#superman blurb

[pittsick]

⏜︵ ♡ 𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐤𝐞𝐧𝐭 : fluff thoughts ৴

clark always knows when your day at the daily planet has been exhausting; maybe it’s the way you step through the apartment door quieter than usual, the way your shoulders slump beneath your coat like the weight of the entire city somehow followed you home, or the tired exhale you let out the second you think you’re finally alone. and clark, being clark—being your boyfriend, soft-hearted and attentive in every way that matters, doesn’t overwhelm you with questions. instead, he looks up from where he’d been sitting at the kitchen counter, glasses slipping slightly down his nose, and offers you that familiar gentle smile before crossing the room in a few easy steps, arms already opening for you.

you’d fall into him immediately, almost instinctively, your forehead resting against his chest while his arms circle around you and pull you flush against him.

there’s something unfairly comforting about the way clark holds you: solid and steady, warm in a way that makes the entire world outside suddenly feel so far away. one of his hands settles at your waist while the other moves up slowly, fingers brushing at your nape, careful and featherlight as if he knows exactly where all the tension has been building. “long day at work?” he’d ask softly, voice carrying that quiet tenderness that somehow always makes your chest ache a little. you wouldn’t answer with words, only a small nod against him, and clark would understand immediately.

he’d guide you over toward the couch near the window, sitting first before gently pulling you down so you’re half-curled against him, practically tucked into his side while the city lights glow faintly beyond the glass. one arm stays securely around your shoulders while his fingers absentmindedly trace slow patterns against your arm, grounding and patient, never rushing you to say more than you want to.

after a few quiet minutes, he’d press a soft kiss against the top of your head and let out the faintest hum, content simply existing there with you. “you know,” he’d murmur after a while, thumb brushing gently over your sleeve, “i could fly you somewhere quiet for a bit. somewhere with no deadlines, no phones… just us.” you’d laugh softly for the first time all evening, and clark would smile against your hair, holding you a little closer. “or,” he’d add quietly, warm amusement slipping into his voice, “we stay right here, and i keep holding you until you forget what stressed you out in the first place.”

“that sounds like a good idea to me. just forgetting today inside your arms. there’s no better way to finish the day.” you’d voice at him and all he would do is lean his face closer to press a gentle kiss to your lips, arms tightening around your body.

“that’s deal, then.”

taglist.

[theloveedition]

The Quiet Between Us wc: 2.3k, fluff, sfw

Clark Kent x fem!editor! Reader, part two in the quiet series!

a/n: I was struggling trying to decide where I wanted to take this, but here you go! It’s, again, a lot of dialogue but I feel like it gives the reader more personality. I also try not to use Y/N so much because I feel like people don’t like it, but sometimes it’s unavoidable. It’s proofread, but I probably still made some mistakes so bleh.

Synop: Clark and the editor meet for dinner - meanwhile Clark’s already deciding how many packs of red pens he needs to buy for her to move in with him.

Warnings: fem reader, reader is characterized as confident and witty, brief mentions of alcohol

Clark Kent spent an unreasonable amount of time staring at his phone.

Not in a dramatic, spiraling way. He wasn’t pacing his apartment or drafting and deleting paragraphs of text like a man on the brink. He was sitting perfectly still on the edge of his couch, elbows on his knees, phone in hand, reading the same message thread over and over again like it might change.

It hadn’t.

Y/N: 7 works. And don’t be late, Kent. I hear that’s a habit.

Clark exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. “I’m not always late,” he muttered to no one.

He stood up immediately after, already grabbing his jacket, making his way to the restaurant.

The restaurant was exactly how Clark had described it, small, tucked between two louder storefronts, warm light spilling out onto the sidewalk. Clark frequents the establishment due to its semblance to his hometown. The neighborhood joint feels like an indrawn breath. The frantic pace of Metropolis daily life dissolves with each step taken. Inside, it smelled like garlic and fresh bread and something rich enough to make him momentarily forget how nervous he was.

He arrived ten minutes early.

He told himself that was intentional.

It was not.

Clark stood just inside the door for a moment, scanning the room out of habit more than necessity. A few couples, a quiet conversation in the corner, a server weaving through tables with practiced ease.

And then

He saw her.

She was already there.

Of course she was.

She sat at a small table near the window, sleeves rolled up just slightly like earlier, a glass of water in front of her and her phone set aside, ignored. Waiting, but not impatiently. Just… present.

Clark felt something in his chest settle.

He approached, offering a small, apologetic smile. “Hi. I thought I was early.”

She looked up, and that same quiet warmth from earlier flickered back into place. “You are,” she said. “I just like being earlier.”

Clark huffed a soft laugh as he pulled out the chair across from her. “Good. Maybe you’ll rub off on me.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” she said lightly.

There was a brief pause as he sat down, the kind that could have been awkward but wasn’t. Not really. Just new.

Clark glanced at the table, then back at her. She seemed strangely blithe, though Clark suspected that might be impossible for her.

“So.. no ambush this time,” Clark began with a teasing grin.

“No,” she said. “Just you.”

“…Is that better or worse?”

She tilted her head like she was actually considering it. “Undetermined. I’ll let you know.”

Clark smiled at that, some of the tension easing out of his shoulders.

A server came by, and they ordered, Clark letting her go first, noting the way she spoke clearly, decisively, like she edited menus in her spare time. When it was his turn, he hesitated for half a second.

“Uh—I’ll have what she’s having,” he said.

Y/N raised an eyebrow.

Clark blinked. “…It sounded good.”

“You easily swayed Kent?” she quipped.

“I thought I told you to call me Clark?” He countered.

“Fine Clark, I’ll let you have this.” She looked down, barely hiding a smile.

“How generous.” Clark jested.

A few minutes passed. Water glasses were refilled. The quiet hum of the restaurant wrapped around them.

Clark leaned back slightly, folding his hands on the table. “So,” he started, “I feel like I should warn you. This is my first date in… a while.”

Y/N rested her chin lightly on her hand. “Define ‘a while.’”

Clark hesitated.

“…Define ‘date,’” he countered.

She smiled again, however this time, she was barely stifling a laugh, that bright, easy sound that made something in him feel lighter. Clark mentally noted that he has already found the exact remedy for the constant silence plaguing his apartment.

“I’m serious,” he said, smiling despite himself. “I don’t do this very often.”

“I know,” she said simply.

Clark blinked. “You do?”

“You’re not hard to read, Clark,” she replied. “You’re careful. With people.”

That caught him off guard. Not in a bad way. Just… direct.

“I don’t think that’s a bad thing,” he said.

“It’s not,” she agreed. “It just means this probably matters to you.”

Clark held her gaze for a second longer than he expected to.

“…Yeah,” he said quietly. “It does.”

There it was again. That small shift in the air between them. Not heavy. Not overwhelming. Just… real.

Y/N nodded once, like she understood something important, and didn’t feel the need to make it bigger than it was. “Good,” she said.

The food arrived, and with it, something easier.

They talked.

Not in the forced, checklist way Clark had half-expected from her, but in something that felt natural. They moved from work to small stories. Lois’s inability to whisper, Jimmy’s alarming commitment to chaos, Cat’s terrifyingly accurate instincts.

She told him about college. About late nights editing papers while Lois argued about headlines and Cat reorganized their entire apartment at two in the morning “for efficiency.”

Clark told her about Kansas. About early mornings and wide fields and the kind of quiet that felt different from the kind he had now.

“You miss it,” she said.

“Sometimes,” he admitted. “But… not like I thought I would.”

“Because of Metropolis?”

Clark shook his head slightly.

“…Because of the people in it.”

Her expression softened, just a little.

At some point, Clark reached for his glass at the exact same time she did.

Their hands brushed.

It was quick. Accidental. But that same feeling from the previous day returned. Clark thought back to the charge that filled him when their hands brushed as she handed him the sticky note. And then.. Clark briefly imagined the lingering touch of a quiet moment in his apartment kitchen. Maybe swaying to a soft hum or music playing faintly from Pa’s old record player. He was getting ahead of himself. But maybe, just maybe, this could be something normal for him. Not out of the ordinary. And definitely not special. No prodding coworkers, no evil villains or even an extraterrestrial beings. Just the reassurance that someone would keep choosing him despite his flaws.

Clark was then urged back to reality when he realized their hands were still touching.

But neither of them pulled away immediately.

The silence returned. But now, Clark wasn’t willing it away.

Clark cleared his throat softly, sitting back just a fraction. “Sorry.”

“You apologize a lot,” she noted.

“I’ve been told.”

“I believe it.”

“…I’m working on it.”

Y/N smiled. “Don’t. It’s kind of endearing.”

And there it is, Clark thought.

That continued acceptance despite my flaws.

Clark blinked.

“…Oh.”

By the time the plates were cleared, neither of them seemed in a hurry to leave.

Clark glanced toward the window, then back at her. “Do you, um- would you want to walk a bit? It’s nice out.”

She studied him for half a second.

Then she stood, grabbing her coat. “Lead the way, Clark.”

Clark smiled at the unprompted mention of his name. This was a good thing. He deserves this.

Outside, the city had softened. The noise was still there, but distant, like it had decided to give them space.

They walked side by side, not too close, not too far. Comfortable.

For a while, neither of them said anything.

Silence

And it wasn’t awkward.

It was easy.

Clark glanced over at her after a few minutes. “So… final verdict?”

“On what?”

“Undetermined,” he said. “Better or worse.”

She pretended to think about it, hands tucked into her coat pockets.

“…Better,” she said finally.

Clark smiled, looking ahead again. “Good.”

There was a small pause.

Then,

“Clark?”

“Yeah?”

Y/N nudged his arm lightly with hers. “Next time you accidentally touch my hand just go ahead and grab it. Maybe don’t stare off into space for half a minute. I thought I lost you.”

He laughed softly. “Deal.”

“…Next time?” he asked, just to be sure.

She removed one hand from her coat. The one closest to him.

She didn’t look at him when she answered. Whether Clark was aware or not, this was uncharted territory for her. The poised facade she had built up over time was her only tool. She wasn’t used to handling situations with care. But she knew she had no choice but to be careful with this. No one had ever sought her out the way Clark was. Clark seemed utterly captivated by her, and she didn’t want to accidentally change that by being brash.

She needed to be careful with this. Even if she has to learn how.

As she continued she sounded.. almost shy? “Don’t make me repeat myself, Clark.”

He didn’t.

Clark confidently clasped their hands together, arms swaying in step with their feet.

But the smile on his face stayed the entire walk home.

As they approached the apartment building Clark’s earlier feelings of uncertainty returned.

“Do you want me to walk you up?”

She grinned, “Are you okay with being ambushed? They have totally been stalking my location.”

Clark huffed a laugh, “Totally? Wow you’re getting comfortable with me already. Don’t go all colloquial on me now.”

She feigned shock, “Oh hush Clark you haven’t even seen me with a glass of wine. Be careful, you’ll get something real colloquial then.”

And there it was. Clark. It fell so easily from her lips. Clark thinks to himself that his name never sounded so good.

Clark gave her an arm, “Well let me walk you up and maybe I’ll get to see?”

“You wish.”

He did.

As they reached the doorway, she fished out her key, and turned the knob.

The pair made it to the living room when they were met with two (drunk) ecstatic women. There was an open bottle of Pinot Noir on the coffee table and what seemed to be Cat’s phone was screen mirrored onto the TV.

Y/N’s suspicions were correct. They had in fact been watching her location.

The two of them swiveled to see the couple crossing the threshold from the hallway to the living room.

“Oh my God Lois.” Cat paused. “They’re holding hands.”

Lois looked astonished.

“You act like I’m incapable of basic human connection.” She snapped. “Can we please save this for after Clark leaves?”

“Lois she said ‘Clark’. No ‘Smallville’, no ‘Kent’. His real name,” Cat exclaimed.

“Ohhhh She’s got it bad. You hear that Olsen? ‘Clark’.” Lois gushed to her phone where Jimmy Olsen’s face appeared on a FaceTime.

“Okay guys are we serious? FaceTiming Jimmy? What- next you’re going to be recording a voice memo for the planet group chat. Can we be adults?” Clark pleaded while, still, trying to fight a smile.

Y/N whipped her head in Clark’s direction, already sporting a grin, “Do not give them any ideas.”

“Oh my god they’re perfect.”

The three continued to gush over Clark and Y/N until they decided to make their way back down the hallway to the door, away from prying eyes.

Clark stood just outside the apartment while Y/N lingered in the doorway.

“I had a great time Clark. You’re really special.”

He paused. Special? That’s exactly what Clark didn’t want. Clark thought he was tired of special. He longed for normal.

Clark had been used to being described as 'special' his whole life, from when Ma and Pa first witnessed the development of his super abilities, to the growth spurt that added six inches in the summer between his junior and senior years, to Perry seeing his first article analyzing Superman.

Clark had heard special, again and again.

But this, this was different. She wasn’t calling Clark’s abilities, stature, or insight special, no. She was declaring him special.

Clark didn’t know what to say.

“I have to see you again.” - Apparently that was the best he could come up with.

All Clark knew was that he couldn’t let her go. Especially not now. If that meant coming across as desperate, so be it.

She laughed. A real, unabashed laugh. Clark felt like he was being healed by the sun in real time.

“I think I can make that happen, Clark,” she quipped, letting out an amused breath.

“I can’t wait. Please don’t hesitate to text me. Or call me. Or FaceTime me. Or stalk my location.” Clark was sporting a radiant grin, trying to pry another laugh out of her.

He succeeded. A mufled one shielded behind her hand.

“Go, Clark,” she playfully pushed his chest. “You’re gonna need plenty of rest to prepare for the teasing you’re going to endure at work tomorrow.”

Clark grabbed her hand and kissed her palm.

“Worth it.”

Before spinning around and heading back towards the elevators.

She stared out the door with a stunned silence and an out-of-character grin before turning back inside and re-entering the source of commotion that was coming from her living room.

All the while, Clark was back at his apartment, mindlessly staring at the sticky note with her number on it from their previous meeting that was stuck to his bathroom mirror, while brushing his teeth.

Maybe Clark could begin to accept that, yes, he was special.

And, yes, quiet can be rewarding.

[duckewrites]

just some thoughts…

i was specifically thinking about clark during the holiday season. about how sweet he is to his friends, family, and the people of metropolis this time of year.

he’s from krypton, so obviously his body doesn’t function like a normal human’s. he doesn’t get cold like we would when it dips below 20°, but i would still like to imagine his cheeks all rosy thanks to the cold and his wind-swept hair during his brisk walk to the office.

despite how demanding his jobs are (yk, being a journalist and superman), he still finds time to go christmas shopping. maybe he starts a few months early just in case he doesn’t have time during the month of december. so between work and his duties as superman—maybe during what little downtime he has—he does some shopping. he’s totally the type to buy people in the office small gifts. maybe nothing huge, but like corny mugs and niche little things he’s heard them talking about in passing.

as superman, i imagine this time of year can be busy. busier than normal, because he wants to make it a point to help out those in need. after work, he’ll head down to a soup kitchen or he’ll be invited to a charity event to help raise some money. i’m picturing him at like one of those events to raise money for like christmas shopping for children, you know? a picture of superman surrounded by smiling kids and grateful parents would be on the front page by monday. i’d like to think that maybe he would even participate and sponsor a kid so that they could go christmas shopping.

when it starts to snow, he takes it upon himself to make sure those who are less fortunate are warm and well-fed. i really like this idea. he’s such a sweetheart :((

now, because it’s inevitable, what if you were part of the equation? or a partner anyways. i like the idea of him making the time to uphold cliche christmas traditions. you’re making cookies together at least twice before christmas, and you best believe there’s a gingerbread house sitting in the kitchen. decorating the tree together is mandatory—even if you don’t live together. you can decorate two trees together. but what if you don’t celebrate christmas? girl that’s fine. whether you celebrate christmas or not, he’ll stand by your side and make sure you’re aware of how much he appreciates you during the holidays.

overall, i wanna spend christmas with clark.

[duckewrites]

── .✦ ‘ Trimming the Tree ‘

— Pairing : Clark Kent x Reader

— a/n: this isn’t edited

“honey, do you want marshmallows?” clark calls out from the kitchen.

you’re sat on the floor in front of the tree, sorting through the boxes and totes full of decorations. you pause to maul over clark’s question. “yes, please!”

there’s a christmas movie playing in the back, the familiar sounds of the elf movie filling the space.

a few moments pass and soon you can hear clark’s slipper-clad feet pad against the hardwood floor. you turn around to see clark carrying two mugs of hot chocolate—both topped with whipped scream and marshmallows. “here you go, love.” he whispers, hanging you your mug while taking a sip of his own, allowing the warm chocolatey liquid to soothe his throat.

“thank you.” you pause to taste the hot cocoa. warm notes of chocolate, peppermint, and cinnamon burst in your mouth and it moves to settle in your tummy, warming your body from the inside out. the beverage even warms your hands from inside the mug.

clark sets his mug down on the coffee table beside you and takes a seat on the floor beside you. he spreads his legs and then pulls you to sit between his thighs. “find anything good?” he asks, looking over your shoulder.

you hum, setting your mug down as well to continue looking through the boxes. clark only had two boxes full of decorations and lights for his apartment—which you discovered a few days ago—so you had to bring some of your own decorations over. the totes taking up half of the living room belonged to you. despite this, you did find some decorations you’d like to add to the tree.

i imagine most of clark’s tree decorations are from his parents. they’re handmade with love and care, and that can be felt through the materials that were used to construct them. if you were to show clark some of the ones you dug up out box, he’d probably tell you about the story linked to each one.

together, you wrap the tree in a string of warm-colored lights and hang up ornaments from clark’s parents. you’d mix in some of your own as well, but the store bought ones don’t hold a candle to martha’s hand-sewn ornaments. at least in your opinion.

together in your matching sweaters and sipping on your homemade hot cocoa, you stand there in clark’s apartment decorating the christmas tree.

and together, here in this apartment, you enjoy your partner’s warm space as you create a new tradition.

[duckewrites]

── .✦ ‘ A New Tradition ‘

— Pairing … Clark Kent x Reader

— a/n … just a thought i had! i’ve actually never been shopping for a christmas tree, but i imagine shopping with clark would be… amazing.

there's a cute little tree farm forty minutes outside of metropolis. it's been owned by the same family since the 1970s, supplying nearby towns and cities with pine trees of every shape and size imaginable. it’s the best place around. and that’s exactly why clark has decided to bring you here.

the drive over is short. music played softly through the speakers, but it was drowned out by the sound of you and clark talking about this holiday season.

you guys have probably only been together for a short period of time. no more than six months. but things are looking serious. serious enough for you two to get a tree together. serious enough for clark to consider taking you back to smallville for christmas—to his parents.

eventually, after driving on back roads for what feels like forever, clark makes a right hand turn onto an even bumpier road surrounded by tall fir-trees. the dense woodland clears out to reveal the farm. on either side of the gravel path is a parking lot, and dead ahead at the very end of the path is a big red barn. fairy lights are strung up on wooden posts, hung to provide some light as the sun starts to set. there are dozens of trees displayed in organized rows and columns. classic christmas music plays over the speakers, only adding to the cozy atmosphere.

clark parks his truck in the lot and swiftly jumps out to come and open your door. he even offers you his hand, and together in your matching sweaters (because yes you have matching sweaters), you start to explore. before you started looking, you stopped at a booth that was hiding in the trees and grabbed a cup of hot cocoa. the woman working said it was on the house, so naturally you couldn’t decline.

together you walk up and down the isles, looking at all of the fir-trees and trying to figure out what kind of tree you’re looking for. did you want a big one? did you want a tall, skinny one? did you want a short one? you weren’t sure, and neither was clark.

it started to snow at some point and it got a little breezy, but that didn’t deter you from continuing to trek up and down the isles. eventually, you and clark find your tree. it may be different than what you were picturing, but you can’t complain. it’s perfect in every way that matters.

“is that the one?” a voice asks from behind you guys.

you both turn and to your surprise, a kind old man stands there in a thick flannel with a big ol’ smile. there’s a name tag stitched into the fabric. gabe. it reads. clark is the one to answer. “yes sir.” he says, a smile growing on his face as his arm snakes its way around your waist.

“it’s a beaut. would you mind if i got your picture? it’s tradition.” he chuckles, pulling out an old film camera.

you’re a little skeptical, but clark doesn’t seem to mind. in fact, he seems eager. “oh not at all. that would be perfect.”

you both get in position and wait for gabe to snap his picture. the cold nips at your nose and the breeze toys with your hair, but you ignore it in favor of capturing this memory.

“wonderful!” he finally states, putting the camera down. “let me go grab my son and then we can help ya load up your tree.” and he walks away, disappearing into the tree of snow-capped trees.

clark would later explain that that was the owner, gabriel, and that next year they’d be able to find their picture in the barn on a wall to honor customers. later that evening, you’d find yourself cozied up on clark’s couch admiring the tree. after you both got home, you spent no time waiting and immediately got to decorating. now, you were sat up against clark’s side with a cozy blanket thrown over your lap and a hot cup of cocoa in your hands.

you felt nothing but warmth and love after the day you had, pride blooming from somewhere in your chest. pride in the fact that you picked out what seemed to be the best tree you’ve ever seen.

[pittsick]

── clark kent and the rage-baiter kid .ᐟ

notes: just a little blurb because i got an ask about this and i thought it would make a good writing but also i fear i might have made that a bit too angsty? who knows. i hope you guys still like it.

taglist: @userhotd @angeldoll1e @rogersbarber @i-t0ld-ya @stargral @fawnettewinchester @grimsonandclover @clementinestars @rayrayyyyyyyyyyy @allegedlygrandmoth @nozhdyved @elenacarey @alexxavicry @gelotime @prismozo @lvve-talks @kathh01 @jclolz22 @dumbbandpoetic @hisfavoriteweepingangel @i-cant-stfu @bluestrd @larasreality @khxna ( to be added )

Clark never asked to become anyone’s guardian, much less the reluctant, sharp-tongued kid currently inhabiting the spare bedroom in his Metropolis apartment like a bomb with legs. He’s used to pressure — holding up collapsing buildings, keeping satellites from falling into the ocean, pretending he doesn’t hear half the city’s arguments through three concrete walls — but nothing prepared him for taking in a teenager whose favorite pastime seems to be poking the invincible man until something cracks.

And worse: Clark isn’t sure if the kid wants to pick a fight, or if they’re just waiting to see whether he’ll leave like everyone else did.

The world knows Clark as Superman: symbol of hope, icon of calm, the guy who speaks exclusively in PBS-safe emotional vocabulary. What the world doesn’t see is that he’s constantly on the brink of unraveling from trying to do too much, too well, all the time. He feels too deeply, he fears too intensely, and despite the cape and the strength and the press conferences, Clark is devastatingly easy to bait when someone hits that sore spot between his guilt and his instinct to fix everything.

The #supershit tag is a constant reminder: people notice that he’s emotional. They prod him for reactions, for vulnerability, for anger. And even though he knows better, he sometimes falls for it. Rage-bait works on him in a way it shouldn’t; not because he’s violent, but because he cares too much to ignore hurtful things. The internet calls it a flaw; Lois calls it humanity.

The kid calls it a challenge.

They arrive at Clark’s doorstep after a foster placement collapses in spectacular fashion, leaving the city scrambling for last-minute housing arrangements. No family, no safe home available, and a paper-thin case file that screams don’t get too attached. Clark agrees to take them in because he can’t stand the alternative; the bureaucratic limbo, the temporary shelters, the way a system built on care so often forgets what care actually looks like. He thinks he’s prepared. He’s not.

The kid sizes him up immediately. They can’t take a swing at Superman, so they settle for Clark — the man in glasses, the mild-mannered journalist, the guy who flinches whenever he thinks he’s let someone down. Their first real conversation ends with the kid muttering something about how #supershit melts down over bad press; imagine what he does over a foster kid with an attitude problem. Clark, who has spent the last twenty-four hours trying to make the sofa bed less lumpy and the kitchen less intimidating, feels the hit like it matters.

He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t scold. He just stands there, clutching two mugs of hot chocolate and wondering how you make a child feel safe without smothering them, especially when they seem determined to prove they don’t need safety in the first place.

The rage bait starts small: snide comments about Superman’s politics, exaggerated retellings of online drama, accidentally leaving videos paused on clips of pundits ranting about Kryptonian interference. Clark tries to ignore it, but the kid is perceptive — too perceptive — and they learn quickly that Clark’s tells are microscopic. A twitch at his jaw. A breath that goes too deep. A silence stretched a second too long. They catalog each one with scientific precision.

It’s not cruelty. It’s survival. The kid learned early that pushing adults away is easier than trusting them to stay. And what’s safer than poking the strongest man on Earth until he proves he can’t handle you?

But Clark… doesn’t break.

He gets flustered. He gets stubbornly earnest. He gets frustrated in a way that knots his shoulders and forces him to stare at the floor for a suspiciously long time. But he doesn’t lash out. He doesn’t shut down. He keeps showing up. Softly. Carefully. Consistently.

And it drives the kid insane.

Because Clark should have limits. He should have lines the kid isn’t supposed to cross. He should have moments where he turns cold or hard or disappointed, because everyone else has. Yet every time they try to provoke something ugly, Clark responds with something infuriatingly gentle; a boundary stated in a steady voice, a quiet redirect, or, on the days when the kid is truly pushing past the point of reason, a simple: “You’re allowed to be angry. I’m not leaving.”

Superman can move planets, but it turns out Clark is the one capable of shifting people.

Still, the hashtag hangs over everything like static. #supershit — the clips of Clark reacting to media bait, the jokes about how easy it is to rile him, the people who think anger makes him weak. The kid weaponizes it: screenshots left open on the kitchen counter, commentary whispered under their breath, mock interviews. They’re testing him. Testing whether his temper defines him. Testing whether he’ll choose them even when they’re difficult. Testing whether the world’s strongest man is still allowed to be human.

Clark, meanwhile, is learning something too: this kid doesn’t rage-bait for attention. They rage-bait for confirmation that someone is paying attention. The difference changes everything.

He begins meeting them where they are: not reacting to the bait, but responding to the fear beneath it. When the kid accuses Superman of being a government stooge, Clark doesn’t take it personally; he asks who made them afraid of authority. When they rant about how people only pretend to care about foster kids until the paperwork gets annoying, Clark pauses his writing, looks them in the eye, and says he isn’t pretending.

Slowly, the dynamic shifts. The kid still pokes at him — it’s practically a personality trait — but their jabs get less sharp. Their voice shakes sometimes. They linger a little longer in the kitchen, drift a little closer on the couch. Clark starts learning their tells too: the fake confidence that masks panic, the jokes that serve as shields, the way they never quite put their backpack down, ready to flee at any second.

And then one night, after an especially tense argument online spirals into another #supershit storm, Clark catches the kid halfway to the fire escape, trying to leave before he can tell them to go.

He doesn’t block the exit. He doesn’t use strength. He just says, “…You don’t have to run. Not from me.”

The kid stops. No one’s ever said that and meant it.

The rage-baiter finally cracks; not with anger, but with exhaustion. They admit they don’t know how to stay somewhere safe. They don’t know how to exist in a home meant for them. They don’t know how to be cared for without waiting for it to end.

Clark steps closer, hands trembling slightly. “I fall for bait because I care,” he tells them. “Not because I’m weak. And I care about you — even when it’s messy. Especially then.”

That’s the moment the story really begins. Because Superman can save the world. But Clark? Clark saves the kid who doesn’t believe they deserve saving.

And for once, neither of them has to do it alone.

[pittsick]

⋆˙⟡ a day in the farm: cowboy!clark x gn!reader.

summary: a day in the life of clark and his spouse. a sun-soaked day, working in the farm and riding their horse, maize, together. filled with warmth and love, the day is theirs.

cw: 2k words. big fluff!!!!!!!! cowboy clark au. a creator's best-friend is rebog, thank you!

taglist: @userhotd @angeldoll1e @rogersbarber @i-t0ld-ya @stargral @fawnettewinchester @grimsonandclover @clementinestars @rayrayyyyyyyyyyy @allegedlygrandmoth @nozhdyved @elenacarey @alexxavicry @gelotime @prismozo @lvve-talks @kathh01 @jclolz22 @dumbbandpoetic @hisfavoriteweepingangel @i-cant-stfu @bluestrd @larasreality @khxna ( to be added )

Morning light dripped slowly into the bedroom, thin and golden, the kind that painted everything warm before the heat of the day settled in. You felt it before you opened your eyes; the soft glow against your cheek, the faint rustle of wind moving through the curtains, and the steady rise and fall of Clark’s chest beneath your cheek.

He was awake, you could always tell. His fingers moved slowly through your hair, brushing strands away from your forehead with featherlight touches that said he’d been lying there watching you for a while.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Clark murmured, voice deep and morning-rough. His thumb traced the curve of your temple. “Sun’s up.” You groaned, burying your face into his shirt. “So?” you mumbled, words muffled against the soft cotton stretched across his chest.

He chuckled, a sound that rumbled through his body and into yours. “So… the horses are probably wonderin’ where breakfast is.” His hand slipped down your back, warm and gentle. “And Dusty’s been pacing outside the door like he’s fixin’ to stage a coup.”

You lifted your head, squinting at him; his hair was mussed, sticking up in a dozen directions from sleep. The sun caught on the faint freckles dusting his nose and cheeks, freckles only Kansas summers brought out. His smile was lazily content, soft at the edges, the kind of smile made only for early mornings and you.

He looked perfect.

“Five more minutes?” you tried, giving him your best pleading eyes.

He didn’t even pretend to resist. Clark tucked you closer, pressing a slow kiss to your forehead. “Alright,” he breathed. “Five more.”

You drifted in and out of that half-awake haze, listening to the steady beat of his heart, the faint creak of the old farmhouse settling with the morning. When he finally urged you up with a final kiss to your shoulder, you both stretched, groaning like old barn doors.

Clark swung his legs out of bed first, grabbing his jeans from the chair and tugging them on. Watching your husband get dressed never stopped being unfairly attractive—broad back, tanned skin, muscles shifting as he reached for his flannel.

He caught you staring and smirked. “Somethin’ on your mind, darlin’?”

“No,” you lied blatantly. “Nothing at all.”

Clark leaned down, caught your chin with two fingers, and kissed you—slow, warm, with a smile pressed into it. “Uh-huh. Sure.”

Outside, the morning air was cool and sweet, filled with birdsong and the distant bray of a mule from a neighboring ranch. Dew clung to blades of grass, glittering like tiny stars under the rising sun. Dusty, your aging border collie, greeted you with enthusiastic tail wags and little huffs of complaint.

Clark crouched and scratched behind the dog’s ears. “I know, buddy. We’re late. Blame me.”

You headed toward the barn together, boots crunching on gravel. Clark walked beside you with easy strides, one hand slipping into yours like it belonged there.

It did.

Maize, Clark’s beloved chestnut mare, lifted her head over her stall door when she heard the footsteps. She snorted, stomping a hoof in that dramatic, impatient way she always did.

“Someone’s got opinions this mornin’,” Clark said with a grin, grabbing a scoop of oats. Maize tossed her mane as if agreeing loudly.

Clark opened the stall and stepped inside. His entire demeanor softened when he worked with the animals—patient, slow, gentle. He murmured to Maize in a low, affectionate tone, rubbing her neck while she shoved her nose into the bucket. You leaned against the stall door, watching him with fond amusement.

“What?” Clark asked without looking at you, a smile already forming.

“Nothing,” you said sweetly. “Just enjoying the show.”

He shook his head, cheeks flushing slightly under the stubble. “If I knew marryin’ you meant bein’ stared at like livestock at the county fair, I would’ve made sure to wear cleaner shirts.”

You snorted. “You? Clean shirts? Impossible.” He laughed, and the sound filled the barn, mixing with the warm smell of hay and the soft snorts of horses waking up.

Together, you moved through your morning routine—feeding the chickens, checking the irrigation valve, gathering fresh eggs. It wasn’t glamorous work, but it was yours. The rhythm of it had shaped your days, your marriage, your peace. Clark was a man made for sunlight and soil and slow mornings; the farm fit around him like a second skin.

As you leaned down to collect the last of the eggs, Clark appeared behind you, sliding his hand gently over your back. “You hungry?” he asked.

You straightened, basket in hand. “Starving.”

His smile tilted. “Good. ‘Cause I was thinkin’… pancakes?” Your heart did a little flip. Clark made the best pancakes in the county: everyone said so, though he always insisted they were lying. He pressed a kiss to your cheek and took the basket from your hands.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he murmured. “Let’s get you fed.”

The kitchen filled quickly with the smell of butter and batter sizzling on the stove. Clark moved around like he owned the place—which, technically, he did—but mostly like he belonged there, which he absolutely did.

He handed you a mug of coffee just the way you liked it, brushing his hand across yours as he did. “Careful. It’s hot.”

“You say that every morning,” you said.

“And every morning you still burn your tongue.”

You glared and he laughed.

While he flipped the pancakes, you grabbed berries from the fridge and set the table. Clark hummed softly under his breath, some old country tune that you recognized from the radio. His voice was low, warm, soothing. You leaned against the counter, watching him with that same fondness that always crept up on you when you weren’t expecting it.

He glanced over his shoulder. “What’s that look for?”

“Just admiring my handsome husband,” you said.

Clark went pink immediately. “Darlin’, I’m tryin’ to cook here.”

“So?”

“So I can’t concentrate when you say stuff like that.”

You grinned. “That sounds like a you problem.”

He set down the spatula and walked over, placing his hands on either side of your waist. “You’re trouble,” he murmured, nose brushing yours.

“And yet,” you whispered back, “you married me.”

“I did,” he said softly. “I’d do it again.” You kissed him then, slow and sweet, before nudging him back toward the stove before he burned the pancakes.

After breakfast, you both worked outside again—mending a loose section of the fence, cleaning out the tack room, turning soil in the vegetable patch. The sun climbed higher, dust particles dancing lazily in the light, and Clark eventually shed his flannel; leaving only a worn tank top clinging to his chest and shoulders.

You tried not to stare too openly but you failed. Clark noticed, of course. He leaned on his shovel, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his arm. “You okay over there?”

“Just fine,” you said quickly, too quickly. His smile was slow, knowing, dangerous. You looked away and he laughed softly.

Work slowed after a while. Clark paused to refill the water trough while you sat on the fence rail, swinging your legs lazily. He walked over when he was finished, hands on your knees, stepping between them. “You look tired,” he murmured.

“It’s hot,” you replied.

“Let’s take a break.”

He helped you down from the fence, his hands lingering on your waist. You followed him to the porch, where the shade offered blessed relief. Clark collapsed beside you on the swing with a sigh and draped his arm along the back, pulling you into his side without a second thought.

You rested your head on his shoulder, eyes drifting shut.

The swing creaked as he nudged it gently with his foot. Cicadas buzzed lazily in the distance. Dusty lay curled at your feet. “You know,” Clark said quietly, “I think this is my favorite part of the day.”

You opened your eyes. “This?”

He nodded. “Sitttin’ here with you. Sun on our skin. Nothing to rush for.” His voice softened. “Makes everything else feel worth it.” You smiled, tracing a small circle over his chest with your fingertip. “You really love it here, don’t you?”

Clark thought for a moment, gaze drifting toward the fields. “Yeah,” he said. “I do. But you know what I love more?” You tilted your head. He kissed your forehead gently. “You. Any place is home if you’re there.”

Maize whinnied loudly from the barn, as if reminding the two of you that the day wasn’t over yet. Clark stood and stretched, offering you his hand. “Wanna go for a ride? Haven’t taken her out on the ridge in a while.”

“Only if you saddle her,” you said. He chuckled. “I always do.”

You watched from the fence as he bridled Maize, speaking to her in that soft, affectionate tone he never used with anyone except you. Once she was ready, he turned to you, holding out his hand. “C’mon. I’ll help you up.”

You let him lift you onto the saddle before he swung up behind you, settling with his arms loosely around your waist. His chest pressed warm and solid against your back as Maize started forward at a slow, steady pace.

The ride took you across the fields, through the gentle rolling hills where wildflowers grew in clusters of purple and yellow. The wind tugged at your hair, and Clark tucked a stray lock behind your ear, his fingers lingering against your skin.

“You doin’ okay?” he murmured against your shoulder.

“I’m perfect,” you said.

“Good.”

He kissed the back of your neck, a soft brush of lips that made you shiver despite the heat.

By the time you returned home, the sky had begun to melt into hues of pink and lavender. Clark unsaddled Maize while you carried a bucket of oats into the barn. When everything was done, he locked the gate with a satisfied sigh. “Farm’s lookin’ good,” he said.

“Thanks to you.”

“Thanks to us,” he corrected, leaning down to kiss your cheek. “We’re a team, sweetheart.”

Back inside, you cooked dinner together—mac and cheese, roasted vegetables from the garden, fresh bread from yesterday’s batch. Clark stood behind you at one point, arms wrapped around your waist, chin on your shoulder as he watched you stir the pot. “Smells good,” he murmured.

“You’re not helping.”

“I’m supervisin’.” You elbowed him lightly. He only laughed and kissed your cheek.

You ate on the porch, watching fireflies blink into existence across the yard. Clark’s hand rested on your thigh under the table, thumb moving in slow circles. The air was warm, the sky endless. The world felt small and whole. When you finished eating, Clark leaned back in his chair, looking at you like you were the only thing worth seeing. “I love our life,” he said softly, almost shyly. “I love you.”

You reached across the table, taking his hand. “I love you too, Clark.”

He stood, walked around the table, and pulled you into his arms beneath the soft glow of the porch light. “C’mon,” he whispered. “Let’s go slow dance before the night gets too late.”

You didn’t need music. Clark hummed quietly, swaying you gently, his forehead resting against yours. His heartbeat thumped steady under your palms. The world moved around you, but you stayed in that moment, wrapped in his warmth, his steadiness, his love.

Later, when you climbed into bed, Clark wrapped himself around you from behind, his breath warm against your neck. He kissed your shoulder and pulled you even closer.

“Today was good,” you murmured sleepily.

“Every day’s good with you,” he whispered. You smiled, squeezing his hand.

“Goodnight, Clark.”

“Goodnight, sweetheart.”

Outside, the crickets sang. Inside, Clark held you like you were the anchor that kept his world steady.

And maybe you were.

[frombeyondthegravez]

WAIT

The WORMS

CREATURE! CLARK KENT?!?

someone pls tell me they’re interested