Your writing is so beautiful. If you take requests, please can I ask for an angsty fic of Clark realising reader hasn't been eating properly, super upset because he loves her so much, maybe she can be fashion ! reader (I've recently rewatched Devil Wears Prada and the work culture is so toxic and is ingrained in me) sorry if this doesn't make sense English isn't my first language! Sorry too if this makes you uncomfortable, I just think your writing style would really do well for this. Love your stuff
not like before
themes: tw - talks of an eating disorder, angst, protective clark, super sweet and domestic and worried clark, established relationship, fluff!
this is a topic that hits very close to home for me and only slightly out of my comfort zone to write- but i hope i did well by your req anon<3
You didn’t have breakfast this morning.
Again.
Clark noticed the second you slipped out the door with a rushed kiss and an apologetic smile, insisting you’d “grab something at work.” He’d stood there in the kitchen, spatula still in hand, watching the door click shut behind you.
The pancakes he’d made were still warm then.
A banana is missing from the fruit bowl now though, and there’s a dried ring of condensation on the counter from the severely oversized water bottle you always take with you.
For a moment, he lets himself believe that means you ate. That you tried.
But when he opens the trash can later to toss out a stack of old letters, he sees it.
Half of the banana sits right on top. And it shouldn’t break his heart clean in two, shouldn’t cause a pit to form at the bottom of his stomach that hurts him more than any blood-soaked battle ever has- but it does.
Because you’re not eating.
He stares at it like it’s kryptonite- like if he looks at it long enough, it’ll rewrite the truth. Like it’ll change the fact that you must’ve taken two bites and decided it was too much before dropping it in the trash. His throat tightens and slowly, quietly, he lets the lid fall closed.
He knows better than anyone not to bring it up. Not immediately. The last thing he wants is to make you uncomfortable or make you feel like you have to answer to anyone, even him. Even if knowing would help; even if it would ease the sick twist in his chest.
So instead, he worries.
He leans back against the counter, stroking his jaw with his forefinger and thumb, eyes flicking helplessly between the cold pancakes he’d left out for you that morning and the trash can holding what you’d actually tried to eat. A sigh leaves his nervously bitten lips, chest far too heavy for a Wednesday morning.
He’d booked the whole week off- PTO, a rare stretch of quiet to fix things around the apartment, reorganise, be present. He’d missed you and your home in a way evenings after 6pm simply couldn’t satiate- but the thought that this might’ve been happening right under his nose for who knows how long makes something ache deep and sharp inside him.
Has it been longer than today? Longer than this week? How long has he been oblivious?
Clark presses his palms to the counter and bows his head. He should’ve noticed sooner.
He of all people should notice when something’s wrong with you. Isn’t that what husbands were for? He can hear a heartbeat falter from across the city, is capable of picking a cry for help through concrete and steel and miles of distance- but he didn’t notice this? The way your sweaters hang a little looser, or the way you claim you’re “not that hungry” and laugh it off. All of it should have sent off alarm bells in his head, should have kicked him into gear.
His jaw tightens, but even so, he wills himself not to spiral. You’ve been stressed before, and you’ve had many difficult weeks in the past; that article on Metropolis Fashion Week, the piece on fabric dissonance. And yet, the image of that half-eaten banana won’t leave him. It sits behind his eyes like a stain.
He cleans the kitchen slowly. Not because it needs it, but because he needs something to do with his hands. He throws out the pancakes before he can think better of it. He washes the plate. He wipes down the counter again, even though it’s already spotless.
Clark knows what your job is like. He knows that sizes are important and that your boss can be mean and that the other women you work with can be judgy. It both breaks his heart and angers him deeply; you don’t deserve that. Nobody does. But it’s your passion, your life, the one thing in this world that keeps you going. Who is he to say otherwise?
Every so often, Clark’s gaze flicks to the clock.
You should be home soon.
The minutes stretch thin. He tries not to use his hearing- tries not to tune in to the rhythm of your heartbeat downtown, doesn’t want to invade your space like that- but the temptation curls around him all the same. He forces himself to sit on the couch instead, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tight enough to creak.
What if you’ve been struggling and he didn’t see it?
What if you even thought you had to hide it?
The thought makes him feel ill.
He replays every moment from the past few weeks. The late nights. The “I grabbed something at work.” The tired smiles. You’ve been busy, he knows that. The fashion magazine you work for is established, fast-paced, incredibly demanding; more often than not, you have deadlines due just hours head, meetings stacked back-to-back. You come home drained, sometimes barely able to keep your eyes open.
But busy doesn’t mean you should have to forget to take care of yourself. And it certainly doesn’t mean he should let you.
The sound of the lock turning has Clark on his feet in an instant.
The door swings open, and there you are; hair a little messy from the wind, bag slipping from your shoulder, a tired but genuine smile tugging at your lips when you see him.
“Hey,” you say softly. “You’re still up.”
Still up. As if he could sleep right now, with his mind racing and heart beating much, much faster than yours.
“Hey,” he replies, and his voice comes out rougher than he intends.
You toe off your kitten heels, nudging the door shut behind you. Your movements are distracted, now focused on getting one of the many bracelets on your wrists off.
“I’m so sorry I’m late. We had this last-minute thing with-“ You stop mid-sentence, brow furrowing slightly. He’s standing so straight it almost looks painful, and the clench in his jaw isn’t subtle in the least.
“Clark?”
And right now, he’s just staring at you.
Not in the usual soft, adoring way. No; it’s stricken, raw with something fresh that he knows you’re currently oblivious to- as he has been to you, it seems.
Your smile falters. “What’s wrong?”
The silence doesn’t even last two beats as he crosses the room in two long strides.
And then- before you can process what’s happening- Clark drops.
It isn’t graceful. It isn’t careful. One second he’s standing, towering solid and steady, and the next he’s on his knees in front of you with a soft thud that rattles the floorboards.
His forehead falls onto your lower stomach, hands snaking up the backs of your legs as he, very gently, pulls you towards him.
“Clark!” your bag slips from your shoulder entirely now, hitting the floor with a startled thud. “Oh my god- are you hurt?”
His hands come around, hovering at your hips like he’s afraid to actually touch you. His head is still bowed against your stomach, and the exhale he lets out is shaky.
“Baby-“
“-I’m… so, so sorry.” he breathes quietly.
Your heart stutters, shoulders still tense despite the volume of his voice indicating he’s okay. “W-What? For what?”
“I should’ve noticed,” His voice cracks, quiet and wrecked in a way that makes your chest ache. “I should’ve been paying more attention. I shouldn’t have- oh, honey. I am so sorry.”
You blink down at him, completely lost. “Shouldn’t have-“ you tug his hair gently, willing him wordlessly to look at you.
“Clark, what are you talking about?”
His hands finally settle on you, warm and careful at your waist.
“You didn’t eat today.”
The words hang between you. And you can’t help it, the way your eyes widen and your breath hitches.
“Oh,” you breathe.
“This morning. And I don’t know how many mornings before that,” He swallows hard. “I saw the banana. In the trash.”
Your face heats with a mix of embarrassment and dawning understanding. “You went through the trash?”
“I was throwing something away,” he says quickly, almost defensively, before his expression crumples again. “You only ate two bites.”
And there it is.
The worry. The guilt. The way he’s currently looking at you like you’re something fragile and already cracked in his hands. He’s never wanted to fix something so badly before, and it’s a pain you can see so clearly on his face.
“Clark…” You crouch down in front of him, forcing him to lift his head. His eyes are glassy, painfully earnest. “I wasn’t not eating.”
“You skipped breakfast.”
“I was late,” you admit, wincing. “I grabbed the banana because I thought I could eat it on the way, but my phone rang and then I had to run into the building and-“ You sigh. “I just got distracted.”
He searches your face like he’s looking for a lie.
“You’ve been saying you’re not hungry,” he presses gently.
“Because I’ve been busy,” you insist. “It’s been insane at work. I’ve had meetings during lunch almost every day this week… and I keep thinking I’ll grab something after, but then something else comes up, and then it’s five o’clock and that’s usually when I realise, I forgot.” Your expression softens when you see how tightly his jaw is set. “It’s not… it’s not like before.”
Before.
He exhales slowly at that, the word clearly heavy for him. For you, too. He helped you get out of it once, with soft whispers and small meals and the constant reassurance that you were and always would be enough. The thought of him forgetting all of that is a torment like no other.
“It’s not?” he asks, and the word is small when it comes out of his mouth. So unguarded.
You reach up and cup Clark’s face in both hands. “I promise you. It’s not.”
His eyes flutter closed briefly at your touch. You can feel how tense he is, like a coiled wire.
“I thought I failed you,” he whispers.
The statement hits you harder than anything else he’s said this evening and you pause, initially unsure of what to say.
“Clark Kent,” you murmur, incredulous and aching all at once. “You think you failed me because I forgot to eat a banana?”
“It’s not just the banana.”
“I know.” Your thumbs stroke gently along his cheekbones. “I know you worry.”
He leans into your palms like he needs the contact to breathe.
“I’m supposed to protect you,” he says. “I’m supposed to make sure you’re okay. But I didn’t see this.”
You smile softly, brushing a stray curl from his forehead. “Because there wasn’t anything to see.”
He frowns faintly at that.
“I wasn’t trying to skip meals,” you explain patiently. “I wasn’t punishing myself or spiralling or anything like that. I’ve just been bad at prioritising. There’s a difference.”
He studies you for a long moment, weighing your words with the same seriousness he gives to everything.
“You’d tell me,” he says finally. “If it was… if it felt like before.”
Your expression turns tender. “I would. I swear.”
His shoulders sag, just a little, like something inside him finally loosens.
“I just-“ He breaks off, shaking his head. “When I saw it, I thought maybe you were struggling and didn’t want to tell me. And I’ve been home all week. How could I not notice?”
You let out a quiet, breathy laugh. “Because you were busy reorganising the garage and fixing the leaky faucet and alphabetising the pantry.”
“I’m sorr-“
“No, no! That’s not what I meant- don’t apologise,” you stop him once more, your small smile sincere and soft, “It’s your week off, baby. I’d hate for you to spend it on worrying about me. I’d rather you alphabetise the entire bookshelf if that’s what you wanted.”
A faint, sheepish look crosses his face.
“I always worry about you. I wish I could be there for you… always,”
“You are there for me. I just need to call you,” you say gently. “And I know you’ll come running, Clark.”
He huffs out something that might almost be a laugh, but it’s still tangled in leftover guilt.
“Did you eat anything at all?” he asks after a moment, the concern still there but softer now.
You grimace. “I had half a granola bar. And some coffee.”
He pulls back just enough to give you a look.
“Hone-“
“I know,” you say quickly. “I know. Not great.”
His thumb brushes absentmindedly along your spine. “You need more than that.”
“I do,” you agree easily. “And I’ll do better.”
He searches your face again, but this time he seems to find what he’s looking for.
“You’re not mad?” you ask quietly.
“At you?” He looks genuinely startled. “Never.”
“Even though I worried you.”
He gives you a small, fond smile. “That’s part of the job description. Along with fix the faucet and reorganise the pantry.”
You laugh softly. “I don’t remember that being in the vows.”
“It was implied.”
You lean forward and kiss him properly this time- tender and gentle and grounding. He melts into it immediately, one hand cradling the back of your head like you’re something precious.
When you pull away, you brush your nose against his. “I’m okay,” you whisper.
He nods, but then his stomach lets out a loud, traitorous growl.
You blink. He blinks.
And then, before either of you can stop it, you both burst into quiet laughter.
“I think,” you say, grinning, “that might actually be you.”
He flushes faintly. “I might’ve skipped lunch too.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Clark.”
He shrugs, looking adorably guilty. “I was planning how to alphabetise the shed.”
You shake your head in disbelief. “You can bench-press a car, but you forget to eat because you’re colour-coding tools.” he doesn’t say anything else; just smiles at you sheepishly. “Okay,” you declare, pushing yourself to your feet and tugging him up with you. “That settles it.”
“It does?”
“Yes. We are both terrible at remembering to eat when we’re busy.”
He opens his mouth to protest, then closes it again.
“So,” you continue, lacing your fingers with his, “we fix it together.”
His expression softens immediately as he repeats your words, “Together,”
“Mhm,” you confirm. “You make sure I don’t forget. I make sure you don’t get so caught up saving the world- or reorganising it- that you forget, too.”
A slow, tender smile spreads across his face.
“I can do that,” he says, laced fingers squeezing your hand gently. “What do you want to eat?”
You hum thoughtfully. “Anything that isn’t a sad, abandoned banana.”
He huffs a soft laugh, “I could make pasta,” he offers, “Or those from-scratch sandwiches you love. Or-”
“Clark.”
“Yes?”
“You don’t have to cook a five-course meal.”
He pauses. “…I might already have the dough rising.”
You stare at him, baffled, but the sudden slight smell of yeast and sugar in the air quickly erases any doubt. When you turn your head towards the two neat, upturned bowls on the counter, Clark’s ears turn pink.
“You’re unbelievable,” you say, but you’re still smiling.
He leans down and kisses the corner of your mouth. “I just wanted you to have something warm when you got home.”
The sincerity in his voice makes your chest ache in the best way, “Then let’s make it together.” you say.
He nods eagerly, relief and affection shining bright in his eyes now instead of fear.
And as you move around the kitchen side by side, bumping hips and stealing little kisses between stirring pots and chopping vegetables, the earlier heaviness feels distant. He keeps touching you- light, absent brushes of his hand at your back, your waist, your shoulder- like he’s reassuring himself you’re really there. Really okay.
And when you finally sit down at the table with two heaped plates and tangled fingers across the wood between you, Clark looks at you like you’ve just handed him the sun.
“You tell me if work gets like that again,” he says gently. “If you start forgetting. I’ll bring you lunch. I don’t care if I have to show up in the middle of a meeting.”
You laugh. “Please don’t crash one of my meetings.”
“I’ll wear my glasses,” he says solemnly.
“You always wear glasses.”
“Exactly.”
You squeeze his hand. “I’ll tell you.” he nods once, satisfied.
You take a bite, and Clark watches you. Not in a scrutinizing way now, but in a fond, almost reverent one; like the simple act of you eating, of you being here and safe and honest and really, truly, one hundred percent okay- is something worth framing.
“I love you,” Clark says suddenly.
You look up, surprised by the sudden intensity in his voice.
“I love you, too.”
He stands, making his way around the table; and before you can question it, he sinks down again- but this time, it’s not in guilt. It’s to rest his head in your lap, arms wrapping loosely around your waist.
You laugh softly, setting your plate aside to card your fingers through his curls.
“You’re okay,” he whispers, as you brush a gentle thumb along his cheek. An exhale of relief leaves you both.
“You… everything’s okay.” And this time, when Clark closes his eyes and lets his shoulders fall, it isn’t in defeat.
It’s in peace.