[spencersfish]

Masterlist of Fic Recs

I did not write any of these wonderful works of art!

These are all just fics that I have read, liked, and reblogged.

(Also, please keep in mind that I am queer and have ADHD, so I am very bad at remembering to reblog every fic that I love as well as consistently update this list!)

I created this mainly just to keep everything organized, but also to help others find some  talented authors!

Bridgerton

Anthony

Benedict

Eloise

Prince Friedrich

Grishaverse

Nikolai

Kaz

Zoya

BBC Ghosts

Daredevil / Matt Murdock 

[vigilantexreader]

Superman vs. Vigilante

Clark Kent x fem!Reader, 14k

When Justice Gang starts a new initiative to work with other superhero groups across the country and Checkmate is chosen for the trial run, you’re assigned to work the breaking story. After all, your best friend is a founder of the company. Clark is happy for you. He really is. But…why are you friends with these people?

Basically I wrote adrian vs. superman and y'all ate it up so here's the reverse as requested by @bunch-of-bens which is somehow double the length!! <3

tags/warnings: jealous!Clark, journalist!reader, frequent cameos from the Justice Gang and the 11th Street Kids

Thank you @embeanwrites for the beta I desperately needed it for this mammoth fic you're a real one!!

Masterlist

He disappears constantly, never explains. Always timed perfectly with the breaking news. When he returns, he’s always a mess. Windblown hair, a smudge of ash on his neck. You imagine him rushing to clean himself up in the bathroom, missing a spot. Then he flashes his bright, charming smile at you, maybe a shy little wave, and he sits down at his desk to write the latest exclusive front-page interview, which is just the icing on the cake.

Clark Kent is doing some vigilante superhero shit.

You’ve been through this before. You know the signs. You do.

It’s like Adrian all over again.

Lois knows. You know she does, because she’s always glancing over at Clark’s empty desk, worried, when there’s metahuman shit going down on the tv screens, and making pointed comments about his articles. Jimmy might know, too, because he always glances Clark’s way when Superman comes up in conversation.

You can’t believe no one else has noticed. None of them are subtle about it at all.

“Fucking amateurs,” you mutter into your coffee cup.

“Don’t let dear old Clark hear you talking like that,” Jimmy says, startling you, and you nearly spit out your coffee all over the papers on your desk. Instead you choke it down and try not to cough as it goes down the wrong pipe.

“Fuck, Jimmy, you scared the shit out of me,” you say.

You do have a bit of a sailor’s vocabulary that makes Clark blush. (Maybe you swear more than you probably should, at your place of work, just to see that pretty pink flush on his cheeks). You blame Adrian’s bad influence.

The man in question rushes into the bullpen. You glance at the clock. Only two minutes late this morning, which has to be a personal record for him. Probably because there was no alien bullshit going on this morning that Superman had to deal with. Despite that, his tie is still crooked. So are his glasses.

And you are so, so enamored by him. You want to melt into a puddle every time you see him. Handsome and kind and respectful and—god. You never stood a chance.

“Morning,” Clark says. He’s talking to everyone, but he looks at you when he says it. You smile shyly into your coffee cup, watching him put his briefcase on his desk.

Is the suit stuffed in there? You’ve never seen him open it. No one else carries one. What does he keep in there, a legal pad? Pens? Who even writes down paper notes anymore? You all keep notes on your phone, your voice recorders—

Your train of thought is interrupted by the buzzing of your cellphone on your desk. You glance down at it and your brow furrows, accepting the call, picking up your coffee mug, and making your way toward the break room as you press the phone to your ear.

“Guess what?” Adrian says. No hi, hello, how are you. Straight and to the point. Typical.

“Why the fuck are you awake right now?” you ask him. It’s nine in the morning for you, which means it’s even earlier for him—six a.m., if you’re not mistaken, and he is not a morning person.

“I just got back from patrol,” he says. “I never went to bed, I got a tip about this drug shipment and I was doing a stake out—”

“Ade, you have to sleep if you’re going to be a functional human being,” you remind him. You know his job at Checkmate starts in a few hours.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m good,” he insists. “Now guess what!”

“Umm, you saw a really cool bird while you were on patrol?”

“No. I did see a cute fox! I followed it for a while because I wanted to hear it make a noise, because—have you heard that song What Does the Fox Say?—I don’t believe foxes make any of those noises—”

“Adrian,” you interrupt, taking a sip of your coffee. “I know you didn’t call me at 6 a.m. to talk about fox noises.”

“Right! I’m moving to Metropolis next week!”

You choke on your coffee for the second time in the last ten minutes, because that was the last thing you were expecting him to say.

“You’re—what?”

“Not permanently! But for a couple months,” Adrian says excitedly. “Checkmate is participating in a new program with the Justice Gang. They’re trying to work with more superhero groups across the country, and Ads submitted an application, and they picked us to be first!”

“Oh my god,” you say. “That’s—that’s incredible, Ade—”

“We get to hang out in person! For the first time in like, a thousand years!”

You smile. “I just saw you at Christmas, you drama queen, and it’s only the second week of January. But I know what you mean.”

Adrian yawns on the other end of the line, and you roll your eyes.

“Would you go to sleep for like, an hour, at least, before you need to go to work?”

“Don’t wanna,” Adrian says petulantly.

“Go sleep,” you order, smiling. He’s like an overtired toddler when he pulls an all-nighter for a patrol. “I’m at work, and I have to go talk to my boss, okay?”

“Are you actually going to talk to your boss, or are you going to talk to Clark with his curly hair and his dimples?” he asks. You feel your cheeks get hot. You never should have told him about your stupid crush on your coworker. He never misses an opportunity to tease you about it.

“I am actually going to talk to my boss, Adrian,” you say. “Just like you are actually going to bed right now.”

“Fine,” he sighs. “I’ll talk to you later. Love you, bestie.”

“Love you too, bestie.”

When Adrian hangs up, you don’t hesitate. You stalk right over to Perry’s office and knock firmly on the frame of the open door. He looks up with a raised eyebrow, unlit cigar dangling from his lips, and sits back in his chair.

“What’s going on, kid?” he asks. You step further inside and sit in the chair across from his desk.

“I want to cover the new Justice Gang initiative,” you say firmly. Perry raises his eyebrows.

“I just got an email about that this morning. How the hell did you even know—“

“I’ve got connections at Checkmate,” you explain. “The vigilante company that they’re doing this trial run with? I know the founders. The people who work there will feel comfortable talking with me. I know I haven’t covered any metahuman stories before, but I am the right person for this story. I know I am.”

Perry looks at you. You’ve never stormed in here and—demanded something like this, and you think he doesn’t quite know what to make of it.

But you want it. You want it bad. This is your chance to make the front page for the first time.

“This is going to be a big piece,” he says. “Several articles, over a couple weeks. Maxwell Lord reached out to me directly. He wants a Daily Planet exclusive.”

“I can handle it,” you insist.

“I know you can,” Perry says, and your heart races. “So I’ll give it to you. As a joint piece with Miss Lane. She’s got a working relationship with the Justice Gang, and if you know the folks over at Checkmate, that covers both bases, and you can check each other’s biases.”

You smile, wide, practically vibrating with excitement. “Thank you, Chief.”

He makes a face. “Don’t call me Chief. Now go, get back to work. I’ll forward you the details, you and Lane can hash things out together.”

“Clark,” Lois hisses.

Clark pushes his glasses up his nose and turns around in his swivel chair, abandoning his latest Superman interview draft.

“Why are you whispering?” he whispers back.

“Supply closet. Now,” Lois demands, and she stalks off. Clark watches her go with wide eyes.

“What did you do to piss her off?” Jimmy asks. 

“I’m about to find out,” Clark mutters.

When he stands up, it catches your attention, and you glance up from your monitor. Clark flushes with your watchful eyes on him, sees them narrow with a bit of curiosity. Maybe suspicion.

He feels vulnerable. He always does, when you look at him. It’s like your gaze strips him bare, like you can see right through him. It makes him—restless. In a good way.

“You’d better go, before she comes back with a vengeance,” you say, smirking and nodding in the direction that Lois stalked off.

Clark blushes. He does that a lot around you. His cheeks are perpetually hot and pink when you’re in his vicinity. He goes to follow Lois, feeling the heat in his face and your eyes on his back.

He meets Lois in the hallway. She glances around, makes sure it’s clear, and yanks him inside the storage closet.

“Ah—geez, Lois,” Clark says, his head bumping into a high shelf. Some cleaning supplies tumble over, and he tries to catch them, but he just bumps into another shelf and makes things worse.

“Ow,” Lois grumbles when he accidentally elbows her in the chest. Clark flushes even more, if that’s physically possible.

“Sorry, sorry—” It’s tight, shoved in there with her, and he tries to press himself back further away from her, to make himself smaller, to no avail. “Some warning would be nice. Why are we hiding in the closet?”

“You have a problem,” Lois says, voice low.

“O…kay?” Clark says nervously. He thinks about the way you looked at him just now, your questioning gaze on his back as he walked away. “What is my problem?”

“The new Justice Gang initiative,” Lois says.

“Um,” Clark says, brow furrowing, because that is not what he was expecting. “I thought that was a pretty good idea? Mr. Terrific brought it up; it seems like a good thing. Working with more superhero groups across the country, creating a more united network. Wait a minute—how do you even know about tha—”

“Because Maxwell Lord wants a Daily Planet exclusive piece written up about it.”

“Oh,” Clark says. “Did Perry assign it to you? Why is that a problem?”

“It’s a dual assignment,” Lois says.

“Shoot,” Clark says. “Well—we can work with that, right? Who is the other—”

“Your girlfriend.”

The color drains from Clark’s face. He doesn’t even have it in him to point out that you’re not his girlfriend, or be embarrassed about his debilitating crush on you, because he’s too busy thinking about all the thousand ways that this could go wrong.

“Ah, hell,” he says.

“Wow,” Lois says. “That’s the closest thing to a real swear word I’ve ever heard you say. You kiss your mother with that mouth, Kent?”

“What am I going to do?” Clark asks, fisting his hair in his hands in a panic. “She’s gonna know. Instantly, Lois. Maybe I could get away with it if they didn’t call me by my name—I could ask them to—gosh, why do I tell everybody my name?”

“You really think Guy Gardner is gonna be able to keep his big mouth shut? You need to tell her, Clark. She needs to find out about Superman from you. Not on the job.”

“This isn’t how I wanted to do it,” he whispers, distraught. “She—what if she—”

The supply closet door swings open to reveal you, startling both of them. Lois gives Clark a worried look. If he was so absorbed in his panic he didn’t even hear your footsteps approaching with his super ears, he really is a mess over you, and it’s more serious than she realized.

“Hey guys,” you say lightly. “I assume you guys are talking about the Justice Gang piece?”

They stare at you.

“Okay. Right. Um, Lois, is it okay if I talk to Clark for a minute?”

Lois looks between you and Clark once, then twice, before she steps out of the closet hesitantly. Clark stares at you, open-mouthed, like he wants to say something, but he’s forgotten how to talk.

You step into the spot that Lois has vacated and shut the door. Clark’s breath hitches, and if his cheeks were pink before, now they’re bright, flaming red. It’s one thing to be shoved up against Lois in here, but with you—

“Did you want to—it’s um, hot in here, gosh,” he says, tugging at his tie, trying not to think about the fact that he’s crammed into this confined space with you pressed up against him, all soft and pretty, with your wide, bright eyes blinking up at him. He swallows nervously. “We can go somewhere els—”

“I already know,” you say. Soft. Quiet. “That you’re Superman.”

Clark gapes at you, frozen in place, because—what?

“I won’t tell anyone,” you assure him. “My best friend back home is a vigilante. I know how this works. With the whole—secret identity thing, and all. My lips are sealed.”

“Y-you—h-how did you—” he stutters. He doesn’t deny it. He would never insult your intelligence like that; you’re one of the smartest people he knows. But he never, in a thousand years, would have guessed that you knew.

“I just—” Now it’s your turn to flush red. “I pay a lot of attention. To you.”

“You do?” Clark asks. He tries not to be too pleased about that, but—if you’re watching him, as much as he’s watching you…

Does that mean you’re wanting him, too, as much as he’s wanting you?

“I do,” you say softly. “I promise you, your secret is safe with me.”

He stares at you, and you stare right back at him. Your heart rate is even, steady in his ears. You’re breathing a little faster than normal, but that could easily be attributed to the tiny, confined space you’re shoved into right now.

“I trust you,” he says after a moment. He really, really does.

You smile. “I’m glad.”

You both just look at each other for an awkward moment. Clark feels like he should say something more. He doesn’t know what. But the last two minutes have given him absolute whiplash, and his brain has elected to stop functioning.

“I should probably go talk to Lois,” you say. “Make a plan for this assignment.”

He nods. “Yeah. Yeah, uh—if you need anything, I—well. Let me know. And, uh, if you have any—well, questions, about the whole—” His voice drops to a whisper. “Superman thing. We can…talk? Maybe…do dinner? At my place, or yours?”

He winces at what a mess of a sentence that was, if it can even be called that. He should be grateful he even managed to get any words out at all.

“I would like that,” you say, a little shy. “I’ll—text you? When I get home tonight?”

“Yeah,” Clark nods. “I mean—yes. Yes, please do.”

Then you leave him in the closet, the door falling shut behind you.

“Golly,” he says, rubbing his face with both hands. “What the heck am I doing…”

“Hey,” you say, opening the door to your apartment later that night to a very sheepish Clark Kent.

“I’m so sorry,” he says. “I’m so late. I’m offensively, rudely late. If you want me to go home…”

You glance at your watch. You’d planned for six. It’s eight thirty. But you’re not angry, and you tell him so.

“I’m not upset, Clark. I kinda figured you would be,” you say, stepping back and walking inside. Clark accepts the wordless invitation and follows you through the foyer and into your tiny living room. 

There are framed photos all over the walls in the hallway that remind him of the ones his Ma has on all the side tables back home. Posed group pictures, candid snapshots. He pauses and looks at some, smiling to himself.

“Are those your friends from back home?” he asks, pointing to a group photo. You’re out at a bar, arms wrapped around a tall, heavyset man in a graphic t-shirt and a shorter man with silver-framed glasses and a long-sleeved polo shirt. It’s a little bit blurry, and the lighting is bad, but everyone in the picture looks so—happy.

“Yeah,” you smile. “John and Adrian. It was Ads’s birthday, that night, and we went to a gay bar, for karaoke night.”

“Oh? Are you hiding your vocal talents from the rest of the Daily Planet staff?” Clark teases.

“Absolutely not,” you giggle. “I sound like a dying bird. Never hand me a microphone when I’ve had more than two beers.”

You pause behind your couch and gesture at the television, which is running the news coverage of the alien attack of the day. The reason why he was so dreadfully late coming over here.

“Speaking of hiding things from the rest of the Daily Planet staff,” you say cheekily, and Clark sighs.

“I walked right into that one, didn’t I?”

Clark watches himself, on the screen, shoot lasers out of his eyes.

“Does that actually make your eyes really hot?” you ask, crossing your arms as you watch the replay. Then you turn and cock your head at him. “Like, if I touched your eyes right now, would they still be warm? How much can you control it? Can you use it to like, heat up your coffee when it gets cold?”

Clark raises an eyebrow. You flush.

“Sorry. That was a lot of questions. You don’t have to—”

“No,” he laughs. “That’s okay. I was…expecting the questions. That’s why I’m here, right?”

“I don’t want you to feel like I’m interrogating you,” you say. “Or that, I don’t know, I’m gonna take everything you tell me and leak it online, or write an exposé, or something. I’m just—so curious.”

“I said earlier—I trust you. I mean that,” Clark says, soft and firm. “Besides, you’re not grilling me half as aggressively as Lois did when she found out.”

“So she does know,” you muse. “I thought she did. Does Jimmy, too?”

“Not as far as I’m aware,” Clark says, but the corner of his mouth quirks up. “The Justice Gang members know who I am. My parents, obviously, and Lois figured it out a couple years back and threw herself off a rooftop to prove a point.”

“That sounds like her.”

“Now there’s you. Thank you for not doing that, by the way. But that’s really it, I think. Apparently, though, I’m not as good at hiding it as I thought I was.”

“I just…recognized the signs,” you say. “Like I said earlier, my best friend back home is a vigilante. And before he told me, he was doing all the same things. The frequent disappearances, and—well, I can’t really talk about specifics. He’s really particular about his secret identity, as I’m sure you can understand.”

Clark does understand. “You’re a good friend, you’re keeping a secret. I get it.”

What he doesn’t understand, though, is the weird, vague jealousy that starts churning in his stomach. Because he knows now that he’s not the only superhero in your life? Because he wasn’t the first? Because the other man you’re describing is your best friend, and he’s just your coworker and nothing more?

Now isn’t the time for that conversation. He’s stripped himself bare enough for the day.

“The lasers do make my eyes hot,” he says, answering your question from earlier. “And…I have used it to warm up my coffee in the break room, when no one is looking.”

“Really?”

“Really,” he says, feeling a little silly. “My Ma always used to have me start up the fireplace, actually, when I was a kid, and get the water boiling faster for dinner.”

You cackle. “Oh my god. You’re kidding.”

“I made myself useful,” Clark grins. “Super strength comes in handy when you’re lugging stuff around a farm all day. It was the least I could do. I didn’t make things easy for them, when I was a baby and I would just start…floating off.”

“Oh, god,” you say, shaking your head. “A flying toddler…what a disaster. With Ad—” You cut yourself off. “My friend, I mean. He’s meta, but. Nothing like you. He can heal pretty fast. He gets stabbed, he can just sleep it off, be totally fine in the morning. But the laser vision, the flying, the strength…that’s…really, really cool.”

Clark tries not to be too pleased about the fact that you think he’s cool. He shrugs it off, plays it nonchalant. “It’s just…the sun. I get my powers from the yellow sun.”

“How come nobody recognizes you?” you ask, cocking your head, squinting at his face. Clark feels himself blush under your detailed attention, eyes darting over his every facial feature like you’re going to unlock another secret part of him just by looking hard enough.

“It’s, uh,” he stutters, fumbling with the frames of his glasses.

“The glasses?”

Clark doesn’t answer, just takes them off, and your eyes widen.

“Holy shit,” you say, and Clark turns even redder when he hears you swear. You giggle. “That’s insane—the glasses are, what, magic?”

“Kryptonian technology,” he says. “Hypnoglasses.”

“The suit, too? Where do you keep it, by the way? When you run off in the middle of the day, I always wonder. Is it in your briefcase? Do you just…wear it under your clothes?”

“You really do have a lot of questions,” Clark teases.

“I am a journalist,” you remind him. “Curiosity is basically my job.”

“And you’re good at it,” he says, which makes you flush, pleased by the compliment.

“You know, I did eat without you,” you say. “I got hungry. But you just saved the city, and all, for like, the hundredth time. And I’m being a bad host, bombarding you with questions before I’ve even offered you a drink, or food, or—anyway. There’s leftovers in the fridge, if you want to heat them up with your laser vision. I would love a demonstration.”

Clark laughs.

The dynamic shifts in the office, after that night. Once Clark knows that you know—well. It shouldn’t change things. But it does. 

He should feel more confident, now, around you, but instead, the opposite happens. He’s even more likely to trip over his own feet when he walks by your desk, because now, sometimes, you’ll glance up and smile, or worse, wink at him, and it makes his knees all wobbly. The man of steel, gone weak in the knees because a pretty girl grinned in his direction. And now, when he has to run off in the middle of the day because of whatever daily downtown disaster is happening, his phone chimes with a text from you, telling him things like don’t let Guy Gardner steal your thunder today or bring me back a latte from the corner store or his personal, heart-stopping favorite, be safe ♥️.

He tries to give it back as good as he gets. When he notices your coffee has gone cold, he rolls his desk chair over to you, snags it off your desk, and says, “need a reheat?” and waits for you to laugh before he brings it back to the break room, and lasers it with his eyes. Lois catches him doing it one day and rolls her eyes so hard they almost fall out of her head.

“God, you are so down bad for her, Smallville,” she mutters, but she’s smirking. Clark doesn’t even care.

And he does feel like he can be more himself around you, now. When it’s just the two of you in the elevator, or the break room, or walking to the coffee shop on the corner for a fifteen minute break, Clark feels like he can breathe easier, because he has nothing to hide anymore.

You and Lois have been spending most of the week prepping for Saturday morning, which marks the start of the new Justice Gang initiative. He’s seen you bent over her desk for hours at a time, developing interview questions and planning out a series of articles to publish over the next month or so.

He tries to make sure you’re both taking care of yourselves while you’re absorbed in your work. When it looks like you’re about to work through lunch, he buys you both sandwiches from the deli across the street and drops them on your desk. He makes sure you’re staying hydrated, drinking water throughout the day and not just Lois’s sugary, sludgy excuse for coffee, but he will reheat it for you if that’s what you really need in the moment. It’s the least he can do, but the private, goofy smile you give him when he brings you your freshly eye-lasered coffee makes him feel more like a hero than half the things he does for the rest of the people of Metropolis.

“Ready for tomorrow?” Clark asks you on Friday.

“I am,” you say confidently. “I’m really looking forward to it, actually.” You lower your voice a bit. “I would show you the questions we came up with, but I think it might be cheating if you know the interview questions in advance.”

“Lois is rubbing off on you,” Clark mutters.

Clark arrives at the Hall of Justice bright and early on Saturday morning. He feels weirdly nervous, and it takes him a minute to put his finger on why, until he realizes—you’ve never seen him in the suit. Not in person. He keeps fidgeting, readjusting his cape, his hair, picking at invisible, nonexistent lint on his costume because he weirdly needs to make a good impression on you.

Which is ridiculous. Because you already know Clark. But you haven’t met Superman yet, not really.

“Why are you so fidgety?” Hawkgirl asks. “You act like you’ve never spoken to the press before.”

“He hasn’t,” Guy Gardner reminds her. “He is the press. He doesn’t do interviews. He just talks to himself. Like a weirdo.” Clark rolls his eyes.

“You’ll be fine, Clark,” Maxwell Lord says, which does not make him feel better. “There’s a reason I asked for the Daily Planet to cover the story.”

“Your coworkers who are covering the story do know who you are, don’t they?” Mr. Terrific says. “You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

“Yeah,” Clark says. “They do. It’s not that, it’s just—”

At that moment, a large group walks into the room. Checkmate has arrived, chattering excitedly among themselves as they admire the building, from the large modern space to the large mural on the walls. Clark’s eyes dance over the group. He catches himself frowning and schools his expression.

But internally, he’s stewing. Why did no one tell him that Peacemaker was on the Checkmate team?

A guy who talked crap about him to the media when Lex Luthor was running his smear campaign? A guy who implied on national news that he was an out of control alien with a god complex?

“It’s guys like this, they always got a whole bunch of dark, ugly secrets…Thinks he’s better than everybody else…”

Clark’s jaw clenches. It’s fine. This is fine. He can be the bigger person. He takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. You and Lois will be here soon, at least. That will make things better. You always make things better.

“Ah, Peacemaker,” says Maxwell. “It’s nice to see you again.”

“Oh, can it, would you?” Peacemaker says. “Don’t give me that bullshit. We both know how you feel about me.”

“Chris,” sighs a blonde woman. Clark reads her nametag. Agent Harcourt. “We talked about this.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Peacemaker mutters. “This is me on my best behavior, Emilia. Did I call Guy Gardner a puke freak to his face? No, I did not!”

Clark furrows his brow and glances over at Guy, who looks bewildered. Hawkgirl cackles, and Mr. Terrific and Maxwell Lord look like they’re regretting all of their life choices. Honestly, Clark is too, at this point, and they’re barely two minutes into this whole ordeal.

“I am not a puke freak!” Guy cries. “Would you stop telling people that!”

“Can we maybe tone it down before the press gets here, at least?” Mr. Terrific asks bluntly. “I’d like this program to get off on the right foot.”

“We would like that too, Mr. Terrific,” says another Checkmate member, Agent Adebayo, firmly.

“Please, call me Michael. We’re all pretty informal around here, we’re all professionals who can be discreet, so we do disclose our secret identities with each other, but don’t feel pressured to do so if you don’t feel comfortable.”

Everyone else goes around the room and introduces themselves. Most of the Checkmate team, apparently, are former ARGUS agents. There’s probably a story there. Clark is sure you’ll get to the bottom of that. 

One of the Checkmate tech guys looks really familiar, but Clark can’t quite put his finger on where he’s seen him before. Clark himself gets some interesting looks from them when he shares his name, but otherwise, everything goes smoothly, until it comes to one member of the Checkmate team.

“I’m good,” says Vigilante, crossing his arms. “It’s called a secret identity for a reason.”

“Whatever, man,” says Peacemaker—Chris, Clark corrects himself.

At that moment, the massive doors to the Hall of Justice swing open, and you and Lois walk in, dressed as professionally as ever, Daily Planet press badges around your necks. You grin and smile at Clark, and he starts to wave, but then your gaze flicks right past him, over his shoulder, and your smile widens even more.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Clark hears behind him, and he turns around to see Vigilante—rushing at you. There’s a split second that he feels a protective instinct to step in front of you, defend you, but—it’s not an attack. It’s…excitement? The masked crime fighter lifts you up by the waist and spins you around, and you laugh, and Clark…does not know what is happening. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

Chris laughs, too. “No way! Hey, kid.” He comes up and ruffles your hair.

Clark is really confused for a moment, but then he freezes as he remembers one crucial detail.

These people are from Evergreen, Washington. You’re from Evergreen, Washington. 

My best friend back home is a vigilante, you’d said. Your best friend, who is really particular about his secret identity.

A vigilante? Or the Vigilante?

That must be why Perry gave you the piece. You’ve got inside information, connections at Checkmate that other journalists at the Planet wouldn’t have. And—he is happy for you. He is. But god, why do you have to be connected to Peacemaker?

Clark’s teeth grind, loudly, and Hawkgirl raises an eyebrow at him.

“You good, dude?”

“I’m fine,” Clark says shortly.

Clark is not fine.

He pastes on his Superman smile, and he is respectful and kind and all the good adjectives that Ma Kent raised him to be. But as he answers Lois’s interview questions, his eyes keep drifting over her shoulder, across the room, where you’re sitting with the group from Checkmate, conducting your own interviews, laughing and taking notes, eyes bright and excited. You’re in your element.

You’re with your best friend. Who, according to the dossier Clark read ahead of the introductions today, has murdered quite a lot of people.

He tries not to eavesdrop. He really, really does. But when his super-sensitive ears catch the sound of his name on your lips, he can’t help himself.

“I can’t believe your Clark with the curly hair and the dimples, and Superman are the same person,” Vigilante is saying. Clark smiles to himself. Your Clark. He likes the sound of that. He wants that. He wants to be yours. “How come you never said—”

“For someone who’s always going on and on about secret identities, I would think you would know the answer to that question, Vigilante,” you say pointedly.

“True,” he says. “Hey! Doesn’t he have, like, a super dog? Have you met the super dog? Can you ask him if I can please meet the super dog? Pretty pretty please?”

“I have not met the super dog, Adrian,” you say. Hang on—your best friend Adrian, who you talk on the phone with all the time in the break room? He’s Vigilante? And that’s when it hits Clark—the tech guy, John. He and Adrian were in that framed picture, in your living room the other night. “Why don’t you ask him yourself? He’s literally right across the room. You can go talk to Superman.”

“Who cares about Superman?” Vigilante scoffs. “I mean, I get he’s an alien. And that’s cool and all. But the dog is a super dog. That can fly.”

“So would you say Superman is like, your friend?” Peacemaker interrupts, and Clark’s heart stops. He holds his breath while he waits for you to answer, and it all rushes out of him in a relieved whoosh when you nod. Clark smiles to himself. 

Your friend. Your Clark. Not just a coworker.

“Does he really have a poop fetish?” Peacemaker continues.

The smile drops from Clark’s face.

“What in the world—“ he mutters to himself.

“Oh my god, is that what that hashtag #supershit was all about?” Vigilante cackles. Clark’s frown deepens, teeth grinding together.

“Shut the fuck up,” you scold. “You are like middle school boys, I swear. And I will describe you that way in the article if you don’t get your shit together.”

“Hey, Supes,” Lois says, waving a hand in front of Clark’s face. “Stop glowering. You’re gonna accidentally activate your laser eyes.”

“Clark? Glowering?” Mr. Terrific jokes. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen him be anything but pleasant and happy-go-lucky.”

“I am pleasant,” Clark says unpleasantly.

Mr. Terrific follows his gaze across the room toward you. “Ah. Trouble in paradise?”

“There would need to be a paradise in existence in order for there to be trouble in it,” Lois mutters.

“Maybe I’ll activate my laser eyes at you on purpose,” Clark suggests, annoyed. Lois rolls her eyes.

“You’re the one who hasn’t made a move, Clark. She’s waiting. For you.”

“She doesn’t—” Clark swallows, looks down. 

Normally it’s so easy to stand tall when he’s in the super suit. It makes him feel powerful, feel good, feel like he’s doing all of the things he promised he would do to help humanity. But right now his shoulders slump a bit.

“I’m not what she wants. Or needs. I’m not even—human, Lois.”

Lois gives him a worried look. “Clark, you’re one of the most human people I know.”

He tries to be. He tries so hard. So why, suddenly, does it not feel like enough?

The first joint public appearance of the Justice Gang and the Checkmate team follows a few days later—a swarm of floating, jellyfish-like aliens wreaking havoc in the park downtown. You, Lois, and Jimmy are all on the scene—you document events, Lois catalogs damage, Jimmy takes photos. While the chaos unfolds around you, the Checkmate team flanks you for protection. Harcourt, Adebayo, Bordeaux, and Fleury stay at the ready with their weapons aimed at the sky.

Clark spends most of the time trying to wrangle the crowd out of the park, but his job is more difficult than usual with the appearance of some new heroes. Everyone has their personal phones and cameras turned on the scene. Peacemaker and Vigilante draw quite a bit of attention, and they thrive in that spotlight, showing off their sharpshooting skills as they take out kaiju after kaiju, dead jellyfish slopping to the ground one by one.

The media is buzzing the following day. The entire Checkmate team starts to garner attention in the news, but Peacemaker and Vigilante, with their flashy, colorful costumes, are the obvious instant stars of the media attention. The front-page article you and Lois publish is perfectly timed, your exclusive interviews providing answers to many of the public’s immediate questions.

Other people, though, are quick to dig into their pasts and churn up old, bad memories. You’re glad that your profiles give Checkmate the opportunity to come out ahead of any rumors. Your piece lets Chris address his past as a member of the Suicide Squad and his racist father on his own terms. It allows Adrian the chance to prove Vigilante as the hero he’s supposed to be, the hero you know he is, rather than letting people paint him as an amateur.

And the response is…fantastic. People love them. Not as much as their hometown heroes, of course. There’s something to be said about that kind of loyalty.

While Clark hasn’t quite bought into the new hero hype, he’s proud of you. He knows how hard you’ve been working, and how much it means to you when Perry stops by your desk to tell you, “Nice work, kid.” You’re getting congratulations constantly from the whole team, and every time, you light up more, practically glowing from the inside, and your happiness makes Clark happy, too, because it means he gets to see your pretty smile more.

“Hey,” Clark says, nudging you at your desk on Tuesday. “What do you say we do lunch? To celebrate your smashing front-page success?”

You look up at him with that bright, pretty smile. “That sounds great.”

As you walk down the street toward the nearest cafe, Clark clears his throat. “Um. There’s something I need to say—and I promise you, I really was not trying to eavesdrop the other day—but the ceilings are all arched in the Hall of Justice, you know, so things echo, and it was kinda quiet in there, and with my super hearing—”

“Spit it out, Clark,” you say, curious. “What’s up?”

“I just. Feel the need to clarify,” he says, blushing a furious shade of red, “that I do not have a…poop fetish?”

You laugh, covering your face with your hands.

“Oh my god. I’m so sorry. They are such morons,” you say. “Chris just—believes whatever he reads on the internet, and Vigilante thinks Peacemaker is, like, perfect, so he never questions when he says something idiotic. The two of them together can be…a lot.”

“I also, um, heard you call him Adrian,” he admits. “Just. For full transparency’s sake. I’m assuming…he’s the one from the pictures? In your apartment?”

“I think he kind of already knows that you know,” you say. “I mean. I talk about him in the office all the time by name. He just didn’t want the rest of the Justice Gang to know.”

“Okay,” Clark says, feeling a little better about it. “I just didn’t want—”

“Oh my god,” you say, stopping on a dime when something catches your eye. Clark follows your gaze through the window of a kitschy I ♥️ METROPOLIS store, brow furrowed. “We have to go in there. Oh my—no fucking way. Adrian is going to lose it.”

You grab Clark by the sleeve of his suit jacket and pull him inside.

There’s an entire shelf full of Vigilante merchandise. His signature black, white, and teal chevron, splashed across t-shirts, coffee mugs, keychains—even a little figurine of his likeness, down to the tiny holsters on his utility belt that hold all of his weapons and ammo.

“How did they make all this shit so quickly? It’s literally been like, a couple days since—I have to buy it,” you say, because there really is no other option. “I mean. I have to. This is going to make his day, Jesus Christ.”

Clark’s jaw twitches as he watches you gather it all up in your arms. He pretends to look around the rest of the store.

“Hey, they have Superman merch, too. I didn’t even know they made that,” he says. He’s lying through his teeth for scraps of your attention. What has his life come to? “That’s so interesting.”

“You’re kidding, right?” you say. “They’ve been selling this stuff for ages! You should be like, making royalties or something. One of my friends bought me a shirt a couple months ago. It’s way too big for me to wear anywhere, I just sleep in it sometimes.”

Clark pictures you in bed, draped in nothing but an oversized blue shirt printed with his Superman symbol, and tries not to spontaneously combust.

“Oh,” he says, voice cracking a little. “That’s—that’s nice.”

“I would buy you a mug,” you say, holding up a blue one with a tiny caped figure painted on it, “but these are probably pretty crappy. I’m not sure they would hold up to your usual coffee reheating method.” Your eyes catch on another shelf, and you smirk, reaching to hold up a pair of boxers printed with the Superman symbol. “Maybe these instead?” Your eyes flick downward toward his crotch. “If they would even fit.”

Clark groans. He can feel how pink the tips of his ears are. “You’re trying to kill me. I offer to buy you lunch today, and you’re trying to kill me.”

You laugh, take pity on him, and put them back. Clark waits patiently with you while you check out, and carries your giant bag of Vigilante merch for you for the rest of the afternoon, because he’s a gentleman.

He doesn’t notice until you get back to the office that afternoon that you’ve clipped a brand-new Superman keychain to his messenger bag. And when he glances over at your desk to say thank you, he notices you’ve got a matching one attached to yours, dangling right next to a Vigilante one.

Clark hopes that things will get easier with the Checkmate team after your first article has been published and the reception from the general public has been positive. But things are just as tense the following Saturday as they were the first day.

While things went well when responding to an emergency, the ultimate goal of this program is to carry out mission-based work, and that requires more cohesion. More teamwork. Which requires training. And a lot of the Checkmate agents aren’t metahuman, so they’re struggling to keep up during exercises, frustrated when Guy pulls a stupid stunt with the Green Lantern Ring or Hawkgirl’s metallic wings knock them over.

Clark manages just fine during the training sessions, but during the off periods—when he’s supposed to be—socializing? He struggles. A lot. He never has before. His Ma and Pa raised him to have manners, taught him how to carry on polite small-talk conversations. He’s a journalist, for god’s sake. Half his job is talking to people. He’s a pretty open person, trusting.

But it’s hard to be open and trusting with a man like Chris when all Clark keeps thinking about is the things that he said to the media to tear him down when the world was turning against him.

He takes a deep breath. These people are your friends, he reminds himself. If he wants—if he wants to be with you, the way he intends to, once he works up the courage to actually say something about how he feels, he’s gonna need to pull up his bootstraps and get over it. He can be the bigger person. He can.

So at lunch time, he decides to make an effort. The groups have made their usual split—the Justice Gang and Lois huddled around one table, you and Checkmate circled around another. And Clark makes a choice.

He grabs his sandwich and pulls up a chair between you and Peacemaker, and the table falls quiet. But you’re beaming at him, and you put a hand on his bicep and squeeze, and that makes the awkward silence worth it.

“Uh,” Clark says. “Hi.”

“Hi there,” says Harcourt, clearly a little confused as to why he’s there, but accepting his presence anyway and nudging at Chris’s shoulder so he scoots over a bit to make room for him. Clark likes her, he’s decided. She’s capable, emotionally intelligent. How she ended up leading this ragtag group of disgraced ARGUS agents and insane killers, Clark would love to know.

“Why are you over here?” Vigilante asks bluntly.

“Adrian,” Adebayo scolds.

“Ads! My secret identity!”

“You’re an idiot, if you think he didn’t make the connection already, Adrian,” you scoff. “You’re my best friend. I talk about you all the time at work.”

“Oh. Right. Well. Don’t tell anyone,” Adrian says, pointing at Clark’s face, “or I’ll fuck you up.”

“I would never,” Clark says firmly. He glances down at you next to him. “She would…mess me up.”

“God, you weren't kidding, he really is a goody-two-shoes. He can’t even say the word ‘fuck,’” Harcourt muses. You giggle and shove a forkful of salad into your mouth.

“So, what brings the high and mighty Superman over to the rejects table?” Chris asks. He doesn’t say it with anger. Maybe a tiny bit of bitterness. But Clark is confused.

“The rejects table?”

“Chris is butthurt because he interviewed to join the Justice Gang and they rejected him,” Harcourt explains.

“They did more than reject me, Em. They asked me about my skills and then started talking about my violent tendencies and how I’m indecisive and they told me I suck right to my face!”

“They did what?” Clark says, a little shocked. “I—I didn’t even know they were interviewing for new members.”

“Clark isn’t even really part of the Justice Gang,” you point out to the group. “He’s kind of like…an independent contractor.”

“It doesn’t even matter anymore,” Chris says. “I don’t even want to be a part of your stupid group anyway.”

“I don’t know why you even applied to begin with, Peacemaker,” says Adrian. “They couldn’t even show up for us when we needed them, with the butterfly invasion at Coverdale Ranch—”

“We left as soon as we were notified,” Clark interrupts, feeling a little defensive. “We—”

“That doesn’t change the fact that the one time we needed you, you weren’t there,” Adrian says. “Harcourt almost died.”

You’re starting to look stressed out, eyes darting back and forth between Clark and Adrian, mouth open like you feel like you need to say something, but you’re not sure how to stop this from spiralling into a full-blown argument.

“Okay,” Adebayo cuts in, and some tension leaves your shoulders, and you look at her gratefully. “How about we stop making digs at Clark? We’re all human, we all make mistakes.”

“We’re not,” Adrian says plainly. “All human.”

Clark’s jaw ticks, fists clenching.

“Hey,” you say sharply, and Clark can’t see Adrian’s face beneath the Vigilante mask, but he visibly recoils. You turn back to him, look him in the eyes, and say, more quietly, “He doesn’t mean it like that. He’s just—really, very literal.”

Clark swallows. He believes you, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less. It will never stop bothering him, the way everyone looks at him like he’s—other.

“I’m human in all the ways it matters,” he says to the table, tiredly, because he is so sick of explaining this to people who don’t understand. “I am sorry we weren’t able to be there for you. I’m glad you’re okay, Emilia. Hopefully this program can—help. For problems like that, in the future.”

“Not your fault,” Harcourt says. “But I appreciate it.”

The table falls silent again. You’re staring at Adrian and Chris, crossing your arms. They stare back at you, until you clear your throat pointedly.

“I’m sorry,” Adrian says, when he catches on. “I think I’m not supposed to have called you an alien. Even though you are an alien.”

It could sound a bit more genuine, but something is better than nothing, Clark supposes. 

“Apology accepted,” he says, clearing his throat.

“I’m sorry too,” Chris sighs. “You’re not the one who told me that one of my skills is sucking dick.”

John chokes on his sandwich across the table. “What?”

The following Monday, you don’t show up to work.

Clark rushes in a few minutes late, like he always does. He stopped this morning at the coffee shop on the corner and got you your favorite caramel latte. But when he goes to drop it at your desk, it’s untouched. Your computer hasn’t been turned on, your chair still pushed in, notes from last week still scattered around.

“She called in sick,” Jimmy says, when he sees Clark staring forlornly at your empty desk. “So if that extra coffee you got is meant for her…I will gladly take it. Because I had a pretty wild weekend, man, I could use the caffeine.”

“She’s sick?” Clark asks worriedly, absentmindedly handing Jimmy the coffee cup when he holds his hands out for it. You’d been completely fine on Saturday during the day.

Something must have happened that night. Clark’s chest tightens with anxiety as he remembers the conversation he overheard as he was leaving for the day.

“Are you going or not, dude?” Chris had asked Adrian impatiently as the two were tucking their guns away in their bags.

“To the orgy?”

Clark had stopped on a dime, because—what?

“Depends,” Adrian said. “You know how I feel about sex—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Chris said. “Only as an opportunity to bond with your best friend. If I promise a threesome—”

Clark had stopped listening after that. He feels sick to his stomach now, just like he has all weekend, thinking about it. You, going to—a sex party? To—be with Adrian?

And now you’ve called out of work. Did something bad happen? Did someone hurt you?

He slides into his chair and sets his things down carelessly, immediately pulling out his phone.

Jimmy just told me you’re not feeling well?

Make sure you rest up. Take some medicine.

I can swing by on my lunch break and bring you soup, or anything else you need. Let me know.

Clark doesn’t hear from you for a few hours. He closes his eyes, briefly tunes in across the city, listens for the sound of your heartbeat, and he hears it, strong and steady, which settles him a bit. You’re alive. You’re resting, he tells himself. That’s why you haven’t answered.

He tries to focus on his work, draft up the pieces Perry has assigned him for the week, but he keeps glancing over at your empty desk, the dark computer screen. A little pang of worry runs through him every time.

When his phone buzzes, screen lighting up on his desk, and your name pops up, his heart does a backflip.

You’re too sweet. I’m completely fine.

Just playing hooky 😂

Adrian begged me last night to take him to the aquarium 🐟🐠 he heard they have a touch tank with manta rays in it. He loves those damn things.

You’re…not sick. You’re with Adrian. Your best friend, who you have sex with. On a date.

“Why are you looking at your phone like you’re going to crush it in your hands?” Lois asks, trying to peek over his shoulder. Clark jumps. She raises her eyebrows.

“You have been so jumpy for the last two weeks, Smallville,” she says. “What the hell is going on?”

“I—” Clark starts, then cuts himself off. He’s not going to tattle on you for calling out of work. But he can talk to his own best friend about this. About you. Can’t he? “Lois, I—”

“Is this about what I think it’s about?” she asks, glancing over at your desk.

Clark leaps out of his desk chair, grabs Lois by the wrist, and drags her over to the supply closet, shutting them both inside.

“Is this where we’re having all of our important private chats now?” Lois asks, raising an eyebrow.

“You started it!” Clark accuses.

Lois sighs. “Tell me what’s going on in your big doofus brain. What is eating you up so much?”

“She’s not here today.”

“I noticed.”

“She’s not sick,” he says, distressed. “She’s with Adrian. At the aquarium. On a date.”

Lois pauses. “Did she say that, Clark, or is that a conclusion that you’ve jumped to? Because I think you’re jumping. Not even jumping. You’re using your superpowers and flying to conclusions. She likes you, Clark. Just tell her how you feel.”

“I don’t think she does,” he says hoarsely. “I think she’s in love with Adrian. I think they…” Clark swallows past the lump in his throat. “I think they were. Together, on Saturday night.”

“Are you telling me you think they fucked?”

“God, Lois, please don’t say it like that,” Clark says, flushing redder than he ever has before in his life. Thinking about it, alone, is hard enough, but—when she says it like that, so vulgar—he feels like he’s going to be sick.

“She did not have sex with Adrian,” Lois says. “She was with me on Saturday night.”

“...what?”

“We went out for drinks and sorted through our notes for the day, like we did last week, and organized everything so we could prep for the article writing this week,” Lois says. “For someone with super vision, you really are blind as a bat, Clark. She. Likes. You.”

“I just—Peacemaker and Vigilante were—they were talking about—” Clark lowers his voice. “—an orgy—”

“You think she went to the orgy?” Lois shakes her head. “You are an idiot, Clark Kent. It’s a terminal diagnosis.”

“But—”

“You want to know if she was at the orgy?” Lois says. “You know who you can ask? Jimmy.”

Clark stares. “I—what?”

“Jimmy went to an orgy this weekend,” Lois says. “With Eve. She posted about it on her Instagram story. I imagine it was the same one. There cannot be that many Saturday night orgies happening in Metropolis on the same day—”

Lois pulls out her phone and brings up a photo. “See, look—”

“Please do not show me a naked photo of Jimmy, Lois. I can’t take it. Not after the week that I’ve had.”

The first official field mission happens the following week.

“Lex Luthor might be in prison, but that hasn’t stopped his company from doing shady research,” Mr. Terrific says to the group at the debrief. 

“Most of his employees did not face the same charges he did, after the Metropolis rift situation,” Bordeaux tacks on. “We know that for a fact, because many of them were recruited by ARGUS. That’s part of what sparked the founding of Checkmate in the first place. But some of those employees are still operating under LutherCorp as well.”

“We need to find out the extent to which Luthor still has his hands in the business,” says Harcourt. “Especially since he’s been transferred from Belle Reve to a lower-security prison that allows him to have more visitors.”

“So we’re just…gathering intel?” Chris asks. “Sounds lame.”

“It’s not lame, dude, it’s like a spy mission!” Vigilante says excitedly. “Can I like—hide in the vents and snipe the bad guys?”

“No hiding in the vents,” Adebayo says, “but you are going to be there to snipe the bad guys. But you are only shooting if necessary, Vigilante.”

“Fucking sick,” he says joyfully.

“I have to emphasize,” Maxwell Lord cuts in, “that when we say necessary, we mean absolutely necessary. It’s one thing for you and Peacemaker to take out a bunch of mindless kaijus invading the local park. It’s entirely another to senselessly kill—”

“I get it,” Vigilante snaps. “Despite what you all might think about me, I’m not a fucking moron, and I don’t just kill people for no reason.”

“So what’s the plan?” Guy Gardner says, redirecting the conversation. “Are we going in undercover?”

“You’re an idiot,” Mr. Terrific tells him. “You? Undercover?”

“Hey, I can work undercover!”

“You are one of the most recognizable superheroes in the city,” Hawkgirl says. “And you are a bad liar.”

“We’re going in after hours,” Harcourt interrupts. “One or two a.m. The lab techs and employees will be gone for the day, and then all we’ll have to worry about is security.”

“The Raptors,” Clark says. “Luthor’s flying armed forces? He’s got them doing low-level security work?”

“That’s precisely why we think it might not be as low-level as they’re making it out to be,” Adebayo says. Clark nods.

“Good point. They’re powerful, but their biggest strength is in numbers. I can’t imagine all of them will be on staff at one time, especially in the middle of the night. If we’re careful, we might be able to get in and out undetected,” he muses.

“We’ll be dividing and conquering,” Mr. Terrific says. “There are four main floors to the lab, and we’ll each take one. Agents Bordeaux and Adebayo will be going in with Guy to cover the first floor. Peacemaker, Judomaster, and Kendra will cover the second floor. I’ll be going in with Agents Fleury and Harcourt to cover the third. Clark, you’ll cover the top floor with Agent Economos and Vigilante.”

Of course I am, Clark thinks, self-pitying, but he pastes on a smile. “Sounds like a plan.”

They spend the next few hours reviewing the plan, giving everyone the opportunity to ask clarifying questions and understand their roles before they pile into discreet vans and leave. It’s an interesting experience for Clark, who usually just—flies, wherever he has to go, at least when he’s in the Superman suit.

But it’s kind of nice. The camaraderie, the way the Checkmate group jokes and laughs and shoves at each other playfully. Clark even sees Mr. Terrific crack a smile, a sight so rare he has to pick his jaw up off the floor. And maybe—he’s starting to get it. What you see in these people. Why you love them the way you do. 

When they arrive at their destination, everyone grows quiet, more serious. Mr. Terrific and Economos huddle around a computer near the front of the van, typing away furiously, doing something to shut down the security systems silently and remotely so the teams can get inside undetected. Then, one by one, the groups trickle out of the van, and under the cover of darkness and nonfunctioning cameras, make their way inside.

There are no Raptors anywhere to be seen, which puts everyone on edge, but they go through with their tasks as planned, splitting up to their assigned floors and starting to dig through paperwork, lab tests and results. Vigilante and Clark are mostly there to keep an eye out for Economos as he hops onto a computer attached to the mainframe and digs as deep as he can into the files, to see if anything interesting pops up.

“Raptors located,” comes a whispered report from Adebayo on the first floor, sent through to everyone’s earpieces. “They’re coming up from the basement. There’s something down there that they’re guarding.”

“Economos, can you find anything out about that?” Mr. Terrific asks.

“Working on it,” John reports, typing furiously as Clark glances over his shoulder. “God, their file labeling system is so shitty—”

Suddenly, an alarm starts blaring, startling the entire team out of their quiet focus.

“Okay, time’s up,” Guy Gardner says. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Everyone abort mission,” Mr. Terrific orders.

“Wait—I just need a second—” John says, and Clark puts a hand on his shoulder.

“Take the time you need,” he says firmly. “Remember, I can fly us out a window, if I have to.”

“If Economos is staying, I’m staying,” Vigilante says. “I’m not leaving my number four BFF behind.”

A door slams open across the room, three Raptors spilling through the doorway, guns raised, fingers twitching on the triggers.

Before Clark even has the chance to do anything, all three of them go down, bullets in their heads.

“Haha! Right in the fucking forehead, did you see that Economos?” Vigilante laughs, the end of his gun smoking. “Would have been cooler if I had a chainsaw, but…” 

Clark’s jaw hits the floor. “I—what—”

“Economos, are you done yet?” Vigilante says calmly, like he didn’t just kill three people and laugh about it.

“You just killed them!” Clark sputters.

“Uh, yeah,” Vigilante says, scoffing. “Did you not see the way they were pointing their giant fucking guns at us? You’re welcome, by the way.”

“They wouldn’t have—I’m bulletproof! I could have just stepped in front of you!”

“I’m done,” Economos says, apparently completely unfazed by the literal murder that took place right behind him less than a minute ago.

Clark clenches his fist, stalks over to the nearest window, and punches through it.

“Come on,” he says. “We’ve got to go. Before more people show up, and you kill them, too.”

“I’m sensing that you’re upset,” Vigilante says.

“I am upset,” Clark confirms, lifting Economos and flying him down to street level, dropping him at the van. When he turns around to go back for Vigilante, he’s already scaling his way down the building with a grappling hook. Where the heck did he even get a grappling hook?

The following day, you and Lois drop by the Hall of Justice for another round of interviews. The information Economos was able to pull from the computer was incredibly valuable, so everyone is celebrating a mission success, really.

Except for Clark, who keeps thinking about the way the Raptors went down with bullet holes in their heads, and how Vigilante had laughed as he’d killed them.

He tries, desperately, not to listen now as Adrian recounts the whole situation to you. But when he glances over, he sees the way you’re hanging on his every word, and you are smiling and laughing, and Clark just—doesn’t know what to do.

He knows Adrian is your best friend. He knows that. But it is so, so hard not to walk over there and yank you out of your seat and just hide you away until his bad influence goes all the way back across the country to Evergreen, Washington, and things can go back to the way they were before all this. Back when you were just the pretty girl who sat across the bullpen at the Daily Planet, and he looked at you and felt light and happy, and not this terrible, churning, awful, uncomfortable jealousy.

“Thank you,” you’re saying to Adrian, and Clark inhales sharply. “For protecting John and Clark.”

“Just doing my job,” Adrian says, but Clark can hear the proud smile in his voice, the way he preens under your attention. 

And Clark can’t take it anymore. He comes up behind you, taps on your shoulder, and you look up at him with your bright eyes and your pretty smile, and—god. 

He’s in love with you. But he can’t live like this.

“Can I talk to you, for a minute?” he asks. “Outside?” He glances down at your Daily Planet notepad. “And, uh, off the record?”

“Of course,” you say, leaving your things at the table and following him through the side doors into a little courtyard where Hawkgirl likes to practice her flight combat.

“What’s going on?” you ask.

“I’m worried about you,” Clark says, honestly, and your brow furrows.

“Worried about me? Why? I’m doing—great,” you insist. “I mean—I’m having the time of my life, professionally. This piece with Lois is everything I’ve wanted, and I think Perry is really impressed by it so far—”

“He is,” Clark says, smiling softly, because you deserve to know when people have said nice things about you. “He told me he was. That he was proud of you.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“That’s—awesome,” you say, a little awed. “I mean. Work is amazing. I’ve gotten to spend more time with you, and get to know you better, since I, you know, know everything now. And I like spending time with you.”

“I like spending time with you, too,” Clark says, and he opens his mouth to say more, but you keep talking, words coming out of you in a rush.

“And my friends are here,” you add. “From back home. It’s so amazing to spend time with them and see them succeed, and with these articles, I get to help be a part of their success. I mean, Adrian—”

“Adrian,” Clark interrupts, “is exactly what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Why? Did he say something stupid to you again?” you ask, concerned. “I can talk to him about it. I promise you, he doesn’t mean it in any type of way. He really does just take things so literally, and he doesn’t realize how he comes across sometimes, I’ve been trying to work on it with him—”

“He’s dangerous,” Clark says. “I don’t—I don’t think he’s—safe, for you to be around.”

“Adrian?” you say, disbelieving. “He’s harmless, Clark!”

“I watched him kill three people yesterday! And he laughed while he did it!”

“And what were they doing?” you demand. Clark looks caught off guard.

“Wha—it doesn’t matter!”

“It does,” you say firmly, growing more serious. “It does. Adrian doesn’t just go around killing people for no fucking reason. He kills bad people who do bad things.”

“He is a bad person,” Clark says furiously. “Good people do not kill other people!”

“Oh get off your fucking high horse, Superman!” you shout, voice raising to match his. “Newsflash, you are not a better person than him just because you’ve never killed anyone. The only reason you can sit up on your pedestal and act like you’re better than everyone else is because there are people like him on the ground doing the fucking dirty work for you!”

Clark jerks back like you’ve physically slapped him. He thinks back to when Lex Luthor stuck him in a glass cell to rot away in his pocket universe. How he struggled to breathe when Metamorpho morphed into Kryptonite, the agony he experienced when he shoved the green crystal closer to Clark’s face. He feels a little like that right now, deep in his chest. In his heart.

“Clark,” you say, instantly regretting the way your words came out and trying to take his hand, but he steps out of your reach. “I—I’m sorry, that didn’t come out right—”

“Is that really what you think?” he asks. Not angry anymore. It’s just a distraught whisper. “Or have your friends just—convinced you of that?”

“What—what do you mean?” you ask, voice shaking. “Have they convinced me of what?”

“Do you know what Peacemaker said about me on the news? When—when that video of my parents—” Clark chokes. He can barely get the words out. “He said exactly what you just said. He said I think I’m better than everyone else because I don’t kill people. I don’t think that.” He swallows, voice thick, eyes wet with a sheen of tears. “I try every day to just prove that I’m human enough to exist among you all. That I’m not a threat. And then people spin it like—like I’m the bad guy? But it—it kills me. When people die. When I could save them.”

“You are not the bad guy Clark,” you say softly. “You are the most good person that I’ve ever known. I love that you love humanity. It makes—it makes me hopeful. But not everyone is as good as you are. Do you have any idea how many people have died because of Lex Luthor, even after he’s been put behind bars? You should talk to Fleury. Dozens of ARGUS agents, at least. I’m not telling you to—to change who you are, Clark. I don’t want that. I like you just the way you are. I just think you need to understand where they’re coming from. Don’t be so quick to judge.”

Clark doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t say anything at all. He can’t look at you when you lay a hand on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” you say. “For the way things—came out, just now. You are my friend, and I respect and admire you for everything you do. It’s important, and I think we would all be worse off without you. But your way is not the only way.”

You go back inside. Clark can’t bring himself to do the same. He flies home in pensive silence.

“Basically,” Mr. Terrific sums up, “we need to find out what’s in that basement. They’re going to be on higher alert than they were last time, so we’ll need a smaller team. I discussed it with the Checkmate leaders, and we agreed that myself, Superman, Peacemaker, and Vigilante would be the best choices, as we have all had direct experiences with the Raptors or active combat experience that would be beneficial should we need to face them again.”

Clark grinds his teeth for the fortieth time in the last two weeks. It’s a miracle he’s got any molars left.

“I think my activity in the computer is what set off the alarm, last time,” Economos says. “I was digging pretty deep into their files, I might have accidentally tripped something inside the system by accessing something I shouldn’t have been. But either way, we know Luthor is keeping his most well-protected experiments down in that basement. Including the original device he used to rip open his first pocket universe.”

“The goal is to get in and destroy it,” Mr. Terrific says. “So we don’t ever have to deal with another universal rift.”

“Okay,” Clark says. “When are we going?”

“Tonight,” Adebayo says. “It’s only been two days. They won’t be expecting you to come back for a second night in the same week, so there’s less chance for things to go wrong.”

Things go spectacularly wrong.

It was supposed to be simple. Get in, destroy the device, get out. The basement is darker, creepier, a bit better protected than the other floors they explored a few nights prior, but infiltration is easier, because Peacemaker and Vigilante have been outfitted with heavily drugged blowdarts to knock out the Raptors.

Clark had insisted. The last thing he wanted to see tonight was another casualty.

It grates on his nerves, the way Chris and Adrian laugh and giggle as they make their way deeper into the lab, making a game out of who can take down more Raptors. Like it’s a joke, not a job. Like they’re playing a video game, not drugging people.

“Wanna try?” Vigilante says, holding the blowdart out to Clark, and he cringes.

“I absolutely do not want to try.”

Vigilante grumbles, and then has the audacity to bring you into the conversation. “She’s more fun than you. I don’t get what she sees in you. She would want to try.”

“Because you’re a terrible, terrible influence,” Clark grits out.

“Ain’t that the truth,” Peacemaker laughs.

“I don’t get what she sees in you,” Clark says, a little bitterly. Chris raises his eyebrows.

“Holy shit, are you jealous of Vig?” he gasps.

“Why would Superman be jealous of me?” Adrian says.

“You’re in love with her,” Chris realizes. “You want to fuck her?”

“Please, for the love of god, stop talking,” Clark grumbles.

“Hang on—what does that have to do with me?” Adrian asks, completely clueless.

“Oh my god, you think she’s fucking Adrian?” Chris says.

“Would you guys keep it down?” Mr. Terrific says halfheartedly, because he is incredibly invested in the drama unfolding before him.

“Um, absolutely not. You think we’re fucking?” Adrian says, face screwing up with disgust. Clark cringes at the way he says it so crudely. “We do not fuck. That’s gross. Just because she’s a girl and I’m a guy does not mean we have to fuck. I don’t even like fucking—”

“Please,” Clark interrupts. “Stop—stop saying that word. I will do anything. And—that is absolutely not what I meant.”

“Besides, she doesn’t want to fuck me, anyway. She’s in love with you,” Adrian says, like it’s obvious, and Clark freezes.

“She’s—what?”

“You’re kidding, right?” Adrian says. “I’m like, notoriously bad at emotional shit. And I’ve known for months. You really didn’t know?”

“I could have told you that too, Clark,” Mr. Terrific mutters as they finally reach the bottom of the staircase. “Now can we return to this conversation later, and maybe focus on the mission now?”

“Or we could just not ever talk about this again,” Clark proposes, but his heart is racing, because—you’re in love with him? If Adrian is right—

If you’re in love with him, he needs to tell you that he’s in love with you too. He needs to apologize for the stupid argument that you had, and hope it’s not too late.

Mr. Terrific opens the door at the bottom level and lets Peacemaker and Vigilante head in first with their blow darts. They take out six Raptors standing around in the room before they call the all-clear.

The room is dimly lit, the walls lined with hundreds of boxes like metal lockers.

“Fuck,” Chris says. “Which box is it in?”

“I guess we’d better start looking,” Mr. Terrific says. “Take it one by one. Clark, can you snap the locks off? Or just break the doors?”

Clark nods and starts making his way down the line, frowning at every strange contraption and suspicious bubbling concoction behind each door. The entire room is full of dangerous machines and biohazards.

“Be careful,” he warns the others. “This stuff looks unsafe.”

Then he opens another door, and a cloud of green dust puffs into his face, and Clark coughs violently as he inhales it.

“Gross,” Vigilante says. “What the hell was that stuff?”

Clark can feel his throat closing up, the strength draining from his body in an instant, and he looks at Mr. Terrific, panicked, as he tries to speak. But his vision goes blurry, and his knees hit the floor, and then there’s nothing at all, because he just inhaled a lungful of pure Kryptonite.

You jerk awake suddenly in the dark to a loud banging noise.

“What the fuck,” you mutter, eyes trying to adjust to the dark. And then you hear— “Adrian?”

It’s coming from the front door. Adrian is pounding on your apartment door in the middle of the night, calling your name.

“Shit,” you say, suddenly wide awake, jumping out of bed and racing down the hallway. You throw the door open so fast it nearly leaves a dent in the wall. “Oh my—oh my god, what the fuck—”

Adrian and Chris push past you, dragging an unconscious Clark between them, and your heart leaps into your throat as you slam the door shut.

“What the fuck happened,” you ask, panicked. “Adrian—what—is he—”

“Kryptonite,” he huffs. “Where can we—”

“Shit—sorry, I—my bed, put him in my bed—”

“We were in the LuthorCorp labs,” Chris says as they toss Clark’s dead weight on top of your mattress. 

You rush to his side instantly. He’s sweaty, feverish, his breathing shallow and wheezy, and it shakes you to your core. You’ve never seen him—unwell. He’s Superman. He doesn’t get hurt, or sick, or injured—

“It was like, they ground it down into a fucking powder or some shit,” Adrian says, yanking his Vigilante mask off. He looks a mess, too, eyes wilde, hair sticking up all over the place. “He just fucking—inhaled it. Started—choking, and passed out.”

“I’m gonna call Lois,” Chris says, looking at Clark’s prone form on the bed. “Terrific told me I should, that she’s got his family’s contact information, just to let them know. But he says Supes will be okay. I’ll be right back.”

“Clark,” you say, brushing his messy hair out of his face. “Clark, wake up. Please, wake up.”

He doesn’t answer. Your eyes well with tears.

Adrian puts a hand on your shoulder. “He’s gonna be okay,” he says, but he doesn’t sound certain. He’s never been a very good liar. But you love him for trying.

“Adrian, what do I do?” you whisper. “I—what if he—”

“He’s fucking Superman,” Adrian says firmly. “He is not going to get taken out by a powdered green rock. How fucking lame would that be?”

You laugh, wetly, a few tears streaking out of the corners of your eyes.

“He can’t—I never even told him—”

“Um, about that,” Adrian says. “I might have. Said something?”

“...What?” you sniffle.

“He said something to me tonight,” he says. “About me and you. He thought we were…fucking? And I was obviously like, no fucking way. Shut that shit down real quick. And I maybe might have told him that you are in love with him.”

“I never even told you that,” you say, trying and failing to brush the wetness from your cheeks.

“You didn’t have to,” he says. “I might have some deficiencies when it comes to emotional intelligence, but I am really fucking smart when it comes to you. And you need to get it together bestie. I won’t lie, I was hesitant about him at first. And I wasn’t sure I could trust him with you, after the whole butterfly situation, but—you know. I can’t be here to protect you all the time. I live all the way across the county. He’s a decent second choice.”

It doesn’t sound like much. But coming from Adrian, who never trusts anyone with anything—the fact that he’s telling you he trusts Clark with you is the closest to a blessing you’re ever going to get.

You both look up when you hear Chris in the doorway, tensing as you wait for his update.

“Lois says she’s seen it before,” he says. “And he recovered basically overnight. So he’ll probably be fine by morning. Once the sun comes up in a couple hours, he should heal right up. Open up the curtains, let as much light in as you can. He’ll wake up at some point, he’ll be able to tell you what he needs. She’s gonna call his parents, and he can call them himself, too, when he’s awake.”

You slump with relief, even more tears coming to your eyes. Your hand finds Clark’s and squeezes tightly as you look at him, still unconscious, still sickly, but—not forever.

“Thank you guys,” you say, voice thick. “I just—I love you both. A lot.”

“Anything for you, kid,” Chris says softly, coming over to pat you on the head. “I’m gonna head out, though. I don’t think my face, no matter how beautiful and jacked, is the one Supes wants to see when he opens his eyes. You coming, Vig?”

“Do you want me to stay?” Adrian asks you, because he will. For you.

“Can you?” you ask, feeling a little pathetic as you look up at him. “Just—until he’s awake?”

“Yeah,” he agrees, brushing the last of your drying tears away with his gloved hands. “I’ll be out in the living room on the couch, if you need me. You just stay here with him, okay?”

You nod, turning your attention back to Clark as Adrian and Chris file out of the room.

Clark wakes up in a bed that’s not his own, with a warm, solid weight draped over his side. When he cracks open his eyes, his heart nearly stops at the sight of you, curled up next to him, snoring softly. Your arm is draped over his waist, and you’re using the edge of his cape like a blanket.

He blinks into the bright sun shining through the bedroom window and takes a deep, relieved breath. Then movement in the doorway catches his attention.

“Adrian,” he says quietly, trying not to wake you. It’s the first time he’s called him by his name, but—he’s standing there without the mask on. No suit, just silver-framed glasses and sweats. It feels like an invitation.

“Hey,” Adrian says, smiling. “Glad you’re awake, dude. That was fucking scary last night. Try not to do that again any time soon. Maybe ever? She was upset. I hate it when she cries.”

Clark’s heart wrenches at the thought of you crying over him. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, looking down at you, almost afraid to move. He doesn’t want to disturb you. You look so peaceful.

“I’m gonna go,” Adrian says. “I was just sticking around until you were, you know, conscious again, in case she needed anything. But you look better now, so I think you’ve got that covered. And I think maybe you two have some things to talk out, and I don’t need to be here for that, so…”

“Thank you,” Clark says. “For the save last night. And for looking out for her, and…for everything else, too.”

Adrian just gives him a little salute before he turns to go.

Clark closes his eyes again, enjoys the sun on his skin for a few more minutes as he listens to Adrian gather up his things in the other room and leave, the door to your apartment clicking shut behind him. He relaxes back into the pillows and shifts closer to you, because as much as he knows with his mind that the sun is what’s healing him, he feels in his heart that your presence is what’s truly making him feel better. Safe and calm and warm.

Just ten minutes later, he hears your eyelashes flutter, and he tilts his head up and looks down at your head on his bicep as you blink awake, yawning and rubbing the sleep out of your eyes. He feels you press your ear to his chest, listening to him breathe.

“Hey,” he says, catching your attention, and you startle, looking up with wide eyes.

“Clark,” you cry, worried. “You’re awake! Are you—do you feel okay? What do you need—”

“‘m okay,” he says, lifting a hand to your forehead and brushing you hair, mussed from sleep, out of your face. “Are you okay?”

You’re silent, staring at him as you shift up onto your elbow to get a better look at him, one hand tracing over his neck, where just last night, his veins had been blackened with Kryptonite poisoning.

“Your heart is racing,” Clark murmurs, arms circling your waist, hands rubbing down your back in a soothing motion.

“You and your stupid fucking—super hearing,” you choke out. “Don’t smirk at me like that. You scared the shit out of me.”

Then you reach up, hands cradling his face, and you kiss him. Clark feels his own heart start to race, too, so fast, so hard, it might pound right out of his chest if it weren’t for the weight of you on top of him, holding it inside. He lets his eyes drift shut, tilts his jaw for a deeper angle, tightens his arms around you and finally lets himself hold you the way he’s wanted to for weeks. It’s intense, and urgent, and impatient, and when your lips unlock from his to take a gasping breath, he pauses.

“Hey, honey,” he says, soft, soothing, because there’s anxiety lingering there, too. He can hear it in your heartbeat, in the quiet hitch of your breath when you breathe in, like you can’t fill your lungs all the way. “It’s okay. I’m okay.” 

He sits up carefully, shifting you around in his arms until you’re settled in his lap.

“I’m in love with you,” you say. “You fucking moron.”

“I deserve that,” Clark says with a tiny smile, and you offer him a shaky one of your own. “I love you, too. In case you didn’t know.”

“I hoped,” you whisper. “I really, really hoped. God, I can’t believe you thought I was fucking Adrian.”

“He told you about that,” Clark winces. “I’m sorry—”

“I think we’ve both apologized to each other enough over the last week,” you say, putting a hand over his mouth before he can say anything further. He smiles against your fingers. “Maybe we should just stop being stupid, huh?”

“I think that’s a good idea.”

You move your hand to kiss him again, and it’s tentative and tender and perfect. Everything he’s wanted.

“You have to call your parents,” you say when he breaks away and presses his forehead against yours. “And Lois. And you should probably call Mr. Terrific, too—”

“Shh,” Clark says. “Just—let me have this. For a second.”

“You can have me for as long as you want,” you say softly. “All day. Every day. Except not next Friday, because that’s the day before Adrian leaves to go back home, and I promised I would take him to the zoo.”

“Maybe…” Clark hesitates. “Maybe I could come? And get to know him better?”

You smile. “I would like that.”

Taglist: @bastardstevie @snowyathena @suprbrat @deepblizzarddreaming @quietlybitchy @trelaney

[residentsuperhero]

under the influence

synopsis: Checkmate needs an image overhaul, and you’re just the person for the job. As their new one person PR team publicist social media manager(?), you’re dropped straight into a crash course on navigating antiheroes, near-death experiences, accidental blackmail, and goddamn Adrian Chase. You’re determined to get him to trust you, and he’s apparently determined to ruin your life. Somewhere along the way you learn how to look out for each other–and how to pretend you don’t.

gif by @/buckywlson

pairing: adrian chase/vigilante x reader tags: enemies to friends to lovers, slow burn, adrian chase does not trust you, and frankly adrian chase does not like you, post-Season 2 (we're ignoring that final scene, okay?), potential spoilers for Season 2, Checkmate related antics, publicist!reader (except no one at Checkmate understands what a publicist does), no use of Y/N, second person POV, f!reader, canon typical violence/language, discussions of sex, tbh HR violations left and right, so many references to social media platforms, and, I'm so sorry, Microsoft Teams word count: 6.9k a/n: well! i've never written really x reader before, but there's a first time for everything! adrian chase you have bewitched me body and soul, you little freak. this is part one of (I think) three! i will eventually cross post on my ao3 but I am actively ignoring my current long fic WIP to write this so!

part one: don't get killed, camera girl

Perhaps you hadn’t made the best first impression on Adrian Chase.

“You’re kind of a fucking weirdo, aren’t you?” you’d assessed from where you were leaning against the dooframe. You’d only realized how it sounded a moment too late. For someone whose whole world revolved around perception you really had a knack for sticking your foot in it.

They had all been exchanging barbs and banter while Adrian went on about…something. You’d actually lost the thread a ways back. You may have been distracted by your first day jitters, but you were also kind of sure no one in the room knew what the fuck he was talking about. 

Leota and John laughed. Harcourt - you had to keep reminding yourself not to call her Emilia - was unreadable. But Adrian Chase physically recoiled. He swiveled in the office chair towards where you stood in the doorway of the conference room. His face scrunched behind his wire-frame glasses. Who would pick frames that made them look more like a 70s serial killer? Another tally for the weirdo column.

“I meant it as a compliment. Promise,” you said, smiling too wide. That didn’t seem to help.

“I - no. I am not a ‘fucking weirdo’, thank you very much. Who - who even are you? Who is she? What’s she doing here?”

You stepped into the room. “Oh I’m - ”

“This…” Chris paused in the doorway behind you and then heaved a sigh before slapping you on the back and continuing, “is our new social media manager.”

You opened your mouth to correct him but instead were interrupted by the verbal disbelief of one Adrian Chase. 

“Our what?” Adrian bit out. John and Harcourt exchanged a glance. You made a concentrated effort to make sure your smile didn’t melt into a grimace even though your shoulder stung under Chris’s firm hand. Note to self: stay out of the way of Chris’s friendly gestures. 

“Chris and I thought it might be a good idea to have a social presence. You know, do a little branding, a little advertising. We have experts in all kinds of stuff, like John is our tech expert and Adrian you’re our…weapons…expert…and she’s here to be our public relations expert,” Leota was quick to jump in. But Adrian was already riled up.

“Social media? Like? Posting things. On the internet? Where they live forever no matter how hard you try to get things deleted? You never can! Like, for a totally fictional example, if there was a picture of you from when you got pantsed in front of the whole school posted on Facebook and some asswipe wouldn’t delete it and then he died and no one could log into his account to delete it for you? Like the internet where things like that happen? No fucking way, dude!”

“That was…extremely specific,” you commented. “And yes. That social media. But technically I’m a – ”

“I totally forgot about that, man!” Chris laughed. Then he cleared his throat. “I mean, I’m sorry that happened, Adrian.”

“Chris! You can’t just go around saying my government name in front of new hires! Now she knows my secret identity!”

You frowned, your brows tugging together as Leota heaved a sigh. “Adrian, you’re not even wearing your mask right now.”

“Fuck!” he exclaimed. “I would have, like, put it on if anybody warned me there was going to be a civilian here!”

“Well, I’m not a civilian,” you argued gently, but you suspected he wasn’t really listening anyway. You tapped the badge clipped to your blazer. “I’m Checkmate.”

Adrian stared at you dumbfounded, his glasses askew and halfway down the bridge of his nose. Something about it was kind of…endearing?

“And another thing!” Everyone groaned. John simply gave up and stood to leave the room altogether. “Who vetted her?”

“Literally all of us,” Leota replied. She winced like she knew what was about to come next.

“All of us? Even Economos?” Adrian asked quietly. John halted in his retreat, drawn back into the fray. “But no one asked me! Next thing you’re going to tell me Fleury got a say.”

“Well, that would be because I did get a say,” Fleury said flatly. Adrian doubled over at the waist, gripping at his curls.

“What the fuck, you guys!”

You turned to Chris and arched an eyebrow. “I think you under sold how bad his reaction would be.”

Chris’s eyes were firmly pressed shut and he merely shrugged. “There is no fully preparing someone for the shitstorm that is Adrian.”

“Adrian?” you asked, trying to keep your voice light. It probably wasn’t personal. Probably. 

“Vigilante to you,” he replied. 

“Vigilante,” you rectified without protest (even if you thought it was pedantic). “How about a…trial run? You give me two weeks and if at the end of those two weeks you think I am entirely incapable and not a worthy addition to this team, I’ll go.”

Adrian stood upright again. “Do you mean it?”

You flashed him a smile and nodded. Sometimes you scared even yourself with the ease with which you could lie. “First task, getting that picture of you off the internet. How’s that sound?”

“Well, that picture was totally fictional, remember?” he insisted.

“Of course it was.”

Adrian blinked slowly. “But if it was real, it’s totally impossible.”

“I think you’ll find I’m more than capable of the impossible.”

A week in and you’d made progress with the whole team, even Harcourt. But Adrian was.... 

It was as though every time you caught his eye he’d shift those cute little features of his into something resembling disgust. Just to make sure you really got the memo on his disapproval. He made quick work of making your job impossible - refusing to stand still for photos (“so no one would have a true sense of his form” - whatever that meant), absconding with Eagly for a “bonding nature walk” the morning of a photoshoot (Eagly didn’t come back for two whole days), “accidentally” tripping over the router and absolutely destroying it so you couldn’t do work for an entire day while Economos tried to repair the damage. Though that last one may have been a genuine accident, you still weren’t sure. Adrian was…kind of a clusterfuck. 

You’d gotten that picture of him wiped from Facebook and the internet forever on your first day (and also a rather blurry selfie of some woman in bed between a masked but otherwise naked Vigilante and Peacemaker that you’d found in the annals of Twitter - you’d be keeping that one to yourself. Wiped from the internet but not your brain, unfortunately.) but he didn’t know that yet. You’d been hoping you’d win him over with your natural charm. Clearly, that was not going to cut it.

After you’d walked in on him complaining about you to Harcourt in the kitchen (again), you’d decided to reveal your first hand.

It was a link to Facebook, sent without fanfare, over Teams.

You sat back in your chair and waited with a smug smile on your face. You knew he’d received it, because the tell-tale alert blared out from his computer where he couldn’t - or more likely, wouldn’t - turn the sound down. 

After a long moment he glanced up at you from his work station over the divider and then looked back at the computer. The furious sound of typing followed, the little dots dancing on your screen as you daydreamed the glorious apology you were about to receive.

Vigilante: this link doesn’t work lol

Your eyebrows were liable to fly off your face at the rate with which they lifted. You fidgeted in your seat and then brought your fingers to the keyboard, flying across the keys with the kind of practiced skill you’d retained since middle school computer lab.

You: That’s kind of the point.

You could feel Adrian’s eyes on you. God, how dense was he? You kept typing.

You: I promised I’d deliver.

A flurry of typing and then – nothing. Was he doing this on fucking purpose? You didn’t want to yield the field to him, didn’t want to cave and meet those eyes that were so intently burning into your skin. Why were you so desperate for his approval, anyway? Something to be examined another time.

You: The fucking –

You backspaced.

You: The picture from Facebook. That’s what the link used to go to. 

You heard a sharp inhale and then felt the heaviness of his gaze turn from you back to his computer. 

Vigilante: his whole profile is gone

Your fingers hesitated over the keyboard, recalling the Google search you’d done to find out how he’d died. He’d wrapped his car around a pole doing 100 and absolutely obliterated on alcohol. He had a laundry list of DUIs and an array of domestic violence charges and a wrap sheet longer than you could bear to sort through. And, of course, he’d bullied Adrian Chase in high school. It had been basically community service to call in a favor and wipe his existence from fucking Facebook.

You: Yeah, well, he seemed like a real dick.

His eyes were on you again. Then, the sound of typing.

Vigilante: ur kind of insane Vigilante: i like it

That second message was deleted before you had a chance to screenshot it and cherish it forever. You had a feeling it would be the last inkling of kindness from Adrian for a while.

You’d also learned that nobody at Checkmate seemed to know what your job was. And, in fact, you were sort of doing three separate jobs for the low, low price of one. But that was fine. You were willing to do the daily grind of social media managing on top of everything else until you’d proved your worth enough to justify hiring another person to focus on socials. Plus, you had to admit, it was kind of…fun? to be hands on with projects again in a way you hadn’t been in a long time. Of course, sitting at a desk all day had started to make you itch, which may have been the root cause of your worst idea yet.

Which was how you found yourself dressed head-to-toe in black and ducking into some creepy warehouse with Peacemaker where Adrian had already been laying in wait. You couldn’t seem to temper the rate of your heartbeat - getting to be out in the field with them was a thrill you hadn’t really anticipated.

Adrian may have been masked but you could tell his mouth was hanging wide open and you were certain the granule of favor you’d curried with him the week before had already melted away.

“Why is she here?”

Ah yes. That classic Adrian Chase tone that seemed to imply an undercurrent of I wish you would drop dead.

“I’m getting b-roll,” you explained. You’d had a career full of justifying your very existence on any team - of course, this was a little out of even your depth. But you were game for anything. Or, at least, you were fairly certain you were. Most likely. Almost definitely. 

“I offered for us to stage a pretend mission but she insisted,” Peacemaker whispered loudly. 

“People can sense when something isn’t authentic. I want them to feel like they can practically taste the gunpowder, raise their pulses a little, you know?” you said, feeling that familiar sense of excitement building up in yourself. It was different, sure. A little more life and death, absolutely. But you couldn’t deny that the thrill of a good content capture got you a little hot under the collar. And, apparently, so did the thrill of a mission. 

“I’m not protecting you if something happens,” Adrian huffed. 

“Dude, c’mon, chill the fuck out,” Peacemaker sighed.

“Don’t get killed, camera girl,” Adrian mumbled from under his Vigilante mask. You’d stopped bothering to correct him on your job long ago. “Camera girl” was at least maybe a step up from the previous day’s “glorified influencer”. You gave him a two finger salute and you could practically hear him rolling his eyes.

For a while, everything went remarkably well. You followed along with the two of them in silence, keeping yourself tucked behind Peacemaker, following his every step like he insisted. Admittedly, it’d been a while since you’d done any serious cardio and you were probably slowing them down. In fact, you were certain you were because Vigilante made a snide comment about it before breaking off from you and Peacemaker. But all things considered you got some excellent footage. 

Until things went to shit. 

Your phone fumbled straight out of your hands and onto the cement floor of the warehouse. You winced as you stooped to pick it up. But when you returned to standing, Peacemaker was gone. He’d carried right on without you, which, fair enough. You were sure he wasn’t used to accounting for hapless civilians on the job. God, you really needed to take Harcourt up on that offer to train, didn’t you?

“Fuck,” you whispered under your breath. Your head swiveled one way, then the other. Every inch of the godforsaken warehouse looked exactly the same. A sudden commotion down the row of shelving units drew your attention and you found yourself staring down a group of armed men at the opposite end of the floor.

“Hey!”

“Fuckfuckfuck.”

Before you could turn tail and make a break for the stairs behind you something collided with you and knocked the air right out of your lungs and you straight off your feet. You hit the dusty concrete hard, but your head was thankfully cradled by Vigilante’s warm, gloved hand. He was wrapped around you, his chest heaving. You opened your mouth to say something but were interrupted by a cacophony of gunfire. You winced and squeezed your eyes shut - you also selectively ignored the feeling of Vigilante’s hold on you tightening. 

The silence between you was somehow icier than ever before when the gunfire ceased. Adrian unraveled his arms from around you and pushed himself slightly upright, peering between shelves. He pumped a fist in the air.

“Good one, Peacemaker!” he cheered. Then his head snapped back towards you and he leaned close. “I can’t believe you made me miss all the fun.”

“Sorry,” you squeaked out. It was all you could manage for the moment. Your ears were ringing, your heart was hammering in your chest like it was trying to make a break for it, and Vigilante’s fucking utility belt was digging into your stomach. 

“You ruin everything.” The words were sharp but the tone wasn’t. Still, it punctured the tiny little bubble of hope that had been steadily building in your chest for the last two weeks. You tried to keep a hold on your expression, and really hoped you weren’t about to fucking cry. You had already been grappling with the reality that someone might not like you, as hard as you tried to get them to. Being nearly shot and then also yelled at by the person who saved you in the first place had a way of throwing your already chemically unstable emotions into combustible chaos.

“They’re all charmed by you, but I’m not, for the record,” Adrian huffed. His warm breath sprawled across your lips. 

“Okay.” You weren’t sure what else to say, distracted as you were by Adrian still laid flatly on top of you, pressing your spine into the cold, hard concrete.

“I’m not!”

“I believe you,” you said emphatically.

“If you’re going to record anything, you should record me saying that!” he said, gesturing towards the phone still clutched tightly in your hand. Apparently, even in the face of mortal danger you were going to protect your investments. He sat back on his heels but didn’t get up right away, his legs warm on either side of your hips. You arched an eyebrow and then, without saying anything you lifted your phone above your face and hit record. A moment of stunned silence passed between the two of you.

“It’s recording,” you said flatly.

“Oh! Well, then, uh…let the record show that I am not charmed by you!” he said, jabbing a gloved finger towards the camera.

“By who?” you asked. You couldn’t help yourself. There was just something deliciously fun about taunting him, drawing him into absolute consternation. You couldn’t see his face, but just knowing the tips of his ears were getting red was enough. You’d take your revenge, paltry as it was. Didn’t you deserve just an ounce of retribution after the way he’d been treating you? “Just so the record is as thorough as possible.”

“You! By you!” he exclaimed. He grabbed hold of your phone and spun the camera around so that you were the subject. He pointed at you from offscreen like he was about to accuse you of being a witch. “This social media girl. I am not charmed by her! I am not under her influence!”

You swallowed a laugh and grabbed your phone back from Adrian. “Consider it on the record. Happy?”

“What the fuck are you two doing?” 

You both turned your heads to find Peacemaker standing over you, covered in blood. “Stop dry humping and let’s get the fuck out of here.”

Adrian made a noise of disgust and muttered something under his breath as he got to his feet. You stared up at him from the ground, expectantly. Adrian only crossed his arms over his chest. You rolled your eyes. Chris looked between the two of you. “Seriously, dude?”

He pushed past Adrian to reach down and haul you to your feet with one sharp pull. Upright again and thoroughly exposed to gravity, all your bones suddenly felt like Jell-o, and the contents of your stomach threatened to make an appearance. But you slapped on a smile and gave Chris a thumbs up. 

Note to self: Turns out Adrian will save you after all. Stay the fuck out of the field.

Week three came and went and you were still there. One, because even though none of them seemed to understand your job at all (now you weren’t so certain either, honestly) the growing numbers didn’t lie. And two, well…Adrian never really had any actual power in the situation anyway. But you’d thought it might help to let him think he did. 

Of course, just because he hadn’t insisted on your dismissal didn’t mean he wasn’t going to suddenly be nice. He was in the middle of emphatically rehashing what had transpired on the mission to an absolutely aghast Leota when you waltzed into the conference room for a scheduled meeting. 

“Oh perfect timing! I was just telling Ads how you stood there like…well, basically like you are right now. Totally useless! Didn’t even have the instinct to protect herself!” Adrian was laughing. You bit on the inside of your cheek and absently tugged your sleeve down to cover the healing bruises from you and Adrian’s tango with the concrete.

He’s just a challenge. It’s fine. It’s just a challenge and you can handle challenges.

Your mouth seemed to disagree with your brain, however.

“Did you tell her about the part where you laid on top of me for way longer than necessary?” you countered. You smacked your forehead with your palm. “Oh wait, I can just show everyone the video! Unless…you already did?”

So maybe you’d texted the video to Adrian the same night as the mission while you laid awake, hot and pissed off, thinking about all the things you wished you’d said in response to get him to shut the fuck up for once. Adrian had not responded to that text, which, in some ways, meant you got what you wanted. And that he knew he looked fucking stupid in that video. But now back at the office he was apparently feeling bold again.

He opened his mouth but you held up a finger which seemed to startle him for just long enough for you to continue.

“You didn’t let me die, and for that I am grateful, okay?” you said in a tone that didn’t sound very much like you were grateful at all. In your opinion, saving someone was basic decency, but you knew that wasn’t how Adrian’s warped little brain worked. “So we’re even. I did you a favor, you did me a favor. And I’m here to stay, so I’d recommend getting used to it.”

Leota looked between you two, confused. You’d thought that keeping what you’d done for him strictly between the two of you would have curried you at least a little bit of favor, gained perhaps a sliver of trust - but no. Still no. No matter what you did, it was never enough. Adrian would keep making your life hell, and you’d keep trying to win him over. 

Maybe Adrian’s brain wasn’t the only one that was warped.

“You only ended up here because no one else wanted a stupid influencer. Because what does an influencer even do besides influence things?”

“I wouldn’t know because, once again, I am not an influencer,” you bit back. 

“Wow so you can’t do your job and you can’t even do an influencer’s job. What are you good at?” Adrian said with a sneer. Leota slapped him on the arm and hissed out his name in disbelief. But you only smiled. 

You put your laptop down on the table with a little more force than strictly necessary and then braced your hands against its flat surface. “You know what, Vigilante? Next time don’t bother saving me. At least when I’m dead I won’t have to clean up your fucking messes anymore.”

Adrian did not seem to have a response for that. You watched his brain short circuit in real time, his eyes widening slightly, his mouth agape. You continued, addressing the rest of the room, “Did anyone else here know that Vigilante killed a guy for doing graffiti in broad daylight next to a playground last week?”

“Jesus…” Leota guffawed. 

“Oh, that’s right, no one knew that because I’m good at my goddamn job!”

The room was shocked into silence. 

Adrian’s voice was markedly quieter when he protested, “So you want us to congratulate you for doing something that isn’t even your job? Aren’t you just supposed to be posting stuff on Instagram?”

“No, I’m not. And you know that,” you said coolly. “My job is to make you look good. And you don’t make it easy, Vig.”

“Dude, I don’t think you get it. LuthorCorp wanted her to run their PR team,” John interrupted. You glanced over at him - you weren’t sure how he knew about that. But, it seemed he was trying to gas you up, so you’d take what you could get.

“Lex Luthor wanted me,” you corrected with a smile and humble shrug of your shoulders. You left out the bidding war between Luthor and Maxwell Lord that had ended with you simply walking away from a very lucrative proposal.

“Then why us?” Emilia asked.

“Probably a spy,” Adrian muttered to himself. Something about arguing with him was a little cathartic. So maybe you’d basically said you’d rather be dead than deal with him. At least now the feeling was firmly mutual. You didn’t need to care about him! Maybe you were finally free from thinking about solving Adrian Chase all the time.

“I figured if I was going to be doing something morally grey it might as well be for the underdog and not in the service of a soulless billionaire,” you admitted.

“Morally grey?” Adrian scoffed. “The world is actually very black and white. There’s legal and there’s illegal.”

“Right. And to solve the illegal things you are…also doing illegal things?”

“No, I’m doing justice.”

“Outside the justice system?”

Adrian stood up abruptly. Well, good, you thought, let’s finally have it out. 

“Fuck you, you’re doing this on purpose! Stop trying to fuck with me - you’re always fucking with me! With your little...your little quips, and your jabs, and your smile for the camera, Adrians, and your pretty mouth, and oh my god your incessant need to document things! Like! I feel like I can’t even take a piss without thinking you might be taking a ‘candid’ photo of me. And it’s so dumb! Social media is stupid and the internet is forever and you being on this team is a threat to us all!”

There was a long pause before you split your lips into a grin. “Oh, so I'm on the team now?”

“What? That’s what you took away from that?” Adrian asked, hands waving vaguely in the air as if he was gesturing at the physical manifestation of everything he’d just said.

“Well, that, and that you think I have a pretty mouth,” you teased. You were glad you’d finally lost your cool because you felt a goddamn weight off your shoulders, plus whatever implosion was happening inside Adrian Chase was a delight to experience. If you’d thought Adrian was going to have an aneurysm before, your concern only amped up at the way he went red from the neck up. 

“What? I didn’t say that!”

Leota laughed. “You kinda did, Adrian.”

“Why would I - I wouldn’t say that! Because it’s not even true, first of all. And actually, what a weird, super specific thing to say about someone’s face!”

“It was really specific, wasn’t it?” you continued to taunt, unable to help the easy smile on your face. It was a convenient enough cover to deflect all attention back onto a thoroughly scrambling Adrian as you tried to ignore the way that particular comment had made you feel a little unsteady. Maybe you weren’t free from him at all. 

He certainly thought about you even when you weren’t around. But you’d be lying if you said that didn’t also mean that he prickled under your skin in equal measure. Adrian thinking about your mouth wasn’t something you’d anticipated, exactly. You’d considered a lot of possibilities for his behavior, but none of them accounted for –

“What the hell, dude?” Chris groaned. “How many times have I told you that’s not how you compliment a woman? It’s weird. It makes you sound like a serial killer.”

“Well I wasn’t trying to compliment her! I was telling her how she annoys me.”

Annoying was fine, actually. Annoying was manageable. But annoying maybe wasn’t the full truth.

You straightened up abruptly and flipped your laptop open. You knew just the diversion tactic to stop the inevitable path that the conversation was headed down. The fingers of one hand flurried across the keys as you reached for the conference room TV remote with the other. You mirrored your screen to the TV and then took a small step back, crossing your arms over your chest as you watched them all read the words on the screen. After a moment you clicked to the next slide. Then, you clicked again. And again.

“What is all this?” Chris finally asked. Your posture deflated only slightly and you bit your tongue to keep from making a Real Housewives receipts-related reference. 

“Everything,” you replied simply. “It’s okay go ahead, take your time. Soak it in.”

You put your hands on your hips and waited. 

“You did all this?” Emilia asked.

“In only three weeks?” Leota clarified. You gave them both a tight nod and a small smile. 

“This is only the beginning. This is a brand in its infancy. Now, due to the nature of a lot of your work,” you glared at Adrian, “things are a little unconventional. But so far, the reception has been very positive. People here don’t need a Superman. They want something that feels relatable and accessible. At the end of the day, people want safety in these uncertain times. Checkmate is going to give it to them.”

You could see The Picture™ in the preview for the next slide and your finger hesitated over the button. You scowled and slammed your laptop shut instead. 

“End of fucking slideshow.”

Chris clapped so suddenly it made you nearly jump out of your skin. He stood up and kicked his chair back behind him.

“You’re cool as fuck,” he said with a kind of seriousness that seemed ill-suited to the sentence. “Meeting adjourned!”

You started to protest that this wasn’t actually the meeting at all - Fleury was the one who’d put something on the calendar in the first place. But he was nowhere to be found and you were not about to piss on your own parade.

“Lex Luthor can eat my fucking shorts,” Chris said, putting both of his hands on your shoulders. Then he gave you a tight nod and was out of the conference room with a peace sign chucked idly over his shoulder. The room dissolved as quickly as it had assembled. Adrian was close to the door but still lingering for some godforsaken reason, looking a bit like a kicked dog. 

“Vigilante?” you called out. He looked at you over his shoulder and you offered him a smile that you hoped conveyed warmth but also a bit of menace. “Can I have a word with you?”

Leota hung back in the doorway as Adrian heaved a sigh and turned around, radiating the body language of a petulant child. Your gaze darted over to her and your nose wrinkled slightly. “Sorry, Leota. Can I talk to Adrian alone?”

“Oh!” Leota blinked in surprise. “Sure. Sure, sure, sure. I’ll just be…down the hall. In case you, uh, need anything.”

She gave you both finger guns before slowly exiting the room, her head on a swivel as she made her way down the hall and just out of view. You had a feeling she wasn’t going far.

“What do you want?” Adrian scowled, arms crossed over his chest. His lower lip pouted slightly, an expression you’d grown to expect from him.

“I don’t want anything. I just want to show you this,” you said, hoping your hand wasn’t shaking at all as you reached into your jacket pocket and pulled out the folded, printed screenshot. You extended it towards him, pinched between your index and middle finger. You waited as he unfolded the paper and stared at the image. The fiery confidence had seemingly fled your body for greener pastures and you picked at your nails.

“Are you blackmailing me?” he asked, his jaw suddenly tight. You watched carefully the way the tendons in his fingers flexed. Despite having seen him in action, it was usually still hard to reconcile the Adrian standing before you with the Vigilante persona. But something about the shift in his demeanor made them feel not so separate at all.

“Jesus Christ, no. Of course not!” you exclaimed. “Adr - Vigilante, I’m trying to help you. And I’m trying to make you understand. You need to be careful.”

“Why aren’t you yelling at Chris?” he asked, dragging his gaze from the paper in his hands to your face. 

“I’m…” you sighed and softened your tone. “I’m sorry, I’m not trying to yell. Besides, Chris doesn’t give a fuck. His bare ass is all over the internet. People know his identity. You on the other hand…”

To your surprise, he nodded.

“I’m not telling you not to have…” you paused. Every day at Checkmate was an HR person’s nightmare, but you certainly weren’t trying to contribute to it. You considered your words carefully. “A life. Just…I don’t know, be careful.”

“Don’t get photographed having threesomes with Peacemaker. Got it.”

You winced. “Maybe…just keep cameras out of the bedroom in general, hm?”

“Okay,” he nodded. You weren’t totally convinced he understood. A long silence passed between you and then he opened his mouth again with an audible inhale. “Maybe I’ll just only have sex with people who already know my secret identity.”

“Oh, that’s not what I - ”

“Ads is an obvious no. I mean, I’d be down but I don’t think she wants what I’ve got going on. Chris is a yes. Been there, done that, if you know what I mean!” He raised his hand like he expected you to high five him. You shook your head and he dropped his hand slowly before continuing. “Econogoat? Absolutely yes. Buuuut I don’t think he’d want to. Harcourt could punch me in the throat and I’d like it but that’s Chris’s girl, you know? And I respect that. Fleury? You know what, and I think this may surprise you? I think yes. Judomaster - fuuuuck no. Bordeaux is a solid maybe.”

You sputtered slightly at that. Bordeaux was gorgeous and lethal and yet Adrian was only giving her a passing shrug. The man made no sense.

“And there’s you.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, you’re the only other person on the list of people who technically know about my secret identity so it would be safe to fuck.”

You were genuinely confounded. It was somehow a proposition (maybe?) and also just a statement of fact. It didn’t matter - there was no world in which you would ever be fucking Adrian Chase.

“Absolutely not.”

“No, no you’re right,” he nodded thoughtfully. “Sex is about bonding with friends, and we are not friends.”

A genuinely astounded “What?” was all that managed to leave your mouth. “Sorry, what?”

“Where did you find this by the way?” he asked.

“The depths of hell,” you replied with a shudder. He was staring at you. “Oh, sorry. I mean Twitter. X. Whatever.”

“Do you think this counts as revenge porn?” Adrian asked, his eyes lighting up with a peculiar gleam. You cocked your head slightly - why did he seem so excited? “Revenge porn is a crime.”

“It is…” you agreed. Something clicked in your head. You shook your head emphatically. “No! No, Vigilante.”

“Maybe I should kill Amber?” he contemplated, seemingly to the air and not to you at all.

“It’s gone now!” you exclaimed. He seemed to suddenly remember you were there. “That’s the whole point. It’s gone. And besides, everyone in the comments thought it was AI. I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”

You didn’t include that mostly everyone in the comments was you. Under various anonymous accounts. One cleverly edited SynthID screenshot later and all the interest had waned. You had been so chuffed in the moment you’d thought - I can’t believe they pay me for this. 

Of course, the subsequent phone conversation with Amber to bribe convince her to delete it had you thinking you definitely weren’t getting paid enough. The memory of the conversation sent an involuntary shiver down your spine.

“Okay.” Adrian’s eyes narrowed. “For now.”

Leota reappeared in the doorway with an exhale. Her hand fluttered to rest over her chest. “Ohmygod. Sorry. I know you said private conversation, which I totally respect, but I just suddenly got worried that Adrian - ”

Adrian whined at the use of his name. You weren’t sure if some part of him thought you might forget his name given enough time. He straightened slightly. “Wait, did you think I was going to hurt her?”

“Well, literally yesterday you dragged your thumb across your throat when you were talking about her so…”

Adrian’s mouth dropped open and he looked back at you. “But that’s like the universal signal for getting fired. You know, like, getting axed.”

Leota’s palm met her forehead with an audible smack. “It very much is not, Adrian.”

“Oh! Well…that’s dumb. If I wanted to mime killing someone I would probably just mime exactly how I’d kill them,” he said simply. He lifted his hands and then began an elaborate pantomime that you were pretty sure was supposed to be poisoning. You glanced down at the half-drunk coffee cup in your hands and swallowed hard. 

“Anyway…” Leota interrupted after a painfully long time. “Do you want to come out with us for a drink after work?”

“I’m already coming,” Adrian said. She rolled her eyes.

“Not you, dingus.”

Adrian turned to look at you, eyebrows lifting slightly. “Do you…do you want to come?”

A drink sounded so good. And an opportunity to bond with the rest of the team wouldn’t go amiss. Adrian had noticeably warmed to you in the last few minutes alone. But…

“I’ve got work to finish up. But have a drink for me,” you replied with a tight smile. It was all still too new…too fragile. If you got too close, too comfortable you were liable to fuck it all up. Adrian opened his mouth to protest but Leota hooked her arm through his and pulled him towards the door.

You started to gather your stuff when a sharp gasp and the sound of something hitting the conference room door startled you. Adrian had one hand latched onto the doorframe while Leota attempted in vain to drag him with the other.

Adrian blinked slowly behind his wire-frame glasses. 

“Why do you want to help me?”

“You know, I’ve been asking myself the same question. Why would I want to help someone who would sooner see me buried six feet in the ground?”

Adrian's brow furrowed behind his glasses. "I don't want you buried six feet in the ground."

"You sure don't act like it," you replied. He was quiet for a long moment, seeming to turn it over in his brain.

"I'll try to better," he finally said. You weren't sure what that exactly entailed but anything was better than the turmoil between you.

"Okay. Thank you."

Still, Adrian did not go. He studied you with those expressive green eyes of his, but you found you weren't sure what they were betraying. He'd never looked at you like that before.

“So you’re like…a fixer.”

Was that…awe in his tone?

“Sure. If that helps you sleep better, Vigilante,” you said drily. “Other people might call me a publicist.” 

“She’s being too nice but she means normal people, Adrian,” Leota chimed in with a smirk. “C’mon, Ade. Leave the girl to her work.”

Two hours and one ill-conceived 8pm cup of coffee later you were finally heading to your car when your phone vibrated in your pocket. You pulled it out to find a text from Leota. For a moment it was just a contextless photo of Adrian seemingly chugging a beer.

Then, another text. 

Leota Adebayo: Adrian wanted to make sure I sent you this picture so you know he’s having a drink for you lol You: Thank you? I think? Leota Adebayo: 🧜‍♂️ Leota Adebayo: Sorry, that was Adrian

Adrian wordlessly slammed a small plastic statue onto your desk. A small squirrel holding a tiny vintage camera. You stared at it and then slid your gaze to him. 

“You don’t have any decorations on your desk,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Does this mean I’m staying?”

“I guess I didn’t have a say the first time, which means I probably don’t have a say now, but…I think you should stay.”

“And why is that?”

“You’re good at your job even if I don’t understand it like…at all. You’re nice most of the time except when you’re telling me not to have totally normal bonding sex with people, you never leave the coffee pot empty for someone else to make it, and also…” he looked around the cubicles and then lowered his voice slightly. “You look out for me and that’s not really something people ever do. Usually I’m the one looking out. It’s…nice. To know someone has my back. Even if I wouldn’t in a million years trust you to have my back in the field. It’s like…it’s like a different kind. But still a good kind.”

“That’s the part you didn’t want people to hear?” you asked with a laugh. But Adrian did not laugh. He was alarmingly serious. He crossed his arms over his chest and widened his stance.

“I know I don’t really feel emotions like normal people do. But, I’ve given this a lot of thought, and I’m pretty sure I like you.”

You refrained from commenting on exactly how many emotions you’d see the man have in a single day, let alone the entire time you’d know him - well, he sure didn’t process them the same way as everyone else. Instead, you focused on the little victory that was being handed to you.

“Like me?”

“Yes. I think you’ve entered the friend rankings. You’re still way at the bottom, of course.”

“Of course,” you agreed.

“Like, probably still below Judomaster.”

“Uh huh.”

“Now that I think about it, you insult me way less than he does, which is definitely a point in your favor. And you’re only a normal amount of infuriating. And I’m only sometimes confused when I’m talking to you.”

“Thank you?”

“You’re also hotter than Judomaster for sure. On the flip side, I can’t trust you with a gun and that’s a real bummer,” he continued to muse. 

“I think you could trust me with a gun?” you argued. Adrian’s eyebrows lifted. “I’m not saying I’d be good with a gun but I’m not gonna…you know, shoot you in the back or anything!”

Adrian paused for a long moment and then burst into laughter. It was the kind of wide, strange laughter you’d seen from a distance though you’d never been on the receiving end of it before. It warmed your heart in a, frankly, concerning manner. 

“You’re funny!” Adrian wheezed. “You’d be so dead before you ever got a chance!”

“Probably yes,” you admitted. He stopped laughing suddenly.

“Still not trusting you with a gun. So for now, you and Judomaster are tied. But, who knows, maybe you could work your way up the list.”

“Well, I’d certainly like that.”

“You would?” Adrian asked quietly.

“Of course I would. I like you too, Vigilante.”

“Really?” his voice pitched up and he scrambled to clear his throat. “I mean, like, when did you start to like me? Because I wasn’t even trying to make you like me. Also. You can call me Adrian. I guess.” “Oh I’ve liked you since the moment we met,” you replied coolly. Adrian stared back at you and you couldn’t help the smile that tugged at your lips. “What can I say, I like a challenge, Adrian.”

[marwrite]

jealousy, jealousy

summary: superman doesn’t get jealous- but clark kent does. he lets it linger, lets it fester, lets it shape months of almosts and maybes- until a harmless lie turns into shared routines, soft touches, and feelings neither of you were meant to fall into.

clark kent x best friend ! reader

themes: fake dating trope (kinda). more like youre both in love already and use it as an excuse ! more of a looong hc/drabble. clark is top yearner, scott miller mention, clark is the most jealous man in all the lands. not proofread so sorry. enjoy!

Clark Kent never deemed himself a jealous person.

No, he never considered himself to be. He thought, jealousy should only be reserved for young siblings and people who’d been hard done by and simply didn’t know any better.

He tells himself this quietly, as he stands in the bullpen of the Daily Planet; hands folded too neatly at his waist, glasses slipping slightly down his nose as he watches you laugh at something Kurt from Marketing says.

Good one, Kurt. He thinks to himself. Maybe next time, you can tell it to someone else.

It’s harmless. It’s polite. It’s you- soft-eyed, kind-hearted, always offering warmth without realising just how devastating it is for someone like him.

And yet, Clark's jaw tightens.

The feeling crawls up his spine before he can stop it, sharp and unfamiliar, twisting somewhere between his ribs. Jealousy. The word tastes foreign. Clark prides himself on patience, on understanding, on giving people space. Ma would scold him; Pa would tut in disappointment.

Envy ain't gonna get you the lady, Clark, he'd probably sigh.

He’s Superman, for God’s sake- he saves worlds. He should not be bothered by a man in a button-down who smells faintly of copier ink and stress.

But when it comes to you, all of Clark's rationality just flies out of the window.

You sit on the edge of your desk now, fingers wrapped around a mug Clark washed this morning when you weren’t looking. He remembers drying it carefully, afraid of cracking it, afraid of breaking something that belongs to you and has the absolute honour of being brought up to your lips every day.

“Thanks for this,” you say, holding the drink up a little. You're distracted by the bullpen, eyes elsewhere, but it doesn't bother him.

Clark just shrugs, feigning casual.

“Don't mention it.”

And that's how it starts. The small things; little, useful tasks; done to make your life better, so you can glide through it with ease.

He brings you coffee when you forget. Adjusts the heat when you’re cold, much to Perry's exasperation and Jimmy's constant complaining. He even stays late to help you proofread, even when his own work is done.

You never ask; he just does. Loving you feels instinctual, like muscle memory he still doesn’t remember earning.

Clark didn’t know exactly when these feelings for you blossomed into something else, something deeper than the perfect friendship you already had. He'd tried to pinpoint it the way he did with everything else in his life. He believed that there had to be a moment, a shift; a second where something irrevocably changed.

But love hadn’t arrived like a thunderclap. It crept in quietly, through the small, ordinary spaces you left behind.

Maybe it began the night you stayed over.

It had been raining hard enough that even you couldn’t argue against it. You stood in the doorway of his apartment, apologetic and soaked through, yet insisting you were fine to go home.

He insisted harder.

Please. I'll take the couch. I have blankets, and Netflix, and that brand of hot cocoa you like. It was no trouble at all.

He lent you one of his shirts and an old pair of sweatpants, both far too big for you. Later, he pretended to read while you padded out of the bathroom, hair still damp, cheeks warm from the shower.

His shirt hung off you like it belonged there. Like you belonged there.

And something in Clark's chest gave way.

He watched you curl up on the other side of his bed; safe and sleepy, trusting him without hesitation, and the realisation hit him with frightening clarity.

The want. The tenderness. The quiet, devastating truth that he was already in too deep; had already let himself fall the second you told him your name and hugged him for the very first time all those months ago.

Clark didn’t sleep much that night.

Which, of course, brings him to now.

The Daily Planet has dressed itself up for the holidays; tinsel taped crookedly to desks, paper snowflakes in the windows, and an alarming number of mistletoe sprigs hanging in doorways. Perry huffs through the fake snow, though he has yet to tell anyone to get rid of it.

Interns are everywhere- far more than usual. Overexcited and under-supervised, they dart between desks with arms full of garland, arguing about ornament placement instead of doing anything resembling actual work.

On the other side of the room, someone nearly trips over a string of lights stretched far too low across the aisle. Laughter echoes where typing should be.

Normally, Clark wouldn’t give it much thought. By default, mess is easy for him to tune out. Noise expectedly fades into the background when you’ve spent a lifetime listening for disasters.

But you- invested, bafflingly so- watch them.

You lean back in your chair, chin propped on your hand, eyes bright with amusement as two fresh graduates debate on whether the break room needs a second wreath.

A soft laugh falls from your lips when one of them knocks over a stack of folders in their enthusiasm, quick to hop up and help them gather the mess.

“S-Sorry,” they stutter.

“You’re alright,” you say kindly back, “These have a place yet?”

They shake their head, but you’re already smiling, straightening your posture as you follow after them; ready to help whether they want it or not.

To you, they aren’t annoying. They aren’t disruptive.

They’re Metropolis' festive spirit personified.

In the kitchenette, a small group huddle around the counter, arguing in hushed but excited voices over something decidedly unimportant. You wander over without hesitation, peering into the mess of ribbon, mugs, and candy canes scattered across the surface.

Someone explains- too fast, too enthusiastic- that they’re trying to make the hot chocolate station more Christmassy.

“Sounds fun.” you beam.

You listen like it matters. Because it probably does, to you.

You offer suggestions, hands already moving, tying bows where they can’t quite manage it, straightening things that don’t really need fixing. Coleen- a nineteen year old transfer from Gotham- laughs when you accidentally knock over a jar of marshmallows, and you drop to the floor to help her, laughing the whole time.

Clark watches from a distance. His chest grows warm, a tender buzz curling beneath his ribs.

He can't stop looking at you; won't stop, because for the past few months, this exact feeling of complete and utter longing has been at the forefront of his mind.

He’s thrown himself into mountains, into snow so cold it empties his head. He’s lapped the earth again and again, burning himself down to exhaustion. And still, you’re there- his first thought, his last act of restraint.

It's useless. He feels useless, because what good are all these feelings when he can't even articulate them in front of you?

When you finally step back, satisfied, the interns thank you like you’ve saved Christmas itself. You laugh it off, brushing sugar from your fingers as you turn toward the bullpen again.

And that’s when you step beneath it.

One of the mistletoe sprigs dangles in the entrance to the kitchenette, green and unmistakable; a taunt to the man in the glasses and super-suit beneath his shirt watching you from desks away.

He knows what it is. A strange, earthly custom, Kara calls it, though Clark remembers it dearly from Christmases as a young boy back at the farm.

He remembers Ma and Pa; Pa pulling Ma in for a soft cuddle, lips slow to press against hers. Most kids wouldn't dare linger their gaze. Clark, on the other hand, always found it quite sweet.

“When you meet the one you want, son,” Pa would say then, cheerful eyes glistening, “This'll be second nature. No need for the sprig in the doorway. You won't want to wait.”

For a split second, Clark's distracted by the memories, the vague scent of pine and Ma's homemade mince pies. But his eyes stay on you, and beneath the mistletoe in the doorway, you freeze.

Because your walkway is no longer clear, and Clark’s view of you is obscured by a body he unfortunately knows far too well.

Scott from Field Research leans just a little too close. Clad in a black baseball cap and sunglasses, one arm leans against the door and another one rests on his hip.

His grin is easy, eyes flicking upward toward the mistletoe.

Clark’s body reacts before his mind does, every instinct sharpening at once. It’s ridiculous, he knows. There’s no threat here. Just a man standing too near someone he cares about far more than he’s willing to admit out loud.

Still, his body shifts; weight already tipping forward, heart thudding as if he’s bracing for impact.

“Well,” Scott says lightly, nodding upward, “would you look at that,”

You roll your eyes in a way that’s both polite and playful, “Good afternoon to you too, Scott.”

“Gonna make me ask for it?”

“Nothing to ask for.” you shoot back. He remains unfazed.

“Pretty sure mistletoe means a kiss.”

“Pretty sure you’ll lose your job if you try anything,” although your tone is joking, there’s a serious cut to your voice that makes Clark sit up even straighter.

“Then make it easy for me.”

“Hm,” your eyebrow raises, and even from where he watches, Clark can sense your growing frustration; adding to his own in the process. “Looks like someone’s hoping for a little holiday magic.”

Scott laughs, a little too loud, and waggles his eyebrows. “Maybe I am. Don’t tell me a pretty little single thing like you doesn’t want a kiss this Christmas.”

Clark’s chest tightens so suddenly he almost forgets to breathe.

His stomach twists, heat rising, hands clenching at his sides. Again, his body refuses to work alongside his mind, and he finds himself kicking his chair out from under the desk and standing up.

Slow, head-ducked strides come your way as he fiddles with a random paper from last month. The pages are worn, thumbed, the ink no longer fresh. But it's the only thing anchoring him to the current situation.

You tilt your head, feigning innocence, but the mischief in your eyes is sharp.

“Who said I was single?”

Clark freezes mid-step, every nerve in his body suddenly electric.

Panic claws at him, twisting his thoughts into knots, memories of every night spent with you in the most innocent, platonic ways striking his nervous system like lightning.

He stops walking. Almost turns around.

Last he knew, you were single. You hadn’t gone on a single date since you two became friends- you'd always told him you didn't have time. Men weren't worth it, especially not the ones that typically approached you.

So where was all of this coming from?

Scott blinks, confused. “Wait… what?”

Clark can hear his own heart like there's a megaphone pressed against it. His walk is completely frozen; he can’t move, can’t think, can’t stop the sudden, almost painful surge of shock and surprise that shoots up his spine.

He makes a mental note to interrogate you about this later. Maybe, when you're at his apartment again, wearing his Mighty Crabjoys t-shirt and sitting bare-legged on his couch.

Boyfriend? What boyfriend? Do I know him? It’s not Kurt from Marketing, is it? Please tell me it's not Kurt from Marketing, or literally anyone else I know.

Finally, Clark lifts his eyes. It's unwilling, and reality hits him like a wave.

He doesn't know how long he's been stood there, or how much time has passed since Scott came at you with a smirk so smug and a request so ridiculous- but it can't have been a short while.

Because right now, in this very moment- you’re looking straight at him.

Not Scott. Not anyone else. Your eyes are trained on Clark, and your expression is desperate and pleading, soft but urgent- like you’re silently begging him to understand what you're asking for without uttering a single word.

And he starts to understand. Sort of. Slowly.

Very slowly.

Your hand drifts subtly in his direction, a gentle nudge that makes Clark's chest ache in a way he never thought possible.

Scott, standing a step away, blinks in confusion. His eyebrows lift, sharp and puzzled, as he glances back and forth between the two of you.

The smile he’s been wearing falters just slightly, unsure now.

“Kent?” he frowns.

Clark’s world narrows to you. Every other sound, every other movement, fades away.

He sees the tiny curve of your lips, the hopeful tilt of your head, the way your eyes search his like you’re looking for permission.

And then it clicks. Fully. The fog in front of his eyes clears and he swallows back a triumphant Oh!

You mean him.

You are telling Scott Miller from Field Research that you have a boyfriend, and that your boyfriend is him.

Clark Joseph Kent.

Clark, who is currently looking at you with eyes so wide and a mouth so dry, he considers grabbing Lois' overly-sweet Americano from her desk and chugging it straight.

The realisation is almost too much. Relief floods him, warmth blooms throughout his chest, and for a moment- Clark can barely stand the ache of wanting. He’s never wanted something so badly, and at the same time, has never felt so guilty for playing into something so untrue.

But he has to. He can't fight it; his DNA simply isn't coded to go against anything you want, ever. Even if he can barely breathe as he registers Scott’s baffled stare, still waiting for clarification.

You nod at Scott’s words as Clark manages a tiny smile; soft enough to be mistaken for smitten, knowing enough to let you know that he’d heard, and was more than willing to go along with it.

“That’s right,” you say confidently, side-stepping Scott and making a bee-line to Clark’s desk.

He watches the way your hips sway, as upbeat as the relieved smile on your face.

“Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some work to do.”

And somehow, that’s how it starts.

You don't expect it, but it happens; whenever Scott is around, Clark slips into boyfriend mode with startling ease. A hand at the small of your back. Standing a little closer than necessary. Offering you his jacket without a second thought; calling you his in front of anyone who will listen.

It feels natural. Alarmingly so.

At first, it serves a purpose. It has a reason. Nothing is done without an excuse, and his arms are always quick to drop when it’s over.

He tells himself it’s just to keep you safe from mistletoe warriors; to make things less awkward for you as a friend.

But then comes that feeling again; the nagging, aching twist of envy that fills him with dread every time he sees you laughing with someone else; the unprovoked jab at his pride when another man's gaze lingers on you for too long.

“If I didn't know you any better, I'd say you were jealous,” you'd joked once, after Steve Lombard winked at you and Clark had tensed so hard, the fountain pen in his hand snapped.

He frowned, hating the word and everything it meant as he threw the pen away and reached for another, “Just looking out for you.”

Regardless, he kept at it. Protecting you. If Superman could save the world, then Clark believed the least he could do was save you from entitled assholes in the workplace.

But then, without a word of warning- it turned into something else entirely.

He starts bringing you lunch and sitting beside you instead of across. Walking you home with his hand brushing yours, fingertips almost touching until they’re linked. Memorising the way you take your tea and making it without asking; one sugar, splash of milk if it's black.

Fixing things in your apartment that don’t truly need fixing, just so he can be there, just so he can show you he’s more than someone you can hide behind.

“Thanks, Clark.”

“No problem, sweetheart.”

Sometimes, there’s no Scott. No mistletoe. No reason at all.

And still, Clark does it.

He doesn’t even realise how far he’s slipped until he catches the way you look back at him- soft, thoughtful, like he’s something steady and familiar as you brush his curls back and let your palm rest on the nape of his neck. You look at him reverently, in the same way you'd stare at something that was yours.

And you don’t know what to think.

You notice the little things first. The doors that are held open for you, always a little longer than necessary, as if making sure you’re safe. When he's on the phone to Ma and she asks him how his girl is, and Clark doesn't correct her. Ever.

Just mumbles, She's alright, Ma. Work's been busy. But we're alright. The quiet softness in his voice when he says your name, the way it lingers on your ears, making your heart stutter.

You revel in the way he finally starts to accept his possessive nature; how being jealous is now a priviledge and no longer a sin. You catch yourself leaning toward him sometimes, unconsciously, like gravity itself is pulling you closer.

And when Clark’s lips brush lightly against yours as he moves to kiss your cheek, they linger just long enough to make you ache.

You try not to think about it. You tell yourself he’s just being careful, considerate, protective- the friend you’ve always depended on. Yet every small touch sends something fluttering in your chest.

Your thoughts keep drifting to him; to the curve of his shoulders, the gentle strength in his hands, how he watches you when he thinks you don’t notice.

“Any plans tonight, Kent?” Perry had asked him once. And you caught it out of the corner of your eye; his goofy little smile, all pearly-white teeth and tender and sweet.

“Taking my girl out to dinner.”

And yet, Clark doesn’t notice- or if he does, he doesn’t dial it back.

The lines between you blur. People stop questioning you both, and Scott has yet to even look you in the eye since that day under the sprig.

You find yourself stealing glances, hoping Clark won’t see the way your own gaze lingers; the soft look on your face that you can’t hide when he does something small for you, something precious.

Most nights, you begin to dream of him; letting him wrap you up in the make-believe of it all. You imagine tracing the ridges of his face with your fingers, brushing your thumb against his skin the way he brushes against yours, wanting him to know without words just how much you’ve been falling for him.

You try to push it down, remind yourself he’s just being kind.

But when he’s near, when his hand finds yours and doesn’t leave, when his eyes hold yours for one heartbeat too long- you can’t.

Because truthfully, you don’t mind it, any of it; your stomach flips, your heart races, your body becomes giddy at the mere thought of him- and still, you crave it.

And then there’s the day he’s sitting across from you; broad hand gently cupping your jaw, thumb tracing the curve of your cheek. It's a movie night in, some cult classic neither of you have been paying attention to playing on his flat screen.

Months and months of pretending, of calling each other boyfriend and girlfriend to take yourselves off the Planet's dating radar- have led to this.

You can’t breathe for a moment, trapped in the quiet intensity of him. There's a magnetic pull that has existed between you both for far too long, now amplified by the meagre space between you.

His eyes, trained on your lips, make your own pulse stutter.

You’ve dreamt about this moment in secret; imagining the softness, the warmth, the inevitability of it all.

“I don’t think I can pretend anymore.” Clark says then, voice low, quiet, and it reverberates inside your chest before the words even reach your ears.

“This...” he swallows, “this is real for me.”

You feel it. You understand immediately. Because you’ve been waiting for this too, aching for it, longing for him the same way he’s longed for you all along.

“Me too.” you whisper, a plea amidst the silence. And the grin that stretches across his face is magical, gradual- something flung straight out of a fairytale picture book.

So when Clark leans down, slow and careful, pressing his lips softly against yours- of course, you don’t push him away. You melt instead, your body falling into him; into the love that's waited beneath the surface for you for months.

Patient. Steady. Clark.

And in that moment, when he feels your lips curve into a smile against his own, your heartbeart pressed against his chest in a rhythm he wants to memorise; Clark can't help but think that maybe- just maybe- jealousy isn't so bad after all.

[geminiwritten]

complicated ; clark kent

fandom: superman 2025 (dc)

pairing: clark x reader

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, and clark is (obviously) huge) 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.”

“Yeah,” Cat mutters. “Groundbreaking romance there, Kent.”

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.

© 2025 geminiwritten. this work is protected by copyright. unauthorized use, reproduction, distribution, or training of artificial intelligence models with this content is strictly prohibited. all original elements of this fanfiction belong to geminiwritten. characters and settings derived from original works belong to their respective creators.

[lessersole]

Two-Sided Triangle

Pairing: Clark Kent / Superman x reader (no y/n)

Summary: After your apartment gets damaged in a kaiju attack, Superman keeps dropping by to check on you. Unaware there might be another reason for his visits, you meet Clark and fall hard. This sounds like it might be dark but it's not, we're going full rom-com vibes!

Word count: 12.8k I am possessed There are dividers (by the wonderful @saradika-graphics) splitting it into three if you prefer to read in parts.

Warnings: very suggestive but not explicit content, implied sex, mild peril and injury, swearing. Minors DNI!

One minute you’re heading to the couch to settle in after dinner, half of your mind planning for work the next day, the other half debating whether your building’s laundry room will be busier tomorrow or at the weekend, barely registering a large but rapid movement in your peripheral vision. The next minute, a heart-stoppingly loud boom of crashing glass and whining metal flings you against the back wall of your apartment.

You cry out in shock, instinctively flinging your arms up in front of your face. When you lower them, your open-plan living room is carpeted in crystal shards of glass, and your beloved floor-to-ceiling windows are gone, the iron frames now twisted, jagged bars, a persistent breeze whipping through the new, gaping hole where they used to be.

“What the fuck?” You mutter to yourself, heart trembling, still slumped on the floor where the shockwave dropped you. This was exactly the kind of thing that your parents had been worried would happen when you moved to Metropolis.

As you clamber unsteadily to your feet, a blue and red figure swoops into the gap that used to be your window. “Are you alright?” A deep, clear voice calls out, and you find yourself staring at Superman - the Superman - hovering just outside with a genuine look of concern.

“I - uh, I think so?” You haven’t really registered what’s happened yet, but you don’t feel any immediate pain, and you’re standing up okay.

His eyes dance over you, worry still creasing his brow, but just as he opens his mouth to speak you both hear the creaking cry of whatever giant monster has caused this damage, Superman twisting around to get a better look.

When he turns back to you, you wave your hand at him, your voice stronger now. “Go, go. I’m fine.”

He nods once, then zooms off towards the kaiju.

Shaking your head as much in astonishment as to clear the ringing in your ears, you assess yourself again for damage - a few cuts, surprisingly nothing too bad - then tiptoe over the debris to get a broom. Operating largely on autopilot, you sweep the shards into piles, keeping one eye on the skyline to watch the fight in case it comes closer again. When the floor is mostly clear, you fetch your first-aid kit and sink onto your couch - now on the other side of the room to where it was before - to check your cuts for splinters of glass.

By the time you’re convinced your wounds are clear, a final discordant wail signals that Superman has finished the fight, the monster thrashing gently as it’s carried off somewhere safer. Thankful that it won’t be coming back to destroy the rest of your home, you pack up your things and stand, only to be interrupted again by Superman, clearing his throat as he dangles in the air outside the hole that used to be your window.

“Excuse me, ma’am.”

“Oh. Hi.” It’s surreal seeing Superman up close, but you’ve already maxed out your shock capacity for the day.

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

“I - yeah, sure. Not too bad.”

“You look a little banged up,” the hero flies into your apartment, landing gently on the floor. “I can take you to a hospital, if you’d like?”

“Oh, that’s fine.” You wave a hand dismissively. “It’s just superficial, I’ll be alright.”

Superman steps closer, pointing at your forehead, his voice soft. “What about that?”

Frowning, you raise your hand to where he indicated, surprised when your fingers come away with a sticky coating of blood. “Oh.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to go to the hospital?” He asks, approaching you carefully.

“I don’t think it’s deep.” You answer, poking at your face, amazed you’re not feeling any pain. “Head injuries just bleed a lot.”

“They can also be serious.” Superman adds, with the authority of someone who’s seen a lot of wounded people.

“I think it’s fine.” You tell him casually, brandishing your first aid kit. “I have butterfly bandages in here, that’ll probably do.”

Superman watches as you root through the kit, managing to extract the steri-strips with your non-bloodied hand.

“May I?” He asks, reaching towards you.

You jolt back, giving Superman a startled look; surely he doesn’t personally patch up everyone who gets hurt when he has something to fight?

“Oh gosh, of course.” He mumbles, suddenly sounding a lot more human, glancing around then heading to your largely undamaged kitchen area and pointing at the sink. “Can I…?”

You nod, still not sure what’s happening. The sight of Superman in your kitchen, his red cloak swaying as he thoroughly washes his hands in your sink is making you think maybe you do have a brain injury.

He uses a nearby dish towel to dry off, then approaches you again, 

“Okay,” he takes an antiseptic wipe from you and guides you to sit down, kneeling next to you and gently cleaning the cut on your forehead, wincing in empathy and apologising as he does.

You blink at him, still very confused and focusing only on holding still.

“You’re doing really well,” he tells you with a reassuring smile, picking up your hand and using the wipe to clean the last of your blood off your fingertips. “Now step two.”

He frowns in concentration as he opens the bandages and delicately applies them to your skin. “There, all done. I think you’re right about it not being too bad; it’s not deep and there’s no contusion. Just be sure to keep it clean and dry until it’s healed. Now, did you hit your head at all? Any dizziness, or confusion?”

“Only about,” you gesture at him, “all this. Is personal medical follow-up part of your regular hero duties?”

A natural smile spreads across Superman's face as he stands. “Well, usually people are quite happy to just go to the hospital. Everyone on the ground is being checked out by paramedics right now.”

“What about everyone else in the building? Are you going to go door-to-door checking on my neighbours?”

“Actually, there’s no need to - your apartment was the only one hit.”

You gawp at him. “Seriously?”

“I’m afraid so. At least that means there’s likely no structural damage to the building.”

You groan. “Well, at least there’s that.”

He chuckles, the sound low and resonant. “You’re sure you’re okay?”

“Yes. And thank you, by the way. For this,” you gesture at your forehead, “And for making sure I didn’t get squished by that thing.”

“No need to thank me, ma’am,” Superman’s professional voice is back as he straightens up, hands on his hips., “It’s my pleasure to keep the residents of Metropolis as un-squished as possible.”

You laugh, starting to feel more normal, if shaken, as he heads back the way he came in. “Do you have somewhere you can stay tonight?” He asks, turning before he takes off. 

“Yes, don’t worry.”

“Good. Would you like me to take you there?”

“Like - by flying?”

Dimples emerge as he smiles again. “I can fly you, or I can take you downstairs and get you a cab. Depends on your tolerance for heights, although I suppose living up here, that’s probably not a problem for you.”

“True.” You’re aware living on the 17th floor isn’t for everyone - and it was another thing your parents weren’t happy about. “And as tempting as it is, I should check who has room for me before being literally dropped on someone’s doorstep.”

“I understand. Although I can assure you, ma’am, I wouldn’t drop you.” One last smile and Superman speeds off into the night, leaving you alone as the shock wears off and your injuries start to sting.

—

A week later, you’re back in your apartment, desperate for a proper night’s sleep in your own bed after crashing on your friend’s couch. Luckily your building, like every other high rise in Metropolis, has metahuman incident damage insurance, but even so it’ll be a while until it’s fully fixed. For now, you’ve tidied and rearranged, and if it wasn’t for the fluttering blue tarp where your window used to be, you could believe everything was back to normal.

When you start awake in the middle of the night, at first you think it’s just that you’re a lighter sleeper than before, jumpy since your living room got burst open by a kaiju - then you hear the unmistakable sound of tinkling glass. Grabbing the baseball bat you’ve kept handy for this reason, you creep out of the bedroom. You hadn’t thought anyone would be able to break in through the broken window given how high up it was, but when you enter the room you can make out a shadowy silhouette through the plastic.

Adrenaline pumping, you grip the bat tighter, holding your breath and moving as quietly as you can, before ripping the tarp open to surprise the intruder.

You’ve clearly managed it, because the man outside your window yelps right in your face, startling you enough to scream back, which makes him shout again, triggering the same again from you - until you recognise both the man and that he’s not climbed up here; he flew.

“Superman!? What the fuck?”

“Are you going to hit me?” He asks, staring at the baseball bat with alarm.

“No!” You don’t lower it, the tarp still flapping between you.

“What’s the bat for then!?”

“I was going to threaten to hit you!”

“Well, you’re doing that!”

You ignore his comment. “Why are you here?”

“I thought it would be empty!”

“Wh- that’s not an answer!” You yell. “And don’t you have superhearing? Didn’t you know I was here?”

“I wasn’t concentrating! I heard something but I thought it was one of the other apartments or-” he stops mid-sentence.

“Or?”

“Rats.”

You growl in annoyance.

He sighs. “Okay, yes, I’m sorry, I was out of line - can I come in? To explain?”

Frowning suspiciously, you silently step back to let him come in, but keep the bat up and ready.

Superman keeps his palms raised and facing you, as if trying to show he means no harm. “I was just looking to see if I could fix it.”

“Fix what?”

“Your window!” He gestures back at the tarp, as though that’s obvious.

You’re incredulous. “Seriously? Is growing glass one of your powers now?”

“No, but I have laser eyes. I thought I could melt the beams, maybe fuse them back together. That’s the part that takes time, getting replacement glass is easy.”

Your mouth falls open as you drop your arms, letting the baseball bat swing by your side. “You came here in the middle of the night to see if you could speed up my window being fixed?”

Superman shrugs. “It would have looked weird if I was hanging around in the day time.”

“It’s weird now!”

“I just - wanted to help.” He looks genuinely dejected, and you sigh, throwing the bat onto your couch as your adrenaline ebbs away.

“Well you scared the shit out of me.”

“I am sorry about that.” He apologises.

“I believe you,” you groan, rubbing your hands over your face, “I was just looking forward to my first uninterrupted night’s sleep in a week. And, again, this can’t be something you do for every damaged apartment in the city? You’d never do anything else. Although clearly you don’t sleep.”

“I do sleep, actually.”

“Me too, when possible.”

He winces. “Sorry again. But you can’t actually be back in here already? You can’t live somewhere with a missing wall.”

“I can and I will,” you tell him tiredly, crossing your arms defensively.

“But it’s not secure.”

“It’s not going to fall down. Like you said, there’s no structural damage, the insurance company confirmed it. And it’s not like it’s winter, it’s not cold.” You suddenly realise you’re standing in front of Superman wearing only skimpy pyjamas, but pride stops you reaching for a coverup. “The only risk is someone breaking in, which I thought was nearly impossible, and if they try - that’s what the bat is for.”

“They won’t need to break in, there’s a giant hole in the wall!” He points out.

“Now you’re just being pedantic.”

“I don’t like you staying here.”

“Objection noted. Now you can go.”

Superman huffs, his shoulders dropping. You can see him trying to think of another argument, but recognising your determined expression, he trudges back to the tarp. “I’m going to check in on you until the window’s fixed.” He tells you.

“You really don’t need to.”

“I do.”

You roll your eyes. “As long as it’s not the middle of the night next time.”

The ghost of a smile crosses his face, and he straightens into a more recognisable Superman pose. “Yes ma’am. Goodnight. Sleep well.” With that he steps out into the sky, leaving you open-mouthed.

—

The next evening as you’re chopping vegetables for dinner, there’s a suspicious rustle from the tarp, and a now familiar voice calls out. “Knock knock!”

You approach the window and pull back the sheeting. “You again.”

“Me again.” He confirms, eyes dropping to the knife in your hand. “And you with a weapon again.”

You shake your head, waving the knife as you return to the kitchen counter. “Unless you’re an ingredient in my stir-fry, this is not a threat to you.”

“It smells good,” Superman follows you, looking around as if checking for threats.

“Thanks.” You study him while his eyes are elsewhere. He said he’d return, but you don’t really understand why he’s back - although it’s an interesting quirk to your day, if nothing else. “Do you want some? Wait, do you eat?”

“I don’t need to,” he leans against the counter, watching you slice up spring onions, “But I like to.”

“Makes sense.”

He smiles. “How was your day?”

“No threats to my safety you need to be aware of.” You answer flippantly. “How was yours?”

“Good. Saved a dog that fell in the river out by Hobb’s Bay.”

“Can’t dogs swim?”

“Well, yes, but there are currents.”

“And probably a lot of chemicals up there.” You muse. “Wait, you washed before coming over here right? I don’t want toxic river ooze in my dinner.”

“I assure you, I am thoroughly disinfected.” He grins.

“Glad to hear it,” you brush off your hands and turn your full attention to Superman. “Well, duty done, you’ve checked that I’m safe and I am.”

A look flashes across his face at superspeed before you can read it and he straightens up with a nod. “Good. Yes. Enjoy the rest of your evening, ma’am.”

He whizzes out of your apartment before you can say another word.

—

Every night over the next week, some time between you getting home from work and turning in for bed, Superman stops by. Each time it seems like he’s happy to chat, even trying a little of your cooking if he’s there at the right time, but you’re constantly aware that he’s a man with a heavy sense of responsibility, so you always try to cut his visits short and send him on his way as quickly and politely as you can.

One evening - the first after a weekend night where you were out and he didn’t see you - you greet him covered in the explosive remnants of a blender malfunction. Trying and failing to hide his smile at the state you’re in, he insists on taking over with the cooking while you shower and change.

When you return, you work together side by side for a while, until a question burbles up in your mind that you’ve so far avoided asking, and you pause what you’re doing to stare at him. “What is this?”

He smiles brightly at you. “Well, this one is pasta, and you said this one-”

“No, this.” You gesture between you. “You stopping by to chat and help make dinner. Blender mishaps aren’t exactly the usual kind of emergency you deal with. I don’t get it.”

Superman’s face falls. “I’m - keeping an eye on you.” He turns to stir the pan, focussing on it intently and not meeting your eyes.

A boom in the distance echoes across the city, and you’re almost sure you see relief flash across his face before he makes his apologies and flies off to deal with it, leaving you behind more confused than ever.

—

As you step into the street to go to work the next morning, you’re startled by an unknown voice calling your name.

“Hi,” a slight woman with long dark hair rushes up to you, “you’re the person in 1705 right? The apartment that got damaged in the incident a couple weeks ago?”

“Uh - who are you?” You ask, not stopping.

“I’m Lois Lane, I’m a reporter at the Daily Planet.” Lois holds out her hand and you shake it as she falls into step with you. “Your building has metahuman incident damage insurance, right?”

“Yes,” you answer cautiously.

“But it’s still not fixed two weeks later?”

“Well, they -” you gesture back up to the patch of blue on the otherwise gleaming glass facade of the building.

“Hung up a sheet of plastic?” Lois finishes for you.

You grimace. “Yeah.”

“But I bet the claim was processed and accepted, right?”

You stop walking. “Yeah.”

Lois nods. “I’m writing a piece about mismanagement, corruption and embezzlement in the metahuman insurance industry. I’d love to hear about your experience.”

“This won’t affect my claim will it? I don’t want to piss off the insurance company, I can’t afford to fix it myself.”

“You’ll be entirely anonymous, and I can disguise the details so it’s not clear it’s you. I just need people to go on the record. And you’d be really helping future claimants - some people lose a lot more than just a window - you could be preventing families being needlessly homeless for months, sometimes more.”

“Okay.” You agree to an interview. The Daily Planet building isn’t far from your office, so you arrange to come by on your lunch break.

When you arrive, you’re given a visitor's pass and ushered straight to Lois’s desk, where she greets you enthusiastically and runs you through the consent forms. You can’t help but notice the messy haired guy at the desk opposite hers - who also seems to be sneaking glances at you through his thick-framed glasses.

“Who’s that?” You whisper to Lois, trying to be subtle as you indicate the other reporter.

She follows your head tilt. “Oh, that’s just Clark. So, which company is your building insured with?”

After a solid 45 minutes of rapid fire, in-depth questions, you’re exhausted and pretty hungry, but so sure that Lois is onto something that you’re glad you agreed to go on the record for her. However, the pause in questions is only because she can’t find a specific document she wants.

“Jimmy,” she calls out to the desk behind her, “did you move the file I had here?”

“No,” Jimmy answers, spinning around to face her, “I’m not interested in your boring insurance article.”

“There’s nothing boring about exposing shady business practices.”

“It could have been moved to the back, I think Steve was ‘tidying up’ around here earlier.”

“Damn it.” Lois sighs, getting up. “Sorry, I’ve just got to find this.”

“No problem.” You tell her, glad that the squeak of her chair just about hides the rumbling of your stomach. You check the clock on the wall, realising that you’re not going to have time to pick something up on your way back to work, and wishing you’d had breakfast that morning.

“Hi,” you turn at the deep voice to see Clark giving you a hesitant wave.

You smile back. “Hi.”

He scoots over to you on his chair. “Lois can be pretty intense, huh.”

“Yeah,” you agree. Clark’s even cuter up close, those glasses framing deep blue eyes, dimples popping up in his cheeks when he smiles. “She seems like a good reporter.”

“She is.” he tells you. “But she can get a bit obsessive about her stories - she might have forgotten that you’re here on your lunch break, right?”

You nod.

“Will you be able to get something after this? Or have you already eaten?”

“No and no.” You tell him honestly. “But it’s fine, this is clearly worth it.”

Clark raises a finger, “Or,” he spins back to his desk and grabs a paper bag, pushing back over to you with it. “You can have this. You’re not allergic to peanuts, are you?”

“No,” you smile, “but I’m not taking your lunch.”

“It’s fine,” he opens the bag and peers into it. “I’ve already eaten half. It’s just PB&J, and there was an apple in there too so it’s a bit squashed.” He passes it to you with one hand, pushing up his glasses with the other.

You start to refuse again, but your stomach grumbles loudly again, drowning out your words. Clark chuckles. “See, your body agrees with me.”

You laugh as well, accepting the bag. “Well, thank you.”

“And,” he holds up another finger, pedalling his chair back to his desk before hopping up - making you notice how tall he is - and nearly colliding with another reporter crossing the newsroom. A string of apologies leave him as he ducks and dodges across the floor, returning with a smile and a donut wrapped in a napkin.

“You should have time to eat this before Lois gets back.” He tells you, pressing it into your hand. “You probably need the sugar for her last burst of questions.” He grins, and your heart melts a little.

“Thank you,” you bite into the donut, a powdered ring that has smudges of multiple different colours of icing around it. “Do you get a box of these in the office every day?” You ask, wanting an excuse to keep him here talking to you.

“Not everyday. Sometimes someone’ll bring them in.” He pushes his glasses up again, and points at the coloured streaks on the donut. “You can tell I brought these in because I dropped them a couple times and they got a bit all over each other.”

Your smile widens. “Well, I love it. A little bit of everything is my favourite kind of donut.”

You see Lois coming back, and quickly finish eating, wiping your hands and fingers with the napkin and balling it up. Before you can find a trash can, Clark takes it from you, his fingers brushing yours in a way that feels warmly familiar.

“You better not be poaching my interviewee, Kent.” Lois tells him as she sits back down, document found.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Ms Lane.” He grins at you a last time and heads back to his desk.

Lois notices the starry-eyed way you watch him sit down and run a hand through his dark curls, somehow messing them up even more. “Hey, I’m serious about him poaching you.” She says, drawing your attention back to her. “He’s always getting exclusive interviews with Superman, so he gets given a lot of the metahuman stories, but this is my baby.”

“Sure, of course.” You say, focusing back on her questions.

When you’re done, you practically have to run to get back to work, and still arrive a bit late. You’re grateful for the half lunch Clark gave you, and can’t help thinking of his hands making the slightly flattened sandwich as you eat it. He stays on your mind for the rest of the day, a dreamy expression spreading across your face every time you think of him.

The reporter’s dimpled smile is still lingering in your thoughts when Superman visits that evening.

“As you can see, I’m still uninvaded.” You tell him, grinning. You’d thought Superman might be a bit off - or not stop by at all - after the strange way his visit yesterday had ended, but he seems fine, and you’re more good-humoured than normal after meeting Clark. “How was your day?”

“Good. Surprising.” Superman tells you. “How about you?”

“Also good. Very good.” You move to the kitchen to start on dinner, almost a routine now when your nightly visitor arrives. “I ended up going to the Daily Planet, this reporter Lois Lane wanted to interview me about the window not being fixed.” You point at it with the cucumber you’ve just taken out of the fridge. “Apparently it’s a whole big thing with the insurance companies delaying repairs on purpose.”

“A hole big thing?” Superman smirks cheesily, nodding at the tarp he’s just flown through.

You groan and throw a tomato at him, which he catches before it can hit him, passing it back to you with an easy smile.

“Anyway, when her article gets published it might mean things get fixed faster and you don’t have to feel so guilty and keep checking in on people. But, more excitingly - I met the best guy today.” You beam at Superman. “He’s a reporter too, at the Daily Planet, and oh my god he might be the cutest guy I have ever met. He’s so sweet and kind too, I didn’t have time to get lunch, and he noticed that even though he’d literally never even spoken to me before, so he gave me his lunch and a donut.”

Superman’s eyebrows lift in surprise, and he goes very still - which you don’t notice, continuing to babble about Clark as you start chopping salad.

“And he’s so clumsy, it’s adorable, it’s like that thing in rom-coms where the woman’s always falling over? I never got why that would be attractive before, I thought it was just trying to make the hot actress seem relatable, but with him it’s like yes, please fall over and I’ll be the hero who catches you. Although he’s so tall, I probably wouldn’t be able to catch him, he’d just squash me, but oh god,” you almost growl, “what I would give to be squashed under him.”

“Oh, gosh.” Superman’s clearly taken aback.

You laugh guiltily. “Sorry, probably a bit of an overshare. Can’t believe I made Superman blush. But seriously, this guy. I feel like a teenager again, I haven’t crushed this hard on someone since - maybe ever? And perhaps it’s just been too long for me, but damn, I would climb Clark Kent like a tree.”

“Golly. Oh wow. Well.” Superman’s blinking rapidly, looking a little uncomfortable now. “I should go.”

“No, no, wait, sorry, I will stop now.” You laugh, then pause your food preparation, eyes widening in realisation. “Wait - you know him! Lois said he interviews you. What’s he like? He’s a good guy, right?”

“He’s nice, yeah.”

You gasp, a thought occurring to you. “Do you know if he’s single? Into women?”

Superman nods hesitantly. “Yes, he is. I think.”

“Could you - maybe - give him my number? I should have given it to him earlier but it was all a bit of a rush. And I was going to call Lois and see if she could pass it on to him, but it seemed a bit forward maybe, I don’t want him to know how crazy I am about him already.”

“No, of course not.”

“But since you stopped by anyway, maybe you could just - give him my number next time you see him? Please?”

Superman hesitates before agreeing with a quick nod. “Okay, yes. Since you feel so strongly about him.”

“Well, obviously don’t tell him that.” You roll your eyes with a grin as you scramble about for a pen and scrap of paper.

Superman swallows. “No, no. Obviously.”

“And none of the stuff about being squashed under him, or crushing like a teenager, or - any of it. Just, you know, I’m coolly intrigued. Interested in getting to know him more.”

“Coolly intrigued, got it.”

“Actually, tell him I want to take him out for lunch, to pay him back for giving me his today.” You hold out the piece of paper to Superman, then hesitate. “Wait - do you even have pockets in that?”

“I - well, I have-” He gestures vaguely to himself.

You wrinkle your nose. “Are you going to put it in your underpants?”

“They’re not underpants!” He exclaims. “They’re over, they’re over the rest of - and they’re trunks, I - just, never mind, I’ll put it in my belt.”

“Thank you, Superman.” You give him your sweetest smile.

“You’re welcome.” He tucks the piece of paper carefully into his yellow belt with a sigh. “Clark Kent is a very lucky man.”

“But he doesn’t know it yet.” You wag a finger at Superman. “I’m classy.”

“Yes you are.” Superman takes off without another word.

You’re delighted to get a call from Clark the next day, and you arrange to meet for lunch on Saturday. The few days until the weekend drag even more than usual, but when you’re finally on your way to meet, nerves bubble up inside you. It’s been a while since you had a date you were this excited about, and while Clark seems kind and friendly, he’s also a big-shot reporter for the most widely read and respected newspaper in the city - not to mention so attractive you hadn’t been able to stop your thoughts drifting to his blue eyes, curly hair and dimpled smile all week.

Thankfully, Clark immediately puts you at ease. He’s already seated when you arrive, and as you walk in his face lights up and he gives you a goofy wave so enthusiastic he sends his water glass flying. He’s still trying to mop up water and apologising profusely to everyone around when you reach him, and the combination of his clean-up attempts and awkward move to greet you result in him almost headbutting you. The earnest string of sorrys are still spilling from him as you sit down, smiling.

“Nervous?” You ask.

“A little.” He gives you a wonky grin, pushing his glasses up. “How could you tell?”

You laugh. “Just a hunch. And I’m a little nervous too.”

The rest of the meal goes much more smoothly, conversation flowing easily and your feelings growing steadily. You’re starting to feel grateful for the broken window that led to you meeting him - and having a way, via Superman, to contact him.

You insist on paying, as you’d suggested on the phone, to thank him for the sandwich he gave you earlier in the week, but Clark’s having none of it. However, in his rush to beat you to the card machine, he whips his card out of his wallet so strongly that it shoots into the air, sailing over the other tables and bouncing off the wall on the other side of the restaurant. The mortified look he gives you cracks you up, but you still manage to settle the bill while he rushes over to retrieve it.

“Since that lunch was worth significantly more than half a PB&J,” Clark says as he holds the door for you, “I think I owe you dessert. And we happen to be just one block from the park, where I know for a fact there’s a stand with the best ice cream in the city. If you’re free, that is?”

“The best ice cream in the city?” You tease, delighted to continue the date. “That’s a bold claim, Kent. I think I’ll have to see if you’re right.”

Turns out the frozen treat is perhaps the most delicious you’ve tasted - although whether that’s because of the ice cream itself or the man buying it for you is unclear. You’re fairly sure Clark’s having as good a time as you are, and you continue strolling through the park together long after you’ve finished your desserts.

When you pass by the old movie theatre, you point out the classics they’re currently showing.

“Which do you like better,” you ask, “Some Like It Hot or His Girl Friday?”

Clark tilts his head. “I’ve actually never seen His Girl Friday.”

“What? But you’re a journalist!”

He laughs. “I don’t think it’s on the recommended reading list at MU. But you’re right, it’s a terrible oversight on my part.”

“One which you’d like to correct?” You suggest, seeing there’s a screening of it starting soon.

Clark beams at you. “Oh, definitely. The sooner the better.”

You settle into your seats, popcorn nestled between you. You keep one hand free, open on your shared arm rest, and when Clark’s fingers nudge against yours before slowly intertwining, it’s suddenly a lot harder to focus on the movie.

Unfortunately, barely half an hour in, Clark fidgets in his seat and squeezes your hand. “I’ll be right back.” He whispers, sneaking out of the theatre in a comical hunch to avoid blocking anyone else’s view. You’re confused and a little saddened that he returns only ten minutes before the end of the movie.

He turns to you the second it’s over. “I’m so, so sorry. Something came up - a work thing - I wish I could have stayed, but I had to deal with it.” There's clear remorse in his eyes, and he’s looking even more rumpled than he had earlier, making you think he’d rushed back to you as fast as he could.

“That’s okay,” you tell him, “I know you have a demanding job. I guess news never really takes a break, huh?”

“Not really,” he smiles at you gratefully, playing with the edge of the empty popcorn bucket as you get up to leave. “And I understand if you want to leave things here, but - if you’d like - maybe I could make it up to you by buying you a drink, and you tell me what I missed in the movie?”

“I’d like that.” you answer honestly. “And you don’t need to feel too bad - I’ve had a lot worse behaviour on a first date than someone stepping out to deal with a work crisis.”

“That’s concerning.”

You fill Clark in on the rest of the plot as you make your way to the riverside bar he wants to take you to. When you reach the water you stop short, awed by the soft red glow of a beautiful sunset sparkling over the West River.

“Oh wow.”

“Here,” Clark puts a careful hand on your lower back and guides you to a wide viewpoint, and the two of you press up against the railing to watch the sun sink below the Metropolis skyline.

Clark notices immediately when a gust of wind makes you shiver. While you have a light jacket on, he only has a flannel over his t-shirt, but he starts pulling off the top layer for you regardless.

You stop him with a hand on his arm. “Thank you, but I don’t think that’ll do much. And you’ll freeze.”

Clark shrugs, “I run warm.”

“Well then,” you step in as close as you can. “You can be my windbreak.”

Smiling, Clark positions himself behind you, his arms either side of yours on the railing, tucking you against him to keep you warm.

A glow steals through you that has nothing to do with body heat, and you lean back into him, closing your eyes to bask in the perfection of the moment.

“Times like these I love living in Metropolis.” You tell him.

“Really?” You feel him smile against your cheek. “Because it looks like you’ve got your eyes shut.”

You open them with a guilty smile. “It’s not just the view.”

“No,” Clark gently kisses your cheek, sending sparks zipping through you, “but it is beautiful.”

You turn your face toward him to see him gazing at you adoringly through his glasses, his messy hair, broad shoulders and dimples limned by the last light of the sun. Your eyes drop to the curve of his mouth as his eyes trace the same path on you, and you raise up to him just as he leans down, the two of you pulled magnetically together.

Your lips meet in a first, tender kiss that lingers just long enough. You part for a second, only to press back in like waves on a beach, neither of you wanting to fully pull away. Clark smiles as he withdraws from you with a quick, soft third kiss, before settling himself behind you, his cheek resting against your head, arms tighter around you now.

The bliss that washes over you is unlike anything you’ve felt before.

You stay like that until the sun disappears behind the horizon, lights flickering on across the city, and make your way to the bar under the gentle glow of twilight and streetlights.

One drink turns into two, turns into you realising you’re hungry again, and ducking out of the bar to settle in a cosy restaurant a little further into the city.

Everything you eat tastes like the best you’ve ever had, and enticing tingles shoot through you every time your fingers tangle with Clark’s over the table. Utterly caught up in each other, you don’t realise how late it’s got until the staff politely let you know they’re closing up and you need to leave.

Clark apologises earnestly for keeping them, adding some extra bills to the tip for the inconvenience, but the knowing smiles the owner gives you makes you think they don’t mind too much.

Ever the gentleman, Clark asks to walk you home, and comes into your building, right up to your door. You wouldn’t normally sleep with someone on the first date, but today has been so perfect, and you’re so head over heels already, that a part of you desperately wants to invite him in. But you know Clark well enough now that you expect the politely old-fashioned reporter would say no if you offered, so you turn reluctantly to end the evening.

“I had an amazing time.”

He smiles back at you, glasses sliding down his nose. “Me too. And I’m sorry again about having to run off.”

“Don’t worry about it,” you assure him, “everything else more than made up for it.”

“Can I see you again?” He asks.

“Yes please.”

He grins goofily, one side of his mouth lifting before the other. “I’ll call you?”

You nod eagerly, eyes dropping to his lips.

Reading your hint, he steps closer, hand lifting to your face, fingers curling along your jaw and his thumb stroking your cheek as he ducks his head towards you.

The kiss is gentle again, but you tease his lips with your tongue as you slide your arms around him, and he groans softly. His other hand grips your hip as he delicately tugs on your lower lip, before pulling back with a sigh to rest his forehead against yours.

“Goodnight,” he says, voice husky, pressing a swift, chaste kiss to your lips.

“Goodnight,” you breathe back, repeating the action to him.

He stares into your eyes a moment longer before reluctantly stepping back, his mouth twisted in a half-smile. “Sleep well.” He adds softly, bobbing his head shyly as you unlock your door and step through.

“You too,” you tell him before you close it behind you.

Inside your apartment you let out a deep sigh and lean against the door, your eyes drifting shut as you relive the sensation of his mouth on yours, his hands holding you. You step forward slowly, calmly for a few beats, waiting long enough for Clark to have made it to the elevator, before flinging yourself onto the couch with a delighted squeal - unaware that Clark, with his superhearing, smiles widely as he hears you.

You’re so giddy from your day-long date that you don’t even notice there’s no visit from Superman that night.

—

When he swoops into your apartment the following evening, you’re still mooning over Clark, your face hurting from grinning to yourself all day.

You greet him in delight, and immediately thank him again for passing on your number. “We went out yesterday, and it was amazing.” You’re practically bouncing. “Maybe the best date ever? And he’s already called to set up the next one.”

“Hmm.” Superman walks past you to inspect your food prep. “What are you making?”

“Just avocado and eggs.”

“Breakfast for dinner.” He mutters.

“So, Clark.” Superman startles as you dart in front of him, beaming. “It was perfect, one of those dates that just keeps going because you never want it to end. At least I didn’t, and-”

Superman holds a hand up to stop you. “I don’t want to hear about your date with Clark.”

“Oh,” you’re taken aback. “Sorry, I - why not?”

“It’s just,” he shrugs, “not my business.”

You frown. Something else is going on here. “Wait,” your eyebrows lift as a thought occurs to you, “do you date?”

Superman freezes, his strong jaw locked, eyes flickering towards and away from you, and you know you’re onto something. “Sure, I date.” He says faux-casually, crossing his arms over his chest. “I mean, I’m busy, but - if I meet the right person.”

“And you’re fine to date - humans?”

“Yes, I date humans.” You can’t tell if he’s exasperated or amused. Maybe both. “How personal are these questions going to get?”

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to ask anything anatomical.” You answer with a smirk, being very careful to keep your eyes away from his red trunks. “So - you like Clark?”

“Sure, I-” he stops as your meaning hits him. “What!? I don’t like Clark! That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s okay!” You assure him. “I mean, it makes perfect sense. He’s great, and it explains why you were kind of weird about me going on about him the other day, and why you don’t want to hear about our date. And why he’s the only reporter you give interviews to!”

Superman splutters incoherently, shaking his head. “That is not-”

“It’s fine! I’m guessing he’s not into guys, otherwise why would he say no? Unless it’s an ethics thing, with him reporting on you.”

“Oh my goodness.”

“Listen,” you approach Superman and take his hands, looking into his worried eyes. “I won’t talk to you about Clark any more. And I really, really, appreciate you giving him my number when you must have felt a bit conflicted about it. You’re obviously a really good guy - if all the hero stuff wasn’t proof enough - and you will totally meet the right person for you one day. I’m sure of it.”

Superman stares at you openmouthed, no idea what to say to that.

—

After work a few days later, you meet Clark at the Metropolis Aquarium - a place you’d realised on your first date that neither of you had ever been to. You stroll around in the blue light, Clark shyly taking your hand and neither of you letting go for the rest of the visit. After a quick dinner at a nearby taco truck, Clark walks you home again, and although he politely declines your offer to come in, your goodbye kiss ends up as a heated make-out session against your front door, your hands tangling in his dark hair, his glasses steamed up and even more askew than normal.

He calls you as soon as he gets home to arrange the next date for Saturday.

Clark’s planned this one - a picnic in the park. He meets you at a deli with a picnic basket bumping against his side and a blanket tucked under his arm. You pick out the food you’ll share together and walk hand in hand to Centennial Park. The day seems almost too perfect - dappled sunlight on the path, a gentle breeze blowing as you set up. You lean against Clark and occasionally feed each other in a way you suspect but don’t care is cheesily insufferable to anyone watching.

Unfortunately, the perfection doesn’t last - you’ve not even finished the food when the wind picks up, blowing ominously dark clouds overhead.

“Is it going to rain?” You wonder aloud.

Clark scrunches his nose as he peers up at the sky. “The forecast said it wouldn’t.”

The words have barely left his mouth when a heavy drop lands on his glasses. You look at each. “Uh oh.”

You scramble to pack everything up as the late summer rain pelts down - Clark tries valiantly to protect you from the downpour, but you’re both drenched within minutes. Laughing and squealing, the two of you race for the shelter of a nearby gazebo.

You catch your breath once you’re under cover, shaking off the excess water as best you can.

“Golly.” Clark’s back is turned as he wipes his glasses clean, and when he turns around, you suck in a breath.

His white t-shirt is soaked through and clinging to every part of what you are now very aware is his amazingly muscular torso. Maybe it’s his general bumbling, clumsy demeanour, geeky intellectualism, or just that he’s never mentioned going to the gym, but you hadn’t expected him to be built like this.

“I’m sorry about this.” He starts, unaware that your rapid breaths aren’t from the sprint over. “I swear the forec-”

“I’m not sorry,” you interrupt, practically flinging yourself at him.

Despite his surprise, Clark responds instantly, wrapping his arms around you as you press against him and returning your kiss with an equal ferocity. You gasp into his mouth, sliding a hand under his shirt to feel the ridges and lines of his stomach. His moan is just audible above the pounding rain, and you can feel his need as he walks you back to press you against the strut of the gazebo, his hands sliding down your body, lifting you so you match his height.

Just as you’re wrapping your legs around him, a loud wolf-whistle makes Clark pull back - the next gazebo over is full of other people escaping the rain, who whoop and cheer at the two of you - some even applaud.

Chastened, Clark sets you down, the tips of his ears turning red.

“Sorry,” you say on a gasp, aware that your actions don’t really fit with Clark’s more reserved sensibilities.

The knowing smile he gives you is so hot you’re surprised you don’t start steaming where you stand. “I don’t think you are.”

You gulp, goosebumps erupting over your skin that have nothing to do with the turn in the weather. Clark’s eyes trail over you, taking in how your own clothes stick to your body, looking like he’s fully aware you’re not just wet from the rain.

He pulls you to him, but just to wrap you in his arms, making you grumble into his chest. He simply chuckles, giving a cheery wave to the people still watching from the other gazebo.

After twenty minutes of thunderous rain you’re starting to shiver despite Clark’s warmth, and the picnic blanket he’s swaddled you both in.

“I don’t think it’s going to stop any time soon.” You point out.

“No.” Clark agrees, his mouth pursed with worry. “My apartment’s not too far. We can change into something dry there - are you okay to make a run for it?”

You nod. “Let’s do it.”

By the time you make it to Clark’s you’re completely drenched again, the two of you dripping a trail all the way from the lobby into his apartment. You hover by the door, not wanting to make a mess in his surprisingly neat and tidy home. Clark, however, only takes off his shoes before disappearing inside, returning moments later with an empty laundry basket and a stack of clean clothes that he carefully holds away from his wet body.

“The bathroom’s through there,” he points with the hand holding the basket, “you can take a shower to warm up and then put these on. If you drop your wet things in here I’ll wash and dry them for you.”

“Don’t you need a shower too?” You ask coyly. “You could join me.”

Clark takes a deep breath, and you hear a creak from the basket as he unconsciously squeezes the handle tight. “I want to,” his voice is husky, “but you should just get warm.”

“You sure?” You can’t help trying again, certain you’ve never wanted someone so much. “I think you’d help me warm up.”

The groan that emerges from him doesn’t help tamp down your feelings. “Believe me, I would love to, but I…I -”

Seeing his struggle for words you stop him with a smile. “It’s okay. You don’t have to explain anything. I don’t want to rush you.”

Clark nods, his expression a mixture of gratefulness and regret.

Following Clark’s instructions you take a warm shower, revelling in the simple intimacy of using his products, trying and failing to not imagine him in here, naked. When you’re finished, and dressed in comfy sweats that smell like him, Clark takes his turn in the bathroom, then when you’re both clean and dry you spend the rest of the afternoon curled into his side in front of the TV, alternating between chats and steamy kisses that never go quite as far as you - and Clark from what you can feel against you - would like.

Other than your dates with Clark, the rest of your life continues as normal - the hole in your wall remains unfixed and Superman still drops by most nights, although his visits have been getting shorter, and you sense that your relationship with Clark is causing him some inner turmoil. You’ve told him he doesn’t need to keep stopping by, but unless you’re spending the evening with Clark, he always shows up.

One cloudy Tuesday, you’ve had the day from hell at work, and arrive home late enough that you hear Superman’s usual polite request to come in the second you’re through the door. You shout a yes, shut the door behind you, then drop your bag where you stand, head straight for your couch and faceplant onto it.

You hear Superman’s amused voice above you. “Bad day?”

Facedown and prone, you mumble something unintelligible into the cushions.

“What was that?”

You roll onto your side with a world-weary sigh. “I had the worst day. Work is horrible, I hate it. And I hate everyone.”

“Do you?” Superman cocks his head, one dimple appearing as he half-smiles at you indulgently.

“No.” You pout. “But today I do.”

“Can I help?”

“Not really,” you rub your hands over your face, “but thanks.”

Superman watches you for a moment longer, arms crossed. “You should call Clark.”

You drop your arms and stare up at Superman. “Why would I do that?”

“Because he’s your boyfriend.” He answers, like it’s obvious. “He can look after you.”

You sit up with a groan. “First of all, he’s not my boyfriend - we’ve barely known each other for two weeks and only gone on three dates, I can’t call him that yet. Second, I’m not exposing him to all-” you flap your hands at yourself, “-this.”

Superman frowns. “All what?”

“This! Me exhausted and needy and grumpy. I’m still trying to impress him. He has to think I’m cool, and fun and stuff.”

“I think he knows you’re cool and fun and stuff,” Superman tells you, “and I think he cares about you, and would want to make you feel better when you’re exhausted and grumpy, and be there for you when you’re needy.”

“And I think you have an idealised vision of what early relationships are like.”

“Call him.”

“Nope,” you slump back down and curl into a ball. “I’ve got through bad days on my own before, lying here and crying until it’s over, and I’ll do it again.”

“It’s endearing that you’re so stubborn about suffering alone, but call Clark! I know he’d want to be here for you.”

You’re face down again, so Superman can’t hear whatever you grumble in return. He sighs, exasperated, and a moment later you hear his footsteps walking away, the tarp flapping as he zooms off.

You’re unsure how much later it is when there’s a knock at the door. You ignore it until the third, equally polite knock, and frown as you lever yourself off the couch to answer it. When you open the door, there’s a slightly battered bunch of flowers and a sympathetically smiling Clark just behind them.

“Hi.” He passes you the flowers. “I heard you were having a tough day. Can I come in?”

“Uh,” you look down at yourself, clothes dishevelled and mascara smudged around your eyes, “I’m not really…”

“You look beautiful,” he kisses you, “and also like you might need a hug.”

His words crack something open in you, and you nod, afraid you’ll start crying if you speak. He steps over the threshold, nudging the door closed behind him, and wraps you in his arms.

You enjoy the embrace for a long moment, then mumble into his shoulder. “Did Superman call you?”

“Yes.”

“That’s not cool of him.”

“You’re not glad he did, now that I’m here?”

“No. I told him not to,” you pull back to look at Clark, “You’re being lovely, but I didn’t want to be a mess in front of you yet.”

“That’s silly.” Clark tells you, kissing the tip of your nose. “I like all of you. The messy you and the cool, fun, tidy you.”

You give him a watery smile. “I like all of you too, Clark.”

Falling back into the hug, you don’t notice the conflicted, guilty expression clouding Clark’s eyes.

—

Superman gracefully accepts your telling off the next night, and you two clear the air.

“I like that you’re not intimidated by me.” He comments.

“Why would I be intimidated by you?”

He raises an eyebrow. “I don’t know, maybe because I'm potentially the most powerful being on the planet?”

“Well, yeah,” you admit, “but you are wearing big red underpants-”

“They’re trunks! And they’re not under, they’re literally on the outside, they’re outerwear!”

Laughing, you stop his protests. “That’s only part of it. Also - I trust you. You’re so…good. You wouldn’t hurt a fly. You wouldn’t even hurt a fly’s feelings.”

“You think flies have feelings?”

“What I mean is, why would I be intimidated by someone who I’m certain won’t hurt me? Abilities don’t make someone intimidating, intentions do.”

“Hmm.” His expression is thoughtful, then turns teasing. “Is that why you’re scared of spiders?”

You point at him threateningly. “That spider was very big.”

“It wasn’t big-”

“It was massive!”

“It was this big.” Superman holds his fingers up, barely an inch apart.

“It was this big!” You both hands up, more than a foot apart, making Superman laugh. “And it had a weapon!”

“It did not have a weapon! Spiders in Metropolis are entirely harmless to humans.”

“Well, I think that one was carrying a knife.”

“It did not have a knife.” He smirks.

“It was a concealed knife.”

“Gosh. Well, in that case it was good that I was here then - to protect you from the knife-wielding spider.”

“Exactly.”

Superman’s laughter fades away and he gives you a long, measured look before walking towards you. “You don’t think I could be intimidating? If I wanted to be?”

“I-” Your words die on your tongue as Superman stands so close you can feel his breath, tilting his chin up and standing tall in a way that makes you very aware of his powerful height and build.

His voice deepens. “I can be intimidating.”

Something about his actions makes your skin heat, a heartbeat pulsing below your naval as your lips part on a shaky breath.

Superman’s eyebrow twitches and a sly smile spreads across his lips, “Interesting.”

“No, no.” You recover, shaking your head. “Not interesting. Not at all.”

“Is that reaction something I should let Clark know about? A hint, maybe, about your preferences?”

“No no no.” You put both hands on his chest and push, walking him backwards as he laughs. “Out the window with you.”

You can still hear him laughing after he lets you shove him out into the night.

—

Two weeks later, you’re cutting through the rush hour crowds as you walk the few blocks from your office to the Daily Planet building to meet Clark for another date. The two of you are spending almost every available moment together, and you’re so used to his erratic timekeeping that you’ve become a familiar face to the rest of the staff, often waiting in the lobby or the newsroom for Clark to reappear from whatever story he’s run off to chase.

Nino the security guard cheerfully waves you in with a wink, but this time, you don’t even have to step out of the revolving door before you see Clark barreling towards you with a puppyish smile. He squeezes into the same section you’re in, bumping noses as he kisses you hello, and seems to not notice the irritated grumbles of the other commuters as the nearly clogged door shudders to a slow shuffle.

The mechanism just about survives, and you’re both laughing by the time you spill out onto the sidewalk, Clark dropping his satchel but managing to keep a hold on you.

His coworkers emerge from the building in a much more orderly way.

“We take full credit for Clark being on time for you today,” Jimmy tells you, “even he can’t miss the monthly staff meeting.”

“He has before,” Lois adds drily.

“I always try to make it.” Clark objects.

“Clark’s just a time optimist,” you defend him, tucking into his side as closely as if you’re still stuck in the revolving door.

Lois rolls her eyes, despite her smile. “I’m not sure Perry sees that as a positive trait.”

The screech of brakes interrupts the chatter, and you all turn toward the road to see two men approach, hands concealed and hoods pulled low over their eyes.

“You’re Clark Kent?” One asks aggressively. “The reporter?”

Everyone else is instantly on edge, and you notice Nino approaching warily to see what’s happening, but Clark’s manners never fail him.

“Yes, I am.” He tells them pleasantly. “Can I help you with anything?”

“The one who always does interviews with Superman?” The other man asks.

A prickle of unease races over you. The others group closer to Clark protectively, and even he seems to sense the danger, putting an arm in front of you to carefully push you behind him.

“That’s me.” He answers evenly, wrinkling his nose to keep his glasses in place.

“I can handle this,” Nino announces, stepping forward.

“No, no, Nino, that’s fine.” Clark says, trying to dismiss the guard. 

The first man reaches out to grab him, and without thinking, you jump in front of Clark.

Your body is moving faster than your brain, but you ignore Clark trying to tug you back.

“Clark’s just a reporter,” you tell the men, “he doesn’t actually know Superman. If that’s who you’re after you should talk to me, I’m friends with him.”

“What are you doing?” Clark hisses, trying to pull you behind him, but you stand your ground.

“Superman comes to my apartment every night.” You tell the strangers.

The men glance at each other, making a quick decision, then one shrugs and they grab for you instead.

“No!” Clark’s cry is strangled, and he tries to keep a tight hold on you, but you wriggle free.

“Go, call him,” you whisper, shoving him away from you as hard as you can.

Shock and hurt are visible on his face, but before Clark can do anything, Jimmy, Nino and Lois grab hold of him to stop him pursuing you, and you’re almost pulled off your feet as the attackers drag you away and bundle you into a windowless van.

The door slams as it slides shut, and a second later the engine starts with a roar, but before you even make it to the end of the block, there’s a crashing sound and the van stops instantly, the back jolting up into the air as though a heavy impact has slammed into the front of it. You hear the men shout out in panic, and you’re drenched in sudden daylight as the whole side door is ripped away. The next thing you know, you’re in Superman’s arms, flying away into the sky.

You’ve barely had time to marvel at the speed of your rescue when Superman lands on a rooftop, gently setting you down on your feet. He takes a few steps back, clenching his jaw. You notice his hair is more dishevelled than you’ve ever seen it, and he’s looking at you in a way he never has before.

“What were you thinking?!” He bursts out.

You blink rapidly. “What?” You’re astonished - Superman’s almost shouting at you.

“You put yourself in danger! You could have been hurt!”

“I was protecting Clark!” You protest.

He’s just about holding himself in check, but it’s clear Superman’s angry. “You don’t need to protect him!”

“I couldn’t just stand there!”

“Why not? That’s exactly what you should have done.”

“Why not?!” You’re fuming now, yelling back at him. “Because I care about him! I can’t let anything happen to him!”

“And I can’t let anything happen to you!” You’re staggered by the sheer force of Superman’s emotion, but you recover enough to keep arguing.

“And you didn’t! Clark knows how to contact you, I don’t - it would have taken you longer to get to him. This made sense!”

“No, it didn’t! It will never make sense for you to put yourself at risk!”

“I barely was!” You shout back, exasperated. “I was there for all of 30 seconds before you got to me. I’m fine! How long would it have taken for you to even know Clark was in trouble?”

“I-” Superman huffs, pacing back and forth like there’s more he wants to say but can’t. You watch in silence, not understanding what’s going on with him. Eventually he stills, shoulders slumping, breathing in a way that sounds startling like he’s on the verge of tears. He gathers himself and walks back to you.

“I’m sorry,” he says, sounding exhausted and surprisingly vulnerable. “I shouldn’t have shouted.”

“That’s okay.” You tell him quietly.

“I just - I was scared.” He admits, his voice breaking. “I care about you. I’m not mad at you.”

Something swells inside you at his words, but you ignore it and give him a small smile. “It seems like you’re a little mad at me.”

He smiles back sadly. “I’m not. I’m mad at myself.”

“Why?” You ask, baffled.

Superman hesitates, shaking his head. “I had to make a quick decision and I knew instantly that I made the wrong one.”

You frown. “What do you mean? Was there something else you should have been dealing with instead of getting me?”

“No, no.” He insists. His eyes drop to the ground and he adds softly, almost to himself, “I shouldn’t have let you go.”

There’s silence as you try to figure out what he means. Before you can ask, he takes a deep breath and straightens into his Superman stance. “You’ve been through a lot. I’m taking you home.”

He scoops you up into his arms, and you cling to his neck as he takes off into the sky.

To your surprise, instead of taking you back to your place, Superman flies you to Clark’s, drifting in through the window like he’s done it a million times, and depositing you carefully on the couch.

“I need to call Clark, let him know I’m okay.” You look around as though your bag, knocked off in the earlier struggle, will suddenly appear next to you.

“He knows.” Superman’s voice is strained, and he’s pacing back and forth like he can’t keep still.

“And that I’m here?”

Superman nods. “He knows.”

You frown. “Did you tell him you’d bring me here? How could you have had time to?”

He finally stills, looking at you with such a tortured expression that you immediately get to your feet and approach him.

“Are you alright?” You ask gently.

He huffs out a noise that’s almost a laugh. “You just got abducted, and you want to know if I’m alright?”

“Well to be honest, I seem to be dealing with it a lot better than you.” You try your best to catch his eye, but he’s avoiding your gaze. “Seriously, what’s wrong? You go through stuff like this every day.”

“Not like this.” He answers softly. “Not with you. And-” he sighs, seeming to make a decision, and straightens up, finally looking at you head on. “I need to tell you something. Something I should have told you a while ago - or, I wanted to tell you, but I couldn’t, or - felt like I shouldn’t. I don’t know.”

“Okay.” You’ve never seen Superman so rattled and unsure before.

“I - gosh. I don’t know how to say this.” He looks at you like you might give him a clue, chewing on the inside of his cheek, but you have no idea what’s going on.

“Maybe it’s easier to show you,” he mumbles, dashing out of the room at superspeed. When he returns seconds later, he’s wearing Clark’s clothes.

“What the-” you gape at him. There’s something very odd about seeing Superman in anything other than his red and blue suit, and something else tingling on the edges of your awareness that you can’t quite grasp.

“Maybe you should sit down.” Superman takes your arms and manoeuvres you back to the couch.

“You’re in Clark’s clothes.” You announce unnecessarily.

“I’m in my clothes.” Superman corrects.

“What? You share clothes with Clark?” You can’t comprehend what might be going on.

“We’re the same.” Superman answers simply. Then he takes Clark’s glasses out of a pocket and puts them on.

You feel a dizzying adjustment, like an image appearing out of nothing in a magic eye photo, and Clark is standing in front of you, looking at you with the same hesitant concern Superman was showing.

“Clark! What - wait what -” your mouth drops open even further. “You and Superman share a body?!”

He looks taken aback. “Share a - no. Well, sort of.”

“What is going on,” you mutter to yourself, wondering vaguely if you’re having a stroke.

“I’m Superman.” Clark announces clearly. “Clark is Superman. And Superman is Clark.”

You gawp at him as he takes the glasses off again, and something clunks into place in your mind. The man standing in front of you - he’s Clark. And he’s Superman.

“What the fuck! How did I not see this before?”

“It’s the glasses.” Clark/Superman explains apologetically. “They’re hypno-glasses. They stop people recognising me as Superman.”

“So you don’t really need glasses?”

A smile twitches at his lips at your question. “Not for seeing, no.”

“But,” you shake your head, trying to reconcile the two men you know as one, “Clark’s so clumsy. And Superman can literally fly. What’s - is that fake? The Clark bit?”

“No,” he assures you. “Nothing about me is fake. When I’m not being Superman I have to hide my strength, and sometimes I don’t get it quite right.”

“So when you’re home - this your home, wow, this is where Superman lives - you’re not clumsy?”

“Well, I still have to be careful around the furniture. But probably less clumsy, yes.”

“And you don’t wear the glasses?”

“I don’t wear the glasses.”

You’re still trying to get your head around it all. “And what should I call you?”

“Clark.” He answers. “Superman’s like a job title.”

“So it’s like code-switching.” You’re starting, just a little bit, to understand. “Like Clark’s one version of you, and Superman’s the other. They both show and hide different parts of you.”

Clark tilts his head. “Yes, I suppose so.”

“So why does Clark wear the disguise?”

“You think Superman should wear glasses?”

“Not glasses, but like - a mask or something. It’s what the other metahumans do.”

“I want Superman to be approachable,” Clark explains, adding with a half-smile, “same reason for the trunks.”

You actually laugh at this, starting to feel a bit less freaked out.

“And masks can scare people. They can seem like you’ve got something to hide.”

“But you do.”

“No. I have something to protect.” His eyes soften.

You nod slowly. “Your family.” Clark’s talked to you about Ma and Pa Kent, and his love for them has shone through in every word.

“And now you.”

There’s a silence as you stare at him in awe, drinking in the enormity of those three words.

“That’s why you were so upset today. I didn’t need to protect you, because you wouldn’t have been in danger.”

He nods, sadly. “But you were. And I can’t have you being connected to Superman - it puts you at risk.”

“Still, it’s not like you could have saved yourself. If they’d taken you, they could have worked out that you’re Superman.”

“I would have figured something out. Anything would have been better than them hurting you.”

There’s a pause as you take in the information.

“Is there anything else you want to ask?” Clark prompts. “And it doesn’t have to be right away-”

“If this hadn’t happened, were you ever going to tell me?”

“Yes.” This answer is firm and instant, and he crosses over to you, kneeling in front of you. “I was going to tell you when your window was fixed. I waited because I wanted to be able to keep checking in on you, and I couldn’t do that if you reacted badly. And I have to be careful who I tell. Besides you, the Justice Gang are the only people in Metropolis who know who I am.”

You believe him. “That’s a lot to trust me with. You’ve only known me six weeks, I could be a secret supervillain or something.”

Clark smiles. “I don’t think you are.”

“I could be though.”

“You could be,” he smiles at you so fondly you swear you feel your heart swell, “I guess I’m willing to take that risk. For you.”

You smile back at him dreamily, all the pieces of the last month and a half falling into place. “That’s why Superman didn’t want to hear about my dates with Clark.”

He nods. “It wouldn’t have been right. You might have been telling me things you wouldn’t want me to know.”

“I thought you had a crush on yourself!”

“Yeah, I thought that was an odd conclusion to jump to.” He muses. “Why not just think I had a crush on you? You’d obviously picked up on something before that.”

“Because I’m not going to assume Superman is into me!” You’re incredulous, then realise. “Oh my god, Superman’s into me.”

Clark smiles. “Very into you.”

“Wait - when I’d had a shitty day and Superman told me to call Clark - you said Clark was my boyfriend. You said you were my boyfriend.”

Clark shifts uncomfortably. “And you said it was too soon for that, and I respect that-”

You lean forward, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Did you want to be my boyfriend? Even back then?”

Delighted that you’re touching him, accepting him, Clark moves closer, his hands resting on your waist. “Yes. I’d really like to be your boyfriend. If that’s what you want? Even now?”

You beam at him so widely your nose crinkles. “Yes please.” You lean in to kiss him, then pull back with a start, horrified at a memory flashing into your mind. “Oh god. I said the horniest things to you about you. When I asked you to give you my number.”

Clark tries and fails to suppress a smirk. “You did.”

You groan. “That’s so embarrassing.”

“No,” he smiles, “I was already crazy about you.”

“What? Seriously?”

“Seriously.” Clark brushes a hand adoringly over your cheek. “I liked you when we first met. Then I really fell for you when you threatened me with a baseball bat.”

“Threatened to threaten you.” You correct.

“And every day since then I’ve liked you more.” His eyes are shining with affection. “Even before you met me as Clark, I was trying to figure out how I could ask you out. After your window was fixed.”

“Wow,” you breathe, leaning forward again to kiss him.

Clark bites back a small noise of frustration as you pull back again at the last second.

“Is this why you won’t sleep with me?” Your voice is a little louder than you intended. “We’ve been dating a month now and I know you know how much I want you.”

“It wouldn’t have been right!” He objects. “Not when you didn’t know everything. What if you’d spent the night with me as Clark and then you see Superman the next day and have no idea that he knows you like that.”

You pout. “Okay yes, that makes sense, and yes you were doing the right thing. But does this mean you already want to?”

Clark’s eyes darken deliciously. “Yes, I want to. I think you know I do.”

You smile slyly, sliding to the edge of the seat and parting your legs, lifting them over Clark’s where he’s crouched in front of you and locking them around his hips as you lean forward to finally kiss him.

His arms tighten around you as you slip your tongue into his mouth, filled with a rush of affection and lust for your bumbling, good-hearted superhero boyfriend.

“Are you sure,” he pants out between kisses, “you don’t - want to wait? Take in - what I’ve told you?”

You twine your fingers in his thick hair, rolling your hips against the hard bulge in his pants as you grin wickedly at him. “No, I don’t.”

Clark groans, easily picking you up and heading for the bedroom. “Yes, ma’am.”

—

Epilogue

Your window is finally being fixed, and you need to be out of your apartment for a few days while it’s being worked on. Clark happily offered for you to stay at his, and while you’re both still managing to go to work - and for him, be Superman - you spend almost every other moment wrapped up in each other in bed, and on the couch, and all over the rest of his apartment.

As a lazy evening bleeds into night, the two of you are lying in bed, naked and spent after multiple sessions pulling pleasure from each other’s bodies, with just one pancake break to refuel.

“You know,” you look up at Clark from where you’re lying in his arms, “I think I’m going to miss Superman dropping in on me every night.”

“You are?” Clark smiles at you indulgently. “Why’s that?”

“Well, it’s nice to not have to buzz you in,” you say thoughtfully, pressing soft kisses to his chest and arms, “and the costume’s pretty sexy.”

“It’s not a costume, it’s an outfit.”

“Even the underpants are growing on me.”

Clark growls playfully as he rolls on top of you. “The trunks.” He corrects.

“The trunks,” you accept, humming in delight as he trails kisses down your neck, “I mean, they kind of draw the eye.”

He pulls back, indignant. “They do not ‘draw the eye’.”

“Clark, they’re bright red.”

He pouts adorably, and you laugh, before trailing your fingers down his muscled torso. “And I mean, it’s clear that what’s under them is pretty impressive.”

Clark presses his body onto yours, sinking you into the mattress, trying to look annoyed despite the smile he can’t suppress. “I’m pretty sure it’s only you who’s looking there. I’m starting to think you’re a sex-crazed maniac.”

You gasp in fake outrage.

“Which I like about you.” He adds smoothly, leaning in to part your lips with his, your tongues tangling together.

As you pull back for air, you wrap your legs around his hips and flip him onto his back, sitting up on top of him in a way that makes him groan, his hands gripping your thighs.

You grin at him lasciviously. “And you know, as much as I love you as you, there is something really hot about having Superman underneath me like this.” You frown when you notice how Clark has stilled, his mouth slightly open, eyes softened with wonder. “What?”

His voice is reverent. “You love me.”

You clap your hands to your mouth in horror, as if you can force the words back in - you’ve felt it for a while, but you’ve not said that to each other yet, and it just slipped out. But as Clark sits up, one arm sliding around your waist and the other dancing up your spine, he’s beaming like he’s won the lottery. He kisses the back of each of your hands, then holds your gaze, his deep blue eyes swimming with emotion.

“I love you too.”

[bloatedandalone04]

Superman Kissed Me

Summary: You thought you got lucky when Superman agreed to give you an interview after he only seemed to allow Clark to interview him. When the questions begin, however, you quickly start to regret ever asking for the interview in the first place, because Superman is much more of a flirt than you ever thought he was.

Word Count: 6.6k | I do not give consent to having my work republished or posted to any other platform or profile other than my own.

Warnings: fluff, angst if you squint, kissing without consent (but is it really), reader is uncomfortable for a hot minute, clark being cheeky, superman being sneaky, swearing.

Your leg was bouncing a little uncontrollably as you shifted in your chair for the third time in the last two minutes. 

Your palms were a little sweaty, even though you’d wiped them on your jeans twice now. Your heart was also beating a little faster than it usually is, and your face felt like you were standing directly in front of the sun. And yet you also felt a little chilly.

In other words; you were nervous. 

You hadn’t felt this nervous since your very first job interview, which was quite a long time ago. But your nerves were justified since you were interviewing Superman for the very first, and hopefully not last, time in a few minutes. He’s only ever been willing to partake in interviews done by Clark for some unknown reason, but when you ran into some trouble a few days ago and he had to step in, you threw caution to the wind and asked for an interview when he was free to do so, after thanking him for helping you, of course. 

You were fully prepared to hear no and a kind excuse as to why he couldn’t, but Superman surprised you and agreed to do an interview later in the week.

Clark hadn’t been at work that day, so you couldn’t even rub it in his face right away that you finally scored an interview with Superman, but when you went over to his place later that night, you weren’t the slightest bit humble about it. He just laughed and congratulated you, then asked how you managed to get an interview, and you had to tell him about your mistake of taking a back alleyway to work instead of the normal route. 

Your excuse was that you like seeing different parts of the city, and it was always good to know different routes to get to certain places, but that just launched a full on lecture from your boyfriend that ended with him reminding you not to go into alleyways that are very much the definition of sketchy. 

How he managed to turn your triumph into a lecture about keeping yourself safe, you didn’t know, but it was just another thing that was so Clark, you couldn’t even be mad at it. 

You and Clark have been dating for just over half a year now, and it was refreshing to be with someone you actually connect with and have a lot in common with. He is kind, sweet, caring, protective and funny, and it was definitely a plus that he was very easy on the eyes. 

He is very attractive.

Clark is the first guy you’ve been with that wears glasses, and you found him unbelievably attractive in them, but you weren’t sure how serious his loss of eyesight actually is. You assumed he was pretty damn blind since he didn’t take his glasses off for anything. 

He wore them all day long. You can’t think of a single time where you saw him without them in the six and a half months you’ve been with him. He keeps them on in the shower - well, at least the showers you have with him, he keeps them on during sex, even when they were sliding down his nose from the sweat building up on his skin, and when you were pretty sure they were fogged up to the point where he couldn’t even see out of them. 

It was a little odd, but you just brushed it off, feeling a little bad for him since it seemed as though he literally couldn’t see shit without his glasses on. 

You decided to have the interview be on the roof of The Daily Planet building, which is where Superman ended up taking you when you found yourself cornered in that alleyway with two very angry looking men standing in front of you. It was easy for both of you, since he could simply fly up there, and you could simply take the elevator, then the stairs, then go right back down to start writing all about the interview. 

The sun was beginning to set in the sky, casting a pretty golden hue across the rooftop as you braced your hands on the ledge. The interview was set for later in the day, in the early evening since it would be nearing the end of your work day, and it gave him a little more movement room in case something happened during the afternoon or morning. 

You were nervous, of course, but you were also very excited, because you would be the only other person after Clark who had been given the opportunity to interview Superman. 

Leaning over a bit, you looked down at the street below, several stories between you and the sidewalk down there. It was still so busy out, despite the average person’s work day ending soon, and the faint noise of traffic was a welcoming distraction as you waited for him to arrive. 

Interviews never usually last too long, and you definitely didn’t want to take up too much of his time, so you already had all your questions planned out, as well as a few you were curious about that didn’t really have anything to do with the article you were writing. How often did the chance to interview the world’s hero come around? Of course you had a couple questions you were dying to know the answers to. 

You propped your elbow up on the ledge then placed your chin on your palm, letting out a slow, heavy breath in an attempt to calm your nerves. “Excuse me, ma’am,” you heard a voice from behind you, and it was so familiar, despite you only speaking to Superman once before. “You aren’t planning on having me save you again before we start this interview, are you?”

When you turned your head and looked over at him, you felt your nerves calm down a bit. It was weird. Superman was a stranger, and yet you felt completely comfortable around him, even more so now than you did a few days ago since there was no looming threat hanging over you. 

He was standing a few feet away, his hands clasped behind his back, under his cape, and he was so tall, his head was blocking the sun from your eyes entirely. A soft grin was on his lips, his eyes one of the kindest pairs you’d ever seen, and his hair was perfectly styled, even though the small bit of dirt on his chin told you that he’d been saving the world yet again just before this. 

You didn’t answer him right away, and his smile faltered a little as he swayed on his feet a bit. “Can you get away from the ledge?” he asked instead of repeating his earlier question, which came off much more playful than this one did. “Please?”

A heat took over your face as you looked over the ledge again, then quickly shook your head. “Oh, no, I wasn’t…” you trailed off, then forced out a laugh as you took a step away from the ledge and toward him. “Sorry. I got a little nervous while I was waiting. I wasn’t going to…you know, jump or anything like that.” 

Superman’s smile returned fully at that, and he nodded as you moved to stand in front of him. “Well, I’m glad to hear that,”

You gave him a smile of your own as you looked up at him, and he was even taller up close like this. His frame towered over yours, but there was also a sense of familiarity about it, like you’ve craned your neck exactly like this many times before to be able to look into his eyes. 

His eyes were really pretty, and it was probably because they were the exact same shade as Clark’s. You were sure if you looked at him long enough, you’d get lost in his eyes in the same way you get lost in Clark’s. 

You had to clear your throat to be able to speak clearly, and you gestured behind him to where the chairs were. “Thank you for agreeing to do this with me,” you said as you sat down, trying to discreetly wipe your hands for hopefully the final time. “I was beginning to think you had sworn exclusivity to Clark.”

Superman let out a short laugh as he shook his head, sitting down on the chair across from yours. “Well, when the person interviewing me is as pretty as you, it’s kind of hard to say no,” he said, and you froze for a few seconds as you processed what he said. 

He just called you pretty. Superman just called you pretty. You knew he was known for his kindness and friendly personality, but you were not expecting him to say that to you before you even had the chance to pull out your notes. 

“Oh,” you blinked a few times as you shifted in your seat, a flattered smile forming on your lips as you tried to think of what you could possibly say to that. It wasn’t like he full on flirted with you or was trying to fluster you, he just gave you a compliment. “Well, that’s really nice. Thank you.”

That works, right?

You broke eye contact as you reached down beside you and grabbed your notes out of your bag, suddenly feeling nervous again as you flipped through your book. 

Needing to clear your throat again before speaking, you give him a kind smile as you sit up straight and turn on the recorder. “So,” you started, feeling the familiar tingle of nerves return to your body. “Superman. First off, I want to thank you for taking the time to sit down with me. I know you probably don’t have a lot of time to spare these days.”

He smiled at you, leaning forward and bracing his elbows on his knees. “Thank you for having me,” he said as he clasped his hands together, and your eyes instinctively focused on them for a few seconds. They were big and would definitely cover your whole entire face if he were to touch you, and they looked so familiar. 

Did all men’s hands look like that? Your exes hands were definitely bigger than yours, but not nearly as big as Clark’s, or Superman’s for that matter.

When you looked back up at his face, you saw a faint smirk on his lips, and he clearly saw the way you were staring at his hands. You were blushing now and felt flustered as you tried to get your thoughts together so you didn’t make a complete ass of yourself in front of the world’s hero. “So, um,” you mumbled, looking down at the list of questions and notes you have in your notebook. “Looking at you now, it’s clear you just got finished saving the world yet again. What was it this time? A fire breathing dragon? Or a fifty foot tall giant?”

Superman laughed and shook his head, his hand coming up to rub at his chin and smooth out his hair, as if he was trying to make sure he looked presentable because of your words. It was unnecessary, because he looked great, but he seemed to be keen on having a good appearance in front of you for some reason. “No, nothing like that,” he said, dropping his hand back down once he was satisfied with his appearance again. “It was a lot more tame. The fourth line flooded. I’m sure you heard all about that though.” 

You titled your head, your expression blanking for a few seconds as you took in his words. “I did not, actually,” you said, then cursed inside your head, because that meant all the other lines would be backed up until the city got a maintenance team down there to fix whatever had been damaged, and that would probably take weeks. 

It was a bad day to be one of the people who took the subway. 

“That’s unfortunate. I’ll probably need to find another way home later,” you mumbled, then shook your head as you looked down to decide the first real question you wanted to ask him. 

Before you could though, he piped up with another…friendly remark. “Oh, if you need help getting home, I’d be more than happy to assist you. You know how anxious people get when the subway goes down. I wouldn’t want you to have to go through that. You know, having to deal with agitated people, especially with how hard you work and all,” 

You kept your head down but flickered your gaze upwards, unsure of how to respond to that. Was that another attempt at flirting? Or were you reading too much into it? There was no way Superman was shooting his shot with you. 

But that was the second thing he’s said to you that’s made you question if he was or not. You were usually pretty good at reading people, and while Superman was a little more reserved, he was giving off the vibes Clark was when he was trying to work up the nerve to ask you out. 

You lifted your head, your eyes shifting to the recorder that was on the arm of the chair between yours and his. “Um,” you spoke up, leaning towards him as if you were trying to share a secret with him in a crowded room, but it was just you and him up here. “I don't know if Clark mentioned it, I thought he might’ve, but he and I are together. Like, we’re serious and everything.”

You hoped you weren’t reading too much into it, because this would end up being super embarrassing for you. How humiliating it would be if you mistook his friendliness as him trying to flirt with you. You were sure you wouldn’t be able to look at him ever again. 

When Superman’s brows raised, but he didn’t say anything, you shifted a little and sat back up straight. 

“I just thought you should know that,” you added, smoothing down the pages on your lap. 

He nodded and gave you a thumbs up. “Understood,” he said. “He didn’t mention that, but I can understand why he’d want to keep you all to himself.” His smile grew at that, and now you were almost positive he was flirting with you. 

Or he just called you ugly. One or the other. 

You gave him a look of disbelief as you shook your head, your mood quickly shifting south as you took a breath to compose yourself. Your mind went back to the night you told Clark that you’d be interviewing Superman, and how he told you to not be surprised if Superman tries to flirt with you. He said that no guy, not even a meta-human like Superman, could resist you because of how gorgeous you are, and to remind the man that you’re very much taken. 

That night you’d laughed and rolled your eyes, but now you weren’t laughing. It felt like Clark had somehow predicted this. Or he manifested it. Or jinxed it. Either way, this was all his fault, and you felt right to blame him for it, even though he wasn’t even here. 

“Can we get back to the interview?” you asked, your voice coming out a little more stern than you meant for it to, and it had Superman nodding quickly and sitting up straight, his smile fading as a serious expression took over his face. 

“Of course,” he answered, gesturing to your notes. “Please, ask away.” 

You pressed your lips together as you nodded, fighting the urge to move away from him, because this was not going how you thought it would. Like at all. 

“Okay,” you mumbled, rolling your shoulders as you willed yourself to relax. He seemed to be backing off, so there was no reason to continue to feel pissed about how things were playing out. He seemed to be civil again, so you decided to be civil as well. “I was hoping to talk a bit about your earlier life. Like, how you discovered your ability to help people and do good in the world. Was it something you knew right away? Or did it come to you over time? Anything you’re able to share would be great, but no pressure at all-”

“You really are pretty, you know that?” he cut you off, and you felt your earlier irritation come back in full swing. 

You slumped back against the chair, your eyes wide and your lips parted in disbelief. “Seriously?” 

He held his hands up in defense, his eyes shooting to the ground. “Sorry. I’m sorry, but you can’t deny how gorgeous you are,” he defended himself, but also only made things worse as he gestured at you. “You have to know that by now, right? Or is Clark not doing a good job at reminding you?”

You narrowed your eyes. “That’s none of your business,” you said, even though you yourself had asked him a personal question only seconds before. But that was because that’s how this was supposed to go. Why you were suddenly the one being questioned, you had no idea, but you wanted to put an end to it. “I’m the one interviewing you, remember? I’m supposed to be the one asking the questions here.” 

Superman nodded slowly, and he almost looked guilty as he stayed silent for a few seconds. Then he met your eyes again, “That wasn’t a yes, by the way,” he noted, “So that leads me to believe he’s not doing a very good job at reminding you.”

You threw your hands up in defeat, reaching over to stop the recorder from capturing any more of this nonsense. What a waste of fucking time. 

“You’re impossible,” you muttered, shoving the recorder back into your bag. How Clark ever managed to get a single answer out of this guy was beyond you. You didn’t want to think it was because he’s a guy and you’re a girl, but you had some serious doubts that Superman was flirting with Clark during the interviews he had with him. Unlike your failed attempt just now, Clark actually managed to get somewhere whenever he interviewed Superman. 

You stood up from the chair and shoved your notes into your bag as well, feeling the way your face was heating up with how angry you’d gotten in such a short time period. “I can’t believe what a waste of time this was,” you huffed, slinging your bag onto your shoulder. “I can’t believe I was looking forward to this…this mess, and now I have to figure out another story to write by the end of the week, all thanks to you.”

Superman stood up as well, towering over you once again. “So I shouldn’t expect a second interview any time soon?” 

You scoffed as you slung your bag over your shoulder. “Not from me,” you muttered, your evening thoroughly ruined. You never expected the guy who saves the world nearly every single day to be such a…a guy. A stereotypical guy who only sees girls as one thing. 

Maybe you were being too harsh to compare him to all the fuckboy’s you’d met in your lifetime, but that was just what he reminded you of right now. You didn’t even want to listen back to the recording, because you knew it was full of useless information and flirting and you’d probably want to crawl out of your skin if you heard him say those things to you twice. 

You really lucked out with Clark, because he’s never once made you feel like that. He leaves you cute and sweet voicemails or voice notes over text, and you could happily listen to those for the rest of your life. 

When you turned around, Superman was closer to you now, giving you a kinder smile. It had you narrowing your eyes as you crossed your arms. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

His broad shoulders lifted just once, and that was the only answer you were given to your question, because he changed the topic before it could even begin. “I’m sorry this didn’t go the way you wanted it to,” he said, and he sounded so genuine. So much like how he sounded the first time you spoke to him, and how he comes across on the news or in Clark’s articles. “My intention wasn’t to upset you in any way, and I apologize if I did.” 

You weren’t sure how much you believed his words, because in your opinion, he worked a little too hard in his attempt to upset you. And yet you still appreciated his apology. “Thanks, I guess,” 

He held out his hand to you in a way that felt like he was trying to clear the air and end this on a peaceful note. “I wish you luck with your article,” he said as you took a few steps towards him and reached for his hand. 

It was a lot bigger than yours and encased your entire hand, which was a little distracting as you let out a huff. “Yeah, I’m sure you do,” you muttered looking down at the way his fingers wrapped around yours, and it felt familiar. Like this was something you felt on a damn near daily basis, and you furrowed your brows as he stepped closer to you. “That’s so weird. This feels so-”

You were cut off when you glanced up and only briefly saw that your face was a mere few centimetres from his before his lips brushed against yours in a kiss that was also familiar, but it caught you so off guard, you couldn’t even process the fact that you know you’ve felt those lips before. 

Had you given him the wrong idea? Made him somehow believe you’d leave Clark for him? Is this what he was expecting when you asked for an interview? Did he assume you’d be okay with it just because he’s Superman? There were too many questions, and you didn’t want the answers.

You were mad. You were offended. You felt used.

It was as if you’d been burned, the way you pulled back so fast and looked up at him in shock. Your lips parted, a string of curse words and insults ready to be thrown in his face, but you discovered you were rendered speechless. 

You were now 100% convinced you hadn’t been reading too much into this. Superman just fucking kissed you. After you told him you were very much with his…his, what, his friend? Is that what Clark was to him? Probably not after this. 

Did he really think he could kiss you and you wouldn’t go straight to your boyfriend? You knew Clark would be upset, and he’d probably even go as far as to write a very negative article about the man who the world looks up to. You were very excited to help him write that. 

You pushed against his chest, but he stayed completely still and sturdy, and you scoffed as you ran your hand down your face. You were mad, your shoulders were tensed up and your face felt like someone had poured scorching water directly onto it. Your breathing was uneven and you had the urge to punch him square in his face, but you were somehow able to hold back. 

He probably would’ve caught your arm mid-swing anyway.

Turning away from him, you wrapped your fingers around the strap of your bag, needing to hold onto something to refrain from throwing yourself at him. You’d end up hurting yourself more than you could ever hurt him. “You know, most girls would’ve probably slapped you right now, and I still very much want to, but you wouldn’t even feel it, would you?”

Despite him literally kissing you thirty seconds ago without a care in the world, Superman now looked a little guilty as he kept his hands by his sides. The nerve of this guy. The fucking nerve. 

You shook your head and began walking towards the door, but before you could open it, you swung around to look at him one last time. “If I were you, I would prepare myself for a very angry, very negative article written about you. And, actually, thank you for the interview, because now I can use it towards said article,” 

His shoulders dropped and an unimpressed look formed on his face. “Come on,” he mumbled. “Really?”

You nodded and reached for the door handle. “Uh huh,” you confirmed, then swung the door open and began the descent down to where your co-workers were eagerly awaiting your return from interviewing The Superman. 

What a joke. 

You were still pissed off when you stepped off the elevators and headed straight to your desk. Jimmy was typing away on his computer when you briskly walked past him, making him do a double take. He clearly wasn’t expecting you to be in such a mood after being so excited about this interview. “Hey,” he called out to you. “How was the-”

“Horrible,” you answered as you closed your laptop and stuffed it into your bag. “It went horrible, Jimmy, thanks so much for asking.”

His eyes were slightly wide as his fingers paused on the keyboard. “Oh,”

“Yeah. Oh,” you muttered, grabbing your water bottle from off your desk. “And no, I didn’t get the chance to ask him if he has any solutions for clingy ex-girlfriends, because he was too busy flirting with me the entire time.”

Jimmy’s eyes narrowed as a comically confused expression took over his face - one you would’ve laughed at if you weren’t so livid. “The hell…”

You put your bag back on your shoulder before walking past him again. “I don’t want to talk about it, okay? Superman is a fucking asshole. That’s all any of you need to know,” you said, pointing to Lois, who had been trying to subtly listen to you without making it obvious, but of course you noticed it. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

Once you were back on the elevator and heading to the ground floor, you tried to calm yourself down. You were heading straight to Clark’s place, because as angry as you are, you were also feeling extremely guilty. 

Another guy had kissed you. You’d been head over heels for Clark since the day you met him, and he’s been nothing but perfect and kind and faithful, and you let another guy get too close to you. 

You had tears in your eyes as you stepped out into the lobby and headed straight for the revolving door that would take you outside. Instead of heading towards the nearest subway station, you began walking in the direction of Clark’s apartment. 

He lived kind of close to the Daily Planet building, which is why you always called him out on being late for work damn near everyday. 

When you got to his apartment complex, your tears were rolling down your face as you kept your head down and walked onto the elevator and pressed the button for his floor. You were terrified that Clark would be mad at you, that he’d somehow find a way to put the blame on you. 

It was crazy, because Clark was the sweetest, most kindest man - person - you’d ever met in your entire life. 

But the guilt was quickly eating you up from the inside, and you were full on crying by the time you reached his door. Normally, you’d just walk in because he usually keeps it unlocked when he’s home - something you told him to stop doing since it was very easy for a random person to walk into his place - but this time you knocked quickly, your hand shaking as you lowered it back down to your side. 

The door swung open seconds later, and you were met with your boyfriend’s achingly handsome face, and his breathtakingly beautiful smile. The sight of him had your lip trembling and more tears gathering in your eyes, and as soon as his smile faded, you were in his arms. 

Clark held you against his chest right there in the doorway, one big hand coming up to cradle the back of your head protectively. His other arm wrapped around your waist, holding you tightly against his body as you cried, and you were already starting to feel better now that you were with him, in his arms. 

“What’s wrong?” he asked quietly, turning his head and brushing a series of soft kisses along your temple. “What happened, baby?”

The softness of his voice had you burying your face in his neck, your tears seeping into the fabric of his shirt. His scent consumed you, and you wanted to surround yourself with all the things that made up the perfect man in front of you, the one who has your whole heart in the palm of his hand. 

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, clinging onto him and fisting his shirt. “I’m so sorry, Clark.”

His fingers tangled in your hair, and he dipped his head down to press a soft kiss to the curve of your jaw. “Why? What happened?” he asked, his grip on you tightening a bit. “Was it the interview?”

You sniffled, then pulled back and looked out into the hallway before pushing him into his apartment and closing the door behind you. Your face was undoubtedly red as you reached for his hands and held them in a death grip. “You were right. Like, you were spot on. Superman flirted with me, like, the entire time, which was actually only a small amount of time since I stopped the interview really quickly once I realized what was happening,”

Clark’s expression softened as he laced his fingers with yours, and he sighed, “Baby,”

“No, no, I swear, I stopped it. I ended the interview, I don’t know, maybe five minutes after it started,” you insisted, squeezing his hands. “I told him I was with you and that you and I are together, and then I started leaving and he wanted to, I don’t know, leave off on a good note or something, and he shook my hand and then he kissed me.”

You were rambling now and the expression on Clark’s face was unreadable, making you feel even more panicked. 

“He kissed me, I didn’t kiss him back, I swear. I was literally going to slap him in the face, but it probably would’ve been useless,” you said, watching as he stepped away from you, making your arms go limp at your sides. “But I still feel guilty about it, and I needed to tell you. I’m so sorry, Clark. I swear, I didn’t want any of that to happen. I didn’t mean for any of it to happen.”

But he didn’t look mad. He didn’t look upset at all. There was a small smile on his lips as he took another step away from you so he was standing in the middle of his living room. 

Your brows were furrowed in confusion as you let the straps of your bag slip off your shoulder and onto the floor next to the chair. “Why are you looking at me like that? Why do you look so happy?” you whispered, your voice a little hoarse as you watched him raise his hand. 

He reached for his glasses, and you were standing there feeling completely powerless as he pulled them off. Your tired eyes were suddenly wide open, and your gaze flickered all over his face, then up to his hair - which was styled the exact same way Superman’s was half an hour ago. 

Your lips parted but no words came out as you processed what exactly you were looking at, and when he pointed to his left, your eyes instantly followed in the direction of his hand, and you saw the suit and cape that Superman is only ever seen in draped over the armrest. 

How you failed to notice either of those things when you came in, you didn’t know. 

A choked gasp left your lips, and you felt lightheaded and dizzy as your tears stopped rolling down your face. “You-” you stuttered, pointing at the suit as if it was some big discovery to the both of you, when in reality, Clark was the one wearing it on that rooftop. “Are you…you’re…” 

You were once again rendered speechless for the second time in under an hour, and your head was beginning to hurt as you looked between him and the suit and the glasses in his hand. 

Then you felt annoyed all over again, and your gaze hardened as you moved towards him. “Are you fucking serious,” you asked, your voice raising as you pushed on his shoulders, but he was as still and as sturdy as he was after he kissed you earlier. “You’re-are you fucking kidding me?”

Clark dropped his glasses in favor of wrapping his hands around your wrists, halting the weak shoves you were giving him. And he was laughing. He was fucking laughing. 

“What is so funny?” you muttered, pushing on his hands, but his grip was tight. 

He laughed again, and shook his head. “I’m not laughing,”

“Yes, you are,”

He released your hands and held up his own in surrender. “Okay, I am, but only because you’re making me laugh,”

You squinted up at him, shaking your head as you gestured wildly with your hands. “How? How am I making you laugh? I’m fucking confused because you just told me that you’re Superman without actually telling me you’re Superman, and you’re laughing at me when not even five seconds ago, I was crying my eyes out because I thought I accidentally cheated on you with…with you,”

Saying it out loud, it sounded completely ridiculous, and if the situation was slightly different, you were sure you’d be laughing at it too. 

Clark gave you a sheepish look. “I’m sorry,” he offered, and you let out a scoff of disbelief as you shook your head and turned around. You weren’t planning on leaving, but he thought you were as he quickly followed you, wrapping his arms around you from behind and pulling your body against his. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, baby, don’t leave me, okay? I’m sorry.” 

Your tears were drying on your face, but he still tried to blindly wipe them away with his hands, and it forced a laugh out of you as you pulled away from him and turned around to face him once again. You looked him up and down, taking in his height that matched Superman’s perfectly, and his eyes that were the exact same shade as Superman’s, and his lopsided smile that was the same one Superman had given you before the interview started. 

You shook your head as you reached up and ran your fingers through your hair. “I don’t know what to say,” you sniffled, still in a state of disbelief at how this whole ordeal turned out. “I can’t believe you’re Superman.”

Clark’s smile was softer now as he reached up and wiped away your remaining tears properly, his thumbs stroking along your skin like second nature. “I’m sorry. I knew I needed to tell you soon because things have gotten so serious between us, and I love you. You deserved to know, but I didn’t know how to do it,”

You gave him an unimpressed look as you leaned into the gentle caress of his hands. “So you thought making me cry was the best way to go about it?”

He shook his head, his bottom lip sticking out in a pout. “I didn’t think you’d cry,” he promised. “The idea came to me when I helped you in that alleyway a few days ago. I thought it would’ve clicked sooner than it did, and I was going to tell you during the interview, but you shut it down so fast, I never got the chance to.” 

“Yeah, because you were being a creep,” you pointed out with a laugh as he pulled you back into his arms.

“Clearly Superman needs to step his game up, huh?” he mumbled and you laughed again, pressing your face against his chest. “He’s got as much game as I do apparently.”

You shook your head, propping your chin on his chest so you were looking up at him. “Your game is good. You got me, remember?” 

Clark smiled down at you and nodded, his hand coming up to cradle your jaw. “Yeah,” he whispered. “I did.”

You let out a soft sigh, feeling mentally drained as the weight of everything that happened in such a short amount of time weighed down on you.

You felt a lot better now, even if you are still a little pissed about the way he decided to tell you. The way Superman was talking to you suddenly made so much sense now, and you were sure you would be able to laugh about this more within the next few days. He was so forward, so sure of himself, and you knew that if you’d let yourself kiss him back, you would’ve realized that he was your boyfriend.

Maybe the plan wasn’t all that crazy.

No, it definitely was. What the hell was wrong with him?

You looked over at the suit again before burying your face in his chest. “I can’t believe you did that to me,” you mumbled. “I thought I messed this up.”

Clark hummed, holding you against his body like you were meant to be there. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I feel so bad about it. You looked so pretty, and you still do. You’re gorgeous. And trust me, if anyone was to mess this up, it’d be me. Look at today as an example.” 

You huffed, wrapping your arms around his middle. “You didn’t mess this up either,” you said, then looked up at him again. “But don’t do that to me again. And there better not be any more secrets between us, or I’ll leave your ass so fast.”

Clark’s eyes widened as he shook his head. “There aren’t any more secrets. I promise,” he said, his hands settling on your hips as he leaned down, and you met him halfway in a kiss that felt the same as the one on the rooftop did, but you had no plans on pulling away first this time. He broke the kiss but kept his face close to yours as his lips curved upwards in a smug smile. “I’m sorry the interview was a bust, but I promise I’ll give you a much better one if you were to give me a second chance.”

You laughed and tipped your head back. “Oh, no. I’m never interviewing you ever again,” you stated, then remembered the last thing you said to yours and Clark’s co-workers. You pursed your lips as you shrunk a bit in his hold. “Um, by the way, you might need to do some damage control with Jimmy…and Lois.”

Clark gave you a confused look. “Why?”

You shrugged, “Because Superman pissed me off, and I wasn’t about to let our dear friends believe he was this super nice and kind guy the media says he is,”

He tilted his head and groaned, “Seriously?”

“Mhm,” you nodded, leaning up to kiss him again. “Next time come up with a nicer way to tell me your deepest, darkest secret.” 

Clark rolled his eyes as he wrapped his arms around your waist. “I guess I deserve that,”

“Oh, you do,” you agreed, draping your own arms around his shoulders as you took in every inch of his face. His glasses-free face. “I got to say, I thought you were hot with the glasses, but now that they’re off? Damn, Clark. You’re sexy as hell.”

That had his smug grin coming back as he pulled you flush against him. “Yeah?” he murmured, and you nodded as you hummed. “Well that’s good to hear, since I won’t need to wear them when it’s just you and me, you know, since you’re now aware you’re dating Superman. I guess my plan was a good idea after all.”

You rolled your eyes. “You would find the good in what you did,”

Clark smiled in agreement, then he was kissing you again, but much deeper than before.

-

Thank you for 6.1k followers x Happy Friday

[supershit-hits]

find me somebody to love

clark kent (superman 2025) x f!reader

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, 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, claiming 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, you’re 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 someone’s 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.

dividers by: @chrisssiren <3

[danitcx]

The Way He Waits for You

Clark Kent x shy!female reader

Synopsis: You’ve always been shy. Quiet. Invisible, even. But working at the Daily Planet gave you a badge, a desk… and a seat across from Clark Kent. What starts as silent glances and white chocolate donuts turns into a walk, a bar, a moment —where maybe, just maybe, your heart begins to hope he sees you too.

Warnings: fluff, nervous!Clark, shy!reader, slow burn, social anxiety, comfort, soft moments, no use of y/n, modern AU

WC: 3,650 aprox

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Ever since your family found out you had decided to pursue journalism, there were doubts. Not because you weren’t capable, but because you had always been so shy. In high school, making friends was hard. Words felt heavy, glances were awkward. But even so, you followed your dream. You held onto it so tightly that now, when you sat at your Daily Planet desk, you could look down and smile just by seeing your badge hanging with your name on it.

Reporter.

Specialized in politics, sometimes in cooking. Nothing big, but enough to feel useful. Interviews left you breathless, but the articles Perry published, even if buried inside, made you feel —for a moment— fabulous.

But there was one thing. One that not even your best coffees could sweeten: loneliness.

Your mother used to ask about your love life, though there was never any news. Or so you said. You’d barely mention a guy, and she already wanted details: if he looked at you, if he greeted you, if he breathed near you. In those conversations, you ended up believing something might actually be there, just because she imagined it so beautifully. So you learned to stay quiet.

And you also learned to keep your secret. One more hidden than Superman’s real name:

You were in love with Clark Kent.

Your coworker. That sweet, clumsy man with glasses that slipped down his nose. You fell in love the moment you started working and they placed him right across from you. No one knew. Not even you fully admitted it. No one spoke to you beyond courtesy, and you didn’t make much effort either. Not because you were mean, but because you didn’t know how. Or maybe because you were afraid that if someone got too close, one day they’d just leave —like everyone else.

Clark Kent wasn’t your friend. He was your ritual.

The man who greeted you with a soft voice. The one who sometimes tripped over his backpack. The one who looked at you —and you could only hold his gaze for two seconds before looking down so he wouldn’t notice your hands trembling.

“Late again, Clark?” Jimmy teased with a smile you didn’t see, but knew was there.

“Yeah…”

His footsteps paused for a few seconds. Then, a “thank you” from Jimmy and Lois directed at Clark, followed by the familiar sound of him walking to his desk.

“Good morning,” he said as he passed by you. His voice was close. Very close.

You looked at him for two seconds.

“Good morning, Clark.”

Your smile was for him, but it ended up directed at your screen. A coward. Always the same.

“Ah… here.”

He left a little box on your desk.

“It’s a donut dipped in white chocolate. They say they’re good. I bought a few.”

You looked at the box. Then at him, already sitting at his desk. His height allowed him to see you perfectly, though you barely dared to glance up.

“Thanks,” you whispered. A warm blush settled on your cheeks. You looked back at your computer. You didn’t see that he smiled too, blushing, just as nervous as you.

“Pretty little flower,” said a louder voice.

Cat appeared, leaning on your desk.

“It’s Katie’s birthday. We’re going to the bar near the Hoper Bridge. You coming?”

You hesitated. You weren’t good at saying no. And Cat tried so hard to include you.

“Yes,” you said, with a polite smile.

She clicked her tongue, satisfied.

“That’s it. Here’s to more social life.”

You just nodded.

But what you didn’t know was that Clark —from his desk— had also heard everything.

And his heart, like yours, beat just a little faster at the thought of seeing you in that bar.

✄ ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

Time passed between final edits to your article and stolen glances at Clark, who seemed absorbed in writing what was surely another exclusive interview with Superman.

You could tell he was doing well when he stopped bouncing his leg, that he was excited when he adjusted his glasses with a light push of his index finger, and that he felt inspired when he mumbled the words as he typed them, as if testing them before letting them live on the page.

Needless to say, his name would be on the Daily Planet’s front page the next day.

You were content with a few lines in the politics or cooking section. But even so, you felt proud. Of him. Of you. Of being there.

And though you’d wanted to congratulate him a thousand times, the moment always slipped through your fingers.

By the time you finished your text, the place was almost empty. The desk lights had turned off one by one, like spotlights at the end of a play.

Only the hum of your monitor remained as witness. You turned off your computer, massaged your temples, and stood up. You didn’t expect to see anyone else.

But when you looked up, you almost tripped in surprise: Clark was still there, right in front of you.

He stood up at the same time, as if waiting for you to do it first. His tall figure stood out under the dim glow of the building’s night lamps.

“Didn’t you leave with the others?” you asked, more surprised than anything.

Clark smiled sheepishly and rubbed the back of his neck.

“Did I scare you? I should’ve… coughed or made a noise.”

Then he looked away, mumbling,

“Jimmy said you weren’t sure where the bar was… and… well, sometimes Maps isn’t much help, you know? I thought maybe… we could go together.”

You looked at him. This time for more than two seconds.

“You know where it is?” you asked cautiously.

“No.”

The honesty drew a nervous smile from you.

Clark shifted, uncomfortable, but with a soft gleam in his eyes.

“But it’s better to get lost with someone… than to get lost alone, right?”

You let out a small laugh. One of those that escapes without permission, but you don’t want to take back.

“I guess so.”

You put on your coat while he adjusted his briefcase. Then he walked with you to the elevator. With that very Clark-like gesture, he slightly raised his glasses and let you in first. You followed him with your heart beating a little faster than it should’ve been allowed.

“Did you try the donut?” he asked as you descended. His voice was almost a respectful whisper.

You nodded. “Yes. I had them months ago. Just yesterday I was craving one. I told Lois to come with me, but with Perry’s meeting… I couldn’t leave. They’re my favorite.”

Clark feigned surprise, though inside, a small pride bloomed. What you didn’t know was that he had heard that quiet request to Lois. He had also noticed your sad glance toward the elevator before entering that meeting you knew would run late.

That very night, he had checked if the shop was open. And when it wasn’t… he promised himself he’d buy you one the next morning. And he did.

“Really?” he murmured. “What a coincidence…”

Outside the building, the night embraced you with its cool air and the distant murmur of the awake city. Metropolis lights flickered among tall buildings, fast taxis, and still-open shop windows. You walked side by side. Not too close. Not too far.

Clark took out his phone and opened the Maps app. Pretending to search for the way, though in truth, his super hearing had already picked up Jimmy and Lois’s laughter a few blocks ahead.

In fact, he could hear the ice clinking in their glasses as they toasted. But he needed this walk with you. He needed those minutes stolen from the night.

“I heard you interviewed Superman again,” you finally said. “How’s that piece going?”

Clark nodded.

“Good. He was more reserved this time. He told me… that lately he feels like people are losing faith in the good. But that it’s enough for just one person to believe… for all his effort to be worth it.”

You paused for a few seconds.

“That’s… beautiful.”

Clark dared to look at you. Your cheeks were slightly lit by the nearest streetlamp.

Your eyes lowered, as if the compliment had been too big to hold.

“Yeah… it is,” he answered softly.

“Do you… believe in him?” you asked.

Clark smiled to himself, looking ahead.

“More than you think.”

In the distance, Hoper Bridge glowed with yellow lights. The bar was just across the street, full of life, low music.

It was filled with laughter, dim lights, and clinking glasses. In the back, the Daily Planet table was nearly complete. You spotted Lois laughing with Jimmy and Cat, standing, waving at you when she saw you enter with Clark.

“She came!” said Cat with a big smile, as if announcing it was a personal victory. “Guys! Our shy flower is with us tonight!”

The words were sweet, not mocking. But the nickname made you blush. Clark, by your side, simply gave a small half-smile and nodded slightly for you to walk ahead.

Cat came closer as soon as you sat down.

“I’m so glad you came. And you came with Clark, huh…”

She smiled playfully, but before you could answer —or turn even redder— she had already turned toward Lois.

“Didn’t see that coming. This bunch of antisocials is becoming human.”

The jokes and laughter rose with the music. Cat disappeared into a toast with Jimmy, and someone slipped a cocktail into your hand, pink with sparkling ice.

Clark sat next to you.

Because Clark Kent didn’t just look at you. He felt you.

From the outside, no one noticed anything. You were sitting calmly, back straight, lips closed. But he heard everything.

Every time your throat swallowed hard.

Every time your nails scratched slowly at your other hand.

Every time you looked toward the exit, like a bird eyeing the only open window.

“So Clark,” asked Jimmy from across the table, “when’s your Superman interview coming out? Tomorrow?”

“Probably Monday,” he replied, never taking his eyes off you. “I want it clean. He was more personal this time.”

“Personal? Superman? What, did he cry?” joked Cat.

Clark chuckled politely, but his eyes still checked in on you every now and then.

“Hey!” A voice snapped him out of it. Andrew, one of the new editors, had stood up with a beer in hand and was heading straight to you.

“You! The one who writes about cooking… and politics, right? I never remember the name. But your jasmine tea piece was nice. What’s it like working here at the Daily Planet?”

Your stomach flipped. Eyes turned to you. Your usually quiet voice now seemed to have vanished entirely.

“I… really like it…” you murmured.

But you said it so low, so soft, you weren’t even sure you had said anything at all.

Andrew frowned, not with bad intentions, but with zero tact.

“What’d you say? You like what?” The smile he wore was that of someone joking, unaware they were breaking something fragile. “Can’t you speak louder?”

And it was like being fourteen again. Standing in front of classmates laughing because you didn’t speak up. Feeling your throat tighten, blood hot in your cheeks. Panic growing like a knot in your chest.

Clark felt it all. Literally.

Your racing heart. Your uneven breathing. Your fingers scratching your skin with such force.

“Andrew,” Lois cut in like an arrow. “Why don’t you check if Katie started her karaoke ritual before she hits the stage with tequila in hand?”

Andrew laughed, distracted by the mood. “Whatever you say, boss.”

The laughter swept him away. The moment passed.

For everyone… except you.

Then, when some started moving toward the dance floor, you stood too. But not to dance. Not to laugh. Just to disappear.

You left. Walked aimlessly. The night air hit your face like a cold whisper. You walked faster, not looking back, until you were far enough.

Only then did you stop.

Your cheeks were wet. Your hands red from pressure. You closed your eyes, wishing the world would stop looking at you. That your heart would stop pounding so hard.

“Wanna go get ramen?”

The voice was soft. Kind. With a touch of shy hope.

You turned. Clark was there. Breathing like he had walked the whole way behind you —and he had.

The bar was far now, but he hadn’t hesitated. He followed you. Without permission. Without words.

“What…?” you murmured.

“There’s a place I like. It’s open all night. They serve ramen. Good ramen. It’s… peaceful.”

You hesitated.

Looked at your feet. Then at him.

At his slightly crooked glasses.

At his poorly wrapped scarf.

At his face that demanded nothing, just waited.

“Okay,” you whispered, starting to walk.

And Clark followed you.

Like all those times he followed you with his eyes from his desk.

Like when he closed his eyes just to hear your voice —that sweet, small, trembling voice— talking to Lois or murmuring to yourself.

Like when he listened to your heartbeat from afar, just to make sure you were okay.

Like when he saw you smile, those few times you did, and wished one of those smiles was because of him.

Clark followed you.

And he was ready to keep following you from now on.

To follow you with real steps. With small gestures. With words that asked for nothing.

To follow you until you could see him.

See that he wanted to take care of you.

See that he had already chosen you.

See that his way of loving was that: looking through you, slowly, tenderly, until you could love with the same calm with which he always waited for you.

💌 I take requests occasionally! If you have an idea, feel free to send it my way. I’d love to bring it to life 🤍

By the way, I'm new to this.

[elletheactualmenace]

Hate’s a Strong Word

Pairing: David!Clark Kent x fem!reader

Summary: Clark hates his new co-worker but not for any good reasons.

Warnings: Fluff, enemies to friends??, Lana lang mentioned?!?, Peacemaker season 1 ending mentioned?!??, Reader has long enough go hair to put up, Clark is delusional.

Word Count: 5.2k (AHH)

a/n: guys I’m not a journalist nor do I have any experience or knowledge about how places like the daily planet work so please be kind. Also I changed the pov so yay for trying new things. PLEASE IM SORRY IF THIS IS BAD.

Also happy 200 followers celebration! I was actually taken aback by how much the people wanted Clark but i had fun so!

He hates her. And Clark doesn’t use that word lightly. She irritates every fiber of his being. She makes him want to say things his mother taught him to frown upon. Gosh, she gets under his skin.

She is so…so perfect. The thought leaves a bad taste in his mouth. She does everything he does 10 times better than he can. She went to a better school. She gets better assignments. She works with Lois more. Jimmy laughs at her sarcastic comments more than Clark's actual jokes.

It infuriates him so much that the week after she started working in the Metropolis Daily Planet building, he had to call his mom.

“Ma, I just—ugh!” He exasperates. “She’s good at everything so effortlessly! And it’s not that I’m not happy for her—I am. I promise I am Ma.” He sighs, anger seeping into his tone.

“Clark,” His Ma just sighs into the other side of the line.

“I know. I'm sorry. She’s just everything I want to be.” Clark rubs his temples with his thumb and forefinger, eyes pinched together.

“He jealous of the sweet girl?” His Pa chimes in from somewhere far from the phone's mic.

“Sweet?!?!” Clark squeaks out, levitating off the tips of his toes, his hand dropping the phone in utter perplexity. 

“Clark, has she said anythin’ disrespectful to you? Or to anyone else for this week she’s been here?” Ma asks as Clark frustratingly picks up his phone before putting it on speaker and tossing it on his coffee table.

“No.” Clark mutters quietly, pacing now.

"And has she done anythin’ wrong or illegal?"

“No,” Clark sighs.

“So I don’t see the problem.” Ma concludes. “Why does she bother you so much, son?”

“I—just—it’s—” Clark groans. “I want to do what she does! She’s so effortless with everything! She’s—like—it’s so irritating to try to keep up with her. I’m always a step behind.” Clark admits as he sinks into her couch. 

“I feel like I’m not good enough when she’s standing next to me. Like I shouldn’t be at the Planet at all.” Clark adds as his head falls into his hands.

“Oh, sweetheart.” Ma coos. “Don’t beat yourself up about it. We’ve taught you better’n that. You don’t owe her anything, or anyone else for that matter. You just do the best you can, Clark. And if you feel you’re not doing your best, try to. There’s no competition in life.”

Clark nods even though his mom can’t see him. 

“And just because you feel small standing next to her doesn’t mean you need to be unfriendly. She’s new; she needs people in her corner. Good people like you.” She adds, and Clark hums in agreement.

“No one’s as perfect as they seem. You know that better’n anyone, Clark. She's probably trying to stand out and make people like er at her new job in a new city. Don’t be hurtful to that. Who knows, maybe you’ll become friends and she’ll teach you a thing or two.

“You’re right.” Clark nods along.

“Maybe you do find out she is rude and just lucky. Still, that ain’t no reason to be resentful. Love before hate, always.” Ma finishes, and in the background Pa can he heard humming in agreement. 

“Thanks, Ma.” Clark gives in. “I’ll try. No matter how hard it is.”

And he did try. So hard. He tried to smile at her when she came in each morning. He tried to start conversations with her in the break room. He even went out of his way to invite her out for drinks with Lois, Steve, Cat, and Jimmy. She declined, she ignored, and she politely nodded before looking away.

Now he doesn’t dislike her just for her abilities. He hates that she isn’t taking the chance to get to know him that he was giving her.

Did he do something wrong? Surely not. Could she sense his disdain for her from the beginning and decide to keep her distance? No way. Was she really just a rude person? Couldn’t be.

Lois and she get along great. Steve never has a bad thing to say about her. Jimmy always tries to retell her sly remarks but always fails to make them funny. And she could be seen regularly getting along with everyone at the Planet. But why not him? What has Clark done?

And with each of Clark’s attempts brushed away, she thrives. Her ‘reputation’ in the office moved up. Her work gets more praise from Perry. She even made the front page in the short three months she worked there.

Clark can’t believe it. He won’t. How could this effortless, charismatic, intelligent, highly educated, efficient, funny, young, and outstanding all-around woman not like little old him? 

Clark Kent, the kind, old-souled farm boy from Kansas. That’s who she chooses not to like. Clark isn’t buying it. There are plenty of people, to put it nicely, for Clark's peace of mind, who are less likable than him at the Daily Planet. And there are far less approachable people she's come to like. 

Clark won’t have it. He can’t. So he calls him mom again.

“You’re doin’ what Son?” His Pa asks over the phone, clearly not keeping up with Clark’s rambling.

“Slow down darlin, what are you sayin’?” Ma adds. 

“I need to talk to her.” Clark starts again. “She ignores me! Now I know I was judgmental the first week, but I’ve been trying. She just seems to hate me.”

“How?” Pa questions.

“Every time I talk to her, she walks away, but never in a rude way, always in a way that says, ‘We’ll finish this later,’ but we never do!” Clark explains. “It’s like she’s learned to sense when I’m coming around a corner and bolts the other way.”

“Right. Well, have you tried leaving it alone? Letting her be her own person?” Pa asks again.

“I-“ Clark stumbles over his thoughts, caught in his own delusions. “Well—no. But—“

“Not everyone will like you, Clark. And that’s fine.” Ma notes. 

“Yes, but—wait, just listen!” Clark hears himself before stopping and whispering out a “please, Ma?” He can hear her sigh on the other side and continues more gently.

“I asked Chief to assign us a story together.” Clark goes on. He can hear his parents' silent disapproval.

“Now—hold on. I don’t need to become best friends with her. I just—I want to know why she hates me. I mean, I’m—I think I’m pretty cool.” Clark mumbles out the last part, kicking something invisible with his sock off his carpet.

“Clark,” his Ma sighs. “Don’t go in over your head is all we ask.” 

“Okay. I won’t.” Clark nods along as he ruffles a hand through his curls before retracting it, realizing he messed it up after finishing fixing it before the call.

“Darn it.” He mutters as he flexes his hand and shakes his hair.

“And remember, hate is a strong word, Clark.” Pa adds before he hangs up. Clark sighs, shoves his phone in his trouser pocket, and drags himself back into the bathroom to fix the curls he just messed up.

——

“And then she said, ‘If you’re having heartburn, why are you grabbing your boob?’” Jimmy laughs, but it slowly dies down as he notices everyone giving him weird looks. Clark unhooks his bag from his shoulder before placing it on his desk.

“Ha, it was—no, it was funny.” Jimmy's smile falters as he fiddles with his pen. “I guess it was more of a you had to be there sort of…situation.” Clark nods, trying to follow what’s being said and failing.

“Who said this?” Clark asks, sitting now.

“Y/n,” Jimmy says defeated. Clark has to stop his eye from twitching.

“Right.” Lois speaks slowly, turning to spare him from further embarrassment. “Anyways,” 

“Speaking of,” Jimmy's smile returns as you move to lean against Lois’s desk.

“Hey guys.” Y/n greets, clearly avoiding Clark’s eyes. He sucks in a breath and clenches his jaw, hidden under his hand.

“Morning, Y/n.” Lois gestures with her coffee cup, and Y/n moves to hand her a folder. “What’s on your agenda today?” Lois asks, taking a sip of her drink.

“Got a new assignment.” Y/n says casually, folding her arms over her chest. Clark has to bite his tongue with how annoyingly effortlessly poised she looks.

“Oh? Who with?” Jimmy asks, now recovered. 

“Uh…Clark,” Y/n smiles, but it’s clearly plastered on, and it irritates him to no end.

“Hmm,” Lois makes an amused sound into the glass cup before turning to sit at her desk. “Better get to it.” She adds as she kicks Jimmy to turn around to his desk too.

Y/n nods as she moves to face Clark's desk. She sucks her cheek between your teeth and chews on it lightly. She really didn’t want to work with Clark, and it was evident in her stiff body language. 

Clark forces his fists to loosen and a smile to grow on his lips as he adjusts his glasses. “Have you been briefed on what it is we’re writing about?” Clark asks politely, trying to keep it light.

“Uh, no, sorry, catch me up?” Y/n asks and sits as he gestures to the seat next to his desk.

“Okay, so we’re basically doing a follow-up story about Amanda Waller and her daughter.” Clark says, moving to shuffle through some papers on his desk. 

“So more about Project Butterfly or Task Force X?” Y/n questions, her investigative journalist face on. “Or about Peacemaker and the other guy—what was his name?”

“Vigilante?”

“Yes! Right.” Y/n smiles for the first time as she meets Clark’s eyes before it quickly fades. “Um—uh, so what exactly is the follow-up about?”

“I think Chief wanted us to write whatever more we can find or has been found and not been written about. Free rein, I suppose.” Clark informs her with a quirk of his lip before swiveling to face her. 

“Alright. What do you want to do? I’m guessing this is more a stay indoors and research versus a go out and find answers.” Y/n notes as she steals a pen from his cup holder and a notepad from his desk.

He says nothing as she scribbles something down. His mother's words ring in his head. ‘Be kind even if it’s hard.’ This perfect woman is taking from his desk without asking and looking like a true journalist while doing it. He couldn’t even be mad when she looks so good and effortless. Like she belonged there more than him.

Her fingers wrapped around the pen, hair falling out of her bun and into her face ever so slightly, and the gentle rise and fall of her chest. Gosh, what was happening to him? Why did she make him so…so…what? Angry? No. It wasn’t anger. It was admiration. It was awe. 

Wait. What? No. He hated her. He can’t admire her and hate her. That doesn’t make any sense. Even if her tinted lips curved around her teeth so beautifully. Even if the furrow between her brow was frustratingly attractive. Even if she was talented at everything he wished he was better at. It was honestly kind of hot.

No no no no no. What’s going on? One second it’s hate, the next it’s awe, and then attraction? That hardly made sense. Or maybe…no. He couldn’t have. Could he? Had he been attracted to her from the beginning? Had he really been in such denial he convinced himself he hated her? There’s no way. Is that why his mom and dad didn’t take him seriously? Did they know? Could they tell? No. That’s silly. That’s-

“Clark?” Clark jumps at the voice, almost tipping out of his seat. He quickly recovers, shifting his eyes from where they had been zoning out while staring at her eyebrows. He fixes his glasses, which didn’t need fixing, and clears his throat. 

“Uh—yes?” Clark squeaks out. Frustrated, he tries clearing his throat again. 

“Umm,” Y/n chuckles awkwardly. “The story. What do you want to cover?” 

“Oh yes, uh, right.” Reaching over his shoulder, Clark scratches the back of his neck. “I’m good with whatever.” 

Y/n quirks a brow and tilts her head. “Are you sure? Usually you seem—I don’t know…sure? About what you want, I mean.” 

“Well—I—yes. I know what I want—at least I—I think… I thought I did—I do?” Clark babbles out, and Y/n just looks at him like he’s got two heads.

“Uh, okay.” Is all she says as she looks away, rips what she wrote out of the notepad, and tosses the pen back in the cup. 

“So—what are you thinking?” Clark attempts to recover.

“Well, obviously we need to establish what is known. Then maybe give more about what’s been discovered since Leota Adebayo came out about it. But we should also dive into how Amanda Waller exploited those people for the government's bidding. I mean, how many inmates probably died because of her?” Y/n goes on, and Clark gets distracted with the way her leg bounces as her shoe taps against the polished ground.

“Yeah, yeah,” Clark mumbles out. When he notices what he’s doing, he shakes his head and tries to pay attention again.

“It’s wrong. And people should know. And it’s—it’s worse to think she did it twice with Project Butterfly!” Her sudden enthusiasm catches Clark off guard. 

He’s obviously seen her enthusiastic before, just not this close up. Before, he hadn’t seen the way her back straightens, her voice raises a decibel, and her brows knit together in concentration. He never noticed how passionate she was before. He gets lost in it.

“And Peacemaker! He was dragged in twice! I’m sure if we could get an interview with him, he could give some insight.” Y/n goes on. “And I know—I know people have tried, but—I don’t know, maybe because it’s been a minute he’ll be more up to the idea. Oh, who am I kidding?” She chuckles self-deprecatingly. 

“Sorry, that was a stupid idea. I know it—ahh, ignore me.” Y/n finishes. Instead of rambling on, Y/n forces herself to focus solely on the scrap of notepad in her hand. She folds it before pushing it into her pocket.

“Shit. Sorry.” She breathes out. “I just realized I took your paper without asking.”

“No—it’s fine.” Clark huffs out a laugh. “I mean, who needs—uh—paper?” Clark tries. Skeptical, Y/n tilts her head and raises a brow, and he sighs.

“No, really, it’s fine. I don’t actually think I’ve ever used that notepad before, so.” Clark shrugs, and he can see it eases her a little. It gives him a boost of confidence. Not a lot, but enough.

“And—what you were saying about the story. I think you’ve got a good point. But yeah, I don’t think it’s the smartest idea to go looking for Peacemaker, especially with our time limit on this one.” Clark smiles easily now, the burden of hatred lifted off of him. 

“We should cover all updates plus old information but maybe focus this piece more on the people exploited and used.” Clark’s voice is calm, but his eyes are focused. Focused on the information in front of him. On the way Y/n spoke about her work. On the way he felt lighter. 

“You seem particularly concerned with that, and I agree that it hasn’t really been acknowledged. So—uh, yeah. How’s that work for you?” Clark questions, finally looking up to meet Y/n’s eyes.

He finds her wide-eyed and staring at him like she just figured out why the abbreviation for pounds is lbs. He decides not to think about it too much. 

“Good. Yeah, really good actually.” A genuine smile creeps its way over Y/n’s face. 

“Why don’t we head to one of the communal rooms to get started?” She asks. Clark hums in agreement, snatching his bag off the side of his chair. 

“Perfect, and let’s stop by your desk so you can get your computer.” Clark says it like it’s nothing, but he sees the way she pauses, like it meant more to her than he could wrap his head around.

She says nothing, just nods as she stands, and Clark follows, his own lips curving into a small smile.

——

“I’m assuming it went well?” Ma questions, and it blasts through the speaker of Clark’s phone.

“Yeah.” Clark answers, his tone light and buoyant.

“Really well, it sounds.” Pa chimes in with a chuckle. 

“Uh—what—what do you—um—” Clark immediately stumbles over his own thoughts, a flustered blush painting his face. 

“Oh sweetie please, we’re not as old as we look.” Ma’s smile is evident.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” It's higher pitched than he would have liked. “And you guys aren’t that old.” Clark grumbles, letting himself fall backwards on his couch.

“It means we knew ya liked her.” Ma says. “You do this. Or at least you have before. With the good ones.”

“The good ones?” Clark questions, finally pulling off his tie with struggle.

“Oh, you remember.” His Ma tuts. “Lana Lang? Haven’t forgotten her, have you? Your first girlfriend?” Clark groans.

“Yes, Ma, I remember.”

“Such a sweet girl. But you hated her when you first met her.” Pa adds.

“No, I didn’t—” Clark stops himself. He thinks back. Surely he didn’t hate Lana. Did he?

“Oh yes, you did, Son. You told me that you’d rather scoop the cow's muck all day than have to be around her.” Ma quips. “And we thought you’d never like her. Until we saw you with her.” 

“You should’ve seen it. You’d look at her like she puzzled you and amazed you and then turn to us and say she was a nuisance.” Pa laughs. “And you’d never used such hurtful words before in your life!”

“I don’t—I—” Clark tries.

“Then one day everything changed when you came home with those big heart eyes for her. Said you was gonna take her to your school dance.” Ma laughs along with Pa.

“That’s—that’s different.” Clark finally gets out.

“No, it ain’t.” Pa says. “Lana was good for you. She was right for you. Never liked that other girl you were with as much as her. What was her name? Oh, I don’t know.” 

“All your father is saying is we could tell. The moment you told us you didn’t like her, we knew you did.” Ma concludes. “No shame in it. It seems it’s just how the good ones find you. It’s how you know they're worth your time.”

“That’s not—so it’s good if I don’t like her?” Clark asks, unsure if his parents are the smartest people on the planet or the most hopeful. 

“It’s good if you ‘don’t’ like her with that voice you do.” Ma says.

“I don’t have a—I don’t do a voice.” Clark defends himself horribly, his pitch going up.

“Uh huh,” Pa chuckles.

“Enough of that. Tell us how it went, Clark.” Ma adds.

“It went…good.” Clark says almost shyly. “She had a lot of good sources and points. And I thought it was going to be awkward. But after a bit, the ice just broke. She—she was so passionate too. You know? Like she actually cared about how the people were being affected. Like—like not from an ‘I have to care because I'm working with another person’ kind of care.” Clark’s voice grows in confidence; he seems more sure. 

“It was deeper than that. And she had this work ethic and drive I’ve never seen before. It wasn’t like Lois—thank god, sometimes I wonder how she functions—it was effortless and effective and efficient. She amazed me.” Clark breathes out a sound of awe. 

“I mean, she was so concentrated, and it helped me focus too. We’re gonna probably get together to finish tomorrow, but the work isn’t necessarily due until Friday.” 

“Oh darling, you're already gone for her.” Ma grins into the phone, and Clark can feel his entire body heat up. 

——

“Hey!” Clark calls out as he rushes to the elevator. The doors are sliding closed, and he really doesn't want to break his "not late" streak of one day. He hated being late even though his tardy streak would say otherwise.

He almost thinks it’s a hit and miss before the doors quickly retreat open again. 

“Ah!” Clark makes a triumphant noise as he bows his head and steps inside. “Thank you,” he smiles, looking up and locking eyes with Y/n. She’s still got her coat on as she looks up and nods politely. And he’s hyper aware of the fact that they are the only two in here. He didn’t feel like this yesterday with her, but for some reason the close proximity and the fact he couldn’t peer through glass and see other people set something off in him.

“Morning,” Y/n’s voice is slightly strained. Clark clears his throat and pushes his glasses up his nose.

“Uh—he—hi.” Clark nods to her before glancing away. He's also suddenly aware of how close he chose to stand next to her. His body grows rigid, and he tenses his shoulder unintentionally. 

His eyes linger on her after she smiles and moves her focus to the floor. The way her fingers tapped against the fabric of her pants. The way her skin caught the poor lighting of the elevator spiked his heartbeat. How could she look so flawless in a dirty elevator of all places? Skin shining, hair whimsical, outfit always more effortlessly put together than his. He didn’t get it. 

When her eyes flash back over to him, he quickly adjusts himself. So stupid. So dumb. Why was he staring?

He tries to be less awkward. He can feel the tension. But he's not sure if it's just him experiencing an odd tightening of the chest feeling. He tries to control his breathing. But, goodness, it got so hot all of a sudden. Was there even an AC system in these elevators? He just wants to pull his jacket off and sit in front of the mini desk fan Jimmy got him one year as a joke.

“Sheesh, it’s hot,” He chuckles, pulling on his collar with an experimental smile. He turns to look at Y/n but finds her already looking at him. It makes him hotter. 

“Yeah,” Y/n chuckles back, quickly looking away. “Weather's warming up and all.” 

Clark nods vigorously. But he just seems to heat up more. Quickly he stops nodding when he catches the reflection of himself to the left of him. He looked so stupid. Why did he nod so weirdly? She didn’t say anything spectacular or interesting. He hated this. He liked it better when he hated her. It was much easier to be around her then. And much cooler. 

A pair of eyes catches his in the reflection, and he whips his head around to Y/n. She immediately averts her gaze. She clears her throat this time. She rubs the back of her neck. And it seems to take her a second to gain the courage to meet his eyes again.

“Sorry, I just—oh.” Y/n catches her own apology. Eyes laser-focusing in on his face. Or near his face. “You’ve got—” She starts her finger pointing to his face. He backs up instinctually as his brows furrow.

”what-“

“Hold on. Let me just…” Without a second thought, his glasses are gently pulled from his nose. Y/n reaches down and pulls the hem of her shirt up, quickly and efficiently cleaning the lens of his glasses. 

All he can do is stare blankly ahead at her. His body stuck in its weird pent-up shape. His work bag, gripped tightly in front of him with both hands. As his breath is lodged somewhere deep in his chest, he attempts to speak, but all he can come up with is a silent wheeze. Y/n doesn’t seem to notice. In fact, she just huffs out as she cleans the other lens.

“There was a smudge.” Is all she says as she finally looks back up at him with a shy smile. Clark blinks quickly. His eyes are the only part of his body seemingly able to move.

“Uh, Clark?” Y/n tries to grab his attention. He just stutters on his breath with a hot face. “Here.” She smiles softly now, awkwardly pushing his glasses back on his face. 

”I-“ Clark finally comes to his senses as her fingers brush over his cheek. He inhales sharply and stumbles over himself. 

With his thoughts racing a mile a minute and his glasses askew on his face, he musters a:

“Thanks,” It’s squeaky and far more boyish than he wanted to sound in front of a pretty woman.

She didn’t seem affected at all. Like the action had no meaning behind it other than pure goodness. It stunted something in him. She was just that perfect. And somehow it eased up the tension in his chest. Her smile, her kindness, and her self-assured nature make his heart flutter.

“Yeah, sure. No problem," Y/n lets out a shaky laugh as her own face heats up. She turns away from him, now looking toward the elevator buttons. 

They both stand there for a moment, basking in the now only slightly awkward but still hot elevator.

“Shit.” Y/n curses, her hand going to rub at her mouth.

“What?” An all too concerned Clark asks. His body and grip on his bag automatically loosening up.

“I forgot to press the button.” 

“Oh.”

——

They finished the story just as everyone was packing up for the day. Y/n had a tired, satisfied smile on her face and Clark watched her with an even bigger grin. It was easy; it felt right.

So much had happened in the last two days it was insane to him. They’d actually had their first actual conversation, Y/n looked him in their eyes, Clark's simmering hatred bloomed into a scary admiration that felt oddly similar to his first ever crush, and Clark had worked up the confidence in the comfortable silence of success to say something two days ago he'd never dreamed of.

“Do you know, I thought you hated me before this.” 

“What?” Y/n asks, sitting up straighter now.

“Yeah, which I didn’t really care about until I started liking you.” Clark continues far too casually but catches himself a second later. “I mean—admiring your work ethic—and well—noticing your friendliness with everyone else.”

Y/n just watches him. Her face is slightly guilty but also curious as she lets him speak.

“The first week you were here, I guess you could say I was—jealous? Of you?” Clark struggles to get it out and says it more like a question; he doesn't really want her to hear.

”No way.” Y/n whispers, a curve forming on her lips.

“Yeah,” he rubs the back of his neck as his eyes flicker to people shuffling from desks and closing laptops. "It's embarrassing."

”No I-“ She laughs now. “I actually—did hate you.” Y/n's guilt plastered all over her expression. And Clark tilts his head, a little hurt. “I don’t hate you!” She quickly assures.

"And it wasn't, like, hate hate. It was sort of jealous too, I guess.” Y/n sinks down in her chair, her hands fidgeting. “You were intimidating. Perfect, handsome, good at basically everything, you know.” She rambles, and Clark feels his chest tighten like in the elevator—hope, maybe? Excitement? Probably. Bashfulness? Oh definitely.

“I felt like I needed to prove myself. And I sort of tricked myself into thinking you were—bad? I mean, I guess just something you’re not. I'm sorry.” Y/n apologizes, her hand dropping from the back of her neck.

Clark grins. Y/n looks more confused than before but also happy he's not mad. “What?”

“I felt the exact same way about you.” Y/n scoffs at his words and shakes her head, disbelieving. “As much as I hate to admit it, it's the truth. You made me feel unworthy.”

“I'm sorry.” Y/n pleads with a desperate frown, like it was her fault. “But believe me, I'm hardly perfect, I didn’t know how to read properly since the second grade. And I—I’ve spilled every drink I've ever laid my hands on; the imperfect list goes on.” Y/n admits, silently pleading forgiveness. 

“No! No, it's—not your fault. I guess we were both just a little blinded.” Clark cracks a smile. Y/n chuckles along before nodding. 

“Yeah, you’re not so bad.” She jokes, leaning back in her chair.

“Aww, jee, thanks,” Clark says with a shy smile and a shrug. She can’t tell if he genuinely meant it or was teasing back, or both. 

“So…friends?” Y/n tries, walking to stand next to him and reaching out a hand for him to take. He stares at her hand for a second and then into her eyes before grinning a stupidly hot, dopey grin, nodding, and shaking it.

“Friends.” Clark keeps his large hand wrapped around hers longer than he should have. But then again, she didn’t pull away either, lost in his eyes and the way he made her heart pound.

“But this means you can’t blow off friend nights with Jimmy and the rest.” Clark adds quickly, finally pulling away. He closes his computer and tucks it in his bag.

“Right, I wouldn't miss it for the world.” Y/n smiles up at him as he stands. It makes his heart soar. Her smile is so pretty and her voice so sweet. Maybe his dad was right.

He followed her to the elevator. This time they didn’t forget to press the elevator button. 

“You have—” Y/n says just as the doors slide shut. “A stain on your shirt.” Clark jumps at the word, and he can see Y/n hold back her chuckle out of politeness. 

“Dang it!” He seethes. “Gosh, this is my favorite shirt.” The words that leave the tall man's mouth make Y/n stop being polite.

Clark looks up from the lunch stain and watches her. He can’t help his own soft chuckle. He sighs in defeat as he lets his arms drop and his hands slide into his pockets.

“I'm sure you can get it out!” Y/n attempts to encourage, but Clark just shakes his head, and they both laugh the rest of the way down.

The two walk out of the Planet side by side. They slip past the spinning doors and out into the late afternoon air. It’s cool, it's calm. Somehow all the big problems of two days ago seem ancient. Clark can’t remember why he didn’t have this feeling of wanting to be around Y/n all the time two days ago.

“Uh, Clark?” Y/n asks. He turns to look down at her.

“Yes?” All his attention is on her as she begins walking backwards, slowly away from him.

“About what you were saying before,” Clark furrows his brows at her, head tilting in a head-spinning way. 

“I—um,” she smiles. “I like you too.” 

He’s halted still, and his brain goes fuzzy as she disappears from his eyeline into the crowd of rush hour. Clark lets himself smile, wide, embarrassingly so. Gosh, he was done for. He practically leaps all the way back to his place. And the second he locks the door, he calls his Ma.

[dxnheng-deactivated20251203]

dress.

pairing. clark kent x fem!reader

summary. clark kent doesn’t want you like a best friend; you only bought that dress so he could take it off. alternatively, two idiots walk into the daily planet’s annual gala.

contains. so much fluff, best friends to lovers, not-so fake dating!au, roommates!au. mutual pining, idiots to idiots in love. alcohol consumption, profanity, etc. word count. 5.0k a/n. inspired by taylor swift’s dress. i have another clark kent longfic in the works but i wanted to finish this one up first. thanks for reading! xx song rec. dress by taylor swift

It’s a nice dress, you think. Really nice.

Not the sort of thing you’d usually wear, with its silky fabric and neckline that dips a little lower than you’re used to, but there’s something about it—maybe the way the silk clings to your waist before falling in soft waves to your knees, or the way the light catches the tiny gold threading woven through the pattern like ivy curling along the hem. You turn a little in front of the mirror, half self-conscious, half curious.

The dressing room curtain shifts, and Clark clears his throat. “Can I… uh, may I see it? If you’re okay with that?”

You smile to yourself. Always so polite.

“Yeah, hang on,” you say, stepping out into the little hallway lined with mirrors. Clark’s leaning against the opposite wall, arms crossed over his chest, the sleeves of his white button-down rolled neatly to his elbows. His glasses sit low on his nose as he glances up.

He blinks.

“Oh,” he says.

You tilt your head. “Too much?”

“No,” he says quickly. “No, not at all. It’s—wow. It’s really nice.”

“You’re just saying that ‘cause I agreed to come shopping with you.”

He huffs a soft laugh, pushing off the wall. “I’m saying that ‘cause it’s true.”

You step back toward the mirror, smoothing your hands over the fabric, your reflection looking back at you like she belongs somewhere fancier than the local mall’s boutique lighting and faint hum of overhead music. Somewhere, like, say, the Daily Planet’s annual holiday party, an event you’d only heard about through Clark’s ramblings at your shared apartment.

“It’s just weird, you know?” You spin slowly in place, letting the fabric sway. “Thinking about going somewhere that requires a dress like this. I’d have to, like, shave my legs and everything.”

Clark coughs, the tips of his ears turning pink. “Well, I mean, that’s entirely up to you. No pressure.”

“Relax,” you laugh. “I’m teasing.”

“Right.” He rubs the back of his neck, glasses slipping a little further down. “I knew that.”

You look at him again and notice something—he’s watching you like he always does when he thinks you’re not paying attention, like you’re the centre of gravity in whatever room he’s standing in. You’ve seen that look before: when you made him laugh so hard he snorted noodles through his nose, when you looked after Krypto for him for three days and he came back home and found the puppy sleeping on your chest, when you won your office’s impromptu trivia night by naming all fifty states in alphabetical order and brought home the giant jar of salsa and nachos they gave you as a prize. But it always disappears as quickly as it comes, tucked away behind the warm smile and careful distance he maintains.

You turn back to the mirror and say, “So, why are we here, really?”

“I told you,” Clark says. “I need a suit.”

“You own four,” you point out.

“This is a fancier party than usual.”

You shoot him a look.

He sighs, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Okay. Maybe I also wanted your opinion. Is that so bad?”

“No. I’m flattered.” You slip back into the dressing room and start unzipping the dress, your voice carrying through the curtain. “Still, feels a little like you’re preparing for a wedding or something.”

“It’s not that formal,” he calls back, but there’s something evasive in the way he says it.

“You’ve been talking about this party all month.”

“I have not.”

“You absolutely have,” you insist. You tug the zipper the rest of the way down and begin carefully stepping out of the dress. “You brought it up when we were at that Thai place downtown. Then again when you were fixing the kitchen light. Oh, and three times last week when I caught you practicing small talk in the bathroom mirror.”

“That wasn’t for the party,” he protests.

“Clark, you were practicing how to introduce me.”

“Yeah, well. It doesn’t hurt to be prepared.”

You straighten up, fabric bunched in your hands. “Prepared for what?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “People ask questions, sometimes.”

You frown, slipping your jeans back on. “What kind of questions?”

“The usual. If I’m seeing someone. If I’m bringing someone. And I guess—sometimes I talk about you a lot. So people assume.”

“Assume what?” You tug the curtain open a crack and peer at him.

Clark’s eyes flick up to meet yours. They’re unfair, honestly, the kind of soft blue that you can’t look at for too long without feeling weak at the knees. He pushes his glasses up again, then lets his hands fall to his sides.

“Just. You know,” he says helplessly. “People are nosy, and Perry White and Jimmy think I don’t have it in me to bring a girl with me to the party.”

You snort, pushing the curtain fully open and stepping out with the dress draped carefully over your arm. “That’s what this is about? You’re trying to prove Perry and Jimmy wrong?”

“I mean… maybe not prove them wrong, exactly. Just—Jimmy was needling me. You know how he gets.”

You’re not dumb. You know what Clark meant when he said people assume things. Does that mean you won’t allow yourself to enjoy what is, arguably, the most hyped up social event you’ve ever attended? Of course not. You’re not dumb.

You’re just… a little hopeful.

Hopeful enough to let him zip up the back of your dress without flinching at the way his fingertips brushed the bare skin between your shoulder blades. Hopeful enough to ditz on the most expensive perfume you own, and to wear the necklace he complimented months ago even though it doesn’t match your clutch. Hopeful enough to feel something flutter in your chest when he smiled at you in the elevator, that small, earnest grin of his that always makes your stomach flip.

Now, you’re standing in the gilded foyer of the Metropolis Grand Hotel, on the kind of carpet that silences heels, surrounded by chandeliers that drip with crystals and laughter that spills like champagne. Everyone looks beautiful. Everyone looks like they belong.

But Clark—Clark looks like he was built for this.

It’s the suit, partly. Dark charcoal, perfectly cut, the kind that makes you realise just how broad his shoulders are and how unfair it is that he ever hides them beneath sweaters. But it’s more than that. It’s the way he stands beside you with the confidence of someone who could command a room, but doesn’t. Someone who could be the centre of attention, but always turns it gently towards someone else. Towards you.

He does, over and over again, with small touches and soft glances and little jokes whispered in your ear. You try not to think too hard about it.

The ballroom is warm with low lights and gold accents, the string quartet tucked into the corner playing something festive and rich. Clark guides you to the bar with a hand on your back, and when he leans in to ask if you want red or white, his breath skims the shell of your ear.

You’re not dumb, but you might be a little dizzy.

He disappears for a minute to find Perry, leaving you with a promise to get you a glass of wine and a view of the skyline through the tall, arched windows. You fold your arms over your chest, trying not to read into how often his hand finds the small of your back or the way he introduces you and just your name, like that’s explanation enough.

You catch your reflection in the mirrored column across the room and don’t recognise yourself for a moment. The girl standing there isn’t the one who steals his socks or leaves Post-Its on the fridge or snorts when she laughs. She’s elegant, someone who could be on Clark Kent’s arm and not look even a little out of place.

He returns, two glasses in hand, his tie a little looser than it was thirty minutes ago. He hands you one and you smile up at him. He smiles back.

“You having a good time?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you say, nodding. “Surprisingly.”

He nudges your shoulder with his own. “Told you it wouldn’t be so bad.”

You hum in response, lifting your glass in a silent cheers before taking a sip. The wine is good—crisp, dry, a little sweet on the finish. Definitely not the kind of bottle you and Clark would ever spring for on your own. You glance back at him, watching the way he surveys the room with that same warm attentiveness he gives the world every day.

It’s comforting. Familiar. Easy to lean into, which is exactly what you do, tilting your head just enough to rest briefly on his shoulder. He stiffens for half a second, surprised, but you feel him ease. He shifts just slightly, just enough that you fit a little more comfortably against him.

“You get to tell me that you told me so,” you say. “It’s not bad.”

Clark chuckles. “You sound shocked.”

“I just thought it’d be stuffy,” you say, looking up at him through your lashes, teasing. “Or boring. Or full of people I wouldn’t know how to talk to.”

“And is it?”

“Still deciding,” you say, smiling.

“Do you want to dance?”

“What?”

Clark offers a hand. “Dance with me.”

And because it’s Clark, and because you’re not dumb, and because you’re maybe just hopeful enough to believe in moments like this, you take it.

He doesn’t lead you to the centre of the floor. He guides you instead to the edge, where the music is quieter and the chandeliers spill soft gold across the polished parquet. The band has moved on to something slower now, less jazzy, more swoon than swing. It wraps around you like velvet as Clark tucks your hand gently into his and rests the other at the curve of your waist. Your fingers settle against the smooth line of his lapel. He’s warm beneath the fabric. The rest of the room seems to fade in your periphery—just the blurred glitter of gowns and the murmur of conversation, the music, the breath between you.

You look up at him, trying not to read too much into the way his thumb traces idle, absent circles along your waist. “You looked like you were deep in conversation with Perry,” you say softly.

“Perry was just asking about the article I filed last week,” he replies. His eyes flick down to meet yours. “And Lois. And you.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, I, uh, won the bet, I guess.”

“…Oh. Right.” You swallow hard and look away. “Was Perry proven sufficiently wrong?”

“Let’s just say he didn’t see it coming.”

Your gaze dips to where your hand rests in his. The warmth of his palm bleeds into your skin like something you’ll still feel hours from now. It makes you ache a little, in that soft, impossible way you’ve been trying not to name for months. He looks at you like there’s no one else here—like all the champagne laughter and shifting gowns and symphonic music is just background to this moment, to you.

He shifts, subtle, drawing you a little closer as the music swells. You let him. You let your body follow his like it knows the steps already. You want him. You want him so badly you think it might be stitched into your DNA at this point, threaded through your bones.

“Well, that’s good then,” you say, trying and failing to suppress the tiny, needle-like prick of disappointment that pokes your heart. “Were Lois and Jimmy convinced, too?”

“Lois thinks you’re too good for me,” he says, voice low, breath brushing against the shell of your ear. “Jimmy started taking bets again.”

You laugh, surprised. “Bets on what?”

“Nothing scandalous.”

You lean a little closer, playful now, emboldened by the press of his hand at your waist. “Clark Kent. Are you withholding journalistic information?”

“I’m practicing discretion,” he murmurs.

You don’t ask what the bets are. You don’t want to know, really, not when your pulse is already a warm thrum under your skin, not when his gaze keeps flicking down to your lips like he’s not sure he should, but can’t stop himself. You’re dangerously aware of how little space there is between you. How easy it would be to close it.

But the song ends.

It fades into the hum of another, and Clark lets out the smallest breath, as though the moment—whatever it was—is retreating, swallowed by the crowd again. His hand slips from your waist, and yours from his hand.

“Come on. Jimmy and Cat and the rest want to meet you.”

Clark doesn’t give you much time to think about it. About the dance, about the way your pulse is still doing this uneven, skittery thing like you’ve just stepped off a roller coaster. He offers you his hand again, not to dance this time but to lead you through the throng of glittering dresses and dark suits towards a cluster of people near the far side of the ballroom.

“They’re going to love you,” he says over his shoulder, warm and certain in that way he always is when it comes to you.

You don’t say anything because you’re too busy smoothing your hair with one hand and trying not to trip over your own heels. You feel like you’ve stumbled out of one dream—Clark’s hand on your waist, the music wrapped around you—and straight into another. You’re aware of everything: the swish of your dress against your legs, the faint citrus scent of his cologne when he moves close enough to open a path for you both.

Lois Lane is exactly what you expected, and somehow more. She’s stunning, with cheekbones that could cut glass and lipstick perfectly in place even after what must be hours of cocktails and conversation. She’s in the middle of telling Jimmy something when she sees you, and her eyes sharpen immediately with interest.

Jimmy’s grinning, camera hanging around his neck, and beside him, Cat Grant leans elegantly against the table, champagne flute in hand.

“Hey, guys,” Clark says.

Three pairs of eyes turn towards you. You resist the urge to fidget.

“This is—” Clark says your name, glancing at you briefly, and for some reason the sound of it in his voice feels… different here. “She writes for Metropolis Monthly.”

Lois’ mouth curves into a knowing little smile as she shakes your hand. “Ah. The famous one.”

“Famous?” you repeat, startled.

“Clark talks about you. A lot,” Jimmy chimes in.

You shoot a look at Clark, who suddenly finds the floor very interesting.

“Don’t let him fool you,” Lois says, delighted. “He doesn’t talk about anyone. Half the time we have to drag words out of him about himself, but you? We’ve heard about the coffee you make, the movie nights, the way you write circles around half the bloggers in this city—”

“Lois,” Clark says, almost warning, a faint colour rising in his cheeks.

Cat takes a slow sip of her champagne. “She’s even prettier than you said, Kent.”

Your face warms. Clark clears his throat. “Okay, and on that note—”

“No, no,” Jimmy cuts in. “Don’t stop on our account.”

Lois leans in, conspiratorial. “For what it’s worth,” she says to you, “we’ve been taking bets on when the two of you would finally show up to something together. Perry owes me twenty bucks.”

You laugh, startled and flustered all at once. “I’m not sure what to say to that.”

“Say,” Lois says, “that I was right.”

Clark sighs. “We came here to have a good time, remember?”

“We are having a good time,” Cat says, setting her glass down. Her gaze sweeps over you once, thoughtful, before she offers a small, sincere smile. “It’s nice to finally meet you. He’s picky about who he lets into his life.”

Clark isn’t looking at anyone now but you.

The group falls into easy conversation after that, talk of work and the ridiculous gala food (tiny crab cakes that vanish in two bites, champagne that tastes expensive enough to make up for it). Lois tells you about chasing a lead last week through half the city; Jimmy complains about his camera lens fogging in the winter; Cat rolls her eyes at both of them with long-suffering grace.

Clark stays close. When someone brushes by too near the table, his hand finds your elbow, steadying you. When Lois cracks a joke, he leans in slightly, like he wants to hear you laugh before anyone else. When he looks at you, you feel it like a warm current under your skin.

Jimmy drags Lois to the dance floor. Cat follows with a bemused shake of her head, and suddenly it’s just you and Clark again, standing at the edge of the room with half-empty glasses.

“What do you think of them?” he asks softly, watching your face.

“They’re… not what I expected.”

“Better or worse?”

“Better,” you say. “They like you a lot.”

His mouth tilts in a small, self-deprecating smile. “They like you, too.”

You think about Lois’ teasing, about Cat’s sharp little smile, about the way Jimmy had grinned like he knew something you didn’t. You think about Clark’s hand, steady and warm, guiding you here in the first place.

You think you might be in trouble.

“Cat was right, though, you know,” he says, ducking his head bashfully. “You do look—I mean, pretty isn’t the right word. You’re gorgeous.”

For a second, you forget how to breathe.

The noise of the gala doesn’t quite go away—it can’t, not with the quartet playing in the corner and the laughter bubbling from the dance floor—but it feels like someone’s turned the volume down just enough for the words to settle between you, soft and weighty all at once.

You glance up at him. He doesn’t quite meet your eyes when he says it; he’s looking somewhere past your shoulder, as though he can’t quite bring himself to watch your reaction.

“Clark,” you say, and your voice doesn’t come out the way you mean it to. It’s quieter.

He rubs the back of his neck with his free hand, gaze finally dropping to meet yours. “Sorry. I just—” He exhales, as though the sentence got away from him before he could catch it. “You do. That’s all.”

Your stomach swoops. You’ve known him long enough to tell when he’s teasing, when his voice takes on that light, joking cadence he uses with friends and coworkers and anyone trying to get a rise out of him. This isn’t that.

You should say something back. Something witty, or graceful, or at least coherent. But your brain seems to have been replaced by static, so all you manage is a soft, “Oh.”

Clark laughs, shaking his head at himself like he’s the one being ridiculous here. He takes a sip from his glass, giving you a moment to gather the parts of yourself scattered like confetti across the floor. You fail spectacularly.

Across the room, Lois spins under Jimmy’s arm, her laugh ringing out above the music. Cat leans against the bar now, phone in one hand, champagne in the other. Perry White’s surrounded by boisterous councilmen, all laughing at some joke you can’t begin to make out. The chandeliers catch the movement on the dance floor in fractured golden light, everything sparkling like it’s been dipped in stars.

And you’re here, at the edge of it all, pulse rabbiting in your throat because Clark Kent just called you gorgeous like it was the simplest, truest thing in the world.

You clear your throat, finally finding your voice. “You clean up pretty well yourself.”

“Thanks,” he says. His mouth tilts in that small half-smile he gets when he’s trying not to look too pleased.

“You don’t wear suits often.”

“Not unless I have to.” He looks down at his tie, loosening it a little more with one hand. The motion tugs his collar open just slightly, enough to show the faintest triangle of skin at his throat. “Do you like it?”

You blink. “The suit?”

“Yeah. On me, I mean.”

The words make heat creep up the back of your neck. “I… yeah. It looks good.”

Understatement of the century, you think.

Clark’s eyes crinkle a little at the corners, amusement threading through them, but he doesn’t press. He nods once, like he’ll tuck the answer away somewhere secret.

A waiter passes by with another tray of champagne, the glasses catching light as they go. Clark shifts slightly, resting his forearm on the high table beside you so he can lean just a fraction closer, voice dipping low enough that it barely carries over the music.

“You want to people-watch with me?”

“People-watch?”

Clark nods towards the dance floor, where Perry’s somehow gotten roped into dancing with someone from the city council. It looks… painful.

You can’t help laughing. “Oh, absolutely.”

Clark flashes you a grin, before he tilts his head towards the crowd. “Okay. See the guy by the bar in the blue suit? Third glass of wine, hasn’t stopped checking his phone all night. His wife is mad at him, I’m calling it now.”

“Ouch.”

“Couple by the window,” Clark says next. “Third dance in a row. Either married for twenty years or they just met tonight. No in between.”

“What’s your vote?” you say, grinning.

He considers, eyes following the couple as they turn lazily under the chandelier light. “Just met. He’s been smiling the whole time, like he can’t believe his luck.”

It’s impossible not to notice the warmth in Clark’s voice when he says it. Like he likes seeing people happy. Like he collects these little moments the way other people collect photographs.

Your chest does that annoying fluttery thing again.

“Okay,” you say, scanning the room for yourself this time. “The woman in the green dress. She’s here for business. Networking. She’s pretending to enjoy herself, but she hasn’t danced once.”

Clark follows your gaze, eyebrows lifting. “You’re good at this.”

“Observational skills,” you say, shrugging and trying not to look too pleased with yourself.

The music swells again, a slow, easy rhythm. Someone laughs nearby; someone else calls for more champagne. The whole room glitters, alive and bright, but somehow it feels like you and Clark are set just outside its orbit, in your own quieter little corner.

“You having a good time?” he asks again.

“Yeah,” you say. “The best.”

Clark smiles, small and pleased, like maybe that was the whole point of tonight.

You don’t mean to overhear the two girls by the bar.

It’s not like they said anything malicious, anyway. Something about Clark being “a total golden retriever” and how “guys like him don’t stay single for long.” It’s said with a fond little laigh, the kind reserved for someone universally adored, like the quarterback of a small-town football team or the boy who volunteers at soup kitchens on the weekends. Someone who’s good in a way that’s rare.

It shouldn’t sting, but it does.

Maybe it’s because they don’t know him like you do—the small, ridiculous details of Clark Kent: how he hums when he’s pouring coffee; how his ties are always a little crooked until you fix them; how he somehow believes he’s unremarkable, despite literally glowing with the kind of goodness people write novels about.

Or maybe it’s because part of you is terrified they’re right—that someone else will see all of that, see him, and you’ll be left watching from the sidelines like a fool.

Either way, the words burrow into your skin, and suddenly the gala feels too warm, too loud, too bright.

You murmur something to Lois about needing air and slip through the crowd before Clark can notice. The balcony doors are open, the night cool and velvet-soft against your skin when you step outside.

The city stretches out before you, glittering and endless. Wind whips gently at your hair as you grip the railing, trying to shake off the strange ache building in your chest. You’re not sure how long you stand there, staring out at Metropolis like it might give you answers.

“There you are!” His voice comes from behind you, warm and familiar.

You turn, just enough to see Clark step out onto the balcony, the light spilling over his shoulders before the door closes behind him. Out here, he looks different. Softer, maybe, without the warm glow of the chandeliers gilding every edge. The wind tugs at his hair, and he pushes his glasses up his nose the way he always does when he doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

“You disappeared,” he says, moving to stand beside you. His presence fills the space easily, the way it always does. “Everything okay?”

You nod, too quickly. “Yeah. Just needed some air.”

Maybe it’s the champagne, or the music drifting faintly through the glass doors behind you, or the fact that he looks devastatingly good tonight and doesn’t seem to know it—but suddenly, the words tumble out before you can stop them.

“Do you ever think about… hypotheticals?”

“Hypotheticals?” Clark turns his head, brow furrowing.

“Like,” you say, fiddling with the end of your clutch, “what if you liked someone. Just—hypothetically.”

“Okay…”

“And maybe everyone else saw it before you did. Like it was obvious or something.” You keep your eyes fixed on the skyline because looking at him feels impossible right now. “But you weren’t sure if saying anything would ruin everything.”

Clark goes very still beside you.

You rush to fill the silence, words tangling. “Hypothetically, maybe you live with this person. Maybe they’re your best friend. And if you said something and they didn’t feel the same way, it would… I don’t know. Break something you can’t put back together.”

The wind catches your hair, sweeping it across your cheek. You tuck it behind our ear.

“So instead,” you continue, softer now, “you just keep it to yourself. And you wonder if they’ll ever figure it out, or if you’re supposed to—I don’t know. Still hypothetical, obviously.”

“Right,” Clark says slowly.

“Hypothetically,” you add quickly, “what would you do? If it were you.”

“I’d tell you.”

Your heart stutters. “What?”

Clark swallows hard. His eyes stay on the city, not you. “I’d tell you, because—hypothetically—I wouldn’t be able to keep it in anymore.”

“Clark…”

“Y’know, funny thing is,” he says, tilting his head just so, “I brought you here with me to have a good time. I don’t like stuff like this, you know that, and I—I really, really want to go home now, just so I can have you all to myself.”

Clark’s gaze stays fixed on the glittering sprawl of Metropolis below. The wind ruffles his hair again, pulls at the edges of his jacket, but he stands steady beside you like the whole world couldn’t move him if it tried.

You open your mouth. Close it. Try again.

“Hypothetically,” you say, “what would you do if we went him?”

His eyes catch the city lights when he turns to you, reflecting something warm, something that makes your stomach flip in a way that no amount of champagne could explain. His voice is low when he speaks; each word has to be chosen carefully before it leaves his mouth.

“First?” he says. “First, I think I’d finally get you out of those heels your hate.”

You almost laugh, because of course he noticed the way you’d shifted your weight a dozen times tonight, the faint wince every time someone made you cross half the ballroom.

“And then?” you ask, trying to keep your voice steady.

He exhales slowly, the sound mingling with the wind. “I’m trying really hard not to scare you off,” he admits.

“You’re not,” you manage.

“Good,” he says, barely more than a whisper. “Because all I’ve been thinking about, all night, is how badly I want to get you out of here.”

His hand finds the railing beside yours, close enough that your fingers twitch with the urge to reach for him.

“And then what?” you ask again, the words threading out like smoke.

“Then,” he says slowly, “I’d make you tea because you’ll complain about your hangover tomorrow morning otherwise. I’d listen to you tell me what you thought of tonight while you tried to pretend you weren’t exhausted. And then, I’d tell you all the things I should’ve told you before this gala, before the dance, before tonight ever even started.”

“Like what?”

“Like how many times I almost kissed you in the kitchen,” he says. “Or how hard it is to see you in my shirts on Sunday mornings and not tell you how beautiful you look. Or how every time you laugh at one of my stupid jokes, I—”

“Clark,” you whisper, because it’s the only thing you can think to say.

“Still hypothetical, of course,” he mumbles.

“Right,” you say, though your heart is doing somersaults.

“But,” he adds, “I really hope it’s not.”

You think you might finally understand what the girls at the bar meant. Only, they were wrong about one thing.

Clark Kent might be the kind of man everyone adores, but right now, his whole attention, his whole quiet, steady world, feels like it belongs to you.

“It’s not,” you breathe out, “but hypothetically, I really do want to kiss you right now.”

So Clark does.

“Tell me a secret,” Clark says, once he closes the door to your shared apartment behind him.

“Easy. I only bought this dress so you could take it off, Kent.”

Clark smiles against your mouth, fingers trailing up your spine and hooking into the zipper at the back of your dress.

[buckysthunderbolts]

not a date

Clark Kent x Romance!Columnist!Reader

summary: Clark offers to go with you to a romantic restaurant for an article. You don't have it in your heart to say no, even if means sitting across from Lois Lane's boyfriend and your school girl crush, Clark Kent.

cw: miscommunication galore, reader's oblivious, unrequited? love/crush, drunk reader, angst, clark the perfect gentleman, SMUT (18+): heavy petting, dry humping, make out sesh

wc: 3.8k+

author's note: here's a longer fic! i may do a part 2 depending on interest. please let me know what you think with a comment or reblog. enjoy!! xoxo

You try not to stare at Lois and Clark from your desk on the far side of the bullpen. You watch Lois lean over Clark’s desk and point at something on the document in his hands. His glasses slip down the bridge of his nose and he bites the back of a pen as he reads. He’s so effortlessly attractive it makes you want to rip your hair out.

You can’t hear their conversation over the sounds of the newsroom. The printers are hard at work and phones ring off the hook. Clark’s face splits into a grin and you know he’s laughing at whatever witty remark Lois just said. The green monster twists its ugly head deep inside your chest and you force yourself to look away.

As much as you enjoy running the online romance column for the Daily Planet, you sometimes wish for more. You wish for more substantive, life changing work. You hear the whispers around the office from coworkers who don’t take you or your work seriously and turn their noses up at the successful romance column.

But not Clark.

Clark never made you feel small or unimportant just because you ran the column. He would walk past your desk and drop ideas if you were hitting a wall. When you wrote a review about your top ten best romance novels of all time, Clark confessed to you that he read both Pride and Prejudice and Persuasion because they were your number one and two ranked novels on the list. It made your stomach flutter that Clark took the time to read both your article and your favorite books.

The romance column didn’t start as a column at all. You wrote a feature piece about your neighbors, Ed and Sarah, that made it to the print edition of the Daily Planet. It was still your proudest achievement since you started at the Daily Planet.

You were assigned a Human-Interest piece, and you interviewed your 90 and 91-year-old neighbors as a result. They’d been married for 65 years. They founded a children’s community center and were a pillar in your neighborhood and community. You wrote how their love story changed the community. The article renewed interest in the community center and went viral.

Perry subsequently demanded more romance focused articles to increase engagement with young women and thus the romance column spawned. You’ve been chasing the feeling of the success of that article ever since.

Now, you were reduced to giving relationship advice you weren’t qualified to give and what wine and cheese pairing goes best with which late 90s, early 2000s, romcom movie instead of writing stories that mattered. It made you feel pathetic. You tried passing the responsibility of the column over to Cat, but Perry wouldn’t let you.

You glare at your computer screen, staring at the list of upcoming articles you need to start working on, several of them reviews for sponsored content in exchange for ads on the website or in print. A new, romantic, Italian restaurant just opened in your neighborhood. A formal dress boutique wants you to review their new fall collection. More posts on the advice page. Visting the newly renovated planetarium.

“What did the poor computer do to you?” Clark teased, breaking you out of your self-induced spiral. He rests his hands on your desk and leans over the monitor. You bat away the image of Lois doing the same thing just moments ago.

You smile curtly at him, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. You lean back in your chair and look up at Clark. His massive frame blocks the sun from the floor to ceiling windows from your face.

“Hey, Clark,” you hummed softly, his gentle, cerulean, blue eyes meeting your dull and tired ones. His brows pull together with worry, and he takes the empty seat beside your desk. You ignore the pit in your stomach and sit on your hands to avoid fidgeting.

“What’s wrong?”

You swallow hard, pushing down the lump in your throat and the stuttering of your heart. You force another fake smile.

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“Cupid, there’s definitely something wrong. You’re doing that fake smile people do when they’re pretending everything’s fine when things are not in fact fine.”

Your heart stutters again. Damn Clark. Damn him for using his silly nickname for you, and damn him again for being so perceptive.

You let out a careful, measured breath. “It’s nothing. I just have a lot on my to-do list of articles to write for the column.”

“Anything I can do to help with?”

You laugh quietly. Of course, Clark wants to help. Your smile is soft and genuine before turning into a smirk. Clark’s face changes to a silly grin and you shake your head.

“Not if you count reviewing a romantic Italian restaurant by yourself, no.”

Clark frowns and it’s the most adorable thing you’ve ever seen. “You’re going to a romantic restaurant by yourself?”

You shrink under the intensity of Clark’s stare and laugh nervously. You scratch at your thighs. “Yeah. Cat and Jimmy are both busy tomorrow night and I can only do it then. At least that’s what the owner said.”

Clark’s mouth turns down in a deep frown and his nose scrunches. “Why didn’t you ask me?” There’s a barely imperceptible hurt hidden beneath his words.

Your brows pinch together in confusion. You thought it was obvious. You don’t want to disrespect his relationship with Lois. Yes, you’re close with Clark and you have a pathetic, unrequited crush, but you still have some self-respect and know when to quit.  

“Oh, um, I just thought since you’re so busy with Lois you wouldn’t be able to,” you muttered awkwardly, heat creeping up your neck.

“No, not at all.”

You flush some more and want nothing more than for the earth to open up beneath you and swallow you whole. Clark looks like a kicked puppy, and you hate that you’re the reason why. You never meant to upset him and hurt his feelings.

You reach for his hand and squeeze gently. You resist the urge to linger. “Clark, I’m sorry,” you apologized, “I didn’t want to impose, so that’s why I didn’t ask.”

Clark keeps frowning and you keep wanting to kick yourself. “You’re not an imposition. You must know that,” his voice pleading and desperate.

“Is there something I can say or do to make it up to you?”

Clark’s frown morphs into a teasing smile. His boyish smirk kick starts something in your belly and squeezes your heart. His dimples poke out of his cheeks. “I heard there’s this new Italian restaurant in your neighborhood. Do you want to meet for dinner there tomorrow?”

You laugh softly and bite your lip before nodding. You resist the urge to say it’s a date. Instead, your eyes catch Lois saddling up beside Clark next to your desk and the green monster in your heart returns.

….

The next evening, you’re agonizing on what to wear. You can’t dress like you’re going out on a romantic date, but you can’t dress casually either. You’re too embarrassed to ask Cat for help, knowing that if you so much as hinted at struggling with what to wear, Cat would tease you relentlessly about your unrequited crush.

Instead, you settle on a nice pair of black bottoms with a navy sweater. You look like you’re about to go to work instead of a nice restaurant with the most beautiful, unavailable man in the world. It was perfect.

You don’t bother doing anything special with your hair. You chant it like a mantra as you touch up your make up: this is not a date. Clark wanted to pick you up, and you emphatically refused. The less it felt like a date, the better. Besides, you lived less than a 10-minute walk away.

You exhale deeply and square your shoulders as you stare at yourself in the mirror in front of the door of your apartment. You can do this. You’re a woman on a mission. This not-date is for work. You can sit across your crush for 90 minutes for an article. Easy peasy lemon squeezy. You can be a professional. Everything would be fine.

You nod at yourself in the mirror and shrug on your coat before hooking the strap of your purse on your shoulder. You take a deep breath, reach for the door, and walk out.

When you arrive at the restaurant, you silently hype yourself up before walking inside. Dim, yellow lights hang from the ceilings. Soft, classical music fills the rooms. It’s dark, red, and a perfect place for a date night. You smell fresh bread, wine, and tomatoes from the kitchen and bar.

You approach the hostess and smile softly. “Hi. I’m the romance columnist from the Daily Planet. I’m not sure who I’ve been communicating with over the phone and via email.”

“Oh!” the hostess, a young, bubbly girl exclaims. “Right this way. We have a table all ready for you.”

“There’s one other person joining me tonight. Is he here?”

The girl shakes her head as you weave through tables and pass booths to your table. You sit and thank her quietly. “He’s very tall and wears glasses,” you tell her as she sets the menus in front of you before disappearing.

Your server comes by with the owner and you shake hands. Instead of ordering straight from the menu, small portions of menu items will be given to you, so you have the opportunity to try everything for a well-rounded review.  

“Will someone else be joining you tonight?” the owner asked. “I’d hate for you to be the only one eating all this food by yourself.”

You glance briefly at your watch. Clark’s already ten minutes late. Maybe he’s stuck in traffic.

“My friend is on his way,” you answered with a tight smile. You rub your sweaty palms on your thighs.

“Okay. While you wait, I’ll have the bartender bring you tastings of our signature wines we make.”

Another ten minutes goes by, and Clark still hasn’t shown up. You’ve resigned yourself to accept the fact Clark wasn’t coming and stood you up on your not a date, date. You’ve already finished two of the tastings of the wine and picked at the delicious calamari and garlic bread when the server comes by and asks if you still wanted to wait.

You swallow hard, pushing down the embarrassment threatening to escape. You shake your head and twist the fancy, fabric napkin in your lap. “No, that’s okay. You can bring out the entrees.”

She smiles sympathetically and you ignore the pitying stares from the other patrons near your table. The bartender swings by again and sets a new flight of wine in front of you. You fight the urge to cry and take a long pull of the Pinot Grigio. Like the feeling in your heart, the wine tastes dry and bitter in your throat. It’s perfect.

You should’ve known better. Of course Clark wouldn’t show up. He definitely told Lois about the dinner, and she definitely didn’t like the idea of her boyfriend going to a romantic restaurant with another woman, even if said woman was only a friend.

You feel stupid for getting your hopes up. Even after repeating it over and over again that this wasn’t a date, you feel even stupider for even entertaining the thought for just a second. Clark is not single. Clark is just a friend. He is happy with Lois. You never stood a chance.

Lois is witty and smart. She makes Clark laugh and blush. She keeps him on his toes. They work well together and look good together. Lois probably knows you have a crush on her boyfriend and that’s why Clark didn’t show. It was his way of telling you that you must get over you stupid, unrequited, school-girl crush. He’s too kind to say it to your face and let you down easy. Luckily you have the weekend to lick your wounds before you have to see Clark Monday morning.

The wine pulses through your bloodstream as you eat and take notes on the food. The creamy pesto chicken pasta is your favorite, but the kick of the vodka sauce and red peppers are delicious too. The lemon shrimp scampi is a mixture of flavors. For dessert, they bring out a cannoli and homemade gelato. You’re drunk from all the wine and warm all over by the time you finish eating.

They box the remaining leftovers for you, and you give a generous tip since it’s on the Daily Planet expense card. The owner thanks you for stopping by and says she looks forward to reading your review. You promise to email it to her once it’s on the site.

It hits you when you walk into your dark and empty apartment. Pathetic, shameful tears spill from your eyes and coat your cheeks. You shove the leftovers into the fridge and kick off your shoes and toss your coat to the floor.

You hate how much it hurts. You love Clark and he loves someone else. You have to move on. Come Monday, and you’ll be a brand-new person. Your eyes won’t linger on his broad shoulders and strong arms. You won’t come up with any and every excuse to walk past his desk. You’ll stop laughing at his corny jokes and you won’t bring him coffee anymore. You have to draw boundaries to respect his relationship and protect yourself.

Clark will have no idea how broken up you are about tonight. He won’t know you had too much to drink and took home food that was meant to be shared. He won’t know you cried or how stupid and hopeful you felt before you entered the restaurant. He’ll be sweet and apologetic and tell you Lois felt uncomfortable about him going out to dinner with you to a place meant for dates.

You’ll wave the apology away and tell him that you understood. It wasn’t a big deal. You didn’t mean to make Lois uncomfortable, and you’ll apologize for asking in the first place even though it was Clark’s fault.

Your soft cries fill the empty apartment as you get ready for bed. You dress in an old, stretched out sleep shirt and pajama shorts. You pop Tylenol in your mouth, wash your face, and brush your teeth before climbing into bed.

….

When you wake the next morning, you have a raging headache from all the wine you drank. You groan into your pillow before dragging yourself to the bathroom. You take more Tylenol, use the bathroom, and brush the lingering taste of alcohol from your mouth. You look rough from crying the night before. Remnants of your makeup stain your cheeks.

After you wash your face, you trudge to the kitchen and make yourself a cup of coffee. You toast a bagel with cream cheese and set up on the couch with your laptop beside you. You take a warm sip of your coffee and a bite of your food before turning on quiet music and getting to work on your review.

Your fingers move fast over the keyboard as you rave about the staff, atmosphere, and the food. Your phone starts to ring and you reach for it. Your heart jumps in your throat as your finger hovers over the screen as you watch Clark’s contact ring. The last thing you want is to talk to Clark. You always jumped to answer his calls, but not anymore. He doesn’t owe you an explanation and you don’t have to answer it.

You hit the side button on your phone and toss it to the other side of the couch, so you’re not tempted to call or text Clark back. You’re busy and have things to do.

You resume your work and upload the photos you took to your computer. You’re in the middle of sending the draft to your copy editor when there’s a knock at your door. You groan in exasperation and pause the music before making your way to the door.

You sigh and square your shoulders before you open the door. Your spine stiffens when you find Clark on the other side. He’s holding takeout from your favorite restaurant in one hand, a tray off coffees in the other, and an apologetic smile on his face. Your fingers squeeze the life out of the doorknob as you stare at him.

“Hey, Cupid,” he said, voice careful and soft. “I tried calling you earlier. Can I come in?”

Your head yells at you to say no, but you push the door wide enough for Clark to duck under the door frame and slip inside. You swallow hard and let out a careful breath before shutting the door and following Clark into your kitchen. He sets everything on the table and turns to face you. You resist the urge to look anywhere else.

“I wanted to apologize for last night.”

“It’s okay, Clark,” you sighed quietly, “I understand.”

His brows pinch together and he frowns. He shakes his head, his dark curls falling in front of his face and over his glasses. Your arms cross over your chest, and you stand as far away from Clark as you can in the small kitchen space.

“It’s not… it’s not okay. I told you I would meet you there and I stood you up. I lost track of time while chasing a lead with Lois. When I showed up after I realized, you were already gone.”

You push the growing lump down your throat and shake your head. “Clark, really, it’s fine. It’s not like it was a date so there was no standing up. I have leftovers. Do you want to take some to share with Lois?” you asked him, putting as much emotional distance between the two of you as you can. Maybe if you keep mentioning his girlfriend Clark will drop it. You can be the cool, thoughtful friend and nothing else. “Does Lois have any food allergies?”

Clark stares at you like you have two heads. He squints at you through his glasses and his forehead wrinkles together. “I don’t—I don’t know if she has food allergies. Why do you keep asking me about Lois? Why are you acting so weirdly casual about last night? I completely blew you off. You can be upset.”

Your lips purse in frustration. The last thing you want is to spell things out for Clark. How can he be so smart but so dense sometimes?

“Jesus, Clark!” you couldn’t help but snap at him in exasperation. Your voice echoes and Clark jumps at your outburst. “Maybe because Lois is your girlfriend? You had every right to blow me off last night. I shouldn’t have asked you to go to a nice, romantic restaurant when you have a girlfriend and like the idiot I am, I did anyway because I can never say no to you.”

Clark’s eyes widen in shock, and his mouth opens with surprise. His hands fall from the table, and he takes two long strides across the kitchen before your chests nearly touch. You look up at him and his blue eyes search yours.

You’re too close to Clark. You can smell the soft linen of his shirt and the cologne on his neck. You take a careful step back and bump into the wall. Clark needs to leave before either of you do anything you can’t take back. He’s too warm and close and it makes your heart race and head spin. You can’t tear your eyes away from Clark’s soft mouth.

“You should go,” you whispered, “before you do something you’ll regret. Get back to Lois.”

“Stop talking about Lois,” Clark’s voice is soft but firm. His breath mingles with yours and you feel your heart beat out of your chest. His nose skims yours, mouths nearly touching.

“But she’s—” you started, but Clark silenced you by pressing his mouth against yours.

“Not my girlfriend,” Clark finished for you against your lips.

You can barely stand as Clark’s mouth meshes with yours. The kiss is burning and thorough. It’s deep and toe curling and has you sighing against his lips. Your chest sags into his and Clark’s arms loop around your waist.

“Lois isn’t?” you can’t help but ask against him, your hands pressed against his shoulders.

“No,” he murmured, moving his mouth across your cheek, against your jaw, and down your throat where your neck meets your shoulder. His mouth is hot against your skin, and you moan when he nips at the hallow of your throat. “I have the fattest crush on the woman who runs the romance column for the Daily Planet. I tried impressing her by reading her favorite romance novels and brainstorming ideas. I even sent something under a pseudonym to her advice column to get her advice on how to woo a coworker. She still had no idea. Her nickname’s Cupid. Have you heard of her?”

You giggle and run your fingers through his curls. You feel his glasses poke your shirt. “That was you?” you asked, breathless.     

Clark smirks against your skin and moves his mouth over yours again. Clark squats down and lifts you into his arms. You moan into his mouth and rest your hands at the base of his neck, toying with the curls there. Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer to you.

He moves the two of you to the couch and you settle in his lap. Your hips rock into his and Clark groans into your mouth. You feel the growing tent in his slacks and roll your hips again. Pressure builds between your legs. Clark’s hands squeeze your thighs, and he pulls his mouth from yours.

Your chest heave and you watch Clark’s Adam’s Apple move up and down his throat as he catches his breath. His face is flushed a warm pink, and his bright blue eyes are blown with desire. He rests his forehead against your shoulder, and you run your nails up and down his back.

“I want to do this right,” Clark whispered against your shoulder.

“And what’s the right way to do this?” you can’t help but ask, pressing kisses against his temple and the shell of his ear. You feel Clark shiver beneath you, using every ounce of restraint he possesses.

“Picking you up and giving you flowers and a kiss on the cheek. Taking you to the planetarium. Wine and dine you afterwards. Coming back here. Doing this.”

You smile into Clark’s hair and carefully detached yourself from his lap. You press a sweet kiss to his lips and brush a curl behind his ear.

“It’s a date.”   

[ifyouweremine]

Worth a Thousand Words | Clark Kent

PAIRING: Clark Kent x Fem!Reader

SUMMARY: When Superman shows up to save the day, he makes headlines. Only this time the headlines aren’t exactly what you expect when you see yourself on the front page, labelled Superman’s new mystery woman.

WARNINGS: None

W/C: 1.3k

"Oh my God! Lois!"

You crossed the bullpen towards Lois, a copy of a rival newspaper clutched in your hand, disbelief written all across your features. The stupid thing had cost you eight dollars, but the moment you'd glimpsed the picture on the front page, you'd pulled out a ten and told the vendor to keep the change. Lois, amused, watched you approach and smack the newspaper down in front of her like it had personally offended you.

"I made the front page!" you exclaimed.

Lois laughed, immensely enjoying your frazzled state. Usually, you were put together and eloquent, but right now you looked a little insane. "I noticed."

"Jesus Christ," you groaned, head in your hands. "This is so embarrassing!"

"What's embarrassing?" Jimmy asked, rolling his chair over to you and Lois.

"She's freaking out because there's a picture of her on the front page," Lois said, sliding the paper towards Jimmy.

He took it and hummed. "Wow. 'Is this the new Mrs Superman?'. That's so lame." He pushed the paper away. "It might not be you."

"It is me!" you said, shaking your head. "That's my favourite sweater." You jabbed your finger on the picture. "You see me wear that sweater at least once a week. I mean, look, it's even got the hole in the right elbow!"

"Okay, but why are we freaking out?" Jimmy asked. "Unless you're actually dating Superman, in which case, awesome. Is he cool? What does he do when he's not saving the world? Does he use his powers in the bed-"

"Jimmy!" Your voice cut across his barrage of questions before they could get any more personal. "I am not dating Superman. This is such a disaster."

Lois had turned away, typing on her computer for a moment before she let out an impressed huh. "You're all over the internet."

"Oh my God," you groaned, leaning against Lois's desk and letting your shoulders slump.

Jimmy gave you a perplexed look. "Why are you so worried?"

"Because I don't want to be on the front page unless it's my name in, like, a really tiny font!" you replied. "And what's Clark gonna say?"

"What's Clark going to say about what?"

You whirled around, pushing off of Lois's desk to come face-to-face with your boyfriend. Or, well, face-to-chest, because Clark stood a good few inches taller than you on your best day. He was looking between the three of you, from Lois scrolling through tweets on the internet to Jimmy perusing the article attached to the photograph and then to you. His eyes softened when they landed on you and a smile graced his features.

"Your girlfriend made the front page," Jimmy said, holding out the paper and shaking it for Clark to take. "Because according to the internet, Superman's in love with her."

Clark's eyes met yours as he took the paper from Jimmy, taking a long moment to look at the picture in front of him.

It was true.

There was Superman, standing with barely two inches of space between his body and yours. You had one of his hands held in both of yours, fingers wrapped gently around his wrist as you held his hand to your chest, right above your heart. If you closed your eyes, you could still feel the way he went still for a moment to focus on your heartbeat.

"Are you okay?" The whispered words were meant just for you, a flash of Clark shining through the superhero suit he wore as the two of you kept to the shadows.

You nodded, breathless. "I'm okay. I'm not hurt."

"Are you sure? I heard your heartbeat-"

"I promise you, I'm fine," you replied.

"Are you-"

You reached for his hand, lifting it to rest above your heart, watching his eyes follow your movement and settle on your chest. For a moment, there was silence as he listened to the steady beat beneath his fingers and told himself that everything was okay. You were alive, you were here, you were breathing and whole before him. You were safe.

You'd had no idea that somebody had caught that moment on camera. It had only been a matter of seconds; Clark had tugged you to the side to check on you before you had sent him off to finish saving the day. You'd been sitting in on a court case for a report you were putting together when someone had triggered an explosion that blew out one of the walls. In the commotion, you had totally forgotten that Clark liked to listen to your heartbeat whenever you weren't together because it reassured him to know you were okay.

He'd heard the skip of a beat and come running, arriving in record time as Superman to prevent the offender from escaping with the team he had formed to help him. They all ended up being arrested and there were fortunately no casualties as a result of the bombing besides a few scrapes and bruises.

Superman, of course, made the front page. Only this time it wasn't for his heroics. It was because of the way he looked at you. Or rather, the way Clark looked at you.

Clark, in the present, glanced at you. There was a shine in his eyes, knowing and a little smug but marred by the frown on his lips. "You been stepping out on me?"

You shoved his shoulder playfully and rolled your eyes. "You know that's not the case."

"You can't even see your face," Lois assured you. "Nobody got any other angles. It's all speculation."

"Well, I don't want to be speculated about!" you said. "A guy blew up a building and the internet wants to talk about Superman's love life?"

"Maybe it was a slow day at the office?" Jimmy suggested. "I, for one, would love to know if he has much of a dating life."

You groaned, moving closer to Clark and dropping your forehead against his chest. His laughter filled your ears as he wrapped an arm around your shoulders and pressed a gentle kiss to the top of your head.

"It's not that bad," he said softly. "I think it's quite a nice picture."

"You would say that," you said, lifting your head to look at him. He was probably thinking of ways to frame it for your apartment, the same way he'd written your name in the sky and had that framed for your anniversary. He was cute like that.

"You should see some of the comments," Lois said. "The internet is having a field day."

Leaning in along with Clark and Jimmy, you looked over Lois's shoulder and read through some of the things that people were saying about you.

user somebody find this girl and let her know she's got superman looking at her like he's in love

user how does it feel to not be the girl in this photo? pretty terrible, can't lie

user she's a stronger woman than me because if superman looked at me like that I would be yelling from the rooftops

You glanced at Clark, finding his eyes already on you. The look you shared between you was yet another private moment, but this time there were no cameras around. Clark didn't feel guilty about the headline, nor did he feel ashamed that he'd been caught looking at you like that. He loved you more than life and if the whole world thought that Superman was in love with you, then he was okay with that. He was Superman, after all.

He reached for your hand and squeezed gently, drawing a smile from you that melted any lingering worry about being on the front page.

Lois leaned back in her chair. "Hey, I have a question."

"Shoot," you said.

"Would you leave Clark for Superman?"

[starsswirl]

I have a boyfriend!

clark kent (2025) x reader

summary: even when the most super man saves you, you can’t help but run to find your boyfriend who you love so much

warnings: none that i can think of…guilty thoughts maybe?

a/n: first fic posted….kinda nervous. i hope you guys like it! i did not proof read so deeply so if things are every where im sorry.

It was a day like any other…except it really was not in all honesty. You do not really know how to put it but for some reason the entire day has felt kind of off.

From the moment you woke up to writing your usual article for the Daily Planet to even lunch with Clark, you could not shake the feeling that today was different.

Oh Clark.

Maybe it was a 6th sense of his or something, but he always seems to know exactly what it takes to make you feel better.

Up too late last night for no good reason? He puts a cup of coffee on your desk the first minute you even walk through the Daily Planet doors. Always perfectly made.

While he also brings coffee for other people in the bullpen, yours is specially made. You have chalked it up to be that he’s really observant to you specifically. You do not even have to tell him how you felt like drinking your coffee each day, his 6th sense already knows.

Hot and from the pot. Iced with enough creamer and sugar to get just the right mix of sweet and bitter. Caramel. Vanilla. A dash of cinnamon.

He even once brought a frappuccino on those weird days where you craved something out of the ordinary. Oddly enough the nearest coffee shop that sells frappes is 5 blocks down.

Nonetheless, you still savored the drink and told yourself to give Clark a big hug the next time you got a chance.

Today is another one of those ‘out of the ordinary’ days. For some reason you craved tea. Iced tea. Raspberry iced tea if you were going to go into the specifics.

Which brings us to now.

You currently waiting on Clark to bring lunch. Staring at your computer as if the paragraphs for your article would magically appear, instead of having to use your brain to actually put words and sentences together.

Over time, you cannot remember exactly how it started, you both officially unofficially deemed Fridays to be deli days. One of you, or both if you guys had the time, would get sandwiches and chips from the deli down the block to eat together for lunch.

Soon enough Clark comes through the door and walks over to your desk, careful not to trip or bump into people as he quickens his pace.

You are happy to his usual charming smile and messy hair. Your stomach is happy to see the paper bag in his arms full of food. You catch a small glimpse of something in his hand but it couldn’t be what you think it is. Could it?

Oh but it is. His 6th sense is at it again!

“I felt like you could use a small pick me up, so I got this for you. I remember you said that you liked raspberry iced teas, hopefully I remembered correctly,” Clark says hopeful as he sets the drink down carefully on the coaster of your desk.

He is just mindful like that.

“Oh you definitely did. Thank you so much, Clark,” you beam back at him before quickly taking a sip of the tea, letting it refresh your body and mind.

He slides a chair over and sets out the food. We eat together for a moment before curiosity rears its head. You can’t help but ask.

“How do you always know what I want to drink?”

“I just know you,” he says as if the answer made all the sense in the world.

“Know me? It’s like you read my mind somehow. I know you and sometimes I still forget little things.”

Clark lets out a small grin at the corners of his mouth while taking a sip of his water.

“Don’t sweat it, love. You can’t help it if you have the memory of an elderly person. But I still want to be with you just the same.”

“Was that an insult or a compliment?” you ask furrowing my eyebrows.

“Both. But you know how I have a soft spot for sweet old ladies so it’s more of a compliment anyways.”

“You confuse me sometimes,” you say chuckling while shaking your head.

Clark, seemingly at the sight of your laughter, breaks out into a smile of his own.

A moment passes and you both go back to eating in comfortable silence.

Another reason why you love Clark so much, he understands that you do not have to fill every quiet moment with words or noise.

You are happy that you can just exist side by side without feeling the need to fill the time with activities or mundane talk about the weather.

You are especially happy he understands that whenever you’re sick or feeling down, that sometimes you just need quiet to feel better.

You were cut off from you thoughts when you hear Clark clearing his throat next to me.

“So, love…do you maybe wanna come over after work to watch movies and eat a butt load of popcorn together?”

He asks hesitantly, it was as if he was asking you on a first date, but his hesitancy just makes you admire him more.

You’ve been on countless dates with and have even been officially together for 5 months now. There really was no reason for him to be nervous, but you still love that he does.

“Definitely. But I get to choose the movie this time okay? The last one you chose left me with a small existential crisis once it ended.”

“Yeah yeah. Of course, love. I will even made the popcorn exactly the way you like it,” Clark says with a certain nod.

“You do that anyways, Clark. Don’t try to fool me.”

He presses a quick, warm kiss to your cheek and pulls back smiling. You can’t help the bashful blush filling your cheeks, but you can help the condiment residue on your cheek he left from his sandwich by wiping it off.

“Eww, sloppy kisses do not mean they have to actually be sloppy.”

Time passes and the sun has just set below the horizon. There is still light in the sky but it’s dwindling by the minute.

Clark has made it clear that he does not like it when you go out in the city alone at night, fretting something bad would happen and he won’t be able to protect you.

Clark: I’m out of popcorn so I’m at the store to get some more. I should be back by the time you get here. Be careful, okay?

You were in the middle of texting him ‘I’ll be just fine’ before a big explosion erupts from behind. Debris sprinkle down around like snow as you turn around to see a giant, robust alien lying in a crater shaped hole in the road.

At first you couldn’t believe your eyes. It looked almost like a pufferfish and a frog made a giant baby. For some reason, whether it be reflexes or just not thinking clearly, you stay in place observing the alien creature 50 feet away.

With only the street lights and window light to help see, you couldn’t get a good enough look to grasp what the alien might want or what its intentions are.

It’s as if other people around are going through the same effect as they are stopped in their place to watch the creature writhe in its spot.

Maybe the alien has some sort of hypnosis powers to draw other life forms closer. Closer for what? You don’t know. But you don’t care at this point because you cannot even think clearly. Your mind is only telling yourself to get closer.

Suddenly out of nowhere, the alien begins inhaling. It is not the kind of soft, natural inhale that most creatures on earth do. It’s powerful. It’s as if it was a giant vacuum sucking everything in the aliens vicinity.

It starts with small debris, as if a big gust of wind supposedly carried the scraps of trash or fallen leaves into the aliens mouth. But then bigger things begin to get inhaled.

People cry out as they get pulled closer and closer to the mouth of the alien. Mere human strength cannot win against the sheer force of the air.

It’s as if a snap happened and you were knocked out of your hypnosis like everybody else. You were instantly put in fight or flight reflex mode.

You chose flight….obviously.

But when you chose that option, you didn’t mean to literally fly. Your legs are running but when you glance down at the ground the pavement is moving the wrong way.

This is why you’ve felt off the entire day. The universe was sending you a premonition that something big and different would happen. Except when you thought of big and different, you thought maybe one of your articles would finally be approved by Perry to go on the front page.

You did not think of a literally big alien that is different from anything you have ever seen before. Then it hits you.

You are getting swept away into the mouth of a stupid alien! Fear courses through you as you scream for help. You weren’t supposed to be here. You weren’t supposed to be 10 feet away from your imminent death. You were supposed to be at an apartment blocks away from here in the comforting arms of your boyfriend, watching a movie that makes you both laugh.

You close your eyes and brace yourself until

*Thud*

You were back on the ground. Fallen face first onto the pavement. Albeit the fall was 3 feet from the ground at most, so you maybe got a small bruise or scratch. Most likely got a little dirty so no pain was caused, only confusion.

You sit up to see a giant boulder in the aliens mouth preventing any more vacuum forced wind and a flying Superman above the alien.

Superman seems focused, mentally going through the right thing to do with the alien. This is until his eyes flicker to you just for a moment and you could almost swear they softened just for a second.

You don’t allow yourself to brew on that moment for too long before you watch Hawkgirl, Green Lantern, and Metamorpho carry away the alien to observe it and what not.

“Do you need help miss?”

The powerful voice booms above you as you look up and see an outstretched hand offered to you. The hand it belongs to is none other than Superman.

He flashes a warm smile and you almost just almost get lost in it until you check back into reality.

“Oh no. I’m fine,” you say as you take his hand.

Superman helps you up in one swift motion throwing you off guard for just a moment before you steady yourself back on your legs. Accessing the state of your injuries, or the lack thereof anything significant, Superman keeps a firm grip on your waist as his eyes scan over every little detail of you.

He is close. Awfully close. Close enough to feel the deep exhales from his lungs on your face. Close enough to feel the warmth radiating off of him like you’ve just came inside from playing in the snow and he’s a warm fireplace. Close enough to want him to wrap his big strong arms around you and protect you from the dark world.

As if a 6th sense, Superman softly rubs his thumb in circles to soothe you. Beginning to think of how it was a nice coincidence he knew exactly what would make you feel better, you remember someone else who has that perfect 6th sense too.

Clark!

You quickly snap yourself out of the comforting trance of Superman’s presence. Guilt silently eats at you from the inside How could you even think of being in the arms of someone else when you felt you already had the most perfect boyfriend?

Eagerly you pull his hands off of your body and put quite a few feet of space between you two. You had to get to Clark.

Superman’s face twists into something unreadable with the added distance. His hands hold out for just a moment as if he was so close to pulling you back within his reach. His expression seems to falter for just a second. Was it sadness? Longing? Rejection even?

You do not let yourself ponder over it for too long before you squeak out.

“Thanks for the help but I should get going!”

You internally cringe of the way you said it. Too quickly and too much as if you are trying to avoid something or rather someone.

Which you are. But Superman does not know to know that you are actively trying to get away from him. That would be just rude.

“You have a scratch. On your cheek,” Superman says almost under his breath.

“Oh! It’s okay! You should go attend to other people. I am sure they need your help more than I do.”

You turn on your feet and briskly walk away. Unfortunately, you did not get farther than possibly 10 feet before a warm hand interlocks with yours.

“Everybody else is already taken care of. Please let me take care of you.”

Your heart beats faster at the thought of Superman doting on you. The Superman wanting to tend to your injuries? That is practically everybody’s dream come true.

But you quickly push those thoughts away. Clark is who you should be thinking about right now. He is probably worried sick, wondering what is taking me so long to get to his apartment.

The picture of his anxious face is enough to push you to get to his apartment as fast as you can. To kiss away the frown in his face and tell him you are alright. That is what you want most out of everything else in the world.

“I have a boyfriend!”

Your sudden blurt of declaration has Superman’s grip waver for just a moment. And a moment is all you need really to tear your hand free.

Then you book it. Running as fast as you can away from him and to Clark.

It takes you one whole second to remember you, a regular human, is running away from a meta human. A meta human who can fly and move faster than anything you have ever seen before.

You wait for the inevitable stop again, to be held up by a blue flash infront of your eyes. But it never happens. With a quick turn of your head you see him in the exact same spot where you left him.

He does not look like he has any intention of going after me. He does not even look too upset or rejected that you began running. Maybe even a small look of pride.

Superman is respectful towards taken women. Good to know. Not surprising really based on everything else he stands for, but it is still nice to be reassured about it.

Even with the knowledge that nobody is running after you, you do not slow your steps in the slightest. The urge and anticipation to see your boyfriend is too high to tire you out.

You almost even run into the door from the momentum you were running down his apartment hallway. Stopping yourself just in time to knock on his door and speak between big breaths of air.

“Clark!..Are you in there?..It’s me….You will never guess what just happened to me!”

With an ear to the door you try to hear for any movement inside. Nothing. Maybe he did not hear you at first. So you knocked again.

“Clark!”

Right before you could yell out something along the lines of ‘you better not be asleep,’ the door swings open and your beautiful boyfriend is there in all his nerdy glory.

The biggest smile over takes you as you instinctively jump into his arms. Lips pressing everywhere you can reach. He catches you as if you weigh no heavier than a balloon but holds you as if he just came back from war and this is the first time seeing each other in years.

Forget Superman. Why would you want a guy who focuses on the entire world when you have someone right here just for you?

“I missed you sooo much, Clark”

“What brought this? Not that I did not miss you too because I did. But you usually aren’t this affectionate. Not that I am complaining either,” Clark chuckles out between your kisses as he carries you over to the couch.

He leaves for a moment before sitting down and softly placing a bandaid on your cheek. A soft kiss laid on the bandage before he pulls you in his lap, keeping you comfortable on top of him. He makes no effort to pull you away, his arms tighten around you as if he just can’t get close enough.

You look around and notice the TV on and a bowl of popcorn perfectly popped ready just for us. Beside the bowl are two steaming cups of hot chocolate with just the perfect amount of marshmallows on top.

Hot chocolate never even grazed your mind, but seeing the cups there in all their glory makes your mouth water. He just knows how to make a night perfect. Your heart warms because it is truly times like these where you appreciate your boyfriend the most.

Clark’s 6th sense strikes once as he lays a blanket over you, perfectly cocooning you two together in warmth and love. Oh how you love his 6th sense that makes you feel so special and seen. Oh how you love Clark so much.

Turning around, your back is pressed against his front and he tucks his chin on your shoulder.

“What do you want to watch tonight, love?”

You put on a comfort movie of yours. Every now and then throughout the movie you glance up to see Clark paying deep attention to the movie as if he is really wanting to enjoy something you enjoy too.

It is what he always does anyways. He takes everything that makes you, you and memorizes it to heart. You cannot imagine someone who knows you better than him. You don’t even know yourself better than him sometimes.

And you would not change it or replace him for anything else in the world. No, the universe. There is truly nothing better than a close encounter with death and Superman to help you cherish what you have right infront of you.

Clark. Your Clark.

“I love you,” you utter, gazing into his eyes.

“I love you too. So so much.”

Lips connect. Soft and sweet and reverent. Like every thing else about Clark. In the way he holds you like you are the most valuable thing in the world. In the way he looks at you as if you are the literal sun. In the way he loves you like nothing you have ever seen or read about before.

And in that moment you know deep in your heart that this is where you belong. Whether tragedy strikes or the greatest wonder happens.

Clark is where you are supposed to be.

[honeypiehotchner]

the other man (clark kent x fem!reader) -- one shot

I saw Superman twice in one week so it is absolutely no surprise that I had to write a lil silly goofy one shot!! (I don't want to promise anything but I might write more for him aka some smut bc THE VOICES!!!!)

Warnings: angst, being stood up, this fic made me giggle a lot, fluffy + happy end!

Summary: You think Clark is seeing someone else. That someone? Superman.

WC: 4.7k!

You watch, miserably, as the clock ticks past the time Clark said he’d be here to pick you up for dinner. He’s always late for work, so, you think, five minutes past is fine. Until it’s ten. Until it’s twenty. Until it’s forty-five. Until you’re taking your shoes off, changing into sweatpants, and taking off your makeup.

It shouldn’t surprise you, it really shouldn’t. Though this was supposed to be your first date, it isn’t the first time Clark has mysteriously canceled plans, or promised to meet you somewhere and not shown, sending a text instead to say he can’t make it.

Like clockwork, you hear your phone buzz. You don’t even grace it with a glance. You know it’s Clark, apologizing for needing to cancel. It’s fine.

It probably wasn’t even meant to be a date, it just seemed like it might be. It was the first time the plans included him picking you up rather than the two of you meeting somewhere. It was the first time a reservation had been made at this tiny little restaurant the two of you always passed together and always said, “We should go in there.” It was the first time he had said, though you thought it was kind of a joke, or at least not totally serious because it is a phrase people use without meaning it literally, “It’s a date.”

You grab your tub of ice cream from the freezer and a spoon, not even bothering with a bowl. You step out onto your fire escape and plop down, stabbing the ice cream with your spoon.

On the next escape over, your neighbor’s orange cat licks his paws, ears perking when he hears you. 

“I sure know how to pick ‘em, eh, Lou?” you scoff, licking the ice cream off your spoon. “Why can’t I just sleep all day like you?”

Lou trills and lays his head down with a big sigh. All you can think is me too, buddy. Me too.

You eventually drag yourself inside after eating half the tub, figuring you shouldn’t eat all of it tonight. Clark will be at work tomorrow and you’ll have to face him -- and his apologies, that are, frankly, starting to get old -- so you’ll probably want that other half tomorrow night.

Before you crawl into bed, you finally give your phone a look, seeing it’s just as you expected. Clark is apologizing. Apparently Superman was fighting something and wrecked Clark’s route to get to your place. Rain check? He asked. And then, just a few minutes ago, Please?

You read them but you don’t reply. You don’t have it in you.

It’s always Superman. 

That’s his excuse. It’s always Superman did this or Superman did that, and you honestly think you’ve reached your limit for Superman-related excuses. You mean, sure, the guy has saved the city countless times, and he makes sure there is minimal damage both to civilians and to the city, but why is Clark always bringing him up? He’s always interviewing him, too, and you have no idea how, because as far as you’re concerned, Superman just shows up when the day needs saving.

Not that you’re complaining, because you’re not. You’d much rather the day be saved than some monster from another planet destroy everything you’ve ever loved. You just.

You’re not jealous of a superhero. You are not.

And yet, the more you try to tell yourself that, the more it seems like you’re not convinced at all. 

You bury your face into the pillow with a groan. You can’t compete with Superman. You’re you. No wonder Clark is always making excuses to cancel on plans with you. If the options were you and Superman, you’d pick him, too.

God, how did you not see it before? You never thought Clark was interested in men, but clearly he is -- which is fine, you have no problem with it, you just wish he had said it to your face instead of these vague messages and signals.

Or maybe they haven’t been that vague, you’ve just been too blind to see it. Maybe the excuses were his way of trying to politely and gently tell you he wasn’t interested, and you just weren’t getting it. That doesn’t seem like something Clark would do, because he does seem the type to tell you to your face in a direct, but not unkind, way. But still. Maybe he’s been trying to let you down easy this whole time, and you’ve been a fool, believing his excuses, and thinking nothing of them.

You can be so ridiculous sometimes. 

+++

You barely sleep. Between crying and being frustrated with yourself for it and tossing and turning every five seconds, you think you manage a measly four hours of actual sleep. You know you look a complete state, but after half an hour of trying to mask it with makeup, you give up.

You stop for coffee on your way in, grabbing one for Lois too, because the coffee at The Daily Planet is…well, it’s really not coffee at all. You feel like you’re insulting all coffee by calling it that. You can hardly stomach it even with all the sugar Lois pours in it.

“Rough night?” the doorman asks when he sees you still have your sunglasses on.

You flash a tight smile, knowing he means well. “Yeah, you could say that.”

He winces. “I’m sorry, kid.”

“It’s alright,” you wave him off, handing him a doughnut. You had meant to eat it, but truthfully, you’re already feeling nauseous. “Here.”

He accepts it with a smile. You head into the newsroom, spotting Jimmy hunched over his desk and Lois looking up at you with a smile that quickly morphs into an alarmed expression.

You, like a fool, had told her about your “date” with Clark. And you, like an idiot, had forgotten until this exact moment that you had told her.

God, you should’ve called in sick.

“Hey,” she says gently, joining you at your desk. “How’d it go last night?”

You let out a weak laugh. “It didn’t, so.”

Her eyes widen. “What happened?”

You hand off her coffee to her with a shrug. “He canceled. Said something about Superman fighting something, I don’t know, I--” You shake your head, bringing your coffee to your lips. “I didn’t answer his texts.”

“He didn’t even call?”

You shake your head again, finally working your sunglasses off the bridge of your nose. “Be honest, how red do my eyes look?”

Lois tilts her head with a sad smile. “Noticeable.”

You snort. “Thanks, Lois.” You expected nothing less from her. “Do me a favor, when he comes in-- if he comes in, tell him I lost my voice or something?”

Her eyes dart to the side and she grimaces. “I don’t think that’ll work. What about if I punch him instead?”

You let out another laugh. Thank God you have Lois. “Why not? Go for it.”

She doesn’t, though the look she gives Clark might as well be lethal when he comes silently walking over to your desk, looking every bit the role of a kicked puppy.

“Hi,” he says quietly. He’s well over six-foot tall, but right now he looks half that. You don’t know if you find comfort in it or not. “Apology coffee? You’ve already got one, but I thought…well, I know you like it, so, here.” He places it on your desk. “I have an apology croissant, too, if that’ll help, I just-- I’m really sorry.”

You offer a smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes, and it kind of hurts to even pretend. “Thanks. Don’t worry about it.”

He makes a pained noise, opening his mouth, his lips already forming your name, but you shake your head at him. Jimmy calls out to him with some joke and you focus back on your notes, hoping he’ll get the hint. He does.

You watch out of the corner of your eye as Clark crowds into his desk chair, and you try to get some work done.

Every word you write sounds wrong, and even the edits you make to Jimmy’s piece are complete crap -- and you tell him so in your apologetic email back to him. He asked for your help and instead he got…whatever that was.

It doesn’t help that you can practically feel Clark looking at you all wistful and sad, and you really don’t understand it. Why is he so bothered by your mood if he’s seeing someone else? Shouldn’t he be relieved that you finally got the hint? It only took it being a bright neon sign smacking you square across the nose, but you’ve got it now. Clark just doesn’t see you in that way, and that’s fine. You just wish he had enough guts to say that to your face, but it’s fine. It doesn’t really matter. The date never happened, so the two of you never “dated,” therefore he owes you nothing. It’s fine.

Except, it’s not fine, because your eyes are burning from never moving them from your computer screen, your head hurts from having only had caffeine all morning and no food, and you really wish Clark would stop looking at you.

Lunch is a nightmare, but the food does help. Clearly your blue mood has gone noticed by, well, everyone because Jimmy buys your sandwich and Perry gives you an extension on the piece you should’ve turned into him by the end of today. Lois acts a bit like a protective shield, talking to you about her piece and asking Very Important questions, even glaring at Clark when he tries to interject.

The end of the day can’t come fast enough, and you’re gathering your things and scrambling out of there before anyone can catch up. You think.

Because then you’re halfway down the sidewalk and you hear someone calling your name, someone whose voice sounds suspiciously like the person you least want to speak to right now.

Tears are springing to your eyes because they’re burning from staring at a screen and you’re just so tired. You just want to eat the rest of your ice cream and go to bed. You just want to ignore Clark for the rest of the week, or at least until he admits to your face that he’s seeing someone else and didn’t know how to let you down easily. You just want this day to be over.

“Wait! Wait up! Ple-- Sorry! Please!”

You stop dead in your tracks in the middle of the sidewalk, tilting your head toward the sky. You compose yourself and turn around just in time to see Clark dodging all the people and nearly tripping and falling over in the process of trying to reach you. He exhales in relief when he sees you’ve stopped to wait for him.

“Hey,” he breathes, pushing his glasses up onto his nose as he skids to a stop in front of you. “Are you-- Did you see my messages last night?”

You chuckle without meaning to, and his eyebrows furrow. “Yeah, Clark, I saw them.”

All around you, people move on the sidewalk, heading home, parting for the two of you when you wish they’d carry you away like a riptide.

“Can we-- Sorry,” he steps out of the way of someone else, moving closer to you in the process. “Can we try again? Tonight?”

It’s tempting, you admit, to agree and go somewhere with him right now. Because he’s right in front of you. Because you know he’d make it if you two go right now, together.

But you know it’s not where he really wants to be.

“No,” you shake your head. “It’s okay. We don’t have to.”

He frowns, adjusting the strap on his bag. “But I want to.”

Do you? You want to ask, but you don’t. Instead, you give him a sad smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Clark. Have a good night.”

Just like that, you disappear into the crowd, and even with all his might, Clark can’t seem to find you.

+++

Things go back to normal. Kind of. Mostly. Sort of.

Clark keeps bringing “apology coffee” as he calls it, and if it weren’t for the jet fuel they try to say is coffee at Daily Planet, then you might tell him to stop. But you don’t. You accept each cup with a smile, and dodge all of his questions expertly.

He still comes in late, and he still blames it on Superman. The two of you have a standing hang out at a museum in the city every month, but this time you cancel before he can. It feels cruel, doing it when you have no real reason to, but you can’t bring yourself to leave your apartment and hang out with him when your feelings are so obviously unrequited.

He does another interview with Superman. You try not to turn your nose up at it.

It’s awkward, this new air about your friendship with Clark. It’s tense. You can tell he wants to ask you about it, to ask about another raincheck maybe, but he never does. You don’t know what you’d say if he did.

It comes to a head when you cancel on yet another standing hang out the two of you have, using feeling sick as an excuse this time, and Clark just won’t let it go.

Can I bring you some soup? Tissues?

I’m fine, you tell him. Just need to sleep, that’s all.

He texts something else, but you don’t reply. You lay on the couch in front of your TV and shovel pretzels into your mouth in between sips of coffee -- that you definitely shouldn’t be drinking this late, but you don’t care.

You’re jolted from your stupor when you hear knocking on your door. Knocking that you know, unmistakably, is Clark.

You debate faking sleep until he goes away. But you can’t quite bring yourself to do it.

So, you wrap a blanket around your shoulders and answer your door.

“Clark?” you croak. It’s a weak -- and honestly awful -- attempt to fake being ill, but it’s all you’ve got. “What are you doing here?”

“I brought soup,” he says innocently, holding up the takeaway containers. “Your favorite, from the place down the street. And some, ah, bread, tissues, pain medicine, cough syrup-- You didn’t answer, so I went a little crazy at the store,” he says with a sheepish smile, holding up the grocery bag that is nearly bursting with cold remedies. “Can I come in?”

“Sure, but I’m just,” you clear your throat, half from your act and half from emotion clawing at your windpipe from him being so sweet, “watching TV and dozing.”

“I won’t stay long,” he promises. “Just want to make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m fine, Clark.”

He narrows his eyes in what you hope is a playful manner. “I don’t believe you.”

You let him inside with a sigh, retreating to the couch. He can probably tell you aren’t really sick, and he’s probably just being nice by not calling you out on it.

You hear the rustling in the kitchen as he puts things away and then as he pours a glass of water that you think is for himself, until he sets it down in front of you. He sits in the chair beside your couch, clasping his hands together and looking at the floor instead of you.

“You’re not really sick, are you?”

His voice is timid, and a bit hurt. Like he’s upset you’re lying to him and he can’t figure out why you’re doing it, but he sort of has an idea.

“What gave me away?” you chuckle bitterly. “My brilliant acting?”

“You never drink coffee when you’re sick,” he says seriously, nodding to your cup. “It’s how I know when you’re not feeling good.”

You blink. You hadn’t expected that answer, let alone the fact that he would notice something like that. “Oh.”

“What’s going on?” he asks desperately, finally looking up at you, and why are his eyes glassy? “I miss my best friend. We used to talk every day, but ever since that dinner--”

“That you stood me up for,” you remind him, the words leaving your lips before you can stop them and, as a result, having a bit more heat behind them than you want them to.

“I know, but I--” He wrings his hands, the words getting caught in his throat. “I’m sorry, I-- It was Superman! He was fighting, and it was everywhere--”

“Oh my God, Clark, it’s always Superman,” you laugh, not necessarily at him, but maybe you are. It’s cruel, but it hurts, the way he keeps dragging this out. “It’s always Superman destroyed the train or Superman--”

“Because he is! He’s keeping the city safe, but sometimes that means he’s--”

“Clark, stop it,” you turn your entire body toward him, giving him a look. “I know.”

He freezes, stutters, starts. He pushes his glasses up on his nose, his blue eyes wide behind the lenses. “You know?” 

You nod. “You don’t need to keep lying to me. I’ll keep your secret. I just wish you had told me first, you know?”

He chuckles awkwardly, shaking his head. “I just-- I wasn’t sure how you’d react, and--”

“I don’t care that you’re dating him, Clark,” you interject, a small smile creeping onto your lips. “It’s cute, actually.”

He blinks, opens his mouth, shuts it again. Opens it. “Wait.” He tilts his head, smiles a little. “You-- What?”

“Come on, it’s obvious!” you start to grin from the sheer absurdity of it. “You’re always getting interviews with him when he won’t do an interview with literally anyone else! And you’re always talking about him, always defending his actions and defending him when Jimmy makes a joke about him! You don’t need to be ashamed of it, I mean, I know the two of you probably can’t be public about your relationship, obviously, but--” 

Clark says your name, tries to get a word in, tries to tell you to stop and that you’ve got it all wrong, but you keep going. “Seriously, it’s fine. You don’t need to hide it, not from me at least.”

“Right. Um.” He shakes his head, laughs. “I should-- I’m gonna go.”

“Go,” you shoo him away. “I’m fine, seriously. Go spend time with your hot superhero boyfriend.”

Clark’s cheeks go pink at that, which is basically all the confirmation you need, and you giggle after him, feeling much lighter now that the truth is finally out in the open.

Once Clark leaves, you finish your coffee and search your freezer for some more ice cream. Thankfully, you have a little bit left -- you sort of stocked up on it when The Incident happened -- and you head out onto the fire escape to enjoy the night air.

“Well, hello there,” you reach down and pet Lou’s head. He rarely sleeps on your fire escape, but today is one of those days.

He’s not all that interested in the space once you’re sharing it with him, though, so you watch him scurry away to your neighbor’s fire escape and you roll your eyes after him. Typical.

It’s strange, being on the other side of it now. Sure, it still stings a little, but come on, you can’t compete with Superman. And Clark seems happy. As his friend, you should want nothing more than to see him happy.

And you do. You do want that. Even if it’s a little sad that he can’t be that happy with you. But you’re sure the sting of it will go away in time, as will the crush you have on him.

You’re enjoying the sunset and your ice cream, still laughing to yourself in slight disbelief about Clark and Superman when the latter flies in front of you.

Your spoon clatters onto the metal stairs, scaring Lou and yourself shitless. Superman, however, floats in front of you, unfazed.

“Um,” you come up empty in the words department. You have no clue what to say to your friend’s boyfriend who is also a metahuman who you also, up until about half an hour ago, felt ridiculously jealous of. “Hi?”

“Hello,” Superman replies, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He gestures to the empty space beside you. “Do you mind if I…?”

“Oh! Not at all.” You stand up and step to the side, and Superman takes up every bit of the free space. “Look, if this is about you and Clark--”

Superman laughs, the sound light and airy coming from such a large man. “It’s not about me and Clark-- Well, I guess it kind of is.”

“I won’t tell anyone, I promise!” You hold up your right hand as if you’re swearing before a court, your left hand still holding onto the now-melting ice cream. “Actually, should we go inside? Should we be, you know,” you lower your voice, “talking about your relationship out in the open?”

He chuckles again. “Sure, let’s go inside, if that’s okay with you?”

If that’s okay with you. Of course it’s fine, even if a bit weird, and where is Clark? If he went and told Superman that you know about them, why didn’t he just come back with him?

“Sorry for the mess,” you call out as you head through the living room into the kitchen to put the ice cream away. “I wasn’t feeling well,” you grimace, the lie just sounding stupid now, but you’ve said it, so.

You shut the freezer and spin around to find Superman standing in your kitchen, and on the counter next to him are…Clark’s glasses?

You roll your eyes, muttering, “Did he seriously leave these here?” But you swear you saw him leave with them on. “Wait. Is he here?”

“He is,” Superman replies, picking up the glasses and opening them. He laughs, almost only to himself, before working the frames onto the bridge of his nose.

“What are you--?” You blink and narrow your eyes, watching Superman’s face become…Clark’s? That makes no sense. Those are Clark’s glasses, and this is Superman standing in front of you. Two completely different people. “Wait, but--”

“I’m not dating Superman,” Clark, or Superman, says with an amused smile. “I am Superman.”

“But you--” You shake your head, still reeling from the fact that Clark’s face is on Superman’s body. “But you said--”

“I didn’t think you’d believe me without the suit,” Clark explains, dragging the glasses off his nose and setting them down. “You seemed pretty convinced that I was dating him.”

“What else was I supposed to think?” you cry. “You stood me up and blamed it on him!”

Clark-- Superman’s face twists up in genuine remorse. “I know, I’m sorry, and I wanted to make it up to you, but you just kept getting further and further away, until I didn’t even know if you wanted to be my friend anymore.”

“Of course I want to be your friend, Clark, I just,” you shake your head, a bout of dizziness coming over you. You rub your forehead with your fingertips. “Sorry, I don’t--”

“Shoot, no, I’m sorry, here, let’s get you to the couch.”

You have no clue what he’s sorry for, but you let him help you over to the couch all the same. The dizziness passes and you look up at him, at the bright red and blue of his suit, and the fact that he looks like Clark but doesn’t at the same time.

“I don’t usually take them off and on so much around people,” he explains. “They’re these glasses that Four made for me, so I could still have a normal life. They make my face look a little different.”

You nod slowly, because sure, yeah, makes sense, why not?

“I’m really sorry I didn’t tell you sooner,” he says, cramming himself into the same chair he was in before, but somehow, now it looks like he doesn’t quite fit. “I thought I was keeping you safe by not telling you, but then I saw how sad you were, and--” He cuts himself off, shaking his head. “I don’t ever wanna be the reason you’re crying, or frowning, or anything like that. I wasn’t thinking.”

You stare at him, at your best friend, at Superman sitting before you with such an obvious ache in his chest over you being sad, and you can’t help but smile.

“Come here,” you tell him, patting the open space next to you on the couch. 

Timidly, he stands and walks over to join you, just narrowly avoiding knocking over the coffee table. 

“Sorry,” he whispers, plopping down beside you with a giddy, albeit sheepish, smile.

You throw your arms around his neck, clinging to him, taking a deep breath into his neck. He smells the same as Clark, but slightly different. It’s the suit, you think, but regardless, he smells good. Familiar. Safe.

“I take it you’re not mad at me anymore?” he asks, his arms finally tightening their hesitant hold on you when you don’t let go.

You snicker into his hair, pressing a kiss to his cheek before pulling back to look at him. “I was never mad at you, Clark. It’s impossible for me to be. I was just…sad. I thought we were finally going somewhere, finally getting over ourselves and going on a date, so when that didn’t happen, I just…” You shrug, realizing now that just because he’s told you the truth about who he is doesn’t necessarily mean the two of you are going to date.

He frowns again, one hand coming up to cup your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek. “I’m sorry,” he says again, fingertips grazing your own frown lines and furrowed brows. “I should’ve told you a long time ago.”

“It’s fine,” you murmur, peeling yourself off of him with a little smile that can’t figure out if it wants to be sad or not. “I can’t imagine that you’ve told anyone else.”

“Ma and Pa know,” he says. Then, with a grimace, he adds, “And…Lois.”

“Lois?” you lean away from him. “Lois knows?”

“Only because she figured it out and confronted me one day after work!” he rushes to explain. “She had connected the same dots as you did, except,” he pauses to laugh, “instead of assuming I was dating him, she figured we were the same person. But I told her she couldn’t tell anyone, no matter what.”

You understand that. It’s his secret to share after all, but still. She didn’t even try to defend him once when you told her that he stood you up. She seemed so angry with him on your behalf that you assumed it was for that reason alone.

“If it helps,” Clark lets out a sheepish chuckle, scratching the back of his neck, “she threatened me quite a lot when I told her I hadn’t told you yet.”

That causes you to bark out a laugh. “Why?”

“Because she knows I like you. A lot. It’s embarrassing, honestly, or she tells me it is,” he smiles. “Apparently I uh, looked like a kicked puppy when you wouldn’t talk to me that day.”

You giggle at that, having had the exact same thought. “Yeah, you did.”

“Well,” he breathes, like he’s psyching himself up. “Can I have that raincheck now?”

You hum, trying and failing to tuck the stray curl on his forehead back with the rest of his hair. When it falls back down defiantly, you smile. “Depends. Can we work around your saving-the-world schedule?”

“We can,” he says with a firm nod. “I can be flexible. Can I ask another question?”

You lean your arm onto the back of the couch, your palm cradling your head. “Sure.”

“Can I kiss you?” he asks softly. “Or should we wait until after our date?”

You shake your head. “I don’t think I can wait that long.”

“Thank goodness,” he breathes, leaning forward, one arm snaking around your waist. “Me either. But if you had wanted to, obviously I would’ve, I just wanted to ask first--”

“Clark,” you laugh.

“Yeah?”

“Just kiss me.”

He grins then, and you pull him in despite it, both of you a giggling mess through the first kiss that has been months in the making. After so long of dancing around one another -- in more ways than one, you come to realize -- you’re finally holding his face gently, finally kissing him slow and sweet like honey, and his arms are snaking around you, pulling you into him, almost into his lap entirely.

[daisyjonesgf]

let me down easy // finnick odair x f. reader

based off this blurb

summary: finnick pushed himself away, isolated himself, and you're slipping through his fingers like sand.

masterlist

3.8k words

warnings: angst, a tiny bit of fluff at the end, a little smutty but also very brief, mental illness, insecurity, paranoia, allusions to cheating (no one is actually cheating), slightly mean!finnick, self destructive behavior on all sides, more insecurities, arguments, feeling isolated, slight blood and injury, female rage things, male masturbation, unedited, no use of y/n, brief mentions of vomiting, girls girls all around, annie cresta my beloved being a girl girl, people pleaser reader

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

Once every day had felt like it was full of sunlight, even if there were ups and downs you always had each other by the end of it. Now you weren't even sure if you had yourself, let alone Finnick. Worst of all you had no idea what you'd done wrong, at first you chalked it up to how he'd just returned from the Capitol. But usually his isolation was a day at the most before he'd succumb to your comfort. Instead it had been nearly a month of radio silence.

He stopped the way he'd pepper your face with kisses to wake you up and bring you to the kitchen where he'd have made breakfast, telling you mindless stories about his morning swim. Now if he did anything for you it felt robotic, out of necessity, there was no helping you with your hair, having fun picking out your outfits, he was barely around. Never would you have thought you could be such an outcast in your own home, your own relationship.

At first you'd thought you just weren't doing enough, that he needed some extra love to help him open up. Reluctantly you'd fully wake yourself up when you felt him rise for his swim, take up the position of making him breakfast instead. Busying yourself with his favorites until he returned and you put on your best smile when he did, hopeful it would be somewhat successful.

“Good morning!” You greeted and were met with a confused look, a nod. You'd always hated getting up this early yet here you were and he did nothing.

“I have to take a shower." He muttered and was up the stairs. It was a disappointing resolution, but then your hopes had still been high. So you kept making his favorites throughout the next few days, scattering gifts for him throughout the house, writing notes to hide where he might find them, desperate to show him how much you loved him.

“Where are you going?" Your voice startled him and he slowly turned his head towards you.

Finnick's voice was so dry, rigid, “Fishing."

“Oh, let me get my shoes on, I'll come with!" Bright smiles, you reminded yourself when it felt like wavering.

“I'd rather go alone."

“Right." It wanted to falter so bad, “How long are you gonna be gone? I could make you lunch to go or something."

“I'm okay."

You fidgeted with your fingers, “Yeah, okay, well, um, have fun." Then he was gone, without a kiss, even a hug goodbye. Come to think of it there hadn't been any at all for a while, not even in the morning which is something he'd always do. So after a few days failing with those attempts you'd convinced yourself of a different reason.

“Annie, be honest with me, do you think I'm pretty?" The two of you had been out in the garden of Victors Village and she seemed taken aback.

“Honey, of course you're pretty. You're beautiful, what brought this on?" She dropped what she was doing to look at you.

You darted around the specifics, “What about the way I dress, is it too frumpy?"

“No! There's nothing wrong with anything about you." Her voice was so soft and she felt like the only person you could talk to now that Finnick had pushed himself away from you. “What's going on?"

You felt yourself finally crying all the held back tears you'd hid for the moments alone, “What if he's found someone prettier and more exciting?” You sobbed out and Annie hugged you.

"Finnick worships the ground you walk on, he'd never do that.”

"He barely even talks to me anymore, Annie. It's like I don't exist.”

“He's just going through a rough patch, it's not your fault."

Regardless of what Annie said, you disagreed. He must have had someone else, but you couldn't confront him about it. No, if you did then it would become real and he'd leave you for them. There had to be someone else taking on his hardships and loving him the way he'd once let you. So you bought new makeup, new lingerie, new clothes, tried to feel more attractive, more desirable. Yet it didn't seem like he even noticed.

You'd waited for his return all day, he'd left so early you hadn't even seen him. You made dinner praying that he'd see the effort you made, and find you irresistible once again. Of course, this effort seemed to be in vain.

“Welcome home, Finn!" You greeted when he walked through the front door, pained by the sound of your own faux bubbly voice. You put a plate down in front of his usual seat.

“Thanks." He mumbled and you smiled cheerfully. Perhaps you'd been too solemn and he'd prefer someone who exuded more sunshine-like behavior. “How was your day?" His voice was sharp, curt, but it was a conversation nonetheless. Always better than nothing.

“It was good!" You lied through your teeth, there hadn't been a single moment where your brain hadn't been infested with the thought of him pushing you away, him with someone else. It was something you desiped, you preferred to be in the moment. When you had been confident in yours and Finnick's relationship you could immerse yourself in the company of others, enjoy menial tasks with humming and daydreams, but now the isolation haunted your mind. “Annie and I planted some new flowers and cut some that recently finished blooming. I finally changed our vases out." He didn't even glance around, just kept eating. Your Finnick had always made an effort to look around, praise you for anything you did, he took pride in you, now the only thing he took pride in was being able to avoid you.

He curtly nodded his head in response and you felt like you might snap. Especially as the silence persisted, nothing except the sounds of the house and his fork clinking on the plate. You chewed at your bottom lip, leg bouncing up and down waiting for the smallest bit of conversation, but nothing came. Eventually you shot out of your seat, grabbed your plate, which you were sure you wouldn't be able to stomach, and began cleaning up dinner. Hands gripping each dish so hard as if to contain all the rage you'd been repressing.

“I can clean up." Finnick murmured as he rose.

Being lazy was another thing you thought could be a reason. He did so much for you and whatever you had to offer must not have been enough. Yes, he'd always insisted that you should just be his pretty girl that he could look at when he did the tasks, but in secret he must have just wanted you to resist and do more. So you vehemently shook your head, “No, I've got it!" Your voice was strained and several pitches too high to sound natural.

“It's fine, I can do it.” How dare he have the gall to sound annoyed with you.

“I've got it Finnick, just go to bed!" Or whatever the fuck else is he does to be away from you. You regretted how snappy you were, he wanted someone easy going, not how uptight you were being. But god, hate that man for how he looked like a wounded puppy dog. “Sorry." You muttered, only partially genuine. Harshly grabbing a glass to clean, hands gripping around it, so harshly it seemed that when you went to put it to dry, it shattered in your hand. Your reaction was delayed as you stood there in disbelief, you hated your life, “Fuck.”

Then his hand was on your back and you involuntarily jerked at the contact you hadn't felt for so long. “You're bleeding." How the hell was his voice still so stony, a mystery you'd never know the answer too. It sent tingles up your spine the way his hand was on your back, you missed his touch. He led you to the bathroom where he carefully tended to the cuts in your hand. Carefully taking out the pieces of glass and although you occasionally winced, it was like your brain couldn't comprehend the pain over the buzzing about his hand touching yours. But once he bandaged it up the touch was gone and so was he with a, “I'll clean up."

Fuck him, fuck him, fuck him, fuck him. But you hated being angry with him when he was probably going through something, he'd struggled so much and just needed help. Was it really excusable though when it was tearing you apart to be in all of this. You got up and without a second thought walked straight out the front door. Feet guiding you to the comfort of the beach. Of course it invoked memories of all the better times spent with Finnick, but out here at least you had the ocean. It has started to rain and you didn't care. Walking out into the sea, as far as you could touch, and letting the freedom of the waves surround you. And you screamed, at the sky, at the waters, into the night. Trying so desperately to let go of the aggression, so you could keep trying. Inhaling the salt air before you walked back inside, you could do this. Every relationship had trials and tribulations, but you could be stronger, stick together.

As you were walking back, Finnick was jogging towards you, “Are you okay?" There was actual emotion in his voice, you longed to be privileged to it more often.

“Yeah."

“I thought I… " He trailed off, hand running through his hair. The way he looked like he might cry sparked guilt in you, but also a sick pleasure that he actually cared. “You're gonna get sick." Just as quickly his tone returned to being straight-laced.

You didn't care, if you were sick maybe he would take care of you. So you walked inside and he said nothing. You showered and changed, you'd gotten a new nightgown that left little to the imagination. Maybe you could get a rise out of him, get him to touch you more. But he seemed to be fast asleep by the time you left the bathroom, so you slipped into bed beside him. In the past he'd always sleep with his arms around you, but now you slept beside each other rather than with one another. It left you cold, despite the blankets, which were barely there as he'd always been a blanket hog, which you used to tease him for, but was fine because you were attached to him. Now you laid there and felt yourself crying. You cursed yourself for it, not right now, but you couldn't stop. So you covered your mouth with a hand as you sobbed into it.

The next morning you felt him wake, but there was no energy to make breakfast. You were exhausted and it hadn't made him love you again anyways. So you drifted back off until the sound of floorboards creaking when he returned woke you up. You sat up in bed as he entered the bedroom. “Morning, Finn." The smile you worked hard to maintain was back.

“Morning." He mumbled and then his eyes faltered on you. That's when you remembered the nightgown, it was a relief for something to keep his eyes on you. ‘Love me, even if it's just for my body, love me in some way.’ Your brain begged to no avail. “Shower." He slowly said even though he'd very obviously grown hard.

You felt humiliated, completely embarrassed to be dressed the way you were and him to still not want you. It made you want to cry again, but you had to persist. Rising to get dressed until you heard your name. It took you a second to process that he was moaning it, you were right there and he was getting himself off to the thought of you when he could've just had the actual you. That had to be a new type of low. You hadn't even dared to touch yourself no matter how badly you wanted him because you knew nothing you did could match the things he'd made you feel. Yet here he was, so easily jerking off. There was nothing you could do except seethe as you got ready for your day. At least it was your name and not some other girls.

You were in the kitchen when he walked downstairs, “Going to the market." He announced and you got up from your chair.

“I'm coming too." It wasn't a question.

"No, it's okay. I've just got a couple things to grab.”

"So do I, so I'll just come along to grab them. You don't even have to stick by me, I'm just going.” You were exasperated. Honestly you hadn't left the confines of Victors Village for a while, besides when you tried to recall your look, and this would be a good opportunity to see if he was being honest. There was nothing you really had to get, but at least you'd somewhat had his company.

He said nothing but waited as you put on your sandals and then the two of you set off. The silence was deafening as you two walked, your Finnick would always hold your hand, would've taken you from booth to booth and ramble on endlessly, buy anything you glanced at with interest, but now he stood too far away for your hands to even brush by each other. The bustling of the market was a relief and for the first time in a long time you naturally smiled. Although it was jarring how quickly Finnick put on a smile, made conversation with all these people when he hadn't blessed you with the same thing. In fact, it instantly dampened your mood.

“Haven't seen you in so long, missed seeing that pretty smile!" All your favorite vendors gushed and you'd smile, make small talk. Even if everything made you think of Finnick. When was the last time he'd called you pretty? When was the last time he kissed you?

“You look a little sad, are you alright?" And you'd insist you were just feeling a little under the weather. You'd somewhat kept your distance from Finnick until you saw him laughing with a girl in the market. When was the last time he'd laughed with you? Is this what he did, found pretty girls in the market, charmed them, and went back home with them?

You'd slowly approached and showed fake interest in one of her necklaces. “They're real pearls." She said. She was so pretty, stunning. What did she have that you didn't? You hummed, smiling and without a word, Finnick was handing you money.

‘I don't want your money, I want you to pay attention to me.’ You thought and shook your head, “I don't need your money, Finn." The only thing you'd want from him was something he'd pick out because he wanted to give it to you, something he'd always done if you hadn't been there with him. Showing up at home with little treasures to show off to you. He looked at you quizzically, it wasn't like you had any money of your own on you.

“Is this your girlfriend?" The woman asked, her voice was sweet like sugar, you were too gruff, that's what you were missing.

Right now though, your voice was breathy, anxious. “Yeah." The woman must have been able to sense something off because she looked at you with pity. Finnick left the money on the counter by you regardless of what you said and walked off. You sighed.

“I'm sorry, I didn't know."

You gave a sad smile, “It's okay, not your fault." You picked the money up, ready to go find him.

“He's just a guy, even if he's Finnick Odair, don't let him dim your spark." It should've been encouraging, except you knew you loved him too much to ever leave him.

You found him, chatting and smiling as he bought produce. You missed his smile. “Here." You said quietly, handing him his money.

“Where's the necklace?"

“Didn't need it." You didn't care about needing it, you care that he would rather have you buy things for yourself then make you feel valued.

He huffed, like you were frustrating him, annoying him. “Okay, use it to find something else then. You said you weren't going to stick around me." You couldn't stop yourself from physically recoiling from his venom.

“I just came to tell you I was going home." You said weakly, staring at the ground. “Have fun." Your voice cracked slightly and you didn't even bother looking up as you walked home. Immediately settling yourself into bed where you refused to move. Eventually he came home, something clicked onto the dresser table, the sun went down and you stayed put. When he crawled into bed the most movement you made was flipping onto your side to have the protection of your back facing him.

For days it was a cycle of laying in bed, only rising once he left, usually to stand under the burning hot water in the shower until your skin felt raw. Then immediately returning back to bed. He'd return, put something on the dresser, and you'd stay still. Eventually one night he'd come home and sat at your feet, mattress dipping. “We need to talk."

Your hands clamped over your ears, this was it, he was done with you, all that effort for nothing. The anxiety knotted in your stomach, “I'm gonna be sick." You forced yourself up and found yourself throwing up in the toilet, Finnick holding your hair back.

“Hey, it's okay. It's okay, sweet girl." When you were done you said nothing as you brushed your teeth, praying he would leave and forget whatever bad news he was surely bearing. But he didn't, he waited and sat on the bed, waiting for you. Who exited, arms crossed, trying not to cry.

“Please don't break up with me." It was pathetic to beg for but he stood up, looking bewildered.

“No, no, no, I'm not gonna break up with you, sweet girl. I wouldn't even think of it." His hands cradled your face and you melted into them.

Finally you let the tears fall, "Then what are we talking about?”

"I've been so terrible to you, a terrible partner, a terrible person. I…” He took a deep breath in, "I had a rough time in the Capitol, I always do, especially last time though. And I knew you would be able to tell and try to help, but it was easier for me to just block you out so I didn't have to deal with it. Because it hurts to think about." He was crying and it made your heart ache. "And I took you for granted. I didn't try to be there for you, I was selfish and I can't make up for it enough. I will spend the rest of my life making up for it.”

You were both sobbing and he pressed his forehead to yours. His hands were so warm, his touch was so perfect. "I want to help you.”

"I know.” He pulled his forehead away, putting his hands on your shoulders. "I need you to tell me how you felt. Not the sweet way you usually explain things, be honest, so honest.

You shook your head, “No, it's okay. It was just miscommunication."

“No, I think I nearly broke you and everybody else noticed before I did. I need to know your raw feelings, so I can attempt to make it up to you.” He let go of your shoulders and sat down on the edge of the bed.

"I thought you were cheating on me.” You said quietly, anxiously playing with your fingers. He already looked hurt, "Like you found someone else because I wasn't, I don't know, fun enough, pretty enough, hardworking enough. And you didn't want me to do anything with you ever or notice anything I did for you." You took a deep breath, you could feel yourself getting angrily worked up and he could tell.

“If you're angry, be angry." He said and you obeyed.

“And I bought new clothes for you, changed my makeup routine, smiled more, made all your favorites, woke up earlier, tried to take on burdens and you said nothing. Do you know how lonely I was? How bad that made me feel about myself? One day you weren't letting me lift a finger, telling me you loved me, now pretty I was, and the next I thought I'd never hear any of that again, let alone have you touch me. No kisses, or hugs, you didn't even hold me when we slept! And you were so closed off and sometimes mean on top of that and all I wanted was your attention. Until finally I gave up because at least even if you weren't really with me, I still had you, and I didn't want you to leave me just because I found out there was someone else, which is so fucked. And then I thought, maybe at the very least, he’ll have me for my body, I had new lingerie, I tried and you didn't give a fuck. No, you got yourself off in the goddamn bathroom and I was right here!” Your voice had risen and your inhales were sharp between the ranting, "And everytime I hated what you were doing to me, I'd feel bad because what you've been through is so much worse and I should still try to be there for you. So I tried and then you'd be annoyed with me and it was like torture. And I swear to god, if you ever do that again, I'll leave.” A weight lifted off of your chest and he hugged you.

“I'm so sorry, I won't ever do it again, I love you so much, you're so pretty and kind and I need you in my life." You held onto him like he would slip away, kissing away your tears that were falling even though he was also crying. He held you until the sobbing had mostly subsided, “You know I bought you all these stupid gifts when you were laying there, thinking it would make you feel better, but I don't even think you noticed." He chuckled and you turned your head, not wanting to tear away from him. All you could see was the necklace from where you were standing. “Not that it would've done anything after all the time I spent letting the castle crumble around us.

"Thank you.” It was muttered and then he tried to pull out of the hug which made you whine. Trying to cling on forever.

His hand tilted your chin towards him, “You wanna put one of those sets on that you got for me so I can show you how pretty you are and how sorry I am for neglecting my sweet girl?"

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

sorry y'all angst is my default settings. thank you for reading, comments, likes, reblogs, feedbacks is all super appreciated. asks and requests are open, love you all, sorry again 💋

taglist: @wowzabowza69

[michwritesstuff]

She’s Gonna Save Me (Bridgerton: Benedict Bridgerton)

this is my first ever bridgerton fic! i’ve had such a writer’s block and post grad has been so difficult but listening to music and reading other writers’ works has me feeling inspired! so enjoy my first story in months and first of the new year :)

pairing: female reader (she/her) x Benedict Bridgerton reader x Colin Bridgerton (platonic!)

summary: Benedict contemplates a life pursuing art and living outside the expectations of his family and society. Does he find a wife and settle down or live freely? What happens when he meets someone who can offer him the best of both worlds?

notes/warnings: mention of nudity, alcohol consumption, activities that can be witnessed at Sir Granville’s scandalous studio saoirees…

word count: 2.4k

As the second eldest Bridgerton boy, Benedict never found himself extremely pressured by the standards and expectations of society. Those responsibilities were entrusted upon his brother, Anthony, the Viscount.

Benedict reserved himself to a more romantic life, preoccupied by his love and interest for art.

Attending every event of the season was merely a ploy to keep his mother happy and distracted from the fact that he had no true intention of courting any ladies.

He would drink, laugh, and dance the season away without ever calling on anyone.

Benedict believed that this season wouldn’t be any different.

******

When you first agreed to join your family friends across the Atlantic in London, you didn’t expect that you would be taking part in the ton’s social season.

As the youngest daughter, your brothers married with children and sisters off tending to their new husbands, your father didn’t feel the need to arrange a marriage for social or monetary gain.

Your family was well off in the states, your parents often described as ‘free spirits.’ They had always impressed upon you the importance of appreciating the beauty around you and romanticizing life.

With your mother’s passing, you decided to stay at home with your father, choosing to enjoy a quiet life in the country studying English literature.

Staying with Sir Henry Granville was beyond exciting and allowed you to interact and mingle with the more eclectic members of British society.

You had lasted all but a week before you were called upon by a Miss Lady Danbury.

She had stressed the importance of participating in the social season and the impending judgment of the ton and Queen if you did not participate.

While you never cared much for the opinion of others, you didn’t fancy the idea of being ogled every time you ventured into town.

******

“I heard she was rejected by every suitor.”

“She’s so ugly and unpleasant, a dowry wouldn’t even be worth it.”

“Apparently she’s slightly deformed.”

You couldn’t begin to believe the rumors circulating about you, the American.

You swore that the descriptions were ripped out of a storybook, describing some gremlin crawling from the depths of the earth.

Men and women alike had no problem spreading stories about the young lady joining them for the season.

Worst of all, none of them had even seen you yet. The modiste had made personal house calls, as requested by Lady Danbury.

Now you stood, in front of the carriage, at the first ball of the season, your debut.

You followed behind Sir Henry and Mary Granville, head held high and eyes straight forward as you waded through the ballroom towards Lady Danbury and the Queen.

You heard the whispers and felt the stares as you stood before the queen.

With one leg behind the other and your arms laid at your side, you gently bent your knee and curtsied before her.

She gave you a once over before bowing her head back, a silent approval.

Moving out of the way, you stood at the edge of the dance floor as Lady Danbury approached.

“Miss y/l/n, I do hope you don’t mind that I have taken the liberty of securing you a few gentlemen to fill out your dance card.”

“I expect nothing less from you, Lady Danbury” you smiled back, a teasing tone in your voice.

Your sarcasm and apprehension towards the season had not gone unnoticed by Lady Danbury.

She quite admired your wit and sharp mind, and more than anything, enjoyed the challenge.

******

You were now on your 4th dance of the night; your feet were hurting, and you wanted nothing more than to be curled up with a book.

Fortunately, your current dance partner was not completely awful and was actually quite charming.

Colin Bridgerton.

You had met him once before, in passing, when Lady Danbury had brought you to meet his mother, Violet, and sister, Daphne.

 Apparently, Daphne had been named the Diamond of the season in her first season out on society and married a Duke.

His younger sister, Eloise, was preparing for her first season as well.

However, through your brief encounter with Eloise she did not seem as happy with the matter as her sister and mother were.

You had a feeling she would be a good person to befriend.

“Tell me about yourself Miss y/l/n” Colin inquired.

“Y/N,” you quickly corrected.

“Just Y/N is fine,” you smiled slightly.

“Well Y/N, how are you finding London and the beginning of the season?”

“London, well its quite beautiful. There is so much art, and history, and the architecture is amazing. Truly, I wouldn’t mind getting lost here. And well…this—” you paused, glancing around the ball at all the young women around you.

“May I be frank?” you asked, Colin’s eyebrows raising in surprise.

“Of course, Miss Y/N”

“I slightly detest all of this, my feet hurt, and I’ve been dancing for quite too long. Why would I want to marry someone I’ve met one time?”

Colin was slightly taken aback before grinning wildly.

“You remind me of my sister Eloise,” he stated.

“I’ll take that as a compliment, I quite liked her,” you grinned back.

As the dance ended you curtsied before Colin as he bowed before you.

“I hope you find the person you’re looking for Y/N, but I have a feeling you don’t need all of this to do so.”

You smiled widely and slightly nodded before following him off the dance floor.

“I’ll grab us a drink,” he said before walking away. Your eyes followed his back for a few seconds before scanning the room.

They quickly landed on two men whispering in the corner.

The slightly shorter one had massive sideburns and a quizzical look that seemed as if it must be permanently etched onto his face. The other man had a certain air about him.

Even from across the room his light-colored eyes had a shine in them.

Colin returned; you thanked him before looking to the corner again. This time the slightly taller one had caught your gaze and lifted his eyes to meet yours. You felt your face flush and quickly turned your head.

“Colin?”

“Yes?”

“Who are those two men in the corner?”

Colin looked up to see his brothers in the corner looking at him inquisitively.

“Oh, those two? You don’t want to be near the likes of them. Poorly mannered and when they were younger, they would wet the bed for years well beyond what was normal.”

You were following along for a while until that last part.

You gave Colin a quick look to see if he was being serious.

His mouth remained flat and tight-lipped for a few mere seconds before letting through a boisterous laugh.

“My apologies Y/N, those are my brothers.”

Your eyes widened at the confession.

“Your brothers?”

“Yes, lets introduce you,” he stated, beginning to pull you across the ballroom.

“Colin, No I—"

“Brothers, this is Miss y/l/n, Anthony, Benedict,” he pointed out.

You curtsied before both of them before speaking up.

“I told you, just Y/N is fine Colin.”

You weren’t sure what his brothers would say about your slight improperness. It was clear that the Bridgerton’s were a well-respected family in the ton.

You glanced at the eldest brother who you learned was named Anthony who gave you a curt nod before excusing himself to sneak off from an inquiring Lady Danbury.

You smiled at him before turning your gaze to the second eldest Bridgerton.

“Y/N here was telling me about her studies in the states. She is well-read and well-traveled.”

You rolled your eyes, playfully pushing Colin slightly.

“You flatter me, Colin. Unfortunately, I am not perfect. For example, I am about done with all of this and was just about to call a carriage.”

“Oh, but you must stay for one more dance Y/N. Poor Benedict here has not waltzed once.”

Benedict tried to sneakily hit his brother for his clear meddling.

“While that may be true, I do not need my younger brother imposing on such a lovely lady.” Benedict states.

“Nonsense, everyone must waltz at least once,” you laughed, pulling Benedict towards the center of the room.

His eyes widened at your forwardness as he shot Colin a disapproving brotherly look, to which Colin gave him a grin and thumbs up.

As the music began you moved around the room with Benedict.

“So, Mr. Bridgerton, tell me what exactly it is you do.”

“Just Benedict is fine,” he stated, mirroring your words from earlier.

“Besides, aren’t I the one who should be questioning you about your skills?”

“That’s awfully backwards thinking, I hope you don’t get stuck that way” you replied sarcastically before being spun around.

When you returned facing Benedict, a knowing grin was stuck on his face. You were witty. He liked witty.

“I suppose that is fair. I’m an artist, well…I’m trying to be an artist. It’s a little complicated.”

You nodded understandingly, while the arts were enjoyed by many, it wasn’t exactly a noble pursuit, especially for you as a woman.

“You should come by Sir Granville’s studio, it’s quite…”

You couldn’t think of a proper word to describe the soirees Granville hosted. It was taboo and scandalous to most respectable members of society. However, if Benedict was an artist as he was claiming, he should fit right in.

“…inspiring,” you finished.

Benedict gave you an interesting look.

Little did you know, he had been to Granville’s studio, several times.

He hadn’t been in a while since his family had just returned from Aubrey Hall and the preparation for Eloise’s season had been quite hectic for his mother.

But you, picturing you at Granville’s studio was not something Benedict had imagined.

Women who were married or of low social standing was something else, but you, a young lady in her first official season stalking down the halls in such a disreputable manner. It didn’t fit the picture of the beautiful woman before him.

Benedict was quickly learning not to try and categorize you into one box.

“What do you know of Granville’s studio?” he asked seriously.

“Well, for one, I’m staying there. Two, I feel more comfortable among that community than here, if you understand what I mean…” you trail off.

Benedict gives you a small smile of understanding.

As the song ends Benedict lifted your hand to his mouth, kissing it gently before sightly lowering it back down, fingers brushing softly as he pulls away.

“Until next time Y/N”

“I look forward to it Benedict.”

******

Two months had passed since Lady Danbury’s first ball of the season. In that time you had befriended Eloise and Colin Bridgerton, often sitting in the parlor room of their home during the daytime, chatting the day away.

As such, you had also grown closer to Penelope Featherington who also came over often. You always considered yourself to be quite perceptive, so it was evidently clear that Penelope was fond of Colin. You thought about mentioning something, but it didn’t seem like your place.

Throughout your time at the Bridgerton’s household you had seen Benedict a handful of times. Unfortunately, your encounters were reduced to small greetings, stolen glances and light brushes as you walked past each other.

Until today.

You were sitting in the empty parlor room as Eloise ran to her room to fetch some ‘evidence’ and ‘clues’ about Lady Whistledown.

“Good Afternoon Y/N” Benedict greeted as he walked in, taking a quick look around the room to find the two of you alone.

“Afternoon Mr. Bridgerton,” you greeted back, a slight teasing tone to contrast your seemingly formality.

He gave you a knowing look before continuing.

“I hope I’m not being too forward, but I plan on attending Sir Granville’s tonight, I was wondering if I would see you there?”

You gave him a teasing smile before your face fell into a serious and hurt look.

“Mr. Bridgerton, I’m appalled, would a respectable young woman such as myself be caught there? Imagine the horror if the rest of the ton were to find out.”

He let out a loud laugh at your remark, in the short time that he had known you, you never failed to make him laugh.

“Yes Benedict, I’ll see you there,” you smiled.

“Good,” he replied.

******

That night you had a few drinks to help you take the edge off before guests started coming over. There was something about interacting with Benedict that made you nervous.

 You were walking around the art studio observing the nude model and the artists renditions when you felt someone lay their hand on your shoulder.

“OH! Oh my, Benedict, you scared me.”

“Sorry, love, didn’t mean to startle you.”

You continued walking around the circle, admiring the art around you.

“She’s stunning, is she not?” you questioned.

“She is,” he answered quickly.

However, when you turned to look at him his eyes were already trained on yours.

You smiled widely, walking out of the studio as Benedict followed like a lost puppy.

“Will I ever get to see your art?” you asked him.

He smiled sheepishly as his arm reached back to scratch the back of his neck.

“I certainly would let you, if there was any.”

“Practicing here for a few months and you still have nothing to show?” you teased.

Benedict gave you a look.

“I may have asked around about you,” you confessed.

“And?” he asks.

From what you have heard, both from his siblings and other people around you. Benedict was a kind and creative soul, with a great appreciation for the beauty around him.

“Your family and friends speak highly of you, that’s important.”

“What about you? What do you speak of me?”

“Besides being a tortured artist? I think highly of you.”

He nodded his head again, before responding.

“I think highly of you as well,” he whispered quietly, leaning down slightly so he was more at eye level.

You blamed the alcohol in your system for what you did next.

Yanking him down by his collar, you pulled him close and reached up until your lips were flush against his, pushing with all your might as if you would never kiss him again.

“Y/N—” he pulled away, his senses flooding back.

“This is…no, I’ve dishonored you I—”

“Oh hush Benedict, I do not care about those rules. I want you.”

He looked down at you, holding your face in his hands as he searched your eyes for confirmation.

Biting your lip and grinning up at him, Benedict couldn’t help but pull you back in, one hand sinking to your waist to pull you closer, the other rested on your cheek.

“You know this means we have to get married now?” Benedict teases.

“That means you presume I would say yes,” you teased back.

His smile grew impossibly bigger as he pulled you back in for a tender kiss.

“Let’s just see how you perform tonight before we think about marriage” you joked.

Benedict pulled back with a smirk and look in his eye you haven’t seen yet as he looked you over.

“Art is all about practicing and perfecting, we might need to practice a few times before you make your final judgement” he teased back.

You threw your head back in surprise, a large laugh leaving your lips before you smiled sweetly at him.

This was not how you imagined the social season going.

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