Hi! I’m Saph and I write for a few characters (Matt Murdock, Frank Castle, Michael Kinsella, Bob Reynolds, Bob Floyd, Rhett Abbott, Clark Kent).
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summary: it takes ten weeks for clark kent and a shy, touch starved, you to fall in love. (or, 4 times clark touches you and 1 time you touch him.)
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Week one
The Daily Planet only seems to employ lovely, outgoing people. You're convinced of it.
You don't know how or why they hired you after meeting some of the people here. Maybe your interview self had somehow managed to make you seem like you’d fit right for that thirty minutes.
Whatever happened, they hired you anyway.
For the past week you’ve tried so hard to settle in. To put yourself out there a bit more. It hasn’t helped much.
There's some faulty wiring in your brain, you're sure, that makes you awful and awkward and idiotic around people you don't know. And right now, you don't know anyone. At work or in metropolis as a whole.
Cat Grant has tried no less than five times to strike up a conversation with you. Which is nice of her and horrible for you. Every attempt leaves you fumbling through responses and replaying every part of it in your head for hours afterward.
To avoid inflicting your shyness on anyone else, you've got into the routine of taking lunch late. By the time you head to the breakroom. Most people have already finished theirs up.
With your head shoved so far into the refrigerator you might as well be looking for the opening of another reality in the back of it, you squint at the shelves. Where the hell is your cherry soda? You know you set it right next to your lunch box so it can’t have gone far. Unless someone took it. But putting it next to your lunch box kind of implies–
“Hey!”
You yelp and jerk upright, immediately slamming the crown of your head into the shelf above you. Shocking pain explodes across your skull as you stumble backward, one hand flying to the throbbing spot on your head.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”
The unfamiliar voice is still going, apology after apology tumbling over itself as you blink through the stars in your vision. When your eyesight steadies, you turn towards the sound and a man is already pulling out a chair.
“Here,” he says, “Sit down.”
You follow the instructions easily, it's a sharp and startling kind of pain hitting your head, you think you’d do anything you're told until it dulls a little. The apologies don't stop coming as you try to pull yourself together. Seriously, he will not stop apologising.
You press your palm against your head and wait for the ache to dull while he hovers nearby looking increasingly distressed.
Once you’ve gathered yourself a little better, you chance a glance up at him, and immediately avert your eyes back to the floor. He’s staring at you with so much concern your stomach ties itself in knots.
There's a couple of thoughts to sort through then. The first, how the hell didn't you hear him step into the room? He’s tall and broad and firm. You should've heard his footsteps for sure, maybe he moves like a cat or maybe you were too in your own head, it wouldn't be the first time. The second, that one revolves around how pretty he is. He is with no exaggeration maybe the handsomest man you’ve ever seen. Glasses and curly hair and bright big eyes.
“S’okay,” you find your voice, staring at the floor. “I’m okay, I'm fine.”
You hear him release a sigh of relief, it makes your face warm.
“Okay, that's good.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I thought you’d hear me come in, but–”
He cuts himself off and you chance another look at him. The sheepish smile on his face somehow makes him even prettier.
“Gosh. Sorry. I’m being rude. I’m Clark.”
You give him a soft smile, which he returns and you murmur your name in reply.
Clark can't believe it when you tell him, he’s heard from the others how slow and reluctant you've been to warm to anyone at all since you started and now he’s done this. He might've ruined everyone’s chance, not just his own, of getting to know you. He could kick himself. Nice going, Kent.
“Nice to meet you,” he gestures toward the refrigerator, “what were you looking for?”
His question makes embarrassment flare up in you all over again. Clark watches as you dip your head away from him again, he has to fight the urge to reach out a hand to your shoulder to comfort you. He doesn't think he's met someone quite so shy before.
“I, uh, just my soda,” you give a helpless little smile while your fingers worry at your cuticles. “It's fine though, it doesn't matter.”
Clark can feel his heart clench as you dismiss it. It's your soda! You should have it!
“Was it cherry?”
“Uh, yeah?”
“Theres a cherry soda thief, I haven't figured out who it is yet though,” he puts a hand on his hip and points at you with an open hand. “Stay there a sec, okay?”
You watch open mouthed as he rushes out of the room. It's shameful to admit, even to yourself, but you'd probably do whatever Clark told you to despite having only just met him. Something is clearly wrong with you.
When he comes back into the room it's with a bit of a crash and a new can of soda in his hand from the vending machine. How strange. Then he's murmuring a Here you go and holding it out towards you. You can't come up with a cohesive response, your mind goes blank because this is really so strange.
It’s simple to Clark, he’s just making up for scaring you out of your skin. To you there's nothing to make up for, accidents just happen. That's life.
Still you reach out. What you’re sure of then is that as your finger tips brush taking the can from him, the touch fucking burns.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Week three
Your easy routine – get up, go to work, go home, maybe go for a walk before settling in for the night, all without really speaking to anyone – has been slightly tweaked.
Every morning, Clark goes out of his way to stop by your desk and talk to you.
At first, you were convinced he was doing it out of pity. (Clark would be devastated to know you thought that.) Then you decided he must just enjoy the sound of his own voice. (He'd be equally horrified to hear that conclusion.) After all, you rarely give him anything more than a one-word response. Neither explanation feels quite right, but you can’t figure out what else it could be.
Little do you know that in Clark's mind his one and only mission currently is to befriend you. He wants to know more, curiosity piqued by the pretty shy thing that lingers around.
Lately, your walks home have been plagued with thoughts of him. How kind he’s been. The slope of his nose. His dark hair and cute glasses.
As if you’ve summoned him with thoughts alone you hear your name called from somewhere behind you. You turn and sure enough Clark’s impossible to miss.
He’s a head taller than almost everyone around him, weaving apologetically through the crowd with one hand raised so you won’t lose sight of him. As if you could. His bag bounces against his side as he finally catches up. Stopping beside you with an easy smile on his face while you frown at him in confusion.
“Where’re you heading?” he asks, dipping his head down closer to you.
Clark likes asking odd questions but this one really throws you for a loop.
“Home?” you answer with a tilted head and scrunched brow.
He nods once, like that's exactly what he expected. You wonder if you’re so predictable that having no plans on a Friday night is just a given to other people. He adjusts the strap of the bag on his shoulder and nudges his head towards the sidewalk.
“Can I walk you home?”
What is going on?
“Uhh… sure.” you agree, taking a step in the right direction. “If you want to.”
You start walking and he falls easily into step beside you, matching your pace.
For someone who never seems to run out of things to say at work, Clark is surprisingly comfortable with silence. You half expected him to chatter the entire walk, but you suppose you can scratch likes his own voice off of your list of reasons he might talk to you.
The evening sky has melted into streaks of pink and orange, casting everything in a warm night. As you sneak glances over at Clark he almost doesn't look real.
It all makes your shoulders tense and curl forwards. You don't understand how someone can move through the world the way Clark does, so confident without seeming arrogant, so open, so completely unafraid to ask for what he wants. He talks to everyone like they're already his friend.
And he's walking you home from work. It's weird. He has friends, cool friends but he’s spending his time with you. You're… just you.
What you don't know is that Clark has spent the time between your first meeting and now trying to figure out how to become your friend without scaring you off. He hasn’t figured it out yet. Still, in for a penny, he supposes.
“What, uh…” He clears his throat, scratching the back of his neck before turning his head towards you. Somewhere during the walk he’s drifted closer without noticing, his shoulder almost brushing yours now. “What’re you doing this weekend?”
“Oh…” your mouth opens and closes as you try to come up with a lie that makes you sound less lame, it doesn't work. “Nothing, I guess.”
“Really?”
“Well,” you shrug, “I need to do my laundry, I guess. And clean my apartment.”
Clark hums, nodding absently, “You’re not hanging out with your friends?”
He knows it's the wrong thing to ask as soon as it leaves his mouth, he feels like he’s missed the last step as he watches you curl in on yourself again, embarrassed.
“...I don’t really have any.” you whisper, timid.
Clark's brain seems to misfire and he can’t formulate words because how can sweet lovely, albeit quiet you, not have any friends. His silence stretches too long and you quickly take it for judgement.
“I haven’t had time to make any, okay?” You say quickly, voice sharper than you intend.
It’s maybe the most assertive Clark has ever heard you. Hell, it's probably the most assertive you've heard yourself. But you don't need Clark knowing you're a bigger loser than you probably already are in his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” He blurts, shaking his head, “I didn't mean it in, like, a bad way or anything.” He sighs like he's all disappointed in himself before murmuring under his breath. “I’m such an idiot.”
You're not supposed to hear it, but you do, and it pulls a giggle from your lips before you can stifle it. Clark's head whips towards you at the sound with a great beaming smile on his face delighted by the noise. Reflexively, you smile back, the biggest one he's been on the receiving end of.
You can see your building moving closer in the distance now and it disappoints you. You don't want this walk home to end. The company is too nice.
“It’s not true anyway. You have at least one friend.”
You scrunch your face at that, maybe Clark really does have too much faith in your social skills outside of work or something, but he is dead wrong. When you turn your head to tell him as much, his upper body is angled towards you with a hand raised pointing to his face which is sporting a dopey grin. It takes a second to catch his meaning as you come to a stop outside your building.
You feel your eyes start to sting, as wetness builds in your lashline. There's no threat of tears falling, it’s just so nice.
“Really?” you ask, sad eyes staring up at Clark. He can practically feel his heart break in his chest.
“Yeah, I’m your friend.” he nods “if you’ll have me.”
When you give a small nod, he reaches out a hand to your shoulder and rubs a steady back and forth to console you.
This touch is less of a burn and more of a sharp pinch.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Week five
The park is filled with people, it's a warm day with sunlight spilling over the grass in sheets of gold. Groups of friends lounge on the grass with their shoes kicked off, the basketball court is packed out and there's couples meandering along the path holding hands. It's all so nice, yet you find yourself worrying at your bottom lip as you cross the grass..
Is your outfit okay? Do you look nice enough? Is it obvious that you’ve rushed here because you left the apartment too late?
Clark Kent, from what you can tell, is a genuine guy. Not a deceitful bone in his body, you'd bet. Really you shouldn't have been surprised that he meant it when he said he was your friend, but you were, and now he walks you home from work nearly every day and you can manage to speak more than two words at a time to him. You know, he probably won't care what you look like, but if he does, maybe a smile can win him over instead, proving he hasn’t made a mistake.
You seem to see Clark at the same moment he sees you. He’s already spread out the sweetest little picnic blanket beneath a tree that casts shadows across it. Beside him sit two grocery bags bulging with, if you had to guess, more food than two people could possibly eat at once. He's gone so over the top it hurries you forward.
“Oh gosh,” your eyes are wide, they don't seem to settle on any one thing. “Am I late?”
“Nope,” he says easily, already getting to his feet. “I’m early. I wanted to get everything set up.”
As soon as you're standing in front of him, Clark reaches for your tote bag without seeming to think twice about it. He slips the strap from your shoulder and places the bag carefully beside the blanket. Thoughtless and sweet.
It's the first time you’ve seen him not in the slightly oversized suit he wears to work and somehow he looks more handsome. It's unfair.
“You look really nice, honey.”
That's even more unfair. Heat rushes to your cheeks so quickly you have to look away, hiding your pleased smile by lowering yourself onto the blanket instead.
“So do you, Clark.” you murmur.
Your quiet compliment seems to level the playing field a bit. His own smile turns unexpectedly bashful, the tips of his ears flushing pink beneath the dark curls that fall over them. To distract himself, Clark quickly kneels beside one of the grocery bags.
“I wasn’t sure what you liked,” he admits, beginning to unpack containers one after another. “So… I got a little of everything.”
“This is too much, you shouldn't have,” you giggle, shaking your head, smiling despite yourself. “You’re too nice to me.”
As he lays out the variety of picnic food, you can't help but notice how close your knee is to his. How close they are to bumping together. You wonder if that closeness is intentional or not.
Clark shrugs, before leaning closer to you. Maybe that answers your question.
“Theres no part of me that could be mean to you,” He says, earnestly. His blue eyes meet yours without hesitation. “It’s easy to be nice to you.”
There's no time to digest what that means beyond the way it makes your stomach flip and your head feel lighter before he's offering you a punnet of strawberries, like what he said was simple and easy. When you reach for one you give Clark the sweetest smile you can muster which makes his stomach flip in return.
It's hard to believe how lucky you’ve got. How the hell have you ended up sitting in the sunshine, making a life here, inches away from Clark Kent the kindest man you’ve ever met. Sharing strawberries and sandwiches while he smiles at you like spending time together is the easiest thing ever.
“I’ve never been very good with people,” you start. “And I moved here just for the job, I didn’t really think about… about all the other stuff and it's so tricky to make friends…”
You trail off, losing steam in your confession. Your fingers find your cuticles automatically, picking absentmindedly at the skin as your nerves creep back in.
“What I’m trying to say, I guess, is thank you, for being patient with me.”
Clark’s expression changes immediately, his brows pulling together. There's something almost heartbroken in the way he looks at you, as though he's genuinely upset you’d ever think gratitude was necessary.
“You don't have to thank me,” he says, quietly. “It’s my pleasure, really, honey.”
You try your best to internalise those words as soon as he’s said them, the corners of your lips lifting.
“And…” He pauses, until you look up at him, Clark wants to make sure you’re listening. “I get it, y’know.”
The words shock you so much that you let out an unattractive but entirely authentic snort. It’s so unbelieveable, you think that maybe Clark Kent is a liar after all.
“Yeah, right.”
“No really,” he turns until he’s fully facing you, one leg tucked beneath him. “I grew up in Kansas, on a farm! All this was so overwhelming but you learn to love it, I promise.”
Looking at Clark in the light, you think that, yeah maybe you are learning.
By the time the sun begins to set, you’ve both packed everything away and Clark is walking you home. He has the picnic blanket rolled beneath one arm and a bag with food neither of you touched in that hand, leaving his other arm free to swing comfortably at his side as you both make the walk back.
It’s so sweet the effort he’s taken to make today nice, the thought of it makes your next words bubble up and out before you can stop them.
“Next time, I’ll bring the food.”
Clark's eyes widen, surprise flashing so openly across his face that your stomach immediately drops and you can't help but scold yourself mentally. Why would you just assume there would be a next time? You don’t notice his thrilled expression at you suggesting a next time until it bleeds into his voice.
“Yes!” he says a little too quickly, almost laughing at himself before adding, softer, “Whatever you wanna do.”
The enthusiasm in his voice catches you off guard. It's so genuine, so earnest. You can't stop yourself from grinning back and you're fairly certain the way you're looking at him now leaves every ounce of your affection written plainly across your face.
The rest of the walk passes quickly. Soon enough, you both come to a stop outside your building. You turn toward him, suddenly unsure what to do with your hands.
“Thank you.” you say quietly.
Clark shakes his head almost immediately.
“No, thank you.” His smile softens. “I had a really great time.”
Before you know it, Clark is pulling you in for a little side hug. Warm and solid and gentle. His arm draped across your shoulders in goodbye.
This feels like less of a pinch and more like pushing on a bruise.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Week seven
When did recipes become so hard to follow? How much salt is too much? How much isn't enough? The most important question really is, why would you offer to cook for Clark?
The answer to that, you do know. The number of nice things he’s done for you is innumerable now and somewhere along the way you figured you should return the favour. And maybe impress him a little. You always seem to want that, whether you admit it to yourself or not.
It's easier now to not be so shy around him. Clark makes things easy.
With two trays safely put into the oven all you need to do is set a timer and–
There's a steady knock on your door, obviously Clark being as punctual as ever. You stumble quickly through your apartment, nearly catching your foot on the corner of the rug, not wanting to keep him waiting on you now.
You pull the door open. Clark stands there looking exactly how he always does, broad shouldered and gentle eyed with the light catching in his glasses. In his hands is a bouquet of flowers.
The arrangement is beautiful. Soft pink peonies together with pale lavender sweet peas. Somehow, despite how large the bouquet is, Clark still manages to dwarf it. The sight has you a little shocked, mouth opening and closing as you try to figure out what's going on.
“...For me?”
The corners of Clark’s mouth lift to an easy smile and a tiny furrow appears between his brows as though he's genuinely puzzled you had to ask.
“Of course they are,” he says. “My ma raised a gentleman, I couldn't show up empty handed.”
“You totally could’ve,” you shuffle to the side of the doorway, gesturing him in. “I invited you to treat you for a change, remember. They're beautiful.”
Clark gives a small shrug that suggests he doesn't entirely understand your logic.
“They made me think of you when I saw them.”
Heat rushes to your face but the instinct to duck your head away from him when he says nice things has all but disappeared. Instead you meet him head on now with a bashful but thankful smile.
Your apartment suddenly feels impossibly small as Clark follows you into the kitchen. It’s cramped enough with just one person moving around. With him leaning against the counter, close enough that you can feel the heat coming off of him, it’s tight but nice.
You crouch down, digging beneath the sink to find a vase you're sure you own. You find the slightly dusty glass vase.
When you stand, head well away from anything you could bump it on, Clark speaks again.
“What can I help with?” he asks, “Put me to work.”
You laugh softly as you begin trimming the flower stems.
“Nothing,” you point toward the tiny table. “you can sit and relax.”
Clark huffs, discontent with that and it prompts a faint laugh to fall from you once again. You can practically feel the energy coming off of him now. He doesn't do well sitting still, having no purpose while someone else works. He’s always in motion, a quirk of his you've learnt.
“You’re so strange, Clark.” you drawl, arranging another stem into the vase. It's maybe the first time you’ve teased him properly, and from the wide smile and joy that basically radiates from him, you’d guess he likes it. “You can’t sit still, can you?”
“I can sit still.” he defends, though his tone wobbles, betraying the lie.
When the flowers are finally arranged, they're even prettier than when they were wrapped in paper. Maybe it's because Clark Kent bought them for you. You place the vase carefully on the counter before leaning beside him.
“I don’t think I've seen you relax the whole time I've known you,” you say, shaking your head fondly, "You're always up to something, helping someone… helping me.”
His blue eyes flick away from you, almost shy. When they return to yours they’re softer, somehow. His face seems to filter through a number of emotions before simply settling on content.
“That is relaxing to me.”
“Yeah?” you snort, “Helping me unjam one of the printers while you had an article due was relaxing?.”
“It was,” he replies, tone genuine. “Besides those printers are super fiddly, honey.” you roll your eyes, jovially. “I like looking out for the people I care about.”
Now that does make you duck your head away from him, too overwhelmed by him to look at him any more.
“People you care about…” you start, “Including me.”
“Including you.”
All this vulnerability makes you fidgety where Clark stands tall finding it easy to be so open about all this. He smiles as he watches you fix your hair and brush away imaginary dirt from your clothes. The smile you wear is almost blinding, so pleased to have verbal confirmation that you mean as much to Clark as he does to you. It’s the nicest thing to hear.
The smell of fresh flowers gives way to the crisp scent of burning and both of your heads snap to look at the other alarm growing in both of you.
“Oh no.”
You spring into action moving towards the oven but you don't get far as the handle before Clark is gently nudging you aside with your oven gloves already in hand.
The blast of heat that escapes when he opens the oven carries the acrid scent with it. What he pulls out is beyond saving, everything blackened and charred. Your face crumples before you can stop it.
“Oh, no no no.” you groan, stepping forward like getting a better look might change it. “I forgot the timer,” You press a hand to your forehead. “I'm such an idiot, sorry.”
Clark sets the ruined trays aside and turns back to you, both hands raised, palm forward. This is such a disaster, a simple dinner you couldn’t get right.
“Whoa,” he says gently, closing the distance until only a few inches separate you. “It’s fine, it's fine, sweetheart.”
“No It’s not,” your voice comes out smaller than intended. “I wanted to do something nice for you.”
“You have!” he exclaims, looking over his shoulder and turning back to you. “It’s just a little… over done.” you swat at his bicep with a roll of your eyes at his teasing. “We could order takeout and pretend you made it.”
It takes a second to think over that offer, and yes, clarks attitude is right and your evening isn't ruined.
“Okay.”
“Okay?” he asks.
“Yeah,” you nod, a sheepish smile tugging at your lips.
His face lights up. Without another word, Clark lets out an amused little laugh and closes the remaining distance in one easy step, wrapping both arms around you.
“Jeez,” you mumble, though there's no real complaint behind it.
The weight of his arms around you makes you stiffen. It feels awkward and unfamiliar and what are you supposed to do? Your arms hover awkwardly by your sides.
One of Clark's big hands sweeps a smooth arc back and forth across your back and that's all you need to relax into his hold. You move to wrap your arms around him in return. Comfort and security in his arms.
It's nothing like pushing on a bruise, all you feel is warmth.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Week ten
Clark’s apartment is nice, it’s maybe the third time you've been here. The big windows are gorgeous, spilling the last of the evening light across the hard wood floors until the whole place sort of glows. You sink into his couch, soft enough that you’d happily stay here forever. You probably would, too, if it meant spending it with Clark.
He’s very quickly become your favourite person ever. His easy touches have become frequent and you've come to love them even if you don't initiate them.
You’ve noticed Clark tends to stomp around when he's tired. Most people wouldn't notice but learning about Clark has become a wonderful thing. There's no surprising you when he appears from his kitchen with a bowl of popcorn in hand.
“Here you go, pretty.” he murmurs as he drops down beside you, placing the bowl in your lap. He’s closer than he needs to be, but that just seems to be how Clark likes it now, you won't complain.
Another thing that seems to have changed for him is the amount of pet names that fall from his lips. Honey, sweetheart, lovely, pretty and even a babe once or twice. It’s weird because when you think about it now, all signs seem to point to Clark Kent liking you. Like liking you. Romantically.
You turn your head to look at him while he watches the screen. The movie reflects in his eyes, they're enchanting usually but it's tenfold now. Clark hands out caring touches like it's nothing and you’ve grown to crave them. Despite this, you can’t figure out why he hasn’t tried to kiss you yet.
Clark turns towards you with concern across his face, as he takes in the way you're looking at him.
“Whats wrong?” he asks.
It takes concerningly little deliberation for you to make up your mind. You know that Clark is nice enough that if you’ve got this wrong he’ll let you down gently. But you're pretty sure you haven't got this wrong.
“Why haven’t you kissed me?” there's no hesitation in your voice.
His relaxed slouch disappears as he sits upright, eyes widening behind his glasses.
“I…” He laughs once under his breath, more startled than amused. “I wasn’t sure you'd want me to.” His gaze drops, almost involuntarily, to your mouth before flicking back to your eyes. “I’ve wanted to.”
That's all you need, with a faint fuck it you surge forward to connect your lips. For a second, Clark doesn't move, not an inch, and heat floods your face as panic creeps in. He seems to be knocked out of his shocked reverie when you start to pull away.
Before you can get far, Clark raises his hands to frame your face. Large, impossibly gentle hands cradle your jaw as he draws you back towards him with obvious care. He kisses you, slowly.
There’s no urgency in it, you both have all the time in the world. His thumb brushes softly over your cheek as he smiles into the kiss. It's contagious, you feel your own smile widen until, with all the happiness, it's unclear whether you're still kissing with all the smiling going on.
skilled fingertips roaming the dips and valleys of your body are so frenzied they almost feel dire, stir you from a surprisingly heavy slumber. he's home- had to have slipped beneath the covers while you dreamt (likely of him), and he waited until he absolutely couldn't any more, but he needs you, now. he hasn't voiced it yet, he rarely ever does, but it's evident in the set line of his jaw, and in the way his erection presses warm and firm against your thigh.
his dark hair still bears moisture from the shower he'd had before joining you, and you find yourself frowning.
"you showered without me."
a low rumble sounds from somewhere deep in his throat before he nods, once.
"had to, kid."
-scrubbed until i was raw, and i still ain't convinced i won't get anythin' on ya somehow.
"you alright, frank?"
he doesn't acknowledge your query, just grinds his hard cock against you again, and your body's reaction to that simple touch is immediate and embarrassingly involuntary. white-hot heat like you've never felt before sets what feels like every nerve ending in your body ablaze.
"what do you need from me?"
his fingertips- so calloused and familiar they cause raw emotion to swell in your throat- skate up and down the length of your chest, traversing lower and lower with each pass until he has them mere inches from where you need him most.
"need you to tell me what to do, sweetheart."
it's a rare occurrence, but he gets like this sometimes. he spends so much of his life making impossible decisions, that when he's home with you, he just wants you to steer his ship for a while.
you tilt your head up to press a kiss to the space of warm skin just beneath his earlobe.
"missed you frank, and i just need you to make me feel good."
any resolve he might have had dissipates entirely, and he pushes past the flimsy material of your underwear to tease a thick finger up and down the length of your soaked slit.
"ho-ly shit, sweetheart." he groans.
he's seconds away from doing it again when his phone starts vibrating.
"let it ring," you plead, too turned on to be ashamed of how desperate your demand sounds.
he does let it go, and he's about to continue where he was interrupted, when it rings again.
"chrissakes," he hisses before reaching for his ancient relic of a cell phone. he takes the call there, flat on his back, glaring up at the ceiling.
despite the frenzied thrum of your heartbeat, it's quiet in the room and you can hear the conversation perfectly.
"uh, yeah sorry to bother ya pete, i know ya got in late last night but my batch of concrete ain't curin' right and i need some help."
"christ, sam- there ain't anyone else there to walk ya through it?" he asks, through gritted teeth.
he's in a pair of worn carhartt's and a long-sleeved shirt in ten minutes, and you're left thinking that whatever the female equivalent of blue-balls is, you certainly have it.
"we'll continue this when i get back, yeah?" he hums.
"depends," you sigh. "i've got sarah's birthday dinner tonight."
"oh, i'll be back long before that, kid. you can bet on it." he presses a series of ticklish kisses to your face before leaving.
I’ve grown up in a pretty patriarchal family (courtesy of being Hispanic) so my brothers have always been allowed to get away with a LOT by my parents. Like actions and the way they talk
My older brother in particular has always been very demeaning with his comments about my behavior and physical appearance and I’m the bad guy for defending myself!
How would Frank react to such a dynamic? 🫣
quick question -- who is your brother and where does he live, i just wanna talk to him.
Ok but Frank has zero tolerance for this.
Maybe he witnessed it first hand at a family barbecue. He was meeting your extended family and while most of the interactions seemed innocuous enough, Frank picked up on the general sense that there was an unspoken hierarchy that he... wasn't a fan of.
In favor of keeping the peace for you, he bit his tongue when maybe he typically wouldn't. It was the little jabs here and there that compelled him to turn on the charm and redirect the conversation or place a firm hand on your low back and say "Wanna show me around the garden doll?" just to get you out of an annoying conversation.
But it's when your older brother made a comment about your body that Frank managed to make the summer barbecue feeling downright icy.
"Brave of you to wear that dress," your brother scoffs, using a finger to flick at the hem, "got a lot of skin on display don't you think? You think you're fit enough to be showing your arms like that?" he adds, his tone suggesting exactly what he thought.
This was enough to make Frank stiffen in rage, opening his mouth say something but your brothers speaks up again, saying "You always were the fatty in the family," with a hearty chuckle.
Just as the color is flushing your face, Frank plants a kiss firmly on your temple and stoops to murmur in your ear, "Go wait in the truck while I have a word with your brother, alright sweetheart?" He gives your hip a soft squeeze and gives you a nod to head to the car and you oblige, thankful for Frank's ability to read your mind.
Frank paints on his most charming smile and takes a step toward your brother, offering his hand and saying, "Don't think we've had a chance to formally meet. Frank," he says with an outstretched hand that your brother takes under the false pretense that Frank was someone in agreement with him, an ally. That belittling women was something all men did.
Frank grips his hand like a vice, yanking your brother toward him and pulling him off balance. Your brother tries to protest but it turns into a pained grunt as Frank smashes his fingers so thoroughly that the bones crack in his hand. Your brother hisses through his teeth at the pain and Frank keeps the smile on his face, his posture broad and comfortable, as he speaks quietly into your brother's ear, saying "I catch you speaking like that to your sister ever again, this is only an appetizer compared to the shit I'll do to you, understand?"
Your brother tries to protest, grasping for his remaining dignity but when Frank senses his resistance, he smashes further, bending the hand back at an unnatural angle at the wrist. Your brother lets out a string of explicatives as Frank adds, "I don't like waiting asshole. Am I understood?"
Your brother huffs out a desperate, "Y-yes, yes I understand." Frank releases his hand and claps a broad hand to your brother's back, barking "Smart man," in a friendly gesture completely at odds with the pain he just inflicted.
Your brother is panting out breaths, looking at Frank in terror and confusion. "Now go apologize to your beautiful sister jackass," Frank adds before stalking off toward the truck where you're waiting.
When the ordeal is over, Frank doesn't offer flowery reassurances or poetry to you. He places a firm hand on your thigh, starts the car and asks, "Lemme get you home sweetheart." You nod, knowing full well that your brother's scared apology was Frank's work and your heart swells. Frank spends the rest of the night showing you exactly what he loves about every damn inch of your body.
Fireworks are stupid and if you set off fireworks in a residential area I think I should be able to sue you for my impending vet bills. Stop terrifying my fucking pets it’s 10:30 am ffs.
Fuck the US. Fuck fireworks. And fuck people who are selfish enough to set them off around other peoples homes.
Do we think that Frank is someone who is loud or vocal in bed, or is he like a "few grunts here an there" typa guy?
Ok I think Frank is vocal with praise and instruction but his pleasure is in grunts and groans.
So like, he's giving so so so much "good girl" and "that's it pretty girl" and "Doin' so good for me sweet girl" and "Love seein' you take me like this lil' mama" and "Look fuckin' gorgeous all spread open f' me" and "Lemme feel the way you can squeeze me sweetheart" and "Hands and knees babydoll, attagirl." Like you get the picture. He's got no problem making noise when it comes to praising you.
As far as his own pleasure, he's less showy. Frank just has an animalistic quality to him -- he's not necessarily suppressing himself but the natural stuff he emits is more like growls. It's rumbles in his chest. Grunts. It's controlled excursion. It's focused pleasure.
I am terrified of dogs omg they scare me so much, and I feel like Frankie likes dogs, so maybe reader hides it as best as she could in front of him, but maybe she freaks the fucj out. Bonus points if it’s a little dog like idk a chihuahua ? Idk dog breeds lmao. Also I love your thoughts on Frankie to me they feel so canon
Omg I gotta make a confession, I'm really not a dog person either. I'm sorry! I don't dislike them, I've just always been allergic and my grandma's dogs were so loud when I was little and they made me so scared. I HAVE bonded with a few friends' dogs in my life so I get the appeal obviously but I often feel skittish around them so I GET IT.
Anyway, I think Frank is perceptive enough that he'd pick up on your act pretty quickly. Maybe he didn't know the magnitude of it but he'd get the sense that they weren't really your thing and made the mental note.
However, one day when you're running errands, he has to stop at a friend's house to help them fix a garage door. You're waiting in the car while Frank is in the backyard but you decide to get some fresh air and see how it's going in the garage. You enter the backyard, unaware of the unleashed chihuahua in the fenced in yard and it comes barreling at you, barking and yipping on volume 10. Instinctively, you scream.
Like, reealllly scream. A scream that made your throat a little sore later. Your hands fly to your face and your body folds inward and you're sobbing within two seconds as you feel certain the dog is about to sink it's teeth into your leg.
Of course it doesn't. It was never going to. But before it would have even had the chance, all you feel is the rapid whoosh of Frank's body, his scent filling your nose before your eyes are even open, as one large arm curls around you and gently nudges you behind him as the dog's paws land on Frank's shins as it continues to bark. Your front is pushed to Frank's back as he mutters an "Easy fella, calm down" to the dog as he still anchors you to him with one arm. He gives you a few reassuring pats as he calms the dog down enough for it to stop barking and land back on all fours.
Frank turns to face you, keeping you pressed to him as he wraps his arms around your shoulders and presses a kiss to your forehead. He pulls away enough to cup your face and swipe at the tears at your eyes saying, "Little guy spooked you huh doll?" You nod, feeling like a fool for overreacting. "Wasn't gonna let nuthin' happen to ya, you know that right sweetheart?" he asks, nodding his head at his own answer as a prompt for you to nod yours. You comply.
"Just wasn't expecting it," you mumble and he kisses your forehead again in understanding. "You weren't expectin' it doll, I know."
After you've calmed down and allowed yourself to believe the dog wasn't a danger, Frank tries to warm you up to the little thing. You sit in his lap as the dog is at his ankles and he gives it some pets to show you it's friendly. He keeps a broad hand anchored around your waist as you offer some tentative pets, kissing your temple when you've managed to grow a little comfortable with it.
When you're headed out, just before Frank closes your car door he says, "Proud a'you sweetheart. Don't be hidin' stuff like that from me though, alright? Can't help if I don't know, ok?"
Hello 👋 hope you're doing well 💗 I know you're probably busy these days, so it's okay if you don't feel like reading my request lolYou know a lot of people say "couples should be very similar to each other, while couples who are different would have difficulties and put a lot of effort for each other" So how do you think someone like Frank who's practical and straightforward would be like with a girl who's sensitive, Sentimentale and romantic 🤔 I guess you can see that it's my personality lol
In general I don't agree with that advice at all because it ignores the more important thing-- VALUES. My husband and I are not all that similar but we share the same values-- we care about the same things in life (that doesn't mean we behave the same way or do the same things though). ANYWAY.
I think there's a version of Frank that LOOOOOOVVEESS a soft sensitive girly. Even a healed Frank is gonna need someone to protect, someone to fight for, someone to be in service to. Frank just needs that purpose. And I think a sentimental or romantic girl makes him feel fiercely protective. It gives him a reason to get up every day and make himself proud. Again, this goes back to his sense of masculinity. He wants to put his brute force and hard edges to use.
And the real secret is, Frank is a romantic anyway. I swear to god, Frank is one of the most romantic guys in the MCU. He's probably writing poetry for all we know. Do you see the way his face goes all soft and his eyes are all tearful when someone just says the name Karen?! HE'S A HOPELESS ROMANTIC AT HEART. He just wants someone to love.
So Frank would LOVE your softness. He'd feel an intense sense of duty to create a world for you that allows you to keep being soft.
It takes you some time to open your eyes. While you're not sure how much time has passed, you do know that you've never come that hard before.
Bob Floyd's mouth was fucking lethal. And if that's what his mouth could do, you were a little scared of his dick.
Which is what you expected him to mention, given that he hadn't come yet. But instead, he looks at you with those earnest blue eyes and asks,
"Wanna shower?"
It's then you become all too aware of your surroundings; you're in Bob's house, on his bed, whose sheets you have definitely soaked.
"Fuck, your sheets, I'm so sorry," you mumble as you try to get up. There's no way he would want to shower after-
"Hey! It's fine," his voice is soft, gentle, "I usually do laundry tomorrow, so they were going to get washed anyways."
Of course he has a set date for laundry.
When your friend first told you about Bob, you were unsure. You already had such shit luck on dating apps, there's no way a blind date could be better. Then your friend's girlfriend Nat vouched for him. She was a pretty good judge of character and if she was willing to recommend her copilot, he must be at least kinda decent.
It was worse. Bob Floyd was perfect.
He was an actual gentlemen. Not one of those guys that says he is and only holds the door on the first date. Bob listened, he genuinely wanted to get to know you.
At first you thought he didn't like you because he ended the date on an awkward side hug.
According to Nat that's just how he is at first.
But then Bob texted you back. And kept texting. Kept calling. Kept arriving on time with flowers. Kept slowly becoming more comfortable with showing physical affection.
Despite how wonderful he was, you two still did that awkward 'hey not that I'm wondering but what are we?' dance. You wanted to bring it up so bad and knew, in the back of your mind, that you could bring it up to Bob. That he would actually talk about it because he's a grown adult. But you had been burned before and spending time with him was just lovely, even if you were undefined.
Then tonight he brought you to the Hard Deck (you already knew Nat and pretty much the rest of the squad given her and Bob's combined stories). Introducing you to friends is a sign that you didn't plan to ghost someone, right?
He had left to grab you some more water (he insisted after seeing you take a tequila shot with Nat and Mickey). Not even a full minute had passed when some blonde Ken doll looking man walked up to you. Funny thing, pre-Bob, he would have been your exact type. But now you were reaping the benefits of having expectations. You wanted Bob.
Who jumped right to your defense. Who replied with "boyfriend" (same time as you) when asked who he was. Who after confirming that yes, you did mean that, took you back to his place and ate you out like it was his last meal.
Who now was leading you into his shower, pressing sweet and soft kisses to your bare shoulder. Who did not get an equal chance to come and wasn't bringing it up.
Instead he offered you his bottle of shampoo (actual shampoo, not the '12 in 1' stuff) and stepped aside to let you stand under his shower head.
He was so sweet and genuine, it drove you crazy. Bob probably wouldn't mention his lack of an orgasm.
Which is why you felt like the only logical thing to do was to get on your knees in the shower. For once, you actually wanted to return the favor. He made you see stars and was the sweetest man you had ever met, so why not blow him?
"Hey you okay- oh," his eyes widened when your tongue darted out to lick up his shaft. You never really thought a cock could be pretty, until you met Bob.
"You don't....have to um, you know-shoot," his head tilts back when your lips close around the tip of his cock. His breathing is uneven. Looking up, you can see his eyes shut in concentration, as though he's using all his willpower to not come.
Well that just wouldn't do. If Bob made you see stars, you were going to return the favor.
This is so weirdly specific and self indulgent but I get frequent kidney stones and have had to fight with nurses to get pain meds, and I just keep thinking about how Frank would be such an angel about “they ask what your pain level is, you don’t lie about it, ‘kay? You tell ‘em what it really is ‘n stop toughin’ it out,” and standing up for you when nurses don’t take it seriously 😭
girl everything i write is self indulgent so no sweat lol
Uh yes x 1,0000. First and foremost, Frank always believes you when you tell him what's going on with your body. No questions. So he's your ally here instantly.
I'm just imaging this with Neighbor!Frank because he's nothing but a gentle giant with you and maybe he's taking you to the ER for the first time and you see a TOTALLY different side to him. Like at first he's quietly stunned that you're trying to act like you weren't in so much pain that you thought you might vomit just 20 minutes ago. The nurse asks for a pain scale and you answer with a four and he's just slack-jawed at what the hell you're doing for a second.
He's holding up a meaty hand to the nurse like "hang on, hang on, a sec" before he turns to you like "Sweetheart, I saw you go pale and almost pass out. You looked like you been shot. The answer's ten."
You feel like that sounds dramatic so you're like "I know but it's been worse so--" but there goes his meaty hand again, saying "We in some kinda pain competition or somethin'?" and you're like who is this Frank??
So the nurse notes a ten but when the doctor finally comes in, the vibes are just off. He's scoffing at the chart, he's eyeing you and saying "10, huh?" and Frank doesn't like it right away. Frank is as subtle as a cruise ship because he goes from sitting to standing with his arms crossed within 30 seconds. The doctor asks a few questions that begins suggesting he thinks you're just trying to get your hands on some meds. Meanwhile you're writhing on the hospital bed and looking like death.
Frank cuts the doctor off mid-sentence and says "Lemme tell you somethin' bud-- if I was layin' in the bed saying my pain was a level 10 you'd be pumpin' some goddamn drugs into me and fluffin' my fuckin' pillows. Change your fuckin' tone when you talk to her."
And everyone is simply stunned into silence. A few awkward moments pass before the doctor clears his throat and mumbles a shitty apology and then directing the nurse to put the order in.
Once they leave the room, Frank is back to being a big softie with you-- smoothing the hair out of your face, bringing you ice water and saying "It's ok to cry doll. Body's goin' through a lot. Bein' braver then half the men I know." He was like a loyal pit bull.
summary : when frank gets home hurt, you can't help but soak up all the pain
warnings : mentions of blood, injury and extreme angst
word count : 3.3 k
a/n : not proofread and based on a rq by @veralinasol (lowk sucks but yeah)
The apartment is warm. Comfortably warm. The kind of warmth that settles into the walls after a long day. Music hums quietly from the speaker on the kitchen counter. Something old. Something Frank claims he hates but somehow never asks you to turn off. You move around the kitchen in socks, stirring a pot of sauce with one hand while scrolling through your phone with the other.
It's peaceful. Ordinary. Exactly the kind of evening you've learned not to take for granted.
The clock above the stove reads 8:42. Frank said he had to cancel.
Something came up with Dinah and Micro, and he has to handle it. You know that, and honestly, you don't mind the peace and quiet once in a while.
You'd rolled your eyes when he'd texted it. He'd responded with a thumbs-up emoji. A crime, honestly. Frank Castle should not be allowed to use emojis. You make a mental note to tell him that tomorrow.
The thought makes you smile. Outside, rain taps softly against the windows. Inside, the sauce bubbles.
The music plays. Life feels normal.
You curl up on the couch with a bowl of food, blowing on it softly as you reach for the TV remote.
The couch sighs beneath your weight. A blanket gets pulled over your legs. Your bowl settles comfortably in your lap. For the first time all day, there's absolutely nothing demanding your attention.
No emergencies. No worrying. No waiting for Frank to stomp through the front door at some ungodly hour looking like he got into a fistfight with the city itself. Just you.
Dinner.
And whatever terrible reality show you're about to pretend you don't enjoy.
The TV flickers to life. You take a bite of pasta. Hum happily. Outside, rain rattles softly against the glass. The apartment feels safe.
Cozy.
Lived in.
Your eyes drift briefly toward the framed photograph sitting on the shelf beside the television. Frank. Scowling. Obviously. Because every photo of him somehow looks like evidence from a police investigation. You smile around another bite.
"Handsome asshole." The picture doesn't respond. Probably for the best. You sink deeper into the couch. The episode starts. Ten minutes pass. Then twenty. You lose yourself in it.
The music. The rain. The food. The warm apartment. The complete absence of danger.
It's nice. Really nice.
Then— A noise.
Your attention barely shifts. Probably the pipes. Old building. Happens all the time. You keep eating. The TV drones on. Another noise. A little louder. You pause. Fork halfway to your mouth. Frown. Listen.
Nothing.
The apartment settles around you. The refrigerator hums. Rain taps against the windows. You shake your head. Probably upstairs neighbors. You go back to your show. A minute later— Thunk. Your stomach drops. That definitely wasn't upstairs. The sound came from somewhere inside the apartment.
You slowly lower the bowl into your lap. Mute the television. The sudden silence is startling. Your heart beats a little faster.
The lock clicks. You freeze. For one glorious second you think you're imagining it. Then the front door opens.
Heavy boots. A familiar curse. The sound of knees hitting the hardwood. A wet, gargling cough.
"Baby ?" His voice is heavy, broken, crackly. He coughs, and you hear something splatter on the ground.
Your bowl hits the coffee table so fast sauce sloshes over the rim.
"Frank?" No answer. Just another rough cough.
Wet.
Wrong.
Every nerve in your body lights up. You are already moving before you realize it. The blanket tangles around your legs. You nearly trip over it. Bare feet slap against hardwood as you sprint toward the front hallway.
"Frank!" The sight that greets you steals the breath from your lungs. He's on one knee. One hand braced against the wall. The other pressed hard against his side.
Blood runs between his fingers. Not a little. Not enough to brush off. Too much. Way too much.
The front door hangs half-open behind him. Rain blows in from outside, dampening the floor around his boots.
"Jesus Christ." Your voice breaks. Frank lifts his head. The second he sees you, something in his expression softens. Not relief exactly. Recognition.
Like he's finally made it somewhere safe.
"Hey, baby." You could kill him. You could genuinely kill him.
"Hey baby?" you repeat. He winces. "Hey baby?" Your eyes fill instantly. "You're bleeding all over my floor!" A weak huff leaves him. Almost a laugh.
"Yeah."
"Frank!"
"I know." Another cough bends him forward. Blood spatters the hardwood. Your stomach drops.
"Oh my God." The fear hits so hard your knees almost buckle. Frank sees it immediately. You drop to your knees beside him, pushing at his shoulder to get him up halfway so you can look at his wound.
"Sweetheart—"
"What happened?" Frank looks away. You immediately know the answer. Something bad. Something bad enough that he doesn't want to tell you. "Frank." He sighs.
"Took a round." Your heart stops. A round.
A bullet.
A bullet.
"Oh my God."
"It's through-and-through."
"Frank."
"I'm okay." You shake your hand, stumbling to your feet and diving for your phone.
"I need to call 911- you need, Frankie, you need a hospital-"
"No-" Frank reaches for you and falls face first on the hardwood, groaning as he can no longer move. "Fuck- Baby, please. No."
The sound he makes when he hits the floor tears straight through you. Not a yell. Not even a curse. Just a low, exhausted groan. Like he's running out of energy to hide how much pain he's in.
"Frank!" You drop the phone immediately and scramble back to him. Blood is everywhere.
On the floor. On his shirt. On your hands the second you touch him. Your stomach turns.
"Jesus Christ, Frankie." His eyes squeeze shut.
"I'm so fuckin' sorry." He rasps. You hook your hands under his shoulders, trying to help him sit up.
Frank weighs a million pounds. Or maybe you're just shaking too hard. Either way, it takes everything you've got. Eventually he manages to get one arm beneath himself and pushes upright with a grunt. The movement clearly hurts. A lot. You see it. The tightness around his eyes. The way his jaw clenches. The little hitch in his breathing.
And because you're you— Because you absorb every ounce of what he's feeling without even trying— Your eyes immediately fill again.
You maneuver him to the couch and let him slump down, his back arching in pain as he lifts his shirt higher up his chest.
The second the fabric lifts, you wish it hadn't. The wound isn't just a little hole.
It's angry. Raw. Blood slicks across his skin in dark sheets, tracking down his side and soaking the waistband of his jeans. The exit wound looks even worse. For a moment, all you can do is stare. Frank notices immediately.
"Hey." You blink. "Hey." His voice is softer this time. You force yourself into motion.
"Towels." The word comes out thin. "I need- I need towels." You disappear into the bathroom before he can answer.
Not because you need towels. You do. But mostly because if you stay there another second you're going to completely lose it. The bathroom light is too bright. Your hands shake as you yank open cabinets.
Towels. Gauze. Alcohol. The first aid kit. Your vision blurs. You blink hard.
You gather everything into your arms and march back into the living room before your emotions can catch up. By the time you return, Frank is exactly where you left him. Head tipped back. Eyes closed. Breathing hard. Trying very, very hard not to look as exhausted as he actually is. The sight hurts.
God, it hurts.
"Don't fall asleep." One of his eyes opens.
"Wasn't gonna."
"Liar." A faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. You hate that smile right now. You hate how much blood is underneath it. You drop onto the coffee table in front of him and immediately press a towel against the wound. You clean. Apply pressure. Replace soaked towels. Your movements are efficient. Automatic.
The way Frank taught you. But every time he winces, your stomach twists. Every time his breathing catches, yours does too. Every time his shoulders tense, your chest aches. Like you're carrying part of the pain with him. After twenty minutes, your hands are sticky with blood. Your knees hurt.
Frank looks pale. Too pale. And you're getting tired. Not physically.
Emotionally.
The kind of tired that settles into your bones. The kind Frank wears every day. You see it now. Really see it. The exhaustion. The constant pain. The way he keeps going anyway. Something in your chest starts to crack.
"Baby." You don't answer. You're focused on wrapping fresh gauze around his side. "Sweetheart." Still nothing. Because if you speak, you'll cry. And once you start, you aren't sure you'll stop. Frank watches you for a long moment. You sniffle and tighten the gauze. Frank jerks. A sharp hiss escapes him, and his hand darts out to wrap around your wrist, his grip bruising. You feel it like someone shot you too.
"Shit. Shit - I-I'm sorry, Frankie." You rasp, backing away from him, hands shaking and soaked with his blood.
"I-It's fine, mama." he hums, holding his hand out, beckoning you back towards him. But you can't move. You're staring at him. At the blood already reddening the gauze. At the condensation collecting on his brow, on the sickly paleness of his skin. For a second, neither of you moves. Rain taps softly against the windows. The refrigerator hums. The clock on the wall keeps ticking.
And all you can see is blood. His blood. Everywhere. On your hands. Under your fingernails. Soaking through the towel you'd just replaced.
Red against pale skin. Red against the couch. Red against everything.
"Baby." Frank's voice sounds distant. Like he's speaking from the other end of a tunnel. You don't answer. Your eyes stay fixed on the wound. On the evidence that he could have died. That maybe he still could.
That he came home instead of a hospital. That he chose you first. Something twists violently in your chest.
"Sweetheart." His hand is still extended toward you. Waiting. Patient.
You stare at it. Then at him. And suddenly all the effort you've spent holding yourself together starts slipping. Not dramatically. Not all at once. Just little cracks. Tiny fractures spreading through something already breaking.
"I'm scared." The words barely make it out. Frank's expression changes immediately. The pain. The exhaustion. All of it takes a back seat. Because now he's looking at you. Really looking at you.
"Oh, baby."
"I'm scared."cYour voice wobbles. You hate it. You hate how small you sound. How vulnerable. How terrified. Frank shifts forward. Immediately regrets it. A sharp breath escapes him. Pain flashes across his face. But he keeps reaching for you anyway.
"Come here." You shake your head. Not because you don't want to. Because if you move, you're afraid you'll fall apart. "Sweetheart."
His voice is so soft. So tired. It nearly kills you.
Frank closes his eyes briefly. Like he's absorbing the distance. Like he deserves it. Maybe he thinks he does.
He shifts on the couch, trying to lean forward to grab onto you, and a roar of pain leaves his lips and his hand presses to his side.
"Frank-" You rasp, falling to your knees in front of him, sobbing as you push him back onto the couch. "Don't- Don't do that- oh my god." You cry, shaking your head.
One hand immediately finds your arm. Not to stop you. To reassure you. You're crying now. Really crying. Not the quiet tears you'd been trying to hide. Not the sniffles you'd been swallowing every time he winced. The ugly kind. The kind that steals your breath.
The kind that hurts.
"Jesus Christ." You wipe furiously at your face. "You can't— you can't do that."
A weak huff escapes him.
"I'm fine." He rasps.
"I can tell you're not." You sob. "Every- Every time you get hurt. I can tell you're in pain. I can tell you're exhausted." You grit out.
"Baby-"
"And it hurts me, Frank." You sob, head falling onto his knee as you cry. "It hurts me to see you like this."
"Baby.. Hey, no.. C'mon, don't cry." The words are ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. Because he's sitting there with a bullet wound in his side, bleeding through fresh gauze, pale enough to scare you half to death.
And somehow he's comforting you. A broken laugh escapes you. It immediately turns into another sob. Frank's face crumples.
Not dramatically. Just enough. Enough that you know he's hurting in more ways than one.
"Sweetheart." You shake your head against his knee.
"No."
"Baby—"
"No." Your voice cracks. "You don't get to do that."
"Do what?"
"Act like this is okay." The confession rips itself out of you. You don't even mean to say it. But now that it's started, you can't stop. "You don't get to come home half-dead and tell me not to cry." Frank goes quiet. Very quiet. Your hands clutch at his jeans. Blood-stained fingers bunching the fabric. "I hate this."
His hand settles on the back of your head. Slowly. Carefully. Like you're something fragile.
"I know."
"I hate when you get hurt."
"I know."
"I hate seeing you in pain." His thumb moves through your hair.
"I know, baby." Your chest aches. Actually aches. Because he sounds so tired. Because he's not arguing. Because he understands. Because he's felt this exact helplessness before.
A hundred times. A thousand. Watching people he loved get hurt.
Watching them bleed.
Being unable to stop it.
The realization nearly breaks you all over again.
"I can feel it." Frank frowns.
"What?" You lift your head. Your face is soaked. Your eyes burn.
"I can feel how tired you are." The words come out before you can stop them. Frank's expression shifts. Confused. Heartbroken. Both. "I can." Your voice trembles. "Every time you wince, I feel it." You wipe angrily at your eyes. "Every time you look exhausted, I get exhausted." Another sob. "And every time you're hurting, it feels like I'm hurting too." Frank stares at you. Completely still. Rain taps against the windows. The apartment feels too quiet. Too small. Too intimate. Finally, Frank reaches forward. Cups your cheek.
His hand is rough. Warm. Familiar.
"You know what's funny?" Your eyebrows pull together.
"What?" A tiny smile touches his mouth. Barely there.
"The whole damn world thinks I'm the tough one." Fresh tears spill down your face. Frank wipes one away with his thumb.
"But you're the one carrying both of us." The breath leaves your lungs. Immediately.
"Frank—"
"No." His voice is gentle. Firm. "Listen to me." You do. Because you always do. Because it's Frank. "You got the biggest damn heart I've ever seen."
You make a wounded sound. Because that's not fair. Not when he's looking at you like that. Not when he's the one bleeding. Not when he's the one who almost died.
"I don't wanna lose you." The words fall out before you can stop them. Raw. Honest. Childishly honest. Frank's entire face changes. The softness disappears. Not because he's angry. Because it hurts. You can see it. The thought hurts him too.
His hand slides to the back of your neck. Pulling you closer. Until your forehead rests against his.
"You listen to me." His voice is rough. Low. Certain. "I'm right here." A kiss presses against your forehead. "I'm not goin' anywhere tonight." Another kiss. Against your temple. "You hear me?" His nose brushes yours. "I'm here." Your eyes squeeze shut. Because you need that. Need it desperately. Need something solid to hold onto. Frank's hand moves back into your hair. Massaging your scalp slowly.
The same way he always does when you're upset.
The same way he does when nightmares wake you up.
Patient.
Steady.
Loving.
"I'm sorry, mama." He says gruffly. "I'm so fuckin' sorry. This ain't fair to ya." The apology breaks something inside you. Not because you're angry. Because he's apologizing. Because he's the one bleeding through bandages. Because he's pale and exhausted and barely holding himself upright. And somehow he's still worried about you. A fresh sob tears loose. Frank immediately reaches for you. Ignoring the way his face tightens. Ignoring the wound. Ignoring everything except you.
"Hey." You shake your head. "Baby, look at me."
"Frank."
"Baby—" Your hand lands against his chest. Not hard. Just enough to keep him still.
"You got shot." The reality of it crashes over you all over again. You can feel your throat closing. Your eyes burn. "You were hurt." Another pause. "And you still came home." The last part comes out small. Almost broken.
Because that's the thing that keeps getting you. Not the blood. Not the wound. Not even the fear. It's the fact that when he was hurt, when he was exhausted, when he was barely standing— He came to you. Frank's eyes lower. Like he doesn't know what to do with that.
"Course I did." The answer is immediate. Simple. Obvious. Like there's no other possibility. Like there never was. You stare at him. Frank shrugs one shoulder. Instantly regrets it. Winces.
"Jesus Christ." You grab his arm.
"Stop moving."
"Tryin'."
"No, you're not." A huff of laughter escapes him. Weak. Painful. Real. And suddenly your eyes fill again.
Because he's still Frank. Still making jokes. Still trying to make you feel better. Even now. Especially now. The realization hits hard enough that you have to look away. Frank notices immediately.
Of course he does. His fingers find your chin.
Guide your face back toward him.
"Hey." You swallow. "Hey." His thumb brushes beneath one eye. Wiping away tears before they fall. "I need you to hear me." Your lips wobble. Frank waits. Patient. Until you finally nod.
"I'm listenin'." His eyes lock onto yours. Steady. Certain. The same look he gets when he needs you to believe something. Something important.
"You're a saint." Your breath catches. Immediately. Because you know exactly where this is going. "You hear me?"
"Frank—"
"No." His voice is gentle. But firm. "You sit here worried sick every time I walk out that door." His thumb strokes your cheek. "You patch me up." Another stroke. "You put me back together." Another. "You love me." Your throat closes. "And somehow you think that's something you gotta apologize for." A tear finally slips free. Frank catches it with his thumb.
"I don't."
"You do." His voice softens. "You think feelin' all this makes you weak." You immediately shake your head. But Frank just gives you a look. The look that says don't lie to me. "You feel everything." His hand settles against the side of your neck. Warm. Protective. "And that's exactly why I keep comin' home." The room goes completely still. Rain against glass. Your breathing. His. Nothing else. Frank's eyes don't leave yours. "No matter what happens." His voice drops lower. "I know there's somebody here who'll fight like hell to keep me alive." Your face crumples. Instantly.
"Frank."
"And that's not weakness." The words come out rough. Certain. Like fact. "That's the strongest damn thing I ever seen." You can't stop crying now. Not at all. Frank opens one arm. Careful. Limited by the wound. But open. An invitation. You don't hesitate.
You climb into his lap anyway. Immediately. Like gravity. Like instinct. Frank groans quietly from the movement. But his arms lock around you the second you're close enough. Holding you tight. One hand settling against the back of your head. The other across your spine. And for a long moment neither of you says anything. You just breathe.
Together. Your face buried in his neck. His cheek resting against your hair. Finally you feel his lips press softly against the top of your head.
"I'm okay." The words are whispered. More for you than for him. "I'm right here." Another kiss. "I'm not goin' anywhere." You squeeze him tighter. Immediately feel him smile against your hair.
Tiny. Tired. Fond.
"Though if you squeeze much harder," he murmurs, "you might finish the job that bullet started."
Note I love Clark Kent so much and I still have no idea why I only have one fic about him here, that's gonna change from now. Anyways, I am sorry if this is a tiny bit angsty but I swear there's fluff and smut and you're gonna be nauseous because these two love each other way too much. Like a lot.
Clark’s night had been a particular kind of hell. He didn't remember landing on your terrace.
One moment he was standing in the cratered ruin of what used to be a warehouse district on the outskirts of Metropolis, his hands still trembling from the echo of kryptonian fists meeting flesh, and the next he was here—boots silent on the weathered tile, the city sprawling beneath him like a circuit board of light and shadow.
The villain had called himself Pavor. A meta-human with the unsettling ability to weaponize fear, to reach into the deepest, most vulnerable parts of a person's mind and pull out their nightmares made manifest. Clark had faced worse. He'd faced world-enders and reality-benders, creatures from the Phantom Zone and gods from distant pantheons. But Pavor had done something that none of the others had managed.
He'd made Clark watch you die.
Not just once. A hundred times. A thousand. Each death more intimate and horrible than the last. A car accident on a rain-slicked street where Clark was too slow, too far away, his super-hearing catching your final breath across seven city blocks. A terminal illness that ate through your beautiful, laughing body while Clark held your hand and felt the life drain out of you, powerless to stop it because even he couldn't cure the incurable. An explosion in your apartment building that he arrived at two minutes too late, your favorite mug still warm on the kitchen counter, your scent still lingering in the hallway.
The worst one—the one that still had his hands shaking even now—was the simplest. You'd been walking home from the grocery store, a bag of oranges in your arms, and a man with a gun had wanted your wallet. In the vision, Clark had been standing right there. Right. There. And he'd still been too slow. The bullet had entered your chest before he could move, and you'd looked at him with such confusion, such betrayal, as if to say why didn't you save me? when you didn't even know he was there at all.
The villain was neutralized now. Sedated in a meta-human containment cell, his fear-dust swept up by biohazard teams. But the images lingered, burned into Clark's brain like afterimages from a nuclear blast.
He needed to see you.
The thought was urgent, desperate, clawing at his chest with something that felt dangerously close to panic. He needed to see your face, to hear your heartbeat, to feel you—warm and solid and alive—under his hands. The rational part of his mind, the part that had been doing this for almost two years, told him to go home first. Change out of the suit. Put on the glasses and the flannel shirt and the carefully constructed persona of Clark Kent, mild-mannered reporter. That was the agreement, wasn't it? Not a formal one, not something you'd ever demanded, but something he'd built between you anyway. With you, he got to be just Clark. Not Superman. Not the symbol, the icon, the guy who caught planes and deflected asteroids. Just the man who burned his toast in the morning and left his socks on the bathroom floor and kissed the back of your neck while you were trying to make coffee.
But tonight, the thought of putting on that mask felt unbearable. Like another layer of separation between him and the thing he needed most.
So here he was. Boots on your terrace. The cape heavy on his shoulders, the House of El crest emblazoned across his chest. He'd never shown up like this before. Not once. You knew who he was—he'd told you, three months into the relationship, sitting on this very terrace with his heart in his throat and the words “I'm Superman” tasting like broken glass in his mouth—but you'd never seen him like this. The suit had always been something that happened somewhere else, in a different part of his life, the part he tried so hard to keep separate from the quiet sanctuary he'd found with you.
The sliding door was unlocked. It was always unlocked when he visited, a small act of faith that still made something in his chest ache. He could see you through the glass, curled on the couch with a book in your lap and a mug of tea steaming on the side table. You were wearing his university sweatshirt—the one he'd almost thrown away a dozen times because it was faded and threadbare, but you'd fished it out of the donation bag and claimed it as your own. Your hair was loose around your shoulders, still slightly damp from a shower, and you were absently chewing on your lower lip the way you did when you were concentrating.
His knees nearly buckled.
He'd watched you die tonight. He'd watched your eyes go dark and your heart stop and your blood pool on pavement, on tile, on the pristine white sheets of a hospital bed. He'd screamed your name in a dozen different nightmares, had reached for you a thousand times and come up empty. And here you were, reading one of your favorite books with your feet tucked under you, completely unaware that somewhere across the city, a so called God had been weeping over your corpse.
Clark slid the door open and you looked up immediately, a smile already forming on your lips—and then froze. Your eyes went wide, traveling from his face down the length of his body, taking in the suit and the cape and the way he was standing there like a man who'd just survived something he couldn't name.
“Clark?” Your voice was soft, uncertain, already tinged with concern. You set the book aside and rose from the couch, moving toward him slowly, carefully, the way you might approach a wounded animal. “Baby, what's wrong?”
He tried to speak. Tried to form words, to explain, to apologize for showing up like this without warning. But the sound that came out of his mouth was closer to a sob, raw and broken, and suddenly he was crossing the room in two strides and pulling you into his arms.
The contact nearly undid him.
You were warm. So impossibly, achingly warm, your body fitting against his like you'd been made to be there. Your heartbeat thrummed against his chest, steady and strong and alive, and Clark buried his face in your hair and breathed you in. Lavender shampoo. The faint trace of the tea you'd been drinking. Something underneath that was just you, the scent he'd committed to memory months ago, the one that meant home.
“Clark.” Your hands came up to cup his face, gentle but insistent, pulling back just enough to look at him. Your thumbs swept across his cheekbones, catching tears he hadn't realized he'd been shedding. “Talk to me. Please.”
He closed his eyes, leaning into your touch. “There was a man tonight,” he said, and his voice came out rough, scraped raw. “He could—he could show people their fears. Make them real, somehow. In their minds.” He swallowed hard, and the next words came out on a shudder. “He showed me you. Dying. Over and over again. I watched you die so many times, and every time—every single time—I couldn't save you.”
Your breath caught. He felt it, felt the slight hitch in your chest, the way your fingers tightened almost imperceptibly on his jaw.
“Clark,” you whispered.
“I know it wasn't real.” The words came faster now, tumbling out of him like water through a broken dam. “I know that. I've dealt with fear-manipulators before, I know how it works, I know none of it actually happened. But I couldn't—I couldn't shake it. I couldn't stop seeing your face, couldn't stop hearing—” His voice cracked. “I needed to see you. I needed to hold you. And I couldn't go home and change first, I couldn't put on the glasses and pretend to be someone else for one more second, because I'm not—I'm not someone else, not with you, I've never been someone else with you, and I just—”
The words were coming too fast now, tripping over each other, spiraling. Clark could feel it building in his chest—that familiar, terrible pressure, the one he'd learned to recognize over years of burying things too deep. His heart was hammering, which was ridiculous because his heart didn't do that anymore, hadn't done that since he was a teenager learning to control his powers, but here it was, pounding against his ribs like a caged animal. His breathing was too quick, too shallow, and he couldn't seem to get enough air even though he didn't technically need to breathe at all, not really, not the way you did, but his body didn't seem to care about technicalities right now.
She's dead. She's dead and you're hallucinating and any second now you're going to blink and she's going to be gone and you're going to be back in that warehouse with her blood on your hands and—
“Clark.”
Your voice cut through the spiral like a blade through silk. Not loud. Not demanding. Just there, steady and warm and impossibly, impossibly present.
“Clark, look at me.”
He couldn't. He couldn't look at you because if he looked at you, he'd see the bullet hole or the sickness or the closed eyes or one of the thousand other ways he'd watched you die tonight, and he couldn't—he couldn't—
Your hands moved from his face to his shoulders, and then you were guiding him, gently but firmly, until his back hit the wall beside the sliding door. Not hard—you didn't have the strength to move him if he didn't want to be moved—but he went willingly, bonelessly, because some deep part of him recognized that you were trying to anchor him, and he needed an anchor more than he needed air.
“There you go,” you murmured, and your hands were on his chest now, right over the S-shield, and he could feel the warmth of your palms even through the suit. “I've got you. I'm right here. Feel my hands, Clark. Can you feel them?”
He nodded, a jerky, desperate motion. Your hands. He could feel your hands. Smaller than his and soft and warm, pressed against the symbol of his house, against the place where his heart should have been beating out of control but was instead starting, slowly, to calm.
“Good.” You stepped closer, and now your body was pressed against his, not in a way that was sexual but in a way that was grounding, solid and real and undeniable. You were warm all along his front, from his chest to his thighs, and he could feel every point of contact like a lifeline. “Now breathe with me, okay? Just breathe. In...” He felt your chest expand against his. “...and out.”
He tried. He really tried. But the images were still there, flickering behind his eyelids every time he blinked, and his breath came out in a shuddering gasp instead of anything resembling controlled.
“That's okay,” you said, and your voice was so soft, so impossibly gentle, like you were soothing a spooked horse rather than the most powerful being on the planet. “That's okay, baby. Just try again. In...”
This time, he followed. His chest rose against yours, and he felt the way you smiled—felt the curve of your lips against his collarbone where you'd pressed your face.
“Good. So good. Now out...”
He exhaled, and some of the pressure in his chest went with it.
“That's it.” Your hands started moving on his chest, slow circles over the fabric of his suit, soothing and repetitive. “You're doing so well, Clark. Just keep breathing with me. In...”
She's warm. She's warm and she's solid and she's here.
“...and out.”
Her heart is beating. I can hear it. I can feel it.
“In...”
It's not the vision. The vision was cold. She was cold in the vision.
“...and out.”
She's not cold. She's never been cold. She's the warmest thing I've ever known.
“In...”
She's alive.
“...and out.”
She's alive. She's alive. She's alive.
Clark's eyes opened. He hadn't realized he'd closed them. And there you were—your face tilted up to his, your eyes soft and patient and full of so much love it made something in his chest crack open all over again. But this time, it wasn't the bad kind of cracking. This was the kind that let light in.
“Hi,” you said softly, and there was the barest hint of a smile playing at your lips.
“Hi,” he managed, and his voice was wrecked, scraped raw, but it was his again.
Your hands slid up from his chest to his face, cradling his jaw, your thumbs tracing the curve of his cheekbones. You were so gentle with him, so careful, like he was something precious rather than something dangerous. He didn't understand how you did it. Didn't understand how you looked at him—at the suit, at the symbol, at the man who'd just fallen apart in your arms—and saw something worth holding.
“I'm here,” you said, and it wasn't the first time you'd said it tonight, but somehow it felt different now. Slower. More deliberate. Like you were pressing the words into his skin, making sure they stuck. “I'm here, Clark. I'm not a vision. I'm not a hallucination. I'm not going to disappear.”
He opened his mouth—to apologize, probably, because apologizing was what he did, was what he'd been training himself to do since he was old enough to understand that his existence was complicated—but you shook your head slightly, your thumbs pressing gently against his lips.
“No,” you said. “Don't. Don't apologize for needing me. Don't apologize for falling apart. You're allowed to fall apart, Clark. You're allowed to be scared and tired and overwhelmed and human, even if you're not—even if you're more than that. Especially because you're more than that. You carry so much. All the time. You never stop. You never let yourself just... be.”
Your hands moved from his face to his hair, pushing back the dark waves that had escaped the gel, your fingers carding through the strands with a tenderness that made his eyes sting.
“So here's what's going to happen,” you continued, and your voice was still soft but there was something underneath it now, something fierce and protective and utterly, utterly sure. “You're going to stand here with me for as long as you need to. And I'm going to hold you. And you're going to feel me—every part of me—and you're going to let yourself believe that I'm real.”
You took one of his hands—his stupid, heavy, dangerous hands, the hands that could punch through steel and crush diamonds—and pressed it flat against your chest, right over your heart.
“Feel that?” you asked.
He felt it. Of course he felt it. He could feel the steady thrum of your heartbeat against his palm, could feel the expansion of your lungs with every breath, could feel the warmth of your blood moving through your veins. It was the most beautiful thing he'd ever felt.
“That's me,” you said. “That's my heart. It's beating because I'm alive, Clark. I'm alive, and I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not for a very, very long time, if I have anything to say about it.”
“But you can't promise that,” he whispered, and the words came out broken, aching, almost childish and he didn’t stop himself. “I can't protect you from everything. I couldn't in the visions. I tried, and I couldn't, and what if—what if one day—”
“Then we'll deal with that day if it comes.” Your voice was firm, unyielding, nothing like the soft, soothing tone from before. This was the voice you used when you were drawing a line in the sand, when you were refusing to let him spiral any further. “But it's not today, Clark. Today, I'm here. Right now, I'm here. And you're here. And we're together, and we're alive, and we love each other, and that's enough. That has to be enough, because it's all we have.”
You lifted his hand from your chest and pressed a kiss to his palm, right in the center, your lips warm and soft against his skin. Then you turned his hand over and kissed his knuckles, one by one, a slow and deliberate ritual.
“These hands,” you said between kisses. “These hands have caught airplanes. These hands have held up buildings. These hands have saved the world more times than I can count.” You looked up at him, and your eyes were shining. “But do you know what my favorite thing about these hands is?”
He shook his head, not trusting his voice.
“They hold me,” you said simply. “They hold me when I'm sad. They hold me when I'm scared. They hold me when I'm happy and when I'm angry and when I'm so tired I can't keep my eyes open. They hold me like I'm something precious, something worth protecting. And every time you hold me, I feel safe. Not because you're Superman. Because you're you. Because you're the man who loves me.”
A tear slipped down his cheek. You caught it with your thumb, wiping it away like it was nothing, like it didn't matter that he was crying in front of you for the second time tonight.
“I love you,” you said, and the words were so simple, so small, and yet they filled every empty space in his chest. “I love you, Clark Kent. I love the reporter and the hero and the farm boy from Kansas. I love the man who burns toast and leaves socks on the floor and cries at dog commercials. I love the man who showed up on my terrace tonight in his Superman suit because he was scared and he needed me. I love all of you. Every broken, beautiful piece.”
Clark let out a breath he felt like he'd been holding for hours. The tension in his shoulders—the tension he hadn't even realized was there until this moment—began to ease. The images were still lurking at the edges of his mind, but they seemed dimmer now, less urgent, like nightmares fading in the light of morning.
You stepped back just enough to look at him properly, your hands sliding down to rest on his hips. Your eyes traveled over him—the suit, the cape, the S-shield—and instead of fear or uncertainty, he saw something else. Something that looked like wonder. Like acceptance. Like love, pure and simple and absolute.
"You know," you said, and your voice was lighter now, teasing at the edges, “I've always wondered what this suit would feel like. Before meeting you, of course.”
Despite everything—despite the nightmares and the panic and the tears—Clark felt the corner of his mouth twitch. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Your fingers traced the edge of the S-shield, following the curve of the symbol. “It's softer than I expected. I always imagined it would be... I don't know. Hard. Impenetrable.”
“It is,” he said. “Impenetrable, I mean. Mostly.”
“Hmm.” You looked up at him through your lashes, and there was something in your expression now that made his breath catch for an entirely different reason. “And yet I can still feel you through it. Still feel how warm you are. Still feel your heart beating.” Your palm pressed flat against his chest, right over the symbol. “Still feel how much you love me.”
Clark's hands came up to cover yours, pressing them more firmly against his chest. “I don't know how to explain how much I love you,” he said, and his voice was raw but steady now. “I don't have words big enough. I don't have gestures grand enough. I just... I love you. I love you in ways I didn't know I could love someone. I love you in ways that scare me, because it's so much, and if I ever lost it—if I ever lost you—”
“You won't,” you said, and it wasn't a promise—not really, not one either of you could guarantee—but it was close enough. It was hope, and sometimes hope was all anyone had.
You rose up on your toes and kissed him, soft and slow and sweet. It wasn't the desperate, frantic kiss you always have. This was something else. Something that felt like a vow. Like a benediction. Like you were trying to pour every ounce of love you felt into him through the simple press of your lips.
When you pulled back, your eyes were bright, and your smile was the one he fell in love with—the one that crinkled the corners of your eyes and made him feel like he'd come home.
You kissed him again.
But now, it wasn't a gentle kiss, not the soft, sweet kind you usually shared over morning coffee or lazy Sunday afternoons. This was urgent, desperate, your mouth slanting over his like you were trying to pull the pain out of him through sheer proximity. Your fingers tangled in his hair, not caring that the gel he used to keep it tamed was probably leaving residue on your palms, and you kissed him until he forgot how to breathe.
When you finally pulled back, your eyes were bright with unshed tears. “I'm here,” you said, fierce and quiet all at once. “I'm right here, Clark. I'm not going anywhere.”
He made a sound—something broken, something grateful—and kissed you again. And again. And again, each kiss softer than the last, until he was just pressing his lips to your forehead, your temples, the corner of your mouth, the pulse point at your throat where your heartbeat still sang its steady, beautiful rhythm against his skin.
“I love you,” he said against your neck. The words felt too small for the enormity of what he felt, but they were all he had. “God, I love you so much.” He murmurs, nipping at your neck. “Can I take you to bed?,” he said softly, and his voice had shifted into something lower now, something that made his stomach tighten. “Please. I need—I need to feel you. All of you.” All you did was nod and that, besides that look in your eyes, was all he needed.
He started to lift you—one arm under your knees, the other around your back, the way he always did because he could and because you made that delighted sound every single time—but you pressed a hand to his chest and stopped him.
“No,” you said, and there was a new edge to your voice. Something determined. Something that made him pause, his hands stilling on your hips. “No, Clark. Tonight, I was going to—I was going to take care of you.” Your fingers curled into the fabric of his suit, right over where his heart was hammering. “When I saw you standing there, in the suit, looking like you'd seen a ghost—I thought, “okay. I've got this. I'm going to hold him. I'm going to love him. I'm going to make him forget every single terrible thing he saw tonight”.”
His throat tightened. “Sweetheart—”
“But then you kissed me.” Your voice softened, your thumbs tracing small circles against his chest. “And I felt how much you needed this. Needed me. Not in a way that I could fix by being on top, or by taking control. You needed to hold me. You needed to feel me underneath you, alive and warm and yours.” You looked up at him, and your eyes were so full of love that it almost hurt to meet them. “So I'm not going to fight you for it. But I am going to get this suit off you first.”
Clark blinked. “What?”
A small smile tugged at the corner of your mouth—the first real smile he'd seen from you since he'd arrived, and god, it was like watching the sun come out after months of rain. “You heard me, Kent.” Your hands moved to the clasp of his cape, fingers working with a determination he'd only ever seen you apply to stubborn jar lids and particularly difficult crossword puzzles. “I love you. I love that you showed up here like this, that you trusted me enough to come to me when you were falling apart. But I am not having sex with you while you're wearing enough spandex to make a 1980s rock band jealous.”
A surprised laugh escaped him—shaky, wet, still caught somewhere between a sob and actual humor. “It's not spandex. It's a Kryptonian combat weave—”
“I don't care if it's woven from the beard hairs of Zeus himself,” you interrupted, finally managing to unhook the cape and letting it pool to the floor in a dramatic puddle of red. “It's coming off.”
And just like that, something in his chest loosened. Just a little. Just enough for him to remember that this was you, that you'd never once treated him like a symbol or a savior, that you'd always been more interested in the man beneath the armor than the armor itself.
“Help me with the boots,” you said, already reaching for the zipper on the side of his right boot, and Clark found himself sinking onto the edge of the couch, letting you kneel in front of him and pull each boot off with a kind of focused intensity that made his heart ache.
You worked in silence for a moment, the only sounds the soft rasp of fabric and your steady breathing. When both boots were off—thrown unceremoniously into the corner, where they landed with two heavy thuds—you looked up at him, and your hands came to rest on his knees.
“Stand up,” you said softly.
He stood and you rose with him, your hands sliding up his thighs to hook your fingers into the waistband of the suit. “Arms up,” you murmured, once you saw it was a two piece suit and he obeyed, lifting his arms above his head as you peeled the top half of the suit off him in one smooth motion. The Kryptonian fabric whispered against his skin, and then he was standing in front of you in nothing but the blue undersuit and you paused, your hands flat against his chest.
“There he is,” you whispered, and your voice cracked just slightly on the last word. “There's my Clark.”
He couldn't speak. Couldn't form words around the lump in his throat. He just stood there, trembling under your touch as your hands explored the landscape of his chest—the scars you'd memorized months ago, the hard planes of muscle, the places where his heartbeat pulsed warm against your palm.
“Let me see all of you,” you said, and it wasn't a demand. It was a question, soft and open, and Clark nodded because he couldn't say no to you. Not tonight. Not ever.
You peeled the undersuit off him slowly, almost reverently, your knuckles brushing against his stomach, his hips, the sensitive skin at his sides. When it pooled at his feet and he stepped out of it, leaving him in nothing but his briefs—black, plain, the kind he bought in multipacks from the department store because who was going to see them anyway—you made a sound low in your throat that made his cock twitch.
“Beautiful,” you breathed, and your hands were on him again, tracing the lines of his hips, the jut of his hipbones, the soft trail of hair that disappeared beneath the waistband of his briefs. “You're so beautiful, Clark.”
“Sweetheart, mmhm I—” His voice came out strangled.
“Shh.” You pressed a finger to his lips, then replaced it with your mouth, kissing him slow and deep. “You said you needed to take care of me tonight. So take me to bed. But I want you naked when you do it. I want to feel you—all of you—nothing between us.”
He lifted you then—finally, finally—and you wrapped your legs around his waist with a quiet moan, your center pressing against the thin fabric of his briefs, and he could feel how warm you were, how ready, and it took every ounce of his considerable self-control not to just take you against the wall right there.
The walk to your bedroom was short but eternal. He could feel your heartbeat against his chest, fast and steady, and your mouth was on his neck, your teeth scraping against the sensitive skin just below his jaw, and by the time he laid you down on the bed, he was so hard it was almost painful.
You reached for the hem of his sweatshirt—the one you were wearing, the one that still smelled faintly of him underneath your shampoo—and pulled it over your head in one fluid motion. You weren't wearing anything underneath, and Clark made a sound like a wounded animal at the sight of you, bare and beautiful and spread out on the sheets like an offering.
“Clark.” Your voice was soft but steady. "”our briefs. Off. Now.”
He couldn't help the broken laugh that escaped him. “Bossy tonight.”
“You almost died in a who knows where and then watched me die a thousand times in your head,” you said, and your eyes were serious now, deep and unwavering. “I think I'm allowed to be bossy.” A pause. “Besides, you're the one who wanted to take care of me. Can't do that if you're not even undressed yet.”
He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his briefs and pushed them down, his cock springing free, hard and flushed and already leaking against his stomach. Your eyes dropped to it, and your lips parted, and Clark felt a surge of heat so intense it nearly knocked him off his feet.
“Come here,” you said, reaching for him. “Come here, I need you, honey.”
He crawled onto the bed, settling over you, his weight braced on his forearms so he wouldn't crush you. The contact was overwhelming—skin to skin, chest to chest, his cock pressing against your thigh—and you both groaned at the same time.
“I kept hearing your heartbeat stop,” he admitted, the words spilling out of him in a whisper as he pressed his forehead to yours. “In the visions. It would just... stop. And I would scream, and it wouldn't start again, and I couldn't—” He pressed his face into your neck, breathing you in. “You have to understand. I've heard things. Seen things. In all my years doing this, I've witnessed horrors that would break most people. But nothing—nothing—has ever hurt like watching you die.”
Your hands slid down his back, fingers digging into the muscles there, pulling him closer. “I'm here,” you said, and your voice was steady even though your eyes were wet. “Feel my heartbeat, Clark. Feel it.”
He did. He pressed his ear to your chest, right over your heart, and listened. thrum-thrum, thump-thump. Steady and strong and real. Your hand came up to cradle the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair, and he felt the vibration of your voice through your ribcage as you spoke.
“I love you,” you said into the quiet. “I love you, I love you, I love you. That heartbeat is yours. It's always been yours. Every single beat, from the moment we met until the moment I die—and I'm not dying tonight, Clark, I'm not dying anytime soon—every single one of them is for you.”
He kissed his way down your body. Slowly. Deliberately. Each kiss a confirmation, a reassurance, a tiny prayer of gratitude. He kissed the spot where your pulse beat at the base of your throat. He kissed the hollow between your collarbones. He kissed the swell of your breasts, took one nipple into his mouth, and you arched beneath him with a cry that went straight to his cock.
“Clark, mmhm oh fuck”
He sucked gently, then harder when your fingers tightened in his hair, and your other hand scrabbled at the sheets like you were trying to anchor yourself. He switched to the other breast, giving it the same attention, and your hips were rolling against his, your wetness slick against his stomach.
“Please,” you gasped. “Please, Clark, I need you inside me—”
He lifted his head, looking down at you. Your eyes were dark, your lips parted, your chest heaving. You were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen, and he'd seen galaxies born and die.
“Not yet,” he said, and his voice was rough but steady now. “I'm not done taking care of you.”
He kissed lower, trailing his mouth down your sternum, your stomach, the soft curve of your belly. When he reached the waistband of your pajama shorts—the tiny cotton ones you wore to bed, the ones with the little strawberries on them that made him smile every single time—he hooked his fingers into them and pulled them down your legs along with your underwear, tossing them somewhere behind him.
And then you were bare beneath him, open and wanting, and Clark settled between your thighs like he was coming home.
He kissed the inside of your knee. Then your thigh. Then higher, and higher, until his breath was hot against your center and you were shaking, your hands fisting in the sheets.
“Clark—”
“Shh,” he murmured, and then he licked you—one long, slow stripe from your entrance to your clit—and the sound you made was enough to bring him to his knees if he hadn't already been there.
You tasted like heaven. Like home. Like everything he'd been desperate for since the first nightmare had taken hold. He buried his face between your thighs and worshipped you, his tongue drawing patterns on your clit, his fingers sliding inside you and curling just so, and you were crying out his name, your hips bucking against his mouth. He loves spending his time with you, licking, sucking and sometimes his teeth are involved.
“That's it,” he murmured against you, and the vibration made you whimper. “Let me hear you, my love. Let me feel you. I need to know you're real, sweetheart, I need to feel you come apart for me—”
You came with a shattered cry, your whole body convulsing, your thighs clamping around his head, and Clark didn't stop. He licked you through it, gentler now, softer, until you were pushing at his shoulders with trembling hands.
“Too much,” you gasped. “Too much, honey, I can't handle more.”
He crawled back up your body, kissing you so you could taste yourself on his lips. Your arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him close, and he could feel your heart hammering against his chest.
“I love you,”he said, and it came out like a prayer. “I love you, I love you, I love you so much, baby.”
“Then fuck me,” you said, half-laughing, half-sobbing. “Please, Clark, I need to feel you deep inside.”
He reached between you, positioning himself at your entrance, and paused. Looked down at you. Your eyes were wet, your face flushed, your lips swollen from his kisses. You looked utterly wrecked, and utterly here, and something in his chest cracked open and healed all at once.
“Talk to me,” he said, and his voice was raw. “While I'm inside you. I need to hear your voice. I need to know you're with me.”
“I'm with you,” you said, and your hands cupped his face, pulling him down until your foreheads touched. “I'm always with you, Clark. Now please—”
He pushed inside you. Slowly. So slowly. Inch by agonizing inch, watching your face the whole time—the way your eyes fluttered shut, the way your lips parted, the way you gasped his name like it was the only word you remembered how to say. When he was fully seated, buried to the hilt inside your heat, he stopped. Just held there, letting you both adjust, letting himself feel every pulse and flutter of your body around him.
“Gosh,” he breathed. “Oh Gosh, you feel so good, my love.”
“I know.” Your voice was wrecked. “I know. Move, Clark. Please.”
He pulled back and thrust forward, and the sound you made was obscene, perfect, the most beautiful thing he'd ever heard. He set a rhythm—slow at first, deep and deliberate, each thrust a reaffirmation that you were here, you were alive, you were his.
“I watched you die,” he said, and the words came out between thrusts, ragged and raw. “I watched you die in a hospital bed. I watched you die in a car crash. I watched you die in something that could be our shared home.” His voice broke, and he thrust deeper, and you moaned. “I watched a man shoot you in the chest while I was standing right there, and I couldn't—I couldn't, oh damn.”
“Clark.” Your hands were everywhere—his face, his shoulders, his back, pulling him closer, holding him like you could keep him from flying apart. “I'm here. I'm here. Feel me—feel me, honey.”
He did. He felt the way you clenched around him, the way your nails dug into his shoulders, the way your heels pressed into the backs of his thighs, urging him deeper. He felt your heartbeat thrumming against his chest, faster now, matching the rhythm of his hips. He felt the wetness on his cheeks—tears, his or yours, he couldn't tell anymore—and the warmth of your breath against his neck.
“You're so beautiful,” he said, and he was crying now, actually crying, the tears falling onto your face and mixing with yours. “You're so beautiful and I can't lose you, I can't—”
“You won't.” You kissed his tears, your mouth soft and desperate against his cheeks, his eyelids, the corner of his lips. “You won't lose me, Clark. I'm not going anywhere. I'm right here. I'm right here, I'm right here, I'm always here.”
Your words became a chant, a mantra, a prayer, and Clark fucked you through it, hard and deep and desperate, his hand sliding between your bodies to rub your clit in tight circles.
“Come for me,” he said, and it wasn't a request. “Come for me, sweetheart, I need to feel you—I need to know you're real, that you’re here, that you’re mine.”
You shattered. Came apart around him with a cry that was almost a scream, your body convulsing, your inner walls clenching around him like a vice, and Clark followed you over the edge with a groan that was torn from somewhere deep in his chest. He spilled inside you, wave after wave, his hips stuttering as he buried himself as deep as he could go.
For a long moment, there was nothing but breathing. Nothing but the sound of your hearts—his steady and strong, yours fast and fluttering—and the rustle of sheets as you both trembled through the aftershocks.
Clark collapsed beside you, pulling you into his arms, your head tucked under his chin and your legs tangled with his. He could feel your tears on his chest, could hear the little hitches in your breath as you cried, and he held you tighter, his lips pressed to the top of your head.
“I'm sorry,” he said after a long moment, his voice muffled by your hair. “For showing up like this. For—for dumping all of that on you. You didn't sign up for all this mess, baby.”
“Stop.” Your hand pressed flat against his chest, right over his heart. “Don't you dare apologize. Not for this. Not for needing me.” You tilted your head back to look at him, and your eyes were red-rimmed but fierce. “I signed up for all of you, Clark Kent. The good days and the bad ones. The nightmares and the morning coffee. The cape and the glasses. You don't get to hide parts of yourself from me just because you think they're inconvenient or scary or too much.”
He pressed a kiss to your forehead, then your nose, then your lips. “I love you,” he said, because the words were inadequate but they were all he had. “I love you more than I know how to say.”
You smiled—that soft, devastating smile that had undone him from the very first moment he'd seen it—and snuggled closer, your ear pressed over his heart.
“Then show me,” you said quietly. “Every day. For the rest of our lives.”
Clark looked down at you—at the tear tracks on your cheeks, the love in your eyes, the way your body was pressed against his like you were trying to crawl inside his skin and stay there—and he felt something shift. Something settle. Something that felt like hope.
“I will,” he said, and his voice was steady now. Certain. “Every day. For the rest of our lives.”
Outside, the city hummed its endless night-song. Inside, wrapped in each other and the quiet aftermath of love, Clark Kent let himself believe that everything might just be okay.
He had you, after all. And that was enough. That was everything. You are his everything.
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