning”
You manage a small greeting, going to sit down on the edge of the bench, but Lois grabs your arm and pushes you between her and Jimmy, landing you right in front of Clark.
How are you even supposed to survive this without making a complete fool of yourself?
Though you hadn’t wanted to admit it this morning, or even right now for that matter, Clark has that sort of smile you only see a few times in life, that kind that weakened the foundations of your being and made your chest grow tight. You don’t even know what to name what you’re feeling.
It had been a long time since you’d granted yourself the luxury to indulge in such things, walling them out has become a habit.
For safety, you tell yourself, because fragile things often come to a sharp, crashing end.
Because more often than not, attraction fades when your full portrait comes into view.
So you remain half unknown to the people around you, to spare them, and to spare yourself too.
At least that’s what you like to think.
The evening starts out in a blur, you barely process the conversations going on around you, you focus on finding some kind of faux-tranquility at the bottom of your drink, on answering some of the questions launched your way, on skillfully dodging Clark’s gaze.
You’re doing pretty good so far, though the napkin between your hands has suffered torture it doesn’t deserve.
But yes, ultimately, it’s going okay. Right until Lois excuses herself to the bathroom, Cat tagging along, Steve stands up claiming he needs a stronger drink, and Jimmy is currently occupied by a girl on a barstool across the bar, and suddenly you’re left alone at the table with Clark.
“Lois tells me so much about you, kinda feels like I’m in front of a legend.”
You let out a nervous laugh.
“Yeah well… Not a legend, really, but I do my best,” you answer, almost whispering, inaudible in the surrounding din. He takes that as an excuse to lean closer, bracing his weight on his forearms.
“Honestly, she swears by you. I’m glad you have your place among us now.”
He says it so sincerely that you forget how to function, your brain cells disloyally dispersing and leaking out of your head.
“It’s a nice opportunity.”
He nods, humming softly.
“I’ve never really managed to get my stuff out there, just a few short stories in a collection, a while back. Not very good ones, at that.”
“I’m sure they were great. That what you write is great.”
You look at him oddly, like he’s suddenly grown a second head.
“No, I was young, finding my style… It read like a bad Gautier counterfeit, and the plot was always… dull, sinister. I don’t know, it wasn’t very good.”
“Probably way better than what passes for good literature these days.”
You snort a laugh, coiled shoulders slowly relaxing, finally meeting his gaze for more than a split second without combusting. You mentally congratulate yourself for that.
“I suppose you’ll see when I’m printed.”
“Or before that… If you’re willing to show me something, that is. No pressure.”
Yeah, no pressure. Absolutely no pressure. Clark 200-pounds-of-strength-and-kindness Kent wants to read your silly stories and poems, no pressure.
You nod dumbly, grateful for Lois’s sudden interruption as she slides back onto the bench, beside you.
“What did I miss?”
“Nothing much, I was just telling Clark about my stories.”
The night goes on quickly, interrupted only twice, once when Clark’s knee grazes yours under the table, making you freeze like a baby deer at gunpoint, and again when his hand brushes against yours while handing you a new napkin for you to dismember.
And so, when you all stand up, leaving the near-empty bar and its tired manager to deal with the drunk college students making a racket, the last thing you expect is for Clark to find you on the sidewalk, planting himself in front of you.
“How are you getting home?”
“Oh uh… I’m walking. It’s really not that far.”
He frowns like you’ve personally insulted him.
“Alone?”
“...Yes?”
“Let me walk you home.”
His genuine concern confuses you. You’ve done this a million times before, it’s Metropolis, not Gotham, you’ll be fine… right? Yet some weak part of you is screaming at you to accept his offer. To nod and say yes and let him walk all the way back to your apartment building with you and bask in his presence.
You don’t say anything, but after hugging Lois goodbye, you nod at him to follow you. He does so eagerly, rushing after you like an earnest golden retriever, quickly catching up to you.
In the yellowish light of the streetlamps, the resonant quiet of an empty city at night, everything feels softer. Clark doesn’t talk to you, simply guides you away from oily puddles and safely across the streets with a hand on your lower back. Like you need help.
Like you’re worth protecting, even from the simplest things.
The biting cold fades away in his presence, as if he actually emanates heat. You’re not completely unconvinced that he does. When you stop in front of your building, rummaging through your bag for your keys, you hesitate before unlocking the door. You turn around, find Clark standing there, looking at you like you carry the world on your shoulders. He still towers over you, despite the steps you’re standing on.
He seems to be debating something, and suddenly, he wraps you in a warm, firm embrace.
You fight against yourself to not melt into the solidity of his chest. You reciprocate stiffly, before forcing yourself to pull back, tugging at your coat.
“Tonight was nice,” you finally bring yourself to say. “I’ll see you around Clark.”
“Yeah, see you around… Good night.”
“G’night,” and you walk straight into your building, gently closing the door behind you, like a final sentence, jagged and unforgiving. When you reach your apartment, mechanically locking the door behind you and hanging up your coat, you glance outside, and see Clark still standing in front of your door, a goofy grin on his handsome face, looking up at the stars like he might find your smile among them.
The next day, when you walk into the Daily Planet, Lois at your side, that familiar tight feeling lodges itself at the back of your throat. You’re gripping a neat stack of freshly printed copies of your latest works, praying that everything goes smoothly, or alternatively, that you don’t bump into Clark.
You’re not sure you’d be able to behave normally in front of him after last night.
You’re acting as if you had outrageous sex and then snuck off in the middle of the night.
You didn’t. You didn’t so much as touch, except that short hug in front of your apartment building.
But he seems to have that effect on you, a cloying blanket of wellbeing that would probably bring joy to anyone else, but only brings an uncomfortable stiff feeling in your spine to you.
You know what people expect, and it’s not what you can give them.
Kindness feels contractual, and you don’t always know how to repay.
It wasn’t his fault, it really wasn’t. He was probably the world’s most benevolent hunk of muscles. That was the problem.
It's a bit cliché of you to trip and fall for Clark, the quiet author who feels like a stranger in their skin and the world’s most decent man, and so quickly too, but you couldn’t bring yourself to reason with the feelings. Reasoning was never your strong suit.
So you immediately beeline for Perry White, handing him the pages and mustering a grateful smile when he (somewhat) praises your work.
“You’re welcome to come by whenever you have something else for us, kid.”
“Thank you sir.”
He sends you off with a slap on the back that knocks the air out of you, and just when you thought your stealth mission was complete, going to step into the elevator with a sigh of relief, you walk right into Clark Kent’s chest, narrowly missing the cups of coffee he was balancing in his hands. He greets you with that boyish smile, and your chest does something funny.
“Hey, I didn’t know you’d be coming by today,” he says, his tone betraying his joy.
“Yeah um… Perry wanted me to bring some of my work over to see what he’d take. I was just leaving though.”
He looks at you like you just told him the world was ending.
“Why aren’t you staying? You should stay.”
“No really I-”
“Here, have some coffee.” He pushes a cup into your hand, and it actually smells pretty enticing. Not like an oil spill cosplaying as coffee. You might let yourself be convinced.
Might.
“The desks here are big enough to share, y’know.”
“No, it’s not my place honestly… What would I even do?”
“Aw c’mon,” he encourages gently. As if you need encouragement. If you were to listen to your feeble heart, you’d spend the whole day at his desk.
“I actually… well, I have some errands to run.” You don’t. “I might come by again later though.” If you don’t combust in the meantime. “I’ll see you then!” you call back as you slip through the closing doors of the elevator.
Clark watches you leave like you just promised him the universe, but you don’t see that, of course you don’t, because you’re too busy staring at your dirty shoes.
The days slip past you, the sun rising and setting in what feels like minutes, drowning yourself in words and cafe pastries to forget about the fact that every day, like clockwork, Lois would call and ask why you don’t come by the Daily Planet anymore.
You know your reactions are irrational. You’re acting borderline insane. But deep down, you’re scared.
Because a long time ago, you promised to never let yourself feel like this again. So fragile and impressionable. All because of a single person. A man. A sweetheart called Clark Kent, who you barely know.
You hate how you feel so utterly naked when he looks at you in his quiet manner, not like he’s just looking, but like he’s seeing. You don’t like being seen, in all your dark glory, imperfections on display beside hesitating gazes and an erratic heart, because the full picture feels marred with bright red paint, inescapable mistakes. So you hide, behind stories in the third person and pictures that don’t show your face, you hide in the soft light of your apartment, amongst the crowd of Metropolis, preferring the chosen solitude than the shattering pain of unchosen abandon. You know things end, they always do, you’ve embraced that. You just want one last line, something harsh and poetic, that you can throw to their faces before they leave, so maybe, just maybe, the memory of you will stick to their skin like bitter honey.
But Clark? Clark, or what little you know of him, makes you feel like skipping the final monologue and jumping straight into the daunting infinity, hoping that you’ll emerge together on the other side, that the bright light of “forever” won’t shine golden on the things you don’t want him to see.
Except it always does.
So you decide to stay away, hoping that your mind and body will forget if you submerge them in movies and cheap wine and the insulting white light of your laptop.
Lois comes to visit every other night, more or less, she doesn’t ask questions, just talks and lets you listen, because she knows it’s what you need. She reads the beginning of your stories and watches your movies with you and doesn’t push when you tense at the mention of Clark. And for a few weeks, life feels like it might just go back to normal, that you’ll forget and move on, and maybe write a bad poem about it that you’ll show to no one.
Until a soft knock on your door on Sunday night pulls you out of a third rewatch of Notting Hill, pulling on a sweater as you move from below the blanket to open your front door.
Your tired brain doesn’t recall that Lois said she’d be busy finishing up an article for Perry, tonight, that she wouldn’t be able to come by. You just pad to the door, unlocking it without a second thought and nearly spitting out your heart when you find Clark on the other side, coat pulled tight around him.
“Hey,” he says oh so softly, and you swear you melt a little.
“Clark? What are you doing here?”
It’s true, Clark technically has no business being here, at your door, looking so biteable.
“Oh right, Lois couldn’t come by but she wanted me to give you this,” he informs you as he hands you a battered looking manila folder. “She said Perry wanted you to have it, I think… Or Perry wanted you to see it, at least. I have no idea what it is,” he assures you, rubbing the back of his neck.
You take the folder from his hand, peeking inside, and only seeing line upon line of densely printed text and bright red rectifications, you decide to relay that to future you.
“Well, I’ll go now. You should come by the office more often, it was nice seeing you,” Clark says, a small smile ghosting his lips. He goes to move away, but your lips betray you. You just really (really) don’t want him to go.
“Clark, it’s raining,” you say dumbly.
“It is, yes.”
“I can’t let you go out in the rain. That’s… rude.”
“Oh no, it’s fine,” he offers you a bright smile. “I don’t mind the rain.”
“But… You’ll get wet!”
“Yeah, that’s… how rain works.”
“I can’t let you do that.”
“You can’t?”
“No,” you say sternly, gesturing for him to come in, moving out of the way. He walks in like he’s going through heaven’s doors, removing his shoes without you having to ask and removing his coat, hanging it up on the old wooden coathanger you keep by the door for aesthetic purposes.
For such a large man, Clark moved with unsettling quiet, trailing behind you across your small apartment.
“It’s a complete mess, I’m sorry.”
“It’s alright. It’s cozy, I like it.”
You don’t answer, you don’t trust your mind to come up with a reasonable sentence, or your voice not to crack. You feel physically split in half, you don’t know which part to embrace. So you dance, back and forth, undecided, not knowing what to do with the turmoil in your belly.
“Do you want anything? Tea, maybe?” you offer, quietly, hoping he’d stay long enough for the tea to cool, just a few minutes longer.
“If it’s no bother, tea would be nice,” he says, settling on a rickety chair. You cringe as it groans under his weight, and move to the kitchen, putting a very solid wall between you and him, hoping the distance might slow your excitable heart. Spoiler: it doesn’t.
As you wait for the water to heat, leaning on the counter beside the kettle, the candid silence is breeding ground for dangerously soft thoughts, and you catch yourself zoning out, a wistful look on your face.
You never meant to make yourself this sharp, to pierce your skin with long spikes to keep people away, it just happened. And there’s nothing you can really do about it, except maybe (expensive) therapy, as your parents often recommend. What scares you with Clark is that, no matter which way you turn and examine your situation, you find that this big man has frayed his way closer and carved a spot right into your small heart. And you’re sure he didn’t even mean to do that, he just did.
You walk back into the living room with two steaming cups of lavender tea, placing the mug down in front of Clark. He visibly deflates when you move to sit down further away from him.
As usual, you don’t notice that, obviously.
You catch his gaze traveling across the room, dragging along the worn spines of books on shelves, on the messy pile of vinyl records you keep by the record player, on the only really stable table in the apartment, on the quotes you’ve scribbled in dry-erase marker on the window panes, on the TV screen, movie still paused, on the empty takeout boxes on the coffee table, corners of his mouth lifting into a handsome smile. The silence turns thick, and you feel like he’s expecting you to say something. You told him to stay, after all.
“So uh… What’s your origin story? How’d you get into journalism, I mean.”
He huffs a laugh.
“Middleschool newspaper. I wrote one very clumsy critique of the lunchroom pizza and I was immediately hooked. Grew from there.”
You smile, absentmindedly stirring honey into your tea.
“What about you?” You look up, looking startled. “What got you into writing?”
“I fell into a vat of printer ink as a baby,” you deadpan. He laughs loudly, his entire face lighting up when your gazes meet, and you feel yourself growing hot, face betraying your emotions.
“No I uh… well I guess it took me a while to figure it out. I’ve always loved reading, I just never understood that writing books was a whole other level of depth I could deal with. I wrote to pass the time, then I wrote to slow time down. Writing is like bleeding on paper, you do it when there’s nothing about yourself you want to hide. You can’t write a good story without laying yourself flat among the pages.”
Clark follows every single one of your words, nodding slowly, humming in agreement when your voice dies down. You think that’s the most words you’ve ever spoken to him.
“I read your stories, y’know? Whenever there’s one in the paper. They’re really good, absurdly so. It’s a crime that you don’t have your own collection out there.”
Your face flushes pink, and you have to make yourself look away by fear of instantaneously combusting.
“Thank you, Clark.”
“There’s no need to thank me, really.”
“No, but there is.” You take a deep breath, forcing words to align in your head. “Words are hard. People don’t notice it but writing is hard, even if you like it, even if you’re good at it. Things don’t just fall into place, I have to paint a whole image, portraits and landscapes and the emotions in between glances, the love of a mother, the hatred of a daughter, the passion of a kiss, the creeping cold of a lonely night in the arms of someone irrelevant, the… the taste of whiskey when you’ve forgotten what anything else tastes like, the sorrow of looking in the mirror, with black ink and 26 symbols. I don’t want to sound elitist, but not everyone can do that. So thank you, Clark, for telling me that my stories are worth something.”
You realize too late that your monologue sounded like an angry sermon, and Clark’s silence strikes you hard in the gut. Did you sound too pretentious? Maybe you came off as weirdly possessive of your hobby and job. Maybe-
“I might start quoting you.” His soft, deep voice, heady like honey hanging in the air, breaks the whirlpool you were starting to sink in.
“...What?”
“Everything you say is said so… elegantly. Honestly, I don’t know how you do it. I usually only find sentences like that in weird, niche novels, and now I find the living, breathing equivalent of those. So yeah… I might start quoting you.”
Any pretense to protest dies in your throat when Clark stands up, moving with purpose to sit in the chair beside yours.
“You said it’s impossible to write a good story without laying yourself flat in the words.”
“Right, I did say that.”
“So, when I read your stories, or say the poem in Wednesday’s issue, the one that went ‘The sky is on fire, and it's my fault’... Is that as honest as it gets with you, then?”
The words don’t come to you. For someone who writes like it’s a lifeline, you really don’t know what to say.
“By that logic… I guess so, yeah.”
He hums softly, leaning closer to you.
“Are there things you don’t say?”
“When I write… I say everything. After that, what happens to that particular story or poem depends on what can be read between the lines. Some just stay in my drawers until I unearth them a few months later. Those are usually the best ones.”
“The best ones?”
“They’re just so… honest. I don’t hold back, to the point that the ink feels like my blood, because deep down I already know that this is all for my eyes only.”
“What do you think of the ones you publish in the Daily Planet then?”
“I’m proud of them… I really am. They’re… different. A little watered down, I guess, but they’re still good stories. I like them, I’m proud of them,” you repeat, as if to convince yourself. To convince him.
“You should be.” Your heart blooms at the certainty in his voice.
“Thanks.”
When you look outside, the rain has calmed down, sparse droplets falling every few seconds, and when Clark follows your gaze, you’re disappointed to feel him stand up to move away. He leaves his empty mug by the kitchen sink, turns off the lights before walking out. He doesn’t look so out of place among your things, you realize, and your chest tightens when he walks towards the door.
“I won’t bother you any longer,” he murmurs.
“It was no bother at all… You’re easy to talk to,” you concede, hovering by the threshold, watching the muscles of his back flex against his button up as he pulls on his coat.
“You should come by the office tomorrow,” he adds while reaching for his belongings.
“Oh no… I don’t even know what I’d do. Anyway, I’m working for most of tomorrow.”
“You can write at the office, there are always empty desks.”
“Not… writing. Writing doesn’t pay the bills, Clark, not when it isn’t published. I work at a record shop part-time.”
You feel ridiculous admitting this, a sharp bite sneaking its way into your unwavering voice.
Clark and Lois, and all their coworkers for that matter, are people who represent to you something you could’ve become, something everyone encouraged you to do, but you stuck to what felt right, what made you happy, and now what? Do you regret that decision? Not explicitly. Not exactly. But going to the Daily Planet only serves to remind you that the path you took is a one-way road, and that the end is shrouded in darkness and uncertainty.
You do not want their pity, you do not want their offerings, you just want to make a name for yourself.
Yet now, standing here, you feel like a child who’s failed at a simple job, praying that Clark doesn’t take you for some poor writer struggling to keep their life from falling apart.
“It’s not my place, anyway.”
You unlock and open the door, holding it open with tight hands.
“Thanks for coming by, Clark,” you mumble, but your voice is rigid and broken, you don’t feel sincere. If only he’d stayed away. If only. Now, you can feel yourself getting ripped at the seams by your emotions, unsure of what to do.
“Goodnight,” he says back, and you look away in hopes of forgetting the soul-melting hurt that you see in his eyes, wondering what you’ve done to deserve to be like this.
You don’t answer him, simply follow him with your gaze as he walks out of your apartment, wishing you could be a different person. When you close the door, trembling hands locking it, you wish you could disappear. Vanish. Forget and be forgotten.
Maybe it’d all be easier that way.
You sink back into your couch, chasing the taste of soft lavender and Clark’s words out of your mouth with a sip of stale, lukewarm wine, but when you press play on the movie you were watching, your head refuses to follow the plot. Refuses to concentrate.
Outside, the stars are hidden by heavy storm clouds, and you know tomorrow is going to be a grey, wet day that’ll only serve to feed the taunt uneasiness that you’re fostering.
Clark’s blue eyes and well-meaning words haunt you for the rest of the night, a dagger buried deep in your soul to remind you of your harsh tone and avoidant words.
You feel silly, stupid for reacting how you did, but you know that if you were to do it again, you’d probably do it the exact same way. It’s irrational, angry, powered by a festering wound harbored deep in the tissue of your being, a wound that never heals, only swallows what little you manage to build for yourself.
When you drift into sleep, head heavy and empty, despair echoing in your chest, you hope that tomorrow will bring respite. That tomorrow you’ll wake up with your heart stuck back together, and your skin stitched back up in the places where confusion ripped it open.
The folder that Clark brought you sits on the kitchen counter, forgotten.
The words that Clark said slip out the window, carried far, far away from you.
Life seems to escape you after that night, days and nights rushing by, and suddenly it’s December, and you haven’t seen a friendly face in weeks, and the festive decorations you see everywhere around you feel like barbed wire and bear traps.
Everything you write is too angry, sharp and bitter, and you result in sending Perry old projects that fit better with the general mood of Metropolis, old words typed into new documents, moved around and revamped because everything that spills out of your pen is white-hot with fury and loneliness.
You have a somewhat steady life, theoretically speaking, because in practice, you’re falling deeper and deeper into the eye of a storm you thought you’d long since banished.
The record shop is a nonstop flow of confused customers buying an ungodly amount of Michael Bublé and Mariah Carey, you start picking up more shifts to keep yourself outside of the hole you’ve made of your apartment, but you tell yourself it’s for the extra money, because Christmas is coming up and you deserve to be able to afford treating yourself.
Truth is, you just don’t want to be found. So you stay out of your apartment as late as you can muster, sitting in cafes and bars and amongst the fluorescent, bright aisles of stores, only to tiredly stumble home when the streets are empty and the moon has stopped protecting her children.
You stop answering phone calls from Lois, or anyone else really, feigning busyness or illness or exhaustion to have an excuse to stay far away. In everything you do, ghosts of people haunt you. You sit in silence because every song reminds you of someone, someone you should probably call, someone you’d better forget. On a frigid morning, you threw away your package of lavender tea on your way to work, because every sip of the floral drink beckoned back thoughts of the night where you inadvertently flipped over your hopes and barricaded yourself deeper into your flesh, the night you hurt the only person you’ve ever wanted to stay around. You stare at the pictures you’ve tacked up on the wall, you barely recognize yourself.
Nothing feels like it could pull you out of this pit you’ve dug for yourself, this mountain you’ve trudged up and forgot how to walk away from. But as per usual, things sometimes fall into place around you.
Christmas eve rolls around, and you plan to spend it watching Christmas classics with a decent dinner you’ve managed to make for yourself. You sit crosslegged on the floor, a full plate balanced on your knees, when a soft knock comes crashing through your apartment. You freeze, convinced the noise was made up by your tired and already tipsy mind, but it comes again, louder, and you can make out voices coming from the hallway.
You consider ignoring it, pretending you’re not home when:
“We know you’re in there!”
Lois’s voice cuts through your walls, and despite everything, faced with her like this, you don’t have it in you to pretend.
You weave a passage to the door and slowly, hesitantly, open it. You’re faced with a worried looking Lois and Jimmy, each carrying bagfulls of boxes and Lois is holding a plate of still-warm cookies.
“You look like shit,” is the first thing she tells you.
“Merry Christmas to you too, Lois.”
She frays her way past you and into your apartment, and you give a sheepish smile as a greeting to Jimmy as he follows her in.
You lock the door behind you and walk inside, nearly bumping into your friend, who’d stayed frozen at the entrance of the living room. Shame invades you as you realise how ugly this must look: motivation to take care of yourself and your apartment seems to evade you these days, everything around you is a mess, takeout boxes lying around everywhere, sink piled with dishes, stray papers, clothes, pencils litter every flat surface including the floor, it smells of smoke and sweat and wax and you wish you could disappear beneath the floorboards when Lois turns to look at you, concern etched on her face.
“Oh sweetheart…” she says as she wraps you in a warm hug, and you melt into her, wishing you didn’t look so pathetic. You missed her, terribly so, you missed everyone, but the crevice you were living in was not something easily escapable without help. But now, help has shown up. You’re wiping tears out of the corner of your eyes when she pulls back, and she smiles softly.
“The Daily Planet is hosting a Christmas party and we want you to come… We’ll help you clean yourself and everything up and we’ll go, okay? I can’t leave you here on Christmas of all days.”
You nod slowly.
“Thank you.” Your voice cracks halfway through the simple word, betraying your gratitude.
They work efficiently, and you help them where you can. At some point, Lois puts on a vinyl and Chris Isaak’s soft voice invades your apartment as you start cleaning. You take a long overdue shower as Lois takes care of the dishes, you scrub the sweat and despair off your skin and walk out, hair detangled, dripping water on your shoulder and smelling of steam and something softly floral: lavender.
Something dark still boils between your ribs, but you’ve placed a lid on it with your friend’s help, willing it away for tonight, chasing it away with soft Christmas lights that don’t feel so menacing anymore.
Lois helps you get dressed, something simple and comfortable but overall very presentable, a soft put-togetherness. You sit on your bed, sheets tangled beneath you, basking in the silence in between songs, in between moments. Lois appears in the doorway.
“Thank you,” you repeat.
“Of course, you don’t need to thank me.”
“I… I’m sorry, Lois. I didn’t mean to cut you out… to cut anyone out.”
“You don’t need to apologize for something you can’t control.”
You hum softly, grateful for her understanding.
“Everyone’s been asking about you, y’know?”
You huff a laugh.
“Everyone?”
She understands what you don’t dare to ask.
“Everyone. He’s worried.”
You look up at her, lips pressing together.
“You’d think he hates me.”
“He doesn’t. Trust me, I don’t think he has it in him to hate anyone, let alone you.”
“He has every right to. I didn’t treat him well.”
“Forget about that, okay? He’s looking forward to seeing you, everyone’s looking forward to seeing you,” she says as she pulls you to your feet.
You walk back to the living room, finding it much cleaner than it had been in weeks, and Jimmy on the couch, half a cookie is his mouth, looking at Lois guiltily. She glares at him but says nothing, herding you both to the door to leave.
The cold air hits your skin violently, sobering you up, but for once, your heart stays warm as you make your way to the Daily Planet with Jimmy and Lois by your side, through the streets bustling with last minute shoppers and excitement. The lights paint your skin rainbow and golden, and nothing feels so scary anymore, not when you pass by a group of carolers, not when the air smells of winter and mulled wine, not when you’re not alone anymore.
The Daily Planet is decked out in Christmas lights, a large tree decorated golden and red sits proudly in the center of the room, people milling around with glasses of wine and champagne, talking and laughing. The room feels less intimidating than it did when you first visited, the faces seem friendlier. Perry greets you with a firm handshake and congratulations on your last story, something sappy about a reimagined Orpheus that doesn’t end so badly. You stay by Lois’s side, eyes scanning the crowd, looking for a very tall someone you owe an apology to. He finds you before you do.
“Hey.” His soft voice has you whipping around, and you can’t help a small smile when you spot the reindeer antlers someone placed on his head.
“Hi… Merry Christmas,” you add, hand gripping your glass so tight you fear it might break.
“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”
“It has… listen, I’m sorry… I was awful to you when I knew you didn’t mean any harm, I just… Well, I don’t know how to explain it because it isn’t rational but-”
“You don’t have to explain anything, okay? Sometimes things happen within us that we can’t understand.”
You feel like a loading symbol is very visible on your forehead as all the words you know fly straight out of your head.
“You don’t hate me?” is all you manage.
“Hate you?” His eyebrows scrunch in confusion. “Why would I hate you?”
“I was mean to you! I basically kicked you out of my apartment and then ignored your existence for the next few weeks.”
“That doesn’t mean I hate you.”
“It should.”
“Well, it doesn’t.”
The sincerity in his eyes startles you.
“I’m sorry,” you repeat, slower this time, you say it like it’s a full sentence. “I’d like to say it won’t happen again but… I don’t trust myself.”
“You don’t need to apologize… I’ll try to make sure I don’t give you reason for it to happen again.”
Your chest constricts and your heart melts at his words, and your smile softens.
“You’re too good for this world, Clark.”
He shrugs, smiling sheepishly.
“I do what I can.”
Life suddenly stops feeling like a blur, conversations develop, stick and linger, you smile, you laugh, you steadily grow enjoyably tipsy while Steve dances on a table, already blackout drunk. Clark follows you around like a shadow, a solid presence behind you, his hand brushing your back and shoulder now and then. Outside, the stars shine brightly, Mother Moon shines her silver light through the large windows, the city is miles away.
Eventually, you retreat to a quiet corner to catch your breath, curled up on the floor, head leaning against a window, breath fogging on the cold glass. Clark appears beside you, quiet as ever, holding two small boxes in his strong hands. He sits next to you, long legs stretched out in front of him, and hands you the impeccably wrapped boxes.
“What’s this?” you ask, taking the small parcels and turning them around in your hands.
“Saw them and thought of you.”
You feel your cheeks go warm as you look away, hiding a giddy smile.
“After I treated you like I did, you still brought me gifts?”
“‘Course. No one deserves an empty stocking on Christmas… Except maybe Lex Luthor.”
You laugh, leaning your head back and turning to face him, meeting Clark’s clear gaze for all of five seconds, a new personal record.
“Well, are you gonna open them?”
You look down at the boxes and pick the smallest one, carefully peeling back the golden wrapping paper.
“You shouldn’t have, Clark.”
“I wanted to.”
His words silence you, and you open the small cardboard box to find a silver pendant hanging from a black cord. You pull it out of the box, lifting it up from the cord and letting the pendant dangle in front of your eyes. A small, perfectly crafted, silver anatomical heart catches the light, and your own heart does something dangerous.
“Y’know because… feelings over reason. That’s how it feels to read your poems.”
You turn to meet his gaze.
“Clark, it's beautiful… I… I don’t know what to say, thank you so much.”
“You don’t have to say anything… I’m glad you like it.”
You catch the blush creeping up his neck and it makes you grin like an idiot. You immediately clasp the necklace around your neck, placing it neatly overtop your clothes, on display. It shines silver like a beacon, and your fingers find it, rubbing it, already seeking comfort from the feeling.
“What’s the other one then? I don’t think it can beat this.”
“Open it and tell me yourself.”
The paper on the second parcel comes off quickly, and your heart drops out of your chest when you see what it is.
“Clark, where did you find this?”
You hold the old book in your hands, delicately, like you’re scared it’s about to fall apart. Honestly, it could. You run your fingers over the embossed title: Récits fantastiques, Théophile Gautier. You open it carefully, looking for a publication date, and your blood rushes when you read 1850.
“When we first met… really met, at the bar, with everyone else, you told me your first stories read like bad Gautier imitations… I don’t know, I saw it in a bookstore and thought of you. I couldn’t pass up the opportunity.”
“I’m forever in your debt.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, it’s a gift. I… I’m glad you like it.”
“I really do,” you say as you wrap the book back in the paper and carefully store it in your bag. “Thank you.”
“... You’re welcome, even though you don-”
“I don’t have to thank you, I know… I want to. Thanks, Clark.”
He nods, smiling, offering you a hand up. You stand, stretching your arms above your head, and as you walk back to the increasingly rowdy crowd, stopping to listen to Jimmy talk about something you forget to act interested in, you find yourself gently leaning against Clark’s solid frame. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t react, but you feel him inch closer, offering stability. Neither of you see Lois smile like she’s won the lottery, exceedingly proud of herself.
The night inches forward, and soon enough, everyone is leaving, Jimmy struggling beneath the weight of a basically asleep Steve, Lois cleaning up the last of the mess, gathering her things, and you’re wrapping yourself in your scarf, waiting for Clark to ask the inevitable question.
“Can I walk you home?” There it is. You don’t hesitate, this time, just nod, and he places himself beside you, latching onto your personal space. You can’t complain.
Lois says goodbye with a tight hug, Jimmy manages a wave while keeping Steve upright, Perry sends you off with a lethal slap on the back, which you barely have time to steel yourself against.
In the empty street, your ears ring from the sudden quiet. It feels off, seeing Metropolis so empty, vacant of life that’s hiding behind walls, in the warmth of friends and family, for the night.
“Tonight was nice,” you hear yourself say, desperate to strike up a conversation.
“It was, yeah… I was worried about you. I really was, you literally fell off the face of the Earth.”
When your eyes meet, the azure is full of turmoil.
“I didn’t mean… I… I wasn’t doing great, I’m sorry if I worried you.”
“Don’t apologize. I just wanted to make sure you’re doing okay, I don’t want you to feel guilty.”
He reads into your emotions with scary precision, as you could already feel unwavering guilt building up in your guts.
“Does it happen often? That… switch.”
“It… It’s happened before, yeah… But I always recover, it’s alright. I’m alright, Clark, I promise.”
He senses you’re not keen to talk about it and bites back his concern. The silence is comfortable, full of things neither of you feel capable of saying. He doesn’t see you admire how the yellow streetlights paint his skin and hair golden, you don’t notice him looking at the stars reflected in your eyes when you look at the sky.
Your apartment building comes into view too quickly, and you don’t feel like stepping away from him, from his warmth. Keys in hand, you step towards the door, before turning to face him.
“Would you like to come upstairs?”
His face lights up, like you’d just offered him the world in the palm of your hand.
“I’d love to.”
Your apartment is still a mess when you walk inside, significantly better than it had been during the last few weeks though. You crack open a window, letting the cool wind wash away the stale air, as Clark settles on the couch, body substantially more relaxed than the last time he was here.
You settle beside him on the couch, curling your legs in front of you, leaning against the armrest to face him completely.
Neither of you say anything, you’re just looking at each other, trying to figure out if what you’re feeling is purely imagined, or maybe, just maybe, something real and tangible between you. You don’t have time to reach a conclusion before Clark grabs your ankle and gently pulls you closer. You oblige, moving so your legs are pressed against each other.
“Clark?”
“Yeah, sweetheart?”
The nickname goes straight to your gut, butterflies taking flight beneath your skin.
“What’s on your mind?”
He doesn't answer, just presses his lips against yours sweetly, and you can taste cinnamon and bubbles from the champagne on his skin. He moves away first, cheeks dusted pink, tips of his ears going red.
“Was that okay?” he asks, barely above a whisper. You nod.
“Better than okay.”
He kisses you again, lips moving slowly against yours, urging you to let him in. You do. He’s heady like honey and wine in your mouth, strong, persistent. He moves you easily, grabbing your waist and pulling you towards him, impossibly closer, placing you atop his strong thighs. When you pull back, breathless and flushed, lips glistening with spit, pupils blown wide, he’s looking at you like you’re worth more than gold. His glasses are crooked, you remove them and place them carefully on the coffee table, tie loose, and he looks so absolutely inviting. Lips against lips, chest against chest, soft noises escaping from your throat under his skillful hands, it doesn’t take long for your hips to start moving against his, in slow, purposeful movements, feeling him slowly grow stiff beneath you. You whine softly when he pulls away, looking down in embarrassment at your eagerness.
“Bedroom?” he asks.
“Please.”
He picks you up effortlessly, large hands gripping your thighs, and carries you the short way to your bedroom, your head tucked in the crook of his neck. He lays you down gently, making quick work of your shirt and bra. There’s a moment of steady silence where he just stands above you, admiring, and you have the irrational urge to cover yourself up. You don’t.
You grab his tie, pull him lower, undoing the knot and unbuttoning his shirt with trembling hands, pushing it over his broad shoulders and away, forgotten, and you try, really try, not to stare. You fail miserably.
Everything about him is strong, solid, bulging with strength. He’s on top of you again, bracing his weight on his hands on either side of your head, kissing you harder, stronger, like he has something to prove. Your hands find his belt buckle, hesitate for a split-second before giving way to your need, unbuckling his belt and fumbling with the button of his trousers.
You’re called back to reality by the lack of his lips on yours, immediately replaced by lightning shooting down your spine when his warm mouth closes around your right nipple and something too desperate flies out of your mouth.
You barely register Clark pulling down your bottoms and underwear in one easy movement, and you tense when you feel his hand creeping across your thigh. He immediately pulls back, worry in his eyes.
“Is this okay?.. We can stop if-”
“N-No! Please no, I don’t wanna stop.”
“You sure?”
“Don’t you dare stop.” He nods, resuming his careful ministrations, and you feel your hips move up to meet his hands halfway. He smiles against your skin and you throw an arm over your eyes, bashful.
“Hey, no… I want you to look at me… please.”
The quiet desperation in his voice convinces you to pull your arm away, and you gasp when his fingers meet your slick core, eyes widening when they meet his. He’s slow, tentative, it feels like he’s mapping you out, learning where to touch to make you feel good. Anything feels good, you wish you could tell him.
His lips meet yours again as the pad of his thumb presses gently against your clit, making you moan languidly into his mouth, sounds coaxed forward by skillful fingers.
Shamefully, it’s been so long since anything has happened for you, since you’ve even felt the need to take care of yourself, that you already feel pleasure building up in your belly, tightly wound and white hot. When his middle finger slowly pushes into you, you whine desperately, grabbing his wrist. He pulls back, confusion etched on his face. When he sees your already blissed expression, his face grows red.
“What is it sweetheart, what do you want?”
“Your mouth… please Clark… need it,” you mumble, words tumbling out of your mouth, shame long since forgotten in the face of such pleasure.
He hums, creeping lower, pressing soft kisses on your stomach and thighs on his way down. At the first lick, you’re gone. Your back arches off the bed and Clark takes the opportunity to throw your legs over his broad shoulders, offering no escape. Not that you’d want to escape.
He’s on you like a man eating his last meal, lapping up everything you have to offer, and you swear you’re already seeing stars.
“C-Clark… Oh god…”
He gently pushes two fingers in, sucking on your clit, moaning into you like you taste like ambrosia. When he curls his fingers, slowly moving them back and forth, the moan you let out is pornographic, embarrassment flooding you. But that only seems to spur Clark on, and his mouth and fingers work in tandem, tightening the coil under your skin, bringing you dangerously close to the edge, so quickly.
Your hips push upwards, his nose bumping against you, only adding to the numbing pleasure you’re losing yourself in.
“G-God… Fuck, I’m close Clark… please… don’t stop..” you admit shamefully, but when you look down, Clark is looking up at you, starstruck.
“You’re so beautiful… So perfect,” he mumbles against you, vibrations sending electricity flying beneath your skin.
The sight is burned into your retinas: Clark, kneeling in front of you, thighs wrapped around his head, face half-buried between your legs, fingers deep inside you, touching spots you didn’t know existed, and his other hand palming himself roughly through his trousers.
That alone is enough to make your body jerk, and with one last lick to your clit, you’re sent flying off the edge, body tensing up, moans and profanities and pleas for more flying out of your swollen lips. He eats up everything, overstimulating you to the point that your vision goes blank, completely engulfed by the feeling of his lips against your neglected body.
You have to card your fingers through his hair and pull him upwards for him to relent, instead pushing his lips against yours, hungry, and you can taste yourself on his tongue. He grabs your tits, kneading them gently, and your fingers trace along his tense abs, lower, lower to the line of his boxers.
His hips tug forward, pressing against your fingers dancing along his waistline, and you indulge, pushing lower, underneath his soaked boxers, finding his throbbing length, ignored and hot to the touch. You push his boxers down, pull away from his lips, ignoring his sad whine to watch his cock spring free, and all the air in your lungs is knocked out at the sheer size of him.
“Holy shit, Clark…”
He grows pink under your impressed gaze, hands gripping your waist tightly. He notices your trembling arm from where you’re holding yourself up and takes initiative, manhandling you into a more comfortable position, flipping you over so you're sitting atop him while he leans against the headboard.
Your hand barely wraps around him as you start running your hands back and forth, from the base to the tip, at a slow, languorous pace, and his abs are tensing, struggling to stay still. He buries his face in the juncture of your neck and shoulder, biting and pressing soft kisses to soothe the sweet pain, and you have to coax his face upwards to kiss him again, swallowing his whines as you continue to slowly bring him to the edge.
You didn’t give him the chance to warn you, lips pressed together, your tongue in his mouth, but you feel his abs flexing beneath your soft touch, and oh so suddenly, he’s cumming all over your belly, decorating your skin with himself.
He pulls back, apologizing profusely.
“Golly, I’m sorry… Oh god sorry..”
“‘S alright… Don’t be sorry.” The look you send his way has him melting into your touch, his blissed out eyes doing something to you, want brewing in your belly again, but you tamp it down. Instead, you collapse against his chest, arms snaking around his neck, and his strong arms wrap around your torso, holding you close.
You stay like that for a while, his fingers dancing along your back, before he makes a go to move away. You whine pathetically, too tired to actually protest.
“Where are you going?”
“Gotta get you cleaned up sweetheart.”
You smile giddily at the softness in his voice, and shift to move off of him, rolling onto your back on the bed. He stands up, pulling on his boxers as he walks to your bathroom.
This man is magic is all you can think of as he reappears beside you, cleaning your skin with a wet rag, delicately, like he’s restoring a piece of art. You let him, moving to give him easier access, and it’s quick work. He’s laying down beside you soon enough, gathering you against his chest, and the casual intimacy, the easiness with which he moves around and towards you, strikes something deep within you.
Tired, spent out, both of you still tipsy from the bad champagne from the party, you both fall asleep quickly, breathing in tandem, and your last thought before the sweet darkness swallows you is that maybe trusting Clark hadn’t been such a bad idea. You’re gladd he didn’t stay away.
When you wake up, dull sunlight streaming in through a gap in your curtains, the apartment smells like coffee. Good coffee you don’t remember owning. You stumble out of bed, grabbing a tshirt and underwear on your way to the bathroom, and you stop to stare at yourself in the mirror.
Rosy cheeks, wide eyes, lips still slightly swollen, hair mussed up… You look better than you have in weeks. Sex really is magical. Or maybe that’s just the Clark Kent effect.
You wash your face, brush your teeth, make yourself more presentable before walking to the living room, where you find Clark at the small table, steaming cup of coffee in hand, nose buried in a book he stole from one of the precarious piles that litter your apartment.
“Hi.”
He looks up.
“Good morning.”
You sit in front of him, taking the cup he offers you and greedily drinking the burning coffee.
The silence is easy, nothing needs to be said. His hand finds yours over the table, fingers interlacing.
So far, remaining unknown was your curse and your defence mechanism. Clark had seen that. He’d seen it all. He’d seen the ugly part, been victim of the things you can’t control, and yet, he stays. He’s here, this morning, looking at you like the sun only shines when you’re there, and that’s enough to convince you that maybe, just maybe, you don’t mind letting Clark know you better.
the quiet ones
dbf!joel miller and john price x reader
୨୧ cw: porn without plot, threesome, groping, oral sex, innocence kink, dumbification of reader (?), reader is the meat in that sandwich, pussy spanking.
they were drinking in the living room.
your dad, joel and price, his long time friends. they were sitting on the living room, drinking, having a good time. you knew them, you have talked to them more than once of course. but still...
you've always been a little shy around them. not because they weren’t kind, they were. joel had fixed a shelf of your room without even thinking. price had brought you a little souvenir from one of his trips. they were good men.
but still, they were men.
and joel was quiet, serious, sometimes you'd say he's too grumpy, not with you but still. price on the other hand, he talked just a little more, he always tries to make conversation but somehow, you still get shy. and how can you not? the man is huge. broad, bearded and built like some kind of bear.
you weren't afraid of them, that they would hurt you—cause you know they wouldn't, they were all gentlemen. that's what they had always showed you. it was just... the awareness of them. how big they were, how grown. how different from the boys you knew.
so you didn’t talk much when they were around. you smiled, nodded, brought them snacks, for them and dad.
like tonight. you got in the living room with a tray between hands, holding some snacks you did for dad cause you know he don't like to drink if he has nothing to eat.
you were wearing that little denim skirt, a top that wasn't revealing but even so, it had a perfect neckline for your breasts.
you left the tray on the table where they had the glasses of what they were drinking.
"thanks, sweetheart," your dad mumbled, but he sounds drunk. he is drunk. "ain’t she somethin’? i mean, really. look at her. good girl, always takin’ care of her old man."
you rolled your eyes with a small smile. "dad—"
"nah, let me talk," he said. "i mean it. i’m proud of you, honey. don’t say it enough. smart. kind. sweet. never gives me trouble. even brought snacks without me askin’. y’all don’t know how lucky i am."
you felt your cheeks burn when you sat down on the arm of the couch. "you’re drunk."
he chuckled, poiting at the other couch. "sit down. have a drink with your old man."
"you know i don’t like drinking."
he turned to joel and price. "see that?" he said. "doesn’t even drink. she’s good."
price drank from his glass. "didn’t know there were still girls like that around."
joel's eyes were trailing you, as if trying to decide if taking your dad's words or finding by himself about what your dad said. "your old man raised you right, huh."
"damn right i did," your dad muttered, sinking on the couch, eyes already sleepy. "damn right."
they kept talking but dad was dozing off, his eyes closed by themselves. so eventually, he stood up from the couch.
"that enough," he mumbled, lazily. he leaned down to you and pressed his lips on your forehead. "good night, love."
"night, daddy," you said. "you want me to help you upstairs?"
"nah, i'm good," he patted your head.
dad disappeared upstairs.
suddenly, the room felt different without him, of course, it was kinda awkward for you, specially cause you noticed the way joel and price were glancing at each other, like agreeing in something without even speaking.
then, they looked at you. "well," you cleared your throat, "guess i should head to my room too."
price got more comfortable on the couch before speaking. "why don’t you have a drink first? your dad’s gone now." is that what they believe? that you were just saying that because your dad was here?
you laughed, shaking your head. "i told you, i don’t like drinking."
joel scoffed. "what? you some kinda virgin mary or somethin’?"
your cheeks burned. joel had that tone. he didn't intend to be intimidating, but he was—to you.
price's laughter filled the room after what joel said. "virgin mary," he repeated, laughing for how ridiculous it was.
"am i lying? girl doesn't do anything," joel chuckled. "do you, sweet girl? at college." you shook your head.
"no parties?" joel asked, with that smile like he knows better.
you shook your head again.
joel groaned. "mm. the quiet ones," he said, almost like he was talking to himself. "always the most dangerous."
your brows furrowed, eyes narrowing just a little. “what’s that supposed to mean?”
they didn’t answer. they just laughed and looked at each other, which only made you more nervous.
"ignore him, sweetheart, he's being an asshole," price said.
"tell me, i wanna know," you insisted. "please?"
you looked so small, watching to them both, big wide eyes, curious, even if you knew there was something else behind what joel said. you wanted to know, you wanted to prove them wrong—or right.
joel leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. "the quiet girls," he said, eyes fixed on you, "always end up bein’ the most dangerous."
"in what way?" you asked softly, hands on your lap.
joel only scoffed, shaking his head.
price chuckled too, tipping his glass toward joel. "reminds me, man, you remember in college? how that always happened with the virgins?"
joel leaned his head back, laughing.
you frowned. "what are you talking about?" you asked more demanding but still shy.
their laughter only deepened, the sound making you flush even more. price leaned back in his chair, trailing you, stopping by your thighs, maybe your skirt was too short and it made you feel self-conscious. joel didn’t answer, just stared at you like he already knew exactly how long you’d last before asking again.
"so?" you speaked again.
"the quiet girls are always a sluts in bed," he said, raw like that. "they won't say a word but they would suck your dick like their life depends on it."
you swallowed, even your body feels hot, your cheeks, your thighs, your pussy, too. and the silence filled the room, either price or joel said a word, they were just delighted by seeing you like that.
but price broke the damn silence. "or they're just virgins. or virgins desperate for cock."
"are you, sweetheart?" joel asked. "are you the goddamn virgin mary?"
you shook your head slowly. "so you're a little slut in bed," price said playfully.
"no!" you snapped, looking at him with a frown.
joel laughed. "have you had sex before?" you nodded. "and you got your daddy thinkin' you're all sweet and innocent, how bold."
you gulped. "but i'm not like that."
price clicked his tongue. "oh, i see. you're one of the boring ones."
you shook your head. "i can be bold too."
they raised their brows, amused, curious now, to see how far you go. "show us, then," joel said.
"what do you want me to do?" you asked softly.
"strip, for us," price said, joel looked at him and laughed, as if he just said something out of pocket to you. of course, it was out of pocket to ask their friend's daughter to strip for them, specially when she looked kinda lost and shy, and it was even worse that, that's what they liked.
you looked at them, and after a couple of seconds, decided to prove yourself. so you stood up, and toyed the hem of your top, trying to look sexy for them, but you looked nervous, your hands were shaking and they... they were just enjoying the little show. specially seeing your top fall to the floor.
they were perfect, your breasts. just covered by a piece of fabric they knew they could rip with even one hand. both of them leaned back on their seat. price adjusted his jeans, already feeling something growing inside of his pants.
it was just you in the denim skirt. you unbuttoned, leaning to drag it down to your ankles. as you stood up, they held their breaths.
joel knew. you were one of the quiet ones. wearing a damn thong and still acting clueless.
and before you could do anything else, joel stood up and walked to you. you could do nothing but walking backwards toward the wall, feeling small all of the sudden.
"i told you i can be bold," you murmured, looking up to him with those—still shy eyes.
"such a brave girl," he said with his gaze all dark. "real pretty too."
your cheeks burned red. "thanks," you mumbled.
he leaned, teasing your neck with his lips. "would you mind sitting on the couch, for us, sweetheart?"
it was like an instict, you just followed what he said, sitting on the couch, hands on your lap again.
they both stood up in front of you now. "should i get dressed?" you asked, curling your toes in nervousness.
"get your legs on the couch," price said and after a beat, you did. "spread open."
you blinked and did it too, parting your knees, leaving almost nothing to the imagination. their eyes were fixated on your slit, on the piece of fabric that didn't let them see what they wanted.
"you're so obedient," price growled. he was almost drooling by seeing the wet spot on your panties. "how many boys have you been with?"
"um—well, just simon, he's from my class," you explained. "he was the highest grade on math."
they chuckled. "was this simon gentle with you? did you enjoy it?"
you shrugged. "i don't know, it was really fast."
and they laughed even harder, joel's hand came up to your knee, then went lower, to your inner thigh, then, to your slit, but never touching you.
"you're wet," he said pointing at the stain.
you chuckled nervously. "well, i—" you swallowed. "yeah."
"have you even touched yourself, sweet girl?" he kept going.
you tried to avoid their gazes, but it's impossible. "yeah," you admitted.
"can you show us?" price said without a second thought.
you looked upstairs. "well, i—dad is upstairs, you guys are like... his friends and i don't—"
"there it goes," joel drawled. "suddenly she remembered she was a good girl."
"but i am!"
"then do what he says, sweetheart, touch yourself for us."
and as ordered, you lifted your hips to take off your panties, but when you had the piece of fabric in your hands, your knees were together, stuck like glue.
"can you guys promise you won't tell about this to my dad?" you asked softly, looking up at them, all shy and nervous.
they chuckled, price already with a hand on his bulge. "sweetheart, we won't say a word," he rasped, "now let us see."
you closed your eyes before parting your legs again.
you could feel their gazes, and also, you felt vulnerable, small, like if they had some kind of power over you in that moment. even so, you touched yourself as you usually do, drawing lazy circles on your clit, whimpering very softly to the sensation.
they both were watching, without saying a word, without even looking at each other. they knew this was wrong, of course, but that doesn't mean they would stop, not at all. price was the first one to take the first step, unzipping his jeans to take out his dick.
your opened your eyes to the sound and then, your gaze widened and your hand stopped working. he was huge and big. and he was a man old enough to be your father. they both were.
joel caught your gaze and how it changed, as if you were seeing something new. "don't stop," joel said, tipping his head to your pussy. "have you never seen a cock?"
you swallowed, shifting your gaze to his, cheeks burning red. "i-i have but—" you bit your lip. "he's too big."
price hissed, drawing circles on his tip with his thumb, looking at your pussy. joel instead, kneeled and it made your stomach flutter. his hands went straight on the sides of your hips, pulling you to him.
"has someone ever tasted this, sweet girl?" he asked, brushing his nose on your inner thighs.
"no," you mumbled. "guys says it's nasty."
he chuckled, planting a kiss to your mound. "they don't know what they're missing."
he kissed your mound a couple more times, sucking the skin, leaving it flushed, you gasped, but didn't stop him. not when he made his way to your nub, sucking it too, just in the right way, swirling his tongue, leaving it more swollen, just as the rest of your pussy.
he tossed your legs over his shoulders and ate, tasting your folds, hitting the right spot with his tongue, and you did nothing else than pull his hair and curl your toes, moaning softly, bititng your lip trying to muffle some, but you couldn't, it was too much, too new and it felt just good. good enough to buck your hips by instict.
price instead, he was just watching you getting eaten out, he was jerking off coming closer until he could grab one of your breasts, toying the nipple. you looked up to him and he pinched the nipple, just to watch you squirm and whimper.
your gaze stuck to his dick, eager to touch it, to taste him even. "you want my cock, sweetie?" he asked. "you're not a good girl anymore?"
you blinked and nodded. "c-can i touch it?" you licked your lips. "please?"
you didn't need to say more. he nodded and you brought your hand to his balls, just feeling, testing how heavy they were, you raised your gaze for a moment just to find him, all scrunched up, heavily breathing. then, you finally fisted him, dragging your hand up and down, slow and gentle. too much for his liking.
"you know what you're doing, aren't you?" price said between breathy moans.
your lips tugged a shy smile. "what am i doing?" you mumbled.
joel slid his fingers inside you, feeling how soft and tight you were. the slick of your flesh made it easy, and as he worked on your nub, he was filling another part of you too. you parted your lips, moaning, making joel looked up to you, jerking off his friend, looking directly to his eyes, acting all innocent even when you're being used for their pleasure.
"here," joel growled, lifting his fingers—covered in your fluids, to your mouth. "taste yourself."
and you did, you sucked his finger, looking straight to his eyes, holding his arm with your free hand.
price groaned and joel stopped too, since he was aching in his pants too, his dick begging to be out and taken care of too. he needed to fill you. he needed to feel the softness of your walls with his dick, he wanted to hear how much you like it, he wanted you to take off the mask of the sweet girl you always carry everywhere.
"that it," joel said, holding your ankles, but not touchig you anymore. "isn't she the prettiest little thing?" joel said looking to your flushed and puffy pussy.
price came closer, enough to swat it. "she is," he rasped once you jumped.
you whimpered. "that hurt," you said.
"good," he said and did it again, and then joel did it.
both men spanking your pussy, leaving it even more sensitive, more flushed and your legs were already trembling. they loved seeing you like that. you were just taking it, not complaining, not asking them to stop. you just curled your toes and whimpered. until they had enough.
joel made you stand up, naked in between them, price on your back, your hands on joel's chest. he leaned to press his lips on yours, just a soft needy kiss, while price rubbed his dick on your buttcheek. you wrapped joel's neck with your arms, clinging to him. your lips were soft, puffy and wet, you swipped your tongue on his lower lip as he held your hips tight to him, so you could feel how hard he was through his jeans.
you gasped and moved one hand down to cup his bulge. "i thought you were too old to get hard," you said between sloppy kisses.
he chuckled with not a trace of humor behind it. "yeah?" you nodded. "this old man got you this wet," he rasped, swatting your butt. "this old man got you begging for cock, sweetheart," he said, swatting your butt once more before turning you around.
this time, he give no time to react, he just pinned you on the couch, unzipped his jeans and rubbed his cock on your slit. price instead, he came to the front, but you didn't look at his dick, though it was right in front of you, you were looking to his eyes.
he wanted to test the waters. to see how far could you go. so he teased his thumb on your lips, which you immediately wrapped and sucked, never breaking eye contact.
"aren't you the sweetest girl?" price growled. "lemme see how cute you look sucking cock."
and then, you had the mushroom tip between your lips, and joel's on your entrance. they both got inside at the same time, price slower than joel, cause he wanted to prove you wrong, that you were dying for his old man's cock still works, that you wanted his old man's cock to fuck you.
you moaned against price's flesh, but didn't stop. he tangled his fingers in your hair, guiding you gently. praising you even when you gagged. "too much, isn't it?" he groaned. you shook your head. "you're a brave girl."
"and tight," joel grunted, thrusting deep. he wasn't lying, you were taking him so well. he hadn't fuck a girl this young, not at his age, but surely won't be the last time. maybe he can keep fucking his best friend's daughter all summer.
price glanced to joel. "come on, man," he said. "lemme try now."
"nah, i'm not done with her yet," joel said digging his fingers even more on your hips. you whined and looked at him over your shoulder. "told ya she was worth the risk, look at that."
he swatted your butt and price chuckled. "move," he growled to joel.
and he did, almost complaining, just as you went he pulled out. "oh, no worries, love," joel dralwed, holding your jaw while price teased your entrance. "i'm getting you filled right here," he said trailing his thumb over your lip.
you nodded. "she loves being filled, don't you, sweetheart?" price said, sliding his dick inside.
you closed your eyes, nodding at the same time you wrapped the mushroom tip of joel with your lips. "do you think your daddy still think you're a good girl if he knew you have two cocks in you?" you looked up to him. "cause i knew you weren't," he said guiding your head down to him.
price wasn't like joel, he wasn't being careful, he was thrusting like you were the only woman in the world. both men were using you as they wanted, but also, they were getting to the climax.
"come on, sweetheart," price groaned. "you're so tight for me." and you were, your walls were throbbing, chocking him just right, just enough for him to pull out before he came inside.
your gaze was on joel's, sucking him, eyes watery but not gagging. you were all he thought you were. you hide behind that mask but this is exactly what you needed. cock. he smirked thinking about it and bucked his hips, fucking your mouth until there was cum running down your throat.
"still works, doesn't it?" joel groaned, pulling your hair.
you swallowed it. "mhm," you nodded, hair sticking to your cheeks for how sweaty you were.
price was staring at his own mess. his cum was over your buttcheeks, he tossed a finger on it and brought it to your hole. "that it."
you let your body fall to the couch while they fixed their clothes, making a pillow with your arms. you were just laying there, on your stomach, looking at them.
Aaron Hotchner x fleabag!reader
Genre: Mutual pining & Fluff (I know, it feels strange for me too)
Summary: Valentine’s Day is already hell when you’re stuck on shift avoiding your crush on Aaron Hotchner... then he shows up, fills out your café’s tacky matchmaking card, and basically confesses. Cute, right? Until has an allergic reaction, and you end up on your knees giving him an EpiPen injection that could very well land him in the ER for… entirely different reasons.
Warnings: waaaay too cheesy (idiots in love), a few cuss words here and there, unashamed size kink about Hotch’s hands (sue me), relentless bullying over his lack of ass, Hotch has an allergic reaction (loser), incorrect use of EpiPen, Superman name-drop lovingly dedicated to Dr. Bin Hotchology
Word Count: 4.1k
Dado's Corner: request here!! I couldn’t resist cramming in some cheap philosophy within the first 200 words... so enjoy an entirely wrong take on Spinoza’s immanence!! YAYYYY! Still, I put extra love into the graphics this time, so have fun (or don’t!) scrolling through them hihi + super special thanks to @sweetheartsocks & @hotchology <3
masterlist
On your bathroom break (doomscrolling Facebook like a responsible adult) you stumble across the nugget that Dutch philosopher Baruch Spinoza once claimed there’s a little bit of God in everything.
Sweet sentiment, sure - but the man lived in the 1600s, with quills and endless afternoons to philosophize, not behind the counter of a cafeteria on Valentine’s Day, hemmed in by $9.99 polyester puppies gnawing on plush hearts with their polyester teeth.
(And what next… polyester organs? A polyester bloodstream? A polyester soul?)
God is hard to spot when every oven is a ticking bomb: sponge cake pleading for rescue in four minutes, croissants bronzing to perfection in twelve, the so-called Lover’s Cheesecake (just cherry in a tacky Valentine’s disguise, but slap “limited edition” on the label and watch the masses worship) demanding release in seventeen.
Meanwhile, the counter seethes - ravenous couples tripping over each other to pay, everything doubled, doubled, doubled - while you’re forced to hand out Valentine’s “get to know me” cards.
(The rules: fill one out as you order, swap it with whatever stranger in the café makes your loins twitch.)
Apparently flirting is a lost art, so now corporations have to prepackage desire and sell it back to people. Profitable as hell - no one’s here for coffee and cake, they’re here for the speed-date special (one drink + compulsory pastry purchase), hoping to get laid while you just get paid.
So you keep grinning, as if your soul isn’t evaporating into the steam belching from the industrial dishwasher, as if you don’t feel blisteringly alone in the middle of it all.
And through it all, your brain keeps skipping from timer alarms to the image of federal fingers, two knuckles deep, every time you’re piping cream into a puff. (Shit… down to the last few slices of cream pie, too.)
Suddenly, the strawberry glaze on the donuts looks uncomfortably close to the pink of his lips, and before you can stop yourself, every eclair, cannoli, and tart around you starts to register as blatantly, absurdly phallic.
So no, there’s no God in these few square feet of linoleum.
Only the rush, the timers, the low-grade panic of not scorching custard while imagining what it might feel like to have a very specific authority (say, a 46-year-old, father-of-one, Unit Chief of the BAU sort of authority) shoved into you, both literally and metaphorically.
Spinoza’s Theory: burned to a crisp.
Or maybe not burned - just torched by distraction.
Because it’s easy to dunk on Spinoza’s God-in-everything theory when the real problem is this: whatever it is you feel for Mr. Aaron Hotchner (swimmer, FBI agent, father of one, unfairly skilled at fingering) is not just lust. And those polyester Valentine puppies staring at you aren’t exactly helping you pretend otherwise.
The thing is, you and Aaron have undeniable (stupid) sexual chemistry. You’ve tried to avoid each other - it doesn’t work. You’ll both always find an excuse to meet.
And while the beginnings of those meetings are awkward-but-friendly, catching up like two people playing at normalcy, they never stay that way. Because inevitably one of you leans in, and suddenly (veeeery suddenly) you’re making out, messy and pressed together, and more often than not it escalates - your fault, mostly, but he never exactly protests - into grinding so intense it teeters on obscene.
(Dry humping. Yes. Very good dry humping. [Which is, frankly, mortifying.])
But that’s where it stops.
Because you both know if you cross that line - if hands slip below belts (or into that mythical zone where his undershirt never seems to exist) - then you’ll have to have the Talk™. And nothing is more terrifying than that.
So you settle for what you do: kissing until your lips ache, pretending the marks you leave on each other are accidental, silently agreeing that everything from collarbone to hip is no man’s land.
But then, inevitably, you have to leave.
He drives you home, walks you all the way to your door, and kisses you goodbye with such unbearable tenderness it makes you want to undo every boundary you swore you’d keep.
And now you’re starting to miss him.
You catch yourself wanting to see him even in your luteal phase (a biological red flag if there ever was one). You get a dopamine rush every time your phone screen lights up, only to spiral into frustration when it doesn’t say Aaron Hotchner.
You linger too long on his profile picture, sketching his face from memory, refreshing his status, waiting for the green dot to glow - then panicking and exiting the chat the second he comes online.
You’re absolutely cooked (like the sponge cake in one minute, croissants in nine, Lover’s Cheesecake in fourteen) for him.
And worse, you’re terrified. Terrified he might not feel the same. More terrified he does, and might want to make sense of… whatever this is.
It’s not that you don’t want love… hell, love is your longest obsession, the thing you’ve been starving for since you were old enough to understand what wanting even was.
But wanting it with him feels different.
He’s older, sharper, devastatingly hot in a way no guy your age could ever fake (though you do have to remind yourself, repeatedly, to redirect blood flow to your brain for at least a few more minutes).
He radiates competence, emotional intelligence, a steadiness you’ve never touched before, the kind of gravity that makes you feel like you could stop spinning out of orbit if you just stood close enough to him.
With Aaron, it isn’t about chasing chaos or flinging yourself into the arms of the wrong men for the thrill of the disaster, it’s about the terrifying possibility of something that could actually last.
The cruel joke, though, is that once you peel back the layers, Aaron isn’t a safe fantasy at all. He’s a very troubled man. And yet, that only makes you want him more.
You’d love to tell yourself there’s no one else like him, but since the start of your shift you’ve mistaken at least six dark-haired men in three-piece suits for him from behind.
Which is ridiculous.
You don’t even know why your brain entertained the idea in the first place. It’s not like he’d be dropping in on Valentine’s Day to check up on you.
He’s a busy man, for one thing.
And for another - you’re nothing. A distraction, maybe. A bad habit at best. You shouldn’t even be expecting him.
Still, you find yourself wandering past the pastry lab backdoor more times than necessary, circling through the staff room just to glance at your phone, hoping for a notification.
Maybe he feels as alone on Valentine’s as you do.
Maybe he’s texted, asking if you’re free, so you could meet up and trade war stories about your day… before inevitably ending up pressed against each other, doing the usual.
Or maybe he’s drowning in paperwork, too responsible to even look at his phone.
Maybe he’s found an actual date, someone who wasn’t too scared shitless to be direct and take a ride on his thick- well.
But no. Nothing. Not even the green light of him being online.
And your eyes start to betray you so badly that every man with dark hair becomes him. Then even that flimsy requirement collapses, and suddenly every man reminds you of him.
Every profile. Every flash of shoulders and jawlines in the crowd.
Every voice pitched low enough to rattle your ribs sounds like his, every passing accent with that faint, posh cadence becomes his.
Even silence begins to sound like him.
Even the nothingness, somehow, holds the echo of his presence. Which is cuckoo bananas, because the café has never been so suffocatingly overcrowded, and yet there he is, threaded through it all, standing right in the middle of the absence.
In every single few square feet of linoleum, he lingers.
He’s there.
For real. (FR! No, not France.)
Tangible. Matter and bone. On the other side of the counter. Not some hallucination, but him: all suited up, shoulders cutting the crowd, that disarming, unexpected smile tugging his mouth open just slightly as the line spits him out at the register.
“What can I do for you?” you ask, smiling - leaning into the double edge of the words, savoring the way he glances down, mouth still parted, shaking his head once before he finally drags his eyes back up to yours.
“Hey… uh. Hi. Just a Black Americano. No sugar, please.” The most basic order in existence… and yet somehow the most painfully awkward thing either of you has ever managed to say.
You scramble for the next step (payment? He does have to pay, right?) but his stupidly earnest eyes knock you so off-balance you almost forget capitalism still applies, even to sexual tension. (Definitely not an alpha move.)
“Um… cash or-”
“Card, please.” (Oh, he’s so pretty.)
Too pretty, really, to be digging around in a wallet, but here he is, taking his sweet time with a sleek leather one. He keeps eye contact as he thumbs through the slots, and you feel… warm. Uncomfortably warm.
He pulls out the first card, hesitates, quickly pushes it back in, checks the one behind (driver’s license), then the one even behind (library card, adorable), raises his eyebrows at himself in self-disappointment, and finally circles back to the original card - all with the composure of a man who clearly hopes you didn’t notice his clumsiness.
(And indeed, you don’t notice… you’re too busy staring at his hands.)
That’s when he spots the stack of Valentine’s matchmaking cards at the register. His brow furrows, leaning closer to read the tiny print.
…Right. Payment. Suspended. You almost forgot that tiny capitalism detail.
“To place an order, you have to fill-” (‘the barista,’ aka you, who now wants to die, preferably at the hands of those thick fingers) “-this card…”
You can’t even bring yourself to explain the rest of the drill, you just jab a finger toward the cutesy poster of instructions and pray he can read.
Still, the idea of Aaron Hotchner actually participating in a speed date within spitting distance of you feels like the kind of humiliation that would officially cement this as the worst Valentine’s Day in recorded history.
“You know there are better ways to harvest people’s personal data, right?” he says flatly, head tipped, brows arched in that unmistakable Disappointed Dad way. (Which is hilarious, really, because his eyes go wide and soft when he does it even while he’s busy lecturing you about petty larceny with customer info.)
“Scared no one will pick you?” you fire back, already sliding toward the pastry case like the world’s most reckless hypocrite.
Because it’s Valentine’s Day, you’re a feminist, and if your crush isn’t even bringing you flowers, then fine, you’re not bitter. Not at all. In fact, you should totally be the one showering him with freebies.
(Aka “picking him.” Aka immediately contradicting yourself in deed if not in word. Man… Aaron Hotchner can’t even enjoy the humbling experience of worrying what it might feel like not to be picked for once in his life, because here you are, doling out princess treatment. This is busted.)
And yet… there’s that hope. That flicker of idiocy whispering that maybe he’ll clock the gesture, tuck it away somewhere in that brain, and think twice before handing his matchmaking card to some random woman. Or man.
(Not that it matters. He’s free to do whatever he wants… you’re not together. You have no claim. You shouldn’t care. You could do the exact same thing. Totally. Hypothetically. You won’t, obviously. But you could.)
Just for him, you plate a tart you’re obnoxiously proud of: glossy pastry cream, a scatter of fresh raspberries, that faint blush from strawberry powder folded into the base (all-natural, no fake dye, because you’re ethical even in your hypocrisy).
“You really don’t have to do that,” he says, completely oblivious to the fact that this tart (this pastry masterpiece) is literally his entry ticket into the whole stupid matchmaking circus.
(Meaning it’s thanks to you he even gets to play the game at all. Was this the single dumbest move of your life? Quite possibly.)
“No shit.” You even tuck a cookie into a bag, right there in plain view. Hell, make it two - one for Jack, one for Jack’s infuriatingly handsome father.
He finally decides to shut the fuck up and, with visible reluctance, slides his card into the reader. You’ve never wanted to be a slit more in your life.
Most importantly: those thick fingers, struggling to stab a PIN into buttons designed for toddlers.
(Not that you sneak a peek at the code… he shields it with his other hand.)
(And anyway, you’re far too occupied with the gleam of his eerily smooth, hairless knuckles. Entire palm, shaved down to baby-soft nothingness. A crime against nature, really. At least the veins bulge thicker, defiant. Still, you mourn the furry paws. Justice for the furry paws.)
Fun fact: you almost never pay with card yourself, mostly to avoid the weird little purgatory where you’re forced into a staring contest with the cashier while the bank decides whether or not you’re trustworthy enough for capitalism.
Now multiply that by Aaron Hotchner.
It’s torture. The eye contact is nuclear, more dangerous than any you’ve shared since the first time you locked eyes.
The silence stretches until it feels scripted, like you’ve stumbled into the middle of a slow-dance montage no one warned you about, two leads locked in a wordless smize-off. For a suspended moment, it’s absurdly peaceful - as if the café has collapsed into just you and him - and suddenly all that “you and me against the world” garbage pop songs keep spewing doesn’t sound like garbage at all.
It sounds… plausible. Terrifyingly plausible.
His lips part - at least you think they do, or maybe you just keep staring at them so hard your brain invents it - and he looks like he might actually say something. Something important.
But then unfortunately the card machine shrieks its approval, vomiting out the receipt with all the bureaucratic joylessness of the IRS, slicing the moment clean in half.
“So can I-” he nods toward the stack of Valentine’s cards.
“Yeah… sure!” You both step toward it at the same time, him plucking a card, you fishing out a pen from the holder. “Here’s your pen…”
He takes the pen - but his hand is big enough that it engulfs your fingertips too, like he meant to catch more than plastic. And you don’t let go. Which makes him glance up at you, puzzled, but not quite calling you on it either.
“Just… make sure to give it back when you’re done,” you say, too quickly. “We don’t have that many.”
His hand is warm. You already know it’s warm (especially when it’s wandered to very specific real estate on your body), but today it feels explicitly warm.
Aaron clears his throat. “Of course…” Still not releasing your hand. Then again, you’re not releasing his either. “…You have my word.” (What the- for stationery?!)
Finally he juggles the pen, the card, and the bagged cookies with the grace of a man trying very hard not to drop evidence. “Um… thank you again for the cookies. Jack will be… elated.”
“Of course…” you echo, and yeah, you’re 90% sure you’re drooling.
Which is why you’re ready to murder your coworker for not letting you “table service” his order - i.e., personally deliver his coffee, hover like a lovesick bat, and snoop on whatever the hell he’s scribbling on that stupid matchmaking card.
Instead, you’re stuck behind the register, watching your FBI crush seat himself at a table for two. And not just any table for two. He’s across from a man who looks like he crawled out of his third divorce: orange-tinted skin, long hair, goatee, too many shirt buttons undone. Greasy aura.
Definitely older. Definitely trouble. Definitely… smiling at Aaron.
You can’t get it out of your head.
You’ll never be employee of the year if Aaron Hotchner is across the room, smiling at some stranger, talking to him like you don’t even exist - on the most romantic day of the year, no less.
There’s a weird, charged energy to it that knots your stomach, and you keep sneaking glances over, unable to stop.
His left hand scribbles on the card.
His face is focused… dangerously focused, the kind of face you wouldn’t mind sitting on.
The man across from him looks exactly like you feel: rapt, transfixed, probably wondering if he’s hallucinating.
Then Aaron takes a bite of the tart. Closes his eyes. Tilts his head back just slightly, licks his lips. He… likes it?!
You nearly faint.
His hand drifts, thumb rubbing across his index finger - a tell, you’ve learned, for when he’s nervous.
A few minutes pass and he’s doing it too often now, scratching his hand, taking deep breaths. Oh shit. He’s nervous. Aaron Hotchner, seasoned federal agent, absolute unit, is nervous about reentering the dating pool.
And then - he sets the pen down. Picks up the card. Your heart slams itself against your ribcage so violently you wonder if the polyester puppies can hear it.
He stands, pushes his chair neatly back into the table, and flashes the man-
-flashes the man one last smile!! (You might actually be having palpitations.)
He takes a few steps, looking down, unreadable. Your brain races. Where’s he going?
Sexy woman at table four? No. Must be the elegant lady at table three, perfectly age-appropriate.
Nope.
The philosophy professor at table two? God forbid. (If Spinoza’s right and there’s a little bit of God in everything, then surely He wouldn’t be cruel enough to let Hotchner flirt with a philosophy professor in your line of sight.)
(Who cares about Spinoza. Who cares about philosophy?)
What matters is that Hotchner keeps moving - past table two, murmuring polite apologies as he slips by table one - until he’s right there, mere inches away from you, standing at the cash register.
And he’s handing you the card.
He looks… red.
Red as in flushed, flustered - cheeks faintly pink, color creeping down the line of his throat where his collar doesn’t quite cover the skin.
Sweet. Wholesome.
Like maybe you, of all people (against all odds), finally managed to embarrass Aaron Hotchner, and now he’s standing here blushing like a schoolboy while silently declaring feelings.
But then your eyes catch on his hands.
The card trembles just slightly in his grip, and his palms look… wrong.
Not just the unsettling baldness of them - though that, perversely, makes it worse, accentuating the mottled patches, the angry red stippling, the rash blooming across his skin. The same flush climbs unevenly from his jawline, spilling down the exposed slice of his neck in a scatter of raised welts.
“Um,” he clears his throat, shifting, “by any chance were there strawberries in that tart? I might be… allergic.”
Strawberry powder.
You don’t think. You just grab his hand and tug, steering him through the chaos of the café as he keeps muttering “I have an EpiPen in the car” (like he’s going to make it that far) and behind the staff-room door.
It’s almost romantic if you forget the part where his throat might close in six minutes.
Anyways, you’ve trained for this. The way he can probably assemble a rifle in under ten seconds - you can save his life.
Step 1: Establish Dominance.
“Take your pants off,” you deadpan, already rifling through the cabinet. Orange tip down, blue safety cap off, your fist wrapped around the injector (like a pro!!! You’ve got this!!!)
“I’m sorry?!” His voice breaks halfway, startled and ragged… much like his breathing pattern (or maybe he’s into being bossed around? Not the time.) “Do you even know what you’re doing?”
Oh, fantastic. He doesn’t trust women.
Step 2: Remove Obstacles (Pants).
He doesn’t have time to activate his reflexes, because you’re already unfastening his belt. The buckle clinks. The zip slides down. (Do not give yourself bad ideas. Focus.) You drop to your knees, dragging his slacks down with you. He gulps audibly. You glance up.
“Are you seriously wearing Superman briefs? You go to the FBI every day dressed like that under your suit?”
“Yes, okay?!” He shushes you, flustered (which is rude considering you’re literally saving his life.) “But could you - quiet down a little? I can explain-” he involuntarily hisses as your fingers graze the inside seam.
Step 3: Insert Hero Juice.
Decoy successful.
He’s still sputtering about the Superman underwear - how he only wears them because his six-year-old has the exact same pair, and it’s their thing. A father–son tradition that makes no logical sense (but then, isn’t that the whole point of children?) - matching silly underwear, or “very cool” ones if you ask Jack, to get through the day not taking it too seriously.
(Not that his father has ever been good at that. Exhibit A: look where not choosing his pastry got him.)
You take advantage of the ramble to jab the injector into the upper outer thigh, right at the line of his (very cool!!!) briefs.
No reassuring click yet.
Also, to keep him still, you clamp your other hand around his opposite thigh - eloping him in place - dangerously close to forbidden territory. One inch higher and you’d have a handful of cake. (Pancake, more like… the man is devastatingly flat.)
“Is it in?” you ask, tilting your head up at him.
Sure, you’re no doctor - but you do know this much: being on your knees with one hand basically cupping his ass while driving a needle into his thigh isn’t exactly standard medical practice.
And the way he’s looming above you - with his skin flushed, eyes wide, and breaths shallow and uneven - you’re starting to suspect his hyperventilating isn’t just from the anaphylaxis.
He fumbles, swallows, shakes his head, then finally croaks out, “Um… yes.”
Step 4: The Longest Ten Seconds
Wait. Hold. Count to ten.
In ten seconds he could say nothing, could just breathe and let the medicine do its work. In ten seconds he could thank you, or - God forbid - flirt. Instead, out of the entire emotional buffet available, he serves you the worst dish.
“You didn’t have to take my pants off,” he murmurs, breath catching. “The pen can pierce through… very thick fabric.”
“Yeah, well, excuse me for wanting to actually see what I was doing,” you snap back, which feels defensive but also entirely justified, considering you just saved his life.
“It’s alright,” he says, heartfelt. Which, unfortunately, lands with a subtext you cannot ignore. Oh, yeah, I actually liked you pulling my pants off. Please do it again. Preferably slower next time.
Which is how you both end up marinating in two full seconds of unbearable silence, trading glances, the tension thicker than-
He cracks first. “I-I think we should do something.”
(Wow. Stunning clarity. “Something.” Could mean sex, could mean Scrabble.)
“Sex?” you blurt, because honesty is still the best policy.
He laughs and suddenly your impulsive guess doesn’t sound so insane. “No.” He shakes his head. (How dare he?) “I mean- I wouldn’t be opposed to that. But I was thinking… more of a date.”
And then it hits you: the smile. Rare. Unscripted. A little crooked. Prince Charming in an FBI badge. It detonates something in your chest, leaves you standing there half-kneeling, needle still in hand, absolutely cooked. (Speaking of which… you should probably go rescue the Lover’s Cheesecake from the oven…)
A date. He said a date. A DATE. On Valentine’s Day, while his pants are around his thighs. A DATE???? WHAT THE FUUUUUUUUUU-
“I… am not opposed to that either,” you stammer. “Yes.”
Step 5: You’re alone in the staff room, already kneeling between his thighs, one hand on his ass. You are, quite literally, in the ideal position to either suck him off, propose marriage, or skip both and immediately elope - new surname, new city, new life. You’re positive there’s a sitcom about this exact setup. Something about a neurotic, Type-A lawyer and his chaotic, overly earnest free-spirit wife who marry after, like, one date. WHO CARES?! AARON HOTCHNER ASKED YOU OUT ON A DATE FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK
pairing: clark kent x reader
summary: when you move from smallville to metropolis, clark thinks he finally has his chance to confess. instead, he ends up with a front row seat to you gushing about jimmy olsen every day. what he doesn’t realise is that you’re trying to set jimmy up with your neighbour, and you’re starting to see clark as more than a friend.
tags: smallville!reader, photographer!reader, best friends to lovers, childhood friends to lovers, mutual pining, comedy of errors type miscommunication (nothing serious or overly frustrating i promise)
warning(s): suggestive content (no smut just a lil spicy), gender neutral reader
word count: 9.2k
note: did i get the inspiration to write this while rewatching smallville for the first time in years? why yes i did 😌
masterlist
You stepped out of the taxi, your new camera bag slung over your shoulder, nerves swirling in your stomach. The Daily Planet’s globe gleamed above you, obscenely big and just as intimidating. Standing by the entrance was Clark Kent, already waiting for you.
An absurdly large grin was on his lips as he stood there, adjusting his glasses nervously. His tall, broad-shouldered frame was familiar, even under his office suit, but his face wasn’t quite how you remembered it. You knew that behind his black frames, a pair of startling blue eyes shone with excitement.
“Hey,” Clark greeted you when you closed the taxi door behind you. “You made it!”
You broke into a smile, jogging up to him and throwing your arms around his shoulders. Clark laughed, catching you easily and hugging you so tightly your feet left the ground for a moment. “Of course I made it. I couldn’t miss my first day.”
When Clark released you, you took a step back to take him in properly. He held onto the strap of your camera bag like you might run back to Smallville if he didn’t physically keep you in Metropolis.
Then, theatrically, you squinted up at him. “I’m sorry, who are you again?”
Clark rolled his eyes fondly. “Ha-ha. Very funny.”
You chuckled. “Clark Kent doesn’t wear glasses. You don’t look like you.”
His mouth tilted into the shy smile you remembered. “I told you, they make my face look different so people don’t recognise me,” he said quietly.
“Yeah, but I’ve known your face my whole life,” you teased, leaning closer. “I’ve known it since your Ma gave you a botched haircut in first grade. I’d recognise you in a police line-up in two seconds flat. These,” you reached up to push his glasses up his nose, “Just make you look like a knock-off Clark Kent.”
“A knock-off? Really?” Clark said. The grin on his face made his mock-scolding expression unconvincing.
You nodded, expression solemn. “Discount Clark. Buy-one-get-one-free Clark.”
He ducked his head, but the tips of his ears went pink. You hadn’t seen that look in over a year, and it warmed you from the inside out. “I missed you,” Clark confessed quietly, with a smile. “A lot.”
You beamed. “I missed you too,” you promised. “Who knew having thousands of miles between us would make me finally decide to leave Kansas.”
After graduating from high school, you and Clark went your separate ways. You stayed in Smallville to help your family, attending community college for photography. Clark went all the way to Delaware to study journalism at Metropolis University. You’d been long-distance best friends for years, and landing a job at The Daily Planet was the perfect excuse to move to the same city as him.
Little did you know, Clark had been in love with you back in high school.
He would have told you, too, if you hadn’t chosen futures that scattered you across the country. At first he told himself the distance was a blessing. Maybe it would give his heart enough space to cool off, until whatever he felt for you dulled into nothing. But he’d been wrong. No matter how many miles stretched between you, no matter how many times he tried to convince himself it was just a silly crush, he never stopped loving you.
Clark looked at you like he always did—steady, unwavering, as if you were the only thing in the world worth focusing on.
Oblivious, you adjusted your bag and nodded to the doors. “So, are you gonna show me around? Or do I have to storm the newsroom on my own?
“Pretty sure storming the newsroom gets you fired on your first day,” Clark mused.
“Then it’d be a record,” you joked. “Imagine the headline: ‘Shortest tenure ever held by a Daily Planet photographer.’”
“Writen by Clark Kent,” he added.
“Rude,” you muttered, without any real bite. Clark led you inside, making sure to stay close enough that your shoulder brushed his arm with every step. You glanced up at him, speaking in a sing-song tone, “You’re doing it again.”
He looked back, puzzled. “Doing what?”
“The thing where you hover like a worried dad every time I have something important going on,” you supplied. “Your Ma and I call you Helicopter Clark behind your back. She thinks you get it from your Pa.”
Clark laughed softly, a little sheepish. “Maybe I just like having you around.”
You nudged his arm. “Cute. You’ve always been sappy.”
He gave a small laugh, but his chest tightened. If only you knew how right you were. “Yeah, guess I am.”
“I can’t believe I’m actually here,” you squealed as you entered the elevator. “This place is legendary. You’ve been walking into this building every morning like it’s normal, and now I get to join you. It’s crazy!”
Clark watched your excitement with something softer in his eyes. “Yeah. Crazy.”
When the elevator doors slid open onto the bullpen floor, you let out a gasp. It was almost like a cathedral, ceilings impossibly high and crowned with coffered squares edged in gold. The building was a heavy marble and stone, making it feel historic, though it was filled with modern sounds—phones ringing, keyboards clattering.
After introducing you to the receptionist, who snapped your picture and handed over a still-warm badge, Clark guided you forward with a hand lightly pressed to your back. That same quiet protectiveness he’d always had in Smallville hadn’t dulled with distance.
You clutched your new badge, eyes darting around. “So,” you said, glancing up at him with a grin, “are you going to introduce me to your friends, or do I just start shaking hands like I’m running for office?”
Clark laughed, the sound soft but fond. “Alright, alright. Let’s start with Lois—”
“Standing right here,” came a crisp voice behind you.
You turned. A woman with sleek dark hair approached, folder tucked under one arm, coffee in the other. Her eyes narrowed slightly as they swept over you, then softened with the faintest flicker of amusement. She looked like the kind of woman who could save your life and then write your obituary if you annoyed her.
Clark fumbled, already flustered. He knew exactly why she was giving you that look. If there was one thing everyone at the office teased him about, it was the fact that he spoke about you too much. Lois and Cat were convinced Clark was in love with you, and he was having a hard time trying to convince them otherwise.
“Lois, this is—”
“The famous best friend from Kansas,” she cut in, sticking out her hand before he could finish.
Your brows shot up. “He’s been talking about me, huh?”
“All the time,” Lois said flatly. “Honestly, I thought you might be imaginary.”
That got a laugh out of you, nerves dissolving instantly. “Wouldn’t be the first time Clark invented a friend to make himself seem popular,” you joked, shaking Lois’s hand.
Clark gave you a look, half mock-offended, half helpless affection. Lois chuckled, sipping her coffee like she was watching a very entertaining sitcom.
“You’ll fit right in,” she said, and patted Clark’s arm before she swept off toward her desk.
The moment she was out of earshot, you turned to him. “She seems cool.”
Clark grinned, though his shoulders still carried tension. “Don’t tell her that. She’ll only use it against you later.”
You laughed and followed him deeper into the chaos.
That’s when you saw him: boyish grin, camera strap slung across his shoulder like it belonged there. Jimmy Olsen. Average height, wiry, chestnut hair that refused to stay put, posture like he’d never once taken gym seriously but always got the last word. He had that indefinable something. Not movie-star handsome, not intimidating, just magnetic. Approachable. Like he could charm a parking ticket out of a meter maid.
Jimmy leaned against a filing cabinet mid-story, making a whole crowd laugh. Then he looked up, saw you, and lit up like you’d just walked in carrying a Pulitzer.
“No way!” he bounded over, hand outstretched, grin wide. “It’s so nice to finally meet Clark’s other best friend. I’m Jimmy.”
His energy was so warm you laughed before you even touched his hand. “‘Other best friend’? Try the original.”
“Clark talks about you all the time,” Jimmy said, deadly serious. “I figured you were either a childhood friend or his nemesis.”
“Both,” you said. “Depends on the day.”
Jimmy laughed warmly. The next thing you knew, you were giggling through his wild gestures as he explained how he’d almost been locked in the darkroom overnight. He was ridiculous, magnetic in that paradoxical way of being sweet but charming.
Clark stood a step back, watching. He shouldn’t have been surprised. You were both his best friends, after all. But the way you were already leaning into Jimmy’s orbit, laughing with your whole face, made something in his chest twist.
You doubled over at the end of Jimmy’s story, tears threatening. “Clark totally undersold you, you’re hilarious!”
Jimmy raised his brows and eyed Clark. “Undersold me? Clark, how could you?”
You turned, expecting Clark to leap to his own defence, but instead of his usual grin, you caught a strained smile, his shoulders drawn tight. Before you could puzzle it out, Jimmy launched into a rundown on the other photographers, earning your rapt attention.
Lois strolled past, a smirk curling on her lips. She nudged Clark’s elbow. “Looks like Jimmy turned on the usual charm for your Smallville bestie,” she commented. “How does he do it?”
She’d said the words casually, but Clark froze, throat bobbing.
You leaned toward Jimmy. “So,” you asked eagerly, “what’s your favourite lens? Do you stick with prime or—”
Jimmy lit up and dove into an enthusiastic explanation, hands flying as he talked about his 35mm. You nodded along, grinning like you’d just found a kindred spirit. Behind you, Clark’s smile faltered another fraction. He shoved his hands into his pockets, stomach twisting.
“Okay,” Clark broke in at last, voice just slightly brisk. “You’ve got orientation in five. Don’t wanna be late.”
You straightened, still grinning, and gave Jimmy a cheerful wave. “Catch you later!”
Jimmy shot back a two-fingered salute, grin dazzling. You turned happily to follow Clark, not noticing the tightness in his jaw as he guided you toward the conference room.
“I can see why you like him so much,” you said, breathless with laughter. “He seems great. I can’t wait to work with him.”
Clark said nothing. Because Lois’s voice still echoed through his head, over and over again, about how Jimmy had turned the charm on for you.
For dinner, Clark picked out a diner that looked unchanged since 1954: red vinyl booths, neon buzzing faintly above the counter, waitresses who called you “hon.” He swore up and down they had the best burger in Metropolis, and you believed him—because when had Clark Kent ever lied about food?
You sank into the booth across from him, shrugging off your jacket, cheeks still warm from the day. “Okay,” you said, stabbing the straw into your soda with a decisive jab. “Jimmy Olsen.”
Clark’s brows lifted. “What about him?”
You leaned forward, grinning. “He’s adorable. I totally get why you talk about him so much. He’s so funny, Clark, and he’s actually good. Like, really good. We were talking about lenses earlier and we have the same favourites, can you believe that? And he knows all my favourite photographers. And today, on my first day, Perry actually liked my pitch on the immigration photo essay! Guess who helped me polish it before the meeting?”
Clark’s smile stayed on his lips, but it dimmed a little in his eyes. “Jimmy.”
“Jimmy,” you repeated with a laugh, holding up your glass in a mock toast. “My desk is right next to his, and I think we’re going to get along well. He’s got that… that thing, you know?” Clark knew exactly what you meant. Jimmy might as well have been the most charming man in Metropolis. “It’s magnetic.”
You didn’t notice the way Clark’s shoulders drooped, or how he fussed with the paper wrapper on his straw until it was shredded into tiny curls.
“Well,” he said after a beat, voice pitched a little too cheerful, “sounds like you’ve had a pretty swell first day.”
You beamed. “The best. Honestly, I was so nervous this morning. But between you, Lois, and Jimmy, I think I’ll be alright.”
Clark swallowed, nodded, smiled. All those things at once. It looked effortless if you didn’t know him. Unfortunately for him, you knew him better than anyone.
You tilted your head. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he said quickly, gaze darting to the laminated menu. Clark had never been good at lying to you, but avoiding eye contact might give him a chance. “I’m just glad you’re settling in. Really glad.”
You hesitated, straw between your teeth, suddenly aware of how much you’d been talking. “I’ve been rambling, haven’t I?”
Clark chuckled warmly, shaking his head. “I don’t mind.”
You grinned sheepishly. “Well, for the record, my apartment’s great. A little bare still, but nice. And I get to walk to work now, which feels very grown-up and metropolitan.” You said the last word with mock grandeur, and Clark’s mouth curved at the edges.
“Didn’t you take a taxi today?” he teased.
“That was practicality,” you argued. “You try hauling a backpack and a camera bag full of photography gear on the subway.”
Clark smiled, and for a moment, the tension in his shoulders eased. “I’m glad you like your place. My first place in Metropolis was a dorm, so anything should be a step up from that.”
You laughed. “True. My neighbour seems really nice, too. I think we’ll be friends. But honestly?” You paused, softer now, because you wanted him to hear this part clearly. “The best part of today was getting to see you, and knowing I’ll see you every day now.”
You meant it. The way you said it, so plain and true, made something flicker across Clark’s face. Something you couldn’t name before it vanished behind another of his earnest smiles. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. You just looked at each other across the booth, soda sweating between your hands, the neon light turning his glasses a soft red at the edges.
“This feels a little like home, doesn’t it?” you said finally, nodding at the jukebox in the corner “Like that diner where I had all my birthday parties growing up.”
Clark’s mouth curved, almost shy. “With the paper hats.”
You grinned. “And the strawberry milkshakes.”
“I remember.” He tipped his head, studying you like he was turning back the clock. “You always wished for the same thing every year.” Then he chuckled, “Three more wishes.”
“Yeah.” Your voice softened as you leaned back. “Last year, I wished for this. For sitting across from you again. Getting to see you every day.”
Clark’s smile faltered, just slightly, like your words pressed against something tender inside him.
You ducked your gaze, tracing the menu with your finger. “I can’t wait to hang out at yours or mine soon. So I can see your face properly again, without the hypno-glasses.” You said it with a little laugh, but the truth slipped out in the quiet. “I just… miss seeing you. Not Superman, not the glasses. You.”
His throat worked around a swallow, glasses slipping a little down his nose. For a heartbeat, you thought he might actually reach across the table for your hand. Instead, Clark gave you one of those soft, heart-aching smiles that belonged only to you. “I’d like that.”
When you’d told him you were moving to Metropolis, Clark had been elated. You were the first person he’d ever trusted with the truth back in high school—his heritage, his powers, the fear, the whole mess of being different. Having you here felt like a gift, as if he could finally stop feeling so alone.
“Speaking of gifts,” you said suddenly, rummaging in your bag. “I almost forgot, your parents sent me with this.”
You pulled out a small pot with a leafy sprig of green, wrapped in brown paper and twine. Clark blinked at it, recognition dawning. “Is that—?”
“Native milkweed,” you declared proudly. “Your Ma said it’s good for butterflies. She wanted you to have a piece of home on your windowsill. She told me to tell you, and I quote, ‘Tell Clark to water it, because Lord knows he won’t remember without supervision.’”
Clark chuckled fondly, the sound easing out of him in a breath. “That sounds like Ma.” He reached out, fingers brushing yours as he took the plant, and you felt the warmth linger longer than it should have.
“She also packed me a pie for the trip,” you added slyly. “I already ate it.”
His mouth fell open in mock horror. “You ate a whole pie by yourself?”
“Don’t look so shocked, farm boy,” you scolded. “You’ve seen me at Thanksgiving. Besides, it was a four hour plane ride! I got hungry.”
That made Clark properly laugh, his head tipped back, clutching his stomach. The sight made your chest tighten unexpectedly. It was like catching the memory of summer sunlight on your skin.
The two of you fell easily into swapping stories after that. Your first terrifying photography professor, his late nights at the college paper, how you used to sneak into the Kent barn loft with a thermos of hot chocolate and talk about the future like you had any clue what it would look like.
“Do you remember,” you said between bites of fries, “when I told you I was going to be the next Annie Leibovitz and you said you’d write all my captions?”
Clark grinned, fork hovering in the air. “Still will, if you’ll let me.”
You rolled your eyes, though the fondness in your eyes was painfully obvious. “Such a nerd.”
His smile softened. If there was no red thread binding you together, he would grab a string and tie it himself. Clark Kent had been yours since the moment you’d leaned over the lunch table in middle school and whispered, Don’t worry, I think you’re normal even if you don’t.
You caught him staring and raised a brow. “What?”
“Nothing,” Clark said, though it came out tender, almost adoring.
And you thought, God, what a nerd. My best friend is such a nerd. You refrained from saying it with barely controlled affection, hiding the way your stomach had gone hot under his gaze.
You found your rhythm in Metropolis faster than you thought you would.
The first week at The Daily Planet had been an exercise in clinging to Clark’s elbow like a human lifeline, smiling a little too hard at every person who passed, and trying desperately to memorise names and desk locations before someone caught you looking lost. But by the second week, you’d figured out how to blend in with the controlled chaos of the bullpen.
You were still “the new kid.” The one who double-checked the coffee machine instructions before daring to press a button, the one who made Jimmy sign off on all your captions even though he kept insisting you were fine. But you were speaking up more in meetings.
You’d made Cat laugh once, actually laugh, a sharp bark followed by an appraising look that made you feel like you’d just earned a medal. Lois was harder to crack, but there were moments when she’d pass you a file without comment or murmur a quick, “Good work,” and your stomach would flutter like you’d been given a blessing.
And then there was Jimmy. Going out on assignment with him was like being caught in a whirlwind. He walked too fast, talked too fast, gestured so wildly you half-expected him to topple into traffic. But he was brilliant with a camera. He’d see a shot before you’d even raised your lens, point it out with the kind of enthusiasm that made you laugh even when you were gasping to keep up.
The first time Perry ran one of your photos on the front page, Jimmy dragged you into the middle of the bullpen and announced it like a town crier.
The second time was even better. You’d somehow managed to snap a clean, perfectly framed shot of Superman mid-flight, cape fluttering against the light, looking every bit the hero of Metropolis. Perry slapped the proof down on the table and growled, “Front page.” You nearly fell over.
That night, you showed Clark, holding up the paper like a trophy. He nearly spat out his tea.
“You’re kidding me!” He was laughing so hard he almost fell off your sofa. “You—you got the Superman shot? After all the times Jimmy’s tried—golly.”
“Golly?” you teased, nudging him with your elbow. “What are you, a cartoon dad?”
“Don’t care,” Clark said, still grinning. “You’re incredible. I’m so proud of you.”
If you thought about that too long, you got a little lightheaded, so you mostly didn’t.
Metropolis itself was trickier. You’d been before to visit Clar, but living here was different. You’d grown up in Smallville, where everyone knew your name, your parents, and exactly what your dreams and goals were.
Here, you could be surrounded by hundreds of people and still feel invisible. The noise was constant: horns, chatter, music being blasted at ungodly hours. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d stood still without someone brushing past with an annoyed “watch it!”
The small-town friendliness didn’t exist here. No one waved when you crossed the street. No one offered to help carry your shopping up the stairs. People were in a rush, and you were in their way. But it wasn’t all bad.
It was exhilarating sometimes. You could wander two blocks and find ramen at midnight, or tacos from a cart parked beside a glittering theatre. You’d gone to a Metropolis Meteors baseball game with Cat and Lois last weekend, sat in the nosebleeds with a hot dog, and felt more alive than you had in months.
And you weren’t entirely alone. Your neighbour, Poppy, a Metropolis local your age, had practically adopted you. She showed you the best bodega for late-night snacks, where to avoid taking the subway after dark, and which coffee shops didn’t overcharge for lattes. She was sharp and kind and exactly the sort of friend you needed in a new city.
You caught yourself smiling one evening as you told her, “I might have the perfect guy for you.” You hadn’t said Jimmy’s name yet. You wanted to do your homework first, find out if he was single, or at least willing to be set up. But the idea stuck. Poppy’s easygoing nature and Jimmy’s goofy brightness would balance each other out perfectly.
Besides, wasn’t that what starting fresh was supposed to be about? Building connections, finding your place. Creating a home for yourself in the middle of all the noise. And maybe, just maybe, realising that the best part of your day was still the same as it had always been: sitting across from Clark, laughing until your sides hurt, wondering how you’d ever gone so long without seeing him every day.
It started casually.
You were leaning on Clark’s desk one afternoon, sipping lukewarm coffee and pretending not to panic about your deadline, when the words came out: “So… Is Jimmy seeing anyone?”
Clark almost gave himself whiplash from how quickly he turned to look at you. His eyes were wide behind his frames, his mouth slightly agape like he couldn’t believe what you’d said. “Uh—what?”
You tilted your head. “I just wondered. He’s cute. And funny. And I thought maybe—”
“He’s dating a model,” Clark blurted, too quickly. “Pretty sure. Yeah. Definitely dating a model.”
Across the bullpen, Lois didn’t even look up from her monitor. “He hasn’t had a girlfriend in months, Smallville.”
Clark blinked, red blooming in his cheeks, while you filed that information away with a pleased little hum.
A few days later, you sidled up to Lois at the coffee machine. “Does Jimmy like Italian food?”
She gave you a sharp look. “Are you asking because you’re planning a date?”
“No,” you said, too fast. “I’m just curious.”
“Jimmy likes any food. If it’s edible, he’ll eat it.” Lois stirred copious amounts of sugar into her mug, smirking. “If it’s not edible, he’ll probably still eat it. Man has no culinary standards.”
When you glanced at Clark’s desk, he was staring fixedly at his computer.
Later that week, you caught Clark in the elevator. “What’s Jimmy’s type?” you asked casually, as if you were inquiring about the weather.
Clark’s glasses nearly slid off his nose. “What?”
“Women,” you clarified. “What kind of women does he usually go for?”
Clark fumbled. “Uh—uh—tall? Or maybe short. Definitely one of those. And, um, brunette? Or blonde. Or—”
Lois, who’d slipped in just before the doors closed, rolled her eyes. “What isn’t his type?” she said dryly, and you laughed all the way up to the newsroom floor.
It became a running theme.
“Do you think Jimmy likes jazz?” you asked Lois one morning.
Clark dropped his coffee stirrer.
“Does Jimmy prefer dogs or cats?” you asked Clark the next afternoon.
He stammered something about fish before fleeing to refill his mug.
“Would Jimmy ever date someone who wasn’t in journalism?” you asked Lois the following week.
She sighed. “Kid, Jimmy would date someone who breathed near him too enthusiastically.”
By then, Lois had decided you were developing a crush on Jimmy. She gave you amused little glances whenever you brought him up, while Clark looked like he was one misplaced question away from combusting. And you, completely oblivious, just kept making notes in your mental file.
Jimmy Olsen: Not currently seeing anyone. Likes all food. (Easy win.) Has no real type, possibly open to anything. Jazz: inconclusive. Dogs vs cats: also inconclusive.
Perfect. Operation: Matchmaker was right on track.
Meanwhile, Clark Kent was wilting in slow motion at his desk, trying very hard not to imagine you and Jimmy in a romantic-comedy-style date montage. The thought of the two of you sharing a milkshake with two straws made him nauseous.
Friday nights had always been for movies. Back in Smallville, the tradition had been sacred. Every week, no matter what farm chores Clark had been stuck with or how swamped you were with homework, you ended up curled together on the worn sofa at the Kent farmhouse. Bowls of popcorn, one light left on in the kitchen, a stack of DVDs you rotated through endlessly.
Now, in Metropolis, the ritual lived on. Your new apartment wasn’t much, a little nest of mismatched furniture and thrifted lamps. On your third Friday in the city, Clark showed up at your door with takeaway and a grin. The moment you pulled him inside and saw him plop the food onto your coffee table like it was the most natural thing in the world, you felt the old rhythm sliding right back into place.
Tonight, you’d chosen The Princess Bride. Nostalgia wrapped around you like a blanket as the familiar dialogue filled your little living room. You half-watched, half-stole glances at Clark, because it was different now.
Clark looked domestic, comfortable in a way that made your chest ache. He’d taken his glasses off the second he walked in, setting them on your bookshelf like he always did when it was just you. His hair, usually in messy curls for the office, had softened through the day, a little wave falling into his forehead. He was in a simple white button-up, sleeves pushed to his elbows, and it hit you in a way it hadn’t in high school.
Clark Kent was handsome. Stupidly, unfairly handsome.
You remembered girls whispering about the “Kent charm” back then, how his smile made them blush. You’d never noticed. He’d been Clark, your Clark, the boy who stayed up with you until dawn studying, who carried your tripod when it was too heavy, who showed up at your window when you were sad. He’d been so close that romance never even crossed your mind.
Now you saw the way his shoulders filled out his shirt. The warmth in his cobalt eyes when he laughed at a joke you made. The gentleness of his hands when he handed you a napkin before you even realised you needed one.
You could picture him in a domestic life so clearly. Carrying groceries up your stairs, pressing a kiss to your temple as he passed, leaving his slippers by your door. The thought startled you, but it didn’t leave.
And then there was Superman. You’d grown up knowing Clark was different, but you hadn’t realised what that difference meant until years later. Since moving to Metropolis, you’d seen it all up close: the rescues, the headlines, the world depending on him. He was extraordinary, and yet here he was on your sofa, eating dumplings out of a carton and laughing at Cary Elwes’ line delivery.
You found yourself wanting to memorise him. The lines of his jaw softened by the lamplight. The way his eyes crinkled when he smiled. The dimples in his cheeks when you reminded him of that one time he tripped chasing you through the cornfield when you were kids.
He was beautiful, and he was yours; not in any official way, but in the way that mattered. He was your best friend.
Across the sofa, Clark was having his own crisis.
He’d thought, once, that sending you postcards from Delaware and calling you every Sunday would be enough. That maybe the distance would dull the sharp twinge of wanting you, that maybe one day he’d wake up and feel free of it. He’d been wrong.
Now you were here, right next to him, laughing at the same movie you’d watched a hundred times, and he was so in love he thought it might undo him. He’d always admired you; your eye for photographs, your fire, the way you cared for people so fiercely. But seeing you here had floored him.
And yet, every time you mentioned Jimmy, his chest tightened. Lois’s teasing echoed in his head. He wanted to tell you everything: that he’d been in love with you since high school, that nobody could ever measure up in college, so he’d stopped trying altogether. But then you’d smile and gush about how funny Jimmy was, and Clark felt his courage crumble.
Still, as you leaned closer to him now, curled up with your knees tucked under you, Clark thought there was no way he could ever love you more than he did in this moment. You were his first thought in the morning, his last thought at night. And watching you glow in the soft lamplight of your new apartment, he realised something terrifying and wonderful all at once.
He could spend his whole life like this. Just being near you.
“You’re not even watching,” Clark teased, voice low so as not to disturb the cadence of the movie.
You flicked your eyes back to the screen, caught Buttercup mid-swoon, and shrugged. “Sure I am. True love, sword fights, Rodents of Unusual Size.”
Clark chuckled, but when you glanced at him again, you caught him looking at you instead of the TV. Heat crept up your neck. You reached for the popcorn bowl as a distraction, only to find it empty.
“You ate all of it,” you accused.
His brows shot up. “Me? You were shovelling it like you hadn’t eaten in a week.”
You smirked. “Well, at least I don’t hide behind hypno-glasses to trick everyone into thinking I’m some ‘well-mannered farm boy.”
Clark groaned, pressing a hand to his forehead. “You know that’s not why I wear them.” Then he smiled, almost shyly. “Are you saying you like me better without glasses?”
“Of course,” you said, not catching the way his chest tightened at your answer. “I missed your face.”
Something fond flickered across his expression. He reached for the remote, muting the TV, and you didn’t even notice until silence fell. You were too caught in the moment, too wrapped up in the ease of talking with him.
“You know,” you said, leaning back into the sofa cushions, “this kind of feels like we’re sixteen again. Friday night, bad lighting, too much sugar.”
Clark’s lips quirked. “Except you’re not falling asleep halfway through the film this time.”
You gasped. “That was one time.”
“Three times,” he corrected gently. “And you drooled on my shoulder once.”
You laughed, tossing a cushion at him. “Traitor. I trusted you to never bring that up again.”
Clark caught the cushion easily, hands big and sure, and hugged it to his chest with mock innocence. “Your secrets are safe with me. It’s part of my Kent charm,” he said, all faux swagger.
You snorted. “‘Kent charm.’ God, you really are a nerd.”
The words came out playfully, but there was something behind them you weren’t quite ready to name. Because, yes, he was a nerd, sitting here quoting his own reputation like it was a joke. But he was also, God help you, gorgeous. His hair falling into his eyes, his shirt stretched across broad shoulders, every inch of him radiating warmth and steadiness.
Clark shifted closer on the sofa, the air between you charged with something softer than electricity. “Do you ever think about it?” he asked quietly.
“About what?”
He hesitated, then shook his head, offering another smile instead. “Nothing. Just how lucky I am you’re here. Metropolis feels more like home now.”
You reached for his hand before you could think better of it, letting your fingers brush his knuckles. “I get it. Living in a new city with you feels more like home than living in Smallville without you.”
Clark stilled. You didn’t notice, too busy tracing the shape of his hand absentmindedly, like you’d done a thousand times back in high school without thinking twice.
“You really mean that?” he asked, voice rough.
You looked up at him, startled by the weight in his tone. “Of course I do. You know I wished for this; that I’d get to live in the same city as you again.”
Clark’s heart thudded in his ears. He wanted to say that he’d wished too, every night, for years. Instead, he swallowed and squeezed your hand lightly.
“You’re—” He paused, trying again, “You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever met.”
You blinked at him. “Clark—”
“I mean it,” he said quickly, earnest eyes shining. “I’m really glad I get to do everything by your side from now on.”
“Yeah,” you agreed, cracking a smile. “Me too.”
“Good,” he murmured, voice so low you almost didn’t catch it.
The silence stretched, not uncomfortable but a little heavy. You found yourself studying Clark, the way his lashes cast shadows on his cheeks, the way his chest rose and fell.
Before you could stop yourself, you whispered into the quiet, “I think you’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever met, too.”
Clark’s breath caught. He ducked his head, cheeks flushed. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
You smirked, leaning in just a little. “Don’t get used to it. I’ll go back to calling you a nerd tomorrow.”
He looked at you then, really looked, and thought, I could spend forever like this. And you, ignorant of the full weight of his gaze, thought, God, I think I’m in trouble.
Jimmy bounded into the bullpen like he’d just won the lottery, camera bag slung over his shoulder, grin wide enough to blind someone.
“Guess what?” he announced, leaning on the edge of Lois’s desk, practically glowing. “I’ve got a date tonight.” Jimmy’s grin stretched ear to ear.
Clark looked up from his notepad, a smile already forming. “Oh, hey. That’s great, Jimmy! I’m happy for you.”
Lois didn’t even glance up from her screen. “With a human or another one of your cameras?”
Jimmy clutched his chest. “Wow, Lois. For your information, yes, with a human.”
Lois raised an eyebrow, dry as desert air. “Let me guess. Five-foot-ten, legs up to here, and absolutely no idea you existed until five minutes ago?”
Jimmy smirked, playfully kicking Lois’s desk chair. “Not giving away any spoilers. But let’s just say, I’m pretty excited.”
Then, he glanced across the room, caught your eye, and gave you a wink. It was playful, teasing, nothing more than the kind of exaggerated gesture Jimmy made a dozen times a day.
You rolled your eyes good-naturedly, already used to his theatrics, but Clark froze mid-keystroke. The cursor blinked accusingly at his half-finished sentence.
A wink. Jimmy had winked at you.
Clark’s stomach dropped straight through the floor. He tried to swallow the lump in his throat, but it lodged there stubbornly. He bent closer to his computer, pretending to type, though the words blurred into nonsense.
Lois didn’t miss a thing. Her gaze slid from Jimmy to Clark, and then slowly, knowingly, to you. She sipped her coffee like she was watching her suspicions confirmed in real time. “Well, well,” she murmured.
Clark forced a smile. “What?”
Lois tilted her head. “Guess we were right about Jimmy having a thing for your other best friend.”
His pulse kicked in his ears. “Oh—uh, well. Good for them, right? They’d—they’d make a great couple.” It came out so flat it could have been mistaken for sarcasm.
Lifting a brow and leaning back in her chair, Lois drawled, “Sure. If you say so, Smallville.”
Clark tried again, fumbling for enthusiasm. “I mean, Jimmy’s a good guy. You couldn’t ask for anyone more dependable.”
Lois hummed around the rim of her coffee cup, unimpressed but mercifully silent.
Clark turned back to his screen, jaw tight. The words on the page stubbornly refused to fuse together into sentences. Every time he glanced up, he saw Jimmy’s grin, your smile, and that wink. It was like a spark caught in his chest.
He should be happy for you. If that’s what you wanted, he should be supportive. He was supportive. But the thought of Jimmy leaning across a table tonight, making you laugh the way Clark always did, maybe walking you home—Clark pressed his palms against the desk until the wood creaked in protest.
Superman could stop trains, but Clark Kent couldn’t stop his own jealousy from eating him alive.
By the time Clark was back in his apartment that night, he’d tried his best to convince himself that you and Jimmy dating was a great idea.
Jimmy was kind, funny, and loyal. He’d never dream of hurting you. He was the type of guy Clark would trust with his life. But the thought of trusting him with you left something bitter and restless clawing in his chest.
He dropped his keys on the counter and sat heavily on the couch, elbows on his knees.
If only he’d just told you how he felt in high school. That thought circled him like a hawk, again and again. He’d been eighteen, hopelessly in love, and terrified of what that love might do to the best friendship of his life. You were already looking toward photography programs, weighing colleges and scholarships, and he’d known even then that Metropolis was calling him.
Different cities. Different dreams. He’d told himself it wasn’t fair to ask you to tie yourself to him. So he’d swallowed the confession. He’d chosen friendship because it was safer, and because it meant never losing you. For years, he’d told himself he didn’t regret it. He’d repeated it until he believed it.
But tonight, sitting alone in his apartment while you were out with Jimmy, regret slipped its way in. What if Clark had said something back then? What if you’d smiled that radiant, disbelieving smile and told him you’d always felt the same?
Maybe you would have tried the distance. Maybe it would’ve worked. Maybe you’d be here now, living together, ordering takeout on the couch, falling asleep during a movie. Maybe he wouldn’t be sitting here with an empty living room and a chest full of longing.
The fantasy was so vivid it almost felt real. The brush of your knee against his, your laugh spilling through the room, the easy certainty of a life where he hadn’t hesitated.
And then, as quickly as it came, the other side of the coin flipped. Maybe if he’d confessed, you would’ve said no. Maybe you would’ve told him gently that you didn’t see him that way. Maybe it would’ve shattered everything, left him without a best friend and without you. The risk had been too high then. It was still too high now.
Clark pressed his palms against his eyes, trying to will the images of a domestic life with you away. His heart was pounding too loudly, beating against the silence of his apartment.
Then, the faint metallic click of a key sliding into his lock sounded through his apartment. The knob turned. The door opened.
Clark’s head snapped up, throat dry.
You stepped inside like it was the most natural thing in the world, balancing two pizza boxes in your arms, hair a little windswept from the cold night air.
“Hope you’re hungry,” you called, nudging the door shut behind you with your hip. “They gave us extra cheesy bread.”
For one impossible second, Clark thought maybe he’d fallen asleep and the fantasy had followed him into a dream. But you were real. You were here.
Clark stayed frozen on the couch, still hunched forward, but his whole body was taut now, like a bowstring drawn too tight. You breezed in, the smell of garlic and melted cheese following you, chattering like you always did when you were excited.
“So, I placed a pickup order at Mario’s and somebody else must’ve grabbed it by mistake because when I got there, it was gone,” you explained, setting the pizza boxes on the kitchen counter and hanging up your coat. “Totally vanished. But they felt bad, so they remade the whole order with extra cheesy bread.” You grinned, holding up the little box for emphasis. “Free cheesy bread, Clark! If that’s not divine intervention telling us it’s a Ratatouille night, I don’t know what is.”
You were grabbing plates from his cupboard when you finally glanced back, words slowing. “Wait, what’s wrong? Why are you sitting like you just gambled away your life savings?”
Clark blinked. He hadn’t realised how pathetic he must look, folded in on himself, hands dangling between his knees.
His heart surged at the sight of you standing there in the doorway, but the words that came out weren’t the ones he wanted. “What about your date?”
You stopped in your tracks. “My what?” Then, your eyes lit up. “Oh, speaking of dates! How do you think Jimmy’s is going?”
Clark frowned, confusion doubling back on him. “I mean… Not very well if you’re here instead of there?”
You tilted your head, blinking slowly, like he’d just started speaking in Kryptonian. “What?”
Clark’s brain stuttered. “Wait—what?”
You stared at each other across the room for a long, disbelieving beat, until your expression shifted from confusion to dawning realisation.
You set the plates down on the counter, hands braced on either side. “Hold on. Did you think Jimmy was going on a date with me tonight?”
Heat crept up Clark’s neck, and he could feel his ears burning. “Well—I—he winked at you in the bullpen, and then Lois said—”
“Oh my god.” You dragged a hand down your face, groaning. “No, no, no, Clark. No. Jimmy’s on a date with my neighbour, Poppy. I’ve been trying to set them up for weeks.”
Clark just stared. His brain scrambled for purchase, trying to rearrange the facts into this new, blessed reality. “Poppy,” he echoed, words coming out slow and low. “Your… neighbour.”
“Yes. Poppy,” you confirmed. “She just got out of a long-term relationship when I moved to Metropolis, so she was hesitant at first. But I kept talking him up, and I showed her a couple pictures he took, and finally she agreed. Tonight’s their blind date.”
Relief surged through Clark so quickly that it made him dizzy. His hands twitched uselessly on his knees. He wanted to do something, say something, but all he could think was Thank God.
You didn’t notice the way his shoulders uncoiled, the way his chest expanded with a breath that felt like it reached his bones. You were still talking, animated now, explaining how you’d been stealthily gathering intel on Jimmy—his favourite food, his type, what kind of date he’d enjoy.
But Clark couldn’t hear half of it.
All he could hear was the rush of his own pulse. All he could feel was the giddy, impossible joy of knowing the future he’d been mourning just minutes ago wasn’t lost after all.
“Anyway, why—” You trailed off mid-sentence, really looking at him.
Clark wasn’t just listening. He was bracing, shoulders hunched like he’d been carrying the world on them and only now set it down. His breath came out ragged, too loud for the quiet of his apartment, and his eyes were fixed on you like you’d just saved him.
“Clark,” you said slowly, narrowing your eyes. “You okay?”
He swallowed, trying for casualness and failing spectacularly. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Just… relieved, I guess.”
“Relieved,” you repeated, folding your arms. You couldn’t stop your mouth from twitching into a grin. “What, did you really think I was sneaking around on a secret date with Jimmy Olsen? That I’d just, what, show up tomorrow morning and be like ‘oh hey Clark, by the way, I’m dating your best friend now, pass the sugar?’”
He gave a strangled little laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. You caught the flush spreading across his skin, the way his broad chest rose and fell too fast. Not embarrassment exactly, but something warmer.
Your grin softened. “You were panicking. Weren’t you?”
Clark shook his head, eyes darting anywhere but yours. “No, I just—I didn’t—”
“Uh-huh.”
You leaned on the counter, resting your chin in your hand, studying him. He was sitting forward on the couch like he might spring out of it at any second, like if he relaxed, something dangerous would slip loose. His big hands were clenched on his knees, the tendons in his forearms flexing as though he was holding something back.
And for the first time in your life, you realised maybe he was.
The thought made your pulse jump, heat curling in your stomach. Because now that you were looking, really looking, you saw how beautiful he was in that soft, undone way only you ever got to see.
“Clark,” you said again, softer now. “Why were you so panicked?”
He lifted his gaze then, finally meeting your eyes. And the look in them nearly knocked the breath out of you. Relief, yes, but threaded with something hotter, deeper.
You stayed by the counter, watching him. And then Clark stood—too fast, like he startled himself with the decision—and rubbed his palms down the front of his slacks.
“I—Golly, I don’t know how to…” His voice was low, rough. His eyes skittered away, then dragged back to yours like they couldn’t help it. “I’ve been trying to figure out how to say this for years. I wanted to tell you when you first got here. But then Jimmy and—and then Lois, she joked, and I thought…”
“Thought what?” you asked, breath catching.
Clark hesitated, fists clenching like he was physically holding back words. Then, quieter: “That maybe I’d already lost you.”
You blinked. “Clark—”
“No, let me—just let me say this.” His hands came up helplessly, almost reaching for you before they fell back to his sides. “I’ve been in love with you since we started high school.”
The words hit you like a struck match. Excitement coiled tight in your stomach, dizzying, almost unbearable. You wanted to laugh and cry and throw yourself into his arms all at once, but all you could do was stare at him, wide-eyed.
“I wanted to tell you before graduation,” Clark confessed. “But you were staying in Smallville, and I was moving across the country, and it felt like I’d ruin the best thing in my life by saying it out loud. I told myself distance would fix it. That maybe I’d get over you.” He laughed shyly, shaking his head. “But I never did.”
“Clark…” Your voice cracked, and you had to take a step forward.
He mirrored you without thinking, until there was barely a foot of air left between you. His chest was warm even at this distance, heat rolling off him like a furnace.
Clark took a shuddering breath. “You remember the milkweed my folks sent with you? The one Ma insisted you bring to the city?”
You managed a nod.
His mouth quirked, but his eyes were still raw, desperate. “She told me once, if you care for it right, the monarch butterflies will come. Doesn’t matter where you plant it—in Kansas, in Metropolis—it’ll bring them back. And I thought… that’s us. I thought, if I just kept caring for what we had, even if it wasn’t what I wanted, I’d get to keep you in my life. And that would be enough.”
He swallowed hard, adding, “But it’s not, and I can’t pretend it is anymore.”
You reached out without thinking, your fingers brushing the back of his hand. Even that ghost of contact felt like a jolt of lightning. He froze, his breath stuttering, before his fingers twitched like he was fighting the urge to entwine them with yours.
“Clark,” you whispered, heart hammering. “In high school, I never… I never thought about you like that. Everyone used to talk about your dad’s ‘Kent charm’ like it was this thing you inherited, and maybe they saw it, but I didn’t. Not then. You were just Clark, my best friend.”
Something flickered in his eyes—hurt, but gentled by the way he looked at you, as if he’d take even this.
You let out a shaky laugh. “But then you left. And you were still the one I called when I had a bad day, or when something amazing happened, or when I just wanted to hear a voice that reminded me I wasn’t alone. And then I came here, and I get to see you every day, and Clark,” your voice wavered, but you pushed through, “I’m falling in love with you. The reporter, the farm boy, the man who saves the world, the one who waters milkweed because he hopes butterflies will come home.”
Clark’s composure broke on a ragged breath. He surged closer, finally tangling his fingers with yours, gripping tight like he’d drown without it.
“You can’t just say that to me,” he rasped, forehead dropping to yours, his breath hot on your lips. “You can’t say that and expect me not to—”
Your laugh hitched out on a sob. “You don’t need to hold back anymore.”
And he didn’t.
His mouth found yours with years of pent-up longing, searing, desperate, and impossibly sweet. You clutched at his shirt, pulling him closer, and he gathered you into his arms like he’d been waiting his whole life for permission. Every brush of his hands over your back, every slide of his lips against yours, burned like fire meeting gasoline.
When you broke apart, breathless and clinging, he pressed his face into your hair and whispered, hoarse and unsteady, “You’re it for me. Always have been.”
For a heartbeat, you just stood there, staring at him. Some invisible red string between you snapped taut, pulling you forward before you’d even decided to move.
Clark’s hands came up, hovering like he was terrified of scaring you off, and that hesitation alone undid you. You closed the distance. It was years of unsaid things pouring out at once, your fingers clutching at the broad line of his shoulders, his hands finally claiming your waist like he’d been dying to all along.
He kissed you like he already knew every contour of your mouth, and in a way, he did. He knew you, every laugh, every secret, every sharp retort and soft glance, and now he was learning you like this, too.
You tilted your head, and Clark followed, perfectly in step, as though you’d rehearsed this in another life. Heat flared where his palm slid up your side, leaving you breathless, but when he slowed—just enough to press the gentlest kiss to your bottom lip—you felt the tenderness layered inside the urgency.
When you finally tore back just enough to breathe, your foreheads touched, his breath ragged against your skin.
His thumb traced your cheekbone, a shaky little caress that steadied itself as he whispered, “Been wanting to do that for half my life.”
Your laugh came out uneven, breaking against the swell of emotion in your throat. “Took you long enough.”
Clark smiled against your mouth, and then you were pulling him down to you again, hungry this time, eager.
Your hands tangled in his hair, tugging him closer like you couldn’t get enough of him. His mouth moved against yours with a confidence that made your knees weak, but there was still that softness beneath the hunger.
His fingers trailed down your back, sliding under your shirt, and you shivered against him. Every brush of skin was electric, and you found yourself gasping and moaning into his mouth, both of you laughing breathlessly when the heat of it was too much to contain.
Clark’s hands roamed freely now, memorising the curves of your body as if he were trying to burn them into memory. Your own hands were relentless, exploring the strong lines of his chest, the sweep of his shoulders, the way his hair fell into his eyes when he tilted his head.
You were discovering each other in a way you’d never imagined; familiar yet entirely new, and it made every touch searing.
The sofa became your anchor. Clark guided you down, careful but insistent, until you were sprawled together, limbs tangled, breaths mingling in the small space.
Clark’s lips left yours only briefly, just enough to whisper against your temple, “You have no idea how many times I’ve dreamed of this.”
You smiled and whispered back, “I’m always happy to be in the business of making your dreams come true.”
His hands were everywhere, sliding under your back, across your hips. When you shifted slightly, sliding against him, Clark groaned low in his throat, a sound that sent shivers racing up your spine.
You couldn’t help yourself. You leaned into him, biting gently at his lower lip, and he caught your face in his hands, thumbs stroking your cheeks as he kissed you with desperate hunger.
You both collapsed together fully, tangled and warm on the sofa, breathing hard, hearts hammering. Clark’s arm wrapped around you, holding you impossibly close, and your hand found his chest, fingers splayed against him, feeling the steady beat beneath his shirt.
“Finally,” you whispered, breathless, against his collarbone.
Clark chuckled low, a deep, vibrating sound that made your stomach flutter. “Finally,” he agreed, resting his chin on top of your head.
The Gotham rain was a constant, a gray, drumming rhythm against the window of your history class. Mr. Havelock’s droning voice was just another layer to the city’s white noise. Your head was pillowed on your folded arms, the pages of your textbook serving as an imperfect mattress. You were already asleep.
This was the routine. Sleep in class. Skip last period. Meet up with Chloe and Mark at the old arcade on 5th. They were fun. They didn’t ask questions. They didn’t expect anything from you. When they suggested boosting a couple of sodas from the corner bodega, you laughed and did it. When Mark produced a flask of something that burned your throat, you took a sip, the warmth a temporary shield against the constant, hollow chill of being unnoticed.
It was easier this way. Easier than going back to the silent, cavernous manor where you were more of a ghost than any of the ones rumored to haunt its west wing.
.·´¯`¯`·.
“Report,” Bruce’s voice echoed in the Batcave, a low rumble under the chirping of the computer systems.
One by one, they checked in.
“Robin. Patrol route Beta clear.” “Nightwing.All quiet on the Diamond District front.” “Red Hood.Nothing but the usual scum in the Bowery.” “Red Robin.Cyber-traffic normal. No chatter.”
It was a checklist. A mission debrief. You were never part of the checklist. You were upstairs, in your room, scrolling through blurry, loud videos Chloe had sent from a party you’d left early from, a dull headache forming behind your eyes.
You’d left a note on the grand dining table that morning. ‘School project at the library. Be back late.’ Alfred had cleared it away with a soft sigh, but no one else had seen it. No one else ever did.
Bruce was preoccupied with a new arms dealer. Dick was helping Babs with a case. Tim was neck-deep in Wayne Enterprises R&D. Jason was… being Jason. And Damian? Damian viewed you as an anomaly, a non-combatant who cluttered his father’s house and offered no strategic value.
You were just… there. The quiet one. The one who never caused trouble. The easy-going kid who was so low-maintenance they forgot you needed maintenance at all.
.·´¯`¯`·.
The “fun” was escalating.
It was a Friday night. Chloe knew a guy who knew a guy with a loft near the docks. “It’ll be epic,” she’d said, her eyes gleaming with a excitement that felt dangerous. “Real freedom. No parents, no rules.”
You stood in your room, staring at the cute, pastel-colored sweaters in your closet. They felt like a costume from a different life. With a sigh, you pulled on a black hoodie you’d borrowed from Jason’s old room—a room that was now just a shrine to a ghost he used to be. He’d never even know it was gone.
You slipped out the side entrance, your footsteps swallowed by the manicured gravel. You didn’t see the faint glow of the Cave elevator, or Damian, in his Robin uniform, landing silently on the terrace after a solo patrol.
He paused, watching a figure in a familiar-looking black hoodie disappear into the edge of the property. His brow furrowed. It was too small to be Jason. A thief? He dropped down, following silently, a shadow tailing a shadow.
He expected you to head into the city. He did not expect you to meet up with two older teenagers who reeked of cigarette smoke and cheap perfume. He didn’t expect the easy, hollow laugh you gave when the boy, Mark, slung an arm around your shoulders. He watched, hidden in the darkness of a fire escape, as you all entered a run-down building pulsing with bass.
This was a security breach. A vulnerability. It was his duty to report it.
Back in the Cave, he removed his mask. “Father. There is a situation.”
Bruce didn’t look up from the hologram. “What is it, Damian?”
“It’s… her.” Damian said the word like it was a foreign object in his mouth. “The girl. She has left the grounds and is currently at an unsanctioned gathering in the Docklands with known delinquents.
The typing stopped. The Cave went silent.
“What?” Bruce’s voice was dangerously low.
“I observed her departing. She was wearing what appeared to be Todd’s property. She met with two individuals. Their behavior was… questionable.”
Dick straightened up. “Wait, our Y/N? Little Y/N who sleeps through dinner?”
“She’s sixteen, Dick,” Tim said, pulling up the city’s traffic camera network. His fingers flew across the keyboard. “Docklands… loft building near the old canning factory. Lots of noise complaints. Minor drug bust there last month.”
“Drugs?” Bruce’s head snapped up, his full attention finally, finally, on you.
“She’s a kid,” Jason’s gruff voice came over the comms; he’d been listening. “A stupid, naive kid who’s probably trying to piss you off because you never look at her.”
The truth of it hung in the air, heavy and accusing.
Bruce felt a cold dread that had nothing to do with super-villains. He saw it now. The missed dinners. The silent car rides. The perfect report cards he never asked about because he assumed no news was good news. He’d filed her away as “safe” and had forgotten to check on her.
“Red Robin, get me eyes inside that party. Now. Nightwing, you’re with me. Red Hood, converge on the location. Non-lethal. We’re extracting her.” Batman’s voice was tight, a wire about to snap.
.·´¯`¯`·.
Inside, the music was deafening. The air was thick with smoke and sweat. Someone shoved a red plastic cup into your hand. You took a sip, wincing at the taste. You felt dizzy, overwhelmed, and deeply, deeply lonely in the middle of the crowd.
Mark’s hand was on your waist, pulling you closer than you were comfortable with. “C’mon, don’t be shy,” he slurred. “Live a little.”
You tried to pull back, a nervous laugh catching in your throat. “Mark, stop, I don’t—”
The lights went out. Not just the party lights. Everything. The music died with a screech of feedback. The entire building was plunged into utter, silent blackness.
Screams erupted. Then, a new sound. The sound of shattering glass and gruff shouts of pain.
You stood frozen, heart hammering against your ribs. You felt a whoosh of air, and Mark’s grip on you was suddenly gone, replaced by a pained grunt and the sound of a body hitting the floor.
A different presence was beside you. Larger. Solid. Terrifying.
“Not a word.” The voice was a low, electronically distorted growl, but you’d heard it on the news enough times. Batman.
A scream died in your throat. Strong, armored arms wrapped around you, lifting you effortlessly off your feet. You were carried through the chaos, a blur of movement in the dark. You caught a glimpse of Nightwing’s escrima sticks flashing, disarming a guy who pulled a knife. You heard the distinct sound of a taser and Red Hood’s voice snarling, “Stay down.”
In less than a minute, you were outside in the cold, rain-soaked air, being placed in the back of a sleek, black car you knew all too well. Batman slid into the driver’s seat, the canopy closing. The interior light came on.
He wasn’t Batman anymore. He was just Bruce. And he looked… shattered.
The drive to the manor was silent. You pulled the hoodie tighter around yourself, shaking, staring out at the weeping gargoyles of Gotham.
The Cave was silent when you entered. Everyone was there, in various states of undress. Dick, out of his mask, his face etched with worry. Tim, looking guilty, unable to meet your eyes. Jason, arms crossed, leaning against the Batcomputer, his expression unreadable. Damian stood stiffly to the side, observing.
Bruce turned to you, his cape pooling around him. “Y/N…” he began, his voice rough. “Those people… what you were doing… Do you have any idea how dangerous that was?”
The fear from the party curdled into something hot and bitter in your stomach. For the first time in years, you weren’t feeling ignored. You were feeling seen, and it was only because you’d finally done something wrong.
Tears welled up in your eyes, but your voice was steady. “Dangerous?” you whispered. Then it got louder. “You want to know what’s dangerous? Coming home every day to a house full of people who look right through you! That’s dangerous! Sitting at a table so big you can hear your own heartbeat because no one talks to you! That’s dangerous! Having no one care if you come home at all!”
Your voice broke. “They were the only ones who noticed I was there! They were dragging me down a bad path? Well, what path were you guys offering? The path to the lonely, quiet room at the end of the hall?”
The silence that followed was louder than any you’d ever endured. You saw the impact of your words hit each of them like a physical blow. Bruce flinched. Dick looked like he’d been stabbed. Jason’s jaw was clenched tight. Tim looked ill. Even Damian’s usual sneer had vanished, replaced by something like dawning, uncomfortable understanding.
You weren’t just the easy-going kid who loved to sleep. You were a kid screaming into a void, and you’d finally found a way to make the void hear you.
Bruce took a step forward, and for the first time, he didn’t look like a Gotham monument. He looked like a tired, failed father. “Y/N… I… We…”
He had no words. The Batman was speechless.
It was Dick who moved first. He crossed the space and pulled you into a hug, so tight it squeezed the air from your lungs. “I’m so sorry,” he murmured into your hair, his voice thick. “We’re so sorry, little star. We failed you.”
One by one, they came. A hesitant hand on your shoulder from Tim. A grunt from Jason that sounded suspiciously like, “Shoulda said somethin’, kid.” Even Damian gave a stiff, single nod of acknowledgement.
It wasn’t a magic fix. The neglect of years wouldn’t vanish in one night. The trust was broken. But for the first time, the Batfamily was truly, painfully, looking at you. And the long, difficult road to building a real family, not just sharing a name, had finally begun.
What hurt me wasn’t the darkness outside or the wrong people I found. What truly hurt was being invisible inside my own home. While you were out protecting the city, I was left fighting my loneliness every night. You call what I did dangerous, but the real danger is a child being utterly alone in the middle of their own family. Yes, I made a mistake—but all I ever wanted was to be seen, to be heard, to be felt. Because silence cuts deeper than any blade.
