jason never really took care of himself after dying. his body was so hopelessly out of rhythm, everything slightly wrong and out of place. his bones creak underneath his skin, his muscles, which had nearly rotted and decayed, could never quite figure out how to relax. sometimes he’d forget to breathe, or blink, the actions no longer involuntary, and before you? he didn’t have it in himself to care. his health had fallen to the least of his worries.
but you were always so worried about him. you noticed things about himself he hadn’t even realized, how he winced when he chewed with the left side of his mouth, how he squinted at street signs whenever you went on walks, how his muscles were always tense until you massaged them into relaxation. you pointed them out, pouting whenever he’d shrug it off. to him, it was nothing, he was used to the pain, the inconvenience; he didn’t consider his own wellbeing important enough to pay any mind to.
to you, it was torture. watching the man you loved so dearly treat himself with so little care had you ruined. all you wanted for him was happiness and safety, for him to have what he had given you so freely, what he guarded himself from so intensely. he didn’t realize how much you cared until he noticed how much you finally pushed him to treat himself better.
“i scheduled you a dentist appointment.” you said, matter-of-factly setting down a few documents in front of him begging his patient history. he looked up to you, eyebrow raised, entirely confused. you answered his question before he could even think to ask it. “you wince when you chew.”
he wouldn’t say no to you. despite his disdain regarding the idea of a check up, he went. you came with him, fiercly speaking a language of medicine he didn’t understand. when he left the dentist, you gave him a lollipop. “i’m not five.” he ate it anyways, savoring the taste between strawberry-stained lips as you drove him home.
he stopped noticing when you made him appointments to get shots, or when you subtly slipped the card of a dermatologist behind the picture of you he kept in his wallet. he started actually caring about what he did to his body— gut health and all that. yes, he was jacked, his body had been built like a machine ever since it had patched itself back together in the lazarus pit, but he couldn’t remember the last time he ate a piece of fruit.
he didn’t realize how much better he felt until dick pointed it out for him. “you got glasses?” he asked, pointing to the thick black frames that sat on the bridge of his nose.
he nodded. he does wear glasses. he has silver caps on two of his teeth. he has a nice layer of body fat covering his muscles because he eats three well-balanced meals a day. he has a standing appointment with a chiropractor every other wednesday at two, and another with a therapist on mondays at one. he gets a checkup every six months and goes to the dentist every four, he’s been to the dermatologist three times in two years, he has all of his shots up to date, he takes vitamins in the morning and he sleeps at least five hours every night.
he cares about himself. he puts effort into making sure he stays healthy— and at first it was for you. only for you, to ease your constant worry about him. but now it’s second nature, your guiding hand has healed him, made him want to stay alive and healthy and whole, not for just you, but for himself.
the moment the realization washes over him of just how much you’ve given him, he rushes home and tells you in no less than a thousand ways just how grateful he is to have your love.
you're a teacher, currently trying to fill up your summer vacation with freelance work when you stumble into not one, but two situationships with clark kent, the adorkable reporter from the daily planet, and superman, the hero you can't stop running into. overall? you're having a very interesting break.
wk: 14.8k (worth it i pinky swear)
the best and the worst part of teaching is that you never stop having summer break— two and a half months of pure boredom and relaxation that always go the same. you find a job, you visit family, you take random classes at the community center just to get yourself out of the house. you really did not expect this year to be any different, any better. you expected the same boredom, the same routine, the same desperation to find someone to occupy your time.
however, you didn’t count on clark kent to stumble into your life and take your world by storm.
you met in late may, the first time you came around the daily planet selling pictures for the paper. you spent a lot of your free time behind a camera, capturing moments you didn’t want to lose— and you really needed some extra cash. metropolis might pay better than most cities, but at the end of the day, a teacher’s salary is a teacher’s salary.
you were hopelessly turned around, clutching a small, manilla file that was nearly overflowing with the photographs you felt were relevant enough to submit with one hand and biting your freshly manicured thumbnail with the other, staring up at the very useless building directory, reading the names and numbers with little understanding. the receptionist had told you to go to perry white’s office for your meeting— but she hadn’t been so kind to tell you exactly where you could find it.
the signs were no help. you are embarrassingly lost, and—
“need any help?”
you turn around, dropping your hands to your sides. you’re met kindly with the direct view of a man’s chest, forcing you to tilt your head up to meet his gaze.
and there he was. six foot four, built like a linebacker and stuffed into a suit, wearing glasses that looked a bit too small and a smile that seemed a bit too warm. the man you would come to know as clark kent— the center of your universe.
and those eyes. bluer than the ocean, captivating you so wholly you forgot to breathe. one’s that looked to you with such unequivocal kindness, coupled with a smile that was breathtakingly gentle— you forgot how to breathe.
he’s staring down at you as if he’s not the only one who needs to catch his breath. as though he finds something about you to be just as overwhelming as you find him.
he pauses, clearing his throat. “i just mean— ah, sorry, you look lost. i-i can help you. i work here. uh, reporter— um, i mean—“ he takes a deep breath, extending a hand. “clark kent.”
god, he’s adorable.
you smile up at him, taking his hand in yours and giving it a gentle shake. you note how large and uncalloused his hand is, and try to ignore the shocks of electricity you feel with that first, all-consuming touch. you tell him your name, thankful that you don’t manage to stumble over your words, and he jots it down in the back of his head like it’s sacred. “i’m looking for mr. white’s office? i have some pictures for the paper.” you explain, holding up your file.
“oh, yeah, that’s my boss. i’ll walk you there.” he says, looking down at you with a soft grin that renders you so useless you nearly forget why you’re here. carefully, he motions for you to follow him, and you oblige, walking slowly down the arched hallways of the daily planet at his side. your heart begins to pound out of your chest.
there’s a beat of silence as you walk, before he breaks it with, “can i see them?”
he points to the folder in your hands, the one that you’re clutching like a lifeline. you hand it over without a second thought— how are you supposed to say no to the ridiculously cute, dorky guy guiding you through the building? you’re just not.
he cards through them carefully, commenting on the quality, the angles, the color grading, basically just complimenting every picture while you try not to swoon. he pulls one of the prints out of the file, a rare picture of superman you managed to get two weeks ago. you consider it the strongest picture in your portfolio. most of the photos of superman are blurs of red and blue, or shaky selfies he’s taken with fans. this one is still, certain— hopeful. you took it candidly. he was crouched with a kid, one of your students, helping him fix his broken project with gentle hands.
you think about that moment every now and then. it changed you from a casual viewer of superman’s heroics to someone who supported him completely. you watched him stop, and with hands capable of much greater things, sooth the worries of a child when he could have been doing anything else. it instilled a kind of faith in humanity you hadn’t felt in a long time.
“i like this one.” he mumbles, sliding it out of the folder, staring at it like it means as much to him as it does to you. superman fan, noted.
he pauses, staring at it a second longer than he did your other pictures, memorizing every detail before sliding it back inside the folder. “i don’t see how perry wouldn’t buy these— you’re an amazing photographer.” he says with a smile, handing you back the file.
you do your best not to turn completely red at the compliment, looking up to meet his gaze. “i’m a teacher, actually.” you explain, bouncing on the balls of your feet. “just looking for a side hustle. that picture of superman? he’s helping one of my kids.”
“really—? wow that’s really, uh, very cool.” he says, wearing a smile that you try your best not to read into. you both stop in front of an office with the name Perry White stamped across the door in shiny silver lettering. as anxious as you are to start the meeting, your heart sinks when you realize your time with clark is over. “well… good luck.” he says, all shy and dorky in a way that makes your knees weak. “i have a feeling i’m gonna see you around.”
you can’t help but grin, thanking him for walking you— and for the vote of confidence. you really don’t want to say goodbye, not when one look from him already disarms you.
he opens the door for you, and he’s lucky enough that you don’t realize how long he lingers by the office, memorizing every detail he can catalogue— the way you stand so confidently, yet with a demeanor that is so kind and genuine it makes him reevaluate everything he’s been looking for, the way the draft from the vent in perry’s office blows through your hair and makes you look like a movie star, the way you speak like it’s your favorite thing to do.
you leave the meeting with a steady freelance gig, and a yellow post-it note you hadn’t noticed earlier, tucked into an interior pocket inside your file.
i really hope you call me (xxx-xxx-xxx)
-clark :)
you’re in your apartment when you find the note, and you can’t help but giggle like a schoolgirl, heat rising to your ears and dusting your face a rosy shade of pink. you waste no time dialing that number.
——
you meet superman before you see you clark again. actually, you’re on your way home to get ready for your first date with clark, trying to not let the nerves and anticipation shake you.
you’re excited. like— bouncing off of the walls, can’t stop thinking about him kind of excited. you text constantly, and he calls you like talking to you is the highlight of his day, not some chore he has to do to maintain a relationship. you’ve been talking for about a week, and all the time with him has done is confirm your many blooming suspicions about him: he’s sweet, gentle, incredibly well-spoken and not afraid to be open about his interest in you in this shy, dorky kind of way that makes you kind of want to melt.
you’re practically skipping down the street when it happens. it’s barely sunset, but you suppose crime doesn’t really depend on time of day anymore, not in the era of aliens and meta-humans. a hand darts out of the alleyway, grabs your arm, and pulls you into the shadows. before you can think to scream, to ask for help, anything— there’s a knife at your throat and you realize that your silence is a lot more valuable than your survival instinct.
“wallet, now.” you can barely see him— a combination of the dark alleyway and blurry vision. you make out dark clothes, dark eyes, and an expression that tells you to comply with whatever he says.
your heart is beating so loudly you can feel it in your fingers. you’re shaking like a leaf— fumbling with your wallet, trying to hand it to the mugger.
it drops from your hands. you look up at the man, eyes wide with the overwhelming fear for your life. you fucked up. it’s over. you can practically envision your funeral: sad, sparse, the death of someone who’s never really lived. you slam your eyes shut.
but then there’s a gust of wind, and the knife disappears from your neck.
it takes a moment for you to breathe, to process, to blink open yours and face a blue chest with a red and yellow emblem.
“are you okay, ma’am?”
your gaze moves up to meet his. you’re not all there yet. there’s still adrenaline moving like shocks of lightning down your veins and the phantom breath of death sticking up the hairs on your neck. all you can really focus on is his eyes. impossibly blue like the deep sea, captivating you so wholly you forget yourself for a beat too long.
“ma’am?” he repeats, and his voice less authoritative. instead a gentle, concerned call to your senses, breaking out of your haze.
you down, taking a deep breath. “yes, uh…” your hand darts to your neck, feeling for any imprint the knife could’ve left. you’re grateful to find nothing but untainted skin, like it had never happened at all. “i’m fine.”
he nods, but there’s something in his expression that tells you he isn’t totally convinced. he hands you your wallet, a small, green leather clutch you’ve carried around since you were eighteen. somehow it had become the last thing on your mind.
“you’re safe, i promise.” he says, and his voice is so tender it makes you nearly forget that it’s superman standing in front of you, making sure that you’re okay. “the danger’s gone.”
you look up at him, eyes wide, brimming with tears you don’t know if you can hold back for much longer. he leans in a little closer, just enough for you to notice, his eyes checking over you carefully. maybe you’re just thrown off, because of the whole… mugging situation. but he almost looks a little scared, maybe a little relieved, like you mean a bit more to him than a civilian he saved.
you shake the thought. you’ve heard he’s like that anyways, kind, caring, a boy scout through and through. the look you’re seeing now can’t be anything more than that.
he clears his throat, leaning back, taking on a more official, heroic posture. “can i take you home, ma’am?” and just like that, the moment’s over.
you nod, letting him guide you out of the alleyway with a touch that is impossibly gentle for someone you’ve seen pummel aliens into the ground with a single punch. a comfortable silence hangs between you, and you’re grateful the streets are empty enough for no one to pay the pair of you any mind.
you must look ridiculous together. the thought makes you smile, and your adrenaline-induced panic is officially over.
“thank you.” you say, breaking the silence. you smile up at him, craning your head to meet his gaze. he honestly looks a bit surprised that you’re thanking him. “for… y’know, saving me.”
“of course. i’m glad i made it in time.” he says with a quiet nod, his eyes meeting yours. his smile is so genuine, so human, you wonder how anyone could really hate him.
you miss the lovestruck look in his eyes.
you laugh. “me too.” you say, your hands swinging freely at your sides. “i know you don’t normally handle, uh, muggings, so… i feel pretty lucky.”
his eyes dart away, looking around at the block— anywhere but you, really, but he doesn’t stop smiling. “well, i try to keep an eye on the street. y’know, on the rare days when aliens and robots don’t tear apart the city.”
you grin, his eyes meeting yours again. “yeah, i know.” you say, looking up at him with wide, starry eyes that make him forget he’s superman and not anything besides the man lucky enough to be by your side.
your eyes are so focused on the god beside you that you miss a step, losing your balance because the tip of your heel got caught in a sidewalk crack. you fall into him— no, you practically dive into him, because of course you do.
“woah there.” he says. his hands, which are just warm and huge and tender, carefully grab your sides and he steadies you, lifting you back onto your feet.
you pause, flush with embarrassment. “i’m so sorry,” you cringe, looking up at him. “my heel got stuck because i had to humiliate myself and ruin the moment.”
he laughs, sliding his hands away and looking down at you with a soft smile. “no harm done. just glad i caught you, miss.”
you pause, returning his smile with a grin that you just can’t seem to push down.
“i saw you once, with one my students. he broke his history project, a popsicle stick model of the golden gate bridge?”
“i remember— jackson, right?” he asks, and there’s something so touching about him knowing the name of the random child he helped— it makes you want to melt. “smart kid, i’ve never met someone so knowledgeable about geography.” he says, nodding towards you.
“right? he’s a little genius. i’m pushing him into architecture. i teach third grade, which is, i think, the best, ‘cause you get to see their passions develop in real time.” you say. you’re not sure why talking with him feels so easy, so natural. maybe it’s the whole superhero thing, or his impeccable bedside manner— but whatever the reason is, you can’t remember the last time you smiled so much.
“that sounds very rewarding.” he says, a gust of wind blowing his cape through the air. “i wanted to be a teacher, once.”
“got busy?” you ask, gesturing to the suit.
he laughs in the sort of way where his shoulders shake and his voice booms throughout the street, even though you didn’t say anything particularly hilarious.
“you could say that. how’s jackson doing now?”
“he’s on his way to becoming a very talented fourth grader.” you hesitate, before you continue. “i got a picture of you two, when you helped him.” you pause, stopping in front of your apartment building. “not in like a creepy stalker way— i’m a photographer too. kind of. hence the photo.”
he pauses, peering down at you curiously. “may i see it?” he asks.
you stop, your eyes locked with his. you can’t kick that feeling— how familiar he is. you can’t quite place it, so you push it back down deep for another day. “yeah.” you say, softly, pressing on the door. “i’ll be right back.”
it only takes you about a minute to retrieve the photo, digging through that same manilla file for your spare copy, the same file that clark stuck his number in. god— you were supposed to start getting ready, like, fifteen minutes ago.
you pray clark is late.
there’s a shadow over your window before you start heading back downstairs. right. flying. superman can fly. not crazy at all. you stumble over towards your fire escape, grinning up at him while you slide up the window.
you stick your head out, leaning on your arms, halfway out the window.
“here, uh, this just a print.” you say, handing him the picture. he takes it gently, his fingers brushing against yours. he stares at it for awhile, his eyes tracing over every detail.
“could i… keep this?” he asks, looking up at you like you’re the most important thing in the world— in a way that knocks the air out of your lungs.
you nod, because really, how could you say no when he’s staring at you like that? you didn’t have a choice.
“thank you.” he says, before clearing his throat, floating back out towards the alleyway. “i, uh, i should be going.”
“you got big plans tonight?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.
he laughs, a soft chuckle that rings like wedding bells in your ears. “something like that.” he pauses again, looking back down at the picture and then up to you. “…see you around… miss.”
there’s a burst of wind and just like that, he’s gone.
and maybe, just maybe, you have a tiny crush on superman.
——
your date with clark was an awkward, disastrous, mess— in all the best ways. the flowers he brought you had somehow gotten smushed, even though he insisted they came from the little shop on the corner right by your apartment— but they were your favorites. the restaurant lost your reservation, so you ended up having a picnic with food from the best food truck you’ve ever been to. the conversation was bumpy, at times a little difficult to navigate, but by the end, you had never laughed so hard in your life.
you really had never met anybody like clark kent.
he’s a gentle giant, a man who, despite being extremely built, you truly incapable of hurting a fly. he’s also the perfect gentleman, the definition of a man. for the entire evening, he refused to let you open a door, or pay, and when you started feeling a little chilly when he was walking you back to your apartment, late at night, he tucked his jacket over your shoulders before you even had the chance to complain. he’s also just… kind, plain and simple. he stopped to help an old woman cross the street, to ask a kid where his mom was and led him back to his parents, and, no shit, he literally rescued a cat from a tree. mind you, all in the span of four hours. he’s a good person, the kind of guy you read about in fairytales and grow up thinking doesn’t exist.
but here he is.
“i had a really good time tonight.” he says, lingering by your door. you nodded in absolute agreement, looking up at him with a giant, uncontrollable smile that he returns in full.
“yeah, me too.” you respond. the distance between you closes quickly, you lean in just enough to feel clark’s breath ghost on your face.
he flushes and looks down to his feet, like he’s working himself up for something— before his eyes dart back to yours. “i, uh… i really want to kiss you right now.”
you can feel a red hot fire spread to your cheeks, and you pray that the dim light of your apartment prevents him from seeing it. your eyes meet his, staring through his glasses into a sea of endless blue.
you’ve never actually wanted someone to kiss you more than you do right now.
“yeah?” you ask, your voice teasing him ever-so-slightly while you move in closer, your fingertips brushing against his.
“may i?” he asks, sliding his unbelievably large hands on your sides then down to your waist, leaning over you in a way that makes you feel incredibly warm. you have to physically tilt your head back to meet his eyes, and your mood nearly sours at the idea that at some point you’ll have to pull away.
you nod, and slowly, delicately, he leans in— pulling your body gently against him, his lips pressing into yours. it isn’t an eruption of passion, or some overwhelmingly fervent kiss, no. it’s soft, slow, sensual, an agonizingly perfect connection that makes you knees go weak when you’re in his arms.
it’s too short, that’s your only complaint. he pulls away breathless, smiling down at you with a pink tint dusting his cheeks, ushers you back into your apartment and demands that you have a wonderful night, insisting that he’ll call you in the morning.
you go to bed that night an hour later, only certain of two things.
this was going to be the best summer ever
you like clark kent so much it makes your head hurt
you want to see if superman is as good a kisser as clark
——
“here.”
clark pushes a cup of coffee that is somehow still piping hot into your hands, smiling down at you. you’re not sure how he even knew you were coming to the planet today, much less when to meet you at the door, but you liked that about clark. he always knows a lot more than he lets on. you chalk it up to the investigative journalist in him.
“you got me coffee?” you ask, feeling the warmth from the cup spread through your hand. apparently, no matter how hot it is outside, none of that leaks into the planet. it’s freezing.
“yeah, i didn’t know what you liked, uh, so there’s cream and sugar— not too much, though, uh, well, i mean, hopefully there’s enough—“
you press a kiss against his cheek and that effectively cuts off his rambling and leaves him quietly flushed, his eyes focused only on you. “thanks, clark.” you say, taking a sip. it’s a bit too sweet, but so incredibly thoughtful you might just start taking your coffee this way.
he smiles, going red from his neck to is ears— god, he’s so cute. “you’re seeing perry today?” he asks, walking with you down the hall. you nod.
“apparently he likes my work so much i get a daily planet issued camera.” you say excitedly. clark chooses to leave out the part where he practically begged perry to lend you one, a privilege freelancers don’t usually receive. he has to do an extra mountain of paperwork every night for a month— but gosh was it worth it to see you so giddy.
“makes sense.” he muses. “perry rewards the incredibly talented.”
he says it in a silly way, but you can tell he’s completely serious. he’s so sweet it literally makes your teeth hurt.
you’ve been on three other dates since the first, and you’ve bumped into each other at the daily planet a couple times before this— everything is going extremely well. he’s so caring, thoughtful, and the more you learn about him the more infatuated you get. you swear, when he puts his hands on you it makes you dizzy.
it’s perfect. he is. there’s only one issue: his constant tardiness, and his tendency to cancel last minute, or just not show up at all. it bugs you, when you’ve gotten all dolled up just to have to fight back tears at midnight, forced to leave an angry voicemail or two after you’ve downed a glass of box chardonnay, stuck alone, in your living room.
but he makes up for it with a thousand apologies and small gestures that make you wonder why you were ever mad.
it’s frustrating— the doubt creeping in about whether or not he likes you, the anger of being left behind without so much as a call, the loneliness that swallows you like a black hole. but when you’re with clark, he makes sure that his feelings for you are never in doubt, swearing up and down that he just has supremely bad luck and it doesn’t have a thing to do with you. still, it makes you wonder: what makes clark kent so busy?
“my lunch break is at one,” he says, taking your folder like it makes all the sense in the world for him to carry it and not you, “if you want to hang around a bit after your meeting, we could grab something together?”
you nod, looking up at him as you approach perry’s office. “that’s perfect. i was gonna stop at the bookstore down the street and grab something for my mom’s birthday. pick me up there?”
“yes ma’am,” he says in a way that is all too familiar, and he hands you back your folder, tucking it underneath your arm, his hand ghosting at your side. “good luck.”
“don’t need it. i’ve got you.” you say, opening the door and heading in. you don’t see the way clark flushes, this time redder than a tomato, nor jimmy laughing at him from all the way from across the building.
——
you’re on your way to the bookstore when it happens— the sky opens up, a giant alien-whatever pops down and starts wreaking havoc on the skyline of metropolis. the event is far enough away to where you would normally just shrug and continue on your path towards the bookstore while the people wait for superman to show up.
except that you’re a photographer now. professionally. and professional photographers run towards their killer shot, not away from it. besides, your meeting with perry didn’t go… the greatest. he said most of your shots were unusable— and he wanted more pictures of superman.
but it would be stupid to run into danger like that— clark would disapprove, so would probably anyone with common sense. the ground is literally shaking because that demon thing knocked a skyscraper over like legos— you really should walk away.
so, obviously, you end up climbing a tree about a hundred yards away from the creature (and superman, who stepped in about a minute ago), trying to find your perfect shot. it’s stupid, really, the way that you’re about twenty feet off the ground, perched just right on the branch so that if you can get superman and the alien to stay still for half a second— you’ll have your picture.
unfortunately, you hadn’t accounted for the monster to have giant fireballs spewing out of its fingertips, with one specially aimed at you. foolishly, you expected it to be the normal kind of cryptid.
so, you shut your eyes and brace yourself, praying that you’ll be the sexy kind of burn victim and not a crisp, dead one— but the impact never comes. instead, a pair of arms wraps around you and you’re on a rooftop— ridiculously far away from the scene with no way down.
“stay here,” superman says, flying back with a harsh burst of air. he sounded… angry, probably from the fight but… you can’t shake his eyes met yours in that single glimpse, before he had gone back into the fray.
the fight takes four minutes. you’re like, a mile away, on top of some random building with a pretty subpar view of the action— but you manage to still make out the flashes of blue and red that surround the being and shoot him back off to space.
you frown, peering over the edge of the building. there’s no rooftop access, no door, nothing. you’re kind of just stuck— which is perfect, because it’s 12:55 and clark’s about to get off for lunch, so he’ll get stood up while you figure out how to get down.
“you need to be more careful.” a voice behind you says, and you jump, nearly toppling over the side of the building.
a hand grabs your arm and spins you around to face him, steadying you— it’s superman. thank god.
you nod. “yeah. probably.” he looks unconvinced, and maybe a little pissed. his arm drops back to his side and he shoots you a stern look.
“it’s irresponsible to run into danger like that. you could have died, ma’am.” he says. his hair looks a bit windswept, curling around the edges like clark’s does when he tries to tame it. his eyes zero in on the camera hanging around your neck. “no picture is worth your life, okay?”
you nod, looking down, a tad embarrassed. “yeah… adrenaline kinda beat me on this one.”
he shakes his head. “promise me you won’t do anything like that again.” he says. when you look up at him, he doesn’t look angry anymore. he looks scared. its the kind of thing that makes your heart jump into your throat.
“please?” he asks quietly, his gaze locked with yours.
you nod, swallowing down the strange feelings twisting around in your gut. “okay. i promise.”
there’s a beat of silence before he steps towards you, beaming down at you like you’re any other citizen. “let me get you down from here.”
“please do.” you agree, and he lifts you by the waist like you’re featherlight, slowly flying you down until your toes touch the concrete.
“by the way,” he begins, speaking quietly as you land, stepping back, “i framed that picture you gave me. thank you.”
he’s gone before you can say ‘you’re welcome,’ just a blur of red and blue that disappears into the sky like a shooting star.
he remembered you.
he probably remembers everyone he meets on the street— he’s known for stuff like that, being so kind, so hopeful.
but he remembered you. and that feels different.
your phone rings and you shake off whatever you’re feeling, because clark, the guy that you really really like and who really really likes you is calling and there’s no reason you should be thinking about someone as untouchable as superman in the way that you are right now.
“clark, you will never believe what just happened—“
——
today is july first.
your one month anniversary with clark. the day that marks one of the best months of your life coming to a close— and hopefully a sign that these next months are going to be just as good, if not better.
this month, clark kent has literally swept you off your feet. perfect dates, amazing chemistry, gentlemanlike in a way that all seems too good to be true. and maybe it is.
because, well, it’s three hours after your date was supposed to start. clark had been talking about today all week, texting you every free second about the amazing evening he had planned— but he’s not here. he couldn’t even send you a text, “hey, so sorry i can’t make it. raincheck?’ nothing.
you wonder what the excuse is, this time. had to work late? ma called and he lost track of time? you hate it, how small you feel when he forgets about you. you suddenly wish it was august again, so you could have school and a whole new pack of students to occupy your time with— you wouldn’t even have to think about clark, you’d be so busy.
right as you reach for another glass of wine, there’s a knock at your door.
you frown, tiptoeing silently towards the peephole like you don’t already know who it is.
it’s clark— and he looks rough.
there’s a nasty shiner on his eye, and he’s got blood peeking out from under his collar, and you wonder what other injuries his clothes are hiding. it takes you half a second to swing the door open, your hands flying to his face.
“holy shit clark— are you okay?” you ask, eyes wide, checking every inch of his face to see just how bad it is. you’ve never seen him have so much as an odd bruise before, but now…? he looks beat. “what happened?”
his eyes don’t follow your hands, or your movements, they don’t stick to the ground, they just find yours and hold your gaze once you’re done giving him an extremely thorough once-over for any prevailing injuries. “you were crying.” he frowns, looking down at you.
you pause, lowering your hands. “yeah, but—“
he hands— which are notably shaky, press against your biceps, wrapping around your upper arms as if to ground himself.
“i’m so sorry.” his voice is so tender it practically kills you, pure, genuine guilt and sadness that makes you feel like a jerk for even being mad in the first place. and those eyes— god, those eyes. they take you and they refuse to let go.
“clark, you look like shit, i’m not upset—“ you start, biting down on your lip. he cuts you off by pulling you into a suffocating embrace, holding you so close and so tight he practically knocks the air out of your lungs, not that you mind.
he traps your lips in a kiss— one that isn’t soft, or gentle, not the way that clark usually kisses you. it’s fervent, sloppy and overwhelming— he surges into you like he never thought he’d be able to do it again.
what you don’t know is— with the battle he had, the one he lost, that was exactly what was on his mind.
“i’m sorry i missed our date. i promise i’ll make it up to you.” he mumbles as he pulls away. he buries his face in the crook of your neck, squeezing you like he can’t get you close enough. you have no idea what’s going on, but you like the way you feel when he holds you, so you don’t stop him.
you tentatively wrap your hands around him, unaware of the fallen god that has you in his arms. “what happened?” you ask quietly, your voice just a whisper against his ear.
he gives you a final squeeze that toed on the line of breaking your ribs before pulling back, looking down at you. “uh, i just… this lady got her purse stolen, picked a fight i couldn’t win. i’m fine, promise.”
you nod, your heart swelling with both concern and pride. you picked the guy who’d risk his own safety to help an old lady get her purse back— the thought makes you all warm and fuzzy, especially now that you know he’s okay.
you have to push down the feeling that there’s more to the story than he’s letting on.
“do you wanna come in?” you ask, tilting your head. he shakes his head.
“i uh, i can’t. gonna sleep this off— but i’m gonna make this up to you. i swear— you can take that to the bank. i just didn’t want you to think i flaked for no reason.”
you smile up at him, shaking your head. he’s too damn sweet for his own good.
“okay, well, get home safe, okay?” you say, pressing a kiss on his cheek before sending him away with the promise that everything will be fine in the morning.
——
you didn’t think that “i’m gonna make this up to you. i swear— you can take that to the bank.” meant breaking into your apartment to make you breakfast, but apparently that was clark’s exact line of thought.
you didn’t even register the sound of him in your apartment when you stepped out of your bedroom— your hair a mess, makeup peeled off, wearing nothing but an oversized sleep shirt and your panties. you yawned, stretched, then nearly jumped out of your own skin when you noticed him staring at you from over your stove like you were the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen.
“what are you doing here?!” you yelled, darting back into your room, searching frantically for a hairbrush.
“uh, i, um— i wanted to make you breakfast?” he starts, putting his hand to his face and shaking his head. “starting to realize how creepy this is.”
you sigh, laughing softly to yourself, the shock slowly wearing off. “it’s really sweet, clark, just give me a minute to look… presentable.” you say through the door.
“you look beautiful— but, sorry. take all the time you need.”
you emerge ten minutes later with your rats nest combed out, your makeup done, and wearing a pair of shorts that fit snuggly around your thighs. clark smiles at you in a sort of, i’m-sorry-for-breaking-in-but-hey-here’s-some-breakfast, kind of way.
you shake your head, walking over to him and letting him wrap an arm around you, taking a deep breath to smell the absurd amount of pancakes he made for the two of you. seriously, there’s like, three stacks and half a bowl of batter left. you lean against him, enjoying the warmth.
“sorry for freaking out.” you say as he presses a kiss against the top of your forehead.
he shrugs. “sorry for breaking into your apartment.”
you laugh. “yeah— how long have you been here, and how did you get in—“ you pause, looking up at him, noticing how clean his face is for the first time. “your bruise is gone.”
he leans back, rubbing his neck. “yeah, uh… i’m a fast healer.” he pauses and shrugs like that’s the only answer he can give you. “i’ve been here for like, thirty minutes. your neighbor let me in. mrs. stilinsky?”
you nod— decide not to question anything, moving back to lean on the countertop. you note the way he shifts in the back of your head and move on.
“i still feel bad about last night,” he starts, pausing to lift you up and onto the counter like you’re featherlight. you giggle, leaning in to press a quick kiss on his lips. “hence the breakfast. if you’re not busy today, i’d like to make it up to you.”
you raise a brow. “you know you don’t have to make up ‘getting jumped’ to me, right? i kind of get that one.”
he leans back to flip another pancake, shaking his head. “this is non-negotiable, honey.”
you roll your eyes, grabbing a pancake off of one of the stacks. “actually, i could use another set of hands to help me decorate my classroom…” you say, taking a bite of the pancake, looking up at him. “god, this is good— how did you make this?” you ask, mid-bite.
he laughs, a motion that moves through his shoulders. “kent family recipe. ma would kill me if i shared.”
“—is there pumpkin spice in this?”
——
clark insisted on being the only one to carry anything— so you’re mapping out your classroom while he hauls stuff from your car, little by little.
you’re switching to second grade this year, so you have a newer, slightly crappier classroom a mile farther from the teacher’s lounge, and a new curriculum to teach— but you don’t particularly mind. eight is a good age, you’ll just need to practice a little more crowd control during your lectures.
most of your stuff was brought over from your old classroom last week, this is just the stuff you bought with your daily planet money to get a fresh new look for your class.
clark drops the last of the junk gently by the door, smiling down at you as he approaches. he hooks an arm around your waist and presses a kiss atop your head, giving you a quick squeeze. “so, what are we doing today?”
you grin up at him, leaning into his side while you begin rambling about your big plans for the room.
you kinda prefer this to big dates. there’s something special about the mundane when you get to do it with clark. you just like being around him, basking in that sweet farm boy energy that has you totally whipped.
“okay, so, i’m gonna move my bookshelf to this corner, and then i’m gonna put up a bunch of posters in this area and make it, like, a reading corner, right. i’m gonna put up one of my big art wall things here and the other over there, and—“
you’re cut off by an earthquake.
clark instinctively tightens his grip on you, looking up and around for any danger. your frown, leaning into him.
he looks up at the ceiling for what seems like a beat too long when the ground shakes again. a couple trinkets fall off of a bookshelf, and one of your boxes topples over. he looks down at you, ushering you out of the classroom. “is there somewhere safe to hide?” he asks, looking up and down the hall.
“here, c’mon,” you start, leading him down the hall. “kids go in the gym for tornado drills— it’s kind of the same thing?”
he nods, following you with his hand tightly interlaced with yours. the ground shakes again and little bits of drywall fall from the ceiling— none big enough to do any real damage, but enough to spook you.
you and clark make it to the gym, where the infrastructure seems a lot more sturdy. you run inside— but he hangs by the door. “i’m gonna see if anyone else needs help, okay? i’ll be back.”
“clark—!“ you start, but he’s already gone.
you frown. the school is empty save for the two of you. he should be back in two, maybe three minutes.
but he’s not. he’s not back in five. or ten.
by the twelve minute mark you’re worried in a way that is all-consuming— and the building keeps shaking. you nearly got smashed by a ceiling tile that came loose, and you’ve spent the last few minutes half focused on clark’s survival and your own.
you give up on waiting, going to the administrative office to check the cameras for him, a relatively easy journey. you flip through them all twice. you give time for him to leave any blindspot. he isn’t there— he just ditched you.
you try not to throw the computer across the room. you could, logistically, and you could blame the damage on the whatever going on outside— but you don’t. you just storm out of the building, looking up at the sky.
superman’s fifty feet above your school fighting some robot-looking thing mid-air. to be fair, he’s winning, but not enough for you to be particularly thrilled about the sighting. you look around for clark, and he’s nowhere, which is just great.
“clark!” you call out, looking for him, ducking debris from the action above you. you turn the corner of the building, looking around by the dumpster, trying to see if he was hiding with some sweet old lady or doing anything besides running away and abandoning you.
you rush past the wall— and maybe if you were a bit less panicked and a bit more observant you would have noticed the pile of clothes peeking out from under the dumpster, or the glasses that belonged to clark kent reflecting sunlight onto the stack of bricks behind you.
but you continue, rushing out to the courtyard, met with a great big field filled with nothing but astroturf and gym supplies.
“clark!” you call again. he’s not there— you know he isn’t and you’re really, really freaking out. what if he got caught under a chunk of debris? what if that robot monster up there crashed into him? what if he really did just abandon you and leave you to fend for yourself?
you brush that last one off. he wouldn’t do that. you know him well enough to know that. he’s good to his core, he’s not the type of guy to run from danger.
you look up at the fight above you. superman is pummeling into the robot like there’s no tomorrow, getting closer and closer towards the ground. he’s right above the field you’re hanging around, and—
oh shit.
they both crash against the ground, knocking a literal crater into the field. the impact of the collision knocks you onto your ass, and despite being fifty feet away, the yelp you let out when you hit pavement attracts superman’s attention— and the thing he’s fighting.
it happens in slow motion: you, with wide eyes, scrambling to get up on shaky legs, the robot, hurling towards you impossibly fast, and superman, an inch behind, trying to stop it
you’re frozen. you can’t run, or fight, or even move— you’re just stuck, shaking, your heart beating out of your chest, adrenaline shooting through your veins like fire.
you think it’s the end, but superman grabs hold of the thing when it’s an inch away, pulling it back and throwing it across the field so hard the boom that follows sounds like a missile strike. you just stare, your breaths uneven and panicked, watching with teary eyes as superman punches that thing into the ground, ripping the machine’s head off with bare hands, tearing it apart until it’s nothing but scrap metal and wire.
and then he turns to you, moving faster than the speed of light across the field to gently help you up.
“are you alright?” he asks, taking your hand. your legs are shaking so bad that he has to practically hold you upright, but he doesn’t seem to mind.
you nod. “yeah, i’m okay.” you say, taking a deep breath, swallowing down your panic.
he checks you over for any injuries, the same way he did the first night that you met. “you shouldn’t have been out here.” he says, and he sounds frustrated— you feel bad. bad that he always seems to be saving you, and that you seem to be his least favorite regular. he’s saved you once a week for the last month at least, sometimes when you’re taking pictures for the planet, sometimes when trouble just seems to follow you home. either way— you have seen a lot of superman lately.
“i uh, yeah, i was looking for… clark kent? i know he’s interviewed you before, have you seen him?”
his gaze softens, and he takes a breath, looking down and shaking his head softly like he’s having a conversation in his head you aren’t privy to.
“he’s fine.” he says, looking up at you. you’re captivated— it’s always those damn eyes. bluer than the pacific, you don’t know how a man so perfect can exist.“i, uh, he was about to get crushed by some debris, so i moved him half a mile west.”
you breath a sigh of relief. “thank you.” you say, steady enough to stand a bit taller. he doesn’t let go.
“you get into a lot of trouble, don’t you?” he asks— not in a, ha-ha we run into each other a lot way, but in a, hey i’m kind of concerned about your well-being kind of way. your heart leaps to your chest.
“yeah. kept my promise though. didn’t come out here for a picture.”
he smiles— you almost swoon— and shakes his head. “do i have to start keeping a special eye on you, miss?”
you try not to blush. you fail. “with my luck, that might just be necessary.” you say, smiling up at him.
you pause.
you are totally flirting with superman. and even crazier— superman is totally flirting with you.
you have clark. loving, caring, sweet, handsome clark.
but can it really hurt to indulge in the fantasy for a minute longer?
“well, if you need anything, ma’am, call out for superman, and i’ll be there.” he says.
“anything?” you ask, raising an eyebrow. “i might just take advantage of that.”
he laughs— a laugh that seems too familiar. “i hope you do.”
you look up at him, tilting your head. “thank you, again, for saving me.”
he smiles, looking down at you, giving your hand a final squeeze before he lets you go. he leans in a bit closer, smiling down at you in a way that makes your heart jump to your throat. “i’m always gonna save you. i promise.”
the way he says you gives you pause. it makes your knees want to buckle. it makes this whole thing seem completely unreal.
because he’s talking about you like you mean a lot more to him than a pedestrian he’s had to save a couple times. like you’re someone he cares about— which confuses you a lot more than you care to admit.
he leans back, clears his throat, acts like he said a bit more than he should have and returns to that superman persona he let slip for half a second. “you try to stay safe, okay?” he says, raising an eyebrow, and you nod, a little dazed.
“on it.”
he steps back and shoots back off into the sky, and you stare until he’s completely gone, now just a whisper of blue in the skyline of metropolis.
“hey! there you are!” clark’s voice echoes from behind you. you spin around, overwhelmed with relief that he’s safe and running back towards you.
you practically crash into him, simply relieved that he is safe and not smushed under a building or something like that. his arms wrap around you so tight you can barely breathe, and you hold him so close you think your arms might break.
“i got so scared when you didn’t come back.” you mumble into the fabric of his shirt. he nods, pulling back, looking down at you.
“yeah, uh, i was looking for others and this giant piece of wall almost got me— superman swiped me out and took me like, three blocks away.” he says, taking a deep breath. “i’m really glad you’re okay.”
you nod, swallowing down the guilt forming in your chest. here clark is, all worried about you, who literally ran back from half a mile away to come and get you, and you were just flirting with superman.
“yeah, uh, superman saved me too. guess we both got lucky.” you say, chewing on your lip. you feel horrible.
he frowns. “a-are you okay?” he asks, tilting his head. you hate how he can read you like that.
you nod. “yeah, uh, i think i just want to go home.”
——
that night you sent clark home, promising you would call him in the morning. you told him that you were just a bit shaken— and you were. but not from the whole… robot trying to kill you thing. from the superman one.
you just felt guilty about it. confused on what made superman so keen on you. you’ve felt confused a lot, lately. about clark, superman, your own feelings.
to make it clear: you are 100% whipped for clark. he is your perfect man, and he has never made you doubt for one second that he likes you just as much as you like him. the whole superman thing feels like a fantasy come true— having some angelic, godlike protector single you out. it’s probably very human to have some feelings, to get a little flustered when someone like superman flirts with you.
there’s just something about superman that feels achingly familiar, in the kind of way that bugs you wholly. his laugh, his voice, his eyes. the eyes get you the most— like there’s something right in front of you that you just can’t see.
you take another sip of your beer, looking out at the moonlit skyline from your fire escape.
“are you alright?”
you jump, whipping your head around to see superman floating ahead, approaching you slowly, like he’s afraid you’ll scare. he smiles, leaning against the railing of the fire escape, looking down at you with this weird, soft look in his eye. like he’s worried.
you nod. “what are you doing here?”
he shrugs. “i wanted to make sure you were okay, after today.” he says, staring at you with those impossibly familiar blue eyes.
you raise an eyebrow. “do you check up on all the people you save?”
he chuckles, and shakes his head. “just the lucky ones.”
you pause, offering him a beer. he waves his hands no, climbing over the rail to sit with you.
“you’re real friendly.” you observe, taking another swig of your drink. he shrugs.
“just concerned.”
there’s a long beat of silence before either of you speak again. you’re not really sure what to say, how to proceed. you can feel him staring at you, while your eyes trace over the buildings around you.
“how’s your day going?” you ask, blinking back up at him. he stares for a second, then smiles— and those eyes capture you once more.
“been an odd day. y’know, stray robot attacks and all.” he pauses, giving you a once over. “you?”
you shrug. “odd’s probably the best word for it.”
“would you like to talk about it?” he offers. “i’ve been told that i’m a good listener.”
do you wanna talk about it? it’s kind of been an emotional roller coaster of a day. of course, it’s the kind of thing that would only happen to you, having superman on your porch step, asking how you feel. at first, all the running into each other seemed like dumb coincidence— now it all feels a lot heavier.
“i’ve been seeing a lot of you lately.” you say, tilting back your head to get a better look at him.
he nods. “is that a bad thing?”
you shrug in response. “it’s an odd one. especially ‘cause—“ you start, cutting yourself off. you look down, chewing on your lip so you don’t confront superman for being a huge flirt.
he looks at you inquisitively, a small frown playing on his lips. “‘cause?”
you take a deep breath, looking down. “i have a boyfriend. well— he’s not technically my boyfriend, yet. he hasn’t asked, but like, y’know. i really like him.”
you look back up and he’s smiling, almost like he’s trying to suppress a grin, which confuses you even more, because, like, two minutes ago he was acting all into you.
“and how are things going with your not-boyfriend?” he asks, leaning back.
“great. so i need you to stop flirting with me.”
he laughs— he actually laughs, with his full chest. acts like you saying that is the silliest thing in the world. like he didn’t randomly show up at your apartment to ‘check on you.’
he smiles up at you with this weird, knowing twinkle in his eye. “you’re right. i’ve got no business getting between you and clark.”
you pause, your eyebrows knitting together. you didn’t mention anything about clark.
“how’d you know it was clark?” you ask, frowning.
he pauses— like his body stutters. “uh, well—“ he starts, stumbling in a way that seems so familiar, just like everything else he does. god, what is it about him? “i assumed, since he was who you were looking for at the school.”
you nod, training your eyes on the loose curl sitting on his forehead. you guess that makes sense, at least, enough for you to not dwell on it any longer. yet, coupled with everything else you’ve noticed, it’s all just… very strange.
“i’m onto you, superman.” you say, looking up at him, eyebrows raised. you see it, just the briefest, tiniest moment of panic in his eyes before the superhero persona sets back in. it’s just enough to let you know that you’re not crazy.
“onto me?” he asks, slightly incredulous. “what for?”
you shrug, leaning back against the railing, taking another quick sip of your beer before placing it down against the barred floor of your fire escape. “just whatever it is that you’re hiding from me.”
he nods, like he’s barely entertaining the idea. “i could just stop running into you.” he says, a bit more serious now than he was a minute ago. “if i was hiding something.”
you smile, shaking your head, standing up and leaning back against the railing. “you could. i doubt you will.” you say, flashing him a grin, hoisting yourself up to sit on the railing.
he tilts his head. “why’s that?”
now, you wouldn’t do this if you weren’t at least two beers deep, and right now, you’re three and a half in, so your judgement is maybe… slightly impaired. besides, it’s not like this is the farthest you’ve ever gone to prove a point.
you slide your legs over the rail, and without a single thought or hesitation, you push yourself off.
you plummet for a bit longer than you thought you would— not like the drop would kill you, anyways, you live three stories up, but you’re a lot closer to the ground than you thought you’d be when he catches you.
his arms wrap around you bridal style— and he looks kind of pissed. he doesn’t quite look at you, not until you’re back up safely on the fire escape and he’s floating back out in the alleyway.
“that was, gosh—“ he starts, looking down at you, arms crossed. “why would you do that?”
“i knew you would catch me.” you say, your eyes glancing up to find his.
he shakes his head. “promise me you won’t do that again. ever.” he asks, eyebrows firmly knit together.
you nod, which, doesn’t seem to be good enough for him, because he tilts his head and looks at you with a gaze that is incredibly stern. you reach out your hand, extending your pinky finger out towards him.
“i pinky swear.”
he smiles, locking his finger with yours. “thank you.”
there’s a boom somewhere off in the distance, one loud enough to attract his attention. his hand slips away from yours, and with a nod, he’s gone.
you’re gonna figure him out.
——
it’s been two weeks since that night— and that was the last time you saw superman, a new record for you and him. you enjoyed the space as much as it infuriated you— so your time has been spent cataloguing every interaction, sorting through everything that bugged you, even slightly.
you don’t tell clark about it. it can’t feel good to hear that your girl is constantly thinking about another guy— especially one that is a god amongst men.
you and clark do have a good rhythm, though. he spends most nights at your place now, and he spoils you with two ‘real dates’ (as he calls them) a week. it’s nice, having him around. someone you can force feed your baking to and cuddle up with when watching scary movies.
it’s nights like tonight, actually, that make you so into him it scares you. he came over after work, and after making you a pasta salad that tasted like heaven on your fork, you sat together on the couch to watch some random sitcom he liked. his arms wrapped around you immediately, and he held you so close and so tight it was basically impossible not to fall asleep in those big, bulky arms of his.
you blink awake now, soft light and sound still playing on your television despite how quiet everything else seems. you listen to clark’s breathing, steady and even, snoring softly with his grasp loose around you.
you slide out of his arms quietly, surprised that you didn’t manage to wake him when you knocked into the table behind you on your way to the bathroom. you come back two minutes later, wiping your hands on your sleep shirt and looking down at him.
he looks so peaceful, so relaxed. it makes you smile. carefully, as to not wake him up, you slide his glasses off of his face and put them on your coffee table, and grab a blanket off of your armchair to throw over him.
in this motion, you realize you’ve never actually seen clark without his glasses before. you look down at him, tilting your head, squinting for whatever shapes you can make out with such little lighting.
you didn’t realize how strong his prescription was, because he looks quite different. like— noticeably different.
huh. he looks a lot like superman.
you frown. squint a little harder. besides the hair, he’s nearly identical.
you shake the thought. it has to be some weird coincidence, right? clark, your clark? not possible. you’re too sleepy to give it much thought, anyways.
still, it bugs you. it bugs you the next morning, when he makes you breakfast. it bugs you the day after, when you see him at the planet. it bugs you for another week, because the similarity is just too damning.
you stare down at that picture you have of superman. of him, helping your student. the one that inadvertently led you to clark. the one that superman himself framed. you’re looking at all the similarities of note between clark and him. sure, they’re different, but everything different is something easily changed. hairstyles, tone of voice, hell, even posture.
you chew on your lip. it’s 5:30, clark’s supposed to pick you up in two hours.
but, hypothetically, if you went to his place now and looked around when he wasn’t expecting you… would you find this picture hung up somewhere?
it would be just to get the thought out of your head. you’re like, 95% sure there is no way in hell that clark kent can be superman. especially because, if he was, and he’d been flirting with you as superman? you’d be beyond pissed.
you knock twice on the door. “clark?”
you hear a shuffle and a pause. it takes thirty agonizingly long seconds for him to open the door, but when he does it’s all smiles and laughter— “hey, what are you doing here? thought i was picking you up later.”
he urges you in and gently shuts the door behind you, smiling down at you. your eyes trace every inch of the apartment, looking for something you pray you don’t find.
“i didn’t want to wait any longer,” you say, looking back up at him, “i missed you.”
he grins, wrapping an arm around you and giving you a squeeze. he looks nice— white button up, black slacks, his hair impossibly perfect. you lean into him, nearly forgetting about your mission.
“do you want to just hang out here tonight? skip the date?” he asks, sliding your purse off of your shoulder and setting it down on his mahogany front table— one that he made himself when he still lived in smallville.
“actually,” you say, uncertainly, sliding off your jacket. “that sounds perfect. i wanna talk.”
he raises a brow, taking your jacket and hooking it the coat rack. you lead him to the living room, flopping down on the couch. “do i need to be worried?”
he sets himself behind you, leaning against the back of the couch, smiling down at you. you look around, still looking for that picture— one you’re sure you won’t see amongst the decor of his apartment.
“yeah, maybe.” you say, your eyes meeting his. his smile fades, and those ocean blue eyes stare down at you with just enough concern to make your heart skip a beat. “what are we?”
you don’t know why you picked that question to stall for time, but here you are.
he takes a breath, like that question somehow relieves him— what an odd guy.
“what do you want us to be?”
he asks it gently, hopefully, like he’s easing you into it. he is— he wants you, bad. more than just a summer situationship. clark isn’t built for that. but he understands hesitation, he understands if you want to take your time. he’s got all the time in the world.
you pause, taking a breath. “well, i really like you clark.” you say, scooting back on the couch, patting the empty space next to you as a signal. he dances around the side of the couch, extra careful not to knock into anything and disrupt a moment like this one. the couch dips beside you and you sit with your legs crossed, facing him.
“i really like you, too.” he says, quietly, like it kills him not to say more.
you nod, chewing on your lip. “and i want to be your girlfriend.”
he breaks out into a grin, leaning back, looking at you with nothing but love in those ridiculously blue eyes. “yeah?”
“not that you don’t still have to ask me, cause you do, and you have to make it, like, the most romantic thing i’ve ever seen.” you say, smiling up at him. he nods— super serious, like one of your kids planning out an assignment in their head.
“i promise.” he says, leaning in. “i’m gonna romance your socks off, babe.”
you laugh, wrapping your arms around him and pulling him against you. he presses a quick kiss against your lips— one you’re careful not to get sucked into; you’re not done yet.
“now that that’s settled,” you say, forcing him back with a playful push that elicits a groan from him. “if i’m gonna be with you— you can’t hide anything. i need complete, open honesty.”
he nods, looking away. you frown. “is there anything you haven’t told me? anything important?”
he pauses, his eyes trained to the wall, like he’s deliberating on something super important.
were you right? is clark really… superman?
he looks back at you, smiling, like that moment didn’t happen. like everything is alright. “i stole one the toys from your classroom.” he shrugs, laughing a bit. “the stuffed deer? it reminded me of you.”
you gasp, feigning offense. “i’ve been looking for him everywhere!” you exclaim in fake horror, but you can’t help but giggle.
what were you thinking? clark, superman? sweet, adorkable clark? it’s more likely that he’s secretly mother teresa.
his laugh grounds you, and he slings an arm around your shoulder, pulling you into him. “i’ll let you know if anything else comes to mind.” he says, pressing a kiss to your temple. “wanna watch a movie?”
you nod, looking up at him. “i’ll let you pick it if you make popcorn.” you grin, pressing a kiss against his jawline.
“yes ma’am.” he says, standing up, lingering in your touch a second too long before leaving for the kitchen.
you watch him, unable to suppress a giant, dorky smile. god, you love him.
oh god, you love him.
you decide to table that thought for when you get home.
“i’m gonna change into one of your shirts!” you call out, standing up and heading towards his room. you’re still in date night attire, and you would much rather be dwarfed by one of clark’s nice, cotton, smallville t-shirts than brave the night in jeans and a tube top.
“have fun!” he calls back, and you can hear the sporadic popping of the popcorn from the kitchen.
you make it to his closet, filtering through the half-dozen tees he keeps hung up. he doesn’t have that many clothes, you note, a few dress shirts, a couple cheap suits, two pairs of jeans, and a box of ties below it. you look around a bit more, noting the weird amount of dress shoes he has lined up on the ground when you notice a pair of black wingtips sat above a silver, face-down picture frame.
huh.
maybe if you were a bit more trusting and a bit less suspicious you would have left it alone— but that isn’t you.
your eyes flicker to the doorway, which is empty, and back to the frame. carefully, you crouch down, sliding the shoes down to the ground, tentatively picking up the frame and flipping it towards you.
your heart beats out of your chest.
it’s the picture.
it’s the picture.
the one you took of superman, the one you gave him that first night, the one he told you he framed— the one that you decidedly did not give to clark, the one that clark never told you he framed, the one that clark would have no reason to hide except—
that he’s superman.
that you were right.
that he lied to you.
you take the picture. hold it so tight your knuckles turn white. walk out of the closet, out of the bedroom, into the kitchen. drop it on the countertop so clark can see it.
the look on his face tells you everything you need to know. he looks shocked, caught, then scared, guilty. his eyes dart from the picture to you in an instant. the microwave beeps three times, the popping slows to a stop. it’s over.
“i can explain.”
you shake your head. he doesn’t need to— it’s pretty open and shut. he lied to you, and if it was just him hiding the superman thing, you could understand. “you talked to me as superman— flirted with me, asked personal stuff— you lied. you’ve been lying, this entire time, i—“ you take a deep breath, fighting tears. “i should go.” you say, spinning around on your heels.
he grabs your hand before you can move, squeezing it gently. “please, wait— let me explain it. please. you don’t understand.”
you pull away, looking at him with nothing but hurt in your eyes— because you are hurt, you feel betrayed and broken and everything you thought you wouldn’t feel with clark. you stare at him, trying your hardest not to cry— not in front of him. he looks hopeless, half-defeated, uncertain, and lost in a way that overwhelms him.
you sniffle, shaking your head. “i understand fine, clark.” you say, swallowing down your heartbreak and peeling towards the door.
“this is over.”
——
the days that follow are bleak. all you have to show for the breakup are dark, lonely hours wasted in pints of ice cream and dirty tissues. your only solace is scrolling through article after article— either ones written by clark, or ones written about him.
you push yourself through it with everything you can muster, praying that he doesn’t hear your sobs from across the city. you love him. loved him. and you’re not sure you’ll ever be so in love again.
but he betrayed you, he lied to you— he hurt you in a way that you can’t explain. you don’t want to let that push you down any more than it already has.
so, you push back. get up, out of bed, get dressed, call your friends, make plans. put yourself in a situation where you don’t have to think, especially about clark. it’s been ten days since you stormed out of his apartment and you have to move forward. it’s the last day of summer before you go back— you can’t have let it all been a waste.
you club. you party. you convince yourself that you’re having fun. you drink too much and then you spend an hour sobering yourself up before you home. you kiss your friends goodbye and toss the numbers you had pocketed in the trash outside your apartment. you head upstairs, taking a deep breath to try an avoid letting yourself think about the silence.
about clark.
and, when you get to your door, fumbling for your keys— you notice a piece of neatly-folded card stock taped below your peephole, your name encircled by a heart on the front of it.
carefully, you take it down, removing the tape with little tear and opening the letter, recognizing the handwriting before you can even read a word.
to start this, you were right. i shouldn’t have lied, i shouldn’t have pretended i wasn’t lying, i shouldn’t have spoken to you under false pretenses. the last thing i ever wanted was to hurt you, and for that, i am so sorry.
i hope, for you, this past week hasn’t been as miserable as it has been for me. i hoped to have seen you at the planet, or bump into you on the corner, or find some way to see you and try and redeem myself— but i couldn’t wait any longer to explain.
yes, i am superman. i was born on the planet krypton, sent here as an infant, and adopted by my parents, john and martha kent. i have a cousin who too, is from krypton, but remembers much more than me about home, and i take care of her superpowered dog, krypto, in a secret fortress in the arctic. i can fly, i can move incredibly fast, i have inhuman strength, x-ray vision, laser vision from my eyes and breath that can freeze nearly anything, all given to me by the earth’s yellow sun.
i came to you as superman at first by accident. the night i saved you from the mugger, before our first date. i had spent the days leading up to our date spiraling. you, who are so perfect, so beautiful, and so kind, were going out with me, and i was terrified to mess it up. i realized how easy it was for me to talk to you as superman, when it was difficult for clark kent. the times i saved you, i shouldn’t have lingered. the times i spoke to you as him, i shouldn’t have been there. at first, it had been a crutch, but by the last time, it had become a compulsion.
i had to see you. to make sure that you were safe, and warm, and happy. i realize now that i violated you in a way i cannot make up for. for this and for everything else, i am truly sorry. while my betrayal is inexcusable, know that i did it because i love you. this summer has been the best of my life, i have never met someone as compassionate, hilarious, talented, and beautiful as you, i have never wanted to be around someone more than you, i have never had someone plague my thoughts and dreams the way you do. you have quickly become my everything, my reason for waking up, for helping people, for pushing through every day.
you asked me, the day of our fight, to make my request for you to be my girlfriend the most romantic thing you’ve ever seen. and i promised you that i would.
and while i have lied to you, hidden things from you, and hurt you, i have never broken a promise.
open the door, please.
you look up from the note, wiping away a river of tears that had just poured out of you. carefully, your hands wrap around the doorknob, slowly turning it and pushing the door open.
and there he is.
standing in the center of the room, surrounded by a thousand rose petals, holding a giant bouquet with an iron grip. candles litter the foyer, giving his face an ethereal glow in the low light. his glasses are gone. his curls are out. he’s someone between clark kent and superman now, someone who you desperately want to know.
he clears his throat, his gaze holding yours hostage with those infinity blue eyes captivating you so wholly.
“i promise never to hurt you again. never to lie to you, or hide things from you, or betray your trust— if you’ll let me be yours again.” he says, smiling down at you like he’s on the verge of tears. “will you be my girlfriend?” he asks, as you approach taking in the entire set up slowly, trying not to lose what little composure of yours you still have.
you take a breath, your eyes locking with his once more.
“yes.” you say, grinning while tears— happy ones, slip from your eyes. he smiles wider than you’ve ever seen, practically throwing the bouquet so he can wrap his arms around you in a giant bear hug.
he lifts you up and spins you off of the ground, pulling an exciting giggle from your lips. it takes you a second to realize he’s off the ground too, that you’re both mid-air inside your tiny apartment— but you’re too focused on clark to mind.
he holds you close, leaning in just enough to warm your face with his breath.
“i love you.” he says, quietly, like if saying it any louder would have scared you away.
“i love you too.” you say, smiling.
he grins, leaning into you and crashing against you with a kiss so fervent it nearly topples you over— so passionate it makes your chest explode with warmth.
and suddenly, just for a moment, just for now— everything is okay again. and you know that as long as you have clark at your side, it always will be.
——
there are two quick knocks on the door, followed by a rasp “honey? you okay?”
you tremble, sat with your back against the door, bunched up in your wedding dress, trying to force the tears to stop falling to avoid messing up your ridiculously expensive bridal makeup. ten minutes ago the pressure got to you, and five minutes ago you sent your entire party— bridesmaids, stylists, even your mom —out the door so you could properly break down.
“yeah.” you say, sniffling. your voice shakes so much that the lie isn’t even half-convincing. clark can see right through you anyways (literally), so it’s not like you were really trying to lie. you just didn’t want him all concerned. it’s his wedding day too, you want it to be the happiest day of his life, even if your own experience is a train wreck.
you can practically hear his frown. “kara told me what happened.” he says, softly.
oh. yeah. your bridezilla breakdown. not one of your best moments. you aren’t exactly proud of screaming at your mom to stop messing with your hair, or your aunt for commenting on the fit of your dress, or your bridesmaids for giving you all sorts of unsolicited advice. you yelled, threw a fit, and pushed everyone out of the room so you could sob mascara into your veil.
“can i come in?” he asks, gently, and you let out a weak laugh.
“the groom can’t see the bride before the wedding, remember?” you say. he groans, sliding down against the door, his back to you.
“that’s a silly rule.” he says, and you smile. you love how much he makes you smile.
“i don’t need any more bad luck.” you wince. “did kara tell you about my bitch fit?”
you hear him snort a little bit through the door. “she used nicer words.” he says, pausing. “wanna talk about it?”
god yes. it’s all you want to talk about. but you don’t want to bring clark down any further than you already have. you want him to have the perfect wedding, even if you are decidedly not.
“it’s fine. i just needed a minute.” you say, your voice shaking again— enough to where you know clark won’t drop it now. you bury your head in your dress, taking a deep breath.
“c’mon. i’m your husband in like, ten minutes. you can talk to me.” he says. his voice is so sweet and syrupy— you’re not sure how you can refuse him.
you lean up, back against the door, shutting your eyes so tight it hurts. the words spill out of you so fast you don’t even think about them before they do. “i wanna be married to you so bad. but god— i know we spent so much on this and we spent so much time planning it but… i just want this over with. my dress is so goddamn tight and nobody can leave me alone for half a second without telling me something i need to be doing or something i’m doing wrong. and i just— it all got to be too much. and now my mom is probably gonna storm out ‘cause i yelled at her and then my dad won’t be there to walk me down the aisle, and i just ruined everything for no good reason.”
the end of your rant is met with a beat of silence. a terrifying, overwhelming, moment where you think you might have finally scared off clark.
of course, you didn’t. you couldn’t. “hey, honey— nothing’s ruined. look, don’t think about what your mom wants, or what your bridesmaids want, or even what i want. what’s gonna make you happy? ‘cause i could fly you off to a courthouse right now and ditch the party. all i want is to married to you— you could be in your pajamas for all i care and you would never have looked more beautiful. i just— darn it, i want you to be happy.”
you’re crying again, but this time you’re smiling, because god, your fiancé is just so sweet it makes your knees weak.
“what do you want, sweetheart?” he asks again, his voice so soft and tender it makes you turn to putty.
you sniffle again, wiping your tears with your fingers while trying not to further destroy your $120 makeup. “i really want a hug.” you mumble, staring down at your mascara-stained hands.
“on it.” he says, and you hear him stand up and try for the door— which is still very much locked.
you giggle a bit, standing up with him “i can’t let you in, though. the rule?”
he scoffs. “that rule is just plain— gosh, it’s just ridiculous. let me in, please, or I’m gonna break this door down.”
you laugh— god, it feels so good to laugh. you haven’t seen him all day and it felt like you were drowning.
you pause, giving in and slowly turning the lock, but you don’t quite open the door yet.
“promise me you’ll keep your eyes shut?” you ask, knowing how silly it sounds. god help you, you’re a bit superstitious.
“scouts honor.” he confirms, and you slowly open the door, peeking out to see clark, who looks breathtakingly stunning, with his tie wrapped around his eyes like a blindfold.
you laugh, smiling so wide the muscles in your mouth start to get sore.
“there she is.” he says, reaching out blindly for you, his hands— impossibly warm, feeling around for your shoulders. “you feel very beautiful.”
you laugh, wrapping your arms around him and burying yourself against him, your head in his chest. his arms circle your body and he squeezes you so tight you might faint— exactly the kind of hug you needed.
you do your best not to let yourself cry, but clark has a way of forcing the tension out of you, one way or another. one hand presses into the small of your back, the other strokes your hair softly. little praises and comforts slip from his lips like sugar, while you sob into him.
“i love you so much.” he whispers, giving you another squeeze.
“i love you too.” you cry, holding him so tightly your arms ache. “i am so excited to be married to you— this is not cold feet i promise.”
he laughs, nodding against you. “i know, honey, i know.” he says, and god, he knows just how to sooth every one of your worries away.
finally, you pull away, looking up at him. his glasses are tucked into his pocket, his hair is slicked back with one little curl popped out against his forehead. his suit is a deep black, with a navy blue tie (still covering his eyes) and a matching pocket square that makes him look irresistible.
“you look really nice.” you say, sniffling, but you can’t wipe the smile off of your face.
he shrugs. “i’m sure it’s nothing compared to you.” and he says it like you aren’t already a mess and you’re not blushing like, well, a bride.
you grab the edge of his sleeve and use it to wipe away your tears. his thumb brushes against your cheek, falling to your bicep when you let his sleeve go.
“so, what’s the plan, gorgeous?” he asks, grinning down at you with that five-star smile that gets you every time. “are we sneaking out and going downtown?”
you take a deep breath, shaking your head. “no, no we’re doing this.” you say, leaning into his touch. “but if you, say, asked one of your superhero friends to slip a roach down my mom’s dress, i think i’d skip down the aisle.”
he laughs, squeezing your arm and pulling away. “i’ll see what i can do.”
you smile, memorizing how dorky he looks with that tie around his eyes and his cute open mouth smile.
“see you on the other side?” you ask, tilting your head.
“see you on the other side.” he confirms, stepping back with just enough uncertainty to let you know that he’s not using any x-ray vision.
you watch him through the crack in the door until he’s gone, smiling so wide you might be stuck that way.
half an hour later the music starts, your dad takes your hand, and you’re walking down the aisle like nothing ever went wrong.
first you eye the crowd, looking over the array of friends, family, and superheroes that showed up. thank goodness clark is a reporter and not, say, an office worker, because you don’t know how else you could explain the random celebrities like bruce wayne and oliver queen who are sat in the audience.
then you look at your feet, which, are hidden beneath the dress, but you want to make sure you don’t stumble and embarrass yourself with a hundred pairs of eyes on you.
finally, you look up at clark, who’s staring at you in the sort of way that makes you feel faint. like you’re the most beautiful woman in the world. like you’re about to make his knees buckle. like he’s in pure awe. he doesn’t even look nervous— a trait which you envy, because you’re an absolute mess right now. he just looks captivated.
you make up to the alter, looking up at him with a healthy mix of nerves and excitement. he’s looking down at you like he’s never been more certain of anything in his life.
“i love you.” he mouths, grinning at you.
“i love you more.” you mouth back, and he shakes his head with glee.
“—you may now share your vows.” the officiant says, looking to clark.
he smiles, looking down at his feet, taking a deep breath before looking back up at you.
“for… for a long time i didn’t know what to write. i had about six… thousand drafts, but i don’t think there’s any way i can put into words how much i love you. how much i depend on you, how much of my happiness is thanks to you. i have so much purpose now. because if i can make you happy— if i can make you safe, if i can make you feel loved and supported and half as good as you make me feel every day by just being you… i’ll have accomplished more than i’ve ever dreamed of. i love you, honey, so much it makes my chest hurt. and i am the luckiest man in the world to be the man who gets to marry you— my soulmate.” he looks back up at you with stars in his eyes— your spaceman.
there’s like, five tears sliding down your cheeks by the end of that speech. you literally cannot stop smiling. you expected a lot— his job is writing for chrissakes— but wow.
wow.
“i, uh, wow. i don’t think i can top that.” you say, and a gentle laugh echoes from the crowd. you take a deep breath. “clark, i— i spent a lifetime thinking i’d never find someone like you. you’re, literally my knight in shining armor. when we met, and you walked me to perry’s office when i was so, horribly lost, i remember thinking how much i wanted this guy to ask me out. and then i found your number in my files, and i didn’t even realize how lucky i was. clark— my life has become so much better because you’re in it. having you, my rock, my best friend, my soulmate— i don’t have to dream any more. every morning with you is one come true. you are the incredibly dorky, adorable, and unfathomably amazing love of my life, and marrying you is the best thing i will ever do. i’ve never been certain of anything, but for this i have no doubt: i love you, clark kent, and i will love you no matter what life throws at us— i know that despite any tragedy or circumstance, i am yours, always and forever.”
you smile up at clark, droplets of water falling further down your face while a single tear drops from his eye. he smiles at you like you’re all he could ever want. you are.
“by the power vested in me by the state, i now pronounce you mr. and mrs. clark kent, husband and wife. you may now kiss the bride.”
clark grins at you and leans in, his lips pressing gently against yours, his hands pulling you in by your sides. the music plays, the church erupts in applause, and your husband knocks the breath out of you and for one moment, just one, everything is completely perfect.
this is so easily the longest fic i've ever written.... i am very proud of her though i very much hope you all enjoy!!
jason todd x yapper!reader (i mean really, you never shut the fuck up. he likes it though!)
--
all jason was looking for in a shitty, crime alley slum was a place to live— never in a millionyears did he expect to find you.
you being his neighbor, who never shut the fuck up.
like, not once, not ever. you were allergic to silence, treading around it like it physically hurt you to sit with stillness in the air for more than five seconds.
“hey, jason, right? do you know anything about plants? my mom sent me a ficus, i’m not really sure why, or if it’s actually a ficus or some other plant, but I cannot garden for the life of me. i’m good with animals, but every plant i get seems to die after two weeks, even the unkillable ones. i had a cactus, famously not an easy thing to mess up, but i over-watered it— can you believe that that’s even a thing? i can’t. anyways, it died after three weeks, which was an embarrassing thing to admit to my coworker who bought me the damn thing, y’know? so i’m trying to make it work with my new ficus, which is why i’m really hopeful someone in this building has some advice for me.”
mind you, jason stepped off of the elevator ten minutes ago, and he hasn’t been able to get a word out.
and normally, that would annoy him to no end. if you were anyone else he’d have blown you off and be long gone by now. he isn’t sure why he can’t tear himself away, why he doesn’t seem to mind your endless, ultimately meaningless yapping, or why he wants to hear more of it.
lets face it, he’s an intimidating guy. he knows what he looks like, and he’s pretty intentionally with the vibe he gives off— the sort of loner, don’t mess with me aura he’s curated. most people look at him and look away, but you? you didn’t even hesitate, you just smiled at him and treated him like he was anyone else.
“what book is that?” you ask, looking down at the small plastic bag in his hand from the bookstore he had just come from.
he carefully peels back the plastic giving you a glimpse. “1984.”
you nod, pulling a face— which makes him grin like an idiot, for some reason.
“i didn’t like 1984, no, i hated it. i read it for school in like, my sophomore year of high school and it was awful. maybe i was too young to appreciate it, but like, i mean, i got the messaging, surveillance state whatever, but it was just so boring and so freaking long. i liked animal farm, though, so i don’t hate george orwell, but what i liked about animal farm is that it was concise. 1984 just went on and on and on and isn’t it just all regurgitated stuff from like, russian literature? i mean, no hate if you like it, a lot of people do, i just suffered through it. although maybe i’d like it more now that i’m not fifteen and my perspective has matured a bit. you read a lot, don’t you? i feel like i see you around with books a lot. my mom loved to read, and i loved it when i was a kid but i got so busy and exhausted all the time i just didn’t have it in me to read something that wasn’t for school, and now i’m working and i have even less time so, y’know, it isn’t great to get back into it. plus, i’d hate to start a book and put all of my time into it for it to just be a dud. but it’s really cool that you have a hobby like that, i bet it’s very relaxing. i bake, which is supposed to be therapeutic, but in reality it’s so stressful. i tried to make cinnamon rolls last night for this morning, and my good for nothing glass pan exploded. can you believe that? everywhere. i’m still finding glass shards in my kitchen. speaking of which, do you have a vacuum i could borrow? mine broke last night.”
jason nods, unconsciously following you down the hallway towards your apartment, which happens to be right next to his. “yeah, you can borrow mine.”
you grin, a gesture that makes his heart twist in his chest.
“thank you so much. here, you should come in. my cinnamon rolls may have been a failure, but i made some brownies that will kill you dead they’re so good— so long as you have a respectable tolerance for cocoa powder. and i promise, these ones don’t have any glass in them.”
somehow, jason finds himself sitting in your kitchen, eating a ridiculously good brownie and sipping on a glass of fresh lemonade.
even weirder, he keeps finding himself in the same place, day after day, week after week. the desserts change, but you never do.
“have you seen the construction going on down on 8th street? the whole road is blocked off because like, clayface or someone went crazy, which, like, why live in gotham if you can’t handle the insanity, but my commute to work is an extra half hour now for god knows how long. know i have to get up at like, six in the morning, which means i go to bed before my show is on which is so annoying.“
“my boss, who is just the worst, i mean real awful guy, y’know, he came back from this two month “sabbatical” where he probably did nothing but jerk himself off and abuse local wait staff, but he came back with the worst toupee you’ve ever seen. i mean, who did that install? you can see the glue. and you can’t stare at it for too long or else he’ll start yelling, but like, c’mon, its four shades lighter than the rest of his head!”
“do you think its unethical that im still on my ex’s spotify family plan? he hasn’t booted me yet, y’know, and it isn’t like i need the expense, but my conscience keeps yelling at me about it. maybe i should cancel it. i need to cancel my netflix, i haven’t opened it in months. maybe i should switch to peacock, they have all the sitcoms i like. man, i should rewatch modern family.”
it’s weird. he doesn’t normally like noise. he likes peace, he likes the quiet. he likes to take up as little space as possible when he’s in a room. and you’re… the opposite. you are big and loud and you take up all the extra space he’s left for you.
but he likes that it isn’t empty anymore.
the realization that he’s in love with you hits him like a semi-truck.
he’s in your kitchen, licking the spoon you just covered in chocolate cake batter, baking with him for his birthday, music lightly flowing in the room.
“—oh my gosh and the discount this girl gave me—“ you stop your rant in your tracks, your eyes meeting his, smiling softly at him. “you have some on your nose.” you say, making your way across the too small kitchen before he can even think to wipe it off.
and the you kiss him.
right there, just like that, right on his nose. like that doesn’t stun him, like that isn’t a little crazy, like it’s all normal.
you go back to your station like nothing happened. like you didn’t just totally flip his world upside-down. it’s then that it hits him— he’s spent so many hours here, listening to you talk about nothing, when he could have been doing literally anything else.
and there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.
because he wants you so bad it hurts. so bad that a simple kiss on the nose sets him on fire. so bad that he’d spend every hour of every day trying to get a word in just so he could spend it with you.
“anyways, she only charged twenty dollars,” you start, as if everything was completely normal, “which, i gave her forty, because they took her two hours and she’s just so talented—“
there’s no way you just snapped back into yapping like you didn’t just turn him tomato red. only you would treat that moment like the most normal thing in the world.
no, that’s not happening.
before either of you can think about it, jason’s crossed the room, planted his hands on your hips, and has finally found a way to shut you up.
you look up at him like you don’t know what to say. neither does he, really, but he leans in close. close enough that you can feel your breath mingling with his, close enough that you don’t think you’d ever want to pull away.
and then he kisses you. it’s soft, gentle, like he’s scared to do it wrong. he’s not a big moves kind of guy, he isn’t practiced in this sort of thing, but god, it feels right.
when he does pull away, an action that feels like agony, all he does is smile. you do the same.
“i, uh… i’m…” you stutter, because for once, you can’t think of anything to say.
his smile becomes a grin, and he slings his arm around you, pulling you closer. “i’ve never heard you this quiet.” he says, planting another kiss against your temple, smiling at the subsequent flush of your cheeks.
you roll your eyes, shooting him a faux glare before going into another long winded rant about whatever the hell just happened, and all the things you want to happen after.
and while he’d never admit it, jason liked the world a lot better when it was filled with your voice.
clark kent who never lets you wake up to anything but a freshly made breakfast— and he can cook. he knows just about every kent family recipe ma could teach him and he never lets you lift a finger in the kitchen. he insists that the view of you, in one if his old smallville t-shirts, bleary-eyed and giggly in the soft lull of the morning is worth the labor of a thousand breakfasts.
clark kent who is the perfect gentleman. before you even realize you’re cold he has his gray cotton suit jacket around your shoulders and an arm tight around your waist. you two go grocery shopping? he won’t even let you touch a bag, carrying them like it’s a badge of honor after you’ve long since given up on trying to help him. if there’s a puddle on the sidewalk? he lifts you by the waist like you’re featherlight, twirling you over it so your shoes don’t get wet and pressing a kiss atop your head once he sets you down.
clark kent who can’t keep himself off of you, like, ever. his hands, which are huge compared to yours, are always holding you, your hands, your waist, your thighs, etc. his fingers card through your hair constantly, and his nose presses into the crook of your neck like it belongs there. he wraps himself around you in giant bear hugs, refusing to let go for hours on end (not that you mind). it’s almost a compulsion, how close he has to be to you at all times to ground himself, to remind himself that you, the person he loves most in this world and any other, are real and somehow love him as much as he loves you.
clark kent who is really good with kids, in the kind of way that makes your heart just melt to see. he takes conversations with children seriously, nodding along as they babble on like it’s the most important thing in the world, helping them without a second thought. when he meets your niece, it only takes about five minutes for him to swing her on his shoulders and earn the title of “uncle clark!” the whole thing makes you swoon.
clark kent who is a giant dork and makes sure you know it. he practically pins you down against him and forces you to watch all six of the star wars movies in an order that seems completely random to you when you make the mistake of telling him that you’ve never seen them. he spoons you on the couch, arms wrapped around you, softly whispering his favorite lines along with the movie, his breath warm against your ear.
clark kent who sees you as a literal goddess. he thinks you’re ethereal, full of warmth and made of light. he loves you like it’s worship, tending to you like it’s his divine purpose— because it is. he’s so gentle with you, large hands capable of great destruction ghosting over your body like you’re something fragile. he keeps you safe, happy, and warm with everything he has. you’re his girl, by some grace of god, and he’d rather die than let you feel anything but absolutely beloved.
clark kent who kisses you like he forgets you have to breathe— because he does. after crashing into you, he gets so lost in the waves that it takes you nearly passing out for him to pull back, giving you a million apologies while you catch your breath, but you pull him back into it before he can feel any real guilt.
clark kent who is undeniably the love of your life, in a way that is permanent and unbelievable. you have him whipped, barely able to think about anything but you and the way you glow like starlight in his eyes. perfection cannot begin to describe what you are to him, they way you make him weak in his knees and dizzy when he smells your perfume on his skin. he doesn’t need to travel to distant planets with red suns to get wasted when the sound of your voice makes him drunker than any beverage could hope to. yes, you, the woman of his dreams, are the owner of clark’s heart and if shattering it would make you smile he’d glue it back together so you could do it all over again.
-------
he is all i can think about i think ate ive read over 100 fics about my sweet beautiful princess he is so beautiful to me. this obsession is a sickness but hot damn
— aka jason knows better than to let anyone get away with hurting you
———
your eyes trace the brown-yellow bruise forming on your wrist, the consequence of some asshole on the street too drunk to remember it isn’t polite to grab pretty girls. you would’ve let it go, really, it’s gotham, this kind of thing happens. unfortunately for the poor bastard, he had the misfortune of forgetting his sense in front of jason todd.
you try to hide the bruise before your boyfriend can see it, sliding the tarnished patch of skin under the sleeve of your jacket with haste— but he catches it anyways. of course he does. you can faintly see shocks of green lightning crackling in his ocean blue eyes, a precursor to the white hot rage stemming from his chest to the rest of his body.
you gently squeeze his arm, noting how tense the muscles in his bicep are. you know jason. you know he loves you differently— like you’re something fragile. he worships you, taking care of you like you’re a marble statue and he’s terrified of finding cracks. so something as small as a bruise, no matter how tiny or how minor, it makes him lose control.
he gently removes your hand from his arm, pressing a chaste kiss against your bruise. “why don’t you go back to that café, yeah? i’ll join you in a minute.” he says, looking down at you with a soft smile. if you didn’t know him any better, you’d think he’d completely gotten over the situation, happy as a clam.
but you do know him, and you know that the way his shoulders are tensed and his free hand is fisted in the pocket of his jacket means that he’s enraged.
“jay—“
he presses a soft kiss to your forehead, giving you a gentle smile. “please, baby. i don’t want you to see this.”
you should stop it. you should try. but he’s looking at you like that and your morals suddenly become incredibly loose. you hesitate, remembering the waves of repulsion you felt moments ago when that idiot bastard yanked you towards him. “just… don’t hurt him bad.”
jason nods, turning you around and guiding you forward, watching until you turn towards the cafe before he focuses his attention on the man, who is still too piss drunk to comprehend how badly he had fucked up. you hear jason before the door fully closes behind you, an echo of “so you think that’s how you should treat a woman?”
he’s terrifying. that drunk idiot must be terrified.
and he’s yours. scary dog privileges and all that. it makes you feel warm, safe, loved, protected— you’re irrevocably in love with that. with him.
he comes back in a few minutes, maybe fifteen? the wait stretched on for hours in your mind. his knuckles are bloody, but none of it is his. he cleans up in the bathroom before sliding next to you on the cushioned side of your half-booth, wrapping an arm and your shoulder, breathing you in like a man starved.
“he’s fine.” he says quietly, so only you can hear it. “just made sure he learned to keep his hands to himself.”
you close your eyes, leaning into him, into his warmth. you don’t say anything— you don’t have to, the way you bury yourself against him is admission enough. his arms wrap around you and the bruise fades back into your skin. your heart beats with more love than you thought it capable of producing, your chest swelling like it’s about to burst.
you press a gentle kiss against his chest and everything makes sense again.
———
it’s always when i say i’m not gonna write that inspiration strikes
things with jason are new, fun, romantic. like a dream come true, really. however, there is one thing you haven't quite warned him about. behind the door to your apartment are at least a dozen animals in your care, all of which have a tendency to scare off potential partners.
--
“you should know something about me.” you say, staring down very hard at jason’s shoes. they’re very nice, actually. black leather combat boots, fairly worn but not falling apart. the kind that are expensive, but not in the designer brand, frivolous, gucci coach the devil wears prada sort of way, expensive like the kind of boots that last ten years without a crack in the soles bought from a really respectable brand of cobbler.
you and jay have been on two dates so far, proceeded by eight months of awful flirting and excruciating pining taking place on both ends. he, the regular at your bar, constantly pressing you for information on your more… colorful clientele in a way he thought was subtle. you, a woman scorned by the brood of men produced by gotham, somehow finding yourself falling for a man who checks every box on your list of red flags.
and then, finally, after months and months of “you shouldn’t wear that unless you want guys to bother you,” and “do you visit all your informants this much?”, he asked you out.
well, he rescued you from an ill-fated encounter with a guy you over-served after closing, subsequently revealing his identity as red hood, making out with you, and then asking you out, insisting he did things “the proper way.”
the proper way meaning two incredible dates. like, take every perfect romcom moment and shoot them somewhere out past the moon because they have nothing on jason todd.
the funny thing is, the dates themselves aren’t a spectacle. coffee first, followed by walking around the market, and then dinner at a quaint thai food place with the best fried rice you’ve ever had. both events entirely unremarkable, and yet… you’ve never felt this way before. the conversation is so easy, it’s like talking to an old friend, but one that makes your stomach erupt in butterflies and oftentimes gives you the compulsion to squeeze your thighs together with a simple touch on your back or shoulder, or with the stupid things he says now that he isn’t afraid to flirt with you like a sailor on leave.
and now, following your dinner at the thai restaurant, you’re standing outside your apartment, staring down at his very nice boots, contemplating whether or not to let him in. because you really do want this evening not to end, but you’re afraid that what lies behind that door might freak him out.
not like, make him think you’re completely insane or desperately need to be institutionalized, but he will, at the very least, be concerned.
because, behind that door, he will find a small colony of cats, three hamsters, a rabbit, five kinds of fish, and two very old senior dogs.
your apartment is a zoo. you’re some kind of wannabe doctor doolittle. when he comes in, he’s gonna think you’re some kind of cracked— in the insane asylum sense of the word.
“what’s that?” he asks, his voice agonizingly gentle, but you can tell he’s at least a tad concerned about your mental state.
you take a deep breath, swallowing your pride and bringing yourself to meet his eyes. you suppose that the things you have to say would be better shown than spoken.
“okay, so,” you start, slotting the key into your lock, “before you make any judgements, just let me explain this first.” you say, chewing on your lip.
you open the door, just a crack as to ensure no wild animals in your care try to make an escape. you’re sure the smell hits him, while you have been long since desensitized to it, the crinkles of noses from neighbors past make you aware that it exists, and it is particularly pungent.
you grab jason’s hand, yanking him in before deaf and blind, your aptly named senior dobermans, come and poke their noses through the gap in the door.
an array of woofs and meows greet the two of you, with three of your five cats coming to meet the stranger standing awkwardly in your foyer.
you take a deep breath. “so,” you start, trying to gauge his reaction, but he expression is annoyingly unfazed. “i foster animals. a lot of them— well, not my fish, they’re harder to foster, but the cats and the dogs, they’re mostly senior, except two of the cats, which i found in the alley behind the bar. i have some hamsters too, but i’m doing my best to rehome them before they get eaten.”
he nods, not like what you’re saying is completely normal and everything is 100% okay, but like he isn’t running out the door yet.
you take a deep breath, kneeling down to pet comet, your newest cat, a jet black shadow who is as stupid as he is social.
“so, my apartment always has a minimum of ten animals. and most of them are really old and a couple of them wear diapers but i just really believe that these animals are deserving of end of life care— i mean, they would be getting put down in the pound right now because nobody takes in senior animals and they really need homes and i understand this makes me seem a little crazy—“
he smiles, leaning down to pet comet when he ditches your leg for the new guy’s. “—i like animals.” he says, quietly, looking up at you. “and i don’t think it makes you seem crazy. i’m really… wowed.”
you smile. “wow like, i need to get out of the insane asylum kind of wowed, or..?”
he leans back up sliding his hand against your side, pulling you closer. you hate how tall he is. no matter the position, it’s like he’s always towering over you, especially now, when he’s getting closer and closer and yet still so high above you.
“wow like, i’m amazed this incredible woman let me into her apartment.” he says softly, pressing a gentle kiss on your temple.
you blush like an idiot, trying your hardest not to make a complete fool of yourself. “aren’t we good at sweet talk?” you ask, placing your hand on his chest, lightly pressing on the firm muscle hidden underneath the fabric so cruelly covering his chest.
he leans down, pressing another kiss by your ear. “you make it easy.” he says, his voice soft and low. “if your biggest flaw is that you take care of animals,” he continues, kissing next to your opposite ear, “then i am one lucky guy.” his breath ghosts over your lips, warm and unbelievably enticing.
you grin, lifting yourself up on your toes to get just a bit closer. “you are a nice, nice man.” you mumble, bridging the gap between the two of you with a kiss so slow and gentle it rivals every rom-com kiss you’ve ever seen, in fact, it blows every single one of them out of the water.
you pull away first, only to come up for air. you’re almost too distracted to hear the kerplunck coming from across the room, followed by an array of angry meows that pull you both away— and just like that, your romantic evening lives on forever in infamy as the night your tabby found her way into your fish tank and massacred two goldfish and a good chunk of jason’s forearm.
-- aka sex with clark before you know he's superman. warnings: smut, unprotected sex, oral fem receiving, p in v, overstimulation, lwk size kink
------
clark is a perfect boyfriend, besides a tendency to disappear in the middle of the day or show up an hour late for half of your dates, he’s sweet, caring, and the perfect gentleman. yet there are some things about him you just can’t seem to explain.
normally he’s clumsy in his affection, soft and careful like everything he does is practiced. but in bed, when he’s not holding back, does things a little too fast, a little too strong— not in a bad way, god, no, but in an inexplicable one. wimpy, nerdy clark has a way of losing control when he’s tongue deep in your pussy that you can’t quite understand.
he always starts slow, licking long, wet strips up and down the length of your core, circling your clit agonizingly slow, always insisting you need to be properly prepped for him. he stares down at you like he can see how wet you are before you he even does anything, like he has some supernatural sense of the best places to touch you.
he starts out with near-surgical precision, sticking two fingers in and licking gentle circles around your clit— but when you moan out “mm— clark!” he loses all control. he gets sloppy— greedy, licking and sucking until you can’t remember your own name— just his. he doesn’t stop after one orgasm, no, it barely registers to him. his lips are full of little praises, “you’re doing so good for me,” and “just one more baby, just one,” (even though it never is just one more).
when you writhe under him, it’s like he has some superhuman strength, pinning you down with one hand pressed against your tummy, rendering you nearly immobile. and he tries to be gentle, even when he’s pussy drunk and half gone. but the moment he starts pushing it inside of you, when you’re already two and a half orgasms in and completely overstimulated, any semblance of your nerdy, sweet clarky disappears into pure animalistic instinct.
clark is big. sure, he has a big frame, 6’4, 250 pounds with the build of a linebacker, you’d expect him to be hung— but it’s almost inhuman just how large it is. you gasp every time he slides in the tip— somehow you’re already completely gone and he’s just getting started.
he slides it in slowly, trying his best not to split you in half, his hands slide up and down your thighs with soft praises falling down his lips. “you’re so— god, you’re so tight.” he breathes out, barely a whimper as he slowly slides in every inch, making you all dumb on his cock. all you can do is moan and whimper, unable to form any coherent thought when you’re taking every overwhelming inch of his length.
he also has more stamina than you think any normal human does. he drives himself in and out of you like a man possessed, pushing you down into the bed like its his divine purpose, thrusting right into your sweet spot until you’re seeing stars. you cum around him— he doesn’t stop, he just whispers more praises into your ear, encouraging you to give him just a little more. he uses his free hand to rub soft circles against your clit, a sensation that practically ruins you.
you’ve lost all coherence by the time he gets close, and you’ve long since lost count of the orgasms he’s given you. your legs are shaking and all you can do is whimper out with every collision, too dumb to comprehend the near-superhuman speed or the overwhelming force of which he uses to drive into you.
when he’s finally close, he presses against you, staring down into your dazed eyes, begging you to finish one more time around him, pressing his face into your neck and breathing you in, pressing soft kisses underneath your jaw. “please, baby, please—“ he begs, circling your clit while he pushes into you— inexplicably faster and harder than before. “cum for me, just one more time, please baby.”
and it works, one last time you completely unravel, eyes rolling in the back of your head, your legs spasming around him with a tidal wave of pleasure that just ruins you— and you feel him too. his strangled moans, the warmth of his load bursting inside of you, the way he finally, finally seems to succumb to the exhaustion you’ve been feeling for the past three orgasms, collapsing against you and taking deep, heaving breaths.
“you did so good for me, so good.” he mumbles, finally sitting up, picking you up like you’re lighter than a feather and placing you more comfortably on the bed. “i— are you okay?” he asks, when you look up at him all dazed. “did i go too far?”
he looks at you with a desperate sort of guilt you can’t quite place, and you shake your head, smiling up at him, soothing his worries with a quiet nod.
after, he’s the king of after care, cleaning you up, drawing you a bath, making you food and carrying you around when you’re too weak to walk. he tends to you like its his full time job and you can’t even imagine that the clark that holds you in his arms until you fall asleep is in any way the same being that railed you so hard the mattress tore.
-------
all i can think about is david's clark superman was so peak and wow isn't he just so dreamy
you and clark have loved each other as long as you've known each other-- so clark knows when something is wrong. but how do you tell a man that loves you so much that you're scared he'll realize how much better he can do?
you and clark kent have known each other since you were five-and-three-quarters and he was six -and-a-half. you’re both proud alumni of smallville’s tiny elementary school, and it’s only slightly larger counterpart: smallville high.
you and clark have shared homework answers, first kisses, and every single secret there was to tell (including the super ones). it’s always been you and clark, a simple of fact of life. when you stopped being friends and became something more? no one batted an eye— because nobody made more sense than you and him.
but clark went to the esteemed university of metropolis, and you went to central kansas state. clark became a reporter of great renown and the incredible superman, while you became an er nurse at smallville general.
neither of you wanted to do long distance.
neither of you ever stopped loving each other, either.
so, after seven years apart, the second a job opened in metropolis, your bags were packed. because your life didn’t feel like it was worth living when your other half was across the country.
clark asked you to move in with him the second he heard you were coming back. you couldn’t think of anything to say but yes. god, and being back together? it was like college never happened, the distance, the breakup, the days spent pretending other people could mean as much to you as you meant to each other. all of that was over:
you were in love. plain and simple.
at least— you love him. so much that your chest hurts and you can’t think about anything but him half of the time.
and yes, he’s the perfect boyfriend. caring, doting, trying his best to balance your happiness with his two amazing jobs. he completes you, wholly and truly— but it’s hard sometimes to feel like you’re good enough for him. you feel like he deserves more than the girl who comes home too exhausted to cook and thinks herself far too plain for a god like superman.
that insecurity— while entirely baseless, takes root. no, it takes over. half the time it’s all you think about, how much happier you think he’d be with someone a lot more metropolis and a lot less smallville. he should be with some high powered woman who can match him and challenge him— it makes you wonder… what does he see in you?
it doesn’t take too long for clark to notice. the way your smile stops reaching your eyes, the way you stop waiting up for him at night when his other job keeps him busy. the way you look at yourself in pictures like you’re less than. it tells him that something is very, very wrong.
for awhile, he prays it’ll pass, whatever it is. he takes you out on extra dates and surprises you with flowers and gifts and home cooked meals as often as he can. you hug him and smile and let him hold you close and tight like you’re his whole world (you are)— but he sees it in your eyes. it’s like you’re hanging back, talking and laughing like everything’s normal while part of you, arguably the most important part, suffers in silence.
the girl he fell in love with isn’t gone. but she’s hurting, he knows that much.
he doesn’t want this for you. it kills him to see you like this, stuck knowing he has no idea what’s going on in that head of yours. so eventually, he stops dancing around it, he stops avoiding the confrontation he knows has to happen. he can’t see you living like this anymore. it just ruins him— because for a man with all the power in the world, he can’t make the woman he loves most happy.
and what’s worse than that?
so he sits you down on the bed, putting a healthy amount of distance between you so you don’t feel too pressured or too smothered by him. he’s kind like that. he takes a deep breath and catches your gaze with his, trying to convey how seriously he’s taking this, how much he wants you to open up to him again.
“what’s going on?” you ask, tilting your head, looking up at him with this soft, tender glint in your eye that makes him want to melt back into your arms and go back to the way things were in smallville, when all there was was you and him and a couple inexplicable superpowers that cropped up every now and then.
but this is now. and you need him. so he’ll be as strong as he has to be.
he takes a deep breath. “i uh… gosh, i wanted to talk to you. make sure you’re doing okay.”
you shrug, shaking your head. “i’m fine.” you say it casually, like he can’t hear your heartbeat speed up just enough to tell him it’s a nervous, knee-jerk lie.
he sighs. “honey, i… i want you to talk to me, please. i’m worried about you.” he says quietly, leaning in. his sets his hand on your knee, rubbing his thumb back and forth, trying to coax the truth out of you.
you take a deep breath, biting on the inside of your mouth. you look down, unsure of what to say, of how to tell him that you’re so insecure you’re letting it ruin your relationship. that you love him so much you don’t think you’re enough for him anymore.
“please?” he begs, and your walls come crashing down with that gentle plea.
“sometimes… i just— i feel like....” you hesitate, looking down, fidgeting with your thumbs, pulling on the loose skin around your fingernails.
you can feel him looking at you, deep blue eyes burning a hole into your skin. the confession doesn’t come easily for you, no, it pulls like sandpaper out of your throat. but if you don’t say it now, you never will.
so you take a deep breath, praying you can hold off your tears just a moment more so you can get this out before you turn to a sobbing, blubbering mess. “…like you’re superman. and the equally amazing clark kent. and one day, you’re gonna realize that you can have anybody you want— and then you won’t want me anymore. and—“ the tears start coming out before you can stop them, but you persevere. “—i love you, and i want you to be with someone who deserves you, someone better than me. you’re a lot bigger now than smallville, and… and i’m not.”
silence hangs heavy in the air. you sniffle, wipe your tears on your sleeve, and take a shaky breath before you finally peer up to look at clark.
he looks horrified. his eyes are wide and his mouth sits slightly agape, like he’s watching his worst nightmare come to fruition.
a single tear drops from the ocean of his eye, rolling slowly down his cheek. he feels sick.
he takes a deep breath, swallowing down the frog that had jumped to his throat. “please… please don’t tell me you’ve thought this— that you’ve been thinking this… this whole time?” he asks. you elect not to speak.
it takes half a second before clark is on top of you, knocking you back into the bed, holding onto you so tightly in a giant bear hug it knocks the air out of your lungs.
he lets you cry. long enough for you to get it all out of your system, until the sobs that wrack your body subside into soft waves of melancholy. then he pulls back, sitting you both up on the bed, tucking a loose strand of your hair back behind your ear. his eyes captivate yours, control your gaze, make sure that you focus on him and only him until he’s ready to let you go.
he smiles, softly. he could yell and scream and cry about how ridiculous that is, that he could never want anyone but you, that there is no one ‘better’ than you. he could fly you around the entire world and show you why you’re the only girl he wants to come home to every night. but he knows that wouldn’t do much good in convincing you, he knows you better than he knows himself these days. so his hands linger with comforting touches on your body, and he opens his mouth to speak so softly and soothingly his words could lull you to sleep if you let them.
“i can hear anything on this planet— you know this.” he starts, using his thumb to rub gentle circles into your thigh. “if i hone into it. there’s a lot of things i can listen to, when i’m tired or bored or sad. there’s a jazz club down the street, best music in town, in my opinion. i could zone into the crabjoy’s rehearsals in california, or maybe focus on justice gang small talk. but…” he says, smiling down at you like you’re made of yellow sunshine. “i spend just about all my free time listening to you.”
you pause, tilting your head up at him. the numbness that’s been sitting in your chest slowly melts into the kind of warmth that only clark kent could make you feel.
“when you hum the songs playing in your head to yourself, i get excited, maybe a bit sappy. and when you tell stories, i get so distracted i forget where i am. just the sound of your heartbeat— steady, rhythmic, how it goes fast and then slow and then fast again, it grounds me. makes me feel like i’m home.”
you’re crying again. not in the bad way, this time. the tears just can’t help but to fall.
“you’re my girl. i don’t think i could ever want someone else. i don’t think someone better could even exist, okay? just ‘cause i’m superman, just ‘cause i could, doesn’t mean i’d ever want to. you are my soulmate. my world revolves around you. and… gosh, i’m so sorry i’ve ever made you think otherwise.” he says, giving your thigh a gentle squeeze. “without you, i wouldn’t be superman. i’d have nothing to protect if i didn’t have the hope in the world that you give me. nobody else could ever hold a candle to you, okay?” he says, smiling. “please tell me you believe me. please?”
you nod, sniffling again, smiling back up at him with something he would describe as radiance.
“i do.”
he breathes out a soft sigh of relief. “then please, for my sanity, don’t ever think like that again. it kills me— i think i felt a part of my soul die.”
you giggle, leaning into him. he wraps his arms around you, pulling your back into his chest, swaying you back and forth against him, tucking his head against your shoulder, blowing raspberries into the crook of your neck until all you are is smiles and laughter and you forget you were ever insecure about your relationship in the first place.
