Supergirl (2026) is about girls and daughters and women. It's about messy girls, vulnerable girls, strong girls, scared girls. And, last but not least, it's about girls protecting girls. And it's all important.
Of course they don’t like Milly Alcock’s Supergirl. She’s a grown ass woman with zero love interests who spends the movie saving her dog, casually dismantling a sex trafficking ring while she’s at it, and preaching the importance of being good, not nice or smiley or cheerful but good. I for one adored the movie and I really hope I’ll get to see more of Alcock’s Supergirl she’s now my favorite iteration of her and I love her so dearly.
Me Giving a Pressed Conference: our advocacy for the disabled must include the addict, the imperfect victim, those we despise; the right to autonomy and life cannot devolve into a popularity contest
Reporter I Hate (Not Sexual Tension): Does that include all the attendees of the Bored Ape NFT event who went blind
Me: *Blood streaming from my nostrils and eyes* david, it includes everyone
btw if you are friends with someone and you have the kind of dynamic where you can tease each other you also need to be nice. just so we're all aware. you also have to be nice with your words on top of it. like with your words. use your words. you should tell them with your words when you like something about them. if you are scared of being too sincere or vulnerable that is not an excuse to not be nice to someone. also you should work on that. ok are we all on the same page
At the local hamburger shop and they said yelled out “order 167!” And three middle school age kids yelled in perfect unison “ 6 7!” Life is sometimes so beautiful
roommate best friend Clark who reader convinced to suck on her pussy when he’s home sick as she’s his new mommy . Best friend Clark who wants to have his face pressed on her pussy when he sleeps. Best friend Clark who has to suck on her pussy to fall asleep and feel safe . Best friend Clark who has to at least suck in it for a good hour in the morning to even think straight.
warning(s): explicit 18+ mommy kink, panic attacks, clark has separation anxiety and finds relief between his mommy’s legs
clark rubs his arm as he anxiously paces back and forth in the night, careful to try and keep his impending panic attack quiet as to not wake his roommate who was only a few feet and a thin wall away. a noisy owl had sat in the tree just outside his bedroom window, echoing a call over and over and not adding anything positive to his vulnerable headspace. not to mention the frequent nightmares lately have frightened him right out of bed, trying his best to somehow calm himself down with an ice pack to his forehead and a few desperate gulps of tap water from the sink in their kitchen.
he feels lonely at times like this, homesick for the farm he was raised in, for his parents that had always checked in on his night terrors like these with soothing back rubs and a warm glass of milk for all his ails. now he’s states away from them with stacks of bills and responsibilities, and being away from his safe, trusted loved ones and only main support system has been the biggest mental battle he’s ever fought.
with a plain frown, he scratches his back before throwing his blanket over his body and tip toeing downstairs, hoping some fresh air might do something for his nervous system. every step is carefully placed as to not creek the floor, every move so methodically planned. he hugs himself as he grabs the carton from the fridge and fills a glass up with milk and microwaves it until it’s warm. careful not to let the alarming beep go off before he hugs it to his chest and takes a thick sip as he slowly slides the back door open and steps out.
the air is crisp, with a subtle wind blowing and shaking some of the leaves off the trees in the distance. clark makes a point to keep the main light turned off as to not be noticed and takes thoughtful sips of his milk, looking up at the stars. it could’ve been ten, twenty minutes for all he knew that he’d stayed like that outside. trying to get ahold of his racing thoughts and anxieties manifesting from his fear of being so far away from home. his ma and pa still call to check in on him every now and then and check in to see if his nightmares are still as bad as they were when he was a child. clark is always assuring them that he’s doing just fine even if he’s lying through his teeth. they care enough to notice the dip in his voice while he lies, but they don’t prod any further if he wasn’t opening the door to talking himself through it. they figure he has new friends of his own in his life that he can confide in.
a helpless tear rolls down from his left eye before he can stop it, an unexpected sob rushing from his throat after he finishes his glass of milk and sets it down on the side table. in a quick, anxious attempt to conceal the noise of his sobs he covers his mouth and shields his face with the blanket, knowing that the tears were still coming and there wasn’t anything he could do to stop them. all’s he could do was let them out and hope for the best that he isn’t making noise, that this is just going to be one bad night and that tomorrow night will be better.
his eyes are red and exhausted from his hands angrily scrubbing over them. since he’s in the dark he thinks he’s in the clear.
when he thinks the worst wave of it is over, he tries to swallow the lump in his throat and gets up to head back to the kitchen for another glass of milk, and gets stopped in his tracks from the kitchen light turning on.
like a vampire in the sun, he flinches and covers his face, head going down in shame while he sniffles and tries acting like he wasn’t just crying his heart out like a pathetic loner on the back porch. his roommate, squinting with her own glass of milk in hand, scratches her bird’s nest of bed head and lazily smiles at clark.
“oh. hey! I didn’t know you were out there. I was about to lock you out,” she says casually, yawning and sipping her glass before she notices the great lengths he’s going to avoid her gaze. “woah. are you—hey, are you okay?”
all clark can muster is a piss poor excuse for a blatant lie of “yeah.” his voice even cracks too, adding a cherry on top of a very pathetic cake.
she doesn’t blink or even think for a second before she’s rushing over. the sweetheart that she is. her warm hands felt like a hot stove up against his cool cheeks, pushing her thumbs up his chin so his face can’t hide from her anymore, and she sees it. she sees it all. the tear stained cheeks, the red, puffy eyes, the snot probably still stuck in his nose.
“I’m fine—“ he tries to squeal, the sniffling not helping his case. she looks at him with deep, sincere concern in her eyes, doesn’t speak for a long moment before bringing him in a long, warm bear hug. and clark’s water works begin all over again. sobs wreck his throat, tears gush out to his cheeks and down his jaw, tickling him. he says he’s sorry, says he doesn’t know why he’s acting like this, says he didn’t mean to wake her up and that he’ll make it up to her if he did.
“clark, don’t apologize. don’t apologize.”
she brushes the back of his hair and rubs along his back over his blanket still shielding him. clark says sorry again anyway, desperate to assure her that nothing is wrong, nothing happened, he just ‘gets like this sometimes.’
“I know we don’t talk a lot about things beyond the surface level bullshit, but you’re seriously breaking my heart right now. you can absolutely talk to me, get off whatever is heavy on your mind,” she murmurs. rocks him back and forth in her arms while he towers over her with his stature.
he chuckles through a sob at that, ducking into her shoulder and lets himself get rocked like a baby. can’t help himself but to relish in the warm, inviting embrace, nuzzling himself into her like she’s his lifeline.
“I uh, I just get… I get real homesick. and lonely. I miss my parents, it’s been h—hard to adjust being away from them, they’re all I had for so long,” clark musters to speak, voice quivering through more than half of his words. she offers him her glass of milk with a raised brow, to which he smiles and graciously takes the glass, hesitating at first but ultimately giving in and taking a sip. it did wonders for his throat, thickly swallowing and carefully going in for another before he sets it down on the counter and sheepishly goes back in for another hug, bending his neck down to shove his face back in her shoulder. of course she smells so comforting, and it was addicting already to sniff her hair that was graced with the fresh scent of that shampoo that sat in their shower. it really soothed him to be held, to be held by her, specifically — his beautiful, patient, kind and understanding roommate of three months that hasn’t made a single complaint about living with him, and on paper really hasn’t given clark a single reason to not feel like he could open himself up to her like this. he supposed his nerves always got in the way.
“what do you miss about home the most?”
clark pulls back and looks at her, turning red when she wipes a stray tear away and holds onto his face. “I um, I miss… I miss getting physical touch, physical touch like this,” he admits. “I miss my ma’s homemade bread. I miss both my parents helping me with—with my nightmares,” he swallows, averting his eyes to the floor with a bite of his lower lip. “they’d stay up with me, warm me up some milk, tell me that I’m not alone. I can’t… I just can’t seem to get any sleep when I’m alone,” he breathes out.
she nods her head slowly in understanding. gets up on her tippy toes to give his cheek a kiss, and clark reels from the contact, clenching his jaw and rapidly blinking his eyes while he wonders if what just happened really just happened.
“let’s get you some more warm milk, then I’m taking you up to my room. sound good?”
. . .
clark cluelessly follows her back upstairs to her bedroom, awkwardly stepping as he’s led by her hand in his. she took it to heart when he said he missed physical affection, and her hands have stayed on him since.
her room has always looked cooler than clark’s. posters decked out on the walls, bohemian plants strung out and framing along her window. she has a diffuser that makes the room smell soft and almost tropical. used bras and panties strung along her full hamper, and the sight makes him try to stifle a smile, rubbing his lips together.
“come here,” she guides. laying on one side of her bed, leaving plenty of room for him to get in right beside her. she expectedly holds her hand out for him, watching intently as he carefully sets his full glass of milk down and shuffles into the empty side of the bed, unsure of where his long limbs should really go.
“you can spread out you know. don’t have to stay crumbled up in a ball all night.”
it could have come out snarky, sarcastic, witty — but it comes out sincere instead, like she didn’t want to just watch him remain so uncomfortable.
with a thoughtful sigh, he gives in and spreads his legs out, grazing hers in the process and holds onto his blanket with his other hand that wasn’t grasped in hers. of course it dawned on him how intimate this really was, how she saw him cry and her first actions were to hold him, talk to him, give him more milk. it strangely makes his lower belly start to tingle almost with what felt like butterflies while he works himself up about how maternal his roommate really was towards him. the rocking back and forth in their hug, the gentle reassurance, the open ears that didn’t judge him for a split second.
it fills him with another burst of emotion, enough to make him get on his knees and start to cry again.
he turns towards her, finding she was already looking at him, wondering what the hell he was probably thinking so loud about.
“thank you,” he licks his lips. “thank you for doing this. for being kind to me. I don’t really cry in front of people except my family. I don’t mean to dump all of my problems on you.”
she shakes her head and scoots closer, slowly reaching an arm over his chest, testing to see if it’s boundary crossing or if it comforts him. clark scoots further into her, rushing to answer the quiet question: how close can they really get?
“you’re not dumping anything if I wanna hear it,” she replies. “hate to see a face this pretty cry like that.”
clark’s lip wiggles as if on queue, still chuckling through another little sob wrecking through him while he scrambles to wipe an incoming tear.
“no, no baby, let it out. don’t hold any of it in anymore.”
and with that, clark lets the floodgates open.
he cries again, less soft and quiet as his meltdown outside. this one is thundering, takes over his whole being while his head closes in on her touch while she shushes him and hugs him to her, kissing his wet cheeks while he lets everything else he’s held in come to the forefront.
she hands him a tissue after a minute, letting him blow his nose and drain his mucus, balling up the tissue into his fist to not dirty her side table with any of his germs even if they were bunched up in a napkin.
“does that feel a little better? drink your milk, baby. don’t forget about it.”
he nods and stutters to grab the glass and chug, finishing most of it in one foul swoop before wiping the corners of his lips for stray drips.
she gently fusses with his hair, brushing it in different directions so he never misses out on any physical contact. her leg even crosses over his lap, cooing in his ear that he’s never gonna be alone, not ever again.
clark curls in on her, looking smaller than he ever has even with his frame and build. he lets out hurried little boyish uh-huh’s when she repeats to him over and over, you are safe. and you are not alone.
when he’s floating in a post-cry haze, eyes so swollen he feels like he could’ve gotten punched, a name falls from his lips without his upstairs brain’s full knowledge like it was instinctual.
“mommy…”
the pets never stop. not a single inch of her body reacts, no limb even moving to push him off of her bed. if anything she gets even closer, if that was even possible.
while he nuzzles his nose into her neck, she caresses his back and hums. not giving any indication that he’s said anything out of line.
so he surrenders and says it yet again.
“mommy, mommy I need you so much,” clark whimpers. tries to hold in more of the seemingly endless supply of pathetic tears he’s held back and bottled up for far too long, all his jumbled emotions coming in a whirlwind at the first feeling of someone touching him, someone seeing him and his pain and not running away or letting him go to bed scared and alone.
“you’ve got me. I know. and you’ve got me,” she affirms. kisses the top of his head, never stopping the circles on his back. “you’ve got mommy.”
clark’s tone is hopeful when he looks up at her face to read her as best he can in the dim light, leaning in to her as she cups his cheek.
“I… I do?”
“of course you do. mommy’s right here.”
. . .
this had become a nightly ritual.
a strict, no nonsense break of their curated routine. if clark had a troublesome day and marched up to his room after work, she let him sit it out alone for no more than twenty minutes before she was knocking on his door, crawling on his lap, asking him to let it all out for mommy once again.
if clark had a good day, he would tell her about it too. how he didn’t get any bad feedback by his supervisor on his report, how he got to pet one of the stray cats in their neighborhood that were notorious for running away at the sight of any people.
she praised him when he needed it, smothered him when he needed it. held him too of course whenever he looked hungry for her affection.
she mothered him in a way that made him feel a way he truly hadn’t felt before, and that alone brought up another string of anxieties. about not being enough, about being too much. too needy. too much of a little boy. too much of a momma’s boy.
there were even times she’d have to ring it out of him, what he was feeling. she could read every facial expression that passed over his face like the back of her hand. and it was always taken in a stride. she tells him he’s silly for overthinking like that, but that it’s okay to tell her these things, and that he shouldn’t let thoughts like those start to even fester. because she’s all in.
after one particularly treacherous nightmare he wakes up in a cold sweat, breathing heavily and trying to self soothe with his blanket. in a fit of frustration he kicks off the comforter and of course, in turn, wakes her right up.
“baby boy,” she reaches up for him. knows what’s wrong from the second he stares up at the ceiling, stubborn with a frown stuck on his face. “is it too hot for you?”
clark breathes in deep, fights the thoughts in his head that tell him he’s a freak for needing so much love and so much attention, and leans in to kiss her right on the lips, whimpering in her mouth when she automatically reciprocates.
“mommy,” he smacks his lips against hers, smelling the natural scent coming off of her from her neck. “mommy please. please.”
“tell mommy what you need.”
“I need your kisses,” clark full on whines. doesn’t hold anything back, doesn’t minimize his needs. gives it to her straight. she’s never punished him for telling his truth before, and she wouldn’t start now.
“I wanna touch you, mommy,” he swallows. “can I please…”
his hand shakily trails down her side, feeling goosebumps make way on her skin. it makes him lick and bite his lips, leaning in for another warm, needy kiss that threatens to grow even deeper while he preciously tries to glide his tongue in her mouth and lick along hers.
“you can touch mommy. I know what you need.”
clark’s cock shamefully fills and rolls up against his belly at her words, aching for some stimulation as he trails more kisses from her face, to her jaw, to her neck. hands exploring lower than anywhere his hands have ever explored before. they drift down to her hip, to her waistband, to her stomach and breasts.
“take care of me so good, mommy, always…. I just wanna be a good boy to you. wanna be a good boy for you,” he hums. she beams from his complete one-eighty change in disposition, from his sulking, shivering ball of anxiety into this flourishing, outspoken, touchy boy that knows to voice what he needs.
“can I… I wanna—“
his words are cut off by an unabashed groan when her hand grabs his and stuffs it down her panties, letting his fingers feel the pearly skin of her naked pussy, no layers in between.
“momma you’re so soft,” he whispers. doesn’t let himself tighten his hand over her mound too hard, gently pressing his palm in and applying a slow, easy pressure. his fingers have already started to get a little wet, and that did things to him that he won’t ever be moving on from. “pussy’s so warm. feels so perfect, mommy.”
she grinds into his touch subtly, hips raising up in heated figure eights while he kisses her and swallows up the moans she lets out too, mirroring his to a T.
“I need it. I need to.”
she doesn’t fight or protest anything as he ducks his head and crawled down the bed until his face was right between her open legs.
“take off mommy’s panties. go on, don’t have to be my shy boy. indulge yourself, baby.”
clark nods his head again, eager to follow orders when he pulls them down in a swift motion, dropping them to the floor off the edge of the bed. nothing could stop him from going in, from taking that last final step. he hums like he’s just found the most decadent meal to eat as he stuffs his face into her pussy, wiggling his tongue over her clit, gliding the flat of it down her lips and her hole. it weeps and clenches down and makes squelchy noises the more he sucks, and it’s so juicy and ripe that clark can feel his own dick pulsing even if he’s still completely untouched.
he moans and keeps scarfing down, sheepish voice muffled, only the words please and mommy able to be deciphered.
that tongue proves itself to become a dangerous addiction while she humps against his face, grinding her clit up to his nose while he fucks his tongue up to breach her g-spot and thrust it in and out like his face only existed at her leisure. it was rejuvenating, it was astonishing, how close to another human being he’s felt since he first cried in her arms and showed her sides of himself he never wanted to claim as his own. he hopes his tongue can do the talking, can tell her how much he appreciates her and hopes to give her as much as he takes.
she curses and slams her hips upwards when he curls his tongue so right, nudging her clit with the bridge of his nose with the right pressure and humming in a way that felt divine. clark continues his feast and stares up at her to watch her fall apart, to watch her feel good. her mouth is wide open and her eyes squeeze shut while her pussy walls quiver and gush against his mouth. it felt heavenly, like a religious experience to feel her cumming against his mouth. to get to suckle on her clit and watch his mommy lose it.
when he licks her clean she laughs and pulls his face away, too overstimulated to allow him to keep going. as he gives in despite wanting to stay right where he was, he switches gears to her inner thighs and lays the wettest kisses all over her, cum still smeared all over his lips and chin.
“you taste so good mommy. you fed me so well,” he mutters, licking her spend off his face with his outstretched tongue, leaning in to her hold on his pink cheeks.
“you all full? don’t wanna leave my baby boy hungry,” she whispers. plays with his hair again, one of his favorite forms of her attention and affection.
he closes his eyes and hums, says he’s all full now and ready to go back to sleep. doesn’t care that he ends up faceplanting right between her thighs, cheek laying directly on her naked pussy as he snoozed away with no night terrors getting in the way of his peaceful rest.
she was the antidote. to all his homesick worries, to all of his outside failures and personal interior failures, she was always there to put a lid on all of his troubles again whenever the lid flies off.
the habit became a habit because the high never seemed to wear off, soothing himself by getting his head between her thighs and kissing her pussy or licking her pussy until he was slowly falling asleep. he’s been out like a light with his airways nearly blocked by her crotch, nearly dead to the world in a deep sleep that he couldn’t ever have on his own.
the nightmares eased down the more he gave in to his desires, humping her leg and shamelessly screaming mommy when he cums. eating her out for a good hour at the very least every night so he feels high and buzzed off of pleasing her. taking care of her. thanking her.
“mommy, mommy you’re the best. you’re so beautiful. m’so lucky I have you.”
“I’m so lucky to have you, baby boy. and if you ever need to eat before bed, just eat. you need to be fed.”
so clark eats. he eats to think straight before work, he eats for a good several hours in bed after dark to feel the rush of her cum sticking to his lips. he lives to come home and make his mommy feel good, to make himself feel good. even eats to make himself feel safe again.
she never downplays the affect it has on him, the way it’s comforted him like never before. she knows it’s more than just a bedtime treat for him.
a couple nights in a row he even has her sit down on his face and ride, gladly licking up everything that drips out of her and having her cum against his nose at least three times before they both pass out, her legs still trapped over his face with her head shoved in the pillow.
after several months of their ritual he officially moves into her bedroom, hardly ever going into his old one unless he went for a new change of clothes, still preferring to go straight back to their shared room to change.
once in a while in public he’s let it quietly slip, his little voice uttering a helpless mommy if he’s on the verge of a panic attack. she of course identifies when he needs her touch more than ever to ground him back to reality and step out of the anxieties that plagued his head. and sometimes, only sometimes does he end up dragging her to the nearest family restroom and make his mommy take off her panties so he can soothe himself with his mouth back on her clit to suck.
. . .
I got so carried away with him being sad and homesick and how lonely poor baby would feel, and how he needs a mom-like figure to worship and get love and attention from.
anyways let me know how this was I love a sub mommy kink clark so much and he has angst inside him I know it
Sinopsis: You discovered Clark Kent's biggest secret long before he ever confessed it. But being Superman isn't what surprises you most. It's the fact that the strongest man in the world completely falls apart whenever you're around.
Warnings: Romance, Humor, Established Relationship, Slice of Life, Domestic Fluff
WC: 5,200 words approx.
You knew Clark had a secret. One that was very big and very precious to him. In fact, you had known it long before you officially started dating him, long before he even dared to ask you out for coffee without his hands trembling as if he were holding a bomb ready to explode.
You worked at the Planet as a photographer. And you were far too observant. It wasn't something you could help. You had a separate website, a small corner of the internet where you uploaded your favorite photographs, the ones that told a story beyond what could be seen at first glance. You had won awards through the Planet and as an independent photographer as well. It was a gift, something that came naturally from deep within you, and you loved it. You didn't just take pictures—you looked at them, studied them, searched for their meaning, for the impact they could have on whoever saw them. To you, every photograph was a frozen piece of history.
That was how it happened, in such a simple way that it almost felt like a joke from fate. You had been taking pictures around work in silence, as you always did. One day, you captured Lois tilting her head while reading an interesting article. The light from the window hit her hair perfectly, making her look like she belonged on the cover of an old magazine worthy of being framed. You uploaded the picture to your website with her permission, and it gained a few new followers. It was beautiful, yes, but it also said something: "Look, this woman is thinking, and she cares about what she's reading."
Later, you took a photo of Jimmy. He was studying what shot to take next, his camera pressed against his face as though it were a part of him. You had captured a photographer in the middle of doing what he loved, and the image conveyed the passion shining in his eyes. He looked at the scene with the excitement of someone who truly loved his work, just moments away from lifting the camera to take the shot. You uploaded that photo too. And just like those, there were many others you kept to yourself like private treasures, while some you shared with the world.
Clark wasn't really into photography. Or rather, he wasn't fond of posing for it. But you loved taking pictures of him when he wasn't paying attention. You photographed him smiling at Cat's little dog, the one she sometimes brought to the office wrapped in a pink blanket. Clark would instantly turn into a child, crouching down and speaking to it in a cartoonish voice. You also captured him once staring at his sandwich as if it were the most beautiful thing in the world. His eyes were wide behind his glasses, and he looked as though he'd never seen ham and cheese between two slices of bread before. It was ridiculous, but adorable.
Among all those pictures, there was one where the main focus was Perry speaking in front of the interns. It was the kind of formal photo that would later be displayed as part of the Planet's history. You took several shots to make sure at least one turned out perfectly. But in one of them, Clark was looking around as if he were searching for something. In another, he was taking off his glasses. Your eyes widened when you looked at the next one: in that photo, he was staring straight ahead with a completely different expression. He didn't seem aware of the camera at all. He was focused, but not on Perry. He was listening to something far away, something no one else could hear.
And that was when you discovered it.
The rest is history, as they say. But what nobody told you before you started dating Clark was that beyond being a hero, he was a man hopelessly in love. Ridiculously in love. The kind of man who would trip over his own feet just because you looked at him. Robert from meteorology thought Clark was obsessed with you. One day, he even said it in the break room.
"That guy looks at her like she's about to disappear."
And maybe humans weren't ready to see how a Kryptonian loved. Humans were used to loving for a little while. Some—only a handful—might love their partners until death did them part. But there was always someone looking elsewhere, always an "I'll call you later" that never came. Clark heard it over and over again with his super hearing. Every night, he listened to hearts breaking all across the city. But he never feared that with you. Maybe because you loved with the same intensity he did. And for a man who could fly, that was stronger than gravity.
And Clark's love extended all the way to Superman.
Literally.
Superman—the serious, kind, funny superhero who always maintained the image of a dependable hero—completely fell apart around you. He became a mess. You knew it because it was absolutely delightful to watch whenever you had the chance. It made you laugh inside to see the Man of Steel turn into jelly simply because you were nearby.
One day, Superman had just rescued a little girl who had climbed onto a building under construction. People crowded around him immediately.
"I'm glad you're all safe," Superman said in his strong, steady voice while holding the little girl with a level of care that seemed impossible for a man so large.
The crowd surrounded him gratefully. Some older men patted him on the back. A woman cried from relief and excitement. Superman nodded seriously, as though it were just another ordinary day. He radiated confidence simply by standing there.
Then his eyes met yours.
You were standing toward the back, your camera hanging around your neck, simply watching. You hadn't taken a single picture of the scene. You preferred seeing it with your own eyes.
Superman's cheeks turned red.
You smiled at him, and he swallowed hard.
It was the kind of dry swallow that could probably be heard three blocks away.
He almost took a step toward you, but people were still surrounding him, waiting for more heroic words.
"Uh... well..." he said, letting out a nervous laugh.
Everyone looked at him strangely.
It was normal for Superman to speak.
It was not normal for Superman to smile like a little boy who had just been handed a cake.
His nervousness did not go unnoticed.
He huffed softly and nearly shifted his hips in embarrassment, like a flirtatious duck who didn't realize he was being flirtatious.
Your lovestruck man became nervous simply because your eyes were on him.
"I... I'll make sure everything stays under control," he finally said, carefully setting the little girl down.
You stepped a little closer, just to make him suffer a tiny bit more.
Superman turned even redder than an apple.
"Hello, Superman," you said with a smile.
"H-hello," he replied, and his voice cracked as though he were going through puberty all over again.
He cleared his throat and looked toward the sky as if searching for an excuse to fly away.
"Nice rescue," you said, crossing your arms. "The little girl was really scared."
"Y-yeah... yeah, honestly..." He rubbed the back of his neck, something Clark did all the time. "She... well, she was in a dangerous place. And I... I saw her. And I thought... I have to help her."
And that wasn't all.
He had always tried not to let people see just how in love he was.
Superman, Clark, or both of them with you.
Because if you were Clark's girlfriend and someone saw Superman looking at you with those abandoned-puppy eyes, people would get the wrong idea. It would look like cheating. People would think you were betraying your boyfriend with the most famous hero in the world.
And of course, that couldn't happen.
Clark knew that.
But Clark was weak when it came to his woman.
Weak.
Weak.
Weak.
Like a chocolate cake sitting in front of a child.
Like that time there was a fire in an apartment building on the north side of the city.
Superman arrived, as always, flying faster than lightning. He put out the flames with his super breath, rescued three people from the fifth floor.
Very heroic.
Very professional.
People applauded.
Reporters took pictures.
And then he saw you in the crowd.
You had only come to see if anyone needed help because that was just who you were—always looking out for others.
But the moment your eyes met his, Superman froze in midair.
Literally.
Floating there like a balloon someone forgot to let go of.
One of the firefighters shouted, "Everything okay?"
And Superman could only manage, "Y-yes, yes, everything's fine. I'm just... checking... the clouds."
There wasn't a single cloud in the sky.
It was a completely clear day.
He slowly floated down.
Far too slowly.
As if he wanted to stretch out every second he got to look at you.
His feet touched the ground, and he started walking toward you, but his legs looked like jelly.
He tripped.
Yes.
Superman tripped over a hose.
A hose.
The guy who could lift a building with one hand nearly fell flat on his back because of a garden hose.
A little boy looked up at him and asked, "Did you get hurt?"
And Superman replied, "No, no. I was... testing the ground. It's solid. Very solid. Good ground."
You had to bite your lip to keep from laughing.
"Superman," you said with a smile, "good job with the fire."
"Thank you," he replied, and his voice sounded slightly higher than usual.
He cleared his throat.
"I'm glad that... that you're okay. I mean, that you're here. Not that there's a fire. That's bad. But you... you're okay. Are you okay?"
"I wasn't even in the fire, Superman, but I'm fine," you answered.
"Good," he said.
And then he just stared at you.
Without saying anything.
Just staring.
Five seconds passed.
Ten.
One of the firefighters had to tap him on the shoulder to tell him there was a column of smoke a block away.
Superman blinked as if he had just woken up from a dream, nodded very seriously, and flew away in a perfectly straight line.
That was how he gave himself away.
Because you didn't look at Superman.
To you, he was still Clark, no matter how hard he tried.
No matter how tight the suit was.
No matter how dramatically the red cape billowed in the wind.
No matter how much he tried to use that deep, confident voice that ended up quoted in every newspaper.
You looked at him and only saw the clumsy guy who got tangled in the cords of his own cape, the one whose glasses slipped off every time you laughed too hard.
He could fly faster than a speeding bullet.
But around you, he moved as if his feet were glued to the floor with school glue.
That night, he flew up to the window of your apartment.
It wasn't the first time, of course.
But that night, you were in the kitchen, wearing an apron and covered in flour because you were making dinner.
The window made that familiar little sound, that soft clack that happened whenever Clark misjudged his speed and bumped his shoulders against the frame.
You heard the scrape of his cape against the glass and smiled without turning around.
"Miss, are you busy?" Clark's voice asked.
But it wasn't Clark's voice.
It was his Superman voice—deeper, firmer.
Like he was auditioning for an action movie.
You turned around, pausing your cooking.
You had a wooden spoon in one hand and a bit of sauce on your cheek.
You smiled and frowned slightly when you saw him standing in the window frame with his arms crossed and his legs spread apart, trying to look imposing.
His red boots gleamed beneath the kitchen lights.
His cape fluttered dramatically behind him because he kept shifting one shoulder to make it look like there was wind.
It was quite a show.
"Why didn't you come through the door, Superman?" you asked, raising an eyebrow as you set the spoon down on a plate.
Clark sighed as though he didn't want to break character.
He was trying.
He really was.
His jaw was clenched, and his gaze was fixed on a point somewhere behind your shoulder, as if he were watching an invisible threat.
But his eyes moved around too quickly, and his cheeks were already starting to turn pink.
You could see it perfectly.
He was trying with all his might, but the way your eyes lit up when you looked at him completely ruined all of his effort.
"I... the window... I can fly," he said.
And his voice cracked a little at the end.
You laughed.
You couldn't help it.
It was too funny seeing Superman explain why he'd entered through the window as though he were a lost pizza delivery guy.
"No... I'm trying, sweetheart," he said with an enormous pout, dropping his arms and letting his shoulders sag.
He looked like a child who had just been told there would be no dessert.
You smiled wider and nodded, walking over to him.
"You're doing great, honey," you said before wrapping your arms around him.
His suit was softer than it looked in pictures.
And he smelled like the sky, as always.
Like that clean air above the clouds.
You rested your cheek against his chest and felt his heart racing.
Fast.
Very fast.
As if he had just finished running a marathon.
"Is there a reason for all this?" you asked, pulling back slightly so you could look him in the eyes.
Clark immediately became nervous.
He ran a hand through his hair.
His hands went to his hips.
Then behind his back.
Then back to his hips.
He had no idea what to do with them.
Eventually he crossed them over his chest, but he looked so uncomfortable that it seemed physically painful.
He tried to put on one of those serious expressions that ended up in newspapers whenever he saved a building.
He pressed his lips together.
Furrowed his brow.
Hardened his gaze.
But his eyes couldn't stay still.
Every few seconds they drifted back to you and softened like a puppy begging for food.
"I read that women are attracted to men who show confidence," he began, swallowing hard.
He tried to keep a serious face, but his lower lip trembled slightly.
He bit it so you wouldn't notice, which only made it seem as though he was concentrating very hard on a complicated problem.
"And men who..." he continued.
Then he looked at you again, and his gaze immediately slipped away.
He was turning red as a tomato.
He clenched his jaw to look more intimidating, but his puffed cheeks made him resemble an angry hamster.
"Very strong men and..." his voice grew smaller, "...also... cold."
He practically whispered the last word.
The blush had spread all the way from his cheeks to his ears.
His ears.
His ears had turned red.
You didn't even know ears could get that red.
He tried to recover his composure.
He straightened his back.
Lifted his chin.
Put his hands on his hips again.
But his cape had gotten caught on the window frame.
When he stepped forward, the cape tugged backward and nearly knocked him flat onto his back.
He did an awkward little hop to regain his balance, his arms flailing in a strange motion as though he were swimming through the air.
Then he froze, eyes wide, pretending none of that had happened.
He coughed a couple of times and crossed his arms again.
Except this time they were crossed backward, like he was hugging himself.
When he noticed, he uncrossed them and tried again.
Then he didn't know what to do with his head, so he tilted it slightly to the side like he was posing for a statue.
He looked so stiff he resembled a cardboard cutout.
"Where did you read that?" you asked, taking another step closer.
You took the grocery bag from his hands—the same bag he'd been clutching the entire time as though it were a life raft.
You stood there with your arms crossed, waiting.
"In The Latest Things You Need to Know About Women," Clark said.
One foot slid backward.
The other moved forward.
It looked like he was secretly practicing a dance routine.
He tried to stand still to appear more confident, but his feet seemed to have a life of their own.
"Steve emailed it to me this morning. He said I needed it."
He attempted a serious smile.
Instead, it came out as a strange expression halfway between a smile and a grimace, as though he'd suddenly gotten a cramp in his cheek.
He remembered what had happened earlier that morning at the office.
Steve had walked up behind him while Clark stared at a photo of you taped beside his computer.
"Buddy, you need this," Steve had said with a rabbit-like grin.
Clark had opened the link and read things like "women want a man who doesn't show emotions" and "don't smile too much, it makes you look weak."
Since then, he'd been practicing in front of the mirror.
He had even put on the Superman suit because he thought it would make him seem more authoritative.
Nothing could have been further from the truth.
"That website was written by a man, Clark," you said, brushing your fingertips against his suit.
The red-and-blue suit that had saved the world dozens of times.
And there he was, shifting from side to side as though he were standing on hot coals, his fists clenched behind his back and his gaze fixed on the floor.
He tried once more to look serious.
He furrowed his brow so hard wrinkles appeared on his forehead.
Pressed his lips together until they became a thin line.
But then you smiled.
Just a little.
And all that seriousness melted away like ice cream under the sun.
His entire face softened.
His eyes turned gentle again.
With a defeated sigh, he let his shoulders drop.
"I'm not saying men can't understand us, but most of them don't," you added.
And he nodded like a puppy being told why he wasn't allowed to eat chocolate.
"I like you the way you are, Clark. You don't need to change," you said softly.
You stepped a little closer.
He immediately stopped moving altogether, as if someone had pressed a pause button.
"It's cute seeing you get nervous even while wearing the suit," you said as you looked down into the grocery bag.
Bread.
Lettuce.
Cheese.
Everything was there.
Except for one thing.
"I don't get nervous," he said.
His voice came out high-pitched.
Almost squeaky.
He tried to look serious again, but one eyebrow had started twitching uncontrollably.
He touched it with a finger to stop it.
Then the other eyebrow started twitching.
It looked like a tiny storm was happening on his face.
You looked at him.
His cheeks were so red that it looked as though he'd spent an hour standing directly beneath the sun.
"You forgot the tomato sauce, Clark," you said, lifting the empty bag that should have contained the jar.
He smiled.
A huge, awkward smile.
The kind a child gives after accidentally breaking a vase and hoping to be rewarded for admitting it.
Every trace of seriousness vanished instantly.
His entire face lit up.
His eyes squinted from smiling so hard.
"Yeah... I... uh... forgot it," he admitted, scratching the back of his neck with one giant hand.
You laughed and nodded.
Because you already knew exactly how this story ended.
"I have to go get it, don't I?" he asked.
You nodded.
"Okay," Clark said.
His eyes immediately lit up as though you'd just given him the best news in the world.
"Can I buy those Japanese mochi I showed you at the store the other day?" he asked, rocking back and forth on his feet like he was about to take off.
Literally.
"The soft ones with sugar inside. The pink ones," he added, unable to stop a small excited bounce.
"They're the sweetest ones, sweetheart. You're going to love them."
"Yes, but only one box, Clark," you said, raising a finger in warning.
"Do you remember what happened when you ate two entire boxes last time? I don't want to see you flying around the world five times in a row because of a sugar rush you couldn't control."
You said it completely seriously.
Very seriously.
Because he had literally done exactly that the week before.
He had flown from Metropolis to Japan in three seconds, bought the mochi—even though they were sold five blocks from your apartment—and eaten an entire box on the way home.
When he arrived, his pupils were so wide he looked like an excited owl.
Then he'd eaten the second box and taken off flying again because:
"Sweetheart, I feel like I can touch the stars with my fingers."
"Okay," Clark said.
Then he leaned down and kissed you.
It was a soft kiss.
Quick.
Nervous.
He smiled against your lips and whispered,
"I promise I won't buy two boxes."
You smiled and nodded.
His promise was worth less than the paper it wasn't written on.
But you still liked hearing him say it.
When you pulled apart, he looked at you as he backed away toward the door.
He walked backward with a level of clumsiness that seemed impossible for a man who could catch an airplane out of the sky.
His hand waved from side to side in farewell, fluttering like a little flag in the wind.
And the smile never left his face.
He was so nervous.
So excited about going to buy the mochi.
His feet practically carried him toward the exit on their own.
"Sweetheart, you're not actually going in your suit, are you?" you asked, resting a hand on your hip.
Clark took three steps outside the apartment.
Then four.
Then he stopped dead in his tracks.
He looked down at himself.
Touched his chest.
Looked at his cape.
Looked at his boots.
As if he had only just realized he was dressed in bright blue and red with a giant emblem on his chest.
His eyes widened.
"Right... the suit," he muttered to himself, blushing all over again.
At that point, you weren't sure if his cheeks would ever return to their normal color.
He spun around so quickly that he nearly got tangled in his own cape and fell flat on his face.
Then he hurried back into the apartment, cheeks burning and eyes wide.
"I'd be a complete failure on that website," he said as he walked toward the bedroom, dragging his feet as though he were wearing oversized slippers.
"If I go to the store looking like this, Steve was right. I don't know anything about women," he muttered to himself, his voice full of concern.
You laughed.
A laugh that filled the entire kitchen.
"And don't fly out the window again!" you called after him from the kitchen.
"The door, sweetheart, I promise!" he shouted back from the bedroom.
A loud thud echoed through the apartment.
Something hit the floor.
Then came an "I'm okay!" that sounded far more annoyed than convincing.
A few seconds later, Clark emerged from the bedroom wearing his normal clothes.
His jeans were slightly crooked.
His shirt was buttoned wrong.
And his hair was a complete mess.
He smiled sheepishly and pointed toward the door.
"Okay, now I'm really going," he said.
He took one step.
Then turned around again.
"The pink mochi, right?" he asked.
"Yes, Clark. The pink ones," you replied, shaking your head with a smile.
"Just one box," he said, holding up a finger.
"That's what you said last time."
"This time I mean it," he replied.
And before you could answer, he walked out the door like a normal person.
Even though it was painfully obvious he wanted to fly instead.
You remained in the kitchen, wooden spoon still in hand, laughing to yourself.
And you thought that you wouldn't trade that lovestruck fool for anything in the world.
men will do literally anything other than engaging in pro-social community-oriented behavior and then get online and complain about how masculinity is vilified and men aren't allowed to be heroes anymore
"all men really want is to feel like the hero" okay then volunteer at a food bank. get narcan training. step in when a woman is being harassed on the street. help out an elderly neighbor with shopping or home repairs. learn how to safely de-escalate fights. help your friends move. join or start your workplace union. become a big brother or volunteer coach for kids' sports. clean up your local park or get involved in some local conservation campaign. do your own damn dishes. notice what needs to be done and then do it. the world doesn't need heroes, it needs helpers. there are literally so many paths to finding a sense of self-respect and worth through pro-social behaviors that improve your immediate local community and help build your network of close personal connections. but these guys don't give a shit about actually contributing anything to the world. they just want to whine and fantasize.
their inherent lack of self-respect is belied not only by the fact that they can't imagine doing anything that contributes to building a better, more resilient society, but how they can't imagine that doing so might involve a lot of small acts and choices and not one big act of heroism that gets them on the news as Big Man Of The Year.
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